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houseofanticipation · 2 months

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It's impossible to count the number of times you've imagined this moment. Late at night, under the covers; in the bathtub, and the shower; on slow days at the bookstore, the summer before senior year; during Mr. Madrigal's long, droning lectures. You fantasized so vividly you could see each scene on the back of your eyelids, hear each sound between breaths. Many a time your hand migrated southward, almost of its own volition. If you were in public, you'd hold it against your crotch, pressing it into yourself with the force of your clenched thighs. In private, you'd be far less subtle.

In all those fantasies, you never imagined it would look quite like this.

The hallway smells like cigarettes and industrial cleaner. The haphazardly patterned carpet is coming up at the edges. The yellow tube light overhead might be attempting morse code, the way it flickers. Paint peels from the door in front of you, and one of the metal digits in the room number has been replaced with one that doesn't quite match: room 233. You raise your hand, your knuckles inches from the door, and then you pause. You're not sure if you can go through with this.

Before you can decide, the door opens anyway.

You started posting pictures in your first year of college. It was just your tits at first. You'd been quietly following those subreddits and tumblr blogs for a while, and you thought it would be a bit of fun, a little thrill. You didn't expect the response you got: dozens of people telling you how much they'd enjoyed it, asking for more. So you posted more, and the people asked for different things. Post your ass. Post your cunt. Post your fingers in your cunt. Post audio of you moaning as you came. The more you revealed of yourself, the more attention you got, and the more attention you got, the more you wanted to show. People wanted to send you tips, so you set up a Cash App address. You never got much, a few dollars here and there, but it was nice to get a free coffee now and then.

And somewhere along the way, apparently, you let slip that you were a virgin.

The message came late last semester, from a Cash App user whose name was just a string of numbers. It read, "I will buy your virginity for $100,000. So you know I'm serious, here is $7000 for you to keep, deal or no deal. Let me know if interested."

It was like one of those hypotheticals you talk about with your friends at the dinner table. Would you work nonstop for a year if it meant you never had to work again? Would you cut off your hand if it meant you never had to die? Would you let a stranger from the internet take your virginity for a hundred thousand dollars? You thought about it for weeks. The 7 thousand in itself was a windfall you never could have imagined. It was the new laptop you needed, four times over. It was a large iced coffee ever day for three and a half years. After graduation, if you were smart, it could be your living expenses for the better part of a year. But a hundred thousand might be a house, or a car, or a few years of freedom to pursue your goals. And when you asked how you could trust him to pay when he'd gotten what he wanted, he told you he'd be happy to pay up front.

So here you are, in a dingy hotel, face to face with the broad-shouldered, potbellied older man in front of you. "I saw you through the peephole," he says. There's something impish about him. Maybe it's the toothy grin, or the way his ears stick out from his head, or the obvious glee in his voice as he looks you up and down. "My, you're much better in person. Come in! You got the money then?"

You nod. You didn't leave the Lyft until it was there in your account.

"Good," he says, throwing the dead bolt. "Let's get to it then, shall we?"

"What should...I mean, how do you want to..." you feel yourself talking strangely. Breathing in the wrong places, words tumbling over each other. "Maybe we should...talk first? Get to know each other?"

"No need for that," says the man matter-of-factly, unbuttoning his shirt. His chest is smooth, his skin a mottled pink. He waves a hand at your body. "Go ahead and get those off."

Back in high school, one of your recurring fantasies involved Jason Meier having his way with you in the back of that beat up convertible he used to drive. That old thing used to get you so wet. It was a piece of junk, but something about the exposure of it...In the fantasy, he's driven you out to some secluded spot outside of town. Cicadas drone all around. The night sky shines bright with stars. He cups your face with one hand, strokes your cheek with his thumb, asks you if this is your first time. He kisses the side of your mouth, then your jaw, then below your ear, then down your neck. As his hands undo the top button of your blouse, he tells you he'll be gentle.

The man is watching you expectantly. With his shirt on, he looked like a portly old man. Without it you can see that every inch of that stocky build is hard muscle. That pink skin strains against his mass, muscle rippling beneath it as he moves. "What are you waiting for?"

Your legs tremble. Your knees feel like they're about to buckle. You can hear your heart pounding in your ears. Your body has never done this before. You didn't know you could feel this kind of fear, and yet there's nothing to fight, nowhere to flee. You agreed to this. You decided this was what you wanted. Slowly, you pull your shirt over head.

He groans in the back of his throat, a long, growly sound. His face is a mask of focus, the impish joviality gone, his eyes fixated on your breasts. "And the rest."

You kick off your shoes, pull off your socks. An inch at a time, you slide your shorts and panties over your ass, down your legs, past your trembling knees. You step out of them, and now you're completely exposed. You cross your arms over your chest, then lower them when he grunts disapproval. Almost urgently, he unbuttons his pants, pulls out a long, rigid cock, and begins to stroke himself.

You didn't discover internet porn until your senior year, and before then the only penises you'd seen were a few drawings in your health textbook. In the fantasy, you unbutton Jason Meier's pants and fig. 7.5, "The penis becomes engorged when in state of arousal," pops out of his underwear. You take it in your hands, feeling the weight of it, the girth, and look up into those beautiful brown eyes of his.

This cock is much...realer. It has bounce, texture, even a sound as his hand slides up and down its length. It's longer than the one in that old fantasy, too, and it leans slightly to the left. For years you've wondered what it would be like to see a cock in person, and now that you're here it terrifies you.

"Come here," says the man, sitting on the edge of the bed. "Get on your knees."

You falter. "You didn't...I mean, we didn't agree to that."

"I bought your virginity," says the man. "You ever suck cock before?"

You shake your head.

"Then your mouth is just as much a virgin as your cunt. Get down here."

It's almost a relief to get off your legs, the way they've been threatening to give out. Close up, you can see the purples and blues of the veins under his skin. The head of his cock pulses with anticipation as your lips part, your tongue extends...

You don't think you can do this.

Then his hand is on the back of your head.

You always imagined Jason Meier whimpering as you took him into your mouth. You were never quite able to picture what he would feel like between your lips, on your tongue; the movie camera of your imagination always panned up at that point, to focus on his face. He would let his head fall back in pleasure, eyebrows knit with sensation, lips slightly parted. Now, though, there's no camera to pan. You are here. This is real. And his powerful hand is pushing your mouth onto his cock.

A sound you can't control comes out of you. Your back arches, your hands flail, and then by pure instinct they're on his belly, pushing against him, away from him. Spit runs down your chin, and you wipe it away with the back of your hand. "I'm sorry," you say, looking anywhere but at his face. "I'm sorry, I can't, I thought I could do this but I can't."

There's a horrible darkness in his voice. "I already gave you the money."

"I know, I'll give it back, I'm sorry." The words trip over each other on the way out of your mouth. "I'm really sorry, I shouldn't have, I just, I thought I could..."

His hand is on the back of your head again, and this time his fingers are curled tight into your hair. He jerks your head back, forcing you to look at him, and his eyes are cold and predatory. "I'm not interested in returning what's already bought and paid for." He jams himself back into your mouth.

You always imagined yourself savoring it, taking your time to explore every inch of Jason's length with your tongue, but there's no time for that now. The veiny, throbbing thing in your mouth bypasses your tongue entirely, forcing past your uvula. You gag, then gag again. Your stomach churns and you convulse as your body tries to remove the foreign object, but the man just pushes harder. Your eyes water as he slides deeper, deeper, making your throat bulge, your limbs spasm. As his balls touch your chin, you close your eyes and try to relax your throat.

He holds you like that. You gag for a third time, and thick saliva explodes through the gaps around his cock, dripping down your chin and collecting in a long, dangling rope. Tears roll down your cheeks as you try to acclimatize to the feeling, try to convince your body that nothing is wrong. You think you've got it, and then he moves slightly, and you're gagging again. He groans, grips your head tighter, and in the back of your throat you feel his cock swell slightly. He likes it when you gag for him, says a voice in the back of your mind. The motion is pleasurable for him.

You've got another problem rearing its head. You can't breathe. It was fine at first, but the man shows no interest in freeing up your airways, and in all the gagging and crying, you haven't exactly been conserving your oxygen. You pat his leg, trying to signal to him, but all he does is clap you on the side of the head. Your ear rings, you gag again, and his cock throbs. Black walls are closing in on your vision. The effort of struggling against him becomes too much, and your arms fall to your sides. Your eyelids flutter. You're going to pass out. You're going to pass out, and then what will he do to you?

But just before the world fades to black, he pulls your head back again. You feel every inch of his cock as it slides out of your throat. He lifts your face, and your eyes struggle to focus on his as you take lungful after lungful of glorious air. Drool spills across your lips, but you don't care. You're alive.

The man slaps you hard, leaving a stinging impression of his palm on your cheek. You whimper. Two of his fingers are in your mouth, pushing on the back of your tongue. Not knowing exactly why, you close your lips around them and shut your eyes.

"That's better," he says.

The first time you saw a male sex toy in use was in an ad before a porn video you were watching. You were taken aback by the way the performer had pounded it over his cock, barely more than an extension of his hand. You're reminded of that image as he parts your lips again, and the rape of your throat begins in earnest.

You haven't thought about Jason Meier in years, but at this moment he's the only thing keeping you sane. As your face rams up and down, up and down, you retreat to that beat up convertible, and Jason's soft, thoughtful face. As the man tightens his grip, Jason runs his fingers through your hair. As the man grunts and growls with pleasure, Jason coos your name. With each stroke of his cock down your throat, each spasm of your body, you focus on a different part of Jason's body: his large hands, his long fingers, his shoulders, his jawline, his liquid brown eyes. By the time the man finally releases your hair, you can barely feel your body any more. The convertible is far more real than the squeaky motel bed. The hands on your body are Jason's, soft and tender.

He climbs over the center console straddling you. You lock lips, feel your tongues in each other's mouths, kiss so deeply that it feels as though you share the same breath. He pulls the lever to lay your seat back, and then he's over you, on top of you, lifting your skirt, pulling your panties to the side.

This is the part where, in the old days, you would have slipped a finger or two inside yourself. But this time you don't have to. This time you can feel him inside you, really feel him, and he fills you up like your fingers never could. There's some pain—they told you there'd be pain, didn't they, your first time—but it falls away to the thrill, the lust, the pleasure. Jason whimpers as he slides into you, deeper, deeper, and you moan into each other's mouths as his pelvis meets yours. You take a moment to savor it, breathing each other in, and then he begins to thrust.

You feel drunk. It's exactly like you always imagined it, and somehow better than you could ever have expected. Each movement of his hips brings another sensation: a spasm in the arches of your feet, a hitch in your breath, a churning, swirling need in the depths of your abdomen. Deeper you tell him, harder, and he obliges, pulling you into him, and him into you.

You can feel the orgasm building, but it isn't like any you've had before. Every time you've ever cum, you've been in control. This time, Jason is in control. Jason decides when you cum, how you cum. One hand supports his weight as he leans over you, and the other slides up your belly. You used to watch those hands obsessively. The way he held a pencil, the way he bit his knuckles when he was thinking. Now that hand slides up, caresses your breast. Now that thumb brushes your hair out of your face. Now those fingers close around your throat.

You know you're safe with Jason, but the pressure on your throat triggers some animal fear response in you. You try to squirm away, but his arm is strong, and his hand his firm. Your hands go to his wrist. "I don't like that, stop." He just smiles. It isn't his usual sweet smile, either. This one is cruel. Predatory.

Your face feels tight. Your eyes bulge. You're beginning to panic for real now. "Jason, seriously, stop!" You beat at his arm with your fists, but he easily takes both your wrists in one hand and pins them over your head. You try to kick at him, but he's already past your defenses, between your legs, pushing them uselessly apart. His grip tightens, his rhythm increases, his cock swells inside you. He's getting off on this.

All at once you're back in the hotel room. The man's sweaty red face is inches away from your own, and the lust in his eyes is obvious. His cock seems to push deeper with every thrust, and the horrible thing is that the orgasm is still coming. It's close now, you can feel it, and it's like he knows exactly how to bring it out. You feel floaty, tingly, and that awful pleasure is welling up inside you, a pot about to boil over...

"That's right," he says, his eyes locked on yours. "That's what I was waiting for. That perfect mix of...pleasure...and...fear." He punctuates each of these last three words with a long, deep thrust, and it's these that send the orgasm spilling over. A choked moan pushes itself out of you as your back arches, your toes curl, your legs wrap involuntarily around his waist, tears roll down your cheeks. That floaty feeling has combined with the orgasm to create something like how you imagine heroin must feel; a wave of mind numbing, soul deadening ecstasy. Your insides feel hot, and at first you think that must just be what it feels like when you cum from sex, but then you see the look on his face and realize that he's cumming too. His grip relaxes and he pounds away a few more times at your now-limp body. You stare at the ceiling as he moans, buries his face between your tits, pumps round after round of his warm, thick cum into your cunt, your womb. After one final push he collapses onto you, his cock still inside you, his bulk crushing you into the bed. You don't move.

He strokes your cheek. Fondles your nipple. Kisses your neck. Then he kisses your mouth, his tongue pushing your lips open, his breath like damp earth. You barely see him.

It must be almost ten minutes before he finally gets up, his limp cock sliding out of you at last. You can feel his cum dripping from your cunt as he puts on his underwear, then pants, then shirt, then shoes. "The room is paid for the night," he says with his hand on the door handle. "Thank you for struggling. Taking someone's virtue is so much better when you actually get to take it.

You don't respond.

You don't know how long you lie there, motionless, dripping cum. Oddly, the man who just raped you isn't the one burned onto your mind's eye. Try as you might to return to that sweet teenage fantasy, all you can see is Jason Meier as he held his hand to your throat, and that cruel, predatory smile on his face.

#CW im told this one is realer than usual so be warned #r@pe fantasy #cnc free use #cvmdump #cvmslvt #breeding toy #r@petoy #r@pe kink

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writingdotcoffee · 6 months

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The "Alt" NaNoWriMo Challenge

I'm a big fan of NaNoWriMo and the energy the event breathes into the writing community. Hundreds of thousands of people start working on their novels at the same time. Lots of people share their progress and cheer each other on. Several now-famous authors have started their best-selling novels during NaNo over the years.

That said, it's not for everyone. Writing 50,000 words per month is a serious commitment. Doing it alongside school or work is no joke. In fact, most people who sign up don't finish. According to these stats, only 1-2 out of every 10 participants complete the challenge.

I've never joined NaNoWriMo myself. I'm a slow writer, and I know that I would burn out. Instead, I set a different writing-related challenge for myself every November.

In 2018, I started reading one short story every day. It turned into a regular habit, and I ended up reading hundreds of short stories over the following few months.

Last year, I wanted to build a 30-day writing streak. In the end, I wrote for 232 days in a row. 2023 became the most productive year of my writing life by far with over 250,000 words written.

This year, I will be doing something similar, and I want to invite you to come along for the ride.

The Idea of "AltNaNo"

The idea of finishing a novel in a month seems outrageous to most people. That's what makes it so compelling. It's like standing at the foot of a snowcapped mountain with a rope and a couple of ice picks. The challenge itself is inspiring.

The AltNaNo challenge is the exact opposite. The goal is as small as possible on purpose. The focus isn't to achieve this massive feat but to squash all excuses and merely start writing.

You may not be able to write 50,000 words in a month. But almost everyone can find 15 minutes to write every day.

The Challenge

The goal is simple: Write for at least 15 minutes every day in November.

Writing 100 words and calling it a day after 15 minutes is a success.

Spending longer and writing 500 words is a success.

Wrestling with a difficult scene for 15 minutes and writing only a single sentence is a success.

Spending 15 minutes trying to write after a long day and not producing a single word is a success, too.

Be a tortoise. We all know how the story goes.

How to Join

I've set up daily challenges for the first week in Writing Analytics, if you wanted to join us there:

Day 1/30 ✅

Day 2/30 ✅

Day 3/30 ✅

Day 4/30 ✅

Day 5/30 ✅

Day 6/30 ✅

Day 7/30 ✅

I'll be posting daily updates on the blog as well.

PS: If you'd like to learn more about developing a writing habit, check out this free course I launched a few weeks ago.

#writing #writers #write #amwriting #writing advice #writing life #writing tips #writeblr #writing challenge #altnano

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thebibliosphere · 8 months

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I saw your post about ingram, and out of curiosity, is there some advantage to going through the whole self-publishing thing with retailers when you're just starting out? like I mean the way that fandom zines work is that they don't even bother going through ingram or amazon or whatever. they just set up a social media site (usually twitter) to gain followers, open preorders (usually 1-2 months in length) to generate the costs of printing upfront, and then sell anywhere from a few dozen to several hundred copies of their books (usually artbooks, but anthologies exist too). I've seen some zines generate over a thousand orders. they're kind of like pop-up shops, except for books. maybe the sales numbers aren't so impressive to a real author, but the profit generated is typically waaaay more than the $75+ apparently needed for Ingram Spark, so I still feel like new authors could benefit from this method too, especially if they just need some start-up cash to eventually move to ingram if they want to for subsequent runs of their book. I think authors would also have to set aside some of the pre-order money to buy an ISBN number to have printed on their book, and I'm not really sure what other differences there are, but I just wanted to ask about it in case there's some huge disadvantage I'm missing!

So, popup zines work well for some people, and I know some authors who kickstart their work successfully. But for a lot, it's just not feasible as a long-term stratedy. Or even as a means to get off the ground.

Fanzines succeed primarily because an existing fanbase is willing and ready to throw money at something they love. They’ve got a favorite writer or artist they want to support. Supporting all the others is just a happy by-product. They also take a HUGE amount of short-term but intense planning that just doesn’t always jive with how some of us work.

I, for one, would never offer to organize a fanzine. I’ll take part in them as a creator, but I’d rather throw myself off a cliff than subject myself to wrangling that many people and dealing with the legal logistics.

When it comes to authors doing anthologies, it'svery much the same. The success of the funding often hinges on having other big-name authors involved whose existing fans will prop up the project. Or having a huge marketing budget.

Most self-pub authors have zero marketing budget. I’m one of them, and I’m under no illusions that my work would not be as popular and self-sustaining as it is if I didn’t have a large Tumblr blog.

When I thank Tumblr in my forewards, I am utterly sincere. Tumblr brought fandom levels of enthusiasm to an unknown work and broke the Amazon algorithm so hard, that Amazon thought I was bot sniping my way to multiple #1 spots and froze my sales rankings.

That’s not the norm. And while I could probably kickstart my own work as an indie creator, that’s because I’ve put literal decades into building up a readership. I’ve been doing this since I was 16 and realized people thought I was funny. I didn’t know what to do with it or if I’d ever actually write anything, but it meant the groundwork was already there (thank you, past-me). I basically fell upward into my success by virtue of never being able to shut the fuck up and wanting to make people laugh. Clown instincts too strong.

New or first-time authors trying to sell their work without that will find it infinitely harder.

All of that aside, even if an unknown author somehow gets lucky and manages to fund their work, there’s still the question of shipping and distribution logistics. Are you shipping everything yourself? Better hope you’re able-bodied and have the time for it. (for reference, it took me months to ship out 300 patreon hardbacks because of my disabilites. It damaged my back and hands. I couldn’t type for several weeks after I was done.)

Are you going to sell primarily at conventions? Better hope you’re able-bodied, have the time and don’t have cripling anxiety about being in large groups...

Also, will selling a dozen to a few thousand copies in one burst be sustainable in the long run as a career? Not for me. Doing things via Ingram and Amazon means I earn a steady trickle of sales for the rest of my life provided the platforms remain and so long as I keep working and can generate interest in the series, not just when I have funds to pay for physical copies to sell. The one-time (in theory) cost of $75 to distribute through Ingram gets paid off pretty quick that way. And it doesn't require the same logistics as doing the popup/crowdfund.

Ultimately, it comes down to what you are capable of but also the type of work you’re doing. If you’ve got an extended network of fellow creatives who will back you or you’ve got a large following elsewhere, doing it like a popup might work for you.

If you’re an exhausted burnout who can’t fathom the short but intense amount of organization that sort of thing requires, not to mention doing it over and over and over... Ehhhhh. No thank you.

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alonetimelover · 8 months

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pairing: Harry Styles x booktuber!reader

summary: The internet speculates about whether Harry and YN are together. She admits to some hidden feelings to her best friend. He still cannot use his IG and buys any book that she recommends. Finally, something happens. But is it about them?

a/n: Second part of the booktuber!reader in celebration of 1000 of you following my little messy blog. i hope you enjoy it! love ya!

part 1 taglist

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harryupdates

liked by hArrysbtch, harrysmoustache and 57 593 others

harryupdates HARRY and YN via her best friend's IG story.

view all 5 842 comments

hArrysbtch THEY ARE SO CUTE I LOVE THEM

hArrysbtch also, that best friend of yn is really putting them in the spotlight, isn't she?

⤷ harrysmoustache that's what i said! wasn't she also the one with them in italy???

⤷ hArrysbtch you think she shared those photos?

⤷ harrysmoustache yeah, it's all connecting nicely

harrysmylife i mean... that can be a couple but best friends as well. like, i sit like this with my male best friend

harrysfan39 his dimples...

harrysfan87 she's so beautiful... has anybody said it already?

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CELEBRITY GOSSIP

HARRY STYLES, BOOKS, AND LOVE FROM A YOUTUBE VIDEO

If you are wondering if this article's title is stating that Harry Styles is a taken man, you would be correct. Starting with the simple YouTube video posted by the channel of the name ynrecommends and ending with a yacht vacation near the coast of Italy and burning romance.

But let's start at the beginning. The booktuber from ynrecommends (YN YSN) did a little video of reading books that Harry Styles recommended during his interviews and so on. Because of the Harries (name of Styles' fandom), the video skyrocketed and gained hundreds of thousands of views in a matter of a few days. That's probably how our heartbreaker found the video, leaving a little comment and not forgetting to flirt with the author (we love it!). You could say the story of them began right in front of our eyes.

It was a few months ago, and throughout them, there were multiple crumbs left by the couple. Joined bookshop travels, appearances in YN's vlogs and other videos, and of course, THAT vacation on Harry's yacht.

As our source that is very close to both of them says 'the romance started late in their time of knowing each other, because of their both overflowing schedules and fear of ruining the friendship.' What is more, we didn't only get the words but also photos that clearly confirm the romance between the rock star of our generation and the indie booktuber despite YN's claims of 'being single and very happy with it.'

Is that how you are with your 'friends'?

What do you think is true, our sources claims or YN's words?

Source 74%

YN's words 26%

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Text messages between YN and her best friend

ynn🧠 my lovely, favourite best friend, i have a little, tiny question bestie🫦 i'm your only best friend maybe besides Harold...🙄 ynn🧠 yeah yeah, i know you like him, don't hide it buuuuut, back to my question... bestie🫦 yes yes, what's up? ynn🧠 i'm not accusing you of anything, i just wanna ask if you send somebody the photo album from italy? bestie🫦 remember that ig account we did in uni? i thought it would be a nice idea to turn it into a little photo diary. i put some of the photos there. i told you on the boat, like a week ago. why? ynn🧠 i forgot about it, im so sorry! but someone from that account must have seen those photos and sold them to that gossip magazine... whole internet thinks im harry's girlfriend. i got like 50 dms asking how much i paid him to be with me bestie🫦 fuck im so sorry, sweetheart! i totally didn't think about it. tbh, i kinda forgot he was famous while being there with you two ynn🧠 yeah, i forget about it whenever i see him and don't be sorry, baby! it's not your fault some of those people will do anything to gain even a little bit of money i only asked because harry's manager needed to know if any of our photos were hacked or somethin' bestie🫦 was harry mad about the article? ynn🧠 he said that after years of having bullshit having written about him, he got used to it. but i can see that it bothers him that he can't have a moment for himself bestie🫦 fuck, im gonna bake him some good cake as an apology ynn🧠 it's not your fault!!!! harry knows it bestie🫦 okay, but im baking something anyway and btw, that article isn't so far from the truth, is it? ynn🧠 what do you mean? bestie🫦 oh, come on! you two act like a couple whenever you're together! there must be something there ynn🧠 ... there's not, really. we never talked about it but just fell to that closeness as friends. you know how touchy i am with people that im comfortable with, he's the same. it just looks like we're a couple, but no bestie🫦 but you want more, don't you? ynn🧠 i value him too much as a friend to think about it

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yourinstagram

liked by harrystyles, hArrysbtch and 251 382 others

yourinstagram first day on this fancy boat, and i was crawling (freaking scared to fall into the water) and in the last few days, i was swinging myself on this little hammock, crazy days, crazy

thank you harrystyles for putting it up for me, love ya my bff

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harrystyles You ditched me for those books

⤷ yourinstagram they are literally my job

⤷ harrystyles You took 30 books with yourself. A seond suitcase just for them.

⤷ yourinstagram blah blah blah you took two guitars

⤷ harrystyles That's literally my job.

⤷ yourinstagram yeah, that's what i said

harryupdates brave move, yn

hArrysbtch i'm waiting (impatiently) for the next video

⤷ yourinstagram it's coming, it's coming. a little vid of italians recommending me their favourite books!

harrysmoustache not the little explaination of that on ephoto from that article 'i was crawling, cause i'm scared'

⤷ harrysmylife subtle but to the point

stylebabie 'my bff' i know she is cackling behind that little screen

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harrystyles

liked by yourinstagram, yourbestfriend, harryupdates, annetwist and 18 201 383 others

harrystyles momento magico in italia

view all 482 381 comments

yourinstagram thankfully that photo was taken before me almost drawning

⤷ harrystyles i rescued you

⤷ yourinstagram if by rescue you mean laugh, panic and then dive and almost make me drown again, then yes, you did rescue me

jeffazzof Harry.

⤷ harrystyles Jeffrey.

⤷ jeffazzof Check the account.

⤷ harrystyles Oh.

hArrysbtch hsdfUHFJHLVBRIAP what the fuck ehat the fuck

hArrysbtch i am so confused right now

harrysmoustache you guys are playing with us

harryupdates wrong account, harry!

annetwist Bellissima 😍

harrysmylife the flower, the EARRINGS, yn, the cat... i cannot.... this man is a menace to the society

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hArrysbtch

liked by harryupdates and 3 402 others

hArrysbtch this video was worth the wait! yn is one of the best and realest youtuber out there. plus, harry filmed this episode for her so it's even better

view all 928 comments

harryupdates I loved it too! the little moments of them interacting behind the camera kept in the video were absolute gems!!!

⤷ hArrysbtch YES!!! it was so funny and wholesome

harrysmoustache harry's little 'i think you'd like this shot' during a moment when yn is walking down the alley.... soooo cute i love them

stylesbabie this is my first video of hers that i watched and i am so mad at myself. this is the best booktuber channel i've ever come across

harrysmylife yn interacting with Harry's italian friends, having harry translate the recommendations from people on the street and him just hyping her up... just so freaking cute

harrymylove i don't care if they are together or just friends, i just enjoy watching them be together, like, next to each other. it's so refreshing and lovely

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londonboyharry

liked by harryupdates, hArrysbtch and 10 318 others

londonboyharry this is what I saw while walking around the park near my hotel in italy... Harry literally made yn stop mid-sentance and said 'wait, i need to take a photo of you.' i- i was melting and couldn't believe my eyes and ears

view all 2 307 comments

hArrysbtch he is so boyfriend

hArrysbtch like, he must be, come on

harrysmoustache i say i don't care if they are together or not. but i do. i so do. i want them together more than i want myself to find a partner

harrysmylife BEST FRIEND/COUPLE ON EARTH

harrysfan88 i love that we're all confused about them

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yourbestfriend

liked by yourinstagram, harrystyles and 34 028 others

yourbestfriend put those two in a room with books and that's what you get...

view all 5 301 comments

yourinstagram i was just looking through the atlas, come on

harrystyles And I was actually reading, not faking like some of us.

⤷ yourinstagram oh fuck off

⤷ harrystyles This is not so treat people with kindness of you.

hArrysbtch i love the fits so much

harrysmoustache this si so frustraiting

⤷ harrysfan49 why are you so obsessed with them? leave them be

⤷ harrysmoustache i just want to know if i can call them the best couple on the planet

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harryupdates

liked by harrysmylife and 32 482 others

harryupdates HARRY with a fan today in London!

view all 4 302 comments

hArrysbtch he's so cute

hArrysbtch wait, yn wore that t-shirt in her latest vlog

⤷ harrysmoustache sharing clothes????

harrysmylife he looks so cute, i want to put him in my pocket

stylesbabie the cardigan is back, guys

harrysfan87 i am the one who met him!

⤷ harryupdates how was it?

⤷ harrysfan87 magical! he stopped after walking out of the bookstore when i walked up to him. he had a bag full of books. i asked him what he was buying and he said 'oh, ehmm, i have crime and punishment, hamnet, emma and some Sally Rooney here'

⤷ hArrysbtch that guy is just buying anything yn recommends...

⤷ stylesbabie but none of it was in her italian vlog?

⤷ hArrysbtch yes, but those are the books from her 'summer to autumn reads' video

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yourinstagram

liked by harrystyles, yourbestfriend and 1 019 392 others

yourinstagram story in two acts... 🏡📚

view all 23 492 comments

harrystyles Scandalous.

⤷ yourinstagram Forgot you have sensitive eyes after a bad night sleep.

⤷ harrystyles I slept very well last night, thank you.

yourbestfriend 👀

⤷ yourinstagram 🫣

hArrysbtch WTFSAJFHOAUW no way

hArrysbtch this is confirmation, isn't it?

⤷ harrysmoustache i think so

⤷ harrysmylife but... we don't know if that really is harry

harrysmoustache she bold and she sexy

comment liked by harrystyles, yourbestfriend and 234 others

jeffazzof Congratulations, YN.

⤷ harrystyles thanks jeff!!!!

comment deleted

⤷ yourinstagram thanks jeff!!!

⤷ harrysmoustache girl, we saw that!

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a/n: do we think yn and harry finally got together?

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📌: @daniellef89x @crazygirlinthisworld @ameerakane20 @golden-hoax @sleutherclaw

#harry styles #harry styles x reader #harry styles x you #harry styles imagine #harry styles one shot #harry styles fluff #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles instagram #harry styles fake ig #booktuber!reader

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foxgloveprincess · 4 months

Text

Pairing: Jake Jensen x Female Reader [Second Person Narrator]

Summary: Love has finally found you.

Word Count: 1,837

Attic Wives Anonymous Masterlist

Warnings: UnBeta’d, Dark, Kidnapping, Obsession, Possessive Behavior, Kidnapping, implied Cyberstalking, Relationships, slightly Confined Spaces, Pet Names (angel, baby, etc.). Minors do not interact (18+).

A/N: Jake is finally ready for his angel. I hope you enjoy! Happy Fourth and Final Sunday of Attic Wives Advent! ❄️🎉🍾🙌🏻

I love feedback, so go ahead and reblog if you want. However, I give no permission to copy, translate, rewrite or post my work on any third party website or app. Seeing my work posted anywhere beside my blog, my library blog, or my AO3 account (FoxglovePrincess) means it’s been stolen/plagiarized.

I don’t do tag lists, so follow @foxglovefics to sign up for notifications on my fics.

Please DO NOT click ‘Keep Reading’ if you are not 18+ years of age or if you are uncomfortable with the pairing, themes, dynamics, or warnings. You are responsible for your own media consumption. Thank you!

You hated the bright flashes of the cameras on the whatever-the-latest-color carpet your agent made you walk down. Feeling like an animal in a cage. Smiling until your cheeks hurt and not able to let it drop for one brief moment of reprieve.

“We’re almost to the end,” Mickey whispers in your ear.

A genuine smile threatens to eclipse your perfectly composed one. You lean closer and whisper back a quiet, “Promise?”

He chuckles and plays up your embrace for the cameras. With a hum, he kisses your cheek, letting his face linger there for a nice intimate shot. Your heart flutters in you chest. The photographers eat it up with a cry of both your names.

“I promise, babe,” he replies with one last tender peck.

You give an affectionate squeeze around his waist and turn back to the carpet. A couple steps, a hundred photos. Another carefully placed spot, a few hundred more snapped. On and on until you get to the interviews. With reluctance, you let your agent separate you from Mickey’s side and turn to the cheery reporter in front of you.

“Cara Lonquist with Entertainment Avenue,” she introduces herself.

You smile and step forward, locking your fingers together to keep from fidgeting. Despite never quite acclimating to such keen attention, a deep breath prepares you for her questions.

Most fish for spoilers from the movie or upcoming projects. You answer each with the coy script you’ve practiced with the P.R. team. Then she asks, “Did I see you walking the carpet with someone?”

You blink a moment, caught off-guard by the pivot in conversation. Of course, you expected it, prepared for it. You duck your chin and press a hand to your heating cheek. “You did.”

The reporter coos and steps closer, chomping at the bit for the scoop you’re about to drop in her lap.

“Let’s just say,” you pause a minute to think, coquettish in your performed divulgence. “There’s a very special man in my life, and leave it at that.”

“A special man?” a voice teases from behind. Arms wrap about your waist and Mickey presses up behind you. The tension in your shoulders eases and you lean into his embrace. “Don’t make me jealous.”

The reporter makes a sound high in her throat and keeps the microphone shoved in your faces. Her eyes glance to her cameraman, and he returns a not so subtle thumbs up. You swallow a giggle and turn back to your beau.

“Oh yeah,” you tease in return, twisting away from the camera, “he’s everything to me.” But looking into Mickey’s cool blue eyes, you melt. It feels good to finally go public with the romance that’s bloomed between the two of you. Never have you been so happy.

Nor has a man thousands of miles away, his gaze locked on the screen, knowing you’re talking about him.

You awaken slowly, head groggy and body sore all over. Scratching an itch on your chest, your fingers meet lace. You look down to see an unfamiliar set of frilly white lingerie—something you’d never wear on your best day. The cropped camisole provides little support for your bust. Scalloped lace trims the edges, from the low-cut neckline to the fluttery straps. The bottom bloomers bear the same lace around the high waist and each leg hole. Both pieces just sheer enough that you’re exposed.

You smooth your hands over the soft cotton and sit up fully to examine the rest of your body. It’s more than just aches. A cast wraps around your right leg up to your knee. A brace sits on your left wrist. You grimace and try to roll the joint. It twinges with pain. A yelp escapes your lips and you cradle your hand to your chest. At least you’re all in one piece—wherever you are.

Looking around at the room you occupy, you see nothing familiar. A sloped roof with a delicate chandelier shining soft light across the small space. The bed you occupy crammed into a small nook. Lace and frills and faux fur cover each pillow around you. A delicate canopy drapes from overhead, tied off to the side with pristine white bows. Gossamer fabric hanging off to the side on a curtain rod barely conceals a toilet, tub, and sink. A scattered lamp or two, dim in their light. There’s very little else to the space. No windows. No doors.

“Where am I?” you whisper to no one in particular.

“I can answer that,” a voice booms over speakers you can’t see.

A flabbergasted, “What?” whooshes out of you on a breath.

“Are you comfortable?” the voice asks. It’s masculine, concerned, even tender in its delivery. Though the volume may be high, the voice isn’t coarse or agitated.

Your head shakes, rattling around all the thoughts that puzzle over your predicament.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, an urgency to his tone. The lights brighten from their dimmed setting. You raise a hand to shield your slowly adjusting eyes. But you say nothing. “It’s okay, angel, you can tell me.”

“Where am I?” you repeat looking for the camera he’s sure to have trained on you. “What’s going on?” Your voice threatens to shake as your situation settles around you and awareness blooms. This is not a joke, this is not a prank. You keep your cool as best you can, taking your cue from scripts and episodes of crime dramas. Struggling and screaming never did those girls any good. Smarts did.

“You’re home, baby,” he says. You swallow hard at the joy that exudes from those three words. Even in the silence that follows, you can hear the buzz of his anticipation.

“But where is home?” you ask, forcing out the words that stick in your throat.

“Oh, uh,” he pauses. Tapping and mumbles follow. Like somehow he’s nervous. “I, uh, don’t think I should tell you that.”

You dip your head in disappointment. He seemed friendly enough. He might slip up or give you a window of opportunity or be malleable enough for you to coax your way to safety.

You think hard for the next question before asking, “Do I get to know your name?”

“I guess we never got formally introduced,” he responds. More confusion adds to the pile—what does he mean by that? Had you met this man before? “My name’s Jake.”

“Jake,” you repeat with a tremble to the word. You clear your throat and let yourself pretend you’re on a set. Summoning your skills for your survival. “I’m glad to meet you again, Jake.” You let a small, wobbly smile stretch your lips as you look toward the general direction of one of the speakers—you hope.

The lights brighten with a flash before dimming to their previous mood lighting. All too familiar, reminding you of the paparazzi.

“I knew it,” he crows with joy. “I knew you’d remember me. It was so brief on the street, but we connected. You felt it too, didn’t you?”

Your mind races. He’d bumped into you. On what street? When? How many others had done the same—too many. How were you supposed to remember him out of all of them?

But you say, “Of course.” Though your voice quivers and your whole mouth dries, you lick your lips and continue with trepidation fluttering in your stomach. “You seemed…sweet?”

“Sweet?”

Your heart jumps at his tone, unable to decipher his reception of the term without a look at his face. But a dreamy sigh drifts through the speakers.

“That’s exactly what you said before. God, you really are an angel.”

You chuckle, an uneasy laugh meant to sound like a girlish giggle. At least his delusion seems to blind him to the discomfort slipping through the cracks. You glance around the room, a sinking feeling in your gut.

“Am I going to stay here?” you ask.

“Of course,” Jake replies, chirpy and affectionate. “You know how it’s been. Keeping this to ourselves for so long, being apart.” He sighs again and you hear a faint scratching through the speaker. “I’m not ashamed to admit I’ve been lonely.” He pauses and part of you almost feels sorry for him—almost. When he speaks again, though, that fleeting sympathy vanishes. “But now you’re really mine and I don’t have to share.”

“Share?” you wonder out loud. The implication doesn’t evade you, and your mind jumps to escape, the outside world, your commitments. “I’ve signed some contracts for upcoming films. They’ll expect me to show up on set. Or what about my agent? My family?” Your fingers fidget with the blanket draped over your waist. “Where do they think I am? They must be missing me by now. I had a meeting with public relations.…” you trail off, dread filling you up to the brim. “What about Mickey? God, he must be so worried.”

“Oh,” he voices with a strange lilt of sympathy. “Well, you see, the thing is…”

A television screen turns on in the corner. You didn’t notice that before in your brief perusal of the space. Your eyes squint at the bright light and watch. News coverage of an accident plays. A mangled car—a black SUV—flames on the side of a hill. Firefighters work to put out the fire with EMTs quickly packing up their equipment and speeding off. Your head tilts. What about it? Then your ears focus on the reporter’s statement.

“…actor most known for her role in Sanctified. No statement has been issued by the first responders as to her condition, but witnesses speculate that it may be dire. One witness even asserted that all he saw were charred remains when she was pulled from the wreckage…”

“That was almost two days ago,” Jake says, speaking over the story. “I recorded it for you to see.”

You blink. Images of a blaring horn and shattered glass. But no fire. You remember the driver, a younger man with a bright smile and overflowing enthusiasm—was his name Justin? He’d been pressed against the wheel and pinned in place. His voice echoes in your ear—the timbre and insistence—but you can’t remember exactly what he said.

“They announced your death yesterday on the 6 o’clock news,” he continues to explain with pride. “I think we did pretty good, and now no one will wonder where you are.”

“We?” you ask, still struggling to get through your shock.

He huffs a laugh. “Yeah, I have a friend that helped out. It was his idea—the way it went down.” You drag a shuddering breath into your lungs. “Do you like how we did it?” There’s those nerves again. His voice tentative.

You swallow down bile and blink a few times in an attempt to clear your head. “Yes,” you reply. “It was very creative.” You clear your throat and breathe deep. “And now I’m all yours.” It whooshes out of you like defeat.

“All mine,” he echoes in delight.

#jake jensen x reader #jake jensen fanfiction #jake jensen fanfic #dark #dark fic #kidnapping #tw kidnapping #yandere vibes #18+#minors dni

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scarlettriot · 1 year

Text

★ Hello, all you wonderful people. I know it's been a pretty long time since I've posted any kind of story or fic update. The inspiration well has been suffering a terrible drought, and then this idea hit me pretty hard, and I decided just to see where it would take me. Story will get smutty so, no minors or ageless blogs. ★ The world is entirely my own as it is part of another piece of fiction I am writing, however, @twisteddaydreams1135 & @meggsngrits have been helping so much with ideas and plot, it's not even funny. Thank you guys for your continual help. I know I wouldn't even have started this if it wasn't for you two. I also pulled some inspo from the incredible fantasy audio series by Yuzuya. ★ Below I give you a little taste of what is to come. The story will heavily follow the BakuSquad as well as some other beloved characters from the series. I really hope you all enjoy ♡

When you woke up this morning, this wasn't quite how you imagined your day would play out. It started normal, a bit exciting even. You had the opportunity to aid two travelers in locating information regarding some dragon clans, which just so happened to be your area of expertise.

But, you thought when they walked down the library's grand marble staircase and out into the crowded evening streets, it would be the end of the day's excitement. Truth be told, even if you were a senior librarian, nothing too thrilling ever really occurred within the city limits.

All of that changed just a few hours later.

Never in your life had your heart raced quite this fast. Then again, you'd never been running for your life before. Hand in hand with the very loud, and grouchy blonde you'd helped earlier in the day. Footfalls pounding against the cobblestone road in sync with each other, propelling yourselves forward, keeping just ahead of the six hunters that had cornered you not minutes before.

He pulled you through the city you'd always called home, the one you'd never left, making sharp turns down alleyways and cutting across roads without so much as a second thought. Anything he could think of to get them off your trail, he was trying, and yet nothing deterred them.

You were nearing the city limits. And it was only a limit because it was a cliffside. A massive one at that. Standing high above the sea with its unforgiving waves hundreds of feet below.

“When we get to the ledge, don't slow down. Just keep running and jump.”

Just when you thought it would burst, your heart sped up even more. He was insane. He had to be.

“Are you mad? That's a cliff, you know! We'll die!”

“Don't argue! Just do it!”

Before you could blink or hold him back, his free hand flung out behind you both, and magic exploded outward from his palm in a brilliant display of light and sparks that had citizens screaming and debris scattering in every direction. But, it afforded you time. Just precious seconds to create enough space between you and the hunters.

The ledge was a few meters away, there was no going back now. “JUST JUMP!” He screamed, and another blast went off powerful enough to launch the two of you right over the edge, and then you were free-falling through the open air.

Your stomach lurched, and your heart lodged itself in your throat as the wind tore through your hair and stung your skin like a thousand tiny needles. You had a death grip on the blonde's hand and just waited for the icy waters below to swallow you whole, but no chill came.

One moment you were falling, and the next, you were flying. Your body connected with something hard as the man held you in place. “Get up here. Can't have ya fallin' off.” You opened your eyes to see two massive ebony wings, dragon wings, carrying you away from the only home you'd ever known...

#mha #bnha #kirishima #bakugou #mha fantasy au #dragon kirishima #barbarian prince bakugou #dragons and magic galor #bakugou x reader #kirishima x reader #please please please let me know if you want more #I've been having so much fun developing this story

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sgiandubh · 10 months

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End of Anon mystery

Rehashing that Inquisitive Anon who so wanted to know, to know it ALL, to know it RIGHT NOW:

I answered. I wish I didn't. I wish I would have been intelligent for once and thrown it in the bin. But I thought some answer was better than no answer at all, so answer I did and I asked around. Deepest thanks go to: @amongtheblackpinesbranches, @cb4tb, @wordlady60, @ready4newyear, @siobhan64blog, @bat-cat-reader (who reblogged it for visibility and that was sweet & considerate and Bat, you are one of my heroes here) and also to friends reaching out in DMs (you know who you are, what would I do without those chats? LOL). They all took time to look, as I did (after all, I am temperamental, IRL) and came back confused and determined to put this thing to rest.

I will never be able to retrace my walk of maybe a couple of months ago, which took me to a detailed account of Starfury's Highlanders 2 event in Blackpool (25-27 August 2017 - so after IFH and I remembered correctly). That was a link tucked away in the comments of a dormant blog: whip me with the cat o'nine tails, I do not remember which one and I do not keep tabs.

But I did find these that confirm the kerfuffle over it, at the time it happened: all three of them (if three sources are enough for a newspaper, they should be enough for you too, Anon) are now people who moved on from this fandom, never were shippers or jumped boat.

On Yellowfeather's blog (https://yellowfeather84.tumblr.com/post/164757632632/your-follower-pepimint-again-said-on-the-comments):

On Artlander's blog (https://www.tumblr.com/lulu-tan79/164770897625/to-name-slip-anon-after-read-that-post-and-the):

And, pour la bonne bouche, this comment from A Hundred and a Thousand More (https://www.tumblr.com/ahundred-andathousandmore/164830574844/hi-jess-this-is-my-first-time-messaging-you-not), that perhaps sheds a new light on Inquisitive's Anon agenda:

So here is my definitive answer to you, Inquisitive Anon. It is two-folded, as expected:

If you came in peace, welcome! There are, to my meagre knowledge at least, NO videos of that moment and scarcely any pictures. Not all people who were in that room picked that up, thought it important to mention or are still around, today. And few links and pictures of this tiny shippery blip survived The Merry Cretaceous, that blessed time of receipts galore, when Jess' joy was enough to ignite a steam locomotive by itself. It is the main and bitter loss for us, people who are very, very late to this party.

However, if you did not come in peace, let me tell you this: go straight to that born-again Taliban Chihuahua who thought the opposite in 2017 (see above) and tell her I am such an old hand on the return, I still fumble with timelines like an elephant in a china shop. Tell her Palpatine sent you. She knows what I mean. FFS.

#Anon

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becausegoodheroesdeservekidneys · 1 year

Note

Just wondering what posts exactly got your blog Big?

I followed you because of interesting Wales stuff, which I doubt is why most people followed you if your follower base is indeed big enough for it to cause you problems.

Well, it all started with a walrus, and then it was the Clowns in Power and their illegal tea parties. I solidly pick up chunks of followers each time I make certain specific posts - when I posted about my terrible Skyrim potions, for example, I got a few hundred, and I pick up a hundred or so each Christmas as the Mari Lwyd does the rounds. But the thousands and thousands came from the walrus and the clown show

Generally I don't think it's my actual followers that cause the problems, per se (although I imagine some do, there are so many!) I think it's more that my reach these days is much wider. Bad faith actors who don't know at all who I am are much more likely to see stuff I write now, because any given post spreads further. It's not so bad though, I have no fear of the block and delete buttons and if a post is extremely not sparking joy in its responses I turn off reblogs.

Not even extremely, actually - I asked that question the day before yesterday about US universities and got a lot of responses, which was great! But no one checks the notes of posts like that to see if the answer has already been given. So now the responses have long since become the same lengthy explanation with the same info and it's clogging up my notes (hilariously I did reply to it saying "Thank you everyone, this has now been answered", and it actually increased the number of people giving me that same lengthy answer. This is because humans like sharing their personal experiences. No shade at all, it's just inconvenient when you're the OP lol.) So, I'll probably turn off reblogs for that one today.

I do miss the small follower count though. It was a less stressful experience. My reach was limited to people who didn't intentionally misread me and weren't fucking unhinged, so I could say things like "I think dark purple text on a black background is not very readable for my eyes" and not get told I have covid-induced brain damage or told to fuck off by three thousand people in the tags, you know? Good times. I need to find the digital equivalent of rent-lowering gunshots

#asks #tedious personal details

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three-red-horns · 9 months

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Why three-red-horns or 3RH?

Carpe diem (or noctem). Seize the moment. "Seize what you can." Very much relatable, hence I write to my heart and to my dirty mind desires.

My blog name and the picture of 3 Red Horns (3RH) has a carpe diem kind of story attached to it. I saw those red horns in Italy (Naples, methinks) in abundance on every corner, on keychains, necklaces, big, small, you name it. Locals told us the phallic shaped horns are a symbol of virility and fertility, worn for protection and luck. I didn't buy any. Bam! Guess what, in the next city, there were none.

Fast forward few years, saw these earrings in Costa Rica, with three red horns and tiny evil eyes on each, made by a local artist. Bought them on the spot.

3 Red Horns, a daily reminder to seize the moment.

With this photo I start the new series #3RHcameraroll. I have over seven thousand pictures on my phone, some good, some great, some too personal. And I never post any, only reblog.

It's so easy to reblog, it's so hard to post your own content. Content creators, I salute you. Those in the beginning of their journey, with nowhere to hide the miniscule number of likes and reblogs. So brave! Today I join you.

Seize the moment. Life is too short not to do what you like, what you crave, what you want.

PS If you follow me, I'm pretty sure, we have a similar taste, and my likes are sincere.

PPS My main writing blog is Sore is More on Blogger with over a hundred of stories. I write stories, poems, and musings, about all things D/s.

PPPS Please follow my backup blog @3rhwriting, just in case. Or those of you who prefer to read my smart and smutty stories and musings, they will be all there, without the endless pictures. 😂

Most of my writing is tagged. My longer original stories are #3RHwriting, thoughts and anecdotes are #3RHmusings, photos are #3RHcameraroll, polls are #3RHcurious. When times call for it, I am #3RHnaughty or #3RHfunny. Pictures of food are obviously #3RHyummy.

#3RH #3RHwriting #3RHmusings #3RHcurious #3RHnaughty #3RHfunny #yes please #always reblog #other writers #3RHyummy #3RHcameraroll #pinned post

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ltleflrt · 3 months

Note

just send the op an ask?

I'm assuming this is in response to my request for gender tags on Tav and Durge posts for bg3 fandom? I hope it came across polite, I am not trying to make waves, I truly think it would be a good idea for the fandom.

You can't see it on this blog, but on my dedicated Astarion side blog I reblog at least 20 things a day, it has a full queue of 1000 plus a few hundred more in the drafts waiting to be queued. I'd probably get flagged for spam if I sent as many asks every day as posts that I'm seeing with unclear Tav/Durge genders lol

And besides! It's not always about stuff I want to reblog! Some days I want to just see the boys! Sometimes just the girls! Maybe I'm feeling trans or enby love, but how the heck am I going to FIND them if people aren't tagging them? The bg3 fandom is booming, and there's no way I could get through all of the thousands of posts to find the niche thing I'm looking for that day if I can't narrow down my search a little bit. Right now I do that by character or pairing, but since there's very little to no gender tagging, that's as far down as I can whittle it.

That's what tagging is for! It's for filtering stuff out, yeah, but the original reason tags were used on tumblr was to FIND STUFF!

Help me find your stuff! Especially since m/f stuff is a lot more prevalent, and I want to find my alphabet soup squaddies in the fandom too!

There are no traditional gender markers that I can trust in a fandom based on a game where you can mix and match the dangly bits, ya know? I can't always use the character name, because it's a fantasy setting, and many names are non-traditional. And not everyone is using pronouns when gushing about their baby in the post captions.

I have mistagged some things I've reblogged because I tried following traditional gender markers. A few of the OPs have messaged me and asked me to fix it, and I am very happy to do so. I love and respect your child and will correct myself.

Buuuuut, if you'd tagged them in the first place, it wouldn't be an issue 😁

Is it really so bad to ask for folks to add a gender tag? Let's get it started now, so that future fandom babies can go on tumblr deep dives and not get lost in the dark depths of general tags.

(To those of you who are already using some kind of tag, thank you, I see you, and I hope you find a pretty rock to decorate your desk with.)

#bg3 #bg3 tav #bg3 durge #astarion #gale dekarios #wyll ravengard #lae'zel #shadowheart #karlach #ltleramblings #reply #anonymous

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beloved-blaiddyd · 2 months

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“You might've heard of me as a textbook writer on Tome Mastery: A Guide To Advanced Reason Spells. As you might have guessed, I'm also a Blue Lions alumna... That, and I am the current chairperson of the Department of Reason Magic— so I'm plently capable to guide you around the Officer's Academy!"

"Sorry, I'm newly promoted. I nearly forgot that I'm no longer just a professor.”

“But before that, I need to know a few things... You must be...”

18+ years of age. [Minors: Do Not Interact];

And respectful of different ethnicities and other walks of life [Racists/Homophobes: Do Not Interact]

“... to enter and read its contents. I can't guarantee your safety otherwise. Oh, and I'm a rather busy woman, and I don't tolerate nonsense either. Perhaps it comes from being a tactician in the last war. If you have any questions, send a letter. I'll accept inquiries about..."

Greetings and other formalities;

Profile analysis [character brainrots/fic ideas];

and news updates & relevant fun facts about the library to share [irl and fandom related]

“However, I will promptly BURN your letter if it involves...”

Carnal desires [NSFW thirst asks. I'm ace and uninterested in matters of the flesh. Please send that to another fellow fan instead.];

and childish and irrelevant content [copypastas and overall spam is not tolerated.]

“That is all. If you believe I'm rather strict, that stems from years of experience handling groups of people. Failing to lay down groundwork tend to incite attacks on boundaries among members.”

“... Three thousand five hundred men have died because of this on the Fodlan Wars. Let's not repeat those mistakes.”

How to send asks...

For anons: please make up a realistic fake name. It's for the sake of the theme. Example:

Dear Brynlee,

I can't stop brainrotting about Zhongli like what if he's a prince- prince au zhongli with princess consort reader go brrrrrrr like wtf i can't stop thinking about morax girl i need help

Ms. Sophia Pendragon

I won't entertain "can I be 🗣️ anon" asks. This will let me know if an anon read the rules. Plus, I prefer using names rather than scrambling to find emojis instead. I quit my old one despite being a decently "successful" blog because anons do not respect personal boundaries on my asexuality despite it being explicitly written down. This is just an act of self-preservation.

When sending asks please note that this blog is following Three Houses' worldbuilding. Claiming to be a God or some Diety in the asks will certainly follow confused responses as majority of the cast believes only in Sothis. Modern inventions will likely confuse "Brynn" as well. That is all!

P.S: if you wish to talk to me as a creator, address me as Beloved/B rather than Brynn so I know when to break character. Ty!

Anon List...

Riley H. Goodheart

Steven Sterling

Bremen

Lia Tostyava

Reli

Crow

How the blog tags posts...

$ ooc: out of character/setting ramblings (casual talk)

$ brynn's manuscripts: for writing

$ brynn's papers: for art

$ support conversations: for ramblings and general interactions, both fictional and otherwise.

$ A-Support = _____: for mutuals/characters

$ C-Support = Mx. ____: for anons/new friends

$ S-Support = ____: for (romantic) self-ships...

- Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd

- Dainsleif

- Oda Sakunosuke

- Gepard Landau

$ auxiliary missions: ask games or participated events

$ abyss revisited: in-case-you-missed-it reblogs

$ traded tomes: fanfic recommendations

$ traded papers: fanart recommendations

$ traded news: important irl news or other fandom related posts

#$ table of contents #$ about the author == true #$ rules and regulations == true

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leslie-lyman · 1 year

Text

And I’ll Be All in Clover

Summary: Marcus attends the White House Easter Egg Roll and finds someone he did not expect.

Pairing: Congressman!Marcus Pike x nameless OFC/f!reader

Rating: G

Word count: 3.2k

a/n: Oh hi there. It’s been a minute, huh? Remember when I promised this update like three months ago? I’ve been tinkering on and off with this installment forEVER and finally finished it! Note that we find out some more about Marcus’s mystery lady from Part 1 here; she is referred to only with she/her pronouns and no defining physical description, so you can read her as a female reader insert if you like, though she does have a specific job and background in this story. If you’d like to be notified when I post new writing, please follow my writing update blog @leslie-lyman-writes and turn on notifications.

Part 1 || Series Masterlist || Main Masterlist

———

“Alright, who is she?”

Marcus flinches, startled at the sound of Linda’s voice. He turns towards the door of his office where his chief of staff is standing, one hip resting against the door jam.

“What are you talking about?”

Linda shakes her head, wild black curls swishing back and forth over her shoulders.

“Don’t play dumb, Marcus. It doesn’t suit you. You’ve been moping around the office for three weeks, staring off into the middle distance, and I’m pretty sure it’s not because you’re daydreaming about the defense budget or campaign finance reform. So who is she?”

Linda is astonishingly good at reading people. It’s part of what makes her such an effective chief. But Marcus is also astonishingly easy to read, and Linda knows about his history with women better than most.

It’s especially embarrassing that he can’t actually answer her question. And the shame at being caught out makes him raise his hackles in defense.

“You know, just because I may have been a little quiet lately doesn’t mean it’s automatically about a woman,” he huffs. “Not everything with me is always about a woman. I’m capable of caring deeply about lots of things. Maybe I’ve been mulling over what I wanna say at the NASA hearing this week. Or wondering whether Jackie Evers is gonna agree to co-lead our economic development bill. Or wrestling with the fact that San Antonio remains the most impoverished major city in the nation.”

“Marcus…”

“Three hundred and fifty thousand people below the poverty line, Linda,” he continues, working himself up. “And what are we doing to make it better? Children going hungry, undocumented families scared for their lives, lead pipes in the walls and guns on the streets, money for fighter jets but none for child care, and you think just because I’ve been a little moody lately that it’s about a woman? You’re really gonna just walk into my office and assume that any change in my mood has to be about a woman?”

Linda waits until he’s gotten it all out of his system, watching him rise from his seat and gesture more and more broadly with his hands the more indignant he becomes. When he finally stops, breathing like he’s just run a hundred-meter dash, she simply raises one eyebrow and says:

“So what is it about, then?”

Marcus meets her stare with his own for a few seconds, then deflates entirely, flopping back into his chair.

“It’s about a woman.”

Linda has the good grace not to lord her correct assumption over him. She merely hums at the satisfaction of being right and wanders over to stand in front of Marcus’s desk. She tosses a small envelope at him, which he catches with a start.

“What is this?”

“A distraction.”

With a small frown Marcus opens it, pulling out a slip of official-looking card stock.

“The White House Easter Egg Roll?”

“Rebecca was supposed to go with me and Olivia, but she has to work. So now I have an extra ticket.”

“I suppose that I should be flattered that I’m your second choice right after your wife.”

Linda rolls her eyes.

“Oh please. You need to snap out of this funk you’re in, and perhaps getting outside and touching some grass will help. And if that grass so happens to be on the South Lawn at a wholesome family event where President Ramirez will also be in attendance, along with a certain senator whose support you need to get the drug treatment court money included in the omnibus…”

Marcus looks up, suddenly interested.

“Jones will be there? How do you know?”

“Because I know everything.”

Marcus has yet to find that to be untrue.

“He’s been dodging my calls for weeks.”

“I know.”

Linda can see the wheels turning in Marcus’s brain based on this new information, and knows that he’s probably already jumping ahead to formulating what he’d say to make his pitch for the money to the senator.

This is what Marcus needs: a cause and a plan.

“I’m gonna need updated stats on — ”

“Yeah.”

“And I’d like to look over the list of organizations that have come out in support again, too.”

“Yup.”

Marcus stares hard at the base of the lamp on his desk without really seeing it as he thinks things through.

“If I could just talk to him about it, if I could just lay out the case for this funding, I know I could convince him to do it. I know I could.”

Nearly twenty-five years in politics has made Linda nothing if not a realist. But to see the fervor with which Marcus clings to his convictions, to his belief in people and in their ability to do the right thing, threatens to chip away at her more jaded edges. She can’t bring herself to try and rein in his optimism, so she gently changes the subject.

“Olivia will love to see you too. It’s been too long since she’s gotten to hang out with her Uncle Marcus. And maybe you could try and have some fun while we’re there? You know, relax a little bit? There’s usually a few celebrities who show up to this thing. There’s a rumor going around that Bad Bunny might make an appearance this year.”

Marcus lets out a bark of laughter.

“That’s funny,” he says.

The look on Linda’s face remains unamused.

“Y’know, cause it’s the Easter — ”

“Shut up, and don’t be late.”

The sounds of Marcus chuckling follow her all the way to her office.

———

The White House Easter Egg Roll dates back to 1878. Egg rolling had become a popular Easter Monday event for Washington, DC’s children in the 1870s, who would race their eggs down the west grounds of the United States Capitol. In 1876, Congress outlawed the practice out of concern for the impact on the Capitol grounds. Two years later, President Rutherford B. Hayes initiated the first White House Easter Egg Roll as a new alternative venue for the tradition.

In its present form, thousands of families descend upon the South Lawn every Easter Monday for an event that has become essentially the world’s most tightly secured garden party. The titular egg roll is still the main event, but the vast grounds that stretch from the White House’s Truman Balcony down to the edge of the Ellipse also boast all manner of food stations, educational activities for kids, a proper Easter egg hunt, a petting zoo, various costumed characters, and a performance stage.

The United States Marine Corps Band is halfway through a rendition of “Easter Parade” when Marcus, Linda, and Olivia enter the grounds. It’s a beautiful day for the event; April weather in DC can range from sleet to blazing sun, but today is downright idyllic. Fluffy clouds float across the clear blue sky over the nearby Washington Monument. The South Lawn gleams emerald green, covered in a sea of people in mostly pastel outfits.

Dressing for an event at the White House is usually a formal affair, but per Linda’s advice Marcus has foregone a tie and opted for the most springtime-like shirt in his closet: a button-down in crisp periwinkle under a suit a shade too bright to be considered navy. A Congressman’s business casual.

Olivia is, as predicted, overjoyed to see the man she’s called Uncle Marcus since she learned to talk. She remains glued to Marcus’s side as they wander the grounds, stopping to load up on sugary snacks and feed handfuls of grain pellets to the baby goats at the petting zoo. Her long black curls and boundless energy mirror Linda’s, and before long she has grass stains and dirt streaks on her pink Easter dress but neither of her chaperones is concerned. Stains will wash out, Linda had told Marcus once, the fun she had getting them is far more important.

It’s more fun than Marcus has had in a long time. It’s a beautiful day with people he considers family, but there’s a twinge of something he feels deep in his gut that threatens to spoil it for him.

Envy.

He would be hard-pressed to find a situation that makes more clear than this one that which he lacks: a family of his own. He’s surrounded by the shrieks and laughter of children, the sight of moms and dads cheering their kids on as they race eggs down the steepest part of the South Lawn’s slope. He’s spotted many of his colleagues here, other members of Congress with their families, happy and together and full of love for each other. There is no doubt in Marcus’s mind that he loves Olivia, but nothing can ever change that fact that she isn’t his.

After the painful saga of his divorce and the whole mess with Theresa, Marcus had thrown himself not long after into the drastic career change of running for office. That had consumed eighteen months of his life and had worked wonders in keeping him so busy and exhausted that the idea of venturing out into the dating world again had been pushed from his mind. His singleness had even become something of an object of fascination to the public. Politico had dubbed him “Congress’s Most Eligible Bachelor” not long ago on what must have been a particularly slow news day. But now…

He’s starting to think he’ll never stop yearning for it, of finding that someone, that connection, that partner. Of having what everyone else does: a happily ever after. And he’s also starting to fear that it might never happen.

“I don’t see Jones yet,” Linda murmurs to him as they clean their hands after the baby goat encounter. Oh right, he remembers. This is also technically a work event.

“Somehow I can’t picture him willingly spending much time near farm animals,” Marcus replies.

Linda makes a noise of amused agreement before Olivia suddenly lets out a squeal of excitement.

“Mom, mom, look! It’s Bluey!”

Sure enough, the cartoon’s titular dog has made an appearance near the performance stage to the audible delight of seemingly every kid here. Olivia grabs Linda’s hand and starts trying to drag her over.

“You know I’d hoped when she turned five she’d move beyond her Bluey obsession, but it hasn’t happened yet,” Linda mutters to Marcus.

“The trials of parenthood,” Marcus grins.

“I’ll take her over there, why don’t you go do a lap and see if you can’t run into a certain senator?”

Marcus nods.

“And you looked at the latest stats on recidivism?” Linda calls over her shoulder as Olivia impatiently leads her away.

“Yes! Now go get your kid a picture with that dog!”

———

Marcus wanders. He stops to say hello to some of the other Members he knows and is friendly with. Several times it’s other people who stop him. He’s a more recognizable face than most other elected officials, despite his short tenure on the job, and every few minutes someone comes up and asks for a selfie.

There are also professional photographers mingling about from the ever-present White House Press Corps, the gaggle of reporters from all manner of news outlets assigned to cover the White House. Marcus runs into a journalist he’s spoken with a few times from CBS News and grants him a quick interview for the outlet’s TikTok about what his first Easter Egg Roll has been like so far. But there’s no sign yet of the senator he’s hoping to speak with.

He’s wandering past the section of the lawn where Jorge Ramirez, the First Gentleman, is reading from a picture book to a group of children when he notices a camera pointed in his direction out of the corner of his eye. He turns in the photographer’s direction and before she even lowers her camera recognition hits him like lightning.

The woman from the botanical gardens.

The surprise is written all over his face and he knows it, but he can’t muster the wherewithal to school his expression into anything more neutral before he hears the click of the camera’s shutter. But when she lowers the device, she’s smiling at him, and the unexpected delight at seeing her again has him grinning back.

She walks over to him, inspecting the photo she’d just taken on the camera’s display. She’s dressed in black trousers, a white blouse, and comfy-looking sneakers, a black camera bag slung over one shoulder.

“Hello again, Congressman,” she says.

“Hi,” is all Marcus manages.

Something from their first meeting occurs to him then that throws cold water over his excitement.

“I thought you said you weren’t press.” He tries to keep his tone as light as possible.

She fishes an ID badge on a lanyard out from around her neck and holds it out for him to see. It’s not the standard press badge all credentialed reports are required to wear when on White House grounds. It’s a staff badge.

“You work for the President?”

“I do.” She tucks the badge away. “I used to be press, but I’ve since come over to the other side.”

“Ah.”

The chatter of a thousand people surrounds them. Not far away the band finishes a medley of Disney songs to a round of applause. But to Marcus it all feels very far away. Instead he’s hyper-aware of every detail about her: her fingers fidgeting a bit nervously with the camera she still holds, the white flash of her teeth between pretty pink lips, the mismatched earrings she wears (one a carrot, the other a bunny).

“I didn’t get a chance to get your name, before,” he says.

She gives it to him, and the knot he’s carried around in his chest for weeks wondering who this woman is loosens.

“Marcus Pike,” he returns, holding out his hand.

“Oh, I know,” she replies teasingly. Her grip is firm and sends a little shiver of electricity up Marcus’s spine.

Being an FBI agent meant that Marcus was used to projecting an air of authority, to having people sit up and take notice of when he spoke. But being an elected official deferred upon him even more authority whether he felt it was earned or not, it made his time, his attention, be in great demand. If you knew who he was, you probably wanted something from him. And people were so impressed by him, so deferential to him, so flattering and accommodating. Many of his colleagues let it go right to their heads. But all it did was make Marcus constantly second-guess who he could trust.

There’s nothing of that here with this woman. What he sees is the curve of her lip and the quirk of her eyebrow and what he hears is her Oh, I know but what he feels is that she fails to find his status impressive or intimidating and how refreshing that is. How rare, these days, for him to have a conversation feeling like someone is talking to him instead of his title.

“I’m so happy to see you again,” he tells her. “I…regret that our conversation in the gardens got cut short.” He hopes she doesn’t take that to mean he’s blaming her.

She shrugs, attempting to look nonchalant, her bag shifting at the movement.

“I know how it is with Members. I didn’t want to impose on too much of your time.”

“You could have,” Marcus blurts out before he can stop himself.

“You could have,” he repeats more quietly. “Talking with you…it was the best part of my day. Of my whole week. I haven’t stopped thinking about it.” About you, he adds silently, but doesn’t say aloud.

The teasing edge to her smile fades, replaced by something shyer, more genuine.

“I haven’t stopped thinking about it either,” she admits.

Warmth blooms in Marcus’s chest that has nothing to do with the bright April sunshine.

“Could I — could we talk more, sometime?”

“Are you asking me out, Congressman?”

“It’s Marcus, actually,” he says with a coy grin, finally finding the ability to flirt again that usually comes so naturally to him.

Something in her face falters, a flash of disappointment.

“Not here, it’s not,” she murmurs, “not right now.”

Her eyes slide past his to glance about at the crowds of people around them. Guilt clenches in his gut as reality floods back in, the bubble around them bursting and the sounds of the crowds around them suddenly returning to full volume in his ear. How could he be so careless? He’s a Member of Congress, she’s a White House staffer, and right now, she’s working. There are still power dynamics here that he’s completely forgotten about until this moment.

“Oh, fuck, you’re right. I’m so sorry, forget I said anything—”

“Don’t be.” She shakes her head at him, eyes wide. “What I meant by ‘not right now,’ is that—it’s not that I’m not inter—” She blows a raspberry with her lips and swipes a hand over her face.

“What I mean to say is, I should be done with work today by seven. If, if you’d like to talk more. Which I would very much like, for the record.”

She reaches into her camera bag and pulls out a crisp white business card and a pen, scribbling a phone number down on the back. He takes it from her when she holds it out to him, their fingertips just barely brushing.

“Hey boss!” The sound of Linda calling for him from over his shoulder is a rough yank back to reality. He turns to find her walking towards them, a giddy Olivia in tow.

“Senator Jones, three o’clock.” And sure enough, off to Marcus’s right, he spots the man in question, sun gleaming off both his bald spot and his veneers, talking with several other men in stuffy suits and ties.

Linda looks past Marcus at his no-longer-a-mystery woman, then back at him, the look on her face telling him that she’s immediately figured out who it is he’s been talking to.

“I’m sorry,” Marcus says, “I can’t believe I’m doing this again, but I gotta—”

“It’s okay,” she reassures him. “Looks like we both have to get back to work.”

Marcus sighs, fingers tightening on the little card he still holds.

“Happy Easter, Congressman,” she says.

“Happy Easter,” he replies with a murmur of her name, and finds he likes the way it feels on his lips.

———

The rest of the day passes in a blur.

He has a good talk with Senator Jones (he thinks, he hopes), he gives three more impromptu interviews, he eats too much chocolate with Olivia before carrying her back to her mother’s car. He grabs Chinese takeout on the way back to his apartment, a sparsely furnished one-bedroom in Navy Yard, and fights the urge every step of the way to google the gorgeous White House photographer whose number is burning a hole in his pocket.

There’s so much he wants to know about her. And he could so easily find out so much if he wanted to right this moment, her whole career likely just a quick google search away, but he resists. Don’t dive in so quick, he tells himself. Don’t rush. Besides, he wants to hear it all from her herself.

He punches in the number at 7:02.

It rings only once before she answers.

“Hello, Marcus.”

#marcus pike fanfic #marcus pike x you #marcus pike x reader #Marcus pike x ofc #Pedro pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction #the mentalist fanfic

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indy-gray · 9 months

Text

I done got frustrated

My desire to keep my opinions to myself managed to last most of the day. New record tbh.

So like I wrote this big long rant a couple of weeks ago and decided against sharing it while I was still frustrated. But I do feel like maybe there is a larger discussion to be had! I think it's important that we as a writeblr community really take a look at why so many of us are getting so frustrated so often and how we as a community and as individuals can work towards an actually community vs a corner of social media. @blind-the-winds did an excellent job of explaining some of what I'm seeing as well in relation to why a lot of positivity and support posts and such ring hollow to so many of us. I wanted to bring a slightly different perspective to things coming from a marketing/social media marketing background. Under the cut out of respect for everyone's dashboards lol

This is going to get INCREDIBLY LONG. So I have a read more here. Behold, the bitchfest.

So this started today when I was chatting with an irl friend and expressing my frustrations about writeblr in general as a community. And what I've recognized now is this: writeblr isn't really much of a community, and it is very rare to find other creators and writers who are willing to treat you (the hypothetical writer) as another human being with a love for the same craft they do. Those people who do treat you like people are some of the loveliest people I've found on the internet, but they are hard to find.

Now, to be clear, I don't think the problem is completely writeblr's fault, nor do I believe it is any one or two or five hundred individual's fault. The problem comes from a number of different sources, and my friend did a great job of helping me see the problem from a number of different perspectives.

The problem being this: it is impossible to get engagement on posts that feature original long-form writing, and it is exceedingly difficult to effectively foster meaningful connections with other writers.

Some disclaimers: it's not impossible, and the people who successfully receive engagement on their long-form writing tend to be the people who are the exceptions proving the rule. Also, by "engagement" I mean any interaction that serves to both consume the content and spread the content. "Original" writing refers to writing that is not fandom related, and "long-form" means 1k words or more.

Do you think 1k words is a little short for "long-form" writing? Me too. I'll get to that.

I'll start my explanation here with what catalyzed these revelations in my little head. Over night, I got quite a few new followers, all directly coming from a post that got mildly popular here on writeblr. So, I looked at what other posts of mine have been popular, and I started to notice a trend.

My most popular posts tend to fit into one of three categories: memes, tag games, and boost posts/recommendations. Memes tend to be popular because they're funny and easy to spread, and as long as they fit the theme, they don't ruin a blog's aesthetic. Tag games get more interaction because I am directly tagging people to see the post. But the popularity for those posts tend to stop at the half dozen to a dozen people tagged in each given post (the person or people tagging me, and the several people I tag to continue the game). The last category is most interesting to me, the boost posts and recommendations.

Here's the thing, I only boost or rec other writers and blogs if I have invested interest and care into the person behind the blog and their content. AKA, I only really boost friends and writers I admire/like their content. It's great to see that those posts get popular with people outside my circle, but out of those three categories, none of them feature my own content.

Why is that?

It seems like every day I see a new post with a few thousand notes at least complaining about a lack of interaction on writeblr and the importance of reblogs and blah blah I rarely stop to read those let alone spread them. And a few dots connected, I think.

If my content isn't getting interaction, and your content isn't getting interaction, then what is? And I think the answer is this: memes, advice, and boosts.

Memes and advice are self-explanatory. But boosts are interesting because you will see everyone hop on to rec other people or more frequently market themselves, but they stop there. And I see my greatest influx of interaction and new followers when I boost other people's works or blogs.

My conclusion is that many people are using writeblr as a hustle and not a community. In a community we engage with each other, talk to each other, enjoy each other's company. And I've found many mutuals to be very lovely people who I do enjoy and who I love to engage with and who I like to genuinely call my friends. I like a lot of yall for different reasons too! Some of you are great hype buddies, some of yall are all about that accountability buddy system, and I really love when I get to have intellectual conversations about the craft and different concepts with different members of writeblr too.

But largely, I find that a lot of people who engage once with my blog, usually on those boost posts, or who ask for engagement more frequently than when frustration strikes, tend to be the people who think of writeblr as a hustle. They see that I (and many other writers) will boost and rec our friends, and jump on that bandwagon, but instead of putting in the effort to get to know us and our work, they say what needs to be said, hop on trends, and avoid any genuine connection.

So what gives?

It's not the individual writers, I think. It's the nature of social media, marketing, and the medium.

Listen, I work in marketing, and long-form writing is a dying art that is very difficult to market. I genuinely think the concept of "tldr" really ruined a lot of people's ability to engage with longer form writing. Whether that be nonfiction opinion posts or actual fiction. Tumblr is one of the only places I can think of where long-form writing is a feasible medium to post at all, let alone gain a following for.

Think about it: instagram is best suited for images, videos, and short-form aestheticized poetry. Twitter has a character limit that requires long threads of individual tweets or images to get your message across. Pitch events are well-suited for twitter because your pitch by definition needs to be short. But sharing actual summaries, snippets, or excerpts? Not really possible. Tiktok is for videos, which as we know can be utilized, but is not the most efficient method of marketing written word. Ao3 is an archive with an excellent tagging system, but to get readers, outside marketing is required. Facebook requires a real name, and isn't really well suited for content creation either. Wattpad, Royal Road, and others are great for posting actual works, but they don't necessarily have well-functioning tag systems that help the author find their audience. That really just leaves Tumblr. Pillowfort is also an option, though it's still so in the beginning phase of development that it's pretty difficult to get started there.

It's well known in marketing that images and videos catch attention and long paragraphs of text (AKA what most prose looks like) tend to be scrolled past. The very nature of the long-form writing medium is against most marketing techniques. Marketing long-form writing needs to look different from any other medium.

All that being said: the culture of social media engagement has shifted, and this is a conversation that fandom has been having and I think has actually been doing well discussing the different facets of how the culture has shifted. Fandom (and content creation in general) is seen as a commodity to be consumed. Consumers want to see the content, maybe save it for later, and then move on to the next piece. This is easily done with visual mediums, but writing mediums are especially vulnerable to this culture shift because it does require so much time and energy to consume, let alone engage.

Creators don't see their work as a commodity to be consumed, but it is now. When consumers view a piece of visual media, they view the image (consume it) and then move to the next, some will spread it to others by engaging with the picture through reblogs or sending the post to someone else. But most often, there will be a "like" to tell the creator good job, and then scroll to the next. This is harder to do with written media unless one has the time and energy to read the piece. There's the extra step of critical thought.

To put it a different way, the market is flooded with content and creators. With so much to choose from, the consumer now does not have to participate in the community to ensure continued creation. There will be another creator tomorrow. The consumer no longer feels connected to a community of their interests, it is simply being sold to them.

So back to writeblr, this is where I am at a crossroads. I am tired of creating content to be consumed, I want community. But also, I have nowhere else to turn. I can either completely withdraw from what sliver of community I have found, or I can keep trucking along, create my stuff, play the games we play, chat with the people I do like and do care about, and hope that I don't get too frustrated one day and leave for good.

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