#i want my writing to have quality > quantity

[malumae]

tbd.

i'm cleaning out my following, scaling it down, actually removing blogs i don't interact with at all & blogs that followed us first but make no effort to interact. i know it's a two way street and there isn't always an opportunity to engage so i'll be keeping that in mind while i go through my list. new followers are safe, obviously, and this is nothing personal. i just need a smaller and more comfortable space so i can keep up.

i haven't gotten my ships down on my carrd yet but i added some new information to clear some things up. i hate the word picky but i am going to be picky with ships and here's why:

i do not play favorites with ships but inspiration varies from day to day. i don't want anyone i ship with to compare our ship to another ship of mine ( i won't do that to you! ) and i can't stress enough how complicated it can be to ship with ren. i will not sacrifice important parts of his character for a ship by forcing him to be/act differently. he doesn't show his affection in the traditional way nor will he have an easy time saying things like i love you etc. chemistry is key & every ship develops at a different pace. ren being more open in ship A compared to ship B does not at all mean that i have a preference for that ship and/or that i am purposely doing something to discourage you from shipping with us.

i understand that you might have a muse that ( for lack of better words ) is "clingy" and/or needs verbal reassurance that ren can't offer easily. that's okay! if you still want to ship & the chemistry is there we might be able to make it work as long as there's good communication ooc. i love all your muses but if this is going to be a problem that bleeds into ooc interactions or turn into pettiness or me/ren being ignored without me knowing why ooc then i'm going to ask you not to ship with us.

with all of this said i am so incredibly grateful for all of you who stick around and interact and show interest in my dumb little man. with uni starting on monday i will have a little less free time but i'm studying at 50% and from home so i know i'll still have lots of time to be here and write but i want to get this out of the way before monday just to make it easier on me.

[hyperbolicgrinch]

✨ weekend wip exposure club ✨

rules: post 7 sentences or a snippet of an unfinished work

@theotherwhybietoldmeso & @killerandhealerqueen .... I return (but at what cost) <⁠(⁠￣⁠︶⁠￣⁠)⁠>

I aggressively scrolled down and picked the part it randomly stopped at so ,,,,

Law found himself far too focused on that last part. He hid it away, nodding.

Dammit. The less he talked about or to Eustass Kid, the faster and cleaner this would go.

They reached another door, this one cut into the length of the hall, and Heat pulled up.

"Give me a second to give Boss a head's up." He stopped with his hand on the handle and glanced at Law. “Dont need to tell me. I'll make it quick.”

Law didn't argue. There was no use rushing in if he was going to hit the roadblock that was Eustass Kid's idiocy. Faster to let his crew get it by him. They seemed to have a system for worming things into his thick head.

Bepo gave a nod of acknowledgement on Law's behalf, and Heat headed in, slipping through the door and leaving it open a slither.

“Oi, Boss.”

"There you are, Heat.” Eustass' voice was pitched far flatter than usual. Less grating screech and more deep tremors below the earth. Lower than Law had heard it all night but close to how he'd spoken when they had been, if he was generous, strategising to use their awakened powers to finally take down Big Mom. “Did ya track down a quack yet? He keeps drifting off."

"We’ve got one,” Heat said, “but you're not gonna like it."

Blushing slightly, Bepo glanced at Law. As though they were eavesdropping instead of waiting like they'd been instructed to.

Law zipped his jacket up further, bringing it to his chin. “You don't have to stay.”

Bepo’s face set, becoming painfully determined. “I’m not leaving you here alone, Captain.”

Law hid his smile on the opposite side of his mouth to what Bepo was standing on, letting the corner twitch up.

"I don't care who it is,” Eustass said on the other side of the door. “Get them in here. Killer's—"

"It's Trafalgar Law."

The silence was stark. A shockwave climbing out of an impact crater, or the remnants of a bare seabed after the waves had been dragged out by the hand of mother nature. Promising ruptured ear drums or terminal drowning if you didn't get far enough away.

Bepo turned his determination on the gap between the door and its frame. Apparently trying to scare off the tension leaking out.

Ignoring the urgency growing in his hands and the impatience in his sternum, Law tapped the toe of his boot on the floor.

“Trafalgar?” As always, Eustass pulled Law’s name apart with his teeth as he said it. The meat of it coming off the bone like something slow cooked.

Law ignored the usual spark it ignited in his gut and tapped his boot again. Getting worked up wouldn't get him through this without a bigger headache.

“Wire figured he was closest,” Heat offered.

Gonna tag @schwazombie and @lolacouldnotcareless incase they've got anything they feel like sharing (but no pressure, of course) (⁠◠⁠‿⁠・⁠)⁠—⁠☆

[thebluestbluewords]

anti-Valentine’s Valentine’s date

I tried SO HARD to write the adorable Jal prompt that I received for Jalentines day, and instead of cute all my brain wanted to write was angst. Set in approximately D2, it’s a 3k lead-in to a longer Jal fic that I’m probably not going to finish writing.

*

Mal kicks the door of the boy's dorm open with the heel of the stupid, impractical strappy sandals she's been wearing since before dinner. 

Or at least, that's what she tries to do. Instead, because her life is a curse and the very existence of high heels is a prison, the delicate silver heel of the shoe that Evie spent hours sourcing for her snaps off. 

Great. Perfect. This is just how she wanted the night to go. 

Mal pounds on the door with her fist instead. "Open up! I brought misery and disdain for the institution of love!" 

A thump. "And chocolate?" 

"No, I didn't steal any chocolate at all from my date with the king of Auradon," Mal says, as sarcastically as she can manage with one shoe on and the other broken to pieces in her hands. "Just let me in already." 

The door pops open. "You're late." Carlos informs her. "Evie already went back to your room." 

Wonderful. 

"I don't care," Mal informs him right back, and shoves her purse, which is tiny and lilac and stuffed to the brim with all the chocolate she could fit, into his hands. "I need this princess shit off my body yesterday. I am not cut out for valentine's day, that's what I've learned, and also Ben's going to dump me and I don't care."

"Woah. Uh. Maybe you should care--" 

Mal spins around to glare at him, and Carlos immediately throws his hands up. "I MEAN, your judgement is impeccable and we all hate Ben now!" 

Ugh. 

"I don't hate him," Mal snaps, yanking her earrings out and throwing them sort of in the direction of somebody's dresser. There's still enough empty space on the top for her to recognize it as a dresser, so signs point to it belonging to Carlos. "I hate love. And valentine's day. And dating."

"You said you hated froot loops yesterday." Carlos points out. "Because I took the last of them. So like, I'm gonna take this with a spoonful of salt here. Did your date not go well?" 

Mal rips the pins out of her hair with so much force that one of them flies into the mirror. It doesn’t shatter, which is a fucking shame. She would have liked to make an awful mess. "I hate love, and I'm going to die alone surrounded by the bones of my enemies. No, it did not "go well,”” She stops ripping out pins long enough to add air quotes, which are essential to the dramatic effect of it all. "He asked if I love him back, and I told him, again, that I don't know how to love people, and he made this horrible face and was so kind about the whole thing, and just-- ugh!" 

Carlos is hovering. "I’m…sorry?" 

"I'm sorry we ever came here." Mal spits, yanking her other shoe off and throwing it somewhere in the direction of Jay's shoe pile. "I don't-- I can't be a princess. I hate that I just-- I don't know how to do anything, and I hate when people look at me like I'm supposed to know what I'm doing, and there were all these cameras, and--augh!" 

"Jay's in the shower," Carlos offers. "If you want to bother him about it." 

"I want to hit something," Mal admits. It's not a perfect solution, but she's already feeling a little bit less like her skin is on too tight now that she's got her hair loose and wild around her shoulders and her earrings and stupid, uncomfortable, impractical shoes off. "I think-- d'you want to spar with us?" 

"Can't. Homework." Carlos gestures to the textbooks he's got spread out on the neater one of the boys’ beds. "I've got a test tomorrow and if I fail I'll have to retake the class." 

Mal leans over so she can see the textbooks. It looks like history, maybe. Something with a lot of dense text and no visible math problems. "I can't imagine you failing any test, furball." she says, meaning it. How well they thrived on the isle of the lost isn't a perfect gauge for how well they're doing in Auradon, but school is school no matter where they are, and Mal can't remember her little nerd ever failing a test.

 Carlos goes even tenser at her attempt at reassurance. "First time for everything." 

"Still, you failing?" Mal scoffs. "We're in Auradon, not Wonderland. Not everything is upside down and inside out and topsy-turvy. Or whatever Allie’s sayings are.. You'll be fine." 

"I'll be better if I study. Sorry. No sparring for me tonight." 

Ugh. Mal rips another pin out of her hair and throws it towards the mirror with the others. "Suit yourself. I'm going to go bother Jay into letting me beat the shit out of him."

Carlos flashes her a little half smile. "Have fun."

“Oh, I will,” Mal assures him, and spins around to go invade the sanctity of the boy’s showers. 

The short, barefoot walk down the hallway to the boy's bathrooms gives Mal critical time to think about her plan of attack. She's wicked and awful, naturally, but she's also not especially interested in getting shouted at by a teacher for being out of bed and in the boy's showers tonight. She's had enough of being shouted at by adults who think they know better than her. She's not some Auradon girl to be controlled, so she's simply not going to get caught. 

Which means she's going back to the boys room. 

At least she'll remember to grab some different shoes this time. 

"Fuck off, Mal," Carlos calls through the door when she knocks a second time. "You can't steal my shoes." 

"I can steal whatever I want, actually," Mal corrects him, opening the door and barging in, as is her right as their fearless leader. She is Mal of the Isle, and she's not a prize to be won or a princess to be wooed. She's going to steal whatever shoes she likes. "Jay's shoes don't fit me right." 

Carlos throws a pen at her. "Neither do mine, you're just delusional about the size of your own feet. At least take my sneakers if you're going sparring. I hate when we have to dig out the poison kit after hours." 

Mal sticks her tongue out at him. Her shoes are all perfect, and she's also perfectly aware of the size of her feet, which are currently half a shoe size smaller than the one Carlos wears.  As such, their shared approximate size gives her the right to steal his shoes whenever the princess ones she's been dressed in are too much for her to manage, physically or mentally. . "I'm taking the ones with spikes." 

"Are not." 

"Are so," Mal says, diving under the bed to where he keeps all four pairs of his shoes lined up. "I'm going to add more spikes while you're not looking. Poison-tipped ones. Razor-sharp." 

"Use porcupine quills, they're barbed." Carlos says helpfully, making absolutely no motion to get up and defend his shoes.

Mal shoves aside the fallen textbook, grabs the hoodie shoved under the bed for later, and ah. There’s her prize.  Boots (with spikes), dress shoes, cleats (more spikes), and there at the end, sneakers. 

"Fishhooks," Mal suggests. "The giant ones that rip holes when they come out. And I'll dip them in bleach powder so it burns the whole time they're inside." 

Carlos shudders. "Gross." 

"You're gross," Mal rips her dress over her head, and does not wince at the popping noise the shoulder seam makes. Evie can fix it again later, or they can burn it. Whichever. "I'm taking your clothes too."

"Wash the bloodstains out before you put them back." 

Shirt. Pants. Hoodie. Sneakers. 

Ill-gotten disguise on, Mal flashes him a thumbs up on her way back out the door. 

“Hey,” Mal calls out, keeping her voice intentionally low. She’s got the hood of Carlos’s stolen hoodie pulled up over her hair, and she’s relying on the sight of a familiar size-shape-color-scheme to deter anyone from looking too closely at her. Not that there’s many students around the boy’s bathroom at 9pm on Valentine’s night, but still. She’s not exactly looking to get caught. “Jaybird?” 

There’s no noise in the bathroom except for the irregular drip of a shower head that hasn’t been turned off quite hard enough. All the money in the world, and Auradon Prep still doesn’t have showers that actually work how they’re supposed to. 

It’s ridiculous. If Mal were in charge of the school budget she’d be putting all the money into showers. A hot shower and a  fireplace in every dorm, so that none of the students have to feel cold if they don’t want. That’s the budget priorities Mal would have. Warmth, and then food. The dining hall could stand to leave leftovers out longer after meals. 

…princesses don’t think about food. She’s been around Evie long enough to know that one. Princesses are tiny and perfect without even trying. Princesses eat salad and fruit and don’t order fries with anything. Princesses are the sort of people the king is supposed to be dating, and Mal is never, ever going to become that sort of person. 

“Mal?” 

Mal does not jump. She just— startles. Just a little. “Hey.”

There’s a smile playing at the corner of Jay’s mouth. “Hey yourself. I thought you’d be out with Ben still.” 

“You know price charming,” Mal waves a hand. “Had to have me home by midnight or else he was afraid I’d turn into a pumpkin.” 

“It’s nine thirty.” 

“Localized curse. The younger you are, the earlier it thinks you should be home. We picked nine, just to be safe.” 

“You can just say you had a bad date, killer,” Jay says. “I’ll be your alibi. You need a shovel?” 

Mal snorts. “It didn’t go that badly, give me some credit. I just freaked out when he started talking about love. While we were on a date to talk about love.” 

Fuck. 

A lot more of the evening makes sense when she frames it that way. None of the bullshit they’ve found online talks about dating the king of the entire country, but there’s a lot of website with mind-numbing names like psychology today and buzzbees news that make it very clear how important Auradon brats think nonverbal communication is. 

She went on a date. On Valentine’s Day. 

With Ben. 

“…Killer?” 

Focus. 

“Fuck off.” Mal snaps reflexively. “I’m fine. Just. Plotting.” 

Jay dodges around her for a pile of fabric, which reveals itself to be his Auradon-blue team hoodie. “You wanna plot somewhere a little better?” 

“What I want is to go home, but I’m not going to get that,” Mal says thoughtfully. “I was going to ask you to spar with me, but if you’ve got any better ideas I’m open to hearing them.” 

“Breaking and entering.” Jay says immediately. “We should blow this place. There’s that all-ages club in town—”

“If I have to touch another human being I’m going to scream.” 

Jay touches her arm deliberately, a sustained pressure that doesn’t even read as touch, just comfort. Mal drinks it in like he’s pouring the comfort directly onto all the jagged, awful pieces of her soul. “I’m not a human being?” 

“Shut up. You’re mine, it’s different.” 

“You’re mine, then.” 

There’s a piece of her heart that fits perfectly again the broken edges of his. Mal couldn’t let go of Jay if she tried, not for anything in the world. Not for her mother breathing fire at them, not for Fairy Godmother insisting that it’ll be good for them to make other friends, and not for a stupid holiday that says she’s only supposed to be tied to one person, and not even the one holding on to her right now. 

“Sure.” Mal agrees, because she can’t put words to the enormity of feelings she’s experiencing. Villains don’t have feelings, but she’s reformed now, and it’s harder to describe the feelings with words than it is to have them. “We can sneak out, see what trouble we can find.” 

“You’re all the trouble I need, killer.” Jay says, too honest. “I’ll take you out of here whenever you need. Wherever you want.” 

“Sap.” 

“Princess.” 

“Do I look like a princess to you?” Mal leans back to gesture at herself. The sweatshirt she stole isn’t Auradon-blue like Jay’s. It’s an old one, ratty in the way that all their old isle stuff is, and nearly transparent at the elbows. The seams are held together with Evie’s neat machine stitching, but the thread is three different shades of red and grey all mashed together, and there’s a hole in the edge of the hood that’s exposing the soft inside of it. Her sneakers are a size too big, and laced tight to compensate. Her hair is still a mess from the violent undoing that she’d subjected it to, and she can’t be bothered to try and tame it, not when her chest is bursting with feelings that don’t have any place to go except for out of her body, in tears or screams or whatever violence she’s able to inflict that will drive the awful right feeling out. 

“The prettiest princess in all the land,” Jay says, and jumps back before the words are even out of his mouth, out of the range of Mal’s swipe. “C’mon, killer. You’re the fiercest baby dragon I know. Come out with me. We can find trouble somewhere better than this.” 

"You're trouble already," Mal grumbles, but there's no bite to the words. She wants, wholly and completely, to be somewhere else. "The gates are locked for the night, you know." 

"No problem. Besides, you can just say you're on an important errand for the king and get through all the school security." 

"I could," Mal agrees. It's not like she's afraid of a little misplaced power when she can wield it. "But it's more fun to sneak out." 

Jay's grin is a bright flash in the darkness. "Hey, I've got a stupid idea." 

Mal grunts. "Shoot." 

"I could toss you over the fence." 

"The twenty foot fence." 

Jay shrugs. "It's more like twelve feet. At least according to the build specs." 

"Which you came across..." 

"Totally legally. They're in the library, if you know where to look for 'em." 

"You're impossible," Mal sighs. "Okay, once you toss me how are we getting you over?" 

"I'll jump." 

Over the twelve foot fence. "Sure, and when you break your leg falling back down?" 

"You'll magic me back together again. Humpty-dumpty this shit." 

"I don't think you actually know that rhyme."

"I know your rhymes," Jay shoots back. "You've got magic for levitation in the spellbook, yeah?" 

"I don't have the spellbook with me, wise guy." Mal points out. "I'm not even wearing my own shoes right now, what makes you think I memorized magic that'll get us over the fence?" 

Jay's eyes are too bright. She's going to have to use a spell just to hide him, and the magic will burn her out, and they'll get stuck on the wrong side of the fence, and-- that's what she would think, if she were Jane, or someone will less awesome magic powers. She's Mal of the Isle, and she's got this shit under control. 

"Dragon magic," Jay says cheerfully, like it's not late and they're not doing something totally against all of the rules they're supposed to be learning by sneaking out to the city. "I trust you, killer." 

"I could kill you," Mal grumbles, but she raises her hands and lets the magic gather there, blue-green sparks catching on her fingertips as she pulls the spell out from her mind. "Make this boy as light as air, hop the fence without a care." 

The magic falls over Jay in a net of shimmering sparks. They absorb in after a second, but the look suits him. Mal spares a thought for her sketchbook, which is tucked away in her locker with the rest of the books she hasn't had the time to touch in weeks, and the drawing her fingers are itching to make. "You can hop it now. You'll be light enough to jump over the fence with a regular leap." 

"Sweet!" Jay turns and drops to a knee. "Hop on." 

"Piggyback? Seriously?" 

"No better way to hop it together. Unless you'd rather I throw you over."

It's dangerous, and not just physically. Mal's been doing a pretty fucking good job at squashing down the feelings she's not supposed to have for her best friends, but this... 

She's emotionally illiterate, but Jay's offer to take her out tonight is like a picture book. Or one of those furniture instructions that doesn't even have language, just pictures to follow. 

He cares about you, Mal's traitorous brain whispers. More than your boyfriend does. 

Ugh. 

"Don't do anything stupid," Mal says, even as she's the one climbing on. "The spell should be good for a few leaps, but--" 

"Can't hear you, too busy blowing this place!" Jay grunts, pushing them both upright. "Let's fuckin' go--" 

"Don't--" 

"Hup!" 

Well. At least they're on the other side of the fence now, even if they crashed directly into the school holly bush on the landing. 

"Oww," Jay groans. "Might need a little more practice on that spell. I think there's something wrong with your magic assist on the landing." 

Mal yanks a leaf out of her arm. "There is no magic assist, dumbass. I tried to tell you, but somebody decided to go full steam ahead without listening to my warning. We're over now, and that's what matters." 

Jay mumbles something unintelligible. She can only assume it's rude, given the circumstances. Ugh, holly leaves are not the hot new accessory of the season, not even when they're doing a levitation act and sticking with a single thorn into her nose.

 "Speak up or shut up, jaybird." 

"I said--" It's impossible to tell in the darkness, but it looks like he might be blushing. The school grounds are supposed to have automatic lights, but a little wire cutting took care of that for them, and they're sneaking out under cover of darkness tonight. Mal's good at knowing her crew, but she can't be sure. "I, uh, you're important. To me." 

"Don't get mushy on me." 

"I'd never. Just. We're sneaking out together, and I wanted you to know, I'd never commit crimes and misdemeanors with anyone else." 

"Liar." 

Jay flashes her a smile, but he's doing the thing where he's got a hand tangled up in his hair, and it makes him look heart-wrenchingly sincere. "Yeah, but not to you." 

Oh, gods. "Don't go having feelings on me," Mal says, swallowing down the wobble that wants to creep into her voice. "I can't handle it. Not tonight, please." 

Just like that, Jay's posture melts into something different. Not quite his usual confidence, but something closer to normal. "Sure. No feelings. I can do that." 

"I don't--" Mal scrubs a hand over her eyes. "I didn't mean that you can't have feelings, just. I can't be the one to handle them tonight. I'll do whatever you want tomorrow, just-- can we just go be somewhere else tonight? I can't handle all this lovey stuff." 

Jay's shoulders melt even further. Mal can't look him in the eye, she can't, she won't-- 

He's smiling. His hand is so, so warm in hers. "Killer." 

"I'm sorry." 

He shrugs. "Whatever. You're allowed to have a bad night. I'll take you out, we can forget this ever happened tomorrow. Easy." 

"You should have someone better," Mal cries, and the horrible realization that she's crying sets in. "I don't want feelings for you!" 

"shit," Jay whispers, so quietly that Mal is sure she wasn't supposed to hear it at all. "Dragon, we don't have to do feelings like the Auradon brats. You can just be mine, and I can be yours, and we don't have to do any of the mushy shit that's freaking you out. We can just run away." 

"Together." 

"Yeah. Unless you spelled somebody else over the fence while I was distracted." 

Mal wipes the sleeve of her stolen hoodie across her nose. "Ugh, no. I don't use magic for just anybody." 

"See, there you go. I'm honored to be worthy of your magic, your royal evil-ness." 

“Fuck off,” Mal groans, and then before she can lose her nerve she steps close enough to cup his face in her hands. There’s no magic this time, but Jay’s skin is hot and soft under her palms, and it feels like there should be magic between them. “I’m the worst girlfriend in the world, so I won’t ever put you through that. I’m selfish, and I’m flaky, and I can’t say that I love you, and I can’t ever promise that I’ll be able to say it.” 

Jay’s face is a thundercloud. “Did Ben say you needed to say it back?” 

“No, but— Ben’s not here right now. That’s the point. He’s not the person I run to when everything in the world is too much for me to handle. Ben’s sweet and all, but he’s not who I want to be with when I’m upset. Can you imagine what he’d say if I suggested running away from the grounds?” 

“What ho good chap, let me summon a car to escort you from the venerable grounds of our fine institution,” Jay picks up her thread, mocking. “And yeah, I guess when you put it that way, it’s pretty silly to think about Ben taking care of you.” 

Mal sucks in a breath. “Exactly. He’s sweet, but I don’t know how to deal with sweet, and it feels like the pressure of it is killing me. You know how to push back when I’m being a monster, and I don’t know how to fit that into one of the relationship boxes I’m supposed to use here.” 

Jay tips his head into her hands. “We could make our own box.” 

“We could.” 

“I wouldn’t ask you to be my girlfriend.” 

Mal leans in. “I know,” she tells the space between Jay’s parted lips. “I know.” 

[mechahero]

“Goofing around” in ooc is not good for roleplay blogs. No one gives a shit because that’s not what they’re following you for. Actually reply to the stuff you owe instead of making another post where you say you’ll get to replies.

//well now i double don’t want to so i am not going to do it

[everiistence]

. i really do not appreciate how stressful school is sometimes ngl

[diari0deglierrori]

Thinking about writing to someone for many days but never actually doing it and then they send you “Hii I just wanted to let you know I’m thinking about you” and um I may cry

[heavy-buddy]

having another “maybe I’m not meant to be a writer” arc

[strawberryybird]

new chapter of my email!au fic!! its only taken me since dracula arrived in england in my email inbox to finish!! HhhH!!!

[elfwreck]

I have a friend who isn't anti-porn but it makes her sad that fanfic has a reputation for being porny and usually not very good. I'm fine with both those things and my views mostly align with that of AO3. I disagree with the idea that porn and badness are treated as equivalent, but for most people that's just how they think. But I was wondering if youve ever written something about this?

There is a lot of smut at AO3.

There is a lot of bad writing at AO3.

There's a lot of badly written smut at AO3.

...None of those are problems except for the people who think there is something wrong with those existing, or that there needs to be some external value that "balances" those that make those acceptable to exist as unwanted side-effects of "the good stuff."

The badly-written smut is also "the good stuff."

It's part of the reason AO3 exists. It's not intended to be an archive for "the high-quality fanfic that could be published if it weren't about characters that someone else wrote first"; it's an archive for "what fanfic writers want to write." That makes the terrible writing and the tacky porn and the badly-written tacky porn part of the reason the archive exists.

Tangent 1 (I'll connect these points later): Theodore Sturgeon said "90% of everything is crud." He was more-or-less referring to the science fiction field in the 50s, but it definitely extended to politics, business, and writing outside of science fiction.

...He was talking about published books in the 50s. Turns out, a lot more than 90% of writing is crud when there aren't any gatekeepers between it and the readers. But also:

Tangent 2, from the book "Art and Fear":

[A] ceramics teacher announced on opening day that he was dividing the class into two groups. All those on the left side of the studio, he said, would be graded solely on the quantity of work they produced, all those on the right solely on its quality. His procedure was simple: on the final day of class he would bring in his bathroom scales and weigh the work of the “quantity” group: fifty pound of pots rated an “A”, forty pounds a “B”, and so on. Those being graded on “quality”, however, needed to produce only one pot — albeit a perfect one — to get an “A”. Well, came grading time and a curious fact emerged: the works of highest quality were all produced by the group being graded for quantity. It seems that while the “quantity” group was busily churning out piles of work – and learning from their mistakes — the “quality” group had sat theorizing about perfection, and in the end had little more to show for their efforts than grandiose theories and a pile of dead clay.

You don't get to "quality writing" without going through a lot of crappy writing.

That doesn't mean the crappy writing is garbage to be thrown out. If you make 50 pots or bowls or vases, and only one of them is The Good One... most of the rest are okay. Maybe not sale-quality good, but your-kitchen-table quality good. Maybe some aren't that good and are kids-toy-in-the-sandbox level good.

Bad writing has a purpose for the writer: they can use it as practice to get better. It has a purpose for the reader: It can serve as inspiration ("I can do better than that") or grammatical instruction ("that...does not work; why doesn't that work?") or just as entertainment ("eh, so it's missing a few commas; I can still understand it").

Smut and porn writing works the same way. It's of some value to the writer, and some to the readers.

It's not of value to everyone. That's what tags and filters are for, and why there's a summary and list of stats (like word counts)--so you can figure out if you're one of the readers for whom this piece of writing is useful or interesting.

But AO3, like any library, is not there to take the top 5% of Excellent Writing and provide it a showcase. It is absolutely for all 50 lbs of pots.

If your friend wants to read the good stuff, there are rec lists and collections to help her find it.

If she already manages that, and is just annoyed at how much of the not-good stuff (however she defines that) exists... she's picked the wrong battle. She's arguing with the ocean that it has too many kinds of fish and some are poisonous a lot of them are ugly.

[yourcubitoyourculture]

Your Cubito, Your Culture: an Event Overview

Do you enjoy creating? Do you like exploring or sharing your own culture through an artistic* lens? (* inclusive of literary arts, visual arts, etc.) Here's an event for you!

Your Cubito, Your Culture is an experimental MCYT community event, first launching in 2024. The goal is simple: incorporate an aspect of your local, regional, national, ethnic, etc. culture into your work, such that it becomes a significant part of your work!

We all know that creating works involving a culture that you don't know much about requires a lot of research, so let's start with something that each of us are likely more familiar with, shall we?

Rules, timelines, Q&A, and other relevant links under the cut.

Rules:

As per Tumblr (and AO3 for writers) TOS, you must be at least 13 years old to participate.

Characters, not content creators; please avoid overt RPF in your works.

Please keep your works relatively safe for work; wiggle room is allowed in case anyone wants to explore some darker topics in more depth. For reference, if you're a writer posting on AO3, your work should be no higher than an M rating, though a G-rated or T-rated work would be preferable.

Please tag all content warnings and shipping appropriately.

No AI-generated content.

Please @ this blog and tag #your cubito your culture 2024 when you post your work on Tumblr for us to reblog your post. If you are planning to post on AO3, a collection has been set up for you to submit your work.

Timeline:

2024/08/11–18 UTC 09:00: Interest check!

2024/08/18 UTC 09:30: Prompt idea release time!

2024/09/01–2024/09/30: Posting period (tentative)!

Prompt Ideas (Optional):

Prompt Suggestions (submissions)

Hyperspecific Prompt Suggestions (submissions)

Q&A

Q1: Is there a limitation or restriction for what quality or quantity work I can make for this event?

A1: Not really. No word limits for writers, no art quality restrictions for artists, and create however many works you want; this is an experimental event (at least for now) and it's all meant to be in good fun. That said, a certain degree of quality control is expected, so please make sure that you can consider your own work to be completed or satisfactory before you submit it.

Q2: Am I restricted to creating works about characters whose content creator counterparts are from my own culture?

A2: Nope! On a more personal note, if that were to be the case, I, as the event host/mod, would be having a hard time writing about the cubitos that I'm interested in, and I'm not about to do that.

Q3: What if there's an aspect of my culture that I cannot directly translate into my work?

A3: Feel free to adapt it to the setting as you wish! It's your culture, after all.

Q4: Am I allowed to create works in which non-English languages play a significant role (e.g. fanfics written in a non-English language, code-mixing between two or more dialects/languages)?

A4: Yes, and that ties into one of the reasons this event was created for: international cultural appreciation! It's up to you if you want to provide a translated summary/version/etc. We trust that all works (and translations, if any) are created in good faith.

Credits:

Mod/Event host: Aqua @minecraftrelatedrandomness

Prompts: Anonymous users

[elseishollow]

you’ve awakened my love for nate archibald i swear 🥹

i was wondering if you could write something for him with love languages? like what you think his would be, when showing love or receiving it, or just whatever comes to mind if you’d like to write something like that! <3

hi, thank you so much! nice to know the nate archibald propaganda is working.

✶┈ HCS | LOVE LANGUAGES — NATE ARCHIBALD

• nate. he’s quite easy on the eyes but there isn’t a whole lot going on upstairs. however, if it’s one thing he’s sure of, it’s the language of touch

• it’s an instinct for him and frankly, if we’re being honest here, he communicates love through touch like it's his native tongue

• he will seek any and every excuse under the sun just to feel the warmth of your skin against his

• "here, hold my hand. It's cold.”

• “nate, it’s literally 90 degrees out.”

• “oh sure, blame it on the weather.”

• trust he WILL use any pretext to bridge the physical distance between you

• growing up in a repressive environment, nate learned to express his love through physical gestures rather than words. It's in the way he pulls you into a hug after a long day or rests his hand on your knee under the table

• there’s times where he’ll notice how down you’re feeling with literally one singular glance and he’ll just embrace you while he’s reassuring you with sweet nothings, consecutively telling you, “it’s okay”

• for quite some time. more than he’d like to admit

• he just wants you to be okay! he’s doesn’t like to see you sad, at all. he acts as if he’s just been wounded if you happen to be.

• quality. time. he’s more keen on quality more than quantity.

• cooking together, walking in central park together, reading together, studying together (which is more yapping than studying tbh) and so on

• as for receiving love, it isn’t exactly nate's forte, but when it comes to you, he's like a lovesick puppy in need of affection

• he craves your affection just as much as he gives it

• and when you look into his eyes, you see nothing but pure adoration staring back at you

• granted he’s had his heart broken before, nate tends to build walls around himself to guard himself from the pain of rejection and disappointment

• he can be hesitant.. and second guess everything.. and doubt himself.. and also overthink everything..

• BUT!

• with you, it's different. your love has a way of breaking down those walls, brick by brick, until there's nothing left but the raw, truth of his heart

• there are moments when his longing is so palpable, you can practically feel it in the air

• “if you don’t kiss me right now, I might actually die”

• but his other love language definitely lies in words of affirmation

• oh, brother

• "i’m not staring, i’m admiring”

• his heart spills over with praise and admiration for you, often beyond measure. he has this habit of gushing uncontrollably about you to anyone who will listen—be it his family, friends, or even strangers. they have all fall victim to some extent

• there was one time where he considered buying you flowers and ended up going on a tangent about every aspect he finds fit about you

• the poor florist could barely get a word in edgewise, they were undoubtedly relieved to see him finally leave their shop

• but who could blame him?? he adores you! loves you, even! it’s in his nature

• in short, he loves you, dearly. and he’ll makes sure you know it.

notes; I wrote this in a hurry, i’m sorry. I hope you like it!

[writingquestionsanswered]

Too Ashamed of Writing to Write

Anonymous asked: I've spent ten years thinking of stories, ideas, characters, magic systems, concepts, all that jazz, but when I actually have to write it down, I feel this overwhelming sense of shame and disgust. Just looking at what I write makes me feel bad. If I posted my writing in forums for serious writers, it'd immediately get torn to shreds. It's a constant downer and it dissuades me from wanting to write more. Is there advice for nervous nellies like me to overcome this fear that's a little sweeter than "grit your teeth and bear it?"

[Ask edited for length]

First, this is normal. A lot of writers struggle with it. The reason why, I think, is our society puts so much emphasis on finished products, we've collectively forgotten the reality behind what it takes to get to that finished product. We've forgotten that things take practice and time and polishing, and that to make good art, you first have to make bad art. If you can't learn to sit with your bad art, you'll never get good enough to make good art.

So, yes, unfortunately... though it may have a bitter taste, "grit your teeth and bear it" is the usual advice because it's true advice. If you can't grit your teeth and wade through the bad art to get to the good art, you'll never get to the good art.

Here are some things that might help. First, watch this:

Some links to previous posts:

Comparing Self to Others, Insecure About Writing Building Confidence in Your Writing Concentrate on Quantity at First, Not Quality Guide: Dealing with Self-Doubt & Impostor Syndrome

You will get there, I promise! ♥

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

I’ve been writing seriously for over 30 years and love to share what I’ve learned. Have a writing question? My inbox is always open!

LEARN MORE about WQA

SEE MY ask policies

VISIT MY Master List of Top Posts

COFFEE & FEEDBACK COMMISSIONS ko-fi.com/wqa

[redroomreflections]

II HANDS II HEAVEN 6

Natasha Romanoff x Fem!Reader

Summary: Natasha Romanoff and Reader reluctantly team up for a couples retreat mission. Despite initial resistance, they find themselves drawn together by unexpected circumstances and shared experiences.

W/c:4k

Notes: I listened to Beyonce's album and wanted to write something to this song

Summary: Natasha Romanoff and Reader reluctantly team up for a couples retreat mission. Despite initial resistance, they find themselves drawn together by unexpected circumstances and shared experiences.

Masterlist | General Masterlist

w/c: 4.5k

last part

Walking back into the hotel room, the atmosphere shifted noticeably. It was clear Natasha had been somewhat irritated since your departure from the pool area. After a few drinks, you could feel the effects setting in, and you had spent the past few hours playing the role of the devoted, albeit overly enthusiastic, spouse. Add to that the fatigue from earlier road-tripping, and all you wanted now was to fall into bed.

You bypassed changing clothes or freshening up, collapsing into the plush decorative chair directly across from the bed. Stretching out your legs, you nestled the styrofoam container brimming with chicken wings in your lap before eagerly digging in. Eyes closed, you hummed in contentment, savoring the delightful blend of honey barbecue that teased your taste buds.

Meanwhile, Natasha moved about the room with abrupt, almost exaggerated movements, clearly too irritated to engage in conversation. Her actions spoke volumes as she pulled her hair into a tight bun, signaling her need to unpack and decompress.

With a half-lidded gaze, you paused your chicken wing feast to address Natasha. "You know, I think I'd like you to have a nickname for me," you suggested.

"Why bother?" Natasha muttered under her breath, her frustration evident in her tone as she continued with her task, seemingly unwilling to entertain the idea.

With a casual wave of a chicken wing, you made your case. "It shows you love me, that you care for me, that you actually don't hate being around me," you explained, emphasizing your point with a playful gesture. As a droplet of barbecue sauce threatened the fabric of the chair, you skillfully intercepted it, sucking the sauce from your finger with a satisfied hum. Food always tasted much better when under the influence.

“It’s not like this relationship is real.” Natasha raised a brow.

“Okay, rude,” You paused mid-bite, considering Natasha's words for a moment before responding. "Maybe not in the traditional sense," you admitted, your voice softening as you met her gaze. "But that doesn't mean it's not meaningful in its own way. We've shared so much together, haven't we?"

“In what the last two days together? All I know about you is your favorite position and I don’t see how that is helpful,” Natasha shrugged. She was so over this conversation. She stuffed the last of her things into a drawer and turned to you.

With a playful grin, you retorted, "Hey, it's quality over quantity, right? And besides, you're exaggerating. You know way more than just my favorite position." You chuckled watching Natasha’s face and realizing perhaps your attempt at humor wasn't landing as well as you hoped. Natasha's annoyance was palpable, but you couldn't help but find amusement in the situation.

“You’re drunk,” Natasha shook her head.

“I didn’t take you for the passive-aggressive type.” You frowned before biting into another chicken wing.

“Yeah?” Natasha questioned.

“Not at all,” You continued. “Mean. It’s a given. Professional. Check. Flexible even? Though I have only seen it in the gym I’d say that’s a check. But passive-aggressive? Nah.”

Natasha's eyes narrowed slightly as she crossed her arms over her chest, taking a deep breath before speaking. "You know," she began, her voice calm but with an edge, "it's not about being passive-aggressive. It's about boundaries. You waltz into my life, acting like it's all a big joke, and expect me to play along with your whims."

She took a step closer, her expression serious. "I get that you're trying to lighten the mood, but there's a difference between being playful and being dismissive. Just because you find this amusing doesn't mean everyone else does."

Pausing for a moment, she glanced at the mess around you, the half-eaten chicken wings, the lingering scent of barbecue sauce, and then back at your face. "And for the record, knowing someone's 'favorite position' doesn't make a relationship. Respect, understanding, and communication do. Maybe you should think about that before asking for nicknames."

With that, she turned back to her task, her movements deliberate and precise, clearly signaling that the conversation was over.

You swallowed slightly before standing from your seat.

“Have a wing,” You offered.

Natasha paused, her back still turned to you, before letting out a long sigh. "I'm not hungry," she replied tersely, continuing to organize her things. The tension in the room was still there, but you weren't ready to let the conversation end on such a sour note.

"Come on," you said softly, taking a step closer. "I'm trying here. I know I mess up sometimes, but I care about this. Can't we just... have a moment of peace?"

Natasha stopped what she was doing and turned around slowly, her eyes meeting yours. There was a flicker of something in her gaze—maybe curiosity, maybe exhaustion. She hesitated for a moment, then walked over and took a wing from the plate.

"One wing," she said, her tone still guarded. "But this doesn't mean everything's okay."

You nodded, a small smile tugging at your lips. "Fair enough," you said. "It's a start."

Natasha sat on the bed, her body language still stiff and guarded.

"I'm not as drunk as you think. I'm just feeling really good after a long day,” You shrugged. “You’re kind of a buzzkill.” You add, hoping your comment doesn’t come across the wrong way.

"I'm not a buzzkill," She retorted, her tone defensive. "Also, I thought we were past the insults."

"Of course, you're not a buzzkill, especially not when it comes to people you like," You said. “I don’t make the list so it’s only right if you assert your dominance over me or something. Which if you were my real wife I would have taken care of that already.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Natasha tilted her head.

“I’m not trying to be slapped with a harassment demerit or whatever so I’ll keep my comments to myself,” You stood, standing on the tip of your toes as you stretched. Natasha’s eyes followed your movement for only a second more. “I caught some leads today. There’s a bonfire tomorrow we’re going to. We met a new couple. Though I’m half convinced Leslie is too good to be true. That’s progress.”

“I guess it is,” Natasha relented. “I’m going to hit the shower.”

“Leave me some hot water,” You called after her. You stood in the middle of the room and looked around, lost and confused. What to do now?

As Natasha disappeared into the bathroom, the sound of running water filling the silence, you took a deep breath and decided it was time to fall back into your routine. Years of being a spy had taught you the importance of staying grounded, no matter where you were. You moved with purpose, channeling your focus to maintain a sense of normalcy and readiness.

You quickly checked all the locks and ensured the windows were secure. Double-checking the room for any potential surveillance devices or hidden threats was second nature. Satisfied, you placed a small doorstop under the main entrance for an added layer of security.

You drank a full glass of water and tossed all your trash into the bin.

With the room secure and your immediate tasks completed, you decided it was time to unwind. You picked up a paperback novel from your bag, one of the few comforts you allowed yourself on missions. You settled into the comfortable chair in the corner of the room, the soft lamp casting a warm glow over the pages.

You didn’t know how long it had been, and you didn’t realize you’d fallen asleep. The sound of the shower eventually ceased, and Natasha emerged, looking somewhat more relaxed. She glanced at you and gave a slight nod before heading to her side of the room. You returned her nod with one of your own.

With one last glance around the room to ensure everything was in its place, you turned back to your book, content to spend a few more minutes immersed in its pages before eventually turning in for the night.

You ensured that your shower was as luxurious as the decor suggested. The water temperature was perfect, and the pressure was strong, washing away the grime and tension of the day. You allowed yourself a few moments to enjoy the warmth and relaxation, something you rarely had the luxury to do.

After drying off and changing into comfortable clothing, you took one last glance around the room. Everything was secure and in place, exactly as you left it. The windows were locked, the doorstop was firmly in place, and your equipment was within easy reach.

You glanced over at the bed, where Natasha lay with her back turned toward you, the soft rise and fall of her shoulders indicating she was still awake.

With quiet steps, you approached the bed, the dim light casting soft shadows across the room. You pulled back the covers and slipped in, the cool sheets contrasting with the lingering warmth from your shower. As you settled in, you could feel the tension in the air, a silence hanging between you.

You lay there for a moment, staring at the ceiling, before finally breaking the silence. "Natasha," you said softly, testing the waters.

She didn't respond immediately, but you could tell she was listening. You waited, giving her the space to speak if she wanted to. After a few moments, her voice cut through the quiet.

"I don't like the nicknames thing," she said, her tone firm but not unkind. "It's not my style."

You turned slightly to face her, even though she remained turned away. "Okay," you replied gently, accepting her words without argument. "I understand."

There was a pause, and you could sense her considering her next words carefully. "It's just... I need things to be straightforward," she continued, her voice softer now. "No games, no pretense."

"I get that. And I'm sorry if I pushed too hard. I just wanted to lighten things up a bit."

Natasha sighed, her shoulders relaxing just a fraction. "I know," she admitted. "But maybe we can find another way."

A small smile tugged at your lips. "Yeah, we can do that."

The silence returned, but this time it felt different—less heavy, more understanding.

“I like the touches,” You spoke. Natasha’s head lifted slightly, and though you couldn’t see her in the darkness, you could tell she was looking at you. “What I mean is, “ You continued, choosing your words carefully. “I am appreciative that you asked me if I was okay with it. Which I am. You’re not creepy or threatening.”

Natasha remained silent for a moment, processing your words. When she spoke, her voice was softer, less guarded. "I'm glad you feel that way. It's important to me that you feel safe."

You nodded, even though she couldn't see it. "I do. I know this whole situation is... unusual, but having clear boundaries and respect makes it easier."

She sighed a sound that conveyed both relief and contemplation. "I guess we're both trying to navigate this the best we can."

"Yeah," You agreed, a sense of mutual understanding settling between you. "And we're getting there, one step at a time."

Natasha turned slightly, her silhouette visible in the dim light filtering through the window. "Let's just keep being honest with each other. It might not make everything perfect, but it will help."

You smiled again, feeling a warm sense of connection. "Deal."

With that, the room fell into a comfortable silence once more.

With that, you closed your eyes, the tension in your body finally easing as you allowed yourself to drift toward sleep, comforted by the small step forward you had taken together.

*************************

The first light of morning barely peeked through the heavy curtains when Natasha woke up. Years of disciplined routine had honed her internal clock to perfection. She moved silently, careful not to disturb the still-sleeping form beside her. Your soft, steady breathing filled the room, a stark contrast to Natasha’s alertness.

She slipped out of bed, her movements precise and efficient. She grabbed her workout clothes from the chair where she had neatly placed them the night before, dressing quickly and quietly. She tied her hair back into a tight ponytail, her mind already shifting into the focused state she reserved for her morning workouts.

As she laced up her sneakers, she glanced back at you. She would offer to wake you but she’d rather not poke the sleeping bear. The last time she done it you’d been grumpy the entire ride to th airport. Besides, she would like to spend some time alone to think about some things.

She grabbed her water bottle and quietly exited the room, the door clicking softly shut behind her. The hotel gym was quite a walk from the bungalows, giving Natasha some time to scope out the place. There were fewer people out than last night which was to be expected. The gym was a well-equipped space that Natasha found surprisingly adequate. She liked to start her day with a combination of cardio and strength training, a routine that kept her body in peak condition and her mind sharp.

She started with a warm-up on the treadmill, the pounding of her feet against the belt synchronizing with her thoughts. She increased the speed, pushing herself into a steady run, her breath coming in controlled, even intervals.

After her cardio, she moved to the free weights, her muscles welcoming the familiar burn. Each lift, each rep, was a show of her strength and determination. The workout was as much for her mind as it was for her body, a way to center herself and prepare for the day.

She ended the workout with stretching. As Natasha sat on one of the floors of the gym hotel her mind drifted to the mission. The bonfire scheduled for later that evening was meant to provide an opportunity to gather more information about the people involved and potentially uncover any hidden agendas. Yet, as she reviewed the events of the past few days, Natasha couldn't shake the feeling of unease that lingered in the back of her mind.

So far, nothing had raised suspicion, and Natasha wasn't entirely surprised by that fact. The resort had managed to stay open despite multiple scandals, which suggested that there was more to the operation than met the eye. It was clear that someone was pulling the strings behind the scenes, but identifying who and why remained a challenge.

Natasha's analytical mind raced through the possibilities, considering every angle and scenario. She knew that she couldn't afford to let her guard down, even for a moment. The mission was too important, and the stakes were too high to risk overlooking any potential threats.

*********** You heard the soft click of the hotel room door and rested your head on the pillow once again. Natasha was going to work out at this indecent time, and you weren’t one to stop her. You knew that both of you needed this alone time to stay sane and keep charged. You could understand that your personality was a little strong at times and made a note to yourself to tone it down. The last thing you needed was to be labeled as difficult to work with.

With a sigh, you reached for your phone on the nightstand. As you unlocked the screen, an idea sparked in your mind. Pulling the covers up around you, you quickly snapped a selfie, making sure to capture your bedhead and the early morning light filtering through the curtains. It was a candid moment, one that felt strangely intimate despite the distance between you and Natasha.

You attached a simple message to the photo before hitting send: “Morning vibes. Hope your workout is going well. See you at breakfast?”

Sending the message off, you couldn’t help but feel a sense of satisfaction. It was a small gesture, but one that spoke volumes about the growing rapport between you and Natasha. If someone were to get a hold of your devices, there would be enough evidence to convince them that your fake relationship was real. It was a risk, but one you were willing to take for the sake of the mission.

As you waited for Natasha’s response, you couldn’t help but feel a twinge of nervousness. Would she appreciate the gesture, or would she see it as unnecessary? You knew that Natasha was practical and focused, not one for frivolous sentimentality. Still, you hoped that she would understand the underlying message behind the selfie.

When her response finally came, it was short and to the point: “Thanks. Breakfast sounds good.”

You couldn’t help but chuckle at her dry response. Leave it to Natasha to cut straight to the chase. But despite the lack of enthusiasm in her message, you couldn’t shake the feeling that maybe, just maybe, she appreciated the gesture more than she let on.

With a grin on your face, you set your phone back on the nightstand and turned to find sleep again. You would need it.

*********** You met Natasha at the breakfast buffet offered by the resort, a spread that was far better than anything you experienced in most recent times, no offense to Tony. The array of fresh fruit, pastries, and gourmet coffee was impressive, and Natasha couldn't help but raise an eyebrow in appreciation as she filled her plate.

As you settled into a table by the window, you couldn't resist commenting on the breakfast spread. "I have to admit, this beats room service at the Tower any day," you remarked.

Natasha nodded in agreement, though her expression remained neutral. "It's certainly a step up from the usual fare," she replied, her tone cool and composed.

“Don’t get me wrong Tony’s stuff is awesome but it’s nothing like this,” You bite into a piece of crispy bacon. “What do they say about billionaires being cheap again?”

Natasha arched an eyebrow, a hint of amusement dancing in her eyes. "I think it's more about being frugal than cheap," she replied, her tone dry. "But I suppose it depends on the billionaire in question."

You chuckled, enjoying the easy banter between you. “How was your workout?”

Natasha looked up from her plate, her expression unreadable. "It was adequate," she replied simply, taking a sip of her coffee.

You nodded, sensing that she wasn't in the mood for small talk. "Fair enough," you replied, deciding not to press the issue further.

The conversation lapsed into a comfortable silence as you both focused on finishing your breakfast.

“I, um, do you cook?” Natasha asked, breaking the silence with a tentative question.

“Of course I do,” You smiled, sensing an opportunity for a topic of conversation. “You can’t enjoy food as much as I do and not be a great cook.”

Natasha raised an eyebrow, a hint of skepticism in her expression. “Is that so?” she replied, her tone curious.

You nodded, taking a sip of your coffee before continuing. “Yeah, I actually enjoy cooking. It's a way for me to unwind and relax after a long day. Plus, there's something satisfying about creating a delicious meal from scratch.”

Natasha considered your words for a moment before speaking again. “Funny, I don't think I've ever seen you cook in the Tower,” she remarked, her tone casual but observant.

You chuckled, a sheepish grin spreading across your face. “Well, to be fair, it's not like I had much opportunity to cook there. Tony had a chef on staff, and the rest of the team had their own preferences when it came to meals.”

Natasha nodded, seeming to accept your explanation. “I see,” she replied, though you could tell there was more to her curiosity than she let on.

“Oh, but I have cooked for a few people,” You added. “I've made meals for Wanda and Vision, and Sam on occasion. Monica Rambeau too. Everyone else pretty much does their own thing when it comes to food.”

Natasha's interest was piqued by your mention of cooking for Monica Rambeau. “Monica Rambeau?” she echoed, her tone intrigued.

You nodded, recalling the times you had prepared meals for Monica during her visits to the Tower. “Yeah, she stopped by a few times when she was in town. We had some good conversations over dinner,” you explained, a fond smile playing on your lips.

Natasha's expression softened, but there was a subtle flicker of something in her eyes. “I see,” she replied.

You caught the slight shift in her demeanor but didn’t bother questioning it. You didn’t want to ruin a good thing.

The conversation ended there as you were interrupted by the arrival of another couple, who approached the table with eager smiles. The man, Marcus, was tall and well-dressed, while the woman, Anna, exuded an air of sophistication that seemed at odds with the casual beach resort setting. They were slightly younger than you and Natasha, and their enthusiasm for the resort was evident in their animated conversation.

"Good morning! Mind if we join you?" Marcus asked, his tone friendly but a little too eager.

Natasha exchanged a glance with you before gesturing to the empty chairs opposite them. "Please, have a seat," she replied politely, though her guard was already up.

“I’m Anna and this is my husband, Marcus Blattler.” Anna waved from her seat.

“I’m Alexis and this is Joan,” You greeted back kindly. “Nice to meet you both.”

"So, how are you two enjoying your stay so far?" Anna asked, her smile bright and sincere.

You shared a quick look with Natasha before answering, "Oh, it's been wonderful. The resort is beautiful, and the staff have been incredibly accommodating."

Natasha nodded in agreement, her tone perfectly measured. "Yes, we've been thoroughly impressed with the amenities and the level of service."

Marcus leaned in, his eyes sparkling with curiosity. "And what brings you to the resort? Are you celebrating a special occasion?"

"Actually, we're here on a sort of mini-vacation," You replied smoothly, your smile never faltering. " Our first anniversary as a married couple. Just taking some time to relax and unwind."

Anna's eyes widened with interest. "That sounds lovely! Do you two come here often?"

"Oh, this is our first time here," You replied, a note of casualness in your tone. "But we've heard such great things about the resort that we couldn't resist giving it a try."

“Yeah, so far it’s been great,” Natasha played along.

Anna's eyes sparkled with curiosity. "Have you two heard about the bonfire they have here every week? It’s tonight," she asked, her voice tinged with excitement. "It's such a romantic setting, with the firelight dancing on the beach and the sound of the waves in the background. It's one of the highlights of our stay here."

You and Natasha exchanged a glance, inwardly relieved that Anna had shifted the conversation to a more innocuous topic. "Actually, we haven't heard much about it," you replied, feigning ignorance. "But it sounds lovely. Maybe we'll have to check it out tonight."

Marcus nodded enthusiastically. "You definitely should! It's a great way to unwind after a day of activities. Plus, you never know who you might meet around the fire," he added with a wink.

Natasha's interest was piqued by Marcus's mention of meeting new people. "Oh, really?" she asked, her tone carefully neutral. "Do you and Anna go to the bonfire often?"

Anna smiled, her gaze lingering on Natasha momentarily longer than necessary. "Oh, we're regulars," she replied, her tone casual but her eyes betraying a hint of something more. "It's a great way to meet other couples and make new friends. You never know who you might run into."

“Well count us in,” You smiled. “Now that you mentioned it, an older couple by the pool yesterday informed us about the bonfire. I really hope it lives up to the hype.”

“Great. It will.” Anna nodded. As the conversation with Anna and Marcus continued, you couldn't help but notice Anna's overwhelming enthusiasm and friendliness. "So, y'all are celebrating your anniversary here?" She chirped, her smile bright and infectious. "Isn’t that just the sweetest thing!"

You chuckled at her energy, finding it endearing yet slightly overwhelming. "Yeah, we figured a beach getaway would be the perfect way to celebrate," you replied, your smile mirroring hers.

Natasha nodded in agreement, though her expression remained guarded. "It's been a pleasant escape from the hustle and bustle of city life," she added, her tone polite but distant.

Anna's eyes widened with excitement. "Oh, I just love a good beach vacation!" she exclaimed, her southern drawl becoming more pronounced. "There's just somethin' about the ocean air and the sound of the waves that soothes the soul, don't y'all think?"

You nodded, impressed by Anna's enthusiasm for the beach. "Absolutely," you agreed, silently noting the warmth and sincerity in her voice. "There's nothing quite like it."

“Well, we’re going to let y’all get back to your day,” Marcus excused the two of them, his tone friendly but with a hint of urgency. “Anna and I are going to go ahead and find us an excursion.”

Anna leaned forward, her smile bright and inviting. “Why don’t we exchange numbers?” she suggested, her southern accent adding a charming lilt to her words.

“Sure, that sounds like a good idea,” you replied, pulling out your phone and exchanging numbers with Anna and Marcus.

Natasha followed suit, her movements precise and controlled as she entered Anna and Marcus's contact information into her phone. Despite her reservations, she remained polite and composed, unwilling to give Anna and Marcus any reason to suspect that something was amiss.

As you exchanged pleasantries and bid Anna and Marcus farewell, you turned slightly back to Natasha.

“Is it me or does it seem we’re the only new couple,” You asked.

“Hmm, no, I see it too,” Natasha glanced subtly around the room. “It could be we simply haven’t met other first-timers. Might be something to take note of.”

“Got it, boss,” You nodded. The bonfire was only eight hours away. You were excited to see what was in store.

[violainebriat]

It's a bit weird typing out a full post here on tumblr. I used to be one of these artists that mostly focused on posting only images, the least amount of opinions/thoughts I could share, the better. Today, the art world online feels weird, not only because of AI, but also the algorithms on every platform and the general way our craft is getting replaced for close to 0 dollars. This website was a huge instrument in kickstarting my career as a professional artist, it was an inspiring place were artists shared their art and where we could make friends with anyone in the world, in any industries. It was pretty much the place that paved the way as a social media website outside of Facebook, where you could search art through tags etc. Anyhow, Tumblr still has a place in my heart even if all artists moved away from it after the infamous nsfw ban (mostly to Instagram and twitter). And now we're all playing a game of whack-a-mole trying to figure out if the social media platform we're using is going to sell their user content to AI / deep learning (looking at you reddit, going into stocks). On the Tumblr side, Matt Mullenweg's interviews and thoughts on the platform shows he's down to use AI, and I guess it could help create posts faster but then again, you have to click through multiple menus to protect your art (and writing) from being scraped. It's really kind of sad to have to be on the defensive with posting art/writing online. It doesn't even reflect my personal philosophy on sharing content. I've always been a bit of a "punk" thinking if people want to bootleg my work, it's like free advertisement and a testament to people liking what I created, so I've never really watermarked anything and posted fairly high-res version of my work. I don't even think my art is big enough to warrant the defensiveness of glazing/nightshading it, but the thought of it going through a program to be grinded into a data mush to be only excreted out as the ghost of its former self is honestly sort of deadening.

Finally, the most defeating trend is the quantity of nonsense and low-quality content that's being fed to the internet, made a million times easier with the use of AI. I truly feel like we're living what Neil Postman saw happening over 40 years ago in "amusing ourselves to death"(the brightness of this man's mind is still unrivaled in my eyes).

I guess this is my big rant to tell y'all now I'm gonna be posting crunchy art because Nightshade and Glaze basically make your crispy art look like a low-res JPEG, and I feel like an idiot for doing it but I'm considering it an act of low effort resistance against data scraping. If I can help "poison" data scrapping by wasting 5 minutes of my life to spit out a crunchy jpeg before posting, listen, it's not such a bad price to pay. Anyhow check out my new sticker coming to my secret shop really soon, and how he looks before and after getting glazed haha....

[rubysunnday]

wanting was enough

requested by @omgbrcat: If you're willing to write for Nikolai, I'm ready to read.

a/n: they asked for fluffy... this is not fluffy like at all and for that i am sorry (i promise to write nik fluff to make up for it) ty ryn for your help

summary: Y/N has loved Nikolai since the day she met him. But now, as the blood begins to run, she has to come to terms with the fact that he'll never be hers.

The room was filled with people she knew, yet Y/N had never felt more alone or more broken.

Nikolai and Alina were engaged and Y/N found herself grieving for something she'd never had. It was an odd thing to feel a part of a group whilst also feeling a million miles away from everyone and everything.

She'd loved Nikolai since the day they'd met in the middle of Kerch, surrounded by people who wanted them dead. From there, friendship had been easy and when she'd sheepishly revealed her Grisha abilities to him - he'd enlisted Tamar and Tolya to teach her how to use them and control them.

Yet, despite the practice, her heartrender talents were still weak and, in Y/N's mind, pathetic. She understood that years of neglect and no practice would do that to someone, but it didn't help. Her confidence was non-existent and when she was surrounded by far more talented Grisha and a living Saint such as Alina, Y/N felt tiny.

Seeing Nikolai and Alina holding hands stung more than it should have. She was used to Nikolai being affectionate with people - affection was how he showed his love. But this was different. Y/N had hardly seen him since they'd gotten back to the palace and something had clearly changed between them.

Either that or it was all in Y/N's mind. She was spending a lot of time inside her head at the minute, doubting herself, doubting her abilities and her place in Nikolai's crew.

She could hear Nikolai's heartbeat from across the room - it's sound familiar and comforting to her in a way it shouldn't have been. Not anymore.

He wasn't hers and never could be hers.

She wasn't sure when friendship had turned to wanting and longing but it had. And she was trying her best to deal with it. To accept that he would never be hers.

"Penny for your thoughts?"

Y/N turned and tried not to look startled at Nikolai's sudden appearance by her side. She hadn't even registered him walking over to her. Nikolai grinned crookedly at her and Y/N felt her heart swoop and glide like a bird in the breeze.

"Just wondering what your mother's definition of a big party is when this is a small one," Y/N replied, picking up a glass from a nearby tray and drinking its contents in one swoop.

Nikolai laughed, readjusting his weight from one foot to the other, his right shoulder brushing against Y/N's left. "She likes a party, what can I say. Anything under sixty people and it's intimate."

"I don't even know sixty people," Y/N replied. "I don't think I even know ten."

"It's never about the quantity of friends, it's about the quality," Nikolai replied. "A small, close friend group is better than a distant large one." He nudged her arm with his elbow. "I considered you one of my close friends."

Y/N forced herself to grin at him and tried to ignore how much the words stung at her heart. "Oh," she pointed over at Vasily as he stood up on the dais next to his father, "I think your brother is about to make a speech. You should probably go stand next to your mother and pretend to be interested."

Getting Nikolai to laugh was easy for Y/N, but even though she'd done it many times before, the sound still sent fire coursing through her veins. It wasn't the guarded laugh of a privateer. Or the forced laughter of a prince. It was just Nikolai's laugh.

"I'll be back," he warned, pointing a finger at her. "We need to discuss what you mean by pretending - I always find my brother fascinating."

"Of course you do." Y/N nodded. "I believe that, one hundred percent."

She watched as Nikolai disappeared into the crowd, appearing at his mother's side, ever the doting son. Y/N was impressed with herself that she'd managed to avoid bringing up the engagement. She hadn't had a chance to even mention it to Nikolai - it didn't seem appropriate. But she needed to know if it was genuine or just for show. She need to know for her own mind. How else would she ever be able to move on and accept she was stuck wanting for forever.

Vasily's speech started and Y/N zoned out entirely. He was a weasel of a human and represented everything wrong with Ravka in so many ways. He never had anything interesting or important to say.

It was only because she wasn't listening to Vasily that Y/N noticed the room gradually getting darker. The sun seemingly disappearing and then reappearing only to disappear once again.

She tilted her head back and, as she did so, two shapeless shadows smashed through the glass of the skylight, slamming into the ground and taking two of the first army guards out with them. One of the shadows grabbed Vasily and, in a blink of an eye, ripped him apart.

The screaming started instantly. Y/N's eyes focused on the shadows and she realised with cold horror that they were Kirigan's Nichevo'ya. At once, she began looking for Alina, who was safely on the other side of the room with Tamar and Adrik.

The Nichevo'ya shot towards her and Y/N dodged out the way, turning and running away - because what else could she do? They had no heartbeats and, even if they did, she wouldn't be able to take them down. She wasn't strong enough.

"Y/N!"

Nikolai snatched her hand and pulled her to his side as a table flew across the room, a body following in its path. Y/N gripped Nikolai's jacket for a moment before she let go and forced herself to take a step back, to create space between them.

"Down to the tunnels!" Nikolai yelled, raising his voice to be heard over the screaming. He began to move backwards, his hand still on Y/N's arm. "Regroup there!"

As Adrik and Nadia distracted the Nichevo'ya as best they could, the small party that had gathered behind Nikolai began to follow their now king and had down to the tunnels beneath the palace.

Y/N brought up the rear of the group, keeping one eye over her shoulder incase the Nichevo'ya decided to follow after them. But they seemed content to feast on those left behind in the ballroom.

She was so focused on making sure the Nichevo'ya weren't following, that Y/N didn't even notice cracks in the walls beginning to form and then splinter up and around.

Only when she saw the first piece of wall fall did she even realise what was happening. She turned around and there was no one behind her - they'd all made it through to the tunnels, including Nikolai, leaving her alone out in the corridor.

For a moment, she wondered if anyone would miss her if she disappeared.

Another piece of wall fell and, as it did, a Nichevo'ya began to appear from around a corner, it's shape constantly changing as the shadows withered and curled.

Y/N brought her hands together, searching for a heartbeat to control, but there was none. Of course there wasn't. They were made of nothing.

The cracks had reached the ceiling and more rubble fell down, smashing against the floor all around her. A particularly large piece fell away and Y/N threw herself back, barely avoiding its impact as she scrabbled across the tiled floor, trying to get to the tunnel entrance.

Her body wasn't cooperating, fear of the Nichevo'ya striking through her and rendering her almost useless. She tried not to look up at the skull like face forming in the shadows, but it was impossible to look away as it loomed over her. Almost as if she'd been hypnotised by them.

"Y/N!"

Hands came around her waist and they yanked her up and onto her feet. The roof was falling down around them now, large chunks of stone smashing into pieces on the tiles, the small bits flying back up into the air. Y/N felt something whizz past her cheek, leaving a stinging line behind.

Everything was a blur. As the rest of the ceiling came away, the Nichevo'ya launched forward, its tendrils snaking towards Y/N. They sliced down her arm and, as they made contact, Y/N brought her left hand to her right and felt something within the mass of black.

Focusing on that and that alone, Y/N forced it to slow down, to stop. Sensing danger, the tendrils came away, retreating back into the shadows. As they did, the ceiling gave way. Whoever had grabbed her from behind pushed her into the tunnels and then darkness obscured her vision.

"Y/N, look at me."

Hands rested on both her cheeks. A thumb stroked up and down her cheek bone. As her eyes began to adjust to the dark light of the tunnels, and the panic and fear began to fade, Nikolai came into view, his eyes full of concern.

"You good?" He asked softly, his eyes darting to her arm for a moment before coming back to her face.

"Sorry," Y/N said, blinking furiously. "I froze. I didn't mean to, I should've -"

"Hey, there's plenty of things we all should have done," Nikolai said gently, his thumb pressing lightly against her skin as he moved it up and down. "The Nichevo'ya do weird things to people. But we're safe, we made it into the tunnels."

Nikolai's words did little to reassure her. Instead, they made Y/N panic even more. She moved back from him and got to her feet, leaving Nikolai crouched in front of an empty space.

"You need to go see what's going on," Y/N said, putting more distance between them. "You are the king now."

A hundred different emotions filtered across Nikolai's face. His eyes seemed to grow slightly harder and his back straightened. As he went to speak, a guard appeared at his side and began to lead him away and down into the tunnels, leaving Y/N alone once more.

Y/N took a deep breath in and swore softly as she felt her arm burning and stinging for the first time. She looked down and saw a gash running from her shoulder down to her elbow.

Y/N winced as she tentatively pulled back the fabric from her arm, trying to see it better. The edges were bright red and blood was running down and to her wrist, dripping off her fingers.

She didn't feel fine but, for now, she pushed her pain and exhaustion aside, pushing herself off the wall she'd come to lean on.

The tunnels were organised chaos. Bodies lay against the walls, covered with blankets, flags, sacks - whatever people could find. Y/N walked, rather stumbled, down them, searching for her friends, hoping they were still alive and in one piece.

It wasn't long before she found them. Adrik was groaning in pain, swearing as quietly as he could as David examined his arm, his hands gently pulling away the shredded fabric from the gaping wounds on his arm and hand.

Y/N picked up her pace and rushed over to them, kneeling down beside David. "What happened?"

"Fucking Nichevo'ya," Adrik panted. He groaned, closing his eyes tightly as David pressed on the skin around the wound.

"Y/N," Nadia said, her arms around her brother, "can you do anything?"

"I'm not a healer," Y/N warned, her hand gently replacing David's as she took Adrik's arm.

"I don't care," Adrik said, groaning. "Just do something."

Y/N nodded. She took a deep breath in, trying to ignore the throbbing in her own arm. Her hands shook slightly.

David put a hand on her uninjured shoulder and squeezed it gently. "You can do it," he said quietly.

Y/N focused on Adrik's arm, on the skin and the blood thrumming through his veins and spilling out onto the floor. She could feel her energy seeping out through her body as she worked on Adrik's arm, trying to slow the bleeding and heal what she could.

As she did, she felt the pain in her arm gradually growing. It was hard to tell if the room was tilted or if she herself was tilting.

"Y/N," Tamar said softly. Y/N wasn't sure when she'd appeared. "Your arm."

"It's fine," Y/N said. She took a deep breath in as the pain got worse, her arm throbbing and burning.

Then, suddenly, it wasn't fine. Y/N felt the all to familiar feeling of nausea building up in her throat, her heart beat increased as her body ran out of energy.

Y/N swayed and she fell sideways and into David, the Durast doing his best to catch her.

Tamar was instantly at her side, her hand gripping Y/N's tightly. She pressed her fingers to her pulse point and Y/N felt the all too familiar feeling of someone else controlling her heartbeat.

"Adrik," Y/N muttered, slumping further back into David's chest, his arms wrapping around her.

"Nadia's got him," Tamar said, reaching her spare hand out to stroke Y/N's cheek. "You should've said something. Your arm is not fine."

Y/N closed her eyes, feeling the tears burning. She didn't know if they were from the pain or because of how useless she felt. "I'm fine," Y/N said, trying to sit up.

Both David and Tamar pushed her back down - neither one having to use much force at all.

"Nikolai!"

Y/N felt panic rise within her as Tamar summoned the now king over to them. Tamar glanced down at her, her eyebrows raised slightly, and Y/N realised her heart had also sped up.

Fucking heartrenders.

"What's wrong?" Nikolai asked, walking over to them.

He didn't see Y/N until he moved around David and saw her lying against him, blood pooling on the floor from the wound on her arm, Tamar's hand still on her wrist.

"Y/N, saints," Nikolai said, instantly dropping to his knees beside her.

Y/N vaguely realised that he'd shed his blazer and rolled his shirt sleeves up. His hands hovered over her arm, shaking every so slightly.

"She's losing too much blood," Tamar said quietly, trying her best to not alarm Y/N, who was gradually getting paler.

Nikolai nodded. "There's a healer down the tunnel with the courtiers."

Tamar, sensing Nikolai's hesitation, let go of Y/N's hand and stood up. "I'll go get them. See if you can find a bed or somewhere to lay her down."

Y/N didn't realise Nikolai had moved closer to her and slipped his arms around her back and under her legs until he lifted her up into his arms, adjusting his shoulder so that her head came to rest against it.

"David, stay with Adrik and Nadia," Nikolai said, taking a step back. "Tamar will be back soon."

Y/N was in too much pain to even try to fight Nikolai as he carried her through the tunnels. Through her half closed eyes, she could see the stares coming their way - the judgement and disgust all aimed at her.

But she didn't care. Because Nikolai was holding her close and, for a moment, she felt as if everything was ok. Nikolai was hers and only hers.

Everything faded away, leaving her floating around, relishing each touch, each way Nikolai's bare arms brushed against her.

"Y/N!"

She jumped slightly, her eyes slowly opening, taking their time to focus. Nikolai was knelt beside her, his hands cradling hers. Y/N realised that he was no longer carrying her and that she was lying down in a quieter part of the tunnels.

As her eyes focused, she noticed that Nikolai's eyes were red, his skin starting to go blotchy. Y/N moved her head slightly and saw Tamar kneeling behind her, one hand on her chest, the other on Nikolai's arm.

"Your heart stopped," Nikolai said quietly, when he noticed her confused gaze. "You went still and I..." Nikolai's voice cracked and he trailed off.

Tamar squeezed his arm as she stood up, leaving the two alone. The healer, who Y/N had only just noticed, also gave them some privacy, moving on to his next patient. Y/N glanced down at her arm and saw that it had stopped bleeding, the edges of the wound closer than they had been.

"I'm sorry," Y/N whispered, not sure what to say to Nikolai.

Nikolai raised his head, his eyes shining with tears. "Whatever for?"

Y/N didn't know. "I -"

"This is not your fault," Nikolai said, somehow moving closer. "None of this is."

One hand let go of hers, moving up to the side of her head. He began to brush back her hair with the pad of his thumb, the movement repetitive and calming enough it almost sent Y/N to sleep.

"Is Adrik ok?" Y/N asked, the memory of his ruined arm coming back at her with force.

Nikolai hesitated for a second. "He lost the arm," he said gently. "But he's alive, because of you."

"I could've done more," Y/N protested, tears leaking out the corners of her eyes. "If I'd been stronger or better -"

"The outcome would not have changed," Nikolai insisted, his thumb wiping away her tears. "Even the healer couldn't do anything more. What you did do, saved his life, Y/N."

Y/N nodded once, more tears spilling onto her cheeks. "Is this not improper?" She asked as Nikolai reached over to her other cheek, wiping the tears away again.

"What?" He asked, staring at her in disbelief.

"You're engaged," she said, her voice breaking on the last word as a sob broke through.

It took a second but understanding dawned on Nikolai's face and he let out a heavy breath, tinged with sadness.

"Oh, Y/N," he whispered. "You could've -"

"I couldn't, Nik," she said hoarsely. "I had to presume that it was just me - you had your eyes set on every other woman about and I -"

"No, stop that right now," Nikolai said, leaning close. "I... I have loved you since the moment I met you. I just assumed you loved Sturmhond, not Nikolai."

"I love you," Y/N said, her voice strong. "I love whoever you chose to be. Whether it's prince or pirate -"

"Privateer."

" - king or pauper," Y/N finished, her voice quiet as whatever energy had come disappeared. "I love whoever you chose to be. I just love you, Nikolai."

Nikolai nodded, tears running down his cheeks. He leant forward, resting his head against Y/N's chest and her fingers began to running through his hair and down to the nape of his neck.

She knew he was listening to her heart beating. She was doing exactly the same. The sound familiar and comforting for all the right reasons.

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

✨ let’s do a twst trade ✨

Hello ^^;;

This might be coming out of the blue. I’m typically a very private person and tend to stick with social circles I’m already familiar with.

Recently, I’ve been thinking that it would be nice to put myself out there and interact more! I can get easily overwhelmed, so I thought a good way to go about this is to do a handful of art/writing trades. This keeps the number low and conversation approachable, and I think that’d help slowly ease me into being more comfortable interacting and participating in community events.

***UPDATE: Trades now closed, thank you all for the interest!***

Here are the parameters and other important notes (setting these for my own comfort and lifestyle):

This will be a Twisted Wonderland themed trade because that’s the one thing we can guarantee to have in common.

I’ll write a fic for you! Minimum 1-2k words (but I tend to ramble so it could easily go higher than that), starring at least 2 characters (I can write more, but let’s not go too crazy and ask for all 22 NRC students in one fic).

I CAN write platonic, romantic, angst, fluff, yandere, AUs, etc.

I’m okay with writing any and all TWST characters, including staff, RSA students, family members, and other NPCs.

Of course, OCs are also welcome! I’d love to learn more about yours.

Be prepared with references for your OC(s) if applicable. This could include illustrations, but at the bare minimum should include a written explanation of who the character is, their personality, likes/dislikes, and relationships with canon characters.

There are limits to what I will write, as I am uncomfortable with some subject matters. For example, I’m not willing to write anything pregnancy-related. We can discuss my “no goes” in more detail if we decide to trade!

Upon request, I can do a simple digital piece of art OR a washi tape illustration (you won’t receive the physical piece, just a picture of it) for you. I believe most people know me more for my writing, but I wanted to keep these options on the table!

You trade me a fic of your own OR an artwork of roughly the same quantity/quality. As the saying goes, “what you give is what you get.”

We will talk and agree before we start on our pieces what each of us will generally provide at the end. (For example, a 5k word fic for a full color waist up illustration, 1k word fic for a black-white doodle, etc.)

You have to be okay with receiving a vague prompt. I like to be surprised, so I’ll probably just give you a list of general themes, ideas, and characters I like, then set you loose to see what you come up with.

You can be as specific as you like with your own prompt for me though—I’m flexible. Let me know what you don’t like as well so I can avoid including those elements.

To keep things fair, we’ll both hold onto our pieces and exchange them at the same time.

Regarding my written piece, it will be in a Google Doc for you to access.

This is NOT first come, first serve. I can only realistically take on 3-5 trades at this time depending on interest and complexity. If I turn you down, it’s nothing personal!

Priority will be given to mutuals (chances are that there’s more likely to be common ground if we’re already following each other).

Preference will be given to those indicated as adults in their blog intros/profiles (this is just what vibes the best with my personal communication style)

Be patient!! It may take me a few weeks or more to complete my part.

Be aware that doing a trade with me does NOT necessarily mean we will become best friends, and nor should this be the expectation 😅

If you’re okay with the above and are interested in a trade, please DM me! In your DM, you should indicate some prompts/ideas for what you’d like me to write. Please wait for me to respond; do NOT assume that I’ve accepted the trade request just because you’ve messaged me.