#prose is such a fluid thing

[loverboydotcom]

purple prose might be another term that needs to be put on the high shelf of writing advice cause why does nobody seem to agree on what it actually means 😭😭😭

[viothecrapbot]

Warning major gender angst and other stuff ahead, you get a look into my uncensored thoughts on this for a while here. If you read this you have been warned. If you proceed that's on you

Someone needs to talk me out of buying trans tape at 3 am like right now

I have no self control and recently had gender crisis part 2: electric boogaloo and came to a vastly different conclusion than I did in the previous one. So as it turns out, I was not demigirl, I'm actually genderfluid. Whoops.

As it turns out, I do suffer with disphoria.

Hense the 3 am online shopping.

Also tidbit of advice here, do not have a gender crisis in the middle of a mental breakdown, it does not actually help things, it will infact make things worse. (As will work and stress, but having gender crises actually does take up a lot of mental energy and emotional bandwidth. Who knows?)

Where's the older sibling figure that comforts and helps you when you need it? No judgement or questions asked, just support. Where's the "I would kill you but also kill for you" ride or die in my life? I really do need a friend who can guide me here.

It's not like I can just talk to anyone about this in my real life, where do I turn to? To whom? Not like anyone will help me out no questions asked, not like I would trust anyone near me.

I suppose this kinda snuck up on me for a while but I really shouldn't have been surprised, the "hating what's in the mirror" did in fact get old very fast. There's also a reason I tended to lean towards giant hoodies and sweats that dwarf me.

And all this leads to the 3 am shopping. What do I do. Do I spend the 40$ or not. What if I don't like it? What if *I do?* Then what? Not like I can wear it with no questions.

I haven't even told anyone about the aroace flag in my room. I bought it, and immediately folded it up and placed it away. How do I have those conversations with people who don't understand? The Ace descussion went terribly enough the first and second time. I don't want that to happen again, especially with a much more abstract concept to me.

There's a reason I did not come to this conclusion until now. I've been so relegated into this role as "la señorita" in my family. My hair has to be long because it's so pretty and if I cut it short it looks "too boyish*. (As I've learned my hair is actually causing disphoria so... Fun) If I wear jewelry it has to be pretty, of it's something that my family does not find "pretty or cute" then it gets immediately disapproved.

The other day my father noticed that I has some facial hair, as all humans do. He suggested that I should get it laser removed so it doesn't grow back. He said it was gross to have. I looked in the mirror that morning and loved what I saw, and now I can't help but think of those words every time I look into the mirror. Just another "mistake of word choice" on his end that I will have to forgive.

They don't need to physically do anything, words are enough. The looks are enough to make me stop. But now? I don't know how I'm going to cope with that. Not with awareness. I think I will die like this. I don't want to.

Over a year ago I cut my hair. It was for my birthday. I cut it up to my shoulders, it was light and fluffy and healthy, and I could breathe. For the first time for as long as I can remember I could breathe. My family didn't like it, "it doesn't suit you it's too short". And they've never needed to lay a single finger to hurt me.so now my hair reaches to nearly my mid back again. The curls, thankfully, shrink it quite a lot.

I don't know why I keep it long anymore. The thoughts of what I can do with it are endless in my head, yet I don't do any of it. Just toss it into yet another ponytail and call it a day. It would be so much easier to convince myself that perhaps this isn't real if I didn't break down every time I brush my hair now.

I let my hair dry naturally the other day. The curls were flat, heavy with the weight of my world. It was so long. I felt like I was staring at that little girl 6 years ago. I look exactly like her. I've changed so much, yet nothing has changed for me. Yet now here I am, now 4 am sitting in a bathroom praying to dear whatever god is out there, listening to my desperate prayer, that I find peace one day. That one day I will not be scared of myself, that one day I will be happy and me and everything I want to be and have always been.

I want out let me out of my prison that you called my body. I feel pain everywhere all of the time, my joints constantly hurt, even a slight touch make me feel like I'm brusing myself. What this the life I was made for. Of pain, misery, books and words. I refuse to believe that, but what am I, a febele mortal in the face of the fates themselves? What right do I have to ask for things to be better when they are by all accounts they are very well. What right do I have to complaining about the good?

Is that even me talking anymore? Or just the words I've heard so many times thrown at me? Am I me? Or just a reflection of what others believe what I should be? I didn't even get to pursue my passion, instead I'm going for something entirely different, at the behest of others. Not even just my family, everyone around me.

So when I look at myself in the mirror I'm no longer shocked I hate the things I see. My curves, while a blessing on some days are curses on others, my hair, while fun is something that causes great strife. The soft rounded face, the presence of 2 glands. I don't want to hate myself. I refuse to. My circumstance makes that hard, if only because a silver tounge is deadlier than a whip ever will be.

4:15

Will I ever leave my bathroom? I don't think I'll even make it out of the closet. It's cramped with my skeletons. With my flags. With my clothes. With my heat.

I

Want

Out

[phantomarine]

Hey what were you trying to say in your “it gets good at page 1001” post

Was it more of a comment directed at yourself ( self degradation), is it satire about perfectionism,

Is it supposed to be inspirational for Beginners webcomic creators, or we’re you just in a bad mood?

More of a warning against self-sabotage, because I see it so much. Sometimes it's tied to perfectionism, sometimes it's the opposite - people surrendering to imperfection when they don't really have to.

Creator chat incoming. I'll put it under the deelybob for anyone who wants to read it 👇

I've been in the webcomic sphere for several years now and I've seen so many people introduce their comic with 'I know it's very long and not easy to read, and I won't be going back and changing anything about what I've already made - but please critique it so I can make the rest of the pages better and attract a bigger audience from now on.'

And that's a hard thing to respond to. If a reader can't get through all those existing pages without being confused or bored, then how can they get to the good stuff that lies past them?

So much of gaining an audience is about actively making it easy to 'fall into' a work. Without that easy entry point, it's always going to be an uphill battle to build an audience, no matter how good the later chapters get. There are outliers, but most webcomics won't be those outliers, especially with thousands of them available nowadays. Some people love the grind, but most people will jump to a new tab and try to find something less frustrating.

And webcomic creation is particularly cursed by its very nature. Creators are hesitant to go back and edit pages, even once they've figured out more details about their craft or story structure. It's mostly because of the seeming permanence of it all - the art takes ages and the words feel unchangeable if even one other person has read them. To go back and edit is to publicly admit your failings, right? That's how it feels. What do you MEAN you didn't get it right the first time? You were supposed to do it live, and do it PERFECTLY!

But ideally it shouldn't be any different than prose writing, which is ALL ABOUT finding the story in those edits. And because your story is digital, you can go back and change things whenever you feel like it. A webcomic is fluid.

And if you're thinking 'I should just redraw my whole first chapter' - NO! Hell no, old art can be a part of the appeal! It's far more about finding little tricks to convey your story/characters more clearly. I have read some first chapters with janky art that made me fall completely in love with the story and cast. It's not about the art - as with all things comic-related, it's about conveyance.

Examples I've seen and some I've used myself: A single extra page with a meaningful interaction can solidify the theme of a character's arc. One additional 5-to-10-page scene can help add visual context for an offscreen event where there was none before. Adding a map can tell people where the characters currently are. Changing a character design can help if they get often confused with another character. Redoing your lettering to make it more legible is a huge one too.

In the end, I just don't want people to be afraid of small edits. When I got feedback about the bad clarity of my own work, I knew it would take some time to fix those problems. It wasn't fun to think about or to do, but I'm glad I did it in the end - because it would have limited my audience tremendously. With just a bit of extra effort, I opened a door that wasn't there before, and it now leads more people even more easily to 'the good stuff.'

tl;dr You started your webcomic for a reason, and you're learning more things about its characters, story, and craft every day. Don't be afraid to go back to old pages and inject some of that wisdom through editing. Even a little can go a long way.

***Caveat: If your goal is to just create chaotically, with no goal of gaining an audience, you are a wild and free little thing, and I am in awe of you. This whole rant doesn't apply to you, and you are stronger than me.

[kenzieluvsnanami]

❝ 𝐈'𝐦 𝐧𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐨𝐮𝐬, 𝐨𝐡 𝐬𝐨 𝐧𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐨𝐮𝐬 ❞ - flo, bending my rules *:･ﾟ✧。.: kenzieluvsnanami :: a nanami first date drabble

// cw slightly suggestive, reader is insecure and a lil damaged, a bit angst ig (like no happy ending.. yet), lowercase intended, v casual short prose // 0.7k words

thinking about going on a first date with my fave, the feeling of not just anticipation about what it'd be like moving your relationship into this new romantic space but also a distinct sense of... nervousness?

it wasn't like you had never been on a date, your experience of men being not incredibly extensive but enough to know how a first date should go: murmured compliments under the low light of an intimate restaurant as you got to know each other further. maybe even getting to know one another in a more physical sense, your entangled bodies getting impossibly closer in the early hours of the morning as you caressed crevices with a light touch as he methodically pushed into you, bodily fluids exchanging in an act which you would think make you even closer. it was like a ritual at this point, meeting someone, going on a few dates and then eventually the spark would fizzle out - not really due to anyones demerit but more just general incompatibility.

it was a cycle that you had seemed doomed to repeat... but somehow this date felt different? even the way it was arranged, nanami had clearly gone through a lot of effort to make the evening perfect for the two of you; you both communicating about what activities you preferred and also touching on what you didn’t as much (your mutual dislike for coffee dates was comforting).

most dates hadn't really bothered to ask some of the things that nanami had, assuming rather that you would like them to take charge and almost escort you to whatever place they deemed you to be worthy of. honestly, it was refreshing to be able to express your wants without feeling like you were being too confrontational or “bossy”.

the two of you had decided to visit the nearby beach that friday, the forecast predicting a beautifully clear day with an enjoyable light breeze. fate seemed to have lined up with both of you having a free spot in your schedules to meet up that evening and soak up the sunset at a nearby seafood restaurant.

now what may have been making you so nervous about this date is the fact that it was all so… new. most of your dates never seemed to want to make an attempt to be unique when it came to date ideas, trying too hard to play it safe (or cheap, depending on your viewpoint).

you were genuinely excited to go on this date as it was an actual outing - breaking away from the familiar inner city and travelling out to the rural coast. you loved the seaside; the fresh, salty air in your lungs alongside the silky sand beneath your feet seemed like exactly the relaxation you both needed after a long, stressful week.

thinking about how perfect this date would be is helping you to calm down slightly but another thought almost completely deflates you; what do you wear?

now the two of you had discussed going for a brief dip in the ocean so you should bring a swimsuit to change into. but then which one to bring? you didn’t want to cover up completely in a one piece but then you also didn’t want to be as bare as the typical triangle bikini left you.

it felt almost… shameful to be that “naked” infront of nanami. you didn’t want to come off as being “easy” or feel like your being judged. you knew nanami wasn’t really the type to infer or assume anything based purely of something so superficial like what bathing suit you wore but you just really wanted him to… like you. you didn’t want him to reject you in the same way that other men have. you really wanted this to work.

thursday evening left you tossing and turning in bed, sleep seeming like a fantasy at this point - your nerves turning into stomach churning anxiety. what if he didn’t like your hair? your body? your smile? or just you in total. maybe you were better off as acquaintances, his mellow and calm demeanour clashing with your more uninhibited, affable disposition.

i guess you’d only find out tomorrow.

a/n : i love this song sm like i must have listened to it at least 100x. i do want to write abt the actual date but itll take me a hot minute.

credits to @/cafekitsune for the dividers!!!!!!

likes and reblogs make me squirt!

[omaano]

"Cassian's face is a brittle thing, no person's eyes should shine as painfully tearful as his. Kino offers his hand and Cassian - bright as the sun, steady as a roc, fluid as water Cassian - accepts it with shaking fingers. He tells Kino everything."

Art for we're spitting off the edge of the world by Xenomorphic for the 2024 Star Wars Big Bang @swbigbang. It is an amazing Canon Divergence Fix-it fic from one of the most memorable moments of Andor onwards, with beautiful prose that fits the mood of the show so so well and will make you feel just as deeply for these characters. Please give it a read and heap some love on my team's amazing and hardworking author, they were such a delight to work with!❤️

[ranticore]

Settling Siren, the deep dream, and dream rot

This is something I can't present with accompanying art so I will present it with accompanying prose, from an anonymous archaeologist's research paper on the mechanism by which the very first human on Siren was 'born'. I wrote a whole bunch like this and I'd like to share it some day as a type of web serial thing, following two parallel in-universe stories separated by thousands of years (the story of Ishmael, the first human born on Siren, and the story of the archaeologist uncovering the past who was forced into hiding and had to publish this stuff anonymously) but it's early stages for now.

But one bit of the world that I'm happy with is the dream & delayed birth, a way to grow a human during long space voyages so that they can be old enough to work (or study, in this case) when the voyage is over. This means they grow up in a false reality, and may only take their first breaths when they're years old. More valuable humans just get cryogenically frozen and don't age, creating a two-tiered system. Anyway the writing below explains it better than I can, check it out

The Lonely Sailor was owned by Atom GeneWeave and would carry a cargo container full of fertilised Human eggs to the new world. These were known as embryos and were mostly held in a frozen state, but there were twenty of them which were not frozen. They were placed in false amniotic sacs and allowed to continue growing throughout the entire voyage of The Lonely Sailor, even though the adult Humans themselves would be frozen, too.

Dan Lorvis slotted his first viable attempt at life into the cargo hold last, knowing that it would be the first to wake. He used a computer machine called a Deep Dreamer to monitor the growing life, and encoded within it an operation called ‘Athletic_Boy_Childhood_03.deepdr‘. He wrote on the amniotic sac the name of his creation: Ishmael 1© property of ATOM GENEWEAVE®.

Dan Lorvis then settled himself into a sleeping chamber which would freeze him harmlessly for the duration of the voyage.

The journey from Ceti to Siren would take seven years. Ishmael grew from fertilised egg to embryo and then became a baby in the normal period of time that these things take. But he was not born then. He remained asleep, dreaming that he was living a Human childhood.

Contemporary scholars such as ourselves can only guess at what he dreamed of, as the memory encoded into him was designed to fade, leaving behind only the lessons that Atom felt were necessary for him to learn, to function normally and not emerge from the seven year journey in a feral state. He learned how to speak, how to read and write, all without ever having taken a single breath. When he was old enough, he moved his body as though he were engaging in games of chase and team sports, and this allowed his muscles to develop.

(...)

The embryo cargo pod was offloaded thirty-nine days after landing on Siren, still in the first year. Five days later, Ishmael’s amniotic sac was drained, and his deep dream interrupted by his birth.

The last moment of his encoded dream was common to all artificial dreams, designed to ease the transition into true waking life. He was falling asleep in his bed (an archaic sort of bower), his body feeling tired but satisfied after a day of typical, perfectly generic childhood games. He had something called a mother in this dream who pulled the blankets around his shoulders and kissed him as he drifted off, though he did not remember what their face looked like, only that they instilled within him a sense of perfect safety.

His moment of calm was soon eaten by sensation. It was cold, he realised. Colder than anything he had ever felt. The fluid that had supported him at a constant temperature for seven years was draining away and he reached out, to grab at the blanket he half-remembered. His nerves were alight with new sensations and the world was so bright it felt that he was staring into Odr’s eye.

Dan Lorvis described Ishmael as strong and healthy, but he didn’t feel that way. Everything was loud and bright and his body was so heavy. He had never truly experienced gravity, but that alone did not account for the disconnect. His dream had been the dream of a Precursor Human, a bipedal creature with a fully upright stance, straighter even than a shortwing’s, with no tail, no flippers, no phocid morphology. To the newborn Ishmael’s mind, he had just undergone a horrifying transformation, and his body was wrong.

(...)

Cherta, who gave their name to the wandering moon, was the fifth born beta phocid. There is very little to distinguish Cherta from the rest of the group, at this early stage, but I have on file their original description - “‘Cherta’, named for a sponsor of the project who donated three million nua*. Unisex ‘phocid’ of the Beta generation. Born age 10 years and 5 months, in [Year 3]. Melanistic colouring was chosen as protection against solar radiation, but it is expressed in heterogenous patches with a strong dorsal stripe. Length 5’1 nose to tailtip at time of birth and weight 54kg. Unusually violent birth, needed sedation.” In fact, Cherta assaulted Dan Loris’s assistants as they were born, reacting to the event as though it were an invasion of the bedroom of their dream. It was by all accounts an auspicious start compared to the others, and perhaps an indication that Cherta’s experience with the deep dream was not standard.

Cherta had fallen victim to another rare phenomenon of the incubator, referred to by Dan Loris as ‘dream rot’. This occurrence is a result of differences in the receiving brain, rather than the dream machine itself. The brain begins to understand, in some form, that what it is witnessing is not reality, and the structure of the dream begins to unravel.

At the time of Cherta’s delayed birth, the dream had been in the early stages of this process. If allowed to continue for too long, permanent damage to the psyche’s ability to judge reality is the result. Cherta would be haunted by this for the remainder of their life and suffer from regular seizures that severely reduced their ability to swim like any other phocid, but it was not severe enough to significantly alter their treatment compared to the other beta phocids.

[scarlet--wiccan]

Are there any magic system ideas from other stories you have read that you would like to see implemented in Marvel's magic system?

Not necessarily. For one thing, I actually think it's important that magic remain somewhat fluid. The function of magic, specifically spellcasting, is to meet the needs of the story. So, it kind of has to be adaptable. Besides, one of the things I like about Marvel is that is there are so many different kinds of magic, and I think that imposing a universal system would kind of detract from that.

There are already some universal underpinnings in the Marvel world that I like, such as the breakdown of eco-, exo-, and ego-centric power sources. Fine-tuning that concept and using it more consistently would help magic feel more coherent and grounded across the board, but still leave room for each character or realm to feel unique.

Having said that, I think my favorite magic system, ever, is the one from the Young Wizards series by Diane Duane. It revolves primarily around a universal language, called the Speech, that can be used to name or describe pretty much anything in reality. Spells, therefore, take the form of complex sentences, equations, sometimes songs or poems, which describe, in detail, everything involved and what it needs to do, how it needs to change, etc. But beyond having the power command or transform reality, the Speech allows wizards to communicate and form relationships with almost any kind of life, any kind of matter, any kind of energy. It's incredibly versatile, and I really love that while it can be very exacting and clinical, it requires an empathetic, relational approach with a real human core.

Part of what I like about this system is that it bridges the gap between magic and science. It often requires wizards to have a detailed knowledge of whatever they're working with, and it provides opportunities to demonstrate that knowledge to the reader, which is an important part of how you make magic feel earned. That's something that's missing in a lot of modern comics-- we don't get to see the thought process or the effort that goes into spell casting. And because the system is simultaneously complex and intuitive-- it's just language, after all-- once your reader is reasonably familiar, you can actually get away with glossing over the details when you need to keep a scene moving. The reader will infer the detail on their own because you've taught them how the system works. It's just... brilliant. Duane is a genius to me, and I love these books so much.

Using universal language or code as magic works really well for characters like Doctor Strange-- I think they tried to do something similar in the movies, only far less artful-- and the correlation of practical knowledge to magical efficacy is perfect for something like Wanda's hex power. Importing the Young Wizards system into Marvel comics wholesale probably wouldn't work out-- it kind of relies on prose-- but there are a lot of great lessons and helpful ways of thinking about magic to be gained from Duane's writing.

[laufire]

august reading meme!

BOOKS

Burning Your Boats by Angela Carter. I got through this collection of short stories slowly but surely, and it cemented Angela Carter as one of my favourite authors. The Bloody Chamber will always have a special place in my heart, but each collection had stories that made my imagination run wild and enthralled me with their prose. Some of my favourites were "The Loves of Lady Purple," "Impressions: The Wrightsman Magdalene," or "The Scarlet House."

Olvidado Rey Gudú by Ana María Matute. This is my ASOIAF. What a long, meaty, enchanting tale, seriously. This book is the magnus opus of one of my favourite Spanish authors, and tells the story of the Kingdom of Olar from its birth to its end, over five tumultuous generations. It mixes the grounded medieval setting and outlandish fantastical elements in a very fluid prose, and following the tragic tale of woe in its pages over the last couple of months was a delight.

COMICS

The Cheshire Contract (Action Comics #613-618). I wanted to read the story of Lian going to live with Roy, for Reasons. It's good and fun and short (it occupies a small part of a larger issue, 8 pages each), so if it interests you, go for it.

Batman & Spiderman. This is part of a bunch of crossovers I haven't read, and don't plan to for now, so I was mixing some context, but I read it because Talia was there lol. I don't think DC and Marvel mix well, most of the time, but this little one-shot makes it work.

Jason Todd: Rebirth (2016-2020ish). It... had its moments. Waaaaay too much Lobdell, just as the New 52, but now that I've started the next phase to fall face-first into Cheer, of all arcs... yeah, neither is good lol. But one thing that really appealed to me was the dynamic between Jason and Bizarro; hence the cover. The other highlight was the (tragically few) interactions between Jason and Duke, especially in New Talent Showcase 2017. Give me mooooore, DC!! Other than that... well, there were many things that annoyed the hell out of me (Black Mask's writing, Bruce's EVERYTHING), but let's not get into it lol.

Green Arrow (2001). What a run. I've loved it from beginning to end, really (though a bit through the middle the art horrified me xD). It turned Mia into one of my favourite characters (and in reread, elevated a rareship into an OTP, because it really works for her character :P), which is not rare given that this is clearly where here best arcs are :D. Connor didn't have enough to do, tragically, but he's a great character and I look forward to read more about him; about Dinah&Ollie as well.

Batman: Bane of the Demon. Hi yeah just mentioning this arc to tell you guys about how Ra's apparently keeps cameras in Talia's bedroom :))) he might've been watching as she hooked up with Bane (who he unceremoneously decides she must marry to advance his plans). Let's all kill Ra's.

Batman: Death and the Maidens. A Rucka story, so you know it's good (though not particularly good to Talia lbr... I'm not bothered by *what* happens, I just wish we'd seen more of her perspective, during and especially after -though that's not a mmater of *this* run of course). Bruce's dream journey/possible visions of his parents's ghost were a highlight. Do recommend.

Truth & Justice: Hunted by the Past (#4). Way better than similar "Jason fears becoming the Joker!!!" stories, though that interpretation of the character is never going to be one I agree with. I liked seeing him with the helmet again, and the art is fun. The story gave Jason yet another pre-Robin childhood friend (this one got killed

Green Lantern/Green Arrow: Hard Travelling Heroes. A fascinating read, especially taking it in its context and comparing it to how timid DC is about politics in current comics, IMO. This run was messy and didn't always seem to know what it was doing, and some of what it included or argued feels wrong from a modern perspective, but it dared to take risks and that's always appreciated on my part. My favourite story was the one introducing John Stewart; both for John himself, of course, but also because it was unafraid to write Hal as someone that despite good intentions and despite being a ~heroic character, had racist biases he needed to face and overcome.

Kingdom Come. This is one of those ~iconic comics that feels like a must-read; it's meaty and it raises questions and it's a run you could really sink your teeth into. And I didn't like it at all LOL. It's so... nostalgic and regressive and downright reactionary. Its fluffy epilogue does it no favours, too (other than prompting this post of mine, ig).

No Man's Land. I finally read the whole thing!!!!!! It took me SIX MONTHS!!!!!!!! And speaking of reactionary beliefs añdslfkjasf. But I did like it and enjoyed it far more than Kingdom Come, tbf (except Dixon's issues omg whyyyyy is he everywheeeeere he's so boriiiiiing). Helena Bertinelli is the uncontested star of this event AFAIC, and I won't hear otherwise. Well, Leslie, Barbara and Cass definitely shined too. And Montoya and Essen. Aaaand Harley Quinn has her introduction. And Selina has a lot of fun stealing things and screwing with everyone!!! And Talia gets Bruce to get his head out of his ass!!! Ugh, there's so much I could say about this run. The Renee & Two-Face issue. Alfred's tale of himself as Bruce's squire. Lynx and Batman's brief team-up. The Secret Files and Origins tale about a man named Jason who thinks Gotham is speaking to him, and who thanks Barbara for her service to the city. There is a lot in this arc that I'd gladly rotate in my mind forever. But Helena is my darling and THEE best Bat(man). That is all.

[video-hole]

Okay soooo Terzo hcs when, nsfw solo but also just like random thoughts you have on him

HIII HI OKAY I HAVE A MILLION ..... nsfw in the down there part bc I'm embarrassed ⤵️ but I'll do general stuff up here:

worlds most transgender man. To me. post top surgery but has no plans on bottom surgery

he's canonically short and I think he prefers his partners like, absurdly taller than him. like. have to tilt your head up to look them in the eye absurd.

despite having a lot of partners, I think he's mostly aromantic, with omega being his one exception. other than him, I don't think he sees himself as wanting to be With anyone, and even with omega they're not like fully and wholly exclusive. romantically they don't really see a need to involve other people but they definitely both sleep around and neither of them care

I think he has a really big sweet tooth, pastries are his go-to but he also loves dark chocolate paired with anything.

on the topic of food - he's SUCHHH a wine snob it's a little excessive. will ask for the year of every wine at every establishment he ever dines out at, WILL swirl the glass and tell you about the "notes" and such. omega finds it endearing but his brothers find it annoying

again on the topic of food, I think he can cook very well, but he can't bake. (which sucks for him considering how much he loves sweets 😭) cooking is far more loose and fluid than baking, and while I think he appreciates getting down to detail he just doesn't have the patience baking can require of someone and it makes him mess things up.

I think he's a dog person... I feel like he gives cat person vibes to most people but. idk. maybe it's just cause I've interacted w so many different dog owners that I'm more inclined to think of ppl as dog ppl but. that's what I get off of him

I think he's a very talented writer, even outside of music. I'd imagine he has a nice prose

ok time for horny stuff. hiii freaks and weirdos

a switch, but a full time bottom. he might on very rare occasions whip out the strap but it is not with any regularity

size queen . glances at omega. need I say more

LOUD. it's hard for them to fuck in secret because terzo is a goddamn screamer

big time oral fixation. loves to be kissing, licking, or sucking something. but also wouldn't say no to being on the receiving end of any one of those things

SUPER sensitive, REALLY easy to get him riled up at a moment's notice. especially his neck and thighs..

barely has any limits at all. it kind of scares omega sometimes with how far he'll ask him to go, even knowing how hurt he could get (but he always gets what he wants anyway...)

[supersoakerfullofblood]

A Note on Style and Truisms

I see a lot of posts here discussing the merits of genres, tropes, and general writing advice: "advice for high fantasy magic system worldbuilding," "how to write enemies to lovers," "words to use instead of 'said,'" "how to write foreshadowing," "how to show and not tell," "why telling is okay, actually," "how to write a killer plot twist," etc.

Most of this advice is bullshit, which isn't to say it's wrong, just that it doesn't matter. (Any advice about avoiding "said" though is wrong. The word is fine, and you can use it pretty laissez-faire.) If you want to write genre fiction, which most of these posts are aimed towards, that's totally fine, but if you follow the advice found in these posts religiously, your prose and your story will suffer. Why is that?

A distinction should be drawn between prescriptivist and descriptivist uses of genre. The latter is genre applied to a writer's work. The writer likely isn't actively thinking too strictly about the genre they're writing in as they're drafting, and when they're done writing, it's up to the audience to define it with a genre. These stories are fluid, real, and are a genuine creative expression of the author's lived experience. We love descriptivist genre use.

But a lot of writing advice on here, and a lot of writing in general nowadays, uses genre as a prescription. Before you even start drafting, you read a thousand posts about low fantasy magic systems, worldbuilding tips on which color paint your fantasy race prefers to eat, how many drones should be in your science fiction epic, how long is too long for slow burn romance, etc. Don't get me wrong, these are fun questions to ask and think about, but their merit doesn't go much farther than that. This isn't writing advice as much as a conversation starter, and if taken as genuine advice, your prose and story will turn into fairly generic slop in the genre you read about.

You aren't the only one writing a high fantasy strict magic system epic. You aren't the only one writing your specific combination of fanfic keywords. You aren't the only writer who thought to combine fantasy and sci-fi. Every other writer is reading the same posts you're reading, and since we've all been raised on pretty much the same media canon, our stories are going to sound pretty much the same. It's all going to come out as relative genre fic slop. But why? When you take all this shibboleth as gospel, you aren't writing from your own experience with your own style--you're cobbling together a novel from a list of tropes. It's like forming a human with a list of character traits. It sounds good in theory, but practically, you miss something vital in what it means to be human, what it means to tell a story.

But how do you write a story without this advice? Well, you start writing. Very quickly, you figure out what works for you and what doesn't, how much "worldbuilding" you like, which tropes you naturally gravitate towards. You read a lot and incorporate the things you admire from your reading into your own work. This becomes your style. If you read too much hokey writing advice, your style will never develop. It will become the homogenous style of the genre fic slop factory. Don't let that happen! Write your own story, your genuine story, and then apply whatever genre labels may be applied to it.

Again, this isn't me trashing genre fic. Genre fic is great! I've published a novel of fairly genre-y realistic fiction, and I happily write grimdark McDonaldland fanfiction. I'm only saying the best genre fic didn't start with the writer asking himself, "How am I going to write the next big fantasy novel?" They didn't start with the author looking at blog posts about the most effective tropes to include in their narrative. The best stories are expressions of personal experience, of an individual's life. That should be what you write towards--not some platonic ideal of what a genre should be.

The same goes for writing advice. A lot of it is sound, but much of it is worthless, and some of it is actively toxic to the writing life (and figuring out which advice is in which category is another struggle that should be solved). For every "avoid adverbs when you can help it" (sound advice), there's another "stop using 'said' so much" (awful advice). And most advice falls somewhere in the middle (the semicolon debate is a huge chunk of the middle-ground advice). If you follow too much of this advice before your style has started to develop, it can stunt its growth. Maybe you love semicolons. I sure do! That may never reveal itself if you read too much about how semicolons are the devil.

TLDR popular writing advice very quickly becomes an echo chamber, and most of the advice is worthless or detrimental in developing your writing. A good general rule is to never take any advice about what to write too seriously.

[theragamuffininitiative]

Every time a piece of fiction tries to convince me that giving someone cpr is a sexy thing, I want to throw the offending media into a volcano.

Not bc the trope is wildly overused (it is),

Not bc of any discourse about consent (necessary),

Not bc in an emergency situation your priority NEEDS to be stabilizing the victim bc once their heart/lungs are functioning again there is a heck ton of other stuff they're gonna be dealing with for quite some time and they need professional medical assistance yesterday,

But bc this demonstrates a fundamentally flawed perception of what is happening on a physiological level when someone stops breathing and/or particularly when their heart stops.

I'm no trained medical professional, but please listen to me speaking with all the authority of mid-level first aid certification:

In a cpr situation, you are almost definitely going to be exposed to every bodily fluid known to man and this is so very not sexy. I have yet to respond personally to such a scenario (thank heaven) but I work closely with people who have on multiple occasions. One of the first things they will tell you they learn about when someone's heart has stopped is that they can smell the person before they reach them. You've I'm sure seen some romanticized prose about the smell of death in a room? Well this moment is generally where that starts. I'm not going into more detail than that here, feel free to look up the info yourself.

But please, I beg of you, don't have your passed-out hero wake up after being given rescue breaths from their love interest and start kissing them back, or probably even talking to them coherently, ok? Ok. Thank you.

[merakiui]

I was thinking about scaramouche, because he's technically a puppet, fem reader would come to the conclusion that he doesn't have any sexual hormones in him cus hes not human? But maybe that's not actually the case for him, but she uses alternatives like masturbating or other methods to relieve herself since she assumes that he's not gonna be horny if they did do the thinggg im rambling but feel free to ignore if you want

Ooh, I like to think that after learning so much about certain human behaviors and habits Scaramouche has come to understand the concept of sex. Humans do it for a variety of reasons: to reproduce like all animals often do, out of physical attraction, out of love and sincerity, etc. He knows that there are various types of sex: romantic sex between lovers, loveless sex between individuals who aren't in love emotionally but perhaps physically, and so on. Like love, sex is complicated (to Scaramouche, at least). For the longest time he's been so certain that he has no need for those types of relations, but after he meets you his entire opinion has begun to change.

Scaramouche has never truly been horny before (mainly because he's never known how to accomplish such a feeling). Sure, he's felt sadistic exhilaration when he was a powerful Harbinger who could command the strongest of people to kneel and bow with but a simple command, but that has never really brought him the carnal, lustful pleasure that humans might feel when they bed another. Scaramouche has picked up novels (sweet, flowery romances and steamy erotic literature) to finally understand the complications of love and sex. There's always a build-up, tension, kissing, maybe even a confession, but what's always present in every story he's read so far is contact—close bodily contact that forms the stickiest of connections. As appealing as sex sounds in the novels he's read, Scaramouche suspects it's far messier than the poetic prose he's reading. Lots of fluids staining the sheets. Sweat and semen and maybe even blood.

But the more he thinks of you in a sexual manner, imagining you in the sex scenes he's reading in these erotic novels, the more he begins to see you in such ways. It's the little things (an innocent brush of your hand against his, the rain that soaks through your clothes and makes the wet fabric stick to your body in a way that accentuates all of your assets, and even the way you groan when arching your back in a stretch) that perk his curiosity, though he'll never admit to it if you tease him for staring.

Every time he's admiring you and you do something that has his thoughts racing, he can feel himself becoming eager to witness more. He'll tease you to see how far he can push you until you push back. He really enjoys bantering and bickering with you, and each time you grouse over how he always has something to say and never shuts up he's so very tempted to tell you that he can put his mouth to use in other ways. Shut him up with your own mouth and you won't hear a sarcastic peep from him. :)

When some of your teasing remarks border lewd territory, he is so very excited. You can hear it in his voice and see it in his eyes: the eager, almost breathy cadence and the electric thrill that widens in his eyes. These feelings are unlike others he's felt, but they invigorate him in a way he enjoys.

And when the effect you have on him and his body becomes so very clear, he finally starts to realize that perhaps all this time he's been lusting over you and has just never classified his daydreams (and actual dreams involving you) as horny thoughts.

[punch-love]

Can I ask how planned out your work for lp is? Like I know u said u have specific things in mind for each pov but are you ever like ohh I wanna add this scene, this scene would be fun? Or do u have like every chap and situations and whose pov per situation in mind where ur not really adding anything unless something calls for it because it would make more sense for it? Or something else entirely lol?

I have the ending planned, the reveal, and a few more "major" plot points that would be spoilers if I shared them. I think I plot similar to the way that you have points on a roadmap. I know what destinations I need to hit, but how I get to them is usually a lot more fluid. I usually write and rewrite the chapters over with different approaches, trying to figure out which one fits the story best. There are chapters that I write with a loose plan in mind that don't deviate too hard in the edit though. It really depends.

My beta also has a huge hand in each chapter - alongside doing the basic edits they also suggest structure reworks (last chapter they moved multiple scenes around), plot direction, and sometimes contribute prose/dialogue of their own that makes me want to move a scene into something else. This chapter, they suggested I move something in the beginning and stretch out another part, which is what I'm working on doing now in the second draft. I imagine it'll stretch and shift into new, unpredictable ways by the time it gets posted. I really don't like posting anything until I hear that near audible "click" in my head where a chapter finally connects to the last and is ready to be connected to the next. It just doesn't always click in the way I imagine it will when I sit down to write.

I would say love-punch is probably my most planned long work. I've spent the most time thinking about it, and it was created specifically because I wanted to write a specific type of reveal and ending that I hadn't really seen anyone else do. That being said, I was on a run yesterday and thought of a plot point that will drastically change the implications of the end that I really want to add. I don't know if I will still want to add it when the chapters get there, but it is constantly evolving and changing despite the path it's on being pretty set in stone.

[lackadaisy-headcanon-supply-unit]

Sitting in your requests box

Could I possibly ask for a Viktor & Reader (either familial or platonic, please) headcanons or a oneshot where Viktor (reluctantly) comforts the reader after a bad dream? (I know this is probably OOC for Viktor but. but. Cat dad)

We do love Dadktor in this household.

Cracked Glass

Viktor wouldn't call himself a father, or at least not a very good one.

Although his daughter's letters were all signed off with love, he could feel the bitterness beneath the lines, the cold regret of his silence in every "merry Christmas" or "please write soon". He could see the deep indents in the paper as the years dragged on, where shy curiosity about his absence turned to frustration. As Alena's curly handwriting became neater and clearer to read, so did her feelings towards him.

She loved him to bits, but she just wanted some sort of proof that he loved her back.

Viktor would have given it if holding a pen was more familiar to him than holding a gun was. If ink and blood were switched. If he wasn't embarrassed that his daughter's English and overall prose was better than his own. If he believed that anything he could say could make any of it better.

It wouldn't. A single letter from him would warrant a landslide of questions, open up cans of worms and shaken booze he'd rather keep closed and in his own flask.

A father would have done so regardless of the consequences. Viktor would not have considered himself as such, no matter how much the pain of it trickled down his tight throat and heaving chest.

In times like this, he chugged whatever illicit beverage was closest to him.

The last bottle of Sunset Rose Cocktail.

Slightly better than radiator fluid, the drink that felt like downing shattered glass, disgusting enough to take his mind off things.

Mrs May would probably scold him for drinking one of the last bottles they had. However, Viktor knew her well enough. Her hardened gaze would soften, as would she. She'd leave him be with a saddened smile and a sigh, then go and sit in a leather booth off to the side or return to the upstairs office. Anywhere that would remind her, and all of them, of Mr May.

And Viktor would continue to drink.

His guts—even after being hardened by years of questionable nutrition choices in the trenches, prison and even the speakeasy itself—protested loudly. Cracked glass indeed. No one would miss it.

He was doing the joint a favour.

It was mainly empty, anyway. The employees they could spare—and there were a few—had been sent on last minute liquor searches. Usual customers such as Mr Sable had supposedly been held back by meetings in the real world. Horatio had fallen asleep by the door, or so the loud snoring from outside implied. Zib and his group were lounging on stage in a depressing silence and drunken stupor.

The rest of the gun-savvy staff—very few, maybe two or three—left behind were those recovering from avoidable injuries. At their head was Viktor himself, reluctantly manning the bar. Feared gunslinger to an old tabby locked behind the counter with weak knees, the permanent head of the stragglers.

None of the other runners were happy with their predicament either. They were visibly restless, pacing the floor and muttering to themselves as if it would heal their injuries any faster. No one wanted to end up like Viktor: that was common knowledge, and offended him just a little.

The only one who was actually resting did so off to the side, a twisted wrist bandaged up in strips of linen. Their head was buried between their arms, sleeping soundly.

Viktor had been watching them for a while out of the corner of his eye. Y/N, he vaguely heard someone call them.

They were one of the speakeasy's new rumrunners, small and fluffy—although to be fair, that was what most of Lackadaisy's youngsters looked like to him.

The only difference between them was the amount of tolerance he had in regards to each one. Ivy was at the top of the list, Rocky was at the bottom, and that ginger Calvin kid was lost somewhere in the middle because he never really built up the courage to stay in Viktor's presence for longer than a minute at a time.

Y/N stirred, then shivered, and finally woke up with a start. Glistening beads of sweat and wide, terrified eyes sparkled in the light of the cavern's lamps, dimmed to save on the bills.

They looked around, and finally locked eyes with Viktor. He looked down and away, put away the empty bottle and continued to polish a shot glass. Both the glass and the rag were comically small between his paws, and it took him all of his concentration to avoid crushing either.

He didn't hear the rumrunner slowly pad up to the counter, pull up a chair and only paid attention when they cleared their throat.

"Vat?" he asked, gruffly. The growl was unintentional.

"Can I talk to you?" asked Y/N. "I had a bad dream…"

A bartender needs to look like someone the patronage can tell their troubles to, Mrs May had told him many times.

It of course insinuated that he looked nothing of the sort. Other members of staff often joked that smiling properly would kill him one of these days. Vinegar, they called him, sour old Vinegar. They thought he wasn't listening, of course. He never gave any indication that he ever did, but Viktor heard it all. The cave's echoey atmosphere was the bane of secret rumours and the friend of those defamed by them. Neither brought any sense of victory when accomplished, but oftentimes were the only things worth latching onto in times of trouble. Viktor never confronted any of the stories about him. Many would think that he simply didn't care enough to. The claw marks on the underside of the bar begged to differ.

No smile, and few public clues or knowledge about his past. Sensible patrons and staff members would see that as reason enough to distance themselves from him. There were always exceptions.

The groggy-eyed feline slumped into the stool before him was one of them.

Viktor gave Y/N reluctant permission with a dismissive wave. He turned to the lines of bottles and glasses behind the counter. He had cleaned them religiously and multiple times that evening alone. One more time wouldn't hurt.

"I had a nightmare."

He hummed, rearranging the whiskey.

"I was on a run, alone. I don't know why. There was no one at all, not even in the speakeasy. I… I think everyone was dead…"

Dead.

That was a word he didn't hear too often—ironic considering his line of work—and least of all from the mouth of a kid. Oh sure, Rocky weaved it into poetry and aggressive patrons spat it out when they cursed out God over their drinks, but the thought of applying it to the rest of the staff, so bluntly, undisguised?

He stopped to properly listen, ears cocked.

"I was driving the car alone down a road by the river—I don't remember exactly where—and it was dark. There was nothing in front of me, nothing behind me, only under. The ground was made of glass everywhere I looked and the further I drove, the more it cracked. I couldn't stop and I couldn't get out. I just had to keep driving."

Their voice shuddered and broke, cracking like the road that haunted them. Viktor had since abandoned the shelves, electing instead to lean against the counter. He listened even more carefully. Politely, granted, but listening nonetheless.

"And then it split. I fell and I crashed down into freezing black water and I could get out. I couldn't swim, I just sank. Like a rock. I can't remember how I woke up. I think… I think I died too…"

The rumrunner's eyes glanced up towards Viktor. They were glazed with a glassy sheen, and…

Raspberries!—to borrow an expression from Ivy.

Were those tears running down their cheeks?

Raspberries indeed.

"My pop died during a run from the cops," they said, sniffling. "We don't even know why. Ma said he was trying to provide for us, he probably stole something. The feds chased him down to the riverbank and he lost control. They found the car the next morning and I… I can't end up like him, I can't die! My ma and sisters need me, we need the money! I can't leave them, I can't…"

They furiously wiped away the streams of tears that had only gotten bigger and wetter as they spoke.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have told you all this, you probably don't care, I'm…"

They hung their head, almost in shame.

Viktor said nothing.

He poured them a glass of whiskey—you never knew—and then he did something he never did before. He laid his paw on their shoulder.

The cat looked up again. Their expression twisted with somehow even more fear than the prospect of drowning did. Viktor didn't expect anything less, nor anything more.

He didn't pull away. Despite their grimace of fear, he could see the softness in their eyes.

Viktor wasn't one to use his imagination that often; what use was dreaming when a bullet could hit you any second? The only fantasy he had conjured up was his daughter stepping off a boat and running down the gangplank into his arms.

She had that same, soft look.

In Y/N, he could see Alena.

It was a semblance close enough to melt his heart. A little.

"It gets better," he told them gruffly. "It's not real."

He was never good with words, and used them sparingly. Tonight, however, they seemed to be enough to slow the flow of tears.

Y/N blinked up at him. "Really?"

A childish response to be sure, but one that Alena would have probably replied with as well.

Viktor's throat tightened. "Yes." He coughed. "Now; bar is a mess, and broom only need one good hand. To work."

The young feline smiled and hopped over the counter. "To work," they echoed.

They downed the whiskey with an enthusiasm only rivaled by Ivy's own and snatched up the broom. They darted between Viktor's legs and fluffy tail, sweeping shards of broken glass up and away. With a beaming grin and a theatrical bow, they demanded him for another task, claiming they could take anything on even with a broken wrist.

And for the first time in what felt like—and probably was—forever, Viktor smiled back.

[vampirebiter]

whats good extreme horror in your opinion?

my personal favorite is exquisite corpse by poppy z brite/billy martin. its about gay necrophiliac cannibal serial killers and their "perfect victim". its an absolutely nasty book but written in a very prose-y way that i really like. in particular i like how generally the scenes of violence and murder are written almost erotically while the sex scenes are written almost violently. very much not a book for everyone (my brother who also loves extreme horror couldnt finish it lmao) but i love it. i have read some of his other books and they dont quite scratch the same itch for me but i did enjoy them.

i also really like may leitz's books. my favorite of hers is fluids but i really liked girl flesh too. fluids is kinda what i wanted from the book i was complaining about in my tags, it delivers a lot more on the idea of 'two women get in an online relationship and it goes very bad very fast' in a way i personally prefer. i also feel like she kinda has more of like. a point to her books than a lot of extreme horror i've read.

a criticism i have of a lot of extreme horror ive read is that its very boring with how it handles gore and shocking material. i dont caaaare if your book has fuckin. 12 rape scenes and 50 gorey murders. i do not give a fuck if you feed a child to a shark. do something interesting with it, have a point to it, be artistic with it. do Something with it. that applies to movies too and thats why i cannot stand things like terrifier but really enjoy things like flower of flesh and blood. both are 'women being tortured and killed' movies but one is boring and one is artistically interesting to me.

[ramshacklefey]

"I know some very great writers, writers you love who write beautifully and have made a great deal of money, and not one of them sits down routinely feeling wildly enthusiastic and confident. Not one of them writes elegant first drafts. All right, one of them does, but we do not like her very much. We do not think that she has a rich inner life or that God likes her or can even stand her. Very few writers really know what they are doing until they've done it. Nor do they go about their business feeling dewy and thrilled. They do not type a few stiff warm-up sentences and then find themselves bounding along like huskies across the snow. One writer I know tells me that he sits down every morning and says to himself nicely, "It's not like you don't have a choice, because you do -- you can either type or kill yourself." We all often feel like we are pulling teeth, even those writers whose prose ends up being the most natural and fluid. The right words and sentences just do not come pouring out like ticker tape most of the time. Now, Muriel Spark is said to have felt that she was taking dictation from God every morning -- sitting there, one supposes, plugged into a Dictaphone, typing away, humming. But this is a very hostile and aggressive position. One might hope for bad things to rain down on a person like this. For me and most of the other writers I know, writing is not rapturous. In fact, the only way I can get anything written at all is to write really, really shitty first drafts."

Anne Lamott, Bird by Bird (1994)