🧪 | ecto's writing comms (OPEN)

- By commissioning me to author a work, you accept the following conditions! Breaking my terms will lead me to ban you from commissioning me in the future. :(

1. Upon accepting a commission, you will pay in full upfront. I will complete your commission within the specified time frame for each option. If I fail to do so or need to cancel your commission, you will receive a full refund. You will not receive a refund if the order has already been confirmed and started and you request a refund. 

2. I have the right to refuse any commission and will do so if I feel I am unable to do your request justice or if I am uncomfortable with the topic. 

3. My TAT ranges depending on the length of the commission and my real-life circumstances. For works under 3k words, it will be up to 1 month. For works over 3k words, it will be up to 1.5 months. For multi-chaptered works, TAT can reach up to several months. I will keep you updated throughout the entire process! If I need to extend the TAT past these dates, I will let you know and potentially give you a discount as compensation depending on the severity.

4. My preferred method of communication is through Discord (gravelab). If this is not possible, TH will do just fine!

5. I will send the finished work however you'd prefer, but if unspecified, I will send it in a Microsoft Word document (.docx) and/or a PDF file. 

6. If I happen to write over the specified word count, there will be no extra charge to you.

7. I will send you multiple updates throughout the process. You are completely allowed to request me to adjust/add/remove anything you'd like. I will send you a final draft before polishing things up (formatting, word usage, etc) and sending you the finished document. 

8. My writing is very narrative-based. I tend not to do a whole lot of detailed dialogue between characters, so keep that in mind if you're looking for something with a ton of verbal character interaction. My style leans much more toward the detailed explanation of feelings and emotions rather than spoken words. That being said, I can still totally do dialogue! I just don't include as much of it as a "normal" piece of fiction would, as observed in my examples. 

9. Wherever you post the finished work, don't forget to credit me :D my TH (ectoplasmic) or my discord (gravelab) suffices!

10. If you would prefer me not to share the finished work as an example in the future, please specify :)

I WILL do:

- Any POV (first, second, third)

- Romance/ships 

- F/F, M/M, M/F, etc

- OCs

- X readers

- Humans/humanoids/maaayybe anthros

- Canon characters (entirely depending on my familiarity with the media- feel free to ask; if it doesn't require any background knowledge, then it's fine!)

- Most genres! My personal favorites to write include historical fiction (19th-Century England/Victorian era), horror, and romance!

- Blood/gore/violence

- Angst, fluff, generally any tag of the sort and the in-betweens (I really enjoy writing angst and emotional scenes)

- Suggestive content (buyer must provide proof of being 18 or older)

I WON'T do:

- Explicit NSFW 

- Anything involving real-life people/creators (example: mcyt)

- The general "wont-do" criteria (hateful, harmful, etc)

- Heavily world-based/lore-based sci-fi or fantasy (if it happens to be D&D-based and you have a summary of your world information, then I will consider!)

- Anything that requires extended research on my behalf (EXCLUDING historical fiction; I LOVE researching in that circumstance)

- If you have any questions regarding pricing, feel free to ask! :)

- I am up to doing negotiable discounts if you are requesting multiple works or if your total exceeds $100

- Payments are to be made upfront through Cashapp or Paypal

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LETTER (300 words) - $12 (ex: mock-handwritten letter from character to character/reader)

ONESHOT (500 words) - $18

ONESHOT (2k words) - $35

ONESHOT (3k words) - $45

CHAPTERED WORK (10k words/3 chapters) - $100

CHAPTERED WORK (15k words/5 chapters) - $150

returning customers receive a 15% discount on every new purchase <3

Air afloat with the stinging scent of rain and soil, my body gave way to the arms of death, and she was ravishing. Death was poetry: drowned ghosts murmuring tragically beautiful metaphors into my ears as I dissolved into darkness. The water beneath me ran cold with the ruinous spring storm and soaked into my dress, anchoring me further into my deathbed as if I was truly meant to be there. Ravens and crows that watched did not dare speak a word to one another. Death was not forgiving when spoken over.

I did not realize I was choking until my lungs began to burn with the cold river’s fire. Death held me gently in her cradling embrace, whispering to me. I repeated, “I will die for her. I will die for her.” The words circulated through my blood, which soon was swallowed by moonlight. I felt the delicate graze of teeth against my flesh, but they did not puncture. They were hesitant and reluctant; unspoken words dripped from their looming pointed edges and died against my neck. They were laced with a venomous ink, swimming with tears and river water.

“Must I do this to you, my love? Must I hurt you so?” Annette’s faltering remarks were audible only to the ones who wanted to listen. She wept often—for the miseries of this world were much to accept—but I was a devastating disaster that she would not bury without her own sea of salt.

Annette worried about hurting me, but all I yearned for was to be hurt by her. To be ripped, mauled, scratched, and bitten by her. I wanted her to hurt me because that is what I knew of love’s affection. I am only real when I am bleeding, and I wanted nothing more than to be made real by Annette as my blood painted her ghost skin. Nightly, I dreamed of her fingers set against my jawbone, weaving and drawing through tendons until they sent jagged cracks through pearlescent bone. The aching desire to feel her teeth against my wrists and hear my name on her metallic tongue was fierce. She would know me in the most intimate of ways. I ached for her to strip my skeleton of nerves with soft hands so that I would no longer feel so intensely and so violently.

It proved to be a struggle to choke out any words. “I remain flesh, Annette. I will heal,” I managed to cough. I could not breathe when her fangs pierced my veins moments later, my last gasps of air expelled in a sharp exhale. A trickle of warmth spilled from my throat and dripped across my ice-cold, starving skin. Separate layers of life. It stung incomparable to all and I could feel her hands constrict around my body in devastation with every second I was still conscious, nails digging into skin. It was the closest we had ever been in proximity to one another; her watery dress draped over my body like a tapestry, her lips stained and jaws full of my crimson blood.

Despite having had him beside you the entire time you'd been trapped in The Constant, even being close to Wilson felt like pulling teeth and looking at the bloody aftermath: a mess of illogical emotions and thoughts.

There were times when you felt as if you were going to die when you accidentally brushed against him while gathering firewood or met his tired eyes at any given point. There was something so bewitching about him, but you could never put your finger on exactly what it was. He was like no other and withheld an exposed nature nearly tangible; his typically gentle disposition was plagued with scientific inquisitiveness and curiosity that sparked such riveting endeavors and sidetracked adventures. With a sense of humor so strange but clever, you could never stop thinking about him. In a way, Wilson made the horrors of The Constant bearable, and if anything, almost pleasant. Every time you ran in fear from aggressive terrors or began to see shadows in your peripheral vision, Wilson had been there to aid you.

It was the sixth month anniversary since your fated, unlucky arrival in The Constant. Or, at least, that's how long it had been as time passed strangely in a realm as such. Wilson had been the first living person you'd met, and since then, you clung to each other like honey and spiderwebs for reasons uncertain. You were lucky enough to befriend someone who was somewhat okay at surviving, unlike a handful of other survivors who had frequent encounters with the Florid Postern.

The first—and so far only—time you had died was but an inexcusable trauma to Wilson. Despite being very well aware that death was not permanent in most circumstances within such an unorthodox and horrid world, he had convinced himself you were gone for good. You were without a touchstone for the length of a single day, and during that eerie day floating about, you simply followed Wilson around as a ghost. Long ago, you came to the conclusion that he did not fully realize you were there.

Someone like Wilson did not easily or often outwardly show such delicate emotions. You had never seen him cry before your death. To see Wilson mourn and wet his palms with tears by the glowing and diminishing heat of a fire rather than spend his night drawing up blueprints or messing around with his machines was enough to send you searching endlessly for a touchstone. It was evident that if you hadn't, a shadow creature would have brought him to meet you in the realm of the dead in due time. After your return, a sea of materials for meat effigies had been thrown your way by none other than a tense Wilson.

As the weeks went on and you showed the most vulnerable parts of one another to each other whilst trying to merely survive, your immense feelings for Wilson grew like wildfire. There were diminutive things about him that you adored and knew that Wilson never even acknowledged with emphases about himself, such as the particular way he treated his hair or the formal manner in which he spoke. He offered you kindness and companionship when he did not have to, and considering the way he interacted with everyone else, he held you closest to his homesick heart. Never once had he offered them as much food or shelter as he had you.

You had never expressed your tormenting internal feelings about Wilson. Neither of you enjoyed confrontation and you both lacked proficient social skills; cues were rarely observed and you both were fearful of rejection. You were aware that Wilson was a self-proclaimed "Man of Science" and dedicated most every waking moment to such exertions. It felt like you were on the brink of insanity every time you figured he would choose science over you in an instant.

Emotional suppression was something Wilson was familiar with. Having lived a lonesome life in his home lab and then being lured by false pretense into The Constant to live but an even more treacherous lonesome life, it felt like retribution to truly feel. It was a punishment to feel happy if he felt he did not deserve it. It was a punishment to experience longing if it was not reciprocated, and to Wilson, there was no reason you would ever in your right mind return his feelings towards you. He could not love you without reciprocation. He could not admire you in silence his entire life, it was too much a discipline. He was a gangly, self-absorbed "scientist" that couldn't even finish school, and you were more charming than the pearlescent glimmer of varied chemicals or the smooth and frigid feeling of glass beakers.

You unknowingly cherished one another with the light of a thousand stars, burning passionately in the expanse of the never-ending universe of ample adoration.

A decision was made upon the discovery of erratically scattered notes littering Wilson's area of the base. You felt guilty for reading them because it was clear they were not meant to be scattered and definitely were not meant for your eyes, but your right mind was overrun with interest once you saw your name scrawled from feathered pen to paper. The letters were formatted comparable to his frequent field notes of ongoing experiments and discoveries, so you wouldn't have noticed if you did not read further. The words that followed struck you like the most piercing of Cupid's arrows. Worded so professionally yet delicately and dripping with faint and quiet fervency, the notes were poetic confessions of love and esteem. You had also noticed the faded crease lines in the paper, suggesting that he had crumpled them up time and time again, but could not live with himself knowing he kept trying to discard his feelings for you. You nearly could not believe your own eyes as you read the notes over multiple times, your heart pumping and hands shaking in stunned incredulity.

You then had a reason to tell him you loved him.

On the night that marked a half-year of being bounded to the spindly grip of The Constant, the stars aligned perfectly. It was a full moon, so not many stars were easily visible through the drowning light of the moon, but the brightest shone the most radiant and that was enough for the both of you: the two most obsessive over the unknown and captivating in The Constant.

The brilliance of the moon washed out any dangers lurking in the shadows and allowed you to explore freely without the fear of leaving Wilson behind again, or anyone behind in general. All of your friends were dying, some more frequently and nearing permanence than others, therefore any circumstance that took your mind off the inevitable was desirable. Once they began to disappear for good, small moments would no longer hone any significance. Without meaningful relationships in an unforgiving world, there was no point in trying.

You and Wilson raced out into a birchnut tree-lined field full of bestrewn flowers illuminated with a shining pale blue glow that reminded you of the Lunar Island. The autumn forests were beautiful during the day, but they were even lovelier in the dim light of a moonlit sky, and what was even lovelier than such scenery was being able to enjoy it with Wilson by your side. 

Dropping to the feathery grass, you sprawled out and felt your heartbeat sink into the earth, if that's what you could even call it. You had no idea where you truly were, and it became difficult to think about often. Nevertheless, basking in the comfort of Wilson's presence was enough to remind you that it was worth it to continue, regardless of the constant dangers and fears that you were daily presented with. Nothing lasted forever, and some things were not meant to be, but you believed deep in your heart that meeting Wilson was meant to be. It did, however, hurt to accept that forever was not a reality, and that is why you decided to finally admit to him that someone saw him in such a way incomparable to the most reputable and gently crafted poetry of the gods and star-crossed lovers.

You looked to the moon for guidance and conviction, but all confidence was stripped from you upon turning to look at Wilson's nervous face, picking at the grass with trembling gloved fingers and weaving the blades together. He had no idea how perfect he was in your eyes.

Silence ensued, but it did not worry you. The two of you enjoyed the silence and often sat in its warmth for hours at a time, just the two of you and the pleasant scent of the campfire. It was enough to mutually recognize that you appreciated each other's company and that verbality was not a requirement. However, in a case such as confessing devotion, verbality was recommended, but you had no idea how to go about it. Instead of pondering and carefully selecting words that would show leaps and bounds of unadulterated adoration and respect that you would likely stumble and falter over, a few simple words were enough to get the point across.

Swimming in moonlight, blanketed under faded stars, the deepest part of your heart and head escaped you."I think I love you."You didn't think, you knew. But somehow, the suggestion that you had thought about it for longer than you could remember was more tantalizing than a sudden decision and predisposition to love. It meant more.

Wilson immediately jerked his head towards you, his grass crafts swept from his mind with much intensity. Eyes widened with shock, he uttered, "What did you say?" He did not trust his own ears. Wilson had grown so accustomed to the baits and ploys of The Constant that he found it nearly impossible for you to love him in the same way that he loved you without any strings attached.

"I said I love you. More than literally anything," you laughed towards the end of your sentence, turning your gaze back to the sky to avoid losing track of your thoughts by looking into Wilson's eyes. You couldn't bare to look at him; it felt as if you were melting and meeting his stare would send you over the edge.

Instead of responding, Wilson, still with wide eyes, let himself fall back into the grass beside you and go completely silent. He was in utter disbelief and truly could not choose words that would convey his emotions. Wilson, typically very proficient with his words, then stuttered any time he tried to speak a single word. Seeing him out of the corner of your eye in such a state was amusing. Acknowledging that he was not great with emotional responses, you held your hand out to him, to which he grabbed instantly with vigor, but his grip soon loosened into a soft embrace.

After nearly five minutes of listening to the comforting noises of the evening, Wilson finally spoke. "You're not playing a joke on me... correct?" After a lifetime of disappointments, such an event was unheard of in possibility.

You tightened your grip on his shaking hand in an attempt to calm him. "I love you. I mean it," you whispered, turning towards him to make sure he believed you. "Eventually, something is going to happen," you paused, cursing yourself for considering existentialism during such a moment, "but I want to be with you when it does. I can't even think about going another moment without you knowing how I treasure you and also knowing I could lose you before you know just to what extent I love you. Do you get it yet? I love you."Assuring Wilson that your feelings were sincere and that you had found fondness in a person like him in which he felt so unlovable, his fears had finally been diminished. He loved you, and you loved him.

After calming down from racing hearts and butterfly-infested stomachs, the two of you fell asleep in the flowery birchnut field in the comfort of one another's affectionate embrace and tender, trusting love.

To accept the bitterness of this existence is to be shredded by sharpened teeth in the most beautiful of ways; canines dripping with stardust and letting the remnants of one’s self be sewn back together by unfamiliar, gentle hands that do not feed, that do not thrash or strike, but that embrace.

I fought her embrace because I knew nothing more than lonely grief made worse by isolation. A frightened creature runs toward that which is familiar, regardless of its inherent nature or what path might be better. Whether I wanted it to or not, my mind forever resided within the riverbed that I died in. The white patches of grass where the moonlight melted through the blackened wet branches was all I could see when I closed my eyes. It was no curse like I had once tricked myself into believing.  

Born with a pervasive melancholy in a world that could only be described as grim leads one to search for comfort in every corner, and oh, how I searched endlessly and without rest. I allowed myself to be swallowed whole by darkness because it offered a falsely comforting hand. Swimming in shallow quietness quickly turned to drowning in the depths of an empty world that held little interest in saving a soul that was not malleable enough to change.

 I looked upon my empty world with pungent disdain yet I wrote endlessly about my love for what it offered to everyone but me. No words formed in the minds and mouths of humankind could string together a meaning so profound enough to portray the feelings I experienced upon my first meeting with life and death herself. She pulled me from darkness into everlasting light, licking my bloodied teeth clean and repeating to me that the world did love me; my own sickened mind was only deceitful and blurred by the tears I so often wept. She repeated it over and over until I believed her. I only did so eventually because she grew to become the definition of my mattering world.

I no longer suffered sick feelings with indiscernible roots or the dull desire to do absolutely nothing at all. My mistrust towards humankind was ascertained in senses that only benefited me. It was made clear to me that I had only associated myself with those who wished to bury me. It was not my fault that our species was—and certainly always would be—unkind to those unlike the majority.

My living-unliving cure-all did not come in the form of a tinted bottle. She was a creature of the clouds and breathed light into everything she touched as such. Sometimes, that is all it takes.

───

Beginnings are not always pleasant. My beginning rests in the past so far away that I could not ever hope to tether it to permanent remembrance. For what reason I was destined to feel every stab of pain in the world, I remain unsure.

I would lay upon the ground and feel it breathe back against my ribs, weaving blades of grass between my fingers, knowing I did not belong. I wondered for how long my breath would graze the air or how many dying years it would take before I was returned to the Earth and would feel the dirt embrace me back. The dirt would not ostracize me as humans would. It would press against my bones, eating away at my suffering until I was clean once more.

Arms outstretched, I was reminded over and over that I was alive. Despite how often and how powerfully I did not want to be, I was alive. I closed my eyes tight and watered the Earth; it was nearly an apology for thinking so pessimistically. I pondered daily what a strange thing it meant to be alive in general. How lucky we were to be alive. How unlucky I was to be born so aware of it all.

In a never-ending expanse of stars, I was cognizant that nothing truly mattered. I would live and then I would die, my memory fizzling in the minds of the few that regarded me. Rather than fear death and its consequences, I took comfort in the looming inevitability of nothingness. In spite of such acceptance, my nothingness was only temporary.

Before my view on life had changed in the glistening arms of death, I was admittedly very hostile towards the things I held no power over. It felt like a weeping gash not to be listened to despite shrilly screaming my lungs red and raw. The world’s inhabitants were not fair, especially toward people like me, and I was bitter that my efforts held little effect and likely never would. Impatiently, I awaited instant change and was unwilling to let time allow such a flower to bloom. Anger, I fed it. I did not possess enough tranquility.   

However, upon meeting Annette, what I once viewed nihilistically had begun to glitter with meaning and purpose. My world had been washed over like the sea and the rock-hard shell of my insensibility had been eroded away by her affectionate words.

Annette Amaranth melted me like the sun on morning frost and never again was I resentful towards my existence. My desire to leave it behind in scorn and give up on my orbiting ambitions had dissipated in the chilled hands of a beauty greater than any supposed higher being. If I had met my planned self-inflicted end and given myself to the worms, I would have never heard her euphonic voice read my poetry aloud, granting it more purpose than I ever had by simply writing it.

I had loved and been loved prior, but never had I felt before what I did upon looking at Annette. Her gentleness dripped into my own soul and like blood seeping into fabric, she stained me for eternity with appreciative thoughtfulness. I adored Annette Amaranth and I remain still shouting to the skies about her. The stars listen intently.

───

We first became acquainted during my second year of university. The year was 1880 and the prospect of a woman receiving an extended education was new, and unfortunately, rather looked down upon.

To birth and nurture was the defined nature of women. My nature was to feel deeply and question everything. I, Helena E. Bishop, was not to be chained to maternal burdens and expectations. I hungered to learn and be seen in a light brighter and positively incomparable to the arrogant men that wrote the rules I never intended to follow.

Dismissed by men often, the urge to bury them with my own intellectuality drove me to flee the bindings of my miserably short future and enroll in one of the first women's universities the world had known.

To suggest that it was the best decision I could have possibly made was a painful understatement, regardless of the remarks my kin made. Not only had I begun to make peace with my own unfortunate tendencies, I met the one person that was determined enough to break down my unhappy barriers and learn to truly love me for who I was and not who I could be or promised to be.

Why such a being chose me to be her object of affection I will never understand, but my gratitude reaches far beyond the eternal seas and meadows that define my reality because of it. I will see them change through the years, dying again and again, and the prospect is rather bittersweet through the eyes of someone who cares a bit too much. I frequently have to remind myself that it is okay to care too much.

───

Winter was my least favorite of the seasons that England experienced. Looking only upon expanses of dreary, colorless landscapes of smoke and brick was detrimental to my already deteriorating well-being. Winter slowed my bones and poisoned my motivation to do absolutely anything. My heart ached with envy when I watched the children outside laugh as they tossed snow at one another. Cursed is the loss of innocent wonder.

Continually frigid weather was unkind to not only my mind, but my body as well. It made me resemble a corpse and gave those who surrounded me a suspicion that I was sickly ill.

Bear-brown hair and sleepy eyes that resembled mud worsened the contrast between my facial features. Small pinpricks covered the bridge of my nose and my shoulders like brown sugar. I did not particularly dislike my face, but it was something I tried not to regard often.

I was told I held the capacity to be pretty and that it would be beneficial if I put effort into my appearance. Whether or not I was viewed as attractive was not something I gave much mind to and it angered me when I was seen only for the potential I would never live up to. I preferred thin petticoats to downy ones and even more scandalously, I enjoyed the outward aesthetic of mourning gowns during times regarded inappropriate and even offensive to wear such a thing. In the workings of my mind, it was perfectly acceptable. I was a being of ever-long mourning—like a blackbird in the confines of a child’s gentle hands. I was promised freedom but my keeper wished to cage me nonetheless.

I did not intend to marry; therefore, attractiveness was the very least of my concerns. A man was not going to be my source of stability, nor would I ever allow one to press me to alter my appearance for his own satisfaction or to uphold an incredibly shallow status and force my hand to shine a brighter light on him. My refusal to wed turned me into an outcast. I decided after some time that I preferred that, anyway.

On a frightfully cold Monday morning in the midst of January, my appearance was especially sickly looking and my attitude was equally pessimistic. Appearing unapproachable was sometimes a fine quality, extremely so when the day already felt like a heavy burden. I could brace the nauseating stares but it was far less easy to spit out words I did not want to say.

Snow-plagued mornings were when my hatred and confusion toward the meaning of my existence most trickled into my spoken words and quiet thoughts. For what reason was I given such a horrid consciousness? Why did I feel every thought so strongly? I distracted my brain from my unanswerable self by instead trapping my thoughts within books and various other forms of literature, mostly of philosophical origin.

I had been enrolled at Plume Arbor University for a year prior and the first semester of my second year had just commenced. I was correct in the assumption that I was more than capable of earning a degree just as a man would, even if my degree held less importance simply because I was a woman.

My first year had breezed by in regards to academics and I inched that much closer to obtaining not only certifications but proof that I was more than an incompetent entity made to bear children into a selfish world that would never welcome them.

Regardless, I would never want a child. Silence meant more to me than oxygen and no small human deserved what empty loneliness I endured by inheriting my traits. Even attending a school of kindred spirits did not alleviate my loneliness.

Plume Arbor was a school for women, which meant there were no mannish voices uttering their futile stabs at discouraging me. I chose to believe they were simply frightened that I would be better than they would ever be; I would accomplish far more in less time. I would be remembered and they would not.

Men were worried that permitting a woman to reach her full potential would lead to a society in which they could not control us. It was a frightening reality that I fear will never change. We are the rabbits and they are the wolves in every story and every ending. Tragic, we remain the bearers of blood eternally, regardless of how violently we fight to take the stance of a wolf.

My provocation to educate myself stemmed from the overbearing men that unfortunately inhabited my life. With every morning walk to the intricate doors of Plume Arbor and with every step into the halls and their vaulted ceilings, I felt a twinge stronger in the sense that I was given an opportunity that did not exist in past lives. It was the beginning of something magical. I tasted the promise of strength for once in my life. I felt the pelt of wolf fur against my skin in a sea of rabbits.

However, upon my tiresome eyes meeting those of a loveliness more substantial than I had ever before seen or dreamt of, I felt every ounce of strength bleed from my heart and soul onto the mahogany floors beneath my weakened legs.

I did not notice other beings very often. Eyes glued to the shoes that stuck out from the bottom of my dress was the typical experience traversing the halls of my school. It was strange for my attention to be drawn to someone rather than something. 

Every feature she possessed was just as soft as her mellow voice. She flaunted lamb-colored hair in an intricate yet delicate updo, glistening with flakes of snow not yet melted. Her skin was even paler than my own, but it was far prettier on her than me. With curious eyes like honey on a softly rounded face, I could not urge myself to look anywhere else. She was like gazing upon the most beautiful of Renaissance paintings. She was breathing, bleeding history.

When she spoke, the swirling, cold air seemed to breathe with her and I felt my own breath become caught in my throat. She stood like a slow stream, moving gently and spilling words with the silkiest of voice.

I was not typically one to stare. It would be hypocritical of me to do so when I loathed eyes examining me. Though, what felt like an eternity was spent simply marveling at her. I was filled with overwhelming awe and a compelling desire to be near her.

The woman’s beaming smile lit up her surroundings as she spoke eagerly to two other students which whom I was familiar. I felt envy toward those girls. They spoke to her so easily. I knew even from a distance how brutally I would trip over my words.

I abruptly felt the hurried clash of another person at my side and was thrown back to a harsh reality. My class was to begin any minute and I had been impolitely staring at another student. I felt my cheeks redden and burn with embarrassment as I rushed by her to enter the doors to my class, focusing intently on not stumbling over myself.

A potent floral perfume blanketed me as I passed her and her memory stuck to my every thought for the rest of the day. A woman as such was not particularly forgettable.

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EDITING SERVICE ($10 per 1k words)

- This is for early-stage drafts that need to be looked over and altered! Tracking all my edits, I will correct spelling, word usage, grammar, punctuation, sentence flow, formatting, etc. I will include notes with detailed suggestions for potential sentence rewrites and do a deep dive to locate any general errors to ensure quality. 

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The same points in my TOS apply to these services. I am totally fine with editing NSFW, as well! TAT ranges depending on the length of your work, but I do tend to edit/read faster than I write. I do not have a limit on word count. It'd be best if you're able to send me your document through a Google Doc or a Microsoft Word file! You do not have to credit me anywhere if I edit your work. :)