#ons reread 2024

[amethystroselily]

I love Shinya’s character arc in the novels of going from jealous of guren to jealous of Mahiru. He “tried to see what Mahiru saw in him” so hard he fell in love.

[kingjasnah]

look i know the szeth prologue carries a lot of introductory information as to the magic system and how it can be used (and if there is one thing the cosmere in general excels at it is using the rules of a hard magic system in interesting ways for fight scenes) but it is so crazy that his internal monologue is so full of grief for what he is about to do and his first spoken line is "what am i? i'm sorry" and then he starts killing people in such an overcomplicated rube goldbergian way. why'd he lash a guy to the ceiling above an upright spear and just wait (fearspren spawning up around them) until the lashing broke and he impaled himself. you didnt have to do that man no one was around to see it

[sea-jello]

Day 14/October 14: The Lego Ninjago Movie || "You want me to go back to school???"

THERE WAS A MOVIE DAY AND I MISSED IT?? he’s so real i would react the same way

[diyasgarden]

betting on losing dogs cats

a story of a stray (patrick zweig) and a stray (kitten)

When Patrick finds it, he thinks the cat is dead. 

It takes him a moment to even recognize what it is, first assuming the little dark speck under the streetlight is just some unfortunate roadkill. A racoon or skunk. Maybe even an overgrown rat. The patch of grass it lays on is close enough to the narrow parking lot that all it would take is one hasty driver to swerve onto the curb and leave it for dead. It’s only when he pushes himself off the wall of the roadside shop and towards the light can he make out its little paws and upturned ears. 

It’s a bit odd for a cat to be out here in the first place. Far out on the interstate and away from any city. A place between places, but not a destination itself. He himself only stopped here for the pack of Marlboro Reds now in his back pocket. If he believed in a higher power, he’d take the dead cat as a sign to quit smoking. He opts for another drag instead. 

It’s on its side with its paws outstretched and eyes closed, the street light forming a warm halo around its body. Its fur is simultaneously scruffy and groomed in a way that makes it unclear if the cat is a stray or not. Although Patrick has a hard time imagining anything laying on the ground like this is loved in any capacity. Maybe it had owners it slipped away from. Or owners who let it go. There isn’t any blood either, so he can’t even tell if it’s roadkill. From its position to its stillness, it all feels peaceful. A hazy scene which looks less like a dead cat and more of an artist's rendition of one. 

He pulls the cigarette from his lips and languidly exhales. Without his permission, his legs bend down to stroke the cat’s sable fur. His hand tepidly extends and just as he is about to indulge his impulse, the creak of the store door’s hinge snaps him out of the trance.

His eyes flicker to the couple stepping out. While they look his age they sport smiles that give them a sprightly joy he now lacks. His expression turns sheepish as he remains squatted, arm out. They’re too engrossed in their own conversation to even notice Patrick. Their voices blend with the noises on the road and his gaze trails them back to their car, before he pushes himself up. Eyes drifting back down to the cat. 

He lifts the cigarette to his lips and looks to the side, away from the Carvaggio of a corpse. His eyes settle on the interstate and the cars who zoom by. His next challenger is two states over. If he is lucky, it will be another five hours on the road (it’ll take him seven). Yeah, you should get back to your car.

He drops the cigarette to the ground, allowing himself one last look at the cat as he grinds the cigarette butt into the pavement. This time he sees its paw twitch.

The cat’s nose sluggishly presses against his thumb and its whiskers brush against a callus on his hand. A soft, ticklish sensation Patrick would enjoy more if it wasn’t for the dull drone of the fan above him. His head tilts up to watch its jagged movement, expecting it to fall down on him any second. 

The low walls have a grimy yellow hue and if he squints he can make out the faint outline of cracks. His nose wrinkles at the stale wet-dog smell — which really should be reported on Google reviews. He takes it all in and is hit with a sense of deranged nostalgia for the crappy motel rooms he’s stayed in. The type of place you could fleetingly carve a home in, if you blurred around the edges. There is a somber appreciation at the fact that this shelter is the only one open at this hour. That even now, this is the sort of place to find him. 

He looks at the elderly woman behind the front desk, the only other person here. Her eyebrows droop to her eyes, which flick every few seconds to the clock overhead, but never to him. Her nose is buried into one of those cheap novels sold in the check-out aisles of grocery stores. A book not nearly compelling enough for the comical way she clings to it, but admittedly an astute way to ignore his presence. 

He lets out a sharp exhale and parts his lips to speak, but is cut short by the feeling of velvety fur shifting in his hands. His eyes dip down once more to the little thing, tracing its frail and dainty shape. It's too small to be anymore than a few weeks old. A kitten.

It sticks out its tongue and his finger instinctively moves to feel its sandpaper-like texture. Has he ever held a kitten before? He doubts he has ever been trusted to hold anything this young in his life. Does he even know anyone who had a kitten? 

No.

He knew someone with cats though. 

The corners of his lip involuntarily twitch upwards as he remembers a tabby who would crawl up onto his lap whenever he was around. 

“I don’t get why he likes you so much,” Art told him once, as if Patrick knew why Grandma Donaldson’s cat preferred him. The blonde ran a finger over the red scratch to the left against his pale skin, the little orange beast’s favorite scratching post. 

“Well he has good taste,” Patrick quipped back in response with a lopsided smirk, earning a laugh from the blonde. Or was it a scoff? The corners of his lip dip down once more, eyebrows knotting as he tries to recall.

It had to be one of the two. 

Could it have been both? 

What was even the name of the cat? Something with an S. Sebastian? 

Fuck this.

Not like any of it matters anyway. 

Art’s grandmother is dead. 

The cat probably is too. 

None of this matters. 

He feels the kitten’s tongue scratch his thumb once more, and his attention is brought back to the creature in his hands. Its amber eyes flutter open for a second before shutting again. It faithfully repeats this motion and Patrick is overwhelmed with the sense it is stuck between life and death. Purgatory? Not quite. More like it hasn’t decided if it wants to remain in this life or move on to the next. To live or to die.

He wants to hit himself for his next thought. 

You’d be better off dead. 

“Well, definitely a stray,” are the first things the woman says when she finally acknowledges his presence. His frown deepens into a grimace, but is quickly washed away with a more neutral expression. If she notices, she says nothing. The woman’s finger runs back and forth over the kitten’s delicate spine, as Patrick tentatively places it on the treen desk in front of her. . 

“So you’ll take it?”

The woman’s finger abruptly stops the moment the words leave his lips, just watching the little creature roll around. The ragged hum of the fan turns oppressive as he waits for her to speak, but she only turns her head up to him instead. She sports a frown which is equal parts pitiful and honest, her eyes piercing into his with little wrinkles that imitate her lips.  

“Well in cases like this…” she starts in a tentative voice usually reserved for children, but her voice fades into the background. He doesn’t catch anything after that, his focus shifting to the bile forming in his throat. 

An acutely sadistic part of him wants to laugh at himself. Mock the asinine belief that he could save this kitten. What did he expect? That this shit show of a shelter would magically nurse this dying creature to life? It’s hilarious to him now. Another joke with him at the punchline. 

The woman continues on about sedation and tranquilizers, but it remains a distant murmur, eyes drifting down to the kitten. He watches it open its mouth and lets out a noise so soft, he may as well have imagined it. 

Maybe he did. 

He probably did. 

Not that it matters. 

For Patrick, it’s the only sound in the room. 

You did the right thing.

You did the right thing. 

You did the right thing. 

You did the right thing.

You did the right thing. 

This is what he tells himself as he hits 80 on the interstate. He holds his foot steady on the accelerator, eyes glued to the endless highway in front of him. After the day he’s had, what’s a bit of speeding? The whole kitten debacle was an hour long detour, and now he doubts he’ll even make it to the tournament in time. Not that it would stop him from trying. Why else would he be speeding? It’s all justified. 

There's a slight disapproving trill, and from the corner of his eye he shoots a look at the kitten now in his passenger seat. It sleepily raises its head to meet his gaze, the only part of its body peeking out from the worn, gray shirt he’s wrapped it in.

It purrs once more. 

“Okay sure, I’ll slow down” 

(He doesn’t)

author’s note: finally explored a concept that has been lingering in my head since i wrote these cat headcanons. this fic is different than anything else i’ve shared, so please share your thoughts! shout out to @pparacxosm for pulling me out of fanfic writer retirement !! and also shoutout to sebastian. realest cat out there!! i love you and your owner @apatheticrater !!

art credit: i’m not sure who drew the smoking cat itself, but i made the yellow background-double cat graphic. if you know who the artist, let me know so I can credit them :)

[sororygilmore]

HOUSE OF HOLLOW by Krystal Sutherland

[krilliondollars]

Neon

[aroaessidhe]

2024 reads / storygraph

The West Passage

medieval fantasy set in a giant crumbling palace of traditions with forgotten origin, ruled by giant eldritch Ladies

when winter weather comes in the middle of summer, and a beast below the palace begins to rise, two teens from Grey who have suddenly gained a lot of responsibilities set out on separate journeys to the other towers to find a way to stop it, and meet all sorts of strange people and creatures along the way

world where pronouns/names are based on people’s roles

tons of cool medieval-style chapter illustrations by the author

[v-tired-queer]

It feels like America looked at people like me and everyone else who even just vaguely doesn't fit the white cishet social requirements and expectations and went "Fuck you."

Almost every man I'm related to has served this country in one way or another via the military. Mostly through the army, but sometimes through the other branches, too. I was raised to be very patriotic, to be proud to be an American. I grew up celebrating every single American-centered holiday there is here. I grew up wearing red, white and blue, singing God Bless America, watching the fireworks and celebrating being free.

Apparently, I grew up lied to.

I can't be proud to be an American when people left and right are being stripped of the basic freedoms that aren't courtesies given by the government, but a necessities for human life. Healthcare, housing, food, shelter, reproductive rights and so many more I can't even begin to fathom the length of the list let alone write it all out here, should not be up for debate. And yet here in America, every four years, those very issues are on the ballot, asking if we've grown in our mindsets, begging us to know that people are people regardless of gender, race, sexuality, national origin, disability, ethnicity, culture, religion, or class. And yet we answer, "No they're not," and have outcomes like this.

I'm tired of an America that would rather have a convinced felon who has fucked us over before over a woman of color with every qualification be our president.

I'm tired of an America that continues to see women, people of color, and other minority groups as somehow lesser than the white cishet male standard that dominates our government.

I'm tired of an America where people would rather see others suffer at the hands of those who should be supporting and uplifting the people than expand their own viewpoints and empathy.

I'm tired of this being the America that I was raised to love.

It's okay to be tired, lost, scared, confused, hurt and grieving. I know I am. But while these next four years will undoubtedly be hard for most of us, we can and will get through it. We'll do it together, fighting for each other and trying to support, love and uplift one another in the face of a government who couldn't care less.

I'm not proud to be an American, but I am proud of the people who will walk away from this result today with a new passion and sense of justice not just for themselves, but for their friends, family, and neighbors, known and unknown. I'm proud of the people who will stand strong and keep fighting. I'm proud of the people who will keep living after this, going on in life despite the setbacks. It's a beautiful "fuck you" to the powers that be.

I'm not proud of America. But I am proud of us.

[bigcats-birds-and-books]

Books of 2024: THE MESSAGE by K.A. Applegate, adapted by Chris Grine.

The original ANIMORPHS books were a hugely formative influence on....My Entire Life, Writerly and Otherwise, so I've been collecting the graphic novels as they come out, too!

[amethystroselily]

After having read most of the catastrophe at 16 light novels, the creation of the Shinoa squad is so funny to me. Guren was like gotta put all the human experiments at my disposal together. Oh fuck I need a fifth member. Mitsuba’s squad just died… fuck it, put her in.

[kingjasnah]

the further i get in my wok reread the more apparent it is to me that kaladin's depression is so central to who he is that you cant think of him as a protagonist w/o considering it. and yeah the premise of the radiant magic system means that people who are actively trying to heal from various traumas are gravitated towards pursuing oaths that help them do so but it's really good that all of kaladin's childhood flashbacks are like yeah no the depression was clinical. it was always there. all that terrible shit also happened and he is getting better but no matter how many ideals he swears he's still gonna have to deal with it. meg thee stallion said it best 😔 bad bitches have bad days too.

[zoroshonkingbazonkadonkas]

screeching my head off

[darcydoescosplay]

@mechtober-2024 Day 27: Cold

Title: "The Loss of Your Warmth"

Characters: Nastya Rasputina, The Aurora, Dr. Carmilla (mentioned), Jonny d'Ville (mentioned)

Relationships: Nastya Rasputina/The Aurora

Warnings: canon-typical violence, mentions of blood and temporary character death

"Cold.

Always cold, for as long as she could remember.

She was from Cyberia, of course her childhood was filled with bundling in heavy coats on the very few occasions where Nastya got to leave the palace.

And of course, upon escaping from the palace, bleeding on the snow, she was perhaps the coldest she had ever been. She hadn't had time to grab a coat or even a blanket in her rush to leave the chaos. Carmilla had found Nastya curled in on herself in the snow, trying desperately to keep her blood in her chest.

The only warmth she felt that day came from Carmilla's hand."

[sororygilmore]

DAUGHTER OF SMOKE AND BONE by Laini Taylor

[soupysuki]

quick redraw of my old sam from like 10 years ago huh. I haven't made anything in 2023 except for 1 zine piece?? ahhh.·°՞(≧□≦)՞°·.

so this was fun!

[markcampbells]

“Protocol,” Bones bites, “should be that we never use those fucking things in the first place. Scattering our atoms all over fucking creation–we’re nothing when we beam up on one of those things, Jim, don’t you get that? We are fully disassembled, piece by piece, and it’s only by the grace of God that we get put back together in the right order. It’s barbaric. What happened to those kids–”

“--is something I’m going to relive in my head every goddamn night, too, Bones, so stop acting like you’re the only one!”

The aftermath of a transporter malfunction during the Enterprise's shakedown cruise leads to an argument Jim and Bones probably always had to have. (Trektober 2022, Day 1: Phobias)

content warnings are in the fic notes

For @mckirkevents' Transporter Malfunction day, I wanted to reshare one of my old pieces! I wrote this back in 2022 to imagine what the aftermath of the infamous TMP transporter malfunction scene would look like in an AOS context. Gotta love some angst, right?