#maybe someone wants to beta read my stuff i always enjoy some feedback

[arcadiii]

do you have any advice for writers/sharing writing :3c

(this isn’t at all starry, don’t ever think that.)

(help i didn't consider this was starry until you literally said it wasn't, starry is that you?)

but hm okay advice... here's things I try to stand by:

1 - DON'T SHARE THINGS FOR THE SAKE OF IT

by that I mean, if you've spent say days upon days of writing something, and you're still not at a point where you're happy with it - don't just share it because you feel like you have to or because you think your readers need you to. the whole point of writing is because you enjoy sharing stories, poetry or any kind of writing! don't forget about your own enjoyment too when you're creating these things especially if you're doing it for free (i'm looking at you fanfic writers out there, me included!). Share things you're proud of - if you're not proud of it yet, then it just needs more time and work! If you're still not proud of it but stuck on what else to do with it, stow it away for later. You can always come back to it later with a fresh mind, or maybe you could take prewritten bits and include them in other work!

2 - DON'T UNDERSELL YOURSELF

i think this ties into the above, but imagine you've finished your writing. you've got it all ready to share, but in your summary, you've put something like "hi check out my story, i'm sorry if this sucks lol!" or "i'm so sorry if this doesn't read right but here's my story!"

PLEASE DON'T DO THIS. straight away, you're already telling the reader that it's not a good story - and who's saying that? unless you've had a beta reader (which you'd assume would have given you constructive feedback to help improve your writing) you're the only one who's saying this. which makes sense! we'll always be our own worst critics but if you're not confident in your writing AND showing it, it just might turn away some readers. it's easier said than done but BE confident in your writing - get into the habit of cutting out stuff like this early, believe me, it'll do wonders because the more you keep pitching that you're not a good writer, the more you'll believe it!

3 - DON'T GET CAUGHT UP IN THE METRICS

please, please, PLEASE, try not to get caught up in how many kudos/likes, hits or bookmarks you get. firstly - your worth isn't based off a number and secondly - it will make you feel miserable. don't get me wrong, seeing high numbers can be good and helps give you a motivation boost, but not every fic you or anyone writes, will 'perform well'. plus, every writer is different! that's what makes writing so incredible, every writer puts their unique personality into their writing style - don't get bummed out if someone else's fic get's more numbers than you. that's not what writing is about! you are not a content machine - you are a human being who just wants to share something you love and enjoy, if you find people who enjoy that too, then great!

...and last but not least...

4 - REMEMBER TO HAVE FUN!

because that's what all this is about right? it's about having fun in your passion and sharing that fun with others, so go out there and share it!

[and-there-were-words]

A Spider Life: Back to work (Chapter 01)

I’ve seen so many good headcanons about the Spider Gang, I really wanted to write some stuff for them because I love it all, just chef kiss.

“A Spider Life” will be an AU with multiple chapters and continuation, mostly just fluff and everyday scenes. POVs can change between Huntsman, Syntax, maybe even Goliath and Spider Queen. First few chapters will be some scenes that are within the show’s season 1 and 2, and after that I’ll just go ham with spider adventures.

---

Taking place during "Revenge of the Spider Queen".

Huntsman and Goliath are awoken, and there is no time to waste. Even if there is a new face around… some take it better, some less so. (wordcount: 1119)

---

Huntsman rolled his shoulder, trying to get this crink out of his neck. With a satisfiying pop, tense muscles soothened a little. It’s been… how many years? It almost felt like forever since he went into hibernation… and looking around, this place was a mess.

Clearly, it was their hideout. It used to look better, he was sure of it. Mind still a little hazy with sleep and tiredness, Huntsman remembered a few buildings they had set up some time ago, now replaced by rubble and ruins. Here and there the occasional tube and cable, that most certainly was new. Though, it was cozy as always, nicely dark and slightly damp. The web-work was as beautiful and on point as always - his Queen made them after all, her signature way of weaving written all over them.

Speaking of which, time had been kind to his lady. As dazzling and terrifying as the day they had met. Mastered in the arts of weaving and brewing, with an iron will and ambitions to get what her birthright promised. She could be as cruel as she was beautiful. In short, a Queen he lovingly served under, and proud that she chose him to be part of her clan. However, it didn’t escape his careful eye that his lady almost looked tired, exhausted in a way und all that glamour and avidity. Whatever happened during the time Goliath and he had spend to recover, he would not want to imagine what his lady must’ve endured all by herself. It didn’t cross his mind to ask, it was not within his place. Doubting your Queen… unthinkable.

His four eyes continued to wander within the room. Catching on the large build of Goliath. Huntsman would never admit to it, but even all the centuries, there still was a ping of jealously when he watched his buddy’s muscle flex. Truely, a warrior’s build, powerful and unmoving. Huntsman himself was not weak by any means, he was a spider demon afterall…! But he was no fool, as bitter as this self-awareness was, in a mere contest of strength he wouldn’t be able to compete with the other. Though that didn’t stop Huntsman to challenge the larger spider to some mock battles now and then. He likes to think of himself as a formidable foe in the end, he didn’t invest all the time into web manipulation for naught!

One of Huntsman’s eyelids twitched, a silent snarl forming on his lips before he could even pinpoint the source of his annoyance. It took him a hot second, maybe even another glance to realize that there was a new guy. A new spider demon? Where did the Queen pick up that tiny nerd guy? An odd feeling crawled up Huntsman’s spine, trying to figure out what was throwing him off. It wasn’t his clothes for sure, even though they were odd and not particular spider demon fashion (or at least the last time Huntsman checked). It wasn’t even the cocky air the guy radiated, as infuriating as this alone already was. Maybe the fact that his goggles were covering so much of his face and the hunter couldn’t pinpoint this guy’s thoughts? As if he was deliberately trying to hide from Huntsman! Tsk, some people’s nerves...

The ‘New Guy’ was currently talking with the Queen about some technological stuff, something above Huntsman’s understanding. A mech or something? Spiderbots were crawling all around, leaving the hideout and into the world, only to return with metal, scraps and other material. At least some here knew what they had to do right now. Completely ignoring the two’s conversation and Goliath’s worried gaze, Huntsman inched closer on silent feet, something about the smaller man still feeling… no, smelling wrong.

“A human.”, he made himself flinch with how croaky and low his voice was. Judging by that, they did at least spent a decade hibernating… He cleared his throat, trying to bring his vocal cords back to life. This time, a bit louder and more confident with how he sounded, Huntsman looked at his lady. “A human.” It was not a question, and the spider did not even try to hide his disdain.

Spider Queen raised an eyebrow in mild annoyance. “Your point being?” The hunter started to grind his teeth a little, looking at ‘New Guy’ with a squint. He looked like a spider demon at first glance. Now closer, there were just so many little details wrong. The legs on his back were completely out of metal, artificial. He held himself the wrong way, his frame too delicate. Not to mention that he smelled so, so very wrong. How could his lady accept something like… this? What could he possibly do to gain her favor?

Both of the men were staring at each other for a few seconds of boiling tension. It really was hard to read this one’s face with the goggles covering most of his face. But without a doubt, he certainly was mocking Huntsman with a smug gaze. How infuriating, they didn’t need any help of some human. Or… whatever this guy currently was. Certainly not a spider demon!

Not getting any answer, Spider Queen shot her underling a glare. “He’s loyal and actually working, in opposite to some other people here.” He flinched a little at that tone of hers that did not tolerated any more wasted breath. The spider demon immediately straightened his posture, though he did not let ‘New Guy’ out of sight. “Understood, my Queen. I will await further orders.” With that and a low grumble, Huntsman trotted back and towards Goliath.

Who was currently trying to sort some of the metals around. It seems that the Spiderbots were directing the big guy where to put what piece. In Huntsman’s eyes, nothing of this made much sense. But as always, the giant did not voic a single question, just content of doing work. Almost as if Goliath could feel Huntsman’s presence, he turned around with a smile. “Good to be back, right? It’s as if nothing ever changed, our Queen will be on her throne in no time.”

Huntsman scoffed, kicking away a pebble. As much as he wanted to, he could not share his partner’s enthusiam. Is he just ignoring the elephant in the room? They will have to talk in private some time later. Looking back over his shoulder, the hunter send another annoyed glare at ‘New Guy’. Though this prick didn’t even seem notice, way to busy to tap away on some gadget around his arm that was… painting images with light? What sorcery was this? How long had they been asleep? “Yeah. As if nothing ever changed.”, he mumbled between pressed teeth.

[tuiccim]

Can you write a story about a girl in a wheelchair with Bucky please smut and fluff please

I’d Stay Forever

Pairing: Bucky X Paraplegic!Reader     Words: 1527

Warnings: Fluff, Smut (NSFW 18+) If you don’t want to read the smut stop at the bed divider. 

A/N: I was excited to write this but a little scared, also. While I have a spinal injury that affects my life daily and I have had to use a wheelchair due to injury in the past, I have never experienced paralysis. I did a good bit of research before writing and I hope it is reflected in the story. I am always happy to have your feedback! Big thanks to my darling friend and beta reader, @fandomsaremylifeline. Dividers by @whimsicalrogers​

Your phone buzzes, a text flashing on the screen.

Bucky: Hey, can we talk when you have some time?

You: Sure.  Is everything okay?

Bucky: Yeah.  Just need to talk to you.

You and Bucky had struck up a friendship during your first week working for Stark Industries.  He had come into the lab for an update on his arm, you had worked quickly and efficiently and Bucky stuck around, chatting with you.  He was sweet and funny and you had enjoyed the exchange.  He had too, apparently, as he kept coming to you whenever anything with his arm was needed and sometimes for no reason at all. Eventually you began having lunch together and would hang out after work.  He would invite you to movie nights and he’d go to the park with you.  He is a sweetheart to you and has never treated you differently because of your wheelchair.

When you were finished for the day you sent a text to Bucky.

You: Hey, I’m done for the day.  Sorry it took a little while.  Did you still want to talk?

Bucky: Yes, please.  I’m in my room.  Would you mind coming here?

You: OMW

Bucky answers your knock within seconds, wearing that smile that makes your heart flip-flop.  You are completely enamored with the man but know that he’s out of your league.  He’s the hottest man to ever walk the planet and you’re that weird mechanical engineer in the wheelchair.

“Hey,” you smile brightly at him, happy that he’s at least your friend

“Hey, doll.  Come in,” he moved aside and allows you to roll in.  You move over towards his couch and he sits.

“What did you want to talk about?  Are you okay?”

“I’m having a problem.” Bucky’s leg was bouncing uncontrollably

“Is it your arm?” You glanced at it, trained eye looking for any signs of malfunction.

“No, no.  It’s you.” He blurted out, shaking his head

“O-oh.  Um, did I do something wrong?”

“No!  No, that came out wrong.  You’re not a problem.  I have a problem with you.  No, I mean I’m having a problem about you.  I mean- damnit.” Bucky growled in frustration, running his hands roughly through his hair.

“I’m sorry, Bucky.  I don’t understand.” You say, concerned for him and yourself.

“I’m in love with you,” he blurted out suddenly.  Your jaw hit the floor.

“Wait, what?”

“I’m in love with you.  You’re so amazing.  You’re the best person I’ve ever known, you’re so smart and sweet and funny and so beautiful.  I know you probably don’t feel that way about me but I had to tell you.  I’ve been holding it in for months and I had to find out if you would ever consider… me.  Maybe.  But I don’t want to lose your friendship.  You’re my best friend and I don’t want to ruin that and- mmph!”

You put a hand over Bucky’s mouth to stop the torrent of words.  You’re grinning like a fool as you look into his eyes.  “I’m in love with you, too.  I have been for months.  I just didn’t think you’d want to be with someone like me.”

“A Yankees fan?  Yeah, I surprised myself, too.” He quipped, a grin on his face.

You laugh, sheer joy bubbling up in you and flowing out, the sound making Bucky smile breathtakingly.

“Can I kiss you?” Bucky asks.  You roll your chair closer to Bucky and lock your wheels.  You hold out your arms and he takes the hint, picking you up.  He starts to sit you on the couch next to him but you stop him, “No.”  You wrap your arms around his neck and he sets you on his lap.

For a minute, you two sit grinning at each other like fools but then he cups your face with one hand and presses his lips to yours.  Your heart jumps feeling his mouth moving over yours and when his tongue slips into your mouth a moan escapes you.  Bucky’s arms tighten around you, bringing you flush against him.  His tongue caresses yours and you feel your belly tighten at the sensations coursing through you.   You run a hand over his hard chest, feeling the rise and fall of it.  When the two of you finally break apart, you bury your head in his neck and breathe deeply.  He smells so good and your lips can’t help but wander over his skin, occasionally licking and sucking.  When you graze your teeth over his pulse point he lets out a moan and his hand wanders up to cup your breast over your shirt.  You arch into his touch, wanting more, wanting his hands to wander, wanting everything.

“Bucky?” You whisper.

“Yeah, doll?”

You pull away to look him in the face, “I want you.”

Bucky presses his forehead against you with a reserved smile, “are you sure?”

“Yeah,” you grin, “and you’ve got that nice, big bed over there that looks awfully inviting.”

Bucky carries you over to the bed and gently lays you down, hovering over you.  “I, um, I don’t want to hurt you.”

You giggle and wrap your arms around his neck.  “Don’t worry, I’ve done this before.”

“That’s not what I mean,” he chuckles.

“I know.  You won’t hurt me.” You reassure him, caressing his face and pulling him to you for a kiss.

“I love you.” Bucky says against your lips.

“I love you, too” You return before exploring his mouth with your tongue.  Grabbing the back of his shirt, you pull it over his head only breaking your kiss long enough to remove it.  Your hands eagerly roam his bare chest and back, feeling the ripple of muscles.  When he reaches for your shirt you eagerly lift yourself up to remove it and your bra.  Feeling his bare chest pressed to yours sends a jolt straight to your core.  Bucky’s mouth slides down your neck and down your chest until he reaches your breast.  His tongue circles your nipple before his mouth covers it and suckles, making you arch into his mouth.  He lavishes the same attention on your other breast before moving lower.

When he reaches your pants, he pauses to look up at you and then places a wet kiss just above it.  You feel the kiss deep inside you and you moan.  Bucky’s lips and tongue dance over your skin as he undoes your pants and removes them.  He pays the same homage along the band of your panties before removing them.  His mouth continues down in the same fashion.

“Bucky…” Your breath hitches and you sob when his mouth covers your clit.  The strength of the sensation surprises you. 

“Did I hurt you?  Is… is this okay?” he asks worriedly.

“No, it’s good.  Please,” You moan.  Bucky gently moves your legs further apart and runs his hand over your core.

“You’re so beautiful, doll.”  His tongue plays over your clit and your hands bury themselves in his hair.  Your moans fill the air as Bucky takes his time loving you with his mouth.

“Bucky!  Bucky, please I need you!” You tug at his hair until he lifts his head.  He crawls up your body until his lips claim yours.  You run your hands down his chest and slip them below the waistband of his sweatpants.  Feeling his heavy, rock hard cock in your hands makes you even more desperate.  You wrap your hand around him and pump.  “Bucky, please,” you whine again.

Bucky shucks his sweatpants and kisses you desperately.  You wrap your arms around him, grabbing his ass to encourage him on.  He pulls back to look in your eyes as he slowly sinks into you.

“You feel like heaven, baby.  I love you,” Bucky whispers to you.

“Love you,” you say, using your hands again to encourage him to move.  He begins slowly, working in and out of you.  You love feeling his weight on you and your hands wander over him.  The heaviness in your belly grows with each thrust but it’s not enough.  “Bucky, I need more.  Harder, please.”

Bucky’s hips stutter for a moment and you realize why he’s still holding back.  Taking his face in your hands, you look at him.  “You’re not going to hurt me.  I want to feel you.  Fucking pound me.”

Bucky’s hips snap at your words and you throw your head back.  The barrier between you broken, Bucky slams into you over and over, your moans and cries of ecstasy spurring him on.  “I’m close, baby,” he groans.

“I’m-“ You can’t finish the sentence as your orgasm slams through you.  Your hands dig into Bucky as the waves of pleasure wash over you.  Bucky’s hips stutter and he grunts as he releases inside of you.  His face is cradled in the crook of your neck as you run your hands up and down his back.

“Was that okay?” Bucky asks.

You can’t help the chuckle that escapes.  “No, baby, it was way better than okay.”

“Will you stay the night with me?”

“I’d stay forever with you,” you smile.

“That was my next question,” Bucky hugs you to him.

Masterlist

Permanent: @bubbabarnes @badassbaker @thefridgeismybestie @strangersstranger @cherthegoddess @buckyluvrs @sherlocksmanwatson @cap-n-stuff @finleyjayne @caplanreads @connie326 @daydreamerinadazedworld @bugsbucky @chrisevanscardigan

[artificialqueens]

I Belong With You (You Belong With Me) (Rosnali) - Athena2

Summary: After dating for a few months, Rosé decides to tell Denali she's asexual. Written for the prompt "Pride" from the June prompt list shared here on AQ.

A/N: Halleloo, I’m back! I know it's only been a week, but what a week tbh.

This is just a soft little fic I've been wanting to write. I meant to post it earlier, but it’s here now. I want to say that asexuality is something I've been questioning about myself for a while, and a lot of this fic is my own feelings I've had over the years. Also, everyone is different, and this fic isn't meant to encompass the entire ace spectrum. Finally, I'm not an expert or anything, but I do want to say it's okay to question and/or be unsure of your identity. Thank you so much to Writ for beta-ing this like three times and encouraging me to post it, you’re the best and ily❤️ Happy Pride! I really hope you enjoy, and please leave feedback if you'd like! Title from Ho Hey by The Lumineers.

“Denali, um, I need to tell you something.” Rosé fiddles with the couch cushion, trying to calm her pounding heart.

She and Denali have been together almost four months now, and though they haven’t reached the sex stage yet, Rosé knows it’s coming. Knows there will come a time when Denali, like most people, will want more than kisses and cuddles. Rosé loves kisses and cuddles, she really does. She just doesn’t want anything more, and having to confess that to Denali is making her stomach hurt.

“What is it?” Denali is instantly concerned and focused, giving Rosé her full attention.

Rosé opens and closes her mouth, wiping sweaty hands on her pants. Just say it, just say it. “I...I’m asexual.”

It’s a weight off her chest to have it out in the open. She doesn’t have to spend time worrying about what might happen if Denali wants more, or plan possible excuses she can use. She just has to wait and see how Denali will react, and her silence is making Rosé’s thoughts spiral.

Rosé always knew she was different. In middle school, her friends would dream about how the boys on the football team would look with their shirts off. The fantasies only got bigger in high school, thrown at her by all her friends. She couldn’t understand why people even wanted to talk about things like that, let alone do them, and she felt like her friends were speaking another language, like she was a kid at the grown-up table, listening to their conversations with nothing but confusion and half-hearted hopes that she’d understand when she was older. Then college came, where she got tongue-tied around pretty girls in her English class and figured that explained things, that she was just a late bloomer. But years later, she let her date undress her and lay her on the bed, and when the woman’s clothes hit the floor and her hands grew closer, Rosé felt nothing. No spark or urge people always talked about, no desire to touch the woman or have the woman touch her. Rosé knew she didn’t like her that way.

At all.

Rosé asked her to please stop, and she did, but when Rosé nervously confessed that she didn’t think she liked sex, the woman called her a freak and kicked her out.

Rosé knew she had to be a freak. Sex was a normal, natural thing, and she was a grown woman, so why didn’t she care about it, or want to attempt it ever again, no matter how pretty or kind or funny she thought someone was? Something had to be wrong with her.

She confessed it all on a teary wave of alcohol to her friend Jan one night, who hugged her and said there was nothing wrong with her, not at all, and then tucked her into bed and sent her information and resources when she was sober enough to focus.

Rosé read through website after website, and things fell into place inside her, the same way they had when she realized she liked girls. She didn’t know there was a name for how she felt, or that there were other people like her. Nothing was wrong with her, or with anyone like her, and just knowing it was a relief.

Even still, Rosé kept it to herself. She never had more than a few dates with the same woman, knowing that eventually the time would come when they’d want more, when they’d invite her over with a knowing gleam in their eye, and she would run out of excuses if things continued. It was easier to end things before it got to that point, not take the risk of anyone calling her names or trying to talk her into things she didn’t want. She resigned herself to a few dates and moving on, never getting too close even though she wanted to. She wanted love, wanted it so badly. She wanted someone to hug and hold and share her hopes and worries with. She wanted someone to come home to, someone who would be a home in human form. But everyone seemed to think of sex as the ultimate act of love, as the defining part of a relationship. Would she ever find someone who would love her without it?

And then Denali came along.

If anyone could love her no matter what, Rosé thinks it’s Denali. Rosé absolutely loves her, loves her so much she broke her own dating rule because she just couldn’t stop seeing Denali. She loves Denali’s looks, sure, loves her big soft eyes and her smile and her dimples. But she loves how Denali is seriously doing work one second and goofily dancing around the next. How Denali is kind to everyone she meets. And Denali clearly loves her too, showing up to their dates with little gifts because she saw it in the store and thought of Rosé, or listening to Rosé ramble on about musicals she loves. She makes Rosé happier than anyone she’s ever dated, and she wants to tell her.

Denali still hasn’t said anything. Maybe she’s confused--hell, Rosé was confused at first too. Or maybe she’s seen the nasty things on the internet Rosé has learned to avoid, about how she’s broken or just hasn’t had good sex yet. Maybe Rosé should explain more, and the words fly out of her mouth.

“I still want to be with you, and I really love you. You’re beautiful, and kind, and funny, and you just get me. I love kissing you and hugging you and cuddling with you. I love being with you. You make me so happy. Just, sexually, I don’t--I don’t feel the same way. I don’t want to have sex, I’m trying to say. And it’s not because of you, it’s just me. I know that might be a dealbreaker for some people, and I don’t want to make you miss out on that, so if you want to break up, I understand—“

“Shh, hold on and breathe, Rosie,” Denali cuts her off gently, taking Rosé’s hands in hers. Rosé doubts Denali would do this if she wanted to leave, and she lets herself hope. “I just needed a sec to process things. First off, I’m really proud of you for telling me. I know that must have been hard. Second, I don’t want to break up with you, baby. I love you so much.”

“You still want to stay with me?” Rosé asks, in awe of the loving look in Denali’s eyes.

“Of course I do. Why wouldn’t I?” Denali asks seriously.

Rosé shrugs, unable to meet Denali’s gaze. “I mean, I don’t think it now, because I know it’s not true, but sometimes I thought...I thought something was wrong with me. That no one would want to be with me when they found out I couldn’t give them sex.”

“Sweetheart,” Denali says softly, her eyes sad. She squeezes Rosé’s hands, rubbing over her knuckles in soothing motions. “I’m so sorry anyone made you feel like there’s something wrong with you, because there’s not. You’re such a wonderful person, inside and out, and that’s why I love you. I know you don’t want me to miss out, but I’m not missing out on anything, because I have you. I’m fine without sex. But I could never be fine without you. I love you, all of you, and I don’t need sex to do it.”

Rosé pulls Denali to her, crushing her in a hug. All the doubts she had--about someone not loving her without sex, about not being enough on her own--melt away in the hug. She never needed to have those fears. She’s worthy and capable of love just as she is, and Denali is going to give her that love. “I love you too,” she breathes. “I love you so much, Denali.”

Denali squeezes her back, but her face quickly turns serious as she pulls away. “I know you said you’re okay with kissing and stuff, but if I ever say or do anything that makes you uncomfortable, please tell me, okay, Rosie? Or if kissing or anything starts to get uncomfortable too. I never want you to feel uncomfortable around me.”

“I will. I promise I’ll tell you if there’s anything I’m not okay with.”

“Good.”

Rosé sighs, the air light with relief and joy, of knowing that Denali still loves her no matter what. That she doesn’t have to hide who she is, or treat it like some dirty secret. That she’s more than enough just as she is. That she can be asexual and be proud, not ashamed.

“Wanna watch Great British Bake-Off?” Denali asks.

“And cuddle?” Rosé asks hopefully.

“All the cuddles you want, baby.”

[lilydalexf]

Old School X is a project interviewing X-Files fanfic authors who were posting fic during the original run of the show. New interviews are posted every Tuesday.

Interview with Syntax6

Syntax6 has 17 stories at Gossamer, but you should visit her website for the complete collection of her fics and to see the cover art that comes with many of the stories (and to find her pro writing!). She's written some of the most beloved casefiles in the fandom. I've recced literally all of them here before. Twice. Big thanks to Syntax6 for doing this interview.

Does it surprise you that people are still interested in reading your X-Files fanfics and others that were posted during the original run of the show (1993-2002)?

I’m delighted but not surprised because I’ve written and read fanfic for shows even older than XF. Also, I joined the XF fandom relatively late, at the end of 1999, so there were already hundreds of “classic” fics out there, stories that were theoretically superseded or dated by canon developments that came after them, but which nonetheless remained compelling in their own right. That is the beauty of fanfic: it is inspired by its original creators but not bound by them. It’s a world of “what if” and each story gets to run in a new direction, irrespective of the canon and all the other stories spinning off in their own universes. In this way, fanfic becomes almost timeless.

What do you think of when you think about your X-Files fandom experience? What did you take away from it? What did you take away from your experience with X-Files fic or with the fandom in general?

(I feel these are similar, at least for me, so I will combine them here.)

First and foremost, I found friends. There was a table full of XF fanfic writers at my wedding. Bugs was my maid of honor. I still talk to someone from XF fandom pretty much every day. Lysandra, Maybe Amanda, Michelle Kiefer, bugs…these are just some of the people who’ve been part of my life for half my existence now. Sometimes I get to have dinner with Audrey Roget or Anjou or MCA. Deb Wells and Sarah Ellen Parsons are part of my pro fic beta team. I have a similar list from the Hunter fandom, terrific people who have enriched my life in numerous ways and I am honored to count as friends.

Second, I learned a lot about writing during my years in XF fandom. I grew up there. Part of this growth experience was simply due to practice. I wrote about 1.2 million words of XF fanfic, which is the equivalent of 15 novels. I made mistakes and learned from them. But another essential part of learning is absorbing different kinds of well-told tales, and XF had these in spades. Some stories were funny. Others were lyrical. Some were short pieces with nary a word wasted while others were sprawling epics that took you on an adventure. The neat thing about XF is that it has space for many different kinds of stories, from hard-core sci-fi to historical romance. You can watch other authors executing these varied pieces and learn from them. You can form critique groups and ask for betas and get direct feedback on how to improve. It’s collaborative and fun, and this can’t be underestimated, generally supportive. The underlying shared love of the original product means that everyone comes into your work predisposed to enjoy it. I am grateful for all the encouragement and the critiques I received over my years in fandom.

Finally, I think a valuable lesson for writers that you can find in fandom, but not in your local author critique group, is how to handle yourself when your work goes public. Not everyone is going to like your work and they will make sure you know it. Some people will like it maybe too much, to the point where they cross boundaries. Learning to disengage yourself from public reaction to your work is a difficult but crucial aspect of being a writer. You control the story. You can’t control reaction to it. It’s frustrating at first, perhaps, but in the end, it’s freeing.

Social media didn't really exist during the show's original run. How were you most involved with the X-Files online (atxc, message board, email mailing list, etc.)?

I participated in ATXC, the Haven message boards, and the Scullyfic mailing list/news group. For a number of years, I also ran a fic discussion group with bugs called The Why Incision.

What got you involved with X-Files fanfic?

I started reading XF fanfic before I began watching the show. I had watched one season two episode (Soft Light) and then seen bits and pieces of a few others from season four. I’d seen Fight the Future. Basically, I’d seen enough to know which one was Mulder and which one was Scully, and which one believed in aliens. An acquaintance linked me to a rec site for XF fanfic (Gertie’s, maybe?) so that I could see how fic was formatted for the web. I clicked a fic, I think it was one by Lydia Bower dealing with Scully’s cancer arc, and basically did not stop reading. Soon I was printing off 300K of fic to take home with me each night. I could not believe the level of talent in the fandom, and that there were so many excellent writers just giving away their works for free. I wanted to play in this sandbox, too, so I started renting the VHS tapes to catch up on old episodes (see, I am An Old). After a few months, I began writing my own stuff.

What was it that got you hooked on the X-Files as a show?

I had to be dragged kicking and screaming to The X-Files. I’m not a sci-fi person by nature. I think my main objection is that, when done poorly, it feels lazy to me. Who did the thing? A ghost! Maybe an alien? I guess we’ll never know. You can always just shrug and play some spooky music and the “truth will always be out there…” somewhere beyond the story in front of you. You never have to commit to any kind of truth because you can invent some magical power or new kind of alien to change the story. I think, by the bitter end, the XF had devolved into this kind of storytelling. The mytharc made no kind of sense even in its own universe. But for years the XF achieved the best aspects of sci-fi storytelling—narrative flexibility and an apotheosis of our current fears dressed up as a super entertaining yarn.

What eventually sold me on the XF as a show is all of the smart storytelling and the sheer amount of ideas contained within its run. At its best, it’s a brilliant show. You have mediations on good versus evil, the role of government in a free society, is there a God, are we alone in the universe, and what are the elements that make us who we are? If Mulder and Morris Fletcher switch bodies, how do we know it’s really “them”? The tonal shifts from week to week were clever and engaging. For Vince Gilligan, truth was always found in fellow human beings. For Darin Morgan, humans were the biggest monster of all. The show was big enough to contain both these premises, and indeed, was stronger for it. The deep questions, the character quirks, the unsolved mysteries and all that went unsaid in the Mulder-Scully relationship left so much room for fanfic writers to do their own work. As such, the fandom attracted and continues to attract both dabbling writers and those who are serious craftspeople. People who like the mystery and those who like the sci-fi angle. Scientists and true believers. Like the show, it’s big enough for all.

What is your relationship like now to X-Files fandom?

I look at it like an old friend I catch up with once in a while. We’ve been close for so long that there’s no awkwardness—we just get each other! I love seeing people post screen shots and commentary, and I think it’s wonderful that so many writers are still inventing new adventures for Mulder and Scully. That is how the characters live on, and indeed how any of us lives on, through the stories that others tell about us.

Were you involved with any fandoms after the X-Files? If so, what was it like compared to X-Files?

I ran the Hunter fandom for about five years, mostly because when I poked my head back in, I found the person in change was a bully who’d shut down everything due to her own waning interest. A person would try to start a topic for discussion, and she’d say, “We’ve already covered that.” Well, yes, in a 30-year-old show, there’s not a lot of new ground…

Most other shows, Hunter included, have smaller fandoms and thus don’t attract the depth of fan talent. I don’t just mean fanfic writers. I mean those who do visual art, fan vids, critiques, etc. The XF fandom has all these in droves, which makes it a rare and special place. But all fandoms have the particular joy of geeking out over favorite scenes and reveling in the meeting of shared minds. It will always look odd to those not contained within it, which brings me to the part of modern fandom I find somewhat uncomfortable…the creators are often in fan-space.

In Hunter, the female lead joins fan groups and participates. This is more common now in the age of social media, where writers, producers, actors, etc., are on the same platforms as the rest of us. Fan and creator interaction used to be highly circumscribed: fans wrote letters and maybe received a signed headshot in return. There were cons where show runners gave panels and took questions from the audience. You could stand in line to meet your favorite star. Now, you can @ your favorite star on Twitter, message her on Facebook or follow him on Instagram. In some ways, this is so fun! In other ways, it blurs in the lines in ways that make me uncomfortable. I think it’s rude, for example, if a fan were to go on a star’s social media and post fanfic there or say, “I thought the episode you wrote was terrible.” But what if it’s fan space and the actor is sitting right there, watching you? Is it rude to post fanfic in front of her, especially if she says it makes her uncomfortable? Is it mean to tell a writer his episode sucked right to his face?

Do you ever still watch The X-Files or think about Mulder and Scully?

I own the first seven seasons on DVD and will pull them out from time to time to rewatch old faves. I’ve shown a few episodes over the spring and summer to my ten-year-old daughter, and it’s been fun to see the series through her eyes. We’ve mostly opted for the comedic episodes because there’s enough going on in the real world to give her nightmares. Her favorite so far is Je Souhaite.

Do you ever still read X-Files fic? Fic in another fandom?

I don’t have much bandwidth to read fanfic these days. My job as a mystery/thriller author means I have to keep up with the market so I do most of my reading there right now. I also beta read for some pro-fic friends and betaing a novel will keep you busy.

Do you have any favorite X-Files fanfic stories or authors?

I read so much back in the day that this answer could go on for pages. Alas, it also hasn’t changed much over the past fifteen years because I haven’t read much since then. But, as we’re talking Golden Oldies today, here are a bunch:

All the Mulders, by Alloway I find this short story both hilarious and haunting. Scully embraces her power in the upside down post-apocalyptic world.

Strangers and the Strange Dead, by Kipler Taut prose and an intriguing 3rd party POV make this story a winner, and that’s before the kicker of an ending, which presaged 1013’s.

Cellphone, by Marasmus Talk about your killer twists! Also one of the cleverest titles coming or going.

Arizona Highways, by Fialka I think this is one of the best-crafted stories to come out of the XF. It’s majestic in scope, full of complex literary structure and theme, and yet the plot moves like a runaway freight train. Both the Mulder and Scully characterizations are handled with tender care.

So, We Kissed, by Alelou What I love about this one is how it grounds Mulder and Scully in the ordinary. Mulder’s terrible secret doesn’t involve a UFO or some CSM-conspiracy. Scully goes to therapy that actually looks like therapy. I guess what I’m saying is that I utterly believe this version of M & S in addition to just enjoying reading about them.

Sore Luck at the Luxor, by Anubis Hot, funny, atmospheric. What’s not to love?

Black Hole Season, by Penumbra Nobody does wordsmithing like Penumbra. I use her in arguments with professional writers when they try to tell me that adverbs and adjectives MUST GO. Just gorgeous, sly, insightful prose.

The Dreaming Sea, by Revely This one reads like a fairytale in all the best ways. Revely creates such loving, beautiful worlds for M & S to live in, and I wish they could stay there always.

Malus Genius, by Plausible Deniability and MaybeAmanda Funny and fun, with great original characters, a sly casefile and some clear-eyed musings on the perils of getting older. This one resonates more and more the older I get. ;)

Riding the Whirlpool, by Pufferdeux I look this one up periodically to prove to people that it exists. Scully gets off on a washing machine while Mulder helps. Yet it’s in character? And kinda works? This one has to be read to be believed.

Bone of Contention (part 1, part 2), by Michelle Kiefer and Kel People used to tell me all the time that casefiles are super easy to write while the poetic vignette is hard. Well, I can’t say which is harder but there much fewer well-done casefiles in the fandom than there are poetic vignettes. This is one of the great ones.

Antidote, by Rachel Howard A fic that manages to be both hot and cold as it imagines Mulder and Scully trying to stay alive in the frosty wilderness while a deadly virus is on the loose. This is an ooooold fic that holds up impressively well given everything that followed it!

Falling Down in Four Acts, by Anubis Anubis was actually a bunch of different writers sharing a single author name. This particular one paints an angry, vivid world for Our Heroes and their compatriots. There is no happy ending here, but I read this once and it stayed with me forever.

The Opposite of Impulse, by Maria Nicole A sweet slice of life on a sunny day. When I imagine a gentler universe for Mulder and Scully, this is the kind of place I’d put them.

What is your favorite of your own fics, X-Files and/or otherwise?

Bait and Switch is probably the most sophisticated and tightly plotted. It was late in my fanfic “career” and so it shows the benefits to all that learning. My favorite varies a lot, but I’ll say Universal Invariants because that one was nothing but fun.

Do you think you'll ever write another X-Files story? Or dust off and post an oldie that for whatever reason never made it online?

I never say never! I don’t have any oldies sitting around, though. Everything I wrote, I posted.

Do you still write fic now? Or other creative work?

I write casefiles…er, I mean mysteries, under my own name now, Joanna Schaffhausen. My main series with Reed and Ellery consists of a male-female crime solving team, so I get a little bit of my XF kick that way. Their first book, The Vanishing Season, started its life as an XF fanfic back in the day. I had to rewrite it from the ground up to get it published, but if you know both stories, you can spot the similarities.

Where do you get ideas for stories?

The answer any writer will tell you is “everywhere.” Ideas are cheap and they’re all around us—on the news, on the subway, in conversations with friends, from Twitter memes, on a walk through the woods. My mysteries are often rooted in true crime, often more than one of them.

Each idea is like a strand of colored thread, and you have to braid them together into a coherent story. This is the tricky part, determining which threads belong in which story. If the ideas enhance one another or if they just create an ugly tangent.

Mostly, though, stories begin by asking “what if?” What if Scully’s boyfriend Ethan had never been cut from the pilot? What if Scully had moved to Utah after Fight the Future? What if the Lone Gunmen financed their toys by writing a successful comic book starring a thinly veiled Mulder and Scully?

Growing up, I had a sweet old lady for a neighbor. Her name was Doris and she gave me coffee ice cream while we watched Wheel of Fortune together. Every time there was a snow storm, the snow melted in her backyard in a such way that suggested she had numerous bodies buried out there. How’s that for a “what if?”

What's the story behind your pen name?

I’ve had a few of them and honestly can’t tell you where they came from, it’s been so long ago. The “6” part of syntax6 is because I joke that 6 is my lucky number. In eighth grade, my algebra teacher would go around the room in order, asking each student their answer to the previous night’s homework problems. I realized quickly that I didn’t have to do all the problems, just the fifteenth one because my desk was 15th on her list. This worked well until the day she decided to call on kids in random order. When she got to me and asked me the answer to the problem I had not done, I just invented something on the spot. “Uh…six?”

Her: “You mean 0.6, don’t you?”

Me, nodding vigorously: “YES, I DO.”

Her: “Very good. Moving on…”

Do your friends and family know about your fic and, if so, what have been their reactions?

My close friends and family have always known, and reactions have varied from mild befuddlement to enthusiastic support. My father voted in the Spookies one year, and you can believe he read the nominated stories before casting his vote. I think the most common reaction was: Why are you doing this for free? Why aren’t you trying to be a paid writer?

Well, having done both now, I can tell you that each kind of writing brings its own rewards. Fanfic is freeing because there is no pressure to make money from it. You can take risks and try new things and not have to worry if it fits into your business plan.

(Posted by Lilydale on September 15, 2020)

[writingwithadinosaur]

“Under the Knife” - Part 6

“Under the Knife” - Part 6

My Masterlist - Here

Story Masterlist - Here

My Tag List - Here

Hannibal Lecter x Reader, Will Graham x Sister!Reader

Word Count: 3,500-ish

Key: Chunks of text in italics are (Y/N)’s thoughts. Y/N = Your Name, H/C = Your Hair Color, E/C = Your Eye Color

Warnings: Cursing, Mentions of Death, Murder, and Violence

Summary: You are Will Graham’s sister who works with him at the FBI. When you get offered a job promotion, life starts to change. Some changes for the better; Some for the worst.

Author’s Note: This is my first Hannibal piece and I am proud of it. There aren’t too many stories for Hannibal, so I figured I would add to the collection.

This does take place in some happy medium where they are all alive and work together. Sort of a happier season 1 era.

This is beta-read by @theeactress​, but please let me know if there is something that we missed or that we should look at again! 

If you would like to be tagged in any of my future pieces, check out my tag list above and let me know! And as always, feedback is greatly appreciated!

<3

- DreaSaurusREX

Tag List: 

@fruitloopzzz​ @theeactress​ @melconnor2007 @ashenfallsof @geeksareunique​ @all-by-myself98​ @sj-thefan​ @fuck-your-bad-vibes-dude​ @ntlmundy​ @a-person-unlabled

~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-

The last few days were weird for you. While working the Virginia Scalpel case, you still had to give lectures and work the occasional museum shift. Luckily you were able to give more and more of your museum shifts to your coworkers, saying that you needed the time to focus on the case or to finalize your lecture outlines. 

Between two lectures and a museum shift, you were able to narrow down your suspect list even more. Pulling every male doctor within a 50-mile radius who fit the height range and who wasn’t super young, old, or generally weak looking. You dropped it off to Jack’s office while he was in a meeting of some sort, thankful that you wouldn’t have to talk to him just yet.

After that night at the Pencalt crime scene, things seemed to take more energy than you expected. You could get up and function through your work day, but when it came to socializing or even having to have work related conversations, you found yourself doing them through email or not at all. This included talking to Hannibal or Will.

Both of them had tried calling or texting you, and you’d try to respond with a “Can’t talk right now,” or an “I’m busy.” But sometimes you didn’t have the energy and straight up ignored them. 

You knew what they wanted to talk about. And you had to admit that after letting it settle in your brain, you wanted to too. But you knew that that conversation would be a long one that required patience.

Which is why you decided to call in sick and work from home today. You weren’t scheduled a lecture or a museum shift, and everything you planned on doing in your office could be done at home. 

You understood the urgency of this case. The team only had about a week left to catch this guy before another doctor would be found in pieces. But you weren’t the only one working this case, and you were still waiting on results from Beverly, Price, and Zeller. So you justified taking today a bit slower and tried to fit in some breaks for self-care as you worked.

The day started out with a peaceful breakfast, something you hadn’t had since before you joined Jack’s team. It was different and odd feeling now, but you tried your best to enjoy it and let your mind relax. After you put your stuff in the dishwasher, you sat down where your work stuff was set up at your dining room table, and felt your mind wander.

I know I should talk to Will or Hannibal, but that would be so draining right now. No. Just focus on breathing and getting as much as you can done today, alright, (Y/N)? We don’t need you combusting over personal shit while your killer is still out there. Now, what haven’t we gone over yet?

You started to sift through some of your scribbles as a piece of paper slid out of place from within your notebook. You slightly tilted your head and pulled the paper out, seeing that webname that you had learned to hate.

“Tattle Crime”

You were going to shove the article back into your book, but you knew that your curiosity would only grow the longer you didn’t read it. With a disapproving sigh, you went ahead and read the article. 

Freddie Lounds didn’t spend much time talking about the killer. She states that Dr. Pencalt was found like the other victims, and how he was a doctor with no obvious correlation to the others. Her “article” tends to focus more on you, Hannibal, and Will. 

“Much like her brother Will Graham, who we have talked about before, (Y/N) supposedly has a gift for the psychologically strange and unusual. But we have to wonder why he isn’t working this case? Will Graham has successfully assisted Jack Crawford and his team on multiple cases in the past. So why bring on a rookie when you have a prized horse in the stables?

Maybe that is why Crawford decided to bring in Dr. Lecter, who was also an integral role in some of the cases that Will Graham had worked on. He has years of medical knowledge outside the realm of psychology that could be helpful in this case, considering the Virginia Scalpel is suspected to have a medical background.. Maybe he will be the key to locking the Virginia Scalpel up for good?”

She then went on to talk more about Hannibal before bringing up the case again. You couldn’t even fully grasp at what you were reading or how to feel about any of it before your phone rang beside you, bringing you back to reality. Only, you didn’t really want to deal with reality when you saw that the caller ID said “Jack Crawford.”

“(Y/N) here.” You tried your best to not sound unenthused, but you couldn’t help the obvious apathy in your voice.

“How soon can you get here?” You knew that this would end with you coming into the office for who knows how long, so you begrudgingly stood up and started to try to find a comfy but work appropriate outfit to change into while talking to Crawford.

“I mean… An hour? Maybe? Give or take 10 minutes. Why? What happened?”

“Got that evidence you were waiting for.” You couldn’t discern if he was at all happy about that.

Of course the one day I try to take it easy is the day we get results. You took a deep breath in and tried to form a coherent sentence.

“I--Uh… Okay. I’ll try to--”

“I’ll see you in the lab in an hour.” Jack interrupted and then hung up before you could say much else, knowing that that was an order, not a suggestion. You put your phone down and groaned before starting to get dressed.

~~~~~~~~

Pulling into your normal parking spot, you saw that you had made it to the office with 15 minutes to spare thanks to you not having the energy to do your hair or makeup today. 

You got to your office and left the door open, knowing you would only be there for a minute or two. While you unpacked your bag, you heard someone clear their throat from your doorway. Turning around, you saw Will standing in the threshold with two cups of coffee. 

“Look what the cat dragged in.” He tried to joke, but you just shot him a look. He winced and extended one of the cups out to you. “Peace offering?”

You sigh and accept the cup, not sure of what to say other than a quick “thanks.” Will stood there while you took a sip and continued to set up your stuff.

“You haven’t answered any of my texts.”

“I’ve been busy. And I’m still quite busy. I have to go and meet with everyone in,” you look at the clock on the wall. “5 minutes.”

“Jack’s really got his hooks in you, huh?” 

 “I tried to take a sick day and work from home, but lab results are in. Which means I’m also in.”

“Sick Day? You never use sick days.”

“First time for everything, I guess.” You turn around and try to walk past him but he stops you.

“(Y/N), I-” 

“I really don’t want to talk. At least not right now. You and Hannibal are on thin ice right now. And there are more important a-and time sensitive things that need to be taken care of.”

“Look, (Y/N), I can explain--”

“Explain what exactly? That you really didn’t trust me when I said that I could handle myself? That you really think I am going to let Jack push me so much during my first real case that you had to have Hannibal step in as some sort of watchdog? I know you’ve had bad experiences with Jack, but goddamnit can’t you just let me learn and experience whatever happens on my own?”

“You’re upset--”

“No shit, Sherlock.” 

“And I-I get that, but just--”

“No. I have a job to do.”

“Then come by the house later. Have a drink, o-or we can get takeout, and I can tell you my side of the story.”

You paused as you looked down slightly and started to fidget with your ring. Will is looking in your general direction, trying to figure out how to ease the anxiety that was surely coursing through your amygdala and hippocampus, or at least some of the resentment that had fought its way through your eyes.

“Even if you don’t want to talk and we end up just sitting around, I’m sure the dogs would like to see their favorite aunt.”

“I’m their only aunt.” You both smiled at the joke. His smile was more out of relief while yours was just a quick smirk. His fades quickly as you rub your face and sigh out, “We’ll see. I have no idea what’s waiting for me in the lab. So I can’t promise anything. And as upset as I am with you, I do miss those dogs.”

“Just let me know when you decide and we will make time for it.”

You just nod and he lets you walk past. Will follows you out and closes the door behind the two of you. Before you could hit the elevator button, he spoke out to you. 

“Despite what you think, I do care about you, you know.” 

You stop in your tracks and turn around to face him. You could see the pain on his face even though you know he was trying to hide it. Your heart broke as you took a large inhale.

“I know you do. We’re family. We’ll always care about each other no matter what.” You give him a small smile to try to reassure him that what you were saying was true. He nodded and headed back towards the lecture halls and you hit the button to call the elevator, preparing yourself for as much insanity as you could.

~~~~~~~~

“(Y/N), right on time” Jack announced as you walked into the lab. Everyone was there and ready to go, including Hannibal who was on the other side of the table facing you. You hoped that he wouldn’t put together how off you were feeling today from your rushed appearance.

“Sorry, I would have been here sooner, but I had a run-in with my brother. What’ve I missed so far?” You opened up your notebook and joined the circle around the exam table that had Dr. Pencalt’s body on it. You internally winced as you realized that Hannibal was most likely going to ask you about your ‘run-in’ with Will after this meeting. 

“Nothing yet. We were just about to start.” Zeller spoke up as he clapped his hands together and began his presentation. A lot of it was information that was similar to the previous victims. All of the cuts were made with surgical tools to ensure clean cuts, no obvious mutilations outside the killer’s usual, all focus was on the doctor as opposed to his wife, and so on.

“The paralytic that was used on Dr. Pencalt was the same as the other vics. It was a high enough dosage that he felt the effects within a minute or two.”

“Do you have the location and angle on the injection point?” Zeller nodded and handed you a printout that had various information about the small needle mark: diameter, insertion angle, depth, et cetera. 

“He was pricked right here.” He used a gloved hand to turn Dr. Pencalt’s head and point to a small dot on the side of his neck. You just nodded and tried to imagine the killer coming and attacking him. You were starting to solidify the height range of your suspect.

“The angle is pretty flat, which means our suspect is either the same height as him or maybe an inch taller or shorter. How tall was Dr. Pencalt?” You heard Jimmy open a file and hum a note as he found out.

“5 foot 11.” You nodded and saw the height range of the shadowy silhouette of the killer in your mind narrow.

“So our killer is between 5’10” and 6’.”

“Is that all?” Jack asked in an audibly annoyed voice. You weren’t sure if it was directed at you specifically or at the situation in general. Jimmy, Brian, and Beverly all looked at each other as if they were kids who had broken an expensive vase and had to tell dad. Beverly was the brave kid that stepped forward.

“No. There is one more thing.” She turned around and got a tray from the other side of the room, bringing it back to the circle. “This was found lodged in his throat.”

On the tray, there was a distorted but still legible article from TattleCrime.com, the same article that was in your apartment. The only major difference was that this one was highlighted wherever it mentioned Hannibal or you. 

“We tried to pull any sort of prints or DNA off of it, but the only thing we got was Dr. Pencalt’s blood and saliva. The article is from our favorite tabloid, Tattle Crime. It’s about the case, but it also talks about (Y/N) and Hannibal...”

You tried to control your breathing as Beverly kept speaking, forcing yourself to take slightly deeper breaths than normal hoping no one would pick up on it as you finally spoke up.

“So, fun story…” Everyone’s eyes landed on you. “I have that same article printed out, but I didn’t print it. Someone slipped it under my door the other night.”

You saw Jack readjust his stance, a frustrated look growing in his eyes, and started to speak, but you cut him off, already knowing where this was going. 

“I didn’t bring it up because I honestly thought Hannibal or Will had slid it into my apartment as a way to try to scare me and make me resign from the case. For personal reasons, I have avoided talking to either of them unless it was absolutely necessary. So I never confirmed my theory.” 

You couldn’t bring yourself to look at Hannibal or Jack. But if you had, you would have seen the small bit of guilt in Hannibal’s face. He knew no one else would pick up on it because he was a master at keeping his mask on to others, but after being with him as long as you had, you could see between the cracks. 

Jack looked towards Hannibal.

“Dr. Lecter, did you send the article to (Y/N)?”

“I did not. I’m just as taken aback as everyone else here.” 

“And did you receive a copy of this article at any point during the last week?”

“No. I have not read anything from Miss Lound’s website for a significant amount of time now.” Jack took a breath in and tried to be logical and figure out what the next step needed to be.

“Alright, you guys get me a list of every medical facility that supplies that paralytic. (Y/N), get your copy and give it to Price to see if he can get anything off of it. Then I want you and Dr. Lecter in my office.” Jack walked out before anyone could say anything.

You stood there in a bit of shock as you looked at the soiled article in front of you. You tried to read through the bits of blurred text. Everything involving you or Hannibal was doused in bright yellow marker. 

“Um… (Y/N)?” You couldn’t help the small instinctual jump as Jimmy tapped your shoulder. You quickly looked to him, trying to look okay despite learning that your name was literally in a key piece of evidence. “You okay?”

“Hm? Y-yeah! I mean, not really, but we’re not gonna talk about that right now.” You let out a forced exhale that you tried to make sound like a chuckle through a very forced smile. Before Price could ask anything else, you spoke up. “Here. It-its right here.”

“And you were the only one to touch this, right?” Price asked as he carefully grabbed the corners of your Tattle Crime article with clean and gloved hands. You just nodded in response. “I’ll let you know if I find anything.” 

You mutter a quick thank you and then make your way back to the elevator and back to your office to write out your notes on the killer’s more specific height range and the highlighted sections of the article in your notebook. 

Why us? I can somewhat understand Hannibal being chosen from an occupational standpoint. He is not only a psychiatrist, but he used to be a surgeon. But he has no ties to any of these other doctors. And what’s so special about me? I’m not a doctor of any kind. I don’t fit the killer’s m.o.

Your mind kept going on this internal monologue, trying to find any solid reasoning as to why both of you are now being focused on. It got even more frantic as you realized you only had about a week to figure it all out. 

Before you could write out much, you heard a soft knock on your open office door. You didn’t even bother looking up.

“Will, I really can’t do this right now. I told you I would text you when-- Oh. Sorry, Dr. Lecter.” You expected Will to be impatient and try to talk to you again, but instead you were met with the careful gaze of Hannibal. 

“No need to apologize.” He shut the door behind him and took a seat. “I thought you were comfortable with addressing me by my first name, (Y/N). Has that changed?”

“Look, I know you’re not really here to talk about that. But I’m not okay enough to talk about our personal lives at the moment. And if you’re here to ask about the Tattle Crime shit, I have no idea how--”

“I came to check up on you because I am worried about you, (Y/N).” You were taken aback for a moment. Not only does Hannibal usually never interrupt you when speaking, but he isn't always the most forthcoming when talking about emotions or concern.

“I’m fine.” You go back to trying to write out your ideas, knowing that if you gave him a fake smile, Hannibal would see right through it.

“The fact that you clearly stated that you were ‘not okay enough to talk about our personal lives’ and that you planned on taking a sick day today says otherwise.” 

You took a deep inhale and closed your notebook. Trying to not dump all of your thoughts, work related or personal, on him.

“It wasn’t really a sick day. It was supposed to be a day where I worked from home to try to remind myself to take a break and eat an actual meal, or do my laundry that’s been piling up, or maybe finally hang up that frame I bought three weeks ago. But apparently that wasn’t in my cards today. Yes, I’m tired. Yes, I don’t want to be around people right now. Yes, I really don’t want to be talking to you or Will about anything other than work right now. So if I need to be here, then I’m here. That’s my job.”

“But no matter how stressful a job is, you need to be able to recalibrate your mind so as to not overwork yourself until you become a hindrance. Holding on to the frustration and betrayal that you feel are surely contributing to that lack of ability to rest, (Y/N). If you allow yourself to talk to Will about it, or even myself if you feel more comfortable--”

“All of my focus is trying to go to this case, moreso now that you and I may be targets. I am your colleague and your friend. But I really don’t want to ruin the good relationship that we have by talking to you like I’m one of your patients, because I’m not one of your patients. So please, just--” 

You stopped yourself as you felt something click into place. Hannibal watched as you had a similar look in your eyes like how he had witnessed at the Pencalt crime scene. 

“Patient…” You were slowly closing your mind’s eye and seeing things clearly.

“You’ve figured something out, haven’t you?” Hannibal leaned forward in his seat in curiosity, truly enthralled by watching how your brain worked in these situations.

“A patient! The killer is a patient! Oh my god! We gotta go now!” You quickly stood up, grabbing your notebook as you did. “I think I just figured out who our killer is!”

[keep-it-i-resign]

Fic Writer Asks

tagged by the lovely @vampcoffeegyrl23 I am soooo sorry this has taken over a week! I promise I was just busy away from my computer and using mobile is not the way to go about answering these! 😅

1. How many works do you have on AO3?

6 on AO3 and 6 on ffn.net. I haven't used the ffn.net account in years, i.e 2013 (and therefore my user name isn't even the same) so those 6 stories are different from my AO3 ones. I don't post most of what I write and now that I'm in my mid-20s with a few published papers behind me - I'm much more confident in my ability to write a cohesive and interesting story so expect more posted!

2. What's your total AO3 word count?

17,425 words which isn't bad for only 6 fics with two of those stories having additional chapters coming soon.

3. How many fandoms have you written for and what are they?

On AO3? Just 1, which is The Flash and by extension Stargate SG-1 for the crossover I did for Snowells Week this year. Counting ffn.net that's 3 more with Castle, Doctor Who, and Firefly. Over my lifetime of writing fic for myself? I think only 7 more. Stargate SG-1, Stargate Atlantis, Sanctuary, Harry Potter, Star Trek: Voyager, Star Trek: TNG, and Left 4 Dead. Left 4 Dead isn't much of a fanfic but I did use the zombie types as place holders in an original story until I developed my own.

4. What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

I'll Be Waiting (The Flash - Caitlin/Harry)

Well... This is Awkward (The Flash - Caitlin/Harry, Frost/Nash, Caitlin/Nash, and Frost/Harry)

Rewind Time (The Flash - Caitlin/Harry)

Through the Gate (The Flash/Stargate SG-1 - Caitlin/Eowells)

Harvest Season (The Flash - Caitlin/Harry)

5. What's the fic you've written with the angstiest ending?

I don't write angst much and I haven't posted many stories yet but of the ones posted I guess "I'll Be Waiting" is the angstiest.

6. What's the fic you've written with the happiest ending?

"Well...This is Awkward" has a pretty happy ending with everyone alive and together. Or maybe "Twilight of the Gods" because ReverseSnow/ReverseFrost happens and there is hope of bringing everything lost back and balance the universe again. I guess it depends on your definition of what constitutes as a happy ending. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

7. Do you write crossovers? If so, what is the craziest one you've written?

I've only written one - The Flash/Stargate SG-1 crossover. I don't normally think about crossovers just because the shows I watch are so vastly different they can't really work or they are already in the same universe with the canon crossovers. I'm also not always a fan of reading them because they can get chaotic quick and characterization takes a dive in order to fit characters into other universes/situations. I admire anyone who can write it well though!

As a side note: I did have a thought about a Snowells into the Arkham universe fic just because I have been replaying the Batman Arkham video games which I might give a shot at.

8. Do you write smut? If so what kind?

👀I wrote one smutty story years ago and it's terrible because I was young and naïve. I haven't tried recently but I'm not opposed to giving it a shot now. I have a few ideas on a prompt list I have for Snowells already so it's really a matter of when will I get to it!

9. Do you respond to comments. why or why not?

I do when I can! I like to get feedback from my readers and having an open dialogue of what they liked or disliked is important for me! I want to know what my audience enjoyed and what to improve on! Responding to them also shows them I saw that they said and appreciate what they had to say! 🥰

10. Have you ever received hate on a fic?

Surprisingly - no, even on my old and terribly written stuff. I'm perfectly open to criticism but hate? If you don't like it, you don't like it but others might. Why spend the time spreading negativity when the world has enough of it?

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

As far as I know - no.

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

No but given enough time I could probably translate mine. It would be grammatically atrocious because I rarely translate from English into any of the languages I know. It's normally the other way around! I'd definitely need a Beta who is fluent to correct my mistakes.

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

No but it's definitely something I'd try! I co-wrote an original story with a few friends of mine years ago in high school and enjoyed it. I like the idea of getting to talk and bounce ideas off of someone who enjoys the same fandoms and character as me! I haven't really done that since I grew apart from one of my friends from high school who I did that with.

14. What's your all time favorite ship?

What kind of question is this? Do people actually have an ultimate ship? Is that even possible? I have ships from several fandoms and sometimes multiple ships within a fandom. Most of the time I have a main ship from a fandom but that doesn't mean I discount any of the other ones that I or others enjoy as well. I'll throw out a few that I still got out and read for in order of what I read most often (either new stuff or re-reads) to what I read occasionally, at least according to my AO3 favorite tags.

Snowells (all variations) - The Flash

Jack O'Neill/Sam Carter - Stargate SG-1

Helen Magnus/Nikola Tesla - Sanctuary

Harry/Hermione - Harry Potter

William Murdoch/Julia Ogden - Murdoch Mysteries

Phil/ Melinda - Agents of SHIELD

Kathryn Janeway/Tom Paris - Star Trek: Voyager

Kate Fleming/Steve Arnott - Line of Duty

I will occasionally go check what kind of fics the fandom writes when I start a show just out of curiosity. Sometimes you can tell if there is fandom hate between ships by doing so and I know to steer clear, especially if I ship a lesser ship/non-canon ship. Also - the number of canon-divergence or rewrites will tell you if the shows writers start being ridiculous *cough* The Flash *cough* and whether it's worth getting attached at all.

15. What's a WIP that you want to finish but don't think you ever will?

Hoo boy. I have a drive full of them. Most of which aren't even close to being posted. My biggest one right now is a complete re-write of The Flash dealing with a what if scenario of Earth-1 Tess Morgan being pregnant the night that Thawne kills them both and he chooses to birth the kid rather than let it die with her. It's set a few years earlier (so 18/19 years stuck in the past rather than the original 15 that the show has it) so the kid isn't Jesse but it changes how season 1 plays out and definitely how season 2 plays out when Harry finds out about the kid while dealing with the Jesse/Zoom issue. Plus it's Snowells too and I want to deal with Barry's mistakes and the consequences of them better than the show did since the show just kind of brushes them off? For some reason? I wanted things to have a little more consequence because some of the mistakes made are egregious and then they acted like it never happened which bothers me. It's a beast of a project and I'm - unfortunately- a perfectionist and a completionist. I'm thinking an episode per chapter rewrite but right now it's in bits and pieces and a lot of notes on how episodes would play out differently with an added character and dynamic.

16. What are your writing strengths?

Dialogue and scene positioning. I can write out the dialogue for a story quickly with the bare bones of the scene and movements playing out. After that, it takes me ages to expand the scene and fill in the bits between speaking lines because I can see the piece play out in my head and putting that to paper accurately and engagingly without being overwhelming is a multi-layered process.

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

Some of this is normal, you know, like grammar and spelling. My brain moves faster than I type so words or bit of phrases end up missing and I later have to fix it. I'm also a Southerner who grew up watching a ton of British shows so a lot of the way I phrase things isn't commonly used anywhere. I have to spend a lot of time double checking things like that. I think my biggest one is not knowing how to end stories satisfactorily. I haven't posted many fics because it's hard to post them when you don't know how to wrap everything up.

18. What are your thoughts on writing dialogue in other languages in a fic?

It depends on whether it's an established part of a character or story and whether or not I'm comfortable with the language. Like with Sherloque - it's established he'll say something in French and then repeat it in English. I took 3 years of French so I'm comfortable writing it and it fits the character and situation. But take Cisco, we know he speaks Spanish, but it's never really shown in the show. So fics that I've read where he breaks into Spanish can be distracting as we've never seen him do it - even in dire circumstances. I also never took Spanish in school and I only know rudimentary pieces (I took Mandarin and Latin instead), so I'm unlikely to use it in any fic I write unless the circumstances warrant it (say - Cisco is talking to a grandparent or a meta struggling with English).

But again, it depends on the situation, what we know of the character, and how comfortable I am with the language enough to get it correct and in character. Any fic writer who can get the situation and character down while using a secondary language, and not make it distracting deserves applause!

19. What was the first fandom you wrote for?

Hit me with a hard one why don't you? 🤣 I think it was Stargate SG-1 or maybe it was Stargate Atlantis. You're asking me to think back over a decade and a half ago to when I started reading and writing fic at the tender age of 7 or 8. I'm fairly certain it was one of those two fandoms and it might've been a crossover. I do remember writing part of it on an old Gateway computer running Windows '98 with a glass monitor that was mine and my sisters. The other half was written on an electric type-writer that I owned because this was before laptops were widely available and affordable.

20. What's your favorite fic you've written?

It's a tie between "Twilight of the Gods" and "I'll Be Waiting". "Twilight of the Gods" because I got to show off a few of my degrees (History and Classics, I couldn't shoehorn in my others but they are science related and that doesn't quite fit that story). "I'll Be Waiting" is a favorite because it's a big middle finger to whoever / collective group wrote The Flash season 7. I'm still pissed off at how the Wells plotline was dealt with and let's not get started on the whole Chillblaine/Kramer/Forces as kids of WA plots (ewwwwwww 🤢). I'd need a whole new post to talk about how tired I am of the WA kids showing up (because screw how that'll effect the timeline, right?) and the reliance on the future to drive what decisions are made (because, again, screw how bad that would be for the timeline - it's not like we have seen how much that effects things before right?) 😒

Phew.....That was longer than I expected, honestly, but a lot of fun!

Tagging whoever wants to talk about their works because you are all wonderful people who should get a chance to share!

[the-innefable-idiot]

You’ve made your choice, my love

Hello yall!

This is my first fic EVER posted and I am quite excited!!! 

Since this is my first time doing this, I am still lost on technicalities, but I am learning. This fic is almost 1.8k words and I am SO PROUD huisadhdsuisda

Here is the AO3 link. Since I am used to ONLY read stories there, I still don't know what I am doing, so please HLEP. 

Also, bear in mind English is not my first language and I didn’t beta it, so every feedback is welcome. I am talking not only plot and characterization, but also grammar and punctuation.

I have a 3k fic on the way, it just needs some tweaks here and there. It has a polyamory take on the Forrest/Alex/Michael dynamics from another fic by @spaceskam. 

This fic in particular was the following prompt by @tookmetwice: “Guerin sees Forrest coming out of Alex’s house and Alex kissing him goodbye. The ensuing conversation where Alex tells Guerin to fuck off and that he’s no longer his fucking doormat.”

Please, enjoy!

-------

You’ve made your choice, my love

Alex woke up to a light snoring by his side. This time Forrest was the big spoon and Alex felt good, safe. He tried to get out of bed without waking up the historian, but military men shared the trait of light sleep.

"Good morning." Forrest said lazily while stretching. "What are the plans for today, captain?"

"First and foremost, take a shower. Every time you convince me to stay in bed after sex and everytime I regret later when we get all sticky and gross." Alex said while reaching for his crutches. Forrest grabbed him by his hips and tried to bring him back to bed. "Then we’ll have a nice breakfast you will cook, by the way, and then you’ll go to the library to continue your research while I go do my secret Mr. Robot stuff at the base."

Forrest went for a kiss, but ended up kissing Alex hair as he turned his head. Alex stood up and went to the bathroom, but came back a few seconds later with a fake exasperation.

"You can come, but let it be known I’m doing this only to save water."

Both men tried their hardest to keep the act, but Alex couldn't stop laughing when Forrest tried to fling himself out of bed and ended up falling on the floor, his feet tangled on the covers. Once back on his feet, the historian followed the man to the shower.

-------

After going through their morning plans, Forrest was ready to leave. He was by the door when Alex pulled him to a passionate kiss. They were in what was considering "the honeymoon phase" and Alex was discovering the wonderful world of public display of affection. Lately he has been the one initiating the platonic touches in public, experimenting his limits in many different places and scenarios. If Alex kept going like this, they would be snuggling in The Wild Pony in no time.

Even though Alex was the one pushing Forrest to go to the library, he was also the one holding him at the door with kisses that made Forrest's legs feel like jello. 

"Text me when you are done in the library. I really really want to drink a milkshake." Alex said fondly, their faces not too far from each other, while his fingers were running through the blue hair, taking them away from Forrest's eyes.

"Yes, captain.” Forrest said smiling, channeling all the energy he had to get out of the sweet embrace Alex had him in. God, he could stay like that till the end of time. “Love you, captain." He whispered before leaving. Forrest heard the other man shout a "love you too, dork" as he entered his car. When he turned it on, he heard a loud noise coming from nowhere in specific. Someone must've broken something heavy made out of glass somewhere nearby.

As Forrest turned the car and got out of sight, Alex face changed. His smile and relaxed demeanor turned into a stiff posture. He knew the glass, wherever it was, didn't shatter naturally. He knew the source for it before even seeing him walking by. He was way too familiar with the light curls, the cowboy swag and the smell of rain that came after shattered glass.

"A Manes man being all lovey-dovey with a Long." Michael had a bitterness in his voice that just made Alex fell so tired. "I must wonder what circle of hell I am in."

"Damn it Guerin, why do you make this so hard? I thought we were getting better at the whole 'sup bro' thing"

"You do know what the Longs did to Liz' family, right?"

"Oh yeah Guerin, because the main take away from our lives is that bloodlines define who we are entirely. Not a chance to be different. Sure, congratulations for you. Do you want a fucking gold star?"

Michael was taken aback by Alex' outburst. He was so focused on his own frustrations that he didn't think Alex would return the sentiment.

"I’m just sayin’ it’s pretty convenient he showed up around the same time as your father. I didn't think you were the type that fell for the first hot piece of ass that crossed your way." Michael knew it was a low blow. He didn't want to admit he was doing it on purpose, a petty act of self-destruction, really. 

"Guerin, are you mad because I'm dating a Long or because I am finally falling in love with someone that isn't you?" The silence was deafening, and it was all Alex needed. "That's what I thought."

"Don’t blame me for this, Alex. What we had was good, fucking cosmic, and you kept running away."

"And yet the first time I am willing to change, the one time I go after you to give us a chance, you leave me behind and choose another person the next day."

"How could've I known you were willing to change? I was so used to you leaving that I couldn't believe you."

"I told you things that night I never told anyone by then. You know how hard it was for me admitting those things." Alex sighed, running his hand through his hair. He was getting louder, so he focused to soften his voice for his next words, which he would maintain for the rest of the conversation "I know Max was in danger that night. I mean, he fucking died and that scarred you. I get it. But you told me to come back the next day and I did. And I waited. And waited. And waited while you were with Maria. You made your choice."

"I..."

"Shut up, Guerin. After that day you made sure I knew who you had chosen. You chose Maria over and over and over again, and I never complained. It hurt, but I tried my best to support you both. That means being a fucking adult."

"I never looked away, Alex."

"Yes, Guerin, you never looked away, but you also never went after me. You never chose me the same way you choose her. I never got to say goodbye the first time I left because you chose to be in jail." Alex was letting out all the resentment, hidden for years, locked in a deep place that he never dared to open. Until now.  "You... knew you had the power to change my mind, you knew that we could come up with a plan to run away together."

Alex sighed, all the frustration now turning into exhaustion.

"I wanted to tell you I was leaving to escape my family, not you. That in a year or so I’d be back, luckily with a good salary, and that we could get the hell out of here. I was going to beg for you to stay put for me, but you chose to be locked up instead."

Tears threatened to fall, but Michael was determined not to cry. He knew what Alex was talking about, pillow talk back then consisted on fantasizing what was just said, but Michael was a coward and always chose the easier path. Now he sees he's been paying the price for it.

"You loved me and I loved you, Michael. Hell, I think this conversation only proves we still love each other. But what I am discovering with Forrest is that sometimes love is not enough. A relationship requires tenderness, respect, vulnerability. We never had the chance for this. We were drowning in trauma after trauma and we couldn't handle it back then."

Michael dropped his shoulder, suddenly feeling the weight of everything he has ever done. Alex managed to put into words what was going on between them both since the beginning, and Michael hated it, because they were true.

"Guerin, we were cosmic the same way black holes consume the light out of the stars around it. It wasn't healthy. It still isn't. And I won't accept your jealous outbursts because I am choosing someone that isn't you. Of all people, you won't be the person that makes me feel guilty for being with Forrest. I won’t allow you to do this. Why can't you just be happy for me?"

What hurt the most for Michael wasn't the words coming out of Alex' mouth, but the way he was saying them. Alex wasn't angry, wasn't throwing things around or screaming at him. He was just tired. He was saying those things not to vengefully hurt Michael, but to confess something he has been carrying around for years, his voice was flat, almost emotionless. Michael would take a thousand a rage outbursts instead of this… emptiness.

"I don't want to lose you, Guerin, but I think we need to take a step back. Maybe you were right, and we are not ready to leave the tortured lust phase. You don't need to come in person here, just text me and I will answer you as soon as possible." Alex turned to close his door, but hesitated, pondering for a few moments what he was going to say next. "Once you accept I chose someone else, we can start socializing again. Just… get your shit together and we may try again the 'sup bro' stage, Michael."

And with that Alex closed the door, leaving Michael with his own thoughts. 

He doesn't quite remember getting in the truck and leaving Alex' house. He was supposed to meet Maria and Kyle for something, but apparently he sent them a text message saying he wouldn’t show up. He remembers driving to the middle of the desert and screaming until he lost his voice. He could feel losing control of his powers, the ground shaking and rocks violently flying around. He doesn't remember driving back to the airstream and collapsing on his tiny bed. He noticed his throat hurt moments before losing conscious, but he didn’t do anything about it, the pain was almost welcome. He woke up 20 hours later with a worried Isobel invading the place to see if he wasn't dead.

This problem has always been in the back of his mind, but now Alex brought it up to the surface and now Michael has no other option but to face it. Maybe he made the wrong choice the day Alex left for the military when they were teenagers. Maybe he made the wrong choice when he didn’t fight for Alex when he came back to Roswell a decade later. Maybe he made the wrong choice the day after his brother died. And now he has to confront the consequences alone.

The end

-------

Hope yall enjoyed!

[animezing-fandoms]

Hey, i always enjoy reading fics but lately i kind of been wanting to try writing one myself. Are there any tips you can give me? I haven't ever written anything, i do have a big imagîtion, but i'm also kind of scared for language errors. English isn't my first language and although i am fluid in English, i'm afraid i won't be able to express myself in words in a way that would be enjoyable for others. How did you get over these fears and just in general, get started?

Well first I started out by roleplaying. Basically me and another person would pick a character and then we’d come up with a story together, each playing as our own characters. But then I started getting more specific ideas in my head and decided to just write them as fanfiction on my own, instead of hoping the other person would catch on to what I want. XD  Basically, the best way to get started is to just write. Don’t worry so much about technicalities and language. That stuff will come with time as you keep writing in English. Sometimes, what you can do is have a beta reader, which is someone who basically proof-reads your work and corrects spelling and grammar mistakes and sometimes offers feedback before you post it, but you don’t have to have that. 

I was never afraid to post my work because I saw other people do it, so honestly don’t be afraid to share your work. You may get some negative comments at first since you’re new and English isn’t your first language but honestly, you can ignore stuff like that. The more you write, the better you’ll get at it. But, as an experienced writer, there are a few tips I’ll give you on stuff that I see a lot of new writers do that prevents readers from enjoying the story. 

Notice how before I start a new topic I start a new paragraph? That’s something you should always do in your fic. If people click on your story on Ao3, Fanfiction.net or Tumblr and see a huge block of text, they’ll exit out of it because it’s super difficult to read like that. Every time you switch a character’s POV, or the topic changes, you should have a new paragraph/line. 

Same goes for dialogue. Every time you switch who’s speaking, you need to start a new line. Also make sure you use the character’s names at the beginning of the conversation, and especially if you have two characters of the same gender/use the same pronouns then you’ll use their names more often when indicating who’s speaking so we know which line of dialogue belongs to which character. 

Those are all basic things to keep readers from not reading your fic and/or getting confused while trying to read it. But something else that I don’t see mentioned too often but is really good advice is don’t be afraid to be descriptive. At first you might think that keeping things short and sweet when it comes to describing appearances and actions is the way to go, especially if you don’t have such a big vocabulary. But if you keep your descriptions short then it’s harder to visualize what the idea you’re trying to convey is and the reader just gets this very robotic caricature of what your vision is instead of what you saw in your head. 

Now, for someone who’s not a native English speaker, this might be kind of hard because your vocabulary might be limited. But if you feel like you’re using a word too much or there’s another word in your first language that you want to use but you don’t know the English equivalent, look it up online! Google translate isn’t as awful as some people make it out to be, especially if you’re only looking up one word as opposed to a sentence. And it will pay off immensely because if the reader can see what the character’s facial expression, tone of voice, and body stance in a scene is as well as what dialogue is being said, it’ll entice the reader that much more because it will have a lot more feeling and emotion behind it than just basic descriptions of what’s being said and by whom.

Now, here’s some examples of what I’ve just explained to you; the first one is an example of what you definitely should not do that I see a lot of new writers do: 

Natsu walks into the guild hall with Happy. He goes over to the job board and picks out a job. “Hey Natsu, this job looks like something Lucy would want to do!” Happy says.“Yeah, maybe she would want to do it. Let’s go find her and ask.” Natsu says. “Hi Natsu!” Lucy calls as she walks into the guild hall. “What job are you looking at?” she asks and looks at the flier. “It’s a job for a Celestial Wizard at an observatory. They’re having a star gazing party tonight and want to have a wizard there to provide some knowledge and magic to entertain people and provide knowledge on the different constellations!” Happy says. “Wow that job sounds perfect for me!” Lucy says. “My spirits would love to share their stories and magic with people, and a beautiful clear night under the stars is always such a romantic sight!” She says and blushes. “Too bad you won’t have a date!” Happy jokes and Lucy frowns at him. “I could bring a date if I wanted to! But it sounds like I’ll be too busy working, so bringing a date wouldn’t be a smart idea anyways.” Lucy sighs. “You don’t need to bring some random guy.” Natsu says and slings his arm around her shoulders. “Happy and I will come with you!” “Really! Why do you guys want to come?” Lucy asks, blushing. “Yeah Natsu why do we want to come?” Happy asks. “It’s not like we’ll be doing anything to help.” “We can help Lucy!” Natsu says. “We always drag her on jobs that stress her out somehow but this one is her dream job, we should be there with her to support her since she’s always there for us. And maybe we’ll learn a little something too. It’s the least we can do. Don’t you think so Happy?” Natsu asks. “Aye Sir!” Happy says. “Aw, Natsu that’s so sweet and surprisingly mature of you. Can you promise me that you’ll behave when we’re there?” Lucy asks. “Nope!” Natsu says and Lucy sighs. 

-------------

Now, how did you feel reading that? Did you even want to? It was hard right. There was no separation of lines so it’s easy to get lost in the words and forget who’s speaking what line and what’s going on. That’s why when readers click on a story and see that, they give up immediately. It’s impossible to immerse yourself in a story if you’re getting lost in the dialogue and descriptions and don’t know where one starts and one ends. It’s really difficult to read so even if your idea is good, if it’s formatted like that, the idea won’t shine through because it’ll get lost. 

Now look at what a difference just adding those line separations makes:

Natsu walks into the guild hall with Happy. He goes over to the job board and picks out a job. 

“Hey Natsu, this job looks like something Lucy would want to do!” Happy says.

“Yeah, maybe she would want to do it. Let’s go find her and ask.” Natsu says.

“Hi Natsu!” Lucy calls as she walks into the guild hall. “What job are you looking at?” She asks and looks at the flier. 

“It’s a job for a Celestial Wizard at an observatory. They’re having a star gazing party tonight and want to have a wizard there to provide some knowledge and magic to entertain people and provide knowledge on the different constellations!” Happy says. 

“Wow that job sounds perfect for me!” Lucy says. “My spirits would love to share their stories and magic with people, and a beautiful clear night under the stars is always such a romantic sight!” She says and blushes. 

“Too bad you won’t have a date!” Happy jokes and Lucy frowns at him. 

“I could bring a date if I wanted to! But it sounds like I’ll be too busy working, so bringing a date wouldn’t be a smart idea anyways.” Lucy sighs. 

“You don’t need to bring some random guy.” Natsu says and slings his arm around her shoulders. “Happy and I will come with you!” 

“Really! Why do you guys want to come?” Lucy asks, blushing. 

“Yeah Natsu why do we want to come?” Happy asks. “It’s not like we’ll be doing anything to help.” 

“We can help Lucy!” Natsu says. “We always drag her on jobs that stress her out somehow but this one is her dream job, we should be there with her to support her since she’s always there for us. And maybe we’ll learn a little something too. It’s the least we can do. Don’t you think so Happy?” Natsu asks.

“Aye Sir!” Happy says. 

“Aw, Natsu that’s so sweet and surprisingly mature of you. Can you promise me that you’ll behave when we’re there?” Lucy asks.

“Nope!” Natsu says.

Lucy sighs. 

------------

See the difference? That was probably a lot easier to read. I bet you read it a lot quicker too. There’s a reason that this format is used in books! The same format needs to be applied to fanfiction in order for it to be more readable! 

But while the format may be better, the description is still lacking which makes for a boring story. You may be able to understand what Natsu, Lucy and Happy are saying and imagine them saying it, but it’s not a very interesting picture if you don’t know what they look like while they’re saying that dialogue, then the readers will be bored and not enjoy the story because while they can get the general gist of what the story is about, they won’t feel as excited about it unless they can read and visualize the emotions that you visualize the characters having in your head. We need to be able to see what you see in order to be engaged with the story. 

So here’s an example of what just adding a little more description of the character’s emotions, body language, brief inner thoughts, and tones of voice among other things to set the scene for readers to see the story you see in your mind:

It was an average morning in Magnolia and Natsu walks into the guild hall with Happy. 

Normally he would go straight to the bar to get some breakfast, but today, he changes course and goes over to the job board because a flier decorated with glittering stars, reminding him instantly of his dear Celestial Mage catches his eye. 

With Lucy’s smiling face pictured in his mind, he plucks the flier from the board and studies it.

Happy hovers over his shoulder and reads the flier too, and understands why it caught Natsu’s attention.

“Hey Natsu, this job looks like something Lucy would want to do!” Happy exclaims.

Natsu rubs his fingers against his chin and his lip curls up into a half-smirk at the mention of her name. 

“Yeah, maybe she would want to do it. Let’s go find her and ask.” Natsu suggests.

But they didn’t have to look far.

“Hi Natsu!” Lucy calls as she walks into the guild hall. 

Natsu smiles and waves at her as she comes over. As she gets closer to her friends, her bright smile turns into a curious frown as she notices that instead of holding a chicken leg like he does every morning, her best friend was holding a job flier.

“What job are you looking at?” She asks once she’s next to Natsu.

Natsu feels his cheeks heat up slightly as Lucy leans forward to read the flier, thus pressing her body closer to his. But they had never been shy when it came to being close to each other, so it didn’t startle him as much as it would have if they weren’t already so close.

“It’s a job for a Celestial Wizard at an observatory. They’re having a star gazing party tonight and want to have a wizard there to provide some knowledge and magic to entertain people and provide knowledge on the different constellations!” Happy explains.

“Wow that job sounds perfect for me!” Lucy says and plucks the flier from Natsu’s hands. “My spirits would love to share their stories and magic with people, and a beautiful clear night under the stars is always such a romantic sight!” She says and blushes while hugging the flier to her chest and swaying slightly as she closes her eyes and fantasizes about it.

“Too bad you won’t have a date!” Happy jokes.

Lucy frowns at him in annoyance of being pulled from her fantasy by Happy’s harsh reminder of reality.

“I could bring a date if I wanted to! But it sounds like I’ll be too busy working, so bringing a date wouldn’t be a smart idea anyways.” Lucy sighs.

Why did her work always seem to impede on her love life? This party would not only be her dream job but her dream date! Too bad she didn’t know any guys who were as interested in her Celestial magic as she was. Or so she thought.

As soon as Lucy had mentioned romance, the gears in Natsu’s head started turning. He didn’t know the first thing about romance. But if romance was what would make this job perfect for Lucy, then it was definitely something he wanted to try if it would make her happy. He would do anything for her, no matter how difficult. He always gives his all for everything important to him, and Lucy may not know it but she was always at the top of his priorities. And as was typical for Natsu, he blurts out the first idea that he comes up with. 

“You don’t need to bring some random guy.” Natsu says and slings his arm around her shoulders, pulling her close to him. “Happy and I will come with you!”

Now that she hadn’t expected. Her face turns pink, from both Natsu’s offer to join her on the job, and the fact that she was currently pressed against his side while tucked under his arm. Even though they’ve embraced many times before, lately, Lucy couldn’t help but get all tingly inside whenever she was this close to him. There was something both exciting and comforting about it that made her heart flutter.

“Really! Why do you guys want to come?” Lucy asks, while blushing. She had no idea what Natsu was going to say next, and her heart immediately hoped it would be something she knew he’d probably never say.

“Yeah Natsu why do we want to come?” Happy asks, breaking Lucy from her thoughts. “It’s not like we’ll be doing anything to help.”

“We can help Lucy!” Natsu says and Lucy’s heart leaps up to her throat, causing her to gasp softly. “We always drag her on jobs that stress her out somehow but this one is her dream job, we should be there with her to support her since she’s always there for us. And maybe we’ll learn a little something too. It’s the least we can do. Don’t you think so Happy?” Natsu asks.

“Aye Sir!” Happy says.

Lucy couldn’t believe her ears. It wasn’t exactly the romantic confession followed by him asking her out on a date that she was imagining, but nevertheless it was sincere and thoughtful and that made warmth spread from her heart across her chest all the same. 

“Aw, Natsu that’s so sweet and surprisingly mature of you.” Lucy says softly while trying to hide her blush. 

Thankfully, Natsu was too busy looking away from her and trying to hide his own blush to notice hers.

As she imagines a perfect night with Natsu under the stars, reality reminds her that this was a job, with Natsu. And that always meant destruction.

 “But, can you promise me that you’ll behave when we’re there?” Lucy asks him with a hopeful smile.

If he was mature enough to go on a job with her that had no interest to him then maybe that meant for once he’d-

“Nope!” Natsu says while flashing her that goofy grin of his.

Lucy sighs and mentally reminds herself not to get her hopes too high when it comes to her relationship with Natsu.

---------

See what a huge difference just adding some description makes? It may have taken you a bit longer to read than the second one, but not that much longer, and honestly readers don’t care how long it takes them to read a story because if it sucks them in, they’ll be absorbed by the story and not even care what time it is. And that’s the point. You want the readers to keep reading. 

After reading the second version of this you probably weren’t too interested in what happens next right? You could close that story and never come back to it. You probably might even forget about it. But with this third version, there’s tension built up by the descriptions. You’re conveying the mutual pining between these two characters. It’s clear that both of them like each other, and that both of them are hoping for something romantic to happen at the star gazing party that night. Will something romantic happen? Probably, since most in-universe fanfiction is written to show what canon leaves unresolved or unexplored. But even with that knowledge in mind, readers will still want to know how it happens in your story! With the second example, they’ll be expecting a rushed resolution that doesn’t delve into the thoughts and feelings of the characters and only their actions. But in the third example, not only are the characters words and actions there, but they’re enhanced by the descriptions that describe their thoughts and emotions about what they’re saying and doing. 

Just by taking a little more time to describe what you see in your mind when you envision what you’re writing, you engage the reader so much more than you ever could with just simple actions and dialogue alone. 

And that’s really the most important thing I want to convey to new fanfiction writers because you don’t often get that kind of advice in comments on the first few stories you post. 

Most people will critique on format and grammar, but I can’t remember ever seeing someone suggest that the writer add more content to their story. 

Words are a writers medium to paint a picture. So use as many words as you can to paint the best picture of what you see in your mind! You don’t have to describe every little detail. Especially in fanfiction since readers will already be familiar with the characters appearances and the locations they’re in if you’re writing an in-universe fic (but if you’re not, then definitely add what they’re wearing and what the location looks like as it sets the scene). But be sure to add if they’re smiling, or blushing, or what their proximity is to other characters because those details may be easily forgotten to a new writer who’s just trying to share their idea with the fandom, but we won’t get the full story you see in your head unless you tell us what the characters are thinking and feeling in those moments! You may see it in your head, but we’re not mind readers. We won’t see what’s in your head unless you put it on the page! 

Writing like this may take you a bit longer to write and if English isn’t your first language then it might mean some trips to google translate to find the word your looking for, but as you can see from my examples above, it’s way worth the extra time it will take in order to put your best work out there to share with the fandom. 

And then right off the bat, the feedback you’re going to get on your first story won’t be “separate the lines” or “fix your grammar” and get straight to people gushing about the content of your story and how you conveyed your idea and how they reacted to it because honestly, when you add more description and the reader can visualize what you’ve written, no one really cares about where you forgot to put a period or misspelled a word. This isn’t a final paper, it’s just for fun! 

And that’s the final piece of advice I want to give to you. This is all for fun. You should feel like you’re having fun when you’re writing a fic, and be happy and encouraged by all of the feedback fellow fans give you on your work. But if there are days when you don’t feel like writing or you’re having a writer’s block. Don’t push yourself. You’re not getting paid to do this. This is something fun for you to do on your own time when you want to. 

Even if people in the comments are begging you for an update, if you don’t have a good idea for the next chapter, or you have too much going on to work on it, they can wait. And they will. Because as a writer, I want to be proud of my work. And I would rather have readers wait six months for a good chapter, than give them a half-assed chapter in three days. Same goes for one-shots. Although people generally won’t beg you to come up with more ideas than they would beg you to update a series you’ve started. And if you never get around to finishing a series because you’ve moved onto another one, that’s okay! Your best work will be whatever you’re passionate about, so always write whatever’s inspiring you the most in that moment. It’ll come out so much better than anything you force yourself to write. And you should never force yourself to write fanfiction. Remember, this is all supposed to be for fun. If you’re not having fun or don’t want to do it then don’t do it! Wait until you want to.

Well, I think that’s enough advice for one post. If you have any other questions, feel free to ask me! 

Now that you have some do’s and don’t’s under your belt, why don’t you try putting one of those ideas in your head into words to share with your fandom! We’re always looking for new content! 

[consumedkings-archive]

ancient names, pt. v

A John Seed/Original Female Character Fanfic

Ancient Names, pt v: acta non verba

Masterlink Post

Word Count: 4.8k

Rating: M for now, rating will change in later chapters as things develop.

Warnings: Language, some “light” religious blasphemy (it’s Far Cry 5), the Seeds being themselves. This is an enemies to lovers (enemies to enemies and lovers?), strong canon deviance from here on out. Mentions of blood/carnage, the frantic energy of people who both hate and are attracted to each other. It goes on!

Notes: So the gang is finally getting somewhere in this chapter! Sometimes, a family is two murderers and their dog, that also wants to kill one of them, and that's okay.I was pretty nervous about writing this chapter, because I feel like I slog so hard through combat sequences just to have them feel like they drag, so I hope it reads okay!! Big thank you to @starcrier, who consistently lets me babble to her about these two dumbasses and also beta-reads all of my garbage all the time (and says she likes doing it???? Okay???). She is a pure angel and incredible writer and deserves all of the love and attention, so please go check out her stuff!

Thank you thank you thank you to everyone who leaves feedback, and I hope you enjoy!

Joey Hudson is her best friend.

Joey Hudson is her best friend, because she teaches Elliot how to tell if a lipstick color isn’t going to work for her (anything orange-hued), and how hard to close her eyes when Joey pours hydrogen peroxide on her scraped knee from sneaking back in her through her window, and how to laugh until her stomach aches, tucked into her tiny twin bed with a movie playing on her laptop.

They do just about everything together. Joey doesn’t mind that sometimes Elliot’s mama drinks a little too much, and she doesn’t mind that Elliot doesn’t talk about where her daddy’s gone (or if she even knows where he is; they both come to understand, very quickly, that it doesn’t matter). Joey doesn’t mind these things, and instead she makes them her own, solidifying Elliot as her very own honorary sister.

It’s nice. It’s nice, because Joey’s mama doesn’t drink too much, and cooks often, and doesn’t mind how frequently Elliot stays the night.

Joey Hudson is her best friend, and when Elliot is a little drunk in a bar and thinks about letting someone like John Duncan take her home and have his way with her, Joey swoops in and takes her out of the line of fire just in time.

“What is wrong with you?” Joey is laughing, erasing any thought that she might be serious, as they stand outside the bar in the gravel parking lot. Elliot’s face is hot from the alcohol and Joey smushes her cheeks together. “Letting a rich boy like John Duncan try and whisk you away? Who are you and what have you done with my Elli?”

“It’s still me!” Elliot protests. She’s laughing, too, and then she groans, resting her forehead on Joey’s shoulder. “Joey, he’s so attractive. How can someone be so attractive? I’ve never had a type, but—”

“Attractive, and no good.” Joey pats her head affectionately. “A man like that is no good.” She pulls back and smoothes the hair out of Elliot’s face. “C’mon then, darlin’. Let’s go home and watch one of those horrible Hallmark movies to get your mind off of our awfully attractive, awfully no-good friend in there.”

Elliot pouts. She is two drinks in and already in no shape to drive. “I can pick?”

Joey nods, quite sagely. “Yes. If you say to me that John Duncan is no good.”

“Fine.” Elliot sighs. “John Duncan is no good.”

They start walking towards Joey’s car, gravel crunching underfoot, and Elliot rests her head against the brunette’s shoulder. Joey says, “And now is the part where you say, thank you, Joey, for always looking out for me and—”

Elliot stops in front of the car, exhaling. “Thank you, Jo,” she says. “Really. You’re my favorite person.” 

Joey squeezes her shoulders. “And you’re mine, El,” she promises, her eyes full and warm  as she grins. “Even if I don't know what you'd do without me.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

John Duncan is no good, Elliot thought.

He was no good, certainly; especially now, especially as John Seed, but—

“Hey, dog,” John said to Boomer, sitting as far away as he can, the cuffs pulled taut between them. He couldn’t have sounded less enchanted if he wanted to; Elliot could tell his exact feelings about the Heeler having found them. And, of course, she knew Boomer’s feelings about John , in particular.

John shifted where he sat, and Boomer growled. The brunette shot her a murderous look.

“How do you propose we rescue your Deputy Hudson if your beast won’t let me move?” he asked her tartly. Elliot rubbed the top of Boomer’s head thoughtfully; immediately, the growling stopped, and he relaxed again, though she knew her boy was just waiting for the signal to rip John’s throat out.

She felt lighter than she had in days. Safer. Happier. Warmer.

“Weren’t you listening?” Elliot’s voice was only dry for the comedy of her words. “He’d only bite you if I told him to. He’s not a wild animal.”

“Oh, yes, because my lack of faith in your good feelings about me is completely misplaced,” John replied. His voice was terse. He came to a stand, keeping a wary eye on Boomer, and brushed his jeans off before stretching his arms out in front of him. 

In a situation where he had been stripped of all of his power, of all of the people chanting yes to whatever it was he was doing, John felt—looked—sounded —

Normal.

She didn’t want to think about that. Any time John did something that felt human, it erased the very recent actions he’d taken as a crazy cult leader. Kidnapping her. Considering drowning her (though as time went on, she thought he wouldn’t have followed through; it wasn’t his style).

My parents are the one who taught me the Power of Yes, his voice had crackled through the radio at her, once, in what felt like a different life—a life that felt coppery and slick with blood, but where she’d felt at home in the violence, where she’d been comfortable. Now I’m going to give that power to you.

Elliot whistled, and Boomer took off into the brush, the movement causing John to hesitate just for a moment before he relaxed. She fought back a smile and said, “Let’s see if our friends are still around, shall we?”

“Yes,” John acquiesced after a moment, not that he had much of a choice; she was already picking her way through the underbrush, tugging him along with her. There were just a few moments of blissful silence before he said, “You know, deputy, this wasn’t the way I had originally pictured having you in handcuffs,” and Elliot thought, oh, yes, there’s the John I know. She yanked a little on the cuffs linking them together, nearly causing John to trip over himself.

“Funny,” Elliot replied sweetly, “I was just thinking the same thing about you.”

“You are such a child.” John’s voice was low, and threatening. She flashed her most charming smile at him.

“You’re much funnier when you’re not acting like a psycho. I think I’m even beginning to enjoy my time with you.”

She climbed up the ravine’s slope, leaning into the tilt of it, feeling a bit fresher than before but still bogged down by the urge to cough. Her throat itched and her eyes watered, by the time she got to the top and crouched in the treeline, John lingering close behind.

There was only one gray van parked there, now. Elliot could see maybe one man guarding the entrance, but who knew how many people were inside? Even when they’d had their first run-in down on the highway, she’d thought she’d had a solid head count until they came crawling out of the woodwork, like termites.

Which only made her more paranoid about creeping around in the woods, too.

“I don’t think we’re going to have any better odds than this,” Elliot murmured. “If we wait any longer they might have more people here. There’s a radio in there, right? We can get in touch with…”

Her voice trailed off. It was an argument she didn’t want to have right then, with John —who they were going to talk to first, whether they’d be radioing the resistance or if they’d be reaching out to Joseph to let him know what was going on, if he didn’t know already; surely, someone like Joseph Seed would be practically omnipotent to what was going on his domain, though Elliot would never presume to know what the fuck was going on in his head.

“Joseph,” John said, infuriatingly erasing Elliot’s hope to let sleeping dogs lie, even for a moment.

“We can argue about the logistics of contacting sane people with resources versus your psycho brother once we have access to the radio,” Elliot snipped. She crept forward in the brush; Boomer was crouched a few feet to her left, waiting patiently for her signal, but every muscle in the heeler’s body was tensed and ready.

Elliot held out her hand for him, a silent, noiseless signal, stay , and he laid down on the ground obediently, obscured by the sunlight dappling through his bush of hiding choice. There was no way she was letting someone put a round of bullets in him.

“Keep your arm relaxed,” Elliot muttered, beginning to ease out into the field.

“This one?” John whispered back, rolling the shoulder of the arm farthest from her.

“No, dumbass, the one I’m—”

“I know, deputy, I was trying to lighten the mood.”

“Consider retiring from your comedy career . ”

It was nice, at least; dare she even say refreshing , to find John annoying after having spooned willingly with him all night.

Every instinct in Elliot’s body—the ones she had before, and the ones that she came to develop with the insurgence of Eden’s Gate both—was screaming. This big, open field, its grass only barely tall enough to obscure them from the sight of the guard, felt exactly like the field that Bambi had to cross, worried about being caught in the crosshairs of a hunter on the prowl.

Halfway across the field, Elliot caught herself mid-stumble over a lump in the ground; as she regained her balance and glanced down and identified the source of the fresh, wet earth now sticking to her knees and hands, she felt her stomach churn violently.

It was a row of shallow graves, freshly-dug. The bodies that were buried were completely obscured except for their faces. Like Waylon’s, their eyes had been scooped out and replaced with short-stem blooms—vibrant, clean, new. Done recently, just like the graves, which means they were probably killed recently, too. They were clearly Eden’s Gate. Their scruffy hair and tanned complexions, even in death, gave that away; but each grave was lined with a fresh butterfly weed, vibrant and gorgeous orange against the dark earth.

“Sick,” Elliot managed out, her voice wobbling, feeling the nausea welling up inside of her. John’s face was tight and hard, and there was something about it—like maybe he didn’t care if they died for him , but he didn’t like that someone else had brought this death to them, that it didn’t serve the purpose of Eden’s Gate at all to have it happen like this.

Stuffing down the urge to puke, Elliot pressed on with John close at her back. They crept their way up the hill to the side of the ranch house, though it was more like a mansion than anything else now that she could see it up close without being too busy looking everywhere else. In the distance, not too far away, she heard the sound of the guard in front of the door saying something to himself, or maybe into a radio, walking absently into view with his back still to them.

He wore the same dark boots that Elliot recognized from the men who had been hunting them down in the woods, but he otherwise looked to be in civilian clothes. Well—except for the machine gun slung around his neck. The sight of that made Elliot’s fingers itch.

She held up a finger to her mouth to John, creeping forward. The cultist ahead of them hummed something under his breath and tapped his fingers against the barrel of the gun to his imaginary beat.

Her heart thrummed in her chest, but for all of the sickness in her body and the poor sleep and the ragged feeling of being trapped in close quarters with John Seed for what had to be over twenty-four hours by now, in this little heartbeat of a moment she felt clear.

Elliot stood and threw her hand forward, up and over to one side of the man’s head. She felt the drag of John’s weight against her own, like he hadn’t been keeping his arm slack like she’d told him to, and by the time she got the loop of the handcuff chain over his face he saw her out of the corner of his eye and started to turn, his expression warping into something more vicious than relaxed.

She yanked her arm hard to the right, criss-crossing over John’s own, which hovered with uncertainty in the air, until the chain pulled tight across the cultist’s throat; immediately his eyes went wide, and instead of scrabbling for his gun he reached to try and give himself any breath of air.

Noise started to eek out of his mouth, his tongue moving like he wanted to say something as his hands fought desperately to get between the metal chain and his neck. He was going to scream, if he got the chance, or call for help or sound some alarm that she didn’t need to have happen, and Elliot thought, not on my fucking watch just before she stomped her foot into the back of his knee, watching as he crumpled until his kneecaps hit the dirt; almost like an instinct, John’s foot came up to the back of his head and slammed his face into the side of the ranch building.

The body went slack, and then slumped against the ground, blood smearing the side of the building wall. She didn’t think he was dead, but he was quiet—for now—and that was what was important. It wasn’t like they were going to stay very long.

“I told you to keep your fucking arm relaxed,” Elliot hissed, as she and John untangled themselves from the man’s neck. His nose was almost certainly broken, which was a nice little treat of a detail. Something for her to be happy about in these trying times. 

“Maybe you could be a bit more clear about your plans next time,” John snapped back, still keeping his voice low and quiet. It didn’t seem like there were any other guards outside, but that was something that Elliot wasn’t going to trust. “I guess we’re just lucky that I’ve got good instincts when it comes to—”

Elliot slapped a hand over his mouth. “Shut the fuck up , John. Do you not understand the concept of sneaking? ”

John made a low, muffled noise of protest, pushing her hand off of his face before they moved past the guard to the front door. It was unlocked, when John pushed the handle down and eased it open; they didn’t see anyone immediately, but she could hear low chatter coming from a different room.

She glanced back at John and then gestured him forward. He made a face at her, rolling his eyes with enough exaggeration that she almost scoffed—as though he were saying, oh, sure, now that there’s more than one guy, I’ll go first. Elliot feigned innocence at what he could possibly be scowling at her for, but in reality, it made the most sense—he knew where the radio was, and he knew the layout of the ranch better than she did.

John straightened up, moving down the first hallway until they got came around the staircase; a shovel was leaned up the wall, still wet with dirt, and the brunette ahead of her steadied it on the wall so that they couldn’t risk knocking it over and alerting their houseguests. Their armed, presumably crazy, houseguests.

The two men inside the living room said something to each other, one of them pacing to the back of the living room for the window, and this time John made eye contact with her before she nodded, silently; choke one out, get the last one out of the way. 

As soon as he stepped forward, the floorboard creaked violently under the shift of his weight, and both heads snapped to look at them.

Their eyes on the two of them—first on John and then on her, narrowing and pin-pointing her like a predator—made Elliot’s adrenaline kick into high gear. There was one brief moment, a heart-beat long, where nobody moved, before Elliot saw the closest cultist to them begin to ease his hand down to the radio on his hip.

No time, she thought, reaching blindly until her hands found the wooden handle of the shovel. No time, no time.

Elliot snapped out, “Down!” to John just in time for him to obey the command— so he did learn the first time after all —and she swung the head of the shovel like a baseball bat before it connected directly with the cultist’s face, slamming into him with the full force of all that adrenaline pumping through her body.

As soon as she felt the satisfying connection, she heard the sound of more rustling and suddenly remembered the second cultist, in the back of the living room. He had a furious look on his face, his gun already in his hand, and he lifted it to train it right at her.

It was not the first time she’d had a gun pointed at her face, and it would certainly not be the last; but still, there was something that settled deep in her stomach, something she recognized as fear , bitter and cold, the second the cultist smiled at her and said in his thickly-accented, “Put your shovel down, pretty bird. If you do, I will be nice to you and your boyfriend.”

He took a step forward, gun still leveled at her, and then at John, and then back at her. Her fingers tightened their grip on the handle of the shovel, hesitant, panicked—why wasn’t he shooting? Why wasn’t he killing them right now? Why was he looking at them (and it was them , not just her ) like that?

Elliot didn’t have much time to think about it. As soon as the cultist took another step, John leveraged his free hand behind the nearby curio cabinet and shoved it, shouting, “ Now , Elliot—” and rocked it with such immediate force that the whole thing groaned with the ache of gravity. The cultist darted forward as the cabinet began to crash down, attempting to crush him, snarling something in foreign at them viciously just as Elliot swung the shovel straight into his face.

She felt, this time, the impact of his bones against the metal, vibrating deep into her hands and all the way up her arms as the shovel. Blood from the slap of the shovel against his mouth sprayed the wall, a tooth or two scattering across the floor, and his body collapsed back atop the now-deposed cabinet, gun clattering to the floor.

For a second, they were both quiet, listening and waiting to hear the sound of furious feet stomping up the stairs, angry voices coming to assist their fallen comrades; but there was nothing. The house was empty. The sound of soft classical music playing from the radio filtered through the haze of her brain, a sound she hadn’t recognized because of the roaring in her ears when she’d seen their hunters in person.

“Let’s move, deputy,” John said, reaching and grabbing the gun off of the floor. “We’ll see what all they left us.” She nodded, feeling a little winded, and dropped the shovel on the ground with a collection of noise; the knowledge that it had been used to bury those men and women made her skin crawl, and she was sure the disgust showed on her face. John eyed her for a moment and said, “You don’t feel like keeping that?”

Elliot shot him a look. “We can pick it up on our way out if we really want it.”

They picked their way up the stairs to the room that had been John’s—or, rather, that Elliot presumed was his, because he moved toward it with such purpose she thought it could only be that. But it felt barely lived-in, the bed still pristinely made and no sign of someone actually existing in it anywhere, save for a small table with a chair pushed up against with an empty walkie-talkie holder sitting in it.

“Gone,” John said, his jaw working absently in what Elliot knew now to be a tick he had. “Well—”

“It’s better,” Elliot said, “that we don’t have radios. They have the radios. I saw one on that guy’s belt, which means they’re probably in the same channel we’d use anyway.” She frowned. “They don’t need to hear where we’re going.”

“We heard where you were going,” John pointed out, reminding Elliot of the many times that he had interfered with her own radio to threaten her. 

“I didn’t care,” Elliot replied, “because I had an idea of what you’re capable of. I don’t have that with these…”

John nodded. “Yeah.”

A heartbeat of a moment stretched between them, long enough for the unsaid words to go: I don’t know what they’ll do with Faith, I don’t know what they’ll do to Joey. Too much to risk.

“Well,” she murmured, coughing into her elbow and taking a laborious breath, “we can lift the van out of here and hopefully go unnoticed, and get to Fall’s End—”

“Where everyone wants me dead,” John deadpanned. “If someone is going to be capable of rescuing Faith, it’s going to be Joseph, and Jacob.”

“If someone is going to be capable of rescuing Joey, ” Elliot snapped back, “it’s going to be the resistance. I don’t want to argue about this, John—”

“So don’t.” John’s voice was hard and smooth, the way he spoke when he was trying to get some stupid confession out of her. “Agree to go to Joseph first.” And then, in that infuriating preaching voice he used and that wicked glimmer in his eyes, he added, “Just say yes.”

She let out a long, sharp breath, exhaling it until her lungs ached with the effort of it, her head pounding. There was almost no likelihood of them being able to get out of these cuffs until they got to Fall’s End or to Joseph, and so that meant they were stuck together one way or another.

“If we go to Fall’s End,” John ventured, closing some distance between them, “we’re going to put a big, fat target on the Resistance.”

Elliot tilted her chin defiantly, having to in order to make straight eye contact with him now. “And you’re willing to do that to your brothers?”

John shrugged. “There’s always been a target on them, deputy. This will be no different.”

Somehow, Elliot didn’t believe that was true; but if John wanted to put his family in danger again, then so be it.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“Close your eyes, Jonathan.”

John grimaced. “That isn’t my name, deputy.”

“The sentiment remains the same,” Elliot insisted, and he heaved a sigh before he closed his eyes. He heard fabric rustling, the sound of Elliot kicking off the boots she’d been wearing and then sliding out of the sweats she’d been in for the entirety of their tied-together time. She’d already raided the bathroom to pack a backpack with water and Tylenol, in addition to a few loose granola bars from the kitchen; now, it was just getting out of those sweats, which he could only assume she was probably relieved about.

He’d gone ahead and changed out of his clothes and into cleaner ones; as well as he could, anyway, being hand-cuffed as they were. He hadn’t needed to tell Elliot not to look; she’d been more than happy to oblige without being told.

“I am facing away from you,” John reiterated, his eyes dutifully closed even when there was a part of him that wanted to make her squirm. “I don’t see the point in closing my eyes .”

“It’s not about you , you egomaniac,” Elliot sighed. “It’s about my comfort. Eyes shut.”

“Scout’s honor.”

She scoffed. With his eyes closed, his back turned to her, he could hear the sound of her shimmying into what he could only presume where her jeans, stuffing her feet back into her jeans, and then—the small, quiet clicking of her gathering the pills off of the count and taking a large swallow of water.

“Aren’t you afraid I’ve drugged you?” John asked dryly, turning to look at her now. She watched him with a flat expression.

“Then you’d have to haul my body around,” Elliot replied. “I didn’t say you could look.”

John’s gaze lingered on her, just for a moment; maybe a little longer than he would have liked her to know, but it was easier to steal looks at her when she was focused elsewhere. “You’re perfectly suitable for society, Deputy Honeysett.”

“That’s Junior Deputy to you, asshole.” She swallowed back the last of the water and shook her head, grimacing. “I hate pills.”

“What are you, nine?”

“Fuck off.” She was still in the over-sized undershirt of his, tied like a little summer blouse at her belly-button, exposing skin there that looked—now that he was staring—to be the home of a few gossamer scars. The question of where they came from itched on his tongue, and he only barely kept it to himself.

“So,” she said.

“So,” John parroted, eyes flickering up from her exposed abdomen to her face. He knew what she was going to say; that she agreed with him, that they were going to go find Joseph first and then get Faith and Joey back, because Elliot may have been a capable killer but if she didn’t need to put the people of Hope County in danger, she wasn’t going to. 

“Fall’s End needs to know what’s going on,” Elliot began. “But I don’t want them to see us driving there—”

John nodded somberly. “Uh-huh.”

She glared at him. “—so we can put your stupid fucking brother in the crosshairs,” she continued, biting the words out, “but the second we get there I use a radio and get ahold of Jerome. Also, I drive.”

John’s lip curled involuntarily at the mention of Pastor Jeffries. One of his least favorite Resistance members, if he was going to be asked to rank them. Pious, holier-than-thou, and oh-so-patronizing when it came to their beliefs.

“Fine,” John said. “But only if you promise not to go off-roading.”

“No promises,” Elliot snipped. He flashed her a smile, which apparently did not win her over, because she followed it up with, “And if this deal gets broken in any single way, whether it’s on the way there or when we get there, I’ll fucking kill you.”

She headed for the door while he barked out a laugh, looking more put-together now, jogging up the steps and pulling him along with her. They made one stop in the living room—to grab the other gun, and then the van key, which she managed to find in one of the pockets. They left both radios; they felt like traps, beacons for someone to find them. His eyes were trained on her, watching each assured movement as she pulled useful things off of the dead body; a clip of ammo, a throwing knife.

“You’re telling me that you’re going to lug my dead body around if you don’t get to call your little friends?” John asked. 

A wolfish grin had made its home on his face, and as she straightened up into a standing position again, Elliot shot him a look. There was something in her expression that was almost playful, but the words that came out of her mouth were, “Oh, John, I’d find a way to cut your arm off before I let you slow me down.”

It shouldn’t have been as endearing as it was, a part of John reasoned; it certainly made his jaw set in defiance, but his heart stuttered a little at the words, and that’s what he hated about it, that he thought, we’re not so unlike each other, Rook.

He didn’t trust himself to speak just yet, so he walked outside with Elliot and said, “You don’t want that gun?” and pointed at the (now surely dead) guard they had assaulted earlier. She shook her head.

“Too heavy,” she replied briskly. “And I don’t trust you with it.” She brought her fingers to her lips and whistled sharply, once; John watched the treeline, but he didn’t see Boomer until the dog was sprinting up the hill, not once having spotted his form in the field. No wonder that dog’s caused so many problems, he thought dryly.

Elliot ruffled Boomer’s ears, saying something sweet to him that he didn’t quite catch because he was too busy watching the beast warily. Boomer seemed only interested in doing the same thing to him; occasionally, his tail would wag when Elliot patted him, but it would immediately drop for him to cock his head inquisitively at John.

He scoffed under his breath.  The dog was cute, in its own master-killer way. He guessed.

Elliot opened the back of the van first, shooing Boomer in and closing the doors before making her way to the passenger door and unlocking it. She slid into the driver’s seat from there, John obediently following suit, and quickly clipping his seat belt into place.

“I’m getting flashbacks from the last time I was in a car with you driving,” he said dryly when she shot him a curious look. 

“Poor baby.” Elliot dropped his sunglasses from the top of her head down onto her nose, sticking the key in the ignition and turning it. The van purred to life. It was a nicer one than the ones Eden’s Gate used, and she reached past him to rifle around in the glove box before she found what she was looking for: a pack of cigarettes and a lighter.

“Really, deputy?” John asked dryly, as she lit the cigarette in the van and rolled the window down. He saw, behind the blue tint of his sunglasses, her eyes roll dramatically. “I didn’t know you smoked.” And then, with a little incredulous laugh, “You’re sick.”

“You’re fucking right I’m sick, and stressed out. I’ve got Tylenol in the bag and I’m a big girl.” She eyed him through the sunglasses, and quipped, “What’re you going to do, tattle on me to God?” before she was laughing at her own joke and cranking the wheel of the van so she could throw it in reverse. “I’m going to need this whole pack if I’m going to survive a mini road trip with the likes of you, John Seed.”

“You shouldn’t mock the faith, deputy.”

“You shouldn’t mock the faith,” Elliot repeated, shifting into drive. “You sound stupid when you say that shit. I know you don’t believe it.”

He chose not to entertain her ridiculous accusation, glancing out the window. “If you think this is stressful,” John rumbled, settling back against his seat as she wound the van down the drive of the ranch, “consider that your road trip is taking you to your in-laws. I’m your boyfriend, remember?”

“Fuck off.” She took a drag of the cigarette, tapping it out of the window. “I’ll throw this van over a cliff if you call yourself my boyfriend again.”

Her venom really was a comfort, he thought; if he didn’t know better, he would have thought he liked it.

He did. The dramatics of her vitriol pushed a grin on to his face.

“Oh, I certainly was right about you, deputy,” he drawled, rolling his window down as they hit the highway. “Your sin is wrath.”

[artificialqueens]

To Thaw Her Frozen Heart (Rosnali) - Athena2

Summary: Denali and Rosé are childhood best friends who love playing with Denali’s ice powers at night. After an accident, Rosé leaves and Denali learns to live without her. When they’re suddenly reunited, will they be able to recover what they lost, or will fate tear them apart again?

(A Frozen AU).

A/N: So I originally had an to do a Frozen AU with Branjie–but I came up with the idea while I was writing Royals, and the overall vibes were so similar that I buried it in my docs and never went back to it. I recently had the idea to do it with Rosnali instead, and I really hope you enjoy! Thank you so much to Writ for encouraging me to do this, helping me brainstorm, and betaing! I couldn’t have done this without them.

Please leave feedback if you’d like!

Title from Frozen Heart from Frozen.

—

“Nali, do you wanna build a snowman?”

Denali jumps out of bed at Rosie’s knock. She throws open the door and grins at her best friend. “Let’s go!”

They keep their voices down as they scamper over the polished floors. They should be in bed, but the portrait room has been their spot since forever, luring them in with high ceilings and big windows that are swallowed by moonlight.

Of all the things her and Rosie do together—chasing each other through the castle for a game of tag; picking fresh berries from the castle bushes and passing them back and forth until they both had purple lips; laughing and spinning around in dresses too big for them as they play dress-up with old clothes in the attic—this is their favorite. A winter wonderland just for them.

The doors open and Denali covers the floor in a blanket of snow. Denali’s parents don’t want her using her powers at all, and these nights are their secret. Denali knows Rosie will never tell, just like she’ll never tell that Denali broke the vase in the entrance hall and still sleeps with her stuffed wolf. Just like Denali will never tell that Rosie is the one who sneaks chocolates from the kitchen and checks under her bed for monsters. There was something sacred in their friendship, something they understood but couldn’t explain, a sense that they knew each other as well as themselves, and always would.

Tonight’s snowman smiles over them as they make snow angels, giggling and staring up at the paintings of kings and queens and explorers on the walls.

“Maybe when we’re grown-ups we can go on adventures and stuff,” Rosie says excitedly. “We can ride horses and fight monsters and—“

“And climb mountains! And swim in the oceans!” Maybe someone would make a painting of them. Denali would definitely smile for it, unlike the mean faces frowning around them.

“Yes!”

“What if you can climb a mountain now?” Denali asks. “I’ll make little ice mountains for you.”

Rosie jumps up and brushes the snow off her, her grin brighter than the moon as Denali lifts her off the ground with a small ice column. She makes another, a little taller, and Rosie leaps onto it. She jumps on them all, higher and higher, a brave adventurer.

“Rosie, slow down!” Denali shoots ice columns as fast as she can, but Rosie leaps for the next one just after her feet touch the last.

“Look how high I can jump!”

“Wait!”

Rosie jumps higher and farther than her other jumps—far past the column Denali had ready for her. Denali desperately shoots another ice blast, hoping it lands under Rosie’s feet–

But it doesn’t.

It hits Rosie instead, and she crashes to the floor with a thud that echoes through the room and every part of Denali’s heart.

Denali doesn’t breathe as she runs to where Rosie is crumpled on the floor, not moving.

“Rosie?” Denali shakes her shoulder gently, but she doesn’t wake up.

The snow had cushioned some of her fall, and Rosie doesn’t look hurt, not like that time she fell outside and scraped both her legs. But Rosie was so brave that she didn’t even cry that time, just sniffled a little when her mom cleaned her up.

She’s not crying now, but she’s not waking up or moving either, when she’s normally always in motion, laughing or dancing or singing. She looks so small. She’s a year older and a little taller than Denali, but now she looks tiny, like she’s always been the smaller one.

Her head slumps back, and Denali stares in shock. In Rosie’s soft red hair, there’s a streak of white. Denali’s never seen hair turn a different color like this, and it can’t be good.

“Hang on, Rosie. I’ll get my mom and dad.”

Slippers are pulled on and doors are slammed as Denali wakes her parents, then Rosie’s, since they’re the royal advisers and sleep next door.

Rosie is blinking awake when Denali leads them back in, her teeth chattering as she shivers in the snow. The snow. Denali’s heart sinks. Now her parents know what they’ve been doing, and she and Rosie will be in so much trouble, and what if they can’t be friends anymore? What if something bad happens to Rosie? Denali forces back the tears in her eyes.

“Rosé!” Rosie’s parents run to her, and Denali runs too, only to be held back by a hand on her shoulder.

“We talked about this, Denali,” her mother hisses. “These powers aren’t something you can play with. Rosie needs a healer, or she’ll freeze solid.”

Denali wants to protest, tell her mom that she’s careful and tonight was an accident, that she would never hurt Rosie on purpose, but she hears the echo of her mother’s words, hears Rosie’s parents whispering about how cold she is, and knows tonight is all her fault. Hot tears flood the collar of her pajamas.

“There’s a healer up north who can fix her,” Denali’s mom says to Rosie’s parents, calm and cool like the queen she is.

The whispers continue, too hushed for Denali to hear, but she knows they’re taking Rosie from her.

“What healer? Can I come?” Denali asks.

“No, Denali.”

“But—“

Her mother flashes her a stern look, and Denali quiets.

Rosie’s parents scoop her up and carry her out, and that’s the last time Denali sees her.

—

Denali watches the following years from her bedroom window.

Rosie and her parents move to another castle. Denali writes her letters, but she never gets a reply back, not a single word in Rosie’s loopy handwriting. Without Rosie, her powers fade for a while, tiny pricks of ice when she once made mountains, but when they return, it’s with the ferocity of an ice storm. She knows it’s worse when she’s missing Rosie, like when her birthday passes without their tradition of having tea in the rose garden, or when the lake freezes over and there’s no one to skate on it with. At those times, the ice digs into Denali’s heart and flows outward, tears freezing on her cheeks as everything around her frosts over.

She stays in her room all day, even takes meals there when she can’t stop freezing the table because a laughing redhead should be beside her, and ice covers her room like dust of a life unlived.

The castle remains shut, just Denali and her parents inside, so there’s no chance of her hurting someone while she spends her days inside, working on control.

Don’t miss her so much. You can visit her when you can control your powers, her parents instruct, slipping thick white gloves over her hands. Conceal it, don’t feel it.

So Denali conceals it. She takes all the memories with Rosie–the time she was stuck in bed with a cold and Denali read to her all day; snowy mornings warmed by hot chocolate and smiles; golden autumn days shining with leaves–buries them inside her heart, and lets it freeze over like the lake. She is the lake now, and everything she wants to feel is pushed underneath, sinking to the earth. A polished surface is all they’ll see of her.

By 18, she’s given up on the letters. By 19, she can spend a few hours outside her room without freezing everything.

By 21, the lakes of her heart are beyond thawing.

—

Denali can’t remember the last time so many people were in the castle. She hears the crowd’s distant hum, ecstatic voices streaming to the grand hall for her birthday feast, where she’s expected in five minutes. But she can’t go with her gloves on, and every time she peels them off her shaking hands, her fingertips freeze.

She takes a deep breath. She can do this. The gloves come off, and she’s normal. Just a normal princess about to see hundreds of people for the first time in fifteen years. The castle already feels too small, too crowded, too loud, with everyone inside, disturbing the silence that normally consumes things. She’s not even inside yet and she can see them staring at her, judging her, wondering why the castle was locked all these years. If she can’t control her powers, they’ll know why.

She strides out, icy blue dress rippling like water around her. There was a time when this was all she wanted. All those hours with Rosie, trying on dresses and imagining wearing them to balls, Denali glowing with the confidence of a princess and Rosie glowing with confidence that was all her own, title or not. Now, all Denali wants is to hide in her room.

The air flies out of Denali’s lungs when she sees a redhead in the crowd. It could be anyone in the world, she tells herself. She’s just seeing things because she’s stressed, and the ice pricking at her fingers proves it.

Though she used to dream of feasts and has missed countless ones over the years, this one is nothing special, nothing to make her regret missing the others. There are food and drinks, nobles and leaders, handshakes and small talk. Her parents do the talking; Denali just has to smile on occasion, a perfect princess, and even smiling is hard enough when she’s done so little of it the past years, her face a frozen mask. Not like the days when all it took was a smile from Rosie to make Denali smile too.

The dishes are cleared, and everyone walks to the ballroom for a night of dancing. Denali’s wondering if she can duck out early when there’s a tap on her shoulder.

“It’s really you,” the person says, and Denali turns and looks into eyes she’s never forgotten.

Rosie.

Denali doesn’t believe it at first. Maybe she doesn’t want to believe it, doesn’t want to believe that her childhood best friend is a grown-up too. That their world of tea parties and dress-up and games is truly gone. Maybe it would be easier to believe if she and Rosie had grown up together like they should have, if she had watched Rosie grow taller, seen her face change into the person looking at her now.

And the person looking at her, though older, is completely, unmistakably Rosie. Denali would know her anywhere, even after all this time with Rosie only existing in her memory. The same soft, coppery hair with its streak of white, the same warm eyes that would light up in mischief, the same blinding smile unleashed without hesitation around Denali.

Denali falters. She doesn’t know how many times she imagined seeing Rosie again, rehearsing her words, but now she’s speechless. Where does she start? How did the healer fix her? Why didn’t she answer Denali’s letters? Does she hate Denali? Is Rosie still the same person who dreamt of adventure and liked honey on her bread?

“Rosie,” Denali breathes, and it’s somehow everything at once.

—

Denali takes Rosie to the portrait room. The faces on the wall are old friends, more welcoming than the ballroom crowd they’re avoiding.

They sit on the floor like they used to, and it’s so familiar that Denali can almost pretend the past 15 years didn’t happen. That they’ve never been apart.

“We used to come here all the time,” Rosie says. “I swear I’ve had dreams about this room.”

“You probably have. We basically lived in here,” Denali says. “Do you remember that time it rained all day and we had a picnic in here?”

“And we tried to make sandwiches but you dropped the stuff all over the kitchen–”

“And you tried to cook an apple over the fireplace and almost burned your arm,” Denali says, and then they’re both laughing, a sound that makes everything seem more real, less like a dream. She has Rosie back, and her heart is lighter than it’s been in years, beating strong with a new joy.

But then there’s a pause, and as much as Denali wants to tell stories all night, she needs to know what happened after Rosie left.

“How come you’re at the ball?” Denali asks.

“I was invited,” Rosie says. “I wouldn’t crash a party.”

“You would and you know it, Rosie,” Denali says.

“I always liked how you called me Rosie,” she says, eyes on the floor. “Everyone else calls me Rosé. That’s all I ever go by now.”

Denali swallows, wondering how else Rosie–Rosé–has changed, if there’s only a little of Rosie left in her. “Where do you live now? What happened after …” she can’t bring up the accident yet.

“What do you mean?” Rosé asks. “My parents got hired as advisers to the lord of Riverton, and that’s why we left. Your parents recommended them for it.”

Denali shakes her head. “You left because there was an accident. We were playing, and I hurt you by mistake, and I’m so sorry–”

“Accident?” Rosé bites her lip in confusion. “There wasn’t an accident.”

“Yes there was.”

“I don’t—I don’t remember that, Denali. I swear I don’t.” Her voice is sincere, and Denali already knows she’s telling the truth, because Rosé rubs her neck when she lies.

But how can she not remember? Denali can’t forget the sound of Rosé falling, how limp she was as Denali tried to wake her, how she was carried away without a goodbye. How it was all Denali’s fault.

“I wrote you letters,” Denali says, changing gears. “You never wrote back.”

“I never got letters from you!” Rosé’s eyes are wide. “I wrote you dozens of letters and never got anything back. Something’s wrong here.” She wrings her hands together, clearly stressed; Denali remembers how, anytime she was in a bad mood, Rosé would always ask how she was feeling and what she needed, a great communicator. This confusion must be eating her up, and Denali needs to fix it.

Clarity hits her like ice, and Denali knows who she needs to talk to.

Her parents.

—

In the ballroom, Denali’s parents are talking and laughing like nothing is wrong. Like they haven’t lied to Denali for most of her life. She doesn’t have an ounce of guilt as she pulls them into the hall, mind spinning with what to call them out on first.

“What’s this about, Denali?” her mother asks. “We’re in the middle of a ball for your birthday, if you didn’t notice–”

“You’ve been lying to me this whole time! You made Rosé and her parents leave, and you never sent my letters! And Rosé—she has no idea the accident happened! Did you block her memory or something?”

The queen sighs, sensing Denali’s anger too much to deny her. “We didn’t do it. Her parents did.”

“But how?” Denali knows it wasn’t a normal healer they took Rosé to, but could you really erase a memory?

“After the healer fixed her, Rosé was … upset. She was worried about you, kept yelling and asking for you. Nothing could calm her down. Her parents asked the healer to erase her memory of the accident and convince her that your powers were all her imagination. That way, she was calm, and she couldn’t tell anyone about your powers.” The queen’s voice is as calm as always, like she’s discussing business plans and not a lie that was kept from her daughter for fifteen years.

Rage and power rise in Denali’s chest, bumping against the layers of ice that always tamp her feelings down. She can’t imagine how scared Rosé must have been, waking up in some strange healer’s place, how her first instinct—look for Denali—couldn’t help her. Of course she was upset, and yet the main concern wasn’t how to help her, but how to keep her quiet. “They had no right to do that to her!”

“They really did think it would help her, Denali. They didn’t want her suffering from the memory her whole life.”

For a second, Denali wonders if it’s worse to take someone’s memory away, or let them suffer from it. Rosé’s parents thought they were helping her. Had Denali’s parents considered offering her that same mercy? Or did they think suffering would turn her into the princess she needed to be?

“And the letters? You never sent them, did you?”

“No,” her mother says. “We worried you would be in danger if word of your powers got out. We all decided it was best to separate you two. Then you could control yourself without her to distract you, and Rosé could go on thinking she imagined your powers. No one would know or get hurt. We invited her today since you’re in control.”

“You lied to me! My whole life, you lied to me. You took my best friend away and just left me in my room!” Denali shakes with rage, the heat of her anger blocking out the dull coldness tingling in her hands. For the past fifteen years, she’s blamed herself. Blamed herself for missing with her ice, for hurting Rosé, for being the reason she had to leave. But now it’s different. She and Rosé didn’t just lose years of friendship and memories—it was stolen from them.

“Denali.”

The words are a warning, one Denali can’t listen to. Not when everything was taken from her, when she spent so long locked inside this castle, blame and anger and loneliness heaped on shoulders too young to bear it, while the people with the power to ease the burden looked the other way.

Power courses through her, and the first ice blast destroys the ballroom doors. The second freezes the walls and sends people running, screaming and shoving others out of the way. Denali hears her parents warning her to stop, but it’s so far beyond her control that her hands don’t feel like they belong to her. Her heart pounds so fast it hurts, the ache growing sharper with her gasps for breath. She can’t stop the ice from pouring out of her hands, creeping along walls and floors while people run—

“Hey, Denali, it’s all right.”

It’s Rosé, of course, fearless and calming as ever. Denali’s port in a storm, helping her even when others ran. Denali sees the shape of her, the pink dress trailing down her body, but everything else is blurred. She faintly hears people calling for her arrest, calling her a monster.

Monster.

It rings through her ears, sharp as a knife. She has a sudden view of the people huddled in the corners, terror on their faces, and she falters. This isn’t what she wanted.

“I–I’m not a monster, I—“ Denali tries to breathe, to stop shaking. It’s all too much–the mass of people, the ear-splitting shouts, the burning stares. Everything’s closing in, and the ice around her isn’t an attack anymore. It’s protection.

“Breathe, Denali,” Rosé soothes.

She tries, but the royal guard is approaching as the crowd shouts for them to take her away. One raises his sword, dangerously close to Rosé. If he swings at Denali, Rosé will be in the crossfire, and Denali doesn’t hesitate to send an ice blast to stop him. Only—

Only he pushes Rosé in front of him, and the blast hits her in the chest.

Denali is six years old again, watching helplessly as Rosé gasps. Ice explodes around her, driving back the crowd and giving Denali space to finally breathe. By the time her vision clears, another streak of Rosé’s hair is snowy white, and her knees are wobbling. “Rosie? Are you—“

“I knew your powers were real,” Rosé says weakly, and she faints into Denali’s arms.

—-

Denali doesn’t hesitate. She changes her clothes, packs a bag, and slings Rosé into the carriage with her.

She escapes the crowd calling her a monster, leaves her parents to smooth things over, and sets off with a rumpled map of the north, grateful to have Wintervale behind her. The world outside is cold and crisp, wind biting at the carriage, and Denali sucks in every bit of air she can get, savoring the freedom despite the worry of Rosé’s shivering body beside her. Everything is swirling like a blizzard inside her–the anger, the worry, the fear, the determination. It’s more than she’s felt since she was six, more than she’s had reason to feel since she was six, and each emotion strains against a chest that doesn’t know how to hold so much.

She doesn’t know what will happen now that her secret is out, now that half the kingdom is afraid of her, but she doesn’t care. She can’t care, because she has to get Rosé to the healer. She can’t allow herself to feel anything else until Rosé is healed, shoving away emotions she doesn’t have room for. Despite how fast the horses are going, the north is so vast it feels like they’re barely moving.

“Are you warm enough?” Denali asks, biting her lip in stress. She had wrapped Rosé in two blankets and slipped extra thick gloves over her own hands, for protection as much as for warmth. Each layer is a barrier between them, another thing preventing Denali’s touch from freezing Rosé, because Denali can’t trust herself.

“Yes.” Rosé looks at her, bright eyes sizing her up. “Don’t make that face, Denali. I know that face. This isn’t your fault.”

“But I hurt you!”

“It was an accident. Please don’t blame yourself. I don’t blame you at all. I mean it.”

Denali doesn’t have it in her to argue. It wasn’t that her parents explicitly blamed her for everything; they just didn’t stop her from blaming herself. Never granted her the gentle kindness that comes through in every word Rosé says. Rosé is not only stopping Denali from blaming herself, but giving her the grace and permission to forgive herself too. And maybe Denali can.

“Denali?”

“Yes?”

“This happened before. That’s what you said in the portrait room.” It’s not a question, and Denali wonders if her powers jogged something in Rosé’s memory.

“It did,” Denali says. The lie ends with her. “One time when we were kids, I was making ice mountains for you to climb. You jumped too far, though, and I tried–I tried to catch you, but I hit you instead. My parents and your parents took you to this healer–the one we’re going to now–and they stopped the ice from hurting you. But my mother said you were upset and your parents had the healer erase the accident from your memory.”

Rosé nods. There’s only a little recognition in her face, and Denali wonders what it’s like to not remember such a big event in your life, to just have it erased. To have to trust that what Denali is telling her is true. “I remember some parts,” Rosé says. “I remember the healer’s cabin, how you could see the mountains from her window. I wanted to show you, but you weren’t there and I started crying. I … I remember asking to see you, but everyone said no. I thought you might be in trouble so I told them it wasn’t your fault, that it was an accident, but no one would listen. The healer did some spell, and I fell asleep, and when I woke up, we were in Riverton.” Rosé shakes her head bitterly. “I’d have dreams about your powers, and they felt so real, but I thought I made it up—“

“It’s okay.” Denali wants to pat her knee, soothe her the way Rosé would if the positions were reversed, but she can’t. Not with the danger her hands carry.

Rosé just nods.

“I’m sorry,” Denali says. “I’m sorry about then and I’m sorry about now.”

“Well, I forgive you. Then and now.” Despite the slight pain clouding her eyes, despite the wind whipping around, Rosé flashes her brilliant smile. “Hey, it looks like we got our adventure after all.”

Denali smiles too.

—

They stop for the night when the snow hits. Huge snowflakes flutter down like pieces of clouds, stark against the pitch-black sky. Denali can’t see well between the snow and the dark, and even though she wants to push on, Rosé has been silent and half-asleep the past hour, the ice undoubtedly weakening her joyful, talkative self, and Denali knows she needs to rest.

She pulls the carriage into a valley of pine trees.

“Rosie, we’re stopping for the night,” she says softly.

Rosé nods faintly, and Denali looks at her with a pang of guilt. More white streaks through her hair like a mountain pass and her face is just as pale, each movement stiff and wracked with shivers. She reaches out to help Rosé into the back of the carriage, then stops abruptly, frozen with fear.

“You can touch me,” Rosé says.

“I don’t want to hurt you.” Again, Denali thinks but doesn’t add.

“You won’t hurt me,” Rosé says. But she climbs out herself.

The back of the carriage is just big enough to sleep in, and Denali presses herself against the side, leaving as much room as possible between them.

“T–take one of my blankets,” Rosé says. She’s curled up as tight as she can to stay warm, and Denali curses herself for not grabbing more blankets in her rush.

“Don’t need it.” Denali’s barely noticed the cold. Her heart’s already frozen anyway, how much colder could she get?

“Tell me if you do,” Rosé says quietly.

Denali nods, but she knows she won’t, just like she won’t sleep tonight. She can’t trust herself with the release of sleep, can’t risk bumping into Rosé and hurting her.

Rosé blinks sluggishly, trying to ward off the sleep fogging her eyes.

“Rosie, get some sleep,” Denali says.

“I’m not leaving you alone. Not like last time.” There’s a firmness in her voice Denali wouldn’t have thought possible, and she doesn’t argue.

“I almost forgot,” Rosé continues. “I have a present for you.”

“You didn’t have to—“

“I missed all your birthdays, Denali.”

“I missed all yours, too.”

“Well, I guess I have a bunch of presents from you to look forward to,” Rosé teases cheerfully. “You know I love presents.”

Denali smirks. “You do.”

“Anyway, here’s yours.” Rosé removes one arm from her blankets, hissing when the cold hits, and extends a box to Denali.

Inside is a necklace with a tiny snowflake charm, and Denali immediately clasps it around her neck.

“Do you like it?”

“I love it, Rosie. Thank you.”

Rosé coughs. “Denali, I know you might not like your powers, but they’re–they’re beautiful. Like–”

“Like me?” Denali interrupts, cutting off the swell of her heart before it grows too big, breaks through the ice.

“I would’ve said like me.” Rosé laughs. “But like you too.”

Denali smiles, grateful it’s too dark for Rosé to see her blushing cheeks.

“Do you–do you remember that night it was raining?” Rosé asks with a yawn. “And we looked at the stars?”

“Of course I do.” Denali knows Rosé should sleep, but she’s doing this to spare Denali from being alone, and it’s the most kindness she’s been shown in over a decade. So Denali plays along, retracing the night rain lashed at the windows and kept her awake, how she went to Rosé’s room and found her awake too, and they sat by the window while Rosé told stories about the stars until they fell asleep tangled together on the window seat.

“I used to look at the stars in Riverton. They were never as pretty as they were from Wintervale. But I always hoped you were looking at them too.” Rosé smiles, and Denali thinks some of her heart melts.

“I was.” Even if they were apart, Denali knows they were at least seeing the same stars, like their souls were calling out to each other. Denali tells Rosé the stories Rosé once told her, soothing her with tales of heroes earning their places in the sky, of the beauty in each star, until Rosé finally gives into her exhaustion and falls asleep.

Denali pulls off her long coat and throws it over Rosé, sleep allowing Rosé to take a favor she would never accept if she was awake.

Rosé seems so much younger in her sleep; looking at her now, the world silent except for her gentle breathing, Denali feels like she’s coming apart at the seams, because right now, she’s not seeing Rosé; she’s seeing Rosie, the girl she cared for more than anything else. And just like that, everything she’s kept inside all day–all her life–is rising to the surface, and the ice isn’t enough to contain it anymore.

It was easier to control things when they were apart, when Denali was alone in her room with no one to talk to. She learned to be comfortable with solitude, with the cold. At first, she childishly believed the promise her parents kept stringing along, fantasizing about visiting Rosé one day and striking up a game of tag even if they were too old. But as she got older, she knew it was just a fantasy, and it made things easier. She could control her feelings when there was nothing to cause them, dry tinders without a spark. There was no Rosé to tell jokes and burst into song and make Denali smile and laugh. Denali only had as much joy as she could bring herself, and staring at the same walls every day didn’t bring much. There was nothing to make her lose control.

But now Rosé is back, when Denali never thought she would be, and so are the feelings Denali pushed down so deep she thought they were beyond recovering. She was barely prepared to see people in the castle today, and ending the night with Rosé was the last thing she expected. Her heart is wrung out like a sponge, unused to such feeling after years of faintly beating–the joy of seeing Rosé’s smile again, the familiarity of the freckles dusting her shoulders, the relief of knowing Rosé still understands her, is still her friend. The hope that after all this, Rosé can stay for good.

If Denali doesn’t lose her first.

She knows it was an accident, that she didn’t mean to do it. But it still happened, and Denali provided the weapon. The old ache rises in her, the pain attached to the memory of hurting someone as good and kind as Rosé, someone so close to her, practically part of her. She’s more than Denali’s best friend—she’s a tie to her past, a time before the sadness. Proof and hope that the happiness that painted their days can color the world again.

She touches the necklace at her throat. Your powers are beautiful, Rosé said. Maybe she’s right. Maybe just because her powers are cold and sharp at times doesn’t mean they always have to be. When they were kids, Denali’s powers brought them such joy. Maybe she can have that again. With Rosé. Because she’s going to make it, and they’ll be friends after this. Denali knows it.

Rosé sighs in her sleep, and it sounds like Nali, Denali’s heart tugging again as she pretends it’s the wind. A piece of hair falls over Rosé’s face, and as much as Denali wants to tuck it behind her ear, she resists. Once Rosé is healed and Denali is in control, not shaken with both the joy of getting Rosé back and the fear of losing her all over again, then Denali can touch her. She hides her hands behind her back and watches over Rosé until the morning sun sets her hair alight and shines through the cracks in Denali’s heart.

—

Rosé can barely move the next morning. Denali catches her tiny winces, likely from how sore and stiff she is after all the shivering and clenching of her muscles. Denali’s hands hover behind her, a silent offer of help that she’s afraid to give and that Rosé probably won’t ask for, not wanting Denali to worry about her. Rosé only manages a few bites of the apple Denali packed, offering the rest to Denali, and, after Denali refuses, to the horses, who gobble it up.

“We’ll be there soon, I promise,” Denali says.

Rosé nods, and Denali convinces herself the bluish tinge to Rosé’s lips is just a trick of the light, nudging the horses to go faster. They move through blinding snow and towering mountains, the whole world a page from the storybooks they used to read. She’ll be okay, Denali tells herself. Because if this is a story, it deserves a happy ending.

The horses dip into a valley, a small cottage tucked between the trees. Mountains loom in the background, and Denali knows this is the place. She feels at peace here somehow. Like the mountains will keep her safe, a cocoon around her.

“I kn–knew you you’d like it here,” Rosé says.

“I really do.”

“Shall we?” Rosé offers a shaky arm to Denali, and Denali pretends not to see how hurt Rosé is when she won’t take it. She knows how important touch is to Rosé, their childhood painted with Rosé grabbing her hand as they ran across the land, arms wrapping around her in a hug, all Rosé’s way of showing she was there. A language the two of them spoke that Denali no longer knows the words to.

The cabin door swings open after Denali knocks, and her heart soars at the fire crackling in the fireplace. Rosé collapses in front of it, soaking up the first warmth she’s had in a day, the warmth any human besides Denali could give her.

“You again.” A person emerges from the corner of the cottage, and for all the old healers in the stories, this woman is young, with pale skin and blonde hair.

“You remember her?” Denali asks.

“I do.” The blonde nods severely. “My name is Brooke, by the way.” She bustles about and wraps another blanket around Rosé, and Denali burns with jealousy at someone who can touch so easily, so mindlessly.

“Can you help her?” Denali asks desperately.

Brooke shakes her head.

“You didn’t even try!”

“I can sense what’s wrong with her, and I can’t fix it. I’m sorry.”

“But you fixed her before!”

Brooke sighs. “I was only fixing her head back then. But now the ice is too close to her heart, and that’s much harder to fix. The only thing that can save her is an act of true love.”

Denali shakes her head frantically. She can’t have come all this way just to be told the answer is unobtainable. “Isn’t there anything else that can fix her? Something I can actually find? I mean, I can’t just buy true love! What about a potion or something–”

“There’s nothing else. I’m sorry.” Brooke pauses. “I can tell you two things. The first is that you won’t have to look far to help her. The second is that you shouldn’t run from your feelings.”

Denali clenches her jaw. She came here to help Rosé, not have some woman she’s known for three minutes tell her what to do. “And if I don’t find it, she’ll–” Denali knows, because her mother had told her what would happen all those years ago. But knowing and accepting are two different things.

“She’ll freeze solid,” Brooke confirms, and Denali thinks maybe this won’t have a happy ending after all.

—

“W–what do we do now?” Rosé asks, hands on her knees. The walk to the carriage winded her, and each wheezing breath pierces Denali’s heart.

“I don’t know.” Denali doesn’t even know what to say. All this time she had a plan that couldn’t go wrong, a purpose to push her along and keep her focused. Now the plan is shot and her purpose has nothing to direct it. She can barely look away from how pale Rosé is, the blue of her lips unable to be explained away anymore, ice crystals clinging to her hair. “I guess … I guess we go back to the castle. See if someone there can help.” It sounds good, but it’s just an empty promise. Denali knows there won’t be any cure beyond what Brooke told her, and the lie is just as much for her benefit as Rosé’s.

Rosé nods, like she knows it’s a lie but doesn’t want to call Denali a liar. “Do you think we have time to do something first?”

Denali doesn’t, but Rosé smiles hopefully, and Denali can’t deny her anything. “What is it?”

“Do you want to build a snowman?”

—

Denali looks down at her gloves. This whole time, they’ve been her armor, but in reverse–not to protect her, but to protect Rosé. Rosé can’t really be in worse shape than she’s in, but what if Denali accidentally speeds up the freezing, takes away whatever Rosé has left?

“You don’t have to use your powers,” Rosé says, like she’s reading her mind. “We’ll do it by hand. Not all of us are magic, you know.” Rosé laughs, and Denali knows she’s using every ounce of strength she has to do this, to be cheerful and have fun with Denali, and she won’t let her down.

“Let’s do it,” Denali says.

They build up the snow like they’re kids again, and Denali wants to stay inside this moment forever, a living snow globe, reliving it again and again with every shake. The snow clinging to Rosé’s eyelashes catching the sun and bathing her whole face in golden light. The smiles and laughs that come so easily Denali doesn’t have to think about them. The snow soft and bright and beautiful around them, an old friend welcoming them home.

But the snowglobe shatters when Rosé is hit with a burst of cold so bad it makes her whimper and curl into herself, and Denali knows they don’t have any time to waste in getting to the carriage.

“Denali?” Rosé’s voice is almost enough to stop Denali’s heart. “Denali, I can’t feel my legs.”

Denali turns around. A layer of solid ice covers Rosé’s boots and creeps toward her knees.

“No!” No, no, no. Denali runs to her, and before she stops herself, Rosé is in her arms. Denali holds her tight, squeezing her waist and lowering her gently to the ground. Denali curses herself and her stupid powers, wishing so badly she could take the ice away, take the pain away. All she can do is create more ice, create more cold and pain. “No, no, Rosie, please.”

“Shhh,” Rosè whispers, one shaking hand resting on Denali’s arm. “It’s okay.”

Denali lets out a strangled laugh, because Rosé is the one freezing over and Denali should be comforting her, not the other way around, but Rosé just can’t bear to see anyone hurting.

Rosé strokes Denali’s arm with her thumb, and this, more than anything, makes Denali truly sob. Because all this time, Denali’s been afraid to touch Rosé, been afraid of herself, but Rosé has never been afraid of her, not once in her life, and the gentle touch is a reminder that she never will be. A reminder that Denali doesn’t have to be afraid of herself either.

“I’m sorry, Rosie, I’m so sorry. Pl–please don’t go, please.”

Rosé hisses in a shaky breath as the ice hits her thighs. “Nali …”

“I just got you back, I can’t lose you again.” Denali can barely get the words past the lump in her throat. Hot tears roll down to her jacket, the only bit of warmth she’ll probably have again. She can feel how cold Rosé is even through their layers, but she doesn’t let go. She can’t let go. She couldn’t give Rosé the touch she desperately wanted all this time, but she’s giving it to her now, and nothing can make her stop.

“Denali.” Rosé coughs sharply, looking up at Denali with glassy eyes. “Denali, I–I love you. I love you so much. Is it okay if I kiss you before–”

Denali leans down and presses their lips together. Rosé is shaking uncontrollably but Denali holds her steady, keeps her together. Her own heart is pounding and she can feel Rosé’s through her lips, a sign that she’s still alive, still has some warmth coursing through her. Her lips carry the chill of a blizzard but are still soft beneath Denali’s, soft and loving and caressing her own the gentle way Rosé herself would.

When the lips beneath hers harden, Denali knows Rosie is gone.

She pulls herself away, forcing herself to look down at the woman in her arms. Rosé is frozen solid, an ice sculpture so real, so beautiful, that no human would ever be able to recreate it. Denali won’t let go of her, because beneath the ice is someone who was kissing her, breathing, living, just seconds ago, and to let her go would be to abandon her, to prove that Rosé really is gone.

“I’m sorry, Rosie.” Denali’s tears trail down over them both. “I’m sorry. You were–you were the best friend I ever had, and you make me–you make me so happy. Rosie, I love you. I love you, and I’m sorry I told you too late.”

The words feel right after she says them, like they’ve been looming beneath her ice for years, waiting to be let out. Denali’s loved her for a while, she realizes. Some part of her had always known, the part that would forever treasure Rosé and call out to her. Denali just had to let herself feel it. Every ounce of those feelings swell in her now, the love and devotion and affection she denied herself for so long. All she can do is hold Rosé and cry, wishing she had told her sooner, so that Rosé would have known she was loved before she was gone.

It takes Denali a while to notice that her cheeks are dry. Her mind struggles to process it, because she’s still crying, but she can’t feel the dampness on her cheeks.

She takes a breath, and she realizes Rosé is wiping her tears away.

“Please don’t cry,” Rosé whispers. “Look.” She carefully tips Denali’s head down to look at her, and instead of the frozen woman she expects to see, the ice is melting into the snow underneath.

Rosé is melting.

Her hair has returned to its brilliant soft red, even the old streak gone, like the wounds from their past have fully healed. The color is coming back to her cheeks, a smile coming with it.

“How are you–” She lowers a hand to Rosé’s face to test that she’s really here, but stops halfway. Rosé grabs her hand and rests it there herself, and Denali gives in, cupping Rosé’s cheek and feeling her warmth.

“I told you you wouldn’t hurt me.”

“I love you,” Denali says.

“I love you too.”

An act of true love, Denali realizes. Just as her ice had frozen Rosé, it was her love that thawed her.

Denali leans down to kiss her again, and even though she knows they have to return home, that she has to fix the mess she left behind, she has Rosé in her arms, now and forever, and she’s never going to let go.

[kryptsune]

Hi you are an amazing writer i was wondering if you have any tips on salvaging a story that was derailed by a brain fart cause uh i was writing a short story that turned out to be longer and harder to read for anyone thats not myself and now i cant barely look at it... so can i have tips or advice please?

🌼Sorry for the late reply on this I wanted to be able to take the time to give you my own personal advice. First of all, thank you for the kind words :D I am so happy that you enjoy my writing. 

Tips tips tips. Well, there are a couple of things you can do and I have personally done myself. If you feel as though a story has gotten out of hand there is nothing wrong with that at all. I never planned to have either Felldritch or Wonderfell having their own fics in the first place but I enjoy writing for them so much that it was a logical progression. It is difficult for me to assess your personal investment in the project and from what I am reading it seems you no longer are passionate about it?  The truth of the matter is that writing has to be something you enjoy in order to do stories. Sure you can pump out chapter after chapter but it won’t have that spark and why would you put yourself through that suffering in the first place? Sometimes stories are hard to read for others just because of their personality. I have a lot of friends that enjoy my work but haven’t read the story because it is massive. That is something I am keenly aware of often. Welcome to the Underworld is not for the faint of heart or for casual readers and I understand that. It’s not for everyone. I appreciate it when people at least try, however, it is a good way for me to gauge interest at the very least. 

I will break this into 3 parts. The first will be revaluating your current story/project and the second will be things you can do that might make it easier for your readers if you still feel you want to continue it and lastly what you can do to possibly get that passion back if so you can “look at it again.” 1. Evaluating your project: As artists and creatives, we tend to latch onto our work because we put our own personal investment into it. I usually use the analogy that it is like our child and it can be difficult to care for sometimes and yet rewarding at others. This is the first thing you want to do if you are working on a project. Always evaluate. Do you enjoy it anymore?  Do you feel stuck? Is it just not going the way you want it to? Writer's block maybe? All of these can be factors into why you may not enjoy it any longer. 

I felt this with WTU for the longest time and now looking back on it...it was for the wrong reasons. I felt that no one wanted to read it after hours upon hours of writing and editing. It made me sad and I didn’t understand why. The thing is I have changed my mindset when it comes to this. It is hard for me to accurately gauge who reads my work without some kind of feedback but I have a goal. I set out to write an extensive and world built Fell verse and I am going to do it. It’s important to me and it is rewarding just to know that I can do a project as large as the three acts of WTU. Ask yourself why are you writing the story? What are your roadblocks? This will help you come to a decision. 

2. Easing the Readers: If you read my writing you will notice I have a tendency to write a fair bit. Every chapter of WTU ranges from about 15-20 pages of text 11 point font in google docs. That is a lot. I actually have not gone and calculated the word count on it but yeah, a lot. There are simple things you can do however to make the reading a little more digestible for people. 

a. Formating: I never had a problem with reading large blocks of text. That was how I was taught in middle and high school. That said others struggle with large blocks because it makes it difficult to read from a visual perspective (the irony that I am using block text right now). What you can do is break up your paragraphs more often. I have started to do this with older WTU chapters seeing as there are a lot of text blocks. It is a simple and relatively hassle-free way to make it easier. 

b. Pacing: I am by no means the expert of fics however there are some things that I notice in fics that tend to pop up quite frequently. I am not saying to change these things by any means but to evaluate and possibly adjust when needed. PACING. I can’t tell you how many stories I have read with poor or confusing pacing. What I mean by this is that the story is either holding too long in a certain scene or there is no breathing room. WTU and a lot of my fics have dark undertones to them which creates drama and emotional payoff, however, doing this constantly and throwing problem after problem into a story is hard to swallow. The readers need a break. This can be anything from levity to simple character interactions. Not everything is fights or angst. 

This also goes for fics that have none of the former as well. There are so many that are a slice of life and that is fine! Enjoy your cute fluffy fics that said if there is no conflict then what is the point of continuing to read the story? What is holding my investment? Sure the characters can be written well but the point of storytelling is connection. A perfect butterflies and rainbows story is all well and good but you can’t connect to it. That is not how life is. (I am pontificating a little bit but I am honestly really tired of having to explain to people that my fics are M for a reason. No NSFW stuff but rather real-life mental and psychological and emotional situations.)

c. Characters: This kind of also ties into what I was talking about before. A flawless character... is a boring one. Some of peoples favorite characters are the villains, why? Because unlike their heroic counterparts they feel real. They go through things and make their own path. If they just chose differently then things would be different. A lot of times (and no offense to fandom) I find that people make stereotypes of a character. It’s all surface-level stuff. Think about what makes you, you. What have you gone through that causes you to think a certain way or react to things? Our lives are made up of experiences and moments and characters are the exact same way. Most don’t realize this since I hint it throughout the story but everything tells a story. The character's costumes tell a story whether that be the place they live of their own personal style. Why does my Red wear a collar with a seemingly half-broken, fused, and burned chain link? I don’t know... you tell me. 

It’s a storytelling technique called breadcrumbing. This is used to hint to some sort of plot or payoff. A foreshadowing at times. It is an incredibly useful and engaging tool if done properly. I would use my “why does Red do what he does” example but its been beaten to death so I will use Boss as my example instead.   

Boss is the Head of Royal Guard having bested Undyne a long time ago but not everyone was happy with the change of the Guard and that is communicated in character dialogue. In fact, you can use this method to hint to character connections as well. Boss has claw marks in both his scarf and his left eye socket. So.... who could do that kind of damage? If you have read the story *mild Snowdin spoiler* Frisk meets Doggo. An Australian cattle dog-wolf mix that has no love for the current Captain. He was tossed out of the Royal Guard after altercation... maybe attacking a certain lanky skeleton perhaps? It’s not directly stated but certain visual ques could lead someone to that kind of assumption. 

Intertwine your characters, their relationships, their life events. All of this will create far more dynamic storytelling and investment.

d. Planning: Returning back to potential writers' block... I find that something that personally helps me is outlining. I have all of my stories planned out from beginning to end while the middle can be moved around accordingly. That said in every single chapter I outline the main points I want to communicate. It helps with the organization but also keeping your thoughts on track. If you feel you need an extra chapter for character development then you can totally plan that out. Don’t be afraid to change things. It’s your story do what you feel is best for it! 

e. Editors/betas/outside eyes: This is a huge one and can be a little challenging at first. It is helpful to have others look at the work. Those that you trust. Have them look for grammar or even pacing and character inconsistencies. It can be hard to get a critique on your work that you love so much however this makes you far better writer IF IT COMES FROM A REPUTABLE SOURCE. 

I need to clarify this as you cannot please everyone. I have rejected critiques from my beta readers in the past, not because I think I know better but because even they can’t account for your overall thought process. What they think is superfluous may come to have a payoff later on and it needs to be in there for that payoff. That can be anything from character development to plot.  You have to be strong in your conviction. Say yes and no when appropriate and always be kind to your readers. They are taking time out of their lives to help you with your work. The same goes for the betas. Be respectful and kind when giving CONSTRUCTIVE feedback and don’t be offended when the author does not agree. 

3. Breaking the Block: Breaking any kind of block is not easy. In fact, it is a constant nuisance in any creative field. That said there are some simple things that you can do to help. The best example I can give is taking a break. That can range from person to person but generally, sometimes you work on something for so long you need to set it aside and look at it with fresh and new eyes. It is ok to take breaks, hiatus, or just work on something else for your own mental well being. Here are a few things you can do to utilize your break effectively.  a. Don’t even look at it: Some people just need to get away from it all which is totally understandable. I would be farther along in my own fics if I did not break so much but I am determined to put my best foot forward even if it takes me longer. I am also an artist in the drawing and painting sense so I juggle that as well. If you notice my blog right now there has not been much going on in the way of writing because I’ve switched gears. There is nothing wrong with that but I pick my battles. 

b. Work on another project: There is nothing wrong with working on something else just for a change of pace. We are not machines and therefore monotony breeds complacency or burn out in this case. One of the reasons I have 2 other fics is because sometimes I hop from project to project. I know not everyone can mentally do that but it helps me recharge for the main project that I feel worn out on. 

People have also been wondering where TLC (Tender Love and Care) my Red X Frisk fic has been. The truth is that fic is my downtime fic. I do it when I am able to. In fact, as I work on my multiverse boys references lately I have been working on the second chapter of TLC because its a nice change of pace from doing something like Felldritch or the other two.

c. A little at a time:  Any type of project can be overwhelming so taking chunks of it at a time helps compartmentalize it a little easier. Try to write as much as you can a day. It’s not much but by the end of the week, boom, your chapter is done. 

You shouldn’t push yourself or beat yourself up either. I find that I always feel guilty about taking some leisure time because I could be creating more content but that’s unhealthy. Take the time you need and enjoy your games or books. I personally am enjoying the heck out of Animal Crossing right now. 

All in all, I hope some of these tips help a little. Since I do not know what you are working on or why you feel the way you do about it. It is hard for me to give direct advice. What I can say out of all of this is enjoy what you are making. Enjoy the journey and the process. At the end of the day, it is your investment and if you don’t enjoy it what is the point?

 It is nice to get feedback on things, trust me I know sometimes it feels like pulling teeth, and there are clear signs of burn out. We are not art machines, give it some time, reflect, evaluate, and you will find your way. If you really want me to dig deeper to give you specific con crit advice then you are free to DM me. My ask box is also always open! 

[writingwithadinosaur]

“Under the Knife” - Part 3

“Under the Knife” - Part 3

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Hannibal Lecter x Reader, Will Graham x Sister!Reader

Word Count: 1,700-ish

Key: Chunks of text in italics are (Y/N)’s thoughts. Y/N = Your Name, H/C = Your Hair Color, E/C = Your Eye Color

Warnings: Talk of Murder, Talk of Crime Scenes, Talk of Murder Victims, Cursing

Summary: You are Will Graham’s sister who works with him at the FBI. When you get offered a job promotion, life starts to change. Some changes for the better; Some for the worst.

Tag List: @fruitloopzzz @theeactress @melconnor2007 @ashenfallsof @geeksareunique @all-by-myself98 @sj-thefan​ @fuck-your-bad-vibes-dude​ @ntlmundy

Author’s Note: This is my first Hannibal piece and I am proud of it. There aren’t too many stories for Hannibal, so I figured I would add to the collection. This does take place in some happy medium where they are all alive and work together. Sort of a happier season 1 era.

This is beta-read by @theeactress​, but please let me know if there is something that we missed or that we should look at again! 

If you would like to be tagged in any of my future pieces, check out my tag list above and let me know! And as always, feedback is greatly appreciated!

<3

- DreaSaurusREX

----------------

“As most of you know, this is (Y/N) Graham, she will be our profiler for this case.”

“Oh good. Another Graham.” Beverly commented over her clipboard, writing down something involving the case probably. Jack gave her a chastising glance and she held her hands up in defense.

“(Y/N) this is Beverly Katz, Brian Zeller, and Jimmy Price.” Jack introduced you very quickly to the science-ier part of the team very quickly before jumping right into work. “So, tell us what you got so far, (Y/N).”

You opened your small notebook and began summarizing your notes from last night’s reading.

“Alright. So far I’ve been able to see three patterns: the ways they were killed, the time frame, and the fact that all of the victims that were dismembered were doctors. The strongest thing I can think of is that this killer was wronged by doctors in some way. I’m not sure if it's a doctor in the general term or if there is some specific way that ties these three doctors, and our killer, together. That was something I was going to work on today. 

The way that the bodies are taken apart is very particular. From what I could tell from the photos in the files, all of the cuts seemed to be straight lines all the way through. Which means that this guy’s gotta have access not only to the tools that can do this sort of stuff, but also whatever drug he got in their system to make them lay still while he... worked. So I’m assuming the murder weapon is nothing with a jagged blade or saw-like teeth until we get to the bone. Do we have any reports on striation patterns or anything that could help us with what was used?”

“It’s like you said, the cuts were almost completely straight lines, even through to the bone. The only things we could think of were surgical tools.” Zeller spoke up. “The skin and muscles were cut similarly to how a surgeon would with a scalpel. But the bone is where it gets tricky. You can’t cut like this through bone with just a scalpel.”

“Unless you have plenty of time and you're very persistent.” Beverly joked; you were the only one that slightly exhaled a laugh through your nose at her quip.

“Alright, so the killer has a medical background.” Jack tossed into the air. You nodded.

“Possibly. But why would a doctor be going after other doctors?”

“Maybe they’re taking all his patients?” Beverly shot out. You just nodded and looked back at your notes to see where you left off.

“The uh.. The most concerning thing is the time frame. They were all killed two weeks part from each other. Dr. Everet was almost 6 weeks ago, Dr. Chaseten almost 4, and Dr. Loriet about 2.” 

“Which means we could have another dead doctor within the week.” Jack solemnly spoke as he realized the gravity of the situation. “Alright, you three keep looking over everything to see if we missed something. (Y/N), start working on possible correlations between the victims and the killer. Let’s get this son of a bitch.”

And that’s how the next two days went. Researching, thinking, and trying to get into a mindset that you weren’t totally sure of yet. 

You had checked in with Will like you promised and said that you were fine but you were going to be very busy for at least the next few days. Hannibal had called you after your first day and could hear the slight exhaustion in your voice. He asked you to have lunch with him tomorrow and you very quickly agreed.

But the next day, you spent more time than you thought flipping through the databases to try to find any correlation between Everet, Chasten, and Loriet. The three of them never worked in the same hospital, clinic, or even the same city. Their wives didn’t know each other. Their neighbors didn’t know each other. They didn’t have any sort of communication with each other. They were all different types of doctors. Everet and Loriet went to the same med school, but they graduated 3 years apart.

So what the fuck am I missing?

You kept looking back over the crime scene photos. You couldn’t understand why the doctors were mutilated and positioned so intricately, but the others were cast aside. The focus has to be on the doctors. They must have done something to ‘wrong’ the killer. So what the hell did all three of you do to make someone want to murder? 

Your train of thought was interrupted by a knock at your office door. You let out a slightly aggravated sigh.

“Jack, I told you I will let you know when I-- Oh! Hannibal! Hi!” You looked up from your computer screen to find Hannibal standing in the doorway with a bag in his hand. 

“Should I come back later?” 

“No! No. Come on in. I probably should take a break. I feel like I’m going in circles anyways.” You looked at your watch and saw it was almost 3:30 PM. The last time you looked at the clock, it was 10:30 AM. “And I missed our lunch meeting.” You put your head in your hands and groaned in annoyance with yourself. “I am so sorry, Hannibal. I--”

“No need for apologies, my dear. I figured Jack had put a lot on your plate, so I thought I would bring lunch to you.” Hannibal made his way into your office and shut the door behind him. 

“You really didn’t have to.”

“When was the last time you ate, (Y/N)?” Hannibal questioned you, looking you dead in the eye after he sat down in one of your office chairs. 

You weren’t entirely sure. You started to speak but then stopped yourself, really trying to remember when you ate last. I know I had ½ of my breakfast at 7:30 this morning. Did I have my granola bar? Does coffee count as a meal?

“The fact that you have to think about when your last meal was, is a bit concerning. But nonetheless, I am more than happy to remedy that. ” He smiled one of his rare but small smiles and began unpacking whatever culinary art he brought. You tried to condense some of your piles of papers and folders so you had enough room to put food down. 

Hannibal had brought a home-cooked meal for the two of you to enjoy. A ginger salad with fresh pan-seared scallops and even some infused water that he had marinating in his fridge overnight. This was so much better than the PB&J you had packed. 

As you began to dig in, Hannibal couldn’t help but look at some of the crime scene photos and your notes. 

“So what are we calling this killer?” 

“‘The Virginia Scalpel.’” You said with slight annoyance. “He has a medical background and is within a reasonable distance from all of the vics. Yet, we have no idea who he is.”

“Does the killer have to be a medical professional? Maybe they just have very steady hands.” 

“True. But there is almost no way that a regular guy could cut through muscle and bone that cleanly without surgical tools or the knowledge of how to use them. Not to mention the fact that he would have some serious explaining to do on how he got the succinylcholine or whatever paralyzer he plans to use next.” You rub your eyes gently, feeling the strain from the computer screen hitting you. Hannibal could feel the stress radiating off of you. 

“Do you want to talk about this case?”

“Not really. But I’m not sure what else to talk about. This has been my life for the last 3 days, the killer could strike again any day now, and I still don’t know why these three doctors were targeted or who will be next!” 

You started to fidget with your ring unconsciously and a bit aggressively, a sign to Hannibal that your anxiety was starting to catch up. Despite the physical signs that you needed a break, you continued to glance over an open file near you while you took another bite of food. He leaned forward in his seat a bit as he closed the file that you had been rereading for what he assumed to be at least the tenth time.  

“(Y/N), you need to breathe.” You just nodded and closed your eyes to try to help your deep breaths relax you faster. “How about we go for a walk? Get the blood flowing.”

“I would love to. But I feel like I can’t afford that break right now.” You shook your head slightly as you reached down for a stack of papers you had bundled and put on the floor earlier. You didn’t see him get up, but Hannibal was standing, adjusting his jacket before holding a hand out to you.

“What’s the worst that could happen?” You looked from his hand to his face before standing up, shrugging. A small walk around the building wouldn’t hurt, right?

Before your hand could land in his, your phone rang and you felt your heart sink, dreading what could be waiting for you on the other end of the line. Both you and Hannibal looked down at your phone and saw the caller ID: “Jack Crawford.” You took a deep inhale and hit the answer button.

“I really hope you’re calling just to bug me to work faster, Jack…” You tried your best to control your voice. You looked up and Hannibal was watching, trying to listen in and gauge how you were going to react.

“Afraid not. There’s another Scalpel vic. I’m texting you the address. Drop whatever you're doing and get down here.” Jack hung up before you could say anything, leaving you in a bit of shock. 

Dammit! What the hell am I missing?! Someone else is dead--Another doctor is dead because I don’t have any answers yet. How can--

“(Y/N)?” Hannibal’s hand on your arm broke your stream of internal chastising before it could get too bad, but you did unintentionally jump at the contact. He instantly raised his hands up and let you process for a moment. “There’s another one, isn’t there?”

You just nod. A second later, your phone flashed a message from Jack with an address. 

“Guess my ‘walk’ is going to be to a crime scene.” You try to joke despite feeling a tinge of guilt spreading through you. Hannibal tried to walk you to your car but you kindly denied him. You wanted to be alone as you prepared yourself for your first real crime scene. 

[paradisobound]

World’s Greatest First Love: Chapter 4

Summary: Dan Howell wanted a clean break from his father’s publishing company. It was why he applied for a different company in London: to stop the ridicule of his coworkers for riding on his ‘daddy’s coat tails’. But he wasn’t expecting to suddenly be going from a literature editor, to a graphic novel editor. And he certainly wasn’t expecting to come face first with his first love who broke his heart from when he was a teenager: who just happens to be his new editor-in-chief.

Based on the Anime and Manga “The World’s Greatest First Love: The Case of Ritsu Onodera” aka Sekai-Ichi Hatsukoi

Rating: Mature (For Now)

Word Count: 2.7k (this chapter)

Warnings: None for this chapter

Updates Every Tuesday at 12pm EST and Saturday at 1pm EST

Thanks to my lovely beta @phanandpenguins​ who has been doing a great job of editing these chapters for me! 

READ ON AO3 | READ ON WATTPAD

Phil is having a heated argument with someone when Dan arrives to the office on Thursday morning. There is tension in the air and Dan feels like everyone is too hyper focused on the argument that is taking place to focus on their own work. Dan had never seen the guy before, but he stands tall and broad over Phil as he hovers above the desk. He looks mean, and definitely like someone Dan should avoid so he makes a mental note of it.

“We sold out of the Marmon book in the first day,” The man says. “What kind of a rookie mistake is that, Phil?”

“It’s not my rookie mistake!” Phil shouted back. “It was your superior who wouldn’t allow for us to print more than 5,000 copies when I requested 7,500.”

“Don’t start blaming it on…”

Dan stopped listening because the arguing did nothing but make the anxiety in his chest weigh heavier and heavier. He opened his laptop and loaded up the manuscript that he had been working on for his author and pulled up some of the edits he had made. He was beginning to scroll to where he had bookmarked to look at next but the arguing grew louder and he got more and more distracted.

He turned his head and saw Mitch was working unphased next to him, scribbling some red marks onto a printed storyboard, “Hey, Mitch?” Dan asks and Mitch turns his head, “So I can’t help but listen to that fight and I guess I’m confused why it’s a bad thing that Phil’s author’s book sold out so fast? Isn’t it a good thing that you’re making sales? ”

Mitch furrowed his brows and then perked up and opened his mouth, “Yes and no, really. It’s a bit more complicated than that.”

“How so?” Dan asks, genuinely curious.

“Well, if a book sells out the same day that it comes out, then that’s not good for the author’s sales because it’ll take another week or two for us to do another printing by the time the printer gets around to it. By that point the book will have sadly been forgotten by most people. So it’s better to have just enough copies and do a second printing than to sell out and have to wait with nothing out there to be sold.”

Dan nods his head because that does make a lot of sense, “So is the man Phil is arguing with in charge of that process then?”

“Yes!” Mitch answers with a smile.

“So...who is he?”

“Oh! That’s…”

“Me.”

Dan stiffens and turns his head to come face to face with the man he had just sworn he would avoid. His dark hair is sticking straight up in places and his eyes are so dark they’re like black holes. Dan instantly feels more intimidated than before.

“Damien” He says, adding on before Dan can catch his bearings. “I’m the head of the sales department here at Onyx. I take care of how many copies your book gets.”

Dan just stiffens further and forces out a smile before Damien turns on his heels and walks away, leaving a trail of overconfidence in his way that left Dan feeling more uneasy. Dan turns to Mitch, his mouth agape, “Is...is he always like that?”

Mitch shrugs, “Actually no. He can be tough when he wants to be but honestly, he’s also nice. Just probably have to get to know him. I’m sure he was on edge from his conversation with Phil.”

Dan nods and agrees because sure, that’s honestly probably it . So Dan turns back in his seat and goes back to working on his manuscript again.

He gets through quite a bit of it before his hands start to cramp and his stomach starts to rumble. When he stands up from his desk, he takes a second to look over towards Phil’s desk but he notices Phil isn’t there, which being honest is a bit unusual , Dan thinks. He makes his way into the breakroom and stuffs some money into a vending machine to get a lousy cup of noodles for his lunch.

Dan takes the container of noodles and opens the top and pours some of the hot water from the coffee maker into it. He lays the lid back closed and sits and waits for his noodles to start working their magic to give him a hint of satisfaction for his hunger. He knows he hasn’t been eating properly but he genuinely doesn’t have the time to make himself something else besides quick food.

People from the floor come and go as they please which leaves Dan sitting all alone at the table with no one to talk to but he’s not entirely upset about that either. He’s been so busy lately that having this short break was actually a bit of a reprieve.

His noodles become finished far too quick and he pushes a couple pound coins in the vending machine for a candy bar and begins to nibble on that just as he leaves the break room. He goes to his desk and takes a seat, looking to Phil’s desk on instinct and for some reason, Dan feels a little bit calmer seeing Phil now sat behind his mounds of papers, running his hands through his hair.

***

Dan decides to leave the office as soon as he sends the manuscript with corrections back to his author. He emails her the corrections and then prints out a copy for himself to take home and look over one more time. His deadline is rapidly approaching and he wants his first time being an editor for this author to go as smoothly as possible.

Dan’s exhausted, and as he walks off from the elevator, he feels like the weight of the world is on his body, holding him down and barely keeping him upright. He needs some proper food and maybe a few drinks. Probably also some water. Has he even drank water in the last week? He doesn’t remember which probably says a lot more than it should.

He shuffles his feet as he walks and he rounds the corner to the exit when he sees Phil and Damien talking next to the doorway. Damien is enjoying a cigarette and Phil is stood with his arms crossed. Dan steps back and hides behind the corner because he doesn’t want to intrude.

Are they arguing? Is something else happening between them? Dan feels uneasy all over again and his stomach starts to hurt at the thought. But he wants to get home, and in order to leave, he has to pass them which means he’s going to have to walk by them and deal with whatever they are saying.

He turns the corner and begins to walk past them when he sees Phil start to laugh, throwing his head back and Damien laughing along with him, cigarette smoke funneling from his lips. He puts out his cigarette and looks at Phil and just as Dan is trying to walk by, he hears, “ Are you up for that drink?”

Dan is suddenly confused. So Phil and Damien were friends? But why were they screaming at each other earlier. It had to be just work things, right?

“Oh Dan!”

Dan stops in his tracks at Phil’s voice calling after him.

Dan turns around and faces Phil who is zipping his jacket up a bit further on his neck, “Damien and I are on our way to the bar for a few drinks if you want to join?”

Dan shakes his head and declines, “No, I just want to get home and get some rest.”

Before Phil can say anything, Dan just nods goodbye and hikes the hood up on his jacket and leaves the building into the bitter cold of December evenings. He puts his hands into his pockets and walks half of his commute, only taking the tube when he physically couldn’t stand the cold on his cheeks anymore.

His apartment is chillier than he would care to admit so he turns the heat on a bit higher when he passes through the front door. His stomach is rumbling so he goes to his refrigerator and opens it up to see nothing but wilted greens and spoiled food. He shuts the door and lets out a sigh.

He could order out, but that would require spending more money and he doesn’t have a lot of that at the moment. He ends up not finding any food suitable for eating and he flops himself down on his couch, hoping to get a few hours of sleep before he has to go to his miserable bed.

Dan’s eyes are just starting to close when his phone begins to buzz in his pocket and he pulls it out to see an email from his author.

Re: Finished Manuscript Edits

Hi Dan,

Just finished looking over your edits and I’ve made some adjustments accordingly. Please let me know what you think. I would love more feedback.

Best,

Veronica “Roni” Tully

Dan sits up straighter on the couch and immediately lunges for his bag at the end of the cushion. He opens it up and grabs his laptop and boots up his email. He loads her edits and her storyboard and sees that she has made a lot more corrections and so he hits print on the document and hears the printer in the corner whirl to life.

He throws his laptop to the side and sets down on the floor with the manuscript sprawled in front of him on his coffee table. He grabs his red pen out of his bag that he’s learnt he needs to carry with him at all times and uncaps it and begins to get to work.

He tries to work diligently, taking into consideration everything he’s learnt from his few short weeks of being a graphic novel editor. But he soon can feel like he’s not doing something right and it takes away any of his ability to finish the rest of the manuscript.

As much as he doesn’t want to, he knows he needs to get ahold of Phil somehow. He has Phil’s number from their brief exchanges at work but he doesn’t want to text him, especially when Phil just said he and Damien were going out for drinks.

Dan will need to email him the manuscript. He quickly grabs for his laptop again and loads his email and attaches the file and sends it to Phil with the note reading that he would like Phil to look over the manuscript and help him a bit in making corrections. He no longer hits send when his phone vibrates and he looks down to see a message on his screen.

Phil: I’m right next door. Bring me your corrections

Dan feels mortified. He can’t just go next door and bring Phil the corrections because now he feels like a moron for emailing him them to begin with! He sits chewing at his nails until a knock appears on his door and it startles him. He gets up and rushes over to it, opening it.

“I’m right next door,” Phil repeats as soon as the door opens. “You literally just have to walk two steps.”

“I...I…”

“Where are your corrections?” Phil asks, extending his hand. “I’ll look over your corrections but I’m not going to do them for you.”

Dan’s cheeks heat up and he blushed as he turned on his heels and rushed back to grabs his corrections from the coffee table and hands them to Phil. Phil shuffles through them and then stills, “Come over to my apartment.”

Dan furrows his brows, “Why?”

“Just...come with me and we’ll look over the corrections together,” Phil says, stepping backwards and not allowing Dan to say otherwise.

Dan swallows and follows him out of the door to his apartment. Phil pushes the door open and they step inside. Dan looks at the surroundings around him and is actually impressed by how nice everything looks. Everything looks so precise to him…. so not Phil.

“So first off,” Phil says as he sits down at his kitchen table, “tell me why you made the corrections that you did.” Phil flips through the pages a bit more and then stops and shoves a page at him. “Especially the ones on this page.”

Dan looks down and sees that this is the page where he made the most corrections, but that’s basically because he found this part a bit boring compared to the rest of the story. He stutters for a moment and then finally says exactly that, “I thought this part was boring.”

“Why?” Phil quizzed.

“Because it didn’t go with the rest of her story. The pictures don’t do anything for the rest of the novel.”

“So why did you suggest these specific corrections?” Phil pressed.

Dan stuttered a bit but he failed to answer right away and Phil noticed. He picked up a red marker and uncapped it with his teeth, blowing the cover onto the floor as he marked for two different panels to be switched around, “This is all you needed to do,” Phil says. “The rest of the corrections don’t actually enhance the storyboard like you just explained to me.”

“But I thought…”

“Dan, you can’t do these corrections half-assed.”

“I’m not doing them half-assed!” Dan countered. “I did exactly what I remember you teaching me to do!”

Phil shook his head, “You’re doing too much.”

Dan feels like his head is spinning. So is he half-assing his work or doing too much ?

“I…”

“Here,” Phil says, shuffling through the pages again, “Let’s go through each page together.”

Dan nods his head, feeling even more mortified than before and let Phil flip through each page correcting and fixing more.

By the time they were done, the storyboard had much more red on it than before and many corrections crossed out and redone. He looks down at it and feels like his heart is sinking out of his chest because he feels like he’s just completely shit on his authors work.

But the truth is that his author’s work is fantastic and that’s why they need these corrections to push them past fantastic to amazing. Every author wants to be a best seller but this is the only way to do so.

Dan gathers the papers and puts them into a pile and stands up from Phil’s kitchen chair, “Thank you.”

Phil looks up at him and nods, “You’re welcome.”

He starts to walk to the door but is stopped when Phil’s voice cuts through his head, “We still haven’t talked about us, ya know.”

Dan feels the color drain from his face and he swallows down the knot in his throat, “There isn’t anything to discuss.”

“So you’re not even gonna talk about how we used to love each other?” Phil asks, standing up from his chair. “You’re going to just ignore that…”

“You broke up with me,” Dan says, turning around to face Phil, “You’re the one who broke my heart.”

“Oh is that how you remember it?” Phil asks, his voice rising in volume. “You’re remembering that I broke up with you .”

“Because that’s what happened!”

“Dan,” Phil shook his head, “You’re the one who literally slapped me across the face and then ran out of my house. I never heard from you after that.”

“I…”

“I know you don’t remember it,” Phil says, his voice going tense, “But maybe it would be nice if you tried.”

Phil all but pushes him out before Dan can get an answer and he stands on the other side of Phil’s door with the storyboard hugged to his chest and tears coming up to his eyes.

Dan had spent years trying to repress the memories of Phil and what had happened, and there was no way in hell he was going to let himself remember them all over again.

Even if it cuts deep inside his core.

Just as he turns to go to his apartment, he hears footsteps coming down the hallway and he turns his head just in time to see Damien walking towards them, and Dan momentarily forgets how to breathe. He grabs the door handle for his apartment and jumps inside, shutting the door just in time to hear the knocking of Damien’s hand on Phil’s door.

[writethehousedown]

You're Wonder Under Summer Skies (Branjie)--athena2

Summary: Brooke and Vanessa reflect on the school year and their relationship as summer vacation starts. (This is a continuation of Here Comes the Sun, so you might want to read that first. It can be read on the blog here or on AO3 here).

A/N: I really loved the little teacher verse I created, and decided to continue that here! It’s pretty much pure fluff and ice cream, and I really hope you enjoy! I’d appreciate any comments or feedback you have! Thank you so much to Writ for betaing this and supporting me always, you’re the best!

Title from Adore You by Harry Styles.

“Come on, Brooke, you’re using all the hot fudge!”  

Brooke grins as Vanessa pulls up at her side. 

“I saved you some, don’t worry.”  

“You better have. You know how many rolls of wrapping paper we had to sell for that?” Vanessa teases, sticking her bowl under the dispenser. The PTA had fundraised enough to get real hot fudge and caramel sauce dispensers this year, and they’d had to stop more than a few kids from sticking their heads under the spouts. The last day of school ice cream party is always a success, and Brooke almost wants to apologize to the parents for the sugar-high, sticky, and grass-stained state they’ll receive their children in today.  

The kids are running some of the sugar off on the playground, and it’s time for the teachers to raid the ice cream. Most of them are more excited than the kids, and who could blame them when the folding tables spread down the gym are what dreams are made of: gallons of ice cream in vanilla, chocolate, and strawberry (including dairy-free), with sprinkles, brownies, cookies, marshmallows, fruit, whipped cream, and an entire candy store to top it with. Nina covered the tables with striped tablecloths for an ice cream parlor vibe, supervising it all in an apron and paper hat, an enormous grin on her face. 

Vanessa’s bowl is more candy than ice cream, and Brooke has to smile. Vanessa’s love of candy only makes her even cuter in Brooke’s eyes, and after they started dating, she began keeping extra candy in her desk in case Vanessa had a rough day, or for regular days when Brooke wanted to surprise her.  

Brooke applies her finishing layer of whipped cream and looks at her masterpiece of a sundae when shouting erupts behind them.  

“Give it back!” 

“No!” 

Brooke sighs. “Sounds like some kids are fighting. I thought they were all outside…” She and Vanessa head down the table, to see the kids in question are none other than Silky and A’keria.

“Yep, some kids fighting all right,” Vanessa cackles. 

“Give me the gummy bears!” Silky lunges for the bag in A’keria’s arms. 

A’keria pulls back like a boxer dodging a punch, holding the bag to her chest for dear life. “No! Last year you took them all, and I didn’t get any! Even when I told you sharing is caring. Now you can have a gummy bear-less sundae and see how it feels.”

“Hey, there’s another bag!” Nina interrupts, giving Silky a fresh bag and ushering them away from the table.  

Tears of laughter glisten in Vanessa’s eyes, and Brooke has to grab some water before she chokes. 

“They’re like two old ladies, I swear,” Vanessa says. She leads Brooke outside where they sit under a tree together.

Vanessa begins eating her candy with a side of chocolate ice cream, and Brooke grins. “So, embarrassing story,” she begins, watching Vanessa’s eyes light up, “When I was little, I wouldn’t eat chocolate ice cream because I thought it was made of chalk. My mom told me it wasn’t, but I wouldn’t believe her.”

“Stop, that’s adorable!” Vanessa squeals. She throws her head back and roars with laughter, summer sun sparkling against her hair, and Brooke is in awe that they’re here together, ready for casual dress day in jeans and the Star Wars T-shirts they had picked for each other. Last year she had watched Vanessa from afar, trying to find the courage to say something, wondering if her ice cream would taste better if she was enjoying it with Vanessa. 

Now she can say, definitively, that it does.

—

Taking the classroom apart is Vanessa’s most-dreaded school activity. Aside from the exhaustion of trying to pack up grade books and pencils and crayons and notebooks into boxes, of tossing dirty, ripped-up decorations in the trash, there’s the sadness of it. Another year gone, another group of kids ready to be first-graders, another year becoming memories. But tomorrow’s the kindergarten graduation, and she does get to see Brooke in her black dress with white flowers, the prospect making up for the sadness. 

“It’s summertime, Bertha,” Vanessa says, stroking the guinea pig cheerfully. The two babies, Cinnamon and Nutmeg, sleep peacefully in the corner. At least she’ll have them home with her this summer. She lets Bertha rest as she starts on cleaning. 

Her year-round stuff–the games and toys and books in the back, plus her dog posters–can stay until the fall, but the rest has to go. With a heavy heart, she starts pulling down her summer fun decorations. There’s the construction paper beach balls and sunglass-wearing suns she had carefully made at Brooke’s one weekend, giggling and watching cooking shows while Brooke made construction paper ice cream cones for her class. 

She tugs down the palm trees and deep blue paper she had turned into waves bobbing along the classroom walls. Last are the sandals and sunglasses she made, scattered around the room. Vanessa gets everything within her height range, and then she’ll ask Brooke for help with the rest. At least this year she won’t have to risk her life standing on chairs or desks or, as a last resort, trying to knock things down with a broom whose bristles always sent unknown debris into her face.  

Her room goes from a sunkissed beach to a cold white block, but the emptiness doesn’t bother her as much this year. Maybe because she has Brooke now. She won’t have to exchange an awkward ‘see you next fall’, because she and Brooke have the whole summer ahead of them to spend together. 

They’ve taken things slow since April, slower than any relationship Vanessa’s had. But she likes having time, not rushing things, letting each tiny moment really bask in all its meaning and glory. The first time they held hands in public, fingers locking as they browsed through a bookstore. The first time Vanessa made dinner for Brooke, rice and beans and homemade tortillas that Brooke devoured almost the whole stack of. And today, which will be the first time Vanessa tells Brooke she loves her. 

In April, it took all she had to spit out that I might love you too. She’s held back since then, not wanting to go too fast or scare Brooke away, because she knows Brooke’s never been in any long-term relationships and often gets scared putting her heart out there. But Vanessa doesn’t want any more I might or I think. She wants to tell Brooke for real, to silence any doubts there could be, to let Brooke know Vanessa will never hurt her. She loves Brooke, and she wants her to know it. 

Taking one last look at her almost-bare room, Vanessa heads next door.

—

Brooke carefully packs up the foam-board banana split she made and takes a look at her room, nearly empty except for the dinosaur and cat posters she leaves up all year. She carefully packs up the felt Worry Monster so he’ll stay safe until he can soothe new kids’ fears in the fall. Rose and Lily, the two guinea pigs Vanessa gave her, squeak happily, one of the only signs of life still in the classroom. There’s no trace of the ice cream cones she cut from brown construction paper and topped with a rainbow of scoops and sprinkles, no laughter bouncing off the walls, no stray LEGO blocks lying in wait to assault someone. Just a quiet classroom that will be filled with new decorations, new kids, and new excitement in a few months.  

“You put your stuff away so nice. I just dumped it in boxes,” Vanessa mutters as she walks into the room. 

Brooke shrugs. “I like to do it slow, I guess.”

“And think about the year,” Vanessa says, and Brooke nods, still in awe of how Vanessa can always tell what she’s thinking. Still in awe that she gets to be with someone who knows her so well. 

Vanessa takes her hand and pulls her across the room. They climb on Brooke’s desk, moving aside her Totoro mug and the toy stegosaurus Vanessa got her just because she knew Brooke would like it. Brooke still can’t believe she gets presents from Vanessa, for no other reason than just because. Vanessa’s feet swing merrily, high above the floor, and it makes Brooke’s heart burst. 

“Another year over, huh?” Vanessa says softly. She leans over, resting her head on Brooke’s shoulder.  

“Yeah.” Brooke sighs. “You’d think we’d be used to it by now.”

“I know. If you asked me in September, I couldn’t wait until June. But now tomorrow’s their graduation, and…” 

“You wonder where the year went,” Brooke finishes. There were the busy early days of learning names and getting the kids adjusted and soothing fears, days with lots of tears when she wished the year would end already. Somehow, the last day of school–in all its breathless, sticky-sweet glory of ice cream and graduation excitement–came from nowhere. Even after all her years teaching, it still sneaks up on her every summer. 

“We’ll have new kids soon,” Vanessa says, taking Brooke’s hand. 

“Yeah.” Brooke squeezes back. 

“I bet you have your fall theme planned already.” 

Brooke blushes. “I was thinking a big tree, with all the kids’ names on apples. How about you?” 

“Maybe a pumpkin patch.” Vanessa shrugs. “My parents took me to one every year. Then they couldn’t get me out of there because I wanted to hug and kiss all the pumpkins. I think that’s why they got me a dog.” 

Brooke laughs, all too easily picturing a tiny Vanessa wrapping her arms around pumpkins bigger than her. “Maybe this fall we can go to a pumpkin patch. You can hug and kiss all the pumpkins you want.” 

Vanessa grins, snuggling deeper into Brooke’s side. “As long as I get to hug and kiss you too.”

Brooke’s cheeks burn again. “Of course.”

Vanessa lifts her head suddenly, turning to look at Brooke. Her eyes are sunshine-warm and bright, her teeth emerging in a hesitant smile. “Hey, Brooke?”

“Yeah?” Brooke asks uncertainly. She can tell from the way Vanessa glances at her lap and bites her lip that she has something big, something important to say, and Brooke’s stomach twists. What if Vanessa doesn’t like her anymore and wants to break up? What if–

“I love you.” Vanessa’s words cut clear through Brooke’s worries, making her mouth hang open. Vanessa loves her, and as embarrassing as it is, Brooke’s never gotten this far in a relationship. Most of them ended after just a few boring dates. But Vanessa is unlike anyone Brooke’s been with, and Brooke knows that she loves her too. Loves their lunches and movie nights, their jokes and secret glances they trade back and forth. Loves the way Vanessa makes her feel like she’s wrapped in a warm blanket, how her hugs are like coming home. 

“I love you too,” Brooke finally manages after Vanessa starts getting worried about her silence. “Sorry, I just…I’ve never really said that to anyone.” 

And Vanessa, kind as ever, doesn’t laugh or tease her, but just smiles. “I’m happy to be the first, then.”

Suddenly they’re kissing, right on Brooke’s desk like some sort of school fantasy come to life, only real and even better than any dream. Brooke is amazed that their kisses still feel like this, that everything between them still feels as special and important and lovely as the first time. Vanessa’s lips carry the faint taste of chocolate ice cream and the million candies she’d piled on top, giving Brooke a residual sugar rush. Vanessa’s hands trace gently up and down Brooke’s arms, her touch soft and soothing, and Vanessa whines when they separate. 

“You’re still coming over tonight, right?” Brooke checks. It had been her idea to order pizza and have a little last day of school party of their own.

“Oh yeah! And I’m bringing the ice cream.” 

“We just had ice cream.”

Vanessa presses her fingertip to Brooke’s nose. “You can never have enough ice cream.”

“Or enough kisses,” Brooke says, leaning in for one more. They load their stuff into the car and head out into the warm sun, summer firmly in their grasp.

[annerbhp]

Hello, fandom grandma, I am but a toddler and I really need your wise advice. How do I stop thinking about fanfic in terms of transactions? In my main fandom (not HP, I love your fanfics so much sometimes I wish you could be lured into it, but you're not into MCU are you?) I read almost every fic, leave kudos and comments. But there are writers who don't read or don't leave kudos or comment on my fanfics (I know my writing isn't bad either). They do read each other's stuff. (1/2)

“Now I enjoy writing fanfic, but it doesn't exactly exist in a vacuum. So my question is, how do I stop being butthurt because they won't read my stuff or comment on it if they do read it (I know for sure some of them did). They know me because I always comment on their stuff. And I don't think I could stop either, because feedback is important. I know you might say that what I write isn't what they like, but we write all the same tropes (2/3)   

so it's more likely they just don't give a s. But I do. How do I let it go? It feels like I'm giving them everything, but they can't even give me kudos. Also, I do NOT want to start this 'comment or not to comment' fight, I'm asking if you ever felt that way and if maybe you know a way for me to stop feeling it so I could just enjoy the fandom and NOT think about fanfics in terms of IOU, or be the fanfiction equivalent of a nice guy (3/3)”

You know what stood out the most here for me?

“Now I enjoy writing fanfic, but it doesn't exactly exist in a vacuum.”

That ‘but’ speaks louder than you know. Do you really enjoy writing fanfic? What about the writing brings you joy? Just hold that thought.

Now, I know it can be hard to not get hung up on things like kudos counts and comment counts and it’s not like I haven’t gone into AO3 and stalked though bookmarks hoping someone might have added even the tiniest commentary on it. I know that there is nothing quite like the endorphin rush of someone commenting on a fic. So, I get it. I really do.

I also know that everyone does fandom differently. Everyone contributes in a different way and every one interacts in a different way. Some people write fics. That doesn’t mean they necessarily read fic. And they don’t have to if they don’t want to. Maybe whatever precious time they have to give to fandom between jobs and kids and illness and life being an asshole is dedicated solely to giving the world things to read. How freaking awesome is that? Some people do fandom by writing meta. Some people do fandom by reading. Some people do fandom by betaing. Some have mastered the art of leaving comments. Some make fanvids or playlists. Some make gifsets. Some people draw and paint and create amazing art. Some people merely come here to let their brain turn off for a while and not have to DO THINGS for someone else for once and just want to BE. Some people lurk and never interact at all.

These are all completely valid, and no one has the right to tell people how to Do Fandom.

I don’t know how to tell you to enjoy fandom more, except maybe to say that you need to start humanizing the people on the other side of the computer. Don’t assume you know what is going on with them--you probably don’t. Going around assuming the worst of people is only going to make you miserable. Try giving everyone the benefit of the doubt. Try remembering that you are not the fandom police who gets to judge and ‘correct’ bad behaviors. Is that really where you want to spend your energy?

I know plenty of writers I really love who don’t read my stories. Do I wish they would? Sure, of course. Am I mad that they don’t? Hell no. Because I respect people’s ability/right to curate their own fannish experience. I respect people knowing what they like, and avoiding things that won’t bring them joy. I don’t personalize it, because it is not about me. I’m not saying that is easy, but it is my conscious choice. Don’t like, don’t read, is one of my core fandom commandments. (Along with do no harm, take no shit and your kink is not my kink that that’s okay.) This not only supports my choice not to read things I don’t want to, but people’s right not to read what I write if they don’t want to. No harm, no foul.

What makes someone a Nice Guy is entitlement. And only doing things to get something out of it from someone else, because they owe you, is classic entitlement. So find a way to do fandom with joy, or consider not doing it.   

So let me ask again: do you really enjoy writing fanfic? What about it brings you joy? Your answer to that is a pretty good place to start.