#((titles are hard

[searching4sarahtonin]

Whenever I feel like I'm terrible at titles, I remind myself that Shakespeare literally titled two of his most popular plays 'lDK what this load of silliness is' (Much Ado About Nothing) and 'Whatever, I'm on a deadline' (The Twelfth Night, or What You Will).

[ritzcreation]

Creative title here

[jubilantmedusa]

Untitled Zukka Hurt/Comfort Ficlet #1 (because practicing drawing means I need to write little mini fics I guess...)

“You’re sick.” Sokka’s voice was as calm as the surface of water on a still night. Not a hint of accusation or contempt. No softness, no sting. Only observation. Reflection.

Zuko took a breath, deep to sooth his limbs that were threatening to shake. “I’m fine.”

Sokka frowned, and Zuko felt a knot form instantly in his stomach. His shivered, vision swimming as he saw the flash of another frown, superimposed. A different frown. Harsh. Sharp.

Sokka’s movements were calm. Fluid. Gentle as he raised his hand to Zuko’s forehead and pressed with just the right amount of pressure. “You have a fever.” Zuko felt his heartbeat pick up as Sokka’s lip began to curl, but as his expression settled Zuko realized that Sokka wasn’t angry, just concerned.

Zuko breathed deeply, pinning his arms to his sides before the other boy could notice that he was shaking now. Only, he must not have been fast enough because Sokka dropped his hand from Zuko’s forehead to grab Zuko’s trembling fingers. 

“Your hands are freezing.” Sokka hand tightened around Zuko’s as he pulled it upwards, pressing it against his mouth. Zuko couldn’t stop his hands from shaking even harder as Sokka’s breath warmed his skin.

—

“I can do that.” Zuko reached to grab his sleeping bag. “I’m fine.” Sokka lifted it over his head like they were kids playing keep away. Zuko huffed, crossing his arms, but let Sokka keep it.

“You’re not fine.” Sokka spread of the blanket. “How long have you been feeling sick?”

“Ugg.” Sokka paused. He looked up, holding  Zuko’s gaze until Zuko finally drawled, two days? maybe three.”

“Three days?!” Zuko felt his pulse quickening again, his shoulders bracing. “Why didn’t you say anything!” Even though Sokka’s voice voice was high he didn’t sound angry. In fact… Sokka’s eyebrows were scrunched, lips pressed thin. “You were training Aang this morning. Zuko, you shouldn’t be bending like that if you’re sick “ Sokka was worried.

“I’m fine.” How many times had Zuko said that now? “It’s just a fever. It’ll go away.”

“I mean, sure it will, if you rest. Can you, uh…” He gestured towards the sleeping bag, laid out and waiting.

“Oh.” It felt awkward to lower himself down when his legs felt so much like jelly, Zuko was sure it wasn’t graceful. But Sokka didn’t say anything, just stood there, eyebrow raised. Waiting. Zuko realized, then, that he was supposed to lay all the way down. So he did, somehow feeling boneless now that he wasn’t holding himself up. 

He blinked as Sokka settled a blanket over to his shoulders. It took Zuko and absurd number of seconds to realize that it was a blue blanket, one of Sokka’s own. Woven. Thick. Soft.

“Comfortable?” Sokka asked. When Zuko met his eyes he smiled.

It was nice, seeing Sokka smile. Zuko wanted to smile back, but he… there was a quivering in his stomach. Not sickness, just… waiting. “I’m fine,” Zukp said. When Sokka raised an eyebrow, he added, “I… feel fine.”

“I doubt that,” Sokka said.

“I do,” Zuko insisted. Yes, his body felt suddenly heavy. And his skin buzzed strange sensitivity that made event he gentlest touch feel like a scratch. But he was lying on his side, on something soft, and he was warm. “I… thank you.”

Sokka shrugged. “I didn’t do much,” he said. “Do you need anything else?”

Zuko thought for a moment. “Water?” He croaked.

“Coming right up, bud.”

Zuko let his eyes close for a moment, just listening to the sound of Sokka’s footsteps as he went back to the packs, the rustling of fabric as he was digging through something. Then there was a feeling, something hard brushing his fingers. Zuko opened his eyes to see a small, green glass. “A Ba Sing Se souvenir cup?”

“It was on sale,” Sokka said, chuckling. “Drink it. It’s medicine.”

“For what?” Zuko asked.

“The fever?” Sokka reminded him. “Do they… umm… not treat fevers in the Fire Nation or something?”

“Of course they do.” Zuko propped himself up just enough to tip the bitter liquid into his mouth before settling down again.

More sounds of shuffling as Sokka lowered himself, and then Zuko felt weight on his back as Sokka pressed into him, a hand settling itself onto his arm. Sokka’s touch was firm, but quiet. Soft. Sweet. “But not yours?” Sokka sounded sad.

Zuko swallowed. He remembered that feeling, tossing and turning as his skin crawled and his stomach churned. Waking up with a sweat drenched face but father still expected Zuko to do his katas. Run through his katas, go to school, sit up straight. There was punishment for slouching, even if he only slouched because he was shivering so hard he couldn’t mind his posture. “We were being trained to rule, Azula and I. Countries don’t stop because you have a cold.”

Sokka didn’t say anything, just started rubbing his arm. 

“You can rest now,” Sokka said after a while. “I can take care of you.”

Take care of him? Zuko tried to remember the last time someone had taken care of him. His Uncle had tried, of course, but Zuko had always pushed him away. He couldn’t let himself be seen that way - weak, sick. So he ignored the quiver in his Uncle’s voice when Iroh spoke to him from the other side of a metal door. And before that… before that his mother would, when father would let her. When Zuko was so sick that she’d block his bed with her body to keep father away, even if it cost her. Then sit with him and fuss his hair back with slender fingers.

“I’ll take good care of you,” Sokka said.

Zuko took a deep breath in. Not a sigh, just a breath, one to fill him up. He could feel his heart starting to race again, but... nicer this time, with Sokka so warm and solid against his back. He let the breath out. Slow. Controlled. Eyes still closed, he whispered, “Okay.”

[emanon8537]

~Arthur at Clemens Point~

[the-dragon-hearted]

I actually hate naming my creations because like... this title is way too serious, this title belongs in a shitpost, this title sounds like I'm trying too hard, this title would've made 12 year old me giggle, this title lays out the themes TOO well, this title forgot there was a theme, this title sounds like my mother censored my work -

[beautyinsteadofashes]

I've actually made a start on the mob au. Title suggestions welcome please!

[mysteroads]

So, PSA to the, what?, twenty to forty(ish)? people who've read my League of Villains in the Afterlife series... I am considering a change to the series name (again😅). And it's all because I found a lovely poem that works so perfectly with the theme of "Just cause we're dead doesn't mean we're not having fun and hanging out". I've even quoted it in-series. Here's the link ⬇

Death is Nothing at All

It's actually a very beautiful poem, popular at funerals (for extremely obvious reasons), but what do ya'll think?🤔 Heck, I want opinions from anyone who sees this post! Even if you've never read my series, even if you're not into the fandom! ✨Vote anyway!✨ Just for kicks and giggles! Then reblog and make this post someone else's problem!

[starsidesky]

Let's just say that there's a couple of Baldur's Gate 3 characters who are currently living rent-free in my head. A situation that has stirred the writer in me. So here's a little vignette (honestly, I wasn't sure what to title this) about Isobel contemplating the aftermath of Act 2. (Potential spoilers)

Dust

For the first time in a century, the sound of mirth rings through Moonrise, and Isobel stands in near disbelief. Her thoughts are still racing on battlefield adrenaline. A small sleep-deprived fear trembles in her mind: the fear that this moment might be snatched away, that she might wake inside the Last Light Inn. Scorned by the realization that all of this was naught but a cruel dream. But one look at the sky and a solid pinch are enough to put her uneasy thoughts to rest.

The Harpers are enjoying some merry-making in the wake of their victory. Their strange new-found allies have generously offered to share their food and strong drink alongside whatever is deemed safe from the tower cellars. Aylin has eagerly joined in the celebration; her laugh is as magnificent as it is unmistakable. A hearty sound that carries throughout the towers like it had never left. The cleric decides it would be a crime to pull her angel away too soon. A hundred years caged in the Shadowfell had no doubt left her deprived of the most basic humane courtesies. She definitely deserves to celebrate.

Isobel draws a cold, shallow breath and stifles a coughing fit. The ale must be affecting her poorly, as the torchlight suddenly feels harsh to her eyes. She tolerates it for a while, but the celebrations get louder as the night goes on. Despite the lifting of the curse, the air in the hall feels muggy and suffocating, and a slight headache settles upon her brow soon after. All it takes is the drunken singing of a few dozen Harpers to persuade the cleric into the calm night air.

The moon from Moonrise had always been beautiful – a century couldn't hope to change that. But the same could not be said for Reithwin itself. Beneath the moonlight, the village Isobel had known so well seemed little more than a hollow shell.

A ghost, an echo of what once was.

At the center of it all stands the statue of her father, his expression listless and placid. The same way he looked when she first awoke.

A chill snakes down her neck.

She’s running barefoot, clad in cambric burial garbs, dodging creeping vines, and thorny brambles. White dots of lantern light chase after her; her father is amongst them. A mangled root catches her foot, and she tumbles downhill into a heap of thorns. Disoriented, she crawls away, pressing her back to a scraggly tree. Her lungs burn for breath, but no matter how much she gasps, her vision swirls with sparks.

Calling upon her goddess means risking discovery. Instead, she clasps a hand over her mouth.

The rumble of a galloping horse crests the hill, pulling her back to herself. The bony, half-rotted steed brays as it winds through the foul miasma. Her father screams from its back, sobbing, begging. His dark, anguished pleas echo through the marrow of her bones. She winces with every one, hot tears streaming down her cheeks.

The sound remains burned into her memory. Sometimes, late at night, she thinks she hears it still. Isobel thanks Selûne that he did not find her that night.

Once more, she gazes over the ruins of Reithwin and her heart twists. She spent a century dead, while so many good people - people she knew - suffered and perished for want of one man’s grief. Yet here she stands, and they do not.

She recalls the many hideous stories the Harpers told about the source of the Shadow Curse and the monster Ketheric became. At first, she could hardly believe it. The gentle, kind man - the man who'd raised her - chose to forsake their goddess, forcibly convert their people to Shar, and butcher those who would not. That wasn't even accounting for what he'd done to Aylin!

So much death and destruction, and for what?

"While I hold little love for Ketheric," Aylin's armored boots settle upon the stone behind her. “That monster was not your father.”

Isobel turns to face her, desperately trying to hold her emotions back, but to no avail.

In one fluid motion, Aylin pulls her into her embrace as her wings sweep around her. They’re a welcome shield from everything beyond. Isobel leans into her, her head resting against her breastplate. She listens quietly to the slow rhythm of her heart, the rise and fall of her breath, as Aylin rests her jaw upon her head.

“You are not to blame for his mistakes.” Aylin says softly.

Isobel finds her voice soon after, “I know.”

[newbiespud]

After finishing a webcomic this year and spending some time with some light editing of old fanfics to get ready to continue them, the other OTHER project I'm working on this and next year is going to be a second major Griftlands mod expansion! It's going to be a campaign mod where the three main characters team up against the world!

But coming back to it, I'm a little uncertain about the current working title. "Three For All". Like 'all for one, one for all,' but it's three... anyway. I could use some opinions on whether that's a good enough title or if I should go with something else.

[jubilantmedusa]

Untitled Zukka Hurt/Comfort Ficlet #2

“It was good of you to bring him here,” Piandao said.

They were gathered in his library, dried and warmed and fed after their long flight through a misting sky. Night had fallen, the world lit now by torches and candles, casting strange shadows on their drawn faces.

Sokka’s arms felt empty. He had held Zuko through the flight as Zuko had shivered and shivered.

“Zuko’s inner flame has gone out.” Piandao’s voice was even, but the pinch of his mouth betrayed upset. “Not many people know the old ways, the healing of the Firebenders. But Zuko’s uncle does. I have the means to contact Iroh. There is hope yet.”

The silence in the room didn’t feel hopeful. “I thought the ‘inner flame’ thing was a metaphor,” Sokka said, bursting it.

“It’s more spiritual than physical, but it is very real,” Piandao explained. “Our bodies and spirits are entwined. Spiritual damage often manifests physically.”

“Like when you’re upset so you have nightmares,” Aang said.

Piandao gave a curt nod. “Similar,” he said. “This is more severe.”

“It still doesn’t make sense,” Sokka said. His stomach was churning. “Firebenders have an extra spirit part? And if that part is damaged they just waste away?”

That’s what’d been happening ever since Zuko’d thrown himself in front of Aang, taking an arrow laced with something sinister. A gift from Azula by way of the assassins that had been perusing them since they left the Western Air Temple.

At first Zuko’d been hyped up, unable to stop moving for hours and hours. When he crashed, Sokka thought it might actually be a good thing. Get some sleep. Be better in the morning.

But Zuko’d woken up disoriented, confused. And every time he’d woken since there was less of him.

He was growing colder. Sokka didn’t know what that meant. All he knew was that his arms were itching with emptiness.

“We all have inner flames of a sort,” Piandao said. His turned towards Sokka. “Even you and I. But Firebending… to create an element from the spirit’s own energy…” He swirled his hand, then winced, shaking his head. “Iroh will explain when he arrives.”

“When will that be?” Toph asked, leaning forward, harsh torchlight light shining directly in her sightless eyes. “Is he far away?”

“Iroh’s been in hiding since he escaped from Caldera, but I can reach him,” Piandao said, pointedly not answering the question. So they had where Iroh was then. He could be half a world away.

To Sokka’s right, Katara shifted, leaning forward, shadow dancing across her cheek. Sokka could see her eyes and… he knew that look. She had an answer on the tip of her tongue, but she didn’t want to ask the question. “Master Piandao,” she said. Katara would push through anything, even this. “This has happened before.”

“Yes,” he said. “Though it’s exceedingly rare.”

Katara nodded, eyes coming in and out of view as she did. “It’ll kill him,” she said, and Sokka could see Aang sinking at her side, head bowing down until his forehead was pressed into the wooden table.

Now it was Sokka turn. He didn’t want to, but he had to, mouth choking on the words. “How long?”

Piandao’s mouth pinched further. “I’ve only read accounts,” he said, “Some say as long as two weeks. Others, three days.”

Sokka was on his feet before he could breath, his footfalls echoing impossibly loud as he thundered across the tatami floor.

It had already been four days.

—

The room where they put Zuko was small and square, usually used as a dormitory for Piandao’s students. It had a simple bed with plain gray sheets, a sturdy but unremarkable desk. Flames roared in its large fireplace, making the room almost uncomfortably warm.

That’s the reason they chose it. It was easy to keep warm.

A wooden chair had been pulled up beside the bed. In it, Fat sat, an empty bowl held in his hands. “You got him to eat?” Sokka said, stomach fluttering.

Fat responded with a single nod. “Zuko was always a dutiful student,” he said. “You’ll be staying with him a while?”

When Sokka nodded Fat rose to his feet. “He’ll rally,” Fat said, voice affectionately stern. “Food, rest, warmth. It will go a long way.” Sokka wasn’t sure if Fat actually believed that or if he, if all of them, were trying to will something into existence, trying to project onto Zuko a strength that wasn’t there.

The only light in the room came from candles and the fire. Maroon curtains were open but it was only black outside, moonless. Shadows danced on Zuko’s face as he lay still and quiet, dressed now in loose pajamas. He looked comfortable at least. Lying on his side, wrapped in a thick, red blanket, with only his head and his toes poking out.

He’d be lost without that blanket, Sokka thought. The red was the only color in the room.

Sokka hesitated for only a moment before kicking off his own boots and settling himself down on the bed, his empty arms reaching, wrapping around the boy in the red blanket. His leg too, so desperate for touch. And maybe Zuko needed it, because he nuzzled forward, pushing his nose into Sokka’s cheek, his hands into Sokka’s chest. Even his feet shifted until the soul of his left foot was somehow pressed into Sokka’s right ankle.

They'd never gotten to touch like this, not really, during the strange flirtation they’d had since returning from Boiling Rock. Everything was stolen glances, lingering conversations, arms pressed together even though they didn’t have to be. A lingering hug. Everything fleeting. Everything discreet. Like it was half real and half a dream.

One stolen kiss. Arms shaking. Lips frantic. In the misting rain.

Now Sokka was living a nightmare. Zuko smelt like sweat and leather. His arms still shook from the memory of holding Zuko while Appa flew, Zuko’s body cold and trembling. The longest Sokka’d ever been able to hold him, and it was because he was dying.

But he wasn’t dead.Zuko was warmer than he’d felt in days.

“You’re going to be alright,” Sokka said, even though he didn’t believe it. But maybe Fat had it right. Maybe it was best to pretend Zuko was strong, even if it was a fiction. Maybe it’d be true if they lied. If Zuko believed them.

Sokka took a deep breath as it let his eyes close, holding Zuko as closely as he could.

[peathepirate]

I wonder what is hatching from that duck's egg... 🦆😈

While drawing WINGS, I've also been thinking about making an original comic. And after thinking about it, I started making one! Here's a pic from the prologue (or first scene of Chapter 1). It's up on Patreon for now because 1) I don't have a title for it, aaand that's it, that's my reason. No title, no website, no comic.

The comic is a lighthearted fantasy story of a teenage boy named Elias and his (eeevil) water spirit friend called Fish. Well, Fish considers them friends, Elias not so much. Together they have to solve a mystery of freshly caught fish suddenly disappearing around Isle Lake. It's going to be funny (in my standards), and gay, and overall a cute story. I know it's not Ace Attorney related but I hope you give it a chance once I come up with a title and make a website for it ❤️

[lifesizehysteria]

Desperately trying not to steal the way @shmaptainwrites formats her fic posts but they are so beautiful and eye catching that it’s VERY tempting.

[talshiargirlfriend]

Why is that part so difficult??

[importantdestinydefendor]

I managed to write nearly three whole pages for the AU!

Here, have two phrases from a section I'm really proud of!

He looked to the side and saw… white. Nothing but white. A thick white cloak filled his vision and attached to it was a white hood made out of long white fur.

and

And those eyes, gray-turquoise eyes. Arslan felt those cold fingers from earlier grabbing him again. There were no emotions in those eyes - or maybe not nothing. Maybe he saw some slight indifference. But it could also be the light.

This is Arslan describing Azar for the first time. In my opinion, it came out so well!

The section that I left out is where he describes her hair due to it falling in her face, and I do not like it! It just doesn't flow as good as the rest.

But I'm in the early stages, and I will go over it again for editing (writing this down as to reasure myself to not get hung up on that part oop-)

I also don't know what to name the AU yet (@tired-reader-writer has such a wonderful name for their AU I uuuughh). I'm currently playing with the name "Voices of (the) Fire" or something like that in my head. I thought it could fit as Azar's name means "fire" in persian and fire is a central point for the story. But I'm not entirely sure. It doesn't sound that good to me. (I got it from a random title generator as I'm not that good a coming up with titles)

Do feel free to tell me if you like it or other tips or ideas!

[uncleasad]

A friend recently asked, among others, “how does one get good at naming a fic?”

I don’t have any good answers, because naming is hard. Really. (There’s a famous maxim in computer science that naming is one of the two hardest problems in that field.) Hopefully, maybe, like all other things writing-related, one gets better at it through practice, though I still struggle with it sometimes (there are some real head-scratchers among my fic titles).

That, unfortunately, is a bit of a chicken-and-egg problem when you’re starting out. (I have no-so-fond memories of this. Not that I have a huge number of great names or fics to my name now, but you get the picture.) So maybe throw spaghetti at the wall and see what sticks? 😂

Seriously, though, naming is hard. It is often the last thing I do with a fic. It’s very rare that I have a good name for a fic before I start writing or even soon after. (There’s a reason I tag most fics here with a semi-descriptive phrase, like Roman Republic Hosie.)

Exceptions include my first fic, Have At Least One Totally Epic Love, which gets its name from a famous Hayley Marshall quote from The Originals S5 which in part inspired the fic, and, among others, my most recent, The One with Hope’s Wedding, which is a twist on the name of the Friends episode that inspired it? See a pattern here?

(There’s also a kinda anti-example, Two Scoops of Hosie Delight, where I had the title to start and tried to write a fic around it; it’s not a great fic.)

Sometimes an idea will come to me when I’m writing. In that case, it’s usually because I’ve made someone say something I really like. This is also my go-to option when I get to the end of writing and/or editing and still have no title: I look for a fun line or sentence. Even better if it captures something unique or descriptive about the fic. (As an aside, all of the Legacies episode titles are lines someone spoke in that episode.)

The other major area I try to mine for name ideas are things related to the fic’s content in a broader sense: the theme or subject, the mood, or something related to the description. I don’t have a good example off-hand from my own work, but let me dissect (from a reader’s POV) a title I really like from a fellow author, pins, needles & hexes by vitrisimbre.

This fic is a Hosie Hogwarts AU, and one of the things I really like about it is the dual meaning of “pins [and] needles.” On the one hand, “pins” and “needles” go well with “hexes” in a magical sense, e.g. poking dolls with pins as representational magic, while on the other hand, the phrase “on pins and needles” is a way of describing excitement, anticipation, and even sometimes trepidation. In this fic, the Saltzman twins are yanked from the Muggle world and thrown into the world of magic at Hogwarts, so Josie is experiencing a bunch of those emotions from that, and then again from a burgeoning attraction. There’s also a third meaning of “pins and needles” in English, which is that tingling of numbness in a limb when it goes to sleep—but I have no idea if that is relevant to this fic yet. (It’s a great fic, so you should read it!)

If you have a series, you can have a pattern or theme that carries through all of those titles. My Tales from the Salvatore Kitchen series features titles that are either—and often both—bad puns and food/dessert related, for example. The “model Josie/painter Hope” trilogy started with Hope painting a landscape, and that theme carried through with the titles: Landscape of Your Skin, Landscape of Your Heart, and the unfinished Landscape of Your Secrets. (The actual series name there, however, is the very uninspired, though descriptive, The Model and the Painter.)

tl;dr

Some good sources of ideas for fic titles, in my experience:

Quotes from the real world or other media, and riffs on them

Titles from the real world or other media (including song titles!), and riffs on them

Favorite and/or fun lines from the fic itself

Riffs on descriptions/subjects/themes/moods of the fic

Fellow writers, any other advice on naming fics, and how to “get better” at it so that you feel like you like your fic titles?

[ilovedthestars]

New ficlet! My take on the missing scene where Amena makes Murderbot's hair fluffy :') (i made it sad by accident)