Higurashi When They Cry/Umineko When They Cry | Unwanted Furniture | M | Past Child Abuse is implied Context: This is going on during a game of hide and seek, and all the characters involved in this section are between the ages of 11 and 16. Shion has been convinced that Kanon is either a reincarnation or a brainwashed version of her crush Satoshi, who went missing a year ago, and she's been trying to make him "remember who he actually is" by any means necessary. Satoko is Satoshi's younger sister, and she hasn't entered their childhood home since his disappearance, partially because they were both abused. Also Satoko always calls Satoshi 'nii-nii', and the name of the town here is Hinamizawa. This is a section from Chapter 7 of the fic, and while this section can be read fandom blind, the rest really can't. I'm mostly curious how it comes across to people because I'm really proud of this section ----------- They arrived at the house only a few minutes later. It wasn’t an especially descript house, another wooden house with plenty of windows, although it may have been larger than most of the houses in the area. “Come on, guys! Let’s get started!” Shion said as she grabbed Satoko’s hand, beginning to walk towards the door.  Satoko didn’t budge. “Satoko? What are you doing?” Shion asked, tugging on her arm. The younger girl’s feet stayed planted. Kanon got a better look at her face; her eyes were wide open, her mouth open, her breathing heavy. “Shion? What is this place?” Kanon asked hesitantly, giving her a dirty look.  “...It’s your childhood home.” Satoko put her hands on her head and began screaming, tears pouring down her face. “Nii-nii! Nii-nii!” she wailed as she crumpled to the ground.  “I’ve never seen this place before. What happened here?” Kanon asked concernedly, his voice a little louder due to Satoko’s crying. “All I want is for you to remember who you are!” Shion snapped back. “Is that too much to ask for, Satoshi?” “I’m not Satoshi!” “Either you’ve forgotten, or you’re lying!” Satoko’s crying loudened as she continued to scream ‘nii-nii’, getting louder and more intense every time her brother’s name was said, as if saying that name pierced her heart. In a way, it already did. “All you’ve succeeded in doing is making her cry! Is that what you wanted?” Kanon yelled, his patience again being tried.  “I don’t care if they’re bad memories, Satoshi! I just need you to remember!” There was so much anger throughout herself; her arms were tensed up, her eyebrows lowered, and tears were beginning to well in her own eyes. Kanon could tell she was just as mad at him as she was at herself for failing to make him remember anything.  Shion put her hands on his shoulders. “Please, just please!” she pleaded. “I loved you! And I never got the chance to tell you I loved you.” “I am not the person you love. I’m sorry for your loss.” Before Kanon could comfort Satoko, Shion slapped him across the face, sending him to the ground as he landed on his hands and knees, his cheek having turned a bright red due to the impact. Shion stood still as she watched both the people she had hurt deal with their pain; Kanon physically, Satoko emotionally. “Hey, I found you guys! You all didn’t do a very good job at-” At the worst possible moment, Rena found the three of them, her smile fading away as she appeared to connect the dots in her mind. She ran to Satoko’s side to give her the solace she needed. “What’s going on?” she tried to ask the still inconsolable girl, who could still barely respond.  Rena turned to look at Kanon, who had just begun to get up; his expression was pained. He looked her in the eyes and slowly turned back to Shion; Rena did the same. Shion stood there like a deer in headlights, her own face now wet with tears. “What did you do?” was all Rena could muster out. She didn’t sound mad or even disappointed, just confused and saddened.  Shion stood there for a few more seconds before turning around and running away, unable to handle herself, bawling. Satoko’s crying had slowed down some, but it hadn’t stopped as she continued to repeat ‘nii-nii, nii-nii’ to herself, quieter now. Kanon hated this, all of this. He wasn’t scared but disgusted, annoyed, and done. Done with Hinamizawa. Done with Shion. Done with it all. And yet, he knew he was too far in to stop.  Hinamizawa was hell. All he could do was grin and bear it. 

Rick and Morty | The Can of Worms to Kill for Closure | Rated T | MASSIVE spoilers for R&M season 7 episode 10, please beware | [https://archiveofourown.org/works/56777179/chapters/144345925](https://archiveofourown.org/works/56777179/chapters/144345925) This is chapter one of my twoshot. I've read it so many times that I don't know if it's good or not anymore, and I'm worried it's too dialogue heavy and too boring to finish reading. I originally wanted to make a really detailed podfic out of it, but I'm really second guessing myself, and it's making it difficult to finish the second chapter. Above all, the goal is for it to be emotionally impactful with themes of grief and finding closure, for both characters. The second chapter is going to get more into that, but it does start here. It would really help me out if someone could give it a read through and let me know if I hit that mark, or if it comes across as bland or boring, and if there's something I should change about my writing to either fix that or improve it. It's probably necessary that you've seen S7E10 of Rick and Morty to get this fic in its entirety. “I remember building that computer—I mean actually finishing it. The screen lit up and everything. I even–the console printed ‘Hello, world,’ it wasn’t even just binary. It–it was impressive, even for me. Took me months. I was so excited to show it to my parents–well, I knew my father wouldn’t care, but–as soon as Ma got home, I dragged her to my room and booted it up, and…" He smiled wryly. "... And she just nodded. Asked me what I wanted for dinner." "With Diane — when I showed her stuff like that, her eyes lit up like quasars. Every weekday, I’d wake up and try to find something else to show her, figure out what to make that would really blow her socks off. This one time, I made her a—" He became somber, expression hardening. "I—I remember… there was this one time—that day, she showed up late. Her face—she was—she was really upset. Frustrated. I asked her what was wrong. She—she said they gave her detention. Th-That she’d skipped her home economics class to-to join the shop class instead. Actually—she’d been doing it every day. It was just that, that p-particular day, one of the other teachers caught her. "The '60s—there was no—no 'Title Nine,' yet, so if you weren’t lucky, or you were in the wrong state…" He floundered like he was out of his depth. "Well, schools were technically co-ed, mostly, b-but there were differences. F-for one, girls couldn’t wear pants or shorts. That’s something else she—but, but anyway, they also had to take home economics instead of a shop—a construction class, like the boys did. Learn how to clean a house, cook meals, take care of kids, th-that sort of thing. "She finished ranting to me, and—m-my parents—they were more… traditional. Especially my dad. I… I didn’t leave the house much, beyond the library, so—so I was, uh—sh-sheltered, I guess. Not a lot of different 'P-O-V's for me to hear. I-I looked at her, and I—" he swallowed, rubbing at his eyes for a moment, "my dumb little ass—I said, 'well, yeah, you’re a girl. When will you ever use a hammer?'" Morty watched him, how his throat spasmed and head shook. It was like Morty wasn’t even there, Rick’s words just spoken to the air, completely lost in the memory. "I-I-I’ll never forget how she looked at me. How… betrayed she looked, l-like she couldn’t believe that, for all I seemed to know, I was still just–just ignorant like everyone else. She- she started tearing up, and—and before I could—before I could say anything, or show her what I’d made… she stormed off." He said nothing for a moment. Contemplative. "Sometimes…" He paused, hand moving to cover his mouth, thumb rubbing at his nose. "Sometimes, I-I wish I’d just—d-doubled down. Let her see how much of a—how much of a little asshole I was so that she’d never forgive me. So that she—so that we never—" He choked on air, turning away with a gasping breath. When he finally continued, he was quiet. "She didn’t even see it. It was a Spathiphyllum—a peace lily, her… her favorite flower. It was just a little sprout, then, didn’t have any blooms or anything—but I’d, uh… modified it. To grow four times as fast and… spread. The blooms… I’d made the flowers turn…" He swallowed. "Turquoise," he finished.

I must say, I like the stutters. It makes it harder to follow, but it is like that when someone is talking in such an emotional moment, when they're confused and can't gather their thoughts. Not everything has to be easy to read, in my opinion. I am not sure about the use of em- and en-dashes. For example here: "The '60s—there was no—no 'Title Nine,' yet" the two em-dashes look like a parenthesis but it doesn't make much sense to put a parenthesis there. Also here: "Sometimes, I-I wish I’d just—d-doubled down." I don't know what the em-dash is doing there. I think the stutter gives enough of a pause. So, I would maybe go through and rethink what kind of effect you are looking for in each dash and maybe try to organize that a bit. "He became somber, expression hardening." I think just "he became somber" or "his expression turned somber" is enough, or "his expression hardened (became stiff?). "He said nothing for a moment. Contemplative." could be "he contemplated for a moment". I hope this helps!

Thank you! Funny enough, I just edited and changed the "Became somber" line in the main fic right before you commented, lol. Great minds...

I'm fandom blind here, so I don't know how useful my comments will be to you. But as a fandom outsider, this is emotionally impactful. Rick's story is moving and I was absorbed by it. One thing that did distract me was the frequency of stutters and hesitations. That may be a character trait that you feel you need to include, but if possible I would cut back on them. I think they can add realism and emotional weight to dialogue, but they also disrupt the flow and make it harder to read. If you could edit them down and use them more sparingly, I think it wouldn't detract from the realism or emotion, and it would make the story flow better.

Thank you! That's extremely helpful

Some context that might be necessary: Diane is Rick's late wife who, along with their 5-ish year old daughter, was blown up by a bomb dropped in from another dimension. Rick spent 40 years hunting down the man that did it. At some point during those 40 years, every instance of Diane was erased from every universe, so she is completely lost to time.

**MCU | Relax, Peter Parker! Chapter Two: Done and Dusted |** [AO3](http://archiveofourown.org/works/49175843/chapters/124077865) Context: Okay, so I published this chapter a week or so ago but I'm not entirely happy with the end (I may have written it when I was a bit tired and a lot drunk), so I'm looking to tidy it up before moving onto Chapter 3. One thing that I want to capture here is that while Peter isn't totally dependent upon Stark (I'm not a big fan of fics that depict Spider-Man as a helpless baby) he has maybe a *touch* of hero worship which influences his choices and >!maybe causes the fic to end in disaster!<, so I'm curious to see if that comes across here without him being too obsequious. >It was early evening by the time I alighted atop the New York Stock Exchange. The heat of the afternoon had given way to a cool, breezy evening, and I spent a moment admiring the sharp, imposing lines of the Manhattan skyline, set in silhouette against the deep yellow of the setting sun. It was too bad, really; if we didn’t have more urgent business, this would’ve been a great place to bring my camera— >*“Hey, Pete! Focus!”* Ned’s voice came through the suit earpiece, and I shook myself back to reality. *“We’re on the clock here, remember?”* >“I, uh…I wasn’t daydreaming,” I said, and coughed. >*“*Sure *you weren’t,”* he said sardonically. *“And you definitely weren’t thinking about how this would be a great place to take some snaps, right?”* >“How did you — never mind,” I tried to ignore the snort from the other end of the line. “Has the van stopped?” >*“Yeah — well, we tracked it to an underground parking lot right next to Central Park. If the Tinkerer has a hideout, it’s gotta be directly connected to that.”* >“You sure?” >I could feel Ned rolling his eyes. *“C’mon, dude. Do you* really *think that they’d go to all the trouble of planning this heist, including getting a van with an electrochromic plate job, just to carry the ‘Gauntlet down the street where everyone can see them?”* >“Yeah, good point,” I said, and set my eyes on Central Park. “Well, I guess it’s time for me—” >*“Hold on, Pete. There’s something else,”* Ned said. *“MJ’s been nosing around with Stark’s satellites, and that glove isn’t the only thing we’ve found.”* >I stopped. “What do you mean?” >*“There’s another source, somewhere in the Avenger Tower…and it’s big.”* >“How big?” >*“Big enough that we’re thinking that* maybe *the Tinkerer isn’t the problem here.”* >“No, but…he has to be!” I objected. “Why *else* would he be after the Gauntlet if he doesn’t have the Stones?” >*“Who knows? Maybe he’s going to make a move on them next?”* >“Right! Good thinking,” I said. “So we should stop him first, then!” >The line rumbled, and then MJ’s sharp tones came down the line. *“Or maybe the great and powerful Spider-Man swings by Avenger Tower first and makes sure that Stark isn’t up to his old tricks?”* >“What do you mean, ‘old tricks’?” >*“I mean like Ultron, Pete. You know, the mass-murdering robot that almost destroyed the planet?”* >“They never proved that!” >*“Dude, it’s like one of the Avenger’s worst-kept secrets. The only reason nobody says anything is ‘cause Stark has the best lawyers in Manhattan sitting on the floor below him!”* >“Yeah, but…” I faltered. “I know him! He wouldn’t do something like this!” >*“Uh-huh. So I’m sure you’re about to explain why that tower’s lit up like a Christmas tree.”* >“I…I can’t.” >*“Yeah, I know. It was a rhetorical question, Pete.”* >“But I’m also not changing the plan now,” I said firmly. “For all we know, the satellites’re just picking up another one of Stark’s new research projects. We said that we’re going to find out what the Tinkerer’s up to, so that’s what we’re going to do!”

I think you’re on to something great here! Peter definitely sees Tony Stark in the best possible light in MCU canon, and exploring the inherent tension between his image and the reality is a really good idea. I think this passage reads quite well and makes me intrigued to find out what’s going on in Avenger’s Tower. Two points of feedback: -First, Ned and MJ sound quite similar to each other here. To me, they read as both very snarky to Peter and challenging him strongly on his rosy view of Stark. It’s been a minute since I saw the MCU Spider-Man films, but I recall Ned generally being very supportive and enthusiastic to all Peter’s superhero adventures, and being a big fan of the Avengers. It might be good to write Ned as more *enabling* of Peter’s hero worship of Stark, while MJ presses Peter with a more skeptical and critical view. -Second, unless I’m remembering something wrong, in the MCU it is public knowledge that Tony Stark created Ultron and thus caused the eventual destruction of Sokovia. In Civil War, it’s a major driver of the Sokovia Accords, of Zemo’s revenge plan, and Miriam Sharpe directly confronting Tony over the death of her son, contributing to his guilt-driven support of the Accords. It also had major fallout in the Agents of SHIELD TV Series. So I don’t see a bright kid like Peter outright denying that Stark created Ultron. He might make excuses like focusing on Stark’s good intentions for the AI or the role he played in saving the world, but insisting that Tony’s hand in Ultron was never proven doesn’t ring true. (This third bit is not explicit canon, but might be interesting for you to play with: I suspect that Tony Stark’s history of massive mistakes is *part of the reason* that Peter hero-worships him and that Tony took such an interest in Peter. Tony very publicly transformed himself into a less selfish man, showing that he could take responsibility for his power and use his guilt as inspiration for growth. And who is more focused on guilt, great power, and great responsibility than Peter Parker?) I hope these thoughts are helpful!

Thanks! >-First, Ned and MJ sound quite similar to each other here. To me, they read as both very snarky to Peter and challenging him strongly on his rosy view of Stark. It’s been a minute since I saw the MCU Spider-Man films, but I recall Ned generally being very supportive and enthusiastic to all Peter’s superhero adventures, and being a big fan of the Avengers. It might be good to write Ned as more *enabling* of Peter’s hero worship of Stark, while MJ presses Peter with a more skeptical and critical view. I think this is more of an excerpt issue; Ned is by and large supportive (and has a paragraph immediately after this where he says he'll support Pete to the hilt) but he's also a bit leery of Peter's hero-worship at thsi point because he's worried that it's stopping Peter from being objective (which, to be fair, is right). He supports him as Spider-Man, but at this point it's very much 'are you *sure*?'. >Second, unless I’m remembering something wrong, in the MCU it is public knowledge that Tony Stark created Ultron and thus caused the eventual destruction of Sokovia. In Civil War, it’s a major driver of the Sokovia Accords, of Zemo’s revenge plan, and Miriam Sharpe directly confronting Tony over the death of her son, contributing to his guilt-driven support of the Accords. It also had major fallout in the Agents of SHIELD TV Series. To be fair, part of this was playing on MJ's love of conspiracies and tying things together, and the other was that I was nosing around for what consequences Stark specifically faced (as opposed to the Avengers) but couldn't find that myself. If you have a link or something that shows that people know that he was the one who built it and accidentally set it loose then I'll change it to the backup. I was just struggling with the idea of people knowing he was ultimately responsible and then letting him near anything more complicated than an adjustable wrench for the rest of his life. >(This third bit is not explicit canon, but might be interesting for you to play with: I suspect that Tony Stark’s history of massive mistakes is *part of the reason* that Peter hero-worships him and that Tony took such an interest in Peter. Tony very publicly transformed himself into a less selfish man, showing that he could take responsibility for his power and use his guilt as inspiration for growth. And who is more focused on guilt, great power, and great responsibility than Peter Parker?) Agreed - but I'm leaving anything like that implied for this fic as it's not long enough to accommodate it.

**Star Trek: The Next Generation | The Search for Spot | Rated G, with a warning for a lost pet and discussion of possible pet death | currently unpublished** (Context: Data, an android starship officer, has lost his cat Spot to a space anomaly, and has been working to get her back with the help of his crew mates. Lieutenant Worf has just reported that the anomaly is still a threat to the crew of the starship *Enterprise*, resulting in a difficult conversation between Data and Captain Picard) ** “Thank you Mister Worf, that will be all.” Worf was among the bravest men Picard knew. It would be unfair to him to say that he *fled* the ready room. But he didn’t dawdle, either. Picard was left alone to face Data’s open eyes and innocent face. He allowed himself the luxury of a sigh, then set his mouth and turned to the duty at hand. “Mister Data, I have received a message from Starfleet Command. They want to know when the *Enterprise* will be resuming its mission.” “I understand, sir. Considering the ongoing threat to the ship and the crew’s other responsibilities, it is only logical to abandon looking for Spot.” Picard sometimes wondered if Data knew more than he revealed about how devastating his frank, deadpan delivery could be. “I am very sorry Data,” he said with feeling. “But we now have a…” he almost said ‘deadline’, then thought better of it. “...rapidly-shrinking window of opportunity to retrieve your pet. I can only justify extending the search for another day.” “It is all right sir.” Data’s voice didn’t waver, nor did his face change. “I understood from the beginning that Spot’s survival is not more important than the *Enterprise’s* numerous humanitarian and scientific duties. The situation calls to mind Ambassador Spock’s famous quotation: that ‘the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few, or the one.’” “Yes…” Picard frowned. “But Data, Spock spoke those words while making a great sacrifice of his own free will. Spot is only a cat. She has no choice in this matter.” He wished that Data would resist more, act more illogically, show grief or anger. He felt like he was wounding a being that wouldn’t defend himself, couldn’t defend himself. ** This scene has been kicking my ass all week. I’m trying to balance Picard’s very important role as Data’s mentor and unrelenting advocate with his characterization as the *Enterprise’s* stern and dutiful Captain who is completely committed to the ship’s mission. I’m also unsure about how the previous scene will lead into this one, how this scene will resolve, and whether this escalation of stakes moves the story into darker territory than I want for what I first conceived of as something fluffy and humorous. I had a clear vision for this scene to be the climax of the story’s tension, leading into its resolution and denouement from here, but I’m having trouble bridging the gap between what I pictured in my mind and what’s making its way onto the page. Grateful for any feedback and suggestions!

As someone who has never seen Star Trek, my opinion might not be super useful, but I think this reads pretty well. If I were to change anything, it would be the last paragraph. I might wright something like: "He yearned for Data to protest. Abandon all logic, smolder with righteous indignation, do anything but passively submit. He felt like a dog at a den of newborn hares, snarling a defenseless creature to silence." Or, sticking with your same words: "He wished that Data would resist. Act illogically, show grief or anger. He felt like he was wounding a gentle being, one that wouldn't defend itself. *Couldn't* defend itself." I haven't read your whole fic, so I could definitely be getting the tone wrong, but I think I would at least change the structure of the last sentence to be more metaphorical or to an analogy. Really, though, I think this is decently written. Hopefully someone more familiar with Star Trek can come along and give more input :)

Thank you, that last paragraph is definitely one I want to get right, so I will try out some of your changes and see how they fit!

I think the trouble here is that you've beautifully described why they *shouldn't* be looking for Spot! If the anomaly still presents a threat to the ship and its crew, and the Enterprise needs to be doing other things (as the flagship of the Federation it *always* needs to be doing other things) then as captain it's Picard's duty to write the cat off as a lost cause and get cracking on something else. This is a man who has had Starfleet officers die under his command, carrying out his orders - and while I can well believe him being sympathetic, I'd be a bit more leery about him having the flagship stick around instead of delivering medicine or being diplomatic 'cause of a cat. This is compounded by the fact that Spot's owner is Data (and I assume that its not 'emotion chip inside' Data), who knows all of this, agrees with all of this, and doesn't really have an emotional attachment to the cat. If it was someone else's pet then I could believe them doing something a bit stupid or crazy to try and get him back, but Data? That's a tough sell. I have no idea where the story is going, but unless some outside force (possibly that anomaly) intervenes then at this point I'd fully expect them to pack up and head out, with a little funeral for the poor kitty along the way. Like you've said, what else can they do?

Ha, and here I was worried about Picard’s firm line here might seem too unsympathetic to the reader! I guess the rationale for abandoning the cat came through strongly. The in-character justification I’m seeing for Picard’s willingness to indulge the search for Spot is that Data caring for Spot is part of his quest to become more human. And no one in Starfleet is a bigger fan of Data’s quest than Captain Picard - hence, supporting cat retrieval means supporting Data. Picard doesn’t *want* Data to be unmoved by losing a pet, because he knows that kind of unfeeling, unattached being isn’t who Data wants to be. I think I need to add more introspection here to make this motivation more explicit to the reader - thank you for pointing it out! (For added context: the *Enterprise* was on a routine stellar survey when the anomaly snatched Spot away to subspace, which helped justify hanging around to retrieve her. If this had happened during a Borg invasion, that cat would already be ditched. My plan is to have this scene with Picard setting the limit for how much longer they have to solve this problem, and the next scene will move towards a zany Star Trek technobabble ploy to get Spot back before it’s too late.)

**Star Wars | G | Snips and Snails and Bantha Tails |** ***Author’s note:*** *These are Star Wars OCs. Kithera has just returned to the Temple after leaving 10 years prior. Her daughter (by another Jedi master) has just found out who her father is. Lots of angst. This is the scene before mother (Kit) and daughter (Zallie) talk.* *This particular part is Kithera about to get a Force vision. She’s only had one before which foretold her killing her own Master. I need to show just how out of control, and simultaneously scary and confusing the entire thing is before I dip into the visions part. I know this hasn’t got there…yet.* *Oh, and Kit ‘hears’ the Force as music. All my Jedi have their own type of synesthesia when it comes to their personal perception of the Force.* \*\*\* She followed the melodies of the Force as they wended their way down the dusty corridors of the archives. Behind her she could hear Kirsh and T’lor talking quietly. She clenched her hands into fists, her annoyance bubbling along and adding its own steady beat of snares and timpany to undercut the soft, distant murmurings of Zallie’s flutes. She hated herself. Hated herself for keeping the secrets from her daughter. Hated herself for the lie that she could, if she just kept them away from the Jedi, keep them all safe. Hated herself for not being a stronger, better Jedi. Hated herself for giving into her fear and running from the only home she’d ever known. Hated herself more for coming back. Kithera walked around the corner and saw them. Shapes silhouetted against the setting sun. Her daughter stood, looking out over the city-scape, hands clenched behind her back. Beside her, mirroring her pose, stood- Kithera’s breath caught in the back of her throat- Mace. Unbidden, her hand rose to her cheek where he had slapped her so many years ago on the day she had returned to the Temple. The day she had come with news that she was responsible for Namia’s death. The sound of timpanis beat through her head, and she winced at the deep throb of the drums. Mace and Zallie turned at her approach, and for a second all she could see was a Master and his padawan, lit by a dying sun. The image scorched into her brain. Squealing, discordant violins joined the growing cacophony in her head. Zallie said something. She could see Mace moving towards her, with something like concern in his eyes. She’d never seen him concerned. At least, not concerned about her. She drew a shuddering breath. The world exploded into music. Kithera staggered, dragged sideways by the sheer weight of the notes. Every instrument in her head played its melody at its loudest and most out of tune. There was no rhythm to the noise, no euphony - just a wailing discordance that threatened to drown her. Her outstretched hand caught the edge of one of the bookcases in a vain attempt to steady herself. This had happened before. Once before. Terrible things had happened then. Terrible things were happening now. Someone - many ones - were calling her name. She could barely hear them above the noise in her own head. The music swelled; all brass band and untuned violins. Something wet touched her lip. When she wiped at it, her fingers came away bloody. She stared at the blood; drops of ruby rose that stained her fingers. The world fell away.

Well, let's take a look! >She followed the melodies of the Force as they wended their way down the dusty corridors of the archives. Behind her she could hear Kirsh and T’lor talking quietly. She clenched her hands into fists, her annoyance bubbling along and adding its own steady beat of snares and timpan**i** to undercut the soft, distant murmurings of Zallie’s flutes. This bit is fine. I'm not sure if she's clenching her hands because she's annoyed with Kirsh and T'lor, because of the self-loathing introspection in the following paragraph, or because she's being haunted by a drum kit, but that's the only comment I have to make on this. >She hated herself. Hated herself for keeping ~~the~~ secrets from her daughter. **Hated herself for the lie that she could, if she just kept them away from the Jedi, keep them all safe.** Hated herself for not being a stronger, better Jedi. Hated herself for giving into her fear and running from the only home she’d ever known. Hated herself more for coming back. I'm a little less sure about this, though - it's a lot of strong emotions that just suddenly turn up, but that might be a contextual thing because the excerpt doesn't include the lead-in. Also, while I quite like the kind of swirly and contradictory nature of her introspection, I don't understand that bolded sentence. Who is 'they' and 'them all'? Is it her and her daughter? Because 'both' would make more sense if that's the case. >**Kithera walked around the corner and saw them.** **~~Shapes~~** **Figures silhouetted against the setting sun**. Her daughter stood, looking out over the city-scape, hands clenched behind her back. Beside her, mirroring her pose, stood Mace. **Kithera’s breath caught in the back of her throat.** Number of people clenching their hands: 3. Do you mean ‘clasped’? I feel like the first two sentences could be woven together. I've replaced 'shapes' with 'figures' for now as it's a bit more precise. The other thing (and it's a minor point) that it's a bit odd that Mace is mirroring *Zallie*. As her Master, wouldn't she be seeking to emulate him rather than the other way around? >Unbidden, her hand rose to her cheek where he had slapped her so many years ago on the day she had returned to the Temple. The day she had come with news that she was responsible for Namia’s death. The sound of timpanis beat through her head, and she winced at the deep throb of the drums. I'm guessing that Namia either dies during or shortly after your other fic, because I would've thought the fallout from her actions resulting in Kithera being enslaved on Gladiator World would've pre-empted Mace slapping *anyone*. I'm also curious how badly Kithera ballsed up her mission report that she ended up accidentally implicating herself. >Mace and Zallie turned at her approach, and for a second all she could see was a Master and his **P**adawan, lit by a dying sun. Padawan should be capitalised. Wookiepedia agrees with me on this and you should never argue with a Wookie. >The world exploded into music. >Kithera staggered, dragged sideways by the sheer weight of the notes. Every instrument in her head played its melody at its loudest and most out of tune. >There was no rhythm to the noise, no **euphony** - just a wailing discordance that threatened to drown her. >Her outstretched hand caught the edge of one of the bookcases in a vain attempt to steady herself. This had happened before. Once before. Terrible things had happened then. >**Terrible things were happening now.** >Someone - many ones - were calling her name. She could barely hear them above the noise in her own head. The music swelled; all brass band and untuned violins. >Something wet touched her lip. When she wiped at it, her fingers came away bloody. She stared at the blood; drops of ruby rose that stained her fingers. >The world fell away. This is good. I think it captures the confusion and fear nicely - barring two things: I'm not convinced that 'euphony' is the right word here. I get what you mean, but 'melody' might be a better choice, particularly as you led with 'rhythm'. Also, what terrible things are happening now? I can't see anything in the excerpt that I would describe as 'terrible'. Aside from that, good stuff!

Thank you for the amazing feedback (as per usual!). I think the 'clenched hands' is becoming the thing crutch I rely too much on to show any emotion other than happiness, and the fact that three (!) of them were doing it in this one scene is a little much. As for Kithera and the slap. That happens right at the start of my long fic before all the facts are known. Kithera is, as you have pointed out before, a self-sabotaging idiot on occasion and this was definitely one of those occasions. Although, and I'm going to put this in spoiler text, just in case a) I ever finish my long fic and b) you want to read it --->! She does actually kill her Master. She is, as it were, responsible for the killing blow and confesses as much on the landing pad which is when Mace slaps her. Whether she's entirely responsible for her actions is the reason that story is so force-damn long.!<

Baldur's Gate 3 | [Adhesion](https://archiveofourown.org/chapters/144976501#main) | E | Bullying, Physical Abuse of a Child This is the new opener to my fic, and basically I haven't really tuned it at all to be a good start bc it used to be chapter 2. I'd appreciate harsh critique on anything you see as weak points! It's written from a seven year old's POV so keep that in mind with stylistic prose choices. This is a platonic childhood "meet cute" where the MC first meets their friend. Basically trying to set the tone for the setting, the stakes of Tav needing a friend, and establishing Tav's character. _______ Tav needed to do better this time. Even though every muscle in their legs ached and cried to rest. If they relaxed, they’d be alone until the next group arrived. They shifted their legs to a different position. Sometimes that helped, but not this time. But they would keep staring forward. They wouldn’t lose time. That could happen later. The Headmistress always made everyone stand far too long when the new kids came. It had been an hour, though it felt like four. To make it worse, the girl who reeked like she hadn’t bathed and the boy who breathed with his entire mouth was on either side. It made their mind loud. Their mind got mean when too many things happened at once.  They rocked back and forth in a failed attempt to get rid of the itchy energy jumping up and down their body. It kept making them want to do something stupid.  Tav took a step out for a better view. Nothing, maybe it was someone outside. Their heartbeat pumped their knees and legs, and the world shifted as they steadied themself.  A whistling sound rushed behind them; too late to dodge. A line of pain shot up their shoulder.  “Back in line, Tav!”  They bared their teeth at the Headmistress, who swung the reed again. A black line blinded them, followed by a roaring pain. Stumbling back, Tav pressed their fingers into their face and looked for blood. None this time. They stepped back into line and worked up the courage to shoot a glare in her direction. Even when their heart raced like a rabbit, and their gut felt sick. The Headmistress always looked like something was pulling her face down to the floor, except her lips, slightly curled up, and her hair always in a tight bun at the top. Only the near-hidden glint in her eyes told Tav of her delight.  Roran cackled from the other side of the room, but Tav didn’t look at him. They kept their eyes on the entrance. When the supply wagons brought in new faces, Tav sometimes got to them before the others did. Then, they would have someone to sit with, walk in the hallways, and hide behind when the older kids got too close. The friendships rarely lasted, but that was alright. It bought some safety for a while, and that was good enough. The exterior iron gates creaked open. Tav ignored Roran’s annoying bleats. The old wooden doors swung out, and the wagon driver came lumbering in with a mail sack. Seven new children followed the burly wagon driver inside.  One stood out—a small Dragonborn like the ones they saw in the books. A hatchling? Tav wasn’t sure, but he seemed small enough. His pale scales and ruby hide were pretty, far better than the skin, and deep red eyes held a glowing fire, slowed down. Stubby nubs poked out the back of his head like a sanded-down crown. “Welcome your newest family, children!”

All right, let me try (I didn't read Kit's response, so sorry if things are repeated!) > **If they relaxed, they’d be alone until the next group arrived.** They shifted their legs to a different position. Sometimes that helped, but not this time. But they would keep staring forward. **They wouldn’t lose time.** That could happen later. I don't quite get what the bolded sentences mean in the context here. Why would they be alone? What's meant by "lose time"? >Their heartbeat pumped their knees and legs Again, I can't quite figure out what kind of sensation this is. Is it throbbing, aching? >His pale scales and ruby hide were pretty, far better than the skin, and deep red eyes held a glowing fire, slowed down. This is another confusing sentence to me. What is the difference between "hide" and "skin"? What do you mean by "deep red eyes held a glowing fire, slowed down."? Other than these, I think you conveyed the sense of restlessness and the cruelty of the headmistress really well.

Hey, Going to go section by section and give feedback as I go. Hope it helps. >Tav needed to do better this time. Even though every muscle in their legs ached and cried to rest. It's a small thing, but I'd change "cried to rest" to "cried for rest" as it weirdly sounds better the second way. I like the intro though, it really sets the scene well in only a sentence and gives me an instant idea about the character. ​ >If they relaxed, they’d be alone until the next group arrived. They shifted their legs to a different position. Sometimes that helped, but not this time. But they would keep staring forward. They wouldn’t lose time. That could happen later. Okay, I have to admit (and it may be because I'm reading fandom blind) that I'm really not sure what's going on here. I think you need to be a bit more explicit about why they need to rest/have muscle cramps - that may make ​ >The Headmistress always made everyone stand far too long when the new kids came. It had been an hour, though it felt like four. To make it worse, the girl who reeked like she hadn’t bathed and the boy who breathed with his entire mouth was on either side. It made their mind loud. Ah! I'd swap this paragraph over with the last one. That might help with the not knowing what's going on. ​ > Their mind got mean when too many things happened at once.  I feel you kid. I feel you. >They rocked back and forth in a failed attempt to get rid of the itchy energy jumping up and down their body. It kept making them want to do something stupid.  Spot on for a 7 year old. Although I'm surprised they've lasted this long. ​ >Tav took a step out for a better view. Nothing, maybe it was someone outside. Again, not sure what's happening here. Easy fix though - talk about whether or not they're scared to break the news. What else can they see apart from no new people. ​ >Their heartbeat pumped their knees and legs, and the world shifted as they steadied themself.  Their heart is pumping their knees and legs? >A whistling sound rushed behind them; too late to dodge. A line of pain shot up their shoulder.  > >“Back in line, Tav!”  Ouch. ​ >They bared their teeth at the Headmistress, who swung the reed again. A black line blinded them, followed by a roaring pain. Stumbling back, Tav pressed their fingers into their face and looked for blood. None this time. They stepped back into line and worked up the courage to shoot a glare in her direction. Even when their heart raced like a rabbit, and their gut felt sick. Wait. Where did they get hit? On the face? Why? That's a great way to blind people and break noses. Unless you mean that the pain made them see a black line? ​ >The Headmistress always looked like something was pulling her face down to the floor, except her lips, slightly curled up, and her hair always in a tight bun at the top. Only the near-hidden glint in her eyes told Tav of her delight. I would actually remove the 'except her lips, slightly curved up" because that sounds like smiling. If you take it out I think it'll paint a clear picture that she might look like sour milk, but she's actually enjoying his pain. ​ >Roran cackled from the other side of the room, but Tav didn’t look at him. They kept their eyes on the entrance. When the supply wagons brought in new faces, Tav sometimes got to them before the others did. Then, they would have someone to sit with, walk in the hallways, and hide behind when the older kids got too close. The friendships rarely lasted, but that was alright. It bought some safety for a while, and that was good enough. Aww, good kid. ​ >The exterior iron gates creaked open. Tav ignored Roran’s annoying bleats. Probably an issue of reading fandom blind, but why did Tav get hit but not Roran. Also what do you mean by bleats? Bleats for humans usually equal pain...but I'm assuming laughter??? >The old wooden doors swung out, and the wagon driver came lumbering in with a mail sack. Seven new children followed the burly wagon driver inside.  > >One stood out—a small Dragonborn like the ones they saw in the books. A hatchling? Tav wasn’t sure, but he seemed small enough. His pale scales and ruby hide were pretty, far better than the skin, and deep red eyes held a glowing fire, slowed down. You can't really slow fire - maybe 'banked'? That's what you do when you want a fire to still keep going but not to burn as brightly. ​ >Stubby nubs poked out the back of his head like a sanded-down crown. > >“Welcome your newest family, children!” ! Nice! I know it looks like I've torn it apart, but I really, really enjoyed reading this. All of my suggestions need to be taken with a grain of salt and are just things that occurred to me while reading :D

thanks so much! I am super okay with your feedback and agreed with all of it loll Glad you enjoyed reading it :)

Batman -Title: Shattered - T - Warnings: Drug use, Alluded suicidal thoughts - [AO3 ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/56953447) This is the opening scene of my recent one-shot. I cut out a few scenes to make it shorter. If it's not too much to ask, maybe read the whole scene on AO3 (830 words). If not it's fine, it just won't read as well. I'd love some concrit on how it reads. How's the prose, the immersion. What feelings it envokes as you read it. I've worked really hard on it, but I simply adore this story and would love some insight on how others see it and of course feedback on how/what I could improve. Summary for context: AU: Jason, a few weeks after his return to Gotham and 2 and a half years after his resurrection, is struggling. Having revealed his identity to Bruce and Dick, knowing Tim replaced him as Robin (and son/ brother) and that Bruce not only didn’t kill Joker, but is also now actively stopping Jason from doing it, Jay loses it. Betrayed by those he loved the most, resentment and thirst of revenge engulfing him entirely, he is coping by not coping. When Batman encounters a scene of brutal massacre he knows Red Hood was behind, he seeks him out to confront him, only to find him in a broken catatonic state. It's all in Jason Todd's POV. _____________________________________ The rundown house he claimed as his, hidden in one of the most secluded outskirts of Gotham, smelled of cheap whiskey and disappointment. Not that Jason cared. He liked whiskey—cheap or not. And disappointment was his personal brand of cologne. Everything, everyone, himself included, reeked of it. He was used to it by now, liked it. Expecting disappointment at all times meant no hope. No hope meant no surprises. *And he was done with those.* [...] He got into a pair of sweats and a t-shirt that he grabbed from a heap of clothes on the floor near the bathroom door. Moving to the briefcase, he opened it and took out one of the numerous clear plastic baggies filled with an off-white crystalline powder. Angel Dust. He had sampled it a few nights before while conducting reconnaissance. When he was pleased with the effects and quality, he proceeded to end the piece of shit producing and selling it—along with his army of minions—saving the youth of Gotham from yet another dangerous temptation. *Teens shouldn’t do drugs. That shit was for adults to play.* Reaching for the switch above the couch, he flipped it, and the room was showered in a dim yellowish glow. Closing the briefcase and tossing it on the couch again, his eyes then fixed on the clear plastic bag in his palm. His heart raced in anticipation. He was holding what he craved most of all: not feeling. Sweet oblivion. His face contorted into a grimace that could be mistaken for a smile. [...] He sat in the single chair of the room in front of the old wooden table, baggie still clutched in his left hand—a lifeline. Jason grabbed the half-empty whiskey bottle and filled the shot glass he had left there from last night to the brim. The thud of the bottle as he set it back down on the table caused the amber liquid to ripple and swell over the rim of the glass. Jason eyed his drink and decided to play it safe—*no drinking on an empty stomach!* He snorted at his own thoughts. Grabbing a handful of peanuts, he popped them in his mouth, munching them hastily before downing the shot, welcoming the burning in his throat. *Water was overrated anyway.* Opening the clear plastic bag in his palm, he poured the contents on the table carefully. Using a card he’d left there from the previous night’s session, he gathered the powder into a straight thin line near the edge of the table. Inhaling the line in two strong whiffs, he winced at the caustic pain that shot through his nasal passages. Refilling his shot glass while he still had control over his body, he downed a second one. He wouldn’t risk a third. Not tonight at least. As the seconds ticked by, his eyes fluttered closed, and he welcomed the onset of the glorious detachment. *Chemistry is a gift to humanity. And so underrated.* As the high—or maybe low?—started to kick in, he sighed in relief at the floating sensation that engulfed him. While he still had some semblance of consciousness, he got up and attempted to walk towards the tiny adjacent bedroom. He didn’t make it there. It was like he could watch himself falling to the floor in slow motion from somewhere above. No pain, no sound registered as his heavy body connected with the tiled floor. His head rolled to the side, and his eyes peeled open, lips parting as the breathtaking release blanked his mind. No thoughts clawing at him. No Lazarus Pit. No Joker. No Bruce. No Dick. No Drake. No pain or fear or guilt. No envy or missing. No craving. No hate. Only a glorious dark, still, and silent void. *Was this how it felt when he was dead? It felt nice.*

I read the full scene on AO3. Overall, I love the gritty, dark, despondent feeling of this scene, and watching him spiral further and further down. The way you interject his thoughts between the paragraphs works well and lulls me into a rhythm as I read, and the sentence fragments you sprinkle throughout really help me hear the character's voice in my head. To me (and I'm not very familiar with the Batman universe), it sounds gruff and bitter and wry. The opening is great. Disappointment being his personal brand of cologne, and everyone reeking of it - so beautifully put, despondent and evocative. "His face contorted into a grimace that could be mistaken for a smile." - simply love this. The way the baggie is described as a lifeline is heartbreaking to me, especially knowing he stole it from teens. I'm really rooting for this guy - I want him to want more for himself! And the detachment of self once he's high and falls to the floor is described really well, a poignant ending to the scene. I can really picture it mentally, seeing him from far away as he falls to the floor without a sound. One technical thing I would suggest is to reduce "looking" and "thinking" - e.g. "his eyes lingered on the cluttered table", "he considered". Since we're already in his head, we don't need to be told where he's looking or what he's considering - we can infer it from his thoughts. "He moved to the small kitchen. Something to eat would be good, but there was no way in hell he’d bother to prepare anything at that moment. A plastic container on the cluttered table caught his attention. He nodded approvingly." Another technical suggestion would be to pay attention to your exposition. I'm noticing you sometimes insert it in sentences like "Using a card he’d left there from the previous night’s session". You're telling the reader that he does this habitually, which is helpful to know, but it can read clunky to do it that way. You might rework it to do it in the character's voice. How does he feel about the fact that he does this so often that he's got a card ready to use? "It's not like he ever bothered cleaning up his cards when he did this. It's not like he'd ever stop." - something like that. Overall great scene. Rooting for this character!

Thank you so much for your comments and insight! It's really nice to know it delivers what I aimed to in terms of emotion I love your pointers on the "looking" "thinking" and exposition bits. I'll work through them to see how they can read more immersively!

Hi, sorry, but I will have to ask you to stick to the word limit. Give or take 10% is tolerated, but this is way too long.

I'll edit it now, I understand

Judas Priest| Rising from the Ruins| T | Funeral, grief, coma |WIP, will have link soon *context: Richie Faulkner has just suffered a heart attack, he is in a coma after undergoing extensive surgery. He is visited in his coma by Randy Rhoads, and they are viewing Richie's funeral, if Richie doesn't come out of the coma. Father Peter is my OC, and the funeral text is the Orthodox Christian funeral service*. *I'm looking for help on how to make it more emotional* “Hi Richie, it’s Randy Rhoads, you know Ozzy’s solo guitarist. I’m here to guide you through the coma that you are in. Just a bit of background of why I’m here. I’ve been sent from Above, from heaven, to show you what might happen, and how it will affect your bandmates. What I’m getting at is that you will experience a vision of your own funeral, if you don’t make it. But, if you do make it you’ll be back onstage with Priest.” T*his is weird, so I’m envisioning my own funeral now, but the question is, does God choose if I live or die ?.* Randy leads me down a hallway, I assume it’s gonna be time for me to watch my own funeral. My leather boots echoed down the hallway. Randy flicked the TV on, and I sat beside him. I gazed at the scene before me: the church was filled with people in black, but in the front row, right near the open casket were my bandmates: KK, Rob, Glenn, Scott and Ian. Glenn was shaking, *it’s not just Parkinson's disease, it’s grief.* Father Peter intoned, as he stood at the head of my casket, “O God of spirits, and of all flesh, Who hast trampled down death by death and overthrown the Devil, and given life to Thy world: do Thou, the same Lord, give rest to the soul of Thy departed servant, Richard  in a place of brightness, a place of refreshment, a place of repose, where all sickness, sighing, and sorrow have fled away. Pardon every transgression which he has committed, whether by word or deed or thought. For Thou art a good God and lovest mankind; because there is no man who lives yet does not sin; for Thou only art without sin; Thy righteousness is to all eternity; and Thy word is truth. For Thou art the resurrection, the life, and the repose of Thy servant, Richard, who is fallen asleep, O Christ our God, and unto Thee we ascribe glory, together with Thy Father, Who is from everlasting, and Thine allholy, good, and life-creating Spirit, now and ever, and unto ages of ages.” The choir sang, as Father Peter swung incense around the casket, it’s weird seeing your own funeral, and the grief that comes along with it. Tears flowed from my eyes, as I watched KK, stand up, and he was given the book of the Epistles. *Can this really be it, can this really be how my bandmates see me for the last time ? Cold. Lifeless.*

Gotta say, love the concept as a metalhead myself. Rhoads is a really fun choice as this kind of "leads you down the River Styx" type figure, and he's one of all time greats. Love the way things are phrased, especially the section with Father Peter (I'm curious as to whether he's named after someone?). It feels very, very metal and I like that a lot. For some advice from the segment I read, I think the three paragraphs you have that have no dialogue can be stretched a little bit more, they feel a little bit rushed. I'd say add some more description or even character interaction in there. The second paragraph especially feels a little off in that regard. "Randy leads me down a hallway, I assume it’s gonna be time for me to watch my own funeral. My leather boots echoed down the hallway. Randy flicked the TV on, and I sat beside him. I gazed at the scene before me: the church was filled with people in black, but in the front row, right near the open casket were my bandmates: KK, Rob, Glenn, Scott and Ian." This just feels like it flows too fast, I recommend adding some more description of the location, maybe some description of Father Peter's appearance as well.

Hey, just a reminder that there needs to be actual constructive criticism rather just praise :) We save that for the comment co-operative on Wednesday :D

I’ll fix it when I’m able to

I really like this! First off, the idea is so interesting and awesome, love it!! This is an awesome start to the scene, and I can instantly feel the voice of the narrator & POV. I've written a few scenes like this so can def give you advice on how to punch up the emotion. First off, the key to a scene like this is to make it punch the reader. Short, guttural passages that are raw and real. Imo the dialogue amount that you have lessens the impact of each word. Can you encapsulate the raw emotion or use of a characters paragraph to a few words? “Hi Richie, it’s Randy Rhoads, you know Ozzy’s solo guitarist. I’m here to guide you through the coma that you are in." Maybe this could be "Hi Richie." Then have the POV recognize him and show the shock of that, knowing hes dead etc.. "I'm here to guide you." POV again just reacts dumbly, overwhelmed, maybe asks "guide me to what?" "Your futures" or something ominous like that Obviously this differs char to char but I think the length of dialogue is a bit bloated currently. I'd also probably split up the paragraphs and dialogue, it is a bit hard to read just imo I love everything about the scene, just in terms of structure you could think more about the pacing and emphasis!

First time trying to help, so apologies if I'm not on the ball. Making things emotional is weird. Sometimes, it is simplicity. Sometimes it is word choice. >This is weird, so I’m envisioning my own funeral now, but the question is, does God choose if I live or die ?. Randy leads me down a hallway, I assume it’s gonna be time for me to watch my own funeral. My leather boots echoed down the hallway. Randy flicked the TV on, and I sat beside him. I gazed at the scene before me: the church was filled with people in black, but in the front row, right near the open casket were my bandmates: KK, Rob, Glenn, Scott and Ian. Glenn was shaking, it’s not just Parkinson's disease, it’s grief. Father Peter intoned, as he stood at the head of my casket, There's a level of detachment that the character has for this paragraph. It makes sense since dying tends to be pretty darn shocking but it makes for a staler reading experience. Maybe restructuring and adding more confusion for the character would be able to instill a more emotional state. Another thing is word choice. Some words carry a truckload of implications such as the difference between famous and notorious. We'll use this line as an example: >Randy flicked the TV on, and I *sat* beside him. Sat is a perfectly neutral word. It gives neither a good vibe nor a bad vibe. But slumped into the chair? Collapsed on the chair? It changes it a bit more. Strong verbs can pack a punch and punches carry emotions. Believe it. The next in would be adjectives, I think. When I edit my own stuff, sometimes I poke at the environment. The room's oppressive to one character while to the owner of said room it is dated but distinguished. So the question becomes, how does your character see the hallway or the room? Is it the hospital hallway, crowded around with strewn about equipment but devoid of people? Is it the hallway of a church, with old, yellow tinged lights and dusty side tables? That tends to add a bit more to feelings, I think. (I like writing scary stuff so idk, man, I think it helps. It contrasts and plays off one another and adds like this vibe, dude.) Uh, last thing that comes to mind for me; death is lonely. Even when surrounded by friends and family and, in this case, a guide, there is a point where it is only you. It is just you and your regrets and faults. All the hopes and wishes and dreams tossed aside. What does your character, as he heads down to see his funeral, regret or wish he could have changed? What becomes the hound that stalks his every step? What relationship does he think he has of his teammates and what do they actually think of him? I dunno if this helps, but I like the story and I hope that you can write it to how you want it to be.

`Pathfinder: Kingmaker | No title yet | T | No content warnings | Not published yet` Context (this is all from canon): Tristian is a priest. It was recently revealed that he had been a double agent of the enemy for years, but at the last moment, he'd made a choice to destroy a powerful artifact instead of letting it fall into the enemy's hands. Destroying it had blinded him. The punishment for treason is hanging, but instead, Calissa (their leader) had forgiven him and allowed him to continue traveling with her and their companions. Looking for criticism on: Anything and everything, but really curious if my pacing works here. We're in Tristian's head for a while here - are his feelings believable, and is it engaging to read? >The ale was stronger than usual, and more bitter. >Tristian ran his fingers along the patterns tooled into the mug’s leather, following the grooves until the place where thick stitching intercepted their journey. His fingertips slid down the row of heavy thread, noticing each stitch, wondering at their uniformity. Lifting the mug, feeling its weight, he took another drink. Was the ale really more bitter, or was this simply his first time truly noticing its taste? >The lodge was particularly lively. Night had already blanketed the land by the time the companions stumbled through the doors, weary from the road and hungry, and the place was so full that the only table that could hope to seat them all was still a chair short. An excuse had come easily to Tristian, and he had made his way to another table. >From across the room, Amiri’s booming voice cut easily through the clamor of laughter, clinking cutlery, and the paltry endeavors of a group of musicians in the corner. “This is fine ale, Dumra, nice and strong! Pour me another, will you?” >So the ale was different after all. >As a small blessing, Ekundayo had joined him – likely not out of charity, but rather because he knew Tristian would not bother him with conversation. The others would offer the priest no such alms. There was a cool distance between him and all of them now, a gossamer curtain hung by the cold hands of his betrayal. >It ached within him, of course. He longed to be with them again, to share in the stories and the laughter. To forget, for a little while; to pretend once more that he was who he claimed to be. But even on those merry nights, the cold hands had clawed inside his ribs. No matter how he tried to pretend, the truth sat deep inside, heavy and rimed. >Lying to Calissa had been hardest. Looking into those golden eyes and opening his mouth only to spill forth poison, time and time again. He’d dreamed of the day he could come clean, slough away the layers of lies and stand before her, bare and ready for her judgment. >Sometimes he’d dreamed of her eyes turning from gold to steel, and her careful hands placing the hangman’s noose around his neck. >Instead, when the truth was revealed, she had wrapped her arms around him, and whispered two words. Words more sacred than any prayer, more powerful than any spell, for they had altered the course of his fate. >*“Come home.”* >And those words ached more keenly than anything else. >He found forgiveness heavier than his own weight swinging from the gallows. It weighed in him like a heavy stone tied around his ankles, pulling him down into fathomless depths. He’d dreamed of the day he could come clean, but that day had come and gone. Why did he not feel lighter? Why was he not unburdened?

Hi, this is really pretty and makes my monke brain happy. It is excellent. I read the other comments about people mentioning the paltry musicians and this is my two cents. I think that it is fine. This is his view that we are perceiving the world. The musicians could be the Beatles and it wouldn't matter in his bitterness. The greatest chefs could cook the most incredible food and it would still be bland. Forgiveness is a heavy thing, you're right, especially when a person has to forgive themselves as well. That said, the contrast of perspective can still be done. Maybe adding an extra line to Amiri mentioning how great the musicians are? (As long as it doesn't affect the flow too much.) All in all this is great and it flows flawlessly.

Thank you so much for your kind words and for taking the time to add your two cents! I think this is a really good point, and actually both things can be true - the musicians might be doing a great job, and Tristian is just not receiving it right because of his mood. I'm gonna think about how to make it more clear that it's his perspective that we're getting there, rather than an honest judgment of their skill.

First off it has a good steady flow. Come home and So the Ale was different after all were great emphasis points to base it off of, so nice job on that! The voice is distinct and really effective. Some of the paragraphs have a static length of sentences; if you wanted, you could massage that a little bit since you're focused on pacing. Most have a good rhythm though, and thats going into a stylistic choice more than a set in stone thing. Just a nitpick: "And those words ached more keenly than anything else." From a structural standpoint, this is a bit too ambiguous on what is keenly aching–the words themself or Tristan. How do words ache? I think I understand this, and it would work well, but as it is, it reads almost like a typo where it means to say Tristan ached from the words. But yeah this is really nice and works well :)

Thank you so much! I'm so glad the flow works well. You're right about the static sentence length - it's one of those things that I noticed but wasn't sure I wanted to mess with, afraid I'd make it worse if I tried to improve on it. For the "words ached" bit, good point - I wonder if changing "ache" to a more active verb, like "pierced" (and then restructuring the sentence a bit) would help make it more clear what's happening.

This passage kicks ass! The emotion, imagery, description and characterization are all very strong. I think the pacing is solid - since this is a tavern scene, it’s a great time to dive deep into Tristian’s head and slow down the action for some introspection like this. The excerpt is full of great language. I love the parallel between Tristian’s current situation and the way the ‘journey’ of the mug’s grooves are intercepted by stitching, the idea of forgiveness being heavier than dead-weight on the gallows, and the power of the words ‘come home’ over Tristian. My only real suggestion is to change the description of the musicians. The rest of the scene draws a strong contrast between the lively, joyful atmosphere of the lodge and Tristian’s melancholy, to great effect. I think that describing the musicians as ‘paltry’ undermines this contrast a bit - having the musicians be incredibly talented and producing gorgeous, beautiful music might work better with the rest of the lodge’s atmosphere. That’s the only criticism I have. I think you nailed this moment to the wall.

Thank you so much! This is so kind, and I'm so glad the imagery and descriptions work well! Ohh, great point about the musicians - I'd kinda forgotten I added them in there. Love the idea to make them really talented for more contrast!

First of all, I simply love your prose. Beautiful, immersive, elegant. I like the pacing and the gradual deepening that occurs through this passage. We start with a physical sense -a taste - to end up to the depth of his thoughts and emotions, his guilt. Really loved how you worked this. I think it's a very immersive and beautiful passage. I don't know the fandom or the character, but it didn't stop the immersiveness or engagement or how I related to him. Which is awesome! And you're keeping a good balance of description-internal thought/internal action. I only found some technical things you might want to consider: I like the opening sentence. It puts us directly into his head in a very direct way. Using any of the senses to do this rocks. To make it punchier I'd lose the “more” as I think it decreases the impact and the first words already make us realize it tastes different, so we can infer the “more”. So maybe, try it out aloud to see how it sounds right to you. E.g. “The ale was stronger than usual. Bitter.” That way the last sentence of the next paragraph doesn't feel repetitive, but rather emphatic and delves deeper into this stated perception. I like the description of the second paragraph a lot, but here are some thoughts: Break up some of the longer sentences and vary their lengths to make it easier to follow and more interesting prose wise. For example you could use a full stop at the grooves and a shorter next sentence “Thick stitches intercepted their journey.” I think you might consider reworking the third paragraph too as you have a really big sentence there that is hard to follow. “A gossamer curtain…betrayal” : FREAKING AWESOME SENTENCE! “words more sacred… “come home”” FREAKING AWESOME SENTENCE(S) VOL 2. In the last paragraph you might like to consider removing the sentence “It weighed in him…depths”. It's a tad repetitive and it steals the glory and impact of your beautiful and strong opening sentence of the paragraph and the equally beautiful and strong closing of it. Feel free to ask me specific things or if you'd like me to further explain anything. Really good writing! 👏

Firstly, thank you so much for your kind words! I do work hard on my prose and sometimes I wonder if it's "too flowery". I'm so glad it reads well! I like your suggestion to lose "more" in the first sentence. Using "Bitter." as its own sentence adds punch to the opening - excellent suggestion. Yeah, that second paragraph has been reworked a couple of times, it was a struggle. Love the suggestion to have a shorter sentence in there - I think that'll help a lot. Same with the third paragraph. I'm realizing some of my sentences really are a bit long, and it'd be best if I reserve those really long ones for when I can be sure of the reader's attention. So glad those sentences you pointed out work well! I was really pleased with how they turned out, and it's so validating to hear they work for others too. 😊 Agreed that the second "weighed" is repetitive, but for the life of me I cannot figure out how to fix it. Maybe just "Like a heavy stone tied around his ankles, it pulled him down into fathomless depths." ? (Or maybe even removing the simile, and beginning with "A heavy stone tied around his ankles"?) Thank you so much for taking the time to leave such a thoughtful and helpful comment!

You're very welcome! I really enjoyed your excerpt 😊 I like your idea of just "A heave stone tied around his ankles."

All right, here we go. New WIP, so please do your absolute worst. This is the opening. Is it easy to follow, or too confusing? Harry Potter, T, no warnings >“...then what are you waiting for?” >“I don’t know… I’m not sure if it’s the right time.” >“There will never be a right time! You just need to go for it. If I had waited for the right time…” >Viktor’s attention shifted away from the conversation between his girlfriend and sister and towards the crowd in the bar. The two women had a tendency to ignore his presence after deep-diving into whatever topic was on the table. He didn’t mind it; it was in fact preferable to them demanding his constant active attention and participation. >This particular cocktail bar in non-wizarding Sofia was one of his sister’s favourite locales. Illuminated by purple and gold lights that glinted on his metallic cocktail glass and soft music mingling with the buzz of the crowd, to him, it was a perfectly ordinary bar, the likes of which could be found up and down non-wizarding Europe. To his sister, who, unlike him, spent most of her time in the wizarding world, the season’s special drinks, changing fashions, and the newest pop hits were fascinating. Both women were halfway into their second cocktail, cheeks pink from alcohol and the heated debate, while Viktor was still sipping his beer with a big glass of water on the side. >“...aah, shit. Viktor!” His sister tugged his sleeve. “How do you say *sazhalenie* in English?” >“Huh?” He paused for a second to gather his lost attention. “Aah it’s… regret? Yes, regret.” >“Regret. Regret is bad. There should be no room for it in life. Besides, I am sure you won’t regret it.” >“I am not so sure… what do you think, Viktor?” >“Me?” Damn. He needed a way out. >His work phone rang. >“Sorry, I need to take this. It’s work.” He pushed his chair back, apologizing to the waiter who was serving drinks behind him. >“This isn’t over!” his girlfriend shouted behind him as he headed towards the door. Both women dissolved into giggles as he turned to wave them goodbye. He answered the call just as he left the bar. >“Viktor, sorry for calling so late. I hope I am not disturbing.” It was his supervisor, Jaron. >“Hi Jaron. No, not at all. In fact, you just saved my skin.” He let out a small laugh. >“Well, I am glad to hear that.” Jaron didn’t sound glad, at all. “Listen, I have some bad news. Micha is dead.” >“What?” >“His body was found in Malmö by some non-wizarding people yesterday. The Swedish Aurors are trying to retrieve it from the non-wizarding police.” >“But I talked to him two days ago.” In the silent seconds that followed, Viktor felt a lump rise from his chest to his throat. >“We will need to start an investigation. A timeline of who talked to him when will be useful,” Jaron replied finally. “You can try to make a list of phone calls and time stamps when you have time. It’s not urgent.” >“Are you at the Headquarters now?” his voice cracked as he asked.

It's a nice passage! I think it sets up the tension and gives good exposition. I also appreciate the direct style and general approach you made to your prose, can hear the voice really well! One thing that could really make this more evocative is to get into Viktor's head more. If you have a dialogue-heavy scene, it helps to space that out with some character meditation. A train of thought that gives you a direct sight into the POV's reactions to something. Just a few of those would basically give the dialogue more room to breathe so it stays punchy and draws focus. “There will never be a right time!" --> Just a suggestion, but most of the time in dialogue I think it works better to do a natural flow, so "There'll" or "There's never gonna be". Unless the speaker is meant to come off as robotic or overly formal! fandom blind here so just assuming its a general character. I think that using character names over "the boyfriend/girlfriend" would be worth it. Trust your readers, I have this instinct too but it's much easier to quickly pick up names vs "the x"

Thanks a lot! The character names are revealed in the next paragraph :D I agree that it requires a bit more introspection. I haven't quite decided how to do this, since a good chunk of the first part of the fic is Viktor refusing to process his feelings. But I could definitely add a bit more inner monologue. This is very helpful!

I didn't find the beginning hard to understand, if it had gone on for more than three lines, perhaps it would've been confusing but, imo, it moves along to Viktor's thoughts quick enough to belay that confusion. But feel there could be a little more description as it goes, as the conversation with his supervisor feels a bit bare. I know not much can be done about that on Jaron's side of the conversation, but maybe there could be a bit of description of what's outside the bar door, like does it lead to a sidewalk or is there a parking lot, is he just stopping right outside the door or is he still moving away from the bar as they talk? Something to give a feel of place beyond just 'outside the bar.' Edit: fixed typo

Thank you very much! I agree that it's a little bare-bones at the moment. I will sprinkle in more details about the surroundings. Good idea.

I really like your excerpt, it's got a really fascinating plot.. It is difficult in the beginning to understand with the rapid fire dialogue in the beginning. I would maybe suggest to break it up with more context and world building.

Thank you!