#palimpsest mind

[thesnakesstuff]

Fannart for Palimpsest Mind by @the-final-sif

I am rotating them in my head

[the-final-sif]

Anyways the part that I didn't have time to include in Palimpsest Mind but that lives on in my heart is c!Sam just. There. when c!Tubbo and c!Tommy get back, and c!Sam is just a flagpole stacked with bright red. But c!Dream is trying to defend the guy who helped him out and whose been relatively nice (and also in denial of his own overwhelming discomfort <3).

Meanwhile c!Tubbo is working on building out the house and c!Sam is just like "I think Dream's room should be in the basement with only one exit and no windows. For security. I think I can make his door lock too. That feels important."

And then c!Tubbo's like "Cool! We're not doing that, and also I'm going to figure out how to kill you and make it look like an accident if you suggest anything like that again!" In the brightest, most cheery tone. And c!Sam has no defense.

Anyways this is the S2 dynamic for this entire AU, along with c!Tubbo and c!Tommy trying to get c!Sam like, lost in the woods or smthing. They both have vibe checked him and it came back Rancid so they want him gone.

[luxraydyne]

me stacking fear and hunger 2: termina right on top of paper mario: the thousand year door just like the new town being built over the remains made into sewers with landmarks that curiously map over each other topographically and thematically like aw yeah it’s all coming together now

[pokimoko]

Just reached 20K words on my next Moon Knight fic! It’s looking like it’ll end up being another 30K fic, so it’s still a little way off from being posted. And most of the snippets I want to share (and god I want to share them so bad) are kind of spoilery for the overarching plot, so for now I will simply pique your interest with what I have deemed the story’s “vibe moodboard”:

Make of it what you will.

[sweetsmalldog]

Kipperlily being jealous of Riz from the jump because she wants to be a classic fantasy hero rising up from messed up circumstances is actually so fucked. If you will go back to Freshman year in your mind: Sklonda eating her cereal with water so Riz can have milk, Riz saying he can watch the palimpsest because no one is going to notice he’s gone, going from thinking his father was in a run of the mill accident to was probably murdered, finding out you’ve been unknowingly chasing after your father’s murderer the whole time… Kipperily is jealous that Riz has had a hard life. She’s jealous that he has suffered and believes that gives him an unfair advantage. That seems to be the root the rage god cultists or Jace or whatever used. Her jealousy and feelings that she’s owed tragedy instead of her picture perfect life, that it’s unfair her classmate has suffered not because he’s also a child but because it wasn’t her.

[sebastianswallows]

The English Client — Thirteen

— PAIRING: Tom Riddle x F!Reader

— SYNOPSIS: The year is 1952. Tom is working for Borgin and Burkes. He is sent to Rome to acquire three ancient books of magic by any means necessary. One in particular proves challenging to reach, and the only path forward is through a pretty, young bookseller. A foreigner like him, she lives alone, obsessed with her work... until Tom comes into her life.

— WARNINGS: smut, masturbation, dirty talk, fingering, oral (f receiving)

— WORDCOUNT: 2k

— TAGLIST: @esolean @localravenclaw @slytherins-heir

I

She leaned back on her elbows for a moment, then they gave up and she crashed upon the bed sated and giddy. Fire licked across her skin from her thighs up past her tummy to nestle in her heart. Every breath was sweet and the naked darkness was the finest cover. She smiled, a little love-drunk, as she let her mind swim in the feeling for a little longer. Tom was sitting on the floor just at her feet, his cold hands rubbing up and down her ankles. She could feel his gaze slide over her but she no longer felt ashamed or shy. She just enjoyed knowing him there. Opening her eyes slightly and looking down at him, she smiled at the sight of his pale face in the darkness, his messy hair, his smile. He looked so smug… The bastard.

“Happy?” she quietly asked.

“Not as happy as you,” he said with a cocked brow.

“That’s… undeniably true,” she purred, and rubbed a teasing foot over the bulge in his trousers.

Tom hissed and gripped her ankle tighter. “Don’t play with me.”

“Alright,” she said, grinning lazily, and with a silky motion that was unlike any she’d been capable of before she pulled her legs up and curled up on the bed, laying on her side before him. “Play with yourself, then.”

He glared at her a moment as if unsure, distrusting, and… afraid? Tom was harder to read than the maiden text of a palimpsest, she hated that about him. And loved him a little for it too…

“Come on,” she pleaded. “I want to see.”

He huffed and it came out like a whine from his strained throat. But he didn’t need much encouragement, he was aching for it, even she could tell. His thin white hands undid his trousers quickly and, with his eyes still fixed on her, rolled them down his hips. He pulled his cock out while still kneeling on the floor before her. She bit her lip as she watched him, blood rushing once again to fill her face. Hurriedly she stretched to untie the belt from around her legs, pulled her panties off, then sat upright to watch him. Tom unbuttoned his shirt with one hand while the other kept tugging at his shaft, his lips closed tightly, in control.

She could hear the wetness as it coated his fingers, his thighs, and lower, could almost see beneath his fist a hint of that plush sac that hung low and full beneath him. Above, on every downward stroke, the pink head peeked out and she so ached to kiss it… It drooled over his fingers, a clear lick of slick sliding down and shining in the low light like a tear. Tom moaned deep in his throat and moved the other hand beneath him, cupping himself. He closed his eyes, back straightened, chest peeking in a straight white line from behind his opened shirt, shiny with sweat… He was so beautiful.

She braced her hands upon the bed and with a rush of courage parted her legs. Her breasts were cold, her nipples peaking, the shift just a pool at her waist, and between her thighs she let him see the swollen, blushing mess he’d made. Tom’s eyes opened, smouldering.

“Wider,” he hissed.

She smiled and obeyed him, leaning back braced on her arms to show him everything. Her heart fluttered and she moaned when she felt her wet lips parting, plush and sticky and so very warm. Her wetness trickled, cooling on the angles between her thighs and torso.

“Tom,” she whispered, arcing her back, presenting herself as if his look could touch her. “I want your cum, right here… between my legs…”

He glared up at her from beneath his ruffled hair, his lips so tight they were an angry line. “Oh, you pretend to be a good girl,” he chuckled from behind clenched teeth. “But you’re very naughty, aren’t you?”

“Yes…”

“Is this what you’re thinking of, hm? When you’re pretending to work?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know…”

He held back a laugh as if he really did know.

“You’re insufferable,” she huffed.

“You love it.”

She smiled tenderly at him. “Come on, Tom, let me see what it’s like… Do it, then I’ll kiss you.”

“Promises, promises…”

He cupped his sac with one hand while the other one moved faster, noisier, flicking beads of precum all over his lower stomach. She squirmed on the bed and heard him moan when, with an inner tickle, a fresh sliver of desire started dripping out of her. The hand that was playing with his sac faltered and with a pained sound he tilted his head back. The long line of his neck arched like a beam of light in the dark.

His hand stilled then his hips started to thrust, and with some effort, he opened his eyes again to look at her. With his gaze fixed upon her slit, still pulsing and leaking and winking at him, Tom gently leaned forward and rested his head on her thigh. She inhaled through her teeth. He was so cold against her skin… But his dark eyes were like two burning coals.

“Do you like it?” she teasingly asked.

He nodded, looking thirsty and hungry and hurt.

“Then kiss it.”

He looked into her eyes then, his face as pale and motionless as a mask but managing a glare.

“Kiss it nicely,” she said again, a cruel smile on her lips.

To help him, she tilted her hips a little higher and brought one shaky hand down to her lips. She pressed the pillowy flesh aside, not that he needed it, and showed him more of her. Her clit was sticking out from its hood, still hard and throbbing.

“If I’m not a good girl, then maybe you can be a good boy instead...”

Tom smirked and took a deep breath in, licking his lips as his gaze turned back down to her softest parts. He teased her a little, pretending to dip his head for a kiss, then pulling back.

“You’re evil,” she groaned.

He chuckled. “You have no idea.”

But then he lowered his head and she felt his lips against her. “Aaah! T-tom… Yes, right there…”

She could feel his cheek against her fingers and the rapid shifting of his shoulder on her leg as he rubbed his cock for her. He groaned but his lips pulled her nub between them, giving it a few quick suckling kisses.

“Tom,” she whispered, her head falling back in another lustful daze. “So good…”

He laughed between her legs but didn’t have any smart comments this time. Instead, his upper lip caught her clit beneath it and he slid his tongue below to lap at her throbbing hole.

She mewled in pleasure, her core clenching almost painfully as he dragged his tongue up slowly, then let it fall back down against to clean her. His moans and breathy cries cut his attention short, and with a few more sharp, hard jerks, he finished. Tom buried his cries into her thigh, biting at it loosely.

“Let me feel it,” she asked, her fingers moving to brush through his dark hair. “I want to feel it on my skin, please, Tom…”

With a parting kiss, he hurried to his feet, standing a little shaky, and dirtied her thighs with the last of his cum as it dripped out. His tip was an angry purple by now, peeking out from the soft skin around it that was as pale as all the rest of him. His fist was resting at the root, squeezing, holding it for her. Her eyes went wide at the sight of that small hole at his tip, flexing in its own way to spew his seed out in slow splutters. It landed on her inner thighs and from there dripped down to the floor.

“What a good boy,” she whispered, speaking without even thinking. “You were such a good boy for me, Tom…”

A choked little sound came out of him that almost didn’t seem like him — the part of him he’s shown to her so far. Did Tom have a thing for being praised? Perhaps.

“There’s so much of it,” she smiled, looking — without minding one bit about the mess — at the amount that had plopped onto the floor.

She traced a finger on her thigh, drawing small white circles while Tom caught his breath above her, fist still firm but all forgotten at his root. She looked up at him, her smile widening into a grin, and leaned forward to kiss a bead of sweat off of his stomach. Tom groaned and she felt his muscles tense.

“Do you want more?” he asked cockily.

“Hmm… Not right now.”

He smiled but didn’t hide that he was a little disappointed. It wasn’t lost on her. She reached up to take his hand and held it gently then slowly pulled him down onto the bed with her. With a light bounce, Tom fell onto the mattress limply, his chest heaving up and down just as hers was earlier. As he settled on her bed she got up quickly and before he could ask where she went he heard a click, and the room went dark. She’d just gone to turn the lamp off.

Tom curled up on his side, too lazy to even pull his trousers up. He licked the taste of her off his lips again and sighed, tired and content. From somewhere out there in the dark, she giggled as she approached the bed. Then he felt her breath upon his lower back and barely had time to react before he felt the quick and gentle peck of a kiss on the flesh of his behind.

“What are you doing?” he turned, feeling somewhat scandalised.

“Sorry,” she giggled, sounding not sorry at all. “Couldn’t help it. It’s so round.”

“You’re an animal… Get in bed.”

As silent as a ghost, she slid in beside him, crossing him to get to the other side that faced the wall. She kissed his cheek and tugged the shirt off him, and then his trousers too. Tom groaned but moved to help, rolling onto his back. Then, with still shaking hands, she pulled the straps back up her shoulders and dragged the duvet up.

“So you’ll stay with me tonight?” she gently said, nuzzling his shoulder.

“I guess I can’t refuse you anything,” he said, smiling tiredly.

She grinned and kissed him on the lips, a little peck to wish him sweet dreams, and tucked them both in for the night.

II

Tom dreamed about her. He must have been because he was hearing her voice in his sleep. She was telling him she would come back with him to England — which was strange, as he had never asked her to as far as he remembered — and asked if he’d finished killing him — which he instinctively knew meant the Baron — and then giggled at something that he said — a reaction which made him inexplicably happy.

His eyes opened and it was around now, when he took in her bedroom awash in morning light, that he realised she was talking, but not to him.

Tom was curled up beneath her floral, fluffy duvet in only his white undershirt and trunks. Her bed was soft and there were pillows aplenty, but the duvet was not wide enough for both of them. They had to cuddle… She must have pulled his socks off too at some point because his feet were cold where they stuck out at the bottom.

And he’d been so warm last night… He remembered fragments of it. Her hot cheek on his chest, her arms around him, her breath and her lashes and her soft hair tickling his skin. She’d thrown one leg over both of his and had one hand playing in his hair. She seemed to like it… He was already planning how to style it, just to please her more.

Tom had clung to her embarrassingly tightly, like a child with a favourite toy. His last thought before he fell asleep was that he could feel the smile on her lips.

Without turning his head, his eyes found her.

[aloysiavirgata]

Prompt: Mulder and Scully get a couple’s massage.

The room smells of fresh warm cotton, candle wax, jasmine, green tea.

Jangling nerves, fear sweat, endorphins. Their first married-undercover case. Mulder in Ralph Lauren, Scully in Lilly Pulitzer. Bernard Heuvelmans shaving at the sink, Elizabeth Blackwell-Heuvelmans with her alabaster legs on the edge of her tub.

Mulder and Scully think these names are very clever in the way of brilliant people who aren’t entirely sure why Friends is meant to be funny. They are very young, though they feel terribly grown-up. They are very beautiful, which they understand only in the vague way of people who have never really been unattractive.

***

He’d ridden the couch like a gentleman and Scully, a lady, had both protested and acquiesced. Scully had washed her Heddy Lamar face in the honeymoon suite vanity, had left swirls of cinnamon hair in the bathtub drain. She massaged little dabs of cream into her skin.

Scully - Bess - bare to the waist with her sine-wave back. Bess with skin like a palimpsest.

Mulder, grouchy and favored and well-actually. With his graham-cracker skin that never burned, with his trust fund and his dark eyes and his restless mind.

***

Mulder - no - Bernard. He watches the woman’s hands touch Scully - Bess - the way his mother’s cook touched bread dough. The way dolphins plunge into the Atlantic.

Bess - Scully - makes a guttural, Cro-Magnon sound in the deep parts of her calla lily throat. He sees so many little bones when she tenses and god, god, has she always been so beautiful? Has she always had the hard, sinuous curves of a string instrument? Little nerdy Dana Scully who rewrote Einstein?

His cock is hard as a rock when Bess groans into finger-warmed oil.

When fine, strong hands thumb the long, lonely muscles of his back.

Mulder lets go then. Lets his eyes slide half-closed in the twilight of the room, sucks in heavy, over-sweet air. He turns his head so he can see her face because this is all a game, isn’t it? It’s all pretend.

Scully’s lashes are the finest penstrokes when she meets his eyes. Scully - is she Bess? He doesn’t know who they are, what anything is - but she bites her lush lower lip like a June raspberry.

He feels Ingrid in his levator scapulae.

He feels Bess - Scully - Bess in his limbic system. He feels her in what she would call his soul.

[lineffability]

style, flair, and a head of red hair – she’s the nanny?!

oneshot. 5k. human au. the story of how crowley becomes a nanny. no, not that one. the other one. the fine type. this fic was inspired by @densewentz and this stunning piece of The Nanny/Crowley art that blew my socks clean off. i had to write it.

She is entirely perfect and utterly boring.

Aziraphale Edenson, ever the picture of perfect pleasantry, has recited three consecutive poems in his mind while she's been speaking, and he could almost swear one of them had been the entirety of Ginsburg's Howl. He can't be certain, as he's drifted. In front of him, the Mary Poppins palimpsest is finishing her impassioned speech that had begun somewhere in her childhood only to end, in a satisfying narrative conclusion, he is sure, in the childhood of Warlock, his unexpected teenage protegé, and somehow between those two childhoods she had also wedged in his, Aziraphale's, childhood too, though he isn't sure quite how that is possible. It seems she has done her research rather thoroughly. 

It is not polite to interrupt people, so Aziraphale does not. He smiles, he nods at the right moments, and he offers more tea, and then he ushers her to the front door with perfect manners only to say, in one last moment of mental impasse, "Well, thank you so very much, Mrs Poppins, I will be sure to contact you by the end of the week. It has been so very lovely to meet you."

It only occurs to him half an hour later why her smile had faltered, and he smacks his hand to his forehead, producing a noise that sounds very much like oh, bugger. 

A string of interviews follow this initial one, and after a fortnight, Aziraphale gives up. It’s not that the applicants are unsuited: rather the opposite, their credentials battle each other for excellence: if one has twenty years of experience in royal nanny service, the next will present a doctoral degree in Nannyology straight from Harvard. After all, Villa Eden is not only a beautiful and prestigious estate in the nicest part of London, but he offers a pay check that the best paid nanny in the world might have envied, promptly losing her her title. An honest wage for honest work, he thinks, and he certainly does not know what to do with a twelve year old boy. So if someone does, money shall not be the issue. 

The thing is: hiring a nanny is… it’s like selling books. Aziraphale is selfish. Aziraphale does not want to hire a nanny. He does not want to share his space, his routines, his library, his home. He can do it for Warlock, for a few months, because it is the right thing to do. He does not love it. But he likes the kid enough. Especially because his parents… well, they don’t. Not properly, not like they should, and that is enough for Aziraphale to feel a bristling sense of injustice, and a burning desire to bestow the boy with a love that might not live up to the parental ideal, but make him feel safe and liked and cared for, at least. 

So maybe he has to hire the Mary Poppins nanny, after all, to help him realize his wish, to support him in his quest, to breach the friendly but unbreachable rift between the old, reclusive neighbor and the bright, young boy that has been parked here by his parents, like a pet, while they are away for travel for half a year. Aziraphale huffs. 

He stares out the window of his conservatory, but can’t make out the expanse of his glorious estate. That’s because it is cloudy and gray and rainy and grim, and also winter, which might have something to do with it. Darkness has settled over the hill and his mansion like a heavy blanket. His clock chimed five not a minute ago, and yet it is already pitch-dark. Aziraphale likes winter. It grants you more alone time that needs not be justified as much as during other seasons. The weather today suits his mood. With a grim face, he makes up his mind to hire the nanny. 

In a dramatic last minute coincidence not at all necessitated by the narrative, the doorbell rings precisely in the moment Aziraphale starts to dial the number on the resumé.  

Aziraphale puts the receiver back down. He walks to the main entrance. 

(He does not believe in servants: for the same reason that he does not believe in nannies.)

When he opens the door, it takes him a moment to make sense of the picture of personified misery he is presented with. 

“Cosmetics,” the picture of misery says. 

“Excuse me?”

[continue reading]

[brewstersbru]

A little riz ficlet i started last week and finished today (pok feels 💚)

Your name is Riz.

Riz knows Kristen didn’t mean it, knows she was just being funny, trying to ease his nerves before his first big game on the Owlbears. But he can’t stop hearing his mother’s voice in his head, digging, nudging him to buck up and fight against it.

He regrets snapping at her, but not as much as he should, probably. He’s not certain he would’ve even said anything if his mom hadn’t had that conversation with him.

And now Kristen’s getting expelled, but not really, and instead they have to go through a harrowing trial of standardized testing coupled with fighting monsters where it only ends if all of them die or they kill all the monsters.

No one has ever killed all the monsters before, and Riz isn’t arrogant enough to actually believe they’ll be the first. Not with the weight of Junior year on their shoulders. It’ll be nice to see his dad again, outside of the tiny little hologram on his watch, or when he talks to the air around his grave- never knowing for sure but believing that he’s there, listening.

But dying hurts. Riz still gets nightmares about that first time he did it, and it doesn’t help that the video of it happening is still up for everyone to see. The views keep climbing, no matter how time marches on people still search it up. It makes him a little nauseous to think about.  

There’s a lot on Riz’s mind tonight- not that there hasn’t always been- but for some reason he can’t tune it out right now, can’t push it down with work or school or trying to solve a mystery. His mind is just running, turning over and over itself, churning through the complicated web of problems he’s found himself caught in.

There’s just so much that needs fixing, that needs to be worked on and chipped away at and he can’t do anything about it. Just has to stare at the ceiling of the living room in Mordrid Manor, trying to will himself to sleep while his friends snore beside him. Well- Adiane isn’t really sleeping, but after finally dropping the mental weight of her finances, she’s been falling deeper into her trances to regain her energy.

It feels almost like his heart is about to jump right out of his chest, like it’s squirming around, trying to wedge itself up his throat and out of his mouth. Riz would never tell anyone this but he’s terrified that he’s still that same futile little thing he was in the palimpsest. Scratching at thick walls until his hands bleed, littered with shards of the effort, but in that righteous violence, ultimately having done nothing of real use.

How many times does he have to bleed for it to mean something? How many times does he have to die before his friends can stay with him? Before people and gods and monsters stop trying to pry them away from his bloody, clenched fingers. He worked for this, he dug deep and rent himself in six equal pieces for the hope of staying together. How much more could the universe possibly expect from him? When is it enough?

There’s a soft beep from his wristwatch- which, unlike all of his other gadgets, he never takes off, not even when sleeping- and Riz takes the opportunity to get away from staring at the same crack in the ceiling he’s been looking at for the past hour. He stands and picks his way through a maze of limbs and drool to the kitchen.

With some semblance of privacy, he checks the watch. What could his dad- Agent Gukgak- need from him at this time of night? Does time work the same way up there? Is he ok? Is it possible for him not to be?

A small hologram of his father appears above the watch, disheveled, as if he just got back to the office. As soon as he appears, he steps back for a moment and quickly catalogues his son’s state. After about a minute, he heaves a deep sigh.

“You’re ok.” It’s not a question. Riz nods, slowly.

“I am, sure. But what about you, Agent Gukgak- sir? What’s wrong? Why’d you call?”  He tries to keep his voice quiet, and moves towards the front door, hoping to get outside so he and Agent Gukgak can have a serious business conversation without him sounding like a teenager at a sleepover. He is a teenager at a sleepover, but that’s beside the point.

Agent Gukgak tilts his head at him. “Kiddo, I didn’t call for me, I called for you. Your heartbeat spiked about a half hour ago and hasn’t returned to baseline since. I called as soon as I could get back.”

Riz, having just made it outside- the door creaked just slightly, but he’s not worried about any of the others having heard; they sleep like logs- stumbles a bit as he tries to settle himself on the porch steps.

It’s late, so he can be forgiven for lacking his usual tact as he stutters, “Wha- huh? This thing can track my heartbeat?” Like that was the most important part of what Agent Gukgak had said.

Agent Gukgak smiles at him, wry. “Course it can, and your blood sugar, iron levels, as well as body temperature. You should talk to your mom about iron pills, actually, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that. I know you haven’t been to the doctor for a while, but we’ve been detecting low iron in your blood for a while. And don’t even get me started on your eating habits, you’re just like your mother, waiting until you’re near ready to faint to give your body anything substantial.” His tone starts warm, but quickly devolves into something more scolding. Riz allows the conversation to derail a little bit.

“It’s not that I do it consciously, I just forget. There’s a lot of work to do and it’s hard to schedule out non-school-mandated mealtimes for myself. I’ll make a note about the iron though.” Riz thinks they’re both overtly aware of the fact that he doesn’t move to jot anything down. Iron pills have got to be expensive, and if he’s made it this far without, he doesn’t see a reason to ask for them now. Agent Gukgak sighs.

“Riz- it’s- I-“ He pauses, takes a second to collect himself. “I often find myself wishing, when we talk, that I was able to come down there and live with you and your mother. At least until we sent you off to college.” There’s a wistfulness to his gaze that Riz can’t find it within himself to watch, he knows what’s at the end of this train of thought and it’s never pretty. ‘What ifs’ and ‘could have beens’ are only as good as a wish, because they’re never rooted in reality. Always washed with rose and drowned in nostalgia.

Riz cuts in, “You’ve been doing good work where you can. And- and I think I turned out pretty okay. All things considered.” It feels a little strange to be defending his father to himself, but Agent Gukgak just shakes his head.

“More than ‘pretty okay’, kiddo. You’re the best thing I’ve ever done, not just in your work, but in who you are. I see the way you care for your friends, the way you help your mother, the way you meet every problem head on with a plan and a backup plan, just in case. I just wish the world had been kinder. Wish I coulda been there to make it be, when it couldn’t get there on its own.”

And then, for some, mortifying reason, Riz bursts into tears. It’s not loud or messy or even really all that different than what he usually looks like. At a distance, you probably wouldn’t even be able to tell. But there are tears streaming steadily down his face and every so often he has to sniff and blink his eyes to catch up with the stream. He swipes an arm roughly across his eyes to try and stem the flow, or better, stop it completely.

“I’m sorry, Agent-“

“Dad. Just call me dad kiddo. Please. Or Pok, just- not ‘Agent Gukgak’.” Pok’s own expression has crumpled, brows furrowing at the sight of his son so obviously distraught with no way to physically comfort him.

Riz nods, “Sorry, dad, I don’t-“ He sniffs, “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. It’s just Kristen’s being expelled unless we do this last stand thing tomorrow where we’re probably gonna die at the end, and I saw my name in Kipperlilly’s file but I haven’t had time to figure out why it’s there, and Fig skipped class again, which, I know isn’t going to fail her probably but it makes me nervous because what if she starts skipping every day again? Also our vice principal might be crazy and evil and I haven’t had any time at all to look into that-“

He cuts himself off with a gasping, cut-off sob, burying his face in his arm in his overwhelm but keeping his wrist level so Pok remains visible.

It’s hard to see through the rivers of tears that are spouting from his tear ducts, but Riz thinks he sees his father tugging at his hair, pacing as he watches this unfold. Huh, they kind of are the same.

“You’re seventeen. Seventeen, you shouldn’t- I can’t-“ He seems at a loss for words, baffled by the injustice of it all. Riz has stopped trying to fight the waves of tears, instead letting them wash over them, swiping at his cheeks every couple of seconds to keep them dry.

Pok paces for a few more minutes, fiddling with different parts of his outfit until he’s gathered his thoughts.

“I’m sorry, Riz.” Is what he settles on, moving close to the image capture of the hologram so that, if Riz were to tilt his head forward, it could almost be as if they were touching foreheads. Pok continues, closing his eyes.

“I’m sorry I can’t be there and I’m sorry that you have so much to deal with right now. I wish I could do more, but all I can give you is advice. What you’ve got on your plate right now, every piece of this hellish puzzle, both is and is not a war. There’s you, and there’s the problem, and a lot of times it seems like the problem is so much bigger than you are, so much more than you’re equipped to handle. Like you’re a man at the base of a mountain with a shovel, hoping to dig a hole through it. But once you start thinking that, the moment you let yourself become less than, that’s when you start losing. You either gotta grow to match the size of it or cut it into little pieces you know you can handle, and I’ve never met anyone who could do the first of those.”

Pok takes a deep breath, then his lips quirk into a rueful smile.

“Also, it’s a lot easier to do things when you eat, and you let other people help you.” He emphasizes the last parts with a heavy look directly into Riz’s eyes. Like he knows exactly how he’s been doing things thus far and is telling him to change it up, for his own sake.

Riz sniffles, nodding. If he closes his eyes, he can almost feel the warmth of his father’s skin through the hologram. Or the illusion of it.

“I can do that.” Riz takes a deep breath. “I can do that.”

Pok smiles. “I know you can, kid. Just take it slow. Don’t lose yourself in it.” He speaks as if he’s learned from experience. The realization of how little he truly knows his father hits Riz like a bucket of ice water. A shiver works its way up his spine.

For a moment, he considers asking. Thinks about spending the night on this porch, effectively on the phone with his dad, talking and learning things he’s wanted to know for as long as he’s been visiting Pok’s grave. Then, Pok clears his throat, expression pinched with regret.

“Sorry, kid I-“

Then he remembers that life isn’t fair, and the world moves on, whether you’re ready for it or not. Riz blinks away his tears.

“Yeah- no- I know. You’ve got badass angel things to do. I’m good. Thanks for calling.”

Pok gets a look on his face, equal parts proud and devastated. His eyebrows furrow into poignant resignation.

“I’ll try to do it more. Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

And then he’s gone, and all Riz has is the cool fingers of the wind, grasping over his shoulders in an icy embrace. He puffs a breath into the air and watches it fizzle from fog to nothing.

It’s dark. It’s going to be dark for another eight hours at least.

Riz is going to die tomorrow, probably. He’ll be fine, but he doesn’t want to.

He really doesn’t want to.  

[antigonick]

just stumbled into one of your snippets and i'm OBSESSED with your writing style. it is so fluid and punchy and such a delight to read. if you ever feel like answering, how does your writing process works? what are your inspirations, style and tone-wise? and what themes do you enjoy exploring the most?

have a lovely day! 💌

Oh, that's... WELL. That's! The best compliment you could have sent me, thank you so much, I don't know what to say.. I'm actually trying to write a... I'm gonna call it a novel when it's just a mess of fragments right now, but—yeah. Fluid and punchy is exactly what I strive to achieve with the character's voice so this is so nice to hear. WHATEVER. THANK YOU.

Anyway! My writing process is really... steeped in rhythm, I guess? It starts with character writing, which leads me to character voice, which leads me to finding the right "mind" tempo, and from it cascades the headspace I need to write. In that, in the idea of perspective and voice influencing the story first, I'm indebted to Faulkner, to Marlon James, to Woolf's The Waves, to Shirley Jackson—to the perspectivism twists of horror and gothic writing as a general rule. Rereading her, I think Emily Brontë has shaped my metaphorical network very early on, and my handling of violence, especially in dialogue—though more recently, Tamsyn Muir made me tick about dialogue too. Malin Rydén is one of my utmost inspirations, not a little because the main character of my story was first created for his story, but also because he was my gateway into harder, grittier speculative fiction and digital literature, which both inspire me now for the story I'm trying to shape—horror out of the gothic castle and into the terrible anticipation of what comes next, with more politics, with ghosts and body horror twisted to technology. In terms of pure form, I'm extremely impacted by poetry—E. E. Cummings, Alice Oswald, Emily Dickinson—those who deconstruct syntax to wrangle it into breath. He didn't influence me because I discovered him too late, but I feel a kinship to some of the early stylistic experimentations of Frank Bidart too. Hanif Abdurraqib, whose first name I gave to one of my main characters too because his voice is incredible: it moves. Charles Olson's Projective Verse gestures at what I feel when I write, you know? "ONE PERCEPTION MUST IMMEDIATELY AND DIRECTLY LEAD TO A FURTHER PERCEPTION (…). Always one perception must must must MOVE, INSTANTER, ON ANOTHER! (…)" and then "Breath allows all the speech-force of language back in." Even silence can be your story-weapon.

I'm interested in... blowing apart labels, dichotomies, I think, making them harder to grapple with—right and wrong, love and hate, personal and universal; transgressions, fluidity; how language fails, how language betrays; the way human connection can both fuck you and raise you up, in its constant failure and constant trying, in the violence of intimacy, in the tension between hardness and vulnerability—more than anything, I'm interested in the way individual desires clash with collective needs or personal ideals, in the lies and justifications you can find for yourself, in what it means for you when you come to dismantle them (or refuse to). I love palimpsest, stories retold again and again, and/or I love difficult, ugly settings, speculative and dystopia topics, I want the story to be political in itself, even when it's not politicking; and I LOVE mindfucks: using our terribly faulty, terribly subjective perception / perspective / memory / dreams / FEARS / intellect to tell a story that is both fascinating because it's unique, and trapped by it. Can't escape yourself. What are you gonna do with yourself (against yourself, for yourself) now?

Formally, I try to use that in writing: trapping the reader in one voice that swallows them really, ideally that jostles them a little, that blurs the boundary between them and the character: extreme immersion. I like to try and convey emotion / impression and even action as it is experienced, rather than explaining it clearly. In that phenomenology has influenced me, I guess? Deleuze, Guattari, Merleau-Ponty, and poetry again, I guess. Archibald McLeish says "a poem should not mean / but be...", and that's what I try to do with the character I choose, and then I let them be, and they drive both the story and the writing that should echo it—form and content cycling each other like mirrors.

Goddamnit, that got so long. Anyway. THANK YOU for being interested, I'm really touched.

[the-final-sif]

bench duo trying to abandon sam in the woods like an unwanted stepchild in a fairytale is hilarious

S2 c!Clingy just want c!Sam gone, but unfortunately for them, he's won pathetic cat points with c!Dream so whenever they ditch him in the woods, they're just setting up c!Dream needing to go out in the woods late at night in order to find him.

After the fifth time this happens, c!Sam has a proposal to prevent this in the future!

c!Sam: "in order to not get lost, I've made a tracker that can track a person. Here, Dream, let me set this to you so I can always find you :D"

c!Tommy, instantly and with murderous intent: "hey no that's a terrible idea because- because"

c!Tubbo: "Dream might not always be at the house!"

c!Tommy: "Right! Because that!"

c!Sam: "that's fine, everything will be fine as long as I can always find Dream. besides, Dream doesn't mind!"

c!Dream, who only heard like 10% of this conversation because he was busy taking care of the chickens: "do you have more than one tracker?"

c!Sam, lying just a little: "...no."

c!Dream, believing that everyone here is acting in good faith: "oh, than you should track Tubbo! He also tends to get lost, so that way you could have a way to get back, and then we could find him if he gets lost again!"

c!Tubbo, delighted by this power: "That sounds like a great idea to me."

c!Sam, shuffling his paws out of a desire to Protest: "I suppose... that might work... maybe I should just lock it onto the house instead.... idk how well it will work locked on to a person..."

[ashes-in-a-jar]

In my head, you’re a Magnus Archives blog. I mean, I know you obviously listen to other things, but In my mind it’s things like Welcome to Nightvale, Malevolent, Hello from the Hallowoods, The Sheridan Tapes, things like that, horror and supernatural.

So I had to do a double-take when I saw a Dungeons and Daddies post from you, I really didn’t know you listened to it. Then I see you reblog a Fawx and Stallion post, and now I’m just wondering how many podcasts you’ve listened to that I’ve also listened to.

Hahaha yes this blog has been mainly for tma stuff for years now, I still feel like I'm new to the fandom but honestly I've been here through a lot of it since the beginning of season 5

Buuuuut in the past few months I've stopped going into the tma tag regularly and been feeling a little detached from it, at least as opposed to before. My listen to tmagp has been way less interactive and I hardly reblog content anymore (which is something I like doing but because of various bad experiences on the internet recently I have yet to recover from I feel safer posting my own original posts rather than reblogging)

And that freed up a space in my mind to realize I've actually been listening to a lot of podcasts besides tma and it's honestly a shame not to talk about them more with others

I do listen to a lot of horror fantasy supernatural and science fiction podcasts! I also love a lot of dnd and ttrpg podcasts, I also love everything dropout and wish I could get into critical role but it's so big I don't think I'll manage it

I put under the cut a (quite long) list of the podcasts I have listened to and/or have notifications turned on

Anyone following me, you're welcome to send me an ask about one of them if you like them as well or want to hear about them!

I also put a list of podcasts on my to listen to list. Feel free to drop a recommendation for which them to listen to first!

-------------

Podcasts I'm caught up on (the lists are long so it's alphabetical without "the")

Ongoing podcasts

The Amelia project

Ask your father

A voice from darkness

Black box

Brimstone valley mall

Camlann

The cellar letters

Death by dying

Derelict

Eeler's choice

Ethics town

Fawx and stallion

Hello from the Hallowoods

The hundred handed

Levian

Lost terminal

The Magnus protocol

Malevolent

Midnight burger

The mistholme museum of mystery morbidity and mortality

Neon inkwell

New years day

Not quite dead

Old gods of Appalachia

The penumbra podcast

The program

Red valley

The Sheridan Tapes

The silt verses

The sound museum

Super suits

Tell no tales

Tiny terrors

Traveling light

Unseen

The vesta clinic

Victoriocity

The white vault

Completed podcasts

Absolutely no adventures

Archive 81

Borrasca

The bright sessions

Camp here and there

Descendants

Give me away

I am in eskew

Monstrous agonies

Parkdale haunt

The Magnus archives

Re: dracula

The secret of st kilda

Spirit box radio

Steal the stars

Time:bombs

We know none

Wolf 359

Wooden overcoats

Ttrpgs

The adventure zone

Campaign skyjacks

Chapter and multiverse

Dark dice

Dice shame

Dimension 20 (not a podcast but I listen to it like one)

Dungeons and daddies

Not another d&d podcast

Rusty Quill gaming

Worlds beyond number

Podcast on my listen next list:

The Alexandria archives

Alice isn't dead

Ars paradoxica

Believer

The Black tapes

Blackwood

The box

The bridge

Carrier

Counterbalance

The cryptid keeper

Darkest night

The darkroom

The dark tome

The deca tapes

The deep vault

Dreamboy (this one is nsfw so it makes me nervous lol)

Duggan Hill

The earth collective

Either

The far meridian

The fountain road files

The glass canon

Jar of rebuke

Kings fall am (I started but heard not great things about it)

Knifepoint horror

Kollok 1991

Less is morgue

The leviathan chronicles

Liberty

Limetown

The lost cat

Mabel

Maeltopia

Marscorp

Mirrors

Mockery manor

Next stop

The no sleep podcast

The orphans

The Orpheus protocol

Out of place

Paired

Palimpsest

The phone booth

Point mystic

Pseudopod

Rabbits

The right left game

Shadows at the door

Spines

Stellar firma

The storage papers

Stories from among the stars

Super ordinary

Superstition

Tanis

Tides

Unwell

Vast horizon

Victoria's lift

Video palace

Welcome to night Vale (I listen to this one very sporadically lol)

We're alive

Within the wires

Woe begone (I started but got stuck on episode 20ish but want to continue)

Wrong station

Ttrpgs

BomBARDded

Critical role (it's sooo long tho)

Dames and dragons

Dragon friends

Join the party

The lucky die

Queens of adventure

Realms of pearl and glory

Rude tales of magic

Skyjacks courier call

Three black halflings

[revasserium]

a not at all definitive list of books that literally physically are a part of who i am and why i am and how i ache and love stories so fiercely it sometimes threatens to consume me:

the night circus by erin morgenstern

"The circus arrives without warning. No announcements precede it. It is simply there, when yesterday it was not."

"I would have written you, myself, if I could put down in words everything I want to say to you. A sea of ink would not be enough.' 'But you built me dreams instead."

"Like stepping into a fairy tale under a curtain of stars."

the starless sea by erin morgenstern

"Strange, isn’t it? To love a book. When the words on the pages become so precious that they feel like part of your own history because they are. It’s nice to finally have someone read stories I know so intimately.

"For those who feel homesick for a place they’ve never been to. Those who seek even if they do not know what (or where) it is that they are seeking. Those who seek will find. Their doors have been waiting for them."

"Occasionally, Fate pulls itself together again and Time is always waiting."

the ten thousand doors of january by alix e harrow

“If we address stories as archaeological sites, and dust through their layers with meticulous care, we find at some level there is always a doorway. A dividing point between here and there, us and them, mundane and magical. It is at the moments when the doors open, when things flow between the worlds, that stories happen."

"They are artifacts and palimpsests, riddles and histories. They are the red threads that we may follow out of the labyrinth."

the secret history by donna tartt

"Does such a thing as 'the fatal flaw,' that showy dark crack running down the middle of a life, exist outside literature? I used to think it didn't. Now I think it does. And I think that mine is this: a morbid longing for the picturesque at all costs"

"She was a living reverie for me: the mere sight of her sparked an almost infinite range of fantasy, from Greek to Gothic, from vulgar to divine."

the wayward children series by seanan mcguire

"We notice the silence of men. We depend upon the silence of women."

"She was a story, not an epilogue."

"We’re all puzzle boxes, skeleton and skin, soul and shadow."

daughter of smoke and bone series by laini taylor

"She moved like a poem and smiled like a sphinx."

"Happiness. It was the place where passion, with all its dazzle and drumbeat, met something softer: homecoming and safety and pure sunbeam comfort. It was all those things, intertwined with the heat and the thrill, and it was as bright within her as a swallowed star."

"Like mold on books, grow myths on history."

the book thief by markus zusak

"I wanted to tell the book thief many things, about beauty and brutality. But what could I tell her about those things that she didn't already know? I wanted to explain that I am constantly overestimating and underestimating the human race-that rarely do I ever simply estimate it. I wanted to ask her how the same thing could be so ugly and so glorious, and its words and stories so damning and brilliant."

"It was a Monday and they walked on a tightrope to the sun."

dreams and shadows by c. robert cargill

"If you remember one thing, even above remembering me, remember that there is not a monster dreamt that hasn't walked within the soul of man."

"It's as if we are God's waking dream, each gifted with a small piece of his consciousness; the beauty of that arrangement is that we create the dream for him. If you can understand that, if you can wrap your mind around it, then you can conjure up anything you want from out of the ether. "

"You always assume we must have fallen, that we were thrown out of Heaven. Some of us just jumped."

stardust by neil gaiman

"He stared up at the stars: and it seemed to him then that they were dancers, stately and graceful, performing a dance almost infinite in its complexity. He imagined he could see the very faces of the stars; pale, they were, and smiling gently, as if they had spent so much time above the world, watching the scrambling and the joy and the pain of the people below them, that they could not help being amused every time another little human believed itself the center of its world, as each of us does."

"What do stars do? They shine."

the picture of dorian gray by oscar wilde

"Behind every exquisite thing that existed, there was something tragic."

"Children begin by loving their parents; as they grow older they judge them; sometimes they forgive them."

"The world is changed because you are made of ivory and gold. The curves of your lips rewrite history."

a midsummer night's dream by william shakespeare

"Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind; And therefore is wing'd Cupid painted blind. Nor hath love's mind of any judgment taste; Wings and no eyes figure unheedy haste: And therefore is love said to be a child, Because in choice he is so oft beguil'd."

"I’ll follow thee and make a heaven of hell. To die upon the hand I love so well."

"Love's stories written in love's richest books. To fan the moonbeams from his sleeping eyes."

deathless by catherynne m valente

"You will always fall in love, and it will always be like having your throat cut, just that fast."

"I do not tolerate a world emptied of you. I have tried. For a year I have called every black tree Marya Morevna; I have looked for your face in the patterns of the ice. In the dark, I have pored over the loss of you like pale gold."

the song of achilles by madeline miller

"I could recognize him by touch alone, by smell; I would know him blind, by the way his breaths came and his feet struck the earth. I would know him in death, at the end of the world."

"We were like gods at the dawning of the world, & our joy was so bright we could see nothing else but the other."

"We reached for each other, and I thought of how many nights I had lain awake loving him in silence."

circe by madeline miller

"It was my first lesson. Beneath the smooth, familiar face of things is another that waits to tear the world in two."

"But gods are born of ichor and nectar, their excellences already bursting from their fingertips. So they find their fame by proving what they can mar: destroying cities, starting wars, breeding plagues and monsters. All that smoke and savor rising so delicately from our altars. It leaves only ash behind."

[chemicallywrit]

Happy Audio Drama Sunday! Last one of the year! There are so many amazing shows I listened to this year--Gastronaut, Kakos Industries, Madame Magenta, Dungeons & Daddies, Cry Havoc! Ask Questions Later, Bronzeville, Deviser, Ghosts in the Burbs, The Silt Verses, Fall of the House of Sunshine, The Ballad of Anne and Mary, Eliza: A Robot Story, Eeler's Choice, Hemophobia--this list isn't even comprehensive! But here is what stood out to me this week. (As always, some spoilers follow.)

🦸‍♂️ I've had Superhuman Public Radio on my radar for a while, but I finally got a chance to listen to it this week. For lack of a better way of putting it, the structural integrity of this show is flawless. It sounds exactly like listening to NPR, and it's funny and clever with some really incredible worldbuilding. It's everything I like about listening to local news without the stress of it being local news that affects me. I love it.

✨ I'm also new to Breathing Space, but the Firefly vibes are off the charts. I love any story that is basically just Anticapitalists in Space, but the western vibes of this really make the stories hit home. I especially liked S1E2, "A Rat Among Falcons," because who doesn't love a scruffy nobody being incorporated into a found family? S1E5, "The Salvage of the Valentina Tereshkova" was also a really excellent space horror story. I can't wait to see what they do next. And that theme song tho, right??

❤️‍🩹 @thefringespod has been making incredible use of their new full cast, and I love the twist that this season is driving home--it's not a story presented to you, the listener, it's a tragedy that the mute second character is helping to undo. The softness of the family that Pine Gonzalez spent the whole first season describing comes through beautifully in the work of the actors.

🌊 Modes of Thought In Anterran Literature is always a little bit unnerving, but this week our professor faced the horrors of...rich people. Like, REALLY rich people. "You're already paying for private security?" Absolutely chilling conversations. There was a headline this week about a bunch of Silicon Valley millionaires trying to start a utopia in the desert, which works great all the time of course, and I thought of Anterra, tearing itself apart, and about the professor, who doesn't exactly make great choices, tearing himself apart too.

🐺 Things are getting very scary on Palimpsest! Is this a werewolf season?? It is VERY gothic, which is fun in a Jazz Age setting. It feels incongruous, which just adds to the horror. The quiet build of Palimpsest never disappoints me.

📦 Bless those children on @storiesfromylelmore, they're so darn good. ItMe has always been excellent at writing along the span of human nature, and seeing them do it with the three kids in Stories from Ylelmore is wonderful. Of course, a lot of the credit has to go to ItMe's flawless line delivery too. The kids feel very real, even while they're delivering magical packages from a bookstore to the head of the local witch coven.

🐦 The Amelia Project's Twelve Days of Christmas thing has been so funny. I half hope we never find out who's tormenting Alvina. The only downside is that now I have the song stuck in my head constantly, and seeing that it's like, the second-worse Christmas song, this is a problem. The show's worth it, though.

🕯️ What should appear in my podcatcher this morning but the second episode of Flickers! I was intrigued by that first episode, and this second one is really bringing home the isolationist horror. I can't wait for the next installment.

👽 Among the Stars and Bones is coming back! It's coming back this month! This is one of my all-time favorite sci-fi shows, everyone, if you're not on board yet then GET WITH IT, because this next season is guaranteed to blow your mind.

That's what I've been listening to! Here's what's going on with me:

🧟‍♀️ The Dead has been posting episodes from its second series, Ephemeris, which I wish we could have spent more time on, because the premise is so good. Zombies. In. Space. My gosh. David Ault and Kayla Temshiv in particular are killing it on this story. It'll be a few weeks before our next story premiers, but I'm REALLY excited about that one. Tune in!

Finally, the most important news...

💚Inn Between Returns on Wednesday!🏹

AAAAAAAAAAAAA

I am THRILLED about season five. The cast is killer, the story is fantastic, everyone's bringing their A-game, and I can't wait for you to hear it.

That's all for me! Happy New Year everyone!

(If you like what I do, I'd love it if you could send me a ko-fi! Especially since my car just frikkin. Died. So rude of it. Thanks!)

[vashtijoy]

on canon

So here's the deal:

No work of fiction has a single interpretation. There are as many interpretations, pretty much, as there are people, and that's because the job of fiction is to tell us about ourselves—about others too, yes, and about the world around us, yes. But primarily, a work of fiction is a collaboration between the author and the reader/viewer/player/etc.

What does that mean, exactly? Surely the creator is the one who gets to say what a character is? Well, no.

Let's take a character (call him... idk, something nice and generic, like "Boro"). The creator wrote Boro with certain ideas in mind. But Boro doesn't really come to life until he reaches the viewer—when the creator's concept interacts with the viewer, to create something new. And there are a lot of viewers.

A work of fiction is as much what the viewer sees as it is what the creator intended. It's what we all bring to it, as much as it's what the creator wrote. Art is not dictated; it's not a straitjacket, with rules and diktats that must never be broken. Art is released into the world. Because art is nothing without an audience.

What Boro (or his frenemy Ben, or their close lookalikes Bight and Bell, or any characters or canon you want to name) are is as much about how you think of them, and what you see, and what you personally bring to them, as they are about their dialogue and visuals and the events of their plot.

on fanfiction

This means there is really no "bad" fanfiction. We all create and write to our own vision—we draw on our ideas of the original work, on the inspiration we personally drew from it. We take the things that spoke to us—that moved us, or obsessed us, or that we just found funny—and we create things we love, using the original work as a source. Plus, we're all learning our art—some of us have been writing for twenty years, and others have just started. That kid writing today will write the epics of tomorrow. So don't bite the newbies.

Sometimes our shared universes overlap, and that's great! Sometimes nobody else agrees, which can be kind of lonely—but doesn't make your vision somehow less valid. We are not painting by numbers; we're creating a palimpsest of slightly different (or very different) visions.

Why start fights because someone else doesn't share your artistic vision? Make your own thing that you like. We're a flock of birds singing, not the Borg.

digression: so why do you spend so much time talking about canon

I'm more of a researcher than I'm a writer. And what became clear to me very early on was just how much I'd missed on my playthrough of P5R—and just how well the story hung together, when you scratched a little below the surface. Those things interest me. I don't like the feeling that I misunderstood things, and I like unearthing connections, obscure text chats that are easy to miss, cockeyed correspondences that don't necessarily mean anything, and so on.

For me, canon is our shared baseline. It's the light outside before it hits our retinas, before we get into the detail of whether the blue I see is really the blue you see. I find digging into canon can spur ideas; a close look at it can support interpretations that are often ridiculed ("Akechi feels remorse for his actions" would like a word).

Ultimately, everything I blog about is my interpretation. I hope it's accurate and I'm glad when it speaks to people! But it's not the law. And if people are creating things that don't agree with it? Good. That's exactly how it's supposed to be.

tl;dr

Write your story. Sing your song. Tell your truth.

[lele5429]

I didn’t follow a predetermined composition when drawing for Chapter 53 of This is an Adjuration by @not-freyja.

I started by drawing Vio at the centre and then pieced various elements together as they came to mind. It’s my impression of the most memorable elements of the narrative. I can never quite make sense of the palimpsest of emotions that came to me when reading the most ambitious and complex chapter of the very work that brought me back into fandom.

At a certain point I swapped out the eye of Vaati for the eye of Ravio’s hood. The purple-on-purple conspiracy is tickling my mind. I want to know more.

Also don’t forget Ravio has one more letter for Mr. Hero in his sleeve.

It’s just not time yet.

Bravo!