i am dead. this is being posted from beyond the grave

Ancestors: What Types there are and How to work with them


What is Ancestral Veneration

Ancestral Veneration is one of the most ancient religious and spiritual practices.  The respect and belief in an afterlife as well as honoring ancestors can be traced back to paleolithic mankind.   It is believed that honoring our ancestors was the first religious and spiritual form of ritual work.  From ways the dead were buried to views of the afterlife ancestors and the dead were never far from the mind of our paleolithic ancestors, and for some this truth remains today.

Ancestral veneration is not worshiping our ancestors, at least not in the common sense of worship. Ancestral veneration is more like honoring the dead in a respectful way.  Its a belief that they are still with us in a spirit form.  That they can hear us and can effect our lives from the other side.  Its a belief that our ancestors like other spirits can help us become the best person we can be and to live the life that we really want and desire.

There are exchanges of offerings and gifts.  This isn’t worship.  In some ways I think of it like when I put a flower on my ancestors grave.  Its giving something to them to signify that you remember them and care for them.  These gifts can be basically anything.  Though some cultures do have rules against some items being given to different spirits.
In some cultures flowers are only for the dead and it’s ok to leave offerings to the dead till they rot as this signifies they have taken everything.  In other cultures and practices only water is offered to the dead.   Even Christianity has mention of the value of prayer for the dead.  Working with and honoring our ancestors is a powerful spiritual path and there are many ways to go about it.

The act of the gift and the offering is the important thing though.  Its through these exchanges that relationships with our ancestors can develop and grow.  Its believed that a gift will ensure a gift.  Its also believed that because the dead and our ancestors are beyond the veil they have access to energy and powers of the universe that we don’t so by asking them to help us in our work and our lives they can tap into those energies for us.  Granted they dont help us unless we help ourselves.  So the gifts symbolize our part to do our work.

Many religions and traditions have celebrations and days of the dead.  Halloween, All saints and All Souls day,  Samhain, Dia de los Muertos(Mexican Day of the dead), The Bon Festival (Japan), and Pitru Paksha (Fortnight of the Ancestors-Hindu) are different festivals in different cultures.  They have one thing in common.  They are all festivals to honor the dead and the ancestors.  These are only a handful of celebrations that exist to celebrate ancestors and the dead.  The point is that the concept of honoring the dead is still alive and well in this world today.

The practice of honoring the dead is starting to become more common in Pagan practices today as well.  Part of that is that many of us are reclaiming this practice.  It was a part of ancient pagan traditions, so the practice was largely destroyed in the west.  For many reclaiming ancestral veneration as a part of our practice not only connects us to our more recent ancestors and keeps our passed loved ones in our lives, but it also allows us to reach the deepest ancestors we have which can be powerful guides for those starting down pagan paths.

Personal Development of Ancestor work

One of the reasons I am writing this post today is in honor of a new ancestor.  A loved one of mine has just crossed the veil.  It is this passing that has once again made me think about working with my ancestors and how is really always been a central part of my practice.  I haven’t always considered the contact with my ancestors and the shrines to my past loved ones ancestral veneration.  I thought it was simply remembering them and keeping them alive.

Ancestor veneration is a large part of my practice and spiritual work.  My ancestors have a lot to teach me.   I have an ancestor altar that I pray at everyday. While it is a strong part of my practice these days, ancestral veneration and honoring has not always been a large part of my path.  In fact it was at one point something I really only did on the festival of the dead (Samhain) as that was the focus.  I thought that was really all that was needed, and at the time maybe that was for my best.

When I started to practice witchcraft I had recently lost my Grandmother.  Many of the psychics and readings I had done at the time confirmed that she was staying close to me as a spirit guide (I was having dreams of her). So I started working with my ancestors through a single ancestor as a spirit guide.  That was 17 years ago.  Now I have an altar to all my ancestors as I have learned that any of our ancestors can be our guides and guardians.

Originally I didn’t offer any prayers, or much to my ancestors.  I would simply say hello to them when I needed to feel their presence.  I had a place of memory for them where I could see them and keep them in my life.  Then when I started to explore traditional witchcraft as a religious and spiritual practice I heard of the concept of giving them offerings and having shrines and altars to them.  So I created one and started an ancestral prayer working.

The practice with ancestral veneration got even deeper when I started to explore Germanic paganism and found I had Germanic ancestry.  When I read how they honored their ancestors and the powers of wyrd and Oorlog I decided that I had to develop my relationship even further.  So I started to work them into Germanic rites and rituals through the phrases “The Alfar and the Disir”

There was a time when I stopped practicing basically everything.  Then I started to explore Hoodoo.  My interest and desires to understand magic and witchcraft returned.  Through this I found more focus on ancestors and honoring your culture.  I found that ancestors will be powerful allies in spells as well as in meditations and trance work.  So through Hoodoo my work with my ancestors started to develop further and I learned new prayers to use for my ancestors.

Now today I have a prayer I say to them every morning and I have a prayer I say every evening to my ancestors.  I give them offerings when I perform rituals and I invite them into my ritual circles.  They have a part of my day to day life and my spiritual life. I couldn’t imagine my spiritual work without my ancestors at all.  They are always there for me and they always will be.  I may not be able to physically hold them and see them, but when I need them I can feel them and I know they are always there for me.

The types of ancestors:

Being adopted my ancestors actually come in different forms and types.  Not all of my ancestors are of the blood.  Some are of the spirit and some are of the heart.  I have legal blood ancestors and blood ancestors.  I have ancestors in all of my families that I don’t know but are my allies through the bonds of the heart and the spirit.  I even have ancestors that are not really in my family at all but are in my spiritual family. All of these ancestors have roles to play in my life and I honor them all.

I dont consider ancestors limited to just the blood and the heart though.This post is going to discuss the different ancestors I have through my adoption and my spiritual practices and how I can honor and work with each of them.  For the longest time I didn’t engage in ancestral veneration because of my adoption.  I wasn’t sure if I should honor my ancestors of my adoption, my foster family, or my biological family.  Thinking about this also was painful so while I wanted to honor my ancestors I didn’t go about it until I had answered my confusion.

How I came to see the types of Ancestors

That was how I came to see the different ancestral lines.  One year I went to the local Pagan Pride day.  I typically attend a few of the workshops that go on.  This year there was one about ancestral work and contacting your ancestors.  The key component of that workshop was a meditation on ancestral lines.  During this meditation I saw three lines of ancestral blood flowing from my body.  There was a fourth that was some what gray at the time and today its now clear.

It was then I knew that I was to honor all of my ancestors.  Those of my foster family, my blood or biological family, and my adoptive family.  It was through this work that I came to see that there are many different types of ancestors and that not everyone will have access to blood ancestors.  Through these meditations and concepts I came to see that there are
four primary types of ancestral allies: You have your ancestors of the Blood, your ancestors of the heart, and the ancestors of the spirit.  Adoptive ancestors are actually a mixture of two types which I will get into in the next sections as well as being their own type of ancestor.

Ancestors of The Blood

Every one is familiar with the concept of blood ancestors.  These are those of your family or blood line that goes back generations.  These are the strongest allies that one can have.  These are the ancestors that everyone thinks about when they think of ancestors.  Ancestors of the blood also include ancestors gained through marriage and long term committed relationships.  When I got engaged to my fiance his ancestors joined mine and mine his.  We are a family unit.  These ancestors go back generations on each side.  So the lines of blood ancestors are very long.

These are the strongest allies that you can have as a spirit.  They are the ones that have your best interest at heart.   Through the strands of Fate, and the workings of Wyrd we are always directly connected to our ancestors.  Our actions reflect them as much as their actions reflect on us.  So we need to honor them in our lives and we need to keep them close to us.  Before any other spirit is petitioned the ancestors will work stronger for you and faster for you. There is little that is stronger than the power of the blood.

Adoptive Ancestors

For me I also have my adoptive ancestors,  These are the ancestors of my adoptive family.  They are the family that raised me and that belongs to me.  In ancient cultures at times the roles of the blood ancestors would be replaced by the foster and or adoptive family.  In my case I never considered them to replace the blood ancestors at all.  I considered them additional ancestors that I was blessed to have.

We have no physical blood that ties us.  However to all of the world and all legal meanings they are my flesh and blood.  That is how I feel about them as well.  In all honesty at times they are more my family than my blood and biological family simply because I have minimal contact and my relationship with that family is in its infancy (until recently was non existent).  Which is why they are both ancestors of the blood and of the heart.  The time that they spent raising me and being involved in my life can not be undone.

They gave their blood, sweat, and tears to me.  They are for my my most powerful allies.  They have been there for me more than the blood ancestors.  They were the first ancestors I have contacted and they were the first ones to make themselves known to me.  This is the ancestral line that has been the strongest for me.  My blood ancestral work is focused on more ancient pagan ancestor while my adoptive ancestral work is more with Saint and angel work (Hoodoo influences as well).

It is because my adoptive Ancestors gave so much of their blood, sweat, and tears into my life and that they took me in they are also ancestors of the heart.  They are of the blood because of the family ties and concepts but of the heart because there is no physical blood.  Its a spiritual and memory based blood love.  The bond of the heart here shows how even just being in a family for a short while can create strong family bonds.

Ancestors of the Heart

Those of the heart are the family that has passed that are not connected through marriage or blood or even legal adoption.  In my case this is where my foster family lies.  They did not adopt me but are still my family.  I have lost several members of that family and they were all close to me.  They are now my ancestors and they watch over me.  Our bond is somewhat stronger than blood or law.

These ancestors are some of my more recent ancestors.  It was my Uncle Cleve’s passing which made me think about ancestors.  He was my foster uncle and is an ancestor of my heart.  His two brothers are also my ancestors here.  I have a Grandfather here as well.  To them and to me the fact that I did not live with them, and was not legally a part of the family after my adoption never mattered.  I never stopped being their family.  That is what the ancestors of the heart are all about.

The ancestors of the heart are those that have passed on we considered family even if there was no blood between you.  These can be friends you thought of as brothers and sisters, close friends and even those who you would consider “father"or "mother” figures.  If you feel that they were and are apart of your family in your heart than they are your family and are your ancestors.  Never let anyone else tell you any different.

Ancestors of the Spirit:

Finally there are ancestors of the spirit. For me I consider any Occultist, Witch, and Magician who worked hard to preserve the magical and spiritual arts are my spiritual ancestors.  Even though I dont agree with all of their teachings and philosophies people like Gerald Gardner, Aliester Crowley, Doreen Valiente, Scott Cunningham, and many others put a lot of work into making magical spirituality acceptable and part of our day to day lives again.  Those are a few of my spiritual ancestors as a witch based on the practices I have taken into my practice.

As I explore Hoodoo and other magical systems other spiritual ancestors will come into my practice.  For example Marie Laveau is a famous Hoodoo worker in New Orleans.  In some respects I could consider her a spiritual ancestor.  Other ancestors in the case of Hoodoo would in general be any one who struggled to keep African American spiritual heritage alive through Hoodoo and Rootwork.  When a teacher passes I would add them to the spiritual ancestors as well.

You can also have ancestors of the spirit when you are spiritually adopted into a tradition.  There are many religions and paths where they are only open to people of a specific culture.  Occasionally through the practice of spiritual adoption outsiders are initiated and welcome into that spiritual family.  The ancestors of your initiator in these situations become your ancestors and guides as well.  It is a spiritual family you have entered into and like all families they will help you and work with you if you honor them as taught.

Working with your ancestors

Now that we have covered the types of ancestors out there and I have mentioned the importance of working with your ancestors its time to actually start thinking about how we can work with them.  Why do we work with them, and what the best ways of working with them are.

There are two primary ways aside from meditation and spirit travel work that a person can work with their ancestors.  These two forms are the altar and prayers.  They work well together and serve as a starting point for building power with your ancestral allies.  Unless one is experienced in astral travel and spirit communication using those tools right away to work with your ancestors is not the best of ideas.  Prayers and altar work are all you really need.

The altar

Really when it comes to working with your ancestors the only real must do I have found is having an altar of some sort where you can offer prayers and other items to them as you get to know them.  These altars can evolve and change over time. The point of the altar is to serve as a focal point in your work.  The altar is a place for you to offer your prayers and your gifts to them.

Your altar doesn’t need to be fancy.  Many people start off not knowing any of their ancestors. In which case a candle, a cup for water, and a plate for offerings is all you would need to contact them.  If you know your passed on loved ones and you have photos of them you can and should add those photos to the altar.

The altar also serves as a place of remembrance of the dead.  So its a place to put items that make you think of your ancestors as well as their photos.  You want it to look nice and appealing.  This is going to be their home for you in your house and their place in your life.  So its also important to keep the altar neat looking.

There are no limits on your ancestral altar.  Let their spirits come through.  There are reasons for the symbols I have placed on my altars.  They grew as my focus and my relationships grew.  One thing has always been common though-the focus has been on remembering them and keeping their memories alive in my life.

Ancestral Prayers

The best way to work with your ancestors even before starting an altar is simply to pray to them.  Prayers to your ancestors aren’t really any different than prayers for gods and spirit guides.  You are simply having a conversation with your ancestors.  Prayers are how we can communicate with them directly and its our best way to communicate with them.  They can communicate with us in different ways (dreams, scents, meditations, sudden insights etc) but we can really only speak to them through prayers.

The easiest prayer is simply:
“Blessed Ancestors I welcome you into my life.  May you bless and guide me and may you teach me what you yourself can”

That’s all your prayers to your ancestors need to be.  You dont need to praise them.  You don’t need to have a fancy invocation.  You simply can address them as your ancestors and they will listen to you.  You dont even really need to ask for a blessing.  You could simply say something along the lines of:
“Good Morning Ancestors.  I welcome you this day”.

All you are doing with your prayers is acknowledging that they exist and that they are apart of your world.  By giving them a simple welcome everyday you will start to feel their presence build up.  You will begin to know them and feel them like you do can with other spirits and beings that you work with.  The more attention you give them the more you will notice them.

Prayers can be more complex and verbose.  My personal prayers evolved from a simple Hello and welcome to a full blessing and daily petition for them to be here.  There is a bit of praise and there is a bit of thanks.  These prayers are offered twice daily.  I feel that they flowed from me into the written form when I was channeling spirits and writing prayers for them.  My ancestors let me know what they wanted.

Offerings and Gifts

The final way that we can work with our ancestors is in offerings and gifts.  These gifts are ways that we say thank you and show our appreciation to them.  There are many ways types of gifts that can be given to our ancestors.   You can give your ancestor basically anything you would give yourself or a person.  They are still family and they are still people.

For myself I consider flowers on graves a gift to them.  I also place flowers on the altars every so often as remembrances of them.  I try and give them their favorite flowers.  I also try and give them their favorite things.  For my grandmother I will think of her when I go bowling and send her some of that energy as play and a memory of our times together.

On holidays I will set aside a portion of the food on my plate for my ancestors.  I will let it sit till the end and eat that last.  They eat the essence of that portion while I eat my meal.  When I have finished the portion for me they will have had their fill and I can take nourishment from the food.  Other cultures burn food offerings to ancestors and spirits.  Some burry the food in the yard.   Other throw it into the woods for animals to eat.

There are some taboos in various cultures about what can and can’t be given to ancestors and the dead.  If you belong to a specific culture, religion, and or tradition I suggest that you look into ways that they honor the dead.  By honoring the traditions of your culture, your religion and your tradition you are honoring your ancestors in that way as well.   These traditions after all were ancestral in many cases.


This post has covered my own discovery into the importance of ancestral veneration.  It has covered the types of ancestors and a few of the ways that we can work with our ancestors.  Your ancestors are part of who you are.  They are powerful allies that can teach you things you wouldn’t imagine and who can be there for you in ways none else can.   Your ancestors are still here in this life and in this world just in a different form.

There are many ways to work with them.  Once you start working with them you will find that there are many more ways and reasons to work with them.  I’ve been working with my ancestors actively for several years and my relationships with them continue to grow and develop.  I am constantly learning new reasons to honor them and new ways of working with them.  The more I learn the more I realize there is to learn.

These allies seem to be the ones that develop the most as I develop spiritually.  The more I understand spiritual and magical practices the stronger they seem to become and the more things we seem to be able to so together.  Its my hope that any one who has read this will start to develop their own relationships with their ancestors and start to find the power and comfort in ancestral grace and guidance.

Just Think About It

Waking up next to Jimin and the sun is shining too brightly in your room. 

Originally posted by googlebts

So you both just slide under the covers for a few extra minutes of sleep.

Originally posted by rapga

But that sure as hell doesn’t last long before you open your sleepy eyes to find him staring at you. 

Originally posted by smileyjeon

Then the two of you spend the morning goofing around and being lazy in bed. 

Originally posted by kookiemonster1997

And live happily ever after.

The End. 

extension line

standalone; nc-17; msr; SMUT, seriously smut, angst, hurt/comfort; set-post Paper Clip pre-Piper Maru; prompt was “phone sex”. This is phone sex.

A/N: Last time I told people not to read something in public I got a bunch of folks reading it at work. But hey this is heavy NC-17. Don’t read it in public. Or do I guess I can’t tell you want to do. 

A/N2: I told myself I wasn’t going to post this this week because I didn’t want to detract from my very unsexy casefile fic. I’m compromising with a shameless self-promotion. Cool off by reading my casefile! 


He can’t move without knocking over paper. Open files surround him, stare him down and tell him: You are a sad, sad man. Photos of UFO’s, stark white specks on grainy backgrounds – cones, saucers, the trapezoid (spotted only once in 1947 on the coast of Indonesia by a Dutch tourist drunk off Bintang), domes and disks and winged cigars and his personal favorite, but most implausible: the mothership. Scully would tell him Mulder, you’re crazy. And maybe she’d smile a little, tucking it into her fist like there’s a chance in hell he hadn’t picked up on it and ascended. But maybe that’s more implausible. The last time she smiled at him he had to come back from the dead and hold their boss at gunpoint. Dana Scully is tough to please.

Her sister’s file sits on the coffee table – his copy of it, with the frenzied pen marks and the filled out margins and grease stains where he’d been eating and forgotten to wipe his hands. He’s… technically not supposed to have this. They won’t mark it as an X-File. Shoddy agents doing shoddier work with no clue to what goes on in smoke filled rooms are being tasked with, trusted with, the gravely important feat of bringing justice to Melissa Scully and thereby bringing some goddamn peace to one Special Agent Dana Scully, M.D.

He is tasked with being the bearer of bad news.

In the cosmic light of his fish tank he tries to think about space and nothing else. The mothership last seen in Cartegena Colombia –the city that founded Miss Colombia –did not seem to abduct anybody – was just cruising around – all the cows were okay. And don’t call her she’s at a conference wait until she gets back.

He knows, he knows she is definitely a ‘rip the bandaid off and all the skin with it’ kind of girl. Takes hits stronger than the Federal Reserve. And this isn’t the worst news, her sister can’t die again, but shit. She’s been so… off lately. So angry and unpredictable. Which he likes, just a little, because he thinks he’s probably always needed a friend who also lost a sister to an interminable maze of government conspiracy in space and hates herself for it. It is beyond obvious that she does. He gets it, he lives it every single day of his pitiful life, but he cannot bear to see it in her. He just can’t. It’s like watching your hero die of a horrible disease or a slow motion car crash or the sun dying out right before your very eyes. And yes, it’s possible he has her on some kind of pedestal.

Don’t call her, he repeats to himself, a warning and a mantra. It’s a little funny (see: tragic), because he thinks about calling her pretty often now, tragic details about murdered siblings aside. She’s hilarious and throaty and way more willing to talk to him about his favorite science fiction technologies at night, way more willing to weigh in on whether they’ll actually be possible in the near future. On the phone she is wearing sweaters with her hair pulled back drinking a glass of wine and thinking only about what’s going to happen when she sees him in the office tomorrow, where they’re going to go. Don’t call her.

She calls him.

He’s kind of knocked on his ass. Papers go flying when he scrambles to answer the phone and a glass of tea almost spills all over Melissa’s smiling face. He rights the cup before answering, whisking the file away and tossing it on his desk.

“Mulder,” he says.

“Mulder, it’s me,” she replies.

“Hey Scully. What time is it there?”

She huffs out a laugh, and it’s nice to hear. “Mulder, I’m in Bethesda. If I throw a rock I might hit the Hoover building.”

“Oh, it felt a little farther than that.” He knows she will smile at this, if only to placate him.

“Three more days, Mulder.” And now he’s smiling. “Three more days and I’ll be back and we can go check out that… what was it again…”

“You’re slacking, Agent Scully. Mass cosmic awareness. A mining town in Nevada – in it’s entirety, I am talking about the whole town – has suddenly decided to do away with coal because of its effects on the environment. These people lived and breathed coal their entire lives, and now they’re suddenly denouncing it?”

“That would certainly explain their distaste. The mining industry is one of the most heavily exploited at the expense of public health. They’re all dying of black lung.” 

“Yes, but would that distaste generally lead to multiple cases of ecoterrorism resulting in the death of four people?” The line remains silent. “Sudden urges to be more environmentally conscious or socially responsible are commonly noted symptoms by alien abductees.”

“You believe the whole town was abducted?”

“I don’t know what I believe, Scully,” he replies, leaning back and rubbing at his neck. “We have to go investigate first. I have my theories.”

“Oh, I’m sure you do.” It’s fond, fonder than she’d let herself be were they face to face. He is glad they are not.

“Scully,” he says. Her full attention is like a physical feeling. It’s almost like she’s breathing down his neck. “Scully, I have some news. About Melissa.”  The mood changes and that, that is like a physical feeling, too. He’s had her back for five minutes and now he’s lost her again, which seems to be a habit for him.

“News? What news? What have you heard?” In the way all of these cases go Scully has been sanctioned off to the ‘family’ side of things. She’s not an agent here. She hears what everybody else hears, when everybody else hears it. He’d go mad. He has to tell her.

“They have two suspects for her murder,” he lets out. He doesn’t need to expand. She’s too smart for that.

“It’s not him.” Her tone is flat, emotionless. “They don’t have him.”

“It doesn’t appear to be,” he says gently. “They’re lackeys. They have a combined IQ of 46. They’re not the kind of men the Syndicate would send to do the job.”

“I sense there is a but.”

“But they are the kind of men They would hire to do this job. Take the place of the real guys in order to escape a harsher fate.”

“You think they’re hired bodies, happy to rot.”

“Their alibis are shot with holes and somehow each of them have a motive,” he admits. “They’re not fighting it.”

The wrong man goes to jail and there will never be justice for Melissa or for Scully. In the hospital room Scully turned to him and told him there was no justice, not at all. He’d like to believe that isn’t the truth. But how could he fault her for feeling that way?

“It should’ve been me,” she says, as if she were saying it’s cold out. Or your mail has arrived. Or what her plans are for this weekend. He is so close to telling her he’s glad it wasn’t that it frightens him. She may never forgive him. Mulder is silent for too long, or maybe she’s just had enough, because she continues: “I didn’t call to talk about this.”

That catches him off guard, and he pulls his legs up with him on the couch in a fit of nervous intrigue. “What did you call to talk about, Scully?” he asks softly.

Silence on the other end, and then a weary sigh. “I don’t know, actually. I’m not sure why I called.”

“Maybe it was good for you to get away,” he offers. “Take some time.”

She laughs, a little bitter and resentful. Not of him, but of life, circumstance, injustice, maybe a little of him. “Mulder, have you ever hung out with a bunch of doctors? They’re not the most delightful bunch.” A beat, and she adds: “Don’t say anything. I know you want to say something. I am telling you not to say it.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says. “You’re the most delightful person I know.”

“Shut up, Mulder.”

“Especially when you tell me to shut up.”

There’s a sound on the other end, like fabric moving against fabric. She’s lying down in her hotel bed with her weirdly formal silk pajamas and a good book on the other pillow, he imagines. But she called you instead. She doesn’t know why she did but she did. She doesn’t want to talk about Melissa. Don’t be a brooding asshole and try and force it out of her. She doesn’t want to talk about Melissa. “How’s your trip, Scully?”

She sighs again, a large rush of air that makes him wince at the volume and the hairs on his neck stand up. “It’s okay so far. Tonight was just the opening ceremony. Wining and dining and formal wear and all of that. I have my panel tomorrow morning.” A little groan plays in his ear, the one she makes when she’s stretching forward with her hands behind her back. “I cannot believe the dress I stuffed myself into tonight. I’m going to be scrubbing glitter off my skin for days.”

“Hey, you never dress up for me.” Has he ever seen Scully in a dress? He has seen her in a bra and panties, and that one time where she had to change in the back of their rental and he told her he wouldn’t look but hey he kind of did. Scully wears thigh highs in the summer and it had been all he could think about for two straight weeks. He’s never seen her in a dress, though. A sparkly one?

“You never take me anywhere nice,” she says dryly. “I think I’ve heard this one. Now you’re supposed to tell me I nag you too much.”

“You nag me too much, Scully. What color was the dress?”

“Why do you want to know?” She sounds faintly annoyed, the way she does anytime someone mentions her femininity. She likes her pants, he likes her in pants. But a sparkly dress?

“So I have a detailed description to regale at the Bureau watercooler. Everyone will be astonished. No one will call me Spooky anymore because I will be crowned king of hot gossip.”

“People will stop calling you Spooky when you stop talking about poltergeists and alien probing,” she grumbles. But she gloriously relents for some unknown reason and tells him, “Green. The dress was green. And I loathe it with a burning passion.”

“Green, huh?” He likes her in green enough. He’d been gunning for blue. She’s got this blue shirt thing that always looks really nice, makes her cheeks look pinker than they are. Don’t talk about Melissa. “What does it look like? What’s the cut?”

She doesn’t answer for a moment; he’s not sure what she’s thinking, the question is innocent enough. But apparently she doesn’t feel that way. “Why the hell do you want to know, Mulder? Are you trying to break in to the fashion industry?”

“Well, tell me about the opening session then,” he says kind of desperately. Scully what the hell do you want me to say? I’m sorry your sister is dead? I’m not sorry it wasn’t you? Conversation doesn’t come easy when you are choked with guilt. Conversation rarely comes easy for them on a good day.

“Long-sleeved,” she answers instead, her voice hard. “Boatneck collar.” He can see it. It looks nice on her. Classic, like an old film star. But then she adds, lowly: “Tight, Mulder. The dress was very tight.”

Oh, he thinks. Oh, shit. What the hell was that.

His voice gets stuck in his throat and it’s just as well – what can he even say to that? He’s too confused to find it sexy, too caught off guard to shock her back.

She does not take mercy on him.

“I got compliments, the whole night.” She continues. Her voice gets deeper and deeper, like a bass guitar, like something important and integral but not necessarily front and center. “Others liked it, I didn’t.” She pauses. He does not respond. “But it wasn’t because I didn’t look good.”

There’s an out, right there. There’s something he can say to bring them back to where they were before. She left it open. I’m sure you did look good, honey, in a stupid southern accent, the only accent he can do. You should model it for me sometime, lascivious and lewd enough for her to roll her eyes and not file a report with HR. He says nothing.

“Because I did look good, Mulder,” she says. “I looked very good. And I’m sad you didn’t get to see it.”

The rasp in her voice is not all sex. There’s longing and pain and grief so deeply embedded it’ll probably be there forever. But there is sex. Good lord, there is sex. And he knows it because he’s never heard it before, not from her. Not in her.

“Scully?” In his voice there is longing, and pain, and grief so deeply embedded it will be there forever. And there is sex. There is sex sex sex. “What are we doing?”

Fabric on fabric again, her too-loud sigh puffing in his ear. This time he winces for an entirely different reason. “Do you want me to, Mulder? Do you want me to dress up for you?”

“I don’t think…”

“Mmm.” His stomach slides hotly, his cheeks go red. That sound felt like a caress. “You could tell me no.”

“I could,” he says skeptically. He wants to giggle. He feels crazy.

“Yeah, you could. You could tell me no.” He should. He almost does. This is Scully, he won’t demean her by convincing himself it isn’t, but it’s not his Scully, it’s not his place, it’s not the right thing for him to do. They’re not supposed to be doing this. His attraction for her thus far had been a latent thing, hidden behind layers of intense need so asexual he at times wanted her to cradle him like a child. “You’re my superior, right? The department head. You could tell me no anytime you like.” Oh, fucking hell. “Or you could tell me yes.” Oh jesus christ. “Tell me, Mulder.”

Latent is not absent. Not a bit. Not even a little bit.

And he is messed up. A lot. A lot messed up. Like the kind of messed up you have to be when you find out in the bullpen your partner slept with not one but two of her instructors and you take an early lunch to stop yourself from beating the hell out of Fred from national security who was a friend to Agent Willis and doesn’t know when to shut his mouth. So you file a complaint for sexual harassment and creating a hostile work environment instead, the only bureaucratic B.S. that ever made you feel good, only to immediately erase your good deed by disrespecting your aforementioned partner so thoroughly you almost paint the bathroom stall a whole new color. That – that might have been when it stopped being so latent. He’s not sure. There were the thigh highs, that day she chose a darker lip shade, that time he almost called her name while amidst the throes of passion with another woman, bedding certain death and his own blood-deep misery. He hadn’t even known then. He thought he was grieving.

He tells her yes. What is he supposed to tell her?

“How tight was the dress, Scully?” he grunts, letting the desire consume his voice. He’s already tugging his t-shirt off, reaching to palm himself through his jeans. This is a routine he understands well. It’s different (he’s not paying for it) but the mechanics are the same, only that his wallet is happier. But his soul, oh god his soul. He’s not surprised to find himself mostly-hard and sticking to his boxers.

“I hate the dress,” she tells him harshly. “I’m not wearing it. I’m wearing a suit.”

Okay, good. Good he can work with that. God can he work with that. He’s worked with that for months.

“Color? Pants or skirt?”

“Skirt, it’s too hot in Nevada for pants. It’s the maroon one. I like how it makes my legs look.”

“We’re in Nevada?” They’re in Nevada. He’s touched. He loves her legs, compact and lightly muscled and so smooth under her naughty little thigh highs. He traces the head of his cock bulging through the denim and lifts his hips in the air at how good it feels just from that. He wants to pull it out. He wants to wait, too. “On the coal mining case? Where?”

“At the motel. It’s not like the one I’m in now.  We’re at one of those dives you always pick. I hate the motels you pick, Mulder”

“I know. I know you do. We need the money for the travel expenses. Are we – are we arguing? Talking about the miners?”

“No,” her breath catches. What is she doing. What is she doing. Licking the tips of his fingers he reaches down to tweak his nipple, pretending it’s her doing it, pretending it’s her nipple and he’s worrying it with his teeth. “No. It’s night time. We’re back and we’re having dinner in my room.” And she breathes out again, trailing into a moan.

“Scully are you – are you touching yourself? For me?” he swallows and thinks to himself, fuck it, unbuttons and unzips and shoves his hand down the front of his boxers.

“Yes, I am,” she says, and she does not elaborate. Fine. He can imagine it just perfectly in his head, decides she’s taking the same route he is. So rarely do they think alike but when they do it’s always brings them closer. She’s pinching her nipples, wishing it was his mouth. She’s cupping her pussy through her pajamas and grinding against her hand for the tease of it. Like he would do it. He likes it slow.

“Eating dinner,” he prompts her. He could take the lead, of course, the scenario is promising and he has ten different ideas for where it might go. But this is her story and she’s trying to tell him something. Maybe one day years later he’ll pick up on it; as for now he just focuses on her voice, on how it starts low low low and rises up with the suspense of a roller coaster, on what she’s doing to herself to make her sound like that, on if she’ll ever let him do it to her.

“Eating dinner.” She repeats. “Chinese. And you’re trying to make me laugh.”

“And you don’t?”

“You’re not that funny,” she says. “Not usually.”

“But sometimes–” he moans and finally pushes his clothes off until he’s completely naked, collapsing back against the couch with guns-drawn urgency. He keeps the phone cradled between his cheek and neck, tonguing his fingers one more time and reaching down to jack himself roughly. “Sometimes you laugh. Sometimes you can’t help it.”

“Sometimes you’re funny,” she shoots back, and he is made stupid with adoration. “I’m taking off my clothes, Mulder. In the motel and right now. I’m taking them off and I want it to be you.”

“It is me, Scully,” he promises. He looks down at his cock, jutting out from a mass of tangled curls and so hard in his large hand it hurts. Would she like it? God would it fit. Yeah it would. She’d have to work at it but it’d fit. “You’re wearing a suit. Your maroon one.“ He pauses to really see it in his head, and his stomach clenches. “I kiss you first and you taste so good I get distracted. I unbutton your blazer. The buttons go to your chest, right? And you normally wear a gray sweater with it.”

“Yes, yes, that’s the one,” she whimpers. He hears – shit, he hears something wet, something slick, and it can’t be but maybe it is. Maybe she’s riding her fingers and pretending it’s his cock because she’s as impatient as him and she can’t help but fast forward a little. In his mind she’s already undressed and his mouth is between her legs. But still, her story, her pacing. “Do you like that one, Mulder? Do you like the way I look in it?”

“I like the way your cute little ass looks in it,” he replies darkly, stroking himself now in earnest. His words come out in short bursts as he tries to form them around his heavy breathing. “I like when you take the blazer off because the basement is too hot and you’ve got that tight sweater on. I want you out of the suit.”

“It’s off. It’s off. All of it. And you’re…”

Completely naked and so fucking hard for you the rest of my body is numb. Thinking about your pretty mouth and clever tongue and the feeling of your hands in my hair. Thinking of dead sisters and shared purpose and extensive therapy. Don’t talk about Melissa.

“Clothed,” she finishes instead and oh, Scully, that’s dirty. “Clothed. I’m naked and you’re fully clothed, and you have me spread out on the bed.”

“I do? Are you like that right now? Spread out?”

“Mm, no, I’ve got my h-hand between my legs and I’m sort of–” she chokes, and he can guess what she’s sort of doing. “Rubbing against it. Mulder are you. Are you?”

“Are you kid– yes, yes. I couldn’t stop with a gun to my head. I’ve been since this first started.”

“You’re always so defensive,” she says, but it’s filled with laughter, until it’s not. “I’m. I’m fingering myself, Mulder. I’ve got. Two fingers. And. Um.” Lacking eloquence, almost incoherent. He wants to see what it’d be like if he was actually touching her. If anyone needs a break from their own mind it’s Scully, and him, of course, but he’d give it to her if only one of them could have it.

“I have you spread out on the bed,” he picks up. His eyes squeeze shut, his fist tightens, his free hand slips down to fondle his balls. “I have you spread out and Scully. Scully. Let me. Let. I want to.”

“What? You want to what?”

“I want to lick your pussy, Scully,” he says in a rush, gritting his teeth. There’s the dim awareness that he’s just kicked it up about ten different levels and she might bail, which is terrifying. What’s more terrifying is how viscerally he wants it, how he’s thought of it in the past but never quite yearned for it so badly, never licked his lips and tried to guess what she’d taste like. “It’d be – so good. I’d make you come so hard.”

“Say please,” she demands huskily. He bites his lower lip hard enough to draw blood, willing desperately not to come. The mothership soaring over the British Isles in 1975, everyone pissed at the lack of crop circles.

“Please,” he says. The hard plastic of the phone digs into his cheek, and he presses his mouth to it like he’s worried she won’t hear him. His eyes close, his hips roll into his touch. “I want to put my mouth all over you. I want to lick you out until you’re begging me to stop. Please let me do it.” She doesn’t respond for a moment, so he takes the time to listen to what she’s doing on the other end. Shit, yeah, okay, she’s definitely fucking herself. He hears something like a headboard slamming on a wall, a muffled shout. And then finally, finally, “Yes. Yes, you can do it. Tell me how you’d do it.”

her words hold a power Mulder’s never in his life been privy to in another person; it’s the way he’s constantly reminded that it’s her saying them, and the effect this has in him scares him into acting blindly. His body goes hot all over for the fiftieth time as he fucks his fist and thinks about dragging his tongue from the small of her back to the crack of her ass and further down, tugging her labia with his lips and licking the juices off of her thighs. He tells her this.

“I’d do it so sweetly, Scully, and so, so softly. You’d come before you could ever expect it, and then I’d do it again, and again, and again. I wouldn’t let up. You’d have to pull my hair out of my head to get my attention.”

“Mulder, fuck.” He’s heard her say it once before; she’d been cursing out a local cop for calling him a creep. He still doesn’t know why she got so heated. His reaction now is not all that different to what it had been the last time he’d heard it. “Mulder, fuck me. Fuck me fuck me fuck me please.”

“Yeah, Scully, I’ll fuck you,” he hisses. His hand is her wet heat, she’s sinking down on him, he’s got her folded in half on his couch and he’s got her on her hotel bed, the nice one she’s writhing in right now, with her back to his chest and her calf in his hand so he can look down and watch himself push into her. The pressure builds, and by the way she sounds he is positive she feels it too, in the base of her spine and then everywhere else. He’s never wanted to see her face more in his life. “I’ll fuck you so good you’ll never forget it. I’ll fuck you into the mattress. Anything you nee-” he gulps and cuts himself off. “I-I want to make you come. Are you coming? Scully. Scully tell me I’m going to make you come.”

“You’re going to make me–COME–” she shrieks, and that is it for him. His seeds spills out between his fingers and over the back of his fist and he gasps brokenly into the phone, her name, her full name, the name he’s given her, tells her how much he wants her, thanks her, rocks into his fist until it physically pains him, talks her through her orgasm until she’s shaking from overstimulation and telling him okay okay okay okay.

They breathe together until they’re all caught up with their oxygen and their feelings. He keeps the phone against his cheek and his eyes shut tight. He’ll let her speak first. He tells himself, don’t mention how wrong this was. Don’t talk about Melissa. Space. The mothership descends and no one is taken that day and no one is hurt and the cows are all fine.

“Thank you,” she says finally. The worst part is she means it. Oh, Scully, he winces. If he wanted a partner just as messed up as him he’s apparently got it now. He knows, without a doubt, no matter how much he’s already beginning to wish otherwise, that they will never bring this up again. “I think – I think I needed that.”

“You have to leave me a review in the Washington Examiner,” he jokes sleepily. “It’s only fair.” It doesn’t earn him a laugh. But she doesn’t hang up.

“And thank you for telling me about Melissa.” His eyes pop open and he wraps his hand around the phone to press it closer to his ear. “I don’t know… how you know, or if you’re keeping track of it somehow. But I just - thank you.”

“Of course, Scully,” he says fiercely. “Don’t thank me for that. Of course I would. Don’t ever thank me for that.”

“I just miss her so much.” The tears in her voice are frighteningly intimate. He hates that he loves it, that he needs it. “It should’ve been me, Mulder. I can’t stop thinking that. It should’ve been me. Why wasn’t it me?”

Because I am the luckiest son of a bitch alive on this planet, he doesn’t tell her.


Post-episode for Revelations, written for the @txf-fic-chicks challenge. A big thank you to @kateyes224 for giving me the episode (because I’m an indecisive fuck & couldn’t choose one myself).

A/N: This one was a bit difficult for me to write, given my background with religion & the fact that I’m an atheist. But Mulder’s attitude toward Scully in Revelations  has always bothered me, because he should know better than anyone that not believing in something doesn’t mean you get to act like a condescending cunt to those who do believe. So I did what fanfic writers do, & attempted to fix it. <3

She drives home from the airport in silence after bidding Mulder a curt goodbye.

Mostly it just makes me afraid, she had told the priest from her confession booth. Afraid that God is speaking, but that no one is listening.

The rain outside pelts against the top of her car, the sound mingling with windshield wipers sloshing rhythmically across wet glass. With each pass of the blades, she hears a taunting liar – liar – liar.

Perhaps it’s another sign.

Or perhaps it’s simply her own judgment. The knowledge that she spoke untrue words in a house of God causes her stomach to roll over, familiar Catholic guilt gripping her heart. She is afraid, that much is true. But she’s not afraid that no one is listening, or at least that isn’t her greatest fear. What truly terrifies her, what causes her blood to freeze in her veins as the lump in her throat grows, is that Mulder isn’t listening.

That he isn’t listening to her.

This is a man who can see a star shoot across the sky and swear it’s a spaceship, who will believe without question in a stranger’s account of a psychic vision or a visit from beyond the grave. Yet when she speaks of miracles and incorruptibles and the hand of God, he looks at her with the same patient expression her  father used to get when explaining that no, Starbuck, there is no monster under your bed – stop being silly and go back to sleep.

Mulder had laughed at her.

I know what I saw, she tells herself firmly. I don’t need his damn approval. The rain is coming down harder now, in sheets rather than droplets. She flicks her wrist, increasing the speed of the wipers. Liar-liar-liar-liar-liar.

Okay, she concedes to herself, as she guides her car into her parking lot, I rarely (never) believe him when he speaks of apparitions and aliens. This is her role as a scientist, though. He seems to respect that role, even through his exasperation at her refusal to give in to his every whim.

Every time – every single time she tries to believe in something, Mulder is a skeptic. Luther Boggs. Don’t believe him, Scully. Owen Jarvis. Now you’re suggesting that this is Saint Owen? Kevin Cryder. What I’ve seen here has only tested my patience, not my faith.

Well, Mulder, it’s hard to have your faith tested when you don’t have any faith to begin with.

Running clumsily across the sidewalk and into her apartment building,  she pulls her blazer tightly over her head, but it hardly makes a difference. By the time she steps into her unit, her hair is plastered to her face and her feet squish uncomfortably in her shoes. She sighs heavily as she steps out of them, peeling her soaked shirt from her body.

She suppresses a cringe as she remembers, once again, the mocking disdain in her partner’s voice when Jarvis told him that God had spoken to him. “God,” Mulder’s voice was scornful, and her fingers had itched with the urge to cross herself. “That’s quite the long distance call.”

She shivers. Whether it’s from the damp chill clinging to her body even as she changes into warm soft flannel, or from the memory of Mulder’s blasphemy, she isn’t sure.

When her phone rings, she sighs and prepares herself for the speech she’s sure she will be delivering in a few moments. No, Mulder, I am not meeting you to look for Bigfoot tonight. No, Mulder, it is not possible for a human being to pass through solid objects. No, Mulder –

“Scully.” Her voice is at once flat and sharp. I’m already bored with this conversation, but you’ve pissed me off, so tread lightly.

Hey, you.” Mulder sounds quiet and sleepy. No excited pre-case edge. No condescending smirk. Just hey, you.

“Mulder.” She frowns curiously. Pulling her legs up onto the bed, she leans back against the pillows. “What’s up?”

I just wanted to tell you – “ There’s a long pause, and for a moment, Scully wonders if the call has been dropped.


I just wanted to tell you,” he tries again, “that, um, you were great out there, Scully. You saved that boy’s life. If it were solely in my hands, he would be dead right now.

“I thought you didn’t believe me,” she replies, and hates herself a little for the sadness reflected in her words.

I didn’t.” He hesitates again, and then – “But you were right.”

“Thank you,” she murmers. She closes her eyes and swallows, then whispers, “I did see the things I said I did, Mulder. I didn’t make it up.”

I know you did.”

“I guess I’ll see you at work tomorrow?” She curls the phone cord around one finger, unsure of what else to say. Thank you, Mulder, for not thinking I’m crazy – maybe I’ll try to return the favor one day?

See you at work,” he agrees.

As she pulls the phone from her ear, his voice calls out – “Hey, Scully?

“Yes, Mulder?”

He sighs quietly. “I don’t believe in God. I can’t lie and say that I do, any more than you can say that you believe in flying saucers or clairvoyant abilities.”

She opens her mouth to reply, to tell him that it’s okay, that she understands (liar-liar-liar) but he continues. “You’re the first person who has ever made me want to believe in God, Scully.

A soft smile spreads across her face, a tender warmth blooming in her chest.

Suddenly, she knows exactly what to say. This time, it isn’t a lie.

“You make me want to believe, too.”


Basic necromancy training regimen. WEEK 4

These posts will teach you how to lay the foundations for Necromancy and develop the basic abilities needed. By the end of this, the mage-in-training will have all the abilities they will need to begin the practice of Necromancy. Sources: 

Arthur Edward Waite, The Book of Black Magic and of Pacts (1898), Christopher Penczak, The Witch’s Shield (2004), Claude Lecouteux, The Book of Grimoires: The Secret Grammar of Magic (2013), Franz Bardon, The practice magical evocation (1991), Cagliastro, Blood Sorcery Bible vol I (2011), The Grand Grimoire + The Clavicle of Solomon (N/A), Al-Toukhi, Red Magic (2010),  Paul Huson, Mastering Witchcraft (1970), Grimoire to Conjure the Spirit of a Place (2006),

Exercise 1: Drawing and Consecrating the Circle.

To draw a circle is a fairly easy affair; first you must see what medium is best for your workspace:
Stone: Charcoal, Chalk, Gems, Blood.
Wood/Tile: Paint, Blood.
Dirt/Sand/Loose stones: Sword or Knife.
It should be noted that circles made in soil or sand are quite susceptible to attack, and that even soft winds may mar the circle and leave the magus vulnerable, caution is advised.
Then the mage must measure out a length of rope or ribbon to the length appropriate for the work at hand, these are measured in pes naturalis (actual feet).
Personal circle(5): 2.5 feet with a knot at 2 feet.
Ceremonial circle(9): 4.5 feet with a knot at 4 feet.
Coven circle(13): 6.5 with a knot at 6 feet.
With extra allowance for a slip knot on either side to bind the marking tool and a center nail, thus creating a compass.

When both medium, location and size have been considered, the mage will begin by hammering a nail into where the center of the circle is desired, or alternatively having your apprentice or assistant to pin it down with their fingers. When this is done the medium is bound at the other edge, and by pulling the cord taught and beginning to mark the ground, Insuring your lines are unbroken and clean. When the first circle is drawn, wrap the tool to the knot half a foot in and draw the second band. This second band creates a space for candles, words of power, wards and such to be placed. Once both circles are drawn you should carefully inspect it and assure that all the lines are unbroken and that a certain degree of symmetry is maintained.

Consecration: The mage should take to the circle all the tools they find necessary, as once it is consecrated, it is not to be crossed. You will need a broom, salt, staff or Ritual blade, and an incense of Pine, Sage, Frankincense or otherwise one with cleansing properties.

The mage places these tools between the first and second circle (known as the “band”) in no particular manner.
The mage faces the north and lifts their staff or blade into the air with the left hand, and begins an incantation like such, whist tracing the first circle clockwise, from north to north:

“A circle
Drawn to be a cell
That may preserve and keep me”

And onto the second (inner) circle, likewise:

“And a wall
Impenetrable boundary of bone
That neither Howling Geist
Nor Thirsty blade may enter”

The practical mage knows no incantation of salts is needed, and thus will sprinkle the circle in it, wildershins, and sweep it away. For salt drains and neutralizes energies, a trait harmful to magic and spirit alike. It is implemented to clear the circle of any energies trapped within it, assisting in improving spell efficiency

Exercise 2: Preliminary Rites

With basic skills developed, one can finally take the first steps on the road to necromancy. This first step is a form of “initiation”, the mage will attempt to gain the attention of the dead through one of the rites described below, once completed a mage will notice a great shift in their abilities, and the attentiveness of the dead they work with.

Exercise 3: A Basic Conjuration.

The mage will require:
+ Black mirror we made in a previous week
+ Wand
+ Tools to cast a circle
+ A handful of grave dirt (see http://necromancyandme.tumblr.com/post/142455907640/procuring-grave-dirt)
+ Three candles
+ An incense, best if Lavender, Myrhh, Sandalwood or Mullein.

The mage begins by placing a candle in the band of the circle, facing West, and another one 60° to either side, creating a triangle within the circle. To the east place your mirror, outside of the circle but only just so that it can be seen without the candles’ reflections. Upon the hours between 12 Am and 3 Am, Cast your circle and draw a smaller one around the mirror (do not use any form of incantation upon it, it will be activated during the constraint). With that being done, you may begin the ritual.

Having cast the circle and lit both candles and incense,
Face east and raise your wand over head whist announcing the first conjuration:
“I, the mage ____, do conjure and evoke thee thrice Spirit N. by the very ground in which your corpse lays rotting and by thy own name,
Spirit N, Spirit N, Spirit N!
Crawl up from thy abyss,
Rise up from thy grave,
Do hearken to my command,
And come forth in an expeditious manner,
That you may grant me audience at this hour.”
And draw thrice in the air above you an equal armed cross within a circle, The symbol of the earth, the home of the dead.
Walk around the circle, wildershins and thrice, and stop again in the east to recite the second Conjuration:
“By the Endless void, and all realms of death; I summon thee, being long dead, come forth and appear to me now!
By your dust and dirt i awaken thee O’ Spirit N. Rise up now and show thyself within this mirror!”
And toss the Grave soil into the circle of the mirror quickly, allowing the spirit to manifest from the soil and onto the glass.

Again draw the sign of the earth and recite the Constraint:
“Now, Old Geist, by the own name do i bind thee into thy circle, to answer my questions truly until I am satisfied! Lest I cast you out and drag thee here again!
From the circle you shall rise and into the circle thou art bound Spirit N.”
And the sign of an inverted triangle is drawn.

And when the spirit enters the room you will announce the welcome unto the spirit:
“Ave unto thee, dread child, and I welcome thee unto this meeting place of living and dead, this divine crossroad between worlds.
I have conjured thee here that you may answer my Questions and serve me as I ask, lest you enrage me and I should cause you great distress. Do as I ask and drink deep of the bounties I offer thee O’ great, noble, spirit.”

And with that said you may proceed to interrogate the spirit as you wish, beholding the mirror as to see the spirit or what it wishes to show you. But be wary you are not lead beyond your circle, and not lead into bargains you can not fulfil.

When all is done, the mage will take up their wand again and bid the spirit a departure:
“Depart now Spirit N. From thy circle and back through the veil. Until we meet again, in this life or the next, I bid thee Vale”
And should the spirit stay, a handful of salt is tossed into the mirror’s circle with the following banishing:
“Depart spirit! Back into the abyss from which you crawled, and back to where you came, Or i will drain thy spirit and cause thee great harm!”
And should the spirit refuse to leave, cast upon it more salt, and exorcise the room with a cleansing incense before the mirror’s circle is broken. Or should you be outside, you will have to wait in your circle until the dawn, to insure that the spirit it truly and fully gone.

Now go forth Acolytes of the necromancer’s path, practice what i have taught you and do so with the blessings of the void.

Best of luck.

berserkcd  asked:

((do you think that being the reincarnations of Ashura and Indra detracts what Hashirama and Madara, then Naruto and Sasuke after them, accomplished in their lives? That what they accomplished wasn't of their own merit so much as one they unwittingly inherited?

[[ Oh boy oh howdy it’s fucking salt hour 

The whole ~*~destiny~*~ reveal is one of my many list of pet peeves with the ending. I’ve read this manga since the beginning, and I know what the theme was from the start: hard determination, dedication and focus, can overcome things like “fate.”

Imagine Neji being right, huh? Like– Neji was supposed to be wrong. That’s the entire point of him losing to Naruto in that Chuunin exam fight, that the fate others have written or assumed out of you can be escaped.

Of course….fate isn’t so bad when it’s on your side, isn’t it. 

If you really think about it, there is no way every single shinobi problem can be tied back to “Ashura and Indra had an argument and Indra’s salt extends beyond the grave.” How are you supposed to tie in Kiri’s history to it? It…doesn’t make any sense?? How does Orochimaru becoming obsessed with immortality tie into that? What about the 2nd war, and the Ame orphans? Amegakure’s entire ordeal? We’re basically being told that every single issue ties back to that single fight, as if there had been no problems before.

Which, yes there were, like the whole eternal war before Kaguya ate the forbidden fruit.

I refuse to believe that the Uchiha massacre is tied to Indra/Ashura. Itachi’s novel itself makes it crystal clear– Danzo had wanted them dead from the beginning. He would use any excuse he had. 

Sasuke’s trauma? His responses to trauma? Oh apparently it’s just Indra’s angry soul in him which ties him to Naruto and to oppose him. jlskdjfl. Bullshit. Sasuke is a 100% accurate portrayal of PTSD and all of his anger at the system who got his family killed and expected him to just be ok with it is justified. It takes away Sasuke’s autonomy, it makes his choices someone else’s, ~supposedly if he didn’t have Indra he would’ve just gotten over it~.

Rrrgh, I know I’m not exactly speaking in a formally polite manner which a meta post should be, but TL;DR Kishi shoehorning in Indra/Ashura to explain why the shinobi world has these problems is bull.

But I get why he did it. He got in over his head, he doesn’t deal with criticism well, and he wanted to end his story and this was the simplest way he could do it, blame everything on a pre-determined destiny and force a loss down Sasuke’s throat so the series could finish “cleanly.” ]]

I’m having a hectic week and another fabulous episode of the X-Files is just what the enigmatic Dr Scully ordered, but today’s episode is The List.

The List is ironically an episode that doesn’t make a lot of lists.  Maybe somewhere there’s a list of X-Files episodes that contain the largest number of maggots, a list it would probably top.  It’s also on the list of episodes where I really can’t give a toss about the plot and just make shit up.

When some dude doesn’t support the commission of the death penalty upon himself, he’s a touch touchy and seeks revenge from beyond the grave.  That pretty much sums up the plot, so I can focus on Mulder and his ties and occasionally remind myself that that’s what the blog is supposed to be about.

When we first see Mulder he has a dead man on his face.  I really don’t understand how a slide show is more effective than having an 8”x10” photo in the file that could be referenced on the road, but Mulder does love his slide shows and we allow him his little quirks.  He obviously doesn’t have to post his film to Kodak and wait two weeks to get an underexposed box of blur and disappointment back. I admit that the bright light does highlight his Bewitchery in Red tie nicely, which has me bewitched in spite of Mulder’s Season 3 hair, my least favourite Mulder hair. Except for Season 10 of course.

They go to the jail where warden was killed, and even behind bars the tie is bewitching.  Mulder and Scully are going to have to protect each other in there if they want to come out the same.  But next thing you know, Mulder’s sitting in a very steamy room in a new interrogation pose. He’s very trusting to go into the showers with the prisoners without Scully and I hope he has a good grip on his soap.  Sorry, it’s not the showers, it’s not even swamp gas.  Chris Carter wrote and directed this episode so it’s just extraneous atmosphere. The tie he’s wearing in the atmosphere is Please Don’t Shoot Me (Again) Scully and I am ashamed to discover that it didn’t make it onto the Season 2 Master List.  Sorry, I’ll post the corrected list at some stage. He and Scully smile at each other after his steamy encounter so it can’t have been too bad.

They go to a house where the sun shines on his tie and it really brings out the gold highlights. This may have been the highlight of the episode actually. Sadly, if not for the Tarzanasazi gif it would have been the highlight of my day.

At first Mulder doesn’t look dejected in his Diamonds of Dejection tie.  He and Scully have a bit of a superior air in fact.  But one look at Maggot Man in the attic has him questioning his role in the universe and how much evil he perpetrated in his past lives.  He hasn’t seen The Field Where I Died yet so he’s not to know of the evil contained within it.  Yellow shirt man has him confused and seeking protection from Scully.  Afterwards he sits next to her as he does the clothed pretzel interview position on the lawyer-who-obviously-doesn’t-have-children’s white couch. By the time they see that other guy with the nice tie they’re both fed up with the influence of Diamonds of Dejection and Mulder vows this is the last time he’ll wear it, as long as he gets to bust into someone’s house and point his gun at them in it one last time.  It may be the last time he wears it, but it’s memorialised forever on his FBI ID and his Driver’s License which suspiciously contain the same photo.

The next morning Mulder proves that sometimes he does just want to stop and get out of the damn car.  And stretch a bit.  And prance. All while wearing the Golden Triangle tie.   The gold highlight of the sun in his otherwise uninspiring hair is the new highlight of my day.  As he tilts his head back, his hips naturally thrust forward, giving Scully a vision of a destiny she’s not yet prepared for and she gets back into the car as fast as those little legs will carry her.  Mulder follows and they drive off, being passed by a car with another fly with an accelerated life cycle just waiting to become a bunch of writhing maggots.

I just noticed I’ve reached the magic milestone of 200 followers.  Thanks for reading, despite my rambling about everything but ties. 

xenzen-thewholeshebang  asked:

So there's a lot on the Internet about what goes on before a battle, and even during battle (at least, after you wade through all the video game information), but what happens after? Did the losers or winners bury their dead comrades, or was that left to the people who live on the land they fought on? Did anyone think to conduct funeral rites of some sort? Or did they just lah-de-dah off into the sunset and hope the opponents didn't follow?

A quick Google for the term “medieval battlefield graves” brought up plenty of info. Here’s one useful page

Though some battlefields were left littered with bodies, either if the battle was fought far from human habitation or to make a point

…there were plenty of recorded mass burials, like these at Culloden.

One of the best known is at Visby, where hot weather and fast decomposition meant the winners buried - or ordered the locals to bury - a lot of enemy casualties not from altruism but to prevent disease. They were already getting too unpleasant to strip or loot (given the stronger medieval stomach, that says how nasty the bodies had become) so ended up providing lots of archaeological evidence of what “low-to-mid-level” armour like coats-of-plates looked like.

It also gave graphic evidence of what medieval weapons were capable of doing.

Even the fairly sober “Blood Red Roses” documentary about Towton had people expressing shock about this. It’s as if the scientists came to their work in a haze of fictional chivalry and knights-in-shining-armour (or possibly just the supposed “bluntness” of European medieval swords) and were surprised when they discover that hitting a man in the face with what was more like a three-foot-long razorblade did the same then as it would do now.

A modern sniper’s head shot makes just as much mess - check the famous Zapruder film, and that involved just a 6.5mm round, not the massive Barrett .50 (14.5mm) which can go most of the way to the Dirty Harry thing of “Blow your head clean off”. Yet injuries from hot lead don’t seem to provoke the same surprise as those from cold steel.

There may have been funeral rites of some sort; in fact, it being a fairly religious age, there probably were. It would have been as easy for a priest to say a funeral mass over a hole with 100 or 1000 corpses in it as over a hole containing one.

Not doing so probably involved religious differences, as in the Crusades, or was just putting the spiritual boot in to interfere with the enemy’s afterlife, like this incident in the classic John Ford / John Wayne 1956 western “The Searchers”…

[Brad Jorgenson smashes the head of a dead Comanche warrior with a rock]

Reverend Clayton: “Jorgenson!”

Ethan Edwards: “Why don’t you finish the job?”

[He draws his gun and shoots out the dead Comanche’s eyes]

Reverend Clayton: “What good did that do ya?”

Ethan Edwards: “By what you preach, none. But what that Comanche believes, ain’t got no eyes, he can’t enter the spirit-land. Has to wander forever between the winds. You get it, Reverend?”

I don’t know how viewers of sixty years ago would have responded to this; maybe they weren’t shocked, maybe they thought “the murderin’ redskin had it coming”. Or maybe, since Ethan was played by a noted “good guy” like Wayne, they’d have felt properly uncomfortable since it proves that the character isn’t a hero but an anti-hero, with a corrosive level of hatred that goes beyond the grave.

A brief scene of a grave-marker near the beginning shows that Ethan’s mother was killed by Comanches - the death of a family member is one of “the usual reasons” for any revenge-driven movie character - and Martin Scorsese writes

(Ethan) hates Comanches so much that he actually has bothered to learn their beliefs in order to violate them.

(Ethan can also speak the Comanche language, going oddly far given his attitude which is that, quoting another film character entirely, “(I am) distrustful of language. A gun means what it says.“)

IMO this hatred at a spiritual level would have been equally shocking in Medieval and Early Modern Europe, at least among people of the same religion - you tried not to treat the enemy too badly either alive or dead in the hope that their side would do the same to yours.

It didn’t always happen - and still doesn’t, so we shouldn’t do any back-patting on that score  - but sometimes it did even when not expected. A mass grave from the Battle of Lützen in the Thirty Years War, which was a really nasty religious war between flavours of Christianity, revealed that…

A few facts have already come to light. For example, the corpses…were, at least, carefully laid to rest. The bodies were gathered from the battlefield and placed in a grave next to the street, arranged in two rows with their legs facing each other.

Several layers of dead probably lie within these two blocks, although researchers have only uncovered the first. The burials were not taken care of by the surviving soldiers, who were already on their way to the next battle. Instead the good citizens of Lützen had to take on the unpleasant job. They asked 200 soldiers in the neighboring garrison of Weissenfels for extra support.

If there was care taken over laying out the bodies, it seems reasonable to assume that someone “said words” over them. Quite possibly the wrong words (Catholic service over Protestant corpses or vice versa) either because of what clergy was available, or maybe as a form of post-mortem conversion. It’s the thought that counts.

At least nobody said “Buzzards gotta eat, same as worms…

Oneshot #17

Rating: T

Relationships: AkaFuri.

Characters: Akashi Seijuurou. Furihata Kouki. Ogiwara Shigehiro. Sakurai Ryou.

Wordcount: 2000 words

Tags: Harry Potter AU. Mentions of death. Pining. Fluff.  Cliché as hell. Brunet Trio. Not Hogwarts AU.

Summary: Akashi searches high and low for the one person who had successfully escaped his clutches. 

Author’s notes: This was the product of falling in love with that beautiful shadow puppet play in the film. Really short but I had fun writing it in twenty minutes. Not edited I am so sorry, I just wanted to post this as soon as I was done with it((which is something I know I shall regret tomorrow)). 

Flowers shoot from the ground, buds bursting with unique colours emerge valiantly from hiding and bloom out in the world, spending their lives in bliss and spreading their colourful joy to the world. Before ultimately, they grow tired, weak and wither and die.

Seasons change, spring to summer to autumn to winter. Time passes and life goes on.

And Akashi waits.

Impatiently, restlessly, pacing back and forth, he waits.

Helpless to change the way the cards were dealt. 

But he knows, that the flower he seeks, the flower he was waiting for, shall start to wither soon.

And he shall have his salvation then. The blessed relief he imagines he would experience then, is heady even to think of.

And makes the wait all the more torturous.


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anonymous asked:

Hi!!! :D so I love writing but have a hard time developing plot! I've gotten as far as my main characters heading to New Orleans to investigate mysterious murders! Do you have any ideas of what can go down in NO to bring the two mains closer together? :)

Hello Nonny!

It’s great to hear that you have main characters ready to go - that is, of course, a very important aspect in the writing process, but developing a plot is also very difficult. So, to help you with your problem, I thought that rather than explicitly giving you ideas of a plot like “Character A and Character B come upon a radioactive squirrel” or something along those lines, I’d just give bits of dialogue, descriptions, or little thoughts that could potentially correlate with your original idea of traveling to New Orleans to investigate some murders. I am giving you complete and utter permission to use any part of this post that you wish. Hopefully this helps you out!

- admin °m°


List of Various Bits:

(they = any character in your story; simply enter a name or other pronoun if necessary)

  • “So what if I decided it would be best to not walk down a dark abandoned alleyway at night - I suppose I haven’t the slightest clue what came over me. What the hell was I thinking?!” they threw up their arms sarcastically.
  • “Alright, fantastic, although, keep in mind that I’ve elected to stay here rather than leaving, and I’m the one with the pepper spray, so, it’s up to you, really,” they shrugged indifferently from their reclined position.
  • A gust of wind blew across the entirety of the street, sending it into darkness. The only thing visible to the naked eye was the panicked frozen breath wheezing from their mouth.
  • “You decided to play wid fire, sweedheart - dees is whad fire feels like,” murmured the Oracle.
  • The local police department consisted of one middle-aged man, a goth teenage intern, and an extremely disturbing little girl who doesn’t seem to ever leave her home atop the water cooler. Why they believed this was an adequate police station, I haven’t the slightest clue.
  • Some people say that being shot is one of the most painful events a person can withstand - I can assure you, that seeing a bullet rip through the chest of the one you have devoted your existence to is like a thousand arrows piercing your heart at precisely the same moment, branding the single thing that you could not imagine living without with the fire of an infinite number of suns. That is what true pain feels like.
  • A single legend that truly scared me as a child was the story that my father used to tell me about the living shadows. He would turn on every light in the house, draw shut every curtain, lock every door, and gently sit me on his lap. He’d always tell me that everything he told me shook with truth, and I can’t deny that I could always see it in his eyes and in his wavering voice when he spoke of the shadows. Of course, as a child, I believed every word he said, especially when he said that he destroyed every last one - until now, that is. 
  • “I swear to GOD ALMIGHTY, IF YOU DON’T TURN OFF THAT GODFORSAKEN SONG, I WILL PUNCH YOU DIRECTLY IN THE FACE,” they screeched from within the confines of the police car.
  • And with a last great heave lifted the disfigured coffin from its musty grave. After ‘clearing the air,’ as it were, they grinned and asked us with that unsettling smile. “So…who wants to see a dead body?”
  • “Are we genuinely qualified to be doing this? Because I have a strange feeling that the resounding answer will be ‘absolutely positively not’ in most states.”
  • “Why don’t you just stand over there - yes over there - in that corner. Yes, that corner. Yes, I know there’s a draft - why do you think I told you to go to the corner? Just, go…why is this such an issue?” they groaned frustratedly to the person on the other line. “Why are you not in the corner? Are you there?…Are you really?…You’re lying, aren’t you? Yes, you are, don’t lie, you know that’s frowned upon.” "Who - who are they–” they started. "You really don’t want to know, honestly,” they grimaced.
  • “But the library has always been the best –” "Correction: it always used to be the best place for research. Now, do you know what I can do? I can take my phone, pull up Google, and browse for the nearest strip club that has sexy looking librarians. My god, the wonders of technology,” they sighed.
  • “…Well, how did they die?” they asked, eyebrows pulling together. "Well f*** me if I know. It certainly couldn’t be a heart attack or something natural - that would mean we had the night off, wouldn’t it,” they trailed off sarcastically.
  • A quick flash passed my peripheral vision when suddenly a scorching heat pressed against my exposed wrist, immediately incinerating the first several layers of skin. In an attempt to ease the onslaught, I snatched at my wrist, that now was badly damaged.
  • “This…this is the best sandwich I’ve ever tasted,” they praised in between mouthfuls of the mammoth sub. "You’re making it seem like you’ve never eaten before,” they joked. Completely seriously, they replied “Who says that I have?”
  • “New Orleans is a magical place full of wonder beyond your wildest dreams - I can assure you, if you are looking for someone in particular, you’ll find dem soon enough.”

10x16 “Paint It Black”

“Obscuri Funesti Dies” - The Picture of Isabella from Tivoli:
A Deeper Look into Her and the Winchesters’ Story

[[I am going to pre-face this by saying that I haven’t read any longer meta on the episode yet, so if some aspects or maybe all of the things I need to write a litle bit more about have already been talked about in one way or another I am really sorry for being late with it, but it took me an attempted re-watch to realize just how many more layers there are to this episode than I had caught on first run through. So without further ado: Buckle up, this might turn out becoming a long and crazy ride. I promise I’ll try to make it as short as possible and as structured and easy to follow as well.]]

This latest SPN episode has been filled with such a huge amount of intertexts and referenes as little other SPN episode before - and SPN is using a lot on a daily basis - so I think 10x16 in my opinion has been exceptionally heavy in that regard. It might have looked like a fairly standard story on the surface, but if you peel back layer after layer you’ll see it’s anything but - or at least I hope I am not the only feeling this way. :)

I’d like to start into this anaysis/examination of the episode by taking a look at the title of this post, because it is a good summary for what served as the spark for all the thoughts and ideas that came after.

“Obscuri funesti dies” is what Sister Matthias reads out loud before she starts reading further in Isabella’s journal. If my latin doesn’t fail me completely it should loosely translate as “The darkest day / The day of grieving” and it serves as a perfect connection to the episode title “Paint It Black”, which is a song by “The Rolling Stones”, which has been understood in music scholars as a song about a man, who has lost all his hope and faith as well as a song about a funeral. Both readings share a similar end notion: the protagonist of the song wants to paint everything black and by that projects his inner darkness and fragmentation brought on by grief, despair and depression onto the outside world.

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look who’s here. Is this the end of hiatus ? Who knows ? I don’t have that much time right now, but inspiration happened, and this really, really, really weird piece is a result of that. (darling pan forever and ever and ever <3) 

Shadows settle on the place, that you left (x

It all comes down to this, really.

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so i saw a post awhile ago that had a whole bunch of ‘imagine your otp’ prompts on it, and i saved this one:

“being reunited after surviving the zombie apocalypse unknowing if the other was alive or dead au”

so last night i sat down with a huge glass of apple juice and wrote this in one straight burst.

(mn, mentions of suicide)

It’s unfortunate, to end up drenched in blood, even while strictly avoiding any kind of combat whatsoever. Near feels it underneath his fingernails and knows it’s even in his hair, it’s on his clothes and face and on pretty much every piece of exposed skin. He hates it, but they had needed him for this run. Strategy is much better than brute strength, after all, even if this one required such bluntness. They do avoid confrontation when they can. Unfortunately, things often get… sticky. But, as they always tell him, where would they be without Near?

While the number of Infected seems to be declining, which Near puts down to the even more steadily declining number of humans still around, there’s plenty enough to keep everyone wary. He prefers not to think about the fact that humanity will have died out completely within twenty years, at the latest. It’s cold comfort that the plague will claim even the Infected within the thirty years following that. It is information he keeps to himself, because for most of the people in this tiny colony they’ve established, hope is all they have.

How nice it must be to be an optimist.

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meeting taylor: my experience

First of all, let me just say express how thankful I am to Taylor for everything that she’s done for me, and how lucky I am to have the best role model in the world. She has been nothing but kind to me, especially when others haven’t been, and she’s made my life so much better. I forgot to tell you that I love you when i met you, Taylor, so I really hope you know that.

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Trying to make sense of nonsense

So it’s been over a week since Arrow killed off Laurel Lance, the Black Canary, and despite reblogging a lot of posts and voicing my annoyance, it has been difficult for me to actually write a coherent piece trying to make sense out of this nonsense.

 It’s hard for me to decide what annoys me the most about the whole Laurel death. Is it the fact that she was not given a hero’s death despite Guggenheim talking about it being earned?, or the fact that on her death bed she is shipping 0l1c1+y?, or maybe it is the fact that Katie only finds out about her character getting killed off when they are shooting episode 16?, or Marc’s attempts to reduce our outrage to Lauriver shipping and asserting that her story reached a creative plateau?, or how about the fact that her only storyline this year was resurrecting Sara, which almost undid her character growth?. 

Actually, I think my anger stems from the fact that these writers have consistently treated the actress and character with disrespect from the very beginning, so it is not surprising that her death reflected that. Someone wrote a post on the many deaths of Laurel criticizing the writer’s spin on the GA/BC romance. While I do not appreciate the bashing of Arrow’s Black Canary, I have to admit that turning the second most iconic female Justice Leaguer into the civilian love interest was one of the biggest injustices done to the character, especially when they decided to add sister swapping into the mix. Then the audience said there was no chemistry so her character got penalized by becoming an alcoholic and drug addict while Oliver’s mistake got excused and justified by the writers. Suddenly, she was blamed for Oliver cheating on her with Sara because Laurel called the cops on Sara, who was framed as his female counterpart in every way. 

By the time the show got around to making her Black Canary, Marc is liking comments calling Felicity the female lead (she will never be in my eyes), 0l1c1+y is the primary focus of the show, she is  being given the Canary Cry on The Flash but it is never explained on Arrow, and pivotal scenes that would have shown her growth in Team Arrow end up on the cutting room floor. I hoped her exclusion would end after season 3 but I was wrong. 

 TPTB had promised Laurel fans that they will be happy in season 3 so at least we were not duped in Season 4 but the disrespect given to her this year started before that stupid grave scene. There was the controversial board  that had every cast member but Katie’s, the constant shilling of OTA and 0l1c1+y, and the writers reblogging fan art excluding her. So with the lack of a storyline for her except Sara’s resurrection,  five minutes of screen time, her glaring absence in the Flash crossover, not getting a mention in Mericle’s interviews. I started being afraid that she could be in the grave. Still I hoped they wouldn’t be so stupid.

As much as I hate the paps who leaked it, I am glad they revealed the death ahead of time so I stopped watching the show. I probably would have been angrier than I am right now. Did the Black Canary really have to die as a punishment for her father betraying Damien Dhark, instead of dying protecting someone?. Was it necessary to have her last words be about her being a defeated or failed love interest, instead of her growth as a character?. What is Guggenheim even talking about when he says her story had plateaued and that they had to pay off the grave scene in the first episode?. This is a character with years of history in the comic books. Even though it was obvious that she was no longer going to be the love interest, there were many directions her character could go. She was yet to have a personal villain so giving her one would have been a good way to show her character growth and add more “pop” than death. They could have explored the contradictions of working inside and outside the law. With a villain as a mayor, we could have seen her rethink her career path, and whether she preferred vigilante justice even if it meant her leaving her friends and family behind. I mean, we saw her connect with Nyssa and will see her with Vixen, so why not have her leave town and work with them. Hell, an organic canary cry might have created story lines for her since she would have had to learn to control her powers and exercise restraint. Come to think of it, her tech Canary Cry could have had her dealing with the control of her “powers”, and when to use restraint. The excuse that they have reached a creative plateau just does not make sense at all.

Why the show needed a death to revitalize interest in the show is beyond me. They said they were going for a lighter season so why kill someone off. This problem is not just limited to Arrow but seems to be an irritating trend in television these days. I don’t know if it is because of Game of Thrones or Walking Dead but apparently the death of a character has become an alternative to character development. I believe an article cited five character deaths in the same week, all of them women, including Abbie Mills, the lead character of Sleepy Hollow (there is no way the show is escaping cancellation). Character deaths may seem edgy and bring the sense of stakes but when done as a gimmick or handled poorly, you get absurdities like the death of Laurel Lance. Guggenheim’s interviews have shown that it was done for shock value, and probably because he assumed she was the least popular so there will be minimal backlash. He didn’t count on the fact that viewers were warming up to her, or that we will see through him. If there is anything I have liked about the death is the backlash the show is receiving for this stunt. The episode got low ratings, a lot of viewers were pissed off and are contemplating dropping the show. Critics panned the death scene, even those who seemed to be anti-Laurel. Given how TPTB sabotaged the character from the start, I am not surprised her death was also handled with minimal care for the character, the actress and her fans. I am just happy that people are finally realizing what has always been a writing problem.

A lot of fans blamed Katie for Laurel’s lack of popularity, calling her a bad actress or a bad person that is difficult to work with. While there might be truth to Katie not being the writer’s choice, everything I see from her tells me she is a professional and classy person who does well with what she has been given, and tries to exude positivity even though it must be demoralizing to sign up to be lead actress, only to have everything taken from her. On the other hand, Guggenheim and the other writers have shown little professionalism and class. Ask a question about Laurel on Tumblr, and he either turns it into a shipping question or makes a comment that can potentially instigate fandom wars. Then he uses Katie’s classy tweet to wag his fingers at her fans. He claims to never take story ideas from the internet but 0verw@tch, the Fern video, and the Quentin and Donna relationship easily refute his claims. Writers calling people bozos for not liking 0l1c1+y, and making Laurel’s death about Felicity, despite the two spending little time together tell me that they are unprofessional and tone deaf so it is not surprising it shows in the writing. Despite viewers citing season 3 as the beginning of the decline in quality, Slade’s motivation and Moira’s mayoral candidacy are but two examples of the decline beginning in season 2. It is no wonder poor writing has become the norm in season 4.

Some people have tried to oppose Laurel fans for voicing our displeasure, with Stephen telling us we are making a mistake for quitting the show but truth be told, we Laurel fans have been suffering since the show started, and despite being excited when she became Black Canary, “disappointed but not surprised” soon became a common sentiment in our side of the fandom. There really is not much to keep us as viewers. The  writing has declined, Marc’s attitude is off-putting, they could barely respect the Black Canary when alive or on her death bed, so why should anyone expect her to be treated with respect when she is in the grave, and the people who screamed OTA also called for her death so seeing OTA will always leave a bad taste in my mouth. I guess I should be happy Black Siren is on the table but I need to see how she is handled on The Flash first. Last year, she was handled so well that a reviewer was forced to rethink their opinion on Katie’s acting. The way she is handled there will inform my watching of her subsequent appearances in the Legends of Flarrowverse. That said, I can’t see myself watching Arrow whether they bring Laurel back or not. I hope the people who declared they were done actually put their money where their mouth is. Maybe the show’s loss of viewers and ratings will make TPTB rethink the way they treat an actress, her characters and her fans.

Carmilla Week Eleven! (part 2)

When we left off on Tuesgay, Perry had gone full-on Father Merrin at Mattie.

And we pick up right there again! Perry has some choice words for Mattie - poison being one of them - and she lets the holy water fly. Mattie though, has had enough of Perry’s constant barrage of “you killed people, you’re a killer” and so forth. Honestly, after so much of that I probably would have lost my shit too. Perry’s “leeching into our dreams” line was interesting. Is she dreaming of Mattie?

The fucking captions kill me.

While LaF goes to check on Perry, Laura reminds Mattie of the whole “you can stay here so long as you don’t kill anyone” promise she made and *technically* she didn’t break it since Perry isn’t dead. But Mattie is still pissed and hey, who wouldn’t be after getting burned like that.

Behold, Mattie! An ancient and invincible being who’s going to…not kill the tiny human because my little sister said I’m not allowed to.


Can someone explain to me how in the actual fuck Elise did not get nominated for a Streamy award? Holy shit she and Natasha absolutely fucking killed it this episode. Well fucking done, ladies. (The Canadian Screen Awards have a digital/non-TV category and I will sell my kidney and what’s left of my soul to get this show nominated).

That is not a phrase I thought Laura could ever say. Seriously. She spends 99.9% of her time caring about EVERYTHING. And Carm’s face? Jesus. I need to start hiding Emergency Wine around here for shit like this. Augh.
Laura screamed everyone out of the room but Carmilla stuck around. Because of course she did and she asks about Perry, who is in fact still alive for the time being.

Oh ffs Laura I think she actually does get your head out of your own arse. She cares a lot, but in a different way than you do and about different things. If she truly didn’t care, she wouldn’t ask.

Then we get hit with a fucking Freight Train of Feels.
“She isn’t mine. You are”. Sorry, brb I’m just going to lie down and cry for a bit.

“To love or not. To save…or not”.

Donnnnnnnn’t even fuckin’ joke about that.

At this point I’m sure we’re all uglycrying and hotladypants anamatics and Jordan are all sitting back laughing with this:

My therapy bill will be mailed to you guys, thanks.

“It’s not enough”. Laura, what has damaged you so much? At least you FINALLY FUCKING ACKNOWLEDGE THE “YOU DIDN’T DO IT FOR ME” THING jfc.


And when Laura said “like someone cut a hole in me” i had to go take a walk around the room and pick up the pieces of my SHATTERED HEART. I legit thought this was gonna be UberSnark Carmilla but omg no. No it was broken and hurt Carmilla and that was NOT ok. If this is the level we’re at for this one, I’m taking the day off when the Giraffe Shirt of Doom shows up because I’ll be a mess.

Mattie wears a locket with a piece of her heart and that’s what’s making her immortal and impossible to kill. Holy shit. That’s pretty big info, Hollis. (And Mattie has a Horcux? What up Voldemort). She’s also choosing Laura over Mattie. Again. Mildly concerned that Mattie finds out and tries to get revenge or punish Carmilla for that, be it directly at Carmilla or by doing something to Laura. But, uh, if Mattie’s under the floorboards, wouldn’t she hear that? (Excellent analogy for why she’s so aloof - she literally has her heart locked away). With this knowledge though, does that mean that Laura’s on her own to fight Mattie if needed? Or will Carmilla step in and help if Laura’s in real danger?

This (incredibly painful and amazingly acted) conversation was important for multiple reasons. The obvious is that we find out Mattie’s weakness. The second is this: there is a major problem in the Hollstein relationship. There is a fundamental issue with them and until it’s resolved, they won’t work. Carmilla cares for Laura, but to Laura, that isn’t enough and it will always be a problem. After centuries of her personality being molded into what it is now, can she change? Would she change? Something’s gonna have to give if this is going to work.

In conclusion: Perry’s so OOC right now it’s impossible to ignore and she’s possessed, Mattie is Voldemort, Carmilla is a gross sappy vampire in love and Laura needs to face reality, as her black and white world has been shattered.

Like my feels.

Darth Vader #24 seems to be really pushing the Vader and Anakin are two separate people angle and I’m kinda rolling my eyes at it.

But I just read it really quickly while at work so maybe I have to look it over again.

I’m not sure what that whole flashback/vision journey was about and why it happened at that particular moment. It seemed like a very odd time for it. And he didn’t think about Luke at all which doesn’t feel right, since this comic started out with him being obsessed with Luke and leads up to him searching for Luke in ESB.

The resolution of #24 is all about rejecting his former identity (which the new canon seems to be very gung ho about) whereas the actual OT movie character progression is about regaining that identity. I’d much rather see them establishing the cracks in the armor of Vader than constantly reaffirming this whole “Anakin is dead and Gone” narrative.

He obviously isn’t dead and gone. So I wish the new canon would stop twisting itself into knots to tell us that he is.

This whole “I killed Anakin” stuff is annoying to me mostly because it’s meant to fit in line with the retcon between ANH and ESB where Obi-Wan tells Luke that Vader killed Anakin and then defends his lie by telling Luke that Anakin symbolically murdered himself and became Vader. That’s not what happened. Vader never says that happened. Vader says “No, I am your father” because he is Anakin and his consideration of Luke as his son is due to him being Anakin. You can’t have him rejecting Anakin while still pursuing Luke as his son. It makes no sense!

No. I did not kill your father, I am your father.

The closest he comes to denying his identity is saying that the name Anakin Skywalker means nothing to him. And this is literally while talking to the son he has been pursuing for years because it sure as hell means a lot to him. He didn’t kill himself, he doesn’t celebrate the loss of Padme and Luke; he blames Obi-Wan for the destruction of his body and for turning Padme against him and for taking Luke. Having him deliberately re-kill Padme from beyond he grave because he loves being Vader so much is ridiculous and not even the old Dark Horse comics tried to erase his regret over Padme like that.

Vader killing Anakin is a lie that Obi-Wan told. That is canon.

Vader saying it on Rebels and in the comic is fanfiction.

I had a blessed evening. #blessed.  I knew when I received the fated phone call at 8:05, two hours before closing, asking me what time I was closed, that I was in for a treat.  That phone call, for those of you who don’t speak “service industry,” means one thing, and one thing only:  

“Hi, I’m a worthless asshole who will be coming in about 10-15 minutes before you close, forcing you to serve me while staying past my welcome, and then making us all uncomfortable because while you want to go home and sleep like a normal human being, I live to suck the soul from your body, much like a dementor. Also, please be aware I have no concept of time.” 

Expecto Patronem motherfuckers, let’s get this show on the road.

The man on the phone is old.  He’s either on his fourth hip replacement or dead and speaking to me from beyond the grave, but at this point we’re not turning back. He’s coming in.

He hands the phone off to a woman whom he calls his “agent.”  I can only assume she is his fellow geriatric for the evening.  She, true to form, begins to ask me a series of questions about the bar. 

“Do you play rap-crap?” 

Strictly Kanye.  Niggas in Paris is on repeat on Wednesday nights.

“Is the television loud?” 

Only if Maury is on.

“What is the ambience?” 

Vampires.  So death, which I’m guessing you’re both familiar with.

“Describe the upstairs.” 

It’s above the bottom.

“Tell me about what shows you play on your television.” 

Porn. Mostly porn.  On a good day, it’s less porn.

When she’s satisfied with her over the phone pop quiz she hands me back to him.

He hacks up a lung and laughs while he asks, “can I bring handcuffs?”

I gag.

He hangs up.

I immediately begin to pray that there’s a fire somewhere that prevents them from arriving, or that the curse allowing the dead to wander from the grave is lifted before 10.

At this point, an atrociously awkward man walks in.  He says nothing and stares blankly at me.  When I ask how he’s doing, he replies with “meeting someone" and runs up the stairs to our lounge.

I am immediately aware of the fact that he doesn’t speak English.  Things are about to get interesting,kids.

His date arrives a minute later, barely able to walk in her heels, and stumbles up the stairs, making jokes like

“If you hear a crash it’s me!”

If you hear me laughing at you, it’s me.

Roughly five minutes later another couple walks in. The man is too loud and thinks he is hilarious.  He is either compensating for an extremely small penis, or he wasn’t hugged much as a child.  Either way, it can’t be a win for anyone involved.  The woman keeps smiling.  At everything.  Including the walls and the floor, and whatever else she makes eye contact with.  It’s disconcerting. 

They decideto also go upstairs. 

Wonderful.  A party.

It’s 9:00 at this point. 

After serving them a couple of glasses of wine and listening to fucktard’s less than fantastic jokes I go back downstairs to try and drown myself in the sanitizing sink.

The following conversation begins.

“How’d you both meet?”


“Oh us too!”

Never would have guessed.

“I’ve heard that online the guys embellish what they do and how much they make and women embellish their looks. Surely not. Most women are shorter or fatter or uglier in real life and most men make less.”

“This is LA for you.”

“Yeah, you have to look people up on Facebook!”

“How do you do that?”

“You ask them, hey can I have your last name. I want to see if we have friends in common.  That way they feel like you’re selective and they think they’re special, (That way they think you’re creepy and probably a serial killer) but you get to see the real them.  It’s all in my book.”



Sidebar…just because you have an opinion and you wrote it down, doesn’t mean you have a book.  This, per se, is not a book, although I am sure it resembles a book much more than whatever she has thrown together. 

“Yeah!  It’s about how to find the perfect man!”

At this point, it’s too much and I walk upstairs. She’s handing out fliers and business cards and hands me one. 

I give her a clever “Oh Thanks!  God knows I need it!” and she smiles eagerly as if she’s done me a favor. 

That’s sarcasm, I’m single by choice.  So I don’t have to date men like the one you’re sitting beside. 

The flier says the following:

“How to be a Man Magnet by the Dating Diva!  Get ready to have your pick of DREAM GUYS COURTING YOU!” 

A few highlights…

-      Learn how to become your best self and the woman men worship.

        Oh good,someone finally figured it out.   

-      Recognize and replace old patterns that scare men away

        Step One, don’t be the woman who writes a book about how to get men to worship you.

-      Be a more confident you! 

        Make it stop.

Hey guys, it’s available on Amazon.  Oh also, she’s single and this is a first date because the other dude she was seeing decided to rekindle things with his ex-wife.

Guys.  That’s like me writing a book on how to become a successful model, when in reality I just have a lot of selfie Saturday posts on Instagram and a couple of pictures of other people’s dogs.  It doesn’t count, it never will.

They stop talking about her book.  She’s done enough marketing.

It gets quiet upstairs.

“I ubered here.”

“Oh.  Me too.  Uber is great.”

That wasn’t product placement guys, that was just my way of letting you know that I wanted to kill myself at multiple points tonight. I made it through.

A couple minutes pass and the girls upstairs are now competing over who is prettier by telling stories of their pasts at Catholic private schools, where they used to get in trouble for hiking up their skirts. Never-been-hugged-tiny-penis asks sheepishly if we “need to get a ruler upstairs for Sister Mary to punish someone” and both men laugh while I try to use a wine key to dig my brain out of my skull.

At this point, the best thing to add into the mix would be…YOU GUESSED IT, Cryptkeepers one and two, who come waltzing into the establishment and decide to join the party.

Jack Skellington or Cryptkeeper one,  goes upstairs and immediately orders a taste of everything we have.  He makes a joke that he’s going to make me walk up and down the stairs all night tonight, and I smile while I strangle him to death in my head.  I walk up the stairs with five glasses, none of which he likes, but decides he’ll keep in front of him to continue to taste.  

I’m onto you, you cheap fuck.

Now they’re talking about “high tea” and how all British people love tea, because it can be paired with so many different foods. The Cryptkeepers begin to suggest that perhaps tea is better paired with food in comparison to wine.  A fine green tea with steak is suggested and slowly I begin to reconsider my career choice. 

Eventually, everyone decides it’s best to go home because the poor bartender was supposed to close an hour ago and oh no we can’t hear her anymore perhaps she finally killed herself.   The two young couples have realized there’s no point in trying to compete anymore, and are exchanging numbers, you know, to be friends.   Realistically, both couples are equally fucked, and each relationship will gradually end disappointingly, much like the 5 wines that Lord Voldemort’s grandfather is continuing to taste and grimace at.

I say that I’m going to close up for the night, and after a few more pointless conversations, everyone closes out.  The two younger couples leave while discussing plans for a group date and the old man tells me he and his “gorgeous date” will be staying upstairs until I’m ready to head out.  Also can he have some food, some bread perhaps.  Sorry, I’m out of bread for the night. Also, I’m lying.  Because no, you can’t have any food, because I decided an hour ago I didn’t like you. 

I go downstairs to polish glasses.  And as I’m polishing I HEAR THE TWO TIPSY FUCKS UPSTAIRS MAKING OUT.  WITH TONGUE.  IT’S GOTTA BE FULL OF DUST IN THERE, BRO WHAT ARE YOU DOING.  I turn up the music as loud as possible, wondering why I never had to go through this with my parents, but now I must go through it with the cryptkeepers. 

They come downstairs to pee and then to sit and wait for their driver, you know the one, the ferryman from the underworld that takes you across the River Styx.   And to pass the time he begins to read me a poem by E.E. Cummings called Effie.  As he finishes each line, he explains it.  Because he’s educated. Thank God.  Don’t know what I would do without him.  She has fallen asleep on the chair and is snoring while slowly falling off to the left side.  (The lucky bitch.)

Before this absurd evening comes to an end, and after I’ve fully listened to the critical analysis of Cummings’ poem, the old man looks at me and says “isn’t it funny how life works out?” 

Fondly now, I look at him, a little warmed at my cynical and sarcastic core and ask how long they’ve been together.

“I met her online.  I’m getting lucky tonight Effie.”

Needless to say my night ended up with me throwing up in my mouth, and driving home to order the Dating Diva’s book off Amazon. With any luck I’ll be dating a man who worships me in a few weeks, albeit with a small penis and a sense of humor just as miniscule, or I’ll find myself at the ripe old age of dead, drunk, and snoring at a wine bar, well beyond closing time.

Stay tuned.