#IT'S NOT MY FAULT THIS NOVEL IS FULL OF TEARS

[gottagobuycheese]

“…Han Sooyoung??"

Han Sooyoung dazedly stared at the blonde woman. That voice… Some time had passed by, but she could never forget it. The middle-aged woman issued the order to stand down with the flick of her hand.

"Han Sooyoung… Is it really you?”

[...]

“Han Sooyoung?"

The startled Anna Croft quickly offered support as Han Sooyoung wobbled unsteadily. This was an embrace from a person she didn't even like, yet Han Sooyoung clung onto those shoulders and broke down in tears.”

Hugtober Day 5/? - The Conclusion to the World They Had Found

[ID: A greyscale piece of fanart depicting Han Sooyoung and Anna Croft from Omniscient Reader’s Viewpoint by Sing-Shong. Han Sooyoung is dressed in a white coat and black shirt. Her shoulder-length black hair appears slightly disheveled as she collapses against Anna Croft, sobbing into her shoulder as her visible hand clutches Anna’s back. Anna Croft wears a startled, concerned expression as she hugs Han Sooyoung back, one hand grasping her shoulders while the other hovers uncertainly above her. She is dressed in a long grey coat and black framed glasses, and her pale, wavy hair falls to her shoulders. The wrinkles on her face and hands are more pronounced than before. /end ID.]

#omniscient reader's viewpoint #orv #anna croft #han sooyoung #omniscient reader #orv fanart #my attempts at art #it took for e v e r to find a reference that somewhat matched what I was imagining #the original reference means nothing to me but if anyone recognizes the pose I guess it might be an important scene from its source lol #it's certainly important here :'D #hugtober 2022 #hugtober day 5 #I promise the next hug will be a happy one #IT'S NOT MY FAULT THIS NOVEL IS FULL OF TEARS #ahh but this scene #I really liked this scene #the delivery was really good #especially the part in between what's included here #these two have such an interesting relationship

[mana-jjk]

we have so little about toges history, I’m wondering what your thoughts are about his life before joining the school?

so sorry for the delay, i just finished finals and almost passed away from the stress ! now walk with me anon, hold my hand and walk with me into the sunset where we can gaze lovingly at the amount of nonsense i will be releasing into this unsuspecting world. please understand i have to preface this by saying that 85% of what will be said here is absolutely based on my own interpretation and headcanons.

trigger warnings: referenced suicide, child abuse, self-mutilation (character deafens themself but not explicitly described), neglect, suicidal tendencies, and basically canon typical violence

that makes it sound a lot worse than it is i promise lol

so first ! let’s establish everything we know canonically that may have some indicator to his childhood

• his first name means “thorn”

• he’s only been speaking in onigiri ingredients since before he could remember.

• the inumaki clan canonically would communicate with their hearts, but supposedly toge disrupted a streak of trying to rid the technique from their clan

• according to the light novel, the inumaki clan is well-known and vaunted, enough where toge is easy to track down and prepare against.

• he was the only one within the first years to be sent on missions alone, is considered the second best student behind yuuta (at the time, maki probably passed him by now), has extremely high athletic ability, and his cursed speech eventually tears his throat apart

• kamo noritoshi is the first to bring up protecting yourself from cursed speech and honestly brought up toge a lot during the school games, i thought toge needed more dynamics with other characters so um yes

• he unintentionally cursed others in his youth, and was adamant that nobara avoid killing

with that being said, likely the from the moment of his birth, toge was already cursing the people around him.

• while cursed speech focuses on words and intentions, i headcanon that sounds and reactions can have a less controlled impact. so when he cries for the first time, the fear and distress in his voice forced his mother into a trance of holding and rocking him until, hours later it stops. it scares his parents, his family, only heightened by the sight of the snake and fangs adorning his face.

• he’s too young to know what he’s doing, every time he cries it’s like a direct command to his mother. every time she snaps out of the trance, she’s afraid and she’s angry and she resents him. his father, not wanting to take the blame of a cursed child, refuses his existence. the members of his clan whisper in the hallways, their eyes hateful and full of blame. after all, it had been so long since a cursed child was born, the jujutsu society had nearly accepted them again in their placid role of acting as windows. his very existence threatened decades of groveling and submissive behavior, he was a threat, like a thorn that burrows until you bleed.

• that’s how his aunt found his mother, deafening herself over his crying form. she inadvertently found his weakness, disabling herself forever just so she wouldn’t fall victim to his curse again. some of the clan would say it was too late, being brainwashed over and over again had left it’s toll. she wanders like a ghost in the hallway. somehow it was always his fault, even when he didn’t have a voice to he heard. later, when they find her unmoving in her room, he’s blamed for that too. he believes them, muffles his cries because even to the people who beat him, he fears cursing them.

• it was always standard practice for the cursed members of his family to speak in safe words. it used to be done so with care, with intention to protect, a willingness to find a language of mutual understanding and respect. but his clan didn’t want him to learn a single syllable, afraid of what he would do, afraid of what he would learn to say. he was never allowed outside unless under direct supervision. never saw a child his age, never allowed to watch anything, never allowed to ask questions.

• in the end, it’s a family servant that takes the responsibility. indifferent to his existence, but making a joke out of it nonetheless. it started because the servant thought it would be funny if he was limited only to muttering “mentaiko,” when he was upset and snowballed from there. long before he ever knew the word for mother or father, he was slurring onigiri ingredients with a raspy, underdeveloped voice with servants who laughed, his clan looked on in disdain, and he never could catch his mother or father’s eye.

• it isn’t long before a member of the clan comes forward to the higher ups, ratting out his existence as if it were a dirty secret to share. a symbol of their loyalty to showcase the cursed child, eagerly awaiting their demands for execution. it wasn’t as if anyone would object.

• against their expectations, the higher ups did not call for his head, instead they called for his voice. as if he were a dangerous weapon laying in wait, they confiscated him from his family who gave him up with utmost eagerness.

• the higher ups, unlike his family, were sorcerers of a somewhat high caliber who knew how to protect themselves against him. even so, they insisted on a binding vow that had become a staple mark of the cursed users in his family. for every command he used, the stronger it was, the stronger the backlash would be. and then, only then, did they teach him to use his cursed speech. he learned the taste of blood as intimately as he knew to fear his own voice. over and over again, he tore his voice apart under their command. he hurts the people he’s against, always falling short of control and resenting himself for it. he accidentally kills one who attacks him without mercy, he afraid, so afraid, and he can’t control it. when it’s over, he hates and burns and bleeds and cries. he’s a child and he hates his voice, he’s a child and all he knows is that he brings nothing but suffering to the people around him. he’s a cursed child, and no one has ever let him forget it.

• it comes to a head when the kamo clan head meets with the higher ups, and leaves the heir to wait. kamo noritoshi has been taken from his mother, and has already spent day after day absorbing what they say in the hopes that he’ll see her again. inumaki toge is a not so subtle secret among the clan heads, and they poison him against the other. whispers of his existence as an outlaw, a danger to them, kept only until his usefulness bleeds out in a future mission.

• kamo sees him hiding in the garden and the rage of losing his mother, the desperation to please his clan, the inability to understand his own emotions lashes out in his tongue. he says his own father’s words, nothing organic yet with all the misplaced rage. he pushes and when there is no response, he wants to hurt him and calls for his own technique. it’s a split second, before he hears the others voice for the first time, disuse and cracked like a corner animal, he cries, ‘stay back!’

• kamo is sent flying, his head hits a tree, and everything is dark.

• the backlash is immense, the kamo clan calls for his head. the higher ups are furious, even as he grips his own bloodied throat. they wanted a weapon, but a weapon that only obeyed the movement of its master. he huddles in a dark room, despite the lack of schooling, he knows what an execution is. he knows what it means for him far better than the schooling other children would receive.

• the interaction frightens kamo, who has never experienced the effects of cursed speech. already in contact with megumi and gojo (as mentioned in the fun facts), he requests that gojo teach him how to protect himself from it.

• surprisingly, that’s what changes everything for toge. the fear of the kamo heir brings forth the wrath of gojo, though not in the way anyone expected. he saves him, much like the way he saved the sorcerers before him. much to toge’s clan displeasure, gojo returns him with a promise to visit every week. it’s a promise as much as a threat to his family.

• they place him in a separate building and reluctantly, under the pressure of gojo do they employ a tutor. he’s behind, but he catches up quickly, thriving in his newfound freedom. he learns to take care of himself, and quickly takes a liking to cooking. on the colder nights, especially when the halls feel too empty, he cooks himself a meal and stares outside, trying to pretend like the silence is a friend instead of a suffocating reminder. he’s a ghost in his clan, resented and ignored, but gojo’s protection is a security blanket.

• he’s too dangerous to ever be in normal school, something even gojo can’t change. but he finds ways to give him peers nonetheless. the kamo heir refuses to be near him again, but he meets megumi a few times in his youth. strangely enough, it is his deadpan, uncaring attitude that brings out the nurturing nature he never knew he had. in his adolescent years, they expose him to panda, who against everyone’s expectation, encourages a mischievous side. gojo was no help in that aspect, who took too much pride in making him smile for the first time with

• he meets maki the summer before their expected first year when she walks out of her family, a spitfire who hides behind iron clad walls and insists she needs no one. but he knows what it feels like to be entirely alone, and something told him that this was her first time truly by herself. they stay in the dorms, despite months to go. panda may have had yaga, but they had no where else to go.

• he can tell quickly she never lived on her own, she eats junk food and stays awake at odd hours, restless in her sleep. he makes extra food initially as a peace offering, and offers her a plate. she turns it down every time but he never stops trying.

• it’s only after he’s sent on a mission that almost went wrong. the higher ups never liked that he escaped, so the moment he became a student, he was sent on missions that left him battered and bleeding. he almost dies but he forgets to be afraid, it’s muted acceptance only undertaken by waking up under shoko’s care. there’s a plate of onigiri on his bedside, and he remembers how the servants used to mock him. maki is half waiting at the door, she sits at his bedside and eats her misshapen work alongside him and it’s enough.

• they’re inseparable after that, and when panda joins them, it feels like everything he ever wanted as a child. quiet nights are disrupted by panda stumbling into his room to watch youtube, lonely mornings broken by maki dragging him onto the field, meals shared between friends who look at him as if he’s worth more than the blood soaked on his hands. the missions don’t stop, his throat is a scarred and jumbled mess. but he has a home now, and that’s enough.

• then yuuta walks through the door, and it’s like seeing the scared little boy toge once was. except, yuuta is afraid of him. just like his family, just like the kamo heir, just like the people he never even met in their society. he doesn’t want to scare him, but he also doesn’t want to leave him alone. part of him wonders if that’s his true curse, to always chase others away, to always upset the balance with his mere existence.

• the first time yuuta calls him kind, an odd feeling of distress suffocates, makes him feel like a liar. but the fear has finally the left the others eyes, not looking at him like a monster or a weapon or an enemy, but someone to admire. he craves it so much it scares him and when their hands linger on a high-five, he realizes how much he doesn’t want to let go.

• when gojo asks him to die for yuuta, the idea of curses and hierarchy never even cross his mind. he was born to die, a binding vow wrapped like a snake around his throat. he’s waited his entire life for it, but dying for yuuta? it ignites a passion he never thought he’d have. so when he sends getou flying, not unlike how the kamo heir did that day years ago, he doesn’t feel self-hatred or fear. instead, there is satisfaction. not just for yuuta, but for maki, for panda. he’d die for them, again and again, because it’s only because of them that he’s still alive.

• he bites back tears when yuuta has to leave, they’re alike in so many ways except for one. when yuuta loves, it’s with bloody nails dragging on the ground in his refusal to leave, gritted teeth and desperation. but when toge loves, it’s at distance, always waiting for it to slip away, always too afraid to chase anything that didn’t end in him bleeding. but he craves, and he wants, and everyday he has to fight not to give chase. he bites his tongue and let’s him go, trying not to let him know how much it burns. but yuuta knows, somehow he always knows despite the few months they’ve had each other.

• he learns to sign for him, sheepish movements still unpracticed but with so much care behind a sheepish grin. he signs every word he says, every word he reads, even along to the videos they watch. he loves yuuta and it scares him, it reminds him of the little boy muffling his cries as his throat shreds to pieces. it scares him because even in his self-hatred, he doesn’t doubt that yuuta would take him blood-soaked and all. that he would somehow see the bloodshed as necessary, the pain that came with his existence as a worthy price instead of an inherent flaw.

• but none of it matters when yuuta board the plane. he knows unspoken words, the only kind he’s ever had. but somehow yuuta hears all of them. they don’t say what they mean, unspoken promises left for the day he comes back. so toge does what he’s done since the day the snake and fangs forever tainted his existence. he stands back and he watches from the window, waiting. but this time, there isn’t silence, there is home.

anyway, i always ramble so much about them, half of it probably doesn’t make sense but. thank you for the ask !! i have so many feelings, if gege won’t give him a backstory, i will. please feel free to send me more questions !! it shouldn’t take so long but jc can i talk a lot 🧍‍♀️

#inumaki toge #jjk #jujutsu kaisen #yuuta okkotsu #inuokko #ottoge #jjk panda #maki zenin #megumi fushiguro #itadori yuuji #inumaki toge backstory

[gogandmagog]

so what are your favorite books/authors besides lm montgomery...I maybe just maybe am tailoring my goodreads tbr for next year 👀

“I love a book that makes me cry.”

– Anne Shirley, Anne of Green Gables

And apparently me too??? I’m just over here adding this grossly popular quote right at the top of this list after having wrote it up, because when I look back over these all-star books that rushed to be highlighted, I realise that… every last one of these moved me to tears.

But I’ve read them all half-a-dozen of times, at least! 🥺 So, here we go, here we go!

Beloved by Toni Morrison. This one knocked me out, good and proper. It’s such a masterpiece. It starts in the 1870’s of Ohio and follows a former slave and her daughter. It’s got a strong Haunted House vibe (there is a ghost), and it opens up with both something quite Maud-would-appreciate-this-ish and quite chilling; "124 WAS SPITEFUL. Full of a baby's venom. The women in the house knew it and so did the children. For years each put up with the spite in his own way, but by 1873 Sethe and her daughter Denver were its only victims." Mind, some people haaate this book, and feel quite strongly about it — but I like prosey books (this is the top complaint as far as I can tell), and this one is certainly that. Some very harrowing descriptions of the abuse of slaves, to be sure, but I personally have never been one to turn away from that ugliness, because remembering and understanding its weight feels important.

Stoner by John Williams. This is a little bit like ‘life sucks, and then you die’ — hyper precise about mundanities and is frankly a huge red flag to see sitting on a dudes bookshelf but… I loved it so much. 😅 It’s quiet, but poignant, and in its simplest rendering is about a very bored English Professor falling greatly in love with someone who is not his wife. Keep in mind, I’m hardly a girl who thinks infidelity is either cute or excusable… but this book firmly lodged itself in my heart, anyway.

Giovanni’s Room by James Baldwin. I’m a HUGE BIG HUGE BIG HUGE Baldwin fan. And this is the book that started it, for me. Like, this novel will fully pull you apart, and give you a wallowing. I’d say it's even a great atmospheric read for winter, and I also even want to go ahead and say this book is considered a classic, but I could be making that up; maybe it’s just a classic to me. The plot surrounds the struggles of a bisexual man in late 1950’s Paris; he’s just proposed to his girlfriend, but he goes on and has a relationship with a male bartender. There’s race, misogyny, and class issues here too, but this book isn’t so heavy that it becomes cumbersome to read. It’s actually quite beautiful. 

The God of Small Things by Arundhati Roy. Another prosey book. Maybe the most prosey book I’ve ever read… you don’t really get a break from it. But it’s so lush, and visceral, and the word play is sometimes so genius that you don’t mind getting fully lost in it (at least, I didn't!). This book could be labeled “tragedy” because it’s sometimes rather bleak – it's about fraternal Indian twins, Kerala history, and the lasting impact of childhood traumas, as well as the exploitation of the weak, really. But, there’s high points too!

Elsewhere if you haven’t read Peter Pan as an adult, I urge and beg of you to. J.M. Barrie (that’s James Matthew Barrie, and I will never stop conspiring that this is intentional of Montgomery and James Matthew Blythe) is right up there with Lucy Maud in the realm of exquisite and sweet storytelling that transcends age.

Of course Shirley Jackson, but you’re already a reader there! Fanny Howe has been an obsession of mine lately, too — I think I’ve posted her twice here and here — despite her being a poet, which is something of a fault that I’m being very charitable about overlooking (only half-joking, I really usually don’t care for poetry [except you Mary Oliver], not even LMM’s or by extension Anne or Walter’s either). Eve Babitz and Joan Didion are close personal friends (okay, it’s one-sided).

Anyone else that I read over and over are so classic that it’s almost white noise/nonsense to list them. I think the Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde is my all-time never-to-be-defeated, and Lolita (despite its very uncomfortable content) by Vladimir Nabokov is a close second (I once saw Lolita cited as being ‘a love letter to the English language’ and I frankly agreed with my whole chest), and Down and Out in Paris and London by George Orwell (his essays are things of brilliance too) takes bronze. I also obviously throw myself at the feet of the likes of C.S. Lewis and Lewis Carroll and Fyodor Dostoevsky and Virginia Woolf and Kafka and Sylvia Plath and Charles Dickens and James Joyce, and all of Those Guys too. Genuinely. I also wholly stan Washington Irving. He’s most famous for Sleepy Hallow, which I’ll link right here because if you tap on it and read even a single line, I think you’ll be like, ‘oh right, he is sensational.’ And this quality continues throughout his catalogue!

Signing off with a true and sincere hope that you’ll consider sharing your TBR list with everyone, and maybe some recommendations of your own, too!!! Your opinion means worlds!!!

#this is very late and wordy #apologies 🥹

[kzmeru]

you give your love to me this way

─ warning(s) ; mentions of familial problems, insecurities and slight self-deprecation

author’s note ; hai :3 i wrote this as a vent kinda(?) felt silly tbh i swear im okay :> i just need my silly izumi to comfort me until the day i die bc

Sleeping at night had always been difficult, especially while living in a loud household. Your nights were spent burying your face into the pile of pillows, your headphones on max volume, anything to keep the noise out.

For nth time of the week, they were yelling at each other, again. Holding back tears, you stared up at the ceiling, completely unable to do anything to stop your parents from arguing, nor did you even have the energy to.

Silent cried occupied the dark room, before your phone lit up and started to buzz.

"What the hell…" You groaned, wiping your tears away as you grabbed your phone from the bedside table. As you saw the contact name, your eyes eventually lit up.

"Hello? [Name]— are you crying?" Quickly picking up the phone, it was expected that Izumi, no other than your boyfriend would be able to tell that you weren't feeling the best. "Ah… was it not the best time to call?" He sighs, with a hint of worry in his tone.

Wiping your tears with your sleeve, you immediately denied it, laughing nervously as Izumi stayed silent.

"Wait there." Was all he said before he hung up and left you hanging.

The yelling had stopped, but their argument and the words they had said during it was something that you couldn’t forget. Maybe, just maybe, it was all my fault. You thought.

Pulling your legs against your body, you curled up into a ball and sat in silence. "Maybe if I wasn't born, they wouldn't be fighting…" You whispered, tears welling up in your eyes. No, I shouldn’t even exist in the first place.

Knock, knock, knock.

"Izumi?" You deadpanned, opening your window as you saw your lover outside. Your boyfriend, who had climbed up the window like you're in a cliché romance novel.

Izumi huffed, dropping a bag on your bed. "You're crying." He says, his eyes refusing to leave your figure as he examined you. "Stop crying. I don't wanna hear you cry." Despite the harsh comment, the concern in Izumi's tone was still audible.

"What’s in the bag?" You asked, slightly salty about his previous remark. Grabbing the bag and ripping it open, inside was full of snacks, canned drinks and a note. "…" Your lips suddenly curled into a teasing smile.

"Don’t you dare say anything. It was just a coincidence that I was by a store while I was walking over to your house." He grumbled, plopping himself down on your bed and tightly hugged your pillow. "…Feel free to talk. I'll be listening."

#enstars x reader #ensemble stars x reader #ensemble stars #ensemble stars x y/n #ensemble stars x you #enstars #enstars x y/n #enstars x you #izumi sena #izumi x reader #izumi sena x reader #izumi sena x y/n #izumi sena x you

[dreamersparacosm]

austin!elvis when you guys find out you’re having trouble conceiving…like just imagine him being all sad and you’re crying and he promises to put a baby in you

my little dove - austin!elvis

note ; i am screaming crying throwing up sliding down the wall. because i just know he would be SO distraught and he knows how bad ur hurting and would do anything for you in that moment

warnings ; angst, mention of pregnancy

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

it was your fault. you just knew it. your childhood dream of that white house with a white picket fence, and children playing blissfully in the front yard as you and your husband sat outside reading a novel was gone. crushed. broken into half with a few swift words. your doctor had made it clear: you two were not going to get lucky with conceiving.

elvis was beside himself. for years, he had told you that one day, he was going to put a baby in you. he had promised that he would make your belly swollen with his love. now, they were empty lies. he wondered if it was his fault, if he did something wrong to deserve this karma. he had done everything right with you. he had courted you for three years, treated you with the utmost respect, and asked your father for permission to marry you. but, it all meant nothing. there was not going to be a baby.

“i’m sorry, can you repeat that?” you asked.

“yes, mrs. presley. ah, as you can see from the results, it would not be likely that your uterus would be able to carry a healthy pregnancy to term.”

you needed to hear it again. and again. and again. again until you were blue in the face. the clock ticked idly in the room as if it were mocking you. you blinked in time with the hands of the clock. elvis watched you, unable to process his emotions. all he cared about was that his baby, you, was okay. his hand reached out carefully to meet yours, placing a gentle grasp over it. he was fearful that if he was too rough, you might shatter into a million pieces.

but, just one touch was enough. the tears that had once brimmed your eyes came out as full sobs. “no! no! this can’t be! i did everything right,” you spoke between cries. “i-i eat healthy, i go to church, i exercise, i respect my parents-“

you didn’t even have a chance to finish your sentence before you were being pulled into a tight hug by your husband. his arms fully engulfed you, a soothing hand running down your back. “sh, sh, my little dove,” the nickname he called you grounded you back to earth. the nickname you had earned when he had taken you to a garden, and you had found yourself entranced by the dove that sat by the lake. the nickname he gave you when he fell in love with you. “i’ve got ya. i’m right here, baby.”

your breathing began to slow as he continued to calm you. his hand stroked your hair, whispering heartfelt statements into your ear, “i’m so sorry, dove. i promise, darlin’, i’ll put a damn baby in you if it’s the last thing i do. i don’t care what any damn doctor says.”

your arms found themselves wrapping around his neck as you held on for dear life. your eyes were shut tight as you imagined that dream. that life that you had ached for as a child. he was determined to give it to you, and you knew that. and, even if it was never possible, he would be with you every step of the way as you healed. “i love you, sweetheart,” it came out as a murmur, but he hugged you harder when he heard it.

“ain’t letting nobody hurt you or make you cry,” he spoke into your hair. “we’re gonna make it happen.”

he wasn’t sure about a lot of things, but this was one of those times that he truly was.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

keep your ideas coming here!

#angelina's drabbles #answered #anon #austin butler #austin butler elvis #elvis #elvis 2022 #baz luhrmann elvis #austin butler fluff #austin butler fanfic #elvis x reader #austin butler x reader

[goodluckclove]

I think the thing that stops me from writing is myself. I need to talk about my projects to stay interested but the second I tell anyone about my ideas, the interest is gone and my inner dialogue starts tearing my books apart. So then I end up in the plotting stage forever, or at chapter 3 with no clue how to progress and no interest to start. Doesn’t matter how long I work on the project for, it still happens. I end up in my own head about my projects and it sucks

Hi King. It's late Sunday night for me here in Portland - Wife has started what they call their "pre-sleep" ritual, which they claim is very useful for their specific type of ADHD wiring. I'll be handing off control of my blog to one of my novel's protagonists for the entirety of tomorrow (good luck, Edgar), but I've been thinking about your question since you sent it and I wanted to make a point to answer before dedicating my whole Monday to long-form roleplaying.

So people post about their projects online and it's cool. They talk about what they're working on, and sometimes they get loads of accolades and encouragement from well-meaning strangers online. It's very neat and it's very good, but at it's core it's not really something a writer needs at that stage. In fact, I think there's an argument towards saying that too much involvement in that culture can be actively toxic to a new writer's craft.

This may sound hypocritical coming from someone who's essentially liveblogging their quartet as they write it. But keep in mind that Migration Patterns is my fourteenth book. And in the fifteen years I've been writing I really wouldn't tell people about an idea until I was at least 10k words in. Maybe more. Maybe never. I have entire novels that no one in my life, not even my wife, know anything about.

It's fine. it's lonely and it's fine, and that's kind of the thing about our line of work in my thought.

An idea is a fragile thing. It's like an egg that needs to be supported on some kind of foundation to be displayed properly and safely, and for some people it takes a long time to build that foundation. I run a writing blog where I almost exclusively talk about writing and to writers, but in my Real Human Life I do not act like that.

I think I have two close people in my life that I bounce ideas off of the most - my wife and my best friend - and that's only because they're most likely to be nearby while I'm actively writing. It's helpful to talk out ideas. But what are you looking for when you talk about your ideas? Because people can't praise or critique what you write in any meaningful way until you actually write it, which I could see leading to frustration and ultimately losing interest in the work.

Here are some of the things I say when I talk about my writing:

"Hey give me a name for a person/place/thing."

"How do you think I could get out of [insert plot point here]?"

And that's pretty much it.

A writing blog does help if you don't post expecting feedback. I will screenshot excerpts I'm very proud of and post it with some commentary, something I've never had the courage to do until now, and it feels good just to hang in on the proverbial fridge. Most people just like it and move on, because they don't have the full context of the situation. But just seeing someone liked it is cool.

Ultimately though, if my entire audience despawned right now - well, I'd have some grander existential issues to worry about. But I'd still write. I'd talk about my writing to myself and to my characters. I'd go back to imagining what I'd say in interviews that'll likely never happen. All of that is fun and free and cops hate it.

Maybe the interest leaves when you talk to other people about your projects because they can't see it the way you can. That's not their fault, and it's not your fault. It certainly doesn't mean it's a bad idea. Overall, as much as I enjoy the sense of community here on Writeblr, we should definitely acknowledge the point in which it actually works against us and our craft.

Once you write enough of a project, assuming you've developed a productive work strategy, you will discover motivations to be interested. You are a perpetual motion machine of artistic development and no one else will build a track for you to follow that makes more sense than your own.

Hope that helps, friend.

#writeblr #writing community #on writing #authors of tumblr #writing #actually writing #writing asks

[anonymityisfunwriter]

Illiterate

Pairing - Grumpy!Bucky Barnes x Sunshine!Reader Summary - You're more than the screw-up. You're more than the stupid, illiterate Avenger. At least, you're pretty sure you are.

Bucky's just walking down the compound hallway when he hears a loud shout of your name followed by, "Seriously?"

He's immediately searching the corridor for which room you could possibly be in. He doesn't even care that his jog is catching other people's attention, he's more concerned for you.

He's about to turn the corner when he hears, "You know, I will never understand how everyone tolerates you, let alone likes you. God, how could you make a mistake like this?"

"I'm sorry," you say, though Bucky's sure that you're just repeating yourself again. "It won't happen again- I swear it won't. I'll do better."

Bucky's made his way past the threshold, but neither you nor Sharon seemed to have noticed him. He finds you sitting at the conference room table. There's paper splayed out all in front of you, and your eyes are frantically flickering between the papers and Sharon, who's hovering over you and berating your every mistake.

"You're right- it won't happen again because I'm never going to get stuck working with the stupid, illiterate Avenger," she practically spits, her voice dripping with malice.

"Hey," Bucky barks, finally catching Sharon's attention.

"I'm not-," you choke out simultaneously. "I'm not... I'll try harder."

"It's true though- isn't it?" She asks even though it's clear to Bucky that she knows the answer. "I've read your file- you are illiterate."

Bucky steps forward, wrapping his arm around your shoulder to console you. "That's enough, Sharon."

"I'm not," you cry again, trying to keep the tears at bay. "I know how to read."

"Do you or does everyone just tell you that to make you feel better?"

"I'm not going to tell you again, Sharon. Lay off," Bucky warns.

Sharon's eyes meet Bucky's and she immediately takes notice of the anger in them. She straightens herself and her jacket and finally steps away from you. "She fumbled the paperwork for our mission brief. Now I have to go to my boss and fix her mistakes."

"Then do it. Without being an asshole, preferably."

"She messed up and somehow I'm the asshole? It's not my fault she made a stupid mistake."

"Mistakes happen- to everyone. Believe it or not, we don't scream in each other's faces when they do happen. Now, take your papers and leave," Bucky orders, his tone leaving no room for Sharon to continue. Sharon's jaw clenches like she's trying her very hardest to hold back her next insult.

As Sharon scoops up all her papers from the table, she glares at you one last time, knowing that's all she can do with Bucky breathing down her neck.

"Hey," he crouches down next to you, your head resting on the table. "Doll, are you alright?"

You slowly look up, barely meeting Bucky's eyes. The sight of you red-rimmed, glassy eyes practically breaks his heart. He pulls you into him. The second his arms wrap around you, the emotional dam breaks and you're quietly sobbing into his shoulder. "I can read- I swear I can. I'm not stupid."

"It's alright. I know you can. Don't listen to her," he coos at you. "You're not stupid."

You wipe your eyes, letting Bucky pull you up into one last embrace. When you've finally pulled yourself together enough to walk down the halls, you tell Bucky that you're going to clean yourself up for dinner. Once you're in you room, your fingers trace your bookshelf- starting with children's book all the way to full novels. Normally, physically seeing your progress makes your heart swell with pride at how far you'd come, this time it doesn't make you feel any better. Instead, you hear Sharon's words in your head. Over and over again- the stupid, illiterate Avenger.

When you are able to pull yourself from your pity party, you head down to the dining room.  Both Bucky and Bruce are already at the table with a pizza box in front of them, you grab a plate and take a seat next to Bucky, whose eyes keep flickering to you to make sure you're okay.

"Hey," Bruce calls. "Word of the day?"

You nod, not wanting to break your daily routine with Bruce. "Word of the day is illiterate. Unable to read or write."

"Yeah," Bruce nods suspiciously. "That's right. In a sentence?"

"An Avenger shouldn't be illiterate," you state plainly.

"You're not-" 

But you cut off whatever Bucky's about to say. "Bruce, am I illiterate? I mean would I still be considered illiterate?"

"Who told you that? Of course, you're not illiterate. You read and write very well- especially for someone who didn't have any sort of education."

"But I was illiterate?" you ask, staring at him and hoping he'll give you an honest answer. 

Bruce thinks about that for a second, between Bucky's harsh stare and your pleading, puppy eyes he's not sure what he's supposed to say. So he goes with the truth. "Yes. You were illiterate."

He sees your face drop, "So I am stupid?"

"What? Of course not," Bruce insists. "Who told you that?"

"It doesn't matter," you mumble.

"Trust me, I've seen stupid before. You're not stupid. You're actually incredibly intelligent- you just didn't have an education. That doesn't measure your intellect."

"Really?" you ask, looking up hopefully at Bruce.

"Really," he assures you. "And honestly, I'd hate to be the person that called you stupid," he remarks, his eyes flickering to the very protective super soldier sitting next to you.

"Ah," you dismissively wave your hand. "James wouldn't hurt anyone."

"Call me crazy, but I think that only applies to you," Bruce mumbles, watching how Bucky glares at him for his last remark. 

AnonymityIsFun Masterlist Grumpy Sunshine Series Masterlist

#anonymityisfunwriter #anonymityisfun #grumpy sunshine trope #grumpy sunshine #grumpy x sunshine #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #james bucky barnes #sam wilson #steve rogers #reader insert #x reader #marvel fanfiction #bucky x reader #bucky x y/n #bucky angst #bucky x female reader #james buchanan barnes #bucky fic #bucky fluff #bucky fanfic #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky barnes au #bucky x you #bucky barnes one shot #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes imagine

[painless-innit-colourful]

The End of Everything

(8k words, tw for graphic violence, blood, gore and suicidal ideation (not really but it’s best to be safe), read it below or on my ao3)

The last thing Tommy hears before his final death is his best friend screaming his name.

The first thing Tommy feels as he comes back to consciousness is Tubbo’s hand on the back of his neck.

---

After the end of the world, Tommy, Tubbo, Jack, Dream and Punz wake up in a place that no longer exists, teetering on the edge of oblivion. DreamXD offers one last game.

(Or, Tommy is tired of not being dead yet, Tubbo is trying to get him to play, Jack has his last grievances to settle, Dream and Punz are bastards and DreamXD has a few tricks up his sleeve. Fix-it fic for the DSMP Vol. 1 finale.)

Yes, this was that one I wrote in 24 hours on Sunday night/Monday morning. Full fic below :))

The last thing Tommy hears before his final death is his best friend screaming his name.

From the hole in the wall they burst, Jack and Tubbo, haloed in fire. Tommy turns his head as he hears Tubbo scream his name one last time, throwing himself across the gap, arms unfurled. He goes to reach for him, scream Tubbo’s name back, but the word never reaches his lips in time and his arms never get there as the white rushes in all around like the arrival of a blizzard. Tears form in his eyes that are vapourised instantly, along with the rest of him, as the bright light envelops them all. Then there’s nothing.

Then, there’s nothing.                

Tubbo said it would be like TV static. Sudden, painless. For a second he feels very, very hot. He stretches his arm out just the tiniest bit more, no reason, just momentum, and feels parts of him colliding with other parts of him no longer connected to him. In the space of a few seconds, where there once was a boy, there is nothing. Every cell eviscerated. Memories housed in burnt neurons firing into nothingness soon fade with the body. The whiteness is so bright and so hot, but not uncomfortable. He was told it wouldn’t be uncomfortable.

Told what wouldn’t be uncomfortable? By who?

There’s just nothing. There is no one. He is no one. The body could regenerate, the mind be made anew. An interesting prospect. A novel idea. Refit the world, retell the story. Again. Again. Again.

No.

The first thing Tommy feels as he comes back to consciousness is Tubbo’s hand on the back of his neck.

Without opening his eyes, he knows it’s Tubbo because of the scars. They’re a little softer than his normal skin: always have been. He knows them too, each dip and wrinkle. He could map them out like land if that wasn’t a really weird thing to do. Tubbo’s hand, with its soft scars, cradles the back of his head. He’s got an arm around him, holding him steady, turning his body into Tubbo’s, whose knees are under Tommy’s back. His limbs sprawl out on rough, cobblestone ground, legs aching, one arm a tad warm from proximity to lava. Uncomfortably so. He pulls it to his chest, whimpering.

Tubbo said it wouldn’t hurt.

“Took him long enough.” “Bit of a wimp if you ask me.”

Voices, familiar voices, voices it hurts to try and place. Tommy focuses on not moving, not listening, barely breathing. He’s dead. He should be dead. He cracks an eye and sees Dream, Punz and Jack’s legs standing facing him. He closes the eye again.

“Seriously, why was he out so long?” The voice that responds cannot be placed either, but that’s not Tommy’s fault. It crackles with pure energy, booms with power. "Proximity to death. Limbo gets its wires crossed. It becomes harder sometimes to get back. You remember?"

“Up, c’mon,” Tubbo whispers to him over the others conversing with whatever otherworldly being is in the room, pulling him into an upright position. “Tubbo-” Tommy goes to tell him to stop, then throws his shaking arms around him instead, ignoring the way his insides feel like they’re sloshing around within him like liquid jelly in a mould. Tubbo hugs back, smelling overwhelmingly like smoke. Who cares, they’re dead anyway. Unless-

“Are we dead?” Tommy asks, reluctantly pulling back.  Tubbo sighs. “Yes. Yes, we are. The nuke-” “Don’t care. If we’re dead-” He turns his head and flinches violently back into Tubbo with a small shout.  Tubbo sighs again. “Tommy, meet DreamXD. And, yes, he’s a god.”

The swirling white robes actually flow as if upon some ethereal wind despite the fact they are very indoors. His (his? his) head is heralded with a floating broken crown of gold, continually circling the mask-ball head. The resemblance to Dream is uncanny - must be why the man looks so thrilled - and puts Tommy right on edge. “Come on,” Tubbo whispers again, putting his arms under Tommy’s shoulders and standing. “The liquidy-feeling stops after a minute or so of being upright.”

As they get to their feet, DreamXD waves his hands and the light from the lava inexplicably dims. As he speaks, all five maybe-mortals draw into a circle around him: Tommy feels, not for the first time, like a puppet being manhandled into place.

“Finally, Tommy. I was getting anxious that you really wouldn’t come back to us. I needed the fifth player for my game, I’d hate to have to go get someone else.” “No thanks,” Tommy’s nervous laugh just escapes from his rapidly constricting throat. Everyone stares at him. “I don’t want to play anymore games.” “Tommy-” But DreamXD cuts over Tubbo’s plea and Dream’s taunt.

“Are you sure you would want to give up on this unique opportunity? It’s not going to be that painful, dear.” “Tommy, just hold on a minute,” Tubbo’s eyes lock with his, almost unnaturally. “Let him explain.” “I don’t want to be played with anymore, Tubbo,” Desperation bleeds into his tone as he tries to reach for Tubbo and finds he can’t move, which only makes the constricted feeling worse. His shoulders fall, “I’d rather just- die, and be dead.” “Tommy-” Tubbo is silenced by DreamXD again, so he gives Tommy a sad half-smile, and pleads with his eyes. Tommy blinks back unshed tears and turns obediently to look at the god.

“Thank you. I will explain this once, and only once, so make no misconstrutions of my words.” He raises one hand with a flourish, and returns it holding a book. Light emanates from the pages and in his other hand he holds a quill with an exuberant feather. “Some call me a God of Death,” He smiles unnervingly with a tilt of his head, “They’d be wrong. Some prefer God of Life. Closer, but still no.” The arm holding the book multiplies, and soon there are five arms holding books in a circle and a further five hands holding quills descending on the pages to write furiously. The god’s voice reverberates with a sound like thunder. “I am the God of Wishes. And Dreams. And Protector of the End, Master of Hauntings, Merchant of Souls, Purveyor of Stories, blah, blah, blah. But foremost, I am the God of Wishes.” His smile stretches uncannily. The other members of the circle seem unreassuringly less creeped out by his many titles as he clasps two more of his hands.

“Today was a bad day, wasn’t it? All those lives, snuffed out like candle flames, all those stories left so unfinished, so unsatisfying!” He practically squeals with joy. “Awh! Here is my game: I give you my tome and my quill and you write your wish. And then, if you pass my test, I grant your wish before sending you off to your afterlife. I know, how generous. Graciously giving you the chance to tie up a loose end before you depart this life. Because, despite my best efforts, someone-” The mask-ball head and its golden satellites wheel on Dream, who is doing his best to appear casual. “-managed to drop the thread. But it doesn’t matter! Because you’re here now, and you’re going to play, RIGHT?”

Despite not having eyes, the cross-shape on his head is definitely looking at Tommy, who shrinks back in very sensible, mortal fear. “What’s the test?” He asks in a voice so small. DreamXD cocks his head gradually all the way to one side, “It’s a surprise!”

Tommy nods before he can find out how that voice became so deranged. Tubbo’s fingers interlace with his as he tries to remain calm. This isn’t fair. He should be dead. He always knew living was hard, but it turns out dying can be a bitch as well. Tubbo puts a hand on his arm and squeezes gently. “Breathe, Tom.” “What’s the fucking point in that, we’re dead aren’t we?”

“Oh,” The god swirls his robes in a cheery circle as he addresses the whole group again. “And it can’t be, ‘Bring me back to liiife!’ That’s just rude.”

The swirling mass of arms becomes but two, and DreamXD offers the book first to Jack. He takes the book and the quill with steady hands that Tommy certainly doesn’t possess, thinks for a moment, then writes his wish with deliberate strokes of the pen, almost smiling as he does. As he lifts the quill from the page, it slithers away with a small cracking sound to the next blank canvas. Jack shrugs and passes the book to Punz as indicated. They take it forcefully from him, all but snatching the pen, sharing a look with Dream, then scribbling down their wish. The page flips, they pass it to Dream, and he also writes down his wish at speed, like they had prepared a contingency plan for this exact situation. Dream passes it to Tubbo, almost dropping it, and Tubbo repeats the ritual, writing his wish with surety, only biting his lip a little as he puts the ink on the page. Finally, he passes the book to Tommy, meeting his eye and giving him an encouraging nod.

Only, when the book is in Tommy’s hands, he doesn’t know what to do. He’d tried to anticipate the others’ - Dream and Punz will no doubt be trying to get back alive, Jack, fuck, Tommy barely knows Jack anymore, maybe he’ll wish for some hair, Tubbo, probably something sweet about Michael? - and now he has no idea what to write for himself. What he wants. Well, he wants a lot of things, but he’ll never get any of them. He wants to get pastries from Niki’s Bakery with Wilbur again. He wants to listen to his discs and hold them tight against his chest. He wants to be fifteen once more, sitting on the banks of the river outside L’Manberg next to Tubbo, drying their clothes in the August sun beating down on them after they went for an unplanned swim. But he’s here, in a body long dissolved, in a building that no longer exists, with the memory of the white-out of the end of the world seared into his mind. He has no hope of receiving what he wants. Needs. Prayed for night after night, wished and hoped and longed for.

Well, it’s worth a shot.

Tommy writes his wish and the book slams shut in his hands with a noise like a sudden intake of breath. He holds aloft to DreamXD the tome with trembling arm and it is taken by their perhaps-benevolent, perhaps-sadistic present deity, who immediately begins rifling through the pages. He reads and reads and glances up at Tubbo and shrugs and goes back to reading and chuckles at one page and then stops at the last.

“No, no, this won’t work. Tommy, I need another one.” “Wha- Whatt- I, I- I don’t have-” “It’s too vague and too big, I need another one. Gods, did no one tell you to manage your expectations?”

Before Tommy can take the book back, Jack peers through the god’s shoulder at the book. “I- Oh. Oh, that’s-” “Let’s see this,” Punz snatches the book from the god, who only seems to step back and allow it as Tommy chases after it, making his protests painfully clear. Punz grabs his wrist and holds him at arm’s length while sharing the contents of the page with Dream, and soon enough the laughter is coming thick. “Oh, oh, that’s too good.” “Agreed. And I thought the coming to fight us earlier was ridiculous, but this is just pathetic.”

Tommy wrestles his hand out of Punz’s grip, “You bastards, give me that.” “Hey Tubbo,” Dream holds the book out to Tubbo with the arm furthest from Tommy. “Read this.”

Tubbo takes it and closes the book. “You’re both fucking awful. We’re dead, about to go to limbo, and you’re both acting like fucking clowns.” The two of them laugh like a pair of high school bullies, Punz straightening up first, “Apologies, Tubbo, but killing us all doesn’t give you a leg up in this.” “Hey, excuse me, it was me, that killed us all, okay?” Jack crosses his arms. “Just so you know.” “Fine, whatever, I don’t care,” Dream adjusts his mask with one hand. “The point is, fuck all of you, but especially Tommy. We had the mercy to let him go after killing Tubbo, which, hey! Apparently that wasn’t true, and then he comes back and talks me into believing we can make the server better before we all get blown to smithereens. That’s the meaning of awful. He deserves to feel like shit for this.”

“Whatever,” Interrupts the god. Tubbo hands Tommy the book back, the quill that never left his hand gripped tight like it was known all along he wouldn’t be allowed what he wanted. He had known. Fucking awful world. He thought he’d be off it by now.

He puts the tip of the quill against the page and watches as ink flows out of the nib, blotting the sheet with a small, black lake. A tear hits the page, diluting the inky water and forming a small river in his topographical map of failures, and he sinks to his knees, cracking the quill in his fist, wanting nothing more than to curl up and die as the jeers resound around the room.

“Tommy-” “I haven’t GOT another!” It’s useless, it always is. “I don’t know! I’m tired, I can’t- Make up a wish for me, please-” Tommy holds the book out towards Tubbo, until the leather binding slips from his fingers and hits the floor with a dull thud. Dutifully, his best friend kneels, retrieves the book from the floor and the quill from Tommy’s fingers. Ink leaks from further up the feather than it should, bleeding endlessly, marking their fingers with similar jet-black stains. He puts the feather between his teeth and opens the book to the correct page, and Tommy watches as the feather falls from his mouth as he looks slowly and sadly back at him. He then simply stands, walks across the floor and returns the book to DreamXD.

“I don’t see any problem with it.” “Are you serious.” “I see no issue with it. No reason why you shouldn’t be able to grant it. Unless you’re not as powerful as you pretend to be.”

This seems to have made DreamXD ticked off, which Tommy would calculate was probably a poor move on Tubbo’s part. “Would you give up your own wish for it?” Tubbo’s hands, playing with a loose thread on his sleeve, still. “It’s okay,” Tommy says hastily. “I don’t need it.” “Tommy, that’s not-” “That’s pretty shit, man,” Jack says. “Tubbo doesn’t need your approval for that. He can have his own damn wish without spending it on you.”

Tommy’s shoulders drop again and he shuts his eyes. He’s vaguely aware of Tubbo chewing out Jack, but he has no energy left to care. He hadn’t been expecting to make it through the day, for obvious reasons. He did not save anything for after the nuke fell. That was supposed to be it.

‘Very depressing train of thought tonight.’ Tommy, startled by the booming voice now inside his mind tries to cry out, but finds the sound never comes. ‘Don’t do that. Do you want to get bullied more than you already are?’ He squirms in place, unable to speak, unwilling to move, scared and tired and waiting for it all to be over. ‘Just think, idiot. I can hear you.’ ‘Why are you doing this please stop please stop I thought I’d get to be done by now but I don’t want to be used anymore. Please.’ ‘Are you done yet.’ ‘Please I’m so tired I just want it all to stop please.’ ‘Do you really want to just die?’

With two years of exhaustion radiating outwards, Tommy goes to think-speak ‘Yes’, and then doesn’t. Maybe if he doesn’t say anything, DreamXD will understand how wearied he is. ‘You’re a total downer. I mean, “I wish to be happy for a bit” is not the most outlandish request I’ve had, I was just expecting something a bit more…’ ‘Selfless?’ The god looks away from Dream and Punz. ‘...Elaborate.’

He hangs his head in shame, ‘I should wish for someone else. That’s the good thing to do, isn’t it? But, I- I want something for myself. For once. Something guaranteed. Something actually good, and not fake and breakable and-’ ‘I’m starting to remember why I don’t like talking to mortals.’ ‘Sorry. Can you bring Tubbo back? He has a son. Michael should grow up with a dad.’

The god makes no reply, and when Tommy lifts his head, he is met with that unnatural smile. ‘Sorry. Missed your chance to amend your wish.’

“Okay, here’s how this is going to go.” Sporting a gormless expression, Tommy is suddenly encumbered much, much more than his previous eerily-weightless feeling. Armour digs into the backs of his knees and shoulder blades, in some places clipping into the floor where he’s kneeling. The weight of a sword and shield materialises at his side. Netherite. Oh, joy.

“A simple contest,” The god swirls through the air, robes flowing around him as he spreads the ordinary amount of human arms across what again becomes a battlefield. “I’m sure you’re all familiar by now. Tommy and Tubbo against Punz and Dream,” DreamXD allows an interlude for Dream and Punz to howl with laughter. Tommy lifts his eyes to meet Tubbo’s and the latter comes over to help him up, armour scraping against the cobble floor. They conduct a silent conversation with three looks and a pair of tentative smiles, and Tubbo curls his fingers around Tommy’s. Looks like it’s me and you again, one final time.

“Jack may join whichever side he likes. If Tommy and Tubbo win, Tommy gets his wish.” Dream wheezes like a sick dog. “If Dream and Punz win… they get their wishes.” The delighted expressions on the two and a half formerly-laughing faces instantaneously drop. “What? What about Tubbo and Jack’s? Why do we have to fight for ours?” The masked man walks straight up to stand directly in front of the god, a bold show of defiance. One smiling facade glares back at another and the god replies with meticulous articulation.

“You have to fight for yours because I say so. And I like Jack and Tubbo’s better. Theirs are cute. More… whimsy.” The side eye that the god gives Dream as he swoops out of the way could slice the man in half. “Besides, I thought you’d like this game.” “Dream, he’s right. We know we’re gonna win this.” Punz sweeps their axe over their shoulder as they stare Tommy and Tubbo down. “We’ve only won this battle… What, twice already this week?”

When Dream doesn’t reply, Tommy realises he’s staring at Jack. “What?” “Nothing.”

“Take up your arms, fighters!” The two best friends drop each other’s hands to pick up a sword and a shield respectively. DreamXD twirls up to the ceiling of the chamber and back down again, gleefully perching on the roof of the cell. “And don’t worry. It’ll probably hurt, but it’s not like you can die twice! Not like this anyway.” “Hey,” Tubbo quietly calls Tommy’s eyes to meet his. “It’s been an honour.” He replies with a smile that doesn’t reach those eyes, repeating a false refrain sung too often, “To the ends of the earth.” “To the end of everything.” Tubbo earnestly amends.

The first crossbow bolt flies in the small space between them, and they abandon their moment, surging forward as a pair. Tommy clashes blades with Dream as Tubbo takes Punz to task with his axe. Dream presses their swords towards him so Tommy ducks back, swinging beneath and slashing a shallow wound in Dream’s right leg as Dream brings his sword down directly in the middle of Tommy’s shoulder plating, bouncing harmlessly off. Tommy ducks, Dream rushes forward, chasing him across the floor, agility versus pure power.  

Punz calls Dream’s name across the room: Tommy jumps onto a small pillar in time to see them kick Tubbo’s shield across the floor and into the lava as the younger advances, axe raised, pinning Punz against the outer wall of the main cell with Jack reloading a crossbow to their immediate left. Dream also turns to look, scowls, and Tommy makes the split-second decision to jump. 

The clatter of armour against armour sends a shockwave through his bones as they both go to ground. Dream drops his weapons and grabs the back of Tommy’s leg hard, pinching and pulling so violently the strap on his armour snaps and the plates protecting his upper leg come away in Dream’s hand. Across the room, Jack cries out, Tubbo shouts something to him, Punz whoops: Tommy discerns none of these over the sound of his shield smashing repeatedly into the side of Dream’s head. The hardened porcelain-like material of the mask protecting his face shatters after the fourth hit, but Tommy doesn’t stop until Dream throws him off and stands over him, placing a foot on the wrist of his sword hand. 

He leers over Tommy, blood dripping intermittently from the gaping wound on the side of his head just above the left eye, gore coating the edge of Tommy’s shield. He feels nothing, not even as Dream raises his foot and slams it full-force into the centre of Tommy’s chestplate, instantly bruising skin with the first impact, breaking ribs with the second. He wonders if this numbness is due to the fact they’re already dead - small mercies - or perhaps he’s just incapable of feeling the pain anymore. Reached capacity. No more room for it.

“You doomed all of us,” Dream rasps, face slick with blood, kneeling on Tommy’s chest that protests with the weight. “All of that talk about getting a simple life back, working together, that was all just talk, wasn’t it?” Across the room, Jack fights a losing battle against Punz while Tubbo struggles to find a gap in the action that’ll allow him to shoot foe and not friend. “That’s sick. You were just waiting for the slaughter. Well done. Well fucking done, Tommy.” He sweeps hair out his eyes, looking every bit the crazed maniac Tommy remembers beating him to death only metres away, frolicking on the grid above L’Manberg, laughing as Wilbur pressed the button.

I meant it, he wants to say. We could’ve gotten out alive, if only I’d known before, if only my own plan hadn’t already doomed us.

You’re right, he also wants to say. It was all a set-up. I hate you. If you didn’t continually antagonise and torment me and try to control me we wouldn’t be in this position at all. I hope we win. You don’t deserve your wish.

(But I deserve mine.)

Instead of speaking, he rolls, ignoring the way his chest feels like a box of child’s bricks; pieces loosely jangling together, swirling in their container. He comes up on one knee before Dream knocks him down again with another well-placed kick to the chest, so this time he reaches for Dream’s discarded crossbow and fires the loaded bolt. Dream dodges but it’s enough to give Tommy the time to put his feet back beneath him and take off running, firing another bolt in Dream’s general direction. Preferring his talents as a kamikaze homing missile to his swordplay, Tommy rams into Punz at full tilt, knocking them away from Jack and into the shallow lava. 

“Behind you!” Tubbo’s warning comes just in time for Tommy to see Dream before he clobbers him with his shield, wielding it like a two by four. Tommy crumples like a paper bag just as a crossbow bolt whizzes over his head and strikes Dream satisfyingly in the shoulder. Tubbo cheers. Jack swings his axe in Dream’s direction just as Tommy scrambles to his feet, just as Tubbo turns his crossbow on the figure of Punz pulling themself out of the lava, looking burnt and pissed as the glowing magma rolls off their shimmering armour. Suddenly, Jack starts shouting right in Tommy’s ear, and it’s not doing anything for his ears.

“What’s wrong with you, man?” “What’s- What?”

Tommy barely parries a strike from Punz’s axe, scrabbling for his shield, not understanding why Jack is choosing now to do this. “What do you mean, what’s wrong with me? What are you-” Tommy barely gets his shield between his face and Punz’s axe as the netherite bites through the wood. Across the room, Tubbo cries out and Tommy wants to go but can’t, and now bloody hell-

“You’re always poking into other people’s business, putting your nose where it doesn’t belong. We can fight our own battles, y’know!” Tommy does his best to convey his indignance to Jack while engaging in Punz’s standoff, “This is my business, we’re on the same side!” “We haven’t been on the same side in a very long time, Tommy.” Tommy redirects his momentary flash of anger and confusion into throwing Punz off and turning to see Tubbo very ineffectively hacking at the arm Dream has gripped around his shield hand. He twists Tubbo’s arm with brutal force and the resultant scream feels like a knife to the chest.

“What do you mean?” “I mean I hate you, you killed me and I’m only doing this for Tu-” Punz’s next strike sends Jack stumbling back towards the edge of the cobblestone platform. Without hesitation Tommy drops his sword and throws out an arm to grab Jack’s, pulling him back. “I can fight my own fucking battles man-” They both stagger back onto the platform with the momentum and Jack colldies with Punz. “You drag everyone else into your messes, you’re selfish and you don’t care-” Punz stamps on the side of Tommy’s discarded sword and catches, turns and stabs it towards Jack with one swift movement. Tommy shoves him aside and feels the sword pierce his stomach through the gap where his missing leg armour should protect the bottom of his torso.

Pain isn’t the correct word for it, but the feeling of a foreign body intruding where it isn’t welcome sobers him right up. Jack stands, weapons sinking, looking rather gobsmacked, as Punz rips the sword out and Tommy sways on unstable feet that suddenly become crossed beneath him as he sits down hard. A mock round of applause given by one fills the quiet air, and Tommy looks through his warped vision as Dream drops his hands and drags Tubbo across the floor by the shoulder to throw him next to Tommy and Jack. Their shoulders clash in a way that makes breathing difficult for Tommy for a moment, though he’s pretty sure Tubbo has it worse: fucking drenched in crimson with no clear point of exit, audibly wheezing, holding his shoulder in position. All three of them look like shit compared to Dream and Punz with their moderate burns and single impressive head injury.

There is a clear winner in this contest. But then, there was always going to be a clear winner.

“Jack,” Tommy whispers. “I dunno what I did, but- I’m sorry, man. I- I’m sorry.” “It’s fine.”

“Fighters!” The god’s voice crashes over them with thunderous aplomb. “I have decided the winners of the game.” He floats down from on high, hands glowing with golden light as the book and quill return. “Allow me, victors, to grant your wishes.” The gaping smile broadens in a way that makes Tommy sincerely wish he wasn’t at this god’s mercy. He hopes his limbo will be nice at least. Nice enough to spend the rest of eternity in.

With a flurry of turning pages and a flicker of golden light, the book opens in his hands and he begins to write. Gleefully, he glances back at Dream and Punz. “Remind me, my conquerors, of your wishes?” The two look at each other, as if to question the god. Punz starts, “Well I wished for Dream to be brought back.” “And I wished for Punz’s life to be restored.”

The reality of it hits like Tommy like an anvil to the head. They lose. They’ve died. He’s killed them, for nothing. The world is doomed, if it isn’t gone already. It’s over. They’ve lost. And it’s all his fault.

“Jack, what did you wish for?” His expression is hard as he turns it on the god, “I wished that people would know this was me. That I changed the world today. I left my fucking mark on this world.” “Your wish is granted. A girl sneaking around Snowchester overheard your arguments and spread the word. You are heralded as an angel of destruction, harbinger of the end of the world.” From the way his countenance softens, Tommy thinks he might be satisfied. “Tubbo? Your wish?”

His best friend looks devastated. He’s almost glad he couldn’t change his wish: he’s not sure sending him back to be Dream and Punz’s new toy would be preferable. Or perhaps it’ll be him again: who knows! Death is not the end until the gods decide they’re done with you. Tommy catches DreamXD observing him curiously again and wants to tell him to stop, but he ignores the feeling that the god can hear what he’s thinking and takes Tubbo’s hand in his, squeezing. “I’m so sorry.” Tubbo meets his eyes and gives him a small shake of his head. There is nothing he can think to say to make this better.

“I wished that my son would grow up safe and happy.” Knew it. DreamXD’s expression tempers, “Your son will live a long and happy life far from here. He slept through the explosions and is far, far from the danger zone. He is with Technoblade right now, and he will look after your boy.” Tubbo looks relieved, “Thank god, thank god for Techno. Thank you.” A rush of golden light surrounds him, settling on his skin like a cloud of friendly butterflies. With a pop and a grunt, his shoulder is no longer dislocated. The blood wipes away with the remnants of the golden light. With quiet gratitude, Tubbo raises his arms, looking at skin stitching itself back together and bows his head to DreamXD. The god looks at Jack, cocks his head and sighs, “I suppose you as well.”

The same golden light envelops him like silk drapes wrapping themselves around a figure in a burst of wind, and his scrapes and slashes are gone. DreamXD turns on Tommy, “Now, your wish.”

“I thought you’re not granting my wish.” “Come on, man,” Jack nudges him gently with his foot. “When the gods offer you something, you don’t ask why it was offered.” “Hold on, hold on,” Dream approaches, Punz shortly behind him, looking irate. “I thought it was his wish or ours.” “It is!” Chirps the god. “His wish is pretty vast - funny how that works - so I could do both of yours or… only his.” “So you’re not doing his..?”

The laughter starts small, a childish giggle, spectral hand to mouth, that then grows - a full-body laugh, a howl, a roar of amusement. Golden light bursts like lightning in a bottle outward as he cackles, and one of the bolts hits Tommy, sealing the hole in his side, reinflating his chest, soothing the anxiety bubbling in his stomach. “I don’t see what’s so funny, we played your game, we won the right to our wishes-” DreamXD claps his hands together like an elated child and a shockwave sends Dream toppling head over foot.

“You false fucking godhead! You think you’re powerful, you wait ‘till-” “Don’t try to threaten me,” Tommy flinches back despite the god facing the other direction as his voice fills every inch of air with static electricity. The god’s voice changes, echoing as if they’re in a vast cavern, booming with power and taking on a new, discordant deepness. Dream momentarily does the same, and Punz’s face betrays genuine fear. “I am DreamXD, God of Wishes and Dreams, Protector of the End, Master of Hauntings, Merchant of Souls and Purveyor of Stories. Let me explain this to you in a way your tiny minds might be able to understand.” Tongues of fire crackle and flicker from the god’s hands as he cracks them against the floor. “You think you deserve the answers to all of life’s great questions. You think you deserve immortality. You call yourselves Gods, but you are incomparable to my power. I could write you out of existence with a flick of my quill… but I won’t. Much better to have two new fascinating playthings!”

Abject horror crosses Dream’s face, “What the hell? No! We won the battle!” “Yes, you did, didn’t you? Again. How boring. It’s not a very satisfying ending, is it? They all die in the nuclear blast, but I think it’s better than sending you two back to continue the very same plot threads that put us here to begin with.” “We’ll do better this time!” “Put your ear to the world and listen, Dream. No one wants there to be a ‘this time’. Could you hear it? In the leaves on the trees, the critters of the earth. Particles of soot and magic in the air, words on shimmering pages, the whispers between unseen witnesses. None of them want you back. They seek different endings. You, ALL OF YOU-” The three nearly-kids on the floor cower as he sweeps over them, golden pieces of crown spinning at incredible speeds, lightning bouncing around the room. “-made such a huge mess of it, I had to step in and put things right! You’re not getting another chance, Dream! I gave you power over death, and instead you bent to its will and carved a never-ending, bloody trail. YOU MAKE YOURSELVES IN THE IMAGE OF GODS, THIS IS WHAT YOU GET!”

With a sound as loud as the nuke blast, the room fills with light the colour of burnished brass and a prickly heat. Somewhere in the cacophony, Tommy hears screaming. A too-familiar voice yelling out his name one last time. He clamps his hands over his ears and scrunches his eyes shut. He feels Tubbo gather him in his arms, pulling his head under his chin, blocking out the second apocalypse of the past few hours.

Then, eventually, there’s nothing.

When Tommy opens his eyes, the room is still. Jack crouches behind him, gazing over him at the god floating a few feet off the ground, one leg crossed upright against the other, leaning the book against the side of his knee as he scribbles and chews on the end of the feather. Tubbo still has him cradled to his chest, turning his head every ten seconds or so, keeping lookout, perhaps. One of his hands is repeatedly stroking Tommy’s cheek with the back of two fingers. It’s nice. Peaceful. The one problem is that the staticky sound in his ears has reappeared, but apart from that, this is okay, lying here. He’d be quite happy to stay here forever.

Then the god looks up from what he’s writing, his voice back to normal. “Is he awake yet?” Tommy groans and presses his face into Tubbo’s collarbone, and his best friend just laughs. “I don’t know, maybe you should ask again.”

“He is a bit pathetic, really.” “Is it done yet?” DreamXD shoots Jack an irritated look. “Is it done yet? Gods, I hate working with mortals. You’re all so puny and annoying and simple-minded,” He pauses, smiles. “But I prefer you that way.” Tommy groans, “Is what done yet?”

As Tommy sits up, jimmied along by Tubbo’s gentle murmurs, the god lands lightly on the floor, standing over them like a schoolteacher. “You shall all get your wishes-” He glances behind him, where a crimson stain on the cobblestones speaks for itself. His voice drops an octave again, deep and starkly warning, “But cross me, and you will not want to live to tell the tale.” No one says anything to that, so he continues, back to the light, merry deity Tommy still isn’t sure what to make of. “Jack, the notoriety of your deed will secure you a place in every history book here forevermore. Tubbo, your son will grow into a fine young man, after a childhood that was safe, happy and free. And Tommy…”

The god cuts off, says nothing more. Tommy looks between Tubbo and Jack, confused, still a little groggy from the second round of loud noise and bright lights, catching smiles on their faces. “What? Why are you looking at me like that? What is it?” Their faces seem brighter, holy light shining from their eyes. Tubbo laughs and Tommy decides that’s his favourite sound, “Look at your hands, big man.”

He looks down and shrieks. Tubbo and Jack erupt into peals of laughter, and Tommy isn’t sure whether he should be scared or thrilled. His hands are turning into that familiar golden light, melting into glowing patches that disconnect from his being and float upwards.

“WHAT’S HAPPENING TO ME?” “I guess you won, boss man.” Tubbo’s grin fills him with a warm feeling that makes him feel weightless, or maybe that’s the turning to light and drifting away thing. “Tell Michael I love him, yeah?” “Wait, I’m-” He looks at his hands glowing golden, the weightless feeling, Tubbo’s knowing smile. “I’m- I’m not… I’m going back?”

“Gods, took you long enough. Yeah, why not. Don’t fuck it all up this time.” “I’ll- I’ll do my best… I mean, it also wasn’t really my fault, if Dream hadn’t- Y’know what, yeah, n-nevermind. I’ll make sure it doesn’t go badly this time.” He laughs at the disgruntled face of the god apparently giving him his life back. “Maybe don’t give power-hungry maniacs the power over death this time? Maybe don’t give anyone that power, actually.” “Are you telling a God how to do his job?” “Consider it free advice?”

A laugh breaks free from his chest, rising him higher from the ground. He floats up out of Tubbo’s arms, feeling his fingers trace every scar as they leave his sides. No way. The god appears to be consulting a map, clicking his divine tongue, “Right, where can I… Prison is gone, house obliterated, L’Manberg blown away, ah shit there goes the Community House again, wow, it’s a good job that evacuation alert went out so quickly-”

Tommy looks down at his friends, at Tubbo’s beaming smile and Jack’s grimace. “Tubbo?” “Yeah?” Tommy beckons to him and Tubbo stands, reaching his hand up to hold whatever of Tommy’s isn’t yet golden light.

“Is this it?” Tubbo shrugs, smiling sadly, “I guess so. I guess this is it. But I’m fine with that.” “I- T- Tubbo-” “This morning, this bloody morning-” Tubbo shakes his arm. “You made me contend with the same reality, okay? So don’t give me any bullshit. You go back there, and you take care of my son, and you live your life, yeah? Mourn me for a few months or whatever it was- Dream’s gone now! You can be happy! You will be! You don’t have a choice!”

It makes him laugh. Tubbo was always, is always so good at making him see the good side of things, drawing out his smile, making him laugh until his stomach aches.

“How am I supposed to do that without you?” “It doesn’t matter. You’ll make other best friends, new countries, new memories, you’ll move on from me, I-” “I could never forget you. Never.” “Well I didn’t say that.”

All through their heartfelt final conversation, Tommy had been ignoring a succession of funny noises from Jack, but when he replies with a particularly sincere “I don’t want to live without you.” and Jack fully scowls, Tubbo suddenly wheels around.  “WILL YOU SHUT UP, JACK. PRIME, I’VE BEEN TELLING YOU ALL DAY, I DON’T KNOW WHAT YOUR PROBLEM IS BUT-” “Tubbo, woah.” Tommy reaches down and stills him with a hand on his shoulder. He pushes against it, using Tubbo to propel himself through the air towards Jack and his surly expression.

“Jack, I’m sorry, I didn’t know this would happen, I-” “You what, Tommy?” “Like I said, I- I wish I could make it up to you.” “You know you can, right?” “What?”

The god looks up from the map he’s been plotting upon and the sides of the giant ‘X’ fall. “Are you kidding me? I have to do it manually? For the love of-” Jack’s voice draws Tommy’s attention back. “I just think you’re fake. You say all this stuff to him that I don’t think you actually mean, because all this time you’ve just been using him for your schemes, and when they don’t work and he gets hurt-” “Jack, look at your hands.” “I swear to Prime, it’s when he gets hurt in your stupid schemes and I see you for what you really are-” “Jack,” He finally stops. “Your hands.”

Jack glances down and lets out a shriek of his own, and this time it’s Tommy splitting his sides with laughter. He swirls around in mid-air to see Tubbo’s similarly turning into golden light and rising into the air with him, raising his hands to wipe away the tears slipping down Tommy’s cheeks that ache for grinning.

“I was wondering why that was taking so long,” The god slams the book shut with the map inside and Tommy feels all the molecules that make him up shimmer and shake. It’s a little scary and slightly nauseating and he tries to channel it back into excitement as the world around them becomes a little hazy. “Anyway, I hope to never see any of you shmucks again. Don’t break anything, don’t go around killing people as an experiment and don’t you go anywhere near the dragon!” “The what?!” Tubbo asks with a laugh. “Forget it!”

The golden light is almost blinding. Tommy and Tubbo’s hands find each others automatically, their matching beams saying so much more than words ever could. Tommy turns to Jack, floating in place beside him, and offers a hand as well. “No. Absolutely not.” “I missed messing around with you, man.”

“Tommy?” He snaps his head back to look at DreamXD one more time before the light swallows them. “For the love of Prime, be happy. I cannot actually guarantee that kind of thing. I also don’t do swaps or money-back guarantees.” “Man, this is enough. I will, thank you! Thank you! Thank you-”

The last important thing Tommy feels before his vision fades to white again is Jack’s hand scrambling for his, just in time.

The ground beneath him is soft with a slight give that indicates it probably rained recently. Crows call to each other from the battlements of the castle, moving every so often with an effortless flight wall to wall. A taint in the air grows stronger with every minute that passes, smelling like a burnt-out electrical cable. Grey clouds have swept the skies, threatening to burst at any minute.

Tubbo breaks their easy silence, waiting for the end of the world to catch up to them, “We should really go inside before either of us gets radiation poisoning. After all that, that would be a shit way to go.” “Yeahh… Jack had the right idea.” “Jack was just worried his incredibly notable status as the guy at fault for this is going to get him jumped.” “Perfectly reasonable.”

They laugh softly, Tubbo leaning his head against Tommy’s shoulder. “Is this real?” “That’s the fifth time you’ve asked me that.” “Is it?”

Tommy grabs a handful of grass and throws it in Tubbo’s face. He splutters indistinct protests, “Yes, it’s real.” “Thanks, asshole.” Tubbo rolls onto his front and hops to his feet. “Come on, inside, before any trouble starts.” “Never far, is it?” Tommy asks softly, accepting the hand up that Tubbo offers him.

They walk in a comfortable quiet back inside Eret’s castle, one of the last remnants of Downtown Dream SMP that escaped the blast. Beyond the battlements: crater, and ruins, and nothing else. Just, nothing. Evidence of an entire civilisation wiped straight off the map, leaving the clean lines of annihilation. Inside the castle it’s warmer, out of the Autumn breeze. It also doesn’t smell like ozone, thanks to the fact all the windows and doors are firmly shut. Tommy’s feet lead him aimlessly to an indoor garden in the centre of the courtyard, protected by a hastily erected glass dome. He sits down heavily and lays back in the less damp grass, closing his eyes, aware of Tubbo standing over him when his shadow blocks out the light.

“What are you doing.” Tommy asks, unable to suppress his grin. “Enjoying the view.” Tommy cracks an eye open, “Finally coming around to my rugged good looks?” and earns himself a light jab to the ribcage. He sucks in a sharp breath, “Careful, that still doesn’t feel right.” It’s been about an hour since they got back, having woken up on Eret’s front lawn much to the concern and jubilant confusion of the King herself. While the injuries from the fight left no marks, Tommy still feels tender where the sword almost ran him through, and that ringing in his ears still hasn’t gone away. Annoying.

“Sorry,” Tubbo smiles, stepping over a small pinkish bush to sit down beside him. “Penny for your thoughts?” Tubbo shrugs, “Trying to work out what we do from here.” “Obvious, I thought. Get your son, get far away from here. Make a nation,” He nudges him with his elbow. “Go to the moon.”

Tubbo shakes his head, “Unfortunately, king, Project L’Moonberg has taken a major hit. We appear to have lost our rocket.” “Looks like we’ll have to set back our launch date then, Commander Underscore.” Tubbo barks out a laugh, “Commander Underscore. Give over.” “Whaaat?” He puts his arms behind his head and leans back. “I’m feeling very jovial right now, so don’t you dare bring me down.” He pauses, feeling almost breathless, despite having not done anything. “We can do whatever we want to do now, and no one’s going to tear it all down just because they can.” “Hope not. Dream’s not the only bastard in the world, you realise that, right?”

He tilts his head back to see Tubbo picking the petals off a tiny daisy one by one, “We’re not kids anymore though. We know better this time.” He watches Tubbo pause, smile, keep picking petals.  “Yeah, you’re right.” “Of course I’m right,” Tommy says with satisfaction. “I’m always right.”

After another couple minutes, Tubbo lays down beside him again, “Can I say something?” Tommy groans, “Ohhhh no. Ohhh, this is never good.” “Shut up, man!” They laugh, Tubbo shaking his head. “Screw you, I’m saying it anyway. I love you, dude.”

“Awwww-” “Tom, I swear to god-” Tommy then tries to put Tubbo in a kind of headlock to ruffle his hair. “Awwwwwwwh, Tubbbbboooo-” “Tommy!” “Ow! Okay, okay!” Tubbo screws up his face with laughter as Tommy snatches his hand back. “Prime, you don’t have to bite me, ow!” “You’re such a wimp, you’re such a wimp!”

When the latest round of lightly kicking each other subsides, Tommy shuffles closer to Tubbo. “I love you too, Tubs. I- I can’t believe we made it out.” “Neither can I-” “Like I really thought we were dead for good there-” “-no chance if we were brought back we were gonna have good lives-” “-and it was really bumming me out that we died for nothing if they went back-” “-and, like, thank god you stuck to the plan but I kinda screwed us over not checking the-” “Tubbo?” “Yeah?”

Tommy looks at his best friend’s face beside him. He remembers what that face looked like when they met - none of the scars, none of the stress, just kids, just best friends, normal, nothing more. They’re so changed, irreversibly so, but he still sees the same kid that somehow endeared himself so firmly to Tommy that he could never let go and also the one that never left him behind, not really. He hopes, beyond all hopes, that Tubbo sees the same thing staring back at him.

“What? I’m on tenterhooks, man.”

The two of them, forever against the world, forever fighting the same battle again and again, losing and falling and picking each other back up. Their wars are all over, their battles won. Time to get on with the rest of their lives.

Together.

“I really thought I might lose you today. I’m so- Look at me. To the ends of the earth, yeah? Promise me you’ll stick by me forever, because I can promise you now that you’re never getting rid of me. To the ends of the earth, and- and the moon, I guess.” “Clingy.” “Shut up.”

Tubbo’s smile was the first thing that greeted Tommy when he came back from the dead for the last time. Here, now, and forever, he gives it again and bumps his forehead gently into Tommy’s.

“To the end of everything.”

---

Taglist: @cybriz @zrenia @spaceheatertrash @waitblues @kinda-late-but-here-though @icyisweird @boomybelovd @thatfriendlyanon @rozugold 

Please let me know if you want to be added to the taglist, and thank you so, so much for reading :D

#dream smp #tommyinnit #tubbo #punz #c!dream #jack manifold #dreamxd #dsmp fanfic #crim writes #so yes! this is that fic i started writing at 11pm on sunday and finished the next day at 8pm. on three hours of sleep #it's taken a few days to clean it up lmao. but it's been good #i hope this soothes some hearts. i know it's helped mine #happy reading! and please reblog this likely won't go in the tags so i'm relying on you to spread it for me :)

[benjamin-ovich]

just finished reading the winners by frederik backman

The Beartown series isn't a single story. It isn't even a handful of stories. It's hundreds of interconnected little threads that paint a vivid portrait of what it means to be human. It makes us examine where our choices come from, what drives us to love and hate and act either for good or for evil. It reminds us that all people are survivors of something, but mostly of ourselves. Now that it's all over... I'm at a loss. I knew that ending was going to be painful, but god. It really hurt so much more than I imagined it would. There's something to be said about a writer who can do that, who can reveal his biggest twist on the first page of a novel and still have it take you by surprise and shatter you to pieces anyway. There's a lot to love about this book. Having read the previous two installments over the last few weeks, I feel like I've developed such close personal relationships to all the characters. They made me laugh with their antics, smile at their joy, sob over their losses. Over the course of three books these characters became my friends, my foes, my family. Beartown became my town. What a fantastic fictional place Backman has created, a place full of hope and joy and heartbreak and grief. Through Beartown we encounter a rare and stunning microcosm of humanity as a whole. There isn't a single emotion you won't go through while reading this series - love and hate, anger and sadness, laughter and tears. There isn't a single character you will not find yourself thinking about, wondering what you would've done in their place. I won't say the third book wasn't without its faults. It's definitely longer than it needed to be, and I didn't find the main overarching plot-line of this installment as gripping as the first two. However, it was my love for Backman's writing and my investment in his characters that pushed me to finish The Winners anyway. And now that I have, all I want is to sit down and cry about how it's all over. I think the last book of the trilogy accomplished what it set out to do as a finale. It gives you closure, in the most agonizing and heart-wrenching way. It shows you that there are no isolated acts of good and evil in the real world, only stories. It asks you to look at what your own story is, and how it's led you to where you are. Have you done all you can? Spoken your truth, even when it hurts? Laughed, with tears in your eyes? Cried as though you will never stop? Have you lived enough, lost enough, learned enough? Have you ever been in love? If you have, then this book is for you. 

#beartown #im so fucking emotional rn dont even talk to me

[violets-in-her-arms-writes]

Current Wip Monday {1}

Ok, so it's actually tuesday but that's my own fault... Thank you @the-stray-storyteller for the tag ! 💜 (you can find her post here and her WIP introduction for Heavenpoint here! Check it out !)

Rules: Post something you wrote for your current wip, from the last week. if you haven't updated it in some time, here's your chance!!

So here's something I wrote this morning for my vampire lesbian WIP, La Fledgling:

Hatred always made me so nasty. But she could shove that fucking Council up her ass. I still remembered the waxy face of the man who had knocked on my door, after the attack. Arms full of paper, dead eyes, no compassion whatsoever, but pockets full of money that he was ready to throw in my face, if only I was willing to forget. Forget that my whole family had perished under the fangs of a vampire, forget that Lou would never be the same again, forget my arm and leg in pieces, forget the screams, the tears, the blood. All that blood that had flooded my kitchen tiles, the carpet in my living room, that had stained the walls of the hall and the stairwell. Emeline had tried to flee. He had cut her open on the first landing. The council had only had platitudes to offer me. And money. So in the word of the famous philosopher Taylor Swift, I took the money (and Lou and Ana) and ran.

One of these days, I'll write a proper translation of this novel but today's not the day, so in the meantime, take this *offers you three paragraphs translated in fifteen minutes*

I'm (soft) tagging @lena-rambles, @elshells, @writernopal & @junypr-camus (I did see the post you tagged me in by the way - thank you 💜 - , but I need to think about iiit 😭 i don't know what my favourite line is and when I find it, I'll have to translate it (rip 💀), but I WILL find her (yes, it's a threat)). No pressure, tho !

#wip: la fledgling #écriture #tag games

[agentrouka-blog]

The way Arya stans have such little empathy for Jeyne Poole's plight is disgusting. It's made worse by how they make Jeyne's trauma all about Arya. I hate it more than the way they diminish Sansa's.

Like for example, there's a scene where just before Jeyne marries Ramsey, she tells Theon that unlike Arya, she's pretty. Arya stans fail to realize that the focus isn't on Arya. It isn't about Jeyne's past teasing of Arya. It's about the fact that Jeyne knows full well that if the Boltons managed to get a hold of the real Arya (or Sansa for that matter), they would kill Jeyne without a second thought. In Jeyne's mind the only thing protecting her is that she's pretty. Therefore, if she's pretty, Ramsay won't care that she's not actually a Stark and therefore the Bolton hold on Winterfell is bogus. It's very similar to Sansas thoughts on Willas. Sansa hopes that if Willas finds her beautiful/falls in love with her, he won't care about her claim to Winterfell.

Anyway Arya stans are trash (not all) and Jeyne Poole is just one of the reasons why

Jeyne is literally offering herself up to Theon as his "wife or whore" in a last desperate attempt to escape this horrific situation. She is terrified. She is trying to find anything to give herself hope. 

The bride raised her eyes. Brown eyes, shining in the candlelight. “I will be a good wife to him, and t-true. I … I will please him and give him sons. I will be a better wife than the real Arya could have been, he’ll see.” 

Talk like that will get you killed, or worse. That lesson he had learned as Reek. “You are the real Arya, my lady. Arya of House Stark, Lord Eddard’s daughter, heir to Winterfell.” Her name, she had to know her name. “Arya Underfoot. Your sister used to call you Arya Horseface.”

“It was me made up that name. Her face was long and horsey. Mine isn’t. I was pretty.”

Tears spilled from her eyes at last. “I was never beautiful like Sansa, but they all said I was pretty. Does Lord Ramsay think I am pretty?”

“Yes,” he lied. “He’s told me so.”

“He knows who I am, though. Who I really am. I see it when he looks at me. He looks so angry, even when he smiles, but it’s not my fault. They say he likes to hurt people.”  (......)

“Help me.” She clutched at him. “Please. I used to watch you in the yard, playing with your swords. You were so handsome.” She squeezed his arm. “If we ran away, I could be your wife, or your … your whore … whatever you wanted. You could be my man.”

(ADWD, The Prince of Winterfell)

Anyone who zeroes in on "she called Arya Horseface! She is a BULLY!" instead of the visceral terror felt by this child in mortal danger... needs to take a step back and reasses if they really think the author is giving a flying horseshoe about Arya’s petty childhood nickname in this scene. As opposed to depicting a human being caught in a horrible trap, grasping at straws for any shred of hope.

“I can serve this purpose if I try. I can give him sons. Does Ramsay think I am pretty? Might this save me? He likes to hurt people. Could anyone or anything save me?” 

It’s heart-wrenching. GRRM wants to remind us that these were all children together at Winterfell, with petty childhood conflicts that pale in comparison to the horrors they are all going through now.

At Winterfell they had called her "Arya Horseface" and she'd thought nothing could be worse, but that was before the orphan boy Lommy Greenhands had named her "Lumpyhead." (ACOK, Arya I) 

Literally the opening of her first chapter after her father is murdered. If a nine-year-old can put things in perspective, an adult reading a novel about her should be able to do so as well.

#anti arya stans #jeyne poole #forced marriage #child marriage

[topknotstrunk]

Review Everything 28 - Owl House Season 3

I can’t write a review that actually covers everything I loved about this season, and the show, because I’d be writing a novel length love letter. Like anything, I don’t love the show uncritically, but I do love it in away I didn’t really expect to. I didn’t think I’d ever see an animated character be what I felt was a positive representation of my own Trans and Non-Binary experience. Or that I would see a cartoon full of canon elder Queers. Or a cartoon where the Bi character gets to have an actual coming out scene. Where you can’t disguise that she’s bi, can’t cut those scenes out, can’t dub over her love interest to make her not a girl, can’t avoid the Pride pin her Mother wears in every scene after that. Where a Mother doesn’t even bat an eye at her daughter being Queer, she just loves her, because being Queer doesn’t change anything about why she loves her kid. A cartoon where the weird social outcast finds a realistic balance between “being weird can be good, actually” and learning how to be responsible with the way her actions effect others.

I cried at the end of the third episode of the final season. Not just because the story wrap-up is bittersweet, but because of what I feel like we, as fans, had taken from us.

This show being cut off at the knee caps the way it was around the same time Dead End Paranormal Park and Inside Job were just hurts. It hurts to see representations of myself, Queer, Neudrodivergent, not Male, being cancelled or discontinued or whatever, instead of being given the time to tell their stories. To have the creators lied to, “Here make us something great. No, not like that.” To have marginalized identities erased in media when American laws, the country these shows come from, are actively trying to erase us in real life. As a kid, the only character I could really see myself in was a fucking robot. And kids deserve to see themselves as people. They deserve to see themselves in sit-coms, and fantasy, and sci-fi, and YA, and every genre. They deserve to see people like them going on grand adventures with proper story arcs and the endings they were supposed to have, and for new shows to keep being made for them.

We deserve seeing ourselves in media, just like we deserve to exist. And watching them try to erase us, even in fantasy, is where most of my tears came from at the end of The Owl House.

I’m gonna miss this show. I’m gonna miss what it represented. And I’m gonna hope that this doesn’t become an era I miss, too.

In Summary: This show was a delight. I looked forward to every new episode, and didn’t begrudge starting it over twice to watch it with friends. The pacing issues with the end weren't the creators fault, so I chose not to knock them for that.

Overall: 9/10

#review everything - cartoons #review everything #review #spoilers #the owl house #cartoons #fandom #text #gifs #not queued #data #star trek #luz #amity #eda the owl lady #raine whispers #camila noceda #fantasy

[jewul]

I bought a little bag of mixed candy at the airport and wrote little reviews as I tried them on the plane. So without further ado I’d like to present….

Candy critiques

Jelly brains: A little mushy, but nice taste. sour particles from surrounding candy in bag subtly improved the flavour. centre jelly was not jelly enough for my liking. 7/10

Ice cream cone gummies: oh my god diabolical. why on god’s green earth makes chocolate flavoured gummies. literally zero redeeming qualities, almost made me throw up in my mouth a little. thank god i only scooped up one. -5/10

layered gummy hearts: soft but nicely gelatinous bite. can’t remember if these were supposed to be sour but they’re fuck all sour. weird tinge to the taste… 4/10

gummy shark: had to go back to the classics after a disappointing start. texture delivers but something’s not right about the flavour. maybe it’s my high altitude tastebuds. also has a bad aftertaste that momentarily took me back to the public washrooms in china, which are fucking gross. 3/10

watermelon rock candy: doesn’t carry the same ecstatic exuberance as my childhood memories of what museum gift shop rock candy tasted like. yet, a faithful steadfast combination of novel mouthfeel and flavoured sugar. I can find no faults in it except for my own nostalgia-tinted expectations. 6/10

sour octopus gummies: big expectations for these ones on the account of their promising texture and highly novel shape. delivers partway, full marks on texture and chew. Fails to deliver on sourness however, which is where big points are docked. 7/10

blue candy puff: A delightful chew. Its humbly oversized acorn-like shape is satisfyingly substantial, and where a similar flavouring failed in other candies, this one succeeds because it isn’t trying to be something it’s not. an airy treat. 9.5/10

green apple ring: has a lot to live up to in its starring peach cousin, and unfortunately falls short of the mark. the green apple flavour is contrived and on the wrong side of artificial, but the worst part is the texture: when i bite into a peach (or green apple) ring, I want to wrestle with it, tear at it with my teeth like gristle, until finally I am rewarded with a flayed ring, a broken length I can now gnaw on wholeheartedly. green apple ring offered no fight at all, no will or integrity stood against my molars. disappointing show. 5/10

rainbow ringed sour flower: a visual feast that steals the show in my humble bag of tricks. this candy is a flashy carnival sign, beckoning me to try it. so I bite, and I’m rewarded with the first taste of actual sour flavour in my entire mouth journey! the experience veers off the road a bit when I realize the overwhelming flavour of this candy is artificial banana, which is a profoundly odd choice when you have the library of alexandria of flavours to choose from. or maybe the banana was simply the flavouring who came out on top, having bested its brethren in a battle to hold court with my tastebuds. regardless of the odd choices, the whole experience was so zinging and tumultuous that I can only be grateful it happened. the score is not for the gourmet virtues of the candy, but for the wild ride it took me on. 9/10

[stephenjaymorrisblog]

Who Would Attack the Anti-Authoritarian Left?

Stephen Jay Morris

3/20/23

©Scientific Morality.

For the simple minded, American politics have always been about “who’s the bad guy, and who’s the good guy?” Sorry people, but it just doesn’t work that way. That infantile, third grade message is intended for the White working class. Delivered in a high feminine voice, such tripe regards the American people as naive, little kids. Obscurantism is like a magic potion slathered onto the unwashed masses heads: Hey boys and girls! Government is bad for you and your puppy! Look, here is a new word: Can you say “woke?” Everybody, repeat after me, “woke.” Choke the woke!

Inherent in social engineering, one must find a boogeyman. Now, from the Right, it’s this woke shit! Well, guess what, boys and girls? There is a new word in town! It is, “chud.” Spelled C-H-U-D. Can you say “chud?” Everybody say, “chud!” Chuds are bad people! They are bullies! They pick on people weaker than them! They hate poor people, gay people, black people, workers, women like your mom! They hate little children, like you! They hate rainbows! Say, “Boo to the chuds!! Boo! BOO!”

Okay, enough of chud propaganda techniques! Its seems that the word, “Left” just wasn’t making it among the Right so, now, its this “woke” horse shit! Back in my day, we leftists comprised 17% of the Baby Boom generation. Our chimerical idealism made us look like fantast layabouts. We smoked the magic weed and songs of utopia floated from our vocal chords. The so-called “Establishment” thought, for a summer, that we were harmless, starry-eyed goofballs. Then came SDS and the Black Panthers, and the shit got real! No, it wasn’t the Soviet Union behind the urban riots and student strikes! One glaring fault about the Right is that they can never conceive that oppressed people do organize themselves. Believing that people don’t become rebels of their own volition, that they must be brainwashed, or that it’s Satan who makes them into revolutionaries, is the deadly mistake the Right continuously makes.

Anti-intellectualism has been a staple for narcissistic conservatives. The narcissists will always tell their subjects, “Do not think! I will do all the thinking for you.” When you are a child, you are completely dependent upon your parents. This is as natural as morning dew on grass. A six year old kid can’t fill out a tax form. So, their dependency is justified. Then comes adulthood. The servants of the ruling class send you mixed messages. They tell you not to be dependent upon government handouts; to pull yourself up by your own bootstraps when you are barefoot and pregnant! Then, they tell you to be authority dependent on the ruling class, and fully dependent on God! If a cop beats the hell out of you, well, you probably deserved it.

The most benign place I have ever been to is the public library. The librarians were always the friendliest people I encountered. They graciously helped me find whatever information I needed. The place was always kept at the perfect room temperature. To escape the summer heat, I could go inside, find a novel, and read the day away. Alan Ginsberg, the late poet, asked the immortal question, “America! Why is your library full of tears?” I never knew what that line meant. Then, I started my quest for political truth. It is said, “The truth has a Left wing bias.” What does that mean? Slavery existed in America. America committed genocide on the Native Americans. Women weren’t allowed to vote until 1920, or to have a credit card until 1972. America exploited its children by having them work in factories for pennies on the dollar. America dropped a nuclear bomb on Japan and it placed Japanese Americans in concentration camps to protect them from angry white men. (Well, that is one explanation; I don’t know if its true,)

Now, public schools, teachers, and libraries are under attack by the Authoritarian Right. They want to replace objective history with White Nationalist propaganda: White Anglo Saxon people are the master race, America is like God, it is perfect and never committed any wrongs. They don’t want critical thinking, they want magical thinking! As far as the master race goes: Marjorie Taylor Greene. Do I need to say more??

Make America Woke! Not Chud!

#stephenjaymorris #poets on tumblr #american politics #anarchism #anarcosindicalismo #anarcho syndicalism #anarchopunk #anarchocapitalism #anarcho nihilism #anarchofeminism #anarchocommunism #Anarcho queer

[lololollywrites]

So I’m honestly looking for help or advice here. I’ve gone my entire life believing that I’m neurotypical, despite never quite feeling like anyone else or fitting in. I just always thought I was... I don’t know. Quirky, weird. It’s mostly been internalized. I doubt my family would agree, for example, despite any one of them being the first to say that I’m a loner with special interests (they don’t know the half of it - not about tumblr or fanfiction, for example) who has carved out my own little niche of the world in which I can feel most comfortable (academia and travel, amongst other things). “Oh, Lauren’s the smart one who corrects our grammar and doesn’t want a typical life and doesn’t notice when men hit on her and can talk for hours about anything and remembers every detail of her childhood! She was reading novels at 6 years old, isn’t that funny?!”

But recently I’ve come across online content about ASD in adult women and how it looks different than we have long been told (and therefore how it gets overlooked and undiagnosed) and, well. It’s been resonating with me. Hard. I’m not necessarily struggling with life, but I’m also lacking a long-term relationship, a core friend group (it’s hard to fully connect with people or reveal my full personality, though part of that is also because I move a lot), and am finding myself more and more alone. Which is okay for the most part. It is. Honestly, the idea of sharing my apartment and giving up decision-making autonomy and even decorative control stresses me out. I’ve tried to work on myself by expanding my comfort zone - I’ve worked at it my entire life, which is why I traveled - but also... what if I could understand myself better? What if there’s more to it? (I did discover that there might be more but it got long, so... sorry in advance. But if you can relate, I would LOVE it if you did read and could help me!)

I just took the RAADS-R assessment (a bit frustrating, as many of my answers would generally depend on the situation and there was no option for that); I tried my best to be conservative and practical with my selections. I still scored a 104. Scores range from 0-227, and a score of 65 is when ASD is considered (and even likely), though obviously one online test is not enough for a diagnosis. Non-autistic people can score as high as 90, apparently (and autistic people can score as low as 44), so 104 is not conclusive, but it’s made me think.

It’s sort of a relief in a way, but it’s also something I don’t think my family would ever be on board with or understand since I’m the “normal”, stable, level-headed, successful one. Which obviously doesn’t preclude autism (honestly many of these traits have helped me tremendously), but there are so many misconceptions out there. And they love me and mean well, but I know they’d also ask why it matters, since I’m 33 years old and have done fine until now. But they don’t know what it feels like to scratch at your skin and never truly feel like you’ve figured yourself out. Why you’re different and why nothing has ever made sense. Why other people are so infuriating.

My traits? Well, they don’t all fit. Or at least I didn’t think so until I started typing them out.

I am easily overwhelmed by social situations (I can’t stand nightclubs and had an anxiety attack before I first went out in college), but I’ve gotten better. I’ve practiced. Interrupting can be a problem for me because I get excited when people say things that interest me. I don’t find sarcasm or jokes or social cues difficult to understand, but I’ve also... practiced. I’m very, very aware of what I say, how I act, and how others perceive me, though this has become more natural with age. I was always so gullible as a kid that it was a joke in my family. I’m compassionate and empathetic to a fault; I believe the best in people, which has hurt me. Textures and noises don’t particularly bother or overwhelm me, but I did once burst into tears in a Shanghai bar because it was too much. Just... too much. I never once believed in Santa Claus or the Tooth Fairy and grilled my parents with very specific questions regarding why I should be expected to (though only when my little sister wasn’t around). Despite this, between the ages of 5-7, I slept at the very edge of my pillow so as so leave plenty of room for my parents to take my tooth in the middle of the night and not accidentally wake me, as I knew it would be embarrassing for them and potentially also wake up my sister.

I once slept in an inflatable raft for an entire summer as a kid because I felt like it was a safe cradle. I used to be such a perfectionist that my parents considered homeschooling me. I got in trouble for reading too quickly because teachers thought it was impossible to complete the assignments at the rate I did. I always completed all the group work at school - not because my group mates took advantage of me (though there was a little of that), but because I couldn’t stand what they turned in to me and wanted to do it myself. Travel was my way of proving to myself that I didn’t need the same daily routine; I learned to create my safe space wherever I was in the world. I didn’t want my worries and anxiety to limit my experiences, so I didn’t let it. Then travel just became a new part of my comfort zone. I would self-soothe and reassure myself it would be okay by imagining my new safe space, which would always involve my computer, my Kindle, an internet connection, and being alone. With those things, I’d be okay.

I used to talk so fast as a kid that my mom joked I should be the person who spoke at the end of radio commercials (when they share all the legal disclaimers at high speed). I’ve practiced that too and gotten better, but I always need to be aware of my rate of speech. I went into teaching to sort of... practice public speaking, eye contact, and increasing my confidence (as well as to try to build that natural cadence). And it’s helped. This has always led me to the assumption that yes, see, I’m neurotypical. Everyone has these thoughts and foibles. When I discovered fanfiction in high school I told everyone about it, mind-blown at how miraculous it was, before I realized that people were looking at me funny and thought I was weird. So I stopped. And then discovered online communities.

Even as a 24 year-old, on a Fulbright orientation in an Indonesian hotel, sitting in a circle on the floor in a group of 30 fellow Fulbrighters about to embark on a year-long placement around the country, I apparently talked too much. I had no idea. I was two-months fresh off a year in China and we were participating in ice breakers, sharing advice and travel stories, and I thought I was being helpful. I felt free - finally I was in a community of fellow travelers, and I guess I let my guard down. My family couldn’t relate to all of my China stories and eventually got bored, and I was still processing my experience. I thought that these fellow travelers cared what I had to say. That it was safe. One of the girls I liked (and we did later become friends when she apologized months later) came up to me after one of these sessions and said “As much as I like your stories, Lauren, don’t you think you talked too much?” I was mortified. I totally shut down. I felt pushed to the side in that group - my only real friends, looking back, were the few other loners, including one girl who openly discussed her ASD. We were in contact for years after that and we naturally understood each other. She asked me to talk *more* about China with genuine interest. Maybe that says something.

Anyway. I’m having a bit of an emotional moment right now. I guess this could all be nothing. Or something. I know maybe I should pursue an official diagnosis, but I don’t know if that’s worth it or not. I trust people here. Has anyone else had a similar experience? Or have you self-diagnosed at any point? Does the truth of that label impact your life, and in what ways? Thank you. And sorry for the very, very long ramble. (And that’s something I’ve become accustomed to doing - apologizing!) And I truly hope I haven’t offended anyone or made it seem as though I’m acting like this is a confirmed diagnosis. That’s not it at all - I am very unsure. I just truly would appreciate some guidance. ❤️

#this seems so personal but i'm not sure what else to do #this has been eating at me for weeks now #asd #autism

[booksofpeach]

Silent Patient by Alex Michaelides

⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

50/50

Plot: 

5/5

My first impression of the book was that the author was pouring too much information onto the pages, which I couldn't reconcile in my head. Of course, as I later found out, there was a reason for this, which resulted in me devouring the pages. The story is excellently constructed and told, even if at the beginning the reader doesn't quite understand what to expect at the end of the book. I enjoyed the therapeutic conversations immensely, and the fact that the author led the story along a "detective" thread. While this is not common for me, I did manage toshed some tears on the events at one point in the book, which I would also award an extra point for. Perhaps the greatest virtue of the story, and what was my personal favorite, was that every piece of the puzzle was relevant and there were no loose ends left untied until the last page. It was an extremely exciting book, it's been a long time since I've felt so misled by a crime story.

Protagonist: 

5/5

I didn't think much of our main character, Theo Faber, at first. I was distinctly disturbed by his lack of professionalism, which of course the story needed in order for the investigation to unfold, but I was still not happy about it. It was difficult for me to look at him as a psychotherapist, precisely because we were getting to know a much more fallible, human side of him. Despite all that, I think it was perfectly fine in terms of the story. I liked the questions he asked himself and that he didn't hesitate to ask for help when he needed it. His dedication (or obsession) was strange to me, but it also added to the atmosphere of the book (and the ending as well). Overall, I didn't like him as a person, but he was the perfect protagonist for the book and I enjoyed reading about his thought processes and feelings.

Love interest: 

5/5

The book technically had no "love interest" in the classic sense of the word, but I would like to take this opportunity to write a few lines about Alicia Berenson. I really enjoyed reading her diary entries, because her personality was brilliantly captured by the writer. I liked that she was the unreliable narrator, because I liked her, I wanted to believe her, while the story always encouraged the opposite. I was glad that she had an outspoken and honest personality, because she gave a very good contrast to all the characters in the book. There were times when I felt sympathy for her, times when I felt pity for her, and times when I was afraid of her. I could say that about all the characters, but about her in particular, that her personality was not at all black and white, her character seemed very human.

Chemistry: 

5/5

It would be difficult to define the chemistry of the two characters, since one of them communicates exclusively through diary entries for 95% of the book. That said, I liked the way the characters reacted to each other and that every little communication they had was very expressive.

Side characters: 

5/5

The supporting characters were nuanced. As well as telling their own stories and adding their knowledge of what happened, we were also introduced to some multi-dimensional, quite complex characters (such as Alicia's cousin Paul Rose, or her brother-in-law Max Berenson). In addition, I was delighted to have Ruth visit our main character at a critical point in the novel, and read her own thoughts and get to know a bit of her personality. She was one of my personal favorites for the characters.

Character development: 

5/5

Both of our main characters have gone through a change of sorts, but I would not call this "development" in any sense of the word. Rather, it is the image we have of them that has been formed in our full knowledge of the story, but I would not fault the novel for that. Essentially, they both reached a tipping point in terms of their traumas, and what that brought out of them was, I had no idea where the author wanted to take this until the last 20 pages. I felt the characters were moving forward in self-awareness, even if it wasn't always the best outcome.

Spicy scenes: 

5/5

The book is absolutely not written with this focus in mind, with little detail on the sexuality of the characters. Here again, however, I gave the work 5 points, as I did not feel a lack of these scenes, and I was glad that the author (although there were of course some parts) did not go into this subject in any depth, as the story did not need to present them at all.

Writing style / translation: 

5/5

I read the book in my main language, Hungarian, and was completely satisfied with the translation. I don't like prose, and this novel was simple in its language, and it kept my attention fully engaged. Here I would like to highlight the perfect level of detail - specifically, every word written made sense later on, which I love because I always find myself investigating along with the main character when reading crime fiction. I never thought the mention of a portable fan would make my jaw drop while reading a book.

Ending: 

5/5

I read the developments with my jaw practically dropped. A YouTube content creator I like once said, "the good twist at the end of a story is the one you find out on your own a minute before it's revealed", and this book was exactly that. It was a brilliant twist for me, I wasn't expecting it at all until the last minute. I was trying to make up my own theories, but it would never have occurred to me that (and here I'll point out the spoiler alert) the main character had a hand in it all along and everything was connected. I loved the book's flashbacks up to a hundred pages before, such as Theo mentioning the smell of jasmine that Alicia smelled when her father "killed" her, and it returns when Gabriel "kills" her. I could write this list all morning, so many little things the author has hidden in the book. And the fact that he was able to keep the surprises coming until the very last page could be worth an extra star in itself.

Enjoyment: 

5/5

I read the book in two sittings, in about 10 hours in total. I don't think anything could describe better how much I enjoyed reading it. It kept me engaged throughout and kept my attention on the pages. I don't know if the void left afterwards will ever be filled by a crime novel.

#bookstagram #booktok #bookish #book review #reading #read #book recommendations #bookworm #alex michaelides #silent patient