#fic inspired by fic

[queerweewoo]

“Eddie, you do know that I'm—that I'm yours, right?” Buck's eyes are holding Eddie's gaze like the fate of the world is suddenly at stake. “I mean, I'm yours for whatever you want, y’know? ‘Cause there is nobody else in my life that is... that's you, as in what you are to me, for me, and I'm—I just want you to know that I wanna be that person for you, too; need you to know that I am that person, and that I can be whatever else it is you might need me to be. Or maybe want me to be.” Eddie feels like all the oxygen has suddenly been sucked right out of his kitchen. “You—you get that, don't you, Eds?” 

Christopher once wondered out loud about which beast from the animal kingdom, other than human, would represent each of the three of them and their different personalities, and when Eddie had thought about Buck he'd pictured excitable Golden Retrievers and bounding Dalmatian puppies just as much as the next guy. But the proxy creature he'd been more sure of—and more hesitant to admit likening Buck to—was the Hummingbird, with its astonishingly strong heart that beats at something like nine-hundred times per minute (which Eddie knows about because Buck told him, of course).

Eddie has never known anybody quite like Evan Buckley, with his supercharged and forever-bleeding heart that's pinned so earnestly and so prominently to his shirt sleeve that Eddie's sure it's sometimes visible to the naked eye.

Bar his son, Buck is the greatest person Eddie's ever met.

They weren't always what they are now, though, Buck and him. Not back at the very start. But somehow, one day, somewhere along the line, they just—were.

They became Eddie and Buck. Buck and Eddie.

And this… something, that's simmering between them, it's a thing Eddie couldn't put his finger on for the longest time, couldn't quite make out whenever he attempted to look at it, trying to parse it out and see it for what it really was. It's an emotion he hadn't thought he'd be able to describe, even if he'd wanted to. A brand new feeling for Eddie's collection that he felt forming in the space behind his ribcage, something that bursts forth whenever Eddie looks over to Buck on the job, or at weekends when they take Christopher for days out at the park or the zoo, or whenever Eddie thinks about Buck when Buck's not around. Buck: this long-legged, loyal to a fault smiling guy who has become the best friend Eddie has ever had. Hell, he just feels it all the time. Invisible yet almost tangible, this unnamed something first sprouted like a sapling the day the two of them dug a live fragmentation grenade out of that retired third-grade teacher's thigh, springing up and growing branches that get bigger every day, reaching outward towards the sun to bathe in its warm rays, seeking out life. It grew within Eddie, and it's still growing, spreading out through every part of his life, now, not with the speed or ferocity of a wildfire but a thing similar to climbing roses; slow and steady, delicate yet hardy and strong.

Its true nature has always been just a little to the left of Eddie's range of understanding, though, an almost ethereal thing just slightly out of his reach. For a while, he hadn't dared to examine it all that carefully, or at all. Hadn't known how to, honestly. He now thinks that talking to Frank and embarking on his journey to figure out Who Am I?—trying to find out who Edmundo Diaz is as a person—was probably the start of him working out what this ever-expanding something between him and Buck actually is. 

Eddie came to the conclusion pretty quickly after that, that Evan Buckley, this kind-hearted, wide open, supremely loving giant puppy dog of a person with the heart of a Hummingbird, has become his person. Before Eddie even had the opportunity to notice that their relationship had started to change and morph into something different than what it was at the start, Buck had simply become his partner. In all ways, seemingly. Not just at work, but in life. And Eddie—well. Eddie realised at some point that he was somehow, amazingly, now apparently one hundred percent Buck's person, too. 

The only other soul Eddie has ever gotten close to in that way was Shannon, and sadly everything about their relationship had been so profoundly situational. Eddie thought he'd needed a girlfriend in high school, and Shannon was so, so lovely and had wanted to be that person for Eddie. Then Christopher had unexpectedly come along when they were both still so young, and they'd got married because that was the right thing to do, what Eddie thought he was supposed to do. He then ran away scared, by enlisting, and his life ended up spinning out of control and heading someplace he wasn't old enough to have even imagined, a life he'd somehow acquired and felt he had zero control over.

Not that he'd change any of it. There was happiness in the love he and Shannon had for each other, even if it hadn't quite been the right kind of love, and they'd made a beautiful baby together, a beautiful boy. And after coming home to Christopher after his last tour, at long last, Eddie knew he wouldn't, couldn't, be without that kid ever again.

Christopher was and is the one true shining light in Eddie Diaz's messed up life. 

Until Buck. 

Eddie and Buck, they have chosen each other as partners. And as parents, too—that's the truth of it. And they've gotten so close to each other in such a quiet, gentle way that Eddie hadn't been able to see the wood for the trees, it seems, hadn't realised their dynamic had shifted quite as significantly as it has over the years. Infinitesimally, then bit by bit, but so vastly and so dramatically at the same time.

He and Buck are together. All of the time. Because they choose to be. Because it just feels so damn right for them to be that way.  Together, they are what Eddie believes partners are supposed to be.

At some point it had dawned on Eddie that the two of them, he and Buck, had moved beyond just friends and into… that something. Something else. It had just happened so softly and so seamlessly, and with such unprecedented ease, that even after he'd clocked it, he hadn't really thought to question it because it happily became a thing that just was.

Yeah, Buck and Eddie just kind of... are.

Eddie also doesn't know when exactly it was that the grounding touches they so often share became increasingly more frequent, more important to Eddie, and then softer and more lingering, warm and comforting and completely different to the way either of them touches anybody else, Eddie thinks. Buck has been Eddie's person for what feels like forever, but Eddie started to find more recently that this thing in his chest that is constantly reaching out for Buck, this bond, this something special that they share, it was becoming something that pines and wants and needs, something fragile but at the same time something unerringly and amazingly steadfast.

Like the Hummingbird.

They're an immovable thing, Eddie and Buck. They're Buck and Eddie. They're Eddie and Christopher and Buck. And the three of them, together, are the one thing in Eddie's life that is so assuredly grounding, and so real, that Eddie often feels his chest might burst right open with the force of it.

Together, they've become more.

Eddie learned that when you find your way to that person—your person, the one who makes you feel like even when everything really isn't okay, you having that feeling is okay as long as they are here, with you—it's an unwavering thing, an absolute thing. 

The real thing. 

Eddie looks across his kitchen table at Buck, his Buck, right here and right now, and realises that this something between them is the thing that all those poets throughout the ages have been writing their sonnets about. 

Sunshine. Wildfire. Climbing roses. 

This something—this person, Eddie's person, Eddie's Buck—is standing in front of Eddie, having taken root in Eddie's chest while wearing his Hummingbird heart on his sleeve and offering Eddie a share in his sunshine world.

This something; it's a thing called love. 

Maybe Eddie got there first. Maybe Buck did. Maybe it dawned on them both at the same time, but Eddie knows that they both know it now, he knows it with the way all of Buck's love is radiating out of his body and flowing into Eddie's, like a shared life-force or magic or some cosmic shit Eddie knows he doesn't really need to comprehend. 

I'm yours, Buck told him moments ago.

Eddie takes a breath, and begins.

“I'm yours, too, Buck. All yours. It's you and me, man. Together. You and me and Christopher, because I know just how much you love him...” and he doesn't dare add what is the hopefully implied ‘too’ at the end of his declaration, but only because he doesn't know how to say it out loud, just yet. 

Until he very much does, barely a second into Buck nodding and beaming like Texas sunshine and saying, “You do get it,” and Eddie knows absolutely that he can say it, now.

So he does.

“Yeah, Buck. I do. Because I love you, mi Colibrí. I love you.”

Buck surges, becoming that wildfire as he rounds Eddie's kitchen table, their table, and Eddie stands to meet him, his Buck, his unstoppable force, his best friend, his heart, and Eddie's chair is clattering to the floor as they grab onto each other, big handfuls of shirts and arms and faces and napes of necks, gripping tightly and hanging on for dear life because maybe the fate of the world, their world, really is at stake after all. 

Yet stood here in Eddie's kitchen, together, holding each other, Eddie somehow knows they both understand that their world can't actually be tipped on its axis so easily, not by injuries or natural disasters or even The Great Unknown. Buck and Eddie can't be shaken so hard they come apart at their seams because like everything else in their lives, they're in this together.

Eddie and Buck, Buck and Eddie. They'll figure this thing out.

Together. 

Buck is standing so close that Eddie can feel warm breath on his cheeks, a definite panting that mirrors Eddie's, both their chests now heaving with the air that's crackling between them, eyes roaming all over each other's faces and then Buck's baby blue's settle on Eddie's mouth and Eddie's follow suit, and he's amazed at just how pink Buck's lips are this close up and all he can comprehend in this moment is that he doesn't think he's ever wanted a person so much in his entire fucking life, has never felt the pull of want and need and home as strongly as he does right here and right now, for his best friend. His partner. His Colibrí. 

His Buck.

“Buck, I want—” Eddie's yearning is so loud he can't even finish his sentence. 

“Me too,” Buck helps, and he's leaning in a little further, tentatively and so damn slowly that Eddie wants to scream at him to get on with it but also wants to freeze-frame them in amber because this is the moment that he knows, really knows; the moment Eddie has been trying to uncover; the rose bush and its branches, the fire, the sunshine; the moment Eddie finally understands what it is that he feels for this man now in his arms, knows exactly what their something is and what it was all along; the moment Eddie has been unknowingly and unbelievably hoping, hoping, hoping would arrive someday.

Today, Eddie thinks, and he can't wait any longer so he kisses Buck and Buck kisses him back and Eddie knows, then, inherently, that Buck loves him, too. 

[END]

AUTHOR'S NOTES:

inspired by and a tribute to one of the loveliest fics i've ever read: OF HUSHED WORDS AND HUMMINGBIRDS by the hugely talented procannibals on ao3... you should absolutely click the link to go read it and show it all the love it deserves! btw the themes of hummingbirds as a metaphor, plus eddie's question of 'who am i?` here belong entirely to mo (procannibals) and the fic linked that i've just mentioned.

this is also on ao3 HERE (published as 'Today') if you'd like to be so kind to pop across there and leave me a comment xp

[mysteriousanderfels]

Dante/Vergil Oneshot

This piece is heavily inspired and referenced from my favorite DMC writer and her ageless and peerless Consanguinity. I immensily recommand to check it out to fully understand the reference and setting behind this little piece. She's the best thing to happen to the DV fandom and the best one to ever give life and voice to Vergil since the devs.

It’s not thundering outside. It’s not even raining and they both just joined their beddings, yet Dante sneaks into his twin brother’s bedroom, under his duvet and next to his body before the latter has even time to warm his bedsheets. 

Vergil isn’t fazed. He complements the behavior with a grouse, a peeve or just sigh sometimes—depending on Dante's conduct throughout the day, and other times, he says nothing and welcomes his twin’s habit with a scoot or a hand lifting up the covers.

They’re thirteen now and they outgrew a number of things for a while. Their father’s swords replaced their makeshift ones, their clothes don’t come from the same closet anymore, Vergil doesn’t write his name on his belongings anymore because Dante doesn’t snag them anymore. His favorite books, his favorite toys, his favorite instrument, they’re all things eight years old Dante loved to paw at because his twin is supposed to share everything with him since he’s sharing everything with Vergil.

“We’re twins! What's mine is yours and what's yours is mine!”

(You have all my attention so I want all of yours)

Yes, Dante and Vergil outgrew a number of things now.

But not all.

Dante’s love for firearms for example, Vergil’s love for the violin and Dante’s habit for slipping into Vergil’s bed at night.

It started when they were still infants, whenever it was raining or Dante had a bad dream. Dante would pad to Vergil’s bedroom, creak the door open, Vergil would tip his head up, see his brother’s small silhouette and Dante would slip in next to him, clutch the pillow always there for him and breathe out restfully under the hand patting his hair.

But the pretense of storms or nightmares was dropped for a while now. 

At least they outgrew that part.

Something happened a week ago.

Something that will change them forever—but they don't know that yet.

Something that will ascend and descend them to heaven and hell—but later on.

For now, Vergil has poised his lips on Dante’s one cidery-redolent autumn evening, amidst the fallen apples and leaves at the edge of the garden, after Dante lost a sparring with their father's swords.

The world, the life, the ecosystem Dante knew and would know altered off their axis - forever.

“You are not my enemy. You’re my brother and I am yours. So let it be for once, Dante.”

Now Dante burrows into Vergil’s duvet; the little ritual reenacting itself after a week of abstinence and slight avoidance.

His brother rambles about something for a good time. Vergil allows the droning sound of his hushed timber with a resting pout as it shall transport him to the realms of Morpheus soon, he knows. Dante's voice is never more pleasant than when it's under the obligation of quietness.

But his little brother seems more fussy than usual as he doesn’t only burrow into the duvet and sheets but snuggles closer and closer, until he’s comfortable enough to reveal his ploy by kissing Vergil’s lips all at once. “That’s payback for earlier by the way,” he lowly states when he pulls back. 

It’s just a peck. Chaste and chary like the boy who's just delivered it if the way Dante’s quick withdrawal is anything to judge by.

“Dante.”

“This way I know I’ll have the upperhand before the day’s over.”

“... What?”

“For pushing me in mom’s favorite flower bush earlier. I know you’ll be too scared to get back at me this way.”

It’s true. Vergil hasn’t tried to touch the forbidden fruit ever since he took a bite; but as everyone knows with that particular tale, the damage was already done.

Vergil quietly surveys his brother lying next to him; his shimmering profile bathed in the tender light of the moonrise, his cocky statement betrayed by evasive eyes, a smirk that can’t stop twitching and fists that fidget around the duvet.

Vergil sees all this endearing beauty and it doesn’t deplete the chagrin brimming in his pale, blue eyes, for beneath those still, arctic lakes simmer a blue fire—and isn't it the hottest part of a flame? The part that burns so readily and intensely? So enduringly and devastatingly…

“You’re right. I’m scared.”

Dante is all haughty and winsome when he replies, “Tsk, I knew it.”

“I’m scared to hurt you if I do something similar.”

Dante whips his head in a scramble of flaxen white strands and stares at Vergil with a dent between his brows. He states matter-of-factly, “You’ll never hurt me.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do. You’ll never hurt me. And even if you do, I think it’s gonna be a good hurt.”

Vergil’s silver eyebrow cocks up. “A good hurt?” What is his brother saying? Is he even aware of what he's doing?

Dante leans close–closer, one hand slipping under the expensive silk of the pillow, the other balled in a fist against his bottom lip.

Pain in pleasure and pleasure in pain, that’s what his brother’s probably trying to convey in his plain, homespun words. 

Vergil had come across the concept in a few poems. Or Perhaps he’s guilessly alluding to the clattering thrill they feel every time they viciously spar - these secret quivers felt as if standing upon the verge of imminent peril—and loving it.

This dark pleasure domesticated after learning they were unable to kill each other. 

Right. ‘A good hurt.’

“Yeah, ‘m just saying, I dunno," Dante fumbles with a pout now. "What I mean is I'm not scared of anything… and I trust you.”

What Dante doesn't understand is that it's not about the quintessential ways of being scared or hurt. Vergil - in his visionary sense beyond his youthful age - is foreboding that thinning the fabric of their strong bond to a translucent premise will cause hurt where they usually feel those secret quivers in combat - in that deep, deep solemn place where affection and affliction are born and bolstered.

Dante is so fiery. When he loses, when he bites the dust and time’s up, he gets this ardent look in his eyes that threatens to consume his own vision.

Helping him off the ground, hands clutched and unwilling to let go, Vergil pitching Dante forward to break the impasse was the mistake. 

He took him off guard, yes. Dante caught himself short of his face and looked even more accusatory, yes. But something in his eyes changed. The ardent look subsided, replaced by something searching and… unknown.

But it was too quick for Vergil to know what it was - the moment but fleeting seconds and insufficient to decipher something as fickle as his dear little brother. 

And his little brother was so fickle, for after the fire and the caesura, came the void.

Vergil is used to seeing himself reflected in the flames of those eyes. Has felt himself burned and consumed in them time and again like a fort meant to be conquered. But that day, in that fleeting moment where Dante was pitched short of his face, Vergil saw himself burn to a crisp in his brother’s gaze.

No fort anymore. Just barren soil; and he felt his chest tighten like never before, for it was a deep sense of loss and small, lovely Vergil never knew what that is, even with their father still not back home.

In his introspection, Vergil forgot that he left Dante hanging, but he knows not to worry too much about that as his roguish brother always finds the best ways to draw his attention. 

"I kissed Evelynn the other day."

Vergil's brow twitches.

With eyes glazed by tiredness and apathy, he let out a small “Oh.”

Dante shrugs. "Yeah. ‘twas nice," he marks a pause on purpose, making sure his brother either meets his eyes or at least grasp the full impact of his next words. But his twin doesn't meet him in the eyes so Dante lets the bomb drop in an undertone, "but not as nice." 

It's enough to drag Vergil's placid gaze all the way up their mirror image - but he stays silent. Dante is trying to rattle him and the fact’s as clear as his blue eyes. Maybe he should try to do the same.

‘Maybe you should try the gardener’s son, then,’ Vergil’s wit quickly devises, but refrain from using the comeback for the simple and good reason that he wouldn’t mean it.

It’s appalling enough that he’s made Dante dispense kisses and God knows what as a trial run. He doesn’t want to give him the impression that he should peruse more.

“She said my hair’s pretty but it’s too white. And mom keeps telling us that we’re very special...”

“I don’t think kissing your brother is what mom meant by ‘special’.”

“I’ll probably regret saying this later but right now, I don’t give a damn about mom.” 

“That’s not very nice.” 

“And you’re chickenshit,” Dante rebuts, turning away to face the high ceiling with a pout, finally doing something that reflects their age.  

And Vergil could leave it here. The chokehold of this ungodly discussion reached.

Blue peppers observe and deconstruct in the deep silence that sets.

They map out the situation and Dante’s dainty profile and slowly, slowly, the vines of something errant grow through the reasoning loam of the elder brother’s mind…

(In this moment, I admit I felt betrayed, my brother. Betrayed by my integrity and my nerves. Nerves I thought colder than millennial glaciers. In one moment, a single movement, a lone incentive, you made everything melt away. And by everything, I mean all - me, you, the rules we live in, the normalcy Mother strived to keep us in.

I lean in and kiss your neck and send it all flying into the breeze.)

It’s vowed to fail like Néron’s reign, but for now—just for now, they’ll indulge the sinful Rome.

Dante gasps and jolts in surprise. Vergil has already assumed his previous position by the time Dante faces him. 

“What was that?”

“What you wanted.”

Dante frowns. “That’s not what I wanted.”

“What did you want then,” Vergil asks without asking, stifling a sigh the best he can. He feels out of his element and on the edge as if the power of macrocosm is pouring on him with a chastising glare. 

"I don't want anything," Dante says and keeps on sulking like Achilles in his tent.

"Don't call me chickenshit then."

"But you are. Heh. You're the one saying you're scared."

"Yes. Scared to hurt you, idiot."

"Hurt me with what? That? Psh. That didn't even faze me.”

Vergil holds Dante in a fierce glare. Oh, he wants to be fazed, huh? He wants to feel the goosebumps. He wants to be shocked. 

 Vergil scowls, hackles raised by the effect of these foolish taunts and his brother's twinkling eyes forever challenging and beguiling.

A virginal gaze.

His pantheon to blaze.

And Vergil will show him ‘faze’.

He grabs his jaw at once and delivers a kiss to it - soft and at odds with the stern grip that allows it - but he doesn’t stop there. 

He presses his soft lips a second time slightly below, then again further down and Vergil is kissing down Dante’s neck without knowing that he had just opened the fabled box—with the gentleness of bow-shaped lips.

But Vergil can’t know that now. They’re just thirteen and all he cares about at this moment is Dante's proficiently shutted mouth.

Vergil takes a peek at Dante from beneath his silver lashes and sees his little brother’s expression definitely not unfazed.

He pulls away then with the smoothness of his precious Yamato being pulled away and settles back against his pillow.

He knows it’s wrong. He knows he shouldn’t bite the forbidden fruit twice. He just… needs to set his brother still for a damned second. Just show him that he won’t be a pushover in his own beddings. And perhaps set still something else inside him, too. Something deeply ferocious that’s beginning to rear its head with every day that goes by.

Dante stares at him, a shock delivered to his spirit like the vibrations of a bell which his brother has tolled across the citadel of his body, down to the deep galleries of his soul.

Vergil prides himself for a moment at the result. Dante is quiet, contemplating and breath-stolen—just the way he likes him. 

But that is not knowing Dante—or his innate inferno.

He springs up, abrupt as a string that snaps beneath the bow and descends on Vergil.

He descends on Vergil lips first and reason last - always a loser this one - and from this moment on, it’s like a vice has closed on them—the thinned out fabric of their bond ruptured but quickly gathered into something else - and onward will only be the path of suffering the burden of this newborn troth.

But they don’t know that yet.

For now, something is happening. Something huge like hurricanes, tornados and boys with blue eyes—blue eyes kept wide open…

When they part for breath, their silver-blue gaze mirrors the other like two predators unwilling to drop their guard first.

Or like two starstruck lovers.

“You didn’t close your eyes,” Dante states.

“You didn’t either,” answers Vergil.

“‘twas to make sure you won’t skedaddle.”

“This is my bed. I’m not going anywhere.”

“I see… well, in that case…” Dante rests his palm above Vergil’s eyes and slides it down softly. “Let’s try this way out now…”

And Dante covers his brother again.

Imagine a perfect hideaway without a time.

Imagine a perfect eden without a serpent.

Imagine you’re thirteen and you’ve discovered the meaning of a pure kiss…

[bebx]

fanfic writers are so fucking awesome in the sense that they can take one single scene, that lasts less than a minute, from the source material and turn that one single scene into a 40k word long fic with depth, feels, character study and development and create a whole storyline out of that one single canonical moment.

fanfic writers are so fucking awesome in the sense that they can take one single scene, that lasts less than a minute, from the source material and write 40 entirely different fics about that one single canonical moment and each one of those fics is a literal masterpiece.

shout out to us fanfic writers ♡♡♡♡♡♡

[vavoom-sorted-art]

puttin' on the ritz III

The third installment of J.C. Leyendecker inspired art for @moonyinpisces' amazing 1920's fic puttin' on the ritz.

I hope you guys enjoyed my delve into the Roarin' 20's as much as I did!

Here's links to the other two:

Outfit Designs | Opulent Pillar

[lgbtlunaverse]

There's a version of the "don't go grocery shopping while hungry" rule specifically for writers where you should never under any circumstances be allowed to touch your draft within 3 hours of reading a really good story. Because sometimes when you read something great your head goes "fuck this is so much better than my stuff I should make that more like THIS instead!" Look at me. That's the devil talking and you should close the document NOW.

[hana-no-seiiki]

Yandere! Husband who thinks of you every single moment of the day, spoils you rotten, makes sure you feel loved 24/7 with letters, gifts and his presence. Being married to you is a privilege and he makes sure he shows you that.

Who does the little things like making sure you never open any doors by yourself. “What the fuck do you think that ring of yours means? Get your hand off that handle!” proceeds to climb over the car to open the car door for you

who randomly squeezes your hands with a vulnerability you almost never see from him. muttering things such as, “i can’t even remember life before I met you.” or “i love you so much. leave me one day if you must, but know that i’ll never be the same without you.”

yandere! husband who always makes sure you take care of yourself, personally appointing days where you have to go the salon to get your hair or nails done. yandere! husband who always has a fun new date idea to keep things fresh in the relationship. yandere! husband who studies your body for hours on end so you’ll never have to look for satisfaction elsewhere.

so that you’ll never question why he’s changed so much. because he was never the man you married in the first place.

[booksandpaperss]

you know when you read one of the most well written well characterized fics of a character and you’re like “FUCK YES THIS AUTHOR UNDERSTANDS” and then in the notes or in a comment reply they’re like “I hope this wasn’t too ooc I can’t tell 😭” or “I’m glad this wasn’t super ooc I was rlly nervous!” like girl this may as well have been a transcript directly from that character’s head what are you TALKING about

also this isn’t author hate obv I luv you guys I just think it’s funny how this happens a lot. fic writers youre amazing <33

[urfriendlywriter]

20 angsty romance prompts part 2

(feel free to use <33 tag me when yall writeeee)

crying in your lover's arms

^ face buried in their chest, while their heart breaks at your every sob :(

"i wish i loved you less." but it is spat at the other person angrily, immediately being regretted after the words leave their mouth.

watching them cry and not knowing what to do (ouch-)

"why do you love me when you know i can't- shouldn't love you back?"

"you messed me up, you fcked me over and what- how dare i? how dare fckn you!"

"i am sorry. i am so so.. so.. sorry. please.. let me go."

"don't you dare do this to me- No! No, no, no, no- nono, hey, please!!"

"... why can't.. anybody see--that... I'm tired?... " (if written write, this wud traumatize me)

"I'm done waiting for you, [name]."

them literally on their knees, "please, please--just please trust me! Why is it so hard for you to believe me once?"

^ "how many times do i have to get hurt by trusting you!!?"

"i am not sorry that i don't love you. I'm sorry that you don't love yourself."

"i loved you, believe me. i did. then you turned into someone else, someone... scary."

"WHY DO YOU HAVE TO KEEP HURTING ME? why--why am i the one.. always losing everything..?"

"listen to me-" "No, no!" "my dear, i swear, that isn't what i meant." "oh yeah? i don't think so. you were pretty loud and clear back there."

"so.. you're just going to.. give up on me." "that is NOT what i meant-" "you're not willing to fight for me either. i think it's pretty clear, [name]."

hands trembling while holding their pale, bloodied face, "k-keep your eyes open, for fucks sake! PLEASE-please please, talk to me."

"promise me you'll be okay, and that you'll keep living. moving on, even without me." "only if you do the same." (this happened irl yall)

"you saved me then killed me all over again."

[felixcosm]

I think it's mean how some people talk about fics on AO3.

'Oh you gotta wade through literal trash to find the good stuff'.

Were you not a beginner once? Did you not write crack fic or self indulgent things for your own entertainment?

Maybe don't speak that way about your fellow fic writers? Just because some fics aren't as polished as others, or involve fetishes and tropes you don't enjoy, or are not the style you want your fics to be doesn't mean they're trash.

It's a horrible thing to say and beginners are going to be discouraged from writing knowing that their fics might be considered trash because they're just starting out.

[docescene]

List of Types of Kisses

This list is divided by category, kiss type, emotion conveyed, and description. You can do whatever you want with this information.

More prompts!

Location

[BELLY KISS] Love, care: a gesture of affection and protection;

[CHEEK KISS] Respect, affection: gesture of greeting, friendship, or affection;

[CHIN KISS] Passion, desire: an intimate and sensual gesture.

[EAR KISS] Desire, intimacy: a sensual and provocative gesture;

[EYELID KISS] Love, affection: a delicate and romantic gesture;

[FOOT KISS] Adoration, devotion: a gesture of submission or adoration.

[FOREHEAD KISS] Love, care, comfort: a gesture of affection, protection, and tenderness;

[HAIR KISS] Affection, tenderness: a gesture of affection and care.

[HAND KISS] Admiration, reverence: a gesture of respect and admiration;

[KNEE KISS] Passion, desire: an intimate and sensual gesture;

[MOUTH KISS] Passion, love, desire: the most common, can vary in intensity and technique;

[NECK KISS] Desire, passion: a sensual and provocative gesture;

[NOSE KISS] Affection, complicity: a gesture of affection and intimacy;

[SHOULDER KISS] Passion, desire: an intimate and sensual gesture;

Intensity

[CHASTEN KISS] Friendship, affection: a light touch on the lips, expressing affection and friendship;

[OVERWHELMING KISS] Passion, desire: a strong and urgent kiss, expressing intense passion;

[PASSIONATE KISS] Passion, love: an intense and desire-filled kiss, with tongue and light bites;

[SHY KISS] Insecurity, desire: a hesitant and delicate kiss, expressing insecurity and desire.

Type

[CINEMATIC KISS] Romance, idealization: a long and passionate kiss, idealized in movies;

[BUTTERFLY KISS] Romanticism, delicacy: kissing with eyelashes, expressing delicacy;

[ESKIMO KISS] Affection, friendship: rubbing noses, a gesture of affection in cold cultures;

[FISH KISS] Sensuality: kissing with lips slightly open;

[FRENCH KISS] Passion, desire: exchange of saliva and tongue movements;

[INVERTED KISS] Passion, adventure: kissing with bodies inverted, like in Spider-Man;

[LIZARD KISS] Sensuality, playfulness: licking the other person's lips;

[PECK] Friendship, affection: a quick and light touch of the lips;

[VAMPIRE KISS] Sensuality, mystery: kissing the neck with a slight suck.

Context

[APOLOGY KISS] Regret, forgiveness: expressing regret and seeking reconciliation;

[COMFORT KISS] Compassion, comfort: expressing compassion and comfort;

[FAREWELL KISS] Longing, hope: expressing longing and hope for reunion;

[THANK-YOU KISS] Gratitude, recognition: expressing gratitude;

[WELCOME KISS] Joy, happiness: expressing happiness at seeing someone.

[s2pdoktopus]

You know those fanfics where Zidian evolves into a magic snake? That's the idea but it's the fuzzy worm thing.

[dcxdpdabbles]

Danny: Would you still love me if I was a worm?

Tim: No. I hate worms.

Danny: *offended gasp* So you wouldn't love me!?

Tim: I wouldn't even befriend you if you were a born worm. I would actively try to end your life before you lay eggs.

Danny: What if I was turned into a worm. I started as human but got cursed to be a worm.

Tim: I wouldn't love you romantically anymore, but I would try to break your cruse because I would still care for you.

Danny: Why wouldn't you love me romantically!?

Tim: Because that would be bestiality and I'm not about that.

XxXxXxXxXXxXxXxXxXXxXxXxXxX

Dick opening his front door: Timmy! This is a suprise. What's up?

Tim carrying a pillow and blanket: Can I spend the night? Danny kicked me out.

Dick: Oh no, did you have a fight?

Tim: Somewhat. I think I hurt his feelings.

Dick: What did you do?

Tim: Apparently, being honest is the wrong answer. Communication is not the key. Only lies. Always lies.

Dick: .....he asked you if you would love him if he was a worm didn't he?

Tim: ITS A WORM. WHO WOULD LOVE A WORM!?

[umblrspectrum]

tessa, being the edgy little freak she is, obviously took the original darkxwolf username

[vavoom-sorted-art]

puttin‘ on the ritz

From the fic puttin‘ on the ritz by @moonyinpisces. Seriously its a crime I didn‘t make art for it sooner give I’ve loved it forever. (Or maybe not because now my art skills are better :P)

Done during the real, real love discord paint‘n‘sip event where all artists drew the same reference.

[dlartistanon]

I wish I had met you sooner