I Miss Noah Czerny So Much

you and i were fireworks that went off too soon

A graphic of what reading tsc is like:

Nora, I am suing you for the damage that Jean's angst has done to my mental health. But also I forgive you just because you let Neil go feral.

oh my gawd paperbacks are here

Kdp has approved the paperbacks.

It has been a bit of a mess, starting with not having access to the right PC for the full cover (Amazon requires back spine front be a single img, and psp5 is still only on the older pc), then to the usual distress over margins that requires ordering proofs after every tweak & waiting on delivery, then to the final book getting locked in a box I don't have a key to for four days. All that to say, sorry for the wait. ☠️☠️ My goal with tsc3/#6 is to ensure ebook & print release same day.

That being said, I am heading out for the year unless disaater strikes. Be safe, lovies.

Sometimes family is a tired businessman, a punk catholic farmer and his magician boyfriend, a teenager with no internal organs, and two badass women who are legally the same person

holy shit

Work’s finally chilled out a bit!

POV: Nicky is taking pictures of the team arriving for another match 🤭

it’s him season

I know many people have said it. I know everyone knows. But I'm going to say it again.

Andrew never intended to survive the car crash.

ANDREW NEVER INTENDED TO SURVIVE THE CAR CRASH.

drunk - @rosekillermicrofic - word count: 99

"You're drunk," Evan murmurs and Barty kisses down his neck, hands wandering up and down his sides.

"So?" His head is hazy. The alcohol has made things fuzzy, but one thing is clear: he wants. More than anything, he wants to belong to Evan, to be underneath him, to be taken by him until he forgets his own name. "I want you."

But Evan pulls backward, a tortured look on his face. "Yeah, Bee. Except you only want me because you're drunk. I want you all the time."

And then he's disappeared, leaving Barty cold and confused and alone.

nobody understands how fucking insane I am about neil josten. I want to build an art gallery for that man, a museum, a cathedral. I want to capture the sound of his laughter in a bottle. I want to interview the monster that lived under his childhood bed. I want to study his profile while he’s sleeping. I want to know every speck of color in his eyes. I want his bones that healed wrong. I want to catch the way foreign curses fall from his tongue and make a wind chime out of them. I want to pluck the sun out of his hair. I want to see his already questionable humanity decay. I want to taste his terror and despair and I want to cradle him in my arms and never let another person hurt him ever again