#again I'm really sorry for most of my writing stuff being wips

[pushingdaisies1]

𝘞𝘪𝘱 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘢𝘯 𝘶𝘱𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘵!!

Hi hello! This is gonna be part of a request I’m doing that has been sitting in my inbox. One of them that I’ve been spending a lot of my time on. Though the headcannons list will have more characters included.

Thankfully , I have been getting more things under control with deadlines. So I’ll be starting to post things I have planned and fixing up a couple other parts of my account. Wish me luck yall that nothing else annoying comes up. On to the work in progress!!  ➜

⇢ ˗ˏˋ ᴄᴀʟᴇʙ ᴡɪᴅᴏɢᴀꜱᴛ ࿐ྂ ･ That night originally was so peaceful , staring out at the moon lit sky with some of your other friends. Though as you conversed , you never expected to have everything get turned upside down. It  was all so fast , not being able to call for the others happily asleep tore you apart. ･ Trying to fight off your captors was a struggle , you thinking the four of you could easily get away. But no , you overstepped and it ended in the bunch of you getting taken away. Not without some battering in the process. ･ You didnt know where you were , trying so hard to break free from the manacles that trapped you. Never stopping to find a way out. Your fighting senses were not very much welcomed by your captors. They picked right through you and your friends. ･ Sadly you got dealt the short end of the stick with Yasha. Spending a majority of your time being captured , getting your absolute shit rocked. All of it was a blur , only remembering the beating that came to you. ･ The coldness of the stone under you welcomed you into sleep. Staying unconscious with Yasha as well due to the Shepherds. If you WERE conscious , you would have known of the entrance of your friend plus a couple newbies coming in to save you and the others. ･ After they dealt with everything , and were able to open up Jester and Fjords cell they found you and Yasha’s. The others decided to have a search around the Iron Shepherd’s base , Caleb decided to sit that out. Instead staying behind with the “out like a light” you and Yasha. ･ Seeing you , so hurt and bruised sent something through him. With how much he’s known you (I imagine the same as much as he’s known Nott) , it sent a feeling of urgency through him. It wasn't like he was scared shitless before , but that made him feel that pit plummet, ･Laying there as the others went to go search around , he couldn't stop looking over at you. Those embers grew more and more , becoming a fire in his chest. What was this? , he hadn't really felt it in a while. What was this urgency? You were another one of his companions , why was he feeling all warm on the inside? ･Just like with Astrid and Eadwolf before , that fire enclosed in his torso blazed to high heaven. This stood out to him , and the repeating's of “no no no no…” trailed along in his avoidant mind. He could bare to rid you with the burden of him being in-love with you. A lot had happen in only a couple days , which led him to lie to himself. ･He halted his flooding in paranoia to a stop. Taking a breath in , he can think about this later and let it tare him apart. Now he just has to wait for the others to come back. He went on to clear his mind , rattling on now to the unconscious Yasha next to him. It could all be solved with time.

[minty-mumbles]

Linked Universe Survey 2023

The long awaited results of the survey. Sorry it took me forever, making graphs is hard.

There were 452 responses to the survey as a whole, which is almost double what we got last year, so thank you to everyone who participated!

If you want to see the raw data, you can find that here. I had thoughts about the data, but compiling that into another post would be too much of a hassle. Feel free to send me asks about it though!

The rest of the post will be under a read more as it it large

Demographics

Other: Demigirl (4), Transmasc (3), Grey genderfluid, Unlabeled, Demiboy, Demiagender

Other: Omnisexual (4), Poly (2), Trixic, Abroromantic or Bellusromantic, Demisexual

General Questions

Other: Quotev, Discord, their own google docs

Other: Discord, Variations of "I haven't posted yet, but I pan to" and "I haven't posted my fics in ages",

Other: Wattpad, Deviantart, Discord

Other: Crochet dolls, Custom dolls, Roleplay blogs (2), Fan translations, Headcanons (2), Piano music

The purple section in the “Warriors vs Warrior” chart is supposed to read “Warrior.” I made a typo.

Favorites and Least Favorites

Selected Free Response Answers

im sorry warriors i just can't play your game (it is very very hard. i am stuck very early on in the game)

I love cats meow meow meow

was extremely tempted to put twilight for least favorite. unfortunately he is my favorite to write from the perspective of (he has taken over most of my wips. help) and that probably counts for something. WILD on the other hand. hooo boy how the hell do i characterize this gargoyle. why is he Like That. least favorite it is

Twiddy

very good fandom to be in :) everybody is very nice

It's a straight up crime that Wars lost the aesthetics poll so quickly. He has such a peak Link design with the best colors. Ugh I'm getting wistful.

FROGS. FROGS. FROGS. ALSO HAPPY PRIDE MONTH. FROGS. FROGS. FROGS. FROGS. FROGS.

I will fight Hylia herself and the next person who implies Twi can't handle spice. If we're going to lean into him being southern/Midwestern, which is an alright stero type for our rancher, please keep in mind the culture you're basing him off. The south and midwest can handle their spice, I assure you. Have you ever had authentic Louisiana gumbo? It will melt you tongue off. Or some good old fashion spicy fried chicken? I promise the real stuff has quite a kick. (In all seriousness, though. It's more important that you're having fun. And even I can admit the idea of Twi being an Ordonian who can't handle his spice is more than a little funny.)

I am an OoT Link edgelord and have been since early 2017. So, in September of that year, when an artist by the name of jojo56830 puts out a lineup of nine different Links and the Hero of Time is there – the oldest, no eye, Hero’s Shade armor? I saw that one sketch and just thought “oh this is gonna be bad.” Yeah of course he has the coolest design. By the way, it’s only a matter of time until Fierce Deity shows up in the comic and I have reason to believe it could be this current Dawn arc. Dawn … Dawn of a New Day … and who brought about the Dawn of a New Day? Fierce Deity. Twilight is recovering but still injured and what will happen if he falls again? Fierce Deity is coming and we need to be prepared. In this essay I will—

Remember that time when someone put the whole script of the bee movie in here? I’m not that dedicated, and I don’t have that time, but let us remember and hope someone else does it again this time. Cause someone is bound too. We’re all crazy enough to do it. Alright, love you and stay hydrated pls!

Hi! I joined this fandom really recent but i’ve always seen LU stuff on pinterest and elsewhere. Only recently have i actually took the time to understand the fandom and get back into LOZ stuff and i adore the characters and story! The more and more fanart, fanfics, and comics i see about the different Links the more i love them all. It’s such a pain to pick just one i like or one i don’t like because they’re all so unique. I love this fandom and hope to get more involved!! Have a wonderful rest of your day :]

Epona is an underrated queen

your mom

I really don't get why Zelda is called Artemis. Athena makes more sense???? It perplexes me

Anyone seeing this should check out Breanna’s E!Wild AU

Something something queer every Link into oblivion!

[player1064]

And as for the prompt two: I would like to subscribe to your "Gary has autism"- newsletter. So something Carraville about Gary being autistic. Could be something like them actually needing to communicate with each other about relationship stuff, because Gary can't do vague and needs to have things spelled at him. Or maybe something more lighthearted, maybe Carra has googled "how to support your autistic partner" and is trying his best and Gary who has no idea he has autism is like "what's all this then?".

Or just go nuts and do what you feel like.

god I LOVE autistic gary so much. I mean I'm always Implying he's autistic in everything I write but it was fun to have a go at making it like,, the Focus...

also sorry guys that I dissappeared from doing prompts again!! Not forgotten them or lost inspiration I'm just. Slow. And I keep starting new WIPs instead...

---

Gary wakes to the feeling of chapped lips pressing against his temple, and he blinks his eyes open to smile up at Jamie and (more importantly) the cup of coffee he’s holding. He’s sat himself down on Gary’s side of the bed and waits patiently for Gary to shuffle upright so that he can pass him the mug, his free hand absently running up and down Gary’s thigh over the covers.

There are worse things to wake up to, Gary thinks generously, and he takes a careful sip of his coffee.

Jamie watches him intently for a few moments, his hand still resting on his leg. “Think I could get used t’ this,” he says softly, “you not runnin’ off to gym at the crack of dawn.”

I could get used to this too, Gary thinks. But he knows it’s not something he can get used to – the minute he lets one thing slip, the whole carefully balanced ecosystem that is his life will come tumbling down and before you know it he’ll be a stone or two heavier. Besides, then he’d have to admit that he likes being here in Liverpool, and that’s obviously never gonna happen.

It’s not Liverpool that he likes, anyway.

“Hmm, I dunno,” he says instead. “My chi’s probably gonna be all out for the rest of the day now.”

Jamie rolls his eyes at the mention of his chi, but he doesn’t try to argue it. Likely because he knows he won’t win, ‘cause Gary’s right.

When he sets his mug down on the bedside table Jamie immediately leans into his space, cupping his cheek with one of his warm dry hands and kissing him gently. This, too, Gary could get used to. He chases all thoughts of working out from his mind and instead focuses on returning the kiss, curling his hands in the fabric of Jamie’s t-shirt.

“’m not much for morning sex, me,” he murmurs when they come up for air.

“I know.” Jamie shifts his face slightly to press a kiss to the corner of Gary’s mouth, then one to his jaw. “This okay though? Or d’you want me to stop?”

“This is okay,” he confirms with a fraction of a nod. More than okay, really, but Jamie doesn’t need to hear that – his head’s big enough as it is.

*

They’re at the studio to film Stick to Football and Gary’s having one of those days where everything feels just slightly off. He’s not sure what it is, really – probably stress, most things in his life are caused by stress – but he’s always explained it away as ‘just a headache’, or ‘didn’t get enough sleep last night’.

Everything’s just a fraction too bright, a fraction too loud – the laughter of his friends feels grating, the equipment being shifted around while the crew packs up might as well be a dozen car crashes all clanging together.

He opens up his phone as soon as they’re done shooting, hoping that sends enough of a ‘don’t talk to me’ message that people will get the hint and leave him alone. Of course, this plan fails to account for Jamie being – well, being Jamie.

He walks up behind Gary and claps a friendly hand on his shoulder, asks in that loud voice of his “’m I comin’ back to yours?” in a way that makes Gary wince.

“Maybe not,” he says apologetically. “Got a lot of work to get through.”

“Have you fuck,” Jamie mutters.

This thing he’s got going on with Jamie is still new enough that he’s not really sure how he’s meant to act in public. Probably just the same as before, but he can’t remember what that was like. He thinks he should be meaner, then he panics that he’s hurting Carra’s feelings. If he’s nicer, he worries he’ll think he’s just being polite because they’re fucking now.

Jamie, obviously, has no such problem. He just does whatever he wants, whenever. For example: right now he’s watching Gary with this piercing sort of look, and Gary finds himself wanting to squirm under the intensity of his focus.

After assessing him for a few moments, Jamie’s tone turns gentle and he asks, “you sure you’re alright?” like he already knows the answer. “Just – thought you might be getting one of your headaches.”

Gary nods, rubs a hand at his temple to really drive the point home. “I can work through it though, it’s fine.”

Jamie looks at him for a long second, his face twitching a bit like he’s trying not to let his expression slip. “At least let me drive you home? Promise I won’t try talk your ear off on the way or anything.”

“Fine,” Gary agrees with a sigh. “Yeah, fine.”

*

“When was the last time you ate?” Jamie asks as he follows Gary through his front door.

Gary shoots him a Look. “Thought you were just dropping me off?”

Jamie ignores this and walks past him and through to the kitchen. “If I made you a sandwich would you eat it?”

He doesn’t really feel that hungry, but he’s also not got the energy to try argue with Jamie. “D’you know how to make a sandwich?”

“Mmm,” Jamie hums as he rummages through Gary’s fridge, which does not fill him with confidence.

“I’m gonna go sit in the living room.”

“Good idea,” Jamie says absently. He opens up a cupboard and grabs a glass out of it, goes to the tap to fill it up right to the brim. “Here, take this with you.”

Gary, too confused by Jamie’s inexplicable behaviour to remember to thank him, takes a careful sip of the water so that he doesn’t have to worry about spilling it on his walk to the sofa and he wanders out the room to the sounds of Jamie muttering to himself about butter knives and bread knives and whether there’s any real difference between them.

A few minutes go by – much too long for any functional person to make a sandwich – before Jamie walks into the living room looking pleased with himself. He hands a plate to Gary – and fair play to him, it looks like a perfectly acceptable sandwich – then hovers awkwardly in front of him.

“Alright if I sit with you?” he asks.

Gary nods, picking up the sandwich with his hands to get a proper look at it. Jamie plops himself down on the next cushion over as he takes his first bite. It’s just ham and cheese and a bit too much butter, but it’s edible. Gary’s stomach grumbles – maybe he’s hungrier than he’d thought.

He eats in silence and finishes off the rest of his water, then when he’s put the plate and glass down on the coffee table in front of him he turns to Jamie and raises an eyebrow. Now what?

Jamie shrugs, then lifts one arm up to rest on the back of the sofa. “You up for a cuddle?”

No, would be Gary’s immediate reaction, but Jamie’s being suspiciously nice to him so he thinks maybe he should try avoid snapping at him. And it might be nice, just for a minute or two. Jamie’s chest is always lovely and solid.

He shuffles over into Jamie’s space, lowers himself down to lean against him. He presses his cheek against the soft fabric of Jamie’s t-shirt, takes a long inhale to try adjust himself to his smell.

Jamie’s arm slips down across Gary’s shoulders, squeezing him with just a bit too much pressure which should be annoying but which just makes Gary feel secure in his place. His other hand comes up to rest on the small of his back and Gary feels his lips brush briefly against the top of his head.

“This okay?” he murmurs into Gary’s hair.

The headache, or not-headache or whatever it is, is already fading to the back of Gary’s mind. He nods against Jamie’s chest, then he lets his eyes flutter closed. Maybe a quick nap won’t do any harm.

[dangerous-disposition]

WIP Wednesday - here i have found some peace of mind (formerly titled 'spent all winter waiting for the sun to arise')

This is from the modern AU I'm writing where Eddie is a rockstar and Steve is a group housing coordinator at a hotel that Corroded Coffin is staying at, except during a whole mix-up with a typo in the system and Eddie being a disaster and stealing his tour manager's phone, Steve thinks he's talking to the tour manager of the band whose name is Chris and not the front-man of the band 😩

“Good afternoon, this is events, Steve speaking?” he said quickly.

“Good afternoon, handsome. How are things going in hotel land?”

Steve chuckled and rolled his eyes a little bit. “Busy, as always. Can’t complain though,” he replied as he tapped his pencil against his notebook. “How can I help you, Chris?”

“What if I just wanted to hear your voice?” Chris teased, and Steve rolled his eyes.

“I’m on the clock, Chris. How can I help you?” Steve asked again, but there was a part of him that was still flattered by the attention, interested in the attention even.

And so began the almost-daily calls from Chris. Steve never actually reached out from his end because there was no reason for him to until closer to the actual cut-off date. It was always Chris calling him to make requests, to discuss the area a bit more, or sometimes just to chat. As their work relationship progressed, Steve found it easier to fall into more friendly banter, even returning some of the flirting.

Steve still refused to try to find out who the band was or look Chris up, but mostly because he didn’t want to give a face to the man he was talking to on the phone just yet. He knew that if Chris was even half as hot as he sounded he wouldn’t stand a chance.

As it stood, most days Chris would call, they would discuss matters pertaining to the band’s stay in July for five minutes, then spend the next twenty minutes just talking about other stuff. Usually, it was just Steve talking about his job and and complaining.

“The worst way to receive a rooming list is as a PDF,” Steve grumbled into the phone as he painstakingly copied and pasted a rooming list into a spreadsheet. “Please know that if a group housing coordinator receives a rooming list as a PDF? They hate the client just a little bit.”

On the other end of the call, Chris chuckled before stopping abruptly. Steve smirked a bit as he could practically hear the dots connecting in Chris’ head.

“Didn’t we send our rooming list as a PDF?”

Steve snorted. “Maybe,” he replied cheekily, and Chris groaned.

“Is that why you are resisting my charm?” Chris whined and Steve laughed.

“That, and I’m also on the clock,” he reminded Chris teasingly.

“You could always give me your number?”

Steve sighed and thought back to the employee conduct manual. It would be wildly inappropriate to give a client his number. “Not while you’re my client,” he responded, resolving to pull out the conduct manual and read it over again.

“So… after?” Chris pressed and Steve laughed.

“I’m not making any promises, Chris,” Steve sighed, chewing his lip while a grin tugged at the corners of his mouth.

There was some shouting on the other end of the call and Chris sighed. “Alright, Stevie, that’s my cue to go in a bit. I’ll talk to you tomorrow?”

Steve almost said yes, but then remembered he had requested the next day off. “No, unfortunately I won’t be in the office tomorrow. I’m taking a personal day,” he replied.

“Oh, doing anything fun or interesting?” Chris asked, and Steve actually grinned at how interested he sounded.

“I wish. Uh, nah, I have appointments and then visiting a cemetery, so,” Steve trailed off with a shrug before cringing. Chris couldn’t see him shrugging, what the hell?

“Oh shit, sorry. That was really stupid of me to ask,” Chris said and Steve laughed.

“It’s all good, man. I wouldn’t’ve answered if it bothered me,” he admitted and on the other end of the line, Chris chuckled lightly.

“That makes sense. I’ll talk to you another time then.”

“Or you could relax and not call me again about your stay in July,” Steve insisted as he always did when they were about to hang up.

“Mm, no. I think I’ll continue to micromanage our stay, just to keep you on your toes, Stevie,” Chris replied and then hung up.

Steve sighed with a little grin as he hung his receiver up, rubbing the back of his neck bashfully.

“What the hell was that, Dingus?”

Steve nearly jumped out of his skin and looked up at Robin peering over his cubicle with wide eyes.

“Nothing,” Steve lied, and he could feel his face burning with his blush.

“Stephen, are you flirting with a client?” she hissed as she hurried around the cubicle wall to sit on his desk.

“No,” Steve hissed back, glancing around but thankfully no one was paying attention. “No, he is flirting with me.”

Robin gasped dramatically. “He?” she questioned excitedly.

“Did you need something? Because I’m kind of busy,” Steve said, shoving his glasses up to scrub at his face.

“I texted you about food in Dustin’s Office, but you didn’t respond so I came to find you,” she immediately replied, smiling when Steve locked his computer and got up.

“I’m definitely in,” he replied happily.

“We’re talking about everything I overheard there tomorrow, you hear me, Harrington?” Robin said as they walked, pointing at him accusingly.

“Yeah, yeah,” Steve sighed, rolling his eyes with a chuckle.

Let me know if you wanna be added to the taglist for snippets and/or when this goes live! Taglist! @scarcrossdlvrs, @patchworkgargoyle, @indigohightide, @steddieas-shegoes, @afewproblems, @mylilplanet, @amerikanskaya-krassavitsa

[axolotlsupremacyowo]

20 Questions for Writers

Thanks @oceangirl24 for the tag! I love you, bestie!

Now, on to the questions!

❣️How many works do you have on AO3?

I have 86 fics! I write all kinds of things! Case fics, angst, fluff, smut, and all that jazz. I like to think that I have a diverse range of stuff on AO3, which I find I'm really proud of :3

❣️What is your total AO3 word count?

613,383....Yes, I write too much.

❣️What fandoms do you write for?

Most of my fics are Ace Attorney, but I have other fandoms like Stardew Valley! I also write in fandoms that are gifts for friends.

❣️What are your top five fics by kudos?

Say My Name (233 kudoes)

Operation Helios (178 kudoes)

Apollo is a Crazy Cat Attorney™ (166 kudoes)

Ace Attorney: Maya Fey (166 kudoes)

Turnabout Birch Meadows (151 kudoes)

Nice! Most of them are Klapollo XD

❣️Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

I love responding to comments! I get to ramble, and I want each and every commenter to know that I appreciate them <3. Sometimes I take a long time, so sorry about that!!!! But I'll get to the comment eventualy!!

❣️What's the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

Definitely Things Left Unsaid, that fic is SUPER angsty with a really sad ending. It's non canon Major Character Death, so of course it's angsty lol.

❣️What's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

I'm...not sure? A lot of my fics end in happy endings. But if I had to pick the happy ending that made me the most emotional, I'd have to choose Blossoming in the Rain.

❣️Do you get hate on your fic?

Surprisingly, no. I've only gotten support for my fics. Which I am VERY much thankful for. To all of my followers, readers, and supporters...thank you SO much for making my fandom experience so lovely <3

❣️Do you write smut?

Definitely lol. I used to be terrified of writing smut...and then I met a certain someone *cough cough* @mikaharuka *cough cough* and now I've written a lot of smut. This is all YOUR FAULT BESTIE.

❣️Do you write crossovers?

Nope lol. I like to keep my fandoms separate.

❣️Have you ever had a fic stolen?

I...don't think so? But if someone has stolen my fics, please be sure to tell me! I'm not exactly keen on the idea of my fics being plagiarized or stolen.

❣️Have you ever had a fic translated?

Again, I have no idea. I don't think it has since nobody has approached me before, so to my knowledge it's a no.

❣️Have you ever co-written a fic?

Yes!!! I've co written SO many things with my bestiest of besties @tsunderesalty and I love every fic I've co written with him. He's just the greatest and he's an amazing writer. Check him out!

❣️What's your all-time favorite ship?

Hmm! For Ace Attorney, it's a tough choice between Klapollo and Franmaya. For Stardew, my top ship is my farmer and Sebastian (Sebakonnie)

❣️What's the WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

My flufftober series. I started it in 2022...and it's currently 2024. I just kinda lost steam for that fic. I am very proud of all the fics I've written for it, though. Maybe I should revisit it...

❣️What are your writing strengths?

Nothing.

Ahem, knowing how my dearest besties would respond to that...I guess my flexibility with writing styles? I talked about this with my friends before, but I have multiple writing styles, five to be specific. I can switch between them pretty easily, and I like to think they're all distinct from each other but still being undeniably me. God, I really don't wanna sound like I'm bragging XD.

❣️What are your writing weaknesses?

NOT KNOWING WHEN TO SHUT THE FUCK UP. I literally cannot shut up for the life of me. It is a curse. My fics would be SO much shorter if I just shut up lol.

❣️Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language for a fic?

Oh!!! Actually, so about this! For reference, I'm Filipino, born and raised in the Philippines. I can speak Filipino and Tagalog pretty well, and I can understand Bisaya (Cebuano is its official name, but everyone in the Philippines calls it Bisaya) well, but I can speak it only a little bit. Anyway, I've always wanted to incorporate Filipino and Bisaya into my fics but didn't know how...and then I thought of Filipino Phoenix! Happy to say that I'm planning on writing that soon :3

So yeah, happy to include languages other than English! Especially my native language. Otherwise, for languages I don't know. I use Deepl, it's a very useful tool!

I'm all for using different languages in my fics, and when I get something wrong, I'm quick to correct it!

❣️First fandom you wrote for?

Ace Attorney. I have had Ace Attorney brainrot for SO long.

❣️Favorite fic you've ever written?

.....

.........

.........

YOU'RE MAKING ME CHOOSE OUT OF ALL OF MY BABIES?

Would it be cheating to choose a series? XD

But yeah! My Defense Attorney Maya Fey series contains my favorite fics of all! The top ones of my list being Ace Attorney: Maya Fey and Yours Truly, Franziska von Karma. I just...love these fics so much...I especially love Ace Attorney: Maya Fey. That bitch has been my baby since like...2021?

Now! Who to tag...that would be my besties @mikaharuka, @aislinnstanaka, @udaberriwrites, @kayedium-writes, @justanotherpersonwhowrites, @mikaharuka @fattybattysblog

[ntzsche9]

So, hi! I'm Verne (they/them), practically a queer elder in my 30s, brand new to tumblr (dunno how I ever missed the boat), and I only ever seem to write in the 20 minutes or so between pulling up to work and clocking in, or when I'm putting my toddlers down for a nap but don't want to crawl out of their beds and address the chores I gotta do while they're out of the way. I've written poetry, prose, and roleplayed in the past but got away from it for years and years, and only recently started writing again. I have notebooks and lists of story ideas but the few things I have fleshed out are mostly silly character-based "what if?" scenarios, because those are the most fun to me. Too many of my stories are me simply wanting to write a scene, developing a bit of a world around it, then losing interest entirely. I hope this blog can change that a bit, help me focus on following through or figuring out how to better develop small ideas into something longer.

Interests:

Post-apocalyptic

Near-future dystopias

Scifi/Fantasy (urban) with magical realism

History/AltHistory (especially lesser-known and marginalized stories)

Horror, dark, violent, and mature themes

Queer everything. I can't write heteros to save my life and I'm not all that sorry about it.

Sexy melodrama and smut with too much plot

Fanfiction (I could read/write Fallout stuff all day)

Some Favorite Authors:

Octavia Butler

Nnedi Okorafor

VE Schwab

Starhawk

Madeline Miller

Ta-nehisi Coates

Becky Chambers

Emma Donoghue

Looking for:

Community, inspiration, other writers to follow, and problem-solving tips in storytelling and sticking to stories when things get tough. I really just need some folks to talk to when working through all the things in my head. Open to the occasional tag but I'm not great at responding.

I have plenty more little bits of nonsense in various states of readability, like character backgrounds, alt-ending scenes, slice-of-life banter between characters, etc. These will be posted under the tag #ntzsche misc

Noteworthy WIPs:

Bad Blood - A Fallout Nuka-World fanfic (#ntzsche Nuka-World)

My longest story is a fanfic, but with a cast of characters largely not in the Fallout 4 DLC. I intend to eventually write this in a way that someone who hasn't played the game would be able to easily read.

Lafayette, the son of a 'retired' raider, left his abusive father to find his place in the world and was taken in by an eclectic trauma-bonded found family that inspires him to be a better person and shows him love he is certain he doesn't deserve. When his father comes across them in a raid, Lafayette is given the offer to join him, and he agrees in order to save the settlement and his little brother. Lafayette finds that being with his dad again, and being the son he always wanted him to be, isn't nearly as difficult as he thought it would be. He struggles to maintain the person he wants to be with the person he suspects he is, all while a cast of scheming raiders, wastelanders, and slaves vie for power in the raider city built within the rusted remains of an amusement park.

Salem's Child (#ntzsche Salem)

A background on one of the lesser Nuka-World characters that I got carried away with.

Andrew Rook doesn't look like his parents. He looks like someone they are desperate to forget. Growing up in post-apocalyptic Salem, Massachusetts has it's perks, though. In a fading settlement run by incompetent men who would rather blame the population of feral black cats for their problems than try to solve them, Andrew and his two best friends build a world in their imagination that shields them from the wretchedness of the wasteland and the people they have to rely on to survive.

Hechizo

Another character background that I would love to expand into a few short stories around.

Mateo Zavala was born in the vibrant and tight-knit community of Navarro. His great-great-great-great-great-great grandmother, a pre-war ghoul, is still the ruling matriarch, and it's hard for her not to play favorites when she has over 300 living descendants.

The Crash (#ntzsche Crash)

A what-if real-world rewrite of an event from another story. I just really enjoy writing these two.

Gabe always knew his functional alcoholic roomie would get into a terrible car wreck some day, but he never thought he would be dumb enough to be in the car with him. When the consequences of the wreck threaten to destroy Dave's life, Gabe finds himself doing everything he can to hold those pieces together. The love he harbors for his straight, polyamorous best friend runs deeper than either of them are ready to face, and find that Dave's injury turns their relationship completely on end.

[pikabysss]

I've thought of a concept of a mainly Resident Evil 4 AU like... similar to a vampire AU but not quite. Some kind of Castlevania-ish AU (in a similar setting with similar rules to the universe of Castlevania. With vampires, but also a lot of other kinds of monsters and fantastical races.) It'd be like some kind of Serennedy focused AU, so I decided to design them both first.

Here they are! There's colours for once :0.

Also, I've written down some of the worldbuilding for that AU if you want more context and information. It's a WIP still, so not everything is perfectly set in stone. But, if I had the mental energy, was better with time management, and was able to concentrate on my writing for more than ten minutes, I would have totally already started a fic about it. So, there's still a lot of stuff here:

Leon is a vampire/monster hunter (for obvious reason), and he is sent on a mission to save an important governor's daughter (Ashley Graham) who got captured by Lord Saddler (who is a vampire almost on the same importance of Dracula in this universe.) Luis is a dark chemist who has a lot of forbidden knowledge with science and magic. He wasn't liked in the village, but Lord Saddler admired him for his intellectual prowess, and, well, it pretty much follows canon. But it's more of a mix of fantasy and sci-fi, unlike og RE 4, which is mostly just sci-fi with the parasite stuff. Luis learns how to turn humans into monsters but also reanimate dead bodies (making Frankenstein or zombies), but he's obviously not pleased by the result. He's not capable of creating vampires, tho. Saddlers, being a vampire lord, can turn other people into vampires, and he turned Mendez and Salazar into ones. He doesn't turn too many people into vampires since they have more free wills than, like, zombies and can't control their darkened souls as well. But the fact that, if vampires go out of the village, they would most likely be killed by the hunters, Saddler can emotionally manipulate them to work for him.

Leon eventually gets bitten by Saddler and is about to become a vampire. Obviously, becoming a vampire means he'd lost everything all over again, but, most importantly, for him, his humanity. This happens before he finds Luis. Luis, at that point, wants to change his way of living and repents for his sins, so he decides to help Leon. When he discovers that Leon got bitten, he's enthralled to study him and try to find a cure... Leon accepts being his test subject, but Luis needs to help Leon get back the governor's daughter first. (Which he hasn't found yet.) And so, they go on their... horror adventure. By the way, Luis is not a vampire, and it's difficult for vampires to control their bloodthirsty impulse, so Luis must keep distances with them. He made a deal with Saddlers to help him, but to not get bitten in exchange. But, since he works so close with Leon and that the latter can't be really ordered around by Saddlers because of his rebellious nature and free will, well... if he turns into a vampire... It'd get dangerous for Luis... and Ada, because Ada is a huntress and it'd be more Leon that would be in trouble if she found out about him becoming a vampire. :/

I didn't think much of Wesker's and friends' role in the AU yet, but it's a work in progress.... The time period is between 1700 and 1900, but it's still a fantastical world, so some anachronistic elements or mixing of time period can be found. Sorry, history fanatics. *^*

I'm keeping this here so I won't lose the idea in the near future. (Unrelated, but now that I think of it, RE is a series that takes a lot of inspiration from old monsters (or horror, I guess) movies, just like Castlevania.... no wonders, I'm a fan of the two. And no wonders, both series are getting in Dead by Daylight. Jeebus Chris, the Dead by Daylight team it so wise on their IP choices. :/ I'll try not to get caught into their marketing, but I won't deny that they're wise and that they already almost caught me as if I was some kind of pokémon.)

[kemendin]

Played through the False Emperor flashpoint for GS stuff (I'm way behind but I can't really care that much) and now I'm having feelings again over how that all goes down in my canon:

Basically, when Malgus pulls his little coup, it's Khel who reaches out to the Republic forces - and in doing so, to Caspian - to be all 'Hey. Common enemy here, right? Let's take him down together and both sides will be minus one problem.' This is Cas' first direct contact with Khel, and he's definitely surprised by how calm and reasonable the new Emperor's Wrath seems to be. But all things considered, there doesn't seem to be a better option here, so it's agreed - they'll work together to stop Malgus.

Thus the strike team that infiltrates Malgus' station consists of Cas, Kira, Scourge, Khel, and Quinn (and maybe I'll add other characters later when and if I actually write this fic, but those are the main players here). An extremely capable, if rather tense, group of people, who are sure to get the job done, and Khel is even gracious enough to let Cas take the lead on this one.

Unfortunately, Malgus' space station is not just any old space station - it's the repurposed Emperor's fortress, where Cas, not too long ago, was imprisoned for the most horrific six months of his life. He knows this, he's really not excited about the prospect of being there again, but he ignores Kira's suggestion that he stay behind and insists on going there anyway, because he's Cas. He has to keep going, he has to push through.

Aaaand it turns out, he can't. He still doesn't remember much of what happened to him here, which is probably for the best, but one thing he does remember is the environment. The shining black walls, the searing white and scarlet lights, the hollow chill gnawing at his flesh. He makes it a few corridors into the place, maybe, but then he starts getting flashes of memories, and fear overcomes him, and he nearly has a full blown breakdown right there because he can't, he can't, he can't endure this again.

He's in no condition to continue the mission - but he can't exactly just up and leave again, either. So instead, the group splits. Kira takes Cas and finds a corner close to the hangar where they can hunker down, and from there Cas uses his slicing expertise to try and cut through some of the fortress' defences. Meanwhile, Khel takes the lead in finding Malgus with Quinn, and Scourge goes with them to serve as a guide, because even with Malgus' upgrades to the place, Scourge still knows most of the station's strengths and weaknesses better than anyone.

Nobody has a good time on this trip. Cas feels incredibly humiliated at breaking down like this, particularly in front of the Imperials, and Kira is really trying not to be 'I told you so' about asking him to stay behind, because she was here before too, she gets it, and now she just wants to make sure they all make it out alive. In the other party, Khel is still technically recovering from certain other Incidents on Ilum (Fractures in the Ice, still a WIP, sorry lol), and is just a tiny bit nervous around Scourge, given this former/current Wrath dynamic they've got going on here. Scourge, for his part, is not impressed with either his replacement or the Emperor's, and makes very little effort to hide his contempt for both Khel and Malgus - he just wants to be done with this. And Quinn is trotting along behind them just praying there isn't going to be a fight between them over their current positions, and also putting a whole lot of effort into keeping his mouth shut over the fact that Scourge is a clearly unrepentant traitor.

When it comes to actually confronting Malgus - there's a definite difference of opinions going on. Khel is actually in agreement with Malgus, to a point - he approves of change, particularly with utilising the varied attributes of aliens to strengthen the Empire, and he tries to talk Malgus down. Scourge, however, sees only a chaotic, power-grabbing pretender on the throne, and simply attacks in the middle of Khel's attempted negotiations, because he sees what Khel does not - that Malgus is never going to compromise here.

It's only during the actual fight with Malgus that Scourge gains a little respect for Khel, when he sees that Khel can fight as well as talk. They're both quite adept at reading someone else's movements, so it doesn't take them long to find a working rhythm and be able to coordinate their attacks. Quinn, of course, is used to fighting beside a Force user, and weaves himself in there with his usual competence. It's not an easy fight, but per canon flashpoint etc they manage to defeat Malgus and then hotfoot it out of there, while Cas and Kira make their escape separately.

I think on the way back to Ilum there is a definite moment of danger between Scourge and Khel/Quinn; Scourge is still a traitor, after all, and Khel knows that the Dark Council would just love to get their hands on him. But Khel isn't the type to turn on an ally, however temporary - and besides that, after fighting alongside Scourge, he's not stupid enough to try and take the other Sith by force. So Scourge is returned to his Jedi friends - much to Cas' relief - and the two groups go their separate ways, until the next time their player decides to mash them together.

[klunkcat]

tagged by @goodlucktai <3333

1. How many works do you have on AO3?

45 lol but i have I think. 30 wips that exist somewhere on my computer at any given moment. alas.

2. What's your total AO3 word count?

701,032

which..... is like far too many words per fic actually imo

3. What fandoms do you write for?

honestly whatever currently grabs my brain stem changes a lot but i think my top ones are tmnt and stranger things (what a wild combo actually). Actively atm I have a trigun wip and a tmnt one

4. Top five fics by kudos?

A Kiss is a Kiss (But it's never like this) - 6,528

(something happens and I'm) head over heels - 3,518

Green with Envy - 1,880

Forget the mess I'm in - 1,791

Weak Point - 1,366

5. Do you respond to comments?

literally I am the WORST for remembering to reply I'm so sorry. I must say that I do read all of them in my email and screenshot them and cry

6. What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

angsty endings are too much 4 me I believe so strongly in hurt/comfort but....

Impossible Things and the Tin Can I think is the most like, conceptually tragic series I've written

7. What's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

Comfort is a requirement but I think but like Stepping over the line is basically just an extended meet cute so nothing really sad happens at all lol?

8. Do you get hate on fics?

Actually genuinely have never gotten a rude comment in my life I did once get someone being hyper pushy about new chaps when I was like.... 19? Sometimes comments veer I think towards misunderstanding unreliable narrator elements and can be a little intense as a result

9. Do you write smut?

ehhhhhh closest I've ever gotten was dancing around the topic lol

10. Craziest crossover?

omg me and tai have gone down some rabbit holes and made a tangled/good omens fusion among other things, which was cute 2 me

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

not that I know of!

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

I've gotten some requests, not sure if they got uploaded anywhere?

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

I did once many years ago but we didn't end up finishing it from what I remember!

14. All time favourite ship?

oh god I mean. ineffable husbands and wangxian invented romance. big mckirk and vashwood fan despite what my published fics would tell you. stsg ruined my life this year. I'm really big on platonic friendships though personally

15. What's a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

My google docs are a cesspit of fics I will never finish. Once made a wangxian softball fic that will never see the light of day but I think of it fondly

16. What are your writing strengths?

Might actually be a weakness and not a strength but boy do I love prosey metaphor nonsense. Sometimes I think it works other times who's 2 say.

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

Fighting scenes man, combat is hard as hell.

18. Thoughts on dialogue in another language?

in general I dooooon't write it too much just because I don't speak anything beyond like. grade 2 level spanish so.

19. First fandom you wrote in?

tmnt :' )

20. Favourite fic you've written?

Oh tricky. Stealing tai's idea of a top 5

Forget-Me-Nots - :') big ol love u to tai for this

Both the Sweet and the Bitter - so sorry to anyone who follows me for ST fics because I'm probably never going to write for it ever again or finish this but a dear friend of mine helped me with this story and it means a lot 2 me as a result. The flower metaphors were fun to research.

Plain White Beach Houses - also same as the above but idk pacific rim au....house metaphors.... I love this series a lot

change up, high inside - wanted to write a softball fic for my whole life basically and this is more or less me just waxing poetic about the sport if I'm honest

Feedback Loop - this fic was actually insane like. took me I think a full year to write out? There's a lot of stuff in this that I lol cannot reread anymore for reasons but damn if it wasn't a learning experience to write all around

Tagging @eternalglitch @byrdybyrd02 @jinbugs if u want to besties!

[whoslaurapalmer]

been going through some old wips so behold!! some scene sketches i have done for various sugar bowl gen fics and stuff, bc i will probably never make them more than these few sentences (or they will transform into something else) and that is not terrible. sometimes you just have little snippets that exist as they are, and that's cool ⭐

wait hold on first. that time i wanted to crossover hades and hamlet but i have read hamlet too few times and need to really bite into it to make this work right. also wasn't sure if they should talk in iambic pentameter

[ "i dream of ophelia," hamlet says, suddenly. he is wiping the blood off his knife with the hem of his jacket, and horatio watches the movement, still. "i dream of her in such a dreadful state -- she has old flowers in her hair, and when she comes at last close enough to touch, she is the softest and the saddest thing i have ever seen, as if all a rotting petal. she smiles at me, with tears on her face." he pauses. "a hideous sight." ]

[ "my lord," horatio says, "perhaps it is not death."

hamlet looks away. "if not to death," he murmurs, "then to what end, horatio?" ]

that time i wanted to well i guess crossover hades with lemony but just in the sense that lemony dies and comes back repeatedly and it wasn't a time loop. just needed a lot of words about death and living i didn't always wanna pull out

the first time it happened, bertrand had dragged lemony out of the water, and lemony was coughing out lungfulls of water in the dark shadows on the pier, his whole body cold and wet and trembling, and bertrand was trying to figure out what he was supposed to do, and lemony said, in a harsh whisper –

“i’m going to die.” he coughed again and looked petulant, closing his eyes. “don’t tell kit.”

"i'm sorry?" bertrand said. 

then he was holding a dead lemony snicket in his arms, and before the absurd horror of it could really sink in, lemony opened his eyes again with a sharp, clear breath. 

because lemony snicket is sometimes the kindest, most aware person bertrand knows, lemony takes him out for lunch. 

"does this happen often?" bertrand asks.

lemony makes a face. "no," he says. "not often. i'd rather it didn't at all." 

It was a lot to take in. But lemony was trusting him -- lemony, who, Bertrand knew, trusted less than three people on any given day. bertrand was touched. 

bernadette and lemony go out for ice cream

her mother had told her to cause uncle lemony a reasonable amount of trouble, and bernadette, being six, was good at causing a reasonable amount of trouble. if only uncle lemony wasn’t equally good at causing a reasonable amount of trouble back. she’d kept changing her ice cream choice all the way to the ice cream parlor down the street from the movie theater, to keep him on his toes, and he had retaliated by buying one little cup of each of the ten flavors, for them to share.

they sat at a table outside the parlor, under the awning of the shop and so in the shade and out of the hot summer sun, and taste-tested them all, bernadette writing the results in the notebook from her pocket.

“what did you think of the mint chocolate chip?” uncle lemony asked.

“it needed more chips,” bernadette said. she held her pencil very tight and wrote slowly so all the letters looked like they were supposed to. her penmanship was not quite up to her troublemaking skills, but bernadette was determined to fix that as quickly as possible. “what did you think of the salted caramel?”

“less salt,” uncle lemony said, and paused while bernadette crossed a still-too-big t with neat precision. “the smores?”

bernadette smiled, because the smores ice cream was always her favorite. “perfect.”

that time i was testing out ideas for college au and wound up nearly writing the basic eight and went 'well that is NOT the tone i want'

This, thing has been happening lately. (beatrice can just see lemony, where he usually sits in the basement of the library with her, gently circling thing in her literary analysis and telling her the word is too vague. Since when does lemony police her thoughts? She flexes her grip on the steering wheel and taps her nails against it. anyway.) when she’s with olaf, she almost doesn’t feel real. She looks at him out of the corner of her eye, cigarette dangling out of his mouth, sticking his hand out the window as beatrice drives down center street. It’s like she has to remind herself who he is. Because the second she sees him she thinks of kit all over again, in the backyard of olaf’s parent’s house, punching olaf in the face, blood on her knuckles when she pulled back. And again, and again, with a coiled rage in her eyes, because he was laughing at her around the blood he was spitting into the grass, that wheezing laugh beatrice had always loved rising to a frenzied pitch, and kit didn’t stop until olaf was on his knees and jacques grabbed her around the waist. Kit twisted in his grip like she could’ve hit him, too – and it’s the stupidest fucking thing, beatrice thinks, the only reason kit stopped was because jacques was still wearing the party hat beatrice had snapped onto his head when the snickets had all arrived. Because it was beatrice’s birthday, and kit and olaf had ended an eight year relationship in one five minute fight between lemony and bertrand pulling the cake out and josephine cutting it. Jacques had pulled kit into the house, and olaf got to his feet, dragging his forearm over his mouth. 

“Didn’t think she had it in her,” he said, and how was he still laughing? Something cold and hard was curling up inside beatrice – it was her hand, gripping the cake fork so tight it was going to leave a perfect mark on her palm. She let it drop under the table, into the grass. 

Beatrice got the details from kit later. And she couldn’t look olaf in the eye, now. 

that time i was trying to work something out about olaf and esme and just tried rewriting the same idea over to see if i could make it work

you don’t love anything, olaf told her, like it was supposed to hurt. and if esme was anyone else, maybe it would have – if she was olaf, perhaps, who thought baiting for a rise, an argument, a power play the height of appreciation, who thought hate as intoxicating as love. maybe. as it was, esme rolled her shoulders, said, mmm, no, put her heels back on, and left olaf alone. he could come back to her when he was being less exhausting. she had absolutely no patience for his shit moods.

and it was a lie, anyway, esme thought, taking the elevator down to the lobby, fur coat hooked in her fingers and dangling just enough above the floor not to touch. she loved lots of things. rumors. gossip. attention. a very nice pair of hands. good food, in clothing, being looked at. when all eyes were on you, it didn’t matter why. you could get anything you wanted, just because you got people’s attention if only for a moment. just because you played your cards right.

“you don’t love anything,” olaf told her, like it was supposed to hurt. like if he said it all right, he could cause pain in someone else. he liked doing it. pain in someone else meant power.

esme, however, was not just someone else. she raised an eyebrow at him, bending over to do the clasp on the side of her heels. “I love lots of things,” she said. “just because you aren’t one of them doesn’t mean you have to have an attitude about it.”

and it was a lie, anyway. Esmé loved lots of things. rumors; gossip; attention; a nice pair of hands; good food, in clothing, being looked at. admired was better, but just having eyes on her was pleasing enough. being special. and it wasn’t hard, really. she was very good at being special.

that time i was thinking about ernest and lemony and bertrand but wasn't quite sure where it would go and also i can never get them all in the same damn room

“This is lemony snicket,” said lemony snicket.

Ernest paused. “Well, that’s a neat trick,” he said, digging his elbow against the glass of the phone booth. “Dialing bertrand’s number and getting you, instead. Do you do weddings? We’ve missed dewey’s bar mitzvah, of course, so that’s out – how about funerals?”

“How would that work?” lemony asked immediately. “Would i be doing card tricks over the deceased? Isn’t that inappropriate?” 

“Depends on the funeral,” ernest said. “Please do it at mine. Is bertrand there?” 

“He’s supposed to be,” lemony said. “I believe he’s been detained.” 

It figured, of course. When ernest was actually calling in an emergency, bertrand was out somewhere being a good person to someone else. Well, it wasn’t – really an emergency. That was genuinely too dramatic, and the last thing ernest was was dramatic. Bertrand had just given ernest the number for his office at the theater and told ernest to call if he wanted to. If he needed to. He’d smiled when he’d said it, the way bertrand always smiled, one cheek dimpled and a sunshine kindness pouring out of him. And there was no time like the present, ernest thought. The present being, jammed in a phone booth blocks away from the hotel, which was still not enough distance, because – 

It didn’t matter. It was fine. Ernest would be fine. 

“Is there anything i can help you with?” lemony asked, because of course he was still on the other end. In bertrand’s office. 

Ernest closed his eyes, his jaw working. “No,” he said. 

that time lemonberry ice were supposed to be playing like some absurd hide and seek game but i could not quite work out exactly how they were playing and went well! too bad, gang

Beatrice is luminous in the lights above Ramona’s garden; they hang halos in her dark hair, in her eyes, catch on her ruby-red smile. There are the tiniest sequins sewn in her mask, Bertrand realizes, glittering like diamonds in the shape of a crescent moon curved over half her face. She’d shown him her costume before, of course, but here, at the party, it looks different than it did in the apartment. Beatrice glows even in private, but out where people can see her, she shimmers, flashes, beams, like the whole world bends around her and into her hands (balanced on his shoulders, tapping out something that feels like Magalenha). It is dizzying. He could kiss her, if he just tilted his head – they’re pressed that close in the sliver of space between the bushes at the pond. He could absolutely, definitely kiss her, and she’s grinning like she knows exactly what he’s thinking. 

But! This is supposed to be professional. They have rules. Bertrand holds himself very still, raising an eyebrow at her, and Beatrice bites her bottom lip hard around a giggle.

“Shhh,” Bertrand says, trying to sound stern. Does he look stern? Probably not, not at all. 

“I’m sorry,” Beatrice whispers, still giggling, “you just look so – ” 

“Shhhh,” he insists. Now he’s trying not to laugh. “We have to be quiet, Bea.”

She schools her expression into the perfect patient look. And just in time – there are footsteps behind them, quiet on the patio. Dress shoes, not heels, moving slowly from one corner to the next. Someone is taking their time. 

that time i idly considered a sugar bowl gen groupchat fic, but i could never figure out the right circumstances to put them in where the groupchat mattered enough to be the main focus of the fic, bc the nature of a groupchat means you are getting things secondhand, which can cut down on actual story content. but i did come up with usernames, of course. and of COURSE lemonberry ice shenanigans went down in the background.

itstheduchess has renamed the chat ‘don’t tell lemony anything we’re about to say, part 5’

itsthecount: tell me every single detail of the juicy gossip itsthecount: I demand answers and I demand them now itstheduchess: where’s kit itsthecount: do not. sidetrack this conversation. itsthecount: but she’s in the shower itstheduchess: ugggggg itsthecount: who do I have to kill to get the hot take on snicket’s latest fuckup itstheduchess: THIS IS WHY WE DON’T TALK, OLAF itsthecount: and yet here I am, in the fucking group chat theretheir: ????? Did something happen? theretheir: I tried to call Beatrice earlier but she didn’t pick up plainspoken: ramona I respect your desire to respect their privacy but if something has happened it might be better to tell us now itsthecount: yes, so I can plan my funeral outfit accordingly itsthecount: this bright green suit has been dying to be worn theretheir: Olaf, I want you to know that I saw every single thing wrong with that sentence and that I’m going to give you hell for it at a later date kitsnicket: he doesn’t even have a green suit. kitsnicket: what happened? itstheduchess: from what I can tell I think they ran into bertrand plainspoken: oh, no. theretheir: I thought he was out of town? I thought he was in Boston? kitsnicket: do not tell me l and b are in boston itstheduchess: he came back for the summer, they ran into him at the diner on route 9 and I don’t know what happened because beatrice won’t tell me but i’m ASSUMING something did not go well from her tone theretheir: Well, tone is notoriously hard to tell in the written word. itsthecount: josephine have you ever read anything by lemony snicket because I think that will change your opinion on tone kitsnicket: o has a point.

itstheduchess: do you ever get the feeling that since we’re, for lack of a better word, spies, that we maybe shouldn’t have a written record of all our conversations?? kitsnicket: frequently. but that’s never stopped us before. theretheir: I often wonder where I’d be without the ability to personally call you all out on your grammar. itstheduchess: josephine. itstheduchess: you do that outside the group chat.

itsthecount: can’t we just do a murder mystery for snicker’s birthday and call it a day itsthecount: we’re all used to that itsthecount: I will supply the bodies kitsnicket: we’re going to have a conversation later about how that was not the wisest thing to say, next to trying to say ‘flammable’ was a compliment. itsthecount: I will NOT rehash that argument but I will say again that i’m RIGHT kitsnicket: regardless. we are not putting my brother through a murder mystery.

the original incarnation of all phone, no sex, which was instead more about the newspaper

when lemony came home that evening, he took off his hat, looking thoughtfully off into the distance. “apparently,” he announced to beatrice and bertrand, who were bent over a newspaper crossword puzzle in the kitchen and sharing one pen, pressed together from shoulder to hip, “i’m having a torrid love affair with you, bertrand.”

beatrice gasped, her head jerking up. “you are? and no one told me?”

“torrid?” bertrand echoed, taking the pen from beatrice and filling in another answer. “bit of a strong word, don’t you think?”

“i do,” lemony said. he crossed to the kitchen, loosening his tie as he went, and sat down beside beatrice. “i prefer something like passionate.”

beatrice rolled her eyes. honestly, the two of them were lucky they had her, otherwise they’d go around calling their magnificent relationship something boring like passionate. but torrid certainly wasn’t the word either. “you two have no imagination,” she sniffed. “how about steamy?”

bertrand and lemony shared an intrigued glance. beatrice pulled the pen back and contemplated 45 down, smiling to herself.

“i don’t think we’re particularly steamy,” lemony said.

“barely any steam,” bertrand agreed.

“sensuous, then,” beatrice suggested absently. out of the corner of her eye, she saw lemony’s face flush red to the tips of his ears, and her smile grew.

bertrand cleared his throat for a solid five seconds. “you can’t say words like that with a straight face, bea.”

the two of them were so cute when they were flustered. “how is sensuous any worse than torrid?” beatrice asked.

“now is not the time to argue the semantics of language,” lemony said, with all the wisdom of someone who has done that very thing for hours at a time and once drove josephine anwhistle to tears over his opinion on metaphors. “but it has to do with the sound, I think.”

“what about ardent?” bertrand said. “it’s sort of sophisticated.”

“it is sophisticated,” lemony said, “but does it have quite the enthusiasm?”

“you two are going to make me bring out the dictionary, aren’t you,” beatrice muttered.

“nothing would please me more,” bertrand said. he even batted his eyelashes at her for emphasis, which did nothing to sway beatrice’s opinion, although she had to admit he was cute when he did that.

“how about heartfelt?” bertrand suggested behind her.

goodness, he was sentimental. grinning at her coat, she told him, trying to be firm, “affairs aren’t heartfelt.”

sigh. for many years now i have toyed with doing a lemony pov of my babybea fic, but it has just never panned out. but moxie got the bulk of the good lines in the scenes i considered. oh i did have a title though! it was 'but all folks are damaged goods' to continue pulling lyrics from the crooked kind

moxie swings her office door open, grinning wide. “you,” she says brightly, “look like hell.”

“That’s very kind of you,” lemony snicket says, leaning against the doorjamb.

“have you found your niece yet?” moxie asked.

“no,” I said.

“have you been looking?”

“have you?”

moxie sighed. “no. and that’s because you asked me to look for the baudelaires. I thought you’d personally want to find your niece. she is your niece, you know.”

“i am well aware who she is, moxie.”

“are you?” moxie snapped. “because i’d think a man who cared about his family wouldn’t be slumped in my office, asking to be forgiven by a woman who’s already done that, many times over. and begrudgingly, I might add.”

I met moxie’s eyes, and found them cold and grey. they no longer looked as washed and sad as I thought when we were children, instead tempestuous, a word which here means “unwilling to let lemony snicket get away with anything at all.”

I had never forgotten how lucky I really was, to have been forgiven by moxie mallahan.

she was wrong to say it was begrudgingly, though. it was at first. but there is nothing begrudging about exonerating a man from inaccurate accusations.

“what else can I do?”

“well whose fault is that?” moxie shouted. “who’s been hiding, all these years, and not doing a single thing about it? pain isn’t supposed to be comfortable, lemony! it’s not something you get used to! it’s something you drag yourself out of and then never look back at, especially when there’s someone out there who needs you! you don’t lounge around in it and let it eat you alive and forget about your daughter, leave her all alone to deal with everything you were supposed to take care of, all the secrets you never told her! you help her, so she’s not out there running away at sixteen and forcing it all down so she doesn’t think about all the people who were supposed to be there for her!”

it took me a moment to realize that moxie was not talking about my niece.

i have also heavily considered writing a sequel to (the three-part folding mirror) i just wasn't in a great space at the time so it kept getting shuffled to the back of my priorities but it had such TASTY things in it. specifically this was going to reveal that bea and bertrand spent that evening planning the opera

it had taken years to amass the amount of furniture that sat in the green room backstage, and somehow that hadn't turned it into a cultivated bastion (the word of the day in the life section of the punctilio) of good taste. the green room was the ugliest place olaf had ever been in his life. first of all, it was green. not because someone had decided to be funny, which would've been a reason olaf could try and respect, but because it was an organization theater, which meant a majority of the walls were all green outright. olaf had long since stopped lecturing anyone who would listen that it was the most egregious (last tuesday's word of the day in the life section of the punctilio) calling card in the world for an organization that made such a big deal about secrecy, but it was. second, the furniture -- stately little straight-backed chairs one of the snickets had put against the wall that baudelaire always put his jacket on, the most enormous but out of style set of brown chairs sebald had had to take the door off to get in, a coffee table with a permanent slouch from olaf's shoes getting kicked up on it. at least there was his couch, beautifully lurid purple, plush in the right spots, that he'd convinced one of the other snickets to push the six blocks to the theater while he and beatrice lounged on it. old books olaf had read cover to cover more than once, last season's marked-up scripts still piled around, a set of glasses he'd taken piece by piece from his parent's house (taken, not stolen. you could not steal your own family's possessions), excellent wine from esme (definitely stolen). cool in the summer, warm in the winter from the blankets ramona made, a permanent glittering floor from an age of makeup residue. ugly. shit. fucking beautiful. his. 

he wasn't welcome in every space the organization had created, but the theater, above anything else, was a theater, and he was always welcome there. it liked drama. it lived on it. a theater was the place you could break rules, set things right, change the world. no -- not change. change wasn't the right word at all. he wanted to rile it. bite it back. watch the world simmer. let it burn, just a little bit, nice and slow, before anyone noticed, and then it was too late. it was a shame nobody else understood how good it looked when you turned the world on its head just to watch it spin a little differently. not his parents, not the organization, not even beatrice really got it, not like this. nobody but this space, where the theater was one big throne and olaf was its very willing king. 

speaking of beatrice. it was monday, now, and it had been an excellent weekend, and she'd missed the whole damn thing. unforgivable, but olaf was a generous man. he'd tell her. she didn't live in the green room like she'd used to, but he knew he'd still find her there. and when he leaned into the green room door, palm down on the handle and let his weight push it open, there she was, sprawled out in that red sundress that clashed with their couch. ankles crossed over a pillow, her face hidden behind some book, and she hadn't noticed olaf come in. well now, but that just would not do. 

olaf sauntered over and dropped himself into sebald’s chair beside the couch, throwing his legs over the arm, then kicked the sole of beatrice’s heel sharply, grinning. “and where have you been, brat?”

beatrice kicked the bottom of his shoe back with perfect aim. olaf slid farther down into the cushions, his limbs sticking out at stupid odd angles. "rude," he called, waving his hand at her, even if she couldn't see it. "i come, out of the goodness of my heart -- " beatrice snorted, and olaf grinned wider. " -- to fill you in on all the hot drama, and this is the thanks i get?" 

"oh, please." she turned a page of the book. she'd started picking off her nail polish again, he noticed, little pieces of red missing off her nails. "it's been, like, forty-eight hours since i saw you? that's not nearly enough time for hot drama to happen without me, brat." 

“oh, but it did. ernest turned out to be a dirty, dirty traitor who’s been hiding information.” beatrice didn’t need to know that ernest had also given information to olaf, and that olaf had been stacking it away for future use. beatrice got drama, and the theater, and the rush when you did something special and all eyes were on you – but special to her meant noble, not different. she got away with it because she was still beatrice, but she didn’t have to know everything. (and olaf himself wasn’t a dirty, dirty traitor. some people knew how to play the game properly and bide their time, ernest.)

beatrice sat up, the book tumbling out of her hands and onto the floor, looking beautifully scandalized. “ernest did what?”

olaf wriggled himself back into a sitting position to match hers. “as far as I can tell,” he said, leaning forward, “at the party at the hotel, he was supposed to give one of the snickets something important, and pretended to be frank about it, and then he got caught."

olaf grabbed her wrist and pulled her back into the room, her arm bent between them, his knuckles brushing her shoulder. “you okay?” he asked.

beatrice flashed him her bright, stunning smile, the one that almost split her face with her delight. “peachy keen,” she said, and slipped her hand out of his grasp and took off.

beatrice knew the rule – when you were acting, nobody knew, and if you did it right, not even you would know.

but that was the thing, she knew all the time.

if you did it right, then when you were acting, nobody knew. not even you. 

bertrand was asked it over and over again, but he could never come up with a good answer. how could he tell the denouements apart? he just -- could. it wasn't anything as obvious as different facial structure, or the way they talked, or the way they moved, bertrand just looked at them and knew. you spent enough time around the three of them, you didn't learn tells or tricks (which could be imitated, anyway), you learned dewey, and ernest, and frank. 

this wasn't to say it was kit's fault ernest had lied to her. it wasn't. but bertrand also knew that if they didn't want you to know who you were talking to, you wouldn't. ernest had done it to him a few times. 

that time violet experienced The Silliest Childhood Horror, based on my own personal life experience

in her -- ugg, old age, bertrand keeps calling it, although he is a year and a half older than her and they aren't even thirty -- heightened state of mature thinking, beatrice will call it, she no longer makes the impulsive, rash decisions of her youth, like, climbing furniture (she has a stepstool now), or, throwing breakable things (she has pillows), or, launching herself across a rooftop (she has -- well, she hasn't found a replacement for that particular activity yet). she has the wherewithal to stop and think about something before she does it. but this summer is hot, and no matter what she does with her hair it just keeps finding ways to stick to her neck or her shoulders and sits in a thick, heavy weight on her head, so she takes the scissors from the bathroom and gives herself a neat, wavy bob one morning, along the line of her chin. 

and, it's not that beatrice forgot about violet, because violet was just in the other room, making piles of cheerios on the table of her highchair with bertrand instead of eating them for breakfast, it's that beatrice forgot children were just, like that sometimes. because the second violet saw beatrice lacking three-fourths of her hair, her daughter burst into tears. 

"oh no," beatrice said. 

that time i am constantly monitoring the level of Angst i am writing to make sure i do not descend back into high school levels of horrible prosey pushing it WAY too far angst but sometimes you do just write a heartbreaking thing just to see how it looks on the page

[frank says it, one night, very quietly. “You would’ve rathered it was me,” he says. “That i was the one who died, wouldn’t you.” 

Ernest stares at him.] 

that time i wanted to write the events that bring moxie and lemony back together as friends but i just got stuck on the exact vfd assignment details bc i can never find it in me to make them vague, so it progressed no further. but somehow arson was definitely involved and lemony (and r!) were doing it for Reasons. anyway it did have a neat ending of asking moxie to be the editor

"alright, snicket," moxie says, and she sets her typewriter down on the rickety table between them with the gentleness it requires, but there is a hard look in her eyes that she hopes tells lemony that if it was any other item she would've slammed it down. or thrown it on the floor. or thrown it at him. instead, she throws herself into the seat across from him and pushes her hair away from her face. he hasn’t said it, but he looks like he doesn’t have a lot of time to chew the fat on a cloudy thursday evening in her small but neat newspaper office. and moxie mallahan is a busy woman now, anyway. "start talking."

lemony clears his throat. he looks run-down, and moxie feels only the smallest bit satisfied at what this world has done. but it really is a shame, she thinks. he looks so anxious where he used to look so determined.

"where do you want me to begin?" he asks softly.

"why don't you start," moxie says briskly, feeding paper into her typewriter, "with why you're alive, first of all. last i heard you were dead, or at least missing."

lemony leans back in his chair, and he certainly takes his sweet old time in answering her. "i hadn't intended," he says, "for that to come out."

moxie raises an eyebrow. "that you're alive?"

"yes."

"why?"

lemony is silent.

moxie sighs, a hard and angry shot of air. "snicket," she says, "i agreed to this meeting under the condition that you would talk to me. if you aren't going to say anything, i will throw you out of my office, and i'll continue looking on my own for answers. i thought you were finally coming around, but if you're still going to be a secretive stick in the mud, then i don't see—"

"i'm sorry," he says. he meets her eyes this time. the look he gives her is startling in its intensity. "i am sorry, moxie."

moxie frowns. she taps her fingers against the keys. "tell me what happened, snicket."

"there was an incident at mulctuary money management."

“that’s not what I—”

“that’s where this story starts,” lemony says.

moxie stares at him for a considerable amount of time, one that she hopes is enough to make lemony uncomfortable. she stops when he finally shifts in his seat some minutes later. "the papers said it was a filing error," she says. she remembers the headlines from the previous week—mischievous money mismanagement at mulctuary money management! she'd thought it was a little much. she certainly wouldn't have been so alliterative. filing error at local bank would do the trick.

"it was not," lemony says. "it was a robbery that just happened to look like a filing error, that was used to cover up a much larger crime happening nearby.”

"how do you know?"

"i was driving the getaway car."

moxie tilts her head in thought. "which car?"

lemony almost smiles. "the one from the much larger crime."

“when did you leave stain’d-by-the-sea?” lemony asks.

“don’t you know?” moxie replies.

“i do,” he says, “but I wanted to hear it from you.”

“i was eighteen,” moxie says.

moxie stares at him, her fingers frozen on the typewriter keys. "what?" she whispers.

he doesn’t say a word.

“that couldn’t have been the only way,” moxie says.

lemony sighs, his expression blank. "we don’t know any other way. sometimes the only way to stop ten fires is to start one."

moxie can think of a million other ways. "you -- "

"what did you think i was, moxie?

a friend, she'd thought at first. a mystery, she'd thought, one she'd wanted nothing more than to unravel. a detective. a hope that was going to save her town. a best friend. then a liar. a murderer. a thief. a coward. and now --

sad, she thinks. she feels sorry for him, and she can’t even be angry about it now.

"i've made a lot of mistakes," lemony says.

"you've made more than a lot," moxie murmurs. "you've made a considerable amount."

"and i know i can't apologize for all of them."

"i don't think you can."

[more before this, slumps in his seat, etc] he runs a hand through his hair. “i’m trying,” he says. “i am trying to make up for them.”

“leave, then,” moxie says quietly. “get out of it. start over.”

“where am I going to go?”

"i have no right to ask you," lemony says, "but i think the day may come when i will need the help of an impartial third party to tell the truth. the whole truth, or as much of it as I can bear. can i count on you when that day comes, moxie mallahan?"

moxie sighs. "we'll see," she says. "we'll see, snicket."

he smiles at her, a sharp and fast thing, and then it's gone. he climbs out of the window and drops into the alley below, and when moxie looks down into the alley he’s already disappeared.

every now and then i try and figure out, if i was going to deal with the taxi, which we all know i am not necessarily a fan of, how would i do it

in general, the taxi, much like jacques snicket, was reasonably unseen, always undetected, and often nearby. but that did not mean that jacques snicket liked the taxi. he had tried to return it after the initial assignment with it, one that had taken him through the city and into the hinterlands and back again at, he’ll admit, an even speed with fair gas mileage, but he was told that the taxi was his now, and it would make things much easier for him. he did not see how, but he figured it was easier to keep the taxi.

he asked kit to take a look at it and make sure the car was working properly.

“I can’t believe you get to drive this car,” kit muttered, bent under the hood of the car and getting grease all over her hands. “do you know what I would do to drive this?”

“please don’t tell me, I would rather not be an accomplice,” jacques said. he was sitting in the driver’s seat with the windows down, reading the owner’s manual, in particular the safety recommendations, because someone should. “did you check the – ”

“yes, all fine,” kit said. she waved a dismissive hand at him from around the hood. “start it. I want to hear the engine.”

jacques started the taxi, and he assumed it sounded like it was supposed to. it sounded like a car.

kit closed the hood, wiped her hands off on her handkerchief, and got into the passenger seat, looking pleased. “well, it runs perfectly. start driving.”

“what? kit – ”

“jacques, do you expect me to let my brother go tearing off with a perfect engine without knowing if it runs right?”

bea's letter fic references 'the time bertrand tried to come up with nicknames' which was a wip i had tucked away somewhere

bertrand put his pen down on his notebook. “alright. I think i’ve got it this time.”

“i doubt it,” beatrice said, cross-legged on the floor in front of the record player, “but give it a try anyway.” she looked up expectantly, her hand on her chin, elbow digging into her calf.

before bertrand had a chance to say anything, lemony walked out of the bedroom, took one look at bertrand’s notebook, and said, “bertrand, I don’t think you should say any of those words out loud.”

“okay, how about this one – buttercup?” bertrand offered.

beatrice looked at him, her face almost dangerously blank. “why do you build me up, buttercup, baby,” she intoned.

“just to let me down,” lemony called from the bedroom.

“and mess me around, and then worst of all, you never call – ”

“baby,” lemony shouted.

“when you say you will – ”

“okay, okay, I get it,” bertrand said, laughing as he crossed the word off his list. “not buttercup.”

“you alright, bea?” bertrand asks.

beatrice startles a little, her wide brown eyes fixed on him, and then she smiles, her shoulders relaxing. “just wonderful,” she says, walking past and dropping a kiss on the top of his head as she goes. “i’ll see you later, the shop down the street is having a sale on fruit and I cannot not take advantage of it.”

“don’t let jo hear you use a double negative,” bertrand says. he smooths down his hair, and then eyes the door. “you aren’t following lemony so you two can have outrageous sex in an alleyway without me, are you?”

beatrice laughs, swinging the door open. “you know i’d take you with me if I was!”

more messy lemonberry ice thoughts, where i was trying to eventually write them all dancing and just got caught up in the semantics of How Exactly I'd Get There

number one on bertrand’s list of spring resolutions (he’d forgotten all about new years resolutions, and had taken the next most timely opportunity) was to learn to paint, and so he set up an easel by the floor-to-ceiling balcony window in beatrice’s apartment, to catch the sunset as it filtered in through the glass at the end of the day. the sun moved so quickly now in the evening, and bertrand wanted to capture the way it fell in soft, fuzzy gold patches against lemony reclined back into the couch, with beatrice stretched out at his side, her head pillowed on her arms in his lap. how it sat, warm and inviting on the line of lemony’s collarbone just visible beneath the open neck of his dress shirt, on his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, on the curve of his hand in beatrice’s hair, on the constellation of moles down beatrice’s left shoulder, on the triangle of skin at the top of her knee where her slip folded open a little.

bertrand was not good at faces, or incredibly distinct lines, or, if he was being honest, a great deal of art in the first place, but he was good at shapes and colors, so the painting didn’t necessarily look like beatrice and lemony but it still looked like beatrice and lemony, the shapely smooth strokes of beatrice in the thin black slip, the easy angles of lemony relaxed against the cushions, his feet (with those very beautiful blue flowered socks) propped up on the coffee table. the record player in the corner of the painting did look more defined, though. it looked-looked like a record player. but it was only spring, bertrand reasoned, and maybe by autumn he’d be able to get their faces down. he very much wanted to.

the record player in question hit the end of the b side of one of lemony’s slow jazz albums, and beatrice groaned at the silence and rolled off of lemony, graceful to her feet even when she stumbled, trailing over and removing the record. one of the straps of her dress slipped down her arm as she sorted through the record box. bertrand brought his brush back to the beatrice smudges on the canvas and tried to make the little line of the strap on the sleeping beatrice, but it came out thicker than he wanted. he frowned, looked back at the beatrice fitting a count basie record into the player with one hand, the other pushing her hair back out of her face, sunset orange spilling brightly down her back, and then turned the strap into another sweeping curl instead. that looked better.

"lemony," beatrice said, "do you want to waltz or do you want to two-step."

lemony opened an eye and looked in her direction. "i would like," he says, "a sandwich."

"bertrand, do you want to waltz or do you want to two-step."

“I am painting,” bertrand said, waggling the paintbrush.

beatrice was hunched over the record player on the floor, at the right angle that the orange sunset filtered through the balcony window and spilled down her back, over the constellation of moles along her left shoulderblade and the low v of her black slip. bertrand didn’t think himself much of an artist, not really, but he liked the feel of it, putting lines and shapes on paper and trying to get them to look like what they were supposed to. he had a little sketchbook for that purpose, and he kept it on the table behind the couch – now it was propped up against lemony’s head as bertrand colored.

he’d already drawn a scribbly lemony in the upper left corner, the top of his hair and shoulders highlighted at the edges from the sun, shaded in lightly with the crayons piled atop the rug. bertrand had thought even colored pencils would be too extravagant for the occasional drawing of beatrice or lemony, or the doves in the yard, or the dandelions coming back in the garden. also, they’d already had the crayons. they were beatrice’s.

beatrice takes another critical look around her living room, and then pushes the end table further towards the wall with her foot. she has her hands on her hips, and her hair pinned back from her face, the evening sun gold in the hollow of her collarbone and all the curves of her, resting on her fingertips like it was always meant to be there, bertrand thinks.

was it smart, bertrand wonders, for the millionth time (and he has kept track), to fall in love with beatrice baudelaire? it’s not like he had a great deal of choice in the matter, really. beatrice pulled people towards her like – some very nice simile that doesn’t involve fire he will definitely think of when he is not standing in her kitchen and lemony is not putting away the dinner plates and that’s it, that’s why it isn’t smart, because of lemony. both of them have a magnetism, really. beatrice, loud and uncompromising with a quick laugh and clever eyes, lemony, quiet and stubborn with a stunning, deep-rooted kindness. you just can’t look at either of them without your whole chest trying to rearrange itself.

[like a wave to a shore, maybe? like raindrops pooling together on a window sill. inevitable things.]

and both of them are in love, with each other, not bertrand, and it’s – it’s fine. it’s totally fine. bertrand is honest enough to think that it’s not exceptionally fine, but it’s, regularly fine. it’s decently fine. he’s here, after all. they have a standing saturday dinner and bertrand has gotten very good at not looking too long at either of them.

and – they are teaching him to dance.

[he didn’t know what was more surprising – that lemony looked the most affronted that bertrand couldn’t dance, or that lemony could dance. but bertrand had to keep expecting the unexpected of lemony snicket.]

that time i was ttoally going to rewrite singing in the rain as lemonberry ice. oh clearly it didn't follow the movie it just had Some Vibes. but god i had the best music number in this opening, and also lemony and bertrand hadn't met bea yet and clearly i had a not-concrete idea of where vfd was in the background here. also beatrice was driving by and stopped to fix their car

lemony sighs, his hands dropping from the steering wheel. “when I woke up today,” he says, eyes fixing off somewhere in the distance. “i had a feeling something like this would happen. I should have listened to it.”

“you had a feeling the car was going to break down in the middle of the morning?” bertrand asks. “that’s incredibly specific.”

“we aren’t holding you up, are we?” bertrand asks.

“not at all,” the woman says. “i’m not in a hurry. i’m running early today, anyway.”

“it’s good to be early,” lemony says. “some would call that the mark of a noble person.”

“is there a reason,” beatrice says, hoisting herself up and sliding a foil out from the mess of gears, “that you guys have a sword in your car?”

“i was wondering where that went,” lemony says. “thank you.”

beatrice stares at lemony, and then fixes her eyes on bertrand, a deep, penetrating brown gaze with one raised eyebrow. bertrand has a vague thought that he might be able to get lost in those eyes before beatrice ducks back down under the hood.

“what are you two?” beatrice asks. “actors? spies? extreme hobbyists?”

bertrand and lemony exchange a glance.

“yes,” they say together.

bertrand grins with delight. “you know how I say there’s a song for every occasion?”

“oh no,” lemony says. “bertrand, I cannot handle that, not at this hour.”

“you might have been meant for each other – ”

“you can’t just change the words to make the song work – ”

“to be or not to be, let your hearts discover – ”

“i don’t intend to discover anything, I only met her five minutes ago – ”

“you’ve got a feeling, it’s a feeling you’re concealing, i don’t know why – ”

“this song doesn’t have a narrator, bertrand, and I cannot abide by such flagrant disregard for the lyrics – ”

“oh, come on – it’s just a mental, incidental, sentimental alibi – ”

“jacquelyn will be furious if we get to the studio tomorrow and you’ve done something stupid to your voice, you really shouldn’t – ”

“but you adore her, so strong for her, why go on stalling, you are falling, love is calling, why be shy?” bertrand stops and waits out the pause between the verse and the chorus, staring expectantly at lemony.

lemony stares back at him, stretching out the pause much longer than is musically necessary. he raises an eyebrow.

“fine, be that way,” bertrand says, still grinning, and he swings the door shut. “let’s fall in love, why shouldn’t you fall in love, your hearts are made of it, go take a chance, why be afraid of it – ”

“are you quite finished?” lemony asks.

bertrand clears his throat and takes a step back, tugging on the hem of his vest. “well, if I have to be,” he says, trying for a smile.

lemony starts humming let’s fall in love while making dinner, and gives bertrand the dirtiest look of all time when bertrand starts laughing.

[nextinline-if]

I’ve seen people ask authors who they’d ship their characters with, but I’m curious which ROs, from other WIPs, are your favorite? Is there any specific reason?

I absolutely love your story so much! You’re wonderful!

I'm unsure if both of these asks are yours, but I'm sorry it took so long to answer (like months RIP). Screenshot one was recent the other is older. Also thank you anon for your sweet words. <3

I appreciate your no-choice-patience <3 This is such a fun question. I read it wrong for about 4 months and kept stressing about which ROs to ship with mine. My brain was NOT working.

I'm being fucking serious, unfortunately. Please laugh at me in the comments. </3

Here are some of my favorite ROs from other WIPs:

Seven - @infamous-if; I can write a paragraph about why I like Seven but does anyone really want that? Heh. When the game first started, I was SO ready to be like "f you Seven, you jerk!" And then we find out that Seven still has that tattoo. Okay, interest peaked. Well, played. You got me f'ed up. I like to play tropes where it's from ex - to enemies - to lovers. Juicy stuff right there.

Ari - @theoperativeif; There's something really enticing about not just a slow burn but a slow burn that has the extra burn because of the obstacles in the relationship that prevent you from reaching each other. Ouch. I normally don't like slowwwww burns. Like, a little slow is good cause it's realistic but like where I ONLY get to imagine them in my MC's head or in memories? Got me f'ed up. (Again). I think I like this because of the trauma the two characters have faced together. Is trauma bond a tope? Don't know but let's go with that.

Blade - @shepherds-of-haven; On a surface level, you get a character who fights for those he cares for, has strong convictions, and is hard to get close to. I'm a sucker for those. But on a deeper level, I really enjoy the way his story is written and told. Unearthing Blade's past and trying to weave your MC into this complex character's heart. Not sure what trope is going on here but I'll take it all.

Sol - @theabyssal; Yeah, my Death is pretty pissed at Sol right now...but you're telling me that literal sunshine fell for Death? The Abyssal has A+ writing as is, but adding an incredible love story like that really hooks my soppy lil heart. The complexities...THE COMPLEXITIES. I'm on the edge of my f-ing seat here people. I want Sol to suffer and beg my Death for forgiveness. And my Death will make Sol suffer emotionally and then accept the forgiveness :') (she's a weak betch)

Dara - @ataleofcrowns; I mean, I LOVE forbidden/let's romance my general type of vibe. But Dara is an exquisitely written character. The whole game is beautiful but the characters are so full of depth. There's always another layer. Plus, I normally play a shier MC but I like catching Dara off guard. It's so enjoyable. Got me giggling and shit.

There are plenty of other lovely ROs from amazing IFs that I like but these came to the top of my mind and I didn't want to make this too long. I like tropes that f me up emotionally. More tears = better. Rip my heart out. Maybe put it back in. Maybe leave is on the ground. Author's choice.

That said, I go for a lot of different tropes and try to do multiple playthroughs to romance all or most of the cast. I think every character can offer something different and I don't want to miss out <3

[the-eldritch-it-gay]

15 Lines of Dialogue

15 Lines of Dialogue Rules: Share 15 or fewer lines of dialogue from an OC, ideally lines that capture the character/personality/vibe of the OC. Bonus points for just using the dialogue without other details about the scene, but you're free to include those as well!

I was tagged by @omgkalyppso tysm!! I'm low spoons so I won't tag anyone directly and its hard keeping track of which of my friends is writing stuff ;;

Majexatli

I grabbed these from a bunch of different places, including some WIPs. But published fics included can be found x x x x

“It’s alright,” Majexatli said, even as the tension didn’t leave them, “My reflex would be to wildshape, not attack,”

“Apologies, I just…needed to get away,” Majexatli said, leaning back on their hands with a sigh, now stripped down to their breeches and laced tunic, rumpled and stained with blood, “I’m not used to… this. People. Before the Nautiloid I would go weeks without seeing other people, now there’s countless every day.”

“Sorry, it’s been a long day, I’m a little… out of it,” They smiled politely, forcing their shoulders to relax as much as they could.

“Having a title you feel you aren’t living up to? Does it hurt?”

“He’s married now. Has children, even. A beautiful family, I’m sure. Makes sense, it’s been 20 years. I haven’t been back since. Word is he’ll make archdruid one day, his friends are highly respected as well, always have been,”

“I don’t care for the title,” Majexatli said, then added, almost inaudible, “Not this time,”

“I told you not to do that, Althyran,”

“Speak of my people like that again and see what happens,”

“I’m not cursed. I chose to be this way. I chose Malar,”

“If you wished that a druid and faithwarden was standing before you, then I apologize, but Silvanus and his balance killed that person without second thought. If you don’t care about that young druid named Faithwarden who died alone, then I suppose it’s fitting you serve Silvanus.”

“I did this selfishly. I didn’t protect anyone. I became this to survive.”

“It’s fine, I’m just tired and not well. I’ll be better tomorrow, if Silvanus wills,” The Oak Father’s name felt bitter on their tongue.

“Perhaps you just haven’t been around enough tieflings,” Majexatli’s voice was calm, tinged with a politeness that seemed at odds with their body language.

“I don’t have another life, just this one, where I met you,”

I can hear the blood in your veins. I hunger to tear open your flesh and devour you. The desire consumes my mind. I will hurt you. It is only a matter of time.

Abjid

It's been a while since I talked about them but they hold a place in my heart. Abjid has a few iterations, most of these are their Dragon Age version, just because I've written the most about that version. Another mix of unpublished and published things, I would give links but I grabbed most of these from my gdrive, with the exception of the d&d abjid piece which accounts for 9-12 which is here

“Apologies, most animals don’t take kindly to my presence,” They said, not looking up from the fire. He recognized their accent as being faintly Orlesian.

“I don’t believe in neutrality,” They said eventually, “You have a blade in your hand, I am giving you a whetstone. Now you are faced with the option to sharpen it or not. I’m not here to coax the blade from your hand, nor coax you to use it. Perhaps I enable you, perhaps not. Perhaps I’m here simply to stoke the flames of your self-torment and draw out your hesitation and conflicted feelings. Perhaps, though, I’m just bored. I’ve done my part though, now it’s in your hands.” 

“I doubt it. One really knows me. You know scary stories and rumors, you think what stands before is the amalgamation of all the half-remembered ghost stories and rumors whispered fearfully by people whose voice shakes the same way it does when they stutter prayers to their god in the vain belief it will wash the blood from their hands. And perhaps that is all I am, perhaps I don’t deserve a proper name if my existence is but a noun too vague and blurred at the edges to be proper,”

“Try not to move, by the way, or exert yourself overmuch. Or panic. You know, all the standard things, you know the drill. I’m sure Anders’ would hate it if I let someone like you die in his clinic. But as always, the Creators and fate like to test me…”

“Mm, well, you know, generally one wants assassinations to be quiet. Rather hard to do if the victim is panicking and shouting as they succumb to poison. Have to choose the right poison, no one likes when things get messy and you have to dirty your own clothes and blade, or at least in Orlais. Shame really, Kirkwall does tend to lack the same... theatrical element to its politics, makes it all quite boring if you were to ask me,” 

“So wanting just revenge is a trait of demons now? I really must have been away for a long time then, glad I left the Chantry a lifetime ago,”

“That’s the problem with the Chantry’s dichotomy of demons and spirits. Nothing’s as clear-cut as that. Demons, Spirits, whatever lives in the Fade, they all are just as diverse as people. There are good people, there are bad people, but most people are some mix of the two. Demons can be good, spirits can be evil, most are far more complex. My husband’s far more versed in the theology of it.”

"There aren’t many job opportunities for abominations, you know. It was this or becoming a politician, and I’ve never been fond of human politics."

“I woke up with a lot of things, so I mean, why not? Being possessed was the least of my concerns then, hardly even noticed it. When I did later, I…,” They laughed again, pain creeping through the cracks, “I figured with everything else that happened, this might as well happen too.”

“I tried-– I tried a lot of things, for a lot of years, but… nothing ever stuck. I tried so hard for years. And I don’t have the energy to fight back anymore. No matter what happens, no matter what I do or what I want, I will always end up killing someone and so it’s best just to… not care.”

“Does it matter what I want? Do you ask a blade what it wants? Should I keep building a sandcastle of hope right as the high tide rolls in? No matter what I build or don’t, it doesn’t stop the tide. I can’t control the ocean, I’m just a body washed up on shore. Should I rage against the waves and try to change the sea? What will that change? All I can do is build those sandcastles between the tides. You don’t have to agree or like me Keane, it’s best if you don’t. But I’m tired. Whether you direct your ire at the builder or the tide, the blade or the wielder, it doesn’t matter to me.”

“I’m tired, Keane. What I want doesn’t matter, it didn’t even matter when I was alive.”

[skibasyndrome]

Hey Simon 💜,

1, 2,4, 36, 39, 41, 46 and 47 for the fanfic ask :)

Hope you have a lovely weekend!!

Hi Sophia 🥰 Thanks so much for sending in an ask! I'll try my best to reply with the tiny catalog of read fics I have available haha.

favorite fanfic of all time

I cannot possibly answer something as... final as this lmao. I'll just name my recent faves again (sorry for tagging you guys again):

The most beautiful boy by thelovelysarcastic (not on tumblr? idk?)

Treasures and Treachery by itsme_hi_imtheproblem/@iwouldnevergetintofanfic

Ivy by unfortunate17/@unfortunate17

2. favorite writer of the fandom

You see... now I have a very similar problem, lmao. Toooo many amazingly talented people whose writing I am obsessed with, to possibly decide, but I'll give a few definite faves:

@earlgrey-lateatnight (RubyIntyale), @ungaroyals (embracedthevoid), @unfortunate17, @darktwistedgenderplural, @iwouldnevergetintofanfic (itsme_hi_imtheproblem), @stretchoutfics (strechoutandwait), ... (and I'm sure I'm already forgetting people and fics arghhh)

4. the fanfic you would recommande for somebody not in the fandom

Honestly? All of my favorites.

But I actually did send a link to you can stay by origamifrogs/@princewillesothermom to my bf @alkalinetrios yesterday because I was like "I don't care that you're not involved, you HAVE to read this". (it's beautiful and heart-wrenching and a masterpiece)

36.   your favorite trope

So if we're learning one thing here today, it's that I am highly indecisive. God, I love so many tropes. I think it'd be easier to ask which tropes I don't like, I guess?

But I definitely love a good slow-burn, a good friends-to-lovers or enemies-to-lovers or strangers-to-whatever-to-lovers with everyone suffering from being painfully in love. I guess I just very much love reading about them falling in love and being dumb about not noticing that it's mutual lol. Yeah I think that's it, something like mutual, very lovesick pining.

39. a trope you would like to see (more) in the fandom

Oh idk, I don't think I have enough of an overview to really say something I missing, but as a never-fully-recovered former emo kid I'd love to see some more of the stuff the MCR fandom had for example, like idk... vampires obviously, but also ghost stuff or like tragic angsty historical fics or idk. I guess just some dark stuff? For funsies lol.

41. How do you choose the fic you read

Firstly it's gotta be Wilmon-centric, then I look at the word count, and compare that to how much time I have lol, then I read the summary and idk? I guess either the writing style needs to catch me immediately or it needs to be some original premise. Or a retelling of one of my favorite scenes, that also catches me lol. So I guess I just base what I want to read on the summary. Oh, or a trusted mutual/friend recommends it!

46. did you stay awake up to an veeeery unreasonable hour to finish a fanfic

Yeeeeeeep, very much do that, probably too often. Sometimes my eyes will be falling shut, but I tell myself I gotta push through, there's only x chapters left lol

47. WIP or not WIP

Yes WIP!!!! I love WIPs for soooo many reasons, most of all because it's such a fun journey and because the waiting just kind of heightens the excitement for the next chapter!

Send me a fanfic ask

[thirteenemeraldcats]

I come bearing random fic asks! 1) tell us about your current wip(s)! 2) what's your writing process like? 3) I think you mentioned you have a background in psychology — how much does that influence your writing?

Hello my beautiful friend!!

Thank you so much for sending me these! I have been sitting on this for days because I wanted to banish 'thought that i was young' from my WIPs before answering lol

1.) Now that THAT'S published (and taken most of my WIP wordcount with it *sad violin noises*) there's 3 fics I'm actively poking at, the chunkiest is a Sam-and-Jamie-BFFS-agenda-6-conversations-they-might-have-had-and-one-they-definitely-didn't which I'm pretty sure I've posted a snip of SOMEWHERE before whoops. The working title was too long for me to cope with, to the extent that it managed to override my inability to make my mind up about anything, and is now called 'i said, maybe' - a line I've gleefully pinched from Wonderwall by Oasis! I like it for this fic because *gestures at working title* BUT ALSO Wonderwall is the song Sam sings at karaoke in 1x07 'Make Rebecca Great Again' and the Manchester connection tickles me greatly!

There's a non-angsty, short-ish (I'm honestly shocked) fic that fell out of my brain nearly fully formed a couple of weeks ago (because almost everyone I knew was either talking about or having birthdays) which ALSO has a title 'because he had no say in it (no say in it at all)', which is almost definitely going to be posted next (and hopefully a LOT sooner than the time-space between 'i learned to walk while he was away' and 'thought that i was young').

The only other thing I'm actively poking at right now is in the outline stage, it is also short-ish (please PLEASE stay that way) but is back to the angst-fest that is apparently all my brain wants to spit out. It's Jamie-centric. It involves a cat :)

2.) Honestly at this point my writing process is best described as:

(sound warning)

ANYWAY

(My actual answer about my writing process is that I love planning. Very much. Stretching the dough into spaghetti is where the problem lies 🫠)

3.) I do indeed have a background in Psychology! Like any undiagnosed-in-denial-17-year-old-DUMBASS, I studied Psych right out of high school due to a combined and truly harebrained motivation of 'what IS going on up there' and 'wow I love systematically studying, analysing and mimicking human behaviour [no underlying NOTHING going on up there no siree]' and wound up with a four year degree. NOW, my background is purely theoretical, I have never been registered as/worked as a Psychologist, so I'm not violating any ethical codes by using my knowledge for evil applying my Psych training to fictional stories/characters. Because the answer to 'how much does that influence your writing' is. SO MUCH. Not necessarily intentionally, there's only one fic in the extended-mountainous-WIP-pile that's explicit about Psych stuff (I'm giving Dani Seasonal Affective Disorder whoops), but psychology is one of those fields that once you're trained in it you can't really ever un-know it. Unfortunately for me, and everyone that I meet, there's forever a predisposing/precipitating/perpetuating/protective biopsychosocial model being drawn up in my head whenever someone exhibits any kind of behaviour my forebrain finds moderately interesting. (This doesn't happen with online friends DON'T WORRY [in truth it's only because I can't physically see you all- I AM SO SORRY- I am not in control of this]).

Honestly, I think a big part of it is just that my particular brand of pattern-recognition-AuDHD has been granted auto-inserted citations and gone mad with power.

Take Jamie, beloved stress ball that he is, he has so much psycho-analysis potential that I'm forever torn between wanting to write a dissertation on the various comorbidities that could be floating around in that guy's head, having a Watsonian v Doylist argument with myself about ~artistic intentions~, having to suspend disbelief for the sake of storytelling because I've been cursed with knowledge (gleefully and enthusiastically sought out and paid for knowledge) and just wanting to enjoy the story/character as they're presented/as I'm writing it.

Applying actual Psychology to fictional characters is like trying to tie a balloon to a moving rollercoaster, for the simple fact that they're not real; their actions and motivations and reactions are scripted and rehearsed and performed.

I'm doing it anyway :)

[bromcommie]

MAXX! :))) hope you are well.

for the emoji fanfic ask game ;)

👀🎶🎢❌🤲✅

Sorry for so many haha, you don't need to answer them all, but I'm very curious!

Hiii thank you for the abundant ask<3

👀 Tell me about an up and coming wip please!

This might not be a particularly interesting answer but the only thing that I’ve really been trying to work on has been the structure and pacing of the next few chapters of orpheus, since I have them all mostly written but can’t get to a place where I’m really happy with them. I might be overthinking it. Unfortunately I also just haven’t had the time + energy to sit myself down and really figure it out. :( Ergo all the snippets, which is the only way I can get something out at least.

In slightly better news: I kind of have the next two installments in the I clawed my way into the light series finished?? Sam and Steve and their collective and individual issues are finally getting their moment in the strange, poetry-question-mark spotlight!

However I’ve got some intense life stuff coming up so it might be a month or so until I post any of the aforementioned in full 😭

🎶 Do you listen to music while you write? What song have you been playing on loop lately?

I usually do, and I have unhealthily elaborate playlists for all the characters + some fic-specific ones, but recently I’ve found listening to anything with distinct words in it messes with my concentration. But in terms of what’s being playing on loop: Dorma and to a lesser extent Marionette by Keaton Henson (all of his instrumentals are *chefs kiss* but in general I’ve just been having a Keaton renaissance when it comes to stevebucky. Welcome back 2016 I guess)

❌ What's a trope you will never write?

I’m a “never say never” kind of person, but… Hydra Trash Party. Which, I know, is ironic considering one of the very few fics I have up right now features Steve/Rumlow, but that one while still meant to be kinda fucked up is very much purposefully neither here nor there (and non-explicit). I just personally don’t enjoy reading HTP and it’d probably mess me up way more than I’d like to try and write. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ 

✅ What's something that appears in your fics over and over and over again, even if you don't mean to?

Answered this guy here!

🤲 Would you please share a snippet of a wip?

This is…not even a snippet, tbh, but also I don’t know when I’ll actually have the time to rework/finish this, so. Just for you, a very long Natasha-focused (plus) wip half-scene under the cut:

“Most other animals only smile when they mean to attack. Did you know that? You should never hold your hand out to a dog whose gums you can see,” Ivan’d said, dabbing at the bloody bite on her chin with a towel that smelled like a distillery, impish twist to his thick mustache. “Or a man who smiles too much, for that matter.”

Natasha only saw the dog once after that. A month later Ivan hadn’t come back to the house for a week and she went out looking the next day, winding her way out of the dead-end street and all the way up Nevsky Prospekt, looping past the crowds gathering water out of shelling holes and the hospital that was now blackened by fresh, smoldering ruins. She walked until the light on the horizon had grown tired and purple, until her legs had almost given out and she had to sit down on the icy pavement. The body of a frail old man lay face down on the ground by the side of the road across from her, his cap thrown back a few meters away and the bald top of his head unnaturally caved in, matching the bruised coloring of the sunset.

It took her a long moment to notice the dog, its bent form and the crumpled body forming a singular silhouette.

The memory is transmuted, stretched thin and faded in places – from time, for a change, she thinks, instead of just manipulation. But she still remembers her hand closed around a solid weight in her pocket, a comfort against the deafening pounding of her heart. She remembers the dog with its lifted head, its snout soaked red and sickly gums anything but bloodless for the first time. Remembers that split second of hurling the brick at it with all the might her thin body could manage.

It wasn’t a thought-out act or even self-preservation, really. The dog had been far away and otherwise preoccupied. It wouldn’t have bothered her. The reasoning was bone-deep and nauseating: she hadn’t eaten in two days, the only person who had cared for her was gone, and the sight of the blood had made her stomach growl. That brick was her only defense against a world tilted entirely off its axis.

It was a while before she fully understood what Ivan had meant by that joking addendum to an otherwise plain instruction, too cryptic for her mind to decipher at that age. It took one too many broken bones and one too many greedy hands on her body and one too many lifetimes lived unwillingly for it to fully translate.

Now, looking at Rumlow grinning that familiar killer smile and thinking he’s hit gold, it’s crystal fucking clear.

It isn’t new, really. She’s met many men like him, often enough that the novelty of exposing them has worn off: ordinary men, utterly predictable in their enjoyment of violence and small in the way of not being able to shape their fear into something more useful. Men who thought their want for power made them anything other than a soft target. Men who thought that, when the time came, they'd be above begging for their life.

It gets boring, after a while, how quickly they all learn. She should know. It’s what gave her her name, back before she decided to hang up that particular title, trade it in for an upgraded version, a cleaner image. Black Widow, Avenger! has a far better ring to it than Black Widow, assassin.

Just because you stop calling a thing something doesn’t mean it stops being it, of course. It might forget, for a while, become domesticated; but the nature is still there.

The children of the Red Room all understood that from the time they could walk. The Soldier understood that, or at least well enough that they had to keep burning it out of him.

“Shit. Is that what this is, then? Really?" Rumlow is saying, still derisive through cracked teeth, still playing a game he thinks he knows the rules to. "You got yourself a spot on the five o’clock news under Captain fucking America and suddenly you think that makes you the guy with the bigger stick? That that changes fuck all for you?”

“Oh, no. Believe you me, I tried being that guy. It didn’t end well for me. Or anyone else, really.” She inches the chair forward, the scrape of the metal loud in the empty apartment, and makes her voice drop to a conspiratorial tone. “But you wanna know what I realized? There are always going to be little men with big sticks, and most of us will never get to be them. And it turns out it doesn’t matter all that much in the end.”

“Big or little, every stick has its breaking point. Every weapon has its expiration date. You live through a regime or two, and you start to catch onto that real quick.” She cocks her head at him with a pensive expression, fingers running absent over that same old thin line under her chin by habit.

In retrospect, the dog she came to understand much quicker than the advice. Natasha had been hungry and afraid most of her life, too.

It’s not the only scar she has by far, but it carries the most straightforward memory. For years it served as a reminder, as banal as it was, of what trust was worth; of what you could do when you got your grubby little hands on it.

“I suppose they wouldn't teach you this since the shelf life of your usefulness was never meant to be all that long, but let me tell you a secret, Brock,” she continues, flipping the knife back the right way around and leaning in. Sunny side up, Yelena used to call it, wry. Drive it in far back enough, right past the optic nerve, and everything spills right out. She doesn’t miss the way Rumlow’s eyes track the motion, the whites showing just enough; the first crack in the facade. "You don't beat the guy with a big stick by getting a bigger one. You do it by making him think he's got you under his boot, you understand? That he’s got you all figured out. You beat him by making your spine less breakable than the stick.”

Here’s the other thing about trust: if you keep yourself in the business of lying to earn it, that’s all people start to expect from you. Your loyalty is immediately suspect. So is your anger. You keep yourself leashed for long enough, everything becomes a dishonest front, even to yourself.

Like anything else in life, it becomes a habit. A very useful, easy one, at that. Or at least until one day you wake up and you realize that the parts of you you were working to protect are dying out; withering. They’re forgetting their own name.

The attempt at a headbutt is predictable at best. She backhands him for it, follows up with the handle of the knife on the second strike for good measure.

“Now that wasn’t very smart, was it?” She says, admonishing. “And to think we were getting somewhere.”

“Was that sermon meant to get me to talk?” Rumlow manages after a heaving moment. There’s a long gash down his cheek that’s deepened, bleeding steadily onto his front. It paints less than a pretty picture with the swelling that’s already pinkening up, bringing the angry criss-cross of scarring over the rest of his pale face into sharp relief, but it feels strangely at home. Not that artistic vision’s ever been her strong suit. “Because if you think getting smacked around some really counts for anything other than good foreplay, you’ve really lost your touch.” He looks back up to grin at her, a useless show of fearlessness. “Hell, ask Rogers. I’m sure that’ll be an interesting conversation.”

But fuck, it’s hard work, breaking a habit. Even harder work: honesty. Graceless and inarticulate and inefficient, like the feeling boiling back up in her now as she looks at Rumlow, the bloody flash of his canines in the dark, and thinks of that paralyzing feeling on the wrong side of an OR window, the shameful horror of letting the world be spun on its axis and pulled from under her again. Thinks of Rogers with his broad shoulders curling in and in and in, the whole of him turned inside out in a deserted parking lot. Trust given and earned.

The next blow has Rumlow spitting teeth.

"Nah. Just thinking out loud." The knife stops half an inch under his eye, makes a home in the oasis of bruised yet unmarred skin.

Rumlow doesn’t flinch. For all of his talk, he still knows better. But she can see how his whole body freezes up, an uninterrupted taut line; the exact moment it registers for him, just how much of the picture he’s missing.

Volchonok, Ivan had called her for a while, in those early days. It’d never stuck like Black Widow did, never had the same marketing potential, but it’d never really stopped applying, either. Hungry and afraid and alone and willing to kill for the things that made her less so.

The name might’ve changed, the circumstances. The nature didn’t.

Natasha smiles; too many teeth, bloodless. "How much can your spine handle, do you think?"

It’s all too easy, in the end, to let the leash go.

(I’m sorry??)

[justfor2am]

very not serious post about my feelings on fandom and fanfiction that im gonna throw under the cut for y'all:

i genuinely don't understand why fandom in general is allergic to telling its writers that they like their work?

i understand the sentiment of 'oh well i don't want to bother the author/what if they find me cringe' but like. dude. they posted the fic. on the internet. publicly. my guess is, if it's a creative project put somewhere that people can engage with it, they probably want comments?

now i'm positive there are pretentious fic writers out there, but in my 12 years of being engaged with fanfiction, i have not once met an author who DIDN'T want comments talking about their work.

and i don't mean 'when's the next chapter?' those comments suck. i'm sorry, but they suck ass. nothing makes me want to write less than people commenting on my wips that haven't been updated in literal years asking for a new chapter, with NO additional thoughts on the story so far.

like, you're asking for more, and you can't be bothered to even tell me what you like about it? imagine doing that in any other scenario. going to a hobbyist, they give you something for FREE, and a year later you come to them and go 'hey remember that thing you made for me 12 months ago? yeah i want another one. for free btw'

like i have other fics. recent fics. stuff that's fully completed. i know not every fic is to everyone's liking, but like, i don't know. i don't really understand why fandom is like this.

what annoys me most is that the solution is super easy. just leave a comment. doesn't have to be on every chapter, doesn't have to be a detailed comment (though those are always loved).

it can be a keysmash. it can be you saying you loved the story. it can be your favorite line from the fic, followed by more keysmash.

anyways this isn't me like, genuinely angry with fandom or anything like that. at the end of the day, this has been a good exercise in learning to write for myself, and not for numbers sake. i have writer friends, i have a little discord group i can chat freely about my ideas in, it's not like i don't have a network. i just wish this problem that everyone knows about, and yet no one tries to resolve, would resolve itself already.

again, i've been doing this shit for 12 years, this feeling has been brewing for over a decade. i think i'm justified in being a little annoying on the internet about it. peace and love <3

anyways thanks for looking at my post, you win a silly meme i made