Use: Enter a word, phrase, description, or pattern above to find synonyms, related words, and more.
Good For: Can't think of a word but can describe what you want it to mean, enter that description and it will give you words associated. Enter: "strong wind" -> gale, storm, tempest, tornado, etc
Cost: Free
â Writing Realistic Injuries
Use: Seems kinda obvious, learning how to write proper and realistic injuries.
Good For: ...writing realistic injuries I guess? It's really helpful: minor injuries like emotional reactions, fainting, shock, broken bones, dislocated joints, burns, hostile environments, includes some normal ranges for things like blood pressure, pulse rate, body temperature. Also has accurate blood loss amounts and what is considered normal, severe and maximum and from what body part.
Cost: Free
â Charlotte Dillon: Information Links for Writers
Use: Information on everything!
Good For: Research for medicine during the Middle ages or learning about what phrases were used in the Old West. Castle terms, rigor mortis information, viking foodstuffs, supernatural lore, regency facts, Irish sayings, and even ancient gynecology facts (why? no idea but it must be useful for someone). This place has everything.
Cost: Free
â Color Names and Descriptions
Use: Self explanatory.
Good For: Find some nice names for black or orange without saying black or orange. Get my drift?
Cost: Free
â Writers Write: Traits
Use: Find traits for your characters
Good For: Negative, positive, ambivalent traits, you get the picture.
Cost: Free
â Writers Write: Body Language
Use: Body language descriptions
Good For: Micro-expressions, hand gestures, and posture.
Cost: Free
đ â Describing Words
Use: Find words to describe things.
Good For: Want to describe a tree? Enter tree and the site will generate descriptive phrases of a tree.
Cost: Free
đ â Descriptionari
Use: Finding examples for creative inspiration.
Good For: writing prompts, descriptions of scenes, and help with describing a scene such a kiss or fight scene.
Good For: Generating names for people, places, things, planets, diseases, etc. Has a wide selection of name generators for all different ethnicities from African (varied by location) to Asia and Historic. Also includes fantasy and folklore name generators. It's my go to name generator for everything. You can also generate a description of a character or design your own map.
Cost: Free
â The Story Shack
Use: Generating names, creating your own generator, writing exercises.
Good For: Generating names, obviously. But also practicing writing through offered exercises.
Cost: Free
â RanGen
Use: Generating plots, appearances, archetypes, love interests, cities, worlds, items, and more.
Good For: What I just said previously. Very helpful.
Cost: Free
Images:
â Free Images for Commercial Use
Use: Pictures!
Good For: Whatever you want!
Cost: Free
Story Development & Plot:
ïŒâ E.A. Deverell Workshop & Worksheet Index
Use: Learn how to plot your stories and build your world.
Good For: Character building, world building, narration, plot formula, prompts, ideas, genres, development. You name it, Eva has it.
Cost: Paid Courses, Free Worksheets & Tips.
ïŒâ Story Planner
Use: Planning your story. Obvs.
Good For: People who need a little guidance with outlining and implementing before they jump into their story. Takes yous sentence by sentence building summaries and such.
Cost: Paid & Free Planners
Search Engines:
â Hiveword
Use: Search Engine!
Good For: Researching topics for your writing! This website has many links to articles that can expand your knowledge on writing. Also has name and location generator!
Cost: Free
Writing Software:
â Pages (iOS)
Use: Mobile Word Processor
Good For: Tagging folder system for organization, export documents, good for apple pencil, multiple formats & templates. Sync's w/ iCloud.
Cost: Free
ïŒâ Liquid Story Binder XE by Black Obelisk Software (Windows)
Use: Liquid Story Binder XE is a uniquely designed word processor for professional and aspiring authors, poets, and novelists. Writing software for those who require the editing ability of a commercial text editor as well as a document tracking system. It is for those who want the freedom to create, outline and revise but are tired of losing track of their work.
Good For: Keeping your writing in one place, organization, compiling into one document, no internet connection required.
Perks: Drop Box Compatible
Cost: $45.95 US, free trial, one payment.
đïŒâ Scrivener (Mac, Windows, iOS)
Use: Scrivener is a word-processing program and outliner designed for authors. Scrivener provides a management system for documents, notes and metadata. This allows the user to organize notes, concepts, research, and whole documents for easy access and reference.
Good For: Keeping your writing in one place, organization, compiling into one document, no internet connection required.
Perks: Drop Box Compatible
Cost: $59.99 US (50.99 students & academics), $23.99 US for iPad, iPhone, or iPod Touch, free trial, one payment
listen! dean is always passing jack a beer â itâs his love language, feeding the people around him â but what if one day jack just sort of quietly goes, âmay i have⊠something else?â
and dean sort of scoffs like, âkid, iâm giving you beer even though youâre â yâknow, technically four or whatever.â
and jack nods and says, âand i appreciate it! i just sort of donât like the taste.â
and dean shrugs and heads back to the bunker fridge and is like, âalright, well, weâve gotâŠâ beer. there is only beer in the refrigerator, and a bit of (probably old) milk.
and so dean goes on a grocery run and gets apple juice and capri suns and sparkling water because he doesnât know what the hell the kid is going to like. and it becomes a habit to pass jack a goddamn juice box instead of a beer, and assorted other beverages crowd for space in the refrigerator, and one day dean realizes that heâs reached for two cokes instead of two beers, not even thinking twice about what heâd grabbed for himself. one day, he realizes that the simple act of having a kid who didnât wanna drink did more for his own drinking problem than anything else had.
one day, all of a sudden, dean realizes that he has become a dad, and yet he is nothing like john winchester.
cas hugs a bit too tight and crackers readers back and then freaks out thinking he just broke reader/snapped their spine in half or something
àłàŒ* Pressure
masterlist
pairing: castiel x gn!reader
genre: fluff, silly
notes: omg I love this !! writing this made me want my back cracked so bad aaahhgggg
Youâd just returned from a hunt, mud on your boots, adrenaline still humming faintly in your veins and the bunker lights felt warmer than usual.
Castiel stood waiting at the end of the hall like he always did, coat slightly rumpled, eyes searching your face the moment you stepped inside.
Relief loosened something in his chest. You were alive. Uninjured and breathing. Before you could say a word, he crossed the distance between you in three long strides and wrapped his arms around you.
Firmly. Very firmly.
Castiel hugged like he was afraid the universe might try to take you back if he didnât hold on hard enough. His arms circled you fully, broad and unyielding, your cheek pressed against his chest, your nose filled with the familiar scent of old fabric and ozone.
And then-
Crack.
The sound echoed far louder than it had any right to. Your back popped sharply, the kind of deep, sudden release that shot straight through your spine and left you blinking.
âOh-â you gasped. Castiel froze. His arms loosened instantly, hands hovering at your back like he was afraid to touch you again. His grace flared, panicked and uncontrolled, eyes wide with something dangerously close to terror.
âI have injured youâ he said, horrified. You blinked up at him. âWhat?â
âThere was a soundâ he said urgently. âYour skeletal structure made a sound.â You stared at him for half a second. Then you laughed. âItâs fineâ you said, rolling your shoulders experimentally. âYou just cracked my back.â
Cas looked like youâd just told him gravity was optional. âI what?â
âCracked my backâ you repeated, smiling. âLike- people pay money for that.â
âYou are not broken?â he asked, voice tight.
âNope.â
âYou are not paralysed.â
âNo.â
âYou do not require immediate medical attention.â
âCasâ you said gently, reaching for his sleeve, âI actually feel better.â
He scanned you anyway eyes flicking over you, grace brushing your spine, searching for fractures, dislocations, catastrophic failure. He looked so distressed you almost felt bad for laughing.
Almost.
âI misjudged my strengthâ he said, still shaken. âI should have been more careful. Human spines are⊠alarmingly fragile.â
âThey really arenâtâ you said fondly. âYou just gave me the best stretch Iâve had all week.â
âYou would allow this again?â he asked cautiously. You grinned. âMaybe with a warning.â He considered this very seriously, then nodded.
You stepped closer again, deliberately this time, fitting yourself back into his space. Castiel hesitated for only a moment before wrapping his arms around you once more gentler now, but still warm and sure.
âThis is acceptable pressure?â he asked quietly, âPerfectâ you murmured, cheek resting against his chest. He relaxed, chin dipping slightly until it rested against your hair.
âI am relievedâ he admitted. âThe thought of harming you was⊠intolerable.â Your hand slid into the fabric of his coat, fingers curling there. âIâm okay. Promise.â
He held you for a long moment after that, unmoving, careful but still holding on like he meant it. Just not quite tightly enough to break you this time.
is anyone else annoyed that "ai" encompasses both chatgpt and tools we train to do repetitive tedious work for us. and by the ripple effect of articles like "scientists develop ai to detect cancer early" that make people argue for the merit of chatgpt or become anti-medicine. and by the general state of the world and society
I think some of them are known to be kinda challenging (aka Dostoyevsky) but im sure ull be fine LOL . Also wasnt expecting a Nick Joaquin there, u should also read stuff by Arcellana and NVM Gonzales
Summary: A sympathizer of Les Amis de lâABC witnesses their courage and their eventual fall.
A/N: For the first time since joining the Les Mis fandom, I've never seen a much more relevant piece of media. Compounded with me watching the musical last Feb, a lot of shitty things that have been happening worldwide, and an incident that had hit too close to home, I thought I'd make a piece that was a fanfic as well just in time for Barricade Day. ANW SERIOUS A/N OVER. ENGLISH IS NOT MY FIRST LANGUAGE AND I TRIED TO MAKE IT AS HISTORICALLY ACCURATE AS POSSIBLE. ALSO MY FIRST TIME MAKING A GENDER NEUTRAL CHARACTER, SO PLS BE NICE. STICK TIL THE END FOR ANOTHER A/N. HAPPY READING! :D
No one in Paris could deny the brutal contrast between the lowest members of the highest members of French society. From the streets to the estates; from the rags to the frills and lace; from the scraps to the buffets. It was a comparison that the rich took with snobbish pride and the poor with longing and sometimes contempt. But both wanted more. The rich wanted more, a kind of want that they had and hoarded everything they need and didnâtâa kind of want where they were never satisfied even if they already had their fill. And the poor wanted more too, a kind of want that theyâd do anything to get anything and everything they neededâa kind of want where getting scraps was never enough, but was almost always had to be.
And then those who were stuck in between. They had neither the streets nor the estates; neither the rags nor the frills and lace; and neither the scraps nor the buffets. They were stable, but only just. One misstep, and theyâd lose everything.Â
But many, at some point, have drowned in the noise of their lives. Some have become too content in their marble estates that theyâve been taught not to see the troubles beyond its walls. Some have lost hope that their lives would ever change, living their last days with their begs and pleas falling upon deaf ears. And some have become indifferent in their barely-stable life, learning that demanding the more that they need was futile.
How could they not? When the government was much more bothered catering to the whims of the rich and powerful and ignoring the needs of the masses. How could they not, when a laborer would beg for scraps, the government would laugh, and he would be left to die? How could they not, when the rich stole for their fancy, they got a slap on the wrist; but when the poor stole food for their children, they were sentenced to imprisonment? How could they not, when merely speaking up for what was right, was returned with being silenced? The world they lived in was miserable; sickness spread like rats, hunger dominated the streets, and polluted water breached every crevice of Paris. The decline of their society and economy was all of the making of the government, who blamed the people for Franceâs misfortunes.
And yet, hope remained in the people who questioned. Questioned the state of society. Questioned the government. Questioned the policies that kept the poor poor and the rich rich. Questioned why people, who were suffering just as many others, were blind to the truth. Les Amis de lâABC, they were called. The Friends of the ABC. Friends of the lowly.
They held meetings. They held rallies. They gave pamphlets and speeches to educate people of the deteriorating state of their society and their lives. They urged people to join themâa call to change the course of their pitiful lives. Most importantly, they gave the people something to hold onto.
And thus, they were the catalyst for many.
A figure in faded red stood in the sea of people who had gathered to listen to Enjolras, student-leader of Les Amis de lâABC, speak at their rally. The figure strained their neck to catch a glimpse of him, with hair as bright as his mind. He spoke clearly, his message powerful; he spoke of policies and theories and power and stratification, but he did not speak in a way a book would. Despite his obviously educated background, he spoke for the people by speaking in their language, and not the language of textbooks or universities.Â
And so the figure stood in rapt attention. It was a waste of time, their family would tell them. Why would they care, when they were not begging for scraps or living in the streets? The people in their family had jobs, food, and a roof over their heads, what more could they want? Why should they concern themselves with the plight of others? Why would they care, even if one delayed wage could end them all?
But the figure in faded red was intrigued, yet they could not be there for every rally. They could not read every pamphlet or listen to every speech. Sometimes, when out on errands, they would listen to snippets of speeches. They would have brief encounters with some of the student-membersâa short chat during the distribution of pamphlets led them to learn that Feuilly was the only workingman, but was struggling to make ends meet; or that an invitation to join them at the Cafe Musain would lead them to discovering the eloquent Combeferre was a surgeon. The members of the Amis then seemed more human than ever before.
Despite being intrigued, they found themselves declining unless it was utterly convenient for them. A knot of guilt would form in their gut, knowing that these students have been balancing their fight for a Republic with the other facets of their life. They would not join a rally, unless they had the time, and they so happened to be there already. They would not accept a pamphlet, unless they could hide it from their family or had time to read it. But their eyes and mind had never shut again, and the spark of intrigued never dimmed but also never grew.
But in every rally that they could catch, every speech that they could listen to, they would always think, âEnjolras would make a good leader of the Republic someday. He has my support now and in the future.â
They and their family lived in Place Saint-Michel, near the Cafe Musain. It was not uncommon to see the students passing by, especially in the chilly breeze of the evening and in the biting cold of midnight. They would greet the students, sometimes, when they would cross paths on the streets. Sometimes, they would lean out on their window of their flat and tend to their budding red poppies, while watching the lively students walk the street. Oftentimes, the students would carry nothing but themselves, with the occasional stack of pamphlets to be distributed to the people. But tonight, the street was filled with people. The students carried muskets and weapons, and they called upon the people, and the people answered. It was loud. There no grand speeches, only the excited shouts of a bright future right on their fingertips. The smell of gunpowder wafted through the cold night. Tonight, the streets were red with the flags of the revolution and the Republic.
And as the students led the people on the march in the street, as the flag of France and the revolution were waved down there and in the windows of the people, our figure watched with awe. They did not join, however, merely watching from above. They understood and believed in the studentsâ cause, but they remained in their spot by their window, surrounded by the buds of their red poppies.
The following day was the funeral of General Lamarque. It was a public event, as were all funerals of great men of the government; the people were almost required to attend. They went with their family, once again wearing faded red. Under the shadow of the Elephant of the Bastille, they squeezed in the crowd of mourners. Up front, they could see Enjolras in his blood red coat. And as the carriage carrying the casket passed them, the student-leader in blood red surged forward to wave a flag that looked as if it were made from the same cloth as his coat.
As the other students and workers surged and seized control of the carriage, banners and flags of red and the Republic flew ablaze in the wind. The orderly line that the National Guard wanted broke, the dam breaking to release the sea of people demanding for better and for more. A cacophony of âVive la France!â and âVive General Lamarque!â resounded from the people. Then angry shouts and gunshots started to mix; the National Guard had started firing and tried to rein in the crowd.
Their family took them and retreated back to their flat at Place Saint-Michel. Their family did not want to be associated with them, âunnecessary rabble. Created nothing but trouble for everyone. Shouldâve stuck to mourning the dead. Weâll be safe here, away from it all.â
Their heart thumped heavily in their chest, as if it were bashing against the ribcage, demanding to be set loose. They sat on a chair, their mind trying to wrap around what had just happen, when they heard the angry shouts and urgent commands and the faint smell of gunpowder. They looked out their window to see that the rabble rousers have arrived. The cobblestone street was replaced by the heads of people escaping the gunfire and moving towards a new dawn. Change waited for no one, they realized.
Soon, the students moved into the surrounding buildings, houses, and establishments. They took any and whatever pieces of furniture they could find, dragging them towards just outside the Cafe Musain; chairs, tables, benches, even an old piano was not spared. Some of their neighbors were generous enough to throw down their own pieces of furnitures before the students could even ask. They were starting to pile high outside the Cafe, an amalgamation of the studentsâ vision and the peopleâs support. A barricade to safeguard the future Republic.
Without warning, the door to their apartment burst open. Their family screamed in shock as the students apologized while taking some chairs and a table. But they themselves showed no resistance at all. They glanced at their family, who were fighting with the students for the furniture, and made no move to help or resist. Enjolras then stepped forward, reaching towards the chair they had sat on. Their breathing became labored; would they help these people, who have now obviously turned themselves into criminals for the people, or would they do nothing, and distance themselves from a fight that they thought wasnât theirs?
When they did nothing, Enjolras got the chair and held it with reverence, as if it were a holy relic rather than a simple sitting tool. With a kind âthank youâ, and armful of wooden furnitures, the students left. A hole was left somewhere deep within them, too. It was as if something that should be inside them didnât exist. They wanted to run down and join the students on the barricades, but what good would that do? What did they hope to achieve? So they did nothing.
The remaining hours seemed to pass by in such a painstaking speed. They and their family dared not to venture out in fear of getting shot or involuntarily thrown into the mess. God forbid they and their family be mistaken as part of the insurrectionists. So they stayed still. It wasnât until the first round of gunfire did the family move. They took cover in whatever remaining furniture or features they had in the flat. Our figure stayed away from the window where their red poppies were, leaning instead against the wall farthest from the barricades. Their hands flew over their ears as the bang bang bang of guns rang out. Their ears felt like imploding. Their heart pounded in rhythm with the sound of gunfire, their heart and guns outside were in such harmony, they felt as if they were being shot as well.
BANG! THUMP!
BANG BANG! THUMP THUMP!
As the gunfire ceased, they slumped against the wall. They felt as if they had been the one out there fighting. Should they go down and help their wounded? Perhaps not, it was still risky even if the fighting had paused.
And as their heartâs pace slowed down, their eyes drooped as well. The world turned dark and quiet.
BOOM!
They were once again awoken by a deep and heavy sound. As they heard it, the very floorboards and their being seemed to tremble in tandem. Their heart started thumping rapidly again as the gunshots resounded once more. They crawled towards the window with the budding red poppies and gazed down below.
They could barely see. In the flashes of guns and cannons, they could see vague figures on the ground, unmoving. Some were of the National Guards but many were students. Some they recognized. In the flashes of guns and cannons, they could vaguely spot outlines of figures running to the nearby houses and buildings.
âHELP!â
If it was possible, they jolted and froze at the same time.
BAM BAM BAM! âLET US IN! PLEASE!â
They stared down. The barricade had fallen, and students were fleeing and seeking refuge from the very people who had given them support.
Should they let the students in?
Perhaps not. After all, the Amis had many supporters. Surely, many of them would help the students.
They withdrew from the window and returned to their wall. They covered their ears once more, drowning out the sounds of the fight and the pleas of the students. Their eyes were tightly shut, blocking out the sights of the bodies on the street and the students pounding on the doors. And their heart thumped rhythmically along with the gunshots, closing themselves to the very people trying to fight for more doors to open for the citizens of France. In their huddled state, safe in their flat, they did not see the people of Paris turning their backs on those that fought for them.
As the pleas of the students were silenced, as the sounds of the cannons halted, as the crying stopped, as the gunfire ceased, their heart slowed.
Thump thump thumpâŠ
Thump thumpâŠ
ThumpâŠ
ThumpâŠ
With their eyes closed tight, they saw nothing but darkness, nothing different from the world outside. They fell into a restless slumber, the dark in front of their eyes occasionally flashing with blood red shapes.
They awoke the next morning to the quiet of the outside. Their family was bustling about, bringing in the chairs and table that the students had borrowed yesterday. The pieces of furniture were mostly damaged but still useful after theyâve been fixed.
The bright ray of sun caught their eyes, so they walked towards the window to close it. Instead, they found themselves stunned. Their red poppies had bloomed into vivid, strong, petals of red. And below in the street, was a sea of red. Not of flags or banners or even clothes. It was the red of the students, a glaring dark crimson puddle of their sacrifice. And somehow, the figure looking down felt the red drain from their face. They felt a nasty, cold and biting shiver crawl down their spine. They watched as the red of the streets was being washed by the grey of contaminated water as people started scrubbing the quiet cobblestone street of Place Saint-Michel. And so, our figure in faded red took a pair of scissors and gently cut the red poppies from their stems.
They went out in the streets, ignoring the women cleaning them and ignoring the men of the National Guard lingering about. Their nose scrunched up with the nasty mix of smells, but they forced themself onwards. They walked the short distance to the Cafe Musain.
No lively banter.
No heated debates.
No smell of food.
In front were bloodied figures of men. They were lined up, but not one in front of the other as if awaiting trial; they were lined up on the ground, side by side. Enjolras was the first in line, as he always had been for them. His blood red coat stood up amongst the others, but blended well with their wounds.
They knelt down in front of the fair-headed student-leader first. They reverently placed a red poppy on his chest, as if it were a holy relic that would save his soul instead of a simple flower.
For Enjolras, the law student.
And one by one, they knelt down for the rest of the fallen members of Les Amis de lâABC.
For Combeferre, the surgeon.
For Courfeyrac, the center.
For Feuilly, the workingman.
For Joly, the medical student.
For Lesgle, the man with the eternal smile.
For Bahorel, the witty gentleman.
For Prouvaire, the poet.
For Gavroche, the little boy who found his family with the students.
And for Grantaire, the cynic and critic who stood with Enjolras to the very end.
They did not return home. Instead, they went to the nearest and cheapest bookstore they could find. They recalled the thinkers Enjolras would cite, and pulled out all the books that they could find.
They spent the rest of their life reading. Learning. Making up for what they should have done for the students.
And so in 1848, they fought in the Revolution, helping to establish the Second Republic. The monarchy was gone, and the people were given hope. But they hadnât only fought for the current and future citizens of France, but they also fought for the martyrs of the past that were failed by the people they fought for.
Today, perhaps this story may resonate with some of us. Some of us may have been through similar experiences. When those who have sworn to serve and protect its people start to fail, be aware, and do not remain blind in your comfort. Must we wait for someone to give their life to start fighting for the safety and the needs we are obliged?
~~~
A/N: I hope yall caught the red poppies thing (and i hope i interpreted and used the meaning/symbolism properly đ)
Old art from 2021, dragging it out of the archives for a new Barricade Day.
This is an AU in which Grantaire wakes up just a little too late. He stumbles into the room just in time to see Enjolras shot. It is too much for him to bear in the moment and he collapses, the guards mistaking him for dead. As the sun finally rises, he wakes once more. He drags Enjolras back in from the window, desperately hoping the man survived somehow. Refusing to face the fact that his one source of light is gone.
As he falls to the floor, clutching Enjolras in his lap, he sings a very somber reprise of âOn My Own.â It ends with âI love himâŠ.I love himâŠI loved himâŠâ before the final line is just him breaking down into sobs.
Not entirely sure what this is, it started with blackout poetry for the conversation between Joly/Grantaire/Lesgle on June 5 and evolved from there. I knew I wanted to do a piece that centred Joly, because I connect with him so much as someone with anxiety and OCD, especially in the hygiene/health realm.
