#the fic i wrote concurrently

[queer-omens-in-the-archives]

Have you noticed your style change over time?

Hi!! Thank you for the ask. <3

We haven't really noticed that, no -- we're aware our older fics don't read quite the same as our more recent ones, but we don't tend to notice the changes happening in real time and would struggle to pinpoint exactly what changed.

Part of that is plurality-related. We don't all write the same to begin with -- actually part of our editing process now, especially for longer projects, consists of getting as many of us rereading the text as possible (separately over a period of time and/or together at the same time), so we can smooth out differences where needed or (more rarely) exaggerate them when warranted (e.g. for added character flavour in subjective narration). In the past we didn't go through that Collaborative Smoothening step, and we did a lot less editing to begin with (we same-day wrote-and-published a lot), so many of our older works are more clearly One Guy's Writing. We can usually tell who based on the way they're written, but this isn't style evolution so much as like... us writing differently at baseline.

Part of that is that we have two types of approach to writing: either we write so rarely that too much time passes in-between for us to remember our previous writings clearly, or we write so often that any overall changes are too gradual for us to notice. Nowadays it's more the latter -- with the MelloNears, we've been writing/editing at least a few words every single day since November 1st, in mostly the same two AUs/series, so we're not really seeing the style evolution that is probably taking place because we're standing too close to see the big picture.

[fanfic/author ask game]

[jonathanrook]

maybe i'll finish one of my fucking wips eventually

[fandomfrolics]

For the unwritten fics: 7 (for ted, obvs), 10, 15!

7. What are your plans for -character-?

Sorry, this is such a funny question out of context. I have many plans for that sad dad and some of them may even make it into published fics one day but off the top of my head, the gist of my plans are:

Ted gets laid (angsty)

Ted gets laid (happy)

Ted gets laid (emotional)

Ted gets laid (filthy)

Ted comes back to London and his old job

Ted goes on a road trip

and just to cover all my bases, Ted is sad.

15. Do you have any unwritten scene that you think about a lot?

Answered this here! But there's another unwritten thing I guess I think about once in awhile, which I had a vague idea for after the s3 ep where Ted calms himself down from his panic attack but I don't think I'll ever actually write so I'm just gonna summarise the whole thing in a long run-on sentence:

Basically Roy sees/overhears Ted chanting "he's okay" quietly to himself and surmises it's about Henry and he takes Ted outside to look at the moon because when he first went off to Sunderland he called his grandad crying about being so far away and his grandad told him to go outside and look at the moon because no matter how far apart they were they'd always be looking at the same moon and the whole thing is essentially just a conversation they have lying on the pitch while looking up at the sky.

10. If unpublished, can you show a sneak peek of what you've written?

This isn't actually from one of the 'plans' OR the idea mentioned above but it's another one I don't think I'm ever actually going to finish so thought I might as well share some of it. It's a Thanksgiving fic with Henry, Michelle, and Ted's mom all visiting London (established but background T/R iirc). I wrote most of it more than a year ago but surprisingly the Ted's mom characterisation still fits pretty well I think (except her name but that would be pretty cray cray if I guessed it right). Anyway! Here's a little Ted & Michelle part of it (behind a read more since this is already so long).

“Thought you could use this.”

Michelle glances up to see Ted holding a bottle out towards her. The corner of her mouth quirks up. She takes it gratefully, sipping lightly as he settles down next to her on the steps.

“So,” he says after a brief, loaded silence, “you gonna tell me what that was all about back there, or am I gonna have to try this beer tactic with my momma instead?”

Michelle doesn’t crack. “Don’t ask your mom.”

“Okay…” He peers at her. “You realize you’re making me more worried, right? Not less? You can see how you might be doin’ that? With this whole thing?” He gestures between them.

She sighs, holding the bottle to her forehead. “Ted, I’m sorry, but sometimes your mother can be a real—”

“Pain in the ass?” Ted guesses.

“I was gonna say ‘piece of work’ but hey, if you wanna go there…”

“Okay." She lets him tug the bottle away from her face, watching him put it carefully down on the step between them. "Michelle, what on earth is goin' on?”

She sighs again, then finally shifts to face him. “Ted, you know sending Henry to live here…you know that’s as much for him as it is for you, right?”

He swallows audibly. “Are you second-guessing this whole thing, ‘cos I know I’ve always been a bit of a soft touch with him but it’s only been like three months, you gotta give me more of a chance, I promise I’ll—”

“No, Ted, it’s not—” She shakes her head vehemently. “You’re doing fine.” She smiles. “More than fine. Henry seems to have really settled in well here.”

“Oookay…” He tilts his head. “Is that what’s botherin’ you? That he’s doing too well? ‘Cos I swear, he misses you like crazy. And I lied, I’m still a soft touch. I totally bribed him into eating those green beans earlier. But I swear to god, the kid is—”

“No, no, Ted, it’s not—” She cuts him off with a laugh and his mouth falls shut. She stares at him quietly for a long moment before she flicks her gaze away, back out to the long garden. In the dark it looks like it goes on forever. 

“God, I’m going to have to tell you, aren’t I.”

“I think so?”

It feels like it’s always like this between them, the punctuation remarks reversed, and it used to be so exhausting, to be the one always carrying around the full stop, but she appreciates it about him more, now, that he doesn’t push. Now that she has some distance, she can fully appreciate the rarity of it, of the way he can prompt and give space all on the same turn.

[theleafpile]

you know what, for you @pipiripipi101 and @thewollfgang I got out my hard drive and here's the old fic, titled "Twenty Questions," that might be just the thing you're looking for.

Originally published 01-02-2018, 6,065 words

Original prompt:

from @lucifermorningstarlux: "I would love for there to be an interview scenario between Lucifer and Chloe, like she gets to ask him twenty questions about anything. And he has to answer with no side distractions. And then Lucifer gets to ask her twenty questions and she has to answer truthfully. I can literally imagine all sorts here."

Summary:

Chloe and Lucifer play the game twenty questions… with some modifications. They get to each ask each other twenty questions, and have to answer honestly. They both know Lucifer doesn't lie.

The truth, however, requires trust. And belief.

[this was written when I was first discovering how to write fiction so be kind]

Lucifer pulled the chair out for Chloe to sit before dragging the other around to the opposite end of the steel table. The interrogation room lights shone above them mercilessly, casting no shadows. The sound of the metal chair, scraping across the concrete floor, scratched the inside of Chloe’s ears, but she kept her mouth shut in a thin line. Lucifer could have his antics, if it finally meant she could have answers. Of course, he didn’t notice the tension in her shoulders, the calculation behind her gaze. Instead, his eyes shone, dark and mischievous under the bright lights, his smile more similar to what she imagined a lion might smile like, its mouth coated in fresh blood.

He sat, crossing his legs and setting his folded hands atop his knee, the very picture of poise. She rested her forearms on the table, leaning forward.

“You may begin,” he offered magnanimously, lifting a hand as though he were a king, and she his subject.

Nuh-uh. Not today, buddy. “You know the rules?”

He had the audacity to feign boredom. “I think of something, and you have twenty questions to figure it out.”

She shook her head slowly. “Nope,” she said, the word popping off her lips. She caught the small tilt of his head, his curiosity piqued.

“No?”

“I ask you twenty questions, and you have to answer them all. Truthfully.” Something behind his gaze flickered, unsure. “C’mon,” she said, her voice low. “Aren’t you always up for breaking the rules?”

He leaned closer. “I’m always up, darling.”

She hid the smile at his innuendo, hoping that he couldn’t sense how her heart had jumped at the thought of him playing along. “Is that a yes, or not?”

He leaned back, his gray suit as impeccable as the rest of him. “Twenty questions, all answered truthfully,” he confirmed. She nodded. “And I get the same?”

The corner of her mouth lifted in a smile, thinking that she had far less to hide. “Yep.”

“Concurrently?”

“Why not?”

“You do realize that I don’t lie, regardless?”

She bit her tongue to keep it from lashing out. She was so tired of his half-truths, his omissions, that even if she didn’t get the whole truth of out him now, she could at least get a better sense of what to ask later. “Yep,” is all she would say.

He threw up his hands in mock surrender. “If it’s truly what you desire, then who am I to judge?” He looked her over hungrily. “And I can think of a few burning questions I want answers to, myself.”

Satisfied, she tugged a scrap piece of paper from her back pocket and smoothed it out on the table, pen already in hand. She drew a line, making two columns, and wrote “C” in one, “L” in the other.

“I can remember how many I ask, you know,” he huffed out, incredulous that she would go to such lengths.

“I don’t trust you,” she answered easily.

Too easily, he thought, even as she smiled teasingly at him. But how could be blame her for that? If he were being honest. The ordeal with the Sinnerman had left her walking away from him. Had left her nearly getting shot, only to be saved by… Cain. Of all people. His jaw clenched, and Chloe couldn’t help but wonder if it was directed at her.

“Who first?” she asked lightly, eyes downcast on the paper, pulling it back toward her.

“Why don’t you go ahead?” he said, feeling the dark cord of jealousy pulling tighter within him at the thought of her and Marcus – Cain – doing anything together. Even working together. Even being on the same planet together had his teeth set on edge.

“Okay,” she breathed out, suddenly nervous. There were so many questions, that she couldn’t be sure where to begin. She shyly lifted her gaze to his before steeling herself, pressing on. “Why are you upset right now?” she asked quietly, busying herself with ticking off a question under the “C” column.

He hadn’t been sure what he was expecting, but it wasn’t that. He heaved in a breath to answer, shifting uncomfortably. “I don’t trust ‘Marcus Pierce.’”

“You have to be honest,” she reminded him, setting down the pen.

“I am being honest.”

She nodded thoughtfully, and he could see the resolution in her expression, the sense of disappointment. He hated it.

“And I don’t…” he began again, and her eyes shot up to his, “I don’t want you anywhere near him. He’s dangerous.”

She took in his words. “It’s your turn,” she prompted.

“Do you like him?” he asked, steepling his fingers, elbows on the table.

“Really? That’s your first question? You’re as bad as Ella.”

He waited, an eyebrow raised. Chloe screwed up her mouth. This was going to be harder than she thought.

“I don’t know. And that’s the truth. He’s not the best boss I’ve ever had. He’s an ass. But he did save my life.”

“Once."

“Yeah. Once. It was enough to make me believe he’s got good instincts.”

He acquiesced, folding his hands in front of him. “You’re turn.”

She ticked off his box, trying to hide her nervous swallow. “Have you ever seen a therapist, or been institutionalized, before we met?”

“Why would I have been?”

“You can’t answer a question with a question. And you know why.”

“No. Despite countless horror movies depicting me as haunting abandoned hospitals, I have never been committed or seen anyone before Linda.”

Lenient parents was her first thought, but then she remembered – he always spoke of becoming the Devil after being kicked out of the house.

“When was the last time you had sex?” he asked, a cheeky grin firmly in place.

She really didn’t want to tell him that. Her hand darted out, slipping under his suit jacket – much to her partner’s surprise – retrieving his flask. His smile widened as she took a shot. She coughed at the burn of the alcohol. He made no move to retrieve it.

“Before Dan and I divorced,” she managed. Lucifer’s grin faded as his mouth dropped open. She had expected an immediate offer, or some comment about him barely going more than a day without, but there was only abject pity in his eyes.

“You poor thing. No wonder you throw yourself into your work.”

“I’ve always done that,” she weakly protested.

He suddenly leaned forward, eager. “When was the last time you orgasmed?”

“You know it’s my turn, right?”

He waved it off. “You’ll have two in a row, then. Answer the question, detective.”

She licked her lips. “I may have… orgasmed,” she said, looking directly into his eyes, “this morning.”

His gaze dropped to her lips. “How?”

She couldn’t tear herself away from his gaze, wondering if this was how those he questioned felt. But she felt no pull to dispel her darkest desires, or whatever. She was simply… captivated, by his attention, 100% on her.

“I woke up early,” she explained, her voice soft, drawing him in closer. She may as well have a bit of fun, and teasing Lucifer was always sure to be a good time. “Everything was quiet. Everything felt warm, and smooth,” she drew out, her legs rubbing together at the memory, so different from the hard lights and metal she found herself surrounded by now. Something in Lucifer’s gaze had become serious. She lifted a finger to her neck, trailing down to the skin of her chest, drawing down her v-neck blouse to between her breasts. His eyes followed the movement like a predator watching prey. Her finger drew small circles on her chest as she remembered. “I was dreaming about something, I don’t remember what, now. But I felt… loved. And,” her breath caught, and his body jumped at the sound. Her tongue darted out to wet her lips, her finger moving down over her stomach, disappearing under the table. She decided to be brave. “I wanted.”

“Tell me,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Is that a question?”

“If you wish it to be.”

Her heart raced in her chest, but she could feel it all the way down to her fingertips, pulsing. “You,” she whispered. “Or some version of you.”

She expected him to lean back, to gloat. He did not. Instead, he looked… Sad. Eventually he came back to himself, clearing his throat and moving away slightly.

“That’s five, now” he told her, tapping the paper at her elbow, breathing hard.

Dutifully, she wrote it down. They had breached from playful to serious, and now she felt she could really ask the questions on her mind.

“Why do you have sex so much?”

“Is it a lot?”

She decided not to count it, if he was only clarifying. “It really is an inordinate amount. Unsustainable.”

He breathed out his nose a short puff. “It’s fun. I’m good at it. Brings people pleasure. And me, obviously.”

She waited for more. He still couldn’t bring himself to look at her, surprised by the words coming from his mouth.

“Sometimes, in the midst of it, I catch them looking at me with this expression. Like, wonder, almost. Or… awe. I suppose it’s built into me, to want it.”

“Why?”

He huffed, shaking his head, his mouth pulling into a tight line. “No matter how far I’ve Fallen,” he said, closing his eyes for the briefest of moments, “I was an angel first.”

The silence stilled the air around them until he spoke again.

“Do you believe me?” he asked, finally lifting his eyes to hers.

“No. Do you need me to?”

“It would certainly make things easier.”

She couldn’t help a small smile at that, at seeing the man she was more familiar with returning.

“Will you ever have sex with me?”

Yep, he was back. “Ever?” she confirmed.

“Ever.”

She considered it. “I don’t know what the future holds.”

He smiled. It wasn’t smug. Just pleased.

“How do you unlock… everything. Handcuffs. Doors.”

“I am the Devil, darling. Comes with the package.”

“Why?”

“Because not even Hell can hold the Devil, let alone a few pieces of flimsy metal.”

“And that’s the truth?”

“Always. Now tell me,” he said, leaning in, “Did you really want the spawn?”

Chloe narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “Dan wanted kids more than I did,” she admitted. “He comes from a big family. But I knew one was going to be enough for me.”

“That’s not really an answer to the question I asked.”

She knew the answer, but had never said it out loud before. “I didn’t want kids. After the way my mom was… I wasn’t really sure what kind of mother I’d be. And I had a rough pregnancy. Not that it’s any of your business, but I ended up getting my tubes tied after Trixie was born. Dan and I fought about that a lot. But after I had her, I knew that I never wanted to be without her. I love her more than anything else.”

Lucifer sighed, obviously displeased. He leaned back, turning and throwing an arm over the back of the chair.

“Do you have any kids? That you know of?”

“Wouldn’t the world have ended, then? If I had fathered the Antichrist?”

“Answer the question.”

His gaze drifted toward the door, and she looked, wondering what he was thinking lay beyond it. “Not that I know of, no,” he answered, bringing himself back to her with a smile. “Surprised?”

“Actually, a little. Given your, you know. You-ness.” He smiled then, a little proud. She decided to try and lighten the mood between them. “What instruments do you play?”

“All of them.”

She shot him a look. He shrugged.

“What languages do you speak?”

“All of them,” he answered again, amused.

“All of them."

“Yep.”

“How?”

“They aren’t particularly difficult to learn, especially when you have an infinite number of test subjects to learn from and no time limit.”

“How many nightclubs have you owned?”

He studied his fingernails for a moment. “I haven’t really been on Earth long enough to get everything in order before now. Well, there was that one. You may have heard of it. Little place called Eden.”

“Where were you born?”

“I wasn’t born so much as created, but I first came into being in the Silver City.”

“Which is… Heaven.”

“Colloquially.”

Chloe stared down at the paper, keeping track. “And what was your name?”

He didn’t answer, so she looked up. “Why do you ask? Trying to run a background check? I assure you, I won’t be in any databases.”

“Yes,” she answered truthfully, feeling anger build itself in the center of her body. “If you won’t tell me the truth, then I’ll just have to find out for myself.”

“I am telling you the truth.”

“No, Lucifer,” she sighed, setting down the pen. “You’re just telling me more of the same bullshit I hear from you all the time. She let her face fall into her hands before smoothing back her hair, frustrated. “Why don’t you want to tell me your name?” she asked. “There’s got to be some reason. Some real reason. Were you in WitSec, or did you change it to get away from your dad, or –”

“I don’t go by that name anymore,” he interrupted.

“Yeah, I get that, and it’s not like I want to start calling you something else, because weirdly enough, you hear ‘Lucifer’ enough times and it becomes just like any other name. I just want to understand.”

He softened under her imploring gaze. There was no malice behind it, no searching for something she could use against him. “If I tell you, will you never repeat it?

She blinked a few times, surprised, but nodded all the same. He looked up and over her shoulder, toward the camera with its little blinking red light. She knew that footage was recorded, but Lucifer had quickly made friends with the officer who transcribed interviews and interrogations, resulting in a lot of the stranger occurrences and questions being left out of official reports. It wouldn’t take much for someone to dig deeper, but so far, they had been lucky.

“Can I tell you later?” he asked.

Her heart leapt in her chest at the thought, but on the surface she remained calm. “Of course.”

“Eleven for me.” He tapped the paper. “Fifteen for you.”

She noted it and ticked off another in her column. “When you wanted to show me proof of who you were, what stopped you?”

“I don’t know,” he started, then realized that wasn’t entirely true. “Someone… took it from me.”

“What were you going to show me?”

“My face. My true face.”

“Your… face.”

“Well, I couldn’t bloody well show you my…”

“Your what?”

He looked away, and she tried to figure out the expression on his face. “I’ve seen your everything, you know,” she said lightly, pushing at his forearm.

“Not everything, I’m afraid. Not this.”

“Not what?”

He hid any discomfort behind a neutral expression. “My wings. And I couldn’t show you because… because I had cut them off that morning. Little did I know they would simply grow back.”

She ran her fingers over her lips, thinking. “Do you often struggle with, um. Body modification?”

He gestured to himself. “Why would I need to change this?”

“People change,” she told him.

“Not inside. The outside. I mean,” he chuckled, then gestured down his body with body hands. “Perfection, am I right?”

“Do I have to answer that?”

“Yes. And I’ll even be generous and not count that as a question, considering you only have one remaining.”

She quickly counted her marks. Obstinate, she ticked off two more in his column.

“No,” she agreed. “Your body is very… nice.”

“Nice?” he repeated, astounded. “Nice?”

“I said very nice.”

“Oh, because very nice is so much better.”

She giggled at his outrage, and he relaxed. “Alright. You have eight questions left.” She looked at him through her lashes. “Use them wisely, cause I’ll probably never do this with you again.”

“Do you have any sex toys?”

“Nope,” she answered, making another tick mark. He shook his head, frankly disappointed.

“Have you ever been with a woman?”

“I messed around a little, when I was younger. Nothing serious.”

“If money was no object, where would you like to go? Anywhere in the world,” he added.

“Barcelona,” she answered, and he was surprised at how quickly she responded. “I don’t know. Ever since I was little, I always just liked the name. Always felt drawn toward it. Never found the time to go, I guess.”

“Is this,” he lifted a hand, gesturing to the empty room, “really what you want to do with your life?”

“Be a cop, you mean? I told you before. After my dad died, I just… knew. It feels right. To help people. To put away people who shouldn’t be on the streets.”

“Even if money was no object? Is this truly how you would desire to spend your time?”

She considered it. “Yeah. I mean, I wish I could spend more time with Trixie. I wish the job wasn’t so dangerous. But I know that I can do it. I’m strong enough to, and not everyone is. I guess I feel responsible, like I’m taking the burden off someone else’s shoulders.”

Slowly, his expression melded from one of disbelief to understanding. She wanted to ask why he did this, why he chose to help her, but something in her told her to wait. She only had one question left, after all. She knew he had been wronged, and that this was his way for making up for that. She wouldn’t probably get a straight answer out of him, anyway.

“Do you feel guilty about anything?” he asked.

She lifted a shoulder in a shrug. “I think we all have our fair share.”

“No,” he said desperately, shifting to rest his weight on his elbows, leaning close. “No. Really, truly guilty. About something. Something that weighs your heart down. A moment you repeat, over and over, wishing it could have gone differently, knowing that you are responsible for the consequences of those actions.”

She rested back, shocked at the fear in his eyes. She knew the answer, of course. It sat on her tongue, ready to be freed. “Yes,” she answered. His eyes widened. “For a long time I felt guilty about my dad, knowing that he was where he was only because he was doing something for me.”

Suddenly, he reached across and took her hand in his. “You mustn’t feel any guilt over that. None whatsoever.”

She stared at his hand covering hers, at the black ring that adorned his middle finger. A question sat on her lips – why – but she couldn’t bring herself to ask it.

“Is there anything I can do?” he asked softly. “To lift that burden?”

She huffed out a laugh, willing away the tears forming in the corners of her eyes. “The Devil himself doesn’t want me to go to Hell,” she said, lifting her eyes to his with a small smile.

He returned hers with a smile of his own, one that just barely reached his eyes. “No. He doesn’t.”

She breathed out. He made to pull away, but her thumb running over his stopped him. “I don’t think there’s anything you can do. Unless you want to promise me you’ll come break me out if I wind up there.”

“I would move Heaven and Earth to do so.”

She scooted closer, turning over her hand to hold his. He gazed at her softly.

“Do you believe me?” he asked.

“Yeah,” she admitted, studying their hands. “And that was your last question.”

“You have one left, as I recall.”

Unbidden tears welled in her eyes, and he shook his head, not understanding. “I already know the answer, I think,” she said, a tear trailing down her cheek as she offered him a smile. “But I’m not sure if you do.”

“Seems you should ask it, then.”

“Do you love me?”

In that moment, he understood. He understood why his wings were back, and his scars, gone. His Father had only asked one thing of him. To love humanity. And he never had. Before. When he decided to tell her the truth, he knew. Knew it with more surety than he had ever felt for anything else in his life. She squeezed his hand in his silence.

“I didn’t know that I could love anyone,” he confessed. “And honestly, I never tried. I never understood how someone could mean so much more than anyone else, especially given just how many of you there are, and knowing exactly the depths to which you are capable of sinking. Quite literally. I was always satisfied, but now I find myself wanting…” he trailed off, drawn in by the open sky of her eyes. “To be known. Truly. By you. I know that you think I’m crazy,” he told her hand, brushing off a tear that had fallen there. “And I know that hurts you so. Which I find myself no longer capable of tolerating.”

He let the wings gently unfurl behind him, not meeting her eyes. She squeezed his hand tightly with a sharp, surprised inhale.

“If I have ever loved anything. Anyone,” he said, dragging his eyes up to meet hers. They brimmed with unshed tears, and he watched as she brought her gaze over the wing and back to his. “I have loved you.”

He pulled her hand from atop hers and tucked his wings away. He stood. She stared.

“Samael,” he said, smoothing down the front of his suit jacket. “My name was Samael.”

The door shut quietly behind him, leaving Chloe alone in the silence. She lifted her hand, still warm from his touch, to her mouth to stifle whatever sound threatened to escape.

[mairaiscarrierofthepaperclips]

The 'Eddie Totally Punches Buck In The Face, But It's Not What You Think' fic

This fic has a special place in my heart. I wrote one pivotal scene in a fugue state of about three hours, and then sat with the rest for the next three months trying to figure it out.

Result? This bebe that is absolutely getting a sequel/prequel/concurrent POV fic once I sort out my shit.

Title (and link): take this life and make it yours (take this heart and let it love again)

Author: Maira

Rating: M

Word count: 32k ish

Summary: The one where Buck finally figures things out only for the love of his life to punch him in the face and disavow his existence.

Tag list @idealuk @vronmitchell @marissaleec

[mariaofdoranelle]

Cemetery Buddies

Written for @throneofglassmicrofics, prompt “Petrichor”

So, I wrote this today at the cemetery instead of the chapters I actually have to finish, because it felt too weird to write smut by my grandfather’s grave. I was there the entire afternoon and I kinda conjured this fic on the spot, but I really hope you like it!

Warnings: mentions of death of loved ones, quick mention of death by covid

Words: 888

Aelin’s picnic blanket did a good job of protecting her clothes from the dewy grass, but not from its gentle prickling on the exposed part of her legs. It felt peaceful, though. She got used to the silence, the soft ruffling of leaves and chirping of birds filling her days in the past two years.

Just her and her parents hanging out together, like old times.

The cemetery staff were even kind enough to lend her a beach umbrella in case the rain came back.

A delighted sigh. Don’t you love the smell of petrichor, Mom? Aelin echoed inside her head, because she still thought it was weird to talk to a grave.

She slid her crochet hat over her face and closed her eyes, feeling the nature surrounding her instead of watching this landscape of flowers and white stones she knew so well. Feeling the wind battle against the edges of her blanket and lose it when her weight overpowered its strength. The sunlight peeking from parted post-rain clouds burned in a delicious way the long stretches of skin her overall shorts left exposed.

She lived in Orynth, after all. Aelin and her parents always made a point to make the most out of summer, for however long this freezing city and its climatic crisis allowed them to.

“You okay there?”

Aelin lifted her hat from her face enough to take a peek into the outside world, but she didn’t need it to know it was her cemetery buddy.

Fully sat on the blanket now, she eyed the Heineken six-pack on Rowan’s hand with a smirk.

“Better now that you brought the good shit.”

He gave her a close-lipped smile and unfolded the two chairs provided at the entrance by the staff, since Mr. Fancy Pants preferred it over lying on the grass like Aelin.

To an outside observer, the difference between them is striking. Rowan in his dark suit and tie, brooding with that permanent scowl on his face; right by his side, Aelin’s in denim overall shorts, red top and crochet hat, being her usual fun, dazzling self.

Both hanging out together, sharing beer by their loved ones’ graves. What made them good friends wasn’t their differences, but how similarly they were miserable.

“So.” She cleared her throat and eyed the six-pack. “I guess things didn’t go the way you wanted at work?”

“Lorcan—“

She tilted her head, brows furrowed in confusion.

“The boss’ kiss-ass,” he explained.

“Oh, that guy.” Aelin said with a grimace. She did not like this Lorcan person, even if he had a friendship of sorts with Rowan. “Tell me what he did this time.”

Today, she was loosened up enough by the weather and the beer, and it happened that Rowan was also a little chatty as well. Sometimes they silently sit side by side. Sometimes Aelin doesn’t sit, she kneels on the grass and hums ancient Terrasenian laments, which her buddy raptly listens to. Sometimes Rowan starts venting about his lack of ability to keep his deceased wife’s garden, leaves for the bathroom and comes back with red-rimmed eyes.

It’s getting progressively less dramatic, though. During the majority of the last few months, they’ve been just talking and sharing snacks.

His wife and Aelin’s dad died of COVID at approximately the same time, four years ago—hence why their graves are so close together. Her mom ended up sharing a grave with her husband a while after, but Aelin and Rowan didn’t cross paths at the cemetery until a year and a half ago, when their respective visiting habits finally overlapped.

And at some point during visits to their loved ones’ graves concurrently, they slowly forged a friendship—emphasis on the slow part, and no thanks to Rowan’s closed-off personality.

However, their conversation was cut short when an employee signaled that they were nearing closing time.

“So…” Aelin let out a performative sigh to chase away the awkwardness of goodbye. “Same time next week?”

Instead of answering, Rowan pointed his phone at her face, squinted at the screen for several seconds, then retreated the device.

Aelin tilted her head. Care to explain? she silently asked.

Rowan had a soft smile while he studied whatever was on his screen, for a longer time than expected, then jutted his chin towards her face. “I’m sending my mom a picture.”

During one of the rare occasions Rowan’s mom visited Lyria’s grave with her son, they found Aelin alone under a merciless sun. The older woman was scandalized. She made Aelin stay under her umbrella, forced Rowan to walk the long stretch back to the reception and get another one with the staff, and in the meantime very surreptitiously asked Aelin what her favorite color was.

With a soft chuckle, she took off her crocheted red hat with white daisy patches, handmade especially for her. “Did you tell her how much I love it?”

“Only after the first few times you told me to. The woman’s already too smug.”

“As she should be!”

Aelin still hadn’t got used to it, the sound of Rowan’s laugh. Maybe he was different outside of the cemetery—she wouldn’t know—but now he had a lightness of sorts that showed itself more and more frequently as the days passed, and she could only be happy to witness this change in him.

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[kerryweaverlesbian]

Hey I read your Becky/Ambriel foc recently and was wondering how you go about writing the voices of characters who aren't in shows a lot. I feel Becky does have a distinct voice (which you nailed) but for Ambriel (and other characters you have written) did you just watch over her scenes or do you just go for it?

Like there's fandoms I've been in for 2 years and I wouldn't feel able to wrote the main characters' voices right.

Like ultimately when it comes to femslash (and all fic but especially femslash) it's better to write it bad than not at all but I would still appreciate knowing how you go about if that's okay to ask

I love talking about the writing process!! This got long and it's a big scattered mess of thoughts <3 it's hard to pin down a process because all of these thoughts and the actual writing of the piece happen concurrently so, chicken, egg, you know.

First of all, worrying about voice should really be an editing job, not a "writing the first draft" concern, in my opinion. Dean can sound like "good lord, why, is that my old chum Castiel? I do believe it is! Come, come, old chap, let us break burgers together and I shall tell thee of my frankly untenable week" and Cas can reply "bet" and you can put in square brackets [FIX THIS] and keep on trucking. I know this is hard to do. I too will pause on tricky sentences. Square brackets are my best friend. [Add Dean-ism] [insert joke] [reference that means "uh oh!]. But! To actually answer!

A particular character's voice is (unforch) something you can only fully develop through writing more of them and figuring out who they are to you. I used to be very stilted trying to figure out Cas’s voice, and then I wrote a lot of him and read a lot of other people's thoughts about him and thought about his actions in canon and now he's the easiest person for me to write!

What's more important than the surface level character-isms, is that they have depth and are consistent. Does the content of what they're saying make sense with the life they've led. Like, I don't think that my take on Meg really sounds all that much like canon Meg for example. But she is consistent within the fics I put her in, and shares enough snark with canon Meg that it works, AND she has motivations, reactions and ideas that are different to the other characters in the fic. It's like a cheat code, if two characters have different reactions to one event, that makes it come off like they have different voices.

Some other cheat codes: have one of them make a ton of references, and the other speak plainly (dean and sam core! but you can do that for most duos); have them make references to different things (tv vs classic literature, sci-fi vs fantasy); have one of them tell sillyjokes and the other tell dry jokes (destiel core...). Contrasts makes characters seem more separate.

For voice, I'll only rewatch if I don't remember how they said anything at all or if I remember they had a particularly distinctive way of speaking. If I needed to put Gabriel in a scene, I'd probably watch his episodes again. I've found if I do watch an episode to remind myself it can psyche me out of actually writing anything for them—Ava for example, I'm intimidating myself out of writing her at the moment lol.

For establishing a (deeper) character, you first need the basics:

Ambriel, helpfully, fits some basic tropes. Office worker. Apathetic. Angel in the vein of Castiel, Hannah and Anna (which is to say, autistic). I have a LOT of practice writing Castiel, and Ambriel is like Castiel didn't have his drive to help people or love of humanity. She is therefore: straightforward (angel), mildly bored (office worker) and her biggest want is for nothing to change for her (apathetic).

It's then how you build on the collection of tropes that makes them a Character. You figure out how to explain some of the above traits/situations they're in. What is her history? (She went to earth and didn't like it) Who is around her? (Kaisiel, whom she resists making a real connection with due to her apathy) Why is she apathetic? (It's repressed fear of punishment).

Something that really, really helps with unique characterisation for me is a little silly. Give them a niche interest. Something not mentioned in the source material at all, or is only briefly mentioned. Castiel is into the same sitcoms as me (and taxidermy). Ambriel is into data storage. Ava is into collecting small furniture.

And then go, why are they into this?

Castiel bc he loves to experience hunanity at a safe distance (and he likes to rummage).

Ambriel because it's within the scope of her job so is 'safe', which she takes pride in (and which I advanced from "pushing a button" because I thought that was stupid and bad world building 💙).

Ava wants to feel a sense of control in a world that is very much out of her control.

This not only gives you better insight into them as a character, it also makes them YOURS. that's not the cw's Ambriel, that's mine, she's into data storage, so it doesn't matter if she's off-model because no one will know, because she's mine.

As with Castiel's love of tv, you can also do this with canon interests, just hone in on specifically what it is and specifically why they like it. Dean doesn't like "music" he likes rock because it makes him feel powerful and affirms his masculinity and has a connection to his family being together. Charlie doesn't like "fantasy" she likes Lord Of The Rings and The Wizard of Oz because she values escapism and rooting for the little guy (these are also interests of Sam's!).

Plus - making it more niche and specific makes it SEEM like they have this rich inner life and history even if you don't bother to figure out why.

1) "Geraldine sighed and took the dog for a walk" vs

2) "Geraldine sighed, saved her game and took the dog for a walk" vs

3) "Geraldine sighed, saved her game of Pokemon Mystery Dungeon X, and took the dog for a walk."

Now!! Actually! 2 and 3 are where "voice" can come in. Is the POV character someone who doesn't care or know much about video games? Then 2 is the one for them. Does the POV character care a lot about being accurate, know Geraldine well enough to know what she's playing, and/or are knowledgeable about video games? Option 3! Or, bonus option 4, perhaps they're disdainful of video games/annoyed with Geraldine: "Geraldine sighed, saved her little game with the pretend animals, and finally took our very real and very whiny dog for a walk".

So!! We have a character. How do we make her distinct from the other characters in the fic? Build them concurrently!

Ambriel is apathetic about community THEREFORE Becky is desperate for it (and can't hold onto it). Becky is over-verbose, so Ambriel keeps it short (and is misunderstood as a result). Ambriel believes deep down that she doesn't matter, so Becky deep down believes that she (both herself and Ambriel) is special and important and deserves worship.

So. I think you were expecting this but. think about their motivations and then just start writing them and it'll work out.

okay I gotta go make dinner. does this help???? MWAH

[boasamishipper]

I can't remember the fic title atm but the very first top gun/captain marvel au with the snap? #2 for the ask game!

for there's a raging fire in my heart tonight:

2) What scene did you first put down?

Ice and Mav's reunion after the Snap is reversed, which I wrote (I think) concurrently with Ice accidentally running into Mav in 1986. After that the rest of the fic was written in chronological order.

ask me a question about my fics!

[hxlda-hxlda]

snippet! tagged by my darling @fiddleleafedfig <3

“Alright Loony–”

“Fuck you, Crouch.”

“Lupin, darling,” Barty drawls, tongue curling along his teeth, “don’t threaten me with a good time.”

Remus catches the sound of Sirius huffing an irritated scoff.

“Fuck, marry, kill,” Barty goes on with a hum, surveying the room in what can only be a sign of trouble. Remus prepares himself for the worst. “Potter, Pettigrew and,” he stretches the syllable out, “Black.”

Regulus punches Crouch in the arm, hard enough for him to cry ‘Oi!’.

“They’re already at each other’s throats as it is, you idiot,” Regulus hisses.

“It’s an innocent question!”

“Remus, you don’t have to–”

“No, no, it’s fine.”

Remus clenches the beer resting on his thigh, deciding to drain it in one long gulp; weighing his options. He feels bad, almost, for the way James has been fidgeting uncomfortably for the last thirty minutes - something that has only increased since the game began. For Lily’s grim look that shows she thinks there are much better ways to spend their limited time.

Not, however, for the way Sirius glares pointedly at him. No, Remus relishes that part, actually.

“Fuck James,” he says.

Remus’ eyes flick over to him but James hardly acknowledges Remus, staring down into his own beer.

Evan raises his drink in apparent concurrence.

Remus scans the rest of the circle before coming back to look at Sirius Sirius. Always fucking looking at Sirius. Well, it pays off this time, when he catches the slightest of flinches after annoucning:

“Marry Peter.”

A cackle of laughter that can only be Barty. Remus can feel Regulus’ own glare now. He’s being purposefully bitter, petty, whichever other synonym you might enjoy putting here. If only he cared.

“And kill Black.”

The game continues, must do, but Remus cannot make out the jumble of words. Not with the deafening way Sirius is still, silent, angry – so, so angry. Remus can hear it in the pump of his heart, a beat he would recognise anywhere. He told them he’d forgotten it (he was lying).

It becomes a staring contest then, in a way. Unwavering, steely grey eyes. Those fucking grey eyes.

They used to do this, Sirius and Remus, Padfoot and Moony.

Slum dogs in the depths of a darkened alleyway. Fierce, as though in a stand-off, they growl over the last bone. The meat is already rotted, but what else do they have?

“Just gotta let him know he’s boss, that’s all the big puppy wants. I just roll over, show him my tummy and voilà, there you have it. No need for a big fuss. Besides, Moony always remembers me.”

“I’m impressed you can handle that. You hate not being the one in charge.”

“Yeah, well, I always make the exceptions for you. Don’t I, Moons?”

Sirius snatches his eyes away first, to his lap, to James, briefly at Regulus. It breaks whatever spell that held them both there. Conversation resumes, time resumes, it could have never happened in the first place.

“I’ll fucking kill you, Black.”

“You know what, Remus? I finally fucking believe that.”

open tag to anyone who wants to share a snippet!! i have hardly been writing while overseas, so here is something i wrote quite a few months ago (and am still rather fond of). it’s from the death eater remus fic, if you’re curious!!

[dont-offend-the-bees]

Hi it’s Quill! ❤️ For the End-of-year Director’s Cut, do you have anything to share about your fic Outside Looking In? 😘

Helllloooo my friend 💛 Thank you so much!!! 😊

Outside Looking In was basically I think first fic idea I had for DBDA? (Or maybe that was the pet name fic I still haven't finished/posted... they happened more or less concurrently!) But from the moment I saw Charles and Edwin's disguises I was so charmed by them, and realising that the disguises make them visible to the living just opened up so many possibilities!

It's been long enough since I wrote this fic that idk if I can remember anything in particular about the writing process that feels 'fun fact'-y, apart from that I spent an UNGODLY long time on the very very end of it. I was trying to find the balance where the little parting joke felt like a fun, well-intentioned, supportive nod towards Edwin's gender nonconformity and the fact that him being in female guise doesn't necessarily negate his queerness and turn him into a 'straight' women to an outsider, while trying not to turn it into a clumsy moment of accidental transphobia! Big supporter of a wide range of Edwin headcanons from the widely accepted 'that's a gay little man' to the transfemme and NB headcanons, but from my own personal gay transmasc perspective I just despise being read as Not Queer (unless it's like, an actively unsafe situation ofc) so my little gift of affirmation to Edwin was in making sure that he and Charles could go out on the town in their older, unassuming, 'passing' disguises and someone with the eyes to see would still be like 🤨🌈❓ I love the idea of that being a positive goal in Edwin's self-acceptance arc; that he goes from being afraid of being read as queer because of what's happened to him for it before, to being so proud and unashamed of it that not even the female disguise he might've originally chosen BECAUSE it deflects attention away from his more feminine traits is entirely removed from his very queer way of acting and presenting.

The other thing which isn't a fun fact about the writing process and more of an up-to-date self critique is that I wrote this when I'd had these characters like 3 weeks, and looking back on it now I'm surprised how well it holds up! BUT, if I wrote it again now, I probably wouldn't have the nickname moment of Charles calling Edwin 'Eds'. These days I don't really buy into them calling each other shortened nicknames like that, except maybe in certain AUs -- I think my most recent use of it was in one of my Alive AU fics, but it feels more natural to me there when they grew up together a bit in the same relatively modern, informal school culture! Canon Edwin and Charles pour so much love into each other's full names they don't need cute abbreviations or petnames. (I think we might start hearing the odd love, darling, dear etc. if they start dating, but Charles' chief petname is still just mate (romantic))

[signaturedish]

Dude. I just re-read PA for the 4th time, and dang! I love it unreasonably lots!! You have SKILLS making me adore ypur whole cast of characters! I was wondering, if you aren't already planning to continue in the future, how did you see this story going, and ending? Selfishly, I hope it turns out Everything Is Good, Nothing Hurts at curtains, but what delights and terrors did you have smuggled up your sleeves?? Great work, and thanks for the beautiful masterpiece of a fic!

I got this ask a while ago and I really thought about. I wasn’t sure where I wanted to go with PA until this year. I still really like what I wrote and I love you guys, but as of 2024 it’s safe to say it’s officially abandoned and I no longer plan to finish it.

As for where I was planning to take PA, of course I planned for a happy ending! I wasn’t half as vicious as some of the people who interacted with this blog lmao. PA was a tortilla chip for hurt/comfort fluff first and foremost!

The plan was bb-Harry hot potato. Raids and swaps and hostages while humans watched in horrified silence as these killer robots invading the planet seemed more occupied with capture-the-flag chrome edition than alien takeover.

Concretely, there was going to be a resolution to that whole growing-up thing. Decepticons were gonna cobble together a second frame for him via human raids (think OG cartoon and all the random raids to acquire resources) and finally conclude they might need a doctor to fine tune it.

Cue Ratchet who’s been trying to get conveniently isolated and captured for weeks atp getting captured (thank god). Harry would get a sick new form- which was more in-tune with regular seekers. Upturned wings, greater independence, durability, etc.

He’d get some fledgling flying lessons, there was going to be a concurrently running subplot about Starscream plotting to use bb harry as a hostage/king’s crown and delivering him to The Fallen for evil nefarious purposes. But of course melting at the last minute and dying to get Harry out of there.

Then being resurrected with the cube, etc etc happy endings because that’s my jam.

The big bad was going to be The Fallen who is Not Cool about this kid who

A. Is not one of the hatchling drones he’s been sinking millions into in order to win over desperate robots as the last option to keep from going extinct.

B. Is in possession of the allspark in such a manner that he can’t just grab it in the dark of night.

Eventually spurring decepticons and Autobots to take him out together as the final conflict. Probably after he successfully captured and almost murdered Harry. I was thinking about having him switch from using Decepticons after Starscream’s double cross and using humans and reincorporating those scientists.

They sneak in while the Autobots and deceptions are on high alert for EACH OTHER, and get their test subject back with the help of a powerful backer they don’t know much about.

Harry would get that one-two punch of being back in the lab, we can have some closure over those scientists and they can rough him up. Then deliver him to the Fallen.

From there, it could’ve gone a couple of ways. Harry, empowered, finding a way to hurt the Fallen with the allspark, maybe getting killed and resurrected, maybe regular old sabotage and halfway failed escape before a rescue in the darkest hour…. I wasn’t sure what tone I wanted for the climax….I was leaning on putting him death’s door and everyone needing to work together to get him out and keep him alive.

In the process of taking on the fallen and getting their baby back, Autobots and decepticons forge a very tenuous peace treaty in the name of Not Almost Getting Their Kid Killed Like That One Time With The Fallen Ever Again.

Somewhere in there we were gonna get second and third wave Autobot and deceptions refugees hitting the earth and Harry was going to find out he could use the allspark to bring more kids to life.

But yeah, post epilogue characters were going to end somewhere along the lines of-

Harry on his way to robot teenage-dom, strong enough and with enough resources that he no longer needs the allspark to live. He figures out how to remove it, but its decided that he should keep it.

Megatron and Optimus, now the most passive aggressive reluctant exes sharing custody of their kid you have ever seen at a PTA meeting.

Ratchet, dealing with his trauma via the deeply healing experience of seeing a pack of healthy kids out in the universe again. Eventually he might have one of his own, tho that wasn’t concrete.

Bumblebee and Starscream become big brothers of vastly different fonts.

Bumblebee is the one adored by all the little kiddies, ready to help with pranks and jokes. Starscream is the one worshipped fearfully from afar. Kids don’t act out in his presence, they act LIKE him and then furiously deny that they were mimicking him at all.

Arcee isn’t that invested in all honesty. Jazz and Ironhide are cool uncles. For basically everyone else I become Oprah- YOU get a kid, and YOU get a kid, etc.

There was going to be an explosion in the UK that no one pursues super seriously. We think it’s a robot stirring up trouble but nothing really becomes of it. Just Wizard World having A Time ™ and Voldemort and Dumbledore speed-running the series off screen.

In a very broad, probably embarrassingly hand-waved manner, they were also going to negotiate their way into owning land for their colony. No longer dwindling refugees, now an infant nation state slowly incorporating themselves politically as a technological power, trading for old relics and refined energy sources.

These were my rough outlines and ideas, which were nowhere near set in stone. So if you prefer a different end or would’ve liked something else to be included, by all means continue with that ending! That’s just what I had planned way back when, and I hope it doesn’t sound like total nonsense lol!!

[jonathanrook]

whoopsie got distracted from my main fic to work on another one this can only end well

[whalefairyfandom12]

Plagiarism is pathetic, disgusting, and cruel. No one creates fandom content for money. We do it out of passion and love. To pervert the spirit of fandom for the sake of clout is utterly shameful and shows a complete lack of integrity. This entire work is created from stolen ideas by another writer.

The authors’ notes claim it’s inspired by diligentcranberry’s art. In cranberry’s own words, in a message to the original creator, from July 24th:

[We] “Will be posting a fic loosely based on my artwork for your Slave AU prompt.”

The initial art was posted on April 9th, 2:27 pm ET. Cranberry wrote alongside it:

“I’ve added a few elements (cane, keys, matching necklaces) to the WIP because you’ve all rotted my brain.”

Slave!AU was created as a concept on April 9th, and being discussed concurrently with the modification of the art. Everyone involved has read the original fic and been active commenters.

Other similarities include:

Ominis as a Mægister/Margrave, who as a Gaunt is in charge of the MC/female sex slave. He is addressed by that title (not his name) as a moniker of respect.

Sebastian as his subordinate/Handler, who exists a level above MC but below Ominis

MC’s memory being erased

MC being called a ‘thing’ and not having a name

Squibs becoming sex slaves to pureblooded families

The original writer is mostly blind and extremely self-conscious about her writing. She expressed her discomfort during the conversation in July and was ignored. She is also blocked and can’t comment requesting the fic be taken down.

I am aware there are a number of rumors circulating about me. I’m happy to clear anything up with proof/receipts. Regardless of anyone’s history, I believe in treating people with respect. I have kept my mouth shut throughout this entire affair but this crosses a line. To steal another person’s work is cruel and beyond disrespectful. You should be ashamed of yourselves, especially as creatives.

Please do not harass or brigade any of the creators mentioned. No one deserves to be bullied. I merely want to ensure the original author (clockworksiren) is rightfully credited and to caution others to be careful.

[pebblysand]

I have a question, how did you manage writing a long-fic in a different language? I'm not a native English speaker so I get a little self conscious with my english writing

hi anon! aw, thanks for this question. lots of hugs to you ❤️🫂.

i think generally, i'm not necessarily the right person to ask this to. i'm very lucky/privileged that i learnt english at a very young age (i was in international school in primary school), which tremendously helped. i'm not sure i'd be where i am with my english now, had i not learnt it from the age of 8/9 years old.

i started writing when i was 12/13. at the beginning, i wrote in french, but i quickly switched to english around 14/15. i think at the time, my english was good (much better than that of other kids my age) but i wasn't fluent. it was definitely hard(er) to write for me in english, but my main motivation was that my mother did not speak it, so i could write on the family computer without her being able to read what i was writing 😅. a very good reason to make an effort, haha!

obviously, at the time, the quality of what i was writing left a lot to be desired (lol), which was partially because i was so young, but also partially because i still made a lot of grammatical mistakes, etc. you talk about self-consciousness - i think that's so much easier to get over when you're young and fearless, and posting your (relatively) shit fics on the internet - much harder if you're starting out as an adult. i think this is the case for writing overall, but being young and a reckless teenager who doesn't give a fuck, helps so much with the anxiety. as an adult, you question yourself a lot more. so again, that was something i had going for me.

that said, i actually think writing in english did amazing things for my english in general. a little like reading: it extended my vocabulary, made me more familiar with the way english-language fiction was written, with punctuation, etc. in a couple of years, i went from being "good at a foreign language" to being pretty much fluent. this was also because concurrently, i was reading in english a lot, watching a lot of english-language media, etc. i don't think it was just the writing, but it definitely contributed. i'm not exactly sure how quickly my confidence improved, but i do remember that when i was sixteen, my english teacher assigned us to (basically) write fanfiction (i.e. continue a short story we'd read in class as a writing exercise) - she asked for a 1 pager and i gave her 10, which means that by then, i was already confident enough in my writing in english to produce that. i remember she really liked it, and said i wrote well (i suppose, again, for my age), so i think by that age, i was already comfortable enough to draft something good in english.

i think the other turning point was also when i moved to another english-speaking country. i moved to ireland when i was 19 and i think that really boosted my confidence and my english-writing tremendously too. i know this is an awfully privileged thing to say but honestly, the advantages you get from living in an english-speaking country in terms of writing as an ESL speaker are impossible to get another way. the way people speak in tv shows and media in general is actually rather sanitised and stilted. i'm sure even in your language, you probably see that too: the dialogue in films/tv is always more polished than the way real people talk. so based on media alone, it's very hard to write in english and replicate reality. and i think the issue is, even if you have english-speaking friends in your country, chances are you guys speak a sort of "international english" together, which IMO is a dialect in itself (the dialect that i personally speak), but it isn't really the way native people speak.

all of this to say that i am literally littered with various privileges and advantages that make it easier for me to write in english. i learnt it early, i learnt to write in it early and at an age where shame isn't really a concern, and i've been living in english-speaking countries for most of my adult life. all of these factors combined make it easier for me to write in english than it is for most ESL speakers.

having said that, i obviously still struggle sometimes. for example, i cannot choose the right preposition to save my LIFE 🤣. you cannot imagine the number of drafts i have where it's like: "is it look at his feet? look to his feet?" "is it: in Hogwarts? at Hogwarts?" etc. i also struggle with dialect. being in an irish environment but writing british english can be a bit confusing sometimes, and obviously within these countries, there are a lot of internal dialects, and that's not even mentioning the US, Canada, etc.

i think the advice i would still have is probably 1) to acknowledge that you will never be perfect/as good as a native speaker. i know this might sound discouraging at first glance, but actually, i find it quite freeing. because you don't have to be perfect. you don't have to be something you're not. because 2) you have a lot of other things to bring to the table. like, yes, your grammar might not always be perfect and your dialogue might be a bit off, but you also have a whole other culture and language, and vision of the world to bring to your writing. ultimately, that's invaluable too. the grammar and dialect stuff are both things that are super easily fixable by getting a beta if you can. also things like grammarly and other such tools can help tremendously. but your background and the richness of your experiences as someone who speaks multiple languages does massively more than compensate. it's not something you have to be ashamed of, it's something to be celebrated! it's something that will make your writing richer with a different vision of life, a world of metaphors, and a world of characters native english speakers would kill for.

and, also, remember that many accomplished writers (many of the Greats) wrote in their second languages. just off the top of my head: Jack Kerouac, one of the most celebrated american writers of the 20th century, spoke french as a first language, but wrote in english. samuel beckett was irish, but wrote in french. hell, there's a whole wikipedia page full of names here! you are definitely not alone!!

lastly, i think, be proud of yourself! be proud of what you've accomplished so far. celebrate your fics and your wins. you speak and write in two language: how amazing! you're not lacking, you're thriving. like, for my part, i'm insanely proud of having not only finished a 400,000 words fic, i did it in a foreign language! people forget that. i forget that sometimes. i try to remember that it's a fucking FEAT, even if my prepositions are always a bit off, haha! ❤️

and, i'm also linking this here below but myself and @venom0usbarbie recorded a podcast episode a while back about writing in ESL, that might be useful/helpful to you! ❤️

[rainbowstargazerlilies]

Time for a new pinned post!

Hi, everyone, this is Becca or Ori! Those in the Mechs fandom might know me for my Mechs and TMA themed knit dolls (all tagged "#stargazer's four inch friends"), or the TMA and Mechs fics I write (see below). I'm in my early twenties, am currently a graduate student in psych-related fields, and live in the eastern time zone.

If you're interested in my fics, promo for that under the cut. Otherwise, enjoy the chaos!

Why should you read what I mentally call the booty shorts saga, actually known as "The Semi-Annual Non-Denominational Winter Holiday Gift Swap"?

Have you ever wondered what gift swaps might look like in the Magnus Institute?

Do you need to imagine Certain Characters (Jon) receiving so many pairs of booty shorts?

This sticks close to canon, so. . . do you want a story about booty shorts and nonsense to suddenly give you So Many Feels?

This is a collaboration between the amazing @ladydragonkiller and myself, and it was our first foray into writing and posting fanfic. I love it. Go read LadyDragonKiller's other stuff if you're a Mechs fan.

Why should you read The Stars Claim Them?

I started this series with imagining Lyfrassir Edda surviving the Bifrost Incident, and then ending up at the Magnus Institute, so it is a TMA/Mechs crossover.

I've been consistently posting for over a year. Two years as of this March, and I am so excited for that :) Currently, we're nearly 100,000 words in and going, posting right now is concurrent with TMA season 2, and I've had so much fun.

This is the fic where I stare canon in the eye, say "coward", and save every single character I can manage.

Be prepared for a very slow burn indeed, but the Violinspector element is certainly Very Much There.

We've had road trips, heists, blood snakes, rubber ducks, far too many Michaels, and more. I did a whole Peter Pan arc. It's nonsensical and amazing and I love it.

We've got a discord, where we have Very Normal Conversations about the fic, the Mechs, the Magnus Archives, and more. If you like the fic series, you're more than welcome to join!

If you enjoyed LadyDragonKiller's Raphaella backstory, I have some Easter egg references to it scattered throughout, because we brainstorm together. I consider it canon to this series, as far as that goes, and I have fun planting those :)

Why should you read anything from Corner of Dreams?

Those were oneshots I wrote last year as a part of a challenge to myself!

The first one is the angstiest Toy Soldier thing I could manage without crying. Have fun! Bring tissues!

The second is a fun little Violinspector thing that I really enjoyed writing. It just amused me so much to think about. And that ending. . . I like to think it ended happily, but there's no guarantee, is there?

The third is a Brian/Galahad oneshot. It could go so many different directions after the ending, most of which would absolutely change up canon. I like to think it wouldn't end sadly. Probably.

If there's enough enjoyment of these, there's two more I might add one day, based on Alice and on Gunpowder Tim vs the Moon Kaiser.

Also, if you're trying to get a taste of what I've written, one of these is probably a lot easier to start with than TSCT. These are each under 5,000 words.

Why should you read I Got You, Babe?

It's now several chapters in and we already have the start of some fun stuff going on. We've got Violinspector angst, Nastya doing interesting stuff post-Out. . . Why wouldn't you?

Also, I'm having far too much fun whenever I get the time to write on it. It's going to be interesting. I can't wait to share more.

[g0nta-g0kuhara]

Hey! You!

Your Gonta post game headcanons! Now! /nf

POST GAME HCS... Let me see...

I always get hung up on talking about this kind of thing cause there's so many little details for how post game might work that alter how I think characters might deal with things that its kinda hard to nail down. But there is some general stuff that stays the same.

I think Gonta's desire to be useful would not have changed with his death. He's probably just as eager as before to help anyone who needs him. I headcanon that he's one of the first ones back on their feet after waking up from the simulation (just because he was physically very very fit before) so he tries to dote on anyone who lets him.

Gonta isn't the kind of person to avoid someone because he feels guilty or awkward. He would Immediately try to find Miu and apologize profusely, crying and all. Im not sure how she would react to all this... I've seen some people say she would be hesitant around him or flat out reject any of his apologies, and some say that she wouldn't blame him much and instead put most of it on Kokichi. Regardless, I don't think they'd be close post-game.

Now this depends on if they all woke up together or woke up concurrently and watched the game as it continued without them. In my headcanon, they woke up all together. In which case, Gonta would not hate Kokichi. Based on their last interactions before his death, Gonta would probably feel closer to him than ever. But (as I kinda got into in the fic I wrote) I don't think Kokichi could stand being around him At All after everything. I think after baring himself a bit in ch5 he would wall himself off completely. And that means cutting Gonta off. I think Kokichi would lash out and say whatever cruel things he would need to to get him to stay away from him. Which of course would really hurt and confuse Gonta, especially having never seen the ch4 post-execution.

I've talked about it before but I also don't really think Gonta wouldn't have many places to go when it comes to joining the others? My post-game friend groups (read: lunch groups) kind of look like this:

•Shuichi, Maki, Kaede, Kaito •Himiko, Tenko, Angie (wary truce between tenko and angie) •Miu, Kiibo (who wanders a bit) •Kirumi, Rantaro (also wanders, especially to shuichi's group), Ryoma (also wanders) •Korekiyo (solo) •Kokichi (largely absent) •Tsumugi (SOMEWHERE ELSE)

Gonta could join almost any of these groups and be welcomed with open arms, but it really doesn't feel to me like he fits neatly into one consistently. The groups that exist are tight, and despite being close with one or two of their members he's not like. explicitly invited I feel. If Gonta didn't show up, no one would really question it.

Post-game Korekiyo... is complicated. If he wasn't actually a serial killer, then I think him and Gonta could hang out a bit. But Kiyo has always preferred to be an outside observer who appreciates his alone time, and Gonta would respect that.

Basically, I just feel Like Gonta would be pretty lonely postgame. The major threat of the killing game (that he can face with his physical strength) is gone, so he would really struggle to find his place in the group. It would probably worsen his pre-kg and post-kg related self esteem problems.

One last thing: I like to think that Gonta still doesn't remember the virtual world, but a strong trigger could cause the memories to come back. For angst purposes, of course. Regardless, he would have a complicated relationship with the snow. I think he would just feel this inexplicable sense of dread at the sight of it.