#fanfic got me back into reading

[twitterdotcom]

Shout-out to everything that went wrong with ofmd s2 from production issues to bad pacing to killing Izzy because that effectively drained almost all of the creative energy out of my side of the fandom because now Im reading books again!

[hater-era]

we're about to die (but what if we kissed before we all get shot)

sorry this is so sketchy and there is a goofy marius.

'the final battle' is one of my favourite moments in the show(understatement of the year). there is not a moment more exhilarating than when enjolras gets shot atop the barricade. (credit to actors who try to get shot eight times)

(a bit of a rant in the tags!!)

[melooooo17]

@openphrase123 your fanfic(s but i mainly made art of the mira and siffrin one because i cant remember words for the life of me for i do not speak french) IS???? ? SO GOOD. SO GOOD IM FOAMING AT THE MOUTH finally something to look forward to in the week fr

Mild spoilers for it ig!! But nothing too explicitly groundbreaking i dont think it'll kill your mom to look at these without having read the ff first

Don't mind the shit quality i??? I drew all these so fast theyre kinda shit and i have yet to fully acclamate isat to my artstyle so it's mid

Teehee me when i make shitty rushed fanart to show my appreciation that i cannot put into words for my faovorite games and also authors

peep the rant in the tags

[cranberruu]

havent drawn for the miraculous ladybug fandom in five years lol

[shesmore-shoebill]

new amangela fic!

"Two cheez-it packets and an apple is not dinner. You don't have any leftovers or anything in your house?"

Angela groans, leaning forward and balancing her forehead on the edge of her laptop screen. "I don't even have groceries right now, because I didn't have time to do a grocery run on Tuesday. I think the last time I looked in the fridge it was literally just condiments and a jar of martini olives." She pauses, and then, continuing to not look at Amanda, adds. "...And half a lemon."

"Half- why is it only half a lemon. What happened to- okay, you know what, not the important thing here. Babe, what the hell."

AKA: I said i was going to write a fic about the half lemon in Angela's fridge and i meant it.

It started from "i want this specific scene as a result of Angela kind of Going Thru It" and quickly turned into "how many acts of love and service can i feasibly cram into the before and after of this". Its VERY fluffy, consider it an exploration of "what can you do when your friend is overworking themselves to the point of being stretched very thin + a healthy dose of Amangela banter and love".

Its written in a way that I think is arguably platonic, but I mean, you all can decide that. enjoy!

also, a huge thank you to the other amangela fic/content writers on here- for directly or indirectly discussing, providing encouragement, motivation, etc, and also making their own stuff! Cool stuff makes more cool stuff.

[forourtomorrows]

haha wouldn’t it be funny if i said that i got back into an obsession i had for a rythm game in 2021… it would be hilarious riiight… haha…

[nandermoenthusiast]

and if adam hazbin hotel dies for real and doesnt return as a sinner in s2 and the fandom forgets about him, then what am i gonna fucking do

[the-way-astray]

HIIIIII

Katie gave me tips for this fic

You can put her partly to blame for thus 😃

This one is called:

High on Your Love

Stria was peacefully drinking her bottle of youth in the hall at Foxfire. She was almost late to class, but she really did not want to go to her inflicting lesson with Councilor Bronte. Last week, she dropped him down with one blast of pain, and he still didn't seem pleased with her.

The bell's shrill ring revertebrate off of the crystal walls. She cursed under her breath. Late. That would make him even more mad. She stalked down the hallway.

When she came up to the corridor, someone snatched her wrist. She yelped before seeing it was just her boyfriend. She let out a sigh of relief.

Keefe smirked at her. He took her other wrist in his hand, bringing her knuckles up to kiss them.

"Hey gorgeous," he whispered.

Stria felt a smile tug on her lips. "Well, hey. You know I have class, right?"

He tucked a curl behind her ear. "I know you don't want to do that. You should ditch with me."

She made a half-hearted attempt to pry from his grip. He tightened his hold. The idea really did sound quite appealing. Did she really feel like dealing with Bronte? Hanging out with Keefe felt much more appealing.

She felt herself become quite antsy at how nonchalant Keefe was being. The eyebrow raise he gave at her emotions, amped up this feeling. She needed him. Now!

He took his sweet time, however. He knew exactly what he was doing, grazing his fingers over her midriff, up her side. He settled his hands on her hips.

Stria held her breath, waiting for him to make his move. She wanted it. Craved it. Needed it.

He stayed where he stood. That knowing smirk creeped his face.

She circled his neck with her arms. Keefe brought his face closer to hers. Just out of reach for her to reach him. He was teasing her. That sly twinkle of his shone in his eyes. How she despised this boy for driving her crazy.

Stria ran a hand up his neck, to his hairline. She took a fistful of it in her hand, dragging him closer.

Keefe took one hand from her hip. He tilted her chin up, forcing her to look in his eyes. If he didn't stop stalling soon, all of the creatures inside of her were going to bust her open and escape. She knew only his touch would calm them.

"Are you gonna kiss me, or what?" She finally asked.

He brushed her lips with his thumb. She felt warm. Her lips tingled where he had touched them. She sucked in a breath.

"Eventually," he murmured.

He continued stroking her lips. That wouldn't do with her patience.

"If you don't kiss me here in the next five seconds, I'm going to bite you," Stria informed him.

He challenged her with a smirk. "Alright, bet."

He leaned down and molded his mouth to hers. She locked onto him like a key.

She had meant that statement in reference to his thumb. But she would gladly go this route, too.

Sparks flew throughout her body. She wanted to try something. She had never done it before, but she was supposed to be in inflicting currently. So it was worth a shot to try.

She pushed out the ecstacy she was feeling in that moment out to Keefe. She knew it had worked when he made a noise of approval in response. His lips moved from her mouth, moving down to her neck.

She gasped in air. The dizzying rush the lack of oxygen gave her reminded her she still needed to breathe.

Keefe seemed to remember that as he pulled away. He panted for a moment before going back to her lips. His tongue brushed the corners of her mouth.

Stria balled up Keefe's tunic in her hand. He moved one hand to tilt her head back as he placed the other on her waist to back them behind the corridor so they'd be hidden from direct sight. He continued until her back was pressed to the wall. He went further, squishing up against her.

They kisses slowed from there. Keefe lazily moved back to her neck, slowly going further to her collarbone. She hummed her contentment, scratching her nails up and down his back.

Someone cleared their throat. Stria practically shoved Keefe off of her. It was far too late. Council Bronte had his arms crossed, tapping his foot.

Stria desperately wanted to try and find an excuse. It was no use, however. If her messy hair, smudged lipstick, and aggravated lips didn't say it, Keefe with remnence of her lipstick on his face, their wrinkled tunics, and both of them with a few hickeys sure did.

They both ended up with detention. The mentor had made sure to separate them. However, both Stria and Keefe thought it was very much worth it.

*sigh*

"High on Your Love" what love???? there is no love to be found here.

"Stria was peacefully drinking her bottle of youth in the hall at Foxfire." already i've been characterized wrong. i'm a dehydrated freak. hope this helps.

"She was almost late to class, but she really did not want to go to her inflicting lesson with Councilor Bronte. Last week, she dropped him down with one blast of pain, and he still didn't seem pleased with her." late to class? me? never. and bronte actually gets pulled out of the weirdness with negative emotions, and put into it with positive. so that's interesting.

"The bell's shrill ring revertebrate off of the crystal walls." i believe foxfire's bell is actually chimes or something like that?

"She yelped before seeing it was just her boyfriend. She let out a sigh of relief." the word boyfriend in reference to the relationship between me and keefe made me take so much psychic damage i had to close this and take a second. and "relief" is not a word i'd use to describe my feelings toward keefe. "rage" is better.

"Keefe smirked at her. He took her other wrist in his hand, bringing her knuckles up to kiss them." GET YOUR ASS LIPS OFF OF ME BOY.

""Hey gorgeous," he whispered. Stria felt a smile tug on her lips. "Well, hey. You know I have class, right?"" banging my head into the wall i HATE looks-based compliments. this is so fucking out of character i'd be shoving his face into the wall. and why is he whispering? speak up, boy. and i'd never skip class to make out with someone . . . especially if that someone was keefe . . .

"He tucked a curl behind her ear. "I know you don't want to do that. You should ditch with me."" GET YOUR HANDS OUT OF MY HAIR. WEIRDO!!!! and classic keefe. sigh.

"She made a half-hearted attempt to pry from his grip. He tightened his hold. The idea really did sound quite appealing. Did she really feel like dealing with Bronte? Hanging out with Keefe felt much more appealing." my full-ass heart would be in that action, actually. and you switched the sentences, here i'll fix it for you: "did she really feel like hanging out with keefe? dealing with bronte felt much more appealing."

"She felt herself become quite antsy at how nonchalant Keefe was being." yeah antsy with RAGE because i want to PUNCH him. and keefe is not nonchalant. at all. he's the exact opposite at all times. is this why he's so annoying and cringe all the time? mayhaps.

"The eyebrow raise he gave at her emotions, amped up this feeling. She needed him. Now!" i've passed away. i'm dead. the cringe fucking knocked me out, shot me, dug my grave, and buried me. and the exclamation point isn't helping with that. HELP ME.

"He took his sweet time, however. He knew exactly what he was doing, grazing his fingers over her midriff, up her side. He settled his hands on her hips." the midriff is above the hips. and if he takes this long, i would get so bored and faint for sheer annoyance halfway through. this man is so crusty!!!! GET OFF!!!!

"Stria held her breath, waiting for him to make his move. She wanted it. Craved it. Needed it." hello i'm dead. goodbye, it was nice knowing you.

"That knowing smirk creeped his face." i would punch him :) i hate smirking boys.

"How she despised this boy [ . . . ]" accurate and the rest of the sentence doesn't change the meaning of it at all. trust.

"Stria ran a hand up his neck, to his hairline. She took a fistful of it in her hand, dragging him closer." and then she ripped it out. painfully.

"If he didn't stop stalling soon, all of the creatures inside of her were going to bust her open and escape." there are two wolves inside me: hate keefe, and be angry at keefe. they are never at war and coexist quite peacefully, actually.

"She knew only his touch would calm them." hello i am perished. i am deceased. i am gone. NO IF HE TOUCHED ME I'D SHOVE HIM OFF ME. BECAUSE HE'S FUCKING. CRUSTY-ASS KEEFE. EW.

""Are you gonna kiss me, or what?" She finally asked. He brushed her lips with his thumb. She felt warm. Her lips tingled where he had touched them. She sucked in a breath." NOOOOOOO. NOT THE "SHE SUCKED IN A BREATH" THIS IS SO SHANNON. NO, WAIT. THIS IS SO YA.

""Eventually," he murmured." this crusty musty rusty dusty man.

""If you don't kiss me here in the next five seconds, I'm going to bite you," Stria informed him." i do bite people (my friends). so that makes this sentence roughly *checks notes* 0.000000001% accurate.

"He challenged her with a smirk. "Alright, bet."" NOT THE ALRIGHT, BET . . . WHY DOES HE TALK LIKE A TWELVE-YEAR-OLD PREPUBESCENT BOY???? AND HOW IS THIS NOT TAKING ME OUT. EWWWWWW.

"He leaned down and molded his mouth to hers. She locked onto him like a key." what the actual fuckety fucking fuck is this word choice. makes me feel like he's sucking my face off.

"Sparks flew throughout her body." HELP NOT THIS FUCKING LINE.

"She pushed out the ecstacy she was feeling in that moment out to Keefe. She knew it had worked when he made a noise of approval in response. His lips moved from her mouth, moving down to her neck." NOT THE ECSTASY . . . NO. NO. NOT ME FUCKING. INFLICTING ON HIM. ALAYDA I'M GOING TO MURDER YOU. and get your crusty-ass fucking lips off my neck, keefe. fuck you.

"Stria balled up Keefe's tunic in her hand." literally why would i do that. why.

"He moved one hand to tilt her head back as he placed the other on her waist to back them behind the corridor so they'd be hidden from direct sight. He continued until her back was pressed to the wall. He went further, squishing up against her." why are we stereotypical teenagers . . . nobody actually does this shit . . .

"They kisses slowed from there." can they stop entirely. please.

"Stria [ . . . ] shoved Keefe off of her." THIS SHOULD'VE BEEN THE ONLY LINE IN THE ENTIRE FIC. and don't even think about what i took out that changes nothing.

"Council Bronte had his arms crossed, tapping his foot." THANK YOU BRONTE (i still hate him)!!!!

"If her messy hair, smudged lipstick, and aggravated lips didn't say it, Keefe with remnence of her lipstick on his face, their wrinkled tunics, and both of them with a few hickeys sure did." i don't wear lipstick, i think i've worn it maybe once in my life because my dad forced me. unfortunately my hair does get messy easily. big sigh. "aggravated lips" alayda i want you dead in a ditch. what the fuck. were we biting each other what how why when where what.

"They both ended up with detention. The mentor had made sure to separate them. However, both Stria and Keefe thought it was very much worth it." I HAVE NEVER GOTTEN DETENTION EVER WHAT THE FUCK. I WOULD NOT THINK IT WAS WORTH IT. RUINING MY PERFECT RECORD???? FOR KEEFE???? EWWWWWW. EW. EWWWWWWWWW. GROSS.

in conclusion, i'm going to kill alayda and frame katie for the murder. you're both horrific terrible people and i'm going to block you both.

[escape-from-arcadia]

This ain't a 'I'm back in the fandom post' but a 'TOA was an important part of my youth and led me to meet some cool and some less-cool people and taught me a lot about persistence and responsibility and trust and kindness and family and friendship and love, and I'd fundamentally be a different person if I had not watched that first Trollhunters trailer in 2016 and joined a now defunct Discord server in 2020 (that was honestly mostly filled with crappy people) because I wouldn't have met all of the people who changed me for the better and for the worse and taught me so much about what it means to be a good and not-good friend and also (unfortunately) fandom culture and handling internet drama and led me to be the person I am now' post.

[justastrugglinghotchocolate]

Ya’ll I used to jokingly consider this, but nah, there is enough evidence in the book to suggest:

Henry ruins Dorian out of spite and jealousy towards Basil for moving on from him.

Let’s get right into this. 

I went back into the book because I wanted to review the post I made about Henry and misogyny earlier. Besides the usual annoyance at Henry’s dumb stupid rant, I noticed this line:

“I had buried my romance in a bed of asphodel.”

And then it hit me that Henry’s worst rants about women only come after the topic of marriage, but more specifically, commitment. Which then led to an even more interesting idea: I’m pretty sure Henry mostly uses ‘women’ as cover to complain about Basil and Basil’s ‘lack of commitment to him.’

I want to note that there’s a lot of interesting things in regards to Henry and his relationship with women that I’d love to go into, but this will focus solely on him and Basil.

Here’s what Henry says in his misogynistic ass rant after Sibyl dies. (This is from the 1891 ver):

“But [Sibyl] would have soon found out that you were absolutely indifferent to her. And when a woman finds that out about her husband, she either becomes dreadfully  dowdy, or wears very smart bonnets that some other woman’s husband has to pay for.”

Basil is often considered ‘unfashionable’/‘dowdy’ by Henry’s standards. This is only further proven in what he says about Basil’s disappearance:

“Why should he have been murdered? He was not clever enough to have enemies. Of course, he had a wonderful genius for painting. But a man can paint like Velasquez and yet be as dull as possible. Basil was really rather dull. He only interested me once, and that was when he told me, years ago, that he had a wild adoration for you and that you were the dominant motive of his art.”

But that isn’t all. The last part of that quote matches one to one to Henry’s claim about women (or Sibyl, specifically). Basil was not only ‘dull’, but his only ‘fashionable’ attribute, his art, grew ‘dowdy’ once he discovered Dorian’s indifference to him.

Henry also says this about women:

“Good resolutions are useless attempts to interfere with scientific laws. Their origin is pure vanity. Their result is absolutely nil.”

And later:

“But women never know when the curtain has fallen. They always want a sixth act, and as soon as the interest of the play is entirely over, they propose to continue it. If they were allowed their own way, every comedy would have a tragic ending, and every tragedy would culminate in a farce. They are charmingly artificial, but they have no sense of art.”

Guess who makes resolutions regarding goodness? Basil, who refuses to believe that Dorian is nothing but a good, pure man. 

“[Basil] could not bear the idea of reproaching [Dorian] any more. After all, his indifference was probably merely a mood that would pass away. There was so much in him that was good, so much in him that was noble.”

Basil’s arc traditionally should have ended once Dorian rejects him. Between that chapter and the chapter where Basil dies, there is no mention of Basil in any form. By all means, Basil’s role in the story is over—and then he demands the ‘sixth act’ to confront Dorian.

And finally:

“Besides, nothing makes one so vain as being told that one is a sinner. Conscience makes egotists of us all. Yes; there is really no end to the consolations that women find in modern life. Indeed, I have not mentioned the most important one.”

“What is that, Harry?” said the lad listlessly.

“Oh, the obvious consolation. Taking some one else’s admirer when one loses one’s own.”

Now before I point out the obvious irony of Henry literally 'taking someone else's admirer' (henry actually has a lot in common with his 'criticisms' of women), I want to bring your attention to a key part we don’t discuss enough about in the book.

““Life has always poppies in her hands. Of course, now and then things linger. I once wore nothing but violets all through one season, as a form of artistic mourning for a romance that would not die. Ultimately, however, it did die. I forget what killed it. I think it was her proposing to sacrifice the whole world for me. That is always a dreadful moment. It fills one with the terror of eternity. Well—would you believe it?—a week ago, at Lady Hampshire’s, I found myself seated at dinner next the lady in question, and she insisted on going over the whole thing again, and digging up the past, and raking up the future. I had buried my romance in a bed of asphodel.”

So I’m gonna make an educated guess and say Henry is lying his ass off here. He did not have a ‘romance’ with a woman. He certainly did not get an emotional, romantic attachment with a ‘woman’. I feel comfortable saying this because 1) his general distaste for women literally points to this being bullshit and 2) a significant change that was made from the 1890 version of the book to the 1891 version.

This is the quote in 1890:

“I once wore nothing but violets all through one season, as mourning for a romance that would not die.”

This is 1891:

“I once wore nothing but violets all through one season, as a form of artistic mourning for a romance that would not die.”

Well, well, well, who is the arti—It’s Basil. He’s literally talking about Basil here. AND GUESS WHAT VIOLETS MEAN IN VICTORIAN FLOWER LANGUAGE?

A couple of things actually, but the top three are:

‘Faithfulness, Modesty, and Love.’

Henry emotionally had been faithful to Basil. While I doubt he was monogamous in anyway, Basil held a special place that no else would ever have. Not even Dorian.

And this brings me back to the quote that originally sent me down this rabbit hole:

“I had buried my romance in a bed of asphodel.”

In the 1890 version, it says:

“I had buried my romance in a bed of poppies.”

Poppies are known to mean death and would have fit perfectly if Henry was saying he felt nothing for the relationship, but what does asphodel mean?

‘Love Beyond The Grave’, ‘Remembered Beyond The Tomb’ and sometimes, ‘My regrets follow you to the grave’. 

(NOTE: please keep in mind floriography could mean certain things based on the color and the type of flowers. That being said, considering Wilde described the shit out of every setting he wrote, the lack of detail about the flowers suggest the most broad meaning is meant to be taken.)

Henry isn't over Basil. He couldn't kill the love, so he buried it and took Dorian as a consolation and revenge. He will never be able to get over Basil until Basil or himself dies.

BOY DO I HAVE GOOD NEWS FOR HENRY/s

[irlbop]

Imagine, though, that the first three Papas hadn’t been assassinated, and there really was a plan to have them reincorporated into the Ghost Project. Perhaps not as the frontmen audiences were more familiar with, but there was certainly use to be found. The Ministry could be resourceful when it wanted to be, after all.

Primo would probably feel confused at best, fatigues at worst as the memories of touring and strutting about began to reappear in the marrow of his bones. He was far from young when the Ghost Project had been revived under his visage, and he’d certainly not gotten any younger in the decade that had passed since he passed on the position.

Ever the diligent shepherd throughout his life, the eldest Emeritus son had found himself quite enjoying his retirement: It had allowed him more time to rest, more time to tend to his personal passions. Further to the point, though, what more did he have to offer? Ghost had prospered with each succession. As far as he was concerned, he had done his job: It was now up to the Next Guy to keep it going.

But, ever the good son and dedicated brother, he hears out the proposal. The stage may not call him back, but the Church does. And for that, he must listen.

Secondo would furrow his brow, almost reflexively creating a slight sneer. Though, it’s not out of disgust so much as uncertainty. And Secondo is very rarely a hesitant person.

He knew how the Church saw him: Angry, bitter, so on and so forth. The very things that contributed to the decision to end his tenure.

…Well, that, and perhaps his exorbitant spending on the Ministry’s dime. There was only so much he could get away with under the justification of gluttony, lust, and sloth, evidently.

Regardless, though, he found the prospect somewhat suspicious. After he retired the mitre, the Ministry appeared to want little to do with him. The Clergy kept interactions to a minimum, and most paperwork had been designated to other members often before. Most who look forward to his presence are Siblings with an appetite they claimed only he could satiate — and frankly, he was content with that.

He was far from a dullard, but Secondo couldn’t fathom what the Ministry realistically could pull from him at this point. Perhaps, then, “conflicted” is the better expression he wore: Eyes narrowing at the prospect as he pondered what this could mean, quiet anger that they would demand more of him after he had given them plenty, but also curiosity.

And a bit of temptation. Best to hear the details. Perhaps maybe even confirm the perks. He would keep his guard up of course, but maybe he could regain access to the Black Card if he played the right cards…

And then…There’s Terzo. Of the Papas present, he was the most emotionally expressive.

“Prone to fits of flamboyancy,” Primo would muse if he were in a gentler mood.

“A shameless twit with no damn self-control,” Secondo would insistently correct.

If that moment had been someone’s first exposure to Terzo, however, they probably would not have guessed it. He is the picture of calm. Almost ennui. Heterochromatic eyes sit beneath bushy brows, hooded as though the proposal were someone waxing poetry of the gilded lily that was doing taxes.

If someone who did know of Terzo and his antics were to see him, they might have concluded one of two options: That he was either zoning out, fantasizing about all the schlong and balls and pussy he could be investing time in; or he was hungover and/or high and thus not computing a single syllable that tumbled into his ears.

But Terzo was stone-cold sober. And he was hanging on to every word like claws sink into flesh.

The fact of the matter is that yes, Terzo could be loud. He could be showy. He was outspoken, enduring, a consummate performer. But that didn’t mean Terzo was dumb. It was so easy to simplify him down to a happy-go-lucky himbo of some sort that people — even his own brothers — would often forget the bottom line: He was still an Emeritus, born from a line coated in blood and shadow.

And in that moment, the blood and shadows within him were boiling, as though the essence of The Pit had found itself replaced into his mortal form.

In that moment, he was putting those years of breathing exercises to use by tempering his inhales and exhales to feel less heated, less sharp. Without the papal paints to give illusion to his features, his features seemed sharper, but not necessarily menacing. He was white-knuckling it in those gloves he was almost never without, ever thankful that their cloth texture didn’t give away his feelings like the squeak of leather would.

They want them back? They want him back? How about a proper send-off to his papacy first? How about an actual final show, one last thing to give to the followers he’d busted his ass off to give to the Church? An apology card signed by the Clergy, an Edible Arrangement, something!

He brought home a goddamn Grammy. And how did they repay him?

By dragging him off of the stage, mind-song. This was the way the most successful Antipope to date’s reign had ended: Not with a bang, not with a kazoo, but with a whimper.

He had given the Church everything he had: His youth to studies, his adulthood preparing for succession, his mind, body, and soul put to the form of song for them to exploit. He even gave them things he did not actually possess, but dressed up just enough to superficially please them. Yet now they come back, ready to take even more? What was even left in their eyes to snatch, he might’ve wondered beneath it all?

A dark bile flowed through his veins like the Serpent through Eden. And oh, how this domain did love its corruption. That is, except for when it conflicted with what they wanted. And what this church of expression and freedom wanted, as far as Terzo saw it, was control. Power. All that uncreative jazz. You were only as free as they saw fit.

Well. Fine. This church loved serpents so much, why not become what they loved? He could slither pitifully on his belly. He could sit in wait. He could speak honeyed words. He could remind them he was but a soft, simple creature.

He could bite.

What this proposal to reincorporate himself and his brothers foretold, he did not yet know. And it frankly didn’t matter to him: He would take it. He would take it and cradle it and slowly nurture it with his venom until the Ministry would recognize the necrosis developing far too late to stop it.

He was, after all, an Emeritus: The favored bloodline of the Dark One. He was insurrection, he was spite.

“I see…” he uttered, stifling a nonexistent yawn.

“And this…idea that you have: What’s in it for me?”

[rapha-reads]

To those of you wondering (aka no one), I finished both The Vampire Armand and Merrick and I have a lot of thoughts and feels. I'm skipping Blood and Gold for now to go directly to Blackwood Farm (I'll read B&G later), but first I'm going to read something else, just to take a break.

TVA thoughts: man, Armand is messed up. And extremely compelling. But so messed up. As always, the theme of faith crisis, which seriously reaches new heights with these bitchy vampires, is not something I can fully immerse myself in, but it was fascinating to see his numerous metamorphosis. I liked how he bridges Western and Eastern Christianisme, especially through art. Now I'm thinking that if Rolin Jones makes him originally Muslim in the show, that could expand even more the conversation on how faith, and especially Abrahamic faith, has been in conversation for thousands of years and could be such a rich, diverse and spiritual, intellectual and artistic theme. I can already imagine some fascinating discussions comparing (not in a superior way but in a complementary way) coming from Muslim faith to Roman Catholic faith, the way book!Armand talks about the richness of his life in Kiev Rus despite the poverty and ascetism, and the richness of his life in Venecia despite the luxury and abundance.

As for Benamin and Sybille... I don't have much thoughts about them. Sybille is one of those female characters AR seemingly favors, not so much human as a nymph or a dryad, "perfectly splendid". And Benji is a caricature of an Arab child. Nuance? 401 not found.

Merrick thoughts: David for the love if everything, shut. The. Fuck. Up. Holy moly. I like David, I do, but damn the entire recollection of his history with Merrick was looooooong. I'm here to see Louis haunted by Claudia and haunting Lestat's coma, not how hard you're pining for the kid you practically raised! Also. ALSO. You're just going to leave that whole thing with the Olmec or possibly another more ancient Mesoamerican civilisation without ever giving us more? That was the most interesting part of it all! The vodoo history, the connection between Louisiana and Caribbean vodoo and old Native South-American religions! More about this, less about Merrick's perfect breasts, I am begging you. (It is at this point that the reader of this post realises OP is 100% definitely ace and more interested in books and witchcraft than breasts and whether a 70yo man can still get it up - also, hey, Anne Rice's vampires are practically asexual and their lust and pleasure is mostly derivated from blood, with some notable exceptions like Armand and Marius, and a love relationship between two vampires is then based on romantic love and blood sharing, so can I hear a hell yeah for some ace representation or are we still conflating eroticism with sex)

Another thing I kept thinking about throughout the book is how Louis is perceived by his fellow vampires. Since basically the second book, since we've lost his own POV, everybody who's ever said anything about him (so Lestat, Armand and David) have insisted on two points: how very weak and meek Louis is, and also how irresistible, beautiful and charming. Granted, I've known Louis first through his portrayal on the show (hi Jacob you're so fiiiiiiine), and then through his own narration in the first book, but I've never had the impression that he was weak. Beautiful and seductive, yes. Weak? I see a human man going through tragedies and still enduring, going through vampiric transformation and then suffering for decades the loss of his humanity, struggling with reconciliating both sides of himself, but mostly I see a vampire who rebuilt himself after losing everything without sacrificing his sense of self. I see Louis as very strong actually (up to the point where resilience breaks, because resilience cannot be sustained on a long term, but that's another debate). He knows who he is, and don't you know how hard that is? He doesn't cling to faith or pride. He knows he's doomed, he knows he's monstrous, he knows there's nothing he can do to change that, and instead of railing against his fate, he goes on about his undead life. He gets his books and he reads them, he surrounds himself with literature and what little comforts he thinks in his shattered self-esteem he deserves (his ragged sweaters and soft trousers); let's not lie to ourselves tho, Louis doesn't like himself, or more exactly he doesn't care about his corporeal body - what matters to him is his mind, and once again, this author is extremely ace and also very aro and very nonbinary, so Louis to me is very much ace and agender coded, though really not aro, because his love for Lestat (and sometimes his fondness, shall we say, for Armand) is the only thing that can rouse him up from his literary slumber.

...

Oh, man, I have a lot to say about Louis, for how little he appears in the books so far. Still have BF, BC and the PL trilogy to devour. So I guess you can say, for as much as Lestat is occupying my entire brain, very much like him, my favorite is Louis? Yeah, that tracks. Melancholy, quiet, dark-haired green-eyed monster with more humanity than humans, preferring his solitude and the company of books to anyone else, hopelessly and helplessly devoted to one person, expert in brooding and grieving, literature specialist, not very attached to his physical self. Yeah. I'm not surprised.

[pastafossa]

i don’t know if this is a weird question or not, but i’m just gonna ask it before i overthink too much 😅:

so, i’m formatting/printing TRT in order to bind in (just to have, not to profit off of, don’t worry), and i was thinking. you know how lots of books have a dedication from the author to friends/family/fans?

well, if you could write a dedication like that (and it would go in the printing if you’re okay with it), what would you say?

~ sincerely, a massive fan of your talent 💜

Thank you SO SO MUC! 😭 And this isn't weird at all although I FEEL LIKE PEDRO PASCAL WHEN HE GOT THE AWARD AND DIDN'T KNOW WHAT TO SAY BECAUSE HE HAD NOTHING PREPARED

I had to sit here for a GOOD long minute and then edit it down because holy shit there are people to thank.

Thank you to my family for always supporting your little oddball of a child over the years as I searched for, and eventually found, the artform that made my soul sing.

Thank you to the Daredevil writers, and Charlie Cox, for bringing to life a world and a character I've come to love so dearly, and a character whose struggles helped me process so much of my own pain and trauma.

And thank you to TRT's fans for following Matt and Jane's wild journey that I hilariously thought would attract three readers at most. Thank you for all the love and encouragement, the new friendships, and for letting me throw all my favorite tropes at you. You've kept me going when things got dark. You're the best readers I could have asked for. May this saga of foul-mouthed psychics, sexy devils, evil scientists, penguin courtship, emotional healing, wild smut, and true love most of all, give you just as much joy as it gave me. I love you. Stay hydrated.

[defective-4068]

I'm done with the negativity, I'm gonna stop worrying about the social media algorithms when I like things. Just going to go back to what it was like when I was less involved just avoid what I don't like and interact with what I do. Straight up negativity gets you blocked, I refuse to be dragged down in all this stuff again.

Not defending actors anymore (I didn't really ever), definitely not defending characters (they're fictional, don't have feelings and I'm not gonna change anyone's mind about characters they hate)

This is supposed to be fun and it's starting to not be so fun anymore. For my own sake, backing off is probably for the best.

[pearlsdiamondsandvodka]

saw “the sunshine court” trending along with “Neil Josten” and I was very confused, checked the tag AND YOURE TELLING ME THERES A NEW ALL FOR THE GAME BOOK??? why did I have no idea about this???

[dangaer]

ships where muse a is outwardly insane and while muse b is much more calm than them, is equally or in their own way insane inside ( especially if its towards their dynamic with muse a. ) are truly beautiful though.