Here's the thing. People have to stop harassing fanfiction writers. They write to entertain, for self-fulfilment or just to make others happy. We mustn't take them for granted or give them stress. They write for /free/. They have no ethical or contractual obligation to write stuff that makes you happy. If you don't like something they do, then don't continue reading it just to point out stuff u don't like. If u are going to stop reading, there is no need to notify the author about that. Don't send hate mail to authors. Don't bitch and whine if they start another series or a one-shot while they are already working on something else.
Be a decent human being and be respectful. Hate sows hate. Bullying feeds insecurities. Harassment leads to desperation. Don’t be the reason people stop sharing their gifts and talents with the world.
“I’m a human,” Castiel says into the mirror, “I’m a human,” again and again until the words begin to lose meaning and his hands weave into his hair frantically like he can rip that out too, “I’m a human, I’m a human,” until Dean finds him in the bathroom and reaches for his shaking hands, cradles them like a broken bird.
“I’m a human.”
“I know.” The aging light bulbs above the sink buzz. “You’re gonna get used to this, you know that?”
“I’m…” he stutters, like a broken cassette tape sputtering in the last moments of its life. “Dean, I can’t- I’m an angel of the Lord. I would say that, remember?” Dean starts to nod but Cas keeps going, “I’m an angel of the Lord. It was- it was what I would say and it had symmetry, the syllables all lined up, it was iambic and the meter rolled off so easily and now I- I’m a human. It doesn’t…” With his shoulders heaving in panic he looks like he could collapse right there, and Dean keeps his hands on Cas’s shoulders, lifting him and holding him up like wings. “I’m a human of- of what? What… am I?”
“You’re a Winchester,” Dean tells him without hesitation.
“You’re Castiel.” The reflections watching them, that of one destroyed man pulling himself together to help another, look like some kind of summary, a representation of their lives up to this point and of what’s to come.
“I’m Castiel Winchester.” And this time, the syllables all line up as he stares at his own blue eyes.
Sherlock are you busy?
No. Aren’t you?
No. Light day.
So you can text me while you’re working, but I can’t text you?
You do text me.
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Tag to 10x24
This one is longer, but not long enough for me to feel I should post it on FF unless I’m told otherwise.
Tony DiNozzo doesn’t think the resigned life will be that terrible.
He assumes it will be a life of ease. There won’t be cases or long nights and weekends. He thinks that everything will work out fine without any added stress. No rules, no cases, no problems.
He doesn’t think he’ll wind up missing it.
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ranty thoughts about authors against fanfiction
When a writer takes a stance against fanfiction, it’s a 110% guarantee I’ll never read/watch/play that person’s work. I mean, why should I?
Stories are communication, and communication is meant to be a two-way street. You put stuff out there, I engage with it. Give and take. Just because I’ll probably never meet these writers doesn’t mean we’re not still having a conversation about their story.
Writers, you don’t get to tell me how to react to what you put out there. If I feel like writing a story that supplements or otherwise engages with yours, that’s my prerogative. I can choose to do that, just as much as I can choose to write a story about anything that inspires me. Hell, I can write a story about about a particularly inspiring can of tuna, if I wanted to, and you don’t get to say boo about it, because you don’t get a say in my creative process, no more than I get a say in yours.
And if you feel so possessive about your story that you think you get to shut it down after you’re finished telling it, you clearly have zero respect for your audience’s imagination and creative autonomy, and you need to re-evaluate why you do what you do. Because you’re not looking for fans. You’re looking for worshippers.
Writers, my emotional attachment to your work is a gift. It’s not something you’re entitled to. And how I choose to engage with your works is my choice, not yours.
So if you’re against fanfiction, go ahead and cry it loud and proud—that way I know not to ever give you a dime of my hard-earned money, or a second of my precious time.
Barred // Tony + Ziva
Alternate end to Season 10. Parsons goes after Ziva. And he wins. (Inspired by Tegan).
The dripping of a leaky pipe woke Ziva from her pathetic excuse for sleep, and she shivered.
Jail cells were an awful lot colder on the other side of the bars, Ziva noticed almost immediately. After ten whole days, it seemed colder still.
But it was not the cold that brought the sting of tears to her eyes, nor was it the discomfort, the small space, the darkness. After many, many years of spending extended periods of time in equally bad (or even worse) places, none of those things particularly irked or bothered her. She could certainly think of a worse place to be rotting away the days. Those things left her mind the second they entered it.
No, the thing that made Ziva’s heart ache and her fists clench angrily at the bars that held her in, was the utter humiliation. Every time a guard walked leisurely down the row of tiny, matching cells, they would look at Ziva the same way they looked at every other criminal. That look was familiar to Ziva – she had probably worn it herself many times in her life. But she had never realised the sting it gave, befalling an innocent person. Well, a person who ranks somewhere in the very gray area between innocent and guilty as Ziva did. That look was a peculiar mixture of disdain and fear. Superiority and intimidation. Like all the good Ziva, or any other person in any of those other, anonymous cells, had done in the span of their entire life had been erased, and based on that, the person opposite them, outside the bars, was allowed to have the gall to proclaim that they were better people. That they were free and clean and all the things that Ziva longed for so badly after having them taken away.
But amidst that snobbery fed to each person locked up on a silver platter by every guard in the force, there was a sort of narcissistic fear. Fear that this being that simply poisons the world might snap and throw themselves at the bars, clawing and scratching, trying to satisfy some insatiable need for revenge.
It was all very fabricated and dramatic … except that was the exact reason Ziva had ended up here. That was the sting.
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With A Little Help From My Friends
omg, someone actually sent me a prompt?! Sorry about the delay, I started writing, and I sorta didn’t stop and then I had a busybusy day. but better late than never, right?
So here it is, anon! Hope you like it!With A Little Help From My Friends
Warning: Contains swearing and sexual themes (and a teeny tiny bit oflight smut
if you squint), mentions of abuse.
Type: Modern AU; high school
The story of how “marble-boy” became “Tampon Chief”
They were the only ones without partners, so during the first lesson they simply accepted each other and sat quietly together.
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Title: Baby Boys
Pairing: Roy/Tim (baby love ahah)
Snippet: “Tim made a friend.” Jason blurts out, eyes wide – the three are smiling so hard that it looks like their faces will split in half. “Like – it was so, so, cute, pops! They were holding hands an’ everything!”
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