#hope 2 one day regurgitate this into fic

[aetherdoesthings]

hanahaki!reader x arlecchino part 2

forethoughts: i'm aetherdoesthings, of course i don't stick to my schedule. anyways, apologies if the timing of this fic seems wonky. i had specific scenarios in my head when i was planning this, with each stage of filming, which i have no clue about because that is not the path i took, so yeah :]. enjoy early upload!

notes: alocohol mentioned!!! drinking is in this!!! reader does drink!! don't be like reader this was just for plot drink responsibly guys!!! modern setting, arlecchino and reader are actresses, fem!reader, hanahaki au

“So, how’s everything? Still coughing up a storm?” You choked on your coffee when you heard that familiar voice, echoing in your head like a broken stereo. 

“I guess you still are. Wow, an entire year?” Arlecchino chuckled, pressing a few buttons on the coffee machine. “So what did the doctor say? Just a cough? Cold? Colds don’t last for a year. Doesn’t look like a fever.”

“R-Right, u-um, just a cough. Y-Yeah.” You nodded your head, mustering up a smile.

Damn it, Y/N, you’re an actress. Act. You scolded yourself on your performance. 

“Alright then.” Arlecchino gazed at your smile, one finding its way onto hers. “I hope you’ll be okay; tomorrow is all about shooting promotion videos and the day after traveling from studio to studio to do interviews.”

Your face instantly paled at Arlecchino’s words. Shit. Promo week. No rest, non stop smiling, repeating the same phrase over and over again on different networks and platforms. The worst part was that Arlecchino was right by your side the entire time during the shoot, acting all lovey dovey towards you to sell to the audience that the two of you were playing a pair of couples. Then again, you would be lying if you said you weren’t excited to read comments after comments of netizens shipping the two of you together. Your heart fluttered at the thought, the child inside you kicking their feet in the air as you held back a grin. Well, you held the grin back, but not the cough.

Your left hand shot up to your mouth, your body already letting the cough take place, letting the petal travel up your esophagus and into your palm. You didn’t like how your body was already used to the feeling of having a part of a flower regurgitate out of you, muscles immediately jumping into action and making way for the disease in your lungs. Your stomach churned as Arlecchino rubbed her hand on your back, trying to comfort you and make you feel better.

“Oh, Y/N…” Arlecchino’s hand took the hand that was on your mouth, holding it in hers as she made you look at her. It took every single willpower inside you to not blush or let any sort of heat course through your body, biting down a whine as her fingers found its way to your chin. Your bones turned into toothpicks, joints threatening to disappear. 

“Are you sure you are going to be alright? You don’t need to power through all those interviews if you physically cannot-”

“I can.” A surge of stubbornness and pride overpowered your senses. Arlecchino didn’t know you were in love with her, and Arlecchino certainly did not need to know you were in love with her, and that you were a weak little coward that let a disease run your life.

“I can.” You repeated yourself, nodding your head. “I’ll power through. I promise.”

You felt like you were telling yourself that more than you were telling Arlecchino. 

Arlecchino stared at you, those crimson eyes giving you no clue into what she felt. Arlecchino pursed her lips, before removing herself from you. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep, darling.”

And just like that, Arlecchino left the room, her hands leaving your body. You let out a gasp at the missing touch, confused and baffled by her actions, cheeks flaring red at her nickname for you. All alarms in your brain all went off at once, your stomach doing a backflip and your vertical toothpicks turning horizontal. You looked at your left hand, noticing the empty palm. That’s strange. A flower petal was always there after your skin turned red and you got lightheaded. Your mind flashed back to Arlecchino’s hand around yours, how you thought her act of intertwining your fingers was supposed to be an effort to comfort you. 

Oh, how naïve you were.

Arlecchino had the petal.

Arlecchino knew.

Arlecchino was going to have the evidence she needed to confirm her suspicions.

How would she even know-

You always coughed whenever she got close or when you talked to her, you idiot, and she’s a fucking genius, so she’ll piece everything together! Your brain quarreled with each other, your body leaving the room as you stood there like a soldier made of stone, palm open and empty.

Maybe there wasn’t a petal this time. One side argued.

There always is one. 

But maybe there wasn’t.

You leaned onto that sentence, clinging onto it as if it was your lifeline. Maybe there wasn’t a petal this time when you coughed. Maybe it really was just a cough. It wasn’t a cough from your stupid crush on the beautiful, intelligent-

She definitely knows.

You stared at the bread knife on the table, stabbed into a piece of baguette. If only that baguette was your heart, perhaps you wouldn’t have to deal with the constant yes or no that battled in your head, no side willing to raise the white flag yet. 

This was Arlecchino. Hollywood star with a hundred million followers. Everybody knew her name. No haters, no drama, just an absolute queen living among peasants. And… you were one of those peasants. 

As if Arlecchino would ever love you back.

As if Arlecchino would ever want to spend time with you, a total D tier so-called actress.

But maybe there wasn’t a petal this time.

Maybe. How that word was able to make hope fill your heart and shatter it into tiny pieces.

Furina was giving a speech. You were amongst the crowd of both cast and crew, a glass of wine in your damp grip. Your finger drummed against your pants, waiting for her monologue to end so you could ditch the party. 

Somehow, you managed to survive through the whole filming process, despite having to cough up petals every day. Yes, people turned their eyes towards you, then towards the other normal people to talk about the freak you were. Coughing and disrupting every other scene where Arlecchino’s character had to be in close proximity with you. The minute Furina ended her speech, you snatched a full bottle of wine from one of the serves, disappearing into the blank hallways before anyone could start a conservation with you. You ducked into a nearby broom closet, the walls managing to drown out most of the sound of laughter and conversations. You closed the door behind you, sinking down to your knees as a sigh of relief passed through your lips instead of a petal. With the bottle of wine already opened, you wrapped your lips around the front, chugging all the wine down your throat, hoping that’ll be enough to make you forget your situation, even better end your predicament for you. If the disease wasn’t going to kill you, alcohol will. And you were a much bigger fan of the latter.

The noise did not die down for the rest of your time you spent in the closet, your head resting against the wood. Maybe no one will find you here, and leave you here to rot. Yeah. No one paid attention to you, even though you were supposed to be the co-star of the movie. After all, it was Arlecchino you were working with. Arlecchino. Everyone loved her, everyone wanted a picture with her. You? You were just there to hold her bags. That was all you were worth.

“Oh, Arlecchino.” You laughed into the darkness, head rolling against the door. “Why must you be like this?”

You despised the feeling of helplessness and dependency on another person.

You never intended to fall in love with Arlecchino. The constant need to see her and hear her voice was never desired.

And now there was a damn disease you were plagued with that forced you to confront something you wish never existed.

There were two options to get rid of hanahaki forever. Either you confess your love to Arlecchino and she says yes, or you confess your love to Arlecchino and get rejected. 

“Like she’ll ever love me back.” You laughed, bringing the glass to your mouth, even though it was empty.

Suddenly, the door swung open, causing you to fall onto the wooden ground, drunken eyes readjusting to the harsh lights, a crimson and white figure partially blocking your sight.

“Hmn. So this is what people stricken by hanahaki is like? They drink themselves out of their misery and hide in a broom closet?” Arlecchino’s voice echoed in your head, that signature snarkiness and mockery in her voice. Though there was a tint of warmth and concern in her voice as well, or maybe you were just hallucinating again. 

Yep, you’re done for.

[aziraphales-library]

Lost Fic #180

1. Good morrow dearest Mods Firstly thank you for all the good work that you all do for the fandom because this was really impressive when i first stumbled upon it and easy to sieve through. Really Wowwww I'm not much of a fanfic reader myself, but there was the monologue that stuck with me from a tiktok edit and I really want to find which fanfiction was it from (since i couldn't find the edit anymore :"") (Im regurgitating whatever i can remember so please bare with me, i hope it wouldnt be so painful.) It was from the POV of God but the narrator refers to God as "She". She talks about making Crowley and Aziraphale. Being the first to break Crowley's heart. And then she invents Creativity for Crowley because She owes him that at least. She gives Aziraphale a sword but then will give it away on his own will. She did not give Aziraphale a heart but he invented it himself. From what I remember there was no dialogue in this part of the piece. (But I wouldn't know for sure since I've never read it before...) I tried tagging From POV of God Good Omens in AO3, but I couldn't find it either If it happens to not have existed, that's alright, however are there some fanfictions that are similar to this? With the kind of emo yet touching written by God feel narration about the husbands with not much much dialogue, like as if She was just watching from above. The kind of outsider feel with the insider knowledge AHAHAHA I'm not sure how to describe it. Emotionally like bittersweet tea with a dash of honey. Thank you, and I wish you lovely days to come mods <3 - @whiskedawaybythewind

2. I'm sorry, but I'm looking for a Fic it was a Muriel & Crowley, and there was this scene where Crowley finds out that Aziraphale regrets his decision because a Pen that he (Aziraphale) stole, and send with muriel so he can understand the message. I don't remember much more, :( - anon

3. Hi! I’m looking for a relatively new fic I read a while back. It featured Azi and Crowley living in the South Downs and Crowley is snatched while out grocery shopping by a gang of mafia guys, and they ransom him to Azi, who shows up and calmly scares the shit out of them by telling them he’s “The Bookseller.” I can’t find it to save my life and I want to reread it! - @doodlegirll

4. Hello dears! First off, thank you so much for all the work you do for the fandom. I was wondering if you could help me find a fic. Aziraphale is discorporated during WW1 and Crowley was sleeping and didn't know. During the church scene in 1941, when Crowley comes aziraphale has a flashback and is barely able to save them. They talk about it after. Thanks again! - @candysunset27

5. Hi!! I’ve been going through this account for a while and it’s been so so great finding tons of fics with all the tropes I love!! There’s this one fic I saw that I can’t remember and I was really hoping you could help me find it! From what I do remember in the fic, Aziraphale is suicidal, and keeps on discorporating himself. If it’s too much of an ask I totally understand- Take all the time you need !!! 💖💖💖💖💖 - anon

If you know any of these fics please include the number in your reply! Thank you :)

- Mod D

[mimiplaysgames]

The Bed Story, ch. 2 (Reflection)

Terraqua Week 2024, Day 2

Terra/Aqua | Terra/Anti-Aqua Rating: M Word count: 4,443 @terraquaweek

Summary: Terra meets Anti-Aqua, and he's sorry for the things they did and didn't do.

Read on AO3

A/N: I was talking to a friend and we counted - counting the separate fics that are in my anthologies, this is my 40th fic about Terraqua and the Wayfinder Trio. 40!!! To those who were cheering me on from the beginning, thanks for being there. And to those who found me other times, I appreciate you so much! <3

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The library was a place to temper—the best place to spend uninterrupted hours with Aqua, and the best place to keep up appearances. Books and homework were effective eliminators of fervor.   

Terra sat on the teal carpet, leaning against a bookshelf of Keyblade history’s oldest tomes, and stretched his long legs, crossing them at the ankles. He kept reading the same sentence over and over, the words shrouding together. 

Aqua sat across from him, mimicking his posture. On her lap was a heavy hand-written book where the pages were woven by a ribbon inside a worn leather cover. Affairs of the Heart, the Master of Masters’s stupid magnum opus. 

One month left until their Mark of Mastery. Standards for their essays were now entirely reliant on ancient texts, which discussed: the philosophy of connecting your Light to your Keyblade, ethics about fighting the Darkness, and nothing interesting Terra didn’t already know. They were tests to see if they could decipher and regurgitate common knowledge (sometimes nonsense).

Aqua sighed, bringing Affairs closer to her face, as if she needed a magnifying glass to read the text. She nibbled the edge of her lip. Aqua had just cut her hair short, and the desire Terra had for years to tuck it behind her ear intensified. Whenever she tried, it sprung back forward. Terra could do it over and over and it would never stay. It’s cute.

Terra shouldn’t gawk. He cleared his throat. The words in his book ceased to have meaning. “What’s bothering you?”

Aqua’s jaw locked. “For th’re art powers with nay mast’r,” she read. 

“In what context?”

“Some Keyblades don’t have Masters.” 

Ah. Immediately what came to mind was the Master’s Defender, something ancient and passed along to keepers of the Land of Departure. “Inherited Keyblades.”

“If…” She stopped. The Master of Masters was archaic, and her brows furrowed. She chose her interpretation carefully. She read, “Take thy heart and lodge it yonder chain, and thee shalt findeth a way.”  

“A way to what?” 

She shrugged. “Using the Keyblades of your comrades.”

“Isn’t chain too strong a word?” 

“I think he means link. He must be describing a bond that strong.” Aqua. Always the one to defend the forebears. “Listen to this: Nay fooleth, taketh thy heart and maketh thy star seeth.”

Terra dropped his book to the floor. “I don’t get where this is going.”

“Well, I think he’s using the term star to describe…” She flipped a page. “A Light. Someone equal to you.”

“Or, he’s a clown. I don’t think that book is serious. He wrote vaguely in riddles to confuse everyone.”

“We could try it. Trade our Keyblades.”

Terra strangled a cough. He was really strangling a hopeful laugh. This wasn’t the first time Aqua considered him an equal, but his heart hammered at the thought all the same. Her equal. His and hers.

And this was a very bad idea. 

“We tried that when we first conjured our Keyblades,” Terra said. Explosions happened. Earthshaker was desperate and too demanding. Rainfell was sensitive to emotion and needed control. 

Aqua straightened the pages with reverence. “We were kids.”

“It was a disaster, or did you forget? We nearly burned down the garden. Rabbits were threatened, Aqua. Innocent rabbits.”

“And we didn’t know each other as well.” 

“What difference does that make?”

Aqua licked her lips. Terra smiled. She was about to lecture. “Our Keyblades are an extension of our hearts, yes? And our Light is stronger through the bonds we make, therefore not only do our Keyblades become stronger, they shine more around the people we are connected to the most.”

“You’re saying we’re good friends. How sweet.”

She rolled her eyes and flipped to a previous page and pointed to a sentence. “It says here, To knoweth thy Key is to knoweth who is’t thee lodging thy trust.”

“So you trust me?”

She kicked his hip with the side of her foot—and Terra captured it, pulling her until her ass dragged on the floor. 

“No, I don’t,” she said, laughing. “Obviously.”

He let her go. Then Terra felt the void. It haunted him more frequently at every ghost of her touch—a pat on his shoulder, a punch to the bicep, when she straightened his bangs, an accidental brush against her shoulder. Always through clothes—Terra never had a good excuse to casually run his fingers on bare skin. 

Aqua rolled forward to her knees and leaned on him thigh-to-thigh. No void now, but a pressing worry over the possibility that one day, she would meet someone else that she would want to be touched by. She flipped the book over to show him. 

Terra didn’t take it. He couldn’t even read. Her thigh, her thigh, her thigh.

“Why is this that important to you?”

Aqua took the book back, surprised. “Well… do you know what this means for old Keyblades that are passed around?”

Terra bit his cheek. “It means we have a lot to prove to a Keyblade like Defender.”

Aqua nodded. “The Master’s guest has a similar Keyblade.”

Terra leaned forward and nearly took her chin in his hand. He kept it balled to his stomach. “Don’t tell me you’re worried about him.”

She raised her eyebrows. “I am, actually. We have this stranger judging us without knowing everything we went through. Think about it. If we could wield each other’s Keyblades, it will impress the Master and his guest. Prove to them that our bond is strong and we deserve to pass together. Prove to them that we can wield our inheritances when the time comes.”

This late into their study?  “Does the great Master mention how it’s supposed to feel?” he asked. “When we correctly do it?”

When they touched each other’s Keyblades as children, Aqua ran back to her room crying. She had said Earthshaker was “nervous,” in her words. But Terra knew better. His heart exposed like that, it became easy to read, and Terra couldn’t talk to her for days after. Truthfully, he was ashamed that she sensed his insecurity, feeling how he compared himself to her, how he was frustrated with being two years older but at the same level as her, how he was obsessed with falling behind and keeping up and excelling—all within the open aorta that was his immature Keyblade. Probably felt sorry for him, too.

And the other truth? Terra cried by himself in his own room when she didn’t know. Rainfell was confident, radiant, expansive despite Earthshaker being bigger, and Terra couldn’t mimic that. 

Aqua didn’t look at him when she said, “He mentioned the word ascendance. It’s supposed to feel like we’re leaning on a friend.” She smiled at him. Did she feel the same about his own thigh or did it not register in her head at all? “I know we can trust each other’s Keyblades. It shouldn’t be hard this time.”

Terra didn’t want to do it, but they built a metric relationship by testing the waters, by challenging each other, correcting technique, pushing and pushing and pushing to be better. If he backed out, Aqua would take it as though something was wrong.

Nothing was wrong. Terra was in love. 

What he must do was commit the same calm control Aqua had with Rainfell. 

Besides, he needed a win. Side by side for the Mark of Mastery, he needed proof he could stand next to her. 

“Let’s do it.”

She beamed.

~*~

The library is destroyed. It has (had) multiple floors, but the upper levels are now barrages of torn shelves and mounds of books that make it impossible to climb the stairs. There’s no way to reach the shelf that houses Affairs of the Heart, but Terra tries looking anyway. Maybe the Master or Ven left it on a table before… everything. But it’s not anywhere. For the time being, Terra gets no answers to any of the lingering questions he has about how to help Aqua. Only a wish to cure her.

The rest of the castle is just as damaged. The east wing is entirely gone, and the west crumbles in most hallways, leaving gaping holes that invite broken bones. Rain pours through the open wounds on the roof, and seeps through the cracks on the walls, spreading mold. Terra’s bedroom is gone, half-collapsed over the cliff below, but Ven’s and Aqua’s are intact. 

The kitchen is submerged underneath its ceiling. A cauldron remains. Ven helps by pushing it while Terra pulls. When they drag it into the Master’s study, which is untouched, Terra knocks over a lamp with the bump of his hip.

“I don’t understand,” Terra says, catching the lamp before it shatters on the floor. “Explain to me what happened like I’m five.”

Ven scowls when he inspects how dusty his hands got because of the cauldron. He claps them. 

“Well,” Ven starts like he’s talking to a child. “Once upon a time, the Master was mad at me. Terra came and saved me. Terra threw me in a voooortex—I know that’s a difficult word to pronounce—so I didn’t see what happened. Aqua said—”

“Ven.”

“Aqua said she locked me away in an alternate universe of the castle to keep me safe.”

“With the Master’s Defender. Some secret only Masters know.”

“Yeah, and she woke me up again. Well, no. I mean, Sora was the one to officially wake me up. Aqua transformed the castle back with” —Ven waves his hands like he doesn’t know how to describe it— “her incredible new powers. It’s like time went backwards or something.”

It’s impressive how Darkness can bypass a Keyblade’s spell. Then again, the Land of Departure is in the same condition Xehanort left it, from his own Dark curses. 

“Why not use the Defender?”

“We need a duster in here.”

“Ven.”

“I don’t know. She said Defender doesn’t respond to her anymore.” Ven shrugs. 

Terra taps his fingers on the cauldron. Everything he’s been learning about what happened while he slept—stars, why would anyone want him alive right now?

“How is she?”

Ven scratches his shoulder. “She’s still outside.”

Staring at the Master’s memorial, in the rain, exactly where they left her. That's most of what she does now. Stare blankly.

“At least she’s nice to me,” Ven says. “She hates everyone else.”

Terra inhales, gritting his teeth. Does Aqua have a shorter fuse? Yes. Does she judge people? Only when they truly deserve it. But hate? No. That is not Aqua.

"You're exaggerating."

"Pssh. Just wait until she wants to kill you."

Terra almost says, I don't blame her, but he keeps it to himself.

In the study is an ashen fireplace full of debris. The Master’s personal journals are scattered on his desk, and his favorite books—tomes, novels, children’s books he used to read to Terra—lay on a private shelf opposite. With how little it’s been disturbed, it’s almost as if the Master could open the door, ask them both why the cauldron has been moved here, to please move it back to the kitchen, and not to worry about the state of the castle. It can and will be fixed.

Except there’s so much to be worried about. Thunder strikes the ground, and it sounds close. Rain pummels down the window, leaving a blurred view of storm clouds hiding the mountains.

“There’s no mirror here,” Ven says.

Terra would chuckle, but nothing is funny anymore. “Why are you worried about mirrors?”

“Aqua’s making them all weird. I see things like… nevermind, I don’t want to talk about it. Can you help me take mine out of my room?”

Terra wants to collapse. Everything is weird. “Sure.”

“Where are you going to sleep?”

There’s a loveseat in the study, but Terra’s too tall, so he’ll need to find some clean blankets and nest on the burgundy rug. “Here.”

“Are you sure?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“What’s the cauldron for?”

Earthshaker still won’t answer when Terra commands it to. “I just need something to occupy my mind.”

“Okay.” Ven doesn’t believe him. That’s because Terra is a terrible liar. 

To shut out the silence, Terra pats Ven’s shoulder and says, “Come on. Let’s get your mirror out.”

They leave the mirror in the resident hallway, at Ven’s request that it’s left facing the wall. 

That night, it’s still storming, the wind howling like it’s crying. Which is a problem. The Land of Departure is supposed to be the balance of Light and Darkness. These storms aren’t normal. Lightning flashes purple, then green, then red. The rain leaves smears of muck. Aqua isn’t normal. Nothing is normal. 

Terra needs to busy his mind.

The way back into the kitchen isn’t safe. Terra jumps over a hole that spawns beneath his feet, and crawls under columns that have fallen over to get to the pantry. Carefully, so he doesn’t trigger a complete cave in. He grabs every herb he can safely reach.

Terra then spends hours removing stone slab after stone slab from the fireplace, some rotten with mold. He pushes the cauldron over the wood, ignites it with a Fire spell, and waits for the water to boil. As thunder rumbles outside, Terra rips dried leaves from stems and mixes them with magic-induced powders that the Master concocted years ago. 

It’s quiet. In normal times, he would be knocking on Aqua’s door, and they would sit on her bed and talk about what happened until morning. Normally, the castle lanterns would be lit, offering safe passage at night. 

“What are you doing?”

Terra jumps at Aqua’s steady voice and nearly drops the ladle. She’s standing at the doorway. The light from the fire slices half her face in shadow. Her golden eyes glow. 

“I didn’t hear you come in.”

Aqua walks up to the Master’s desk, and it’s no wonder why. Her steps don’t make a sound. She places a silver hand mirror on the desk, face down. He recognizes it: she keeps it in her vanity drawer.

Terra turns his attention back to his potions. He feels terrible thinking this, but it’s nauseating to look at her. Her body oozes black smoke when she moves, and when he crosses her path in the halls, he finds her staring randomly at the walls, at statues, at shredded stained glass. When she notices his presence, he turns the opposite direction. 

It’s not that she’s hideous. It’s that he wants to pretend her condition is not his crime. 

He can feel her staring at his back. 

“Do you remember these storms?” he asks. They pass through the Land of Departure every twenty years, and lucky Terra and Aqua were around to see the last one. The Master had locked them up in this very study, while he braved the outside and fought this dark energy. The fact that another one is at their doorstep a year early is an omen.

A pause. “Yes.”

Terra inhales to stop himself from crying. She sounds like she will never smile again. More than that, there’s a buried edge to her voice and it crawls over Terra’s skin. Like he’s around a predator, his hairs stand and he’s careful not to trigger an attack. 

“Look at me.”

Terra pretends to lean over the cauldron to mix, and lets the onslaught of steam threaten his fear away. Feel pain here, assaulting his face, and it overrides the pain of looking at her face.

But he can’t pretend forever. He finishes his “work,” and he turns. This frown is so unnatural for her—still and unmoving, like she’s dead. In better times, her frown made him laugh. 

“Don’t like what you see?” She leans on the desk. 

Her face, her jawline that he wants to stroke with his knuckle, sad and torn up. She’s beautiful, and she’s a reminder of every mistake Terra has made.  

“It’s not like that,” Terra whispers, and he stares at his shoes.

“Look at me.” Stronger, with vice. 

He does, reading her angry eyes, her bleached hair, the claws like needles into the wood. Her lips, pursed and tense. The length of her neck. The color of Darkness spreading over her arms. Her bare shoulders, the straps he’s taken off before.

“I’m sorry,” he says, her face blurring. Hot tears leave burn marks on his cheeks.

Her claws scrape the desk as she stands back up. “I don’t care about your apology.”

“I know what you’re thinking—”

“No, you don’t.”

“Aqua…” He licks his lips, and they taste like salt. Thunder roars. “We have to fix the castle. To protect us. These storms are dangerous.”

“Oh.” She crosses her arms. “How bad.”

Stars, he sounds so stupid, considering what she survived. “We have to think of Ven.”

Again, that predatory feeling that she’s smothers into control. Terra braces for an attack, but none come. “You think I don’t?”

“Stars,” he curses. “That’s not what I meant.”

“I have already taken care of his room. He’ll be fine.”

Terra swallows what feels like thick goo down his throat. “Okay. Thank you.”

“I’m here to take care of this room.”

Terra gapes. He’s expecting her to summon Rainfell, and bless the walls to keep him safe from the storm. But she doesn’t. She’s standing there, glaring at him. 

But of course—the shadows that dance with the light from the hearth dance on their own. They shift and warp. She’s creating a barrier for him with her Darkness. 

“I get it, you know,” he says. 

She doesn’t respond.

He continues, “You feel more in control like this.”

Her jaw locks. He studies her, really studies her. Her Light is still there but it’s faint. Rainfell is muted. Before, her power was like the sun— too bright to look straight on, but one you can gaze at it in the reflection of water. Now it’s like… the wick of a flame in the fog.

Terra has a faint memory of being in the dark and a star dissolving in front of him. Well, star isn’t a strong enough word for Aqua’s Light before the Guardian overpowered it and infected her with whatever this is. The Guardian wanted a sun, and the Guardian sucked all its hydrogen.

“We can help you,” he says, standing taller.

“How are you suggesting?”

“Maybe… we can remove the shroud—”

“Exorcism.” 

“No—”

“I’m not broken.”

“No.” A nervous laugh escapes his mouth. “Of course not. You’re strong.”

“Don’t,” she snaps, snarling. She lowers her voice. “Call me strong. It isn’t fair.”

Terra nods, and blinks away from her, wishing his tears would stop. She’s right. Nothing, including his tears, is fair to her.

“Look at me,” she says, gentler. She walks forward, her body warping through the desk like she’s made of mist and there’s nothing solid in her way. “Everyone averts their eyes. But I hate it when you do.”

Terra runs reasons in his mind to be brave. For her. For her pain. For his punishment. His tears now dribble off his chin.

“Do you have any idea how much I wanted to hear your voice all that time?” she says, stepping up to his face. She compresses one claw against his throat, right under his jaw. “How quiet it was when I couldn’t?”

This isn’t what Terra had expected his future to be, if a miracle were to happen and they would be this close again. For hours that seemed like years and years that were millennia, Terra asked the stars if he could touch her one more time. Hand in hand, that was all he asked for.  

“Yes. I do.” He sniffs. She presses harder and Terra grits his teeth from the pressure. “I couldn’t hear or see anything. All I did was dream memories. It was torture—”

“Torture,” she mumbles. She presses even harder that her claw stings. How is she this close to him when he perceives her so far? So close, their hips inches apart. 

“Yes.” Terra swallows but can’t. “Aqua, all I had were daydreams of when I could see you and Ven again.”

Silence. She tucks her white hair behind her ear with her free hand, and it falls forward. The claw under his jaw shifts, and the artery at his throat throbs. She leans near, almost to kiss him, when she stops just before her lips grace his. 

“You’re breathing,” she whispers.

His blood pumps. That’s what this is. She’s measuring his pulse, that he’s real under her touch. 

She’s still Aqua. Just weird. Weird like a jewel unrefined, still in its geode. For years, Terra hasn’t felt, hasn’t touched, only yearned. The restraint he has with her this close dissolves from tears of what-ifs. 

Brave, be brave. He removes her hand, clutches it to his heart, and leans toward her. Leans until their foreheads almost touch, until he takes her cheek and strokes it with his thumb. Testing their distance, looking into gold while gold looks into blue. Gold glances down to his lips.

He kisses her. Her lips are cold like she’s been in the snow, and it reminds him of bright mornings in white. Of dark, cozy nights by the fire. Of the wonder of seasons when he was young. Her lips are cold like steel when they’re soft against his, and he savors them when he hasn’t savored anything for twelve years. Her lips are no longer the way he remembers them, but they’re Aqua. And the tongue he needs is Aqua, and the sigh she gives him is her. When he lets go, she’s dazed, with his shirt balled in her fist and staring at the wall behind his shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” he says, letting go of the arm wrapped around her waist. “I couldn’t help it.”

“You know,” she says, “I can’t feel much.”

He peels off the claw that’s nearly tearing a hole in his shirt, and rubs it between his hands, over her scales, trying to thaw her. “Do you feel this?”

Aqua watches him work. “Faintly.”

“I can make you tea.” Cinnamon would be best considering its strong flavor, but it’s in the pantry, mixed with plaster. “Just give me a day so I can buy some.” 

She says nothing.

Terra exhales his anxiety, and brings her knuckles to his lips. The rubbing hasn’t helped. She’s still icy, and he wants to wrap her with his body, throw fleece over her face. “I can make you something now if you want. You’ll feel better.”

“Better,” she mutters, as if this offends her. She pulls her hand away. Her ice ghosts from his palms in waves, where his blood pumps warmth back with a tingling feeling. He can’t deal with the emptiness between them. When she turns away from him, he clasps her wrist. “Aqua—”

“I’m done with the room.” She dodges his hold. She makes him feel like his touch is accidental. 

“Please…” He doesn’t say, Don’t slip from me again. What should he say? Stay? Can we go to your room?

He doesn't mention they were supposed to find a hiding place for themselves the night they were supposed to be Masters together. Do they even have the same dream anymore?

“There’s… a lot we need to talk about," he continues. "Between us. What happened in the Realm of Darkness. What happened the night before the Mark of Mastery?” 

She doesn’t say anything. Not at first. “I thought about that night all the time.”

“I did, too.” 

Again Aqua has no response. 

“There’s no going back, is there?” he asks, afraid of the answer. “For us?”

She doesn’t confirm.

“The mirror should help you see.” She slips away. The void screams when she silently leaves the room, past the firelight’s barrier. 

The hand mirror is as cold as her hands, unbending metal in his tight grip. He flips it over. In his reflection is himself—white hair, golden eyes, smirking in a way unnatural to him. Faded horns hover behind the crown of his head. The Guardian tucked away, a most loyal dog.

So Terra and this anti version of Aqua understand each other better than he realizes. Even with clothes on, they’re naked. She finds herself more powerful now than she was before, and can rely on her new strength. A comforting thought for her, not having to wait for others anymore.

The truth that matches hers? Terra was stronger when Darkness overtook him, too. And he hates himself for it. Hates himself for wishing Xehanort was alive and lingering in the back of his mind, trapped like Terra was, so Terra could ask what he should do about Aqua, and Xehanort the wise would have an answer.

He hates himself for being a dog in the first place. Isn’t the Guardian a literal manifestation of what Terra’s heart truly is? A Keybearer is supposed to be a source of Light—they need Light within their heart in order to summon a Keyblade. Maybe the Guardian is proof Terra shouldn’t wield one anymore. Maybe Earthshaker has been swallowed. 

He throws the mirror into the cauldron and listens to the glass shatter. Maybe this little shred of her Darkness would make his potion more powerful.

Terra gathers blankets from wardrobes that are still intact, and layers them together to make a bed between the loveseat and the coffee table. When he’s done filling vials with potions, he lies on his back and stares at the ceiling. There’s a crack too close to the chandelier. It could fall and crush him.

Terra exhales and suppresses the need to cry. He closes his eyes and rolls to his side, but the floor is too rock solid and his bones ache. He uses his arm as a pillow, and sighs. Given enough time, with the rain tapping on the windows and the fireplace alive with groans and cracks, Terra actually catches some sleep.

Until his eyes snap open in the middle of the night. The firelight is dead, and it’s black-dark. Rain still knocks on the windows. On his side, he’s looking at a shadow hiding under the table. The hair on his neck rises—whoever is there is staring back, and he expects a claw to smite and scratch him.

Lightning strikes—it illuminates no one looking back. 

Behind him though is a predator, sitting on the loveseat, watching his back. Terra pretends he’s still asleep. 

Ven apparently didn’t sleep much either. The next morning, Terra asks about Aqua. Ven says he woke up every hour and he noticed she spent the entire night not in her bed, but wandering the castle.

[whifferdills]

i’m not a meta but i got some dr who thoughts

after a run that by and large tried to pick apart the Dr’s callousness (12 wasn’t really any meaner than any other Dr Who, it’s just that the show was self-aware of that assholery and at its best didn’t gloss over it) and gave us a flawed but beautiful character arc that ended with the importance of kindness, this new Dr Who who remembers names and has a quiet respect for humans they barely know is. V good. i get the sense that 13 is who 12 wanted to become, yanno?

the color grading bless. I HAVE SUFFERED THROUGH YEARS OF BLUE-GREEN-ORANGE all those pinkish tones give me LIFE

THE MILLENNIALS. Yasmin who tries working with the system (and it’s not e-fucking-nough), and Ryan who can’t so much no matter how hard he tries. They’re relatable and now-ish and exactly what i’d like to see from DW in [current year]

Ryan tho! this episode is all about him so obvs he’s my fave but i love that whole Struggle Vlogger, My Phone Is My Life thing. bc it’s not framed as ‘kids these days and their iPhones’, it’s ‘the internet is a validating place and people can speak their truth there when they’re beaten down in real life’. literally the only character where if you do an Instagram-themed edit i will not cringe. of course he touched the damn button, like share and subscribe

the random dude who is also a lost lonely kid. his bits work well enough on their own but this episode got SOMETHING to SAY

also fuck that fridge (GRACE NO WHY i mean it was telegraphed but NO) and i had vaguely hoped graham would be gay but @everyone who continually asks for alien companions from other time periods : check it out, a widower oldhead is companion, that’s new and interesting. or did you just want Attractive Victorian Space Children moreso than variety idk

man New Who loves its broken homes. makes sense i guess? to explain why someone would just....go off into space like that to join a new found family but it deffo creates a certain Vibe

i barely know what Sheffield is but it feels like a character here? that’s probably the main thing that made me go ‘oh it’s chibbers here he is’

thank you Segun Akinola for ushering in a new era where we can all finally admit that Murray Gold was competent but not, like, unreplaceably good. now hmu with some bops a la The Human Body

did 13 just manifest ear piercing holes or are the earrings part of them or

love that trans dr who

[desiraypark]

Alright. 

So.

I really wasn’t trying to get too deep into the mess. Why? For a couple of reasons.

1) Because when I joined this ADCU fandom--I was very aware that I was going to see racist shit. A lil’ internalized sexism. All of that. I’d mentally prepared myself for it before I came through, or tried my very best. As I stated in a post a week or two ago, I was very vocal about these things in my younger adult years, but now, I am tired and just no longer interested in letting racism, misogynoir, microaggressions, and other things on the internet get my blood pressure up (because I’ve gotta deal with it in real life). I simply block, filter, and move on. This is my path. Not saying that it’s right, that’s just the stage that I’m in right now. 

2) What I’ve heard of this controversial fic is offensive to me. More so, the erasure of certain elements about the Civil War is what I found offensive. Did it piss me off or enrage me? No, because again, I’m tired lol. Offended, yes? Angry--me? No.

Now, I’m not writing this as a “woman of color”. This is a BLACK woman about to tell you what HAS pissed me off over these last few days. And I’m saying it straight from my account--not on anon or some account that just blossomed a couple of days ago. 

I’m writing this as a Black woman who lives in a neighborhood that used to be a plantation (big house and slave cabins still up and intact up the street from my home) - because there is barely a place in my city you can walk where your feet don’t touch land that used to be a plantation, or a slave trading station, or an auction block, or a public whipping post, etc. I live in a city that is ENTRENCHED in “memories of the Civil War” -- “good” and bad memories. 

I’m writing this as a Black woman who once worked next door to a Confederacy Museum--MUSEEEEUM--and watched old white men sit outside of the building with their flags. Or, who once had an old white man come to into my job, walked up to me with a shady, condescending glint in his eye, to ask me questions about “the museum next door” that he hoped to visit one day.

I love historical AUs and write them myself. Me, personally, I’m not gonna tell anybody they can’t write romantic/smutty Civil War AUs (I’m just gonna fucking block them). Because people are gonna do what they want and as we’ve seen demonstrated, there are some people who are gonna do the shit HARDER if it’s called out. But I DON’T have the privilege of reading something in that setting and being able to imagine myself as a landowner. This is a fact. 

People can say “oh, well there were Black landowners back then!” But could they own that land without a  “guardian”? Could they walk around town without “papers” to “prove” that they were free? Do we think that free and/or landowning Black people were just walking around untouched in the 1860s and AFTER? We LITERALLY just commemorated the 100th Anniversary of the Tulsa massacre. Come the fuck on, now. 

I can BARELY write my 1920s AU shit without thinking about how race impacts the my OCs. I just CAN’T make that separation. And it must be nice that some of you WOC and white readers can do that. I’m happy for you. Whatever. 

Now, from what I’ve gathered, I believe that this is the point that was originally being brought to SH--that not only could some of her audience not see themselves in this story, but some of them actually might be hurt by it. And instead of being thoughtful of that, excuses were made. The “colorblind” card was thrown out and it was stressed that “sides” in a Civil War setting were written “vaguely”. The dismissal and denial is what has frustrated me. 

But ah, here’s the thing.

This is a pattern. 

I think some of you might be under the impression that this might be the author’s “first misstep” (that is, if you think that is the case at all). I’m going to tell you a quick story. And this story is not secret--these incidents and the posts (pro-cop posts) that correspond to them were shared publicly. 

I’ve long had SH blocked for awhile. Why? 

You remember when another writer whose name started with an “S” went  through this whole thing about all cops not being bad? I was actually quite friendly with that writer and expressed among people (including SH) that I wanted to reach out to S because I knew she was young and probably just hadn’t lived enough life and been around others to understand why their stance was problematic (and wrong). But then, I found out that she’d done the whole deleting POC’s comments thing...

She’d reached out to me wanting to talk, but at that point, after learning about commentary deletion, I didn’t want to be bothered. I decided that I would not reach out to her. I unfollowed her and moved on, because as I later told SH, Aiyana Stanley Jones was born around the same year that S was--but unlike Aiyana (who was murdered by WHO?), S will be fine. And I don’t regret my decision. I would have been a fool to try to be the Black person who “reaches out” to try to educate somebody. And I would have regretted doing so.

So, anyway. SH tried to encourage me to talk to S anyway, because S felt so bad and hurt. I politely declined, gave my reasons why, and me and SH left it at that and remained cordial. This is something I do regret because I should have known better. Because guess what? About a month later (IF THAT), SH made a post regurgitating S’s same pro-cop sentiments. 

But I made no fuss. I simply unfollowed and blocked. She’d shown me who she was and I finally decided to believe her. No need to argue. I had no desire to “call her out” because she already knew how I felt--and she’d only shown me that (as history has shown my ass time and time again), I don’t matter to her and I don’t count in the world she’d rather exist in--(edit: or at the very least, the fanfic worlds she’d like to create). Calling her out would have been fucking pointless.

So, I can’t let this week end with y’all thinking that this is just some “slip up” or misstep--or some “sudden attack” made out of jealousy or whatever other shit people are spewing. These recent events are merely a day that has long been coming. 

Now. 

I’m about to put “Civil War” in my filtered tags and content, and go on about my day. Bye.

[andypantsx3]

hii andy! how are you? i hope you’re doing fine :)))

i have a question and its quite simple (but you still don’t have to feel obligated to answer hehe), but how do you deal with writers block and feeling inadequate because of said writers block?? ? its ruining my life (im half serious but 🙁 ugh crying sobbing and regurgitating)

anyways, i hope you have a good day!

This one is so tough!! In my opinion it's just one of those things you kind of have to go through and weather out the best you can, and circle back to your writing when you're ready! And dealing with it probably depends on how you personally work best--either you can 1) power through it and write hot garbo and come back and edit later, or you can 2) wait it out and try to address other aspects of your life in the interim.

If I try and power through writer's block by carrying on writing, it honestly often makes it worse? Because I end up pooping out like, the hottest shit sandwich ever and it's horrible and unreadable and it absolutely tanks my self-esteem. So then I don't even like what I'm working on and I have less motivation to finish it, and it draws out the block even longer.

But if you're someone to whom the productivity matters in that kind of period more than the quality, then maybe it would be worth continuing to just write whatever, with the knowledge that you can always circle back and clean it up later! Whatever is going to make you feel better about it at the end of the day is what you should do!

What I personally prefer to do is just let the block win and stop writing. I'll do a whole host of other things to try and keep cool while I wait it out. I'll read a book, to take a break from my own headspace and hopefully get inspired again. Sometimes, if it's bad, that turns into like, three or four books. I'll go out with friends for the weekend and forget all about my fic, watch a TV show I've been meaning to get into just to change up the media I'm interacting with.

Usually I'll also get really into my other hobbies to keep up my self-esteem while my writing is trying to tank it lol. I'll cook a bunch, or exercise more or like, plonk around on my piano a little. I'll talk to people who are supportive about me & my work, ask them questions and let them gas me up lol.

TLDR; I think it really depends on your personal priorities and preferences! But please know that it WILL end sometime, and it all very much is just part of the process and no reflection of any shortcomings you think you have.

Please take very good care of yourself during this time, and to the best of your ability, please try not to feel guilty! Enjoy this time for what it is, and let yourself be open to what it means for the other areas of your life!!

I'm rooting for you!!

[builder051]

Hey!! Love the prompt list you posted! Would you write a fic with Steve and Bucky with the prompt “look at you, you’re sweating bullets”? Hope you’re having a great day!

Ok, so I’m answering your prompt and posting the debut fic for the new “We fit like an enfit” ‘verse (just call it tube ‘verse in your prompts and such. The official title is a joke about a type of syringe/extension that’s supposed to be impossible to pull apart while feeding.)

———————————-

Steve finishes typing up the story from his notebook onto his hard drive, then closes his laptop and sets it aside. His stomach’s been gurgling loudly for the last hour, and he isn’t sure how long it’ll hold before something undesirable happens.

Steve pops the mini can of ginger ale that sits on the side table and takes a tentative sip. The fluid goes down easily enough, but it feels cold and hard on his gut. Steve makes a face and sets that aside as well. He looks down at his backpack and the long whitish tail that hangs out one side and disappears up under his shirt. He’s still got at least 2 hours to go before he can come off the feed, though he’s already longing for later in the evening when he can free himself from the tube and take a long, hot shower, preferably with James behind the curtain with him.

Steve sighs as a blush floods across his cheeks, followed by a rush of hot nausea. He closes his eyes and shakes his head for a second, but the feeling doesn’t abate. He dips his head, putting chin to chest, but all that does is yank his stomach up into the region of his throat.

Steve lets out his breath, knowing he isn’t likely to vomit, and even if he does, he can’t regurgitate food. His formula enters his body through the small intestine, so it’s too low to come back up through the mouth. The tiny amounts he does take orally might sit in his stomach almost indefinitely due to the organ’s paralysis, but he hasn’t had anything recently, save the sip of ginger ale.

The rotten feeling inside him grows, and Steve pulls his feet up off the floor and tucks them tightly beneath his body. He wraps his arms around his shins and buries his face in his knees. “You’re fine,” Steve tells himself. “It’s fine. It’ll pass...”

And it does, sort of. The cramp rises to a sharp pain that hits between his stoma and his navel, then begins to ease off. However, it leaves a stronger feeling of nausea in its wake.

“Ugh,” Steve groans. He pits his head back down, but then lifts it momentarily to glance at the living room wall clock. It’s nearly 6, and high time for James to be arriving home. Steve wants to pull himself together, but even more so, he’s desperate for James’s help. Exactly what that looks like, Steve isn’t sure, but it has to get him out of this nauseated limbo at least.

Steve feels a wash of hot saliva drift over his back teeth, and he swallows hard, setting his jaw. “Not now,” he mumbles. “Not today.” He wants to be in a good mood when James gets home. He wants to sit at the table together, then hop in the shower and maybe share some cuddles before he has to hook back ip to his feed and go to bed.

His stomach makes a loud gurgle again, as if making fun of his plan. The urge to throw up presses in around Steve’s neck and chin, and he swallows hard, tasting salt and bile on his saliva. He swears under his breath, then claps a hand over his mouth to keep both the word and the impending sick trapped inside.

At the same moment, the doorknob rattles, and the door to the apartment opens. James stands in the doorway, sweatshirt pushed up to the elbow on his prosthetic arm.

“Hey,” says James brightly. Then, “What’s up?” When he focuses on Steve.

“Mm,” Steve forces out. “Not feeling so good.”

“Aw, geez, ok.” James shuts the door behind him and hurries to Steve’s side, dropping his bag and kicking off his shoes beside the welcome mat.

“Look at you,” he says as he squats in front of Steve and takes both his hands, prying them away from his mouth. “You’re sweating bullets.”

“Am I?” Steve gives his his head a small shake, and sure enough, his hair is now stuck to his forehead.

“You need the bathroom?” James asks

“Starting to think so,” Steve admits. “I was thinking I was fine, then out of nowhere, just my stomach—“

The begging of a retch works its way up his throat, and Steve swallows frantically.

“Ok, come on.” James takes Steve under the arms and lightly sets him on his feet, then leads him down the short hall into the bathroom.

Steve kneels before the toilet and rests his forehead on the seat, suddenly too tired and trembly to hold it up. James’s hand appears on the back of Steve’s neck. “You’re warm,” he comments. “Sure you’re not running a fever?”

“Uh,” Steve starts, apit running down his lip. “Check later?”

“Sure,” James agrees.

Steve reaches backward to pat James’s knee, then grips the edges of the toilet bowl. He slams his eyes shut as his body heaves, and the ginger ale comes up mixed with thick yellow bile.

“‘S ok,” James soothes. “Just get it up.”

Steve doesn’t need encouraging. He hangs his jaw open, and more flows out, catching his lip and chin. Then his breath dissolves into deep pants.

“Done?” James asks after a couple of minutes, rubbing circles into Steve’s shoulder blades.

Steve nods, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.

“Want me to turn off your feed?” James offers, reaching for Steve’s backpack.

“It’s too early still,” Steve says hoarsely.

“But it can’t feel good, running into you when you’re all churned up.”

He has a point. Steve nods and lets him turn off the pump and undo the extension.

“There,” James says, laying flat the hem of Steve’s shirt. “Feel better?”

“A little,” Steve replies.

“You look a little better. Still off, but less likely to pop.” James smiles.

“‘S good, I guess.”

“Now, what do you think?” James asks. “Shower, then bed? I’ll go with you to make sure you don’t pass out in there.” There’s a twinkle of laughter in his eye.

“Sounds amazing,” Steve says. “All of it.”

He gets shakily to his feet and begins to strip. “As long as you don’t mind spending your evening taking care of me.”

James stands as well and oulls his sweatshirt over his head. “Couldn’t think of a better way to spend it.”

[veryvincible]

fic writer meme :)

i was tagged by @dirigibleplumbing <3

1. How many works do you have on AO3?

17 right now! I'm pretty sure my highest ever was in the 90s, pre-Cass purge.

2. What’s your total AO3 word count? 

63,334.

3. What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

Work of Art, No Embellishments, Last (Another) Day, Love (Actually), and First Impression. Quite the genre mix. ^^

4. Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

I try to, and I definitely do within the first few days of posting something, but sometimes comments can be difficult to respond to without regurgitating the same "Thank you!" over and over again, even though it's definitely heartfelt. There's usually an amount of time after posting that I mostly stop responding to comments unless one touches me deeply.

5. What’s the fic you’ve written with the angstiest ending?

Maaybe Disjointed, which starts in misery and ends in misery and definitely has more build-up and less hope than most other angst I've written. That being said, On the Steps of the Curia Pompeia is straight up just a brutal gay murder where Tony is in agony the whole time.

6. What’s the fic you’ve written with the happiest ending?

I have some fluffy-ish oneshots that I think could qualify, but they're too short to really have solid "endings" or parts with separate and distinct moods, so... probably First Impression. It's a silly little get-together.

7. Do you write crossovers? If so what’s the craziest one you’ve written? 

Nope! I'm not opposed to it, though.

8. Have you ever received hate on a fic?

Yep!

9. Do you write smut? If so what kind?

Yep! It's mostly the "pretty men are in agony because life and fuck instead of talking" kind.

10. Have you ever had a fic stolen? 

Not a fanfic, but definitely writing.

11. Have you ever had a fic translated?

I don't think so, but I also don't have a great memory with these kinds of things.

12. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

Yep! Many moons ago.

13. What’s your all time favorite ship?

Anyone who knows me knows that "favorite" is a word I have conflict with often, but my big two are Stony and Ty/Tony.

14. What’s a WIP that you want to finish but don’t think you ever will?

Whatever it is, I probably don't even remember it. One of the many Ty scribblings, I think.

15. What are your writing strengths?

I like my tone-setting and my diction; it's not necessarily a "writing" thing exclusively so much as it is an internal monologue + speaking thing that bleeds into my writing. I did pretty intentionally curate my vocabulary and manner of speaking so that it would sound pleasing to me personally, with little regard for how it came across. One of the funnier things that I picked up was using outdated language like "[something] of yore" and "egads" and "over yonder" and whatnot, and the reason it was funny was because I was a child when I chose to do this (all of my teachers loved me, you can imagine). I'm no longer a child, but I still talk like this, and it's not nearly as funny. I'm really dealing with the consequences of my actions here as a once-wannabe-court-jester.

... But, y'know, it's me, and I still like it. And, hey, at least baby me grew out of "mehercule!"

16. What are your writing weaknesses?

I'm terribly melodramatic (in case you couldn't tell) and undisciplined, and I don't like killing my darlings because I don't want them to fall into the abyss of forgotten memories.

17. What are your thoughts on writing dialogue in other languages in a fic?

There are plenty of ways of doing it and they certainly all have their pros and cons, I think. I really love the comic book-y style of "<insert dialogue here>" (*translated from [Language]!), but this can get a bit clunky when a fic is written like a book without other comic book-like elements.

My preference in most writing, just because it's what I'm used to, is introducing the foreign words and then having translations at the end in an author's note. I'm currently writing a Filipino Tony fic and that's what I'll probably end up using.

18. What was the first fandom you wrote for?

No clue. It was a while back and my memory's shit. The earliest fic I can confidently remember (even though I know for a fact this is still, like, maybe 5 years after I started writing fanfic) was for Durarara!! I still hold DRRR!! very dear in my heart.

19. What’s a fandom/ship you haven’t written for yet but want to? 

I'm planning on writing a Critical Role Campaign 3 fic for a friend of mine.

Aaand I'd like to write Ty Stone/Carol Danvers at some point, because my lovely girlfriend and I stumbled across the concept of them as a dynamic and it tickled me.

20. What’s your favorite fic you’ve written?

Once again, terrible at favorites. I still am proud of Disjointed, just because it was the first horror piece I'd ever finished all the way through and I think it's far more functional than I expected it to be. I'm also proud of On the Steps, just because of how gloriously self-indulgent it was.

If this includes unpublished fics, though, I'm reworking Sympathy for the Devil (the big Ty fic) right now and I really do love it. It's kind of a canon rewrite that really sets the tone for a Tiberius storyline that would be the most meaningful to me (kind of, ish). I'm planning many different Ty fics with many different characterizations (from "actually not the worst dude" to "has never felt love or empathy or kindness in his life"), but SFTD is what I hope I can point to as my Favorite Ty.

-

i'm pretty sure everyone i love has been tagged on this post before so if this is a double tag then whoops! @welcomingdisaster @kiyaar @oluka @starvels @laexploradoraaa

[morningsound15]

hi! i’m a major fan of yours across several fandoms (bechloe, fuffy, hermione/anyone 👀) and i’m always really impressed with your ability to jump around fandoms while telling these very complete stories with awesome characterizations. any chance you’d be willing to share what your process is like for preparing to write a story? thank you for sharing your work! really enjoy it.

asks like this are so so sweet! compliments AND writing process questions at the same time is just *chef’s kiss*

i got a similar question to this in a comment on one of my stories a few weeks back, i hope you don’t mind that i’ve lifted some of this from that answer!

when i’m starting a new fic, these are the 3 basic things i focus on (not always consciously, this is just how my brain works):

characterization (who is the story about/why is the story being told)

plot (what story is being told)

and form (how is the story being told)

(this is long! more under the cut)

CHARACTERIZATION: the first thing i do is try to get a feel for how the characters think and speak. so the first thing i’ll write is usually something light and banter-y between two main characters. i find that story beats, reactions, emotions, etc. (all important parts of scenes) flow from me much more easily if i have a good feel for the characters and how they interact with each other. for example, the first scene i record in a voice note on my phone or dump in a word document might be: character A and B are eating breakfast the morning after sleeping together for the first time. they haven’t talked about it yet. they are trying to hide what they did from the other people in the room while trying to subtly see how the other one is acting

writing a scene like this would help me figure out a few important things about my characters, like how they interact with each other when they need to be covert (are they embarrassed? flirty? ashamed? cold? nervous? blushing?), how their friends might or might not pick up on their dynamic, and most importantly it lets me practice the pace of how the characters speak and the basic nature of their conversation styles with each other (do they crack jokes, are they unnecessarily cruel, do they openly flirt, is there a competitive undertone, exasperated fondness, etc.?).

people should be able to understand everything important about your characters from the way they speak and hold themselves in a scene. having the characters’ voices, rhythms, and interpersonal banter down is really important in making sure that whatever is happening in your story is compelling. if the characters feel real, the plot will feel real, and you can hook people into reading stories for fandoms they otherwise wouldn’t.

PLOT: this is kind of cheating, since i GUESS technically ‘plot’ is the first step to preparing to write a story, but to me, the most fundamental thing you need to have down to write fic is an understanding of the characters. you can use whatever tried-and-true soulmate/fake dating/bed sharing/alternate universe tropes you want, but the thing that makes or breaks a story is its characters, so that’s why i put that part first.

but okay, talking about plot. for me what comes first is less ‘plot’ than ‘situation’. 

here’s an example: i decided a while back that i desperately want to write a sansa x margaery hogwarts au. has it been done before? yes. does it sound fun? yes, and also, i love writing hp universe, and i love sansa stark. but the idea’s been done before, so what am i hoping to write that contributes to the genre/trope? what’s my hook? what’s my angle? what’s my read of the characters and how do i want to get them together?

i settled on this: Sansa is the first Stark in five generations to not be sorted into Gryffindor.

suddenly bam, i’m off and running. i’ve got a story universe, i’ve got a couple of characters whose voices i’m starting to settle into, i’ve got a whole cast of characters i have to suddenly squash into this alternate universe, think about what roles they should play, how THEY should speak and interact. suddenly i’m drafting scene ideas to make sure that i highlight the sibling dynamics i want between the starks, the tension between sansa and arya, sansa’s alienation and the family’s pride.

the next step is thinking about story beats. what are good tropes in hp universe stories (spell casting scenes, hogsmede scenes, quidditch scenes) -- how can i write some of these with a new fun twist? similarly, what are good tropes in romantic stories (jealousy/pining, being forced to work together when you don’t want to, romantic rivals) and how can i use these characters to pull off these tropes in a way that feels natural and novel? and of course, hugely important — when should the characters kiss for the first time? (every story’s gotta have a good first-kiss scene.)

.

i like my stories, generally, to have 2 main plots going: the romance plot between the two main characters, and the maintext plot/situational hijinx they’ve gotten themselves into. figuring out how to weave those storylines together (and ideally to have the Big Climax Scenes Converge Somehow) is tough. so i write in bursts, jumping around between chapters and paragraphs and scenes, cutting whole sections and shuffling them around constantly.

FORM: the first drafts of my chapters are mostly dialogue; i go back in and add actions and internal monologue as some of the last things that i do. scene transitions are also some of the last things i write, or beginnings/endings to scenes. that’s just a personal preference.

i don't tend to write linearly. i guess you could say i write in a vignette style; that’s why most of my fics are organized with individual scenes divided by a textual break, rather than long continuous stream of consciousness/linear time. this allows me a lot of freedom in my writing; if something isn’t working at the end of a scene, or if i can’t figure out a way to transition between moments/times of day, i can just add a text break in. easy as pie. it keeps my stories tighter (lol i know they’re so long who am i kidding) and lets me move things along.

while i jump around a lot, writing scenes that strike me when they strike me, filling in the gaps here and there as i go along, i do like to make some important decisions early on. i think about tracing the arc of the main relationship — are they interested in each other right away, what are the obstacles to them being together, is there going to be an issue with sexuality/queerness or is that a non-issue in this universe? — stuff like that. i think really important scene ideas to have early on (if i’m writing fic, obviously this applies strictly to writing fanfiction romance stories, which are already pretty trope-filled (that’s not a read i love tropes)) are the scenes that Change the direction of the story: the get-together scene and the plot climax. having an understanding of how those crucial scenes are going to play out means that i can make sure that all the writing before those scenes is building in the correct direction.

that doesn’t mean i stick to my outline, or that i’m afraid to change things up! on the contrary. i like to have an idea of where my story is going to end up as i'm writing, because then i can shape the characters and let them grow in a way that naturally arrives at the conclusion. but of course the conclusion is usually just an idea, a vague notion (‘they break out of the curse dimension’ or ‘they’re going off to college uncertain but hopeful’). i avoid writing the end of the story until the very end because the natural conclusion changes as my story goes through more drafts and i get a better feel for the characters. i also like to see how the readers are reacting to the story, what they're noticing, what questions they still have that i need to answer, if there are any scenes that aren't coming across the way i want them to, that sort of thing.

.

and one last note for fic writers -- this is what i always think about as i’m writing/about to write a story: why am i writing this story? what am i trying to say, how am i trying to better understand the characters or deepen my understanding of canon with this? am i adding to canon or just repeating it? is this personal catharsis, meaningless smut, a bittersweet fix-it?

readers are smart, and most importantly, they’re fans! they’re coming to fic from consuming the original product! they don’t want what they’ve just seen regurgitated to them. take risks in your stories! know the characters, dig deep into their relationships and get inside their heads. if you’ve got the characters down you’ve got everything you need to write a good fic.

mostly i just hope people come away from my stories satisfied by what they've read.

.

you all know me, i write for any fandom i want to with no rhyme or reason. i have a lot of ideas and varied interests. but i don’t speak a TON about my role as fanfic consumer, so i wanna do that.

fanfiction, for me, is a way of better understanding these things that i love. i come to fanfiction after i finish a show or video game, if i’m revisiting childhood movies or books. ao3 is one of the first places i go after i finish watching something, because i am enchanted by the way fans take characters that exist and with just a few twists of a word or a look, they change the meaning completely, elevate canon, or flesh out side characters that basically had nothing going for them. and because when i finish something i love i don’t want it to be over. sometimes that means i write, sometimes that means i read, but i always go to fic. i love it, it’s comforting and beautiful.

.

phew! that was long-winded. thanks for the ask!! sorry for the word vomit

(also yes hermione/anyone aka hermione/happiness)

[sarcastically-defensive17]

Hi love👋🏽 I’m the one who asked for lh & reader’s secret relationship and I absolutely LOVED “father”!!! It was bloody amazing 🥺 you killed me with the end! I don’t want to be rude so can you write a part 2 only if you want to? I don’t want to pressure you so do as u like😇 love you and your work

What your father says, “Father” Pt 2 - L. Hemmings

TRIGGER WARNING - MENTIONS OF AND SCENE DEPICTING DOMESTIC/CHILD ABUSE

Hey lovie, sorry this took so long! I just had to make it a song fic, as “Wht your father says” by The Vamps (my babies) fits so well with the idea I had!

Sorry if you don’t like it, but I hope you do!

Requests are open! Send them in, lovies!

He hadn’t spoken to Y/N in weeks. The night her father found them together did not go well.

“Boyfriend?” Her father laughed cynically.

There was fear in her eyes, which made Luke link his fingers with hers despite the glare directed towards him.

“Yes-yes daddy. My boyfriend,” her voice as quiet and she hung her head.

Luke knew that her father was controlling. He liked Y/N to act the part of a good girl who listened to her fathers rules with a smile on her face.

He just didn’t know how the fiery girl he had come to love had become so subordinate under the steely gaze of her father.

“Get out,” his voice was harsh, and directed towards Luke.

“Please, sir, let me explain-“

“Get. Out.” He was seething now, and he was scared to leave his girl.

“Luke, go. Please.” She pulled her fingers from his, tucking her hands together in front of her. Her eyes were still downcast.

He left despite every bone in his body begging him to grab her hand and take off.

By now, he knew her fathers schedule off by heart.

Exactly two weeks after he had been cast out of her house, he was rasping his knuckles on the wooden door of her house.

She opened the door, and her features immediately took on a forlorn look.

“Luke,” her voice trailed off. She didn’t know what to say. “You can’t be here.”

“Y/N please, just talk to me,” she tried to close the door, but he put his hand in the way.

“No, you need to go,” her voice was tense, but weak. She didn’t want to turn him away, but her father said she couldn’t see him anymore.

Is it a bad time to tell you I love you when I’m watching you walk away?

“Not until you talk to me,” his teeth nipped at the metal ring through his lip, hand unmoving from the door as she sighed and walked further into the house.

“There’s nothing to talk about. If my father found you here,” her voice stopped abruptly, not knowing what her father would do.

He went easy on her the first time; a five week grounding, no phone, no Luke, and the silent treatment followed by an increase in lectures about how she is a disgrace for thinking she could choose to be with Luke.

The decision isn’t hers, and it never will be. She needed to accept it.

“Y/N there is!” He followed her inside, closing the door behind him loudly causing her to jump slightly. “I love you. I need you.”

A bad time to tell you I need you when he’s made up his mind again?

She had cut him off completely.

He had sent her countless amount of messages, asking if she was okay and he received nothing in reply.

His words made her stop, and she fought to keep the tears from pooling behind her eyelids. She couldn’t turn to face him.

Her father brought up everything that had happened in Luke’s past. How he was a trouble maker who flunked lots of classes, had faced cautions for vandalism with his friends, skipped school more often than not.

There were rumors that he had been sent to juvenile detention that her father had believed, despite how far fetched and untrue they were.

She couldn’t deal with her fathers suffocating lectures, so she did the only thing that would make him happy. She promised to never see Luke again.

She hated to admit, over the two weeks she was starting to believe her father when he constantly reminded her how bad Luke was for her.

She didn’t realize that there were tears falling down her cheeks until a hand brushed them away.

All the rumours getting through, ‘cause he heard that I'm bad news, oh baby.

“Baby, please. Don’t throw this away because of him. Don’t throw us away,” his eyes gleamed with withheld emotion, and she sight caused her shoulders to ripple with a soft sob.

“You’re no good for me,” she whispered, barely loud enough for Luke to hear but he did.

His heart felt as if it shattered at her words.

He had faced much criticism because of his last actions, but Y/N was the exception. She had never judged him. Not once.

Until now.

“What did you say?” He wanted to make sure he heard her correctly. He wanted to be hearing things.

She took a deep breath, sterling her nerves to face the boy she loves, “You’re not good for me, Luke. I can’t be a good enough daughter with you setting me on the wrong path.”

More tears fell, and he pulled her against his chest. Her words were a regurgitation of her fathers’. That was evident as her hands cling to his flannel, her face buried in his pectoral muscles.

Fuck what your father says. I’m throwing stones at your window pane.

“You don’t mean that, Y/N. I know you don’t,” his voice cracked in fear. He couldn’t bear to hear her say those words and mean every part of it. It would break his heart.

She shook her head no, “My father says-“

“Fuck what your father says, Y/N. It is your life, not his. You can’t be his good little daughter forever,” he snapped, sending her an apologetic look when she recoiled at the tone of his voice. “I love you, and if you love me then let’s go.”

She furrowed her brows, “what do you mean, ‘let’s leave’?”

“Let’s leave this town, you and me. We’ve been talking about it for months. We’re both adults, we can go wherever we want,” his eyes were wide with hopefulness.

Before she could answer, the sound of a car pulling up sounded outside of the house. They didn’t realize how much time they had spent and now that Y/N’s father was home, their time was up.

“Go, now!” She whispered harshly, shoving him towards the back door, before rushing towards the front door to greet her father; as he had requested her to do every night. Another way of making sure she was not in another position with the ‘hoodlum’, as he called Luke.

Is it the good times, sneak in the back door when your dad's at work all day?

They began their routine of sneaking around again, but her father was getting suspicious.

They didn’t see each other again until the following week, on Sunday.

Y/N was waiting outside of the church to greet people as they walked inside. She didn’t expect Luke to show up in his Sunday best, that she didn’t know he had considering he hadn’t attended church before, and pull her around to the side of the building.

He pressed his lips to hers quickly, enjoying the few seconds of privacy they had before more people arrived.

A good time to lean in and kiss you when he's not up in your face

They had separated for the sermon, sneaking glances at each other throughout. Unfortunately, her father noticed the presence of the boy he deemed a trouble maker.

The two teenagers managed to sneak off to another hallway of the grand church afterwards, hoping to find a few seconds to simply exchange quick words of love when she was dragged back to the main area.

Everybody else had cleared out, leaving only Luke, Y/N and her father, who had a vice like grip on his daughters upper arm.

“Daddy? Stop, you’re hurting me!” She squealed, tears pricking her eyes from fear.

Her father had never laid a hand on her before, so she was terrified at the action.

“What did I tell you about him, Y/N? He is no good. He is scum. He is-“

“He is my boyfriend, daddy,” she halted her feet, leaving him to pull her defiant body along.

“Over my dead body,” he growled, eyes locking on the boy who stood in the doorway.

Luke focused on the grip he had on Y/N’s arm and the mix of anger and fear in her beautiful eyes.

“Let her go,” he seethed, stomping towards the older man.

“Stay out of this, hoodlum.”

“Daddy, don’t talk to him like that!” Y/N snapped, only to have the grip on her arm tighten and pull her further towards the exit of the church.

Luke rushed after then, determined to not let her leave with the man who was treating her so aggressively. Even if he was her father, he had no right I put his hands on his adult daughter in a way.

Without thinking, he shoved against the older man, causing his grip on his daughter to loosen and Y/N ran to Luke’s side.

Her fingers laced with his and they shook with fear as tears streamed down her face again.

“You dare touch me, boy?” There was a look of pure fury on his face, and the man radiated anything other than the kind purity the town knew him to have. “I was right about you. You’re nothing but a disrespectful, lowlife, scumbag who has ruined my daughter!”

“I ruined her?” Luke chuckled sarcastically, fixing the man with a defiant gaze, not planning to back down from the pastor. “You’re the one who is so obsessed with her being the woman you want her to be that you’re treating her life a child. She is 18, she’s not a little girl, anymore-“

“Don’t tell me how to treat my daughter, you punk!” Her father lunged for her again, but Luke moved her behind him further. “What did I say, Y/N? I said that this boy would drag you to hell and I am right. What did I say-“

“Fuck what you say,” Y/N spat from behind Luke, her voice faint and barely audible, but it still brought a satisfied smirk to her boyfriends lips.

“What was that?” Her father growled. His pastor cloth was ruffled, his appearance looking anything but what he presented himself as.

“I said,” she stepped out from behind the y’all boy, looking her father dead in the eyes with nothing but anger, “fuck what you say.”

“You dare speak to me-“

“I’m leaving. I can’t stand to be here anymore, with you,” she hissed at her father. She had planned to tell Luke she had made her decision, but her father interrupted her before she could, so she figured now would be the best time. She turned to her boyfriend, pulling the keys out of his pocket, “you in, Lukey?”

He grinned at her, “what are we waiting for?”

She tightened her grip on his hand, pulling him out of the building and towards his car.

So all that I keep saying to her; fuck what your father says...

[firesign23]

10 Fic Questions

The lovely @scoundrels-in-love tagged me in this, and I was SO FUCKING HAPPY, because this is the first time tumblr has notified me of a tag in... probably close to two months? And I know I’ve been tagged in a couple of things (there is a mug meme!), but Tumblr has also been broken in other ways and I’m lucky if I’ve seen a tenth of my dash. So, like, if you’ve tagged me in something in the last little while and I haven’t acknowledged it, FOR ONCE it’s not because I’m a flake.

1. what’s your favourite genre to write? Right this second? It feels like I only write pseudo-intellectual navel-gazing nonsense, with lofty ideas and nothing giving it gravitas or actually challenging, and if it’s the only thing I’m writing than it is my favourite by default. I might have a better answer when I’m not in a Burn The Whole Thing To Tthe Ground, You Self-Important Twat mood. 🙄

2. do you pull inspiration from real-life, or do you pull things from other books/fanfiction you’ve read? A little of everything, I think? It’s very rare that I can trace details of a story to one concrete source of inspiration. This is, by the way, terribly inconvenient when I write something and realise months later it’s like a poor, regurgitated version of someone else’s fic.  

3. do you tend to write one-shots, short stories, or longer things? A combination of all three? I've never written a loooong long fic and realise that I probably never will, which is killing me because there are a couple of fics I need that nobody else is likely to write and they will be looong, but stories come to me from 100 word drabbles to novel length stories, and I don't have the tiniest say in what is what.

4. do you prefer to write description or dialogue?: Presuming this is a case of all else being equal, I love writing dialogue where it’s all just feeding off each other. Usually that means banter, but not always, and I just love that zinging back and forth. I think part of it is that I am the worst conversationalist in real life, so finding a natural, dyanmic rhythm while writing dialogue feels extra satisfying.

5. favourite fic/book of all time? How the fuck does anyone answer this? I have no damn clue.  The only answer I can come up with is “Look, you know those stories that are sharp around the edges, and insightful and a little cynical, but at the end of the day they are stories of hope and love? THOSE.” Somehow I never write these stories, and I am now wondering why not. 

6. favourite trope? Rather than a favourite trope (although shout out to @ajoblotofjunk for doing one of my very favourites I rarely get to play with in 9 to 5 recently), I’ll say that my favourite thing isn’t the specific trope but the execution? A fic that either subverts expectations or gets to the very core of the trope dynamic in an incisive way while being so distinctly the characters is one of my favourite things in the world. 

7. are you the kind of person to work on more than one WIP?: My usual go-to is to have a longfic on the go, broken up with short things I can write in one or two good writing sessions when I need a break. That... is not what I’ve been doing of late, and bouncing around five different fics is fucking brutal and a terrible life choice. But that’s what my brain is doing right now, and I’m just grateful to be writing.

8. how long have you been writing for? For, like, fanfic I posted for other people? We got a computer and Internet connection summer of 2001 and I promptly found a way to be an even bigger nerd. So I've been on and off in fandom for over 18 years.

9. do you tend to write more during the morning, afternoon, or evening?: Time is but a hallucination. AKA I used to do some writing during the day and then hit peak productivity in the late evening/early hours of the morning, and neither of these things are possible right now due to the whole “homeschooling three kids and trying to survive a pandemic.” thing. If I can write at all these days, I consider it a victory. There have been very few victories.

10. do you prefer to post and update your WIP  chapter by chapter, or do you prefer to wait until your WIP is 100%  finished before sharing it? In an ideal world, I complete a fic 100% before I start posting. Every few longfics, however, I am seized with a need to start posting before it’s written and... those fics need that push that comes from posting, so I don’t regret it per se, but they also suffer for it quality-wise. So I swear that I will never post before completion again, and a few longfics later...

I have no idea who has done this (see: broken tumblr), but if you haven’t and you want to, consider this a tag!

[fallingfantom]

i was tagged by the wonderful, brilliant, amazing writer that is @bambixxblue and i seriously recommend checking out their ao3 account moonlight_xx, the fics are amazing!

1. are you named after anyone?

nope! i like to think i have a pretty unique name and my parents just came up with it to make it rhyme with my sister's name

2. when was the last time you cried?

last night.

3. do you have any kids?

nope

4. do you use sarcasm a lot?

probably wayyyy too much

5. what’s the first thing you notice about people?

eyes and watches/accessories. i love watches?? idk why. like i remember i was watching new hope club videos and there was one video where i was just staring at reece's watch instead of paying attention to the video. like if someone has a nice watch i will immediately notice it

6. what’s your eye colour?

brown

7. scary movies or happy endings?

scary movies! they're much more memorable

8. any special talents?

being tired all day but then getting into bed and lying wide awake for 5 hours

9. where were you born?

sydney, australia

10. what are your hobbies?

reading, watching random shit, playing badminton with the fam (its so fun)

11. do you have any pets?

i used to have guinea pigs but they died :(

(fun fact: getting guinea pigs was also how we realised i was allergic to animal fur which sucks because i love animals)

12. what sports do you play/have played?

i used to swim and play tennis

i also like playing basketball and netball (i may be short but i am a bomb ass shooter) but that was just at school during sports, and we stopped sports after year 10 which was in 2017 for me so its been 2 years

13. how tall are you?

5'3" or 5'4" i don't actually know my height

14. dream job?

lawyer or something to do with cybersecurity

15. favourite subject in school?

i didn't actually have a favourite subject. i kinda really hated school even though most of my teacher's were amazing, i just hate being forced to learn and regurgitate information.

on that note though i did have a least favourite subject because i'm pretty sure the teacher hated me. but that's a long ass story. but teacher's really make or break my opinion of a subject so if they're rude, clearly have favourites or hate me for no reason i then hate the subject and dread going to it

i tag whoever wants to do this because its weirdly fun?

[miheirie]

hi!

I think I wrote this whole thing for you guys a couple....hundred times now. It’s long but it is extremely important to me, and I have been dwindling around this whole thing for quite some time. Two people might read it or two hundred, it doesn’t matter.

 I needed to say somethings just for the sake of my friends on here who message me every now and then but I’m also doing this for the sake of my wellbeing. I hope you stick around to read the whole thing, and I hope you can continue to stick around me as well, love u guys. 

Warnings: There will be mentions of depression as well as suicidal themes. I put asteriks (*) to mark the sections where I do mention these themes. Please, if these warnings apply to you, be cautious of the asteriks (*), or scroll through. If you do feel the way I did, know that 1) you are not alone and 2) there is help and good in the world. Also this wasn’t edited very well, bc I was a nervous bean who didn’t want to reread. 

Another warning I have is that this whole shenangian biggie majiggie is pretty long, so TLDR (too long dont/didnt read): I did not love myself, but now I do. That being said, here we go!

I started this tumblr on Halloween of 2018 with the intentions of just reblogging stuff about the one and only Harold Styeel (hehe). That was it, no writing no messaging other people, nothing. That obviously didn’t last long because I met people. 

I read imagines and fics and stories and sequels, all so beautifully written it would make my heart throb. And these stories or posts wouldn’t make my heart throb because Harry was in them but because I fell in love with the writers. I fell in love with how passionate they were in writing every single series, how much time it took for them to write 1,000+ words, and to edit them and post headers and etc. I fell in love with the way Harry was written not as a pop idol, but as a human man, with different lives, whether it was Boxer Harry or Librarian Harry, or whatever occupation they wanted him in. And no longer for me was it about him, it was about the story (ok, fine sometimes it was about him...). 

So I did what everyone did, I decided to write. I posted my own drabbles of Harry. I ventured off into a world that had the worst stigma of being crazy, psychotic, obsessive and weird. And I did it anyway because I felt safe, and loved and respected, because you guys did that. I still get messages or anons once in a while, where someone just wanted to pop in to tell me they loved chapter 3, or how I should fix a certain part and being in that world, helped me with everything. I was happy, I was in love. I met people who showed me the world. I met my best friend! What more could anyone ask for?

*WARNING*

But soon it wasn’t about the story anymore, nor was it about the people. I fell into a weird spiraling hole. I was ashamed and disappointed and mad and upset about myself. I soon hated everything I wrote, every single thing. It didn’t matter how many notes I got or how many messages, I loathed posting each and every single story. 

This hatred wasn’t just confined in the world of miheirie, it invaded my life. I hated what I looked like, how I felt, how I dressed, hell, I started hating how I laughed. I think the worst thing was, was that throughout this whole mist of hatred, I felt stupid. I wasn’t comparing myself to anyone, I was just comparing myself against myself (i know it doesn’t make sense, my brain got jumbled here). 

I would blame myself for the smallest things. Its your fault no one likes you, its your fault she doesn’t want to talk to you, its your fault they left, its your fault for being here.

And I knew I felt this way before, it was when I was suicidal a few months prior to the year of 2018. I hated, hated hated hated, myself. I would wish for my own silence and sometimes, it almost worked. 

*

This isn’t a story about how I get better and how I am super happy now. This is how I tried. I tried so freaking hard to live for myself. And I need you (if you read up to this point message me drink water dum dum), each and every single on of you to know, that if you ever feel this way to do the same. To live for you, to live for the smallest things that ignites sparks within your body. For me it was cleaning and journaling and painting little stars on my nails. I would sometimes fall into that whole, and some days I stayed in that hole for hours, days, but the mantra I needed was to live for me.

I started by removing toxic people from my phone, then to removing the things I always hated about my room (stupid closet door), then it came to organizing my goals, what did i want to accomplish my tonight? Was it to drink more water, or was it to orgabnize my backpack? I started extremely small, then as months passed, I went bigger. 

I deleted every single story from my blog. I know, it was hard for me. I cried, so so so so much. But it wasn’t all sad. Those stories for me were kind of torture, I only liked a few, but even then, I wasn’t happy. I felt like i was regurgitating ideas, and when I reread to proofread, I would gag. (I am so dramatic wth). So I deleted them, if enough of guys want to read them, I DO have them saved, and I can create a little something for you guys can see. 

I didn’t write nearly everything I was feeling, but I wrote enough. I was unhappy with my life, it felt like everything was wrong. I needed time from myself for myself to heal because I was just a huge mess. And within this hiatus, I discovered quite a few things; 

I really don’t like celery.

I love going to therapy, that shit is amazing. 

I’m pansexual.

I like YOGA!

Banana creme pie is orgasmic. 

Holy shit, did I really just say that? Online? That I...... like YOGA?!?! hAAHA, no but really, I am pansexual. Me discovering that is a whole other long ass post (interest? tell me!), but I feel like taking a break not only from tumblr, but from being online and from people outside my doors, was needed. 

That being said, I feel good? Yes, I do. I feel amazing, I’m basking in the sun and I feel so freaking good. Do I not feel good sometimes? Hell yea. Do I fall into depressive holes every now and then? All the time. But do I start again, no matter how long it took for me to start? All the time. 

I love you guys, I love this blog, I love everything about this community. I would feel unreal if you guys would have me again. Thank you being here, thank you for reading, even if it was a glimpse, and thank you for being you to inspire me, to be happy. 

<3 miheirie

[namgificrecs]

Angsty Namgi fics?

.I’ve got you ;)

city of stars (are you blooming just for me?)

by gwangjupiter

hanahaki disease: an illness where the victim regurgitates and coughs up flower petals when they suffer from unrequited love. thiscan only be cured through surgical removal, however the victim’s romantic feelings for their love disappear along side with the infection.

yoongi knows the reason he’s coughin petals for namjoon, a witch with constellation of stars glowing on his cheeks. expect, flowers aren’t the only things ripping his insides apart.

We are the reckless (we are the wild youth)

by Prudence27

Stumbling home, drunk, vomit-splattered, and in a haze, Namjoon muses at a love lost, while sitting on the cold bathroom floor of the apartment he used to share with Yoongi.

i’d rather be with you. (i shouldn’t.)

by septembersjoon

because he’d rather torture himself with the older, than be fully happy without him.

Part 1 of try not to hope.

i’ll confess now. (that i can’t face you.)

by septembersjoon

“i feel like i just broke my back on the floor-”

“you always used to tell me that you were tired of fixing the shit i broke..” he said, forcing a smile.

“you cant really fix my back either way, though.” he lets out a tired laugh.

“or my heart.”

Part 2 of try not to hope. 

i’ll be here for you. (i’ll hold on for you.)

by septembersjoon

“one day i’ll be fine.” he shakily sighed out, blinking away the stinging sensations in his eyes.

no matter how much he wanted so desperately to give up he was going to try and stay.

yoongi taught him to be patient so many times before, so he was going to try.

even if he felt like he couldn’t anymore.

even if he didn’t really want to.

he still had something to look forward too, and as long as he did, he would try to hang on for a bit longer.

Part 3 of try not to hope.

these days i can’t sleep at night. (i’m tipsy, but don’t fill my cup.)

by septembersjoon

“i’m sorry you couldn’t trust me.”

yoongi left, the door shutting quietly,

only then did namjoon finally allow himself to cry.

~ Marta