thefae-journal

[thefae-journal]

worthy

Fandom: Roswell, New Mexico Ship: Rosabel POV: second person, Isobel

word count: 2,342 warnings: mentions of Noah, brief mentions of addiction, mentions of abuse

summary: You close your eyes. Focus on what matters. What’s in front of you. Everything that you could have ever wanted and so much more. The feeling of Rosa’s hands around yours. The lines of her palms. The roughness of her knuckles from the dry air of winter. Rosa warming you on cold nights. or... Rosa and Isobel talk about past trauma.

Also on AO3

Roswell, New Mexico masterlist Masterlist

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You’re shrouded in darkness when you wake. Long past midnight; you checked your phone with a heavy breath. A weighted breath that sits in your chest and doesn’t want to leave until you force it out. Under you, where you were lying before you sat up, moved your legs over the side of the bed, is sweat. You thought you were done with those. Nightmares so bad they make you want to cry once you realize that they’re not real. Just a memory gone by. Replayed. 

Why. 

Why can’t it just leave you alone? Let you live. 

For once. 

Instead, it’s a lurking shadow in the very back of your head. Once you’re comfortable, safe, it doesn’t hesitate to pounce at you, tear at you at your most vulnerable. As you stare down at your hands resting on your lap, it’s like you’re back there. They’re dirty with death, stained, despite not being stained at all. 

No. It wasn’t you. None of it was you. Actions controlled, unwanted. And you, you were asleep, practically gone, a mere husk left behind to be taken over. He wore your face, then peeled it off once he didn’t need you anymore. 

You were played with too much, every inch of you tearing at the seams. When you were brought forward, finally able to see through your own damn eyes, you couldn’t put the pieces you lost back together. Your precious mind, your beautiful but susceptible mind, was fractured. 

Is. Is fractured. 

So fractured that you don’t know if some of the things you see are real. If the slight red glow of your hands is real, or if you are buried too deep and you can’t climb out. 

You can’t take your eyes off of them, and your breathing wavers, unsteady, watching the glow become more significant, a deeper red. Rich red. Like his. When he— 

When you—

“Isobel?” There’s a feather-light touch on your back, and you jump out of your skin. Then, a crash. Glass hitting the hard floor. You turn towards the sound. A framed picture of you and Rosa. An important moment for you and her. Your first date. 

Your movements towards where the frame fell off the wall, smacked against the floor, are automatic. Not a single thought behind them. You flip on the light, you walk, you crouch, you don’t hear Rosa. Her worried words. 

“Don’t.” You put your hand out, seeing her shadow come into view on the floor. “There’s… there’s glass everywhere. Just…” You exhale. “Stay. Please.” 

Slowly, you nudge the frame aside and gather the shards of glass, each one settling in the palm of your hand. The bigger ones anyway. The ones that blend into the floor, too small to see, will have to be vacuumed up. 

“Isobel.”

You mumble curses under your breath. You don’t remember the last time you lost control like that. Too long ago. After that, it only happened when your emotions were erratic. But you’ve dealt with that, slammed the book shut. 

Well, maybe not. It seems. 

Despite your warning, Rosa reaches a hand out over the glass. It stops you from picking up anymore pieces, and you let it. “Cariño.”

You lift your head, and eyes meet. The eyes you gaze into every night before sleep takes a hold of you. Ones that somehow always know how to calm you down and bring you peace. You fell in love with them, hard. And you continue to fall over and over again. 

“It’s okay,” Rosa whispers, a soft smile tugging at her lips. She retracts her hand before cupping both out in front of her, waiting for the glass to slip from your hands into hers. “You’re okay.” 

You nod and give the glass to Rosa, careful. The last thing you would want is for Rosa to be hurt by something that’s your fault. “I… I’m sorry. I—”

She sets the shattered glass on the nearby dresser that you share. “What’s going on, Izzie?” she asks, and sits back down in front of you on the floor with her legs tucked underneath her. 

You flinch, not at the question, but at the nickname that expelled from her throat. Izzie. You don’t mind being called that, especially by Rosa. It was something that was discussed long before love grabbed you by the wrist and connected you to her. Though, right now, it feels… It makes you feel sick. A creep of nausea that floats around in your stomach, moments away from rising. 

What are you going to do with yourself, Evans? “It…” You clear your throat. “It was just a nightmare. That’s all.” 

Rosa narrows her eyes at you. “Just a nightmare? Really? That’s exactly what I told Liz when Max was infiltrating my head after he died, even though it got so bad that I started using again. So tell me. What’s going on, Isobel?” 

She repeats the question, and it swirls around in your head for seconds that seem too much like minutes with Rosa staring you down like that, expecting a true answer. Something real. But a part of you is afraid of her response to you still being affected by things that happened years in the past. What you believed you already healed from. Moved on. Started this new life. The Pod Squad. This family you built. You. Rosa. Little Louise. 

Telling her that it all still looms over you… What if it disappoints her? The pride from your growth and how you’ve softened, let yourself feel, become more you, vanishes in a single snap. 

You would choose silence over the storm brewing over your head? Allow it to engulf you? 

“It was about that night,” you start, slow. Wary of your words. “Y-you know. And when I woke up, I swore my hands—” 

Rosa takes both of your hands now. And that’s how you know she’s there. Listening. Over these crumbs of glass that used to hold one of the best days of your life.

“I-I thought I was okay. I had months, years, to…” Your voice strains, and you don’t bother controlling it, hiding it. Nor the trembling of your hands in Rosa’s. “I’m happier now. I’m not… broken anymore. So why does this have to come crashing in? It’s like there’s a net around my brain and every time I tell that night and all those years I was with him to leave, the net catches it and pushes them all back in. I just don’t understand. I don’t think I can keep doing this, and, and—” 

“Stop, Cariño,” Rosa whispers, and squeezes your hands, as if she’s grounding you, keeping you from ending up like the poor frame. The glass still on the floor. On the dresser. “You need to breathe. Take it slow. It’s okay. I’m right here.”

Your next breath comes out in a whimper, but after that, you try to follow how Rosa’s chest rises and falls. You close your eyes. Focus on what matters. What’s in front of you. Everything that you could have ever wanted and so much more. The feeling of Rosa’s hands around yours. The lines of her palms. The roughness of her knuckles from the dry air of winter.

Rosa warming you on cold nights. 

You sigh. Calm. 

“Better?” Rosa asks. 

You bring Rosa’s hand to your lips, mark it with a kiss, then lower it. “Yeah. I’m okay. J-just trying to understand.” 

There’s a softness to Rosa’s eyes as she gazes at you. It reads concern. A hint of sadness. But you don’t even need to look into her eyes to know that, know that she feels this way for you. 

Her aura bleeds it. Cooler colors, swirls of different shades of blue, an ocean. Waves push and pull, foam forming as they curl and crash. 

“You know, it doesn’t ever fully go away,” Rosa tells you. “No matter how much you heal. No matter how much time passes. We can try to forget, sure, but what haunts us sticks around. Still makes itself known every now and then.” She releases one of your hands to press her palm to your chest, right where your heart sits under. 

“We can be strong, but it can push us to fall apart when we believe we’re safe. When our walls are down. That’s just the reality of it, Amor.” Rosa pauses, a brief beat of silence except for your and Rosa’s breathing. You don’t realize that you’re crying until she catches the tears, and they melt on her skin. 

She starts again. “It doesn’t change who you are. Who you’ve become. The woman I’ve grown to love so deeply.”

You bow your head and sniffle, your mind failing you now when you need it most. To process. To understand. Better understand. But you know, like most things, it takes time. “Rosa—”

The bedroom door opens, and blonde locks sway as a little head peeks in. “Mommy?” Louise’s quiet voice has a hint of tiredness, like it is in the mornings, just waking up. She rubs her eyes as you rub your own, not wanting her to see that you’ve been crying. “Mama?”

Rosa stands and approaches your daughter while you stay, clean the rest of this up. You use your powers to gather the rest of the glass that’s scattered on wood and guide it where the bigger pieces sit on the dresser. They’re hard to see as they float, little specks, confetti. Or really light snow. 

The frame, with the picture inside, also finds a new home on the dresser, though you use your hands to set it there rather than your mind. With a sigh, your view changes. Rosa and Louise. Not something broken. 

But something entirely whole. 

“Did you have a bad dream?” 

Louise shakes her head. No. 

“Did your mom forget to leave water on your night stand again?” 

You chuckle at that one. A demand Louise had once she turned three because she kept waking up in the middle of the night thirsty. Since then, when you go to tuck her into bed, wish her goodnight, you leave a cup of water for her just in case. A cup with a lid so it doesn’t spill.

Of course, only one time, you forgot, and Rosa hasn’t yet let that down. 

To that, Louise shakes her head. No. She looks past Rosa, and Rosa’s eyes follow. “Mommy’s okay?” she asks. 

Rosa opens her mouth to answer, but you beat her to it. Your steps are quiet on the hardwood, cold to the bottoms of your feet. You don’t hesitate to lift Louise into your arms, and, as natural as breathing air, her face finds your neck. And everything that was plaguing your mind from your nightmare fades, replaced with a love you never thought you would get to feel. Not ten-some years ago anyway. 

Strong emotions scream at you, radiating from her. Worry. Fear. If she didn’t have a nightmare… (unless she was lying, but you would’ve been able to sense that from across the room). “What’s going on, Little Star?” You stroke her hair, each strand tangling between your fingers. 

“I was cold,” she mumbles, her breaths warm on your neck. 

“Do you need another blanket?” 

“My room is okay.” 

You shift Louise in your arms to make it more comfortable on yourself. “Is your bed too close to the window, Louise?” you question, and you pass a look of confusion to Rosa. She reciprocates it, trying to make sense of your daughter’s responses, just as you are.

Louise shakes her head. “Just cold, Mommy. You’re okay?” 

Cold. “I’m okay. I promise.” You don’t press anymore and kiss the side of her head. 

You’re still not understanding, though it might be because the moon is glowing among the stars, and your body and mind are aching to find sleep again. Seems like Louise’s is, too, as her grip on you loosens, and she yawns. Back to bed for her. Then, back to bed for you and Rosa. Sleep not disturbed. Only peace behind your closed eyelids. 

Rosa’s hand snakes to rest on the small of your back. “Tuck her in. I’ll clean the rest of this up,” she whispers into your ear. “Don’t worry about it.” 

You go to protest because the accident was yours, but you decide against it. You kiss her instead. It doesn’t last long, but it leaves a mark on your lips you won’t forget. Just like all the others. “I love you.” 

By the time you reach Louise’s room that’s right down the hall, she’s already asleep in your arms with quiet snores, a fist full of your hair in her hand. 

Upon lowering her into her bed, you uncurl her hand to avoid any pulling, and she settles, a whine expelling from her throat. You unfold the comforter, and you watch her, this being you created. Breathing. Her little nose twitching. 

She’s growing faster than you’ve anticipated, and so are her abilities. The passive ones. The ones that you, Max, and Michael had right out the pods, before alien puberty kicked in. 

Louise sensed your distress, and it woke her up. Just like you can sense hers. A ringing in the back of your head. 

You wish for time to slow. You wish she couldn’t feel you like that. You wouldn’t want that of your own enemies, let alone your daughter. It's who she is. Who she will be. That’s nothing you can stop. Erase. You don’t doubt that she’ll become an empath, a gift passed down from your mother to you. Then, you to her. 

You try not to let that scare you. 

Try. 

Arms wrap around you from behind. A kiss on your shoulder. You sink into it, Rosa’s arms that hold you close, as your hands linger on top of her own. You’re okay, living the life you've always wanted, embraced by a cloak of warmth. And the girl snug in her bed, her head dreaming of only good, she’ll be okay.

[thefae-journal]

DC Masterlist

Wondercheetah * Three Nights

[thefae-journal]

Inspired by one of @thefae-journal’s fics

Jane: This is bad. This is really bad!

Nancy: What is it?

Jane: I kissed Olivia

Cynthia: Welp. We owe Hazel Frosty’s now.

[thefae-journal]

break myself into pieces (i hate myself so you could love me more)

fandom: The Stand (2020) pov: second person, Nadine

word count: 348 warnings: mentions of Nadine's death, mentions of Harold's death, Nadine's fucked up storyline and her relationship with Flagg

summary: Since you were twelve, you thought of this as a fairytale dream. You absorbed each little piece of it, carried it with you as if your life relied on these pieces. As if these pieces kept you together, made you complete.

Oh, how wrong you were.

or...

A reflection of Nadine's losses.

Also on AO3

The Stand (2020) Masterlist Masterlist

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You’re not you anymore. Every ounce of you was stripped away in the dust of desert. And when Larry tells you to look at yourself, you finally see it. What he has done to you. No longer this living breathing being. Instead, you’re a sheer phantom, embodying what you've lost.

Humanity. 

With the humanity that’s gone, you don’t feel your heart beat in your chest, under the bruised and broken skin, tangled in veins where the blood is absent. Emotions are void, your real emotions, hidden in this facade of euphoria to be his queen—because, really, that was all you wanted, wasn’t it? That’s why you let him control you, let him tell you what to do. That’s why you’re here, staring out the window at your torn self, several floors up.

You always knew that you were going to abandon Harold, since the bomb went off, since you left—Larry, Joe. You always knew that it was just going to be you. He only wanted you. You always knew that once you arrived in New Vegas, he was going to kill Harold. Might as well do it yourself. 

His bike slid across the road, over the cement wall. A steep cliff lay on the other side. 

You continued on your way, to the city he called you to. The city where you were meant to be. You didn’t make it there on your own. He found you first. Took you home, finally free, wanted, but an unaware shell of yourself. A shell. A husk. Merely a body for new life to feed on. You didn’t know. You didn’t know.

Since you were twelve, you thought of this as a fairytale dream. You absorbed each little piece of it, carried it with you as if your life relied on these pieces. As if these pieces kept you together, made you complete. 

Oh, how wrong you were. Because this new life eats at you, devours you until you fall. You take this new life, his prince, with you, and you don’t come back. White now doused in red.

[thefae-journal]

all my self worth depends on you (how much longer can i do this for?)

fandom: The Stand (2020) pov: second person, Nadine

word count: 327 warnings: just Nadine's fucked up storyline and her relationship with Flagg

summary: Your first real home, you were pushed aside. Left alone, and a part of you was relieved when they died because at least then, you wouldn’t feel invisible.

or

A reflection of Nadine's insecurities.

Also on AO3

The Stand (2020) Masterlist masterlist

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Your whole life, you’ve never truly been wanted. Cared for. Not the way kids should be. Not the way people should be. Your first real home, you were pushed aside. Left alone, and a part of you was relieved when they died because at least then, you wouldn’t feel invisible. 

At twelve, you were shoved into a state home, and maybe, that was for the best. 

It was always known, through whispers and chatter between the girls in the state home, that this was where they were going to be until they turned eighteen. Until they were old enough to be thrown out into the wild, no longer the state’s problem. 

When you asked why, one of the older girls, around fourteen or fifteen, told you, Couples want babies; they don’t want grown kids like us because we’re already damaged. 

You were already damaged.

You took that to heart, (and you carried it with you at thirty-seven when you found Joe—after the destruction and chaos of Captain Trips—in Pennsylvania). 

Though it may be true, he didn’t care. Hell, the more damaged, the better. So he could twist every organ inside you and make you his. And he did. His queen. He wanted you when no one else did.

With writing scratched up on the wood floorboards, a stone pendant sat against your chest, rising and falling steadily. There was a light pink shimmer to it, a glow that seemed unreal. Your mind struggled to wrap itself around what happened, but a sense of calmness echoed, and you couldn’t ignore that. You closed your eyes and embraced it. 

Upon arriving at Boulder Free Zone, you don’t feel it, feel him anymore, when he walked in your shadow for years. You are back to being alone, and as you look in the mirror of the vanity in your new bedroom, here, in Boulder, what should be your new home, you ache. 

You’ll try talking to him tonight.

[thefae-journal]

The Stand (2020) Masterlist

Nadine Cross-centric * all my self worth depends on you (how much longer can i do this for?) * break myself into pieces (i hate myself so you could love me more)

[thefae-journal]

Request #1: can you write a fic about the pink ladies being suspicious because jane and olivia are acting weird and while they are at a soc party (that they crash) they see olivia and jane sneak off and then the pink ladies catch them making out in a hall closet (from anon)

Fandom: Grease: Rise of the Pink Ladies Ship: Faccivinos pov: third person

word count: 1096 warnings: n/a

Grease: Rise of the Pink Ladies masterlist masterlist

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Another Soc party at Dot’s house, and the Pink Ladies heard word of it in the hallway after third period. Of course, just like last year, they are going to crash it. It was Olivia’s idea, and Jane, surprisingly, agreed before Olivia could finish her sentence. 

Last year, when Nancy brought it up that the Socs were having a party, Jane was uncertain. Hesitant. Then again, Jane is more confident now. Carefree. Different, thanks to the Pink Ladies. It has nothing, absolutely nothing, to do with Olivia. Or how close the two have been getting since their senior year at Rydell started. 

The lingering glances. Their hands brushing for a brief moment, then retreating as if they remembered that they weren’t alone. Hazel, the most observant of the Pink Ladies, took notice and told Cynthia. Cynthia told Nancy. And now, theories spin among the three of what’s going on with Olivia and Jane.

“Are you sure this is a good idea? Didn’t last year turn out horribly?” Hazel asks, walking beside Nancy and Cynthia on the street towards Dot’s house while Jane and Olivia stay in front of them. 

“For the Soc boys,” Jane chimes in. She tries to hold back her giggles, but lets them go, and Olivia’s own follows. The two lean into each other as their laughter echoes in the empty streets. 

“Poor boys were locked away in the study after we spiked their drinks with castor oil.” 

“You locking them in the study was genius, Olivia! Were you really a girl scout?” Jane asks, her fingertips reaching for Olivia’s, only achieving a light touch against her palm. 

A smirk tugs at Olivia’s lips. “You’re looking at troop twenty-seven’s girls scout cookie champion—selling the most girl scout cookies for five years straight.” 

That must explain Olivia’s determination during Jane’s student council president campaign and the desperate need to change Rydell, make Rydell fun for everyone and not just the Socs and populars and everyone else who didn’t feel like an outcast. 

Although Hazel can’t see it, she can certainly feel it—the awe in Jane’s eyes as she gazes at Olivia. The energy oozes from Jane as it always does, to any of Olivia’s actions that she might find inspiring.

“How charming,” Jane mumbles into Olivia’s ear.

Her determination could be a result of her unbreakable loyalty to Jane. The way that Olivia never left Jane’s side. She fought for Jane beyond what her body and mind could take, even though the world was stacked against them—the possibility of a girl president leading Rydell.

And despite the quarrel that could’ve torn apart the Pink Ladies permanently, they mended things, and it was like nothing ever happened. They were back to being arm-in-arm, telling each other secrets at Pink Ladies sleepovers through whispers in the dark of Jane’s bedroom. Except… closer. Much closer than any of the other Pink Ladies expected. Almost, closer than friends—like Cynthia and Lydia, Hazel thinks. 

When the two run off after arriving at Dot’s house, their hands clasped in each other’s, suspicion rises among the three Pinks. 

...

Jane has never been with a girl before. Neither has Olivia. Not when it’s not normal, when society frowns upon it—two girls being more than just friends. Two girls existing in the way that a girl and a boy might. 

Although Olivia and Jane often let their guards down just a little while around the other Pinks, mostly because of Cynthia, anywhere else, their interactions become more saturated. Olivia tries her best to keep her hands to herself and Jane tries not to gaze at Olivia like she’s a three-course meal at the finest five-star restaurant. 

Alone, well, they finally let go. Breathe.

In one of many Dot’s closets that she has in her house, Jane and Olivia hide out, dodging clothes and jackets and hat boxes as their hands find each other’s waists and lips meet like they have so many times before in the safety of Jane’s bedroom on the weekends or sometimes after school. Outside, the Socs and what’s left of the Pink Ladies play their own kissing game. There’s laughter and music and groans, and all of that is faded in Olivia and Jane’s ears; they’re drowning in each other. Their own pounding heart beats and heavy breaths. 

They forget, that even though they’re alone in this closet, they’re not alone in this house—this very giant house. And they forget the time that passes by. They forget that their kisses are forbidden despite how alive their collided lips make them feel. How Olivia’s lips stain Jane’s in red. 

They forget that the closet door can open and light can shine in on them. An unwanted spotlight. 

No longer shadowed in the safety of the dark, Olivia pulls back, and her hands fall from Jane’s waist. 

“What? Why did you stop?” Jane asks. 

Olivia clears her throat and gestures toward the now open closet door, Nancy, Hazel, and Cynthia standing on the other side stunned. Except for Hazel who’s smiling, her arms crossed. 

“O-oh.” Jane steps away from Olivia and brushes her hands on the skirt of her dress. “We can explain.” 

Hazel shakes her head. “You don’t need to. We made a bet the moment you two ran off. Cynthia and Nancy owe me milkshakes from Frosty’s now.” She says this with pride, a confidence that the Pinks rarely see in her. 

“But we’re happy for the both of you. Surprised—” Cynthia starts, until Hazel cuts her off with her giggling. 

“No, we’re not.” 

There’s a beat of silence, one that’s kind of awkward, as the pair stand still in the closet, their looks moving between Hazel, Nancy, and Cynthia like they’re waiting for one of them to say something. If any of them have something to say. Or the trio is waiting for Olivia and Jane to say something. Denial of their actions. Frantic explanations, even though Hazel said not to explain because they already know. It’s clear, like the night sky on their walk here, and the night sky when they go home. 

And when they do go home, they don’t have to hide it anymore. Not from the other Pinks. Relief settles in them at the thought. 

“Okay. Well… we will, um, leave you to it,” Nancy says, then turns to leave, back to the living room. Cynthia follows closely behind, and so does Hazel after she closes the closet door.

Olivia and Jane are back in the dark, and they can’t help but laugh. Yet those laughs soon die down and end with a kiss. 

[thefae-journal]

hi

i love your jane x olivia fics

can you write a fic about the pink ladies being suspicious because jane and olivia are acting weird and while they are at a soc party (that they crash) they see olivia and jane sneak off and then the pink ladies catch them making out in a hall closet

thank you!!

Hi Anon!

Thank you so much! That means a lot to me. I'm glad that you're enjoying my Faccivinos fics.

I apologize for responding to this rather late (by like five months), but I didn't see this until October.

I am working on it right now; it's just taking a bit because I'm writing it in third person, which I don't normally do, and third person is more difficult for me to write. Hopefully, I can get it done soon, but I'm also currently writing a Faccivinos multi-chap fic and a Gretson smau on twitter, and I'm back to working as well, so I'm trying to balance everything out as best as I can. But once I do finish it, I'll definitely post it!

Thank you again for the request!

-Neradia

[thefae-journal]

small reminders you writers might need

Your story does not have to be perfect from the start

A shitty draft is still a valuable draft

A failed story does not equal a failed writer

Your creativity, thoughts and ideas are irreplaceable, and you are more than capable of creating something extraordinary

Rome wasn’t built in a day, give yourself time to grow

You will figure everything out, take a break if you need one

[thefae-journal]

Signs You Should Write The Story

1. You can't stop thinking about it

2. It would be exciting and fun to write

3. It's meaningful to you

WRITE THE STORY

[thefae-journal]

better than drugs

[thefae-journal]

50 tips for (fanfic) writing

have fun

write whatever is interesting to you, even if it won’t be interesting to anyone else

appreciate kudos when they come, but don’t expect them

appreciate comments when they come, but don’t expect them

if you wish you could just write that one scene you have in your head, do that. you don’t need to create a 30K backstory for it first.

embrace one shots

embrace drabbles

embrace writing your story out of order

rough drafts are meant to be rough. if you can’t think of a word, put in a placeholder for it and keep going. 

try not to get stuck on the little things

it’s okay if your readers can’t see the picture inside of your head

some people work well when they have a posting schedule. some people work well when they don’t. it’s okay if you don’t know which kind of person you are, and it’s okay if the type of person you are changes over time.

if a rule you created for yourself isn’t working for you, get rid of that rule.

make fandom friends. even if they don’t read your fic, they’ll cheer you on while you write it.

cheer on other writers you know. you’ll be cheering yourself at the same time.

no trope or genre is better or worse than another one. they all just appeal to different audiences.

quality and popularity are not the same thing, although they do sometimes overlap

numbers and statistics will never tell you whether or not you’re a good writer. they will never tell you how valuable you are as a person. 

you belong in fandom if you want to be there

you’re a writer as soon as you start writing things

writing and posting are two different things. your story is still worth writing, even if you never plan to share it

you don’t need to apologize for what you write or what you post. 

don’t worry about taking up too much space. the internet doesn’t have a maximum size. 

keep your readers in mind when you’re tagging your content. how could they search for your fic? if you use a tag, will be a reader who loves that tag be satisfied with how much it appears in your story?

if you have a relationship in your fic that plays a minor role, tag it in the Additional Tags section instead of the Relationship section so that people who love that ship don’t get their hopes up

be cautious when looking at bookmarks on your fic. they aren’t “extra comments.” that’s a space where readers make notes for themselves and each other, not for authors. 

you don’t need to know everything about canon before you start writing fic

you don’t need to read fic in the same fandoms you write for

you don’t need to read fic at all in order to write it

love your work because sometimes you’re the only one who will - and that’s okay

if your hobby starts feeling like a job, you might need to take a break before you get burnt out

if you get stuck on a story, you can always start a new one

if you fall out of love with a story, you can always stop writing it. if you’re worried about your readers, you can always give them a bullet point summary of where you were planning to go with thing. for a lot of people, that’s satisfying and provides closure

if you get hate, report it

use the tools at your disposal to block hate before it can come in (limiting or turning off comments, limiting or turning off asks, blocking users, etc)

try replying to comments sometimes. it can be a lovely way to make fandom friends

don’t be afraid to reblog your own writing posts.

if you get stuck on your summary, just write 1) who the story is about 2) what they are doing and 3) what problem gets in their way

notice when your writing makes you smile. that moment is a gift. enjoy it.

notice when your writing makes you cry. that moment is a gift, too.

even if you’re disappointed in how your story turned out, there’s something in there that’s fantastic. find that thing and focus on it and feel proud.

some ideas are ones you want to write. some are ones you want to read. if you ever have too many ideas to deal with at once, give some of the latter ones away to someone else. 

sometimes the things you write will be really personal. be careful about putting them where other people can comment. they won’t know how personal it is for you, and you need to remember that comments aren’t about you, they’re about the story.

remember that you can write series as well as stories. if the story is done but you still have passion or ideas, start a new one in the same universe.

enjoy the satisfaction of finishing a story. savour it. bask in it a little while.

don’t feel guilty about abandoning a story. not every story gets finished, and that’s okay

you can have separate accounts for different fandoms. you can have one account with a million fandoms in it. do whatever works for you.

sometimes writing is more important than sleep - but only sometimes

it doesn’t matter if that story has been written before by someone else. it doesn’t matter if it was written by you. write it again.

only follow the advice that makes sense to you. the rest isn’t important.

[thefae-journal]

“how did you get into writing” girl nobody gets into writing. writing shows up one day at your door and gets into you

[thefae-journal]

people who do not write will never understand when we say the characters and the story have a will. at some point i am not even writing it i am just narrating whatever the fuck they do.

[thefae-journal]

tripping the wires

fandom: Grease: Rise of the Pink Ladies ship: Faccivinos pov: second person, Jane

word count: 3,623 warnings: n/a

summary: That night she snuck in through your bedroom window, drenched from the rain. You helped dry her off with a spare towel from your bathroom, and everything seemed to fall into place.

- "i want more (just not this)"

Also on AO3

Grease: Rise of the Pink Ladies masterlist masterlist

/////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

This is where it started. Under the bleachers, you approached her while her head was buried in a book. You don’t remember which book it was, but that detail doesn’t matter. Like it was nothing, she told you off. Her words cut deep. 

Take a glass half full and drown in it then. 

Yet, there she was, standing with you on stage after she was the first person to endorse you. Stood and flashed her ass to the entire eleventh grade, with you. 

Stole Gil’s car. Made you buttons—and kissed every one of them. Snuck out of detention. Tried her best to make sure that people didn’t hate you.

For you. Everything she did. Does . That can’t just go ignored. And it doesn’t. 

She didn’t let you drown, no matter how full the glass was and how much it overflowed. 

You thought that this was normal friendship stuff. This was how friendships worked. You’ve never had any friends, not in the first fifteen years of your life. Not really, not like this. And just like that, that wasn’t how it was anymore. So suddenly, Olivia Valdovinos held your hand and didn’t let go. Couldn’t let go. 

At the Frosty Palace, your hand brushed hers on the seat of the booth, under the table. You were sitting beside her, and Nancy, who was off the clock but still in her uniform, was on the other side of you. Then Cynthia was next to Nancy, and Hazel on the other side of Olivia. Chatter of winter break plans floated through the somewhat empty Frosty Palace. Slow day. 

“I’ll have to come here as much as I can,” Olivia said. “To see all of you, but most of break, I’ll be with my family. Now that Richie is back—” She shook her head, her curls slightly bouncing. “I can’t stay away from you for too long. I might go insane.”

Everyone laughed, even you—a light giggle that leaped from your tongue. 

“What about you, Jane? Not seeing us every day, how will you survive?” she teased, and nudged your shoulder with her own. “Won’t you miss me?” On the light blue leather of the booth, pinkies touched, then linked. As if it was normal. Right. 

Feeling your cheeks heat up, you bowed your head and stared at your hands. How your pinkies fitted so well together. You imagined what it would be like if it was her whole hand. Her whole hand captured by yours, embraced by yours. But you already knew what that felt like—she held your hand at the fall carnival. That was different… somehow.

“Of course I’ll miss my Pinks. I love you guys, but break is only a week, and we can still hang out.” 

“I would like that,” Hazel chimed in. “It’s been a few weeks since we’ve had a sleepover, all together.” 

Sleepover. You lifted your gaze, and Olivia was the first in your view. With no effort at all, her just existing, being, sweeping locks of her hair over her shoulder, your breath hitched like it was stuck in your throat and couldn’t properly be expelled. Her hair had gotten a little longer since the fall, before Thanksgiving. What you would give to run your hand through it…

This didn’t make any sense. She was your best friend, just your best friend. Nothing else beyond that. And friends… they didn’t think of each other like that, in that way. When she smiled, it warmed you from the inside out. This warmth sat in your stomach, crawled through every vein in your body. Blood boiled to a simmer that rose to your cheeks—flush. 

When she looked at you, touched your shoulder and her thumb brushed along the material of your dress. Every time she was at your side during the days that were sour. You’re enough. 

You’re Jane. 

Her little chuckle when those words came out of her mouth. 

How you wished then that she tucked your hair behind your ear. Just a little. Only a little.

Olivia squeezed your pinkie, and you were brought back to Nancy’s hand waving in front of your face. 

“Hello, Earth to Jane,” Nancy said, retracting her hand. “Did you hear anything I said?” 

“I—” You glanced around the table, at each of the Pink Ladies. Hazel and Olivia’s genuine concern, Nancy’s very clear annoyance that she might have to repeat everything. You couldn’t read Cynthia, her head tilted to the side. But her eyes seemed focused, studying you almost, for a moment before she blinked it away. “No.” 

“Where was that head of yours, huh?” It was no longer just pinkies, but full hands clasped together. Olivia moved them to her lap, and keeping your composure after spacing out became harder to do. “You’re always running, Janey. Slow down for a second.” 

Janey.

Nancy groaned and crossed her arms over the table. “Sleepover. My house instead of yours.” 

“O-okay? Are you asking or…?” 

“Yes, I’m asking!” 

“You know you didn’t have to ask. I’ve always wondered why none of you ever offered to do a Pink Ladies sleepover not…” You paused, feeling Olivia’s fingers spread yours apart so hers could fit in between. You opened your mouth to at least try to say something. Nothing came out. You couldn’t finish what you were saying because Olivia caught your tongue or zippered your lips shut. 

Hazel adjusted her glasses. “Not… what?” 

You cleared your throat. “I… um…” 

Sweat built up in the cracks of your palms, even the one Olivia was holding. That meant that she would feel it. That meant that she would know you were nervous—because your hands were always sweaty when you were nervous or flustered. That meant that Olivia would ask you if something was wrong. That meant that Olivia would be more concerned than she already was. Maybe ask more questions than you could handle. 

Your grip on Olivia’s hand tightened, uncomfortably tightened, and you started feeling the pressure of the Pinks’ eyes on you. Waiting. Waiting for anything to leave your mouth. One word. The slightest noise. A single breath. 

Olivia’s other hand found yours, now enveloped, like a hug. And for a moment, you eased, finally exhaled. “Jane? Are you—?” 

“I’m fine! I’m fine. I just need to, um…” You gestured to Nancy and Cynthia to leave the booth. Once they did, a bit confused as to why they had to, your hand slipped out of Olivia’s, and you slid out of the booth like it was fire under you. You needed to get out. You needed to be alone. Breathe. Fucking breathe. 

You rushed to the bathroom. Turned on the faucet of one of the sinks and let the water run. Your hands rested at either side of the sink, grasping at the white. If nails could dig into porcelain, make a dent, yours would. 

What the hell was wrong with you? Your eyes met the matching ones in the mirror. Your face was all red, eyes close to watering. You sniffled. “Fuck.” 

“Jane?” It was Cynthia.

You jumped and twisted the knobs of the faucet to stop the cold water from flowing. You dried your eyes. 

You didn’t even hear the door open. 

“I’m okay,” you reassured her. “I just—” 

She leaned back against the bathroom door. “You like Olivia, don’t you?” 

You did. Do. When those words crept to your ears, reality set in. Truth set in. It was out there. Cynthia knew—just by how you looked at her. There was no more escaping it. There was no more not knowing what this was. What your feelings were. What they meant. 

After your talk with Cynthia, you went back to the booth, sat next to Olivia like you weren’t just telling Cynthia how your whole heart would swell at the sight of her barely minutes ago. She leaned close to you to whisper into your ear: “Are you okay?” 

You nodded. 

You wish you don’t have to hide from her.

Almost midnight, and you are lying in your bed, tucked in, lights off. All you can think about is her. Your mind simply won’t shut itself off even though it needs to because the tiredness in your body is reaching your eyes, and they are starting to ache. You try to rub them awake with your knuckles, but it doesn’t soothe the sleep that’s bound to catch them. 

Rain pounds against the roof, and although this usually lulls you to sleep, tonight, it’s ineffective, as you toss and turn. Pull the comfort close, then shove it away, then pull it close again. Scream into your pillow. Cry. So much crying. Out of frustration. Pain—internal pain. Pain that makes it seem like your chest is tight or your stomach is upset, but it’s just the result of every single thought passing through your brain that you’re struggling to piece together because of how fast they’re going. 

On your stomach, you bury your face in your pillow, hugging it—the same position you sleep in when you have cramps. The pressure to your stomach makes it better, relieves the spasms that plague you. You wonder if the pressure of your forehead pushed in the pillow would do the same—flip that thinking switch, turn it off. Like Olivia said: slow down. 

You laugh. Slow down? Jane Facciano, slow down? That’s too much like a fantasy. 

Jane Facciano doesn’t slow down. Not in her head. Not in her body. 

Unfortunately. 

Not when Olivia is stuck in the webs. Not when you can’t stop thinking about kissing—

Shut up. Just shut up. 

Shut up. 

As if your brain is listening, it goes quiet, except for the tapping of glass. Tapping that isn’t inside your brain at all, but outside of it. At your window. 

Slow, you fold the comforter over, put on your glasses, and approach the window. Lights still off, darkness encasing your bedroom. No shadows linger on the carpet floor or the pink walls, until you pull open the curtain, and bits of the street lights shine through. On the other side of the window is Olivia, soaked—her hair, her clothes, her skin, her face. 

“God, Olivia.” You wave your hand down, signaling for her to duck, before pushing the window open. You help her climb in, then close the window so rain doesn’t get in and dampen the cushion of the window seat. 

When you turn, she's standing in front of you, a victim of the downpour. But still, beautiful. So damn beautiful. 

In her wet clothes, she shivers, and seeing her chin and lips quiver, you guide her to your bathroom without a word. Shut the door. Lights on.

You grab a towel from the closet and wrap it around her shoulders. She tugs the towel at the corners, seeking more of it so her elbows are under it too. With your hands on her arms, you check over her—her face, her body—to make sure that she’s okay. Physically anyway. And besides being soaked from head to toe, she seems like she is. 

“I’m going to get you dry clothes, okay? Wait here.” You turn to leave the bathroom, but her fingers wrap around your wrist, stopping you. You go back to where you once were, your hands on her arms. You stroke them. “Are you okay?” you ask, your voice a low hum in the quiet of the bathroom. 

Olivia, oddly, avoids your eyes, staring down at the cream tile floor. You’ve never seen her like this. So frail and broken. A cat shoved into a corner with no possible way to flee. “I don’t want to be alone,” she whispers.

“Liv, I…” You pause, a long beat as you gather your words. “I’m here. You’re not alone, I promise. You need to get out of these wet clothes before you get sick. I’ll be back, okay? I’ll be gone…” You wipe away drops of water trailing down her cheeks from the rain, water dripping from her hair. “...only for a second. Well, um, not literally a second.” 

She laughs, then nods, giving you permission to go now. 

“Okay. Okay. I’ll be back,” you say.

But you don’t go. You lose yourself in her. The softness and vulnerability of the moment. The way her eyes finally meet yours. How her eyes are less brown under these lights. More blue. Or is it green? A combination of the two maybe. Either way, they’re— 

They truly are something special. Just like she is. 

You know that if you were to place your hand over your heart, it would be pounding, fast. If you leave, fetch her new clothes like you said you will, it might even out. Not be as fast as you imagine it is. Thumping, like when Fran used to jump from one stair to the next a few years ago instead of walking up them. If she touches you, your wrist, any spot that radiates a pulse, will she feel it, too? 

“I’ll be back,” you repeat with a heavy breath, and this time, you do go, the door left open behind you so she can see you. 

She can see you turn on one of your lamps, the one closest to your bed. She can see you at your dresser, browsing through each drawer. She can see you venturing into your closet, hear you humming to yourself. She can see you as you settle on pajama shorts and a long-sleeve button-up. Baby blue, no pattern. You give them to her, and she can’t see you anymore.

...

No, I… What makes you think that I do? She’s my best friend. I can’t— 

You surrendered. Is it that obvious?

Yes, but even if it wasn't, it just makes sense. 

What Cynthia said holds weight within your body. 

You’re practically attached at the hip. Wherever we are, you’re always next to each other. 

When Olivia quit the Pink Ladies, it was like you were going through a divorce. 

I know you’ve been having Pink Ladies sleepovers without us. Is it even a Pink Ladies sleepover if it’s only you and Olivia?

For the first time, you released every bit of your feelings for her. Said the scary parts out loud.

You wanted to be close to her. Always.

You couldn’t stand being away from her, and you truly thought that winter break was going to kill you if you couldn’t see her at least once during that week. 

You liked when she held your hand. You liked when it was just you and her, alone. 

Her abandoning her Pink Ladies jacket at your house felt like a break-up. The worst break-up that hit you hard, harder than you expected it to. 

That night, you wore her jacket to bed. Sobbed into your pillow. All because you thought you lost the most amazing person you had ever met. 

Your mom came into your room, hearing your sobs from down the hall, and she didn’t understand. She tried her best to comfort you, but it couldn’t stop the crack from forming in your chest where your heart resided. 

And when Olivia chose you, chose the Pink Ladies instead of getting married, you never felt more relieved. You wanted to cry right then and there, but kept it together, for her. That was what she needed. 

That is what she needs after walking through the rain, climbing up the wall garden and to your bedroom. You’ll do that, mute your aching just for a moment. Whatever she needs. 

I like Olivia. Maybe I even… love… her. 

You sit on your bed, your legs crossed like a soft pretzel, and you brush Olivia’s hair. Untangle it of the knots that came because of the rain. You’re gentle with her, slowly moving the brush from the top of her head to the tips that end below her shoulders. 

“Do you want to talk?” 

Olivia lowers her head, and you adjust to her movements, her posture. “Richie wants to ask you to… to… go with him.” 

You stop. 

“We had a fight. It woke my little cousins. He’s never—” She sniffles and brings her knees to her chest. “He’s never yelled at me like that before. We don’t… yell at each other. He was so angry, Janey.” 

You’re not sure you comprehend it. How an argument started from Richie wanting to try again with you. If anything, you’re flattered that he does. But… Richie is history. You have your eyes on someone else now, someone you can’t have. You have to pay the price for it. 

Falling for a girl. Falling for your best friend. 

You shake your head and continue brushing her hair. It’s not dripping anymore—just damp. 

“I said something that I shouldn’t have. It was stupid, and I wasn’t thinking. If I kept my mouth shut—” Olivia hiccups. “Girls aren’t allowed to have what they want. They have to take what they’re given and accept it. I didn’t… couldn’t accept it because what I want is too strong.” 

You finish up the last strands of her hair and set your brush down. All nice and smooth, like it should be. You know it’ll be soft once it dries, even if she doesn’t tend to it, pin it up, style it. “Your voice is just as important as his, if not more important.” You comb your fingers through her hair. “It’s important to me. You’re…” 

You’re important to me. 

Olivia looks over her shoulder at you, tears brimming her eyes. “I wish everyone was like you, Jane. I think life would be better if they were.” 

Your hand finds her back and lingers for a moment, before rubbing it up and down, hoping to calm her pending tears, the sadness that rules over her. “I think life would be better if everyone was like you.” 

“What? No, Jane, you don’t have to say that to—”

“I’m not. I mean it.” 

She sharply turns and hugs you, her arms around your neck. Despite the change in position, your hands still rest on her back. And your stomach, well, your stomach feels fuzzy. 

And you, you feel alive. 

As she buries her nose in your hair. 

How her fingers play with the baby curls on your neck. 

How this feels so… right, and it’s a hug. Just a hug. You’ve hugged her plenty of times before. But this hug, here, carries every single ounce of love that feels like home. 

“It upsets me when people don’t see it, don’t see you outside of… of your body and your looks. You have a beautiful brain inside that head of yours, Liv. And a beautiful heart. One of the biggest hearts I’ve ever seen. If people don’t see that, see who you truly are, it’s their loss,” you say. “I see you. I always have.” You pull away, only a little, enough to see her face and the tears present on her cheeks. “Olivia, you’re allowed to want things, even if the world says you can’t have them.” 

You already know. There are so many things you would beg to have, but the world isn’t kind. The world can give you a home one day and betray you the next. The world can give you love one day and rip it out of your arms the next. The pain it drops on you is too much to bear. The feelings you have for Olivia, the tugging it does of your limbs, is too much. 

It’s all too much, and there’s nothing you can do to escape it. Even when the world says it’s not right. Even when the world says it’s bad. Even when the world won’t let you love her because loving her causes the tide to travel in the wrong direction. 

But the wrong direction is the right direction. For you, this is what’s right. You and Olivia. This want to be with her, more than a friend would. And if you come crashing, you’ll crash together. 

If she wants this, too. If she wants… 

What if she doesn’t? What if all of this is just you?

Yet, you wipe her tears away with your thumbs as if it’s not. As if it is the both of you. She is in this, too. When she relaxes into your touch, you start to wonder… unless she’s yearning for comfort, any kind of comfort, and she’s not seeing your actions as something romantic.

Until her hand connects with yours, keeping you there on her cheek. “I’m so glad you asked me to be your campaign manager.” Your eyes drift down to her lips as she speaks. “And that I chose you.” 

“I am, too.” 

You don’t mean to do it again. You don’t mean to lean in. You catch your body acting before your mind can approve. You don’t try to stop yourself, because she reciprocates. She looks at your lips, too. She leans in, too. 

Is that why she and Richie fought? Because of you? Did her hand on yours, her soft breaths on your skin, her stolen glances of your lips force her to brave the rain? All the times she held your hand, asked to come over and stay the night, called you during weekends to say hi or that she misses you… 

You exhale and nuzzle your nose against hers. “Can I kiss you? Is that okay?” you whisper. 

Olivia nods, and the feeling you’ve only dreamed of, the feeling you thought you would never get to feel cascades through you, a sudden wave of warmth. A kiss. Her kiss. Her lips on yours. And everything you wanted, everything you thought you couldn’t have, falls into place.

[thefae-journal]

in the reflection of her glasses

fandom: Grease: Rise of the Pink Ladies ship: Faccivinos pov: second person, Olivia

word count: 2,047 warnings: n/a

summary: It’s not like Jane to fall asleep during a meeting. A Pink Ladies hang-out, or whatever Jane calls it. Some silly thing. Something oddly specific.

Something so Janey.

Also on AO3

Grease: Rise of the Pink Ladies masterlist masterlist

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She fell asleep with her glasses on. Closed eyes behind them, and the face that wears them is relaxed. Easy because her mind isn’t running in circles, stressing over her campaign. The only sounds she makes are little snores and slow breaths that match the movements of her chest. In and out. In and out. 

Pieces of her loose hair sweep in front of her face. As you’ve watched her for the past hour, lying beside her on her bed, you notice things about her that you haven’t really seen before, like sometimes, she wrinkles her nose—ticklish, or she’s dreaming. 

You so badly want to reach forward to move those strands of hair away, accidentally have your fingers brush along her cheek, but you would risk waking her. She should wake up on her own. Even though you’re a tad bit worried about her. 

It’s not like Jane to fall asleep during a meeting. A Pink Ladies hang-out, or whatever Jane calls it. Some silly thing. Something oddly specific. 

Something so Janey. 

She caught you at your locker before third period today and talked of plans for a Pink Ladies presidential campaign meeting (was that what she called it?) at her house. She already invited Nancy and Cynthia, and although you had your own plans to sit in the park after school and read, Pink Ladies come first. And, being completely honest, you can never say no to Jane. 

Gathered around Jane in her bedroom, surrounded by pink walls with painted clouds, the four of you brainstormed ideas, of ways to get her platform off the ground. You’ve done buttons, spent all night staining them with your lipstick. What was next? 

Cupcakes?

No, cookies. 

With ‘Vote Pink’ written on them!

Do any of you even know how to decorate cookies?

Variations of ‘no’ and shaking heads filled the space.

Maybe something simpler?

Rydell’s newspaper? Olivia could —

Cynthia. 

Nevermind. Maybe fliers? 

That’s not a bad idea. We can pass them out at the football game!

Oh, and at the Frosty Palace!

It was settled, then. The Pink Ladies were going to make fliers. Nancy volunteered to design them, her hand shooting into the air when the question was asked. 

A half hour, and that was it. But just as you were about to stand up from Jane’s bed, she grabbed your hand and guided you back down. Conversation started again. Not of the campaign, not of Rydell, not of Jane’s opponent. Instead, you talked about life things. Nancy’s new designs, Cynthia’s journeys as a thespian. Jane being Jane. It was nothing she hadn’t told you before. 

Another half hour mixed with laughter and words after words after words, and you spot Jane sleeping next to you, all curled up. You didn’t realize you were watching her, staring at her, until Nancy cleared her throat. 

“Jane’s asleep,” you whispered, and gestured to her. 

Cynthia and Nancy leaned over. “Oh. Long day?” Cynthia asked. 

“I don’t know.” 

Nancy crossed her arms. “You were with her all day, weren’t you?” 

“You were staring at her,” Cynthia said. “Almost—”

Nancy let out a dramatic gasp, like you would expect from her. “Mesmerized.” She and Cynthia exchanged a look. “Focused.”

Cynthia nodded. “Absorbed.” 

You hugged yourself, because, for a split second, you allowed yourself to crumble, and your friends saw it. All of it. Well, your friends, minus Jane. You needed to build that wall back up. If you could even build it back up. Collect each piece and place them together. Connecting perfectly, like it never collapsed in the first place. No cracks left behind. No cracks. 

So what could you say? Because they couldn't know that Janey had opened your heart. Pushed each and every last brick down, leaving you defenseless. But not in a bad way. In a way that would make it harder to resist the vulnerability. To let other people in, too far deep.

“No, I— I just wanted to make sure that she was okay,” you told them. Finally, your mind was slowing down enough to pick out words and phrases to form something coherent. And it wasn’t like it wasn’t true. You were making sure that she was okay. Maybe you got a little bit… distracted. 

Nancy and Cynthia didn’t seem convinced by your response, but they let it pass. “Should we wake her up?” Cynthia asked. 

No.  

The two of them left soon after—Cynthia had promised her dad she would be home for dinner and Nancy had a shift at the Frosty Palace. 

And you? You said you would stay with Jane. I don’t want her to freak out when she wakes up and no one is here. I don’t… want to leave her, not by herself. Once you walked Cynthia and Nancy out, you joined Jane on the bed, lay down on the opposite side, and slipped her blue (bear?) plushie into her arms. 

You take them off, her glasses, and fold them. Gentle and careful. You place them on the bedside table on the side you lie on. Somehow, you manage not to disturb her. When you turn back to her, she’s still asleep. Odd, knowing that, for Jane, just the smallest of movements or sounds can wake her. 

At the Pink Ladies sleepover last weekend, if any of you woke up, she woke up too. Even the rustling of blankets disrupts her sleep. You don’t know how she sleeps through the night.

Having not gotten a single minute of sleep, she told all of you the next day that she can’t do sleepovers anymore. A rule she created so she wouldn’t end up sleep deprived, no focus or attention lost. No falling asleep in class. 

On Monday, she did fall asleep during Algebra, her favorite class. She came to you after the bell rang, upset with herself. You closed your locker and met her gaze. Through her glasses, her eyes were full of regret and shame. 

Blaming herself for falling asleep in class. 

And again during a Pink Ladies meeting. Hang-out. Get-together. Whatever. 

You settle into a more comfortable position, your arm tucked under your head, and her open, tired eyes greet you. She blinks a few times and rubs the sleep out of her eyes with her knuckles, probably confused. Very confused. About why you’re lying beside her. Where the other Pink Ladies are. What happened. Definitely about what happened.

She goes to speak, parting her lips, but your fingers brush them before words can tumble out. “It’s okay,” you say. “Cynthia and Nancy couldn’t stay long.” You move your fingers away from her lips slowly. “They had other things to attend to, but I couldn’t leave you here by yourself.”

Jane nods, processing what you’ve said. You can tell—the gears in her brain are trying their best to function. She’s not awake yet. “Why didn’t you wake me? Wait.” She touches her face, panic flitting across her features. “Where—?” 

“On the table, on my side.” 

“Your… side?” 

You chuckle. “Don’t worry. I didn’t scratch them.” 

She nods again and glances down at the plushie in her arms, which she moves to the floor. She doesn’t let it fall, but stretches to lower it to the floor as if it would break if she were to drop it. 

God, she’s so—

“You didn’t have to stay.” 

“Do you sleep with your glasses on a lot?” 

“Yeah. I forget that they’re on my face sometimes.”

So Janey. 

So… 

No. No. You should go. Jane is awake now. She didn’t freak out. You did your job. You did what you told the others you would. Why stay any longer? 

You don’t need to, but something is nagging you, keeping you here, an anchor too heavy to lift back to the surface. An anchor that happens to have the name ‘Jane’ engraved at the center, in its heart. 

Your heart.

You can’t move from your spot on the bed. You can’t peel your eyes away from her. And you think that… maybe, she’s doing more than just bringing your walls down. Just by being in front of you. Just by simply existing. She has you captured, wrapped around the frames of her glasses. The ones that lay on the nightstand behind you.

On your side. 

Your side. 

“Did you, um, have another sleepover?” you ask. You just want your mind to stop.

“What?” 

“You fell asleep, so I thought—” 

“No, I was up all night studying. I had a really big test today.” Jane flops on to her back and stares up at the ceiling. Her arms cross over her stomach. “Really important, actually. And you know my mom wouldn’t let me have a sleepover on a school night.” 

Of course. “A test might be important, Jane, but…” You rest your hand on her arm, right by her shoulder. “...but sleep is just as important, if not more important.” You pause. “I really care about you.” 

She looks at you, shocked. She didn’t think so? Know so? 

“You care about me?” 

“Yeah, obviously. You’re…” My best friend. 

No. Far more than that. 

“I’m what?” 

Something special. The same words that left Jane’s lips when you locked the Soc boys in Dot’s dad’s study. The way those words made your heart skip. You remember that feeling. Like you swallowed a bunch of butterflies. You feel it now, but not only in your heart. It’s in your chest, too. The heat present in your cheeks. How right it feels when you hold her hand. Touch her shoulder. When you’re right next to her. 

Not just something special. Everything. 

Jane Facciano is everything. 

She faces you, completely, back to lying on her side, her head propped up by her hand. “Olivia? I’m what?” 

You try to speak, but nothing comes out. Words tied to the back of your throat. They’re unmoving. 

Hesitant, you tuck her hair behind her ear. The same hair that hung in front of her face as she slept. For a moment, your fingers dance over her cheek and the skin right by her hair line. You linger, and each second becomes longer, heavier. As if the earth’s rotation is slowing down. As if time is coming to a stop. And Jane… Jane has no idea. 

Yet, she leans into it. Eyes closed, she hums, a vibration of her lips you so wish to— “Liv.” 

Kiss. 

Can girls kiss girls?  

Your face is so close to hers that your breath touches it, a puff of warm air on warm skin. The pink of her cheeks. Like the pink of her lips you inch towards. 

You don’t care. Your lips press to the corner of her mouth, then you pull back and look at her for anything. Anything, but disgust. Hatred. Anger. What you receive is blank. An empty expression that you can’t decipher. The longer you’re in this unmoving silence, the more your chest tightens. The more you forget how to breathe. The more you drown in worry. The more you internally kick yourself for doing that. Ruining something so beautiful with something so stupid. It wasn’t a full kiss, but it was still beyond what friends do. 

And what if that scared her? What if you scared her? 

You lower your hand from her face and sit up, readying yourself to leave. Straightening out your skirt, fixing your hair. Dirt rests on your tongue, and you can’t wait to go home and scratch it all off and hope that it never returns. 

But you won’t have to. She grabs your wrist. She keeps you from leaving, again. You sit back down in front of her with a sigh. She doesn’t say a word, and instead, does what you thought she wouldn’t. 

Jane threads her fingers through your hair and guides your lips until they collide with hers. They mesh together like puzzle pieces, pink and red puzzle pieces. It’s so perfect and right, and your head fills with clouds, like the ones on her walls. Relief and joy flood through you. So much joy. 

You giggle, a teary giggle—she does too, as you come apart. Only to be brought back together, in each other’s arms. She buries her head in your shoulder. “You’re Jane,” you finally whisper. “My Jane.” 

[thefae-journal]

it's okay (she is you)

fandom: A League of Their Own ship: Gretson pov: second person, Greta

word count: 586 warnings: n/a

summary: You met on the streets of Chicago this past summer. Feelings dropped on your head so suddenly, when you least expected that they would. You played baseball together, did everything you could to stay hidden because the world is dangerous for you. For her. For anyone that doesn’t fit into normal.

or...

Gretchen asks Greta a question about her and Carson.

Also on AO3

A League of Their Own masterlist masterlist

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She asks you a question. Not a question that you were expecting her to ask since she got here. Not some random question of curiosity, a question one would ask if brought to the future. But the question. The question you’ve been dreading. The question you’ve been hoping she wouldn’t ask. 

As she is curled up against you on the couch with Carson on the other end, her mouth opens, words spill out, and nausea swirls in your stomach. 

Why do you and Carson sleep in the same bed? 

Then, she continues. 

“Last night, I had a nightmare and I went to your room and Carson was there, too. I didn’t want to wake you, so I left and went back to sleep on my own.”

Do you love her? 

Yes. Yes, you do, but is that something that you can say? 

You look to Carson, and the smile you fell in love with dawns on her lips. “It’s okay,” she assures. She is you. 

You lift up Gretchen just enough to settle her on your lap, your arms wrapped around her. Carson moves closer, to the middle couch cushion. 

She is you. 

So, you tell her: 

“Girls can like girls, like girls like boys.” And you love Carson. Carson loves you.

You met on the streets of Chicago this past summer. Feelings dropped on your head so suddenly, when you least expected that they would. You played baseball together, did everything you could to stay hidden because the world is dangerous for you. For her. For anyone that doesn’t fit into normal .

Cars, the woods, in the dark. But you’re glad now that you don’t have to hide anymore, not in your apartment anyway. Not here. Not from yourself. This little version of yourself that is strange to meet. To know. To learn and understand why you act the way you do. 

As much as you shouldn’t change things, you don’t want her to grow up like you did. You want things to be different for you. But who knows? Maybe when you find a way for her to get back to her own time, she might forget everything. Not a trace of memory of her time with you and Carson. 

No. 

You don’t want to think about that. 

“You like Carson like a girl would like a boy?” Gretchen asks, looking between you and Carson. “And Carson likes you like a girl would like a boy?” Before you can get a word out, answer her, she keeps going. “Mother said that that’s bad. Girls should only like boys.” She shakes her head. “That doesn’t make sense. How is love bad?” 

You tug her closer so she leans against you, her head on your shoulder. “It’s not. I don’t understand it either, Gretchen.” 

“That doesn’t matter, right now, right?” Carson says, tucking a stray lock of red hair behind your ear. “Here, it doesn’t matter.”

The rest of the evening, Gretchen moves back and forth between you and Carson’s laps, unable to decide where she wants to stay. By the time the sun goes down behind New York City’s horizon, she finally picks Carson, falls asleep as you read your book, and Carson peeks over every other page. 

There’s a peace here that you’ve never quite felt before, even after you moved to this apartment. Anxieties lifted. Yet, one step outside and all of that fades. 

You should breathe it in while you have it, so you don’t forget when you leave for work tomorrow.