Hello! My old intro got lost in the void so I'll just make a new one.
I'm Emmy or Em, I'm just here to practice my writing and improve my style! I used to have another blog but moved to this one.
I'm currently obsessing over One Piece/ Resident Evil so that's mostly what I'm writing for right now! I don't really have any select fandoms I'm writing for; just kinda doing my own thing. There are mega anime/manga spoilers on this blog!
The tag #my writing is how I usually tag all my writing stuff!
I also follow from uhohitsemmy
You guys can send stuff in any time, I like seeing people's ideas.
"I've wanted to tell you how I felt for so long," you murmur against his skin. Against the blue. You love it, really. The mutant part of him, the otherworldly part. It's stark, contrasts with every other aspect of the world, like his very being rebels, whether it is up to him or not. Like your own mind does.
"But?" Kurt's voice is soft, almost shy. As if his world has paused.
You ponder the words, wonder if you should finally allow yourself to speak the thoughts that have plagued you for years. The ones that constantly floated in that dark presence, haunting your every move, every moment. The ones that controlled your very being.
The ones that made you feel as if nothing you did was right. Every seed planted, rotting in its wake.
"But," you poke his chest. A funny, little prod. You swallow. "I felt as though I didn't deserve it."
Nails. Every part of the sentence feels like nails puncturing your skin. Your very being. It's one thing to hear your inner thoughts. To hear the smaller part of your voice talk. But your outer voice, no matter how quiet, will always be the loudest.
"It's easy to think that," he replies almost immediately. As if he's felt those very same words stab into his soul. "Easy to believe yourself the villain in every person's story." He flexes the three fingers on his free hand, the one not on your back, tracing patterns. "You feel your soul is too full of evil, too full of sin."
Your eyes sting. You sit up, and he follows right behind you.
"But you are not your sins. Those can be forgiven." Two fingers caress your cheek. "That's the best part of love. It overwhelms the bad, creating more good." He pauses, considers his words. "It will take more than a few mistakes for the walls of it to crumble, liebling."
"i don't comment on ao3 because i don't wanna be annoying or weird" skill issue + you greatly underestimate the power dynamic here, writing multi paragraph comments is like feeding a bunch of deeply insane and possibly starved ducks at the park and watch them go completely mad over having received a piece of bread
Modern!Shamrock, noticing a very familiar motorcyle parked outside your apartment, and trying with an enormous amount of strength to ignore it.
Modern!Shamrock, knocking on your door, only for the shade of red he's known his entire life to answer instead. The stems of the flowers he brought crumples in his iron grip.
Modern!Shamrock, who sighs through his nose with slight relief when he realizes his twin's clothes are still on, and behind him, your pointed glare is towards his brother and not to him.
Modern!Shamrock, who watches with amusement dancing in his eyes as Shanks saunters away with an odd charisma as if he's already won. He shakes it off.
Only to see a bouquet of flowers, white as pearls, already in a vase against your window. Fresh and wet, as if you had just watered them a few minutes prior.
JULY POETRY PROMPTS Β·Β·Β· a collection of poetry prompts steeped in Julyβs golden delirium, where love ripens too quickly, the afternoons drip like honey, and every heart learns to bloom beneath the ache of heat.
For someone with hands as giant as boulders, Katakuri's touch is surprisingly tender as he rubs the aloe vera into your skin. The clear ointment rubs against the old burn mark on your shoulder blades, and it feels as if someone has begun scraping sand paper against your bones. When you let out a groan, he stops for a second as if to let you settle before continuing.
"I'm sorry," he murmurs, his voice muffled from his scarf. You wish for him to remove it, especially when it's the both of you. His many rows of teeth do not intimidate you. It breaks your heart that your constant reassurances don't qualm his insecurities. "I know it must burn."
"I'm used to it," you reply, holding the bar at the end of the enormous bed you two share. It accommodates his size, but it is a little silly. "I had to do this by myself before we met, you know."
"You mean before my mother wed us," he grumbles. You try not to smile at his prickly tone.
"Yes, dear, before that. But I like to say 'met' anyway. Makes it less..." you struggle to find the word.
"Less forced?"
"I suppose, yeah."
The gel finds a particularly tender area, and you hiss out a bundle of swears. "Dammit."
"I didn't hurt you did I?" Katakuri's voice is gentle and rushed. Worry laced.
"No, don't worry," you tell him, gritting your teeth slightly. It brings back memories of when you first received the wound. Of when you had to twist your already torn and sore muscles, of when you only had water and a small towel and your own blood on the floor as your company. "I didn't mean to snap at you."
"You didn't." He said it confidently. "Besides, your words aren't as sharp as some people I know."
You let out a huff of air. "We have that in common."
"I bet we do."
As he finishes applying the aloe vera, he holds up the thin bandages you always keep around your middle. "Would you want fresh ones?"
You frown at the sand and dark red colored tissues. They used to be bright white, fresh, and clean. Now they were dirtied with your wound, your own life force oozing from the burns. Perhaps it was a metaphor of your life, your encounters. How once you were full of wonder and innocence, so desperate for knowledge, only for that desparity to lead you to your doom. To something you'll never forget, even if you filled yourself with enough ale to drown a man.
You took a deep breath while still staring, almost glaring at the bandages. "I suppose. It's odd, I almost hate to part with them. They have been with me for..." Your sentence fizzles. "Sorry, that seems strange."
"No," your husband shakes his head. He kneels to meet your eyes, his own filled with an emotion you want to assume is sorrow. The two of you haven't been married for too long, a few months, but you want to assume the intimacy between the both of you is different than most married couples would have. The wounds you both know and carry. "I understand." He doesn't need to gesture to his scarf for you to know he's talking about it.
He leaves to fetch a fresh bound of white bandages, and you find yourself staring in a tall mirror. One built for him, you imagine.
Your complexion is different. You're not as thin. Your eyes don't hold the heavy weight of sin as they did prior--but it's still there. It probably will forever be.
You turn around so your back faces the mirror and take a deep breath before craning your head to look. The skin is shiny from the recently applied gel. The slave mark of the Celestial dragons is a rust color now, scarring over in an odd manner. It never healed properly, and you wonder if it ever will heal fully.
Like your soul.
Your husband returns with fresh bandages and you shutter away from the mirror. "I was...reminiscing."
For someone who is so wildly feared, he appears the exact opposite as he takes in your form. "Would you like help?"
"No," you shake your head. "I don't think I can handle you staring at me like that any longer."
"I will leave you to it then."
"Thank you for helping."
"You don't need to thank me. I would've done it even if you hadn't asked."
You gesture for him to come closer, to kneel once again so he can properly face you. He obeys, the floorboards creaking beneath. You tug his scarf down gently, and he lets you. Your lips touch his. A gift. An action filled with a thousand words you could never convey. As if you want your soul to touch his, in the way his own touched yours.
honestly one of my favorite things about fanfic is when you can see the canon influences come out in really subtle ways. like a canon line thats mentioned once as a throwaway is suddenly the entire premise for a fic or it influences the characterization or something. its just so cool to see how people weave their ideas around a source material, especially if its not a detail i'd thought about before
It's rare for you two to be alone together. Sam being Dean's shadow and Dean being Sam's. In a way, it's hard to imagine the two separated. As if the two being apart will tear a hole in the world and disrupt every natural order.
You take what you can get.
It's foggy on the road, tiny rain drops paint pictures on the windows of the Impala. Usually, during road trips such as this one, you'd find yourself staring at your own reflection. Harboring memories of the past, comparing them with the present. Life has a funny way of ripping the normal right from under you. It wants you to believe it will go a certain way, only to show you your plans were not important in the slightest.
"What're you thinking about?"
Instead of seeing yourself in the reflection, you see Dean.
He's still got his eyes on the road, fingers drumming along to a tune you can't hear. His green eyes glance to you every so often, and you can't help but wonder what he's thinking about. Well, hunting is definitely one thing. What Sam's doing is probably another.
You want to believe he's picturing Sam being trapped in the motel room scouring through books, calling him a nerd or dork in the brotherly way you expect him to.
"I keep losing you," Dean says, small smile acquitting his features. His dimples are more prominent now. "You're just as bad as Sammy."
"At least we can hold important thoughts," you retort, biting your tongue as he scoffs.
"Whoa, hold up, I hold important thoughts all the time."
"Mhm," you hum. "I bet you're thinking about getting pie when we get back."
"No. But that does sound good."
"What are you thinking about?"
"Don't turn my question back on to me," his smile grows a little bigger, but his eyes don't quite match it. "You were thinking so loud I could hear them gears turnin'."
You shrug, tasting the words in your mouth before letting them spill. "Just thinking about how weird life is."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah," you let out a huff of air. "You know, hunting beings who are supposed to be bedtime horror stories you tell at camp isn't exactly how I pictured my future."
Dean's silent for a moment, and you wonder how dramatic you sounded. As if you were genuinely reading off a hidden script.
He speaks after a beat. "That line of thinking isn't worth it with this type of gig. Not anymore."
"What do you mean?"
"Gettin' caught up in your head, thinkin' and wonderin' about the past. It's distracting, and it will only get you killed." His voice is stern, no longer the playful glint you saw earlier. It's not a scold but a warning. "I don't blame you, though. It's hard not to think about it."
"You think about it?" You finally look at him. Your heart stutters a little.
"More than you'd think I do." His voice is final. As if dropping a pin. "Sam likes to talk to me like I wouldn't want a different life, but who wouldn't?"
When you have problems, it's easy to believe others around you wouldn't have them, too.
You take one last look at Dean before falling back to the reflection on the window. It's less foggy now. His features are more detailed than they were with the grey and the dew.
"Sorry," you murmur.
"Nothin' to be sorry for. Don't turn into Sam on me now."
You snicker, and he chuckles in return. It makes your heart sing.
You love this man.
The thought makes you pause. Like a bullet, it hits you sharp and loud. The metal of it echos inside your mind until it's the only thing you can hear.
You were right. About what? About me and Dad. I'm sorry that the last time I was with him, I tried to pick a fight. I'm sorry that I spent most of my life angry with him. I mean, for all I know, he died thinking that I hate him. So, you're right. What I'm doing right now, it is too little. It's too late.
Dean Winchester is the type of man who will not tell you he loves you until the very last second. The moment the string of possibility is about to snap--or perhaps, what he would describe it as inevitable. The inevitability of you walking out the door and never speaking to him again.
He mutters the three powerful words almost like he's whispering the world's most powerful secret. And when you ask him to repeat himself, the words are caught in a net. He struggles. Dean bites his inner cheek, tasting iron, before repeating himself in a much higher tone. He didn't mean to practically yell it out, but if he didn't, he wouldn't have been able to say it again. Ripping the bandaid or the square of duct tape.
His confession is ripe and pulsing. Like a festering wound. It still feels really weird in his mouth. He can say it to Sammy, but that's Sammy. You're...different. Different how he can't exactly explain. He's never been good at that. Explaining.
You're quiet now. His heart is racing. The anticipation makes his hands clammy. He almost can't take it anymore but then you sigh--it almost sounds like a chuckle.
