#authors can do as they please

[ardenskyedarcy221b]

someone stop me from spiraling down this rabbit hole of looking up old fics that I’m positive have been pulled 😫😩😭💀

[landwriter]

Hi! I hope you feel better soon!

This is a great prompt by @academicblorbo about Hob Gadling being the landlord of the Dead Boys. It has a wonderful fill already by @omgcinnamoncakes but I’d love to see what you come up with for it!

Alternative prompt from me if that doesn’t work for your brain: remember the date between Jenny and Maxine? How about one between Jenny and Esther? Poor Jenny is going to really question her taste in beautiful blonde women 😭

Thank you! I saw ‘landlord’ and ‘decades’ and blacked out. I love Hob having them as tenants. Maybe even before the modern day meeting in Sandman.

The Sandman/Dead Boy Detectives, 2.4k, G Dream/Hob, pre-slash, alternating/outsider POV, found family, a reunion and revelations etc.

---

Hob did not, strictly speaking, have tenants. It was more of a minor haunting. Pun intended.

The small room above the pub and below his flat wasn’t worth charging anyone rent for; when he first bought the building he had put a handsome oak desk in there and some bookshelves before wondering who he was possibly keeping up appearances for. Who was he going to take back upstairs that would stop and say, Wait, can I see your office? So he’d left it as more or less an abandoned room.

When he realized a pair of boys were using it as their clubhouse, he didn’t do anything at first. He saw them quietly coming and going a couple times, disappearing around the corner of the first landing. Brazen things. He meant to call after them, but the shout had died in his throat. He’d been young once. He still remembered the need to get away from it all. It was only when he went to check if they’d been making a mess of the room that he discovered it was still locked.

He’d crouched down and inspected the latch and found no marks at all. Huh, he’d said, and jiggled it again, and been a little more interested in whatever clever way they were getting into it after they disappeared up his stairs. Then he didn’t see them for weeks, and assumed they had gotten bored and stopped.

Until they came back. In the middle of an argument, striding through the pub like they owned it. Hob straightened up as they passed him.

“I cannot believe you broke the mirror.”

“I was in a rush! It’s not my fault you forgot you needed Arcana Incantatum after we arrived at the church. And found the demon.”

“I hardly forgot, I only made the mistake of assuming you would know to pack it by now.”

Hob raised his eyebrows. The boys disappeared into the back hallway. He followed them as they went upstairs, too preoccupied with their drama to notice Hob. They turned onto the landing, still carrying on. Even as they walked through the door. The locked, closed door.

Hob blinked. Then he drew his keys from his pocket and opened the door. The boys were still inside. One of them was pulling a mirror out of a backpack that was several times too small for it. They didn’t even look up, and Hob wondered how he couldn’t possibly have put it together earlier. He cleared his throat.

“Hello, boys.” That caught their attention. Hob grinned. “Seems we’re neighbours.”

---

Edwin abhorred getting involved with the living. He and Charles got along perfectly well on their own. They were a duo. An intrepid pair. Best mates, like Charles often stressed whenever he was about to ask something particularly ridiculous of Edwin. They were solid together. As solid as two ghost boys could be. The living, though, were messy and unpredictable.

Perhaps the most salient fact at present: Charles invariably became attached to them.

“He’s sad, mate. I can see it in his eyes.”

“You said those exact words in ‘94 about a dog. At least ask Hob himself.”

Before you decide to adopt him too.

Hob Gadling, irritatingly, was unobjectionable on every ground Edwin could think of. He had made no imposition upon them. When he found them, he only asked them their business, and then told them he was usually downstairs, or upstairs, if they needed anything they couldn’t procure themselves. He had an interest in rare and old books, as it happened. In explaining this, he had also hinted at being far older than his looks would suggest, which vexed Edwin twice over. He knew his curiosity would not be slaked until he talked to Hob, but then he would be the one getting involved with the living, and Charles would hardly let him forget it.

“Do you think he’s really immortal? Mate’s far too calm. Last week I saw him stop a fight downstairs by stepping right between these huge blokes. He just said something and smiled and they backed right off.” Charles lit up. “Do you reckon he’d teach me how to do that? Conflict de-escalation, innit? I could show him some moves with the cricket bat, I bet. Oh, do you think he’s a cricket fan?”

It was obviously a hopeless case, and since the Dead Boy Detectives never took on hopeless cases, there was only one course of action that remained. Edwin had long since disabused himself of the notion he needed to breathe. He had no beating heart, yet when he was startled, he would find himself clutching his chest. Now, he exhaled slowly through his nose in an entirely superfluous sigh of resignation. “Well, Charles, shall we go talk to him?”

---

When the millennium came around, Hob found himself celebrating it with his accidental tenants. There was something gloriously satisfying about being able to make a toast to the next one and have it taken seriously. He’d asked them if they had something better to do - spectral trouble to get into et cetera - and they both looked at him with almost identical put-upon and incredulous expressions.

Hob had a terrible suspicion they thought they were taking care of him as much as he thought he was taking care of them.

Edwin, with his insatiable curiosity and, deep underneath it, something Hob thought he recognized from himself: a sharp animal ferocity and a refusal to go until he’s good and done, natural laws be damned. Charles, still brightly, painfully alive for a ghost - who should be alive still, by all rights, but nothing of this life was fair - who joked to cover up hurt in a way Hob knew too, and glowed any time Hob turned so much as a kind word to him.

He wondered what they saw when they looked at him.

The year ticked over, and technology kept working. Charles grinned innocently and said he could probably possess the telly and break it that way if Hob wanted?

Hob’s heart twinged. He knew they weren’t his, not to keep, but it seemed that teenagers didn’t change at all over the centuries, even if the boys were only sort of teenagers in the way Hob was only sort of in his thirties. It didn’t change that they’d been punted from the mortal coil before having a chance to grow up, and figure out the kind of men they were, and make their own choices and fuck up and try to be better than their fathers, and everything everyone deserved. Hob had made more than his share of mistakes. They hadn’t been given the chance to make nearly any at all.

So they made toasts to the new millennium, to the detective agency, to themselves, all stuck out of time in different ways and refusing to move on for different reasons, and Hob allowed himself to think of Robyn and privately pretend that they were his all the same.

---

A week later, Hob was reminded of the other universal traits of teenagers when he mentioned his stranger and both boys began to grill him with terrifying alacrity. Before turning to his dating life, like ravening bloody wolves. When Edwin had asked, in a specifically nineteenth century manner that Hob remembered all too well, if Hob had always been unmarried, he’d nearly put his head in his hands.

“It can be hard for me to associate with the living too, you know. For obvious reasons.”

Charles had turned to Edwin and hissed “See? I told you.”

Right in front of him. Nobody had taught them manners.

“Manners, Charles,” replied Edwin loftily. “We will, of course, respect your privacy. A man is entitled to his secrets.”

“You’ll go upstairs and rifle through my personal things, is what you’ll do,” said Hob.

Charles coughed to hide his laugh. Edwin flushed and looked away. Hob snorted, and told them about Eleanor and Robyn. Properly. It was a strange relief. He’d told the story wrong for plausibility’s sake so many times he had been worried he’d forget the truth of it one day.

They had listened, and been remarkably quiet until Charles piped up and offered to set him up with a ‘really fit’ ghost. Hob had roundly shut that down. Woefully, not all explanations were satisfying enough. Charles cornered him again the next morning while he was cleaning the bar.

“No, mate, I still don’t get it.” Hob was about to say he no more wanted to be with someone who couldn’t feel pleasure from his touch than someone who would grow old and be taken from him while he stayed the same, when Charles went on, bafflingly, to ask, “Why don’t you meet your mysterious friend more often than once a century?”

Hob sighed. “Adults are often busy, Charles.” Nevermind that he had begun to wonder the same since the eighteenth century. He’d always just assumed time passed differently for his stranger.

Charles just laughed and perched himself on the bar top. “Ooh, low blow. We’re busy too, you know. Plenty of cases to solve.”

“Really,” said Hob. “You’re busy. Right now.”

Charles waggled his eyebrows.

“Charles, I am not a case,” said Hob, sternly as possible. “I’m not even a ghost. He’s not a ghost. No ghosts.”

“We could investigate. Maybe ghosts are involved. What even is he? Why every hundred years? Is it some sort of Persephone situation?”

Hob bit his lip against shouting I don’t know! I don’t know anything about him! Instead, he tried to smile, and felt it come out as a wince instead. “He’s very private.”

Charles scowled. “Yeah, obviously. You don’t even know his name. He can’t be that good of a friend if he’s too busy to see you more than once a century.”

Hob couldn’t see the expression on his own face, but he saw Charles’ shocked reaction well enough. It was so long ago for him, and still Hob knew at once what Charles saw now: that first time you manage to visibly hurt a grown-up’s feelings, people who seemed too old and too stern to actually feel pain, when you’d been going around kicking at them like a new foal, just to stretch your legs.

“Sorry,” said Charles, instant regret chasing his surprise. He was a good kid.

“It’s alright,” said Hob. He meant it. He looked down at the shining bartop. His hands were restless with the urge to light a cigarette. He gave in. It wasn’t like Charles would be dying of lung cancer any time soon if he decided to follow Hob’s example. “I don’t think he would say he’s very good at being a friend either. Truth is, I’d love to see him more often. But we had an awful fight the last time we met. If he forgives me, I’ll have to ask.”

“Mates always make up,” said Charles earnestly. He was such a good kid.

“I suppose they do.” Charles still looked sorry, and Hob clapped him on the shoulder. “Hey. Thanks for looking out for me, Charles.”

Charles beamed at him. “Always. We’ve got your back, me and Edwin.”

---

Charles couldn’t bloody believe it. Hob’s friend was here. There was nobody else it could be. He and Edwin were watching from a nearby table, pretending to be absorbed in their own conversation. Neither man noticed them. They were too busy looking at each other.

He couldn’t imagine spending more than a century apart from Edwin. The way Hob had talked about him and his stranger over the years, it sometimes seemed like they were best mates too, no matter how little they saw each other. He was dead sure that’s what had Hob looking so gutted when he thought nobody was looking. He had known they would make up, though. Maybe now Hob would be happier.

“Charles, we really ought not eavesdrop,” hissed Edwin. Right as he scooted his chair closer, the cheeky hypocrite. Hob and his friend were talking too quietly to properly hear, their heads bent together. Lots to catch up on, Charles reckoned. A hundred years. He couldn’t stop thinking about the number. It seemed impossible. Funny, he couldn’t imagine that long away from Edwin, but he could imagine spending that long being best mates. There was nobody he’d rather hide from Death with.

Hob’s face was doing something strange as his long-lost friend talked. Then Hob moved and grasped him by the shoulders, so tight that his knuckles stood out in relief. The man said something in low tones and Hob shook his head, and then pulled him in for a hug. The man stiffened and then relaxed, and his arms came up around Hob’s.

Their cheeks both looked wet.

Charles swallowed and it felt suddenly a little like he was choking. He should look away, only he couldn’t.

“They must be great friends,” said Edwin softly.

“Yeah,” he managed to croak. We won’t ever need to have a reunion like this because I’m never going to lose you, mate. I won’t let them take you. It was stuck behind the phantom lump in his phantom throat. His hand, without him telling it to, reached out and grabbed hold of Edwin’s. Edwin squeezed it hard, and Charles knew he didn’t have to make his voice work after all.

Then the man pushed Hob away, but only far enough to grab his face and pull him back again, thumbing over Hob’s cheeks, and beside him, Edwin honest-to-god gasped, and then Charles momentarily forgot how thoughts worked too.

---

It happens thus: in the New Inn, just next door to the White Horse, some 639 years after they first met, Hob Gadling and Dream of the Endless share their first kiss. Neither, if they had bothered to think about it, would have intended to have an audience, but it’s a well-known fact that some kisses cannot wait, and theirs was chief among them, being that it had so much to say, and was so very long overdue.

I missed you, it said, and I came back, it said, and Please don’t go away from me again, and I could not.

And atop them, like blankets, were laid invisible the daydreams of those who saw them, including two long-dead boys, whose dreams were woven from the fresh and unaccounted-for possibilities of Hob kissing his mysterious stranger. Another man, thought Edwin. His best friend, thought Charles. Dream was the only one who could have heeded this, but he did not, because Hob Gadling was holding him tight and daydreaming loudly of this kiss and more, of this today and tonight and tomorrow, ever greedy and ever easily pleased, and Dream could hear nothing at all over their clamouring and comingled joy; the bright gold daydream between the scant space of their bodies that sounded so much like at last.

[khaire-traveler]

Digital Temples are really lovely, and I adore the fact that all these temples are suddenly popping up (I actually have been thinking of dedicating one to two deities as well), but the usage of the words "priests" and "priestesses" is genuinely concerning to me. It makes me feel a bit wary.

Why, might you ask, would that even be a problem? Let me explain.

These words carry a lot of power with them. With these words comes the implication of religious authority. If I went around saying that I was a Priest of Hermes himself, it asserts a sense of power and authority in a religious space. There are a lot of people who would love to use that power negatively; I have been directly impacted by this many times over. I am always wary of people who use this title as a result of what I've seen and experienced.

Those titles also carry the implication of having an established religious knowledge that others do not. It's not just a title used to identify people who are in charge of a Temple; it is a title that explicitly identifies someone as a researched, trustworthy, religious figure who is extremely experienced. This ties into how these words carry power. A lot of people I've seen stake claim to this title have also claimed to speak for the gods directly. Either that, or it is often assumed of them, and that bothers me a lot. I have yet to meet someone who genuinely speaks for the gods in every situation.

On the inverse, I'm sure some who use these titles mean it in a harmless and genuine way (I've met one before), and that's fine, but if you are one of such people, realize that these words seriously do carry immense implications along with them, and do not fall into the trap of moral superiority or dictating rules in a religion you do not own. The most genuine people I've met who identify with these titles are the ones who don't advertise them publicly. I'm not saying the use of these titles are wrong, but I am saying that people seem to be inclined to abuse them. Horrifically abuse them.

Instead, I suggest using a title such as "Cleric". I've seen another temple do this, and personally, I feel it is less intimidating and claims less power of authority. Or maybe not using a title at all. Why use one if you don't need it? Hell, you could call yourself literally anything else.

So, please, those who run digital Temples, I ask you to be aware of the power the words "priest" and "priestess" have before applying them to yourselves and ask yourselves why it is that you're choosing to identify with these titles in the first place.

[caffeiiine]

kunikidas ideals have the potential to be self destructive and kunikida can be considered passively suicidal, he is also not the polite and respectful man fanon makes him out to be- *gets shot*

[ghostlyboysstories]

Writeblr introduction!!!

Hi!! I write original works and am happy to ramble about my ocs or writing to anyone who asks(I’m dying to share help-).

You can call me Rufus!(I swear if I get they both die at the end notes from this-)

I’m an adult, but I don’t really do 18+ content besides swearing and innuendo/dark humor. So I’d say my content is rated Mature, but not Explicit.

My pronouns are he/him!

Fun fact, my favorite color is dark neon-ish blue!

Can’t wait to post more original stories here!!

Stay spooky!

[leafdragon16]

* slams head through the wall *

Ok so - stop screaming it's just me - so we know Experiment!Wheeljack can growl and hiss and stuff, but can he purr? And/or does he act animalistic in other ways (territorial, gets the zoomies, etc)? (You explored some of this in the chapter where he's staying at the original Autobot outpost, but I keep having Thoughts™ about our favorite gremlin Wrecker so I came here to chat about him😅) Ok that's all, I'll just be going now

* awkwardly pulls head back out of the wall, leaving a hole behind *

[sticks head through the hole you left behind]

Good question! I don’t think he can purr exactly the same way that a cat does, but he definitely can! Much in the same way he growls via grinding the sections of his throat together + engine noise he could probably also purr. So kinda weird sounding but recognizably purring

He also ABSOLUTELY gets the zoomies. He learned how to control it when he was with the Wreckers back on Cybertron, but it still slips out sometimes (like when June found him on the ceiling). Lights and sharp movements attract him, so he would in fact chase a laser pointer. Shockwave probably figured that one out the hard way while making calculations. He naturally walks very quietly and has a tendency to freeze up and try to stalk anything perceived as prey. He also sometimes has the urge to just get up and walk around randomly (which Ratchet also got to see when he caught him sneaking out to check on Bulkhead)

He’s learned to suppress most of the more animalistic urges around other bots. Back when he was on the Jackhammer alone he was quite literally bouncing off the walls, crawling around on the ceiling, biting the leg of his berth, etc.

Personally I think if he cut loose in the Autobot base it would go something like this

[dragonnarrative-writes]

Happy Birthday Charlie!

It's @sentientcave's birthday, and I wanted to F I N A L L Y do an author rec for him!

Name: Charlie (He/They) Links!: Twitter - AO3 - Ko-fi

My Favorite: Retirement Party Price has retired from Military life, and he's not handling the change well. But on the one year anniversary of him hanging it up, his boys bring him something special to help keep him busy. You. (Dark fic! Read the content warnings)

Runner Up: Heavy Weighs the Crown Fantasy AU - A princess in self-imposed exile is forced to come home to face the man who took her father's crown and the life she left behind. 141 x Reader.

Runner Up to the Runner Up: Hit Me With Your Best Shot When Rory "Scout" Price moves in with her dad after a rough break-up, she's looking forward to reconnecting while she gets her feet back under her. But unfortunately, a post-divorce Kyle Garrick is moving in too, and he seems determined to be a pain in the ass. But then again, he is kind of hot.

Favorite Not Yet Posted Story:

EVERYTHING

WITH

RIPPER

AKA The Rugby AU (I'm working on a Kinktober Prompt with Ripper in it and I know I'm overthinking it but I want Charlie to like it so so so bad it makes me stupid.)

Why I recommend: It's long, so it'll go under the cut.

Where do I even start?

Every reader character and OC invites you to explore what makes them tick. They're flawed, and because they're flawed, they're good. They're real. And they're diverse, lovingly and intentionally. It's clear that Charlie does the research to intentionally write about experiences outside of his own. (Y'all... he researched Philippine Spanish for Retirement Party. For a conversation with a side character. The stars in my eyes...)

Charlie loves the complexities of these characters. Their ups, their downs, their triumphs and their failures. I don't think I've ever rooted for and hated and loved and wanted to strangle Captain John Price like I do when Charlie writes him. There's no glossing over the fact that Price is an asshole with Charlie. But there's no mistaking that he cares, either (in his awful, terrible, patented John Price ways).

I've grown so much as a writer for the conversations I've been able to have with Charlie. My understanding of the 141 is deeper, not just when it comes to cannon, but also what makes them tick in my stories. I'm so excited to explore the world of Being Gaz's Ex, which was directly inspired by the way Charlie writes Price in Nobody Does it Better. It's the way Price loves and it isn't enough and how sometimes it's okay that that's not okay.

Every time Charlie shares a bit of writing with me, I lose a little bit of my mind. And I hope that you all will appreciate Charlie with me, today!

[mountainmagpie]

Begging HBO Max and the creators of Scavengers Reign to make an adaptation of the Southern Reach trilogy.

[gallafics]

𝙶𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚊𝚏𝚒𝚌'𝚜 𝚁𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚎𝚠

Title: Quatervois Author: @dodgerbear84 (Ao3)

Rating: Explicit Series: N/A

Chapters: 8/8 Word Count: 51.5k

Archive Warnings: No Warnings Used

Favorite Character: Two lovely side characters; a bartender named Cam & Mickey’s friend Kenny. And of course our boys.

Least Favorite Character: I didn’t have any characters in particular that I disliked, but Gracie’s mom?? iykyk

Ao3 Summary: “Quatervois (Qua-ter-vwa): A crossroads; a critical decision or turning point in one’s life.

Closeted soldier Mickey meets farmer Ian in a bar when on leave from his base in the Deep South and discovers that making the leap toward happiness isn't as tough when you have someone on your side.”

Review: This fic actually blew me away. The writing style is extremely cinematic and had me convinced I actually just watched a movie instead of reading a book. I could vividly picture Ian’s farm, their facial expressions, the bar, the creek—everything. I felt like I was there watching it in person.

Mickey and Ian’s build up in this fic is beautiful. Their flirtation is both cute and sexy while also having hints of pining and being slight idiots. Mickey falling for Ian in this fic is a favorite of mine because it’s so obvious how much they want one another but have things that are keeping them apart.

This fic really has it all. There’s spice, there’s banter, theres fluff, there’s lust and longing and perfect comedic timing! It’s all around a beautiful fic that has made its way to my personal downloads because I will be re-reading it!

Spoilers Below↓

Favorite Moment: So, I’m a sucker for the moments in a story that just rip your heart out and absolutely stomp on it in front of you, so, I would say my favorite part is when Mickey is leaving the state, getting ready to deploy and he and Ian are saying good-bye…

“Don’t think about what you’re leaving behind. Think about the bright future ahead of you. Promise me you won’t dwell on us saying goodbye.” Mickey’s heart clenched tightly in his chest. “I promise.”

Equally favorite moment is their first meeting, it’s so tense and Ian’s so nice and Mickey is gay panicking and ends up being an asshole

“I wasn’t asking to be your friend. I was just being friendly. Big difference. Sorry to have offended” Mickey watched as Ian headed back to his corner and felt irrational anger bubble up inside him. “What? You’re not gonna thank me for my service?” Ian laughed loudly and hollowly, turning to face Mickey and lifting the hem of his black shirt up to his chin. Mickey gaped at the display of rock hard abs and firm pectoral muscles. It lasted a moment before he spotted the livid red skin of severe but well healed burns covering the left side of Ian’s body from waist to armpit. “You gonna thank me for mine? Didn’t think so. Drink your beer, soldier, I won’t bother you again.”

Honorable mentions, their first kiss, Mickey visiting the creek, the conversation about Ian’s bed (iykyk), still obsessing over their reunion, the waterfall scene (!!) and so so many other good moments in this one!!

Favorite quote(s):

“Anything happens to Ian and you’ll have this whole bar looking for you.”

“You totally fed it.” “The fuck you on about?” “The stray cat. You fed it. You make out like you’re this tough badass but you have a caring side”

“I just… I ain’t ever… this is all�� wow fuck. Kiss one guy and you use your grip on life.”

“There’s a sight I could never get tired of seeing.” Ian leered. “Me sweating my tits off while I try to stay fit enough to be a soldier even though I drink beer like water and smoke more than a funeral home chimney?”

“Nobody has ever touched me there.” Ian mumbled against Mickey’s mouth. “You’re beautiful.” Mickey had never said those words to anyone before.

“Then you came along. You, with your fucking attitude problem and killer smile.”

There were honestly so many moments in this fic that made me insanely happy and have stuck in my brain. It’s such a beautiful story. If you haven’t read it 10000/10 recommend, if you have read it? Go read it again!!!

Final thoughts: The plot was plotting. The spice was spicy. The romance was romancing. The chemistry was off the charts. I cried. I laughed. And everyone in the gym probably thought the lady on the treadmill was crazy cause I couldn’t stop grinning at my phone! Amazingly, beautiful, cinematic masterpiece!!

Thank you so much, DodgerBear, for blessing us with this fic!!

— Harley, Gallafics Reviews

[grimgiddo]

I need to know if there is still an active Voltron fandom on here.... I've been having a Resurgence™

[hacash]

in light of this post I think it would have been hilarious if Crozier had treated Tozer as the sole architect of the mutiny while Hickey absolutely rages on the sidelines demanding to know when Crozier is going to pay attention to him.

[d8tl55c]

me: waiting for shoe(s) to drop

Personified Alan Becker YouTube Icon: oh... buddy...

[bonefall]

post/734733274896809984/do-you-ever-worry-your-own-writing-might-come-off that makes sense. i was asking because i'm afraid of accidentally writing misogyny myself and i kind of admire what you do

Hmm... I wish I had better advice to give you on this front, but honestly, the only thing I can tell you is to consider the perspective of your female characters.

Women are people. They have thoughts and feelings of their own, so like... just let them have their own arcs. A lot of the worst misogyny in WC comes from the way that the writers just don't care about their girls (or, in the case of tall shadow, actually get undermined and forced to rewrite entire chapters), so they're not curious about their lives, or WHY they feel the way they do or what they want, or any direction for their character arcs.

Turtle Tail as an example. She'll often just end up feeling whatever Gray Wing's plot demands. She's gotta leave when Storm dumps him to make him feel lonely. She shows up again to love him in the next book. Lets her best friend Bumble get dragged back to Tom the Wifebeater, but is sad enough about her death to be "unreasonably angry" with Clear Sky, and then calms down and accept Gray Wing is right all along.

And then she dies, so he can have his very own fridge wife.

In this way, Turtle Tail's just being used to tell Gray Wing's story. They're not interested in why she would turn on Bumble, or god forbid any lingering negative feelings for how she didn't help her, or even resentment towards Clear Sky for killing her or Gray Wing for jumping to his defense. She isn't really going through her own character arc.

She does have personality traits of her own, don't misunderstand my criticism, but as a character she revolves around Gray Wing.

So, zoom out every now and then, and just ask yourself; "Whose story is being told by what I wrote? Do my female characters have goals, wants, and agency, or are they just supporting men? How do their choices impact the narrative?"

But that's already kinda assuming that you already have characters like Turtle Tail who DO have personalities and potential of their own. Here's some super simple and practical advice that helped me;

Tally the genders in your cast. How many are boys, how many are girls, how many are others?

And take stock of how many of those characters are just in the supporting cast, and compare that to the amount you have in the main cast.

If you have a significant imbalance, ESPECIALLY in the main cast, fire the Woman Beam.

It's a really simple trick to just write a male character, and then change its gender while keeping it the same. I promise women are really not fundamentally different from men lmao. You can consider how your in-universe gender roles affect them later, if you'd like, but when you're just starting to wean yourself off a "boy bias" this trick works like a charm.

Also you're not allowed to change the body type of any girl you Woman Beam because I said so. PLEASE allow your girls to have muscles, or be fat, or be old, or have lots of scars. Do NOT do what a cowardly Triple A studio does, where the women all have the same cute or sexy face and curvy body while they're standing next to dwarves, robots, and a gorilla.

Or this shit,

If you do this I will GET you. If you're ever possessed by the dark urge, you will see my face appear in the clouds like Mufasa himself to guide you away from the path of evil.

Anyway, you get better at just making characters girls to begin with as time goes on and you practice it. It's really not as big of a deal as your brain might think it is.

Take a legitimate interest in female characters and try not to disproportionately hit them with parental/romance plots as opposed to the male cast, and you'll be fine. Don't think of them as "SPECIAL WOMEN CHARACTERS" just make a character and then let her be a girl, occasionally checking your tally and doing some critical thinking about their use in the story.

(Also remember I'm not a professional or anything, I'm just trying to give advice)

[kyouka-supremacy]

I fucked up

[vampirekissingbooth]

dead boy detectives discord when. i would never moderate but when

[lesbiankingphil]

Sorry for doing this again but the food stamps office is now closed and it's the weekend so we definitely won't be getting paid until sometime next week at the earliest and I haven't eaten at all today, anything helps.