Fic Writing - Tumblr Posts
As another request, maybe the villain and hero are fighting , and the villain notices that the hero reacts suspiciously numb to his attacks. And when he taunts him about it, the hero sisimply says something to the effect of being used to it. And the villain is suspicious by the tone so he follow the hero and find out he’s abused by family . Cue villain saving the hero, comforting him and showering him with the love he never got
The villain should have known something was wrong the first time he hit the hero, and he simply braced, pain flickering along the muscles of his jaw, before hitting back. Face blank, a mask stronger than concrete. As if pain played no part, and it was just the give and return of kinetic energy, and nothing more.
He should have known when he said something so cruel it felt like graveyard dirt upon his tongue, and the hero merely stuttered for half a second, everything within him freezing, before he continued like nothing had happened. Nothing cruel in return, nothing biting in his face. Just–complete nothing.
“You never flinch,” the villain said, and it wasn’t a sudden realization, but it was close. Again, that momentary pause, like the hero had been grabbed and stopped by some otherworldly being on a molecular level. It allowed the villain to catch the next hit the hero threw at them.
“What?”
The hero, to his credit, didn’t sound upset, and in this line of work the villain was especially good at noticing the tiny pieces of that kind of thing. He just sounded confused, maybe.
“When I hit you. You don’t flinch,” the villain clarified. The hero just stared at them.
“You only really flinch if you aren’t used to it,” the hero said finally.
“Used to it?”
“You heard me,” the hero replied, and this time, there was irritation behind his words.
The villain tossed the hero’s fist down, and the hero stumbled back.
“And you didn’t answer my question.”
“I wasn’t aware there was one.”
“Are you intentionally being annoying, or is it just natural for you?”
The hero’s breath shuddered.
“Sorry.”
“Sorry–you–I don’t want an apology,” the villain sputtered. This conversation felt above his pay grade; and he wasn't entirely sure why, either, which irked him, itching under his skin.
“So–” the hero snapped his jaw shut around the rest of the word, and it looked like he was doing everything in his power to stop himself from finishing it.
Before the villain could prod further–about the flinching, or any other confusing aspect of it–the hero blew out a breath, and said, “I’m done here.”
The villain blinked.
“You can’t just decide when a fight is over.”
“Watch me,” the hero said, but his voice didn’t have the heat that usually went along with that phrase.
“You’re a hero, isn’t this kind of your entire job? Finishing fights, not walking away from them?”
“I said, I’m done,” the hero snarled, and it was the first hint of emotion he had shown the entire day, explosive and aimed entirely at the villain. The villain was taken aback for a moment.
The hero turned and left before the villain could even think of a response. He didn’t look over his shoulder.
Of course, the villain followed him home.
The fact that he had been able to at all was something to be worried about.
He watched as the hero entered, shutting the door behind him. Heard the sound of his bag hitting the floor, his jacket being hung up. Normal, quiet little things. Shuffling through the kitchen, making a cup of tea. A quiet conversation with his mother.
The villain was about to leave when he heard the slap.
He was through the door before he realized he was moving, leaving the handle to slam into the wall.
He caught the barest edge of a conversation as he rounded the corner–a curse word, then a vile sort of thing that was somehow worse than anything the villain had managed to say in his entire life–and slotted himself neatly between the hero and his mother.
The villain caught her wrist before it could touch any part of the hero. His grip was too tight to be anything but painful.
The hero’s mother gaped at them.
A bruise was beginning to bloom across the hero’s cheek.
The hero was shaking, slightly, face tense and drawn as he stared at the villain. Like the villain was the unnerving thing in this situation, and the hand his mother still had raised was the normality.
A rage, raw and unfathomable, ravenous within him, descending down so deep into the white hot of fury that it passed anything that had a name, uncurled itself along his bones.
“Touch him again,” the villain seethed, voice shaking with all that feral untamed mess within himself, “and you lose the hand.”
“Villain,” the hero said quietly, and the villain had never heard him so meek.
How long did it take for a person to learn that kind of quiet?
“Villain, leave it.”
The villain didn’t release the hero’s mother’s–no. The woman in front of him wasn’t a mother. She was something twisted, and broken, and cruel, upper lip curled with displeasure. Not that the villain was within her kitchen; but that he had stopped her from hitting her child.
The villain wanted nothing more than to vomit on her spotless white tiles.
Maybe in another life she would have been the kind of person the hero, with his kind heart, would have saved before it got to this point.
Maybe in another life the villain would have let the hero try.
But that was not this life.
And there was a bruise blooming on his hero’s cheek.
“You have no right–”
“Did I not make myself clear?” He said, and it was black and poisonous in the air.
The woman in front of him swallowed, and for the first time, fear flickered across her face.
Good.
“Villain,” the hero said, voice strangled, and the villain turned to look at him.
“She’s hurt you before,” the villain said, and it wasn’t a question. The hero looked at him wide-eyed, and he wondered how many times the hero had walked into a fight with him with pre-existing injuries. Injuries he would pretend later that the villain had given him.
The hero swallowed, hard.
“Yes,” he whispered, and that was all the villain needed. He turned back around.
“The only reason you are alive right now is because I think killing you would upset him,” he informed her, and he watched her face pale. “That, and getting blood out of shoes is a bitch. Isn’t it, hero? See, you wouldn’t know. Nobody’s ever made you bleed, I’d wager, because if they had, you would understand it isn’t the kind of thing you do to someone you love.”
He grinned, feral.
“You’re going to leave,” he continued. “Matter of fact, you’re going to vanish. And you’re going to do it so well that if he wants, he’ll never have to think of you again. The only way you’ll ever see him again will be because he wants it to happen, do you understand me? If you don’t, we’ll make you vanish my way.”
The hero made a choked noise behind him. “I don’t think you’ll like that very much,” the villain confided in a whisper.
He wasn’t sure the woman in front of him was breathing.
“Hero,” he said after a long minute. He was going to leave bruises on her wrist. She was shaking, and it soothed some of the yawning rage within him. “Pack a bag.”
The hero vanished into the halls of the house.
The villain didn’t say anything, just stared at the woman in front of him, as if he looked long enough he would be able to see the rotten core inside of her that had made her this way. Turned her into something violent. Or perhaps, the thing that had been inside her since birth, broken and seething. Inevitable.
He didn’t like to believe people could be born evil.
He would make an exception.
The hero appeared back behind him as silent as a wraith, far faster than the villain had expected, duffel bag in one hand.
He wondered how long the hero had had a bag tucked away, packed and ready to run if it got too bad.
He wondered what the hero considered ‘bad enough’ and his jaw clenched hard enough he could hear the bones creak.
“That all you need?”
The hero nodded, mutely, and the villain finally dropped the woman’s hand. She pulled back, hissing as she rubbed her arm, but she had the sense to not glare at the villain.
He tipped his head towards the door.
“Let’s go,” he said, as gently as he had ever heard himself.
The hero followed him out, and they didn’t say anything until the villain’s apartment door locked behind the both of them.
The villain blew out a shuddering breath.
The hero looked like he wasn’t entirely there, eyes glassy.
“Hero,” he said softly, and the hero’s gaze snapped to his face. He stopped himself from reaching for him, a helpless effort to do something, to fix it. “Can I touch you?”
He made sure it didn’t sound like a demand, because if the hero said no, the villain would die before crossing that line, no matter how much it stung. A moment later, to his relief, the hero gave a jerky nod.
He moved slowly, a gentle palm on the hero’s jaw to tip it up, inspecting the bruise with pursed lips. He brushed away the tear that slipped down the hero’s cheek with his thumb, and left it there.
“It could be worse,” the hero offered quietly.
“The fact that it exists at all is worse enough,” the villain murmured, tipping the hero’s head back down. “I’m so sorry.”
The hero blinked, brow furrowing. “For what?”
The villain shrugged one shoulder. “That it happened. That it has been happening. That I didn’t notice.”
“I’m good at hiding it,” the hero said, like it was supposed to make the villain feel better.
“You shouldn’t have had to learn how to do that at all,” the villain said, and the hero’s lip wobbled.
The hero wavered slightly, like he didn’t know what to do with himself. He carried himself like the entirety of his body was an open wound, every second spent breathing a second spent in agony.
The villain couldn’t pretend he knew what this felt like, but he could do his best to soothe it as much as possible.
“Come here,” he said softly, and the hero melted into him, shaking as he tried to cry quietly and failed. He tucked the hero against his chest, and hand coming to curl into the hero’s hair as he let out a desperate keening noise.
He rested his chin on the top of the hero’s head. “It’s going to be okay,” he whispered. “It’s not right now, but it will be, I promise. Even if it takes a while.”
The hero shuddered against him, then nodded, just once.
It wasn’t okay, but it would be.
The villain had promised.
And he never broke a promise.
Hello! i love your cat villian one so much maybe do more??????
but ignore if not (AMAZING BLOG EVER)
The protagonist was dying. They were sure of it, they could feel it, this all consuming terror and in the way they couldn’t draw a full breath into their lungs, like it was funneled through a straw and it was killing them–
Their vision went blurry and they crumpled against the wall, curling into a half-hearted ball over their knees against the baseboard. There was blood splattered over their hands. They just–if they could just–a tiny bit of air–
A hand, warm and gentle, appeared at the nap of their neck, tipping their head up to look at their face.
The protagonist blinked, and the villain was there, and they were watching them die, and oh god they were going to get fired–
“Breathe,” the villain said, and it sounded like they were under water. A million miles away. Point Nemo. Their sister had told them about that once, in the middle of the night as they sat on the roof.
It must be so lonely, she had said, head tipped to the stars. To be so far from everyone else.
The protagonist had wanted to say, I don’t need to be far from everyone else to feel lonely. I’m Point Nemo, can’t you see? But they hadn’t, had just hummed something in agreement, and the villain was telling them to “breathe,” again.
I’m trying, the protagonist wanted to sob. I’m trying, I’m trying, I’m trying.
“Protagonist,” the villain cupped their face in their hands, and through the blurring of the protagonist’s vision, they looked absolutely terrified.
Which didn’t make sense, because the villain always knew exactly what to do in every situation. It was comforting to be in the shadow of someone who knew exactly how they fit into the world.
The villain said something, and the protagonist blinked.
“What?” they managed. The villain snapped their head to look up at them.
“I said, I’m calling your mom.”
Abruptly, terror was flooding their veins again, and they slammed the phone out of the villain’s hand and onto the concrete.
The villain just watched them, concern stark on their face.
“Protagonist–”
“You can’t call her,” they gasped out, chest tight. “She’ll worry and–I can’t do that to her, not after my sister, she can’t do that again.”
Point Nemo. One million miles away.
Really, though, just six feet down.
It felt the same.
“Okay,” the villain said, low and soothing, like they were a scared child. They were. “Okay, I won’t call her, but I need you to breathe,” they emphasized.
“I’m trying,” the protagonist bit out, sucking in air that didn’t seem to be doing anything. How could it not be doing anything? This was one of the worst things that could be happening to them, let alone in front of their boss. They were supposed to be stronger than this, they were stronger than this, so why were they shaking against the baseboard in the hallway of their base. Idly, they looked down at the blood coating their arms, and couldn’t remember whose it was.
“I don’t know how to help you,” the villain admitted, voice breaking.
The protagonist couldn’t get their hands to stop shaking.
If they could just draw a breath–
Blood is harder to get off than you would expect. It clings and clings and clings–
The villain followed their gaze down, and a moment later, they had a wet wipe in their hand, wiping down the protagonist’s hands with an efficiency they could never hope to imitate.
They flinched away from the cold of it a second too late, and the villain frowned.
“You’re okay,” the villain promised, and the protagonist wanted to believe them.
They still choked on the next breath they tried to take, and it hurt and was miserable and the protagonist just wanted it to stop.
The villain said something that sounded like their name again, and they wanted to respond but felt the words get caught in their ribs, and the villain vanished and–
They were holding a cat.
Their shoulders untensed immediately, hands curling softly into the fur, as softly as they could manage while shaking, and they bit their lip to keep from crying at how useless they felt. How could they not figure out how to use their own hands? They bit back a sob, because nothing was working and they couldn’t bear to hurt a cat.
The cat curled itself further against the protagonist’s chest, tucked into their arms in the hollow between their knees and their abdomen.
The villain was–oh.
Oh, the protagonist was so stupid.
The villain was kind, kinder than they deserved, probably, turning into a cat just to make the protagonist stop having a meltdown in their hallway.
The protagonist just needed to get their legs to stop being numb, and then they could stand up and go hide in the bathroom until their body remembered how to do its job, and stop bothering the villain with their stupid problems and panic.
And then, abruptly, the villain began to purr, rumbling into the protagonist's chest.
Some knot deep inside of them that they hadn’t realized existed uncoiled, and they sucked in a breath so deep they thought it would never end. They choked on it on the way out, but the villain simply kept purring, so they tried again, and again, until their vision unblurred and the ache in their lungs had vanished.
“Okay,” the protagonist murmured to themself. Sometimes, they could trick themself by talking in the tone they used on frightened children when out on patrol. “You’re okay, I’m okay, everything is fine.”
They moved to set the villain down, but the villain dug their claws into the protagonist’s arm, nudging their face into their bicep.
Are you really okay? They seemed to ask, and the protagonist didn’t have an answer to that. They could breathe, and feel their toes, and they could remember–oh.
They could remember.
Blood on their hands.
The villain started purring again, and the protagonist burst into tears, burying their face into the villain’s fur. The villain let them, nudging the side of the face every so often in a reminder to breathe.
They stayed like that, until the protagonist’s tears had dried, and their heart only panged a little bit when the villain jumped down out of their arms and onto the floor in front of them.
A blink, and the villain was in front of them again, eyes filled with concern as they grabbed onto the protagonist’s elbows.
“You’re okay,” the villain breathed, and then the protagonist was pulled into a hug so warm they never wanted to leave. “You’re okay.”
“I’m okay,” the protagonist agreed, face tucked into the villain’s chest.
The villain simply hugged them tighter.
Point Nemo had never felt further away.
Please write a chef! Villian who adores to cook for their people, literally. They even cook for their sidekick and their henchmen. But never ever for their oh so devilishly beautiful and just as infuriating hero. (whom they have SWORN to never cook for)
But once when hero's parent falls ill, villian is the one who cooks for them so they can get better. However, they are unable finish all of the food, thus ask their kid (the hero) to have the leftovers
Hero, (who unbeknownst to villian was literally starving for days as they were busy) loves the little bits food they had and when they tell that to their Villian, their faux cold demeanor breaks down completely..... And fluff happens next?????
I really hope you don't mind writing on this! Cooking for someone is willingly wanting to nourish them. I just wanted to see that in an enemies to lovers dynamic...
“You’re looking less terrible,” the villain noted as soon as they stepped into the living room. The hero blinked up at them owlishly from the couch, a mangled crochet project clutched in their hands. It was all so horribly mundane.
“Thanks,” the hero said dryly. “Just what I needed to hear.”
Truly, though, it hadn’t been a dig. The hero did look slightly better: there was color in their cheeks, that exhausted sheen had vanished from their eyes. Their hands weren’t shaking around their crochet hook.
“Your mom is out of the hospital?”
A shadow of that tiredness passed over the hero’s face. It was gone in a blink.
“If you don’t already know the answer to that, I'll be disappointed.”
The villain raised their hands, drifting through the living room. They peered down at a childhood photo of the hero, all toothy grin and smeared ice cream. “Just making conversation.”
The hero sighed.
“She’s home on bed rest, now,” the hero said, quietly, like they were trying not to wake her up. “She’s doing better, she is, it’s just not…” they trailed off.
“She’s still sick,” the villain supplied. The hero nodded when the villain turned back around.
“I don’t know why I expected her to be better as soon as she came home.” The hero sounded so small, in that moment. Like they were still that little kid in their childhood photo album, and not someone who saved the city on the daily.
The villain shrugged. “Because you’re human. Human’s don’t like it when the people they love are hurt.”
“Maybe,” the hero agreed.
The villain slid their gaze over the room once more, snagging on an empty tupperware container balanced on the edge of the coffee table.
Their tupperware container.
Which shouldn’t have come as a surprise, exactly. As soon as they had gotten word that the hero’s mother was in the hospital–which had been as soon as it happened–they had gathered a week's worth of meals and sent it over. And then, they had done it again the next week, and it became just one of the things the villain did. They cooked for themself, their sidekick, their henchmen, and now, the hero’s mother.
They knew the hero’s mother had figured it out, but she had known better than to say anything. The villain didn’t swear on much, but they had sworn to never cook for the hero. Even their mother was cutting it a little bit too close to that.
The hero followed their gaze to the container and blushed.
“Sorry, I meant to clean that up–”
The villain cocked their head.
The hero stammered for a moment in the resulting silence, “Someone’s been sending my mom food. She can’t always finish it, because she’s…” they trailed off, like they couldn’t bear to say the word “sick”. “She gives me the leftovers,” they finally finished.
The villain had nothing to say to that.
“Hm.”
“Yeah, um,” the hero looked down, tossing aside their terribly failing project. “Normally I get by just fine, you know, I’m not incompetent,” the hero added quickly, like they were worried the villain would judge them for it.
The hero swallowed, and again, that yawning and endlessly exhausted look loomed over their face. The villain wanted to never, ever see it again. “But there was patrol, and then the agency wanted me to do publicity, and then I was with my mom at the hospital whenever I wasn’t working and I just–I’m just really tired.”
Seeing it on the hero’s face, in their posture as they slumped against any available surface when they had even a second to rest, in the bruises from hits they should have been able to avoid easily, was one thing.
But hearing them admit it–
“Get up,” the villain said. Something inside them felt raw at the look on the hero’s face.
“Why?”
“I’m making you food,” the villain said easily. It was anything but.
The hero froze, a deer in headlights, before glancing down at the tupperware and back to the villain.
“You’re the one sending the food.”
Even sleep deprived out of their mind, their hero had always been quick.
“And the one cooking it,” the villain added, and the hero gaped at them.
“Why,” they managed a moment later, hand clutching into the armrest of the couch like it was the only thing keeping them upright.
“I like your mother,” the villain picked up the tupperware, hero watching them the entire time. “And you’re not entirely terrible.”
The hero barked out a surprised laugh.
“I’m not entirely terrible,” they repeated.
“No, you’re not,” the villain agreed. “Now, get up.”
The hero got up.
Before the hero could do something stupid, like ask again what they were doing, or a trip over their own discarded crochet, the villain hushed them.
“I’m making you food,” they said, and the hero’s mouth closed. The villain sighed, looping their hand around the hero’s wrist. “Now shut up, and let me take care of you.”
The hero looked at them like they had never had someone do that. Like they hadn’t even considered the possibility that they might need help as much as the people they took care of did.
The villain had enough of their idiot face, turning to drag them to the kitchen.
The hero went.
That terrible, awful look never showed up on the hero’s face again.
The villain made sure of that.
Chapter 1: Five Hours Before Death
"AMELIA!" My boss exclaimed as he walked over to my desk.
"Yes, sir, do you need something?" I say while still looking at my computer.
"Yes, as a matter of fact, I need you to tell me about my agenda for this afternoon," he says urgently while looking at his watch.
"Ah well, sir, you have a one-thirty meeting with one of the board of directors and a six o'clock dinner reservation with the misses" I told my boss while looking up at him.
My boss looks at me and says, "Before I leave for my one-thirty, I need you to come to my office; I need to speak to you about something urgent. Got it."
"Yes, sir, I understand," I say, confirming it.
'What does he want to tell me? Oh, I hope it isn't what I found out a few days ago,' I thought as I looked back at my computer. Two days ago, I found out that my boss: Nicholas Anderson, had an illegal import business up and running. And in turn, he paid the mayor to keep quiet about everything. I shook those thoughts out of my head, focusing on my work.
Time flies by and now it is twelve-thirty. I get up from my desk and head to Mr. Anderson's office on the next floor above. Walking over to the sliver elevator doors, you press one of the buttons on the wall next to the doors. The doors open, and you step in, turning around while the doors shut, pressing the button heading up to the next floor. Hearing the irritating music blaring into the rectangular box, the doors open; indicating, that I am on the next floor.
Walking up to his door, I knock, telling him that I am there. "Come in," Mr. Anderson said. I open the door and walk into his office. Noticing a few pictures of his family here and there, he looked up from his computer.
"Ah, excellent timing Ms. Cameron; I was about to call you up," Mr. Anderson said as he pushed himself up from his black leather chair, making eye contact with you.
"May I ask what this is about; you made it seem crucial," I said looking curious but deep down I know what he may say.
"Uh, yes, I know that you found about my uh business. I must warn you if you tell the authorities or anyone for that matter, you might not get to be forty. Am I clear?" Mr. Anderson says
"Ye-ss, sir-r," I said, fear plastered onto my face.
"Good, then you may leave." I placed my hands onto the arms of the chair, pushed my legs up, feeling the pressure of standing. I leave the room and head back downstairs, thinking of what he was saying.
The day went by faster than the flash himself, a mixture of colors; pinks, oranges, and yellows stating that the sun is setting within the west. Shutting everything down and grabbing my purse and coat. I look down at my watch; which looks like it is from the nineties, and it reveals that it is 8:50 p.m. 'Huh has it been five hours already; who would have thought' I left the gray building and straight to my 1999 navy blue chevy corvette. I slammed the car door closed as I sat down in the driver's seat. I took out my keys from my purse so that I could start the engine. My keys have two keychains attached to them; one of them is a Slytherin crest, the other is a Gryffindor crest. I placed the keys into the ignition and turned it. The engine roared to life, I got strapped in and I reversed back into the parking lot to head the main road.
It did not take long for Amelia to get to her apartment. She pulled into the parking lot outside the complex, making sure she did not touch the curb, she turned off the engine and took the keys out of the ignition. She grabs her purse, slips her hand into door handle to open it. The door opens and she steps out into the crisp cold air. She steps onto the sidewalk and looks back to her car. Her car was shining from the light created by the lamp post. The wind blowing against her skin, the hair on her skin standing up and she gets a shiver crawling down her spine. Amelia did not pay attention to the ever-growing feeling within the pit of her stomach as she started climbing the stairs to the second floor.
I got to the top of the stairs of the second floor. I walked down the hallway a little bit to reach my apartment. It was about five minutes of walking; I reached my apartment: number 4. I looked over to my right and saw the door where my neighbor Minerva Barnes lives. 'She is such a sweet woman' I thought as I grabbed my keys to unlock the door. I got my keys into the lock, and I unlocked the door. As I was stepping into my apartment, I am suddenly overwhelmed with a sense of dread; like I should not have entered the apartment. Due to the lights not working, it gave me an eerie and creepy feeling to the atmosphere of the apartment.
It kept getting stronger as I took off my coat, my shoes, and when I placed my keys into the tray. I turn around and locked the door. I went into the kitchen, grab a small glass from one of the cabinets, and went over to the sink to get water. Placing the glass down, I went to turn the faucet on when everything went black. What I did not know right now was that my time to pass on had come.
Opening my eyes, I squint at the moonlight shining through the teal curtains. I tried to move but could not. I looked down and saw my hands were bounded. I turned my head so that I can see my feet, turns out my feet were also bounded.
"I wouldn't do that if I was you" someone said while standing in the shadows.
"Who are you? Why are doing this?" I asked fear rising within me.
"Did you really think he wouldn't know that you were gathering evidence to give to the police? I mean, Mr. Anderson knew that you knew about the business, so he made an educated guess, and what do you know he was right after all." The figure said while chuckling slightly.
Fear took ahold of me once I realized what he was talking about. You see, I have been gathering up evidence on my boss. Apparently, he has been bribing the mayor to cover up his import business. I look back at the figure wondering who they are.
"Who are you?" I asked as I stare into the shadows.
"That is unimportant lady" he said while pulling something out of his pockets. I couldn't tell what it was, but the feeling grew even more stronger as it was before. The figure then walks out of the shadows. His body was slightly brightened but you couldn't make out his face.
Since you now have a semi-clear view of the man, you notice that he had a Glock 19 9mm Compact. Your grandparents taught you how to hunt and when you were older you went to the shooting range, so you know different types of guns. You watch as he loads ammo into the gun. You look back at the curtains taking in the light of the moon. Hearing footsteps behind you, you realize that the man had walked up to you from behind.
'This is it; this is how I go out, huh' I thought as I felt the gun was placed on the back of my head. I opened my mouth tasting salt, which meant tears. I was so scared I didn't realize that I was crying. The tears were flowing down my face at a rapid pace as the man pulled the trigger.
**BANG**
Amelia fell to the ground as blood flows out of her head. Blood spatters across the lightly colored walls and floors turning them crimson red. The man walks towards an open window. Putting the gun back into his pocket, the man got up onto the windowsill. The man looked back at the body, blood pooling around her and glistening in the moonlight. The wind blowing steadily as the man jumped out of the window and onto the pavement below. Walking away from the crime the man had just committed, he wore a sadistic smile on his face.
what the reader sees on the blog: part 1 of a fic i posted a while back
what the author (me) has in their docs:
12 unfinished wips
a few one-shots based on random song lyrics
that one wip that i've pretty much abandoned but i leave there just in case
the usual coffee shop au fic
the unfinished pt 2 of the fic i posted that i haven't actually looked at or worked on in weeks
random scenes from a fic i've been working on for a year and a half now
a doc that only has the word "the" in it
Free Fanfiction Ideas That Anyone Can Use
Ok I meant to write this on my first post but I'm still trying to figure this website out. Ok a few years ago I discovered the world of Fanfiction and was immediately hooked. eventually reading all of these fanfics eventually got me thinking up fanfic ideas of my own. sadly, I have zero story writing skills. Seriously I barely passed High School English. So, I will be posting my ideas on this website and hoping someone out there will be inspired to write them.
Enjoy.
𝒲𝑒𝓁𝒸𝑜𝓂𝑒 𝓉𝑜 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒲𝒾𝓈𝒽𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒮𝓉𝒶𝓇!
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ִֶָ☾. I'm Kingston! you may know me from my Art Blog
This is a writing blog where i'll also do art to tie in with the fics! (if the inspiration strikes!) Dont be shy! I’m in ALOT of fandoms! Ask away!
My art tag is still #king's paintbrush
My writing tag will be #writing wish
𓇢𓆸 𝒲𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝒾 𝓌𝓇𝒾𝓉𝑒!.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ✦ ‧₊˚ ⋅
🃜🃚🃖YellowJackets🃁🂭🂺
𓍢ִ໋🀦 Natalie
ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🐇་༘࿐ Jackie
𓂃 ִֶָ𐀔 Mari
𓆱⋆｡°✩ Lottie
႔ ႔ ᠸᵕ ᵕ 𐅠 Van Palmer!
‧˚꒰🐾꒱༘⋆ Shauna Shipman Javi Taissa Misty Quigley
Coach Ben
+ All of them!
┊ ┊ ┊ ┊ ┊ ┊ ┊ ┊ ˚★⋆｡˚ ⋆ ┊ ┊ ┊ ┊ ┊ ★⋆ ┊ ◦ ★⋆ ┊ . ˚ ˚★
ᯓ★MCU/XMEN 97ִ ࣪𖤐
— Under Construction—
─ ⊹ ⊱ ☆ ⊰ ⊹ ─
☁️Agere/Petre, Therian, Angst, Yandere, SLIGHT suggestiveness, Fluff, Romance, Platonic, Siblings, Horror, AU’s ✅☁️
𖥔 ࣪˖ ⊹₊ ⋆Art Requests still go to my Main Blog!٠࣪⭑꩜.ᐟ
and if anyone would ever want to make fan art, my AgeReSonas are below! (I’d suggest sending them to my Main Blog ^^)
I have been so excited for Fall / Spooky season this year. I cannot express it. I literally have glow in the dark ghosts on my fingernails right now 😂👻
I want to do a Spooky Season collab. I have no think. Or ideas. Or any kind of plan. I’m just planting the seed.
Alabaster(Aster) The Swatchling
What a nerd!
A secondary character in the spamton fic I’m currently writing.
“From The Ashes” Chapter 2 is out!!
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(Basically the “Neil finally gets therapy” chapter LMAO)
Here’s a little snippet from the chapter:
“From the Ashes” Chapter 3 is out!
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Here’s a little snippet from the chapter!! :DD
Writers Club?
Is there any sort of Star Wars Fanfic writers' club on Discord or something where you can discuss ideas and talk about your latest fanfics? Or would anyone consider making one, I'm writing a fic and I want other writers' opinions, I don't know who to ask about this
I will use this weekend to develop the requests in my mailbox, then I can develop some personal ideas and open the requests again.
i’m still pretending i know how the ao3 formatting works 💪💪
More character sheets for another Minecraft fic but based on Tangled this time!
I ended up creating a whole magic system, world, and mythology that was so far removed from both Minecraft and Tangled that I just made it an original story, but with those two elements as a base.
Y'ALL BETTER COME GIVE THIS APPRECIATION, JACK'S WRITING IS AMAZING AND IS THE ONLY REASON I'M STILL ALIVE
commission from @asteraes-aster Ghost!! <3 (sorry my guy i forgot i was s’posed to actually Post these til now omg)
Title: Limerence Words: 5,136 in total Fandom: South Park Characters: Kenny McCormick, Kyle Broflovski Ship: K2
Fr tho this is me
I've been working on a fic for over a year and am still at the beginning of chapter three 😐
This is me. Kinda jealous of all the writers who can write quickly because I can't.
Yo I actually got some writing done
I feel so accomplished
• Self project your traumas onto your fav characters, but have it work out happy in the end to feel the comfort you never got for your traumas
reasons to write fanfiction (I'll start):
share a cool scene that popped into your head
evoke a particular emotion the canon makes you feel
song made you think of a character or idea from canon
make people feel the same way about a character you do
make dolls kiss for fun
explore ideas the canon hints at but doesn't do anything with
traumatize characters and make them suffer
coddle characters and let them rest
had an insane idea for a crack ship and now everyone needs to know
the author of the canon was wrong and must be fixed
use familiar characters to explore your own ideas and plotlines
canon is too short and you need to wallow in the universe of the story
Okay I JUST read one of your fics and saw your post and i would like to say: I love how you write Anakin!! Your writing is incredible, it's very visual and your characterization is *chef's kiss*
oh thank you! yeah, anakin is a difficult voice to nail down and there are so many different interpretations of his character, so I'm glad that you liked my interpretation of his character. I sometimes worry that I'm overtly descriptive, and it approaches 'her skin was smooth as caramel', so I'm glad to see that you liked it.
I read a lot of your fics in ao3, and I adored your writing style. You were actually one of my inspirations along with @ozvezdja for writing my padme-centric piece on ao3.