#fucking read my writing boy

[unknownarmageddon]

Bathroom Sink

kross drabble thing, i didn’t do as much editing as i usually do but im happy enough with it as is i think

rental suits belongs to me and @psycho-chair

Cross was startled awake four hours before his alarm to the scraping of a window in his living room being forced open.

Sloppily forced open, and closed again, with a struggle, like whoever it was was hurrying. Hurrying desperately, erratically. He can’t remember being woken up like this before. Killer was too smooth, too undetectable. Too quiet. 

        The storm of a single person’s footsteps stumbled heavily through his apartment. The bathroom door was jerked open, and then slammed closed. 

        Cross laid there a minute. His chest rose and fell, rose and fell, shuddering with his quick breathing. Nothing about this sit right.

    The bathroom sink turned on suddenly. And if he could hear it this clearly from here, it was on strong. 

        He ripped sheets off of him and slid off his bed. He stormed, rushed, the short way through the apartment to the bathroom. There was blood on the floor.

There was blood on the floor.

    Red spots dotted a lazy, haphazard trail to the bathroom. 

That fucking idiot. 

     What was wrong with him, why did he keep doing this. Why did he keep doing this to Cross. 

      Cross didn’t stop. Before he could think about what he would find on the other side, he jerked the bathroom door open like he was trying to pull it off its hinges.

       All he saw was blood. There was blood on the counter, in the sink, on the floor, soaked into the small rectangular rug under the sink, slathered on the sink’s knobs. God, it was allover the counter. The swirl of water in the sink bowl ran red, and the crimson on the counter puddled with the liquid. A single messy handprint of blood was pressed and half smeared into the mirror. Some of it was even on the fucking walls, streaked in even messier handprints. 

          It was everywhere. In crevices Cross didn’t want to even think about.

         Killer hunched over the sink. He was propped against the wall on his shoulder, leaning and almost sliding down it. He held that arm wrapped around his torso to grip at his side. 

         Much like the state of the bathroom, he was bad, and bloody. It flowed from his nose, his mouth, dirtied his partially torn jacket. It was splattered on every article of clothing he wore. The void-like tar from his sockets was practically pouring out of his eyes, dripping down his chin and leaking out of his nose, mingling with blood. His face was busted to hell and back. His ribs probably were, too, with the way he was holding himself. Either that or he’d been stabbed. 

        He looked like a crime scene, a gruesome one. He coughed and hung directly over the sink’s bowl. A string of red dripped into it from his lips like syrup. His breathing was ragged, and his soul was like an unstable supernova; it fizzled and spun uncharacteristically rapidly. 

      It was something straight out of a overdramatic horror film, and Cross almost wanted to laugh just as much as he wanted to vomit. 

Again.

He inhaled, then exhaled, shakily.

    Maybe it wasn’t as bad as the last time he did this, but in that moment Cross didn’t even fucking care. There was still blood coating his bathroom that he’d have to clean up, and it was too late for this again. 

At least Killer was actually awake this time. 

“Killer,” Cross breathed. His right hand clenched.

    Killer turned to look at him and grinned his stupid grin when they met eyes. Though, this one was more of an ironic sneer. 

“Most of it’s not mine.” Killer rasped.

“What the hell did-“

“Ran into some trouble at work,” Killer replied. He winced as he said it, and spat another string of blood into the sink. 

“‘m fine.” 

“No, you’re not.” Cross argued, stepping farther into the room toward the sink, and him. 

“I said most of it isn’t mine.” 

“You still look like shit.” 

Killer grimaced. “Thanks.” 

      Killer fumbled to quickly pry off one of his fingerless gloves and it came away with sticky red strings. It sounded wet when it hit the counter. He started on the other, and struggled, slipped against the counter, fought with his shifting conscious state.  

      Cross immediately went to him, grabbing his wrist and roughly pulling, ripping, the glove off for him. Like he was tearing fabric, or flesh. He absently threw it onto the counter with the other, and started stripping Killer of his jacket. He was firm, and deliberate. Like a wolf taking its packmate’s prey. He gripped Killer’s arms maybe too tight, forced them out of the way, held his wrists in place. Killer staggered when he was pulled away from the wall.

      Cross didn’t aim to hurt, far from it, but he was tired and fed up and he knew if he didn’t just do it himself Killer would make this difficult. 

“Woah, woah! Don’t get too excited, I’m kinda in the middle of somethin’ here.” Killer drawled, stepping backward away from Cross and grinning that lopsided grin. 

“Shhh, shut up.” Cross hissed. 

     By the time he got the jacket off, his hands were already coated in a layer of blood, as was the ends of his sleeves. He wondered whose it was, if most of it truly wasn’t Killer’s. Whose blood did he have on his hands, whose blood was smeared all over his bathroom. It made his soul twist to think that he didn’t know, could’t ever know.

     Cross began doing the same as he did for the jacket for Killer’s shirt, just as rough, but only got halfway before he paused, and lingered. There was a slash along the top of his pelvis that grazed spine and a few bottom-most ribs. It was bleeding steadily. Cross’s grip tightened on fabric, then he let go and pushed past him in favor of the tub.

“I’m running a bath.” Cross said.

     And he did. Despite himself, despite everything in him screaming that he didn’t owe Killer this much trouble, or anything, he ran a bath. He heard shuffling as Killer managed to pull his shirt over his head, and he glanced back.

“All of it. Nothing’s coming off otherwise.” He said. “And we’ll have to wash them.”

“Fuck, pretty boy, didn’t know you had it in you.” Killer quipped from the other side of the room with mock surprise. Everything he said was tinged with fatigue.

Cross gripped the side of the tub.

    Regardless, Killer still discarded the rest of it, as well as kicked off his shoes, and his clothes became a pile on the floor. Sticky wet footsteps padded unevenly over tile, then he was beside Cross. 

      Cross didn’t look at him, not fully, not enough to see him. He grabbed him by the shoulders and half-pushed, half-lowered him into the tub. 

        Then he started scrubbing, face screwed up and brows furrowed with focus. He’d sponge off a limb, then plunge it back into the water. It was fresh, so it came off easily, at least. 

It was fresh…

     It smelled practically smotheringly metallic this close to Killer. 

      The bath quickly became red-tinted as blood seeped and washed off of Killer’s body, and the soap suds on Cross’s sponge turned pink.

“You keep doing this.” Cross murmured.

“Sorry about your carpet.” Killer replied, quietly, but still with that stupid hint of amusement. 

Cross kept his eyes on his sponge. He gradually scrubbed harder, like he was going to scrub Killer’s bones raw. “It’s always me.”

“You expect me to go anywhere else?” Killer replied sarcastically.

Cross exhaled through his nose. 

    He saw Killer’s body recoil, saw him wince almost weakly, at how hard he was scrubbing now. Cross immediately was tanged by faint guilt, despite how much part of him thought Killer deserved it for fucking up his bathroom. Cross paused to roll up his sleeves, and when he started scrubbing again, he wasn’t as rough. 

       The knuckles on Killer’s left hand were busted and bruised, but other than that the shear amount of blood on his hands wasn’t his. He was bruised what felt like everywhere, especially his face and his side. They weren’t bad. He might get a black eye, but they weren’t bad. 

     Some ribs were cracked, and he had other numerous minor cuts, but the worst injury he appeared to have was the gash on his torso. 

The gash. Cross had to do something about that.

     He emptied and refilled the tub once, and quickly, thoroughly, finished ridding Killer’s bones of the grime.

      He found himself getting surprised at how quiet Killer had gotten. Normally he’d expect more from him than this. It was like he had receded into his own mind, or like he didn’t have the energy to keep up his facade. 

“…Does it hurt?” Cross asked quietly. “To talk, I mean.”

“I’ll live.” Killer replied, which Cross took as a yes.

     Eventually Cross decided he’d done what he could, so he drained the tub a final time, and gripped Killer’s arm to assist him to his feet.

      They passed the dark, bloody pile that was Killer’s clothes, and Cross glanced at them. He’d deal with the rest of it eventually. 

        Killer leaned against Cross and staggered beside him as Cross took him to the living room. He was light; it hardly felt like Cross was even supporting anyone at all. And he was cold, even after a warm bath. He’d always ran cold, though, Cross knew that. 

        He sat Killer on the couch and left to hunt down the first aid kit. He managed to find it, detoured to quickly wash at least some of the blood off his hands in the kitchen sink, then he returned to Killer.

          He ripped the kit open, found what he needed, and his vision tunneled. He dealt with the gash first. After an inspection he decided it wasn’t that deep, thankfully. Swiftly, he pressed a wad of gauze into it and wrapped it. He relaxed, glad to have that done with. He didn’t realize he’d been that tensed. 

         He started with the rest. He wrapped cracks, applied disinfectant ointment. He kept finding new wounds; some fresh, but most were old and scarred. While he worked he didn’t fully see Killer, like when you’re so focused on a drawing you can’t see the full picture, only the stroke right in front of you. 

     But when he was wrapping the knuckles of Killer’s left hand he looked up, and saw him. He was holding a handful of now-bloody gauze to his nose with his free hand. His eyes felt more vacant than usual, and he was staring directly at Cross with an expression that he couldn’t read as any specific emotion in particular. 

     He looked better now, at least. Less like some maddened, bloody monster. That part had just receded for the time being. 

     Cross let his eyes linger on him a moment. His soul tugged. He could feel how startlingly cold Killer’s hands were in his, hear the fast whirring of his soul. His bones were still too thin.

     Cross wondered what he used to do before he knew him. Who else has had their apartment broken into in the ungodly hours of the night, who else has had their bathroom turned red. Who did he go to. Was there even anyone? Or did he just ride it out in some dark corner in an alley somewhere, like an animal looking for a hidden place to die?

This was all so absurd, Cross realized.

“You likin’ something you see?” Killer managed after Cross had apparently been staring for long enough, and for a moment he looked a bit more like how Cross was used to. 

“You’re helping me clean the bathroom.” Cross said matter-of-factly, and looked back down at Killer’s hand. 

[includedisco]

Importance of writing the self-indulgent story that you do want to write in exactly the way you want to write it

You won't find anything weird about being your own story's biggest fan. You wrote it in a way that's exactly what you envision the characters being. So you'll click on that thing without reservation or shame, enjoy the hell out of it and pat yourself on the back each time.

Your own story will be your absolute favorite in the world because it'll be perfect for YOU.

Why wait impatiently and frustratedly for a different author to write your fantasy for you? And no DON'T you dare say it's because that other writer is better than you.

No writer is perfect. We can all learn, improve and get better. If you have an idea in your mind, go learn how to bring it to life. Ask other authors, read other books/fanfics, watch videos on writing tips etc.

But stay away from AI. That shit is unforgivable.

Loving one's own work as a writer is tough but once you do get there, I believe that's the true meaning of self love for a writer.

[steddie-island]

Y’all know I’m always on my FOB shit but there’s a TikTok account (NotWildlin) who has put me back on it even harder this week.

He’s talking about the bridge in Chicago is so two years ago.

You want apologies Girl you might hold your breath until your breathing stops forever (forever) The only thing you’ll get is this curse on your lips i hope they taste of me forever (forever) And there's a light on in Chicago (every pane of glass) And I know I should be home (every pane of) And all the colors of the street signs (every pane of glass) They remind me of the pick-up truck Out in front of your neighbor's

This bridge fucks so hard and I feel like it’s one of their songs that doesn’t get talked about enough. It does not get the respect that it deserves.

He also has this tiktok talking about Pete Wentz and how fucking good his lyrics are. “Pete Wentz is your favorite rapper’s favorite rapper.” Idk man I just love it here. And I love this dude. Go watch him. 😌

[the-one-that-weeps]

Every time someone in this godforsaken fandom says "I think we've talked about misogyny enough" I want to hit them with a hammer. No we haven't.

We haven't even talked about the deep "Ruikasa&Akitoya Vs. literally everyone else" imbalance enough but imagine all of the people that get pressured into writing specifically for male/male ships simply because otherwise they won't get any appreciation.

Yes it's a cowardly thing but when you see Ruikasa having over 4000 fics and Ichisaki having like 5 in total obviously you're going to be discouraged. Obviously you'll be biased into creating Ruikasa instead of other ships.

And as someone who depends on appreciation in particular to do any work at all obviously that's going to have a lasting consequence. Some people spend 4 hours crying in front of a screen just for 3 people to like their work and leave, it's understandable if they lose passion for creating at all, you guys killed them.

It's even in how we handle m/m ships. You go into a fic that's tagged Rui&Tsukasa(platonic), someone in the comments always goes "okay but when do they kiss". You go to an action-packed longfic, someone always ends up going "okay but when do they kiss".

Fuck you guys. Actually. This is a silly piano tiles game about Hatsune Miku, we should be one of the MOST CREATIVE fandoms in history and somehow people still get mad over two boys not kissing immediately after getting introduced. It's so fucking difficult being a content creator in this fandom because you always end up having to take the same route. They meet they tease they kiss. End of story. "Oh you're doing something "lame" instead? -1 kudo. Bring me my yaoi next🖕"

[bulbabutt]

Raphaella Meets His Match

part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5 | part 6 | part 7

raph 🤝 mona getting in way over their heads

[teastainedprose]

Hi !

Can you do a Homelander x F!Reader with a blackmail situation ?

For the context, someone's blackmailing Reader to leave Homelander and because of the stress she did it when he was patrolling. Of course, Homelander wouldn't accept it and try to find her but he can't. So a few days later Vought brought him a new "girlfriend" to heal the pain Reader "created" only for them to (by mistake) imply that they are responsible for the departure of Reader. After dealing with the situation at Vought, he went looking for her again, eventually finding her at her favorite spot, where she was trying to forget Homelander.

You can change some parts if you want 😁

Thanks you if you do it ♥️❤️

Listen, Anon. LISTEN! I am grabbing you by the shoulders, I am gently shaking you, I am lovingly cupping your cheek and whispering, "Write the fic." - because it's clear that you've got the plot and I bet you've been daydreaming up the story route and I need you to write it. Spit out some bullet points. Scribble out a few scenes out of order, but write it!!

As I read this ask while rolling out of bed half awake and ran off in a slightly different direction while I brainstormed in the shower and I know you've got an idea there so WRITE IT!! So I can read it

Now have something similar, but not quite what you outlined. This kinda evolved into a companion/epilogue?? piece to Play With Fire, as Vought would have plenty of reason to not want Homelander dating a canned employee, especially if she's a fat little thing. Bad for the brand and all.

+1.5k words | Warning for violence/gore, Homelander can have a little murder. As a treat. Plus-Sized female reader, established relationship, no proofreading as I was possessed

The moment his boots drop onto the balcony and Homelander strides into the penthouse, he knows something is wrong.

First, there is the absence of you. Not just the lack of your body settled on the couch waiting for him as you often are, but everything you touched. The laptop you diligently type away at while working is gone. The vibrant throw pillows you insisted on getting to make the imposing couch more inviting are missing. The plush blanket you always coiled yourself into wasn't haphazardly thrown over the back of the couch as it always is when not in service. The lack of these items now makes the couch look barren and cold. Now Homelander can see how uninviting the whole thing looks.

There are other pieces of you missing as well. The trinkets and baubles you'd purchased on a whim and set about the penthouse, coloring the space with pieces of you. The discarded books, many with notes and dog-eared pages weren't haphazardly stuffed in strange places. Homelander would check the bedroom, but he knows the closet now has an empty space where your clothing hung.

There's a buzz starting up in his brain, an insistent worry that's setting his teeth on edge as Homelander's mind races across every possible reason why you're gone. You left him. Someone kidnapped you. You finally got tired of him. Someone stole you away. You hate him. Someone is hurting you. The buzzing grows in volume as Homelander's lip twitches up, feet taking him to pace across the floor before a movement in the corner of his eye cuts straight through the noise.

The buzzing goes silent. The colors are correct. Relief rushes over Homelander as he turns to face the figure in full. You, there you are and- 

No. Homelander blinks, drawing back a step as he takes in the woman standing at the entrance of his penthouse. She has your hair color; the cut has been styled like yours, but the texture is off. She's got something close to your complexion, your eye color even, and she's wearing clothing in your usual manner of dress, but everything is wrong. For one, she's thinner. Homelander sneers.

The woman smiles, uncertain as her heart races like a rabbit against her ribs. "Hi." One word uttered and it's all wrong. That's not your voice. That's not your smile. There is no sunshine breaking across this woman's face as she looks at Homelander. Her expression is quiet and expectant, waiting. Anxious.

He inhales slowly, rolling his neck as Homelander clenches his fists at his side. The scent on the air is bitter. She's afraid. She should be.

"No, no, no. Who the fuck are you?" Homelander snaps out, across the room in two long strides and now she's gasping. Gasping because Homelander has his fingers about her throat, gloves creaking softly as his grip tightens and lifts her. "Who the fuck are you?" He repeats, barking the words out.

"I-I'm Vicky," She stammers out as Homelander eases up enough to let her breath and set her feet back on the floor. That rabbit heart is trying to burst free within the woman's chest now, beating all the louder. "Y-your er, new girlfriend...?" Her words end in a panicked squeak as the woman tries to shrink away. 

"New- "Homelander cuts off as he stares at her, head tilted to the side and lip twitching as he digests this bit of information. He swallows and takes in a breath, reeling in his rage as his mind whirls. Vought had decided to replace you. Plucked up some stupid woman who only shares a similar color palette with you, but she isn't you. This woman is nowhere close to the beautiful creature you are.

Vought didn't approve of your secret relationship. They'd deemed you unmarketable. Not the image they wanted to project for the brand. Then there was the hope that Homelander would grow bored of you. To wait out his hyper-fixation on you. The months had crawled by and still Homelander kept you close. You'd moved in, burrowed yourself right into his life as Homelander wanted. 

For some fucking stupid reason, Vought thought a replacement would distract him. As if he's a child, or a dumb dog they've swapped a toy out on. 

"Vicky," Homelander smiles and it's the smile of a shark. All teeth and dead eyes. "How lovely," A purr now as Homelander slides his hand down her neck and brushes his thumb over her collarbone. Her smile is uncertain, but it's still there as she relaxes. The rabbit in her chest calms down. He digs his thumb in as Homelander sucks on his teeth.

Fucking idiot.

There's no warning when Homelander's fist buries itself into the woman's abdomen, only a wheezing hiss as the air is forced out of her. A wet sound follows under all that crunching and grinding of bone as Homelander twists his fist and pulls it back. He clicks his tongue, releasing the woman's corpse to topple across the floor.

Homelander exhales, puffing out his cheeks while looking down at his fist in mild disgust. The red leather hides fresh blood well, but he knows it'll congeal into a darker mess soon enough. Leaning over, he absently wipes it off on the fabric of the woman's sunshine colored dress. The sunshine would look better on you while the smeared red looks better on Vicky as far as Homelander is concerned.

It doesn’t take him long to hunt Ashley down, storming into her office with eyes flashing red. The only reason Homelander doesn’t fucking laser her in two is because she’s crying. Ashley is crying and blowing her nose into a tissue as she looks at Homelander, eyes filled with regret and tears. She’s grown fond of you, Homelander realizes and that’s reason enough not to cave her skull in. Homelander knows you like her well enough, too. Ashley blubbers the story out. They’d wanted you gone. Out of the picture and out of his life. You were an uncontrollable variable that refused to play ball and Edgar wasn’t one for loose strings. A replacement had already been found and was on her way earlier this morning. While Homelander was out on a mission, disposing of you had been easy enough. It only took thirty minutes to pack all of your things, revoke your access to the building and effectively lock you out. Ashley had managed a helping hand in the form of a plane ticket wherever you wished, knowing you no longer rented your own apartment after moving in with Homelander.

It had been a plot against you, he knows this now but why had you gone so willingly? Why weren’t you screaming outside of Vought Tower for him? Why did you take that plane ticket? Something rotten wriggles within Homelander’s heart. He knows he’s not an easy creature to live with and has worn your patience thin some days. The start of your relationship would have been considered rocky at best and there’s all that stalking he did that you still don’t know about. They gave you an out and you took it.

His trip to the airport is swift and no one would dare try to stop the Homelander as he seeks you out at your intended gate. Except you’re not there. You’ve not even checked in yet. He goes to your old apartment next, eyes scanning the building for your form. Your favorite restaurant is next. Then the place that makes your favorite tea. After that he’s hovering above the bookstore you’ve dragged him to. None of them contain you. Homelander is lost for a moment, mind frantic with worry now at where you could be. Then he remembers one of your favorite spots. A park close to where your old apartment is and it’s another place Homelander has been dragged to by you. This is a spot he enjoyed. It was quiet, even in such a bustling city. He always pretended it was a forest clearing you two were enjoying the peace of.

You’re there. Of course you are. You’re settled on a bench, head turned towards the trees as Homelander descends. “Sweetheart,” He growls. It comes out harsher than Homelander wants, but he’s on edge. Why did you leave him? 

You jump, head snapping round and he can see you’ve been crying. Your eyes are puffy, face pinched in pain as Homelander’s heart seizes at the sight. 

“What!?” You stare a beat, before anger rises. You’ve always been his little spitfire. “You had me cast out! They packed me up and kicked me out on your orders! You- You abandoned me…!” The fire smolders and dies as tears leak down your face.

"No, no, no. Not you, never you!" In an instant, all of Homelander's rage vanishes in the face of your sorrow. How could you ever want to leave his side? Foolish of him to even think it. Why would you ever want to leave? He’s beside you, he’s gathering you up in his arms, he’s crushing you gently in his hold. Your sobs are wet, loud, and there’s snot on his suit. Homelander doesn’t care. He shushes you, fingers combing through your hair as the arm about your middle squeezes just a bit tighter. The weight of you sinking against him and into him is a comfort, your flesh yielding under his grip on you.

“I came home and you were gone,” Homelander whispers against your ear as he nuzzles his nose into your hair. He inhales deeply, all of the tension leaving his body as he takes in your scent. “But I’m here now. It’s okay, I’ve got you,” He exhales, pulling back enough to look down at you. Homelander smiles. You’re here, you’re safe, he will never ever let you out of his sight again.

[iniquitousyearning]

tldr: respect eachother.

this is the post i’m referring to. read this first. 🤍

there are a few different topics id like to cover here; before i begin, please know that i am coming wholly from a place of respect and understanding, while also feeling the need to defend my friend. mari (@thatdammchickennugget) is one of the sweetest, full hearted individuals i have had the pleasure of meeting, and she did not deserve to be spoken to like that.

most important; respect.

the fact i even have to reiterate this fact is disheartening in itself, but, please: give respect, get respect. at the heart of this fandom, we are all here for the same reason. to read and write for characters we love. it seems that sometimes, perhaps we forget this fact and we focus too much on the analytics of it all.

i understand the frustration, i too was once a new writer and can promise you the feeling is not lost on me. you are valid for having these feelings, but there is a right and a wrong way to go about it.

there simply has just been too much hate in this fandom lately. there are tensions for all sorts of reasons. shaming and mocking people for making friends and fostering safe spaces is not how this fandom has ever operated. ‘big blogs’ are humans with feelings, the exact same as you, and to immediately assume the reason they aren’t reading or reblogging your fics is because they don’t want to support anyone except their friends is an unfortunate stance to take; given it’s simply not true.

perhaps you may be forgetting that there are real lives behind these screens. lives with traumas and grief and heartache and stress. not actively reblogging every fic we come across doesn’t equate to not wanting to support, it may just simply mean that we’re going through some shit and don’t have the time to read as much as we’d like to.

for new writers, a side note;

if you’re a new writer, you need to assess within yourself why it is you’re writing. there’s going to be low points, topics or themes not as highly sought. low notes do not depict your worth, and to point fingers at others because they’re not supporting you the way you want them to, screams to me, someone who is writing for all the wrong reasons.

interactions and reblogs are so fucking appreciated but shouldn’t be the root of why you are doing what you’re doing. i write for tom more than anyone and his fandom is the smallest aside from blaise. the amount of writers that actively reblog my fics is very very low, and that’s okay. no one owes me or you anything.

i’m going to wrap this up by saying this; over half of my mutuals are small blogs or nonwriters. i have made majority of my mutuals on here by interactions alone, wether it be me searching for fics or them commenting on mine. it’s easy to make friends, it’s easy to find those supports, you just have to reach out.

i will always encourage every single one of you, to send me your fics, to tag me in them, whatever the hell you want to do. it’s hard to be everywhere at once. i have always been loving and welcoming and inclusive to everyone, i know all of you know this. if anyone wants my support, do not ever be afraid to ask it. i will not bite you, i will not ignore you, i will not tell you to get lost.

reach out. i’m here. 🤍

[somnas-writes]

Thinking about the tragedy that is Ciel and Sebastian’s relationship.

They have a twisted power dynamic. Sebastian’s stronger and is inevitably going to eat Ciels soul. Ciel has the power of the contract and is going to die in the end.

Sebastian is raising someone who refuses to be a child, raising him like cattle for the cultivation. Ciel know this, knows it well but he acts regardless, doesn’t let it deter him.

We, the readers, can tell that they have begun caring for each other. Against their better judgment, they care now. They worry when they get hurt, when things go wrong. But in the end, none of that’s going to matter.

Ciel is going to die at Sebastian’s hands. That’s as clear as day, a fact of life now. They both know.

Will Sebastian feel regret or will it just be another meal. Is Ciel going to be afraid or will it just be another night for him. What will they feel when the end is near?

A Tragedy is an story that is based on human suffering that culminates in catharsis.

Theyre going to be a tragedy.

[oceanwithouthermoon]

ive come to realise that i dont actually hate kubokai, i just hate the way people write them

[i-like-books-and-women]

Oh the crippling reality of small fandom means if I wanna read the fic I'm probs gonna have to write it

[edwin-paynes-bowtie]

I don't know what I even fucking posted to warrant this, but fine.

[thomasbrodiesandwich]

the absolute horror when i found out that there's only a few pages of fanfics in ao3 for the catwin tag??? i need more people to see their potential! big and mighty cat king on the outside and pathetic little meow meow on the inside x quick-witted sharp-tongued diva? just-wants-to-be-held-cat-king x wants-to-be-taken-care-of-edwin? ult simp cat king x edwin-who's in love w his best mate? the longing. the pining. the slow burn. the fluff (literally). come on. come ON. the vision is there, no?

edit: there def is more than a page and yet still not enough fanfics methinks. starting a draft as we speak.

[tititilani]

I am the biggest fan of whump and self esteem issues ever in fic but you know what I would love to see? An "I believe in her (him)" moment. (dw fans ifykyk)

Just imagine it.

Some monster of the week is wrecking havoc. It feeds on sadness, terror, all the bad stuff, and it has found a feast in Edwin. All of that pain from seven decades in hell marinated in his hell-tempered soul means that it can feast on him for a long time already without worrying about its meal dissolving from the stress.

It snatches Edwin in the middle of them trying to vanish or destroy it, whisks him away over the crumpled body of Crystal, of Niko, of Charles. It straps him down with manacles of iron and Edwin stares it down without flinching even over the loud sizzling and pops of his own skin bubbling. But even if he's stoic, his pain is still delicious.

"Your friends are dead," it hisses to him with a vicious chuckle designed to make a shiver race down Edwin's incorporeal spine. Which it does. "They never cared about you. They never wanted you, probably were thankful I took you off their hands."

The thing is, Edwin has no way of knowing if it's telling the truth or not. His friends could be dead, had been left lying limp there on the ground, or worse in the case of Charles, who is already dead.

It has him at its nonexistent mercy for hours, poking at his weak spots both physically and mentally. Physical pain, it finds out, doesn't give up much of a meal, though the particularly distant look Edwin adopts is fetching. It doesn't do any significant damage because it wants this meal to last but Edwin has still resorted to his death state when it changes tactics.

Emotional pain, it knows from plenty of experience, can be the most delicious pain.

"I think that friend of yours - the one with the earring - probably was thankful I took you off his hands," it says offhandedly, tone almost too casual for the vicious words it's spitting. "Do you think he started celebrating immediately or maybe waited a few minutes?"

But it doesn't work the way it's intended.

Edwin, bloodied and vulnerable in his nightclothes, pushed past a point most ghosts wouldn't have been able to handle without breaking, looks up at the thing. His wrists have been bound this entire time, the skin around the manacles blackened and oozing ectoplasm, and he looks vulnerable.

But the look he gives the monster is not.

Edwin's gaze is vicious, the normally warm green replaced by shard of green glass, and the monster can see the strength and resolve in his eyes and realizes it may have miscalculated.

"I have seen the worst of people, and monsters," Edwin says with every ounce of scorn he can summon. "I spent seventy years in hell surrounded by them and I do not believe in much anymore. If there is one thing I believe in, I believe in him."

Cue Charles smashing his way in ten seconds later to save the day, looking at Edwin in awe, like he is seeing him for the first time all over again, faced with the steadfast faith Edwin has in him even when he has been given no reason to still.

[twisted-wonderland-but-gayer]

Straight up, I get annoyed at the babyifying of Grim. I see him like the other first years at least. A shithead asshole who needs to get knocked down a peg.

You get it

[syn4k]

mooooom, ray's writing about finding hope in grief again! // a webweave comprised entirely of the various things i've written over the years

(i'll tend to the flames, you can worship the) ashes / the things your father did to you / ashes / ashes / twice. / ashes / Untitled #29 / ashes / ashes masterdoc (the unstructured one) / twice. / ashes / but all you battered, all you broke / ashes / ashes / comfort for the weary / on being a writer

[eshtaresht]

Schrödinger's Lazarus (M, 2k, Trigun)

based on one fucked up role reversal trigun dream I had some months ago

Summary:

Due to a Plant meltdown, Vash dies. Also, he doesn't

Relationships: Vash the Stampede & Nicholas D. Wolfwood, Meryl Stryfe & Milly Thompson & Vash the Stampede & Nicholas D. Wolfwood

Characters: Vash the Stampede (Trigun), Nicholas D. Wolfwood, Meryl Stryfe, Milly Thompson

Additional Tags: Sci-Fi, I don't know how to describe this other than General Weirdness, Murder Mystery, (in a really weird way), Shock, Blood and Injury, Crying, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Experimental Style, POV First Person, Role Reversal, this is one of those 'would this be fucked up or what' types of fic, Horror