#palimpsest mind

[mssrell]

memory, palimpsest, nostalgia

“I need someone to remember me”

Mitski

[checkeredflagggs]

To Paint a Picture: Palimpsest

Pairing: max verstappen x webber!reader

summary: y/n webber swore she was done with formula 1 and race drivers forever. max is determined to change her mind

a/n: I’ve had this piece rumbling about in my mind since like November so I’m really excited to actually start posting it!

a/n2: please repeat after me — this is fanfiction and not real. That being said people definitely had cell phones and texted each other back in the 90s.

a/n3: banner is art by anastasia trusova

a/n4: more then other pieces I’ve written — these are fictional characters with real person names. I’m not basing their behavior in my fics on their actual actions

Masterlist

Private Messages, Mark and Klaus (1998)

Private Messages, Mark and Adeline (1998)

Newspaper

Gossip Magazine

Private Messages, Mark and Adeline (1999)

Private Messages, Adeline and Lawyer

Newspaper

White Family Photo Album

Newspaper

Newspaper

Newspaper

Email, Mark Webber

Inbox, Mark Webber

Email, Mark Webber

Taglist

Please interact with my taglist post if you want to join — I don’t always check the notes on the individual posts

@anamiad00msday @suns3treading @daniskywalkersolo @awritingtree @justheretoreadthxxs @lost4lyrics @freyathehuntress @angelluv16 @nichmeddar @justaf1girl @a-beaverhausen @il0vereadingstuff @widow-cevans @1-of-my-many-obsessions @charlesgirl16 @anunstablefangirl @princessesgarden @galaxygurlll @shelbyteller @ihaveitprinteddout @allthings-fandom @mountainshuman @deena-beena-weena @daisydaze111 @deephideoutmilkshake @mimisweetz @books-fangirl-books @woderfulkawaii @fastandcurious16 @lilyofthevalley-09 @rexit-mo @alessa-the-enchantress @1800-love-me @toodeepintofandoms @avada-kedavra-bitch-187 @lecfosimaxbull @dramaticpiratellamas @devilacot @supernatural-harrypotter7 @nightrose-18 @alexxavicry @vhkdncu2ei8997 @purplephantomwolf @shadowreader07 @spilled-coffee-cup @stuffyownswrld @sheslikeacurse @kuolonsyoja @avengers-assemble123456 @larkkyoris

[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.

[iliadicjasontodd]

Do you have any Jason AO3 fic recommendations? Or just DC AO3 fic recommendations in general?

Hello! Hi, yes I do.

So, of course, anything by yutro @boyfridged, first of all, such as paint it over, black out days, & leave no trace, but genuinely all of their work is incredible. They understand Jason on a fundamental level- though to say he understands only Jason that deeply would do him and his writing which is so, so skilled, a disservice :))

the clay steals the clay by zipadeea is beautiful.

I'm sure you're familiar with it, but PLUTO. by orpheusaki @damianbugs is, imo, a classic. It recalls some of the feeling of some of the best parts of Countdown for me, for obvious reasons.

all of ceramicheart's (who I'm not certain would want me linking his tumblr blog!) work also- in particular redshift, but all of that series and, like I said, I love all of her work. ultimate Kyle Rayner understander & beautiful writer.

What the Living Do, Anonymous, is one of my favourite fics, esp as someone trying to give Jason Cotard's Delusion at every possible occasion.

last word WISDOM better get some even too late by Esmenet is one of my favourite fics point-blank. the Anne Carson of it all...

Get Used to Dying, by papered_king is one I always associate with the above, stylistically also! Love the meta of this, love theatre as horror.

a second darkness by vlnlr @batphobique. This absolutely blew me away, and the script format was, personally, a major bonus. I will probably be reading this over and over again.

mushrooms at sunrise by bleepbloopskoodlebop & Amble On (and your friends will surely find you) by Nightsrk both feature Jason dealing with schizophrenia, and I am very, very fond of both.

the Emergency Line series by crucifixinhell

i am what i am by luuma.

dirt by sunspikes. It's horror to me.

Time Loop fic! Ad Infinitum; Modified by familiarities (twistsandturns)

The Cold Like Coming Home by cabezas_de_vaca.

Smashing Tail Lights by CunningCrow @redactedcrow. I have read this about 5 times. I am still (very patiently) waiting for part two. It was, I think, the fic I read directly after reading Lost Days for the first time.

Apollo by sparkypants. the horror of never letting go!!! the horror of bruce wayne specifically never letting anything go!!!

Incomplete, but which came first (the robin or the grave) by figofswords @figofswords. Two years on I'm still hoping for more but it's very good as is as well!

do you listen to the girl in red, white, and blue? by ThatSpicySeaFlapFlap. Stephanie Brown girl of all time Stephanie Brown

Trapped by lurkinglurkerwholurks. I must have read it about 15 times whenever I'm feeling anxious. Because something is wrong with me.

Song of the Insensible by Jade_green.

The Whale by chucklesbuckles if you want some very terrifying Jason, & Get Joker by them (featuring maybe one of the only Harley Quinn depictions in a fanfic I've found compelling, not that I know her well) also!

Your reflection, your bitter deception & dust in my mind by KangaRou.

Bloodstains Won't Make It Matter by skylarkblue.

This is orphaned, but The Last Laugh.

Enough by Lunette3002.

Batman Kills the Joker by DragonflyxParodies & Palimpsest by cabezas_de_vaca both take interesting metatextual approaches to killing that stupid clown.

You're No Hero to this Story, Just Another Wretched Pawn by EventualToast. The way this is written is so genuinely unmooring and perturbing; it feels very authentically like derealisation and the true experience of profound horror despite most of that being magic.

To My Brother by a_silly_gander, I’d feel less like St. Sebastian if you’d stop searching for another arrow by worthy_willow, i know (do you know?) by cuephrase, imperfections can be nice by mikkal, Where You Perfectly Stand by cherrysour, what's in your head? by sinistercacophany @sinistercacophony (also has very good aftg fics, as an andrew enjoyer I come back to their work often), . I am at heart just sentimental about Dick & Jason.

the prophetic spring by yellow_caballero @yellowocaballero. I need you to understand I barely ever approve of Reverse Robin AUs. It's a thing. I talked about it extensively. I don't even care about or actively dislike a lot of the characters this au focuses on but it doesn't even matter here, seeing as I've been a fan of this author's writing for ages. So much tragicomedy. If you, or anyone reading this ask happen to be a fan of TMA do yourselves a favour and go read their TMA work also.

Late Night Langoustining by whaleofatime. I rarely read fluff but I'm very fond of this one.

Stage Directions by confusedrambler.

I mention sparingly but arkham!jason was my first foray into DC at all- and so naturally Ill Weeds Grow Apace by LananiA3O is something I've come back to, mostly for nostalgia nowadays. And trauma of course.

So if you want to absolutely ruin your entire day and possibly week and possibly several months, Of Broken, Blazing Wings by FrEShAVocaNoob. It absolutely wrecked me, I felt genuinely unwell after, but it was worth it.

Clearly Calm and Keeping Terrorised by Batbirdies & the Make a Little Birdhouse in Your Soul series by bacondoughnut are others I think everyone knows, but I thought I'd mention them anyway.

Anyway, I'm sure it shows that I've got a bit of one-track mind when it comes to characters I read fic about, but I hope this is a good collection for you. It took me two hours in one sitting but for some reason I can't write an essay for my master's degree? Fascinating.

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

Alexander von Riesen (1892-1964) - Luftgeistern (Cloud Formation with Hidden Air Spirits) :: [Guillaume Gris]

* * * *

“Maps and poems use different techniques to represent topography, to write place, but both are texts of landscape. Insofar as a poem or piece of autobiographical writing charts the terrain of the mind, it can be seen as a map of the self’s interiority, one’s inner landscape.” 

— Robert Hemmings, from “Landscape as Palimpsest: Wordsworthian Topography in the War Writings of Blunden and Sassoon,” in Papers on Language and Literature (v. 43, no. 3, Summer 2007) (via memoryslandscape) + It’ll be this kind of deep blue… The kind of color that somehow sucks in your eyes and your ears and all your words — the color of a completely closed-in night. 

— Banana Yoshimoto, Asleep [belles-lettres]

[whispersoflullaby]

"Breaking" the gendering of media: A case study on Shiguang

A question kept coming back to my mind again and again, that why do we tend to criminalize whenever we see a media which was "canonically" (the term canon icks me to the core) built to portray a broader political or social issue being used to deconstruct personal emotions? For example, a song used to portray the pain and horrors of partition being used to reconstruct the grief of personal loss and also about loss of identity. As if talking about personal loss is making a topic less serious or not respecting the depth of a subject. As if it is the continuation of the gendering the places being implicted upon media. The "oikos" (the personal space) , the "non serious" personal emotions are not meant to be dragged into the "polis" (the public sphere). When we take the journey from the home to the world, our personal journey becomes a palimpsest of many others which give us a feeling of community. When we get the feeling that our dilema is not only ours but a shared feeling of many, we tend to raise questions and break the boundary of the "home and the world", it tend to give us a vocabulary to curate.

Link Click as a series breaks this notion of differentiating between the the struggles. The suffering of the world is mine as well as my sufferings are also a matter to discuss, to analyze and to deconstruct, it's of everyone. For example the the incidents of sudent suicide due to excessive educational loan or even if it is about trying to save one's mother or about spreading the word of love, even if it is about the very domestic banters of Shiguang or it is about taking a step further to help Xu Shanshan and not taking money from her and just mere "helping" her to unite with her beloved .

As a very close friend of mine once mentioned " Shiguang through their love creates a brand new "vocabulary" of love" (if they gives me permission I will definitely tag them), the vocabulary enables them to question the normativity. And questioning the normativity makes you a threat to the authority - cause when you ask the right question at the right time , it makes your identity identifiable and then the authority can't treat you like a mass, a mass to be dismissed, to be discarded. I can't control my urge to quote Derek Walcott's "The Schooner's Flight" here- "I am either nobody or I am the nation" .According to me, probably this is how censorship also works - they fear the creation of the new vocab. The love which revolts but don't conform: a love which doesn't leave , but questions the normativitives. We try our best within our capacity - but what love does it doesn't know the capacity. ( They just don't know, how much love is too much love). That's what is so unique about the love of Shiguang. Here I am gonna quote TGCF " Your Highness..do you know why I refuse to leave this world?... because I still have a beloved in this world." - বিনা যুদ্ধে নাহি দিবো সূচাগ্র মেদিনী - ( I will not leave even a pinch of soil, without a fight). The guts to challange the person in control even though one is not sure about the price he has to pay, even self anhilating from each and every freaking time is probably a better option. You are not someone I choose over everything, you are the one who is inseperable from the concept of "being" of mine- you are the "I" of my eye.

The abilites here not only stand for the ability to change, but taking away the ability also stands for usurping one's ability to try, the silencing of emotions. Once your voice is strangulated you are creating a "destiny" for the opressed it is no longer their fate. Here I am gonna refer to a Bengali song "মোদের কোনো দেশ নেই,মোদের কোনো ভাষা নেই" (We don't have any country, we don't have any language)

But do you know where link click breaks the very gendering? When it identifies the silencing, the numbing. Many media portrays the consequences of the silencing, how the torture affects the people etc etc. But Link Click does is, it identifies where the mess ups are and it doesn't promise that "everything will be ok" and life will be "a bed of roses". No, it never will be- that's not what post modernism teaches us. Rather, Link Click teaches it may not be a smooth walk but still we will take the path as there is no "correct" path. As the author of the Ronxi chronicle mentions - it may not be the easiest path but you will never regret it. The concept of "correctness" is a construt, the "originality" is a mere myth and "TIME"!! … As we all know " Time is a hypocritical construct"...

[mxssful]

headache

For @viagoweek day two: poison lab.

viago/rook | 1591 words | rated M for some very slight suggestive themes

When Viago walks into his laboratory, Rosa is already there.  This is not a surprising fact; it matters little how many times he changes his locks, how many doors he puts in her way: she bypasses them all, seeping through the cracks of his privacy like a persistent draft. 

Her claim is that his locks like her, and so they simply open whenever she asks. Viago, despite having spent a considerable amount of time reading Rosa’s trainers’ notes out loud to her, does not know enough about magic to provide a proper counter argument. 

If he wants to keep something away from her, the only thing that works is to keep it as a thought, safe inside the vault of his mind— and even then, even then Rosa’s voice, or something enough like it, will find a way to sneak into his head, offering commentary to his most private of thoughts in the same way she leaves notes at the margins of his correspondence. Sometimes, Viago catches himself glaring silently at nothing, busy with an argument that exists only within the confines of his mind. 

(Rosa insists she cost him nothing. Viago always replies her price was his sanity, and he pays it every single day.)

When Viago walks into his laboratory, Rosa is already there.

She has this strange ability to never seem particularly out of place no matter how underdressed— she could be standing in the middle of the king’s ballroom, covered in blood from head to toe, and smile as if this is exactly by design. Something about her posture, Viago theorizes, about the way she can lounge and project this mask of ease no matter how restless she might truly feel, that makes it seem as if she is always right where she was meant to be, and everyone else is overstepping into the territory of this strange animal.

On top of his workbench, sitting quietly amidst bottles and vials she looks right at home. 

Just another deadly thing to study, to experiment with and polish and revise and improve—

(A palimpsest of memories: Rosa, younger and angrier, sitting on that same spot, torn knuckles, dried blood, half a snarl upon her lips; Viago, younger, though not as young, always feeling like he had something to prove, lecturing, scolding, yelling. A decade later, not that much has changed.

Then again—)

Viago watches her for a moment— she has wrapped herself in a loose skirt and one of the shirts she likes to steal from him, the sleeves rolled up to free her hands, the buttons undone just as far enough as to reveal the black head of the snake Rosa wears proudly on her breastbone. 

Smaller and more hidden than he thought her tattoo would be. 

(Turns out devotion, when on the tongue, tastes not like smoke and storm, but like salt on sweat-slick skin.)

Viago watches her for a moment— she has opened all the windows to let the evening light in, that light that brings out the golden glow of Rosa’s skin, that makes her hair bright like wildfire, that goes through crystal and throws a rainbow of color all over her. 

Beautiful, he thinks. And as deadly as they come.

“Some of those substances are reactive to sunlight,” Viago says as he approaches her, “and now I have to get more.”

Rosa does not startle; there is something in her hands, small enough to be concealed from Viago’s eyes. This is not surprising either— ever needing something to keep those restless fingers entertained. 

“So get more,” Rosa says.

“They were expensive.”

“So add the cost to what I owe you.”

Gloved hand on top of his workbench, Viago stops as he reaches Rosa, close enough to feel the warmth that she always radiates, close enough to discern the flecks of gold in her pale, rose-colored eyes; a sunset to match the one outside. There is something in her hair— foxglove tangled in between the strands of red that he picks out without a second thought. 

Dispassionate but careful, like taking care of a favored blade. Keeping it sharp, keeping it clean and well-oiled. 

(On occasion, when the weather is just right and her mood is not particularly tempestuous, she naps among foxglove and oleander and nightshade, finding comfort among dangerous things.

Is that not what she does with him?)

“Do you even know how much that is?” He says as he lets the foxglove fall to the floor. “Or, conveniently, is that the one drawer you did not open?”

On her perch, she is almost tall enough to be nose to nose with him— the tilt of her jaw displays nothing but arrogance as she shifts closer into his space, close enough for her words to fall across his mouth, “I care not to know.”

“You owe me quite a lot,” he says, “of gold.”

“So I do,” she says, “of gold.”

Viago keeps track of it— has kept track since she was young, since the very first thing of his she burned by accident.

(And then, the long list of other things she burned, or broke, or ruined, though less and less by accident, no matter what she says.)

Taking a seat in front of his workbench, in front of his— taking a seat, Viago watches her again. One of her knees is bent towards her chest, the heel of her boot against the edge of the table. There is another tattoo on the inside of her thigh, a small knife that he was almost surprised to find out did not cut his mouth the first time he pressed a heated kiss to it— he can see it, darker than the shadow cast by the fabric of her skirt, so he looks, uninterrupted, as Rosa keeps toying with whatever she has in her hands.

“Shoes off the table,” he orders, as if Rosa does not leave traces of her everywhere as it is, as if there was not a perfect, blackened imprint of her hand within sight, right by a bottle of neurotoxin.

Instead of simply complying— because she cannot, for the life of her, ever take the easy path out of things—, Rosa plants both feet on his lap. 

Viago sighs.

Every single day, his sanity takes a hit.

Regardless, he unlaces her boots and slips them off her, letting them fall to the floor, near that bit of foxglove, as Rosa flexes her socked toes on top of his thighs.

“You cannot simply ask for things like a normal person,” he complains, “you— take what you want. Demand. Like you’re entitled to get your way, because you want it to be so.”

“Well,” Rosa says, “I do enjoy getting my way. And you usually say no to me when I ask, Vi.”

“And you don’t think there are reasons for that?”

“I am certain there are reasons,” she is not looking at him; her focus, instead, belongs to whatever little trinket she has. “You always have reasons. They are not always good.”

Viago takes a deep breath, eyes closing momentarily. Prey to whatever madness Rosa spills around her— because she must always, always try her hardest to drag everybody down to her level— he wraps his fingers around her ankle and gives her a sharp pull—

Rosa squeaks in indignation as she slips off the workbench and straight into his lap. 

“Now,” she says, once she rearranges herself into a comfortable position, “that was very childish of you, Fifth Talon. What would people say?”

Her lips, plush and soft and, today, bare of any artificial color, purse in that way she does when she is trying very hard not to laugh. It does not work— her mouth keeps pulling at the corners.

“And who would believe you?” Viago says, faring better at keeping his face serious. 

The weight of her is not unfamiliar— she does that thing, she has been doing that thing for years, where she leans her weight on him, as if whatever resides within her is far too heavy for her to keep upright on her own. As if she always needs something against her to define the borders of her existence.

Having her like this, sideways on his lap, with his hand settled on her thigh is… recent. Or recent enough that it should not be familiar.

(This… thing, that they are doing, that they have been doing, this added layer to their already intertwined relationship— it will not end well. It cannot end well. And still, and still, and still, Viago can’t find it within himself to speak the words, because doing that would mean implying that what they are doing is more than whatever bit of fun Rosa has with her bards.)

“Is this for me?” Rosa asks— only a moment later Viago realizes she’s showing him her hidden treasure: a small vial, filled with orange-pink liquid, not unlike the color of the last agonizing light of the day.

“No,” Viago lies.

“What did you call it?” She asks.

“It does not matter,” he says, “it is not for you.”

“What does it do?”

“It does not matter,” he insists, “it is not for you.”

Rosa hums, then turns the vial this way, then that, watching, thinking, debating possibilities. After several moments, she narrows her eyes, and looks at him in the eye, mouth curved, like she has figured out a joke— like she is the only one who ever gets the joke.

“Is it a headache?” She asks.

“Yes,” Viago says. “A bad one.”

[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.

[checkeredflagggs]

To Paint a Picture

y/n webber swore she was done with formula 1 and race drivers forever. max is determined to change her mind

Palimpsest — An object or image that reveals its history, just as a chalkboard sometimes allows us to see partially erased marks

Patch — A small piece of fabric used to mend a tear or puncture through application to the rear of the canvas.

[snogfairy]

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.  

[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."

[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

[hermit-dragon]

just had a teacher ask the entire class if anyone knew what a palimpsest was and I almost lost my mind

[palimpsestproductions]

hello!!! i’m working on an art project inspired by Palimpsest and its story, and i was wondering if any of you had a specific house in mind while writing or creating the show?

Wow! What an honor! Thank you! We can’t wait to see it!

Yes—the house is based loosely on the house Jamie lived in when he first moved to Asheville on the 90s. If you scroll through our Instagram, there is a black and white picture of the house. I can also send you a copy.

The version of the house in Season One is nearly exactly that house—especially Anneliese’s apartment. But we added a kitchen, and an attic, and lots of other architectural adjustments as the show progressed.