#repetitive too but like that's also kind of the point

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Notes: Prints & Patterns

Popular Prints and Patterns. Adding a bold pattern or print into your look is the easiest way to show that you've put real thought into your outfit. A pattern is any repeated design, whereas a print is a design that has been printed onto fabric, rather than woven or embroidered. The words are often used interchangeably to talk about any non-solid-color clothing. Some of the most popular patterns and prints include:

Gingham is a fabric made from dyed cotton yarn woven into a checkered pattern, usually white and one other color.

Stripes come in all different styles, from pinstripes (very narrow vertical stripes that often appear on dark-colored suits) to the classic French marinière T-shirt with its distinctive blue and white horizontal stripes.

Animal prints mimic the stripes, spots, and scales of wild animals. Snake, zebra, and leopard prints make a bold statement, but there are ways to incorporate them subtly.

Plaid, also known as tartan, is a woven fabric traditionally made from wool that is now a common pattern for flannel shirts. Multicolor plaid features repeating vertical and horizontal stripes of varying thicknesses.

Floral patterns feature flowers of all kinds. Floral prints can be tiny (aka ditsy) or large and detailed. They can be multicolor or monochrome. They are fun patterns to work with since they offer so much variety.

Polka-dots are a pattern of repeating circles of the same size. They can be big or small; smaller dots tend to look more neutral, while larger dots make more of a statement.

Geometric prints feature shapes such as triangles, squares, and trapezoids. They can be intricate and repetitive, or more abstract. Houndstooth is an example of a repeating geometric pattern in two colors.

Paisley is a Persian pattern featuring a teardrop design with a curved point. The interior of the teardrop often contains intricate geometric or floral-inspired designs. You’re likely to find paisleys printed on silk items like ties and scarves.

Herringbone is a fabric (usually twill) featuring a V-shape weave with a repeating pattern that has the appearance of a fish skeleton.

How to Wear Prints & Patterns

Learning how to incorporate just one pattern at a time will give you a great foundation for mixing patterns later on.

Wear a pattern under something more neutral. The easiest way to incorporate a print into your current wardrobe is to find a print that you can put under something—for example, a printed shirt underneath a suit or blazer. The jacket will cover most of the print, revealing just a hint of it. If you’re feeling bold, you can remove the jacket to show off the print.

Start with a subtle piece of clothing. If a patterned shirt or dress feels like too much, start with socks, a handbag, or a scarf. Patterned accessories can add a point of interest to your look without feeling over the top.

Trust yourself. Prints are personal: Just because you love a print doesn't mean everyone else is going love it, and that’s okay. Most neutrals are universally appealing. That's not the case with prints. So don't be disheartened if not everyone loves your print, and wear what makes you feel good.

Tips for Mixing Prints & Patterns

Conventional wisdom says you can't mix patterns, and yet some of the most stylish dressers mix patterns regularly. Mixing patterns is a way to show confidence and add an element of fun to your look. Here’s how to mix prints and patterns successfully.

Get to know your foundation prints. Start with classic, simple prints: stripes, polka-dots, and florals. Then, layer on a bolder print. For example, try a classic striped T-shirt with a more exciting geometric pattern layered on top. The lines in both patterns will compliment each other, and the simple stripe will act as a neutral.

Embrace the power clash. You don't always have to match patterns. Mixing bold patterns like leopard print and plaid may seem like a fashion faux pas, but there’s a lot of power in selecting two prints that don’t share any commonalities. Anchor the look with a neutral item, like a black blazer or denim jacket.

Choose patterns of different sizes. One of the simplest ways to mix patterns is to layer patterns with two different scales. Pairing a small-scale print with a large-scale pattern allows the smaller scale to work as a neutral. In this way, a skirt with a tiny floral print can work with a large-format plaid flannel for a grunge look.

Use color. When working with mixed prints, pay close attention to colors. Bold patterns in neutral colors, like black and white, can offset wildly different patterns in a more vibrant color scheme. One strategy is to mix a monochrome pattern, like a red-and-white polka-dot, with a multicolor pattern that features the color from the monochrome, like a red floral print.

Source ⚜ More: Notes ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs ⚜ How to Describe Clothing

[jojaxcola]

So I, like a lot of people, love your mockumentary series. And this is a stretch and probably won't get done for ages but could I use your mockumentaries to write a fanfic? It won't be long or complex, more of an extension to the scenes you've drawn. I'll give credits, don't worry but yeah.

But if I do, I'd love if you answered a few characterisation questions.

I know the farmer filmed some but is any of it not farmer filmed?

Why is the farmer doing this?

Are there any fanon or hcs you used to create characters that I should use too?

Expect more soon + updates

Thank you so much!! I had this in my inbox for a while and I've been thinking for a while about how to answer, because I'm not sure how much I want to give away at this point in the series hehe 👀 but I hope these answers are helpful

I consider the farmer/producer to be the project lead and to be present for everything that's being filmed. While they take on some of their own filming, they have a small crew to handle things like camera work and sound. During the talking head segments, the farmer is the one prompting them with questions as needed

The farmer is still a Joja employee like in the beginning of the game, but not with the same office desk job. Their team has been tasked with filming a documentary series highlighting the happenings of a JojaMart location, and the farmer was the one to propose the relatively new Pelican Town location due to their grandfather's love of Stardew Valley. So they're still a newcomer to the town, but they don't have the farm. I might stay a bit quiet about the farmer's ultimate motivations for this project, though... :)

This one's a bit tricky since I'm not totally sure how to narrow it down hehe. One thing I'll say here is that I altered Sam's work schedule to have him appear in the store more often (since in the game he's only there like six hours a week). I'll also say a little bit about how I like to characterize the main players in the series:

Sam is someone whose cheeriness is partly genuine, but also partly because he needs to be the guy who keeps everyone positive in tough times. It's important to him to make sure everyone feels included and not forgotten. Sam isn't dumb—he's actually very creative and resourceful—but he does tend to rush his thinking and follow bizarre trains of logic. He doesn't like to slow himself down, and when he dwells too much on his thoughts he tends to reach uncomfortable conclusions.

Shane has an extremely low opinion of himself, but keeps himself going at work to provide for Jas and to not be a burden to Marnie. He's easily annoyed and has a tendency to push people away, but he's not completely shut off. He'll accept gifts and other gestures of kindness but doesn't totally understand why he's getting them, or why he even deserves them. He needs significant and repetitive convincing to believe any friendship with him is genuine. Shane believes that life is harsh, and he tends to fixate on difficult truths. Sam's optimism frustrates him, and he sees Sam as a naive little boy who will be eaten alive by the cruelty of reality.

I don't like depicting Morris as cartoonishly evil. I think it's more fun to make him "corporate evil", where his villainy comes from a "socially-acceptable" disregard for the little guy. He'll go on about how the JojaMart personnel are one big family, but he can't even call his employees by their names. He thinks he's above his staff, and he's satisfied by the idea of getting to look down on someone; he views higher-ups as having earned their power, and that looking down on others is just part of that package. Morris loves to project the image of human connection, not because he genuinely believes in it, but because that's what appeals to customers. And he'll do everything he can to convince Pelican Town that Joja is the answer to all of their problems.

I also like to pepper little personal headcanons into the different entries (I like to think Sam is left-handed, so I wrote his notes on his right wrist in no. 5) but I think listing them here would bloat this post :o

Please feel free to ask anything else about the series (or individual scenes), this was really fun to write up! And I can't wait to see what you come up with!! :D

===============

Follow ups to this post (I might make a separate FAQs post if needed):

What has become of the community center? (@happycomputertimetravel): It's still dilapidated. I consider the jojamart series to have the town in the same state as it is at the start of the game (so Kent is still overseas, the bus is still broken, etc.) unless depicted otherwise

[emmg]

wip whenever

i was tagged by my baes @heylittleriotact @aldisobey @ollypopwrites so im tagging yall three back in turn and adding @thepalehorsevictoria @excited-hiss @jainydoe @rooks-leather-jumpsuit @caffeinatedmunchkin @xxnashiraxx @lavenderprose and everyone else

euh this is from that Hadestown Emmrook AU I drunkenly posted about yesterday. The brain rot is real. I'm putting Emmrich & Rook as Hades/Persephone and Bellara & Neve as Orpheus/Eurydice.

anyway lol

Excerpt from Emmrich’s Research Notes (Unfiled Addendum)

"The Veil is deteriorating at several key fault lines. Surface-level efforts remain inconsistent. Solas and I are in agreement: stabilization must occur from both sides. He holds the Fade. I hold the world. He tends the dreaming. I manage the dead. The Grand Necropolis must serve as a stabilizing anchor, its necromantic field designed to resist volatile Fade incursions at structurally compromised points. The city is not merely a sanctuary for the dead, but a mechanism of containment. Lichdom is not corruption, but crystallization. Ritual intention remains pure. Undeath becomes the framework through which purpose endures. Mortality introduces entropy; emotion distorts the weave. I am—by nature—too human. The living cannot bear this burden forever. The dead do not fray under repetition. She will not understand. Rook fears what does not grow. She believes stillness is stagnation. But stillness is the only reason the walls still hold."

The train to the Grand Necropolis has no windows. It unsettles her every time. She always hesitates, Rook notices. Always. One foot extended, the other still grounded, she teeters at the threshold, suspended between the platform, the train, and the void that lies between. 

But inevitably, as always, she boards. Time snaps back into motion. The whistle shrills, the wheels begin to turn. She almost loses her balance, lurches forward, arms flailing, takes three quick steps to steady herself. Behind her, the doors slide shut. 

It’s always the same: hesitate, glance down, step in, stumble, recover. 

Ka-thunk, ka-thunk, ka-thunk. She hears the great machine; or maybe she feels it. It travels through her bones as much as through her ears, a pulse in the metal spine of the train as she walks the corridor toward her private cabin.

The one that needs a key. 

The key she wears on a chain around her neck. The key that rests cold between her breasts, always cold, no matter how long it lies pressed to her skin—and that is always. It never warms. It only leeches. 

She stops. Fumbles at the chain, trying to free it. It snags, scratches her collarbone. She tugs. Harder. The chain catches on the top button of her blouse and, with one sharp pull, it snaps. The key flies. 

“Motherfucker,” she mutters, dropping to one knee just as the train jolts beneath her. The key skitters away. 

A foot steps out from one of the cabins—a pointed boot catches it before it vanishes. Then the other foot follows, this one curved, elegant, and false: a gilded, dwarven-forged prosthetic that ends just below the knee. Its owner leans down, humming as she picks up the key, rolling it along her knuckles like a two-penny magician with a coin. A cheap trick. Still, impressive. 

“Thank you,” Rook says, brushing off her knees as the woman holds it out to her. 

“Think nothing of it,” the woman replies. 

Her smile is small. Kind. A touch reserved. 

As soon as Rook takes the key, the woman tilts her head and says, “It must be very important to you.” 

"Why do you say that?"

“For starters, you wear it tucked beneath your clothes, not over. You check for it with your fingers without even realizing it. Twice since you stepped on board. You flinched when it hit the ground. You swore when the chain broke, not because of the chain itself, but because the key was loose. You didn’t run after it; you dropped. Dropped fast. Knees first.” 

She spins the snapped bit of chain once around her finger before handing it over as well. “Also… you didn’t say ‘thank you’ right away. You looked at it first. Made sure it was intact. Still yours. Still there.” 

“Ah,” Rook says, folding the key into her palm. She closes her fingers around it, then covers it with her other hand. It probably looks ridiculous. She doesn’t care. She doesn’t want to lose it again. “Well, then.” 

“Take care, now.” 

The woman offers a small nod, then turns and walks back into her cabin, the one she shares with three others. None of them acknowledge her return. Each stares at something else entirely: the wall, the floor, the ceiling. Anywhere but her. 

She picks up a bound stack of papers, set aside, apparently, to catch her flying key. She licks her fingers, tugs the ribbon loose, and resumes reading. As her head dips, a loose strand of hair slips forward, veiling her face. 

“Just as important as those are to you,” Rook says, nodding toward the papers. 

She doesn’t know why she says it. The woman had clearly meant to end their encounter then and there. Rook should let it go. She doesn’t know why her mouth keeps moving. 

A pause. 

A soft, half-exasperated, half-fond huff. Then, “Yes... though it’d be better if someone hadn’t filled the margins with half-baked schematics.” She lifts a page and gives it a little shake—lines and diagrams scrawled at odd angles, layered between blocks of cramped handwriting. “They’re everywhere,” the woman mutters, more to herself now. “As if her thoughts were leaking sideways.” 

She never looks up. Never looks back. 

No one goes to the Grand Necropolis for fun. 

Rook stands in the hallway, fully aware she’s staring but unable to stop. She wonders who she forgot. Or what.  

The Veil has been faltering for a year now. Sizzling at the edges, breaking apart, only to re-knit itself moments later, as if nothing ever happened. Nothing, then everything. Collapse and recovery, over and over. 

Some whisper it’s better to be almost-dead, half-dead, very-nearly-dead—anything but truly dead. So they board the train. They go underground. They enter the Grand Necropolis.

No one is truly alive there, Rook thinks. 

Not even Emmrich. 

Eventually, she moves. Drifts. Leaves the hallway behind and slips into her cabin. 

The key turns in the lock without resistance, smooth as butter, as always. 

Inside, she presses her back to the door and inhales deeply. 

It never changes. Not really. The same every time. Familiar to the point of wrongness. So strange. So perfect. 

Rivaini spices from the box of loose teas on the table. The warm musk of amber clinging to the upholstery. A new bracelet—gold, always gold. Never silver, never steel. Only gold. The eternal metal. The one that still shines beneath the earth, even without the sun. 

For Gold and Glory, she thinks, or half-remembers. The words come hazy, distant. She’s fairly certain she once shouted them, leaping into a cave to plunder its depths.

She wonders which meaning they were meant to hold. The glory or the sun? 

Both belong to the past. 

One is hers. The other… isn’t.

It is a ritual. 

She sits. Gives the small kettle two taps and waits, silent and patient, for the magic to do its work. Boiling water with no flame, no sound but the faint hiss as heat blooms. Cinnamon, ginger, clove; all ground fine and mixed. Good for headaches. For steadying the nerves. For softening the edges of thought. 

She pours a cup, then reaches for the letter that brought her here. Again. 

Written in her own hand. 

A sigh escapes. A smile follows. And then the impulse, half-dramatic, half-genuine, to cover her face with her hands. As if the gesture might shield her from the absurd sweetness of it all. Something theatrical. Something borrowed. Something Emmrich, certainly. 

Not his voice, but hers, written out in a looping, slanted script. A ghost version of herself, leaving messages in the dark: come home, come home, come back down—look what you’ve made me do. I’ve written it in the mirror for you, the words seem to say, so you’ll catch it next time you look at your reflection.

Yes. That is the trick. Not a summons, this letter—a call, soft and strange. That is how Emmrich writes to her.

He constructs a tableau, precise in its staging, uncanny in its intimacy. He does not sign his name. He does not need to. The handwriting is hers—flawlessly imitated, down to the curl of the descenders, the pressure points in each curlicue—but the voice beneath it is unmistakably his.

It reads as if she is speaking to herself.

Or rather, as if he is speaking through her.

Or perhaps—as it once was—as if they are speaking together, inside the same sentence.

All she ever has to do is arrive. 

You once said you would return when the world cracked open. It is cracking, Rook. The Grand Necropolis hums still, but the rhythm falters. They say it moves souls like clockwork. I believe it only winds them tighter. They do not understand, of course. They were not here when it was soft, when it bloomed. I have missed you. In all the ways you expect, and in those you would not. In silences that shape themselves like your name. If you can come—come now.

And then, a ring. 

It arrives precisely as she finishes reading the letter for the umpteenth time, as if summoned by the final line. It does not fall so much as appear, condensing from the air. Another gift. Another gesture. Emmrich’s handwriting in mineral form. 

Because beneath the earth, it is always cold. And in the cold, there is pressure. There is rock. There are veins that glitter. Jewels curled like thoughts in the dark. There is gold. 

She catches it mid-air, instinctively. 

An emerald. Deep, green, and quiet. 

It matches the bracelet. 

It fits as though it had always been hers. 

Ka-thunk, ka-thunk, ka-thunk.

****

Bellara’s Workshop Log—Personal Tinkering Notes (Filed: Messily, Unsorted)

"Prototype #227b failed. Resonance sync fractured mid-loop. Neve would say it’s because I didn’t test it long enough. I’d say she’s probably right. Again. She said I don’t finish anything. That I leap to the next idea before the first one even settles. I told her I can’t sit still, that I don’t want to. She didn’t laugh. The truth is, I was building something for her. I just never got to the part where it worked. She left before I could name it. Maybe that’s fair. Maybe I would have left me, too."

[mediamime]

Supernatural and the Concept of Grace

Hi! It's your friendly neighborhood Media Mime and I'm here with a wall of text about my insane thoughts on how Angels work.

From the TV show Supernatural.

I don't know what I'm doing with my life.

---

These are headcanons, mind you, so they aren’t supported by the show. I just think way too much about stuff like this.

This all stems from how beings from a different plane of existence would be borderline incomprehensible to humans. The whole, true form and voice not being viewable/hearable led to me thinking about them in more abstract forms.

I’m going to give you some weird background stuff below, but feel free to skip to the end if you’re just here for the Grace mechanics and things.

---

My day job is as a Math Adjunct, so you can imagine I have a bit of a fixation on recurring principles, formulas, geometry, and so on.

It’s my jam. 

Specifically, I have a focus on Mathematics in Nature. It's fascinating to me that we see the same shapes and patterns recurring over and over again in all natural formations.

I want to stress that to get into this kind of thing, you don’t actually need a background in Math. There are several resources online that provide examples and visual guides to this field of study. I’ve provided a visual guide below of some of my favorite phenomena as well as a basic (very basic) explanation of the principle. 

I ain’t getting paid for this right now, so you get what you get!

---

Now is also a time to mention that I took some psychedelics in my 20s that made me See Some Shit. This is not meant to be inspirational. I just think I should mention it because you see a lot of Stuff on them, not always Stuff you want to see. You can look up information about psychedelic geometry and skip the hassle of ingesting things you probably shouldn’t.

Don’t do drugs kids, or whatever.

---

The Fibonacci Sequence is where numbers ascend by adding the two previous numbers to itself. This plays a key role in something known as the Golden Spiral. For a very basic explanation, you take a square and draw an arc from one corner to the next and repeat with bigger and bigger squares.

1,

1 + 1 = 2,

1 + 2 = 3,

2 + 3 = 5,

3 + 5 = 8,

5 + 8 = 13,

and so on.

The curve itself is seen in the way plants grow, shells form, and weather formations to name a few. 

(The following are not my images, but they are readily available online. )

---

Tessellations are repetitive polygons (shapes with 3 or more connecting lines, think triangles, squares, hexagons) that form together, without gaps.

In nature, the real world, there are examples of malformations, but Math is an explanation of the ideal principle.

We can see these structures in scales, honeycombs, and so on.

---

Fractals are where we see the same pattern repeat at smaller and smaller forms of itself.

There is a lot of overlap of this with the Fibonacci Sequence (these patterns often appear INSIDE of the spiral), but it is its own concept.

Fun fact, fractals play a significant role in Chaos Theory, which I will not get into here because we would be here all day.

---

Anyway!

Sorry!

Carried away there.

Back to Supernatural (what an insane transition) and how this wraps into my concept of Grace.

---

Angels are filled with this kind of naturally occurring phenomena, a sort of endless collection of patterns. They are essentially manifestations of this idea or at least they process the physical world in this way.

Castiel mentioned eating molecules ONE TIME and well, I ran with it.

---

A couple of examples I feel strongly about, using Castiel as an easier point of entry than say, Lucifer or Gabriel:

Angels think in a series of sensations, like a form of Synesthesia.  Synesthesia is a concept explored in both psychology and cognitive neuroscience where people express the feeling of multiple senses activating at once. So for instance, the words might leave you with an impression of color or sounds may give you a physical sensation. I think Angels can, and do, adopt a more human perspective the longer they interact in the physical world. This is especially relevant during the time they are essentially made human, but I think the way they interpret information remains abstract. Just a fun fact, if you have Autonomous Sensory Meridian Response (which is usually shortened to ASMR), you have a higher chance, according to some studies, of having a form of Synesthesia. 

---

Angels also think in patterns. For Castiel, in the beginning: His thoughts are very vibrant. Primary colors denote curiosity. The structure of those thoughts are very rigid. He thinks more in straight lines rather than curves. The movement of the thoughts is calculated and repetitive. Learning something for the first time is difficult, so splitting it into individual pieces is easier to comprehend. This is where we get The Face from, you know the one. He perceives things in his own way which makes him socially awkward in human form. As he gets more familiar with the physical world, and the boys in general, his perspective shifts. He has more robust colors dedicated to the people or objects he interacts with and they shift around easier. His thoughts are less linear and more curved and organic. He has less set structure because he isn’t learning as much anymore, he has an understanding he can build off of and make more defined to himself.  Learning to love humanity requires flexibility that doesn’t come naturally to Angels, so he actively works at it.

Seeing souls is easier than interpreting the actual look of people. This is a doozy, but we will take Dean as an example because I’m Destiel/Deancas pilled. To Castiel, Dean looks the way he looks, smells the way he smells, sounds the way he sounds, and so on in physical form. Castiel learns to interpret him in that way as the series goes on, but his soul, the essence of him, has its own set of sensations. The following are not literal, although I’m sure some would translate that way. He sounds like a crackle of fire and a low drum. His colors are darker oranges and blues and greens. He feels like a soft rain and sun on a warm day. He tastes of barrel aged liquor and smoke. He smells like a hearth and earth after it rains. He feels like every aspect of the impala, from the cold metal to the supple warm leather.  Obviously some of these senses shift and change from time to time, but that forms the basis of what Castiel recognizes as Dean.

---

Grace is at least partially visible to other angels and partially felt by humans. Other angels can see each other in their vessels. So they have a concept of what they look like in their true forms, despite being hidden inside of something.  This implies they can experience similar sensations as the other angels they look at, although I don’t like the idea that they can see their “thoughts” necessarily. I would imagine they can “feel” a sudden intense set of emotions/sensations from another angel however, in the way that humans can tell someone’s emotions through facial expression or tone of voice.

---

Humans can learn to experience angels, albeit in a form that is easier for them to comprehend.  Dean doesn’t experience anything special about Castiel when they first meet, outside of the generic information we get about Angels and the obvious senses he can use: seeing, hearing, smelling, (gods I wish tasting was on this list but! Alas!) As Dean gets closer with him, he can start to “hear” him. I like to think he sounds like a pleasant hum or a slight ringing, similar to a wind chime, depending on his mood. Dean, specifically, makes him hum lower than usual. If he were to hum out-loud, it would harmonize with the way his grace sounds. It takes longer to perceive colors, but I think Dean would see the little flashes of blue, similar to the way Castiel’s eyes get when he’s using his powers. This is why I typically put a little blue squiggle between them when I draw them together. Plus other senses, sorry but this is long enough as it is. You likely get the point by now!

---

Anyway, I’m very happy that literally anyone has even a passing interest in my interpretation of these things.

Formatting this was a nightmare and I feel particularly insane today.

[daz4i]

the problem with the songs i plan as whole ass art pieces is that i can't post lyrics from them bc the lyrics are very mid and their context (+the music itself) is what makes them interesting. and i wanna talk about them but it's not like the piece exists anywhere outside of my head and this google doc and a very low quality recording so what if people develop expectations and i have nothing to give them....... hm

[elizaditton]

Too Small To Be Afraid (Chapter 14)

Cover / Master Post / Previous Chapter / Next Chapter

- - - - - - - - - -

I stare at my deskmate's hand, dumbfounded. What is he expecting me to do, exactly?

"Well, come on!" Derrick says with a smile. "What are you waiting for?"

"Well, I, um..." I cock my head to the side, as if that would help me have a better understanding of the sight in front of me. "I'm not really sure what I'm supposed to do."

"What do you mean?" My deskmate chuckles. "Haven't you ever walked onto someone's hand before?"

I slowly lift my head to peek up at my deskmate, and rub my arm as I shift my gaze back to the balcony floor. He really expects me to have done this?

Derrick frowns. "You haven't, have you?"

I shake my head. "No, I haven't. In fact... you're the only perthean who's ever held me before."

Derrick slowly retracts his hand from the balcony, his brows shifting upward. He blinks.

"What?" I ask.

"I... I don't know, it's just..." my deskmate says, looking down as he twiddles his thumbs. "I'm honored that you'd let me be the first perthean to hold you."

"It's not like I really had a choice, being forced to come to this school and all," I sigh. "You just happened to be the first that I couldn't avoid."

"You were forced to come to this school?" Derrick asks, his eyes widening.

"Yeah," I say with a shrug as Dad's lies about the move come to mind. "It's a long story."

"Well, whether you were forced to interact with me or not," Derrick says, tucking his arms by his sides and clenching his fists excitedly, "I'll do my best to live up to the honor of being the first perthean to hold you!"

I let out a nervous laugh. I didn't realize he'd be so excited to find this out.

"But anyway, once again returning to the matter at hand—my hand, that is," Derrick says.

My heart rate picks up again as Derrick moves his hand back towards the balcony. I don't stumble backwards this time, but I'm surprised that my insides are still churning at the sight of his nearing hand—especially since I was expecting it to approach.

The enormous leathery surface settles down before me, with each of its attached digits curling inward ever so slightly. I approach my deskmate's hand cautiously, as if it were a venus flytrap ready to snatch me up at a moment's notice.

"Now, you said you weren't sure what you were supposed to do?" Derrick asks.

I raise my foot and dangle it over my deskmate's hand, only to nearly lose my balance and stumble back onto the balcony. Do I really not know how to do this?

"I haven't the slightest clue. And besides, isn't this..." I sigh, biting down on my lip and rubbing the back of my neck. "You know, a little too casual?"

"Too casual?" Derrick blinks a few times and raises an eyebrow. "Kaylin, we are friends, right?"

"Of course!" I blurt out, quickly waving my hands. "I didn't mean to say we weren't! It's just that we've only used a formal form of handling etiquette up until this point, and... well..."

"Yes? What is it?"

"I... well... I don't really know how you expect me to get onto your hand. I guess that makes me pretty stupid, huh?" I say, hanging my head.

"You're not stupid. You just need a little guidance, that's all," Derrick says with a smile. "Now, there's something I want you to know. Because we're friends, I don't care how it is you manage to get onto my hand. You can run, crawl, jump, or fall into my hand and I wouldn't mind it in the slightest."

I look up at my deskmate, astounded. I thought any perthean would be particular about how a human gets onto their hand. He really doesn't care how I approach this?

"Generally speaking, though," Derrick says, "when a perthean offers you their hand this way, you're expected to respond like this."

Derrick lifts his other hand and moves it towards me, causing my muscles to immediately tense up. What's he doing now?! Is he going to grab me?!

I quickly back away from his hands until I'm flat against the wall. My heart, beating faster and faster, sinks deep in my chest. As my knees buckle beneath me, I find myself slumping against the wall, it being the only thing left holding me up. Derrick's eyes widen, and he immediately retracts both of his hands.

"Hey," he whispers. "Kaylin, are you—"

I slide down the wall until I'm sitting on the balcony floor. I hide my head behind my knees and wrap my arms around my legs. I shut my eyes tightly as they begin to tingle and glaze over, but hot tears manage to leak from them anyway.

"I can't do this, Derrick!" I sniffle. "I can't keep myself from fearing for my life whenever you reach for me! All I think about is...! Is...!"

With my head buried into my knees, my vision is completely black. My mind's eye, however, is painting pictures of the man from my nightmares. A tall, slim figure with a bit of a tan. Slightly muscular. Clean shaven with a small scar on his left cheek. He has dark brown hair and narrowed brown eyes. He wears a white t-shirt with a few dirt stains, and wrapping around his dark blue jeans at the hips is a black belt with a silver chain. Beneath him is a pair of dirty, beaten up white sneakers.

He seemed so unassuming when I first peered at him from the corner of that alleyway. I was so naive! I had no idea what he—no, what pertheans were capable of until—

"Kaylin," Derrick whispers. "I can't imagine how hard this must be for you. I know you're not ready to tell me what started your fear, and I want you to know that's okay with me."

I sniffle again, and with shaking hands, I wipe the tears from my eyes before reluctantly looking up at my deskmate. His blue eyes are soft with compassion, and his brows are upturned in sympathy.

"Since you were forced to come to this school, you didn't get to choose whether or not you wanted to trust me. So now, I want to ask you..." his voice trails off, and he shifts his gaze to the ground. He takes a deep breath in and out before looking back at me. "Will you make the choice now?"

My lip trembles as I sit up in my spot against the wall. "Make... the choice?" I manage, my voice cracking.

Derrick keeps his eyes fixated on me and slowly lifts his left hand towards me. His index finger is bent to the side, as if to initiate balcony etiquette. His hand passes the balcony railing, but doesn't come any closer to me. I stare at it, confused. What's he getting at?

"Kaylin, will you make the choice to trust me?"

My heart rocks against my chest and my legs begin to go numb. "How can I do that when I'm filled with so much fear?" I ask.

"Trust is an action. It's not something you feel, but rather something you choose to do in spite of your feelings." Derrick smiles softly, tilting his head to the side. "Will you trust me?"

I blink, slowly rising to my feet with trembling legs. The breeze picks up, blowing through my hair and giving me goose bumps from the chill. I hug myself tightly, partly because of the cold and partly because of the burning anxiety deep in my core. My pulse quickens, warning me to stay away from this perthean lest I get hurt—yet I find myself, for whatever reason, approaching the hand in front of me.

Derrick remains silent. I look back up at him, his smile still stretched from ear to ear. All at once, his eyes narrow, turning brown, and a scar appears over his left cheek. I slam my eyes shut, quickly sucking in a breath and blowing it out, before opening one eye to peek up at my deskmate. His blue eyes have returned to normal, and there's no scar on his cheek. I look back at his hand, cautiously tiptoeing towards it as my insides convulse and the world around me begins to spin.

Once I'm close enough, I reach a hand out towards my deskmate's index finger, only to pull it back towards myself out of uncertainty. Can I really do this? Can I really trust a perthean?

I place one hand on my deskmate's finger, and then another. I stand in place, breathless and at a loss for words. It takes all the strength I have left to look Derrick in the eyes.

"I will," I manage to say at last.

My deskmate sighs joyfully, and his eyes soften as if smiling themselves.

"Okay," he whispers.

Seeing the glee on Derrick's face gives me the courage to smile back at him. Now that I've made the choice to trust him, I can't help but wonder what comes next.

"Do you want to try walking onto my hand again?" he asks.

I recall the moment Derrick's hand approached me without warning, shivers running down my spine.

"Don't worry," he says. "I'll alert you before I reach for you from now on."

I nod, and Derrick lays his hand down palm side up on the balcony. I bite the inside of my cheek as my legs squirm beneath me, begging me to run away. I made the choice to trust Derrick, I'm not running away!

"Now, I was going to show you how humans are generally expected to react in response to an open palm. May I see your hand?" Derrick asks.

My heart skips a beat. What does he want my hand for? Still shaking where I stand, I gulp, and reluctantly offer up my right hand. I become lightheaded when Derrick takes my hand in between his fingertips. Closing my eyes, I attempt to steady my breathing. I've made my decision. I'm going to trust my deskmate.

Derrick leads me toward his open palm with a gentle tug, and places my hand on his thumb.

"There," he says, letting go of me. "Use my thumb as a support to get onto my hand."

My eyes widen as I gaze at the intricacies of his thumbprint—each curve and crevice forming a uniquely detailed pattern. I spread out my fingers. My hand doesn't even cover a fraction of the print, it's so... little. I stand there in awe, completely mesmerized by the sight in front of me as my cheeks become warmer and warmer.

"Is something wrong?" Derrick asks.

"N-no! Nothing's wrong!" I sputter, embarrassed that I'd been staring at my deskmate's thumbprint for so long.

I press down on Derrick's thumb with nearly all of my strength. It doesn't move an inch. I look toward the palm of his hand, and, using his thumb for support, I manage to lift one leg and plant it on the fleshy surface in front of me. I push off from Derrick's thumb and leap forward into his hand, only to trip on the squishy surface beneath my feet and fall flat on my face!

Derrick gasps. "Are you okay?"

I push against the skin beneath me and manage to get up onto my knees. I nod, my face completely red.

"We'll work on this," my deskmate says, lifting his hand from the balcony and closer to his chest.

"So, um..." I start, my gaze fixed on the palm I'm in. I'm interrupted, however, by a large finger lifting my head until my eyes meet Derrick's.

"Lesson two," Derrick says, "you should always try to look a perthean in the eyes when you speak to them. This makes it easier for us to hear you and perceive your emotions."

"O-oh, okay," I murmur, shivering.

Derrick smiles. "Now, what were you going to say?"

"Oh, I was just about to ask what happens now."

Derrick gazes off into the distance, his brows furrowed in thought. Did he not think he'd get this far?

"I was thinking we could just sit and talk for a while," he says, looking back at me.

"Talk?" I ask. "About what?"

"Anything," Derrick says, moving beside the balcony.

I sway from side to side in my deskmate's hand as he walks. I've gotten more accustomed to this with each passing school day, so I don't have to steady myself as much anymore. But when Derrick lowers himself to sit on the ground, I let out a yelp as the quick motion catches me completely off guard! My insides flip upside down, and I try my hardest to keep from losing my lunch.

"Sorry! Was that too quick?" Derrick asks.

"A little," I squeak, wondering what I've really gotten myself into by agreeing to meet back here with this guy.

"Sorry. I'll try to be more gentle," he says. "So... what do you want to talk about?"

"You're the one who wanted to meet back here in the first place. Shouldn't you be coming up with the ideas?" I ask.

I pick at my nails, keeping my gaze away from Derrick's. Once again, a large finger lifts my head until my eyes are locked with my deskmate's. I can't help but shudder as we glance at each other. Will I ever get used to the weight of his stare?

Derrick smiles reassuringly. "Alright," he says. "Let's talk about you."

My heart skips a beat as blood rushes to my cheeks. "What?! Why me?!" I ask.

"Hey, you said I should be the one coming up with the ideas!" Derrick laughs. "And besides... ever since we became deskmates, I've been curious to learn more about you."

I cross my arms and hang my head low to hide that I'm now blushing even harder. I've always hated talking about myself, it's so embarrassing! I'm not even that interesting!

"Come on," Derrick says, lifting me up to be eye level with him. "Can't you at least tell me a little bit about yourself?"

"I-I—" I stutter, trying to come up with any way to get myself out of this, only to sigh in defeat. "Okay."

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Once Derrick and I got to talking, the time flew by. I told him a bit about the move, and he was surprised to hear that Dad and I traveled nearly 900 roams from Maedri to Chancelor. That's about 15,000 miles, which would feel like around 18,000 roams for a perthean. He asked why we would move that far, and I filled him in on how Dad really wanted me to go to his old high school. Thinking through it all again, it really doesn't make much sense. But, then again, neither does my dad.

Derrick told me a little bit about himself, too. He told me he lives with both of his parents, and that he has an identical twin brother who is away for university on Erimathea. I asked why they weren't in the same stage for school if they were the same age, and he mentioned something about his brother being able to graduate early. He seemed a bit uncomfortable with the topic, though, so I didn't push it much.

Before we knew it, we'd been talking behind the school for well over an hour. The funny thing is, the longer I spent in Derrick's hands, the easier it became to talk to him. I found myself trembling less and less over time, and I was able to maintain eye contact for most of our conversation.

"With exposure and with time," I recall Dad saying, "things can get better."

I shake the memory away. Sure, this meet up with Derrick is helping, but it wasn't Dad's idea!

"Uh-oh," Derrick says, glancing at his phone. "It's nearly 5 o'clock."

I let out a gasp as my eyes widen with realization. Dad's going to be expecting me home any minute now! I don't want him wondering where I've been! How in the world would I explain Derrick trying to help me with my fear? I can already see the smile on Dad's face. I can already hear him telling me how he knew sending me to this school would be a good decision. I can't just let him win, can I?

"Do you have somewhere to be?" Derrick asks.

"I... well," I stammer, not sure how to explain my situation. "My dad's going to be expecting me any minute now, and it usually takes me over an hour to walk home from here!"

"Really? Do you live far from here?"

"I think it's a bit far from here," I say, trying to mentally calculate the distance based on how long my walk home usually is. "I live at the human apartment building on Seren Avenue."

Derrick blinks. "Are you serious?"

"W-what?" I ask, a shudder running down my spine.

"That's right around the corner from here! That's not far at all," Derrick chuckles.

"Well, for you it might not be, but—!"

"I know, I know," Derrick says. "It's twenty times the distance for you."

I rub my arm. "I just don't know how I'm going to explain this to my dad," I mutter. "If he finds out we met up because of my fear, or that we hung out at all... I feel like he's going to hold that over my head."

My deskmate hums, leaning back against the wall. "I might have an idea," he says with a smile, lifting me to his eyes.

"Y-you do?" I stutter, still not used to when he holds me close to his face like this.

"Are you ready for your next assignment?" he asks.

"That depends," I say, scooting back a little in his palm. "what is it?"

"Will you let me walk you home?" He asks. "In favor of taking another step towards overcoming your fear?"

"I-I don't know..."

"Come on! What do you have to lose?"

I look into my deskmate's round blue eyes. I can't tell if he's encouraging me or pleading with me at this point, but does my answer even matter? He already knows where I live, so he can take me home whether I want him to or not. I guess it's good that he's asking, but... is this really a good idea? What will people think of a boy walking a girl home? What if the perthean lobby receptionist at the apartment sees us and tries to strike up another conversation? What if she tells Dad a perthean boy walked his daughter home? What will Dad think of Derrick walking me home? Ugh, he'd probably be ecstatic to see me getting along with my deskmate...

I take a deep breath and let it out. "Okay," I say. What could really go wrong?

"Alright!" Derrick says cheerfully, leaning forward to stand up.

"P-please be careful!" I plead in fear of being knocked about.

"I will," he says, being surprisingly gentle as he rises to his feet. "Now, Seren... Seren... that would be this way."

I sway around in my deskmate's hand with each step he takes. I keep my head down to prevent myself from getting nauseous, but I can tell when Derrick rounds a few corners and ends up on the sidewalk beyond the school grounds.

"We're almost there," he says.

"What? We just left!"

"It's that white building, right? About three blocks down?" Derrick asks, pointing to a small building far off in the distance.

I remember seeing pictures of the outside of the apartment online, and I guess it sort of looks like the building my deskmate is pointing to, but I can't really tell from this distance.

"Even if that's the right place, it's still going to take you at least a half hour to get there from here," I assert.

"Watch me," Derrick says.

"You're not going to try running it, are you?!" I exclaim, a sudden panic taking over.

"What? No, of course not! I'm going to take it nice and steady. Just don't be surprised when we get there in about..." my deskmate says, squinting at the white building in the distance. "Five minutes."

"Ha! Right!" I roll my eyes at his ridiculous estimate. There's no way what would take me an hour and a half is going to take him any less than thirty minutes.

As Derrick begins to walk again, I peek up from his hand every once in a while to see how far we are from our destination. To my surprise, we're approaching it much faster than I first anticipated.

I keep to myself for the most part, until something strange lands in Derrick's palm. I blink a few times, uncertain of what it is I'm seeing. It's long, a bit rounded, and a lovely shade of light pink. I reach out and poke it first, to make sure it's not some kind of bug. When it doesn't fly away, I lean over and take it in my hands. It's soft to the touch, though a bit wrinkly. It almost feels like some kind of plant.

"Hey," I say, my focus shifting back to my deskmate. "Do you know what this is?"

Derrick stops for a moment and looks down at the pink object in my hands. He tilts his head to the side, inquisitively.

"I think it's a petal," he says.

"A petal? From what?" I ask, excitedly scanning the ground beneath me for any flowers. To my disappointment, I don't see any.

"From that tree," my deskmate answers, pointing above and behind me to a massive heap of pink blossoms swinging in the wind, connected together by dark, twisting branches to a thick trunk.

My eyes immediately widen when it comes into view. The big blossoms float about in the sky high above us, and little petals rain down all around like snowflakes. This is a sight I've only ever dreamt about or seen in movies before. I never thought I'd get to see something like this for myself! The sky lights in Maedri's undercity always depicted cherry blossoms around spring every year, and I thought that was a sight to behold! But now I'm seeing the real thing? Am I really awake right now?

As Derrick begins to walk again, I try peeking around him to continue looking at the tree. Given his size, however, this proves fruitless. I slump in his palm, saddened that I only got a few moments with such a beautiful part of nature.

Derrick stops again, looking down at my slouching figure. He backs up a bit, and, reaching up to the tree, tears off a tiny section of a branch covered in flowers. He examines it between his fingertips for a moment, and then hands it to me.

My cheeks redden, and I can't help but let a smile creep across my face. Although I quiver at the sight of Derrick's nearing hand, I take the branch.

"For me?" I ask, my voice trembling.

"Mhm," Derrick hums. "A souvenir."

My breathing picks up speed with my heart rate. "Th-thanks," I manage.

Now I really can't let Dad find out about all this. What would he think of a boy giving me flowers?! I'd throw them right out if not for how mesmerized I still am by the sight of that tree.

After a few more moments of walking, Derrick stops again.

"The Apartments at Seren," he says.

I look up from the flowers in my lap. "No way!" I exclaim, dumbfounded.

"Well," Derrick says, pointing, "that's what it says on the sign."

Sure enough, the sign reads the name of my apartment building. Derrick reaches for the door to enter the perthean lobby.

"Wait!" I shout, only to bite my lip at the realization that I was a little too loud. "Um... is it okay if you just drop me off outside? There's an undercity entrance on the side of the building."

"Wouldn't it be faster to just drop you off inside?" Derrick asks.

"Well, it's just that... my dad likes to talk to the receptionist in there, and I don't know how he'd react if he saw a guy walking me home. And giving me flowers."

"Oh! Don't worry, I understand," he says. "I'll just set you down right here, then."

Derrick gently lowers himself to the ground, and places the hand I'm in down on the sidewalk. I rise from my place in his palm, wobbling a little at first as I struggle to stand. Bookbag and blossoms secured, I carefully inch toward the edge of my deskmate's hand, one step at a time, and then leap off onto the sidewalk.

"I guess I'll see you tomorrow?" Derrick asks.

"On Firsday," I say.

"Oh, right," he says. "I'll see you on Firsday."

"Alright. Bye!" I say, sheepishly waving as I make my way toward the undercity entrance on the side of the apartment building.

As I'm walking, I have a sudden realization— I completely forgot to thank Derrick! I turn around, only to see him walking away from the apartment building.

"Hey!" I yell, but Derrick doesn't seem to hear me.

I huff. I don't want to seem rude! I run after Derrick, as fast as I can, until I'm right beside him on the ground.

"Hey! Derrick! Wait!" I shout, hoping he'll hear me.

"Huh?" Derrick looks down.

The glass that veiled my fear for only a moment shatters as I stand face to face with a tall, tall perthean. From the ground. My eyes widen. My insides contort into a knot, and the world begins to spin around me. My heart slams against my ribcage and my legs tremble beneath me, again begging me to run away. Just what do I think I'm doing?

"Kaylin? Is everything okay?" Derrick asks.

"I-I— I w... I wanted..." I stutter and stutter, fumbling over every word as I rack my brain for whatever it was I wanted to say.

Derrick must realize I'm struggling, so he kneels down closer to the ground. "Yes?" He asks.

"I-I... I wanted t-to... I wanted to thank you!" I say, crossing my arm over my chest and leaning forward. "For helping me, and walking me home."

"Oh!" Derrick smiles. "Don't mention it."

"O-okay! S-see you on Firsday," I stammer, all at once giving in to my quaking legs' pleas and running as fast as I can away from Derrick and toward the undercity entrance without looking back.

This fear just isn't going to quit, is it?

[torchickentacos]

The pokemon anime subreddit fascinates and frustrates me on equally deep levels

[vickyvicarious]

I know it's been said before, but... I'd like to take a little time to really point out all the many ways the locals are trying their hardest to be kind to Jonathan and to help him however they can, even at risk to themselves.

The innkeeper's wife breaks her silence enough to tell him not to go, and when he won't agree, to warn him about the eve of St. George's Day and ask him to delay. When that fails too, she gives him her crucifix. That's probably her personal protection she's giving up to him.

She's not done. She tells the driver of the coach about Jonathan, and I think asks him to rush through the pass so Dracula can't pick him up tonight.

The people nearby who overhear her look at Jonathan with pity. While they don't directly try to assist here, I can't help but notice that they're on the bench "which they call by a name meaning "word-bearer"" and talking loud enough/repetitively enough that Jonathan is able to look up their words about various supernatural threats. They outright say the word for "vampire", making it the first mention in the book. If we assume they subscribe to a belief where you don't name the evil lest it come after you, that could be them trying to indirectly get him some warning.

The whole crowd try to protect Jonathan from the evil eye when he's about to set out.

That one guy pointed out God's Seat to Jonathan... maybe trying to bring his attention to something nicer, maybe some kind of religious protection? A kind gesture regardless.

The driver makes a fairly black humor joke about dogs that seems to be hinting at wolves coming after them. I wonder if he's half-expecting Dracula to send wolves to hunt them down. Regardless, even though he arrived late to pick everyone up, he pushes really really hard the whole time to try and rush them through before Jonathan would be picked up. He succeeds well enough that they're a whole hour early, even.

As it gets dark, everyone else on board also starts urging the driver to go faster, and watching out the windows for Dracula's approach. They're invested in this too.

When they enter the Borgo Pass, they all start giving Jonathan protective gifts. I suspect those were meant to keep themselves safe as they pass close by Dracula's castle, but they insist he take them all instead.

They sigh in relief at their early arrival, and not seeing Dracula. The driver does the smallest most halfhearted pretense of trying to get Jonathan there, before declaring they'd better leave now since he's not getting picked up.

They obviously can't directly oppose Dracula when he arrives, but I have to mention the guy who quotes Lenore. That's maybe stupidly open about what Dracula is but it's still pretty ballsy even if he didn't really expect the Count to hear him.

They're just... doing their absolute best to help him. I love them so much.

[thefudge]

Advice for writing smut???

gonna do bullet-points of things i tend to live by when it comes to smut (this is just my opinion):

don't switch styles: the way you write the smut has to be consistent with the way you write the rest of the story, so if your story is more comedic or romcom-y in nature, the way you write the smut should have those stylings. i personally find it very jarring when authors decide to break the format for the smut, almost like the story has to stop for the sex intermission; if you're writing a horror story, the smut must be informed and influenced by that genre, and if you are breaking genre for the smut portion, tell us why you're suddenly switching gears (it has to be an aesthetic choice you're making on purpose). likewise, if your style in that story is more lyrical, the smut has to be somewhat lyrical too, or if your story is more cormac mccarthy-esque-cut-and-dry, the smut can't suddenly involve an effluvia of purple, sappy prose. integrating the smut in the story and treating it like any other part of the story is key to me. too often i've seen ppl switch to this anonymous pornified style when they get to the smut

which brings me to specificity. i'll talk about het sex, since that's what i tend to write most: not all men are going to be fingering or eating pussy the same way, not all dicks are big and they shouldn't be, not all women immediately get excited by fingering, not everyone moans the same way or makes the same sounds. you're writing about particular characters so it has to be particular to them. i know this is very old advice, but i think it bears repeating

there isn't an exact formula or sequence you have to follow, there aren't precise steps, you don't have to go "well, first he has to kiss down her neck, then reach the boob area, then play with the nipples, then put the nipple in his mouth, then slowly go down on her, then prepare her for entering her etc. etc. etc." this can get boring and repetitive and you start thinking of your characters as these mechanical dolls who have to fuck for your audience. and that can be a vibe too, if you do it on purpose. but sometimes you can get stuck in a porn routine (and ofc, having only the guy show initiative can also get boring)

in order to break that, insert some character moments. what are the characters thinking during this? sometimes they might be thinking of something completely unrelated on the surface, but which has a thematic relevance that can make the scene hotter. likewise, maybe they're doing smth that seems unsexy on the surface, but which, within the context of the story might be really hot. sex doesn't just involve, well, sex, but so much weirdness and humanity and creativity. two bodies (usually) are trying to do this really awkward thing together and they might have a lot of baggage and history to inform it. there's a lot you can do with that.

don't make it glossy and clean, where everyone smells of strawberry shampoo and there is never anything out of sync. the most boring smut tends to be the kind where no one makes any mistakes and everything is super efficient. i imagine it feels like using an industrial pump to milk various farm animals.

and you know what? you can make that hot too. you CAN write a kind of robotic efficient smut and make it really interesting based on the context. let's say you're writing a 1984 AU fic where ppl are forced into intimacy only to procreate and their sex drive is diminished. you can play with that premise and lean into the dehumanizing industrialization of sex, but you have to mean it, aka your narratorial voice must be conscious of these factors.

if you're writing dubcon, make the dubious part present, make sure you draw out the ambivalence and ambiguity. if you're writing noncon, the character whose consent is being violated has to be transformed by this in some way. it can be forced pleasure, for instance, but not only. it has to be a journey for them too, some kind of spiritual pit, or a form of access to terrible knowledge. i know this is a personal thing, but noncon doesn't work for me if the character being noncon'd is just sort of *there*, suffering passively. i think that sort of dead passivity can be done very well too, but the narratorial voice has to persuade me.

that being said, don't be afraid of fear in consensual sex. terror and vulnerability are a part of consensual sex too, imo, and again, depending on the story and the characters, there's a lot you can explore there

i personally find it really hot when the narratorial voice starts discussing some of the ideas that the story wants to convey during the smut. so like, you can characterize person A and outline their worldview and their plans while they're ramming person B, and the thinking & fucking are thus entwined. idk, i dig that

speaking of which, smut can convey world-building details and social/philosophical ideas, not just emotions and character beats

not all smut has to end with mutual orgasm or even one-sided orgasm, it depends what you want to do or where you want to go. again, you don't have to follow a sequence. plus, it's fun (and hot) to write about frustration and failure too.

if you want to mix up the descriptions, resort to the story & characters. you'll find it's easier to describe someone fondling a boob in a new or at least interesting way if you're thinking about that particular character in that particular story, and not just Man X from planet porn (sorry to be snarky, but mainstream erotica is soooo guilty of this)

screaming & really intense reactions are cool but they have to match the characters and the situations

sometimes, it's hotter if an effect is mild or negated, if the usual outcome doesn't happen; mix up the order of events, toy with the usual reactions. it's not about being original, it's about finding out what works for your characters. writing about sex is, in a way, a performance of it, an attempt to go through the sexual motions, to find out what works and doesn't, to engage with the erotics of text (roland barthes entered the chat)

if you are bored by your own smut, that's a problem. i know we all talk about how hard we find writing smut, and IT IS hard, and sometimes it's not enjoyable, because writing itself is often not enjoyable, but even when it's painful and annoying, it gives you that little intellectual kick like "huh, i'm creating this and making these people do this, and ohh look, i can maybe put this unnamable thing into words". but if you become bored, that's a sign you have to look at the language & characters and figure out what's not working for you

last thing i'll underline: pay attention to your narratorial voice. in this ordeal, you are the seducer. not the characters. you have to seduce us with words and context. your voice matters the most. you can persuade us of anything. but you have to be confident in your weirdness and particularity. this is your bedroom (so to speak), so invite us in.

[megvmins]

THE MOST TOUCHSTARVED VS THE MOST TOUCHY BOYS AWARDS

warnings: none, very fluffy

a/n: now i'm only doing the top three as the headcanons could get pretty repetitive but i'll do some headcanons for more characters later in a different post.

touchstarved boys awards

#3 KAJI: I believe he doesn't need that much physical affection overall but most of it stems from him being terrified that he could snap back into his angry self. before hiragi helps him get the hang of it, he avoids you like the plague which in turn makes you feel like he hates your guts but it's the opposite. he cares for you too much to let you see him snap and he wouldn't be able to live with himself if he hurt you. but once he gets it under control? he does crave some skinship – holding hands is almost a must but sometimes the guys would tease him and he ends up throwing a hand around your shoulders/waist instead. 

#2 SUGISHITA: he avoids physical affection if it doesn't come from umemiya most of the time but sometimes he kind of misses the warmth of another person. when you start dating he becomes your shadow, stands behind you closer and closer every time until he brings himself to rest his chin on top of your head or shoulder if you are taller. if you point it out he will flush deep red that even sakura would be amazed and immediately lets go. he doesn't want many people in his personal space but you soothe his temper. loves when you hook his pinky finger with yours and swing your hands between you two. 

#1 SAKURA: obviously due to his life up until joining furin he didn't even know there could be physical touch that's good so when he figures it out he finds himself almost hungry for any little bit of physical affection. the hunger only grows with every little brush of your fingers when you walk side by side or playful ruffle of his hair even if you scold him by flicking his forehead he cherishes the warmth of your touch. he definitely won't slip up much in public as his embarrassment would literally make him explode like a volcano but in private? he would become a lot clingier. hugging you tight and not letting go as fast, volunteering his chest for you to sit against when watching a movie or intertwining your fingers with his before he drifts off to sleep with a dopey smile on his face when you're already deep in slumber.  

the most touchy boys awards (under the cut!)

#3 CHOJI: straight up doesn't understand personal space, it's free real estate for him. he pulls you around by your hand everywhere. it's honestly admirable how fast he walks even though he is not that tall but he will slow down for you if you tell him to. something in me tells me he loves head rubs and head pats as praise. loves surprising you with quick pecks on the lips or cheeks because “i just felt like giving you a kiss.” i also believe he moves around a lot during his sleep so only if you literally lock him down with your legs and arms are you safe from getting kicked off the bed or hit in the face when he rolls over.

#2 TSUBAKINO: same as ume, tsubaki is a naturally touchy person, it's part of who he is. in addition to him having the worst cute aggression and absolutely zero self-control about it. if at any point his brain says you look cute he will act on it. if you eat something and it makes you look like a chipmunk he will gush and coo and dab the corners of your lips for you. definitely pulls on your cheeks out of nowhere just to make you talk funny because he finds it adorable. sidehugs, backhugs, welcome home hugs, you-look-so-cute-i-could-eat-you-up hugs you name it he does it. also please please please brush his hair for him with his head on your lap or massage his head like that and he will melt. will do the same for you in a heartbeat.

#1 UMEMIYA: it goes without saying but he won't let a single chance escape him. he offers high-fives to you when something good happens just to intertwine your fingers once your palms touch and pull you in to kiss your forehead. one of his hands is always on you in some way – around your shoulders, on your lower back guiding you through crowds, on your thigh when sitting down to give you gentle reassurance that he's there. he's so clingy that it's weird when he isn't around. you get so used to him in your personal space that when he's not there, you feel a sense of loss – like something is clearly missing and then you see him running up to you like an excited golden retriever to hug you and spin you around and everything feels right again. 

[the-maddened-hatter]

Alright so I pretty much said all of this verbatim on a reblog of someone else's post, but I wanted to put it here on my blog too.

As I've mentioned before, I would *very* much like to see Peri canonically having a disability that causes him to use his wand/cane and not just have it be an accessory, and so I analyzed the episodes he's in that I've been able to see so far and came up with a few observations:

As much as I'd be unopposed to seeing it portrayed, leg issues don't really seem like a major deal to fairies in general given as Cosmo misplaced his for most of an episode and a pair of sticks were a good enough replacement for him to have fun at the arcade in human form (without even drawing human attention)

And Peri can apparently use his powers as listed above without his cane since he doesn't always immediately have it on his person (especially since Dev & Hazel took his cane in Lost in Fairy World and he didn't have any power or mobility problems)

But!

I *could* easily see him having some kind of magical fatigue issue or magical equivalent of hypotonia or balance disorder, since he's shown to be

very tired after a morning spent magically creating cupcakes (a probably small but very repetitive task that leaves him running low on energy)

When his stationary float is disrupted he remains seated instead of floating back up again

3. A minor contact/startle reflex is enough to disrupt his hover and cause him to immediately fall pretty hard if not very far

4. speaking of distance, he is shown to sometimes float a bit lower than his parents, which, while not consistent and likely just an animation choice, could tie in with the other points to support the diagnosis theory

However, pain may admittedly be more of a factor than the above images suggest,

he may not just be tired from shape shifting like I'd thought since right before that he was walking (albeit in horse form) and afterwards (low) cloud float is apparently easier and faster for him than just quickly trotting past his parents

He also didn't really seem to be having too much of a problem at all before he hit the ground

Where it goes to a definitely tired and possibly more pained look.

Maybe he didn't want to tell Dev that it was painful either out of pride or because he didn't want to potentially upset him and just went with "tired" because that was what he assumed. It'd be interesting to see if it happens again in a different form.

Personally I think it'd be cool to see both and have it be a chronic condition (directly magical or otherwise) that he already had before the series began (diagnosed or not).

If he's the first fairy kid born in a long time he probably would have been monitored very closely, but it may have taken a while for doctors to notice a problem since there was little reference for comparison and may have even caused some potentially serious problems that gave Comso & Wanda a bad scare, which could tie in pretty well with their developing a high amount of over protectiveness of him, and that in turn leading him to try and behave too far in the other direction (not seeking help when he really does need it, pushing himself way too hard and suffering the fallout which he then tries to hide, ect)

If he's undiagnosed but having the problems it could be interesting to see sort of an inversion of the "character must learn to accept their disability" storyline wherein he's more connecting certain events & symptoms and we get to see him adapting to accommodations and letting himself try different approaches moreso than to having new symptoms (though we as the audience may see these symptoms more or behaviors contextualized as symptoms where they weren't necessarily before).

Idk either way I just think it would be cool (and I've probably put away more analysis into this than will ever pay off lol)

also to everyone who draws him as a disabled mobility device user: ILY please draw more of it it feeds my soul

[honeytonedhottie]

feminine body language⋆.ೃ࿔*:･🧁

90% of communication is body language, the mind is connected to the body. body language is so important to how u perceive urself and how others perceive you <3

DISCLAIMER : everything in this post is things i've noticed, and other girls have too, its little tips and tricks on how to be more feminine with ur body language if u wanna apply then do you but if this doesn't resonate with u then u dont have to take it~

UR WALK :

ur walk is what ppl see when u walk into a room, and when u walk with confidence you literally FEEL confident. the most feminine thing to do when walking is walking with ur hips.

the best way for it to become natural is with practice and repetition ofc. practice walking in front of ur mirror, the point of this is to have open hips. if ur hips r open, then walking with ur hips will be easy peasy.

the more flexible u are, the more naturally and organically walking with ur hips will be, i recommend yoga and hip mobility exercises.

POSTURE :

envision that u have a string attached to the head of ur spine and its pulling u up, kind of like a puppet lol. walk with ur back straight and ur chin parallel to the floor. also, keep ur shoulders back and ur chest out.

some ways to help practice posture is by using back trainers, pilates, and ofc yoga

WHAT NOT TO DO :

dont ever walk into a room with ur head down

HAND GESTURES :

a feminine thing to do is talking with ur hands, using hand or bodily gestures to express urself while communicating, is literally scientifically proven to add emphasis and structure when u talk.

the main thing i've learned about when researching feminine hand gestures is tilting ur head when ur listening or thinking, touching ur arms or neck etc.

movements should always be SLOW, dont be rushed, slow down ur speaking, walking, bodily gestures, etc. take ur time and collect ur thoughts, dont be in a rush and dont let ur thoughts be all over the place. its all about control.

OBVIOUSLY dont over-do it but u get my point right?

EYE CONTACT :

practice eye contact, ik its a bit weird if ur not used to it but genuinely give it a try if u want <3

[kaisentine]

so about this…

you had met your tattoo artist the day prior to you actually getting inked. the meeting was… very interesting to say the least. it was originally supposed to be—and technically still was—a consultation of the design and where you wanted to get it tattooed but it ended up turning into a somewhat professional flirting session.

that had to hurt… your eyes trailed off to your artist’s left arm, there’s a snake of rose thorns trailing from his hand to his neck. he lifts an eyebrow to your obvious staring. “what? like what you see?” he stifles a laugh at your curiosity.

“who wouldn’t? ‘s pretty cool.” you respond shamelessly—geez, what happened to your humility? even he’s thrown back by your bluntness but yes of course, it is pretty cool (omg praise him!). “cool enough for you to look like you wanna touch it?” he asks to match your bold compliment and damn was it even bolder. however—fuck yeah, it is cool enough for you to want to touch it.

your hand traces along the vines that run up his arm. there’s a bunch of curves so it honestly looks like you’re just scribbling on his skin with your finger—it doesn’t feel like anything other than skin, of course. however, it does feel like you’re a child tracing a color book. the real interesting part was the tattoos on his neck—two blue roses connected to the vines. you opted not to touch the roses because then it would feel a bit too intimate and you two had just met.

“now, did ‘ya like it?” he questions you like you had just entered space. “it’s really pretty.” you say before removing your hands off of his forearm. “you have quite a smooth tongue, don’t you?” it wasn’t your intention to have one—you honestly just spoke your truth. you shrug at his comment and he smirks. “back to business; what were you looking to get done?”

“i was thinking we could do it here.” you point towards the top of the shoulder and he grimaces ever-so-slightly. “oh—you sure? for a first tattoo, that could be rough.”

maybe you should’ve heeded his warning. the pain isn’t too bad until he has to go over the lines, it’s a repetitive movement that has you turning your head the opposite way with your free arm bringing a clutched hand to your mouth. you can only imagine how kaiser looks at this very moment, completely focused to avoid any mistakes, his bangs falling down in strands… God save me!

he can sense your pain and by protocol—he stops. “need a break?” his voice now clear after turning the needle off, you nod at his words. the pressure of his gloved hand left your collarbone and shoulder. “aw, you good?” he teases after seeing you relax—what do you think? “sure…”

you aren’t some kind of mind-reader and kaiser is so fucking glad. how would a customer react if their tattoo artist found their pained face from the inking-needle as beautiful as they think the artist’s tattoo is?

he’s also glad you made an appointment with your phone number.

[mortuary-maggots]

Mean

This is my first time writing smut so please be kind as I figure things out!

synopsis- Toby and reader do not get along in the slightest. What happens when they're forced to share a bed coming home from a mission?

TW: smut, mentions of blood, name calling (both sexual and non), mentions of murder, biting, reader is kind of a brat, reader is afab

Let me know if I've missed any warnings.

Thick silence clung to the air of the car, mixing with the stale smell of cigarette smoke and greasy fast food bags. Tim had one hand gripped firmly on the wheel, so tightly you would be shocked if he didn't leave behind imprints in the leather. His other hand rested outside the rolled down window, cigarette nestled between two fingers; his fourth one in the last hour. You knew the mission had gone poorly even if it had been completed, but his chain smoking in silence cemented that fact all the more. He was always the first to chastise the group when things went south, armed with harsh words and insults that you knew were out of a need to better you all. Silence from him when it came to matters of work was unsettling, it was only a matter of time before he exploded. 

Brian sat passenger, equally silent. That wasn't out of the ordinary, he was often a man of little words, even more so when he was sleep deprived. You all were at this point. Cleaning up loose ends for the Operator would often consist of many day missions, in which rest was a luxury. You all savored the ability to relax when you came back, even Tim, who never really slept much to begin with. Brian fiddled with the screen of his camcorder, opening and closing it in a repetitive motion, head focused on the road in front of him. Normally, he'd be hounding Tim to slow down on the cigarettes by his second one, not wanting to deal with the acrid fumes in such close proximity, but you knew even he felt the tension that seeped from the man in the driver's seat. 

Toby sat next to you in the back, eyes trained outside. His elbow rested on the armrest of the door, his cheek nestled into his gloved hand. You could tell he was still fuming from your earlier fight, the fight that had almost cost you the entire mission. You couldn't even remember the full context to why you had started fighting in the first place, you probably killed someone he had his sights trained on or something of the sort. It didn't matter what it was about either way, you both always found something to argue over. Drinking the rest of the milk in the cabin, him dumping your wet laundry on the floor to replace it with his, who sat shotgun when Brian wasn't in the car, just about any interaction you had with him ended in a screaming match that had to be broken up by Tim or Brian, sometimes both if it got too out of hand.

It's not like you tried to start something with him, it just kind of happened. He was disagreeable and snappy and you could tell there was something about you just existing in his general vicinity that pissed him off. You weren't quite sure what you had done to land yourself on his perpetual shit-list, but you also hadn't really asked. You craved the excitement that came with the explosion of vitriol you casted at each other, it was a much needed stress relief. He was an outlet to blow off steam. However, there was also a small part of you that enjoyed the attention from him, even if it was mostly negative.

When you had first become a proxy, you had mentally latched onto him, developing a little proximity crush in the process. Falling for someone was something you were sure would never happen to you, especially after all the trauma that led you to where you were now. Yet, here he was, infectious laugh and messy curls making you feel smitten. Back then, you’d be able to have a conversation without it devolving, his energetic ramblings about things he loved were endearing, but somewhere along the way that had rapidly changed to a demeaning attitude. It wasn't gradual, it came overnight, like a switch had been flipped. You didn't reciprocate his jabs at first, but the longer it went on the more it lit a fire in you. The crush hadn't really gone away either, instead twisting into an unhealthy obsession with how easy you got under his skin, how much you lived rent free in his head even if he was dousing his mind version of you in gasoline and striking a match. There was something so enticing about pushing his buttons until he lost control.

The most recent fight had almost resulted in a survivor escaping, both of you far too enthralled in verbally ripping each other apart to notice someone trying to slip away. Brian had finished her off while Tim forcefully led you and Toby back to the car, hands gripped on the backs of your necks. It was like breaking up a dogfight by separating them by their scruff, though it didn't stop you two from continuing the tirade back and forth until Tim threatened to leave you both to walk. You had shut up instantly, but you knew it wasn't the end; you always seemed to pick up right where you left off.

“You two need to get your shit together.” Tim's gruff voice pierced through the smog that had yet to escape through his open window. “You're going to get yourselves fucking killed because you can't get along for longer than five minutes.” 

“I'll do that w-when she stops being a cunt.” Toby mumbled under his breath, kicking at one of the discarded food bags that had consisted of tonight's dinner.

It didn't stop Tim from hearing it clearly, letting out a disgruntled sigh that told you he was trying his best to not stop the car completely and chew you both out. 

“You're right, I'm sorry Tim.” You ignored Toby's nasty comment in favor of keeping your head attached to your body. Toby's anger was easy enough to deal with, you had been for a while, but Tim's anger was a whole other beast you didn't want to be on the other end of. Even if you desperately wanted to say something snarky to piss off Toby further. 

Toby just scoffed at your apology, obviously expecting one pointed towards him as well. Tim only shook his head, letting another sigh fall from his lips, though this one sounded decidedly more exhausted. It was still hours back to the cabin and you knew you needed to stop at a motel before he crashed the car from sleep deprivation. Normally on missions Brian drove, but he had relinquished the keys to Tim, not trusting himself to stay awake on the long drive back. An insomniac in the driver's seat had seemed like a good idea at the time, but the longer the drive went on, the more it became harder for him not to nod off as well. 

Thankfully, Brian seemed to be on the same wavelength as you. “We should find somewhere to stay for the night before you fall asleep at the wheel.” 

“I want to g-go home.” Toby sat up, more alert. His hazy brown eyes glanced toward you for a moment and you felt a tug at your heart strings. You almost resented the feelings for him that refused to go away, almost hated the giddiness that flipped in your stomach when he spoke to you. Almost.

“Kid, we need sleep. Everyone is tired and cranky and I'm sick of listening to you two go at it.” Tim agreed with Brian's sentiment. Brian snorted at the end of Tim's sentence, delighted at the accidental innuendo.

Toby didn't seem to notice Brian's implications, and if he did he didn't say anything about it. “You're just g-going to make me share a room with her.” 

“You both are going to have to learn how to get along at some point.” Brain responded. 

Tim's eyes flicked up to the rear view mirror to look at you both in the backseat. “He's right, we can't afford a failed mission.” 

Toby didn't respond, instead opting to dramatically slump back in his seat, arms crossed like a child who just got told he can't get a toy at the store. It was amusing to see a grown man act like this because of you, but you knew Brian and Tim were right, even though you had a feeling if you tried genuinely being open with Toby, it wouldn't go the way you intended. You wished you could pry open his brunette head and peer inside his skull to see what went on in that confusing brain of his. If you actually could see thoughts that way, it would be decidedly easier than trying to get him to calmly talk to you on his own. You ran over ways to approach him about, at the very least, pretending to get along on missions the entire way to the seedy motel Tim had chosen. You were no closer to having a good idea though. 

“Alright wait here.” Tim stretched with a groan as soon as he got out of the driver's side, a cacophony of cracking joints sounding as he did. Man needed to see a chiropractor or get a stretching rack before his bones disintegrated or something. The car was practically vibrating from the intensity that settled over the remaining inhabitants. You could feel Toby's gaze burn holes into your head, but you refused to meet his gaze, hoping to save whatever storm was brewing for when you were both in your room for the night. It didn't take long for Tim to return, two keycards in hand and another cigarette in the other. He stopped in front of the car and waved the keycards in the air, a silent signal for them all to get out. 

Brian made a beeline for the trunk to retrieve your duffle bags as Tim handed Toby the card for your room. “They only have two, one bed rooms left, so I just got those.” 

“Are you f-fucking kidding m-me.” Toby's twitches got closer together in length as he spat out his shock. You could feel the anxiety fall off him in waves, his full eyebrows furrowed in rage. You tried your best to keep a poker face, but you still felt a blush dust across your cheeks because you didn't necessarily mind sharing a bed with him, it was just an excuse to be closer. It was not lost on you how pathetic that made you sound but you couldn't bring yourself to care.

Tim only grunted a simple, “you'll live,” in response and stamped the cigarette butt out on the ground with his foot. He shoved one of the key cards into Toby’s hand, ignoring the death glare he received in return. 

Despite yourself you couldn't help but poke the bear. “It's just a bed.”

“That I have to s-share with a dumb slut.” He growled. “W-what if she bites me in my sleep and I get rabies.” 

“Can you two just fuck already.” Brian came to stand next to Tim, tossing the duffle bags on the ground in the middle of the group. 

Toby let out an exasperated noise and wordlessly snatched his dark green bag from off the pavement before stomping off in the perceived direction of your room. You were quick to follow, knowing fully if you didn't, he'd leave you to find your own way there, maybe even lock you out of the room. Tim and Brian were a few paces behind, walking leisurely and chatting about breakfast plans for the morning. The small motel looked to be on the verge of condemnation, run down and empty save for the few cars that dotted the parking lot. You had a sneaking suspicion that Tim was lying about the room situation to get you and Toby to finally talk things out. You knew that if this didn't work, Tim and Brian would stop at nothing to remedy the problem, maybe even going as far as to get you both one giant sweater with the words “this is our get along shirt” printed across the front. You hoped it wouldn't have to come to that. 

Your rooms were right next to each other, the doors around it proudly boasting closed for cleaning. It was usually the case for you all to get rooms far away from the general public when you had to stay somewhere for the night, none of you really wanted to get caught by the police. Toby tore through the door after unlocking it, the sheer force of the swing causing it to slam into the wall inside. The compact room had very little furniture, only a bed that barely fit two, two nightstands on either side, and a dresser, and the bathroom was equally as small, narrowly fitting all of its amenities. You closed the door softly behind you after calling goodnight to the other two. The clock that sat on one of the bedside tables read the witching hour and yet there was a frenetic energy coming from Toby as he ripped open his bag on the bed. 

“You can have the bed, I'll sleep on the floor.” You had decided to wait to talk to him until morning, desperately trying to avoid another argument for Tim and Brian's sake. You were hoping he'd be a little more agreeable with a full rest.

He had other plans, however. “W-why? So you can complain to them about h-how I made you sleep on the floor?” 

“Fine, then you sleep on the floor.” You could feel the familiar venom bubble to the surface, you needed to redirect this fast before you lost it yourself. 

“Oh that's real nice, make me s-sleep on the floor.” 

“There's no fucking winning with you, is there?” You spat. “Do whatever the hell you want.”

He pulled his clothes from his bag and stalked into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him. It was going to be a long night. You quickly changed into your own pajamas while he was locked in there, it becoming abundantly clear that he had no interest in even trying to head Tim and Brian’s word. You tried to think back to before it all started, micro-analyzing every single thing you had done or said to him that could make him hate you as much as he did, but you couldn't come up with a single answer. You hadn't done a damn thing except treat him with kindness and it was driving you up the wall that this is how he chose to repay it. Toby stormed out not long after you had finished changing and ignored you completely as you swapped places to do your night routine, which was done hastily in favor of getting to bed faster. 

The room was dark when you returned, Toby already under the covers and staring at the ceiling. You mirrored him, your bodies almost touching from how small the bed was, and you made sure to scoot as close to the edge as possible to stave off a complaint from him. 

That effort was in vain. “Turn towards the wall, I don't want y-your face to be the first thing I s-see when I wake up.” 

That was it. You felt something snap in you as you raised your voice at him. “What is your fucking damage? Why do you always have to have an attitude.”

“Take a look in the m-mirror.” His voice raised in response to yours. “Maybe you'll figure it out.”

“Real mature. I busted my ass to get along with you when I first joined, went out of my way to get to know you. Why do you have such a problem with me? I-”

He cut you off. “Because I fucking like you okay?” Your eyes widened and you whipped your head to look at him. The concern etched onto his face told you he was just as surprised as you were that it came out of his mouth. You could only stare at him, face hot, your own mouth agape as your brain ran a mile a minute and your heart matched its pace.

He made a move to leave the bed, but you wouldn’t let him run away from his confession. “Toby, wait, why didn't you just tell me?” Your voice was soft and shaky, wanting to diffuse the situation, astonished he reciprocated your feelings. 

“So what? I’ll get rejected, l-laughed at?” His voice wavered, unsure of everything that was unfolding between you. 

“How do you know I’d do that?” You couldn’t believe what you were saying, couldn’t believe this was even happening. “I don’t understand why you felt the need to push me away, instead of being a dick, you could have just said something.”

He furrowed his brows, taking a minute to respond. You could almost see the gears in his head turning, tired eyes scanning the ceiling for some kind of answer to his problems. “Y-you kind of deserved it.” 

You let out a discontented noise, moving to get out of the bed. You had to get some air. “What the fuck ever Toby, I give up.” 

Before you could get up fully, his hands were on you, pulling you back into the bed until you were on your back under him, wrists pinned. “I’m f-fucking right, you come in here with those stupid d-doe eyes and pretty smile and act so sickeningly nice to me. It pisses me off, I thought I could f-fix it by starting fights but that just made it s-so much fucking worse because now I’m just thinking about putting you in y-your place.”

All you can do is stare at him, astonished at his confessions. He was inches from your face, breathing labored and eyes unblinking, hands in a vice grip around your poor wrists. It was a struggle to form coherent thoughts, let alone words. “Toby, I-”

You don’t get much out before he interrupted you. “S-shut the fuck up, stop talking. I don’t want to hear it.”

It felt like your brain short circuited a moment, realizing he’s set you up perfectly to push back. “Then make me.” 

He just stared in confusion a moment before it finally clicked. He threw caution into the wind, slamming his lips onto yours in a frenzy. It was sloppy and rushed, like he’d been dreaming of this moment for a while and he couldn’t wait to finally claim you. He sucked your bottom lip into his mouth, biting down on the thin skin until it started to bubble with blood, the metallic taste filling your mouth. The pain caused you to inhale sharply, only rewarding you with his knee moving to separate your thighs, a low groan erupting from his throat as he slid his tongue across the bleeding lip. Your mind is clouded and your clit tingled with excitement as he moved to leave messy kisses down your neck, biting down when he found the spot that caused the biggest reaction. He abused the skin, sucking and biting until a bruise blossomed, causing pitiful whimpers to fall from your mouth. 

“L-look at you.” He breathed, pulling back to admire your disheveled form. Your eyes were half-lidded, lips parted as you struggled to catch your breath from the whirlwind of his rapidly shifting attitude. “So much fight in you before, but I was right wasn’t I? Y-you are a slut.” 

“I am not!” You protested, though your words quickly turned into a gasp when he shoved his knee further up your thighs, rubbing against the fabric of your pajama shorts. 

“O-oh good, you still have some fight left.” Toby shifted, letting go of your wrists and pushing your legs open enough that he could kneel between them. “I’m looking forward to b-breaking you.” 

He moved his hands down the curves of your body, obviously intent on taking off your shirt. You let a coy smile fall across your face, he wanted a fight and historically, you were glad to give that to him. You grabbed at his wrists, stopping him from getting what he wanted, making him growl in frustration and rip the thin material in half. 

“What the fuck.” You ignored the cool air that hit your bare chest in favor of riling him up further. 

His gaze was predatory as he took in the sight of your breasts, exposed just for him. He spoke with a wolfish grin. “If you’re going to act like a brat, I’m g-going to treat you like one.” He dipped to leave marks all over the expanse of skin, relishing in the way it made you buck under him. Pressing down on your clit with his clothed erection, he ground into you roughly, sending chills down your spine. Once he was satisfied with the bruising, he latched onto one of your nipples, nipping at it every so often. His fingers pinched roughly at the other, the dichotomy of pain and pleasure leaving you reeling.

“I think I like you better when you’re using your mouth for this.” You said between pants, ignoring how your voice wavered.

He pulled away from your nipple with an obnoxious pop. “A-and I think I like you b-better when you’re a d-desperate mess.” Hands tugged your pajama shorts down, discarding them somewhere off the bed, leaving you in just your panties.

“Fuck you.” You spat.

“P-planning on it.” He ran a finger up your clothed folds, pressing a little harder when he ghosted over your clit. You could tell he was admiring the green lace of the garment, admiring how soaked you were from his actions. “All t-this for me?” 

Instinctively, you pressed your legs together, giving him the perfect opportunity to pull the underwear off and stuff it into the pocket of his pajama pants. Before you could protest, Toby’s hands gripped harshly into your thighs, prying them apart. You tried to stifle a gasp, though you were unsuccessful as you watched him lick his lips. Wordlessly, he dove to lick a stripe up the slick folds, swirling his tongue around the clit when he reached it. His hands still held firm on your thighs, his fingers were gripping so tightly you knew they wouldn’t escape unmarked. Your back arched off the bed, moans tumbling from your lips in a hushed tone, your own hands grasping the thin bed sheets. 

He pulled back after a moment and clicked his tongue. “Oh c-come on, I know you c-can be louder than that, you run your mouth too much to be q-quiet now.” 

You opened your mouth to protest with furrowed brows, but he quickly returned his tongue to your clit, this time sucking it roughly into his mouth. You let the moans and whimpers spill, unashamed of whoever may hear it, your hands coming to find purchase in his brown curls. Your light tugging urged him to slip two long fingers into your sopping entrance. The surprise caused you to squeak, hips bucking as he curled them into the spot that made your walls contract around him. His pace sped up, each harsh suck of your clit building pressure in you until you couldn’t take it anymore. Your head was thrown back, eyes screwed shut as the coil snapped, your walls threatening to keep his fingers from escaping with how much they squeezed. 

He didn’t stop until your breathing calmed and you pitifully pushed his head away, babbling about how you were sensitive. Slowly, teasingly, he pulled his fingers out, maintaining perfect eye contact, and put them in his mouth, licking them clean. He swiftly took off his clothes and swiped the tip of his hard cock against your folds, collecting your cum on his head before lining it up with your hole. He was big, not too wide but definitely made up for it in length. You had a feeling it would take a minute to get used to, but judging by the impatient lust swirling in Toby’s eyes, you wouldn’t get much time to adjust. 

“Look at you.” He breathed. “S-so high and mighty before and now here you are, l-learning what you’re good for.”

“I d-” You were cut off by your own gasp when he pressed into you, burying the head in your plush walls. 

“Sorry, w-what was that?” His voice was mocking and snide as he moved your legs to rest your calves on his shoulders. He lowered his body, manhandling you into a mating press so he could hover above your face. 

“You’re an asshole.” Each word was punctuated by heavy breathing and was rewarded with him swiftly bottoming out inside you. A strangled noise of shock came from you, hands flying to push back on his shoulders.

He lowered his head to your ear to deliver a dangerous whisper. “I don’t think you’re in a position to t-talk back to me.” He pulled out, agonizingly slow before slamming back into you, forming a quick and painful pace. You felt so full, like you would split in half, unable to form anything but piteous cries with every hit to your gspot. Eventually, the pain began to subside as you grew accustomed to his length and the brutal pace he set, every roll of his hips a shot of electricity straight to your core. He brought one hand down to play with your clit, the other snaking to grip roughly around your throat, cutting off your air supply. His thumb pressed into one of the spots he left on your neck, causing a dull ache to greet you. Your head spun, dizzily clenching around him with every deep thrust and every labored pant that he let out into your ear. 

You felt your second orgasm start to build from his relentless actions, clit throbbing from his abuse. It was like he could sense you were close, somehow speeding up his thrusting until you saw stars, vision growing hazy from air loss. Your hand pulled weakly on his wrist, lungs begging for relief but he refused to let up. It only seemed to make the pressure in your core burn more, only made the pleasure of his cock more intense, only made his sultry growls more arousing. You felt like you could explode. Your nails dug into the skin of his wrist as you threatened to do just that, eyes rolling back in your head. 

“Toby, I’m gonna-” You struggled out the best you could with him still depriving you of oxygen. 

“Cum for me slut, cum around my cock.” Was all he said, and much to your dismay you obeyed. You let your orgasm wash over you, milking his cock. He fucked you through it, letting off your clit and neck to rest his hands on either side of your head. You heaved, thankful to finally be able to breathe properly again. He kept pounding you over and over, until without warning, he buried himself to the base, spilling his own release into you as deep as he could and pressing a surprisingly soft and loving kiss to your lips. When he pulled away, you both stayed there a moment, foreheads pressed together, your legs shaking. 

“I’m s-sorry,” He mumbled. “F-for being so rude to you lately.” 

You could only smile as he slowly pulled out of you, gently lowering your legs back onto the bed. “You can make it up to me by not pushing me away anymore. I really like you Toby, and I’m tired of pretending I don’t.” You watched him admire the way his cum slipped out of you and onto the mattress.

He returned your smile after a moment and pressed another gentle kiss to your lips. “C-can you stand?” He asked, getting off the bed.

You struggled to push yourself up, swinging your wobbly legs over the side and almost crumbling to the ground as soon as your feet hit the floor. Almost like he was expecting it, he caught you and threw your arm over his shoulder to hoist you up. 

“Let's get you cleaned up.” He said, leading you into the little bathroom, triumph coating his voice. Tim and Brian would never let either of you hear the end of this.

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[triflesandparsnips]

So I understand that there are Good Omens show fans who have never read Good Omens the book, and that makes me deeply sad because--

Like, there's so much depth to the story being told about humans and humanity and the choice between good and evil -- and how that's actually a false dichotomy whoooops -- WHILE ALSO not really being about Aziraphale and Crowley at all (who are, imo, basically there as embodiments of "Impressive Failures" for the purposes of Theme and also Plot).

BUT IF you want to know why I've shipped them since the book-- here's the moment it happened for wee teenage me:

Wednesday (before the end of the world)

So it's Warlock's birthday party. And there are all these children and security guards and also an angel doing magic tricks while a demon is disguised as a caterer. This bit is basically the same as the show, so hooray.

But as wee me understood the characters up to this point, they were still basically enemies who had been in the field together for way too long and knew each other's moves well enough for the same tempting/thwarting of one another to become kind of boring and repetitive and generally pointless-- particularly once they realized that they could, for instance, just live their (separate!) lives watching humans being weird (Crowley) and seeking various sensory stuff (Aziraphale) while doing the least work necessary to keep their respective bosses off their backs.

The Arrangement was borne not out of hiding a friendship or anything, but instead the realization that sometimes covering for one another would just... cut down on their total overall workload. They were, at best, employees of two different, competitive companies-- though in same kind of department, doing the same kind of work-- who discovered they liked to have lunch at the same deli and that their jobs were sometimes distressingly more similar than either was comfortable with.

SO ANYWAY. BACK TO THAT WEDNESDAY. They're not covering for one another with this whole Antichrist thing-- they're now actively collaborating, and they've acknowledged (mostly) that it's not to cut down on their individual workloads, but rather to preserve their identical-- but not shared (not yet)-- goals of Getting To Continue The Lives On Earth They've Grown To Enjoy.

But like-- still not friends. Not really.

Until Aziraphale fucks up a bit, Warlock accidentally gets hold of a security guard's weapon and starts waving it around, and:

Then someone threw some jelly at Warlock. The boy squeaked, and pulled the trigger of the gun. It was a Magnum .32, CIA issue, gray, mean, heavy, capable of blowing a man away at thirty paces, and leaving nothing more than a red mist, a ghastly mess, and a certain amount of paperwork. Aziraphale blinked. A thin stream of water squirted from the nozzle and soaked Crowley, who had been looking out the window, trying to see if there was a huge black dog in the garden. Aziraphale looked embarrassed. Then a cream cake hit him in the face.

My teenage brain exploded at this moment.

BECAUSE: there is no reason for Aziraphale to do that.

Work-wise: If he got shot, Crowley would get discorporated, but not die-- and anyway, it would happen in such a way that both of them could explain it away easily to their respective sides (and possibly even be commended for it!).

Collaboration-wise: If Crowley had been watching Aziraphale, and if he'd seen Aziraphale have the chance to change the gun but not do it-- then yeah, probably that would've been annoying enough to have warranted some chilly conversations once he came back topside, and therefore, Aziraphale choosing to save Crowley could've been a reasonable, logical choice to keep their working relationship on an even keel until they'd sorted out this Doomsday thing.

But Crowley was looking the other way.

Work-wise, it doesn't make sense-- and secret-collaboration-wise, it doesn't make sense-- and so it is, overall, really weird that Aziraphale saved him.

But his automatic reaction-- in a blink-- is to stop Crowley from getting shot. And he knows it's weird-- he feels embarrassed that his sudden, unthinking reaction is to save his "enemy".

And the final bit is just a couple paragraphs later:

With a gesture, Aziraphale turned the rest of the guns into water pistols as well, and walked out.

SO LOOK: He changed only the pistol about to shoot Crowley. His automatic reaction had nothing to do with saving a party full of humans, many of them children-- nothing to do with Heaven or Hell-- nothing to do with preserving the coworker he needs to stop Armageddon--

It was all to do with saving Crowley. Who may be the enemy, but he's Aziraphale's enemy. And another part of his life on Earth that he's doing all of this just to preserve.

Which may also be, for the first time, the moment he lets himself realize how important Crowley in particular is to him.

...and so anyway, that's how I started shipping these two immortal idiots, and one of many reasons why everyone should read the book.

[theliteraryarchitect]

So... What Does an Editor Actually Do?

First off, “editor” is one of those words that causes a lot of confusion for writers. It seems simple—someone who works with words, right? But the truth is, “editor” can mean wildly different things depending on the context.

So, let’s clear things up.

When we’re talking about writing and publishing, “editor” usually refers to one of two roles:

1. The Gatekeeper: This is the person who commissions or selects work for a publication, like a magazine, newspaper, or publishing house. Think of phrases like “Her book was chosen by the editor at [Big Fancy Publisher].”

2. The Helper: This is the person who works directly with writers to improve their work. They might suggest revisions, clarify ideas, and polish the manuscript for grammar and style.

Both are called “editors,” but their jobs are completely different. To make things more confusing, in smaller operations (like indie presses), these roles often overlap. The same editor might choose your story for publication and offer stylistic or copyedits before it goes to print.

The 4 Types of Editing

Beyond the word “editor,” the types of editing writers encounter also vary widely, further boggling the mind. Here’s a quick breakdown of the four main types of editing your manuscript might go through:

1. Developmental Editing

This is the kind of editing I do, and the kinds of issues that are covered by the majority of my blog posts. Developmental editing:

• Focuses on the “big picture” of your story—plot, character, pacing, worldbuilding, and structure.

• Asks questions like: Does the ending make sense? Are the characters believable? Is the story too slow?

• This is the most intensive (and expensive) type of editing because it shapes the foundation of your book.

2. Stylistic Editing (Line Editing)

I don't do this kind of editing for my clients, but I occasionally publish line editing tips on this blog because I'm kind of a nerd about it :) Line editing:

• Works on clarity and flow at the sentence and paragraph level.

• Addresses repetition, awkward phrasing, and other issues that muck up your writing flow.

• Happens after developmental editing—no point polishing a scene if it might get cut!

3. Copy Editing

Once in a while I give copy editing tips on this blog, but they're usually wrong and I'm promptly corrected. Let it be known: The Literary Architect is a terrible copy editor. Copy editing:

• Focuses on technical details like spelling, grammar, punctuation, and consistency (e.g., making sure a character’s blue eyes don’t randomly turn brown).

• Think of this as quality control for your manuscript.

4. Proofreading

• The very last step before publication. The proofreader checks for any typos or layout issues that might have slipped through the cracks.

Whether you’re submitting to a publisher or self-publishing, editing matters. Great stories get rejected because they weren’t polished enough. And self-published books that skip editing often lose readers due to glaring errors or clunky prose.

If hiring a professional editor isn’t in the cards, learning to self-edit can help you get your manuscript into the best possible shape before publication. That way, if you do decide to bring in an editor later, they can focus on the deeper work instead of fixing things you could have tackled yourself.

Hope this helps!

/ / / / / / / / / / /

@theliteraryarchitect is a writing advice blog run by me, Bucket Siler, a writer and developmental editor. For more writing help, download my Free Resource Library for Fiction Writers, join my email list, or check out my book The Complete Guide to Self-Editing for Fiction Writers.