#ever long tablet review

[onlinebeautyshop]

Everlong 60mg Tablets in Mansehra 0301-0893333

𝓒𝓸𝓷𝓽𝓪𝓬𝓽 𝓤𝓼: 0301_0893333

مخصوص مردانہ کمزوری کاعلاج، ہر مرد کی خواہش ہوتی ہے کہ وہ ایک صحت مند زندگی گزارے اور ایک بھر پور جوانی کے ساتھ اپنی زندگی کے بہترین لمحات کو گزار سکے لیکن یہ لمحات تب عذاب بن جاتے ہیں جب مرد کو مردانہ کمزوری کا سامنا ہو ۔مگر سوال یہ پیدا ہرتا ہے کہ مردانہ طاقت کو بڑھایا کیسے جائے،تو اس کے لیے آپ ایک بار (اوریجنل ایورلانگ ٹائمنگ ٹیبلٹس) کا استعمال کریں۔

[gracieeegleegal]

The Misus said so | T. Owens

Tyler Owens x wife!reader

A/N: so I’m obsessed with Glen Powell and of course I had to do a little something with Tyler Owens because Glen looked so good in that movie. Hope you enjoy!

SUMMARY : After chasing a tornado, Tyler suggests the team take a break in his hometown—a place none of them have ever visited, except Boone. To their surprise, they discover that Tyler shares his home with a pregnant woman he refers to as his wife and a young boy he calls his son.

WARNINGS : fluff, Tyler being head over heels for his wife, cuteness, some inaccuracies regarding tornadoes

3.4k words

The sun was just beginning to set as the red truck and van rumbled down the dusty back roads of the Arkansas countryside. Tyler Owens was behind the wheel, relaxed but focused, his hands steady as he navigated the familiar terrain. In the passenger seat, Boone sat with an easy grin, the kind only a best friend could wear, fully at home in the quiet camaraderie of the ride. He occasionally glanced at Tyler, clearly anticipating something more than just a pit stop.

In the back seat, Lily was hunched over her tablet, reviewing footage from Cairo, her drone. “The inflow jets were insane,” she murmured. Boone snorted, swivelling to glance at her.

Boon leaning towards Tyler with a raised eyebrow whispered so only Tyler could hear him. “So, when are you gonna drop the act? I know where we’re headed.”

Tyler chuckled, but his eyes stayed on the road. “Guess it was hard to slip one past you, huh?”

“You think?” Boone replied with a smirk. “What gave it away—oh, I don’t know, maybe the fact that I’m Jake’s godfather?”

Tyler shushed him, not wanting Boone to spoil the surprise. Of course Boone knew about your existence and of your son. Boone had been Tyler’s best friend for years, even before they started YouTube. He had been there when you guys met, started a relationship, got married, had your son and the last time he was there was for your gender reveal.

Lily leaned forward and turned toward Tyler, a crooked grin plastered across her face. “Alright, Ty, spill it. Where the hell are we going? You’ve been suspiciously quiet since we left the highway. And now you’ve got Boone whispering stuff into your ear. When has he ever been this quiet?”

Tyler chuckled but kept his eyes on the road. “Relax, lily. I told you, we’re heading to my hometown. Figured we could all use a real bed and a home-cooked meal for a change. Motel breakfasts are starting to taste like cardboard.”

Dani, who talked from the radio given that she was behind in the Van, raised an eyebrow. “Your hometown? Tyler you’ve only ever talked about it once, what is there to do here really? Is there some sort of catch?”

“No catch,” Tyler replied smoothly. “Just thought you guys deserve something better. And I figured it’s finally time you meet someone really important to me.”

The rest of the team stayed curious and said nothing more. They trusted Tyler—he had proven himself time and again in the chaos of the storm-chasing world. If he said they were in for a treat, they believed him.

After another twenty minutes of winding roads and open fields, Tyler turned onto a long gravel driveway lined with vibrant green grass. The farmhouse at the end of the drive came into view, its white paint glowing softly in the golden light of the setting sun. Animals roamed nearby, adding life to the picturesque scene.

The team climbed out of the Truck and Van, stretching their legs and taking in their surroundings. The farmhouse was surrounded by rolling fields, with a red barn off to one side and a small garden near the porch. The air was warm and smelled faintly of wildflowers and fresh hay. There was a small lake in front of the farmhouse surrounded by fences.

“Wow,” said Dexter, the least chaotic team member. “It’s… peaceful.”

“Yeah,” Tyler said softly, his voice carrying a hint of nostalgia. “It is. Home sweet home,” Tyler said as he approached the house more.

Boone followed his pace, grinning. “Ah, the Owens family ranch. Been too long since I’ve been here.”

“You’ve been here before?” Lily asked, surprised.

“Sure have,” Boone replied. “I’m practically family.”

The front door creaked open, and you stepped onto the porch, wearing a white top stretched slightly over your rounded belly and a pair of jeans. Tyler’s cowboy hat sat snugly on your head, the one he hadn’t worn in years. Your face lit up the moment you saw him, a smile breaking across your lips.

“There’s my troublemaker,” you said warmly, your accent as sweet as honey.

Tyler’s grin widened as he climbed the steps, pulling you into a gentle hug careful not to press too hard against your belly. “Hey, darlin’. You look beautiful.”

Boone didn’t hesitate. “Y/N! Look at you, glowing as always. How’s my niece?,” he said, bounding up the steps to greet you. He hugged you warmly, then ruffled your hair affectionately. “And still stealing hats, I see.”

You laughed. “Good to see you too, Boone. Baby’s fine. And yes, it’s mine now.” You turned back to your husband and hugged him once again. The hug felt like home. After days worrying for your husband he was finally back home and in your arms.

The team hung back awkwardly, unsure of what to do. Dexter was the first to break the silence. “Uh, hi. I’m so confused right now.”

You laughed loudly, your eyes twinkling. You knew the team must be confused, as Tyler had never spoken about you unless it was with Boone. “Y’all must be Tyler’s team. I’m Y/N. The wife.”

Upon the reveal, the team let their mouths hang open in shock. They never imagined Tyler out of all people would be married with a kid on the way. He was always the reckless one, the first to jump into danger. Nobody ever really thought about him potentially having a family, with the way he was. They also didn't expect Boone to have known and let this a secret for so long. That man can never shut his mouth.

Tyler turned back to his team, gesturing for them to come closer. “Everyone, this is Y/N—my wife. Y/N, meet the crew: Boone you already know, This is Dexter, Dani, and Lily.”

You smiled warmly and waved them inside. “Y’all must be starving. Tyler called ahead, so I made enough food to feed an army. Come on in and make yourselves at home.”

As the group filed into the house, Lily glanced at Tyler, her eyes wide with surprise. “You’re married? And… you’re going to be a dad?”

Tyler grinned sheepishly, scratching the back of his neck. “Yeah, I guess I never mentioned that, huh? Meet the real reason I get back in one piece after every chase.”

The house was cosy, filled with the comforting smells of roast chicken, fresh bread, and apple pie. The dining table was already set, you had clearly gone out of your way to make the team feel welcome.

“This is incredible,” Lily said, taking a seat at the table. “You really didn’t have to go all out for us.”

You waved her off with a laugh. “Oh, please. Tyler told me how hard you’ve all been working. Besides, I saw the live stream of that last tornado. Y’all are insane, by the way. I thought I’d reward your bravery or, well, craziness with a good meal.”

Boone leaned back in his chair, grinning, finally happy to be home. “It’s both, Y/N. And that tornado was a beauty, wasn’t it?”

“Did you see the way the funnel shifted when it hit that open field? Classic EF-3 behaviour.” Tyler suddenly asked as he turned to you. You smiled at the excitement in your husband's voice, nodding towards him. Despite dropping out and never finishing his career in meteorology he was quite well educated in the field of tornadoes.

Dexter nodded, his voice animated. “And the inflow jets—did you catch those? Perfect conditions for a multi-vortex system.”

You chuckled as you started serving the food. “I don’t understand half of what you’re saying, but I could tell y’all were thrilled. It was like watching kids on Christmas morning.”

As the conversation flowed between all of you, a soft noise interrupted. From the staircase next to the dining room came the sound of small, hesitant footsteps.

Everyone turned to see a little boy, about three years old, standing at the bottom of the stairs. He was rubbing his sleepy eyes with one hand, clutching a worn stuffed bear in the other. His curls were tousled from sleep, and he blinked at the group with a mixture of curiosity and shyness.

“Daddy?” the boy said softly, his voice thick with sleep.

Tyler’s expression melted. “Hey, bud,” he said, getting up from his chair. He crossed the room in a few strides and knelt down to scoop the boy into his arms. “What are you doing up? Thought your momma put you to sleep for the afternoon.”

The boy rested his head on Tyler’s shoulder and mumbled, “I Had a dream.”

Tyler kissed the top of his son’s head and held him close. “It’s okay, buddy. Daddy 's here.”

Boone chuckled, leaning back in his chair at the sight of the small kid. “There 's my boy. Come here, kiddo.”

Jake squirmed out of Tyler’s arms and ran to Boone, climbing onto his lap. Boone greeted him with a fist bump. “What’d I tell you about staying up past your bedtime, huh?”

Jake giggled. “Uncle Boone!”

The rest of the team stared, dumbfounded. Dani finally blurted out, “Wait you knew about this?!”

Boone shrugged. “Of course. I’m his godfather and uncle. Perks of being Tyler’s actual best friend.”

“Everyone,” Tyler said, turning back to the group, “this is Jake, our little man.”

Jake lifted his head from Boone's shoulder and looked at the team, his big brown eyes scanning the unfamiliar faces. “Hi,” he said shyly.

Lily smiled warmly. “Hi, Jake. I’m Lily. It’s nice to meet you.”

You walked over and gently ruffled your son's curls. “Jake, these are Daddy’s other friends. They’re going to stay with us tonight.”

Jake’s face lit up. “Really?”

“Yep,” Tyler said, bouncing him lightly. “And you know what? I think they might even make pretty good aunts and uncles, don’t you?”

Jake giggled, his earlier sleepiness forgotten. “Yeah! Now I have more people to play with!”

“That’s right buddy.” Boone smiled, hugging the kid one last time before he jumped out of his lap and went back to his fathers embrace.

The meal progressed with a light-hearted warmth that settled over everyone like a blanket. Boone and Dexter were animatedly recounting their most chaotic storm-chasing moments, while Dani and Lily chimed in with their own tales. Jake sat on Tyler’s lap, happily munching on a slice of buttered bread, his small hands gripping the edges of the plate to keep it steady.

You observed the scene with a soft smile, your hand resting on your growing belly. Tyler caught your gaze as he let his free hand rest on top of the one holding your belly. He smiled down at you. He was happy to be home.

“You’ve done good, sweetheart,” he said, his voice low but full of admiration.

She tilted her head, her smile widening. “Couldn’t have done it without you, Ty.”

The team exchanged subtle glances, sensing the affection radiating between the two. Lily, unable to resist, leaned over to you. “You two are adorable. What’s your secret?”

That caused a laugh out of you. “Oh, it’s no secret. Just a lot of patience and knowing when to call him out on his nonsense.” You shot Tyler a teasing look, and he feigned innocence.

“Hey now,” Tyler said, grinning. “I’m a perfect angel.”

Jake looked up from his plate, his face lighting up with a mischievous grin. “Daddy’s silly!”

The table erupted into laughter, and Tyler tickled Jake’s sides, eliciting a burst of giggles from the little boy. “Come on Bug, eat all your food. Don’t want you to be hungry later.” You looked at your son as you gently grabbed his bread and gave it to him. Gently caressing his forehead and kissing his cheek lovingly. All while Tyler stared at you with adoration in his eyes.

As the evening wore on, You excused yourself briefly to check on the dessert. Tyler took the opportunity to follow you into the kitchen, leaving Jake to sit back on Boone lap and be entertained by the team.

The kitchen was warm and cosy, filled with the comforting aroma of apples and cinnamon as you carefully pulled the steaming pie from the oven. You moved with practiced ease, placing it on a cooling rack, when suddenly you felt a familiar presence behind you.

“Now, what do I have to do to get my hands on a slice of that?” Tyler’s voice was low and teasing, the grin audible in his tone.

You smirked, not bothering to turn around. “Depends. Are you talking about the pie or me?”

Tyler laughed softly and stepped closer, slipping his arms around your waist, his front pressed against your back. “Both, but let’s start with you.” He leaned in, brushing his lips along the curve of your neck.

“Ty,” you said, your voice half a warning, half a giggle. “We have company, remember? We don’t want Boone to catch us again do we?”

“They’re busy stuffing their faces and trying to keep Jake from giving Boone another black eye,” he murmured, his lips trailing to your ear. “Besides, I don’t get moments like this nearly enough.”

You sighed, leaning back into his embrace. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

“And you’re gorgeous,” he countered without missing a beat, his hands sliding up to rest gently over your growing belly. “And carrying my baby girl? That makes you even more irresistible.”

You carefully turned in his arms, bow facing each other as you rested your hands on his chest. “You’ve got a silver tongue, Mr. Owens. Has it ever gotten you into trouble?”

He grinned, his hazel eyes sparkling. “Only when I’m not careful. Lucky for me, I married a woman who keeps me in line.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “You’re not so cocky now, are you?”

“Only with you,” he said, leaning down until your foreheads touched. “Well, and maybe with Jake when he gives me that little puppy-dog look. Kid’s got my heart wrapped around his finger. Can never say no to him.”

You laughed softly, holding his figure even more, not wanting to let go. You leaned your head on his chest, looking sideways outside the window to the sun that illuminated your home.

“You’re incredible, you know that?” he murmured as his chin rested upon your head.

“And you’re a shameless flirt.”

“Guilty,” he admitted, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. “But seriously, I just wanted to thank you for this. For all of it. I know it’s not easy having me running around the country chasing storms.”

You turned in his arms, eyes meeting his. “Ty, I knew what I was signing up for when I married you. I wouldn’t have it any other way. Besides, you always come back to us. That’s what matters.”

His expression softened, and he placed a hand gently on your belly again. “And soon, there’s going to be even more reason to keep coming back.”

You placed your hand over his, your smile tender. “She’s going to love you just as much as Jake does. Maybe even more if she inherits your stubbornness.”

He chuckled. “Let’s hope she gets your patience instead.”.

Your expression softened as you traced a finger along his jawline. “You’re a good dad, Tyler. I see it every day in how Jake lights up around you. And I know you’re going to be just as amazing with our daughter.”

He kissed you softly, a lingering tenderness in the way he held you close. “That’s the plan, sweetheart. Keep coming back to you, Jake, and this little one. Always.”

The moment was interrupted by a loud crash from the dining room.

“Jake!” Boone’s voice carried through the house. “Why am I always the bad guy?”

“It wasn’t me!” Jake shouted back, his voice ringing with childlike defiance.

You groaned, pulling away with a reluctant smile. “Guess I’d better rescue Boone before Jake recruits the others against him.”

Tyler laughed, giving you a playful smack on the ass as you walked away. “Don’t take too long, baby. I’m still waiting on that pie—and you.”

You threw him a teasing look over her shoulder. “Behave, Ty.”

When you stepped back into the dining room, Jake was perched on Dexter’s lap, gleefully recounting how Boone had “knocked the chair over all by himself.” Boone stood nearby, arms crossed and feigning offence.

“For the record,” Boone declared, “this kid’s already mastered the fine art of scapegoating.”

“I learned it from Daddy!” Jake said with a giggle, earning a roar of laughter from the table.

You sighed, shaking your head as you started slicing the pie. “I see Jake’s picking up all your best habits, Ty.”

Tyler grinned shamelessly, taking a seat next to you. “Can’t blame the kid for wanting to be like his old man.” He reached over to ruffle Jake’s curls, then turned to you. “But if you want to keep us in line, you’d better bring that pie over here before we all riot.”

You rolled your eyes, setting the pie on the table with a grin. “You’re lucky I love you, Tyler Owens.”

He leaned back in his chair, giving you a wink. “Lucky’s an understatement, baby. I hit the jackpot.”

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

As the last bite of pie was finished and the laughter around the table quieted, you leaned back in your chair, feeling satisfied but a little tired. Tyler’s gaze met yours across the table, his expression softening with concern as he stood up, stretching his back.

“We need to clean up.” You muttered under your breath, ready to stand up until Tyler pushed you gently back down to sit.

“Alright, everyone,” Tyler said, his voice carrying the gentle authority that always seemed to get things done. “You’ve all eaten, now it’s time to let my wife take a break. She’s been working hard today.”

Jake, who had been leaning back in his chair, looked confused. “Why do we need to clean up?”

“Because the Missus said so,” Tyler interrupted with a wink, his playful grin lighting up his face. “And trust me, when the Missus speaks, everyone listens.”

You couldn’t help but smile at the playful banter between them, but you appreciated how Tyler always made sure you weren’t overburdened. It was his way of showing care, in everything from big gestures to little moments like this.

One by one, the team began to rise from the table, and soon enough, the dishes were being cleared away. Boone and Dexter were the first to take charge of the plates, laughing as they competed to see who could load the dishwasher faster. Lily helped wipe down the table, while Jake, who still looked a little reluctant, finally took the trash bag outside with Boone’s encouragement.

It didn’t take long before the kitchen was tidied up, and the team filed out to check on the horses. You watched them from the window as they made their way to the stables, chatting with Jake in tow, all smiles and laughter. You felt a contentment settle over you, watching the scene from your peaceful spot inside.

Tyler, noticing that you hadn’t moved from your seat, stepped toward you and held out his hand. “You need a break, too,” he said softly, as if reading your thoughts. “Come on, let’s get some fresh air.”

You stood, taking his hand, and together you walked outside to the front porch. The soft evening light bathed the world in golden hues as you made your way to the rocking chair. Tyler sat first, patting the seat next to him, and you sank into the chair beside him, leaning back with a sigh of relief.

Tyler settled beside you, his hand resting gently on your baby bump. His thumb traced slow circles, a tender gesture that made your heart swell. You closed your eyes for a moment, letting the gentle rocking of the chair soothe your tired muscles. The sound of the team’s voices echoed from the stables, a distant hum of joy and energy, but it felt far away from the calm you found in this quiet moment.

You rested your head on Tyler’s shoulder, your fingers resting over his hand on your belly. “Tired?” He asked you, noticing your calmness and weight on his shoulder.

“No. I’m just thinking about how much I missed you.”

He kissed the top of your head, wrapping his arm tighter around you. “Missed you more. And I mean it, Y/N. Everything we’ve built here… it’s the reason I keep going. The reason I come back.”

Your eyes glistened as you looked up at him. “You’re the reason this feels like home, Ty.”

He smiled, tilting your chin up so he could kiss you again, slow and sweet. “Then I guess we’re even, Baby.”

[0kurakura0]

Case Files Pt. 3

Simon Riley "Ghost" x UN lawyer Reader

TF 141 receives a visit from a UN prosecutor working at the ICC. This overworked prosecutor is trying to build a case against war criminals and must team up with them to catch these criminals. Along the way, they may even catch feelings for a brooding soldier. slow-burn, M/F, cursing

>> Pt.1 >> Pt.2

The steady hum of the plane engines filled the cabin as Task Force 141 and their new reluctant companion settled into their seats. Ghost was seated near the back, arms crossed and gaze fixed straight ahead, his mask revealing nothing of his thoughts. Soap and Gaz sat side by side a few rows ahead, already engrossed in a spirited debate over whether the in-flight rations counted as edible.

Price, ever the professional, was at the front of the cabin, reviewing the mission details on his tablet. ___, sat slightly apart from the group, her normal suit attire traded for a more practical outfit consisting of cargo pants, boots, and a plain black jacket. Despite the attire, she still looked out of place amongst the others. 

The tension from the earlier briefing hadn’t dissipated. Ghost’s warning lingered in her mind, and she’d caught Soap throwing her a few sideways glances since they boarded. She adjusted her seatbelt, shifting uncomfortably as the turbulence made the plane shudder.

“Relax,” Gaz said from across the aisle, offering a small smile. “We’ve been through worse flights.”

“Great,” she muttered, gripping the armrest tighter. “Good to know my first field mission might involve falling out of the sky.”

Soap leaned back in his seat, flashing her a grin. “Don’t worry, lass. If we crash, Ghost’ll probably land us on his feet like a bloody cat.”

Ghost didn’t even bother looking at him. “Focus on the mission, MacTavish.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” Soap quipped, though his grin didn’t waver.

Price’s voice broke through the chatter. “Listen up. Once we’re on the ground, things will move quickly. Tarek’s network is vast, but we have intel on a small arms deal happening at a warehouse outside Beirut. Our job is to intercept, secure evidence, and take down anyone who tries to stop us.”

“And the suit?” Ghost asked, his tone devoid of any warmth.

Leaning forward to glare at Ghost. “The suit has a name you know.” 

Price’s gaze flicked to ___. “She’s here to ensure what we find sticks in court and to make sure we don't violate any international laws. You’ll keep her safe.”

Ghost didn’t respond, but his silence spoke volumes. __ decided to stay quiet for the rest of the flight, knowing anything she said would only add fuel to the fire. She stared out the window instead, watching the dark clouds swirl outside.

This was going to be a long mission.

---

The plane touched down on a small airstrip outside the city, the wheels screeching against the tarmac. The team disembarked quickly, the cold night air biting at their skin. They moved with practiced efficiency, loading their gear onto waiting trucks.

The base was a small, makeshift outpost nestled in the hills overlooking Beirut. As the convoy approached, the sound of generators and the hum of radio chatter greeted them. Soldiers moved about purposefully, their silhouettes stark against the floodlights illuminating the area.

Price led the group into the main operations tent, where maps and monitors covered every available surface. An officer greeted them with a sharp salute, then handed Price a tablet with the latest intel.

“Welcome Captin,” the officer said. “We’ve got eyes on the warehouse. Minimal movement so.”

Price nodded, motioning for the team to gather around. “We’ll go over the plan in the morning. For now, get some rest. Long day ahead.”

The team dispersed, each heading to their assigned quarters. __ was shown to a small, room with a cot, a desk, and a single lamp. She dropped her bag onto the floor and sat on the edge of the cot, exhaustion already creeping in. Just as she started to kick off her boots, there was a knock at the door.

Price stood in the doorway, his expression unreadable.

“Got a minute?” he asked.

“Yeah sure,” she replied, though her tone was wary.

He stepped inside, closing the door behind him. “You’re not a soldier. I get that. But out there, it won’t matter. Bullets don’t discriminate. If you can’t hold your own, you’re a liability to the team.”

Her jaw tightened. “I’m not here to fight. I’m here to ensure justice is served.”

“And you can’t do that if you’re dead,” he countered. “Starting tomorrow, Ghost will run you through the basics. Enough to keep you alive if things go south.”

Her stomach sank. “Ghost?”

Price’s lips twitched in what might’ve been a small smrik. “He’s the best we’ve got. You’ll learn fast.”

---

The morning sun cast a pale light over the base as __ made her way to the training area. She’d slept fitfully, the looming prospect of Ghost’s “training” keeping her awake. When she arrived, he was already there, his imposing figure standing by a table laden with gear.

“You’re late,” he said, his voice as gruff as ever.

“It’s six in the morning,” she shot back. “I’m not exactly a morning person.”

“Good thing you’re not here for a vacation,” he retorted. “Grab a vest. We’ll start with the basics.”

She sighed, shrugging into the heavy tactical vest he handed her. It felt like wearing a brick wall. He led her to a small range, where targets were set up at varying distances.

“First lesson: handling a firearm. If you’re in a fight, the last thing you want is to fumble.” He handed her a pistol. “Show me what you know.”

She hesitated, gripping the weapon awkwardly. “I’ve only ever handled a gun once. And it was a carnival game… I lost”

“Fantastic,” he said dryly. “Let’s fix that.”

For the next hour, he drilled her on the basics: stance, aim, trigger discipline. Her first shot hit the dirt two feet in front of the target, and her second ricocheted off the side of the range, prompting Ghost to step back with a muttered, “Bloody hell.”

“Are you trying to hit the target or scare it to death?” he asked.

“It’s harder than it looks!” she snapped, reloading with all the grace of someone trying to assemble IKEA furniture without instructions.

By the end of the session, she managed to hit the target more often than not, though her technique left much to be desired.

The second half of the sessions was worse, however. Ghost led her to an open area where he demonstrated hand-to-hand combat techniques.

“What are we doing now?” she asked, eyeing him warily.

“Teaching you how not to die when someone gets too close,” he replied. “Come at me.”

She blinked. “What?”

“Attack me,” he said, gesturing for her to move. “Don’t think. Just do it.”

With no small amount of reluctance, she lunged at him. It ended poorly—she found herself on the ground in less than two seconds.

“Again,” he ordered.

She groaned, getting to her feet. “Do you enjoy this?”

“You’ll thank me later,” he said not masking the amusement in his voice, motioning for her to try again.

Her next attempt was equally disastrous. She tried to throw a punch, but it lacked any real force, and Ghost easily sidestepped, causing her to stumble forward. By her third attempt, she was so frustrated she let out a battle cry that sounded more like an angry goose, which prompted Soap—watching from a distance—to burst out laughing.

By the time they finished, she was bruised, exhausted, and thoroughly annoyed. Ghost, on the other hand, looked as unbothered as ever almost happy even.

---

By the time dinner rolled around,  was utterly spent. Her muscles ached, her pride was bruised, and her stomach growled loud enough to echo in the mess hall. She grabbed a tray and slumped into a seat at one of the long tables, praying for a moment of peace.

Naturally, that wasn’t going to happen.

“Well, if it isn’t our favorite new recruit,” Soap announced, plopping down across from her with an exaggerated grin. Gaz followed, carrying his tray and shaking his head at Soap’s antics.

“I’m not a recruit,” she mumbled, poking at the unidentifiable stew on her plate. “I’m a lawyer.”

“A lawyer who can’t throw a punch to save her life,” Soap teased. “That wee war cry of yours? Nearly killed me. From laughter.”

Gaz snorted into his drink. “I’ve seen geese with more intimidating moves.”

“Ha, ha,” she said dryly, stabbing a piece of whatever kinda meat this was with her fork. “Glad I could entertain you.”

“To be fair,” Gaz added, “you did hit the target a few times by the end. Progress, eh?”

“Sure, if you call barely competent progress,” she muttered. “Ghost probably thinks I’m hopeless.”

Soap grinned. “Nah, if he thought you were hopeless, he wouldn’t bother trainin’ you. He’s just got a funny way of showin’ encouragement.”

“Funny isn’t the word I’d use,” she said, though a small smile tugged at her lips despite herself.

Before they could continue, an officer entered the mess hall, his expression tense. The room quieted as he approached their table.

“Captain Price wants everyone in the operations tent,” he said, his tone brisk. “We’ve got activity at the warehouse. Looks like the deal’s happening sooner than expected.”

Instantly, the atmosphere shifted. Soap and Gaz were on their feet in seconds, their joking demeanor replaced with sharp focus.

“Guess playtime’s over,” Soap said, getting up from his spot and heading to the operation tent outside. 

__ stares down at her food before getting up with Gaz as they both start to head to the tent. 

“Hey maybe you might get lucky and Terek is scared of geese,” Gaz says with a chuckle.

“Please shut up…”

hey guys... so... yeah been a minute hasn't it.

I'm so sorry for the super super late update. Iv been stuck in the hospital due to a heart condition I suffer from and with the holidays I was just so stressed with that and my condition that I wasn't able to write anything.

but now I'm out horray so happy lol. but I started writing again just not sure about the schedule of when stuff with come out now also since I'll be starting college back up again so ill be busy. but I'll try my best to get stuff out to yall. also, I don't want this story to be a crazy slow burn so I might try to push things along in the next one and start the juicy stuff soon. hehehehhehehe.

[swrkn]

Hi, I'm also French so if there are any mistakes, sorry. It would be cool if you could redo a story about Oliver in Windbreaker. Maybe with him introducing his girlfriend to his team (I haven't gotten to this passage yet so I don't really know the context) or others, I just want a story with him because he's sorely lacking one, sniff TuT.

The Homescreen Surprise

Oliver x fem!reader

Genre ; sfw ; fluff

Author note ; Hii, in honor of oliver and poel comeback, i’ll write this little story for him :) and it’s true that there are not a lot of stories about oliver but don’t worry about that, im planning on writing more ;) (Premiere fois que je crois une personne française sur tumblr j’en ai presque les larmes aux yeux 🥲)

It was a simple quiet afternoon at the headquarters of the scavenger crew. Veil, Oliver and Clover sat around a small table, sipping drinks and chatting about upcoming races. Clover was sprawled across her chair, scrolling through her phone, while Veil meticulously reviewed the team’s schedule on his tablet.

“Oliver, what’s the route for tomorrow’s ?” Clover asked, not looking up.

Oliver fumbled with his bag, pulling out his phone to double-check. As he turned the screen on, Clover’s sharp eyes caught a glimpse of it from across the table. Her straw froze mid-sip.

“Wait a second!” she exclaimed, nearly knocking over her drink. “Oliver! Is that—?”

Oliver’s face turned bright red as he scrambled to lock his phone, but it was too late. Clover had already seen it.

“Your homescreen is… a girl! A really pretty girl!” she declared, pointing at him accusingly.

Veil’s eyes narrowed as he set down his tablet. “What is she talking about?”

Clover leaned forward, practically bouncing with excitement. “Oliver’s wallpaper is a photo of him and some girl! Who is she, huh? Spill!”

Oliver sighed, knowing there was no way out of this. “Okay, okay, fine,” he said, holding up his hands in surrender. “Her name is Y/N. She’s… my girlfriend.”

Clover gasped dramatically, clapping her hands together. “I knew it! You’ve been holding out on us! How long has this been going on?”

Oliver hesitated. “Uh… a few months.”

“A few months?” Veil repeated, his tone sharp. “And you didn’t think to tell us?”

“I was going to!” Oliver protested. “I just… wasn’t sure how you’d react.”

Clover leaned over, grinning from ear to ear. “Well, I think it’s adorable. And she’s gorgeous, by the way. How did you manage that, Oliver?”

“Thanks, Clover,” Oliver muttered, rubbing the back of his neck.

Veil leaned back in his chair, studying Oliver intently. “So why is she your homescreen? That’s pretty bold for you.”

Oliver glanced at his phone, his face softening at the thought. “It’s one of my favorite pictures of us. She said it’s hers too, so… I just put it up. It makes me happy.”

Veil’s expression shifted ever so slightly, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Alright, fair enough. But we’re meeting her soon. If you’re serious about this, we need to know who she is.”

Oliver blinked. “You want to meet her?”

“Of course!” Clover chirped. “She’s basically part of the team now. Plus, I have to make sure she knows all about your embarrassing habits.”

“Clover!”

Veil chuckled lightly, standing up and grabbing his jacket. “You brought this on yourself, Oliver. Next practice, bring her along. If she can put up with you, I’m sure she’ll survive us too.”

As Veil walked toward the door, Clover patted Oliver on the shoulder, her grin as mischievous as ever. “Don’t worry, we’ll go easy on her. Probably.”

Oliver groaned but couldn’t help smiling. Knowing his team wanted to meet Y/N made him nervous, but it also felt right. After all, they were family—chaotic, meddling and loud, but family nonetheless.

The Team Veil headquarters buzzed with energy as Veil, Clover, and the rest of the crew prepared for their visitor. The tools were neatly arranged, bikes were polished, and the usually cluttered space looked almost presentable for once. Clover, sitting cross-legged on the couch, was practically vibrating with excitement.

“I can’t believe Oliver’s actually bringing his girlfriend here,” she said for the tenth time. “It’s like seeing a unicorn or something.”

Veil glanced up from his workbench, raising an eyebrow. “You’re acting like you’ve never seen someone date before. It’s not that big of a deal.”

Clover rolled her eyes. “It’s a huge deal. Oliver’s been so secretive about her, and now we finally get to meet her. Aren’t you at least a little curious?”

“I’m curious about how she’ll handle meeting us,” Veil said with a faint smirk.

Before Clover could respond, the sound of footsteps approached the door. Oliver stepped in, looking slightly nervous but trying his best to act casual. Beside him was Y/N, smiling warmly and exuding a calm confidence.

“Hey, guys,” Oliver said, glancing around. “We’re here.”

“Y/N!” Clover exclaimed, hopping off the couch and rushing over. “Hi! Oh my gosh, I’ve been dying to meet you. You’re even prettier than Oliver said.”

Y/N laughed, shaking Clover’s hand. “Hi, Clover. It’s so nice to meet you too. Oliver’s told me a lot about you.”

“Has he?” Clover asked, her grin widening. “Good things, I hope.”

“Only the best,” Y/N replied.

Veil walked over, his arms crossed as he studied Y/N. His sharp gaze moved from her to Oliver and back again. “So, you’re Y/N.”

Y/N nodded, holding out her hand. “That’s me. And you must be Veil. Oliver talks about you all the time.”

Veil shook her hand firmly, his expression unreadable. “Does he? Hope he didn’t exaggerate.”

Y/N chuckled. “Not at all. He said you’re the most serious one here, and I can see that’s true.”

Clover snickered. “Yup, that’s Veil. Always the tough one.”

Veil gave her a side-eye but then turned back to Y/N. “Well, you’re here. Let’s see if you can keep up with us.”

Oliver frowned. “Veil, come on. She’s not here to—”

“It’s fine,” Y/N interrupted, smiling at Oliver before looking back at Veil. “I wouldn’t mind seeing what you guys are all about.”

Clover clapped her hands. “I knew I’d like you! Come on, I’ll show you around.”

Y/N let Clover lead her on a tour of the garage, laughing at her enthusiastic explanations of every little detail. Meanwhile, Oliver stayed behind with Veil, who leaned against his bike, watching the two girls interact.

“She’s not bad,” Veil said after a moment.

Oliver sighed in relief. “You really think so?”

Veil shrugged. “She’s confident, doesn’t seem fazed by us, and Clover likes her. That’s a good start. Just don’t screw it up.”

Oliver rolled his eyes. “Why does everyone keep saying that?”

Veil smirked. “Because we know you.”

By the time Y/N and Clover returned, Y/N had already won the younger girl over completely.

“She’s amazing, Oliver,” Clover announced. “You’re lucky she even likes you.”

“Clover!” Oliver groaned, though Y/N just laughed and gave his arm a reassuring squeeze.

“Thanks for letting me visit,” Y/N said to Veil. “I know how important this team is to Oliver, and I wanted to see it for myself. You guys are doing something really special here.”

Veil nodded, his respect for her growing. “You’re welcome anytime. Just don’t let Clover drag you into too much trouble.”

“Hey!” Clover protested, but her grin gave her away.

As the crew settled back into their usual rhythm, Y/N fit in seamlessly, chatting with Clover, admiring the bikes, and even offering to help organize a few things. Watching her from across the room, Oliver couldn’t help but smile.

For the first time, it felt like all the pieces of his life were coming together.

✵

[exitrowiron]

Kickr Run Treadmill Review

Our True treadmill was 20 years old and though still functional was starting to show its age after thousands of miles. I did some research on the new Wahoo Kickr Run treadmill and was intrigued. We have two Kickr bike trainers and I've ridden thousands of miles on mine. When it started to malfunction 3 years after purchase, they replaced it quickly for free. That's the kind of company that deserves more of my business.

The treadmill has received universally positive reviews, especially from DC Rainmaker. I like running on a treadmill and I envisioned doing run workouts similar to those I can do on the Kickr bike trainer. I can program very detailed (I.e. exact watts) bike workouts in Zwift and Training Peaks and expected to do the same on their treadmill. The treadmill also has a unique innovation called RunFree in which a sensor monitors your position on the belt and automatically speeds up or slows down as you move forward or back on the belt. Just start running faster and the belt speed will instantly adjust.

The Kickr treadmill is a 400 lb beast. Wahoo requires that it be professionally delivered and setup and it must have a dedicated 15 amp circuit. The treadmill is very well made and sturdy and I'm confident it will last for many years. It is one the few treadmills that can be used to run a 4 minute mile (not that I will ever experience this). Wahoo correctly assumes that most people have their own TV so instead of attaching a crappy one they provide a deck for tablet or laptop with an integrated USB C charging port. That's the perfect solution for using the treadmill in a virtual environment like Zwift.

I ran 20 miles on the treadmill this afternoon and while I can't say the time flew by, it was a good experience. The treadmill works well in Zwift and automatically adjusted the incline (including a 3% decline) as I ran a Zwift course. The incline and speed paddles are intuitive and responsive. Unfortunately you cannot program a run workout in Zwift like you can for the Kickr bike trainer and according to a Zwift help desk rep, it isn't on the roadmap. Wahoo has its own app that includes some preprogrammed training workouts though. It is possible to create a running workout in Training Peaks, but with limited specificity - for example you can't program 400 meters at an 8:00 pace, you have to choose a Zone or percentage of threshold.

The other disappointment was the RunFree function. It is too dynamic, constantly changing the speed of the belt. I've run thousands of miles on a treadmill and wasn't able to stay in the 2 cm zone of the belt which would ensure a consistent speed.

Our last treadmill cost $3,800 in 2005 and lasted 20 years. The Kickr cost - $5,500 (including delivery) and I expect it will last as long. Although I'm a little disappointed in some of the features, I'm still happy with it.

[liquid-luck-00]

Marks of Magic

Day 1 Moon

Maribat Spooktober 2023

Next

I don’t know if this is going to be a stand alone or a short part story or if it will be the whole month.

Let’s see where it takes us.

I’m restarting my permanent taglist since I’ve been inactive for so long. Sorry!!!

Language and cursing is used

1500 words

~~~~~~~~~~

Three years.

THREE YEARS!!

she has dealt with this stupid Moth's reign of emotional terror. And she is done.

She is done with Chat's dumb jokes and worse, his unwanted advances. she is done with having no one she can trust. she tried giving second chances to Alya, Nino, and even Chloe. But each time she did they broke her trust again and again. She stopped calling on other holders.

She is done with fighting this war alone. She reached out to the Justice League but they laughed in her face. So she stopped asking for help.

The Akumas would target the non-holders group of heroes so often and defeat them or worse until the cure would be cast. that they either left the city or gave up.

she is done being alone and fighting this uphill battle alone.

She doesn't know when the change happened but it did. Her suit darkened and changed, to a point where most was a pitch black. Accents of red and black spots littered the suit, but it darkened.

She couldn’t stand it anymore, her hero life is suffering because she had no one to turn to. That leaked into her personal life as well, she couldn’t trust her friends, so as the guardian, she wiped their memories of ever being a holder, and in Alya’s case the fact she is Ladybug. On top of that Lila held on to her threat, and it came to pass, the class turned on her, as they iced her out of their lives she did the same. She focused herself into her brand and grew her client list.

•••

"Seriously Gurl!" she heard Alya starting to stomp up the steps towards her. Marinette didn't look up from the tablet she was currently reviewing before class started.

"You could at least look at me!" Her hands slammed down on the desk infront of her.

"Alya." She responded, making a note on the document. "What can I do for you?"

"Cut the Snark, Marinette, we all know what you did."

"Oh really." A smirk played on her lips. she looked up at her ex-friend. "Do tell, what did I do?"

"Lila can't even stand being in class since your here."

"And.."

"You really are a bully, Mari, how can you not even show remorse for what you did."

"Your right, I don't." Marinette stood up. "Granted you haven't told me what I did yet." she crossed her arms, watching the other girl get madder at her 'attitude'.

Alya was about to respond when in walked Lila, but with one big difference. Gone was her long hair and stupid sausage pigtails that framed her face. Now it was cut short, a Pixie cut that now showed off her high cheekbones and her eyes, that were Puffy and rimmed in red from what she assumes were tears. The girl looked at her quickly before averting her gaze and dove into her seat. Mari didn't say anything. It was shocking to see her this way, so much she almost dropped her defensive posture. Luckily she didn't say anything as Mdm. Bustier walked in to start the class.

Mari quickly sat down as Alya flew down the steps to console the Italian.

The class period seemed to stretch out longer than normal, but that only caused her mind to race more with every tick of the clock.

All to soon Mdm. Bustier clapped her hands, pulling her from her stupor. "I would like to congratulate Marinette for being our lucky winner to spend the next semester at our sister school, Gotham Academy."

Every one turned towards her, if she looked closely their smiles were forced, almost sneers.

She never applied for it.

Her eyes travelled to her ex-friend, Alya who looked triumphant.

But jokes on them. She was glad. Glad she wouldn't have to deal with them for almost six months now.

So she smiled.

Not one of her strained smiles that had become so common place, but a true genuine smile.

The rest of her day went by in almost a blur. Teachers and other classmates would congratulate her but it didn't register fully. A plan forming in her mind.

•••

She was glad that there was no akuma today. As soon as school let out she got to work.

Through the photos she took of the grimore she learned, during dire situations, the butterfly could embue its own holder as a champion. Gabriel Agreste, then came back into the forefront of her suspects.

She didn't suspect to act on it, but while outside she saw him. Gabriel moved to a subterranian green house, where she then saw a kwamii.

She didn't think and acted on pure instinct.

she dove through the window, Agreate turned and before he could say anything she charged at him.

The yoyo in her hands extended into a weighted bo staff. Agreste getting over his shock called on his transformation. The two of them danced circles around the other as their weapons clashed in the underground room.

"How?!?!" she heard him snarl at her, but she didn't answer.

She was tired of this bull shit.

Tired that this peice of crap of a man made her life a living hell for three years.

Until ...

A flash of light enveloped the room. There Gabriel Agreste knelt on a knee, his hands balled into fists as he glared up at her. The butterfly Miraculous clutched in her hand.

A spark eminated and from it out came the kwamii of transmission, Nooroo.

"Ladybug... I..." The kwamii tried and failed to speak.

"Please go and retrieve the Peacock and the Grimore." She said never taking her eyes off of Agreste.

When he returned she placed both Miraculi in her yo-yo and finally spoke again. "Why?"

"I don't need to explain myself to you." He practicaly spat.

"No you don't, but I want to know the reason before I deal out a verdict." she hummed.

"And why would you be doing something like that, Ladybug." He tried to stand but fell back, too tired or too hurt, she doesn't know. She lowered down to meet his eyes, but didn't say a word.

In that moment he was so defeated, he finally collapsed to the ground barely able to lift his head to speak. "No use telling you now. You’ve already won."

He attention pulled towards the large window, seeing the full moon overhead illuminating their conversation.

"I guess that’s true. But why wouldn't I want to know why. Why I fucking fought for three years against you for so long. I need to know why." She stared up at the moon not sparing the man a glance.

"For her." There was a silence but she didn’t look at him, not yet. "All she wanted was a child, but in order for him to grow, she had to..." He didn't finish his thought.

She looked back at Agreste, she took in his battered spirit and body before standing again. She looked around the room until her eyes landed on it, a cyro chamber with who she assumes is Emily Agreste. "No matter what, there’s always a price for a wish. to bring her back something else must be taken from you."

"Please. Please just do what you have to."

"No. You have to live with the fact that your decisions ensured she would never wake up. That she was wrong to place her faith and love in you." She pulled out her Yoyo and flew out of the room, back home. The moon's light guideing her.

She fell onto her bed dropping her transformation as she thumbed through the grimoire until it landed on a page of spells.

She doesn’t know if it’ll work or not, but it’s worth a shot.

"As the guardian of the miracle box I, Ladybug, call upon the powers of the Kwamii held in my protection."

She closed her eyes and continued to recite the word she’s read over and over for the past few months.

"For my conviction is absolute and I release the Kwamii from their jewels, never to be used again by mortal beings."

Several voices were heard in front of her now, all the Kwamii she’s met floated in front of her in between her self and the moon. She doesn’t know how but even Plagg was among the others.

"Is this truly your wish guardian?" Was spoken by both Tikki and Plagg.

"Yes." That’s single word rang resolute within the empty room.

One by one each kwamii approached her, said a goodbye and thanks before disappearing.

Plagg came towards her and was the first to place his miraculous in her hand.

"Your one hell of a kid, Pigtails. Be unappoligetic. If you ever need to." He held up a paw. "Just give me a shout."

"Plagg!" Tikki exclaimed.

"I said what I said." He cackled before dissapearing.

She heard Tikki sigh before hugging her cheek. "You've grown so much, my little bug. "She pressed a flipper to her earring." Plagg's right though. If you ever need to. Call upon our power and we will lend it to you."

"Thank you Tikki." she felt tears beginnig to sting her eyes. Tikki dissapeared. "Thank you. All of you."

~~~~~~~~~~

Next

[thmles]

| Self Love.

- He don't love himself, tryna love me.

[pairing: miguel o'hara x gwen stacy!reader]

[warnings: mention of death, sweet to angst, marriage, miguel being a player, barely proofread]

[a/n: so i was listening to self love from the across the spider-verse album/soundtrack and i kept on listening to it while playing ranked so i ended up writing this while playing and really ran with it! gwen's dialogue really pushed me to write this. it would've been longer if it were an actual fic but i hope you enjoy 🫶🏻]

Miguel considered himself a player back in college. Infamous for swooning over girls to try and get them in his bed. At least, that was the rumors. He targeted almost every girl in their major, from freshmen to graduating. His favorite target was you, Gwen Stacy.

You were an only child trying to keep up the appearance that your parents raised a perfect young lady. You rarely went out and only ever had one boyfriend. You were finishing your undergraduate degree in hopes of pursuing a PhD in Biology and to hopefully work for Alchemax, one of Nueva York’s biggest chemical corporations.

It was finals and truthfully, you were cramming almost everything. You had a paper due in a couple of hours and you had to review all of the syllabus word for word if you want to ace your exams. So here you were, in your quiet university library trying to finally finish your undergraduate degree when a certain someone decided to disturb you. You were looking at the screen of your laptop while taking notes with your tablet. A few strands of your hair managed to get itself on the side of your face. You raised your hand to tuck it back in when a hand beat you to it. You looked at your left to see the most annoying and smug face you have seen. Ever.

“Hey. Gwen Stacy, right? Daughter of Chief of Police, Chief George Stacy and Doctor Helen Stacy?” Miguel asked with a smirk. You raised an eyebrow at him before looking back at your laptop to continue reading the slideshow. He chuckled and sat on the long table beside your bag.

“Hard to get, Miss Stacy?” He asked again with another smirk. You looked at him and narrowed your eyes. “Very.”

Miguel let out a chuckle and ran a hand through his hair. “Care for a coffee date?” He asks again. You rolled your eyes in annoyance. What did this human turd want? You just wanted to finish university and get your PhD and start working. He’s just a bother. “No.” You answered sternly before going back to your notes.

“C’mon. It’ll be my treat.”

“...”

“Please?”

“...”

When Miguel realized you weren’t going to reply, he slammed your laptop shut. “Hey!” You exclaimed in annoyance. He laughed and crossed his arms. “Will you answer me now?”

“No.”

“Please with a cherry on top?” He asked again with hopeful eyes.

“Look, Miguel is it?” You stood up and looked at him. “I said no, already didn’t I? We all know about your very colorful affairs and I am not going to be one of them.” You were yelling by now and the rest of the students in the library were looking over at the pair of you. You glared at Miguel and you could see a hint of hurt in his eyes. You quickly stuffed your laptop and tablet in your bag, leaving him by himself as you left the library to study at your house.

-

The very next day, you were woken up by your dad knocking on your door. “Honey, someone wants to see you.” His voice muffled by the door. You groaned and sat up, rubbing your eyes as it adjusted to the lighting. “Who?” You asked tiredly, slipping on your fuzzy slippers your friend had gifted you. “A guy named Miguel.” As soon as you heard those words, it was as if cold water was poured over your head. “Uh, I’ll be right there, dad!” You replied and sauntered over to your bathroom to make yourself decent. No way were you letting that human turd see you as a mess.

After a while, you headed downstairs and saw your father and Miguel conversing in the dining room. A maid placed a plate for Miguel to which he accepted gratefully. Your dad seemed pleased with Miguel. “What exactly are you doing in my house on a Tuesday morning, O’hara?” You spat out rudely. Miguel smiled as you entered the room and sat across from him.

“Gwen.” Your dad warned you. You crossed your arms as the maid from earlier put a plate in front of you as well as a cup. She poured orange juice in the cup as you glared at the man across from you.

“Dad, Miguel and I aren’t even close. We aren’t even friends!” You exclaimed as you tried to decipher why your father decided to let him in. “Well, if you aren’t friends, why did he just ask me if he could court you?”

That morning was eventful. Miguel and your father had been bonding and had even approved of Miguel courting you. Hell, Miguel brought flowers for you and your mom. You don’t know how he even knew your favorite flowers when you never conversed before. You had to pull him aside and asked him what the hell was he doing to which he answered: “I’ve liked you for years, I just want to shoot my shot.”

Somehow, you don’t know how, you warmed up to him. He went with you to Alchemax and was very supportive of your choices. Miguel bought you your favorite chocolates every week, and surprised you with romantic dinners. A few months into him courting you, you made it abundantly clear that you wouldn’t sleep with him until after a year you started dating. He also became your boyfriend that day. Miguel respected your choice and made an effort to give you a secure relationship.

Even after years, when Miguel managed to get his DNA spliced with that of a spider’s, you stood by him. You left Alchemax to work for a pharmaceutical company as you could never forgive what happened with Miguel. You supported Miguel in being Nueva York’s ‘Spider-man.’ You gave him massages, left food for him to eat, waited for him to come home. He was very much grateful for you. He knew he wanted to marry you the moment he laid eyes on you at an orientation of a class you took together freshman year. Miguel only proposed one night after a brutal fight with the Vulture.

-

Miguel stumbled in through the unlocked window of your shared bedroom. He was badly bruised and his whole body ached. The commotion caught your attention from the kitchen and was quick to run in the room. Miguel tugged off his mask and threw it on the bed. When you saw Miguel’s bruised face, you let out a gasp and helped him sit on the bed.

“I told you to not get hurt, didn’t I?” You exclaimed as you ran to the kitchen to get a pack of frozen corn to help soothe Miguel’s swollen face. He let out a chuckle and only looked at you as you held the pack to his cheek. “Jesus, what am I going to do with you, hm?” You asked softly as your fingers brushed over his other swollen cheek. You sniffed as you felt yourself becoming teary-eyed at Miguel’s state. He was badly bruised and you knew he would do it all over again to keep the city safe. To keep you safe. “You should marry me.” Miguel replied softly with a smile. Your eyebrows furrowed in confusion. He shuffled to his nightstand and with a few grunts and groans he held out a small velvet box. You dropped the pack of frozen corn beside him and looked into his eyes.

“Marry me, Gwen Stacy. You’re the love of my life. I knew I loved you the moment I laid eyes on you in Professor Jacob’s class. You gave me a chance to love you. You stayed with me throughout everything that happened at Alchemax and sacrificed the career you built there for me. I can’t see myself with anyone else besides you. Will you marry me?”

Needless to say the wedding was grand. Almost the whole police department of Nueva York showed up to ensure that the wedding was secure. Your batch mates who were genuinely surprised at the pair you and Miguel had even showed up. And after a week long honeymoon in Switzerland, you were ecstatic. But good things come to an end, right?

-

When an anomaly from another dimension managed to severely injure you, Miguel was set on figuring out how to travel the multiverse. And when he did, he recruited every Spider-Men, Spider-Women, hell even a Spider-Car to ensure that anomalies are dealt with accordingly so they couldn’t do the damage they did to you.

As you were recovering from your injuries, Miguel was quick to discover that for every Spider-Man that had a Gwen Stacy, she always dies. It led him to spiral into keeping you safe and he almost always made sure that you call him when you leave the house and get home.

However, despite the best of his abilities, he was unable to save you as the Green Goblin threw you off a clock tower. Miguel managed to wrap his makeshift webs around you but it was too late. Your head hit the ground and you were gone.

Miguel tried his best to move on, focusing on his work and the Spider Society. As he looks at the picture of you in your wedding dress smiling at the camera, in Miles’ world, Gwen was looking at Miles as they sat upside down.

“In every other universe, Gwen Stacy falls for Spider-Man,” She paused to look into Miles’ eyes before gazing out at the city. “And in every other universe, it doesn’t end well.”

[nuclearforest]

surprise gift for @cry-ptidd because i wanted to write a werewolf with a predatory side and a BAMF middle aged woman. partly inspired by a convo we had. i can probably be convinced to continue it.

closest you'll get to a TW is threats of gore and predatory behaviors. Laura is a werewolf.

Laura is not permitted to go hunting as often as she’d like; no outings into the night in general, much less the violent sort that ended with men’s limbs gripped between her snarling jaws as they cried in agony. That was almost never. But tonight must be special—her very own Sir Integra had deigned it a night she was allowed to go out. Not for a violent hunt, no, but for something to sate a different kind of hunger.

She stands in the head office at her master’s side where the traitor once stood, rigid in posture with her hands clasped at her front. The marble floor is painfully clean and shining, even under the low light of the too-high crystal chandeliers. Even after all these years, Integra’s wide mahogany desk and tall upright chair remain the only furniture in the room. An expendable agent stands before the two women, rattling something off from a newfangled tablet. It was the kind of technology that had an unpleasant whine in her ears more often than not.

But after listening to the nightly debrief from operational intelligence, Integra waves her hand. “It sounds like a sleepy night,” she muses, “truly a rarity.”

Laura finds herself tensing in anticipation, hair on her arms and the back of her neck standing on end. That wasn’t how Integra usually led into training exercises or the housework given on other dull evenings. The middle-aged heiress to the Hellsing name cracks open the center drawer of her desk to unearth a golden cigar case. Through the tall windows behind them, the dark sky and full moon called, speckled with the faintest of stars and framed by red curtains. The werewolf’s eyes widen a sliver and her nose twitches.

“Better than the alternative,” the man quips back with a smile, straightening the pages and laying them on Integra’s desk for her to review. The arteries in his neck pulse ever so faintly with his heartbeat. His hair is salt and pepper grey, with movements slow and sluggish in the werewolf’s eyes. If not for the red armband on his suit and the woman at her side, Laura would’ve thought him a fitful, lean snack.

“I suppose so,” she hums, “but I can’t leave my girls bored forever.” For a second, something flutters in Laura’s chest at the possessive tone. But she just as soon crushes it, forcing it away as Integra flicks open her case and plucks a cigar. “Laura.” Integra snips the end of the cigar for a crisp start. “Be a dear, will you?”

The werewolf reaches into the pocket of her apron and pulls out a golden lighter, offering a flame with a quick flick.

“Good girl.” The praise sends an imperceptible shudder down Laura’s back. “That will be all.” She replaces the lighter in her pocket and the lowly peon bows, turning his back to shuffle away like he wasn’t one wrong step from being picked up and shaken like a ragdoll.

They are far too comfortable around her.

The door clicks shut behind him, echoing in the high ceiling, and the ever-lovely Integra swivels her chair to look at the werewolf over the rim of her glasses. Laura just stares back at her piercing blue eye, waiting for an order.

“Do you think I should approve Seras’ request?” Integra asks before inhaling slowly from the cigar. The strong smell is almost enough to make Laura’s stomach churn with memories of dingy pubs and disgusting pigs but on her master? It is another matter entirely.

“What did she request?” the werewolf replies, nose almost wrinkling as Integra blows out another puff of smoke.

“A night on the town with you.” The Hellsing cracks a wry smile. Something in her eye glimmers. In the back of her mind, Laura wonders how long ago this request had been placed. They didn’t exactly go out frequently, and the vampiress frequently complained in her ear the next evening about how she’d snuck away.

“And why ask for my approval?” Laura’s hand twitches with the urge to brush a strand of hair, slipping from her ponytail, away from her eyes. Almost like she was a schoolgirl again. Distant memories of flowers crushed in her tense grip for some faceless young thing; a first crush. She swallows.

“Figured I’d see if you’d like to go,” Integra muses with the cigar between her lips, “If you were up for behaving tonight.” Heat almost rises to Laura’s cheeks at the thought of the last time, almost getting caught by all-too-perceptive humans. Funny that the woman hadn’t put together the teeth and the eyes until they were almost to her home. Funnier yet that Laura had been on her best behavior at the time and simply disappeared.

“I am bound to your command,” Laura replies gruffly, finally breaking eye contact to look away.

“Fine then.” Integra blows an almost playful puff of smoke at her. “I command you to accompany Seras for the night with nothing but your very best behavior.”

A smirk crawls up on Laura’s face at the thought of innocent women at the bar, straying like a young rabbit from its den. Tonight is a night for hunting bunny rabbits. With wide eyes and rosy cheeks. Soft skin and a dainty perfume. The big, bad wolf would eat them right up. “Oui, sir.”

[freckle-face-ace]

Portgas D Ace X CisFem Reader

<typed>

«signed»

17

Rosinante chuckled from your kitchen table as he sat with your tablet propped up in front of him.

Your face was burning as you sat across from him thoroughly embarrassed. His amused eyes flickered from you back to the screen.

"I didn't know you were gonna watch it in front of me." you groaned.

He was reviewing the project he'd assigned you - to translate one of your favorite songs into sign language.

«Sign only, please.»

It wasn't that you had done a bad job, but your discomfort and embarrassment was very apparent in the video. It made you stumble and sigh often. Also something you weren't aware of, was Ace's voice singing along as if he'd known the song his entire life between chuckles and celebratory words when you managed to get a whole sentence correct. It wasn't just funny, it was down right adorable.

«Mean.» you pouted.

He rolled his hazel eyes and leaned forward locking the tablet.

«This was very good.» he smiled encouragingly, «There are still some words and letters you need to work on.»

«OK» you sighed and rubbed your face, «I'll work harder. »

«You aren't in trouble.» his smile remained, «We're going at your pace. You've come a long way in the last month and a half.»

«If you say so.»

He shook his head at your behavior as Kuma rested his chin on your lap. You wish you could say you didn't know why you were being so difficult, but you knew.  Signing forced you to make movements you weren't entirely comfortable with. It was like dancing - you hated dancing. Not only that, it wasn't something that was incredibly common. At least you had never met a hearing impaired person before, which meant when you were at the store with Ace having a conversation people were staring. You felt it. Being on display like that was the last thing you wanted.

Kuma left your lap drawing your attention back up. He waddled to the door excitedly and sat with all of his attention focused on the doorknob.

Ace was home.

You glanced back at Rosi who was gathering his things.

«I'll see you on Friday, keep going over your alphabet and the words we discussed.» he swung his messenger bag over his shoulder and turned somehow getting his feet tangled.

"Rosi!" you gasped hopping to your feet as he caught himself on the side of the counter.

Ace rushed passed you to help the blonde up, "Are you alright?"

Rosi straightened himself out, «I'm fine, sorry to startle you.»

"As long as you're not hurt." you stepped next to your freckled mate.

You really should have been used to his clumsiness by now, but every time was a complete surprise.

After some reassurance and some small talk with Ace, Rosi made his exit.

You were stretched out on the sofa, the back of your head resting in Ace's lap while he brushed his fingers through your hair and watched TV. He'd been a bit down the last few days, after having a dream about Pops. He claimed it wasn't a dream - who were you to deny him? For him it was a very real experience that apparently Thatch had as well one night a couple of months ago. Finally reaching the closure he didn't know he needed with his father figure.

Finding out about Pops' death hit Ace harder than even he ever thought. He knew the old man would pass away eventually - he'd been very ill over the last year. Something about knowing they perished on the same day in the same place hit him in an unexplainable way. There was a silver lining, as there often is with this sort of thing - he was free of that illness. He also died knowing he was loved by his sons.

Your gaze rested on his melancholy expression. His eyes were cloudy but fixed on the television as he mindlessly messaged your scalp. You knew he was in some place far away. Slowly you reached up caressing his freckled cheek forcing his rubies to focus on you.

"You ok?"

You couldn't hear what he said but you were getting better at reading lips.

"I am." he smiled softly and rubbed his thumb over your bottom lip.

With a small smile you reached for the tablet laying on your stomach.

<I have an assignment from Rosi for tomorrow. Have you seen Kuma's service vest?>

His brows pinched together as he read, <You're going out?>

You nodded, <I'm meant to have my first public experience alone, well, with Kuma at least.>

<Should I have Thatch take you?>

You could tell he really wasn't ready for you to go out, hell, neither were you.  It was going to happen eventually and as Rosi said, "the sooner the better."

<I'll just Uber. I've got some work to get done.>

His pout tugged at your heart, <Where are you going to go?>

<Just the craft store, I'm more comfortable there. Nothing crazy I promise.>

<Promise you'll text if you need me.>

You nodded and pulled him down for a sweet kiss.

_____________

The next afternoon you waited on the porch for your Uber driver to arrive. After loading Kuma into the back seat you tapped the driver on the shoulder and showed him the note on your phone informing him that you were hearing impaired. He nodded and proceeded to take you into town.

Kuma's head rested against your shoulder, having sensed your anxiety beginning to peak. You hadn't been in a car many times after the accident, and when you were, Ace was with you. You rubbed his head until you arrived at your destination.

It was so strange to enter a busy store and not hear anything. You almost missed the 90's pop music playing over the store's speakers, it would have been better than the overwhelming nothingness.

With a soft sigh you tightened your grip on Kuma's lead and grabbed a cart. Looking around, you realized everything in the store had been reset.

Not off to a great start.

You were hoping this would be a quick trip with minimal human interaction. Now, unfortunately, to make it a quick trip you were going to have to ask for help.

Reluctantly you made your way to the nearest employee and tapped her shoulder. She turned and glanced at you, then down at Kuma.

As her lips began to move you held up the same note you'd shown your driver.

«I sign a little.» she smiled sweetly, «What can I help you find?»

Your anxiety ebbed a little, which was unexpected. You didn't expect to find someone who could sign.

«Paint, fabric and...» you paused and snapped your fingers trying to remember how to sign what you needed, «wooden...» you could feel your face heating up with embarrassment.

She watched you patiently.

"Dowels." you muttered.

«Still learning?»

You nodded bashfully, «Car wreck.»

«That must be hard. You'll get the hang of it.» she gave your shoulder a reassuring pat.

«Thank you.» you gave her a small smile.

With that she walked you through the store to find the things you needed.

___________

Ace sat at the bar in the restaurant flipping his phone in his palm while he waited for Thatch. He was a little worried that he hadn't heard from you. After your accident leaving you alone was difficult for him. This was the first time for you to go out without him, and you didn't check in when you got home.

If you got home...

A huff pushed passed his lips as a hand came down over his left shoulder.

"Calm down, you're weirding out the customers."

"She didn't text me." he muttered turning to the brunette.

"You said she had work to do. I'm sure she got busy." Thatch assured checking his phone, "C'mon, let's go."

The drive home was more or less quiet. Ace couldn't stop being bothered but Thatch managed to distract him with stories of things that happened before he'd arrived in your world.

Trailing off his laughter the raven glanced out the window a bit alarmed. They'd driven passed the house and were on a dirt path that led to the man-made pond near the forest where you discovered Ace. As they approached he spotted you standing in front of a small paddle boat with Kuma not far away.

"What's going on?" he asked looking at his brother.

"You'll see." Thatch's demeanor had gone a bit serious suddenly which made the younger male cautious.

Finally he parked as Kuma nudged you alerting you of their presence. You turned toward them, an adorable smile up turning your lips as the setting sun warmly lit your features. Ace's heart pulled in his chest. Seeing you so happy just to see him made his chest flutter.

After hugging you tightly and kissing your head he stepped back, «What are you doing out here?»

«I wanted to help...» you stumbled a bit with your signs, «with close.»

"Help with close?"

"Closure, I think." Thatch interjected.

You huffed and pulled your tablet from your hoodie pocket, <Come look. I'll explain.>

The brothers followed you the short distance to the bank of the pond where you had beached a small beat up wooden row boat. Ace's eyes widened as they scanned the very familiar jolly roger painted on black fabric that was pulled taut with dowels over a neat little pile of logs.

You handed a large smooth stone to Thatch and gave the second to Ace.

<I know that in some sort of dream scape you both got to say goodbye. Part of saying goodbye usually involves a ceremony. In our world pirates were honored by their crews and given back to the sea.>

Thatch was already sniffling as the app on the tablet read your text aloud.

<Sorry this isn't the sea but it is a place you can visit and hopefully feel a connection.> locking the tablet you slipped it into your hoodie pocket.

The brothers stepped closer as you motioned them to place their stones at bow and stern. After that you opened the white container that had been sitting on a tree stump with a box of matches. You squeezed the bottle dousing the vessel and its contents in lighter fluid.

Ace and Thatch gave the boat a push as you struck a match and quickly tossed it into the logs igniting it. The sun had gone down quickly allowing the flames to be perfectly mirrored on the water as boat drifted out. Ace's arms wound around you tightly while you all quietly watched it begin to sink.

His damp freckled cheek nuzzled against yours as he muttered into your shoulder.

The End

[kimyoonmiauthor]

Reviews and Critiques and how to handle them.

So the second best treaties about this was Holly Lisle's Mugging the Muse (2000), which, BTW, I read much later, because she'd stepped down by then from Forward Motion. At the time I read it, it was free, but now it's paywalled, so it has gems in there, the most useful of which is don't jump on paychecks and budget. Learn how to do Writer Tax returns. Remember to truly LIVE to write better *cough Barthes should have known this one. And the last one is how to take critiques.

The one on critiques goes like this: She used scream and shout when she got critiques and sometimes cry. She'd go into the bathroom and scream and let her do this. And then force herself to act professionally. The BEST of us at this process still fucks up once in a while. The trick is to not fuck up too often.

This is my second best treaties I've seen and heard about it. The first treaties I ever learned about how to take critiques is from my former teacher/advisor, Thomas C. Joyce, who unfortunately died of cancer some years back.

I do remember the names of the people. But as I don't have permission to use their likeness and I don't want them to be harassed. The people who are living (as far as I know) I will not name. I am also including my own fuck ups, because it's only fair. But the core of this is mostly Tom Joyce. Who said something on the order of don't call me "Mr. Joyce, it makes me feel weird. Call me Tom."

He was my advisor at the Young Writer's Camp–a summer writing camp. For this reason, I'll call him Tom.

I wanted to write this treaties out because he never wrote it anywhere... and I might remember parts of it wrongly, but I 100% used this to post to Nanowrimo's first critique threads, and then for the critique forums, which served as the core of a lot of critique groups online?? (not sure about that). And I listed the rules he gave me during critiques. Also that there has been a rise in people who can't take or give critiques and they think doing so won't help their writing. So, I won't write it as eloquently as him, and honestly I'm writing this quite sad because I do wish it was his words here instead of my fuzzy memories of him.

Let me dip a bit into memory lane first, so you get a sense of who Tom was. Tom smoked. He knew he smoked a lot and didn't particularly care. He liked to give this lesson on perception. with music, showing that the simpler things in life aren't always first. And that the source of stories can come from anywhere–not just writing.

When I met him he was a bit portly, which he'd sometimes point out about himself and had salt and pepper hair, which was curly. He'd often talk about how he wanted to lose weight.

He had this calm and cool demeanor about him, but also warm. So when he gave you a critique, it felt like he was reaching into your writerly soul and he could pull out your intentions in an instant. He not only saw where you were, but more importantly, where you were going and intended to go. I aspired to be that sort of critiquer.

He never judged you on your process to write. He had no lessons about that. And he based the entire time around critiquing and making sure you had something for the group. If you wrote on clay tablets, I think he wouldn't care. He'd likely joke loosely about it, but he wouldn't care and say, can you share it?

We did not write the same genre. We did not have the same process to write by a long shot. I never really read his writing and since he was an advisor, he rarely talked about his own writing or boast. He was a cool character because he was HUMBLE and he pressed it into you that YOU MUST STAY HUMBLE at every point of the process. Brave enough to share, but humble enough to take critiques.

He loved anedotes. I probably got my love of making up extended analogies from him.

He was not just a good writing teacher he was the BEST writing teacher I've ever had. And fuck it—I've read a TON of ass novel writing manuals from Aristotle to the present and I've heard author interviews all over the best, I would rank him as the best.

He was so memorable that when I finally got something published he was on my top list of people to show because I'd promised myself I would do so, but when I looked him up so I could pass the story to him, I had found that he'd died of cancer. I was DEVASTATED.

The fact we didn't write the same didn't matter because his lessons around critiquing. His process was this:

You write. You get critiqued. You take the critique gracefully to your face. You learn to critique. You learn both of these processes and perfect them and apply them, and you get better as a writer. He had several large arguments for this process and why he didn't want it to be regimented into telling people how to write.

Remembering his lessons, I posted his loose list of critique rules to early Nanowrimo boards–I posted the first critique threads for first pages and queries, but never his justification for them, because I didn't think it was my place to, but he's not published it himself and I think the internet is forgetting. And I don't think we should forget Tom Joyce since he taught me some really excellent lessons that I think you need to know.

So loosely, Tom's treaties on taking a critique goes something like this:

On receiving a critique:

Stay silent when people critique you. No. Hold your tongue (Fuck, I'm really still working on this one).

Remember any time they put into the critique is a blessing.

Only open your mouth to fact check the person. If they think the US flag has green, you can POLITELY correct them.

Stop explaining your work before you give the piece. He taught me this one. I still struggle with it. I still repeat the advice, but I still have issues.

Do not argue with your critiquers. I've fucked this one up too.

Critiques aren't always right and sometime you have to divine what they are really getting at.

On giving a critique:

When you give a review try to balance the review out. You give 3 bad things, you give 3 good things list them out. Do a summary for your review. YOU MUST find something good to say about it.

Try to read the entire piece before you comment.

Honor the wishes of the author. If they don't think something is working, try to figure out why.

Do your best to separate "Not for you" versus objectively written bad.

Be SPECIFIC. That's more important than the length of your review. He drove this into me.

He argued, the more you critique other people, the better writer you become. And the more you consume, in general, the better writer you become. The more you recieve critiques, the better you become. It's a two-way process, not a one-way process.

His arguments are pretty much why I dislike the whole idea that people don't "have time to give critiques" and thus don't want to give one back. No. If you do 10,000 critiques and get better at them and get 10,000 in return and learn to apply them well, you get better as a writer. Focus on your craft and the writer you want to become.

And now you can see why even though we did not write the same genre, I did not know his writing work, I did not have a matching writing process, that I treasured his lessons. He also had this thing where he was super, super cool with however people wrote. He never, ever disciplined how one should or should not write. He simply said, produce the writing–that's the most important part. And then get it critiqued. We did do occasional writing lessons, but he never ranked that as important.

Now for his arguments on why he thought these things.

So, as a younger writer I struggled and still struggle quite a bit with the first rule. The shut up and listen to someone tear your baby apart.

How to Receive Critiques

First Rule: Stay silent when others critique you and NEVER argue with your critiquer.

His argument went this way: You, the writer are never going to win against a critic. Your entire existence is going to be criticism. You have choices. You suck it up, and accept it is part of the writing thus owning it. You incorporate the suggestion. Or you do better next time.

He had an anecdote, which he liked to tell about this writer who fought against a critic and screamed and shouted and the writer lost.

The result of you fighting against a critic, according to Tom, is that you gain a bad reputation. ALWAYS. Never fight your reviewers.

As Holly Lisle said, go scream into a pillow somewhere, but shut the fuck up and get off the internet. Don't post it onto boards. Tell a friend privately, but don't post it in public. Give yourself a set amount of time to get back to it.

He liked to say stop throwing stones at glass houses. It's not going to work.

No lie, his cool attitude over this still has me screaming at times, HOW DID YOU DO IT? I still try to override the impulse. It's so hard.

Second rule: Every time someone bothers to critique you it's a blessing.

They spent time, and effort consuming your product. As he liked to say THEY ARE A PAYING CUSTOMER. Treat your customers correctly.

And if they are not paying, they were paying their time with you. They cared enough about your work and you to give you a critique.

You have to suck it up and do better.

BTW, if you watch the Youtube Channel, Wait in the Wings, this argument comes up over and over again. When you fight the critics, you lose the majority of the time. When you honor they came to the show and did understand it,

They really cared about you and your art to do this, no matter how cutting it is. Learn to breathe, move on and figure out what to do next.

Third Rule: The only time you open your mouth AFTER the person is done, is on two cases:

The first is to say thank you. The second is to fact check something obvious.

There is no green in the American flag, for example.

DO NOT ARGUE WITH YOUR REVIEWER and don't use this opportunity to try to feel superior to them. WTF man, go back to shutting up. TT

I still struggle with this. I'm swallowing my own feelings as I'm saying thank you. And I'm fighting the voices. And Tom acted like it was easy.

Fourth Rule: Stop explaining your work before you show it.

No lie, my other professors who have given critique sessions also said this. My typography teacher said this, which I keep repeating to myself, "Stop explaining your work. Say that you did the best that you could for the time you were given."

But Tom's logic went like this: Every time someone picks up your work, are you going to be beside them to explain what you MEANT by this or that. Will you be in their ear to talk about your intentions? Let them read the work themselves.

No, it's on you the writer to communicate it better.

Most of the time it's on you, the writer to do it better. (go back to rule number 1 on why).

Fifth Rule: No really, don't argue with your critiquers

It will only end in a bad reputation. Learn how to let it go. Move on. Either take the advice or leave it. See if it works, but at least try it. But arguing with your critiquers will result in nothing good.

How to Give Critiques

First rule: When you give a review, try to balance the review out.

If you give 3 bad things, give three good things, but remember that the person has feelings, so put the good things first. The best critique is good things, bad things, summary. We'll get into how to sort a critique later.

Tom liked to say, remember there is a human being behind that work. And that you won't get that mercy in real life once your work is "out there."

Second rule: Try to read the entire piece first before you comment and then make your comments.

This is your basic reasoning of trying to figure out what the writer is trying to achieve instead of hyper focusing on what they did wrong.

Third rule: Honor the wishes of the author

Spoken and unspoken. If they think something is not working, try to figure out why and some solutions one can do to fix it. Don't just say this thing is wrong. Figure out why. This process will make you also a better writer.

Try to make the piece in front of you better for the author, not how you would write it. He repeated this a lot so you got it. It's not about you and OMG, I would insert dragon here because I could do it better. No, face the piece in front of you and find ways to help the author where they are. You may ultimately disagree and they might not take your advice, but make sure it's about the author, not you.

Rule 4: Do your best to sort "Not for you, versus objectively written bad."

He didn't write romance, fantasy, or Science Fiction. It didn't matter to him or this process. Because there are some commonalities and if you read widely enough, you will know what is good or bad. Don't discriminate like that. If you're struggling with this go to the previous rule about honoring the wishes of the author.

Rule 5: Be specific as possible on why you like or dislike the item in front of you. This helps to sort it out later.

If you say, character is lame. That's not helpful. If you say I dislike the character is diving off the cliff without motivation and I don't know why and the physics don't make sense, that's a lot more helpful to the writer.

He would say too, that the more you're specific and drill down to why, the better you become as a writer. This is why DOING critiques is as important as receiving them. Do the best you can as a critiquer and be specific as possible. It will develop your writer brain and editor brain better.

And I should insert around here:

Revenge critiques are counter productive to you becoming a better writer.

He didn't say this. But I think he would agree given the previous treaties, especially on the idea that the writer is always going to lose.

OMG, you said info dump in MY STORY was bad. So I'm going to find every instance that you info dumped and point it out to you.

Your hurt feelings shouldn't be entering into critiques. Go outside, do something else, come back. You aren't in a place of learning. And sometimes what works for one story will not work for another. Sometimes people do it on purpose and go back to the previous rule about the intentions of the author.

The writer who never honestly critiques and revenge critiques and doesn't listen to critiques, never improves and gets better.

How to Sort Your Critiques

Sort them into these tiers/categories:

Grammar

If you're crying over grammar mistakes, get over it. Just take it and agree or disagree. Do better next time.

Facts

The Earth isn't perfectly round, but it's not shaped like a pear either. The Wizard of Oz wasn't originally propaganda. Greensleeves aren't written for Anne Boleyn. These usually hurt less, but often can dissolve entire stories. This is why you should research. Make sure every single quote is true and truly attributed. This is because facts in your story you don't want that to pull out the reader at any point and you don't know who might be reading it.

Core story issues.

This or that character doesn't work. The intention and impact aren't the same. These are the ones that hurt the most. These are the ones in critiques one should be careful of the most. And the ones that are going to hurt you the most.

The problem is often sort story issues are also the hardest to divine and the hardest to fix.

Critiquer might have had a different emotion from your intention, so remember what I said about being able to reach into other people's writing and figure out their intentions and then work with that? Yeah, this is where it comes in handy to make your own writing better. Sometimes they point to a thing, but it's not that thing.

Say comments are,

this character is boring.

This character doesn't do much.

I think this character is lazy.

But you've written the character on a hot summer day where they are baking out of their mind.

How do you punch it up to make it better? Your KEY ideas on why they aren't moving are "Hot summer day." So punch that part up and give more specific details so people get it. So people get that it's so hot people can't move.

And when the person said the character is lazy, the commentary feels more like deprication rather than true laziness.

That's how you divine the comments. It's not well, this character needs to change the entire scene so it has more action. It's how do I do this scene better so it communicates more.

BTW, Botchan by Natsume Soseki is a masterclass in how to get your character into total inertia such that you actively hate them, but at the same time you understand them.

Tom would say something like, once you get the critiques what you do with them is up to you. Ignore them, take them, but realize that what you don't take is likely to show up as a critique later.

Seeee... both critiquing and receiving critiques makes you a better writer. I'd also argue, it makes you a better person, too.

Short anecdote.

I was on a board and this writer was complaining about this review she had which said that the clothing she had was "inaccurate" and she argued that it was an other world fantasy setting so she could do whatever she liked. And she wanted to know if she should reply and get revenge on the critiquer. A few people were comforting her and egging her on.

I pushed against it gently by asking for the specific critique lines pretty much repeating Tom's advice on how to take a critique. The critique isn't always right, you have to divine, etc.

She stated she loosely based the costumes on a particular century of clothing. So I looked it up for her. I pointed out that stays during that century had changed a lot over time and the underwear changed the outer clothing. So it was possible the person was objecting to the underwear and the outer clothing not matching. I named the pieces of underwear that had changed during that time period and pointed out there is a huge difference for us for 1990's clothes versus the next decade. And that previous eras were no different.

What she needed was someone to cold sort the comment, point out she needed to do research and point out that sometimes physics can't be explained away by an other world.

Don't argue with your critiquers. Also, stop encouraging people to do this???

She ended up deleting her entire post. If you can't take critiques. Get someone to cold sort your critiques for you.

Haha. I have an awesome self-nominated writer's assistant who refuses to be paid, even though I tried to pay her. She knows me sooo well, when she gives a critique and I'm in writer meltdown mode saying, but I could do this or do that. She says in a flat voice, "No, you're going to do this and this is why." I hide this from the public, but damn. You need people like this in your life too.

'cause as much as I'm going off on Tom's rules, I also occasionally fail them. I'm still trying to be as calm cool and collected as he appeared to be about this sort of thing.

How to Know you're getting review bombed.

The account is brand new

All of the review ratings are at extremes. No 3 star reviews.

All of the reviews are targeted.

None of them are specific about the book.

The hazards of making the writer the primary marketer such that they have to do the job of 3 people: Writer, Publicist, and Marketer. Separate your modes. Compartmentalization. Learn it. It can be healthy.

But really, go back up and read. The writer is always going to lose. The more you care about it, the more likely you're going to be review bombed. Fighting reviewers never does you any good.

Bonus Round

The person that you're worried is better than you is probably thinking the same thing about you.

In another words, it's not a battle against others.

In my Young Writer's Group, I deeply admired this guy's writing for his ideas, how he was able to cobble things together with this sort of balance. And I had this kind of feeling like I could never do what he did. I mean he had this kind of deeper detail I felt I was missing. Plus his ideas—fucking clever.

All the time he'd come up with the "obvious" idea that I wanted to be able to write. It's the kind of stuff that you go, OMG, of course.

Flat out envy on my side. And then one day, I heard him talking about how was I able to come up with so many ideas so quickly to other people in the group and that he deeply admired my ideas.

I was shocked. I thought it was one way the entire time. Of course, honor code, not typing up his name, and not typing up his ideas, but the spirit of it is this: You're in a battle against yourself. Your critiquers when you're honestly facing them, and not say, trying to get enough points to post your work, are truly helping you, but you critiquing them is also helping you.

There's still a few of his ideas I keep waiting for him to publish, so I can do spins on them. I still hope he's writing, because writing is a community effort.

Stop being intimidated by other writer's brilliance and find your own. You'll get there too. But damn, I still want to see at least two of his ideas make it onto screen/in a book. I keep looking for him. A few of my former critique partners got published. Dave, hello. And another one that too recognizable by first and last name.

If you can't take reviews, don't read them.

This comes from repeating Writing Excuses episodes–people have writer's assistants do it for them.

I had mine (self-nominated one) look up rare cat breeds... but yeah, some people have them do normal things.

Sometimes writers ask agents to filter them for them.

All you writers, stop stalking Goodreads and writing reviews about your stories/books. I know, but it's not going to do much anyway and the more you care, the more likely you're going to get review bombed or pull a Cait Corrain.

Remember, One Star reviews can be good actually

One star reviews tell you how to improve your product. The maker of Instapot in an interview said he oly reads one star reviews.

Also, sometimes one star reviews have told me that I absolutely want to buy the product in question.

If there are 10 reviews of 1 star by white reviewers saying that white writer wrote it better and it's about say, Chinese history. That says to me, I want to buy your book. I want to understand why they think it's substandard. I want to see what you did to break away from the common popular narrative.

If there are a ton of negative reviews on a product that says this item is too small but I have dinky hands and I want the product to be smaller, that's also useful to know.

One star reviews are not the end to the world. People don't go by purely star ratings. They also look at what the reviews say and how they say it and which people think that review is accurate.

One star review that says they don't know how a story about Jane Austen in Outer Space turned into a sex comedy with a tentacle squid monster? Please, please give me that book.

Stop hyper fixating on star ratings. People often will judge for themselves if it's for them or not. And you pushing back, force deleting the reviews giving that sort of guidance isn't going to help you. As Tom said, you're going to lose, so lose right.

[onlinebeautyshop]

Everlong 60mg Tablets in Hyderabad 0301-0893333

𝓒𝓸𝓷𝓽𝓪𝓬𝓽 𝓤𝓼: 0301_0893333

مخصوص مردانہ کمزوری کاعلاج، ہر مرد کی خواہش ہوتی ہے کہ وہ ایک صحت مند زندگی گزارے اور ایک بھر پور جوانی کے ساتھ اپنی زندگی کے بہترین لمحات کو گزار سکے لیکن یہ لمحات تب عذاب بن جاتے ہیں جب مرد کو مردانہ کمزوری کا سامنا ہو ۔مگر سوال یہ پیدا ہرتا ہے کہ مردانہ طاقت کو بڑھایا کیسے جائے،تو اس کے لیے آپ ایک بار (اوریجنل ایورلانگ ٹائمنگ ٹیبلٹس) کا استعمال کریں۔

[thunderclaw100]

*Scene part 4*

Tallest Red and Purple are both hovering down the lines hallway. They are heading to their chambers after finishing one of their schedules. Purple is drinking juice from a cut with a straw. The two leaders continued on talking about that idea along the way. That is until they saw something approaching them from a distance. As they got closer, the tallest immediately recognized who it was.

“Viper, it’s been a while.” Red said.

“Who is this with you?” Purple asked.

“greetings my tallest’s. I’m glad to have run into you. I came bearing news of my work. This little guy here is my temporary assistant. Soren. Don’t mind him. He’s just here to take notes.” Viper said. Letting the vortian be seen by the two Irken leaders.

“Eew. Why’s it here with you? I thought you only take shorter irkens as your assistant.” purple beamed his eyes at the vortian from the side. Soren broke the eye contact immediately.

“Soren insist he wants to take part in my project and learn a thing about my methods.”

Purple: what do you have for us?

While Viper began his long speak about his genetic project. Soren stands there silent in the presence of the two tallest. The notes that he was carrying were the ones he wrote down for Viper to use when he makes his presentation but he wasn’t doing any of that. Instead, Viper reverted back to his original idea and told the whole factor of his work to them.

Soren:That moron is going to ruin everything we’ve practiced on! Why is he showing off now? Soren thought. He turned away for a moment to pretend he’s taking important notes for him. Soren wanted to speak up, but ever since he was brought to the irkens, he was told to speak out of turn and only when directed to by them. To be seen and not heard unless needed. Soren toot there, feeling frustrated at everything Viper was saying to the two leaders. Tallest Purple’s antennas perked with interest at the mention of something Viper said. “With the new improvement on the body, the paks will be upgraded again. Our lifespans will double. And think about it. The disadvantage our people have will be eliminated! We will have NO weaknesses.”

Purple liked the idea. Red is considering it but still looked doubtful. He’s the logic one out of the two. He’s looking for any gaps and weak points in Viper’s claims. His thought processes is still running on it.

“Viper, you know your presentation isn’t till the next two days, right? Why not wait to tell us this, when the other top ranked members are around? Me and Purple were on our way to our chambers” Red siad. His partner nod his head and stop sipping his drink.

“We had just lest another meeting cant we just have an hour’s rest before you come see us? It’s rude, you know?” Purple comment. Then went back to his drink. Viper bowed his head to his leaders.

“I apologize, My tallest. I did not mean to take up your time. But think of this as a small summary for what I’ll say in the presentation. I only ask for your interest of my part of the project. It will suit the benefits for the empire.”

The tallest shared a glance at each other for a second and then looked back at Viper. “Very well. You may pass along your files to our advisor and we’ll review it later.” Red said.

“Thank you, my tallest.” Viper’s antennas vibrate with excitement from such acknowledgment from his leaders. He stepped aside to let them pass. As soon as the two tallest were out of sight, he turned his attention back to his “assistant.”

“Did you get all that?” Viper asked.

“Oh I got it alright. The part about you lying in their faces….” Soren muttered that last part.

“I told them what they need to know.” Viper started walking. Arms behind his back, smirking. Soren following him. Carrying his tablet and pen with him.

“If that’s true then why didn’t you tell them what you were planning to do? With the REAL experiments you keep in lockup?” Soren asked. What would make Viper not tell the whole exact details of his experiment subject?

“Now why would I ruin the surprise of that? You’re thinking too deep about this, Soren. Leave that to me. Now come along. We’ve got work to do in the lab, and I wan to be done before lunch.” Viper began humming as he walked. Soren let out a tired sigh. He just can’t seem to get through to this Irken, can’t he?

Soren looked back at his notes. They were the things Viper wanted him to write down while he was speaking to the tallest. He wants their feedback soon and then use it as motivation to push through his work. Viper is too determined to let this die down and it worries Soren. He fears that this genetic project is making Viper’s ambition very wrong.

“I can’t let him do this. If the empire starts creating super soldiers. Our worlds will be in danger! I need to stop this, but I’m going to need some help….”

[eagle-warri]

soooo...i wrote a crackfic based on this post from @darubyprincxx because the idea grabbed me by the throat a bit. i'm sorry if characterization is bad, it's been a long week.

Pix had been investigating another empire. Not one of his friends, but another desert empire: Sumer, one of the largest he had ever seen. Pix had heard of a copper dealer in the city by the name of Ea-Nasir and was looking to make a deal, perhaps even earn Pixandria an ally in materials. Walking through the city, Pix found what appeared to be the place. Going into the shop, he waited for Ea-Nasir, tapping his fingers on the counter. As Pix did, he started reading a stone tablet that seemed to have been absentmindedly left there. It seemed to be a review of Ea-Nasir’s practice, and not a good one. When Pix had finished reading, Ea-Nasir himself had come out, asking “What can I help you with?” Pix deflected with “Oh nothing, just looking” and left the store. Ea-Nasir was obviously not that good of a salesman, but maybe Pix could find a customer in Nanni. If, of course, he could find the guy.

[lettalady]

Imagine being Donaka's secretary, he's a total dick with you and one day you decide to tell him what you think of him, but Donaka don't take it really well that you want to quit your job.

Hello nonnie! Oh. Oh dear. Dearest, that is just recipe for disaster isn't it....

Let's be honest, you're an exceptional personal assistant. Not that your boss notices. Actually you're not entirely sure you've ever seen the man smile. Of course he just sees a drone, the nameless and faceless secretary, a pawn to order around.

"Coffee. Black. And it'd better be hot."

It always was. Not that it stops him from the barked remark.

"And where the fuck are those logs I asked for?"

The paperwork in question was waiting in his inbox and printed out and bound in a portfolio and downloaded to your tablet so he would have options. The man liked his data, liked to review stats about the fighters and the odds for up-and-comers.

After years of overtime logged and never acknowledged, where you knew what to anticipate and how to course correct pretty much anything that might come up to disrupt his day, he never so much as saw you. Today... today you're done.

"I quit."

For a long moment after your quiet statement the only sounds in the room are the hum of the world surrounding: the white-noise of the HVAC system, the steady buzz of the overhead lights, the whir of the office computers.

"What did you say?"

Your boss' focus is entirely on you. The man that has never worn anything but all black or ... maybe you remember a day or two where he was in greyscale... has finally locked those dark eyes on you.

Oh, sure. Now he sees you.

Should you repeat yourself, or maybe entertain the better question: why are you still standing here in his office?

[thehenrythomas]

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[grandhotelabyss]

Do you have any "must-read" literary magazines/book publishers/blogs, etc.?

I think the best literary coverage in magazines these days is in Compact and Tablet, because whoever's putting up the money and whatever their agenda has evidently and wisely decided to keep the cultural coverage much more free of overt politics than other venues. I'm not only talking about "wokeness" here but also the nonsense we find in the "anti-woke" venues, like, just to give an example, this tacky "Zombie Reagan" complaint in Quillette that English departments are dying because they teach, and I quote, "Foucault, Judith Butler, Kant, and Gloria Anzaldúa," yes, I repeat, Kant. Whereas Compact gives Gasda free rein to take it to the Oxfordians (not least Yarvin), and let the tech-adjacent neoreactionary politics fall where they may, just as Tablet lets Blake Smith chart the uncharted middle course in subtle essay after subtle essay on queer theory and politics, the very subtlety itself guaranteed to offend activists of all camps. Not to mention that both venues publish interesting free agents like Valerie Stivers and Naomi Tanakia. In the same vein, Unherd is good for political and cultural commentary—pretty unpredictable, if convergent upon what we might call the new center. The Mars Review of Books also seems interesting, but it's too soon to tell. There's still good material in the usual places like LRB, NYRB, The Nation and Harper's—Will Self almost (almost!) persuading me to read a book I've privately been calling Adenoid, for example—but it's been more mixed since the commanding heights crudely tried to requisition the whole of humane culture in reaction to Trump. (Full disclosure: I've written for Tablet a time or two myself.)

In our agitated and ever-shifting media environment, one would have to cover Twitter accounts, Substack and other newsletters, podcasts, and YouTube channels too, across the cultural and political spectrum, so I have both too much and not enough to recommend. I've always thought Katherine Dee had her finger on the pulse of the culture, so her work in various venues is a longstanding recommendation. The renegade and provocateur Justin Murphy is always interesting if often silly or willfully offensive. The aforementioned Matt Gasda's Substack "Writer's Diary" is always compelling. Lately I've been admiring Emmalea Russo's tour of the Divide Comedy with reference to cinema and astrology and modernism and theory and what have you, also on Substack. The collected 1990s-era YouTube lectures on great books and intellectual history by Michael Sugrue and Darren Staloff are also recommendations of long standing, and Sugrue and Staloff also now produce new material, if more casual. My favorite podcasts specifically for literature and the arts are Manifesto! and Art of Darkness.

Favorite book publishers? Not exactly. The go-to answer is NYRB Classics; they publish a lot of stuff that interests me, including things I didn't know would interest me until they published it, especially their nonfiction catalogue, whether Simon Leys's collected essays or Simone Weil on the Iliad or Gillian Rose's incomparable Love's Work, and their attention to major world fiction neglected by other publishers (Platonov, Jünger, Salih). But as I believe Ann Manov once Tweeted, some of those midcentury novels might have been deservedly forgotten; hate me if you must, but I never did finish Stoner. They should reprint the whole of Dorothy Richardson's Pilgrimage, though who knows what the copyright situation is there. Another publisher recommendation: you'll rarely go wrong reading a classic in the Norton Critical Edition.