#ive written almost a thousand words today. and might write more later if i end up with a brain for it after dinner

[orcelito]

Actually making some progress on writing my reverse bang fic. Which is good! Because that sure is getting closer and closer, huh

[misskittydenoire]

Surprise! [Part One]

Title: Surprise! [Part One] Character(s) Mentioned: Tony Stark Pairing: Tony Stark x Offspring!Reader Genre: Fluff Rating: PG (eh, just a little language) Words: 2,432 Author’s Notes: I finally got a request! It’s from my friend NomNom! Thanks for the request, love! NomNom asks: Hiii! I was wondering if i could make a fic request. Can you write one of tony and reader, but reader being his kid that he just found out about? Thanks! Low key wanted the kid to be in college and whatever and is working as a barista and tony constantly trying to pay for everything but the kid keeps shutting him down lol. It’d be funny if she was the barista he always go to and when she found out, it was awkward until she went to the compound to tell him. I wanted to try something new with this request. I actually did my best and placed it in the protagonist’s point of view, that’s one. The second thing I tried to do was keep it gender neutral. This also ended up becoming a two parter because the story turned out longer than I expected! I really hope you guys like it! Summary: It has always been you and your mom. Since you were born, your mom has been there for you, has been your pillar of strength, and later on, has taught you to hold your own. You’ve relied on yourself and your hard work always. However, big news falls onto your lap and a new father comes along with it. A father who’s willing to give you anything in the world. A father who happens to occasionally save it as well. That father just so happens to be Tony Stark.

He stepped out of his silver Audi, fixing his tailored suit as he closed the car door with a small slam. His genuine black leather shoes softly hit the pavement as he entered his favorite establishment. Tony Stark survived on coffee. If it were possible, he would have a permanent IV attached to him filled with the caffeinated liquid. Instead, he walks through the glass door of a small cafe he frequents, a location that naturally knew his presence by the sound of his feet entering through the door.

“Hello, Mr. Stark! How are you today?” The portly owner greeted him with a wide smile, her cheeks flushed from her work. Her left hand still wiping down the table in front of her, preparing for the busy day ahead. He turned, his signature sunglasses on the bridge of his nose, and smirked. “Hanging in there, Susan. I need my fix again. You know me, can’t work without that magical brown juice that keeps me up and amazing.” She shook her head, accustomed to his remarks. Susan continued on, placing the small advertisement of their new product coming soon in the center of the dark wooden table before she moved on to another project.

A deep sigh escaped you. Another turn around shift that has been slowly draining your energy down to zero. If you take anymore of this shifts, you might as well sleep here. Attempting to balance college and your part time job is becoming too much to bare, however you sluggishly dragged your feet forward. College loans won’t pay for themselves, no matter how smart you are. One week closer. Just one more week closer to graduation and then you can finally collapse. The small red bucket of sanitizer fluid swayed back and forth before you placed it on the faux marble counter, a thin blue fabric floating above the water. Your mind concentrated on the mountain of worries, not paying attention to your surroundings. Your back was to the register, now wiping the same spot between the blenders for the umpteenth time.

“Uh, can I get some service here?” There was a sudden spike in your heartbeat, surprised by the unexpected voice behind you. You turned your heel, quick to smile, and address the first customer of the day when you looked at the cheeky smile plastered on their face. “God! You almost gave me a heart attack, man!” You exhaled heavily, as your hand clutched the middle area above your chest. Tony chuckled, tipping his sunglasses down the bridge of his nose. His brown eyes bright with joviality. “Sorry, kid. Didn’t mean to scare ya.” “Yes, you did.” “You’re right, I did. It’s always fun seeing you jump. It’s my favorite morning entertainment next to annoying the crap outta Happy.” You glared at him, feigning annoyance before breaking into a grin, “Ha ha. What can I get you, Mr. Stark?” “Ugh, don’t call me that. You make me sound old.” “You are old,” You quipped. “… I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that and chalk it up to childlike humor. How old are you again, twelve?” He answered, pushing the sunglasses back up onto the top of his nose. You rolled your eyes playfully, “What can I get you, Tony?”

He shrugged indecisively, and lifted his head to look over the many choices available to him. He pursed his lips as he pondered what to drink. The options were limitless, his deep brown eyes jumping from beverage to beverage.

“Here you go, Tony.” You said, placing the disposable cup with its cardboard sleeve in front of him. Tony looked at the cup, then to you. Back to the cup and back to you for the second time. You smirked, crossing your arms over your chest proudly. You shrugged nonchalantly before your shoulders dropped down again. Stark was about to speak when you interrupted him, a smug expression on your face. “You always look at the menu, taking about two minutes before you give up and ask for the usual: Americano with an extra shot and a questionable shitload of sugar. I’m surprised you don’t have diabetes by now.” “Well, one: I was going to choose something different this time. And two: This is my sugar intake for the day. The rest of the day I stay somewhat healthy. I’m doing great for a 34 year old.” “Aren’t you 48?” “Shut up.” He mumbled before he turned his heel and walked casually out the doors as you laughed at his reaction.

You shook your head, your laughter dying down as soon as you found yourself surrounded by a swarm of hipsters ready with their orders of organic soymilk, non-fat, chai lattes. Your chest underneath the dirty green apron expanded, quickly letting out an aggravated groan and widened a false grin. “Here we go…” You said to yourself.

The miniature Captain America shield hit against your keys as you stepped foot into the apartment. It fell back into your right jacket pocket, placing the article of clothing on the hook adjacent to the entrance. Your body screamed for release from the aches and pains it suffered standing for eight hours on tiled floor at work. While your brain pleaded for relief after five more hours of listening to lectures about the history of engineering. Your day was yet to be done, however. Piles of readings that needed to be completed for the following class and essays that still were in need to be outlined. Your professors have conspired to torture you until you’re in cap and gown. Juggling both work and school hasn’t been an easy road but you were determined to endure it till the end.

“Hi honey.” A soft voice greeted you.

It was your mother. She sat nervously on the couch you’ve been inhabiting for the past six months. She smiled briefly before her nerves set back into her small face. With open arms, she welcomed you back home once you realized that several pieces of papers written ‘I.O.U’ was no longer satisfactory for your roommates or landlord. You were her only child, of course. She wasn’t going to let you live in the streets.

“Mom?” You asked, confused by the soft frown on her face. “Sweetie? We need to talk,” She patted the cushion next to her, then placed her hand back on her lap.

You stared at her weary face. The wrinkles around her eyes were more apparent than usual. Whatever was plaguing her, clearly was taking a toll on her. You felt concerned, your feet sped towards her without losing eye contact. Your hands took hers, “Are you okay? What’s the matter? Are you sick? Are you–” “Sweetie, I’m fine. Breathe. You look like you’re gonna pass out.” She chuckled. You let out a sigh of relief, “With you and Mr. Stark, I’m gonna get grey hairs before I even turn 25.” “You’ve met Tony Stark?” She asked, surprised. You nodded, “Yeah, I thought I mentioned him to you before. He stops by the cafe often.” “I guess this makes it a little easier than…” “Makes what easier?” “Well…” She began.

“…So. You’re saying that my dad is Tony freaking Stark?!” You shouted, incredulously. You stood up, the blood rushing to your head in a flash which caused you to sit back down. It was your mother’s turn to nod. “Does he know?” Your fingers rubbed your temples, groaning from the rapid equations in your brain, attempting to wrap this situation around it.

She was still silent. She shook her head, worried that she has angered you. She couldn’t blame you. She has withheld this information for quite some time. “Why? Why have you kept this from me for so long?” You asked, exasperated. The secret was the least of your worries. It was the fact that your own flesh and blood omitted the truth. She’s not only the woman who gave birth to you but she was your best friend. Regardless of the fights they’ve caused, you’ve always told her the truth. This is different from, “oh, your fish is just sleeping,” or “eating your spinach is gonna make you strong like Popeye.” You knew the ins and outs of how you came to be but the origin was always vague. You see why now. “To be honest, I don’t know. I suppose because I thought it was for the best. It felt like it didn’t matter. We had each other, and we weren’t missing anything so it wasn’t like I needed him. Besides, at the time, he was a playboy. He had so notches on his bedpost, they were splinters. He wasn’t going to recognize who I was or even believe me. It was going to be more a fiasco and I didn’t want that in our lives.” She explained, tears welled in her coffee colored eyes. “Besides, it’s not the greatest feeling in the world to tell your only child they are the product of a one night stand.”

“Mom, I don’t care if you’ve slept with thousands of men. What bothers me is you’ve kept this from me when I’ve always been honest with you.” “Okay, don’t use my favorite musical against me… And it wasn’t thousands of men.” She grumbled. You gingerly wiped the pending tears before they fell as a smile surfaced on both of your faces. “… I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.” You shook your head, “It’s okay, mom. It’s nothing therapy and vodka won’t fix.” She lightly smacked your arm as she sighed in relief. Her thin frame stood up, as if lightened by the confession of her past. She walked towards the kitchen, today’s dinner on the top of her tongue until she forgot a fire question she herself had. “…..Are you going to tell Mr. Stark who you are?”

Your eyes stared at the entrance of the compound. This man has never been really subtle, huh? Just a big ol’ A slapped onto the building. Through the glass paned doors, you could see the hustling and bustling of the agents and staff while you contemplated even going forward with this idea. You weren’t even sure he’d be here. However, you knew this matter wasn’t something to be spoken about at the cafe and it wasn’t something that you can say casually while you handed him his coffee. 

“Here’s your usual, Mr, Stark. Oh, by the way, I’m your illegitimate child you had from a one night stand you probably have no recollection of.” You muttered, feigning a grin as you replayed the impossible scenario you had in your head. Your right s/c hand clutched the piece of paper with the address of the compound, crumbling it as if it would will your feet to finally move. It didn’t. The roar of an engine drew closer, and you whipped your head towards the direction. Your e/c eyes widened as the man in question came into your line of vision. How the hell are you gonna explain this? Would he even believe you?

Stark noticed a figure as he got to the compound, and quickly knew who it was. What he didn’t understand is why you were there in the first place. “Y/N? Doing deliveries now or is this some special perk for yours truly?” He quipped. However, his tone shifted when you fully turned to him, your face holding a nervous look in your eyes. “Hey, are you okay? Did something happened? Are you sick? Do you need-” Well, nice to know that the 21 questions panic mode comes from him, you thought to yourself, as you held up your hands to pause his interrogation. “Hey Tony. Yes, I’m okay. Yes, something did happen but nothing that required stitches. No, I’m not sick,” You answered in a monotone before you moved on to why you were really there. “Actually, there is something I need to discuss with you. It’s something really delicate that I knew I couldn’t explain to you at my job. Can we talk somewhere private?” “Yes sure, kid.” Tony escorted you into the building, his arm directing you to the elevators. 

You took quiet deep breaths as you entered his office. The large room was twice as big as your living room and the furniture’s upscale appearance was far from any one you could afford. Your arms stuck close to your form, afraid that if you even as so touched the air around it, it would collapse. You weren’t even sure you should sit down when Tony offered you a seat because you were afraid you’d wrinkle the cushion. You only decided to accept it since Tony wouldn’t have stopped staring intently until you did. He sat on the opposite side on his work desk, his broad back leaning against his chair, “So sport, what did you wanna talk about? Must be something serious if you decided to come all this way from the city.” You began to twiddle your thumbs, “Well… I honestly don’t know where to begin here. This is a position I never thought I’d be in.” A short exhale escaped your mouth, your hands (though slightly clammy) gripped the arms of the chair as you decided to just come out with it, “I’m your kid. I’m not asking for money or any like that. I just found out a couple of days ago and I thought you should know too. You know, just in case you’d ever need a blood transfusion or something. Not that I want that to happen or anything. Just, you know… so you know.” Unfortunately, the execution was a little too quick for Tony to catch. The sentences were woven together that it didn’t make any sense. Tony blinked, “…Sorry, what?” “You’re… my dad.” The man behind the iron mask sat in front of you, frozen. And stayed frozen for about five minutes. “Mr. Stark. Are you still breathing? Listen, I know this comes as quite a shock and I don’t even know if you believe me. I’m willing to take a blood test, anything—” In an instant, he lifted his hand. “F.R.I.D.A.Y., can you verify this?” On it, sir. “Ow!” You released your left hand from the vice grip you had on the chair when you get a prick on your index finger. Within seconds, the AI returned. What Y/N is correct, sir. You are their biological father. You sat there, uncertain what to do next. Unintentionally, you nervously smiled, “…Mazel Tov?” Well, this could’ve gone a whole lot worse…

[pebblysand]

On Children.

Last night, when I posted this - the last 15,000 of a 103,087 words journey - I promised myself I’d talk about it - write about it - later. After I’d slept, after I’d been to work, after I’d processed the thoughts in my head.

I barely slept. Shut the lights out at midnight, woke up at two, then at five and stayed awake after that. I’m usually a heavy sleeper. I think it was the adrenaline.

Today, I spent more time on tumblr and my personal email, anxiously refreshing pages for reviews and comments, than on actual work. I’ll admit it’s insecure and weak on my part, but I guess I am of a generation that is in constant need of validation.

I haven’t felt this happy and excited in a long time but let’s be real, I still haven’t processed shit. Who was I kidding? Maybe, it will help to write this out. I guess I am a writer, after all.

I write that (I’m a writer), and think that’s a weird word, all things considered. It refers to a profession but I’m not a professional, and it is still what I do - like to do - with the spare time that I have. You see, sometimes, I have ideas about things that could happen to people who aren’t real and when that happens, I type them out on a laptop and share them with strangers on the internet. It’s a bit of weird hobby, admittedly, but I like it. I’m okay at it. Sometimes, the thought even crosses my mind that I might be good. It mostly happens when I write things like this:

When she thinks about him, she thinks about them and all she sees is children. A boy and a girl and her pale skin against his cheek, pulling at each other’s hair, laughing, loud, like Nick and Niamh on court benches, school benches, and the autumn leaves scattered around their feet.

Or this:

It’s not homesickness, she thinks, it’s just moving on.

I look at those three sentences and I think (because yeah, let’s dive in, shall we? that’s enough of an introduction) that ultimately, this is what all this was about. Those 103,087 words. This fanfiction, as it is refered to, is called Children not because Martha gets pregnant at the end, but because it’s a coming of age story. A coming of age story that involves a couple of forty-somethings who have spent so much time over the last fifteen years working and helping other people grow that they’ve forgot to do it themselves. This fic is as much about the concept of home and career choices and Sean, than it is about Martha and Clive. And sure, it’s about me, too. Because let’s be real, maybe I was going through a bit of a similar thing, at the time I started writing this, and maybe I did Mary-Sue the heck out of it. Who knows?

What I do know, though, is that I love this story. So much. It feels important, and cool, and smart, and funny and the kind of tale that I like to tell. I also know that although I won’t bore you with the details, I wasn’t in great place, this time last year, when I started writing it. Thankfully, I am in a much, much better place now. I frankly thank Peter Moffat, Silk, and Martha and Clive for that. I think this story gave me room to grow, and focus, and believe in myself more than I ever had before. When I started writing it, it was a 10,000 words one-shot that involved Clive breaking into Martha’s flat through the window and a very early version of that last scene in chapter vii. It was cool, too, but not the story I needed to tell.

Then, chapter i came. Chapter i is crap, I know that. I made it a bit less crap by editing it sometime after I posted chapter ii but really, not by much. In its defense, it was written at a time when a) I hadn’t written a word in three years and b) I had no idea what this would all become. I think that when I first published it, I still thought the fic was going to be fifteen to twenty thousand words, two or three chapters at most.

For a very long time, I was terrified of not finishing this fic, actually. I had a lot of comments about that - understandable considering the sad amount of abandoned works on the Silk fandom - and it just made me more anxious very time. That fear did start to go away over time, but surprisingly late, probably around when I was writing chapter ix. Still, I think I still had remnants of that panic up until I actually wrote the words the end at 3 a.m. last Friday. It felt almost surprising that I had, indeed, finished. All the long projects that I’d started before, I’d abandoned, or gotten tired of. At the time, I held it against myself, but coming back to my earlier point, I’ve now realised that they just weren’t my story to tell.

Then, chapter ii came. I like chapter ii. It’s not perfect and would need to be worked on in a future edit, but I like its plot. I like what it says about the show, about Martha as a character and how she breaks down, how we all do, sometimes. It also says something about what often happens to women, sadly, when they do. 

I think this show is important and matters because to me, it talks about something that happens all the time in the legal world and that no show ever touches on. We show the courtrooms and the decorums and the ships, but not happens behind the scenes. Not what I’ve seen. The truth is that when you spend all your waking hours fighting other people’s fights, sometimes, you lose yourself. You breakdown. You burn-out. It’s sort of a premonition but Clive warns Martha about it in the first series, jokingly, sure, but he turns out to be right. That’s what I see in the last episode of series three. As much as I hated the whole courtroom and Micky Joy debacle there, I loved that storyline. I love that she just fucks off. That my ultimate head canon is that she moves to a beach somewhere and opens a café on the coast, pours expressos and chats up tourists all day. Maybe, there, she meets someone. Maybe, she even has a family. But in my head, Children is and always will be a very long AU.

In that AU, of course, she has to stay. And that’s what chapter ii is about, ultimately, about staying when you don’t want to, breaking down and dealing with the consequences. When you’re a woman and you fuck up a bit, the price to pay is sometimes, sadly, very high. So, I tried to show that to the best of my ability. I hope I did a decent job of it. Frankly, I’m not quite sure about how I dealt with the aftermath. I think if I went back and edited, I would probably allow the assault to be more of a recurrent theme in the following chapters. I sometimes wonder if I didn’t deal with it a bit too quickly. But then again, I guess every survivor is different, and there was also a lot to talk about in those next chapters, with Billy and Clive, and Chambers, so I’ll cut myself some slack.

Chapter iii is to me the moment when this fic found its tone and its voice. When Martha and Clive found their voices in my head, too. It was a very difficult chapter to write, I remember, but I think that’s when the fic went from being an extended one-shot to a full blown story, with a plot and character development, and thousands of words, and eleven chapters. That scene at Billy’s grave is one of my favourites.

The one that follows, chapter iv, wrote itself. I barely touched it. I love chapter iv. It’s funny and quirky, and everything I loved about writing those characters I was lucky enough to be able to borrow. I was very insecure about the explicit sex scene in it, but then I felt like that scene was necessary. Again, I didn’t want the only sex in this to be non-consensual. Most often, sex is pleasurable and fun, thank God.

I think when I look back, chapter v is the most personal of them all. Chapter v is what I meant when I said that this fic was about me. Jokes aside, I remember being very nervous about it, wondering if I wasn’t turning a wonderful fic into a horrible, Mary-Sue-d attempt at a diary of my own problems. But then, well, it’s also fiction. My fiction. Because in chapter v, aside from Martha and Bethany’s very short stint, all of the characters are OCs. There’s Martha’s mum (Maureen), and Jo, and Evershed, and Roy. Boy, do I love Roy. Roy is the amalgamation of every man every sixty-something woman in my life has remarried to. He’s not a bad person, he’s just very, very out of tune with current times. Evershed, I don’t have many feelings about. Martha just needed a sounding board. Martha’s mum was probably the hardest to write. She loves her, I think, but I also think they’re very different people. I think they’re linked by what happened to her dad and that sometimes, that gets a bit heavy. And Jo. God, I love Jo. She makes me laugh and sometimes, I wish she was my friend, too.

Again, I was nervous about chapter v and my characters, wondering if people would like them, would like what they said about Martha, about the concept of home, until someone said: "It's like you're writing my life and all the feelings I've had about home and the bar and superimposed Martha Costello on top". I think that’s one of the best comments I’ve ever had on anything I’ve ever written. So, I’m not naming you, you know who you are, and thank you.

Chapter vi was originally very, very long and was then split into vi and vii for readability purposes (I will split xi too, one day, I promise). Yet, in my head, they will always be paired up. 

As I’ve mentioned before, the contents of chapter vii, and especially that last scene with Clive when they decide to “try again”, had been in my head ever since I’d started writing this fic. It was always where this story was going to go and when I published it, it felt good to finally release that, to have it out in the world that yeah, this was going to be that kind of fic, with an argumentative, blond, blue-eyed baby being born the end. Although these two are probably the most important chapters in this fic, I oddly don’t have much to say about them. I guess everything is pretty spelled out in there. Clive and Martha are in love. And they’re going to try for a baby. When I split both chapters, I took the opportunity to put back into chapter vii a bit that I’d taken out in the original editing phase. It’s a scene in which Clive and Martha talk about her father’s disease and she mentions that she took a test, once upon a time (i.e. when she got pregnant), to know if she had it, but never read the results. It’s a letter in her handbag that she doesn’t want to open, but that he wants to read. I think more than the topic itself, it shows how much they love each other, and yet how different they are. Martha got to know about Billy’s health when, in fairness, I don’t think she ever wanted to know. I think she’s the kind of person who only likes to know about things she can deal with or solve. If not, she wants to know late enough so that she won’t have to think about it too much. She’s the kind of person who wouldn’t want to know if she had cancer. Clive does, though. He would have liked to know about Billy; I think it hurt him not to. He would have liked to be prepared.

In my canon, Clive reads that letter and never tells her what was in it. He vouches to keep it to himself, and he does. He likes that he knows, respects her decision not to. He would tell her, if she asked, but she never does. As the writer of this story, I personally don’t know what was on that letter, either. I’ve gone back and forth on it a few times and I really don’t know if she has it. She definitely thinks she does. I think that’s kind of where the smoking comes from. I think she sort of hopes it will kill her before she forgets that it will.

I kind of wish I had found a way to use all of that in later chapters but somehow, after that one, it just didn’t fit within the plot. Maybe it will upon further edits. I don’t know.

Now, chapter viii is cute. Like iv. Still, I wanted it to be mostly about her career and going back to work, rather than about her getting pregnant. I hope that it was. Chapter viii is also where the character of Charlotte makes her entrance and I really like her, I like that she both fits in (through her education, her parents) and doesn’t (through how odd and quirky she is). I think if Martha were to ever go back to work after everything that happened, it would be for someone like that. I like that she’s not Billy, too.

And of course, then, Martha gets pregnant, when she leasts expects it. Because, she had to. As a side note, I love the scene where she "tells" Billy. It feels like a full circle to me.

Circles are not necessarily good, though, are they? ix, oh ix. That, also, unfortunately had to happen. I think Martha and Clive had been very nicely playing house for a while but it just couldn’t go on forever. Mostly, I had to deal with Sean, though. Because Sean, oh, Sean, do I love Sean. Again, this fic, frankly, is almost as much about him and about what he represents (young love, home) than it is about Clive and what he represents. When I wrote chapter iii, I thought I was done with him but then again, when I wrote chapter iii, I didn’t know there would be nine chapters, did I? So, Martha, she couldn’t let go, could she? She had to close that door in order to open another one.  

ix was so hard to write. Mostly because I’m terrible at writing arguments. I had turn it all around for it to make more sense but I feel that somehow, it more or less worked. I guess, you tell me, though.

(As a side note, I kind of like CW’s role in it. She’s not a friend, but she’s not a stranger either. I think that ultimately, she kind of cares about Martha, for some reason. And I love that conversation between Martha and her mum at the end, almost teared up when I wrote it. Again, part of moving on and growing up.)

And then, comes x. It’s a bit of a filler, I’ll admit. A 10,000 words filler. I couldn’t see Clive and her get back together that easily, so things needed to happen in between. I decided those things were court scenes. I was so nervous about those. I’ll be honest and say I have no fucking clue about the UK’s appeals process and probably got it all wrong. I guess that’s the difference between me back when I was still in law school and me now. At the time, I would have done the research. Now, I just don’t care, as long as the drama’s good. If you’re from the UK and thought it was all wrong, my most sincere apologies.

Finally. xi. As I said in my A/N yesterday, there was supposed to be a xii, until two evenings ago, when I realized that there wasn’t. In fairness, I think I’d suspected it for a while. In my head, I’d always thought of xii as some sort of epilogue, with a mix of cute pregnant-Martha scenes and a bunch of more serious ones (the baby’s name, Clive’s priorities shifting). Then, at 3 a.m. on Friday, I understood that a bunch of scenes stuck together do not necessarily make for a coherent chapter. And that I hate epilogues anyway. Finish your bloody story and stick with it, I say. So, the important stuff made it into xi (Clive’s priorities shifting, the baby’s name) and the rest just went to trash. I’m happy with that. In an earlier draft of an outline for xii, I also had a scene about CW prosecuting Brown Hair in an assault case on someone else, but that felt a bit cheap and would have kind of taken away the point I wanted to make with ii, the fact that most of the time, sadly, there is no resolution to these things. So, yeah, I’m happy I didn’t write that in.

I guess I don’t know what I thought would happen when I wrote the words the end after of all this. I think I thought fireworks would be in order, and champagne. Instead, I was alone in my flat on a Friday night, drinking beer and thinking holy shit. I didn’t cry - still haven’t - but I’m not sure all of this has really sunk in, yet, so.

So, what does this all mean? Well, it means that I’ve written a story and finished it. Not a novel, sure, but a story nonetheless, with some characters that were mine and some that I borrowed and it had a beginning, a middle and an end. That feels great. Amazing, in fact, like the top of the world. And yes, in a few years, months maybe, even, I’ll probably look back at this post and think I was full of shit and full of myself. Right now, though, it feels good. I’ve motherfucking done this, you know?

And I acknowledge the fact that there’s still a lot of work to do. Because everything I’ve mentioned I want to make better, want to rewrite (like chapter i, ugh), I’ll do. I’ll let the fic sit, for a while, but I’ve planned to go back to it in a few months (August or September, give or take) and edit. Because frankly, although I love this story to bits, I also know it has flaws. For better or for worse, I’m a perfectionist at heart, so I want to make it the best it can be. That being said, I am very proud of this, nonetheless.

So, yeah, if you’re interested, maybe click again and go back to reading Children this time next year, it’ll probably have changed a bit. If not, that’s alright, please, just don’t hold chapter i against me.

Lastly, again, I’d like to repeat my thanks. To @missmarthacostello for early-fic chats. To @asummerevening for later-fic chats. To everyone who’s read, commented and PM-ed me over the last months and to everyone who will hopefully read and comment and message me in the future. I owe you many. Again, if you have prompts, requests, feel free to PM me, I’m happy to try my best. And lastly, again, thanks to the wonderful @cursedandcharmed without whom, honestly, this would not have seen the light of day. As I said in my A/N, you listened to me rant for a year about something you were not reading and that took place within the universe of a show you were not watching. I can’t thank you enough for that.

So, there. I hope this was somewhat coherent. I honestly tried, to the best of my ability. This fic has taken up so many weekends and hours of my life these past few months that I am unsure as to what comes next, and what one does with so much time on their hands. Again, though, I’ll probably look back at this in a bit and think I was full of shit, so, there’s that.

Thanks again and whoever you are, if you’ve stuck around this long, you have all my love and admiration.

Best,

pebblysand.