#i've written several pages in my journal about it

[swan-orpheus]

What I said about The Incident or the Conversation: I'm fine. It's nothing.

Me days later listening to the same song on repeat:

[gin-juice-tonic]

So, while it's certainly not my intention to talk about pages of the bill book basically every day, it seems every time I write one post I end up thinking about something else. Here's the next something else.

This time it's these two pages. There are several things that are odd to me here. Not necessarily on their own, but when compared with the journal.

First and foremost, I want to use something that struck me here for a quick bit of doyalist analysis. (I know, I know.) Several people have said to me they didn't believe Alex had gone back and read through journal 3 again, and this could be a reason why things are so different and contradictory. But the thing is, these pages hold lines that are strikingly similar.

That top image is small, so I'm going to zoom in on what I mean. These are lines from that first book of bill page:

Here is a line from the "hiding places" page of journal 3:

and here is another line, from the page after this one:

You could argue that the thing about the caves is a plot point, and something Alex might've remembered. But part of Ford's motivation to get going to the caves so soon being the snowfall? Well, I certainly didn't remember that anyway. It's pretty a minute detail. Could its inclusion mean nothing? Maybe. But maybe not.

And if you read past my carefully placed initial highlighting, you'll also notice that lines inclusion is slightly different in the two versions.

Like I said, in journal 3, the pushing factor in getting Ford to make his trip with haste is worrying about the soon to be inclement weather.

But in the Book of Bill he mentions "little time". Why? Because of what's been written down on the previous page:

Im not going to paste the whole thing in here, because it's very heavy. But Ford has been given an express time limit by Bill.

Why then, is the snow even worth bringing up in the first place? I'm having a hard time getting the words together. But I just find it all very odd.

But the similarities between these pages and the ending of the first act of journal 3 aren't all I want to talk about. There's more differences than just the specifics of the snow line.

So, Differences:

This first one is small, but notable to me at least. On the matter of Fiddleford, here's what the Book of Bill had to say:

And here's what Journal 3 had to say:

Fiddleford being "gone" is a lot different from Fiddleford "refusing to speak" to Stanford. The former implying Ford couldn't reach out even if he wanted, the later implying he's made attempts that have failed.

And it's important to remember that the narrative is the Book of Bill pages were ripped out. Ford has written Fiddleford is missing, rips out the page, and decides upon next re-write that Fiddleford just isn't talking to him?

.

The next thing is a really big difference, and requires the addition of two more original Journal 3 pages. It also requires a new question to be asked: "Where do the two Bill pages I've shown fit within the journal?"

Here are the new pages that will be submitted into evidence added into this post:

Though I want to mainly focus on this second one,

The page where Ford's plan all starts to come together. It's worth noting this page comes before the "Hiding places" page I've shown before.

The order of events as laid out by Journal 3 are:

Ford goes to and escapes the truck stop and notices the twin motel sign, realizing he can contact Stan -> Ford lays out where he's going to hide the journals and that he's going to make the trek up to Bill's cave -> Ford fully discloses his plan to hand journal 1 off to Stan.

The Bill Book pages I've been discussing are directly after the page of Bill tormenting Ford within his mind. (Again, not going to post that page due to the subject matter). But we see that the top of the first page says "I awoke from the hallucination" so chronologically it's safe to assume there were also no non-missing pages in between them.

which means the order of events as laid out by the Book of Bill are:

Bill torments Ford within his mind -> Ford futilely searches for clues to Fiddlefords whereabouts -> Ford announces he must make his trip to the caves -> Ford realizes he must contact Stan.

The Bill book is stating "Ford came up with his plan first, and realized he needed to add Stan second."

The journal is stating "Ford was able to come up with his plan upon realizing Stan can help him."

These are very different ideas. And while it's framed in a bit of a cheesy way, I think that Journal 3's idea is very important. Despite everything stacked up against him at this point, Ford was able to keep going and come up with his plan upon realizing that he's not all alone. And specifically, working together with Stan has been the key to defeating Bill since the beginning.

If we are to take the Book of Bill's idea as truth, what of the trip to the truck stop diner and the twin motel sign? When is this supposed to have happened? Is it trying to claim it didn't at all? It's a bit silly, but I don't find it to be fake personally. Nor do I think Ford would have any reason to waste time and pages concocting a fake narrative at this point in his story. In both narratives, Bill is tormenting him every time he loses consciousness, he is exhausted from both the abuse and his general lack of sleep. He does not have time to spare.

But that's not the end.

This book of Bill page:

And this Journal page:

Are sort of paired off again, aren't they?

Supposedly, the "Should I contact S?" Bill page takes place before this journal page with the perpetual motion machine, as this page says Ford has already "Sent word to him".

Ford includes his own mini pros and cons list here, with notably more pros

There are also less cons. The idea Bill might get to Stan, or the idea Stan might destroy the portal no longer seem to be concerns.

Do the pages contradict? Well, not really aside from the order of events I've laid out. But that's sorta the thing, right?

Ultimately the two pages I've been discussing stand out to me because they're re-writes of things already in J3. Very similar except for the big hole of cutting out Ford's motel story.

Ford's supposedly on a mad 72 hour time-limit dash to make all his final arrangements to best Bill. He is at the end of his rope from the nonstop torment he's been subjected to. Does he really have both the time and the energy to be re-writing journal pages just because he didn't like them, let alone adding in entire new false narratives? And even if he does, why would he change it so that remembering Stan becomes the catalyst for his plan to outwit Bill?

[endless-ineffabilities]

rogue ink

Daemon Targaryen x f!reader

word count: 3.4k ▪︎ masterlist

themes/warnings: fluff, language, very brief mention of smut

The reader is devastated at the loss of her precious journal, worried that it might fall into the wrong hands. And who better else to discover it, but the Rogue Prince himself?

It was a small thing.

A small, leather-bound journal. Filled with accounts of your days and nights, your deepest thoughts, your pains. An unassuming object, sort of tattered from use.

And it had been missing for three days. The gods were not good.

You searched everywhere. Every corner of your chambers, in all the pouches you had especially sewn onto your dresses, practically every inch of the Red Keep which you have called home ever since your family was invited to King Viserys' court.

And yet it was nowhere to be found.

It was immediately noticeable to your inner circle that something was amiss, but you just shrugged it off. One person you did confide in, however, was Princess Rhaenyra herself. The two of you quickly grew close after her former companion, Alicent, was sent off to wed some wealthy, Southern lord.

"So what if it has gone missing? Perhaps you have simply misplaced it? Anyway, we could easily get you a new one, y/n."

Your head swiftly turned in her direction, "I appreciate your tone of confidence, Rhaenyra - "

She nodded, making a playful show of curtsying.

" - but... I've scrolled down personal matters in those pages. Especially when it concerns..."

She paused in her step. Hands clasped behind her, she leaned forward, "Ah. I see."

When it concerns Daemon. But it need not be said aloud.

Rhaenyra has been privy to some of your musings about her beloved uncle. Only the ones that you would ever let befall on another person's ears, that is. Some of it... well... would be more than enough to make any maiden blush.

"How could I forget?" Rhaenyra smiled, "You fancy Daemon." Then her face turns sly, "He fancies you too, you know. But of course, I know why you would be reluctant to engage with all of... that."

Your hand reaches up in an attempt to hide your face from shame, "Gods, what would happen if anyone at court were to find it? It would only be so easy to determine that the thing is my possession. I've written my father's and mother's names on it, and yours, and Daemon's..."

"What's the worst that could happen?" Rhaenyra wrapped an arm around your shoulders, keeping you steady, "This court of sycophants never runs out of fodder for their dull conversations. Your journal might be spoken of for a day or two, then they shall move on to something of lesser import."

You sighed deeply, a mask of calm appearing on your visage, though Rhaenyra knew better.

It will be alright. Another half-truth. This loss will soon be a trifling thing.

If only...

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Daemon Targaryen has been having quite the interesting time as of late.

The pages of your small, tattered journal feel light on his fingertips, but he might be inclined to say that the mere feel of the parchment is exhilarating.

These thoughts were yours. These secrets, these desires were yours.

Truthfully, he has not been completely shy about his admiration for you. His precious dove. His sweetling. You thought nothing of it, knowing full well how he is. The Rogue Prince has been known to possess countless paramours.

And you are damned if you would allow yourself to be one of his mere passing fancies. To be bedded one night and forgotten the next.

He once thought that his admiration is not well-received, until one morning, when he watched as an object fell out of your dress as you sprinted down the hallway, headed to only the gods knew where. You bumped into several ladies of the court, mumbling rushed apologies, only to be met with irate stares, but you went on without any mind to them.

Daemon failed to hide the smile that sprung from his lips. He quietly shifted to the spot where you dropped something, and that's when he saw it. Your journal.

It could only be yours. Who else would scroll down that thinly veiled warning on the first page, dedicated to any stranger who might deign to read it?

Daemon, of course, believed himself immune to such threats and he hurriedly found a secluded place to sit down and immerse himself in the woman who has managed to take sanctum in his mind.

And his heart, but the notorious prince would still be loath to admit that.

A few pages in, with amusement dancing his eyes, his chest felt warm at the image of you inking these thoughts onto the parchment.

Then came – “Once more, if you might be a nosy intruder, turn away now, or the very worst fortunes shall fall upon you. I swear this on both the old gods and the new.”

Perhaps I should stop. After all, she just might impale me with mine own Dark Sister if she found this in my possession. Daemon’s hand hesitated as he was about to turn the next page.

He had half a mind to close your journal, partially resolved at returning it to your chambers without you even having to notice its loss, but his eyes were quickly drawn to the following words…

“I finally saw Prince Daemon Targaryen this morning.”

How could Daemon stop his perusing at that moment? He read on with renewed interest, yearning to know more of what you think about him.

“By the gods, he is as beautiful as he is infuriating. I was made to be the cupbearer in today’s small council meeting, and the Rogue Prince strolled in, well in the middle of the discussion, without any mind as to the disturbance that his late arrival caused, if any. Not a care in the seven kingdoms. He paid absolutely no mind to me, standing there in the corner.

But I saw him.”

Daemon found himself rolling his eyes. Of course, he would give off the worst impression upon the first moment she glanced at him. But then again…

She thinks me beautiful. Vanity had allowed him to glaze over the part where you call him “infuriating”.

I suppose I shall have further use for your precious book, my sweetling.

And so the next few days were spent raking your journal for passages about him. Daemon knows full well that doing so can be deemed a violation of your privacy, but if he can use this to get closer to you, then this is something that simply must be allowed.

In his eyes, it may even be necessary. He needs this. Wants it, even. He wants to get under your skin, and these pages all but symbolize that very thing.

After all, Daemon swore that he shall only read the parts wherein he is concerned, and that is well within his right, is it not?

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“Daemon is indeed something to behold. Yes, my opinion still stands.

However, I am not certain what to make of him. Is he to be trusted? No. Bloody well not. Is he kind? That is not really a word anyone would use to define him.

But… there is something… something in his eyes. Daemon is much more than the rogue scoundrel that his moniker deems him to be. He is more than just ‘dangerous’ or ‘unpredictable’ or a potential ‘second Maegor’ (Truthfully, I find it hard to believe that last thing). Daemon is… more than that.

I just can’t find the words to encapsulate him. Perhaps words never can.”

The days pass quickly, and Daemon finds himself opening your journal now and again.

He cannot help it. The more he reads, the more he learns of you. But that is not the only reason. He is also discovering himself, as it turns out - an image of himself that he has not entertained before.

Not only The Rogue Prince, but a person of greater value than his notorious misdeeds. He believes that you see something in him that not even he can see himself.

Something more. Something… good.

Though his intentions prove to be not entirely innocent, as is the usual case. He comes upon one specific part, with your penmanship turning into a nervous scribble. It is as if you were wary that someone might be looking over your shoulder and deign to discover what salacious scrawls you have put down about the Rogue Prince.

Daemon’s eyes hurriedly glide over the ink, basking in what he reads.

“I must confess something.

I know it is quite unbecoming of a lady. Of a maiden. But in the last hour of the owl, I…

I…

Oh, gods. I pleasured myself to the thought of him.

You know. It can only be him. Daemon.”

“Seven fucking save me.” Daemon finds himself cursing with delight at what he just read. So his sweetling does want him in return. Oh, you cannot even imagine what I will do to you…

“We have grown quite close, him and I. Daemon is… Daemon is aflame. There can be no better word for him. He is fire incarnate, and I am not afraid of getting burned.

Or… I don’t want to be. I just. Want. Him.

I want to feel him. I want to feel his lips on mine. Not long ago, he leaned in close and his musk enveloped me. His lips very nearly grazed my cheek. Silly me could not come up with a witty response then and there. A shame. But can you blame me? All I could think about was snogging the fucking Rogue Prince himself!

Ha! Gods!

Perhaps I have gone insane.”

Daemon chuckles freely, alone in his chambers, your journal firmly between both hands. Any clueless onlooker would think it strange, as the Rogue Prince does not make a habit of exhibiting such behaviour. The pleasure in the tone of his laughter rings true and genuine.

If it becomes known that the reason for this is the Lady Y/n, then only a fool would dare deny the centre of their prince’s affections.

“But I cannot deny it.

I cannot have him. I shall not… he is… he does not seem willing to devote himself to just one lady. One wife. There is never a lack of gossip about the prince’s exploits in the Street of Silk, and a hundred other brothels besides.

His need cannot be sated it seems. I… surely, I will not be enough to sate it.

And I won’t allow myself to be one among many paramours.

If I am to love, I have to be chosen as the only one.

However…

Mother spare me.

However… I find myself imagining Daemon’s hands roaming freely across the planes of my skin, fondling my chest, his fingers drifting downward until they are buried in the heat of my soaked cunt.

When the castle is asleep, I find myself writhing in my sheets, thinking about the prince’s massive co – “

A knock echoes across the chambers. Daemon’s head shoots up immediately, irritation blooming across his face, but his cheeks remain flushed from what he just read.

Who the fuck is this?

His squire enters, a gangly young lad of six and ten. He bows hurriedly, and with a shaky voice, he implores, “My prince, you are being summoned by His Grace King Viserys to the small council meeting.”

Has that blasted formality come round again so soon? Daemon shrugs, turning back to the pages. Though he can hardly focus with the snivelling interruption still present in the room, who risks arousing his master’s anger when he speaks once more, “Forgive me, my prince, but I have been instructed to report with - ”

“Will you remove yourself from my sight willingly, or shall I do it for you?”

“M-my prince… I…” The squire nearly stumbles backwards at Daemon’s wroth.

“Leave. The small council will have the privilege of my presence in due course.”

And so, Daemon is again left alone, his squire’s rapid footsteps practically bolting out the doors.

Smirking, he greets your journal like an old friend. “Now, where was I?”

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Your newly gifted journal boasts of a far more opulent appearance than its predecessor. Rhaenyra made sure that the Maesters bound only the finest parchment and leather for this very thing; the cover even has gold and red embossments, as well as inscriptions in High Valyrian.

You were reluctant to accept such a gift, but Rhaenyra was persistent. And everyone knows, there is no refusing the Realm’s Delight when she has her heart set on something.

Still, it wouldn’t hurt to know of the whereabouts of your journal… well, your old journal now.

Nestled in your usual spot in the gardens, you turn your new journal over in your hands, admiring the handiwork of the Maesters.

The rear possesses the inscription - Isse otāpagon hen ñuha ojūdan udra, se isse ōños hen skoros pirtra hembar… - which Rhaenyra explained as roughly translating to - In remembrance of my rogue ink, and in joyous anticipation of what lies ahead…

You did not fail to notice the deliberate placement of the word rogue, which can only be Rhaenyra’s doing. Clever.

Rogue ink. Rogue Prince. Am I to call myself Lady Rogue now?

“My Lady.” His voice calls out, nearly startling the journal out of your hands. Oh fuck.

“Prince Daemon,” you swivel around to his voice, and sure enough, he leans against one of the tall hedges, studying you. Not a care in the seven kingdoms, as always.

“Good morrow, sweetling.” He saunters over, permanent smirk on his lips. “That is a lovely thing you have got there,” he says, gesturing to the new journal in your lap.

“Why yes, it is.” You lay it down beside you, and he promptly picks it up without even asking for your leave.

“Isse otāpagon hen ñuha ojūdan udra…” He reads, the High Valyrian sounding musical on his tongue. Far better than how you attempted to voice out the same words.

“Hmm.” He hands it over, and sits right next to you, stretching his long legs in front of him.

“Rogue ink.” He mumbles thoughtfully, glancing at you.

“It was Rhaenyra’s idea.” You say, your throat suddenly feeling dry, your heart racing from his proximity.

“Ah, yes. I was very sorry to hear of how you lost your journal. Rhaenyra said you were quite devastated.” Daemon lies plainly. His beloved niece never shared this with him, for she knows you would not approve.

“She did?”

“I do recall, yes.”

“Oh.”  You clear your throat, choosing to let it pass. “Well, she was awfully kind in giving me this as a replacement. I could not thank her enough.”

Daemon smiles, casting his gaze downward, as if he is privy to a secret that is kept from you. Does the handsome bastard know something?

“It is a shame that I could not find it,” you sigh, “I am still perturbed by the thought of someone whose intentions are unsavoury, reading all that I have written.”

“Whatever would you do to them, were you to find out their identity, my sweetling?”

You shake your head slightly at the name he has given you. Anything to distract from the warmth spreading across your face. You lean in closer, suddenly, much to Daemon’s surprise, “Would you let me wield Dark Sister, so I might teach them a lesson?”

Daemon swallows, the sight of your darkened, mischievous expression spurring him on.

“I might,” he leans in, “but I am far too fond of myself to allow something like that to transpire. Besides,” his fingers languidly trace your jawline, “I have read that you are far too fond of me to do such a thing.”

Your stomach falls, the sensation so sudden that you simply freeze in place, with Daemon’s warm breath still fanning your face.

“You…”

Your face scrunches in a mixture of what can only be shock and anger and embarrassment. Daemon only finds it endearing. Adorable.

He starts, “Now, sweetling, try not to be cross - ”

You do not let him finish. You punch him in the shoulder, hard, making him lean away. Your legs seem to have a mind of their own, because you find yourself pacing quickly.

Gods, I just assaulted a Prince of the Seven Kingdoms. More pacing. Who cares? It’s Daemon, and he deserves it.

The sound of his laughter echoes in the gardens, grating in your ears.

He stands, pulling something out of the pocket of his trousers, and presenting it to you. Your little, rogue journal.

Wrenching it from him, you can only ask, “You stole it from me?”

He looks appalled, “No, I would not do that. I found it. It might occur to you to thank me. Who knows what could have happened if anyone else besides me discovered your precious journal when you dropped it in a haste.”

“Thank you?” You stare him down, your left hand squeezing your journal firmly, threatening to destroy its very structure. “Why did it take so long for you to return it to me? Did you… did you…”

“Read it?” His eyes rake your face, over and over, enamoured by the passion he sees.

You say nothing. Of course he has.

“You must forgive my curiosity, sweetling. I could not help myself, plainly, to have some glimpse into your mind, into your heart… I simply… I had to.”

You soften a little at that. “Did you read everything?”

Daemon steps forward, overwhelming your space once more, “Not everything. Not quite.”

He gently pries the journal from your fist tucked beside you, and you watch as he flits through the pages as if it were his own. He whispers, “Only what you wrote about me.”

“Gods.” You desperately look toward the sky for some respite, not finding any.

He lands on the page he was searching for, a smile spreading across his face. “I am flattered, my lady, about how you envisioned us in what can only be… very compromising positions.”

“Enough, Daemon, please…” you bite your lip, as his hands drift across your stomach, settling low on your hips, pulling you flush against him.

The journal has been discarded by your feet, and Daemon only has eyes for you. His voice is genuine when he says, “You have written about me as if I were… someone else. Someone more.”

Your eyes catch how his tongue flicks across his lips. You start to give in, and say, “Daemon, I write only what I see.”

His lips are curled in their familiar roguish way, when he drifts even closer, tilting your face up at him with one hand.

“Daemon…”

“Sweetling… let me give you something to write about.”

In true Daemon fashion, he does not reign himself in. 

His lips land on yours. The impact catches you by surprise, making you take a few steps back, and he promptly follows suit. Your bodies move in sync, until your back collides into one of the marble plinths.

His tongue pries your mouth open wide, snaking past your teeth in a frenzy. Without breaking the kiss, he takes your hands, and guides them to the back of his neck, so that you might hold him in turn. You do, burying your fingers in his silver tresses.

Your lips battle each other, and Daemon tilts your head back so that he might advance more. A low growl escapes his chest as his teeth carefully clamp down on your bottom lip, pulling at the flesh.

He pulls away, pleased at how swollen your lips have become due to his work, “If I were inclined to write as you do, the words would doubtlessly be a tribute to you, sweetling.”

You did not expect that.

Still reeling from the taste of his mouth, you finally smile, though wryly, “You could only be telling me what I wish to hear. Soften my anger at how you invaded my most intimate musings.”

He nods once, one hand reaching up to lean on the plinth above your head. His violet eyes bore into yours, burning with unmistakable desire.

“I could indeed.” He kisses you again, his lips briefly pressing against your own, with a gentleness that is quite unusual for the Rogue Prince. “But mayhaps I shall prove to be quite convincing.”

You take a deep breath, peering up at him in a haze. Your shaky nerves finally settle, and you drink him in. Your rogue muse. The object of your affection, as he now knows. “Prove it then. My new journal is in need of fresh accountings. What better thing to write about than the taste of your lips…”

Another kiss, and another.

“I am yours, sweetling.”

Been a while, loves! Hectic stuff + writing ruts can tend to cause such breaks, but I'm glad to be back and writing again ❤️

Yes, it seems that I sometimes take weeks (even months) to update series works. But then I'll get oneshot ideas, and they get done within a day (like this one). I can't explain it either 🙃

But anyway - series updates up... soon enough!

[witchygirlgray333]

Journal prompts / ideas

Poems (either ones you've written or just ones you enjoy or connect with)

Book review

Film review

Write about your day

Collage

Vision board

Habit tracker

Calendar page

Notes from something you're learning

Quotes you like

Draw some outfits you like

Search up creative writing prompts and do those

Meditate and write down your thoughts before / during / after (I don't do this everytime or sometimes I'll only write afterwards but when I write before, during and after it's always really interesting to read back on and see how much has changed)

Stickerbomb page

Films to watch

Books to read

Wishlist

Bucket list

Highlight of the day (I like to have a page in my journal where I write a short sentence of my favourite thing that happened that day, it's nice to look back on and it's nice especially for days when I'm not feeling well enough to do a longer entry)

Gratitude list

Random thoughts

Drawings and sketches (I'm not even good at drawing but I love drawing or sketching in my journals and just expressing myself)

This one is more for chronically ill people but making notes for doctor / hospital appointments which helps so much! I have severe memory loss so a lot of the time I'll turn up to an appointment and have totally forgotten about anything I'd hoped to say so this has been a total lifesaver

Along with what I said in my last point about living with severe memory loss my whole journal works towards helping me deal with living with the memory loss. I'll probably do another post soon about more in depth ideas for journaling to help life with memory loss but I write down SO MUCH. I've got to do lists, a calendar page, my night routine (I'll also have my morning routine written down once I've actually worked one out!), things I need to do everyday (such as brushing my teeth, washing my face etc), contact info for people I'm close to, labelled photos of my loved ones (it can be really scary when I don't recognise people so having these pages really help), a list of things I can do throughout the day (I'm on bedrest but having a list of things that I enjoy doing written down is a nice reminder, some of the things on the list at the moment are make tiktok videos, do makeup, watch a movie or tv show, journal, scrapbook etc)

[captain-mj]

The Journal

I don't know. Cw: Ghost's backstory

Soap found the unassuming book on his desk. The edges of the paper had turned slightly yellow and they were clearly flipped through quite often. He frowned at it, wondering who went into his room and set this there. It felt... almost threatening.

Soap gently opened the book to look at the first page.

I'm writing this journal as a "therapy" exercise. Frankly I think it's fucking bollocks. I'm fine. I dream about nothing.

Well. That wasn't very helpful. The handwriting was odd. Almost scrawling, like the person who was writing had shaky hands but also couldn't be bothered to hold the pen properly.

Soap frowned. This seemed a rather personal thing to give to a person. But it was in his room.

Just one more page.

Apparently I'm supposed to introduce myself. Fine. My name is Simon Riley. I belong to the SAS. I was a POW for a couple of months. I keep hearing numbers but none of them feel right. I think parts of me are still down there.

I hurt. Everywhere. Especially when people touch me. I can't sleep. Can barely eat. My mum is worried. So does Tommy. I want to tell them to fuck off. I have. But they keep worrying. I wonder if this is how Beth felt.

On the page was a polaroid. A baby faced Simon with nasty scars on his face, still fresh and angry. He looked half dead. Dark circles under his eyes and an expression nothing like his usual. Someone had their hand on his shoulder, but he could only see their arm.

Soap sucked in a breath. There was no way Ghost gave this to him. No fucking way.

He got up and grabbed the book, going straight for Ghost's quarters, planning on returning it immediately and pretending he had found it and couldn't find Price to turn it in.

Ghost's quarters were empty. His knives were missing, but his clothes were still there, meaning he was on a mission.

Fuck.

Soap paused and tapped his foot. He wasn't sure if Price was around. How did someone get this? If he left it in his room, he was worried someone would find it. He'd have to keep it. Just to be sure.

Soap set it back on his desk. When he saw Price, he'd talk to him.

After a minute of staring at it, Soap shoved the book into a drawer and closed it tight. He left to talk to Gaz to distract himself for a few hours.

Gaz was nice enough to tell him that Ghost and Price were on a mission together and that they wouldn't be back for a few days.

No big deal.

A few days with a book that potentially had a lot of answers to some questions he had about Ghost.

Soap didn't make it the night before he was reading more pages. He never claimed to have great self control.

Good morning. I feel like a teen, writing in a diary. I've been put on new medication today. Supposed to help. It makes me dizzy for some reason.

My mum keeps making me tea. She wants to make sure I'm real. I see her hands hovering around me. If I wasn't such a shit son, I'd tell her she can hug me. The thought makes my skin crawl. I see her dead body in my dreams. I see the skull they said was hers. I want to tell her I'm okay, but I don't want to lie.

Soap felt sick. There was a drawing. It was crude, clearly done out of boredom and with no real care behind it. Soap was pretty sure it was a skull that was dripping something. Maybe blood. The ink was all black so there was no way to tell. "Mum" was written several times around it.

I dreamed about her again.

That caught Soap's attention. Her? Was Ghost into women? That seemed unlikely.

She used to speak so soothingly in spanish to me. I wonder if she was like me. Did Roba rape her too?

Soap shut the book and shoved it under his pillow. Enough of that. Nope. He didn't want to think of those words and what they meant.

Fucking too.

No.

No...

No!

The idea of something like that happening to his Lieutenant was... It just... didn't happen.

Soap pulled the book out and kept reading. Just... to prove it wasn't real.

I don't know. It's not a nice thought. Maybe I want someone else to hurt too. I tried to jack off the other day and ended up scrubbing myself raw afterward from how it made me feel. How pathetic right?

Not sure what this is doing. What benefit this has. I'm writing my thoughts. Trying to feel better. Tommy joked about me buying a hooker. I had a panic attack. it was like i was back in high school again. fucking baby.

There was a picture of someone, presumably Tommy, and Simon hanging out. They were both smoking and Tommy was making a sign with his hands. He had a giant grin on his face. Simon had a carved out Glasgow smile that looked like it hurt. Raw. it looked to be after the earlier polaroid. The dark circles hadn't gotten better, but there was more color and flesh in his face.

My mum wants me to talk to my dad. I don't know why. I don't know want to see him. Can't let him see me right now. Maybe when I'm recovered. Last time I saw him, I beat his ass. Doubt he's going to forgive me.

Bastard is pure evil. He gets off on hurting people. Got off on hurting me. I think he's trying to use the cancer as an excuse to get close to my mum again. I'll beat his ass again. I'm putting on more weight. I'll fucking do it.

There was a little stick man drawing labeled 'Simon' and 'Bitch' with Simon beating him to death. Soap thought the blood was rather well drawn, even if the stick figures wasn't.

As the week went on, he kept reading a few pages at a time. He learned... things.

Ghost liked Vanilla tea.

Ghost had been assaulted by more than one person.

Ghost's father had beaten him. A lot.

Ghost was scared of snakes.

Ghost loved his Mum.

Ghost hated most mystery movies.

Tommy was Ghost's brother and was the second most important in his life.

And that they were all dead. All of them.

He wrote an explanation of everything there. In a clinical, harsh detail.

I wish I had died down there in Mexico. I wish I had laid down in that grave and died. It's my fault. It's my fault. It's my fault.

It kept repeating and then he had just started over and wrote over the first layer.

Soap was crying. He couldn't help it. Tommy was so... young. Not to mention the descriptions Ghost gave of his family in general. The pages after that were mostly drawings or scribbles, all made with heavy hands.

Simon knocked. He could tell by the sound he made when he knocked. "Johnny?"

"When did you get back?"

"...Just now. Can I come in?"

"Yeah." Soap wiped his face so he'd look... normal. "Yeah come in."

Ghost stepped inside and saw the book. "Enjoy it?"

"What?"

"I left it for you."

"Why?"

Ghost hummed. "Thought it would be the easiest way to let you in."

Soap swallowed. "You don't do anything half assed do you?"

Ghost's eyes stared at him. Answer enough right there.

[weirdly-specific-but-ok]

a lil good omens brainrotted update from your mascot

Hello my maggots it's nearly midnight here's how the brainrot's going (spoiler alert, there are no, uh, ripe braincells anymore).

I just spent a rather significant amount of time drawing leaves into my bullet journal (because it's Crowley themed this month).

That whole time I listened to first Crowley's apartment ambience and then to a bunch of Good Omens edits and got extremely emotional about it but in the best way. God I love this show.

Every day (it'S a-GEtTinG clOSeR) I have a stare-off with the Good Omens book that keeps me company on my desk.

It laughs in my face, daring me to read it.

I recall the last time I opened it (to summarise, I read a line about Crowley and burst into tears like the macho guy I am). I refuse.

We are locked in a battle of wills. Who will win, the book or I? I'm torn between wanting to read it so bad and the fear that I will never be emotionally stable again if I do.

Speaking of books, just for vibesies an update on the one I'm writing, I've written 7,200 words in the past six days (when I pulled the WIP out of its musty folder because of that post Neil made).

The page I made in the bullet journal was actually a writing tracker here lemme show y'all because I'm proud of the progress I made:

[Yes, that is the Good Omens book lurking in the top left, it's never far away. The battle is perpetual.]

Crowley quotesssss all the Crowley quotes I love them so much it's insane.

Also, I'm gonna go get yarn to I can continue my endeavour to learn crocheting to make a Crowley-beanie. @singalongpoppet is my guru and leader in this journey. Not sure if I'll manage it, but a guy can dream. Channeling my non-existent cottagecore era.

I am also considering getting a Plant.

Weirdly enough, this is not entirely brainrot, I was supposed to grow a plant back in January because my word thing of the year was Grow (the burden of prophecy is real).

However, I am dreadful at taking care of them, even succulents. I managed to kill a wild cactus that I brought home from a roadside. It survived several months but in the end being around me was too much for it, poor thing.

I assume there is a bit more to plant-parenting than misting them and screaming at them to GROW BETTER, so any advice, please?

End of update, I have no idea how to write conclusions so have a snapshot of the dynamic of Rian and Avi, the characters in the book I'm writing [spoiler alert: their dynamic is dumpster fire].

Love you my maggots have a wonderful brainrotted day xxx

[nerdygaymormon]

Processing

I told my therapist that I have a book I started in 2018 after I'd spent several months in therapy. I began by including the eulogy I wrote for myself when I was suicidal (which is what prompted me to seek therapy at that time), and over the years I've occasionally added other thoughts or written about my feelings. Sometimes I go back and illustrate the pages.

The therapist said this is a form of processing. He asked if I have a history of journaling? I started a few times, but I was always so worried about what if others found and read it, even if it's after I'm dead, so it was very filtered and felt fake, very performative, and not of much value to me. But this was current book is meant only for me.

For decades my body and mind found ways to cope with being a queer Mormon. This has resulted in a lot of mental health challenges like low self esteem, social anxiety, disordered eating, self harm, and internalized homophobia. These got me through rough times but aren’t healthy.

It's interesting to me that after I was in therapy and understanding those challenges and dealing with them, my mind & body found a way to help process those hard things, helping me heal.

[helioscopepdx]

Happy Hamm Tips Tuesday!

Today we're highlighting this incredible volume of Jesse's writing on Alex Toth, available for just $5 on Gumroad. In Jesse's own words:

Over the years, I've written several essays about master cartoonist Alex Toth, focusing on his strengths and methods. I've compiled everything I've written into one 106 page PDF. Included here are seven essays, an obituary I wrote for The Comics Journal, and excerpts from several conversations I've had in the comments sections at my blog, where I answer questions from readers about the man and his work. All told, there are 15,300 words, plus illustrative images and diagrams. 

Other books collect Toth's work and describe his life, but if you've ever wanted a book-length, in-depth discussion of Toth's methods, here it is. 

[wholesomefluffdaddy]

Wednesday's new court mandated therapist is having her keep a journal of her thoughts and feelings. Wednesday finds this to be a complete waste of time and decides instead to use it to record her observations of her unusual roommate Enid Sinclair. Wednesday POV.

——————————————

Entry 14

Current Moon Phase: Waning Gibbous 🌖

I must admit I have been most timid around my werewolf as of late. Now that my madness has been given a name it seems to have grown ever more powerful. I desire Enid severely but have not the faintest idea how to proceed. The madness craves her touch and I cannot help but bend to its will. Enid has been too generous in placating these whims. I'm starting to suspect she must suffer a similar madness as she seems to take great pleasure at our continuous physical contact.

I am also ashamed to admit that I have intentionally placed myself in rather compromising positions to elicit a more 'amorous' touch from her. It is very fortunate we are unable to reproduce; for I fear I would be unable to resist carrying her spawn if she requested it of me.

Dear Diary,

I don't know what's going on with Wednesday - but then again I never do 😣 After she said she loved me on the balcony she's been really flustered. It's kinda cute but I worry about her sometimes. She's been acting even more like a cat than usual. Like she's possessed by a cat. (Maybe she is? 🙀 I don't know how her powers work!) She really likes when we cuddle and stuff but she also pretends not to? It's like she wants to be affectionate but doesn't know how to ask for it.

Okay, so like just yesterday I was sitting in the quad with Yoko and Divina, and we found this cat - I think you know where this is going. So the cat is just sitting in my lap when Willa materializes out of nowhere. She sees the cat, looks deeply offended, and has this intense stare down with it 😅 Yoko starts joking 'looks like that cat just stole your girl, Addams!' And I think Willa took that a little too literally because she starts arguing with the cat and demands that the 'foul beast relinquish mi querida or face my wrath.' (My brave babycakes 😝 💕) I picked up the cat and held it out to her, because seriously Willa, it was a little cat and it was so cute! Anyway! She accepts the cat, immediately sets it down, (I swear I thought I heard her hiss at it!) and sits in my lap instead. 😭

Yoko can't handle it and leaves and Divina chases after the cat (it ran away after Willa put it on the ground) And Willa is just sitting there looking so stupidly pleased with herself. 😅 My silly little jealous raven.

Another time I was sitting on my bed writing a paper on my laptop while Willa was writing at her desk. Her alarm goes off to signal the end of her writing time and she just gets up and looks over at me. She asks how my paper is 'progressing.' I'm honest and say it's going to take a while. (It was like a 5 page homework assignment 😣) She glances at the clock then at me before laying down on her bed.

Every couple minutes I hear a very small impatient sigh or huff or groan. Apparently she needed attention and I was taking too long 😅 So after about maybe 10 or 15 minutes she just gets up and wanders over. She pretends, very badly, to be interested in stuff around my bed. I asked if she needed anything and she says 'no.' I try to focus on my paper and she sits down on the edge of my bed. I give her a look but she doesn't say anything or acknowledge me. When I go back to typing I start to notice her slowly scooting towards me.

I close my eyes for a moment and then suddenly feel my laptop leave my hands and her crawl into my lap!? I open my eyes and ask what she's doing and she just says 'I shall assist you with your assignment.' I didn't ask but like okay? I think she just wanted cuddles but didn't know how to ask. So she looks over what I've written so far and starts making corrections. I just accept that this is where she's decided to be and wrap my arms around her. She tenses up at once and I feel a shiver go down her spine.

I ask if she's alright and she takes a shaky breath before saying she's fine. I shrug and rest my chin on the top of her head. I can practically hear her heartbeat at this point. 'Do- do you wish to be amorous?' She asks all out of breath. I can tell she's trying really hard to sound casual but like, I know what my babycakes wants 😏 So I figure I'd tease her just a little bit and say 'I thought you were helping me with my paper?' 'I, yes, of course.' She says all flustered and types slower.

Her hair smells really nice and I can't help burying my face in it. Well, as much as I can while it's in those braids. I can feel Willa's body heating up as I start scenting her and trying to get her scent on me. She gulps. I really want to run my fingers through her hair so I gently (it was gently I swear!) tug on one of her braids, because I wanted to ask her if she'd undo them, and she lets out this super adorable sound! 😖💕

'Querida! I can bear this torment no longer!' She says all dramatically before setting my laptop on the ground and turning to face me. She has the cutest blush and I can see her freckles. 😳 I raise my eyebrows and ask 'what torment?' She lets out this little moody huff and I can't help myself - I pounce on her. I can't even begin to describe how cute she looks every time I pin her down. Like she looks all offended and flustered but also secretly really excited.

'If you wanted this, all you had to do was ask.' I tell her before kissing her. She lets out the tiniest whimper and I just can't! I start to get worked up and kinda whisper growl at her to roll over. She does immediately. I, um, you know… Wolfish instincts and everything. (She's such a pillow princess💕) She turns into a trembling mess as usual. I'm pretty sure we reached the, what was the phrase again? Petite mort? We reached the petite mort at the same time. 😏 I ask if she wants to clean up before cuddles - I should probably mention we were both clothed! We haven't mated mated yet. Willa just gets super w- Nevermind!

She nods and bolts off all embarrassed. (Its okay Willa!) When she comes back I just pat the bed and she shyly sneaks over. Once she's on the bed she curls up into a little ball so I can spoon her. She really likes her spooning time. We cuddle and I get to pet her hair while I tell her how much I love her. She's usually just super quiet during but occasionally I'll hear her whisper something back in like another language. I've been working on my French and Spanish so I can kinda understand a little of what she's saying (I catch her saying 'love' or 'beautiful' or 'wolf' a lot ).

After we cuddled for a couple of hours I got up cause I had to get back to my paper. (It was due before midnight) But I guess Willa wasn't ready for cuddles to be over just yet because as soon as I got my computer and sat back down she wrapped her arms around me from behind. She just snuggled into my back for the rest of the time I was writing. It was really cute 💕

[marcelwrites]

These excerpts were found within a decaying journal inside an old house I was clearing out for a family friend before it's demolished and the land is cleared and put on the market. After asking around and doing some research, I found out the owner was a man named Jeremiah Balcom. Jeremiah was not known for his friendliness or conversation but was considered to be a good neighbour albeit one that kept to himself. On the contrary, his wife Ramona was well known around town and to this day is spoken about by some of the elderly community with love and respect. Interestingly, I learnt that his wife, Ramona, was reported missing in 1972. Extensive searches were conducted up and down the lake and estuary systems but no trace of here was ever found. The local children still play a game where they'll swim out towards the middle of the lake and say Ramona three times under the water. Upon doing so a pale white hand is meant to ascend up from the depths and tug at your ankle. Jeremiah himself went missing in the late 1970s. His current whereabouts is unknown, but given his age at the time of his disappearance, 55, he is presumed deceased. Someone was telling me that about 30 years ago they were travelling up north and after spending some time in Darwin, a man that looked eerily similar to Jeremiah sat next to them in a pub. However, after some soft some conversation and soft questioning, the man abruptly paid his tab and left. Strange.

*March 3rd, 1977*

Oh, Ramona, I dreamt of you again last night. You came over me like a curse. A naked spectral body, the moonlight shining through and illuminating you from within. You descended from the heavens, just for me. Was it in forgiveness? If not then why was your touch so gentle for I surely don't deserve the grace of your fingers on my flesh.

*March 7th, 1977*

The whispering, almost like a chant, I couldn't make it out clearly, and it's keeping me from sleep. I've combed through your old diary and some of your correspondence to try and find some hint, a glimmer of truth, hidden amongst the pages but it remains unrevealed. I believe you're trying to tell me something or else why would I have dreamt of you at all?

*March 8th, 1977*

I found something you'd written about wanting to write a novel about a loveless marriage and I hope it didn't reflect some true feelings you harboured within. God knows we had our problems but no marriage is perfect. I'll read further in hopes to elucidate your reasoning.

*March 11th, 1977*

Sleep escapes me still. When I drowse, I'm startled awake, as if thrust by vile hands back to consciousness. The trembling in my own hands is persistent and exacerbated by this lack of rest. Perhaps it's the cold Victorian weather. I'll look into warmer climes soon enough.

*March 15th, 1977*

Rest! Finally! My dear Ramona came to me again but this time covered in unsightly bruises and scars. Why does she torment me so? Is it not enough that I'm a mess of sleeplessness and guilt?

There are several journal entries unrelated to Ramona where Jeremiah speaks about doing yard work and trying to cut down his nightly drinking to just a single glass of whiskey. The troubles seems to begin anew around April Fool's Day.

*April 1st, 1977.*

More nightmares. Ramona whispers to me and it sounds like she's saying, "Murder!". It can't be. That isn't true at all. She wouldn't and I must be mishearing or misunderstanding what she's saying. Ramona wouldn't lie to me. I know she wouldn't!

More to follow once I've read further into the journal.

[overwatch-xoxo]

So ima simp for Zenyatta so bad- and I’ve been craving a certain side of him. The -ahem- yandere side of him. You don’t have to write a fic, but head cannons or a lil drabble on how you think he would be as a yandere would be much appreciated.

Nonnie, you are so valid! Receiving this ask got me really excited to write for this blog again, so I've been working hard on this. I've never (intentionally) written yandere before, so I hope I was able to do this idea justice for you. Enjoy!~

tw: emotional manipulation, stalking, possessiveness, obsession

it starts small. you catch zenyatta’s gaze lingering in your direction for an extra moment, just long enough that you notice, but brief enough that you dismiss it. perhaps it was all in your head. 

suspicion turns to butterflies as his interest in you becomes more pronounced. when he speaks to you, it’s in a gentle, even tone. he makes time to spend with you, often accompanying you for walks in gardens. he recites poetry and philosophical musings, and you can get lost in his lilting verse.

while zenyatta’s voice is soothing, his words are complex and often leave you feeling more dazed than comforted. you get the feeling he knows he’s talking circles around you. when you ask clarifying questions, he laughs, his chuckles light as blossoms on the air.

although zenyatta has a reputation for keeping a cool and effortlessly calm exterior, he struggles to keep himself that way around you. the prana, the life force energy that flows through his body and makes him alive, becomes overwhelmingly frenetic in your presence. he might shake or stutter. this feeling is especially exacerbated by even small inklings of jealousy or anxiety within him.

when it comes to himself, zenyatta also values inner peace and calm, devotion, honesty. he quickly finds that your presence interrupts that balance he has worked so hard to maintain. even when you are not around, his mind swirls with visions of you - your voice, your hair, your scent. 

above all, he seeks balance, and he knows one thing for certain: your very existence throws him off-kilter, for better or for worse. sometimes he feels devastatingly hopeless at the idea of you leaving him for something different, more suited to your lifestyle, and he’ll soothe himself with healing energies. and sometimes he buzzes so vibrantly with joy that you are in his life at all, and he’ll bring himself back to the plane of reality with discord and malaise. he occasionally excuses himself to center his feelings in this way. but as you grow closer and he falls deeper into his obsessive love, leaving your side only serves to worsen this imbalance.

when he finally confesses his feelings to you, his words spill out frenetically, as if he couldn’t keep this chaotic love inside his body for a moment longer. 

“I once followed the Iris, thinking it would be my salvation, the only path to enlightenment for my people. I now realize the error in my ways. I should have always been devoted to you.”

one day, in zenyatta’s personal meditation room, you come across a worn leather journal with your name lovingly embossed into the cover in omnic script. Intrigued, you thumb through it. every page spills with written word about you - thoughts, musings, meditations, poetry, even records of little things you said to him that had been mundane, benign. glancing at his tidy shelves, it dawns on you that this is only the most recent volume of several. the earliest journals date back to before you even remember being introduced.

at night, he spoons you protectively, pressing every inch of his body to yours, reciting ancient spiritual poetry until you are lulled to sleep. not needing to rest himself, he keeps watch over you until dawn, wondering the whole time how he is fortunate enough to have you. sometimes you wake with the taste of metal on your tongue, and the thought of his hands in your mouth shivers in your mind.

“i wish to surround myself with nothing but you. I meditate on the image of crawling inside you, of taking up all the space within you until I know you are mine, and I am yours.”

he is remarkably protective of you, and although his face shows little expression, when he is enraged, a ferocious glint appears in his eye. when you talk to another person, anyone he sees as a romantic or physical threat, he touches you gently on the small of your back, barely concealing his trembling.

it isn’t long before his protective impulses get the better of him, and he insists on being with you at all times like a bodyguard. sometimes his obsessive needs grow so strong that he might forbid you from leaving his room at the temple, where he can keep an eye on you and know you’re safe.

“i want to know you like I know myself. i will devote every moment i am granted to wrapping myself in your soul, in everything you are, until you have permeated every iota of my being so thoroughly, I can no longer tell where you end and I begin.”

[oathbreakerapologist]

Sortie Thought Journal 1: Christ, Antichrist, God, Bog

(subtitled The Moment I Read that Sal Was Catholic I Knew that Detail Would Become Important and Oh Boy It Has Become Important)

I can't keep adding onto my long-ass Sad Sack thought journal post so these are gonna be separate but in my heart this is just one long reblog chain. anyways.

Question 1: Is Sal a Christ figure?

Several relatively shallow indicators say yes. Firstly the name Salvatore is an obvious connection, then there's the look—while a tan-skinned man with long wavy hair isn't always a Christ figure those two characteristics certainly don't hurt—and then there's the overarching narrative of a man performing work mandated of him by God despite its (physical and emotional) cost to himself (which is not exclusively a Christ narrative, of course, but is similarly suggestive of it). We might also read SADS #5 as a Passion of sorts. On page 170 in SADS #5, Sal takes a sledgehammer to the head, and that sort of head trauma doesn't exactly tend to leave person capable of walking out of a warehouse a few minutes later; in some sense his survival here has the taste of the supernatural.

So we have a Passion of Christ, a rebirth, and, perhaps, a Holy Spirit that now follows in the wake of the reborn Sal—speaking of course of the masked man, masked Sal, who in Sortie differentiates clearly into his own person, as we can see in Sortie #1 circa page 118, that is, as long as we take the emaciated minotaur in that scene to be Sal (I take it to be Sal) (the inscription on page 120 is probably relevant here)—and all that seems suggestive of a Christ figure.

But there are several good reasons to take him as something other than a Christ figure. Perhaps reason number one is that he does not seem to view himself as a Christ figure, at least not as far as I've seen yet. His dependence on Father Morgan for direction is particularly relevant here, as if he were a Christ figure, it's almost non-negotiable that his relationship to God would require no intermediaries. What Sal is told in the confessional booth in Sortie #1 is similarly instructive: the quotes (see Sortie #1 pages 39–42ish) are from Philippians 2:13–15ish (which itself references Deut. 13:5), which is a Pauline epistle, so it's written to an audience at some significant distance from Christ, and that's possibly a relevant indicator of Sal's own narrative position.

But perhaps the most interesting reason to reject Sal as a Christ figure is that the events of SADS #5 are 100% a Passion of Christ, but not for Sal. I read SADS #5 as a clear Christ allegory for Garv (fascinating)—I ought to write a bit more about this but this isn't the post for that—and, well, there's only room for one Christ on the cross. In that reading of SADS #5, Sal still has an interesting part to play (he probably plays several parts, which a better exegete could figure out, but my Christology knowledge is weak enough that I'm only really solid on this one so far) as St. Longinus, who pierced the side of Christ with the Holy Lance as he hung upon the cross. Compare SADS #5 page 224.

So Sal is in fact the killer of Christ (not exactly a canonical understanding of St. Longinus, but, I mean, that's what he did) in a Passion reading of SADS #5.

Question 1.1: Is Sal an Antichrist figure?

I'm gonna work on this question in more detail in a later post, but for now, suffice to say that for other reasons (enumerated in more detail in the Long Ass Sad Sack Thought Journal Post) he certainly appears to be an anti-Garv, so, fill in the blanks. (That's not really an answer, and I'm not committed to reading him as an Antichrist figure yet, but I do think that's a good place to start answering that question.)

[erstwhilesparrow]

sparrow!! 15 and or 37 for the writer asks? 🥺❣️

quinn!! :D hello :] talking about my wips got long ^^;

15. If you could choose one of your fics to be filmed, which would you choose?

GREAT questions. jesus fuck. saying two trout gasping on a june shore feels like cheating because that's just the longest fic i've written in the past two years, but. it's fun! there's lots of characters having dramatic conversations! there's a fight scene! there's cartography! could do some really upsetting cgi wings, even.

37. Talk about your current wips.

hehehe >:3 uh. okay. there's a lot of them. list:

original work about a professor slash hagiographer and the IT support worker she's roped into her wild dreams of writing a completely comprehensive book on the mechs that they call saints. this one's for something that might get submitted to contests / journals, which is why i haven't really talked about it anywhere. i'm putting off working on it right now to answer this ^^; i've been on a real mech kick lately.

limited life mean gills selkie au, inspired by / set in the same universe as a fic by the inimitable soapflowers! i know several of those words don't mean anything to you, but listen. what if you were a selkie and the pretty fisherman who showed up on the edge of your waters sometimes was charming and quick-witted and lured you into his house, and then he locked your pelt in a chest in his basement and kept you like a trophy. what if you got sick and all the food he offered you smelled like poison and he wore the key to the chest around his neck like a taunt, but he also stroked your hair and called you perfect and picked you up when your unsteady legs gave out on you. you're not kidnapped, you're fine, you're just not feeling very well right now, so of course you'll do what he says. he's taking care of you; seals are solitary creatures, and here is the first person in a long time who will look out for you. the food is fine. the knife on his belt has nothing to do with you.

secret life pearl/lizzie. i've been trying to write this one for MONTHS. it should only really be 2k at most once i've actually got it on the page but i keep! not doing it!! from one point of view, it's about recognizing your past self in someone who may well be past the point of no return on their path to self-destruction, but wanting to reach out anyway, to have proof that you could have been seen and known and cared for even then. from another point of view, it's about being patronized to and invisible and always caught up in the stories of people who shine more brightly than you. it's about weighing your secrets and it's also about secrets you didn't mean to share but that the other person has anyway.

third life flower husbands mech au. remember how i said i've been on a mech kick lately. i've been thinking about how... okay, mechs are about bodies. they're about bodies in a lot of ways. what does that look like when you translate it to minecraft, or even more broadly to video games? what's a body in a game? my feeling is they stop being about physical needs and space so much and start being more about reputation and performance. a body in a game like minecraft is hard to touch in non-violent ways, but very easy to see. a mech towers over the average human -- it draws your eye, it tells you something about its pilot and/or its creator via its design, its weaponry, the way it moves through space. a mech battle can be an actual battle but it can also be an ideological disagreement, in which someone's particular worldview is embodied in steel and bullets. a mech as a way of communicating a message. a mech as the clearest form of communication you have available to you, in a world where the commands you give to a pilot are the strongest and most physical tether you have to each other, because the game doesn't even let you hug.

there's lots of other stuff sort of floating in the background that might happen at some point: some kind of meditation on timekeeping and how time is a way that people can be brought into or out of a community (wra pix au?); something about histories that won't be laid to rest and people who lash out when cornered, even/especially with people they care about (shadowrot secret life relationship study); classic triangulation of desire in which you fuck someone while desperately imagining a different person in their place (fwhip/pix two trout smutfic)

[theinstagrahame]

Unstuck in Time was not my first full game (that was a weird little experiment called Survival Marketing). But, I think it's the first game I wrote where I felt like a Game Designer.

I got laid off in November 2020, and began probably my calmest job search to date shortly thereafter. I had severance from my last gig, and some unemployment money due, so I was in a fortunate position. And I decided to use that time to focus on something I'd been getting more and more interested in: designing tabletop RPGs.

I invested in a copy of Affinity Publisher, started tinkering with Canva, and got stuck into the visual design of a '90s medical pamphlet. I'm really pleased with how the visuals turned out for this one, as a first effort.

My partner and I watched The Haunting of Bly Manor around this time, and the episode focusing on Mrs Groce in particular intrigued me. It's a heavy inspiration, but so are other stories of the unstuck time traveler--someone who experiences time out of order.

I'm honestly not sure that the experiment for the Print-and-Play version panned out. The goal was to create a physical artifact that someone could shuffle and have a different experience every time. I wanted randomness, so we have dice, we have paper, we have about 100 prompts. And we jump through them.

The digital version was a list of 100 prompts with instructions for rolling dice, and I honestly think that did a better job of being playable.

The design challenge was making prompts that felt timeless. I wanted someone to be able to play this in a futuristic Sci-Fi setting as easily as they could play this in a modern or even period setting. I think I did a pretty good job of grabbing everyday prompts, setting them in different periods of a human life (as indicated by the colored border on the page).

The result is a solo journaling game that sets the player on a random adventure. I think what it really highlights is how important context is for a life. Some of the prompts have you being angry about a fight that you don't remember, others were written so that you could see a family member for the first time and last time in the same session. It's a bittersweet roller-coaster, in the way life is.

Some of the reviews I've gotten suggest I at least got close to what I was aiming for.

[green-goblin-59]

Log 004

Tw:contains mentions of sh and substance use

4/7/2005

<Please enter password: F I R E L I G H T...|>

<Password accepted! Welcome back Mr Osborn. It's been a good twenty five years since we've spoken! (⁠◕⁠ᴗ⁠◕⁠✿⁠) Would you like to record a log for old times sake?>

«Yeah sure. Run a health check on my body too, please. I feel kinda malnourished.»

[SCANNING IN PROGRESS...]

<HEART RATE: irregular... Heart arrhythmia is present in the vessel.>

<BLOOD: Average pressure. A peculiar variety of 3050 goblin serum and high levels of heroin present in bloodstream.>

«Heroin?! God we gotta get him off that straight away.»

<BRAIN: No signs of severe damage. Brain structure indicates trauma during developmental years. Chemical imbalance present: severely low amount of serotonin, almost nonexistent, possibly of depression is high. Fatigue and exhaustion also present.>

<BONES: Unusually strong. Lots of old damage. Metal bolts present in the knee and hip joints.>

<GUT: Empty. Gut bacteria is imbalanced. Vessel hasn't consumed food in two days. An old bullet is present.>

<SKIN: Dry and flakey. Scabs from skin picking. Possible side effect from drugs present in the bloodstream. Severe scarring on the chest and inner arms. Possibly from self harm. Needle scars on the upper inner arm and inner elbow regions.>

[SCAN FINISHED. OVERALL HEALTH: LOW. RECOMMENDATIONS: EAT NUTRITIOUS FOODS. AVOID HEROIN AND GOBLIN SERUM. DRINK WATER. SLEEP 9HRS.]

«Norm, how long has it been since you've been turned on?»

<A day.>

«So, you would have definitely seen where his needles and whatever he uses to harm himself are, correct?»

<Mr Osborn only switches me on when he wishes to read the logs and view photos of your loved ones. I don't see him using the substances present in his system, nor do I see his weapon of choice. (⁠.⁠ ⁠❛⁠ ⁠ᴗ⁠ ⁠❛⁠.⁠)>

«I'll snoop around and get rid of them. Gotta get him clean and mentally sound. Norm, record new log entry.»

[RECORDING IN PROGRESS]

*Shuffles through the other mer's belongings*

This is the first time I've been fully sentient inside my new vessel. So far my new habits are more self aimed than aimed at others and the new vessel is clearly very mentally ill. Im not really sure where this place is but it's definitely not the same place I remember leaving behind. There's no firelight present, which is unexpected, as I'd thought resetting with him would mean I'd be in the same place as him. This doesn't seem the case.

*opens curtains*

Why's there really old technology everywhere?. Like... ancient tech I'd find in Bowes dimension? And why does this new variant of me keep the windows boarded up? Is he maybe in trouble with someone?...

*shuffles through mer's desk drawer. A thud can be heard as the bottom of the draw falls open and pens scatter all over the carpet along with a small leather bound planner. He picks it up and flips through the pages.*

I found this old fashioned journal. Reading through some of the previous passages isn't helping. I've got some serious issues. Something about faces and involuntary service...

*flips through more pages and skims over a few sentences, looking at the dates and seeing that it was all written in the early 2000's. It's only when he feels the dog tags around his neck that he realises what the insane rambling is about.*

Poor guy. I've gotta get him stable agai—

*eyes glaze over*

—in. AAAAA! WHY THE FUCK ARE YOU ON AGAIN?! TURN OFF, TURN OFF!

<As you wish Mr Osborn! ｡⁠◕⁠‿⁠◕⁠｡>

[LOG RECORDING ENDED]

<<Previous page.

[pangirlpanic]

So I've been talking about him to my boyfriend since he and I are both super into One Piece, and so far we came up with a funny little story for how I think this guy here would end up on the straw hat crew, which would occur during the Loguetown arc, where during the bits where one of the straw hats, Nami, is off shopping and Jasper also seems to be trailing after her wherever she goes, to which, she takes notice. Every shop she visits, he's there in the background, looking at products and seemingly looking her way. After the third store, she turns around and starts yelling at him, asking what he thinks he's doing following her, to which he gets a shocked and bewildered expression on his face.

"I've never seen you before in my life. Who even are you?"

First words out of his mouth, and then Nami's standing there in surprise and embarrassment as he just sighs, pulls out a well worn journal from the satchel strapped to his side as he shakes his head, a pencil practically materializing in hand.

"I guess I can add 'getting accused of stalking' to things that have happened throughout my life."

I feel like this situation can lead to an unlikely friendship born through obligation to atone, as Jasper isn't the type of guy to want things like money, as he is a simple poet wanting to create an epic tale of himself journeying the globe alongside other people…he just hasn't found anyone to travel with.

So, he and Nami would probably end up wandering around Loguetown, bumping into Usopp and giving Jasper encounters to log in his journal, much to his delight, and at some point I can see him reciting some of his work to Nami and Usopp, catching the attention of local women, as he is, "unfortunately" in his words, a rather magnetic man when it comes to women and sometimes men wanting to get with him, much to his dismay, of which I can see him looking at Nami pleadingly as several women start walking up and trying to flirt with him, making the poor boy very uncomfortable.

So, Nami takes the hint and starts barking at the women to get away from her "boyfriend", which Jasper would play along with while he, Usopp and Nami go to watch Sanji compete in a cooking competition, Jasper and Nami standing close with his hand on Nami's shoulder, which when Usopp and Nami call over Sanji, Sanji gets pissed off at Jasper after he briefly swoons over Nami, yelling at him to "take his filthy hands off her" to which, while complying Jasper just raises a brow at him.

After a quick explanation of what that whole situation regarded, Sanji just glares at Jasper and that moment sparks a whole one sided rivalry between the too, as Jasper has no interest in wooing women and the like, as he again, just wants a story. His dream is to be remembered through an incredible tale he's written, and he can't really see random escapades in romance really filling in too many pages for himself. It doesn't fit his style, so Sanji is the only one seeing him as a rival in the field of romance.

During the escape scenes while Luffy, Zoro and Sanji where running from the Marines, Jasper gets swept up in everything too, being rocketed onto the Going Merry, where Luffy then decides he likes Jasper and brings him along for the journey, much to Jasper's bewilderment, to which Nami tells him to roll with it and that it might help him build that dream story he's got. That quickly sells him on being a straw hat and he gratefully accepts his new life, logging the new tale in his journal to return to and begin truly living the life he's dreamed of, feeling as though he actually has a place amongst this crew, no longer looking at himself as an outcast amongst humans and fishmen.

Jasper was now a pirate, a poet and feeling as though he has a true reason to smile now, and that's all that mattered to him.

This is my son's story :3

I think I’m in love with your son is this my sign to get into One Piece

Something about poets…GRRRRR i loveluvlove poets :3