There are only 2 rules when it comes to writing fanfics:
Write whatever you want.
Have fun doing it.
That’s literally it. There is no “show and don’t tell”. There is no “make it realistic”. There is no “fit in with the trends”. And of course, there is no “write as fast as possible to keep up engagement and please others”.
No.
Most fanfiction writers are not professional writers. This isn’t a job, we’re literally writing for shits and giggles. We don’t have a team of editors behind us to make our story perfect. Fanfiction isn’t about creating the most perfect plot with the most perfect prose and the most perfect pacing.
Fanfiction writing is for you first. To make your heart happy. Other people just get the benefit to also enjoy it if they wish.
That’s it.
Write whatever makes you happy, with whatever writing style you want, whenever you want.
me: yeah, so one of your most famous works is actually just that commission of a woman that you kept. Honestly, it's less of the piece itself that lead to its fame and more the mystery surrounding it, so I was hoping you could clear that up
the decayed corpse of Leonardo Da Vinci that I resurrected: Hai detto che hanno chiamato una tartaruga che combatte il crimine con il mio nome?
If you love me—
or the little worlds I build with words—
would you read a fic and leave me a note?
Tell me what lingered, what you loved, what stayed with you.
That would mean more than I can say.
I don’t usually ask for things like this…
but today, a certain group of people reminded me that I have worth.
And for once, I believed it enough to let my voice reach out.
Not sure where to begin?
You could start here:
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Usual Ikemen Tag List: @ithseem @chirp-a-chirp @aquagirl1978 @queengiuliettafirstlady @nyxthepixystick
Leaving a comment on a stranger's fic: your use of language is sublime, your character voice so clear! I'm so happy to be reading this, thank you so much for writing 🙏🏻💙
Leaving a comment on a mutual's fic: I am going to make sure you never know a day's peace again you motherfucker. I'm outside of your house right now. You better START RUNNING (I can't wait for next chapter I'm going to die in real life)
"For the Christmas writings.... WRITE THE STORY BEHIND THAT ONE ART PIECE OF CASS KISSING CLAVIS WHILE HE HOLDS UP THE MISTLETOE TO TEASE HER BUT SHE KISSES HIM FIRST AND HE GETS FLUSTERED."
Thanks, luv! I did in fact already have this fic written, meant to post it at Christmas, but you know how I was struggling...so I hope you and others enjoy this even though its over a month after Christmas.
Art is by @dododrawsstuff
@dododrawsstuff
The palace glimmered with Christmas cheer, golden candlelight spilling over garlands of evergreen and shimmering ornaments. The sweet undertone of spiced cider mingled with pine, wrapping the grand hall in a warmth so soft it felt almost enchanted. Clavis lingered in the doorway, drinking in the scene—but his gaze settled not on the towering tree, nor on the glittering wreaths—but on her.
Cassandra.
She stood before the grand fireplace, humming a melody so quiet it might have been mistaken for part of the distant carolers’ harmonies. The deep emerald of her dress caught the firelight, shifting like silk leaf-shadows with each of her small, attentive movements. Her milk-chocolate hair glowed in molten strands. She wasn’t simply decorating; she was completing the room, as if the halls themselves had been waiting for her before they dared call themselves festive.
Clavis leaned against the doorframe, the faint smile touching his lips betraying far too much. She had no idea what a picture she made—the firelight painting her skin with gold, her expression soft with unguarded concentration. He watched her as one savors the first sip of mulled wine: warm, heady, lingering long after you swallow. She looked as though she’d stepped out of one of the palace’s holiday tapestries, a muse conjured from winter legend.
And yet she was real—achingly, disarmingly real—capable of undoing him with the tilt of her head or the quiet focus of her hands.
But silence, alas, had never been his strong suit.
“Ah, Lady Cassandra,” he drawled, his voice slicing through the stillness like a frost-laden branch snapping. “Still fussing over perfection, even at Christmas? Such diligence is truly inspiring.”
Her hand froze mid-reach, fingers hovering over a golden bauble. The humming faded from her lips as she turned, green eyes meeting his—startled for a heartbeat, then narrowing with delicious suspicion. He watched the faint bloom of color rise in her cheeks before she masked it with the elegant arch of a brow. It was a dance he adored, her composure faltering just enough to reveal the cracks before she smoothed them away.
“Clavis. And here I thought Christmas miracles didn’t exist.” Her tone was smooth, but threaded with the kind of faux exasperation that tasted like invitation.
He pushed off the doorframe, pressing a gloved hand to his chest as though wounded. “My darling Christmas Enchantress! Whatever could you mean by that?”
Her brow ascended higher—graceful, dangerous, irresistible. A smile tugged at her lips, that stubborn little almost-smile she always tried to restrain around him. “That you’ve managed to resist causing chaos for an entire morning.” Her eyes gleamed, steady and sharp, daring him to rise to the bait. “Surely, that’s miraculous.”
A perfectly thrown jab. Light. Precise. Effective.
He smirked.
She stepped closer, her movements as soft as snowfall, her skirts whispering warmth into the cool air. With her came a faint scent—pine, vanilla, and the faint sweetness that always clung to her like a spell waiting to be spoken.
“Are you feeling ill?” she teased, lifting a hand toward his forehead.
He caught her wrist gently, his gloved fingers curling around hers with just enough pressure to halt her movement. Tilting his head, he met her gaze, his smirk laced with playful defiance.
Up close, she was even more radiant. The firelight kissed her cheekbones, her blush deepening under his scrutiny. She didn’t pull away—she never did. Her poise held, but he caught the faint shift in her breath all the same.
“Right as rain,” he murmured, his voice smooth and teasing. His thumb grazed lightly over her wrist, a subtle test, and he relished the deepening color in her cheeks. “Just saving up my energy for future shenanigans. Chaos, dearie, is the spice of life. Without it, the world would be dreadfully dull.”
It unsettled him—how right it felt to remain close, to study the way her blush bloomed or the way her lashes swept down as her composure wavered for the briefest of moments. He felt a strange reluctance to step back, as though some invisible thread kept him tethered to her.
“And,” he continued, his voice softening into a velvet trap, “I know you adore my chaos more than anything.”
Her green eyes flickered, and she turned back to the tree. Her hand twitched against the tree’s branch, her gaze darting for a heartbeat before finding his again.
“I wouldn’t say adore,” she murmured at last, her voice quieter, the word heavy with meaning she wasn’t ready to name. “But…” Her lips curved into a small, hesitant smile that struck him more than it should, “your chaos does make things much more enjoyable.” Her smile was unguarded, warm in a way that disarmed him as nothing else could.
He laughed inwardly. Enjoyable? Chaos was meant to provoke, to unearth reactions like this. Yet, as he watched her, he realized something strange: it wasn’t about the reaction this time. It was about her—how she turned an ordinary moment into something richer, brighter, something that felt like an unexpected gift he hadn’t known he wanted.
“Just don’t let it go to your head, Clavis,” she teased lightly.
He leaned closer, his voice dropping conspiratorially. “Too late, my Candy-Cane-Charmer,” he said softly, savoring the way she bit her lip as she gazed at him. “You’ve just made my Christmas.”
He stepped back, twirling on his heel with theatrical ease, though he cast her a quick glance over his shoulder. “And now, allow me to make yours.” His hand slid into his pocket, mischief glinting in his golden eyes. “As it happens, I’ve come bearing…shenanigans.”
Her expression shifted instantly. Oh, how he adored that look—the perfect mix of curiosity, intrigue, and suspicion that meant she was already trying to figure out his plans.
“So I should be concerned then,” she said flatly.
He sighed, pressing a gloved hand to his heart with mock despair. “My dear, when have I ever given you cause for concern?”
Her brow arched, her green eyes narrowing as her lips curved into a teasing smile. “Do you want the list alphabetically or chronologically?”
Her wit landed, sharp and precise, and Clavis couldn’t suppress the laugh that escaped him. It was a rich, unrestrained sound, filled with the joy that always seemed to be within him when he was in her presence. Her cleverness never failed to delight him, but tonight, there was something especially magnetic about her confidence.
“Such wit,” he said, his voice warmer now. “It’s no wonder you keep me hopelessly captivated.”
Her eyes narrowed further, her suspicion deepening even as her cheeks flushed. “What are you plotting this time?” she asked, folding her arms as she tilted her head.
He feigned a wounded look, his lips falling into an exaggerated pout. “Plotting? My dear Lady Bellerose, you wound me. Can I not simply spread a little holiday cheer without suspicion?”
“Cheer?” Her green eyes narrowed, glittering like frost-kissed emeralds. “Somehow, I doubt that’s your true motive.”
Clavis clicked his tongue, a sound both dismissive and playful, before withdrawing a sprig of mistletoe from his pocket with a flourish. The sprig twirled slowly between his fingers, the movement deliberately slow to draw her gaze. “This time, my intentions are purely traditional.”
Her lips parted slightly, a faint inhale giving away the smallest crack in her composure. Clavis leaned in, close enough for her to feel the shift in the air between them, his gaze steady, watching her reaction as though it were the only thing in the room.
“Clavis,” she said, her voice lower now, tinged with cautious wariness, like someone stepping into uncharted territory. “What exactly do you plan to do with that?”
“Only what any gentleman would do,” he replied smoothly, lifting the mistletoe above them with a devilish grin. “This is a Christmas tradition, after all. Mistletoe, you see, is meant to inspire a kiss.”
He let the words hang between them, savoring the tension as her gaze flicked between him and the mistletoe, her stance wavering as though deciding whether to retreat or advance. That moment of indecision, the rare vulnerability she allowed to surface, was intoxicating.
“A kiss?” she breathed, her voice honey-sweet. “On the cheek?”
“Perish the thought.” His smirk widened, golden eyes glinting with challenge as he hovered the mistletoe just above them. “It must be on the lips. Tradition demands it.”
He braced himself for the usual dance—the flustered protests, perhaps even an attempt to evade him, a little game of cat and mouse. After all, this was their usual rhythm—his provocation, her guarded yet clever response.
What he didn’t expect was for her to smile. It wasn’t the demure curve of lips she wore at court, nor the teasing smirk she saved for their verbal sparring matches. No, this smile was…different.
“Oh, Clavis,” she said, her tone dripping with feigned innocence, “I think you’ve underestimated me.”
And before he could so much as blink, she rose on her toes and pressed her lips to his.
The warmth of her lips stole every waggish retort, every ounce of composure he’d so carefully maintained. For all his sharp wit, for all his readiness to outmaneuver, he was utterly unprepared for the boldness of her action—not because it was unlike her, but because it felt so deliberate, so sure. For the first time in years, he was the one left reeling.
She wasn’t playing his game; she was rewriting it.
Her hand rested lightly against his chest, steadying herself as though the boldness of her action had surprised even her. When she pulled back, her green eyes sparkled, her cheeks kissed by a blush that only deepened her radiance. But her satisfied smile was a sight he’d never forget.
“Thank you for the lesson, Clavis,” she said, her voice calm and steady despite the warmth in her cheeks. “Did I execute the tradition properly?”
He blinked, the mistletoe still suspended in his hand as if frozen mid-scheme. For once, words failed him. For a fleeting second, he stood still utterly disarmed, his golden eyes wide with something that teetered between shock and admiration.
Then, slowly, as if recovering from a pleasant jolt, his grin returned—slower, sharper, and edged with something warmer than mischief. “My captivating enchantress,” he murmured, his voice low and smooth, “is far more enchanting than I even realized. You’ve made this Christmas unforgettable.”
She laughed softly, a sound that melted into the firelight as she turned as if to leave. “Good. Now, if you’ll excuse me—”
“Not so fast,” he interrupted, his grin sharpening into its usual wicked curve as he leaned forward, golden eyes glinting with renewed determination. “You’ve just declared war, my Merry Muse. I’ll need a rematch. Same time, same place next year?”
Her laugh rang out, bright and teasing, like the chiming of distant bells. “Only if you bring better bait next time.”
He chuckled, his gaze lingering on her as she returned to the tree. Turning the mistletoe in his fingers, his smirk softened as he gazed at her.
She had outplayed him. Completely, effortlessly. And yet, as he watched her, he realized he didn’t mind.
“Oh, Cassandra,” he whispered under his breath, the words a private confession he wouldn’t dare share aloud. “You’ve made the game worth playing.”
With a final grin, he pocketed the mistletoe and stepped back into the shadows of the hallway, already planning his next move. She was, after all, a riddle wrapped in a holiday ribbon, and Clavis, for all his cleverness, found himself hopelessly drawn to the unraveling.
Usual Ikemen Tag List: @ithseem @chirp-a-chirp @aquagirl1978 @queengiuliettafirstlady @nyxthepixystick
Perhaps I am a slow writer. Perhaps I do suffer from writer's block sometimes. Perhaps I try to write too many stories at once. Or perhaps I don't write at all right now. Perhaps... what was my point again?
i like the advice to "do art/writing/hobby because someone else is doing it worse than you" but the truth is i also think you should do it even if you're actually the worst to ever do it.
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