#that was in a single paragraph of a fic

[connanro]

normal batfam authors: lmao i've never read a comic and i pray it will stay that way

me: i may be writing a crack fic but i am going to thoroughly research every character i use and create a comprehensive timeline taking into account all of the relevant crossover events and also check relevant current events for the date i'm setting the fic in as well as civilian technology to avoid anachronisms and i'm going to make a graph--

[keferon]

.....face in hands. I don't know what to say.

I'm reading this fic at a snail's pace because after every fifth paragraph, fireworks explode in my brain and I go to draw what I just read

[seijorhi]

Hey Rhi! Hope you’ve been well!

I recently binged through all your Tokyo Rev fics and it made me think of something. I really love the concept of Tailspin with Chifuyu being the one to remember the past timeline. The simultaneous regret of how they treated reader being balanced with this uncontrollable desire to be with her again was so great and really fascinating to me.

It made me think, what do you think Mikey would do in a post-bonten/sink to the depths timeline where those events never happened, but he’s still able to remember them in the new timeline? On one hand, he was in love with reader, but how she was treated by him and bonten was a complete nightmare for her. I guess it depends on which timeline, but do you think that would make him hesitate from trying to find reader in this new timeline (to prevent her from being dragged into his mess of a life) or would he not be able to resist finding her anyway?

hi nonnie first of all ily <33

so if chifuyu's fucked up about it, mikey.... oof. man's got trauma big time.

doesn't help matters that when he was on the brink of complete self destruction the reader became his emotional support pussy person.

on the one hand, of course she's better off far, far away from him and sanzu and kakucho – all of them. it was an obsession, fucked up and depraved and sickening and damn it all to hell if does he wish he could feel that disgust all the time.

it'd be easier that way, to focus the hate inwards and pretend that's all it was. that there aren't nights he doesn't like awake and fucking miss her like a part of him's been ripped away. that his cock doesn't stir at the filthy dreams – memories – that won't leave his head.

on the really bad days, it's like an ache. an itch. incessant. he misses her.

he'd taint her all over again.

so he should leave her alone. stay as far away as humanly possible.

there's a problem, though. two, if he's being completely honest with himself. the first is that along with their whole sordid relationship, he remembers how the reader managed to end up in bonten's clutches in the first place. bonten doesn't exist anymore, obviously, but just because he and his friends aren't running around as gangsters anymore doesn't mean bad men, bad luck and bad circumstance have ceased to exist.

her brother's probably still a bottom feeding piece of shit with a gambling problem. there's every chance he's gonna do something just as stupid this time, and she'll inevitably be the one to pay for it. glass stones and houses and all that bullshit, he doesn't like it. no one's allowed to touch her. no one but him.

the other problem, the one he's less eager to admit to himself, is that he wasn't the only one fucked up over her. the haitani's might not look twice (he thinks. hopes, maybe), and who knows with sanzu, but kakucho? koko? they might not remember any of it, but if they walked past her in the street, bumped into her at a bar, would they feel that pull in their gut? would it spark something?

mikey hates the thought of her in danger, being mistreated – by her brother or by anyone else, but there's a sick, possessive part of him that hates the thought of any of them taking her too.

she was his first.

but even if he shoved that all aside, buried his head in the sand and pretended he wasn't slowly being driven out of his mind by her, the universe is a funny thing. one way or another, it'll work its magic and shove her right back into his path.

some things are just... fated.

[dont-offend-the-bees]

YAY the messy unreadable first draft of Lonely Bones ch3 is done!! All I have to do is edit so it'll be ready in *checks word count* .... three weeks.

[clear-what-i-was-seeing]

soon my fic tag will have more than just 5 posts in it oho

[whimsicalcotton]

good morning lis fandom i. fucking love you

[possessable]

What are your favorite Hollow Knight fanfics?

Stag Beetles and Broken Legs which i am very normal about and have a pdf of saved on my computer but don't read it because then you will see how extremely obviously i stole all of my story beats from it for every story i've made ever [JOKE]

also Tales of a Nailsage and also the Lil' Nailmasters stuff [tohose are about sly and the nailmasters as kids ] [i am biased] [they are good

[amoneki-ramblings]

do you think Kaneki might ever pray with Amon despite not being catholic himself? just sitting next to him mumbling the words as Amon says it because he likes to be with him

speaking of religion, what kind of faith do you think Kaneki would follow? I hc him as an atheist :) but I think you know more about religions than me lol

Ooooh I like that idea a lot actually I have So Many Thoughts (rubs my hands together evilly)

also this is just a sidenote but i know some people may be uncomfortable with religious discussion, so if you are lmk and i'll start tagging it :thumbsup:

I feel like Amon hasn't prayed often in a while because of his past, but he may still on occasion (habit), and may get back into it properly after actually resolving his feelings with the past. At some point Kaneki starts to join him. He doesn't really know How to pray, especially since a lot of it is in silence, he probably just kneels there and silently wishes for safety for his friends, for strength and resolve, etc. etc. But when Amon starts saying the actual prayers out loud he just sits there and listens to him quietly saying them.

At some point Kaneki might start mumbling along with them, he vaguely knows some of the prayers and has heard Amon say them enough times to kind of know them. Amon is surprised when Kaneki starts doing that and it just kind of becomes a Thing; maybe Kaneki even asks Amon to tell him how to pray the rosary since he sees him doing that often as well (when the rosary is prayed in a group there's one person leading that says the first half of most of the prayers and the rest say the other half, and I think it would be interesting with them alternating like that)

While Kaneki isn't catholic himself he finds it reassuring, while it's unlikely to him that there's someone out there that'll actually grant his prayers it's a nice thought, y'know? It's also just very relaxing there, even if it was kind of awkward at first

I think he also finds the sound of Amon praying very relaxing *cough*

I also think Kaneki would be atheist, while he wouldn't completely deny the possibility of there being a god of some sort he also isn't really a follower of any particular belief system (note: ive actually been informed that there is a better term for this, agnostic, which is essentially being neutral lol). I think Amon would know this, and therefore doesn't really know why Kaneki chooses to pray with him despite this, but he figures that Kaneki does have a lot of things he would want to pray for, things he would want to seek forgiveness for, too, and he appreciates that Kaneki is willing to spend time with him like this anyway.

[im-sorry-what-ii]

Returning from war with the only decent thing I have written in the last few months. Entirely written in the notes app at 1am so I apologize for the dubious quality

Inspired by roger water's song The bravery of being out of range

For context the setting is tgm on the carrier during the Mission just after mav and roo are shot down

[hawkinsindiana]

howdy thought you might enjoy 3.3k of you and steve on your first anniversary, christmas eve 1985

canon to almost paradise, post s3

— “you hungry?” 

you tip your head back, catching a peek of steve’s face above you. you’re tucked into his side, legs tangled together in a sea of blankets and pillows. his hand on your back stills as he asks the question, palm settling between your shoulder blades. you shrug a bit, taking in his slightly tired expression behind his glasses.

you shift, propping yourself up as his words bring attention to the emptiness in your stomach, “yeah i could eat.”

the pair of you unfurl from the nest you’ve created on the couch, bathed in the warm glow from the lights on the tree in the corner — never blinking ones. steve ‘borrowed’ a few holiday movies during his shift last week and has been hellbent on watching them all with you over the past couple days. you’ve rarely left the couch since starting.

you’ve been home from chicago for about two weeks now and won’t return for another three. it’s the longest you’ve been back in hawkins since starting college, thanks to the semester break. steve and dustin came to an agreement — your boyfriend could have you for the week of christmas, minus the big day which the two of you will be spending with your family. the holiday season is extremely sentimental for you and steve, and this is the first time you get to be a couple for the entirety of it. last year you were still uneasy, reeling from a kiss that cemented your feelings for each other in stone, with both of you too afraid to make a move. but now, you’re ridiculously in love; steve feels all warm and fuzzy just thinking about it.

but with last year’s holiday anticipation stunted by insecurity and worry, he’s desperate to make up for it and create new memories to think of, hence his insistence on festivities between just the two of you this time. 

you shiver a bit at the loss of warmth, tugging steve’s hoodie tighter around your neck while closely following him to the kitchen. he pops open the fridge, a strip of white light reflecting off the tile. a yawn pulls itself from your mouth.

“is there any of that pasta left or did we eat it all?”

a hint of a chuckle echoes from inside the fridge as steve roots through it, “that was yesterday’s lunch, remember?”

you whine, moving over to his other side, “i know. i loved that restaurant though. we need to go there again next year.”

steve couldn’t stop the grin that spreads over his face even if he tried. next year — you want to be with him for another 365 days. 

“as long as you wear that dress,” he says, smile turning sly. 

“as long as it gets me the same reaction.”

another laugh from him — of course you’d remind him of what happened before you left for your dinner reservation. he may have had to speed a bit on the drive into indianapolis but it was worth it. 

rather than celebrate your big milestone in one of the less than desirable restaurants of hawkins, the pair of you made a quick trip into the capital. while she was in town last week, steve’s mom had mentioned an italian place in the city and even went out of her way to call and secure a reservation. ‘the owner owes me a favor’, she said as she pulled the phone number out of the depths of her parisian bag. steve had been a bit shocked by her willingness to help, but hesitantly accepted. your involvement in her son’s life brings out something in her that steve doesn’t quite understand yet — like she’s trying to make up for two decades of emotional neglect. he supposes it’s a start, but it’ll take a lot more than that to forgive.

it was a rather intimidating restaurant; you never would’ve thought to eat there if it wasn't for mrs. harrington’s call. you wondered if you were out of place there, until it was just the two of you tucked away at a secluded table. steve’s warm eyes — the flicker of candlelight dancing in the reflection of his pupils — made you forget everything but him. everything he’d been through seemed worth it with you seated across from him.

“however we do have that piece of carrot cake left.”

you gasp, straightening up at the thought. sharing some at dinner hadn’t been enough; you ordered one to go. your sound of surprise is enough to convince steve that’ll be the late-night snack.

he places the take-out container on the counter as you grab a couple forks from a drawer. before steve can shut the door to the fridge, his gaze is drawn to the small hand on his watch that dictates the seconds. upon seeing him frozen in place, you grow confused.

“what are you doing?”

“hold on.”

two more seconds pass — 12:00.

in an instant, steve’s spinning to throw his arms around your hips before lifting you into the air. you yelp in surprise as your socks leave the kitchen tile, hands desperately grasping at his shoulders to avoid tipping forwards. his hold on you is tight; he’d never let that happen. steve grins brightly against your ribs despite the playful hits you’re giving him, begging to be put back onto the ground in between your laughter.

after another loving squeeze, he finally sets you down, but his hands remain fused to your back. you brush some hair back from your face once you’re settled, still a bit flustered by the whole thing.

“what the hell was that for?” 

steve’s smile only grows wider, impossibly so.

“it’s the twenty-fourth.”

christmas eve — a year since the night you kissed him on your porch, reassuring him that you did want him and everything that came with, solidifying the nature of your relationship. you’d never be able to go back to an innocent friendship after that, and neither of you have been the same since.

one year of you. one year of him.

at first, steve was a bit wounded after realizing that he wasn’t going to share many of his firsts with you, but after some thought he doesn’t mind it so much anymore. not when you get to be the first one he’s spent an entire year with. 

a soft smile spreads across your face. you still can’t believe that this is your life — you get to say that steve’s yours. you were once grappling with overwhelming feelings that tied your stomach into knots, watching as he desperately tried to regain another girl’s attention. now you share his bed. there’s a polaroid of you taped to his bathroom mirror. a spare bottle of your perfume is next to his cologne. you borrow his clothes, just like you are right now; not a single thing you’re wearing is yours. 

you snake your arms around his neck, adjusting your posture to press your forehead to his. it’s stupid how much blood rises to your cheeks with his warm skin on yours, his fingers tightly fisted in the fabric on your waist. steve looks so soft — clad in his pajamas, glasses perched on his nose, hair mussed from you tangling your hands in it the last few days, his dopey expression growing pinker by the second. he is so distinctly yours when he’s like this.

“happy anniversary.”

steve’s grin mirrors the one you have — enamored and adoring. he runs his nose along yours, nudging the swell of your cheek, “happy anniversary.”

the sentiment is sealed into your kiss; plush lips and sparkling nerves. the winter chill that invaded is banished instantly, warmth and love filling your entire body, almost overflowing to the point it feels like it’s pooling in your feet. steve sighs happily when your hands shift to cup his face, deepening the kiss and tugging him ever so slightly closer.

he doesn’t think he’ll ever tire of moments like this — the pair of you doing something simple like sharing a kiss in the kitchen at midnight, your bodies cast in the refrigerator light. if he’s honest, part of him never thought he’d see this day; it’s hard to imagine a future when your life is consistently getting upended by interdimensional forces out of your control. he can’t help but feel slightly bittersweet about it though — there’s an insane amount of comfort that comes from knowing you’ve been through this shit together, but it’s accompanied by the understanding that these awful things happen to you too.

when you finally part, steve plasters a multitude of kisses on your face until you’re giggling in his arms. he doesn’t let up, trailing his lips down your throat until they’re smiles more than anything else. you two stay here like this for a few seconds — steve nuzzled into your soft skin and tightly secured in each other’s embrace. you don’t think you’ve ever been so content.

“presents now?”

you laugh as steve’s words tickle you, spoken into you and punctuated with a rather sweet press of his lips, “you’re greedy, harrington.”

“only when it comes to you, sweetheart,” he continues, earning him a half-hearted scoff and roll of the eyes. his cheesiness never fails to charm and simultaneously disgust you. but you could never say no to him, so you’re placing your hand into one of his to lead him to the tree. the cake’s left on the kitchen counter, both of you far more distracted by your love.

your present isn’t the prettiest thing, but it doesn’t matter to steve; you went out of your way to think of something to get him for the occasion. you have plenty of other talents — gift wrapping doesn’t have to be one of them. besides, it only matters a handful of times out of the year. as soon as steve opens the box within, he melts, his body slumping while surrounded by the green wrapping paper.

“oh baby you spoil me.”

it’s a gorgeous chocolate brown sweater, woven together from thick wool that he’s certain will keep him warm when you’ve not here. gingerly, he pulls it out to take a proper look.

“it’s handmade,” you say, watching joyfully as he runs his fingers over the yarn before unfolding it in the air between you. it’s almost got a mock turtleneck, the fabric on the collar raised slightly to ensure heat will stay trapped to the body. you keep speaking as he studies the piece further, gaze roving over it lovingly.

“this woman was selling them at that winter festival thing in chicago i told you about. you don’t have anything like it so i thought…”

steve adores it when you buy him clothes. he loves wearing items you picked out specifically for him, but especially when you steal them for yourself after a couple weeks. it’s like you’re there with him when he’s wearing something you bought; the look on your face when you see him in it isn’t too bad either. it makes him feel like he’s yours.

but this… this couldn’t have been cheap. it makes him feel a bit guilty for what he’s got wrapped up for you. he almost doesn’t want to hand it over.

“i love it,” steve assures, smiling brightly to ensure you grasp his gratitude — he’ll take better care of it than himself, “thank you, i’ll wear it to your mom’s tonight.”

your face scrunches adorably  at the thought. you unwind your legs from your chest in preparation for your gift; it’s stupid how much like a child you feel in this moment, sitting on the floor in front of the tree while waiting to open a present on christmas eve.

steve’s present is pristine. the harrington’s have a slew of wrapping paper and bows hidden away for when holidays and birthdays rolled around, but the wrapping was usually more well thought out than the content inside. that’s the harrington way, isn’t it? a pretty exterior with not much to show on the inside — you’d kill steve if he told you that. you almost don’t want to open it; you take a moment to memorize how it looks before peeling it open. 

it’s also a sweater. something inside you blooms at the thought that you and steve had similar ideas for your presents to each other. but then your brow furrows, churning more fear into steve’s gut. he nearly yanks it away from you in embarrassment but you’ve put the pieces together before he can; his palms settle on your knees instead.

“it’s… yours?”

steve coughs, “yeah! i know you, uh, steal my shit all the time but i… i didn’t want to get you just some jewelry because you have plenty of that, but i-i guess you also have plenty of sweaters too…”

he’s floundering a bit, trying to properly articulate his thinking because with you now holding his sweater, it seems like an awfully stupid idea. especially after your amazing gift.

“i thought about getting you a book but i didn’t know which ones you haven’t read yet, so maybe you’d like something of mine? that way, y’know, you can always have a piece of me with you, but i mean this is kind of dumb in retrospe- oh okay, shit.”

as he’s speaking, you tug off the hoodie of his that was already hanging over your frame. you flash him for a moment while you make the switch, slipping your arms through the sleeves and popping your head out of the top. steve’s left blinking dumbly, swallowing harshly as his blush shifts its reasoning. you adjust it, pulling the hem down to cover your stomach; your eyes meet his seconds after, and a restrained chuckle spills from his lips.

“jesus christ, sweetheart,” steve’s hands give your knees a firm squeeze, “you gotta warn me before you do that.”

you’d accept anything steve would gift to you, but with his thought process being so unbearably sweet, you’re burning. you do miss him ridiculously when you’re not in hawkins — maybe always having this there with you will make the distance a bit easier to handle. after another moment, you recognize that it’s the maroon crewneck he wore the night of the snowball. he was wearing this when you had your first kiss in the parking lot.

you can’t wait anymore — you’re crawling into his lap, his arms enveloping you instinctually. you press your lips to his in an instant, your legs awkwardly hanging over his own, but neither of you has the mind to care. especially not when you’re grinning brilliantly against him. 

“i love you,” your lips catch on his as you mutter it, whispering to him like you’re the only person on the planet who’s ever said it. the way steve kisses you could serve as his answer; you can feel every ounce of his love and passion for you in his slow and purposeful movements. but for him, it’s not enough.

“i love you too,” he replies simply — it’s anything but. you can count on your hand the number of times either of you has responded that way over the past couple months. your inside joke can resume in a few hours. for now, the pair of you deserve to bask in your love, unabashed and unforgiving.

but your bliss shatters at 1:04. the bb gun in a christmas story sounds nothing like a real one, however the visual of a gun going off is enough to send you careening down into the depths of starcourt without warning. 

steve’s palms are clutching your face, panic twisting your features in between his hands. your eyes are blank, staring back into his but unable to blink the memories of last july from your view. he’s saying something to you but you can’t hear it over the sound of gunshots repeating endlessly in your ears. the scars on your arm burn.

you’re not breathing properly — your exhales are ragged and uneven followed by shallow inhales. in a moment of desperation, steve unwinds one of your trembling hands from the blankets to press it firmly to his chest. feeling your heartbeat in terrified times like these always helps him. his fingers stay wrapped around your wrist for a few seconds before he begins slowing his breaths; he prays you’ll follow his example. it kills him to see you like this.

almost a full minute passes before you truly realize that steve’s here, sitting in front of you with his hands on your skin and heartbeat pounding. you’re safe. there’s nothing to be afraid of. when your lungs finally start taking in oxygen, your breathing slows to match his and the nightmare around you melts away. you’re at steve’s. steve’s here with you. you’re safe. there’s nothing to be afraid of.

you swallow harshly as his large palm slides to cover your hand over his heart — it’s the final thing that grounds you. you continue to repeat the facts in your head as his words reach your ears for the first time.

“good, that’s good,” steve whispers, voice as soft as he can muster, “keep that up for me, okay? sweetheart?”

his thumb drags along your cheek, brushing away the single tear that fell amidst the chaos. you nod slightly, “i’m okay.”

that’s all you can force from your aching throat; you’re scared your words would betray you if you said anything else. he takes in a rather deep breath — steve knows you’re not okay, but that’s not what you’re saying. you’re reassuring him that you’re out of it now. the worst is over.

neither of you are able to sleep after that and steve doesn’t dare put on another film. soft touches and even quieter words are exchanged between you, tucked back into the security of the pillows and blankets that surround you on the couch. but no matter how much he attempts to coax you out of your head and back to him, he knows that a part of you is still down there in the russian base being tortured and forced to relive the worst moment of your life. after nearly an hour of this, he comes up with an idea.

“how about we go for a swim?”

steve’s surprised by how quickly you say yes, but something completely different could be good for you. once you’re in the warm water of the harrington’s pool — the only people in hawkins rich enough to keep their pool running in the depths of the winter — you can feel the stress wash off of you in waves. steve’s hands beneath the water, keeping purchase on your bare skin, certainly help as well. the sight of him shirtless and soaked doesn’t hurt either. but it’s a friendly competition that fully banishes the thoughts of the summer from your anxious mind.

“bet i could throw you all the way to the six foot mark,” steve says, voice muffled as he speaks into your hair. you can hear his smile; you don’t even need to look.

“ten bucks says you can’t get me to the five,” you retort, earning you a rather offended expression from your boyfriend.

“what do you mean? i work out!”

as if to prove his point, he suddenly stands, lifting you with enough ease that it makes your stomach go a bit warm. you cling to him, hands grasping at his shoulders as he situates you into position, an arm under your knees and the other across your back.

“i’m gonna count to three and then you let go, okay?”

“yeah, okay,” you nod, confirming the plan. but before he can begin, you press a quick kiss to his cheek, making him go a bit pink. it’s stupid how that makes his breath hitch in his throat.

“good luck.”

steve scoffs, rolling his eyes playfully to try and distract you from his blush, “we put money down on this, sweetheart. you’re not supposed to wish me good luck.”

“well do it just for fun then,” you reach up to brush some hair away from his forehead, forcing a shiver to roll down his spine at the feeling of your hand against his scalp, “how about instead of my money, you’ll get a real good kiss if you win.”

he scoffs again, this time out of disbelief, “well i’m not gonna say no to that.”

[southfarthing]

in darkness buried deep

(crossposted to ao3)

It doesn’t come off.

No matter how hard Fingon pulls, the shackle is bound to Maedhros’s flesh with a fierce fastness. An oath of its own: a promise to haunt him to the everlasting darkness, where blindness will not save him from the bite of Morgoth’s malice.

And so Fingon hacks at the chain with the last of his strength, and Maedhros collapses into his hold.

The remaining rings of the chain they break off, but they are afraid to try anything else to remove the shackle. Curufin quietly suggests a removal of a different sort, but Maedhros refuses. 

He has his freedom, and he has both his hands – one to strike at Morgoth’s forces, and one to stop them nearing him again. To protect himself the way he couldn’t all those years of torment. And he won’t lose any more of himself willingly.

And so iron clasps bone, and he covers it as best he can – an unsightly scar beneath silks.

Still, his eyes chafe on the memory. 

[uhbasicallyjustmilex]

i’ve recently received quite a few different asks/ao3 comments with questions about writing tips, so am putting together a little q&a post to answer them all! if there are any other writing related questions you'd like me to include then please send them via my ask box 🥰

[daz4i]

genuinely me and who

[lyrebirdswrites]

One more day. I think with one more day I can finally finish chapter 5 of slaughterhouse for real this time. There are literally only three lines left that need fixing. SURELY I can nail those down in 24 hours or so

[epersonae]

for the WIP ask - my heart is breaking for you over the "leg hurty thoughts", but if you don't feel like sharing that just now, I'd love to see a snippet from "slow/ep 5.5"

Slow/ep5.5 is mostly outline/notes, but I do have this one paragraph (my thought is that it's going to be alternating POV between Ed and Stede)

Almost always some bits of sails in need of mending on a ship, and this one right now maybe more than most. Which might be a little bit his fault. Maybe. Whatever.

I think this is supposed to lead into a bit with Wee John, my notes also say "Frenchie is watching but not participating"

[transsexualraskolnikov]

currently writing a sskk fic and crying because i be writing these long-ass eloquent poetic paragraphs of dialogue when actual atsushi and akutagawa speak only in screams of each other's names (not even THAT, in aku's case)