#but its magpie season in my brain

[nikosasaki]

having magpie emotions rn. s4 magpie is finally happy and secure and the person she was always meant to be etc

[weiying-lanzhan-fics]

transmuter by WithLoweredVoices

What a beautiful story in a grandiose and different setting. I enjoyed everything about it - the pain and anguish as well as the hope and mending.

Wonderful prose and characters ❤️❤️❤️❤️

(Therapeutic for me!)

Quotes:

Wei Ying stares at the boy now standing awkwardly in the middle of the café.  It’s like looking through time into some kind of twisted mirror.

The kid holds his hands like he doesn’t know what to do with them – like he’s been deposited within a new set of limbs and has yet to figure out how to use them. He’s sixteen at most, though he looks to be younger. He’s skinny and horribly pale, pale as milk, his lips the same ghastly color as his face. There is eyeliner smeared over his eyes with an unsteady hand, but it isn’t enough to hide the crimson shade of his eyelids.

The boy might be the youngest necromancer Wei Ying’s ever seen.

He’s just a baby – he’s not even full grown yet, not even a single hint of stubble at his face. There’s a chance he might never grow beyond this slender, small frame. You can only dip your fingers into death so many times before it starts to dip its fingers into you – and Wei Ying can smell the death on this boy.

Wei Ying lets out a long, shaky breath. He sets his mocha down and wraps the fingers of his right hand over his left wrist – a grounding trick he learned from his therapist.

‘Hiya,’ says Wei Ying brightly. ‘Welcome to Yiling Gardens. What can I get you?’

————

‘Wei Ying,’ says Lan Zhan. ‘I do not have to stay.’

He lifts a hand towards Wei Ying, then hesitates. He closes his hand into a fist, flexes it once, and then folds his fist behind his back. The hem shifts, revealing the sword hanging low from his belt.

Wei Ying’s traitorous brain feeds him a reel of memories: Lan Zhan, angrily raining a flurry of blows down upon Wei Ying in the training ring; Lan Zhan, wiping sweat from his face as he takes a break between drills, pointedly ignoring Wei Ying’s chatter; Lan Zhan, turning with the gold medal in his hand, not quite smiling, but triumphant all the same as he seeks out Wei Ying’s face in the crowd.

Wei Ying feels something like heartbreak clutter up in his throat. He looks down at the scuff-marks on his old shoes. He thinks about mountain ranges. He thinks about a kitchen table where nobody eats with him.

He thinks about a hand on his wrist, about the drone of Sentinels pushing close and, come back to Gusu with me.

Wei Ying summons his last ounce of bravery and looks up at Lan Zhan. ‘I don’t want you to leave.’

‘Mn,’ nods Lan Zhan. ‘I will not.’ His gaze flashes up towards the menu on the chalkboard. ‘I would like a matcha latte please. With soy milk. It is not a seasonal special,’ he adds, with an apologetic tilt of his head that is Lan Zhan’s equivalent of a shrug.

‘Okay,’ says Wei Ying.

He taps matcha powder into a mug and measures hot water into it with a few presses of a button on the coffee machine. I should say sorry, he thinks. He pulls the carton of soy milk out of the fridge and pours it into a cold pitcher. I should ask him how he’s been, he thinks. He froths the milk and taps out the bubbles. I should thank him for Burial Mounds, he thinks. He pours milk into the mug, forming a delicate fern leaf at the top.

‘Soy matcha latte,’ says Wei Ying as he hands the drink over, instead of sorry or are you well or thank you for not handing me over to Inquisition thirteen years ago.

Lan Zhan cups the mug in one long-fingered hand, while he keeps the other clasped behind his back. ‘Thank you,’ he says, and then, with a strange, wondering tone: ‘You used my favorite brand of soy milk.’

Wei Ying hates his magpie tendencies. It’s embarrassing, the way he collects facets of the people he loves, the people who once loved him, as though they could ever prevent people from leaving him.

Not Rated, 113k

Summary:

Wei Ying gave up necromancy years ago. He should be done with hauntings, but here in his café, here in this quiet city at the edge of the world, there stands a ghost dressed in mourning white with eyes like warm honey at the bottom of the pot.

(The one where it's a café AU - only it's not.)

[time-is-restored]

oh shit i forgot here's another one, this time its an old neal caffrey analysis rant (this one fueled by insomnia, and written much earlier into my first watch of white collar - i think early season 3??):

im gonna be weird about white collar but the thing is so many people are weird about white collar in the wrong direction

like woobifying neal to hell and back or inventing whole new personalities for el or . i don’t even know how to describe what they do to peter

like the thing about neal is he Is a magpie he’s just a surprisingly loyal one, he flits from shiny thing to person to ideal, sure, but certain classes of ppl can fully hold his attention

peter holds his attention bc he is good as in skilled (it’s borderline canon that no one else can catch him, or even really come close), and extremely principled w a cunning streak which neal basically approaches as like. a puzzle box, bc like none of their principles line up so he’s curious how the apparent closed system rube goldberg machine of his morals work LOL

then it becomes a dedication through loyalty, in that peter sticks his neck out multiple times due to faith in neal, and neal is EXTREMELY weak to loyalty/consistency (gestures at the mess of his childhood)

and due to generally low self image (morals wise, he kind of thinks he sucks? like he’s competent and cool and charming and everything, but he also tends to consider himself a nuisance, w how he’s disruptive to ‘normal’ / ‘good’ people) that dedication can become disproportionate

we see through kate (and later, adler) that the easiest way to con neal/get him acting against his own self interest IS to cultivate that loyalty

there’s an easy archetype to it, even, in that u present him with a competent, smart individual (bonus points if they’re a conventionally attractive woman), but have her off limits in some way (uninterested, taken, stand off ish, whatever), activate his thief urge to ‘take’ what he wants, then when they are friends/partners whatever, his inadvertent guilt over like. corrupting/endangering this person/tricking them about who he ‘really’ is will loop around into VERY strong loyalty, and a commitment to being whatever they want him to be x2, bc he Cannot handle being left behind LMAO

peter simultaneously feeds into + challenges this framework, bc he clearly has the least biased opinion about who neal is, even though he’s still wrong about a lot of things. and beyond that, he REALLY likes neal, thinks he’s interesting and funny, but at the start of the show can’t deal with even 0.01% of his chaotic neutral methods

WHICH IN TURN!! actually breaks through some of Neal’s shit bc:

peter picked him out of prison before neal had changed at all

he essentially sees his role, from as early as ep 1, as tactically breaking the law where peter can’t/won’t, in ways that help them close the case faster

after peter (more or less) gives a thumbs up the first time he does this, neals puzzle box brain goes ‘oh?? morally grey bestie??? CRIME BESTIE????’ and now he’s trying to ‘solve’ peter’s moral code

this is actually almost in complete opposition to elizabeth, who is compete open and clear about her affection and friendship w him basically since they meet, and apparently has no prerequisites for it. which, again, pointing to the low self esteem, triggers the ‘oh god what have i done to deserve this i haven’t even CONNED her yet’ so he’s low key more invested in + comitted to elizabeth in a specific. 'i want to be on good terms w this person' targeted way than he initially was w peter (since their mutual obsession manifests so fucking frequently as 'what, you're gonna hit me? you're gonna hit me with that big bat? better make it hurt. better kill me in one shot!' style antagonism)

HENCE the constant check ins w their relationship, reminding peter about anniversaries and dinner times etc, though that’s also due to a general fascination he has w stability + permanence

we learn in s2 he was seriously considering proposing to kate, and that he genuinely wanted to take the ‘true love’ way out of the conman life, even though he wasn’t quite sure whether it would stick, hence we see a lot in s2 his fascination w peter + els marriage, along with june (crime aunty <3)‘s relationship w her passed husband

a lot of his dedication to peter circa s2 is, by my reckoning, explicitly because peter is so determined to stick with Neal, and doesn’t give up on him/their deal even when it would be entirely reasonable (neal admits to crimes, gets put back in prison, constantly breaks rules and goes looking for kate) which is like. neal HATES being trapped, but he also REALLY values consistency + competency

hence the complexes, y'know?

[edwinspaynes]

okay. new ask. magpies-related. so. my brain has this thing that it does where it likes to play association games. it'll go "hey this thing reminds us of this other thing" and then it sticks. for instance, chain of iron and marissa davis's "if we had known,". anyway. something about kj charles's writing style in charm of magpies and jackdaw reminds me a heck of a lot of robert service poems for absolutely no reason i can fathom (hence my quoting him in that one meme i tagged you in). the fact that the other thing i previously associated magpies with is a city that was a stop for gold rushers on the way to the klondike does not help. my brain is trying very hard to find a way to connect this through-line now and coming up very empty.

(addendum: there probably is no through line but i thought i'd throw this out to you as a showing of the particular form of insanity my mind runs on)

Gonna be real, I have never heard of Robert Service. BUT I Googled him upon seeing this ask, and I am Getting the Vision. Like, this is very Lucienesque in its vibes, I gotta say:

You come to get rich (damned good reason); You feel like an exile at first; You hate it like hell for a season, And then you are worse than the worst.

And The Cremation of Sam McGee gives Jonah/Ben. Gotta say.

"The other thing i previously associated magpies with is a city that was a stop for gold rushers on the way to the klondike does not help." Please elaborate on this I am SO curious

[advnterccs-archive]

Hey, so I know its 100% unintentional, but I wanted to say something before someone else tries to accuse you of it. Crow is used as a slur against Romani folk, and combined with referring to liking shiny things as "crow-brain" could be seen as sus since the stereotype of Romani being thieves. even though it is true that corvids like shiny stuff. You might want to try something like "magpie brain" instead.

{ ooc } Thanks for bringing this to my attention, but if I may say something -- if you're making that distinction, it sounds like a whoever thinks of the slur / stereotype of Romani people type of problem. I've never heard of that until before today and it's also not that easy to guess unless you're very well aware of that fact + coupled with the going straight to that thought process (neither of which I did.)

I think Tumblr jumps to a lot of conclusions and ridicules people for the smallest things without looking at nuance / context. The only reason why I used a Crow was because I was referring to the bird itself. Rick is associated with crows, he had a whole two crow episode. And the fact that Rick has been canonically seen collecting gems, rocks, crystals (by the way, of which, are easily accessible. So I never even mentioned theft.)

Also if stealing is ever mentioned in anyway, it's because that's who Rick is as a character. He steals shit. That's canon and how I portray my muse. And in no way, would I ever, tie that into racism.

It's also a simple fact that most birds collect shiny rocks? Like it's a bird thing to do. I simply leaned heavily on the crow thing because of that one episode. And while I would use "magpie brain", it doesn't fit the same way. Only because I'm using the inside joke from that one episode in Season 5.

Now while I've said this, I will stop using that term altogether. I apologize if I offended anyone. I didn't know and I'll try to be better. However, I can't say I won't mention crows (the bird, for context) in reference ever. To me it will and always will be a bird. I don't condone saying slurs but I love the bird and that's how we call them here. Ravens are completely different birds (altho very similar in color and are often mistaken for Crows.)

So, I'll stop saying the term "Crow-brain" in reference when saying Rick is collecting rocks. But I won't stop talking about Crows. So, once again, I apologize if I offended anyone. I'll start correcting myself more often.

[fratresdei]

How to Create Sacred Space

Sacred spaces are some of the clearest examples we have of humanity’s active involvement in cultivating the Sacred. Within sacred spaces, the lines between “what is ‘just people’ and “what is ‘purely divine,'” are, blessedly, blurred to indistinction.

For example, when humans build temples, they often believe that holy presence resides within it. However, there is no delusion that the temple was not built by human hands. That reality is in fact celebrated! Within sacred space we are free to relish in our participation, or co-creation, of divine presence in our world. This power we possess does not detract from the mystery of sacred space, but is something to cherish. If we have the power to construct and nurture sacred space, that says a lot about our standing in the universe.

So, what constitutes a sacred space? The answer could include many possibilities: perhaps you have a favorite quiet spot in your place of worship or out in nature. Maybe you grew up with a shrine or altar in the home, or you may be seeking to curate and maintain a space for yourself. The space may be hidden away where only you can access it, or out in the open where you spend most of your day. There may be objects that represent deities, loved ones, prayers or intentions present. It could be a clear, clean space, empty of clutter, where the mind and spirit feel free to declutter as well. Your sacred space may simply be your own body. While the size and structure of a personal sacred space may vary, the core is the same: a place that has been set aside for contemplation or communion with the divine. The beauty of a sacred space, like many facets of spiritual life, derives from the meaning it carries for you.

To help illustrate the many variations and nuances of a sacred space, Fratres Dei Spiritual Direction Contributor Saint Gibson @stgibsonofficial and Communications Manager Caroline Crook @yourfavoriteauntcarol (yours truly), have each shared a picture of our own sacred spaces and described the contents therein.

Saint’s Space

There are a number of sacred spaces scattered throughout my house; the rose-scented Our Lady of Guadalupe candle and collection of crystals in my bedroom, the shelf where my fiancé and I remember our departed ancestors with little photos and trinkets, and the font of holy water affixed to the wall by the front door. But the most prominent sacred space in my home is the altar table set up in the living room, underneath a gilded icon of the Madonna and child.

On it, I keep all my candles and figurines representing the saints and angels, and some beloved keepsakes, like dried flowers, gifted rosaries, and letters from friends. The plate in the center of the altar features a painting of the last supper and is used for offerings: generally water, and sometimes alcohol or milk depending on whether or not that's appropriate to the petition or the day on the church calendar. My household celebrates both the Christian holidays and the pagan wheel of the year, so the decorations on the altar change out with feast days and seasons. The candles around the offering plate change, but there's always a sacred heart of Jesus and a Mary mother of God burning away, and usually a Saint Jude and a Saint Joseph as well. I burn a rainbow candle to remember the queer saints of the church both known and unknown, and to ask for God's protection on LGBTQ+ people worldwide.

My patron saint is the archangel Uriel, patron of confirmation in the Episcopal church and of poets and scholars widely. My golden Uriel figurine presides over his side of the altar, along with a figurine of the archangel Raphael, my fiancé's patron. We've got all sorts of talismans and charms representing the four archangels, and we have a fiery red candle for the archangel Michael that stands looped in a necklace featuring a ward against the evil eye. A golden pietà, my fiancé's greatest thrift store find, watches over all the candles. We've also got a colored figurine of the Infant of Prague standing proudly over a photograph of my fiancé and I. That's because the very first letter my fiancé ever sent me was a photograph of the Infant when he was traveling abroad, and we like to think he watches over us.

There are prayer cards littered about, and I often find myself reaching for Saint Ignatius of Loyola or Saint John the Revelator in times of need. We also usually keep incense burning in a metal cauldron that's always stuffed full of salt and ashes. Frankincense, rose, and lemongrass are my favorites. There are also many taper candles that I've saved from trips to other churches or from sung masses on Michaelmas and Christmas Eve.

I've been curating sacred space in every dorm room and apartment I've lived in for years, and this is by far my most favorite space yet. There's enough room to stand while you pray and move items around, but it's small enough that I could pack up everything on the altar into one box if I needed to. The table stands right between the living room and the kitchen, in the heart of the home, and it makes me feel like blessings are being disseminated from the altar to every room in the house. It's a way to keep a little bit of divinity always within arms reach, incarnate in rosaries and candles and bottles of holy water. With my altar nearby, I feel prepared for any spiritual celebration or crisis, and I know exactly where to retrieve up my spiritual tools when the occasion calls for it.

Caroline’s Space

Let’s call my sacred space an acoustic version of what a sacred space can be. It’s only a few months old; yet another quarantine project. Cluttered? Yes. Often mistaken as just a shelf for all my candles? Also yes. But it serves my spiritual life in ways that I personally find intuitive and accessible.

Of the three bookshelves in my apartment, this one is in a central spot in the living room, facing the couch. It’s part of the space and rhythm where most of my daily life takes place. Especially during quarantine when my brain fog is even worse than normal, it’s nice to be able to naturally glance over at this shelf and quickly check in with its contents.

Said contents are 95% candles. Whenever I need to set aside some time for an intentional, spiritually fulfilling practice (whether prayer, yoga, reading, writing, or just a break from social media) I light a candle. On days of significance (birthdays, anniversaries, etc.) or to pray for a loved one, I’ll light a smaller tealight candle in the centerpiece and let it burn for the day.

The remaining 5% is all gifted, bought or found objects from friends and family members. The centerpiece is a candle/incense holder one of my oldest and dearest friends gave to me. There is a glass dish of crystals, shells and sharks’ teeth, all collected over the years between Florida and DC, with family and friends. The glass bottle in the corner was a gift from a friend’s wedding last summer, and I keep that filled with rainwater or holy water, depending on what’s at hand. There’s a crystal seashell towards the back that was a gift from my late grandmother. Each of these objects, to me, represents the many connections, joys and loves in my life. I’m also part magpie, so it’s nice to have a place where these odds and ends I collect can be 1) on display, 2) out of the way.

Other objects come and go, as I like to place items on this shelf that symbolize what’s on my heart at the time. Coins, written turns of phrase, scraps from old clothes, photos of loved ones, etc. Occasionally the odd tarot card, if I’m looking for a stronger visual.

For years this surface was just part candle repository, part please-God-do-not-forget-to-return-these-library-books shelf. It had a vague purpose, and certainly held things that are important to me, but not in an especially meaningful way. The act of curating this space -- choosing that shelf, cleaning it up, deciding what to place where, and maintaining it over time -- has been a source of calm, inspiration, and reflection. It’s still a work in progress though; I have a holly wreath I place around the centerpiece during the holidays, and am looking into getting a wreath to celebrate each season in the year. To, you know, help me remember that time is still passing in quarantine (I want to say April was… two weeks ago?)

If you feel so inclined, we would love to hear from you as well: what does a sacred space mean to you? What sacred spaces have you cultivated or visited?

If you’re curious about cultivating your own sacred space with the help of an expert, book your first free virtual session with Fratres Dei Spiritual Direction in the comments.

Saint offers tarot readings that are affirming, insightful and welcome to all. Check out Holy Roots Tarot using the link in the comments.

February 18, 2021 | Denver, Colorado

[pensivetense]

A List Of (Mostly TMA) Fic Recs Sorted By Vibe

Not an exhaustive list by any means, just a few favourites that caught my fancy. I shortened many of the summaries for space.

I’m going to pin this here and update it as I go.

Also, I’m pensivetense on ao3

MELANCHOLY VIBES

for when you want to feel comfortably muted

(sad but not utterly bleak endings here)

Hope, Etc. (Dickenson, et al.) by yellow_caballero

Jonathan Sims, six months after the Unknowing, wakes to find himself without a daemon - without humanity, without a soul. It’s a cursed half-life, but existence as a shell without a heart isn’t so bad: between solving the mystery of a persistent illusion cast over his friends and some light pseudo-cannibalism, a life as a monster is better than no life at all. At least, it would be, if it wasn’t for the fucking Owl.

A freaking. Amazing. Daemon au. Ties the lore of Dust with TMA lore very satisfyingly, but is mostly about Jon navigating what it means to be human, or, in the absence of that, a person, and doesn’t require prior knowledge of His Dark Materials. Cannot recommend highly enough.

after one long season of waiting by nuinuijiaojiao

Annabelle is not used to having nice things. or, Annabelle heads to Upton House, muses a little, and gets some well-deserved rest

I love survivalist Annabelle and also the concept of the Web as kind of a horrible Patron, actually.

i love you. I want us both to eat well. by SmallishWormMasterOfTheUniverse

At the safehouse with Martin, Jon decides it's time to quit statements once and for all. The Eye disagrees. Martin just needs Jon to be okay. It's quite possible that nobody is going to get what they want.

Scottish Safehouse Era, Jon and Martin coping with their respective Entities... really, really good.

the friend by doomcountry

He always greets a new spider when he meets it. It’s instinct, born in childhood, the same way he instinctively counts magpies, or flicks salt over his left shoulder. A little harmless superstition. A bit of politesse.

A great Martin character study with eldritch spider horror included. The imagery regularly haunts me (in a good way).

autumn’s rare gift by bee_bro

Annually, the two meet, renewing the binding ritual where it had all started. The procedure simple: a waltz.

Singlehandedly made me ship Gertrude/Agnes so there’s that. It’s so bittersweet and bee_bro’s writing is, as always, incredibly poetic. (I’d recommend everything they write, actually.)

smile, you’re trending by Goodluckdetective

During an encounter with another Avatar of the Eye, Jon faces his past, Martin takes a turn at playing Kill Bill and Basira has a second look at the monster she’s determined to see. For three people associated with the Eye, they could all use some perspective.

Features an original Eye Avatar character who’s a YouTube personality; she is infuriating and inspired and genuinely frightening and I cannot say enough good things.

Humility by The_Lionheart

have you no idea that you're in deep?/i've dreamt about you nearly every night this week,/how many secrets can you keep?

An OC centric story but don’t let that put you off, it’s amazing. Very heavily focused around Jonah Magnus and the other Avatars as they change through the years. Also, I’d die for the OC.

oh, for one sweet second without the eye series by faedemon

Beholding does not like in the way humans do, but it likes its Archivist all the same.

I’m just so fond of the way this is done stylistically. I have a great weakness for dialogue only/dialogue heavy writing, not to mention all of the wonderful character beats and interplay of humanity/inhumanity for Jon and Melanie.

Rewind by WhyNotFly

It takes eight days of forced confinement for Jon to start hallucinating. [...] It’s Martin, though, that his exhausted brain conjures, because of course it’s Martin. After all this time, of course it’s Martin.

Jon willingly allows himself to be confined rather than hunting for statements, and examines his relationship with Martin.

for a firmament series by supaslim

There is beauty in destruction. There is art in becoming. In which Jon becomes the Archive, and the Archive becomes Jon.

Part two posted this morning and uhhh. Good. Also if you’re here for weird eldritch body horror (I am), this one’s for you.

ONES THAT JUST HURT

for when you want to feel sad

(somewhat bleaker endings here/everyone is NOT okay)

Feste by yellow_caballero

If asked, Martin would say that he became the shadow director of the Magnus Institute by accident. But nobody ever asked, and nobody ever cared, and it was in this way that Martin stopped lying to himself. Or: break free, Martin. All you have to lose are your chains. And your sanity.

Oh, this one totally didn’t go the way I expected it to. A study in isolation. Could go into the category above, as the ending is not bleak, but the tone of the whole is somewhat more depressing than most there.

Ghosts of Love by RavenXavier

Nothing made Martin more grounded in the world than yearning for Jonathan Sims.

Lonely!Martin that really captures a sort of visceral ache. Hurts me and yet I keep rereading.

i do desire (we may be better strangers) by godbewithyouihavedone

For ages, it only knew how to worship, taking human bodies and living off the fear of those who remembered. It never knew love until it became Jonathan Sims. Now it must fight against every instinct to save Martin Blackwood. Archivist Sasha, Not!Jon/Martin, and the worst kind of Fake Dating AU.

Oh, this one just made me sad. The poor not!them, which is something I never thought I’d say.

Apple Of Your Eye by fakeCRfan

In which the Eye is fond of Martin. Perhaps a little too fond for comfort.

Somehow manages to be both sweet and horrifying—the characterisation of the Eye is incredible. ‘The Eye loves Martin’ is a scenario that’s so utterly doomed to failure and yet the writing is packed with so much pathos that I just want them all to be happy. A fantastic use of themes of agency and choice, and the single best use of Beholding as a source of horror I’ve read.

The Last Press by copperbadge

Jon Sims is awake, and has begun preparations for the Rite of the Watcher's Crown. Peter Lukas, who woke him, would be content to rule at his side. Martin is very upset about all of this, and the Lukases aren't thrilled with it either.

I really can’t say anything without spoiling the end and it’s so good. An alternate take on the Watcher’s Crown. Not a pairing that I ever thought would work for me, but this made it work.

watch the blood evaporate by 75hearts

It starts, like so many things in Jon’s life have started, with a nagging itch of curiosity. Jonathan Sims uses his healing abilities throughout s4. Read the tags.

Dear God please read the tags. But this is some high quality pain if it’s for you.

the lighthouse series by low_fi

Peter Lukas is a lighthouse keeper. One evening, he gets a call from a cryptic overseer tasked with monitoring his work.

This is such a vivid and yet subtle story—from the setting to the emotions portrayed, it creeps up on you slowly. The ending was like the gentlest possible gut-punch. The sequel just completed, and yeah, just as wonderful. This one is very much LonelyEyes but I listed it here because it is just exquisitely painful.

SATISFYINGLY HOPEFUL VIBES

for when you want to feel cozy

Clutching Daffodils by Gemi

Martin has always liked the idea of love at first sight. It’s such a romantic idea, the whole thing of it. Seeing someone and instantly feeling that strange, twisting feeling deep inside that every single media likes to obsess over. Of knowing you are in love within the day, petals falling from your mouth and warmth filling your chest as love burrows deep, vines twisting through your lungs. He always liked the idea of it. And then Jonathan Sims starts working at the Magnus Institute.

Somehow manages to be lighter and fluffier than most hanahaki fare, despite the setting. I’ve reread this one a lot.

the least he could do by Prim_the_Amazing

Martin should in fact not pick this man, specifically because of how attracted he is to him. It would be the responsible thing to do. Except he’s already following him. And he’s hungry.

Fluffy vampire au which everyone’s probably already read, but was too good not to mention.

rather interesting by bee_bro

Jonah Magnus realizes that, for some reason, when he comes in contact with weed, Elias Bouchard's consciousness will come into his life banging pots and pans.

Oh boy. So these are all favourite fics but this one is a favourite amongst favourites. The way Jonah is characterised (i.e. incredibly sensitive to scrutiny) is my favourite depiction of him, and the slow-burn between him and Elias is far sweeter than it has any right to be. Also, it’s hilarious.

The Magnus Records series by ErinsWorks

In a world parallel to that of the Archives and the Institute, a supernatural sanctuary stands against a cruel and uncaring world: A world of bureaucracy and tyranny, of murder and carnage, of loneliness and surveillence, of plague and death. But in this world of fear and misery, 14 entities born of the hopes of the world have emerged. And one of them has made their home here, at The Magnus Sanctuary. Perhaps, the employees within may lead happier lives than their counterparts did in the Archives.

This is just so goddamn pure. The author writes a really imaginative, fleshed-out alternate world and alternate Entities with engaging, well-written short statements. All of the character voices are absolutely on point, and it’s overall absurdly hopeful without ever feeling overly saccharine. I love this series so much, you guys, you don’t even know. I want to print it out and paste it on my wall. I love it.

HARD APOCALYPSE

for when you want to feel dark and angsty (and eldritch)

Most of these are shorts/oneshots because it’s just that kind of genre, y’know?

Ashes to Ashes by marrowbones

A conversation at the end of the world.

Oliver Banks is one of those minor characters that I am overly attached to. Love him here.

Employee Benefits by equals_eleven_thirds

The Magnus Institute offered some normal employee benefits: a pension plan, holidays, travel subsidies, free lunch on the last Friday of each month. Rosie makes it work.

This manages to hit that perfect sweet spot of satisfying and hilarious. Rosie gets to torment Elias, as she well deserves.

a rose by any other name by Duck_Life

Part of Jon blooms in Jared Hopworth’s garden.

This one was sad and honestly too gentle to really belong in this category, but I love it.

Eye to Eye by Dribbledscribbles

In which Jonah Magnus attempts a post-apocalyptic pep talk.

Unreliable narrator at its finest, and the implications are suitably horrific.

commensalis by doomcountry

The tower is endlessly, impossibly tall, but Jon’s work is taller.

If you’re here for the eldritch imagery, then this has some of the best.

SOFT APOCALYPSE

for when you want to feel gently triumphant

apocalypse how series by sunshine_states

Humanity adjusts. The Entities have Regrets.

Some nice vignettes set in a kinder apocalypse.

ceylon series by Sciosa

The one in which Jonathan Sims decides that no, actually, he isn't going to let the world just end.

I include this only for the sake on completeness, as everyone has no doubt already read it.

rituals by doomcountry

Martin is the first person to knock on the Archivist's door since it arrived, fully, into its little waiting temple. The Archivist saw him coming from down the hall, but decides to feign interest when the knob turns, and Martin—still a little bit smaller, a little more translucent than before—stands uncertainly just outside the room.

This one’s a little less focused on the world at large and more on JonMartin specifically.

we raise it up by savrenim

Jonathan Sims reads a book and saves the world; although maybe the real salvation is the friends he makes along the way; (although perhaps the world itself and the darkness that exists behind it isn't quite as out to get everyone as it seems).

More ‘soft revolution’ than ‘soft apocalypse’, but has the same vibe. A time travel fix-it. Incomplete but worth it if this is a mood that appeals to you.

Scarred Ground by DictionaryWrites

“You see," Elias said softly, "people always have this idea that only living things can be scarred - and they're right, of course. But a building is a living thing, Martin. And the ground can be scarred, too." "I don't have any scars," Martin said. "Yes, you do," Elias said. "You just need the right light to see them.”

Falls somewhere between ‘Apocalypse’ and ‘Soft Apocalyse’ but I’m putting it here because I feel like it. Also technically a LonelyEyes fic. I found it hard to follow at first but it’s worth sticking with; things will eventually begin to make sense and come together.

LONELYEYES

for when you want to feel lonelyeyes

marrying anguish with one last wish by procrastinatingbookworm

In which Elias isn't Orpheus, and Peter isn't Eurydice, but Elias brings Peter home anyway.

Lives in my head rent free forever. My favourite lonelyeyes fic.

ouroboros by Wildehack

“You know,” Jonah says, a muscle in his calf quivering agreeably where it’s slung over Mordechai’s shoulder, “it’s really quite--fortunate--that I don’t care for you at all.”

Oh, this one hurts in the best possible way. The endless cycle of their relationship, the way it comes full-circle... yeah, good. Actually, no, this one might be my favourite. It’s a tie.

Breaking all the Rules by Thedupshadove

Elias proposes a somewhat...unusual wager.

Soft lonelyeyes? In my recs? It’s more likely than you think. Short, sweet, and... sweet.

Threefold by Sprinkledeath

Peter Lukas breaks three rules.

I’m just a slut for mythology allusions I guess.

Luck Be A Lady Tonight by prodigy

In 2014, Elias Bouchard takes a rare trip outside of his comfort zone. Peter Lukas wastes a bunch of money. You'd be surprised how many things can go wrong for two beings of cosmic power.

I love the sense of the history of them you get while reading this.

love is just a word (the idea seems absurd) by kaneklutz

"Something's wrong. It's stopped hurting" An avatar of the Lonely and an avatar of the Beholding walk into a bar relationship. It was bound to blow up in their faces.

Short, sweet, painful. Excellent exploration of their priorities.

Victor by penguistifical

elias tries something with his powers that he hasn't attempted before

The one where Elias tries to raise the dead. Not incredibly LonelyEyes centric but that’s still the pairing.

Simon Says by penguistifical

“Peter asked me to drop by and have a word with you, and, so, here I am.” Simon chuckles at Elias’s disbelieving stare. “Well, he asked in his own way. He’s not a complicated man, you know. He either comes from your arms looking like a stroked cat that’s been given a dish of cream or looking like he’s been in that toy boat of his out in an unexpected storm. He was far angrier than normal, so I daresay you weren’t cream today.”

I mean personally I’d just go ahead and rec all of penguistifical’s LonelyEyes fics but this is a standout for me.

AROMANTIC AND ASPEC MOODS

for when you want to feel Seen

The Aro Archives series by WhyNotFly

These are all just really really good. From Aro!Peter to two different aro-spec versions of the Scottish Safehouse to a long and beautiful aro hanahaki fic, this series is uniformly wonderful. The two Scottish Safehouse ones (Torn Edges and Murky Water) are my comfort fics.

and now all fear gives way by j_quadrifons

Before he can think it through, he murmurs, "Is that what it feels like? Being in love?" Martin's hand stills in his hair and Jon's stomach drops.

This one just. Wow yeah this is how it be. Another absolute comfort fic of mine.

Sweet As Roses by Prim_the_Amazing

Jon takes Martin by the shoulders, leans up on the tips of his toes, and kisses him.

I’m going to be honest—I didn’t know where to put this one. But it ended up here because the real standout of this fic for me is the portrayal of Sasha, and especially her portrayal as an aro character. So I’m putting it here. Mind the content warnings with this one!

HUMOUR

for when you want to feel delight

The Torment of Sebastian Skinner by Urbenmyth

After the Eye's victory, the statement givers are trapped in their horror stories, living them over and over again. Naturally, this works out better for some then for others.

Premise? Delightful. Execution? Fantastic. I read this one to cheer myself up when I’m sad.

Unlucky by VolxdoSioda

Jon’s dice betray him

Short, sweet DnD au, and the reason I cannot get DM!Elias out of my head now.

Voracious by beetl

A bird hits the window. Jon experiences The Flesh's thrall.

“Dead Dove: Do Not Eat” but make it literal.

The Stupid Endings by Urbenmyth

There are a lot of very deeply thought out and creative AUs on this site. These aren't among them. These ones are how the story could have ended, if Jonny Sims was a dumbass.

These are just uniformly hilarious, I cannot recommend them highly enough.

PODCAST CROSSOVERS

for when you want to make one of those “if I had a nickel for every time...” posts

The Sabbatical by morelikeassassin

Nicholas Waters is in need of an all-knowing eldritch entity beyond the confines of human imagining to help with his latest ritual. He'll have to settle for Jonathan Sims, who happens to have nothing better to do.

Crossover with Archive 81 (s3, specifically). Both fun and bittersweet.

The City And Its Sorrows by cuttooth

“What makes you think your friend is in Eskew?” David asks. He feels he can risk the scrutiny of the city that far. “I read that this is a place people end up when they get lost,” says the man. “This is a place people end up,” David agrees./The Archivist comes to Eskew.

Contemplative piece, and I love the way it presents David’s relationship with Eskew, the way he finds it horrible and hates it and yet belongs to it, is almost proud in the way he shows to to Jon. Great little vignette of two people oppressed by eldritch powers, intersecting.

Hiatus by bibliocratic

My name is Jonathan Sims, and I am in Eskew. (Jon gets lost in a Spiral city. It is not as easy as escaping.)

This one is far more focused on Jon than David, and is honestly more Eskew-weird than Spiral-weird. In the best way. Told in Eskew episode style, and is very good.

Sweet Music by Shella688

Eskew has a music to it, if you know how to listen. The percussion beat of thousands of footsteps, the melody in the squealing of the trains overhead. Today, the music of Eskew comes in the form of nine musicians, playing outside my office. My name is David Ward, and I am in Eskew.

Not TMA, but since a lot of Mechs fans go here—this one’s a Mechs/Eskew crossover. Short and simple, mostly David Ward centric, just a little well-written one shot I had to mention because I enjoyed it but it doesn’t have much traffic. Nice portrayal of the Mechs from an outsider’s perspective, and how genuinely strange and frightening they’d come across (especially if you’re already being haunted by and eldritch city). If you like Eskew-style storytelling, check it out!

NOT TMA

...but good enough that I physically cannot make a recs list without including them. Here!

[animanightmate]

My Brain is a Wonderland

By which I mean that it has many distractions, things smell tempting but aren’t all that nutritious (especially for the price), and sometimes there are terrible queues.

So, as some of you may have picked up, I seem to have handed myself the task of filling in the gap between seasons 2 and 3 of BBC show The Musketeers in an act of surpassing hubris. Now, don’t get me wrong - I’m loving a lot of it, but there are three main problems I’m currently facing, all of which tie into the fact that I’m very easily distracted at times. And this appears to be A Time.

Set adrift somewhat from BBC canon, I still have to make what I’m writing make sense in the context of what’s to come in s3. I set myself up from the very beginning as someone who writes a canon compliant (if somewhat interstitial) universe, and, by the saints, I am now set on that course for the rest of this series. Unfortunately, as many have attested in the past, the BBC kind of clowned for season 3, so I’m starting to feel like a clown apologist/ enabler. However, writing the evolution of Constance, and the development of her relationship with Tréville (and Marcheaux), the accession of Feron, and the development of his relationship with Grimaud (and Marcheaux), and exploring how the Baudins (Sylvie and Hubert) came to Paris, is proving immensely satisfying. I do, however, have to stop myself for providing elaborate backstories for every damned cadet and OC Musketeer, even if only in my vast and growing spreadsheet.

With no real canon, though plenty of hints about adventures in Alsace, the Battle of Arras, and being that close to Douai leading to the conclusion that our lads are on the Northern Front, fighting the Spanish in Flanders, I thought I’d turn to matching their exploits to the real life ones of the northern French regiments in the Franco-Spanish War as part of the Thirty Years War, about which there is plenty of documentation... Only to find that, of course, the BBC clowned again, clearly doing the equivalent of taking a List of Things That Happened In The War and throwing darts at it. (Haha: throwing d’Art at it... I’ll see myself out...) So, again, I’m going to have to either ignore a bunch of those or, yet again, find myself polishing the big boots and fluffing up the garish wigs. (”Big, red nose today, is it, sir? Very good.”)

The closer you look at the Thirty Years War, even just the French involvement, the more fascinating things you find. I’ve run into some extraordinary characters that the BBC could have gone to town on, but a) no Richelieu kind of robs us of many of the real-life interesting interactions, and b) they clearly had budgetary restraints that my imagination does not. However, that’s also a bit of a problem, as my magpie brain keeps spotting different exciting things in the course of even the most cursory research and saying Oooh, what about...?! which means that, of course, I have to bloody write them.

Some examples, you say? Why, of course - here’s a couple:

Due to having a gap in my plan for 1638 and through researching what was happening in Alsace (”be brave”) and Lorraine during that time, I ran into Bernhard Saxe-Weimar, mercenary leader of a mercenary army (and, at one disastrous point, the Swedish Army), for whose services Richelieu (or, in our case, presumably Tréville) successfully bid. The Wikipedia entry honestly does not do him justice - he was, let’s say, very driven. I have something very particular in mind for good ol’ Bernhard, as he fits rather neatly into both BBC and historical Franco-Spanish War timeline crossovers. However, as a result of said particular notion, I now know a LOT about:

- The history of Switzerland, particularly Basle and the surrounding canton.

- The geography of Basel-land, particularly with regard to its mediaeval castles and Roman fortifications.

- The geopolitical/ religious divisions in Switzerland which essentially rendered it a neutral zone.

- Some really fucking horrendous sieges of the conflict, at least one commander of which was so stubborn they resorted to cannibalism.

- How much a fortress cost (to buy - less if you chance upon a pragmatic general who can see which way the war’s blowing and fancies a small profit and a long life).

- How much an army cost (to buy - less if you’re Richelieu and don’t actually pay up).

In trying to fit stuff around the Village of Women in the Fool’s Gold episode into the narrative, I discovered that the “Battle of Arras” referenced by d’Artagnan is likely the Siege of Arras. However, that was in 1640, which can’t mesh with BBC canon, so... what?! (See also: the Battle of Freiburg, 1644, which is possibly what Porthos is referring to with regard to Elodie’s previous husband.) However, just as I was scanning down the page in disgust, preparatory to binning the bugger, my eye was snagged by a familiar name... was that... Cyrano de Bergerac? Yes. Yes, it was - the writer joined up with the Guards for a short time, got injured on the neck during the breaking of the siege, and shortly after that went back to Paris (I think) to study under a philosopher and mathematician. How can I resist that? HOW?! I now, of course, know a lot more about de Bergerac than I did (avoid the Wikipedia page if you can, or at least skip the middle chunks, clearly written by someone mildly deranged), including the fact that he could easily by described as one of the first sci-fi writers.

So there you go - some spoilers for the forthcoming works, always assuming I can stop magpieing plot points and actually write the bugger! 😄😂😅😓😭

[victorian-lesbian-dandy]

SBR1.40 Season 1 Finale Thoughts

obviously there are gonna be spoilers here, so beware <3

The soundscaping in this episode hit so many Good Spots in my brain. Like there are little brain worms having a dance party to that soundscaping.

Anna vs quietly having a breakdown throughout the episode

oliver's "I am in pain" noises. I adore u but whAt

sam vs being slow on the uptake. Yes Sam. Its the same door. (in his defense, kitty and anna were pretty fucking useless (affectionate) at telling him anything)

the mattress on the stairs feeling like a Cartoon show <3

Oliver calling Sam magpie as he was dying. oliver calling sam magpie as he was dying

oliver calling marie a "try hard witch" i love him

that bastard being gary major. i just respect that man a lot and for some reason it makes me laugh so much that there is this whole cast of fairly queer young people, and Also Gary Major. its like a dad on a school trip

scourge, as always, i love them. but sPECIFICALLY this is one of the first times I've used headphones for sbr and the bit,,,where scourge is like "I'm everywhere and nowhere" and it went from one side to the other? that was Wonderful

the way that i always think scourge is gonna call sam little bitch

scourge calling That Bastard (the one who walks here and there) Daddy

scourge telling sam that oliver apparently killed a Bunch of People and sam just not giving a shit

indi also Genuinely calling That Bastard Daddy

"You're a monster" "Precisely" listen, Im gay and I'm a simp? like, this just. i short circuited at this

olivers gay fury

sam having access to his power properly for the first time and reminding me of that bit in doctor who where Rose Eats the TARDIS or smth and she gets glowy eyes. sam 100% had glowy eyes here

the genuinely warmth i felt in my heart at the sign off for this episode. i just,,,,,,<33

That is all thank you and goodnight

[laurasinele]

A Fictober19 Harringrove drabble + a story of survival and awareness

Written for Fictober19 prompt 20: “You could talk about it, you know”

Harringrove fanfic (Stranger Things) + the real life experience that inspired it

WARNING: PAST RAPE/SEX ABUSE (the present is mostly fluff)

DMs on the subject are welcome

I honestly had no idea what to do with this. I'm working on each prompt on the same day or the day before, though I try to decide the theme and basic plot about four days prior to publication. I had absolutely no idea about this one. My husband suggested to make it chapter 3 of Magpies, but in that one neither Draco nor Harry are bottling things up, so this line didn't really fit there. Then, yesterday, the 19th, something unpleasant happened to me and I decided I could use this prompt as an outlet. I went through my ships and the idea of pouring myself in my headcanon of Billy Hargrove became strong (mind you. I have not seen season 3, and I am aware things get complicated in that one to say the least, but let me bask into my post-season 2 repressed and traumatised baby who finds solace and love and understanding in Steve’s superhuman empathy and general gorgeousness). 

Click the link for the fic, what follows is the personal experience that inspired it, which you can also find in the fic’s chapter 2.

I am a sex abuse victim. The abuse took place in the form of repetitive non consensual sex in the context of an established relationship, through guilt-tripping mostly, on occasion by overpowering me physically. 

The guilt-tripping went as follows: up until I was 22 my sex-drive used to be well above average. Now I know it was due to a hormonal unbalance and the hypomanic stages of my now diagnosed type II bipolar disorder. Back then, I saw it as a very defining trait of my identity, as I felt free, empowered and connected with my body and my lovers. 

I said lovers because I had several of them simultaneously. Everybody was informed and agreed to it. Some of them were and still are friends of mine and between them. It was all open, honest and healthy. 

My relationship with my abuser started with him being one of those lovers. Then, evolved into an “official” relationship, but still open. In a natural way, he became my only relationship, as the others either started exclusive relationships or had schedules incompatible with mine, while my boyfriend studied with me and I spent most of the time at his parent’s place to avoid the continued low-key psychological and emotional abuse of my father, but that’s another story.

Still, even though none of us was seeing anyone else, we agreed that our relationship was open. At one point, I mentioned I was planning on meeting one of my past lovers. Just meeting, nothing I said suggested there was going to be any kind of intimacy. He got angry. He didn’t lash out and, after a while of sulking, he reasoned that our relationship was still open but he was not comfortable with the idea of me meeting that particular person because there had been a romantic relationship, and he was willing to have and let me have other sexual relationships but not romantic ones. We debated cordially for a while and I accepted his point. Flash forward several months later at my faculty’s cantina: a very good friend, who actually became my lover later on in my life, and is not anymore but is still a very close friend, started to flirt with me jokingly, as we usually did. My boyfriend joined us at our table, we kept our conversation peppered with compliments and pick up lines and, at some point, it got hot. And it was okay, it was public knowledge that my boyfriend and I were polyamorous. My friend and I accompanied my boyfriend to meet a professor and, along the way, we were making plans for the afternoon. My boyfriend had something to do, at what rose the possibility of hanging out with my friend and see where all the spicy talk went. My boyfriend had been encouraging us and playing matchmaker all the while, and he said something along the lines of “sure, go ahead”, but when my friend and I started to discuss the logistic he got nervous. We noticed and exchanged worried looks, slowing the conversation down a notch. It was all very natural and open up until that moment, but the change in the mood was so obvious that I finally asked what was wrong. He said he wasn’t comfortable with me fucking one of my best mates because, well, he knew the guy. I couldn’t believe it at first. I remembered the first restriction: no ex-boyfriends. Now, not people that we both know. Because he said it in front of my friend, and my friend knew me quite well and recognised the look in my face as more than mildly annoyed, he hurried to say it was okay with him and asked me if I could still give him a lift. That way I avoided an argument with my boyfriend on the topic of “Is this restricting our openness as a couple becoming a trend?”. Not other prospects rose for me nor for him, and we never discussed exclusiveness again. 

Not long after that incident, I fell into a depression. Both the depressive state and the anti-depressants affected my libido enormously. I was practically never in the mood for sex. Sometimes I willingly made an effort when he initiated it, but I realised the experiences were not comfortable for me and forcing myself was only making it more difficult to get my sex-drive back. I explained this. He said it made sense. Next night he tried again. I said no. This went on for a couple of weeks. Then he got, not angry but, dramatic, and said he had lots of trust and self-esteem issues and, that if we didn’t have sex, he felt as if I didn’t love him. I explained for the umptenth time, and emphasized that he already knew this, that my low sex drive was a chemical catastrophe in my brain and had nothing to do with my love for him. That, if something, it was challenging my self perception, as I had identified with my sexuality and explored it confidently and freely from a very, very early age. This was hurting me as much or more as it was hurting him. He calmed down for another week or two. He brought the “I feel like you don’t love me anymore” discourse again. I decided to have sex with him that night. It was awful. I didn’t came nor wanted to. He insisted on making me. He stopped trying with his fingers when I closed my legs, since my words didn’t seem to be enough. That night passed and others came. I said no, he said yes, I said no, he was almost 6’5 feet tall (2 meters) and his hand was bigger than my face. He opened my legs by force (I think he thought it was roleplaying). That made me freeze and I let him have his way. I still tried to say no every next time. I eventually stopped saying yes or no. I just layed there. 

Now, when I started to tell this story to people, the most common first question was: why did you keep going to his place to sleep? The answer is simple: I did not see it as something as bad as going home and facing the tension and scorn and yells from my father. In the great scheme of things, I know now that what my boyfriend did was worse but, because of its duration in time and newness, the situation at my home felt much more real and unbearable. I still didn’t realize what my boyfriend was doing was rape. I just thought we had things to talk about and the moment to do so never came.

The first time I called it by its name it was like an epiphany. For some reason I remember it was March, and I remember I told him: “You’ve been doing it for six months”. We had an argument for an entirely different reason that I don't remember and it evolved into the fact that lately we were constantly arguing. I kept trying to get somewhere in that particular argument because it kept going in circles: he pointed out problems and I kept saying those weren’t what was wrong with us. He asked impatiently and loudly what was it then. And I bursted out, and I didn’t even know the words were inside me, I didn’t had the notion before talking: “Our problem is that you’ve been raping me for six months. You’ve been doing it for six months, and I say no, and you keep going at it and in the end I stopped saying no because it was easier than risking to get hurt. And so I can’t trust you anymore and that's why snap at you for everything”. 

He was horrified. He covered his mouth with his hand and became pale. He seated and whispered “It’s true. This is horrible. This is horrible, horrible. This is horrible.” He kept repeating that word. I told him I had never known it was rape until I said it outloud and that, now that we both knew, it had to stop. He was disgusted with himself and he stopped. For a couple of weeks. 

I never told him again what he was doing. I grew more and more wary of saying no. I just rolled with it: the non consensual sex and the relationship itself. That summer we ended it civilly, because there wasn't a moment we weren't at each other's throats, and we still remembered that we used to be friends. He had even pushed me against his wardrobe to make me shut up once. So we thought breaking up for good, and this is important, he specifically said “for good” and we agreed, was our best option. 

Then began the gaslighting. I don't know if it was intentional or he is actually that delusional. I had buried the fact that none or almost none of the sex I had had in the last year had been consensual, and moved on with my life. He was still my classmate, one of my closest friends and a constant presence in my social life. I told everyone to support him specially because I'd had more experience in breakups while he was more emotionally unstable in general (and everyone knew this for a fact). 

One day, two friends came to visit me to the store I managed. They asked how was I doing and I said I was fine, that in the end it was obvious that we could not be a couple. They exchanged disconcerted looks. "That's not what he's saying. He's telling everyone you've taken three months off and then you'll be back together". I was beyond shocked, specially by the specificity of it. Three months, he was saying. When they saw my reaction it was like opening a dam. They started to list all the apparently uncharacteristic things he was doing: he was drinking alcohol (he never did before), he was hard-core hitting on everyone, he was always trying to make plans with everybody and he would always talk about himself over any other thing. 

In the span of a few months, he got a girlfriend and dumped her in a very ugly fashion. Two days prior to their breakup, their love was all over his Facebook, and right before leaving for a job abroad he dumped her telling her openly that he didn't love her. By then, our interactions were minimal and I had been starting to flinch whenever  he touched me, but I didn't pay much thought to it until this breakup and a very unfortunate line he threw on me. There was a farewell party for him and, at the end of it, he approached me and said that now that he was single again we could fuck every now and then. I felt cold all over and then fiery fury. I remember clenching my fists. I dismissed his offer politely but sternly, reminding him, as it had been nothing, that there had been issues between us regarding consent. He didn't seem much bothered by my answer. Later on I learned he was telling people he had gone abroad to fuck, so I guess my negative wasn't a big deal at the moment. After that night, "He used to rape me” was always on my mind, every single someone mentioned him, I saw a picture of him or he contacted me. 

I decided to tell, and only to very few people, and still excusing him, when it was too obvious that I was avoiding him, and when I began to have trouble to trust my sex partners. I stopped excusing him eventually, but I never fully blamed him (not that I blamed myself). Years later, I had another boyfriend and I met a girl through him. We became friends, and at some point she told me she had just met a guy. It was my ex. There were months of debating between telling her or not. I settled for “he’s one for long term relationships”, since she prefered no strings attached. However, as she put it, she fell in love. Time passed, my relationship with the man that had introduced us ended, and so my meetings with her where more sporadic. In one of those, she told me she already knew what he did to me. That he had told her. So he knew why I stopped talking to him. 

I talked less and less with this girl, mostly through Facebook. At some point in time he and I exchanged messages. He wanted to talk, I was open to it but in a bad moment so I told him I needed to sort things out first. Never contacted again.

Almost four years ago, she got pregnant. I had assumed, since they’d been together for so long, that what he did to me was an isolated event. I met them to give them a baby shower present. I’d rather have met her alone but I had no time to meet her in Barcelona and she couldn’t drive, so he came along. It was the first time I saw him in years. She left us alone for a while. I asked if the baby was planned. He told me excitedly that it had been a whim after a woman they had just met in a party had told them what a nice couple they were and that they should have children, because some friends of hers had just become parents and it was wonderful. He told me how, when they got home, he picked up a condom an announced it was the last one he was using. He mocked his girlfriend saying “Oh, I don’t know, I don’t know” to that, and told me he said “You know what? I’m not using this one either”. And that night she got pregnant. On my 9 months pregnant friend’s mock-indignant words “This one knocked me up!”. I was horrified. I could not understand how they didn’t see how wrong that was. Never met them again. 

Three years ago I saw a picture of the baby doing something cute on Facebook. I hit like without thinking. I had nothing but warm feelings towards the mother. A few days later she wrote a long private message through Facebook saying she needed to cut ties with me because of her baby’s father situation with me. She said I hadn’t wanted to fix things with him when we met last time, and that he came, according to her, so he and I could talk. I was going through a lot: had just lost my job in a project that was practically my creation, had just started managing a store, my husband’s mum was sick with cancer in another town 600 miles away (1000km) and my husband had flown there, and I was left cancelling reservations and calling the guests to our wedding that had been supposed to be in three months from that moment. Less than a week before that message, I had to go to ER because I spent the whole day with tachycardia. So I told her my situation, that I valued her friendship, and I asked to meet later on that month to talk about it. She agreed.

Two days later I was at work, alone, breathing consciously because of my constant anxiety. I got another message from her. It started: “I can’t be friends with someone who thinks my man is a rapist”. I got very angry. I told her I didn’t thought he was, but I knew what he did to me. She talked about it as if it was a lie, when we had both, the three of us actually, existed in a universe where we all agreed it was real. She said he had lost friends because of it. Our common friends that knew what had happened between us had distanced themselves from him, reportedly, because of his new self-centered, party animal, sex-obsessed attitude. I’d had enough. I thought I had it all wrapped up, I ended my day at work and drove to a seaside town to celebrate a friend’s birthday. There, I only told the birthday boy the reason of me changing my mind over attending or not. So, when shit happened, he was the only one who guessed where it came from.

I took my phone out to take a picture of our group, but saw the notifications of audio messages from Facebook Messenger, from my abuser. I walked away to listen to them. I was calm, I assumed he’d be apologising. I opened the first one and it was three seconds of silence and then my name in his voice and his tone was furious. My knees gave up, I leaned against a light post and slid down until I sat on the floor. The next words were “I am very indignant. How can you say I am a rapist?”. Then he proceeded to insult me, blame my father of everything, say I was laughing at real rape victims face, accusing me of having raped him… I fell in hysterics and doubted myself. I thought for a moment it was my fault. Now, the birthday boy was the friend my abuser had banned me from having sex with, and he was also one of the two friends that came to see me at work and told me that my ex was saying we were getting back in three months. The other friend was also there. They both knew and they both, when they finally understood what was going on, prevented me from listening to the rest of the audio messages (and more kept coming), and told me I wasn’t imagining things. They told me it happened and they told me I wasn’t a liar. The panic came and went for a long while. I couldn’t sit still, I couldn’t look at my friends, more than a half of which didn’t know what happened back then and what was happening now. I ended crying in a friends shoulder saying “I should have strangled him”. This episode kick-started almost 3 years of severe depression and anxiety, unemployment and relationship crisis, from which I’ve been recovering only for the last six or nine months. And, in case you haven’t thought of it, I still was having trouble trusting my sex partner when this happened, so I still needed to reconstruct my identity separated from my sexuality. 

Through 8 years of my adult life, this is something that has been following me, that I’ve tried to manage on my own, and that he has had no remorse in bringing back when his life wasn’t going well. After his audio messages, I learnt that he and his girlfriend were swinging with a couple who I had only met once, being friends of a friend. I asked my common friend to not say anything about my relationship to my abuser and she answered “Too late. He told my friend about everything”. I asked, because I wasn’t sure and I didn’t understand. My friend confirmed that “everything” meant he told my friend’s friend he had been my boyfriend and he had raped me repeatedly. I was puzzled and disgusted. It had just been months since the audios, since him denying it. This friend of a friend is now closer to me and my husband, cut ties with him and has never mentioned it to me.

This last indirect connection with him was about three years ago. I live in a small historic village near Barcelona. As far as I know, my past abuser lives in Barcelona and does not know where I live. Yesterday, I was sitting at a cafe’s terrace with my husband and my dog, telling my husband how amazed I was by the response to the Merlin/Arthur drabble being it such an old fandom, when I lifted my head from my phone screen and I saw him, with two more people, in tourist gear. I was wearing big sunglasses, and I stopped talking, hoping he wouldn’t recognise me behind them, but he was looking at me. He looked like he wanted to say hi, and veered towards me. I stammered a bit but kept saying what I was saying to my husband, pointedly looking at my abuser with a very serious face and tone.I waited just for a beat for him to change his mind and stop looking at me, and walk past my table without stopping. I told my husband. He congratulated me on my reaction and offered to get me a second breakfast pastry. 

My abuser passed again near our table with his partners, and this time he didn’t glance at us. I had my heart hammering a hole through my ribcage and I was angry that I had not yelled at him, that I had not hit him, that I had not finished it. Then I realised that, although now I am physically and emotionally exhausted, it is because of the sudden trip back and forth in time and the mental exertion it caused since I am bipolar and hence more sensitive to this things. It was not because I am not over him and what he did. I didn’t had to finish it because it had finished already, sometime in the last three years, and I did it just by investing in myself and my loved ones, just by not having my abuser’s ominous presence obscuring it all. Just by speaking up. Just by avoiding hatred and toxicity and choosing healthy affection, honesty and trust. 

If it happened to you, or is still happening, say it. Say it to your abuser, to the people who loves you, to those who love them. Tell the authorities, tell as many people as you can. Put space between you and the facts, between you and your abuser. The first person you need to help and save is you. Talk to someone, anyone, but don’t shut it down. Don’t keep it hidden because it rots.

[almarchive]

   hello, its nora n this is the ethereal but spoiled alma olive putnam. she goes by all 3 names cos she’s pretentious as fuck. raised in a farmhouse in vermont, never really had to work for anything in her life and doesn’t want to. studying class civ cos she thinks it makes her sound smart, but actually hates fuckin latin and just loves learning about feckless hedonism and the festivals of bacchus. was expelled from princeton in her first year so her parents basically paid her way into lockwood. loves the smell of libraries and listening to french music from a tinny record player in knee socks. bio is below the cut, like this post to be bombarded with plotting messages. i might forget tho so pls message me x

application template.

( elle fanning  / cis-female ) haven’t seen ALMA OLIVE PUTNAM around in a while. the ELLE FANNING lookalike has been known to be TENACIOUS & MAGNETIC, but SHE can also be FANCIFUL & DOUBLE-CROSSING. The 20 year old is a SOPHOMORE majoring in CLASSICS. I believe they’re living in FIDELIS but I popped by earlier and no one answered the door. ( nora. 23. gmt. she/her. )

aesthetics.

a red beret nestled on top of bright platimum locks, neck scarves tied around your throat the way they do it in french new wave films, running barefoot through the woods in feckless hedonism, china dolls with porcelain faces lined against the walls of your room, the mona lisa smile, knee-socks tugged over the hockey grazes on your knees, a forged botticelli drying on your easel, ophelia floating in the middle of a lake.

connection to tatiana & did they choose her name during the watershed?

alma saw her as academic competition and a threat to her de jure throne. in freshman year, tatiana got the role alma auditioned for in a university production. she’s disliked her ever since. alma abslutely chose tatiana’s name, and she’d do it again without hesitating. [that vine voice] I WON’T HESITATE, BITCH

the short form.

—  born in vermont in a big old farmhouse. her great-great-grandfather moved to america as an immigrant and worked on a plantation, made his way up cos he could speak a lot of languages and therefore win more people over. for the last two generations, putnam men have owned the farm and do little of the dirty work. big in the meat industry.

— both her parents had large personalities, so alma’s never really been shy around adults, even as a kid she’d speak to them in a forthright, confident manner, and because she was always surrounded by adults, she’s always seemed a bit wise beyond her years. — very much a consolidation of every character in the secret history. has a morbid longing for the picturesque at all costs. obsessed with w.h. auden and the beat poets. — ”aestheticism is the only thing worth pursuing and even that is pointless” — is majoring in classical civilisation. can read ancient greek and latin. also speaks french. — studies hard and plays hard. she gets top marks but it’s because academia is literally her life, she loves the smell of libraries, the ancient smoke of learning, of feeling like old wine in a new bottle reincarnated from the bones of some old, dead witchy woman who invented a cure for cowpox or somethin. — isn’t a foward-planner, however. alma prefers to leave her options open, play the field, live in a spontaneous manner so her study style is mostly cramming a few days before a test, or staying up all night writing an essay on a massive adrenaline boost powered by red bull or probably adderall, scribbling (or typing) furiously into the night. — pretentious motherfucker. loves poetry, especially the romantics, loves morbid ones too, edgar allen poe, sylvia plath, allen ginsberg, she just loves them all. can’t get enough. her favourite films are like…. wanky artfilm independent european cinema. especially french new wave. “what do you think of goddard’s work??” while snorting a line off someone’s sink at 5am on a school night, but you can bet she’ll make it to that 9am class. — very intelligent and beautiful and knows both of those facts. plays devil’s advocate. humanitarian, vegan. — judgemental but takes great care not to appear so. petty and vindictive — just wants to be loved by all. a party girl ; doesn’t rlly enjoy it, jst feels she should enjoy it. — tries to be an enigma. wants to be mysterious and unreadable because that’s what books have taught her makes women desirable and interesting and cool. — obsessively devours mystery and thriller novels. she herself is a gillian flynn book waiting to happen. — act like the flower but be the serpent under it. is a user. manipulative. leads people on. will throw another student under the bus to demonstrate her own intelligence and integrity — heavily involved in the theatre society. loves attention. — has an addictive personality. seems unable to do anything in a small dose, she has to let it utterly consume her. with sports, she’s fiercely competitive, runs track, played lacrosse at school, now is a cheerleader probably. with alcohol, it’s never a shot, it’s a whole bottle – wine or whiskey – she’ll be table dancing before the night’s up and making out with someone she’ll regret in the morning. — her clothing style is like…. vintage thrift store but make it preppy. berets and cute hats, neck scarves, large fluffy cardigans or like those leathery jackets with big suede fringes on them, mini skirts (very 70s), and knee-high socks or boots. quite often she’ll be in sports kit, maybe a cute tennis skirt, n when she’s feeling casual she’ll wear like, a talking heads tshirt with a pair of mom jeans and converse, but otherwise, the library is her catwalk. — relates to ophelia from hamlet and sibyl vane in dorian gray. weirdly obsessed with women who commit suicide. loves jackson pollock paintings and abstract art. – likes old things. old books, old music, old houses, it reminds her of happier times like when she wasn’t alive. buys all her music on vinyl and has a gramophone because “the sound quality is better” kfdsjj.

plots.

here are some generic wanted plots but by all means message me so we can flesh them out more if any strike ur interest:

study buddies !! someone who is equally unprepared and so spends all night in the library with alma before a big deadline, maybe they even met in the library

if they’re from new england or vermont, then cousins . second cousins / extended family / family friends –  probably spat volavons on your character once as children, omg childhood friends !

people who live on the same floor and only know each other from brief interactions in the lift or the canteen

frinds !! unlikely friends !! toxic friends !! former best friends separated by sporting or academic rivalries !

hockey / cheer friends who are on other teams but who she absolutely loves playin against!!!

fellow academics who like meeting up to discuss latin and greek ! gimme a secret society bonding by their love of ancient learning

i reckon she’s in a lot of societies, definitely the film club, maybe works as a projectionist at the uni cinema if they have one so give me ppl affiliated with that, give me fellow wanky pretentious art-lovers and poets and historians who will go to museums and galleries with her and listen to the velvet underground on vinyl

people she gets mortally fucked off her tits with at parties

people who think she is throwing her academic potential away by caving to hedonistic impulse

people she has drunkenly made out with, hooked up with, or regularly sleeps with casually, maybe even a friend w benefits she is repressing feelings for, i love angst,

people she used to date or unrequitedly likes, but to them it’s just a physical thing, give me all the thirsty angst plots, and maybe some softness too, i need some religion in this girls life, she is a roman catholic after all

full biography.

alma olive putnam.

intro.

           the girl is a knife. razor-sharp, double-edged, the bright shine of a two-faced, lovely thing. silver like the secrets you magpie thief from other heads. you’re a scavenger of knowledge, of tidbits, of gossip to lock away for later use and late-night re-inspection. a mind is like a clock if you get to learn the pieces. bit by bit, you dismantle the inner workings of the brains that tick around you – how easy it is to change it’s path, how words and their meanings can make a person laugh or cry in an instant. to have the power to control that is to be a god. it’s the power trip you crave wielding pom-poms in your hands; a possessive need for control that a younger you, small and weak, never had as a child. small lips, smaller smile, a doll clutched in your too-hungry fingers, hard enough to shatter the bones of a real infant. you cut your hair with your mother’s kitchen scissors before the autumn falls, rendering you out of season, unfit for the cold weather that beats against the nape of your neck, where a stick-and-poke marks the star you were born under ; the bull. “mama, when will i be a queen?” as soon as they find a crown small enough not to slip from your head.

biography.

           if you get hungry enough, they say, you start eating your own heart. hands red, stained by pomegranate seeds, the empty pulp of its shell splattered on your thighs you find yourself wondering – what would it be like to want? in the beginning, you never knew hunger. twins, born under the same star, you first, him second – a nuclear family. never a sister to compete with, you were always the cherry pie of your parents’ hearts. white-haired, blue-eyed, beautiful baby of mine. the townhouse in vermont and the summer house in lyon, you wanted for nought, showered with attention, saddled with gifts - hardly a wonder you came to rely on such affection as a confirmation of your own worth.

           at eight years old you first met death, blood on a gingham-print dress, a smear of it over your cheekbone and the pulp of a mangled animal at your feet murdered by the hands of a stable boy. “alma, my precious baby, you get away from that filth,” your mama would cry from the upstairs balcony – cigar in one hand and a bloody mary in the other – though whether the filth she referred to was the dead pig or the boy with a kernel of corn in his mouth, you never did find out.

           your family earned their keeps in farming, great-grandfather wolfgang hildegarde a german immigrant, great-grandmother maura lisbon a prairie girl. they fell hopelessly in love between troughs and pig-shit, working for three dollars a day at a farm their descendants would later own, trade deals with the indians, vacations to calcutta, your father todd putnam in the kind of sheepskin coat his father’s father could only dream of owning. he worked hard so that you’d never have to. your mama once asked – you heard it through the window, rounding cartwheels across the picket-fenced lawn – could he not find a respectable career rather than selling shrink-wrapped pork for a dime a dozen? that blood money had no business raising a child. you look far back enough, edie, your father had said in his low, strong voice that could bring a civil war to silence, and i think you’ll find that all money is blood money.

           language was never fickle on your tongue, french dinner time talk by the time you were out of your hush puppy shoes, your mama fixing the au pair a smile as she fixed herself another martini. you learned the clarinet at four and how to dance with the grace of a swansong at six, ethereal under a spotlight, an audience captive in the palm of your hand. by eight you knew that you’d always been destined to be loved. loved so hard they would want to taste you, bite into the soft plump of your cheek and eat you alive. that was how magnetic you wanted to feel. but mother hamsters eat their own young when penned in together too long, and soon you became too wild, too restless, another package on your father’s delivery invoice, box-shipped out to english boarding school.

           fitting in had never been something you had to concern yourself with. you were always the shiny new toy the other girls wanted to play with, bright like a dropped coin from a magpie’s beak. wherever you went, you seemed to leave a trail of awe, pig-tailed harriet’s adoring you, imitating you, teachers forgiving your class-time chatter for the sake of your wild heart and the restless spirit you possessed. tell us what it’s like in the states, alma. they’d coo, enamoured by your hollywood drawl. does your father own a gun? you hardly knew. barely even knew the colour of his hair, for the scarce amount of times he’d stoop to kiss your cheek, though you’d tell silver-tongued tales if it’d guaranteed you an audience. when you learned how to smile at the right times, and that flattery would get you everywhere, it soon became apparent that charm would pave the yellow brick road to success even when your lack of drive couldn’t.

           the road you followed – gum-snapping, roller-blading, friendship bands all up your arm – eventually led you to small-town fame. bright-eyed and gingham skirted, you’d always known you were more. there was a hunger in you to be something extraordinary, a want so adamant to be imagined and desired that it was almost savage. in leather-bound volumes and a circle of stones, you were helen of troy, the girl for whom they’d launch a thousand ships. but there’s so much rage within you, collecting like sawdust in cavernous parts. hockey helped. there was something grounding about the feeling of a stick clasped in your hands. sweat. stiff knuckles. feet pounding the earth. the smash of wood against flesh in the scram of a game, passed off as mere enthusiasm. “slipped, sorry.” hockey is the one thing you had that was yours alone – a feral instinct that motivates you to play; something primitive within you that sparks an energy like no other. on the pitch, you feel alive.

[theythemsam]

spn 1x05, liveblog, collected posts (all 12 of them) or as i like to call it: the first episode that actually scared me, we get some insight into sam’s mind and i always cry during the last minute:

The funny thing about supernatural is that i still remember all the monsters, but after wendigo it’s honestly such an interesting first five seconds for me because that is when I’m trying to figure out which episode from the first season this is.

#like i remembered that there was an episode where the actress of root was in so i was like excited for that one #and i knew theres the airplane demon episode #and so on #but its always like Oh Yes. Its this episode! #but then the moment the episodes first seconds load im like OHHHHHHH #like i didnt know what was coming and then... #'okay truth or dare' and my brain went: BLOODY MARY! #asdfgh good to know that the obsession synapses still work after that many years

i do have to say i really like how they used the bloody mary lore though also as a way to explore the fact that sam had psychic powers, it’s so cool

#also imo thats afaik remember the first episode that really scared me? #i dont really know why but it felt... closer to home i guess? #maybe cause the people that caused it where children #so my brain was like: wow that could have been me!!! #instead of: driver hiking in the forest swimming in a lake or flying in an airplane #i didnt drive back then and had never flown in an airplane and swimming and hiking was just too far removed from my #couch potato ass at those moments (even though i did like doing it) but playing stupid games with friends on a dare? that was very close #idk also the nightmares are good that sam has

asdfg I love that they call bloody mary “you know who”

#my brain: Ah Voldemort!

why does that (jill?) (gill?) girl find it so funny to scare her friends? i dont know, but if i notice my friends are scared, i don’t give them a reason to be more anxious and then just say “youre such a freak” and hang up

#why does she have friends? #also that really short scene where /fall out boy/ is playing when she sits down to get bed ready #its just... its a lot. i love it

hey, the second non-white person with lines on the show! nice.

#my lists for pocpe is just error 404 not found for all the other episodes #cause theres not a single non white person #and like i guess? sometimes that makes sense? but its still sad #and this detective doesnt even have a name so aight #tbh the only other none white people i remember was a couple in phantom passenger but they were on screen for #literally like 2 seconds thats not enough time

Donna seeing Bloody Mary and freaking out in the classroom. Is that a Nightmare on Elm Street reference I Spy With My Little Eye?

#like obviously bloody mary is a the ring reference look wise #but idk it kinda gives me that vibe? #anygays idk

why does dean always have the nice colorschemes?

#listen theres always scenes with him where im like: ahh i wanna gif that #but then i remember... i dont wanna gif dean #at least not when i still have more important gifs to make #ugh but the colors are so pretty #i also dont want dean fans to follow me bc i will call that boy tf out #and i dont want to accidentally expose fans to that who didnt know that cause its a dick thing to do #so i dont want dean edits her #but the nice colors #i feel like a magpie just going: shiny!!!!!

I love how Dean tries to get his brother to stop blaming himself for Jessica’s Death

#especially the part where he says 'blame me' and sams like 'i dont blame you #and deans like 'well then you shouldnt blame yourself either' #cause idk thats what my friends always did for me when i was having a ptsd related self blame moment for my trauma #and they were like 'well if that happened to me would you blame me?' me *sniff sniff* 'no of course not that wouldnt be your fault' #them: giving me the most deadpan stare until it sinks in #idk it reminded me off that

heeell yeah, first bloody sam scene

#asdfghjk its such a nice scene to make edits with

at some point ill have to make an edit with sam and mirrors

#its a big thing as far as i remember

getting an insight into sam’s state of mind through ghosts/other supernatural creatures is also kinda a big thing

#like i think that also happens when meg possesses him #or generally like possession and ghosts #huh.... #intresting

honestly im so glad they changed how they have ghosts disappear, cause the way they did it so far is so incredibly gross i don’t have the words to describe it

#like not scary #just disgusting to look at with the melty face and all that  #ewww

[trixie-and-ames]

The books I read in January: Winter by Ali Smith ( This is the second book in Smith's Season Quartet, I absolutely love her writing style.) Orwell's Roses by Rebecca Solnit ( this is one of @brainpicker best books of 2021 and there's a good reason why. I am amazed by theway in which Solnit writes. Her ability to find a thread between George Orwell's fancy fir gardening and its path to 1984 and present day is brilliant. I'm no writer. My brain would spew out " Orwell fucking loved roses", leave it to the experts.) Magpie Murders by Anthony Horowitz ( The first selection for Season 5 of @duchessofcornwallsreadingroom and it's a clever whodunit, a book within a book. How Horowitz managed to keep all this stuff straight leaves me a bit awestruck) Snow by John Banville ( Another whodunit. A bit slow paced but the timing worked as I had COVID when I read it so I had nothing better to do) The White Robin by Miss Read ( A Christmas reading rec via @bagfullofbooks I didn't receive my copy until after Christmas. This starts out as a charming bucolic story set in an English village. Much like Toy Story 3 it unexpectedly turned a dark corner. But all's well in the end) The Tiger Who Would Be King by James Thurber ( all three of the children's books came from @brainpicker Best of lists from the past. This book is fucking insane) Finding Winnie : The True Story of the World's Most Famous Bear by Lindsey Mattick ( turns out Winnie was a girl. But it's a fascinating story about Winnie and her journey) The Book of Memory Gaps by Cecilia Ruiz ( If Edward Gorey and Wes Anderson had ever worked together I image their project would have been something like this) Winter Garden by Kristen Hannah ( I have a love/ hate relationship with her books. I love the storylines but hate the way she tells them) As far as audiobooks go I've begun listening to the Wolf Hall trilogy by Hillary Mantel, loving it. Currently reading Hamnet by Maggie O'Farrell and A Week in Winter by Maeve Binchy. Hamnet is living up to the hype to be sure. #winterreading #booksbooksbooks #booksofig #booksofinstagram #booklover #ilovetoread #readersofinstagram #ilovebooks #amreading #thereadingroom https://www.instagram.com/p/CZap8RCFY7l/?utm_medium=tumblr

[edierone]

In Herba Veritas

From a prompt ages ago, a college AU featuring weed; my last remaining WIP -- enjoy!

A week of these buzzing fragrant late-May days where spring’s been shading into summer, the light holding out longer, the air warmer even after sunset. Outdoor study dates, lunches on the steps in the quad, and a tiny little spray of freckles has appeared across Scully’s winter-white collarbones, sweet cinnamon blossoms he imagines are one of the harbingers of the season to come.

He wishes he could look forward to it, this first summer with her, wishes they both had different plans than their actual ones. But next week is finals, then she’s off to this brainiac accelerated pre-med intensive on the opposite coast for ten weeks and he’s so proud of her for being selected that he’s just about bursting with it; also he wants to fling himself directly into the sun from the pain of being separated from her for so long so he doesn’t think about it if he can help it. He’ll be on the Vineyard, for hopefully the last time, working on his thesis in the stifling-hot attic, writing to her every day when he’s had enough of Decoupling Neurodivergence and the Criminal Impulse, having a sad, silent dinner with his mother every evening, going for long runs on the beach in hopes of being able to drop instantly off to sleep at night, alone in a too-short single bed that suddenly feels much too big without her.

But for now — ahh, for now, they do have the now.

He’s coaxed her out here in the almost uncomfortably warm early evening with the promise of stargazing and possibly a meteor shower and/or some UFOs, after a full day of studying — “You could teach these classes yourself at this point, Scully — what you need is a break to let it all sink in,” he’d said, and either his words or the hand skimming lightly over her bared shoulder and glancing her breast through her tank top had been convincing enough to get her into his rattletrap old Volvo for the drive out beyond the city’s light pollution.

Her seriousness has evaporated with the miles. The Volvo last had A/C when he was in high school, and the turbulence from the open windows has pulled wisps of hair from her neat braid. Her smooth pale thigh, exposed beneath the cutoff denim of her shorts, keeps drawing his eye from the road; she slaps his hand away, giggling, and feeds him single M&Ms whenever she pleases.

Seven p.m., and it’s still broad daylight up here on the hill in the un-trafficked county park he’s found to be an excellent place for solitude. They find a relatively flat spot among the wildflowers to spread the blanket he’d dug from the hall closet, then flop onto it it to rest from the hike up. He’s dying to kiss her, but he likes this part, the anticipation, the waiting — they can never keep their hands to themselves for long, though sometimes it’s fun to pretend they’re not definitely about to jump each other’s bones.

Lying on his back a chaste foot or so away from her with his head cradled in his hands, looking up at the clear blue late-day sky, he muses happily, “Shoulda brought some wine or something, huh? Make it more like a picnic …”

“Oh!” she sits up suddenly, pulling her backpack over and rummaging through it. “I almost forgot!” She holds something up, triumphantly — three little wobbly-looking sticks, wrapped in a dining-hall napkin.  

“What are those, cigarettes?” He knew she smoked occasionally, but thought she liked Lucky Strikes, not hand-rolled.

She laughs. “No, square boy — these are from Stoney Dave.”

David Stoney, the really irritatingly good-looking and unreasonably nice rich kid she tutored in Organic Chemistry, had long ago surrendered to the destiny of his name; he often gave out little treats to his friends, which apparently now included Scully. Mulder tries not to sulk.

“Oh, stop,” she says soothingly. “It was a bonus, ‘cause thanks to me, he got an 83 on the lab quiz last week. Relax. In fact … this will help you with that!”

He can’t keep sulking, not while he’s in range of the devilish twinkle in her eyes. She has a way of crowding out the darkness in him, whatever its source or proximate cause (a worrisome thought flits through his brain — oh shit, what’s the summer going to be like without her there to pull me up — but he banishes it immediately).

The problem is, he really is square boy, at least regarding weed — the half-dozen or so times he’s tried it, he’s either felt nothing at all, or gotten really paranoid and freaked out. And frankly, he’s shocked at Scully taking it so casually — she’s got her wild side, but marijuana isn’t just naughty, it’s illegal.

It’s like she can read his mind. “I know it’s technically illegal,” she says with an amused eyeroll. “But if you keep all the little rules, you get to break some of the big ones.” This is something she picked up from Nineteen Eighty-Four — the phrasing, anyway. He suspects she’s always been like this, though, with her color-coded study notebooks and alphabetized shelves, her buttoned-up blouses, perfect attendance at Mass, and unerring ability to be on time for everything always — but underneath it all, her defiant streak, her quick temper, her intellectual adventurousness, the cool blue flame of her sexuality.

She’s not going to guilt him into smoking up with her, or even try to talk him into it, any more than he would her — but as she waits for him to think it through, he realizes he wants to. He feels safe with her; if it makes him paranoid, she’ll take care of him, and if it’s fun, if it opens his mind and loosens his inhibitions, well — who else in the world would he want to be with in that case?

“OK, Cheech, light it up,” he says, with what feels like a pretty foolish grin on his face.

She laughs her wickedly merry little laugh. “Don’t mind if I do, Chong,” she answers, whipping out a cheap drugstore lighter and setting the end of one of the joints ablaze. As it begins smoldering properly, she offers it to him: “Wanna go first?”

“No, no,” he demurs, mock-seriously. “Test it, make sure there’s no paraquat — that’s just good science.”

She shrugs — suit yourself — and takes a nice deep expert-looking drag, holding the smoke in while she passes it to him. He tries his very best to replicate her ease, but knows he probably looks like an FBI agent in bad undercover duds, attempting to crack a teen drug ring. Predictably, his eyes tear up immediately and he coughs harder than an end-stage TB patient.

She giggles, but doesn’t make fun of him, just hands him the Thermos of water and waits for him to recover. His next toke is smoother, and by the time they finish the joint, he’s feeling quite pleasant indeed. Not high, exactly — or maybe he is, yeah, because everything is a little softer around him, and he can’t stop smiling.

“Is this what it’s supposed to feel like?” he asks, genuinely curious.

“I don’t know,” she says, with a slightly spacy smile. “What do you feel?”

“Uhhhh … good,” he answers, and for some reason, this strikes them both as absolutely hilarious. He lays back on the blanket, laughing fit to split. She falls bonelessly onto him at right angles, using his abs as a pillow, and they keep cracking up again every time they think they’re done.

The shadows are getting long when the laughter has finally spent itself and the hyper talking has begun. At some point, Scully sits up long enough to find and light a second joint. They chatter like magpies, jumping from subject to subject, laughing stupidly as they pass the thing back and forth till it’s merely a roach. Then she carefully douses it with water and settles back against him, their bodies forming a comfortable, sloppy T as they quiet down again.

He feels connected, alive, aware, his usually overactive mind surprisingly calm and at ease. They lie there for awhile, senses absorbing everything around them — the sounds of birds, crickets, the warm breeze in the grass; the scents of the evening flowers, the springy soil; the lovely deepening purple of the sky, pink and gold at the edge as the sun sinks below the horizon.

Scully turns sideways, pressing her ear to his stomach, listening with her eyes closed — “I can hear the insides of you,” she murmurs softly. He reaches his hand up — his slightly amazing hand, at the end of an arm that’s longer than he realized — and pets her head, as he would a kitten.

Your hair is soft and pretty, he thinks, his mouth feeling a little too cottony to say it out loud. She makes a sound that’s very like a purr. It buzzes through him, sweet and low, and he realizes he’s half-hard just from that. He almost laughs at the feeling of pride it gives him— well done, reliable young body! — when usually he’s barely tolerant of his own angular awkwardness, shuffling along in a physical frame he has often wished were easier to ignore.

But he’s not ready to do anything about it yet — he feels pleasantly heavy, not willing to move, tethered to the earth and bonded with her, his love. It feels like there’s time for everything, time enough at last. He looks up at the stars and asks her to name constellations. She obliges, lovingly — naming one after the other, pointing with her strong soft capable hand, and as she speaks he can really see them, the shapes they’re supposed to form — she’s a wonderful travel guide. Her voice floats to him dreamily and he starts to drift.

But just as she says “And over there, later in the summer — closer to September, when we’ll be back together again — you could see Vulpecula, the little fox —” he feels a cold finger of dread touch him. It’s the stars. They’re too far away. There are too many of them, it’s too big. And it’s freezing in space. It’s ok for whatever non-human life forms may or may not live out there, but not for people and

oh shit, Sam’s out there

His heart starts pounding, fearful sucking pumps of blood and anguish, circulating hideous sadness a decade old, fermented into something guilty and thick. He’s afraid, so afraid, and he can’t even tell Scully, because if he says anything he’ll infect her with this — this thought virus, this panic — and he has to protect her, like he couldn’t protect Sam —

His body is rigid, his jaw aches, he wonders if whoever took Sam can see him right now.

she’s out there, it’s too big, it’s so cold

“Spooky?”

In his mind it’s like a warm wave of golden sun. He tries to concentrate on her voice.

“Mulder — hey — are you ok?” Stronger now, brighter, but he can’t answer.

She sits up, and he clutches at her — don’t go, don’t you leave me too — but she’s only changing position so she can see him better. She touches his face with one hand, lays the other gently over his hammering heart. Immediately it slows. Oh Scully, sweet Scully …

“The stars,” he mumbles, closing his eyes to keep from seeing their cold glittery twinkling. He feels he has to explain himself, he sounds nuts. “Sam’s up there.”

“Oh honey,” she says, and it’s the sun made into words — or, no, the moon, rising three-quarters full behind her, tawny and huge this low in the sky. She’s never called him honey before and it breaks him, just a little. “Shhh,” she soothes, stroking his cheek, shifting to lie on top of him, her slight weight like the most wonderful, comforting blanket.

He opens his eyes and her face fills his vision almost entirely — everything else recedes to unimportance.

“Just look at me,” she intones softly. “I’m here and I love you and I’m going to kiss you now, OK?” He nods, not even remotely ashamed of the tear that escapes and slides down his temple; his heart is full and it’s spilling over, she knows him and it’s all right.

She dips down to kiss him; at the first touch of her lips on his, the dread vanishes completely, as if it had been a cloud casting a momentary shadow, and now the radiance has returned. He keeps his eyes open, overcome by the delicacy of her eyelids, the smoothness of her skin, the fluttering of her lashes as she sighs into him, sharing breath.

He remembers that he is not tethered to the Earth, not in actuality; his limbs stir at last, his lower body moving to make a cradle for hers, while his arms, his hands, are free to roam — and roam they do, while he marvels at the soft sounds she makes in response to his touch.

He slides the elastic band off of her hair and undoes the long silky braid so that it falls in a curtain on either side of them, it’s like being hidden in a secret cave behind a waterfall with a water sprite, or a mermaid temporarily slumming it on land.

He laughs from the sheer joy of it, and it catches her, too; their kisses grow sloppy and mistimed, which is funny all by itself.

After who knows how long, he realizes she’s been rocking slowly against the bulge in his jeans and it feels so good he’s afraid she might make him come like that. Is that what she wants? He wants to please her, make her feel as good as he does, but how — better find out.

With difficulty he gets her attention, then nearly loses his words as her eyes find his, so full of desire and trust that he feels somehow purified, sanctified by her love. She blinks, waiting, and he finally manages to say, “Can I — can we —”

“Yes.”

Yes, she said yes, his mind echoes, and he takes her fully in his arms, murmuring love you, love you, so much.

They take their time, which is something they rarely have the luxury to do — up to now, it’s mostly been dorm room beds, roommates just on the other side of a door, stolen moments here and there.

And it is wonderful, full of wonder — everything feels more: her skin smoother, her kisses more intense, her taste even sweeter, every sensation heightened, within and without. It’s beautiful discovery, like the first time they were together — there’s the delicious rush and spark, the longing and the anticipation — but this time he’s not so overwhelmed. Body and soul both feel expanded somehow, able to handle this wild precious thing grown strong between them.

Side by side on the blanket, they slide along the length of each other, skin on skin the most amazing feeling, and when he finds himself between her legs, his tongue coaxing her by infinitesimal steps toward the peak, he looks up at her moonlit nakedness and knows — again, always — that wherever else his life takes him, whatever else he does, he wants it to be with her.  

As if he’s communicated this thought directly to her center, she cries out, quaking all around him as she comes; he wants to weep again at the beauty of it all, but she’s pulling him up, kissing him deeply, tasting herself on his lips and saying my god, oh my god … She reaches down, strokes him with the slip from her own body and it’s the most self-control he’s ever used in his entire life to keep from sliding into her right there but he manages to wrest himself free for the time it takes to find a condom in her bag and put it on, kneeling before her, a supplicant who finds himself invited, gladly welcomed inside.

He sinks in — deep, deeper, as if she could absorb him completely — “Ohhhhhh,” she sighs, with a hitch to her breath and rapture in her eyes. This is union, he thinks, we’re joined together …

“Yes we are,” she whispers as he moves over her. Had he said that out loud, or are they just that in sync? No matter, no matter … he’s pretty sure he could do this forever … but eventually, he finds himself climbing, climbing, then falling, floating safely through space with her, landing softly back on the springy, fertile-smelling ground.

After a long time, or maybe just a few minutes, they find the strength to clean up but not get dressed yet; they sit up together, Mulder’s bare back against the large, sun-warmed rock at the edge of their blanket, Scully reclined against his chest with his knees as armrests, the air around them warm and still. He holds her, resting his chin on her head, exquisitely aware of their heartbeats in perfect counterpoint to each other.

They’re silent, spent, bodies humming with the afterglow. I love you, Scully traces lightly on his thigh with her index finger. I’m gonna marry you, he thinks, tracing a heart with the tip of his tongue just behind her ear. She shivers, presses closer against him.

The night above them is beautiful again; she’s given that back to him. He’s about to say something in thanks, but just then, they both gasp, awestruck: A shooting star streaks across the sky, impossibly huge, unbelievably close.

“Make a wish,” he says, just as she says “Meteor, Spooky,” and they shake with laughter.

“Ain’t that always the way,” he grins, and she twists to look up at his face. She traces his cheek with the back of her hand, such affection in the gesture that he tears up again; he’s not used to this, to someone knowing him this deeply and loving him for it. He hopes she knows that he returns it a thousandfold. By the way her eyes fill up, he thinks she does.

She kisses him again, settles back into his arms, gazes peacefully out at the winking stars.

“We’re gonna be OK this summer, Mulder,” she says softly, her voice clear enough to indicate that the weed has worn off entirely.

“I know,” he answers, believing it for the first time, really.

He believes a lot of things, but this — this — is the capital-T truth.

[forochel]

20 Questions Meme

tagged by @awesometinyhumanbeing eons ago -- I’m so sorry! 

Rules: Answer the 20 questions and tag some amazing followers/people you’d like to get know better.

and

Rules: Put your music on shuffle, list the first ten songs.

20 questions

nickname(s): this being the unlocked internet, you can ... try to shorten forochel however you want ;) the ‘ch’ is as in ‘bach’. 

zodiac sign: year of the sheep! 

height: i’m shorter than, like, all the yoi skaters except ... minami. 

orientation: northwest right now, judging by the sun (yeah, sorry, i am not into this current trend of declaring everything about yourself in public on the internet) 

nationality: i like to think of myself as ~a global citizen~ 

favourite fruit: grapes

favourite season: autumn

favourite book: the lord of the rings (though i haven’t reread it in ... years) (& yes i know it’s actually 6 books)

favourite flower: lime flowers. they smell amazing

favourite scent: the old book smell 

favourite colour: oh man, I don’t really have one??? blue, I guess 

favourite animal: SHEEP!!!!!  

coffee, tea or hot cocoa: tea, though hot chocolate is a treat & a half! 

cat or dog person: HAVE YOU SEEN MY CAT TAG. no? here it is. 

favourite fictional character: (ponders) susan ... sto helit? from the discworld series. she is AWESOME. 

# of blankets you sleep with: one quilt, but I’ll probably add a fleece blanket in winter. 

dream trip: i have SO MANY but okay, accounting for feasibility & safety &c &c ... hiking the nakasendo, an old walking route from tokyo to kyoto through the inland mountains of japan. I just want to spend - idk, a fortnight? - walking from post town to post town and sleeping in inns or under the stars along the way. kind of like this journalist did. except, you know, without the £2k+ price tag.

blog created: 2012, i believe ... ah, yes. 2012, when i was bored and wanted to get back into fandom ... and had no idea it wasn’t The Done Thing to add captions to things not by your friends.

# of followers: (checks) 340?! okay, but to keep things in perspective, probably 20% are pornbots; 5% are spambots; 25% are like ... from hockey rpf and mostly defunct; and the rest ... idk. i’m glad you’re here?

random fact: apparently each animal has enough brain mass to tan its own hide. (source: an ex-coursemate told me this something like 7 years ago around a campfire.) 

10 songs with spotify shuffle :

riot - childish gambino

サルトルで眠れない - KYOSHINsoundsorchestra

livin’ on a prayer- postmodern jukebox

RJD2 - ghostwriter

despacito - luis fonsi ft. daddy yankee (shhhhh i LOVE this song)

nocturnal - disclosure

hurricane - lin-manuel miranda 

outro (world keeps turnin’) - erykah badu

听 - khalil fong/方大同

magpie - patrick wolf ft. marianne faithfull

tagging whoever wants to join me in procrastination nation orz

[tipsycad147]

Alexis J. Cunningfolk

Tarot is an incredible tool of magick, self-reflection, and divination. With a pack of 78 cards we can travel through time, learn to flow with the seasons, deepen our relationships with others, and be better prepared for what lies ahead.

It can be frustrating when your experience with tarot feels less than fruitful. If you’re feeling stuck in a rut with your cards or like they are being snarky with you (a sure sign that there is a block happening), then you might be making one of the following mistakes.

It’s often said, but it’s very true - the great thing about mistakes is that they are opportunities for learning and growth. And believe me, I have made all of the following mistakes! I’ve learned from each of them and my tarot practice has become that much more clear and strong.

Truthfully, I’ve yet to meet any tarot reader who has not done at least one of the following mistakes.

Why? Because these are all very humxn mistakes. As you’ll see they all stem from a deeper yearning for certainty, self-knowledge, and a connection with something magickal - which is why many of us pick up the Tarot to begin with. I’ve not only written about the three most common mistakes made when reading tarot but how to avoid them in the future in a way that will hopefully make you a better tarot reader.

So without further ado here are the three most common mistakes I see tarot readers make.

1. Doing too many readings in too short of time.

I see this all the time. The first spread seemed unclear so you cast another right after it. Or you didn’t like what the cards said so you want to see if you can cast another option. Maybe you weren’t really grounded and centred when shuffling and casting the cards so the first three spreads didn’t count and the fourth one will be “right.”

Casting multiple readings on the same topic within a limited space of time (as in hours or days) is not going to lead to further clarity or a better outcome. It’ll just muddy the waters and tangle the energetic knot of whatever it is you’re trying to discover. Often when folks are casting too many readings on the same topic it is because they don’t really want to know the answer - because deep down inside they already know it (more on this later). In fact, casting multiple readings in short succession only reflects what is going on inside you. Check-in with yourself before casting again - Where is the tension in your body? What are you feeling? Anxious? Fearful? Stressed? What do you really want to know? What, in fact, do you already know but don't want to acknowledge?

Sometimes when we cast cards too many time on one subject we are seeking the one thing that what we think we’ll be reassured by. Casting too many readings at a time often comes from a place of uncertainty and through tarot we’re trying to find something certain to hold onto. BUT, we’re often looking for a certainty that we’ve already defined strict parameters for (whether or not we realise it).

If I just knew that my crush loved me back, I’ll be ok.

If I knew that I’m definitely going to get (what I think) my most perfect job, I can relax.

If only I had the obvious “do this” step then I won’t feel so anxious anymore.

Uncertainty isn’t a fun place to be in - especially when the stakes feel high. However, uncertainty is the gateway to mystery. What is mystery if not the ultimate expander of possibility? Uncertainty puts us in a place of unknowing. Mystery is the great unknown and we're called in our magickal work to know ourselves. We are, in short, called to mystery. And so we must engage mystery to become known. Since we don’t know what mystery holds, we’re actually left with the wondrous gift of possibility. Yes, we might not know everything right in this moment, but there is possibility which means we might know more about ourselves and the situation at hand in a way that reveals options we've not even been able to imagine yet.

Getting stuck casting readings over and over again about the same topic closes the gate to possibility. So what can you do instead when you’re feeling uncertain and looking for peace and reassurance?

Instead of casting another reading, step away from your deck and try any of the following:

Take some soft belly breaths. Just as it sounds, spend some time telling your nervous system that you are safe by breathing gently into the soft space of your belly.

Write it down. Take some time to journal and write down what's bothering you. Journaling can be a powerful act of clearing the fog from your brain and creating more space for hope to reside within you.

Go for a walk. Or if walking isn’t an option choose to move your body in another way. Nothing complex (unless that’s what you desire) but creating physical movement in order to generate spiritual movement. Uncertainty is an emotion of stagnation, so inviting movement into your life can help to unstuck your crossed situation.

Drink some tea. Or water. Or fresh juice. Something that feels wholesome and healing to you. Make a simple ritual of its preparation. Here’s my absolute favourite tea for stress and anxiety.

When is it appropriate to do a second reading on a situation? There’s no definitive guideline, but I typically suggest waiting for either a few weeks to pass or to do a reading when there has been a significant change that has happened regarding the situation in question. Listen to your voice within - if you feel like you might be doing too many readings in too short a time, you are. It’s that simple.

2. Expecting the cards to tell you what to do.

Wouldn’t it be nice if that every time you performed a tarot reading you were given straight forward answers with clear instructions on what steps you should be taking next? That would be incredible and everyone would read tarot. Heck, it could even bring about world peace.

Yet that’s not how the cards work. Yes, of course, we can get really clear insight about a situation or ourselves from the cards. But it’s important to remember that such insight and knowledge can be read in the cards because we already possess it within us. We won’t see answers we don’t already have within the cards.

Now, that’s not to say we won’t gain insight that we weren’t previously aware of. As one of my favourite magicians Lon Milo DuQuette says, “It's all in your head... you just have no idea how big your head is.”

I think the tarot can be many things to us all at once. It’s a collection of 78 pieces of paper with pictures on them that folks find aesthetically pleasing. It’s 78 pathways of magick and self-knowing. It’s a divinatory tool which helps us gaze into the past, present, and future. It’s the home of the spirits and guides of tarot which have their own personalities and wisdom. But all of this is simply (and most complexly) a mirror.

As above, so below. As within, so without.

The cards aren’t going to tell you what to do. You’re going to realise what needs to be done. And sometimes that takes a while because are perception is too limited or we’re afraid. Sometimes we’re just stubbornly resistant to necessary change.

If you find yourself relying on the cards to “tell” you what to do and what choices to make, believing that they possess knowledge that you don’t, you’re giving your power away. Your power is much to sacred to give it away to bits of paper.

To move away from the mindset that it's the cards that possess the answers and you’re just a passive reader, I suggest the following meditative practice and spoken charm.

Before you perform a reading, be still and take a deep breath in. Let your gaze grow soft as you gently close your eyes and focus on the point between your brows. At the place of your third eye feel and see a light begin to grow. It grows brighter and stronger until it extends beyond and around you completely.

Within the brightness of your wisdom, recite the following charm:

Blessed be the mirroring of the cards before me Let what needs to be perceived be seen Let what needs to be understood be experienced Let what needs to be known be revealed I already possess the answer May I now re-member it Blessed be.

You are now ready to cast your cards!

3. Buying all the decks but not working consistently with only one.

I have to say that this is a relatively modern problem. We are experiencing an incredible renaissance in tarot right now. New independent decks are appearing every week and there has been an increase in the variety of mass market decks available. The fear-of-missing-out and the magpie-mind is all too often tempted into purchasing a new deck - whether or not you really need one.

When your professional life involves tarot decks it’s very easy to always have an excuse to purchase a new one (especially when you’re supporting rad indie artists). Still, I'm so grateful that I when I started to learn tarot I began with one deck and it was my only deck for years. Working with one deck for an extended period of time (such as a year or more) shaped my tarot reading skills for the better. I am not saying that there's no place for using multiple decks at once (either in the same reading or switching up decks on your reading table with greater frequency), but the benefit of working with one deck intimately and extensively cannot be denied.

Tarot is a magickal language. If you want to learn a new language the best approach is not to try and learn three new languages at once. Or to abandon one language before you’re conversational in it to try another one. I encourage you to connect with one deck for the long haul and work with it until you know it as a friend and familiar. Until you are fluent between each other. Because that is when we can engage more readily with the mysteries that may be revealed within us through tarot.

Choosing not to buy all the decks and instead working with one is, in part, a practice in self-discipline - a great skill for magickal work in general. It’s also an act of rewiring our beliefs so that we're no longer attempting to find our spiritual intuition and power “out there” and “in that thing” (whether that thing is a new tarot deck, a beautiful crystal or the latest superfood elixir wonder pudding), but to recenter our search within ourselves.

“For if that which you seek you find not within yourself you shall never find it without…”

- The Charge of the Goddess -

I find the asking my students to work with one deck for at least a year to typically be the hardest task I suggest. It is less hard for those beginners who already feel wary of getting overwhelmed by the imagery of tarot, so sticking with one deck feels comfortable for them. It is often much more difficult for those folks who already have a sizable deck collection and/or are caught up in the non-stop social media driven #mysticore culture. Here’s what I have found though - once folks give themselves permission to working with one deck and one deck only there is not only relief (they no longer feel like they have to keep up with it all), but they find that their practice becomes more profound and enlightening.

Reading with only one deck of cards for a while one of the quickest ways to get your magick back that I know of if you’re feeling uninspired by your tarot practice.

So what deck should you work with? That’s entirely up to you. It can be a deck that you’ve owned for years or one that you’ve recently acquired. If you’re an absolute beginner I recommend purchasing a deck that is based off of the imagery of Pamela Coleman Smith's deck (marketing as the Rider Waite or Rider Waite Smith Tarot). Smith's deck is the framework for most of our modern decks and learning to read a deck based off of her design will allow you to have a great foundation for understanding most other decks they come across. This was my first deck and it continues to be my most beloved. I particularly love the centennial edition of her deck which brings the art back to her original renderings. If you haven’t read about Pamela (or Pixie as she was known), who was a queer and mixed woman of colour, you really should.

There they are - the three most common mistakes I see folks (myself included!) make when reading the tarot. May your practice benefit from tuning into what it is you're really seeking and overcome the distractions that pull us from the pleasure of our spiritual path.

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