#serial authors

[b-a-pigeon]

The thing about Kindle Vella is that it is a dumpster fire, but not even for the reasons people think! (Realized this post is extremely long and about a topic few people care about so I'm dropping it under a read more now sorry)

There are some weird rumors going around (which is fair imo since the ToS is like notoriously vague & untransparent) but nothing as funny as the truth: it was an absolute fuck-up of a money pit on Amazon's part that totally failed to retain authors even after throwing random quantities of cash at (some of) us, and everyone just took the money and ran.

To clarify a couple of rumors I've seen: no, nobody signed a contract guaranteeing Amazon indefinite weekly updates!!! (Lol.) There are also, like, some pretty arbitrary rules about availability, but nothing close to KU's draconian exclusivity policies; my story was serialized concurrently on multiple platforms & has since been published wide in the same places as usual while still available on Vella.

What happened, I think, is that Amazon began offering these mysteriously generous bonuses* (calculated through some arcane and ever-shifting metric that nobody has ever been able to figure out) to attract authors. The problem is that Vella sucks to use for readers, too. It's in beta with almost no visible improvements in two years; it looks like shit, especially on desktop; there was no quality control for a while, so the charts were dominated by scammers posting AI-translated gibberish; there were all these weird glitches that made entire chapters of different stories randomly swap; it's actually more expensive than indie e-books in most cases, etc.

So there were not enough readers to sustain the bonus pool, which used to increase every month but has stagnated at $1mil for several months. Everyone got pissed about the drastic drop in income (mine dipped almost 50% between months despite performing better by all metrics) and left; now this website, which nobody uses, is a graveyard for unfinished stories. Even if they did promote it for once, so much of the stuff there is abandoned! I truly doubt it is long for this world unless they massively overhaul it, but it's clearly not a priority, so...

Anyway I find all of this very funny & think it's a bummer that people don't know about it & instead believe that a bunch of people voluntarily signed up to be permanent content generators for Amazon. Like, no... they were obviously trying to create a system of financial dependency to coerce authors into sticking around a la KU, but made such a bad website that they couldn't even afford that :)

*For reference, just to show how absurd the bonus system used to be: my first year on Vella, I made $100 in royalties (meaning people spent around $200 to read it in total), which is nothing. Only 150 people ever paid to read my work by reading past the sample chapters; of these, only 35 finished the first story arc. I made $4000 in bonuses that first year and stayed on the bestseller-equivalent list (typically bouncing around the top 50-150) basically the entire time. I still don't understand how or why & it still didn't stop me from jumping ship the moment my bonus decreased, but yeah... I made like $30 for each individual person who paid any amount of money to read my story. Incomprehensible.

[kimboo-york]

Recent post over at the Scriptorium, all about writing long running, epic stories!

”In a recent podcast interview, I was asked, “What does a person need in order to prepare themselves mentally for writing a long-running serial?” To be honest, it made me pause for a second, because while I'm sure the best answer to that question is “it depends on the writer,” I believe there are aspects which are (probably) universal because it is about mindset, as opposed to practical advice. Practical advice is helpful, of course.”

[sunderwight]

I think that one of the most underrated reveals in Scum Villain was that Luo Binghe inherited his big dick toxic alpha male energy from his birth mother, and it actually has nothing to do with his demon side.

[artbyblastweave]

One thing that a lot of other capepunk fiction's worldbuilding has made me appreciate is the extent to which The Protectorate, as an organization, is about as much of a character as any of the actual individual characters. You can ask "What would the Protectorate Do in response to X or Y scenario" and there's enough in the text about their strengths and weaknesses and organizational ethos that you can kludge together a fairly true-to-the-text approximation of the exact way that they'd turn it into a multidepartment buck-passing office-politics-ridden clusterfuck.

[mariocki]

RIP Christopher Benjamin (27.12.1934 - 15.1.2025)

"That was another reason, in a way, that I decided to give [stage acting] up, because I was getting a bit - a bit dicey with the lines. People sort of wrote down, quite often, the things I said... instead of the things I should have said. They were known as my bloopers: 'Benjamin bloopers'. Some of my inventions were very good, I must admit. My feeling was, if I dried, I had to say something - and so that something was something that amused the rest of the cast considerably, quite often."

[gigireece16]

how i’m trying to distract myself in my writing from everything that’s been occurring 😅😅

[satcnus]

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ       𝐒𝐘𝐌𝐌𝐄𝐓𝐑𝐘

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆. ex-military widower ✖ runaway stray

𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐒. older protective male x vulnerable teen fem. widower x runaway. paternal elements within romance. male saviorism. size differences. opposites attract. ride or die. hurt, comfort, healing. v-rginity loss. dead dove do not eat.

𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐆𝐄𝐑 ����𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆! The following original fiction contains potentially triggering content, including: extreme age gap, homicide, child and spousal death, kidnapping, s-xual as-sault (background only), r-pe recovery, child abuse (background only), post-traumatic stress disorder and disabling mental illness, and mild ddlg themes (clothing, nicknames). Read at your own discretion.

𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓. 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃 𝐎𝐍 𝐀𝐎𝟑 - EARLY RELEASE. 𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐂𝐋𝐀𝐈𝐌𝐄𝐑.

“The next fill-up is fine.”

“Alright.”

The drive had been quiet. So quiet that if he hadn’t helped her into the car, Reuven might not have known she was there at all. Though, for the first few minutes, he glanced over every so often, to find her gaze reflected back in the passenger window, staring out into the abyss of trees and cold that she’d just escaped from. 

He didn’t press her. Not only just because he was certain she didn’t want to share, but because he wasn’t so sure he wanted her to share either. 

It had been a long time since he’d tried to manage any conversation that bore more weight than just menial small talk. Easily digestible how are you ’s and living the dream and did you watch the game on Sunday?

Certainly no amount of small talk was necessary here, nor would be appreciated, and he was saving them both the headache of its formality by embracing the silence, as did she. 

It didn’t take long for whatever awkward edge he held to mellow out and dull at its edges. After a few minutes into the drive, he flipped on the radio, just a mumbling volume, enough to encroach on the silence but not demand its eviction. It was enough to placate the drive, until twenty-five minutes had passed, and the first gas station, not a few minutes off from that stranded, run down dive bar, came into view over the hill. 

Its occluded red sign failed in the attention-grab it attempted. A star with a faded smile pinned up next to the gas station’s name, which was also half-eroded into some guessable alias. Only half the overhead lights on the pumps worked, and the same was true for the exterior lights of the snack shop. Reuven rolled in to one of the parking spots, out of the way, nearby the entrance and cut the ignition. 

He leaned back in his seat, inhaling deep and slow, in preparation before he finally acknowledged her existence again, and bid her adieu. “Alright. Are you sure you don’t want—” But just as he was about to finish his sentence, he laid eyes on the girl’s reflection in the window again. Her head was lulled to the side, resting against her shoulder, her breaths coming in deeper and slower than they had earlier. 

She was asleep. 

Calm. Replenished.

The man stared at her, catching his own reflection in the window, behind hers. His own dark, hallowed out gaze. The indentation of his adam’s apple, beneath a dark, unkempt beard with just two bilateral lines of gray extending down it to show his age. His curls had dried and returned to the coiled mop upon his head, falling down on either side of his face ever so slightly. His jaw flexed, and he glanced around at the otherwise empty lot, as if someone out there could help him solve this conundrum. 

Well. 

Should he wake her up?

He chewed on his lip, before drawing his palm over his mouth, and looking back over at her in some uncertainty. She looked so peaceful now. And he could see clearly now the bags that lingered beneath her eyes, sunken so far it seemed this was the first lick of rest she’d gotten in days. Reuven wasn’t sure he had the heart to. 

He tipped his head back against his seat’s headrest, counting down the minutes as they flashed, excruciatingly, on the radio’s screen. Last call would be done soon. Did he have time to even get to the bar, scope out his sacrifice for the night, and follow them without drawing suspicion? 

The man inhaled, a bit frustrated, a bit relieved, in some sick way, and waited. Five minutes passed. Then ten. Then fifteen. She was still sleeping, more deeply than before. 

What was he supposed to do? He couldn’t just dump her here on the side of the road. And where would she go, if he did? She clearly had been wearing the same clothes for awhile. If he was admitting it to himself, she kind of smelled, in the same way a stray dog smells. Unwashed. Neglected. 

No way for a girl to live.

He remembered his Chedva again. Her unruly, curly hair. How quickly it would tangle if she didn’t comb it through every morning, and god forbid she skipped a shower. He’d have to sit her down on the floor between his legs and piece carefully through it with a comb, all while she sniffled and whined at him when he tugged a bit too hard. 

What about this girl? 

He could see the way her hair, previously soaking wet and almost iced into thickened strands, had now dried up and coagulated into itself. 

How would she get a comb?

Another minute passed.

He stuck his key back in the ignition, and brought his truck back to life.

[eddathegreat]

Things That Happen in Pale

There's a quest-giver who is clipping through the floor and ceiling and is pretty much fine with that.

A man pees with such force that he is used as a jetpack by another character.

Heroes are chased by a murderous big-titty corporate executive with a croquet mallet.

There is a dead-serious plot about successfully delivering ice cream cake to a bunch of monsters without spilling any.

There is a very tense scene of the hero being outed to a family she's working with to navigate a giant game board.

A character's bond with a opossum is a deciding factor in a fight.

In an emergency, the main character uses fireflies to pull off a double-jump.

A villain catches the big bad wolf in a magic mirror and sics it on the heroes.

The main character does a magical girl transformation into a mailman.

I misled you, this all happens in one fucking chapter. And that's not even a full list.

[else-creates]

A thought on Superhero media within Superhero media

I was having world-building thoughts about "Nobody Can Help You" the original Superhero I'm going to start uploading next year and the idea of Superheroes having sponsorships, merch and tie in media in-universe.

It's and idea that Worm and MHA have and one that the Boys leans heavily on, given that it's a parody and we see that with the Seven playing themselves in a movie about themselves. There's a general consensus that Superheroes would be movie-star type famous.

But I don't think it would be quite like that.

I mean they would absolutely be famous, both individually and as an institution and they would have merch the way sports teams do....But I think their presence and depiction within media in-universe would be different. Superhero media is by nature escapist, something it immediately loses in a world where Superheroes actually exist....So I think it's actually reasonable to say that popular escapist media is actually different kinds of fantasy and sci-fi which don't feature Superhumans at all. Where you'd expect to actually see Superheroes in the media in this scenario would actually be in a plethora of Copaganda-type TV shows.

In a world with Superheroes the flash would cameo in Brooklyn 99 and Lex Luthor would be funding an NCIS style show about good, non-powered cops reigning in characters who were clearly aimed at the Justice League.

[hallucinateonpaperspines]

if Ashley's for some reasons ever mentions/explains some human torture methods what would the cons thing of it ? Like are we more brutal then them ?

Well... this get dark. FBI Agent, I'm a writer I promise! This is all hypothetical! There is worse out here in the internet wilds!!!

I think for the most part, it's a game of orange-and-blue morality for a bit. There are things the Decepticons pull (Shockwave just existing) that immediately make human prosecutors start prepping the war crime cases and some things that humans do make the cons pause for a minute. At the same time, certain things the cons do, while horrible, just make humans nod because of course they would do that, and most human torture techniques just don't translate well to Cybertronian biology.

Like, the Decepticons would do things that are definitely against the Geneva Convention (and I think they would find our concept of a Geneva Convention laughable) so they would shrug off a lot of similar precedents humans have. Removing limbs, sensory depravation, experimentation, and electrocution are all familiar concepts so it is just a shrug of shoulders and a "why not?" attitude.

And then they look deeper.

In my mind, Cybertronians above all are efficient. Unless it's personal, or you are with someone who has a truly skewed brain module (Yes, Airachnid I am looking at you) the point of torture is to get information as fast as possible. Tortured to death, unless it's an accident, isn't efficient.

Humans, unfortunately, don't always care about efficiency.

They see the Human Centipede and the Terrifier, and bots are praying to primus like they've never done it before. It's entertainment, its art to mankind and it is some of the most protective vomit-worthy levels of shit they've ever seen. They see the Jigsaw franchise and Shockwave is joining discords and emailing directors to get notes.

It's fictional. It's fake. It's an unhinged level of creativity completely separated from ethics and morals, or in some cases leveraging those ideas to better stamp in some emotional torment. It's not just physically taking apart a victim, or trying to manipulate them mentally; it's full-on destruction. Complete evisceration performed in the name of delusional curiosity, sadistic glee, or self-righteous theatrics.

But, again, it's all fake! So what does it matter? Soundwaves says to himself as he bans any vore content from the Nemesis' servers and scrubs his drives

And then someone brings up Vlad the Impaler.

Imagine the horror as it just clicks. While Cybertronains may not produce excrement, they do have scraplets, so the concept of leaving someone in a tub to slowly rot or forcing rats to dig through bodies just sings a song of pain they are vulnerable to. Of slowly dying in a painful, inevitable method that's meant to leave a lasting mark.

And then a human starts thinking.

Art isn't efficient, but a masterpiece is never meant to be so mere as efficient.

Why not remove t-cogs? the element that helps these creatures transform, a crucible of their identity and self-worth?

Wait, that's not meant to be torture, that's just containment.

No. Torture is using small limbs to unwind and peel back layers of wiring. Torture is leaving portions of a frame to decay and rust, poking at the open wound, and flinging acid inside. Torture is pulling limbs off and reattaching them only to do it again. Torture is removing optics and turning sensors to maximum sensitivity before turning them off again.

Torture is taking those old methods and being creative enough to apply them on a blank canvas with new rules and no precedents.

The issue is not our brutality, it is our cruelty and creativity. And that's something that even the most vile Decepticon can respect.

They might even help you find a new muse, or canvas, to practice with.

[satcnus]

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ       𝐒𝐘𝐌𝐌𝐄𝐓𝐑𝐘

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆. ex-military widower ✖ runaway stray

𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐒. older protective male x vulnerable teen fem. widower x runaway. paternal elements within romance. male saviorism. size differences. opposites attract. ride or die. hurt, comfort, healing. v-rginity loss. dead dove do not eat.

𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐆𝐄𝐑 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆! The following original fiction contains potentially triggering content, including: extreme age gap, homicide, child and spousal death, kidnapping, s-xual as-sault (background only), r-pe recovery, child abuse (background only), post-traumatic stress disorder and disabling mental illness, and mild ddlg themes (clothing, nicknames). Read at your own discretion.

𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓. 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃 𝐎𝐍 𝐀𝐎𝟑. 𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐂𝐋𝐀𝐈𝐌𝐄𝐑.

In the forest, where nightfall sings in humming silence against eardrums, the sound of his own breath was deafening. 

Cold, biting air swirled into his lungs in deep heaves that rang to the tune of his axe’s swing. The moon climbed its way to the apex of the sky, slowly, as day fell into twilight, and then into dusk. Where no street lights or paved roads existed, there was nothing but the silence, and the stars, and if he measured his breaths, if he quieted them enough, and listened intently, Reuven swore he could hear the earth rotating. 

Even despite the brisk temperature and the icy drizzle that never seemed to go longer than a day without returning, the man had a quickly-drying sheen of sweat upon his neck, his chest, dripping from his hair. Or, perhaps that was the rain. 

His breaths billowed from his lips in heavy grunts, as the density of his axe’s blade went swinging above his head, and slicing down into the half-gashed wood to fully part it. His muscles ached. His knees ached. If he were any less of a stubborn man, perhaps he would have already retired for the night. Hell, retired for his life. He only had ten years left before Uncle Sam gave him that seal of approval. Job well done, kid. Thanks for playing. 

But Reuven Aronov was not a surrendering man. Not in the face of the rapidly approaching storm. Not in the face of his arthritic joints screaming for relief. Not in the face of his own metaphorical death, back in New York, where time seemed to tilt on its axis, and get swallowed up whole by the same forces that controlled the oceans, and radiowaves. 

He didn’t have much memory of it now. Or, rather, he remembered it all perfectly—exactly where he was, what he was wearing, what was playing on the television, what second the clock’s hands were passing. It was its edges that were blurred; the existence of everything but it. He couldn’t recall what happened before, or after. He couldn’t recall who he’d spoken to, or anything he’d bought, or who was at the funeral. 

That horrible, devastating agony—like the very structure of his existence was splitting at the seams and whatever remained of him would soon be swept away by the wind… That is what he remembered. There were no faces. No voices. No phone numbers. No dates. Just his babies’ cold and pale bodies, lined up in three coffins side by side, eyelids closed, to never wake again. 

He could still see them in his dreams, vivid as the day was bright. He would dream of them playing downstairs in his current residence, arguing with each other. The baby, Ezra, crying for his overdue meal of formula and pureed carrots. He never thought to consider it—that coffins came in infant sizes. 

Another hunk of wood when dividing into pieces of itself with a grunt; a crack. 

Yes, Reuven was slowing down. He was getting old. His driver’s license read November 24th, 1970. That would make him fifty-four. That would make him old enough to have had grandbabies by now. He quickly expelled the thought from his mind every time it surfaced. 

His age continually found a way to throw a wrench in this whole master plan of his. Fifteen years ago, when he’d first bought these four acres, tucked in the middle of the Olympic forest, he’d still been young enough that all the wear and tear his time in the Navy had caused wasn’t so bad. It was tolerable. But then he went and became consumed with grief. And what was a man to do, with a grief so insurmountable that it made him feel like he was drowning every second of every day? Like he was gasping and sputtering for air against a wet rag, and the water just kept coming. 

Reuven did the only thing he could think of. He kept his hands busy. He kept his body moving. If he awoke every day and worked from the second his eyes opened until the second he collapsed in bed, then there was no time for thinking about it. At least, that was the plan in theory. 

In reality, flashes of his wife’s gurgling and pleading would overtake his sight. He could be bent over in the garden, ripping carrots from the soil, and suddenly not feel like he was in Washington state at all. He would become disoriented, and tremble, and his grief would seem to overtake him physically, until he was either wailing out like a wounded animal or snuffing out the fire of his agony with liquor, or whiskey, or wine. Most of the time it was a packaged deal. He knew it wasn’t healthy, but he didn’t care. He didn’t care about much of anything anymore, really. 

Some nights he would get back in from working on the homestead all day, dirty and sweaty and aching with exhaustion, and he would have no peace. His mind would rage on with his grief. And his anger. And his violence. And he would fester in it; stewing in the lividity that he felt ache in his hands, in his biceps, in his back; as if his body itself was desperate to kill in the name of protecting his children, long after they were already gone. Some nights drinking was enough to ease it all, and lull him to sleep, instead of out to the road. 

Others, there was no amount of alcohol, no amount of marijuana, no amount of meditation or positive self-talk or whatever cliche was preached—none of it could touch this evil, homicidal need within him to take the justice he deserved, instead of waiting around for the universe to do the right thing. 

Ask him twenty years ago if he ever imagined he’d abandon his religion so thoroughly. He would have never been able to conjure up his current reality, not even in his wildest of predictions. Was it how he coped, then? By going out into the late evening, where night became indistinguishable from morning, and performing those acts of God? 

The first time it had happened, it had never been intentional. Not until the last moment. He’d gone into the nearest town, past the Quinalt’s reservation, and had nursed a soda in a bar. After his children were killed in that crash, by a driver who fled and never faces the consequences of what they’d done, something had broken inside of Reuven. There was no justice to be had, because there was no perpetrator to accuse. Reuven had lost his appetite completely for bars, but that night he had gone in, almost as a way to self-harm To torture himself with it all, if only to feel the pain. 

He’d been sitting in the back corner, where the seating led into the restrooms, and where gazes did not automatically stray to. He was nursing that soda. No alcohol. It was a sprite. The carbonation had bitten at the back of his throat on its traversal down, and when it hit his stomach with that same bite, the man he’d been watching got up from his barstool, threw some cash on the bar, and stumbled out the front doors. Reuven, silently, had mirrored him. 

He still held the silent step of a Navy SEAL, even if he had long taken off his uniform. His gait was silent, and went completely undetected as he followed the guy out. A younger man, maybe thirty, with blonde hair, and a stench of entitlement. Reuven watched as he stumbled into the driver’s seat, turned the ignition, and his sleek black SUV rumbled to life.

Reuven, quietly, mirrored him again. His truck, though ancient, was not loud enough to cause attention, especially not from a guy who’d just downed two final shots before getting behind the wheel.

The widower’s intention was just to follow the drunk. Make sure he didn’t kill anyone. Or, at least, that’s what he told himself, as he trailed behind with his lights off, just a few cars’ distance. 

He remembered the haziness of that night. How his mind had buzzed, and his heart had pounded in his abdomen. 

Was it an act of divine intervention, then? That the drunk driver met his demise before Reuven’s gaze? Reuven was no longer spiritual, but he liked to think, in some sick, twisted way that it was, indeed, God who had killed that man. God who had sent him to carry it through to its natural conclusion: the end. Lights out. Justice. 

The two-lane road had been stretching on for miles, endlessly, without reprieve. No street lights to offer guidance. No other car in sight for miles. 

It happened when the road narrowed and took a bend, one that was warned of well ahead of time by bright yellow signage. Still, the black SUV seemed surprised, and it first made contact with the guardrail, and then spun out, inertia cracking against the density of a tree. The SUV rolled, twice, before landing on its tires again. Broken glass littered the asphalt. A distinct, white smoke emanated from the hood of the car, illuminated by its still-on highbeams. 

Reuven had crawled into a stop behind the wreckage, and stared at the scene, in the silence, for a long moment, before finally opening the creaking driver’s side door to go and check on the driver. That was the right thing to do, right? That was what anyone else would do. They would suck it up, and put their resentment aside, and act in the light of morality and decency. 

But was he a moral man, anymore? Was he decent?

The driver had been ejected from the car’s windshield. He was splayed out in the grass, limbs crumpled against the base of a tree. Weak, rapidly deteriorating cries were lifting from the man’s chest in strange, inversed breaths. Reuven had stared at him. Blank, deadpan. His deep, dark gaze glued to the pool of blood scraped against the road. 

He wasn’t sure when he’d made the decision. Which moment, truly, he had sealed the man’s fate. 

All he knew was that instead of walking up to help him, Reuven returned to his car, scruffing out his bootprints on the road as he went, and then, with one curt turn of the wheel, sped off, leaving that nameless, drunk stranger to die in a pool of his own red, sticky consequences. 

That night he’d gotten the best sleep he’d managed since the funeral. 

The following morning, it was like a weight had lifted from his chest. He could hear the bird singing again. He could see the light dancing on the trees. He could feel the warmth of the morning. 

Was there any way to articulate it, then? Why he had gone back out, to a different bar, farther away from home, not a few days later, and done the same thing? Followed the guy out, tailed him for five miles, and when God didn’t do what he was supposed to, Reuven did it instead 

He’d flashed his lights at the driver and honked, pulling up beside him to gesture at the driver to pull over. And he had. And when he had, Reuven had gotten out of his truck with two black nylon gloves and a knife. He remembered how he had laughed, when the driver rolled down his window. His own chuckle had surprised him. The drunk driver thought he was a cop. 

All Reuven had said was, “I look like a cop to you?” and the kid’s throat was cut ear to ear before he could even respond. 

That was where he’d untethered. That moment, drenched to the elbows with another man’s blood. That was where Reuven Aronov had resurrected. 

[else-creates]

Nobody Can Help You. Prologue A: The San Francisco Incident

Superhumans have existed for decades. Superheroes are a simply a specialized division of law enforcement answering to the Department of Superhuman Integration. As a result Superheroes exist to protect the status quo, serving a government and the politicians' wealthy donors through a legal monopoly on force. To the average Superhero, it's not about saving people... It's just a job.

Who protects the people in a world where the heroes have been bought?

Who do you call for help when the heroes don't work overtime?

Who stands up for the rights of the people when the heroes side with riot police to squash dissent?

In Port Xavier that job falls to Cassie 'Culverin' Queensbury and the rest of her team 'The Nobodies' because when the heroes aren't Super then... NOBODY CAN HELP YOU

[morbethgames]

Chapter 4 of Love in Stasis is out on Patreon!

Hey everyone, just wanted to do a sort of weekly announcement that Chapter 4 of Love in Stasis, the serialized online novel, is now out on Patreon for the $5 a month tier!

With everything that happened in the previous chapter, Luz is taken to the police station for questioning. Meanwhile, Madeline has to somehow try and come to grips with what happened to her the previous night.

Along with Love in Stasis, be sure to stay caught up on the latest The Bureau news over at Patreon as well! I tend to do updates here too, but sometimes Patrons get exclusive progress updates.

I'd love to hear your guys' thoughts on the first three chapters and beyond of Love in Stasis (though I may not be able to answer asks which contain spoilers from anything past chapter 3, unless they're vague enough of course).

Thank you so much for the support!

Patreon : Love in Stasis Chapter 1 :

Love in Stasis Chapter 2 :

Love in Stasis Chapter 3 : The Bureau Current Demo

[levinbolts]

who beat his ass?? ( i know who )

[rockspider556]

Headcanon that Will absolutely buys every piece of Tattlecrime #MurderHusbands merch he can get his grubby little hands on. Doesn’t matter that they’re fugitives; doesn’t matter that they have to keep moving. The man is resourceful. Hannibal is losing his mind trying to figure out how. Does Will have them sent to dead drops? Does he bribe hotel clerks? Is he blackmailing someone? Is he making them himself?

Meanwhile, Will is prancing around their latest hideout in a hot pink crop top with Hannibal’s mugshot on it, sparkly text underneath reading: What’s for dinner?, much to the cannibals chagrin. I mean, really? The artistry is abhorrent. The materials are cheap. The picture is…unflattering. The glitter is getting everywhere.

But there’s something… oddly compelling about it. Every shirt, every hoodie, every stupid glittery mug with Will’s face on it, sporting phrases like “Hannibal, Eat Me Next” or “Cannibal Queen”, feels like a twisted little piece of Hannibal’s mark on Will. The sheer ownership of it all. It’s… delightful.

[elvensemi]

Hey guys hello guess who has a website now.

On ElvenSemi.com you can read all of my webnovels, most of my short stories, and soon, a large portion of my fanfiction!

A lot of things, including all fanfiction, forever are free to the public. This includes, for the first time, the first handful of chapters (about 10k words) of each of my webnovels. There's also summaries and beautiful art! Poke around!

Subscriptions to paid material are still being done through Patreon, just click the orange "log on through patreon" button when you go to log in.