#FanFics

[fictionalsimp09]

fuck i need to study

fuck i need to stud

fuck i need to stu

fuck i need to st

fuck i need to s

fuck i need to

fuck i need t

fuck i need

fuck i nee

fuck i ne

fuck i n

fuck i

fuck

fuc

fu

f

fa

fan

fanf

fanfi

fanfic

fanfict

fanficti

fanfictio

fanfiction

[hana-loves-bumblebees]

“Is it okay if I draw fanart of your fanfic?👉🏼👈🏼”

My brother in Christ we shall have a spring wedding

[blueflipflops]

Have you ever read a really good fic then looked up the author's other works and lo and behold a treasure trove of fics that are exactly your kind of shit? Because god that is what euphoria feels like. I love you random fic writers i unexpectedly find

[nerdially]

„Your brain doesn’t actually care about how high the goal is, it cares about meeting whatever goal you set“

Wow! This is such an amazing advice! Thank you for sharing your insights (i first wrote „insides“ 😅). Up until today i tought „I struggle to write“. But that’s not really true you made me realize. I write almost every day. Just ideas, dreams, snippets, dialogue… But a lot of that.

Thank you so so much for sharing!

The Neurodivergent Writer’s Guide to Fun and Productivity

(Even when life beats you down)

Look, I’m a mom, I have ADHD, I’m a spoonie. To say that I don’t have heaps of energy to spare and I struggle with consistency is an understatement. For years, I tried to write consistently, but I couldn’t manage to keep up with habits I built and deadlines I set.

So fuck neurodivergent guides on building habits, fuck “eat the frog first”, fuck “it’s all in the grind”, and fuck “you just need time management”—here is how I manage to write often and a lot.

Focus on having fun, not on the outcome

This was the groundwork I had to lay before I could even start my streak. At an online writing conference, someone said: “If you push yourself and meet your goals, and you publish your book, but you haven’t enjoyed the process… What’s the point?” and hoo boy, that question hit me like a truck.

I was so caught up in the narrative of “You’ve got to show up for what’s important” and “Push through if you really want to get it done”. For a few years, I used to read all these productivity books about grinding your way to success, and along the way I started using the same language as they did. And I notice a lot of you do so, too.

But your brain doesn’t like to grind. No-one’s brain does, and especially no neurodivergent brain. If having to write gives you stress or if you put pressure on yourself for not writing (enough), your brain’s going to say: “Huh. Writing gives us stress, we’re going to try to avoid it in the future.”

So before I could even try to write regularly, I needed to teach my brain once again that writing is fun. I switched from countable goals like words or time to non-countable goals like “fun” and “flow”.

Rewire my brain: writing is fun and I’m good at it

I used everything I knew about neuroscience, psychology, and social sciences. These are some of the things I did before and during a writing session. Usually not all at once, and after a while I didn’t need these strategies anymore, although I sometimes go back to them when necessary.

I journalled all the negative thoughts I had around writing and try to reason them away, using arguments I knew in my heart were true. (The last part is the crux.) Imagine being supportive to a writer friend with crippling insecurities, only the friend is you.

Not setting any goals didn’t work for me—I still nurtured unwanted expectations. So I did set goals, but made them non-countable, like “have fun”, “get in the flow”, or “write”. Did I write? Yes. Success! Your brain doesn’t actually care about how high the goal is, it cares about meeting whatever goal you set.

I didn’t even track how many words I wrote. Not relevant.

I set an alarm for a short time (like 10 minutes) and forbade myself to exceed that time. The idea was that if I write until I run out of mojo, my brain learns that writing drains the mojo. If I write for 10 minutes and have fun, my brain learns that writing is fun and wants to do it again.

Reinforce the fact that writing makes you happy by rewarding your brain immediately afterwards. You know what works best for you: a walk, a golden sticker, chocolate, cuddle your dog, whatever makes you happy.

I conditioned myself to associate writing with specific stimuli: that album, that smell, that tea, that place. Any stimulus can work, so pick one you like. I consciously chose several stimuli so I could switch them up, and the conditioning stays active as long as I don’t muddle it with other associations.

Use a ritual to signal to your brain that Writing Time is about to begin to get into the zone easier and faster. I guess this is a kind of conditioning as well? Meditation, music, lighting a candle… Pick your stimulus and stick with it.

Specifically for rewiring my brain, I started a new WIP that had no emotional connotations attached to it, nor any pressure to get finished or, heaven forbid, meet quality norms. I don’t think these techniques above would have worked as well if I had applied them on writing my novel.

It wasn’t until I could confidently say I enjoyed writing again, that I could start building up a consistent habit. No more pushing myself.

I lowered my definition for success

When I say that nowadays I write every day, that’s literally it. I don’t set out to write 1,000 or 500 or 10 words every day (tried it, failed to keep up with it every time)—the only marker for success when it comes to my streak is to write at least one word, even on the days when my brain goes “naaahhh”. On those days, it suffices to send myself a text with a few keywords or a snippet. It’s not “success on a technicality (derogatory)”, because most of those snippets and ideas get used in actual stories later. And if they don’t, they don’t. It’s still writing. No writing is ever wasted.

A side note on high expectations, imposter syndrome, and perfectionism

Obviously, “Setting a ridiculously low goal” isn’t something I invented. I actually got it from those productivity books, only I never got it to work. I used to tell myself: “It’s okay if I don’t write for an hour, because my goal is to write for 20 minutes and if I happen to keep going for, say, an hour, that’s a bonus.” Right? So I set the goal for 20 minutes, wrote for 35 minutes, and instead of feeling like I exceeded my goal, I felt disappointed because apparently I was still hoping for the bonus scenario to happen. I didn’t know how to set a goal so low and believe it.

I think the trick to making it work this time lies more in the groundwork of training my brain to enjoy writing again than in the fact that my daily goal is ridiculously low. I believe I’m a writer, because I prove it to myself every day. Every success I hit reinforces the idea that I’m a writer. It’s an extra ward against imposter syndrome.

Knowing that I can still come up with a few lines of dialogue on the Really Bad Days—days when I struggle to brush my teeth, the day when I had a panic attack in the supermarket, or the day my kid got hit by a car—teaches me that I can write on the mere Bad-ish Days.

The more I do it, the more I do it

The irony is that setting a ridiculously low goal almost immediately led to writing more and more often. The most difficult step is to start a new habit. After just a few weeks, I noticed that I needed less time and energy to get into the zone. I no longer needed all the strategies I listed above.

Another perk I noticed, was an increased writing speed. After just a few months of writing every day, my average speed went from 600 words per hour to 1,500 wph, regularly exceeding 2,000 wph without any loss of quality.

Talking about quality: I could see myself becoming a better writer with every passing month. Writing better dialogue, interiority, chemistry, humour, descriptions, whatever: they all improved noticeably, and I wasn’t a bad writer to begin with.

The increased speed means I get more done with the same amount of energy spent. I used to write around 2,000-5,000 words per month, some months none at all. Nowadays I effortlessly write 30,000 words per month. I didn’t set out to write more, it’s just a nice perk.

Look, I’m not saying you should write every day if it doesn’t work for you. My point is: the more often you write, the easier it will be.

No pressure

Yes, I’m still working on my novel, but I’m not racing through it. I produce two or three chapters per month, and the rest of my time goes to short stories my brain keeps projecting on the inside of my eyelids when I’m trying to sleep. I might as well write them down, right?

These short stories started out as self-indulgence, and even now that I take them more seriously, they are still just for me. I don’t intend to ever publish them, no-one will ever read them, they can suck if they suck. The unintended consequence was that my short stories are some of my best writing, because there’s no pressure, it’s pure fun.

Does it make sense to spend, say, 90% of my output on stories no-one else will ever read? Wouldn’t it be better to spend all that creative energy and time on my novel? Well, yes. If you find the magic trick, let me know, because I haven’t found it yet. The short stories don’t cannibalize on the novel, because they require different mindsets. If I stopped writing the short stories, I wouldn’t produce more chapters. (I tried. Maybe in the future? Fingers crossed.)

Don’t wait for inspiration to hit

There’s a quote by Picasso: “Inspiration hits, but it has to find you working.” I strongly agree. Writing is not some mystical, muse-y gift, it’s a skill and inspiration does exist, but usually it’s brought on by doing the work. So just get started and inspiration will come to you.

Accountability and community

Having social factors in your toolbox is invaluable. I have an offline writing friend I take long walks with, I host a monthly writing club on Discord, and I have another group on Discord that holds me accountable every day. They all motivate me in different ways and it’s such a nice thing to share my successes with people who truly understand how hard it can be.

The productivity books taught me that if you want to make a big change in your life or attitude, surrounding yourself with people who already embody your ideal or your goal huuuugely helps. The fact that I have these productive people around me who also prioritize writing, makes it easier for me to stick to my own priorities.

Your toolbox

The idea is to have several techniques at your disposal to help you stay consistent. Don’t put all your eggs in one basket by focussing on just one technique. Keep all of them close, and if one stops working or doesn’t inspire you today, pivot and pick another one.

After a while, most “tools” run in the background once they are established. Things like surrounding myself with my writing friends, keeping up with my daily streak, and listening to the album I conditioned myself with don’t require any energy, and they still remain hugely beneficial.

Do you have any other techniques? I’d love to hear about them!

I hope this was useful. Happy writing!

[trekscribbles]

This week, I read a fic that was around 20 years old, which had originally been posted on the author's personal website and which she added to AO3 a few years ago. She listed her email address with the fic, so after I finished reading, I sent her an email saying how much I enjoyed the story, how much I appreciated the work and effort she obviously put into it, and thanked her for uploading it to AO3. She responded the next day and thanked me for my message, then said she had a few more stories in the same series that she hadn't gotten around to uploading. I checked this morning--she added a 35,000 word novella and thanked me in the summary.

👏 comment 👏 on 👏 old 👏 fics 👏

[mrs-b-fanfic]

I have read fanfics that have left me in tears, both happy and sad, had me laughing my ass off, wanting to scream. Fanfics might be seen as weird and taboo (weirdly enough) but no one can say that some fics aren’t so well written it feels like you’re reading a best selling book!

[ialreadymadeyouapromise]

𝐉𝐔𝐒𝐓 𝐍𝐄𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐄.

PAIRING: abby anderson x fem!reader WARNINGS: no use of y/n GENRE: fluff SONG INSPIRATION: my kind of woman - mac demarco WORD COUNT: 1.3k NOTE: i need more people to write soft abby rahhh

navigation | request | abby anderson masterlist

the door clicked shut behind you, and for a second, just a second. you stood there in the hallway, staring at the handle as if it would explain what the last seventy two hours had taken out of you.

your body ached. not just in your muscles, even though those were screaming too. but deep in your bones. the kind that settles under your skin and makes you feel hollow. 

you were too tired to think straight, too wired to rest.

so you did what your body moved you to do. walking into the bathroom, peeling off your stained clothes. the water ran long enough to fog the mirror and soak into your hair until it hung limp against your shoulders, but even then you didn’t move. 

you just stood under the stream, forehead against the tile, eyes closed, letting the water try to wash off the days.

it didn’t work. but it helped.

now wrapped up in a towel, hair still damp, skin prickling with leftover cold, you stepped out. 

pushing the door open gently.

and there she was.

the room was dim, the main lights off, only the soft orange glow of a desk lamp left on. it cast a warm ring across the blankets, catching the curve of abby’s shoulder, the shine of her hair. she was sprawled across your bed. 

back propped on a pillow, one hand behind her head, the other curled around the spine of a book resting against her thigh. her legs were lazily parted, one sock halfway off, her usual post shower disarray that she never cared to fix.

you didn’t realise you were holding your breath until it left your lungs in one ragged exhale.

the towel clutched around your chest suddenly felt flimsy. not because you were embarrassed. god, no, but because standing there in front of her like that, exhausted and finally home, you were seconds from crying. 

you hadn’t let yourself cry out there. not even when the storm had hit. not even when you were sure you wouldn’t make it back. but now? in front of her?

abby looked up, book pausing mid line.

something in her expression softened instantly. she didn’t speak. she just pressed her thumb into the page crease and slipped the bookmark into place before closing the book and setting it quietly on the nightstand.

then she opened her arms.

you didn’t hesitate.

you crossed the room before sinking into her. her hands came up immediately, one between your shoulder blades, the other low on your back, fingers spreading to cover as much of you as they could. you breathed her in. soap and abby. your towel shifted slightly as her arm wrapped tighter around your middle, but neither of you cared.

no urgency. no words.

just the sound of your breath against her collarbone. the brush of her fingers up and down your spine.

the silence stretched. full. full of what hadn’t been said on the radio. full of what couldn’t be said in front of the others. full of the way your bodies molded into each other.

as your eyes fluttered shut against her neck, you felt her chest rise with a deep inhale.

“i missed you,” she whispered first.

you barely managed your own reply, words muffled against her skin.

“i missed you more.”

her fingers gripped you just a little tighter at that.

you weren’t sure how long you stayed like that. pressed into her front, arms tangled, her thumb tracing mindless shapes on your back. you could’ve fallen asleep just like that, towel damp against your skin, cheek nestled into the hollow of her collarbone. 

but she shifted.

not away. just enough to lean up on one elbow, looking down at you with that soft crease in her brow she always got when she worried.

“you’re cold,” she murmured.

you blinked slowly, still somewhere between asleep and floating.

“‘m’fine,” you mumbled, but you were shivering, you knew she felt it.

she didn’t argue. abby wasn’t the type. she just kissed your forehead and slid out from beneath you, legs swinging over the edge of the mattress. the bed dipped as she stood, moving toward the drawers on her side. 

you watched her, eyes heavy lidded, towel slipping dangerously low on your chest. 

she wore only a tank top and shorts, arms bare, muscles shifting as she bent to rummage.

she came back with one of her shirts. one of the older ones, soft and worn thin in places. you knew it well; she wore it on days she needed comfort. you knew it smelled like her even before you’d buried your face in it.

she knelt beside the bed, tugged gently at your towel. “arms up.”

you obeyed without a word. the towel slipped to your waist as she helped you out of it, not rushing, not leering, just… tender. 

the shirt went on next. loose and long on you, falling to mid thigh. it smelled of her skin and the detergent you both hated but used anyway. she smoothed it down over your stomach before climbing back onto the bed behind you.

then came the brush.

you’d left it sitting on the nightstand, still damp from a hasty post shower attempt earlier. she reached for it wordlessly, moving behind you so your back was tucked against her legs. she gathered your damp hair in one hand, gently tugging it free from where it clung to your neck.

“don’t fall asleep yet,” she said softly, attempting to run her fingers through it. “you’ll wake up with a bird’s nest.”

you snorted a little. “wouldn’t be the first time.”

“yeah, but then i have to deal with it.”

you smiled.

the first pass of the brush through your hair made your whole body exhale. she was slow with it, starting at the ends like she always did, always gentle. she worked in silence for a bit, her hand resting against your neck whenever she paused to untangle a knot.

then, quietly, she started talking.

“today was boring,” she sighed. “inventory all morning. they keep screwing up the count in med storage. manny kept blaming the new kid, but it was actually him. he got defensive, so i told him he could do the math next time.”

you chuckled sleepily, leaning back into her legs.

she brushed a little slower.

“i saw nora at lunch. she asked about you. i didn’t say much, but i think she knew. she always knows.”

you hummed a quiet sound of agreement.

“i fixed the cabinet in the hallway. the one with the loose hinge. figured i'd save you before it pinched your finger again.”

you mumbled something half formed and drowsy in thanks, she huffed out a laugh above you.

her fingers stilled.

she divided your hair into sections with a kind of softness that didn’t belong to someone like abby. someone built like a tank, who could fire a rifle with one arm and lift a grown man with the other. but here she was, gently twisting your hair into a braid.

and it was. just for you.

she finished and tied it off with a thin band from her wrist, then leaned forward to kiss the crown of your head.

“there,” she said, arms sliding around your waist from behind, pulling you fully back into her chest. “now you can sleep.”

you turned slightly, just enough to see her profile in the dim light. the hardness she wore outside this room had melted off her completely. her eyes were half lidded, full of quiet contentment. 

her hand slipped under the hem of the shirt to rest against your stomach.

you didn’t need to say anything.

but you did anyway.

“i love the way you take care of me.”

her lips twitched into a smile.

“i always will.”

reblogs and comments are appreciated ᯓ★

© 2025 ialreadymadeyouapromise copyright reserved

[birthed-in-the-cosmos]

oh my goodness, absolutely. i love the way you've framed this, especially because if you're a person who is either from the last or the second one, but want to publish a book, it seems impossible nowadays, because you're used to more descriptions than people like in books, even tho those are the books that raised you

Fanfiction is great because you can see so clearly how people learn to write.

Some people, it's clear, learned almost entirely through absorbing the world around them. Grammar and punctuation will be all over the place, spellings are approximate, but the voice of the narration will come through so clearly. You can hear the dialect of the people around them as of they're telling the story. It's not a written story, it's a transcription of how they talk in their day to day life.

Some people learned through reading a gazillion books as a kid. Grammer and spelling will be rock solid, formatting occasionally based on the single tab of physical books rather than the double tab of online scrolling, but dialogue is often stilted and overly formal. You might notice a lack of contractions and very rigid rules they made for consistency that actually have a lot more flexibility than they think. They tend to have a fantastic grasp of sentence flow, though.

And other people formally learned how to write. This could be anywhere from taking school classes seriously because they enjoyed writing stories as a kid to literal certifications and jobs in the field. Grammer is flawless. Punctuation is triple checked. Foreign words are in italics. Characters have distinct voices. But their self indulgence is tempered by perfectionism. They know precisely what they want from a fic. Authors notes often feature mutterings about their happiness with the chapter. Kaomojis often appear! They seek a style to their writing, and it makes for some wonderfully clever plots! These are the ones most likely to get fun with formatting!

And some people.... Some people examined it all. They dissect dialogue, people watch, cross reference behaviours and compare characters to people irl. You can tell almost immediately who had formative experiences with Terry pratchett and/or ghibli, because it's these people. While others see writing as fun, expression, craft, they see it as art. Plain and simple. Sure, the grammar is occasionally sacrificed on the altar of creative freedom, and the occasional sentence might miss a full stop, but these people seem to self reflect on themselves as part of the art making process. On occasion, these people have the most masterful grasp of dialogue and invocation and hand sewn characterisations. Formatting is pretty standard because all the focus is on the actual words. These fics can be edited to the moon and back!

All of these can vary wildly in forethought and quality, and betas can often catch individual problems before they hit post, but just. Isn't it so cool? What's that one Oscar Wilde quote about every mask just being another fragment of yourself?

Did you recognise yourself?

[outromoony]

“They’re just fictional characters” ok then why do I feel like their heartache personally cracked my ribs?

[runraerun]

[firesmokeandashes]

If you really want to read fics without having a thousand tabs open, just download them from the ao3 website and read them via a free ebook and PDF reader.

Both Android and Apple users have access to a wide variety of PDF and EPUB readers, which allow users to download fics and/or other ebooks or documents and read them offline. Just search for "free epub/pdf reader" in your app store, and you'll get tons of options to choose from and use!

Ditch the apps trying to scam you out of money and try a free epub or pdf reader today! ^^

WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS

WHO IS USING THIS

AN APP??? THEY HAVE A FUNCTIONING WEBSITE

THE LAST FUNCTIONING WEBSITE

[monserelates]

Collateral Damage; James Potter

f!reader x james potter

summary: When someone makes a sexist comment during Quidditch practice and James doesn't react, how will it go down?

warnings/notes: james is kind of an idiot in this (he makes up for it I swear), angst, reader is a quidditch player (its relevant to the plot), use of y/n, platonic!sirius x reader banter, not proofread, light sexist comment, big argument, curse words, happy ending (?)

word count:1.6k

It started like any other Gryffindor Quidditch practice.

Late autumn sun low in the sky, golden light spilling like spilled ink over the pitch. You were already irritated — Kendrick had been pushing your buttons all week, and James had rescheduled this practice twice. Now you were all out here, winds whipping across the field, and Kendrick was smirking like he’d already won something you didn’t know was up for grabs.

You were Keeper. You knew your job. You didn’t need James yelling plays every five seconds like you were a first-year.

“Move left faster next time!” James barked, flying alongside you, too close, too sharp.

“I did move,” you snapped. “If you wanted a puppet, maybe train one.”

His jaw clenched. “I’m just trying to win us the Cup.”

“And I’m trying not to murder you midair, so we all have our battles.”

That got a low chuckle from Henry Wood, who hovered nearby, eyebrows lifted in mild amusement. “Might let her win that one, James.”

James didn’t answer. Just blew the whistle and shouted another drill.

You tightened your gloves, seething.

Then Kendrick happened.

He caught a Quaffle with a dramatic flourish, zoomed past you, and crowed, loud enough for half the school to hear: “Don’t worry, Potter — she’s not here for skill. Just here to look pretty while she misses every shot.”

The world snapped sideways.

You felt your stomach bottom out. Your face went hot with rage and shame.

You looked at James. Straight at him. Waiting.

Do something.

Say something.

Anything.

But he just hovered there, like an idiot, mouth slightly open, like he was stunned. Like maybe he agreed.

Sirius was the one who snapped.

“Oi, what the fuck did you just say?” Sirius growled, flying toward Kendrick like a storm cloud. “Wanna say it again with a mouthful of teeth missing?”

Y/N’s blood boiled. She waited — waited — for James to speak up. To say something. To tell the boy off. To take her side. But instead, James just stared at her, expression unreadable, jaw locked.

The silence screamed.

Y/N turned sharply on her broom, face burning hotter than any firewhisky. “Nice, James. Real leadership. Keeping the team united and all that.”

You flew hard toward the ground, ripped your gloves off, and stormed off the pitch.

“Oi! Y/N!” James shouted after you.

You turned sharply, fists clenched. “Don’t you dare.”

He landed, brows drawn. “It was just a stupid joke. I didn’t say it—”

“No. You just let it hang in the air like it was okay.” Your voice was shaking now, hands trembling. “You let him undermine me, and you—God, James—you didn’t even flinch.”

He flinched now.

“Y/N—”

“We’re supposed to be a team. You’re supposed to be my friend—and you let that little coward humiliate me in front of everyone.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“You didn’t do anything. And that’s worse.”

The rest of the team hovered awkwardly above, pretending not to watch. They were watching.

You turned, boots crunching against the grass, heart pounding against the ribcage of something that had already shattered.

..

You didn’t show up to dinner.

Didn’t go to class the next morning.

You lay facedown on your bed, ignoring Marlene’s muttered curses about Kendrick, Dorcas’s offers to hex him into oblivion, and Lily’s gentle hand rubbing your back.

You didn’t cry. Not then.

Maybe you were being dramatic. You can't help the fact you like to be alone. It may sound kind of sad, but that's just what you seem to know.

Not until everyone was asleep. When the candles were low. When the ache behind your ribs bloomed into something hollow and hot and silent.

You curled into yourself and whispered, “I thought he was different.”

No one heard it. But you felt it. And it felt like mourning something no one else could see.

..

Somewhere down the hallway, in the staff room,

McGonagall sipped her tea, eyes sharp over her glasses.

Flitwick looked up from his notes. “You heard?”

“Everyone heard, Filius. Half the pitch did.” She sighed. “I had twenty Galleons on them confessing by winter break.”

“Potter just set the bet back three years,” Hooch muttered, slamming her broom catalog shut.

“I’m raising it to five,” Sprout said darkly.

Slughorn just sniffed. “They’ll come around. Youth and heartbreak are so poetically intertwined.”

“She nearly punched him.”

“Poetry!” Slughorn said, grinning.

..

James tried everything.

Flowers charmed to float outside your dorm window.

Notes spelled into the condensation on your bathroom mirror.

He asked Sirius to talk to you — Sirius told him to shove it. “You blew it, mate.”

He asked Lily to help — she didn’t even blink. “You don’t deserve her silence. You deserve her rage.”

He cornered Dorcas outside Potions.

“She doesn’t want your excuses,” she said flatly. “She wants her best friend back. Too bad he forgot how to be one.”

He stopped going to Quidditch practice.

He barely slept.

He’d lie awake whispering, “I’m sorry,” to the cracks in the ceiling.

But nothing worked.

You didn’t speak to him.

Not once.

..

It happened at breakfast.

The Great Hall buzzing, laughter rising like steam.

You were sitting with Lily and Dorcas, quietly spooning porridge, when a loud bang echoed through the room.

A chair scraped back.

A foot on a bench.

Then a foot on the table.

Your head snapped up.

James Potter was standing on the Gryffindor table, toast in one hand, wand in the other, looking deranged.

Oh hell-to-the-no.

“Excuse me!” he shouted.

The Hall went silent.

James turned, slowly, facing the end of the table. “Oi, Kendrick.”

Kendrick looked up, confused. “What?”

“You insulted one of the best Keepers this school has ever seen. You made a disgusting, sexist remark in front of her entire team, and I, being a bloody coward, said nothing.”

Students gasped. Someone dropped their fork.

James turned, facing you now.

“I didn’t defend you. And I should have. Not because I’m your captain. Not even because I’m your best friend.”

His voice cracked.

“But because I love you.”

The air went still.

“I love you,” he said again, softer. “And not in the way that fades when we graduate or when Quidditch ends or when you find someone smarter or funnier or less of a prat. I love you like I can’t breathe right without you.”

You stared at him, pulse pounding in your ears.

What in Merlin's ear wax is happening right now.

“I know I messed up. I’ll spend the rest of the year earning your trust back. Or the rest of my life. Just… say something. Please.”

Kendrick stood, starting to protest.

James rounded on him.

“And you—I don’t want you on the team. You don’t get to wear our colors if you can’t respect the people on it.”

Hooch stood from the staff table, clearly impressed. “He’s finally learning.”

McGonagall muttered, “Took long enough.”

Sirius leaned into Remus. “Do I owe you five Galleons or do I still win if they snog in the next ten minutes?”

Remus just shook his head, smiling.

You stood slowly.

Walked down the aisle of the hall, every eye on you.

James looked terrified.

You walked right up to him.

Stared.

Then said, “You better mean every word of that.”

“I do.”

You smirked.

And punched him in the arm. Hard.

“Good.”

James was willing to wait this and 3 more lifetimes waiting for a taste of your lips.

..

The next morning was crisp and bright, with clouds like ripped cotton and the scent of cut grass thick in the air.

James was already waiting on the pitch when you arrived, broom slung over his shoulder, a sheepish sort of energy radiating off him in waves. The rest of the team trickled in slowly—clearly curious, clearly eavesdropping, pretending to stretch while absolutely not stretching.

You walked past them without a word.

James straightened up.

You raised your chin. “You’re on goalkeeping today. I want a challenge.”

He blinked. “You… want me to—”

“Let’s go, Potter,” you called, already kicking off.

It was easy, natural, the way flying always was. But the air between you buzzed. You hurled a Quaffle at him with more force than necessary. He barely caught it, laughing under his breath.

“Still angry?”

You smirked. “I haven’t decided yet.”

Another Quaffle. Another dive. He missed this one—on purpose, you were sure.

“Oi, don’t go easy on me,” you snapped.

He swooped beside you, hovering a little too close. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“You’re dreaming something,” you muttered.

“Mostly about you.” he grinned.

You snorted, the sound catching you off guard. The wind rushed past your ears. His eyes were warm—so warm you had to look away.

For a few minutes, you played without words.

Until James broke the silence.

“I meant it, you know. Every word I said yesterday. I—” He trailed off, rubbing the back of his neck. “I was a coward. And I know one speech doesn’t fix it.”

You hovered in the air, just a little above him. “It doesn’t. But showing up helps.”

He smiled—wide and crooked and boyish.

The team was still watching. Pretending not to, but watching all the same.

James shifted closer. His eyes flicked to your mouth, then back up to your eyes.

“I, uh…” He licked his lips, then leaned in—hesitantly, unsure.

You didn’t move. Just watched him.

But instead of kissing you, his lips brushed your cheek—light as a sigh.

He pulled back instantly, eyes wide like he hadn’t meant to.

You blinked.

James looked like he might combust.

“Sorry, I—I didn’t want to assume, I mean—not yet, but—unless you want to, which, I—”

You raised an eyebrow. “You always ramble this much?”

He flushed. “Only when I like someone enough to completely embarrass myself.”

You turned back toward the goalposts, heart thudding.

“Try not to let that Quaffle in this time, Potter.”

He grinned, dazed. “Yes, ma’am.”

[emberfaye]

You know what?

I love you, fics that take months to update. I click on the newest chapter and have no memory of this place and get to go back some chapters and rediscover how much i love everything about this story.

I love you, fics that take years to update. I think of you fondly, and know your names, go search for you and see an update from this year and scream, diving in uncaring of any missed details (i will finish the update and read you in reverse because this is a treat you have bestowed)

I love you, fics that probably will never update again. Thank you for being a roman empire for my mind, thank you for teaching me about the ephemeral fandom experience, for inspiring a thousand million what if-s, for being a comfort read and a nostalgia read and a reread.

I love you fic writers, who jump into projects and stories with enthusiasm. I love you when you succeed in pumping out those chapters and that love doesn't go away when you stop.

I love you fic writers who post and then get in your own head and never feel confident enough to update, whether it's at all or whether it's just that one story.

I love you fic writers, who have a fandom or media hurt you to the point of abandoning or having a hard time with their WIPs.

I love you fic writers, who lose interest or have life changes or illness or bad memory. Thank you for being part of the fandom, a core part of the fandom. Thank you for the time spent in the fandom.

I love you, fic writers who try out something new and then stop. You're so valid.

I love you, WIP fics that may or may not ever get finished. Thank you for brightening my day in the way only you could have.

[daryl-dixon-daydreams]

The cave-in had sent a cascade of silt and sand down over the two of you. Your flashlight and the torch Daryl had lit for the journey through the tunnel were both lost somewhere in the pitch blackness around you, possibly buried under layers of soil.

You tried not to panic. After all, you weren't buried. Things could be worse. You were sprawled out on your stomach and you wouldn't have known which way was up if gravity wasn't holding you down. The darkness was that complete. You coughed and spit, feeling grit between your teeth. "Daryl?!" you called out, panic seizing you again. You thought your could hear movement up ahead somewhere in the darkness. "Daryl?! Are you alright?!" you yelled again.

"Y—yeah," he barked back, his mouth dry with dust. He dug his fingers into the loose silt around him and pulled himself along on his stomach, trying to get out of the deeper pile of soil that had covered his legs. "Are ya hurt?" he called out desperately.

"N-no!" you answered. "Just—a little disoriented." You got onto your hands and knees and then tried to stand but— "Ouch!" Your head connected with a wooden strut overhead. You swore under your breath. You crawled forward, feeling the side of the tunnel with an outstretched palm. "I've got bad news," you announced. "The ceiling is sinking. We need to get out of here before the whole thing comes down..."

"Come towards me. I think the way out is still open over here," he drawled. "Can ya follow my voice?" Daryl pulled himself onto his own knees and sat back on his heels, absently brushing waves of soil and sand from his clothes.

"Yeah. Just keep talking," you said with a wry laugh. You made your way forward. It was unnerving moving around in the nothingness.

"C'mon. This way," he said, holding a hand out in front of him, hoping it'd connect with you any moment. He could hear you shuffling along.

"I—I don't like this," you admitted with a shake in your voice.

"I know. But we're almost out. Just keep on comin' toward me. Yer almost here."

You focused on his sweet southern drawl. Your own breathing was loud in your ears, ragged.

"Righ' here. Almost, Y/N. C'mon. S'alrigh'..."

You let out a small gasp as your extended hand nudged something in the darkness. Then you quickly realized it was Daryl's hand, held out in front of him too. You slid your touch over his fingers and across the back of his hand, up onto his forearm, hobbling along on your knees still. Your heart was pounding, but the panic subsided somewhat now that you had found each other again. "Oh, thank God," you breathed, stopping but not lifting your hand from his bare arm. His skin was caked with sand and silt.

But then Daryl was moving in toward you and his arm looped around your waist and settled on the small of your back. Although you obviously still couldn't see each other, you could sense now that your bodies were a mere 6 inches apart and it would have been so even if he hadn't been holding you the way he was. It was amazing how keenly and sharply your other senses rose when your sight was no longer useful.

His voice was trembling slightly when he spoke, and his tongue felt suddenly thick in his mouth (nothing to do with the dirt and dust). "Are ya okay?" he asked in a low voice.

At first you only nodded, then remembering yourself, you managed to stutter out a "Y-yes."

Daryl let out a sigh of relief. "We're gonna be fine. Just hold my hand and don't let go, alrigh'?" His fingers traced down your arm, over the narrowness of your wrist, and then gripped your hand securely.

You didn't let go, not even when the two of you burst out into the sunlight again. And Daryl didn't let go of your hand either. Not until he pulled you into him again and hugged you tightly, tucking you against him, his fingers daring to barely tangle into your hair. He breathed in your smell, noting how it was heavily masked by the scent of earth. "Jesus—that scared the shit outta me," he finally admitted. "Thought we weren't gonna find each other in there again."

"Me too," you managed, relishing the feeling of his hands moving to your waist. Your heart was fluttering in your chest. Daryl had never held you quite like that, like this. It almost made the cave-in worth it.

Prompt: Types of touch, from @creativepromptsforwriting's list, #28 Feeling for each other in the dark