#i'm gonna hit post on this and remember i have another thousand words worth of ideas to spew

[kuwdora]

oooh @limerental has me thinking about Dijkstra and that reminded me that i never dumped my Dijkstra ramblings on tumblr. my discord peeps just end up going 👀 when i show up every three months and braindump my nonsense. I thought about cleaning this, but I am too tired and will never share it if I try to spend time trying to make it a Post with annotations to the specific books. So you just get a my rambly galaxy brain take of how a Chancellor Dijkstra could rebuild Redania. Anyway, here we go with some fantasy worldbuilding.

TLDR; Chancellor Dijkstra legalizes drugs to replenish Redania's treasury after the war. References to the Eternal Fire and migration patterns that one could extrapolate based on the events of Nilfgaard's second invasion, and Dijkstra's experience working in the criminal underground in Novigrad.

I've thought a lot about what kind of problems Dijkstra could face in a postwar Redania and what other kind of change could be on the table.

A lot of my thinking is predicated upon the Eternal Fire and the church governance in Novigrad absolutely losing their mind that their man Radovid was assassinated and eventually (somehow?) learning that Dijkstra was behind it but never able to produce evidence of it. which just. leads to anger and other kind of conspiracies and grudges over the years.

Like… Radovid was their guy. their martyr. their mad king they canonize. even if he was or wasn't a true believer, he was Their Guy. I also vaguely remember from the books that the church hierarch also hated Dijkstra, too, so I’m sure the dead hierarch’s followers would also continue in that vein of being big mad at the new Chancellor who is not fit for such a position.

I can’t help but think the church would force Novigrad to levy a shitload of extremely high taxes on goods coming through the port, making it so fucking expensive to get anything imported into Redania or shipped out, which creates a logistical nightmare to try and get anything or out of Redania at a decent price. Everything's gotta come in via Oxenfurt or Roggenvene or something more out of the way.

They economically burn some bridges because Novigrad'll be okay, right?

So Novigrad's no longer the jewel of redania

Or maybe Novigrad/the church ends up suffering some social/economic problems because they need to take it out on Dijkstra and Redania. That means they would look for some friends elsewhere.

They would loosen some immigration restrictions and encourage more wealthy Nilfgaardians to move in and take up places in the civil service and maybe church for those who would be amenable to creating more good diplomatic relations between the city and Nilfgaard. not sure how that really would look, but sort of a thing to spite Dijkstra by having the former invaders sitting pretty in Dijkstra’s backyard.

So Redanian trade is probably fucked up. Dijkstra had to go and beg for money up in Kovir during the books to help fund the war and whatnot so I imagine the treasury is pretty damn empty. Dijkstra also really didn't appreciate having to go ask for money. And I vaguely remember that Redania was able to absorb Kaedwen’s military, I think? At some point in the third war? Maybe? i did a quick wiki check and that looks right but my brain is foggy but if that's the case sustaining more military has gotta be expensive.

Also there are a shitload of current/former/wannabe Eternal Fire knights and bandits cooking a shitton of fisstech it seems every-fucking-where.

Crime lord Dijkstra with experience in Novigrad underworld, maybe sees an opportunity here. To legalize some form of drugs in order to obtain tax on it and create a sustainable revenue stream for Redania’s coffers for generations.

Boom. Dijkstra never again have to o ask for money for anything from anyone. ✊

Maybe start with a 3-5 year plan to get the operation up and running. funnel what money he has into the Department of Alchemy to create an actual program to teach people to cook safely, cook better even.

Maybe enlist some mages to help mitigate some of the worse side effects or help with developing a better fisstech or some other kind of alternative. but then only licensed establishments can sell the drug and we get tax revenue back to the state. then we get drug tourism, too. etc. like. he worked in the crime world for awhile so i am sure he knows the pros and cons of doing something like this better than i would but i like the thought.

I mean. there's always gonna be countryside cooks but maybe over time enough take the deal to go and get certified in cooking this fisstech because it's better than living on scraps in the woods and go legit and the banditry eventually dwindles over the years. maybe creating a whole new generation of wealth for people, too, and whatever problems and exciting things that come with new money folks and whatnot. class division with nobility and whatnot about these guys able to hobnob with the rest of them.

And then i gotta think that Dijkstra’s got some former crime bosses that he’d give a leg up on what he wants to do, and like— him figuring out how to move those game pieces. Because the other half underworld probably won’t be happy that Dijkstra’s now moving in on their market and not letting them in for whatever reason. lots of potential for getting messy. and interesting. but. reform can be a bold thing, right?

I mean it can spin out even more from that, too when you take into consideration the devastation Nilfgaard brought on the northern kingdom's infrastructure. Maybe Dijkstra finally has the people figure out the new recipe but he's gotta scale it up.

There's a bunch of foundry workers in Aedirn who probably no longer have a job because everything was burnt down by Nilfgaard. All that farmland destroyed, too.

So create a plan to encourage those people to come and start a new life in Redania with their skills and whatnot.

Get these people help build some the fisstech producing facilities in Redania. And then we can get some fisstech sold in parlors in every city.

And if you go back to Novigrad and the Eternal Fire, who maybe doesn't appreciate the economic balance of power tipping in different directions now. Also Dijkstra still killed Their Guy who was going to help usher in a new fiery generation of churchy awfulness. Instead of focusing their attention on nonhumans, the ire is recalibrated towards Redanian citizens who had been living in the city and just continue to disenfranchise and disempower them over time in the city to make it unliveable for them unless they renounce their Redanian citizenship. 😦 There's probably a lot more one can spin out from this, and I meant to use some of this for various stories but I just haven't gotten around to it. Like specifically encouraging the mages to return to help with building and supporting this infrastructure and people. Lots of possibilities to play around with.

[lsholland]

𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐍𝐄 (𝐓𝐨𝐦 𝐇𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐝)

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐈 - "𝐇𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐝𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠?"

Word count: 3.7k

tw: addictions (alcohol, drugs), swearing, disease, murder...

genre: psychological thriller / suspense / drama

Synopsis: Tom Holland is Hollywood's #1 celebrity and is adored all around the world. But this rise to fame hasn't been easy for him. With fame comes his own demons: addiction issues, a relationship that's about to end and...he doesn't know it yet, but he's about to kill an innocent woman. How is he going to get through it?

You can also read it on Wattpad.

Reblogs and comments are appreciated :)

"Tom! Tom!!! TOM!!!" shouts a woman in a black hoodie among a hysterical crowd of young boys and girls trying to get this man's attention. "PLEASE!!! I love you so much" her voice crackles, she's sobbing in despair.

He stops walking and stands right in front of her, a sharpie pen between his fingers and an unnatural grin on his face. Even though these people claim they love him, he's tired of them. It's something with the drama, the screams, and the perpetual inconsideration that drains his energy. His straight face says it all, if only they weren't obsessed with his looks, he'd be pleased to spend time with them. But he knows he's just an object of their fantasies. He forces a smile, or something close to it, and accepts to take a picture with her. He stands next to her, his arms in his back, his fingers intertwined and shakily holding the pen, glancing at the camera lens, lost in his thoughts. His body is present in the moment, but his mind is thousands of kilometres away in the universe that is his brain.

And she's so happy to finally have that precious picture that her smile shows all her impeccable teeth; she's sweating and rapidly breathing and laughing with the same high-pitched voice as everyone else; she's just a typical fangirl. All her friends gather around her and whisper as if they were hiding a secret from an alien.

And onto the next one. Same hysteria, same cry for help, miserable for his attention. She hands him a picture of him in a Spider-Man suit and asks for an autograph while she's filming the scene with her brand-new iPhone.

It has to do with the way they treat him. The way they pretend he doesn't notice their weird behaviour. The way they simply believe he's not a human being. That he must be good-looking, happy, nice, and funny all the time.

"We've gotta go" says his assistant as he presses his shoulder with his hand. Tom looks at him with relief and closes his eyes for a second. He lets out a sigh as a soft smile appears on his angelic face.

"A'ight, I'm sorry guys" he apologises, but that's not enough. Many of them start crying and push through the thin barrier to get a hold of him; like monsters that haven't been fed, like addicts when you can't provide their usual dose of drugs. They look so disappointed and hopeless; leaving now would reduce all his efforts to dust. Keeping a good image and reputation is the key. He doesn't want to be hated.

Guilt rushes through him like a thrill; he glances at his watch and gulps. He gives them another 5 minutes for pictures, autographs, and hugs. Even if he's late. Even if he's going to miss his interview. Because he owes his success to them; or at least he thinks he does.

And when he goes into the back seat of this huge black SUV with no registration plate, he slams the door shut and . . . Peace. Finally, the moment he's been waiting for. The pressure leaves his body like a bubble burst. He sighs and relaxes his muscles, his head falling back on the seat. His eyes are closed; he doesn't say a word for the whole ride. His time alone is so rare and valued.

And when they arrive in front of that gigantic building to pass this final interview, Tom prepares to show his usual bright smile and pretends he's happy. Nobody notices what's hidden in his gaze. But his eyes are telling the truth. His eyes show how hopeless he is. But nobody dares looking into his soul. They only see the superficial layer, the mask he puts on every day. Because nobody knows who he is. Nobody cares about him.

It's so much simpler to ignore sadness in other people. We just tend to believe only good moments are worth sharing. We just pretend we're happy all the time because that's what everyone else does. And why would he show his sadness anyway? He has it all: a girlfriend, loads of money, a caring family, success . . . What can he be sad about?

The interview is done, Tom is in the car, cruising in the city. He's finally going home after a long, tiring, and stressful day.

He unlocks his phone and checks his text messages. They're plain and all related to his fame or his work. All his conversations are so self-centred. What are his plans? What does he like? And what's his opinion on this subject? He, he, him, him, again and again!

He's so tired and wants to be entertained. This empty space laying in his heart and brain becomes bigger and bigger. It's become harder to ignore it, especially when he's alone like tonight. Besides, he's too used to entertain others that he almost forgets what it's like to be passive and watch people do things. As if the world revolved around him.

Here we go. Instagram. The most toxic of all social media platforms. He scrolls through pictures of his friends. The famous ones on red carpets or photoshoots; the anonymous ones a drink in their hands. They're all so superficial. All the same. And the algorithm showing him pictures fans have taken of him earlier today . . . Icing on the cake. Why would he watch this? He doesn't need it. But he decides to read what the fans say, because he's curious. Or because he's obsessed with what people think of him. He needs to be known, loved, remembered, at the centre of attention – adored. He wouldn't need to sell his soul to the devil because it's already in him, and he's now paying the price of this sin.

The fans he met earlier, who were so happy to finally see their idol, were bullying him on social media. They aren't even aware of it. All these people objectifying him, posting pictures of his family – invading his privacy – and saying he can't 'write' or 'walk' or do anything properly because he's just human. They say they are joking except it's not funny. Tom's feelings are hurt, again. He should have written 'you're' instead of 'your', he should have noticed there was a hole in the grass and not trip . . . These images are roaming in his brain like a car's spinning wheels when you brake at 60 miles per hour; the pressure of the tyres scratching your mind, and the intrusive thoughts that can't be stopped like the wheel. Ever. And you eventually hit the wall.

He glances at the rear-view mirror and see his driver focused on the traffic lights. He glances around to make sure no paparazzi is watching and takes a flask out of his back pocket. His trembling hands poorly hold it, but he needs to drink something to feel better; to feel energised. He spills his boose on the leather seats and sighs with annoyance. Grabbing his hoodie feels like lifting the weight of the world; he manages to wipe it off and savours the sweet taste of vodka. Just one sip can't hurt.

That's how you know it's too late.

"Do you really need it?" says the assistant in the front passenger seat who caught him.

"It's just a drink" Tom replies instantly, frowning his eyebrows.

"I'm just worried about you, you know" he adds as he turns around and looks at him in his eyes.

"There's nothing to worry about," Tom mumbles as he feels relaxed "I can stop if I want to."

"If you say so . . ."

And even the people surrounding him day and night aren't trying to help him. Everyone's aware he's slowly getting addicted and is wasting his potential, everyone but the fans. Everyone pretends to love him, but nobody truly cares. They're just after his money, power, and fame . . .

It's like watching him tiptoeing on the deck's edge of a ferry and being shocked when he eventually falls off in the unforgiving cold, dark sea.

He smiles when the car stops in front of his London house. That's the only place where he feels like he can truly be himself. Or the last of it. After all, who is he really? Spider-Man? An actor that pleases 13-year-old girls? A failure? An impostor? Or no one at all?

What happened to the young boy who was excited about everything and anything? What happened to the one who used to laugh more than he'd breathe?

He is torn. He can't love anymore. He's had many girlfriends, each one more famous and beautiful than the last, but they couldn't bring him back to life. He truly loved them though. He felt good with them and always thought they were a match until he messed up. Making up a behaviour so they'd leave him because he's not strong enough to quit. Because he is just like this. A kid who can't handle success.

He currently has a girlfriend. Everyone loves her. He thinks she's too good for him though. Too beautiful, too clever, and maybe too famous. He feels like she's achieving much more than he is and that scares him. He can't even make love to her without feeling like he's not worth it. So, he ignores her calls, takes days to reply to a text, becomes cold as stone, distant, and unstable. This is how cowards break up. But she holds on to him.

Once he gets home, he sits on his couch and starts watching TV. His stomach is empty; he hasn't eaten all day but the only thing he wants is to drink more. It's like a voice in his brain that takes control of his body. He sees everything but can't do anything about it. The smell, the thirst, the mind that can't think of anything else. His hands are shaking, breathing becomes uneasy, he's uncomfortable in his own skin; he's a stranger to himself until he drinks. He's desperately waiting for someone to help him. But they're all too busy with their own problems.

He tries to drink from his flask, but it is empty.

He groans. "One more isn't gonna hurt" he whispers to himself as he walks towards the kitchen area. He opens the fridge and grabs a cold one.

And another one.

And another one.

And another one.

And another one . . .

The saddest thing about the situation is that he truly believes in his excuses. He doesn't realise he desperately needs help.

Now, the fridge is empty. But he still doesn't feel it. He doesn't feel the uninhibited state he wants to reach. He's still a victim of his thoughts; the sadness, the anger, the feeling of being trapped in a never-ending game.

He glances at his 80,000 dollars Rolex and decides it's time for him to go to a bar. He grabs his phone and calls his assistant. No answer. He calls his second assistant then. No answer.

"It's only 2AM, come on!" he grunts.

Only?

He thinks for barely a second and grabs his keys and gets into his car. There's a night bar in Kingston that he absolutely loves, and he knows he's always welcome there.

As a celebrity he's obviously welcome everywhere. But he noticed the way people looked at him with pity when he spent an entire night drinking without speaking to anyone. Alone in his thoughts that only he knows. It's different there, the barmaid usually talks to him and entertains him. And she just doesn't care he's famous, which is rare nowadays.

He's been caught drunk driving many times, but he was always released without a word because he's so famous. As if all the police officers have daughters who worship him.

Maybe his problem is thinking he's above all. He who used to be so humble, kind, and generous.

He parks in front of the venue, but the lights are off. He rolls down the window and squints to read the paper sticked to the door.

The bar is closed for annual leave.

"Fuck it!" he shouts. He checks on his phone if another bar is open tonight. Miss Jackson is. It's not the bar he usually spends his time in, but the beers are good and it's not too crowded for him. He absolutely wants to avoid fans tonight.

Most of them are underage, it's dangerous for him. One mistake and he'd become a paedophile. That's why he swore to himself to never do anything with a fan, no matter how hot they are. It's harder to respect this rule when he's drunk though.

"Let's go then" he says in a lazy way, the alcohol slowly taking control of him.

His eyes are red, everything he sees is blurred. He can't keep his thoughts straight.

He starts the car and puts some music to lighten his mood. He needs this to feel better. If something bad happens while he's drunk it ruins his mood. And when this happens . . . he starts having very dark thoughts. The kind of thoughts you better keep to yourself if you don't want people to be scared for you. Where your life is on the line, and you don't care about tomorrow because you just want to stop it . . . The sadness; the anxiety; the constant fears. Because the only moment you feel happy is when you sleep, as if you were dead. Tom feels like this all the time, and he hides it well.

But now he's focusing on the moment. The boose allows him to feel better. He listens to this pop song and its energy is spreading in his body. He's pushed by the music; the excitement and adrenaline take control over his body. He's ready to go.

He quickly backs up the car. He's so excited to go to the bar to finally drink some more and—

BOOM! His car abruptly stops, it sounds like a crash. An alarm is wailing, echoing in Tom's ears, making him feel dizzy. The shock was so intense he hit his face against the airbag of his steering wheel leaving his skin half-burnt. He passes out.

Tom startles as he wakes up, "what the fuck just happened?" he hisses. He stays still giving time to his brain to proceed the information and checks his rear-view camera. It's been disconnected.

He jumps out of his car and checks what happened. He collided with another vehicle. A much smaller car with a crushed bumper. Tom's car is damaged as well, but he doesn't care, he walks over the small Fiat 500 and scans the surroundings. His heart is pounding; air isn't traveling down to his lungs. He suffocates as if he were trapped in a cage down the ocean. He doesn't control his shaking fingers rubbing against his sweating forehead. His lips are parting, gasping for air, while his eyes are wide open looking straight to the ground.

For a second, he realises that he can be in big trouble if anyone knows about this. This can be enough to be fired by the Marvel Studios and ruin his entire career, his life. No one wants a drunk superstar to ruin a movie's reputation.

He hesitates. He wants to run away. He faintly grabs his head in his weak hands and is heavily panting. He can taste iron on the tip of his tongue. He rubs his forearm against his mouth and feels wobbly at the sight of his own blood.

What is he going to do? Has someone seen what happened? And if he leaves, what happens to the unconscious person in the car? But if he helps them, what guarantees him he's not going to be prosecuted? And lose it all? But what if he leaves and this person dies? What if they die and someone knows he killed them? Each scenario is getting worse and worse.

There's only one viable option for him.

"Hey, are you alright?" he says as he approaches the fuming car.

He glances around, but the street is empty. That's the reason why he usually loves this place; because it's so quiet.

"Are—Are you okay there?" he stutters.

He opens the door and see blood. Dark, thick, red blood. An unconscious woman with blood all over her face is lying on the steering wheel. Her car is so old there is no airbag. The shock must've been tough for her. She might even have a brain injury.

Tom places his hand on this woman's neck to check if her heart is still beating. It's weak. She needs help or she'll die because of his stupidity, because he's a drunk who can't even check his surroundings before backing up his car. Poor woman whose life is on pause for his mistake. She'll die because of him.

He dials 999 on his cell phone and repeats what he's going to say once someone picks up the phone.

"There's a woman—she's injured! Car accident!" he cries. He doesn't even try to make sentences; he just wants this to be over. "Please come quickly"

"What's your name, sir?"

His body is wavering, tears are streaming down his face – it's absolute chaos in his mind. He can't tell his name; he'd rather die than publicly suffer from the consequences of his actions. He needs to fly away; he needs to escape from this nightmare. He needs to leave, and now.

He hangs up in a hurry. No one can know he is drunk, and he almost killed someone. He walks back to his SUV and catches one last glimpse of this woman's body before closing the door and driving away.

As soon as he leaves, he regrets his decision, but sticks to it anyway. His soul is crying for him to go back there and help this dying life, but his cowardice tells him to hide and wait until this is over. He's reaching his lowest point, and the only person he wants to see now is his mum. When she holds him in her arms, the weight of his problems is bearable; he can even feel relaxed. And he wishes she'd be able to do it tonight. But it would kill her to know what monstrosity her son just did . . .

He's home, all alone. It's been a few hours since the incident happened, and Tom can't think of anything else. This woman's face, her blood all over the windshield, her crushed car.

Why didn't she see him? Why was she driving so fast in an empty street at night? So many questions roam in Tom's brain, it's slowly eating him alive.

He's sobering up as the morning lights glow on his face. It's already 6AM and he hasn't slept at all. He watches himself in his bathroom mirror and only see dark circles, pale skin, and the features of a monster. The broken blood vessels in the white of his eyes give him an evil aspect. He raises his arm and see the pink burnt skin, another scar for life. How on earth could he leave a dying woman?

He doesn't only feel remorse; he doesn't recognise himself. He's lost and wonders what happened in his life to be so miserable he considers his career more important than someone else's life.

He firmly rubs his face with the palms of his hands and takes off his clothes in a simple sweep. He crawls onto his bed and covers his body with a weighted blanket. He's almost trying to forget he exists when he squeezes his eyes shut and stops breathing until his lungs pressure him to open his mouth. Nature has done a wonderful job preventing us from suffocating on purpose. What a bummer for Tom; he would be dead already if he could just stop breathing . . .

He takes his phone, his only friend and his worst enemy, and checks the local news. Maybe they've mentioned the accident and he'll be able to know what happened to his woman. Not many articles have been published since last night. He keeps scrolling until he finds what he's been looking for.

25-year-old in coma after accident in Southeast London, fugitive remains unfound

Tom's heart skips a beat; this article must be about her. For a second, he apprehends and hesitates to read the article. But his guilty mind needs to know everything about what happened since he deserted.

As he reads the article, he gently places his hand over his mouth to stop him from crying out loud. The woman was so heavily injured they needed to put her under artificial coma to keep her alive. She was on her way to meet her dying husband, in the same hospital she's at now.

Such an emotional shock inflicts a profound pain to Tom's heart. He sobs in silence and passes out due to sleep deprivation. He's finally at peace; no thought, no nightmare. His mind is off, and his body is fully regenerating. His brain is solely focused on keeping his body alive. His soul is resting for a few hours until his cell phone starts ringing.

Tom wakes up with a start and answers his phone without checking who's on the line.

"Tom, what are you doing? I've been knocking at your door for the past 10 minutes," shouts his brother "what happened to your car? Dude what are you doing? You've gotta get ready for GQ!"

"Wh—What?" he mumbles.

His brother knocks at the door. Tom gets off his bed and walks down the stairs with difficulty. When he opens the door, the lights blind him, it's too sunny outside. He'd rather stay inside for a few more hours.

His brother checks him out and sighs. "Have you been drinking? The photoshoot is in less than an hour and you look like shit"

Tom remains silent, trying to process the information.

"And what happened to your car, man?"

And here it is. Every memory comes back in his mind like fireworks and his feet are failing, he can barely stand still. He grabs his brother by his shoulder and holds him tight in his arms. He's the only one who can really help him feel better. He wants to tell him everything that happened, but he can't admit he's got a problem.

He's lost.

* * *

Thank you so much for reading! What do you think so far of the story? Tom is in a very bad situation, I wonder how he's going to get through it?

Please like this post to be in the taglist.

[jlf23tumble]

Jen!! I'm in desperate need of your amazing taste! I'm loving all this content from hl and i would LOVE some uptaded canon fics!🙏🏻 (canon can be SO GOOD!! And i love your fic recs!♡) My request is more for 'recent' canon fics (like set in recent-ish years, and i don't mind some angst too) Oh and if you want to add some fetus xf larry as a bonus i'm always down for that :) jajsnd *sends a kiss*

Bruised Fruit by @glasscushion, louis/harry, 1.2k words, E. Louis is obsessed with the way Harry smells in the heat of LA. (You know what I’m obsessed with? Someone who can cram this much visceral, er, visceralness into 1.2k words)

you flower, you feast by @thepriestthinksitsthedevil, louis/harry, 1.4k words, E. An anon on harrystylesbottoms asked for a fic where Louis worships Harry's thick booty... and here we are. (AND HERE WE ARE)

Healthy Appetite by @vondrostes, louis/harry, 2.5k words, E. “You’ve been eating more,” Louis commented as he dragged a finger down the curve of Harry’s side, carefully tracing the love handles that had finally returned now that Harry was finally on break again.Harry squinted at him suspiciously through his sunglasses. “I’m not sure if I’m meant to be flattered or insulted." (Terran’s another one who can pack an entire world in just a teeny bit of text, literally chef’s kiss on this one)

Alone Apart, Alone Together by bkljt, louis/harry, 2.6k words, E. Harry doesn’t know how, but he feels a shift as he waits for the response. A thickness to the air. It’s like there is energy, a spark, flowing between them, even thousands of miles apart. He didn’t necessarily mean it to sound sexual. He didn’t not mean it that way. He was going to leave it up to Louis’s interpretation. (One of my all-time fave tropes is phone sex/text...thank you to the wankfest, and thank you to this author, but I can’t find you on tumblr!!)

She, Myself, and I by @vondrostes, harry/nick, 3.1k words, E. “It’s me,” he said quietly. “What?” Harry sniffed; turned his head again to look at Nick, voice a little bolder. “You asked who ‘she’ is. It’s me.” (oh gender!! Terran has so many in this vein, and I’m not gonna rec ‘em all, but I could rec ‘em all, if that makes sense)

Like a Rolling Stone by @vondrostes, harry/nick, 3.4k words, E. He’d barely taken a single sip in the hour-plus he’d been sat there, unmoving, transfixed by Harry’s songs—haunted by the knowledge of what had inspired them. (I’ll stop, but yeah, rip gryles hours)

such a pretty face, on a pretty neck by cabinbythesea, louis/harry, 4.6k words, E. Harry goes to the Met Gala. Pink carpets just aren't Louis' thing, but Harry is. (I would tag the author, but there are so many similarly named aesthetic blogs, and can you even imagine? Anyway, thank you, author!)

I’m Not Over You (But I’m Trying) by tinygiant, louis/harry, 4.8k words, E. Louis' House of Solo photoshoot drops, and Harry forgets how to forget about boys. (all kinds of wonderfulness AND a pubes mention? Be still my beating heart! Can’t tag/find the author, but yeah, thanks for your service!)

My happiness depends on you and whatever you decide to do by Blake/ @newleafover, louis/harry, 5k words, E. If Harry asked him not to do it, Louis would call him naive and do it anyway. So Harry won’t ask him not to do it. But maybe he can help him make the most of a shitty situation."I'm here for my audition, sir." (this is from last summer, XFUK era, but it’s so good, plus it’s Blake, nuff said)

Warm Glow that Lingers On by Blake, louis/harry, 8.5k words, E. If Harry wants his nails painted red, he's got to earn it first. (description of Harry’s tour last summer...and mayhaps next summer, too, hmmmmmm?)

call me anything you like, but my name is by @wishforwishes, harry/mitch/sarah/clare, 9.9k words, E. some conversations are better left forgotten, some conversations are worth remembering, and some conversations you never get the chance to have. Featuring three mentors, two tea parties, one and a half recording studios, and a reference to Archie comics. (this is the second part of a story, but you don’t necessarily need to read part one to get it; I love everything about it, the way it starts and ends with Zayn, the entire gender exploration, how real it feels, sighhhhh)

be my once in a lifetime by HappyPrincess/ @pattern-pals, louis/harry, 11k words, E. Just like there are only four other people who will ever understand what it’s like growing up in One Direction, there’s only one other person who knows what it’s like to find your soulmate just before you’re thrown into the spotlight and forced to acknowledge that the both of you have too many flaws and vices to make it through fame together. Or: It's all about having sex and being sad. And drunk. (Nina’s MIND, the mood, the words, the vibe, I love the way they think, the [insert really spot-on word about all] of this; following their blog a few months back was a ver’ ver’ smart thing of me to do, we have such similar tastes in fic, gosh, they’re swell, this is a Nina appreciation post at its core)

Maybe I Miss You series by 13ways/ @1ws, louis/harry, 27k words, E. Louis is on his way back to London after the Hits Live Birmingham concert. Harry is flying to New York for the Met Gala. They connect. (this makes it seem so simple and fun, but it is messy and brilliant in the best way...that wankfest really delivered)

Now for some fetus HL!!

Powerless (and I Don’t Care It’s Obvious) by objectlesson/ @alienfuckeronmain, louis/harry, 4k words, E. “Oh no, Lou, don’t make me laugh,” he whimpers. His Ribena-purple mouth twists into a glorious, breakable shape, and Louis’s heart stops. He should not be getting turned on by Harry’s full-bladder discomfort, his little twitches, his hips-stuttering. And yet. (Lissssten, Phoenix is the queen of XF era HL, full stop, just know that I rec every single one of her stories, but I’m putting this one here because it was the last one she wrote; the people who sent her hate can burn in hell)

Sonic Sounds by @glasscushion, louis/harry, 5.7k words, E. "Harry takes a deep breath, suitably embarrassed, “I’m just really...” and he can’t say the obvious. He can’t just say really wet." Harry loves feeling embarrassed. Louis is happy to help. (fun with electric toothbrushes, which also makes me think of the fact that you can *still* buy a WMYB toothbrush that will sing to you while you brush; I don’t think that’s what happens here, lmao)

[mittensmorgul]

I'm so sorry if this sounds ignorant, and I'm sure you're tired of explaining it, but do views or "hits" on Ao3 mean anything? Because i'll see the posts about authors needing kudos and comments (which i understand completely) but i'll also see the view count and i'm like "but it's got so many hits, just go by that too!" So what goes into an author truly knowing how well they're doing?

Hi there! And yeah, I’ve explained how this works before, but I’m always happy to explain it again. Because it bears repeating. :)

Hits on AO3 mean very little. Someone clicks through to the fic, reads the tags and summary, maybe the first few paragraphs of a novel-length fic, and then nopes out without finishing. It still registers a hit.

Writing a multi-chapter fic posted in weekly installments that has a significant following? Yeah, hits are also meaningless here, because every time you post a new installment and all your dedicated readers click through to read the next chapter? They each register new hits. They’re not UNIQUE viewers to the entire fic, yet it can still look that way in the hit counter. And if it’s a 50 chapter fic that posts over the course of a whole year? The “compound” hits really start to add up, despite each of those unique readers only being able to leave 1 kudos (albeit multiple comments, if they so desire).

If something we post generates a thousand hits but only 100 kudos, it can start to feel like a lot of readers may not have bothered to read to the end, you know? If I make it to the end of a fic, I hit the kudos button. It takes literally one second, and in my mind it’s the equivalent of saying, “Thank you for writing this and posting it for free for my enjoyment.”

I personally don’t have the “false hits equivalency” problem that writers who post WIP’s do, because I always post complete works. Even when I’ve tried to post serially, I end up giving up after a few days and just going ahead and posting the entire thing. I tried to do that with Ultraviolet, posting a chapter a day, and lasted five whole days before just posting the rest all at once. I have no patience for drawing things out unnecessarily. :P

As a result, the hits count on it are artificially inflated:

2269 hits as of today, when I posted it back at the end of June. But heck, there’s more than 10% kudos-to-hits ratio, so even considering that I know a number of people had been reading along as I posted the first five chapters, that’s still a pretty decent average. Believe it or not, that’s considered to be fairly excellent as a hits-to-kudos ratio.

Now on to the thing I just posted a few days ago, Dean’s Days Off. I posted it all at once (note the posting date):

That’s a lot of hits, considering I can assume that most of them are not redundant, with the same readers clicking back through to read a new chapter. Still, even working under the assumption that A LOT of those are unique hits from different people, I’m left with the assumption that less than 20% of them actually read all the way to the end, because of the kudos.

This theory works FOR NOW, because this is a new story. I doubt many people have had a chance (even if they loved it and intend to read it again someday-- which is just wishful thinking on my part, but whatever) have had a chance to go back and read it again already, you know? So these are largely most probably original hits. But over time, there may be a fair few people who return to read it again and CAN’T leave kudos again. The hits-to-kudos ratio will inevitably drop over time.

Plus there’s also the factor in the other direction-- readers who click through and then download the story (I always do this with fic I love, partly because it’s easier to read on my kindle, but also because I’ve see too much fic I love get taken down by the authors, and I like to make sure I have a copy in case that ever happens). I have fic I’ve reread NUMEROUS times, but the author has no way of knowing how much I adore their writing in that case UNLESS I EXPLICITLY TELL THEM.

AO3 doesn’t keep statistics for downloads. Unless a reader tells me, I have no idea that they may have downloaded my story to read again. It doesn’t even generate another hit in that case, you know?

In any case, kudos, comments, OR hits-- none of them is a perfect gauge for readership. Hits may be meaningless. I think 3 of the hits for T&S were generated by me-- one of which was me noping out within a page or two of starting because there was no way in hell I was gonna keep reading, and two of which were unlabeled links to the effect of, “OMG I JUST READ THIS THING AND I NEED A MOMENT TO RECOVER,” which is an intriguing sort of post where the words “THIS THING” were a link to it... I had no idea, but lo and behold, I generated a “hit” to it. >.>

I’ve clicked on fic recs that from the description in the post sounded right up my alley, only to see something in the tags on AO3 that made me nope out of reading, or got a short way in to the story before realizing it just wasn’t my thing and closing out. All of that generates hits. Meaningless, meaningless hits.

I have opened fic, decided to “Mark For Later” so I can open it again and read it when I’m in the right mood, or when I have time to devote to it, or whatever. I have A LOT of fic Marked For Later. Still, opening it to mark it and add it to my list generates a hit. It’ll generate another hit when I do eventually go back and read it. Possibly generating another hit when I open it yet again trying to remember if I’ve read it... 

Or the worst-- I’ve had the thing open in a tab for two weeks hoping to find the time to read it, and every time Chrome refreshes the page (because Chrome does that) it generates a new hit... I kinda feel guilty about that...

Hits are ultimately meaningless.

Kudos at least have SOME meaning. A unique reader read the entire thing, got all the way to the end, and felt good enough about reading it to hit what essentially amounts to the THANK YOU NICE WRITER PERSON button.

Some people are willing to spend a little more time writing a comment. Anything from a “Thank you for writing this” to “Oh gosh I love this story, and xyz was my favorite!” all the way to leaving a running commentary on every chapter or a five paragraph book review at the end. Or heck, just an incoherent keysmash with a bunch of exclamation points.

Or one of my personal favorites, “I just read this again and can’t leave more kudos, so have this

I don’t understand the resistance to clicking the kudos button if you read the entire story and derived any enjoyment from it whatsoever. If you’re embarrassed about it, you can always log out of AO3 and leave kudos anonymously. No one will ever know it was you. :P

But I’ve had people ask me this before, wondering why they should even BOTHER hitting Kudos, and it’s like... you read this entire story, for the low low cost of zero dollars, and can’t be fussed to even click the Instant Thank You Button? That’s... shocking and frustrating as a writer. Some of my longer fic may have taken me HUNDREDS of hours to write, edit, etc. And it doesn’t merit half a second of time to click a button. I mean, sure, Dean’s Days Off is kinda short compared to some of my other work, but it still represents about 80 hours of my life. I spent about 80 hours working on that story. I spent several hundred hours working on Revenge of the Subtext. And even more than that working on Around the World in 24 Days. That’s a lot of hours. Can I get half a second of your time as an acknowledgement that it was worth it?

If I make it to the end of a story of any length, that’s automatically kudos. Job well done, Writer Person. You have suitably entertained me.

I admit that I am still personally weirded out by leaving comments, but I do try and force myself to, especially if it’s a longer work. I get this OH GOSH PLEASE DON’T LOOK AT ME BUT YOU HAVE GIVEN ME FEEEEELINGS mentality about leaving comments. I turn into Dean Winchester and clam up. I TOTALLY GET THAT REACTION to leaving comments. That’s why the kudos button exists in the first place. No embarrassment required. Just a Thank You that writers can acknowledge in a measurable way. Unlike hits, which honestly we have no idea how many of them even read past the introduction let alone the entire story.

I wish there were some more accurate metric for calculating just how well received our works are, but really this is all we have. We don’t have bestseller lists. Our readers don’t have to pay for our work. Leaving kudos or liking our tumblr posts is great, and lets us know at least our followers appreciate what we’ve written. Leaving comments is fantastic because we can share the joy, answer questions, reply to theories y’all have about our stories (heck nothing is better to me than having someone meta-analyze my writing! I LOVE THAT AND WOULD LOVE TO SQUEE WITH JOY AT YOU!). Reblogging our tumblr posts is like the ultimate recommendation. It says not only someone read and enjoyed what we wrote, but wants other people to find the thing too.That’s how we find new readers, especially if the post ends up tagged with stuff like, “OMG THIS WAS SO EXCELLENT!” or whatever. Damn near makes my week. :P

But if we post something, even if it gets tons of hits, if no one bothers to hit the kudos button at the end, it can very quickly start to feel like maybe nobody ever read all the way to the end, so why even bother...

I probably shouldn’t have turned this into an essay, but since that seems to be my trademark, I guess I’ll just go ahead and post it...