czenzo

[czenzo]

writing is so funny because i could write nonstop for 9hrs and then hit a block where im like "how do i transition between this moment and the next?" and then i just dont touch it for 6 months

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worlds slowest fanfic author tries really really hard

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It feels like this every time I write a fic

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worlds slowest fanfic author tries really really hard

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me, seeing a fic writer I like in the comments of an random fic

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an old ugly sketch for @czenzo's for "Watch Out for Skull"

(VRYFMI WHAT???? HE DIDN'T TELL ME IT'S FINISHED AND I WAS WAITING FOR IT LIKE A HATIKO)

[czenzo]

first time writing fanfiction of a character : uughh i hope this is all canon accurate... it cant be canon innacurate at all or the enitire fandom will throw rocks at me...

10057th time writing the character: heres them working at a mcdonalds

[czenzo]

writing poorly, cringe-ly, messily, embarrassingly, like a 13 year old, incorrectly, and riddled with grammar mistakes but authentically and with genuine humanity is always going to be infinitely more valuable than even the most technically "perfect" genAI output. hope this helps

[czenzo]

Dear Fandom readers - an etiquette fail

AO3 is not goodreads. It is not the NYT bestseller list.

You paid no money to read these stories. They are, in fact, a labor of love, done on the off time in the off hours of people who are writing for the joy of writing and the joy of the story.

Your ratings are not appreciated. Not by other readers, who don't know you from adam. Not by fandom-savvy passerby.

And not, in fact, by the author. Who again: Wrote this for fun. In their spare time - around work, around family and friend commitments. Around the rest of their lives. Fandom clout almost never "pays off" in any monetary gains, in any form of physical or financial security.

So please stop "rating" us on something we do for joy.

Today, a fellow fanauthor shared this with me. It was not on any story of my own, but they understandably needed a moment to go "wtf" and process it all. With their permission, I now share this with you.

You won't find this comment on AO3 anymore, by the by.

I have... a lot of issues with this. First of all being something that would be a C-grade in any US school system is not a "Good Rating" for most folks, but many of my issues would be the same even in this commenter had rated this a 10/10.

It boils down to this:

Why are you grading us on something we all are here to do solely for fun and personal enjoyment? Why does it have to be good?

Why can't it just be a labor of love and of joy to be good enough for you, dear commenter?

Do I, as a fanauthor, want to write well? Sure! I do want to write good stories. But I didn't ask random readers to grade me on them. Not in bookmarks that I can easily check, and certainly not in my comments section. And I never will want them to. Every author I've talked to agrees. Is there someone out there who might want this? Sure. Most likely, even! The human experience and desires are broad and varied. But in my experience, if they do exist in Fandom, they're the vast minority. So please:

Don't.

[czenzo]

shoutout to the fanfic so fucked up so smutty so particular to canon that it’s impossible to turn into an original novel. when something exists solely for making other fans eat glass. and you can only tell a very particular kind of person at a very particular time in their life about it after reading, creating a unique warrior bond forever

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Fanfic authors are amazing like they could be literally anyone. That one coffee au you read last night? Could have been written by morgan freeman who knows

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loveee reading multiple fics by the same author and seeing little nods and references among them like yes! this is a multiverse to me!!!! i giggle and squeal everytime i catch a reference!!!!!!!!

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Lockwood and co fanfics do Skull a disservice by making him an evil cat instead of a cringy bad boy love interest to Lucy

[czenzo]

Watch Out for Skull – Chapter 7

[ao3] chapter links: [ 1 ] [ 2 ] [ 3 ] [ 4 ] [ 5 ] [ 6 ] [ 7 ]

summary: Lucy takes on a cat-sitting job for a stranger, hoping for a quiet week in a nice London flat, with free food, no bills, and enough time to finish an art commission. But the cat is a menace, and the stranger’s friend is ridiculously charming—and a huge distraction.

words: 2,086 rating: T

note: helloooo!!! I can't apologise enough for taking so long to update, but the final chapter is finally here! thank you to everyone who stuck around and left kudos and comments, I appreciate you all so, so much!! I hope you enjoy this last chapter :)

“Have you seen my sketchbook?”

Skull chirped. Unhelpfully, he stayed put on his armrest perch, needle-like claws digging into pre-existing rips in the fabric as he tracked Lucy with half-lidded eyes.

Lucy straightened, hands resting on her hips. Strewn around her feet were her various belongings, including the backpack she’d packed and then unpacked in search of her sketchbook, which seemed to have grown legs and gone on a bloody hike while she had her back turned.

A yawn crept up on her as Skull meowed and stretched, back arching against the rising sun filtering through the half-open curtains. Morning had arrived alarmingly quickly; after Lockwood left yesterday evening she found herself physically unable to fall asleep on account of replaying their kiss over and over again in her mind, fixating on every detail (the way he tenderly brushed the hair from her eyes, slender fingers gently trailing down her flushing face until he cupped it with his palm, thumb lightly brushing against her cheekbone as if he were painting minute details on a fragile canvas—)

Lucy rubbed her eyes and shook away the redness blooming in her cheeks. “Sketchbook,” she reminded herself, wondering if it was time to get on all fours and desperately search beneath the furniture under Skull’s judgemental watch. For such a little creature, he contained a remarkable amount of scorn.

The creature in question hopped down from the armrest to the seat of the chair, where he cried out and began kneading (i.e. shredding) the fabric even more. Hands flapping, Lucy shooed him off, then found her sketchbook peering out from between between the cushions.

She shot Skull a questioning look. He was too busy licking his backside to notice.

Lucy flipped through the pages and landed on the sketches for her latest work in progress. In the landscape of a familiar park, a boy and a girl ran through autumn leaves towards the nearest tree to clamber up as their parents watched on fondly, knowing they’d soon be huddled up in a cafe sipping hot chocolates. It turned out Lockwood hadn’t been kidding when he said he wanted to commission her; as soon as she declared Kipps’ painting well and truly finished, he immediately hopped first in line for the next one.

She smiled as her gaze lingered on the young boy. His grin needed altering, it wasn’t quite as wide and gleaming as the real thing yet—though she doubted Lockwood would need much convincing to let her study him for the sake of realism.

It didn’t take too long to repack her bags. As she slid her notebook in and pulled the zipper shut, the front door handle turned. Her head whipped around to look at it in sync with Skull, whose nose twitched as he perked up, trotted over to the door, then turned around and feigned disinterest the second George walked through it.

“Lucy,” he said, before unceremoniously dumping an array of bags on the floor. “Hello. Glad to see he didn’t tear you to shreds.”

Skull circled his feet with an attempted air of nonchalance and purred when George gave him a nice big scratch behind the ears, but soon scarpered back to his armrest perch to watch them both from a distance.

“You were right,” Lucy said. “He is annoying. But also irritatingly likeable.”

“That’s the Skull charm. He manages to wrap you around his little paws without you knowing.”

The door swung open once again.

“Lockwood?” Lucy said.

“Lockwood!”

“George!”

They hugged one another tightly. As she watched them greet each other, faces buried in shoulders, Skull head-butted her and coaxed her into giving him more ear scratches.

“I’d introduce you to each other,” George said slowly as he pulled away, “but it seems you’ve already met.”

Lucy thought back to the phone call Lockwood had taken for her while she was having her crisis and winced.

George frowned. “What?”

She took a breath. “There’s something I need to come clean about.”

“Jesus,” said George. “Don’t tell me you slept with—”

“I lost Skull,” she said quickly, ignoring how Lockwood’s eyes widened. “He got out. We spent ages searching for him but he ended up spending a night outside. We—I—lied to you so you wouldn’t worry. I’m sorry. I can’t apologise enough.”

“Oh. I see.” George turned to Lockwood. “Is it true?”

“…Yes. But it was mostly my fault he got out.” He nodded to Skull, who was still head-butting Lucy and demanding affection. “Lucy’s been amazing with him. She was just about ready to spend the whole night on the streets searching for him until I told her to get some rest. Please don’t hold it against her.”

“Oh, I wasn’t going to anyway. Skull’s a nuisance, I’m not surprised he managed to sneak outside. Thank you for the honesty though, Lucy. I appreciate it.”

Lucy’s shoulders slumped. She caught Lockwood’s eye; the look on his face was undoubtedly one of admiration.

Skull let out a quiet whine when she stopped doting on him to gather her things, but the time had finally come for her to leave. She’d only been in this flat with him for a week, but that little shit had made it feel so much longer.

“Is that the painting?” George nodded to the wrapped canvas leaning against the wall.

“It is,” Lucy said. “It’s finally finished. Thanks again for letting me work on it here.”

“Ask her to show it to you,” Lockwood loudly whispered in his ear.

Lucy shot him a look, but complied when George quirked an eyebrow. Upon the reveal he whistled, long and slow. “Wow. Definitely a Kipps painting. Is that an actual slash in the canvas?”

“Yeah,” Lucy said, “I had some help.” She turned the canvas over and pointed to the bottom corner, where, beside her signature, was a paw print. The matching smiles on George and Lockwood’s faces had Lucy wondering, for a split second, whether they were distantly related.

“Well, I should get going. It was good to meet you both. And you,” she added as she turned to Skull, whose tail flickered as he looked up at her with wide eyes. When she crouched, he gently butted her head. “Goodbye, you bastard. You gave me nothing but trouble and I won’t miss you one bit.”

“I have a few more research trips in mind,” George said. “Would you want to do this next time I’m away? No worries if not, of course.”

“Yes,” Lucy said with no hesitation. Lockwood’s hearty laugh had her grinning ear to ear.

–––

Her phone buzzed as she dumped her bags by the doorway in the same fashion as George. She pulled it from her pocket as she shouted a quick greeting to Holly, who was busy in the kitchen. The smell and sizzles, pops, and crackles of bacon and eggs frying in a pan wafted through the hallway and enveloped Lucy in a comforting, familiar embrace; Holly wasn’t one for fried breakfasts, but she knew Lucy craved them on the weekends.

Sitting in front of a picture of Skull curled in her lap, with a fleck of paint on his ear—she’d set it as her lock screen straight after capturing it—was an email notification from a Q. F. Kipps, confirming when he would pick up the painting.

When Lucy emerged into the kitchen, Holly greeted her with a gleaming smile and a plate of steaming hot, perfectly cooked food.

“Holly,” Lucy practically moaned. “I might end up proposing to you.”

“Oh, I’m not sure how Anthony ‘Legs for Days’ Lockwood would feel about that,” Holly said as she slid into the seat next to Lucy. While Lucy unashamedly ravaged her food like she’d been starving for weeks, Holly carefully cut hers into precise chunks and savoured each mouthful—which isn’t to say Lucy wasn’t savouring hers, she was simply doing so at a much faster, well-practised rate.

“Speaking of,” Lucy said between bites, toying with the runny yolk with the point of her knife, “I might be seeing him again tonight.”

Holly’s eyes widened so drastically Lucy could see it in her peripheral vision. “Lucy Carlyle,” she said, slowly. “You continue to surprise me. Please tell me you’re both acknowledging this for what it is—i.e., a Date with a capital D?”

“‘A proper date’, is what he called it. So, yes.”

Holly excitedly waved her hands, her manicured nails trailing blurred purple streaks in the air with the motion. “Yes! Oh, I’m so happy for you. Both of you. You seem like a great match for each other.”

Lucy carried her empty plate to the sink, popping the kettle on along the way. With her back turned, Holly couldn’t see the smitten smile that crept onto her face. “…Yeah.”

“I can hear your blush.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, though her act of nonchalance crumbled as Holly appeared beside her. Lucy took her plate, added it to the suds-filled sink, and ignored Holly’s all-knowing look.

“Do you want a brew?”

“Green tea, please,” said Holly. “With a side of you spilling every little detail about the past week— oh, it’s like you had a trial week of your future! Your own place with a room just for your art, a good-looking guy, a feisty little cat that matches your personality…”

“And no flatmates prying into my love life…”

Holly playfully swatted her. “I just made you a marriage-worthy breakfast, Lucy.”

“You really did,” Lucy agreed. She poured the boiling water into their favourite mugs—Holly’s, purple with a dainty floral pattern, her name written across it in cursive; Lucy’s, ‘Fuck off, I’m painting’, the memory attached to it making her flush all over again. “So, it started when I thought someone was breaking into the flat, and I panicked and used Skull as my first line of defence…”

–––

One cup of tea turned into three as they both delved into the intricacies of their love lives. It was a conversation topic they’d touched on many times before, but Lucy rarely had much to contribute; it was a nice change of pace to have more to spill than Holly. They allowed themselves a lazy day, lounging in front of the TV, Lucy idly sketching while Holly crocheted. When Lucy eventually remembered to check the time, she realised the day had flown by far faster than she’d anticipated.

“Fuck,” she said, jumping up out of her seat (and the blankets that had been cocooning her). “He’ll be here in an hour.”

“You still haven’t unpacked!”

“I know!” Lucy called over her shoulder. She hauled her bags to her room, upheaved their contents on the floor, and realised these clothes were most certainly not “proper date” material. As if on cue, Holly peered around the doorframe.

“If there was ever a time to wear that blue dress you got from a sales rack on a whim last year, it would be now. Also that one necklace I love. And use that eyeliner that really makes your eyes pop. He’ll fall to his knees.”

“Yes ma'am,” Lucy said. “Hair?”

“I’ll curl it while you do your makeup.”

“What would I ever do without you?”

“Crash and burn, Lucy Carlyle.”

They were, undeniably, a fantastic team. As Holly added one final touch of hairspray, Lucy looked at the final result in the mirror and couldn’t suppress her smile.

Holly let go of her hair with a flourish. “Perfection.”

“Thank you,” she said quietly. As her eyes wandered down her reflection, admiring the way the shimmering fabric of her dress hugged her curves just right, she spotted something on her hip. Was that—? It couldn’t possibly be—

“Oh my God,” she said, plucking the cat hair off. “How? I didn’t even bring this dress to George’s.”

The doorbell rang.

Holly jumped. She gave Lucy’s shoulders a gentle push. “He’s here—go!”

Lucy pulled on a jacket as she rushed out of her room, frantically put her shoes on, and hesitated with her hand over the door handle.

“Have fun!” Holly said, following her. “And tell me everything when you get back. Even if it’s tomorrow morning.” She winked.

“Shut up,” Lucy said, though it came out sounding strangled. After a deep breath, she opened the door.

“Lucy,” Lockwood said, sounding breathless the second he saw her. “Hello.”

“Hi,” she said, face warm from the sight of his smile.

He held out his hand. She took it, and away they went.