#is it a metaphor for a sensory thing or

[sphylor]

can someone explain the whole obsession with pomegranates in writing and their meaning to me please i dont get ittttt

[cadmium-ores]

people are doing this on, like, Amazon too — haven’t seen something as egregious as leaving the prompt acknowledgement part in but it’s like… what the hell are you people doing?? Trying to get a good grade in reviewing products, something that’s both normal to want and possible to achieve????? was the capitalism not enough, you had to add more capitalism to your capitalism just to feel something?????????????

who is using chatgpt to write perfume reviews??

[insertpinkchiphere]

anonymous asked- Clothes on or Clothes off? this or that? (accepting!)

"Oh ew." The cyborg's lip curls upwards in disgust. The thought of fabric clinging on, damp with sweat makes his skin crawl. A horrible sensory experience he would rather avoid at all costs. Total mood killer right there. "Clothes off, please."

[changelingeyes]

changeling talks about margery kempe in the latest fic even though she is not a saint Because she is not a saint in part because many of her contemporaries found her constant weeping grotesque/obnoxious, which i think changeling (frequent haver of public meltdowns) relates to

[bookshelfdreams]

#hmmmmmm#thinking about my weed or opium theory of the pipe#thinking about how he smokes when hes telling the kraken story#thinking about how hes not smoking when hes with stede#thinking about how at the end of the show when hes most depressed hes making his way through that rum bottle#to be clear my weed or opium theory rests on me thinking hes treating knee brace related pain#but also... hmmm#i agree with you about the visual story telling and stuff but hmmm (via @batsarebetterthanpeople)

someone has probably said this before but i really like the way ed smokes a lot before he meets stede and then. seemingly never again? like theres something visually really satisfying about the fact that when ed is the Mysterious Blackbeard, this powerful menacing figure, he's always surrounded by smoke and fog and wisps, like quite literal smoke and mirrors. we're introduced to the fact that he's at stede's bedside by pipe smoke. we first see him in all his glory while the spanish navy ship burns in the background, he comes out of the haze into view. "his head is made of smoke?" "when he needs it to be" like. then, as soon as we get to know ED. he doesn't smoke at all. his hair is put up, he's less cluttered. he wears like. a tshirt. he just gets so much lighter and brighter and less bogged down and covered in the legacy of Blackbeard it's really cool visual storytelling.

[barleyo]

Frostbitten, Forbidden.

Hector Condicionado X F! Reader (smut)

A/N: another one shot with my favorite cretin. he's so lovely, i just want to eat him in one bite. hope you enjoy reading this!

Tags: dub-con, p in v, creampie, lots and lots and lots of dirty talk, sensory deprivation (eyesight)

Wordcount: 1.1k

Hector would do anything for you. He made it abundantly clear. From the moment you met him, or rather, from the moment he saw you, he knew he would make any sacrifice, any oblation, just to make you happy. No, he didn't want to make you happy—he wanted to keep you happy. A constant state of pleasure and contentment, all due to his own efforts. 

If you were tired, he would build you a bed frame with his bare hands. If you were bored, he would come up with a story to rival the telling of Shakespeare on the spot. Sad? Paw at his vent and tell him all about it. 

Fuck, he would slice his own palms and use the blood to write one of his novels for you if you wanted to do some light reading.

The only thing he couldn't do for you right now was turn up the heat. His only purpose, his one job, he simply couldn't do. Whether there was some sort of blockage in the air filters or a malfunctioning motor, nothing seemed to be working. 

Dead winter and not a single puff of air to ease your pain. 

It tore him up inside more than you would ever know, watching you toss and turn in bed, layering yourself in blankets that hardly helped. He tried for days to fix it himself. He borrowed tools from Tony, but hell if he knew what he was doing. Bang a wrench against the grate? Plead with the thermostat to co-operate? 

He felt like mold. Worse, actually. At least mold gave the world penicillin. What was he giving his beloved? Hypothermia? 

Your poor, freezing legs kicked under the thin covers in discomfort. He knew he had to do something, and he had an inkling of where his mind wanted to go, but it just seemed risky.

Then again, he'd take any risk to satisfy you. 

Your body was shaking inconsolably at this point. You were miserable. Days of straight ice and still air were starting to get to you. Truly, you were convinced it was colder outside your home than in it, but you wouldn't run the chance of finding out. You wanted nothing more than to drift into sleep, but it was too cold to even hope for a good night's rest. 

Just as you began to give up, you felt the bed dip beside you. That wasn't right. You lived alone. 

You tried to scream, but a quick hand covered your mouth. Was this the end? Jesus, why you?

"Hush, my love, it is I."

Oh. 

You slacked in Hector's grasp. You had heard his voice many times, and although it sounded a bit different outside of the vent, you still felt its comforting tones wash over you. That didn't change your confusion. Why was he out of the vent?

As if he could hear your thoughts clicking, he answered, "I couldn't stand to see you like this. Suffering, when I can do something about it."

You hummed against his palm in understanding. Your eyes flicked across the wall in front of you as you laid on your side. You wanted to flip over and see him. You tried to resist the urge, to respect his privacy, but your body acted on its own.

Hector quelled your movements sharply, firm hand turning your head to face the wall again. 

"You know I cannot have that." His calloused hand covered your eyes instead. He cupped his palm over them to keep you both literally and metaphorically in the dark about his appearances. "Don't focus on anything but my warmth. Let me help you, amor."

He hastily fidgeted with his belt, popping the buckle with overly eager hands. 

"Let me make everything up to you. Please."

"Don't you know what it does to me to have this power over you?" 

Hector had gotten much more into this than he thought he would. Obviously, a chance to get this close to you, to touch you, was heaven, but to have complete control?

This was the stuff of fantasy. 

Total domination, zero vulnerability. An opportunity to act on all the depraved things he had said to you in the vents without the fear of being judged for his looks? Sign him up.

"To have you at my mercy? To have all of your trust?" He bottomed out, pushing your face into your pillow. Gentle, as to not hurt his precious girl. "I've wanted this for so many moons. So much wasted time—god—if I knew it could be like this..."

You moaned a strangled little noise into the fluffy pillow. He hated not being able to hear the full extent of your pleasure, but there would be time for that another day.

"That's right," Hector said, voice syrupy and warm as he spoke to you, "I would've taken you much earlier."

His hands gripped your hips and forced them upwards. He dreamed about this. It nearly felt like deja vu, seeing as how he thought of bending you into these nasty positions many times before. It was almost too good to be true. 

"Maybe I would have snuck out of the wretched vent early in the morning to visit you." 

What a tease.

"Or maybe late at night. Late when you think nobody hears you, touching yourself in the dark." His hips stuttered. He didn't want to cum yet, not until you did. He wouldn't forgive himself if he messed up yet again. "I hear you. I hear every sound, every little noise you make. I turn the air up. Make it nice and loud, so nobody else gets to enjoy the show you put on."

Despite the slight uncomfortableness of the angle he put you in, you could see why he did it. He was hitting deep. Deep and purposeful. It was too much for you to handle, especially with his teasing. 

"If only you would have asked me for help. I would've been out in a heartbeat." 

A sexy, but flagrant lie. The sweet vent-dweller took to hiding deep in the vents when you masturbated, stroking himself recklessly while trying to silence his breathing. He was far too nervous to actually do anything about it and far too ashamed of eavesdropping. 

"Next time you need pleasure," he choked out, feeling your gummy walls flutter around him, "call for me."

If he had any shame in the current moment, he'd be horrified at how quickly he came after you. He was simply waiting for your body's permission before he blew.

"I'm always here for you, love."

[jungkoode]

ALTARS IN SHALLOW WATERS | 05

➔ PAIRING: Taehyung x Y/N (ballerina x stalker AU)

➔ MOODBOARD

➔ RATING: Mature, 18+, explicit themes and content.

➔ DATE POSTED: June 18, 2025.

➔ SUMMARY: Altars crumble faster in shallow water. But he still knelt like it was sacred. No one ever warned you that worship could look like love. Or that love could look like drowning.

➔ TAGS: second person perspective, female reader, ballerina!Y/N, stalker!taehyung, obsessive devotion, psychological tension, fixation, worship dynamics, Paris setting, religious imagery, voyeurism, sacred/profane dichotomy, slow burn, touch starvation, ritualistic behavior, gradual corruption, power dynamics, mirror imagery, water symbolism, sensory details, clean/unclean fixation, contamination OCD, professional dancer, self-destructive patterns, compulsive behavior, unhealthy coping mechanisms, possessive tendencies, praise addiction, spiritual yearning, toxic attraction, dangerous adoration, self-loathing, body discipline, mental health issues, self-harm, mental deterioration, unresolved sexual tension (for now).

➔ CONTENT in this chapter: ritualistic behavior with stolen ribbon, escalating obsession, voyeuristic elements at reader's apartment, sexual tension and arousal, religious/profane imagery, compulsive counting, mental deterioration, stalking behavior, trespassing, contamination obsession, self-flagellation themes, discovery of reader's address.

➔ AUTHOR'S INTRO AND TRIGGER WARNINGS

➔ MASTERLIST | TAGLIST REQ | WORDCOUNT: 4,7k

➔ A/N: WOAH. OKAY. So here’s where it starts getting twisted—like actually, visibly, irreversibly twisted. I know a lot of you were waiting for this shift and yeah. Yeah. We’re here. The ribbon. That ribbon. Taehyung is not okay about it (shock and awe, I know), and spoiler: he’s going to get worse. Much worse. (See you in ASW 6, you unhinged creatures.) After Chapter 4, I answered some asks clarifying that ASW!Taehyung is not Joe Goldberg from You. They are not in the same moral orbit, not even in the same psychological universe. Yes, Taehyung is a stalker. But he’s not narcissistic—he’s self-loathing. And that’s the core of this fic’s emotional architecture: the dichotomy between someone who sees themselves as filth, and someone who has been told she must be perfect at all times or else she ceases to exist. You (reader) are not idolized because you’re believed to be chosen, you’re held to impossible standards you’ve internalized as worth. Meanwhile, Taehyung is clinging to the only clean thing he’s ever known—you—and punishing himself for even looking. This isn’t romanticization. This is exploration: of obsession, of shame, of how mental illness contorts perception into scripture. That ribbon has become his holy relic, his proof of closeness, of desecration. He knows it’s wrong. He feels sick about it. He repeats profane like a prayer because he still has a conscience, but it’s being eroded by compulsion, not delusion. The moment he sees the number 307—ending in seven—his brain needs it to mean something. That’s how OCD roots itself. Not in logic, but in craving: for patterns, for signs, for tethering a chaotic world to meaning. The ribbon is a tourniquet, the watch a mask. The burgundy leotard scene was one of the hardest things I’ve written emotionally because it demanded I plunge into the mind of a man who is drowning in his own hunger—for cleanliness, for beauty, for her—and who knows, deep down, that he’s already crossed the line. The language is meant to reflect that too: sweet metaphors wrapped around rot. Cloying, saccharine descriptions that melt into grime. Because she is soft, sweet, sugar—and he is rust, mold, contamination. This is about the slow corrosion of restraint into justification. The moment at the end—“he will never be absolved. he never wants to be.”—that is the death of devotion and the birth of possession. The horror of obsession isn’t ignorance—it’s awareness, and the inability to stop. And now we’ve crossed the Rubicon. Stay sick. Love y’all. <3

➔ SERIES : PREVIOUS | NEXT

PLAYLIST

(ribbon, ribbon, ribbon)

The ribbon. Blue ribbon. Navy ribbon.

It doesn't belong in this room.

Not draped across the mattress, not clutched in his raw, trembling hand, not wound around the pale underside of his wrist like a ligature or a secret.

The blue is too deliberate against his skin—navy satin in a world where nothing soft survives, a strip of color that catches the yellow light and refuses to become invisible, even when he tries to hide it under the fraying elastic of his watchband.

Taehyung knows it's wrong to have it.

No—worse than wrong.

He doesn't remember picking it up (lie) but he remembers the press of your thumb as you stripped it from your warmers, the way it fell—lazy, perfect spiral—onto the wooden floor.

You left it behind.

The ribbon is an afterthought, a thing without value. Discarded, like the crusts of bread he's swept under his mother's table, like the #41 bus tickets still creased and yellowing in his coat pocket, like the things that never count for anything in the brief accounting of a day.

It shouldn't matter. It shouldn't feel like proof.

(but it does it matters it burns)

He tells himself the same things he always does: you never looked at him, you never meant for anyone to see it. Picking it up was reflex. Cleaning the floor, as always. Maintenance. Sanitation. Salvage. You drop, he retrieve. World as it's always been. Filth and order.

But his hands know better.

His hands, red with nerves and compulsive effort, can't let this particular piece of refuse go.

Ribbons don't last here—nylon fibers fray, stains settle in—yet in his palm it's as soft as wet hair between his fingers, as alien as forgiveness.

He's sitting on the edge of his bed, knees pressed together, back humped, the same way he used to shrink into himself after his father's bad days. The covers are thin, yellowed at the edges.

He stains everything he touches; there's no point pretending otherwise.

The room smells of bleach and must.

Damp wool, tired lungs.

The window is shut against the rain, but he can feel the temperature buffering up in little shudders along the glass.

Fifteen minutes until work. Thirty-seven minutes until the room with the glass, the one that nerves him up so sharp that his wrists pulse with heat, anticipation, dread.

He tracks the minutes because they're easier, cleaner, than tracking want. Minutes break into sevens, sevens stack into hours, and hours mark the gaps between the rare moments he feels chosen, if only by accident, if only as a collector of things nobody else wants.

And now this. The ribbon.

He ties it slowly, methodically, looping once, twice, three times around his left wrist, then again the other way, tugging until the ends lay flush, trembling in the airless light.

The knot is careful. The knot is essential. The knot means it will not fall, even if the rest of him does.

He threads the battered black watch over it, buckle scraping the bones of his wrist. It presses the satin into his skin, hiding the color from the world.

Only he knows it's there. Only he feels the drag—tight, secret—when he turns his hand over, feeling the pulse flutter beneath flesh and new devotion.

Why the watch?

He never wore one before. Used his phone, the clock on the register at work, the screech of the metro beneath the floorboards, marking time by sound, not weight.

Watches collect bacteria—he can recite the numbers, the studies, each one a slab of proof about the dangers of contamination trapped beneath plastic and steel.

But now: watch as imperative. Watch as excuse. Nobody asks about a watch. Nobody asks what he hides beneath it.

Nobody asks about the way the blue edge peeks out sometimes, how he fidgets with the hard disc on his arm whenever he feels eyes on him, real or imagined.

How he feels safest when the ribbon is tightest, marking the skin in a faint seam that echoes all the other places he's tried, and failed, to excise dirt and memory and want.

It's not enough, having it. Not really.

When was the last time anyone chose him for anything but labor or blame?

His stomach pitches, hollow with disgust, that familiar lurch like swallowing a chunk of rotten apple.

Profane, profane, profane—wanting to belong, wanting to matter, wanting to be held in the same equation as someone like you.

He shouldn't want that.

There's something shameful about even imagining it: your attention landing where it shouldn't, on someone who was never meant to be witnessed.

He tastes bitterness, mouth dry, tongue heavy.

He presses the watchband down, hard, until the buckle pinches. There, that's punishment. There, that's the line between suffering and sin.

The blue edge disappears under the watch—a secret now—and the throbbing at his wrist feels halfway to honesty.

He checks the time again.

Five minutes gone, spent thinking of you, of the ribbon, of the terrible possibility that one day you might notice what's hidden.

That moment—almost as sharp as terror—sends a flicker of hope up his throat so fast he wants to gag.

To be seen is to be ruined, to be named, to be known as the thief of things you've discarded.

But maybe to be seen is to be chosen, too.

The air in the room puffs up like clouds clogging the sky.

He bends forward, elbows on knees, face in hands, breathing through the panic tight in his chest.

The pressure soothes, a little. His eyes press shut.

The afterimage of your dance flickers beneath his eyelids—the turn, the fall, the blue ribbon spiraling to the floor like a dropped line from shore to deep water.

Maybe you choose things for a reason.

Maybe toys get discarded because they're broken, but even broken things have stories.

Maybe this is his—blue satin, hidden under plastic, marking time by your indifference, his devotion.

Thirty-one minutes until the room with the window. Nine until he has to walk beneath the flickering signs to the store where the world will forget he exists.

The ribbon tightens again at his pulse: reminder, tether, confession.

He doesn't know if he's ready to be chosen.

But he knows, at last, what it feels like to hold proof of having been wanted—if only once, if only by accident, if only by you.

Burgundy burns through the glass like a wound.

The color sits wrong on his retinas, darker than the navy that came before, deeper than anything he's prepared for.

Burgundy—not red, never just red, because red is too simple a word for what wraps around your torso like a second skin, for what pulls taut across your sternum when you extend into another sequence.

(burgundy burgundy burgundy)

His mouth fills with copper. Like he's bitten through his tongue again, though his teeth stay clamped shut.

The ribbon at his wrist pulses—navy against burgundy, yesterday against today, what you discarded against what you chose to wear.

Color was nothing before you. Gray convenience store, beige walls, black uniform.

Now each shade feels like scripture.

Navy first, the soft surrender of something you let fall.

Now burgundy, deliberate as blood.

Blood under nails. Blood in spit. Blood on thighs.

The associations stack up fast, faster than he can count them away.

His forearm itches where yesterday's scratches have scabbed over—seven parallel lines, precise as staff paper. His knees ache from last night's penance, two hours on bathroom tile until the bruises bloomed purple-black. His thighs bear their own map of restraint, crescents where fingernails dug deep enough to break the monotony of wanting.

Because it hasn't even been a week—four days? five?—since he first saw you through this window, and already his thoughts have curdled into something unmanageable.

They're worse at night.

(always worse when the lights go out when he can't count ceiling tiles when there's nothing but darkness and the memory of)

He counts your pirouettes.

One-two-three-four-five-six-seven.

Perfect, as always. Perfect as he is imperfect, clean as he is contaminated, holy as he is profane.

When you pause to drink water, the burgundy fabric rises and falls with your breathing. He tracks each inhale, each exhale, timing his own breath to match until his chest burns with the effort of synchronized devotion.

(macarons macarons goddamn macarons)

The craving hits him like a fist to the sternum.

Rose macarons, powdered sugar dissolving on his tongue, the ghost-taste of how you smell when you pass close enough to contaminate his air with perfection.

He doesn't know hunger—has trained himself to exist on emptiness and obligation—but lately the want gnaws at him, hollow and horrible and all-consuming.

Feed him sugar. Feed him sweetness. Feed him the phantom flavor of your skin.

(profane profane profane stop thinking about taste about skin about)

You're finishing now. He knows your timing like scripture—ninety-three minutes of practice, seven minutes of cool-down, four minutes to gather your things.

The clock above the register reads 6:47.

Time to leave.

His hands shake as he counts the till. Seven stacks of bills. Count them again. Seven. Again. The numbers blur but the ritual remains.

One-two-three-four-five-six-seven.

The paper feels dirty beneath his latex gloves, contaminated by every hand that's touched it, but that's nothing compared to how dirty he feels watching you, wanting you, breathing the same air you've blessed with your presence.

Marcel left early—he always does on Thursdays, something about his daughter, something about life beyond this purgatory of fluorescent lights and expired goods.

Taehyung prefers the evening shifts alone.

No witnesses to his vigil.

No questions about why he stands at the back door, why he watches the narrow alley between buildings, why his breath fogs the window in careful patterns of seven.

Through the store window, he sees you emerge from the academy's side entrance.

Burgundy covered now by that oversized cardigan, but he knows what's beneath. Knows the way fabric clings to your waist, the precise angle of your collarbones, the mathematics of your beauty that he'll never solve.

(shouldn't know can't know knows anyway)

You pause at the corner, adjust your bag. The movement is economical, necessary. Everything you do is necessary. Nothing wasted, nothing excessive.

Not like him with his compulsions and his counting and his stolen ribbons hidden beneath watchbands.

6:51. Time.

He locks the register. Checks the lock. Checks again. Seven times total before his brain permits him to step away.

The store keys feel heavy in his pocket—responsibility he never wanted but can't abandon because abandoning things is what his parents did, what everyone does, what he'll never do to you even though you don't know he exists beyond the anonymous exchange of coins for cotton pads.

(pathetic pathetic pathetic)

The door lock requires another seven checks.

His reflection in the glass shows what he always sees—hollow face, unwashed hair, the uniform that never quite fits because he's the wrong shape for normal life.

How does someone like him dare to exist in the same world as your burgundy divinity?

You're already past the convenience store when he emerges.

He shouldn't watch you. Shouldn't know your pathways by heart.

But his feet know the route. Have memorized it through weeks of careful observation from the loading dock, from the alley shadows, from the safe distance of someone who understands his place in your universe.

Not following—following implies intent, implies threat, implies he has any right to share your path.

This is just... alignment. Synchronicity. The inevitable gravity of the unworthy toward the divine.

The street is damp from afternoon rain, reflecting neon in oily puddles. Beautiful. Ugly. Both.

The city can't decide what it wants to be, just like him—torn between the urge to disappear and the need to witness you existing in real time, in real space, in burgundy that makes his chest tight and his thoughts fragment into prayers he'll never voice.

One hundred meters ahead. Safe distance. Sacred distance.

The number matters—close enough to ensure your safety from the world's contamination, far enough to prevent his own corruption from reaching you.

He knows this route only to the first cross-street, where you turn left and vanish into territories he's forbidden himself from mapping.

(not yet not yet but maybe soon)

This time, however, the corner pulls him forward like thread through a needle.

He doesn't decide to follow—his feet simply continue their pilgrimage past the boundary he's drawn in his mind, past the invisible line that separates permitted observation from (wrong wrong wrong) trespass. The burgundy burns behind his eyelids even though you've vanished around the corner, even though all that's left is the echo of your footsteps on wet pavement.

(macarons in windows, macarons in dreams, macarons dissolving like communion wafers)

His body moves without permission. One block becomes two, two becomes three, and suddenly he's standing at the base of a building he's never seen before, watching you climb exterior stairs that spiral up like vertebrae.

You're going home.

(turn back turn back turn back)

But his eyes track your ascent—stairs, rusted gray, curve up to a door. Sage green, chipped and dignified, holding itself together by force of will.

And then—your door.

307.

A seven.

His palms go clammy—lucky number, holy number, not a coincidence, can't be a coincidence. The world doesn't offer signs to men like him unless it comes with warning.

But this is a warped blessing, a number flashed like prophecy: you live behind a seven, while he lives in a tangle of sevens and filth, fate and want knotted tight enough to cut circulation off at the wrist.

(walk away walk away now now now now now walkwalkawayawayWALKAWAY)

He should.

He doesn't.

Feet soft as shadow, fingers twitching, he moves.

Not the front steps. Never where someone could see. He hugs the wall, skirts the patch of mint overgrown at the foundation, finds the metal back stairs that curl behind the building. They hum with old rust, grease.

He can't tell if the churning in his chest is terror or hope.

He doesn't breathe as he mounts each tread—one, two, three, up to seven, then again, and again.

His pulse is a counting game, his hands are pillows of sweat. Everything blurs except for the balcony.

Not much of a balcony—just iron rail, shallow space, concrete dust. But it's outside your window. It's liminal, not entrance, not street: a soft diluted sin.

The curtains are parted. Not wide. Enough. Enough for a sliver of light to slip out, for a slice of the room, for him to press close and peek.

And there—you.

Blush blossom of your profile. Your back curved, arms rising, that mauve cardigan slipping from your shoulders like a cloud.

Burgundy. Burgundy everywhere.

The maillot hugs you in places his vocabulary fails to name. Across chest, between thighs, the shadowed V where the fabric vanishes between legs.

He forces himself not to swallow, not to blink, afraid to lose even half a second's vision.

He doesn't mean to watch. He doesn't mean to linger. He doesn't mean—

But he's pressed so close to the glass he's a smear, breath fogging, hand clamped over his own mouth.

His cock throbs stupidly behind zipper, blushing heat gathering at the tip like shameful cream, thick pillow ache in his groin.

He's dizzy.

He's pathetic.

He's—

You're real. You're there. You're not a statue, not divine marble, not the idea of perfection—you're pulling off your sweater and the static makes your hair fuzz at the crown.

One spaghetti strap falls, a shy red line across your shoulder. It sticks for a moment, caught on the ridge of your scapula, before sliding down with a whisper.

Your spine is a line of small freckles, a secret celestial map.

Left shoulder blade, three small speckles like chocolate dots on a macaron. Hollow of your back, a soft dimple just above the curve.

He wants to press his mouth there, roll his tongue over each freckle one by one, pillow-soft, until you're gasping clouds into the crook of his neck.

(blasphemous, blasphemous, blasphemousblasphemousblas)

The second strap drops.

You peel the maillot slowly, awkward, skin catching briefly on elastic.

He's shaking—palms, knees, eyelids, cock so hard it aches against his thigh.

The fabric skims lower, lower, revealing the narrow of your waist, the small of your back, the place where spine melts into soft round hip.

He learns you by inches. He is a student at the altar of you, face burning, breath caught, body strung tight as a pulled bow.

The burgundy bunches at your waist and for a sticky, sick moment he sees the edge of your backside, the upper swell, curves like blushing meringue; and he groans, quiet—so quiet—cock leaking, thighs pressed together hard enough to bruise.

You step out of view.

Bathroom. The door shuts.

He slumps against the iron rail, chest heaving, forehead pressed to cold glass.

Breath returns like a storm—rushed and ugly, rattling.

He almost sobs.

(shouldn't, mustn't, it's disgusting, divine, divine, divine, sickening)

Precum pools sticky in his briefs, making a mess that feels like penance, embarrassment flooding every cell.

He'd never. Can't. Won't. He doesn't.

(yes he will he will—)

No, no, no—he's frozen.

Breathes in, tastes his own hunger.

He fingers the navy ribbon tied under his watch, feels the texture, the threadbare softness pressed tight against his frantic pulse.

He mouths a silent prayer: forgive me, forgive me, forgive me, over and over, seven times.

You are gone behind the door and he (shameful, sick, twisted) imagines the rest: maillot pulled past your thighs, the part of you unseen, all the secret warmth, the little dimples at the base of your spine leading to places he's never permitted his mind to go.

He wants to melt into the floorboards. He wants to peel off his skin and dissolve into the night air. He wants to be nothing. He wants to be everything you touch, everything you throw away, everything you leave behind.

He's never felt this particular brand of hunger—raw and cotton-candy-sick, craving and revulsion at once.

Wants to be consumed by you, wants to pray to you, wants to bow his head to your ankles and ask for ruin.

He's a monster. He's a parishioner. He's a child. He's a thief.

And still the want doesn't fade.

He stands sticky and shaking, forehead pressed so hard to the glass he leaves a halo when he finally pulls away.

His legs are weak, cloud-soft. His cock is wet at the tip, every throb agony.

He doesn't dare move. Doesn't dare breathe, in case you come back.

In case he's caught in the act.

(desecration, desecration, desecration)

His lungs crackle—he's been holding air too long.

At last he inhales, ragged and shallow, and the cold slices through him, quelling the heat just enough to let him move his hands back to his sides, the navy ribbon cold and slick under his fingers.

Through the bathroom door, he hears water running. You're washing away the day, the sweat, the city's touch. Everything he's too contaminated to ever wash clean.

When you emerge, will you be wrapped in white? In nothing? Will he have the strength to look away, or will he sit here like the garden-variety pervert he's become, cataloging more pieces of you that don't belong to him?

(leave leave leave while you still can)

But the seven on your door holds him pinned like an insect to cork.

Seven. His number. Your number.

The universe's cruelest joke, making him think for one delirious second that this means something, that he means something, that a coincidence of brass could transform him from waste to worthy.

Holy number on your door. Holy sin at your window. Holy trembling in his chest.

He has trespassed. He will never be clean again.

He stumbles backward, legs jelly, his whole body flooded with sick joy-ache-ruin.

He knows, beyond a doubt, he will never be absolved.

He knows, beyond a doubt, he never wants to be.

goal: 300 notes

taglist: @cannotalwaysbenight @taevescence @itstoastsworld @somehowukook @stutixmaru @chloepiccoliniii @kimnamjoonmiddletoe @annyeongbitch7 @mar-lo-pap @mikrokookiex @minniejim @curse-of-art @mellyyyyyyx @rpwprpwprpwprw @billy-jeans23 @calmyourtitts7 @weasleyswizarding-wheezes @dltyum @dailynnt @sashakittyct @bjoriis @hemmosfear @bettytta

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no reposts, translations, or adaptations

[deception-united]

hello fellow human

i wanna write smut but I suck at writing in general

Hi, thanks for asking!

Writing Smut

1. Describe, but don't get too poetic.

It's always important to have sentences that flow well and use descriptive language no matter what it is you're writing:

Ex: Rather than "He kissed her. She gasped. He touched her thigh," use more sensory language like "His mouth traced a slow path upwards, heat following in its wake. She exhaled sharply, fingers curling into his shirt" etc.

However, something I've noticed some writers tend to do is get too metaphorical with it, and as a reader, it frankly makes me uncomfortable when I read things like 'their bodies tangled together in mother nature's sexual slow dance' or idk.

2. Know your characters.

Smut isn’t one-size-fits-all. When writing a scene, consider their personalities, history, experience, and emotional state, and make it reflect that. For example, a shy character usually won’t become dominant all of a sudden unless there’s a reason; or a guarded character who typically resists vulnerability might be more awkward, unsure, or reluctant at first. Also consider their communication style (are they verbal? Do they tease? Do they hesitate or take control?) Bottom line is, make it more character-driven.

3. Avoid getting overly clinical.

Focus on sensory details rather than the mechanics: don't just list actions like a biology textbook. "He inserted X into Y" isn't hot—describe feelings instead (heat pooling in the stomach, the burn of a touch, hitch of breath, rustle of fabric, etc.).

4. Consent & power dynamics

Even in dark or rougher scenes or the wildest fantasy settings, it's important to have clarity on consent (unless the lack of it is the point). If your character's don't communicate at all, or if something feels off, the scene can easily turn uncomfortable or confusing. A character might want to be overpowered or controlled—but the reader should always know it’s wanted.

5. Word choices matter.

Avoid overly clinical words like "member", but also avoid purple prose. You don’t need to turn into a thesaurus and call it "his throbbing sword of love and desire" (please) but you also don’t want to be so vague that no one knows what’s happening. Overall, keep it natural; if you’re cringing while writing, reconsider.

6. Before & after

Have some buildup. If they go from casual conversation to ripping each other’s clothes off with zero transition, it’s gonna feel flat and likely confusing.

Aftercare is important as well. Once it's over, add a little moment of tenderness, teasing, a shared cigarette, something. Or maybe they don't bask in the moment and immediately get dressed like nothing happened and go their separate ways (it all depends on your characters, their relationship, and the narrative).

___

Aside from all this, it's important to get comfortable with writing first. If you feel like you suck at it, smut might not necessarily be the best starting point—you're not just describing bodies, but have to take into account the pacing, emotion, tension, flow of action, all that. You don’t need to be a literary genius, but it's good to have some sort of a foundation. If you feel unprepared, try practicing with writing simple, mundane scenes, like a character drinking coffee or two people arguing over something petty. If you can describe that in an engaging way, describing more complex scenes will seem much less daunting. Critically reading similar scenes to what you want to write in books or fanfics can also help gain a better grasp of the whole thing.

Hope this helped! Happy writing ❤

Previous | Next

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Notes: Descriptive Sentences

Description - what an author uses to depict a character, setting, or scene in a way that creates an image in the reader’s mind.

It’s the way that authors bring characters to life and create imaginative settings.

Well-crafted descriptive writing draws readers into the story and provides essential details to propel the action forward.

Tips for Writing Descriptive Sentences

Cut out obvious descriptions. One of the most common traps that new writers fall into is using predictable words to describe something—for instance, writing a sentence like, “The blue sky was dotted with white, fluffy clouds.” For the most part, when someone hears the word “sky,” they’ll picture it blue, and when they picture clouds, they’ll picture them “white” and “fluffy.” Adjectives like these are unnecessary and can bog down your writing. Simply cut those descriptive words out of the sentence. “The sky was dotted with clouds” conjures the exact same image and is shorter and more focused.

Use surprising words. Once your sentences are free of any obvious descriptive details, you have the space to pepper in some more interesting words. Pushing your descriptions in new and surprising directions will help your sentences be memorable for readers. For instance, if you want to describe a rainy day, the easy way to describe it would be to mention “the stormy sky”—but something a little more unique could be “the angry sky” or “the boiling sky.” Brainstorm common adjectives and other describing words and use them in unique ways to keep your writing fresh and interesting.

Remember sensory details. A common adage for good descriptive writing is “show, don’t tell”—and sensory information is a great way to make that happen. Sprinkling in specific details that appeal to readers’ five senses (sight, hearing, taste, touch, and smell) will bring your scenes to life and make them feel richer and more interesting.

Make use of figurative language. One of the most powerful literary devices that writers have is figurative language, which goes beyond literal definitions in order to describe things in a more interesting way. Comparisons like similes (using “like” or “as”) or metaphors (saying one thing is something else) can help paint instant pictures of your characters or settings; for instance, “His nose was a gnarled root growing out of his face” can pack a lot more punch than saying “His nose was twisted and misshapen.” Other types of figurative language include onomatopoeia, which uses words that sound like what they mean (e.g., “the pitter-patter of raindrops”), and hyperbole, which is a form of exaggeration (e.g., “he rang the doorbell a million times”).

Think about who is doing the describing. In most points of view, you’ll be writing from a character’s perspective—either using “I” and “me” in first-person or “they” and “them” in third-person. It may not seem obvious at first, but point of view is a descriptive element that can help you build a believable world for your story. To use POV properly, make sure that you’re thinking about your character’s perspective as you describe so that the description feels true to the way they would speak.

Be wary of over-description. To create effective descriptive writing, less is more. Try to limit yourself to one or two interesting details the first time you introduce a character or setting, and readers will fill in the rest. For instance, if you say “The cabin room was sparse except for the looming stuffed grizzly in the corner,” readers can fill in the details for themselves without you needing to describe the floorboards, the windows, the bedsheets, and what your character had for dinner last week. This will help readers remember each character or setting better than if you had an entire descriptive paragraph for each.

Read good examples of descriptive writing. If you start to feel stuck when trying to write vivid description, look up a few of your favorite books or short stories and see how other writers do it. Pay attention to what they do that you like—whether it’s only writing their description in simple sentence structure or making sure that the following sentences include strong action to counteract the description. Then, sit down and try to replicate their tactics in a simple writing activity to see where it takes you.

Source ⚜ More: Notes & References ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

[sheepwavehdg]

Many of HDG's loudest detractors miss the point when they describe the setting as horror. They are not wrong, but because they do not engage with the themes, subtext and metaphors at play, instead focusing on a purely literal understanding of the setting, they don't understand why they find it so offputting. They yell about humanity never reaching its full potential, or the violations of individual spirit that lie at its heart. HDG imagines a world where the kind of treatment that the severely disabled among us experience is universal.

And yeah... Fair. A factual recount of my life is actually pretty horrifying.

HDG exists in conversation with disability. It is not about being trans or queer, though there is obviously a lot of overlap. It is about imagining a world where those who have disabilities are cared for, and pulling apart the complicated feelings that authors have about the loss of control required for that to happen.

The mechanics of the specific allegories that HDG employs to examine disability frequently lean into noncon, but remember, nobody who is disabled asked to be, and we are frequently the victims of systemic abuse they the Affini are often a cathartic reclaiming of.

HDG is about a world where you go through that and emerge with a promise that you will be cared for on the other side. That you don't have to navigate systems seemingly intentionally designed for you to fall through the cracks, where you won't be expected to be able to do what everyone else is capable of.

HDG is also written by those of us who survived. Straight up, I should be dead, and it is only through the incredible support of my loved ones that I have a home at all. Those of us who can live to tell the tale of severe disability are, by definition, biased to examine caretaker and provider roles.

The moment you realize you are truly disabled, that you will never, ever live the life you have been promised, where a doctor infantalizes and criticizes you for things you never had control over, is a kind of death. The breaking of the narrative that you have the ability to fully self determine is painful. It leaves you forever changed.

This is a fact of the setting that is easily lost under the joy inherent to kink. Traumatized and broken people deserve joy, and I don't think the utopian elements of HDG don't belong, but they are not the whole picture.

Some of my examinations are happy, like Good Sensory. Others examine how hard it is to trust after being kicked for so long, like Cat and Mouse. All are messy and personal.

HDG describes a world where everyone like me survives. The life I live every day, but made safe, and comfortable, for everyone. And to some, that is one of the most scary things they can imagine.

[pixierainbows]

30daysofautismacceptance

April 14th: What are some of the most difficult aspects of being autistic to you? What makes it difficult? Talk about it.

For Pixie is really hard be being nonverbal and have cognitive disability . So many things Pixie just not can do or understand .

Pixie see other autism people often say need direct conversation because not can understand social cues or language that be metaphors . But Pixie also really struggle to understand direct communication , especially abstract subjects , and often need information and words be simplified to be able have any chance of understand .

Also , People are too much expect AAC devices fix all communication problems . and . maybe is true for other nonverbal people what can type make own words . But not true for Pixie , not can make own words , not can type . Pixie communicate with symbol based AAC device because not can make own words . need pictures , images , icons to communicate .

Sensory problems are also very very very disabling for Pixie .

[kleopatra45]

Degrees of Mercury in the Natal Chart

Mercury in Aries Degrees (1°, 13°, 25°)

These degrees suggest a direct, assertive communication style. Individuals with Mercury at these degrees may be quick-thinking, decisive, and eager to take the lead in conversations. They may express themselves with passion and enthusiasm, sometimes coming across as straightforward or impatient.

Mercury in Taurus Degrees (2°, 14°, 26°)

Degrees in Taurus imply a practical, grounded approach to communication. Those with Mercury at these degrees may have a deliberate, methodical way of speaking and thinking. They value stability and may express themselves with a focus on tangible results and sensory experience.

Mercury in Gemini Degrees (3°, 15°, 27°)

These degrees suggest a versatile, communicative style. Individuals with Mercury at these degrees may be naturally curious, adaptable, and skilled at processing information quickly. They enjoy mental stimulation, learning new things, and engaging in lively conversations with others.

Mercury in Cancer Degrees (4°, 16°, 28°)

Degrees in Cancer imply a sensitive, intuitive approach to communication. Those with Mercury at these degrees may have a nurturing, empathetic way of expressing themselves. They are attuned to emotions and may communicate with a focus on personal experiences and connections.

Mercury in Leo Degrees (5°, 17°, 29°)

These degrees suggest a dramatic, expressive communication style. Individuals with Mercury at these degrees may have a confident, theatrical way of speaking and thinking. They enjoy being heard and valued for their ideas, and they may emphasize creativity and individuality in their communication.

Mercury in Virgo Degrees (6°, 18°)

These degrees imply a detailed, analytical approach to communication. Those with Mercuryat these degrees may have a precise, methodical way of thinking and speaking. They value clarity and organization in their communication, often focusing on practical matters and problem-solving.

Mercury in Libra Degrees (7°, 19°)

Degrees in Libra suggest a diplomatic, harmonious communication style. Individuals with Mercury at these degrees may have a balanced, fair-minded way of expressing themselves. They value cooperation and may seek consensus in conversations, often considering multiple perspectives.

Mercury in Scorpio Degrees (8°, 20°)

These degrees suggest an intense, probing approach to communication. Those with Mercury at these degrees may have a deep, perceptive way of thinking and speaking. They are drawn to uncovering hidden truths and may communicate with passion and emotional depth.

Mercury in Sagittarius Degrees (9°, 21°)

Degrees in Sagittarius imply an expansive, philosophical approach to communication. Individuals with Mercury at these degrees may have a broad-minded, adventurous way of thinking and speaking. They enjoy exploring big ideas, beliefs, and cultural differences in their communication.

Mercury in Capricorn Degrees (10°, 22°)

These degrees suggest a practical, disciplined approach to communication. Those with Mercury at these degrees may have a focused, goal-oriented way of thinking and speaking. They value responsibility and may communicate with authority and a sense of purpose.

Mercury in Aquarius Degrees (11°, 23°)

These degrees imply an innovative, unconventional approach to communication. Individuals with Mercury at these degrees may have a progressive, forward-thinking way of thinking and speaking. They enjoy exploring new ideas, advocating for social change, and may communicate with a detached, intellectual style.

Mercury in Pisces Degrees (12°, 24°)

Degrees in Pisces suggest a sensitive, intuitive approach to communication. Those with Mercury at these degrees may have a compassionate, imaginative way of thinking and speaking. They are attuned to subtleties and may communicate through symbols, metaphors, or artistic expression.

©️kleopatra45

[venomous-qwille]

So, I’m autistic myself, but any pro tips for writing neurodiversity in characters? Pretty please?

I just take different parts of my own ND experience and amplify them with different characters!

So for cricket, it's creating an unreliable narrator by showing the world through the lens of someone with RSD, who is constantly trying to understand/react to the people around them in a way that doesn't 'rock the boat'. Who misinterprets the signals other people send (or don't send), because they don't quite understand how others think. Cricket also immediately accepts other peoples criticisms and negative jokes as literal truth- this is both internalised low self esteem and autism. The Sight is also a metaphor for sensory overstim that comes with autism. When I have to write exposition, I try to do it in the rambling, detailed way of someone who is explaining a special interest (all crickets repair scenes, for instance, where they are harping on about restoration minutiae).

But cricket isn't the only ND character!

Harry is very autism coded, through his collection/interests you see in the setting (a lot of show not tell there) and also in how he fundamentally clicks with cricket in some areas (ND minds think alike) yet has no real understanding of how he has hurt them or the way his actions effect them- there is a lot of bullheaded obliviousness which is the ugly side of autism.

Soleil is masking 2000% of the time. I write him straight up as I was as a deeply traumatized autistic teenager. You don't see his internal world at all, he is constantly modulating/masking his voice, hiding his stims, trying to copy human 'civility', trying to perform politeness and hide his anxiety. You see him self soothe by cleaning in a few chapters.

Sunspot is fun to write because I'm leveraging the 'low Vs hyper empathy' side of ND, exploring that stuff through the way he reacts to things and his relationship with being something non human that looks the most human of all.

I could go on about the other characters, but this is the crux of it:

Try to use show not tell as much as possible

Take the opportunity to weave it into the format/the unreliable narrator

Leverage your personal experiences

Show how characters react to stuff/events/eachother and imagine how those reactions might be effected by their neurodivergence

Thaaaat's about it! I think using personal experiences is the most important one, that's always core to good writing no matter what type of character you are working on.

[twilightofthesandwiches]

So let’s go through this one-by-one, shall we?

Red Guy

Flat affect in voice, not very expressive 

Or from the perspective of other Red Guy, he is far too expressive and tend to smile at inappropriate situations

Express emotions either ‘too little’ or ‘too much’ in terms of volume, very little in-between

Speaks very bluntly 

Feels physically uncomfortable with bright colors

"Well, this isn't that fun, is it? can't make out where I am in the room like this. What if I'm standing in an embarrassing area?" "I actually don't mind it. Kind of a nice break from all of those... garish colors"

Duck

Loves cataloging and organizing things as a recreational activity

Anthropomorphise inanimate objects (like ACTUALLY inanimate, not teachers)

"You have to jab it hard or it won't respect your choices!"

Has a hard time fitting in in ‘normative’ social groups

Odd sensory sensitivities

"You're supposed to say that the floor is too loud or the window is disrespecting you"

Yellow Guy

Relies on a heavy amount of social mimicry in unfamiliar social situations

"I'm making bits and parts, although sometimes I feel a bit like the bits and parts are, eh, making me."

Tends to understand metaphors and turns of phrases very literally

Which is actually a trait that he displays even in his hyper-intelligent ‘Charged’ mode

"Oh there he is, it's about time." "Yeah, what have you been doing?" "Um, okay, let me see... We were learning about electricity... I completed a crossword puzzle..."

Who is also very sensitive to sounds when two or more people are speaking at once

He also seems to have ‘clumsy’ motor functions in both ‘forms’

In conclusion:

[flameswallower]

THE BEST FICTION I ENCOUNTERED IN THE SECOND HALF OF 2024!!!

A much longer follow-up to this post. (Can you imagine how much I'd need to type out if I hadn't split them up???)

Once again, I'm not listing movies, TV shows, video games, etc. I AM listing some web fiction and comics/graphic novels, because I feel much more qualified to judge and recommend those things.

____

Novels and Novellas!

Failure To Comply, by Cavar (2024): Reading Cavar’s Failure to Comply, I couldn’t help but think of the recent David Cronenberg movie Crimes of the Future. Both deal with dystopias in which bodies and their modification are strictly regulated, and people with unauthorized bodies form a vibrant, perpetually imperiled subculture on the margins. Both use this conceit to speak metaphorically about the plights of trans and disabled people, although Failure to Comply’s characters are also presented as literally, textually disabled and trans. But, although Crimes of the Future is often accused of being a “weird movie,” Failure to Comply is undeniably much, much weirder. Cronenberg is super normal compared to this.

Maej, by Dale Stromberg (2024): a doorstopper I found difficult to put down and finished inside a week; a work of very unapologetic genre fiction that’s equally unapologetic in its intelligence and dedication to doing strange, creative things with language; a high fantasy story I actually liked. The setting is the city of Sforre-Yomn, in the country of Hwoama, whose culture combines elements from across the continents of Asia and Europe. But Hwoama is matriarchal: men are subordinate to women, who dominate politics, business, the military, and nearly all other professions. As a result of this fact, almost all the major characters in the novel are female. By turns this presents a fun, simple, mischievous inversion of maleness as the unmarked default state for fictional characters, and meaty commentary on the social construction of sex, sexuality, and gender. Stromberg has cited Le Guin as an influence on Maej and, in the most complimentary way possible, this influence is evident.

Lote, by Shola von Reinhold (2020) is a gorgeous, funny, moving academic satire/mystery and love letter to Black modernism. It’s also very queer/trans and (in my personal opinion, perhaps not intentionally) very autistic. The title refers to a possibly-mythical clandestine circle of artists/magic practitioners who style themselves after the lotus eaters and seek transcendence via experiences of sensory and aesthetic pleasure. As with many novels that stand out to me, you won’t read anything else like it. I especially recommend this one if you want a completely unique, intellectually stimulating work of fiction, but are put off by the aggressively experimental and opaque style of Failure To Comply and by the SFF-ness of FTC, Maej, and Leech.

Walking Practice, by Dolki Min (trans. Victoria Caudle) (original 2022; English translation 2024) is a breezy, sexy *, gender-bending Korean novel about a poor amorphous space alien stranded on Earth after a spaceship crash. Unfortunately for us, this alien soon discovers that 1.) the most suitable food for it down here is human flesh, and 2.) with a lot of pain and effort, it can squeeze itself into the likeness of a variety of different human beings. It figures out hookup apps pretty fast, too, and then it’s off to the races. This may sound like creature horror, but it plays more as an exploration of identity and humanity, and a satire of sex, romance, and contemporary hookup culture. (*possibly less sexy if you don’t have a vore/cannibalism/consumption thing)

Love/Aggression, by June Martin (2024) is a BANANAS mundane fantasy-comedy about two trans women who are kind of best friends, and kind of enemies. Zoe (actress) is an arrogant, cartoonishly unpleasant minor celebrity who thinks she’s much more famous and popular than she actually is— but Martin manages to show how her personality is in part the sympathetic result of dysphoria and experiencing a lot of transmisogyny over the course of her life, and how she used to be a much kinder person before fame went to her head. Meanwhile, Lily (freeloader and aspiring tattoo artist) is a sweet, spacy, passive daydreamer, and a far more immediately likable character— but Martin manages to show how she is not entirely blameless in the ongoing drama with Zoe, how her passivity is sometimes the result of immaturity and selfishness, and how even when it isn’t, it’s a character flaw that keeps landing her in situations which kind of suck for all parties involved. They live in a magical Pittsburgh that is, conveniently, located right next to Los Angeles. Their friends include a BDSM cult leader and a nonbinary person whose name becomes “Dicks” in the first chapter of the story and who is never called anything else. (This character also happens to be the…owner? Custodian?…of an infinite, maze-like, reality-distorting building that is probably the most fun and least scary infinite, maze-like, reality-distorting building in all of fiction.) There’s vore in this one, too! But don’t go in expecting a particularly cohesive plot: Love/Aggression is far more about characters, relationships, and gags.

Maybe the Moon, by Armistead Maupin (1992) was inspired by the too-brief life of Maupin’s real friend Tamara De Treaux, a little person who depicted the title character in parts of the movie E.T. Her literary equivalent, Cady Roth, is a sardonic, fashionable, thirty-year-old little person who depicted a magical gnome called Mr. Woods in a beloved, albeit treacly, children’s fantasy movie of the same name. But since she played the role inside a thick rubber suit, and since the director of the movie felt it would spoil the magic to give her any credit, almost nobody knows that. Ten years later, she lives in obscurity on dwindling funds and struggles to find work…until, out of sheer desperation, she decides to take a job with a troupe of children’s birthday party entertainers. Romance, escapades, etc. ensue. Both a very funny book and a very sad one; it’s quite frank about death, about the ways Hollywood fucks people over, about the many ways that, especially if you’re marginalized and/or an artist, your life isn’t fair and isn’t ever going to be fair and “happy endings” probably aren’t what the world has in store for you. I think ultimately it’s sentimental in a good way; it has a big heart.

Leech, by Hiron Ennes (2022) is a total banger to finish out this year with! So glad I picked it up finally! Absolute genre jambalaya, this one: sci-fi, stuff that reads as fantasy despite having or probably having a “sci-fi” explanation, horror, Gothic novel (but not, crucially, a Gothic romance), mystery, medical thriller, character study, philosophical novel about ideas of consciousness, selfhood, individuality, and free will…there’s probably something in here for everyone reading this. You’ll love it, almost guaranteed, if you love the Gormenghast books. You’ll love it, almost guaranteed, if you love any Star Trek series. You’ll love it, almost guaranteed, if you love the science fiction of Peter Watts, or the horror of Gretchen Felker-Martin. You’ll love it, almost guaranteed, if you love The Thing (1982). The prose is lush, idiosyncratic, a bit purple, but it’s nothing too baroque, it’s all perfectly easy to read. The complicated, antiheroic protagonist/narrator is delightful and memorable, and I think Ennes did a great job at conveying unusual states of memory/selfhood/cognition through it/them/her. (Some of these states are not ones with which I have, or even could possibly have ever had, real experience, but some are, and I am always pleased to find those replicated in ways I can recognize and feel as “truthful.”)

Short Story Collections!

Stone Gods (2024) and Worse Than Myself (2009) by Adam Golaski contained several of the very best short stories I read this year— especially Worse Than Myself, which is also a slightly more accessible/“normal” story collection and the one I’d recommend starting with. Golaski writes eerie, dreamlike, bizarre fiction that frequently crosses over into horror— even including time-worn horror genre tropes like zombies, ghosts, and vampires. But let me tell you, Golaski’s “The Man From the Peak” (in Worse Than Myself) is a BAD time, like give-you-nightmares scary, and it feels like nothing you’ve ever read before, even though it’s about A Nosferatu. Not just a vampire, but a vampire that is explicitly described as egg-bald with big pointy ears and two sharp buck teeth. That’s the antagonist. And it fucking works. He makes it new. Please, please read Adam Golaski, you guys. It is astounding and unjust that he’s not popularly regarded as one of the 21st century’s best authors of weird short fiction. I don’t actually know if he could have/wanted to publish more than two collections over fifteen years, but I kind of feel like maybe if a lot of people and public libraries buy those two collections, he’ll have more space and incentive to write short stories, and/or more publishers will be interested in picking up another collection of his short stories?

Brave New Weird vol. 2 (2024) was a diverse, entertaining selection of stories. Some I’d read, some I hadn’t. A pretty good overview of the mostly small press horror/sci-fi/Weird fiction scene as it stands right this minute.

All Your Friends Are Here, by M. Shaw (2024) is almost the opposite of the Golaski collections, in a way: Golaski frequently deals with themes of nostalgia, the past, cycles that repeat without end, and timelessness or being outside of time. Moreover, most of his stories feel like they’d be immediately comprehensible to a person fifty years ago or fifty years from now, if not even further into the past/future (with, perhaps, a few footnotes of cultural explanation). But Shaw’s stories are, often aggressively, Of The Moment. And that’s not a bad thing, even if it means they may seem completely dated in a few decades. Shaw is interested in speaking directly to their place and time; directly to us. They’re not going to pretend we’re not all online, that we don’t all know (if against our will) what Ready Player One is— the longest piece in the collection, and one of the best, is a suitably pop-culture-reference-laden dunk/riff/spoof on, and rebuttal of, Ready Player One! These stories are angry and clever and sometimes suffused with a kind of exhausted tenderness. There’s clearly a Bizarro influence on some of Shaw’s work, but their writing is more sophisticated and restrained than what I tend to associate with Bizarro fiction proper.

Individual Short Stories (That You Can Read Right Now!)

“EGREGORE” by Samir Sirk Morató (2024) = clubbing, hallucinatory, girl on girl

“The Spindle Of Necessity” by B. Pladek (2024) = trans academic suspects dead author may have been a closeted gay trans man

“A History of the Avodion Through Five Artists” by Eric Horwitz (2024) = Borgesian, arch, Jewish

“Mad Studies” by Cavar (2024) = loneliness, cats, autism…like Failure To Comply, this is by @librarycards

“Alabama Circus Punk” by Thomas Ha (2024) = robots, the nuclear family, disintegrating language

Comics and Graphic Novels!

Tomorrow You Don't Know Me, by Raven Lyn Clemens (2024) is a subtle, moving, and unsentimental graphic novel about being a middle schooler with problems, and how sometimes those problems just kinda...persist no matter what you do or try or want, and no matter if it's fair. Even if you summon a demon to help you! Clemens is really skilled at depicting emotion visually, at communicating both the absurd goofiness and the deep, genuine pain of the outsize negative emotions her characters experience. All of her characters are at least a little wretched, and she also handles them all with great compassion, affection, and understanding. Check out her artwork at @ravenlynclemens please; it's fantastic cartooning even without any detailed narrative.

In Fair Verona, by Val Wise (2024) is a VERY gory, VERY nasty piece of lesbian Gothic fantasy horror-erotica. I love Wise's art. The bodies she draws, regardless of gender and build, are top-tier sexy and beautiful to me, which means he's often able to get me on board* with kinks and scenarios that would usually be too "extreme" for my taste. (*Genteel euphemism for arousal)

A Guest In the House, by E.M Carroll (2023) is an equally nasty and mean, but far, FAR less explicit and bizarre, lesbian Gothic horror story, told with the visual panache and inimitable art style everyone knows and loves Carroll for. It's a worthy successor to their previous material, and if it doesn't necessarily make enormous leaps from their earlier work in its writing, the drawing and coloring has gone from "already really good" to "some of these splash pages will blow your eyes out the back of your skull."

Expiry Date, by Sloane Hong (2024) is another lesbian/queer erotica comic. This one's science fiction, and is FAR more up my usual alley of kinks. Which is to say that the lovers are quite kind/polite with one another (in a lot of ways it reads as a meet-cute), but also one of them is a hired killer who dispassionately agrees to torture the fuck out of the other one David Cronenberg-style.

Once again, all my comic recs are by queer trans people! I think I made a pretty hacky joke last year about gay trans mascs specifically ruling in this field, but based on recent data, you just have to be a marginalized gender and not heterosexual to make amazing comics.

Web Fiction!

The Frenzy wiki is a fan wiki for an imagined TV series, telling the story of both Frenzy, a popular late 2000s ensemble cast drama-adventure-SFF show drawing equally from the likes of Twin Peaks and Supernatural, and how the existence of this show was mysteriously wiped from the face of our reality-- save in the troubled dreams of a select few. I would estimate it takes a couple hours to explore the whole wiki. (2022 or 2023?)

3D Workers Island is the phenomenal, if less ambitious, follow-up to Petscop. (I don't mean it's a sequel; it's just by the same guy and covers similar thematic ground.) Like its predecessor, it's more about dropping tantalizing hints than letting you in on "what's actually going on," and more about giving you a creeped out and vaguely depressed feeling than about scaring or shocking you per se. It's really smart and well-crafted in an understated way, and does a great job replicating early internet content. I would estimate it takes WELL under an hour to get through this story, although you will probably want to immediately go back and look for things you might have missed or not understood properly. (2024)

Martin's Movies is conventional, compared to the other two. It's a ghost story. But it's a very creepy, effective, well-told ghost story rendered through the unusual medium of letterboxd reviews (of course, these become increasingly diary-like and Not About The Film as the story progresses). I would estimate it takes under an hour to read the whole thing, it's like short novelette length. (2024)

[novlr]

How do I write a dream sequence that actually feels dreamy and not just confusing or random? I want it to make sense in the story but still have that weird, surreal vibe dreams have.

Before writing a dream sequence, ask yourself: Why is this dream important?

A strong dream sequence serves a narrative purpose. It either reveals something critical about the character or moves the plot forward. For example, it might:

Highlight a character’s inner conflict, such as self-doubt or guilt.

Offer insight into a character’s fears, desires, or memories.

Foreshadow future events.

Explore the story’s themes.

Present an epiphany or realisation that changes the narrative direction.

When you define the purpose of the dream, you give it meaning and ensure it doesn’t feel like a random, disconnected scene.

Vivid imagery and sensory details

Dreams are often hyper-real or surreal. To truly immerse readers, fill your sequences with vivid imagery. Describe not just what the character sees, but also what they hear, smell, and feel. For example:

The air might feel oppressively heavy, as if the character is moving through water.

Colours could be unnaturally bright or pulsing, creating a sense of unease or wonder.

Sounds may echo strangely, or voices may change tones mid-sentence.

Sensory details are your best friend when crafting dreams. They help you draw readers into the scene, making the dream feel almost tangible without being constrained to what is possible.

The power of symbolism

Dreams are often symbolic, reflecting a character’s subconscious thoughts and emotions. A dream sequence offers a fantastic opportunity to use metaphors and symbols to deepen your narrative. For instance:

A crumbling staircase may represent a character’s feelings of insecurity.

A recurring image, like a locked door, could hint at a secret the character is repressing.

Objects or people in the dream might represent aspects of the character’s personality or unresolved relationships.

By embedding symbols, you can subtly communicate deeper layers of meaning to your readers while building suspense without having to state things outright.

Heightened emotion

In dreams, emotions are often exaggerated. A minor embarrassment can swell into overwhelming shame, and a fleeting joy might feel like euphoria. Use this to your advantage to explore your character’s emotional state. For instance:

A character struggling with grief might dream of a loved one, only for them to disappear when approached.

A character racked with guilt could find themselves pursued by shadowy figures.

Striking a balance between disorientation and logic

Dreams are naturally disorienting because they don’t follow the logical flow of reality. You can introduce elements like sudden scene changes, nonsensical dialogue, or impossible physics to create a truly dreamlike experience. For example:

A character might start at a family dinner, only to inexplicably swimming in an ocean of stars.

A trusted friend might appear with the face of a stranger.

Despite the inherent chaos of dreams, your sequence should still have some degree of narrative coherence. A good rule of thumb is to maintain a logical thread that allows the dream to fulfil its narrative purpose, even if the details are illogical.

Establishing atmosphere

The tone and atmosphere of your dream sequence should align with its purpose. Focus on creating a specific emotional response:

For a nightmare, use eerie, oppressive details, like a pulsating fog or distorted, echoing voices.

For a whimsical dream, evoke wonder with surreal and magical details, such as floating landscapes and shimmering light.

Choose your atmosphere carefully to enhance the emotional impact of the scene.

Types of dream sequences to explore

There are many types of dream sequences, and each serves a unique purpose. Here are some of the most common:

Foreshadowing dreams: These hint at future events, creating suspense or intrigue.

Nightmares: These reveal a character’s fears or anxieties.

Fantasy dreams: These involve magical or surreal elements, and are often used to explore themes, symbols, or metaphors.

Recurring dreams: These underscore unresolved issues or patterns in a character’s life.

Lucid dreams: These allow the dreamer to be aware they’re dreaming and possibly influence the dream’s outcome.

Realisation dreams: These provide moments of clarity or epiphany for the character.

Internal conflict dreams: These visually showcase a character’s inner turmoil, providing a unique way to “show, not tell.”

Linked dreams: These connect two or more characters through shared dreamscapes.

Keep it brief and meaningful

Dream sequences should enhance your story, not derail it. While they offer a chance to be wildly creative, keep them concise and focused. Avoid overloading readers with too much detail or overly prolonged scenes. Your audience should leave the dream sequence full or curiosity, not overwhelmed.

Seamlessly transition in and out

Transitions are crucial for dream sequences. Start with subtle hints, like a sound, a sensation, or a surreal visual that cues readers into the shift from reality to dream. Similarly, exit the dream gracefully, creating a smooth return to the waking world. This ensures that readers are not jarred out of the story.

Writing tips for a dreamlike feel

Use narrative distance to create a floaty, disconnected feeling that mirrors the sensation of dreaming.

Experiment with stream-of-consciousness writing for portions of the dream to mimic the fluid and unpredictable nature of thoughts in sleep.

Pay attention to pacing. Dreams often feel both slow and rapid—a contradiction you can reflect by alternating between drawn-out descriptions and sudden, abrupt moments.

Dream sequences are a space where your imagination can truly run free while still serving the story’s deeper purpose. When done well, they are memorable and meaningful, and leave a lasting impact. It’s a technique well worth exploring.