#if this ficlet seems particularly random or odd

[thetarttfuldickhead]

It would never have happened if not for Dr. Fieldstone. Now, Leslie’s delighted about her joining the Richmond team on a more permanent basis – she works wonders with the lads (and one head coach who shall remain unnamed, if only because he’s still a little sensitive about seeing a therapist) – but it does mean that Leslie’s once more out of an office. Just for the moment, of course, until he can find a suitable space without kicking anyone else out of their room. It’s really no hassle. He’s doing fine on the bench just behind the recyling bins outside of the copy room.

Or he was, until Roy Kent stops by just on the other side of said bins and, seemingly entirely unaware of Leslie’s presence, starts fiddling with his phone in what can only be described as an angry way.

It’s Roy, so that’s nothing out of the ordinary, and Leslie’s just about to offer a friendly greeting when he hears the hollow rings of an outgoing call and ah, it’d be terribly rude interrupt, wouldn’t it? 

For a long moment there’s nothing but beep after beep and Roy’s muttered pick the fuck up you fucking prick and then—

“What the fuck do you want?” 

Jamie’s not on speaker, but the sound’s loud enough for Higgins to not only recognize the voice but to hear every word, and the jagged, slightly petulant edge to them. 

“Where the fuck are you?” Roy growls. 

“How’s that any of your business? Training’s fucking over for the day, Coach.” Spat, more or less.

“Don’t be a fucking— “ Roy cuts himself off. “I need to see you.”

“Why?” 

“Fucking hell! I wanted to… I want to fucking apologize, all right!” Roy sounds very, very annoyed about it.

“You can do that over phone. Or in a text.” Jamie sounds slightly less annoyed, but not by much.

Leslie dares crane his neck just so to sneak a peek at Roy’s face. Roy has closed his eyes, looking pained as he grits out a simple, strained: “No. I can’t.” 

“Why the fuck not?” 

Roy looks to the ceiling. Looks like he’d rather be anywhere else. Still he plods on, and Leslie feels a small surge of pity, small surge of pride. 

“Because you’ll want to hug me afterwards,” Roy says, “and you can’t fucking do that over phone, can you?” 

There’s a long pause. Leslie finds himself holding his breath, and not only because he’s halfway terrified he’ll start nervously gagging if this goes on for much longer. 

“Fine,” Jamie says eventually. “You can meet me back at my place in twenty.”

“Yeah, okay. Cheers.” 

A snort, somewhere between derisive and exasperated. “You better fucking hug me back.”

With that, Jamie hangs up. Roy takes a few deep breaths before stomping off and leaving Leslie to carefully consider what he’s overheard. Obviously something must have happened at training and if their head coach and star player have a proper falling out and Ted’s not there to talk some sense in them—

Eh. They’ll sort it out. Leslie returns to his e-mails.

[lothiriel84]

Curious Beak

Love is not a whim and love is not a spell When you love, you love entirely I have many flaws and she has some as well But when you fall, you fall beak and all

A The Monster Hunters ficlet. Grey-romantic!Lorrimer. Set after season 3 Christmas special.

To say that he wasn’t a ladies’ man was the understatement of the decade; and for all that he was a man of science first and foremost, the truth was that it had very little to do with his single-minded focus on advancing his academic studies, either.

He was fast approaching thirty-five, and in all that time, he’d only ever been interested in two women: Margot, and now Suki. It had crept up on him unnoticed, on both occasions, and if pressed to describe it, he would say it felt pretty much like a switch he didn’t even knew was there had suddenly been flipped inside his brain. He hardly ever fell in love at all, but when he did, it was as if his entire worldview had suddenly been turned on its head.

Which was why he found it particularly jarring when Roy boasted about yet another of his conquests; it wasn’t just that his friend went through more girls than he did with his ridiculous cravats, it had more to do with how none of them could seem to hold his attention for longer than a couple of weeks at most.

There were times when he wondered how it felt to be in Roy’s head all the time. Were light switches constantly being flicked on and off at random intervals, or was it just a cacophony of nightclub lighting and novelty glitter balls? Or, could it be that he himself was the odd one out there, and that his own metaphorical switch had got stuck over time, somehow?

Well, it hardly mattered, he supposed. He’d been granted a second chance at sharing his life with someone he loved and who loved him in return, and he was damned if he was going to waste it. And if that meant giving up monster hunting for good, then it was a sacrifice he was more than prepared to make.

---

Note: Title and summary from The Mighty Fin musical The Diary of a Provincial Lady.

[cosleia]

your millicent ficlet is so cute and so perfect!! i see u boys, both talking about each other incessantly. i see u. is there any chance of a follow up to that one? i'd love to see how things progress w benarmie. no pressure though of course! it's just too cute a set up to resist apparently! (you did your job too well mb haha! 💕)

Previously on benarmie coworkers au

He’d thought once his noise-canceling Bluetooth headphones arrived he would finally be free—that finally he would no longer be subjected to Ben Solo’s bored sighs, odd grunts, and random comments floating over the cubicle wall.

He had, of course, completely neglected to factor in Ben Solo’s natural skill at being an absolute pest.

“Hey, Red!” Ben yelled from behind him, leaning around Armitage to force eye contact. “Why so antisocial?”

Armitage made a show of waking his phone screen, hitting the stop button on his “get me out of here” playlist, delicately removing the headphones and placing them on the desk, and finally turning to look at Ben, eyes narrowed coolly. “What was that?” he asked, and his cheek only twitched a little.

Unfortunately, Ben seemed completely unaffected by Armitage’s obvious disdain. “I said, why so antisocial?”

“This is work,” Armitage said. “I’m working.”

“Aw, come on. You know the only way to get anywhere is to network.”

Armitage did know, and he hated it. He hated how he was expected to meet everyone, to learn all their names, to act as though what they had to say was interesting. He hated how hard it was for him to do any of those things. And he hated how Ben Solo made it look easy.

He wanted to come in, do his job, and go home. He did not want to spend all his brainpower on socializing.

It was practically treasonous to have these thoughts, so Armitage forced himself to voice none of them. Instead, he stretched his lips into the closest approximation of a smile he could manage and responded, “You’re right.”

Ben positively beamed at him. Armitage wanted to shove his keyboard down Ben’s throat through that big mouth of his. “So how about we socialize?” Ben said, and his stupid grin made his lips curl and his eyes sparkle like he was some kind of Disney prince.

Armitage held it together valiantly. “What did you have in mind?”

“How about lunch?” Ben asked, glancing away.

Ugh. Lunch. Ben always went with a big crowd of friends. It would be loud and crowded and confusing and annoying. Armitage opened his mouth to lie that he had packed his lunches for the rest of the week, but Ben spoke up again before he got the first word out.

“Nobody else is free today and I don’t like eating alone.”

Armitage looked at him for a moment. Ben’s usual confidence had disappeared. Was he really that hard up for companionship that he’d force himself on the biggest recluse in the office? He frowned a bit and glanced back to his monitor.

“If you’re too busy, that’s okay. I’ll figure something out,” Ben added quickly.

Armitage jumped on the excuse. “I am pretty busy,” he said. “Sorry.”

And that was apparently all he needed to say. Ben shuffled away, back to his own row, and Armitage pulled his headphones back on.

When lunchtime came, Armitage wandered down to the company cafeteria to find some soup. Ben was sitting alone in the corner, a sandwich and a bag of chips sitting untouched on the table in front of him. He was staring out the window, and he looked utterly despondent.

Armitage wasn’t sure he was hungry anymore. The chicken bowtie soup he’d been looking forward to didn’t seem particularly appealing now. Wasn’t that just like Ben Solo, barging in on his day and making him feel guilty over something that wasn’t even his responsibility?

“I hope you’re happy,” he snapped, setting his soup down across from Ben and dropping into a chair.

Ben turned away from the window so fast his voluminous hair actually bounced. A huge smile spread across his face. “Red!”

Armitage jabbed his spoon into his soup. “Let’s get one thing straight right now,” he commanded. “You are never to call me that ever again.”

The smile seemed to be permanently plastered to Ben’s face. “Sure,” he said eagerly. “Whatever you want.”

Armitage rolled his eyes. If he were to truly have what he wanted, he’d be alone right now, eating his soup in blissful solitude. Millicent could be there, he supposed.

“What are you thinking about?” Ben asked. “You always look like you’re thinking.”

Armitage abandoned his spoon and crossed his arms. “My cat.”

“Millicent, right? She’s really pretty.”

Armitage wasn’t sure how Ben Solo knew his cat’s name. “Yes,” he agreed.

Ben kept asking him questions, which made it difficult for him to eat. Eventually Armitage worked out a system whereby he took a mouthful of soup as soon as he’d answered. After that, it wasn’t terrible, having lunch with Ben Solo. It was a break from sitting at his desk, at least. And Ben didn’t appear to mind hearing about Millicent, and Millicent was easy to talk about.

Eventually Armitage’s phone alarm chimed; their lunch break was over. He hadn’t noticed the time passing so quickly.

Armitage rose from his seat. At this point he was perhaps supposed to say something, but he didn’t know what, so instead he just turned and walked away from the table.

“Later,” Ben said quietly behind him.

Armitage stopped and looked back. “Later,” he parroted, managing a small smile.

Ben’s face broke out in a grin. “Or I could walk with you, since we’re going to the same place?”

There was probably no way to escape, so Armitage shrugged, and Ben bounded up from his chair. It was fine. Ben wasn’t completely horrible. He’d agreed to stop using that awful nickname. He’d listened to Armitage talk about Millicent. And he’d never once made fun of Armitage’s lack of social skills, which Armitage would have expected by now from someone as popular and sociable as Ben Solo.

(Armitage had also come to realize during the meal that Ben was rather nice to look at.)

Walking alongside Ben to the elevator, Armitage felt himself smiling—a real smile this time. It might not be so intolerable having Ben as a coworker after all.

[sciencevillain]

Johnlock Ficlet: In Which John Walks Into the Bathroom and Sherlock Didn’t Lock the Door And is In the Bathtub and (apparently) Obliviously Talks At John like “oh hi I think moriarty’s planning this next” But John is Too High-Key Flustered to Do Anything Except Internally Scream

John stood in the middle of the kitchen, flipping through mail. “You’ve got three-”

“Details,” Sherlock interrupted, eyes glued to his laptop screen.

John paused, pursed his lips, creased his forehead, and tore open the first one. His eyes flicked back to Sherlock, letting the half-way pulled out letter slip back into its envelope. “Are you sure you don’t want to-”

“Yes.” Sherlock glanced at John just long enough for John to notice the sideways flick of attention. “The cases, they have so much information carried on a single envelope. It’s wasting my...” he gestured at his hair, searching for words, “my... head space. Unless you read it to me. The interesting ones.”

John stared at him for a moment. Head space? It had been barely a couple months since moving into 221B, and he still hadn’t gotten used to Sherlock Holmes. Sliding the letter out of its envelope, he muttered, “Alright.” It wasn’t like he hadn’t done this before. But the rapid blinking Sherlock performed while thinking of his next word had thrown him off guard. Sometimes John wondered exactly how much of his head space Sherlock had unwittingly claimed. All those bizarre case requests John had read out to him, all the rules he’d memorized to keep himself sane (don’t drink the “tea” in the fridge, don’t bother asking about the body parts, etc), all the times Sherlock had whipped off his scarf with his muscles clenched, coat billowing behind him as he ran...

“Well?” Sherlock said, giving John his full attention for once. Right. The letter.

John unfolded it, skimming over the contents. Would Sherlock find this one interesting? He never could tell. Not quite meeting his green-grey-blue eyes, John said, “Something about a dog. A drowned dog that... swallowed a wedding ring?”

Sherlock shook his head, eyes rolling. “The sister did it on purpose. Next.”

Sometimes John wanted to ask; if the case was so easy, why didn’t he just send them a quick reply? But this was Sherlock he was talking about. Normal decency didn’t seem to ever cross his mind.

He opened the next envelope. “Oh, that’s odd.”

Sherlock jumped out of his chair, snatching the letter out of his hand. The paper was empty.

Sherlock held it up to his face in the direction of the lamp. “Either a child sent me something in invisible ink, or things are about to get very very interesting...”

“Interesting as in deadly?” John asked.

“Ooh, maybe,” Sherlock replied, throwing a little grinch-smile in John’s direction.

Without quite realizing it, John’s heartbeat sped up. Nothing like a bit of danger to get his mind off of things. This must have been what kept them together, at 221B. The part of themselves that leaned into danger instead of flinching away from it.

Before he knew it, Sherlock was rushing off to get lemon juice and the other usual invisible-ink detectors. He also grabbed random things on his way by, including John’s phone and a tube of lipstick -- a clue from an old case. John heard him sit down in the kitchen with his feet on the chair.

Bemused, he followed Sherlock into the kitchen. “What’s interesting? You’ve thrown out dozens of empty papers before.”

“Moriarty,” Sherlock breathed, leaning into the paper with a microscope. “Not sure, but possible. Has signs of his handiwork.”

John’s breath caught. That lunatic from the pool? Maybe Sherlock’s inclination to lean into danger was stronger than his. Or maybe he was just an idiot. Even so, he walked up to the kitchen table and leaned in over Sherlock’s shoulder. “What do you think it’s about?”

Sherlock didn’t seem to hear him. John frowned. Better to give him space to think than endure Sherlock’s irritation over being brought out of his thoughts.

~

John heard movement in the kitchen and stood up, making his way towards the noise.

“Stupid!”

“What?” John asked. The “letter” was crumpled up into a loose ball on the table, among scattered objects.

Sherlock turned to face John, seething. “That woman from the store! Called me rude... let me see the envelope.”

He strode into the living room and brought it back, turning it over in his hands. “Butterfly stamp. Children colored on it, didn’t have any other envelopes to use. Idiot! It’s just a prank, of course it’s a prank...”

John couldn’t help himself from smirking.

“What?” Sherlock snapped, before storming out of the room. A second later, he heard the bathroom door close.

Still smirking, he walked back into the living room to look at job offers again. Lately Sherlock had taken to spending inordinate amounts of time in the shower or the bath. Helped him think, he claimed. However true that might be, seeing Sherlock in the bath wouldn’t help John think straight. His mind flicked back to a greek sculpture he’d seen at a museum he’d visited with a date once. It had borne such a resemblance to Sherlock’s face that he had to stare and move on quickly at the same time, before the date could notice he was blushing. The mere thought of it made his cheeks feel warm, even now. Seeing your flatmate depicted naked in excruciatingly detailed marble would do that to anyone, he supposed. A bit awkward, a bit silly. A bit... surprising. He halted that line of thought abruptly, forcing himself to focus on the job offers website.

He could hear running water. A bath, then. Not a shower. Some part of him had kept track, based on the hypothesis that showers were for short problems, and baths were for long ones. Sherlock’s scientist-mind must have rubbed off on him. John took a deep breath. It’s not the thought of adventure that sends your heart racing...

(this is the 1/2 or 1/3 mark. Keep reading for more frustrating johnlock tension)

John tried to shove thoughts of Sherlock out of his mind, failing even more miserably this time. A walk. What he needed was a walk. Anything to free him from the odd tension in his chest, and the rapid beating of his heart. Maybe I can get work at a hospital. Emergency room or something. He re-focused on the web page, calming down as he pondered the best line of work to fit his experience as an army doctor. Maybe he could work with Scotland Yard. Sherlock didn’t have enough allies within that system. Granted, he hadn’t exactly earned any allies, but at least Sherlock would be able to work with him professionally instead of Anderson or Donovan, clearing up the problem of-

“JOHN!” shouted Sherlock from the bathroom.

Immediately John surged to his feet and ran to the bathroom, flinging the door open without thinking. With Moriarty on the loose, and the urgency of Sherlock’s cry, one could never be too...

...careful.

All the careful focus he’d put into calming himself down flew out the window. Sherlock was sitting in the bath, without so much as a towel to cover himself. They both stared at each other, frozen in place for one excruciating second.

Sherlock was the first to regain his composure. “I’ve been looking at it wrong,” he said with an electric undercurrent to his careful words. He stared at the wall in front of himself, eyes moving back and forth like he’d just snapped several puzzle pieces together into a realization.

John couldn’t breathe. This isn’t- this isn’t how you usually react to catching a friend in the bath, is it? He could hardly form the thought at all, let alone linger on it. He had a jumper tied around his waist, otherwise he’d have clasped his hands together in the front.

Sherlock continued speaking. It felt like the world was crumbling and rearranging itself all around him, and it took everything he had in him to process the words. Was it too late to mutter “sorry” and close the bathroom door? To back out before this escalated? At Angelo’s when they first met, Sherlock had said he was married to his work, and John just couldn’t just stand here like a statue. Sherlock would deduce him.

But Sherlock was still staring at the wall in front of him, and he couldn’t just walk out while he was talking, regardless of how many times Sherlock had done it to him. He was safe, for now. “It’s not the woman! Or it is the woman, and she’s-- or he’s imitating her to-- but it doesn’t matter who, what matters is, it doesn’t matter if it’s a prank! Moriarty, John, Moriarty is behind this, just like with the gang and the cabbie.”

He glanced at John and John felt certain time would stop and Sherlock would know but nothing happened except the roaring in his ears got more deafening, and Sherlock said, “Don’t just stand there, sit down for heaven’s sake. You look like a fish with it’s guts stripped out.

Not an inaccurate description, John thought, amazed that Sherlock hadn’t noticed his blush. Or maybe he’d taken it to be the normal reaction of any polite human being; embarrassed by nakedness. Maybe that’s all he was feeling. Every fiber of his body laughed at the idea. His left hand tapped against his leg nervously. No. He couldn’t just sit down. Where? On the floor? In the bath?

He almost said something. He almost told Sherlock that he was in the bath and it was indecent and could he at least get a towel on before talking to other human beings, but... but what?

Feeling like he’d just stepped off one of those roller-coasters that’s so fast they leave your heart in your throat and you step onto solid ground with an uncomfortably feather-like feeling, John sat down beside the bath. Not too close, but not particularly far away, either. If he sat at just the right angle, he wouldn’t be able to see under the water, or let his eyes wander anywhere more intimate than Sherlock’s face. The pounding dizziness overcoming him suggested that he was on the verge of doing something he’d regret. And the worst part was, he couldn’t decide it he wanted to stop himself.

“Hmm?” John realized Sherlock was staring at him expectantly.

Sherlock studied his face much too curiously for his liking. “I said, this could be the beginning of Moriarty’s games. His plan to “burn the heart out of me,” as I think he put it.”

“Oh...” John swallowed, looking at his fingernails to get his eyes off of Sherlock. His thoughts wouldn’t stop. They didn’t slow. They went into places he’d forbidden himself from ever thinking. But still, he managed to finish his sentence. “His game? You mean other than trying to get us blown up?”

Sherlock smirked, looking away into the water he was soaking in. “Good, isn’t he? You couldn’t find a better opponent for chess.”

John’s teeth clenched ever so slightly. “Good?“ he didn’t know what he was feeling on top of everything else, what with the avalanche of impulses and chemicals pumping through him like a mosh pit at a rock concert... overwhelmed, maybe, was the one emotion he could safely pick out.

“Skilled, John, not loyal and morally upright like yourself. Good at manipulation. Evasion. Consulting criminal... and I didn’t even notice the first clue at first.” He stood up, bath water streaming off of him with a splash that flew over the side of the bathtub and got John’s knee wet.

For a split second John’s mind short circuited, as he experienced the sensation of staring at the statue in that museum all over again, needing to get away as soon as possible but being unable to look away at the same time. He swallowed, internally screaming as he fought against his subconscious’s unanimous shout of desire. The parts of himself that he’d been able to explain away, or straight-out ignore, until now... now... a spasm ran down his spine... he stayed seated on the floor... Sherlock took a towel from its hook and his arms lifted, muscles in his shoulders shifting as he ruffled his hair with the towel to dry it off. John willed himself to shut his eyes, to spare himself from beauty so perfect it was burning him, dissolving him, like the holy grail burning its captors to ash at the end of that one Indiana Jones movie...

And then the moment was over, as Sherlock wrapped the towel around his waist. John realized he’d been holding his breath, and tried to discreetly release it. He also realized hardly five seconds had passed. Sherlock’s laser-focused excitement sent him bursting through the doorway. On his way to his bedroom to change, he called out, “Uncrumple that paper for me, will you?”

John stayed sitting on the bathroom floor. He’d never felt anything like that before in his life. Not even when Moriarty strapped him to a bomb. Not even when Sherlock ripped said bomb off of him with a strikingly good imitation of actual concern.

His breaths came out shaky. No point in ignoring it anymore. This wasn’t just an... an emotion. This wasn’t polite embarrassment. It was helpless, hopeless, and crushing. He’d never be able to un-see that. Ever. Two halves of himself silently argued over whether he should try to forget it, or let himself be carried along by the rip current. His feet had already been dragged out from beneath himself, hadn’t they? But Sherlock hadn’t noticed. Maybe he really was incapable of feeling love. In which case, he could still salvage this. He could still dig in his heels and proclaim himself Sherlock’s straight friend, and nothing else.

...could he?

Sherlock had asked him to uncrumple the letter for him. John seized upon this fact, and used it to stand up. He used it to carry himself into the kitchen, and to complete the small task. No matter what had happened just now, it changed nothing. If he focused on moving through the rest of today one step at a time, maybe the feeling of having swallowed a fiercely giddy wildfire would go away. Or at least fade. Or at least become manageable enough that he would be able to think about something other than-

Sherlock entered the room, fully clothed now. Their fingers brushed as he took the smoothed-out paper from under John’s hand on the table. John withdrew his hand a little quicker than usual. As usual, his sensible side took over. He’s unavailable. A sociopath. Annoying. Inconsiderate. Childish...

But did he really believe all that? Moments -- memories -- forced their way into the front of his mind. Was the “sociopath” really the machine he’d convinced the world of?

John noticed Sherlock was absorbed in his work. Staring at him for too long, even now, might result in losing control of himself. He had to get out. He had to let this pent-up pressure out, and break free from the rip current dragging him closer and closer to the point of no return.

“I’m going out,” he announced, pleased that his voice didn’t tremble one bit.

“We need milk.” Sherlock’s voice didn’t tremble either, when he replied. And why would it? John knew his feelings would never be reciprocated. He just knew it. It was the only thing keeping him together. The only thing stopping him from embarrassing himself, and letting all the secrets pour out of him like a waterfall of confessions.

Milk. John allowed his focus to zero in on the task. If he could just walk to the door, down the street, around the park a bit, enter the store, buy some milk... then the pressure would go away. Then he’d forget all about this incident, and be able to focus on the problem of Moriarty sending creepy letters, and remember that they would never be --- could never be -- more than friends. As he walked out the door, he told himself that.

(Sherlock, sitting in the kitchen with the blank letter, told himself the same thing. He’s not interested. Obvious. Why can’t you get over it?)

John made his way down the main path towards the store. The fresh air did calm him down a little. He gained enough distance to think of other things. The walking felt nice, so he kept going, further than he ever had before. No metro, no bus, no cab. Just walking.

Eventually he arrived at the museum from what felt like ages ago. Dating a woman. The museum hadn’t been particularly interesting, even. All the same, he promised himself in this moment to never to set foot in that museum again if he could help it. To never walk by that one statue. To never think about the curved musculature of Sherlock’s back. To scourge his memory of the freshly-dried mop of black curls, and the way his entire body had tensed up like a dog anticipating food after hearing Pavlov’s bell.

John promised himself this as he walked into the store, roamed the shelves and aisles, collected some groceries, and went through self-checkout. He promised himself this as he walked back to 221B, and walked up the staircase, and opened the door. He promised himself this as he unloaded the groceries, relieved to feel his heartbeat moving at a normal rate while he put them in the fridge. He was so focused on forgetting, in fact, that he didn’t notice he’d forgotten the milk.

[coaldustcanary]

2016 Fanfic Masterpost

I’ve seen some posts from folks I follow in a number of different fandoms doing a bit of an end-of-the-year writing roundup, and I really like that idea, so here we are. 

I’ve been fannish for a long time now - over 20 years at this point, which is more than a little terrifying to consider, let me tell you. But my fannish writing has been very intermittent over those years for the most part, and my participation in fandom was relatively narrow, particularly when I was working on my PhD. Through 2014 I wrote, on average, one fanwork a year for the previous 5 years, as usually I could be counted upon to participate in at least one A Song of Ice and Fire and/or Game of Thrones fanfic exchange, but not much beyond that. I also wrote a smattering of fic prior to 2009, much of it lost to the ages besides some random pieces I managed to get up on AO3. (I really need to take some time to go back and properly back-date those older works, oof. And dig up a few more on LJ communities that I couldn’t find when I did my original looking, if I can.)

But in the past year and a half or so I’ve come back to fandom in a much more enthusiastic way than I have since I was a teenager, thanks to falling hard for the Dragon Age games and then faceplanting into Once Upon a Time fandom. And in the past seven months I’ve written if not a lot of fic, definitely more than I have in a long, long time. It’s been a trip, in both good and bad ways, but I’m glad to be doing it.

The master list in chronological order with brief commentary:

Always Already (Dragon Age: Inquisition) Incomplete Planned eventual M rating, nothing above T in the current chapter tumblr link, AO3 link, 6025 words The Academic Conference AU that started it all this summer. I just could not let this headcanon go until I wrote this first chapter. I haven’t touched it since then for a variety of reasons, but even if I never get back to it I’m pleased with the chapter that exists and it got me back writing. It’s meant to be a massive DA:I ensemble AU, with this particular multi-chapter story involving some eventual Female Trevelyan/Cullen Rutherford, but mostly I just want to finish this particular arc so I can just write snippets in the AU every time I need to say something cathartic about working at a university.

Hunger (Dragon Age: Origins) Rated G, Gen, Alistair & Female Brosca friendship tumblr link, AO3 link, 1835 words A short, introspective piece about one of my Dragon Age OCs. When you grow up without enough food, hungry all the time, what happens when the effects of blood magic make you even hungrier? Natia thinks about her life and her choices and finds common ground with her fellow Grey Warden.

Before a Fall (Game of Thrones) Mature, Yara Greyjoy/Daenerys Targaryen, GoT 6x09 post-ep scene tumblr link, AO3 link, 2698 words Written for the Game of Ships Seven Hells Challenge based off of the prompt “Pride”. I watched 6x09 on the Sunday night when it aired and swooned over Yara and Dany’s interaction. I wrote this intimate encounter the following Monday evening in one sitting. I ship Iron Dragon so very, very much. This fic took only about a month to become my most commented and kudosed fic ever on AO3, and I’m pretty happy with it.

Savior Fair - Princess (Once Upon a Time) Rated T, Captain Swan tumblr link, AO3 link, 2501 words My first OUAT fic, based on the August 2016 OUAT positivity challenge that tlynnwords put together. (I put all my pieces for this in a single work on AO3 called Savior Fair, since they’re Emma-centric.) Fluffy CS pillow talk set post-S5 before I’d much looked at S6 spoilers. I like this fic’s premise and flow, but I totally missed the mark with Emma’s voice in it. Her voice is tough for me, but I think I’m getting better.

Savior Fair - Smile (Once Upon a Time) Rated T, SwanFire tumblr link, AO3 link, 938 words My goal with the OUAT positivity fics was to focus on the best parts of Emma’s relationships with other characters. I think Neal is a fascinating character (and though I don’t ship SF, I’ve been a fan of Michael Raymond-James for a long time and I think he brings a lot of interesting nuance to the guy) and I think a lot about the time they spent together and what it would have meant to 17 year old Emma to have someone smile at her and mean it.

Savior Fair - Heart (Once Upon a Time) Rated T, Captain Swan, 4x12 missing scene tumblr link, AO3 link, 1274 words I needed a scene to bridge the gap between the conclusion to the showdown in the clock tower and Emma replacing Killian’s heart in his chest. Just a little feels-laden ficlet. (Apparently the original script had a line in the latter scene with Emma saying she felt strange holding his heart, and Killian replying that she’s already held it for ages, though I didn’t know that until after I wrote this bit, and it tends in a similar direction.)

Savior Fair - Trust (Once Upon a Time) Rated T, Emma & Milah, 5x14 missing scene tumblr link, AO3 link, 1647 words The last of the positivity prompts I got to (August is a tough time with the semester beginning, so much for my ambitions) and the one of which I’m the most proud. I have A Lot of Feelings about Milah and the way she’s treated in a many corners of OUAT fandom, and I’m still really mad about 5x14. Emma and Milah needed more time to talk. So they mostly talk about what they have in common. (And, honestly, Killian is only a small part of their similarities.) I am certain they would be friends, given the chance.

Steadfast (A Song of Ice and Fire) Rated T, Stannis Baratheon/Davos Seaworth, canon divergence/future fic AO3 link, 4071 words I did three fanfiction exchanges due in September this year, and I wrote this fic for thedevilchicken for the Game of Thrones exchange. Despite the name, this one is open to both book-verse and show-verse fics, and this one is an AU of the former. For some reason I seem to really like writing Stannis-as-king future AUs with a Davos POV, and nothing says Stannis/Davos loyalty than a retelling of a shockingly sad Hans Christian Andersen fairy tale about a broken toy that is loyal to his distant and unattainable love until he’s melted into scrap. (Spoiler alert: This version has a happier ending.)

Distracted (Dragon Age) Explicit, Anders/Karl Thekla AO3 link, 3094 words Smutty roleplaying with spanking written for green_sphynx for The Black Emporium, a Dragon Age rarepair exchange. Playful and porny PWP set sometime well before everything was terrible in Dragon Age 2.

Starstruck (Agent Carter/Doctor Who) Rated G, Gen, Tenth Doctor & Donna Noble, Peggy Carter & Angie Martinelli tumblr link, AO3 link,  3425 words Written for Grey_Cardinal for the Crossovering exchange. Ten and Donna cause a bit of a scene at the restaurant where Angie works. I quite like the premise of this fic and it was fun to write, though I really ought to have come up with more for Peggy to do in it.

Spectator Sport (Once Upon a Time) Rated G, Gen, Hooked Queen friendship, future fic tumblr link, AO3 link, 1063 words After having a really crummy day a few months back, I asked for some fic prompts (pairings and a word/idea) to take my mind off it and my lovely friends delivered. This is just a little vague future fic based on mryddinwilt’s prompt for Hooked Queen + parenting. However much they viciously snark at one another, I think they understand one another pretty well, too. And the mental image of them enduring discomfort to watch Henry’s high school soccer game was too good to pass up.

Wrapping (Game of Thrones) Rated T,  Yara Greyjoy/Daenerys Targaryen, University AU tumblr link, AO3 link, 1379 words Written for the Game of Ships “Until Hell Freezes Over” holiday/winter-themed event. I’m actually the advisor for a service learning club at my university, and those valiant students get run ragged as they try to finish up the term and also do good for their communities. Somehow I imagine that Dany would be that kind of overachiever, and Yara would just as clearly be her dubious but devoted girlfriend. I’ve been leery before of writing student AUs because I’m a teacher and it feels a bit odd, but I liked this AU a lot and might come back to it for writing more Iron Dragon because I’m sure canon is going to be a shit-show next season.

Clarity (Lucifer) Rated T, Gen, Linda Martin & Mazikeen friendship, 2x07 missing scene AO3 link, 2785 words I participated in Yuletide for the first time this year (yes, I know, I’ve somehow been in fandom for-freaking-ever and never done it before) and I matched on one of my newish fandom delights, Lucifer. Though this fandom is growing and probably won’t be eligible next year, sign-ups were before most of the season had aired, and my recipient, Lenore, requested Linda and Maze having a conversation about Heaven and Hell. Well, without getting too deep in to spoiler territory, canon pretty definitively implied that such a conversation occurred sometime between 2x07 and 2x08, so I decided it needed writing. Linda is my favorite character on Lucifer, and Maze is an utter gift. Writing this was a bit stressful (I was making last-minute edits the night before reveals from a hotel room) but I’m happy to have written it and received some lovely comments from folks, including the recipient.

So, all told, per my AO3 stats page I wrote 32,736 words of fanfic this year, which is far more than I’ve ever written in a year before. I also am starting to get a grip on what my strengths and weaknesses are as a writer, which is pretty wild but also motivating. My general approach to writing has long been “use deadlines as motivation, panic at the last minute, write frantically, throw it at the world like a grenade and take cover” and while I’m a good enough writer for that not to be as terrible as it sounds, I know I could be a lot better if I continue to change my approach to writing and write more frequently and steadily. Honestly, because I’m an academic by trade, this applies to my professional writing as well, and fanfic is good practice for me to refine my writing habits, which have vastly improved this year, even if they’re still not where I want them to be in the end. Here’s hoping I can keep it up in 2017.