#(or maybe even authorship)

[sanguinarysanguinity]

First Lines Game

Rules: share the first lines of ten of your most  recent fanfics and tag ten people. If you have written less than ten, don’t be shy and share anyway.

Thank you for thinking of me, @educatedinyellow!

Skipping the ficlet collections, my last ten works begin:

1. The secret panel was secret only to human eyes; a wolf would sniff it out in a moment. (Brother of Wolves, Come Ye Hither, The Flight of the Heron, Keith/Ewen, psychic wolves.)

2. "What. Is that," Miles flatly asked, coming to a stop just inside the door of Ivan Vorpatril's lavish bachelor apartment. (Report on an Incident Concerning a Botanical Specimen from Eta Ceta IV, Vorkosigan Saga, Miles/Ivan, sex pollen.)

3. Bush returned to Chichester happier than he left, warmed by a memory that not even pelting rain in an open waggon could extinguish. (An Ember Against Winter's Cold, Hornblower novels, Bush/Hornblower, developing relationship.)

4. "No, you just sit right there. I'm cooking tonight.” (If Food be the Food of Love, Leverage: Redemption, Harry/Eliot, drabble.)

5. "You can't hide from Styles forever, you know," Horatio said, and had the pleasure of hearing William, turned out in purser's slops like one of the hands, growl in disapprobation. (Robe of Misrule, Hornblower TV, Bush/Hornblower, crossdressing, pwp.)

6. Laurent would allow no other to claim the honour of bandaging the wounded arm. (Seaweed and Apple Blossoms, The Wounded Name, Laurent/Aymar/Avoye.)

7. The full moon brought not only Brown in his skiff with the month's supplies, but a second man — Hornblower's first visitor since the beginning of his self-imposed exile. (Hornblower’s Lost Honour, Hornblower novels, Bush/Hornblower, West Indies AU.)

8. "By God," Captain Bush exclaimed. "Lord Hornblower marooned himself? On purpose?" (With Friends Possessed, Hornblower novels, Bush & Brown, prequel to Lost Honour.)

9. Major Windham’s grave is well. (A Peaceful and a Beautiful Spot, The Flight of the Heron, Ewen & Francis, post-canon.)

10. "Your landlady is mean with the blankets," William observed. (With Surprising Quickness, Hornblower TV, Bush/Hornblower, only [enough blankets for] one bed, pwp.)

On the whole, I put a strong emphasis on orienting the reader in the first line. If it’s an AU, establishing the branch-point and what will be a significant element of the branching; for non-AUs, establishing an element that’s going to be key in the coming story. A few of these opening lines don’t do that as well as I would like, but in general, I believe in giving my reader a nice strong lead, so even if they’re not dead-sure right away about what I’m doing, we can still get through the opening paragraphs together without too much uncertainty or stumbling.

Tagging: @tgarnsl, @cedarboots, @thehappyreturn, @chiropteracupola, @acrossthewavesoftime, and anyone else who would like to play!

[the-hwaelweg]

Working in publishing, my inbox is basically just:

Article on the Horrors of AI

Article on How AI Can Help Your Business

Article on How AI Has Peaked

Article on How AI Is Here to Stay Forever

Article on How AI Is a Silicon Valley Scam That Doesn't Live Up to the Promise and In Fact Can't Because They've Literally Run Out of Written Words to Train LLMs On

[httpsserene]

𝐬𝐧𝐢𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐭 | 𝐬𝐢𝐩 𝐨𝐟 𝐬𝐮𝐧𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐞 | 𝐜𝐡. 𝟐 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐫 '𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐲-𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞

poly! carlando x reader | read chapter one here. | join taglist

˖♡ - ̗̀ ⇢ this is the entire intro to the second chapter. in the outline, it's called "the first strike." any predictions? well, you're in for a ride, let me tell you that. full chapter two coming soon. tysm for being patient and understanding x

On this Monday in May, you’re awake before the sun, watching it rise over Madrid as you drive to Golf La Moraleja. This summer begins the same as those before it, with your coworkers complaining about being required to attend a meeting—filled with the same information you’ve all heard every year since you first started—and, holding it so early in the morning. 

Your eyes ache from lack of sleep but it doesn’t hinder you from complaining all the same; returning employees should be allowed to skip the first meeting of the season as it’s more of an orientation for the new hires. Marco, your boss, disagrees. He says that senior employees need to be present to set a good example of the standards and expectations for the rookies. 

You’re unsure if a group of seven, sleep-deprived, twenty-something-year-old, beverage cart drivers could be described as a “good example.” At least there’s a breakfast spread. The seven of you can be good examples of how to take advantage of a free meal.

As Marco drones on about procedures and policies, your mind drifts to the late-night you had. 

Your eyes burn with exhaustion because you missed out on a few hours of sleep to talk with your boyfriends. You listened as Lando ranted about how disappointing his car performed this weekend and Carlos still seemed surprised that he managed to hold onto fifth place with a time penalty. Neither of the boys wanted to sweat out more of their body weight in water in a packed, humid, Miami club after a particularly demanding race, but you convinced them to at least have a drink or two with Fernando Alonso to celebrate his podium finish.

You may not have the most in-depth Formula One knowledge, but you know that dragging that Aston Martin onto the podium is an astounding feat. Carlos admires the man greatly, even if he pretends to be salty about being the second-favorite Spanish F1 driver. Lando respects Alonso largely as well, he talks kindly about the time he spent shadowing him at McLaren.

You styled their outfits for the night with sleepy eyes. Carlos endlessly showered you with compliments every time he glanced at you through the screen of his laptop. The butterflies in your stomach fluttered at every endearment; you believed in the hermosa’s and linda’s with each repetition, even as your phone mirrored the image of you: makeup-free, bonnet, and pimple patch-riddled.

Lando (after Carlos kicked him out of the bathroom for being unable to control his wandering hands) splayed across the hotel bed on his stomach, the love ? —the longing he has for you is visible through the pixels. His feet kicked back and forth behind him mindlessly as he attentively listened to you ramble about the authorship credit you received in a textbook for research you did last year.

You sighed deeply. If only the world knew how these two men ended the call by blowing kisses through the screen, whining about having to wait another couple of months until they get to see you in person. 

If the world knew, maybe that woman in the club wouldn’t have tried (and failed) to make a move on your boys.

When your alarm sounded for today’s early morning meeting, you awoke to the sight of your phone being spammed with Twitter links and texts with your name in all caps.

The hashtag Carlando is trending on Twitter because of an anonymous submission to a gossip account that details Lando and Carlos “getting cozy” with a woman in a club. Thankfully, the anonymous submission was proven false—with photo evidence, at that. 

The first photo caused a sense of dread to build within you. It shows a blond woman standing next to them at the bar, her beady eyes predatory as she stares up at Carlos with a disgusting smirk and her hand is offensively outstretched, tugging at the collar of his polo. Lando, who’s standing next to the Spaniard, looks at her with an expression of shock and disbelief, while Carlos only offers her his trademarked confused stare.

The second photo transformed that sense of dread into a feeling of relief, pity, amusement, and vicarious embarrassment. 

The image captured the woman dropping her hand away with an annoyed frown and a sharp glare thrown at Lando, whose disposition has switched from surprised to unimpressed, illustrated by his well-known disgruntled nose scrunch. Carlos isn’t looking at the woman anymore, he’s taken a step backward and is staring at Lando. His hand is clasped on the younger man’s shoulder and he’s seemingly trying to pull him away from the woman.

You wish there were more photos. 

The online consensus is that the woman in the photo needs to change her entire identity if she wishes to have another peaceful day on Earth. The F1-adjacent internet is clowning this poor girl about her seduction attempt on Carlos going so terribly that Lando had to put a stop to it. There’s a smaller portion of people saying that Lando couldn’t handle the sight of somebody trying to flirt with Carlos right in front of him—they’re closer to being correct than they know.

Nevertheless, you kind of feel sad for the woman: waking up after a night out with a nasty hangover only to find out you’re being lambasted on social media because there’s photo evidence of you being rejected after a terrible attempt at flirting. You refuse to imagine it; seeing her experience is enough for you. 

While it’s early morning in Spain, it’s midnight in Florida. The two men are asleep and unaware of their current trending status. Hopefully, that will last until you’ve returned home from this staff meeting and taken a long nap. But, damn, you’re dying to know exactly what Lando said that had her looking so insulted. 

You jolt to attention at a tap on your shoulder.

“Muchacha, the meeting is finished,” Isa’s eyes match your exhaustion, “Were you even paying attention?”

“Does it matter if I was?” You ask, heaving yourself out of your seat and waiting for your friend to do the same. “We’ve had the handbook read to us for the last five years. Zoning out during this orientation doesn’t matter to me.”

“¿Perdóname?”

You turn around to see one of the new hires addressing you. The first thing you notice is that he’s tall, like an American basketball player, type of tall. The second thing you notice is that he can’t be any older than twenty; unless he’s lucky enough to be so babyfaced. He’s tall and lanky, sporting sharp cheekbones, a nose that reminds you of Carlos, a pair of eyes similar to Lando’s, and an artfully styled mess of dirty blonde curls atop his head. Objectively speaking, he’d make a hell of a supermodel.

“I’m Alejandro, or Alé. I wanted to introduce myself before I started training with you tomorrow,” he states kindly, with a broad smile.

Zoning out during this orientation suddenly mattered very much. Last summer—sometime in June, before Carlos and Lando reappeared—you offered to train an employee if Marco needed the extra help. You must have missed the part of the meeting when he assigned Alejandro to you.

“Oh! Yes, sorry,” you introduce yourself to the kid kindly, apologizing mindlessly, “I am very tired and I was not paying attention—don’t tell Marco that. I’m supposed to be setting a good example for the new kids.”

He laughs, “I think you are a great example of reminding everyone to sleep for at least eight hours every night.”

“I can’t disagree with that, can I?” You smile politely, “Well, I promise I’ll be a better role model when training officially starts. You’re stuck with me for a month, right?”

“I would not say I am ‘stuck’ with you—that would be mean,” Alejandro snorts lightly, “But, yes. I will be riding along with you for a month. Marco says that I’m lucky to be paired with you.”

“Did he?”

“Sí. He said you’re one of his best cart servers and that you bring in the most tips.”

Isa snorts behind you. Without needing to look, you reach behind to smack her on the back of the head. He doesn’t need to know that your secret relationship with two Formula One drivers is responsible for the extra money you made last year.

“I’m a young woman working on a golf course. Which, is why I make plenty of tips.”

Alejandro hums, raising a brow, “Really?”

“There’s more than a few sleazy men that come out here willing to throw cash at anyone who wears a smile, skirt, and pigtails.”

“Ah, well,” he shrugs jokingly, his picture-perfect smile relaxing into something natural, “I do not have enough hair for pigtails and could not pull off a skirt. I do think I can manage a smile.”

Squinting, you survey his form, “Don’t worry; there are men out there who prefer the sight of boys in tight shirts and short shorts instead of girls in short skirts. Ask Ryan or Rob. They make more money than me some days!”

“Is this your fancy plan to get me into tighter clothes?” Oh. He’s misunderstood you.

“Wow,” you deadpan, “You caught me. No, niño, I’m only ‘training’ you on how to make your wallet very happy. If you are uncomfortable with showing a little thigh, that’s okay.”

“I’m a model,” He scoffs with a smirk (you called it, him being a model), “of course, I do not mind showing more skin; however it looks like you want to see me in less clothing, as well.”

Your mouth drops open at the insinuation. Behind you, Isa full-body laughs herself to tears. The rest of your cart team—Lucas, Rob, Ryan, Sofia, and Steph—turns to look at Isa, wanting to know what she finds so funny. The entire clubhouse will know that the new kid tried to flirt with you by the end of the day. 

You shake your head fervently, “Woah, uh, no. ¡Dios mío! I hope I never see what’s under your clothes, full offense. I’m happily in a relationship! Also, not that it matters to me since I’m not interested in you, but—you are way too young for me, niño. It would be best to respect that and forget this part of the conversation ever happened, or it will be an awkward month of training.”

He immediately loses the smirk, stepping backward and raising his hands placatingly, apologetic, “¡Lo siento! I did not mean to make you uncomfortable. I assumed you were—well, it does not matter, I assumed you meant more, and that is my fault. Pero, I am not a kid–I am nineteen.”

You and the rest of the eavesdropping beverage cart crew all gasp, abhorred at just how young he is. Does this mean you are all too old to be riding around serving drinks on a golf course?

“Nineteen?! What year were you born in? Never mind, don’t tell me—it’ll make me depressed. Look, niño, you’re forgiven—I could see how telling someone to show off their…assets, could be seen as flirting. So, I’m sorry, too. This is incredibly awkward, let’s never speak of this again?”

“Yes, I agree,” he nods vigorously, “But—Do you have to call me ‘niño?’”

“It fits, though? You are the youngest cart driver we have. Speaking of cart drivers—what’s your phone number? Lucas has to add you to the work chat.”

Your coworkers introduce themselves to Alejandro without hesitation. Conversation flows seamlessly as you all begin to catch up on what’s occurred in your lives since last summer. Rob’s sister-in-law exposed his older brother’s affair over Christmas Dinner, Sofia’s younger sister is pregnant with twins, and Lucas graduated with a degree in journalism. Midway through Ryan’s explanation of how his car was stolen three times in two months, the last two new hires shyly join your discussion. Laura and Giulia are training with Steph and Ryan, respectively. You and the other senior drivers begin to whine about old age when they reveal that they're nineteen, like Alejandro.

Isa catches a ride home with you and she asks if you're going to tell Carlos and Lando about how your trainee tried to make a move on you. You won’t tell them because there’s no reason to. Alejandro apologized and backed off—that’s all that matters to you. Why tell your boyfriends that the kid you’re going to be training tried to flirt with you? It won’t do anything more than make them jealous, probably, and that’s unnecessary.

general taglist (ask to join):

@saintslewis/@cherry2stems/@lorarri/@mindless-rock/@biancathecool

@barnestatic/@darleneslane/@lovingaphroditesworld/@smoothopz/@vetteltea

@tallrock35/@spideybv28/@loomiscorpse/@hiireadstuff/@namgification

@gg-trini/@multi-fandom-rando/@landoslutmeout/@love-simon/@iloveyou3000morgan/

@rexit-mo/@oscahpastry/@sweatrevenge5436-blog/@bokutos-babyowl/@oliviah-25

@evermoreandroyalblue/@riveristhebest1/@xylinasdiary/@ashiekins/@flowergirl1134

@hearts4robs/@c-losur3/@bloodyymaryyy/@awritingtree/@lammys-thinking

@nikfigueiredo/@bbreezyxoxo/@catreadsthings/@princessminjikwon/@il0vereadingstuff

@nissaimmortal/

current SOS taglist (ask or leave a reply if you would like to be added):

@dhanihamidi/@alilcloudy/@tremendousstarlighttragedy/@justanothersuckerforanime-blog/@shepgurl

@sainzluvrr/@arialikestea/@urfavnoirette/@swechchhaj/@delululeclerc

@formula1-motogpfan/@f1orza/@daniskywalkersolo/@uselessginger0/@mickslover

@isaidlandowecanbeworldchampion/@tremendousstarlighttragedy/@annispamz/@certifiedlesbianbaddie/@sofs16

@tomiwastilinskii/@sakuxxi/@mitruscity/@pal3rmo/@lando-505

@hahahjej/@eugene-emt-roe/@nissaimmortal/@ferrariregina/@meglouise00

@neferaskingdom/@chaoticversion/@minahoeshi/@dreadity

© httpsserene - do not repost.

[no-where-new-hero]

omg I need your thoughts on the terminally o line author culture bc ngl it makes my eye TWITCH, there are authors I deliberately avoid even tho I've heard their stuff is good bc they're like that 🙈

HHHHH oh good lord, okay, from how I see it, there are two angles on this, both aggravating and sad: the official decree one and the spontaneous ecosystem one.

The officious one is that the nature of publishing nowadays demands an author have an online presence. You need Twitter/X. You need to let every potential reader know your book is coming out. You need engagement through reviews and pre-orders incentives (if you buy now you’ll get a special keychain!!) and word of mouth assurances from your peers that yes your book is as cool as you say it is. You need a newsletter with links (more buying! more voting on lists that are simply popularity contests!) and promises you’re still working on the next thing, don’t forget about me in the morass of everyone else doing the same thing. You need an Instagram and TikTok now to post pretty pictures and videos because one or two authors made it big off this kind of promotion and now everyone thinks it’s the ticket to the bestseller list (sadly, it seems to be working). You need an OnlyFans (a joke but I do recall a twt spat that was a joke/not joke about how rupi kaur will always be more beautiful than her critics and people who took issue with the conflation of beauty with talent). At the end of all this, you’re basically an influencer, a content creator creating content for the content you should be focusing on creating, the finished novel. And the novel itself seems to be disappearing behind the masks used to promote it (fanfic-style tropes, moodboards, playlists, memes) until I now no longer trust the book that I’ll pick up to have any resemblance to the enticements that brought me here. I’ve seen an author or two complain about the stress all this self-promotion generates, but it’s become such an entrenched part of the industry, I think people just accept it. And thus spend too much time online hoping that if they tweet just a little more, produce just one more reel, maybe that’ll be the difference between a sale and no sale.

The other side of this, distinct but obviously connected, is the ecosystem created by this panic of being perpetually visible coupled with the fact that so many of the new authors came of age during the rise of internet fandom culture. That opinionated community mindset that blurs the line between anonymity and friendship is the lens they bring to their own work. I mean, it makes sense I suppose—if you love yelling about characters and words, why wouldn’t you do that once you start to produce your own? This really came home to me hearing about that reviewbombgate “scandal” and how people involved were in reylo circles and that was used to provide receipts. You’re interacting with your readers and peers about your intimate work but they are also all strangers. They will not always give you the benefit of the doubt, and now—as opposed to the past when maybe the worst that could happen was a handful of bad reviews in newspapers—you will either be tagged in hate reviews, sub-tweeted, explicitly called out, demanded to atone for your sins. It’s no longer the morality of consumption but the morality of production. Of course, the easy answer is just log-off, touch some grass. But that can work only when you and everyone else are separated by anonymous accounts or when you have no platform to maintain. As an author trying to make your livelihood from this, suddenly it’s do or die. We’re in a strange moment of authorship bringing the Internet’s echo-chamber and claustrophobic into the real world (this is a lie: publishing now is no longer the real world. But it looks like it) and thus you can kind of no longer escape things.

Will the average reader who isn’t aware of all these machinations care about reviewbombgate? Would a reader browsing at Target think about the controversies around Lightlark? Very likely not. But the impression I’m getting more and more is that the average reader isn’t the one buying all the books. Or shall we say—a bestseller’s status relies on bookstore stock. Bookstore stock is only huge when they know a book will be a good investment. They’ll only know a book is a good investment if it and its author has street cred based on booktokkers, bookstagram, bloggers and reviewers (have you noticed how many books out these last maybe 1-3 years have these kinds of accounts thanked in the acknowledgments? Yeah), and THESE are also chronically online people who will Know. And decide the cast of fate.

Honestly, @batrachised, I see why you avoid these kinds of writers, though I wonder how long it’ll be before the disease becomes epidemic.

[larena]

This is maybe a hot take, but I really wish big budget RPGs would stop trying to make detailed sex scenes a thing. Not for any prudish "if I see a penis or vagina I will simply die" but just like... it's a roleplaying game. I want to roleplay.

I'm all for there being some things about a main character that you can't change because they simply have to be true for the plot to function, and y'know, Commander Shepard is always going to be within a particular range of characterization, you can't go *too* off-book. But I feel like how my character has sex, or doesn't, should be up to me if I *do* otherwise have a particular degree of authorship over them. Instead of just having to watch some overly expensive mocap that makes those decisions for me. And I do worry that focusing so much on making these scenes is why we have such a dearth of asexual options in RPG romance as well. We can't let the player say *no*! Don't they want to see our cutscene?? And It's weird because for all of BG3's vaunted dick options, and "spicy" sex scenes and bear fucking, the sex scene in that game that I feel is handled *best* are all the variations on the scene with the drow sex workers in act 3. You have a *lot* of options to choose from for how you want that encounter to go, they give you opportunities to express certain proclivities your character might or might not have, you can even outright make this encounter with a sex worker nonsexual if you really want, because like, yeah that is an option, and it's all under a completely black screen with only voiceover from your partner(s) and dialogue options. And it isn't even one of the game's *actual* romance options. Why can't I have that all the time, why isn't every romance given that level of freedom instead of some overproduced overhyped cutscene?

[callmearcturus]

redoing this ask because fuck that poll lmaoooo i have a persona question, IMO persona's romance system can sometimes fail when its clear the devs wanted one character to be the "canon" love interest for the overall story, but added in side romances to please fans (p2 with [spoiler redacted], p3 with aigis, and p4 with rise based on how much time is focused on their dynamic and bond) but i feel like P5 *intended* for Makoto to be the go-to romance option (especially with how she was handled in the anime) but Royal switched it to Akechi. Do you think that Persona should just stick with one romance option, have a small number of options that they develop, or have it be "every npc is an option" type deal. personally i think it depends on the game? but i feel as if P5 would have benefited from only having 5 romance options (Haru, Makoto, Akechi, Hifumi, and maybe Yusuke?)

Hmmmmm.

It's hard to consider this without also thinking about the other dating sim RPGs, i.e. Bioware. What's interesting there is that some of the romances felt intended (Liara in Mass Effect especially) but there were multiple really good options.

What I find interesting is how Persona and Bioware games handle the shared authorship of the characters. There's an entire Game Maker's Toolkit video about how the narrative designers had to design on a tightrope, keeping the cinematic nature of the story rolling but also making the player feel like they had a handle on the direction (even when the latter was mostly imagined).

Okay, here's two weird thoughts:

The wide array of Persona romances are pretty shallow and would benefit from a shift to much fewer romances that are far more fleshed out.

Akechi is so shocking and compelling because the comparative shallowness of the other romances, because he is a subversion of them.

To me, what makes Akechi the far-and-away best 'romance' of Persona 5 Royal is that he's not a romance 'option.' The player has very little agency over how Joker feels about Akechi. If you hit a couple of flags, then Joker is fucked up and in love with Akechi. That's just it. Maruki gives everyone what they want, and what Joker wants is Akechi.

The fact that Joker is a partially player-directed character that autonomously decides to be in love with Akechi is the secret sauce, imo. Ergo, if you improve the romances overall, you lose some of the specialness inherent in Akechi.

I had a LOT of problems with P5R's writing and especially its structure. I would remove Makoto entirely but for pacing issues, not for the strength of her writing. I'd cut a lot of cruft from the game.

I don't know if I would take away the gutpunch of Akechi though. Not for P5R. For other Persona games, 100% yes, I would. Narrow the scope of romances, maybe even stick just to party members so its easier to build a coherent, meaningful narrative with the love interest.

i hope some of that makes sense, i'm a bit sick and meandering today

[wistfulpoltergeist]

List 5 facts about a favorite sim of yours, and send this to 10 simblrs whose sims you adore ♥♥♥ Maybe something about Dean?

Sorry for such late answer, I simply HAD to remake my Dean first :D Okay, Deanie, tell us what you've got!

He is a professional cook and baker. Making risotto, buns and puddings is his personal antidepressant. But it only works if his friends and boyfriend eat it and comment on how Italian pizza is trash in comparison. (No offense to Italian pizza, though!)

He finds Zen in repairing old cars, seeing how broken things come back to life. He believes his heart is one of those neglected engines that need a touch of a masterful hand.

He is dramatically short and hates his Hobbit's looks but has a good eye for beauty outside (like his handsome, masculine boyfriend :D). Dean never goes anywhere without his camera with which he takes all he finds divine but totally reachless. He believes he can capture it and keep it for himself forever. No wonder he has tones of Roland's photos.

Dean is afraid of Policemen. His darkest fear since he was a boy is to get imprisoned by an armed brute in uniform. He never tells this to the police officer he is dating to his own surprise, but Roland's started to suspect something.

He writes silly romantic songs and stupid angry poems and sends them to his boyfriend anonymously and will deny his authorship even if an armed brute in uniform puts him in prison for that.

Just to show you HOW short Dean is, here's him next to his boyfriend with average height and tall Arwin.

[olderthannetfic]

Honestly the state of white authorship in the US is that I'm real fucking tired of always knowing the exact same type of white female main character is gonna be leading.

The least offensive features, all told in very sanitized and polite way.

"Hi my name is Kimberly Johson, I'm white, tall, with long brown hair, and brown eyes." It's just a very boring description, but it feels like most characters are introduced so boringly and plainly. Probably because it sells. Of course she's also moderately attractive, but not too much so the reader doesn't feel intimidated, but also not too ugly because who wants an actually ugly main female lead?

What's more is that the character often feels without any background identity. There's no real focus on a culture, or a heritage, it's all just this suburban lack of identity beyond what's cleanly presented.

Even in fantasy worlds or sci-fi, there's just no real culture, it's all very clean and basic. Fantasy/Sci-fi world 101 locked and loaded. And it's not even Generic European fantasy 101 either, it's like castles, and all the fantasy races, but you won't see a lick of actual European culture to color the world. It's a very surface level understanding of fantasy.

Where's a distinct culture between the fantasy races? Where's a distinct culture between sci-fi aliens? It's not there, the only difference is the label and how they look. But if you pick up a random book, could you tell what the main characters culture is? What the world is? Or is it just all copy pasted, with some current trends, and that's it? It's just so empty.

The whiteness of the character doesn't matter either. You could replace her with anyone else, and it would fit because many authors just don't go beyond default-skin playable character.

Maybe that's why there's so much. White characters are empty canvases, if it was never mentioned, you often wouldn't even know the character is white, because there's no culture and story telling to prop it up. Meanwhile you take a fantasy latino story, and you will know it's a story based on Latino culture. A black writer will write in black culture, even if it's only some of the barest hints of it weaved in.

And I'm not trying to default-whiteness, meaning that whiteness is so normalized that we don't even see it. I mean it plainly that even typically white US things are basically non-existent and anything hinting at more depth is incredibly hidden and inoffensive and plain, to the point it stops mattering again. It's like white authors writing white characters for bigger trends decided to completely erase anything deeper because keeping everything as barebones and still fantastical is what sells, instead of real individuality and culture.

--

Dude... Read better books.

[kiyrian]

I love how Alan Wake II is so much more House of Leaves than the original was.

The theme of authorship, of authors being characters and characters being authors. Of echoes moving in time. Of mothers who try to ready their sons for the darkness.

And love. The love that doesn't save them but makes them push forward so they can save themselves.

For anyone ready to go on this journey with me, let's go.

So in House of Leaves, we have Johnny - our main character. He finds a book left behind by a recently deceased man. We get to read this book with Johnny adding his comments. Often those comments are stories from his own life. We get to learn how he feels observed and sometimes attacked by this dark presence. The book overtakes his life. He doesn't feel safe, he isolates himself from everyone. I see this part as what we can see in AW 1

It could be a simple story of being driven to madness by knowledge. Only Johnny admits that he is changing the original contents of the book. He outright says it with a not-that-important detail, but it makes us wonder - is he changing anything else? Are the parts that have been scratched out (!) done by Johnny or the previous owner of the book - Zampano. And here starts the journey explored in AW2.

But is Zampano even real? After all, Johnny also lies about the stories from his life (also a thing he admits to us). At the end of the book, we can read letters that Johnny's mother wrote to him when he was a teenager. He grew up with a foster family as his mom stayed in a mental hospital and his father died. His mom was hospitalized because of schizophrenia - in her letters, we can see her mental health fluctuating from better to worse, up until she commits suicide. During one of her episodes, she created a code she could use to communicate with her son without the hospital staff knowing. A code that can be also found in Zampano's book. There are other signs alluding to Johnny's mom in parts supposedly written by Zampano. So maybe it's not Zampano who is not real. Maybe it is Johnny. Maybe this is all written by a man who imagines someone finding his writing and commenting on it? Who created who?? An echo traveling back in time to change the future - a phone call from yourself that haven't happened yet. An author who writes a story with a poet in it. A poet who wrote poems about a boy who will come and continue his battle. A movie maker who may be a poet but isn't.

Johnny's mom tried to ready her son to face the world. She tried to show him the beauty of words, of reading and learning. She was always in his corner, ready to give him words of support to her best abilities. She told him the world may be hard but he is special and he will beat the odds. A mother that knows her son fears the dark so she gives him a light switch.

Okay. Fine. But what is actually Zampano's book about. A family of four moves into a new home - a photo journalist and his wife with their two young children. Only that this House is a little weird. It is bigger on the inside. Its hallway keeps on growing until a whole new area can be found. More and more dark corridors sprawl in this space that shouldn't be. Will Navidson - the photographer - travels through this space trying to document it. At a certain point, his wife takes their children and moves away. But Will is obsessed with this place - it is his journey to face his own demons. He feels so much guilt for only being there to photograph tragedies without helping people who suffered. (an analysis of his character could take another whole post). He goes deeper and deeper into the house, down a spiraling staircase, up until he fully loses a way out. He is stuck, no way out, waiting to die. Only... his wife hasn't given up on him. For all their problems (the house move was supposed to give their marriage a new chance) she still loves him. She creates a movie solely dedicated to the happy moments they've had together. She goes back to this haunted house and tries to find him. And just like that a way back for him opens. He crawls back from the darkness. His wife's love made her go back to face her own fears (she's feared the dark for a very long time). Husband and wife who struggle but still love each other. Who survive after facing the dark, facing their demons. Who pull themselves out of depths of despair. Wives who take time to memorize those happy moments since they know the men they love are more than their worst moments (more of AW AN moment).

I am doing a great disservice to House of Leaves (and AW2) by trying to sum it up in those few points so please, please read it if you haven't. But I want to show those points that I can see reflected in AW2. Besides, of course once again using Poe's song (sister of the author of House of Leaves who did an album accompanying the book. Haunted from that album was used in AW1). And the motif of Yggdrasil at the end of the book.

There are probably so many things I am forgetting. I need to reread this book. It's this time of the year again.

[boybitcx]

You were beautiful. Warmth was already slowly leaving your body, but the moment of death hasn't changed your features much. You were still laying beside me, with half-lidded eyes as if you were drifting off to sleep. This time you weren't going to wake up later, but no one would have guessed it, seeing peace and satisfaction on your face. Yes, you actually wanted that; you didn't lie, asking me for another acts of violence, kissing my hands covered with your fresh blood. You were sick and twisted, but well, the same could be said about me. Now I am not able to say who got more pleasure from your agony, me or you. But I know you wanted it, even when your clothes became soaked with blood, you still begged me to sink the knife deeper, you kept repeating that you want to feel that final high, the moment of sliding down into darkness. Yet, ironically, I suppose that ultimately, it was me who suffered the most. Yes, your whines, tears, grimace on your face when another bruise started blossoming on your skin, it all brought me pleasure. But now you're resting, free of sentience, while I am forced to continue living without you, without anyone who would understand me, who would complete me. Who would thank me for kissing away the blood from their wounds. If the Church is right, if there's something after death, they’re going to have quite a conundrum with you, when they discover that torturing you for your twisted mind is going to bring the opposite effect of what they want. Maybe though... maybe they will do it. Maybe your hell will be in the fact that this time I'm not the one mutilating your body. But I'll join you there eventually, there's no doubt that we belong to the same place. And nothing will hold me back from licking your blood again, I don't think that Hell cares much about it. I'm not really religious, but I'm ready to believe for that possibility. Eternal void can't match eternity at your side after all, especially when this time we're going to writhe in agony together.

I got up from the bed, and walked to the table. I reached for a glass of water and took a sip, still watching your motionless body. It was undoubtedly, shamelessly naked, even though I doubt that most people would in this moment pay any bigger attention to it. Any norms and reactions, assigned by society to natural nakedness, would be forgotten for the sight of wounds covering your body like constellations cover the night sky. And while those little works of art, admired for centuries by poets and scientists, were created either by God or nature - their authorship was a controversial matter and it depended on whom you asked - at the same time, I had no doubts that your injuries were exclusively my creation. But emptiness caused by your passing made it impossible for me to feel pride of an artist at the sight of finished work. I fulfilled your request, but without your sounds and trembling body, I couldn't enjoy the intense color of bruises even half as much as I did before.

I hesitated for a moment. I wish I could keep you in this state as long as possible, preferably until the moment when I would lay down beside you myself to join you. But I knew well it's impossible. Body doesn't last forever, in contrast to love, and it's gonna start decaying soon. It would be hard for me to leave you for the mercy of worms and to lay at night, thinking how they are the ones devouring you now. I would like to be as close as possible to you, I would like us to become one. With a slight hesitation I went to the kitchen and pulled out a butcher knife from the drawer. We didn't consider this option before, but I knew that you would appreciate it. After all, you always wished that our bodies could merge into one.

Download this story in zine form:

[collection-bundle]

do you ever think about submitting your work to a gallery? i was curious when i first saw a post of yours on my dashboard - i was certain it was part of a piece but it lacked the year and authorship so i was like maybe they credited the artist in the tags or smth. lo and behold it is your actual blog lol! it seems to me like there's a lot to be said about your work (even if you don't percieve it as art) about following the trail of treasures, your acute perception of daily life's overlooked beauty, a childlike wonder about their shape and color and possible history (even if only speculative), even anti-capitalist sentiment surrounding a hobby that is by nature free... you fascinate me!

I kept this in my inbox so long bc it genuinely touched my heart and made me cry <3

I can truly see my photos and collections as fully art now and I think it would be so exciting to submit somewhere although I would have no idea how to do that (might have to do some searching online).

Also anon that last sentence hit me like a brick, its so perfect and you truly get it! Its about the unnoticed, the overlooked, its past and the people it came from, the re-use aspect of this hobby. I'm giving you a kiss anon, you get me.

[love-toxin]

miss ellie i'm realizing now that i never told you now revolutionary your ocs are. like. i've been on this website for literal years and the day i found your blog was with an oc post where you introduced such a dynamic lineup with so much variety, it was the first i had ever seen. maybe i wasn't looking hard enough but you had poc yanderes AND trans yanderes it was the first time i had ever seen any (i know it sounds crazy to say but i'm being so fr rn.) even when i look through your old posts and reread them i just get blown away by how each one is different and has their own personality even though you have so many?? anyway it's late and i just wanted to say that ty <3

will you marry me?? 🥺

LOL to be for real though that makes me sooooo happy you don't even understand, I'm really glad i get to be that way for you and all you lovely people 💕💕 it's a blessing to be able to write & post my work and I'm genuinely happy to see people connecting with it.

tbh, the representation i try to portray accurately is a really long-standing relationship i have with writing & authorship in general. this might not be a terribly interesting bit of lore but back when i was in my teens and consuming a lot of fanfic online in the early forms of it (ff.net my love </3) that was something that hit me a lot in reading self-insert fic, because I'd always been a huge reader and was just then tapping into self-inserts and community fiction posting rather than just books. and i remember distinctly (i think partly bc I've always grown up in multicultural neighborhoods/had mixed family growing up) reading fanfics and having the thought of "huh, i can relate to this description or this experience, but that makes me wonder whether other people can."

funny enough, it was partly when i would read descriptions of the author giving a self-insert long hair or referencing their hair in some way, and I'd start wondering how girls who wore a hijab would read that same piece, cause i went to school with a bunch of girls who wore it or a full niqab. and so i started wondering more like "if i was black, would i relate to this experience in this fic? if i was trans or gender non-conforming, are there characters i can relate to? if i were a mix of these things, could i find somewhere i belong in this setting?" and since then it kind of became a focus in the way i wrote stuff going forward.

i think using inclusive language in fic writing is really integral to a greater horizon of people enjoying it, and thinking on my ocs i always wanted to have characters that people could really relate to. I'd stop a lot in my process of creating my initial sets of characters and try to keep in mind those thoughts that i had in reading fics; "if i were this or that, could someone in that position relate to the stories I'm writing? and if not, what can i change to make that happen?" because if people are going to enjoy my characters or find comfort in them i want everyone possible to have the ability to. it's kind of intimidating at times to write for experiences i haven't had personally but it led me (and still leads me) to do a ton of research, and in doing so I've been able to learn lots of really fascinating things in the process. in doing so, it made it really easy for my characters to develop their personalities through my writing because i think they inherently have identities that are complex, which is always the goal you want for any character in the first place.

sorry that this kinda went off on a ramble LOL, but after so many years of writing and with my degree under my belt i still really think about it a lot. I'm really glad what i wanted to do has come across and i hope you continue to enjoy my ocs!! ❤️❤️

[penroseparticle]

Penrose Song Of The Day Day 40: Hell of a Year by William Bolton

Happy Birthday, Me.

Whew. We are all kind of going through it aren't we? I don't think anyone has had an idyllic, easy year this year. Or any year. More and more I'm realizing that all we can be is kind, because, good or ill, better or worse, we keep being in situations and they keep going to shit. So like. Shouldn't I do what I can to make things a little less bad? Even if that kindness isn't deserved?

One story that really stuck with me posted on here was the story about volunteering at a soup kitchen. I'll see if I can track the post down. But they had to keep cleaning the bathroom because it kept getting trashed. An important lesson was learned by the OP of the post- The homeless people who went to that soup kitchen had precious little they could control. The bathroom was being trashed because it was one of the few places in their life where they could exert their will- even if it made things worse for everyone, even themselves. In distress, you will cause damage. But the thing I learned is that. I don't know. Would being mean to them help? Would I not clean the bathroom after a certain point? They made the mess, they "deserve it" right?

And obviously not. It wouldn't make volunteering for them more pleasant, it wouldn't make their situation different, and it likely wouldn't even feel good. The only thing that helps is the slow, arduous, unlikeable truth that the way to make things better is to help, and do right, and work with someone going through it, even if they are not fun to be around. It might not be "just", but it might just be the thing that works.

Flipwise and reversed though, I have issues with foresight- I do not think things through and I don't always get my just desserts for that. I think I am afforded a lot of latitude and grace for meaning well, which is great if a bit guilt inducing. But that's kind of what I believe everyone deserves, right? Aren't I part of everyone? Shouldn't people be kind to me too? If I think everyone deserves kindness, even when they're not "deserving", I'm part of everyone. I'm a person. I get that same grace.

And isn't grace always unearned? "Deserving is fake" and well, kind of in some of the most important ways it is. Maybe someone "deserves" the bad things coming to them, but in the ways I care about, the ways I'm trying to be, I can't let that be the end. That's not how the story is going to go, not when I'm writing it. And I am writing the story of my own life. Joint authorship with the world, but I'm first author. Pick up the pen!

I often have to remind myself that feeling guilty is a start, not a state, and that I am thankful and grateful I get to fuck it up all over again. It sucks. I have an overdeveloped sense of guilt, in that I think. And I need to pay it forward and walk the walk. Be kind if nothing else.

So instead let's look back at all the shit that's gone down and say WOW! That was wack, huh. And maybe steer next year a little differently this time. Every day is a new day, a new iteration of what I am. Who I am. So I'm gonna try and be a little kinder. Be the change. Gandhi that shit. idk.

This is me telling you to let it go, by the way. Guilt is cancerous, it only grows, and it weighs you down. Let's give ourselves that little bit of grace too, if we can.

Anyways, it's been a hell of a year, hasn't it? Back on track, I found this song years ago. A little bit of a chill, easy pop song. Some cutesy ornamentation, a simple drum loop, and a smooth delivery. I have my good friend Al to thank for this (The Algorithm), he gifted me this song on my Recommended for You playlist on spotify. I like it. It was a nice gift.

It's a little melancholy but it's not all doom and gloom. It's sort of quietly hopeful? Some bad things happened, yeah, it's also a bit of a triumph- he conquered his fears! He traveled the world! The time is now, make some memories! Live your life. Incremental progress.

There's been some bad things, and some good things, but it's your life baby. You gotta live it. I still haven't made it but I'm not that far. What a year.

See you next one.

And hey, as always. You could be dead right now. Go listen to something you love.

[michelleelizabethtanner]

Fanfic asks 5 & 20!

Ty so much for the ask!

5. Which WIP is first on your list to complete this year? Will you post a snippet?

I am DETERMINED to finish at least one entry into the 2024 Brio Fic Week. Idk what suddenly happened where my brain no longer can make Brio kiss and instead is just rotting on Animal Crossing Happy Home Paradise, but here I am, designing adorable cottages every day instead of smut writing. 😂

I have a good start though, I swear. It’s gonna happen. If I have to take a PTO day off work and make it happen, this fic is happening.

A Raw Snippet (I haven’t read through yet so this may change, but this is kinda the general feel I was hoping for):

20. Any plans to work on original fiction this year?

I don’t think this will ever happen. Original fiction is hard because you have the task of worldbuilding and characterization from scratch, which requires so much skill to do well. For me specifically, I also would need to feel some sort of passion or attachment to original characters to feel moved enough to invest the hours and hours it would take to create all this from scratch. And idk if I have it in me right now. Creating chemistry is difficult, as we know. Because as consumers of media we know that we don’t always feel that chemistry from fictional characters. So it’s kinda like all these stars have to align for the magic to happen. I suppose there are fictional genres other than romance, but pfffft, who wants to write that? 😂

But also listen, I am TELLING y’all, the GG fandom writers are so far ahead of the traditional romance authorship currently monetizing the most lazy and cliched trope, it isn’t even a competition. Maybe I’m biased because I especially love the Brio chemistry and I love reading original takes on what it looks like, I am yet to find a published work that executes the way you all do. There is so much self doubt in fic writing. But please believe me, if Colleen Linear-Storytelling Hoover can hoover in those bucks, the masterpieces we have gracing our AO3 fandom tag would have no trouble. The world-building, the use of character-affirming symbolism, the subtle exploration of the personal psyches and an unlikely kinship between two damaged, guarded people… We HAVE all that. Our trope is tailored. It’s sprinkled with believable, in-character pieces of structure that make it something unique and beautiful. Our “stuck in an elevator,” or our “high school dating AU,” or our “jealous of new love interest who won’t work out anyway,” is so much more immersive and visual than all these romances I keep trying to tolerate but can’t take seriously because those authors aren’t you guys. Fic has absolutely ruined me.

New Year Fic Asks

[transhanniday]

Upcoming Collection of Trans* Fannibal Experiences

Adapt. Evolve. Become: The Genderqueer Fandom of Hannibal

Submissions close 1st March 2023 *Trans in this instance is used as an umbrella term to include transgender, non-binary, genderqueer and otherwise non-cis people.  We have not sought to exclude intersex people in this definition, however not all intersex people identify as trans* and those who do are included under the above umbrella.

For TransHanniDay 2023 (8th April) we will be publishing a collection of fanfiction, essays, creative nonfiction, personal accounts and art about being non-cis in the Hannibal Fandom. 

The show has resonated with many queer fans, and we know that being in the Hannibal, Hannigram and Hannibal Extended Universe fandom, and the support of Fannibals has been part of many people's gender identity journeys. We want to capture that in a fandom led volume of fanfiction and non-fiction, featuring essays, creative nonfiction, personal accounts and art. If you are interested in contributing please read on!

How to submit: Submissions close 1st March. Submit via google form HERE  

Who should submit: Please ONLY SUBMIT IF:

you are aged 18 or over. For the sake of legalities, we are only accepting submissions from those legally considered adults in the region of publication - UK.

you are transgender, non-binary, genderqueer or otherwise non-cis. 

What to submit:

Fanfiction

Essays

Creative nonfiction

Personal account

Art If you’d like to submit something else, please DM us on tumblr or twitter to discuss

One submission per person with the following exceptions: 

You may submit art and one form of fiction or nonfiction

You may submit one piece of fiction and one piece of nonfiction

Theme: 

Via one of the above mediums, we want you to explore with us in as much or little detail as you’d like, your journey as a non-cis Fannibal in the Hannibal fandom, and/or the impact NBCs Hannibal has had on your gender journey. 

A few points for consideration you may wish to explore: 

Whilst fanfiction will be accepted, our preference is for stories that explore what it is to be trans*

Has the show and/or being part of the fandom helped you explore your gender, or made you feel more confident in expressing it - even if only online. 

Has the fandom helped you with your transition and/or medical needs, such as donating for trans-clothing or surgeries? 

Do you want to write an essay exploring the connection between NBCs Hannibal and non-cis fans? Or perhaps one arguing that Will Graham is trans-coded?

Do you want to submit art of Hannibal, Will or another character that expresses how you feel about your own gender identity?

PLEASE NOTE: if your submission is successful you are welcome to use your real name or an online handle for authorship, but you will have the option to publish anonymously or under a pseudonym if you would prefer. 

Word counts: 

Minimum of 100 words Maximum of 7000 words  We would prefer to keep the word count around 3000, but understand that essays and fanfiction for example may go up to 7000 words, which is our maximum limit. 

Art submissions must come with a summary of your experience and/or what you are expressing in the art, this need not be more than a few sentences. 

Compensation: As a fan-led project we do not have any funding and so cannot offer monetary compensation. However, all contributors will receive at the least an e-copy of the collection. 

Due to the timeline it is unlikely we’ll be able to produce print copies, however if we are able to make print copies available these will either by not for profit or the resultant proceeds will be donated to appropriate charities.

Content Restrictions: 

Contributors must be transgender, non-binary, genderqueer or otherwise non-cis 

Contributions must relate to NBCs Hannibal and/or the fandom

The contribution must be your original work

Non-fiction: reprints maybe accepted, please query us via twitter or tumblr

Fanfiction: this can be old fanfic, including fic previously posted online including AO3

Fanart: this can be old fanart, including any previously published online

Explicit works are allowed, however more graphic works might not be accepted

It should go without saying, but we will not accept bigotry and hate speech: We may consider works that feature these things but do not glorify them. For example, we will consider works that discuss transphobia but not works that are transphobic.

Will there be automatic acceptances?

As this is all about personal experiences and relationships to the subject matter rather than a theme, we’re not going to be looking at it in the same way as other fanthologies might. That said, there won’t be any automatic acceptances, we will have to have a limit depending on the number of submissions. 

It is likely that all accepted pieces will be lightly edited for readability, but there will be no changes to the essence of the works. 

Anticipated Timeline: This is subject to some change.

January 1st - 31st: Submissions March 1st - 10th: Reading period March 10th: Final selection contributors will be notified March: Editing and formatting March 25th - 31st: Promo April 8th: Publication

FAQ

What is Trans Hannigram Day?

Trans Hannigram Day or TransHanniDay is a day of celebration for trans* fanworks and creators in the Hannibal, Hannigram and Hannibal Extended Universe fandom. On this day old and new fanworks are shared with the intention of filling the timeline with trans* love!

Originally this event was Transcendence Fest, first held in December 2020. The first TransHanniDay was held on 8th April in 2022 in reaction to the release of a certain movie on that day.

Will this collection only be focused on Hannigram?

Technically the focus is on the fans, but we know the influence of NBCs Hannibal and the fandom itself goes beyond Hannigram. Both in written works and in art, other characters are accepted including those from NBCs Hannibal and those from other Mads and Hugh projects (Hannibal Extended Universe). 

For example, if Bedelia De Maurier or Adam Raki resonated with you as part of your gender journey, we’d love to hear about it. 

How can I prove I’m Trans*?

We aren't expecting you to and in no way expect you to out yourself either online or in real life. We will take on trust that you are who and what you say you are, including if you are questioning, between labels or do not like to use labels. 

As noted above, those who would feel more comfortable doing so, can have their work published under a pseudonym or anonymously. 

Who is publishing this collection?

This collection will be edited and published by Max Turner. Max is a gay transgender writer based in the UK, a Fannibal and the publisher of online publication A Coup of Owls. 

This publication will not be associated with A Coup of Owls, but will receive some promotion. 

[lthienofdorthonion]

Through My Window

Chapter IV: It's never too late

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction, inspired by the Harry Potter universe and the characters I love so much. I am not trying, under any circumstances, to take authorship of J.K. Rowling's original work. All rights belong to the creator of this incredible saga.

Author Notes: While Draco does not appear in this chapter, it plays a crucial role in setting the stage for future character development. Please be patient—he’ll be making his entrance soon, and once he does, his presence will be featured just as much as Hermione’s in the chapters to come.

The wind was blowing hard as the rain began to become almost a storm. The drops that had previously fallen timidly now hit the ground furiously, bouncing off the puddles that had begun to form. The brown-haired girl, drenched and breathing fast, decided it was time to head home. The sound of her hurried steps on the cobblestones echoed in the cold, humid night.

When she got home, the first thing she noticed was the silence. No sign of her parents.

—It’s already after eight…— she whispered to herself, trying to hide her growing concern. —Maybe they decided to stay a little longer.

She sat resolutely on the armchair in the living room, turning on the television without much desire. That device had never caught her interest; She found the hustle and bustle of empty programs monotonous, even irritating. Soon, the background noise began to stress her out, and with nothing better to do, she headed upstairs to seek refuge in her favorite place: her room.

That corner of the world had always been her refuge. The walls filled with shelves containing books piled up in a haphazard manner, the soft aroma of old paper... In her room, she felt like she could disconnect from the world, find solace among the pages of her novels, where heroes and magical creatures lived together in harmony. There, she could lose herself for hours, immersed in stories that seemed to understand her better than anyone else.

As she lay in bed, her mind wandered to those times when adventures were not only in books, but also in her own life. Friends. That word resonated in her head with a distant echo. Two faces appeared in her mind, clear as if she had just seen them: piercing green eyes behind round glasses, and a carefree smile accompanied by messy red hair. Memories of them, of those endless afternoons of laughter and mischief, enveloped her in a mixture of nostalgia and warmth, but also a touch of sadness.

There was something in that nostalgia that now made her feel emptier, more alone. What once seemed like an eternal friendship was now a distant memory. The distance had been created without her doing anything to prevent it. The unspoken words, the looks they no longer shared, the lack of contact… it felt like a weight on her shoulders.

She sighed, closing her eyes tightly, as if she could squeeze her memories in an attempt to hold them in just a little longer. But when she opened his eyes, she realized that, although the memories would still be there, reality was now different. Her room, her refuge, no longer offered her the same peace as before. Now, instead of comfort, it seemed like a reminder of what she had lost.

Harry and Ron.

—I miss you both so much…— she murmured to herself, with a heavy sigh that seemed to carry all the weight of the time she had spent without seeing them.

She remembered their jokes, the endless talks in the Gryffindor common room, the complicit looks when they planned something together. She missed them so much that it sometimes hurt her to think about how far apart they had been for the past few years. Two years had passed since they had last seen each other, each one following their own path. Hermione had continued her academic career in the Muggle world, while Ron and Harry had gotten lost in their own worlds, perhaps so entangled in their own problems that it hadn't even been easy to keep in touch.

Ron always made her smile, a mix of affection and sadness tugging at her heart. Always so loyal, and a little impulsive—sometimes too much. The afternoons they spent in the Great Hall or the moments when Ron would lose his temper over the smallest things felt like an integral part of who he was, a cornerstone of their friendship. Yet, over time, something had shifted in him, and although she had never said it out loud, Hermione had sensed that the tension between them went beyond mere differences in personality.

Ron had also been possessive of her in ways that were subtle but also glaringly obvious. At times, when they talked about Harry, Ron couldn’t hide the irritated expression that crossed his face—a look Hermione never fully understood. He was so protective, but not in the same way he was with Harry. It was different, a kind of protectiveness that made her feel stifled, even trapped.

/FLASHBACK/

It was the beginning of their seventh year at Hogwarts, a time when everything seemed on the brink of irreversible change. Hermione and Ron walked together through the castle’s stone corridors, the distant sounds of laughter and footsteps filling the air. Light streamed through the high windows, casting long, almost melancholic shadows, as though the castle itself could sense what was coming.

Ron came to a sudden halt, making Hermione stop short behind him. There was something in his face—something tight and unreadable—that made her frown.

—Hermione— Ron said, his voice unusually serious. —What’s going on between you and him?

Hermione stared at him, bewildered by the question. Her mind raced to find some context for what he was saying, but none of it made sense.

—Who are you talking about?— she asked at last, frowning as she tilted her head slightly. Her eyes searched Ron’s for a clue, some sign of what he was really trying to say.

Ron took a step closer, his blue eyes darkening with a mix of frustration and something sharper. —Harry,— he said bluntly, too quickly for it to sound casual. —It’s always Harry, isn’t it? Last night, I heard you two talking in the common room. After hours. You didn’t even tell me. What was that about?—

Hermione frowned, taken aback by the accusation. —What? Ron, we’re friends,— she said, her tone confused but edged with irritation. —He was upset about something, and I just happened to be there. I’d gone back to grab a book I forgot, and he needed someone to talk to. That’s all. You’re being ridiculous.—

But Ron wasn’t backing down. He crossed his arms tightly, his jaw tense, eyes narrowing as if piecing together a puzzle that didn’t fit. —It’s not just that, though, is it?— he said, his voice quieter now but laced with something possessive. —It’s like… he always turns to you. Like you’re the only one he trusts. The only one who really gets him. And where does that leave me, Hermione? What’s my place in all of this?—

Hermione’s heart skipped a beat. She opened her mouth, then closed it again, unsure of what to say. The way he was looking at her, the frustration and vulnerability mixed in his gaze, was something she hadn’t seen before. It felt... different. Heavy.

—Ron…— she began, but he took another step forward, and the distance between them seemed to shrink.

—I don’t know, Hermione,— Ron said, his voice soft but tight with frustration. —Sometimes it feels like I’m just… not part of this. Like I’m invisible, or I’m not enough. I try, but it’s like no matter what I do, it’s always him. You’re always there for him. And I don’t know how to fix it. How do I compete with that?—

Hermione’s breath caught in her throat. —Ron, you are enough,— she said quickly, trying to reach out to him. But the tension in the air was thick, and it was hard to know what he needed to hear. —You’re being ridiculous. Harry and I are friends. That’s all there is to it. You don’t have to compete with anyone.—

Ron’s eyes flashed with frustration, though he tried to mask it. —But that’s just it, Hermione. You always defend him. You’re always with him. And I— I’m right here, but it’s like I’m not the one you turn to. Like I’m not the one you rely on.—

Hermione felt her pulse quicken as Ron’s presence grew more overwhelming, pushing her back against the wall without him even realizing it. The air felt thick with something unspoken, a pressure that made it hard to think. Ron’s eyes were locked on hers, searching, waiting.

—Ron,— she said again, but her voice faltered, not sure how to handle the intensity of the moment.

Ron’s gaze shifted for a second, and then it dropped to her lips. The silence was deafening, and Hermione’s heart hammered in her chest. “Why was this happening? Why did it feel so wrong? So unfamiliar?”

He didn’t move. He just stood there, watching her with that same intensity, as if her words were being weighed against something he’d never said out loud. His shoulders relaxed, but there was still an edge to his gaze, something she couldn’t quite place.

Hermione felt her throat tighten. She had no idea what was happening, but she had to break the silence. —Ron,— she said softly, her voice trembling, —You’re not… you’re not being pushed out. You and Harry are both my best friends, and I need you both. You mean the world to me, both of you.

For a moment, Ron didn’t move. His expression softened, and he exhaled, as if letting go of a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. The tension in his shoulders eased, and a small, relieved smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

—Yeah?— he asked with a low voice, almost casual, but strange with a hint of something more under the surface. —You really mean that, Hermione? Because, you know… you can tell me anything. And I’m always here for you. Always. I’m not going anywhere.—

There was something in the way he said it, the way his eyes softened yet didn’t quite leave hers, that sent a strange chill down her spine. But Hermione couldn’t put her finger on it. Instead, she nodded, her own unease passing over her as she smiled weakly, unaware of the tightening grip Ron seemed to have on the situation.

—Of course, I mean it, Ron. We’re a team, always.

Ron looked at her for a moment longer, and then he gave a little nod, his face breaking into that shy, grateful smile she knew so well. He didn’t need to say anything more—his look said it all.

The space between them felt easier now, and the air that had been so heavy a moment ago was finally clear. Hermione sighed, feeling the weight of the tension lift.

—Thanks, Hermione,— Ron muttered, still a little awkward, but it was genuine. —I just… I don’t know, sometimes.—

Hermione gave him a reassuring smile, and for a moment, they both just stood there, the understanding between them simple but solid. The unease was gone, replaced by the comfort of their friendship, reminding them both that no matter how complicated things got, they were in this together.

/END OF FLASHBACK/

At that moment, she thought of Harry, her other best friend, and a pang of pain shot through her chest as she remembered everything he had endured. From the very first day she met him, she knew there was something different about him, something that went far beyond being The Boy Who Lived. It was the weight of the losses he had experienced since he was just a baby.

First, his parents, taken from him before he could even remember their faces. Then his godfather, Sirius, a spark of hope that had been cruelly snatched away. And later, Dumbledore, a figure of guidance and wisdom who had also been lost in the unending fight against darkness. After the war, there were even more deaths—more people Harry cared about, taken too soon. Each loss felt like another blow, leaving invisible but indelible scars on his soul. She couldn’t even imagine the level of suffering Harry faced every day. All that pain, all that loneliness, and, as if it weren’t enough, the constant shadow of Voldemort haunting him relentlessly until he was finally defeated.

Yet despite it all, Harry was still Harry: someone with a pure heart and selfless kindness that shone through even the darkest adversity. There was something profoundly admirable about his ability to keep going, to care for others even when it seemed like the whole world was against him.

From the moment she truly grasped the enormity of what Harry carried, Hermione made a decision. She would be his unwavering support, his family, the person he could trust without hesitation. She would be his shelter in the storms that never seemed to end. And no matter how dark his life became, she would be there for him—not because it was her duty, but because she cared for him deeply, with a love that went beyond words. Harry was her friend, but he was also like a brother—a bond she couldn’t and wouldn’t break.

She had always felt protective of Harry, not because she thought he was weak, but because she saw his strength and knew how much it cost him to maintain it. She wanted to be the pillar that held him up when everything else threatened to collapse. And although Harry rarely spoke about his feelings, she understood, with an almost magical intuition, how much it meant to him to have someone who was simply there for him.

Their friendship was something pure, a bond built on trust, respect, and a deep love that didn’t need labels or explanations. She had never wanted anything more than Harry’s happiness. She always advocated for him, for his right to find some peace, to be happy after so much suffering. Because if anyone in the world deserved happiness, it was Harry. 

/FLASHBACK/

The night was quiet, yet heavy. Hermione had finished her nightly routine, preparing for bed in a pink pajama set—pants and a shirt with small embroidered details on the sleeves. Her hair was tied up in a high ponytail, secured with a ribbon in the same soft shade, and her expression revealed the exhaustion of a day full of studying and responsibilities.

As she carefully placed her books in her trunk, her gaze lingered on one of the empty shelves.

Her Transfiguration book was missing.

—Oh, Merlin!— she muttered with a sigh of frustration.

She realized she had left it in the common room. Resigned, she adjusted her ribbon and descended the stairs with quick but quiet steps, wanting to retrieve the book as soon as possible so she could finally rest. 

When she reached the common room, she saw him.

Harry was sitting alone by the fire, staring at the flickering flames. His posture was slumped, and the shadows on his face made him look even more weary than usual. But it was the streaks of moisture on his cheeks that stopped Hermione dead in her tracks.

He was crying.

She’d seen him upset before, but not like this. Harry rarely let anyone see him vulnerable, and to see him like this made Hermione's heart ache.

For weeks, she’d noticed the weight he was carrying—Voldemort was constantly on his mind, and the pressure was taking a toll on him. The dark circles under his eyes and his distant attitude were more than just signs of exhaustion—they were signs of someone who was at the breaking point.

Quietly, Hermione walked over to him, her footsteps barely making a sound on the carpet. When she reached him, she placed a gentle hand on his shoulder.

Harry jumped, quickly wiping his eyes with the back of his hand as he turned to face her.

—Hermione?— His voice was hoarse, and he quickly tried to pull himself together. —What are you doing up at this hour?

She looked at him, her heart heavy. He was trying so hard to hide it, but she could see through it all.

—I left my Transfiguration book on the table,— she said softly, pointing to where it was. She kept her tone calm, like she didn’t want to disturb him any more than she already had. —And Harry nodded, his eyes still shining with unshed tears. There was something in his gaze that she’d rarely seen—a vulnerability he kept so carefully hidden.

—I had a vision,— he confessed after a long pause. —Voldemort… he came to the castle. He killed so many people.

His voice faltered, and the tears began to fall again.

—Hermione… I can’t… I can’t keep doing this,— he whispered, his hands shaking as he covered his face. —I don’t want anyone else to die.

Hermione felt her own throat tighten as she watched him crumble. Without thinking, she moved forward and wrapped her arms around him, pulling him close. She stroked his hair, as if her touch could somehow shield him from the weight of the world.

—I know it’s hard, Harry,— she said quietly, her voice trembling. —But you’re not alone. You’ve got me, and Ron, and we’re going to keep fighting. We’ll defeat him, I promise.

Harry’s forehead rested against her shoulder. They were close—maybe too close—but Hermione didn’t pull away.

—I can’t lose you or Ron,— he said quietly, his voice thick with emotion. He pulled back just slightly to look at her, his green eyes full of pain. —I don’t know what I’d do if something happened to you.

Hermione opened her mouth to respond, but no words came out. Harry gently cupped her face with one hand, and the warmth of his touch sent a jolt through her, though she didn’t move away.

—You’re so important to me, Hermione,— he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. His smile was faint but full of pain, and he stroked her cheek with the lightest touch.

Hermione froze, her thoughts a jumbled mess. Her heart raced, and she wasn’t sure what to say.

Before she could gather her thoughts, Harry pulled her into a tight hug, his arms around her like a lifeline. He held her close as though he feared she might vanish.

—Sorry,— he mumbled into her hair. —I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I just… I don’t want to be alone.

Hermione, caught off guard by the rawness of his words, didn’t misunderstand. Harry was always so guarded, so seeing him like this, so open, only made her heart swell with affection for him.

—You’ll never be alone, Harry,— she whispered, her hand gently rubbing the back of his neck as she ran her other hand through his hair. —We’ll get through this together. Always.

As the fire crackled in the hearth, the Gryffindor common room became a haven for the two of them, offering a brief respite from the looming threat they faced.

/END OF FLASHBACK/

—Would it be too late to...?—

She left the sentence unfinished, but an idea began to form in her mind. A slow, sincere smile spread across her face. Without wasting any time, she got out of bed and headed to her desk. With trembling hands, she pulled out two pieces of parchment, a quill, and an ink bottle. She couldn't wait any longer.

Dear Harry and Ron, I know this letter is long overdue, and I’m truly sorry for not reaching out sooner. It’s been far too long, and I can’t help but think about both of you constantly. Seven years of friendship… I still can’t believe it. Despite everything we’ve been through, I know none of us have kept the promise we made to each other. I can’t help but feel a bit guilty about that. We’ve faced so much, and it hasn’t always been easy. There are still difficult memories that linger, but I keep coming back to the good ones, the moments we shared, and how much they mean to me. Two years have passed, and I haven’t tried to reconnect, and that’s something I deeply regret. I often wonder if you still think of me, if you remember everything we went through together. I hope you do, and I truly hope you know how much you both still mean to me. I think of you every single day, and it makes me long for the days when we were together. I would really love to reconnect, to find a way to bridge the distance that has grown between us. Please forgive me for not writing sooner. Life has been overwhelming, and I let that get in the way. But I don’t want to be distant anymore. I need you both. Sending all my love, Hermione

She stared at the parchment for a few seconds, smiling as she imagined her friends' expressions when they received the letter. Without a second thought, she rolled it up, stood up, and went to find her owl. As she watched the creature take flight with her letters, a sigh of relief escaped her lips.

The night passed in the blink of an eye. The next morning, Hermione woke up earlier than usual. She descended the stairs full of energy, almost floating with happiness.

—Good morning, Dad! Good morning, Mom!— she greeted with a smile that lit up her face.

Her mother looked at her in surprise, noticing that, for the first time in a long time, her daughter seemed genuinely happy.

—Good morning, dear,— her father replied, delighted to see her so cheerful.

—Would you like some breakfast?— her mother asked.

—Of course! I'll be right there!—

Suddenly, a noise from her room caught her attention. Hermione jumped, and her eyes lit up with excitement.

—It's here!— she shouted, running up the stairs.

She entered her room, and there it was: an owl with two letters on its talon. With a smile that illuminated her face, she thanked the owl and took the letters. She immediately recognized the first handwriting.

—Harry, your handwriting is still the same,— she murmured with a laugh, her eyes sparkling with emotion.

She opened the letter and began to read:

Hermione, It was such a relief to get your letter. I’ve been thinking about you and Ron a lot too, more than I probably let on. Please don’t apologize, we’re just as much to blame. I can’t really understand why we never wrote to each other; looking back, I think we were all a bit foolish. Even after everything we went through, I still care about you both, and I always will. I think we’ve been avoiding seeing each other because it feels like there’s so much we haven’t talked about, but maybe it’s time we finally did. We’ve been through so much together, and we also have so many good memories. I want you to know that you’ve never been forgotten—not for a second. I’d really love for us to reconnect, to catch up properly. Maybe we can plan something soon. With love, Harry

Hermione smiled with tears in her eyes. Before she could fully process the emotions, she grabbed the second letter. She opened it quickly and read eagerly:

Hermione, Blimey, it’s been ages! I was really glad to hear from you. And as soon as Harry got your letter, he wrote to me straight away. I’ve already told Ginny, and everyone’s thrilled to hear from you, especially Fred and George. You probably already know, but their shop in Romania’s doing so well that they’re expanding like mad. Even the shop in Diagon Alley’s getting bigger. I’ll be in London for a few months, working with dragons, a job I got through Romania, so I’m planning to visit Fred, George, and Ginny while I’m there. It’d be great if we could all meet up. Harry and I were thinking of getting together at the Leaky Cauldron next Saturday. What do you think? Can you make it? You’re always going to be our friend, Hermione. Don’t feel bad about not writing sooner. We all should’ve done better. But we’ve never forgotten you, not for a second. Ron  

Hermione let out a deep sigh, but this time, it wasn’t one of sadness—it was pure happiness. With an even wider smile, she quickly wrote a reply accepting the invitation.

The rest of the week passed in the blink of an eye, and the long-awaited day finally arrived. Eager, she put on a simple black dress that reached just above her knees. The cut was basic, perfect for a casual day, but the way the light fabric gently hugged her waist accentuated her slender figure. The dress gave off a relaxed vibe, while the classic white and black Converse shoes she had chosen added a carefree, youthful touch to her look.

As she left the house, a soft breeze tousled her curly hair, which fell gently down her back and shoulders. She decided to wear it loose, and without realizing it, looks began to follow her. Men of all ages turned their heads to watch her as she walked down the sidewalk, drawn to her natural beauty. She, absorbed in her thoughts, never noticed the attention she was attracting, walking calmly, unaware of the eyes that followed her every step. For her, the outfit was simply a comfortable choice, but for others, her presence was impossible to ignore.

Despite waking up early, she was running late by the time she arrived. She found a table and sat down, biting her lip in impatience. Time seemed to drag on, and after half an hour, discouragement began to settle in. She stood up to leave, when suddenly, she felt a hand on her shoulder.

—Hermione?— said two familiar voices in unison.

Her heart skipped a beat. She turned on her heels, hope burning in her chest, and there they were: the faces of those she had never stopped missing…

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

PREVIOUS CHAPTERS

✨Chapter I: Secrets

✨Chapter II: Memories

✨Chapter III: Truths that hurt

✨Read all chapters (full story) in AO3 here:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/60701563/chapters/155010175