Update:

Update:

tfw you're still working on a second draft of a novel and you have the almost undeniable urge to write fanfic of your own novel because you've got Some Trans Shit To Work Through

Things I have Googled while writing fiction recently: * History of foot orthotics * When were wrist watches invented * Do lesbians hate beards * Puffin symbolism * Fancy word for sucking up * Boring historical subjects * Slutty dandy fashion * Can crows eat pizza

Jesus Christ what a ride

It is a little known fact that angels cannot step foot in hell.

Note: this does not mean that angels *don’t* enter the burning depths, only that they cannot touch the floor. You see, the fires that rage below are not regular fire. They do not consume fuel and oxygen and spit out heat. Instead, they chew on reality and drink down order, and the flames that lick up at you are made of chaos-filled void.

This is antithetical to the very substance of angels. If it touches them, at *best* the angels will be spat out as they are forcibly reminded that *they don’t go here*.

At medium, they will be unmade.

At worst, they will be *changed*.

You might think they could avoid this by simply flying through the pit, right? Oh, would that it were so simple. Remember the flames that burn up reality? Hell is an alchemical reaction of exploding space and logic and time and souls. You try flying through a place that is not a place, where up and down can hardly agree on which is which for more than an instant.

But there is a way around this. It was originally discovered by the guardian angel Cambiel. You see, under Cambiel’s protection was a woman named Ruth. Ruth was a shining light who Cambiel cared for greatly.

Ruth, in turn, had a woman she cared for very much. And, sadly, a demon had stolen Ruth’s love away from her.

“Do not follow her,” warned Cambiel, “for if you follow your heart through the gates of perdition, I cannot go with you.”

“Sorry, babe,” replied Ruth, “but I am *very* gay and *very* romantic and that has made me reckless.”

And Cambiel nodded sadly, for all of this was true and good.

But as Ruth walked the lonely, tortured path into the underworld, an idea occurred to Cambiel.

Sure, they couldn’t walk or fly into hell, but maybe they could *ride* there.

Now, a fully grown horse could not hope to navigate the depths beneath the world, for their sense of self-preservation was too strong. An adult horse would flee from the screams of imploding souls and the winding geometry of impossibly winding roads.

But a young horse? With a child’s innocence, with bright young eyes, who had not yet been tricked into believing in its mortality?

That was a mount that could bear an angel (who was, after all, light enough to dance on the head of a pin) into the fearful caverns of the beyond. Honestly, the little horse seemed weirdly enthused about the whole thing. 

And so did Cambiel guide a pair of reckless and romantic (and useless) lesbians out of hell.

When the pair thanked the angel, all they said was this:

“Don’t thank me, thank the little horse. It turns out … foals rush in where angels fear to tread.”

I'll take "Not Only No, But Fuck No" for 1000, Alex

Being unemployed in 2024 is just like. Okay. Guess it's time to throw myself in the wood chipper, I guess.

didn’t you have a whole thing about Clark’s parents you were writing as well? did I make that up?

"Focus, Jor-El," Lara said, the thought chiding as she nudged him with her elbow.

"I swear there's something over there," he said with frustrated curiosity, though he put the bot back on course. Flickers of thought about strange structures, ancient ruins. He had the thought that he'd be able to see better if the bot were higher, if it had been carried by something they could have launched into the air, fire and noise. She nudged him again because he hadn't bothered keeping the thought from her.

"Stop looking for problems you can solve with rockets," she said, still not looking up from the screen. She loved her mate dearly, but this struck her as one of his moments, a blade in search of a throat. He feigned offense at the thought.

"Most problems can be solved with rockets," he insisted, with a distant thought about her parents that failed to coalesce into anything coherent. The shadow of a tasteless joke unmade.

"When I tire of the sky being above my head instead of on top of it, I'll let you know," she said. It was hard to make out any of what the bot was transmitting. She tried lowering her glasses to look past the tinted lenses, but this close to the surface was still too bright for her. She winced, sliding her glasses back up her nose.

"My poor perfect mate," Jor-El teased, "with her perfect eyes stuck in imperfect conditions."

"Contemplate emptiness," she shot back, and he laughed aloud.

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