chrismg, you have done a fine job of managing a sensitive topic without getting drenched in it. It rang true to this survivor without being dreadfully triggery. (Someone of a different temperment, at a different point in their journey to wholeness might have a different feeling, particularly if unwarned. So yes, I do think the warning is valuable, but also yes I do not think you will be engaging your readers in boatloads of unnecessary pain.) About where your chapter should be divided up, well, it feels fine as is - but once the whole thing is complete, you may well wish to rearrange things for pacing or what-have-you. That could well be a weakness of the practice of posting whatever chunk the author has written at any given time as a chapter in places like FFN. Going back with a fine editor's eye just has so little chance to happen. And it futzes with notifications to readers.

I wish there was an easy way to tell where traffic on AO3 comes from. One of the single-chapter stories I have posted there has five times the number of hits of my next most popular fic, which has seventeen chapters. It's not my best piece and it isn't the smuttiest thing I've ever written. Simply Googling for fic recs mentioning it isn't coming up with anything. And really, the difference in number of hits is vastly out of line with any rec I've had on any other story. Mysterious.

Heaven help me, I think I'm writing another Mentalist fic.

I wrote my first slash ever. It's Dragon Age Inquisition, Dorian/Iron Bull, and I'm inordinately pleased with myself for having written it.

Err, remember that "Life On Mars"/Blue Beetle crossover fic I was writing last year? I, uhm, seem to have started that back up again, picking up where we left off:

Heaven's In Here: Part Eight: A thousand words

“That can’t be him,” said Etta, shoving me aside to look closer at the photo. “Look at the caption. It says 1973.”

She stepped back again, as though trying to get a different perspective on it.

“Maybe it’s his dad or something?” she said, hopefully.

I guess I’d seen more impossible things than PC Henrietta Bishop, because I wasn’t convinced. Besides, the idea that DCI Gene Hunt might be 20 or so years older than he appeared wasn’t even the weirdest thing to happen that day.

“There’s names on the plaque,” I said, wiping the dust off with my finger. “PC Christopher Skelton, DC Ray Carling, WPC Annie Cartwright, DCI Gene Hunt and DI Sam Tyler.” For some reason, my eyes were drawn to Tyler. There was something about him, something almost familiar.

Etta was fascinated now, looking over the wall of photos for another glimpse of Hunt. She found one.

“Look at this,” she said. “The date’s 1982, and he’s still labeled a DCI. Has he been a DCI for more than 20 years? That’s … a little weird.”

I looked at the photo. The color quality and hair both screamed “'80s” so loudly Flock of Seagulls may as well be playing behind them.

“Hey,” I said. “The other photo’s labeled ‘Manchester,’ and this one’s labeled ‘London.’ Did he transfer?”

Eta nodded.

“I think I heard that once,” she said. “He’s definitely from somewhere up that way.”

“OK,” I said. “Then why are Skelton and Carling in this picture, too? Is that normal?”

“No,” replied Etta. “It isn’t. And they look the exact same. My God, these photos have been here the whole time I have, and I’ve never noticed them.”

She wiped the dust of the tiny plaque at the photo’s base.

“WPC Sharon Granger,” she said, reading the plate, “and DI Alex Drake. That name’s kind of familiar, actually. I think she was a big deal about a decade ago.”

“What happened to her?” I asked.

“She moved on,” said a snarling voice behind us. We turned, and Hunt was behind us, annoyance written all over his face. “Eventually, everyone moves on. Except me. And you lot’ll be moving on a lot faster if you keep poking your noses in other people’s business.

“But the photos,” saud Etta, “they …”

“Old friends,” said Hunt, dismissively. “Good coppers, every one of them.”

He turned on his heel and stormed off, leaving Etta and I dumbfounded behind him.

I started to speak, but Etta interrupted.

“You know, DI Kord,” she said. “I think our shift is about over. Fancy a pint?”

Dear God, did I ever.

For those who enjoy exploration of class, sex, and gender roles, Hostage. RPS, A/B/O, mpreg. Heed the warnings on the post.

For any Buffista in a mood to write something cracktastic - I'd love to read a "Dr. Strange and Mr. Norell" crossover.

So, I understand that sometimes a writer is writing in a characters pov or voice, but I'm shocked to come across this and realize it was most likely a woman/girl writing it (and more shockingly, that I don't remember it pinging me when I first read the story years ago), when goes like this:

Something that wouldn't sound like Dean was a step away from getting a vagina transplant, or like one of those girlyass CW shows.

And I know it's probably in-character, and is an attitude canon to the source material. But it has been burning me lately to see this in fic, especially fic that has a special place in my heart from five and ten years ago. I've been given permission to still enjoy Blurred Lines, but it still feels like slap in the face when I'm rereading old favorites.

Dunno what to say about that. It is pretty awful. If you can enjoy it anyway, for what it does well great. If that spoils it for you, you don't have to feel bad about not enjoying it either. Perfectly cromulent reaction Or if you enjoy but enjoyit less p yoou know all reasonable attitudes. I get that there is a real feeling of loss in re-reading something you loved once and having much more mixed reactions.

Ooh, my first Agents of SHIELD fic:

Too Hard to Name It

The whole time she was alone, Jemma kept her spirits up by saying, “That was alien tech. Tech is Fitz’s job. Fitz is coming. Fitz will find a way to get me home. My job is biology. My job is life. I will stay alive long enough for him to find me.” At really low times, Jemma wondered why it was taking so long, but her answer was always, “It takes time. Fitz is working on it. He’s working on it, give him time.”

It seemed such a long time, but the days were not the same length, so weeks and months could not be tracked. Malnutrition, trauma, stress, sleep deficit - all eating away at her higher functions - she could barely remember his face or the sound of his voice. But she kept whispering to herself, “Fitz is coming” like scripture. Some days those were the only three words she said. After a while she stopped saying it aloud, dehydration made it hurt uselessly. But it went round and round in her head, making her try to sleep, making her keep hunting, keep hiding, keep running, keep living.

And then she saw the flare.

Early on, she had calculated how much water her body needed for various levels of activity. Hunting and digesting food takes water. Breathing hard uses up water. Talking uses up water. Running uses water. Hiding uses water. Walking uses water. To check out the flare would use up, possibly waste, the water she had collected from an improvised solar still. But she drank it. And for the first time in a long time, she used her vocal cords: “Fitz is coming.” Her voice crackled. It hurt to talk. But Jemma said it again, and started walking.

This was composed as a comment fic on a gif-set of Gemma waking up with her sharp stick in her hand then going back to sleep on Leo's leg posted by tony-pepper-stark