2016 in writing

[necessarian]

it's that time of year... the morning of the first of january, 2017, and because i can't be bothered to be a functioning human being right now, i'm putting together a summary of the year that was, for me as a writer. first of all, i updated my table of word counts; i've written more this year than i have in any other, put my total accounted-for word count over 1mil, broke 500k on my current ao3 account, and wrote a heckload of original fiction, including starting a novel, one that i'm really, truly dedicated to finishing. because i don't talk about my OF in fandom spaces i won't tell you more than that, but it's very exciting.

 

here's the classic summary questionnaire...

fandoms written in: harry potter, the raven cycle, haikyuu!!, asoiaf, other minor ones

 

looking back, did you expect to write more fic than you thought you would this year, less, or about what you’d expected?
more, holy shit, way more. 2016 was the year i left one-shots behind and really focused on longfic. i finished both my WIPs and started a couple of original novels, nbd. i took on 50k a month challenges in march and september and smashed them both, so that's 100k right there. (these were on many projects at once; i don't have the focus for a nano-type thing.) yeah. i'm really proud of myself.

 

what’s your own favorite story of the year?
for the wonderful aroceu's birthday i made a foray back into writing merlin fic, with play to win. this is a semi-epistolary modern-with-magic merthur sports anime and i love it madly. i wrote like 5k of it in one go just so aro could read it on the plane. it's basically the silliest thing i wrote all year and i think that's why it takes the position as my personal favourite, even though it's not the best. sometimes you've just gotta say "fuck it" and have fun.
 

did you take any writing risks this year?
ah, um, yes. as well as the two 50k a month challenges, i wrote outside of my comfort zone and started publishing somewhere quasi-anonymously. it's weird and liberating and i think i'm starting to like fandom again. not that i ever truly disliked fandom, but god it can be a negative place sometimes, and it's nice to throw off the whole personal investment thing and just Write. the biggest problem with this is that i yearn for popularity and it's been kind of hard to start anew. but in the long run, if i'm having fun, i'm winning, right? also don't worry i haven't abandoned being memorde, the vast, vast, vast majority of my stuff for all the same fandoms is still going to end up here :D

 

do you have any fanfic or profit goals for the new year?
i want to be less embarrassed and write what i love, and i want to be unapologetic about my own self-fulfilment. i know that's selfish but 2017 is going to be the year i love what i write, every single word of it. shame is boring and irony is dead. i'm all about happiness now. my other goal is to write 500k haha i reckon i've got a good chance of making that happen.

 

best story of the year?
of course this is maybe i dreamt you, my first raven cycle fic. i finished reading the first three books in five days, then in the next eleven days (this was during march) i powered out an 18k fic. i'm still not entirely sure how i managed that, but it's a personal favourite of like, everything i've ever written. the writing is great and the providence is hilarious. everything that happened in the first half of the year feels a little bit like a fever dream but some great stuff came out of that time.
 

most popular story of the year?
man, pynch week totally got away from me this year. i decided to write for the week like two days before it started, and i still managed to churn out a fic each day. okay, the last day was late, but i was at smash, and i posted that fic from my phone and had it beta read in person by handing my phone to mandy. i think i can cut myself some slack on that one. but, yeah, i was really surprised by the reception my pynch week stories got; i'm not used to getting so many kudos in one go (except on by any other name, that old fiend, and on one of my anonymous stories, ~900 words which got 300 kudos overnight [breaking baon's record of 110] because i pulled an exceptional feat of right place right time.) anyway, i digress. this one grocery store au, had to start it somewhere ("i took her to the supermarket, i don't know why but i had to start it somewhere... so it started...... there") got a huge reception. i mean, it's only on 216 kudos which isn't actually a lot compared to other stuff i've done, but in context it was crazy, for like two weeks after pynch week it was being rec'd all over tumblr, and i got so many comments and... i didn't really expect that because it wasn't even my favourite fic that week. so like i guess the moral of this story is that popularity isn't only about kudos. it's about recs and reception and all that other wonderful stuff that comes with being a fanauthor. and by that metric, had to start it somewhere is the real success story of this year.
 

story of mine most under-appreciated by the universe, in my opinion:
i have two: one is also a pynch week fic, (don't) turn around. it's, okay, it's tagged with "ambiguous character death," so i get why no-one read it, but yikes guys this is some of my best writing ever and it's got 43 kudos. "but didn't you just say it's about the reception, not the kudos count?" shhh shhhhhhh the entire world deserves to read this fic it's so good. anyway!! the other is a haikyuu!! fic of mine which really broke some new ground by having been published for months and only having 19 kudos. so darkness i became is genfic about female characters. yeah. at the time i wasn't proud of it because i'd been stressed out writing it, but i got some really wonderful feedback on it that made me feel a lot better about it, and now i demand justice. by contrast, my harry potter minor character/gen stuff has very few kudos too, but the harry potter fandom is really spread out so it's less likely you'll get a lot of reception there. hq and trc...... i expected better. BUT that's not to say i didn't have fun writing them and honestly it's not about popularity, i'm trying to Chill The Fuck Out on that front, and i know my writing has improved SO much this year, so that's what really counts.

 

most fun story to write:
this is a toss-up between play to win and one of my hp fics, all manor of things. (i wrote them quite close together. what does that say?) anyway, all manor of things has a pun in the title and it's a heist fic so like, what more could you want? i broke new ground with this fic because i really pushed myself to write action scenes, something that's been historically very hard for me to do. but i did it, and i had insane amounts of fun doing it, and i learnt that i can do it, which is probably the most important part of all.

 

story with the single sexiest moment:
none lol

most sweet story:
the pynch anti-prom fic, starlight and fireflies. it's just cute. also henry broadway aka cheng two is in it so what's not to love!

 

”holy crap, thats wrong, even for you!” story:
the closest i can get to this is probably the fact that i broached character death territory with (don't) turn around. what can i say? it's the raven cycle. plus i left it ambiguous so you can choose to read it with a hopeful ending.

 

story that shifted my own perceptions of the characters:
ah, i wrote a sweet little piece about the karasuno third years for the australian hq fanbook, called full sun; chance of a storm. it was originally going to be about datekou but a few lines into the narration i realised it was much too pretty to be anyone but kiyoko, so i switched up the whole thing. i really probed into her character with this piece and got to understanding her a lot better. i'm pleased to say i think it's still consistent with her character even after the reveal about her past in later chapters of the manga!

 

most unintentionally telling story:
i've gotta be honest, i don't think i wrote anything particularly telling this year.

 

hardest story to write:

uh? aro and i finished due season. i finished my part way after i fell off the edge of the hq fandom and it was really hard to get back in the zone, but damn it, i made it happen.

biggest disappointment:
i've already had a whinge about underappreciated fic so i'll spare you this. besides, new year's resolution, not to let a lack of kudos/etc disappoint me! i want to be only positive about my writing this year.

 

biggest surprise:

the biggest surprise this year was just how easy it was for me to get back into the harry potter fandom. i mean, i'd been working on accidental renaissance since late 2013, but that was it. this year i made a conscious effort to sign up to a lot of hp fic fests to give me an excuse to flex my potterverse muscles. (since i've been focusing so much on original fiction, a lot of the time now it takes fests for me to write fic.) and, yeah, it was just really easy to get back into it... this is my forever fandom, after all. it's great to know it's still there.

now, i've seen some people doing month-by-month summaries of the year, so i thought i'd give that a go too. let's begin...


JANUARY

i started off the year recovering from swag, and posted those fills onto tumblr or ao3 as i saw fit. otherwise, i really didn't get much writing done in january. i, uh, i don't even have a good example to give. how embarrassing! anyway, on to february.

FEBRUARY

only marginally more productive than january. here's some ennofuta from my tumblr:

“It’s a long story,” Ennoshita says. “I… you said it yourself. I was standing in for the captain.”

 

“Let me guess,” Futakuchi says, “that’s you next year? You’re going to have to step out of his shadow eventually, you know.”

 

It’s been a long day, and it’s about to get even longer, so Ennoshita doesn’t hold back. “Don’t talk like you know me,” he snaps.

 

Futakuchi takes a step back like Ennoshita’s slapped him, and Ennoshita passingly feels guilty. “Know you?” Futakuchi asks. “I am you.” He tugs at his shirt. “You know what number used to be here? Six, like you. You know what I went through when our third years—”

 

He doesn’t finish the sentence because, like Ennoshita a moment ago, there are tears welling in the corner of his eyes, a crack in his voice.

 

“You don’t know—” he tries, but doesn’t finish, burying his face in his hands.

 

Ennoshita understands the impulse to hide. “I’m sorry,” he says again, feeling more useless than ever. “I didn’t mean it that way.”

 

There’s an awful pause. Ennoshita doesn’t know how to comfort people, not really. He stands blankly in front of Futakuchi, thinks about Tanaka telling him he’d be able to understand every different type of person—but if he doesn’t know what type of person Futakuchi is, then what’s he supposed to do?

 

“Our team were looking forward to playing yours,” he says, filling the almost-silence.

 

“Because we’re easier to beat than Seijou,” Futakuchi says, parting his fingers to let Ennoshita see the grin on his face, the self-deprecating humour.

 

“Don’t worry,” Ennoshita says, “so are we.”

 

“A good match, then,” Futakuchi says.

 

Ennoshita imagines them on opposite sides of the court. It’s stupid, but he indulges anyway, lets that cruel part of his mind take over and puts Daichi on the bench, aside from the black and orange and teal and white. He steps a little back from the net, and this time he’s ready for Kageyama’s toss; he doesn’t spike too hard and it doesn’t go out—he hits it off Futakuchi’s block and it bounces down onto the court, a loud, satisfying series of taps as the bounce fades to a gentle roll. The referee lowers the flag towards Karasuno, and a number ticks over on the sidelines.

 

“We would’ve been,” Ennoshita says.

MARCH

this was the month i finally finished before destruction! here's a bit from the last chapter:

A candle flickered at the altar between them. London saw a dark, overcast night, snow lining the streets and more falling from the sky as cold sleet. Inside the church, however, it was warm. The wooden pews took on the colour of bronze in the dim light, and the stone walls held fast as an ancient fortress, reassuring all those within their confines that they would be safe – that they would come to no harm, not tonight.

 

Brienne closed her eyes and let herself be surrounded only by sensation, the scent of the hot wax and the shuffling of the people around her, leaning closer in anticipation.

 

By her side stood her father, his shoulders sodden in the short walk from the carriage to the church door. The heavy wool of his coat would not allow them to dry. He had complained bitterly that he had no finery to wear, but they were insignificant complaints when compared to his disapproval of the way the wedding was to be conducted. Brienne could not fault him – there was no glamour in a special license, obtained at the greatest expediency possible, to grant marriage to two people who might otherwise be forced to live in sin.

 

On that night, the night that Brienne had been forced to leave Winterfell, she and Captain Lannister had first hastened to the Winter Town, as neither of them felt it would be seemly to act without his consultation. Major Tarth had not been pleased, but he had agreed that the best course of action was to send a rider to London with an urgent missive to obtain audience with the Archbishop to solicit for a special license. And so they remained in the Winter Town that night and set off the following morning as the sun was barely risen.

 

Over their journey, Brienne had kept her own rooms in whichever inn they took to for respite, and spent much time alone writing letters, which would be sent ahead of them with the post. She wrote to Sansa and to Miss Tyrell, telling them of her circumstances. It had given her some dull pleasure amongst her torment to write that they should address any replies to Casterly Rock.

 

There was no need for that, however, as Captain Lannister had written to his brother, who, when he discovered that Sansa was also aware of the circumstances, co-ordinated to write to the Tyrells and Renly Baratheon, and arranged for Mr. Baratheon to meet with the Archbishop on their behalf. It was unorthodox, but the Baratheons and Lannisters were of significant fortune to make it worth the Archbishop’s while to issue the license. Brienne did not want to think of the implications of such a sum of money, but if not for Mr. Lannister’s assistance, she and Captain Lannister might have been left waiting countless more days in London, and living apart still. On that account, she was grateful.

 

Instead of having to wait, they stood opposite one another at an altar, with Miss Tyrell and Sansa sitting together in the frontmost pew. Any animosity Sansa might’ve held towards Miss Tyrell due to her engagement to Lord Baratheon was momentarily placed aside by their shared interest in Brienne’s happiness. Beside them sat Mr. Baratheon and Mr. Tyrell. Brienne still wondered that she could have such good friends, such companions who would support her despite the ill-planned nature of her marriage.

 

If she had been given the chance to do it again, she would have started planning it earlier, and told Mrs. Stark later. It would do no good to ruminate in such a way on the past, though. Brienne simply counted herself lucky that she was to be wed at all. And wed to Captain Jaime Lannister, with a special license! How the society pages would throw themselves upon such a match. It was her sole consolation that the society pages would have no idea who Miss Brienne Tarth might be.

 

But in the space of a moment, she was no longer Miss Brienne Tarth – she was Mrs. Brienne Lannister, Lady of Casterly Rock.

APRIL

i wrote most of maybe i dreamt you in march, but i posted it in april and that's what counts. shh. two excerpts, one from ronan's POV and one from adam's just to give you an idea of the range i was working with here:

“You scare me sometimes,” Ronan said.

 

Noah was probably grinning, although Ronan couldn’t see his face. “Wouldn’t be a good haunting if I didn’t.”

 

Ronan sat up and rubbed the back of his head, sore from how long it’d been pressed against the floor.

 

“Want to talk about it?” Noah asked.

 

Even if Ronan never said anything, Noah would always know exactly what was going on. No, he wanted Ronan to say it out loud, because he thought it’d be good for him. Well, Earth to Ghost Boy, Ronan thought rudely, no way was he admitting to it. It was a superstition, on the same level as telling a witch your name so she could curse you, but he felt that if he vocalised his feelings for Adam, it would suddenly be real, existing outside of the safety of his mind.

 

“No fucking way,” he told Noah.

 

Noah shrugged, beginning to flicker out of visibility. “Suit yourself. I’m telling you now, though, this will become painless if you talk to Adam about it…”

 

And when had Ronan ever taken the painless option?

 

As time wore on, he busied himself studying Horace’s odes. The eleventh ode was staring at him. It was a beast to translate, with lines that wandered all over the place, like tu ne quaesieris scire nefas quem mihi, quem tibi finem di dederint—Ronan’s translations were always a little more colloquial than everyone else’s, anyway. Don’t ask how the Gods will end my life, or yours—it’s a sin to know it. But how badly he wanted to ask.

 

And then, a line down, ut melius quicquid erit pati! Whatever will be, how much better it is to endure it!

 

Or, as Ronan’s translation read: Suck it up!

~

The air was damp when they got out of the BMW, humid and frosty. Adam realised he’d forgotten his dream journal. His joints were stiff from sitting, and he stumbled into the knee-high grass, stretching, turning his face up to the sky. From the grey, a single drop fell. He followed the sensation of the drop rolling down his cheek, like the dust of a barren creek bed coming alive after a drought. Unconsciously, his arms fanned out by his sides. He had arrived there specifically to greet the rains. Needles of water parted the grass around him, blades brushing against his legs. Even though it was cold, he wished he was wearing shorts.

 

“Adam… ?”

 

His eyes followed the sound of Gansey’s voice. The others were already on the porch, to his right—no, Gansey and Ronan and an echo of Noah were there. Blue was by Adam’s side. Gently, she took him by the wrist.

 

“Are you alright?”

 

“It’s raining,” he said.

 

Blue looked at him curiously. “It might soon,” she said.

 

Touching his fingers to his cheek, Adam pulled them away dry. “I guess it might,” he said.

MAY

a gesture, a phrase is a trc band au i wrote for billie. i'm very pleased with it still! here's an excerpt:

It’s a hot summer night, the two of them wandering away from the others. They’re in a country town which is rural enough that it almost feels like Henrietta. Adam could never seem to sever himself from Henrietta, even when he left for college, and now his hometown is following him on tour. There are early fireworks one field down from where they’ve parked the van, around the stage of the sole outdoor gig on their schedule. It stays light late and they’re not playing until it’s dark. There’s another band out there now. Adam wonders if their tours are anything like his.

 

Ronan stops when they’re far enough away and crouches down, sifting the grass through his fingers. “Parrish.”

 

“What.” Adam doesn’t sit, because he likes having one eye on the van, bright orange against the setting sun, like a beacon. He thinks that if he loses sight of it he might not be able to find his way back.

 

“It’s been a month,” Ronan says.

 

“On tour,” Adam says, “yeah. I’m trying to imagine going back to college in a few weeks.”

 

“I’ll come visit,” Ronan says.

 

Adam kicks Ronan’s knee. Ronan does an admirable job of staying upright. “You already come visit,” Adam says.

 

“I mean.” Ronan looks like he’s faltering with the physical effort of whatever he’s trying to say. “I mean I’ll come. More than usual.”

 

“Are you trying to ask me out?”

 

Adam bites his lip. For a moment, Ronan doesn’t respond. Then, he tugs at Adam’s ankle, and Adam gets the message—Ronan has always favoured actions over words. He acts like he doesn’t think before he acts, but Adam thinks that the actions are his thoughts. He joins Ronan, crouched in the field.

 

“If you think this is going to end with summer—”

 

“Shut up,” Ronan says. “As if I’d think something like that.”

 

Just in case, Adam kisses him. He knows Ronan doesn’t need reassurance, because Ronan is strong—but he’s strong in his own way, and even he might need someone to be there for him, sometimes. Ronan kisses him back with all the spark of the fireworks but none of the veneer and, gently, Adam rests a hand against his chest and Ronan obliges, falling with his back to the grass.

JUNE

i wrote a lot in june, but probably my favourite scene of the month is from all manor of things:

The portrait burst into vivid life.

 

“Young men!” she exclaimed. “Why it must have been five hundred years since last I saw any young men around these parts!”

 

James looked over his shoulder at Teddy. Teddy shrugged. Maybe if they didn’t respond, nothing more would happen. That was wishful thinking.

 

“And dressed up so finely too,” the portrait continued, becoming more animated. “I can’t have seen a good set of dress robes since I went to balls myself—oh, seventeen something, perhaps? I’ll hazard that wasn’t five hundred years ago, in fact—”

 

Outside, the topic of conversation changed: “Do you hear that?”

 

“We’re going to die here,” Teddy bemoaned. “We’re going to be murdered in the bowels of Malfoy Manor and no-one will ever find our bodies and—”

 

“Would you shut up?” James hissed. “I don’t know how you ever get anything done if you can’t keep a cool head in a crisis. We’ll just Apparate. It’ll be fine.”

 

“No magic!” Teddy said. Their voices were becoming louder in the knowledge that they’d be drowned out by the portrait’s incessant rambling. “We can hide under the bed, or… if there was some way to get her to stop talking…”

 

James appreciated the way that Teddy liked to think these things through, reason his way out of problems. He could never be that person in a situation like this, though—the time for hesitation had long passed, and James shot first, asked questions later.

 

“—and that’s when I first danced with Septimus Malfoy,” the portrait said. “Oh, but he was a fine young man! It was only a pity I was to marry his brother, but of course Octavian didn’t last long, so—”

 

“Sorry to interrupt,” James said, “but we’re in a bit of a hurry.”

 

He made to lift the portrait off the wall, intending to break the canvas over his knee if he had to, but the moment his hands gripped the sides of the frame, he felt the wall give way.

 

“Teddy,” he said, “Teddy, we can—”

 

For once, Teddy was quick on his feet and he ran over to help James push the wall askew. It rotated about a central point, and they levered it open just enough to squeeze through. There was a rush of air as they closed it behind them, and it was pitch dark, freezing cold.

 

James could still hear the portrait talking from the other room, but she was interrupted by the sound of the door opening.

 

“This is the place,” came the voice belonging to the wizard in the brown robes. “This is where I heard the voices.”

 

“Oh!” exclaimed the portrait. “Young men! Why it must have been five hundred years since last I saw any young men around these parts! And dressed up so finely too—”

 

JULY

i was travelling in july so i didn't publish anything, but i did finish writing accidental renaissance in my hotel room! here's something from the final chapter, which was only beta'd and published in november:

They spent the rest of their time in Ayr alternating between watching loads of bad daytime telly and getting everything in order for London. Anthony was a prolific list-maker, itemising everything from cleaning duties to how they’d allocate their shared wardrobe space. He made lists about what they’d need in the kitchen, inspired by helping Dr. Smith in the kitchen and talking about physics. While that went on, Zacharias watched the news—now, he knew what “new Labour” meant.

 

The last part—and the worst part—was packing. Zacharias had a lot of things he habitually left at the back of his bedroom cupboard: clothes he wore exclusively on holiday, clothes that hadn’t fit him for at least five years, clothes he’d been sent as a birthday present from his mother and never worn once. Anthony was helping him sort through what to keep and what to throw out—and taking a few of the smaller things for himself.

 

“No point letting it go to waste,” he would say, looking in the mirror and holding something against himself for appraisal. The very thought of Anthony wearing his clothes made Zacharias feel like he might burst into flames, but he’d have to learn to manage. There was that afternoon last semester when he’d shown up to Quidditch in a Ravenclaw tie. That was fine, since he was only going to get changed anyway, but Anthony had a Prefect’s meeting, and Professor McGonagall had asked him in front of everyone, “Since when has the Head Boy been in Hufflepuff?”

 

“What’s this?” Anthony was right at the back of the cupboard, sorting through dusty cardboard boxes.

 

“What does it look like?” Zacharias asked. “If it’s that far back, it’s probably for throwing out.”

 

“I think it’s a violin case,” Anthony said.

 

Zacharias put down the sweater he was folding and joined Anthony on the floor. The box lay between them, with Zacharias’ old viola case sticking out the top. “Well I never,” he said. “It’s been eight years since I touched this.”

 

“I didn’t know you played the violin,” Anthony said, a smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

 

“Viola,” Zacharias said.

 

“You should bring it to London,” Anthony said. “Pick it up again.”

 

Celia had told him something like that too. “I don’t know,” Zacharias said. “I’ve probably forgotten everything.”

 

“But it’s pretty attractive,” Anthony said, “this mental image I’ve got of you all kitted out like you’re in an orchestra, brandishing your bow…”

 

Anthony was so much more persuasive than Celia had been. Zacharias leant across the cardboard box and kissed him. It was partly because he liked to remind himself that kissing Anthony was something he could do whenever he wanted. And partly because there was sunlight coming in through the window that lit up half of Anthony’s face, and because Zacharias was so stupidly infatuated, and so ridiculously happy that he couldn’t help it.

 

“I take it that’s a, ‘Wow, Anthony, you’re right, I’ll pack it in my suitcase.’”

 

“Wow, Anthony, you’re right,” Zacharias said, “I’ll pack it in my suitcase.”

 

He was throwing out more than he was keeping, anyway.

AUGUST

this was the month of pynch week, so here's an excerpt from my favourite piece of the month, (don't) turn around:

At so many miles an hour, the rain is lost the moment it hits the car, a steady downpour dispelled like Ronan is drawing a knife through it. He thinks if he cut this night open, it would burst out like flowers in full bloom and every sound, every light, every word that had passed between the group of them. Between Ronan and Gansey, Ronan and Adam. He winds down the windows, all the windows, and invites in the rain. He switches tracks on the CD player. Rivulets run down his arm as the Murder Squash song blares a death fugue, marking his processional—the BMW his hearse, Ronan its undertaker, its corpse. He turns up the volume.

 

The mountains claim the skyline as their own. Ronan stops the car before he gets to Cabeswater—where Cabeswater used to be—unable to bear being any closer. This is close enough, here, on the ley line, in this presence of so much magic. And it’s surprisingly easy to fall asleep like this, rain on the roof of the car keeping a steady crescendo with electronica that should be loud enough to drown it out, but isn’t.

 

Ronan closes his eyes.

 

It isn’t immediately apparent that he’s dreaming. He can feel the shift in his presence, that familiar lucidity—he curls his fingers into a fist just to check that he still has control over this landscape. He does.

 

When he opens his eyes again, it doesn’t look the same. It looks like the absence of colour he sees when he closes his eyes, and all the tiny points of light that populate his vision. Dizzying and so inherently wrong, it takes Ronan some time to acclimatise to the way this dream feels. He reaches out to steady himself on something, but there’s nothing.

 

“Cabeswater?” he tries. “Adam?”

 

A voice so deep he doesn’t hear it at all rings through Ronan’s bones. “Gone.”

 

“I know that,” he snaps. “But this is my dream. I’m asserting my authority. Give him back.”

 

“And the other one?” the demon asks.

 

Gansey. “You take Cabeswater,” Ronan says. He refuses to let his voice waver. “Unmake it, or whatever the fuck you do. Give me Gansey and Adam.”

 

“I will be your hands,” the demon says, “I will be your eyes.”

 

Ronan doesn’t know how to be patient. He stamps his foot, but it doesn’t connect with any ground. Somehow, he stays balanced. “Give them back!”

 

This time when the demon speaks, Ronan feels its timbre, but Adam’s voice reverberates in his eardrums: “I will be your hands. I will be your eyes.”

 

“He’s not yours to take,” Ronan says. He’s not scared. He’s not scared.

 

The demon just laughs.

 

“He’s not yours!” Ronan says again. “He’s not anyone’s.”

 

His words echo in this cavern, bouncing off walls he can’t see. The demon falls silent, like a rush of air leaving Ronan’s lungs. Ronan stands static, waiting for something, any signal. Nothing comes. Nothing. He takes a step forward, his feet sure on the unsteady ground, and pushes through the dream.

 

The pinprick lights flicker around him, parting like a fog and suspended like fireflies. Ronan can’t see himself until he makes contact with a swathe of tiny dots, a spectrum from red through green and blinding white—the sparks illuminate his arm, his fingers, for a second at a time. He moves more vigorously until his own form strobes in and out of existence, solid enough to be real.

SEPTEMBER

a little bit of witchcraft from so darkness i became:

Hitoka’s room was one of the highest in the rickety castle her coven called home, a rounded enclave at the top of a turret with sturdy limestone walls and a chronic draft. She shared the space with Runa, one of the other new apprentices—Runa’s power was giving life, and with Hitoka’s help she could make flowers bloom in the cracks between the stone walls, small blooms in yellow, orange, pink, which were threatening to overtake their beds.

 

But once Hitoka had given Runa that power, the flowers wouldn’t stop growing.

 

Their florid room caught the sunlight as it rose, brushing through translucent petals like rays scattered by stained glass windows. The early morning brought bustle and activity to the coven, but little of the noise would reach the tower. If they hadn’t been required to hand in all their technology on arrival, Hitoka might have set an alarm on her phone. As it was, Kiyoko had taught her how to make a small charm for it with blue agate and dried blue hydrangea petals. Witchcraft was strange and temperamental, and Hitoka didn’t quite understand how or why it worked, but she put it on her wrist every night before she slept, and she woke up at nine sharp every morning. Like magic.

 

“What spells are you doing today?” Runa asked her.

 

Hitoka checked her notebook. “I’m still working at level five. The lights-out spell—”

 

“That was a pain!” Runa said. Her eyes went wide at the memory. “I spent weeks trying to make it work.”

 

“I’ve been jealous of every witch with light powers for the last three days,” Hitoka moaned. “The mechanics of it are strange. I’m never sure if I need to focus on lamplight, or sunlight—and then, how do shadows play into it? Do I need to focus on making the shadow spread or on making the light fade?”

 

“I found more success in looking at the light,” Runa said, “but Hana told me it shifts from person to person. For her, it was the fringes of the shadows, the boundaries.”

 

Frowning, Hitoka picked up her pen—attached by a string to the notebook—and wrote this down. She was always taking notes, perfectly, neatly organised, trying to keep on top of all the magic she was learning. While witchcraft was messy, the covens made a valiant effort to codify it and bring it to young witches in a more manageable way. Hitoka appreciated that, but she knew there were some witches who would rather go back to their wild ways. She sometimes wondered if she might’ve been one of them, but casting without the proper care was typical of dark magic, which was something Hitoka didn’t even want to think about. It was something no good witch would think about.

OCTOBER & NOVEMBER

um, i didn't publish anything in october and november because i was so busy working on original fiction. sorry! nothing to see here!

DECEMBER

hey! i actually got back into fic in december! here's a little bit from it's a match!, my fic for the remus/sirius small gifts exchange:

It’s not a colossal change, just a different meeting place, but Remus is wary. He thinks about calling Pete and asking if he’s nearby, getting someone to escort him into the jaws of hell just in case Sirius, 29, Self-Employed, is self-employed as a serial killer and uses Tinder to pick up his victims. It’s Notting Hill, though. Posh, respectable Notting Hill. It’ll be fine.

 

He lights a fag and pulls his coat collar up around his neck as the wind grows bracing. It’s the middle of January and there’s never any work over the holidays—Remus wouldn’t be able to afford a cab anyway, let alone the petty change to top up his oyster card. His phone maps are an adequate guide through the unfamiliar streets, although the route does take him alongside Hyde Park. With little more than the guttering orange light at the end of his cigarette to cut through the darkness, Remus spends a good ten minutes convinced he’s going to be stabbed, or mugged, or both.

 

He comes to the right address at last, but it doesn’t seem like the place. There are cars pulled up and crawling for spots all along the street, and a house with open doors and light and laughter spilling out onto the planter boxes outside. Over the entrance, there’s a banner reading, JAMES POTTER FOR KENSINGTON.

 

Remus is already late. He types a quick message to Sirius:

>> I don’t think this is your house. This place has a do on for ?? A by-election ?

Nah that’s it! Come on in I’ll find you

 

For a moment, Remus can’t do anything but stare at his phone in disbelief. Sirius, smooth-talking in text and next-level handsome in all five of his profile pictures, invited Remus out on a date… to a political function.