#the terror brainrot 2023

[helenvader]

Gif quality questionable. But I (we) needed this.

[lady-of-imladris]

OK so this post about JFJ putting all the cool people on the Erebus with him and letting Francis deal with the weirdos on Terror made me wonder:

[queenmeriadoc]

Episode 1-4 - Edward Little - @vellichormybeloved

[helenvader]

@constant-and-immovable This is the gifset you mentioned in your tags to my post from yesterday. :-)

the terror said bi rights

[merryverse]

The Terror - Nature shots (sort of)

[helenvader]

Let's have our hearts broken again, shall we?

[lady-of-imladris]

Me and @helenvader 🤝 Blanky

I think everyone who watched The Terror can agree that Blanky ❤️🥹🫂😭😭

[queenmeriadoc]

Episode 1-4 - Dr Goodsir - @somebirdortheother

[idyllic-affections]

GI MASTERLIST — ♡

characters are listed in alphabetical order. last updated on august 1st, 2023.

AETHER—

nothing yet.

AL-HAITHAM—

what if kaveh adopted a child? (pt. ii)

how is [name]'s first heartbreak handled?

general friendship headcanons (sumeru).

random adoptive dad!kaveh angst.

ARLECCHINO—

dad!pantalone brainrot iii.

AYAKA—

nothing yet.

BAIZHU—

dad!pantalone brainrot iv.

i know my kingdom awaits, and they've forgiven my mistakes.

thoughts on baizhu & childhood friend!reader.

migraine comfort.

general friendship headcanons (liyue).

JUNIOR HERBALIST!READER SERIES—

invisible disability? it's rather visible to me.

thoughts on chronically ill!reader.

employee benefits.

the contract's cycle.

a slip of the tongue.

heat exhaustion.

BEIDOU—

big brother kazuha and big sister beidou.

general friendship headcanons (liyue).

COLUMBINA—

dad!pantalone brainrot iii.

COLLEI—

what if kaveh adopted a child? (pt. ii)

how is [name]'s first heartbreak handled?

family botany lessons.

general friendship headcanons (sumeru).

CYNO—

how is [name]'s first heartbreak handled?

what if kaveh's child wanted to be a dancer?

fatherly duties.

general friendship headcanons (sumeru).

EI—

nothing yet.

GOROU—

nothing yet.

IL DOTTORE—

dad!pantalone brainrot iii.

dad!pantalone brainrot iv.

ignorance is a sin which may lead to grave error.

ITTO—

nothing yet.

KAEYA—

together through thick and thin.

if we have each other.

how does the presence of kaeya's sibling change the fallout?

you should know i'll be there for you.

KAVEH—

a love unlike any other.

angel kisses.

may my guard never drop, for should my heart be allowed to breathe, i fear i may cause you harm.

general friendship headcanons (sumeru).

migraine comfort.

ADOPTIVE DAD!KAVEH SERIES—

what if kaveh adopted a child?

what if kaveh adopted a child? (pt. ii)

artistic inclination.

how is [name]'s first heartbreak handled?

what if kaveh's child wanted to be a dancer?

how does [name] get their vision?

how would kaveh react to his child getting their vision?

i'll be back.

random adoptive dad!kaveh angst.

KAZUHA—

big brother kazuha and big sister beidou.

if i am the wind, fleeting and transient, you are the steady and constant earth upon which i stand.

KLEE—

nothing yet.

KOKOMI—

nothing yet.

LA SIGNORA—

for your happiness, dearest one.

dad!pantalone brainrot ii.

dad!pantalone brainrot iii.

ignorance is a sin which may lead to grave error.

LUMINE—

nothing yet.

NAHIDA—

general friendship headcanons (sumeru).

NILOU—

what if kaveh's child wanted to be a dancer?

nilou as a big sister.

general friendship headcanons (sumeru).

NINGGUANG—

nothing yet.

PANTALONE—

dad!pantalone brainrot.

dad!pantalone brainrot ii.

dad!pantalone brainrot iii.

dad!pantalone brainrot iv.

ignorance is a sin which may lead to grave error.

dad!pantalone brainrot v.

a winter night's lazzo.

dad!pantalone thoughts.

PULCINELLA—

nothing yet.

QIQI—

invisible disability? it's rather visible to me.

general friendship headcanons (liyue).

SCARAMOUCHE/THE WANDERER—

what's with this sassy, lost child?

hairstyling.

the art of being gentle.

general friendship headcanons (sumeru).

SUCROSE—

nothing yet.

TARTAGLIA—

dad!pantalone brainrot iii.

i know my kingdom awaits, and they've forgiven my mistakes.

TIGHNARI—

what if kaveh adopted a child? (pt. ii)

how is [name]'s first heartbreak handled?

what does tighnari do when his child is ill?

family botany lessons.

general friendship headcanons (sumeru).

VENTI—

to keep the wind at bay.

there is strength in numbers.

though the wind may carry everyone's woes, who carries the wind's?

when their sibling can't sleep.

XIAO—

the dendro yaksha.

how does xiao comfort his sibling after night terrors?

when their sibling can't sleep.

general friendship headcanons (liyue).

ZHONGLI—

there is strength in numbers.

general friendship headcanons (liyue).

[merryverse]

The Terror - James Fitzjames - Go for Broke

[queenmeriadoc]

The terror is becoming one of my fandoms in law and I’m starting to think I need to watch it

[bakedbakermom]

Stained

Chapter 1: Sanguine.

Read on Ao3; tagging @today-in-fic @ao3feed-msr

But first, a word from the author. I first wrote this fic when I was about 14, circa late 2000. It was very much a product of its time, both of who I was/how I wrote then, and where the respective shows were in their runs. I found it recently in an archive I will NOT share, and was stunned to find that it actually did have some good bones--and, as is to be expected, plenty of cringe, but I try to look on my past self with indulgence and sympathy in that regard; we are, all of us, unfortunately fourteen at some point. There were even a few beautiful lines in there that I lifted entirely. I don't think I've ever gone 20+ years between a first and second draft, but here we are, in 2023, and I am back on my XF/BTVS brainrot for a second pass (and third, and fourth, as editing commands me). This fic takes place in late season 7 of the X-Files, post-Hollywood AD; and season 5 of Buffy, post-Intervention. Do those seasons line up at all? Nope. But let's be real, neither show was all that great at keeping consistent timelines. Besides, time is an illusion and canon is a sandbox; if we're not going to play, what's the point? As for how a crossover like this works when there are references to one work within the other work? Short answer: Don't worry about it. Long answer: I have lost my mind and you can see my spiral into madness here (contains a few minor spoilers/background info for this fic)

Fic is COMPLETE and will be updated Sundays and Wednesdays.

Scully unlocked the door to room 217 of the Sunnydale Motor Inn and slipped inside, hoping the brief spill of buttery sunlight wouldn’t disturb the occupant. The soft snick of the door plunged her into sudden darkness, but her eyes adjusted quickly; she was getting used to the dark. Inside, little light pierced the drawn curtains, and what did filter through was stained a deep crimson, as if a haze of blood hung in the air.

She eased herself down onto the edge of the rumpled bed that filled half the room and prodded the lump of blankets she assumed was her partner. The lump moaned and shifted, and from the opposite end, Mulder’s tousled head appeared. A shock pierced through her when she saw how pale he had become, how dark the circles were under his eyes; she tried not to think about how he had been sleeping upside down, like a bat. He would only tease her for the comparison. “How are you feeling?” she asked softly, hoping she sounded calmer than she felt.

He groaned, his voice barely more than a croak. “Half dead.”

She lifted one auburn brow and tried to smile. “Oh good, only half.”

Mulder sat up stiffly, his bones creaking and popping like the hinges of a haunted house. The sheets fell away from his bare chest, now a sickly white instead of his usual golden tan. He shoved a pillow behind his back to prop himself up, as if the effort of sitting was too much for his withering body. His eyes narrowed into tiny slits and he winced. “Isn’t it a little bright in here?”

“Mulder, I can barely see you.”

“Oh. Right.”

Something shameful flickered in his eyes and she reached out to take his hand; his skin was dry and frighteningly cold, the bones beneath it not quite right. She pushed the fear down with a thick swallow. “Don’t worry about it. The sun will be down in an hour or so.”

They relied so much on touch to communicate these days. A subtle brush of fingers to say I am here. The pressure of his hand on the small of her back, We’ll be alright. A tear thumbed away from a cheek, Your pain is mine too. A kiss pressed tenderly to a forehead, We’re not done yet.

Touching him was different now. Strained. Stained. Death lived in his skin; it was a void she had to force herself across with every caress, because each time she touched him, she was reminded of what lived inside him. 

What it had tried, gleefully, to do.

Her memories of that night in the graveyard were murky at best, flashes of blood and terror glimpsed only through a dense fog like a stormy night at a drive-in, and it was a relief to her that she was spared the worst details. Her body was healing, and though she knew that repressing emotional trauma was an unhealthy coping mechanism, it was the only thing allowing her to function. The reckoning was coming for her, sure as the sun outside was edging toward the horizon; when the darkness came, it would swallow her whole, just as it was trying, now, to swallow her partner.

The darkness was inside him, a part of him, and she could not touch one without wanting to recoil from the other. She hated the relief that filled her as she released his hand to reach into the paper bag she had brought inside with her. “I got you something to eat.”

His eyes lit up as they landed on the small styrofoam container, the kind usually filled with soup or pasta salad to-go, with the name of a local butcher on the side: Sunnydale Fine Meats. Its logo was a cartoon pig holding up a link of sausage speared on a fork, the little speech bubble near his mouth proclaiming it both local and delicious. Scully found the image horribly macabre. “Beef or pork?” Mulder asked, taking it eagerly from her hands and giving it an appraising sniff.

“Lamb,” she said, and when he wrinkled his nose, “Sorry. It was all they had left.”

“Don’t worry about it, Scully. I imagine it’s a popular take-out spot in this town.” He squeezed her shoulder gently, and she fought not to pull away from the chill of his touch. “Thank you. For all of this.”

He stood slowly, accompanied by another symphony of popping joints. He tightened the drawstring on his sweatpants—when had he gotten so thin?—and carried the container to the microwave in the room’s tiny kitchenette. Her stomach lurched as she realized he was heating the contents. Ninety-eight point six.

Mulder glanced up and saw her staring, then looked quickly away. “Tip from Spike,” he muttered. “Says it’s easier to… get it down… this way. That I’ll get used to it faster if it’s warm.”

“Is it really that bad, compared to..?”

A shudder passed through his body, but not of revulsion. She shouldn’t have reminded him about that, but he answered anyway. “It’s like day-old coffee versus a chocolate shake. With whipped cream. And extra cherries.” His voice dripped with a hunger bordering on lust. “I can handle it, but I’d rather have… well.”

Compassion and pity warred with a visceral disgust and the sudden roiling in her gut pushed her to feet. She couldn’t watch this.

“I’ll let you eat,” she said, too fast, nearly lunging for the door. Stupid, she yelled at herself the moment she realized what she was doing. Don’t give him anything to chase. Not when he’s hungry.

His hand clenched painfully tight around her wrist before she even heard him move, and her heart started to hammer beneath her sternum. She knew he could hear it, watched his pupils dilate as the sound reached him, and his gaze fell on the pulse fluttering in her throat.

The dark centers of his eyes grew inhumanly huge, nearly eclipsing the warm golden green, and his tongue flicked out to lick his lower lip.

Scully stood very, very still.

Her blue eyes were cold and hard as she met his stare. Do not flinch.

“Mulder,” she said carefully, threading steel into her voice. “Let me go.”

He held on, breathing harder than he had any need to, nostrils flaring as he took in the coppery scent of her fear, fingers constricting so tightly she felt the fine bones of her wrist grinding together and the tingling static of the circulation failing in her fingertips. She would have a new bracelet of bruises tomorrow. A sound between a moan and a growl bubbled up from his throat.

Scully’s free hand began to inch toward the chain around her neck when suddenly the microwave beeped from across the room, breaking the tension like a splash of cold water. He stepped quickly away and turned his back to her, shoulders hunched and shaking.

“God, Scully, I am so sorry.”

If her hand trembled as she laid it on his back, they both ignored it. “I know, Mulder. It’s okay. I know.”

“No, you don’t,” he said gently, his voice choked and breaking. “And I’m glad you don’t.”

She forced herself to move closer, to cross the death-black void that had bloomed between them; the fear she felt was a small price to pay to erase the pain written so clearly across his face. She wrapped her arms around his abdomen and laid her cheek against the icy expanse of his back. He flinched as the tiny gold cross on her necklace made contact with his skin; she pulled away just enough to tuck it into her shirt, then squeezed him even tighter. “You’re so warm,” he murmured, placing one hand over hers where it rested against his stomach. “It’s so nice to feel warm again.”

Her throat constricted painfully as she fought away the tears threatening to spill from her eyes, and it was a long while before she trusted herself to speak. Her voice came out small, empty of anything but helpless fear. “What are we going to do?”

He sighed and rolled his gaze heavenward. There were water spots on the ceiling. “Shoot me?”

“Yeah, a lot of good that would do.”

Mulder huffed out a barbed little laugh and turned within the circle of her arms. His hands came up to cup her face, and the defeat in his eyes nearly broke her heart. A single tear slid down his ashen cheek, glinting red in the fading light. Red as blood.

“I’m scared, Scully,” he whispered. His thumbs brushed tenderly over her cheekbone for a moment before he folded around her, his face buried against her neck and his arms painfully tight around her. “I’m so scared.”

She held him as he wept, stroking his hair and whispering soothing words neither of them would remember later. It was not really her words he needed, merely her touch, the comfort of knowing she cared enough to brush up against the monster inside him if it meant that the man could feel the touch of her body, small and warm against him. His tears soaked into the collar of her t-shirt until it stuck to her skin.

No, not tears. Saliva. He licked the place where her neck met her collarbone and moaned. His hands came up to thread his fingers through her hair. He pressed himself tightly against her, and she felt him growing hard against her hip. Her gut clenched, and not just from fear.

“Mul—”

His name died on her lips as something sharp pierced her skin, a sudden warmth spilling down her shoulder. She struggled in his grip, a fly in a web, and he bit down harder.

Scully had an unfortunate amount of practice stuffing down her gibbering panic, translating the adrenaline that threatened to paralyze her into action instead; she summoned every drop of strength she could manage, twisting at the hip, and used the strength of her legs and torso to shove him back. Her hand immediately flew up to press against the wound on her neck as she stared at him, blood trickling between her fingers and her mouth open in shock and fear.

A monster stared back at her from the place where his face should have been, thickly ridged brows and serrated teeth dripping with crimson and eyes gleaming the fevered yellow of a jungle cat. It wore her blood like warpaint, like a sacrificial mask. A growl rumbled forth from what had been Mulder’s throat and its hands clenched and unclenched at its sides as it prepared to strike again. It dropped into a crouch, shoulders hunched, muscles rippling unnaturally beneath the surface of its skin. Its features twisted into something like joy.

Scully wondered if she could free the gun at her hip before it reached her; a bullet might not drop the thing, but she could slow it down.

Even vampires feel pain.

A sudden shudder passed through the creature and a high wail of grief tore from its throat. Slowly, the face softened, melted, Mulder’s familiar features coming back to the fore, dazed and afraid. He touched a finger to his chin and revulsion crossed his face as he realized he was streaked with her blood; the stain of it was shockingly dark against his skin. He turned away, shame-faced, but not before she saw him lick his lips clean.

“Get away from me,” he growled as she started to reach for him. She snatched her hand back as if burned, as if he would bite it. He collapsed onto the bed, his head buried in his hands. “I can’t—I don’t want to hurt you again.”

“I’m all right, Mulder,” she said, though her knees threatened to buckle beneath her. “You didn’t hit anything important. I’m fine.”

But her hands shook as she grabbed a handful of tissues from the box on the nightstand and pressed them to her neck; they soaked through more quickly than she had expected, red blooming across the flimsy paper like roses on snow. She dropped them and grabbed another bunch, ignoring the way his eyes followed the sodden ones to the floor. She forced herself to take a step forward, then another, and then to sit beside him on the bed. Her free hand found his shoulder, and though they both flinched at her touch, neither moved away.

“I could have hurt you, Scully. I could have—” He gulped, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth. “I could have killed you.”

Her hand on his shoulder tightened and she forced him to turn towards her, not with the strength of her hand—pitiful compared to the strength he now possessed—but with the tenderness of her touch. She cupped his chin and waited for his eyes to meet hers; she held his gaze, blue staring unwavering into green. “You didn’t, Mulder. And you won’t.” She took a deep breath. “You’re just hungry, that’s all.”

“Yeah,” he said, nodding shakily. “Speaking of which.” He pushed himself to his feet and crossed to the microwave, fishing out the container and pulling back the lid. His face twisted and fell as a rancid, metallic smell wafted through the room.

“No good?” she asked, nose wrinkling.

“It’s gone all lumpy.”

“Coagulation,” she explained, the medical doctor inside her rising to the surface. “Clotting factors catalyze plasma proteins into sticky threads, forming gel-like clumps that slow blood loss from a wound.”

“Charming. It looks like tapioca pudding that’s been left out for a few centuries.”

Her stomach turned at that mental image. “I don’t know much about your new… dietary requirements… but I’m pretty sure you shouldn’t eat that.”

He sighed, closing the lid and dropping the whole container into the wastebasket beside the mini fridge. “It’s okay, Scully. I can wait.”

“No,” she said matter-of-factly. “You can’t. Mulder, you’re barely standing. You won’t be able to hold yourself back much longer, and you won’t be any help with research tonight.” She laughed, though there was no joy in it. “You can’t even make it through a single stakeout shift without a sack of junk food, and that was before you took on a ravenous, demonic parasite.”

Her voice grew hollow and detached as she realized what she needed to do. “If you snap and… hurt someone… you’ll never forgive yourself.” And I’ll never forgive either of us. She drew her pocket knife from the front of her jeans and turned it over and over in her palm, hoping she’d cleaned it recently, hoping it wouldn’t hurt too much. “No, Mulder, you have to eat.”

“What are you—?! No—!”

But she had already flipped open the blade and pressed it into the creamy flesh of her forearm, below the bend of her elbow. She pushed a little harder, letting a thick bead of blood well up before slashing firmly downward, opening herself to him with a small whimper of pain. Thick rivulets of red, glimmering like jewels, trickled down her pale skin, pooling in the trembling cup of her hand.

Mulder managed to hold her gaze for a brief moment, his face a silent plea for forgiveness—for what he had become, for the hunger he was powerless to fight, for what he was about to do to her. She smiled her benediction as tears fell from her eyes. “Just don’t take it all.”

As the scent of her blood reached him, the demon’s form bubbled up to the surface—and its face was full of nothing but pleasure. It lunged forward and closed its mouth over the wound, its teeth piercing deep as it suckled ravenously, its tongue probing obscenely beneath her flesh. Its hand closed around her bruised wrist almost tenderly, like an apology, pinning her in place; small sounds of satisfaction came from its throat as it gulped her down. It moved off the bed and knelt before her, its free hand spreading her thighs and gripping her firmly as it settled between them.

Deep inside her heart, in a place she rarely thought of and never shared, she felt a tremulous thrill at the need this monster had for her. She knew all the legends, the place vampires occupied in folklore as seducers and devils. She could rattle off theories about devouring blood being a puritanical metaphor for sex: the penetration of the fang as it corrupts innocent flesh, the blood spilling from the bite the way some women bleed during their first intercourse.

Hell, she’d seen that Anne Rice movie more times than she would ever dare to admit.

But no dusty book of folktales or moody Hollywood film could have prepared her for the desire that flooded in to fill the space her blood left behind as it flowed into Mulder’s mouth. Her heart pounded, her breathing grew rapid and shallow, and maybe she could blame that on the blood loss—but not the way she throbbed between her legs as he tongued her open wound.

Pity it took this for Mulder to finally put his mouth on her.

Through the ecstasy of her pain, she felt him pull away. Her head was swimming, and she drew several deep, steadying breaths, feeling out the weakness in her body before deciding she was mostly all right. Not much worse than the annual Red Cross drive at the bureau. She debated asking Mulder for a cookie; but his refusal to meet her eyes, even as the face of the demon faded away, killed the joke before it passed her lips.

“That’s enough, Scully.” He looked around for a moment, as if puzzled to find himself kneeling between her legs, and dropped his eyes as he moved away. “Um. Thank you.”

“Are you sure? I’m a little dizzy, but you can have more if you need it.”

A small amount of color had returned to his cheeks, but the circles beneath his eyes were still dark as bruises. Even as he shook his head and stepped away from her, his eyes lingered on the still-oozing cut, on the thin trickle sliding down her arm and dripping off the tips of her fingers. It landed on the dingy carpet with a patter like raindrops.

She moved quickly into the bathroom and shut the door; she didn’t want to see him licking the floor.

The face that met her in the mirror above the sink was even paler than usual, her freckles like dark constellations spread across the expanse of her skin and circles under her eyes nearly the same purple as Mulder’s. She would have to return to her room and apply more makeup, and find something to cover the mark on her neck, which she was relieved to see was smaller than she had imagined. She shuddered as she moistened a washcloth and wiped away the crust of dried blood that had formed around the punctures, remembering the heat of his mouth, the way her body had coiled with pleasure even through the haze of pain—and the way his body had responded to the hot pulse of her blood in his mouth. Maybe it was a good thing Mulder couldn’t see his reflection anymore; she found herself unable to meet her own eyes, and she had only been the vessel. How must he have felt, drinking of her very life?

In the medicine cabinet, she found a small bottle of hydrogen peroxide and used it to clean the wounds on her neck and arm. Rummaging under the sink produced only a box of moldy bandages, too small to cover the slash she had made. It was deeper than she had first thought, blood still seeping sluggishly down her arm, and she made a mental note to be more careful next time.

And she knew, eventually, there would be a next time.

They had said the pull of human blood was strongest in newly-turned vampires, and she had witnessed firsthand how he struggled to consume animal blood. If it was a choice between feeding him herself or allowing him to grow hungry enough to snap and prey on a helpless stranger, she would choose to open her veins every time. At least she had a gun and a cross and her FBI combat training to fall back on.

She grabbed a thin towel from the pile beside the shower and ripped it into strips to clean and bind her cut.

As she worked, she found herself slipping with relief into the cool, clinical detachment of science and medicine, pondering the physical reality of what her partner had become, because the mystical side was beyond her realm of expertise. If she sent a sample of his saliva to the lab, would she discover the presence of anticoagulants, painkillers, aphrodisiacs—chemicals to make the victim more compliant and allow a vampire to feed more deeply? And, she thought with a blush, explain my reaction to his bite? Could his pale skin contain some kind of photo-reactive substance that burst into flames upon contact with sunlight? She had seen vampires bleed; what moved that blood through their bodies, when they had no detectable pulse? What sort of electrical activity would she find in his brain, how did he keep from rotting if his cells were no longer alive, and what was the mechanism of the change that came over him when the demon came out to feed?

By the time she had tended her wounds to her satisfaction, Scully had a long list of questions; even without the answers, she felt more secure in her skin than she had in days. Yes, something horrible had happened to her partner. Yes, she was adrift in a sea of paranormal mystery that she didn’t fully understand. But this was not the first time she had found herself faced with a daunting new reality; she had survived all that had come before, and she would survive this too. She was a medical doctor, a trained FBI agent, and a veteran of more than seven years worth of hauntings, monster hunts, and demons—both personal and literal.

She would face this. For Mulder and for herself. She would find answers, maybe even a cure, if not in the science she held so sacred than in the dusty tomes of mysticism and myth. She took comfort in reminding herself that they were not alone in this quest, that Mulder had somehow stumbled across a band of unlikely allies in this coastal town whose sunny days only belied nights filled with terror and death—allies who had spent years battling the stuff of nightmares and usually won. Even now they waited in town for Mulder and Scully to join them.

She stepped back into Mulder’s room to find that night had fallen completely, filling the room with an inky darkness. The lights were off—he didn’t need them to see in the dark anymore—but she found him by scent and touch just the same and laid a hand on his shoulder.

“You’d better get dressed, Mulder. It’s time to go see the Slayer.”

[pesbianlanic]

july 2023 reading

books in bold are especially recommended!

The Sundial by Shirley Jackson - 3.5/5. jackson's stuff is always so creepy because of the blanks left unfilled. suspenseful and mysterious.

Woman, Eating by Claire Kohda - 5/5. a BEAUTIFUL little novel about a young vampire navigating desire, hunger, and self.

Sarahland by Sam Cohen - 5/5. this collection of short stories is incredible. i will be thinking about it and rereading it for the rest of my life, i think. my absolute favorite stories were “The First Sarah” and “Becoming Trees.”

This Is Salvaged by Vauhini Vara - 3.5/5. each of these short stories were beautifully written. i think they just weren't for me. my favorites were "The Irates" and "You Are Not Alone."

The Mountain in the Sea by Ray Nayler - 5/5. gorgeous and thought-provoking book about personhood, consciousness, environment, and communication. this is one of those books that i will be thinking about for a very long time.

Life Ceremony by Sayaka Murata - 4/5. Murata is skilled at exploring the strange and grotesque in a way that makes it believable and sensible. some of these short stories fell flat for me, but the one's that didn't were incredible.

Twilight by Stephenie Meyer. reread because my best friend and i have the twilight brainrot right now. i'm now a bella/alice shipper. support the Quileute tribe.

New Moon by Stephenie Meyer. this reread is only solidifying my bella/alice ship.

Eclipse by Stephenie Meyer. more rereading. the melodrama is strong in this one

salt slow by Julia Armfield - 5/5. a delightfully strange collection of short stories! my favorites were "The Great Awake," and "Formerly Feral," and "Cassandra After."

Camp Damascus by Chuck Tingle - 5/5. mr. tingle's foray into religious horror strikes a perfect balance of terror, realism, and hope!

[helenvader]

You always have such lovely comments on my works, thanks! ❤ I hope to finish that trailer. It's more fun to try something new, also, how else does one learn? :-)

Re: The Terror. I wasn't ready in 2018. Now I can tolerate gore very well. Even appreciate it. Yay! I watched it twice within 10 days in August and another rewatch is on the horizon in October. It's PERFECT. The script, the music, the visuals, all the actors, the atmosphere, the tension, the horror, the desperation, but also all those sweet moments of companionship between men and character development. Just. A. Glorious. Show.

And, of course, Jared Harris. The brainrot is enormous. 🤣

Absolutely agreed on all the RoP characters you have mentioned. They all deserve love. ❤ I also love the Harfoots. And Celebrimbor. I actually love everybody, it's a great cast. 🙂

Hi I hope that you're well! I read your tags recently and I feel that you are certainly not the only one who misses Rings of Power, even if the activity in the fandom is low. Which leads me to think that maybe to revitalize it we could organize something like a ROP week in the same spirit as the Tolkien Week, with each day a theme that can be declined in the form of gifsets, fanart or fanfic, poetry, handmade creations (embroidery, cooking, cosplay).

You've hosted some good concepts (positive thoughts and your plan to show the cast that we support them) to keep the fandom collectively together, so I thought you could host this idea as well. It wouldn't be too much I hope: just make to some fanart to announce the event, the date, the rules; and I could gather a long list of people who have at some point created something for the show and we could them tag in the main ad.

I think it would be interesting to expand the daily themes beyond season 1 and the usual ones (best scenery, favorite races, favorite subplot, best costumes, best musical theme, favorite female character, favorite character played by a poc actor, best casting, favorite relationships or any other idea that you have), and save a day for the story arc people are most excited to see in season 2.

I'm sorry if I'm rambling, but the idea is taking shape as I write to you. Of course, there is no pressure to do it at all, or to do it immediately. It's just that fall seems like the right time, since the series just turned one year old.

Just let me know if there is any interest on your side, even if it's only long term.

Thanks for reading.

Hello lovely! 🌼Thank you I'm doing okay hope you are too! You actually read my mind with this because I was thinking about doing a creative challenge event like this (I really like your idea to include a S2 prompt too!) I still wanna do the cast positivity one in my pinned post but that can be a longer lasting one and maybe it can be completed in the build up to season 2 (since I'm sure the cast would appreciate some love sent their way) So for anyone interested in that I haven't forgotten about it :)

Onto a special Ring of Power week✨ I certainly love this idea and I have some time off at the end of October which could be a provisional date to put this event (week before Halloween) because yeah we're all missing our show badly 😭and I always love the fandom events in my other fandoms :) Thank you for your lovely message and I wanted to publish it as a heads up and also to see if you guys would like something like this. I love your suggestions and you've always been very supportive of my blog and it would be cool to have you and your ideas etc on board :)

So yeah my lovelies keep your eyes peeled on my blog as I was thinking about doing something anyway so this ask came at the perfect time 🥰 Have a lovely day!

[notyourbarney]

Confessing in a Sinful Grace

Here's my confession

Oh father,

I did a crime.

When the world was lost and

Was on fire,

I played mime.

Here's my confession

Oh lover,

I had no shot.

I forgot how to love yet

I brought another

Seed of brainrot.

Here's my confession

Oh sinner,

I couldn't fight.

The battle was crucial to

Justify existence

And I took flight.

Here's my confession

Oh giver,

I am confused.

I asked for a way out

Even when I had an

Answer I refused.

Here's my confession

Oh creator,

I didn't try enough.

I was within the divine

And yet I conflated

It with a bluff.

Forgive me for my wrongs,

Grace me for my errors,

I've been searching for long

Please excuse my terror.

I am singing your songs,

Grant me mercy forever.

My path might not be strong,

But I promise I'll get there.

Barney Redowan | Oct 12, 2023; 5:00

[cangrellesteponme]

10, 12,14,17, 19 👁️👁️

10. what is the longest amount of time you’ve let a draft rest before you finished it?

i’ve had to check my files for this. Sweeter Days (latest fic i posted, touchstarved vn) was in the drafts from april 13th 2023 to the very end of march 2024. nearly a year.

(and i thought it was the longest, but if we count drafts i do plan on finishing, it clearly isn’t. i started writing Running From Our Ends (kuro) on february 3rd 2022. it’s not done yet. there’s also the Breaking Point (d:bh) sequel but let’s not…)

(also, i wrote Staring Contest in like a day. so yeah not all fics are created equal…)

12. a trope you’re really into right now

right now, i think i have brainrot about two tropes: temporary amnesia and one-sided feelings. but that’s mostly for reading, i don’t write that at all (well… arguably Dichotomies (bnha) was one-sided). i don’t write a lot of tropes, but recently a lot of my writing has been about the mind and the body in conflict but also being one and the same?

14. where do you get your inspiration?

depends on what we’re talking about. for original works, my brain is just a little weird and comes up with weird stuff very often. for fanfic, mostly just from aspects of the characters i want to know more about? like how i wrote Staring Contest before we got a more detailed idea of how bard worked. and for poetry, my shower thoughts are very weird!

(as for art, which is not the focus here but who cares, i enjoy mashing concepts together a lot. so when i do more complex pieces, it’s mostly just that i thought of a thing and went “make it kuro!!”)

17. talk about your writing and editing process

well, The Ota Method is a mess. but it’s pretty systemised.

have some kind of weird thought and deem it worthy of being written.

run to pc (or, if we must, notebooks) and write the basics down (sometimes, a few lines)

whenever there’s enough time for that, do a little writing session (with background music ofc) and write as much information and details as possible. most of what i write then isn’t the actual words you’ll see in the final draft. it’s things like “something about fear but no fight-or-flight, sentiment left aimless as the fight has left him already.” (this is an actual quote from the first draft of dadbastian week day 7) that indicate what ideas i have, what metaphors i want to put in, but are simplified enough so i won’t be stuck on finding the right words immediately. usually when that’s done i have a more global idea of how it’s all going to look. (sometimes, a whole passage is often reduced to a sentence, something like: “after it’s done”, which is again a real quote from the same draft)

then, i do a second writing session. sometimes it’s later on the same day, or the next day, or it can be ages later. first draft notes are put in bold so they stand out as unfinished. and then i just write. one draft note can lead to something like “— it is hard to see any fear in him in the complete absence of fight-or-flight, hard to put an adequate name on this aimless and dulled terror, and the calm facade reigning over it all. Sebastian would once have found it fascinating. He is now appalled at the lack of fight left in his young master.” (again, from dadbastian week day 7) the process is repeated as many times as needed to finish the damn thing. i usually write paragraphs about feelings first, along with everything that involves metaphors. dialogues and more descriptive parts are often done last.

when it’s all done, it’s time to proofread (ugh) which first consists in checking that i didn’t forget to write anything, removing some repetitions (and sometimes adding some), making sure transitions make sense, and asking myself “does this actually convey the right thing?” which never leads me anywhere. and then i read it again and check for typos and other mistakes.

then i sigh as i remember i have to write a summary and figure out tags for ao3, i have a heated debate against myself about the rating, i give up and just pick one, do the things, struggle with formatting for a little while, and boom. posted.

19. the most interesting topic you’ve researched for a fic

well. i don’t do historical research because i hate history (and i’m very dumb), so that’s 99% of the interesting things out of the way. most of my research is one of three things: i’m trying to understand every single way a word or phrase can be used and understood in english (or just making sure i’m remembering it right, or checking that my vocabulary choices match the typical british standard), i want to have a specific image in mind about a thing i’m writing even if i don’t describe it (this is mostly about fashion. and food, oddly enough), or i’m neck deep into psychology and psychiatry for some obscure reason (so far, for all of my writing, i’ve researched anxiety, bpd, npd, aspd, bipolar but just the diagnosis criteria, ptsd, and cptsd. don’t ask me why, it just comes up!!)

I’d say the most interesting one was… well. it’s a tie between looking up the recipes of a bunch of lemon cakes and aspd.