#and it's so clunky... I just can't get into it in anyway

[strqyr]

the main reason for ironwood's rush to rise atlas higher and out of reach even at the cost of not being able to evacuate absolutely everyone, was salem's imminent arrival, right? anything to ensure the staff would not fall in salem's hands and to buy some time to think a better plan.

so what i don't get it is that, once salem—and monstra, and literally every single other grimm in the vicinity of atlas bc you sure as hell can't see any of them post-blast—went kaput, why not... slow down? like the reason to rush is gone, and even if that's temporary in salem's case, the grimm ain't sprouting back up again. unless salem is—unnecessarily—holding back in major way, there's no reason for anyone to think she could cause massive damage to atlas and mantle in short period of time to not risk taking a pause and breathe.

it just feels very clunky writing; why remove one apocalyptic threat (salem) just to replace it with another (ironwood threatening to bomb mantle)? why not change gear, let all the people opposing salem—i.e. team rwby & co + ironwood & co—actually talk, rethink the situation, and see if they can find a common ground and come up with a new plan. it doesn't even need to be successful, but an attempt would have been nice.

like why destroy salem in the first place? what purpose does knowing about the long memory being a pocket nuke serve at this point in time, especially if it's used up already? why hold salem back from destroying atlas / mantle if she's going to destroy vale off-screen anyway?

make it make sense ಥ_ಥ

[astracora]

I finally finished My Next Life as a Villainess... and now I have 23 more games to finish...

Virche FD

Him, the Smile and Bloom

Celestia

B-Project (last priority)

CupiPara FD

Steam Prison

Steam Prison FD

Irresistable Mistakes

Kings of Paradise

Finally, in Love agai

Scandal in the Spotlight

Star Crossed Myth Wishes

Star Crossed Myth Punishments

My Last First Kiss

Her Love in the Force

Love Letter from Thief X

Seduced in Sleepless City

Our Two Bedroom Story

Enchanted in the Moonlight (Miyabi, Kyoga and Samon)

Enchanted in the Moonlight (Kiryu, Chikage and Yukinojo)

My Forged Wedding

Kissed by the Baddest Bidder

Genso Menage

I've already played most of the voltage games (to a point) like. Shit. More than six years ago? Before they moved all their mobile versions to one single app. Eight years ago? So those are replays, (or reading newer seasons), but gods. Why do I keep letting these damn games backlog?????

[dduane]

Dear DD, I'm wondering if you could show examples (from your own work or otherwise) of what really, *really* rough drafts of fiction writing look like. I'm talking the earliest stages of the process that normally most people don't show to the public; whenever I look around online, what folks seem to post as "WIP" samples are usually more like 80-90% polished excerpts.

While my brain logically knows these are the late-stage stuff, it has an ill-advised habit of trying to draft to that 80-90 level of quality from the get-go--I think it might help to see what the equivalent of "thumbnails" or "sketches/doodles" look like in writing, especially from someone who's been At The Work for a long time. Hopefully it's an alright request! I understand if for various reasons you can't.

I'm more than willing to show people my stuff in process, every now and then. ...But in my case, your initial query poses an unusual challenge. And it's this:

After pushing fifty years of doing this work (or indeed, you had it right, this Work) for money, everything comes out looking fairly polished.

And this can't be helped. Once you've been doing this work for long enough—once doing it well starts being the thing responsible for keeping you and your family fed—you will inevitably (eventually) evolve the ability to exude smooth-looking prose at minutes' notice. Over the years your internal prose filters will get trained into being increasingly fine-meshed... and the longer this goes on, the more flatly they'll refuse to let clunky stuff out onto the page any more. You don't really even think about it. You just keep refining a given phrase/sentence/paragraph in your head until it feels acceptable.

After a couple/few decades, this ability becomes an ever more finely-honed survival characteristic. You can no sooner emit actively coarse prose (without trying purposefully to do so, which is another story...) than you can stop breathing for minutes at a time without suffering the consequences. (shrug) It's just the way your life experience has taught your Drafting Brain to conduct itself, going forward.

Now... this doesn't mean at all that the drafted material, be it ever so polished-looking, is necessarily what you intended (or needed!) to write. Oh no. I could this very day show you some prose that by my standards is still really rough, because I wrote it five minutes ago... and you'd look at it and be very unlikely to be able to see what my problem was with it.* Whereas I'm sitting staring at it and muttering "Dammit, something's missing here. No idea what. I'll come back to it tomorrow."

And indeed I wrote something about three hours ago that (as I got it onto the page in its earliest form) left me literally gasping about how obtuse I'd been about the situation and emotions described in it, as recently as early this afternoon before I had lunch. It was a scene that had been missing from something I'm completing at the moment—indeed not merely missing but completely uncontemplated—and as it spooled itself out on the page all I could do was shake my head at my own idiocy at having missed the opportunity earlier, while I was nailing down the plot.

And I would love to show you that piece of prose right this minute, so that you could see what minutes-old prose from me looks like. Except it's seriously spoilery, and I refuse to sabotage a larger work by allowing out any material that's so loaded... and which viewed out of context would deprive it of most of its power. So, as we say around here, 'Sorry not sorry.'" Though I promise I'll come back to this and talk about it "in the clear" later, when that work's published.

...Anyway. The best advice I have for you just now is that trying to make your filters-in-training less effective is—to put it as gently as Captain Amelia might—a mistake.

That urge to have the first draft—or the "zero draft" as some are calling it these days: I use this myself—be as good as possible is frankly a lifesaver. Indulging it, sentence by sentence and paragraph by paragraph, will only leave you with less frustration, less editing and re-editing, and way less Flat Forehead Syndrome over time. You are going in the right direction, even if it makes you feel like you're losing valuable time.

Your brain's attempts to draft to the highest possible level are not ill-advised. Indulge the urge to get your drafting more right, even if it makes you suffer a bit. No one ever said this writing lark was going to be all fun. (And if they did, they lied to you.) Also: hunting through other people's WIP excerpts, be they rougher than yours or more polished, in a search for something that your excerpts or drafting style should or could theoretically look like, will do you no good in the long term... and may do you harm. All you're likely to be left with, after you haven't found anything useful in the wake of the shoulder-peering, is a sense—almost certainly an inaccurate one—that you're somehow doing it wrong.**

You're not. You're finding your own way, at your own speed. This is the Writer's Journey. (As opposed to the Hero's, which I have characters shouting at me about at the moment.) (eyeroll) As you continue going your own way, your drafting will gradually pick up speed without losing quality. ...And don't neglect your outside reading. You need to be reading outside your own genre and your own century to pick up, as it were, new (or old) plugins for your filters.

Anyway. If (as it seems) you're in this for the long term: get right down here with the rest of us and suffer your way (briefly) through it. We all agonize unnecessarily over the effectiveness of our process from time to time. The only cure is to say "fuck that noise" to the back of your Writer's Mind, and get back to the actual writing, where these problems are worked out in the only way that counts.

So: go do your thing, and let the chips fall where they may. And I hope this has helped! Let me know, over time, how things go.

*This situation is also, BTW, a bit of a problem for a writer in a career stage like mine. In an inversion of the usual rule—where "the Perfect becomes the enemy of the (Merely) Good"—the "Really Not Bad At All" becomes the enemy of the "Could Have Been Way Better If You'd Given It A 'Should I Maybe Sweat Over This A Little More?' Pass". Because the Not Bad At All genuinely isn't... but if you're not careful, you stop seeing where to kick it into the next stage when you're distracted by all the other junk going on in life.

**...But this is one of the downsides of the community, and communality, of the writing life online. We wind up endlessly looking over each others' shoulders to try to find answers that—in many cases—were already sitting between us and the screen, on the keyboard.

(And now a suggestion for those who find these occasional excursions into the Advice Barrel useful: at various folks' request, I have a Ko-Fi now. If you find the advice useful and you feel so inclined, send me a sign.) :)

[livingdeadhorse]

idk what this is. i like robots. i’ll clean these up later. i think.

anyways while drawing these I started thinking abt like. idk does this count as an AU.

General shit:

I didn't make it clear, but the robots that have pupils were built without a hardcoded purpose. They've always been free to explore what they want to do. The robots with fully colored "scleras" were created with a purpose from the jump, so their creators didn't feel the need to make them appear more "human".

The more expensive a robot's parts are, the less clunky it is.

Right now, I'm going with "their human family built them" but that's liable to change.

The designs are also liable to change because uh. duh.

Celestia Ludenberg:

Viewed the robots with an imbued purpose as interesting and superior (something something humanity's advancement). She wants to be praised like that, so she emulates them

Her cat loves how much heat she radiates so it's always near her.

Most of her upgrades are cosmetic but if they aren't, they're stupid. She won't upgrade her CPU or her motherboard, but she'll load up with three 4090s that her other components can't even keep up with. Yes, she does it to flex.

She'll distract from bootleg, refurbished, or shoddily painted parts by turning on her RGB. It gets annoying.

She knows that she's fairly unsettling and she revels in it.

All things considered, her cable management is pretty good.

Her gambling skill is still just luck here, but she tells everyone it's because she has a never-seen-before GPU(& CPU) that does calculations at insane speeds.

Most don't believe her but have no way to disprove her lie.

Kiyotaka Ishimaru

I can't decide if he was built by his father or his grandfather.

Either way, he was built before Toranosuke's downfall, so his internals were all pretty expensive for the time. Luckily for him, that means he was slightly future-proof and has a viable upgrade path.

Unluckily for him, this means he's stuck with really old parts and his 8gb of RAM can barely keep up in a 32gb world sadge

His chassis is built from secondhand or scrap parts. It's why his joints are so ancient in comparison to the rest of him and why he has so much cabling that he can't seem to manage.

Shit chassis = shit airflow = he is always overheating

BUDDY IS YOUR CPU BURNING HOW IS THERE SMOKE

Older tech = LOUD AF. The class bought him new fans to avoid the loud ass whirring. It's not quiet but he used to sound like a jet engine.

He runs on Debian. It was originally going to be Arch since it's lightweight but Debian's whole "old but stable" reputation fits him more. I don't see him properly dealing with bleeding edge software anyways.

His room is filled with past HDDs that no longer have storage. He deems all educational material important so he refuses to delete any lessons. He doesn't have the money for SSDs.

Mukuro Ikusaba:

Is usually in reconnaissance mode, meaning she has a shit ton of hidden cameras in her chassis

This used to benefit Fenrir. Now it benefits Junko.

She can have her parts shifted around with no issue to make room for a better arsenal.

She’s durable in her reconnaissance mode but she’s nigh on untouchable in her combat mode. Her chassis gets 10x bulkier and she can split her attention to several different tasks on the battlefield.

Fenrir Mercenary Group doubles as a weapons company. Mukuro is the only model of her kind though.

They tried to give her reconnaissance model the look of a “normal girl” so she could gather info more efficiently. They failed real bad. They also didn’t account for the fact that Mukuro isn’t good at socializing.

She allocates a CPU core to a process dedicated to Junko. 24/7 365

She believes herself to be less capable of emotion than she actually is. She can’t seem to find the system process that triggers such painful emotions.

Chihiro Fujisaki

Each “fold” in her skirt doubles as a screen. Think of the skirt as having two layers: the top shell and the under shell. The top shell is what doubles as a screen.

Optimized her hardware to work on code as fast as possible (fingers, skirt, etc).

She tends to test out new software on herself regardless of their compatibility with her pre-existing shit. She constantly has to reinstall her OS, but it’s all fun for her.

Speaking of her OS, I was going to make her run on Gentoo but IDK cause of the compile times. It’d be faster if she used distcc but I can’t see her screwing over her classmates like that lol.

So I’m between Nix and Arch.

Insecure about the fact that she overhauled her original model so extensively. Got made fun of for being a ‘defective’ robot. Her father supports her modifications but she still feels bad about having ‘failed’ somehow.

Cue identity issues

She helps out her classmates when it comes to repairs.

Tendency to stay up programming leads to high uptimes. If her friends notice her lagging or crashing, they’ll try to get her to shut down. (In a computer sense lol, not an emotional shut down)

Do y’all remember the xz utils backdoor? Yeah that’s how extensively she combs through code.

Sayaka Maizono

I can’t decide if she was built to be an idol or was originally some other type of robot.

Loves to make kids smile, so she has a sort of candy mechanism in her arm.

Everything about her glows or spins. You will never get bored looking at her.

Her skirt isn’t actually see through I just didn’t feel like erasing the hip joints lmao.

If corpos give her manager enough money, she has to perform with literal ads on her.

State-of-the art facial recognition software. It makes her fans feel special to have their names remembered.

She has a regular sleep cycle due to how load-intensive her everyday life is. Has to shut down for a couple hours every week at least.

Her psychic ability is just her running a million calculations based on people’s behavior and sensing which one is most plausible. This feature is in place to avoid PR disasters during interviews or public appearances.

There really aren’t enough worker’s rights regulations in place for robots.

The company gets alerts whenever she freaks tf out, so she feels even more stifled and repressed. Chihiro helped remove this.

Kyoko Kirigiri

Can’t decide if she was built by her father or grandfather. Probably just built by Jin and he “left” her in Fuhito’s care.

Fuhito made her go through several modifications, hardcoding his own investigative skills into her system.

Her grandfather loves her but has fucked up ideas about her own autonomy.

The events of DR:K still happen. She chose not to replace her hands.

Fuhito doesn’t make much use of a backdoor in her system anymore. He used it a lot more when she was a child but he sees her as a viable heir of the Kirigiri clan now. Chihiro isolated the backdoor to a separate SSD anyhow.

Still complicated father-daughter issues

Everything about her (but her OS) is proprietary, probably commissioned from Towa Industries. Her OS is a fork of Mint. The Windows 7 UI is just because I imagine her grandfather is One of Those lmao.

Has way too many scanners and sensors. She can’t test any evidence herself but she can gather a fair bit of information. Has a vast database for cross-comparison anyways.

Same issues as Togami and Mukuro: sees herself as less capable of emotion than she actually is.

The ramen noodle incident called for actual repairs.

Byakuya Togami

His superiority complex is far worse because he was literally CREATED to be the perfect Togami. You can’t tell him shiiiiiiit.

Gold joints. Scoffs at those with unoptimized cable management or software.

He’s constantly streamlining his own processes. Brings up that he runs on his own OS when Nobody Asked.

Had a similar backdoor to Kyoko’s but Koji did check that one. Obsessively. Nobody would tell Byakuya but He Just Knew. The lack of privacy irritated him. Aloysius helped fix it once Togami finally took over.

Only trusts Aloysius with his repairs. Has a hard time admitting when he needs repairs in the first place so Aloysius hides it under “monthly maintenance”.

Does everything from the terminal even when he 1) shouldn’t and 2) can’t. Bragging rights. He has written a bunch of his own scripts though to speed things up.

Kernel and OS provided to him by Koji. (UNIX-based. Proprietary) Byakuya maintains and builds his own updates. Doesn’t trust cheapskate peasants to do it for him.

Anti-FOSS. For him at least.

Has glasses for the aesthetics. Doesn’t need them.

[missmeinyourbones]

LET ME LOVE YOU ANYWAY

a/n: mentions of alcohol and drunk reader, reader called sweet girl once, reader wears makeup and heels, satoru doing boyfriend duties

Satoru has been watching you fiddle with the strap of your heels for two and a half minutes now.

He'll give you some credit, as the heels are a bit clunky and the buckles a tad finicky. And yes, you are still drunk from your girl's night out. But two and a half minutes of watching you struggle can only be so entertaining.

He's itching at the seams for you to let him help you. On the opposite end of the couch and leaning on the armrest, you can barely sit up straight. He doesn't know how you even have the strength to fight him on this, but he shouldn't be surprised; your stubbornness tends to have a never-ending amount of stamina.

He tries again, softly motioning you to join him on his side of the couch, "C'mere."

He's met with the expected pushback when you whine, "Nooooo, I can do it."

"You can't, baby," he softly reminds you with a sigh.

You gesture to where your ankle rests on your opposite thigh. As if you're clearly proving him wrong, you exaggerate your movements, "I'm doing it right now."

He watches you get nowhere with the tiny buckles on the straps and allows himself to tiredly laugh.

"You're not."

Deciding enough is enough, he moves a cushion closer to you.

"Come here," he doesn't let you scurry away when he brings your foot to rest on his lap, carefully loosening the strap and unwrapping the silly shoe from your ankle.

Through the silence of the house and the drunken mumbling from your lips, he admires your heavy eyelids, how they flutter beneath their own weight like butterflies gliding in the spring.

His lips gently kiss your other ankle after finally freeing you from the contrasts of your heels. "You're allowed to let me help, y'know?" he whispers sweetly.

"I don't need help," you nearly hiss, removing your ankle from his grip and planting your feet on the floor again. "I'm plenty capable of taking my shoes off," you drunkenly lie.

And Satoru smiles at you, proud and bright when he nods.

"I know, but I like to do it, too."

He thanks his speed for your lack of pushback when he's able to scoop you from the couch and carry you to the bathroom. Plopping your deadweight on the sink and keeping a steady hand on your waist, he lets you get comfortable on the counter.

Your swollen feet sway as they dangle from the sink, and Satoru bites his tongue from any comment about you looking cute.

He holds up a bottle of what he knows to be your makeup remover, still going out of his way to ask, "It's this one, right?"

"No," you weakly lie.

Satoru sees right through you. "Yes, it is," he gently scolds. "Stop it."

You watch as he soaks a cotton round with the remover, something he's seen you expertly do about a million times before he brings it to your face and raises his eyebrows.

Your whining continues to commence when you dodge his gentle hands, "I don't need help, Satoru."

"I'll be gentle," he breathes.

"I'll kick your teeth in."

"What a sweet girl I have."

This continues for a minute or so before you get tired and malleable enough to just let him do as he pleases. With a final grumble from you, Satoru begins the gentle process of rubbing your skin.

He's cautious, meticulous around the more sensitive areas as he mimics your usual circular movements. He's extra careful when it's time to remove your eye makeup, watching you look up at him for him to gently tap your lids and whisper a soft, "Close 'em."

Remover turns to face wash which turns to rinsing and toner. And throughout the entire process, Satoru has a soft smile on his face, humming to himself as he admires both his work and your face.

"Such nice skin," he presses two fingers into your forehead. "What's your secret? Getting drunk and letting your boyfriend wash your makeup off?"

"No," you sleepily murmur, eyes closed at the relaxing touch, "he always forgets my moisturizer."

"No, he doesn't," Satoru chuckles. "He just likes to make you a little mad."

After eventually completing your full routine, something he will most definitely be expecting praise for in the morning, he softly rubs the remainder of moisturizer on your cheeks and gently smushes them together for good measure.

He uses the opportunity to plant a tender kiss on your lips, and he's thrilled when you only whine and don't push him away.

He smiles halfway through the kiss, pulling away to press a kiss to your cheek and tease, "Mmmm, tequila."

"Want me to brush?" you can barely open your eyes.

"Nah," Satoru shrugs, grabbing you beneath the thighs and scooping you off of the sink, "let's just go to bed already."

In bed, with your cold feet pressed against his calves and his warm hand resting comfortably against your abdomen, he feels you press a tiny kiss to his exposed bicep.

"Thank you for takin' care of me," you whisper, almost as if you're a bit embarrassed to be admitting it.

Tomorrow, you'll blame it on the cocktails consumed the night before, but Satoru knows you. Knows how hard it can be for you to let someone in, let someone help. And every single time, he's willing to fight for it. Willing to coo and purr at your hissed and fanged attempts to scare him off.

Satoru merely hums into your hair, letting himself close his own eyes and sink into the mattress.

"Thanks for lettin' me."

[feyascorner]

okay first of all i ADORE ur writing… wanna take a bite out of it..

anyway… uh… can i uhh… order a uhh…. astarion x tav.. and like..tav has a fucking insane pain tolerance and always has.. and like… uhh… one time she gets fucking TOTALED in a fight and like obvi it would hurt… and shes like crying subconsciously.. and when some1 points it out shes like “what???? why am i crying wtf???” and like looks down and is just fucking BLEEDING… n then.. astarion comfort…

only if u want thoo!!!!

a/n. Im like the exact opposite I'm very dramatic about the slightest pain but this is such a cute request so Ty!! ALSO PLS EXCUSE IF THIS IS A LITTLE CLUNKY I HAD TO TYPE THIS OUT W MY FINGERS🫠🫠

Astarion is grateful for your tolerance to pain.

Of course, he doesn't particularly enjoy watching you in pain, but he’s no fool. He knows the sting and the soreness that comes after he drinks from your neck. Well, at least, it should sting. However, it never seemed to bother you, and for that, he's forever grateful for it.

These strange sentiments expand past his thirst for blood, as the relief he feels when you’re battered up after a battle and you smile at him as if nothing’s wrong is incomparable to any other feeling he’s felt.

That relief does not come currently, however.

The battle was nearly hopeless. Overwhelmed in number, mages casting counterspell, fighters constantly aiming at you…he’s lost track of it all. By some miracle you and your companions stand victorious, and when he sees that you offer Karlach a lopsided smile, confirming that you're fine, he reaches to pick up one of his daggers.

“Tav—what in the hells, are you okay?”

It’s then that he spots the way your lip quivers and tears glisten threateningly at your eyes. And when you meet his own, they begin to drip down your cheeks like crystals and roll off your chin. He's seen you in tears before, but out of something more positive—not from pain. Before he can even tell what he's doing, he's rushing toward you.

“Why are you—” he sees the blood seeping from your stomach, and his face would've gone pale if he could.

You finally lift your hands to your face, eyes wide when your fingertips brush against the dampness of your cheeks. “Oh. Why am I?…”

Shadowheart scrambles to scrimmage around her bag. “Here, let me—gods, where did I—did we use all the healing potions?—”

“Oh for hells sake. Because you're bleeding!” Astarion hisses, his hand intertwining with yours as he drags you toward the nearest tree where he sits you down. He freezes when you flinch but you shake your head, wiping at your eyes. Your other companions are still searching the enemy corpses for anything that might relieve you of the pain, but they're taking far too long for his liking.

“I’m okay, it doesn't really hurt that much.”

“You’re crying.”

“I didn't even know I was-” you wince.

His eyes narrow. “Lay down.”

“What? No, I’m really fine!”

“Gods, love, please for once, listen to me. It’s quite straining to watch you clamber around with that ghastly wound on your stomach.”

You frown, but he guides you down anyway, careful to lay down your head against the grass. “Now wait patiently. Maybe if we’re lucky, our dear friends will find a potion before I start developing wrinkles.”

A momentary silence hangs in the air. It’s by no means uncomfortable, but there are words on the tip of his tongue he wishes to say. And when he notices you staring, he sighs.

“If you're hurt, tell us. I don't care how high your pain tolerance is—if you're hurt, call us. Call me. Don't be a fool and bleed out over a few enemies when we’ve been through so much worse.”

The sincerity in his voice is almost embarrassing. But with the way you're watching him so seriously, he can't bring himself to dwell on such irrelevant factors.

Then, you smile again, as if you've forgotten about the pain. “How minor can the pain be for me to call you?”

“What kind of question is that?”

“Can I call you when I stub a toe?”

“Absolutely not.”

“I will.”

He stares at you with lidded eyes and you laugh. He feels the weight on his shoulders get a bit lighter.

“You may call for me whenever you wish.”

[chuubian]

Kinktober week two:

Hot To Go!

Tags Boothill x fem saloon maid reader, his dick vibrates, drinking, semi-public

Summary A handsome cowboy walks into the saloon without any credits. Before you can kick him out and report him, he offers to pay another way.

The loud screeching of old hinges draws your attention out of your work and to the front door. A weird looking cowboy comes in. He's completely made of steel except for his pale face, it's like nothing you've ever seen before. His heavy boots bang against the decaying slabs of wood flooring, then he sits at the bar, staring silently— waiting for you to service him. Putting the glasses and rag down, you head over to him.

“Hello sir, what can I get you?”

“A double tequila, darlin’.”

You raise an eyebrow. That's it?

“Just tequila? nothing else?”

“I can handle it.”

You shrug, walking back to grab him a glass, pouring in two shots of the clear liquid and sliding it in front of him. He grins— sharp teeth taking you by surprise. Did he purposely sharpen his teeth? The man reaches for his glass, tossing it back and drinking the straight liquor easily. You cringe just watching him.

“You seriously drink like that in the middle of the day?”

“Oh it’s nothin’… ‘s like water to me.”

Nose scrunching in disgust, you recoil at the thought of it. It's like 2 pm who in the world would think to drink this. He chuckles at your expression, sitting up and leaning forward— cheek leaning onto his cold, metal fist.

“Shouldn't you be glad I'm here, darlin’? Good for business, isn't it?”

He looks around the empty room.

“I'm the only one here, that's money you wouldn't have made otherwise.”

So that's how he sees it huh…

“Then it's 30,000 credits.”

He pauses, eyes widening. The clanging of iron sounds through the room as he sits up straight.

“Ain't that a bit expensive, sweetheart?”

You cross your arms.

“That's the set price. If you're saying you can't pay, then I'm gonna have to get the sheriff over here.”

That seems to astound him. He immediately starts fussing, leaning over the bar to try and calm you down.

“Now, now dear… We don't gotta go that far! come on, I'm in town all the time, you know me right?”

“No i don't, I've never seen you here. I don't even know your name.”

Clunky metal fingers run through his black and white hair as he puts his hat down on the counter in front of him.

“Boothill. See? now you know me.”

“If you don't pay, I'm calling the sheriff over here. I'm not kidding.”

Sharp nails dig into the wooden counter— he leans back, thinking of ways to deescalate the situation.

“Why don't we find some other way to repay you huh? We don't need to get law enforcement involved in somethin’ so small right?”

You consider it. It's not like your boss would know anyways, it wasn't even that much alcohol.

“What do you have in mind?”

—————-

The wind gets knocked out of your lungs as Boothill drags his rough tongue over your clit. His sharp metallic claws dig into the soft flesh of your thighs, trying to keep your unruly hips still. A choked whine gets caught in your throat as he sucks harshly on the sensitive little nub— it's like barbed wire has been wrapped around your throat, constricting any sound that may escape.

“Aghh… f-fuck!”

The only response from him is a harsh bite to your inner thigh, before he dives back in. He's like a man starved, consuming you completely. A hot wet tongue makes its way down to your entrance, teasing and taunting, with the intention of pushing in.

Your fingers thread through his long, black and white patterned hair— pulling, out of necessity to keep your peace of mind. Boothill slips inside and an embarrassing squelch echoes through the empty saloon.

“Don't move.”

He warns, holding you up against the old bar. Practically all your weight is leaning on his kneeling form— your legs were trembling terribly, struggling to hold up properly. Gummy walls squeeze around his tongue, gushing out more slick. He lets out a low moan, enjoying the slightly bitter taste.

“Sooo good…”

His words slur together. One of his fingers finds its way up to your puffy, abused clit, drawing little circles. Sparks flash behind your eyes and guttural moans bubble past your lips.

“Nghh… B-boothill!”

This only seems to encourage him more. He drags his tongue back out of your entrance. Your pussy feels empty without him, clenching around nothing— already becoming used to the force against your walls. Tugging him closer, you grind your cunt down onto his lips, trying to get more. That's all you need, just a little more.

“Needy, huh?”

He chuckles, lips wrapping around your over sensitive clit, sucking and licking at it harshly. You double over, stomach and thighs tensing from need and overwhelming pleasure. His steel palms feel surprisingly warm against your skin, gently caressing instead of digging in like before.

“Mmmf..! O-oh god Boothill!”

Eyes watering, back arching, grasping and pulling at his long locks, you finally come undone. A loud ringing resounds through your head, leaving your brain fuzzy and confused. You don't even process what's going on until Boothill’s bulky hands are turning you around, pushing your chest down onto the old wooden bar.

“You ready?"

Icy metal presses against you from behind. His grip on your hips is painful— he's sure to leave marks and bruises painted across your skin. You open your mouth to respond, but before any words leave your lips, he pushes in.

You keen high in the back of your throat as his hips sink home. Squirming, you try to adjust to his cock. It proves to be an impossible feat- especially when you abruptly feel the vicious whirr or his dick against your walls.

"W-waaiit-"

You only manage to utter a single word of protest. As soon as it leaves your mouth, Boothill pulls his hips back and slams back in. Controlling himself is inconceivable at this point. He sets a brutal pace, grinding cock up into you, nails biting into your flesh.

All you could do was whimper and wail in garbled mumbles. He didn't stop even for one second. Your back arched, as your face was smushed against the counter— dragging against the old wood, scratching your skin.

"Fuck. sweetheart...."

He trails off, lost in the feeling of your cunt wrapped around his vibrating cock. Leaning forward, he nips at the shell of your ear. The sting only amplifies the feeling of immense bliss. Your legs shake with effort— it was like nothing you've ever felt before. Drunk off the sensation of him working himself in and out, your cunt clutching onto him- trying to suck him in.

It's all too much. Your eyesight is blurring and a lump forms in your throat. The knot in the pit of your tummy is straining and tensing. Boothill buries himself deeper, pelvis striking against the supple flesh of your ass. His cock is carving out a space for itself, pulsating against your walls.

"Hnngh.. B-boothil..."

His strong hand leaves your hips, settling itself on your shoulder, keeping you down.

"That's right sweetheart. Just like that."

All the blood rushes to your head as his dick thrust into your sweet spot. Your body is boiling— overwhelmed and about to burst. He doesn't stop, taking enjoyment in seeing you struggle. Slick is dripping down your pussy to the junction between you and the ruthless man. Your mushy walls make way for him, surrendering under pressure. All you can hear is a loud buzz, as your body focuses on the euphoria it feels under his expert touch.

Incoherent babbles erupt from your lungs. Your hips twitch, fucking themselves back on his cock mindlessly. He's getting desperate. Shocking cold steel presses against your back as the vibrations spread through your entire body. The knot forming in your belly bursts and fire flows inside your veins. The heat is sweltering and mind boggling.

Nails claw against the splintering wood, frantic for any way to hold onto your sanity. Your throat burns, lungs heaving and wheezing, desperate for air. Sweat drips down your forehead, glistening under the bright sunlight shining through the window.

The tremors in your thighs simmer down and Boothill pulls away, massaging your poor exhausted legs.

"How was that?"

You struggle to answer, but he wasn't really looking for an answer anyways. He helps you clean up— wiping the sweat and slick off your skin, dressing you tenderly. Making sure you look just as nice as when he first came in before anyone else walks in.

[narastories]

on the topic of writing software

I want to ramble at you about some writing software options. 98% of the time I'm perfectly content with LibreOffice Writer (and previously I used Word, back when Microsoft products were less shitty). But every now and then when I have a new project (like now - more on that later) I start looking for something shiny and new to try. And I fell down into another research rabbit hole lol

I usually don't talk a lot about this bc my needs are very simple, and not sure how useful my opinion is to others, but I enjoy the topic. It's an intersection of creative writing and tech nerdiness and I like both of those things. Also what writing software you prefer really depends on the type of writer that you are, and everyone has a slightly different writing process and I find that fascinating.

Now, as I said, I'm coming at it from a slightly tech-nerd angle. I don't care if the installation is clunky, I'm happy to see the words open-source, and the need to create an account will already mildly piss me off (:

Don't worry, I'm not as intense as the guy writing his novel in Vim. Though fucking respect. And I can't say I'm not tempted to try it even with the steep learning curve lmao (Seriously, if you don't know Vim is notorious among software developers.)

Anyway, things I've tried so far:

Manuskript: this was listed as an open-source Scrivener alternative (though I haven't tried Scrivener. so.). I gave it a go when I was writing heart worth the trouble and it was pretty nice. It helped me when I had to move scenes and chapters around. But overall I think it was made with plotters in mind bc it wants you to enter a lot of information upfront. I'm not a planner/architect type of writer so this type of software is a bit overwhelming for me. Still, the fact that it's open source and works on Linux gets kudos from me.

Wavemaker: I recently played around with this, and I actually surprisingly like the features it has. You can put multiple books in a project, which is very nice if you like to work on different things, like fanfic, novels, etc. The mindmap is a feature I liked, though it's a bit clunky bc it collapses the text fields when you exit, and once I added an image field by accident that I could never remove lol I do like a bit of a snowflake method, so that feature is cool, and the cards are pretty straightforward too. Usually, my problem with these apps is that I don't even want to touch half of the features so they are pointless to me, but the features of Wavemaker were kind of nice. It's a web app that you can download and use offline but it's still working from your browser if that makes sense. That was what I didn't really appreciate. Also, it doesn't give you a lot of options to back it up. You either save the wavemaker file, export it into a document (which is fine, but it adds an extra step to the backup process) or you sync with Google Drive *shudders*

Things I want to try out:

Calmly Writer: now this is just purely a text editor that focuses on being very zen, streamlined, distraction-free, etc. It's pretty and it has typewriter sounds. (Yeah, I'm not immune to a pretty UI and harmless fun features alright? I can contain multitudes :P) It has an online version, but you can also download it, and works on Windows, Mac, and Linux. On paper, the desktop app requires a license, but the way they put it is that you can evaluate it for free and the evaluation doesn't have an enforced time limit... So. As good as free. (Though if I really like it, I would totally consider buying a license for 20usd that I can use on 3 computers, that seems fair. I appreciate a license over a subscription model for sure.) Honestly, I think this is the one I'm going to try next bc it just integrates perfectly into my writing process. That being: a multitude of messy, hand-written notes and notebooks + a document editor + backups on hard drive and GitHub (yes, really) ^^"

Shaxpir: This is on the opposite end of the spectrum basically, but out of the "fancy" ones, I kind of like the look of this the most. I like the statistics part in particular. But honestly, I probably won't try it bc it doesn't have a Linux version which would be a pain in the ass for me, and is cloud-based. I kind of don't really trust them, which is my biggest issue with these companies. (Although the creator's heart seems to be in the right place when it comes to AI. Basically, some of their features are based on machine learning and language models. For example, it will recognize passive voice, if it's an adverb with "-ly" or the emotion of a word. Which I think is all cool and fine and shouldn't be lumped in with generative AI. But he also had a website that did this analysis for already published works, and when people pointed out that it was sketchy, he took that down and I can respect that. I'm not sure how much it influenced the actual features of the app, maybe I'll just take a peek out of curiosity. The whole thing does make me have trust issues though lmao) If anyone has experience with it though, I'm interested to hear about it.

Obsidian: not a dedicated writing software, but rather an elaborate note-taking app. I heard good things about it from smart people lol If I really wanted to access my writing on my phone, I would probably use this bc it works on every platform and has end-to-end encrypted sync with version control. I heard you can also integrate it with GitHub which is always music to my ears lol But the setup probably takes a bit of time and I'm not particularly motivated to do that right now.

So yeah, those are the options that appeal to me right now. If anyone used these and has opinions, I'm all ears :D

[miyuka1709]

Good afternoon!...

Anyway here's a cute little Cold, and some pen-tasting.

Pretty great stuff.

(There's a pretty long rant ahead about an STP swap AU!!!!!)

I think it's so interesting that there are 5 very different Princesses in the Stranger; I heard from somewhere that their names are The Hopeless, The Sinister, The Snide, The Kind, The Blank.

I imagine it'd be fun if a swap AU implemented those Princesses as "bases" based on the first thing the player says upon being told about the cabin and the Monster.

I mean Voice of the Sinister could be like Nightmare and Tower. She might appear when you first say the "Sweet I've always wanted to off a monarch!" Dialogue in the base game? It'd just be "I've always wanted to off someone!" Instead maybe cause TLQ isn't a monarch and it's definitely pretty sinister to just outright say that.

Voice of the Snide would be like Prisoner/Sharp Princess. Could be a "Why would I listen to you?" "Have you ever considered that I'd be okay with the world ending?" defiant type voice.

Voice of the Kind is obviously Damsel/Soft Princess. "What if he's going to end the world BECAUSE he's locked up?" Or smtg like that, morality talk and whatnot.

Voice of the Hopeless could just be.. Broken? But a girl, I guess? I'm not sure what she'd say but it's something that Broken would say - like "What's the point of doing this? The world will end one day anyway."

They sound so cool and I'm sure anyone can work with that, but Blank Princess? That could probably happen if we outright try to leave like in Stranger so the Monster can't perceive us.

But what would she say? Would she act or speak like Cold? She'd generally have minimal opinions, wouldn't she? Would having her even change anything? Would she be completely pliable or changeable? Would she be like Opportunist, but sincerely ever-changing and not just for self reason? Is she just a shell and says things just for the sake of it like Deconstructed Damsel? Would she just follow along the Princess as the main character and mirror her actions? Would she be as moldable as we (Princess) are to TLQ?

Again, I think the "Base Princesses" might work really funny if they were a byproduct of SOLELY your first ever choice in the narrative, and it sticks, and they act like Voice of the Hero who accompanies you throughout the entire run.

So instead of having different TLQs, you get different You's at the final Heart scene? That's a pretty funny concept to think about - but it sounds like it'd be painful to work with in a game because you'd have to make all the routes compatible with each of the 5 Base Princesses and make it not feel too clunky or too different.

I'd honestly want to write or plan a whole thing with this kind of story, the only problem is I don't know how to make the Narrator want to kill TLQ.

The Echo's literal purpose is to get rid of change and death with it while leaving a sliver of TSM in TLQ so the world could still move along and people could have lives that aren't completely stagnant and devoid of growth and change.

Would this swap-Echo's job be to protect TLQ and tell the Princess/Player to save him? Or would His view change entirely so He'd oppose TLQ by saying"The world will be doomed to eternal stagnancy"?, instead of death, would he be afraid of the constant and stillness? Why would he want to rid the world of it specifically? I'm really not sure.

Just a little idea I had, y'know!.. phew, I didn't mean to write a whole thing but yeahh..

[cripplecharacters]

I've read the post about how arm prostheses are often more trouble than they're worth and it makes sense. My special interest fandom doesn't have robotics or magic anyway, so a prosthetic there would more or less amount to a stick with possibly a hook on the end, and I'm not trying to argue in favour of making anything more advanced than that here. What I would like to know is if the same practical considerations apply with someone who's lost BOTH hands or analogous gripping appendages. Is it worth it to go for the lightest and least clunky prosthetic possible or is it still easier to do everything with the mouth and/or feet? Does it vary depending on what one is doing, or how much of the arm is lost?

Hello!

[Please note, we don't currently have mods who are amputees; you can try checking with some of our recommended blogs from our navigation post, but I'm not familiar with any bilateral arm amputees doing writing advice on Tumblr.]

There are a lot of factors that would go into this, and the two you mentioned are absolutely important, but I'd say that age plays the biggest role. What I mean is how old the person was where they had their arms amputated, since that's where I generally see the biggest difference in prosthetic use.

For the following sections I'll presume a scenario where the person is financially able to buy prosthetics that would suit their body in the technical aspect and potential assistive devices to get them on etc. aren't a problem to acquire for them.

If someone loses their arms at 70, they're almost certainly going to be using prosthetics, at least part-time. They spent decades doing everything with their hands and probably have close to zero coordination necessary to do these tasks with their feet now, not to mention being in worse condition in general due to their age. Even if their prosthetics are the simplest hooks, they will probably give them more independence since at an older age and with no practice, using their legs would be out of the question and using stumps could be much harder for someone whose way less flexible and strong. This doesn't mean that all the cons of an arm prosthetic disappear, because they don't - in this scenario, it just means that the possible pros outweigh the cons.

If someone is born without their arms or loses them as a younger child, they're probably gonna wear prosthetics at first because their parents will want them to and will stop just as fast. Have you tried to put a shirt on a toddler? Now imagine trying to put two arms on them that they can't fully control. For someone younger they will just instinctively do things however they can, whether that would be by using residual limbs (more common if it's below the elbow) or feet (more common if above the elbow). There might be some tasks that might be impossible or very difficult to do without a prosthetic, and then the person might get a specialized one - Bebe Vio is a wheelchair fencer who uses an arm prosthetic to hold her foil because you can't really do that without one. Some instruments might also require the use of a prosthetic, but children generally tend to figure to do almost everything out with what they got. There are armless drummers and guitarists who play with their feet.

You can check this video out, it's by Isabelle Weall where she talks about why she chooses to not use prosthetics arms. Jessica Cox is one of the most famous people with no arms, and she can do more or less everything - fly a plane, do karate, drive a car. Matt Stutzman is one of the best compound archers in the world, and he doesn't use prosthetics either. All these people lost their arms young or were born without them.

Obviously a lot of people will be in the middle. That's where length of residual limbs will play a major role, but also people's lifestyle or what they do on the daily basis. If someone needs the tactile sensation to be able to do their job, they will probably prefer using their arm stumps or feet if the stumps are too short.

But if someone's stumps are too short, and they don't want or can't use their feet (it's not as easy as just starting to do stuff with your toes, it requires a ton of practice, flexibility, and patience) then they might go for prosthetics or a prosthetic, singular. Some people might find it easier to adapt to a body-powered prosthesis because to them the pros of one are more significant than the cons. I mean, not that many people have the flexibility alone needed to write with a pen with your foot, let alone coordination. They could wear a prosthesis when they know they'll be doing a lot of grabbing work because it's awkward for them to try doing it with their residual forearms and take it off to play with their dog because it feels nicer to pet it when you can feel it's fur on your skin.

There is of course the situation where regardless of factors, neither option really works for someone. They might have minimal to no ability to actually use prosthetics (weakness, other disability), while their legs might be atrophied from the bedrest caused by the illness that required their arms to be amputated (or anything else that prevents them from using their legs). This person might rely on caregivers instead for a lot of tasks, and these people absolutely do exist. Sometimes it's a situation that happens right after the amputation and they later find something that works for them, but sometimes they might not. This is a possibility as well.

All these factors should be considered for a character, and then of course you have to factor in the character themselves - can they afford prosthetics? Do they have a way to learn how to use them effectively? Get them fixed and adjusted? If the learning process of using a prosthetic is frustrating to them, they might not want to use it at all, and if it comes easily to them they might be more inclined to actually wear it.

Of course even if the pros-to-cons analysis decides that using prosthetics would be beneficial, the cons are still very much there. They're still heavy, with not the greatest dexterity, sometimes causing skin issues or muscle soreness. It takes a lot of work in occupational therapy to be proficient in using them. As long as you do research on the reality of using bilateral prosthetics (both negative and positive sides, which will be different for different people so you should get as many perspectives as you can) it's definitely okay to include them. There's no point in painting them as either magical tools that are just like regular arms or making them seem like they're completely useless pieces of junk - though they can be that for many, but for others they can also be what helps them live their life more fully, makes bringing groceries in easier, or just allows them to participate in that one hobby they do once a week.

And of course: when in doubt, have a range of disabled characters.

I hope this helps,

mod Sasza

[edenspoem]

⋆.ೃ;aestra's footnotes V. 🦢

ellie laying on your lap hcs ♡

(pic kinda relates to the hcs if u ignore the blood 🥴)

content; fluff, specific scenario, tlou universe, joels alive

an; giving you guys all my pure, fluff thoughts before dumping my gloomy ass angst within a week 🤣

𖤐. spots you taking a break during patrol, slumping down the base of a rigid trunk, and immediately scrambles over with tired knees. plop goes the side of her head on your cushioned thighs. she don't ask. don't ask why. let her bee 🐝

☠︎︎. lovesss the girls with big thighs, and small thighs. either way, they replicate two fluffy pillows, and that's all she needs. also loves running her fingertips between the bottom crevice lining your thigh-and-the ground. her love language is touch. 100%

𖤐. will inevitably begin to squeeze and prod the fat of your inner thigh with needy fingers, murmuring "hmmpp, so soft.." in that husky tune, cause she. is. in. heaaavenn.

☠︎︎. godddd, can't you just envision her pursed smile when your fingers begin to twine with her timber auburn strands, in reaction nuzzling her nose closer to your leg and poking you. a few gusts of chopped air hitting your thighs when she chuckles. "yuhhpp, keep doin' th-t.." rasped ellie, muzzled in the warmth of your thigh.

𖤐. your bored eyes catch sight of the dandelion cluster birthed from the stumps surrounding grass. hmm, are you thinking what I'm thinking? yeah. you start plucking the flora and threading it through her locks. ellie's tired ass doesn't notice the strange ruffling in her scalp at first 'till a blotch of lemon yellow clouds her peripherals.

"what the h-" her eyes screw over to you, head rotating.

you pivot her back with a firm, but loving, grip, "stay still."

"are you for real putting-"

"yes."

"tchh-" she hisses out into the air, "it's just gonna fall out.."

"but it's worth it."

"mhmm.. but you'd look way better, l'mme do it-"

☠︎︎. sometimes, instead, she'll laze between your tempered legs and slants her head on your thigh. it's cozier this way. oh my god and the way her lashes would graze your skin lightly.. goofbye..

𖤐. falls asleep sometimes and snores on you. probably drools cuz I said so. anyways, you flick her on the head to wake her up like "els, u're drooling again." and she just pretends like it never happened. "wha- whaattt.. nope, i did not. dunno' what u're talking bout babe."

☠︎︎. other times, she'll lounge the back of her head there, staring up at you and the ether that crowns your head high above. ellie rejoices in the seraphic depicture that is your face. so, god, whenever she gets a long glimpse of you, her worries wash away, and forgets the troubles lacerating at her composure. it feels like fireflies dancing on her freckles, midface heating up whenever she's with you in this position. heaven in her world.

𖤐. hair always gets rustled up when she lifts her weight off, and no, she doesn't bother to fix it. treading around the patrol route, looking like she got jumped by five infected.

☠︎︎. one time, you guys succumbed to slumber on joel's sofa with ellie, her head on your lap per usual. bro strolled in and caught you two like this, snapping a photo with his clunky ass vintage camera and then would show it to ellie the next morning, whispering, "pshh, bunch'a sleepyheads."

(gif from elliedisorder)

MASTERLIST

[silentsamlikesham]

Go To Bed

Request from @luffys-little-sister-lyloa ! I'm so sorry this took so long and I kind of...ran a bit wild with it! Apologies if you wanted this pre-established I just started writing it and I ended up with angry confused boys...Hope you enjoy <3 Wordcount: 4,845 -------------------------------------------

The crew is a mess. After the last island, most of them are confined to their beds. Their injuries range from painful breaks to almost fatal wounds. Sanji had spent the last two days being one of the four crewmates able to do anything. Chopper, Brook and Zoro being the other three. 

They'd gotten separated on the last island and hadn't faced as much as the others. Sanji had been thrown from a cliff, unconscious while most of his crew was being beaten to an inch of their lives. 

He lets out a yelp as the spoon in his soapy hand bends, and then snaps in two. He drops it on the counter, carefully examining his hand to see if he'd bruised or nicked himself. 

Fuck. 

This is not the time to hurt himself, to draw any attention to himself. He needs to get these dishes clean. He needs to start on dinner. He needs to make snacks to help with recovery. He needs to clean the galley- no, the ship. The whole ship is a mess. He can't have his crew recover in this filthy environment. He needs to do a stock check. Do they have enough of everything? Is there enough food? When can they even risk docking again? 

The hot water sears his skin as he dips plate after plate in, scrubbing them until his fingers feel only smooth porcelain, until the dried lumps of food are washed away entirely. He cleans one after another, the pile diminishing slowly as he moves to dry and place them away at the same time. 

His legs ache from running, his whole body is bruised from his fall, a headache buzzes just behind his eyes, but he can't stop. He doesn't need to rest; the others need to rest. He needs to be useful, to fucking do something.  

He didn't do anything on the last island. 

The last dish lands in the cabinet with an echoing clank. Sanji doesn't even pause as he moves for a cloth, washing down the counters of the kitchen. His elbow complains, his shoulder cries in pain as it stretches and the inside of Sanji's cheek bleeds as he gnaws away at it. 

The sharp pain is enough to distract him. He just needs to focus. 

He brings damp cloths down to the infirmary next, wiping the sweat from his crewmates that have passed out. He stays with Robin who has woken up for a bit. He reads some of her book to her, barely keeping his eyes open as he speaks as clearly and quietly as he can. 

She nods off to sleep moments before Sanji is coming close to joining her. He rubs at his eyes, pressing his palms harshly against them. The light from the hall shows dark stars dancing around Sanji. The veil of sleep creeping into his vision. 

He ignores the call. There’s still so much to do. 

He finds himself standing in the pantry, wondering how he got here. He must have walked. Why doesn't he remember walking? 

He stares at the boxes and finds there's a notebook in his hand. Right. He'd grabbed it from his locker. 

He pockets it, grabbing the first box of fresh food. He needed to deal with these first, check for mold, plan the next meals around them. He drops them on the kitchen table and jumps as the table rocks against him.  

Why did that surprise him? 

He opens the lid, ignoring how clunky and strange his hands feel. The lid slides off the bench beside him and onto the ground. Sanji goes bright red from how harshly he jumps at the noise. 

He feels drunk. Is this some belated effects of his head injury? 

He shakes his head, feeling no shots of pain. He must be fine. He's just tired. His body is tired after two days, that's all. But that's fine, fine, fine, fine. His mind is sharp. He can still help. He can still work. He can't sleep anyways. Not with so much to do. 

He just needs to count, to write figures down, some basic maths and move around some heavy boxes. That's nothing. It's nothing compared to what he did in the Baratie. Heck, he usually has to do this work fighting off a hungry Luffy. 

This is easy. 

Zoro wanders into the galley. He'd been asleep on the deck for most of the day, having taken watch during the night. He'd been vaguely aware of what the crew had been up to, had heard Sanji moving between the galley and the crew, had heard Brook playing his violin from the crow’s nest and had been annoyed several times by Chopper to have his bandages changed.  

He assumed Sanji and Chopper had headed to bed. He's meant to take over Brook's watch soon. It's best that the doctor and their second-best fighter, currently upright, are free during the day. 

Keeping that in mind, Zoro finds himself blinking slowly in the doorway of the galley. His plan was to grab something strong and head to the crow's nest. He's not expecting Sanji to have forgotten to blow out the lanterns, to have left so much out on the table. He's not expecting Sanji to be standing hunched over a notebook, his visible eye flicking between several open crates and his hand moving aggressively across the open page. 

Usually, Sanji would notice Zoro right away. The cook had a sixth sense for people trying to enter his space and he was usually greeted by an insult by now, or a yell to get the fuck out. But the Cook hasn’t noticed him. He seems engrossed in his task.  

Zoro watches him from the doorway. The lanterns cast a sharp shadow across the blonde’s face and it’s easy to see the dark circles under his eyes, the fresh litter of bruises that colour his forearms visible from where he’s rolled up his sleeves. He’s sitting hunched for once, always one to keep a good posture, no matter how sore or tired he seems. His hair is greasy, almost sticking to the side of his face where it usually rests, rather than hanging there.  

All of these are signs that something is wrong, but what really makes Zoro worry is when he takes a few more loud steps into the room. The Cook jumps, caught off guard, and his eyes flick groggily to Zoro.  

“What do you want?” Sanji’s tone is flat, he doesn’t use a nickname or an insult. His cheeks flush pink, like he’s flustered, like he knows he’s been caught out. 

“A drink.” A quiet pause stretches, and Zoro feels a twist in his stomach. The request usually brings out a raging fire in the form of the other’s temper. But Sanji just waves a hand towards the liquor trolley, his eyes flicking back to his work. 

“What are you doing?” Zoro ignores the invitation to take what he wants and instead wanders over to the table. He receives a half-hearted glare for it but takes it as a win when Sanji just sighs and tosses some fruit back into a box. 

“Stock check.” 

“Oh. Is it...okay?” Zoro knows nothing about keeping track of food, beyond knowing what goes off quick on a pirate ship. He couldn’t fathom how Sanji keeps it all in check. He tries to glance at the ledger the cook is scribbling in, but the writing is swirly and looped tightly together and Zoro can’t make any of it out in the dim light. 

“We’re fine.” Sanji flinches when Zoro looks sharply at him, the swordsman catching the wobble in his voice, the dread that seeps in because Sanji isn’t certain himself. They have enough food for a while, for at least a couple of weeks. But there’s a hunger gnawing at Sanji, a tension in his clenched fists that says otherwise. He just can’t convince himself that he hasn’t screwed this up. That he won’t wake up tomorrow and find half of their rations gone. 

“Good.” Zoro doesn’t argue, doesn’t ask why Sanji seems to be trembling, his leg tapping furiously off the ground. “Then you should go to bed, I can put these away.” 

Zoro waves a hand at the few crates still left sitting on the table. Sanji looks at them like he’s seeing them for the first time before his expression hardens again, a scowl directed at Zoro. 

“No, you’ll put them back wrong. It’s fine, I’ve some other stuff to do anyways.” 

Zoro’s tilts his head and looks at Sanji like he’s lost it. Sanji drags his chair back, standing up and glaring at Zoro. 

“What? Go on your watch, Marimo. You’re pissing me off.” 

“No.” 

“No?” Sanji squints at Zoro in the low light, staring at him like he’s grown a second head.  

“You haven’t slept, have you?” Zoro folds his arm. He reminds Sanji of some disapproving parent.  

“What the fuck is it to you, shithead?” Sanji does not have the mental capacity for an argument right now. He needs to get the crates away and then...then he’ll tidy...he’ll clean something. 

“You look like shit.” 

“Wow, thanks.” Sanji scoffs, ignoring the idiot to pick up the first crate. 

Zoro doesn’t let it go. Not when he notices how slow Sanji is moving, how sluggish he is as he tries to find a grip on the box. Without hesitation Zoro slams a hand on the crate, banging it back onto the table  

“What the fuck, Marimo?” 

“I said, you’re going to bed.” 

“Fuck off.” 

“I mean it.” 

“I don’t take orders from you.” Sanji scoffs, dropping the box to grab the opening of Zoro’s green jacket and tug him close enough that Zoro can feel spit hit his chin.  

“Captains out cold.” Zoro growls, grabbing Sanji’s wrists, their gazes locking into their usual heated glare. “That means I’m in charge.” 

“Bullshit.” Sanji scoffs. Since when has Zoro ever taken charge? 

“Mutiny, Cook?” Zoro grins, knowing the best way to handle this is to get the blonde riled up enough to comply.  

“You can’t just order me to go to sleep.” Sanji narrows his eye and attempts to pull back, but Zoro keeps him close refusing to drop his wrists. 

“I just did, Ero-Cook.”  

Sanji let out a long breath through his nose, his frustration building. 

“Let go.” 

“Go to bed.” 

“Why do you fucking care?” Sanji snaps, his composure in tatters as he realises he’s shaking. Like he can feel his whole body shaking. It’s the kind of embarrassing energy that makes Sanji want to lash out or cry. He’s not about to cry in front of Zoro of all people.  

His leg is swinging before he can think to aim or put any real power behind it. He can’t twist his hips much while being held in place, so he ends up with a weak swipe at Zoro’s shoulder. 

The swordsman drops one of Sanji’s wrists to block the kick. Instead of knocking it away, he loops his arm under Sanji’s knee and holds tight. 

“Bed.” 

“Die.” 

“Why are you so stubborn!” Zoro groans, dropping Sanji’s leg so he can grab the man by the shoulders and gently shake him. 

“Why are you acting like my sleep schedule is any of your business.” 

“Because it is!”  

“As if, Marimo. Since when do we care about each other?” 

“I’m the first mate, it’s my job to look after the crew.” 

“Well, I’m perfectly fine so why don’t you worry about the ones actually injured?” 

“You’re shaking, dart brows.” 

“It’s cold in here!” Sanji cringes at his own retort, knowing it’s bullshit. The galley is always the warmest room on the ship and tonight was humid, the air stale outside.  

“Liar.” 

“Fuck off!” 

“You seriously have the energy for this right now?” Zoro groans, letting go of Sanji’s shoulders to wave his hand angrily in front of his face. “What is so goddamn important it can’t wait until tomorrow? Do you not get we’re the only two that can properly protect the ship right now? I don’t need to be worrying about you too. So, stop acting like a selfish brat.” 

The words stung. They cut deeper into Sanji’s soul than anything else the pair have ever thrown at each other. Of course, he understood what was happening. He was ready to beat the crap out of anyone that came near the ship right now. Selfish? Was it selfish to want everything perfect for the crew? Was it selfish to want to make up for how useless he was before, to make it up to his crewmates who couldn’t even lift their heads right now? Did Zoro not get this is all his fault? That he’s meant to be like this now, suffering. 

For a haunting moment, Sanji is certain he’s going to burst into tears. His eyes are burning, he can feel a lump in his throat, knows if he speaks again his voice will crack and break. He’s so tired, so fed up with the way his mind is spinning the same thoughts around again and again. He can’t break, not now. 

So, Sanji does the only other thing he knows how to do when he’s feeling this much emotion. He lunges at Zoro, swinging his legs in a frenzied rage.  

“I’m not asking you to fucking worry about me!” Sanji roars, his shoe smacking satisfyingly into the side of Zoro’s head.  

“You Shitty-Cook.” Zoro hisses in pain, his eyes narrowing to angry slits as the pain blossoms across his skull, rattling his teeth. What is wrong with this guy?  

“If I have to kick your ass to get you to sleep, I will.” It’s the only warning Zoro gives before he unsheathes his swords.  

He lunges low and uses the end of one of his hilts to drive a punch into Sanji’s gut. The Cook wheezes, coughing as he brings his knee up high to deflect the rest of the impact. Zoro manages to lift his head in time to avoid it, his chin just barely brushing off the fabric of Sanji’s pants.  

Zoro’s second sword cuts through the air, the blunt side aiming for Sanji’s temple, but the Cook is quicker again. He ducks and uses the momentum to place a hand on the ground and swing his hips fully around, launching both his legs in a hurricane kick at Zoro.  

The Swordsman jumps back just in time before both of them rush forward, two swords clashing with a now flaming shin. Zoro is barely breathing, his focus completely on the fight. That’s when he realises just how out of it Sanji is. Operating on pure adrenaline, Sanji's breaths are already labored, and his anchored leg trembles under the strain of supporting his full weight. 

“As if you could.” Sanji taunts, trying to keep a veil of confidence between them. His stomach is aching from where Zoro just left a fresh bruise. Usually, the pain would be a comfort, would be something to focus on while fighting but now it felt more like the beginning of the end for Sanji. The room is spinning, he has cotton mouth, his eyes are struggling to focus and keep up with the glint of Zoro’s swords.  

“Why-” Zoro pulls his swords out of the ‘X’ position they’re in, drawing them outwards and letting Sanji stumble forward, the Cook losing the place he’d been leaning all his weight on.  

“-are you pulling this shit right now?” 

Zoro leans forward as Sanji stumbles, making sure the other hits face first into his chest. Sanji tries to push off him but for once his feet aren’t co-operating with him. His shin extinguishes as he embarrassingly trips over his own feet.  

Zoro uses the misstep to wrap his arms tightly around Sanji, pinning him to his chest while his swords hang in the air either side of Sanji’s head. Sanji tries weakly to break his hold by pushing his back into Zoro’s arms but they’re like two flexible metal rods twisting around him. The position is awkward for his legs too, it’s impossible for Sanji to find enough leverage to get into any of his usual stances.  

“Answer me, Cook.” Zoro growls, starting to get genuinely pissed off. He needs to go on his watch, and he needs to know that when his watch is over, Sanji can take over. That someone capable is on standby when Zoro gets his own rest, takes his own breaks. Their crew needs them right now and Zoro has no idea why Sanji is choosing now to be so insufferable. He might just kill the guy if this ends up being about Nami asking him to do her chores or something. 

“I’m not-” Sanji struggles in Zoro’s hold as he grits out a response. “-pulling anything, shitty Swordsman. You’re the one being a dick- Fucking, let me go.” 

With his strength dwindling Sanji goes for a dirty move, he pushes his knee forward, trying to get Zoro in the groin but he misses, kneeing him hard in the hollow of his hip instead. 

“Bastard.” Zoro flinches, his body jerking for a moment as if the Cook had just hit his mark. Zoro drops his swords and uses his hands to twist Sanji around, pulling his back against Zoro’s chest and wrapping his arms around him again, pinning Sanji’s upper body in place and making sure he can’t knee him again. 

“See how weak you are right now? You can’t even match me, Ero-Cook. How do you think you’re going to hold up against an actual enemy? Are you really this stupid?” 

“Shut up!” Sanji yelps, doing his best to struggle against the wall of muscle behind him. He tries to dig his heels into the ground to get some kind of momentum to push off, but all his limbs are starting to feel like they’re submerged in water. It’s like he’s coordinating himself in slow motion.  

“Let me go you fucking brute.” Sanji slams his head back against Zoro’s shoulder, his frustration boiling over. 

“Did you hit your head when you fell from that cliff? I think it’s given you brain damage.” Zoro growls in his ear, tightening his grip enough that Sanji is gasping for his next breath, his ribs pushing against his lungs. 

Sanji flinches at the comment. He barely remembers the fall. One moment he was rushing towards the crew as a devil fruit user pounded into Chopper and Robin and the next moment he was being pushed by a force he couldn’t even see. He’d grappled with the rock the whole way down, desperate to stop his fall but then there was a sharp pain cutting into the back of his head and the next thing he knew he was waking up back on top of the cliff, lying on the ground beside his other injured crewmates. 

He failed them. 

He was useless. 

Zoro is still talking in his ear, but Sanji can’t discern his words anymore. The world around him begins to blur, and the once distinct lanterns in the galley transform into mere shards of light, losing their clear definition. Their white haze fogs Sanji’s view, making everything look strange and further away as the world seems to break into colourful blobs of nothing. 

“Are- are you crying?” Zoro splutters, staring over Sanji’s shoulder in disbelief.  

Sanji should be embarrassed. His rival, Zoro, is seeing him like this. But now that the dam is broken Sanji doesn’t have the energy to feel humiliated. He can’t stop seeing the blood on the side of Nami’s head, the harboured breathing from Usopp, Chopper clutching his arm as he tried to treat everyone...how much of that could he have prevented? 

“Are you more injured than you’re letting on?” Zoro accuses, moving to push Sanji away as the blonde had stopped fighting him, but when Sanji’s knees buckle, he grabs him by the waist again. 

“I’m fine.” Sanji insists, only to sob loudly as he tries to take in a deep breath.  

“You’re losing it.” Zoro decides, having no idea how to handle Sanji when the other isn’t trying to kill him. 

“You’re getting some sleep, Cook. End of story.” Zoro doesn’t leave any room for discussion as he starts marching to the door of the galley. He half-lifts Sanji in front of him, carrying him like a barrel out of the room. 

“Stop treating me like a child.” Sanji yelps, feeling winded by the forearms digging into his stomach as he desperately rubs at his eyes. 

Zoro must hear the choking in his speech because Sanji feels him moving his arms. A part of him is relieved at the idea of Zoro getting the fuck away from him while he’s having a complete mental breakdown, the other part feels a pang of disappointment.  

An embarrassing squeal stops Sanji’s train of thought, sadly coming form his own mouth, as one of Zoro’s arms slips lower. Suddenly, Sanji feels the back of his knees being knocked out as Zoro scoops him into his arms bridal style.  

“What are you doing?” Sanji snivels, wanting to yell and kick the other in the face, but instead his words are starting to slur. Now that he’s horizontal, he can’t fight his body relaxing, his eye lids drooping as his head hits off Zoro’s chest, his crewmate's heartbeat thumping rhythmically against his ear. 

Zoro looks down at Sanji with a raised brow, but Sanji isn’t glaring at him. He’s nestled his face against Zoro’s pec, his breathing evening out as he drifts off to sleep. 

Zoro stands there stupidly for a moment. The cook weighs nothing to him but his presence is heavy. His hair is tickling Zoro’s neck and chin, his breaths are hot against Zoro’s skin and Zoro has made the mistake of resting one of his hands on one of Sanji’s bulging thighs. Zoro can feel the back of his neck heat up as his thoughts betray him. 

“I have no idea.” Zoro whispers his response to Sanji’s last question, heading towards the Sunny’s crow's nest. 

“This isn’t the boy’s room.” Sanji slurs when Zoro knocks the door closed with his foot. 

“No shit, dumbass.” Zoro grunts without any real heat behind the words. Sanji seems to pull enough strength together to lift his head because Zoro now has a piercing blue eye glaring at him. 

“Wha-whatda I doing ‘ere?” Zoro can’t help but snigger at how incoherent Sanji is becoming. The rumbling of his chest makes the Cook sigh, slouching his head back again.  

Zoro does not trust Sanji to stay in bed right now. He is also becoming increasingly concerned that the other has internal bleeding in his brain or something from how he’s acting.  

“I’m making sure you sleep so I get to nap after.” Zoro grumbles, moving to drop Sanji on the bench that curves the length of the crew’s nest. 

“Prick.” Sanji snorts, making Zoro roll his eyes. He suddenly feels a whole lot better about dumping the Cook on the hard wood planks.  

“What the fuck?” Sanji puts a hand up to the back of his head, rubbing at the spot where it connected with the wood while he tries to sit back up.  

“Sleep.” Zoro pushes down on one of Sanji’s shoulders and watches with amusement as Sanji’s elbow slips out from under him and he ends up banging his head again. 

“Ow, stop doing that.” Sanji waves his hand blindly trying to slap at Zoro but only ends up brushing Zoro’s forearm with the strength of a fatigued kitten.  

“And I can’t just sleep on hard wood like you, you neanderthal.” 

“What you want a pillow, princess?” Zoro snorts, crossing his arms. 

“Yes.” Sanji mumbles, trying to cushion his head on his arms. 

Zoro is prepared to turn to the metal bar in the crow’s nest to start his pull-ups but then his eyes catch the glint of still drying tear streaks on Sanji’s cheeks and suddenly he’s feeling the rare emotion of guilt. He had to go and fucking cry, didn’t he? 

Zoro channels his frustration into grabbing Sanji by the hair and yanking his head up. The blonde lets out a yelp, trying to grab Zoro’s hand as he thrashes on the bench. 

“Calm down, Shit-Cook.” Zoro sits down on the bench, pulling Sanji’s head back down onto his thigh.  

Despite how groggy his movements are, it’s obvious how quickly Sanji tenses up.  

“What are you doing?” He tries to sit up, but Zoro still has a handful of blonde locks and with a hiss of pain he puts his head back down. 

“Sleep.” Zoro snarls. 

“You’re bossy.”  

“And you sound like an idiot right now.” 

They’re silent for the next minute. Zoro twists his head to look out the window, keeping an eye on the empty sea around them. He’s convinced Sanji has nodded off but then- 

“You can let go of my hair now.” Sanji mumbles, his words vibrating off Zoro’s thigh. 

Zoro jumps, glaring down at his traitorous hand that’s still gripping Sanji’s hair like a dumbbell. 

“Shit, sorry.” He drops the hair, brushing the strands down.  

Sanji lets out a low hum at the gesture, surprising them both. Zoro notes how his shoulders drop, his hands unfurl from fists and instead are brought to curl under his chin, as though he’s trying to get comfortable.  

So, Zoro doesn’t stop. He pointedly looks back to the window, his cheeks dusted with a light pink that Sanji would have a field day over if he was to look up right now. His fingers card through the long strands, startled to find shorter spikier parts down the Cook’s neck. His nails scratch across skin and Zoro is sure Sanji is going to find some second wind and break his hand with a kick, but it never comes. 

He knows the Cook hasn’t fallen asleep. He can tell by the irregularities in his breathing, the way he keeps shifting his weight, the tension that Zoro could cut with one of his swords if he was to try. Zoro has no idea what’s going on in the other’s mind, but he can feel it humming with words, like a frenzied beehive. Just as Zoro is about to lose his patience and threaten to knock Sanji out to get him to sleep, the curly browed idiot breaks the silence. 

“Thanks, Zoro.” 

What the hell does that mean? 

“Whatever.” 

Eventually Sanji does pass out. Zoro lets out a long breath he’d been holding back, desperate for a drink but realising he’s not going to be able to get up for anything for the next few hours. He’s still brushing through Sanji’s hair, stupidly mesmerized by how soft it is, how it falls like silk through his fingertips. It’s too intimate for them, Zoro knows this, but he thinks of how stressed Sanji had looked earlier when he was alone in the galley, how small he’d seemed in his arms. A shadow of the man Zoro fought side by side with. 

Zoro isn’t someone that’s good at comforting people. He’d never liked being comforted; he’d loathed anyone who had tried to pity him after Kuina, or treated him differently for months because of it. He was always at a loss when someone cried in front of him, glad that in recent times the crew were always there to react instead of him. 

But this is Sanji. 

Zoro doesn’t know what that excuse means. Why his mind fills in the answer to what the fuck am I doing with it’s Sanji, but it does. 

So, Zoro plays with his hair. He swallows hard when a hand snakes its way under his thigh like it’s a damn pillow and he doesn’t move it. He even closes the one open window he was enjoying the breeze from just because the idiot shivers once.  

Zoro doesn’t even know why Sanji is upset. 

It doesn’t matter. 

No ships attack in the night.  

Most of the crew sleep soundly, recovering in their beds. Tomorrow, Sanji and Zoro won’t bring any of this up. They’ll argue and fight as normal and no one will know what transpired.  

But Zoro will know how soft Sanji’s hair is. He’ll know the Cook likes it being played with. He’ll remember the weight of Sanji’s head on his lap and the weight in his chest that lifted just watching Sanji drift off. 

Sanji will be rested. He’ll forgive himself, and he’ll get back to his usual routine. He’ll panic about what happened for weeks after, burning with shame and tip toeing around Zoro until the Swordsman pisses him off enough that the awkwardness disappears completely, and he’ll remember to.  

He’ll remember what it was like to be forcefully cared for. To have someone argue through his self-sacrificing bullshit and demand he do what’s best for him. To have someone watch over him when all he wanted was to be left alone. 

Next time, they’ll both remember.  

[jailforwriter]

A closer look at...

Okay, so chances are you remember studying negative spaces in middle school art class. As a refresher: "negative spaces" are the blank spaces around and between the subjects of a composition (i.e. the "positive spaces"). It's also likely that you drew a chair one time using this technique and didn't think about it again, but what if I told you that you can apply it to writing, too? (Yeah, I AM still chasing the glorious high of getting an A+ in middle school art class, and no, I haven't come up with a way to make fingerpainting relevant to writing yet. But I will, TRUST.)

Literally how?

By making what isn't said and shown have meaning! Cool, right? See, in the same way that the empty areas around the chair are what make it look like a chair, the empty areas around that conversation/description/explanation are what will make the subtext visible. Or, you know, detectable, since there's no visibility involved in subtext. Or text, for that matter. Huh. ANYWAY—

But I love talking. Doesn't saying stuff say more stuff? Don't I get more stuff per stuff?

You'd think so, but nope! Remember that "less is more" thing your mom used to say so you'd shut up about dinosaur nostril circumferences on the car ride to school? Yeah, it's that. Basically. What we mean by it in the context of writing is that you're adding too much static (extra noise) to your signal, so now we can't hear the song at all. The "song" here is what you're trying to get across, the "signal" is the way you've chosen to do it, and the "static" is that stupid scene they tack on at the end of every movie ever where they overexplain the plot for your uncle who fell asleep half an hour ago. But we are not catering to your uncle. It's good practice to assume that your audience has both the ability to pay attention and the desire not to be babysat. It's polite, even. So let's remember our manners and resist the urge to make characters say some clunky "I'm really angry" line when going like this >:( would suffice. Let the reader interpret stuff sometimes, PLEASE. Make 'em work for conclusions. Participation is what makes things memorable, I promise!

OKAY, fine. I won't try to fill up every space. But when can I use this technique?

Like, all the time, dude. The next time you want someone to give you more details about something, just keep quiet after they answer and they'll feel pressured to— oh, wait. You mean in writing, right? Haha. Gotcha. Alright, let's have a look at the three main places where you can implement this:

Dialogue (what's left unsaid):

Nothing takes the wind out of a conversation's sails like overstating stuff. Seriously, don't underestimate the impact meaningful pauses, omissions, and interruptions can have on an otherwise bloated exchange. For instance:

"Are you okay?" John asked. "No. I'm angry with you. Also, this crossword puzzle represents a breakdown in our communication. Like, subtextually."

There are a few occasions where stating things plainly like that can work, such as when one character is tired of trying and failing to get the other to acknowledge their feelings, but for the most part, there are better ways to go about this. Consider:

"Are you okay?" John asked. Mary pushed her glasses back up her nose with her middle finger, and realizing she'd miscounted the spaces, crossed out her four-letter word for moron.

Yeah, that communicated a whole lot more and avoided the stilted expository language no one would actually use. Yay.

Another way to say things without really saying them is by having two characters talk about one thing when really, they're talking about something else entirely. It's the classic Hallmark movie moment where a father and son talk about baseball while actually talking about their strained relationship. It usually goes something like this:

Father: "The Mets aren't doing too hot this season. No discipline, no teamwork. At this rate they won't make it to the World Series." Son: "Yeah." Father: "Back in my day, the coach would've torn us apart for playing like that. No mercy. Certainly no room for egos." Son: "Maybe that's why no one wants to play for him anymore." Father: "Or maybe players these days don't take responsibility."*

*Assume awkward and combative eye-contact throughout.

So on and so forth. You've heard it a million times before. But the object lessons here are: the lack of anyone expressing how they actually feel, the beating around the bush via metaphor, and the maximizing tension by minimizing words. Negative spaces! Literally! There's a massive chasm between them and everything is negative as hell!

2. Description (what's left unshown):

Look, I'll be the first to advocate for describing what's present in scenes, because quite frankly, I'd have no damn clue what's going on otherwise. It's hard enough having to conjure up mental images from the black-and-white word soup in front of us. Having said that, indulging in a teeny bit of not showing things can be very effective. For instance:

Drawing attention to the scuff marks on the floor and making me infer that there used to be a second chair there is much more immersive than showing me the chair and having someone mention that no one sits there anymore.

Brains don't like empty spaces. They feel compelled to fill them. So let them! Readers will feel more engaged that way, and will be pretty much guaranteed to ask themselves more questions and get themselves more invested in the situation than if you'd simply filled in the blanks with clutter.

3. Action (what is left undone):

Much like how what you didn't say to your best friend that one time she wore a neon leotard to school says a lot about you, what you didn't do to keep her from slipping in the mud and ruining it forever communicates entire essays about your values, qualities, upbringing, and all those backstory details that make online personality quizzes so fun. To illustrate this:

The phone is ringing. It's someone your character hates. They could opt for action and take the call, perhaps cuss the other person out for good measure, but crucially, they could also opt out of the action. They don't have to take the call. In fact, not doing so might express an even deeper dislike than picking up and yelling would. It's all about using the "negative space" around the untaken action to define the subject at the core of the conflict, which in this case is anger.

Now imagine all the other subtle ways in which you could implement this! A king who doesn't rise when someone enters the throne room. A person lingering at the door and choosing not to knock. Someone getting a letter and deciding not to open it. The possibilities are endless, and there are plenty of empty spaces around them to play with. Yay.

4. Plot (what is left unexplained):

This one is a bit of a bonus observation, since it's not as immediately appreciable as the rest, but please don't be afraid to leave some gaps between plot points! Those empty ("negative") spaces are where the readers will trace their lines to connect the dots! Let them piece together the scraps of backstory and build your character up themselves; I promise you seeded everything well enough for them to arrive at the right conclusion unaided. Give them (and yourself!) some credit, dude.

In summary: emptiness can be cool and useful, and you should consider not saying/doing/showing the thing sometimes.

Happy writing!

[futuremrscameron]

“he's weird about kie in a way that gives mixed race fetishist” okay can you go into this a bit more…

boy am i glad you asked!

before we get to the okay so there's a certain way white men flirt with black women and when i say black women i mean monoracial, darker than a paper bag, unambiguously black women. this distinction is important so buckle up cause we're #learning.

the way white men flirt with black women can be broken down into three categories; food comparisons, code-switching, aphrodite incarnate.

you've probably heard the food comparison flirting before without even knowing it. "skin like chocolate" "mocha goddess" "cocoa queen" etc etc. it often got some aphrodite incarnate tactics mixed in there was you can see (no pun intended). the chocolate doesn't have to match their exact skin tone but it usually does.

"but courtney why is this bad?" "isn't it a compliment?" "other women get compared to food what's the problem?" many things but I'm gonna give the big two. the first one? slavery. there's this book called 'the delectable negro' and in it, it describes the practice of slave owners sometimes eating their slaves so when a white man compares a black woman to food, not the greatest look considering the context™️. the second one is because it's fetishistic, lame, and lazy.

code-switching is flirt tactic number two. aka putting on a blaccent, using "slang", trying to prove they're "hip" just cringey as hell.

aphrodite incarnate is exactly what it sounds like. "oh my god you're so beautiful it's unreal." "my nubian goddess." "my queen." basically just acting like the woman in front of them is so out of this world they can't even comprehend imo it's got the same energy as fans pulling the "this beautiful strong independent black queen doesn't need a man." when they think she's getting in the way of their ship. anyway tldr; it's othering

now onto the reason you came here, rafe moving like a mixed race fetishist.

the way white men flirt with black women is slightly different from how they flirt with biracial women. only two modes, if they're ambiguous, lots of "ooh what are you/what are you mixed with?" and "imagine what our babies would look like?" (this happens with monoracial black women too).

rafe is very much the former, the talks to/flirts with kiara is weird and strange if you pay attention. not gonna go into depth about how she says he's weird to her in her book cause i didn't read the full thing But at least we know he's been a freak.

"tell kiara she's pretty hot for a pogue" and him calling her "half kook"? if the pates were smart they'd catch onto what they accidentally did. (kiara's half pogue half kook struggle as a biracial metaphor is clunky at best but that's for another day) rafe sees class as genetic, a bloodline, he's strict as hell about pogues and kooks so i know he was terrorizing that poor girl during her kook year. he struggles with seeing her as fully either which he hates but is also very attracted to. hence the mixed-race fetishist callout

[oh-no-its-bird]

did any of your hatake ocs ever bite through their lips or tongues as kids? with all them fangs and teeths and being young uncoordinated children i imagine it could have happened, possibly

OMG HI OC ASK HOW EXCITING !!! I just saw this actually sorry for replying so late but

YES ALL THE TIME!

I am pointing at Hiro specifically, who has an issue where his one fang is way longer than the other. When he was a kid, he had an extra long time learning how to eat without making a mess, talk without lisping, and just constantly be cutting into his lower lip. (And also he has the WORST time whistling, which is fun bc later down the line he turns the Hatake's howling sound attack into basically a whistling machine gun attack.)

His lower lip probably has some sort of scarring from it, but you can't really see it just from how the tooth pokes out to cover it.

Anyways like. POV Hiro is 5 years old and just bit into his lip for the 7th time that day and has to ask for a new bandaid

There's a bit of a variety in fang shapes in the clan too, like— you have Hiro, with his one fang too big. Then Haruka had a bit of a double set of fangs, the one normal extra big canines but then the teeth around that are also extra sharp. Then Tetsuo, who is half Hoshigaki, all of his back teeth are also sharp, along with his canines. Then Tsuki used to have the normal Hatake set of fangs but after his whole thing with the spiral demon, his lower teeth are now all fang shaped along with his canines. Man went missing for 2 years and came back with plastic surgery ig

In general tho, I think Hatake kids have an awful time with their fangs— though that thought goes for any clan with sharp teeth. Especially in the transition period of getting their adult teeth.

POV you lose one baby fang and start growing in your adult fang but now your mouth feels all unbalanced because suddenly you have just one really big sharp tooth in there

Usually with animals baby teeth are sharper, right? I think that stands for them too. Small, sharp baby fangs and big, clunky, hard to get used to adult fangs.... ough...

Ok but now I just want a fic about a kid Kakashi after losing his dad having his baby teeth start falling out and he suddenly has to deal with having clumsy adult fangs and no one he can ask about them

,,,,

Writing that down on a sticky note and pasting it to the pile of sticky note reminders of things to include in Chasing Shadows

[darthdaddi]

Uhh would you be willing to write a little drabble about crispy Vader with a breeding kink? 👁️ 👄 👁️ every chapter of Ani’s life he’s had it. AOTC would just be because of learning what he’s able to do with his body and finding it fascinating, ROTS is all because he wants that family and he finds it hot to picture you all swollen with his child but Vader with it I feel like is more primal and UGGHVGH it’s so hotttt

MDNI 18+

Vader is a mean man, especially to you because simply you allow it without a real fight anyway. He's a little vindictive, mad at the universe, always. You're the object of his desires, the cruel ones anyway. You found yourself in a bit of a predicament, an odd, yet arousing one. On Vader's bed you were sprawled out, not that he'd use it for anything but sex, he has his meditation chamber and bacta tank for that. The two of you have worked around his clunky suit, if you weren't fucking in the meditation chamber where he could take his mask for a moment, he'd opt to pull his dick out of the cod piece to access you.

So he did, and that's where you're at now, ass naked and folded up like a damn pretzel under the weight of the colossal man. He's pumping into you like no tomorrow, the rigid scarring of his heavy cock massaging at your gummy walls, "Gonna fuck this baby into you, understand, girl?" Vader spat, voice distorted by his mask, yet you could tell he was he was really putting the work in due to the increase of loud breathing through his module. You'd shake your head no in protest, but did you really mean that? Vader knew you all too well, after all he could read your emotions like an open book. You'd love to be given his child, but was it the right moment? "G'nna give you my baby.." he'd murmur, a moment of softness from the man, maybe a glimmer of his former self breaking through? But that would change when his hips slammed into you, earning a loud yelp from your lips when he hit your cervix with brutal force, "Please... I can't take it anymore. I-it's too much!" You'd whine and protest, yet you made no move to actually stop him. Your arousal was white at this point, bubbly from the amount of effort he's putting into fucking you into oblivion. It began to smear on the fabric of his pant garment, but he'd worry about making you clean that later. Vader basked in the sound of your pussy squelching, meant he was doing a good job keeping you aroused despite your constant need to protest him. The sounds of his respirator began to pick up, signs that he is close to his inevitable orgasm approaching quicker than anticipated. But that's what happens when you go days, even weeks without feeling your tight cunt wrapped around him.

It was time, time to do what he planned on all along. Vader wanted to see you swollen, plump with the product of his creation. This, this was a gift. At least that's how see saw it. He thought you should be greatful for what he is giving you, his child. Greedy bastard. Vader sped up his bucking hips, damn suit made it impossible to look graceful while fucking. His breath only slightly hitched as a warning. He blew his load, coating your walls in his cum. He promptly pulled away once he made sure you were full to the brim, holding your ankles, which were pinned painfully by your head as to not spill his seed he so graciously dumped into you. You'd whine, squirming slightly, "But I didn't-" and with that you were cut off, "You will have your time to finish, wife." And that was all. after he tucked himself back into his suffocating suit and wiped off what little he could of your combined fluids from his flaccid cock and trousers. Vader left you there, in your mess, that you'd have to clean. Though it was all a kink really, just a fantasy. He couldn't actually get you pregnant, completely sterile after being burnt here on Mustafar.

Oh how I love you Rain, this was waaaay longer than I anticipated on writing, so I do apologize for that. also I already have a burnt Vader fic in my master list if you want to check that out 🤭