I'm not going to lie:

I’m not a baseball game; you only get one strike.

One shitty comment here on tumblr is all it takes for me to hit “ignore” and I don’t think twice about it. I follow 159 blogs and I’ve blocked 817. If your Feedist Confession hasn’t been published, then you’ve probably made the list. Moreover, you’ve probably DESERVED to make the list.

Welcome to ignoresville: population YOU.

My second column is up in the latest issue of Strange Horizons! \o/ Communities: You Got Your Industry in my Fanwork discusses the changes to book blogging culture, creators interacting with fanwork and fan communities, and lots of things we were likely debating back in the 1970s, just with different names. Nothing new, except my perspective. :D

Other parts of the issue available now:

FICTION: Difference of Opinion, by Meda Kahn
FICTION: Podcast: Difference of Opinion, by Meda Kahn, read by Anaea Lay
POETRY: Triptych, by Jane Crowley
REVIEW: NOS4R2 by Joe Hill, reviewed by Katherine Farmar

What Leon Tao (maybe) tells us about the Machine

So giandujakiss’s complaint that Tao seemed sort of shoehorned into the latest episode kind of got me thinking.

My headcanon has been that the Machine is coaxing Finch and Reese into relying on Tao more and more — and vice versa, of course — presumably for the reason that he’ll be invaluable if Finch is kidnapped again, or is otherwise incapacitated.

I think there’s a good argument to be made, in fact, that at one point the Machine either planned for Tao to replace Finch, or else chose for complex Machinely reasons to act as though it did.

Keep reading

Doctor's Orders - Transformers - Ratchet, Optimus Prime - G

Doctor’s Orders by White Aster (white_aster) (on AO3)

Summary: Five times Ratchet saved Optimus Prime’s life, and one time Optimus returned the favor. Gen.

Notes:  For Judusart on Tumblr! A pinch-hit for the tformersgiftexchange2014.  Also, though parts of this are in chronological order, they don’t all happen one right after the other.


Medicines heal doubts as well as diseases. ~Karl Marx

It didn’t take Ratchet long to learn that with Optimus Prime…it was worst if he was quiet.

Whether the pain was physical or mental, Prime was not one to scream in pain or yell for a medic. With physical wounds, this was bad enough (Prime had once keeled over after slowly bleeding himself nearly dry because “there were others who were more gravely injured.”)

With psychological wounds, it was more subtle…but just as potentially devastating. Read more… )



compromised-by-castiel asked:

Clint/Phil No. 20 Please I need more Clint/Phil kisses. The world needs more Clint/Phil kisses. It's been a bad week

(Kissing meme: free choice smooch!)

Phil knows that getting exasperated with Barton will be of no assistance to the situation, but the man can be infuriatingly obstinate. Usually for his own amusement. He’s refusing to climb up into the sniper box without a packed lunch. Apparently he has been forgotten up there in the past, and Phil has a simultaneous sympathy for how damaging to morale being forgotten can be, and how completely appealing it would be to tuck Barton out of sight and out of mind for a few hours.

"You won’t be forgotten," he repeats. “I’ll be at the other end of your comm, and I doubt you can be quiet long enough for me to forget you."

"What if you turn the comms off?" Barton counters. “What if something really important happens and I get left up there?"

"If something important happens then I have no doubt that I’ll be pulling the key marksman down in order to assist with the situation," Phil replies. “Unless you are unwilling to perform your duties, in which case I request that you exit the field now and stop wasting my time.”

"Ouch," Barton replies, forcing his face into an exaggerated expression of grumpiness. “You’ve hurt my feelings now. I can’t go up in the box like this. I’m emotionally compromised."

"Then I have no use for you," Phil replies flatly. 

Barton snorts. “I don’t see a spare sniper around here,” he says loftily. Phil holds a hand out for the rifle, and Barton isn’t schooled enough to keep the mild surprise from showing in his face. Phil is still early in his career as mission control, and he’s not a sniper by trade. But he’s stubborn and he’s a lucky shot, which isn’t an ideal skill but it’s better than nothing. 

"Tell you what," Barton says after a moment of consideration. “I’ll skip the packed lunch on two conditions." He rushes on before Phil can turn the compromise down. “Firstly, I want to be down before I burn to a crisp up there, okay?"

Phil doesn’t make promises that he can’t keep, so he waits patiently for the second condition.

"Secondly, I’m going to need you to kiss my hurt feelings better."

Phil stares blankly at Barton, and the man offers his cheek up. There are other field agents watching the exchange, because Barton has a reputation for disobedience and watching a control get taken down a peg or two is something that every agent enjoys. If Phil denies Barton, he’s down a sniper. If he indulges him, he loses authority that he barely has a grip on as it is. He takes the middle road.

Slowly, so Barton can track every movement, Phil lifts his left forefinger to his lips and presses a simple, chase kiss to the tip. The he reaches out, and presses the tip of his finger to Barton’s cheek. Barton smirks at him, amused.

"That’s all you got?" he asks.

Phil tilts his head in a motion that resembles a shrug. “All you deserve,” he replies simply. Barton’s eyebrow quirks in amusement, and his mouth splits into a grin.

"I expect you to have a fucking juice box or something ready for me when I get down," he calls over his shoulder as he starts up the ladder. Phil watches his progress without comment. He’s going to leave that punk up in the box all afternoon if he can.

The work of an editor, in its most boiled-down, basic form, is to be a professional reader. It’s our job to be able to look at a work at any stage, from concept to final product, and be able to speak to not only its creator’s intentions, but the response it’ll evoke in its audience. We straddle the space between creative and commercial, artistic vision and the gritty necessities of production. Editors chart the course of publishing lines and publications. We brainstorm with writers to solve story problems. We assemble creative teams; set deadlines; facilitate revisions; supervise layout; place word balloons. And yes, some of us will fix your apostrophes.


That’s the last of the blog backlog! I’ll continue to post links here as I go;  you can also follow directly at

Dreamwidth Update: I went to all the effort and then...

…I didn’t post anything!

Well then - I have been working on a lot of gaming things, prepping for Webercon, etc Doing more job applications, etc.

Have a meme? This is not going to lead to fic, most likely.

If you could have me write a fic specifically for you, what would it be like? Fandom, characters/pairing, genre, plot elements, kinks (if applicable)… what’s your ideal fic from me?



Meme for ficwriters
(Stolen from the wonderful Ultharkitty!)

This is part B of my nefarious plan to encourage fanwriters to self-rec more. Please spread this around, repost or reblog or anything, I’d like to get as many people joining in as possible :)

1. Fic you’re most proud of and why.

A Day in the Life of Dr. Rafael Esquivel, Ph.D. (Transformers Prime, gen). This story came out of absolutely nowhere, fully-formed and practically an episode of the show-complete. I’m not so good at real plot, as opposed to just relationships and banter, so I was so freaking proud that this had a beginning, middle, and end, a problem to be solved, some nice characterization, and overall…I was just really happy with this. Also, it didn’t die out in the middle and is actually finished, which is more than I could say about a lot of my other longish things.

2. Fic that got more attention than you were expecting.
First (Avatar: the Last Airbender futurefic, Iroh/Toph, explicit). And that description’s pretty much the reason that I didn’t think this would get much attention. It’s really a strange pairing, and I think it started as a strange suggestion on the kinkmeme and I just went “…wait, I can do that. I CAN DO THAT AND MAKE IT BELIEVABLE, YOU JUST WATCH ME.” So I did, and this has consistently stayed in my top-10 most-hit stories on AO3.

3. Fic that you’d like to see get more attention.
I dunno…I’d say Warrior Goddess (Transformers, gen) or Dreaming of Electric Sheep (Transformers/Inception crossover, gen), because they will be REALLY COOL when they’re completely written. But I can’t blame anyone for not paying attention to those, as they’re not even remotely finished or even really properly started and the main plots haven’t been updated in forever. Lacking all that, I encourage folks to check out Morale Officer (Transformers, Ratchet-centric, genfic currently with smut perhaps coming sooner rather than later) and Prima’s Blessing (Transformers G1, explicit religious orgyfic), as those are probably most likely to be updated soon.




compromised-by-castiel asked:

Clint/Phil No. 16

(Kissing meme: upside-down kiss)

"No," Phil says firmly. 

"Why not?"

"It’s impractical, for one. Dangerous, even," Phil replies, and Clint snorts at him.

"Come on," Clint goads. “You can’t tell me that this’ll work for Spider-man but it won’t work for me."

Phil gives Clint a flat look. “Thank you for bringing seventeen year olds into this,” he says. “That has really added to the romance of the moment.”

"I knew you’d get into it," Clint replies, grabbing Phil’s tie and tugging him closer. Phil sighs heavily, but he indulges Clint with a relatively pleasant kiss. Plenty of lip and just a little dash of tongue. And then, while Clint is grinning smugly, Phil grabs the shoulders of Clint’s uniform and yanks down with all his weight, sending Clint sprawling onto the ground.

"Ow," Clint protests.

"I warned you that it was dangerous."

Clint scowls up at Phil, rubbing the shoulder he had landed on. After a moment, his expression shifts into something of a leer. “Gonna kiss me better?”

Phil rolls his eyes and hauls Clint to his feet. “You’re incorrigible.”

Parhelion - Transformers, Wheeljack and Perceptor - G

Prompt: “Christmas sunrise” from the TF_Rare_Pairing comm on Livejournal

(I’m envisioning this being from Bayverse, at some indeterminate time, when these two have paused their search for the Allspark and set down on an unoccupied world to replenish their energon stores. For those not familiar with the scientific terms, Wheeljack is talking about a parhelic circle (pic here), rather like a sundog.)

::Hey. Perceptor. You should come take a look at this.::

Perceptor zoomed his optics in on the stripped bolt he was attempting to extract from the microrefinery housing and commed back, ::Busy, Wheeljack.::

::I know, but you should really come take a look at this.::Read more… )



Drabbles for charity - Doctors Without Borders

I feel the need to do something. Even though money isn’t the object right now, it’s manpower. Money’s what I can rouse, though. (Though, if you are a doctor and go to volunteer in West Africa, let me know, and I will write you fic of whatever you want.)

So, yeah!

$5 donation gets you 250 words of whatever you’d like written. Multiples get you multiples of 250 words up to a max of $20 for 1000 words. No guarantee of a timeline, but I will get it done as soon as I can. I do reserve the right to ask for another prompt if you buy over 500 words of one thing that I think I can’t deliver on.

Crack, fluff, continuation of one of my fics, whatever. Transformers stuff is best idea right now, though if you’d like an old fandom, try me!

Please donate directly to MSF/Doctors Without Borders. I trust all of you to be honest, so no need for confirmations or such. Just please only ask AFTER you’ve donated.

I’ve got tomorrow off. Let’s do this thing.



temperance is what i can afford

My house smells like candles and aromatic bitters because we are not yet old enough for glade plug-ins. Our trash bags are the kind from the dollar store, paper-thin, almost beautiful. You don’t want to be in the same place forever. Tempting, of course, to become a tree and coat yourself with bark tough like the soles of a mother’s feet. I am an intensely private person. Anyone you ask will tell you, especially the strangers. The church bells ring but my faith is in the tarot spread. When I see Temperance’s face in the cards, we all say, ‘of course’, and we urge me to lift my foot from its plunge so I may secure it and its partner somewhere solid. The ground is overrated, but it is no good to be split in ambivalence like Temperance herself. Like me, straddling. When the crowd stops by to discuss readings, I drink wine and fold into myself like our deck of cards. I teach them all to read each other and the cards. When you teach, you can’t control what your crowd of strangers will do when they’re born, so you save the reddest, thickest threads for those whom you know you can love. In the living room, water and wine, but I choose both. He is young but has more years than me and his face is old, but only because of his ignorance. He is one of the strangers in my house. I think of him as a dog that might as well learn to read his cards. One day his eyes will be gold like a cat’s but for now they fall deep and brown to the floor. When I remember the good days, I don’t think of the fights, of how my loves named me ‘Bad one’ for the time being. Bad, in favor of strangers. Her hair was clearwater and we were turned away from a cult ground just for existing and then, trying to swim. Once, I kissed her neck, but the sweetness turned to bruises and a man who later betrayed her asked if I was the perpetrator. She tasted like rose-water and I would have taken pleasure in letting him know who I was if given the chance. He asked if I was the perpetrator, the one who made those roses bloom against the white of her neck. She wore a scarf for days; he wanted to hang me with it. I never before thought of myself as a perpetrator, and while most of me abhorred it, I remembered Temperance and thought, ‘at least I’m not her’. I could not admit that the stranger’s neck had been gorgeous to the point of my teeth against. I knew this stranger was fragile for me but would never be fragile for me or anyone else again if she could choose. But one can’t choose these things. My teacher that year told me I was like a dog with a bone. Determination has always been my best quality, temperance my worst. Later, a stranger betrayed me too, just like hers. His freckles made me think of Pippi and since the sun had marked him so decisively, I thought I might well give him a chance. I knew he was Bad, but Temperance, the only one who was not a stranger at the time, loomed over me and threatened pricked kisses. Sometimes Temperance made me feel better. In bed, he touched me and I flinched, but this was nothing new. In the goodbye letter, where my words were tempered like Hershey’s, I told him not to bother changing. Back then, I didn’t believe I could ask strangers to take on my burden. How ridiculous that was. My feet were sore from walking the overpass after brunch. They were sore because he asked me to. After reading the letter, he told me, ‘perhaps this is inappropriate to mention, but your words are talented’. The funny thing is that I wanted to like him, even before I knew he was Bad, but I couldn’t quite bring myself to. His thinness upset me. I would reach under his bones where his chest concaved and my hand would stick where his ribs met his heart. My fatness turned him on but I didn’t like his jokes. They weren’t funny and they upset me. More than thinness, it was a wasting away, and theirs was eating me too. But I was full and warm and flush with color. Their thinness upset me. And I stood for it because I was twenty-two and twenty-three and these are the only kinds of strangers Temperance can afford.