on paper

the ficcing and fangirling blog of wanderingavarry

[inzeeorbit]

Everyone is like “people ship Johnlock because they are homosexual” well I’m extremely heterosexual but I’ve never seen a love story as pure as Johnlock I think that it’s the greatest love story never told.

Reblog and show them how many straight people ship Johnlock.

I know what is love when I see it.

[paperonly-blog]

True that.

[paperonly-blog]

S4 of Sherlock has taken over my life. I cannot stop thinking about the amazing meta and the arg conspiracy. Like, a few months ago I didn't even about TJLC. I ship Johnlock but haven't even heard of the term TJLC. And now? Well now I'm reading meta and looking at discussion on Sherlock ARG. What the... I just... I'm getting tired but also getting really excited? I don't even know anymore

[yaboywillyshakes]

Here are some scientific facts about blood loss for all you psychopaths writers out there.

[ivanebeoulve]

yeah, for writting..

[roachpatrol]

now i am thinking about all the fics where a kid passes out because vampire and like how much can a vampire chug???

[threewaystopcock-deactivated201]

found it.

[paperonly-blog]

She lost 5 liters of blood then dragged herself to the hospital. Awgad

[eriklehvsherr]

and i assure you i will ship it til my dying breath (x)

[paperonly-blog]

Me: *smiling at phone and giggling*

Family member: ooooh who are you texting?

Me: *looks up from gay smut fic* what?

[xoxomyseriesxoxo]

ichigo and rukia | kaleidoscope of colors (requested by anon)

[the-prompter]

Teacher AUs

Imagine your OTP… 

Are not allowed to date because they’re co-workers but they do anyway. 

Have lunch together during their lunch break. 

Their students think they hate each other but they’re married. 

Always hang out in the classroom after hours. 

Character A is a teacher and character B isn’t. They’re married and B always visits A’s classroom. 

Their classrooms are across from each other and they flirt when they see each other through the door. 

Trying to win the “Best Teacher” award. 

Having a class war. 

Character A teaches math and character B teaches history. A hates history and B hates math.

[paperonly-blog]

The third makes me want to write!

[ohitsmsn]

WAITING FOR A FANFICTION YOU ARE READING TO BE UPDATED LIKE-

[obl-wan-kenobl-deactivated20201]

[insp.]

[cashwiller]

[fuckyeahcomicsbaby]

Betrayal!

[luci661fer-blog]

Gasp!!!

[paperonly-blog]

Le gasp

[potterslittleferret]

Draco Malfoy, a summary

What Harry thinks he’s like:

What his friends think he’s like:

What the Gryffindors think he’s like:

What his parents think he’s like:

What the fandom think he’s like:

What he thinks he’s like:

What he’s really like:

[tacticalmoonbeam]

I will never not reblog this.

[paperonly-blog]

draft: quite a ways

So, I was editing this work that I posted in ao3 a while back. It was my entry for NPT. Reading it again made me shudder. So I tried editing it. I realized how fucking hard it is to edit your work from so long ago. I mean, what was I thinking when i wrote that scene? So anyway, I’m posting the draft of the first part. The fic has doubled in number and I’m not even halfway editing it. I don’t even know.

title: quite a ways

fandom: inception (film)

pairing: ariadne/dominic cobb, a side of eames/arthur

summary: Ariadne lies still between wakefulness and slumber. She dreams of Dom and his smiling face, of future where Dom feels the same way. She closes her eyes and basks in it. In the waking world, they're miles apart. Ariadne loves him still but Dom does not.

Ariadne lies still between wakefulness and slumber. She tries to grasp the remnants of the dream. It was a good dream, a PASIV-free dream. It was a summer in the beach, the heat of the sun not overly warm, the breeze salty and Dom’s face stretched in a wide smile. Ariadne tries to remember Dom’s face, the lines of laughter and the crinkle of his eyes. She keeps it close to her heart as she feels the grip of morning.

The heat of summer in this part of Paris is scalding. The light of the sun prickles her eyes. Now that she’s aware of the warmth, Ariadne also hears sounds. There is a knock on her door, a staccato rhythm that can only mean one person. Ariadne tries to burry herself under the covers, but it is futile. The person on the other side of her door has turned from a staccato rhythm to something remotely resembling the beat of some old song. And so Ariadne drags herself away from the bed, pillow still clutched to her chest, eyes still closed. She opens the door and trudges back to the bed not even bothering to close the door.

“And good morning to you too dear.” Eames goes straight to her kitchen. Ariadne can smell coffee and freshly baked croissants from the bags Eames is holding. She guesses it’s from the cafe two blocks from her apartment.

“Get your ass here and eat your breakfast. We need to talk.”

Ariadne cringes. She knows it’s not about work because they’ve talked about this before and she has already told them that she would finish her studies first before even remotely considering a work in the dream sharing business. No, Ariadne knows it is not even remotely close to dream sharing. She wishes the soon to be topic of conversation may as well be about it if it gets her away from the inevitable conversation.

“I’m not awake enough for that conversation.” She mumbles to her pillow. Normal people would not be able to understand the sounds coming from her but Eames is not normal. After all, he’s inside the house of a criminal. Then again, he’s a criminal himself so maybe that offsets it. These thoughts distract Ariadne long enough for her to lose track of Eames and his inevitable questions.

When she comes back to, Eames is already perched on the bedside table, peering at her with a smirk. “Thus the coffee.” He stretches a cup of coffee to her. She just sneers at him and his cocky-all-knowing-smirk. Of course it doesn’t deter him. Instead, it makes his smirk turn to a chuckle.

“Seriously dear, drink your coffee.”

She lies back and looks at the ceiling, heaves a sigh before turning her head to look at Eames. He has a small smile on his lips, a cup of steaming coffee billowing smoke. She looks at Eames intently. And thinks he looks good. There are no dark circles under his eyes, even his skin looks healthy. Ariadne figures he must have been with Arthur if he looks well rested and happy. This does not spell well for her, might as well caffeinate herself before she gets interrogated. She lets the warmth of the cup warm her hands before she gulps the coffee, not caring if it scalds her tongue. She needs to be awake for this.

When she finishes gulping coffee, Ariadne hands Eames the cup and waits for a refill. Eames just shakes his head but gives her his cup of coffee to chug. It’s bitter and extra hot. She burns her tongue and she has to stop and wipe her mouth with the back of her hand. Eames looks at her pointedly but she just shrugs and continues chugging coffee.

The conversation Eames wants to have is difficult. Ariadne needs to be drunk for that conversation but she doesn’t have alcohol. She’s going to down as much coffee as she can instead.

“You haven’t been answering any of our calls,” Eames finally begins when Ariadne finally finishes her second cup of coffee. His voice is quiet and soft bellying the ferocity Ariadne knows Eames is capable of. Ariadne smiles at the knowledge that Eames always plays the good cop in her interrogations and interventions. Arthur is the one that delivers the tough love. She is so glad Eames is the one here with her.

She briefly wonders if Arthur is the one talking to Dom but dismisses the thought immediately before the flash of hurt shows on her face. She probably wasn’t fast enough if Eames’ sigh is any indication. She clears her throat before she talks. “I was busy with final requirements and forms for graduation.”

She stands abruptly and busies herself in making her bed and tidying up the paper strewn on the floor. She keeps her back to him even as he speaks. “You’ve been finished with all of those a week ago. You didn’t answer any of our calls for the past six months.” Eames states this easily. Sometimes, it slips Ariadne’s mind that these people are known for their ability to steal secrets from people’s minds.

“Miles was the only person who knew you were even alive.” She knows what Eames is really saying, asking. Still, she can’t bear to begin talking about it. It may have been months but the words still ring in her ears.

“Ari,” his hands on her shoulder makes her stop fluffing her pillows. It also makes her close her eyes and take a deep breath. When finally she turns around, she looks at Eames and tries to look for something, anything to keep them from having this conversation.

“It’s good to know that you’ve been with Arthur. You look rested, healthy and truly debauched.” She falls back on patterns and tired jokes.

Eames smiles a patronizing smile at her. “While I am astounded by your elementary deduction and warmed by your obvious implication of affection, you’re not getting out of this. You’re stewing in this horrid apartment.” He hugs her and settles his chin on her head. “Ari,” his voice is quiet in its intensity.

She takes another breath to steel herself to finally talk about it but finds that she can’t. Not yet. “I’ve been catching up on sleep and watching documentaries.” She whispers instead. Not so much a lie as an omission of truth. She untangles herself from Eames and heads to the small kitchen and opens the bag of croissants Eames brought. Space. She needs space. She grabs a croissant and bites it viciously.

“Darling, we both know, you watch no such thing. No, you’ve been stewing in this forsaken apartment probably drowning yourself in cheap wine and horrid telly.” Eames follows her to the kitchen and stands right across her, taking the croissant from her and taking a bite of it too.

“I could have started watching them. They’re very educational.” She gets a snort in reply.

“Get your own damn croissant. I’m eating that.” She makes grabby hands at the croissant but Eames just raises an eyebrow at her.

“Just get another one,” Eames finishes the rest of her croissant and pushes the bag of croissant to her.

She huffs in defiance but does grab a croissant and this time bites it like a normal person. She’s just so tired of this. “What are you doing here Eames?”

For a moment, Eames just looks at her. His gaze is unwavering, unraveling. For a moment, Ariadne can see the wonder that Arthur probably sees whenever he looks at Eames. But mostly, she sees a person who is obviously worried about her.

“We’re family. We look out for each other.”

Once upon a time, they were nothing but strangers but then they became a family. Slowly. Achingly so. There were week right after the job where they can’t seem to do anything but shout at each other, all of them still running on adrenalin and the constant fear of being found out. There was elation too, elation of having incepted a mind successful. They watched the news as their plan succeeded wonderfully. In the interim, they found a semblance of family; a very dysfunctional family of course, but a family nonetheless.  

She remembers lazy Sundays in the Cobb’s residence. James head is pillowed on her legs, Philippa sits beside her reading a book. Eames would be in the kitchen making food that fills the place with mouth-watering aroma. Arthur would be parked on the coffee table beside Dom, talking about one thing or another. Ariadne remembers it still. Eames would call out lunch and for a beat no one would move until Dom ushers them all to the dining room where Eames has laid out a feast. Ariadne would sit across Arthur and James would scramble to her lap. Dom would sit beside her and give her that smile that Ariadne thought was just for her. Of course that wasn’t real was it? It was all in her head.

Ariadne can’t help but look away. The bile rising in her throat is hard to swallow.

Eames grasps her hand. “We’re still a family. Arthur was hysterical when you wouldn’t answer his calls. You always answer his calls.”

She feels guilt eat at her. She knows how Arthur worries, has seen him hysterically worry about Eames and Dom and her. After inception, after all the secrets of Mal’s eventual succumbing to insanity, Arthur was never the same. His eyes gained that fear that they won’t come back to reality, that they too would choose to stay in Limbo, never to return, just a hair’s breath away from going under never to return.

And although Ariadne has not touched a PASIV since she left for France, Arthur does not know that. And so Arthur worried. She could only imagine his wrath once he sees her.

As if sensing the turn of her thoughts, Eames lets out a chuckle. “He’s not apoplectic if that’s got you worried. You’d survive with all your limbs intact. He was worried that you won’t be taking care of yourself but he knows you won’t go under without us there.”

It doesn’t take the guilt away but it does make her feel a bit better. And in the face of Eames’ smile, Ariadne can muster an answering smile. “I have so much to make up for don’t I?”

She musters a smile at that. “Oh darling you’ll be buying so many cups of coffee.” He turns away and starts going back to her room. She stays where she is and lets him survey her apartment. When Eames comes back, he’s holding bags with what looks like her things. She arches an eyebrow at him. The answering smile of Eames worries her.

“You can start making up for all of it today!”

Arthur is waiting for them at a condotel in the middle of the city. His legs are propped on the coffee table in their living room, a tumbler of scotch dangling from his hands. He’s wearing jeans and a faded black shirt that Ariadne is sure Eames owns. He looks so at ease until you notice the tautness of his back and the rhythmic tapping of his left fingers on his knees.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

He doesn’t turn to them but continues to watch River Monsters. His fascination with fishing and underwater creatures will always be a mystery.

“Darling, we’re home.” Eames drops a kiss on Arthur’s head before heading to what Ariadne can only assume will be her room. Arthur doesn’t react, doesn’t even twitch but continues to watch the show. She inhales before she marches to the couch and plops beside him, grabbing the tumbler of scotch and tossing it back. She curls up next to Arthur and rests her head on his shoulder. His arms loosely drape her but he doesn’t speak. She doesn’t either.

Eames may be the sunshine in her life but Arthur would always be the ground under her feet.

It takes an episode and another for Ariadne to speak. When she does, her voice is raspy and sounds foreign to her ears. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t call.”

She closes her eyes and begins. “He said he doesn’t feel the same way. Well, that isn’t fair, he didn’t really say the words but he got so mad when I suggested we move here. He said he couldn’t just leave their house. That it was their first house. I know he wasn’t talking about the kids because it was never really their house. I thought we were building a family but it’s still about Mal and I he just let me go and I can’t—“

She tries to say the words and tries to explain but can’t find the words anymore. She knows it’s unfair of her to dump all of this on Arthur when he was their friend first and she’s nothing but an outsider trying to fit in and fill the place where Mal used to be. And she tries to untangle herself, musters up the energy to move and get away but Arthur’s arm just tightens around her.

“Next time, if you can’t call, send a text.” She wants to burst into tears at that, knows what he isn’t saying.

“We’re always going to be by your side. We’re family. We love you.”

Ariadne might not believe it all just yet but she settles for burrowing further in his arms and finally lets the tears fall.

Eames hums a tune. She knows he heard every single thing she said and those few she didn’t. She thinks it might be best if they just leave her alone. But she’s selfish too and cannot bear to part from this. Not yet at least. He settles on her other side, closing the parenthesis: Eames and Arthur with her in between. For the first in so many months, Ariadne feels like she’s finally home.

 Arthur and Eames stay for the rest of the week until her graduation. Most days, they idle in her apartment, fighting over watching Doctor Who or River Monsters. They end up just watching reruns of Friends instead. When Arthur gets antsy, Eames would drag them out to see the rest of Paris and they visit restaurants even Ariadne doesn’t know about.

“A good meal is the best cure to all hurt.” Eames declares the first time they go to a restaurant hidden behind a gallery. And that’s the closest they get to talking about why they’re all here.

They don’t talk about Dom or the kids or the reason why Ariadne had to go back to Paris and finish her degree. She’s eternally grateful for both of them.

I still have a couple of thousand to go. But I just needed to do something with it before I’m tempted to abandon it and just write a new one. Although I may still just decide to write another one after this. 

[paperonly-blog]

against the stone and steel

title: against the stone and steel

fandom: simple plan (band)

pairing: pierre bouvier/david desrosiers

summar: David thinks pretending she doesn’t exist would cost him one day.

against the stone and steel

[sapphicfucc-deactivated20171019]

I find it funny that the actor that plays Draco Malfoy ships drarry.

[oddhour]

pick-me-ups for writers

for the self-conscious beginner: No one makes great things until the world intimately knows their mediocrity. Don’t think of your writing as terrible; think of it as preparing to contribute something great.

for the self-conscious late bloomer: Look at old writing as how far you’ve come. You can’t get to where you are today without covering all that past ground. For that, be proud.

for the perfectionist: Think about how much you complain about things you love—the mistakes and retcons in all your favorite series—and how you still love them anyway. Give yourself that same space.

for the realist: There will be people who hate your story even if it’s considered a classic. But there will be people who love your story, even if it strange and unpopular.

for the fanfic writer: Your work is not lesser for not following canon. When you write, you’ve created a new work on its own. It can be, but does not have to be, limited by the source material. Canon is not the end-all, be-all. 

for the writer’s blocked: It doesn’t need to be perfect. Sometimes you have to move on and commit a few writing sins if it means you can create better things out of it.

for the lost: You started writing for a reason; remember that reason. It’s ok to move on. You are more than your writing. It will be here if you want to come back.

[paperonly-blog]

This definitely needed to be reblogged

[paperonly-blog]

written for a challenge a couple of years back. the challenge was to write a letter to your last love. of course when I wrote this, my last love was my first love. now though, i’ve been through other loves , each more tragic than the last. or maybe not so much tragic as depressing. hmmm

D,

Our songs have been playing lately in the airwaves. I'm not sure if it's because of Avril's new album and the world feels that the funky and younger rocker was so much better than the married or if the universe is just fucking with me again. Whatever the reason may be, I've been hearing our song in the airwaves lately. It reminds me of you. Of us.

It's been a while really. Not that I've forgotten you. My mind is too fucked up to forget things I want to forget. It's just I've moved on from pinning over you to pinning over someone more unlikely to love me back. I'm screwed really, vicious cycle going on and on again.

Anyway, heard you got yourself a cute little girlfriend. I bet she loves you. You're easy to fall in love with. Hard to love but easy to fall in love with. I bet she laughs at all your silly antics and god-awful jokes. I bet she's on the receiving end of all your sugar-coated teasing. I can imagine her being serenaded every single day, the tips of her ears reddening from all the attention you shower her with.

I miss those. I miss the days when I still had the excuse of youth to sulk in the corner of the classroom then start throwing things at you. I miss constantly trying to get your attention and holding it long enough for you to notice I'm annoyed.

I miss the endless banter, the free flowing conversation that comprised most of our days. I miss the spontaneous cutting of class just to sulk at the playground at the back of the school, totally ignoring the calls of our teachers because we're too damn melodramatic that way.

I miss the freedom of a thrown ball during break times, the little victories and childish revenge after a dodge ball game. I miss the subtle declarations of love and the obvious temper tantrums we have during conventional classes. I miss the thrill of waiting for a relationship that has yet to begin and will obviously not happen. I miss the idea of hoping for something that may not come.

I miss all those but I don't miss you.

Already, your smile has faded from my mind, the way your lips curved at a laugh or the way your voice shook in anger. I already forgot the smell of your cologne, already forgot the shape of your shadow. In my memory there is nothing concrete of you anymore. I only remember what I was in relation to you. But you? No more.

My past is filled with abstracts, of days and nights, all colors and no lines.

"I miss you," Avril croons.

I don’t.

A-