#fanfiction commentary

[twopoppies]

A few years ago when I was new around here I was reading everything I could find about Larry, even really old blogs that hadn’t been updating for a long time. I remember reading about something that I can’t find again. It was about some kind of art installation. There was a video or maybe just a gif. It was two young men undressing facing each other, like it was in front of a mirror. Mabye it even was some sort of frame between them but no glass. Their looks, height, hair and clothes looked a lot like H and L when they were younger. And there were people walking or standing around watching them. Do you know what this was and when?

LOL! Yeah. It was an art installation in London in 2016 that was inspired by fanfic. That was only part of what was there, but here’s a post with photos.

The bigger concept behind it is actually pretty interesting:

Showing as part of Jerwood Visual Arts’ “Jerwood Encounters: Common Property” exhibition, Parry’s pieces include Larry Underwater Kiss, a digital silk print, Larry!Hiroglyfics, etched drawings of the couple on Perspex alongside the slogan “ship everything”, and Larry!Domestic: masks of Louis and Harry in pink containers, alongside a wearable pregnant belly marked with Harry’s tattoos. The exhibiton event included a live piece of performance art, featuring One Direction lookalikes kissing, hugging and undressing one another.

For Parry, these works are just one extension of an existing artistic sphere, exploring “the figure of the fan as an unassuming model for invention, mobilization and revolt”. He told the Telegraph that Larry shippers are “just presenting the normal ideals of a relationship, but actually it’s really subversive”.

“These fictions are an opportunity to create – for pure expression in their field. Fandom is a space where anything can happen. We might go back to a genuine passion in art.”

It’s an important sentiment: fanfiction writers and fanart creators, especially those working within fandoms like One Direction’s, are often young women who are intellectually and creatively dismissed. But fanfiction often provides a space for young artists who might be marginalised in the mainstream to create artwork that reflects their experiences, whether it be by racebending or reimagining characters in different power structures and dynamics.

Shipping is a key part of that, particularly for LGBTQ fans, something perhaps flattened in Parry’s statement, “Creating relationships: this is a method in fandom called ‘shipping’, which I’ve basically taken on and applied to my art practice […] This whole installation is me ‘shipping’ materials and ideas, theories and passions.”

[shyjusticewarrior]

At some point "fanfic can be as good as professional writing" became "fanfic should be as good as professional writing" and that's caused major damage to fandom spaces.

[proseverence]

Thinking about Cassandra and Cullen. Their friendship. How Cassandra knows Cullen—knows him for his achievements, his capabilities, his leadership—and doesn't question how that slots in with the insecurity churning just below the surface. The self-loathing he confides in her, the doubt he feels in himself—how she sees this, accepts it, and then compares him to a god. Finds beauty in his duality and dubs it holy.

She doesn't coddle him. Her love isn't soft and laced with empty platitudes. She sees Cullen's struggles—empathizes with them—and confronts them with a brutal concern that offends the lack of care Cullen shows himself. Her love is raw and sharp and packs a punch.

And I think it's what Cullen needs. I think it's that direct honesty that makes it harder for Cullen to dismiss her words when she says he's worth his weight in gold.

[toomanybirdss]

when in doubt, read fanfiction. when not in doubt, read fanfiction. honestly just read fanfiction it's the best.

[girllookingoutwindow]

Colin tried to sleep but he was lost in his inner thoughts. Seeing her, at night, so beautiful and dreamy. Her lips, her body, he couldn't stop thinking about it.

He tries to remember how it felt to touch her, the softness of her skin. Her breath close to his. He's full of desire for her. He always wants to be close to her. Now she feels so close and so far away. He wanted so much to touch her, to kiss her.

Why he can't stop thinking about it? Why he couldn't do the only one thing that feels right to him?

He was hurt. And even if he feels ashamed of himself, he can't deny he wanted to hurt her too.

Her words suprised him. And making him come back to the room. She looks so pretty. She's talking but she's not really looking at him. It takes him a moment to understand what she's saying.

Her voice sounds sad, distant. He wanted to punish her. Making her feel sad. But now, he doesn't recognise himself through that feelings.

Before he can even get up she's gone. His body feels attached to her. The room feels so empty now.

She said something of him not wanting to be close to her. She doesn't know?

He follows her, he doesn't know why. Honestly, that's not true, he knows why. Because his body feels more at easy close to hers. Because everytime she goes away he feels his heart goes tight and he cannot breath. He miss her so much when she's not there. Life without her it's not a life. He feels like he's dead inside.

Why she doesn't know?

Maybe is his fault. He wanted to punish her. But why doesn't feel right? He's angry with her. But he's more angry with himself.

Perhaps he can try to write. Through words his feelings came more easy to the surface. But lately his words don't feel 'his' anymore. It was possible he was a little jealous of her. He needs to find an answer.

Penelope letters were the reason because he started to write. Everytime he read a letter from her, life felt more easy, more peaceful, more vibrant.

He couldn't stop himself to connect this feelings with his words. Words came a place to being his true self. So, he could find a purpose. A better version of himself. Pen made him believe he could be a better man. The man he wanted to be for her.

He recognises her letters. The first time he read it. The way he missed them whe she stopped to write to him.

He remembers the warm she made him feel. Her letters made him feel close to home. She was his home. She's his home. It's always being her, sweet and kind. But at the same time smart, sassy and funny. That's her. That's his Pen. The Penelope he always loved. He can recognise her now. He can hear her voice through her letters. And she always was her. Lady Whistledown, Penelope Featherington. They were the same. Both were his Pen.

[ivorydragoness44]

@where-dreamers-go Welcome to my 90s Robin commentary 🤣

A costume party?? Cool.

No suitable pockets? Poor Reader.

No, no, you deserve that third cupcake. Enjoy it.

Robin remembered so much about Reader, and took extra care to make sure they didn't fall or trip over his bike 🥹

[“No…just feels like you casted a few spells on me already.” He wet his bottom lip. “Have you casted spells on anyone else?”

“Not a soul.”

“Good.”

“Good?”

Robin smiled with an air of soft satisfaction.] 👀

[I really owe them. Big time. You thought as Robin walked beside you. What even is this friendship?] SAME. I'd be happily confused, to be honest.

[“Hey, I’ll get you home safely.”

You got closer and examined the bike. “And in, what, two minutes?”] When I tell you that I laughed. It sounds like something that I would say 😆

[You wrapped your arms around his middle and kept the goodie bag against him there.] I think the candy is safe. Very safe.

[“Tricked with a treat,” he mused.] Hehehe, got 'im.

[Wow.]

[“Trick or treat.” Robin held up a handful of candy triumphantly.

What? You glanced down to your bag then gawked at him.] 😧 Sneaky Robin!!?

[What is even happening?] I too ask this very question.

~~~~ ~~~~

All in all, I loved it. Great job, Erica.

Series maybe???

"Lucky Treat" Dick Grayson x Reader

(A/N: This is a part two for “Things Happen” with 90s Robin. What happens when Reader has good luck all day?

Warnings: Use of (Y/N).

Word Count: 1,952 words)

~~~

Friday night. Friends and family dressed for a fun filled night full of candy. Others dressed in their spooky best for scares or music-filled delight. A costume party!

You were having a great day! A spook-tacular day, in fact. You managed to find a coupon for candy and stocked up on your favorites. The weather was clear and cool.

Perfect for a night of chilling spectacles or more specifically—your friend’s costume party. Costumes were highly encouraged. They didn’t have to tell you twice.

So a small cape and pointed hat you wore, spellbound accessories for your black costume. Classy, comfortable, and quite flattering on you.

Too bad any ‘pocket’ wasn’t good enough to hold any more than your apartment keys and small candy bar.

The party at your friend’s home was as lively as it was full of candy and treats. They had planned it weeks in advance.

That was Gotham City for you.

Night life was as busy as the daylight hours.

Your night had led you to return towards the ever hauntingly, delightful dessert table. All done up with cobwebs, tiny pumpkins, candy, and themed treats.

Cupcakes this small shouldn’t be this good, you thought. Maybe it’s because they look like cute pumpkins. Or because my friends work magic in the kitchen.

So obviously, you didn’t feel any guilt for eating a third cupcake. It was made with love. And a hint of seasonal spices. Much as most of the treats that were set out.

All in all, the party was a success. Fun, joyful, and a little loud.

Nothing you couldn’t handle over by the treats.

“Are these poisoned apples yours?” A voice inquired from the corner of the table.

Looking over to the source of the voice, you were surprised to see a familiar dashing heroic man with a long cape.

Butterflies filled your stomach for a moment.

“Robin?”

Your eyes did a once over on him. Taking in his suit, dark mask, and smile. You didn’t think your chances of seeing him again were that great.

You laughed, “My friend wasn’t kidding when they talked about inviting you.” You stepped closer to him. “How are you?”

“I’m fine. Curious to how you’ve been. No more cake accidents?” Robin inquired as he leaned closer, the bass of a song trying to disrupt all conversation.

Grinning delightedly, you answered, “All cake has survived.”

“No puddles or doorways to worry about?”

“Not lately. No.”

The amount of smiling between you both gave you a sneaky suspicion that you left a much deeper impression when you first met.

Say something funny. Ask if he’s busy. Offer, you glanced at the table, candy corn? You looked to the table behind him.

“May I offer you a potion?”

He tilted his head. “A potion of what exactly?” Robin peered over his shoulder.

“Fruit juice.”

“Sounds safe.”

Walking passed Robin, your cape swayed behind you. If it wasn’t for the fact that you had walked blocks and talked with him on your birthday, you’d be much more nervous. As many fans of his would be.

You poured him a cup of juice while becoming more aware of his presence behind you.

Easy does it. He’s being friendly. No spilling.

As careful as you could, you turned around and successfully handed him the cup. No accidents. No problem.

Oh, you thought as Robin’s lips touched the cup. Your mind ran through the night of your birthday when he kissed you. When he held you to him. All as a birthday gift. The highlight of a poor, clumsy day.

Robin did not hide his knowing smile.

“So how was the rest of your birthday?” He asked. “Any more surprises or gifts?”

Fingers fiddling with your costume, you shrugged.

“Anything?”

“Well, okay, the small cake was delicious.” You answered with a laugh. “I almost didn’t have the restraint to leave leftovers.”

“A sweetheart with a sweet tooth,” he mused. “Maybe you should’ve dressed as a character from Candy Land.”

“That would be much brighter colors, mister dark hero suit.”

“True, but your costume right now is really bewitching.”

“It’s nothing scary.”

“No…just feels like you casted a few spells on me already.” He wet his bottom lip. “Have you casted spells on anyone else?”

“Not a soul.”

“Good.”

“Good?”

Robin smiled with an air of soft satisfaction.

The cup of juice was soon emptied and songs led the party onward through the night. Dances were shared along with laughter. Sugar rushes were made as excuses for others’ silliness. All was a safe and fun night.

Stepping away from the center of all dancing, you took a breather and checked the time.

After eleven? You thought as you made sure your keys were still in your pocket. Time really does fly.

“I didn’t tire you out too much, did I?” Robin asked as he came to stand beside you.

“A little, but I did dance before you showed up.”

You patted his arm and glanced around in an attempt to locate your friend. Surprisingly, they were near the front door.

Cool. Okay. But now to tell Robin.

Meeting Robin’s gaze still lit a warmth in your chest. A reminder of both your position as a fan of his and the friendliness you two shared.

You weren’t even sure what to call it. He was a hero and you were a citizen.

Did he know I’d be here?

You blinked.

“Need something to drink?”

“Ah, no. Actually, I have to get going.” You pointed to a clock.

“I thought you’d like the witching hour.”

“I do, but gotta get home like Cinderella without a carriage.”

“Do you need a ride?” He asked, setting jokes aside.

Shaking your head, you said simply, “I walked.”

“You live in Gotham City, you know that, right? And it’s dark out.”

“Yup.”

Robin sighed, “Can I take you home?”

“It’s more than a few blocks.”

“That’s fine. I didn’t walk here.”

“Oh. Okay, cool. Let me just tell my friend I’m leaving.”

Robin waited patiently. A face of heroics and charm as other guests greeted him once they realized who he was.

Prompted to leave with raised eyebrows from your friend and a small party favor bag pushed into your arms, you stepped outdoors.

I really owe them. Big time. You thought as Robin walked beside you. What even is this friendship?

Leading further away, Robin said, “I hope you like going fast.”

Light reflected off of clean metal and sleek framework.

“Oh.” You stopped.

Motorcycle.

Robin swung a leg over and sat on his ride.

“Um.” You weren’t quite sure what to say or think without images of closeness distracting your mind.

He patted the space behind him on the seat.

“I don’t know what I was expecting.” You admitted honestly.

“Hey, I’ll get you home safely.”

You got closer and examined the bike. “And in, what, two minutes?”

Reaching his gloved hand out for yours, he added, “We can take a scenic route.”

“Maybe another time. When I’m mentally prepared.”

“I thought you knew I had a motorcycle.” He steadied you as you sat behind him. “You still have the Robin bracelet, don’t you?”

“Yes. Are you gonna search me for it or question my authority as a fan?” You wrapped your arms around his middle and kept the goodie bag against him there.

“No. I trust you.” He started the engine.

“Because I didn’t step on your feet earlier?” You joked into his ear.

He sent you a grin over his shoulder. Charming and a little cheeky.

Heat rushed to your chest and neck.

Here we go.

The initial rush upon first speeding down Gotham’s streets by far exceeded your expectations. It was fast, precise. Technology more advanced and fully under the control of Robin.

One of the best kind of thrills.

In a matter of minutes, hardly a few, your destination was in sight.

Maybe we should have taken the scenic route, you thought. And he still remembers where I live. Should that tell me something? Does he do this for other people? Other fans?

Preoccupied with your thoughts and the muscles of Robin’s suit, you held on a little tighter as the bike pulled into the building’s lot. A few outdoor lights illuminated the area in an expanse of an almost blue hue.

Engine silent, neither of you moved.

“So, uh… May I walk you up to your door?” Robin asked over his shoulder.

“Sure.”

There might not had been any talking on the way over, but Robin’s actions spoke much louder.

Again, he steadied you. Made sure you were back on your two feet before he even got off his motorcycle. He followed you up the stairs without a comment on how many.

What an incredibly unique experience to be having again. Robin taking you home safely.

Would it be the last time?

Considering he accepted your friend’s invitation to their party and spent the majority of his time with you; you were confident you’d see Robin again.

You turned away from your door.

“Robin, trick or treat?”

The question seemed to visibly wake him. He stood taller. The details of his suit were on full display.

“It’s not Halloween, but—treat.” Said Robin with a ghost of a smile.

Your own smile appeared tenfold as you further questioned him, “Would you like a Kiss?”

“Only if you’re offering.” He smirked and eyed your lips.

You hummed teasingly, mischievously.

Perhaps you were enjoying it too much. Inspired and wrapped in the excitement from the party.

Hands hidden behind your back, you stepped into Robin’s space.

His eyelids slowly closed.

Oh, it would be so nice. But…

Quietly, you reached into the bag and pulled out the treat you had pictured. Its shape recognizable even through touch.

With a gentle tap, you had the wrapped chocolate touch the tip of his nose.

On contact, Robin opened his eyes with surprise and amusement curving his lips.

“Tricked with a treat,” he mused.

You couldn’t help nor hide your grin.

What would he say next? What would he do?

The play on words you two were having was increasing with cleverness and fun. Opportunities opening.

“Trick or treat?” Robin countered your mischievous actions.

You made an exaggerated thinking expression. Gaze elsewhere for a couple of moments.

“Trick.” You decided. Whether boldly, bravely, or in a challenge, you did not truly care which. You were interested in what Robin would do.

Leaning in, Robin kissed your nose.

Oh goodness. You thought with a smile.

“What a terrible trick, Robin.” You said in mock offense. “Making one think they’ll get a proper kiss.”

He smirked.

Heat rose to your neck. Perhaps you knew what was coming. You sure hoped you did.

Robin then, passing his hand around your waist to your back, pressed an extensively long kiss to your lips. One that sent your mind into swirls of color. A kiss that could knock the air out of you.

You gripped at his suit feebly. The firmness of it sent your knees trembling as Robin brought you in even closer. It left little to the imagination.

His lips left for only a second before giving one last kiss.

Wow.

He smiled before his blue eyes sparkled.

“Trick or treat.” Robin held up a handful of candy triumphantly.

What? You glanced down to your bag then gawked at him.

Smirking, he tapped your hip and stepped back. Out of your arms.

“See yah later.”

You snickered, “Bye sneaky candy thief.”

He sent a wink. Proud.

You watched him leave out of sight before heading indoors. Your heart racing as you considered how perfect the night went.

What is even happening?

~~~

Best wishes and happy reading.)

(If you love my writings and want to support me, I have a Ko-Fi where you can buy me a coffee. I would be eternally grateful.

coffee

~~~~~

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[monsters-demons-and-heralds-ohmy]

I adore fics where child Jayce and Viktor meet, they are adorable.

But considering the time when Viktor was a child (probably mostly pre Cassandra's vent system when the grey was terrible) and what just living in his neighborhood did to him (causing his illness)…

I just keep imagining a tiny Viktor trying to take Jayce to his home to play and they just... can't even get close. Because at that point Viktor is used to breathing in poison and Jayce's body recognizes it for what it is. (kinda like the Chembaron's meeting scene)

I keep imagining little Viktor just staring at Jayce confused like, "what's wrong?" Not even realizing what he's breathing will eventually kill him.

[mechazushi]

The thief better get this guard pregnant before I do.

[sofiadragon]

Hey fanfiction loving friend!

AO3 has the ability to turn off comments, moderate comments, restrict comments to logged in users only, or let anyone comment on your story. Most other fanfiction hosting websites do not allow comments to be turned off and in the case of some (wattpad) highly encourage comments even on individual paragraphs.

Over on reddit, someone said it is an unwritten rule of fanfiction that you should never leave a negative or critical comment on a story. This was countered most strongly by many arguments. Despite many people asserting that their stance was the one truth and that there was no debate on the topic - there was a lot of debate about what criticism even is and where the line should be for if giving concrit is alright.

So give this some thought:

If you have tea to spill, examples or an argument you want to make, please do. I have some that go both ways, but I'm going to wait for a few responses so I don't pre-empt the results. I'm not going to vote myself for a while, either, so I won't know which way the poll is leaning when I do pour my tea. I tried to cover all the flavors of debate I've seen in the many "definitive" posts I have read here and on reddit. Please reblog for a wider sample!

[twopoppies]

https://www.instagram.com/reel/DC2ReTAIlCF/?igsh=MW13bXFqd2x3MDRiag==

i think you’ll find this interesting!

i wasn’t expecting the harry mention in the end 😭

Yes! This is exactly what we were talking about yesterday. It’s so nice to see fanfiction get the respect it deserves. There are so many “real books” that could fall into this category. I know RPF has an additional layer of complexity to it. But I think there are so many examples of fanfiction that only use characteristics and perceived personalities to create their characters. For me, it’s really simple to differentiate between the actual humans and the book characters. I mean, there are “real“ books of fiction (or movies) that are entirely imagined scenarios and have real people included in them. Is there really a difference?

[shyjusticewarrior]

Tim & Jason fanfic generally doesn't even exaggerate how highly Jason thinks of Tim, they just make him a lot more forthcoming with it.

[lulublack90]

Prompt 14 - First I Love You

@wolfstarmicrofic February 14, word count 653

Remus was so tired. The moon had been a rough one. Madam Pomfrey had had to levitate him back up to the castle. He’d healed quickly, as he usually did after a full moon. He’d slept for the morning and half of the afternoon and finally managed to make it back to his dorm room, where he collapsed on his bed and fell back to sleep. 

He woke again to soft sunlight filtering through the curtains into the room. He groaned. He had a few hours until he needed to climb up to the astronomy tower and attempt to stand long enough to track the stars and planets. He groaned again into his pillow and started to get up. That's when he noticed all the other beds had their curtains closed and the tower was completely silent. “What the?” He said, perplexed. He grabbed his watch from his bedside table. It was half past six. There was no way the entirety of Gryffindor Tower was fast asleep at this hour. 

He swung his legs out of his bed. His entire body ached as he shuffled across the wood floor to the nearest window. He pulled the curtain back and was blinded by the sun. “Agh!” He grunted, letting the fabric fall back into place. He blinked away the dazzling lights in his eyes and tried again. He stared in horror as he realised the sun was in the wrong place. It should have been on the opposite side of the tower. If it was on this side, then that meant…

He stepped back from the window, clapping his hand to his mouth. He’d slept through the entire night, he’d missed his astronomy lesson. The one he needed for his next essay. 

“Moony, what you doin’, ’s early?” Sirius’s yawning face appeared from behind his curtains. 

“Why didn’t you wake me?” He asked quietly, not wanting to wake James or Peter. 

“Why would I do that? You needed the sleep.” Sirius said, stretching until his joints popped. 

“Because I needed to be in Astronomy!” Remus was getting frustrated now. After all the things he’d done for them and not one of them had thought of waking him up?! 

“Relax, Moony, I did your chart for you. It’s on your trunk. You’ll get an outstanding on it; it’s perfect.” Remus hurried to the end of his bed and snatched up the filled-in chart, perfectly labelled and ready for his essay. 

“Sirius,” He choked out. 

“Yes, Remus,” Sirius grinned, his eyes crinkling at the corners. 

“I love you.” 

“Good, I love you too.” Remus felt himself blushing. They hadn’t said those words to each other before, and here he was just casually throwing them around. But Sirius had said it back. 

He looked down at the chart again, a thick lump in his throat. Then he noticed that Sirius had annotated one of the stars.

“Why does it say underneath the Sirius star, ‘This star is my favourite'?” He asked Sirius. 

“Because it’s true,” Sirius answered.

“And why does it say underneath the Regulus star, ‘This star is the worst’?” 

“Because it’s also true,” Remus sighed. He’d make amendments to it later. Sirius pulled the curtains back from around his bed. 

“Come on, it’s Saturday, no point getting up until later.” Remus put down the star chart and clambered into Sirius’s bed. Relishing the feeling of being wrapped in Sirius’s arms. 

“It’s true, you know,” He whispered quietly in the early morning light. “I do love you.” Sirius’s arms tightened around him, and he pressed a kiss on the top of Remus’s hair. 

“I know, sweetheart. I also love you, too.” Remus's heart fluttered in his chest, and he and Sirius snuggled closer and quickly fell back to sleep only to be woken an hour later by James tripping over his quidditch kit bag on the way to the toilet. Oh well, there was always Sunday. 

[2danny2furious]

Haunt

Danny Gonzalez X Reader

wk: 3.4k

blurb: When you fill in as Danny’s videographer for his ghost-hunting trip to the infamous Stanley Hotel, you expect creepy corridors and bad Wi-Fi—not this kind of tension. (Based on this video)

A little angst, a little fluff, a little spice. Minors: there is suggestive material towards the end but not explicit material so please approach the one shot accordingly ❤️

He’s just not into you– not professionally, not platonically, and definitely not romantically. Despite the fact that you’re working the camera on your first assignment for him, Danny’s eyes seem to move right through you, his voice clipped, sending one syllable directions your way when the monitor isn’t showing a perfect read.

“Left.” “Zoom.” “Again.”

No please, no thanks, no good job—just the bare minimum, like you’re an inconvenient piece of equipment he didn’t ask for.

Which, technically, you are.

You flew out to Colorado from California last-minute after your mutual friend Jake—Danny’s longtime editor, and videographer—came down with food poisoning. (“Bad sushi,” he’d groaned over the phone. “Save me from myself.”)

You’d been a fan of Danny’s videos since his skits were filmed in his dorm room and his punchlines were seven second Vine wonders. You flew in the night before Christmas Eve, missing time with your family just in the excitement to see Danny behind the scenes. But now, you feel like the only true ghost in this shitty tourist trap mansion.

You’re sitting in his hotel room, as he scans the old carpet with an EMF reader.

“You good with that lighting?” he asks, not looking at you as he adjusts his mic pack.

“Yeah,” you say, too quickly. “I mean, unless you want it more eerie? I can—”

You’re interrupted by the loud zipper of his equipment pouch opening as dull plastic thuds together in his search for something he hasn’t told you about. He’s not even listening to you anymore. You clench your teeth and bury the burn of humiliation for the millionth time today as you watch him slam batteries into a flashlight, the reader, and a ridiculous headset he’s wearing.

You watch him through the monitor, tuning out his charming babbling to keep yourself from getting hurt by the insane contrast of how warm he is only when there’s a camera between you. You realize that he’s now sniffing the floor like a bloodhound, nose scrunched in concentration around a “cold spot.” The EMF scan shows a large patch of something wet, which leads off into a tiny glowing trail. Wait.

“...Is it pee?” you say.

Danny freezes. For a second, you think you’ve crossed a line—but then his shoulders shake. A snort escapes him. Not the performative, for-the-audience sarcastic laugh from his videos, but something real and startled. It’s cute. So cute.

“Oh my god, what?” He looks up at you, half-offended, half-delighted. “Why would hotel cleaner be my first guess?”*

He actually giggles, and you feel your chest warm. He’s looking at you, smiling with his cheeks flushed pink and his eyes blazing blue with mist.

The moment breaks when his phone sounds an alarm. “Shit,” he says. “We’re going to be late for the underground tour.”

And then his back is to you, sauntering towards the door and out, and all you can do is follow.

*

The hotel’s underground tunnels are colder than you expected, the air thick with the scent of damp stone and something faintly metallic. Your camera's night-vision casts everything in a sickly green hue as you descend.

Vanessa, the lead guide, stops where the passage opens into a cavernous ice cellar. Frost crackles along the walls.

"This is where the night watchman went mad in 1932," she says, lantern light carving shadows under her eyes. "He swore the hotel manager's wife—who'd drowned in the lake out back—was standing down here every night, wringing lakewater from her hair." She pauses dramatically.

"They found him frozen to death right where you're standing, his hands clawing at his own throat... like something had been pouring water down it. His throat was found to be clogged with seaweed that looked exactly like a woman’s long, mangled braid."

You zoom in on Danny's Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows hard. His fingers hover near Vanessa's elbow as they walk—whether to steady himself or her, you can’t tell.

She adds, "Guests still report hearing gurgling sounds down here."

The camera catches it all: Danny's nervous knee bounce, the way candlelight illuminates the crinkles around his eyes when he laughs at Vanessa's joke about "cold feet," how his gaze slides right past you like you are part of the wall.

Tom, the junior guide, takes over in the servants' passage. His voice is warmer, his delivery charming as he points to a large rusted hook on the ceiling. "This is where the chef hung himself after the 1911 avalanche trapped guests here for three weeks. Strange thing is—" he lowers his voice, "—every December, that hook starts swinging on its own. Kitchen staff keep removing it... but it always reappears."

A draft makes the lantern flames flicker madly. You shiver, and when Tom notices, he steps closer, his shoulder brushing yours.

"Too much?" he murmers. "We can skip the hanging pantry if our guests—"

"We're good on footage," Danny cuts in. He’s not looking at you, but Vanessa. He points to her phone. "Show me those spirit photos again?"

The camera's red light winks out under your thumb.

As the rest of the tour group takes the tours built in free time to wander the passageways, Tom falls into step beside you.

"So," he says, voice low, "you always let YouTube guys boss you around haunted basements?"

"Only the ones who forget I'm a person when the camera's off." The words slip out before you’ve processed them, and Tom huffs a laugh.

"His loss." He nods at your rig. "You've got a steadier hand than most pros who come through here."

You are about to respond when movement catches your eye—Danny leaning over Vanessa's phone, his arm braced against the tunnel wall behind her. She swipes through blurry images while he nods with that focused intensity he reserves for everyone but you. "This one's insane," he breathes, and you look away before the bitterness can crawl up your throat.

You let Tom fill your brain with some his funnier ghost stories— lights turning off anytime he starts to pee in the bathrooms, DUMDUM wrappers materializing within seconds on his desk whenever he’s working the graveyard shift, and his shoelaces becoming tied together whenever he’s talking to a girl he finds pretty.

“Well,” you tease, “your shoelaces look definitively normal.”

“Maybe they’re giving me a break,” says Tom. “Maybe they want you to want me too.”

He’s not handsome, he's not ugly, but he’s warm and kind, and he’s leaning into you to give you a kiss you desperately need. The touch of a human, tangible proof you’re not worthless. Your lips barely touch when you hear Danny bark your name, telling you it’s time to head up.

Embarrassed, you lean away from Tom, who just smiles knowingly. “Let’s go,” he says. “I’ll find you when you’re done with work.”

Back in the lobby's electric light, Danny corners you near the front desk. "Did you get footage of the pictures she was showing me?"

Your mouth drops open. "Shit. I'm sorry, I thought you said—"

"You thought I said what?" His voice is a blade. "Are you not a fucking UCLA film grad? You have no initiative?"

"I'm sorry, let me go talk to her—"

"Forget it. Why don't you just go back to flirting with Tom? You're here to have fun, right? Not work?"

Vanessa materializes beside you. "Come on, angel," she says, touching your arm. "Let's go back down. I'll reshoot everything with you."

Danny's anger evaporates the second she speaks. You are both aware now that everyone in the lobby is frozen still, watching you.

"Shit, I'm sorry," he says—to her, not you—running a hand through his hair. "Didn't mean to cause trouble for you guys. Your shift's over, go have fun. Our mistakes aren't your problem to fix."

You follow Danny toward the elevators, emotion choking your throat. That honeyed tone—the one he uses with Vanessa, with the staff, with the other guests, with literally everyone but you—echoes in your skull and you stand in silence a few feet away from Danny, waiting for this elevator that won’t come. You still have so many segments to shoot but the thought of being near him for a single more second makes you wish you were another ghost victim and God, this elevator is not coming.

Danny exhales sharply through his nose, then veers toward the stairwell exit. The metal door slams behind him, the clang of his footsteps on the stairs fading as he ascends alone.

When the elevator finally comes, you let the tears fall. You hit the fifth floor and find yourself running past curious guests, past the flickering hallway sconces, until you crash through the women's bathroom door. Your best friend's contact photo blurs as you stabbed the call button, your breath coming in wet hitches against the phone.

"Hey," you manage when she answers, "remember how I said this gig would be fun...?"

She sighs empathetically, and you hear a movie in the background become paused. “Is a man being a disappointment?”

“Yes,” you sniffle. "He's so funny and goofy and charming on camera, but so weird et when it's off! Everyone said he's a nice guy but he's-well he's not a nice guy. He's fucking weird! Only to me! It's like he's acting or something, l don't know!"

Your best friend is silent for a beat. "Well. He is a former theater kid." You could hear her crunching popcorn through the phone. "It's on you for expecting normalcy."

"No, no, you're right-"

"Why do you care so much? Aren’t the Hollywood execs so much worse?"

You pick at a loose thread on your sweater.

"I don't know. I guess he's... well, he's hot. And funny. And I love his videos. It just stings to be so repulsive to him. It’s not that I want to date him or anything, but can't he at least be nice? Like on a normal human-to-human level? I’m missing Christmas for this!"

“Im so sorry angel,” she says. "Don’t you have a red eye? Just get your bag and go. Like, go to Denver. Go out. Drink. Have fun. Have rough, hot anonymous sex. Fuck this guy."

“You’re right,” you say. “I love you.”

You hang up, staring at your puffy-eyed reflection. After a few more embarrassed sniffles, you wash your face, reapply your makeup with military precision, and twist your hair up into a claw clip. The mirror shows someone who looks like they have their life together-someone who definitely wasn't about to spend Christmas Eve with an apathetic ass hat.

Danny isn’t in his room when you go to find him, and in the end you discover him pacing the lobby as you approach, his sneakers squeaking on the marble.

"I'm heading to the airport early," you announce.

He checks his watch. "Six hours early?"

"Yeah. Just want to be safe."

The receptionist chooses this moment to clear his throat.

"I'm so sorry, ma'am." His smile is painfully polite.

"As I was just telling Mr.Gonzalez, all roads to Denver are closing. There's a snowstorm coming-we won't have clear roads until morning at the earliest."

As if on cue, your phone chirps with a flight delay notification. You aren’t expected to leave until tomorrow morning now. Outside, the first fat flurries began spiraling past the windows, dancing as if to taunt you.

"She'll be staying with me," Danny says. His voice has a warmth you’ve been craving all day, but you know this is because he wants you to finish the video and get his checklist complete.

"I think I’m done for the day," you say coldly. “I’ll happily cover my own space.”

Danny holds your gaze as the receptionist taps his keyboard.

"All our rooms are booked for tonight-Christmas Eve and all. But!" He brightens. "There's a lovely motel down the road-"

"The one where actual murders happened?" Danny leans on the desk, his cheeks flushing. "Wasn't there a human trafficking ring busted there last summer?"

The receptionist's smile doesn’t waver. It says, quite clearly: Not my problem.

You sigh and turn on your heels, heading to the elevators as Mariah Carey cries in Christmas happiness over the hotel speakers. You hear Danny’s steps in quick succession behind you, and you both are once again facing the elevators in awkward silence.

Danny finally clears his throat. "So. Room situation." He won’t meet your eyes, fiddling with his keycard. "I can film the rest by myself. You should take the bed and get some rest."

The unexpected decency hits like a punch to the ribs. You think of the LA producer who'd thrown a latte at your head for "missing his good side," the cameraman who'd "accidentally" grazed your waist every time he reached for a lens. Danny had paid you upfront. Had only really gotten mad at you not getting footage.

"Wait." The words tumble out before you could can stop them. "I'm—god, I'm sorry. I've been so unprofessional. You're not even the worst boss I've had this month, and I—"

"No, stop.” Danny runs a hand through his hair, his cheeks in flames. "I shouldn't have yelled. You're doing fine. I'm just..."

A muscle jumps in his jaw. "Got dumped by my high school girlfriend right before this trip. Holiday and family stuff's got me acting like a total dick. And I’m sorry."

The confession hangs between you, raw as the winter wind rippling through the hallways. Your eyes meet. You're looking in his eyes, tender, and you’re trying not to drown in them. And he’s looking at yours. And you swear he can hear your heart.

The elevator chimes and Danny suddenly stiffens, shoving his hands in his pockets

"Anyway. Not your problem."

The silence in the mirrored elevator is suffocating. You watch his reflection chew his lip, both of you pretending not to notice the other looking.

"I’ll take the couch," he says abruptly when the doors ding open.

"No, Danny, it's your room, and I’m not even finishing what you paid me for. I’m totally fine."

"Yeah, well, you don't want to sleep on that couch." A ghost of a smirk plays on his lips.

He opens the room door and immediately reaches for the thermal light.

The stains on the hotel couch glow neon purple. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out what they are. You both stare at them in horrified silence until he says, “I’m gonna be honest I don’t want to sleep on that either. I’ll take my chances with piss floor.”

"Let's just share the bed," you say. "It's a king. We can put some pillows in between us."

Your face burns the moment the words leave your mouth, and you can't bear to see his reaction. You grab your backpack from the floor and hurry into the bathroom, emerging minutes later in the silk pajama set you'd packed.

Danny is already sprawled on the bed, a neat line of pillows dividing his side from yours. He’s down to boxers and a threadbare t-shirt, the fabric riding up just enough to reveal a sliver of toned stomach. One arm is thrown dramatically over his eyes.

"Too tired to film," he grumbles. "Turn off the light and call it a day."

You flick the switch, plunging the room into darkness save for the faint glow of the emergency exit sign under the door. The bed dips as you slide under the covers, putting as much distance between you and the pillow barricade as possible.

For a long moment, there’s only the sound of the old hotel creaking around you—the groan of pipes, the whisper of wind against the windows. Then, a sharp thud from somewhere down the hall.

You hear the sheets rustle, the dividing line depressed by his body, his head propped up by a hand, his eyes finding yours in the dark.

"...You heard that too, right?" His voice is tight.

"Yeah," you say, "Probably just the heating system."

Another thud. Closer this time.

Danny exhales sharply. "Cool. Right."

In the dim light, his profile is all sharp angles—jaw clenched, lashes fluttering against his cheek as he stares resolutely at the ceiling.

"You okay?" you ask softly.

"Peachy." His fingers dig into the comforter. "Just. You know. Ghosts."

A surprised laugh escapes you. "Danny Gonzalez is scared of ghosts? After a whole day proving they’re not real?"

"Shut up," he mutters, but there’s no bite to it. "I can handle —" Another creak from the hallway cuts him off, and he swears under his breath.

You hesitate, then slowly reach across the pillow divide, your fingers brushing his wrist. "Hey. Breathe. It’s just an old building."

His skin is warm under your touch. For a second, he doesn’t move—then his hand twists, his fingers lacing with yours. His eagerness to lean into your touch surprises you, and the action goes unmentioned by you both. You don’t understand his mind, but you let yourself feel this softness, whether it be purely because he’s scared or whether it’s because he’s really warming to you.

"...You’re really not freaked out?" he asks after a beat.

You shrug, even though he can’t see it. "I grew up in a house that made noises like this. Kind of comforting, honestly."

His grip on your hand relaxes slightly as he lays back down, your bodies closer, your fingers still intertwined. You're not sure if it’s his heart you’re hearing or your own.

Two hours pass. His breathing evens out, his thumb absently tracing circles against your knuckles until it stills completely. The weight of his hand in yours is heavy with sleep.

And now you’re hyper-aware of every inch of him—the heat of his body just a pillow’s width away, the way his shirt has ridden up further, revealing the faint trail of hair leading beneath his waistband. The soft, sleepy sound he makes when he shifts, his leg brushing against yours under the covers.

You stare up at the ceiling, painfully awake. You’re holding hands with Danny Gonzales in a potentially haunted hotel bed, and you're pretty sure you're going to spontaneously combust before sunrise. Your legs kick, your shoulders fidget, your breath huffs. You try and try to squeeze your eyes shut, willing sleep to come. But then—

"Every time I open my eyes," Danny murmurs, voice rough with exhaustion, "you're still awake. You okay?"

“Ghosts,” you say quickly. “I’m uh, scared.”

"Bullshit." His thumb strokes your knuckles, slow and deliberate. "You're not scared. You told me you're not scared."

This time his touch isn’t just him being scared. This time his fingers tightening around yours means something, but he’s confusing you so much you could cry. You can’t think of a response, your mind stuck on processing every cell aflame from his skin on yours.

"Tell me what you need."

"Need?" You swallow hard. "I don't need anything."

"Yeah, you do." His voice drops, rough as gravel. “Tell me."

Your pulse thrums in your throat.

"Fine. I need to know why you were such a jerk to me today. What you think of me, what you’re doing. You’re hot and cold, and you shut me out and bring me in– I mean, you’re holding my hand still and I just–"

"It's not rocket science." He exhales sharply. "Girlfriend broke up with me. First and only person l've ever been with. Now I'm doing the holidays alone, away from my family, away from the one person I thought would always be there."

His fingers tense against yours. "And then there's you-gorgeous, funny, charming, smarter than me, way out of my league-and I want you. And I’m out of practice and I know I can’t have you. So yeah. Not my proudest moment, but... surprised after all those film classes you didn’t figure that out."

Your heart stops. "Who said you couldn't have me?"

Danny laughs—a startled, breathless sound.

"That's what you got from all that?"

Heat floods your face. You're grateful for the dark.

Another beat of silence. Then, softer: "You still haven't told me what you really need."

Your body moves before your brain catches up. You roll over, facing him. The pillow barricade is long forgotten.

"You tell me," you whisper. "What do you think I need?"

Danny doesn't hesitate. He closes the distance between you in one smooth motion, his breath warm against your lips as he murmurs—

“Like your friend said. Rough, hot, anonymous sex.”

Your stomach drops. Oh god. He heard your phone call.

Before you can panic, his hand slides up your waist, fingers splaying over your ribs.

"Or," he adds, voice dipping lower, "I can be nice. If that's what you want."

You don't get a chance to answer.

His mouth crashes into yours in a heat you’ve never felt before. There’s a promise in the way his hungry hands are reaching for the hem of your silk pajama pants, a promise he’ll possess you in ways that will haunt you all the way home.

[thezestywalru]

I think it would be incredibly funny to write a supernatural crack fic where they have to take down the vampires from twilight and Dean Winchester has a big brother talk with Bella. Maybe she joins them hunting.

[girllookingoutwindow]

Colin was angry with Pen before this moment. But he was physically and emotionally hurt. She was reading his diary and he felt naked. She knew now a part of himself that he was trying so much to hide to the world and he felt betrayed. He started the diary to forget his loneliness, but now she reading it, make him to feel more lonely than ever.

Then, she touches him. She's taking care of him. She's always so kind. And she's too close, her skin, her smell, he's feeling warm. Like he always do when she's around. He can't grasp why.

But he likes this feeling. That's the reason because he always wants to be close to her. He doesn't feel alone when she's there. And she feels so soft, so he close his hand just to feel her a little more close to him.

He's not sure about what to do. His other hand moves close to hers without him even noticing. He needs to touch her with both of them. Being a little more closer. He doesn't have the courage to do so.

Pen talks about his writing and he really wants to know.

She's the only one person who he enjoyed to write. Her letters were always so personal, smart and sweet.

They made him feel like someone understood him. He could wrote to her about his thoughts and desires without hesitation. But then, the letters stopped and he felt so empty.

Pen says the writing it's very good and he feels like he melts.

He didn't know how much he wanted to hear that words. How much mean to him. Maybe she read the letters he sent to her after all.

He missed her. He missed her so much, he didn't even know how. His heart feels tight. So much that he gets a little scared.

Maybe she can see through him.

He remembers for the first time where he was. And breaks the bond between their hands. But he didn't like it. He feels alone again.

He needs to know if he's going to see her again.

He 'wants' to see her again.

And then when she goes he gets close to the diary and he feels a little surprised.

She looked a little embarrassed but not enough. Maybe what he wrote was interesting to her some way?

He's intrigued. She feels the same but somehow different. Like she changed. Maybe is more of Pen that he saw before?

Some parts of her that she doesn't let nobody knows. He's not the only one who hides himself. Perhaps they're more alike that he really noticed. He's curious.

He would see her again, tonight. She would be there and he would know.

[ethosiab]

Hello

As the resident ethogirl on my dash, i was wondering if you could recommend me some of your fav etho-centric fics or writers? :D

oh yeah absolutely! There's def more, but these guys are the first i think of.

RimeThyme - Again, really good characterization, and they write team canada's dynamic so well too. Domains of Dread is still one of my fav fics ever.

goingdownorup - Confession, when Jen de-anoned all their works i found out almost half of my favourite fics were written by the same person. I don't know how i didn't notice. I'm particularly reccommending Blood in the Water, because I'm a boat boys fan through and through.

boxmaker - Hoo boy. I think box was like... the first Ao3 author I read when I got into the fandom. Alternate Perspectives was the first fic i stayed up late obssessing over. The series is STILL ongoing, and it's definitely worth reading (even though i haven't read any of Double Trouble yet... I'm getting to it!!!)

birrdie - His writing tends to be darker than the other authors in this list but their mastery over words is crazy. One thing theyre really good at is putting emotion into their narration, and really get you in the character's heads. Reccing dead; in particular as a oneshot, but if you end up liking their writing you should definitely read mczu as well.

oh_snapperss - Laurie's been into other mcyt fandoms recently but i can't leave them out of an Etho-centric author list. I don't think i've been normal at all since reading ripped at every edge, but you're a masterpiece. ough. their characterization is just too good.