sourweather-fics

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He's braced for anything, when he wakes in the dead of night to a presence in the threshold of his bedroom. Hannibal is turned away from the door, but he can feel the other man’s eyes boring holes into his spine. He makes an effort to appear relaxed, to disguise the fresh tension winding in his muscles. Will doesn’t move. Words scramble in the attic of Hannibal's mouth like rats in the darkness. None of them escape. A minute passes, possibly two. And then the door swings shut, with Will on the other side. Hannibal thrills in his wake. Adrenaline like giddy footsteps rushes down his back, he turns in bed and stares at the door with a near childlike wonder. The space where Will had been seems to shimmer, hot with potential like Summer air hovering above asphalt. What could it mean? Had Will been contemplating murder just now, standing like a specter in his doorway? Alive with churning rage and blood lust, his fist clenched deathly pale around the handle of a knife? No, no knife. Just Will.

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I'm so excited to finally be able to announce that I have an original novella dropping next Summer! It's called 'Summer Nights, Cigarettes, and Spearmint Toothpaste' and it's a nonlinear friends-to-lovers romance. I'm so proud of it, and I really hope you'll check it out when it comes out in 2025!!!

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"Do you like it?" Hannibal asks, his voice a rough whisper in Will's ear. He's looming at Will's back, the warmth of him ticking Will's spine. His lips brush the shell of Will's ear when he speaks. "I had it made especially for you." Will shivers, lets out a shaky laugh. "I hope you gave him a false address, otherwise we'll have the cops breaking down our door within the hour." Hannibal huffs softly, his breath sends tingles spilling down Will's neck. "I told him that it was for sex," he defends, and Will can't help but laugh again. "Oh, good. So either he thinks you're a serial killer and a liar, or just a fucking freak." Will doesn't have to look at Hannibal to know he's amused. "Do you think I'm a freak, Will?" "Definitely," Will breathes, and he starts undressing.

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maybe your fanfic doesn’t have to change someone’s life maybe it can just brighten someone’s day for a bit

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being a writer leads to a genuinely helpful but also very stupid kind of mindfulness where you'll be having a sobbing breakdown or the worst anxiety attack of your life and think "okay, I really need to pay attention to how this feels. so I can incorporate it into my fanfiction."

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When you get an unexpected uptick of kudos/comments/bookmarks on an old fic and it’s like… who recced it and where…. please….. i need to send a flower basket and include them in my will…….

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[sourweather-fics]

Adam looks up at Nigel when the door opens, crystal blue eyes flicking to his lover's mouth. His petal lips curl into a welcoming smile. "Hi." Not for the first time, Nigel is reminded of how exceedingly fucking lucky he is. "Steaua mea căzută," Nigel purrs, moving to kneel beside the tub. He leans close, and Adam turns his face to accept a soft kiss to his cheek. My fallen star. "You're up late." "I wanted to see you." He offers Nigel the book, and Nigel slips the bookmark sitting on the sink between its pages before setting it aside. "Well, I hope I was worth the wait," Nigel replies. He takes Adam's hand, kisses his knuckles, his wrist. Adam hums, graciously allowing it when Nigel starts kissing his way up the length of his arm. "I wanted to ask you if you could do something for me." "Anything," Nigel murmurs into his skin, and Adam giggles. It's true, though, and Nigel likes to think that Adam knows it. "I got a wedding invitation in the mail, today," Adam explains. "It said I could bring a plus-one. I was hoping you'd go with me."

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"So," she says, and begins pulling items from her bag. "I brought this white candle that my mom likes to put in the dinning room when she's trying to show off." She sets it in the center of their bodily circle, placing her usual silver lighter beside it. "And I got some incense. It smells like cinnamon. And I also brought some salt, just in case." "In case of what?" Alana asks, dubious. "Which one of us knows what they're talking about?" Margot shoots back, and Alana smirks. "None of us, I think." Margot just rolls her eyes. Alana is right, of course. Her girlfriend's fascination with fancying herself a 'witch' only began within the past month, she's barely more informed than Hannibal himself. Still, someone had to host their seance, and Margot was the best candidate available. Margot takes her lighter in hand, lights the incense and the candle. She takes a deep breath, shakes the nerves from her arms, and fixes Will with a wicked grin. "Okay, Will— whose ghost are we summoning? Marilyn Monroe? Ted Bundy? Maybe a dead Victorian chick who got burned at the stake for showing some ankle?"

[sourweather-fics]

NoSkipNovember

in light of the NaNoWriMo… trash fire, i decided i'd make my own event for myself. and if you want to participate, feel free! i know i'm making this post late as it's already november 1st here, but it happens AHAH. this is just a personal challenge i thought up yesterday evening, and it may help some other people!

Rules of NoSkipNovember

write every day of november, whether 1 word or 10,000.

that's it.

the point of NoSkipNovember is to build the habit of writing, even things that are small. it's to get you to sit down and, in whatever medium you write, to get in the habit of continuing to write.

what can you write?

anything! poetry, songs, outlines, plotting documents, books, short stories, as long as it's creative writing in some form, you are doing it right.

can i set a word goal?

yes!! if you want to set a daily word goal or the usual month goal, go for it! mine is the traditional 50k words, but you could set it for 500 or 500,000 or whatever you want. just be sure to take your time, and take breaks to stretch and move around.

does it have to be original fiction?

not at all, fanfiction is what i'm going to be focusing on, so if you wanna write that, you should!

i have another question

feel free to leave it in the replies or my inbox! i'm always happy to help. this is a very spur-of-the-moment, loose challenge, so feel free to make your own personal rules or stipulations. as long as you are having fun, getting some writing done, and feel accomplished, that's what matters.

that's it. have fun, hope you have a lovely NoSkipNovember!

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also. people really love to be like "most fanfic is bad" as a gotcha? bitch. most art ever made is bad where have you been. were you just born?

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Your body must be rested and fed if you wish to be a pervert.

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the issue with writing for yourself is that you will get sucked into rereading your own fic over and over and pretend it’s “editing,” but really you’re just reading because it’s exactly what you want to read. because you wrote it. for you.

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i love when an author truly understands a character so well that they can just put said character in any situation and still have them act correctly. like yeah okay hes a cat cafe owner. hes a middle school teacher. hes a dog. and hes acting exactly how he would act if he was a dog.

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I think my favorite genre of fanfiction is when the author says something like "this was meant to be 3 chapters but it's actually going to be 5" in the notes at the end of a chapter and you can look up at the chapter count and it's like 15 or something

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me when the devastating fanfic I chose to read is actually devastating

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“You’re always so fucking moody, you need to have a little fun.” “That’s what you’re here for, isn’t it?” I ask. “Isn’t it?” I blow out a breath that puffs my cheeks, knock twice on his counter top. If only Nigel knew that in my eyes, he’s the more responsible thing to do. He’s the sugar-free chocolate that’s supposed to keep me from buying a bag of M&Ms, a nicotine patch when I’m dreaming of one more fucking cigarette. It says something about your life, when having your tenth one-night stand with a man like Nigel Banyai is one of your less detrimental recent choices. Then again, I could be doing nothing. I could be at home, drinking on my couch, surrounded by my dogs and trying to think about anything else. Anything but Him. No one’s making me do this, and yet I do it, again and again. “I guess,” I concede at last, casting my weary gaze on Nigel’s too-familiar face as he places a glass of dark bourbon in my hand. “I suppose I wouldn’t keep coming here, if I wasn’t getting anything out of it.” Nigel whistles, takes a sip of his own drink. “You really know how to make a guy feel special, don’t you, angel?” he deadpans. “I can either stroke your cock or your ego, Nigel. I don’t have the energy to do both.”