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cdyssey · 1 year

Note

if ur still taking prompts, pre-relationship melissa/barbara where barb is getting jealous over mel’s new fling? could be a new teacher who’s a woman as well? thank you! i love how you write them, and your overall voice in your works. thank u for ur brain and ideas and love for these two!!! <3

Augh, thank you for the kind words, Anon!!! ;w; I'm so appreciative.

And, haha, I feel like it's a rite of passage in the Work Wives fandom to pair Melissa with another MILF of choice to make Barbara jealous. <3 My face claim is Alex Kingston. >:)

CW: Grief Mentions, Emotional Infidelity, Suggestive Content

AO3 Link

—

The new art teacher is named Ms. Avery Blackwood, and she just moved from Manhattan to Philly, quietly citing the need to not see her late partner in every sunset.

She mostly worked on commission in the Big Apple, painting murals and large portraits for well-paying clients, but she also did a lot of volunteer work, lending her talents to underfunded schools and women shelters when she could.

But Ava didn’t hire her for this impressive resume—(because that would be bordering on competency, of course)—but rather for the fact that the almost sixty-year old is a Pisces and quote—“damn, that’s kinda hot, not gonna lie”—end quote.

Avery drives a yellow Volkswagen that still has a faded Bernie 2020 sticker on the bumper.

She calls everyone darling and dear and likely has paint splattered across her black overalls at any given time.

She tucks paintbrushes behind her ear and charmingly doesn’t remember that she’s done so in the first place.

But once she’s been told someone's name and attaches it to a face, she never, ever forgets.

And to top it all off, Avery Blackwood, along with these innumerable endearing qualities, is utterly breathtaking—all curly russet hair and pale hazel eyes, curves in gorgeous places, and an English accent delivered in a low, delicious voice. The kids love her for her whimsy and play. Janine’s already adopted her as her newest middle-aged mother.

And Melissa.

Melissa is dating her.

Barbara didn’t realize this crucial fact until precisely yesterday when she was sitting in the lounge, trying her hardest not to stare at the empty seat next to her for well over half-an-hour. The younger teachers had gone to Pizza Hut for lunch, which made the absence of the second grade grade teacher all the more pronounced. A vacancy that was a presence. The ghost of a very alive person. Barbara’s daily crossword puzzle went untouched, her afternoon mug of coffee mostly full, as she mentally combed through the most rational possibilities in her head: Melissa catching up on grades, Melissa trying to get the blasted copier in the office to work, Melissa gone to grab a bite to eat all by her lonesome.

All reasonable and distinct options.

Still.

Barbara had glanced at her phone every few minutes to see if she had received a text confirming any of them, providing an explanation, an excuse, an apology.

Nothing.

Nada.

Zilch.

Just a voicemail from Gerald apologizing because sorry, honey, he’d be home late.

Her husband is always late these days, though. His promotion’s been good for their finances—it even funded their lovely cruise this past summer—but it’s been less conducive to their relationship, disrupting every sturdy habit and rhythm they’ve cultivated together for well over thirty years. He is the indentation on the left side of the bed and the apologetic voicemails he leaves because of it. He is the hasty peck on her cheek before he leaves for work and the untouched coffee mug she instinctively sets next to hers anyway. What he fundamentally isn’t, however, is there, and she’s felt this new distance terribly, like a three-inch incision across her chest. She’s tried to bandage the untenable wound with other things—namely people.

Namely one person.

Namely Melissa.

The two teachers have been spending a lot of time together lately, even out of school—getting their nails done or going to see Saturday matinees or shopping deals on school supplies together at Staples. So she’s gotten used to Melissa being around, has soothed her pathological need for routine because of this immutable fact.

In the absence of Gerald, there has been Melissa.

A constant presence at her shoulder.

Never more than a text or call or short walk down the hall away.

Until yesterday.

Until Avery Blackwood.

At some point, she walked to the window as a preventative measure against impulsively marching to her friend’s classroom and demanding an explanation, and as she peered through the rain-splattered blinds, she saw them.

Melissa and Avery.

They were walking up the stone steps together, holding hands, and Melissa was laughing at a joke that the other woman had clearly just told, her smile impossible to miss even from a distance.

Even from another room.

Even at the ends of this world.

And Barbara’s stomach had clenched unpleasantly where she stood on the tiles, recoiling at the unexpected sight. And she had mechanically walked back to her seat and tried to sit with this feeling as it rose within her, snarling her carefully composed nervous system into disarray. She didn’t want to admit it, but in her heart of hearts—that forbidden tree she scarcely touches—she understood, even then, that this feeling was jealousy.

And it was irrational.

Ugly.

Perhaps even sinful.

Thou shalt not covet thy best friend’s girlfriend.

Because Melissa undoubtedly deserves happiness.

And you already have it.

You are a married, Christian woman.

Barbara has known, for sometime now, that Melissa also dates women—mostly when she was younger and before she’d married Joseph—but now that she’s single again, having broken up with Gary the Vending Machine Guy a few months ago, she’s been getting into the swing of regularly dating again: a man named Thornton who had a Tom Selleck mustache, a woman named Selina who’d worked on a local mayoral campaign, a bartender named Layla.

Barbara has hated all of her friend’s flings for completely valid and totally objective reasons, telling her as much—and in her humble opinion—doing the Lord’s work of helping her to see the proverbial light.

Gary was content to settle, never once trying something new. And while he was nice and funny and good, he took it for granted that Melissa wanted a staid and unchanging lifestyle too.

Thornton, well, he didn’t root for the Eagles, so that was a no-go despite his impressive mustache.

Selina, bless her heart, never stopped talking about politics.

And Layla—mmm, the nerve of her—didn’t care much about politics at all.

But Avery Blackwood, who is impossibly kind and witty and passionate about helping others, is perfect. There is nothing about her to nitpick and everything about her to root for. She’s probably good for Melissa.

Maybe she’s even the one.

And if jealousy was the awful feeling that Barbara had to swallow in that moment, then happiness was the emotion she had to hastily fake, capably simulating it with a porcelain facade of a smile when the two women finally made it into the lounge, still holding hands.

Melissa was self-conscious—as she always was when she was introducing her new partners to Barbara—her cheeks tinged rather pink.

And Barbara had been so perfectly gracious, as she always was when she was meeting Melissa’s partners—arranging her gritted teeth into a bright and pearly smile.

“You two are simply radiant,” she had mused, and it had broken something inside of her to do it.

She could not articulate to herself why.

She could not pray about it to God either.

—

It is Wednesday—the next day—and Barbara is sitting at her desk, savoring her second mug of coffee before the bell rings, when she hears a gentle rapping noise to her left. She looks up and over to see Melissa leaning against her open classroom door, her striking hair a little damp from the rain, spilling over her shoulders in dark, elegant waves.

“Hey, you,” she smirks, huffing a little, her cheeks flushed. Apparently, she’d jogged here, and the overall effect of all this—her wet hair and rosy face, her casual posture, the way the top two buttons of her shirt are carelessly undone, the vee-shaped divot suggesting the ample curves of those smooth, rolling—

—does nothing for Barbara.

Obviously.

“Hey, yourself,” she rasps hoarsely and hastily takes a throat-clearing sip of her coffee. Her damn sinuses. They always get to her at this time of the year. “What’s got you all flustered, Ms. Schemmenti?”

“Nothin’ in particular,” Melissa shakes her head, still grinning. “Just wanted to catch ya before the bell and apologize for yesterday. Sorry that I skipped lunch.”

And went out a date with Avery Blackwood.

And held hands with her.

Maybe even kissed her.

Barbara imagines Avery’s fingers in her friend’s hair, twisted in those thick, scarlet tresses. She sees Melissa’s arms around the other woman’s curving waist, the space between their bodies negligible. Envisions them trading shades and flavors of red lipstick, can almost hear the sensuous heaving of their mingled breaths. Impatient grunts. Maybe even the occasional moan. And that same awful feeling that had consumed her as she had stood by the window yesterday begins to climb up the rungs of her throat, constricting it, choking what’s left of her resolve to maintain an impeccable front.

And it is initially rather oblique to her—incomprehensible and frankly terrifying—why she should be feeling jealous of the idea of Melissa kissing another woman. It is one thing to be saddened at the idea of losing time with her closest friend; it is another to want to wretch at just the mere thought of the second grade teacher’s lips turning into another art project for one Ms. Avery Blackwood.

But in the end... she supposes she just misses Gerald, his little romantic gestures, his chaste kisses, his once attentive care.

Maybe she’s just lonely.

“Pssh,” she forces herself to smile all the same. “no need to apologize, girlfriend… I was simply happy to see you so happy…”

“Oh, yeah?” Melissa’s own smile brightens, her blush deepening until her face is nearly as red as her hair. Barbara is uncomfortably aware that the other teacher likes receiving her approval, perhaps even hinges some of her self-esteem on it. It’s been this way since her divorce and Joseph wrapped a horrible bow on their marriage by finally cheating on her.

That betrayal had unraveled Melissa Schemmenti.

Had made her feel like she was impossible to love.

And Barbara had seen all of this very clearly, had done everything in her power to put her friend’s broken pieces back together again, laboriously reconstructing her by telling her—almost everyday—that she was so loved and so cared for.

Lord, and how she’d done everything shy of kissing her to prove it.

“Yes,” Barbara nods, softening at these memories, chastising herself for forgetting them in the first place. Her entire project these last five years has been to help Melissa find happiness again… even if it comes at the expense of her own. “I’ve missed seeing you smile like that.”

And it’s true enough.

For the first year after the divorce, Melissa didn’t smile all that much anymore.

Not like she used to anyway.

And it had killed her inside, had hurt her and hurt her and hurt her, every single God blessed day to see the lifelessness in her eyes, to endure the unchanging monotony of her voice.

She remembers tearing up the first time she heard Melissa belly laugh again—maybe two years after the fact. They’d been at her house, making batches of Christmas cookies for their students, and Barbara had hastily opened a bag of flour, causing the dust to explode all over her face. Melissa had laughed and laughed and laughed some more at what was assuredly a hilarious sight until her own face turned red, the sound warm and vibrant and everything lovely in that dimly-lit kitchen.

And flour all over her cheeks and everything, Barbara had nearly wept, unhinged at that beautiful, nearly forgotten noise. Oh, God, how she’d pulled her friend into a hug then, smearing flour across her face too, kissing her—so very softly—on the crown of that vivid head.

Because Melissa was laughing.

Melissa was happy.

Maybe more accurately still, they were happy together.

“Smile like what?” Melissa tilts her head quizzically, her dark brow pinching somewhere in the middle.

“Like you’re at peace,” she says warmly and beneath her desk, digs her fingernails into the palm of her other hand. Because it stings—more than she ever thought it would—that her friend would finally find contentment in someone who wasn’t her.

Melissa opens her mouth and then abruptly closes it, rendered speechless with visible tenderness and delight, pink feathering her high cheekbones.

Goodness, she’s radiant, Barbara thinks, continuing to grip her palm, idly clawing at it, grounding herself in the distant ache.

“It’s still early yet, Barb,” the younger woman finally croaks, attempting to be playful but clearly and audibly touched. “Don’t jinx us.”

“Ach, never,” she intones, clumsily disguising a sudden gasp of pain as a laugh.

When she looks down at her hands, she sees that she has nicked herself, has accidentally drawn blood.

—

Avery is the one who proposes it—a joint lesson where Barbara will read The Cat in the Hat to her kids, and Avery will help them with a coloring project shortly afterwards. She comes to Barbara’s classroom after school one day—perhaps a week after the kindergarten teacher first saw her and Melissa from the window—so they can plan the specifics. With her impossible hair tied in a messy bun atop of her head and the loosely rolled sleeves of her oversized shirt speckled with paint and her slightly lined eyes bright with infectious zeal, it’s easy enough to understand why Ava calls her a “fine ass Miss Frizzle.”

And in hindsight, Barbara now knows why Melissa had been the first to agree.

“Genius,” Avery enthuses, lightly brushing her shoulder against Barbara’s own. “I mean, absolutely bloody brilliant—do you really create vocabulary card decks for each book that you’re reading? And for every student? Because if you do, then Melissa was absolutely correct when she called you a god.”

Her cheeks darken at the excessively kind words—both the art teacher’s own but more so Melissa’s purported ones. She never admits it, but she quite likes receiving her friend’s verbal approval too.

“Melissa thinks far too highly of me,” she says diplomatically, though a pleased smile rises to her lips all the same. “But I suppose she probably says the same of me.”

Neither of them are particularly good at loving each other in moderation. Gerald once teased that she loved Melissa more than him, and Barbara had just as jokingly agreed.

“Something to that effect, yes,” Avery laughs, the sound jocular and lovely, though her playfulness somewhat quickly cedes to thoughtfulness. She regards Barbara with a fond expression, tilting her curly head as though she’s trying to figure out how to capture her best angles in paint. “Mel really does think the world of you, you know. Says that you were there for her when she was really going through it with her ex…”

“It’s what any friend would do,” Barbara says quickly, flushing a little, not entirely sure if she’s touched that Melissa would share such an intimate detail about their friendship or irritated that she did.

Partially thinks that sharing the fact takes some of novelty away from it.

Ludicrous, she knows.

Absolutely ridiculous.

She’s well-aware.

(What is awareness to raw emotion, though, intellectualization to the irrationality of her deepest and most detested feelings?)

“What a good friend would do, dear,” Avery corrects firmly, thankfully oblivious to her inner conflict. “It’s in times of crisis when you learn who your true friends are. When my… you know, when my Morgan passed, so many people I thought were in my corner suddenly poofed, vanished, disappeared into the aether. And the ones who stayed—who helped me through the darkness—were often people I least expected. But they were so kind to me. They held my hand while I was in the straits, and they refused to let me go…”

Even though Avery’s gentle expression remains unchanged, Barbara can see the sadness in the forest of her eyes, can hear its plaintive notes in her rich, lilting voice. She cannot begin to fathom ever losing Gerald, even as complicated as things are between them now. She still loves him, of course. He’s the father of her kids and the other person in their shared bed of thirty-four—nearly thirty-five—years. She’d simply be lost without him.

She thinks it would be the death of her to lose Melissa, to never see that bright, red mouth smiling crookedly at her from across the room again. They’ve only known each other for nineteen years, but it feels like forever. And if Gerald is the other person in her bed, then Melissa is the filled seat next to hers in the teacher’s lounge, the hip lightly brushing against her own, the leather-clad shoulder she knows she can always lean upon.

They’re her people—her husband and her work wife—and she’s absolutely selfish; she wouldn’t be able to easily let either of them go.

So she reaches out accordingly, placing a hand on the small of the art teacher’s back in this imagined empathy of total, devastating, and unrecoverable grief.

There would be no Barbara Howard anymore in the aftermath of losing her beloved Ger or her precious Mel.

There would only be an empty husk of the woman she once was.

Her unhallowed and hollowed ghost.

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” she offers sincerely—with everything in her—but Avery only shakes her head and smiles at her gratefully. Her innumerable curls shiver at the movement.

“It was a long time ago, and things are much better now,” she returns softly, reaching over and lightly squeezing Barbara's free hand. “I have my necessary distractions—a new home to ruin with all my artistic endeavors, a different job to brilliantly occupy my time, and, well, Melissa now.”

Barbara doesn’t discipline her immediate reaction fast enough, frowning deeply at the inclusion of her friend’s name on this particular list.

“Oh,” Avery says hurriedly, catching the microgesture in an instant, pops of color rising across her smooth cheeks, “I don’t mean to say that I’m using Melissa as a way of coping. I like her very much… she understands loss…”

“She does,” Barbara says, not exactly coldly, but perhaps with a touch of admonition, eyeing the other teacher carefully. She lets her hand fall away, primly templing it with the other. “She absolutely understands loss—perhaps far too well as you might know."

Her nana who practically raised her and so many other relatives besides.

An uncle who was killed.

Joseph, that awful man.

Their acrimonious divorce.

Her estranged sister.

“I do know,” Avery agrees, her pale eyes suddenly bright in the harsh fluorescence of the classroom. “And I didn’t mean to insinuate—I mean, I would never hurt her. Melissa is so dear to me."

“I believe you,” she smiles tightly but truthfully. She thinks the art teacher occasionally wears her emotions on her sleeves—as transparently as the paint that is already there—and she half-admires this vulnerability.

Could never be so candid herself.

But she thinks it’s rather dangerous too, this capacity for laying one’s soul bare before another. Lesser people would take advantage, and they do everyday.

“Sometimes, though, we hurt people without ever really meaning to,” Barbara continues, taking on the familiar tone of Mrs. Howard.

Kind and didactic.

A little sanctimonious, maybe.

But well-intentioned.

Always.

She just doesn’t want to see Melissa hurt again.

“Even if we care about them—perhaps especially when we do."

The other woman flinches, as though she's been slapped, so Barbara hastily adds, "Not that you would, of course, but it’s something to keep in mind, yes?”

Avery is quiet for a long time after this, all of her usual mirth sieved from her, replaced with a world weariness and an aching, almost tangible sorrow. Barbara doesn’t think she did this to her, though; rather, she intuits that this is the person behind the painted smile.

This is the artist as herself and not as who she presents herself to be.

She feels sorry for her; she stands by her implicit warning all the same.

Melissa will always come first to her—her happiness, her security, her invaluable peace of mind—and she'll do anything to protect those holy treasures.

(She wishes—more than anything and with inordinate guilt—that she could provide them for her.)

"Fair enough," Avery eventually agrees.

Her ensuing smile is exquisite; it does not touch her eyes.

—

That evening, Barbara is curled up in her favorite recliner, watching Family Feud but not really seeing it, a glass of Prosecco idly supported between her fingertips. Gerald’s going to be late again—surprise, surprise—and she put on a whole pot of chicken and dumplings for nothing.

Oh, sure, he’ll eat a bowl tonight when he gets home around eight or nine, but she’ll have already eaten herself and will likely be in bed to prepare for the school day tomorrow. And if she is, her husband might even sleep in the guest room tonight so as not to disturb her.

He’s polite like that.

But Gerald’s versions of politeness often leave her feeling lonelier than ever before.

So when her phone suddenly rings right at the commercial break, and Melissa’s smiling face washes over her screen—(a picture she’d taken on their most recent movie date)—Barbara is perhaps a little too eager to pick up the phone, pressing it to her ear like a lifeline.

She’s wholly unprepared for the greeting that follows.

“What the hell did you say to Avery?”

“What?” Barbara splutters, uncomprehending and half-offended and so horribly afraid. She sits up abruptly, accidentally spilling a little wine on one of her favorite silk blouses. “What in Heaven’s name do you mean, Melissa? I didn’t—“

But the younger woman cuts across her viciously. “Things were all fine this morning, but then she goes to your classroom, and not even five minutes later, she’s in mine, tellin’ me we should take things slower!”

Barbara closes her eyes, suddenly and completely nauseous. The art teacher had apparently taken her words to heart, had evaluated them and perhaps found that they struck a meaningful chord.

Avery is still grieving her partner.

And grief is a monstrous thing.

It colors everything it touches—thoughts, memories, conversations, and deeds.

Relationships too.

(Maybe even relationships especially.)

“Are you saying that she broke up with you?” She rasps, her voice choked, wrung with unspeakable shame.

And something else as well.

But that something else is far more insidious to ever name.

(Hope.)

(Self-righteousness.)

(Glorious, sweeping relief.)

“No, I’m sayin’ that here you go again, messin’ with my relationships,” comes a quick and scathing reply. “You didn’t like Selina or Layla or Thornton. Fuck, you didn’t even like Gary, and you set me up with him in the first place!”

Every word lands across her stomach like the entry of a new knife, gushing blood. It’s true that she’s voiced her reservations about each and every one of Melissa’s most recent partners, but not for any malicious intent. She’s only meant to help her friend, naming the flaws in these various flings that her friend couldn’t see.

That is altruism from her limited perspective.

Meddling is a form of love.

“You’re being incredibly unfair,” she hisses, angrily wiping at the tears that have started to form at the corners of her eyes. “I’ve only wanted the best for you, Melissa, and you know that.”

And none of those individuals—as kind as they were or funny or sexy or available—were good enough for Melissa Schemmenti.

They were nice people.

That didn’t mean a blessed thing to Barbara.

“Yeah, well, from where I’m standing, you don’t give a rat’s ass about me—you just want me to be as miserable as yourself.”

And, oh, it is this indictment that is the cruelest of them all, and Barbara immediately wants to cry and shudder and scream so loudly that she can be heard from miles upon miles away. Another part of her still wants to fight back, teeth bared and hackles raised, wants to snarl so many unsavory things.

That her marriage is none of Melissa’s business.

That if she was so uncaring, then who has unfailingly been by her side these past five years, fixing what Joseph Lombardo so callously broke?

That she loves her.

You know that I do, Melissa.

I have loved you far more and for far longer than almost anyone.

Do you not know that?

Have I not proved to you—over and over again—that I care?

“I’m not miserable,” she mewls instead, the words pathetic even to her own ears. She sounds like a petulant child, but her deepest honesty would be overwhelming and too much.

It would sound like a vulgar confession.

A romantic one.

Her glass violently trembles in her hand.

“Keep telling yourself that, Barbara," comes an incredulous, broken laugh, "but don’t talk to me about my shit again until you’re finally ready to be honest about your own.”

And with that searing proclamation, Melissa hangs up with a brutal click, leaving Barbara alone again in her big, empty house.

The abrupt silence bruises her.

Wraps its fingers around the pillar of her throat.

She sits in her recliner and simply suffocates—for minutes after that, and then hours, a monolith carved from stone as tears serpentine down the weathered crevices of her face like water over an ancient fountain. She wipes at them only every now and then. Can’t entirely bring herself to care.

Darkness falls through the bay window in the living room, laying across her like a steel cage. She drinks and refills her wine and drinks and refills her wine until the bottle is empty, and her mind is a buzzing tape recorder, replaying that last conversation in her head until she’s making up replies that she didn’t say.

She is not miserable, Melissa.

She is a married, Christian woman.

She cannot fathom those two ever being one and the same.

#work wives #melissa schemmenti #barbara howard #abbott elementary #s: abbott elementary #reginianwrites #lots of gay yearning <3333 #one of my favorite things to write

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prixmiumarchive · 7 years

Photo

Do you ever wish for a place to talk to other fanfiction writers? Do you get frustrated with the lack of commentary and text in a commentary-and-text-based medium of expression? Do your plot bunnies look like this fellow in the above, not-so-great banner? Do you miss the days when we called them plot bunnies? Has disenchantment with the state of the discussion of transformative works made you long for the days of dial-up, yahoo groups, and tiny fic archives run on GeoCities? Then this Discord server may be the solution for you!

Now, you might have questions. What is Discord? Isn’t it full of hentai? Do I have to install another application on my duct-taped-together computer? Can I do this on mobile? What, exactly, would make this have the potential for being anything better than the oft-abandoned, crickets-chirping concept of tumblr networks from a couple of years ago?

Those answers and more will be below the read-more. This is a living document which can be reblogged but whose content under the read-more may change. You can find this information and any other important updates to it in a static location at http://metamorprose.dreamwidth.org

Contents

Who this server is for.

How is it set up?

What is Discord?

What are Roles?

How do I set a Role or Roles for myself?

What/why Metamorprose?

Rules for Metamorprose.

Punishments on Metamorprose.

Disclaimers.

Who this server is for.

This server is intended for those who write fanfiction. If you have written 1,000 words or more of fanfiction, then you can assume this includes you, if you want it to. This is an all ages server with a few important exceptions. At present, there are three text-channels that are marked NSFW, meaning you will need to verify that you are of age to view them. Those text-channels are: nsfw-warren, nsfw-celebritiesrpf, and nsfw-musicbands. They are marked that way for these reasons: #nsfw-warren is a place to talk about writing fic that is rated M or E, #nsfw-celebritiesrpf and #nsfw-musicbands are marked that way because they are under increased moderation and discretion because they may deal with real persons who are living.

This server is open to individuals 13+ with the nsfw channels being restricted to those 18+. Any user found to enter an nsfw channel under the age of 18 will be subject to disciplinary action. Your curiosity and maturity is not wroth getting someone else in trouble.

Metamorprose is intended as a place for people who have a current or frequent interest in writing fanfiction. This does not mean that you must be writing at a certain pace or publishing a specific amount. Writer’s Block happens and so does real life. What this does mean is that if you are just a casual fanfiction reader who rarely writes that this might not be the most fun place for you. If you are an avid reader who has a lot of recs, even if you don’t write, you are welcome to join and see what happens. Any specific entry requirements or rules will be implemented and updated on an as-needed basis. For now, it is up to your discretion whether or not you would be a good fit.

How is it set up?

Metamorprose is vaguely rabbit themed in honor of ‘plot bunnies’ and their legacy. You do not have to care about or like rabbits. It was just the first naming scheme that came to mind.

At the time of invitation launch, the following are the text-channels on the Metamorprose Discord server:

#foxden - off-topic and social chat #rabbithole - where you go to role yourself #thewarren - fanfiction writing/process discussion #nsfw-warren - same as above for M/E-rated material #recs - rec fics by others #selfpromo - rec/promote fics by yourself #beta - seek/offer beta services #ficexchanges - yuletide? uh... anything else? promote and discuss here #catnip - PG13 very off-topic thread, stuff you just had to share that isn’t conducive to regular conversation #inspiration - aesthetics, music, etc. you want to share and chat about what it makes you feel or reminds you of #groupwatching - a place to set up sharing your favorite shows and movies and whatever else, through rabb.it or another service (not affiliated with this vague bunny theme) And text-channels for which you must have the appropriate role assigned to enter where you can discuss fanfiction writing and ideas and related topics for a given genre/medium. These subdivisions are based on Archive Of Our Own’s division of the same with some alteration.

#animemanga #booksliterature #cartoonscomicsgn #nsfw-celebritiesrpf #movies #nsfw-musicbands #theatre #tvshows #videogames #webseries These may change an the adminabun (me) is always looking for constructive suggestions on just about any aspect of my life.

What is Discord?

Discord advertises itself as “Free Voice and Text Chat for Gamers.” In addition to self-proclaimed gamers, it is also a place where one might find those who are interested in “memes” as a way of life and anime/manga fans with some overlap with tech-savviness. These are all generalizations, though.

Discord, in my personal experience, is very similar to Skype but with many more options. It is also, at present, ad-free, and to my knowledge plans to stay that way. If you are interested, the Discord team has provided a comparison chart of their features: https://discordapp.com/features

If you do game, do voice chat, or anything else, then it is my understanding that it really is a great application to use for that. For simple, text-based creatures like myself who rarely play games, however, it is a perfectly serviceable place to keep organized chats and PMs, all under one roof.

Another great thing about Discord is that you have several options to use it. You can use it in your browser simply by pressing “Open Discord” on the app’s homepage. You can use it in a desktop program/application, available for download on the app’s homepage. You may also use their mobile app, which to my knowledge is available for both iOS and Android. (I use Android, so if you have iOS issues with it, not my area.)

The application’s website is here: https://discordapp.com/

What are Roles?

A “Role” is a discord feature and term that determines aspects of a user’s status, permissions, and abilities within a server and its individual channels. For the purposes of Metamorprose, you should choose the one or two most-relevant genre/media roles and the posting medium (where you put your fic most-often) for yourself. The genre/media role will determine your username color, and if anyone hates their genre’s color I would be open to putting it to a poll. If you have more than one genre, you will inherit the color of the genre that comes first in the alphabet. AO3/Fanfiction.net/tumblr roles do not impact your name color.

The currently-available self-assignable roles are:

genre/media: - Anime & Manga - Books & Literature - Cartoons & Comics & Graphic Novels - Celebrities & Real People - Movies - Music & Bands - Theatre - TV Shows - Video Games - Web Series

posting medium: - AO3 - Fanfiction.Net - tumblr

How do I set a Role or Roles for myself?

First, you need to be in the text-channel #rabbithole. I am just learning about bot usage for this venture, but at present I use a bot called Nadeko. She is a bot who sits there on the channel at all times and will, unless she is having server downtime, respond to your commands. The commands you need to know for self-assigning roles are:

you: .lsar

Sending the message ‘.lsar’ will show you a list of self-assignable roles.

you: .iam ROLE

Sending the message ‘.iam ROLE’ will assign the role typed in place of ROLE to you. For example, if I want to assign myself the Anime & Manga role, I type this exactly: ‘.iam Anime & Manga’. Nadeko will message you back when the deed is done. If It doesn’t work immediately, try again in a few minutes.

you: .iamnot ROLE

Sending the message ‘.iamnot ROLE’ will unassign the role typed in place of ROLE to you. For example, let’s say I am finished with my current Anime & Manga fic project or am moving on to another fic for now. I can type exactly this: ‘.iamnot Anime & Manga’ and Nadeko will tell me when she has unassigned the role from me.

Please note that using these roles most effectively is not assigning yourself every single one of the genre/media roles that you sort of like. Having one or two genre/media roles active at once will make it easy for people to see what you are currently interested in writing, are writing, etc. There are plenty of places you can ping-pong from liked-topic to liked-topic at the speed of your fingertips, tumblr included. This server will be the greatest resource to you if you use roles and the genre-specific text-channels judiciously. You can alter your roles as much as you want, within reason, so you are not stuck just because you have an interest shift. (Trust me, I am the queen of multifandom lack of focus.) Just don’t abuse Nadeko. She is a free service who does not belong to me.

What/why Metamorprose?

I just wanted a name for the server that was kind-of unique and meant something.

“Metamorphose” is a verb meaning to change the form or nature of; transform.

“Prose” is what most of us write in, striving for the middle ground between purple and beige.

In the age-old fandom tradition, therefore, it is a portmanteau for the process of creative transformative works: metamorprose.

Rules for Metamorprose.

1. Treat others with courtesy and respect. Do not insult a person, disagree respectfully, and only offer constructive criticism.

2. Do not bait or otherwise goad another user into misbehavior. This will be considered misbehavior as well. If you are having an issue with a user, please come to the adminabun or any assigned mods to deal with it.

3. Do not post NSFW material in non nsfw channels. This does NOT include posting clearly marked M/E-rated fics in fic rec channels.

4. Keep on-topic within reason in the text channels that are not the #foxden. Reasonable and brief rabbit trails are fine, but don't turn them into niche off-topic channels.

5. Use good sense. Use discord's features appropriately. If you don't know how to or if you can do something, Google it first. If you can't figure it out from the first page of Google results, ask someone you trust. The adminabun is willing to take your questions about discord operation, within reason, after you have tried googling it yourself.

6. Non NSFW-channels should be kept at a PG-13 tone. There are no nsfw or profanity filters set up on the non-nsfw channels, so this is based on the honor system and abuse of this WILL get you warned.

7. Theft or plagiarism will merit a warning or an immediate ban, depending on context and severity, at admin/mod discretion. 8. Do not direct people directly to your patreon or ko-fi page. What you do in PMs with friends is up to you but do not otherwise promote monetary gain for yourself on this channel.

9. Do not offer financially-compensated commissions on this channel for fic or for art.

10. More rules may be added and will be announced, but ignorance of a rule is not an excuse to not follow it.

On Dreamwidth: http://metamorprose.dreamwidth.org/334.html

Punishments on Metamorprose.

Egregious and flagrant violation of any of the above rules or other abusive behavior may be cause for immediate ban. However, the general rule is that 3 warnings result in a softban. This will ban you but will allow you to rejoin the channel again after you’ve had a cool-down. 5 warnings will result in a permanent ban.

Disclaimers.

This Discord server is not affiliate with any of the following: Archive Of Our Own, the Organization for Transformative Works, Fanfiction.net, tumblr, rabb.it, dreamwidth, yuletide, or any other unnoted, official organization. It is a project by the fan and fanfiction writer whose Discord tag is Prix#9110.

By clicking the following link, you agree to be subject to the aforementioned rules and policies, whether you read them or not: https://discord.gg/z3FHEYQ

#fanfiction #fanfic #fanfiction writing network #fanfiction discord #fic #writing fic #fic writing #discord #discordapp #metamorprose #open discord server #discord server

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