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We’ve seen a number of writers sharing stories about suddenly losing access to their Google Docs today.

It’s still unclear what’s causing this, but if you’re concerned about big tech creeping in creative tools and spaces… you’re definitely not alone. (We’ve written about de-Googling and censorship before.)

You should be able to write freely—without fear of deletion, censorship, or extraction.

All writing should be safe. It should stay yours.

We want to help build a space where writers are in control:

Ownership of your work. No surveillance; no surprise removals.

Sync, share, and collab, without scraping or data-selling.

A writing tool that you know is safe, now and in the future.

Please stay informed. Back up your work. And don't be evil (👀 Google).

~ the Ellipsus Team xo

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finding an error in someone else's fic: awe. we are all human - this is totally understandable and doesn't bother me whatsoever. it is almost endearing to know that others are not perfect, and in their excitement to share, they made a small mistake.

finding an error in your own fic: a merciful death is too kind for me. i deserve to be burnt on a pyre or publicly executed at dawn

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I love other writers so much because every writer I've ever met is genuinely and utterly deranged on a level only writers can achieve

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'Moonlight' Alphonse Mucha, 1902

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non-writers will never understand the mental illness of writing an entire conversation in your head while doing dishes and then forgetting every word the second you open a blank doc

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giving your dash a little clean

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My cartoon this this week’s Guardian Books

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— sylvia plath (via letsbelonelytogetherr)

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I’d like to live through a week that’s not a whole new verse of “We Didn’t Start the Fire.”

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John Oliver gets it, as usual. AI Slop is one of the best episodes of Last Week Tonight I've seen so far. Gen AI is theft. Those who use it are not authors or artists, they're grifters profiting from real creatives.

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this isn’t the first time the DHS has tweeted literal nazi propaganda but uuuhhhh I feel like things are going to get Very Bad unless we do something. about the nazis. who are running the US government

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I think you need a little break from the angst my friend. Let's fluff it up with maybe some fullshift Derek and non-shift Derek both loving belly rubs from Stiles. (Maybe some scratches as well)

We love a good belly rub! Lol. Here ya go babes!

••••••

At first, Stiles thought it was just a wolf thing.

The first time Derek shifted fully and flopped over onto his side with a heavy whuff, Stiles had cautiously approached - hands out, knees bent, voice high and gentle like he was coaxing a stray dog. He didn’t expect Derek, majestic and slightly terrifying in his full wolf form, to roll onto his back, paws loose in the air, throat exposed, tail thumping once against the floor like a silent dare.

“…Do you want-” Stiles blinked. “Are you serious?”

Derek didn’t respond, obviously, but he let out a huff and tilted his head upside down, tongue lolling slightly. The picture of dignity.

So Stiles reached down. Rubbed the thick fur on his belly.

And Derek groaned. Loudly. Tail swished again.

“Oh my god,” Stiles whispered, wide eyed. “You’re just a giant dog. A giant belly-rub-loving dog. You have no shame.”

The groan turned into a pleased little growl. When Stiles scratched lower near his ribs, one of Derek’s legs gave an involuntary kick.

Stiles burst out laughing.

From then on, it became a thing. After missions. After stress. After pack meetings. Fullshift Derek would sprawl next to Stiles on the couch, nosing at his thigh until Stiles gave in, fingers sinking into the dense fur of his belly, scratching gently until Derek melted into a puddle of lupine goo.

The real surprise came one lazy Sunday when Derek wasn’t in wolf form at all.

They were lying on the couch - Derek half on top of Stiles, watching TV, his weight warm and solid, back pressed to Stiles’ side. Stiles absentmindedly slid a hand under Derek’s hoodie and just…rested it on his stomach. Rubbed slow circles.

Derek made a quiet noise. Not quite a purr, not quite a moan. His eyes fluttered shut.

Stiles looked over, amused. “You good?"

Derek hummed. “Don’t stop.”

Stiles blinked. “Oh my god.”

“What?”

“You really like belly rubs. Even in human form. That wasn’t just a wolf thing.”

Derek cracked one eye open. “I didn’t say it was just a wolf thing.”

Stiles’s mouth opened and closed. “I’m not kink-shaming you, I swear, I’m just, this is adorable.”

Derek growled softly. “Don’t ruin it.”

Stiles didn’t. In fact, he doubled down, dragging his nails lightly in a circle around Derek’s navel and then lower, scratching lightly where his waistband dipped. Derek twitched. Actually squirmed like a cat in sunlight.

“Scratch higher,” Derek mumbled, breath hitching. “Ribs.”

Stiles did. Derek sighed.

“Derek Hale,” Stiles said in awe, “you are a menace, and also a belly rub slut.”

Derek didn’t argue. He just draped a heavy arm across Stiles’ waist, pulled him closer, and demanded, “Don’t stop.”

So he didn’t. Not that day, not the next.

And sometimes, when Derek was in fullshift, curled up in bed with his head on Stiles’ chest and his belly just there, Stiles would scratch at it and laugh when Derek's paw kicked again.

No one believed him when he told them. Not until the pack came over once and fullshift Derek rolled onto his back in the middle of the living room, belly exposed, tongue out, and Stiles, completely unfazed, just said, “Don’t worry, I got him,” and proceeded to rub his Alpha’s stomach.

Boyd nearly choked on his soda.

Jackson refused to make eye contact for a week.

Peter just muttered, “I can’t believe you spoil him,” and walked away.

And Derek? He just wagged his tail.

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