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dyns33 · 2 years

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Flufftober 19 - Marc Spector

Marc Spector x reader

Everyone had secrets.

Shameful, painful, unmentionable things, and even if they trusted certain people, ready to die for them and knowing that it was mutual, they didn't necessarily want to tell them everything.

This was the case for Marc and Y/N.

Even though they loved each other deeply, there were some things they had never said to each other.

For his part, Marc had told Y/N almost everything. It had taken him some time, Steven's encouragement, Jake's sighs and Layla's gentle teasing, for him to open up to her. There were a lot of things he would have preferred to keep to himself, but everyone had told him it wasn't right to hide all this, and he couldn't contradict them.

So he had told her about the army. His jobs as mercenaries, the people he killed. His meeting with Khonshu. His DID, introducing her to Steven and Jake. His marriage to Layla, and their separation. The Scarab, Cairo, Harrow.

There was only one subject he still refused to discuss, even though he had made some progress, not crying anymore and not forcing one of his alters to take over as soon as he thought about it.

His childhood.

His crime.

His tormentor.

He was afraid of Y/N's reaction if he told her about it. He didn't want her to pity him. Or for her to see him as a monster. Or that she has no reaction, as if it were not so serious.

For her part, Y/N tried to remain calm whenever the big skeletal bird appeared to shout at Marc or one of the others. Because she wasn't supposed to see or hear him.

Ever since she was little, she was able to see and hear many things. She had strange dreams, about events that had happened, or were about to happen. She visited places that were on other planets, sometimes in other universes.

She knew very well that she could have spoken to Marc about it, especially since he had confessed to her that he was an avatar. But it was stronger than her, she remembered perfectly how her parents, the other children, the doctors, had treated her when she had told them about those strange voices, those shadows and huge creatures. that she was the only one to perceive.

After several months in a hospital, with lots of drugs, she ended up saying that she had made it all up, that it was over. She was normal, everything was fine.

And most of the time, that was true enough. There were always weird things everywhere she went, but if she avoided certain places like cemeteries, churches, or museums, it wasn't so bad, and she managed to hide her weirdness.

With Marc and his Moon God, it was a little more complicated, but she had ended up getting used to it.

That wasn't what bothered her the most.

There were two entities that regularly followed Marc. Sometimes during the day, sometimes at night. Y/N could see them in her dreams.

The woman was very aggressive. The little boy never said anything, running away as soon as she saw him.

To determine what they were, ghosts or demons, and force them to leave Marc alone, she tried to talk to them.

"Leave him alone ?" repeated the woman with crazy eyes, but also full of sadness. "After what he did ? But you don't know what he did, do you ? He didn't tell you. Because he knows he doesn't deserve to be happy and that you will leave if he talks about it !"

"Then explain to me."

"He took my Roro ! He did it on purpose, I should have known he would do such a thing, I should never have trusted him ! He deserves to be punished, you understand ?! My Roro ! I want my Roro !"

Y/N failed to get any more information from the woman, who was then only crying and screaming hysterically. She couldn't figure out what a "roro" was.

So she turned her attention to the little boy. It was really not easy to manage to approach him, but in one of her dreams, she found him near a cave.

"Hello." she said softly not to scare him. "What are you doing here all alone ?"

"I'm waiting for the doctor."

"The doctor ?"

"Yes. I'm his assistant, Russell, and we're going to explore this ancient cavern for treasures."

"Oh, those kind of doctors, okay. You're explorers. That's great ! And the doctor isn't here yet ?"

"No, I'm expecting him. But I don't know if we should go in there. Mom and dad say it can be dangerous."

"They are probably right."

"Mom's been weird lately. Especially with my brother. She's mean and I don't understand why. He's nice, my big brother. He hasn't done anything wrong. She makes him cry, I don't like that. I don't want to see her."

The poor kid then started to sob and Y/N couldn't help hugging him to try to comfort him, until he disappeared or she woke up.

She often dreamed of him, always the same dream, near the cave, talking about adventure and her brother.

Until she dreamed he was drowning. This jolted her awake, her cry also waking Marc.

"What's going on ?! Are you okay babe ? Are you hurt ?!"

"No. Excuse me. A nightmare, that's all."

"Oh. I get it. Do you… Do you want to talk about it ? Steven says it might help to talk about it." he said, before starting to whisper. "Yeah okay, I'm going to hug her. What ? You think so ? I don't know Steven, Jake might be right, I should ask her if she wants me to hug her first."

"You are all adorable. Yes, I would like a hug, please."

Not wasting a second, Marc guided her against him, resting her head against his chest, his hands caressing her back and her hair.

He said nothing, waiting for her to speak, if she wanted to.

"You'll find this absurd, but I often dream of a little boy. I grew attached to him and last night he... He died."

"Sorry."

"It's not your fault. I mean, I don't even know if he's real."

"... What do you mean ?"

"I... I may have seen him before, somewhere, and don't remember. Well, I think I'll remember a boy named Russell. Maybe when I was at the hospital. He was waiting for a doctor. He had a little accent, like Steven."

Beneath her, Marc's whole body tensed suddenly. He stopped moving, even breathing.

"Marc ?"

"... Tell me more about this boy." he asked slowly, his eyes fixed on the ceiling.

"Hmm. His name is Russell. He must be five or six years old, I'm not sure. He has a big brother. Their mother has been weird for a while according to him, she's been picking on his brother and he doesn't don't understand why."

"... He doesn't understand why ?"

"No. His brother is very nice. He told me a lot about him, about their games. It makes him cry that their mother is mean. I may have also dreamed of her now that I think about it. Or maybe not. Do you think "roro" could be a nickname for Russell ?"

"For Randall. It's a nickname for Randall."

His voice got very weird as he said that. Y/N raised her head to look at him, discovering a disturbing mix of fear, sadness and weariness.

Slowly, she ran her hands over his cheeks.

"Marc ? Are you okay ? Do you... Do you know Randall ?"

"He was... my brother."

"Oh. I see."

"No, you don't see."

"Actually, I think I do. Your…Your mother also talked to me a bit. I saw the cave. Rus… Randall told me about exploring. How dangerous it could be. You're the doctor, aren't you ? It was a game. Then there was an accident. An accident, Marc, it wasn't your fault. Your brother knows it. He told me. He said so many nice things about you. You were the best big brother and he doesn't blame you at all. In fact, he even avoids your mother now. He doesn't like what she did to you. What she is doing to you, even now. You didn't deserve this, you didn't do anything wrong, he said it himself. Don't ask me how I know, but I don't think they're at the same place. He's waiting for you to play, she wanders in the shadows. Marc... Marc, darling, please don't cry, I'm sorry."

She kissed his tears, his forehead, his nose, his mouth, trying to comfort him, afraid that one of the alters was coming. She adored them, but she and Marc had to deal with this together.

Maybe he was strong enough, maybe the others knew what to do and what not to do, but Marc stayed with her, shaking and sobbing.

"... He's not mad at me ?"

"Not at all."

"Isn't... Isn't it just a dream ?"

"... No. There are some things I haven't told you. Things I know, see, hear. Like Khonshu. I must tell you that he is really very unpleasant. Except with Jake. He's a little more polite with Jake. Sorry for not telling you before."

"I haven't told you about Randall before."

"You didn't have to." she reassured him, rocking him. "It's my fault you had to tell me."

"You're not responsible for what you dream of, or anything else. We had little secrets, and it's all good now."

"Are you sure ?"

Marc looked at her for a long time. There was something she couldn't read in his eyes, as if he was surprised that she was asking this, that he didn't know how he should take it, before smiling slightly, deciding that it was. was a good thing.

There was little chance that everything would be all good, between the traumas, the ghosts, the missions and the visions, but they would be together, with no more secrets from each other, ready to face anything.

#moon knight #Marc Spector #marc spector x reader #marc spector imagine #marc spector fanfic #flufftober 2022

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jewellery-box · 7 months

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Sanitary Pads in Packaging, made by Johnson & Johnson Pty Ltd, Sydney, Australia, probably between 1960-1970.

Powerhouse Collection

The American company Johnson & Johnson commenced manufacturing sanitary napkins in the 1920s. Modess were introduced to the Australian market by Johnson & Johnson in 1932. A huge marketing campaign saw advertisements in newspapers and women's magazines emphasizing 'style and quality', expressed through illustrations of women in elegant evening gowns. Since then, developments in such technologies as nonwovens and plastics have seen many changes in the design of menstrual products. Absorbency and softness have improved, for example.

Menstruation has been a private and, until the recent advent of explicit television commercials, almost unmentionable subject. It is therefore not surprising that the artefacts of menstruation are not well represented in Australian museum collections, even though they are an intrinsic part of women's lives. When cupboards are cleared out or when the effects of elderly relatives are being sorted through, personal items like these are usually amongst the first things to be thrown away.

The Powerhouse Museum has a small but growing collection of items relating to menstruation. It includes manufactured products like this bag of Modess, home-made washable sanitary towels, advertising material, and advice booklets for girls. Written by Erika Dicker Assistant Curator, 2007.

#menstruation #tw: menstruation #period #tw: period #dunno why I'm tagging 'tw' but I feel like I have to #history #history of menstruation

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gascon-en-exil · 1 year

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As I mentioned yesterday, Octopath Traveler II put me in the mood to write fanfic - which is unusual as I never write fanfic and in fact have no creative writing ability whatsoever. In spite of that however, I've decided to share my notes on the concept that I'd thought of for a Partitio/Osvald story; possibly someone may enjoy them.

Spoilers for the ends of their stories, and for OT2 in general, under the cut.

It occurred to me that Partitio and Osvald have something rather unusual in common: both have lived in situations where, historically speaking, sexual contact between men would be considered permissible in the near or total absence of women. For Partitio, this was his youth in a frontier mining town; for Osvald, his time in prison, and a freezing-cold prison at that, so you could add the "shacking up for warmth" trope into it as well. Given the number of party and tavern banters that involve the travelers getting drunk and silly, it's entirely plausible that the two of them may have wound up in bed together in this way - and yet have come away from the encounter with so much left unsaid.

In this story Partitio would be gay, but without the experience or the vocabulary to express that as - probably? - befits the setting. Instead he would have fooled around with his posse of friends in his youth, becoming confused and a little sad as each of them in turn found a sweetheart (as in fact happens with one of them in a sidequest) as Oresrush expanded while he remained seemingly uninterested. He'd also have hanging over his head the unmentionable something that had been and - after his story - is again between his father and Roque. Partitio's story suggests that for a portion of his childhood he essentially had two fathers, and it concludes with Papp and Roque getting back together, in some sense. If there was ever anything between the two of them it wouldn't be anything Papp would ever speak of, and certainly not to his son. That would be perhaps why Papp thinks nothing of Partitio bringing home a hulking bear of a man when he's finally decided to take a break from his travels.

That arrangement came from the thought that Osvald is still technically a wanted man at the end of his story. He's presumed dead and the prison on Frigit has been shut down, but if he were to reveal himself there'd be no one alive who could or would be willing to prove his innocence except Elena - and she ends the story in a state of mental recovery that would be unsuited for any legal proceedings. Hence Partitio's friendly offer for his partner to come stay with him and his Pops while Partitio & Roque hammers out the logistics of the western continent's growing railway network. Osvald, knowing that he has to keep a low profile but wanting to keep busy, offers to teach the children of Oresrush whenever the town finds itself lacking a schoolmaster. Every few months he journeys to Conning Creek to check in on Elena from afar, and whenever he goes Partitio remains up the whole night awaiting his return, fearing that he'll instead be greeted in the morning with a letter from Lady Clarissa explaining that Osvald had been identified and apprehended by the authorities. More than once Papp catches Partitio at the proverbial window, and while they still do not speak of anything that may or may not be going on in that house behind closed doors, Papp reassures his son that Osvald will always find his way back. Behind the aforementioned closed doors Partitio grows adventurous in more ways than one; on the first evening that they try anal sex, he ventures to ask if Osvald learned his technique from his time on Frigit Isle. Osvald only stares at him blankly before replying that that had never occurred to him, not with the fire for revenge in his breast sustaining him. Instead, he'd encountered the subject before in books - a response so matter-of-fact that Partitio boggles not only over the fact that people actually wrote books about these things but that it did not even occur to Osvald to find this unusual.

Later they relocate to the eastern continent, renting a modest townhouse in New Delsta with only a handful of servants as Partitio expands his company's world-changing products to new shores and sets to work devising even more innovative uses for steam. This shocks the society papers of New Delsta, who cannot help but regard Partitio - this country-bred nouveau riche bachelor without even the forethought to display his newfound wealth as men of his type would be expected to do - with astonishment and a fair amount of derision. They have little to remark on his quiet, seemingly nameless companion (what else can they call him?), and the two rarely make appearances in public except at the theatre, where burgeoning superstar Agnea has secured a private box for the use of all of her friends and from which Partitio and Osvald take in many of her performances. Osvald submits papers on the nature of the One True Magic anonymously to the library in Montwise; Partitio and Agnea go on several dates (the papers have a field day with this), but the spark isn't there; Temenos arranges a visit and at one point all three men stumble into bed together. Partitio balks at the idea of Temenos having such a casual fling after he'd already lost one (or was it two?) intimate friends, but Temenos laughs this off and with his usual snark prods at Partitio's insecurities. It's a good thing Osvald doesn't think as Partitio does, isn't it? Partitio wants, momentarily, to punch him - but he restrains himself.

Some years pass and Partitio nears thirty. Lady Clarissa writes to Osvald to suggest that time and regular visits have done their work, and that the now-teenaged Elena would like to live with her father again. Partitio's heart breaks when he hears the news, seeing in this the inevitable end of their unnamable whatever-it-was, but he puts on his most cheerful face and treats Osvald out to one last big night on the town. This being Osvald, that mostly means sitting in the secluded corner of their favorite tavern and dining on mediocre pub fare accompanied by an abundant supply of coffee before at last Osvald agrees to have a few drinks, but Partitio can't bring himself to care. As the two of them stroll back to their townhouse well after midnight, one of Partitio's arms slung around Osvald's shoulders, he shares the evening's biggest surprise: he offers to buy Osvald and Elena a house wherever they might want to live, and provide them with an income so the two of them might live however they please and never have to worry about money again.

Osvald peers down at Partitio over his spectacles, and corrects him: surely he must have meant the three of them. Partitio, caught off guard, mumbles that that isn't necessary, that they don't have to keep doing this and that Osvald deserves a happy, normal life with his daughter. There, under the dim lamplight of a dingy New Delsta side street, the two of them are finally forced to confront years of unspoken desire for something genuine and lasting - something which Osvald, unromantic though he might be, had been under the impression that he'd been conveying in a hundred little companionably domestic ways all this time - but he'd failed to account for just how very green his lover really was, even when it came to his greatest desire. When Osvald leans down and kisses a still-spluttering Partitio, it's the first time they've ever done so in public.

They purchase a house in Canalbrine, near enough to the sea to feel familiar to Osvald and Elena, but without the painful memories of Conning Creek. Father and daughter become properly reacquainted and settle into their new residence, and they buy a plot in the local cemetery with a new grave for Rita. Partitio dives into business at the port, unveiling his and Roque's bold plans for steam-powered ships that will halve the time needed to make the crossing and revolutionize intercontinental trade. He always makes time though for the two people he now considers to be his family, ensuring they take breaks from their research to eat and take walks, and taking Elena with him on some of his trips around the western continent - including to Wellgrove's famous department store where he teaches her how to haggle. Osvald chides him for trying to turn Elena into a merchant, but it's all in jest; both of them know the girl fully intends to attend the university in Montwise as soon as she's old enough, building on Osvald's impressive body of work surrounding the Seventh Source. Elena meanwhile never questions why her father and his friend (who calls her "chickadee" sometimes - she rolls her eyes when he does, but smiles to herself all the same) share a room with a single bed; Lady Clarissa had instructed her well in the ways of the world, and she is at ease knowing that her father has found happiness again.

When the day comes for Elena to journey to Montwise, Partitio insists on the three of them traveling to the eastern continent on the Grand Terry. He and Osvald wave Elena off at the train that will take her from the harbor into the Crestlands, both of them crying and not even bothering to hide it although it embarrasses her. They console themselves on the trip back like they've always done in the years since their first wild hookup, and so turn on toward home.

#Octopath Traveler 2 #Partitio Yellowil #Osvald V. Vanstein #Partitio/Osvald

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seedsofagony · 2 years

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Dirty Laundry (GK)

Series: Golden Kamuy

Character: Hijikata Toshizou (age not specified)

Summary: Hijikata takes care of you after a stressful week at work, starting with your dirty laundry: SFW (slightly suggestive), x reader, fluff, modern au, domestic bliss, spoiler free

Word Count: 395

Notes: This was originally posted on my main account. I really love domestic bliss scenarios - they are just so calming and comforting to me. To create this drabble, I used a random choice selector to assign the character and chore. The universe must have been listening because I got Hijikata on the first spin! I do have plans to write more of these eventually - the next randomly selected subject is Tsurumi/vacuuming...

Image Credit: engin akyurt

You hate doing the laundry. It’s not the sorting or the washing, and it isn’t even the folding or hanging things up. It’s the endlessness of it. Laundry is the chore that’s never done. Even when the hamper is empty, you’re still wearing clothes that will need to be washed.

It’s just one more thing to do during your busy week, so you put it off. The hamper fills up and you start putting together stranger and stranger outfits as you run out of clean clothes. Maybe you can wear those jeans one more time? You take a whiff. Maybe not. You wonder, does putting them in the freezer really work…?

Without saying a word, Hijikata takes them from you and drops them into a laundry basket. He hates messes, but he rarely says anything when he comes over. With such an expressive brow, does he really have to? But there’s no side-eye today. He knows you’ve been slammed at the office. Friday night, he showed up at your door with wine and somehow turned the contents of your fridge into an incredible dinner. Now it’s Saturday morning, and there’s no more putting it off. The laundry needs to be done.

He moves through your room with causal familiarity, picking up a sock here, another sock there, and dropping them into the basket. It’s a little mortifying, but he does it with such efficiency. He has an easy look on his face, his hair swept into a low queue draped over one shoulder. You only get the infamous quirk of his brow when he picks up that certain pair of unmentionables. You busy yourself with making the bed. It’s not like he’s never seen them before.

Lips pursed in an amused smile, he drops them into the pile. He pads off to the laundry room, the basket full of clothes on his hip. You smooth the sheets and pause, leaning over the bed. The man who hates messes is dutifully cleaning up yours - without a word, without judgement. It’s such a simple gesture, but it means the world.

You hear the washer kick off - there are probably two or three loads of laundry to get through, so you have some waiting around to do. Hijikata reappears in the bedroom doorway and leans on the frame.

Still smiling faintly, he asks, “So. How should we pass the time?”

#golden kamuy #hijikata toshizou #hijikata #golden kamuy x reader #hijikata x reader #golden kamuy reader insert #golden kamuy au #golden kamuy domestic bliss #golden kamuy scenario #golden kamuy fanfiction #golden kamuy fanfic #golden kamuy fic #golden kamuy drabble #golden kamuy fluff #golden kamuy gilfs #SFW #spoiler free #my repost

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nephiliminality · 10 months

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Angstember Prompt 6: Secrets

Yeah, I'm still doing these! This one took a while because it turned into a 17k word multichapter (oops) and also it's my third attempt at the prompt, which I've really struggled with. One of the other attempts might surface as a different prompt fic later, the other is definitely dead (but never mind, I had fun trying to write it).

In this one, Crowley gets a visit from the former Lord Beelzebub, who has been ousted in a coup. Ze wants Crowley's help fixing that, and ze has some useful leverage: ze knows he isn't really immune to Holy Water...

This fic is finished apart from editing and I'll be posting the chapters over the next couple of weeks or so - it'll almost certainly be my last Good Omens fic before S2 lands. It's pretty light and fun considering the subject matter (I'm not sure it really counts as an angst fic), and it does end happily (well, for most of the characters anyway).

Gen fic, T-rated for alcohol and swearing. CW blackmail, authoritarianism, minor character death.

[AO3]

Excerpt

It was a pleasantly mild Tuesday in September, and Crowley was idling along the A40 at an uncharacteristically modest speed. He would rather be going much faster, but he was trying not to disturb the small pile of packages behind him on the back seat: most of them contained delicate, cream-covered pastries, fine wines, or cheeses so pungent the car would disown him if he spilled any. Aziraphale wanted a picnic, and he was going to get a picnic to remember.

At least, hopefully. The light spots of rain flecking the Bentley’s windscreen didn’t bode well. Still, picnic or no picnic, there would still be wine, and there would still be Aziraphale, now Armageddon was off the table and they were finally, completely on their own side.

Crowley overtook an ancient Fiat, because modest speed was one thing but there were limits, and counted his lucky stars that the traffic was tolerable today. Then a flashing in his rear-view mirror caught his attention and his heart sank. Those were definitely the lights of a police car behind him, and they definitely wanted him to stop and have a chat about something. Wonderful.

Crowley muttered a curse last heard in Mesopotamia and pulled over into the next lay-by. It figured. The one time he hadn’t even been speeding. He muttered to himself and hoped that speeding ticket quotas hadn’t been one of his ideas.

Bless it. Normally he would turn the police car’s engine into something amusingly unmentionable and leave them in his dust, but Aziraphale had been very keen on avoiding miracles until they were sure that Heaven and Hell really were going to leave them alone. Crowley couldn't blame him for the caution. They had only reached their agreements after the trials because neither side knew what they were dealing with; if the secret got out they would both be hauled back in and permanently dealt with faster than you could say ‘gotcha’. Crowley hadn’t heard anything from Hell since the trials but they weren’t likely to have calmed down about it all. Still, these cops were taking the piss and very much deserving of some kind of retribution, and he didn’t need to use miracles to put the fear of Crowley into someone.

The police car pulled up behind him and the hazard lights came on; the driver climbed out and strode purposefully towards the Bentley. Crowley tapped his fingertips on the steering wheel, fleshing out an improvised revenge plan he was rather proud of already, and waited for the officer to reach him. Their gait seemed vaguely familiar, but then humans were all pretty similar in that respect. Normal human skeletons only had so much range, after all.

The officer reached the driver’s side door and knocked gently but firmly on the window. Crowley turned to look at them, smug grin already in place… and then his revenge plan evaporated from his mind, leaving only dregs of highly concentrated terror. That was a very familiar face. One could say, quite literally a painfully familiar face. Certainly he expected it to result in imminent and considerable pain.

The window rolled down of its own accord and several fat blue-tinted flies flew in, settling on Crowley's shoulders like very very tiny henchmen. The officer's teeth were bared in the kind of malicious grin that not even airport security guards could comfortably achieve.

“Do you know how faszt you were going, sir?”

Crowley stared back, speechless and motionless. So that was that, then. Hell had broken its word already, had decided they could safely be eliminated after all. He hadn’t dared to hope that they could actually win against their former sides, but he had thought they would get a little longer.

He had been so cocky, so stupid. They hadn’t even left London. Why hadn’t they left London? Avoiding miracles didn’t count for much if you stayed right where they last found you. Why hadn’t he taken them both to the other side of the planet or something?

Crowley tried to compose himself, plastering on a polite smile. Self-recrimination could wait until the more immediate problem of survival had been taken care of. “Lord Beelzebub,” he gulped. “What a surprise.”

Beelzebub glowered at him through the open window, far too close for comfort. “Get out of the car, Crowley. Or I’ll set fire to it.”

Crowley climbed out of his car meekly, since there didn’t seem to be much choice, and briefly considered bowing before thinking better of it. At this point, genuflection would probably be counterproductive. He glanced over at the police car – which was parked with its rear end sticking out into the road just enough to endanger and infuriate other road users – then back to Beelzebub. “How’s Hell?” he mumbled, a pretence at civil conversation. There had to be a way out of this, if he could only buy himself a little time.

“Hellish,” Beelzebub replied. Ze took off zir hat with one thickly-gloved hand, letting out several more flies, picked something unidentifiable off it and smeared it on the roof of the Bentley. Crowley’s indignation made a valiant effort to override his terror, but his terror had a considerable size advantage. He gave his car a discreet reassuring pat and mentally promised to make it up to her later, provided he survived this. Beelzebub put the hat back on firmly. “Though I’m no longer Lord Beelzebub,” ze said. “Thanks to you.”

Crowley’s jaw dropped. His brain went away for a bit to process that news, then came back and slapped him in the face with the second half of the sentence. Beelzebub, no longer in charge of Hell, because of Crowley. “What?” he protested. “How is it my fault?”

Beelzebub fixed him with an unimpressed look. “You defied Hell, survived your well-deserved execution, dictated terms to both sides, and walked out. In front of ten million witnessez. What did you think would happen?”

Well, when ze put it like that. He’d feel proud if he wasn’t so scared. There wasn’t really a safe way of saying ‘I didn’t care and still don’t, you were trying to execute us for Someone’s sake’, so he kept his mouth shut.

“It’z chaos down there now,” Beelzebub continued bitterly. “Lucifer is off sulking somewhere and the troops are revolting. Half the Dark Council was thrown in the Lake. I barely got out with my wingz intact.”

“And you’ve started a new life in the Metropolitan Police?” Crowley said, trying to sound casual while anything but. Ze hadn’t discorporated him on the spot, which could only mean ze had something worse in mind. Like… oh Hell. Like keeping him occupied while one of zir remaining loyal minions went after Aziraphale.

“Worried about your angel?” ze said, as if reading his mind. “You should be. Unless you cooperate, of course.”

Of course, thought Crowley desperately. Anything you want, anything at all, just leave him alone. Please. “Cooperate on what?”

“A little assignment. You’re a twizty little bastard and I have a job for you. Do it well, and perhaps you and your angelic bed warmer get to live.”

Beelzebub pulled a small bottle from zir pocket, an elegant gold-capped crystal phial which gave off a faint ethereal glow, and Crowley realised why ze was wearing such thick leather gloves. He also realised, too late, that he’d flinched. Beelzebub grinned like a crocodile.

“I know you tricked usz, Crowley,” ze said coldly. “I know this stuff will still kill you. I'm the only one who knows. For now.” Beelzebub leaned in and made eye contact with a stare that could bore through a wall. “Help me get my job back, and maybe I won’t tell Hastur.”

#writing #my writing #good omens #good omens fanfic #angstember

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bookaddict24-7 · 2 years

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(New Young Adult Releases Coming Out Today! (August 23rd, 2022)

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Have I missed any new Young Adult releases? Have you added any of these books to your TBR? Let me know!

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New Standalones/First in a Series:

This is Why they Hate Us by Aaron H. Aceves

On the Subject of Unmentionable Things by Julia Walton

Beguiled by Cyla Panin

Four for the Road by K.J. Reilly

Lightlark by Alex Aster

New Sequel:

A Venom Dark & Sweet (The Book of Tea #2) by Judy I. Lin

Azar On Fire (Perfectly Parvin #2) by Olivia Abtahi

Clown in a Cornfield 2: Frendo Lives (Clown in a Cornfield #2) by Adam Cesare

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Happy reading!

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emotionsandphenomena · 1 year

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everything I have out from the library right now. poetry incl. elegy owed; you will hear thunder; Anna Akhmatova poems; time is a mother; arias. novels incl. the human zoo; on the subject of unmentionable things; merry little meet cute; Nona the ninth; heartstopper vol. 3. nonfiction incl. stay true; the madman's library; the artists way; the trigger point therapy workbook.

#this is a public shaming exercise if i do not finish and or turn in everything on this list by the end of december throw tomatoes at ne #exceprt the artists way and trigger point therapy lol

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kimmimaru · 2 years

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You know, the weirdest thing my family does is do everything to avoid saying that I’m autistic. Like, my older sister will mention my ‘difficulties’ and stuff and my younger sister just refuses to accept it but accepts that some of the children in her life are autistic. It’s so odd. I got an official diagnosis but because I got it when I was an adult it’s like I have some sort of unmentionable disease. It pisses me off but I never know how to go about talking to them about it since you know, I’m shit at that sort of thing because of the autism. Mind you they’re the same with the fact that I have chronic fatigue too, like I’m just making this shit up as I go along and not actively seeing a doctor and going through a whole bunch of tests. It’s reached a point where I just don’t bring it up at all. There’s no point when people just change the subject or say how ‘everyone has those problems’ or something. And the total dismissal of the problems I face being autistic because I’m just ‘quirky’. Like...really? You accept that a child is autistic but what the hell do you think happens when that child grows up? The autism just goes away? Or the fact that when I was a kid ‘girls didn’t have autism’ was a huge thing and why I was never diagnosed as a kid? Why is it acceptable that I am dyslexic and dyspraxic but not autistic? I love my family but jesus christ this pisses me off. Oh and also my younger sister always, ALWAYS used to tell me off for rocking when out in public because it was embarrassing for her but still seems to think I’m making the ASD thing up. It’s really bloody weird. My family are generally really accepting with stuff unless it involves people close to them. There’s a damn good reason I don’t mention being aromantic to them, that would get me a lot of shit. I’m not dealing with that too. I just tell them I’m not interested in a partner if they ask and start bugging me about it, not a lie. I’m really not interested lol.

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denimbex1986 · 19 days

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'...with Ripley, the writer-director Steven Zaillian does the unthinkable and unmentionable, he shoots in high contrast black and white and stretches his drama long, and some might say thinly, over a total of eight episodes. But although the series has the feel of a younger generation in terms of its directorial emphases, Zaillian is technically an old man, probably in Shakespearean terms in stage six of the seven ages of man: the lean and slipper’d pantaloon, with spectacles on nose and pouch on side; yes, he is indeed 71 years young but with an impressive and substantial track record behind him: an Oscar for the screenplay of Schindler’s List and a successful collaboration with Martin Scorsese in Gangs of New York, amongst much else. This surely allowed him to basically dictate his terms to Netflix, which included engaging a genius of a lighting cameraman, Robert Elswit, who lit the masterpiece, There Will be Blood. Indeed, Ripley runs the risk of the camerawork overtaking the content and this is an ongoing near-run thing.

But just as Citizen Kane in anyone else’s hands but Orson Welles would have first and foremost been praised for its cinematography, as indeed might Charles Laughton’s only great stab at directing, The Night of the Lonely Hunter, the intense collaboration of director and cameraman in the case of Ripley pays multiple dividends, even on the smaller screen. It invokes the Italian milieu of Rome in the 60s, of La Dolce Vita, Visconti and Fellini, but not curiously the one director who experimented seriously with documentary style shooting- Roberto Rossellini. whose Rome Open City was shot in grainy black and white. Zaillian etches everything in exquisite detail, wet streets, rain falling on a terrace, pens and cigarette lighters all dance to his sombre tune. This series would look even more spectacular projected onto a large screen.

Interestingly, Zaillian’s work has split opinion right down the middle, with a rave from The New York Times and a thumbs pointed firmly earthwards from The New Statesman. Both draw comparisons with previous versions, with the latter much in favour of Anthony Minghella’s The Talented Mr Ripley, and being much more impressed with the colourful sun-drenched scenes than the rain soaked black and white ones.

One question worth asking of this latest effort as well as the best of the previous ones, is what on earth is the attraction of Ripley, almost always portrayed as a blank canvas, to both actors and directors? I think it is precisely for that very reason, that Ripley can be anything or anyone to whoever is contemplating him, and this metaphor of the blank canvas is cleverly taken up by Zaillian, making the subject of Ripley’s first murder, Dickie (Johnny Flynn), an amateur painter. Ripley is not Ripley in anyone and everyone, the great difference is that when he acts, he does so decisively without pity, regret or concern other than an obsession with clearing up any mess he may inadvertently leave behind. If anyone wants to learn how to lie, cheat, steal, seduce and ultimately kill, Highsmith’s novel can provide a comprehensive training manual for the uninitiated.

Most of you literature and film buffs will be familiar with the story, so I intended just to concentrate on elements of the series which seem to me to bend and occasionally break rules to considerable effect. To begin with, during the first two episodes at least nothing really happens, and that is for approaching two hours screen time. But the almost hypnotic engagement that the cinematography engenders allows us to take time with the characters as they slowly reveal more about themselves. Interestingly, Zaillian does not cast 20 or even 30-year-olds in the main parts, as imagined at least by Highsmith in her original novel. Instead, he opts for Andrew Scott (Ripley) at 47 and Dickie (Johnny Flynn) at 41. They are in fact middle-aged, but as portrayed by Scott and Flynn appear younger, but at the same time, almost ageless. This gives an additional twist to the strange ambience in which the drama takes place. Characters take much longer to frame their thoughts, to react and to initiate actions. It is as if they are somehow under water, and it is water which is the most intrusive element in this version (as opposed to sunlight in Minghella’s). Right up to the point of the first murder which occurs on top of, and within water. In Zaillian’s world, the streets are always wet and his characters frequently find themselves in baths, seas or simply the victims of relentless rain clouds.

All in all, this is very clever stuff, and not just from the director, but the writer as well. It is an object lesson in how to balance form and content and to reference parallel elements obliquely and very cleverly. Caravaggio is mentioned and his work shown to us quite frequently. Why, one wonders? Simple. Caravaggio is a painter who became a murderer; Tom Ripley is a murderer who became a painter.'

#Patricia Highsmith #The Talented Mr Ripley #Anthony Minghella #Steven Zaillian #Andrew Scott #Gangs of New York #Schindler's List #Caravaggio #Robert Elswit #Johnny Flynn #Dickie Greenleaf

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just0nemorepage · 8 months

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September 2nd - September 8th

THIS WEEK’S ORIGINAL POSTS:

TBR Tuesday: [On the Subject of Unmentionable Things]

Shout-Out Saturday: [Accepting submissions]

#this week in books #9/02 - 9/08 #jomp original

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giolitti · 11 months

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The school of Athen (thinking)

He finds himself in a monumental ancient building, surrounded by many people who are involved in a debate, voices cross in space.

Birth is the birth of presence. (1) Life is the root of all existence, and the non living, nature in its inert form, is merely spent life; mere being is the non being of life. (2) We should start to bring life in the cities again rather than just function and surviving in them. We live all the more removed from the world to the extent that we become occupied with one another. (3) And so livings beings live in deviation from equilibrium. (4) Presence without balance is suffering, today's urbanism is the physical expression of this.

Ma stands there impatiently, what is the point of debating the whole thing, he doesn't need words but solutions!

What's so great about the truth anyway?

A man with a long beard begins to answer him.

The Christian selfishness of bliss is necessarily transmuted in its completed practice into the material selfishness of the Jew, heavenly needs become earthly needs, and subjectivity becomes egoism. (5) Hence they fall into errors, thinking those things to be above nature, or contrary to nature, which indeed are by nature, and according to nature. (6) But whatever nature can’t do is against nature.(7)

Thinking becomes slow when it is put in writing. The individual words become single letters, flow into this dimension and freeze on the paper.

The ideologies that are held in turn influence how we do and think.

Just placing facts in your head is not true knowledge.

Speech is an image of mind and mind is an image of the unmentionable.

But how am I supposed to integrate that into a project? asks Ma.

Just as ideologies are frozen on the sheet, they are petrified into a structure. Give space to the attempt to unravel the puzzles.

A room to capture the frozen search for truth.

Life itself is the attempt to grasp the incomprehensible, but

words cannot describe what lies outside words and matter cannot satisfy what is not matter.

So the relation between the surface meaning and the hyponoia or ‘deeper sense’ is itself unstable and complex. (8) Therefore, I say, take care of the soul; for from the soul issue our thoughts(9) It is not a good thing to live, but to live well. (10)

Ma is puzzled: But how to create the good life, when all the goods that we collect don’t lead to that?

I think I possess things, but it seems to me now that they possess me. I thought I had ideas but maybe they own me too?

Where do I find the time to look for the answers?

Is time then always different or does the same time recur?(11)

Someone points to a door, engraved on it ‚doing‘. Ma goes and opens it, steps in.

1 Derrida, Of Grammatology

2 Foucault, The Order of Things

3 Serres, Geometry

4 Serres, The Birth of Physics

5 Marx, Collected Works

6 Agrippa, Three Books of Occult Philosophy

7 Aquinas, Selected Philosophical Writings

8 Heraclitus, The Art and Thought of Heraclitus

9 Seneca, Complete Works

10 Seneca, Complete Works

11 Aristotle, Physics

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saintkevorkian · 1 year

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‘we’re decent humans bc we don’t oppress’ statements -- where is sex. lol sex is certainly a mark for discrimination

female sex faces material and sometimes violent oppression not on account of silly cultural trappings but due to unfortunate biological mechanisms (ie length of gestation vs infant mortality in the ancient world required a high pregnancy rate, average 5-6 children per woman, and robust younger populations were necessary for non-nomadic groups to maintain control of a location (early settlements and even cities)...obviously this is no longer necessary, but the mentality has dovetailed into modern political philosophies and spiralled to the point where people in rich countries are very brainwashed about what ‘female’ does and doesn’t imply-- it exceeds a level of docility necessary for governance). not everything is physical, yet some purely physical examples can still be found in the modern world: being forced to sleep outside when bleeding, or being stoned to death for having a broken hymen. in the first world, the wage gap makes everything more difficult for women on average and its pattern probably has something to do with expectations of maternity leave in otherwise healthy-looking adults. the wage gap is especially detrimental in less socialised societies where charity welfare the dole &c are seen as shameful; people share when coexisting and nothing is entirely set down in the money books, so there may be some compensations, but in a society where sharing amongst strangers is regarded with hostility and suspicion this will obviously be less. a bit tangential to the point but to illustrate that there’s probably some underlying dogma at play, people study business and or economics at uni & never discuss the claim that men also would have more liquid resources if women were paid more

gender used to be a word people used when they didn’t want to say S-E-X in an official document, letter, speech, whatever

when you change the meaning of 'woman,’ the few protections which ostensibly existed for women become technically meaningless

^this might be deliberate, i dunno

women are the marked group, yet this is farce: there is no character trait that women have in common which does not apply to all humans. what women have in common are the impositions of biology. Even female socialisation affects women to varying degrees, and there will always be an exception to every ‘woman trait’ because the distinctions were made to defame and thereby control women, and some people are more difficult to control than others. There may be some patterns in the ways people react to being treated a certain way from the inception of memory, which frames one’s entire world, but there is no female personality. And yet the crux of a movement which says you can opt into a gender is to say: there is some metaphysical difference between men and women which tradition has failed to account for. This transparently upholds sexism.

in certain biological realities, certain increased risk factors, separate health concerns, and particular traps hidden under tailored social forms, women have things in common with other women. These things are experienced, but not wholly subjective. Yet according to modern standards of correctness this group can’t be grouped and is unmentionable by changing the meaning of the word everyone has known. ‘Birthing people’ is how men have perceived women since ages, but plenty of women never have sex with men so they won’t give birth. Oddly it appears there’s a group of women who are attracted to women and absolutely must include anyone who claims to be female in their dating pool or suffer quite a significant amount of annoying conversation, plus death or rape threats which somehow people find acceptable to catalyse social ‘change’-- I guess this is another nameless group. efforts to effect change, btw, should be targeted at legislation and institutions and not at individuals (even if you bloody a person up a bit and force them to submit to your ideologies youve done nothing to change the world; violence already exists since time immemorial). anyway it's evincing the most witless docility to simply agree that an individual’s personal feelings of ~identity or ~inclusion ought to supersede legal and medical definitions in these same spheres.

apart from those whom the state deems to have forfeited rights by violation of social contract (incarcerated women most importantly, about whom literally none of these faux-left ‘activist’ (talkativist) types care a jot), all people should have the right to live their lives and be as annoying as is legal. When delicate handling of personal feelings comes at the expense of hard-won legal rights of an unnameable group, it should not, according to any considered and rational opinion, be sanctioned by law

what one feels inside should be respected in contexts where sharing on that level is appropriate. what is and isn’t legal has to do with people living cooperatively together, and depends on a common conception of reality. the law has been used to oppress groups, but in some cases laws are also floodgates against popular oppression. (See the terrifying example of a world in which people are whatever gender they say they are, regardless of physical appearance, but women still experience employment bias. A company can hire exclusively men provided some claim to be women, and women are not a group so cannot seek redress.)

The entire gimmick plays on the american left’s fear of being called racist. The movement brings race up frequently, often at very inappropriate moments (ie to gain funny social credit, not out of interest for black rights). clearly the united states cherishes a lot of sub-surface racism, which is why this fraudulent tactic can ever be successful. (then again, if white people went around calling themselves black because they’d supposedly had ‘the black experience’ people would, hopefully, tell them to get a grip...) It is common now for women to allow their rights to be jeopardised, while wearing a stupid grin. This movement was funded by male billionaires, probably under the slogan, ‘Women getting too uppity? divide them & trick those fools into denying their own existence.’ Somehow it worked.

I suppose it could be a coincidence that the acronyms movement is based in the united states, which has the lowest educational standards in the ‘first world’ and a long history of thoughtlessness. Note: the US constitution’s fourteenth amendment, which is supposed to guarantee all persons due process and equal protection under law, has been said not to apply to women, because there is no legal precedent for women being full persons (Scalia, 2011)

#in loco parentis

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