yello! iām tavi! i write fanfic for fun and as a hobby! feel free to rb, reply, send me requests, etc. just don't be a jerk! <3
someone tell me if i should make a fic masterpost. i like to post little updates on tumblr when i upload fics, but i do often forget! ao3 is the best place to keep track of everything.
i will be the first to admit that i am awful at maintaining an upload schedule. everything is updated when i have things written and the motivation to write unless otherwise noted :)
if anyone is interested in beta-ing any fics dm me! i would love it if you wanted to read any of them.
i also write little oneshots from time to time! could be about anything
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
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Skizz: Actually, is Ren on, by chance? I owe Ren a deck.
Scar: Here's Ren again.
Skizz: Oh, good--gg-goodbye!
Tango: See, you can't stop talking about him, I know.
Skizz: (faux angry, yelling) We talked about it two hours ago!
Scar: Gem, have you noticed that, uh, Skizz has a crush on Ren?
Skizz: No I don't.
Gem: Skizz has a crush on Ren?
Skizz: No!
Tango: Yeah, he does.
Scar: He does.
Skizz: (petulantly) He has a crush on me.
Gem: Really?
Tango: Yeah.
Gem: He is very handsome--
Skizz: See? I knew it!
Gem: --It's okay.
Tango: See?
Skizz: That's why I said to my wife, "you're about to meet Ren, don't fall in love." (Gem giggles, and Skizz exhales a laugh)
"i don't comment on ao3 because i don't wanna be annoying or weird" skill issue + you greatly underestimate the power dynamic here, writing multi paragraph comments is like feeding a bunch of deeply insane and possibly starved ducks at the park and watch them go completely mad over having received a piece of bread
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people telling you they reread your fic is the biggest compliment you could ever receive. there are thousands of stories out there begging to be found, to be explored, but your story meant so much to someone that they came back to it eagerly, they went over every word again. to love is to return and loving a fic is rereading it. thank you to all readers and rereaders <3333
since the majority of the poll was pro-d&d stories, here's one!!
this is for an upcoming campaign, run by the incredible @azimachra (who is the best dm ever ily). i'm planning on playing a HEAVILY homebrewed fey wild magic sorcerer! i'm very excited to meet her <3
this fic is basically just a little character study into how she is and acts. this name is 100% subject to change. also these d&d fics are going to be a tumblr exclusive. ao3 is going to be just fanfic from me <3. writing below the cut!
Niamh shrugged through the tree trunk, the squeeze tighter than ever, eyes barely skimming the familiar wooden sign to its left. āNEVER FOUND,ā it read in anguished hand carved letters. At least, Niamh liked to assume it was anguished. She hadnāt been on Prime Material when it was written, but she liked to picture one of her mothers crying as she carved the sign, lamenting the loss of her only daughter.
She knew it didnāt make sense. If her mothers had been so very anguished, why didnāt they ever come looking?
The usual pang of convoluted grief came and went, curling around her sternum gently at first, and then tight enough to squeeze enough magic out of her to cause the moss on the bark of the tree to sprout. The scent of the little purple flowers ā which really wasnāt all that nice, it smelled like dirt and mold and nothing so nice as what sheād smelled in Fey ā grounded her enough. She reminded her feet to keep walking, ahead to the town that she hoped was still around. Sheād have to go through the awkward song-and-dance of figuring out how long it had been again. It was something she never looked forward to. She always got a lot of weird stares. āThe year you get some help,ā and āMaāam, do you need a healer?ā were her favorite responses. The first, sheād gotten almost twelve Material years ago now, by someone who she thought was her third or fourth cousin, but who obviously didnāt recognize her as family in the slightest, only some random chick who didnāt age and showed up every fifteen years to reconfigure her place in the space-time continuum. Sass ran in the family, she supposed. The second was from a very confused, but very kind, man in glasses that was very willing to send her to any sort of healing establishment. She assumed he thought that someone had decided to cast a Confusion spell on her. He was nice. She wondered what he was up to now. Maybe heād started a family. Maybe heād died. Sheād learned to stop being so worried about death. None of the people sheād known from Before were still around (sheād checked, had a cry, and then struggled to get over it for about 5 years Material time).Ā
The various belts covered in various magical components around her waist jingled merrily as a breeze whistled through the forest. A squirrel twitched its head toward the sound, locking his eyes with hers. She held his gaze steadily. Five, four, three, two, two and a half, and⦠one. The squirrel scampered away across the branches, and she shrugged before beginning to mumble a quiet melody.Ā
Once a fair and handsome seal-lord
Laid his foot upon the sand
Something crunched further close to the edge of the treeline, and she felt her body lock into place, a small smirk blooming on her face and gold beginning to seep into the irises of her eyes.Ā
For to woo the fisherās daughter,
and to gain her marriage hand
A shoe scuffed a rock nearby. They were getting closer.
āI have come in from the ocean, I have come in from the sea,
Ā and Iāll not go to the waves, love, lest ye come along with me.ā
Niamh positioned herself carefully, sitting semi-comfortably at the base of the tree. She tilted her head up towards the leaves, as though she was directing her song at the beams of sunlight that were filtering through them and not at whatever curious mortal was inching ever closer to her.Ā
āLord, long have I loved you
as a selkie on the foam,
I would gladly go and wed ye,
and be lady of your home
A second, less steady voice joined hers in harmony from behind a tree to her left.
āBut I cannot go into the ocean, I cannot go into the sea
I would drown beneath your waves, love, if I went along with yeā
She inclined her head to the other voice. āItās rude to spy, you know,ā She said, raising an eyebrow and glancing down to rub a bit of dirt off of her hands. She looked up to see the man, the kind one who worried about her. He looked older. His hair was graying, he wore thick, round-rimmed glasses and time had pressed folds into his face. She felt her face light up with recognition before she could tamp it down, and she knew he saw it. āOh, itās you,ā She tried for nonchalant.
āYou are quite possibly the most bizarre Fey Iāve ever seen.ā He replied, unfazed, one eyebrow cocked in a particularly teacher-like way. She wondered if thatās what he was now. It would make sense.Ā
She rolled her eyes. āIām not one, technically speaking, but do tell me why,ā She felt her accent morphing to mimic his.Ā
āThereās just so much restraint in there.ā He gestured vaguely toward her, and she laughed in response. āBut itās like youāre restraining yourself from being restrained. Itās fascinating.ā
āPhilosophy teacher, then? Thatās what you grew up to be?ā Niamh said in lieu of a reply. She wasnāt interested in partaking in psychobabble, especially not about herself. That was a can of worms this guy did not want to open.
āNo, Iām a barkeep.ā The man looked a little bit taken aback.Ā
āHuh. Maybe you should have chosen a different career path.ā
āWith all due respect, Ms. Not-Fey, I think that teenagers with enough money to spend on something as trivial as a philosophy class are not the people that need those lessons. Iād much rather give advice to the sad people who spend half their days in one of my barstools.āĀ
āOh, an altruist! How refreshing.ā Niamh adjusted herself so that her back was resting more solidly against the tree trunk. āSometimes I worry that itāll be too far in the future and good, well-meaning people will have died out.ā
āHow old are you?ā Now it was his turn to deflect. She didnāt push him.
She looked down at her own hands, studied the slight amounts of lines and calluses on them. āAround twenty-six, I think. It gets tricky.ā
He nodded. āArchie.ā
āPardon?ā
āThatās my name. Archie.ā
āTerrible idea to give your name to any kind of Fey.ā
āIām trying to be a good, well-meaning person. That comes with making mistakes sometimes.ā
āNatalie.ā Niamh replied.
āThatās not your name.ā Archie said with a sad kind of smile.
Niamh returned it. āNo, itās not.ā
āIāll call you Nat, then.ā His eyes twinkled. āSince itās Nat your real name.ā
A genuine snort erupted out of Niamh before she could stop it.Ā
Archie lit up. āAha! I got you!ā
Niamh laughed. āGot me how?ā
He smiled. āI found some humanity still in there.ā
āAnd humanity is, what, humor?ā Niamh raised an eyebrow, but there was a genuine desperation behind her voice that surprised her. The corner of Archieās mouth ticked down; heād noticed, too.
āItās not something so easy to pin down,ā He replied, a little gentler. āBut I think a good laugh over a dad joke from someone you donāt know is part of it, somehow.ā He stood up. āI have to get back into town. The wifeāll start to worry,ā Archie rolled his eyes, even as a warm smile pulled up the corners of his mouth. āFeel free to stop by the bar if youād like.ā
Niamh looked back to her personal portal to the Fey and the āNever Foundā sign, both glinting in the light. āYou know what?ā She felt her accent begin to drop into its natural place, and she let it. āI just might.ā
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would folks be interested in my publishing some fics / writing of my D&D characters / OCs? I have a decent amount just kind of around and if there's audience for it I would be down to post it
I love seeing peopleās picrew art styles because you can just look at them and be like
āYou read homestuck and it was a big part of your life for a few years, youāre not into steven universe but you did watch it, and you had an intense black butler phase in middle school and doodled their eyes over and over again in your spiral notebooksā
Art is the biggest snitch ever man like have you ever read a fanfic and been like āOh the author is working through some trauma hereā
Or when people rec songs/shows/fics and you suddenly know everything you need to know about who they are as a person?
Like I know art is inherently an attempt to make others understand what is going on inside our lonely little heads but sometimes the mortifying ordeal of being known just slips in there while youāre not looking
or a character has a completely plain phone with no decorations and a default home screen and all the contacts are people's first names with no profile photos. except for one contact which is a stupid nickname and a shot of someone taken at a very unflattering angle. you know?
or cars!!! someone who has a disgusting car, with trash everywhere and mud caking the seats, but the passenger seat is always clean, because someone else always cleans it for them.
this has potential to become a blorbo post so now i want everyone to describe what they think their blorbo's phone/laptop/car/backpack looks like in the tags because i like reading these things
under the cut is the first (unedited) 600 words of a fic that was supposed a bad boys fic but the beginning of it got away from me for a bit. enjoy!
Joel did his best to shake off the layers of sleep as he got in the car to drive over to his brother, Grianās, apartment. He was throwing some kind of party, Joel thought. Honestly, he wasnāt sure, and heād woken up from a nap that had gone a little too long less than fifteen minutes ago, so he wasnāt all there, mentally speaking. Or physically, what are you doing? He thought, as he repeatedly tried to open the locked passengers-side door of his car, despite not having a bag to throw there or a passenger. āGet it together,ā he muttered aloud, before unlocking the car and slipping into the driverās side and putting his phone on the little magnetic stand heād stuck on the vent. He pulled up a playlist and Lizzieās address (theyād be moving in together soon, for next semester, but for now she was still living by herself in a tiny apartment a little over five minutes away), pressed play on the music and rolled gently out of the driveway. He might project a bad boy persona, with the leather and the too-big glasses, but even bad boys cared about safe driving practices. Car crashes are sad, boys. Heād asked Grian and Jimmy to match, even though Jimmy wasnāt technically related to either of them but he was close enough to a brother, with how they loved and teased him equally that Joel and Grian had agreed that heād been effectively adopted. Plus, Joel really thought everything with Lizzie was going to work out, knock on wood, so eventually they were actually going to be brothers. He could admit that having that tie with Jimmy was probably the third-best part of what he imagined getting married to Lizzie would be like. (The first two being getting married to Lizzie, obviously, and the cake.)
He bopped and sang along to āEspressoā by Sabrina Carpenter as he parallel parked on the street below Lizzieās apartment. He got out and checked his parking job carefully ā pretty good, a little too close to the curb but still solid ā before grabbing his phone off the vent and shooting her a text to let her know heād gotten there. Before long he heard the little jingle of her giving the text a thumbs up, and he stood to wait for her semi-patiently, drumming out a new beat on his pant legs with his fingertips. He and Oli needed to jam again. Maybe they could get Lizzie to sing for them again.Ā
Speaking of Lizzie, she came tumbling out of her apartment door a little too fast, before giving Joel a quick hug and a peck on the cheek. Sheād left her hair down, and it was long now, hitting around the bottom of her rib cage. Her dark roots were starting to creep in, and the bright pink dye had faded to more of a salmon color, but Joel loved it anyway. She had on a cropped T-shirt that had Empires the Musical written on it in lettering that was excessively fancy, with all kinds of loops and swirls curling around the letters. Lizzie had cropped it herself, the bright blue hem looking a little ragged under close inspection. Sheād paired it with gray jeans and Converse.
Joel followed her to the passenger side, cutting in front of her to open the door. Lizzie glanced up at him with an eye roll and a fond smile, and he felt his heart melt a little bit. He was so far gone for this woman.
under the cut is the first (unedited) 600 words of a fic that was supposed a bad boys fic but the beginning of it got away from me for a bit. enjoy!
Joel did his best to shake off the layers of sleep as he got in the car to drive over to his brother, Grianās, apartment. He was throwing some kind of party, Joel thought. Honestly, he wasnāt sure, and heād woken up from a nap that had gone a little too long less than fifteen minutes ago, so he wasnāt all there, mentally speaking. Or physically, what are you doing? He thought, as he repeatedly tried to open the locked passengers-side door of his car, despite not having a bag to throw there or a passenger. āGet it together,ā he muttered aloud, before unlocking the car and slipping into the driverās side and putting his phone on the little magnetic stand heād stuck on the vent. He pulled up a playlist and Lizzieās address (theyād be moving in together soon, for next semester, but for now she was still living by herself in a tiny apartment a little over five minutes away), pressed play on the music and rolled gently out of the driveway. He might project a bad boy persona, with the leather and the too-big glasses, but even bad boys cared about safe driving practices. Car crashes are sad, boys. Heād asked Grian and Jimmy to match, even though Jimmy wasnāt technically related to either of them but he was close enough to a brother, with how they loved and teased him equally that Joel and Grian had agreed that heād been effectively adopted. Plus, Joel really thought everything with Lizzie was going to work out, knock on wood, so eventually they were actually going to be brothers. He could admit that having that tie with Jimmy was probably the third-best part of what he imagined getting married to Lizzie would be like. (The first two being getting married to Lizzie, obviously, and the cake.)
He bopped and sang along to āEspressoā by Sabrina Carpenter as he parallel parked on the street below Lizzieās apartment. He got out and checked his parking job carefully ā pretty good, a little too close to the curb but still solid ā before grabbing his phone off the vent and shooting her a text to let her know heād gotten there. Before long he heard the little jingle of her giving the text a thumbs up, and he stood to wait for her semi-patiently, drumming out a new beat on his pant legs with his fingertips. He and Oli needed to jam again. Maybe they could get Lizzie to sing for them again.Ā
Speaking of Lizzie, she came tumbling out of her apartment door a little too fast, before giving Joel a quick hug and a peck on the cheek. Sheād left her hair down, and it was long now, hitting around the bottom of her rib cage. Her dark roots were starting to creep in, and the bright pink dye had faded to more of a salmon color, but Joel loved it anyway. She had on a cropped T-shirt that had Empires the Musical written on it in lettering that was excessively fancy, with all kinds of loops and swirls curling around the letters. Lizzie had cropped it herself, the bright blue hem looking a little ragged under close inspection. Sheād paired it with gray jeans and Converse.
Joel followed her to the passenger side, cutting in front of her to open the door. Lizzie glanced up at him with an eye roll and a fond smile, and he felt his heart melt a little bit. He was so far gone for this woman.
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writing a shadowbeans oneshot set in honey and wildfire and i just want to say that joel is a sweetheart hopeless romantic in a leather vest and i stand by that
someone I follow on the bird app just announced they're starting a very exclusive private fic server because they and a bunch of other people want to talk about how much they love the fics they're reading, and as an author can I just say that a really great place to talk about a fic you love is in the comments for that fic
I understand that people are trying to create safe spaces, but as the number of comments that I get on my fics dwindles with each passing year, knowing these spaces exist where my fics are being discussed, places that I am excluded from, makes me want to write fic LESS
I mean I guess who cares, right, because if I stop writing, there's 10,000 other people that will continue...but if you participate in a fic "book club" server and you say nice things there about a fic you loved, maybe copy and paste that into a comment on AO3?
the only thing fanfic writers are asking for in return for hours of hard work is attention. please don't rob us of the one thing that we hope for when we hit "post"
this is directly related to this post I made about how fanfic authors now are treated like content mills, and not like valued members of a creative community who thrive on interaction. for the past decade, we've watched the fandom ecosystem disrupted over and over, as NSFW fan artists seek safety by putting their work behind paywalls, and self-conscious fic readers squirrel away their feelings in invite-only communities
an easy way to do your part to fight against the evils perpetrated by social media is to leave a comment on a fanfic you love
The fact I had a fic that was fairly beloved and NO ONE commented on it because it was all being done in a fucking book club server made me want to scream.
I cannot express enough how imperative it is to show the writer how much you love their work. The comments don't have to be novels themselves - even just an "I loved this so much!" Or keyboard smashing works wonders to keep the writer going. Please, we need to bring back supporting writers and artists now more than ever!!!