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rewatching teen wolf and honestly just let my boys rest goddamn

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To the glistening eastern sea, I give you Queen Lucy the Valiant. To the great western wood, King Edmund the Just. To the radiant southern sun, Queen Susan the Gentle. And to the clear northern sky, I give you King Peter the Magnificent.

Once a king or queen of Narnia, always a king or queen. May your wisdom grace us until the stars rain down from the heavens.

An amazing art by CrazyTom.

P.S. Art is published with permission of the author. Please, do not repost!

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This is a dangerous sentiment for me to express, as an editor who spends most of my working life telling writers to knock it off with the 45-word sentences and the adverbs and tortured metaphors, but I do think we're living through a period of weird pragmatic puritanism in mainstream literary taste.

e.g. I keep seeing people talk about 'purple prose' when they actually mean 'the writer uses vivid and/or metaphorical descriptive language'. I've seen people who present themselves as educators offer some of the best genre writing in western canon as examples of 'purple prose' because it engages strategically in prose-poetry to evoke mood and I guess that's sheer decadence when you could instead say "it was dark and scary outside". But that's not what purple prose means. Purple means the construction of the prose itself gets in the way of conveying meaning. mid-00s horse RPers know what I'm talking about. Cerulean orbs flash'd fire as they turn'd 'pon rollforth land, yonder horizonways. <= if I had to read this when I was 12, you don't get to call Ray Bradbury's prose 'purple'.

I griped on here recently about the prepossession with fictional characters in fictional narratives behaving 'rationally' and 'realistically' as if the sole purpose of a made-up story is to convince you it could have happened. No wonder the epistolary form is having a tumblr renaissance. One million billion arguments and thought experiments about The Ones Who Walk Away From Omelas that almost all evade the point of the story: that you can't wriggle out of it. The narrator is telling you how it was, is and will be, and you must confront the dissonances it evokes and digest your discomfort. 'Realistic' begins on the author's terms, that's what gives them the power to reach into your brain and fiddle about until sparks happen. You kind of have to trust the process a little bit.

This ultra-orthodox attitude to writing shares a lot of common ground with the tight, tight commodification of art in online spaces. And I mean commodification in the truest sense - the reconstruction of the thing to maximise its capacity to interface with markets. Form and function are overwhelmingly privileged over cloudy ideas like meaning, intent and possibility, because you can apply a sliding value scale to the material aspects of a work. But you can't charge extra for 'more challenging conceptual response to the milieu' in a commission drive. So that shit becomes vestigial. It isn't valued, it isn't taught, so eventually it isn't sought out. At best it's mystified as part of a given writer/artist's 'talent', but either way it grows incumbent on the individual to care enough about that kind of skill to cultivate it.

And it's risky, because unmeasurables come with the possibility of rejection or failure. Drop in too many allegorical descriptions of the rose garden and someone will decide your prose is 'purple' and unserious. A lot of online audiences seem to be terrified of being considered pretentious in their tastes. That creates a real unwillingness to step out into discursive spaces where you 🫵 are expected to develop and explore a personal relationship with each element of a work. No guard rails, no right answers. Word of god is shit to us out here. But fear of getting that kind of analysis wrong makes people hove to work that slavishly explains itself on every page. And I'm left wondering, what's the point of art that leads every single participant to the same conclusion? See Spot run. Run, Spot, run. Down the rollforth land, yonder horizonways. I just want to read more weird stuff.

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The way this scene made me feel is just not normal. I am losing my mind. I need help.

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Oh, to be crushed underneath your werewolf boyfriend 💭

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joseph & pedro vs the friendship quiz

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The older I get, no.

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Written for @corrodedcoffinfest.

only a moment away

Prompt #31 - Closing Time | Word Count: 1000 | Rating: T | CW: References to Past Character Death/Loss of a Child, Terminal Illness | POV: Gareth | Pairing: None | Tags: AU, Future Fic, Time Marches On, And Death Comes For Us All, But Love and Found Family Remain

Set within Wildflowers, Gareth's continued story from my Tuesday's universe.

oh, the mother and child reunion, is only a moment away Paul Simon, Mother and Child Reunion

"Goodie?"

Lana's voice is quiet, softer than Gareth ever remembers it being. There's a nurse that Gareth's seen a few times over the past few weeks, and Sam's still sitting in a chair nearby. Gareth's pretty sure he never moves. Sitting vigil next to his wife.

Gareth would do the same. He gets it.

Goodie always looked like his dad, and as the years have passed by that resemblance has become less apparent. Gareth can't help but wonder if this is what Goodie would have looked like older.

They've gotten old. He knew that. He did. He just doesn't feel like it's been that long since he's seen them, but he turned his back for a minute, and they've aged years.

Not that he hasn't gotten old, too. He has. He accepts it. The wrinkles and the strands of gray in his hair, all of it. He's thankful for it. He hasn't rushed to do the celebrity thing and get work done. He's fine looking his age. He rode hard, and if he looks like he's been put away a little wet, well. So be it. 

Seeing the age on himself, on Eddie, has been a victory. They survived. In more ways than one. When they couldn't walk, they crawled. They were kept afloat until they could tread water on their own. 

They were helped out.

Out of addiction.

Out of that plane crash. 

They made it to thirty. They made it to forty. They made it to fifty. 

They lived.

And well, Goodie and Jeff, they never got that luxury. They got twenty-seven years. They joined that awful club, and Gareth's never sure if he hates it when they're included in those lists among Kurt, Janis and Jimi, or if it hurts worse when they are forgotten. Like they aren't important enough to make the cut, as new names, new stars, suffer the same tragic fate.

Dying at twenty-seven.

It's so young.

"Goodie?" she asks again.

Gareth pauses in the living room next to the hospital bed they've moved in, unsure how to answer. He's not Goodie. 

"I'm here," he settles on. He is here, so it's not a full lie. 

It still feels wrong, and he can't give her false hope, so he adds, "It's Gareth."

"Gareth," she says, "I thought you looked a little puny."

He laughs, leaning down. Carefully gripping her shoulders, kissing her on the cheek, "You're awful. I love you." 

"I think he was here."

Gareth doesn't know what to say to that. He doesn't believe it, but knows she does. It doesn't hurt anyone to believe it for her. Not when she lost her only child. No parent should outlive their child, and she's spent so many years without her baby. The fear of that, of losing his girls, keeps Gareth up at night more than anything else. 

If Goodie is out there somewhere, anywhere, he's waiting for his mother. Gareth knows that. Believes it.

The mother and child reunion is only a moment away.

Paul Simon.

Gareth thinks in song, can't help it, it's just hardwired into him, and that's the song playing in his head on this strange and mournful day. 

"It's the pain meds, she knows who you are," Sam says, putting his hand on Gareth's shoulder. Gareth hadn't even realized he'd gotten up out of his chair.

"Hey," Gareth says, and he hugs Sam. Presses his forehead to Sam's shoulder, and for a second, just one, he pretends it's Goodie.

He misses him. 

"I thought I heard your voice," Gloria says, coming out of the kitchen, and Gareth smiles. Of course she's here. Where else would she be? He's sure Mama Jones has been making visits as well.

He misses Jeff, too. 

Gloria pushes a glass of tea into his hand, and if Sam reminds him of Goodie, Gloria reminds him of Jeff. Always taking care of everyone, always the one to smooth the edges. The hurt.

Goodie got his humor from Lana, and Jeff got his kindness from Gloria. Gareth's seen pictures, and Eddie got his mom's looks. It makes Gareth wonder what he got from his mama. He's too close to see it.

The Corroded Coffin extended family runs deep, deeper than anything he's ever experienced. He hears bands use that canned line we're a family and he always thinks, not like us.

They all take chairs around the bed, making small talk. There's not a lot to say. It's just a waiting game.

"Sorry, I'm late," Eddie says, breezing in, like he's younger than he looks.

"Eddie," Lana says, voice full of affection, and Gareth doesn't know if he should be offended that Lana seems to recognize Eddie better than she does him. She doesn't think Eddie is Goodie.

"How's the prettiest lady I know?" Eddie asks, as Eddie dotes on her. Gareth knows how brave Eddie is being right now. How much he'd rather be anywhere else, head buried in the sand. Eddie doesn't do death and dying, never has, and that certainly hasn't improved with age.

But he's here, where he's needed.

Gareth wipes at his eyes, and Eddie moves to stand behind him, squeezing his shoulders.

They've had a lot of transitions in their lives, and this is just another one. The course of a lifetime runs, over and over again. It's a circle, he's realized, and they are gonna hit these same beats over and over in different ways, with different people. 

It's the rhythm of life, of loss. It's the steady constant, the backbeat, that fuels the song of still being among the living. 

"I'm ready to see Goodie," she says, and Gareth watches Sam squeeze her hand. 

"You will," Sam reassures.

Maybe she will.

Maybe she won't.

Eddie leans down, arms folding around Gareth, restricting his shoulders as Eddie presses his cheek to Gareth's neck. Gareth reaches up, grasping Eddie's forearms, the only way he can move, being held like this.

Gareth rests his head against Eddie's, and they wait.

If you want to write your own, or see more entries for this challenge, pop on over to @corrodedcoffinfest and follow along with the fun! 🦇

Notes: One day I heard Mother and Child Reunion by Paul Simon and just went oh. I've heard it a thousand times, but that day I must have been thinking about Tuesday's Goodie, and well, here we are.

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911/firefighter!steve x dispatcher!eddie AU

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Every once in a while, I'm struck by the memory of the most romantic thing anyone's ever done for me. And it wasn't a romantic partner.

In college, I was bummed that I couldn't go to the Luke's Diner pop-up event because it was on a Wednesday and the closest one was too far for a mid-week trip. Gilmore Girls is my favorite show and holds a special place in my heart, so this was a minor devastation for me.

Around 9pm on the day of the pop-up that I couldn't go to, one of my best friends texts me asking me to come to her apartment. I dont remember the exact reason she gave, but I think it was something about one of our many shared classes.

Anyway, I get there and on her door is a handmade Luke's Diner sign.

Inside, she has, to the best of her ability, turned her apartment into Luke's.

She doesn't have a dining table, but she has set the coffee table like a diner.

There are drawn and cut out Luke's logos taped to her mugs.

She serves me pop tarts and coffee.

She is dressed as Luke Danes.

I fucking cried.

As a note, I was taking over a full load of courses and working two jobs. I was exhausted. This gave me so much joy and warmth. It was the brightest, kindest, most thoughtful thing that had ever been done for me. I think it still is.

In conclusion, romance your friends. Make their fucking day. Relationships worth having deserve attention and effort.

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being so staunchly anti generative ai while everyone around you is "i used chatgpt" and "i asked grok" and google search is useless and every company is implementing ai and every single celeb is taking ai money and partnering with ai is like... it's so jarring. why can't you see the harm like i can? why are you so lazy? why are we making society this stupid? can we please stop? it's killing people does that not matter to you?

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Joseph Quinn arriving at JFK airport on July 23, 2025 in New York (Photo by Adrian Edwards/GC Images)

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something something emo boy something

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Dean was sprawled across the bed, legs stretched out and boots long forgotten somewhere near the door. An ancient-looking lore book was casually held in his hand, full of yellowed pages and tiny cramped handwriting. His brow was furrowed in concentration as he tried to decipher some faded passage on Norse banshees or… maybe it was Latvian wraiths. Hard to tell with all the chicken-scratch Latin.

And sprawled on top of him like an extremely heavy, incredibly warm, celestial weighted blanket was Castiel.

"Cas," Dean murmured, shifting slightly. "You're kinda heavy, buddy."

Cas hummed sleepily, not moving an inch. "I like it here."

"Yeah, I figured," Dean grumbled, even as his free hand reached up to absently stroke Cas’s hair. It was stupidly soft. Like angel-fabric soft. "You know I’m trying to work, right? There are actual monsters eating actual people."

"You're warm," Cas mumbled into his shirt. "And you smell like pie."

Dean rolled his eyes and gave an exasperated huff. “Great. I’m a space heater and a dessert buffet.”

Cas didn't respond. His breathing had evened out and his grip tightened slightly, like he was afraid Dean might actually try to move. Which he wasn’t. Not really.

Dean stared down at the page, squinting at a paragraph that might have been helpful. He shifted the book to the side, trying to read around the top of Cas’s head. The angel made a sleepy, annoyed noise and nuzzled in deeper.

Dean gave up.

“Fine. But if someone dies because I didn’t read page eighty-six, it’s on you.”

Cas didn’t answer. He was already asleep.

Dean sighed, leaned his head back against the headboard and let the book fall closed with a soft thump. Outside, a cicada buzzed lazily. Inside, the only sound was the quiet rhythm of two heartbeats and the soft exhale of an angel in love.

Dean didn’t really mind the interruption.

Not at all.

💚💙💚

[my social media links]

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joseph quinn + his incredible side profile (screams nose louder than anyone else)

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