#the writer wrote what they wanted

[fariesoiree]

just saw a post of someone saying black writers should stop writing black readers bc they make them “ghetto” and stereotyped them. opened the comments to see someone else complaining about making the reader a “bimbo” and liking pink and they said they don’t even like pink like that . . .

YOU might not but the person who actually put in the work to write it did. where did we get this entitlement that people are writing what other people like with no regard to themselves?? bc the fact that someone sees a problem with a writer writing a bimbo pink-loving black mc or even a “ghetto” black mc is a problem. if you don’t like it then you obviously aren’t the target audience babe… that’s it. if you don’t like it don’t read it plain and simple. it’s the internet you have the ability to scroll. this whole discourse about what other black people are writing is dumb. unless it’s hurting someone, stop policing what people decide to put out there. if I want to write a reader w blue hair, ten cats, and five horses i’m going to do that bc i want to and either you read it or you don’t.

as a black person, hating on other black people bc they don’t write the content you want to see is sad. okay you’re upset bc you can’t find what you want but if that’s the case then look harder?? it’s no one’s fault bc it’s not an issue. you’re just making it one. bc a writer doesn’t write what you want and the “soft life” you want, they deserve to get stereotyped? by ANOTHER BLACK PERSON? absolutely not. i don’t like those style of fics w a strong and independent black mc so i don’t read them and i definitely don’t go out and call them ghetto.

idk ik ts didn’t deserve a whole paper on it but it’s gross and i’m tired of seeing it. it’s literally the internet. if you throw a tantrum every time you come across something you don’t like on the fucking internet, get off it. ts pisses me off bc it’s the same shit every time. if you don’t like it don’t read and find something you like. can’t find what you like? write it or cry about it but the unnecessary hate has gotta stop.

#ᝰ.ᐟ✮⋆˙ 𝓹𝓻𝓮𝓽𝓽𝔂 𝓽𝓱𝓸𝓾𝓰𝓱𝓽𝓼 #like let people do what they want #stop policing the internet #it’s the fawking internet #and while we’re at it #reflect on why you hate it sm that you had to make a whole post about it #i don’t like reading them bc that’s the opposite of my personality #and that’s fine #but i’m not shitting on people that write and enjoy it #if you get mad over shit like that #you don’t deserve to be here #the content isn’t for you #it was never for you #the writer wrote what they wanted #and the people who have similar tastes found it #toughen up or gtfo

[villainousauthor]

"You killed them." It wasn't a question. Hero tries to keep their voice steady.

Villain doesn't try to deny it. "I did. Does that upset you?" They step closer.

Hero's limbs shake, but they hope it isn't obvious. "Why? You don't go after other villains or criminals."

"I do when they get in my way. When they upset me. That little nuisance was getting too attached to you." They take one, two, three steps forward. "You're my nemesis, no one else's."

Hero feels themselves being backed against the wall, Villain's encroaching form intimidating.

"Murder is the solution to your jealousy?" Hero says, looking up and meeting Villain's fire filled eyes.

Villain purses their lips, furrows their brows. "Are you upset?" They ask, as if they don't like the idea of Hero being upset over the death of someone they consider competition.

"I don't like murder, as a general rule, you know." Hero tries to keep their tone casual, quipping.

Villain completely backs them against the wall, bracing them in. Their close proximity feels both intimate and threatening at the same time. They're silent for an endlessly long and tense moment before speaking again in a low voice.

"Don't pay so much attention to others then. I don't share."

#hero x villain #prompts #dialogue prompt #original writing #hero #hero prompt #villain #villain prompt #villain x hero #superhero #writers on tumblr #writeblr #writing prompts #writing prompt #wrote this yesterday while half asleep and wanted to write more but can't remember for the life of me what else I was supposed to write

[zevranunderstander]

number #1 tactic that people use to not sound as racist as they are when they talk to black people: 'uhh so you AMERICANS need to stop pretending everything is about YOU. why should i know this im not from the us :/' (= is talking about like. a phenomenally internationally well-known black artist)

#myposts #kendrick lamar #drake #i updated it from 'white europeans' to 'people' because some people pointed out that 'gringo' is probably more south american lingo #but the point i wanted to make is like. there is this subset of european people (quite a lot of them) #who try to deflect by saying them not knowing these things isn't because of an active lack of disinterest in black culture and influences #and like. them not knowing who a certain black person is is never an educational failing on their side of any sorts #but instead are pretending that like. they are by virtue of being european always correctly educated on What History And Art Is Important #like. 2 months back that one post pretending that 'us europeans dont need to know all your AMERICAN writers 🙄' talking about james baldwin? #like just because that person didnt know who james baldwin was #they immediately were mad at the implication that They Didn't Know Someone Of Cultural Significance #and twisted it into 'well he cant be that important by virtue of me not knowing him' #like completely ignoring that the european school system also has. race problems and also ignoring that he lived and wrote in France too #but like. its this really racist defence mechanism of like. 'well you stupid americans always make everything about yourselves' #i hope i make sense i didnt think this would blow up lol #and like some people in the notes of that post were so smug about not knowing who Kendrick Lamar is #bc to them thats like 'oh im too cultured to be listening to rap of any sorts' like completely dismissing his music as kind of second class #by virtue of it being rap and black music and him not being in the White Mainstream as much as other musicians #(i mean hes still like 24th most listened artist worldwide but you get what i mean)

[bixels]

What did/do you like about Pharah?

Uh, gameplay-wise, I really love characters in shooters who rely on three-dimensional movement techs. Chaining together hover and jump to stay in the air for as long as possible and keep momentum is so satisfying, and picking enemies off from the sky made me feel like a bird of prey. I was a good Pharah main.

Story-wise, there unfortunately isn't much to canonically go off because Pharah is so underutilized and neglected. Her personality's pretty boilerplate "heroic hero" (she's literally inspired by Captain America).

But it's the crumbs/bits and pieces that I really latched onto. Pharah's a confirmed lesbian; her short story with Baptiste implies she harbors a crush on Mercy (fucking thank you.). She's biracial Egyptian/First Nations. She has major mommy issues, having grown up both admiring and resenting Ana. She's the bridge between Old Overwatch, inspired by the idealized heroes who surrounded her childhood, and New Overwatch. She's one of the only inter-generational characters in the cast; someone whose experiences span the gap, which is why I seriously believe Pharah would make a great main character.

There isn't much to go off of, though; she's a very uncomplicated character (she's a soldier for a private military corporation, lol.). But that just means she's a blank slate character, so I've seen fanfic writers run wild and create some really interesting takes on her. My favorite interpretation of her's a dense, herbo gym-bro type (a lot of her liens are about work outs, exercising, and playing sports) who's easily excitable under her seemingly self-serious, armored visage. We see how she tends to gloat and hype herself up when she's on a streak too, so Pharah definitely has a competitive and boastful side under her more professional and militant performance.

Now Mercy? Mercy is a real complex character.

#i was a diehard pharmercy shipper back then btw #the inherent homoerotic experience of pharmercy gameplay. #the homoerotic experience of looking to the skies to fly to safety under the protection of your knight in shining armor #the homoerotic experience of feeling white hot murderous rage at an enemy trying to pick off your pocket mercy #i still kinda despise gency lmao. you cannot convince me mercy would be in love with genji. at all. #he'd make her feel so uncomfortable and guilty. in my head. the canon is obviously different #gency is sexless. absolutely zero bite or tension. #i could go on about mercy and how her character has so much missed potential #i'm no longer in my overwatch fandom phase but #i still think about that new flirty line they added in ow2 where mercy goes “ahh you're like my knight in shining armor!” #and pharah goes “that's what i'm goin for ;)” and i sigh dreamily #really happy that pharah outright says she's a lesbian too but it's hard to feel good about rep when you know blizzard uses it for pr #to be honest i'm willing to bet cash that blizzard's keeping pharmercy in their back pocket as ammo for the next controversy #last year we already saw logs about pharah fretting and taking care of mercy and the two talking about how good it is to see each other #tbh pharah has the same energy/demeanor as applejack. cheerful and competitive in a can of whoopass #but yeah overall pharah's a pretty shallow character. i have IDEAS on how i'd go about deepening her but. whatever #that's sorta what happens when you have to juggle a cast of 40 characters. a lot get left with the bare minimum #ok so i wrote this entire post up saying that pharah isn't in ow2's storymode when she is. she's in the story i just. forgot #because she doesn't do or contribute anything interesting #ok i'm stopping here. overwatch's story is such an interesting narrative mess i could go on for hours #i dunno how you come up with such incredible character designs and give them such an unincredible story #it's also so so so interesting seeing the conflicting takes on characters the writers have #mercy in gameplay and voicelines is peppy and cheerful and optimistic #but mercy in the storymode journal logs is tired. jaded. a total shut in who forgets to leave her room and social #and YES! THAT'S WHAT I WANT!!! THAT'S MERCY TO ME!!! THE DOCTOR WHO FORGETS TO TAKE CARE OF HERSELF #ask me #anon

[cerise-on-top]

Hugging, Kissing and Cuddling HCs for König

I'm trying to see him in another light again after everything I've seen about him, so I decided I'd write something fluffy and nice for him. And then came the realization I never wrote some HCs like these for him in my original posts, so I decided I'd change that! He's Austrian, so naturally I have to love him!

When it comes to hugging someone, König is a bit hesitant. Considering he’s not the most physically affectionate person out there, it’s almost an honor to be receiving an unprompted hug from him. Whether his hugs are long or short depends on the occasion: If he’s proud of you for accomplishing something, then the hug will be rather short lived. Though, he might pick you up and spin you around until you’re dizzy. If you’re sad and need some comfort then his hugs could last a while. He’s not the best with words, he prefers to listen to other people, but if he knows a hug is what usually helps you then he’s willing to do so. Despite being a big and strong lad his hugs are surprisingly gentle, he’s worried about crushing you. He could put his all into them, but then you’d likely end up with a few broken ribs and he doesn’t want that to happen. König is also surprisingly warm, so receiving a hug from him is a rare, but nice experience. Although he does go rigid at the beginning, not knowing what to do, but relaxes into the hug eventually.

Again, he’s not a very physically affectionate person, but isn’t opposed to the occasional peck on the cheek or on your lips either. There is some anxiety whether you’d actually want a kiss from him or not, so he doesn’t kiss you very often, even if you do reassure him that it’s quite alright. He’s a bit tense at first when he presses a kiss to your lips, but calms down eventually. It’s especially bad during the beginning of your relationship, but he’s since gotten better at being calm about it. Since there’s a good chance he’s taller than you he loves giving you a kiss on the forehead. It’s a small but sweet gesture. He doesn’t need to bend down entirely to reach you but he still gets to be affectionate with you. However, if you’re on the taller side, or just as tall as he is, then he’d love to receive kisses to his temple from you. It makes him smile every time you do it. If he’s in the mood for receiving a kiss then he’ll lay his head on your shoulder and nudge you a bit. Or try to get his head in your closer vicinity. Kind of like that one bunny video where the bunny stretches to receive some kisses.

Cuddles with him are a bit more common than hugs actually. However, he refuses to lay down on top of you. If you’re shorter and weaker than him then there’s no chance he’ll put his weight on you, he’s just that afraid of hurting you. If you’re taller or just more muscular, then he might, but he’s still a rather heavy lad. Most he’ll do is put his head on your shoulder while you’re cuddling in bed and are both lying down. Although it’d be a lie to say he doesn’t want to be held. König is alright with being the one to hold you, but sometimes he would prefer to be the little spoon as well. That urge gets especially bad if you’re roughly the same size as him. Sometimes just nuzzling into your chest does the trick for him as well, though. Loves it when you run your fingers through his hair as he does so. Another thing he adores is you sleeping on his chest as he holds you. He gets to hold you close, he gets to protect you and he gets to doze off a bit himself, it’s bliss to him. Sometimes he leans down to press a kiss to your head and accidentally wakes you up like that. He feels bad about it and apologizes profusely, but does chuckle a bit when he sees your disheveled hair and your tired expression that shows you just woke up.

#cod #cod x reader #konig #könig #konig x reader #könig x reader #he actually kind of scares me these days even if I don't want that to happen in the slightest so I'm trying to desensitize myself again #I know people always joke about fanon könig vs canon könig but I think I will write him a bit softer with his s/o again #just to combat all those awful things I've seen about him that I don't want to be true and that I also want to forget about #könig is a big lad so I knew from the beginning I wanted him to be good at hugging because this is self indulgent #I feel like if it weren't for his anxiety he'd be much much cuddlier #because that's the case with me even if I have other things going on as well #and what is a funny character you write about if not another piece of yourself? #I've put so much of myself into some of these characters and yet people keep requesting them so I must be doing something right #it's more fun that way as well when you put your characters through something you've gone through. more relatable too #but I think that's something pretty much every writer does. that's why some requests are so difficult to write #I got one about marrying Laswell and Nikolai and that was a difficult request for me because the last wedding I went to #was my parents' and that was almost 18 years ago. man time flies I was 4 years old back then #so naturally I don't remember much either. But I tried and that's what's important! #either way please enjoy this piece of fluff I wrote today!

[strangersteddierthings]

Porcelain Steve - Part 7

Part One🦇Part Two🦇Part Three🦇Part Four🦇Part Five🦇Part Six🦇Part Seven🦇Part Eight🦇Part Nine

((TW for this part; period typical slurs and internalized homophobia. Read the tags before clicking readmore if you want the details))

Steve has been a porcelain doll for seven weeks when disaster strikes.

"What is that," Jeff says, because even though the words are in an order which would suggest that it's a question, the tone of voice Jeff uses decidedly is not questioning.

"What is whaaa-AH! Nothing! It's nothing!" Eddie, who was torso deep into his closet throwing things around to find his backup amp cord, turns to look at what Jeff was talking about, and is now launching himself across his room to stand between Jeff and Porcelain Steve. Porcelain Steve, who Eddie had lain on his bed, propped slightly on a pillow, headphones carefully perched on his little head, hooked to a cassette player currently playing the first hour of last week's Top 40 countdown that Eddie had taped for him (all three hours of it, leaving out the chatter of the radio show host. He'd had to use two tapes to get it all).

"Nothing sure looks a lot like a doll in headphones, Munson," Jeff has an amazing poker face but Eddie's certain he can see a bit of judgement underneath the carefully blank expression Jeff is wearing.

"I don't know what you're talking abo- hey! Hey, no, no, don't!" Eddie tries to bodily block Jeff when he moves forward and the two end up wrestling, a match that Eddie almost wins, if not for the hazard that is his messy room. He gets Jeff walked almost to the door before he steps wrong on something, ankle rolling and sending him down sideways. He clutches at Jeff but can't make purchase and Jeff, the bastard, does fuck-all to try and catch him. Instead, Jeff leaps out of arm's length, then lunges onto the bed as Eddie collapses to his floor.

Eddie frantically tries to stand and, in his haste, ends up with his feet tangled in a pile of dirty laundry and that sends him crashing down again, this time forward onto his hands and knees, so he gives up on standing and crawls the few short feet to the bed, finally looking up to see that the damage has been done.

Jeff has picked up Steve, holding him inches from his own face, eyes squinted in suspicion. Eddie is frozen, horrified and afraid, and can't bring himself to do anything as Jeff examines Steve closely, turning him around, poking his torso, flipping him upside down to examine his shoes more thoroughly. It's only when Jeff reached for the shirt, pinching the hem of it between two fingers that Eddie kicks back into action.

He lunges up, one knee on the bed, leaning over to grab Steve and yank him from Jeff's grip. His first instinct is to throw Steve over his shoulder, out of sight out of mind mentality, but as soon as he does, he realizes his mistake and twists, lunging to catch Steve in midair. He does manage to catch Steve, but it sends him bouncing off his dresser and almost back to the floor before he manager to regain his balance, where he proceeds to cradle Steve to his chest, which is heaving from the adrenaline, wrestling match, and subsequent dive after Steve.

Jeff is giving him a concerned look but something else piques his interest; Jeff reaches over and picks up the headphones, holding them up to one ear. His face goes through every emotion a human could possibly experience in less than fifteen seconds as he listens to whatever track was at the forty-ish minute mark on the Top 40 countdown.

Slowly, Jeff lowers the headphones, letting them drop to the bed before he gives Eddie a new, more judgmental, yet infinitely more concerned, look. "Eddie. What. The fuck."

Honestly, he's not sure there's anything he can say in response.

"Why- I don't... are you okay, man?" Jeff sounds both scared for Eddie, and scared of him, at the same time.

"I'm fine," Eddie manages to squeak out.

"Eddie," Jeff says seriously, "this is not fine. This is- this is insane behavior. You know that, right?"

"I've no idea what you mean," Eddie doesn't even know what he's defending himself from but his default response to anything is to defend himself. He grips Steve tightly around the torso with one hand and then moves both his hands to be behind his back so Jeff will stop staring at Steve.

"I mean this fuckin' insane shrine you have dedicated to Steve fucking Harrington. How did you even get a doll that looks like him. Did you- did you make that?"

Fuck. Holy fuck. What can he say to defend himself here? Is there a single way for him to come out of this not sounding deranged? If he agrees, let's Jeff's drawn conclusion be the truth, then that's all but confirmation to Steve about his big fat crush, so when Steve's back to being Steve he'll never look at Eddie again. Jeff might think he needs mental help, but he'll be here for Eddie. If he tries to deny the accusation, then he'll need an explanation. He'll have to tell Jeff something that make him seem less like a creepy stalker, but what? He can't tell the truth, not without letting everyone know he's going to tell Jeff. There's a whole other secret he'd have to let out to even have a chance of Jeff believing him.

Jeff must take his silence for acceptance or guilt, because he's speaking again. "I.... man, this is not healthy. Please tell me you aren't, like, hoarding a lock of his hair or his clothes or something."

Involuntarily, damningly, his eyes dart to the closet, where several of Steve's sweaters hang from when he'd borrowed them and never returned them. And it's not like Steve doesn't have several of Eddie's own articles of clothing, like his battle vest and a few shirts. But Jeff doesn't know they easily, willingly, swap clothes, so his eyes go wide and dart towards the closet, as if he can pick out which pieces belong to Steve on sight.

Actually, he probably can.

"This really isn't what it looks like," Eddie says because he has to say something. Being silent is too incriminating.

"I don't think you're aware of what this looks like," Jeff says, wiggling himself off of Eddie's bed to stand at the foot of it. "Of all the boys in Hawkins.... I knew you liked Steve but this is.... creepy. That doll looks so much like him that I recognized it. Does Steve know you're in love with him, or is this like a way to process your crush without having to-"

"Jeff!" Eddie yells, mortified. He can feel his whole face heat up, knows he must be bright red. Because Jeff just said, out loud and for Steve to hear, the thing that Eddie very much hasn't even said out loud to himself, even if he knows how he feels deep down.

Jeff must know he's overstepped some invisible boundary he wasn't even aware of because his face immediately shows regret. He takes a step forward and Eddie takes a step back.

Immediately, Jeff stops his forward momentum. "Shit, I'm sorry, Eddie. I'm sorry."

When Eddie answers, his voice sounds like he's been eating gravel, "Just, can you go wait in the living room? I'll be right out, and we can talk, or whatever, but can you just..."

A nod, and then Jeff is gone, closing the door behind him.

With shaking hands, Eddie brings Steve back to the front of him. Looks down at him. He's not even aware he's crying until he watches his tears mark Steve's tiny polo. He can't keep holding Steve. Can't keep looking at him. Not when- not when his best friend just outed him in the worst way possible. And Eddie can't even be upset or hurt about it because Jeff didn't know. He's teased Eddie about his crushes before, and in the safety of his own room, there was no reason for Jeff to have to watch what he was saying.

Even knowing that Steve is okay with Robin, loves her anyway, without the ability to confirm that Steve doesn't hate him right now, Eddie's going to freak out. But he can't. Jeff is waiting in the living room, and the band is waiting back at Gareth's. This was just- they were supposed to just grab the amp cable and get back, a fifteen-minute job at most, and now.

Now Eddie is staring down at Steve, willing himself to not have a panic attack.

"I'm sorry, Steve. I'm so sorry. You shouldn't have heard it like that, it s-should have come from me. It should- you-I'm sorry," Eddie gently underhand throws Steve onto the center of the bed. He lands face up and Eddie sinks to the floor because he can't stand anymore, and he can't really breath.

Steve knows Eddie's a fucking faggot now, and that he wants Steve, and there's no way he'll get to keep the friendship they had before this. There's no universe in which Steve isn't creeped out by this information. There has never been an instance where a straight boy found out about his crush on them and didn't abandon him. Not always cruelly, he'll admit. He's had friends that learned and just... slid from his life with no words and no fuss. Eddie just never spoke to them again because they never came back around, but they also never outed him.

That's what will happen with him and Steve. He'll quit inviting Eddie around, or calling when he's bored, and eventually it will get to the point that Eddie only sees him at BBQ's that Joyce drags him to.

Fuck. FUCK!

He's not sure how long he's on the floor but eventually, he finds the will to get back up and resume digging through his closet to find the amp cord. It doesn't take long, he was ridiculously close to finding it earlier, it seems.

Before leaving his room, he picks back up the cassette player and headphones. Silence comes from them, so he pops the tape out before flipping it to the B side and popping it back in. He puts the headphones around Steve's head again and presses play, doing his best to not actually look at Steve. He'll just have another breakdown if he does.

He trudges out of his room, closing the door behind himself before taking the short walk to the living room, where Jeff waiting on the couch, elbows on his knees, fingers steepled under his chin, eyes faraway as he stares towards the wall in front of him.

"Hey," Eddie says, to get his attention.

"Hey," Jeff says, sitting up straight and turning towards Eddie. "I'm sorry. Whatever I did, I'm sorry."

"Why are you apologizing? I'm the fucking psycho here," he sighs, leaning sideways against the kitchen counter, arms folded across his chest, hand clutching at the amp cord just for something to ground him.

"Forget that, whatever I did, or said, or whatever, you were- when you yelled my name. You looked terrified. Of me," Jeff almost whispers the last sentence, and if not for the stark silence in the trailer, Eddie wouldn't have heard.

"Not of you, Jeff," Eddie whispers back, but his voice doesn't stay quiet because 'quiet' isn't a thing Eddie does easily or often. "Of... of myself, and these- of how I feel- I'm a goddamned faggot and now that Ste- when Steve finds out I'll lose him! Like I've lost every fucking person who ever even suspected I was a fuckin' queer!"

Silence stretches between them, enough to make Eddie fidget, dropping his crossed arms to twist the amp cord about anxiously with both his hands.

"Look, man, I don't know what's, like, the appropriate thing to say so I'm just going for the honest thing. You got me. You'll never lose me. And all those other assholes that you think you lost? You're wrong. They lost you. And if Steve Harrington is gonna be another one of those, then you aren't losing him. 'Cause he was never really in your corner to begin with."

If this were anyone else, with the exception of his uncle, he would be able to hold it together better. But it's Jeff. His best friend. Who never believed Eddie committed unspeakable horrors over Spring Break last year. Who didn't question the strange, new friends he suddenly had afterwards; who accepted as the only explanation a softly spoken 'they saved me' and that was enough. Who had said 'ok, cool' in response to Eddie telling him he was gay, years ago now, and continued trying to find out if Eddie had a secret relationship, switching girlfriend for boyfriend like it wasn't a big deal (Eddie did not have a secret relationship; his good mood that week was the result of snooping for his birthday present and finding the guitar hidden under his uncle bed).

It's Jeff. So, Eddie does the most metal, manly thing he can and bursts into tears, blindly reaching for Jeff and pulling him off the couch so he can bear hug him and sob into his shirt.

"There, there, you big baby," Jeff rubs his back soothingly, "let it out. Then pull your sorry ass together, because Gareth and Brian are going to think we died in a car crash on the way here if we take much longer."

"Ah, fuck," Eddie manager to say around the sniffling he's trying to get control of, "you're right."

"You good, though?"

"Uh, I will be."

Jeff nods and steps back. "How about this. We go to practice, and then you can come to my place tonight and we can like, hangout and talk. If that's what you want."

He's already nodding as he says, "yeah. That would be good. I- uh, I have something to do after practice, but yeah, after that I'll come over."

Eddie tosses the amp cable to Jeff after they climb into the van and head off.

Halfway there, Jeff says, "you know Gareth and Brian are in your corner, too. If you ever feel like telling them one day."

"One day," Eddie agrees, "but today has already been... a lot."

Practice goes well, with some ribbing for their tardiness allowed. If Gareth and Brian notice Eddie's been crying recently, they keep it to themselves. Which is good, because Eddie cannot handle one more thing today.

A promise to meet up with Jeff later and Eddie's back home.

Back to where he left Steve, who will be laying in silence on his bed because it's been well over two hours since he and Jeff left, and the tape only held an hours' worth of music on each side. Back to the nightmare of not knowing if Steve hates him now, or if Eddie's, and this is the most likely scenario, being a bit overdramatic.

His uncle is home, so he greets him, asks after his day, gets told dinner is Fend For Yourself Night (which just means leftovers or a TV dinner), and gets asked about Steve. Because of course he does.

"You sure he went on a vacation willingly with those parents of his, and he ain't actually kidnapped and trapped somewhere?"

That's a little bit too true. If only Wayne knew. "Well, no. I'm not sure. All I know is what he said when he left."

Wayne gives him a look. One Eddie is used to seeing, that says 'I know more than you think but I'm waiting for you to tell me' and Eddie's a little afraid of what Wayne thinks he knows. So, instead of prying that box open, Eddie just says he's tired and goes to his room.

Steve is exactly where Eddie left him.

Suddenly, without reason or logic, Eddie is angry. He's so pissed at Steve for being gone for this long. For having transformed in the first place. For not being able to assure him they'll still be friends, regardless of Eddie's stupid crush.

He snatches Steve off the bed, hand clamping around one of Steve's arms and his torso so he can hold him up with one hand. Steve's face, permanently stuck into a blank expression, looks back. Even knowing that Steve sees and hears through this thing, Eddie's so angry at the doll. If Steve hadn't been turned into this stupid thing, if Eddie wasn't so helplessly in love with him, this wouldn't have happened. Eddie could have taken his own time telling Steve, instead of hearing his deepest secret spilled easily from Jeff's lips. Instead of this not knowing what Steve is thinking, or how he feels. Is he recoiling in disgust at the fact Eddie's making him look at his face? Or is Eddie being awarded the same kindness as Robin, a quiet acceptance that won't change their friendship?

Eddie doesn't know that answer and he hates it.

He's so angry with himself because he should know better. He's forcing his own insecurities onto Steve, about acceptance and caring, when nothing Steve's done since they've become friends is prove that he'll always be Eddie's friend and not even the apocalypse could change that.

"I'm going to hang out with Jeff, so you're gonna be alone a bit longer. Or maybe I should drop you off at Robin's when I go," Eddie goes to toss Steve back on the bed when something pinches his palm. It's a startling sharp pain, quick to fade, but it's surprising enough for Eddie to let go.

Eddie watches, horrified, as he falls to the floor. He twists in the air, landing with a dull thump and cracking sound on his left arm before falling onto his back.

"Shit. Shit! Fuck, Steve, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to," Eddie is crouched, already in the process of reaching for Steve when he freezes.

There is a crack on Steve's left arm, a line that starts above his elbow on the inside of his arm and runs down and across his arm to his hand, where Steve's pinky finger is gone. Looking slightly to the side, Eddie can see the small porcelain piece that Steve is missing laying on the ground next to him. Eddie's own hand is hovering in the air above Steve, shaking.

This can't be- how did- Eddie wracks his brain. Was the crack there already? Did Eddie cause the crack when he bounced off his dresser earlier? When did it happen? Does that fucking matter when it's Eddie who broke a piece off him? If Steve didn't hate him before, he's got to now. Eddie doesn't have time to panic about this, he's got to- El. El can talk to Steve. Find out if he's okay. What if breaking him-

Eddie launches himself up and to his dresser, grabbing at the Walkie up there. He pulls the antenna up, clicks it on and tries not to actually shout as he says, "Code Red! Code fucking Red!" He lets off the talk button, counts to seven in his head, enough time, he reasons, for someone to respond before he repeats the process. "Code Red!! Code Red!"

He repeats this process for three minutes with no response. Where the fuck is everyone!? How is he supposed to- Oh! The phone!

He tears down the hall and to the phone. He must look a right state, because Wayne looks very concerned and is halfway to standing up when Eddie gets to the phone beside him. He yanks the phone up and dials the number for the Byers-Hopper household, holding up a shaking finger to Wayne, a silent plea to give him a moment.

It rings and rings and rings before the answering machine kicks in. Eddie presses down on the disconnect button before dialing the Wheelers' number next.

"Hello?"

"Mike! Code Red! Where the fuck is everyone and why aren't they answering!?"

"What?"

"Code Red! Where's Nancy. Put Nancy on."

"Dude, slow down, what's-"

"I broke St-it. I broke it and someone needs to get El here now. Code Red does not mean ask questions, Mike! It means Code. Fucking. Red."

"Shit, shit, right! I'll get Nancy and we'll get everyone- just- we'll be there soon."

Eddie slams the phone down and has to meet his uncle's eye now.

"Eddie. What is goin' on?"

Eddie inhales a breath and can feel his lower lip quivering. "It's- can we talk about it later? I promise I'm not the one hurt, or in trouble, or- it's not me, ok. I just-"

"Yer shakin' like a leaf boy. What's got you so spooked?"

Eddie just shakes his head and flees back to his room, slamming the door shut between him and his uncle. He can't bring himself to cross the room to Steve. He slides himself down the door to sit on the floor, pulling his knees up to hug.

"I'm so sorry, Steve. I'm sorry."

#steddie #my fic #porcelain steve #TW: Eddie calls himself a faggot and he means it in a bad way #did I make a playlist on spotify w/ Top 40 songs for June 21-27 1987 so id know how many tapes eddie had to use to record it? #yes. its 2 tapes fyi‚ using side A and B of one. a total of 2h54m. in my defense it was a writers block activity. #couldnt figure out what to have jeff say to comfort eddie that was in character and era-appropriate so... playlist it was! #if i were titling these parts this would be Eddie's No Good‚ Very Bad‚ Terrible‚ Horrible Day #I mean... he's had worse days (Spring Break '86) but this is up there for him #also back to back updates!? who am i??? but don't expect another one too soon #i started this one as part 6 originally but decided i wanted a more lighthearted piece first #so i wrote like 2/3 of this before writing what i posted for part 6 so finishing this was quick

[greatwise]

Eddie is super excited about going on CC’s first tour. They just realised an EP, they have a couple of their favourite covers on the set list and a couple of venues are even sold out closer to home. His bags are packed and in the hallway, guitar securely in its case.

He isn’t excited to leave Hawkins.

Or, more specifically, his bed and the boy who has made a home in it.

The first alarm goes off around 9am. Steve sleeps right through it but Eddie has been in and out of sleep all night. He hits the snooze button and pulls the cover over his head. He’s in no rush, the guys won’t be around until 12pm to set off for Indianapolis.

The second alarm is one Steve set, knowing this would happen. 9:10am. He stirs, stretching out his arm to find Eddies hair to tangle his fingers into. Instead, he finds a mound of duvet moving up and down softly.

“Eds?”

“Hm.” The duvet is pulled up to reveal only Eddies face, a little red and pouty.

“Don’t make me leave, you can’t.” He says looking up into Steve’s eyes. Steve moves himself down, pulling the duvet over his head and soon they are breathing into each others air.

“You’ve been so excited for this since you were, like, 12 what’s giving you cold feet now?” Steve furrows his eyebrows.

“You.”

Steve softened.

#i wrote this as i woke up like a month ago #bc i didn’t want to leave my bed and go on tour #i miss home #however i do not have a steve in my bed so #i also am not a writer in the slightest and it all comes out in one burst and you get what you get #stranger things #steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #steddie Drabble #steve x eddie

[boyfriendgideon]

as yr favorite local jason todd fan sometimes i get so fed up with the apparent inability of most dc comic writers to write a class conscious narrative about him.

and yes, i know that comics are a very ephemeral and constantly evolving and self-conflicting medium.

and yes, i know they’re a profit-driven art medium created in a capitalistic society, so there are very few times where comics are going to be created solely out of the desire to authentically and carefully and deliberately represent a character and take them from one emotional narrative place to another, because dc cares about profit and sometimes playing it safe is what sells.

and yes, i know comics and other forms of art reflect and recreate the society within which they were conceived as ideas, and so the dominant societal ideas about gender and race and class and so on are going to be recreated within comics (and/or will be responded to, if the writer is particularly societally conscious).

but jesus christ. you (the writer/writers) have a working class character who has been homeless, who has lost multiple parents, who has been in close proximity to someone struggling with addiction, who has had to steal to survive, who may have (depending on your reading of several different moments across different comics created by different people) been a victim of csa, who has clearly (subtextually) struggled with his mental health, who was a victim of a violent murder, and who has an entirely distinct and unique perspective on justice that has evolved based on his lived experiences.

and instead of delving into any of that, or examining the myriad of ways that classism in the writers’ room and the editors’ room and the readers’ heads affected jason’s character to make sure you’re writing him responsibly, or giving him a plotline where his views on what justice looks like are challenged by another working class character, or allowing him to demonstrate actual autonomy and agency in deciding what relationships he wants to have with people who he loves but sees as having failed him in different ways, or thinking carefully about what his having chosen an alias that once belonged to his murderer says about his decision-making and motivations, you keep him stuck in a loop of going by the red hood, addressing crime by occupying a position of relative power that perpetuates crime & harm rather than ever getting at the root causes, and seesawing between a) agreeing with his adoptive family entirely about fighting nonlethally in ways that are often inconsistent with his apparent motivations or b) disagreeing and experiencing unnecessarily brutal and violent reactions from his adoptive father as if that kind of violence isn’t the kind of thing he experienced as a child and something bruce himself is trying to prevent jason from perpetuating. because a comic with red hood, quips, high stakes, and familial drama sells.

it doesn’t matter if it keeps jason trapped, torn between an unanswered moral and philosophical question, a collection of identities that no longer fit him, and a family that accepts him circumstantially. it doesn’t matter if jason’s characterization is so utterly inconsistent that the only way to mesh it together is to piece different aspects of different titles and plotlines together like a jigsaw. it doesn’t matter if you do a disservice to his character, because in the end you don’t want to transform him or even understand him deeply enough to identify what makes him compelling and focus on that.

and i love jason!!!!! i love him. and i think about the stories we could have, if quality and art and doing justice to the character were prioritized as much as selling a title and having a dark and brooding batfam member besides bruce just to be the black sheep character are prioritized. and i just get a little sad.

#jason todd #jason todd meta #red hood #batfam #batman #dc comics #comic analysis #classism #tw: csa mention #maybe someday half of the most intriguing and nuanced aspects of his character will be touched upon #red hood outlaw 51-52 had some cool moments wrt jason + class + hometown friends + systems of power but. that was a two issue arc #and even then it was admittedly messy #GOD i want him to be three dimensional and well rounded and well used #even if a writer wrote a fucking. filler comic for an annual or smthn exploring what jason does outside of being red hood #keep the name if u want. have him have deliberately taken the name of his killer and twisted it until ppl from his city know rh #as a protector of kids and the poor and sex workers and so on. that WORKS. but show him connecting w his community #have him get involved in mutual aid. have him do something when he’s not out as red hood at night. let us see jason & barbara interact more #or jason and steph !!!!!!!! or another positive but complicated dynamic (he has a lot of those) #i just. i think that his stagnancy makes me fucking sad. i liked some aspects of task force z. felt like it ended too soon tho #FUCK the joker lets unpack his self concept & have him be a real person outside of vigilanteism (?) and vengeance #i liked some aspects of the cheer arc in batman urban legends mostly bc he had SOME agency and bc he wasn’t completely flat #even tho i hate the retconning of robin jason being angry and moody and so on #part of the problem is we don’t see him too too often for more than semi brief appearances so im so happy to see him i’ll just accept it #love the idea of a nightwing & red hood team up comic. hate that tom taylor a) wrote it and b) gave jason that stupid ass line abt justice #u think this man trusts cops ????? or the legal system !????????? BITCH. #get jason todd into like a sociology / gender and intersectionality / feminist studies class NOWWWWW #ok im done im sleepy and going to watch nimona. thx for reading to anyone who did #PLS anyone who reads this let me know what u think im frothing at the mouth rn #wes.txt #mine

[p4nishers]

idk how many times i can say this but: it CANNOT BE QUEERBAIT IF THE CHARACTERS ARE QUEER!!! please stop this "i saw the leak and im worried it still might be queerbait" ????? HOW ??? they're both NON BINARY!! HOW can it be queerbait if they're, in canon, genderless beings?? SHUT TF UP EVERYONE PLEASE

#how many times can neil say they're in love for u mfs to get it thru ur thick skulls #yeah yeah whatever they are not physically affection but genuinely how many times are we gonna have this argument? how many times are u #gonna say u r afraid of queerbait and how many times do i gotta pop a vein before u understand that they're CANONICALLY non binary #AND were wrote as a love story. like what tf else do u need ESPECIALLY if u saw the leak?? like i get it some bullshit article called them #up to interpretation but how actually gives a flying fuck? was it the writer of the show who said that? was it the actors who played the #fucking characters??? no??? then calm down its fine #like pls stop dismissing trans rep just cause its not the rep u want #good omens #azicrow #good omens s2 #good omens season 2

[carnivalcarriondiscarded]

Wait where do you post your writing cause I wanna read it if that's ok

unless you like DC comics, specifically Batman / the batfam, i doubt you'll find anything of interest to read On My Ao3! i have posted 53 works over the past few years and they're all That

but then on this blog, my tag Snippets From The Bog has little unedited tidbits/scenes from my more recent wips and imaginings. currently all of it is some flavor of Welcome Home

#also disclaimer #the first one is Not indicative to my skills as a writer. it admittedly is not good #i wrote it sleep deprived and didnt even give it a once over. i wrote it and posted and never looked at it again #i can literally provide a list of my better works so then yall can read the shittier ones and know Im Better Than This lmao #but yes absolutely feel free! i post publicly For A Reason! #posting fic feels like flaying my soul open but its so so rewarding #ahhh... i miss the days when id post at least a fic a month... #whether it be a oneshot or multi... #rambles from the bog #also fun fact! carrioncarnival was what i wanted this blog's name to be #but while it was available on ao3 it sadly twas Not here on tumblr...

[apopcornkernel]

dick and jason have so many cool parallels especially if jason is a villain it actually makes their relationship more interesting and meaningful. the concept of brothers in blood is so great!!! please tell what you wish was different about this story!!!

hi anon!! thank you for sending me the ask like i begged in that post shfdjshkf

compulsory disclaimer: i like working within the confines of the text, when they aren’t rooted in misconceptions of the characters in the first place. i think pre-flashpoint pre-morrison jason deserves the same treatment and so does dick's view of jason considering all the other extenuating circumstances

ANYWAYS, my main issue with brothers in blood is that jason doesn't seem to have a plan like at ALL. he just shows up and starts killing people...? i i believe that dick's jason event was not fully capitalized on and that jason's character suffers for it. like he never really comes off as a fully threatening rogue, dangerous and cunning in his own right; his main schtick is "needless" violence and that's really it 😭

unlike with bruce and mia, for bruce jason literally engineered a drug coup, he ran circles around batman and taunted him with hints and clues slowly until the revelation of his return (after which bruce goes on a hunt for evidence himself to see if it's true). jason then maneuvered him into an impossible situation where he had to choose between letting jason kill the joker or killing jason to stop him from doing it, wherein jason not only bared his soul and anger and hurt but also pushed bruce to do the same. and when pushed to make the final decision, bruce is panicking. he's shaking, he can't think straight. and when he hits falsely he's completely distraught and i know that it haunts him.

and i think that's the type of psychological anguish jason should always be inflicting onto his opponents!!!! after mia's encounter with jason, she was like this:

and that's after jason dug up her entire history and taunted her about it. and then he blew up her high school.

and guess what happened right before OYL, right before brothers in blood... yeah. devin grayson's trauma speedrun arc which culminated in the entire city of bludhaven being leveled by chemo

i honestly think that jason Would go there. and i think it would've made for a more intense fight, coupled with the resentment dick already displays in the comic! and i think it's a damn shame that brothers in blood flopped in execution when there was a lot of potential in its concept and setup :/

that's also why i don't like teen titans #29. jason comes off as just another jealous guy taking out his daddy issues on a teenager with no thought or regard for anything else but violence. his only semblance of a plan is in incapacitating the titans, and after that he doesn't really think anymore? jason's also unable to get a reaction from tim, like i said. jason is screaming out his feelings and going U REALLY THINK U COULD REPLACE ME???? meanwhile tim is just like: "mm yeah im better than you idgaf". it's really unsatisfying. i expected better from jason and in fact i do not think that he would be emotionally unstable enough to be this careless with tim. his biggest turmoil lies with bruce and even with BRUCE he's cunning. so,,, yeah

#dcposting #dc #batman #nightwing: brothers in blood #jason todd #not tagging dick since i barely talked about him whoops sdhfjhskf #but really my main issue is with how stupid this writer wrote jason. i really really liked how cunning and calculated he was when written b #winick especially in the green arrow arc; it's a very good example of what i mean when i say jason is /smart/ because he really planned #ahead for so much stuff and got away scot free too #ask #i'm frankly also baffled by people who are like 'the only redeeming feature of brothers in blood is the message jason leaves for dick in th #end' like idk how ppl think he was completely earnest in his desire for reunion when he went to nyc and dressed up as nightwing and started #killing people... he couldve done that as red hood but no he purposely did it as nightwing sdfjhdksg i really do not think he wanted recon #ciliation that badly

[videogames-i-wish-were-real]

Videogames I wish were real #37

A cozy and laid back MMO game where instead of the usual battle classes, the classes are all about crafting, gathering or selling products or services. All the combat classes that would normally be available to players (paladins, archers, wizards, etc) are only available to npcs.

You can choose a crafting related occupation, such as the artisan class, and then pick a certain subclass and become a blacksmith or a tailor, or the catering class and become a baker or a chef or open a small café. In order to avoid unfair competition, when setting the price of a product there would a be a minimum and maximum price range for every product. You can also open a shop to sell your wares directly to customers, as well as hire npcs to help you gather resources or to manage the shop while you are away/not playing, although you will need to pay them a fair wage and they'll get a day off a week.

If you'd rather go for a gathering class you can become a miner, woodcutter, farmer, angler, etc, and sell your produce to shops and merchants. Since some of those occupations would require you to abandon the city to gather materials, if you intend to go to a dangerous area you can hire adventurer npcs to act as your guards, or if you want to venture into an unknown area, you could spend money in a map, or pay a cartographer to chart a map for you.

And if you wish for a more adventurous occupation that allows you to travel through the world, you could always pick jobs such as mail carrier, merchant, archeologist, cartographer, etc.

Besides hiring npcs to help you run your store or act as bodyguards when you explore dangerous parts, you can also befriend and even romance and marry them, and if you cultivate a strong enough platonic or romantic relationship with an npc, they might offer you discounts, sell you rare items, gift you stuff or even offer to help you for free.

Player level is tied to the occupation of a character, if you switch to a different job you've never tried before you'll start at level 1. Whenever you get bored of a certain life, you can just switch to a different one or create another character.

Similar games that actually exist: Fantasy Life and Fantasy Life i: The Girl who Steals Time (suggested by @fantasy-life-fan), Palia

#fun fact: i wrote this post 2 weeks ago and it's been sitting in my queue ever since #and then today I watched the nintendo direct and when I saw Palia's trailer my first thought was COOL/DAMNIT #no shade to Palia i want to play it (and it differs noticeably with what i describe here) it's just that I had this due to be posted today #Palia #viwwr #videogames i wish were real #videogames #video games #cozy games #farming games #cooking games #mmo games #life sim games #life simulation games #nintendo direct #writeblr #writers on tumblr #concepts #game design

[confetti-cat]

Twelve, Thirteen, and One

Words: 6k

Rating: G

Themes: Friendship, Self-Giving Love

(Written for the Four Loves Fairytale Retelling Challenge over at the @inklings-challenge! A Cinderella retelling feat. curious critters and a lot of friendship.)

When the clock chimes midnight on that third evening, thirteen creatures look to the girl who showed them all kindness.

—

It’s hours after dark, again, and the human girl still sleeps in the ashes.

The mice notice this—though it happens so often that they’ve ceased to pay attention to her. She smells like everything else in the hearth: ashy and overworked, tinged with the faint smell of herbs from the kitchen.

When she moves or shifts in her sleep (uncomfortable sleep—even they can sense the exhaustion in her posture as she sits slumped against the wall, more willing to seep up warmth from the stone than lie cold elsewhere this time of year), they simply scurry around her and continue combing for crumbs and seeds. They’d found a feast of lentils scattered about once, and many other times, the girl had beckoned them softly to her hand, where she’d held a little chunk of brown bread.

Tonight, she has nothing. They don’t mind—though three of them still come to sniff her limp hand where it lies drooped against the side of her tattered dress.

A fourth one places a little clawed hand on the side of her finger, leaning over it to investigate her palm for any sign of food.

When she stirs, it’s to the sensation of a furry brown mouse sitting in her palm.

It can feel the flickering of her muscles as she wakes—feeling slowly returning to her body. To her credit, she cracks her eyes open and merely observes it.

They’re all but tame by now. The Harsh-Mistress and the Shrieking-Girl and the Angry-Girl are to be avoided like the plague never was, but this girl—the Cinder-Girl, they think of her—is gentle and kind.

Even as she shifts a bit and they hear the dull crack of her joints, they’re too busy to mind. Some finding a few buried peas (there were always some peas or lentils still hidden here, if they looked carefully), some giving themselves an impromptu bath to wash off the dust. The one sitting on her hand is doing the latter, fur fluffed up as it scratches one ear and then scrubs tirelessly over its face with both paws.

One looks up from where it’s discovered a stray pea to check her expression.

A warm little smile has crept up her face, weary and dirty and sore as she seems to be. She stays very still in her awkward half-curl against stone, watching the mouse in her hand groom itself. The tender look about her far overwhelms—melts, even—the traces of tension in her tired limbs.

Very slowly, so much so that they really aren’t bothered by it, she raises her spare hand and begins lightly smearing the soot away from her eyes with the back of her wrist.

The mouse in her palm gives her an odd look for the movement, but has discovered her skin is warmer than the cold stone floor or the ash around the dying fire. It pads around in a circle once, then nudges its nose against her calloused skin, settling down for a moment.

The Cinder-Girl has closed her eyes again, and drops her other hand into her lap, slumping further against the wall. Her smile has grown even warmer, if sadder.

They decide she’s quite safe. Very friendly.

—

The old rat makes his rounds at the usual times of night, shuffling through a passage that leads from the ground all the way up to the attic.

When both gold sticks on the clocks’ moonlike faces point upward, there’s a faint chime from the tower-clock downstairs. He used to worry that the sound would rouse the humans. Now, he ignores it and goes about his business.

There’s a great treasury of old straw in the attic. It’s inside a large sack—and while this one doesn’t have corn or wheat like the ones near the kitchen sometimes do, he knows how to chew it open all the same.

The girl sleeps on this sack of straw, though she doesn’t seem to mind what he takes from it. There’s enough more of it to fill a hundred rat’s nests, so he supposes she doesn’t feel the difference.

Tonight, though—perhaps he’s a bit too loud in his chewing and tearing. The girl sits up slowly in bed, and he stiffens, teeth still sunk into a bit of the fabric.

“Oh.” says the girl. She smiles—and though the expression should seem threatening, all pulled mouth-corners and teeth, he feels the gentleness in her posture and wonders at novel thoughts of differing body languages. “Hello again. Do you need more straw?”

He isn’t sure what the sounds mean, but they remind him of the soft whuffles and squeaks of his siblings when they were small. Inquisitive, unafraid. Not direct or confrontational.

She’s seemed safe enough so far—almost like the woman in white and silver-gold he’s seen here sometimes, marveling at his own confidence in her safeness—so he does what signals not-afraid the best to his kind. He glances her over, twitches his whiskers briefly, and goes back to what he was doing.

Some of the straw is too big and rough, some too small and fine. He scratches a bundle out into a pile so he can shuffle through it. It’s true he doesn’t need much, but the chill of winter hasn’t left the world yet.

The girl laughs. The sound is soft and small. It reminds him again of young, friendly, peaceable.

“Take as much as you need,” she whispers. Her movements are unassuming when she reaches for something on the old wooden crate she uses as a bedside table. With something in hand, she leans against the wall her bed is a tunnel’s-width from, and offers him what she holds. “Would you like this?”

He peers at it in the dark, whiskers twitching. His eyesight isn’t the best, so he finds himself drawing closer to sniff at what she has.

It’s a feather. White and curled a bit, like the goose-down he’d once pulled out the corner of a spare pillow long ago. Soft and long, fluffy and warm.

He touches his nose to it—then, with a glance upward at her softly-smiling face, takes it in his teeth.

It makes him look like he has a mustache, and is a bit too big to fit through his hole easily. The girl giggles behind him as he leaves.

—

There’s a human out in the gardens again. Which is strange—this is a place for lizards, maybe birds and certainly bugs. Not for people, in his opinion. She’s not dressed in venomous bright colors like the other humans often are, but neither does she stay to the manicured garden path the way they do.

She doesn’t smell like unnatural rotten roses, either. A welcome change from having to dart for cover at not just the motions, but the stenches that accompany the others that appear from time to time.

This human is behind the border-shubs, beating an ornate rug that hangs over the fence with a home-tied broom. Huge clouds of dust shake from it with each hit, settling in a thin film on the leaves and grass around her.

She stops for a moment to press her palm to her forehead, then turns over her shoulder and coughs into her arm.

When she begins again, it’s with a sharp WHOP.

He jumps a bit, but only on instinct. However—

A few feet from where he settles back atop the sunning-rock, there’s a scuffle and a sharp splash. Then thrashing—waster swashing about with little churns and splishes.

It’s not the way of lizards to think of doing anything when one falls into the water. There were several basins for fish and to catch water off the roof for the garden—they simply had to not fall into them, not drown. There was little recourse for if they did. What could another lizard do, really? Fall in after them? Best to let them try to climb out if they could.

The girl hears the splashing. She stares at the water pot for a moment.

Then, she places her broom carefully on the ground and comes closer.

Closer. His heart speeds up. He skitters to the safety of a plant with low-hanging leaves—

—and then watches as she walks past his hiding place, peers into the basin, and reaches in.

Her hand comes up dripping wet, a very startled lizard still as a statue clinging to her fingers.

“Are you the same one I always find here?” she asks with a chiding little smile. “Or do all of you enjoy swimming?”

When she places her hand on the soft spring grass, the lizard darts off of it and into the underbrush. It doesn’t go as far as it could, though—something about this girl makes both of them want to stand still and wait for what she’ll do next.

The girl just watches it go. She lets out a strange sound—a weary laugh, perhaps—and turns back to her peculiar chore.

—

A song trails through the old house—under the floorboards—through the walls—into the garden, beneath the undergrowth—and lures them out of hiding.

It isn’t an audible song, not like that of the birds in the summer trees or the ashen-girl murmuring beautiful sounds to herself in the lonely hours. This one was silent. Yet, it reached deep down into their souls and said come out, please—the one who helped you needs your help.

It didn’t require any thought, no more than eat or sleep or run did.

In chains of silver and grey, all the mice who hear it converge, twenty-four tiny feet pattering along the wood in the walls. The rat joins them, but they are not afraid.

When they emerge from a hole out into the open air, the soft slip-slap of more feet surround them. Six lizards scurry from the bushes, some gleaming wet as if they’d just escaped the water trough or run through the birdbath themselves.

As a strange little hoard, they approach the kind girl. Beside her is a tall woman wearing white and silver and gold.

The girl—holding a large, round pumpkin—looks surprised to see them here. The woman is smiling.

“Set the pumpkin on the drive,” the woman says, a soft gleam in her eye. “The rest of you, line up, please.”

Bemused, but with a heartbeat fast enough for them to notice, the girl gingerly places the pumpkin on the stone of the drive. It’s natural for them, somehow, to follow—the mice line in pairs in front of it, the rat hops on top of it, and the lizards all stand beside.

“What are they doing?” asks the girl—and there’s curiosity and gingerness in her tone, like she doesn’t believe such a sight is wrong, but is worried it might be.

The older woman laughs kindly, and a feeling like blinking hard comes over the world.

It’s then—then, in that flash of darkness that turns to dazzling light, that something about them changes.

“Oh!” exclaims the girl, and they open their eyes. “Oh! They’re—“

They’re different.

The mice aren’t mice at all—and suddenly they wonder if they ever were, or if it was an odd dream.

They’re horses, steel grey and sleek-haired with with silky brown manes and tails. Their harnesses are ornate and stylish, their hooves polished and dark.

Instead of a rat, there’s a stout man in fine livery, with whiskers dark and smart as ever. He wears a fine cap with a familiar white feather, and the gleam in his eye is surprised.

“Well,” he says, examining his hands and the cuffs of his sleeves, “I suppose I won’t be wanting for adventure now.”

Instead of six lizards, six footmen stand at attention, their ivory jackets shining in the late afternoon sun.

The girl herself is different, though she’s still human—her hair is done up beautifully in the latest fashion, and instead of tattered grey she wears a shimmering dress of lovely pale green, inlaid with a design that only on close inspection is flowers.

“They are under your charge, now,” says the woman in white, stepping back and folding her hands together. “It is your responsibility to return before the clock strikes midnight—when that happens, the magic will be undone. Understood?”

“Yes,” says the girl breathlessly. She stares at them as if she’s been given the most priceless gift in all the world. “Oh, thank you.”

—

The castle is decorated brilliantly. Flowery garlands hang from every parapet, beautiful vines sprawling against walls and over archways as they climb. Dozens of picturesque lanterns hang from the walls, ready to be lit once the sky grows dark.

“It’s been so long since I’ve seen the castle,” the girl says, standing one step out of the carriage and looking so awed she seems happy not to go any further. “Father and I used to drive by it sometimes. But it never looked so lovely as this.”

“Shall we accompany you in, milady?” asks one of the footmen. They’re all nearly identical, though this one has freckles where he once had dark flecks in his scales.

She hesitates for only a moment, looking up at the pinnacles of the castle towers. Then, she shakes her head, and turns to look at them all with a smile like the sun.

“I think I’ll go in myself,” she says. “I’m not sure what is custom. But thank you—thank you so very much.”

And so they watch her go—stepping carefully in her radiant dress that looked lovelier than any queen’s.

Though she was not royal, it seemed there was no doubt in anyone’s minds that she was. The guards posted at the door opened it for her without question.

With a last smile over her shoulder, she stepped inside.

—

He's straightening the horses' trappings for the fifth time when the doors to the castle open, and out hurries a figure. It takes him a moment to recognize her, garbed in rich fabrics and cloaked in shadows, but it's the girl, rushing out to the gilded carriage. A footman steps forward and offers her a hand, which she accepts gratefully as she steps up into the seat.

“Enjoyable evening, milady?” asks the coachman. His whiskers are raised above the corners of his mouth, and his twinkling eyes crinkle at the edges.

“Yes, quite, thank you!” she breathes in a single huff. She smooths her dress the best she can before looking at him with some urgency. “The clock just struck quarter till—will you be able to get us home?”

The gentle woman in white had said they only would remain in such states until midnight. How long was it until the middle of night? What was a quarter? Surely darkness would last for far more hours than it had already—it couldn’t be close. Yet it seemed as though it must be; the princesslike girl in the carriage sounded worried it would catch them at any moment.

“I will do all I can,” he promises, and with a sharp rap of the reins, they’re off at a swift pace.

They arrive with minutes to spare. He knows this because after she helps him down from the carriage (...wait. That should have been the other way around! He makes mental note for next time: it should be him helping her down. If he can manage it. She’s fast), she takes one of those minutes to show him how his new pocketwatch works.

He’s fascinated already. There’s a part of him that wonders if he’ll remember how to tell time when he’s a rat again—or will this, all of this, be forgotten?

The woman in white is there beside the drive, and she’s already smiling. A knowing gleam lights her eye.

“Well, how was the ball?” she asks, as Cinder-Girl turns to face her with the most elated expression. “I hear the prince is looking for fair maidens. Did he speak with you?”

The girl rushes to grasp the woman’s hands in hers, clasping them gratefully and beaming up at her.

“It was lovely! I’ve never seen anything so lovely,” she all but gushes, her smile brighter and broader than they’d ever seen it. “The castle is beautiful; it feels so alive and warm. And yes, I met the Prince—although hush, he certainly isn’t looking for me—he’s so kind. I very much enjoyed speaking with him. He asked me to dance, too; I had as wonderful a time as he seemed to. Thank you! Thank you dearly.”

The woman laughs gently. It isn’t a laugh one would describe as warm, but neither is it cold in the sense some laughs can be—it's soft and beautiful, almost crystalline.

“That’s wonderful. Now, up to bed! You’ve made it before midnight, but your sisters will be returning soon.”

“Yes! Of course,” she replies eagerly—turning to smile gratefully at coachman and stroke the nearest horses on their noses and shoulders, then curtsy to the footmen. “Thank you all, very much. I could not ask for a more lovely company.”

It’s a strange moment when all of their new hearts swell with warmth and affection for this girl—and then the world darkens and lightens so quickly they feel as though they’ve fallen asleep and woken up.

They’re them again—six mice, six lizards, a rat, and a pumpkin. And a tattered gray dress.

“Please, would you let me go again tomorrow? The ball will last three days. I had such a wonderful time.”

“Come,” the woman said simply, “and place the pumpkin beneath the bushes.”

The woman in white led the way back to the house, followed by an air-footed girl and a train of tiny critters. There was another silent song in the air, and they thought perhaps the girl could hear it too: one that said yes—but get to bed!

—

The second evening, when the door of the house thuds shut and the hoofsteps of the family’s carriage fade out of hearing, the rat peeks out of a hole in the kitchen corner to see the Cinder-Girl leap to her feet.

She leans close to the window and watched for more minutes than he quite understands—or maybe he does; it was good to be sure all cats had left before coming out into the open—and then runs with a spring in her step to the back door near the kitchen.

Ever so faintly, like music, the woman’s laughter echoes faintly from outside. Drawn to it like he had been drawn to the silent song, the rat scurries back through the labyrinth of the walls.

When he hurries out onto the lawn, the mice and lizards are already there, looking up at the two humans expectantly. This time, the Cinder-Girl looks at them and smiles broadly.

“Hello, all. So—how do you do it?” she asks the woman. Her eyes shine with eager curiosity. “I had no idea you could do such a thing. How does it work?”

The woman fixes her with a look of fond mock-sternness. “If I were to explain to you the details of how, I’d have to tell you why and whom, and you’d be here long enough to miss the royal ball.” She waves her hands she speaks. “And then you’d be very much in trouble for knowing far more than you ought.”

The rat misses the girl’s response, because the world blinks again—and now all of them once again are different. Limbs are long and slender, paws are hooves with silver shoes or feet in polished boots.

The mouse-horses mouth at their bits as they glance back at the carriage and the assortment of humans now standing by it. The footmen are dressed in deep navy this time, and the girl wears a dress as blue as the summer sky, adorned with brilliant silver stars.

“Remember—“ says the woman, watching fondly as the Cinder-Girl steps into the carriage in a whorl of beautiful silk. “Return before midnight, before the magic disappears.”

“Yes, Godmother,” she calls, voice even more joyful than the previous night. “Thank you!”

—

The castle is just as glorious as before—and the crowd within it has grown. Noblemen and women, royals and servants, and the prince himself all mill about in the grand ballroom.

He’s unsure of the etiquette, but it seems best for her not to enter alone. Once he escorts her in, the coachman bows and watches for a moment—the crowd is hushed again, taken by her beauty and how important they think her to be—and then returns to the carriage outside.

He isn’t required in the ballroom for much of the night—but he tends to the horses and checks his pocketwatch studiously, everything in him wishing to be the best coachman that ever once was a rat.

Perhaps that wouldn’t be hard. He’d raise the bar, then. The best coachman that ever drove for a princess.

Because that was what she was—or, that was what he heard dozens of hushed whispers about once she’d entered the ball. Every noble and royal and servant saw her and deemed her a grand princess nobody knew from a land far away. The prince himself stared at her in a marveling way that indicated he thought no differently.

It was a thing more wondrous than he had practice thinking. If a mouse could become a horse or a rat could become a coachman, couldn’t a kitchen-girl become a princess?

The answer was yes, it seemed—perhaps in more ways than one.

She had rushed out with surprising grace just before midnight. They took off quickly, and she kept looking back toward the castle door, as if worried—but she was smiling.

“Did you know the Prince is very nice?” she asks once they’re safely home, and she’s stepped down (drat) without help again. The woman in white stands on her same place beside the drive, and when Cinder-Girl sees her, she waves with dainty grace that clearly holds a vibrant energy and sheer thankfulness behind it. “I’ve never known what it felt like to be understood. He thinks like I do.”

“How is that?” asks the woman, quirking an amused brow. “And if I might ask, how do you know?”

“Because he mentions things first.” The girl tries to smother some of the wideness of her smile, but can’t quite do so. “And I've shared his thoughts for a long time. That he loves his father, and thinks oranges and citrons are nice for festivities especially, and that he’s always wanted to go out someday and do something new.”

—

The third evening, the clouds were dense and a few droplets of rain splattered the carriage as they arrived.

“Looks like rain, milady,” said the coachman as she disembarked to stand on water-spotted stone. “If it doesn’t blow by, we’ll come for ye at the steps, if it pleases you.”

“Certainly—thank you,” she replies, all gleaming eyes and barely-smothered smiles. How her excitement to come can increase is beyond them—but she seems more so with each night that passes.

She has hardly turned to head for the door when a smattering of rain drizzles heavily on them all. She flinches slightly, already running her palms over the skirt of her dress to rub out the spots of water.

Her golden dress glisters even in the cloudy light, and doesn’t seem to show the spots much. Still, it’s hardy an ideal thing.

“One of you hold the parasol—quick about it, now—and escort her inside,” the coachman says quickly. The nearest footman jumps into action, hop-reaching into the carriage and falling back down with the umbrella in hand, unfolding it as he lands. “Wait about in case she needs anything.”

The parasol is small and not meant for this sort of weather, but it's enough for the moment. The pair of them dash for the door, the horses chomping and stamping behind them until they’re driven beneath the bows of a huge tree.

The footman knows his duty the way a lizard knows to run from danger. He achieves it the same way—by slipping off to become invisible, melting into the many people who stood against the golden walls.

From there, he watches.

It’s so strange to see the way the prince and their princess gravitate to each other. The prince’s attention seems impossible to drag away from her, though not for many’s lack of trying.

Likewise—more so than he would have thought, though perhaps he’s a bit slow in noticing—her focus is wholly on the prince for long minutes at a time.

Her attention is always divided a bit whenever she admires the interior of the castle, the many people and glamorous dresses in the crowd, the vibrant tables of food. It’s all very new to her, and he’s not certain it doesn’t show. But the Prince seems enamored by her delight in everything—if he thinks it odd, he certainly doesn’t let on.

They talk and laugh and sample fine foods and talk to other guests together, then they turn their heads toward where the musicians are starting up and smile softly when they meet each other’s eyes. The Prince offers a hand, which is accepted and clasped gleefully.

Then, they dance.

Their motions are so smooth and light-footed that many of the crowd forgo dancing, because admiring them is more enjoyable. They’re in-sync, back and forth like slow ripples on a pond. They sometimes look around them—but not often, especially compared to how long they gaze at each other with poorly-veiled, elated smiles.

The night whirls on in flares of gold tulle and maroon velvet, ivory, carnelian, and emerald silks, the crowd a nonstop blur of color.

(Color. New to him, that. Improved vision was wonderful.)

The clock strikes eleven, but there’s still time, and he’s fairly certain he won’t be able to convince the girl to leave anytime before midnight draws near.

He was a lizard until very recently. He’s not the best at judging time, yet. Midnight does draw near, but he’s not sure he understands how near.

The clock doesn’t quite say up-up. So he still has time. When the rain drums ceaselessly outside, he darts out and runs in a well-practiced way to find their carriage.

—

Another of the footmen comes in quickly, having been sent in a rush by the coachman, who had tried to keep his pocketwatch dry just a bit too long. He’s soaking wet from the downpour when he steps close enough to get her attention.

She sees him, notices this, and—with a glimmer of recognition and amusement in her eyes—laughs softly into her hand.

ONE—TWO— the clock starts. His heart speeds up terribly, and his skin feels cold. He suddenly craves a sunny rock.

“Um,” he begins awkwardly. Lizards didn’t have much in the way of a vocal language. He bows quickly, and water drips off his face and hat and onto the floor. “The chimes, milady.”

THREE—FOUR—

Perhaps she thought it was only eleven. Her face pales. “Oh.”

FIVE—SIX—

Like a deer, she leaps from the prince’s side and only manages a stumbling, backward stride as she curtsies in an attempt at a polite goodbye.

“Thank you, I must go—“ she says, and then she’s racing alongside the footman as fast as they both can go. The crowd parts for them just enough, amidst loud murmurs of surprise.

SEVEN—EIGHT—

“Wait!” calls the prince, but they don’t. Which hopefully isn’t grounds for arrest, the footman idly thinks.

They burst through the door and out into the open air.

NINE—TEN—

It has been storming. The rain is crashing down in torrents—the walkways and steps are flooded with a firm rush of water.

She steps in a crevice she couldn’t see, the water washes over her feet, and she stumbles, slipping right out of one shoe. There’s noise at the door behind them, so she doesn’t stop or even hesitate. She runs at a hobble and all but dives through the open carriage door. The awaiting footman quickly closes it, and they’re all grasping quickly to their riding-places at the corners of the vehicle.

ELEVEN—

A flash of lightning coats the horses in white, despite the dark water that’s soaked into their coats, and with a crack of the rains and thunder they take off at a swift run.

There’s shouting behind them—the prince—as people run out and call to the departing princess.

TWELVE.

Mist swallows them up, so thick they can’t hear or see the castle, but the horses know the way.

The castle’s clock tower must have been ever-so-slightly fast. (Does magic tell truer time?) Their escape works for a few thundering strides down the invisible, cloud-drenched road—until true midnight strikes a few moments later.

—

She walks home in the rain and fog, following a white pinprick of light she can guess the source of—all the while carrying a hollow pumpkin full of lizards, with an apron pocket full of mice and a rat perched on her shoulder.

It’s quite the walk.

—

The prince makes a declaration so grand that the mice do not understand it. The rat—a bit different now—tells them most things are that way to mice, but he’s glad to explain.

The prince wants to find the girl who wore the golden slipper left on the steps, he relates. He doesn’t want to ask any other to marry him, he loved her company so.

The mice think that’s a bit silly. Concerning, even. What if he does find her? There won’t be anyone to secretly leave seeds in the ashes or sneak them bread crusts when no humans are looking.

The rat thinks they’re being silly and that they’ve become too dependent on handouts. Back in his day, rodents worked for their food. Chewing open a bag of seed was an honest day’s work for its wages.

Besides, he confides, as he looks again out the peep-hole they’ve discovered in the floor trim of the parlor. You’re being self-interested, if you ask me. Don’t you want our princess to find a good mate, and live somewhere spacious and comfortable, free of human-cats, where she’d finally have plenty to eat?

It’s hard to make a mouse look appropriately chastised, but that question comes close. They shuffle back a bit to let him look out at the strange proceedings in the parlor again.

There are many humans there. The Harsh-Mistress stands tall and rigid at the back of one of the parlor chairs, exchanging curt words with a strange man in fine clothes with a funny hat. Shrieking-Girl and Angry-Girl stand close, scoffing and laughing, looking appalled.

Cinder-Girl sits on the chair that’s been pulled to the middle of the room. She extends her foot toward a strange golden object on a large cushion.

The shoe, the rat notes so the mice can follow. They can’t quite see it from here—poor eyesight and all.

Of course, the girl’s foot fits perfectly well into her own shoe. They all saw that coming.

Evidently, the humans did not. There’s absolute uproar.

“There is no possible way she’s the princess you’re looking for!” declares Harsh-Mistress, her voice full of rage. “She’s a kitchen maid. Nothing royal about her.”

“How dare you!” Angry-Girl rages. “Why does it fit you? Why not us?”

“You sneak!” shrieks none other than Shrieking-Girl. “Mother, she snuck to the ball! She must have used magic, somehow! Princes won’t marry sneaks, will they?”

“I think they might,” says a calm voice from the doorway, and the uproar stops immediately.

The Prince steps in. He stares at Cinder-Girl.

She stares back. Her face is still smudged with soot, and her dress is her old one, gray and tattered. The golden slipper gleams on her foot, having fit as only something molded or magic could.

A blush colors her face beneath the ash and she leaps up to do courtesy. “Your Highness.”

The Prince glances at the messenger-man with the slipper-pillow and the funny hat. The man nods seriously.

The Prince blinks at this, as if he wasn’t really asking anything with his look—it’s already clear he recognizes her—and meets Cinder-Girl’s gaze with a smile. It’s the same half-nervous, half-attemptingly-charming smile as he kept giving her at the ball.

He bows to her and offers a hand. (The rat has to push three mice out of the way to maintain his view.)

“It’s my honor,” he assures her. “Would you do me the great honor of accompanying me to the castle? I’d had a question in mind, but it seems there are—“ he glances at Harsh-Mistress, who looks like a very upset rat in a mousetrap. “—situations we might discuss remedying. You’d be a most welcome guest in my father’s house, if you’d be amenable to it?”

It’s all so much more strange and unusual than anything the creatures of the house are used to seeing. They almost don’t hear it, at first—that silent song.

It grows stronger, though, and they turn their heads toward it with an odd hope in their hearts.

—

The ride to the castle is almost as strange as that prior walk back. The reasons for this are such:

One—their princess is riding in their golden carriage alongside the prince, and their chatter and awkward laughter fills the surrounding spring air. They have a good feeling about the prince, now, if they didn’t already. He can certainly take things in stride, and he is no respecter of persons. He seems just as elated to be by her side as he was at the ball, even with the added surprise of where she'd come from.

Two—they have been transformed again, and the woman in white has asked them a single question: Would you choose to stay this way?

The coachman said yes without a second thought. He’d always wanted life to be more fulfilling, he confided—and this seemed a certain path to achieving that.

The footmen might not have said yes, but there was something to be said for recently-acquired cognition. It seemed—strange, to be human, but the thought of turning back into lizards had the odd feeling of being a poor choice. Baffled by this new instinct, they said yes.

The horses, of course, said things like whuff and nyiiiehuhum, grumph. The woman seemed to understand, though. She touched one horse on the nose and told it it would be the castle’s happiest mouse once the carriage reached its destination. The others, it seemed, enjoyed their new stature.

And three—they are heading toward a castle, where they have all been offered a fine place to live. The Prince explains that he doesn’t wish for such a kind girl to live in such conditions anymore. There’s no talk of anyone marrying—just discussions of rooms and favorite foods and of course, you’ll have the finest chicken pie anytime you’d like and I can’t have others make it for me! Lend me the kitchens and I’ll make some for you; I have a very dear recipe. Perhaps you can help. (Followed in short order by a ...Certainly, but I’d—um, I’d embarrass myself trying to cook. You would teach me? and a gentle laugh that brightened the souls of all who could hear it.)

“If you’d be amenable to it,” she replies—and in clear, if surprised, agreement, the Prince truly, warmly laughs.

“Milady,” the coachman calls down to them. “Your Highness. We’re here.”

The castle stands shining amber-gold in the light of the setting sun. It will be the fourth night they’ve come here—the thirteen of them and the one of her—but midnight, they realize, will not break the spell ever again.

One by one, they disembark from the carriage. If it will stay as it is or turn back into a pumpkin, they hadn't thought to ask. There’s so much warmth swelling in their hearts that they don’t think it matters.

The girl, their princess, smiles—a dear, true smile, tentative in the face of a brand new world, but bright with hope—and suddenly, they’re all smiling too.

She steps forward, and they follow. The prince falls into step with her and offers an arm, and their glances at each other are brimming with light as she accepts.

With her arm in the arm of the prince, a small crowd of footmen and the coachman trailing behind, and a single grey mouse on her shoulder, the once-Cinder-Girl walks once again toward the palace door.

#Well this wasn't my first Cinderella retelling idea that I was excited about BUT - #since that one was turning into a tangle of Too Much Going On (though it's currently at 5k and maybe 70% done; I still plan to finish it) #I tried this one instead! #pros: I think I actually wrote myself out of writer's block? Which is AWESOME #And I feel like I'm starting to notice what needs fixed and mended about my writing; which is very helpful! #cons: due to having the additional pro of a very socially growth-filled few weeks IRL; I did not do much about that fact #please excuse the general lack of editing thus far #I have also learned that I may want to be at least a Level 5 Fairy Tale Reteller #before I tackle stories with hundreds of years of popular retellings and versions? #Although this one came much more easily than my first idea; it still felt more difficult to write than my Nix Nought Nothing story. #So another pro - I learned that I enjoy writing about lesser-known tales the most! Next time I might try a fun obscure one. #All in all this was a ton of fun!! Thanks for running the challenge! Apologies for being nearly late - I had a wonderful time! #I hope you all enjoy! <3 #inklingschallenge #four loves fairy tale retelling challenge #love: philia #love: agape #Cinderella #story: complete #basil writes #salt and light

[hella1975]

my dramatic ass pacing circles in the kitchen like im never writing anything ever again bc nothing feels great anymore it just feels good and apparently i will not apply myself even to my most longterm and beloved passion if i can't feel prodigious at it. fym ur gonna stop trying altogether ur also gonna get ur period in the next few days but im sure there's no correlation

#trying to write and rereading it like the pacing is off the characterisation is stale the dialogue is blocky #and i can't get the concept down the way i want so im perpetually stuck in that 'on the tip of your tongue' feeling #and i cant read things to pass the time not even fics bc im too busy psychoanalysing every single sentence #trying to find some hidden thing that makes this writing better than mine how can this writer get it when i just cant what's wrong with me #and it's all so GODDAMN FRUSTRATING. but aside that im being really calm about it <3 #i can't remember the last time i wrote something and felt genuinely proud of it. i always get very intense long periods of writer's block #and i know i'll come out the other end bc i'll find a new obsession and write 20k words of my best work in one night #and feel like i snorted three lines off a toilet seat in berghain. but also What If This Time Im Just Broken #hi im a girl in my twenties who never learnt from my own behaviour!

[yourmortalenemy]

So I was just reading this post and it raised a couple points I’d like to talk about real quick. 

Basically it is someone asking why there is so much less audience interaction with fics than there used to be. There’s a few suggested answers but the one I’d particularly like to talk about is the idea that now we live in an age where the internet and social media is ruled by tiktok (and I suppose instagram to a certain extent as well) 

Tiktok is designed so that a user makes as little effort as possible, you don’t have to think, you just have to watch and scroll and tiktok’s algorithm will provide you with hours of content it thinks you will like. It gets people used to the idea that they do not need to contribute because all will be provided for them, people expect to be served. 

So what happens when you get a site like AO3 with no algorithm, no recommendations, a site that isn’t built to serve. We get fic writers (like the one who sent the ask in the post I referred to earlier) who have to put up with less and less feedback and it’s disheartening. Sites like AO3 cannot survive without writers to write and readers to read but if the writers stop seeing the point in writing because they don’t know if their readers even liked what they wrote then I don’t blame them for not wanting to write anymore. 

And I get that sometimes you just don’t have the spoons to think of a comment, I’m not trying to say there’s anything wrong with that. But please don’t just look at something and move on when you’re done without any indication to the author that you liked what they wrote. Even if it’s just quoting a line you liked and saying something like ‘lol’, even if it’s just an emoji, even if it’s just kudos, I promise you that authors see that and we appreciate it. Don’t be afraid of being judged, if you like something SAY SO!! But please for the love of all that is good and holy, do not treat AO3 like tiktok or instagram. That is not sustainable. 

Not to sound like one of the ‘tin foil hat brigade’ (as my mother would say) but I truly believe that algorithms will be death of creativity and freedom of expression. You cannot treat AO3 like tiktok because you cannot treat human beings like robots. It is not shameful to want appreciation, humans need to know they are appreciated. 

Not to get too political here but I am begging you to ask yourself who profits most from feeding you the notion that we can expect people to provide a service while giving them nothing in return.

#BE THE CHANGE YOU WISH TO SEE #TELL SOMEONE ON AO3 YOU LIKED THEIR FIC TODAY!!! #yes this was an excuse to rant about how much I hate tiktok for several paragraphs #no its not proofread #i wrote this in a rage-filled haze during a heatwave #what do you want from me #now how do I tag this... #ao3 #archive of our own #ao3 fanfic #ao3 writer #i have like 20 followers lets be real nobody is going to see this

[daycourtofficial]

Anyone else have the writer blues/imposter syndrome? Anyone else feel like writing one sentence is an impossible feat?

#like everyone is so nice to me #but idk I open my drafts and I’m like #’wow that sucks what idiot wrote that’ #and idk I’m just ???? #I’m also not reading a ton bc idk I don’t have the energy #the vibes are off and it’s not even the first day of April #I want to write!!! #I just can’t :/ #or can’t help but overthink it #or be too self crticial #idk there are so many wonderful #talented writers on her and I just feel like they’re sooo out of my league #anyway I’ll probably get self conscious about this and delete it later shout out to the one person who read all of this #I’m laying in bed being vulnerable my therapist would be so proud 🫶