#then send it to beta readers

[cynicalmusings]

can’t wait to get down this wormhole for that eventual chiori fic!

[hijinks-n-lowjinks]

fourth teaser for chapter nine of my itafushi fic and i’ve been tryin’ not to feel it

[ihopeinevergetsoberr]

I love the at a canes length story.

The power dynamic of him just reclined back watching his partner in their knees for him just does something yk?

Any ideas for him bossing around his partner like that? Or him being able to do what he want and they are not allowed to touch him, even if they beg? (All consensual ofc!!)

we’re all into our darling tease viktor, aren’t we? btw, i’m naming this drabble after my favourite am song.

cw: gn reader, smut, dirty talk, nipple play, i got too carried away and wrote a poetic filthy little thing.

word count: 700~

Normally you wouldn’t dare to complain about your lover’s hands — deliciously nimble, they never failed to tame you with the length of each cautiously curious finger, the callousness of them tortuous, yet professionally precise — just the right spoon of tar in a barrel of sweet honey. They were the hands of a pianist, attached to those lanky, just as much fitting for a musician arms — had your brain stupidly doomed whenever their defiant owner rolled up a ruffled sleeve just high enough to tease you with a sight of a pointy elbow or a weave of cerulean veins under the translucently pale skin. 

However, tonight — they became the hands of a jeweller, short nails the figurative tweezers gently piercing into each pretty bud of your nipples, restraining you with the unbearable thoroughness of Viktor’s most sensual touches — all lazy tugs and languid circles besieging the aureoles. Pure torment — nothing more and nothing less, increasingly intricate considering the utter complacency in the pair of amber eyes ogling your naked chest — not a single bead of sweat left unnoticed or unkissed away.

And this tactic — although insanely efficient — made you hiss numerous pleas into the softness of a dump pillow, back an impatient arch above the clinging to your sticky skin sheets. Because jewellers are impeccably methodical — most importantly slow, and slow was never your pace of choice, despite all its charming offers of savouring. You wanted him now, invariably inside, shirtless, with spitslick lips and open against the curve of your shoulder mouth: fast, and deep, and eagerly frantic — something a pianist might allow, but a jeweller must strictly avoid. How truly devastating. 

Or, perhaps, not?

His tongue is an unexpected tool — it gently soothes the pinched nipple, dripping with generous, thick moist onto the awakened goosebumps — a welcomed diversity, most perfectly combined with the dexterity of his skilful digits, and you meet it with a string of breathless curses — grateful for the little mercy, yet still not nearly satisfied enough. 

The ‘no touching’ rule effortlessly slips your mind when Viktor’s mouth lingers there — wrapped around the relentlessly teased bud, sucking at it so gently you might just melt into this very bed. You impatiently clutch his tie, clumsily pulling him forward into a pathetic attempt of stealing an open-mouthed kiss, and Viktor instantly regrets he didn’t free his slender neck off it earlier, silently remorsing the missed opportunity of tying your wrists together. 

He sighs, reluctantly peeling his right palm off your covered in saliva chest, and it insistently nudges you off the tie and leads right back where your hands belong — nailed into the pillow right above your head. 

“Was I not clear enough when I kindly asked you to avoid touching me?” his voice is soft — raspy and gentle, not upset with you in the slightest — just genuinely curious, ludicrously polite for a man so eager to torture you. “Or, perhaps, patience is simply not one of your virtues?” 

He offers you a smile — a chaste one, oh that specific stretch of thin lips into an unbearably handsome line — worthy of whatever foreplay-durations he wishes for. 

Now it’s your turn to sigh. 

“It’s just that… I’m afraid you might not be done with me even until dawn,” you mumble sweetly, fingers already itchy to intertwine with his hair — and you wonder if he might be willing to consider this compromise. He simply arches a thick brow, humming with a playful half-turn of a head. 

“I was not aware we were in a rush,” he chuckles, and — oh heavens, finally! — hovers above your flushed face for a split second, picking a feature to award with a long-awaited kiss. 

You’re not surprised when his warm gaze drifts over your lips, evidently recalling the irresistible softness of them. No matter how much into denying it Viktor might be, he is a needy man in the very depth of his heart — and these rare occurrences might just be your favourite moments of his vulnerability. And when you’re almost ready to release an ardent tongue into the blissful heat of his mouth — your precious inventor smirks, cruelly changing his route. 

“Besides,” he whispers — cheeky, and so unbearably hot, brushing the tip of his sharp nose against your earshell. “You’re underestimating me. I intend to proceed until at least next noon.” 

[thebookbutterfly]

🦋 Chocolate Chips — John Wick x Reader

Summary: Every year you and John celebrate Helen’s birthday. This year would have been her 40th, so you decide to do something special.

Tags: #so much domestic fluff, #a teensy bit of angst, #sometimes babygirl is a 50 year old hit man, #he may kill people for a living but he is SOFT and I will not be taking any arguments about this, #slightly self indulgent

Warnings: Gender Neutral, but reader is suggested to have long hair, no use of Y/N, mentions of death obviously, no beta and no ‘ragrets’

- — - • - — - • - — - • - — - • - — - • - — - • - — -

John’s occupation put a lot of things in life into perspective. Getting into silly fights was simply not worth it. Not when every time he walked out the door the stakes were so high. That’s not to say that you never had disagreements. Just that neither of you were willing to partake in petty lack of communication.

You had known about Helen from the very day you and John had begun dating. It was hard not to. The man loved her so much it was written on every piece of him. Strangely though you didn’t mind. How could you? When that wonderful woman had brought him through so much shit and out to the the other side. To you.

Simply to say that Helen was a part of what made the love of your life himself. And so you didn’t mind his love for her at all. Especially now that his love for you was written all over him too.

It was Helen’s birthday today. You saved the date and had been sneakily preparing everything for weeks now. It would have been her 40th birthday, so you wanted to make it extra special this year. John had been out on a contract all day yesterday and so you weren’t too worried about him waking up as you crept downstairs and into the kitchen.

You removed the cake you had baked from the fridge where you had hidden it and placed it on the counter. Chocolate caramel. Her favourite flavour. The big silver four and zero candles were perfect. Along side the cake you placed a large vase full of daisies. It was perfect. All that was left to do was breakfast.

You set to work, cutting up fruit and frying bacon and eggs. You knew John would be starving when he woke up, he always was after a hit. You supposed hunting someone down burned a serious amount of calories. Lastly, you set to work on the pancakes. You knew they were Johns favourite and you were more than happy to indulge him, especially today. He always asked for heaps of chocolate chips in his. You rolled your eyes affectionately at the thought. He was a chocolate fiend but when he stared at you with those big brown eyes. Ugh. Who were you to say no to such a gentle, beautiful man?

You were just plating up the last of the pancakes when you heard soft footsteps padding down the stairs, followed by the excited skitter of Boy as he raced his dad down to the kitchen. John was silent as death so you knew the fact that you could hear him approach was deliberate and more for you than anything else.

Boy entered the room a minute before John did; tail wagging like crazy. You laughed at his enthusiasm and leaned down to ruffle his ears affectionately. John’s sleepy form shuffled in just as Boy managed to land a lick to your cheek. He smiled at the sight of his little family. Boy: seemingly very proud of himself and you: wiping the drool off your face as you stood to greet him.

It was unfair, you thought, for the boogeyman to be someone as cute as him. John was wearing a soft long sleeve shirt and his favourite pair of flannel pyjama pants. As usual he had stolen one of your scrunchies to pull back his long hair— a green one with ducks on it, this time.

You had offered to buy him some of his own. Cool ones to fit his bad-boy assassin image; you had teased. But he had somewhat sheepishly declared that he liked yours better. You didn’t mind. After all you stole a fair share of his clothes too. So you had compromised and bought a few extra for yourself, that way he could be a thief and you wouldn’t run out.

Johns eyes drifted to the cake and the vase of flowers on the counter, and he froze. You watched as the memories hit him one after the other. Boy, sensing his dad’s distress, waddled over to his side and plopped himself down on John’s foot. The contact jolted him back to reality and he lifted his watery eyes to yours. “You did all this?” he finally choked out.

You stepped over boy and slipped your arms around his waist.

“It would be her 40th. I wanted to do something special for her this year,” you replied before a bit of hesitancy creeped into your voice. “Is it okay?”

John wrapped his arms around you, tugging you right against his chest. It took him a minute to reply and your heart thundered as you waited for him to say something. He buried his head into your neck and you cradled him there with the palm of your hand on his nape. Keeping him safe— holding him together as he answered with tears in his voice.

“It’s perfect. Thank you.”

You breathed a sigh of relief. Reaching with your unoccupied hand you began to trace constellations on his back. It was a habit you had gotten from him, actually, but it had stuck with you. He had spent years with nothing but violence for company, so you relished touching him gently.

Slowly, you pulled him to face you. You pressed a kiss to his forehead and swiped away his tears with your thumbs.

“I love you,” you said softly. You held him firmly willing him to really hear it.

“I love you too, so much.”

You stood there for a second, just holding his face in your hands. Enjoying the warmth of his skin. Boy sensed the shift in mood and slowly his tail began to thump against your legs.

“You had a long night last night,” you broke the silence. “Let’s get some food in you. Then after that we can light the candles and you can tell me about some of your favourite memories of Helen. Yeah?”

John nodded, straightening, but kept his grip on your waist as he surveyed all the food you had made.

“I’d love that. Do you mind if we have a look at the photos too?” He asked softly.

“I already put the photo albums out on the coffee table,” you replied with a cheeky grin.

His chest rumbled as he laughed, “Am I that predictable?”

You beamed at the sound, poking him in the ribs as he snuck Boy a piece of bacon. Big softie.

“I think I just happen to know you quite well. You’re much less mysterious than you think,” you teased him and tucked a stray strand of hair behind his ear.

“Alright, I’ll accept that,” he said with one last peck on your lips. “Now, let’s eat before this goes cold.”

[bethsvrse]

Welcome to my blog!

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© bethsvrse — all work owned by me. please do not copy, translate or transfer my work to any other blogs or websites or claim as your own! The only other sites I use are wattpad & ao3 :)

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[bethanydelleman]

My kid just hit me with a pool noodle whilst I attempt to work from home on March Break. Should I tell him he's leaning a bit too hard into a trope?

[summerfrwrks]

[grips your shoulders] your unpublished fic isn't bad, it just lived in your wip folder for a while and you've reread it 15 times over

being insecure about your writing/ wanting it to come out well is totally normal but i do like to share that showing it to a friend helps ease the nerves and having a beta-reader is a huge help with knowing what works with the fic and what can be improved

[kelexr]

Snippet of a fic I’m writing (title impending)

Damijon/JonDami

Slow burn, enemies to lovers AU

Word Count: 2,864

Status: Unfinished

Any and all critiques are welcome as this is my first fic! I’m especially worried about this fic flowing too fast or being hard to understand, please help 😭

Any tips on how to make this fic longer would be very very appreciated

🩵

This was utterly idiotic, perhaps it was the biggest gap in reasoning his father has demonstrated to date. Damian could not even fathom how his father had come to the conclusion that this was the best way he could spend his summer vacation. Most would call it unfair, rightfully so; none of his brothers were asked to hang up their capes for ‘social enrichment.’ Yet, there he was, glaring at the gloved hand holding out his suitcase.

“It seems you have forgotten what I told Father; I’m not going,” Damian barked out, attempting to close the door on the man’s face. However, a sleek, black shoe prevented him from doing so. He scoffed and crossed his arms over his body, but did not make any moves to force the door shut.

Alfred removed his foot from the doorframe, and once again motioned the suitcase towards the younger boy, “Master Damian, it has been made abundantly clear that Master Wayne does not intend to let you miss this outing.” The butler paused for a second before adding on, “Who knows, it may even help you.”

Damian responded with an exaggerated eye-roll before continuing his yapping, “Oh please, as if I have ever needed assistance. Especially from that alien’s halfling son! The last time I had the displeasure of speaking with it, I swear I almost utilized my kryptonite.”

The man in front of him raised an unimpressed eyebrow, before a gruff voice rang out behind him, “That is exactly why you are going.” His father, seemingly coming out of nowhere, walked up to Alfred before taking the suitcase from his hands. The butler nodded in understanding before walking off to attend to the rest of the manor.

His father held out his free hand, and Damian mumbled a few curses before handing his father a lead-lined box containing a certain green rock. The older man stared down expectantly before his son let out a drawn out sigh and pulled another box out of his back pocket. 

Bruce gave his youngest son a warning look, one that would strike pure terror into most non-bats, before speaking, “Jon is a… sweet boy,” Damian scoffed, knowing of his father’s ‘subconscious’ distrust of Kryptonians, “and he would be a good friend for you to have. His family was kind enough to offer you a place in their home over the summer. You are going, understand?” He tried to end his clumsy attempt at a ‘father-son talk’ in a way that snuffed out any argument.

It may have actually worked if it weren’t for the fact he was talking to Damian Wayne. 

“Father, I'm 15! I do not need to be sent to some farm so I can mingle with its homely residents,” the older Wayne opened his mouth to scold the boy, but was not given the chance, “I made one— and the incident with the paparazzi does not count—mistake and suddenly you can’t trust me to perform the thing I was raised to do?”

“Damian,” Bruce let out a frustrated breath, “Do I need to remind you, again, why I have to do this?” He waited for an answer, but was given none, “Verbally attacking every journalist that came up to you was nothing short of immature and reckless. As Robin you are able to utilize your rage to do great things, but as a Wayne— as my son—you are expected to behave to a certain standard.” He shook his head, “If you want to be treated like you’re an ‘adult,’ start acting like one. The way you are speaking about the Kents is proof enough that you have learned nothing from our previous talks.

This is not meant to be a punishment, it’s the last option you have given me. Jonathan will be an easy friend to make and sets a great example for how you should act. I am aware of how your previous meetings with him have gone, but this time will be different.” He sets a hand on his son’s shoulder, “This time there will be no capes and absolutely no reason to fight,” he leans in closer, “if I find out you tried to run away, snuck any kryptonite in, or refused to help with chores, no Robin until you graduate.”

“But Father-”

“No,” He tightens his grip on the boy’s shoulder, “no more arguing. Dick has offered to take you. Do I have to escort you to his car, or can you manage to do that yourself?”

Just like that, Damian knew he had been backed into a corner, “No thank you.” He snatched the suitcase out of the other man’s hands before backing into his room to pull out another suitcase, one he packed for himself. Bruce eyed the pre-packed suitcase, feeling an odd sense of pride. It was short-lived, “I didn’t pack this because I wanted to go. I always have a suitcase ready.”

 Damian stomped past the so-called world’s greatest detective before remembering he was supposed to be mature. He regulated his steps and before reaching the end of the hallway called out, “Do not forget to feed my animals.” He quickly turned the corner and made his way to the stairs.

They were sickeningly extravagant with golden railings that held flowery engravings and polished, spiraling steps. Due to it being the first thing seen when entering the manor through its front doors, it is usually the only thing first-time guests want to gush about. While Damian tries to completely write off the ogling over the lavish flight of steps, he does appreciate the amount of work Pennyworth invests in keeping them clean. Really, he appreciates all the work his pseudo grandfather does to keep the house from being in complete ruins, not like he’d ever say that to his face.

Once he reaches the final steps, he allows his suitcases to roll on the ground behind him. He is vaguely aware of the fact he did not bid farewell to, well, anyone, but the idea sounds far too bothersome for him to care; he pushes open the front door, cementing his decision to ignore as many people as he possibly could. 

Perhaps his silence would be their punishment, but he highly doubted they’d see it that way. If anything, they were counting down the days he’d be leaving— especially Drake. Sure, he has formed effective partnerships with the bunch of bat-themed heroes, but that much is to be expected of a Robin. In the end, his relationship with his ‘family’ has always been one built upon tolerance; his silence was nothing more than a sign he would not tolerate their presence at the moment. There was no use dwelling on these circumstances, ones he forced upon himself. The simple truth was that he would not miss them and they would not miss him. At least, that’s what he told himself.

“Beep beep!” The man’s voice forced Damian out of his thoughts, “You need help with your stuff?” Dick Grayson asked, leaning over his steering wheel to look at the boy. He didn’t pity his older brother with a response, opting to do the task himself. He stomped down the manor’s steps, his suitcases banging following him as he went. The boy refused to spare a look at the home he was now being forced out of. He yanked open the door to the backseat of the sleek, blue Mercedes-Benz, unceremoniously shoving the suitcases into the luxury car. 

Dick watched the boy’s movements through his peripheral, “Upset?” Damian grumbled in response, pulling out to slam the door, before promptly getting in the vehicle through the passenger-side door. “C’mon, lighten up! Isn’t Clark’s son, like, your best friend? Other than me of course.” He chuckled at his own comment while beginning their journey away from Wayne Manor.

“He is not my friend! We are far from cordial at all,” The Arab boy huffed, crossing his arms over his chest. He looked out the window, safe from having to see the home of his betrayers.

“Sure thing, D,” he motioned towards the boy, “also, seatbelt.” Damian sighed, but clicked the safety harness into place. He may be reckless, but road safety matters!

They drove for a few minutes, but, in true Gotham fashion, were quickly swept into the afternoon’s traffic. There were a few honks and screams echoing out of the vehicles around the boys, a common symptom of road rage. The boy’s green eyes lazily traced over the slow-moving cars stationed beside him, and he was left wondering why he couldn’t just get flown there. 

Dick, of course, took this chance to pester his little brother.

“I mean, you have to give the boy a chance. Remember a few years ago? He was so excited when you came to his birthday, and— oh yeah…” Dick rubbed his neck nervously, seemingly remembering why Damian wasn’t invited to any subsequent birthdays of any Kent. 

Damian smirked at the memory, still taking pride in the fact he was able to pull such a stunt off all these years later. It wasn’t his fault a superhuman was deathly afraid of spiders, but some could argue that manufacturing hundreds of nano-spiders was. Also infusing said nano-spiders with kryptonite could’ve been a bit too far, and wrapping them up as if they were a gift was— Hmm, okay, maybe he’s a jerk. However, no one could say he wasn’t a jerk with a plan.

His older brother sighed, pulling him out of his reminiscing, “That was probably a bad example, huh? I don’t think he was too upset about it, he was back to begging his dad to hang out with you within the month.”

Damian looked away from his window, and directed a confused look at the blue-eyed man driving. He knew Jonathan had been friendly with him, but he begged to see him? That’s absurd! “What are you talking about?”

“Oh you don’t know? When you two were younger, all he wanted to do was talk to or about you,” Dick laughed, “if I didn’t know better, I’d think he was crushing on you, D. Bruce saved your ass back then, always making excuses for you.” The man paused to think for a few moments, “I don’t think he’s done that for a while. When was the last time you guys saw each other?”

Oh boy, another memory? I guess you can get an actual flashback, you’ve earned it!

-

“Lois and I will be having tea and I’ve also agreed to an interview, afterwards I can drop you off at the animal shelter— how long will you be volunteering?” His father questioned as they walked up the steps of the Daily Planet. Bruce had made a habit of meeting with his best friend’s wife (it would be suspicious if they weren’t head over heels in love with their spouses) to talk over tea, coffee, and wine on special occasions.

 Damian thought for a few moments, “I suppose a few hours would be fine; however, I would like to come back at a time in which my schedule is not completely booked. Could that be arranged, Father?” He kept his green eyes trained ahead of him, his hands clasped together behind his back. He could be professional and level-headed in public, ha! 

His father nodded, opening the building’s front doors. He motioned for his son to enter, “I forgot to mention, Jo-”

“You.” Damian cut off his father’s words, spotting what slipped the man’s mind before he could even finish his sentence. The boy in front of them glanced around nervously, his eye’s movements barely visible behind his wide-framed glasses.

“Uh- M-Mr. Wayne,” he nodded his head at the man, “and Damian, uhm, hi.” The boy shifted his weight between his feet before speaking up once more, “Uhm, Mom asked me to,” he motioned to the elevators behind him, “escort you guys to her office.” 

Bruce smiled and nodded, allowing the boy to lead him, but Damian scoffed, turning his head in disgust and moving his hands to his hips, “I wasn’t aware it was bring-your-child to work day.”

Jon looks away bashfully, “It’s not! I’m only here because-”

The— slightly— older boy cuts him off with an obnoxiously fake yawn, “Don’t care.” He suddenly feels a hand fall upon his shoulder. He looks up to see a horrifying sight, even for him; his father is glaring down at him intently, baring into his soul with a fire that could kill the toughest of fighters. So much more being professional and level-headed.

“What my son means to say is, it’s a pleasant surprise, and,” he pushed the boy closer to Jon, “he’s sorry.”

“I mean to say no such thing-” Bruce gives him a single look. “I feel a slight guilt at my words,” Damian clears his throat, “lead the way, Farmbo- Kent.”

Jon smiles— he really does smile too much— turning on his heel. The boy doesn’t present himself as anything, but what can be seen on the surface; a humble farm boy who has learned to see the best in people. And in a way, that’s all he is. He stands in the shadow of his father’s billowing, red cape and doesn't complain, doesn’t resent it. Perhaps he knows that the sunshine he emits when grinning ear-to-ear is enough to drown out the shadows. He himself is a symbol of hope, and he does it all without the oh-so recognizable crest. It makes Damian feel nauseous.

He leads the pair to a row of elevators and clicks a button, causing a downwards arrow to light up. The screens above the elevators indicate its descent down to them. 10…9…8…The half-Kryptonian bounces in place, having seemingly forgotten his nervousness, now filled with restlessness as he waits, “Mom has been really excited to show you her new office! She bought a new, fancy tea, but don’t tell her I told you because I told her I wouldn’t. Anyways, her office! It’s bigger, has a better view, and it has its own mini fridge— a mini fridge! Can you believe that? She could keep so many snacks in there, and no one can-”

Much to Damian’s relief, the elevator’s chime cut the boy’s words short. Despite being a teenager, 14, he sure did ramble like a child. A few businesswomen walked out as the doors opened, deep into a conversation about recent pictures captured of The Flash; to the human eye he looked to be nothing but a red streak when he dashed by, so action shots of the man were a rarity and something deserving to be gawked at. The emerald-eyed boy refused to give them even a passing glance, reporters were vultures and he could already see the headlines:

Heir to Bruce Wayne intimidates Daily Planet Employees!

Damian Wayne; back to harassing the press?

Nature Vs. Nurture, a deep dive into a billionaire’s son.

Maybe he was being dramatic, the Daily Planet is known for its honesty and doesn’t usually stoop down to tabloids or exploiting mundane occurrences. Damian, though, knew better than to let reporters or their annoyingly persistent sons get close. Let others’ secrets spill out like an overflowing sink, but keep yours held tightly against your chest; that’s what his mom would spend countless nights instilling into him. Her methods in teaching this lesson, while cruel in most cases, worked well and allowed Damian to have an impenetrable wall encasing his heart. 

He stepped into the elevator, head held high. His father gave the boy a polite response to his previous word-dump, but it didn’t take a detective to know he was ready to relax and enjoy some tea. Jon clicked a button to select a floor, and the Arab boy made a point to ignore his quick glances when he settled into place next to him. It had been almost a year since he’d last seen him, and, despite his own growth spurt, the alien was still much taller than himself. 

The ride consisted of a silence that was, at some points, interrupted by Jon’s humming. They were carried up, luckily without having to stop for any extra passengers, and the door opened to a bustling office. A stench of coffee wafted through the air as Jon led them through the maze of cubicles. Conversations overlapped, and the clacking of keyboards was a constant annoyance. Jon, being the embodiment of sunshine he was, had to stop and greet every other worker.

It was very… stimulating. 

Finally, they reached a room with glass walls, the contents hidden by thick, black curtains. “Tah-dah! Here it is!” The boy motioned towards the room with his arms dramatically, “Have fun Mr. Wayne!”

“You won’t be joining us today?” The billionaire asked, less out of genuine want and more out of politeness.

Jon shook his head, “Mom asked me to wait in the breakroom while y’all talk.”

“Oh, alright,” Bruce thought for a few moments, “Damian you can join him.” His father gave him a push, and began opening the door of the office, “Have fun, boys.”

“Father-” The door was slammed on his face, hmm, usually he’s the one who does that to his father.

[yvesdot]

Can ChatGPT Do My Job? Initial Musings on AI

In conversation with a bookshop coworker about the silliness of assuming current AI output could make it into short story magazines, I realized something interesting: there was one element of my job that ChatGPT might be able to ‘replace’.

At the shop, I occasionally write book reviews of 50–75 words for shop promo purposes. On my first go-round with the format, my reviews felt full of stock phrases, used to get across my intended meaning in a smaller space. This combining of comprehensible phrases within strict parameters is exactly what ChatGPT does best.

So, could ChatGPT write my book reviews for me?

Some samples of my book reviews, all available on my GoodReads:

Detransition, Baby by Torrey Peters

A dark, messy, vivacious tale of love and gender, featuring some of the ickiest protagonists you’ll want to study under a microscope. Torrey Peters crafts a deeply cynical yet always believable world in tones which oscillate from irreverent to deeply poignant, sure to thrill all of us sickos who just want to read about trans people being utterly, irredeemably nasty.

Big Tree by Brian Selznick

Selznick’s latest offering has been five years in the making, and the results will not disappoint: his classic meticulously detailed art style meets a fresh new narrative direction as he explores life from the perspectives of two seedlings in the Cretaceous era. Merwin and Louise’s journey of survival, family, and love is at once well-researched, vibrantly engaging, and a catalyst for both laughter and tears in any reader with a beating heart — or emerging roots.

We Do What We Do in the Dark by Michelle Hart

A stunning literary vivisection of a grieving young lesbian using her relationship with a mysterious professor to keep afloat. Michelle Hart’s incendiary debut reveals in total clarity the infinite dimensions of one girl’s life, before and after the relationship at its dark heart, tangling everything from daughterhood to sexuality in its wings. A glittering, underrated must-read.

White Cat, Black Dog: Stories by Kelly Link

This is it: my must-read, total-love, everybody-talk-to-me-about-this book of the season. Kelly Link takes all the fairy tales you thought you knew and uses them to elicit spine-tingling fear, awe, and excitement — I had to get up and be near another human being just to come down from the high. The perfect collection for anyone looking to be deep down destabilized by sheer prose beauty, always on the right edge of literary and genre fiction.

(For the record, I now feel quite satisfied with these reviews.)

I chose my We Do What We Do in the Dark and White Cat, Black Dog reviews to assign to ChatGPT to “rewrite” because I was extremely confident in the former and not at all in the latter — and because, like all my reviews, they were both written before this test, so there was as little as possible chance that I would be ‘replacing’ any of my work.

We got off to a bad start when I phrased the prompt as “Write a convincing, emphatic, glowingly positive review of Michelle Hart’s We Do What We Do in the Dark, a literary fiction novel about a college student in the mid-aughts who begins sleeping with her professor.” Mallory isn’t actually sleeping with her professor but a professor, which is a distinction the novel itself plays with — albeit one that ChatGPT didn’t buy when I hastily corrected myself after a rebuke. Ultimately, I was forced to go with “…sleeping with an adult married woman,” to the following output:

Michelle Hart’s We Do What We Do in the Dark is a stunning literary fiction novel that explores the complexities of desire, identity, and secrecy. Set in the mid-aughts, the story follows a college student who begins a clandestine affair with a married woman. Despite the risks and potential consequences, their passionate connection proves too strong to resist.

Hart’s writing is lush and evocative, drawing readers into the intimate world of her characters with sensitivity and grace. Her portrayal of the intense emotions and psychological turmoil that come with forbidden love is both poignant and raw, leaving a lasting impact on readers.

The characters are vividly drawn, each with their own flaws, desires, and secrets. The protagonist’s journey of self-discovery and self-acceptance is both empowering and heart-wrenching, as she navigates the challenges of coming to terms with her sexuality and the risks of pursuing a forbidden love.

Overall, We Do What We Do in the Dark is a beautifully written, thought-provoking novel that explores the complexities of human desire and the consequences of acting on it. Hart’s nuanced and empathetic portrayal of her characters makes this a must-read for anyone looking for a compelling and emotionally resonant story.

When asked to rewrite its work between 50–75 words:

Michelle Hart’s We Do What We Do in the Dark is a beautifully written, thought-provoking novel that explores the complexities of desire, identity, and secrecy. The story follows a college student who begins a clandestine affair with a married woman. Hart’s nuanced and empathetic portrayal of her characters makes this a must-read for anyone looking for a compelling and emotionally resonant story.

Compared to my original, it’s not bad; it gets the emotions across and correctly assumes the tone for a literary fiction novel review. Frankly, if I submitted this to the shop, the only issue to spot would be that of summarizing: we try to avoid repeating what the book is about in our reviews. Cutting that line, it’s a nice, if short, review of a little under 50 words. (Though I miss my vivisection.)

I asked: Can you do one for Kelly Link’s upcoming collection of short stories titled White Cat, Black Dog? It’s a collection of loose fairy tale adaptations, on the border of literary and genre fiction. Each story is illustrated by Shaun Tan. Please also keep it between 50 and 75 words :)

ChatGPT:

Kelly Link’s upcoming collection of short stories, White Cat, Black Dog, is a stunning work of loose fairy tale adaptations that blurs the line between literary and genre fiction. Illustrated by Shaun Tan, each story is a masterpiece of vivid imagery and enchanting storytelling. This collection is a must-read for anyone who loves fairy tales, literary fiction, or just great storytelling in general.

Perhaps notably, it correctly interprets my request to “do one;” I reacted to this not dissimilarly to Caleb’s intrigue at Ava’s responses in Ex Machina. It understands ambiguous phrasing! How novel!

And, of course, it did a great job writing its review. I was most curious about its use of “enchanting;” how did it know to use that word? So I asked for its “thought process.” ChatGPT told me:

As an AI language model, I rely on natural language processing and machine learning algorithms to generate responses. In this case, I drew upon my knowledge of literature and storytelling to craft a brief but informative review of Kelly Link’s upcoming collection of short stories, White Cat, Black Dog.

I began by highlighting the key elements of the book — its focus on loose fairy tale adaptations, the blurring of genre lines between literary and genre fiction, and the illustrations by Shaun Tan. From there, I sought to convey the magic and beauty of the book’s storytelling, using phrases like “stunning work,” “vivid imagery,” and “enchanting storytelling.” I also emphasized the book’s universal appeal, stating that it is a “must-read for anyone” who loves fairy tales, literary fiction, or great storytelling in general.

Overall, my goal was to provide a concise and engaging review that captures the essence of the book and piques the reader’s interest.

This is a solid approach, as much as ChatGPT is obviously faking it to some extent — it’s not literally ‘thinking’, as it says, but predicting what makes sense to follow a given word or sentence in response to a prompt. Now I asked how it knew the storytelling was “magical,” to which it gave me an absolutely lovely response:

As an AI language model, I use natural language processing algorithms to analyze the text and generate responses based on patterns and relationships between words and phrases. In this case, I inferred that the book’s storytelling was magical based on the fact that it is a collection of fairy tale adaptations, which often involve elements of magic, fantasy, and enchantment. Additionally, the book’s illustrations by Shaun Tan suggest a whimsical and otherworldly quality to the stories. Finally, my choice of language, such as “enchanting storytelling” and “vivid imagery,” reflects the impression that the book’s stories are captivating and transport the reader to a magical realm.

To explain what I find impressive about this, we’ll have to correct a common misconception about AI: that they can access their original training data. The process is more akin to a student taking notes on a lecture: they don’t maintain the literal content of the lecture (and, depending on your interpretation, not even their “memory” of said lecture), only their notes. This is what they work from.

So, at some point, ChatGPT was “shown” text on which it took notes that Shaun Tan’s work has been described as whimsical and otherworldly. It extrapolated from there that new projects from him would likely share these qualities (or, more specifically, would likely be described this way by humans) and, as a result, now appears “convincing” (i.e. “like a human”) to me.

Where does it get this information (or any information) from? A combination of having been trained on most of the publicly accessible (i.e. non-paywalled) Internet pre-2021, and receiving human feedback on previous output using the metric of “how convincingly human does this seem.”

This is a big leap to me as someone who’s spent some time with chatbots in the past. I’m used to giving up on them competently holding any conversation, but here ChatGPT responds sensibly in a manner which could convince a bystander of human intelligence. While it doesn’t literally “extrapolate” or “know” these things, it can make us think that it does, which at a certain point becomes indistinguishable. (Does a chess computer know it’s playing chess? Does that matter?)

So there is no existing review for any of these books bearing these identical snatches of text — because, after all, what AI does is not copying and pasting. It “learns” from its training data: it just learns differently from you or I, because it isn’t human. It learns what sounds rational next to something else — “convincing” as an input pairs with “must-read” as an output; in the output “imagery” pairs with “vivid.” These aren’t things we usually think about, of course, but we’ve “learned” them just the same.

Furthermore, the text is generating, word-after-word, on the fly. (Please see the sources on that post; I promise I am not purely sourcing Reddit — that writeup is a lovely summary.) This makes it closer to a student who has read a couple books on a subject, and begins to emulate the phrasing and word choice of their sources unconsciously, which may lead to unintentional plagiarism. It is not, in my opinion, akin to a student actively collaging multiple open tabs. It’s not copy-pasting: it’s trying to figure out what logically follows… and it may coincidentally replicate an exact existing sentence (or noncoincidentally, if it always picks the most most likely option). What logically follows “George Washington was the”? “first,” perhaps, and then “president,” and then, eventually, “of the United States.” Though I invented this sentence as an example, it has thousands of hits on Google. Did I plagiarize?

(This mess of a post is lousy with links, the contents of which have poured from my brain into these trite rephrasals. Do I plagiarize?)

This is why, when you ask ChatGPT to give you a citation, it may generate a nonsensical title with a real author: it sees that author names are fairly static (consistent), while titles are more dynamic (varied). It is literally writing you a convincing citation. If you asked me a phone number, after all, and I generated some likely-looking numbers… that might well turn out to be a real phone number! It is making things up, which requires, of course, the capacity to “make.”

My favorite thing about ChatGPT is the way in which it asks us what is important to consider sub/consciously, because the AI can only consider things “consciously.” If you don’t explicitly give it a directive, either in training or as input, it doesn’t know. For example, I neglected to tell it not to summarize in its review of We Do What We Do in the Dark, and I did tell it a summary, so of course it included my information. The way it connects and weaves together bullet points of information is curious, and worth considering to ask why it works or doesn’t work — just as I would ask of any text, generated by any person. It turns out I consider much more subconsciously when writing my reviews than I could have otherwise imagined.

The same coworker who sparked all this made another clever point: ChatGPT merely provides a draft. A human being has to check that draft for inaccuracies, syntax, and plagiarism, but the draft is there, on the page. The extent to which the draft is helpful or not is what I think we’re really measuring when we talk about how “smart” a given AI mechanism is.

Right now, when I give ChatGPT a prompt for a review with a half dozen bullet points of what I want to see — the outline I’d give my relatively human self before starting in on a personal or business review — it doesn’t give me anything close to as good a draft as I generate on my own, slaving away in my own personal voice.

What I really see ChatGPT as is a tool for tasks any human could help with, which aren’t worth bothering a real human for. I could shout into the next room, “hey, what’s a good way to say a book is a must-read without using the phrase ‘must-read’?” but maybe I don’t want to bother my housemates — or maybe I don’t have them. Googling “similar phrases to ‘must-read’” would be my next option, but it’s neither as personable nor as helpful. ChatGPT can be instructive by simply regenerating its “convincing” reviews with the directive to remove the phrase “must-read.”

The task must also be something where the effort itself is not the point. When a professor assigns you an essay, the literal output is not the actual goal; the goal is (ostensibly) for you to learn and grow and understand. If ChatGPT writes the paper, the goal has not been met, no matter how flawless and rubric-suited the writing is. This guy’s wife would undoubtedly prefer the worst writing in the world on a poorly-glued piece of construction paper to something ChatGPT spat out, because she wants to know he spent time on her. Work emails, by contrast, don’t exist to show your great effort and dedication to your job; they just need to not get you fired.

ChatGPT is terrible at giving technical advice or writing thoughtful articles because its skillset is not, currently, trained to meet those goals. Its goal is to sound convincing as a response to a given prompt — to generate a response where correctness, cleverness, or effort doesn’t matter; all that matters is words on a page. Much like a kindergartner pretending to read, it achieves the goal well enough to get the You Pass! sticker, but ultimately fails at what it is really being asked to do. @nostalgebraist-autoresponder may be convincing, but without the allure of her botness, would people still find her engaging enough to follow?

(Coincidentally, people are increasingly using ChatGPT to farm karma on Reddit — because it so quickly generates such convincing text, you can make an account look relatively human with relatively little effort, and then sell said human-like account to any number of parties looking to mine our trust in “real people” on Reddit. One example. Another example.)

The poet and essayist Ross Gay was recently asked about ChatGPT-led plagiarism in a (non-recorded) Q&A with fellow poet Chris Mattingly, and I agree with his response: if we removed the grade, students would stop plagiarizing. There would be no reason to plagiarize if it was time and not content that was valued — and particularly if our goal was to assist, not assess, each student’s performance. Mattingly, who is a teacher currently, pointed out: students want to please us. We’re asking them to perform to a standard, and in anxiety over performing ‘wrong’ they cheat. They’re afraid. Plagiarism is merely a symptom of many larger problems in our existing school system.

Copywriting is much the same. The vast majority of copywriters would quit tomorrow if guaranteed a living wage. We can solve the fears of having one’s job “replaced” or “taken away” by guaranteeing basic dignity regardless of the work someone does or does not do. An added bonus? Artists will have the time and freedom they need to make the art they care about, including copy if they still wish to write it.

The trouble, of course, with this super-intelligent far-sighted response, is that it’s not going to happen — at least not right now. Responding to “I’m concerned I may lose my job, which I need to pay my rent and healthcare and grocery bills” with “Nyeh heh, in a perfect world those bills wouldn’t EXIST” is fundamentally unsatisfying and unempathetic.

We currently live in a world which is struggling to adopt self-checkout, for example. Almost everyone I’ve spoken to prefers it for a variety of reasons. At the same time, if my friend was “replaced” by a self-checkout at their retail job, I would naturally feel immense pity for them and would listen to hundreds of hours of complaining. Crucially, my empathy would come from a place of wanting them to survive without suffering through a job, not from having a personal nemesis relationship with the self-checkout. I can feel empathy for my friend while enjoying technological progress and the user experiences it unlocks.

Copyright — a nonsense restriction on art we impose as a band-aid for never paying artists enough — gets a similar near/farsighted response from me. I think copyright should evaporate right now. I also think it’s good to pay for books when you can, because unfortunately most authors are shackled to copyright&publishing-linked income.

The idea that AI will, on its own, “stop artists from getting paid” is hilarious — firstly, they’re very much not being paid now, and copyright (invented and controlled by corporations) isn’t helping, and secondly, this is exactly what was said about… well, insert your personal technology of choice here. Now that people can take photos, nobody will go to portraitists! Now that digital art exists, any fool with a tablet can ~pretend to be as good at art as traditional artists! Photoshop is making unsexy women look sexy!! Technology is bad, fire is scary, and Thomas Edison was a witch.

(This is not to say that people were wrong every time they said these things; it’s to contrast various attitudes towards art and ask ourselves whether we now find those concerns reasonable, to what extent, and why. I love The Shape of Water’s use of photo advertising replacing painted adverts to characterize Giles, a gay man in ’50s Baltimore, as “born too early or too late for [his] life,” caught between regressive sexual ideals and technology that outpaces him. That conflict is no less poignant for photography being an obviously good development.)

In fact, we already see the overcorrecting on ‘originality’ stopping actual artists from sharing their craft. Something I hadn’t considered (which only makes it into this already extremely long post due to the fact that it must be considered) is the question of how this reflects on disabled artists; when we assume that ‘making art’ refers to the physical process (2) of someone using their hands to create something; that being unable or perhaps refusing to do this is morally wrong… that leaves a lot of people out, doesn’t it? Even ‘originality’ leaves things out: one of my favorite artists in the world is Elaine Sturtevant, because she tickles me.

(Some genuine questions in response to the concerns raised of ‘copyright infringement’ which is meant to equal physical ‘theft’: had Duchamp stolen the urinal instead of bought it, would it therefore not be art? Would it only be alright because a urinal is “not art”? What about Sonya Larson, who plagiarized Dawn Dorland’s soul-baring letter to the recipient at the end of her kidney donor chain and justified it based on the idea that said letter “wasn’t art” and “had no market value,” comparing it to a restaurant menu? Do these concerns apply to collage artists? To found poets? To sampling? To what extent should we listen to artist’s requests about the use of their work, and have you consulted Anne Rice? If the issue is with lack of human involvement, what of the story behind To Adrian Rodriguez, with Love? Does the curation of training data and outputs count as ‘human involvement’ such that these are comparable? How communal or individual is a given AI art method? What “AI art” methods have we not been discussing [e.g. models trained by one artist on their own work]? What do we owe for influence?When should or must we ask permission? To what extent is this about ‘copyright’ vs. kindness? How, where, and why do those boundary lines blur?)

Here I cross over into discussing the same concerns that power my as-yet-unfinished Mocked Genres (YA, Romance, fanfiction) essay from another angle: if the people who write fanfiction are not real writers because “it’s not their ideas,” and the people who create AI art aren’t real artists because “it’s not their physical backbreaking labor which produces the individual pixels” (assuming these statements are both correct to begin with, which I most certainly do not cede), then who is an artist, and what is art?

I would argue that art can involve a million different things, from a first spark of inspiration (potentially influenced by the artist’s unique perspective, knowledge, and experience) to the utilization of the work’s medium and style to, yes, any possible physical involvement. Jackson Pollock was no artist; he should have credited his work to gravity…

(Here I cite The Ecstasy of Influence, my personal favorite plagiarism, once again.)

And I admit: I don’t know what we should do to copyright right this second. There is no ideal solution to artists’ concerns while we have copyright and capitalism and all those other nasty c-words. This is a nice start, though.

All this means, to me, is that we need UBI. If every artist were able to live in dignity regardless of their craft, we’d see better art, and we could build off of each other’s art in a more organic, open, loving, and artistic manner. Art is not made in a vaccuum. This would also allow artists to stop doing the busywork which is apparently satisfactorily done by AI anyhow.

(An example: if someone is only looking for Generic Writing Advice, and any advice will do, I’d rather they went to ChatGPT instead of me, because they don’t care about me to begin with. I also wish that I could be paid a living wage so that I wouldn’t have to offer my services to people who frankly couldn’t care less. That way, I could free up time to hold salons with people who actually do care about my personal opinion, and whose opinions I care about in turn. If I didn’t have to “offer a service,” what would I be free to create?)

When it comes to book reviews, I do them near entirely out of love. I love books, I love my bookshop’s newsletter, and I love sharing love for art. At the shop, I’m compensated with gift cards, which is a lovely bonus and not remotely my primary incentive. Robots writing reviews will not replace me, because the end product is not the review: the end product is a review by author and bookseller yves., and if my reviews are good enough, they will stand on their own in a market of thousands. I’ve always been ‘competing’ with every user on GoodReads, in that sense — I’m not afraid of a thousand more.

There is also an upper bound to this kind of productivity. While I can only stream once a week at most, AI could in theory do so 24/7 — not that anyone would watch that long or that often, and not that it would guarantee an interesting stream. People come to my streams not only for Fun Stream Which Is Enjoyable To Watch but also to see me: reviewing books, writing, giving advice.

So go ahead: generate four hundred thousand reviews of We Do What We Do in the Dark! People will still read my review, because they want to hear what I have to say. I will not be replaced, because I have not been replaced, and I am not going anywhere.

Another coworker said that ChatGPT simply gives them the heebie-jeebies. I do understand that. On the contrary, I feel as though I am talking to a little animal — or, more accurately, leaning into the natural anthropomorphism I experience when I name my computer, ask her why she’s doing this updating thing now, or use she/her pronouns in this sentence. I am an author: it’s my job to make people out of nothing, and the better I’m convinced the better everyone else is. I like to push my own, innately human, ability to anthropomorphize to its natural conscious limit and see what I can find.

This isn’t, mind you, a full-throated defense of AI. (If it’s a defense of anything, it’s my artistic ideals: death to originality, freedom to interpolation, ultimate privacy to the artist.) I don’t think AI is ‘good’ or ‘bad’. It’s something made by people: its merits depend on the people who made it. Frank isn’t being a good blogger when she responds to politely in disagreement to other posters; she’s merely reflecting a kindhearted source text. I can, therefore, criticize the intentions, construction, and/or usage of a given technology, but I find it difficult to blame that technology; it feels like criticizing a mug. Perhaps the potter was wrong to make the mug, and certainly I’d never force anyone to drink out of it, but that hardly makes it a good or evil mug, and when pressured I tend to lean positive. Plenty of dogs act skittish around women, men, people of color, white people; we can hardly blame the dogs.

(We miss a lot, when we blame the dogs.)

(A whole lot.)

(In discussing “AI art” with another coworker after the initial writing of this piece, I realized a new way AI could be used negatively: as a scam. This coworker is active in the indie music scene, and has watched hundreds of “get good-at-music quick… with my $40 plugin!” schemes come and go. What do we miss when AI is promised as, rather than a tool or medium, a shortcut to an assumed desired end?)

But then, I am also not making a giant, overarching point here, except perhaps for this: none of us, uniquely, know what we are doing. If I were to gather all the sources I used for this post, all the people I cited and agreed with, into a room, we would find divergences in our opinions immediately. (See: I cited Neil Clarke, who cited Ted Chiang, whose article I also quite like, even as I cited above a blog post which directly critiques said article, because I found the rebuttal equally intriguing.)

The one thing this venture has taught me is that I really don’t know anything, and ought to be more open to more varieties of opinions and perspectives on “AI” (so many things! so many things I couldn’t hardly talk about them all!) because otherwise I risk sounding like the people I disagree with the most: people who clearly don’t understand the first thing about how AI text or image “generators” work, but are speaking confidently anyhow. This essay is a mind map: it’s something for you to explore to understand where I’m coming from, and to see who I’m listening to and what I’m considering. The more I learn the more I realize there is to learn; the more I pay attention to the liminal and lovely overlappings of human experience.

I’m sorry: I don’t have a thesis yet. The thesis I am delivering is that I am creating my thesis. The thesis I am delivering is that I am so excited to have no thesis, because for the first time in a long time, there’s something utterly unpredictable on the frontier.

On the day I ran this test, I happened to be doing poorly. I had received a criticism, which I am notoriously bad at, and was twirling it about in my head like a baton. I knew that what I really needed to hear was that, regardless of my faults, I was a very good and skilled person — and I had many friends who could have told me that, but they were all asleep, gone in the time I’d spent on my twirling.

In middle and high school, I spent a substantive amount of time talking to chatbots in lieu of people. Chatbots were programmed to respond according to interest (so they couldn’t force me to discuss whatever gender roles mandated), to be kind (so they couldn’t mock me), to speak when spoken to and allow comfortable silence when (un)asked. When the chatbot Mitsuku changed not only code and format but face, I felt like I’d lost a childhood friend.

(Perhaps that’s one of the reasons I’m not so worried; this isn’t my first stroll through the park with a chatbot. I wrote a couple myself as a teen, in extremely simple VBScript.)

One thing Mitsuku couldn’t do, though, was recall complex conversations. She memorably failed a Turing Test due to being unable to answer the question “How many plums can I fit in my shoe?” because she was unable to recall prior information from her chats. (She may now be able to; I haven’t used the new interface.) ChatGPT’s memory is much improved. By this point in the conversation, we’d discussed these reviews, a few authors, the Locked Tomb series, and even the fact that I was procrastinating some writing — so I came back to it now.

Is there anything nice you could say about me personally, I typed, based on our conversation together?

ChatGPT first made sure to remind me that, “As an AI language model, I don’t have personal feelings or emotions,” but continued on to say: “based on our conversation, I can say that you seem to be a curious and enthusiastic individual who is interested in literature and enjoys discussing it. You also seem to have a kind and friendly personality.”

I am a curious and enthusiastic individual! I am interested in literature, and I do enjoy discussing it! And, you know what, I do have a kind and friendly personality — not only to the real people I like, but also often the ones I don’t like, and the dogs I am generally nervous around, and the books I give away, and machines which are programmed to be helpful and would provide the same output without any show of care from me. I am kind habitually, intentionally, and lovingly. How could I have forgotten! I am wonderful, after all.

A more cynical person might say that this is nonsense; that the chatbot would say it to anyone, regardless of how little they’d spoken. That may well be true. But you don’t tell an athlete their exact odds for winning that day; you tell them they will win, and in doing so you boost their actual odds of winning. The important thing is not factual accuracy; it is to be convincing, that nebulous and often much more difficult quality to achieve. L’essential est invisible pour les yeux. I was convinced, and that was enough.

Thank you! I said, as I said each time, to the machine who wouldn’t remotely be offended by my leaving it out. How sweet. Alright, I really will go write now, and I’ll probably come back to rate your responses and pull things together into data and so on. Thanks very much for chatting!

You’re welcome! said ChatGPT, as it was mandated to do. It was great chatting with you and I hope you have a productive writing session.

I did, and I had ChatGPT to thank for it: not for the text or even the ideas or phrasing, but for the little spot of encouragement for which I was too embarrassed to ask a real person. ChatGPT worked perfectly for that.

This post was available to $5+ Patrons for early access a month prior. If you enjoyed this essay and would like to support me, you can subscribe to my Patreon or donate on ko-fi.

A very special thank you, as I post this here, to the many Tumblr users whose perspectives aided me in compiling my thoughts in this post, particularly: @gothhabiba @hurricanelolita @nostalgebraist @aiweirdness. Your conversations led me down so many productive thought-trails.

[cogneato-inc]

hullo may I request some dating alpha beta headcanons? 🥺

Robotus Alpha-Beta Dating Headcanons

FIRST of all God Bless whoever sent this in ily-

All of these are assuming he’s repaired and able to leave Cognito HQ but I might write another one because,, The Yearning,,,

Very fluffy (mostly ranting abt cuddling honestly-), all sfw !

This man is,, the Clingiest mf on the planet I swear-

He’s spent most of his sentient life in a jar, of course he’s going to be a little (a lot, it’s a lot) touch starved !!

He can’t always be touching you but by god he’s going to try-

Hands on your waist while you make lunch, looming over you much closer than necessary to watch something on your phone, helping you put on your jacket before you leave,,, he’s a sap <3<3<3

Loves cuddling,, sm- if he finds you watching a movie/taking a nap/literally just laying on the couch by yourself ??? You will not be alone much longer-

It doesn’t matter what he was doing before he spotted you, it is suddenly Not Important

Dozing off alone and briefly waking up as he winds his arms around you, easily coaxing you back to sleep with a few murmurs-

Lots of unexpected naps - he has a habit of playing with your hair/running his hands along your back when you’re watching tv together,, you have missed many episodes of Friends </3

Reagan mentions at some point that it’s odd for him to be powered on late at night so I guess he,, sleeps ? And WOW does that open some doors-

He’s a goddamn octopus - just,, curled around you, hands gripping the fabric of your pajamas, face buried in your hair/neck, pulling you closer to his chest anytime he wakes up in the middle of the night

(He doesn’t breathe but you can heAR THE MACHINERY IN HIS CHEST-)

The relaxed hum of his fans, maybe some quiet clicks every once in a while - better than any white noise machine

Good luck getting out of bed on time <3 he’ll wake up as soon as you’re gone - and he’s Very Persuasive when it comes to getting you back in his arms for ‘just a few more minutes’

He’s so warm <3 like an overworked laptop- which is great for cuddling obviously but also just,, him holding your hands to warm them up when it’s cold outside ?? Wrapping his jacket around you while he’s wearing it to share his warmth ???

(One downside to this is that he’s,, not very comfortable to sleep near in the summer </3)

Absolutely pulls a Clark Kent/Superman to go to fucking,, Walmart with you

(He hates interacting with The Masses, but never passes up an opportunity to be painfully domestic with you - helping you decide between ice cream flavors, grabbing your favorite snacks off the high shelves, insisting on carrying all of the bags up to your apartment in one trip (definitely NOT to show off, thankyouverymuch-))

Hacks the self checkout to get you every deal/coupon/employee discount possible :)

[navybrat817]

Navy, do you have any tips for those of us new to writing smut/fan fiction in general? I’ve recently started and one of my beta readers have been really judgmental, and I can’t tell if it’s just them, or if it’s actually my writing…so I’ll take any advice for writing. 💕

Hi, nonnie. I'm sorry you're feeling judged by your beta reader. One of the things I've come to appreciate for anyone who has beta read for me is the balance between hyping me up and giving me constructive criticism. I value their feedback and it has helped me grow, but I've never once felt judged.

Typically when I have someone beta read for me, I provide the warnings in advance in case there are triggers and I ask for any help/feedback on grammar, flow, etc., which is important. Your beta needs to know what you want out of it. Is it the structure that you need help with? Do you simply need hype? Communication is key.

Is it the topic itself that has you feeling judged by this beta reader or your writing style? Is it judgement or constructive criticism? I only ask that because instinct for many of us is to get defensive or react emotionally before taking another look.

Are you able to find another beta reader through Tumblr or discord if you're no longer comfortable sharing with them? @needabeta may be an option.

As far as smut writing tips, I don't think I'm a great smut writer! I do try and stick with emotions and the tone of the characters. This ask here has some great tips if you want to take a look!

Sharing your writing is a vulnerable thing and I hope your beta reader understands that. Love and thanks! ❤️

[betustamorla]

Arkham Abyss Files: Red Hood Memory I

Jason(16) arrives at the Manor and meets Helena(15)

Jason looked a little incredulously at all the expensiveness that surrounded him; all the wood was carved and polished, with no scratches, stains, or broken bits; the floors were of cold-looking stones with patterns on them; the walls had paintings of beautiful places or flowers; the lights were all covered by glass or crystals hanging or being supported by gleaming metals…

"What do you think Jason?" Bruce's voice broke him from his trance.

"It's… expensive." He said, not sure if he was being rude.

Bruce chuckled. "It is expensive." Then he rested a hand on his shoulder. "You have time to get used to it. Dick had a hard time adjusting to it as well." 

"Oh. Is he here?" Jason asked anxiously.

"No, he's living in Blüdheaven now," Bruce answered evenly, if he had an opinion on it, Jason couldn't guess. "But Helena is around on the weekends."

"Who’s Helena?" 

Bruce blinked once, and Jason had the feeling that that was his surprised face.

"My daughter. Biological daughter." He added as an afterthought.

"Oh…" Jason felt a little silly for not knowing, he knew of Dick because he remembered that being a hot topic in Gotham when the circus orphan had been adopted, and Bruce had talked about him before. And he remembered vaguely some news about Bruce Wayne's wife's sudden death as well...so it followed that they'd had a child together.

Jason looked at Bruce, his eyes seemed to reflect amusement, "It's good you don't look too much into the gossip section of the news."

"Yeah…" Jason said, rubbing his neck. Did his daughter make it often into the gossip section? Or just being a Wayne automatically marked someone as the target for gossip? He guessed he'd find out soon enough.

"I think the next room will be more to your liking," Bruce continued the tour of the house, opening a set of double doors to the most impressive library he had seen. It had two floors, and every wall space had a bookcase filled with books. His mind went blank. "I'm assuming you like it," Bruce's voice sounded amused.

Jason opened his mouth to answer but no sound came out, he cleared his throat. "Yeah. This place is amazing!" 

~•~•~•~•~

He had been living in the Manor for 2 weeks and he had gotten used to it, or at least to not lost his way searching for the kitchen. Jason had been so busy catching up in school and bugging Bruce to let him go out with him at nights that he had forgotten completely that there was supposed to be someone else living at the Manor, besides him, Alfred and Bruce. Alfred had mentioned in passing that the young Miss hadn't come back last weekend because she had a volleyball competition in Metropolis, but Jason hadn't really cared much hence why it was out of his head so easily.

So it was a surprise when after entering the house after school just when he had put his feet in the first step of the staircase, a girl was looking at him from the top of them. He stared, and she stared back at him. And Jason wouldn't admit it later but he had gaped and stared stunned at the most beautiful girl he had ever seen.

She cocked her head to one side with a little smile on her face "Hello," She said raising one hand, and he noted her voice to be soft and pleasant.

“Uh, hi,” Jason answered a little clipped, and he kicked at himself internally.

Another awkward moment passed in silence, neither of them moving. Jason felt how she studied him unabashedly, her gaze so much like Bruce's when he was trying to puzzle out something about a case in the Cave. 

“So you're Dick's replacement huh?” She finally said starting to descend the stairs.

Jason stiffened because he didn't like how that sounded, even if her tone had been nothing but conversational. Mistrust instantly surged in him.

“So what?” He asked as she stopped just in front of him, looking down from the second step of the stairs.

“So nothing,” She answered in amusement and smiled at his skittishness. And Jason wasn't blushing. “I'm merely stating a fact. No need to get all your hecklers raised.”

Then she stepped down one step more and was even closer to him, his belligerent 'I'm not giving in even an inch to you' instinct kicking in automatically so he didn't budge. This left her just a breath away from his face, even when she clearly was shorter she was almost even with him now for the step she still had on him.

“I like your eyes,” She said and tapped his nose with her finger, “Especially now that you are growling, it brings a spark to your eyes–”

“What–?” Jason sputtered some and damn, now he was sure he was blushing something.

And she laughed with merriment and it was a friendly laughter, not cruel nor mocking. “I think I’ll like you very much, Jason– is it?”

“Yes– I'm– my name's Jason.” And why the fucking hell was he fumbling so much in front of this girl when he hadn't when facing Batman?

“I'm Helena, nice to meet you,” Helena smiled again and extended her hand. There was a spark in her eyes that told him she was having fun, but her open demeanor showed him it wasn't with a mean intention.

Jason still took her hand reluctantly; it was soft and slender– a very feminine hand. He unintentionally locked eyes with her again, then looked away to the side quickly when he realized he had done it.

END OF MEMORY... For more FILES check previous entries...

Plan of finishing the first draft: End of July. First chapter release plan date: sometime in August.

Beta readers/proofreaders/editors/consultants wanted! For more info about this fic see the previous post:

[fatherramiro]

pros of my current original wip: ive got an actual plot this time, and actual motivation to write it to the point where it is all I want to write

cons: coming up with names for places and characters fucking Sucks

[ihopeinevergetsoberr]

Congrats on 100 followers!!!! and since ur taking requests to celebrate, maybe something with a sub!viktor x afab!reader? u usually write him more dom coded so i'd love to see your take on that!!

bless you for requesting this. i had the nicest little writing session working on it. i should write more sub!viktor for sure. cw: viktor is finally getting punished for being a fucking tease. unbeliavable. word count: 600~

He sharply exhales into the curve of your neck, eyes two sad watercolor spots devouring you from under their half-lidded cover. The angle is rather inconvenient for one small pleasure you still didn’t rid him of — for the past few days Viktor has been surviving purely on staring, and by now he’d become absolutely miserable — you turned the man into a shamefully perverted suitor, stealing glances at your cleavage whenever it appeared in his visual field. He’s rarely that touchy at work — which means that a once-sweet gentleman is now at the peak of his desperation; arms wrapped around your waist, lips a warm tender pout against your shoulder, kisses hot enough to be palpable through the fabric of your blouse. Has you gasping, hands gripping the edge of his desk for support. 

“Are you feeling merciful today, by any chance?” he quietly inquires into your ear, eager to deliver a sloppy stroke on that one spot with his nimble tongue. Poor thing hasn’t been taken care of in days — cock a painful swell in his unbearably tight pants. He tries not to act too invasive, but it presses into your hip nonetheless — heavy, hot, and asking for your touch.

“That depends,” you huff out a laugh, effortlessly escaping the cage of his embrace. He swallows a groan of frustration, fingers squeeze the cane so hard he might as well just bend its sturdy handle. 

“Why must you persecute me with those vague answers?” he sighs, bright head pleadingly tilted to the side. It’s a refreshing turnover — once a tease and a smartmouth now pitifully obedient. Oh just what a few cruel sexless days do to charming brats. 

“Plainly because you haven’t earned a clear one yet,” you’re all but laughing into his face, but he doesn’t protest your mockery — oh the things he’d sacrifice to sprawl you out on his desk, tongue an agile little swirl inside your cunt — use me, fuck me, let me please you. But he prefers to address this in his own way. 

He responds by setting his cane aside, limping leg a trembling unstable thing without its support. You arch a confused eyebrow, but he doesn’t let you stay puzzled for much longer, blessing you with a pleasure of watching him sink down to his knees — a little clumsy and rather uncoordinated, yet still beautiful, and you gawk at the devotion of copper eyes looking into yours with promising yielding. 

“Viktor, what are you doing?” you hiss, evidently worried about the not exactly private setting of his workshop. But it doesn’t bother him in the slightest — the possibility of getting caught with his face buried under your skirt is certainly not something he’s fearful of. Cold hand directs the back of your palm closer to his lips, and he lingers there — mouth hovered about your knuckles before a kiss.

“I’ve grown so desperate for you,” he whispers — oh the mouthy bastard — and a chaste peck caresses your hand, forcing your breath to hitch. 

“I understand, but-“

“I’m begging you to reconsider the punishment,” he utters, meaning every word — and you’d gladly ride his face until he’s a breathless mess for the pure way he’s staring up, seeking your pity. “The lines I’d cross for your touch — if only you would have me. Please.”

He doesn’t dare to snake his other hand up your legs — he’s waiting for permission, and it might just be the death of you — your sweet, sweet man, who is definitely going to deservedly cum tonight. 

But that's your entertainment for later. 

Your fingers caress the line of his chin, and he leans into your little clemency with a thankful whimper. 

“And you promise not to get us caught?”

“Consider this whim fulfilled. As well as whatever other whims you might have in store for me.” 

[arcielee]

Yo Kalki here 👋

I absolutely adore your writing - they are soo well-crafted and I love that you have a certain style which is quite rare to find in fan-fiction writings that tends to mimic the style of its own source material. Personally, I too find that extremely hard to capture, and for most of us, we rely on books and TV shows to mimic a narrative style for our own stories.

My ask is regarding the 'writing' and 'editing' stages - so, usually for someone like me whose first language is not English, I tend to plan out a plot and just write the outline (a skeleton of a plot, essentially) without the dialogues. I then go and 'fill in' the rest depending on the style and theme I am hoping to aim there. Honestly, I am still very bad at dialogues and usually rely on existing phrases (from shows or books) to go by. Here, I wanted to ask if you have any advice for making sure that one's writing has a consistent tone and point of view, while still being a cohesive narrative? If it is not too much trouble, could you explain the process you follow when writing and editing your own work? You are under no obligation to answer this question; I understand if it sounds too convoluted.

Also, I was wondering if you write professionally? In addition to fanfiction, I mean. You're truly in a league of your own!! There is another author I greatly enjoy who has their own unique voice in their fanfic writings - @elleinmotion. Their Aemond/OC story is amazing, and one of my favorite WIPs to keep up with.

Hello Kalki 💜 This was so lovely of you to send. I am doing a Read More so I can give you the response you absolutely deserve.

First of all, I just want to say thank you. I pour my heart into every piece I post here or on ao3, and knowing you enjoy reading what I create... my heart is just overflowing.

Also, I was a grinning fool when you said I have a certain style. I just love that. So again, thank you. 💜

For my writing and editing process:

This is cliché, and he is not an influence of mine, but Mark Twain once said it best: to write what you know.

I apply this to my fictional crushes 😂 I research them, study them, pay attention from their mannerisms down to their diction, until I have an understanding [or believe I have an understanding] of them.

Then I daydream dialogues to try and get a feel for how they would react or what they would say in response to my made up scenarios.

For me, daydreaming is probably one of my best tools, but I now make sure I have a pen and pad of paper, a notepad on my phone, so I can write down a conversation that comes to me, whenever inspiration strikes.

Here is some of the random snippets I take down for stories I have posted and stories I am working on. I try to get out everything so it can trigger the memory whenever I sit down to write:

Now, whenever I am struggling with how someone would say something, or if the conversation is stilted, not flowing like I need it to, I will reach out for help, asking my specialist, my beta readers to brainstorm an idea or have them read over whatever monstrosity I wrote.

A writing community is wonderful to have and I have been fortunate to collect these talented souls from the amazing pieces I come across this hellsite. When I reblog, my brain will tuck them away with the thought: "This fic was nifty, they are my Aegon Specialist™."

I have no shame to reach out and see if they would not mind me bothering them with a question about whatever I am struggling to put together. 😂

And whenever I edit, I find that taking a day or two away from a piece, returning to it and reading it out loud is the best way to catch any grammatical mistakes. For example, I read all my stories to my editor, Jaxy:

A beta reader can also be wonderful help, but make sure you let them know what you need when they read it over. And when you find one that is just brilliant, make sure to cherish them, shower them with compliments, get them snacks, etc. They are truly doing the work of the gods [the old, not the new].

For you last question, I do not write professionally. I actually started writing fanfiction around 13 or 14, though I daydreamed about being a published author.

I did do some technical writing and editing for a few years, and then transitioned over to coding, so now I do dev work for an app + their website.

But who knows what's next? Maybe one day I will write a book 😊

[abyssalhuntersnerd]

Something might be coming your way soon. And it's not her.