dean fogg is so good as the alpha vampire but i AM only able to call him dean fogg
Just started rewatching the magicians (it’s both my comfort show and a guaranteed cry sesh) and i really need to get drunk so you guessed it: magicians drinking game
doodling through ep 1 & 2
They Killed Quentin during my first month of Therapy.
Watching the Magicians with the roomie and I just really liked this deer lady’s design
the magicians 3x06- do you like teeth?
Every time I close one queliot tab on my phone, you all make me open another 😩😂😂
But damn, I love reading all the fics
And seeing all the art
Even if some of them do hurt
You’re all so talented 💖
[Poppy] had a bright, sharp manner and a quick little voice and a lot of confidence. She was especially confident when it came to pointing out other people’s mistakes. Not that she was a know-it-all—it didn’t seem to be an ego thing with her. She just assumed that everybody shared her desire for everybody to be clear on everything, and she’d expect you to do the same for her.
The Magician King (The Magicians, #2) by Lev Grossman
scene from my yet to be finished fic lmao
Uhhhgggg. Hale Appleman is soooo attractive 😭😭😭
a bit of smut and feelings for the start of your weekend
Eliot wakes up with Quentin all tucked into his side, the bond humming happily in his chest, the magic pulsing within him like the beating of a second heart. If he closes his eyes, he can almost see it—the tendrils of the curse, attached to the core of his magic and twisted up with Quentin’s, the fibers rolled together like spun wool.
At its core, the enchantment is inelegant, balled up and knotted where it connects them. Lipson told them that’s where the genius of the spell lies; the joined pieces are so messy and matted that the spell work is almost indistinguishable from Quentin and Eliot’s separate sources of magic, curled into their viscera, living off of their desire and multiplying it in turn. The strands coil tighter, needing more and more fuel as the moon waxes.
Eliot knows he should be trying harder to break the bond. He should be researching it or trying something—anything, but the very possibility of fixing it, of losing this sends a spiral of pain through his gut, a seasick sense of loss. He’d lose this—waking up, piece by piece, at 3AM, Quentin’s ass pressed into the line of his cock, the warm weight of his dense body, packed tight against Eliot.
He’d lose nights like this.
Quentin had dropped all pretense of coming to Eliot’s room to study tonight, making a beeline for the bed where Eliot lay, already half-hard, curls artfully mussed, reclined in nothing but his red silk robe.