Puck-jay - Puckjay

I wept as Cesar wept, I too was the same age as Alexander. Cesar had yet to conquer the world, I had yet to kiss a boy.

The tBoy equivalent of ovulating is week 2 post shot and the third week is spent unfollowing all the hot men I followed bc of a thirst trap

Intro post, hi! Hello!

I'm puckjay, he/him sometimes he/they, trans and somewhere on the aroace spectrum (I usually just say queer)

I'm a creative writing student, and I specialize in classic literature (so medieval and before)

Other than that I write mostly prose poetry, theater and sometimes novel-like things (and fanfictions). Currently I'm working on toxic gay wizards because I support gay wrongs.

Other than that I'm a huge ttrpg fan.

That's most of my personality right there.

Less magic schools. More magic universities. Unlearn the simplified models of your secondary education. Discover how to reference scrolls written by a wizard possessed by a different wizard. Identify bias in the voices that whisper from beyond the veil. Have your institution be accused of promoting a Merlinist agenda. Become addicted to energy potions.

Had a lack-of-soup induced panic attack now I worship the gods of old

Reblog to kill it faster

There should be a fanfic writing game called the showrunners challenge where someone writes a story and partway through someone else can play things like "actor leaves after 4000 more words" or "topic now too politically sensitive due to unforeseen world events" or "lost rights to that reference"

So writers joke a lot about "drinking the tears of our readers", but I want to be so honest with you when I tell you that making you cry isn't our real goal. Making you feel is.

Kicking your feet? Giggling? Can't stop smiling? And yes, crying? Feeling anything, everything. That's our goal. That means we did The Job.

truly some people have no genre savviness whatsoever. A girl came back from the dead the other day and fresh out of the grave she laughed and laughed and lay down on the grass nearby to watch the sky, dirt still under her nails. I asked her if she’s sad about anything and she asked me why she should be. I asked her if she’s perhaps worried she’s a shadow of who she used to be and she said that if she is a shadow she is a joyous one, and anyway whoever she was she is her, now, and that’s enough. I inquired about revenge, about unfinished business, about what had filled her with the incessant need to claw her way out from beneath but she just said she’s here to live. I told her about ghosts, about zombies, tried to explain to her how her options lie between horror and tragedy but she just said if those are the stories meant for her then she’ll make another one. I said “isn’t it terribly lonely how in your triumph over death nobody was here to greet you?” and she just looked at me funny and said “what do you mean? The whole world was here, waiting”. Some people, I tell you.

Spill, O muse, the tea of Achilles's anger issues