#yes i do all the research and writing myself

[dduane]

What are your thoughts on companies like this that offer 'coaching services' for hopeful unpublished novelists?

This smells of scam to me but maybe I'm just a cynic:

Publishing Your Book

Query Letter Coaching/Editing – $550 per book (this includes two passes)

Synopsis Coaching & Editing – $750 per book (this includes two passes)

Proposal Coaching & Editing – $1,500 per book

Traditional Publishing Coaching – $200/hour (finding an agent, crafting your proposal, etc.)

Indie Publishing – $1000 (distribution to all platforms for optimal international exposure, guidance on pricing, blurb-writing, logistics, and keywords)

ISBNs for Indie Publishing – $150 per book format. Free if publishing through [the company selling these coaching services]

Briefly: before I got involved with any such operation, I'd want to talk to (multiple) people they'd worked with previously and find out what kinds of experiences they'd had. And in line with this, I'd be extremely cautious about any operation that wasn't run by professionals with a verifiable track record, and which wouldn't offer verifiable examples of feedback from people whose reality as non-sockpuppets could also be confirmed. And whom you could contact without having to go through the company in question.

On other issues: I'm looking kind of askance at some of those prices. (Here adding the disclaimer: I know people who do this kind of work out of a grounding of significant expertise and in good faith, and I'm not clear on what they're charging because I haven't really looked into it... not particularly needing it myself at this late stage in the game.)

At least part of the problem I'm having with the prices being charged in your example is based on the knowledge of how very much information of this kind is available free online. And yeah, there's the old chestnut about "The advice is worth what you've paid for it"... but that has sort of an unspoken negative corollary: "Except when you've paid for it and it nonetheless turns out not to have been worth much."

The trouble with the non-independent-publishing suggestions is that all of them deal with imponderables. Even if all the advice you purchase from those people at all those varied prices is absolutely right on the money, there's still no way to guarantee that any of it is going to lead to success in getting query letters, synopses or proposals actually looked at. Which puts this whole concept squarely in the nature of a gamble.

Not that luck doesn't have a role to play in a professional writing career. Sometimes you're just standing in the right place at the right time with a manuscript in your hands. But getting the idea that you can depend on that luck for any reason is unwise... as divine Fortuna is anciently famous for wandering all over the room, blowing on other folks' dice. (And if this makes me sound like I fall well down on the "Fortune Favors The Prepared" end of the spectrum: yeah, that.)

My advice would be to spend a good long while online, thoroughly researching all the free sites that have info to offer on all the traditional-publishing-facing topics. Then, after exhausting the available possibilities, if you still think you need to engage paid professional assistance... make inquiries among as many verifiable professionals as you can non-invasively query, before parting with any money at all.

As regards the indie-oriented fees: I'm finding those pretty steep. The prices for ISBNs in particular bother me. (Especially since in many places you can routinely buy packages of ten for about what these folks would charge you for two.) Yes, they're free if you publish with them: that sounds lovely. But publishers would normally buy many of those packages of ten. Or packages of a hundred: the more ISBNs you buy at once, the cheaper they get. And if you're paying the company for other services, who cares about the ISBNs? They're making money off you in different ways. Possibly equally overpriced ones.

So to finish: this is very much caveat emptor territory. There will inevitably be scammers out there, claiming their rates to be less than "bigger companies" are charging, but still too much. Therefore... advance only with utmost care.

...And adding this: @petermorwood glanced at the price list over my shoulder and said, "I wouldn't touch any of those with a barge pole."

At any rate: HTH!

...And now a word regarding our regrettably fickle non-sponsor, via Ol' Blue Eyes. :)

[starpirateee]

Hi!! Could you write one of the Curtwen prompts I made, yet didn’t cut it? I love your writing style!!

Honestly there was a bit of deliberation here because you put some really good ideas out there on the form, but I did say I'd write em myself, and by all means, I'll still do it! So, I decided to go for this prompt:

Would you take a modern au from me? Can I do that?

I mean, I'm going to anyway, because I have a dire need to call Curt and Owen husbands (and also for wider Starkid lore), but i just thought I'd warn you beforehand!

"Agent Carvour, have you found anything yet?"

Owen leaned back away from his research. He'd been looking at the same page now for a while, trying to make some sense of it. Redacted government files were hard to get hold of, but even harder to make ends of. His system had been trying to translate it, but not even he had the software for that.

"Quite possibly, sir. I have a few sources, at least."

"What have you got?"

With an air of something that was almost excitement and almost elation, Owen pulled up a series of documents and started the walk through them. "Well, sir, the easiest source was from a few years ago. There's a company in Michigan that's been trying to conduct various temporal experiments under their parent company— some kind of analyst company, I think. They're surprisingly ordinary. Anyway, apparently the experiments just… Stopped. They never drew a conclusion on whether or not their research was connected to what was on the other side."

This had all started when Chimera had dug up a series of centuries old reports about people claiming to have looked into the eyes of old gods. None of the people had known each other, but all of the reports showed some form of consistency, and all told of great, unknowable power.

So, they had decided to look into it, to see if there had been anyone else who'd dared to brave the process of trying to find an answer. Owen was one of those lucky enough to find himself with the resources to start a thorough investigation.

"They didn't finish?"

"No, I don't know what happened, but the reports just stopped one day."

"Is there anything else?"

"An american government report, but it's as hard as you can imagine to decipher. Most of it is redacted…"

"Anything worth noting?"

Owen nodded, carefully turning back and switching the tabs. This felt a little like he was giving a presentation that he hadn't prepared for, and he hadn't felt like this in quite some time. He took a breath, trying to slow down the rampage that was going on in his head. "They started in the early noughts. 2005, to be precide. That's the earliest I'd gotten without looking at those old reports from the pioneers. A branch of the military tried to build a gateway to the other side, to investigate what existed outside of our plane. I don't know names, only one. The name of the man who performed the experiment."

"They got this gateway open?"

"Yes, sir. And they sent someone through. I think there's a good reason why his is the only name they disclosed."

"Why?"

"Because he was declared dead, sir."

His screen still displayed the document, and the man's name sat among the black markouts, clear enough to see. Cross, W.D. Apparently, he'd ventured into the portal, and nobody heard from him or saw him after the date of the experiment. They gave up the search after a month, and after that, Colonel Cross was indeed declared dead.

"So, another dead end?"

"Maybe not. I'll do what I can to uncover this with what I've got available, but it was scanned, so…. It might take some time." Owen was normally confident in his abilities, and uncovering government documents was a difficult yet necessary part of the job. There was something almost genuinely enthralling about scraping off the parts that the world's governments wanted to keep secret. It felt like giving people a small yet surprisingly effective slice of justice every time.

"Keep looking, Carvour. We need to know if this is viable, or even worth our time…"

If Owen had any kind of normal life— if he and his husband didn't both do the dirty work for secret operation services— he would have a blast trying to decide how to describe the intricacies of what he'd been researching lately. The throws of domestic life confounded him to no end, which was why it was so funny when he and Curt tried to imitate that.

The otherwise simple question of "how was your day" turned into a battle of who could craft the most believable lie that better concealed what they'd actually done. Neither wanted to jeopardise their jobs, and Curt had always been brilliant at crafting stories, so it was never dull.

He started to think about what today's excuse would be. Something about pioneers, or the Oregon trail, or perhaps he could bring up that old, dead colonel somehow, that would be interesting to add to the pile.

--

"You know what I'm gonna ask already…"

By the time he got home, Curt was already waiting for him, and the mid-spring sun was starting to set. For anyone else, it was a day at the office, but the trails he had begun to uncover had really put all other days at the office to shame.

He laughed softly, having prepared this answer a number of hours before, and took up a position on the couch. "No, love, you first. I insist."

"Fine, okay," Curt answered with a chuckle. "It was nothing really, just your standard… But, the bear returned, and in about a month, I'm gonna get really rich and run off to central Europe, with a really pretty lady and a dollar store box of magic tricks."

"The same bear from last month?"

"Yeah. Bastard won't leave me alone."

"Sounds wild. Are you coming back after your plans to run off with this really pretty lady?"

"Plan is to cut myself off after three weeks, but at this rate, I might not make it two."

"Not good enough?"

"Owen, I'm a bit too gay for that." To sell his point, he flashed his wedding band, and Owen laughed harder. "Besides," he added, covering his own bout of laughter. "Who needs a fake wife when I've got my own right here?"

Owen shot him a faux-offended glance. "How dare you!"

"You might fool the guys at work, O, but you couldn't pretend you don't think about it…"

Or that he hadn't been experimenting in that part of himself in little segments since he was seventeen. Turns out he suited long hair better, and he wouldn't hesitate to admit that he both looked and felt rather good with the occasional flourish.

"You know me well..."

"I should hope so! Anyway, what're you keeping from me? How was your day?"

"Office, just like you. I've had a conversation with a pioneer, and tried to erase marker pen over the body of a dead soldier. Oh, and I tried to teach myself statistical analysis."

"Jeez, that was— that was a whole rollercoaster there, huh?"

"Mhm, I've been busy."

"You can say that again, god… So, a pioneer? Like those guys that travelled to Oregon?"

"Yeah. Quite interesting people, if a little paranoid." Something other than their oxen might be watching them would've been a perfect addition to the statement, but Owen felt that was a little too close to the line to pass, so he decided not to add it.

The important part was, apart from the knowledge that Curt was on an assignment in a month's time, both of them were none the wiser. Curt didn't need to know that he had started the deep dive into a pack of eldritch gods and was even slightly nervous about the outcome.

He didn't sleep well that night. He knew that he had right to believe that this was all one great hoax, that there was something in the water that made the pioneers mass hallucinate this supposed watcher. They all travelled on the same trail, it was entirely plausible that all of them found the same hallucinogenic and envisioned a thousand eyes watching them and their familes. It was less of a coincidence when two subsidaries of larger companies started describing details of experiments that led them to discovering other beings beyond just the watcher, of course, but he still wasn't sure whether he was privy to believing any of it.

There was something about redacted government files, though, that were meant to be believed. There was a reason they hid information from the public, and that was often because they had found something worth disclosing in the first place. That meant huge news, large press cover ups… The whole works… And that was the last thing any self-respecting government with something to hide would want. Owen imagined the size of the initial press conferences for dealings like Roswell, how many people must've shown up to that conference, under the impression that they were going to get answers, only for the press to redact the next day and claim that it was no more than a weather balloon.

He felt like he was dealing with a weather balloon of his own right now. This was something that this branch of the military clearly didn't want people knowing. The only reason they'd had to disclose any information at all was because one of their own had died looking for this information, and they had to provide the closure for whatever family he had left. Part of him wondered what they'd said, how they'd tried to cover up this man's imminent demise at the hands of another dimension. What did his family know? Was he ever given a sendoff?

When Owen tried to sleep that night, plagued with the thoughts of how much his research was worth, and what really happened on the other side, he couldn't get his head in the right place to take a suitable rest for long enough. Flashes of colour— brighter than anything he'd ever seen— danced behind his eyelids, chasing each other in sequence. Blue. Purple. Yellow. Pink. Green. White. Blue…. He didn't have much of the capacity to think, not when those colours started consuming his subconscious thought, but he spared a moment to the hope that he may get answers of his own if he stuck around long enough.

"He thinks he's brave… He thinks we don't know about him…"

Whatever dream he had been having was taken over by blurred edges and violent pangs of pain that he was sure he could feel outside of this existence. Everything faded out, leving only ruin in it's wake. Broken pieces, scrambled signals… Owen didn't even try and make sense of it, he already understood the futility of trying. There was nothing left in his mind but those colours and those voices— for he was sure there was more than one. A sickening chorus, holding perfect time with each other.

"He's foolish, if he thinks he can go further without us finding out."

"Owennnn…"

"We know what you're doing, Owen…. It's not going to last."

He'd thought about meeting his maker before. He'd thought about the possibility of death, the idea that he may not live to see another day eventually. It was hard to deliberate something so serious in his early thirties, but his line of work called for it. He knew that he had a dangerous job, and that there were few who would be able to save him if something happened.

But, he'd never considered the possibility of his own demise to this extent before. In the formless remains of his dream, where he was forced into hearing these voices talk about his death and how soon it would be to coming, he had pause for deliberation. And it wasn't good.

He had to strain to take control of his own voice, in this space that was once his own. Once so sacred, now scarce and left entirely to the whim of whatever was taking residence in his mind. This was a bad idea. All of this research was a bad idea, and he was suddenly more aware of that than he was anything else. Never before had he had such a violent urge to overturn everything he'd worked on for the sake of something this seemingly trivial.

"There's nothing you can do. It's already started. This is bigger than me…"

"We know that. You're not the only one we have heard trying to work your way into what is ours… Choose your next step carefully, Owen. I'm sure we would delight in taking you in the same direction as the others…"

Before he could really ask what that meant, he was left entirely alone. The ruin of his dream still stood strong, which was strange enough given that the voices had left him alone, but he had the strangest feeling that there was more to this landscape than just what he was being shown. He started to wander, to look around in an attempt to find the real end to all of this. His mind was a wasteland, taken over by the lack of colour and the apparently deafening absence of those voices that had only appeared a moment before. He felt empty without them, although he knew nothing more than the sequence of colours that paraded through his vision.

Blue… Purple…. Yellow…

The pattern was familiar, like he'd seen it before somewhere. And while he wasn't resting easy, he couldn't force himself to wake up, either. No matter how hard he tried, he was just left stuck, wandering the expanse until he found what he was apparently looking for.

Pink…. Green…. White… Blue…

The expanses of his mind stretched out into a road, occupied by nothing but empty space. He supposed that was mostly his own fault; he had known for years that his imagination was never one to be put on par with anything else. He couldn't so vividly picture that which others could, and he'd never really had much of a capacity to dream, either.

So, this warning was strange. Seeing such vivid, bright colours in the back of his mind, knowing that he couldn't have conjured them himself…

He started to walk the road, curious enough to want to know where it went.

"Owen?"

That voice wasn't like the ones who had left moments before. That voice had a personality, and a person to go with. It was warm, though scared. Human all the same. And Owen knew the shape of it.

"Owen?"

Owen let his instinct lead him down the road, through it's many curves and winds. Eventually, the road gave way to what could only possibly be a stage. There was a set of stairs to one side, that he let himself climb before he could think to wonder where they led, and then the familiar voice gave way to a man in the wings, staring at him with desperate, fear-lined eyes. Of course he knew the voice, and of course he had never tried to doubt himself on the matter.

He tried to advance towards Curt, but he took a hasty step back, shaking his head.

"Curt?"

"Prove you're Owen."

"I'm sorry?"

Curt hesitated, and then slowly emerged from the wings. Even though he stood on the light of the stage, it still looked like he was carefully enveloped in shadow, like the darkness was a comfort to him. Owen looked around, wondering what had made him so cautious, and whether it was still around. Had Curt seen what he'd seen? What had those things whispered to him?

"I'm not falling for it again. Tell me you're actually Owen…"

Owen frowned, not wanting to dwell too much on why Curt was so afraid to reach out to him and realise that all of this was as real as they could get it. "Curt, love, I don't know what you want me to say…" There was a certain desperation about him too. Improvisation had never been his strong suit, but he wass confident that, given the right prompt, he would be able to convince his husband that he was who he said he was, to quell any discrepancy that it may have been otherwise.

"Don't. Show me… What happened on your 25th birthday."

The pieces fit into place, and Owen nodded dutifully. He had been out in the field that day, a strikingly hot day in the middle of June. The two of them had barely ended up with three hours together by the end of it, and they'd gone out drinking to celebrate what little time was left of his birthday. He'd never been particularly big on celebrating, but Curt had insisted. They were newly married then, and getting used to the idea of sharing a life with someone else. That was one of the first nights following their wedding when Owen truly came to realise that he'd made entirely the right decision, and that there was nobody he'd rather share his life with than Curt Mega.

"My 25th… That was a home ground mission. I was in the state."

"What happened to you?"

Owen smiled, somewhere between fondness and a need to hide the melancholic air that hung about that question. He pushed up the sleeve of his jacket, and huffed a weary breath of laughter. "I was trying to make my exit, but the suit jacket caught on a fence. Here…" With his sleeve rolled to just the right length, Owen held out his arm and pointed out a pale flash just below his elbow— a jagged scratch that had never quite healed right. "That's what happened after the fabric tore. Is that enough?"

Curt had known about the scar. He'd also known about the story. He was pretty sure that nobody else knew, though, so in his head, that had always been his fallback option in the event that he was ever sure Owen needed to prove himself. Those stories lined up perfectly, and while Owen had missed out on some of the details, in the grander scheme of things, he'd gotten it exactly right. He shifted, letting a knowing smile cross his face through the fear that still gripped him.

"It's really you…"

"Of course. Why wouldn't it be?"

Curt's approach was still careful, premeditated. Even though he knew the truth now, there was still something about him that screamed a lack of trust directly into his ear, and it made actually reaching out for Owen so much harder. "You… You were trying to kill me."

"What now?"

"I know what I saw…"

"I don't doubt you, but I would never… I swear it on my life."

"I know, that's why it was strange… I— What the hell's happening?" This stage was the only thing connecting the two of them to reality. There was nothing beyond it but the end of the road that Owen had travelled down, and nothing behind it but black, empty space.

Owen let his instinct take over. If the two of them were going to face the unknown, whatever and wherever this was, then they were going to do it together. They always had, and they always would. That was the way things worked, especially for the two of them, because their lives were built so heavily on the idea of distrust that any semblance of the opposite they could get, they would cling to. Normally that was exclusively each other, and so the world wasn't usually much larger than the two of them.

Their hands connected in the middle of the emptiness. Owen pulled Curt Closer to him, and the two of them stood side, performers to an unknown audience, marionettes for something larger than themselves. They exchanged a glance, and Owen registered the warm, homely spark residing in Curt's eyes.

"I think we're trapped in a nightmare, crazy as it sounds," he tried to respond, but he wasn't entirely sure where this was going to go. "I can't wake up, but I remember falling asleep last night."

"Me too. I fell asleep before you did, you were still reading."

"Right, and now there's this. Whatever this is. did you, by chance, see those colours too?"

Curt nodded. "They came before you did, before the- other you. Blue, and purple, and yellow…"

"…Pink, and green, and white..?"

"And then blue again."

Owen heaved a sigh. "Curt, there's something I have to confess. It's safe to do so now, there's little that could get in the way of what I have to admit, but this is one of those things I wouldn't be able to tell you awake, you understand?"

There was a moment's pause, in which Curt tried to work around Owen's phrasing. Both of them felt the incredibly revealing sense that they were being watched, so Curt understood that Owen had gone into the professional mindset— switching off his senses for the sake of making as much sense of something as possible. It was always how he rationalised his way through situations, and it hadn't failed him yet.

Eventually, Curt nodded again, as the words started to sink in and he started to get a sense of what was being said. "This about what you told me this evening?"

"Yeah, I'm afraid there's a little more to it than what I told you, but I suppose that was rather obvious."

A nervous breath of laughter left Curt, only partially voluntary. "I thought there'd be a bit more to it than erasing marker pen over the body of a dead soldier…. What the hell kinda explanation was that, anyway?"

"One I spent a good hour crafting, thank you very much. I thought it was clever."

"Better than a pretty lady and a box of tricks?"

"And a bear, yes."

"… And the bear. Right. Well, what's that mean? erasing marker pen over the body of a dead soldier, what're you saying there?"

"I've…" This is not going to get you done for. Those documents were already top secret before you saw them. And if it gets you out of this nightmare prison, then surely it has to be worth it. "I've been uncovering sealed military case files that might explain what's happening to us right now."

Curt's eyes went wide. "Fucking what?!"

"It's all part of the job. I can't… I can't elaborate. Know only what everyone else knows: that the only reason any part of this is disclosed at all is because someone died during one of the experiments."

"What's that got to do with what's happening here?"

"That's what they were researching."

That seemed to click to some degree. At least, Curt seemed to understand a few of the larger pieces, perhaps the more obvious ones. "The colours?" In his head, there was an experiment, someone tried to make sense of whatever that was in their shared mindscape. Someone— a soldier, presumably, had died in the middle of these experiments, and now Owen had gotten tangled in this mess through his agency, and the two of them had been dropped into the same nightmare.

Owen nodded. "The colours."

At the moment he said that, a loud rumble disrupted their moment and forced their attention out into the expanse of nothing. Laughter— multiple sources with varying shrieks and gasps that couldn't be placed to a single source— burst from behind the wings, and from in front of them, and from the endless expanse of black that surrounded them. A loud crack followed, and Curt swore as the stage splintered beneath his feet. For a split second, his grip loosensed, and the next time the ground rumbled, they were torn apart by the growing crack in the stage. He staggered back, and the two of them ended on opposite sides of the stage, the crack between them growing and delving deeper into the unknown.

"Owen!" He called, trying to regain his footing but falling back.

"Curt! Hold on!" Owen yelled through the growing laughter, scrambling back to reach out for the pulley system backstage. He needed a foothold on something, a way to sturdy himself so he could regroup and think. It was too loud, he couldn't think in this kind of heat, with this kind of mess, and Curt, and-

Another crack. The stage was starting to fall away from itself, split not quite perfectly in two. Owen's breath ran short. In the swirls of colour and mayhem and possibilities, he saw a way out. One chance to get this right, and to make sure that they both survived the fall while they were still stuck here. He gripped the rope tight, levering himself further towards the crack, and looked to Curt. "You're gonna have to jump it!" He called, desperation winning over any attempts to stay sane. "Don't worry! You know I'll never let you down!"

"Are you crazy?!" Curt managed, staring into the gap. "I can't jump that, it's too far!"

"Curt, before the whole place splits in half, you have to get over here!"

"What if I don't make it?"

"Trust me! Please!"

Curt backed off a few paces. Owen stood ready, one hand gripping the rope wrapped around his wrist, and the other reaching out as far as he could, waiting for a move to be made. After a singular preparatory breath, he sprinted for the gap, and pushed off from the splintered wood at the edge.

He reached out.

Owen reached out.

Their fingertips connected briefly in the space, and then Curt slipped away beneath his grasp.

Owen threw himself forward, feeling the rope worming itself free and burning his wrist in the process. He'd promised. He wasn't going to let Curt fall. And he was nothing if not a man of his word.

Curt's eyes squeezed shut, preparing for an endless fall through the ineviatble. Something laced around his wrist and he felt himself stop moving. Exerting all the caution he knew to exert, he looked up, and caught a familiar whiskey brown staring back at him.

"I've got you!" Owen breathed, and Curt fought to angle himself so that he could get a better chance to grab the broken stage floor. When Owen started hauling backwards, Curt managed to get a hold of the edge of the stage, and made it a joint effort to haul him to his feet. "You're alright… You're okay…"

Curt essentially fell into Owen's arms. Owen held on tight, like he could lose his partner at any second to the swirls and the crevice. He stared out into the emptiness, ignoring the very real pain that he could feel at his wrist but cherishing the very reel feeling of Curt's shirt underneath his hands. The very air seemed to shift. Owen wasn't previously aware that colours could get angry, but this green that flooded the space behind his eyes was pissed. He could feel it.

So was he. Pissed, and way more desperate than a man ought to be.

"Alright," he muttered once, and Curt drew back ever so slightly. He noticed Owen was staring off into the greater expanse, and hoped for all it was worth that he couldn't see something out there.

"Alright!" His voice got louder, and he tried to mask his utter despair in an authorative tone. "I get it. You hear me? I get it!"

Everything fell eerily silent. The only sound that remained was the pounding of Owen's heart in his ears. He took a breath, strangely certain of himself. Glanced at Curt. Spared his attention on the void again.

"That soldier… Wilbur Cross? That was your fault, wasn't it? There's a good reason nobody can get very far into digs like these, and it's because you strive to kill them before they do. Nobody ought to know what's on the other side, and that's why nobody does…"

"Owen, what're you doing?" Curt whispered, but to no response and little avail. Owen was lost in whatever he was about to say.

"… But, I've heard talk of bargains being made here, so how about it?"

"Your desperation speaks for itself."

Owen had to pretend that that— the voice from the middle of nowhere or what it had said to him— didn't bother him in the slightest. He steeled himself, not sure where to direct his attention but knowing he'd probably have it right no matter what he chose. "What do you say, am I allowed to make a deal?"

The air shifted. Owen didn't receive a direct answer, but he knew that he'd been allowed to continue. "If I don't continue— if I go back, and tell my people that it's an impossibility, that it can't be done— would you let him go?" Another quick glance at Curt, as if the green something needed clarification, or as if he knew what he was signing himself up for.

Curt was frozen in place, his eyes wide. He'd heard every word as it echoed in the void, and he hated what it was implying. His gaze was fixed on Owen, fear blazing through his face. "No, Owen—" his voice came out weak. As far as literal interpretations go, that was not a good one. He didn't understand what was happening, but it terrified him to know that Owen was being so calm about this, while he could be selling his life away with nothing more than a few choice words.

Owen frowned, and muttered an apology he was sure only Curt would catch. The green grew angrier, setting a violent fire behind his eyes and forcing him onto his knees as the pain flooded his body.

"You better not be fucking with me."

"No! I— I wouldn't! I'm serious! I'll call it off, I swear on my life, just… He has nothing to do with any of this. It's not his fault."

The thing considered, holding Owen firmly in place while he deliberated. Curt couldn't move— he didn't dare, lest something happen to Owen that put him in more danger than he was already in. All he could do was force himself into keeping his breath steady, and not thinking about what a single wrong move could do to either of them. His eyes landed on the friction burn winding neatly around Owen's wrist, and he decided to focus on that for a while; the only other colour in a void of blackness and green.

"Very well."

That was the last thing Owen heard. Some part of his mind just shut down, and he collapsed to the floor of the stage. He didn't hear the way Curt screamed his name, or the return of the chorus of laughter. His eyes closed, and the next thing he knew, he was waking up with a start, underneath the sheets of his own bed, gasping for breath. He sturdied himself out, and once he was sure that he was real, and definitely in a familiar space, he looked over to Curt, and found him still asleep.

"Curt?" His voice was soft, but his mind was a knife point of tension. If that had gone wrong, then why was he the one to live through it ant not Curt? He tried again, biting his lip. "Curt..?"

Curt groaned. His eyes opened slowly. The relief that Owen felt hit him like a tidal wave.

For some reason, Curt was entirely surprised to see that Owen had made it through to the other side. He managed a weary smile, and tried to get his vision into focus. That was one of those decisions that he immediately came to regret. As soon as he brought himself a little more into the real worls, he noticed that the brown in Owen's eyes was stained with something else, and it made him feel sick to his stomach. Dripping down his irises was a flash of toxic, unsettlingly bright green.

[theabigailthorn]

This is the bibliography for the next episode of Philosophy Tube! I've had a fascinating time reading and watching all this; now it's time to turn it into a script!

[theramblingvoid]

Low level/continuous pain tips for writing

Want to avoid the action movie effect and make your character's injuries have realistic lasting impacts? Have a sick character you're using as hurt/comfort fodder? Everyone has tips for how to write Dramatic Intense Agony, but the smaller human details of lasting or low-level discomfort are rarely written in. Here are a few pain mannerisms I like to use as reference:

General

Continuously gritted teeth (may cause headaches or additional jaw pain over time)

Irritability, increased sensitivity to lights, sounds, etc

Repetitive movements (fidgeting, unable to sit still, slight rocking or other habitual movement to self-soothe)

Soft groaning or whimpering, when pain increases or when others aren't around

Heavier breathing, panting, may be deeper or shallower than normal

Moving less quickly, resistant to unnecessary movement

Itching in the case of healing wounds

Subconsciously hunching around the pain (eg. slumped shoulders or bad posture for gut pain)

Using a hand to steady themself when walking past walls, counters, etc (also applies to illness)

Narration-wise: may not notice the pain was there until it's gone because they got so used to it, or may not realize how bad it was until it gets better

May stop mentioning it outright to other people unless they specifically ask or the pain increases

Limb pain

Subtly leaning on surfaces whenever possible to take weight off foot/leg pain

Rubbing sore spots while thinking or resting

Wincing and switching to using other limb frequently (new/forgettable pain) or developed habit of using non dominant limb for tasks (constant/long term pain)

Propping leg up when sitting to reduce inflammation

Holding arm closer to body/moving it less

Moving differently to avoid bending joints (eg. bending at the waist instead of the knees to pick something up)

Nausea/fever/non-pain discomfort

Many of the same things as above (groaning, leaning, differences in movement)

May avoid sudden movements or turning head for nausea

Urge to press up against cold surfaces for fever

Glazed eyes, fixed stare, may take longer to process words or get their attention

Shivering, shaking, loss of fine motor control

If you have any more details that you personally use to bring characters to life in these situations, I'd love to hear them! I'm always looking for ways to make my guys suffer more write people with more realism :)

[sprout-fics]

dunno if imissed thurs thots bc time zone is an arse but i pilled an allnighter and needed some smit to keep going bc coffeee aint doing it job anymore so heres a copy paste of my idea from when i was actuallyawake

hallo! so taking a page from the spider verse movie, what if reader did yell out a safeword? there is an “aftercare for a red moment” hole in the fic community (or im just blinded by the algorithm who knows)

So this is a really interesting concept, and also a good way to discuss proper sex practices, so thank you anon!

For those unaware, the color system (Green, yellow, red) is typically associated with BDSM practices. Green is all clear, yellow is slow down/change tactics, and red is full stop, change into aftercare mode. However this system is not exclusively designed for kink related practices, it can be a useful tool for even vanilla sex. Please remember to always check in with your partners and obtain enthusiastic consent before engaging in sexual activities. I am not an expert in this area, so please remember to do your own independent research if you are curious about this topic.

(Warning: Uncomfortable sexual scenarios and use of safe words, please read at your own discretion)

The Color Red

(TF 141 reacting to you using a safe word during sex)

Johnny 'Soap' MacTavish

You’re not really sure what does it, but something inside you drops abruptly, without warning as Soap’s hand wraps around your throat. 

There’s not even any pressure, just a heavy grasp that circles under your jaw but it’s enough to make something in you rise in panic, blood chilling and breath seizing inside your chest

He’s still hunches over you, your legs wrapped around his hips, brow scrunched in pleasure, voice dragging as he tries to angle himself just right to graze against the soft spongy part of you he knows will make you go boneless in his arms

Whatever pleasure was tightening low across your hips dies as a cold, fearful wash of dread takes its place, the world spinning as you drop fast.

“Red.” You croak, voice trembling, abruptly, entire body going rigid with panic.

It’s over in an instant. Soap knows what the word means, is trained to respond at the first instinct of discomfort, and within a blink his hand is gone, his weight off of you

You curl over onto your side, eyes wide and shoulders trembling, wetness still on the inside of your thighs but air rising sharply as hyperventilation threatens to take over

Soap’s weight is off the bed, giving you space, but when he notices your breathing he kneels beside you at once, eyes brimming with worry

“Hen, sweetheart, it’s alright.” He coos softly, words echoing as a steady stream, a reminder to his nearby presence. “You’re safe, we’re done. Breathe for me, You’re alright.”

“Johnny.” You gasp, reaching for him, and he obliges instantly, maneuvering you both so he sits against the headboard and puts your head into his lap, positioning a pillow underneath it. 

“I’m here.” He reminds you, a hand stroking along your shoulder in soothing circles as you try to control your breathing, listening to him breathe alongside you. Deep inhale, hold for 4, out for 7. Repeat.

“What do you need, hen?” He asks after a few minutes, after the panic has faded to a dull bite, once you stop shuddering and instead curl into an exhausted heap at his side.

You sigh out a shuddering exhale, feel his thumb graze across the top of your shoulder. Gentle, patient, devoted.

“You, Johnny.” You tell him at last. “Just you.”

Kyle 'Gaz' Garrick

“Red.”

You gasp it out unexpectedly in Gaz’s bed, hands secured above your head as he bends over you, three fingers curling inside you, smug smile plastered over his face as he tries to wring another orgasm from you despite you telling him you can’t, and him finding another, another anyways

Now, however, it’s finally too much, and when he presses just right the sensation it summons is less pleasurable and more aching, stretching an overworn muscle that leaves something twisting unpleasantly inside you

“Oh shit, doll.” He gasps at the word, and slowly withdraws his fingers to not cause you additional discomfort. You whine, but the sound catches in your throat, pleading and tender. “I’m sorry, shh, take a breath for me.”

He reaches up above you, pulls at the rope and it comes loose easily, allows your hands to sink into the pillows and reduces the strain on your shoulders. 

“Hey, hey, I got you.” He murmurs as you shudder, face contorting at the unpleasant ache inside you

He drags you into his arms, and you don’t complain at all, curling into his steady frame as he tucks you against his chest

“You did good.” He tells you at once, reassuring, gentle. “Promise you did good. Just take your time.”

You nuzzle against the coarse, curly hair of his chest, feel him stroke a hand against your back as the ache inside you dies to a low murmur

“I’m okay.” You tell him after a few minutes, taking all the time you need to fully relax into his embrace “It just…it was so much.”

Kyle exhales then, a breath you didn’t realize had been holding. His form goes a little lax against you, relieved by your words

“I’m sorry, doll.” He tells you at once. “I should have stopped sooner.”

You shake your head a little, remind him gently “That’s what the colors are for. I’m alright, just-” and you wince. “Tender.”

You feel him smile into your hair, mouth tugging just an inch, his body warm, solid, reaffirming against yours

“We can fix that.” He tells you softly. “How about I run you a bath and get you cleaned up, hmm?”

You nod, pause, and then crane your head up to plant a kiss against his lips

“Sounds wonderful.”

Simon 'Ghost' Riley

Sex with Simon can usually be an intense, emotional affair, an experience where you try and carve space within each other through touch, seeking a balm to the brokenness, soothing to the fear and hurt 

Yet there are also times when you both just need release

Which is where you are now, face down, his hands hauling yours behind your back, hips slapping against your pelvis with a rapid, brutal intensity that’s going to leave you pleasantly sore for days

His voice is a grinding, rumbling presence that doesn’t allow you to drift entirely off, forcing you back into the presence of him. A hand tangles in your hair, presses you down into the sheets as he growls lewd, filthy praise down at you

Yet there’s a hint of malice to it, and normally you’d welcome it, send it right back to him, teeth bared and spirit a bright flame that burns against his darkness

Now, however, each word seems to puncture through you, as he hisses ‘Slut. Pretty little whore.’ down at you

You want to take it, want it to feed the coiling need as he buries himself inside you, but tonight it sounds almost like Simon means it.

It hurts.

It forces you to drop so fast it gives you whiplash, mind reeling and you have to remind yourself to say the word that bleeds across your tongue.

“Red.”

Simon stops instantly, removes his hand from your hair like he’s been burned.

You barely even notice, caught in your own turmoil of thoughts, trying to find your way out of the labyrinth. You don’t even notice as he pulls out from you, but the sudden emptiness only feeds the fall, makes a sob curl in your throat as you try and fail to swallow it down

He’s gone from the bed, you notice, and if anything it makes you panic more.

“S-Simon.” He try, voice wavering, and as if you’ve summoned him he appears back at your side, his voice gentler now but strained, guilty

“Here, pet.” A hand against your spine, a feathering touch given only as a mild offering before you give him permission to touch you, to which you gasp “Please.”

The touch becomes firmer, fingers pulling at the rigidness coiled in your frame, and after a moment there’s the cool touch of a washcloth that wipes the sweat from your skin.

“Y-you didn’t mean it, did you?” You try at last, not moving yet, knowing he’d only hush you back into stillness, make sure you didn’t push yourself too fast too soon

Simon takes a moment to process, realization washing over him at why you invoked your color.

“No, never.” He tells you, voice a little distant, and you know the faint unhappiness that colors his own voice isn’t for you but for him, tearing at himself for causing you hurt

You take care of him too, knot your fingers between his in tender reassurance, reminding him that even as he hovers at your side, you stay beside him too

Captain John Price

You’re trying to soldier through it, the pain that wraps around your thigh as he hauls it over his shoulder, braces it on the broad planes of his frame

Your hands are fisted in the sheets, chest heaving as Price forces his tongue into your cunt, fingers digging red marks into your opposite leg. There’s pleasure coiling n your core with every stripe of his tongue, dragging whimpering moans from your throat

It’s soured, however, by the wrapping on your thigh, the stitched bullet hole radiating pain. The sharp ache drowns any potential pleasure that rises inside you and you try to grit your teeth against it, force it down in pursuit of the warmth of price’s breath against your folds

You can’t. You can’t do it, not with tears beginning to well in your eyes and the sounds coming from transitioning into whimpers of pain. 

“John.” You manage, strained, and for a moment Price is so absorbed in his task he almost doesn’t hear you. “J-John, red. Red.”

Price’s head shoots up, his ears attuned to that word specifically, and when he does you see slick coating his chin, his eyes flickering brightly in worry.

A sob bursts from your chest at the sight, dragging with pain, eyes hot and wet as you press a hand to the red blossoming bandage. 

He surmises the situation quickly, and instantly he’s rising off you, nearly vanishing from you entirely, giving you a bit of space before sitting back down beside you and gently bending your leg onto his lap

“Shh, it’s alright love.” He reassures you, a hand reaching up to stroke at your sweaty forehead, against your brow bunched in worry. “I’ve got you, you’re alright.”

“I’m sorry.” You blurt out even as his fingers knead into your calf. “I didn’t- it hurts.”

“Never apologize for using your colors.” The captain tells you sternly, and he holds your eyes on him, levying you with a disciplining stare that ensures your compliance. You nod, sniffling, and it makes some of the grimness melt from his eyes, tendered with affection

“Where are your pain meds?” He asks then, a hand gently tracing over the bloodied bandage, and you nod to the bedside drawer.

He nods absently, one hand still braced on your leg, the other reaching past you to withdraw the bottle from the assembly of items there

“You’re going to take these.” He tells you without question, drawing your gaze back to him once more. “We’ll get you cleaned up, and then get something warm in your stomach so they go down sunny, yes?”

You sniffle and nod at him, still feeling a little embarrassed, still in pain. Yet it’s softer now with his touch as his eyes turn to you fondly.

“Might even get you some hair of the dog for good measure.” He offers, and it at last summons a shy but warm smile from you

------

Again, if your partner every signals they are uncomfortable during sex, stop, talk, and proceed as needed. If anyone ever disrespects you signaling you are uncomfortable or blatantly ignores your safeword, do not engage with them further. Stay safe, stay sane, and stay consensual

[whentherewerebicycles]

also i have probably said this before but i think faculty need to stop telling students that they shouldn’t go to graduate school. yes students should have the information they need to make the decision (including info about the low stipends, the not-so-great culture of many graduate programs, the vanishingly small number of stable academic jobs, etc). but i’ve always felt like some students are going to hear that and think “well, it won’t be me, i’ll work hard and beat the odds!” (typically your well-off students who have a lot of social & navigational capital and an assured sense of belonging in higher ed spaces), while other students are going to hear it and think “i wonder if they’re just saying that because they think i’m not cut out for graduate study.”

[aurore-parle-de-ses-idees]

what’s something neat you’ve learned while doing research for something you were writing? also, how much do you worry about doing research in general?

(11)

something neat i've learned... well, it was definitely not relevant to the things i was actually looking for, but i do now possess a whole lot of niche knowledge about typical ships rations around the war of 1812. some of this is just bc my dad is the way he is and possesses even more nice tall ship related trivia, but it is also interesting lol

as for how much i worry about research? idk. depends what i'm working on and how relevant it actually is to the story. i don't tend to fuss too much about historical accuracy, esp because i'm usually doing fantasy and/or scifi and i'm 100% down to handwave things like 'should this random fantasy world have coffee' bc that's usually not the point. i'm perfectly aware that you can get good and interesting things out of addressing stuff like that! it's just not usually what i'm focusing on

by contrast tho, for fic i generally have to be pretty thorough, bc for whatever reason i absolutely insist on knowing the in-universe rules before i blatantly break them. does it change what actually happens? very very rarely. is this a particularly rational way to go about writing fanfic? no not really

[britneyshakespeare]

gingers are black in the jonas la universe

[commander-rahrah]

Firsts

Pairing: Astarion (non-ascended) x GN!Reader Word Count: ~1200 archiveofourown: here

masterlist: here

Summary: Post ending of BG3, established relationship. GN!Tav/Reader having a bit of self doubt and worrying that Astarion fell for the very first person he met once he realized he was free from Cazador and that they would understand if he someday decides that he wants to go explore or meet new people or fall in love more then once. Astarion’s reacts to this worry.

Note: I haven't posted any BG3 fics yet, but I just couldn't resist writing this little scene that's been bouncing around in my head this past week! I wrote it originally for my Tav named Olympia, a tiefling bard, but I changed it to second perspective for this post.

.·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·..·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·..·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·..·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·..·:*¨༺ ༻¨*

Astarion’s eyes were trained on your fidgety movements. You were picking at the blanket as you sat on the edge of the bed, your hand shifting anxiously back and forth as your brow was crumpled in thought.

Something was eating away at you. He just wasn’t sure what. You two had a seemingly normal day, not starting until well past sunset (your new adopted routine just for him). The both of you had done some research and shopping before returning to the tiny rooms you were calling home for the time being to relax for the remainder of the night.

But now that he thought about it, you had barely touched your meal tonight. And were much quieter than usual, not as optimistic or positive during the research that had once again been futile. Perhaps you were being plagued by nightmares again — images of the horrors the party had faced just a couple months ago were resurfacing.

A flash of anger coursed through him at himself for not noticing sooner. Taking a breath he didn’t really need, he strode over to you and joined you on the edge of the bed — the mattress sinking slightly with his added weight.

“Copper for your thoughts, my sweet?” He asked with a tilt of his head, before tucking a piece of your hair behind your ear.

“I— I was thinking…,” You were quiet, and stumbled as you opened your mouth. He’d very rarely seen you like this — you always had a way with your words. You could be more poetic and flowery than even him. “And— and I understand if you do end up feeling this way.”

Confusion spread across all of Astarion’s features, “What in the hells are you talking about?”

You finally looked up at him, your eyes big and crinkled with worry, “I was the first person you met when you realized you were free… from him.” The pair of you had silently agreed to never mention that name again. “The first person you’ve been with. If you… if you decide you want to go see the world, experience new things, new people… I would understand.”

His jaw clenched together, “What?”

“I feel selfish keeping you all to myself. When there’s so much of the world you’ve not seen, so many other people you could be with that I—“

His red eyes blinked at you, before his lips turned downward, “You’re being serious.”

“I—“

He cut you off abruptly, waving his hand dramatically and pressing it into his chest, “Do you think that’s what I want? Have I told you that’s what I want?”

You shook your head, lips creasing, “No, I just want you to know that it’s ok if—“

“What, if I want to leave?” He stood up from the bed, looming in front of you as he spoke, “If I want to go galivant around to meet mysterious strangers, have a tryst or some torrid affair? I know that I am capable of making my own decisions. I know that darling, and I chose you. I choose you. And you reciprocated that.”

“I did. I do, I choose you. But I’ve—“

He interrupted you again, “Let me ask you something. Do you love me?”

“Of course. With all my heart.”

His heart still swelled with your answer. It did every time you admitted it to him. To hear it put out into the universe. That a tiny corner of it was indeed intended for him and you.

He pursed his lips before asking, “Have you loved people before me?”

“I—yes.” You admitted, looking down to your fingers that had become a twisted knot on your lap now.

“And did it feel the same? The love you shared for those other people.” He asked quietly, stepping closer and leaning down to undo the knot of your fingers. Instead threading them through his own pale, cold ones. “Did your love for them feel the same way you love me?”

Your throat bobbed as you swallowed, squeezing his hand in confirmation. “No. Not even close.”

“Exactly. You explored and experienced… and it still led you here, to me now. To your version of a first, yes?”

You nodded, the bottoms of your beautiful eyes starting to form with water as you tried to keep your tears at bay.

“I don’t need anybody else, or anywhere else.” Astarion sank to his knees in front of you, keeping his hands intertwined with your own. He dipped his head so he was looking up at you, his red eyes soft and tender. “Look… yes, you may have been the first person I stumbled upon after that damn ship. The first person I met once I realized I was free from his grasp. But you are also the first person to treat me with kindness and compassion. Respect. You’ve fought for me, protected me, fed me, been patient with me. You were the first person whose touch doesn’t make me feel ill, the first person who’s brought me to a blissful euphoria. You’ve given me peace. Autonomy. Safety. And love. No one has ever done that for me, not in my whole existence.”

His half dead heart was thundering in his chest. He had already declared himself to you once before, yet his whole body was shaking with emotion right now.

“And how dare you think so little of yourself. You aren’t just some notch in my belt, not a stepping stone in my life. You are everything.” Astarion used his thumb and finger to push your chin up, forcing your eyes to stare up into his. “I love you. No on else. And there will be no one else.”

The tears that were welling in your eyes finally broke free, rolling down your freckled cheeks. “I love you too. Irrevocably so.” Your voice was a raspy whisper.

“Oh my lovely moon, I wish you could see yourself how I see you.” Astarion’s voice was a gentle whisper.

He pressed a soft kiss onto your lips, both of his hands moving to grab the sides of your face. His pale thumbs wiped away the tears. “I surely hope these are somewhat happy tears now?”

You nodded profusely in his hands, a breathy laugh escaping you. “Happy, relieved.”

“Good. Now, no more of this talk alright? There is only room for one person to be filled with self doubt in this relationship and that position is currently filled by me.”

You frowned, “Starry, don’t jest about things like that.”

“Old habit.” His smirk pulled up enough that his fangs poked out. “No more stewing with your anxious thoughts. You’re going to come and join me on the balcony. Come on,” He stood up and held out his pale hand for you before he gently tugged you to the small balcony attached to your rooms.

The pair of you looked up at the inky black sky, glittering with the sprinkling of stars you could still see in Baldur’s Gate. They were blinking and swirling around the glowing, full moon. A sigh of contentment left you both as you stood in comfortable silence and basked in the light.

“What would the stars be without their moon?” He whispered in your hair, wrapping his arms around your waist as he gathered you into him.

[ddaz3d-and-cc0nfused]

OUUH WHAT ABOUT spencer watching her do her makeup, pick out an outfit, get dolled up to go meet his team

fem bimbo!plus size reader, wc: 498.

a/n: AWW OMG writing this actually gave me cavities. this is probably the fluffiest thing i've ever written on this account!! i really tried to get into the mind of our precious bimbo reader, and i feel like i did a pretty good job if i do say so myself! 😏

You always liked to say that you did your best work under pressure, so why in the hell wasn’t your eyeshadow… eyeshadowing?

You looked at yourself in the vanity mirror, your gloss covered lips turned down into a deep frown. The lines caused by your frustration left behind little creases in your carefully laid foundation. You were one more mishap from a total breakdown.

“Spence?” You turn around in your porcelain white chair that  completely contrasts the dark coziness that was Spencer’s room. 

Tonight was the night that you were going to meet your boyfriend’s team, which in your mind translated to his family. You had met his mom already, and she liked you, so why were you so intimidated? Maybe it was because these people were like your precious boyfriend just twenty times more terrifying.

Tonight had to go well, or you swear that you might just die!

“Yes, sweetheart?” Spencer responds from behind the book he had his nose buried in. He had been resting against the headboard, the lower half of his body relaxed and his legs were stretched out carelessly. The advantage of being a human string-bean, you supposed.

“Does my makeup look okay?”

Your exasperated tone in your voice forced his eyes away from the page and onto yours.

He was surprised by the light tones of eyeshadow you had picked, they were a lot different from the bold pink, purples, and blues. That could only mean one thing.

“There’s no need to be anxious, honey. You look beautiful.”

Usually, you were very susceptible to Spencer’s praise, often turning bashful and shy, as well as giggling and grinning like a schoolgirl. Nope, not today. Today felt like not even the sweetest of hymns could bring you down from your anxiety ridden stupor.

“Really? Because I don’t know about the color… I feel like the eyeliner makes it look clumpy.”

Spencer Reid was trained for this, if the hours of cosmetology research he had done counted for something. Why you may ask? Well, the first time you had asked him about your makeup was when you two had first started dating, and it had unfortunately gone a little bit like this:

“Does this look okay?”

“It looks fine, angel.”

“Oh God, I should just start over, shouldn’t I?”

“That’s not what I said.”

Spencer smiles fondly, “It doesn’t look clumpy at all. In fact I think the dark and light colors complement each other well, they make your eyes look large and enchanting.”

And just like that, all of your apprehension melts away. “Oh, good!” You all but cheer.

He watches with a lovesick smile on his face as you pull out outfit-after-outfit from the closet – that’s really more yours than it is his – with an excited grin.

“How about this one?”

Spencer knows he’s in for a long night; with his book long forgotten, he doesn’t have the heart to tell you that you have an hour before you guys have to leave.

ೃ⁀➷ my lovely taglist!: @alina02 @louderfortheback @minervadashwood @their-love @fandomsarelifee @theendofthe70s @nomajdetective @mgg-theprettiestboy @phoenixblack89 @celtic-crossbow @hallecarey1 @bunnybabe-babydoll @dixonzzgirl @violettavirus @khxna

[theabigailthorn]

sources on what you're reading about AI ma'am please

I already posted the bibliography on twitter but here it is again

[bluegiragi]

I hate to ask this cause it feels stupid but I dont wanna do a bunch of research on whatever the recent cod mw fandom discourse is,

but I saw the reblog of someone accusing you of supporting people who write sexualized pedophilia and that really is personally my only """"moral"""" with nsfw shit, (I'm a patreon subscriber and ig I just wanna know where my money's going) is THAT true?

this is such a never-ending nightmare.

i used to follow an artist who, 5-6 months ago made racist art featuring gaz in a slave context, which I didn't like, retweet or interact with in any way. they also made under-age art of ghost soap, which I also didn't interact with . people on twitter called me out yesterday, for retweeting art they'd made as evidence I stood by/encouraged/was an avid fan of all these tropes. Also, the art I retweeted wasn't either of these previous examples of art, but one where ghost and soap were sleeping in a bed together, as adults, peacefully. I can't emphasise enough that I have not interacted with this artist at all, for literally six months.

genuinely, my only crime is not unfollowing + blocking this artist earlier on, and then daring to retweet a fic tagged with "non-con" (ghost gets soap off in a context where he can't really properly consent, they're in front of a crowd of strangers and they have to fuck, but both parties are into each other) written by a friend as I wanted to support their writing.

and now i have pedophile claims because I accidentally retweeted a fandom bingo post that defended loli-con, and then immediately un-retweeted it when I properly read it.

And people are calling me a zoophile for supporting someone who wrote zoophilic fic and called people slurs (???) and I genuinely don't know who they're talking about there.

And the same people called me racist for making Horangi's eyes in the monster!AU sensitive because they thought I was making fun of Asian eyes. The real reason is because he's a cat hybrid and cats are sensitive to light (and I'm Chinese).

I tried addressing all this in a simpler way earlier on, and responded to an ask talking about my "support" for the artist who drew the slave Gaz art by saying the fanart in question was tone deaf and in poor taste. It wasn't enough for some people, so I'm happy to say it again - yes, it was racist, and the reason why I didn't want to be more aggressive is because I didn't want to extend all this mess by throwing this artist under the bus - I genuinely believed them when they said that wasn't that their intention, and think they should've deleted the post at the time.

And also I'm now called a rapist bc I like to entertain fics with dom/sub dynamics that dip into cnc, as an asexual woman who's personally repulsed by sex when it comes to myself.

That's everything so far. I really don't know what you people want from me anymore. I followed the wrong artist. I retweeted the wrong post. And I've undid those actions now. And for so many people to have taken literally everything spread by these people at face value, without even checking if their claims are true, is incredibly hurtful and isolating.

[roxineedstosleep]

Could you do a snippet for yandere platonic Batfam where reader accidentally gets hurt and is able to hide it for a few days until someone (May be Dick?) finds it and asks / gets upset about it? Love your writing!!! ♥️♥️♥️♥️

Hi there!!!

First of all: Thank you sweetie!

It's been a while since I've written, mostly because of the university, I'm about to graduate and I'm crazy because I'm approaching my final exams (I even have to defend my research work to be able to get my bachelor's degree)!

But, I got to thinking a bit about what you have written above… and even more so because I myself am a little bit crashed after my last film shoot for my final year of my degree. And can I just say that being in a bad way and having to hide it is terrible.

So… here goes!

(I'm sorry if I sound a bit comical in this writing, but I think the best way to get over something is to laugh at yourself a bit so you don't think about the pain too much; I hope you enjoy it anyway.)

Disclaimer: I don't know if you've noticed, but English is not my native/mother tongue. Occasionally, when I think too much, I write them in my language and then translate it in a trusted translator. So, if there's a grammatical problem or a strange term, it's the translator's fault.

Let's face it… having a large family is terribly exhausting.

It's never quiet enough, everyone is in everyone else's business, you can't leave your favorite mermelade in the fridge for less than a day. Someone is always occupying the bathroom or using your favorite shampoo or watching something on TV at too much volume and someone is probably occupying your bed at nap time.

Did I mention about meddling too much in other people's business? Yes? Well… triple it.

Having multiple siblings was new.

Having multiple siblings, a father and a butler/grandfather isn't exactly bread and butter either.

It wouldn't be so bad to belong to a large and numerous one if it was your blood family and you had lived with them all your life. I mean, sometimes blood is too thick and you have no choice but to learn to love them or just be nice to each other.

Like I said, it wouldn't be so bad if they were really your family.

But the Waynes were not your family. Not distant relatives or anything like that.

You were just living your life, as quietly as possible… and poof!

New room, new butler/grandfather, pets beyond belief, 4 new male siblings and a father with serious emotional constipation issues. And, to add more salt to your wound…. all have serious abandonment issues and death-related trauma.

After several escape attempts, sleep strikes, hunger strikes and any other kind of protest that an anarchist could be proud of… you realized that it was simply impossible to get out of this without risking the path of death.

Which, to top it all off, was also unreliable because apparently your older brother Jason had revived as well as another of your siblings. So no, dying was also not a viable option to which one could resort in the worst case scenario.

What to do?

Well, not much. Trying not to die of suffocation of affection or finding a way to have privacy while going to the bathroom just seemed to be the best survival tools you could resort to.

What does that entail?

It implies that Tim was going to give you hours and hours of lectures on his latest discovery of a case, even if you don't understand half the things he's told you or mentioned at all.

Richard and Damian trying to teach you new tricks almost every second, taking you to the Zoo or not leaving you alone to go to the bathroom.

That Jason, oh holy cow he is the only one more relaxed, takes you with him on his motorcycle to eat ice cream and to the public library. Without being able to scape, because it seems that you have a kind of GPS inserted in the bone marrow.

(Sometimes you don't know if it's true or not, but sometimes you also felt pain between your bones, almost during the cold seasons, and you didn't want to burst your poor little head thinking of different viable possibilities knowing them. No scars, no remembering anythins about any surgery).

Have a grandfather who will not hesitate to make you cookies, your favorite foods whenever you want … without leaving you aside at any time.

Plus a terribly quiet father, who if he can will carry you for as long as you spend time together, won't let you near the secret basement and enjoys being in the same room with you.

Do you see any privacy in this?

No, because even at the bathroom door would be the pets trying to get in and see you for themselves while you want to do your business.

The worst of that? Titus always judge you when you close the curtains.

As I mentioned and it was clear: Having a large family implies little privacy… Having a large, obsessive family means NO privacy.

So, knowing that you have over 50 nanochips tracking in all your clothes, two security monitors embedded - God knows how - in your body (monitors that only tell you if you are in designated safe place), 20 high definition surveillance cameras in every room and a Great Dane chasing you like a chick …. How the heck do you fall down the stairs and hit your pelvic bone without anyone noticing?

No kidding, how?

And if you had to blame someone for your fall… you'd totally blame Damian for it.

It's not that the kid pushed you down the stairs, but over time he had tamed himself into various things and relaxed into looking his age. You know!!! He started acting like a normal teenager!

What do Damian's kids do at his age? Well, they leave things lying around and have messing around them when they can, of course they do!

You just wanted some yogurt with orange marmalade. Maybe some oatmeal cookies. Alfred had left it for you in the fridge when he noticed you'd been watching video tutorials on homemade marmalade for hours. Who were you to deny such a gesture of generosity?

I mean, Alfred was the one who allowed you to hide in the attic for hours on end so you could have some time to yourself.

And how did it end? You, slipping down the main stairs of the old Wayne mansion, down a nicely polished wooden staircase, rolling all the way down (which is no small flight of stairs, it should be noted) to the bottom of the first floor.

Now, lying on the ground is not so bad in itself. What is bad is not being able to feel your legs and still not being able to understand how you manage to tidy up your neural wiring so that your legs can still move on their own and go to the kitchen to rescue all the delicacies Alfred left you in time.

And it's a good thing you managed to do it… because within seconds Bart had rushed in to ransack the fridge and the fruit basket.

But that's not the point.

The important thing is that this time you managed, I insist a little on the feat of action, to climb up to your room and not notice how you couldn't really feel your legs.

You ate, you lay down… and to your bad or good luck, you couldn't get up …. and without anyone noticing there was an emergency and everyone went out to sort it out.

Weak limbs, limited movement and you don't want to mention the embarrassing actions you did in order to go to the toilet.

It's not like you hid it either, I mean, there was no one who could even notice because they weren't entirely available to watch you. Nor is it that you would have run away, otherwise they would have been at your side in less than a second.

The detail, as they insist, is that you had probably bruised your back badly and your body was now taxing you extra for your food craving.

I insist, you did not hide anything.

But still, when you're found completely itchy on the floor, ridiculously trying to run away in the direction of the bathroom… that's when everyone really goes crazy.

First, having to carry you and not dying of embarrassment when you notice that Bruce definitely doesn't give a damn about having to carry you to the bathroom and do almost everything for you.

Or having Dick and Jason carry you and fit you into some kind of weird medical scanner they have in the cave.

Or that Tim keeps track of your periods, types of meds you take and, for fuck's sake, knows how the fuck to inject something into your spine.

Or that Damian had the gall to look a little embarrassed when he heard that a pair of boxers lying outside the laundry basket was to blame for all this.

NO matter.

At the end of the day they heal you, pamper you, leave you alone when you need to take a nap and figure out a way to fix it without looking like complete maniacs who built some kind of internal plumbing that sucks up the dirty laundry and throws it straight into the washing machine.

Like the time they didn't look like maniacs by sanding all the edges of the tables and nightstands.

Or the time they bought a whole brand of sanitary towels when they realised that not all women use tampons.

Don't worry, they're looking out for you… even if they look like deranged Arkhan freaks in the process.

[malum-forev]

If you still have Receiving/ giving a gift available, could you please write about Avenger Bucky receiving a gift from reader, for Christmas or his birthday? But he totally doesn’t expect it and gets all emotional cause he hasn’t received a gift in decades and doesn’t know what to do with the whole thing.

Yes yes yeeesss this is such a great ideaaa <3

*

“This is stupid.” Bucky grumbled.

“What’s stupid is that you waited until December 24th to buy your Secret Santa a gift!” Sam said, dodging the thousands of people roaming the streets of New York. 

“I didn’t think the gift exchange would actually amount to anything.” Bucky groaned. “I thought we would be sent away on a mission!”

“I don’t care what your excuse for procrastination is! I just want you to buy your Secret Santa something.”

“How the hell am I supposed to know what-“

Sam covered his ears. “La, la, la, la. I’m not listening, don’t want any spoilers.”

“I want to be put back in the cryostasis chamber.” Bucky sighed dramatically.

-- 

Bucky stretched the neck of the uncomfortable wool sweater someone on the team had forced them to wear. The itchy fabric made his skin red. Whoever started the ugly sweater tradition should be sentenced to life in jail. Bucky thought. 

“Will you stop acting like a toddler, we’re supposed to be the adults here.” Sam spoke from the edge of his mouth to not attract any more attention. 

“I’m not acting like a child, I’m acting like a senile old man. This is the appropriate way for me to act seeing as I’m over a hundred years old.” Bucky crossed his arms over his chest, immediately regretting the action as he pressed the disgusting fabric against his chest. 

“Okay! Bucky’s turn!” Sam yelled, not wanting to bare another second of his friend’s complaining, pushing Bucky to the middle of the circle. All of the agents’ eyes were on him. 

Bucky never really celebrated Christmas, back in the 40’s it was common for families to celebrate it but ever since he got out of the ice he- well let’s just say The Winter Soldier didn’t really have time for holiday shopping. 

“I got-“ Bucky cleared his throat nervously. “Ryan as my Secret Santa so, here’s a knife.”

The room got eerily silent as they all watched Bucky take out an unpackaged knife from one of his pockets. 

Sam facepalmed himself. 

“Thanks Sarge.” Ryan awkwardly smiled. 

“I sharpened that myself.” Bucky said proudly. 

“Let’s move on!” Sam said, this was more painful than he’d ever imagined. “Who got the cyborg as Secret Santa?”

Again, silence met everyone. The agents looked at each other but no one stepped up.

“It’s fine,” Bucky forced a small smile. “I withdrew my name from the bowl. I didn’t need anything.”

Scattered chatter was whispered before they continued with the gifts. 

Bucky looked down at his watch an hour later, how much longer would he have to put up with this?

The double doors opened loudly and in you came. You quickly said your hello’s to a couple of your friends and walked straight towards Bucky. With a big smile on your face and a small bag in your hand. 

Bucky gulped as you approached him. 

“Merry Christmas Sarge.” You beamed, his brain was trying to process your words. Bucky felt like he’d never heard someone call him that, and no one should ever try to top it because it would never compare to how the word Sarge sounded coming out of your lips. 

“Me-Merry Christmas.” Bucky stuttered. 

“I’m your Secret Santa.” His eyes widened but it seemed like his reaction only made you happier. “I saw you pulling your name out  when everyone left so, I decided to pick it up for myself. I hope you like your gift.”

You were truly the human form of sunshine. He thought.

“C’mon, open it. I need to know if you liked it.” You pushed the bag closer to him. 

Bucky took it by the handles and peeked inside. It was a book.

He saw how you nervously fidgeted. 

“When I got recruited, I researched about you- well both of you, Sam and yourself. God this is embarrassing.” You fumbled with your words. “Anyways, I read that your favorite book was The Hobbit so, I tracked down a first edition copy since well, it’s been edited since it came out and I thought it would be nice for you to have something from back when you first were alive- not alive because well- Oh god, it was stupid right? Giving you a book? You probably don’t even have time to read-“

Bucky cut you off by wrapping his strong arms against your frame. 

“This is the most amazing gift I’ve ever received.” He mumbled against your hair. “Thank you.”

“Welcome.” You squeaked.

“This is incredible.” Bucky whispered, not knowing if he could get any other words out without his voice cracking. No one had ever done something as special as this for him.

“You made Barnes smile!” Sam laughed, patting Bucky on the back. “You should get a medal for things like that.”

This one's short and sweet! Hope you like it!

Hi hiiii This is part of my 1k Celebration, if you like this please be sure to look at the Bingo Card and ask for a prompt! Love y'all <;33

And you can find the Bingo master list and what prompts are still available here!

*Any gifs posted are not my own and I give the artist full credit.

[nyx-is-missing]

Could u write one for clarisse where she's impressed with femR bc of how good she is at fighting and all and clarisse finds her incredibly attractive bc no one has challenged her the way R does?

And like a bit of pining until the two confess

Thank you!!

Breathtaking or taken

Clarisse la rue x fem!reader

Summary: when Clarisse finds a opponent worth of her, she is breathtaken.

Warnings: none really, just fluff, not a descriptive fight scene on sight cause mama dont know how to write that, so just fluff fluff, and mutual pining fluff

(Do i need to say its not proofread? No? Thank you)

Here is one of the main benefits of being a daughter of Athena, you'll know.

DIfferent from other gods, Athena will let your parent know it is her who they are talking to.

And if letting them know beforehand isnt enough, she will let them know when the baby is brought to them, and if your parent is smart enough to live up to her choice, you'll have time to learn a thing or two before being thrown into this world.

If your parent cares enough about you, you'll have time.

And sure as hell my mom cared.

Always the intelectual woman, historian, researcher, writter, my mom knew many things about ancient greece, she knew all the stories by heart, and she, of all people, knew what she needed to do, to preserve her only daughter, her sacred gift.

She teached me all i needed to learn without compromising myself, stories, languages, art...and fight.

Little girls my age were doing dance classes, were trying to be good enough for drama club, were playing tea party with their dolls or making a mess with their mom's make up.

Well...i.. i was doing martial arts, i was fencing, i had my face in a book every free time i got.

I always asked her about it, why was she so strict about never missing a fight leasson, her answer always made sense, there and now.

"The world is cruel, especially for little girls, someday i might not be all the time with you, someday, you'll fight your own battles, you need to be ready"

Every word, every single word is true.

And that is how i ended up here, in a arena of camp half blood, sparring with Clarisse, and winnig, by two points, yes, but winning.

It is clear nobody expected that from me, neither did she actually, i can see in her eyes.

Understandable, they expect Athena kids to be calm, find a solution, not fight her way out.

Honestly their looks dont bother me, i dont even think much of it, but Clarisse's looks, they got something more to them, like a kid who finally got the dog she really wanted.

"Aaand break time Clarrise, we'll continue this tomorrow, id like to enjoy the rest of my afternoon thank you"

I dropped the sword down and started to undo my armor while walking close to the exit.

"Wait wait wait, now? Already? C'mon i didnt even had time to figure out how do you do that... all of that"

She stood next to me, still holding her sword and honestly.. she was beautiful, yes she was sweaty now and yes she was mean to everyone but.. now...right now, she was beautiful, shining, in her element really, flushed cheeks and a smile she only had when with a sword in hand.

"I practice, ever since i was a kid, everyday, well expect in weekends but yeah, almost everyday... how do you do all that? You are good...-want some water?"

I offered her my bottle also motioning for her to walk with me, both wich she gladly accepted.

"I practice too...and i never said this to anyone but, you are good, great even, and look breathtaking"

We stop walking, we stop all actually.

"I look what, Clarisse?"

"Breathtaken- you look out of breath, do you want the water back?"

Ah.

Weeks later i found myself in the same scenario, sparring with Clarisse again, actually that is all i do when it comes to training, be with Clarisse

"C'mon curls, thats the best you've got? No need to go easy on me"

"Im not going easy, i already told you, you caught me distracted thats all- GIRL WIll YOU SUSH?"

She tried to block you with her sword, thankfully for her, a succeded attempt.

"How could i? You're so fun to mess with, gets all red n all"

"Oh you want to talk about getting red?"

In a moment i was on the floor, Clarisse on top of me, and i couldnt speak, all i could do was stare into her big brown eyes, who looked right into my soul.

"Cant speak anymore huh? Oh if you could see the red im seeing-"

Now this my ladies and gentlemen, this is what i call a shot of faith.

I raised my head a little and just..i kissed her, it was quick but I did it, and her face went blank.

"Now you are breathtaken Curls, how about that?"

"And you are still breathtaking"

Still?

Oh

Oh.

"You...like me Clarisse?"

"You didnt knew?"

Oh.

"....no..?"

"Would you walk away if i kissed you this time?"

"....no."

[theidiotwhowritesthings]

IS THERE A VERSION OF JOEL MILLER I WOULDN'T FUCK?

[a case study in how thirsty i am for this man.] [aka fic recommendations]

Unfortunately, in my extensive research on this topic, I have found some pretty damning evidence against my sanity.

dad's best friend!joel miller x fem!reader

Your Summer Dream [masterlist] by @swiftispunk It is a scientific fact that if you place Joel Miller on a beach he becomes 100x hotter. I don't make the rules, I just report them.

Creep it Real! by @swiftispunk I am a puddle. I melted and I'm a shallow pathetic puddle. Cowboy and Angel. I just hnnnnnggggg. I need him to ruin me pls dear god.

*I'm realizing if i include all the DBF!JM i read this will get very long, very quickly, and i think i have revealed enough of myself on this blog to highlight my very obvious daddy issues

**speaking of daddy issues...

stepdad!joel miller x fem!reader

Don't Be Cute, Be Nasty by @cockslutpadalecki i'm pretty sure this was the first stepdad!joel miller anything i read and it awoke something in my soul. it's always fun to reach new levels of my daddy issues and BY GOD was this just 🫠

Bad Girl [part i of many] by @seventeenpins he walks in on her while she's watching stepdaddy porn and good lord it gets filthier and filthier in the best kind of way.

boyfriend's dad!joel miller x fem!reader

Lost in the Dark [masterlist] by @iamasaddie i expected to be a slut reading this but then it made me an emotional slut out of nowhere i am obsessed. there is nothing i love more than being drawn in by my thots only to be hit by an emotional bus out of nowhere.

Thigh's Out AU [masterlist] by @toxicanonymity not only is this a boyfriend's dad AU, but said boyfriend's dad is a hot and slutty. just like i like my dilfs.

father-in-law!joel miller x fem!reader

Pink [masterlist] by @netherfeildren holy fuck. that's all. just holy fuck. this altered my genetic makeup.

Help, I'm Stuck! by @nosesitter spoiler alert: he takes her wedding ring off before dicking her down and I-- 👀 send help.

***i didn't think i had a lot of significant other's father!joel miller in my repertoire, but i had to stop myself again from listing them all on this one otherwise we'd be here all day. shit, i'm learning things about myself 🤡

dark therapist!joel miller x fem!reader

Session 1 by @elvinaa i think this only highlights how badly i need an actual therapist (as does this entire list actually).

sleazy gas station clerk!joel miller x fem!reader

Meet Me in the Back (1) & The Night is Dark Enough ... (2) written by @atticrissfinch It does not bode well for me that this version of Joel Miller made me so fucking feral. In no way, shape, nor form should a sleazy gas station clerk make me feel this way AND YET HERE WE ARE.

tattoo artist!joel miller x fem!reader

Honeyed [masterlist] by @softlyspector This one absolutely hits too close to home for me, but that's probably why I'm so obsessed with it. My touch adverse yet touch starved ass ate this up and left no crumbs😌

chiro!joel miller x fem!reader

Say Yes to Heaven by @pascalisbaby i thought the medical side of my brain would cringe at the doctor/patient dynamic but as it turns out my depravity knows no bounds 🥵

frat dad!joel miller x fem!reader

The Old College Try by @proxima-writes i didn't even know this was something i needed in my life until it came into my life. blessings🙏🏼

ceo!joel miller x fem!reader

Sex on Fire [masterlist] by @macfrog i don't think i need to harp on what that sugar daddy vibes do to me🤤

mafia!joel miller x fem!reader

Divine Dynasty by @cavillscurls Remember when I said putting Joel by a body of water makes him 100x hotter? The same applies to a Mafia AU. I can't explain it. I have no sound reasoning to support my claim other than "he hot tho".

pornstar!joel miller x fem!reader

I Know it When I See it [masterlist] by @bageldaddy 🔥🔥🔥 that is all.

maintenance man!joel miller x fem!reader

Maintenance Man [masterlist] by @gracieispunk toolbelt. say less.

slasher!joel miller x fem!reader

Slasher [masterlist] by @toxicanonymity i thought for sure, FOR SURE, this would be blind, pure, detached smut that i could enjoy with no emotional ties whatsoever. and then all of a sudden i'm feeling things??? he just loves his mom so much😭 mama's boy wants to be happy. JAIL. real jail for murderer joel miller. horny jail for me. and audacity jail for toxic b/c how dare you make me feel things for a serial killer😩

as i said previously, the evidence speaks for itself. i have yet to find a version of joel miller i could not immediately fuck. i'm actually planning (i have a lot of plans and no time smh), to go through all these on my recommendation blog w/play by play commentary so everyone can know just how unhinged i am for this guy.

but now!! you guys have a syllabus for my insanity!!

now, excuse me while i go find a therapist (a real one, not a hot/dark joel miller version of one) (although beggars can't be choosers right?👀)

dividers by @saradika