#now if i ever were to write it in prose...

[stuck-in-the-ghost-zone]

sea creatures :]

[firewoodfigs]

.

[fuckyeahgoodomens]

Neil talking about the responses to Good Omens Season 2 - from the Neil Gaiman interview with Brian Levine for The Gould Standard (x,x)

BL: The audience that you have built is a very passionately engaged audience. They, frankly, they love you. And one of the reasons they love you is that you fit into what I think of as one of two great divisions in art. There's, or in writing, um, there is: I'm entertained, I'm amused. I may be even enchanted; and then there's this hits me at a visceral level. You understand me as no one else does. You have touched something very central to my experience. And it seems to me that Much of your writing, maybe all of your writing, actually reaches your audience at that latter level. You know. I would say in the former category, sort of my quintessential and beloved example would be P. G. Woodhouse. He amuses me, but I don't feel like he's revealed my inner self at a very deep level. Um, were you aware that you were going to be able to achieve that? Um, that this is something... was it a startling thing when people began coming up to you, who'd read your work and said, this means so much to me?

Neil: Yeah. It was huge. And it wasn't expected. I... if I had a mountaintop I was heading towards, it was gonna be P. G. Woodhouse. Um, I wanted to be a proficient entertainer with a clear prose style who could tell stories. Um, it probably wasn't until Sandman that I found... I started to realize that in order for a story to work, I had to show too much. In order for a story to resonate, in order for a story to matter, I had to let it matter too much. And, and I remember the first people who would start coming up to me and saying, um, you, you know, your, your Sandman comics got me through the death of a loved one. Your death character got me through my child's death, through my parent's death, through my partner's death, through my friend's death. Um, and that left me kind of amazed. I'm like, well, I didn't write it to do that. I wrote it to feed my children. I wrote it to satisfy myself. I wrote it because nobody else had ever written it. And if I didn't write it, it wouldn't be written, but I don't think I wrote it to give you what you've taken from it. And I spent really about 20, 25 years feeling awkward about that. And then my father died, in March 2009, and never got to cry about it. Never... I, you know, I've, I've got on a plane and I went to the UK and dealt with the funeral stuff and organized all of that stuff and came back and go toff the plane and went and did Stephen Colbert's Colbert Report and wearing the funeral suit because and that was all I had with me and carried on. And then, somewhere in the middle of summer, I was reading a friend's script. They'd sent me a script and said, can you look this over? And I'm reading it, and on page 20, the lead character meets somebody, and on page 26 maybe, she's dead, and I burst into tears. And I'm bawling. I am sobbing. It is coming out of me in giant racking waves. And I realized that it's everything that I'd been, hadn't let myself feel, or hadn't been able, hadn't stopped enough to let myself feel, was suddenly being given permission to feel by the death of a fictional person who I'd met six pages earlier, ia script. And I thought that... and it was huge for me, and I thought, okay, that's that thing that people are talking about sometimes, when they come tome and they say, you, you did this. So right now, I'm in this weird, wonderful place where I think a lot of people in Good Omens Season 2 thought they were signing up for the P.G. Woodhouse, and didn't know that, no, no, no, you've, you've signed up for the whole thing. You've signed up for the feelings. You've signed up for the emotions. I... it is my job to make you care and to make you feel and to feel things you haven't felt before. And which meant that the first week or so after Good Omens came out, I was getting angry, furious, deeply upset messages on every possible social medium telling me that I had betrayed people, and it was awful, and they couldn't stop crying, and why would I do that to them, and did I hate them? And they hated me. And then a weird sort of phenomenon happened as people would watch the show again. And again. And now they started to know, okay, this is where it's gonna go, this is what's gonna happen, this is how it works. And they started realizing that they were actually feeling things, and that was good. And that they were caring about two people who don't exist. You know, I made them up, and then and Terry Pratchett made them up, and then, um, David Tennant and Michael Sheen gave them life, and then they get to walk around on a screen and you know they don't exist, but you can cry for them, you can love them, they can make you laugh, they can make you exult, and most important of all, they can make you care. And the number of people who are now writing to me, saying, 'This was so important to me. This has changed my life. This makes me feel like I belong. This makes me feel like I can cope. And it's let me sort of find myself. P. S. I hope you get to do Season Three.' is, is huge.

[tkingfisher]

So I write all sorts of things (fiction, fanfic, screenplays) and my mind is cluttered garden of flowers and weeds and shiny ideas, and I'm wondering how to form a writing practice to clear it into tidy rows? Is it possible to shepherd untamed ideas into order?

How do you manage all your wonderful worlds, characters and inspiration and not feel haunted by the story bits and pieces in your head? Any practical tips beyond dark magic?

Thank you, you are such a constant inspiration for me, both prose and just your presence. <3

*laugh* Oh god, Nonny, if I ever find out, I’ll tell you! When you read books, you’re getting the Instagram-filtered view of a writer’s brain, all the flowers that grew out of the compost heap, carefully composed and shot in optimal lighting. The real inside of my skull is a magpie nest of Neat Shit I Read/Saw/Thought Up While Lying Awake At 2 AM. There are characters and ideas in there that I’ve been trying to get into a manuscript since I was twelve and typing on an Amiga 500.

But, that said…really, I think it’s okay. Creativity is inherently untidy. The compost heap can be corralled into a very pretty box made of sustainably harvested materials, hand-stained by traditional artisans being paid a living wage by an employee-owned company, but as soon as you lift the lid, it’s all worms and coffee grounds and old potting soil and cow shit and the vegetables you swore you were gonna eat this time before they went bad. That’s what compost is.

Nevertheless, having been in the business for…uh…fifteen years now? (@dduane is snickering at me, I can feel it) and having written nearly forty books, I can offer three bits of something less than advice. It’s what I do. It may not work for anyone else, but it’s what I do.

Un-Advice The First: If you get a shiny idea and you are super excited by it? Go ahead and chase it. Pull up a new page in Word or whatever and slap down a couple thousand words while it’s exciting. I know that this absolutely flies in the face of common wisdom, but quite frankly, my enthusiasm is a much rarer commodity than my time, so if I’m excited about something, I write it down until I’ve taken the edge off.

Then I usually save it into a big folder called “Fragments” and go back to work on whatever I’ve got a deadline on. (Usually. Sometimes the edge doesn’t wear off, and I wind up with another book. Which, y’know, darn.)

There are vast numbers of people who will tell you that a shiny idea is a sign that something is wrong with your current project and the solution is to knuckle down and work! through! it! And those people are probably right for them, and I trust they know how their own brains work. Me, though, I got ADHD like a bat has wings. My hard drive is a vast swamp of story beginnings, neat ideas, random scenes. And that’s okay because I still get books finished.

In fact, it’s better than okay. Not that long ago, my agent sent a novella to a publisher and they said “We’ll take that novella and three more novels. What’ve you got?” And I ended up plundering my hard drive and sending the editor a good dozen random beginnings until we found one that we both liked, and then I wrote the rest of that book. And then another one. If I hadn’t had all those fragments lying around, though, it would have been a miserable experience of writing book pitches and trying to think of stuff I could get excited about. (This may not be how some editors work, but it’s how my editor and I work, anyhow.)

Un-Advice The Second: Trust that everything will find a home eventually.

This one is easy to say and hard to do because sometimes you get that overload that if you’re writing the book about, say, werebear nuns, you aren’t writing the one about the alien crustaceans. Or worse, you feel guilty. If you don’t use that one cool thing, was all that time you spent on it wasted?

Breathe. Be easy. Every single cool thing does not need to go into a single book. There is no sell-by date on the neat character. You will probably write many books in your life and all those random characters will find a home. (Seriously, the werebear nuns were lurking for like a decade.)

For me, at least, when I find the spot where something fits, it often snaps into place like a Lego. Easton’s backstory as a soldier from a society where soldiers were a third sex had been kicking around in my head for a few years, derived from about three different sources, and then I wrote the opening to What Moves The Dead and all of a sudden Easton was there and alive and they had strong opinions about everything and I had ten thousand words practically before I turned around.

You can also stave off guilt by writing some of your ideas in as highly personal Easter Eggs. A couple of my books have references to a white deer woman, a heroic deed done by a saint and the ghost of a bird, and a woman with dozens of hummingbirds on tiny jeweled leashes. Those are all characters and stories I’ve had vague notions about, but haven’t managed to work in anywhere or learn much more about. Still, the passing reference is enough to make me feel like I haven’t abandoned them.

(The advantage to this is that once you DO write those in, the readers are all “oh my god, she foreshadowed this a decade ago, she must have planned this all out in advance!” Then you look really clever and well-organized and no one has to know that you have no idea what you’re doing.)

Un-Advice The Third: Write the kitchen sink book.

At one point, I had so many stray ideas that hadn’t gotten into a book yet—the tree of frogs, the dog-soldiers, the stained glass saint, the albatross and the shadow of the sun, and also I wanted to write something with Baba Yaga—that I hauled off and wrote a book where I just put in everything and the kitchen sink. It’s called Summer in Orcus. There are bits in there that I had been cooking in the mental compost heap for decades, but that weren’t enough on their own to sustain a whole book. The phrase “antelope women are not to be trusted” showed up in my head some time in college. It’s a fun little book and I’m proud of it, but it’s very much a patchwork quilt of weirdness. But it’s also written so that if later on, an antelope woman shows up in another book in another context, that just adds to their mythology, it doesn’t break canon or whatever.

(Pretty sure I’m not the only one who has done this, either. China Mieville has said that he wrote Perdido Street Station because what he really enjoyed was writing all the weird monsters.)

So yeah, that’s my advice, for what it’s worth. Some days I just tell all the fragments and ideas that I promise that I’ll get them a home eventually but I need to write this thing here now. Sometimes I throw down enough words to get the story stabilized and then I’m okay to move on. Sometimes I write multiple books simultaneously.

Any method you use to write the book, so long as it doesn’t hurt you or anyone else, is a perfectly valid method. If anyone tells you different, you send them to me.

(…god, I hope that was the question you were actually asking, Nonny, and that I didn’t go off on a completely different tangent when you just wanted to know how I keep track of a plot or something.)

[eupheme]

JOEL MILLER - 2023 FIC RECS

this year has been filled with so many beautiful fics, I wanted to make a rec list to share & support everything I read. please check these out and support these creators, they are all incredible! 💖✨

— A Lover's Pinch by @hier--soir

a one-night stand with a charming texan turns into something much more thrilling when you discover he is your new college professor. joel miller is entirely off limits. but now that you’ve had a taste, will you be able to keep your hands to yourselves?

— A Matter of Timing by @lavenderursa

Before the world went to shit you and your neighbor, Joel, were involved. It was complicated then and now at the end of the world, it's much the same.

— A Minute From Home by @agentmarcuspike

— A Sheep in Wolf’s Clothing by @jupiter-soups

joel miller is not quite as scary as the people of jackson believe him to be. at least, not around you.

— A Very Furby Christmas by @/proxima-writes

it’s christmas eve 1998 and joel miller thinks everything is perfect. / well, until his brother admits he didn’t get sarah the one present she wanted - the furby. now, joel has to go out on christmas eve to find the year’s hottest toy that’s been sold out for months / turns out, you’re on the same mission. and you’ve both found the last furby in town.

— Asking Nicely by @grippingbeskar

— Autumn Air by @swiftispunk

it’s been a month since you returned home from costa rica and you and joel have fallen into a blissful routine. when a rude awakening threatens to disrupt that peace, together you must make a decision…or two.

— Barbie Girl by @tightjeansjavi

Joel, Sarah and Tommy go to the Barbie movie opening weekend

— Be Good, Be Quiet by @/undercoverpena

bill tells you both you're sleeping in separate rooms when a thunderstorm doesn't allow you to leave. but joel isn't planning on getting any sleep.

— Blue Jeans N'Texas Dreams by @/tightjeansjavi

Joel Miller, single father; total soft dad has an astronomically enormous crush on you, his daughters horseback riding instructor.

— Boston Holiday. by @/amywritesthings

You’re decorating for the holidays in your Boston Quarantine Zone apartment. A begrudging Joel Miller gets involved.

— Bunny Tails by @sweetercalypso

When hunter!Joel finds reader picking flowers outside his cabin, he convinces her to come inside

— But He Does Have You by @undercoverpena

because he hasn’t got a lot of anything, but he does have you.

—Butterfly by @stargirlfics

Sometimes the path to healing starts with a reminder of what’s been lost

— Can’t Help Myself by @fettuccin-e

— Catching by @softlyspector

None of your partners had ever been able to make you come before. Joel changed that.

— Comfortably Close by @omgreally

You and Joel share a couch.

— Come Clean by @cupofjoel

joel comes home after a messy day on patrol, but you’re already in the shower

— Comfort Came Against My Will by @/undercoverpena

it’ll begin with a little beg, a whispered plea—fingers wrapping around his chin, mouth ghosting over his: Let me ride you, Miller.

— Creature Comforts by @galactic-basic

A gift. Joel didn’t call it that. Didn’t say as much. Didn’t say anything—actually. / But it’s yours. Your mattress. Your bed. There are so few things you can call yours these days.

— Crystal by @ezrasbirdie

Joel's live-in girlfriend is a little witchy. It takes some getting used to.

— Dinner & Diatribes by @tightjeansjavi

you’re the kind of love that Joel Miller has been dreaming of all his life

— Dinner Date by @juletheghoul

 neighbour!Joel au

— Distracted by @/psychedelic-ink

there are many advantages to enrolling in a woodshop class: drawing you away from not-so-happy thoughts, relearning something that you enjoyed doing when you were a kid, and, well, the sight of watching mr. miller do something he’s undeniably good at.

— Does Your Mother Know? by @/cupofjoel

— Flesh and Metal by @/swiftispunk

you meet joel at a bar. he really likes your nipple piercings. that’s about it.

— From Eden, Love Grows by @moonlight-prose

Days spent in flower fields and cooking in a sunbathed kitchen with him.

— Grays by @/softlyspector

Joel likes to be read to and held and have his hair stroked. He would never dare admit it, though.

— Go Slow by @/frannyzooey

In the quiet of your bedroom, Joel guides you through it. 

— Honeyed by @/softlyspector

You hate being touched, but you might be willing to put aside your discomfort for a tattoo from Joel.

— Honeymoon by @bits-and-babs

— Hurt by @/moonlight-prose

alone and trying to survive, you find your path crossing with a man who’s headed to boston of all places. he claims he’s looking for a new start, not realizing you might be it.

— I Crawl Home To Her by @/agentmarcuspike

after being stabbed, joel floats in and out of consciousness, between then and now, before and after, and his two daughters, both saving him in their own ways.

— I Know My Faults, But I Can't Hide Them… by @tarrenterror25

It’s all about surviving now. Joel knows it and so do you.

— I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus by @/thetriumphantpanda

Your daughter catches you kissing santa… or does she?

— Juniper by @/softlyspector

You're sleepy. Joel knows a good way to put you to sleep.

— Ktober 2023 Day 24- Lingerie by @flightlessangelwings

— Keep It On The Low by @/cupofjoel

just because you and joel broke up doesn’t mean you can’t still (secretly) enjoy each other’s company

— Let Me Take Care Of You by @spaceydragons

Joel had a rough day, you take care of him

— Living in a State of Dreaming by @/cupofjoel

it’s been a year since you, joel, and ellie returned to jackson, and you’re finally starting to feel a sense of security. but when the sun goes down and joel closes his eyes, the horrors beyond the walls still hunt him, out to take back the family he’s worked so hard to protect.

— Made By Hand by @tinycozycomfort

He has nothing to offer, after all; no love letter, no borrowed jacket, no wedding ring. This is all he has to show his devotion, to seal his promise—a fist full of glossy blue and the willingness to unfurl his body and scoop out his insides just to allow you a place to lay. All he can give you is himself.

— Met The Devil Last Night by @pedgito

made a joke about wanting to screw dirt-covered Joel even if he was deep in the trenches of hell and…well, yeah.

— Middle of the Night by @/frannyzooey

He comes to you for comfort.

— Midnights by @/omgreally

Joel pulls back, and the blown-pupil intensity in his eyes makes you clench. “That a challenge?” he wonders, fingering the waistband of your jeans. / “You got any better ideas on how to ring in the new year, Joel Miller?”

— Mine by @the-scandalorian

He wants it—has wanted it.  / He wants the claim. The utter possession.

— Misbehavior by @/stargirlfics

 It’s the first and last time you ever talk back to his face

— Moments by @charnelhouse

Joel and you in a hotel phone booth.

— More and More by @/moonlight-prose

“he wanted to know every part of you, everything you kept hidden for fear of it being rejected. and you let him.”

— Moss & Mushrooms by @/softlyspector

You are alone, always. Then, one day, a beast emerges from the forest you've never dared to go into.

— My Girl Now by @/psychedelic-ink

joel is used to asshole clients, and when one of them calls him an old man and basically demands him to finish his girlfriend’s kitchen in time, he expects you to be the same. But you’re the opposite. when he learns how you’ve been treated, he comes up with a plan to get back at your boyfriend.

— Old Partners, New Plans by @grippingbeskar

— One Bed by @frannyzooey

“there is only one bed” + joel miller

— Only Need Ten by @pascalpvnk

“Joel,” your whine muffled by your pillow. “I have to leave in fifteen minutes, I can’t be late for patrol again. We have to be back in time for Sunday brunch.” / “Only need ten, baby,” he drawled in a hushed tone, hooking his thick fingers beneath the waistband of your panties. “Please?”

— Picture by @/softlyspector

You really want to take Joel's picture. He can't really figure out why.

— Pieces of You by @pedros-mustache

Maybe it’s wrong. Maybe it’s possessive and a tad bit jealous. Maybe after years working alongside Tess, you’ve simply learned to lay your claim on what is yours. 

— Press the Gas and Ride by @charnelhouse

comfort in a car

— Roadside Delight by @/inklore

joel should have known you’d be trouble when he found you on the side of the highway. he should have known you’d taste so fucking sweet too.

— See You by @hopeamarsu

— Seeing You, Seeing Me by @amywritesthings

After handling a life-or-death favor for Tess, you're in deep shit. Until she can make things right, she suggests you lay low at her place for the week. The issue? It's also Joel Miller's place, and you're pretty sure he hates you.

— Silence by @/frannyzooey

 Joel makes a silent promise.

— So, My Darlin' by @/psychedelic-ink

you convince joel to have a bubble bath with you.

— Sober by @/sweetercalypso

When Joel needs a break from reality, he finds the perfect distraction in a QZ dive bar

— Something Bad by @/fettuccin-e

— Something Wild and Unruly by @/ezrasbrdie

At Madame Aurelie's Secret Garden, men pay for beautiful courtesans trained in pleasure to give them whatever they want. And all Joel Miller, infamous outlaw and gunslinger, ever seems to want from you is a warm bath and quiet conversation.

— Standing in the Eye of the Storm by @/stargirlfics

You find each other at the end of the world

— Stay In Bed by @/psychedelic-ink

After your grandfather’s passing, you find yourself moving into his home in Texas. You meet the Millers; Tommy, his older brother Joel and his daughter Sarah. With time, you and Tommy become close friends and Sarah visits you often. But Joel…Joel keeps his distance. The reason for this is due to one crucial fact you don’t know but he does; Tommy has a crush on you. Which means you’re off limits no matter what. But as your own feelings for Joel grow, things start to get more and more complicated.

— Sweet Thing by @mandoisapunk

 the most unlikely pair in jackson just can’t get enough of each other.

— Sweet Words of Sin by @/moonlight-prose

“there was a certain high that came from this. having a man like joel miller relenting to your every word, all to hear those sweet words fall from your lips. as delicious as a glass of wine and just as sinful.”

— Sweetned Breath and Tongue So Mean by @/moonlight-prose

“joel couldn’t fathom what you saw in him. a man bloodied with the ravages of life. he’d taken life, killed to survive, and there were times he even fucking enjoyed it. but you were soft. you were the good that remained. the light he shouldn’t be allowed to tarnish.”

— Take Care of You by @theidiotwhowritesthings

You spent your entire adult life supporting yourself and barely getting by. It’s why a life of ease offered to you by a mysterious stranger sounded so foreign and unbelievable. Joel Miller, dressed in flannels that had seen better days, didn’t look like the kind who could promise you the world on a plate, but he seemed desperate to help out. All he asks is that you let him take care of you. That wouldn’t be so hard. Would it?

— Take Your Medicine by @/hier--soir

your medication makes it difficult to orgasm so joel (and your vibrator) help make it happen.

— Tarnished But So Grand by @morning-star-joy

tommy and maria lead a jovial existence in the countryside, but the appearance of tommy’s brother causes a stir in society with the dark rumors swirling around his reputation, some due to his standoffish demeanor and some due to the mysterious parentage of his rambunctious young ward miss williams

— The Checklist by @thetriumphantpanda

Your new boyfriend Joel finds your hidden stash of porn, full of pages with their corners folded over, marking the things you like the most. Expecting him to feel bad about finding things you’re into, things you haven’t asked for from him, you’re surprised when he offers to help you tick them off.

— The Dog of War by @/bits-and-babs

When Ellie is taken by David, Joel breaks open the part of him locked away since his hunter days. As the guilt eats him alive, you try to help him subdue the black dogs of mental warfare.

— The Revenant Wife by @pettyprocrastination

Ellie knows very little of Joel and even less of the wife he had before the outbreak. When she finally meets you, its just as much as shock to her as it is to your husband. 

— The Way We Fight by @/cupofjoel

you and joel love taking your frustrations out on each other—in more ways than one

— Toyin’ With Them Older Guys by @proxima-writes

Joel Miller is the grumpy bartender and owner of your favorite bar near campus, where you attend trivia every Tuesday night. Thinking there’s no way Joel could return your feelings, your friend suggests trying out Tinder. / But when you bring them to the bar for a date, they keep leaving mid date with no explanation. / Maybe there’s something Joel isn’t telling you after all.

— Trust Fall by @/tinycozycomforts

This, that was a shy thing at first, set into motion by some passing remark you’d made all those months ago—that he would do anything for you if you just asked nice enough.

— Two by @/the-scandalorian

— Watch Party by @/sweetercalypso

renting a Halloween movie turns into a nightmare when poltergeist!Joel Miller crawls out of your TV

— Way Too Damn Needy by @/cupofjoel

— What I Want by @/proxima-writes

joel comes home from a rough day of patrol and you know just what he needs.

— When You're Reading Me by @/psychedelic-ink

If you had to make a list of things Joel Miller might buy you as a gift— nipple clamps, would not be a part of it. 

— Wicked Games by @inklore

relationships are built on trust. favors, kindness, and hands meant to help, not maim. there’s no room for dishonesty, games, or ploys. that’s not the storybook way of things or how life should be. but maybe those rules only mattered when you weren’t living in a world that’s gone to shit |  joel miller x smuggler!reader

— Wish You Were Here by @macfrog

you and joel skip jackson’s annual holiday party in favor of some alone time. (not that kind you filthy animals it’s the HOLIDAYS)

— Woods by @/frannyzooey

— You Know I Don’t Mean It by @joelscruff

you and joel get off together. that’s pretty much it. you also have some unresolved feelings for him and he’s being closed off.

— You Take My Self Control by @/cupofjoel

your first act of brutality leaves you reeling, but you’d do it all over again if it meant saving joel’s life. in the aftermath, you realize you’ve started to crave that violence and it terrifies you. joel steps in to satisfy your craving.

— Your Summer Dream by @/swiftispunk

fresh on the heels of the worst breakup of your life, you find an unexpected kindred spirit in joel miller, who's agreed to tag along for seven days to a tropical resort with you and your parents.

if you haven’t read these, you need to! and please support these amazing fics & writers by reading, reblogging & commenting! 💕

[its-your-mind]

This is a call to action for all the PJO girlies (gender neutral) that I know are sleeper agents on this webbed site

Go read Trials of Apollo. Go do it. Do it right now.

I know what you’re thinking. “Tbh I didn’t love Rick’s writing towards the end of Heroes of Olympus” “There’s no Percy so why bother” “All of the Argo II crew are kinda OOC” and listen my friends. You are so valid to have those opinions. I felt the same way after Blood of Olympus. But listen to me. Look at me.

Now that you have had some time away, you must give these books another try. For me. For Uncle Rick. For the demon baby grain spirit who is only able to say his own name (Peaches).

Do not worry friends, I do not expect you to read just based on my say-so - I also provide:

A list of reasons why you (yes you) should go read the Trials of Apollo series right now gogogo:

(Spoiler warning - all broad plot things that you learn early on, but I know some people (including me) avoid that shit at all costs)

All the chapters are titled in bad haiku. Ya know that one scene in Titan’s Curse where Apollo just starts reciting apropos of nothing? That’s every chapter title. They’re all so bad it’s amazing.

Apollo is so up his own ass about everything, and it’s so cool to experience the same world through the eyes of someone who is not used to being in amongst the chaos

Oh yeah the plot. That’s a reason to read it.

Okay so

Basically Zeus continues his streak of being a shitty shit parent and decides to blame like… every bad thing that has happened on Apollo, and punish him by turning him mortal and enslaving him to a demigod girl named Meg who is a garbage gremlin with a little demon baby guard named Peaches (see above)

And like the A plot is they gotta save the oracles from shitty old Romans who wanna take over the world (stop me if you’ve heard this one before)

But like the B plot is about what it means to discover that you’ve fucked up, you’ve made mistakes, you’ve hurt people, and you gotta fucking own up to that shit

But also

You do not deserve to be punished for every horrible thing that has ever happened because of you, or even around you, and when a parental or authority figure in your life tells you that, they are an abuser and they are wrong

And yet

It can be so hard to fully separate yourself from them. Because for so long, they were all you had.

But that’s okay, because when you start to learn that the people who were supposed to care for you and love you were not actually doing that, there are people around you who will love you, who will support you, who will pick you up and hold you close and make sure you know that you are okay

And they can’t fix you

But they can give you the safe space to fix yourself

hmm that was an essay about themes and metaphors BUT THATS WHY YOU SHOULD READ IT

also there’s a wikipedia arrow who only speaks in Elizabethan prose (in all caps)

OH ALSO ALSO you get to see Will and Nico being a CUTE AS FUCK couple in the first book. Nico smiles. Also makes skeletons grow out of the ground when people annoy him. Fuck I love this little gay death boy so much.

AND. You get to see so MANY of your old friends. And they still! Get! Plot! And! Character! Development!! Even though they are only there for a little bit

OH OH OH there are two old lesbians who run a halfway house for people who are tangled up in magic shit with nowhere else to go

Did I mention Peaches? I did. He’s my favorite.

OH ALSO. This is “unreliable narrator” executed SO FUCKING WELL. Like, all narrators are unreliable. But Apollo used to be a FUCKING GOD. He has not had to deal with the reality of death all that much. He’s used to people praising his name and bowing down at his feet. But that ain’t happening!! And he is Unhappy about that!! But it also lets there be such a clear juxtaposition between what Apollo believes about himself and about the world and what is really true, which is such a wonderful way to write about recovery from trauma.

Ahem

Anyway it’s just real good Uncle Rick continues to knock it out of the park but he just did something different and we (at least I) needed some space from OG PJO fan brain before I could appreciate how fucking awesome this series is.

OH OH OH and if you like audiobooks Robbie Daymond (hello CR mutuals - yes, this is the one who is our beloved Blue Boi who we (Orym) so desperately need returned) is the audiobook narrator and he is. So fucking good. Absolutely NAILS the dramatic-ass-inner-monologue of this dramatic ass ex-deity. Also nails all the other voices as well. 15/10 audiobook narration I’m lichrally gonna go listen to other books JUST cuz he reads them.

okay why the fuck are you still here. GO. GET THESE BOOKS. If your public library does Libby you can absolutely get them on there. GO FORTH.

[arisingonmorningsinnocent]

Years later, I still think “Poetry Week” was one of the cleverest things the WTNV writing team ever did. Like they took an episode concept that was literally just “Night Vale citizens write poetry and Cecil reads it on the radio! Cute, right? :)” and made it about people living in a dystopian surveillance state using one of their rare opportunities for self-expression to express the fear and paranoia and low grade trauma that shape their daily lives through absolutely horrifying poems. 

Poems about censorship, about anger against the state, about being forcibly silenced (“The town criers have cross-stitched their mouths shut and stapled their eyes open.”), about being watched, being harmed, being turned against the people you love but are unable to fully trust. And all interspersed with Cecil’s cheery, meaningless compliments on writing that he clearly isn’t thinking about (or at least is pretending not to understand the subtext of, which is my personal headcanon). 

Honestly I kind of want to do a full textual analysis of Katherine Ciel’s poem (under the cut) alone, because it’s a beautiful piece of writing where it’s so clear how hard the fictional poet is trying to veiledly describe what it’s like to live with Night Vale-typical level of fear and tension and random, unpredictable moments of surreal violence. The way people become numb to the horror (“Many find it difficult to breathe/without the atmosphere,/but we knew how;/we just stopped breathing”) but also the way that same numbness cuts them off from other people and makes intimacy with others into a terrifying, monstrous thing. And Cecil reads this as a traffic report. I am trying SO hard not to write a whole essay about this. 

But my favorite thing about “Poetry Week” is that it’s no more disturbing than any other Night Vale episode. Same humor, same beautiful prose, like it’s not on a different level than the rest of the show and I can and often do listen to it as just one more soothing, funny WTNV episode. Which is fun because it’s a meta-parallel to how in-universe Poetry Week is a fun community event to bring the town together, but also a rare and precious opportunity for tacit protest against an oppressive regime.

And I just… this podcast is so good, you know? Man. It’s so good. I want to eat it.

On Sunday, a lambent crevice

opened up in the street outside my house.

By Tuesday, birds were flying into it.

“I probably won’t miss you,” my mother said.

“I’m only interested in the end of the world,” I replied.

Many find it difficult to breathe

without the atmosphere,

but we knew how;

we just stopped breathing.

We’re at the Moonlite All-Nite Diner,

and they’re serving up fruit

from the plants growing out of the waitress.

The closed sign whispers, “Please, don’t touch me.”

We watch bodies fall to the ground outside

like deep sea creatures surfacing.

You turn to me and ask,

“Do you ever think about suicide?”

I look away from you and close my eyes,

eat the raspberries to confuse the blood in my mouth.

Now you’re in the only car in the parking lot at midnight

and you’re watching me throw stones at the moon

which hangs low in the sky

so that he can look into your house.

Your sister tried to touch him

from her window once,

and he flinched.

Now he and the oceans watch her with a quiet concern.

The lilac sky is trying to rest her head on his shoulder,

all trees gradually growing through her.

A hummingbird whispers to you,

“Be careful. Under her dress is her skin,”

and then builds his nest in the middle of the highway.

I look back to you,

and you close your eyes.

[2kmps]

MIDNIGHT RENDEZVOUS

alucard|adrian tepès x reader | 2k

synopsis; you sought out each other to help numb the pain of the horrors you’ve endured, but something about tonight was different.

story warnings; detail + prose heavy, explicit content, very dreary atmosphere, religious themes + abandonment of god, alucard takes charge here, mostly sotn-coded, mdni!

A knock came at your door that night, stirring you from your trance and musings that you recorded on thin sheets of yellow paper. The notebook beneath your hands, bound in a soft burgundy leather with delicate swirls embossed along the crisp edges, was a way of processing the horrors you’d endured since this all began.

You never spared any gruesome detail, be it the acrid malodor of carnage and death, eviscerated cadavers with missing limbs piled as tall as towers, or the ways all their faces were warped in agony. Worst of all, so many had begged with their eyes rolled heavenward, gazes frozen to a morose sky for a God who abandoned them.

Perhaps that’s why you had left to begin with—burned your cloth, all of the books the Church had given you. How could you support a God and an institution who only watched people die, despite lifetimes of devotion and selflessness?

This was your way of saving yourself, albeit twisted in a way. If you renounced those beliefs, that life, and tried to scald away traces that it had ever reached you—maybe then you wouldn’t succumb to the same fate as everyone else.

You were selfish and a coward, this you knew well. Still, you muscled a smile to the corners of your lips to greet the man at the door. This was becoming a regular occurrence for you both now; these late night rendezvous that didn’t amount to much more than skin touching, and pleasure numbing pain and memories.

“You’ve been writing again,” came the dulcet tones of his voice, quiet yet simultaneously as though smooth as silk. His eyes flicked first from your writing desk tucked far into a corner, lit simply by the warm glow from a lantern, and then finally to you.

There were few details you could discern on his face in the near darkness except the intensity of his gaze—how it seared into you, ravaged you without his hands anywhere on your body. “Does it still haunt you?”

“Has there been a time where it hasn’t, Alucard?” Your laugh was airy, dismissive, as you reached for both his hands to guide him after you towards the bed. It was astonishing how routine this had become in such a short amount of time; it felt mechanical, practiced. “I’m assuming you’re not here for idle chitchat and a nice cup of tea. Although, I managed to swipe a nice bit from my last hire. I’m sure a man of your taste would enjoy it.”

“Another time, perhaps.” This time, he spoke so softly it could’ve been mistaken for a whisper carried on the wind.

You weren’t often in the business of prying into his feelings, what perturbed or kept him awake at night as he wasn’t the type to divulge that with you, anyway.

Tonight felt different, however, in the way his voice seemed so frail and cracked with just the few words he’d spoken to you already. When the warmth of his hands encircled yours far more firmly than they ever had before, that spurred a jump in your chest, a flutter in your stomach, even a concern you wouldn’t have otherwise normally felt.

So, you let those feelings motivate you tonight.

You moved your hands first to his face, guiding your thumbs across his smooth skin near his mouth until you were able to coax his head low to press your lips against his own. They were gentle pecks at first, quickly morphing into something far fiercer, yet so slow. You busied your hands by trailing your fingertips lower, barely touching his jaw and sides of his neck, following the divots and shape of his collarbone until you were able to feel his shirt. With each button you unfastened, his breath grew heavier and the kiss grew in fervor until there was nothing left to tweak loose but what was on his pants.

You didn’t focus there, however, and roved lower until you were able to splay your fingers over his crotch to the bulge straining under the fabric.

He shifted against your touch, moving away at first as though sensitive to the sensation, sucking in air through his teeth. The next moment, he moved himself along with the rhythm of your fingers massaging him, squeezing slightly. You wondered how long he had been thinking about you before knocking on your door. How long he had been distracting himself from his own torment by imagining what it’d feel like to get his fill.

“Mm, you’re so deprived that just touching you gets you going.” You were affixed to his pants now, hastily pulling apart the buttons until they loosened around his hips. For a moment, you focused there, tracing the contours of his smooth skin and the protrusions of bone to make such an exquisite shape. You were eager to take him. “Just relax for me.”

It came as a surprise to you when he took your wrist and forced you away from his erection. As your back sunk into the down mattress below, you were suddenly aware of how his hair feathered across your warm flesh, surrounding both your faces much like a curtain made of spun gold. It was that moment when you finally fixated with his gaze. Those light eyes drawing you into such immeasurable depths of desire and suffering that you couldn’t will yourself to look away.

“Not tonight”—his voice was a strained whisper now—“it may be selfish, but allow me to be close to you.”

His warm breath fanned out across your moist lips, making them tingle as well as the pressure between your legs swell. You knew he wouldn’t entertain you with an answer as to what was bothering him, so you gave him a nod in response while you made work of sliding his shirt from his shoulders. He was quick to discard it in a heap on the floor, soon followed by his pants, and the clothing he shucked from your body before adhering his lips to your neck.

The wet smack of his mouth roaming your neck, gliding lower towards your chest only made you squirm beneath him. The work of his lips left a searing trail of heat in its wake, where he would linger and suck on your skin felt like they were embedded in you, branding you as his. Your eyes were glazed and unfocused, staring at the inky nothingness of the ceiling while you marveled at how he touched you.

You were sure he had you dripping.

“Alucard, I’m done waiting,” you groaned, tempted to reach down to handle the matter yourself. “I know you’re ready…”

There came no response at first, rather his lips trailed from your stomach to your chest, slowly up the length of your neck to where his hot breath caressed the shell of your ear. “That’s not my name.”

You exhaled shakily, “What?”

“Alucard… is not my name,” he replied, firmly. You thought your breath snagged in your throat when the tip of his cock pushed against the inside of your thigh. “I want to hear you say my name.”

It was quite peculiar that he was requesting this of you now, after as many times you both had laid in the same bed. This was a newfound vulnerability that he was sharing with you, although at a time not best suited for it. You did have to question if the times you had moaned out his name before—the name Alucard—had bothered him.

You weren’t going to deny him this. So, you reached between your bodies for his cock, guiding him just shy of your entrance with your thumb circling the slit. His body tensed hard, your spine shivered when his breath quivered in your ear and he emitted a near silent hiss.

“I want you to fuck me, Adrian.”

He didn’t plan to make you wait.

Your hips were hiked a little higher on his waist, giving you the chance to stroke his length several times as you coaxed him inside of you. Those first few thrusts were always a bit clumsy for you both, a reunion of your bodies joining after a time apart with pure bliss following afterward. He was not the roughest lover you’ve ever had, but there was something about the way he fucked you and his level of attentiveness that easily made him the best.

The empty space in the room filled with the euphonious chorus of panting and moans, and the wood headboard groaning as it repeatedly struck the wall.

All of it really egged on the mood for you, encouraged you to meet his thrusts with all the more ferocity, as well as feel lower to give yourself multiple hard strokes that made your legs tremble. His fingertips dug divots in your hips the longer he went, the sound of skin slapping together and your pants were an enthralling combination.

At that point, your knuckles had bled of color while you held onto the headboard. The wood was slick with sweat from your palms just as the rest of your body was. Undoubtedly, his stamina was far above your own, but when you reached out for him to feel his muscles move under your fingers, there was already a thin sheet moistening his skin and plastering his hair to his body.

His expression was delicious, lips parted while his teeth were bared slightly for you to see. You couldn’t say you weren’t enticed by his fangs, but more so by the way his eyes were clenched and eyebrows drawn in tightly to form a heavy crease.

He tried to keep himself quiet, you could see that with how often his throat jumped to stifle them. When he would look at you, his attention was often drawn to how you fucked yourself, the practiced work of your fingers.

The show was phenomenal, but he wanted you closer. After a while, he hoisted you upright from the mattress by the waist with your legs still secured around his. You were spread wide across his thighs as his cock pushed into you deeper still, forcing you to bite back a gasp and to hold his shoulders for support as you met his thrusts.

This was different for you, considerably more intimate than any previous encounter you’d hate with him, yet undeniably incredible. With each bounce you made on him, the air pushed from your lungs was a rapturous moan that was growing with intensity the tighter your gut squeezed and your frenzied need to finish.

“Adrian…” you managed to call his name, luring his eyes onto you as you twisted his long hair around your hands and kissed him. It was sloppy and wet midst how he was pounding into your body. Your breaths mingled with his, saliva meshed and hung in thin strands between your lips.

The end climbed higher and higher until you were at your peak; noises of sex were deafened by your own sheer pleasure of the moment. It started from the tips of your toes to the top of your head, those waves of ecstasy crashed down on you hard, making your head buzz and feel nothing except a hot white.

Your legs shook violently with your release, walls clenching repeatedly around his length, arousing a far more audible moan from him this time. He didn’t last much longer after you, nails biting into your back while he held you flush to him. Those last pumps were all he needed before you felt him stiffen, and then jerk against your body with a hard grunt. It was hard to ignore how his cock pulsed inside you, filling you with cum and warmth that spilled out onto your thighs.

He was gentle as he laid you back onto the mattress, joining you at your side while stroking one of your hands. As it often was, few words were exchanged between you both as you basked in the glow of the peaceful moment.

divider by; @/anlian-aishang

reposted from my deleted blog officiallytheduchess/cardeneiv

[cipheramnesia]

Part 4: A Midnight Summer Dream

a story by @rox-and-prose and @cipheramnesia

Luna was a pale sliver of paint in the stars, a slip of the brush in the forever of the sky.

"That's it," Michele Loren said. "This is where we head our separate ways for the moment."

Laika took her hand of the control vines for Genghis Khan as she stared wordlessly. The earth civ moon, original version, a system unto itself. She had devoured all she could find about Luna, the multifacet god, in hopes to understand the call she felt in the days after leaving home. She'd put the hope of seeing Luna with her own eyes at the bottom of a box and buried the idea. Her muzzle hung slightly agape as she searched for something momentous to say, to share with GK how much it meant to be in the here and now.

She noticed Sy was watching her, and the dryad smiled and glanced away when he saw her seeing him. She blushed and her face felt hot, and she forgot her train of thought.

"I never imagined I'd rob the moon," she said.

"You're only robbing a very, very small part of it," Cat Nguyen corrected.

The crew of the Paperclip were sharing the bridge of Genghis Kahn, with varying expressions of perplexity on their faces watching the werewolf executing the peculiar movements and footwork involved in manipulating the various switches and nerves and pedals essential to a Pilot. Even Doc seemed entranced, silent through all the system jumps, or structure solutions, or whatever GK liked to call them. All except Dandridge who returned to the Paperclip immediately in a sullen huff, vowing never to set foot on GK ever again. Laika was going to need to find out what exactly GK had done to piss him off so bad.

Now they were gathering up helmets and and gloves for their envirosuits, looking around for just the right way to excuse themselves from the room which Laika had seen enough of before she was eight to recognize. "Okay," Loren said. "Well, you know. This should go fine, just stick with the plan, keep it simple, you know."

"I can do better than that," Doc (Laika still hadn't figured out if the woman was Blake Sloane, or Sloane Blake, or something else), pushing her bracelets along with the sleeve of her purple, double breasted, knitted suit jacket. "I can stick the plan to me." There was a mess of writing which Laika deeply hoped was meant to look smeared and half erased on Doc's forearm.

"That's, that's a great- Good job Sloane."

"Doctor Blake, why can't you ever get my name right?!"

"I'm sorry. Doctor Blake. Fantastic work as always." Loren turned to Laika. "Look, I don't know how to uh. You know how much work this has been for me. Well, just be careful. Make sure next time I see you, you have the godseye or Doc, or both. Or don't let me see you again?"

"Is that a threat," Sy asked.

"Think of it as friendly advice," Loren said.

"And also as a threat," Nguyen added, despite Loren's sharp look. "What?" she shot back at his frown.

"Do I have do go with these guys?" Sy looked at Laika who said "no" at the same time as Loren and Nguyen said "yes."

"We'll keep our end," Nguyen said, "along with your friend. You keep yourself along with Doc."

"Who you wouldn't be sorry to see killed, I gather."

"We'd prefer she come out of this mostly intact," Loren sounded almost apologetic.

"Okay, okay, fine. Let's not draw this out, I get it."

Loren breathed a small sigh of relief and Nguyen just smiled. "We'll get going then," he said.

"Take care of yourself," Laika gave Sy a shoulder pat as he walked by, then impulsively pulled him into a hug.

"I'll be good," he said into fur. "You have the hard job."

"Pulling off the heist?"

"Being alone with, uh, the Doc."

Loren and Nguyen waited at the entryway to the bridge. Laika set down Sy from the hug and stood her full height. "Oh," she said. "Before you go? GK, please threaten them."

Its voice coming from nowhere as usual, GK said, "Thank you Laika, for this commendable request. Captain Michele Loren of the Paperclip, please prepare for receiving a threatening missive."

"What?"

"Captain Michele Loren, Pilot Cat Nguyen, and the remaining crew of the ship Paperclip not present aboard myself, I am placing you under the advisement that should even the smallest fraction of an injury occur to Pilot Laika Blackwood, or Sy Drangea, electrical engineer, I will track you to the end of earth civilization space, and to parts unknown. You will never know safety or peace for as long as you remain alive. I will find your dreams, and take them from you. There will be no power up to and including the total heat death of this universe which will stop me from extracting your lives in payment. If you die, I will find yours souls. I will tear apart the essence of your beings. I will disperse the electrons of your bodies into every star of this universe. I will burn your souls to ash. Nothing will remain. Please ensure Sy returns safely to me upon our next meeting."

Loren stared, open mouthed.

"Uh," said Nguyen, "You're... really good at that."

"Thank you," said GK. "Your praise is insignificant to me. Please have a safe trip."

[flem17ng]

Could you write basically anything for Jessie Fleming? I’m obsessed with her atm x

Chance encounters JFlem x Reader

Thank you anon! I have the biggest crush on her rn it’s not even funny. I hope you enjoy (also please note that i’m still getting used to writing in second person so i’m sorry if the grammar is insane)

chelsea!jessie fleming x Arsenal!reader

summary: reader has just signed for Arsenal as a midfielder. she meets jessie at her starting debut against chelsea. a few chance encounters after and their relationship builds. 

warnings: Kinda very long. 

word count: 3.2k

“Y/n if you don’t hurry Jonas is gonna find someone to fill that starting spot!”

“no he won’t Leah, don’t be a dick.”

Leah laughed from where she leaned against the doorway. You two were the only ones left in there, everyone else was on their way through the tunnels to warm up. 

“come on kid, you’re great! there is a reason why you’re on this team ok. remember that”

You sighed but nodded, Leah was right as always. But that didn’t stop the feeling of nerves that crept into your belly and up your back and neck. The last time you had been this nervous was… well you couldn’t remember when. 

You stood and corrected your shin pad slightly before straightening up. 

“I know.” you breathed and took a deep breath, “ok. i’m good. let’s go williamson!”

You slapped her on the back at you stepped passed her and into the hallway. 

on the other side was the other team, chelsea’s, locker room. 

“god i hate this stadium, they put us so close together!” Leah whined as you both walked past. You didn’t answer, instead peering into the room. you caught sight of a short brown ponytail and a blue kit before you were rudely tugged forwards. 

“jeez Leah! you’re the one who stayed behind to wait for me! what’s with all the impatience” you mumbled but trudged on. It was a big game, you wanted to get warm. 

***

Walking out as part of the opening lineup was the most surreal experience you had ever had. The crowed roared like a stormy sea of blue and red. Chelsea fans screamed at their captain while the gooners ran through player chants. Across from you, on chelsea’s side, stood the opposing attacking midfielder. You could feel your palms sweating, your heart racing, but you spared a glance at the girl- before promptly almost stopping breathing. 

Jessie Fleming was standing about a metre away from you: eyes forward, jaw clenched, hair in a neat ponytail. You’d seen her around before (and if you were being really honest, you’d always thought she was gorgeous) But now she was standing right next to you. 

“head in the game y/l/n” Katie called from behind you. 

Jessie looked at you before you could look away, and curled her lips up in a friendly smile. You felt your stomach flip at the sight and gave her an awkward wave in return before facing the front. 

So what if she was gorgeous? So what if she happened to be the player Jonas told you to mark? You had a derby the win. 

***

Look. You hadn’t seen her coming so really, was it your fault that you ended up on top of her in the last 5 minutes of the game? maybe. 

The game was as tough as you knew it was going to be: Kerr was running up front aiming for the net while the chelsea defenders had locked into a solid formation. By half time it was still nil all. By second half both teams had gotten reckless; Beth took a hard tumble that had the crowd on their feet while Ashleigh Lawrence on the blues side had been sent off with a suspected concussion. 

so there you were, midfielding in a violent London derby, 2 all with just minutes left to go. 

You touched the ball and took off running, hoping to pass it off to Katie. Distantly you could hear Steph screaming at you (“MAN ON, MAN ON y/n!!”) but before you could proses her words the ball was stolen in a lightning slide-tackle. The force took you off balence and you stumbled forward into the player who was just starting to stand up. 

Time seemed to slow down as you fell forwards: the ball rolled away, the grass was a lot greener up close and oh god were you falling on the person you thought you were?!

You hit something hard and warm with a thud. 

“ow” Jessie groaned, having been sandwiched between the ground and yourself. 

You looked at her, horrified at the situation, and found her with her eyes shut and grimacing. 

“oh my god, I’m so sorry” the whistle had blown but you ignored it, scrambling off the Canadian and holding out your hand to help her up. 

she cracked open her eye and smiled lopsidedly. 

“hey i’m the one that tackled you!”

You shuffled, hand still outstretched. Jessie laughed and look your hand with a firm grip, letting herself be pulled up. 

“true. Maybe i should be rolling around on the ground a bit more to prove that. Lord knows we need that penalty” You grinned at her and slapped her arm before pulling away. 

“You wish gooner”

The whistle blew again and you both turned to the referee. you still had some time in this game. 

***

Jessie limped into the Blues locker room, hair falling out of her pony tail and cheeks a flaming pink. The game hadn’t gone in her favour, something she took hard. The tumble at the end of the game had left her feeling beaten and bruised. 

“jess! nice work ok there mate!” Sam slapped her shoulder with a smile. Jessie just nodded and began to pull off her shirt with one hand. At this point in the night she just wanted to get home with her dog and a large tub of chocolate ice cream. Slowly she packed up her stuff, pulling off her socks and shoes. she was halfway through her post game ritual when guro sat with a thud next to her. 

“tough tumble you took just then”

“oh it was nothing really. just a badly timed tackle is all.” Jessie shrugged. the tackle had been perfect but she wasn’t about to blame you for it. 

“have you met her before. y/n?” Guro questioned. 

Jessie felt her cheeks go red again and hoped she wouldn’t notice. 

“not properly no. we’re in similar circles”

“hm. she’s cute” Guro winked and stood, grabbing her bag. “see ya on Tuesday jess!” 

Jessie opened her mouth, thought, and shut it again. She felt her ears burn a little. of course she knew you where cute, she’d thought that the second she had seen your transfer announcement, she’d known you were gorgeous the moment she had seen you in a bar months ago during a holiday break. And she’d been thinking about you since she saw you sitting up on the starting roster for the derby. 

A knock on the locker room door startled her out of her (gay) thoughts. 

“hey Fleming? Sorry i know i’m technically not allowed to be here…” Your voice carried through the almost empty room. You stood in the doorway, looking very out of place in your arsenal jacket. 

“no not at all. come in please” jessie managed to get out, half in shock and half in disbelief. You walked forward to where she sat, one leg stretched out, kit half on, bag half packed. 

“i just wanted to make sure you were ok. I fell pretty hard on you back there” You fiddled with your fingers and glanced down at jessie as if checking for any bruises. 

“eh, no worse than anything else. Just tired mostly” She looked up at you and you noticed how dark her eyes looked. she did seem tired, weighed down even. You hummed and sat gingerly on the bench next to her. the change room was empty now, and quiet. Jessie rubbed her knee with a wince  You watched the side of her face for a second before reaching into your own bag and pulling out a small ice pack that you kept for emergency’s. Gently, you touched her hand and moved it off her knee, placing the ice pack down instead. 

“thanks” jessie muttered, holding the ice pack to her joint. 

“Good job tonight.” you half whispered, scared to raise your voice in the quiet room, “i had a lot of fun playing with you” You stood up and brushed your pants awkwardly. Jessie smiled and nodded but didn’t look convinced. 

“see you around y/l/n”

“bet on it Fleming”

***

*ARSENAL WIN LONDON DERBY. 3-2 AGAINST CHELSEA*

the newspaper sat on the park bench, a light wind rustling its pages and the recently fallen leaves on the path. You smiled when you saw it, remembering the excitement of the game, the final goal and the bar night that came after. You went to pick up the paper when a dog started barking. 

“i’m so sorry he doesn’t normally do that” a woman called apologetically. 

“no problem really” you stated looking up from the paper to the golden retriever that was sniffing at your feet. “aren’t you a handsome boy?” you cooed before looking up at the owner. 

“y/n? oh my god i didn’t recognise you out of your kit!” Jessie grinned at you, both hands on her dog’s leash as she attempted to keep him from running off. She was wearing a sweatshirt and loose jeans, her hair was out in waves around her jaw. 

“Jessie gosh i didn’t see you!” you hoped you didn’t sound as breathless as you felt, though you doubted it considering how hot your cheeks were. 

She looked down at the paper on the bench and snorted.

“still revelling in your glory then?” you looked down, guilty. “It’s alright, it was a hell of a debut”

“even if i fell on my face at the end?”

“I believe you fell on my face actually” Jessie giggled, her cheeks going rosy. 

“hey now i said i was sorry!”

“I didn’t say it was a bad thing did i?” You looked at her with raised eyebrows, she just raised hers back. You would have thought she was bantering if it wasn’t for the steady blush going from her freckled cheeks to her ears. 

The dog woofed loudly, snapping you both back to reality. 

“um so, free day for you aswell?” Jessie asked now trying to look anywhere but at you. 

“yeah. Coach let us have a day off for ‘celebration’.”

“hate to break it to you Y/l/n but this isn’t the pub” Jessie motioned around the park (relatively empty because it was a Monday morning)

“Well… I would much rather be out and about than in some stuffy pub at 9am. Why are you free?”

“I think Emma wanted to give us time to reflect on the game. I’m sure we’ll be in for a lecture tomorrow.” Jessie pulled the leed and motioned for you to walk with her. The park was one of those little ones you only find in London: gated and stuck between large apartments and tiny cafes. 

“you played amazingly though.” You stated, sticking your hands in your pockets. Jessie snorted and shook her head. 

“I played pretty shit. You don’t have to butter me up.”

“I’m not! I’ve seen you play a million times before and yesterday was definitely one of the best”

“a million times? really? I didn’t know you where a fan” jessie smirked. 

“oh please Fleming don’t look so smug or i’ll find some other boring Canadian to bother”

Jessie scoffed and looked at you with feigned anger, “Boring? You’re the one spending your celebration day in a park with the enemy” 

You laughed and nodded in agreement. The truth was: You had been invited for breakfast with the team but crowds weren’t really your thing. And maybe you couldn’t get a certain brunette off your mind but that wasn’t anyone’s business. 

“well would it make it any better if i asked the enemy to get some coffee with me?”

***

The cafe, like the park, was empty. an old man sat in the corner with a crossword and the teenager at the counter looked half asleep on his feet. The dog was allowed in and now sat peacefully by jessie’s feet, his big brown eyes looking out the window for a squirrel to watch. 

“what’s his name?” You asked, tipping your head towards the retriever. 

“moose” 

“moose? oh my god you’re so Canadian. Next you’re gonna tell me you have a cat called maple syrup.” Jessie laughed and shook her head. 

“i do have a cat back home- but her name is Bear.”

“oh my god that’s almost worse.” you laughed and patted moose on the head. “you like animals then?”

Jessie’s eyes lit up and she leaned closer. 

“i love them. anything in nature! hiking, camping. And any animal i love!” Her eyes sparkled and she took a sip of her drink (cold brew, an order a friend from the Canadian team had introduced to her). 

“wait yeah i forgot. You’re crazy smart aren’t you?” You asked. Of course she was, smart, talented, god damn ethereal in the morning sunlight and apparently an animal lover aswell. 

“well… i went to university. engineering, environmental science.” she smiled sheepishly, “it’s funny because i majored in mechanical engineering but i would love to have a farm one day” She smiled thinking about it. You pictured it for a moment: Jessie in a flannel and cowboy hat, dog by her side and an axe or something in her hand. 

“I think you would be good at that” You responded, trying not to think about lumber jack jessie for too long. 

She smiled and took another long sip from her cup. 

“I didn’t know you lived near here?” Jessie asked. 

“yeah I’ve been staying with Leah for a few weeks. I’m hoping to get an apartment within a month or so though.” rooming with leah was harder than it sounded. she was high maintenance. “what about you? do you live with anyone? boyfriend?”

jessie snorted,  her coffee almost spraying over the table. She looked at you for a moment with a raised eyebrow before realising you weren’t kidding. 

“oh you’re serious? No i don’t have a boyfriend. I um. No. i don’t… I don’t really do boys at all really” Jessie blushed and shook her head. 

“OH! oh god my bad! I mean neither do i. I didn’t want to assume, you know get my hopes up-“ You quickly slapped a hand over your mouth. 

“get your hopes up eh?” jessie smirked. You panicked for a second, Looking at her and then the door and then the old man. Jeez that was real smooth. 

“What i mean is: Sometimes you just don’t know. I didn’t want to hope that you… That you were gay because we might not relate right!” was it hot in the cafe? you were pretty sure you were sweating. Did jessie buy it? why did she look disappointed. It was at that moment that your phone began to ring. 

“Look jess i’ll have to catch you later! Leah is wondering why i didn’t get the coffee beans she told me to get!”

“Leah doesn’t drink coffee”

“yes. right. well i still must be off” you got up and handed your card to the waiter, paying for both you and jessie’s drinks without a thought. Jessie watched you for a moment feeling a little hurt. Did you have a problem with her being gay? That didn’t make sense but she couldn’t think of another reason that you had gone cold. 

“Alright. Thanks for the coffee eh? I’ll pay you back another time.”

“sure. another time Fleming” you smiled and patter Moose one last time before heading out the door leaving jessie both confused, slightly hurt and all together very queer. 

***

It was Millie that ended up dragging her to the club a few weeks later. If it was up to her, Jessie would have stayed in watching star wars with a bowl of popcorn. But alas, her Captain had other plans and so she found herself, half drunk and grumpy in a crowded booth on a friday night. She was wearing a black button down shirt and slacks (the only smart outfit she owned that wasn’t sweats and a tshirt). The music was Thumping, Lights flashing and her head was feeling way too light for this early in the evening. 

“hey jeff. I think i spotted your girl on the dance floor earlier” Sam shouted teasingly. By now the whole team had noticed jessie’s little crush. 

“she’s not my girl sam. She literally ran away when she found out i was gay” Jessie rolled her eyes and sunk further into her seat. So maybe she had been thinking about that day at the cafe a little more than normal. 

“oh my god you’re an idiot fleming.” Guro stated. “she’s gay! She blushes like an idiot every-time you’re around! go find her and dance!”

“yeah right. i’m going to dance but just to get away from you” jessie stood and walked into the dance floor, finding the music and letting herself move further away from her friends in the booth. It was all she could think about for the last few weeks. Every post she saw about you, every song made her feel dizzy. She felt like a fool. 

“Jessie? I didn’t know you would be out tonight” Your voice cut through the music and jessie turned sharply to face you, her mouth falling open. You were wearing a tight dress that clung to your curves, the lights of the club lit up your face in strange ways, highlighting your lips, your eyes… jessie froze. 

“look jess i feel really bad about that day. I was being an idiot. I don’t know why i freaked out the way i did. I mean of course i wanted you to be gay! You’re the most amazingly beautiful woman i’ve ever seen! god i’m just yapping now but-“

“dance with me” Jessie cut you off, eyes still wide as she watched you. 

“pardon?”

“dance with me y/n”

She stepped closer into you her hands coming to rest on your waist where she ran her nails softly over the silk of your dress. The music was loud and fast yet you swayed together, impossibly close. 

you put your hands in her neck, your fingers tangling into the roots of her hair making her eyes flutter closed. 

“Why are you looking at me like that?” you laughed nervously. Jessie’s eyes were on yours, pupils large and dark. The crowd melted away as she pushed forward and kissed you. 

It was as if all the air had been sucked from your lungs. Her lips were soft and warm and tasted like mixer and vodka. Her grip tightened on your waist and you kissed her back hard. Your finger slipped into her hair as she gasped into your mouth. It was hot and messy and you needed it. You kissed her like a woman starved. 

When you finally broke apart you breathed heavily, mouth pink and cheeks flushed. 

“fuck” she gasped, her eyes glued to your mouth. 

“yeah” you laughed cradling her face in your hands. 

“for the record i think you’re really beautiful.” jessie laughed, suddenly looking bashful. You grinned and placed another kiss on her swollen lips. 

“let’s get out of here Fleming. I think I need to show you just how beautiful you are”

[lemon-natalia]

Gideon the Ninth Reaction - Chapter 20

i just wanna apologise in advance for how long these posts are getting lol, i have a lot of Thoughts about this book

oh wait nope they are going back to the creepy lab where two people just got murdered. great plan guys

Dulcinea wanting to team up surprised me a little, but it really shouldn't have. she's been paying a lot of attention to the Ninth, and especially Gideon.

'thousands of years after you're gone ... is when you really live' this is such a different, almost warmer, perspective on death and necromancy, and i can see why it appeals to Dulcinea specifically, who's clearly had to come to terms with her mortality pretty early on in life. but its also part of the more disturbing theme that the past never really goes away, and can't help but view this line along the same lines of discovering the ancient study last chapter, and the ancient laboratory, and Canaan House in general, which are only just now having their secrets revealed, and the terrible consequences of those secrets becoming apparent, after thousands of years

'she grasped a railing, leaned over, and proffered her hand' well this is getting very courtly romance

ah yes lets go through the door decorated with a swirl of human teeth, i'm sure there's happy fun times to be had in there. harrow, resident goth interior designer who specialises in bone decor, is probably taking notes as we speak

even after hurting her hand twice, Harrow really just can't resist experimenting even further huh. she's so very reluctant to accept that her existing powers aren't enough by themselves for this

ooohhhh, having to literally suck the life force out of your cavalier to win?? thats so sick and twisted and i love it. these challenges are, again, clearly relying on this intense relationship between the pair, both in trusting them absolutely and in this literal soul-siphoning/melding link thing.

however, it feels like Gideon's really getting the brunt of it in these challenges. Harrow's absolutely putting in an awful lot of effort and power, but it's the cavalier who has to fight the bone amalgamation, the cavalier who has to have their life literally siphoned out. they're about trust and a bond between them, but also seemingly about a willingness to sacrifice your cavalier to achieve that goal, and i have a really bad feeling about where exactly this is going in terms of how exactly one achieves lyctorhood

'under no circumstances will i ever desire your juice' Harrow you may wish to revisit this sentiment when you guys (to my limited knowledge) eventually become girlfriends

'none of this is worth it, at all [...] i'm sorry. We take so much' i'm like 90% sure the voice talking to Gideon throughout all this was Dulcinea, largely because it doesn't really make sense for it to be anyone else, but there were certain lines, specifically these ones, that made me suspicious at first it might be some(one? thing?) else. but it also feels fitting that its Dulcinea coaching her through this.

wow, just wow, i'm really impressed with the writing in this chapter, and how the pain Gideon is feeling is expressed. its such an abstract experience/feeling to describe, but i think its done incredibly well

'Ha-ha, said Gideon, first time you didn't call me Griddle, and died' ok i know she didn't but THANKS for giving me an absolute heart attack with that sentence Tamsyn Muir

Harrow i get understand u are protective of Gideon but let Dulcinea comfort her plz

'you can't just ask someone why they want to be a Lyctor'. ahh the duality of Gideon the Ninth. this just evocative prose about how it feels to be on the brink of death, and then immediately afterwards hits you in the face with a mean girls reference. beautiful, iconic, effervescent.

[inbabylontheywept]

Alright. So. I have a confession to share with you. In middle school, I strongly identified as a libertarian. In my defense, I was 13 and I had autism. Against my defense, I was literate, and capable of using common sense. I confessed this to you willingly, so go easy on me.

One thing about this that I can share with you is that I, as a 13 year old boy, read Atlas Shrugged. I read it as someone very committed to the ideology, who wanted to believe it, who wanted to like it, and there are two things I can share with you about that book from that time period.

The writing is terrible. It has the slowest, most boring, most pretentious prose you could possibly imagine. Calling it glacial would be a compliment. It makes glaciers look like Formula 1. There is no description for the pacing outside of hellish torments. It is like being condemned to watch a dog with an itchy ass wear the Himmalayas away only by scooching. It is like counting the grains of sand on a beach while Alexa reads off random phone numbers. It is like dipping saltines into lukewarm tapwater while listening to white noise in a beige room with no doors. It is like wearing a blindfold and being told to guess what a man is painting by sound alone, but there is no man, there is only a dog licking cold vaseline off a window. Forever. It is all of those things and more.

There is a multipage rant about how affairs are Good and Rational that is so insanely desparate that even middle-school-autist me thought she must have been having an affair while she wrote this. And then I googled it, and the answer was yes, she was. She called her philosophy Objectivism, because she believed, like everyone else in the world, that her ideas and motivations were Pure and Rational and Ojectively Correct, but I still find the name accurate, because it was really written with one Objective in mind, and that was finding a way to never admit that Ayn Rand had ever made a mistake in her life.

I was going to rant more about this but I kind of lost my train of thought. The book fucking sucks. It was propaganda of such remarkably low caliber that it actually helped me move out of those circles. Every time someone talked about liking the book, I'd reply with something along the lines of "Yeah, I especially loved the part where she destroyed the post modernists by unequivocally condemning affairs", and if they agreed with me, they would have lost my respect forever, and if they looked very embarrassed, I could at least acknowledge that they had a soul, albeit small and malformed. I had dozens of people claim that they read the book, and only three or four actually passed the test.

And now, goodnight.

[moonlight-prose]

HURT

➝ 01. THE CURSE OF THE FOLD

a/n: apocalyptic stories are probably one of my favorite genres to write, because angst is my bread and butter. so here i am writing the angsiest fucking story ever. i've plotted it entirely and worked on it while waiting for the show to drop to finally post this. so hopefully you enjoy. (this takes place about ten years before the last of us.)

summary: you were alone; watched everyone you love die or you killed them yourself. and you thought it would remain that way forever...till him.

word count: 6k+

pairing: joel miller x f!reader

warnings: not sexually explicit but still 18+ (READ AT YOUR OWN RISK BUT BE AWARE), gore, violence, tw blood, angst, death, assault, one bed trope, gratuitous prose about the apocalypse setting, probably ooc writing for joel, more angst. please let me know if i missed anything.

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You were going to die. That was no longer a concept that you found to be impossible in your early stages of life. No, you knew you would die sooner rather than later. You knew that survival was a thing to strive for and death had become something to welcome. When the world turns to shit, leaving humanity on their own to fight against monsters, death didn’t seem so scary in the long run.

It became peaceful—an end that you found to be the better option. You’d rather die by the hands of humans or your own than become one of those things. Turning wasn’t the way you’d go. It was brutal and horrific; left more heartache behind than the desired numbing sensation you hoped came with death. No, you refused to become something that was no longer deemed a human, but was now viewed as a monster. 

This was a promise you made to yourself ten years ago and even now as you stared down the barrel of a gun, you knew you made the right choice. Death would be swift—an end to your life that you found satisfaction in—rather than something you feared every fucking day.

You’d stopped on your journey in an attempt to find a safe situation for the night. One that wouldn’t leave you running in the morning; for a brief moment you figured this town would do the trick. You could hide out until the sun came up and finally find a few peaceful hours of sleep. There was no one around for miles (at least you assumed as much) and what few infected were around you could handle yourself. You weren’t the best with a gun, but you could protect yourself when your life was on the line.

If only you had kept going, then maybe you wouldn’t be in this fucked situation.

The scent of gunpowder burned in the air, the potent bitterness of blood mixed with it—creating a lethal combination. You ran out of bullets two dead bodies ago—reaching for the fallen weapon by your side when three more men came out of the darkness. Their faces were covered by dirty worn-in bandanas with only their eyes showing, illuminated by the dim lights of the moon, but it was in their eyes that you saw the truth. They were hollow. Just like the other three men who thought they could come after you. Their souls disappeared a long time ago, only to leave the remnant of a human shell that was forced to do things in order to survive.

This particular sight wasn't unusual to you in the slightest.

You’d seen the best of people become tainted, broken. After all, you were one of them. The consequences of this fucking virus reached you as well; tearing the life you built up to pieces. Leaving you to watch the ashes of what came before float in the air. 

You were the veteran of a war without end. A survivor of the life that only wished to see you gone and buried. The longer you looked at them—the man you figured to be the leader stepping forward—the more you understood why humans did what they did.

They were an idiotic group of people that let things fester; that would watch the world burn ten times over before helping those around them.

He gripped your hair, yanking it until your hoarse scream of pain echoed in the night air. The barrel of the gun was shoved beneath your chin, his dark eyes watching in glee as you struggled. He loved to feel the rush of power, watching as people grew helpless to his actions. You understood that just from looking at him. Yet another pathetic man that believed he could take what he wanted from someone traveling alone. So you stopped fighting. You froze in his hold, fixing him with a smile so sweet he could have sworn it was made of sugar cane.

“You’re afraid to die,” you said softly, wincing when his hold tightened.

“Shut the fuck up,” he spit, his voice was deep yet ingrained with the hesitation of a man who didn’t like that you touched so close to the truth.

You knew this game. A sick and twisted version of a power play in order to believe that they held the upper hand in this situation. When in fact that remained far from the truth. Though you held no weapon, no more chances of survival—you had something they didn't. You didn't fear what came next. It was a better deal than this shit one right here.

Your heart slowed to a steady beat; the welcoming hope re-entering your heart with each baited breath you took. When would he finally pull the trigger? When would you finally have peace? When would the pain—the torture—finally cease? You hoped the lingering questions all came with the same answer. Soon.

"Go ahead," you prompted, going so far as to tilt your chin in his direction—feeling the press of the gun's barrel dig deeper into your skin.

His finger hovered over the trigger, before—much to your dismay—he pulled it away. "You're feisty." You heard the jeering laughter of his friends in the background. "How about we just bring you with us?"

Your stomach dropped. A new unlocked fear sending a chill down your spine. There was always something worse than being turned into a monster, always something far more horrific than not dying by your own hands. It was being trapped in a cage with no lock and no key to get you out.

Fighting against his hold, you tried to grab the gun on the ground, but he yanked you back—the disgusting scent of his breath washing over your face. "Looks like I found what you're afraid of."

"Fuck you,” you spit in his face, struggling against his hold. You refused to be taken, to be treated like an animal put up for slaughter.

He merely laughed, his hold on you tightening with each twist of your body. Dropping your weight, you waited for him to jeer at his friends before slamming the heel of your boot into his foot. As expected, his arms fell away from your body, a howl of pain splintering through the night air. It was enough for you though. He may look tough, but he didn’t seem to be able to handle pain so easily. Yanking yourself free, you felt a cold chill wash over your body as the adrenaline spiked in your body—telling you to keep going. To fight until you were finally free.

Three against one wasn’t entirely in your favor, but you held one thing close to your heart—a belief that would keep you going till your last breath. If there was nothing else to fight for—no one else—then you would fight for yourself. For the past you that used to be desperate for a life, for meaning and purpose. Those two words didn’t mean jackshit anymore in this fucked up world, but to you it meant everything.

Grabbing the metal pipe that looked like it was torn off of a plumbing system, you put what little skill you had in your swing. Really it extended to one softball game in highschool, where you ended up with a ball to the face and a measly participation trophy. You barely had time to even swing the bat before chaos ensued. But it was enough for you.

Lining up your hit you swung.

The pipe hit with a sickening crack against his face, a splatter of red falling to the floor as he fell to one knee. You were pretty sure that you loosened a tooth in his rotten mouth and had half a mind to tear the rest out with your bare hands. His buddies began to advance, their makeshift weapons being pulled from their sides as they spit curses your way. The words of your father echoed in your mind as you took another swing, hitting against one’s side, jamming your elbow into his throat when he curled in on himself.

If you find yourself in a fight, you never let them take you out first.

“Piece of shit,” you snarled, your already bloody and raw fist slamming against the side of his face.

“Grab her arms dumbass!”

Ducking under their outstretched arms, you fumbled with the small screwdriver you found on a trek through one of the houses. With a huffed out breath, you jabbed it into the third guy's armpit, grinning at his cries of agony. He fell to his knees, trying very carefully to take it out without killing himself. Giving you enough to run outside.

The cold air was sharp in your lungs, the anxiety of the situation now rushing through your veins and causing your heart to beat erratically. But you were free.

“You fucking bitch!” The main man roared, his boots thumping harshly against the cracked cement.

Sprinting, you tried to keep a quick pace down the empty street, but the fear of running into anything overlapped the fear of dealing with an already injured man. So, like an idiot you stopped. He was limping, a gash stretching across his cheek and turning his pale skin red. A feral anger flashed in his eyes like an animal hunting its prey; coming in for the final kill. You knew he could practically taste your blood on his tongue.

Your chest heaved, the breath leaving you faster than you could keep it in your lungs, but you wouldn’t go quietly. That was a death you would not accept. No, he’d take you down fighting until you eventually dragged him down to hell right alongside you. If you couldn’t survive, you’d leave behind something to remember. Your hands curled into fists, teeth baring as you watched him approach slowly. The energy in your body was beginning to wane, exhaustion seeping in, but you kept your stance.

Forever choosing to be stubborn.

You never expected the loud bang of a shotgun to go off behind you. The man fell back, his head hitting the sidewalk with another crack—turning the asphalt a darker shade of black. Fear shot down your spine, the realization that you couldn’t fight against someone with a gun while you stood with nothing. You remained still, frozen and watching in horror as the man who nearly ended your life was wiped from this planet entirely. In a way you were relieved, but the knowledge that someone else was walking up to you quickly dampened that feeling instantly.

“You okay?”

The man’s voice was deep, gruff, with a southern drawl you’d heard once before in college. You couldn’t respond—your heart still lodged in your throat. If you were in the right state of mind, you’d say your body was going into shock. His boots stopped a foot away from you, calling your attention as he stood, the shotgun still gripped tightly in his hands. 

For a brief moment you allowed your eyes to trail up his figure. Taking in the dirty brown leather jacket that looked like it’d seen better days, jeans with a sewn up hole in the knee, and a black t-shirt. You barely skimmed his face, drinking in his slightly graying dark hair and scruff before he was asking you another question.

“Did he hurt you?” His eyes were focused on the blood that stained your once clean shirt.

“It’s not mine,” you said softly, the panic now wearing off—relinquishing its hold over your body.

He nodded, his brown eyes fixing back on yours. “Are there more?”

“Not anymore,” you replied, staring at the house in the distance.

Oblivious to the slight hint of surprise in his eyes, you felt him step closer. To which you responded by stepping back, keeping the distance as much as possible. You didn’t need to fight another man tonight, who’s weapons far outweighed your own fighting capability. But then he raised his hands as if in surrender. He held his ground, waiting for you to come back to the present, before trying once more to take a small step in your direction.

This time…you let him.

“I’m not gonna hurt you.”

How could you be so sure that his words were the truth? There was a small voice in the back of your head that told you to keep running. Run until you had no choice but to stop. Till you were finally safe from the dangers of this world. Yet you knew that danger was everywhere, plaguing the very ground you walked on and this man…had just saved your life.

Rarely did you find people who wished to help you. Who were simply there as a stroke of luck in your seemingly endless string of awful situations. Once you used to run with people, be a part of a group that watched your back as intently as you watched theirs. But pain and grief seemed to follow you like a ghost. Haunting every turn you made on this never ending journey.

Voicing your thoughts, you fought back against the urge to flee. “You just shot a man and you’re telling me you won’t hurt me?”

“A man who was trying to kill you.”

He had you there.

“What’s your name?” you asked, quickly glancing in the distance—wary that something would come from the darkness.

“Joel.”

You met his brown eyes again. “Why are you here?”

He shrugged, turning away from your scrutinizing gaze. You made his skin itch with just that single look, but he could recognize the underlying fear that flared every now and then in your eyes. A look he once wore when all this shit started. Joel didn’t get scared very often anymore, having seen his fair share of horrors. But seeing you stand there helpless, yet ready to die fighting tooth and nail, made his heart lurch in a way it hadn’t in sometime.

“I could ask you the same thing.” He hiked his bag up higher on his shoulder, catching the way the fading sunlight began to dip below the houses. Casting the both of you in darkness. “Why were you running?”

Scoffing, you crossed your arms against your chest. “Usually when people try to kill me I run.”

Thankfully he didn’t question what was the motive behind their intentions. Already understanding most of it. Once again he glanced at the sky, knowing that if you didn’t find shelter soon you’d be knee deep in shit. He didn’t want that to be how either of you ended. So, he turned away from you, gesturing for you to follow him. If you were smart you’d do it without question, but Joel had a feeling you were stubborn down to your core.

“Where are you going?” you called out, confirming his suspicions with only a few words.

He nearly chuckled. “Finding shelter for the night.”

Catching up, you fell into step beside him. “You won’t kill me right?”

That time he chuckled; the sound striking you in your heart unexpectedly. “You sure are untrustworthy aren’t you?”

“Yeah well…” You fiddled with the strap on your nearly torn backpack. “I haven’t trusted anyone in a while.”

Neither had he.

He didn’t say it outloud though. Joel already knew what came upon those that dared to open themselves up in the midst of anguish. He’d been on the receiving end of that pain and chose to close himself off to it. It would help him more in the long run, than letting the feeling dig its way into his heart. Gnawing away at his insides like a meal.

What he was doing now…keeping you close when in fact you may very well kill him, wasn’t like him. He had half a mind to keep going—leave you here to fend for yourself. But then his eyes met yours, and there was that look. That pain he knew too well. Back when he thought he was going to die without a way to save himself.

He saw himself in you and maybe that’s why he allowed you to traipse along beside him.

You didn’t take kindly to people very often. Preferring to go it alone after what happened with the people you once knew, and this was no different. Staying with him for one night before parting ways would mean nothing to you in the long run. Just another stranger you passed by in the hopes of finding somewhere safe to land. You hoped that this town would be it; that you wouldn’t have to go anywhere for a long time. But the blood on your shirt continued to prove you wrong.

“There’s a two story house about a block away with a fence going around the property.”

He nodded, changing directions and heading towards the old brown building that had seen better days. The windows were broken, the front yard overgrown with weeds, and you weren’t sure if the door worked. It would have to do for the night. You couldn’t risk staying out in the open. Not when those men had found you so easily as they were passing through.

The scent of pine filled your nose as you stepped towards the black gate covered in dead vines. A large tree stood in the center of the yard—beautiful amidst the destruction caused by the world falling to pieces. You wondered what it used to look like—who lived here—before you pushed open the gate. The loud creak echoing in the night air, sent chills down your spine. Perhaps the ghosts of the owners still resided here. Wandering the halls of their former home in the hopes of finding some serenity in the chaos.

Or perhaps…they were infected.

That thought alone nearly made you back away from the property, but Joel walked right in. He seemed to hold no qualms about the building or its past. To him it was just a place to stay until he had to move right along to the next one. He held no permanency in this world—not anymore—and it had been a long time since he hoped for some.

Staying somewhere permanent always ended in death. Or at least that’s what he believed.

“You never answered my question,” you said, following him slowly up the path and to the front porch that was caved in at one spot.

The door opened with a similar haunting creak, similar to the gate; filling your senses with a musty scent of old furniture and molding wood. He crossed the threshold without another word, his hand still gripping the shotgun’s strap on his shoulder. If you were smart, you’d part ways with him right here. You would find a different house to stay in for the night before leaving this place behind when the sun rose. Yet the lingering feeling from earlier still remained in your chest.

If he wanted to kill you, he wouldn’t have saved you.

“Looks old,” you noted, staring at the furniture in what once was a put together living room. Now the couches were torn up, most likely by animals, and the floorboards had water damage to them.

A ripped painting hung above the mantle on the fireplace, small pieces of the original owners coming through strokes of a brush. You caught a glimpse of a girl with red hair and blue eyes. A woman with the exact same features on the other side. A tear went through the middle, severing the young boy and man. Turning the painting into something else entirely.

The sound of his footsteps bounced off the wooden walls as he came downstairs again. Catching you staring at the painting with an intensity in your eyes that he’d never seen before. For a moment he left you alone. Gave you this time to linger in the space of what once was—what would never be again. He used to be torn up about things like this, but eventually he learned that the past would never change, and the future was nothing but a continuous fight for survival.

Eventually he cleared his throat, drawing your attention back to him. “There’s a bedroom upstairs still in pretty good shape.”

You nodded, moving away towards the stairs. “What are the chances of this house still having running water?”

“Slim.”

Something about that response made you smile. You couldn’t put your finger on why, but you took it for what it was.

The bedroom still looked relatively normal, despite the torn comforter and water stained ceilings. The musty smell still remained—the copper scent from blood on your shirt not helping. You wondered if you’d get lucky and find clothes in the closet. Or at least a shirt that could act as a replacement. You made sure to make a mental note to check for that later.

“You can uh—you can take the bed.”

Once again your lips twisted up into somewhat of a grin. “Thank you,” you replied softly, glancing his way briefly.

You’d remember him for his kindness. 

That was evident in your mind as you moved towards the bathroom. In all your years of surviving, you’d never taken so quickly to a person. For some unknown reason it felt like you’d known each other for some time—already acting like you’d been on the same journey together. When in fact he would leave tomorrow (as would you) and you’d be lucky if you came across each other again.

Maybe in another life, you mused.

Sure enough, no water came from the sink. You sighed, dropping your head forward as an ache began to spread through your forehead. What you wouldn’t give for an aspirin right about now. Shit, what you wouldn’t give for a stiff drink and a good night’s sleep. They were luxuries you hadn’t partaken in since the world was normal. When you were younger and life still had a bright hue of color about it.

You sighed, scrubbing a hand down your face before exiting back to the bedroom. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, his bag on the ground by his feet and shotgun across his lap. The single sight made you think about a sculpture you’d seen in a class you’d taken before the world fell apart. Of a man sitting in the hand of god, his body curling in on itself—the weight of the world crushing him down.

Even now in the horror that became this world, life imitated art.

“Any water?” he asked, breaking your focus.

“Huh?” You glanced at the sink behind you. “Oh…no it’s dry.”

He nodded. “I’ll take the blanket.”

Standing, he winced slightly before gathering what remained of the blanket at the bottom of the bed. Just the sight caused your heart to twist. You damned yourself, wishing that you could be like everyone else. Able to watch someone else suffer on the sidelines while you protected yourself. Except you couldn’t. Not when you were taught your entire life to care for those in need; to share what you could with others.

“You already said you weren’t going to kill me,” you began, saying it with a slight smile. “So I don’t see why you should take the floor.”

For a brief moment his whole body stiffened, causing you to wonder if you’d stepped over a line. A boundary that he didn’t want to cross with strangers he just met.

“Why?” he asked, turning to face you with an unreadable expression on his face.

You shrugged. “The bed’s too big for me.”

It was partially true. The mattress looked like it would swallow you whole if you let it, but you knew the truth. And something told you he knew as well. He saved your life—this was the least you could do in return. A thank you without actually saying the words. An act of kindness that left a lingering warmth in his chest he hadn’t felt since before the outbreak.

He hesitated, staring at the soft plush bed that would no doubt give his back some relief for the night. “You sure?”

“Yes,” you said without a semblance of doubt in your voice.

Trusting someone this much may wind up to be a mistake on your part, but you pushed that thought aside for the moment. He would most likely be gone before you woke up. Or at least that’s what you told yourself. Sitting on the opposite side of the bed, you allowed your fingers to dig into what remained of the sheets. They were yellowed with age, stained by time, but still soft enough to nearly startle you.

You felt the bed dip on the other side when he sat down.

“You still haven’t answered my question.”

He sighed, the sound deep and ragged. “Not someone to give up easily are you?”

Once again your lips curved into a slight grin. “Nope.”

“I’m heading to Boston. Happened to be passing through on my way here.”

A sensation akin to fear streaked down your spine so quickly, you barely had any time to react. The name sent chills through your whole body. Boston. A city you hadn’t heard about since you left it. You could remember the day vividly; could practically taste the difference in the air as you exited your dorm room. You hadn’t known it then, but your entire world would shift in only a few hours.

You were barely nineteen at the time of the outbreak. Still a kid starting your second year of college with nothing ahead of you but time. Until the campus fell into chaos. You could still remember the screams; the agony of people losing the ones they cared about, to something worse than death.

“You know…” The memories still replayed in your mind on an endless loop. Like a movie with no end. “I went to school in Boston.”

That small detail seemed to catch his attention, because he angled his body slightly to see you better. “You did?”

You nodded, doing your best to breathe evenly in order to stave off the anxiety filling your body. “I was majoring in art history. I wanted to work in a museum one day.”

“Yeah?” He watched you turn slowly, the tension in your muscles dropping slightly the more you told him. “Which one?”

“The Met was my dream job before…”

He sighed, expression shifting to one of understanding. There were plans he had for himself, goals for his life for his family, but now that he could see the bleakness of what his future held, he’d given up the simple act of dreaming. What was there to dream about anyways? But he could see it in you. The hope that remained just beneath the surface of your sorrowful gaze. You were too young when it happened, too young to lose your life that quickly.

“I’ve been there.”

The grief faded slightly, a light returning to your face. “Really?”

He nodded, shifting until he was sitting with his leg extended on the mattress, back pressed to the headboard. “Back when I was in high school, we took a trip up there.”

Mimicking him, you felt the relief in your spine as you finally moved to a comfortable position. “What did you think?”

“Well I’m no expert in art, but I liked it.”

If you weren’t careful you would wind up falling asleep in the middle of speaking. But you fought against the exhaustion that seeped into your bones. Adamant on remaining awake, just to talk to him for a bit longer. His brown eyes watched you settle into a laying down position, your hands clasped together against your stomach. The blood on your shirt had dried to a deep brown color—until you could hardly tell it was there anymore.

“No one has to be an expert in art to appreciate its beauty,” you said softly, staring at the light brown stain in the ceiling that formed rings. It reminded you of what the inside of trees looked like. “I think all you have to do is see it and that’s enough.”

Joel settled in beside you, his back practically screaming in joy at having such a plush bed beneath him.

“Take the portrait downstairs,” you continued, unaware that he had turned his head to watch you. “Anyone can tell it used to be a well painted piece of art, but now it’s torn, severing the image of the family entirely. I think it’s poetic.”

He hummed, catching your attention and causing you to turn your head until your nose practically brushed his. “Poetic huh?”

“It reminds me of my past,” you whispered, taking in the soft lines that were beginning to form on his face. “Tells you a lot about what might have happened here.”

Joel didn’t respond, letting your words settle in his mind. Oblivious to the way they sunk into his heart as well, breaking down a small minuscule piece of the walls he’d placed there. The sound of the crickets outside rang through the open windows, filling the silent spaces between the two of you. He wondered what came before this for you—what would come after this.

“Do you have a place to go after this?” he asked, seeing your eyes grow heavy.

You shook your head. “I haven’t had a place to go in a long time.”

A part of your mind wanted to tell him that you did in fact have somewhere to go, but you couldn’t get the words out. You found that you liked his company; that you didn’t mind who he was as a person. Even though you knew nothing but his name and his path. Except to you…that was enough.

“I hear there’s a quarantine zone down in Boston.” He couldn’t get the question out, letting its implication hang in the air between you in the hopes that you’d understand. Thankfully, you did.

The breath caught in your lungs as you considered it. Returning to the place where it all began for you. The place where your future was meant to start. Just like the painting, you found it poetic in the most gruesome way. But something sour built in your chest. A feeling that told you to stay here; that if you left you’d find your way to even more destruction.

You chose to ignore it in the end.

“Okay,” you breathed, attempting a half-hearted sleepy smile before your eyes fell shut against your own will.

When you woke up, you’d deal with what this meant and how it would work, but you refused to let sleep elude you this time. Whether or not he fell asleep slipped past your mind—your body giving up after hours of strain. The ache would begin in the morning; pain you were familiar with and even welcomed. However for that moment, you were free of it; of the grief that was burrowed so deep in your heart you were afraid it’d never leave.

Unbound from the horrors that awaited you in the early hours of dawn.

You heard the birds first, chirping in the pine tree as they let the rest of the world know that the early morning hours of the day had finally arrived. You felt his arm around your waist, second. Sometime in the night you’d gone from lying side by side, barely touching shoulders, to him pressed firmly against your back. His breath hit the back of your neck, warm and accompanied with the odd snore here and there. It sent shivers down your spine.

Though you both wore several layers of clothing to stay warm during the night, you could still feel the heat of his palm seeping into your stomach. He was still asleep and while you might have agreed to go with him last night, you knew that it was better to leave and go it alone. After all, that’s what you’d been doing.

Holding your breath so as not to make any more noise, you began to shift away from him. Unfortunately for you, his grip on you was a bit too tight for you to remove. You didn’t want to disturb him. What with everything that happened last night. The fear was still a bitter taste on your tongue—reminding you that you could have died last night. That you had him to thank for why you were here in the first place.

Suddenly leaving didn’t sound like the better option anymore.

“You move a lot,” he grumbled. Your heart stopped in your chest for a brief moment.

“I–I’m sorry.” The words caught in your throat when he shifted, something pressing briefly to your lower back before he turned away. He grunted when he sat up, the sound shooting right through you. “We better get a move on.”

He still wanted you to go.

Sitting, you felt the fear begin to dissipate somewhat. “Oh…right,” you said, choosing to do what he did. Ignore that what you felt against your back was in fact what you thought.

The choice might prove better in the long run as you two traveled together. You’d been there before and in the end, it got messier than you wanted. Staying simple—alone but together—would be the easiest option. It would save you from dealing with another loss if something were to happen to him, and you hoped he felt the exact same way. Torment, heartache, they were all things you carried with you at the end of the day. A side effect of the fucking sickness that plagued the earth.

A disease that could never be reversed.

“Do you know how to get to Boston from here?” you asked, reaching for your bag.

“I’m sure we’ll figure it out,” he replied, stopping in front of you, a black piece of clothing in his hands. “Here.”

You must have looked confused, taking what you figured out to be a shirt. A man’s shirt if you looked close enough. “Where did you find this?”

 “Went digging through the drawers in the other room.” He turned away, heading out the door before you could give him a real response.

Except you couldn’t find the right words to actually say to him. He was a man of few words. You could tell that right off the bat. Yet his actions seemed to speak volumes, telling you all the things you imagined he’d say. Or maybe…you were on the precipice of losing your mind due to constant stress and pressure. You remember watching movies about the apocalypse and insanity always played a part—the end usually resulting in death.

You figured believing the latter was far better than assuming something about a man you just met last night. While he said he wasn’t here to kill you, the uncertainty in your veins still stuck to the instinct that told you trust had to be earned.

Heading downstairs, you found him in the exact position you were in yesterday. Standing in the middle of the living room, staring at the portrait. He met your gaze when you entered, the shotgun back where it was yesterday, bag still in place.

“Ready?” he asked, watching you adjust your bag and fix your jacket in place. The black t-shirt now underneath it. You left the ruined one in the sink.

“Ready,” you confirmed, following him outside and into the sunlight.

You wondered if there would be others after you and him inside the house; if people were looking for a safe place to stay for the night. Would they see the painting and think of its origin like you had? Or would this just be another place. A hollow building with no life anymore—a corpse that stood against the destruction around it. You smiled bitterly at that thought, knowing that if you were a building…you would be that. A walking ghost amidst nature’s final painting.

Joel walked beside you, his stroll measured and assured. He knew where he was going with each step—unafraid of what he’d find in the distance. So, you fell into step with him, your eyes focused on the horizon as you both walked along the empty street. Leaving the house behind.

[literaryvein]

A WRITING PROJECT: The Book of Strangers (pt. 1) is now available

A month ago, a phantom weight decided to make a home in my heart. For some reason, even writing couldn’t heal me this time around, so I asked strangers to tell me their story and I promised them a poetry/prose piece in return.

The concept of this writing collection involves a tea room. It involves strangers; another universe. Perhaps in this life, we won’t ever meet. But in another universe, we meet at the tea room where we aren’t strangers. You tell me your story as I make you a cup of tea. In this universe, I handweave poems and prose pieces using threads of your stories. In this universe, these written pieces are cups of tea I offer to you as my thanks for sharing your stories with me. I hope they help lift the phantom weight in your heart, even for just a moment.

A sincere thanks to everyone who contributed to this project. I have sent the link to you as well as those who have previously requested for it. If anyone else wants to read it, Send Me A Message. I will send you the link if: (i) you are following this blog; (ii) let me know what you think after reading it; and (iii) do NOT know me personally.

Also, if you sent your story anonymously, message me where I can send you the link.

I am currently working on Part 2, for those who submitted after the initial deadline. Submissions are open again for anyone else who would like to tell me their story in exchange for a poem/prose piece. Deadline for the second part is 17 May 2024. Tell me your story, dear strangers.

Tell me about the happiest version of yourself, your heartbreaks, the person you can’t stop thinking about, the most beautiful sunset you’ve ever seen, the day you realised you were right where you wanted to be, that moment in your life that you keep going back to in your head. Tell me about how it plays on a loop. About how you keep interpreting, reinterpreting, and misinterpreting all the things he said. About how you keep remembering and misremembering how she looked like in her favourite spring dress. Tell me what’s on your mind; what’s in your heart. The things you cannot tell anyone else. Tell me the things you desperately want to forget, but can’t.

- L. V., also a stranger confessing to strangers

[Photo: jeune fille à la tasse (girl with cup) by Léon François Comerre]

[copperbadge]

Supposedly, people with Anphantasia don't get scared reading scary stories, or at least not much. Is that true with you if you ever read Horror?

You know, I'd never thought about it, but I suppose it is. To an extent, anyway.

Follows a discussion of my relationship to horror prose and media; if you don't know what aphantasia is, as many people coming to this tumblr don't, I have a tag for it here that may help -- it's basically the lack of a "mind's eye", a visual imagination, so I hear/read things and don't see an image of them in my mind. If you are scoffing right now that nobody actually has a mind's eye, congratulations, you may also have aphantasia. The articles linked in the tag will be useful to you.

I have definitely been scared by prose before but it's very rare, and not much since I was a child, when the stories I found scary were preying on fears I already had. I loved the Scary Stories To Tell In The Dark books, and I think it's not unusual that I found the illustrations more frightening than the prose, but the only story that ever scared me was the one about the vampire who kept trying to grab a kid through a window -- because I had a window over my bed in my childhood bedroom and I was terrified I'd look up to see someone looking down at me through it. Likewise, as an adult, the only content in horror I find scary is what I think of as "mind horror" -- the loss of faculty or the loss of awareness of faculty (think the end scene of the novel Hannibal with the brain). Which is one of my biggest fears.

I don't read much horror because generally I get bored, which has in the past made me feel faintly appalled at myself, but which now makes more sense. Certainly I have no interest in slasher-style gore in prose, because I find it uninteresting and it goes on a really long time, while I don't watch it in movies/TV because the visual is upsetting -- so if I was getting the visual from the prose I might react more emotionally. I am a fan of Stephen King but mostly his early work where he was shorter on suspense, and I was reading it because I liked the ideas and the characters. Carrie is super interesting because of the personalities involved, not because of the violence or the horror aspects. But I've never seen a movie adaptation and I can imagine I would be deeply unsettled if not distraught by certain scenes if depicted visually. Although I didn't find the Hannibal TV series super upsetting (I mostly was put off by how bad I imagined Will smelled) so perhaps body horror just doesn't do it for me.

This may also explain my hard-no on zombie media, because I'm not scared at all of zombies, I just find them boring and gross, and that leaves the post-apocalyptic humans. My hard-no on post-apocalypse anything is an aversion to imagining the end of my world, though, which isn't visual, it's conceptual, and not scary, just upsetting.

Like, people kept suggesting Zombies Run! to me when I was taking up running and -- well, one, I needed the music to keep my pace, I didn't want it interrupted. But two, I didn't see why a bunch of random groaning noises would make me run faster. If you could see zombies chasing you in your head, yeah, that'd probably be more motivating.

It kind of explains too why I haven't written much horror. I used to be very curious about how people worked out what's "scary" in horror prose and I guess part of the curiosity came from not experiencing it myself. It's tough to know how to write a scary story when stories don't scare you.

To be clear, I definitely experience fear. Reading Stephen King's "It" didn't really scare me, but there were scary moments in the film adaptations. I startle at jumpscares. There's plenty of stuff in real life that I'm scared of. And even podcasts -- I don't get mental images during podcasts like apparently most people do, but Magnus Archives got me with the "digging into your pre-existing fears" thing once or twice, and while I didn't finish The Left Right Game (I just got bored) the hitchhiker scene definitely got me. But I think, unless it's playing on something conceptual that already existed, yeah, I don't find prose particularly frightening.

Huh. This feels like the kind of thing that could have a significant impact on my creative output if I could crowbar my way into it. Knowing that I as an aphantic don't need descriptions that other people do has already, I think, impacted my editing process, but this feels like it maybe would somehow have an effect on the whole thing -- the fact that I don't experience emotions when reading in the same way other people do because I don't get the visuals is something to meditate on.

How the fuck did I ever even become a writer. Like what's up with that.

(Ironically it was X-Files fanfic. X-Files, a show that very much did scare me, for which I wrote and read a lot of fanfic, none of which did...yikes. Well, that's something to meditate on for the weekend.)

[speedierthanasubmarine]

Finished heaven official’s blessing and I really enjoyed writing an analysis on helluva boss I want to make this a regular thing because it’s fun so here’s my thoughts on

Heaven Official’s Blessing

Spoilers (duh)

I think it’s incredibly impressive when someone can make an overarching narrative in which different seemingly disjointed events are significant without A) putting a giant exclamation mark on top saying “REMEMBER THIS IT WILL BE IMPORTANT LATER” and B) Significantly over or under emphasizing the importance of the scene in the moment. Each event stood on its own and I liked that.

There were several janky sentences and word choices but that’s a translation issue, this writer clearly knows what she’s doing.

Characters were a lot of fun and distinct, my favorites were Feng Xin, Pei Ming, Qi Ying, and Ling Wen whenever they were on the page I was like Ah yes, these pages are gonna be enjoyable and I was right, they’re all delightful (cept the brocade immortal stuff, but like I don’t care, Google assistant is fun) Xie Lian and San Lang are delightful, love them, and San Lang is so effed in the head it’s enjoyable to try and imagine what unhinged thing he’ll do next

Tbh there isn’t much plot breakdown I want to do with this series because it knows what it is, it’s a fanfic ass book with good times, trauma, gay fluff, and fights. Need I say more? That’s not a detractor, it’s a strength. Be what you are and own it because a house with a house’s foundation is a great house but slap a building on that house’s foundation and it fails in both regards.

The only aspect I’m going to analyze is the narrative voice the books are written in because holy crap is it super impressive. Xie Lian is a super mature (or ditzy, depending on your point of view) character, he doesn’t dwell on things, doesn’t hold grudges, doesn’t really care that much about people’s histories or even their present, doesn’t focus much on externals and it comes through in the way the book is written. I noticed this when throughout the books San Lang would do fucked up stuff like make it rain blood and kill a pit’s worth of people and Xie Lian kinda didn’t really seem to care and at first it pissed me off, why isn’t the author letting consequences occur because of these peoples’ actions, but then as it held consistently throughout the book and other people kept being super concerned about stuff, like Pei Constantly asking after Shi Qingxuan (I don’t know how to spell their name, it’s so hard to keep track I’m so sorry) or people bringing up Banue, I realized this is just Xie Lian, other people in the book are regular people like me, this one guy is just experiencing things, going “Well, ain’t that something” and then just moving on. Honestly iconic, but also I was halfway through book six when I realized. Especially since whenever they do flashbacks Xie Lian does all normal stuff. He describes settings he’s in, he mentions events that happened a few pages ago, he tells the reader how he feels, it’s after he experiences all his shit he goes through that this all kinda slips away. In “present” scenes he’ll reference things as they come up but like in the flashback after Mu Qing leaves they talk about it a few times and I find that aspect of acknowledgment to be noticeably absent in the “present” scenes. After the black water arc there is a complete lack of discussion about the frankly trauma inducing event that just transpired but sure Cie Lian, you and San Lang have to not hold hands for the billionth time. At first I thought is this author high but then I realized what shes doing is characterizing through prose which is IMPRESSIVE AS HELL. This may be a point I noticed and am now misremembering the entire series just to bolster my take and if that’s the case then I shall sheepishly shrug and say I’m sorry. I’m not rereading 8 books to write a tumblr review. Maybe if I ever start a YouTube channel

I don’t know, I just find it to be an incredible feat of actually good writing when a story is being told through the lens of the main character and you can characterize that character by simply reading the story and seeing how it’s written, not even through dialogue and action. It’s kinda like the Great Gatsby or a Separate Peace, and it’s super cool that a book like this can accomplish the same thing that makes those classics great. There isn’t as much symbolism or analytical potential but those books wouldn’t be nearly as impactful as they were without great execution, which this book pulled off in spades.