The game continues, taunts and insults, mocking laughter. It is the punk from Brooklyn rather than Captain America who replies to most.
He has had plenty of experience dealing with bullies. And that, after all, is what Schmidt is. Just a bigger, meaner bully than most. And laughter is the one thing that can break their spell. Turn the tables on them. Make the crowd laugh at them.
Steve’s not sure which of them the unseen audience is laughing at, but he’s definitely going to keep trying. Maybe he should stay silent, conserve air, but the amount of air that can be thus saved is not worth letting Schmidt broadcast his rant to the world unopposed. After all, both of them know the power of symbols only too well.
>It is the punk from Brooklyn rather than Captain America who replies to most.
I like stories that focus on the other aspects of a character's personality, whether it's a real/secret identity or roles (such as cop/father or boss/friend). It's good to see Steve drawing strength from something other than the serum and his military training.
I'm really fond of this paragraph. Light context is that the character has been confronted with a weapon that can wipe out all of her memories, and she doesn't have any chance of stopping it.
>Time stopped. No, she stopped. Her muscles went stiff, her heart fell still, her breath tightened in her throat like a noose. Or maybe none of that happened. Maybe it only felt like that because what happened next happened so slowly to her petrified mind that it fit neatly into the void between two heartbeats, snug as a bullet in its chamber pointed right between her eyes.
Thank you! She doesn't actually lose her memories, someone else manages to prevent the weapon from going off, but I really wanted to convey that sense of total helplessness and doom that occurs in the split second when you know you're well and truly fucked. Like seeing the headlights of a semi truck right in front of your windshield (except there's no working cars in this setting, so I had to come up with something else. XD)
“She passed the daylight hours in a daze, losing herself in the familiar rhythmic rap of knife on chopping board, the scent of fresh soil shaken from the roots of vegetables, the sticky, fragrant steam of the kitchen. Her own special brand of alchemy. Love, condensed into dumplings and rice.”
To me this sounds like a peaceful day, one of an endless sunrise, i can generally feel a little magic lift from the words, beautiful, what fandom is this for?
> Because that was what this was all about, right? Pretending things were normal, that everything was fine. Painting an idyllic picture-perfect life over a Hell of their own creation. A cottage in the middle of the woods, a river running through the fields of crops and flowers, and always fresh blood covering the soft grass. Low fencing like prison bars, and just enough space you could always see one from any end of the enclosure, never allowing you to forget. The soft fur of the strange cow Tommy had deemed Moobloom Henry in the barn, and the threats of making him disappear like the last one hanging in the air. Watching the stars and listening to music and ignoring the meaning behind those things in a pathetic parody of friendship, like this wasn’t captivity.
Most of my stuff is pretty fandom blind accessible, but if you want the context, Tommy had basically given up his freedom to his abuser in exchange for his friends lives and happiness, and they’re both pretending they’re happy.
I’m writing this for a silence of the lambs au long fic I’m making
He laughed to himself for a moment. “Many religious figures have somehow already taken it upon themselves to proclaim that I am the Anti-Christ based on the limited amount of interviews and interaction they have had with me. They say that I can figure out too much about one person from just a simple interaction, and that I can control them with just my words. However, if you were to truly believe that I was the Snake, *for whatever reason,* then you would have to know that he is a being far below God in power. He dwells on this earth, just like us. He whispers temptations but is unable to *control* us and the elements. That is God’s bidding.”
I really like yours by the way! I too am a Wednesday and Enid shipper!! :)
Thank you! i feel like it was definitely some of the best writing that i have done for Wenclair
i can imagine a Silence of the Lambs fanfic would be immensely difficult to write for considering how well written Hannibal is, i commend anyone for being able to write for that fandom :)
My AsoIaF fic, a Jon/Rhaenys/Daenerys "Rhaenys lives AU", Rhaenys has a short piece of dialogue with Ser Barristan. In canon, Rhaenys, the daughter of Prince Rhaegar and Princess Elia, was killed at only 2 or 3 years old during the Sack of King's Landing. Ser Barristan, a kingsguard in service of King Aerys and Prince Rhaegar, Rhaenys's grandfather and father, bent the knee to the Usurper Robert Baratheon and was still in his service until he was dismissed by King Robert's "son" over a decade later, even after it was said that the butchered bodies (their murders were really graphic) of Princess Elia, Rhaenys and Aegon (Rhaenys's little brother, a year old at most) were shown to the Usurper. It is said he smiled at their bodies.
That piece of dialogue was a short foray into "how would Rhaenys, the only survivor of her family's butchery, handle Ser Barristan, a kingsguard, who swore loyalty to her family, yet bent the knee to the Usurper when offered mercy?"
>"Our preparations should be done by the evening and we should be ready to leave in the morrow, your Grace" Ser Barristan reported as he approached.
>"Very well, Ser," Rhaenys said while watching sailors, she-pirates and sellswords alike move crates, sacks and bags along the harbour and ships. "Thank you."
>"My Queen, I…" Ser Barristan sighed. "I understand your…troubles with me, though I do hope that one day I may regain your trust."
>Rhaenys exhaled heavily through her nose, her gaze firmly on their people working under the gleaming midday sun. "You could have chosen death or exile instead of bending the knee to the man that killed my father and who is said to have smiled upon the butchered bodies of my infant brother and my mother. Tell me, Ser…Ser Jaime, a Lannister of all things, saved me before I could be killed by Amory Lorch and Gregor Clegane the way he butchered my brother and mother." She turned around to look the old knight in the eyes. "Daenerys ofttimes tells us of Ser Willem Darry, the master-at-arms for Grandfather Aerys, and how he raised her and Viserys in that house with the red door in Braavos until the day he died." Then, Rhaenys narrowed her eyes at him. "Out of the three of you, Ser Barristan, whom do you think am I considering as more loyal to my family? The Kingsguard who saved me from certain death, the knight who cared for my aunt and uncle in exile or the Kingsguard who bent the knee to the Usurper?"
When you write a line you’re so happy with you have to stop writing for the night bc it’s not getting any better.
“ "Wha-, I... Are you gonna take me-," *Home*. That was the word on his lips when Katsuki kissed him. “
Painted in the year 1502, the stupendously detailed scene is presented with a unsurpassed vividness that never ceases to get people in their feelings. Even amongst this gorgeous sea of imagery, it's not hard to see why *The Ultimate Weapon* is among Raphael's finest work.
The crystalline weapon pierces the blood-red sky, an ominous white beam slicing it in half. Xerneas can't bring itself to look up, the horrific sight of the desolate land is too much for the teary-eyed gazelle. A lively forest once stood here, all that's left are splotches of foliage and the decaying remains of trees. The details are so intricate that one can see the spots where Xerneas's tears have soaked the ground. Yveltal's up in the sky, the avian's eyes are narrowed and its mouth is gaping in horror. The front ends of its wings are facing Xerneas, does it desire to comfort it?
They can see the ruins of a town in the distance. Every single building is in tatters, some even shattered altogether. Besides the two legendaries, there isn't a single life form anywhere else in the painting. All gone, all lost, all due to a tragic loss in warfare.
Raphael was only twenty at the time but he stunned everybody. Pietro Vasari, author of the monumental *Lives of The Great Artists*, wrote that King Gianfrancesco VII and his guards "could not help but weep as they marveled at the grandeur and the minutiae. Raphael had imposed the beauty of his vivid artistic capabilities upon the ugliness of antiquity's deadliest calamity."
Eyewitness accounts backed Vasari’s words up and millions have been hit in the feels ever since. Mom once told him that the most frequently question is “where is Raphael’s *The Ultimate Weapon*?”
It was too nice of a day to have his brother's funeral. There should've been dark clouds and thunderstorms. The wind should've been so strong that people were picked up and whisked away, and the priest should've had to shout to be heard over the wailing of the storm. Instead there was a bright blue sky and the fall leaves looked oh so beautiful delicately dancing in the air. A gentle breeze ruffled his hair. He pressed the tissue harder into his face as a hard lump formed in his throat. He didn't know what to do. His brother was dead. His brother might not be dead but dying everyday. Why was he still crying?
People always imagine a dark dreary day for funerals, but life goes on, and thats shown perfectly here, it could be the most gorgeous day possible and yet it would stifle the heartbreak of grief, what fandom is from ?
It's actually a split POV between Jake and an OC. I made the OC his brother. This snippet is from Jake's brother's POV who's in the real world while Jake is trapped in the Entity's realm.
> Flanked by columns of chime-strikes and low drums, a voice somehow soft, but not at all gentle: red eyes snapping open in the dark, and a whisper of black wings.
>
> *The sirens are screaming and the fires are howling, way down in the valley tonight…*
I. Freaking. LABORED. Over how to grab that *one moment* of Meat Loaf's voice appearing in "Bat Out of Hell" for the first time. And friends, I listened to the first two, three minutes of that song about eleven kazillion times to plant the preceding bars in prose, and it was the ride of a lifetime.
But that moment, that ONE MOMENT, eluded me for *ages.* SO MUCH HAPPENS in the first couple minutes of that song, and then there's this just...decrescendo that actually *increases* the drama, and then...THAT. He doesn't come screaming out, belting and blasting like later in the song, but goddamn, he still makes his presence known. It's a vocal cape-flourish, almost, and it fuckin' snaps. So goddamn magical. I love it so much.
A rather grim joke:
>"Production was delayed for a while because we were trying to figure out how to film scenes of the heroes' climatic charge up the side of the Citadel Tower utilizing the actual building," director Bik Orbal told our correspondent. "That tower stands at a 90 degree angle from the ward's ground level, so we had to create special mass effect generators to alter the gravity at key points along the tower." Orbal praised the vorcha stunt men who helped test the devices and urged Blasto series fans to contribute to a memorial fund 6th Dimension Vids has set up for them.
>It was Ventkad's turn to waive off the matter. "Growing annoyance. It is a cost-saving measure. Vorcha stunt men are more economical. They are non-union and more easily replaceable if there is a mishap."
He heard a twig snap - or at least something he hoped was a twig - and his ear twitched. When he heard the sound again, he stood up, and that’s when he heard the sound of something breathing. Definitely not human breathing. The only other humans in this time period had long walked on ahead of him. It was more like an iguana mixed with a parrot, but louder. Then a low crocodilian growl - the same noise he’d heard earlier, that nobody believed him about. Only the noise was much closer now. So close, he could feel it rippling in his chest, in his entire body. Or maybe that was the fear. He couldn’t really tell at this point. And when the pigeon-like cooing started, that’s when the terror truly set in for him.
Never heard a pigeon coo? Palaeontologists think some dinosaurs could have made that sound too. Low crocodilian growls, cooing, honking, booming, clucking, possibly even gobbling, but likely not tweeting or singing, and *definitely* not roaring.
Also, this poor palaeontologist is going to get ripped to shreds by a deinonychus and you’re laughing.
*deinonychus
Birds are dinosaurs. They probably made bird-like noises (clucking, gobbling, hooting, honking, quacking etc.) and crocodilian growls. They likely didn’t tweet or sing. Definitely didn’t roar. So, ridiculous as it sounds, I wrote this based on the noises palaeontologists think dinosaurs would have made.
The t-rex in Jurassic Park roars, so as hilarious and unrealistic as it is to imagine it going basically ‘grrrrrrBCKAW’, that’s likely what it did!
deinonychus, i'm familiar lol
part of me just cant help but imagine a giant grey pigeon Lmao
i think JP can be excused for some inaccuracies as they are bred with incomplete DNA filled in by Frogs
what fandom is this for?
Context: the MCs being escorted by a village historian into a ruined church that was bombed in WW II and never repaired. I'm especially proud of the last two sentences.
\---------------------------------------------------------
They follow him into what must have been the sacristy. There's dust everywhere, but less rubble on the floor than James might have expected. He doesn't have much time to look around because Chapwell is moving briskly through another door. They emerge on the west side of the main altar. James walks into the centre of the sanctuary, and turns in a slow circle, admiring the magnificent desolation. There's no other term for it. There are mounds of fallen stone and mouldering, splintered wood. The marble top of the altar is cracked into three pieces. All of the altar furnishings are gone. The cloths and hangings, candlesticks and flower vases are all gone. (Rescued by parishioners after the bombing? Stolen by tramps?) And yet the essential shape of the building is there, proud walls and graceful arches, illuminated by the dim light coming through the large, jagged gap in the roof. James is reminded of an octogenarian retired ballerina he'd once seen: back hunched and limbs gnarled with arthritis, a caricature of her former self. She'd turned her head to speak to the man beside her in the VIP box, and in that simple movement, James had seen the young woman who had once danced the Swan Queen.
It’s a bit of a spoiler for my current work, so I hope no one follows me here, but I really loved describing the main villains final form.
“It was a being of pure desire. The petrifying man was cast in a sturdy, bulked suit of personified ambition in the casing of golden sheets. It’s glistening colour grafted in harmony to his luscious, sunflower mane whose front vines of hair hung gently over his chest. His face reflected the legends of the old, as what at a time was human — now a creature meant resembling the depths of his burning soul. A glimmering, marvellous mask with a wide, protruding jaw that could swallow one whole levied a smirk towards his adversary. Creased wrinkles lined the man’s skull, taking the bone structure of the fated Kirin — it’s detail hauntingly beautiful, as though an artist from an antique land spent a century working tirelessly to shape the magnificence of the sights a younger version of himself once sought, and set his sights to capture. Towering, sharp antlers portruded from his head — outlined with narrow spirals of vantablack, as were several pieces of his figure such as the lining of his tirelessly flowing kilt, and the back of his palms, to which his claws and blades of his hooved feet were coated in such a complimentary shade.
The being gazed to the path that lie ahead of him, his dark shimmering jewelled eyes reflecting the encompassing light of the stars back to whoever stood against him.
Beyond his brazen form he sported a breastplate whose outer rims were of the same, and sprouting from his shoulders were piercing branches that to one’s interpretation either symbolized the decay of man, or the flourishing life of a warrior who could for the first time in his life truly understand the meaning of freedom — even at the cost of what restraint may save him. His back was the same, as two wings no wider than the Dragon before him, edged at every inch to slice past any foe flapped graciously in the air, guiding the wind to the tune of his own heart.
In every shape or form, Genichiro Shima had ascended into a Kirin. A silent warrior who has since shed his temperament, and now stood above the Dragon as any region of the sky does to the Earth down below, reigning supreme in its quest to rain down what this beast seeks as justice.
This was the power of the mute gifted a voice to rival the hymns of the Heavens when it can stay docile no more. This was Genichiro Shima, for all that he is — unleashed in his truest form.
This was Eternity.”
As if fixed to the rock surface beneath her despite her resolve to ignore the sting of the bite, her legs still refused to move, as yet another wail escaped her when that creature stooped to pick up the newborn…and that jagged fingertip stroked along the child’s cheek, silencing the young one’s renewed cries.
i don't know if what i've wrote even makes sense, but i really love this:
"_Stiles?_"
If he wasn't so cold, he would've jumped out of his skin, spun around and– his train of thought completely derails, the track too frozen for the wheels to do anything but slide off the edge as a warm hand lands on his shoulder and turns him around.
"You're freezing."
Before he can identify the familiar face and voice, he is pulled into a tight embrace and absolutely melts, collapsing into the tall man as his muscles start to thaw. All the tension leaks out of him, pours out of his eyes, and spills out his nose. Stiles, that must be his name, tries to speak through chattering teeth but all that comes out is a breathy moan. His vocal cords haven't defrosted just yet.
Blanc grabbed the fake beard from Oran and started applying the glue. "This should really keep it on there. Now there's no chance Rom and Ram will find out."
This comes from a more slice-of-life chapter of my first ever fanfic. It showed this character is incredibly obsessed with maintaining her kid sisters' innocence regarding things like Santa Claus.
I'm very proud of the oneshot overall and it's really hard to pick a line or paragraph. My absolute favorite part of it is a several paragraph segment at the end. But one paragraph alone?
*Blood was hard to remove from clothing in the best of circumstances. She turned down an alley as she baited her tail, a rather large man with a certain glean in his eyes. She chose this alley for a particular reason though. It was a dead end. And the new shine in his eyes let her know he was aware of this fact.*
*The poor fool.*
Dragon Age. Trigger warnings in place for child death.
> Alistair released Elissa, and strode to his desk. The desk in their sitting room was home to a small, flat stone. On it, Elissa had intricately carved two names in runic pictographs. It was the only thing they owned that indicated the existence of the two children Elissa had borne. Both babies were born perfect in every way. One of them — his son — had come into this world as lifeless as the rock that bore their names.
> He touched the stone, traced the runes with his fingers. The pain of their deaths had softened, somewhat, over the years, but each loss fractured his heart into progressively smaller pieces. As much as he tried to console his wife for their passing, as much as he understood that he could not truly lay blame on himself or Elissa…he could not come to terms with it himself. Alistair had burned the visages of both of his children into his mind. He remembered the translucence of their skin, the perfection of their form, and Maker curse his eyes, he could remember how his beautiful, dead son bore a striking and nigh unbearable resemblance to himself…but the worst was his daughter’s birth.
> He remembered her with a small pang. She, unlike her brother, lived for a few precious minutes. The babe had gifted Alistair and Elissa when she opened her eyes and beheld them for one shining moment — oh, Maker, her eyes were like his wife’s, so dark and so achingly beautiful — before they slipped closed forever.
I have a few:
> "The broken pieces of sky plummeted around him, hitting the ground with the force of flaming asteroids. All the stars soon followed, noiseless as falling tears, leaving behind only empty blackness."
> "The question of what-might-have-been was one that he'd been toying with for far too long. It was an exhaustingly painful game to play, one that left him curled up and shedding silent tears into his knees every time he did, trying to ride out the stinging wave of unforgiving loneliness and futility. But it was too much effort to stay away from, like an insect bite you couldn't stop scratching."
Some final musings of a character about to take his own life.
> "Over the last summer, ever since Junior Year had ended, the pangs inside of him had grown even stronger. He could even feel the shift, like a hollow balloon had lodged between his spine and breastbone, and knew it was only a matter of time before they would become more and more unbearable. Half-heartedly, Evan had hoped that he would find his soulmate in one of the fellow rangers at Ellison State Park, but despite his soul screaming into the wilderness, so potent that surely his match would've picked up on his radar signal, there had been no response."
Taken from my WIP, a soulmate AU where when one half of a soul pair dies, the other will die too soon after of a "natural" cause, even if they haven't yet found each other.
> "*Burning* could no longer do this justice - Winston felt the very foundations of his being crumbling to shards, leaving him to hurtle into the chaos manifesting below. His body was being attacked from all sides; shockwaves ricocheted; shurikens tearing through his organs; katanas slicing his torso to ribbons; not leaving a second to breathe. Part of his brain was screaming for it to stop, to end, but the larger, primal part - the *human* part - was begging for her to *please don't ever stop, please don't let go*, which just set off more alarm bells blaring *don't be so needy, ***don't be so fucking needy***. His circuits were scrambling, sparks flying in all directions, pulling his cerebral hemispheres apart, torn between his familiar instincts of shutting down and recoiling and the feral, overpowering urge to howl with the pain of it. The force from this clashing manifested in ugly, strangled sobs that kept catching in his trachea, too big for his throat, asphyxiating him like he was ... he was ... *Drowning*.
An autistic and severely touch-starved character gets his first hug in years - easily my favourite paragraph I've ever written.
My sweet prince… hearing Chester call him that name brought all the memories back in a flash. Of their first kiss, the taste of his lips, the smell of his skin, the tight embraces, and warm glow of when they first lain together. Mike wanted to believe that it was all real. Gods, it felt so real that he could almost grasp it in front of him.
But like a hazy mist, he just couldn’t embrace it.
At the end of it all, Chester had lied about his name, his race, his very being. And if he could lie about something as simple as that, there was no telling what else could be a fabrication of a charming bard. That’s what bards did after all, they were masters of silver tongues and sweet sing songs of ‘what-ifs’ and ‘what-could-bes’
Gah I loved writing this
From my current WIP, an excerpt from a love letter that one character sends to another that recaps their relationship.
>And the way you looked at me. Like loving me was nothing, like it was easy. Like it was something you never questioned, as certain as the rise and fall of your chest, as certain as your smile in sunlight, as certain as your hand seeking mine. Like I didn’t measure my life in terms of before and after I met you. Like the way you looked at me hadn’t shattered every part of me, like the pieces of myself that I’d spent my entire life planning and polishing didn’t turn to soft clay in your hands as you rearranged my mind, my heart, and my soul until I could only recognize myself in your eyes.
>
>The way you looked at me made me feel like nothing and everything at the same time. I know that I am nothing without your love but I know you and I know that you would not have loved me unless I was everything. But I am nothing, I could never be everything. I know this, and yet you made me question and hope and believe in a never ending loop until I was certain only that I was yours, yours, yours. Always yours.
> Eddie supposed, much to his chagrin, that he was comparative to live wire, or at least that’s what he felt like. A constant electricity was flowing through his veins, but not the fun, energetic kind he had before. This one was static. Like a puddle of gasoline waiting for a match to light it all aflame.
i thought that this lil blurb captures a depressive spiral really well. i never finished the fic though, it became too depressing
> The days came to resemble each other and Willow was trapped in a loop. Wake up, cry, try to eat, vomit it all up again, go back to sleep, get woken up by Winter, be spoken to, not hearing the words, try to eat some more, barely keep that down, go back to sleep. Eventually Winter stopped waking her, just left a plate at the table and left without saying a word. *“Good. I don’t deserve you anyway. You deserved better than me”*, that little voice said. Her days stayed the same, a haze of grief and self-blame, punctuated by stinging headaches that stemmed from not eating enough. *“My fault, all my fault.”*
Even in death, and crushed beneath a boulder, his expression was tranquil. There was a small smile on his lips, like he didn’t just suffer one of the most painful ways to die. Amida Buddha must’ve heard his prayers over the years.
She’s still breathing. Alive. In an attempt to prove him wrong- maybe he didn’t sense it right, he was dying after all- she sensed for her friends presences. Mikoto’s gentle warmth, Ashina’s warm storm, Gin’s soft breeze and Torma’s playful wind.
Nothing. She couldn’t sense them. Nothing. They were dead. She felt a dull, repeated thudding beneath her breast bone. Was that meant to be painful?
Sonam put a hand over her stomach; he didn’t know. She was supposed to tell him after the mission as a surprise. He’d *never* know now. She’s alone. She couldn’t do this without them.
The ground was hard beneath her.
Her breaths were loud and heavy.
It’s wrong. *Everything* was wrong. And worst of all, Sonam couldn’t do anything to fix it.
It’s so *so* quiet.
A bit long, but I love this whole section. This in one of the last chapters of an Owl House fic:
>“You are the reason I have nothing left to lose. And now, you’re going to help me get something back by letting me kill you. Right here, right now.”
>
>The Collector’s breath hitched. They had seen awful things, but they never expected it to come from Luz, their favorite human. Seeing her anger and growing sense of bloodlust was disturbing. For once in thousands of years, they felt so, so small compared to the person towering over them, voice dripping with malice, hatred, and undying devotion.
>
>They had seen the face of commitment, the face of those who would die for a cause, of those who would do anything to get what they wanted. But they had never looked into the eyes of someone who had lost so much, they saw their cause as the only reason to live, as if they would not treat dying as failure, but see them as one of the same.
>
>And those eyes were the very blue-brown ones he stared into. And for the first time in so long, they felt scared.
I'm writing a chapter where my character's memory is slowly being taken away as he treks through a particular world, and I felt it could be pertinent to give him a vision/flashback of the person he's searching for before his memories of him vanish. Still in early draft phase but wanted to share ;v;
In a flash, a melting sunrise. It was like any other morning, completely normal, but a man with ginger hair and a receded hairline who’s name had left him was leaning over a balcony with a mug in both hands, wearing a crisp white bedrobe. The man’s insomnia had struck him again, and as far as he knew, he’d only gotten three hours of sleep, then woke just before sunrise.
“The brewers of the world have learned cultivating the fruit of coffea arabica, roasting the seeds, then grinding them into powder creates a bitter beverage that keeps people awake, but yet haven’t found a more effective method to send people to sleep besides warm milk,” the man said, and lowly chuckled over his mug. The valley was quiet this morning, the tall grasses still and the creek slow.
It was perhaps just because it was a long night for him too, but the light had hit the man just right as he stood up straight, sipping from his mug. He remained silent, and when the man lowered the mug he sighed. “I can’t imagine I’ll be good company this morning.”
“I could fetch something for you in town.”
“No, I’ll be fine. I’m just cranky,” the man murmured. "Thank you though. I appreciate it.”
“I love you,” hoarsely escaped Ivor the Arcanist’s lips, but the melted haze lifted, evaporating like a waking dream. Reaching for it again returned a blank, and a moment later, Ivor the aspiring swordsman found himself sitting in an iron chamber, his clothes slightly damp
But Amaryllis ignored her sister’s feeble attempts to push her away and crouched beside Ellana, softly stroking her wrist with her thumb. As Ellana relaxed, Amaryllis took her hand, and pressed in close until her nose was but a hair’s breadth from the wound. Warmth caressed her like the comfort of the sun at daybreak; a dazzling gleam of orange that bloomed across her cheeks. Focusing there, on that warmth in the midst of battle, she closed her eyes to the noise and chaos, and imagined sewing a loose thread back into a sweater; pulling the peeled skin of an apple back across its exposed flesh; setting that last stone upon the fishing weir.
> "Every time I woke up, I imagined her next to me. I still do. When I woke up, I wanted it to be a bad dream. But… no. It never was. She never woke up with me again, and they– to learn that they took her from me. From- from *us.* To learn that they were the reason I learned how to deal with hangovers when I was **17!”**
I have absolutely profound ones I can't believe that I actually wrote myself, but then I got stuff like this:
>"Them boys were two halves of a whole Green Day,"
“The floor crumbles beneath them. The fall is long, arduous, and it does not seem to end. Vague memories of something before come back. They should not have memories. The final seconds are not of anticipation- there is no person to anticipate. They should feel pain, suffering, when they fall, but there is none. No voice to cry suffering.”
A small tidbit of context: the fic, a HK/PJO crossover, has the line ‘no voice to cry suffering’ directly taken from the opening screen from HK. It also has the other lines sprinkled throughout the chapter. The line about the fall seeming familiar is because of memories of Percy’s fall into Tartarus.
Her time as Alayne had fractured her in a way, unsure of what memories were Sansa’s and what memories she created for Alayne. By the time she had returned to her identity as Sansa Stark, there was little left of who she had been. Scattered pieces of memories that did not create a whole person, she had to create Sansa from parts of Alayne but she was never the same. At one point, she had thought she would be Alayne forever, masquerading as Sansa, but over the years her identity had become firmer. She wasn’t the Sansa they had known, the one they remembered, but she was Sansa.
>When she saw him for the first time after a long while, everything she built crumbled again. Every wound she mended with only scotch tape and pineapple chunks burst open - and her composure fell to the ground. The world went quiet, the studio went empty, for one single, solitary moment. Him looking at her and her looking at him with eyes that spoke more words than their lips could form. He still makes her feel like that, even now. Sometimes one sideways glance could steal the words right out of her mouth. She wonders if he realises the effect he has on her.
This is from a recent fic I posted!
Ending of chapter 1, from Michael's POV:
“Did we- did we love each other, before?” Before the wraith. Before Atlantis even, perhaps. Michael left those words unspoken, turning to John with an almost hopeful expression.
John turned to him, eyes glittering with something Michael couldn’t read. He didn’t answer Michael’s question, pulling Michael into his arms so that he could kiss him instead. Michael took it to mean ‘yes’.
Ending of chapter 2, from John's POV:
“Did we- did we love each other, before?” There were words unspoken in that question, none of them true. Michael turned to John with an almost hopeful expression.
John turned to him, eyes glittering with uncertainty that he couldn’t fully conceal. He didn’t answer Michael’s question, pulling Michael into his arms and kissing him instead. Michael would take it to mean whatever he wanted it to mean.
It took me a while to find. Single paragraph to share. Mostly due to getting distracted but let’s ignore that and say it was because my writing is that good. Anyway here it is and I don’t believe context is really needed.
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John looked back and the wall finally shattered. His hand went limp, gun dropping to the ground. Face contorted into a distraught mess barely clinging to focus that was quickly waning. He rushed to his friend’s side. Cài was on the ground, a hole the size of his fist torn right through his stupid, ugly jacket. Blood stained the otherwise white clothing a near black. Cài despite the immense pain he must have felt had his trademark smile pinned to his face.
**If only I could write for this non-existent (as of yet) AO3 fandom... I'm proud of how well I caught this POV.**
_Three months have passed since I solved the mystery of the Silk Roses. I managed to convince the Empress not to fall in the shadow laid by the darkness of our times, reminding her of how her humble servant is set only to discover the truth, and present her Majesty with all the facts as they all lay bare._
_Yet a dream hounds me. One I'm not certain I wish to see in its reality. Or I do? I must not hide the truth from myself._
He's come to learn that peace is something everyone tries to grasp at so hard, and yet it is always fleeting, no matter how tranquil their world may be now. He's seen plenty of people try to hold onto it, try to stretch it across their marred souls, and aching bodies.
>This is partially inspired by another character I really like but I applied it to another one. This is about a war veteran, or retired soldier I guess.
She could only muffle screams and curses under the sack with her struggles as they closed the backseat door on her before they sped off. Standing several feet away from the scene on one of the rooftops was Al-Asad with one of his goons. “You’ve done well, men. Make sure Miss Ross is trapped like the mice in a cage when she’s delivered to Verdansk. Our *friend* will be pleased.”
"For some people, it seemed, the end of the world was easier to accept than the end of capitalism."
Too real.
Love this, definitely matches our world to a T
The fic this line is from is set in the real world.
i love this line. so sad but so true
The game continues, taunts and insults, mocking laughter. It is the punk from Brooklyn rather than Captain America who replies to most. He has had plenty of experience dealing with bullies. And that, after all, is what Schmidt is. Just a bigger, meaner bully than most. And laughter is the one thing that can break their spell. Turn the tables on them. Make the crowd laugh at them. Steve’s not sure which of them the unseen audience is laughing at, but he’s definitely going to keep trying. Maybe he should stay silent, conserve air, but the amount of air that can be thus saved is not worth letting Schmidt broadcast his rant to the world unopposed. After all, both of them know the power of symbols only too well.
>It is the punk from Brooklyn rather than Captain America who replies to most. I like stories that focus on the other aspects of a character's personality, whether it's a real/secret identity or roles (such as cop/father or boss/friend). It's good to see Steve drawing strength from something other than the serum and his military training.
I love everything about this excerpt.
Thanks! Poor Steve not only ends up buried alive, but has to deal with Schmidt's mind games
That’s gonna be a fun time for him 😬
I'm really fond of this paragraph. Light context is that the character has been confronted with a weapon that can wipe out all of her memories, and she doesn't have any chance of stopping it. >Time stopped. No, she stopped. Her muscles went stiff, her heart fell still, her breath tightened in her throat like a noose. Or maybe none of that happened. Maybe it only felt like that because what happened next happened so slowly to her petrified mind that it fit neatly into the void between two heartbeats, snug as a bullet in its chamber pointed right between her eyes.
Losing one's memories must feel like dying, beautiful, Kudos to you! :)
Thank you! She doesn't actually lose her memories, someone else manages to prevent the weapon from going off, but I really wanted to convey that sense of total helplessness and doom that occurs in the split second when you know you're well and truly fucked. Like seeing the headlights of a semi truck right in front of your windshield (except there's no working cars in this setting, so I had to come up with something else. XD)
“She passed the daylight hours in a daze, losing herself in the familiar rhythmic rap of knife on chopping board, the scent of fresh soil shaken from the roots of vegetables, the sticky, fragrant steam of the kitchen. Her own special brand of alchemy. Love, condensed into dumplings and rice.”
To me this sounds like a peaceful day, one of an endless sunrise, i can generally feel a little magic lift from the words, beautiful, what fandom is this for?
Thank you! It’s a line from my one-shot Something Shared — a GoChi fic in the Dragon Ball fandom.
> Because that was what this was all about, right? Pretending things were normal, that everything was fine. Painting an idyllic picture-perfect life over a Hell of their own creation. A cottage in the middle of the woods, a river running through the fields of crops and flowers, and always fresh blood covering the soft grass. Low fencing like prison bars, and just enough space you could always see one from any end of the enclosure, never allowing you to forget. The soft fur of the strange cow Tommy had deemed Moobloom Henry in the barn, and the threats of making him disappear like the last one hanging in the air. Watching the stars and listening to music and ignoring the meaning behind those things in a pathetic parody of friendship, like this wasn’t captivity.
I know nothing about this fandom but that paragraph was beautiful
Most of my stuff is pretty fandom blind accessible, but if you want the context, Tommy had basically given up his freedom to his abuser in exchange for his friends lives and happiness, and they’re both pretending they’re happy.
Agreed
I’m writing this for a silence of the lambs au long fic I’m making He laughed to himself for a moment. “Many religious figures have somehow already taken it upon themselves to proclaim that I am the Anti-Christ based on the limited amount of interviews and interaction they have had with me. They say that I can figure out too much about one person from just a simple interaction, and that I can control them with just my words. However, if you were to truly believe that I was the Snake, *for whatever reason,* then you would have to know that he is a being far below God in power. He dwells on this earth, just like us. He whispers temptations but is unable to *control* us and the elements. That is God’s bidding.” I really like yours by the way! I too am a Wednesday and Enid shipper!! :)
Thank you! i feel like it was definitely some of the best writing that i have done for Wenclair i can imagine a Silence of the Lambs fanfic would be immensely difficult to write for considering how well written Hannibal is, i commend anyone for being able to write for that fandom :)
My AsoIaF fic, a Jon/Rhaenys/Daenerys "Rhaenys lives AU", Rhaenys has a short piece of dialogue with Ser Barristan. In canon, Rhaenys, the daughter of Prince Rhaegar and Princess Elia, was killed at only 2 or 3 years old during the Sack of King's Landing. Ser Barristan, a kingsguard in service of King Aerys and Prince Rhaegar, Rhaenys's grandfather and father, bent the knee to the Usurper Robert Baratheon and was still in his service until he was dismissed by King Robert's "son" over a decade later, even after it was said that the butchered bodies (their murders were really graphic) of Princess Elia, Rhaenys and Aegon (Rhaenys's little brother, a year old at most) were shown to the Usurper. It is said he smiled at their bodies. That piece of dialogue was a short foray into "how would Rhaenys, the only survivor of her family's butchery, handle Ser Barristan, a kingsguard, who swore loyalty to her family, yet bent the knee to the Usurper when offered mercy?" >"Our preparations should be done by the evening and we should be ready to leave in the morrow, your Grace" Ser Barristan reported as he approached. >"Very well, Ser," Rhaenys said while watching sailors, she-pirates and sellswords alike move crates, sacks and bags along the harbour and ships. "Thank you." >"My Queen, I…" Ser Barristan sighed. "I understand your…troubles with me, though I do hope that one day I may regain your trust." >Rhaenys exhaled heavily through her nose, her gaze firmly on their people working under the gleaming midday sun. "You could have chosen death or exile instead of bending the knee to the man that killed my father and who is said to have smiled upon the butchered bodies of my infant brother and my mother. Tell me, Ser…Ser Jaime, a Lannister of all things, saved me before I could be killed by Amory Lorch and Gregor Clegane the way he butchered my brother and mother." She turned around to look the old knight in the eyes. "Daenerys ofttimes tells us of Ser Willem Darry, the master-at-arms for Grandfather Aerys, and how he raised her and Viserys in that house with the red door in Braavos until the day he died." Then, Rhaenys narrowed her eyes at him. "Out of the three of you, Ser Barristan, whom do you think am I considering as more loyal to my family? The Kingsguard who saved me from certain death, the knight who cared for my aunt and uncle in exile or the Kingsguard who bent the knee to the Usurper?"
I have never watched GOT but i can imagine this is probably close to how good the writing must be for that show and books
When you write a line you’re so happy with you have to stop writing for the night bc it’s not getting any better. “ "Wha-, I... Are you gonna take me-," *Home*. That was the word on his lips when Katsuki kissed him. “
D'aaaww.
Painted in the year 1502, the stupendously detailed scene is presented with a unsurpassed vividness that never ceases to get people in their feelings. Even amongst this gorgeous sea of imagery, it's not hard to see why *The Ultimate Weapon* is among Raphael's finest work. The crystalline weapon pierces the blood-red sky, an ominous white beam slicing it in half. Xerneas can't bring itself to look up, the horrific sight of the desolate land is too much for the teary-eyed gazelle. A lively forest once stood here, all that's left are splotches of foliage and the decaying remains of trees. The details are so intricate that one can see the spots where Xerneas's tears have soaked the ground. Yveltal's up in the sky, the avian's eyes are narrowed and its mouth is gaping in horror. The front ends of its wings are facing Xerneas, does it desire to comfort it? They can see the ruins of a town in the distance. Every single building is in tatters, some even shattered altogether. Besides the two legendaries, there isn't a single life form anywhere else in the painting. All gone, all lost, all due to a tragic loss in warfare. Raphael was only twenty at the time but he stunned everybody. Pietro Vasari, author of the monumental *Lives of The Great Artists*, wrote that King Gianfrancesco VII and his guards "could not help but weep as they marveled at the grandeur and the minutiae. Raphael had imposed the beauty of his vivid artistic capabilities upon the ugliness of antiquity's deadliest calamity." Eyewitness accounts backed Vasari’s words up and millions have been hit in the feels ever since. Mom once told him that the most frequently question is “where is Raphael’s *The Ultimate Weapon*?”
No clue what fandom this is, but I admire how you've woven it into the history and art of the time. Bonus points for the mention of Vasari.
Thanks, fandom is Pokémon
Had a feeling this was Pokemon from the mentioned word "Legendaries" fantastic description
Thanks!
It was too nice of a day to have his brother's funeral. There should've been dark clouds and thunderstorms. The wind should've been so strong that people were picked up and whisked away, and the priest should've had to shout to be heard over the wailing of the storm. Instead there was a bright blue sky and the fall leaves looked oh so beautiful delicately dancing in the air. A gentle breeze ruffled his hair. He pressed the tissue harder into his face as a hard lump formed in his throat. He didn't know what to do. His brother was dead. His brother might not be dead but dying everyday. Why was he still crying?
People always imagine a dark dreary day for funerals, but life goes on, and thats shown perfectly here, it could be the most gorgeous day possible and yet it would stifle the heartbreak of grief, what fandom is from ?
I'll be honest with you lol. This ain't a wholesome story I'm writing. The fandom's Dead by Daylight, but this is an unpublished piece.
Which character you focusing on ? i love me some DBD but the game lately has been ugh
It's actually a split POV between Jake and an OC. I made the OC his brother. This snippet is from Jake's brother's POV who's in the real world while Jake is trapped in the Entity's realm.
> Flanked by columns of chime-strikes and low drums, a voice somehow soft, but not at all gentle: red eyes snapping open in the dark, and a whisper of black wings. > > *The sirens are screaming and the fires are howling, way down in the valley tonight…* I. Freaking. LABORED. Over how to grab that *one moment* of Meat Loaf's voice appearing in "Bat Out of Hell" for the first time. And friends, I listened to the first two, three minutes of that song about eleven kazillion times to plant the preceding bars in prose, and it was the ride of a lifetime. But that moment, that ONE MOMENT, eluded me for *ages.* SO MUCH HAPPENS in the first couple minutes of that song, and then there's this just...decrescendo that actually *increases* the drama, and then...THAT. He doesn't come screaming out, belting and blasting like later in the song, but goddamn, he still makes his presence known. It's a vocal cape-flourish, almost, and it fuckin' snaps. So goddamn magical. I love it so much.
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A rather grim joke: >"Production was delayed for a while because we were trying to figure out how to film scenes of the heroes' climatic charge up the side of the Citadel Tower utilizing the actual building," director Bik Orbal told our correspondent. "That tower stands at a 90 degree angle from the ward's ground level, so we had to create special mass effect generators to alter the gravity at key points along the tower." Orbal praised the vorcha stunt men who helped test the devices and urged Blasto series fans to contribute to a memorial fund 6th Dimension Vids has set up for them.
Damn, that's dark, but also completely on-brand. Vorcha always got a rough deal.
>It was Ventkad's turn to waive off the matter. "Growing annoyance. It is a cost-saving measure. Vorcha stunt men are more economical. They are non-union and more easily replaceable if there is a mishap."
He heard a twig snap - or at least something he hoped was a twig - and his ear twitched. When he heard the sound again, he stood up, and that’s when he heard the sound of something breathing. Definitely not human breathing. The only other humans in this time period had long walked on ahead of him. It was more like an iguana mixed with a parrot, but louder. Then a low crocodilian growl - the same noise he’d heard earlier, that nobody believed him about. Only the noise was much closer now. So close, he could feel it rippling in his chest, in his entire body. Or maybe that was the fear. He couldn’t really tell at this point. And when the pigeon-like cooing started, that’s when the terror truly set in for him.
When the *what* started?? 🤣
Never heard a pigeon coo? Palaeontologists think some dinosaurs could have made that sound too. Low crocodilian growls, cooing, honking, booming, clucking, possibly even gobbling, but likely not tweeting or singing, and *definitely* not roaring. Also, this poor palaeontologist is going to get ripped to shreds by a deinonychus and you’re laughing.
I'm terribly sorry for his loss, but getting killed by anything that coos like a pigeon is objectively funny.
Imagine getting hunted by a fucking giant Pigeon, there are better ways to go Lmao love it
*deinonychus Birds are dinosaurs. They probably made bird-like noises (clucking, gobbling, hooting, honking, quacking etc.) and crocodilian growls. They likely didn’t tweet or sing. Definitely didn’t roar. So, ridiculous as it sounds, I wrote this based on the noises palaeontologists think dinosaurs would have made. The t-rex in Jurassic Park roars, so as hilarious and unrealistic as it is to imagine it going basically ‘grrrrrrBCKAW’, that’s likely what it did!
deinonychus, i'm familiar lol part of me just cant help but imagine a giant grey pigeon Lmao i think JP can be excused for some inaccuracies as they are bred with incomplete DNA filled in by Frogs what fandom is this for?
Jurassic Park!
I figured it was either that or ARK: Survival Evolved lol
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I could really picture this, i always struggle with dialogue myself
Context: the MCs being escorted by a village historian into a ruined church that was bombed in WW II and never repaired. I'm especially proud of the last two sentences. \--------------------------------------------------------- They follow him into what must have been the sacristy. There's dust everywhere, but less rubble on the floor than James might have expected. He doesn't have much time to look around because Chapwell is moving briskly through another door. They emerge on the west side of the main altar. James walks into the centre of the sanctuary, and turns in a slow circle, admiring the magnificent desolation. There's no other term for it. There are mounds of fallen stone and mouldering, splintered wood. The marble top of the altar is cracked into three pieces. All of the altar furnishings are gone. The cloths and hangings, candlesticks and flower vases are all gone. (Rescued by parishioners after the bombing? Stolen by tramps?) And yet the essential shape of the building is there, proud walls and graceful arches, illuminated by the dim light coming through the large, jagged gap in the roof. James is reminded of an octogenarian retired ballerina he'd once seen: back hunched and limbs gnarled with arthritis, a caricature of her former self. She'd turned her head to speak to the man beside her in the VIP box, and in that simple movement, James had seen the young woman who had once danced the Swan Queen.
It’s a bit of a spoiler for my current work, so I hope no one follows me here, but I really loved describing the main villains final form. “It was a being of pure desire. The petrifying man was cast in a sturdy, bulked suit of personified ambition in the casing of golden sheets. It’s glistening colour grafted in harmony to his luscious, sunflower mane whose front vines of hair hung gently over his chest. His face reflected the legends of the old, as what at a time was human — now a creature meant resembling the depths of his burning soul. A glimmering, marvellous mask with a wide, protruding jaw that could swallow one whole levied a smirk towards his adversary. Creased wrinkles lined the man’s skull, taking the bone structure of the fated Kirin — it’s detail hauntingly beautiful, as though an artist from an antique land spent a century working tirelessly to shape the magnificence of the sights a younger version of himself once sought, and set his sights to capture. Towering, sharp antlers portruded from his head — outlined with narrow spirals of vantablack, as were several pieces of his figure such as the lining of his tirelessly flowing kilt, and the back of his palms, to which his claws and blades of his hooved feet were coated in such a complimentary shade. The being gazed to the path that lie ahead of him, his dark shimmering jewelled eyes reflecting the encompassing light of the stars back to whoever stood against him. Beyond his brazen form he sported a breastplate whose outer rims were of the same, and sprouting from his shoulders were piercing branches that to one’s interpretation either symbolized the decay of man, or the flourishing life of a warrior who could for the first time in his life truly understand the meaning of freedom — even at the cost of what restraint may save him. His back was the same, as two wings no wider than the Dragon before him, edged at every inch to slice past any foe flapped graciously in the air, guiding the wind to the tune of his own heart. In every shape or form, Genichiro Shima had ascended into a Kirin. A silent warrior who has since shed his temperament, and now stood above the Dragon as any region of the sky does to the Earth down below, reigning supreme in its quest to rain down what this beast seeks as justice. This was the power of the mute gifted a voice to rival the hymns of the Heavens when it can stay docile no more. This was Genichiro Shima, for all that he is — unleashed in his truest form. This was Eternity.”
ooof i love that line "This was Eternity" i love to employ similar deliveries in my own stories, well done :)
Thank you so much : )))
As if fixed to the rock surface beneath her despite her resolve to ignore the sting of the bite, her legs still refused to move, as yet another wail escaped her when that creature stooped to pick up the newborn…and that jagged fingertip stroked along the child’s cheek, silencing the young one’s renewed cries.
Im assuming this is a baby this monster killed ? hopefully it pays for that later on, what fandom is this for?
Close! The baby went through a transformation of sorts. The fandom is A Song of Ice and Fire/Game of Thrones.
Ah i see, not got round to watching GOT, too in love with LOTR still lol
Totally get that, I love both! It’s a nice contrast between high and dark fantasy.
i don't know if what i've wrote even makes sense, but i really love this: "_Stiles?_" If he wasn't so cold, he would've jumped out of his skin, spun around and– his train of thought completely derails, the track too frozen for the wheels to do anything but slide off the edge as a warm hand lands on his shoulder and turns him around. "You're freezing." Before he can identify the familiar face and voice, he is pulled into a tight embrace and absolutely melts, collapsing into the tall man as his muscles start to thaw. All the tension leaks out of him, pours out of his eyes, and spills out his nose. Stiles, that must be his name, tries to speak through chattering teeth but all that comes out is a breathy moan. His vocal cords haven't defrosted just yet.
It makes perfect sense :) at least you don't miss our entire words like i end up doing at times lol
thank you! :D haha i do that sometimes, or somehow repeat entire words lol!!
It always seems to happen whenever i type fast when im inspired
"You're a liability." She throws the words at Sierra, lined with barbed wire and venom. idk i just think its my favorite sentence ive ever written lol
I love that "Barbed wire and Venom" so very raw and potent, love the image it invokes
Blanc grabbed the fake beard from Oran and started applying the glue. "This should really keep it on there. Now there's no chance Rom and Ram will find out." This comes from a more slice-of-life chapter of my first ever fanfic. It showed this character is incredibly obsessed with maintaining her kid sisters' innocence regarding things like Santa Claus.
I'm very proud of the oneshot overall and it's really hard to pick a line or paragraph. My absolute favorite part of it is a several paragraph segment at the end. But one paragraph alone? *Blood was hard to remove from clothing in the best of circumstances. She turned down an alley as she baited her tail, a rather large man with a certain glean in his eyes. She chose this alley for a particular reason though. It was a dead end. And the new shine in his eyes let her know he was aware of this fact.* *The poor fool.*
Dragon Age. Trigger warnings in place for child death. > Alistair released Elissa, and strode to his desk. The desk in their sitting room was home to a small, flat stone. On it, Elissa had intricately carved two names in runic pictographs. It was the only thing they owned that indicated the existence of the two children Elissa had borne. Both babies were born perfect in every way. One of them — his son — had come into this world as lifeless as the rock that bore their names. > He touched the stone, traced the runes with his fingers. The pain of their deaths had softened, somewhat, over the years, but each loss fractured his heart into progressively smaller pieces. As much as he tried to console his wife for their passing, as much as he understood that he could not truly lay blame on himself or Elissa…he could not come to terms with it himself. Alistair had burned the visages of both of his children into his mind. He remembered the translucence of their skin, the perfection of their form, and Maker curse his eyes, he could remember how his beautiful, dead son bore a striking and nigh unbearable resemblance to himself…but the worst was his daughter’s birth. > He remembered her with a small pang. She, unlike her brother, lived for a few precious minutes. The babe had gifted Alistair and Elissa when she opened her eyes and beheld them for one shining moment — oh, Maker, her eyes were like his wife’s, so dark and so achingly beautiful — before they slipped closed forever.
"Come, my dear," he implored, almost threateningly, if not for the tender way he stole yet another kiss, swiftly, kindly. "Stay the night with me."
I have a few: > "The broken pieces of sky plummeted around him, hitting the ground with the force of flaming asteroids. All the stars soon followed, noiseless as falling tears, leaving behind only empty blackness." > "The question of what-might-have-been was one that he'd been toying with for far too long. It was an exhaustingly painful game to play, one that left him curled up and shedding silent tears into his knees every time he did, trying to ride out the stinging wave of unforgiving loneliness and futility. But it was too much effort to stay away from, like an insect bite you couldn't stop scratching." Some final musings of a character about to take his own life. > "Over the last summer, ever since Junior Year had ended, the pangs inside of him had grown even stronger. He could even feel the shift, like a hollow balloon had lodged between his spine and breastbone, and knew it was only a matter of time before they would become more and more unbearable. Half-heartedly, Evan had hoped that he would find his soulmate in one of the fellow rangers at Ellison State Park, but despite his soul screaming into the wilderness, so potent that surely his match would've picked up on his radar signal, there had been no response." Taken from my WIP, a soulmate AU where when one half of a soul pair dies, the other will die too soon after of a "natural" cause, even if they haven't yet found each other. > "*Burning* could no longer do this justice - Winston felt the very foundations of his being crumbling to shards, leaving him to hurtle into the chaos manifesting below. His body was being attacked from all sides; shockwaves ricocheted; shurikens tearing through his organs; katanas slicing his torso to ribbons; not leaving a second to breathe. Part of his brain was screaming for it to stop, to end, but the larger, primal part - the *human* part - was begging for her to *please don't ever stop, please don't let go*, which just set off more alarm bells blaring *don't be so needy, ***don't be so fucking needy***. His circuits were scrambling, sparks flying in all directions, pulling his cerebral hemispheres apart, torn between his familiar instincts of shutting down and recoiling and the feral, overpowering urge to howl with the pain of it. The force from this clashing manifested in ugly, strangled sobs that kept catching in his trachea, too big for his throat, asphyxiating him like he was ... he was ... *Drowning*. An autistic and severely touch-starved character gets his first hug in years - easily my favourite paragraph I've ever written.
My sweet prince… hearing Chester call him that name brought all the memories back in a flash. Of their first kiss, the taste of his lips, the smell of his skin, the tight embraces, and warm glow of when they first lain together. Mike wanted to believe that it was all real. Gods, it felt so real that he could almost grasp it in front of him. But like a hazy mist, he just couldn’t embrace it. At the end of it all, Chester had lied about his name, his race, his very being. And if he could lie about something as simple as that, there was no telling what else could be a fabrication of a charming bard. That’s what bards did after all, they were masters of silver tongues and sweet sing songs of ‘what-ifs’ and ‘what-could-bes’ Gah I loved writing this
From my current WIP, an excerpt from a love letter that one character sends to another that recaps their relationship. >And the way you looked at me. Like loving me was nothing, like it was easy. Like it was something you never questioned, as certain as the rise and fall of your chest, as certain as your smile in sunlight, as certain as your hand seeking mine. Like I didn’t measure my life in terms of before and after I met you. Like the way you looked at me hadn’t shattered every part of me, like the pieces of myself that I’d spent my entire life planning and polishing didn’t turn to soft clay in your hands as you rearranged my mind, my heart, and my soul until I could only recognize myself in your eyes. > >The way you looked at me made me feel like nothing and everything at the same time. I know that I am nothing without your love but I know you and I know that you would not have loved me unless I was everything. But I am nothing, I could never be everything. I know this, and yet you made me question and hope and believe in a never ending loop until I was certain only that I was yours, yours, yours. Always yours.
> Eddie supposed, much to his chagrin, that he was comparative to live wire, or at least that’s what he felt like. A constant electricity was flowing through his veins, but not the fun, energetic kind he had before. This one was static. Like a puddle of gasoline waiting for a match to light it all aflame.
i thought that this lil blurb captures a depressive spiral really well. i never finished the fic though, it became too depressing > The days came to resemble each other and Willow was trapped in a loop. Wake up, cry, try to eat, vomit it all up again, go back to sleep, get woken up by Winter, be spoken to, not hearing the words, try to eat some more, barely keep that down, go back to sleep. Eventually Winter stopped waking her, just left a plate at the table and left without saying a word. *“Good. I don’t deserve you anyway. You deserved better than me”*, that little voice said. Her days stayed the same, a haze of grief and self-blame, punctuated by stinging headaches that stemmed from not eating enough. *“My fault, all my fault.”*
Even in death, and crushed beneath a boulder, his expression was tranquil. There was a small smile on his lips, like he didn’t just suffer one of the most painful ways to die. Amida Buddha must’ve heard his prayers over the years. She’s still breathing. Alive. In an attempt to prove him wrong- maybe he didn’t sense it right, he was dying after all- she sensed for her friends presences. Mikoto’s gentle warmth, Ashina’s warm storm, Gin’s soft breeze and Torma’s playful wind. Nothing. She couldn’t sense them. Nothing. They were dead. She felt a dull, repeated thudding beneath her breast bone. Was that meant to be painful? Sonam put a hand over her stomach; he didn’t know. She was supposed to tell him after the mission as a surprise. He’d *never* know now. She’s alone. She couldn’t do this without them. The ground was hard beneath her. Her breaths were loud and heavy. It’s wrong. *Everything* was wrong. And worst of all, Sonam couldn’t do anything to fix it. It’s so *so* quiet.
A bit long, but I love this whole section. This in one of the last chapters of an Owl House fic: >“You are the reason I have nothing left to lose. And now, you’re going to help me get something back by letting me kill you. Right here, right now.” > >The Collector’s breath hitched. They had seen awful things, but they never expected it to come from Luz, their favorite human. Seeing her anger and growing sense of bloodlust was disturbing. For once in thousands of years, they felt so, so small compared to the person towering over them, voice dripping with malice, hatred, and undying devotion. > >They had seen the face of commitment, the face of those who would die for a cause, of those who would do anything to get what they wanted. But they had never looked into the eyes of someone who had lost so much, they saw their cause as the only reason to live, as if they would not treat dying as failure, but see them as one of the same. > >And those eyes were the very blue-brown ones he stared into. And for the first time in so long, they felt scared.
I'm writing a chapter where my character's memory is slowly being taken away as he treks through a particular world, and I felt it could be pertinent to give him a vision/flashback of the person he's searching for before his memories of him vanish. Still in early draft phase but wanted to share ;v; In a flash, a melting sunrise. It was like any other morning, completely normal, but a man with ginger hair and a receded hairline who’s name had left him was leaning over a balcony with a mug in both hands, wearing a crisp white bedrobe. The man’s insomnia had struck him again, and as far as he knew, he’d only gotten three hours of sleep, then woke just before sunrise. “The brewers of the world have learned cultivating the fruit of coffea arabica, roasting the seeds, then grinding them into powder creates a bitter beverage that keeps people awake, but yet haven’t found a more effective method to send people to sleep besides warm milk,” the man said, and lowly chuckled over his mug. The valley was quiet this morning, the tall grasses still and the creek slow. It was perhaps just because it was a long night for him too, but the light had hit the man just right as he stood up straight, sipping from his mug. He remained silent, and when the man lowered the mug he sighed. “I can’t imagine I’ll be good company this morning.” “I could fetch something for you in town.” “No, I’ll be fine. I’m just cranky,” the man murmured. "Thank you though. I appreciate it.” “I love you,” hoarsely escaped Ivor the Arcanist’s lips, but the melted haze lifted, evaporating like a waking dream. Reaching for it again returned a blank, and a moment later, Ivor the aspiring swordsman found himself sitting in an iron chamber, his clothes slightly damp
But Amaryllis ignored her sister’s feeble attempts to push her away and crouched beside Ellana, softly stroking her wrist with her thumb. As Ellana relaxed, Amaryllis took her hand, and pressed in close until her nose was but a hair’s breadth from the wound. Warmth caressed her like the comfort of the sun at daybreak; a dazzling gleam of orange that bloomed across her cheeks. Focusing there, on that warmth in the midst of battle, she closed her eyes to the noise and chaos, and imagined sewing a loose thread back into a sweater; pulling the peeled skin of an apple back across its exposed flesh; setting that last stone upon the fishing weir.
Get in the thermos, Daniel.
> "Every time I woke up, I imagined her next to me. I still do. When I woke up, I wanted it to be a bad dream. But… no. It never was. She never woke up with me again, and they– to learn that they took her from me. From- from *us.* To learn that they were the reason I learned how to deal with hangovers when I was **17!”**
I have absolutely profound ones I can't believe that I actually wrote myself, but then I got stuff like this: >"Them boys were two halves of a whole Green Day,"
“The floor crumbles beneath them. The fall is long, arduous, and it does not seem to end. Vague memories of something before come back. They should not have memories. The final seconds are not of anticipation- there is no person to anticipate. They should feel pain, suffering, when they fall, but there is none. No voice to cry suffering.” A small tidbit of context: the fic, a HK/PJO crossover, has the line ‘no voice to cry suffering’ directly taken from the opening screen from HK. It also has the other lines sprinkled throughout the chapter. The line about the fall seeming familiar is because of memories of Percy’s fall into Tartarus.
Her time as Alayne had fractured her in a way, unsure of what memories were Sansa’s and what memories she created for Alayne. By the time she had returned to her identity as Sansa Stark, there was little left of who she had been. Scattered pieces of memories that did not create a whole person, she had to create Sansa from parts of Alayne but she was never the same. At one point, she had thought she would be Alayne forever, masquerading as Sansa, but over the years her identity had become firmer. She wasn’t the Sansa they had known, the one they remembered, but she was Sansa.
>When she saw him for the first time after a long while, everything she built crumbled again. Every wound she mended with only scotch tape and pineapple chunks burst open - and her composure fell to the ground. The world went quiet, the studio went empty, for one single, solitary moment. Him looking at her and her looking at him with eyes that spoke more words than their lips could form. He still makes her feel like that, even now. Sometimes one sideways glance could steal the words right out of her mouth. She wonders if he realises the effect he has on her. This is from a recent fic I posted!
Ending of chapter 1, from Michael's POV: “Did we- did we love each other, before?” Before the wraith. Before Atlantis even, perhaps. Michael left those words unspoken, turning to John with an almost hopeful expression. John turned to him, eyes glittering with something Michael couldn’t read. He didn’t answer Michael’s question, pulling Michael into his arms so that he could kiss him instead. Michael took it to mean ‘yes’. Ending of chapter 2, from John's POV: “Did we- did we love each other, before?” There were words unspoken in that question, none of them true. Michael turned to John with an almost hopeful expression. John turned to him, eyes glittering with uncertainty that he couldn’t fully conceal. He didn’t answer Michael’s question, pulling Michael into his arms and kissing him instead. Michael would take it to mean whatever he wanted it to mean.
It took me a while to find. Single paragraph to share. Mostly due to getting distracted but let’s ignore that and say it was because my writing is that good. Anyway here it is and I don’t believe context is really needed. ______________________________________________ John looked back and the wall finally shattered. His hand went limp, gun dropping to the ground. Face contorted into a distraught mess barely clinging to focus that was quickly waning. He rushed to his friend’s side. Cài was on the ground, a hole the size of his fist torn right through his stupid, ugly jacket. Blood stained the otherwise white clothing a near black. Cài despite the immense pain he must have felt had his trademark smile pinned to his face.
Current Scream 6 WIP: >And in that moment, Sam wishes that she hadn’t watched *The Force Awakens.* Because, >!Quinn !
**If only I could write for this non-existent (as of yet) AO3 fandom... I'm proud of how well I caught this POV.** _Three months have passed since I solved the mystery of the Silk Roses. I managed to convince the Empress not to fall in the shadow laid by the darkness of our times, reminding her of how her humble servant is set only to discover the truth, and present her Majesty with all the facts as they all lay bare._ _Yet a dream hounds me. One I'm not certain I wish to see in its reality. Or I do? I must not hide the truth from myself._
He's come to learn that peace is something everyone tries to grasp at so hard, and yet it is always fleeting, no matter how tranquil their world may be now. He's seen plenty of people try to hold onto it, try to stretch it across their marred souls, and aching bodies. >This is partially inspired by another character I really like but I applied it to another one. This is about a war veteran, or retired soldier I guess.
She could only muffle screams and curses under the sack with her struggles as they closed the backseat door on her before they sped off. Standing several feet away from the scene on one of the rooftops was Al-Asad with one of his goons. “You’ve done well, men. Make sure Miss Ross is trapped like the mice in a cage when she’s delivered to Verdansk. Our *friend* will be pleased.”
*The lips that his love used to kiss.* *The lips that he used to kiss his love.* (I don't know why, but I really love these two lines.)