🙈🙈🙈🙈🙈

When reading fanfic keep in mind that for professional literature: 

Short story: under 7,500

Novelette: between 7,500 and 17,500

Novella: between 17,500 and 40,000

Novel: over 40,000

Fics over 40k are literally a novel written and shared for free.  If you have written a 40k+ fic, you have literally written a novel.

Mods? Take him to the stump of his favorite childhood tree.

Hi! I'm a huge fan of your Bleeding Hearts AU (sidenote: I'm doing my best to trust the author but GOOD GODS CHAPTER 29), and I was wondering: would it be cool if I wrote a one-off story set in the universe focused on Summer, Tai, and Raven when they were younger. No pressure at all if you'd rather I didn't, it's just for a thing where I'm planning on writing and releasing a story every few days for pride, and the concept for them is one of my favorite ideas in the bunch (if you wanna know what that is before you say yay or nay, just let me know).

HI! :D

First of all, thank you for the kind words. :3 Chapter 30 is half done and I'm working on it every single day! Not much longer, promise!

Secondly, well, as long as you use the "Inspired By-" feature on AO3 so that it's linked back to the original fic, go absolutely wild! I'd be very flattered! :D

I love the STR dynamic too, and I would have explored it far far more, but there was already so much other stuff going on and it began to feel packed.

So feel free! And thank you kindly for checking beforehand! <3

purge of 2002? of 2012? what ARE those?

Oh, how quickly the past is forgotten. 

They are part of the reason A03 is a thing now. Not the whole reason, but part of it. 

The Great Purges of 2002 and 2012 are when ff.net got a wild hair up their ass about THINK OF THE CHILDREN and nuked any fic posted on there that was explicit. Thousands upon thousands of nc-17 smutfics were lost.

It’s what led to the creation of alternate hosting sites for smutty fic…AdultFanfiction was the one I went to…but thousands of fics would never be recovered. 

???

lovely story from a friend today.

Your sister who you love so much (even though you’ve never shown it) asks you to be her sister again, her true sister, in deed not just in name. And yes, of course that’s what you want. That’s what you’ve always wanted and now that she’s shattered your defenses and destroyed the ones who would pit you against each other and died right before your eyes, how could you refuse? How could your answer be anything but yes?

So you go home with her, not the ruins of your perfectly posh prison, but a new home which provides love and care and bunk beds and it’s so so nice. Ridiculously nice. Sickeningly nice. And a small, sick part of you almost misses your old home (if you can even call it a home) because yes, it was cruel and awful and you hated every second of it but you knew where you fit. You knew what your role was. You don’t fit in here. Everyone accepts you because they’re all so nice, but they don’t know how to volley back your sharp words or find a hidden, “I love you” within an offhanded insult. 

And then your sister leaves to save the world again because that’s who she is. She’s the kind of person who goes out to save the world with her friends when she’s needed and you’re not. You’re not, not, not. Not on any count. You don’t save things, you destroy them. And friends? You have to allow yourself to be vulnerable for friends so of course that’s out. Your sister is 16 and she’s out saving the world for the third time and you, fully grown at 18, are a wanted criminal who hasn’t even properly graduated from high school. You can’t stop thinking about it and, without your sister and her friends occupying the house as a buffer, the ones who are left try to get you to talk about it so you make a rash decision, as you are wont to do. You leave, like a thief in the night. You can make your own way. You can. You’ll prove it.

You find a shitty apartment and pay for it with the ill-gotten spoils from one of your many exploits. You could probably pawn some treasure for more luxurious  accommodations–there is that chest of rubies just lying around–but you don’t. That’s not what you deserve. And what if your sister needs help later? You don’t have access to your parental funds anymore which means she doesn’t either. You know she won’t ask anyone for help–you wouldn’t. But someone has to look after her. You’re an abjuration wizard. You protect people. You protect her. No, that’s a lie. But you want to make it not a lie. You want to start now.

If you’re saving the rubies then you need a source of income. You narrow down your least villainous talents to try and find a suitable job and hit on teacher. You’re good at magic, right? So how hard can teaching it be? Hopefully not as hard as securing the job, which proves trickier than expected because, oh right, you’re a wanted criminal who hasn’t graduated high school. But you dip into your villainous talents once more and tell yourself it’s for a good cause. You secure the job. You’re doing it. You’re making your own way. 

You want to text your sister to see if she’s doing alright but you don’t want to intrude and you don’t want to answer any questions about what you’ve been doing because then either you’ll have to lie or explain that you’ve left again, right after you promised you’d be there. Both options make your heart ache, especially since it’s her birthday. So you wait until the house is empty (mostly empty–you’re never really alone in a haunted house) and enter the room you and your sister shared for too brief a time. You paint her walls with carefully rendered runes, filled with all your abjuration magic and stamped with your arcane mark. It’s a possessive bit of spellcraft. A selfish claiming of a climactic kill. You mean to make a different kind of claim. You are claiming your sister, as she asked you to months ago. You are telling the world that she will not be fucked with while you live. Your rooms were so close before. You could hear her. You knew every night she went to bed in the grips of a panic attack with no one to console her. She won’t have to feel unsafe in her own room again. You can make sure of that at least. 

The sun rises one morning and you know that means your sister is alive and well and coming home. You teleport to Falinel to make sure she returns to her favorite dessert. It’s worth the spell slot and the chance of being recognized. The tower where they kept you is long destroyed and you know that this time, if you were ever captured or even killed, rescue wouldn’t be measured in a matter of months. It would be days. Hours even if your clever sister and her powerful divination magic put things together faster. The thought fills you with more emotion than you know what to do with. You leave a note. “I love you,” you think. “Enjoy the nemesis ward,” you write. 

Practicing magic, as it turns out, is a very different skill than teaching magic. The children are loud and obnoxious and you don’t quite realize that maybe your expectations are too high between the hothouse you grew up in and your sister being the world’s greatest diviner, fullstop. You know you can always go back to the manor, but that somehow makes it easier to stick it out. You’ve always been taught that pressure provides the best results but there’s something about the security of a safety net that makes everything a bit more bearable. And so what if you have to take a second job involving a light criminal element. You’re only smuggling–that’s barely even a real crime.

Your sister who has saved the world thrice now, texts you and she wants help. She is looking to you for help. And you do your best to oblige. You offer your knowledge, you offer your rubies, you invite her over again and again. She sends you a text and deletes it. You’re not the diviner in the family but you drain your spell slots scrying for information you already know. Information that you'll hear from her own lips in just a few hours. “I love you.”

She finally visits and you’re not unaware of the state of your apartment. You know you’ve been too exhausted for an Unseen Servant or even a round of Prestidigitations but you know that your sister has seen your mind and there’s nothing messier about you than that. She teases you and you tease her back. She’s the only one who understands how to deliver a complement with a backhand so you can receive it without your skin crawling. The only one who knows how much tartness you need with your sweetness. 

Later, she visits again. She sits in your filthy apartment and you watch trash TV and it’s the highlight of your week. Your month even. That should feel pathetic but, somehow it doesn’t. You want to tell her. She deserves to hear it from time to time without having to filter out the layers of prickliness that you add as second nature, a layer of armor as ever present as your abjurer’s ward. You may not be able to handle naked sentiment but she can. You’ve seen her with her friends. How affectionate they are. You’ve always been taught that loose lips sink ships but you have experience with ship sinking and this prospect fills you with much less dread. You tell her and it’s awkward and fumbling but you manage. Maybe loving people isn’t so different from loving cats.

You have a new job which is perfect because the school year is almost over and, blackmail or no, you aren’t sure how many times you’ll be able to get away with casting Sleep on your class to give yourself a break. Honestly, you should have applied for jobs in Leviathan from the start. Why would pirates care about your sketchy history and lack of credentials? You could teleport yourself to Leviathan every day but that would be a waste of a spell slot when the door to the Compass Points is right there in the manor (and if your sister happens to be there too then hey, happy coincidence). While you’re there, you might as well do your laundry. And stay for dinner from time to time. And spend time with your sister in your her room where your runes stand sentinel and your old bunk lays untouched. You don’t think you’re staring but later, as you go to grab a snack from the kitchen your sister throws you a casual, over the shoulder glance. 

“You can just move back in, if you want.”

And would it really be that easy? Just like that? After a year of trying to make a point or a plan or a better version of yourself or whatever? Just like that? 

You remember a year ago. You and your sister and words that will be burned into your mind forever. 

“Despite the fact that you have not earned it, I do love you.”

Just like that. 

You say yes. You stay. 

“I would really, really love to have you as a big sister.”

Adaine and Aelwyn: *casually talking about not being able to bear existing in a loving household after growing up in an abusive one, even craving someone being mean to them again*

Me, fully having my trauma locked away behind a 30 inch lead door:

ALT

Fans:Aelwyn got her job because of the Time Quangle! She’s warped through time from the future! She would NEVER leave Adaine without saying goodbye! And there’s no way she could have gotten a teaching job that quickly! So it had to be time travel!

Aelwyn:Yeah, so I blackmailed the principal to let me teach because I could not stand Jawbone making me think about my emotions. Sorry Adaine, you can come over sometimes ig

Arte alucinante

When I was learning German my teacher pulled me aside to ask which of my parents spoke German. I was confused and said neither. Then belatedly I remembered that my dad did speak very rudimentary German after being stationed in Heidelberg for a few years.

This teacher was well loved but very strict, being questioned by her was always a little intimidating. I didn’t know why she was asking.

She pressed to ask if he spoke it with me and I laughed nervously and said no I asked him not to speak it because he couldn’t even conjugate verbs.

Apparently my accent was so good that she assumed I’d had more than one year of practice. The problem was my vocabulary. Ironically I needed her to translate the word for accent and I was unfamiliar with it. I was a decent student but some words tripped me up.

One day she conducted an oral exam and asked us to talk about the hospital. We could say whatever we wanted. In the middle of my nervous little monologue about how we go to the hospital when we are sick and the doctors and nurses help us she suddenly burst out laughing.

I had never seen her laugh before, at least not more than a sensible chuckle. But here she was, bent over her stomach cracking up leaving me baffled as to how talking about the nurses could possibly have inspired this extreme hilarity.

The word I was trying to use for nurse was “Pfleger” but I’d said “Fluger”. (Possibly fliegen? It’s been a long time) What I said was close to fly, and the teacher was imagining flying nurses drifting along the hospital wing.

She apologized and tried to compose herself but she admitted that hearing my extremely competent accent saying absolute nonsense was the highlight of her week.