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Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her
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Game of Thrones Daily
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Today's Document
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
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$LAYYYTER
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@strawberrysoapcake
welcome, everyberry!
My name is Cori, 22yo she/her ! Sometimes I write fic & make edits <3
*Sometimes I post NSFW but I always tag. Minors welcome just be responsible pls!
archive of our own // instagram
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I’m sitting outside a Sprouts and there’s a man standing with a donation bin for a children’s drive hurling the gayest and happiest compliments to every person that walks by
Honestly surprised there was never a breaking bad game on DS
Simon's 'rescue' mini fic
Simon was dead.
He was dead and he was in fucking hell.
The last thing he remembered was the sub exploding. Or maybe imploding. It wasn't like he could see what happened, so he had to assume it was exploding.
Every orifice was clogged with thick, oozing blood. His ears, his mouth, his nose. His eyes were squeezed shut, and he knew if he opened them he'd probably only see red. Every wheezing, aching breath tasted of iron, and he swore he was sucking in more blood than air. He practically choked on it, but never seemed to be drowning.
That's how he knew he was dead. He was somewhere deep at the bottom of the blood ocean, his corpse mutating into something unrecognizable. He was more relieved than anything to be dead and in hell than alive and cognizant of whatever religious bullshit he'd been dealing with before. At least he hadn't succumbed to that…that hive mind shit.
He was floating, too. Which was a pretty damn good indicator of being dead. People didn't float. He was sure fucked up blood mutations didn't float either.
His clogged senses were something of a blessing. He couldn't hear the taunting of voices or the gurgles of unknown creatures lurking. Just his muffled heartbeat.
His heartbeat?
Simon was pretty certain that he shouldn't have that. Since he was dead and all.
He hastily reached up to wipe at the blood and muck obscuring his eyes and nearly slipped off of whatever he'd been clinging to. One of his arms - right, there had been that whole fucked up thing where he's pretty sure it got ripped off. Definitely don't think too hard about that, Simon.
He managed to tug himself a bit further onto the makeshift raft he was on, attempting again to clean his face and eyes of blood. It was caked on so thick it made no difference. No light peeked through, but if he had to guess that had more to do with this fucked up moon than the blood itself. He could feel thick rivulets of the stuff running down his face, quickly squeezing his eyes shut to avoid blinding himself further.
So he was….alive. For the most part. Now that the fact of it was settling in, Simon realized how much his body fucking ached.
His head, his face, every bare surface of skin. He ached and burned all over, the pain only dulled by it having been so constant. His arm - the one he wasn’t supposed to be thinking about at all - ached in a way that he was pretty certain meant it was no longer functioning. Or there. Which, yeah, that ….that made sense.
The thought had him gagging, but he swallowed back what he could, shaking his head a little.
“Fuckin’ - don' fuckin’ puke…..Don' puke. Puking ‘s gonna make this a thousan’ times worse” he muttered, the blood so thick in his ears that his voice sounded muffled even to himself. Speaking felt like trying to get his mouth around a bite full of jelly, his tongue clumsy with the sheer amount of blood on it.
God, he hoped he hadn’t swallowed too much already. Simon didn't exactly wanna end up becoming a religious-freak-monster if he could help it. Though, if he kept floating around like this for long enough he was sure he would.
He was beginning to resign himself to floating in blood for eternity when something big splashed into the blood next to him.
The waves it caused washed over him, sending him tumbling and choking into the blood, his grip on his makeshift life raft failing and slipping. He fought against the torrent of disturbed blood, barely managing to get his head above this surface, every limb fighting to keep him afloat. He sucked in a choked, gasping breath, desperately writhing in an attempt to not immediately begin sinking again.
Somehow, between the bloody waves and the lack of enough limbs to fight the force of the current, Simon managed to keep himself afloat for long enough to realise what was happening.
He was being rescued.
They had come back for him. They had come back for him and were trying to save him.
Fuck trying to save humanity, he wanted out. He wanted to live.
They were rescuing him and he'd be damned if he missed this opportunity. He managed to flail his way to the object that had splashed down, his fingers scrambling against the smooth surface for a moment before catching on what felt like some sort of opening. It hissed and fell open, Simon scrambling to climb inside. It was tiny and cramped, and he somehow felt like it wasn't meant to fit a whole person.
Maybe it wasn't a rescue, then, but a retrieval.
He tried not to think too hard about what they’d be retrieving.
Blood nearly filled the small space, Simon only just able to keep his head, mouth and nose above the surface of the thick liquid, his shuddering, painful breaths filling the small space. If not for the blood in his ears, the echoing of it might have driven him crazy.
The opening he'd crawled through suddenly closed, the little light he'd been using to navigate suddenly cut off as it sealed shut.
Rescue or not, Simon had made his choice.
Not even a second later, he was being lifted.
Blood sloshed inside the small space, Simon gasping and coughing as he was forced to hold his breath, attempting to stabilize himself with his remaining arm as he was jostled.
His head hit one of the walls, sending exploding pain throughout his entire skull. One more concussion couldn't hurt, surely.
He gritted his teeth against the pain, spitting blood and viscera from his mouth, trying his damndest to just breathe and hold on.
He was being rescued, whether they liked it or not. He was alive. And they wouldn't be pulling a damn corpse out of this thing.
And that was the last thought he had before his head slammed into the wall again and he was out like a light.
–-----
When he came to, his skull was thrumming with pain, wave after wave of blinding ache making his stomach rolled with nausea.
His sense were still fucked - his ears and nose clogged with blood, his mouth tasting of the thick, foul substance. His eyes were caked in it, but when he peeked them open a little, he could see light. A lot of light.
More than he’d had in the sub, even.
It almost was like-
Something blocked the light out a bit, a presence just in front of him. He jolted back, scrambling backward until his back was pressed against some sort of wall.
There was sound, muffled and garbled. Simon shook his head in an attempt to clear the blood from his ears, wiping at his eyes.
It was still mostly just light, his eyes filled with blood and unable to focus.
Bright, white light made him squint, the red film over his eyes doing little to subdue it. Like it had some sort of supernatural source.
Whatever had blocked the light out before did so once more, a figure taking shape, their head haloed perfectly by the light.
His ears were still clogged, but he managed to pick out the garbled words.
“....Hail Mary….fjej…Grace…”
The words made his blood run cold. Of fucking course this was some religious fucking bullshit again.
Simon scrambled for something-anything to defend himself with.
At best, it wouldn't even be real. A hallucination in his final moments. At worse, it was another fucking religious freak trying to get him to do God-knows-what.
His hands managed to close around something sharp and metallic on the floor next to him, fingers slipping a bit in the thin film of blood that coated it.
He managed to get his feet under him and launched himself at his assailant, ignoring the muffled protests against him.
He thrust the sharp object forward, shockingly connecting with something soft and squishy.
So it was real, and was likely a religious freak to boot.
He and his assailant tumbled to the ground, a muffled cry of pain escaping their lips, Simon’s hand slipping on the sharp object when he tried to pull it out. It clattered to the ground beneath them, Simon reeling back to punch instead.
There was a muffled cry of pain when he managed to land one, and he swore he picked up what sounded like a plea to not hurt them.
He stopped fighting for just a moment, the garbled plea making his breath catch. Religious freak or not, he shouldn't be- he wasn't-
Something huge and heavy slammed into his side, sending him tumbling to the floor again.
It jostled his aching head, his ribs cracking painfully upon landing.
More muffled sounds, more garbled pleas, and something like music.
Fuck, maybe he was dead.
Simon didn't move for fear of whatever had slammed into him hitting him again, his breaths coming out wheezing and aching, his head throbbing. He shouldn't have done that - it wasn't a hallucination, he was supposed to be better than that. He wasn't violent. He didn't mean to. He wasn't the butcher.
He sucked in a sharp, painful breath when something touched him. A hand- it felt like.
It gently squeezed his arm, a garbled voice calling out to him again, hardly clearer than before.
“...okay!...just….’s alright!...cky- ….understand?”
Simon sucked in another painful lungful, shaking his head a bit, barely opening his eyes to see the figure.
Still blurry and fuzzy. Still haloed by light.
Simon sucked in another painful lungful, shaking his head a bit, barely opening his eyes to see the figure.
Still blurry and fuzzy. Still haloed by light.
The figure kept talking, seemingly turning its head away for a moment before turning back to him.
Simon managed to sit up a bit, wiping at his face again in an attempt to clear the blood from his eyes.
He blinked away what he could, and though there was still a watery red film over everything, he could see just a little better. He squinted at the figure, features slowly taking shape.
Eyes, nose, glasses. A very normal, not at all freakish human face.
A man, maybe.
He raked his eyes over the figure for a long moment, before realizing the growing splotch of blood on their abdomen.
Simon sucked in a sharp breath with realization. He’d stabbed them.
“ ‘m sorry…’m sorry, I didn't mean- ‘m sorry, I thought-” he choked out, unsure what to say. Just that he was sorry, he was sorry, he was so sorry.
His head throbbed, Simon squeezing his eyes shut against the pain and just hoping in earnest that this was a hallucination, if only to keep him from being the cause of yet another death.
He mumbled another apology, breathing shakily through his nose, curling in on himself in an attempt to stop the nausea that roiled in his gut.
The person touched his arm again, so gently that Simon was positive that they were a ghost. They squeezed a little more firmly when he didn't respond, and through the ringing in his ears, Simon managed to make out their voice again.
“.....okay…n't have to move…..Um- just.… here. .I-…..ken care of…. we-…do about….blood….cky’s….-urt you…. not…hurt you…we’ll- figure…..don't move.”
The figure let go of his arm, and through the ringing in his ears, Simon could make out that strange music again and a robotic voice somewhere nearby, far different than the figure that had been speaking to him before.
Fuck, he really was still down there, wasn't he? He'd lost too much oxygen and the alarms were what he was hearing. That was it. The person was just another thing he was hearing and seeing. Just another hallucination.
Simon didn't know how long he sat there. His fuzzy mind drifted in and out of awareness, sounds on the edge of his senses that he tried very hard to ignore. He tried to focus on breathing, on conserving what little oxygen he could. His mind zeroed in on his own panting breaths, trying to slow his racing heart.
The bad part about trying not to focus on his senses meant there was plenty of time to focus on thoughts. Memories. Plenty of time to rewatch a gag reel of Simon's Greatest Mistakes on loop.
His throbbing head and body made it all sort of blend together, at least. Nothing terribly solid, just a crawling feeling of guilt and a yearning to have just one thing go right for him…
He didn't know how much time had passed, how much oxygen he even had left. He hadn't heard the beep, though he’d surmised before that whatever was keeping him alive down here had somehow been supplying him with it.
A touch on his arm made him jump, sucking in a sharp breath. Awareness came back sharp and painful, fumbling for his knife in his disoriented state- only to remember he didn't have it.
He backed away from the touch, only to hit a cool wall, the back of his head thumping against it and jostling his already thoroughly shaken brain.
Simon chanced a glance at what had touched him, the same figure from…from minutes or maybe even hours ago standing before him again.
Eyes. Nose. Glasses.
Simon’s eyes refocused a little, and he hastily wiped at them, blinking away the remnants of blood. The figure was a man. A very normal looking man.
His mouth was moving, but Simon could only hear that ringing and incredibly garbled speech.
“..-an ..-stand…me? …aybe…-n't…hear…?”
Simon tried to piece it together, but his brain was all mush from being jostled one too many times. He shook his head a little and hoped the answer sufficed.
This wasn't Eden. And it certainly wasn't the COI…. Far too…sterile. Clean.
The man frowned faintly, glancing off to the side. As if speaking to someone.
Simon followed his gaze to what looked like a weird, fucked up rock inside some kind of…glass ball-thing.
All of this being an elaborate hallucination was definitely not off the table.
And then the thing moved, and Simon’s chest seized with fear, hand automatically going to the knife that wasn't there again.
Not weird alien shit again. He couldn't do that again. He had to get the fuck out of here.
[ TBC after I decide if Ryland Grace knows any ASL. Simon definitely won’t but it'd be a start to them communicating ig
Also sorry for fucked up spacing, docs -> Tumblr fucks it up and I don't have time to fix it rn ]
happy pride to fat dykes specifically
About to sell a wedding dress I thrifted on Facebook and use the money to buy more clothes
Please remember that Pride is important because someone tonight still believes they’re better off dead than being themselves.
threads can be funny sometimes
Had been thinking about this post (which is a fake excerpt from an imaginary narrative written to mock 'tumblr prose'), and how most "no actually this is good" comments are highlighting how the construction of individual sentences is interesting, how some of the language is evocative, how it Goes Hard. Because that post is written badly in a very thoughtful manner that focuses on core structural issues rather than going for low hanging fruit of poor technical proficiency with the written word, it is not bad in the most "obvious" of ways. So I think this is a legit learning opportunity, but also I don't want to dunk on anyone so instead I will just preach to the choir of My Followers.
But yeah like to be more constructive than just going "lol tumblr prose bad", really the issue in Large part that characterizes "tumblr prose" (which to be clear I don't think is a discrete thing and at most is a combination of several writing tendencies influenced by the medium of Online) comes down to the lack of real contrast in Any aspect of narrative construction, and an obsession with being quotable and constantly being at 100% of Going Hard (which go hand in hand).
In that post, the character voice is indistinct from that of the narration, and the characters quote one-liners that look Meaningful as excerpts and are borderline nonsensical as dialogue. There is no more than the faintest, most generic hints of characterization; these people exist as vague concepts to say deep words for the reader. The sentence length has little variation from its staccato beat, and so it is awkward to read and fails to complement the action or accomplish anything with the pacing (save for the slight slowdown when the torturer feels all that damp animal electricity). The timing is awkward and exaggeratedly dramatic. The description is a flowery kind of tryhard visceral and seems avoidant of describing anything too directly ("something dark and arterial" where there's nothing being accomplished by conveying uncertainty about what is currently gushing out of the injured character and the simple use of "blood splashed across the stones" would actually be 10x more effective), in a way that does disservice to what is supposed to be a torture scene, and leaves it weightless and ungrounded. In fairness to the people saying "this is good", that is MUCH easier to say when reading this fake excerpt as the standalone piece it actually is, but this kind of writing Cannot function in an actual narrative and is not what an excerpt from well constructed narrative fiction is going to look like basically ever.
It reflects a lot of very typical amateur writing issues that just about everyone has to grow out of (the minimal diversity in sentence length, simulated non-attention to scene pacing and timing), and issues common to fanfiction-influenced writing on social media (allergy to paragraph lengths of more than two sentences, little to no description of the characters or setting because, in fanfiction, the reader already knows their physical characteristics and mannerisms and it doesn't need to be lingered upon, Unlike In Original Fiction). But this particularly hits on an issue I think is semi-unique to narrative writing in the social media milieu, which is a focus on being quotable. This may not even be a conscious impulse at all But It's There. This kinda apparent terror of any moment not being as beautiful and hard hitting as possible (or for comedy, any moment not being A Joke). Everything "Goes Hard", so nothing actually does. A lot of "tumblr prose" type writing is less a narrative, more a string of quotes loosely assembled into narrative that vaguely gestures at things like Plot and Character. It substitutes depth for Suggestions of depth by utilizing stock symbolism without building it into the narrative, and by gesturing at weighty contexts without actually engaging with them. There can be little contrast or effective use of tone, pace, description when your story is a series of Hard Hitting Quotes.
I'm reading Watership Down right now and I think it's a great novel overall and can work as an example of how important it is to utilize contrast in your writing.
This segment is the lengthy first description of the titular down, which the rabbits are now encountering for the first time:
Adams is slowing the pace here to introduce us to the setting of the next segment of the book. The average sentence length is very long and keeps us lingering in the sensory detail, while still varied and thus smoothly readable. This new place is introduced by simultaneously conveying its physical description in vivid detail and conveying its feeling and character, and getting the most out of every described feature to do so. The thorn trees are "wind stunted". The air is "scented". The language takes on a very flowery character and heavily utilizes simile and metaphor. Woodland is "tumultuous with evening", sunlight filters through grass "like a wind" to the small creatures below, in contrast to laying "like a gold rind" on the hill when seen from a distance. This grandiose description is heavily functional and conveys both exhaustive physical detail and a feeling that this place is beautiful, awe inspiring to something like a rabbit, and full of life, though not without quiet hints of danger. It hits because Not Everything In The Book Is Described This Way. It means something that we're lingering like this and stopping to get a sense of this place on every possible level, and moving away from more direct, simple prose to convey the feeling of the place in depth.
This segment describes the rabbit Bigwig being found caught in a snare:
The prose here here has the opposite approach of the first excerpt. The language is concise, direct, and brutal. It only veers slightly away from the literal to describe Bigwig's voice as 'bubbling out' from his mouth, both conveying that the saliva and blood in his mouth is literally bubbling as he speaks, and implying the unsettling way his voice sounds as he's being strangled. The sentences are much shorter on the whole, as fit for the pacing of a tense and rapidly changing scene, and the timing closely complements the action - "There was a pause" not only conveys That There Was A Pause but interrupts the rhythm of this segment; the moment of uneasy stillness is echoed in the act of reading itself.
The scene this is excerpted from is extremely effective and does in fact Go Hard, it's well constructed in of itself but its effectiveness mostly lies in its place in the narrative. It's the culmination of a long, tense buildup as the reader becomes more aware that something is deeply Wrong about the place the rabbits are in, and the payoff is effective in being blunt and visceral, which hits because Not Everything In The Book Is Described This Way. Nothing about these excerpts are particularly quotable because that is actually not what good narrative writing is about.
we will get a new PP coach right??? RIGHT???
for my lobster enjoyers 🦞
have you ever sorted shapes and colors with your life on the line
parker including not one but two photos of him and jack embracing in his end of season instagram post 🥲 my heart is gonna explode
'YOU'RE SMART. YOU'LL FIGURE IT OUT.' PROJECT HAIL MARY (2026) COLOR PROJECT + ORANGE
btw it's so fucking stupid you can be anxious physically in your body even after you've decided mentally you don't care. I'm supposed to be in charge here
i wish drawing was a real thing that you could actually do
