#HELL & BACK by Maren Morris has these two and especially that scene written all over it

[hoffnungswolke]

Lucky for me Your kind of heaven's been to hell and back

[jmflowers]

3, 15, 17 for the fanfic ask 😊

3. Do you prefer canonverse or AUs?

I think for reading, I always lean more towards canonverse. I like those fill-in scene fics and being some place in a story that is ultimately really familiar. Canon fics are the ones I most often go back to and read again.

As for writing, I find myself much more drawn to AUs. I was always very, very driven by character development when in school and required to write my own creations, but I never really felt like I got good at world-building or plot lines. I started writing fanfiction specifically because it gave me established characters and, as such, forced me to get better at the other stuff.

15. Post the last line you wrote without context.

A lighthouse, guiding Charity home to safe harbour.

17. Describe a fic that is still in the ‘ideas’ stage.

I wish this one was more than just an idea because I love the concept so much and it was so cathartic to write the first two parts, but I’ve been stuck on it for months and I’m not sure where to go with it next.

It’s called Hell & Back, inspired by the song of the same name by Maren Morris. I wanted to write something in second person that had an actual plot, as opposed to the usual character analysis style I typically do in second person POV. So far, I have written two interactions: the first and second times Vanessa meets Charity.

I don’t know how to talk about this one without giving it all away… I’m just gonna post part one here and we’ll see what happens...

               You meet Charity on a Thursday, when the sun has finally given way to the storm clouds that have been creeping closer all morning. The rain pelts down in cold, hard slaps as you bend over a sheep that looks about as miserable as you’re starting to feel, examining its hooves for what you’re certain might be the start of foot rot in the herd. Moira won’t be pleased, not in the slightest.

               “Shouldn’t you be ducking for cover?” someone calls over the sound of the rain, their voice slicing through the rising crescendo to reach your ears.

               You twist, startled, looking up quickly to find the source. It’s a woman, stood about four yards away, watching you with her arms crossed atop the fence. There’s a fog that seems to hover around her, rising slowly like the steam above a hot cup of tea. It’s something you should look at closer, you’ll realize later, but in the moment, it flits away from conscious thought in the passing breeze.

               You shiver, the rain well and truly soaked into your coveralls now, bits of hair plastered to your forehead in such a way that you’re sure isn’t flattering. Not like in those movies Tracy keeps making you watch. 

               “Shouldn’t you?” you retort, already turning your attention back to the sheep struggling in your hands. Fickle creatures, them; smart enough to recognize each other but not to see that you’re only there to help. You pull it harder onto its hindquarters, rendering it unable to escape and earning a pathetic bleat in response.

               “Really rather be torturing sheep than cuddled up warm and dry?” It’s the woman again, her voice suddenly closer than it’d been before. You look up just in time to see her leaning over the side of the pen you’re in, pulling a face at the animal in your arms. Your eyes flick to the gate she’d been stood beside before, the chain still wrapped securely around the fence post just as you’d left it.

               “I’m not torturing it,” you murmur, eyes dragging back to her face. Did you miss the sound of her hopping the fence? Are you so tuned out that you wouldn’t be aware of someone approaching like that?

               She laughs, the green of her eyes almost sparkling as she tips her chin up into the air. “Don’t know that he’d agree with that statement, babe.” She’s near enough now that you can count the freckles trailing down her neck, guiding your eyes to the dip at the top of her jacket.

               “She,” you say without thinking, always just a breath from correcting. Like your mother, that; a habit you’d always hated when you were on the receiving end.

               But she doesn’t scrunch up her nose like Tracy does when you do the same to her, voicing annoyance louder than her words ever could. No, Charity just tilts her head and hums out one of those noises that sounds like a question, as though she’d rather you explain further than shut right up.

               “This is a ewe, not a ram,” you offer, trying to pull back that prim and proper tone that seems to appear whenever you’re clarifying something. It’s like a flashback to being sat in the front row at school, pretending you didn’t hear the girls snickering behind you. “Male sheep have horns, females don’t.” Even Rhona’s teased you for it, mimicking after she’d overheard you giving directions to a client.

               “Huh,” Charity says, dropping her gaze to the animal once more, “Guess that’s why everyone always assumes the devil’s a man.”

               It’s a funny thing to say, odd enough that you freeze for a moment before you manage to come up with a response. Later, you’ll understand why she did, when you know her well enough to grasp the twists and turns of her mind. But not right now. No, the first time you meet her, you just think she’s a strange one.

               “Male and female goats both have horns,” you sputter when the quiet between you has stretched on for too long. You want to kick yourself the second her eyes flick back to you, her gaze so clearly telling that it is you – not her – whom she thinks is odd.

               “Is that right?” she asks with a smirk, “Always did like them better.”

               You, too, though you don’t say. Not normal conversation, is it, to tell a stranger that you’ve always preferred that gentle knowingness hidden behind a goat’s eye? Be a vet, Vanessa, if you must, your mother had said, But, don’t be one of those people who only speaks of animals.

               The prim and proper comes from her, you know, all the things you’d been poked and teased for stemming from the ideal daughter she’d tried to craft you into. Not like your father, who laughs when he shouldn’t and smiles when it’s impolite and says the sorts of things you’d never dare to. You wonder, often, how they ever got together long enough to have you.

               “So, what are you doing then?” she asks, lurching her body further over the pen until you can feel her breath beside your head. It’s hot, much hotter than you’re prepared for when the cold is so busy burrowing into your bones. She keeps her eyes trained on your hands, trying to get a good look at the hoof you’re clutching – not a pretty one, either, not the sort you’d ever show anyone other than Paddy or Rhona. You tuck it a little lower, trying to hide the swelling beneath some wool.

               “They’re sick,” you mutter, your brain spiralling backwards to the game plan you’d been formulating before she’d interrupted. You’ll need one, before you head up to the house to tell Moira what’s going on. It’s likely the field, you think, all this low-lying ground and the abundance of rain in the past few weeks has surely not helped the situation.

               “With what?” Charity presses. Her breath feels like fire where it meets your neck, scalding the gooseflesh beneath your ponytail as she speaks.

              You lean away, lowering your arm enough that the sheep squirms hard in your grasp, knocking you off balance. You fall back against the fence, hands grappling behind yourself to grab onto something sturdy. The sheep takes its opportunity, tipping to the side before scrambling to its feet and taking off towards the others. They bleat at the new arrival, corralling themselves into a bunch beneath the only tree at the far edge of the pen.

              You huff, frustrated instantly and unsure where to lay the blame. You can feel your brow furrowing when you turn to meet her eye, catching the twinkle and the smirk that you assume are present at your expense. “Foot rot,” you mutter, pushing away from the fence angrily. Won’t be easy to catch that one again, now that it’s had a taste, especially not when the field’s gone slick with mud.

               “Sounds gross,” she says, dropping down off the fence to follow as you stalk across the pen to your bag. The rain has sent splatters of mud up the side of it, a match to the boots on your feet. “You a farmer, then?” she asks.

               The laugh comes before you can decide whether you mean to or not, a breath bursting across your lips at the notion of you in Moira’s shoes, depending on animals for your livelihood in a different sort of way than you already do. No, you’ve never quite managed to imagine a clean picture of yourself with a farm, always something just slightly off that made you shy away.

               “’Fraid not,” you chuckle, “I’m a vet.”

               She nods knowingly, stepping back out of the way when you open the gate to the outer laneway where she stands. “They’ll be okay, then?” she murmurs, eyes shifting over your shoulder to the herd.

               You shrug, because it’s not a guarantee of course – none of these things ever are – but you’ve caught it early enough that you don’t anticipate too much damage. Some zinc sulfate baths to start, a round of vaccinations if it comes to it, and the sheep will be good as new in no time. “They’ll be fine,” you answer, “Though I might not be, when I tell Moira she’ll have to spend the next few weeks coaxing them into a few feet of solution to stave off the infection.”

               Charity laughs, the sound lighting something low in your belly. The rain feels distant when you’re stood so close to her, the wet of your coveralls barely a blip in your mind though you’ll be desperate for a hot shower the second she’s gone.

               “Well, best be careful, then,” she suggests, the remnants of her smile softening the edges of her words, “Wouldn’t want to miss seeing you again.”

               She turns away before you can formulate an answer, strolling down the laneway toward the open fields at the back of the property. You have half a mind to call after her, to invite her inside for a cuppa and a towel, but she’s over the hill before you can find the courage to shout.

               It’s not until much later, when you’re laid in bed replaying the day in your mind that you realize she hadn’t much seemed like she’d needed a towel. She hadn’t much seemed like the rain had touched her at all.