My fave fic typo is ‘defiantly’ for definitely because it makes it sound like all the characters have a massive attitude problem. As in “He’s defiantly coming to the party”… like wow ok, dude’s coming to start some shit
Fanfiction authors are people who write as a hobby. They’re not paid, they do it on their own time, and they do it for fun. Some authors use fanfiction as a way to improve their writing, but unless they ask for critiquing comments, don’t be that person - even if you have good intentions. You don’t see the damage that you do, but damage is done.
The best way to encourage fanfiction authors to keep doing what they’re doing is to let them know what you liked about their work. I’ve seen too many fic authors get discouraged in their writing because of people who leave less than favorable comments on their work. Leave the critical comments for people who get paid to write.
Again, I’m not asking you to lie to spare the authors feelings, I’m asking you to just refrain from leaving a negative comment.
This has nothing to do w/ anything and I know people have talked about it before BUT I want to as well. Usually my metas tend to be angsty af and then end on a hopeful note, and this will probably be no exception. But anyway, a delve into Victor’s love of fairytales!
I can recall on 2 occasions Victor specifically comparing Yuuri to a fairytale.
Which may not seem like a lot but we have 12 episodes and if something is pointed out twice in a story, it has some amount of significance. Anyway, I just think it’s so damn cute that Victor considers Yuuri prince-like. Even the visuals and story of On Love: Eros is like a fairytale!
We go on about how extra Victor is (and he 200% is…that 50s pink cadillac tho) but I wanna here more about how much of a true romantic Victor is.
This entire thing is like an hc-palooza courtesy of me. Here we go!
I like to think of a little Victor, watching all these fairytale movies–Disney or otherwise–and dreaming of one day finding a prince of his own.
A 12 year old Victor with his first real crush, staring at a pretty boy with darker hair and kind eyes in one of his classes or at the rink. Victor thought he had found his prince, until one day the affection faded and his mind focused on other things.
A teenage Victor, going through various relationships like others would go through clothing. He’s a busy young man after all, and no one seems to want to look beyond the Victor Nikiforov on screen, one the ice, and actually date him. Victor starts to wonder if there is a prince out there for him.
Victor as a young adult, still a romantic at heart, but has pretty much entirely lost hope on finding his true love. No one sticks around, and he hasn’t found anyone he cares deeply enough about to chase. Victor’s lonely, to put it simply. He sits up at night sometimes, and watches all those fairytales from when he was a child. Victor smiles sadly at the end of them all, and dreams of a prince of his own.
And Victor in his late 20s, as we see him pre-series. He’s frosted with depression and loneliness; the never-ending cold discs of metal, the isolation from other skaters, people kissing up to him left and right. Everything is predictable. He’s running out of motivation, out of ideas. Victor knows people only want him as what they see when he performs. It’s a saddening thought, that Victor is not lovable as himself. Some people were not meant to find a true love, he supposes.
Until one night, a night we all know well.
The Sochi GPF banquet. Victor is intrigued by this attractive man flitting through the room, clearly intoxicated, but with this charming energy no one can resist. Not even Yuri Plisestky, himself pulled into a dance with Japan’s Yuuri Katsuki.
Victor manages to escape from his sponsors to laugh and point and take pictures from the sidelines. Yuuri whirls past him and the way the light shines on his hair and eyes makes Victor’s breath catch and his heart skip.
Victor watches as Yuuri dances with Chris–and wow, is that a show and a half. Yuuri strides over to Victor and holds him in place, hips shaking and Victor can only stare on in wonder. This beautiful, energetic, charming young man is staring up at him, like he’s the only person in the room. Victor can’t understand Japanese, but that doesn’t matter–what matters is the warmth of Yuuri’s body, the sparkle of his eyes, and the earnestly fond tone he speaks with. Victor’s heart is beating out of his chest and he can’t imagine this moment getting better until-
Be my coach, Victor!
Victor’s face flushes with a little gasp and he can’t find it in himself to refuse the request or the next dance they share together.
As Victor laughs spins and smiles like he hasn’t since child, looking at Yuuri all the while, he can feel it in his chest.
A prince. A prince is with him!
And oh, when Yuuri dips him low, the lights above framing his face and hair like a halo, Victor knows that his prince has finally come for him.
It was only by a stroke of luck that Jack happened to look at his phone just as he exits the lecture hall. The group chat was blowing up – the group chat was always blowing up these days – but the lack of all-caps or exclamation marks caught his attention right away.
Eric Bittle: Guys, I wouldn’t ask this of y’all if I really didn’t need this, but I have to ask a HUGE favor of one of you.
Shitty Knight: brah are you dying
Justin Oluransi: You can have my kidney, Bits.
Adam Birkholtz: u aren’t gonna save that for me just in CASE, JUSTIN?
Larissa Duan: shit, bitty, r u ok
Eric Bittle: Um, yeah, mostly, I just…..need someone to pretend to be my boyfriend.
“…I’m gonna show you tonight! I’m alright! I’m just fine! And you’re a tool so, so what?”
You belted your heart out up on stage, pumping your fist in the air to empower your words even further. It was a good thing you knew all the words, too, because your mates had bought you so many drinks your vision was crossed and blurred you couldn’t have read the lyrics to an unfamiliar song. Then you would have just been a blubbering fool butchering a karaoke performance. And that would have been embarrassing.
Singing yourself blue in the face—and drinking yourself into oblivion—served as the perfect outlet for your aching heart. Hours earlier, you’d been dumped. Or more accurately, replaced.
It’d been a week since you’d heard from your long-term boyfriend, and while you knew he was on holiday with his mates—a holiday you hadn’t been invited on—it was still odd that you hadn’t heard from him at all. Not even a text to let you know that he’d made it to Amsterdam. You didn’t expect too much communication; you trusted him to treat you right, but, silly you, you thought your boyfriend might actually miss you and want to say hi.
Last night after seven and a half days of nothing, you completely lost it and called him forty-seven times in a row. And not a single one was answered. So you rang your closest friends and they came over, laptops and tablets in hand, and intense cyber-stalking commenced.
It only took thirty-four minutes for your good mate Lindsey to unearth a damning post on Insta that your boyfriend was tagged in by a girl you kind of knew. The picture itself wasn’t awful; honestly you couldn’t make out much besides silhouettes and drinks. Even the caption wasn’t much; all it said was, “this guy” with a random slew of emojis. But the funny thing was, when you tried to search for it yourself, nothing came up. Meaning you were blocked. You weren’t meant to see this picture.
Twenty-two minutes of super-sleuthing was enough time for your oldest friend Ashley to find every social media account the girl had, and then eventually uncover her phone number.
In thirteen minutes you had a text drafted to her that was so long it was broken into five different parts when you hit send.
And one minute and fifty-four seconds is all the time your boyfriend—well ex-boyfriend—allowed you to speak to him today before he told you he was coming back tomorrow and there’d be no need for you to come see him. Tomorrow or ever again.
So your mates did what they knew best. They took you out, got you absolutely smashed, and then got you up on stage to pour your heart out. Somewhere in between I Will Survive and Total Eclipse of the Heart, you got a bit weepy and ended up calling your brother from the toilet. It took you awhile to realize you weren’t actually sobbing to him but his voicemail, and as soon as you did you pulled yourself back together and headed out for another drink and a rousing rendition of Since U Been Gone.
The few other patrons in the pub were hardly paying attention to your drunken warbling on stage, only breaking from their conversations when your mates would cheer at the end of each song, some of them even offering half-hearted claps. If they were annoyed, they certainly didn’t let on. Most likely, they pitied you; for Christ sake, you pitied you.
When your song ended, you finished the rest of your drink and began flipping through the songbook. Liberation was surging through you and you wanted a song to match your mood; something to serve as a proper fuck you to the twat you’d wasted the last few years of your young life on.
The book closed on your fingers, and you stumbled back in surprise. Were books automated now too?! You still weren’t over the automated tills at Tesco, would you now have to get used to robotic books closing on you when they’d had enough?!
You looked up, your blurred vision slowly coming into focus as you swayed on the spot. A robotic book didn’t close itself on you, a person had closed it. Which was rather rude of them.
“[Y/N],” he repeated. Finally he came into view and you cocked your head in confusion.
“Hazza?” you slurred, taking a step closer to get a better look. You nearly toppled off the stage, but Harry was quick to grab you by the waist and steady you before easing you down.
I mean seriously you guys pour your heart and soul into this shit. You put in YOUR time and YOUR effort to make these beautiful creations and you don’t NEARLY get the credit you deserve. What must take you days or weeks people will devour in seconds and demand more IMMEDIATELY. Or people treat you like crap because it’s not how THEY wanted it. Honestly you guys are AMAZING. If you’re work takes you 3 hours to write: YOU’RE LIT AS FUCK. If it takes you 3 days: YOU’RE LIT AS FUCK. 3 weeks?: LIT AS FUCK. 300 words long?: LIT AS FUCK. 3,00 words?: LIT AS FUCK. Just started writing?: LIT AS FUCK. Been writing for years?: LIT AS FUCK. Don’t let others discourage you. Fuck ‘em. DO WHAT MAKES YOU HAPPY. For the love of god you guys don’t nearly get as much love as you deserve. People on here forget that you’re doing this FOR FREE, forget YOU DON’T HAVE TO WRITE FOR US, and forget YOU’RE HUMAN BEINGS WITH LIVES THAT DON’T REVOLVE AROUND WHAT THEY WANT. FUCK THOSE HATERS. Just please remember that there are readers out there that understand this and respect you. that love what you do for us and appreciate every last thing you do
For the people I follow: YOU’RE ESPECIALLY LIT AS FUCK AND I WANT YOU TO SEE THIS:
◇ pairing: jimin | reader ◇ genre: angst and fluff ◇ word count: 13.094 ◇ warnings: sexual content ◇ author’s note: previously named ‘if these wings could fly’ in my old blog. I’m just reposting it with a new name. :)
Beauty. If someone asked you to define it, your mouth would probably go dry and your heart would flutter yearningly, freezing as the words turn heavy in your mind and dissolve in the tip of your tongue.
Beauty is short-lived but ubiquitous, a transparent but shimmering liquid running in rivulets through hidden alleyways and veiled landscapes that the eyes don’t notice unless they look twice. Beauty is found in the unexpected, in the withheld words of the timid poets, in longing stares and authentic, carefree laughs. Beauty is found in what the eyes can see, in what the ears can hear, in the deep reverie of the colorful minds and in the dreams held close to the heart.
Beauty is fleeting and you’re unable to grasp it. All your life you’ve chased it, extended your hands towards it, longed to touch it with your fingertips. But your steps are slow and your hands are ungifted, and you can only imagine what it would be like to create beauty, to have the hands of those that are able to reflect love and joy and pain in books and paintings.
(this is a sequel to THIS ‘I think there’s someone in the house’ fic!)
The paramedics hammer on the door, and Neil looks up, teary-eyed, from where his face is pressed into Andrew’s damp hair. He’s feeling for his breath with the back of his hand, waiting moment to moment for Andrew to die in his arms, silently like he does everything else. Urgency keeps stunning Neil all over again, hysterical defibrillators. The EMT’s are calling out through the wall, muffled but calm.
It feels unthinkably wrong, their absolute evenness and ease outside his door when his life is an exposed neck and Andrew’s death is the whirring blade of a saw.
He realizes that he has to get up to let them in, and it seems as impossible as it would be for Andrew to spring up and answer the door himself. He feverishly wants them to crumple the door to splinters and be inside already.
It’s a herculean effort to ease Andrew to the ground, like he’s gritting his teeth and cutting off his own leg. He touches Andrew’s clammy face briefly but he can’t bring himself to try and slap him awake. He props Andrew’s bare feet up on the rim of the bath so the blood will flood towards his head, at least.
He feels untethered to his body when he stands, a helium balloon with its usual weight passed out on the bathroom floor. He falls into the wall immediately, adrenaline neck and neck with exhaustion.
He finds his way to the front door without his mind’s help. His head is in the bathroom with Andrew, and he knows that no matter what happens it’ll be there for a long, long time.
The next time he blinks, a man in uniform is holding his biceps and peering down at him seriously.
“—sir? Sir, are you hurt at all?”
“No,” Neil says, lips numb. “Bathroom. He’s in the bathroom. He’s bleeding to death.”
He turns, easily slipping the paramedic’s grip. There’s a procession of them, hefting a gurney and a couple of kits, and they’ve brought all the cold from outside in on their heels. They’re such a foreign object in their warm, messy apartment — uniformed, official, and precise.
It’s deadly, walking in and seeing Andrew spread out in his boxers, blood oozing through his t-shirt from his loose stitches, pale enough to match the porcelain. Neil’s seen enough corpses to recognize what they look like.
He falls heavily to his knees and puts his head directly to his chest, listening, tears slipping hotly over the bridge of his nose.
“Please,” he slurs. His heartbeat is a tentative thud, a knock from an unexpected guest. “Help him. Now, help him now.”
“We’re going to try our best Sir, but you’ve got to get out of the way,” someone says gently.
He topples backwards onto his hands. It’s a cramped space, and he knows it would be easier if he waited outside, but he also knows he’d rather die than leave them alone with him.
The first guy kneels down and takes Andrew’s pulse, and Neil shakes his head. They’re too slow, time is feeding directly into a wide open drain.
“He needs an IV. He’s two litres down, at least. You’ve got to—“ A petite woman puts a hand on his shoulder and he shrugs her off violently. “No! You have to listen to me.”
“We know what we’re doing,” she says. “Are you an MD?” She eyes him doubtfully, gaze flitting from his scars to where her colleagues are taking vitals and cutting through Andrew’s clothes.
“Yes,” Neil says wildly. “And he needs an IV. Possibly two. Large-bore, normal saline. He’s not getting any oxygen, and he’s been like this for as long as it took you to gather your meager response team.”
She purses her lips, but she’s a professional. He can see her repressing her anger and it infuriates him. He feels like he’s crashing, over and over again, and he’s watching someone daintily pump the breaks.
“He’s right,” one of the EMT’s says distractedly. “We’re gonna need to get some fluids started, he’s in hypovolemic shock, sats below 50.”
“You want to tell me what happened?” one of the men asks.
“No,” Neil says as evenly as he can manage, reaching out to graze Andrew’s cold fingers.
“Did you do these stitches?” the woman asks, pulling at Andrew’s skin to get a better look at them. He suddenly sees how they must look to them, sloppy and angry red. Neil bends her arm away without thinking about it.
“Don’t touch him,” he snaps. He could break her arm and it would make him feel better. He drops her, disoriented by his own violence.
“There’s no need to be antagonistic,” the first man says. “We don’t want to have to remove you.”
“You really don’t,” Neil agrees. “You won’t succeed.”
◇ pairing: jungkook | reader ◇ genre: too much fluff.. too much cute ◇ word count: 3.986 ◇ author’s note: surprise! \o/ I honestly have no idea how or why this happened. yesterday I just… started writing, and here we are, a few thousand words later. also, bear in mind that this is a sequel to blue orchids, so you need to read that one first if you want to understand this short piece. hope you all enjoy!
This story is set six years into the future within Blue Orchids’ universe.
The sun rays are melting on your skin. It has been a while since the skies opened up like this, leaving the sun bare to the living, its warmth a pleasant gift after days of storm and gloom. The sand under your legs and feet is, fortunately, not scorching — not yet, at least. The early morning is still warming up to the pristine sun, and the salty winds of the beach are still a strange mixture of the growing heatwave and the remnants of past iciness.
You cannot remember the last time you visited the beach, but it does not feel foreign or uncomfortable. It feels like you belong, mind at peace and body molding to the sand as your extended legs allow your toes to brush against the gentle waves that break and ebb away, water still too chilly to enjoy at its fullest.
Newt: Let’s begin our conversation. Graves: What’s on the note cards? Newt: They’re possible topics of conversation. Graves: Whales. Parades. Electricity. And the rest are blank. Newt: Yeah, well I couldn’t think of anything else.
(Parks and Recreation; season 2, episode 4: Practice Date)