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#reminder to self never post scribbles again
ruth-the-artblog · 1 year
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Hello have scribbles on that crackship i allowed myself to hyperfixate on
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ghostedcas · 8 months
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riley family hcs:
tw: mentions of post-partum depression and psychosis, mentions of self harm, mentions of death/dying/suicide (no actual death though, everyone is alive!!), allusions to ghost's trauma
- matthew is a big batman enjoyer just like his dad, simon got him matching batman stuff all the time growing up
- matthew is also a big softie, big guy like his dad but is just an absolute softie (biggest animal lover fr)
- lyla's first word was tea because simon asks for tea so much when he's home she picked it up from him
- luka's first word was pineapple and it to this day baffles you and simon
- bug and matthew will never admit it's because they trained him to do it
- 90% of what simon drinks when he is home is tea
- he probably asks for tea at least once an hour
- "baby can you make me some tea?"
- "love, are you making tea? can you make me some too?"
- "do you want to have some tea?"
- "oh, while you're up can you grab me a cuppa?"
- atp just keep the kettle on 24/7 when he's home
- bug kept their middle name, it's joeseph <3
- true to their name, bug used to bring all assortments of bugs home with them as a kid
- literally just pulled a mf earth worm out of his pocket one night at dinner when he was 8
- simon and matthew freaked out
- "ew! why did bring that to the table?!"
- "bug you're gonna make me sick, please get that thing away from our dinner..."
- "matthew! simon! be nice!"
- lyla is a big daddy's girl, luka is a mommy's boy
- idk if i mentioned it before but bug uses they/he pronouns (will use she/her to spite people, only ever to spite people)
- matthew has beat up transphobes at school for bug (and would gladly do it again)
- soap tried so hard to convince simon to name a kid after him
- closest he got was matthew's middle name being john (he'll take the win)
- lyla's middle name is valerie (for the sole reason that mummy likes the song valerie a little too much, it kinda pisses simon off because it's so close to valeria but he lives with it and learns to love it every time he sees his lover dancing around the kitchen to the song)
- luka legally doesn't have a middle name, it's supposed to be spencer
- simon may or may not have forgotten to write it down on the certificate
- he was emotional, okay?
- at least he remembered to put his name there at all??
-he misspelled riley by accident the first time and scribbled it out
- when soap found out he refused to let him live it down and reminds him of it every opportunity he gets
- only for simon to remind him of the time bug shoved a snail down soap's throat when he was a child and soap actually ate it so he wouldn't hurt bug's feelings
- shell and all
- soap shuts up quickly after that
- uncle soap <3
- some sad ones comin your way besties
- simon wasnt exactly a good dad for the first couple years of matthew and bugs lives
- you were both young and he was still very unhealed from his (continuously growing) trauma
- a lot of fights were had
- a lot of simon just leaving in the middle of the night out of nowhere
- it took one really bad fight where you completely broke down in front of him for him to realize that he had to get his shit together
- family therapy appointment was booked the next day for as soon as possible
- truthfully he didn't think it would help, he's always been a big therapy hater
- but to his surprise it helped a lot, of course it still took some time and a lot of hard work but he did eventually grow to become a much better father and partner
- luckily by the time matthew and bug were in their most formative years is when simon had become a bit more stable and a better dad
- of course they still had to go through his deployments and the trauma of not knowing if their dad would come home, but they never ever experienced trauma at the hands of simon
- simon actually suffered PPD and PPP alongside you after you had the kids
- neither of you developed PPP until the twins though
- it was a very big struggle for both of you
- there was a short period of time where you actually had your parents take the kids because neither of you trusted yourselves alone with them
- his lasted much shorter than yours did though
- there was a period of time where you were still suffering both PPD and PPP while simon was deployed and it ended up with you and matthew in the hospital
- you hadn't intended to hurt him, he just happened to get in the way of you hurting yourself and you accidentally hurt him as well
- simon didn't find out until he came home from deployment and saw that you weren't alone at home with the kids but instead had hired a nanny who was trained for situations like this
- he felt awful that he couldn't be there for you when you needed someone so badly
- he could've lost you and he wouldn't have known until he came home
- but he didn't
- anyyywaaaayyyys, back to the happy stuff :3
- bug watches markiplier
- matthew watches buzzfeed unsolved (loves watching it with uncle soap<3)
- sleepovers at uncle soap's when he's off of deployment 🥰
- matthew had a habit of bringing random strays into the house from the ages of 6-10
- or even just random wild animals he somehow befriended
- get home from work and he's just sitting there on the couch with a raccoon in his hands
- you just stand there like ????
- "matthew, please get that thing out of my house..."
- "but why? it's nice mummy."
- "i know you think so honey, but it's really not. it's probably very dirty and wants to be left alone. they live outside for a reason, right bud? if they wanted to be in homes, they would be."
- "fine... five more minutes?"
- "two, no more, no less. and that include your saying goodbye time."
- "fine."
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riddler-green · 1 year
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Could I request a riddler/ reader w/ a reader who likes to draw him pls 🙏🙏 like as a gift or even just keeps and he finds them in their studio and realises his face is littered along their portfolio like a thoughtfully crafted tapestry and testament of their love or something corny like that I love the idea of a reader who’s just awe strikingly in love and him the same it’s so sweet WAAA but u can do whatever w/ the idea of artist/riddler ur so cool Ty <333
Mi musa.
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Summary:  you are an artist with your own habits but you never forget who your true muse is.
A/N: hey hiii! it's me again! thanks so much for the request! I really appreciate it! and I hope you enjoy it, I love that Riddler/ artist concept too!1 ଘ(੭ˊᵕˋ)੭ ੈ♡‧₊˚
Warning: possessiveness on the part of both, fluff!
Words: 1500.
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Art can be a means to convey what you want to say when you don't have the words to get them out of your mouth, you have never proclaimed yourself as the best artist in the world, but for as long as you can remember others have recognized your talent, you are grateful for the compliments of others who find charm in your work when you only find things to improve.
Perfectionism is something that tortures you when you look at your own work, you know there are things to improve but somehow when you draw the man of your dreams it's the opposite. Sometimes they tend to be simple doodles on yellow post-its, sometimes you draw portraits worthy of hanging in renowned museums, when it comes to Edward, you always find solace. A calmness in painting is like a therapeutic remedy.
Edward couldn't stand the itch in his nose, he had to sneeze covering his nose with his shoulder, you stopped painting and looked at the palette in your hand "Sorry" Edward apologizes in a low voice but you can hear him, you move away from the canvas to look at him "No need to be completely still my love, it's okay" you inform him mixing different shades of brown to paint his hair.
Edward kept as still as possible even though he is only sitting on a chair with a dark blue background, he couldn't help but think that when he poses for you it reminds him of an ancient king asking his star painter to do a portrait of him to show his greatness and power. But he knows he is not a king, he is still a little incredulous how someone like him managed to date someone like you, someone who looks at him with so much admiration, so much love that lasts for hours, even when you are out of your studio and he is at his most unfavorable moments you still look at him with great esteem.
"I think I will have to add more red to your cheeks, they are too red" you joke behind the canvas, Edward laughs at the comment, maybe in the past he would have refused to even have his picture taken, as he didn't like the way he looked, but now, he poses in front of you naturally as it is not the first time you paint him.
He doesn't mind that your studio is full of paintings, sheets full of drawings of him, he found it beautiful and wonderful, he started to love himself with your paintings, he sees the beauty that you see in him "Some day you should draw yourself too" says Edward calmly looking everywhere in the studio without turning his head.
"I don't know, self-portraits are hard to do" you reply placing a brush in your mouth as you use a palette knife on the canvas "Although it's not impossible either".
Edward remains satisfied with the answer and is silent again, he feels so excited with the result of the painting, you always make it a masterpiece at the end in his opinion. He scribbled sometimes on his accounting sheets and on his crossword puzzle, he drew question marks, and sometimes he drew you, or well, a caricature version of you, when he showed it to you, you cried, without you knowing you already started sobbing, it's different when they draw you.
Edward catches a glimpse of a rather large picture with all the drawings he has given you as a gesture of love, all the drawings placed as a big collage and protected by glass, under the picture, there was a signature "Eddie's Drawings".
His cheeks ache for he adores that you appreciate him too, it never crossed your mind to judge his drawing skills, you always received the little pen doodles with love "I'm almost done" you speak to him and he makes a happy humming sound, for you, you could be posing for days if you wanted to.
Again he thinks again, deep in his heart he loves it when you proclaim that he is your only muse, not Bruce Wayne, not another rich guy who pays for your paintings, Edward Nashton of KMTJ brings out your creativity to make paintings non-stop.
"I hope it comes out well in this painting," he says and you switch brushes "You always come out beautiful Eddie" you assure him as if it's a no-brainer.
Edward stretches his legs a little when he notices you are putting down all the brushes "More than the plain Mona?" you laugh at his question "More than the plain monkey" you reply and call him over to come to see the painting.
"wow" is the first thing he says when he sees it is him with various mixtures of paints that make it look great, he stays a few minutes fascinated with the work while you finish putting away all the paints and utensils.
"Do you want to take it home?" you ask taking off your Machado apron of various paint textures and Edward nods his head buzzing with delight as he takes your hand.
✧・゚: ✧・゚:✧・゚: ✧・゚:✧・゚: ✧・゚:✧・゚: ✧・゚:✧・゚: ✧・゚:✧・゚: ✧・゚:
"Is it a cow?" you ask looking at the paper in front of you, when they came in from your study day Edward wanted to show you a drawing he did on his break from work "It's a dog" Edward clarifies pointing to the somewhat deformed figure of the dog "it's you and me and the dog we saw in the park" he explains his drawing as you look happily at the drawing, so proud of him.
"It's so cute!" you squeal with happiness placing the drawing on one of the walls of the room "I think I'll put it in my next collection" you speak to him lovingly as the two of you embrace, Gotham nights are usually cold, but when you're next to Eddie it seems like the whole apartment becomes warm.
"I would like you to attend my next Exhibition will you go, right?" the two of you look at each other face to face Edward keeps his eyes closed completely in love with the position they are in "I wouldn't miss it for the world."
The presenter looked at you with respect, he was sitting next to you with several question cards waiting for the program to start, all the time your facial expression was serious.
When the program started the presenter began with a charismatic talk about your works "So, tell us, who is that man who is always in your paintings?" he let out the question with a curious tone the cameramen pointed to your face looking for a surprised expression from you, instead you answered naturally.
"He is my partner, Edward, we have been together for several years and I always fell in love with his way of being" you start talking with a formal tone "When I see something I love, I want to capture it in my paintings so it can be immortalized" you settle back in your seat placing your elbows on armrests.
"Before I was looking for perfection in my art, but now I achieved it without realizing it" the presenter remains static before your speech "perfection is when I look at the effort I put in each work and that it was worth it" you look at the camera in front of you "sometimes art can hurt us, but I decided to be happy painting the love of my life".
The presenter you forgot his name gave a few admiring claps as you took a sip of water. God, you just hope Edward watches the show.
✧・゚: ✧・゚:✧・゚: ✧・゚:✧・゚: ✧・゚:✧・゚: ✧・゚:✧・゚: ✧・゚:✧・゚: ✧・゚:
The man in clear glasses leapt towards you to hug you both standing outside the program set, the stoic countenance disappeared when you noticed your boyfriend, he squealed with joy for the program "God, how I love you!" he proclaims and before you could respond he kisses you on the lips, you close your eyes to enjoy the moment.
"Me too Eddie" you reply kissing him again, you remember hearing about Edward's past, you wish the people who hurt your muse would suffer the consequences of their actions.
"I think I have inspiration for another painting, but this time I need to buy a darker green" you comment smiling at him, Edward gets excited "what kind of green?".
"Mmmm" you pretended to think making a thoughtful sound "What color is the Riddler mask?".
Edward almost choked on his own saliva, in a few times you have painted him as the Riddler and that makes him get more excited "I um, I think, I can tell which gree-en it is" he stutters nervously.
✧・゚: ✧・゚:✧・゚: ✧・゚:✧・゚: ✧・゚:✧・゚: ✧・゚:✧・゚: ✧・゚:✧・゚: ✧・゚:
There were nights when Edward tried to draw you with canvas, and you happily posed while Edward mixed different tones that you could easily make a rainbow vomit, still, it was a dream for you to see him like that, you swear he looks so cool behind the canvas, you seriously consider buying him a beret to match his beautiful eyes.
When Edward finished he proudly showed you the artwork, someone else would say it was a perfect Picasso with the drawings barely repeatable but for you, it was the masterpiece of the century.
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Thank you very much for reading! And sorry for the mistakes!
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skellymom · 3 months
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Vagabonds Questions
What inspired you to write the fic this way?
What scene did you first put down?
Where did the title come from?
Thanks for asking @genericficerblog !
For reference and shameless self promotion, here is the intro and first chapter of my ongoing The Bad Batch Hunter x OC fan fic series:
The subsequent chapters after that are linked at the end of each chapter so you can continue to read uninterrupted (If indeed the links do still work. Message me if they don't please!). I've only just written 1/4 of the story arc so far. There is farther to go. And many surprises in store for the reader. Admittedly, I had hoped to pick up past chapter 8 already...but SUPER burnt during the holidays from working my main job (veterinary technician). So I might not start up the story again until Feb 2024. I need a mental health break.
#1. What inspired you to write the fic this way? When it comes to my OC, I'm a bit of a control freak. So third person omnipresent works for me. I get to share ALL OF THE DETAILS of everyone involved in the fic. However, I do have two first person one shots that work much better when the reader is the only person privy to what they are thinking and the other characters are a bit of a mystery.
Also, with all the horrible crap going on in the world that I have NO control over...it's nice to write something that's a bit escapist. I have control over this universe. And, while characters might encounter hardship and loss, the ending for sure will be happy. It might be bittersweet, but it's cosmically for the best. I feel like I have more control over this world than the one I live in. The one that control is really only an illusion. And, I'm no hero. Just another cog in the machine clicking away.
#2. What scene did you first put down? Actually, the scene with Love force grabbing and rescuing the puppy from the Coruscant meat market. They needed to rescue that poor little soul! However, the very first scene to even pop into my head as an idea was that of Mad trying to fly out of trouble on the Beldame and Love pretty much protecting the ship with their unrestrained Force Shield...with disastrously (or lucky) insane results. Didn't write it down until much, much later.
I LOVE WRITING ACTION SCENES! I tend to write the really meaty scenes first (I have several notebooks that I just scribble stuff down while sitting in front of the fire, with a cup of tea, or whenever I can pick up and write). Then I slowly piece bits together to make the whole of the story. I have ideas whizzing around all the time in my head...I just gotta commit to writing them into reality!!!
#3. Where did the title come from? A "Vagabond" is a person that wanders from place to place without a home or job. Or a person having no settled home. A wanderer or traveler. It usually doesn't have a pejorative meaning as it can have a romanticized connotation, but sometimes can be pejorative as in calling someone a vagrant.
I've always been interested in people who continually move from place to place, either by want or necessity. Most people tend to stay in one place and never go far due to being comfortable with what they know. But, what if you're comfortable with what you don't know? What if settling in too long in one place is stifling? Or constantly moving allows you freedom, opportunities, experiences...maybe even safety? What if your culture ENCOURAGED you to keep moving and embrace the unknown and new experiences?
I have been a bit of a Vagabond most of my life. Moved away from my home state at 21 years old (I would have left sooner...like 10 years old if I had the money, confidence, luck, parental consent, etc. My cousin reminded me that climbing through the bedroom window and running away with just a suitcase would land me in juvenile detention. Plus, she said she would miss me). Two Navy husbands, lots of places I've lived, visited, traveled to and still going whenever I can. Hell, I'd couch surf, floor crash, or whatever it takes to go visit ANYWHERE! And, if I stop moving too long I get restless and a major case of wanderlust.
So, in between saving money and planning to find places to go I write and travel to places in my mind that don't exist. Yep...Mad is ME! Surely you figured that out already. Been dreaming of flying away on adventures since I was a child. I LOVE planet earth. But, sometimes I look up in the sky at night and gaze at the stars...hoping to see a craft touch down in the greenspace behind my house. A band of rag-tag misfits emerge and call over the fence. They traveled an awfully long way through hyperspace lanes and time-space worm holes to come to this tiny blue planet holding life. They say they are looking for a few good Rebels. I turn and yell to my family that I'm off to fight a galactic war and don't wait up for me at dinner. Gotta shoot some imps and steal some intel. Be back tomorrow. <3
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backwards-readings · 5 months
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The Door that was Never Supposed to be Opened.
Chapter 4: A Bird in a Cage
{Chapter 1} {Chapter 2} {Chapter 3}
{A/N: This was originally posted on AO3, if you would like to read it there you can find it HERE. I'm going to be straight up with you and tell you that this is pretty much a self-indulgent self-insert fic. I'm not gonna lie. If you don't like that, that's cool, have a good day. But if you're DTF with it, let's get right into the story.}
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{Art Credit: this lovely artist
++TW: There are depictions of Suicide. Please, if it is a sensitive topic for you, skip this chapter. I'll add notes on the next chapter a quick summary of what happened without going into detail. I want you to be safe more than I want you to read my writing. If you're struggling with thoughts of harming yourself, please reach out to someone you trust. If you're in the US, you can call 988 to talk with someone, or text HOME to 741741. There's help. There's hope. Be safe, please.++
The next few days I am consumed by anger. I scribble more sketches in my book, but the strokes are dark, and in places the lead of my pencil rips the paper. I tear the pieces of the ruined paper out of the book in strips, balling each strip up and throwing it into the unlit fireplace. I sit on the floor for a bit, staring at the torn pieces of paper sitting in the soot. Tears begin to form in my eyes and I pull my knees up to my chest, hugging them. All this just because I wanted to help someone. I pick the journal back up and begin drawing again, this time taking time to carefully sketch out the face of the man in the basement.
My tears stain the page around the drawing as his face takes shape. I stop when I get to the hair and set down the journal, leaving the drawing unfinished. His face already haunts me, the hopeless look follows me when I close my eyes. The hopeless look that I’ll soon have as well. I stay sitting on the floor, numbness creeping across my body. A numbness that starts in my hands starts spreading across my body, taking hold of me. A tightness creeps into my chest and something tells me it’s here to stay for a while.
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The next few days I don’t even bother getting out of bed unless it’s to use the bathroom. What’s the point of putting in an effort to eat and drink water if you’re just going to be stuck in the same room for possibly the rest of your life? Ms Downard comes in a few times and clicks her tongue at the untouched food, taking it away and replacing it with fresh food, but she never says anything to me.
The first two days my stomach grumbles, and on the third day my stomach feels like it’s tying itself in knots, but I don’t care. Better to starve to death than to live out my years in this god-forsaken place. After five days of staying in bed and not eating, Ms Downard finally addresses me.
“Honestly, you think a hunger strike is going to do anything for you? Eat, don’t eat, Master Burgess doesn’t care. It would just be one less thing for him to worry about. One less thing for me to worry about, too. Lord knows I don’t have to bring you fresh food every day. I’m doing this out of the kindness of my heart, not asking for anything in return.” She lectures me but I don’t respond. If this is her idea of kindness then I don’t want it.
“Nothing?” She huffs “Fine. I don’t care. Have fun sulking in bed until you wither away into nothing. I don’t care.” She leaves a tray of food on the table and leaves, the click of the lock a bitter reminder. That night I take a few bites of the bread that she left, but I throw it up as soon as I get it down. I crawl back into bed and cover myself with the blankets, a chill clinging to my bones that I just can't shake.
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I’m so tired but can’t sleep. I try again and again to eat, but only a few bites make me sick to my stomach, no matter what it is. I drink the water left for me but it doesn’t seem to stay my thirst. I run a bath and sink into the water, the sting of the cold water doing nothing to wake me up. I wash up slowly, letting my hands and feet get wrinkly in the water. After my bath I sit wrapped in a towel on the bed, not waiting to put on the dirty clothes I’ve been in since getting imprisoned. I’m clean, but I don’t feel like it. My chest is still tight and my skin crawls with invisible dirt and bugs. I try to eat a bit of bread again and this time it stays down, feeling like lead in my stomach.
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The next morning, there are clean clothes laid out for me on the table next to my tray of food. It’s a servant's uniform just like my old clothes were. They’re ill-fitting, probably left over from one of the girls who left. The sleeves cover my hands, and I trip over the skirt. There’s no apron to put over the plain dress, but I don’t think I would put it on if there was. I have no need for one as a prisoner. I sit down at the table and eat a few bites of cured meat that sits on the tray, the salty flavour causing me to nearly gag. I eat a little of the bread, hoping that it will calm my stomach, and sit on the bed with my journal and draw.
Once again, my drawings turn from inanimate objects to him. No matter what I do, I can’t get him out of my head. I hate him for it. If it wasn’t for him, I wouldn’t even be locked up. But instead of minding my own, I had to try and become his saviour. I scribble him over and over again, his features flooding my mind. As I create him over and over again, anger begins to bubble. He haunted me when I was free, and now that I am captive he is all I can think about.
He may not have actually been a devil, but he tricked me just the same. If he is such a powerful being, why didn’t he warn me this would happen? Why didn’t he tell me? He let me try to help him when he probably knew the outcome. That bastard might have even wanted this, envious of my freedom. I get up and throw my book across the room, sick of drawing. Sick of everything turning back into him. It hits the wall and falls with a loud thunk, but does nothing but make me more angry. I begin to see red and next throw the tray of food that has been given to me, and then push the vanity in the room to its side and let out a yell filled with anger.
I stand there, seething for a moment before my seething hot anger is replaced with ice-cold sorrow. Tears fall from my eyes faster than I can wipe them away and I sink to the floor, unable to stop the convulsions of cries. I curl up on myself, my sabs raking through my body like waves crashing into rocks. I don’t know how long I lay there for, but eventually my ragged breaths even out and I lay on the floor in silence. My eyes wander around the room, taking in the destruction of my fit, and they fall on the broken mirror of the vanity, shards of the silver-backed glass strewn across the floor.
I drag myself towards the broken glass, grabbing a shard that fits perfectly into my hand- as if it was meant to be. My head throbs with every heartbeat as I palm the glass, feeling the sharp edges. They may have taken away my freedom, but I am not helpless. I don’t want to live caged like an animal. I can’t. I won’t. I hold the shard in my hand, shaking as I sit up and press the jagged edge into my wrist, a hiss of pain coming from my lips as it bites into my skin. Tears well in my eyes again as I watch a stream of blood trickle down my arm, landing in my lap. I dig deeper, pain clouding my vision before I remove the shard and move it to my other arm, my hands shaking more and more. I repeat the process, digging into my flesh until I have to bite back a scream. I remove the makeshift blade and drop it in my lap, holding my bloody arms out in front of me. My eyes begin to feel heavy, and I lay down, not caring about the shards of glass on the carpet that dig into my skin.
Despite the pain, a small smile graces my lips as I lay there. My eyes land on the book I had been drawing in it, the pained stare of my drawing subject meeting my eyes. I don’t remember drawing him looking like he was pitying me, but then again, I had drawn him so many times, that I probably just forgot. I close my eyes, ready to let the darkness take me, to embrace death like an old friend, but instead, I hear a voice. Soft and comforting, like a warm breeze on a summer evening.
“Oh, you poor little thing.” The voice says, and I use what little strength I have left to open my eyes. A woman kneels in front of me and gently brushes a bit of my hair from my face. The woman has dark skin, and her beautiful curly hair hangs around her face. Her eyes are soft and kind, like she knows every hardship you’ve ever been through, but wouldn’t dare judge you for them. She smiles at me kindly, and I blink slowly, trying to figure out if my loss of blood is causing me to hallucinate.
“I’m so sorry for what they’ve done to you.” She says, cupping my cheek with one hand as she brings her other hand down to my arm, gripping my wrist. But I don’t feel any pain. Instead, it feels like warm water is being poured over my wrist, and I feel a bit stronger, but nauseous.
“I did this…” I say, my voice cracking as hot tears roll down my face.
“No, dear. You are not at fault for your death. You saw the only possible way out and you took it.” She says, moving her hand to my other wrist. I feel the same feeling of water running down my arm and I gag, rolling a bit more onto my side as I dry heave.
“I know, I know. It’s okay. I’ve got you.” The woman says, gently stroking my back. “You fought a battle that was stacked against you from the start, and you should be proud of how long you held up against it.” She says softly, gently pulling me upright.
“But I’m not ready to take you yet, Patricia Everly.”
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nehswritesstuffs · 9 months
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hello!! for the fanfic writer asks, would you be interested in answering:
10. Is there a fic that got a different response than you were expecting?
13. How much planning do you do before writing?
27: Is there a fic you were nervous to post/share? Why?
29: Share a bit from a fic you'll never post OR from a scene that was cut from an already posted fic. (If you don't have either, just share a random fic idea you have that you don't plan on getting to.)
you don't have to answer all of these! or you can! for any fandom! thank you!! ♥️
Hi! Oooh, those are some nice ones.
10. The Thick of UNIT! It's crossover crackfic, with a crossover crackship, that I thought was going to just be mostly me clowning on a throwaway line, but it's gotten fic written of it...? And at least one person uses an OC name as a tumblr username...? I'm shooketh. Plus I want to finish it one day, but each time I open the file I'm smacked with writer's block. (I'm also attempting a beta-reader on it, but idk when that'll be able to pan through at this point.)
13. All of it and none of it. I'm one of those assholes that can just sort of write without much planning if anything (if it's any consolation, it helped lead to shit grades in English class for composition), but sometimes I acknowledge that my memory is ADD-riddled shit so I do write some stuff down if a thing gets big enough. This reminds me that I need to continue what I sunk last summer into planning ahahahaha orz it's taunting me.
27. Nervous...? I don't know if that's the right word for it...? I mean, I've been writing fic for so long that I don't recall being specifically nervous. Maybe the closest would be Lackluster (FFN/AO3), if only because I might get judged for writing a rarepair I've literally never seen before in my life. Law and Viola? Sure, why the fck not. My that admission, Love, Loss, and Finding One's Self on the High Seas can qualify because I also do a weird rarepair in that one too for, like, half a second (Zoro/Reiju, baybee).
29. So, I've got this dynamic fic I've got a bunch of wips and one-shots and story ideas in and sometimes it's where I plop a whole-ass multichapter fic in there, and this is the beginning of one that's on the chopping block for next time I save the new document, because it's been literal years since I added to it. Six-hundred-three words of a probably Doctor Who fic under the cut.
Bill looked at the scrap of yellowed paper in her hand, the pencil used to scribble on it had long faded to a light grey. The cool breeze teased her giant poof of hair and made her jacket dance around her; country air always made her feel uneasy. In the city she could smell things on the breeze—food, cars, people, places—yet out in the country, on the lonely dirt road in front of the low stone-and-moss wall that guarded a stone-and-moss house, she smelled nothing of the sort. It was all animal poo, if there was anything, and she hated it. Adjusting the bag on her shoulder, she took a deep breath to steady her nerves, hoping what she smelled was not simply more poo of a viler sort. She wasn’t entirely certain about this… but then again, what could she do? Where could she go? She had run out of options—this had to be it. There wasn’t anything else that she could possibly… bloody hell. She tried to push open the gate and the lock froze on her, barring her entry. Pocketing the paper with the address, she attempted to simply hop over the wall instead, but it was too thick for her specific height to make a smooth go of it. Her legs went just a bit too far and she cringed, knowing she was going to feel that in the morning. Biscuit-tin, that’s what this place was, she decided as she finally made it over the wall. It looked like a crofter’s plot on a biscuit tin one would find in a Sainsbury near Christmas. Then again, what else did she expect going to the Middle of Glen Nowhere, in the foothills of Ben Nothing? A lot of bloody bunk. As she made her way closer to the house, a flock of brown, horned sheep came round the back of the building and began to swarm her. They didn’t try to do anything—that wasn’t it at all—but they still surrounded her and prevented the stranger from approaching the door, bleating hopefully as they greeted their visitor. It was then that the sound of a small airplane began to rumble through the air, attempting to be heard over the wind and sheep. A tiny dot in the sky high above the horizon to start, Bill watched as the plane flew closer, almost going and clipping the roof of the house when it passed overhead on its first go over the property. She watched the sheep as they all moved as one towards the plane; their field became a runway and—after the craft stopped—it was surrounded by the beasts. The engine died down and two people climbed out, one tall and lanky, the other much shorter though much more average in build. They seemed to notice her right away, as they began walking towards her, the flock following. “We’re not buying anything, I hope you know,” the shorter one said as they approached. She was a woman with brown hair, a northern English accent, and was a few years older than her; the taller one was a man with grey hair and a couple extra decades. While they were both pale, he somehow looked as though he hadn’t properly seen sun in ages, which was believable given the amount of layers he was wearing. “I’m not selling,” Bill replied. “I was just cleaning out my mother’s lockbox, and…” “I don’t see why that has anything to do with us,” the man said. Bill was hit hard by the Glasgow in his voice—shit. Oh… shit…
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wings-of-flying · 1 year
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cba with ao3 tags rn, so tumblr gets the fic today (i'll post it properly tomorrow and maybe check through it idk)
jay writes a letter to kira to try to deal with her emotions
Dear Kira,
You know, I didn’t think I’d ever have to write to you again. I say write to you like this’ll ever end up in your hands: it won’t. Just like all the letters before. The ones I scribbled back when we were teens; the ones I folded into impossibly small pieces and shoved in a box under my bed. (Note to self: make sure to burn those when I go home. If I go home. Shit.) Point is, you won’t ever read this. I’ll probably never look at it again. It might even end up dissolving in the ocean, who knows. But I’m writing this anyway, because writing helps.
You’ll never understand the feelings that erupted in me when I heard your voice again. The anger, the pain, the fucking joy all merged into this bubbling mess of untamed emotion. I thought I might explode. And you just looked so radiant. Almost angelic. Golden, perfect, beautiful. As you always are. 
Then you started talking about Navy bullshit and you fucking fought me and I just had this thought in my head the whole time, like “Fuck, I’ve still got feelings for her”. It threw me off honestly.
Cause what am I supposed to do, Kira? Leave them? Go home? Stand at your side, at my family’s side, while we rip the world apart? 
I was tempted. There, I said it. I was tempted to join you. To have all that again. To have my family back, my home back. You back. I miss it all. Minus the, you know, ripping the world apart thing. And the “No you can’t make your own choices, you’re a Ferin” thing. Aside from that though, I miss it. You’ll never understand what it’s like to look your father dead in the eyes and just know that any chance of returning to the past has gone. They’ll never understand. Which is reason number two no one will ever read this letter. It’s practically destined for the sea now.
But yeah. Turns out I still have feelings for you. Which sucks, honestly, cause crushes are only supposed to last, what, a few months at best? I think I was twelve when I realised.
We were at school, hidden under one of those bushes at the back of the playing field. Hiding both from the summer heat and the other kids. The mean ones like- shit what was her name? Was it Nora, or was she the weird one? Whoever it was had called you something horrid and I’d tried to do my usual bit of standing up for you, but she pushed me and my knee started bleeding. I was completely prepared to keep fighting (I think you said my hair caught flame. I laughed at the time, but now I’m wondering if that’s another weird thing my family just do) but you dragged me away. 
So we crouched in one of those bushes. The one with the flowers you liked. The pink ones. And I don’t know what it was. It could’ve been the light coming through the gaps in the leaves, the way it made your horn glint and sparkle. Or your gentle touch as you cleaned my wound (it was only a graze, but you treated it so seriously. Your tongue stuck out a little while you wiped away the blood.) Or the smallest grin you had even when telling me off for getting myself hurt again, because I think secretly you enjoyed me looking after you like that. 
It almost doesn’t matter what started it, because I started noticing all these things and my heart just warmed instantly. I was practically glowing inside. I hadn’t really had those feelings before but it reminded me of a song Mum used to sing about the sun as a symbol of love or something.
That’s when I first realised.
I pushed it down for years and years, pretending everything was fine and normal and I wasn’t crushing hard on my best friend. It died down after Ava… after that. And then I left, so it all sort of stopped. I forgot about it, as much as it pains me to say. I forgot about you. Or at least I thought I did.
But now you’re back and it’s all right back to where we started. It’s a beautiful place, but fuck it hurts. I don’t know whether I can do this again. The butterflies have grown into whole-ass birds, the size of eagles. And now everything’s so much worse because we’re on opposite sides. Gods, I wish I could explain it all to you. Get you to see how wrong the Navy is, how pirates aren’t what we were taught. Wouldn’t that be easier? Then we could have a chance. I could try to be brave and talk to you. 
You want to meet with me. Talk about things. Probably ask more questions. But you have to understand why I can’t do that. Not just logistically, with the chance of you tracking us or organising some sort of trap (gods I hate that this is something I have to worry about with you now). But also emotionally. I can’t. 
I can’t see you and talk to you and be so so close to what life used to be like. Because I’m scared. I’m scared I won’t be able to resist. And I need to resist. 
You wouldn’t understand, even if I did try to explain. So why bother? You won’t change, even if I wish you would. Just like you didn’t kiss me or ask me out those times I wished you would. You won’t change. So maybe it’s for the best that I try to forget you. I just wish it weren’t so fucking difficult. You’re pretty unforgettable, really.
I miss you. So fucking much. I love you, I think. You’re awful and you tried to kill my friends, but I love you. You mean everything to me. But I’ve got to move on. Else you’ll kill me alive. And we’re about to fight in a fucking war, so I kinda need to be alive for that. You get it.
I’m sorry. For everything I’ve done and everything I will do. If we cross paths on the battlefield, I hope you’re stronger than I am and you shoot. I wouldn’t blame you.
Goodbye.
Jay Ferin.
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slowdiived · 2 years
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Do you have any thoughts on what Kurt’s like when his partner is very angry with him. Not like crying or emotional but they’re just standing there purely disappointed with him, explaining why they’re mad aka how he fucked up and how the fuck could he think that was okay? What was he thinking?! Yelling, lecturing and scolding type mad, if that makes sense
kurt watched you anxiously pace the area in front of your couch, your fingers pinching the bridge of your nose. he knew something was wrong, he could feel it. the tension was building up since he had got in the driveway.
“kurt,” you started off, stopping to look at him. “i can’t believe you would post that picture of me on your instagram.”
he gives you a confused look, his mind wracking what you could be talking about. he posted a lot and you were always in the midst of it; cute dinner date photos, pictures of you holding him, just you smiling. he couldn’t think of one picture that you would’ve had a problem with.
“uh, which one?” he asked as he flipped his hair out of his face.
“which one?” you snarled. “which fucking one?”
he threw his hands up in a shrug and you about lost it on him. you tried your best to keep your composure, taking a second to stare at the ceiling and breathe.
“maybe the one where i’m in the lingerie,” you reminded, your arms now crossed. “the one that i privately sent to you.”
“oh!” kurt smiled. “the really pretty one.”
you rolled your eyes and look at him again.
“kurt, you can’t share that on the internet,” you yelled. “like ever! you need to ask me what is okay and not okay!”
“but i-i thought you looked pretty,” he sighed. “i wanted everyone to see my hot girlfriend, like bobby n’ stuff…”
your hands balled into fists as the rage kicked in at the mention of bobby’s name. that fucker had seen too much of you at this point, kurt always needing to prove that he can be cool too. you found it endearing at the beginning of the relationship but at this point, you found it tiring and useless.
“you can see through my bra!” you hissed. “you can see through my fucking bra kurt! that isn’t for the world, it’s just for you! don’t ever fucking pull that shit again!”
he nodded and looked into his lap, afraid to make eye contact. he didn’t want to see the anger that was scribbled all over your pretty face, the eyes that were seeping disappointment. he choked back tears, already embarrassed and did t want to further it.
“m’ sorry,” he swallowed the lump in his throat. “d-do you want me to delete it?”
“of course you should fucking delete it!” you yelled again. “i can’t fucking believe you. do you ever stop to think that maybe i should approve what photos of me you post?”
he pulled out his phone and answered you with hummed out ‘i don’t know’. he quickly got into his app and deleted the post. he was kinda happy that bobby hadn’t commented on it, he was nervous that it would’ve made you more frustrated.
“whatever dude,” you looked up at the ceiling again. “seriously fucking pissed.”
he felt so horrible. he didn’t know how to make you not mad. normally with his parents he could take the disappointment or cuss words flying at him at full speed, he always seemed to create some shitty situation with them. he hadn’t really fucked up with you yet, your relationship running smoothly until now. he had never seen you so angry or even hear you yell with frustration in your voice. he didn’t know how to take it, his eyes welling up with tears and his gaze pressed to his shaky, fidgeting fingers. he didn’t know if he was suppose to kiss you and tell you he’s sorry, or give you a speech. was he suppose to get you an ‘im sorry’ gift?
“i’m really s-sorry,” he let a few tears slide. “i know i-i’m stupid and a fuck up. i don’t know how to make this better for you.”
his reaction caught you off guard. you never said he was stupid or a fuck up, his self loathing words ripping your heart out.
“you’re not stupid, i never meant any of it that way,” you sighed and got on his level, your hands on his knees. “i’m just more annoyed that you didn’t say something first, you just let your followers see parts of my body that i would like to only keep for you and me.”
“o-ok, i’m sorry,” he started crying but it wasn’t a full breakdown sob, just tears flowing at a steady pace.
“i forgive you, it’s over and done with,” you kissed his forehead.
as you went to stand back up, he grabbed your cheeks. both of your set of eyes pressed onto each other, making sure that you were present.
“i am really sorry,” he sniffled. “can i kiss you?”
you nod and he presses his now wet lips into yours. you have him as loving of a kiss as you could, starting to feel bad for raging.
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thedeathdeelers · 2 years
Text
the breathings of his heart
juke // fluff; post-canon // 0.7k // ao3
It’s a quiet lazy afternoon, with only the sounds of the soft rain pattering against the studio roof keeping them company.
Luke has never been one to bask in silence, never been comfortable enough to keep still and allow himself to just…be. But he’s found that many things have changed for him since 1995, changes that don’t always include the lack of a beating heart.
He turns his head to look at the other end of the black weathered couch, his eyes coming to rest on his companion. She’s curled up with her back against the armrest, side leaning against the back cushion facing him. They’ve been sat this way all afternoon, neither in a rush nor need to do anything except to keep the other company.
His eyes start to drift towards her lips, almost as if they’re itching for his attention, and he finds himself starting to lean forward — only to stop at the sign of movement. He pulls back, eyes flicking to her hand, and watches her as she almost instinctively reaches out, fingers brushing against the worn cover of his journal. She’s singing to her self, low and melodious — a new undiscovered masterpiece.
continue reading on ao3
Her fingers lightly graze the cover, head tilted to the side as she absentmindedly draws invisible doodles. He can very nearly see her mind working on conjuring the words that would follow the melody that she’s humming under her breath, a process he knows all so well.
Suddenly her fingers still, wrapping around the edge of the notebook and pulling it towards her. There’s a light that’s blazing in her eyes, a spark ignited by inspiration. With the journal on her lap, she flicks through the pages, fingers expertly flipping through sheets that contain the breathings of his heart*, until she reaches her destination.
With two fresh pages splayed out open in front of her, she dives in, pen in hand, scribbling in her own magic. His eyes don’t leave her hand, following its movements as she fills the pages up with Julie.
He knows she’ll eventually look up, a small sheepish smile on her face when she realises what she’s done, how she’s commandeered his journal again. But he’ll remind her, just as he always does, that it’s theirs, a joint effort in every way that matters.
He doesn’t really know when the distinction shifted; from being his journal to now theirs. Doesn’t think he ever really consciously thought about it. maybe it was always hers, in a way.
His heart, her hands. His soul, her voice.
He reaches out, fingers wrapping around her calves and gently tugging her legs out from underneath her. She lets him, focus barely deterred, as he pulls her legs to his lap, careful not to jostle her. She only looks up when his thumbs start tracing circles on her skin, eyes unfocused for a moment before locking onto his. A beat passes and he can tell the moment she snaps out of her trance, her skin darkening with a sweet rosy tinge.
“Oh,” she breathes out, a small smile curling her lips. “I did it again, didn’t I?”
“Jules, how many times do I have to tell you?” He extends his fingers towards her, lightly brushing against her cheek. She leans into his touch, her smile growing softer. “That notebook is just as much yours as it’s mine. I love seeing your sparkly purple handwriting mixed in with mine. It just looks…right.” He stops and lets his eyes linger on hers. “Y’know?”
She stays quiet for a moment, hand coming up to keep his fingers in place against her cheek.
“Yeah.”
Turning to press a kiss to the palm of his hand, her eyes flicker back down to the words in front of her, hand slipping back towards the pages. And just like that, she’s back into it.
He grins at the way she switches back, pulling his hand back to rest it just above her knee. He squeezes once, then goes back to drawing invisible shapes on her skin.
She continues to scratch out pieces of her music, her soul, into their journal, filling his heart with more whispers of love than he ever thought possible.
It’s indescribable the feeling he gets when he sees her be so comfortable with something so vital to his being; to watch her use a piece of his soul as if it were her own.
Closing his eyes, Luke drops his head back onto the couch cushion, the edges of his mind brewing with the beginnings of his very own ode to Julie.
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liquorisce · 1 year
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Hi ris! I really like how you write angst in your fics so i have a few hypothetical questions. Imagine if em are married, and after a while eren has an affair that lasts months, nearly a year. One day mikasa finds out, catches him in bed with his other lover and shes heartbroken.
My questions are for 3 ways for it to continue:
1) If we were to stick with the em endgame agenda, how would you continue this story? (Happy version!)
2) How would you intensify the angst, make it worse and sadder? (Sad version 😞)
3) How would you continue this if it were a dark fic? 😈
hi friend ♥️ sorry for taking so long to answer.
anyway, no excuses, on to your question! ah I love these angsty, trainwreck kinda stories while characters fuck up and we just see them dealing with the aftermath of that fuck up. (Like my aruani cheating fic that I hope I will post SOMEDAY 🤧🤧)
1. If em were still to be endgame, and this were meant to be a somewhat happy version (omg HOW CAN THIS BE HAPPY 😫) I’d like to think Mikasa breaks up with him. She leaves, he lets her go, and he copes however he knows how to cope: by crashing to rock bottom first, and then to pick himself back up, slowly, painfully. I’d think alcoholism is his vice, and maybe he’d write her letters every single day for a year, drunk on whiskey, drunk on every single choked up emotion he’d thought to tell her.
One day she’d make her way back into his life. And she’s grown: changed into a different person, heartbreakingly beautiful, painfully guarded. Maybe she has a dog now, and he finds her playing with him in a park one day, and even though he promised her he’d give her space, he calls out to her. A year of space had to be worth something after all. After some initial hesitation, she opens up to him, laughs when he tries to crack a joke, invites him for coffee. Maybe it starts raining, and he invites her up to his place, tells her he has a coffee machine. (She knows, she bought it for him.)
She’s upstairs in his living room, sitting on his couch — drinking jasmine tea, which he still kept at home even thought he doesn’t like it himself — and it feels, just for one moment, like she never left. Just in that moment, it feels like all those months ago before he fucked up. Before he lost the best thing in his life to his own stupidity. And he’s almost overcome with the urge to tell her he’s sorry, to get on his knees and beg, but he’d promised he’d let go— so he excuses himself to the bathroom to compose himself.
When he’s back he finds her standing at the bookshelf, rigid, face puce. She’s got a letter in her hands, and an unshed tear in her eyes, and he’s reminded all over again just how much he fucking hates seeing those pretty grey eyes all watery and filled with anguish. It’s like a heavy stone sinking in his stomach, his barely legible scribble visible to him.
“… Mikasa,” he says finally, bc he feels guilty watching her in this moment. Privy to a moment of pain she probably didn’t want to share with him.
She looks at him unabashedly, letter still firmly in her clasp. “Sorry,” she says, her voice still calm, despite the wetness of her eyes. “It was none of my business, I shouldn’t have looked.”
With monumental effort he stays away from her, a 2 metre distance between the two of them. Even though all he wants is to crush her to him and never let him go. “They have your name on it, don’t they?” His voice feels dry, vulnerable, paper thin. “… guess it was definitely your business.”
!! Anyway !! I think Mikasa would really make him work for it. They’d become friends again, take a long, long time dancing around the problems that they used to have, before they actually talk about it. Maybe Mikasa is dating someone, and she just casually slips it into conversation. Maybe the closer she and eren get, the more she talks to him about it. Maybe at some point he catches her falling into the same patterns that plagued their own relationships— self destructive ways in which she minimises herself in a relationship, doesn’t talk about her feelings, tries to control little details to feel like she has control over the relationship.
Maybe Eren would burst out; tell her how he feels. A confrontation perhaps? Something dramatic, where Mikasa would just leave. And he probably thinks he’s fucked it up for good. That she’s never gonna be back in his life. But maybe she shows up one week later. Knock on Eren’s door, when it’s raining hard outside. Hair plastered to her face, shivering bc her coat is too thin. “Those letters.” Her teeth are almost chattering from the cold. “I want to read every single one of them.”
*kind of a whimsical ending methinks, but I like the self-discovery aspect, crash and burn and then recover feeling to this story*
2) ANGSTY VERSION! In this one: Mikasa wouldn’t leave. Instead she’d go into a shell. Eren would probably lash out after his fuck up, in kind of an i-dont-know-how-to-deal-with-this way. Maybe he’d lash out just to get a rise from her. Just so she’d say something awful to him. Punish him for the mistake he made.
But she doesn’t. Instead she internalises it, finds faults with herself, barely talks to him. Cooks him food, and keeps the house clean, and goes to work and does everything perfectly the way Mikasa always does and it drives him crazy: he’d strayed because he already felt like a failure. Lost his job, and his self-respect, and just for that one moment wanted to feel free of all his fuckups. And so he gave in to the blonde at the bar— some nameless girl who didn’t know that he had a perfect wife at home, who’d never lose her job and who’d never get shitfaced in a tiny waterhole by the highway. A wife who’d never do to him what he did to her; betray her trust and ruin the best thing he ever had, and burn it to the ground.
But eren is good at that. He’s good at destruction, and he’s good at fucking up, so when she slips her number into his pocket before leaving the motel room that morning he doesn’t throw it away. And when he’s at rock bottom at home on a Friday afternoon, while Mikasa is at work doing everything right, he gives the blonde a call. She doesn’t complain when he smells of liquor as he undresses her, and she doesn’t care when he isn’t delicate enough to look for lube.
She doesn’t care. But Mikasa does. Mikasa cares when she comes home to find blood red heels on the carpet floor, and lace panties carelessly dropped on the rug outside their bed room.
Mikasa cares when she sees Eren hunched over another woman’s back, fingers digging deep into her ass, hips rough against hers.
And when Eren looks up to see Mikasa’s horrified, heartbroken expression staring at him in the act, he cares too. Every fibre in his body screamed with self-loathing.
I think Eren would sober up very quickly after that. Kick that girl out of his room, out of his house, delete her number, bc he had to watch as Mikasa silently observed from the kitchen as the blonde wore her heels and clacked her way out the door.
“Arent you going to say something?” Say anything, he pleads, bc he doesn’t know how to apologise, he’s never been very good at it. He doesn’t even know where to start.
But Mikasa is numb, tears too choked up to leave her, knuckles white as she grips the chair in front of her. After what seems like an eternity, she finally meets his gaze. Maybe she’ll ask him to leave, he think. Maybe she’ll kick him out and ask him never to show his face to her again. Maybe she’ll slap him and tell him he can expect divorce papers tomorrow. But instead, all she says is, “What do you want for dinner?”
And she doesn’t talk about it. She doesn’t ask him who the woman is, doesn’t ask how long it’s been going on for, doesn’t ask him if he’s still seeing her. And this is what kills him: she never asks him why.
She comes to bed late, or sometimes too early, but never at the same time as him. She sticks to her side of the bed, so close to the edge he feels like she’ll fall off at any moment. Some days he wakes up in the middle of the night and the bed is empty next to him, the imprint of her body barely there. Like she’d left the bed ages ago, and was never next to him at all.
He tries to tell her— he tries to tell her why, but how is he supposed to get it out of his mouth, when all he can say is “Mikasa” and she watches him with a resigned acceptance, waiting for his next words but they just don’t come out. So instead all she asks is: “does it taste ok?” Gesturing at the food she makes.
He managed to clean himself up and get a job, and he brings her flowers sometimes after work. She smiles for him. Puts them in a vase and says thank you but the smile never reaches her eyes.
Some days he catches her when she thinks she’s alone. Staring at the running tap water like she’s flowing down the drain with it. Some times she’s chewing her lips so had, there’s blood dripping from her lips. But if he goes to her, she wipes herself clean and smiles at him, a fake smile that doesn’t belong there, and tells him she’s fine.
If he were a better person, he’d leave. He’d apologise and tell her she deserves the world, and watch as some other man gave it to her. But he isn’t a better person.
He’s flawed, and full of shit, and terrified that if he leaves her, he won’t know where to go. He won’t know where he’d end up, and most importantly he wont know if he’d ever see her again. And sometimes that thought scares him so much he can’t sleep.
One day she breaks. Makes him coffee when he comes back from work, and slowly, voice trembling, hands fidgeting, she asks him, “Do you think if we had a child…” Her grey eyes were sunken, he hated the pain he saw in them. Hated his own reflection in the center of it. “… do you think that would fix us?”
Eren stares at her for several moments. A child couldn’t fix them. Maybe Mikasa could but she’d given up. Maybe only Eren could, but he doesn’t know how. So all he asks is: “is that what you want?”
Her teeth dig into her lower lip. “I don’t know.”
Despite himself, he runs a finger across her mouth, loosening her lip from her assault. He isn’t sure if he imagines her flinch from his touch. “If it’s what you want, we can do it.”
Whatever you want, we can do it.
… anyway stepping off my soap box, I think this is a very angsty shot at em trying to have a baby, eren would have to finally learn how to talk about his feelings, his self esteem issues, his fear of losing her, apologise with every action he takes — and finally. i don’t think they’ll have a baby. i think maybe the doctor says it’s difficult for Mikasa to have a baby. 🥺
… phew ok I’m exhausted I’ll let you know about the dark version a bit later anon! Love u! Let me know if you’re planning to write this fic ♥️
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canarymemories · 7 months
Text
lasciare suonare
chapter summary: the first song he writes after those months of silence is something he shows no one.
content warning: he beginning of this chapter delves a little into leo's downward spiral post-checkmate. there is one line where there's referenced self harm, but it's very much blink and you miss it.
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 symphony masterpost
here on ao3
for the longest time, music followed leo wherever he went.
a symphony played in his head, the different sections melding flawlessly with each other to create a perfect harmony he’d hurry to scribble down before it left him. whatever he was writing with — pen, marker, pencil — would end up smudged along the side of his hand, a reminder of all that he was creating. the rhythm would rise and fall with the staccato of his heart or syncopated tapping of his feet or hands, whichever moved to keep the beat first.
his life was full of music and leo loved every second of it, whether it was shared with others or stayed a concert for only himself in his head or on paper. steady for as many years as he could remember, a tune would greet him as he woke and he could just as surely rely on another to send him off to sleep as a lullaby.
it was a constant, and a welcome one at that.
or it had been until leo woke one day only to feel like a soloist abandoned by the group, horribly out of tune with no one left to synchronize with. he was left alone with no one to catch him if he fell off beat, missing notes the longer he stood on center stage.
rather than a reliable thrum of a song in his head, a staff of notes behind his eyelids, leo’s world becomes silent for the first time in his life.
he isn’t sure what to do about it. there’s an uncomfortable quiet that grows the longer he skips school, the longer he stays in his room. so he tries to fix it the only way he knows how: by writing music, the one thing that’d never failed him before.
yet it doesn’t help. he can’t even get more than a few measures out after the first few tries.
leo loses count of how many hours he sits in front of blank pages, the clef symbols staring at him. mocking him. he tries to write, he really does, but every time his pen touches the paper, in the midst of writing a measure, whatever inspiration he’d had, if any at all, would float away, leaving him there again.
it leaves him feeling empty, as if a piece of him is missing. and maybe a piece of him really did get lost somewhere along the way, between the broken pieces of chess, backgammon, othello. knights.
he pulls his legs closer to his chest, hands faintly aching and bandaged, as he tries to ignore the crumpled papers around him, ignore the hollow in his chest and the ink smeared on the pages from tears of frustration. who knew something that had been as easy as breathing for him could turn into something that made him feel so hopeless.
there’s times when it feels as if this is where he’ll be stuck for the rest of time, locked in his room with the blinds drawn. he isn’t even sure what day it is anymore, but it’s not like that matters when he’d resigned himself to a life like this, no use to anyone if he couldn’t do the one thing he was good at.
leo buries his face in his knees. a pitiful little noise falling from his lips breaks the silence. he wishes things could go back to how they were once, back when he thought people loved him and his music, not just the latter. 
when music chased him just as eagerly as how he chased it in return.
his music had brought people together once, hadn’t it? now it only feels as if it’s destroyed everything he ever cared about.
leo desired to be on stage once. 
he wonders if that’ll every come back to him. after he’d gotten the first taste of performing for more than just ruka or their parents, leo had yearned to return to the stage, to stand under the spotlight and receive applause and praise for a live well done.
he wonders if he’ll ever return to those he left behind and hurt so badly before they could turn their backs on him first.
yet no matter how much he dreams to be free from these dragging, neverending days where nothing gets written and he feels further and further away from ever writing again, leo feels helpless. 
so, his world remains quiet.
it takes time and a lot of it for the first tendrils of a song make their way through his mind, whispered and incredibly muted. those notes surprise leo so bad that they disappear once he focuses too hard on them.
he’s spent so long now, months maybe — he truthfully isn’t sure — being stuck in this rut, unable to form anything meaningful. the thought of this block that’s haunted him for all this time going away feels odd. the thought of being able to write a song again feels the same if he’s being honest, but leo misses that part of himself. the part that could love somebody so purely and write a song about that feeling without even a second thought.
while he remains the soloist left behind, he’s no longer so out of tune, no longer fighting his way through the measures on his own. it doesn’t feel so hard remembering a song that had been on the tip of his tongue but would never come out right.
the first song he writes after those months of silence is something he shows no one.
compared to his normal work — can he even call it that anymore when he hasn’t composed in so long? — it’s clumsy. for a self proclaimed genius, the song feels more like a beginner wrote it. of course, leo wouldn’t call it bad. it’s just… a bit messy is all.
when he puts his pen down after writing a finishing fermata over the last half note, leo stares at the music in front of him. it’s almost as if he doesn’t recognize it despite having been working on it for, at the very least, a few hours by now. his curtains no longer cover the windows and the sun had long set, though he hadn’t noticed at the time.
without warning and without trying, he begins to cry.
the past few days have been a bit of a whirlwind to say the least, from running into eichi and keito by pure chance to stepping back onto the stage for the first time in far too long thanks to madara’s gentle insistence.
he’d missed it.
he’d missed it so much .
not just performing or the applause or the wide smiles from those in the audience. he’d missed it all so bad that he’d forgotten at some point that he’d ever enjoyed that kind of thing in the first place.
leo’s hands cover his face though he’s alone in his room. the door’s cracked open, but it’s late enough that no one but him would be awake. “i did it,” he whispers.
he sniffles, wiping away the tears that seem to just keep falling with the heels of his palms. leo peers out from behind his hands as if the song would’ve disappeared in the brief moment he’d taken his eyes off of it.
unsurprisingly, the papers remain on his desk where he left them. there’s a few wet marks at the bottom from his tears, thankfully happy this time.
leo carefully grabs the song and holds it up in front of him. the notes remain just as he’d written them, meaning that as much as this moment felt like a dream, it’s not. 
his lips pull up into a smile without him noticing at first. spinning in his chair, another tear rolls down leo’s cheek. what a sight he must be, smiling so wide while crying, but leo doesn’t care.
he’d written a song again. finally, finally written one again and it’s real and in his hands.
“i did it!”
------------------
leo knows that the other knights have been planning a surprise for him.
he isn’t exactly sure what, but between hushed whispers and quickly hidden somethings whenever he happens to walk into one of their conversations, he knows there’s definitely something going on.
so, when he wakes up to nazuna’s bunny shifting in the bedding left out for him, leo springs up with maybe a little too much enthusiasm for someone who’s only slept for a few hours. if the papers scattered around his bed and now on the floor mean anything, he’d fallen asleep in the middle of writing a song.
of course, his sudden jolt up startles the rabbit, the poor little thing scampering around.
“oh, sorry,” he says, careful as he gets out of bed to crouch in front of where the rabbit’s hidden himself. “i didn’t mean to scare you, i’m just excited! it’s my birthday, y’know?”
all he gets in response is a little nose wiggle.
“hm, you’re right. i guess you wouldn’t know that.” leo hums, reaching his hand out to the bunny, stopping in front of his nose, which once again wiggles slightly as he stays tucked within his little hutch. just as nazuna showed him, leo gives the bunny a few light pets to the top of his head then stands.
the other two beds in the dorm are empty. leo thinks he’d registered that it was just him and the rabbit to some extent, but that at least explains why it’s so quiet in the room. still, it’s a little odd that neither of them are there seeing as it’s still golden week, but then again, natsume doesn’t even return to the dorm some days and leo’s pretty sure nazuna said something the other day about spending time with ra*bits.
or he thinks he remembers nazuna saying that. either way, he decides, it doesn’t matter much.
the only thing is that without either of his dormmates, he has no real way to gauge what time it is. the sunlight coming in through the windows also helps him none, so he stars to search for his phone. luckily it doesn’t take long to spot it as he moves his blanket around.
grabbing it from where it sits poking out from under his bed, leo finds that it’s a bit later than he thought it was. that meant he’d slept longer than he thought he had, though it’s still the middle of the morning.
his notifications are filled with birthday messages and well wishes which only make him laugh a little, pleased at them all.
now that he’s seen the time, leo’s sure he has plenty to finish the song he’d been working on last night; the agency party anzu planned wouldn’t be until later and per knights tradition, their own small gathering is still a couple hours out.
looking forward to finding out what they’ve been hiding helps his inspiration return, so he hastily hops back onto his bed in search of his pencil, which he finds a lot easier than his phone. despite this, he doesn’t get very far back into the song when there’s a knock at the door.
leo ignores it at first, at least aware of it, but he makes no move to answer as he’s in the middle of a crescendoed section and he wants to get the build up perfect before he’s interrupted.
the knock returns, this time with a voice accompanying it. “leo-san, are you here?”
that catches his attention. 
reluctantly, leo leaves the piece on his bed and opens his door. “suo, what’re you doing here?”
“did you not see my messages ?”
leo simply blinks at him. “no.”
tsukasa sighs. “i don’t know why i expected anything different,” he says. “well, i’ve come to escort you to your party .”
“wait, i thought that wasn’t ‘till later.”
“i’ve been sent to retrieve you early.”
leo doesn’t quite buy it, narrowing his eyes. tsukasa has never been a good liar, but he sees no reason to continue questioning him. he’d been looking forward to his birthday to see whatever this surprise is and if they’ve sent tsukasa to bring him, then it has to be something big, right?
“okay! lemme get ready first though,” he says. leo only catches it out of the corner of his eye as he turns back into his room, but he’s pretty sure tsukasa’s shoulders lose some of the tension in them. he motions for tsukasa to follow him. “here, you can look at this, it’s not done yet.”
tsukasa takes the song offered to him, placing himself awkwardly on the edge of leo’s unmade bed. “is it a new knights song?”
leo shrugs as he looks through his clothes. “could be, i think it’ll fit.” 
tsukasa doesn’t reply, most likely looking it over as leo continues looking.
ever the stickler when it came to fashion, izumi had taken him shopping when they were in florence, saying that if the two of them happened to be out together, it would be best for their outfits not to clash. 
leo doesn’t really see the issue, but he went along with it anyway even though he knows any shopping trip with izumi is him picking out far too many things to send leo off to a dressing room to try them all on. in the end, they — more izumi than leo, but he did at least take leo’s opinion into account — managed to narrow down their choices to one outfit that izumi said to consider as a birthday gift.
and if that’s the case, then there’s no better time to wear it than now, right? 
speaking of izumi, he’d most definitely nag leo if he shows up with unbrushed hair, so leo makes sure to do that next. he’s been lectured about his unkempt hair plenty of times, but still, it’s really not his fault when he gets inspired and sucked into his next composition to remember do those kinds of things.
the flipping of pages fills the air.
“i think so too. we can discuss it more later,” tsukasa agrees once he’s finished looking through the unfinished composition. “are you ready to go, leo-san?”
just having finished retying his hair, leo says, “mmhm! ready, suo.”
tsukasa returns the song neatly stacked back to the bed as he stands. “then, let’s set off. i don’t wish to leave the others waiting for long.”
leo nods in agreement, more than eager to see whatever they had planned for him. he sets his hands on tsukasa’s shoulders and pushes him towards the door. ignoring tsukasa’s protests at being handled in such a way, leo says, “bye, bunny,” glancing back at the play area where the rabbit lay sleeping as he shuts the door behind them.
leo waits until they step out of the dorm building to ask, “what’s the surprise?”
tsukasa splutters slightly. “what surprise ?”
knowing that tsukasa has more likely than not been sworn to secrecy, leo figures he won’t give anything up. he’ll try his luck a little more anyway. “y’know, the thing you guys would hide whenever i showed up.”
tsukasa very clearly is avoiding his gaze when leo looks over at him. “i’m afraid i don’t know what you’re talking about.”
leo can’t help but laugh at that. “you really are bad at lying, suo!”
that earns him an offended gasp. “the point of a surprise , leo-san, is that it stays a secret ,” he defends. 
“so, does that mean there is one?” leo presses.
“i’m not answering that.”
leo gives an amused hum to that. 
tsukasa levels him with a tired stare. “please, no more questions . you’ll find out soon enough.”
content enough with that, leo nods and stays quiet even once they reach the building and step into the elevator to go up to newdi’s floor. while on the elevator, tsukasa takes out his phone and types out something that leo can’t make out from the corner of his eyes, trying to make it not obvious that he’s trying to cheat his way into knowing early.
the elevator dings once it reaches the correct floor and leo asks, “is it the same room as normal?” likely thanks to tsumugi doing the boring administrative work in the agency and taking into account leo’s multiple complaints about getting lost in the building, most knights meetings between the five of them tend to be in the same conference room.
“yes,” tsukasa replies, his phone dinging in his hand. “but we’ll have to wait a moment .”
the elevator doors open and leo considers his options. he could do as tsukasa said and wait, but he’d been waiting for way too long now. he wanted to see what they’d been keeping from him, so as they step out onto the floor, leo runs off down the hall in the direction of their conference room.
“leo-san!” tsukasa yells after him.
leo, of course, doesn’t stop. he instead bursts into the room and says, “hi, guys!” 
rather than getting an equally enthusiastic greeting, he finds three pairs of eyes on him as tsukasa catches up.
“kasa-kun, i thought you said you could distract him,” izumi says.
tsukasa purses his lips. “i thought i could,” he objects. “but he knew we were planning something, so he ran ahead of me.”
“don’t blame our darling child, secchan,” ritsu cuts in from where he’s setting up what looks like a cake at the end of the table. per usual fashion, the decorations on it are a bit grotesque, but in a fun way. “we all know how free spirited tsukipi is.”
“is that what we’re calling it?” izumi mutters.
arashi waves her hand dismissively, ignoring izumi as she says, “well, it doesn’t matter now, does it? we’re pretty much done setting things up, so it doesn’t hurt to start things a little early.”
leo, though he doesn’t really get what they’re setting up for in the first place since the birthdays they spend together are hardly planned things, nods eagerly. “exactly, naru gets it!”
that gets him an eye roll from izumi.
ritsu, apparently pleased with the placement of his cake, joins izumi and arashi. “i’m all done, so we can start now. i think tsukipi might jump at us if we don’t get to it soon.”
leo bounces on the balls of his feet. “see, i knew you guys were planning something!”
ritsu smiles at that. “you could put it like that.” his gaze shifts to tsukasa and gives him a brief nod.
tsukasa leaves leo’s side and pulls a chair out from the table, turning it so the back is now to the table. “sit, leo-san,” tsukasa says.
leo eyes him curiously but does so anyway. whatever it is they’d been planning has been going on for at least two weeks since that’s when he started noticing them hiding things, so to say he’s excited to be only moments away from seeing what they’d been up to is a bit of an understatement.
tsukasa joins the others as they move to stand in front of leo. arashi looks over ritsu’s shoulder as he searches on his phone for something.
izumi’s eyes catch his. “we spent a long time on this, so you better like it, leo-kun.”
“i’ll love anything you guys give me,” he replies easily.
arashi giggles, glancing up at him. “izumi-chan’s just prickly ‘cause he’s the one who suggested we do this in the first place.”
at that, izumi conveniently looks over to ritsu when leo’s gaze falls on him once more. “can you just start it already?”
ritsu looks up from his phone, an amused little smile pulling at his lips. though rather than the teasing the normally accompanies that look, he simply says, “yeah, yeah, secchan. i just wanted to make sure it was the finished version.”
“then are we ready to begin ?” tsukasa asks on arashi’s other side.
“mmhm.” ritsu nods. he presses something on his phone then hands it to leo. “here, hold this for me.”
leo accepts the phone as the four of them align themselves in front of him. it takes a few seconds, but notes played on piano make their way from ritsu’s phone. the song doesn’t sound familiar, though leo can recognize the playing style as ritsu’s. he taps the screen only for the track remain untitled.
it’s not until the begin singing that he realizes that they’ve written him a song.
for a brief couple of seconds, all he can think of is that they wrote him a song for his birthday. the joy he feels at that is something he could never hope to put into words. a wide smile makes its way across his face as the performance continues.
while the song itself seems finished when it comes to the score and the lyrics — he very easily recognizes the latter as being written by izumi, though he can’t tell if he’s imagining ruka’s influence in certain lines or not — the choreography seems like it was thrown together last minute. it’s nowhere near as polished as their normal dancing, but leo figures it would be hard to schedule practice for this without him noticing around their normal practice.
still, he isn’t about to complain; he’d never complain when someone would give him a gift as nice and thoughtful as a song.
the tune itself is charming, pleasant to the ears, but it’s not like he expected anything less from them. after all, he likes to believe the time spent together rubbed off some of his musical genius onto them, but that would be severely discounting the talent each of them has.
leo finds himself swaying along with the beat, trying to capture and absorb as much of this moment as he can, though it’s hard to pay attention to the chords and the lyrics and the choreo all at once in this first listen. 
before he knows it, the song is over. it continues on in his head once the recording ends, the four of them coming together and holding their final pose briefly.
“leo-san?” tsukasa says, falling out of order first. there’s a certain edge of worry in his voice that leo doesn’t quite understand until he blinks and his vision goes watery. he doesn’t even know when he started crying; leo just feels so happy. more tears fall.
leo swipes at his eyes, ducking his head down slightly to do so. “how embarrassing,” he mumbles.
“it wasn’t that bad, right?” izumi asks, a tinge of concern leaking in.
he laughs then sniffles. “no, it was perfect,” he says. “i loved it.”
as he looks back up at them, leo sees the concern on arashi’s face fall mostly away as she quietly sighs. “are you sure you’re okay?” she asks.
he nods. “i’m sure,” leo says, though he’s not sure how reassuring that is when more tears fall even as he wills them to stop. “i just wasn’t expecting that. i’m just so happy.” he rubs a few more tears away.
tsukasa, despite the worry clear on his face, looks a bit proud at that. “see, i told you that he wouldn’t expect a song .”
needing to show his appreciation, leo stands, sleeves coming away damp as he wipes at his eyes. the four of them say nothing, simply watch as he nears just for him to hug whoever happens to be the closest, which happens to be arashi. she lets out a quiet noise of surprise, but her arms fall around him easily to return it.
it doesn’t take long for the other three to join in the hug, even if there’s some quiet bickering about it. 
leo feels so warm there in the hold of four of his closest friends, protected and comforted by them all at once. 
they’d written him a song . he still couldn’t believe it. 
“thank you,” he says. a hand brushes over his hair. he can’t tell whose it is, but it doesn’t really matter.
“of course, tsukipi,” ritsu says by his left ear.
leo wants to say so many things, wants to write so many songs now that he’s received one of his own. it’s such a new experience that he isn’t sure what to make of it all yet. he wants to ask what writing it was like, how each step of it went. he’s almost a little upset they didn’t ask him for any advice, but that would’ve ruined the surprise before it even began.
he wants to ask them for an encore and then another and another until he memorizes it all by heart.
even so, leo knows that he’ll have plenty of time to ask all the questions bouncing around in his head and then some, so he settles for saying, “i love you guys so much,” and hopes that’s enough to get the message across.
------------------
end notes: i was between two different titles but decided to go with this one in the end. lasciare suonare means allowing a sound to continue (to "let ring") without dampening it. in the past, leo's sound was dampened, but he was able to move through that into where he is now where his music is allowed to continue on, ringing loud and clear. symphony, the title of this fic, refers to a piece that is typically in four movements.
happy leo day!! being done with posting this feels so weird. leo means a lot to me and i'm glad to have been able to put all of that into words for these past five chapters. thank u for sticking around until the end <33 i was already sappy about this ending on twt so i'll spare you all from that but i hope you liked it.
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mochasandwich-blog · 7 months
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i wrote this on may 2021, im 22 now i do not think i feel the same way as my twenty year old self.
I make sure not to give anyone the same endearment because my best friend told me it was weird to call someone that reminds you of another. i do not care about pet names anymore, people exist just the way as they are in my life. the space they take up does not need to be labeled, what i call them does not matter anymore.
When I chop onions, I cut the roots last because my ex told me when you hurt the onions the onions hurt you back. Thus, the reason you tearing up. fucking NOT do it anymore. i do not want to be influenced by a person i killed so many times in my head; i cleansed myself of his existence to the breaking point i do not remember the pain he inflicted on me and the reason why this rage still lives within. i pretend he does not exist, my 16 to 19 self was my defining moment at the same time it never existed (a facade i put on everyday to keep me sane).
When I see someone with scars on their wrist, I make it a habit to never ask why. When I was in 12th grade I remember my best friend sobbing on my shoulder with a cast on her left wrist, asking me repeatedly "baket" and both of us did not know the answer. my being is wounded and scarred, renewed birthed to hardened. coldness does not mean it is tough, it is a precaution to not let anyone slide in carelessly ever again. Still, my heart would forever remain tender for this girl.
I always pinch someone's pinky when I'm comfortable with them. My mom always do this to mine when I was younger, it has stuck to me ever since. NOPE CREEP, I STOPPED DOING THAT HONESTLY WHATTA WEIRDO
Whenever I eat jjampong, I always remember the guy that I owed a jjampong cup noodles to. I was 12 and we spilled it while laughing in the tricycle's passenger seat, swearing I'll make it up to him next time. I'm 20 now, both of us still remembers that I never did. BITCH AHAHAHAH dudes a fuck up now, honestly never changed, his parents even hated him or so i heard. hate is such a strong word, but its like how your parents could loathe you at a certain degree and you still would be their son anyways typa way.
I already knew artic monkeys in 11th grade because another friend of mine introduced it to me, but was never keen on their music. I started listening intently because the boy I liked was a passionate fan. We dont talk anymore (char we still do pero we'll presume him dead) but I still listen to the band. I make it a notion that I liked them because I just do, and it was not for him. OHMYGOD THIS DUDE I COULD NOT EVER SHUT UP ABOUT THIS DUDE fuck i am twenty-two now??? AND hjdfcjsbhfesh god, pathetic. i still love his song recos, ngl. how do you want it slaps so hard i cant even. unfriended me on facebook, does not reply on insta anymore, yet stalks me religiously on tiktok. dude, please. AND WE'RE MEETING ON NOVEMBER fml.
I remember my bestfriend telling me she does not write her poems on paper because she felt disgusted by her thoughts that would forever be etched onto something. I realized that I also do. I now hide my little scribbles of typed poems and prose in posts, pictures and my phones notes; never written it on paper ever again. true!! i still do. though she is not my best friend anymore. funny how i used to call her that, maybe we really once were inseparably close. maybe part of her life i shared and we'd rely on each other so heavily upon. we grow older now, funny how now we’re so alike than ever.
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achaoticeternal · 2 years
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𝗯𝗶𝗱𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘁𝗶𝗺𝗲
DRUIG (ETERNALS) X MORTAL!F!READER
Summary: With so much anxiety in your heart, you try to push Druig away and give him an out, yet he won't take it. Word Count: 2.5k Warnings: talks about mental health and mortality, and emotional content. alcohol consumption. A/N: this occurs in the five-year span of the Blip
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The corners of the window seemed to be frosted over, conflicting with the warmth that filled the house. The wind pushed through the tree that shivered in reaction, sending one down your spine. Sitting curled up in your chair, the flakes that drifted through the air brought you some comfort as you felt too shaken to move. Lately, it had been getting too hard to get out of bed and put on clothes, but it was the bare minimum. But chains kept themselves anchored to your feet as you dragged yourself from the bed to your chair day after day.
It had been a month since you had last seen your beloved Druig and he was set to get in tonight. When you had first started to just see each other, the lengths of time that passed in seeing him didn't have such an effect on you. Yet when the two of you grew more serious in your relationship, he was honest about why he needed to leave for so many weeks at a time and his full identity. Sure, it was a lot to comprehend, but you were living a post-Blip world. So nothing was really that hard to believe, anymore.
After he left the last time to go back to the Amazon, it came at a time where you had started to hit a decline again. it could be a side effect of the wintertime or a reminder of another holiday season without those who didn't survive the Blip. No amount of self-care days or retail therapy could remedy the heaviness in your heart and the person who could offer you the most comfort was hundreds of miles away with zero signal.
It was a rainy afternoon in April when Druig let himself into the shared home. Instead of being met with a whirlwind of affection, there was silence. He knew that it was that hard time of year when you remembered all those lost, so he showed himself through the house in search.
He stalked up the stairs to first check your studio. It was a rational idea since you would shut yourself in there to release your frustrations with life into any form of creativity. He was only met with the same silence and pictures scattered across the floor. Some of the two of you over the past few years and others with friends and family members who he had never even met. Druig's eyes flickered over them with affection as events that seemed like only yesterday stayed captured, frozen into a moment.
Picking up one of the photographs, he examined it closer than the others. It was taken nearly five years ago when you had first started to consistently so Druig. The two of you were wrapped up in hats and scarves, and he was sporting his usual leather jacket. Even though his signature smirk had been captured, it didn't equate to your beaming smile that radiated both in-person and in pictures. Turning it over, he read the scribbled handwriting that dated the photo and events. First Snow Date with Dru.
He continued the search into the bedroom where the duvet sat unfixed and wrinkled from nightly use. Clothes were scattered around the laundry bin, but nothing was truly out of place. His lips pouted in thought as to your location until a soft whimper barely made itself audible.
Perking up, he followed the hoarse cry into the walk-in closet connected to the bathroom. He pushed open the door the reveal your form leaning against the bottom panel of the wall as stray tears rolled down your cheeks. Two pictures were tucked out of your crossed arms - one of your parents and another of the two of you when you first moved into the house.
"Oh, love," he spoke softly, taking a seat next to you. He pulled your frame into his arms to provide you with all the comfort he could. Your breath was shaky and he rubbed small circles onto your back to help you calm down, "I know, I know."
You felt like you had failed him... and yourself. You had been doing so good and now here you were again, fractured and forlorn. Nothing had brought a smile to your cheeks in weeks and the counters had collected layers of dust from your lack of motivation. Was there even an excuse for your grief at this point? Or were you just damaged?
These things pained you along with the realization that had settled in your bones. Your days were numbered and the chapters of your life were flipping by, no matter how much you needed to take a break from reality. The gray hairs that were tangled in your brush and the laugh lines that would sometimes peek out were signs of maturity. A concept that slowly broke your heart.
Were these signals just as noticeable to Druig? Or would he blink and you would be gone from his reality?
But before your mind could spiral any further, two arms tugged you into an inviting warmth - Druig. The corners of your mouth twitched upwards as you felt his breath tickle at your neck. His lips pressed a chapped kiss to your cheek, and his nose that was chilled like frostbite ran across your temple, "hello, beautiful."
You pulled yourself from his grasp, only to stand and give him a proper hug to welcome him back, "hi, Dru."
It didn't matter how hard you pretended to be giddy and smile at the moment, he could read you like a book. He knew that there was pain living in your heart and that the atmosphere he walked into had troubled you for weeks now. But it was something that could really be addressed once he had settled back in. Hopefully, his gifts would be able to serve as a little pick-me-up.
"It's the first snow of the season, so you know what that means," Druig smirked, raising a bag of goodies.
"You didn't-"
"I did," He admitted, pulling out a bottle of champagne and two glasses, "I had to, for my favorite person."
He pressed a kiss to your forehead and swiftly turned on his feet to walk into the open kitchen space. You followed behind him, padded feet making light stomps across the hardwood floor. Druig popped open the bottle using a party trick he had learned long ago by some colleagues in France. And even though you laughed at his behavior, it was a disguise of the natural joy that used to live in your tone.
The bubbly liquid was poured into two matching glasses. Handing one of them to you, he looked into your eyes and offered a smile, "I also bought stuff to cook dinner-"
"No, Druig... You just got home, let me cook fo-" He cut your speech off with his index fingers against your lips.
"I owe you a dinner after all the other times you cook when I return home to you, so let me treat you properly," he finger trailed down to take your hand without the champagne into his own, "please."
Scrunching your nose, you fell for the loving look in his eyes and admitted to a silent defeat. He raised your knuckles to his mouth, pressing soft kisses to each. His actions caused you to giggle as he spun you around and began leading you away from the kitchen.
"Great, now if you'll let me work my magic in here," he chuckled, shoving you towards the television, "I want you to look for something that we can watch together. I've been a month without your little baking shows and silly office specials so it is your job to get me caught up."
He placed you onto the couch with a blanket and the champagne bottle, as if you were a little Russian doll he could set on a shelf. A simper teased the corners of his mouth as his eyes took in all the details of your face. Druig nodded in some silent approval and trailed back over to the kitchen to leave you with the task at hand.
It was the most wonderful feeling to have Druig back and fill in the space that he left. A small smile fell upon your face as you saw his figure peak and dance around the kitchen in his own little world. Every glimpse of him had always made your heart skip a beat. Your attention turned back to the remote in your hands and the scrolling through various streaming services to decide on the movie of the night. And yet, your mind drifted away to other places.
Druig had placed the first box of books into the office that the two of you decided to turn into a shared library. Both of you didn't have much need for a full office space, so why not turn it into something that brought you together as a couple. The love of knowledge and books that you both shared was a special part of your relationship that you treasured while piecing together your library.
Building the floor-to-roof bookshelves had been quite a challenge and it turned out that Druig was a terrible handyman. You couldn't count how many times he had missed the nail and hit his thumb before you had to take over on hammer duty. He was instead much better at organizing and integrating your collected books together by last name, alphabetically. His attention to detail made him perfect for such a tedious job.
It was that same day that Druig told you the truth about his identity and immortality. He answered all your questions and recalled the stories of civilizations that he experienced firsthand. How could you react to such grand news as if it didn't carry the weight it did.
"(Y/N), did you hear me?" The suave voice drew you back into the present moment as he approached the couch with two bowls.
The steam swirled up into the air, signaling the hot contents within. Grabbing the bowl with caution, you let it rest on your thigh as Druig tucked himself in next to you, pulling part of your large blanket onto his lap. You pressed play on the remote and he began to dive into the soup. He picked up the bottle of champagne from the coffee table to refill his glass to discover that barely two glasses remained, "I guess it's a good thing I bought more than one."
"You know me," You tried to laugh it off, but you were slightly alarmed that you didn't recall drinking that much.
"It's alright, my love," He smiled as he sip at the golden liquid, "but please eat before your food gets cold."
Taking a few bites as well, it was really good, but you simply couldn't stomach it. Maybe it was the bubbly alcohol or just general anxiety; however, even the thought of food or the weight of your blanket was setting flares off in your head.
His slight laugh and scrunch of his eyes when something humorous happened on-screen caused your focus to settle on him. The object of your affections who had lived millenniums before you and would see more without you. How he managed to be entertained by your existence for this long was actually a surprise. He knew some of the most influential people that shaped humanity and was sitting on your couch as if it was his life's purpose.
The weight of this knowledge and realization hung too heavy on your chest. A tear streaked down your cheek, and your hand raised itself to wipe the evidence away before Druig could see. Yet your lover had a keen eye and snatched your hand into his, his blue eyes studying your glass ones.
"Why haven't you left me?" The words left your tongue, the champagne now spoke for you, "Why do you keep returning to me?"
"What kind of a question is that?"
"It- it's a serious one, Dru. What keeps you tied to me?"
Druig was confused and lost by the sudden change of atmosphere. Where did this even come from? He did everything in his power to demonstrate his love for you and to make sure you knew that he would never abandon you. So to question the reason for his loyalty...
"Druig, I am broken and I am plain. I am a child and yet I see my grave. Why do you stay?"
"Because I love you... Isn't that enough of an answer?"
"No... no," you cried, "Time is passing by us, passing through me. And all you can do is watch. I'm turning into an antique that you've collected for the shelves of your stories. There are plenty are pretty, young girls that you can cycle through without hesitation or a second thought of commitment. But you are sitting next to me."
Your words were like a faucet that kept running no matter how many times you turned the handle. All the thoughts and concerns you pushed to the back of your mind came pouring out and drowning you beneath their waves, "we are just biding time..."
"Please, (Y/N), I love you more than anything in this world or any other. I don't want to seek out youthful creatures for the rest of time, I want to enjoy every moment I have with you."
"But you shouldn't have to sit and wait for me to die!" You yelled, stumbling up and away from the couch. The cries were spilling out of you, capturing your breath in your lungs. Each rise and fall of your chest had grown quicker by the minute, and all peace left your body.
"Please, just leave me, and wipe my mind of you. I couldn't live if you ever grew bored of me or stayed out of pity," Your lips trembled and your arms clung around your waist in self-comfort.
Each action he made moved with this slowness as if he was freezing time for you. What Druig didn't say was that if he could stop the flow of the natural law, he would do it for you. It was never realistic to plan out a life with you when if he looked away for too long, you would disappear from his life. He had lived each day with you as if it were the last with you so that you would never question his love.
Now here you were, crying for him to just go ahead and tear off the band-aid for a future wound. Maybe it was selfish of him, but Druig couldn't ever bring himself to do such a thing. He pulled at your arms, bringing your shaking frame closer to hold you until the tears no longer stained your cheeks. Druig planned to keep you hostage in his arms until he physically couldn't.
"I will love you as the sun rises and falls. I will hold you as if you would vanish without my arms. I will care for you as the moon cares for the ocean. And I will keep you in my heart, to love and cherish, until such a time that I face my end."
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serendipitous-magic · 3 years
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What is your writing advice for young people who want to write fanfiction and original stories in the near future?
If this is just Way Too Much, skip to the end (#16). My most important piece of advice is there. I also happen to think #5 is pretty good.
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1) Literally just write. Write whatever you want, and do a lot of it.
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2) You don’t have to post everything. In fact you don’t have to post anything. You can, don’t get me wrong, but it can be intimidating to sit down and think “I will now write something that other people will see and read and judge with their eyeballs.” Because that’s probably gonna lead to nerves and writer's block. Just write down the ideas that you have, the things you want to write, whatever’s in your brain that you want to explore and expand upon and make into something. And then if you want to, share it. Or don’t share it. I have plenty of half-baked ideas and documents and random story chapters and shit hidden away on my Google Drive that will never see the light of day, for a whole number of reasons. I wanted to write it but it wasn’t ~Spicy~ enough to warrant posting, or it’s only like an eighth of a good idea, or it’s like one scene with no story around it, or it’s just something incredibly self-indulgent I just wanted to write for my own enjoyment.
Point being, don’t write for other people. Don’t write so that other people can read it; write what you want, write for yourself, and then if you want to share it, do.
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3) You can pretty much ignore any and all of these for fanfiction. In fact, you can ignore pretty much any rules or guidelines you want for fanfiction. Fanfic is a sandbox. You don’t have to be a “professional writer” to post fic. No one expects you to be Stephen King or Margaret Atwood. Fanfic is just for playing in a fandom and having fun. If you wanna write a 50 chapter slow burn with very little plot aside from the OTP slowly getting to know each other, and no real stakes or central conflict, I guarantee people would read that. Really, fanfiction is the Old West of writing: lawless, wild, unpredictable, and free.
However, here are the rules you must follow:
-Separate your paragraphs. (I’m sure you know this already, but I’m gonna say it anyway just in case.) Do not post one big block of text. Make a paragraph break when someone new is talking, when the characters are in a new place, when a new event occurs that changes the scene, when a chunk of time has passed, and when there’s a major change in subject.
-I know it’s obvious, but... grammar, punctuation, and capitalization. They exist to make writing easy for readers to read, and more people will read your stuff if they don’t have to stop and try to figure out what you meant.
-Use tags and labels, as is possible with whatever site you’re using. Especially if you include possibly triggering content in your story. Again, I know it’s obvious, but it’s common courtesy. Bonus: tagging the themes and content of your story helps readers find it and read it :)
-If possible, limit the use of all-caps and exclamation marks / question marks. 99% of the time, one ! or one ? will do. If you overload the page with a lot of all-caps and long rows of exclamation marks or question marks, it hampers readability.
... That’s literally all I can think of. And, like I said, it’s all pretty basic stuff. You were probably rolling your eyes like, “Uh, yeah, Gwen, I know.” But that’s literally it. You can pretty much do whatever you want in fanfic.
That being said, here’s my advice for both fanfiction and original work...
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4) A quick and dirty rule for coming up with a plot, starting a story, keeping up pacing, or maintaining tension: figure out what dreams, desires, and goals are nearest and dearest to your main character’s heart (see #16). Then set up the main conflict to be directly in opposition to that goal. It doesn’t have to be in a tangible way, though it could be. But, if your main character wants more than anything to reach the ships on the southern coast of your world and sail to a new life, make sure the main conflict immediately prevents them from doing that - in fact, make sure to send them north. If your main character just wants to keep their loved ones safe, kidnap the loved ones. If your main character just wants to date their best-friend-turned-crush, make sure they think they have no chance - or, make them cocky about it, and make sure it makes Person B determined not to ever like them. You get it. Figure out what your character most wants, and then keep them from having that. Boom - your conflict now ties in with your character's motivation. It's like instant yeast for plots.
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5) If you’re anything like me, you want your first draft to be Good, despite all that advice about how the first draft doesn’t have to be good and it’s just to get words on the page, yadda yadda. And if you’re somewhat of a perfectionist (like myself), it’s easy to get stuck looking at a blank page because you don’t have The Perfect Words, and you want what you write to be Good the first time.
Here’s how I cheat that:
Instead of trying to write a Good First Draft from a blank page, hit the enter key a few times, skip a little down on the page, change your ink to red (or blue, or whatever - just something immediately identifiable as Not Black) and just thought vomit. Write whatever the hell you’re thinking, exactly as you think it. Don’t worry about it being readable, don’t worry about narrative flow for now, don’t worry about covering all the details, don’t worry about anything except either a) getting all the details of your idea out onto the page, whether that’s a lot or whether it’s just a sentence or two, or b) if you don’t have an idea yet, finding your way there.
Because this method is also very good for finding your way to ideas when you’re stuck in writer’s block.
Because of how human brains work, getting this stuff out onto the page - in all its messy, stream-of-consciousness glory - will likely spark more thoughts. As you write your original idea about the scene, it’ll likely spark more ideas. Creation begets creation. If you just start thought-vomiting your ideas onto the page, chances are you’ll think of more things as you go, and you’ll start filling out description or dialogue or tone or action or whatever, and pretty soon the scene starts writing itself.
Not sure where you’re going with the scene or which ideas you wanna use? Use a lot of ambivalent language in your “thought-vomit draft.” My pre-writing notes are chock-full of the words “maybe,” “perhaps,” and the phrases, “At some point...” and “...or something like that.” In this way, I don’t tie myself down to one idea; it’s just an idea, and I’m keeping it on the page in case I use it, but I might chuck it in the trash or change it or whatever.
And then, once your ideas for the scene (or story, or chapter, or whatever) are on the page, then go back to the top and start translating them into a “real” first draft. Use black ink, and start copy-pasting chunks of the thought-vomit up into the top part of the document and translating them into Draft 1. Separate out paragraphs where paragraph breaks should be. Add the correct punctuation and whatnot. Change “describe the lobby here - include potted plants, fancy carpet, blood stain, etc.” into an actual description of the lobby. Flesh it out, or condense, or whatever it needs. And if you’re still stuck, change back to red ink and ramble some more until you find a path that feels right, then plug that in. This keeps you from looking at a blank page, and it allows you to generate a kind of Draft 0.5, somewhere between a plan and a first draft.
You don’t have to use every idea. Like I said, jot down whatever comes to mind, put a “maybe” before or after it, and keep working. If the idea grabs you and you wanna keep expanding on it and exploring it, cool. If you just wanna jot it down so you don’t forget it and then move on, also cool. Red-ink draft / “thought-vomit draft” is your time to jump around in the timeline, add or finesse details at whatever point your brain moves to, etc. Don’t try to do it exactly in story order, because you will get tangential thoughts and ideas, and you will not remember to write them down five pages later when you finally get to taking notes on that scene. Trust me. On that note...
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6) Write everything down the moment you think of it. Seriously.
“I’ll remember it when I get around to writing that scene in a couple days / weeks / months (/years).”
You won’t.
Write it down.
Phone, journal, google docs - hell, my family regularly laughs at me for grabbing a napkin during dinner and scribbling thoughts down alongside pasta sauce stains.
And then, once you have it written down somewhere...
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7) Consolidate your writing ideas in one place.
Maybe this isn’t really your style, and that’s totally chill.
Buuuut, if you’re Type-A like me - or if you tend to be somewhat unorganized and you know you’ll lose track of your writing notes if they’re scattered across multiple notebooks, journals, napkins, phone notes, etc. - having one consolidated document of notes is a life saver. I keep mine on Google Docs so I can access it, add to it, and look through it for inspiration anywhere at any time. When I have one of those Shower Thoughts that I jot down on my phone or on a napkin during dinner, I set myself a reminder on my phone to type it up in my Story Ideas document later.
(Or, if the idea I had was for a story of mine that I’ve already started planning / drafting / whatever, I put it in the document for that story instead of the Big Random Story Ideas doc. You get it.)
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8) Have other ways to collect and save writing ideas, besides just writing stuff down. If you like Pinterest, make pinterest boards of your characters or stories or settings or whatever. If you’re big into playlists, make a playlist for your character / setting / story / etc. Or both. Or something else. I’m not good at drawing, but maybe you are, and maybe you like to draw your ideas. Whatever form it takes, having another way to save ideas and think about your stories is invaluable.
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9) Some writers can just start writing with no idea where the story is going, and they just kind of figure it out as they go. I envy those writers. And I do that sometimes for fanfiction, where the stakes are somewhat lower and the audience is reading more for scene-to-scene enjoyment (and to see their OTP kiss) than for a Driving And Compelling Narrative.
But here’s the thing: especially if you’re just kind of starting out, writing without some sort of plan is really, really hard, and will likely lead you into a slow, meandering narrative that will likely frustrate you.
Even if you think you’re someone that just can’t write with a plan (and again, I have the highest respect for pansters out there - I don’t know how you do it, you crazy bastards, but you keep doing you) - even if you think “I can’t work with plans, they’re too prescriptive, I just want to write and see what happens -”
Try at least making the most skeletal of plans.
Even if you have no clue what 90% of the story is, yet. That’s fine. But you need to have some idea of what you’re building to, even if that’s nothing more specific than a feeling, or a turning point for your character. Even if your entire plan for everything beyond Chapter 1 is, “At some point, Charlie needs to realize that Ed was lying to her.”
This is where those Draft 0.5 notes come in handy. Because, more than likely, working on your current scene that way will spark ideas for later scenes, which you can put down at the bottom of the document and save for when they become relevant. In my experience, the line between planning ahead and making a Draft 0.5 is exceptionally thin. One can quickly turn into the other.
If you’re really, really resistant to the idea of planning ahead, that’s okay. It’s not everybody’s style. But for the love of all that is holy, write down your ideas for future scenes, even if you’re a person that doesn’t like to plan and writes only in story order, because you will not remember that idea once you get to that scene.
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10) You don’t have to write in order.
Here’s the thing: I’m a person that can only do my Draft 1 in story order (meaning, chronological order). I just have to be in that flow; I need to write in story order for me to best channel where the character is at from scene to scene, both narratively and emotionally.
But my Thought Vomit Draft is another thing entirely. By using the brain hack of putting my notes in red (or another color, it doesn’t matter) and going down to the bottom of the document / page and taking notes there, and then integrating them into whatever plan I have, and then translating them into Draft 1 once I get there in the story - by doing that, I can get my good ideas onto the page (and expound upon them and let my muse carry me and ride that momentum while I’m in the moment of inspiration) without writing out of order.
Maybe that’s just me. But if you’re a person who really prefers to write in story order, that could be hugely helpful to you. It is to me.
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11) Emotion and motivation will do more for your story than technicalities of plot.
If your characters really care about something, and their journey through the (shaky or weak) plot is emotionally engaging, it will be a much more compelling story than a story with a “perfect” plot and unrelatable or unmotivated characters.
If your characters care about what they’re doing, and it means something to them, and their goals and actions are driven by dreams or fears or emotions that are integral to who they are, your audience will care too. If you have a perfectly crafted plot that hits all the right beats and has high stakes and fast pacing and drama - but your characters don’t connect with what’s happening in a way that’s deeply meaningful or emotional for them? You’re gonna have a hard time engaging readers.
When in doubt, prioritize character emotion and motivation over plot. Emotion is what drives story.
This power is highly exploitable. (Just look at pulp novels and shitty but entertaining movies.) You can even use it to glaze over plot holes or reinvigorate a limp narrative. Use it that way sparingly, though. It’s a band-aid, not a surgery. 
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12) Evil villains are hard to write - mostly because there are very few truly evil people in the world. (There are a few. Billionaires and several big name politicians come to mind.) But by and large, there aren’t that many evil people. There are plenty of bad people, but bad people have some good in them, somewhere in there. Trying to write an evil villain is hard, because they often turn very cartoony.
Here’s a tip: it’s much easier to write antagonists who aren’t evil. Even if they’re bad people. Of course, there’s no reason you can’t write a villain that’s just truly evil - a serial killer, or an abuser, or a billionaire, or someone who legit just wants to hurt people or blow up the earth or stay in control of an oppressed population, or whatever. But chances are, it’s gonna be really hard to make them feel real, and even harder to create a plot around them that doesn’t feel forced or contrived.
Instead, try writing an antagonist / villain whose motivations and goals directly clash with your protagonist’s - but not because they want to take over the world or see people suffer. Write an antagonist who’s chaotic good, but whose perception of the situation is completely opposite from your hero’s. Write an antagonist whose only desire is to save people, and who will do anything to achieve that goal - anything. Write an antagonist who believes in the letter of the law, and will hinder and oppose the hero’s methods even if they agree with the hero’s motivation. Write an antagonist who got in way over their head and did some things they regret, and now they don’t know how to get out, and they’re doing their best but whatever they set in motion is too powerful for them to stop now.
Write villains who are human. Write a killer who thought they were doing the right thing by taking their victim out of the equation, who vomits at the sight of the body and sobs over the grave they dig. Write a government leader who truly believes she’s doing what’s best for her people in the long-term, even if it might hurt them in the short term, and is willing to endure the hatred and belligerence of the masses if it means securing what she thinks is a better future for her people. Write a teenage bully that thinks they’re the one being picked on by the world, and they’re just fighting back, standing their ground. Write a scientist who will break any code of ethics and hurt anyone he needs to - in order to bring back his baby sister from the grave, because he promised her he’d protect her and he failed. Write an antagonist who is selfish and self-centered and capricious - because in order to survive they had to look out for Number One, and that habit ain’t about to break anytime soon.
Write villains who aren’t even villains. Write antagonists who oppose the hero because of moral differences. Write antagonists who are trying to do the right thing. Write antagonists who treat the heroes with kindness and dignity and respect and gentleness.
They don’t have to be good. They don’t have to be Misunderstood Sweethearts who “deserve” a redemption arc. They can be cruel and nasty and dismissive and callous and violent and etc. etc.
Just hesitate before you make them Evil-with-a-capital-E. Because evil is hard to write, and honestly, boring to read. Flawed human beings with goals and motivations that directly oppose the main characters’ are much easier to write and much more interesting to read.
Ask why. Why is your villain trying to take over the world? What does that even mean? Are they trying to create a Star-Trek-like post-capitalism utopia, but they know that won’t happen in a million lifetimes, so they’re trying to do it by force? Are they actually super in favor of human rights, but they got very impatient waiting for the world to do anything about poverty and war, so they decided to take it into their own hands? Are they determined to fix the world - no matter the cost? Are they terrified and overwhelmed, but committed to see it through to the end? Or - maybe they’re just doing it on a dare. Maybe they don’t really give a shit about world domination, they were just a mediocre rich white guy who decided to fuck around and find out, and now he’s kind of curious how far he can take this thing. And now he’s kind of an internationally-wanted criminal, so he’s kind of stuck living on his hidden private island in his multi-billion dollar secret base, strapping lasers to sharks’ heads for the hell of it. Gross, selfish, uncaring, and dangerous? For sure. Evil? Depends on your definition. See, now we’re getting somewhere.
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13) It’s tempting to let the plot control the characters. It’s easy to drop your characters into a situation and see how they react. But here’s the thing: that doesn’t drive plot. In fact, it bogs down pacing. Instead, try to build you plot off of your characters’ actions and decisions. Let your character build their own situation. Not to say it should go they way they wanted it to go; in fact, usually, their grand plans should go to hell very quickly. But having the characters take action and make decisions, and letting the plot develop based on that, is much easier to make compelling than making a rigid series of events and then trying to herd your characters into them.
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14) Having trouble justifying a character’s actions? Consider having them make the opposite decision, or having them approach the situation in a different way. For example: you need your character to go meet the bad guy, for plot reasons, even though there’s no way it’s not a trap. If the character goes, readers are gonna be groaning with their head in their hands, because c’mon man, that was really fucking stupid. But he’s gotta go, because the plot needs that. Two ways you might handle this: a) He knows it’s probably a trap. He decides not to go. The plot conspires to get him near the villain anyway. Or, b) He knows it’s a trap. But he needs to go, for (insert reasons here). So, he approaches it in an unexpected way. He brings backup, recruiting a side character we met earlier in the story. Or he arrives on the back of a dragon, because ain’t nobody gonna fuck with a dude on a dragon. Or he goes - early, and ambushes the villain. It may work, it may not. He may get himself kidnapped anyway. But it moves the plot along without having Stupid Hero Syndrome.
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15) This is a legit piece of advice: if all of this sounds overwhelming, literally just ignore it and write what you want. For real. Writing should be fun, and every single writer operates differently. If you’re sitting here like “I’m getting stressed just reading this,” just flip me a good-natured bird and get on with your life. I promise I won’t take it personally. Same goes for literally any other writing advice you see. Lots of rules and guidelines can very quickly make anything thoroughly un-fun. Just write. If you’re passionate about it and you do it for long enough, you’ll start figuring out the tips and tricks on your own.
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16) Here’s the best piece of advice I can give you: know your characters. More importantly, know what’s important to them. Build their personality and decisions off of that, and build your plot off of their decisions.
I see a lot of character building sheets that ask a shit-ton of questions like “What’s their most prized possession?” “Do they like their family?” “What’s their favorite food?”
And while these are good questions, my problem with this type of character building is that if you start there, with the little stuff, you’re building on nothing. IMO, to make a truly strong character (not strong like Inner Strength, strong like effective), you need a strong foundation.
Here are the things you must know about your character:
a) What are their greatest fears / deepest insecurities? And I don’t mean “wasps” or “heights.” I mean the deep shit. I mean fears like “living a meaningless life,” or “turning out just like their parents,” or “that no one will ever love them,” or “being powerless.” You may say, “But they’re really scared of wasps! They fall into a wasp nest when they were little and got stung so much they almost died!” Great! That’s a fantastic bit of backstory. They should absolutely be afraid of wasps, and that should absolutely be an impediment later in the story. But dig deeper. What about that event actually scarred them? Was it the helplessness? Stumbling around, swatting at the air, not being able to do a single thing to stop what was happening to them? Was it that they were alone, and no matter how loud they screamed, no one was coming? Was it the bodily horror of feeling themself turn into an inhuman creature as they swelled up from the stings, unable to move their fingers or face normally anymore?
And don’t forget insecurities, because those factor in, too. Are they deeply insecure about their identity? Do they believe, deep down, that they’re ugly? Did they grow up poor and they’ve always been really touchy about that? Why? Dig deep. Figure out what really, really bothers them.
b) What are their hopes and dreams? What do they truly want out of life? What do they consider the most valuable to their experience here in this thing called life? Is it the freedom to forge their own path and be independent? Is it the approval of their family or peers? Is it a home? Is it knowledge, or understanding? Spiritual fulfillment? Is it deeply important to them that they contribute to their community, or protect those they love? What do they need in order to feel truly and deeply fulfilled in life?
Figure out those two things (each one encompasses several things, btw, you don’t have to stop at just one for each), and then use that to inform how they behave and the types of decisions they make within the story. 
It also informs character behavior and personality. 
Let’s say we have a character who’s afraid of helplessness. They’re probably gonna be the person that always wants to do something, try something, no matter how hopeless the situation seems. They’d despise just sitting and waiting, probably, because it makes them feel powerless. They might even be the person that makes rash decisions and acts impulsively and puts themself in danger unnecessarily, because in their mind it’s better than being at the mercy of fate. This is one way you could use a character’s personality to inform their decisions, which in turn helps to inform plot.
Or, let’s say we have a character whose greatest fear is being left behind or forgotten. We may have a chatterbox on our hands. They might be obnoxious. They might love the spotlight, constantly vying for attention no matter the situation, because deep down they’re so afraid that they’d be forgotten otherwise. Or, it may go the opposite way. They may be so afraid of people leaving them that they’re terrified of bothering people. They don’t want to do anything that could annoy people, anything that might give people a reason to leave them. They might be exceedingly polite, quiet, accommodating. A push-over, really.
These are two nearly opposite types of personalities, both stemming from the same core fear/insecurity. You can go a lot of different ways with it. But if you build on that strong foundation, you’ll have a strong character, and a stronger plot.
Likewise, the structure of your story can and should inform the design of these character traits. If you need your characters to team up near the end, it may be impactful if you give your main character a deep fear of commitment, an insecurity about being unwanted or left behind, and make them highly value independence and freedom. That could make their team-up for the final battle very meaningful. Conversely, you can use your character’s deepest fears and desires to help design the plot. Is your character deeply insecure about voicing their opinions or taking a stand, because of trauma they faced in the past? Make them face that. Build that into the climactic third act. Give them the big inspirational speech where they stand up and talk about what they believe to be important, what they think the group should do. And then design that character arc to run through the story, giving you more handholds and stepping stones, more pieces of foundation on which to design the plot.
In this way, character should inform story as much as story informs character. It’s a feedback loop.
Bonus: if you build your character and your plot off of each other in this way, it automatically starts to build in the foundations of that emotional investment I mentioned earlier. If your character’s decisions are based on what they most want and do not want in life, you basically have your character motivation and stakes pre-built.
Note: you need to know these things about your villain, too.
-_-_-
I’m genuinely sorry about the length of this, lmao. But you did ask.
Best of luck!
Edit: I forgot an important one:
17) Start when the scene starts and end when the scene ends.
What do I mean by that?
If your notes say “Danny asks Nicole out after school and majorly flubs it,” start the scene when Danny approaches Nicole after school. Better yet, cold-open the scene on “I was wondering if, you know, you’d wanna. You know. Hang out some time?”
Don’t start that morning when Danny goes to school, unless you’re gonna cover the school day in like one or two sentences. Don’t spend whole paragraphs going through the school day, unless it’s to cover other plot points first (in which case apply these same guidelines there), or if the paragraphs are there for a specific reason, like to illustrate how stressed he is and how it seems like every little thing is going wrong. Even then, trim the fat as much as possible. Expounding and describing everything Moment-to-moment is for the meat of the scenes, not the leading-up-to and coming-away-from.
Here’s my rule of thumb: study how and when movies cut from scene to scene. Movies have exceptionally strict, limited time for storytelling; they’re excellent examples of starting a scene when the plot point starts and ending when it’s over. If you can’t picture a movie showing everything you showed, start the scene later and end it earlier.
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mishervellous · 2 years
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do you have any fluffy married Gallavich headcanon? 🥰
anon! I sure do!!
so we all agree that Ian is a mushy sappy mess right? right. and Mickey agrees too! and once they buy their first house it gets worse and worse with the guy, and his romantic shenanigans: every morning, Ian does this tooth-rotting largesse of leaving mickey sweet post-it notes on their brand new fridge, ranging from dumb garden puns (did you know that they have their own private garden now? Ian would love to tell you all about that) to cheesy rom-com quotes about better halves and box of chocolates—and don’t get him wrong, Mickey doesn’t mind it. at least for the most part. it’s just—he’s not used to this shit. being romantic, and domestic, and having the freedom to just be with his husband and his organic greens and his highlighter yellow sticky papers. he, you know, he has nightmares sometimes (he’d never tell you that) and seeing those heartfelt notes plastered where everyone—everyone—can see them? it makes him mad sometimes. old self-preservation dies hard. but they’re safe now, right? Ian reminds him that from time to time. sometimes, Ian also rolls his eyes when he does, other times he’s borderline screaming those words. they’re safe. still, when Ian asks why doesn’t he ever do something romantic like that for him in return, Mickey’s the one to roll his eyes. he’s ever fucking been the romantic type. he gets it, they ain’t fucking in a freon walk-in freezer anymore, but c’mon. this fucking annoying giant ginger should know better. but then again, this fucking annoying giant ginger is his husband. he’s the guy that famously never gave up on him, so how can Mickey really expect him to do so now? now that they’re safe. now that they’re free. so he actually thinks of something one friday morning. Ian’s latest post-it note just exudes pettiness, “do the laundry, romantically. asshole” it says. it makes Mickey snort—as he peels the paper square away from the stainless steel he shakes his head, and god does he love this dumbass. he loves him so much, in fact, that maybe what feels like an unnecessary grandiose gesture to Mickey might just be what Ian makes it out to be: just a cheesy, heartfelt scribble on a post-it note. and so he thinks, and thinks, and tosses away more paper than his now environmentally conscious husband would like before settling upon something. “you’re acting weird” Ian says as they’re getting ready to go to bed that same night, “you’ve been acting weird all day.” but Mickey doesn’t answer. he just shrugs, like the yellow paper in his nightstand isn’t burning a hole in his brain. “are you plotting something?” Mickey laughs. god, does he loves his husband. “wouldn’t you like to know, red.”
so when Ian wakes up one saturday morning, Mickey’s not there. it’s definitely weird, but not enough to sound any alarms. he goes down to the kitchen, one of those fancy looking ones that kinda reminds him of an Ikea display during the holidays—they’re homeowners now, his husband and him, did you know?—and he doesn’t remember leaving a post-it note before going to bed, but nevertheless there one is, planted on the reflective silver surface of their fridge, crooked. he has to read it a couple of times over in order for those word to sink in, both because his eyes are still foggy from sleep, and because they’re kinda, sorta fogging up right now with the mounting sting of tears fueled by a stubborn burner crackling right behind his eyes. as he reads it, again and again, he hopes to one day believe in some god with enough conviction, and with enough assuredness that they have all the answers, to ask them what he did in this life or the one before it to deserve a man like Mickey by his side.
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shotosjupiter · 3 years
Text
MARIGOLD’S LOVER — D. KAMINARI
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synopsis: get a load of this train-wreck, his hair’s a mess and he doesn’t know who he is yet.
note: this is reposted from my old account; it's deactivated now, but i really liked this fic so i wanted to post it again :) (please don't ask me about my old account or alias)
word count: 1.5k
warnings/genre: hurt/comfort, mutual pining, crying, insecurity, mild bullying/mockery, scars (they’re lightning scars!), self consciousness, cursing, talk of anatomy (?) i describe denki’s body a bit?, reader uses they/them pronouns, might be a little ooc? this just my realistic take on denki :)
*✲゚*。 playlist here (recommended)
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MARIGOLDS were never his favorite, but maybe that's why he found them so endearing. petals so bright that they resembled the sun and yet always so hidden beneath the glory of other gardenias.
he supposed he didn't like them as much because they reminded him of well... him.
denki realized he might have been looking too much into it (overthinking again, he sighs), after all, it was just a flower; how could one identify themselves with a flower? but he couldn't erase the thought from his mind — marigolds and their hidden brightness.
----
the seed was first planted when you had greeted him with a bright smile when he entered the classroom, still drowsy with his eyelids being pulled down from the tiredness still running through his body. he had stayed up again- not for any particular reason, there wasn't a test today nor was he up talking to someone. his conscious just dragged him along into the deepest hours of the night until his body finally shut down to fall asleep.
clothes still rumpled and hair mussed up, he collapsed in a heap on his desk as he sent you a bright grin and wave. the class started to quiet down as the new unit of the month was introduced- quirk control and strength.
he twirled his pencil around his fingers, mind zoning out of the class and flying across to another universe- a universe where he didn't have to sit for hours on end listening to aizawa's drawling and where he could finally rest.
he felt a light poking against his elbow and he turned his head to his side to look at you; you were still looking straight ahead, displaying the profile of a good student paying attention, but you kept glancing back at him. when you glanced back at him again, you lent him a small grin and tapped your notebook, copy mine, it's okay if you can't pay attention right now.
he smiled and lightly nodded as he scribbled down your notes, leaving a small smiley face on the corner of your page as a thank you. it was the least he could do.
days later, when they all had training in gym gamma- quirk training, apparently you can never have enough- that was when he supposed the seed grew into a sapling.
his quirk was harder to control than most- electricity was something one couldn't ever have full control over. it harmed others and it harmed him- he had the electricity provoked scars across his body to prove it.
that never stopped you from believing the utmost in him. you were always cheering him on, whether on the sidelines or in a mock battle with him. he swears he thought you were mocking him in the beginning, it wasn't a surprise, after all; it wouldn't have been the first time someone would've poked fun at the way he short-circuited when he used a voltage a bit too high.
but no, you weren't mocking him. you believed in him and his quirk, that he could exceed despite his limitations-- despite his lack of grasp on control.
"i think you're gonna be a great hero one day, kami," you said, tongue slightly sticking out as you scribbled a poor drawing of him in his hero costume at the corner of his biology textbook. #1 hero: chargebolt!
he smiled down at the drawing, heart beating a few paces faster than before as his finger traced over the drawing before he leaned over and scribbled over your worksheet in response.
"hey!" you exclaimed, giggles erupting from you as you elbowed him away from your papers. the both of you were laughing now, trying to silent yourselves in the big library you were currently inhabiting. students were shooting glares at the two of you as the laughter ensued.
“shhh,” he said, voice wobbly as he continued giggling despite the finger to his lips trying to silence the both of you. leaning in a bit too close to your face, mirth gleaming in your eyes, your foreheads touched in unison as the both of you tried to contain your amusement. and then. and then, it became quiet. the laughter dying down as the two of you looked into the others’ eyes.
his eyes gleamed a liquid honey, the sunlight from the window hitting him just as beautifully as it does to marigolds. beautiful, golden, and oh so bright. there was an unmistakable sense of self-consciousness within his eyes, as he looked down towards your lips before flitting back to your e/c eyes.
gnawing lightly on his lip, he smiled, eyes creasing slightly from his expression as he leaned back in his seat, “we should get back to work, y’know, y/n. can’t have you distracting me,” he elbowed you, laughing lightly again.
breaking out of the daze of the moment, you blinked and nodded to him, quickly grabbing your pen and getting back to the worksheet and textbook laid in front of you. heart beating quicker than before, you took a quick glance towards him from the corner of your eye, only to see him already looking at you. the both of you quickly turned your head away from the other, faces feeling heated.
denki swore he felt sapling of the marigold in his heart. he felt it, and he felt it grow in sizes and ache at the prospect of you and him.
and it grew. it grew and it grew until it felt like he couldn’t discern the difference between him choking on the petals of orange and gold or from the shine of your smile, blinding him so dearly.
flowers growing abundantly within ribcage, similar to the feeling of an infestation of butterflies. he felt the gardenia ruffle in his system when your fingers brushed his, and he couldn’t help but want more. more and more and more. he wanted all of your sunshine; all of you.
he was thinking of what he could possibly do, how could he confess and splatter the words to you, without absolutely messing it up. it was then when he had heard their words. their words of mockery, and how they made fun of him. denki wasn’t one to be hurt as easily. he was smiles and brightness if there was a human form, and he didn’t turn down teasing. but this.
this was- they were making fun of his weaknesses- of something he couldn’t control. they way he short-circuited, left completely defenseless and unaware of his surroundings and indisputably weak. of how he couldn’t possibly become a hero when he needed saving himself. there was never a mention of his strength, of how he could put out nearly two million volts of electricity, of how he was strong.
and then the overbearing thoughts came. all the insecurities that built up since entering UA, and how they’ve been pushed down because heroes can’t show weakness. his fists clenched and knuckles whitened as heartbeat accelerated and tears formed in his eyes, threatening to fall.
he led himself down a small field, it was right next to the school, a place where you and him came to study and sometimes just spend time with each other. chanting within himself, don’t cry don’t cry don’t cry as he made his way down the grass, hands shaking from fury and desolation.
don’t cry, you’re not allowed-
“denki?”
he looked up to see your face, concern spread across your face as you assessed his expression and form. “are you-”
“no! no i’m okay, i’m fine. i promise.” he smiled, quickly wiping at his eyes for any stray tears as he looked at you brightly.
you blinked. “o-kay.” you pointed towards a willow tree near the center of the field, “wanna go sit there? just hang out?” you asked him, a tentative smile gracing your face as you reached out to touch his shoulder as a means to give him a comforting touch.
he nodded, hands still mildly shaking as he slipped his hand into yours. the both of you sat underneath the shade of the willow tree, flowers growing near the edge of its roots. you laid your head back against the trunk of the willow as you said, “you know you’re gonna be a great hero someday? i don’t know what they said, but you are. you’re strong, denki. for fucks sake, you can produce two million volts of electricity. you don’t think that’s powerful? look at your lightning scars- they show your strength; as a matter of fact i- mmph!”
you were cut off with him leaning forward and planting his lips on top of yours. his lips still had the salty taste of tears on them, as he kept one scarred hand cupping your face as he kissed you intensely, the sun shining on both of your faces as you turned properly to kiss him back with just the amount of emotion.
you leaned back for air, when he said, “i really really like you, y/n,”
you quirked an eyebrow at him, a smirk passing on your face, “yeah? well i really really like you too, chargebolt.”
he grinned at your words, as you held his hand covered in lichtenberg figures, and left a light kiss across a pale scar. heart soaring as the marigolds in his heart ruffled once more in delight of a found love.
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