#but I needed to write about them

[skoulsons]

uhh inspired by the Winter embrace, Lissa’s chappy 2, and that one joel and ellie post-David hug that Paws did where they’re sitting next to each other and joel hugs her. you know the one

-

“Cee!”

It was a guttural plea. He’d been screaming her name so much that it became a mix of unorganized sounds amidst heavy pants—no longer a comprehensible word. His voice was shaking, breaking more with every breath.

His stump was bleeding. Cee was gone. The hallways were a maze. Cee was gone.

Ezra raced through the halls, propelling himself past each turn with his only arm. His stump stung with every step and attempted swing of his arm, blood still pouring out from the newly opened wound. His right side was coated in it, the blood starting to seep into his waistband and trickle down his leg.

He approached another turn in the hallway and extended his arm, bracing himself for another quick swing around the corner. His fingers grazed the wall but he didn’t catch the corner. Ezra’s built up momentum sent him into the opposite wall and brought him to his knees. He coughed, using the wall and his good arm to try and push himself up to continue his search for Cee.

He coughed again once he was back on his feet. “Ce-”he started before his eyes fixed to the scene in front of him.

It all came into Ezra’s focus slowly. Cee, first. She was kneeling on someone. Her left leg was bent, kneeling on the unnamed person’s chest. Her right leg was also bent, the tip of her shoe to her knee pressed flat into the ground beside the body. She was bent over, her face and both her hands close to the body’s head. He watched her back intently, watching for it to move in tandem with her breath. Her breathing was sporadic and uncontrolled, full of panic. Her hair was disheveled, multiple knots coating the back of her head. She was without a shoe on her left foot and there was a gash along her calf on the same leg.

Second, the man beneath her. The dead man. There was a hint of pride in Ezra seeing the corpse under her and knowing she did it. But his pride quickly soured when he realized that she did it.

He wasn’t there to do it. Whatever this man did or attempted to do to her, he wasn’t there. She had to defend herself. His little bird ended up in a dangerous situation that he couldn’t save her from.

He’s supposed to protect her. Even with one arm, he’d sworn to protect her. That’s his job, anyway. She’s capable, but she shouldn’t have to be.

He should’ve been there. He should’ve strung the man up by the muscles in his fingers. He should’ve spent what strength he had left in his only arm to bruise each and every one of the man's ribs. He should’ve made small but painful cuts in the man's limbs—incisions along the major arteries in his arms and legs. He should’ve taken an ear, teeth, his tongue, or any number of toes from the man while he was alive. Anything, anything to prove that no one goes near Cee.

Third, all the blood. There was a pool of warm, crimson blood still pouring out from the man's abdomen and flowing towards the opposite wall. It was building up under Cee’s right leg, seeping into her pant leg and starting to flow towards Ezra.

His hearing then caught up with his vision. Cee. She was panting, dry heaving… crying. Her form was shaking, her shoulders bouncing with each hiccup she let out.

Ezra’s breath caught in his throat hearing her cries. “Cee!” He shouted, urgently pushing off the wall towards her. He didn’t make it four steps before he tripped over himself, his knees colliding with the floor again. He caught himself with his arm, immediately pushing himself back up and half-crawling the rest of the way to Cee.

He crawled to the left side of the body, settling on his knees on Cee’s left side. He could see what had transpired now that he was up close.

The five inch blade of her knife was plunged into the man’s jugular. Cee’s right hand, covered in blood, was shaking while still holding onto the handle. Tears were hastily falling down her cheeks and dropping off her chin, mixing with the blood on the man’s neck. She was still dry heaving and hiccuping, unaware Ezra was next to her. He looked at Cee’s face, her gaze locked on the man.

Ezra looked where her gaze was fixed. The man’s eyes were wide open—dead and bleak. He reached over and closed them. That’s when Cee noticed him.

She turned, her knee still pressed into the man’s chest. The bloody knife that was just hidden in the man’s throat was now held a hair from Ezra’s. He caught her forearm just in time, holding it tightly as he found her eyes and checked her face.

Four traces of blood followed her jawline down to the bottom of her neck—traces that accurately resembled bloody fingers and the streaks they leave when they’re dragged along a surface. There was a gash in her lip and blood in the corners of her mouth. Her nose and cheeks were covered in speckled blood as well.

“Little bird,” he whispered, his eyes begging for her to recognize him, “it’s me. It’s Ezra.”

Cee’s eyebrows twitched as her eyes darted between his. In his hand, her arm started to shake. She opened her mouth and quickly closed it, swallowing the bile that was building up. Cee tore her gaze from Ezra’s and looked past him, then between them, then beside her. Before her eyes even made it to the dead man’s face, Ezra let go of her arm and immediately found her right cheek.

“Hey, no…” he said, gently directing her face back to see him. “Look at me.”

He kept his hand against her cheek as she glanced back at him. She swallowed again before focusing on her shaking hand that found a resting place on his good shoulder. Her lips quivered as she dropped the blood covered knife, the blade clanking on the floor beside Ezra.

“Birdie,” he breathed, a small stroke of his thumb over her cheek. “Are you with me, Cee?”

Her breathing hitched. Her voice cracked as she choked on tears. “Ezra?” She questioned.

Ezra let out a breath he was subconsciously holding. “It’s me, little bird,” he said.

Her breathing continued in uneven sputters as she bowed her head and let her forehead hit his chest. Ezra moved his hand from her cheek to her back and wrapped it securely across it, squeezing her right shoulder.

His missing arm, a phantom longing he could only describe as agonizing and desperate, craved to hold her. If there wasn’t someone in his life who deserved it, he wouldn’t have cared less about losing it. If there wasn’t a kid in his life who deserved more than 50% of what he could give, he wouldn't have cared less about losing it. If there wasn’t a little girl in his life who, now, he realized all he wanted to do was give 110% for, he wouldn’t have cared less about losing it.

But now there was.

He squeezed her shoulder tight, pulling her body against him. She buried her face deeper into his neck as he pulled her into him, rocking them lightly back and forth. She heaved and coughed beside his neck, trying to catch the breath she’d so desperately lost.

“Here, birdie…” he whispered, falling backwards to sit on the ground next to the body. Cee pulled from him slightly, helping them scoot back to the wall. Once his back hit it, Cee sat beside him, slightly embarrassed.

She was still crying, dried tears and blood along her chin and down her neck. “I lost… track o’ you… and then he… he was… he said…” she stopped, rubbing her forearm across her nose to wipe the snot away.

Ezra took that opportunity to squeeze his arm between her back and the wall and pull her body towards him again. He wrapped his arm across her back again, pulling her into his chest and keeping his hand held tightly to her left shoulder.

She reciprocated it as best she could. She turned into him, her left arm going down by his right side and holding onto the fabric at his waist. Her right hand held onto the fabric on his left side. She buried her face in his chest, right next to his bloody stump.

Ezra rested his chin atop her head. He exhaled, rubbing his hand up and down her back. “Kevva, Cee, I…” he trailed off.

For once, he didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know how to express the panic when she was no longer beside him. He didn’t know how to express the urgency in his strides as he raced to find her. He didn’t know how to express the desperation in his kills, not knowing who could’ve taken her and making sure that every single person took their last, most painful breath. He didn’t know how to express the fear that there was a chance she was gone—not that he’d ever truly let that chance reach any level of certainty.

She rested her cheek against his chest, eyeing his stump. She pulled her left hand back from his waist and pressed it to his stump. When she brought it back, fresh blood was on her fingers. “Wait, what…” she stopped, attempting to choke her tears away, “why’s your stump bleeding?”

Ezra smiled lightly, but kept it to himself. I suppose my worried reaction and urgency looking for you surprised some unkind onlookers. “Nothin’ you need to worry about, birdie.” He rubbed her back again. “Soon, once you’ve relaxed, I can take care of you. Then, we can focus on that.”

“But it could get infected…”

“So could that gash in your leg.”

Cee sighed, pulling at the fabric of his shirt. She kept her cheek pressed to his chest, focused on calming her breathing and slowing her heartbeat.

Ezra pressed his lips to her head briefly before pulling away. “I commend your concern, little bird, I do, but I will be fine. Let me take care of you.”

[bruciemilf]

Need a teen! Bruce au where he’s exactly like Justice League! Batman and Battinson in one. That mf put the fear of every god in Ra’s Al Ghul.

Everytime he’s in a room with someone over 30 “Teenagers” by My Chemical Romance plays in the background.

Despite that, in his own way, he’s as gentle as can be with his league. Give me a young Diana who’s getting spat on and ripped apart by the media in a way not one of her male teammates get.

And she’s Wonder Woman. She shouldn’t be affected by it. And she is, anyway. Bruce relates to that in an uncomfortable degree.

“When I first became Batman, weak men tried standing in my way, too. “

“And what did you do?”

“I stepped over them.”

He has a tiny Robin he occasionally has to keep on a leash.

Give me somewhat teen mom Bruce who struggles to wrangle his unruly six year old who likes flipping from rooftop to rooftop and thinks fighting Bane is a piece of cake.

“If Tati can do it, so can I!”

“Dick,” he paused, before handing him a handfull of candy. “Wonderful emotional manipulation. Good job.”

“:D”

[humunanunga]

Enough of the trope where memory loss undoes the damage or the corruption or whatever. More content where removing memories just removes the context.

The tragedy of needing to grieve and not knowing what or who you lost or why. The angst of having trauma and being denied the awareness that it's trauma. The suspense of being different somehow and left to wonder how and when. The tension of knowing that something is off and you can't find where it hurts. The Adventure Zone gets it. Kingdom Hearts gets it.

There is an aching inside you and you don't know how it got there.

[inkskinned]

at some point it's just like. do they even fucking like the thing they're asking AI to make? "oh we'll just use AI for all the scripts" "we'll just use AI for art" "no worries AI can write this book" "oh, AI could easily design this"

like... it's so clear they've never stood in the middle of an art museum and felt like crying, looking at a piece that somehow cuts into your marrow even though the artist and you are separated by space and time. they've never looked at a poem - once, twice, three times - just because the words feel like a fired gun, something too-close, clanging behind your eyes. they've never gotten to the end of the movie and had to arrive, blinking, back into their body, laughing a little because they were holding their breath without realizing.

"oh AI can mimic style" "AI can mimic emotion" "AI can mimic you and your job is almost gone, kid."

... how do i explain to you - you can make AI that does a perfect job of imitating me. you could disseminate it through the entire world and make so much money, using my works and my ideas and my everything.

and i'd still keep writing.

i don't know there's a word for it. in high school, we become aware that the way we feel about our artform is a cliche - it's like breathing. over and over, artists all feel the same thing. "i write because i need to" and "my music is how i speak" and "i make art because it's either that or i stop existing." it is such a common experience, the violence and immediacy we mean behind it is like breathing to me - comes out like a useless understatement. it's a cliche because we all feel it, not because the experience isn't actually persistent. so many of us have this ... fluttering urgency behind our ribs.

i'm not doing it for the money. for a star on the ground in some city i've never visited. i am doing it because when i was seven i started taking notebooks with me on walks. i am doing it because in second grade i wrote a poem and stood up in front of my whole class to read it out while i shook with nerves. i am doing it because i spent high school scribbling all my feelings down. i am doing it for the 16 year old me and the 18 year old me and the today-me, how we can never put the pen down. you can take me down to a subatomic layer, eviscerate me - and never find the source of it; it is of me. when i was 19 i named this blog inkskinned because i was dramatic and lonely and it felt like the only thing that was actually permanently-true about me was that this is what is inside of me, that the words come up over everything, coat everything, bloom their little twilight arias into every nook and corner and alley

"we're gonna replace you". that is okay. you think that i am writing to fill a space. that someone said JOB OPENING: Writer Needed, and i wrote to answer. you think one raindrop replaces another, and i think they're both just falling. you think art has a place, that is simply arrives on walls when it is needed, that is only ever on demand, perfect, easily requested. you see "audience spending" and "marketability" and "multi-line merch opportunity"

and i see a kid drowning. i am writing to make her a boat. i am writing because what used to be a river raft has long become a fully-rigged ship. i am writing because you can fucking rip this out of my cold dead clammy hands and i will still come back as a ghost and i will still be penning poems about it.

it isn't even love. the word we use the most i think is "passion". devotion, obsession, necessity. my favorite little fact about the magic of artists - "abracadabra" means i create as i speak. we make because it sluices out of us. because we look down and our hands are somehow already busy. because it was the first thing we knew and it is our backbone and heartbreak and everything. because we have given up well-paying jobs and a "real life" and the approval of our parents. we create because - the cliche again. it's like breathing. we create because we must.

you create because you're greedy.

[choccy-milky]

sometimes you gotta lure your overly-studious ravenclaw gf into spending time with you 🥰 📚 ( from 'Every Teardrop is a Waterfall' by Kat_12739 on ao3, GO READ IT!!! the first story is about seb falling sick and still pushing himself/not admitting he's sick until he ends up in the hospital, the second story is about the birth of seb and clora's daughter and seb's reaction to clora almost dying in childbirth, and the third is about dealing with a fussy newborn lewis😭🥹THEY'RE SO GOOD AND SWEET AND SOMEWHAT SAD (not to mention beautifully written) so go check it out!!💖💖 )

[latimeria-fell-from-heaven]

Okay look, I know people are gonna characterize Aventurine as the kind of yandere that manipulates everything behind the scenes and is always coming up with ways to try and make his darling unable to rely on anyone but him. But honestly? I can see him as the desperate needy type who needs to have your attention on him, he NEEDS to be the only man you'll ever want and look at, and GOD, he just desperately needs you to own him in his entirety.

He'll do anything to keep your attention on him and make sure that you at least will keep him around long enough for him to enact his plans of keeping you by his side. You want a dog who does whatever you say and will crawl on hands and knees for your amusement? You want a pretty little toy that you can break over and over? You want him to take the lead and make you unable to think or walk anymore? He'll do it, he'll do whatever you want, he'll do anything to keep your attention on him until he can make you his.

[xxplastic-cubexx]

personal happiness or what the fuck ever

bonus:

[wegog]

Since we know Jinx has survived (WE KNOW IT), and she went on her trip on the airship in the morning... It's still possible Jinx had an opportunity to say goodbye to Ekko just before this heartbreaking scene

And they kissed. But instead of this sweet innocent kiss, it was nasty... But unlike Ekko who said Powder 'Can we pretend like it's the first time'... it was Jinx who said 'Can we pretend like it isn't the last time'

Because there's no way they will be apart forever! They always have a chance to find each other no matter what...

[bababaka]

Yall need to interact with fanfiction author's more.

So. After the ddos attack on ao3.

I was encouraged to write more comments and make my love known to fanfic writers.

I dont really like commenting. Because im a bit shy and soooo lazy.

Now though. I am writing more comments. And dude. This is so heartwarming. Ya'll need to treat writers better. They are doing the lord's work.

Take for an example, couple of days prior, i was searching for something interesting to read, and found an oneshot quite compelling.

I read it. At the end of it, i was blown away by how good it was. It promised me something and it went beyond my expectations. But then i saw a crime, zero fucking comments!

At that moment, i wasn't feeling up to writing a comment. Because, normally i like to write huge paragraphs. But because im lazy i decided to be brief.

Next day, the author answered that the comment lift their mood for the whole day.

That warmed my heart.

Duuuuuuuude! Write comments! Suport the writers of the fics you like! No need to be something super elaborate. Just give your thoughts. Freak out. Ramble. Ask something. Make theories. Compliment. Make a joke about how you wished to give kudos every chapter but ao3 sucks(not true bby) and won't let you.

Truly. Just. Comment. It can make someone's day. And that is part of the apeal of writing fics. Interacting with people.

Just give love to fanfic writers yall. They deserve this and so much more.

[teethlordd]

There are worms in my head

[pretend-theres-a-name-here]

Little thing I wrote while procrastinating writing part 5 of Hide Your Heart.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Steve Harrington who knows his kid brother is obsessed with some niche, up and coming metal band. Steve Harrington who groans and grumbles and carries on about having to drive him around to shows and listen to him nerding out but does it anyway. Steve Harrington who doesn’t really pay attention because the lights on the stage are too bright and drown out whoever’s playing. Steve Harrington who is currently wading through a crowd making their way to the door, going against the current and stumbling as he searches for the mop of hair he promised to get home.

“Henderson!” He cups his hands around his mouth, “Where is that kid?” 

He finds himself pushed to the outskirts of the mass of bodies, plastered to a wall but he still pitches forward when a particularly rowdy young woman rams into him. He thinks he’s going to go all the way to the floor when a hand snags his elbow, holding him up. He turns to rush out an apology, a few thanks for the save, but stops before he can get the words out because holy shit the guy is gorgeous.

And Steve—well Steve has been doing some thinking about himself. About how most guys don’t have to mentally prepare themselves to go into the locker room after pe class. About how most guys don’t let their friends paint their nails pretty colors. Robin told him that there was this thing called being bisexual and he thought some things were clicking into place. So he’s gotten used to going out and noticing more than just girls, it’s not uncommon, but this guy is hot, like really hot. 

He’s dressed in leather pants and a cut off tank top that hangs around his sides. Tattoos, more doodles than actual designs, on full display for the world to see, running up his arms and peeking out from his ribs. His hair is in curly tangles, sweat sticking it to his forehead but he’s grinning. He has a jacket, leather, in his other hand. 

He’s also still holding on to Steve’s arm. Warm rings press into the inside of his elbow as he rights himself.

“First time?” The man asks.

“Y-yeah.” Steve gets out, “I’m supposed to be here with my brother, he’s a huge fan of some band playing here. Molded Coffin or something.”

The guy’s face breaks out into a full on smile, humor sparking in his eyes but Steve doesn’t know if what he said was that funny.

“Yeah? Where’s he at?” The guy still hasn’t let go, leading Steve away from the crowd and further into the room where there were less people.

“I’m actually looking for him now. Left him alone for five minutes to get a drink and he disappears.”

“You need help? These things can get a little crazy.” The man offers.

“You do this a lot?” Steve asks, immediately mentally face palming. He practically asked the guy if he came here often, he was going to think he was flirting. Was he?

The man just smiled, “You could say that. Eddie.” He finally released Steve’s arm in favor of holding out his hand. They shook hands and Steve told the man—Eddie—his name.

They talked for a while, Eddie got them drinks and Steve told himself that Dustin was old enough to behave himself for 15 minutes. Eddie kept an arm around his shoulders the whole time, shielding him from the chaos of the dwindling crowd was his excuse. Steve would have told him he didn’t need an excuse if that didn’t seem too forward.

 Eddie was just asking for his number when someone behind them called, “Ed! Quite flirting and get your ass over here! You’re helping us tear down this time!”

Eddie sighed, “Duty calls.” He scribbled something on to a napkin, patting it against Steve’s chest and backing away, “I’ll be waiting for yours, sweetheart.”

And Steve was either drunk or insane because he actually laughed at that. Laughed again when he looked at the napkin and saw numbers almost unreadable, a winking face below them.

“Steve! There you are! I’ve been looking all over for you—What’s that?” Dustin’s tone went from annoyed to prying as soon as he saw the napkin.

“None of your business.” He stuffed the napkin in his pocket, “Are you ready to go or what, kid, I’ve been waiting forever.” He poked Dustin’s shoulder until he got moving and then he poked it again when Dustin scowled at him.

In the car he was once again subjected to Dustin’s after show rant about how cool it was. The guitarist apparently broke two strings and flipped the crowd off with his bloody fingers—which they went wild for, which Dustin screeched along with them for. They played a new song, but it all sounded the same to Steve. That was as much as he heard, though, his mind kept wandering back to the man after the show. To the number in his pocket. He debated putting it to use, was the next day too soon? How long was too long until Eddie forgot about him? A guy like that probably had a mountain of napkins with numbers thrown at him every day. He decided to get over himself and call late the next day. 

“Hi, this is Steve.” He suddenly felt very silly for calling but it was too late now.

“Steve, pretty boy from the show last night Steve?” And just like that he forgot why he hesitated to call.

“That would be me.” He cringed, “No, wait, that sounds so self centered.”

“Not self centered if it’s a compliment.” Eddie argued.

“If you say so.”

They talked, got 10 whole minutes of random conversations Steve never wanted to end before Eddie cursed.

“I’m sorry, I promised my uncle I’d help at the shop.” He muttered, “I’m gonna be late.”

“That’s fine, you should go help him.”

“I’ll call you later?” Eddie asked, and if Steve didn’t know any better he’d say it sounded hopeful.

“I’ll be here later.” He responded. 

They called all the time after that, whenever they were both free. They even met up in person, it was just to the park because Eddie found out Steve had never fed ducks before, but it ended with another day scheduled to spend together and then another and then a month had passed and he could say they were officially dating. It was the best time Steve had had in a long time and he really didn’t want it to end. The realization came to him one night, after another day with Eddie, and it wasn’t as shocking as he thought it would be. It was a Friday night, Eddie was busy most Saturdays—something about going to shows with the guys—so a lot of their slow nights were Fridays. They were watching TV on the couch in Eddie’s trailer, which was quickly becoming Steve’s favorite place, when he found himself watching the way Eddie laughed and even jumped at whatever horror movie was on more than he was watching the movie itself. 

“I love you.” He whispered. 

Eddie’s head whipped around, eyes wide, movie forgotten, “I love you too!” And then Steve couldn’t be blamed for not watching the movie anymore when he was practically tackled to the couch, laughing the whole way down.

It was a month after that night that he was steeling himself outside of his front door.

“It’ll be fine.” He said to himself, “They’re going to love you.” He said to Eddie who was gripping his hand.

“It’ll be fine.” Eddie agreed and he almost sounded convinced.

Today was the one day that everyone could gather at Steve’s. The whole party had shown up, everyone he had folded into his makeshift family was in his living room waiting for him to get back with the new partner he told them he was introducing. Today was the day they decided to tell people about them.

Steve pushed the door open, taking a deep breath before leading Eddie to the living room. All of his friends sat scattered around the room. On the couch and floor and coffee table. He could do this.

“Uh. Hey.” He cleared his throat, “I’m back.” All eyes snapped to him, eager to know who this mystery person was.

Eddie tried for an awkward wave but their hands were still connected so they just shook between them.

The silence was getting unbearable until finally Robin shot up from the floor and tackled him in a hug, subsequently dragging Eddie along into it.

“I’m so happy for you, dingus.” She laughed as she pulled away, “Robin.” She stuck her hand out to Eddie who visibly relaxed, “Best friend, platonic soulmate, hurt him and I swear to god you’ll wake up with no kneecaps.”

“Eddie.” Eddie squeaked, shaking her hand hastily.

“Bobbin.” Steve only called her that when she was being particularly over the top because it annoyed her to no end and she knew this, “Tone it down, would you?”

The rest of the group chorused their hellos and introductions and a weight lifted off of Steve’s shoulders at the sight of all of his friends accepting the news without comment. Until he realized there was only one person who hadn’t spoken a word, standing in the middle of the room with a strange look on his face.

“Dustin?” Steve prompted, voice strained.

“Oh my God.” Dustin mumbles in disbelief.

“Dustin…” Steve shot him a warning glance, “If you’ve got a problem with it—”

But Dustin ignores him, he’s staring at Eddie in shock, “Oh my God!” He practically shouts, coming to life to jump and screech, “That’s—! You’re—! You’re Eddie Munson!” 

Eddie grins, seemingly unfazed by this bizarre reaction to meeting your brother’s boyfriend, “I take it you’re a fan?”

“A fan of what?” Steve asks, pulling his hand out of Eddie’s to turn to him face to face.

At the same time, Dustin starts babbling hysterically, “A fan? Only the biggest CC fan in all of Hawkins! I have every song on vinyl, like three posters and—oh my god this is so embarrassing. Eddie Munson is in my house and I’m telling him I have his face on my wall.” 

He keeps talking but it’s more to himself than anyone else in the room so Steve raises an eyebrow at Eddie, “What’s he talking about? Why are you on posters and why does he have them?”

Eddie, for the first time since Steve has known him, looks almost sheepish, “Oh…I guess I’m kind of, maybe the frontman of Corroded Coffin.” He might be blushing.

“You’re that nerd Dustin’s always going on about?!” Steve exclaims.

[sea-webs]

"I don't know who I want to be, anymore."

Oc - Cirque | The Dragon Chosen by the Shadows |

| mary oliver / franz wright / chelsea dingman / mary oliver / sue zhao / can't find :( / can't find :( / i am a dog. i have blood all over my teeth. - sciencedfiction / little weirds - jenny slate / the unabridged journals of sylvia |

[alienoresimagines]

Just some words I've been needing to hear for a few weeks now and once I finally wrote them down, I thought maybe there were other people who might need to hear them too ❤️

You don't need to be anyone's favorite writer for your writing to be good.

The worth of your writing is not measured by whether or not you're included in fic recs or the amount of comments/asks you get.

Your works don't need to be recognized as some of The fics of the fandom to be good or worth reading.

'Popular' writers in your fandom are also just writers (and humans!!) : you don't need to impress or be noticed by them to have a place in your fandom. Fandom should be fun so don't let your brain ruin it with a misplaced sense of competition <3

You don't need to post a fic every week to be considered a writer. You don't need to write every week to be a writer. There is no limited places in fandom: come and go as you want and as life allows you to. Post when you feel like it, there is no trend to surf on to stay 'relevant' as a fic writer or a content creator. Fandom will always wait for you.

Your writing is good, and the more you write, the more you find your style, the better it gets.

Your writing made someone's day. Your writing is helping the fandom stay alive. Your writing should make you happy, and that happiness should not be proportional to how recognized you are in your fandom.

I know it can be discouraging to see tons of fic recs in your fandom and none of them including your fics. But yesterday, when I was feeling down, I re-read my own published works because they were the stories I wanted to read. And I enjoyed reading them, so much. And that is enough to keep me writing, because it showed me there is no better person to write the stories I have in my head than myself (a huge progress considering months ago, I couldn't reread something I'd written because I was cringeing too hard to get through two sentences).

Find your people that will always hype you and your fics up: you and your writing don't have to appeal to every single person in your fandom. Write niche fics! Rarepairs seemingly no one brought up before! Include headcanons and takes and interpretations you've never seen written before!

Write the stories you are dying to read, and I promise you, you'll find other people who were hoping to find that story somewhere, too.

Your writing is unique because it can only ever be yours and same goes for your stories; your writing is worth reading and your stories are worth being written <3

[xanderscollection]

[rookinthecrownest]

oh no, I hurt myself

[doccywhomst]

the actual literal meaning of TARDIS (Time and Relative Dimension[s] in Space) is so funny cause it’s just…. a very succinct description of what the vehicle travels through? “hello i’m a human and this is my CAR (Concrete and Roads)” uh yeah i sure hope it do