missevilwritingblog

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Old, Borrowed, New (Fic Excerpt)

Tommy was born long after the Blood God’s brand image codified into what it was now, but dinners when Techno and Phil came home were a treat far and few between, and it was a popular tale to spin, Techno’s cape’s origin.

He was still just a young piglin boy, fresh out of the Nether, hungry and skilled with a knife and wearing only rags- weak and clinging things, Philza would chime in- that gave more to his allusions of ferality than it did his abilities. His clothing was always stained red, not of dye but blood, unable to be washed away in the washing tubs in Hypixel.

Philza had seen him wandering the bedwars district, clutching emeralds- far the wrong currency for this location-and taken him in for a bite and a bath. Philza had made the first cape, then just an old blanket with a few odd stains, and presented it to Technoblade as a token of friendship. Philza had proposed the idea of an emerald alliance, Philza had jumpstarted Technoblade’s love of luxury, and grandiosity- 

All just to suit the nature of the cape, Techno would later say, bashful and embarrassed. 

Tommy initially thought it was just a cute story to tell at dinner times, something to keep him from knowing the true story behind his family’s long absences. But he remembered the look in Techno’s eyes when he found the old first cape in storage, remembered the soft way he retold the story as sheers cut through the rotted edges of the cloth, just before he placed his most treasured belonging on Tommy’s shoulders. 

Right before telling him that it was now his inheritance, as the strongest warrior he’d ever met.

Tommy ran his fingers along frayed and moth eaten ends, biting his lip against the tears welling up in his eyes. A memento of a better time in his life, one he’d tried fervently not to remember, but of which not a single memory from his childhood left it behind. Not because it was anything special- even as Techno’s first cape it wasn’t exactly museum worthy- but because it was proof that Technoblade had loved him, had well and and truly cared, in his own way. 

If not for the fabric now resting in his hands, he might have written it off as a dream, a fantasy, but no. Here it was, proof that in other time, he really did mean something to these people. 

Proof in the form of a bundle of fabric, now ill-fitting, in all senses of the term.

Soooo I bit the bullet and finally published a DSMP Fanfic. We all knew it was coming at some point, that some point  just happens to be today. Hurray! You can find it Here if you want to read the rest of it, this is just a small excerpt. It’s more a collection of drabbles around a core concept than a fic, but I really liked the atmosphere I managed to pull from it- and I might write more in the future, honestly. We shall see though, it’s just as likely (or, uh, more likely) that I don’t ^^,

Either way, if you’ve made it this far thanks for reading and I hope you enjoy the full fic! 

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Identical (But not the same) Snippet!

Mikumo takes in the sounds of Izuku snoring, trying to let it sooth him.

It’s been a long time since they slept together.

Well, that’s not quite true. They do share a bed, after all, but that’s more because their quirk is fickle, and they sleep easier within arms length. Even with that, though, it’s more often they sleep on opposite sides, with separate blankets and back turned- Really sleeping together, curled up and protective… they haven’t had to do that since the fourth grade.

Tonight, though, Izuku’s curled up and tucked away into his side. He’d fallen asleep shortly after their talk, head pressed to Mikumo’s chest, soothing himself with the steady sounds of synchronized heartbeats. 

Mikumo wished he could do the same. As it was, his brother’s lifeless eyes still haunted him with every blink. 

But something else, too.

“I want to be a hero that never lets anyone suffer. A hero who can stop their pain before it happens.” 

He pulls Izuku’s head in closer, resting his chin on fluffy curls with a sigh. 

His poor, idealistic, naive brother. It was a tall order, one that promised burnout and struggle and pain beyond comparison. Izuku’s bleeding heart couldn’t handle that, but his thick head would never take in the truth if Mikumo spelled it out for him. 

So what could he do? What was there to do, to protect his twin from a fate worse than death…?

Well. If Izuku wanted to be a hero that prevented other’s suffering, then fine. He’d just have to be a hero that prevented Izuku’s. 

He’d make any sacrifice to do so.

I swear to the universe, I’ve been trying to write this chapter for three months and only now is it taking a shape that I’m even halfway happy with.  Here’s to hoping I can edit the rest of the draft into something that can be posted within the week ^^, I just want to move onto the fun parts…! (Haha)

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the suffering never ends

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Chapter two of Identical is out now!! ^^ 

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I think a surprising amount of writers don’t realize that tragedies are supposed to be cathartic. They’re intended to result in a purging of emotion, a luxurious cry; the sorrow caused by a great tragedy is akin to fear caused by a good horror movie – it’s a “safe” sorrow, one that is actually satisfying to the audience. It can still be beautiful! It’s isn’t supposed to just be salting the earth so nothing can grow.

But that’s how you get grimdark: writers who don’t realize that they’re supposed to be doing something with the audience instead of to the audience.

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omg, who made this, this is the realest thing i read for last 5 days

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Chapter two of Identical is out now!! ^^ 

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Hey y'all why are writers always cold?

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Anonymously - or not - tell me what passage, fic, line of narration, or anything you remember me by as a writer.

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“You’re Not a Good Writer.”

I once received a DM comprised of just that sentence. Nothing else. No constructive criticism or any reason as to why this person clearly agreed with my own view of myself.

For someone who has never told anyone in their real life that they write anything, reading something like this from an anonymous user only solidified in my mind the fact that this person was right.

I’m not a good writer.

After an embarrassing amount of minutes passed, in which I thought about deleting every story I ever posted, I decided to delete the message instead. Unfortunately, that didn’t mean I could delete the feelings it caused or change the fact that I’m not a good writer.

Two weeks went by and I didn’t write anything, let alone post. Then I received a comment on a story I had posted three years prior, one I’d written after a death in our family. The comment read, “Thank you for sharing this heartfelt story. I really needed this. I just lost my mom and this really got me today.”

I stopped thinking about being a good writer after that. I thought instead, “what if I had deleted my stories and that one person three years later hadn’t read it that day?”

Here’s what I realized: no one is a good writer.

Good means to be approved of, but stories aren’t created from approval. They’re built from life experiences, feelings, and emotions Therefore, the impact of anyone’s story isn’t good or bad. It’s a million other things.

Heartfelt.

Sad.

Funny.

Inspiring.

Romantic.

So to all the story writers out there, hold your head up, write what is in your heart, and never doubt that there isn’t at least one person out there that needs to read your story.

So, no.

We’re not good writers, but why would we want to be?

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“He looked up to see emerald eyes, staring down at him with more malice than any four year old should be able to possess.

Deku.

He towered above him, shaking his hand- shaking that hand that punched him, Bakugou realized, growing more distressed at the thought. His gaze was quickly moved back to the quirk thief as several explosions went off, until finally Mikumo’s fists closed with a finality that shook him to the core.

“Don’t you ever lay a finger on my brother,” Izuku said, cold and powerful.

For the first time, Bakugou felt true fear.”

In which AFO doesn’t just have one son, he has two- and they both share All For One.

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Love that feeling when you’ve found the perfect name for your fic, and no one else in the fandom has used it

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It was so warm.

The heat radiated off the cobblestone entryway, nearly sizzling where he stood atop it.  Even in the dead of night the world here felt sweltering, suffocating and hot.  

The house was large. Far larger than any one house had the right to be, tall and imposing. Not flashy, though, not gaudy like he’d expected- it was simple, and traditional, yet the elegance of it’s design screamed ‘I’m better than you’ in practically every way.

He couldn’t stand it.

Suffocating.

Izuku’s red shoes shifted against the stones. Softly, gently, so not to disturb the eerie quiet, but to prove a point. Eyes flashed dangerously in his direction as he did so, glinting harshly with the light of fire. Hands poised to fight, tensed, then forcefully placed in a neutral position.

It was a measured reaction. A sign of sparks still unfinished. Hands tensed, flexed, unfurled themselves, and he had to mask a flinch at the sight, remind himself that these hands never hurt him.

That they would never hurt him.

“You came.”

The words didn’t break the mood, tensed and quietly spoken as they were. Another person might have strained just to hear them, but Izuku didn’t need to hear to understand the words.

“I told you I would,” he said in reply, lowly, eyes sliding to the large house behind them. Nothing in the windows, not a shred of light outside of flickering flames.

“It’s three in the morning.”

Izuku shifted his gaze back, letting the fact slide through his mind a moment before giving a nearly imperceptible shrug. He shifted his sneakers against the stones once more.

“I said no matter what.”

Hands tense, curl into fists, unfurl. The weight of unspoken words sinks the air around them, dense and heavy and suffocating. Izuku sweats under the heat, but stays put, stays still, waiting for his moment in the dimming light.

Hands tense, arms coil, shoulders start to shake.

“I don’t want to be a hero.”

And Shouto’s embers finally die out.

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Hey guys guess what Broken Reality Playlist

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this scene alone is the peak of child character writing 

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Me: I am going to consume this new content in reasonable amounts at a reasonable pace

Me, 5 minutes later:

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Harmonia (@honeiee)

Harmonia Rosales repaints classic artworks to show God is a black woman

Ahead of her latest show, New World Conciousness, the painter reflects on why we must reject the stale, pale, male traditions of art