Not sure why it's a new trend among fic readers to assume if the fic has not been posted within the week it's inappropriate to comment on it, like the fic has to be hot out of the oven to give feedback for.
I got a comment on a fic that is less than a year old and it was mostly an apology for being a comment on an "old fic" and how late they were in commenting.
Just comment on the fic. Doesn't matter how old it is.
Gentle reminder that very little fandom labor is automated, because I think people forget that a lot.
That blog with a tagging system you love? A person curates those tags by hand.
That rec blog with a great organization scheme and pretty graphics? Someone designed and implemented that organization scheme and made those graphics.
That network that posts a cool variety of stuff? People track down all that variety and queue it by hand, and other people made all the individual pieces.
That post with umpteen links to helpful resources, and information about them? Someone gathered those links, researched the sources, wrote up the information about them.
That graphic about fandom statistics? Someone compiled those statistics, analyzed them, organized them, figured out a useful way to convey the information to others, and made the post.
That event that you think looks neat? Someone wrote the rules, created the blogs and Discords, designed the graphics, did their best to promo the event so it'd succeed.
None of this was done automatically. None of it just appears whole out of the internet ether.
I think everyone realizes that fic writing and fanart creation are work, and at least some folks have got it through their heads that gif creation and graphics and moodboards take effort, and meta is usually respected for the effort that goes into it, at least as far as I've seen, but I feel like a lot of people don't really get how much labor goes into curation, too.
If people are creating resources, curating content, organizing the creations of others, gathering information, and doing other fandom activities that aren't necessarily the direct action of creation, they're doing a lot of fandom labor, and it's often largely unrecognized.
Celebrate fan work!
To folks doing this kind of labor: I see you, and I thank you. You are the backbones of our fandoms and I love you.
More things fanfic actually inserts into the source material:
Addressing of the characters’ unaddressed traumas
Hurt-comfort
Cool hobbies for the characters to have
Random low-stakes details that have the authors googling shit like when turmeric was available in Europe as a trade good and what fuel would’ve been burned by a Welsh peasant family in 1823
sexual tension that ought to set the space between the involved characters on fire
i just know ronan was having such a hard time in trb and tdt pretending to hate blue. like when she spat on ganseys boat shoes? that is such a ronan move. he probably like shit, why is she funny?
I will never get over Blue kissing Noah on Gansey’s bed while dating Adam. She chose the messiest possible circumstances to have her first kiss and I love her for it
Summary: Months after confessing their love, Elain and Azriel still haven't told anyone they're together. Though the secrecy adds to the thrill, Elain finds herself longing for more.
Word Count: 3149 Song of the Fic
Read on AO3 here.
A/N: Hi friends. Being an elriel fanfic writer some years ago, my love was rekindled by SJM's update on the next acotar book. I found this nearly finished WIP in my drafts and thought it would be too bad if it just stayed there.
Part I | Part II | Part III
It was utterly interesting a fact that no one held Elain Archeron capable of mischief.
This was as much grounds for her resentment as it was quite beneficial. Especially in moments like these.
Elain kept her back to the Illyrian, busying her hands with preparing tea—herbal, with honey—for her pregnant sister, while keeping her mind focused on the thinnest strings of blackness currently working magic. Discomfort, rather, if not some eerie haunting.
She’d mastered controlling Azriel’s shadows—her shadows—swiftly into her entanglement with the shadowsinger. Much to their mutual delight, the bond had proven quite valuable for pranks like this and…other activities.
Even after all these months of sneaking and laying with him, her cheeks colored at the memory of what her dark lover was capable of doing with those shadows of his in bed. What she’d done. They had come to learn plenty. But Elain wasn’t beyond using her bond with Azriel and the control he’d yielded over his shadows to her amusement with the inner circle as well.
Merely a thought and Cassian—to her back—hissed, unnerved. The shadow of a smile sneaked to her lips even though she ignored the male.
Another thought, a mild pull on the strings, and Cassian cursed. Now Elain did turn, face wiped free of amusement, and eyed the male. “Is something wrong?”
Cassian didn’t dare take his eyes off the glass of wine that had just dared to move without his consent, much less his doing. Almost like by a ghost’s hand.
He didn’t answer, focused on the glass with his eyes narrowed in suspicion. The big male didn’t seem as alarmed as Elain would have liked but irritated, nevertheless.
She leaned against the counter and cocked her head, sensing the strings of shadows—so thin they were invisible to the eye, well, to his eyes—then commanded them to wrap around the stem and pull the glass three inches to the right, the liquid sloshing only barely. She watched Cassian’s eyes widen, now visibly troubled.
“Did you see that?” He finally looked up at Elain, just to return his gaze to the glass. “You’ve seen how it moved?”
Elain wanted to smirk so badly but refrained, lest her months’ worth of effort going into messing with the male went out the window. She made a deliberate pause, carefully putting her brows to a clueless frown, while eyeing him warily. “No, but you seem a little pale. Are you all right, Cassian?”
Cassian threw his hands up, resigned. “This house hates me. I swear it does. I don’t know why I’m surprised, considering it’s bound to Nesta.”
For some reason, he seemed to think the haunting was the House of Wind’s doing. Elain clicked her tongue, almost annoyed. Then again, she was proud of her stealth. It meant her training with the twins bore fruits.
She was able to use what people assumed her innocence against them. This might prove to be advantageous when she started accompanying the spymaster on his missions. Because that ought to happen at some point. With the looming threat of Koschei and her growing importance in the mess of it.
Putting the matter of Koschei aside—for it wasn’t time for war, not yet—the seer returned her attention to the General, granting him his misconception. Though she couldn’t help one comment.
“And here I was thinking seeing things no one else does is my job.”
He snorted, finally looking up and winking at her. “Sometimes I forget how sassy you are, 'Lainy.”
This pleased her and she’d have retorted something deceivingly sweet, hadn’t her attention caught to whispering shadows, the feel of them slithering closer and the change of atmosphere that could only mean one thing. Her pulse picked up.
Cassian not as oblivious as she thought noticed her attention slipping. Hearing the footsteps in the hall, he grinned.
Shit. Elain hadn’t meant for him to glimpse this telltale reaction of hers. She saw the taunting forming on his lips.
But she wasn’t exactly up for his teasing, quickly pulling at the tendril of blackness and watching the glass of wine shatter to the ground. Cassian barked a curse and jumped back, eyeing the red liquid, clearly annoyed. The house—or rather the conscience attached to it—played into Elain’s hands, knowingly or not, when it cleaned the mess she’d made immediately. No stain of wine remained.
Claiming that he needed to talk to his mate this instant—muttering something about her conscience bullying him—he departed the room, almost colliding with another male who appeared in the threshold of the room. It seemed this one had followed the melody of her voice here. Azriel stepped out of Cassian’s way elegantly and watched after him in contemplation, a smile playing on his lips. Elain’s breath caught, heart thumping loud to her ears. He might even hear it all over the way across the room.
Their eyes met, causing a tingle all over Elain’s arms, that familiar pull of him a reminder of nights spent in the warmth of his embrace, breathing his scent of mist and cedar. Even though their last escapade had been just a few days ago—snuck away for an hour or two while no one looked, no one noticed—it felt too long. Her body, her skin was lamenting the absence of his hands, and it was worst when he came this close with no hope for salvation here and now. She would have to wait a few more hours for the chance to lose herself in him.
The shadowsinger must recognize the pain that was nothing short of hunger, for his eyes were a knowing, burning forest of hazel, licking fire from her head to toes as they roved all over. A smirk crept on his lips as color rose to her cheeks.
She counted them lucky that her scent was indiscernible.
“Having fun?”
The timbre of his voice was haunting the crevice where her ear met neck for it belonged right there.
“Tremendously.”
Although she tried to be casual, he must hear the unevenness in her voice. The male’s eyes danced in amusement, pleased. Azriel was a walking disaster. Elain’s very own beautiful ruin made flesh.
And the day of doom was slowly approaching with long legs and predatory purpose, pacing Elain’s heartbeat forward. It took great effort to tear her eyes from him and turn again, needing to regain her composure.
She wanted him, and months of being his lover had not reduced the thrill of this thing, secret and lovely, between them.
Her heart escalated anew every time, and it certainly didn’t help that they might be caught any moment—the secrecy added just another beat to her chest.
With the atmosphere in this room though, anyone coming in would sense the truth. The truth of what had been going on for the past months. What they’d been doing every time they were lost to the eye.
Oh scandal, how deep she’d fallen into the well of pleasure. How incongruously spectacular it felt to have him all to herself.
She was not one to share his attention, Elain found she was greedy like that. As long as no one knew—dear and most beloved family they were—Azriel was all hers, with stolen moments and most precious nights.
Precious and yet…so much less than what she wanted with him. She wanted all the nights, Elain realized.
“You shouldn’t be here,” she offered, playing her part. Weakly yes, but the words were there, and it was an endeavor with him so close. She smiled when Azriel didn’t stop closing in; he clearly knew how little she meant what she said.
“I just want a drink,” he said once he stood close to her back.
With Azriel in the same room, air was merely a gap to be sealed. The two had always been fighting a magnetic pull right there in the chasm of matter between them. Even now, it begged to be closed. So it was.
Barely-there friction kept Elain on high alert as Az drew near into the hollow of her throat, his hands coming up to cover her own that were gripping the marble of the counter. His fingers replaced the gaps between hers, and Elain inhaled sharply. The tip of Azriel’s nose was skimming down the line of her neck while he insisted on keeping the rest of his body on the other side of that pouch of useless air she wanted diminished into nothingness. Except, the shadowsinger liked the game they played, the teasing and tormenting in daylight where anyone might catch them.
“I’m fairly sure you won’t find what you’re seeking there,” Elain managed but yielded more of her throat to him by baring her neck. Azriel softly growled at this, at the female opening and offering her skin for him, contradicting her words with her need. And maybe some of it was out of frustration too, for he was so close and still unable to scent her.
Only when he risked the unbelievable and opened a fissure in her armor of invisible shadows—a crack in the veil that kept her scent from the world—the female knew he was equally longing for her. For the shadows were strictly necessary, and all that stood between their little scandalous secret and the Inner Circle finding out.
From the tiny gap he opened, the enigma of her nights escaped: the perfume of her body entwined with his—a mark of him she wore hidden in shadows so no one would know what they were hiding.
Keeping their scents concealed was essential in this game they played, a game of teasing and taunting in the open, of hiding and seeking just to be found entangled in the dark—a cold war of sorts, only that they tended to clash most of the nights.
And Azriel always found a way, he always made time, he always found the best excuses. He was also the perfect liar, but he’d never deceived her.
“This is just what I was looking for,” he uttered now, and inhaled.
She could feel him through the bond of shadows, sensed them deepen and gain, heavier, until she feared they might drip like black honey.
Somehow this was what had become of their relationship in the past few months, that soft, innocent friendship morphing into something as intense and focused as the shadowsinger himself. Something that felt right in all the best ways, having taken a thoroughly pleasing route.
Elain had always known they belonged together, and she’d been lacking this particularly crucial information then. If she’d known how absolutely phenomenal Azriel could make her feel, she wouldn’t have waited as long as she did.
By now, they precisely knew how they fit together best—and no one had even an inkling of their little arrangement. It was glorious.
Being constantly underestimated in the circle of Velaris’ Dreamers had its perks, for Elain got away with most mischief like messing with the Illyrian General with the help of her shadow-friends or secretly sleeping with the brilliant spymaster.
The secrecy wasn’t something they’d consciously decided on. It had initially risen from a need for privacy during the first few weeks of admitting into loving each other and somehow, it’d turned into a competition between them. Who would endure the teasing until they broke? Who would cave and beg for more? It turned out they were both excelling in stealth.
The excitement of meeting in secret wasn’t something they expected either, so none of them bothered with coming forth with the relationship either but simply kept going; stealing kisses when no one looked, bargaining longing glances for fleeting touches and if they dared, talking through the bond. Elain hadn’t this much fun in ages. Maybe ever.
Azriel’s lips moved over her throat now, pressing a kiss there and tempting a sigh out of the female. “You didn’t come last night, enaid.”
Mouth twisting into a smirk at the double-sensed meaning behind his words, Elain pushed back into his chest, stealing a moment in his embrace. “I might today.”
The male chuckled quietly, letting his hands wander up and down her naked arms. He pressed another kiss to the juncture of arm and shoulder and breathed. “I’d be honored. I hate not being able to scent you.”
She sighed again, feeling the same.
Azriel had sought relentlessly for a way to hide the revelatory essence of their perfume—even after a single night he was written into her skin—without having to hide from their family for hours or days until it wore off. Rhys found a way to keep Feyre behind a wall of shielding magic, so Azriel willed one for them too. A body fortress of shadows.
Elain was fairly certain he’d had to persuade Helion—a detour to Dawn on his way for a mission beyond the wall—into sharing every bit of knowledge he possessed of magical protection and shadowsinging. Az didn’t indulge her, but she was sure he’d bribed the High Lord with secrets to come forth with precious information and keep his mouth shut in the presence of the inner circle.
Now that Elain thought about it, her lover had gone to great lengths to keep this relationship secret; always excelling in being thorough and committed.
Yet recently she couldn’t help but wonder about certain what-ifs.
She pushed the thoughts from her mind and focused on the solid chest to her back, the sense of calm that settled in her being with his physical closeness. Elain even ignored they were standing in Nesta’s kitchen. Anyone might have found them in this compromising position. She didn’t really care if it were so.
“We were visiting father’s grave.” She angled her head and further burrowed into his warmth, hiding her face in the hollow of his throat. The place under his jaw leading to his chin was a wondrous one she’d claimed for herself. “That’s why I didn’t make it. It wouldn’t have felt right to sneak away from my sisters afterwards.”
“I understand, my love. You don’t owe me an explanation.” The heat in his eyes had simmered down to something else, something soft, not different—but kin. Origin. All he felt for her stemmed from this same emotion, the root to everything there ever was in the entire world. Without it, Elain wouldn’t know left from right.
“I know. I still wish I could have seen you. I could’ve used a hug.”
Elain sensed him smile against her brow. He wrapped his arms around her frame and engulfed her tighter. “You could’ve called me through the bond. I would’ve dropped everything and come for you.”
This time it was Elain who smiled, remembering that moment months ago, in the sunlit green of the river manor garden. His arms had been around her body then too, and his words—almost the same. That day was written into the book of her heart forever, the beautiful first chapter of a love story that was only theirs while everything that came before felt like a prologue too long.
“I know.”
He still was the same loyal, dedicated, and passionate male today as he was then.
And he kept warming her from inside out, had been giving her this phenomenal feeling ever since that night in the guest room bed of Feyre and Rhys’ home. In fact, it was such a relief to be close to him now, have their perfect little moment, that it physically pained her to know it might end in a few minutes—or whenever they were discovered.
The thought caused enough unwillingness that the shadows around them responded by gaining momentum. It surprised her, even though they were simply reflecting her sentiment.
Azriel noted the change in the shadows too. Elain felt him observe and probe, sensed him focusing on the bond. Before he asked about something she didn’t quite know a response to, the female lifted on her toes to press a kiss to his jawline, edging closer.
The desire was never far away, just barely beyond the surface and easily restored. She didn’t wonder if this was how mates felt after accepting the bond—because it was what she felt and what he felt, and that was the only thing that mattered—but she could still imagine it might be just the same. Elain always wanted him, with an insatiable, ever-burning flame that swallowed all the oxygen in her world. Every single atom of it made the fire want to burn brighter.
“We could simply leave now. Be alone again.” She kissed another spot, letting her hands wander to his. She made to turn in his arms, but he held her in place, even though he didn’t stop the attention she showed with her mouth.
He brought his hand to her chin and tilted her face until their lips aligned. He was intense once more, and Elain was likely to turn into jelly being such an intent focus of his attention.
“It only takes a word from you, fy nghariad.”
An offer and a promise—he left it to her completely, didn’t grant himself the opportunity to make a decision even remotely in the name of his beloved darling.
Beyond measure was how much she loved him for it.
After so many choices ripped from her, Azriel kept providing her with chances, allowed her to explore who she wanted to be. He made room for her when she was shrunk by expectations and altered the circumstances in her favor. He loved her like that, and she loved him just as much.
Elain loved him for his sharp edges, the cool cunning, the ruthlessness that reemerged from time to time when he dealt with his enemies; she loved him when he fell back to his old protective aloofness and anxiety, she loved him even when he shied from her. But she cherished him for his loyalty even more, the kindness and compassion he no longer hid from the world, and the most for his fierce warrior’s heart that must be so thoroughly woven by hope and goodness that it was the only explanation for how he’d made it alive out of his past.
She loved him, he loved her, and they both loved their family, little Nyx and her unborn niece in Feyre’s womb, so she finally turned in his arms and put her hands on his chest, making a decision with the only argument that mattered right now and forever—the origin to all. She’d return to her roots, into his arms, hopefully by night.
“Soon, my love.” Lifting onto her toes she chastely kissed his lips, barely connecting—lest temptation beckoned. A devilish smile followed as she peeled herself from his arms.
“Better start praying you make the night.”
tagging some people from my old taglist (not sure if y'all exist anymore 😭):
I think the most hilarious place to put Post-Canon Sokka would have been the university at Ba Sing Se. I think he would have made a great unhinged professor. Also, in true Sokka fashion, he should have completely dodged fame. Momo is more famous than he is.
He wants to demonstrate to the class how this thing called electricity works, so he's going to be bringing in a Firebender, so everybody be cool, we're all friends here... and in walks Princess Azula of the Fire Nation. One-time conqueror of the city. One of the students is currently writing an essay on how her brief rule of the city affected fruit trade. She says she considers the class to still be her subjects as she doesn't acknowledge any pretenders to any of her thrones, but for now you're exempted from bowing and "Your Highness" will do. It's a really interesting lecture.
"Okay, guys - hey, listen up, everyone - I won't be here next week, me and Aang are going to-" yeah right, sure, Professor Sokka knows the Avatar. Except, of course, the Avatar walks in sheepishly and says that Appa might have gotten into Sokka's hybrid crops, and then you all have to sit there and watch your professor chase the Avatar around with a sword.
One postgrad student is specializing in Water Tribe Cultures. She's currently studying the massive cultural shift that happened in the Northern Water Tribe at the end of the war - oh, and Professor, I absolutely know that you're from the Southern Water Tribe, but it's just that the shift started with Master Katara, and of course I don't think that every person from the South knows one another haha it's just that I need to ask her some questions and I thought maybe you could help me write a letter or write a letter of introduction or...
Sokka looks at her blankly and goes "yeah, she's my sister. KATARA!" which is followed by a faint answering "fuck you!" from Somewhere and to the horror/elation of our postgrad, Master Katara bursts in and is promptly beaned in the head with a rock by Professor Sokka. Her brother. her hero and her professor are siblings and currently brawling on the floor.
Sokka does not teach or study history, but he does sometimes sit in on lectures about recent history. Whenever he does, several doctoral students flock in to sit near him (even if it's an intro course) so that they can eavesdrop on his grumbling. (No matter how they try, an "overheard utterance" is not a valid source according to their professors. No, we have no sources on the Avatar's bison taking part in combat - sky bison are not war animals and...)
He gets regular deliveries with the Beifong family crest on them, and he goes "sweet, Toph must have found some new minerals" and at this point nobody needs to ask which Toph. He seems to have friends everywhere, literally everywhere. Wang was headed out to this massive swamp to study if it's one big organism, and Sokka told him to find some guy named Hue and "don't mind the loincloth." One time the university gets shut down because the Earth King wants to visit. Oh, visit the University? What an honor- Of fucking course not, he wants to visit Professor Sokka, who yells at him and his royal guards for interrupting his day. The Earth King and his many, many royal guards then sheepishly say sorry and file out.
The last straw is when - not a week after he yelled at the Earth King - the assistant head of the Political Science dept walks in to the faculty lounge to find Sokka having tea with a nice normal man dressed in Earth greens for once, and can't resist a little joke. "Let me guess, you're having tea with the Fire Lord." And then she can instantly tell that she fucked up, because both of them go stock still.
So when the two men awkwardly stand up and proceed to introduce the Fire Lord whose portrait she has in her office because she is the assistant head of Political Science as Li, a server at the Jasmine Dragon, she just says "hello Li" and leaves to find a bottle of something strong.
Not people saying “Fandom has always been like this” in that vent post I made. No. It hasn’t always been like this. Fandom has NEVER been like this until recently and if you were in fandom pre-tumblr purge, pre-twitter, pre-netflix boom, pre-tiktok….then you would fucking know it was nothing like this.
We still had the drive to create. We still sold prints and charms and made zines…but it was never like this.
The introduction of streaming, binge shows that drop all at once, tiktok and vine RIP i still love u vine but you were the beginning of a particularly ugly era) creating this bite sized, quick paced ‘content’ era of creation and it bled out into fucking everything else.
Fandoms didn’t die down when the show ended or the season was over. You didn’t mass unfollow artist, writers or moots just because they changed fandoms. There wasn’t this need to please the algorithm in order for your posts to get seen by people and enjoyed.
Fandoms used to last YEARS. Star Trek is literally the oldest running fandom out there and you got people in there that could care less about the new stuff and still have been happily prancing through their fucking fifty year old fandom today. Hell, even SPN after all it’s fuckups and shitshows has a dedicated fanbase STILL creating tons of art and fic.
There is no patience anymore. No calm feeling of taking in fandom and friends at a pace that which doesn’t make you stressed and is still fun.
Do I blame fandom for this? Of course not, but people are complacent with it and start changing their vocab to accommodate and end up making the situation so deep it cant be fixed.
We call Art & Fic Content now, completely stripping the value of what it is to a level of consumerism instead of personal entertainment & community bonding.
Okay, I might be pulling this out of my ass but since that finals match was in Evermore that means the foxes should have been wearing their white away jerseys. Which means: the final match was a game of chess.
Not only are they wearing white, but they have first serve (Dan won the coin toss), and near the end the Foxes' king (Neil, because this is a battle between Riko and Neil) changes positions with the tower (Matt, a defenseman that towers over most people) creating the illusion of a castling.
And right there at the end, Riko attempts to kill Neil because they're in front of each other, but that's not how kings work. In the time it takes him to take that step, Andrew closes the gap and strikes. Check mate.
no but imagine being the Palmetto State track team coach and learning about this kid who can run a mile in four minutes and so you go and check it out but surprise surprise the exy coach from the shit exy team has him already so you try to negotiate for the player because he might be the fastest kid you’ve ever seen but the exy coach keeps saying no and no and so you watch this kid that can RUN THE MILE IN FOUR MINUTES become the fastest exy player in history and you’re sobbing falling to your knees because you could’ve had him in the track team winning you gold medals in the olympics but instead you just stare from your campus office as this redhead short exy obsessed kid runs laps around the entire uni campus for hours on end without getting tired and just wishes all hell on exy
I thought that Jeremy couldn't be an addict because that would make him "too much of a fox" and the trojans didn't have criminal or public, stigmatised problems but in actuality I think it's a great way to explore how wealth defines these labels. The foxes are constantly maligned for being problem cases but Jeremy is the captain of the trojans because of blatant bribery and abuse of power. Jeremy suffers horrific consequences for his actions, in the form of homophobia, shame, guilt, emotional and fincancial abuse and control. But he is able to avoid the worst practical consequences (serious jail time, let alone suspension from school, loss of his Exy career) because of his parents influence and wealth. He is able to get clean because of their wealth. Whereas the foxes are 'junkies and criminals' for their entire career and are only allowed a shot at a better life if they're lucky because Wymack puts his neck out for them. I think it's genius to have us guess and wait for book two because it emphasises this disparity.
You know what I think its grossly under-rated in fandom? Second loves.
What it's like to love and lose and then love again. To suffer through either the death of a loved one or the death of a love you used to share. To know that loss, to know that hurt, and to still make yourself vulnerable to someone again. To love scared, to love wounded, to love anyway.
By under rated in fandom I mean so often past loves are either erased completely or downplayed like "oh yeah they weren't really in love.". I think it flattens the character. Humans are capable of so much love. Each relationship is different and you can learn from each one! And yes, there's something brave in learning to love again, something incredible romantic, why pass it by?
