#i made myself very sad writing this

[twice-in-a-blue-moon]

when solomon has sex with you for the first time, he makes sure to absolutely worship your body. during the first kiss scene with him, he said he's been waiting for a chance to do it. so with this, he's going to make sure his patience will pay off. not an inch of your skin will be unloved by him. it may have taken so long, but the end result will be perfect as the two of you are satisfied, love growing by the second

(Ooh, thank you for the food, anon!! Solomon's first kiss scene will forever have my heart) Reader is GN! :)

Minors DNI!

"Why don't you come just a little closer?"

You shift a little closer until there's no space between you two on the bed, and his lips are back on yours. His hand comes up to cradle your jaw, softly rubbing his thumb along to solidify in his mind that you are here and that this is happening.

Somehow, miraculously, he finally got you alone...and you want him too.

Though he fears he'll get too eager and move too fast for your liking, leading to crossing a boundary or scaring you away. So, he's careful, treating you as if you were glass, slow to do anything more than kiss you like this. Truthfully, he could just do this all night and he'd still be over the moon. But he can't deny in his heart the need for more.

His hand on your jaw slowly slides down your neck, simply letting his fingertips brush against the sensitive skin. It's warm, and he can feel your pulse thrumming just beneath. He wonders how it would feel against his lips.

Solomon reluctantly pulls away from your lips, leaning down to instead kiss along the column of your neck. It elicits a soft gasp, and he feels giddy that he can get such a cute response from you. It only serves him to want to hear more. A secondary motive.

With each article of clothing he removes from your body, he falls deeper in love as he sees his person bared completely to him. It signifies the trust you've built together. And he'll do everything to never lose it - a promise he quietly makes to himself.

From your neck, he lavishes kisses along your collarbones, down both of your arms, your shallowly rising and falling chest, your soft stomach, all the way down to your naval. Any further is iffy territory and he wants explicit permission before he does anything more.

Through a husky tone, he asks, "is this okay? Can I continue?"

Your approval and reassurance are resounding. The weight of worry eases a little, but he's still tentative to continue. He wants you to feel good. He wants this first time with you to be perfect. He can't help it, he's an ancient sorcerer in love for the first time in a very long time...if ever.

So, slowly, he ventures onward to where he sees the obvious impact he's had on you tonight. His talented silver tongue makes you squirm on the bed, your hands tangling in his soft locks as his name tumbles out of your mouth like a prayer. The taste of your sweet arousal is something he fears he could get addicted to.

Solomon can feel his own arousal growing past anything he's ever experienced before. He didn't know he had the capacity to feel so needy for someone else. Good lord, just what are you doing to him?

Once he feels he's prepped and pleasured you enough with his tongue and dexterous fingers, he pulls away to finally undress and bare himself to you. His eyes shift away nervously as he feels you studying his body now. He knows his skin is marred from centuries of living; the countless pact marks, scars he doesn't remember the stories of, and burns from experiments gone wrong. He's never felt self-conscious like this before, but it's another product of what you do to him.

When you sit up on the bed, crawling to him to brush your fingers along his skin, it takes his breath away. You aren't afraid to explore him. Tracing his pact marks, kissing his imperfections, never once showing disgust like he might've thought.

No, only care.

Solomon gently chases you back down onto the bed, crawling over your excited form with smiles and giggles exchanged in the otherwise quiet room. Once again, he gets your staunch permission before continuing. And once again, you reassure him that this is what you want. Any lingering doubt subsides, and with that, he lines himself up with your entrance and slowly slides in, letting you adjust once he's fully settled within you.

"D-Deus meus..."

His forehead rests against yours as his breathing turns ragged, reveling in how goddamn good you feel around him. It takes all of him to be patient, but he waits for your signal, and once he has it, he doesn't hesitate to start moving.

His hips snap against yours in deep, measured thrusts. Passionate kisses are shared, soft moans and grunts fill your ears, and his hands never once stop exploring your body. The love he gave it earlier wasn't nearly enough.

There's no rush. It's not frantic - it's not even desperate. It's slow and intimate as he guarantees you both feel good in this one moment of solitude.

Solomon isn't even thinking about afterwards or what those brothers might say. He's fully entranced by you. He makes love to you as if it's the last time he ever will.

Soon he brings you both to a mind-shattering orgasm. His body shudders above yours as he buries his face in your neck. The way you clench around him makes him consider asking for a second round. Though, he wants to take a break more - to love and care for you as needed. As carefully as he can, he pulls out, already missing being enveloped by you and your sweet body. The second his fatigued self hits the bed, you instantly cuddle up to him, locking him in place for the foreseeable future.

To say he's a little shocked is an understatement. Sure, you both just shared a moment of passion and pleasure, but there was still some part of him that wondered if you really wanted him. For you to take the initiative to cuddle up to him in the afterglow touches his heart. Solomon wraps his arms around you, humming at the shared warmth between your sweaty bodies and shielding you from the world outside of this room.

Tonight you're his. And he knows he'll always be yours.

[thevioletcaptain]

I know the ask is about ships but could you make a non ship one with Dean and Carlos from the Winchesters? I can't think of an exact thing for Dean to say, but the first sentence can be what Dean would say for their first meeting. Thank you if you can (*^‿^*)

"I like your hair," Dean says, staring up from where he's clinging to the bottom of Mary's winter coat, and Carlos grins wide when he adds, with all the breathless gravity of a four year old eager to impress their opinions upon a new friend; "It's swooshy and it's pretty like Mommy's hair, and your-- your beads are pretty and shiny and shiny is my favorite color."

"Swooshy and pretty and shiny is exactly what I was going for, so thank you, little buddy."

Even with almost six years between now and the last time he'd seen Mary, Carlos is relieved to find that they still have a good sense of one-another -- can still communicate silently, swiftly, like they used to when it was life or death. He meets her eye, and her face softens, and understanding passes between them before he slides one of his lucky beaded bracelets -- the bloodstone one -- free.

Dean's eyes light up when he takes it.

When he smiles, he looks just like his mother.

[for this askbox game if anyone else wants to send me a prompt]

[burnthatbridge]

another snippet for you since i have an active wip (still such a novelty)

from the illicit affairs chapter 3 draft:

Before Eddie can even open his mouth to ask if Buck is okay, Buck snags him by his belt loops and drags him down to plonk on his lap, wraps his arms around Eddie’s middle and leans his face into Eddie’s back. It’s normal. So very normal that, in a few minutes, when Hen passes by she’ll talk to Eddie like his ass is planted on the seat cushion, not Buck’s thighs, and won’t acknowledge Buck at all until she’s walked past, when she’ll reach back to pet his hair, and, a little later, Bobby will come over to regale Buck with the tale of his disastrous first attempt at making chili, and won’t pass a single comment about the entire other human perched on top of him. It’s completely and utterly normal, has happened loads of times before, and usually Eddie would just adjust his weight to make sure he’s not putting too much on Buck’s bad leg, and then fold his arms over Buck’s, maybe lean into his chest if Buck were sitting back against the chair rather than tipped into him. But instead, he freezes. Buck must feel him tense up because he says, “Eddie, what’s wrong?” “I’m sitting in your lap,” Eddie states, redundant. “Yeah?” Buck says, confused. “I wanted a cuddle.” When Eddie doesn’t say anything, still holds himself stiff in Buck’s grasp, Buck’s tone turns sadder, hurt. “You can get up if you don’t wanna.”

read chapter 1 & 2 on ao3

[gaywiththesauce]

This is It

RenGiyuu, 1.1K

TW: mcd, attempted suicide, depressing thoughts, blood

Giyuu opened his eyes. It was midnight, a time he knew too well. He was laying on a roof somewhere he couldn’t recognize. He wasn’t alone. Kyojuro was sitting on the roof with him. He looked over at Giyuu with a soft voice, “Hey, good morning. How do you feel?”

Giyuu sat up slowly, “Where are we?”

“Not far,” Kyojuro answered, waving his hand in some direction. He looked at the lights of the small city ahead of them. “You didn’t answer my question, Giyuu.”

Giyuu hummed as a response. If he was to be honest, he felt awful. His head was groggy and he felt tired despite the nap. He shook his head, “I’m alright.”

Kyojuro looked over. His smile was brought down by the sadness in his eyes. “Okay,” he muttered, and Giyuu realized that he was caught in his lie. Neither of them elaborated further.

Kyojuro changed the subject, “I’m glad you’re awake, either way. I was worried that you might not wake up.”

Giyuu met his eyes, trying to see why Kyojuro would be worried about that. He looked over himself, missing the signs of blood or broken bones. Nothing. He was perfectly fine physically. He looked back at Kyojuro again, “What happened?”

“You don’t remember?” Kyojuro looked back at the lights, “Maybe it’s for the best. I’d rather you not remember.”

Giyuu didn’t understand why.

Kyojuro sighed and slid closer to Giyuu, “Can I ask a personal question?”

Giyuu nodded.

Kyojuro looked into the dark blue eyes of his lover, “What’s one thing that you’ve wanted the most in life?”

Giyuu gulped. There was no easy answer. There were so many things he wanted throughout his life. Acceptance, love, care, understanding, compassion, better speaking skills, friends, someone to talk to; all easy examples. Somehow, Kyojuro gave him all of those. He shrugged. “You?”

Kyojuro smiled and chuckled, “You flatter, but I appreciate it. I know it’s not true, however.” Kyojuro looked away, avoiding Giyuu’s concerned gaze. He continued, “You want him back, don’t you?”

Giyuu tried to see who he was talking about. They were the only two on the roof above the dead street. Despite the bright lights that made Tokyo look like daylight, the walkways were barren of any passerbys.

Kyojuro glanced at Giyuu’s hand, “You’re holding him now.”

Giyuu looked at his hand. It held onto Sabito’s side of the haori tightly. He let go. Kyojuro commented, “You miss him. Do you want him back?”

Giyuu nodded while he stared at his blood-stained hand, “Of course.”

Kyojuro put his soft hand against Giyuu’s cheek to guide his avoiding gaze to those burning embers of eyes.

“More than me?”

Giyuu froze. What kind of question was this? It felt like a trick. It felt unfair. Kyojuro was making him choose? Why? It was impossible. He loves Sabito and Kyojuro. They helped him through everything. Giyuu would be no one without them. He couldn’t choose, he couldn’t choose.

Kyojuro hummed. He was disappointed, but he couldn't understand it like Giyuu could. “Why do you keep it?” Kyojuro put his hand on Giyuu’s green and yellow shoulder.

“I don’t know.”

“You do,” Kyojuro squeezed, “You don’t have a grave to mourn at, do you?”

Giyuu didn’t know how Kyojuro knew that. “I don’t.”

“What if you did? Would you stop wearing it?”

“I don’t know.”

“You can mourn at my grave. Will you wear mine?”

“I don’t know.”

Kyojuro sighed again, knowing that he wouldn’t get another answer.

Giyuu held his breath, “I’ll miss you.”

Kyojuro looked at him, “Hm?”

Giyuu avoided his eyes, “If you die.”

Kyojuro glowed like an angel, “When I die, you mean. Death is guaranteed, Giyuu, and I miss you too.”

Giyuu felt tears stab at his eyes, “Will you wait for me?”

Kyojuro smiled out of the corner of Giyuu’s blurry vision, “There is no waiting, Giyuu. This is it.”

Giyuu looked up at him for the last time. Kyojuro’s smile was beautiful, open, and accepting.

It was his whole world.

It was over.

Giyuu blinked.

It wasn’t midnight anymore. He opened his eyes to somewhere different. The first thing he saw was the white that distorted his vision. He blinked away the tears and stared at the white snow on the ground. The ground was cold. Everything was so cold that it was warm.

Something touched him. He shook at the force, but couldn’t move at all.

“Oh, thank- Over here! He’s alive!” a feminine voice called out through his clogged ears. He was touched more. The snow was brushed off him and he was rolled on his back.

Shinobu’s face was in view. For once, she looked concerned. “Tomioka-san! Can you hear me?” She didn’t wait for an answer. She worked on his stomach, doing something just out of his vision.

His vision narrowed, and the darkness bit away at the vision of the white clouds. Shinobu talked about something medical. Something about blood, about cold, and about living. Was Giyuu dying? The pain in his stomach hardly compared to his blue fingertips or his toes.

Giyuu rolled onto his side at the push of burning hands, eventually falling back onto something that wasn’t cold and red. The snow beneath him was bloody. It was his blood. In the corner of his eye, he could see his bed clothes stained with blood. So much blood, so much blood, the amount that’s when something pierces the solar plexus and goes straight through it. Huh. Giyuu didn’t know where that thought came from.

Giyuu’s head was held to view the sky. He saw something else, though. His sword hilt. It was pointing to the sky, held by a dainty hand. The leather of the straps was stained red. Why was it above him? With much more effort than he anticipated, he lifted his head enough to see where the blade was.

It was covered in blood. Everything was covered in blood. It was in his stomach. Seppuku, his mind reminded him.

“Stay down!” Shinobu shouted, pressing her fingers against Giyuu’s forehead as if he wasn’t already falling back. His head lulled to the side when she let up but scolded him further.

Another color caught his attention aside from the bleeding red and the rippling blue. Silver and gray, he could barely make out the symbols carved into the stone.

Here Lies Rengoku Kyojuro

Proud Brother, Dedicated Son

The Greatest Flame Hashira

Oh. 

He remembered what happened now.

It was his turn to save Kyojuro just as he saved him.

“You seem shy! That’s okay, my little brother is the same way! Tomioka-san, do you know anywhere close by where we could eat!”

Kyojuro saved him from loneliness. It was Giyuu’s time to return the favor.

I’m coming to save you.

I’ll save you, Kyojuro.

I’ll save myself.

I’ll save you.

I’ll save you.

[soot-and-salt]

I'm not going to linger on this, because it's incredibly gauche to do so, but I'm truly down-to-the-bottom-of-my-heart bummed out my fics aren't doing well. I don't know how to measure success in this fandom, so many incredible and well written works get so little attention because there is so much being published (my last fic spent just two hours on the front page before being pushed to page 2, which is bonkers), but it's disheartening all the same.

Don't get me wrong, I'm a fool and I'm stubborn and I'm bullheaded so I'm just going to keep writing and all, but it sucks to spend weeks on something, get really jazzed about it, just to see it flop.

I'm grateful for those who do read what I write, it means so much to me since I often feel so terrible at this, but some days it's really a slog to get that word doc open and plow ahead.

Anyway, that will be all my wallowing on this because I realize what an incredibly bad and petty look it is, so onwards and upwards. I have WSBE 6 to finish and some comedy fics I'm excited about.

[chrrywvea]

creds to @epiimetheux !!!

i kept coming back to this beautiful artwork and i got inspired by it so here you go...

(disclaimer: i haven't completed a fic in forever, let alone published one, so i'm very anxious about this, i apologise if it's a mess •~•♡ love you guys)

----------

tom watches from the side as his husband steps forward to his coffin. pete's head is bowed, but he can see the trembling of his lips and the coiled muscles in his jaw.

oh my love.

what i'd give to embrace you one more time.

he knew he couldn't reach his husband anymore. his time had passed.

that didn't keep tom from standing next to pete's side. keeping watch. protecting his wingman, as they'd promised to each other years ago on that fateful day.

when repressed feelings and pretentious rivalry finally made way for the unconditional love thay had never wavered once.

partnership that had lasted 33 years.

tom watched as pete took the wings off his uniform, laying them onto the smooth oak.

the gun salutes were no more than background noise, tom's sole focus lying on the man in front of him.

the moment he saw pete punching the wings into the coffin he felt an incredible warmth spread through his chest.

such a feeling had been limited to very few moments in his life.

in the cockpit of his plane, soaring above the clouds with ron at his back and pete right by his side.

the return from the layton mission.

aching and sweaty and all kinds of shaken up but alive, thriving on adrenaline and pent up energy.

they had only seen each other then.

not iceman and maverick, but tom and pete, right there on the deck, what ron had later jokingly called their "confession".

their wedding. finally being allowed to slip a ring onto pete's finger while surrounded by all their loved ones. to call him his husband for everyone to see and hear without having to fear anymore. forever and always - the ending of both of their vows.

when their son had come back to them.

pete, bradley and himself crying with relief in their kitchen as they embraced for the first time in years. pete almost losing it as bradley started called him 'dad' again, and tom almost following suit when 'pops' returned back to daily use.

in that hospital bed, when he'd kissed his husband for the last time. he had wiped the tears on pete's cheeks with trembling hands, mapping that gorgeous face he knew better than the back of his own hand.

hushed i love you's in the quiet of the room, both signed and said out loud as they held each other.

the last words he felt pressed against his forehead being 'forever and always', before he slipped away into neverland.

tom looked over his shoulder just as pete stepped back from the coffin.

the wings on his back were strikingly white. glossy and strong feathers fluttered softly in the wind, and tom couldn't help the smile that spread on his face.

i will protect you, my heart.

my wingman.

my everything.

carefully he guided his wings around pete's sides. shielding him for just a moment. providing the endless support he couldn't give in person anymore.

pete looked up towards the sky, just like the rest of the crowd, watching as the missing man formation flew by.

everyone watched the sky, but tom couldn't tear his eyes away from his husband. how the dusking sun reflected in those tender green eyes. the curve of his nose, and the sweet lips he'd kissed so very often, now being worried at between pearly teeth.

i love you, forever and always.

as if he heard him, pete echoed his words.

"forever and always, sweetheart."

[hxhhasmysoul]

wouldn't it be nice if the author of the fics finished them. the author is me.

[littledreamling]

∇ - old age/aging headcanon (for dream and hob if they were human rather than immortal, i suppose)

Oh my friend, you have just unlocked a side of my mind that's rarely seen but so so feral!

From this headcanon meme!

I absolutely adore aging Hob and Dream. Even outside of a human au, I love the thought of them growing old together. Age continues to exist, even if the physical evidence of it (and indeed, the end result of it) does not. Hob still ages; each year that passes is another year since he last saw his mother, another year since he last rode a horse (he really wants to get back into that and keeps telling himself that this year will be the year, but it never is), another year since he heard his oldest friends' laughter. He feels the weight of his immortality every single day, and it's not an unbearable weight, but it hangs off of his shoulders nonetheless. Dream, too, ages. Perhaps not in the same way; his life is not measured in the same way as human lives are, he does not count each passing second as an added second to his never-ending, eternal clock, nor does he measure the length of the road behind him (or the road ahead of him) in human years. Yet he ages. If learning and growing and changing are all marks of growing up and growing old, then he is doing both. He was not always; for a long time, he had been stuck in time, neither adapting nor maturing in any conceivable way, but recent events (and a certain immortal mortal) have dragged him firmly into the realm of the aging.

And it's a good thing! Hob had learned the old aphorism long ago: change or die, and he had chosen to live. Living means changing; changing with the times, changing outlooks, changing opinions, changing biases. He is a master of change, moving from one life to the next with all the fluidity of a rushing river. His ability to do so is his aging. Likewise, Dream's willingness to, if nothing else, at least see Hob's point of view about change, shows his own aging.

But you didn't send this ask to hear me wax poetic about the philosophy of aging or changing, so here are my thoughts on old, human Dreamling.

Dream is a grumpy old man. He's the old man who worked every day of his life, without break or vacation, and his body is punishing him for it. He was definitely an artist of some kind, maybe a sculptor, maybe something else. It doesn't matter; at the end of his day, his knees click and his knuckles are swollen with arthritis and all of the muscles that had built up in his shoulders have languished in his old age. He can't hold a paintbrush or spin a pottery wheel anymore and it eats him alive with every sunrise. Hob, on the other hand, is the singular spot of warmth and light in Dream's life. Hob, a retired soldier, or maybe a life-long construction worker, has kept his sunny disposition (and, infuriatingly, his fit frame) into his older years. They're the quintessential grumpy one/sunshine one, though anyone who knows them personally knows that Dream has a soft spot for children, and for birds, and for anyone who has a story to tell, while Hob has a mean streak a mile wide if you get on his bad side. They spend their days sitting at the kitchen table, cradling warm cups of coffee or tea, or sitting on their front porch, cradling warm cups of coffee or tea, or sitting on a bench in their local park, cradling warm cups of coffee or tea. They always have warm cups of coffee or tea. They're well-known at the coffee shop, and Hob will recount the story of how they met in that very same shop loudly and at length to anyone who asks (and sometimes to people who don't).

On days when Dream feels as though he can't get out of bed, like his body is too heavy for the world, like his mind has fallen into such disrepair as to be unusable, Hob is the one who sits next to him, a warm hand on his shoulder, and affectionately calls him a drama queen. He'll roll his eyes at his husband's antics, but he'll bring him breakfast in bed anyway. And when Hob is haunted by old nightmares of a long life, not always well-lived, Dream will hold one of their countless books in long, shaking fingers, and he will read to his husband, poems and epic tales, and Dream won't tell Hob that he's not reading, he's reciting, because his quiver and eyesight have gotten so bad that he can't see the words clearly, but he knows them in his heart. And Hob won't tell Dream that he doesn't need to go through the trouble, that it's his presence that's grounding, not the words he's speaking; he'll sit in his presence and let the wash of words roll over him like a comforting tide, drowning his bone-deep anxieties. He'd listen to his husband read the phone book and still find enjoyment in that deep voice and the cadence of his tone.

And when they die, because they do die, they die together. Not in time, mind you, but in company. Surrounded by friends and family, the younger siblings of the Endless family, the children they adopted and the grandchildren, both blood-related and not. Morpheus dies first, his body breaking at the seams. He dies in his sleep, napping on the couch while Hob cooks dinner, and his last words are breathed into the quiet room, asking Hob for a blanket. The funeral is a somber affair, a solemn celebration of everything Morpheus had been; an artist, a husband, a father, a flawed man. The entire town attends, even those who had gotten yelled at from across the lawn or across the park (Dream had taken grave offense to anyone disrupting the local bird population, a story that gets told at the reception with teary eyes and wobbly smiles). When Hob gets home, their entire family is there, warm and laughing and joyful and he can feel his husband in the room, in the people they both had dedicated their lives to.

When Hob dies a week later, no one is surprised. It's his daughter who finds him, curled up on the very same couch, wrapped in the very same blanket, tucked lovingly around him, as if someone else had draped the quilt over his shoulders. She cries, because he was her father, and she loved him, and a part of her had hoped that he would be around forever. But there is a larger part, a much larger part, that finds comfort in the sight. Hob and Dream were never meant to be separated. Wherever they are, she reasons (because they were never a religious family), they are together. For now and forever. As they always should be.

[chipthekeeper]

15 and Velcinta please :D

lmao okay so this one actually is "things you said with too many miles between us." but maybe we can change miles to parsecs, eh?. this one from Cinta's pov, just for balance in the Force (takes place while she's alone on Ferrix, in case that's not clear)

The first time Cinta caught herself talking to Vel when she wasn't there, it stopped her in her tracks. For years she'd been someone who hardly talked at all, even when there were people around, even when someone was trying to have a conversation with her. And then there she was, suddenly trying to ask the opinion of a woman many parsecs away on an other planet entirely.

She tried her hardest to play it off to herself. Just a reflex after all the months they'd spent together on Aldhani, constantly reporting in. Nothing too odd about that. After all, Cinta had all but pushed Vel away so she could focus on the hunt for Cassian Andor.

But then she found herself coming back to the quiet room around the corner from the Andor place every night to watch over the home, all the while muttering to an absent Vel about everything she saw. The more she talked, the more natural it felt, and before long she'd fully let go of the worry that she sounded nuts. No one could hear her anyway, not even the woman she was talking to.

As night fell over Ferrix, Cinta continued to stand by the window and watch as she busied her hands and mind with the only two things that ever brought her comfort these days. Cleaning her blaster, and talking to Vel. For a while it was simply inconsequential rambling, but the darker and colder the night became, the more honest Cinta wanted to be.

"There's so much I wish I could tell you for real, Vel...so much I wish I wasn't afraid to say," she whispered into the dark, empty room as her throat tightened in a way she wished was not so familiar.

"I don't know what to do with your love....I wish I knew how to bottle it up and save it for when there was time to figure that out. Maybe I could just hold onto it, just...breathe it in like air because it's so natural and it gives me life.

"But I've spent so much time alone now that it feels like I don't even remember how to breathe. I wish I could tell you that. That I'm suffocating and it's not your fault and I'm not angry with you for trying so hard. I'm not angry, Vel. Not with you. You're the only thing that doesn't make me angry..."

Cinta choked on her words, that suffocated feeling strangling her honesty once more. She pushed through it as she fought back her tears.

"Someday I'm going to tell you all this when you're actually here," she vowed, finding her voice again. "Someday soon. I promi--"

A commotion outside pulled Cinta's attention back out the window, and she forgot all about her one-sided conversation as she watched a group of Ferrixians enter the Andor home with the town doctor. It wasn't long before he left again, a solemn look on his face and the faces of all the others who watched him go. The old woman was surely gone now.

Cinta crossed the room, picked up her comm, and sent off a message to the woman she'd been talking to all night, leaving out everything she truly wanted to say.

[hertwood]

making the smart decision to NOT watch a gay ass movie as i write this time

[mcybree]

man I wanna get in fh related fandom discourse but in like a quiet way where we all go around and directly share notes with one another. maybe a power point presentation is involved

[crybaby-bkg]

I know I don’t have to make this an announcement but I promise I’ll start writing more again 😭 I’ve just finally worked out the ending for my novel and I’ve had a lot of crocheting orders to complete but I think about writing everyday I prommy 😭

[hms-lurking-latinist]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Hornblower (TV) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: Major Character Death Relationships: Horatio Hornblower & Archie Kennedy Characters: Horatio Hornblower Additional Tags: 'major character death' as in 'everybody in this fic is dead already', Epistolary, Post-Canon, Unreliable Narrator, show-verse but I have drawn on book-verse for Horatio's future, Ficlet, Angst Summary:

...to tell my story.

[b1mbodoll]

why do i have asks accusing me of copying how other writers interact and type :( i literally didnt do anything :x

[sally-mun]

Since I've been settling back into Tumblr I keep thinking about the fact that this is where I did most of my writing. About all kinds of things.

I haven't really written anything in a couple of years. It started as a bit of burnout but got exponentially worse due to a very bad thing that happened. My therapist has been trying to help me find that piece of myself again. It's been lost for a really long time, and is probably a big part of why I have so much trouble being 'me' anymore, or even knowing what 'me' is. It's really difficult to like 'me' now. On the off-chance I actually do, I feel guilty for having done so, because I still haven't quite shaken the instinct that shouldn't like 'me.' I should be ashamed of 'me.' Maybe that's a big part of why my writing disappeared. I always really liked that about me. Writing would threaten my the paradigm where I can't and shouldn't like myself.

But I mean... I do really miss it.

I hope it comes back.

Maybe being here again will help with that.

[hecksupremechips]

Girl like. The reason he said "this is how it should be" and faced death with a smile....is cuz he wanted to die. For 2 years he sat there thinking he was worthless and deserved to die. If he hadn’t be shot, his death would’ve been suicide, he was fully planning to die in a gutter somewhere undetected. When saying "this is how it should be" hes literally saying "don’t cry because I’m dying, my death is a good thing actually because I fucking suck and you are better off without me". I don’t think that’s badass even slightly, it’s actually really sad and really shitty. Shinjiro is so convinced that he deserves to die and hates the idea of anyone giving a shit about him because he literally can’t wrap his mind around the idea that he will be missed when he’s gone, that his death is a bad thing actually. And his last words were meant to be comforting because he fully did not intend for anyone to be there when he died, he intended to die alone, so he says them as a reminder that he’s not worth crying over

Personally, if it were me, if I was holding my dying best friend in my arms who was deeply depressed and suicidal and he said "this is how it should be" uh. I wouldn’t admire him for it??? Like am I losing my mind when I say the way this game handles Shinji is bad or is anyone else seeing this too 😰