#break in: the novelette

[chr0macide]

Would Larry care who Isaiah hooks up with, Like saw in your asks while not canon you could see Mary hooking up with Isaiah so how would Larry react if he hooked up with her.

i mean generally Larry wouldn't care about who Isaiah gets it on with beyond "hell yeah my kid can pull 💯💯💯"

but uhh if Isaiah hooked up with Mary in particular then he would not tell Larry ever 😭😭😭 but if Larry found out about it through someone else then yeah he would be disgusted and pissed as hell. like getting into a physical fight with Isaiah levels of pissed, i already talked about how much he hates Mary

he would calm down after a while though, its not like Isaiah would have knowingly hooked up with Larry's tormentor because it would have to have happened before he knew about the experiments + Larry would have understood there was a power imbalance between Isaiah and Mary

Larry tends to be impulsive, he gets real angry (sometimes irrationally) about shit that doesn't really matter or couldn't have been avoided, and then later on he goes Wait Maybe I Was Tweaking 😔 but the chances of him actually apologizing for anything are vanishingly small lol

[coffeeandcalligraphy]

hit 10k in changing states btw <3

[fangdokja]

A Heart Devoured (AHD) : A Dark Yandere Anthology

Step into a world of dangerous devotion and forbidden desires. A Heart Devoured is a collection of hauntingly seductive one-shots and imagines, each exploring the intoxicating grip of male yanderes. From possessive protectors to manipulative masterminds, these stories dive deep into the dark allure of obsession, blending romance, horror, and suspense.

Whether you crave a lover who would burn the world for you—or one who would chain you to it—this anthology delivers raw passion and chilling intensity that will leave you breathless and craving more.

You are their everything. Escape, if you dare.

Warning: These husbands take "forever" seriously.

────────────

Note: Want to make a LONG request for original yanderes (OC's)? Read the Rules and Regulations, first, before requesting. Failure to abide by the rules will have your request ignored and deleted.

▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃

♡ For Reader-Inserts. I only write Male Yandere x Female (Fem.) Reader (heterosexual couple). No LGBTQ+:

♡ ⭐. Author's Personal Favorites. ♡ 🔞. NSFW / extremely explicit themes (non-con, sexual torture, dangerous edge play, degradation, humiliation, BDSM, etc.)

♡ Schedule. The following stories are released or scheduled for release:

Table of Contents

Yandere! Alpha! Wolf Hybrid & Little Omega

Drabbles

“You look prettier when you cry.”

“Do you know what I love most about you?”

“You don’t get to decide anymore,”

“And treasures don’t get to escape.”

“You’re waiting for someone to come for you, aren’t you?”

“Cry for me,”

“But don’t worry, darling. I’ll fill it with something better. Me.”

“You’ll only ever have one choice with me,”

Novelette 1 : Marked and Mated

🔞Run all you want, little omega—I love the chase.

Yandere! Chief of Police & Dollface

Headcanons

The sirens wailed, but no one was coming for you—they were his, just like you are now.

Yandere! College! Bully & Loser

Details: MBTI - INFJ ; Enneagram - 8w7

Oneshots

The worst part? You’ve stopped trying to fight it.

Novella 1 : Torn Between Us

In a world where no one cares, he’s the one who notices you… and that’s frightening.

Trust no one. Not even yourself.

🔞Part 3

🔞Part 4

Yandere! Criminal Prosecutor & Pet

Drabbles

“Soon, you won’t even remember what freedom tasted like.”

"Kneel. Now."

Oneshots

“This isn’t an interrogation. It’s a love story—you just don’t know it yet.”

Yandere! Divorce Attorney & Church Girl

Headcanons

In his world, love isn’t a choice—it’s a life sentence.

Novella 1 : Skin of the Saint

He didn’t believe in love, but she made him question everything.

She was everything he despised, and yet he kept returning.

She lived for her God; he lived to see her fall.

⭐He couldn’t touch her purity, but he could burn everything around her.

He wasn’t your savior, but he would break you like a sinner.

His love was a sin, but sins could be absolved—couldn’t they?

A stolen kiss, a forged marriage, and a choice that would ruin more than just your life.

🔞He kissed her like a punishment, touched her like a prayer.

Novelette 2 : Angels Cry, Devils Burn

Angels Cry, Devils Burn 1

Yandere! Emperor & Little Dove

Details: MBTI - ENFJ ; Enneagram - 8w7

Drabbles

“Do you know why I haven’t kissed you yet?”

“Do you like it?”

Headcanons

"I burned their world for daring to look at you—imagine what I’d do if you tried to leave."

Yandere! Ex-Boyfriend & Cheating Bitch

Details: MBTI - ENTP ; Enneagram - 7w8

Drabbles

“You disobeyed me. Again.”

“Miss me?”

“Pray I don’t snap. Because if I do, you won’t survive it.”

Novella 1 : Friction & Fire

She wasn't looking for love, but love wasn't asking for permission.

Some truths are better left buried.

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Yandere! FBI Agent & Sweets

Oneshots

He knows your favorite color, your childhood fears, and how you’ll look in a coffin.

Yandere! Hitman & любимая {darling}

Oneshots

“You should’ve pulled the trigger when you had the chance.”

Yandere! Hockey Captain & Ice Princess

Oneshots

You skate for freedom, but he’s about to make you his trophy.

Yandere! Isekai! Knight & Little Mouse

Details: MBTI - ENTJ; Enneagram - 8w7

Headcanons

What happens when a hero's love turns into an obsession that even he can't control?

Oneshots

In his eyes, your defiance isn’t strength—it’s foreplay.

Yandere! Marine Corps & Good Girl

Details: MBTI - ISTP ; Enneagram - 6w5

Oneshots

He crushed a man’s skull beneath his boot and turned to you with a smile.

"You’ll never escape me—not when I’m the only one keeping you alive."

Yandere! Nerd & Little Sugar

Details: MBTI - INTJ ; Enneagram - 6w5

Drabbles

“You think this is a game?”

Oneshots

No one else noticed the quiet boy in the corner, but he’s all you’ll notice now.

Yandere! Owner (?) & ???

Oneshots

Sold to the highest bidder—your nightmare begins now.

Yandere! Painter & ???

Drabbles

"You like testing me, don’t you?"

Yandere! Prison Warden & Fuckin' Filth

Oneshots

In this prison, there are no rules—except for his.

The rules are simple: obey, or suffer. And you’ve already broken every single one.

Yandere! Professional Gambler & Doll

Headcanons

He’s the last bet you’ll ever make—and the one you’ll never walk away from.

Yandere! Reverse Harem & Rape Slave

Novella 1 : Killer Charm

🔞Killer Charm 1

🔞Killer Charm 2

🔞Killer Charm 3

🔞Killer Charm 4

Yandere! Russian! Mafia Boss & Wife

Details: MBTI - ENTJ ; Enneagram - 8w7

Novelette 1 : The Enemy In His Bed

⭐️🔞"I trusted you, wife, and now I'll teach you what betrayal feels like."

Yandere! Spanish Pirate Captain & Mi Tesoro {treasure}

Novelette 1 : El Capitán's Tesoro

🔞When the Capitán says you're his treasure, he means it—he’ll spill blood, even yours, to keep it.

Yandere! Stalker & ???

Oneshots

The man in your apartment knows you better than you know yourself.

Yandere! Sugar Daddy & Sugar Baby (?)

Drabbles

“You didn’t think I’d let you leave after the vows, did you?”

“What the fuck was that?”

Headcanons

⭐You’ve never feared a kiss before, but his feels like a loaded gun.

Novella 1 : Bye, Bye, Bye

In his world, sugar babies don’t get to keep secrets.

He gave you everything, but all you gave him was distance—and it was driving him mad.

The rules were clear: no emotions, no questions, no attachments—until he broke every single one.

Jealousy is a fire, and he’ll burn anyone who gets too close.

🔞He’s not just your sugar daddy—he’s a sadistic master who won’t let you go.

When devotion turns to madness, no one is safe—not even the one he loves.

Novella 2 : Money, Money, Money

Money, Money, Money 1

Yandere! Vigilante & Sweetheart

Headcanons

"I’ll burn the world if it means keeping you warm in the ashes."

He’d rather destroy you than let someone else touch you—because if you’re not his, you’re nothing.

Oneshots

He’s the savior of many—but your destruction is his true mission.

Yandere! Volleyball Captain & Babe

Oneshots

“They all warned you about me, didn’t they? But you just couldn’t stay away.”

Yandere! Zombie Apocalypse! Survivor & Little Prey

Details: MBTI - ISTP; Enneagram - 8w7

Drabbles

“No, I’d rather keep you. Watch you squirm. Hear you beg.”

Oneshots

⭐️In the world of the dead, he was the only thing keeping you alive—and tearing you apart.

If you want to be added or removed from the tag list, just comment on this post. Thank you.

General TAG LIST of “A Heart Devoured”: @definetlythinkimanalien , @floooring , @lilyalone , @theogborjie , @ne7zach , @songbirdgardensworld , @imnotabot28 , @ncsltgic , @aishiyaa , @scotchhopin , @queenmimis , @yandreams-storageblog

❤︎ Fang Dokja's Books.

♡ Book 1 [you are here]. A Heart Devoured (AHD): A Dark Yandere Anthology ♡ Book 2. Forbidden Fruits (FF): Intimate Obsessions, Unhinged Desires. ♡ Book 3. World Ablaze (WA) : For You, I'd Burn the World. ♡ Book 4. Whispers in the Dark (WITD): Subtle Devotion, Lingering Shadows. ♡ Book 5. Ink & Insight (I&I): From Dead Dove to Daydreams. ♡ Library MASTERPOST 1. The Librarian’s Ledger: A Map to The Library of Forbidden Texts.

♡ Disclaimer. Not all stories are included in the masterpost due to Tumblr’s link limitations. However, most long-form stories can be found here. If you're searching for a specific yandere or theme, this guide will help you navigate The Library of Forbidden Texts. Proceed with caution—these tales explore obsession, madness, and devotion in their rawest forms.

[thewhumpyprintingpress]

Call for Submissions: 2026 Whumpy Books

The Whumpy Printing Press is now open to novelette, novella, novel, short story collection, and graphic novel submissions! We’re looking for standalone stories as well as series, and are happy to work with both new and established authors. 

Your story should clearly fall into the whump genre (i.e. a character needs to be hurt). We’re looking for strong stories with a balance between whump and plot. We are especially fond of sci-fi/fantasy settings, but will consider any story as long as it gives us whumperflies!   

Word count: at least 7,500. There is no word count maximum. 

Submissions for the 2026 publication year must be received by September 30, 2025.

Submit here! 

The Nitty-Gritty

Off-limits content: No explicit torture of children under the age of 13. No explicit sexual content of characters under the age of 18. No torture or sexual content involving non-sentient animals.  No fanfiction, for legal reasons (exception: works in the public domain).

Simultaneous submissions: Allowed, but let us know immediately if your story is accepted somewhere else.

Multiple Submissions: You may only submit one story at a time. If that story is rejected, you can submit another one.

Reprints: Allowed, but please indicate where your story was originally published. This includes if your story was originally posted on AO3 or Tumblr!

Rights: If your story is accepted, we ask for nonexclusive, worldwide, English language publication rights for ebook and paperback. All copyright remains with the author. A simple contract will be provided.

Compensation:

Authors will receive an initial payment based on word count:

7,500-17,499 words $25 USD

17,500-39,999 words $50 USD

40,000+ words $100 USD

Additionally, authors will receive 50% of all royalties.

Submissions are open to residents of any country.

You must be 18 or older to submit.

Formatting: Please submit your story as a Microsoft word document with 12pt, Times New Roman font, double-spaced. Indicate scene breaks with ###.  If your novel has chapters, start each chapter on a new page

[acoupofowls]

Novella Submissions Open!

Following on from our anthologies Other & Different (2023) and forthcoming Other Worlds (2024), we will be concluding our Othered series with two novellas, slated for 2025.

Submissions open to people from underrepresented and/or marginalised communities or backgrounds. These include, but are not limited to: LGBTQIA+, BIPOC, neurodiverse and people with disabilities.

Submissions open 1 – 30th April 2024

Theme: We’re looking for stories that explore what it is to be other and/or different, whether as an individual, group, community or society. 

We leave it up to the authors how they wish to explore this. We welcome stories that explore the effects of being othered, the positive and negative repercussions, whether acceptance is finally found or if it is even required or wanted.

Word Count: 17,000 minimum, 25,000 word maximum – hard limits This word count falls on the shorter end of novellas (as defined by SFWA/Nebula Awards), and some definitions may class this as a novelette.

Genre: Although the majority of our submissions are often speculative we do and have published romance, historical fiction, contemporary fiction, and more. We strongly encourage submissions of all genres.

For inspiration, here are some examples of Othered stories we’ve enjoyed:

Out of Darkness Shining Light by Petina Gappah

The Ballad of Black Tom by Victor LaValle

The shadow king by Maaza Mengiste

Andrion by Alex Penland

Frankenstein by Mary Shelley

The Minotaur Takes a Cigarette Break by Steven Sherrill

The Child of Hameln by Max Turner

Oranges Are Not the Only Fruit by Jeanette Winterson

Rating: All ratings welcome.

NO Reprints, NO Simultaneous Submissions, NO multiple submissions

Compensation:  £200 per accepted novella Royalties 6 author copies

For full details and to submit check out our website!

[astramachina]

an update of sorts

hi, yes, hello! it is i, tumblr user astramachina who was been relatively MIA for the past month or so. life has been a bit much so i stepped away from social media and tbh i don't think that's gonna be changing much going forward. whenever i do hop on it's usually on my alt blog and it's mostly to just vent so none of y'all are missing out on much.

HOWEVER. ON THE TOPIC OF WRITING. a couple of updates:

an indie pub put out a submission call for a collection of short horror stories from a single BIPOC author to be published in 2026 and my ass went "oh heck, that's me, i can do that!" only to realize that

I only had 6k words of well polished work

The other 10k were hot fucking garbage

oh fuck oh no even if i do clean up what i have on hand i'd still be 24k words under the minimum word count.

so i did what any sane, well-rounded author would do in my shoes.

i scrapped it all and started from scratch. :( 40k words across multiple short stories. in four weeks. (deadline is "mid february")

i've done nano before and 50k in 30 days is usually a breeze when it's just a single story that i approach with a detailed outline. this was 30 days to create, outline, write, and edit multiple pieces.

i don't have particularly high hopes of making the cut considering i know for a fact i will not have the time to sharpen these stories 110% but i'm doing it anyway. if the publication goes "ew, what" and hits the reject button, i'll be sitting on 40k (if not more) words of juicy, spectacular short stories to do with as i please.

this is getting long so everything else is going under a cut (there's CHARTS down there) ↓↓↓

to end with a raw 40k by feb 5, giving me about ten days to edit, i'll have to deliver a little under 1.5k a day. which is a great minimum HOWEVER.

my hubris is going "i can finish by the 2nd if i write 2k a day" so that's what's been happening there. my brain is fried. exhausted. my eyes are killing me BUT it was been a great distraction from the fuckass dumpster fire that is the world right now.

last night i briefly talked about these stories as a whole over on my alt, and came to the decision that while they're all standalone pieces, they all happen within the same "universe". that universe being the TSP universe.

it's something i've been wanting to do since i first started writing because i thought it'd be cool or whatever, but back then i only wrote fanfic so it was a little hard to do. (kinda doing it with my ongoing fnaf series anyway but that's different) i like the idea of having TSP be a sandbox, a sort of "Goosebumps" but for grownups. not all of it is horror, some of it can be considered "new weird", but it's all certainly uncanny.

if you want a rough list of the stories:

green means it's 100% completed, down to edits.

yellow means fully written but not edited.

pale red means currently being written.

dark red means not even outlined yet (and might not even make the cut of getting ready for this round).

so as you can see. i seriously have my work cut out for me. once these are done i'm probs going to take a more serious break from writing because the last thing i want to do now is burn myself out. i seriously started this year with the intention of working on the mainline TSP story with Cy and the gang, but alas. hubris consumes me.

what happens if i don't get selected for publication? i don't know. some of these are a little too extreme for casual anthologies, and Monitor Screen keeps screaming at me that it wants to be longer. it's already almost too long for a short story at around 7k, and if i let it fester it would absolutely push into novelette or novella territory. so who knows.

i would love to like self-pub the collection if it does get rejected, but i'd do it a bit more professionally than my ongoing self-pub works. like run a kickstarter or something because i would adore to have some illustrations to go with it as well as actual physical copies.

so yeah.

on a more general note, DHTM (my folk horror novel) is still in the trenches tho i do have two agents currently going back and forth and i'm trying to be real chill about it (one one of them is a big shot and the other formerly worked on supernatural which is fucking crazy to me).

i'm also on bluesky... kind of. at least my "authorsona". i've been self-pub'ing my erohorror and people seem to like it over there and i've been, GASP, actually making sales on itch to the point where i was able to preemptively purchase some HRT supplies, so that's nice. my limited online time has to go towards fucking marketing myself and shit (tho i've met some very nice authors so it's not ALL bad). i'm not linking to it because i want to put down a clear-ish line between.... idfk. i don't want to use my government name anywhere so instead i've splintered my internet existences. mitch miller [fandom/unfiction creator/gen online existence name] versus [authorsona name]. SIGH.

if you do want to follow me over there, shoot me a message. like i'm not TOO bothered/worried about it but i feel like going forward, as a trans POC author, anonymity is the best way to go.

so yes. hello. handing you a cookie. you're amazing if you've read this far. please take care and don't forget to hydrate.

ps. i felt like i was getting too annoying with my fnaf posting on main so i just stopped orz. i know it's my blog and i do what i want but it kinda felt bad to be almost at 2k followers and peeps only ever interacting with gen shitposts while i yelled into the void about stuff i was hype about. idk made me paranoid that people just had me blacklisted or whatever which is their god given right btw, but like. just unfollow if that's the case. slkdfjhsdf sorry it's the mental illness.

[briannysey]

You have a fun short story idea. You sit down to write it. Nothing big only like 2k words.

You don’t quite finish it. You go to work. In your cubicle the idea itches like a scab in your brain. At last you get home. The story has grown, you’ll need a few extra words to get it finished. No biggie. You keep going. It gets late. Wow, the tale has grown in the telling. Just over 4k words and it’s not done. You really shouldn't miss any extra sleep, but ten extra minutes of writing won’t hurt.

The next morning, between clients you doodle outlines for the story. That’s weird, to do the story justice it’ll need more words. Quite without noticing it’s become a novelette. You forget about your last clients of the day as you wander in the world of your story, trying to figure out how to get it right, how to do it justice.

You call in sick the next day, and the day after that. Inspiration comes so rarely you know? We have to chase these things when they come for us.

You sail past the word count for a novella, and soon enough you have to face the truth: you’ve got a gen-u-ine novel on your hands. You’ve had so much success with the writing! It would be a shame to go back to work.

When you explain it to your doctor he looks at you with a raised eyebrow. “I don't understand how that made you break your foot,” he says. But work says they just need in the office to do the job. Your doctor signs the FMLA paperwork, then HR. You have some savings, you’ll be fine while you ride this inspiration where it’ll take you.

You miss your brother’s birthday, then your mother’s. You stop answering calls. Somewhere somehow the story has soared past acceptable word counts for a novel. No publisher would publish a book this big. You make the reasonable decision to split the novel into two. This is good, it will help you capture the themes of your story better.

You stop answering your phone. When your angry family knocks on the doors to your house you lock the entries and yell back “I'm sick, I'm so very sick. I’ll let you know when I'm well!”

Your fingertips blister and bleed in their sacrifices for the novels (a trilogy now!), so you use talk-to-text to draft for a bit.

Disaster strikes.

Your laptop, over-exerted from months of running word processors, struggling under the weight of files with thousands of pages of text, at last collapses into a gruesome screen of white text on violent blue background. You despair. You anguish. You scream until the neighbors call in a wellness check, and you fool the officer with claims of “too loud horror tv.”

You sell your car and walk down to the computer shop with your laptop. You use the car-proceeds to get the files onto a hard drive, buy a printer, buy a shitty little used laptop, then walk home in brutal Summer’s heat. You place delivery orders for pens and boxes and boxes of ink refills. You order paper too. Mountains of it, in fact.

You’re not quite sure how or when, but the trilogy became a series and the series became a layered set of chronicles. You’re sure of it now: this is your magnum opus. Someday people will write about you and your boiling, uncontainable story.

You’re running out of money, and have to eat. You order as much oatmeal as you can in huge bulk shipments. They should last long enough. Your family has long since stopped knocking, and if they're calling the calls wouldn't come through the cancelled, unpaid line anyway.

You run out of paper. You start writing on walls and furniture and over old books in your library. You run out of ink, so you use pencils and crayons and old paint cans, and then you stretch the old paint with water until the town shuts off your water.

Your skin starts to hang loose on you as you lose weight. You bruise heavily when you trip down the stairs in the morning, and your mouth tastes like so much iron as your gums bleed of their own accord. The oatmeal grinds and scratches between your aching teeth. You set up rain-catches at the bottoms of the gutters, and though the water doesn't taste great, it’s a small price to pay for your passion. You rarely tire these days, or sleep. The story fills you with feverish energy. There’s so much more to write and so little time!

You start to get lost in the shifting plot lines. Some smaller stories repeat themselves in spirals, and you’re not sure if you had a point with these narrative recursions. Did you flanderize this character? Is that character dying in this scene but alive in the next? Perhaps you were a little too ambitious for your first big story. But you tell yourself that that’s madness. You write the stories that come to you, no matter how huge. When you stretch to new heights you become a better writer! Think about how much better the next story will be now that you have all this experience!

Disaster again. You’ve run out of paint and homemade charcoal and ink.

A knock comes at the door, a man in an ugly button-up and tie claiming that your house is getting foreclosed. Something about an unpaid mortgage. You realize that this was the wake up call you needed. The opportunity to fix things.

“Please, come in!”

“Oh my god, what’s happened in here?”

“I think I have a problem sir. I’m very sorry about the unpaid mortgage. Here sit down, can you tell me what the problem is?”

“What the problem is? We’ve called you a dozen times! The house is already- this writing is all over the walls! Why is the writing in circles on the wall over there?”

“I dunno, seemed like the right way to do it.”

“And are these… family photos that have been written over?”

“Yes sir. I think, I think I have a serious problem. Do you think you can help me?”

“I- I don't know. This seems like we might need to call for a psychiatric crisis. The good news is- what are you doing with that knife!”

At last you have an ink refill! And what beautiful red, red ink.

[thetorturedpoesdepartment]

I wrote a new story! Apparently it technically counts as a novelette (long short story), so I’m rolling with that. I drew inspiration from Pride and Prejudice, Jane Austen as a whole, and other stories such as Carmilla, Dracula, and more. I hope this still fits in with @janeuary-month’s prompt list for day 22, which is estate. I know it’s a bit late and this may be a bit rushed, but I had a lot of fun writing this. Please let me know what you guys think! If it’s constructive criticism, please be kind. I hope to improve my writing as my life progresses.

[painsandconfusion]

Just testing the waters here but-

Because 1) I don’t do nsfw on this blog; 2) Showstopper is already ‘complete’ but for a couple scenes I’d like to elaborate on which; 3) break rule 1 above,

I’m kinda toying with the idea of finalizing it and publishing it as a novella or novelette? Probably would end up around 20,000 words.

So the main story and everything you need to know will still be in the masterpost here, but there will be almost double that in rising action and bonus content in the published version

Do we like this idea?

(In case anyone doesn’t know what I’m talking about-)

[chr0macide]

Does Mary have someone like a lover? Or something with one of her minions (like in one AU from a girl where Barry had a secret lover who was a secretary guy—I don’t know, I forgot the name of the artist)

nah i don't plan on putting her in a relationship. unless any exist in the real game i probably won't put romantic subplots in my fanfic, i don't think i could write those without it seeming shoehorned in and too disjointed from the actual storyline 😭

[cinderella-ish]

Fic Recs: Next Gen Characters

Characters from Another

An Abalone on the Shore, by crabandpeaches G | Gen - Momiji | Short Story | angst & drama & hurt/comfort Momiji is anxious about his future and isn’t sure what to do from here on out. Unknowingly, Tohru teaches him a lesson.

Baby's First Birthday, by me G | Tohru/Kyo, Tohru & Yuki | Flash Fiction | mild hurt/comfort Tohru can't seem to get her camcorder to work.

Fearing the future, by modzy78 T | Tohru/Kyo | Novelette | angst & slice of life Kyo faces his biggest challenge, and it terrifies him. How will he face his future?

Hopeless Causes, by Geoduck G | Gen - Kyo & Hajime & Mutsuki | Short Story | hurt/comfort Hajime wondered where his father always disappeared to when they visited the Sohma main house. And why he always seemed so sad afterwards.

How to Accidentally Terrify Your Entire Family, by itsalreadyhalloweenright G | Gen - Hajime & his sister | Short Story | Fluff & Humor Shirasi Sohma, youngest of Kyo and Tohru Sohma, desperately misses her brother Hajime after he's moved far away for high school. So one Friday, she decides to through some clothes into the bottom of her backpack and take the train to go see him for the weekend. Without telling anybody ahead of time.

I'll Be Ready, by OnigiriCat4Ever E | Hajime/Mutsuki | Novelette | smut Four months have passed since Mutsuki kissed Hajime and told him he loved him; four months have passed since Hajime said it back. For Hajime's sake, the two of them have been taking things slowly, but Hajime is finally feeling comfortable enough to try a little bit more.

it's alright, it's okay, by Rookblonkorules T | Gen - Akito & Shigure & Shiki | Short Story | angst & hurt/comfort Shiki has always known there were people who hated his mother and that, by extension, some of that hatred has trickled down to him.

Like a Bolt Out Of the Blue, by me G | Tohru/Kyo, Hajime/Mutsuki, Momiji/OMC | Short Story | fluff & pining At their annual family beach trip, Hajime wrestles with some big feelings.

Like Father, Like Son, by me T | Gen - Tohru & Kyo & Hajime & Yuma (Tohru/Kyo as well) | Short Story | fluff When Tohru and Kyo can't find their two young sons one morning, they turn up in an unexpected-- and very cute!-- place.

Second Visit, by Geoduck T | Tohru/Kyo | Short Story | hurt/comfort Kyo and Tohru visit the office of a medical professional. After they leave, they talk about it.

The Talk, by Geoduck T | Gen - Kyo (adult Tohru/Kyo appear at the very end) | Short Story | humor It all started, as it so often does, with an insult. Typically, an insult led to another insult, harsh words, fighting and (not always, but with worrying regularity) an unconscious Kyo Sohma. Sometimes, however, the results of an insult were just… odd.

Truth and Consequences, by OnigiriCat4Ever T | Kyo & his daughter | WIP | angst, drama, & hurt/comfort For twenty years following the breaking of the Curse, Kyo did his best to forget it. Telling his son Hajime was terrifying, but in his son's acceptance, understanding, and unwavering love, Kyo felt a lightness and freedom he never could have imagined. Both of his sons know; both of his sons accept. Only one person has yet to learn the truth: his daughter, Sachiko.

Wish, by me G | Tohru/Kyo | Short Story | fluff Tohru and Kyo take their three children to their small town's Tanabata festival.

Other

Colour of Kyou, by tokyofish G | M/F - multiple | Novelette | angst, tragedy An AU character piece that takes place after a confrontation with Akito that turned out very badly for the cast. Written from Kyou's POV.

Empty Basket, by RunningOnSunshine M | Tohru/Kyo, Tohru/Kakeru | WIP | angst, drama, & hurt/comfort The Sohma family is thriving. The curse has been broken, marriages are happening, and children are being born. Never before has the Sohma family been so at ease… until Kyo contracts a fatal illness, just months after Tohru becomes pregnant with their first child.

Hold On, by Danyu T | Tohru/Kyo | Novella | angst, drama, & romance Kyou has accepted his fate as the cat. Relationships change and the bond between he and Tohru is cemented forever. But he leaves something behind, something precious enough to give everyone the strength to hold on.

The Ones Who Walk Away From Sohma House, by Geoduck G | Gen - next gen Zodiac & Akito, Kyo, Kazuma, & Tohru | Short Story | angst Most say there must always be a monster. But there are a few who refuse to accept that.

Here are works I've tagged with Another in my bookmarks!

Fic Recs Masterpost

[fangdokja]

🔞He says it’s love, but the scars on your skin tell a different story.

❤︎ Synopsis. Trapped in his obsession, your brother’s love is a cage—burning, possessive, and unyielding. Every kiss is a claim, every touch a warning. You’re his, and he’ll make sure the world knows it.

♡ Book. Forbidden Fruits: Intimate Obsessions, Unhinged Desires.

♡ Pairing. Yandere! Older Brother x Fem. Reader

♡ Novelette. Sins of the Silent Heart - Part 2

♡ Word Count. 8,010

♡ TW. dom + top + older yandere, incest, non-con, rape, overstimulation, isolation, kidnapping, confinement, forced marking, dacryphilia, bondage, sexual punishments, BDSM, sadism, unhealthy power dynamics, loss of virginity, toxic relationship, spanking, emotional and psychological manipulation, social isolation, physical assault and abuse, sexual violence, knife play, blood play, permanent injury, choking / breath play

The room is dimly lit, the curtains drawn tightly to keep the prying eyes of the world at bay. You struggle against his ironclad grasp, but he's too strong.

He shoves you onto the bed with a force that steals your breath, pinning your arms above your head with one hand while the other clamps over your mouth, muffling your screams. "Shh," he whispers, his breath hot against your ear.

"You're only making this harder for yourself. You need to understand." His eyes bore into yours, searching for something—fear, submission, perhaps even love. But all you feel is a cold dread unfurling in your stomach, a horror that threatens to consume you whole.

Your brother's grip on your face tightens, his thumb digging into your cheek as he leans in, his nose brushing against yours.

"You're mine," he repeats, the words a chant that seems to fuel his rage. His other hand begins to roam, skimming over your body in a way that makes you feel violated and disgusting. You try to kick, to fight, but he's everywhere, his weight pressing down on you like a mountain.

"You think you can just go out there and give yourself to someone else?" he snarls, his eyes wild with jealousy. "You're too good for them. You're too good for anyone but me."

His hand slides down to your thigh, squeezing hard enough to leave a bruise. Panic sets in as you realize the full extent of his intentions, your eyes widening in horror.

You manage to break free from his hand over your mouth, gasping for air. "No, please, stop," you plead, your voice shaky with fear and desperation.

"I'm your sister! Please don't do this!" But your words only seem to fuel his rage further, his grip on your wrists tightening until you think your bones might snap.

"Your mouth will be the only thing that's used for speaking my language tonight," he sneers, his free hand ripping at the fabric of your shirt, exposing your bare skin to the cool air. The sound of buttons popping off and fabric tearing fills the room, echoing your own silent screams.

You feel a warm wetness between your legs, not from desire but from fear and the humiliation of knowing what's about to happen. "You're going to learn your place," he murmurs, his voice low and menacing as he straddles you, his weight pinning you to the bed.

You writhe beneath him, trying to find an inch of space, any way to escape, but his body is like a vice, trapping you in this twisted nightmare. He reaches for your pants, his hand fumbling with the button before he yanks them down with a rough jerk, leaving you exposed and vulnerable.

"You're going to love me," he says, his voice a twisted mix of anger and lust.

"You're going to forget all about those other boys. They're nothing compared to me." His words are a knife to your heart, each syllable twisting the blade deeper.

Tears stream down your face as he pulls his own pants down, his erection straining against his boxers. You can feel his breath on your neck, his chest pressing against yours, his arousal against your thigh.

The room feels like it's spinning, the walls closing in around you. You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to block out the sight of the monster above you, but his touch is everywhere, invasive and repulsive.

He pulls your panties to the side with a cruel efficiency, and you can't help but sob out loud. "Please, brother, no," you whimper, but your words fall on deaf ears.

He leans in, his teeth grazing your earlobe as he whispers, "You're going to scream my name. You're going to beg for more."

His hand moves to the back of your neck, pushing your head down into the pillow, the fabric smothering your cries. You feel his hand move away from your face and grip the base of his cock, guiding it towards your entrance.

The feeling of his bare skin against yours is a violation so profound, it feels like your soul is being torn apart. The tip of his cock nudges against your folds, and you tense up, trying to resist, but your body is too overwhelmed with fear to do much more than shiver.

With a grunt of effort, he pushes inside you, the pain tearing through you like a bolt of lightning.

You scream into the pillow, your nails digging into the mattress as he starts to thrust, each movement a brutal reminder of his dominance.

You can feel the fabric of your ruined panties wedged between your thighs, a sadistic reminder of your innocence lost. His rhythm is punishing, his hips slamming into yours with a ferocity that sends shockwaves through your body. You try to hold back the tears, to hide your pain, but they come anyway, soaking the pillow beneath your face.

He drives through your hymen without mercy, the fabric of your innocence ripping away as he claims you as his own. The pain is unlike anything you've ever felt before—sharp, searing, and unrelenting.

Your eyes fly open, and you scream into the pillow, your body arching off the bed as he buries himself deep within you. The sensation is a mix of agony and unwanted fullness, a violation that sets every nerve ending on fire.

His grip on your neck tightens, and you can feel his cock pulsing inside you, thick and demanding. "Look at me," he commands, his voice a harsh whisper.

You force your eyes to meet his, and what you see there is a twisted mix of satisfaction and rage. He watches you, his pupils dilated with lust, as he continues to fuck you without care for your pain.

"Say it," he hisses, his hips grinding against yours in a punishing rhythm. "Say you're mine."

Your throat is raw from screaming, but you manage to croak out the words he wants to hear. "I'm yours," you whisper, your voice a broken echo of the defiance that once burned within you.

The lie tastes bitter on your tongue, but you know it's what he needs to hear.

His eyes flash with triumph, and he releases your neck, allowing you to gulp in a desperate breath. "That's my girl," he says, his voice a sick parody of affection as he starts to move faster.

You feel his hand snake around your throat again, squeezing gently before sliding up to cradle your face. "I'll always take care of you," he murmurs, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw as he pushes deeper into you, each stroke a declaration of his ownership.

You whimper, your eyes squeezed shut as you try to focus on anything but the pain. The sound of skin slapping skin fills the room, punctuated by your muffled cries and his grunts of pleasure.

He's so deep inside you that it feels like he's touching your very soul, and you can't help but wonder if there's any part of you that will ever be yours again. You want to fight, to scream, to push him away, but your body feels like it's made of lead, heavy and unresponsive to your will.

He leans down, his mouth crushing against yours in a kiss that's more claim than affection. His tongue forces its way into your mouth, and you taste the salt of your own tears.

You try to pull away, to bite him, to do anything that will make him stop, but he only grinds against you harder, his hand on the back of your head keeping you in place. "You're mine," he says against your lips, the words a dark benediction that sends a shiver of revulsion through your body.

Your eyes flutter open, and you catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror on the dresser. Your face is a mascara-stained mess, your hair a tangled halo around your head, and your body is a canvas of bruises already beginning to blossom.

The sight only seems to excite him more, his thrusts becoming more erratic as he watches your reflection, his eyes glinting with a malicious pleasure. You feel yourself start to detach, floating above the scene like a ghost, watching as your body is used and discarded by the person who's supposed to love you the most.

"Please," you manage to gasp out, the word a pathetic plea that hangs in the air, unheeded. "It hurts."

But he either doesn't hear you or doesn't care, his hips pumping faster, his breathing growing ragged.

The pain becomes a living entity, a monster that consumes you from the inside out, reducing you to a trembling wreck beneath him.

He shifts his weight, his hand moving from your face to your hip, his fingers digging in as he pulls you closer to him. "You're so damn tight," he groans, his voice thick with lust. "You were made for me."

His thumb slides between your thighs, finding the bundle of nerves that had once brought you pleasure, and you feel a spark of hope—maybe if you can just make him finish, it will all be over.

But his touch is rough, almost punishing, and any hint of pleasure is drowned out by the agony of his invasion.

You bite your lip to keep from screaming as he continues to thrust, his movements becoming more frenzied with each passing moment. "You're going to come for me," he says, his voice a mix of demand and question.

"You're going to come and show me how much you want this." You feel his thumb circle your clit, pressing down hard as he continues to fuck you, his other hand squeezing your hip so tightly that it feels like he's trying to leave a permanent imprint of his fingers on your skin.

The pain and the pleasure meld together into something twisted and unrecognizable, and you can't help but whimper as your body starts to respond despite your mind's screaming protests.

His eyes never leave yours, watching your every reaction, feeding off your fear and pain like it's his lifeblood. "That's it," he murmurs, his voice low and seductive. "Show me how much you need me."

And you do—your body betrays you, arching up to meet his touch, your walls tightening around his cock as the beginnings of an orgasm build against your will.

You want to hate him for reducing you to this, for making you feel like a whore, but the pleasure is too intense to fight.

With a final, brutal thrust, he releases your hip, grabbing both of your wrists and pinning them above your head with one hand, his other hand still working you into a frenzy. "You're mine," he says again, his voice a hoarse growl.

"Say it. Scream it." And as if on cue, your body shatters, your orgasm ripping through you like a tempest, stealing your voice along with your dignity. The only sound that escapes you is a strangled cry, a sound that's half-pain, half-pleasure.

His eyes widen with triumph as he feels your body clench around him, his grip on your wrists tightening as he starts to come, filling you with his seed. The feeling of his release only adds to the horror, his hot cum a declaration of his claim on your body.

You lay there, trembling and sobbing, as he collapses on top of you, his chest heaving with exertion. For a moment, the room is silent except for your ragged breaths and his own, his weight a suffocating presence that makes it difficult to draw in air.

As the fog of pleasure fades, the reality of what's happened crashes down on you like a tidal wave of despair. You feel soiled, used, and utterly broken. Your eyes fill with fresh tears, and you struggle to find the strength to push him off.

But he's still inside you, his cock now limp but still a violation of the most intimate kind. "Don't," he says, his voice suddenly gentle as he rolls off you and pulls you into his arms.

"You don't have to be afraid anymore." His touch is tender, almost loving, but it's tainted by the knowledge of what he's just done.

You can't bring yourself to look at him, your face buried in his chest, your body shaking with sobs. He strokes your hair, whispering sweet nothings that only serve to make you feel more disgusted.

"It's okay," he says, his voice soothing despite the horror of his actions. "You're safe with me. No one will ever hurt you again."

His words are a mockery of comfort, a twisted parody of the brotherly love you once knew.

You want to scream, to push him away, but all you can do is cry.

He gently lifts your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze. "Look at me," he says, his voice a soft command.

"I'm not going to let anyone else have you. You're mine. You always have been." His eyes searched yours, looking for some sign of understanding, some spark of the love he believed you owed him.

But all you see is the monster he's become, the predator that's stolen your childhood trust in him.

"I know you didn't mean to," he continues, his tone earnest. "But you can't leave me. You can't love anyone else. Do you understand?"

You nod, the tears still streaming down your face, the taste of defeat coating your mouth like bile. "Y-yes," you manage to whisper, the words barely audible. "I understand."

It's not what he wants to hear, not the declaration of love he craves, but it's all you can give.

For now.

────────────

The weekend stretches before you, a prison of his twisted love and dominance. Each moment is a silent scream of agony and degradation, as your brother takes you again and again.

The bedroom, the kitchen table, the living room couch—every corner of your shared home becomes a battleground for his obsession.

He fucks you in every position imaginable, his hunger insatiable, his need to claim you complete.

You feel like a ragdoll in his hands, used and abused at his whim, your body a canvas for his depravity.

────────────

On the first night, he ties your wrists to the bedposts with the usual belt he uses to punish you, spreading your legs wide as he looms above you. "You're going to take it all," he says, his voice a dark promise.

"Every inch of me, until you're screaming my name." He pushes into you, his cock thick and unforgiving, and you bite back a whimper, your eyes squeezed shut.

He's gentle at first, almost loving, but as the night wears on, his strokes become more forceful, his grip on your hips tightening.

You're too tired to fight, too broken to resist. When he finally releases you from your bonds, you collapse onto the bed, your limbs trembling from the exertion.

────────────

The next day, he takes you into the shower, the water a scalding caress against your bruised skin. He soaps you up with a tenderness that feels like a slap in the face after what he's done. "Look at me," he commands, his voice a low growl.

You do, unable to meet his gaze, focusing instead on the water cascading down your breasts. He lifts your chin, forcing you to look into his eyes. "Say you love me."

The words stick in your throat, a lie that feels like acid. But you whisper them anyway, because it's what he needs to hear, because you're too scared not to.

────────────

In the kitchen, he bends you over the counter, your hands gripping the edge to keep from collapsing. You can hear the sound of his belt being unbuckled, the jingle of his belt loops echoing through the room. "You're going to learn to crave this," he says, his voice a harsh promise.

You feel the head of his cock against you, and your body tenses, bracing for the pain. "You're going to want me more than anyone else."

His hands are everywhere, pushing into your hips, squeezing your breasts, his thumb circling your clit.

You hate the way your body responds, the way your pussy clenches around him, begging for more even as you silently pray for it to end.

He enters you from behind, his hands on your hips as he pulls you back onto him. You grit your teeth against the pain, your knuckles turning white as you hold onto the counter for dear life.

He's deep inside you, his cock hitting that spot that makes you see stars, and you can't help but moan despite the fear choking you.

"That's it," he says, his voice thick with pleasure. "You like it, don't you?" You bite your tongue, refusing to give him the satisfaction of an answer, your eyes squeezed shut as you focus on the kitchen tiles beneath your feet.

But the orgasm builds, unwanted and unstoppable, stealing your voice as it rips through you, leaving you trembling and sobbing.

────────────

Later, in the living room, you're forced to straddle him on the couch, his cock buried inside you as he watches TV. His hands are on your hips, guiding your movements, his eyes flicking from the screen to your face, watching you with a perverse fascination.

"You're so beautiful," he murmurs, his voice a stark contrast to the horror of his actions.

You want to scream, to tell him to stop, but the words won't come. Instead, you stare blankly at the TV, trying to lose yourself in the flickering images, trying to forget the reality of your situation.

────────────

On the second night, he takes you to the floor in the hallway, pushing you onto your knees. "You're going to suck me off," he says, his voice cold and demanding. "And you're going to swallow every drop."

You hesitate, your throat tight with fear, but his hand wraps around the back of your head, pushing you closer to his erection.

"Do it," he growls, and you have no choice but to comply, your mouth opening to take him in.

You can taste the salt and the bitterness of his lust, and you want to gag, but you force yourself to swallow, to keep going until he's satisfied.

When he finally comes, you feel his hot cum spurt down your throat, and you have to fight not to throw up.

He pulls out, his hand releasing your head as he watches you, his eyes filled with a perverse satisfaction. "Good girl," he says, his voice a taunting whisper.

You crawl away from him, your body trembling, your dignity shattered beyond repair. You can't believe this is your life now, that you're nothing more than a toy for his sick games.

────────────

On the final day of the weekend, you're lying on the floor of his room, your body bruised and sore from his relentless attention. He's sitting on the bed, watching you with a strange mix of love and possession.

"Look at you," he says, his voice almost gentle. "So beautiful, even when you're broken."

You force yourself to meet his gaze, searching for any hint of remorse, any shred of the brother you once knew. But all you find is a monster, a creature consumed by his own desires.

He stands up, walking over to you with a predatory grace that sends a shiver down your spine. "It's time to go back to your room," he says, his voice a command.

You nod, not trusting yourself to speak, as he helps you to your feet. The room spins around you, the pain making it difficult to stand.

"You're mine," he whispers in your ear, his breath hot against your neck. "Always remember that." He gives you a final, bruising kiss before releasing you, his eyes never leaving your face.

You stumble back to your room, feeling his gaze on your back like a physical weight.

The door closes behind you, the soft click echoing in your ears. You collapse onto the bed, your body a mass of pain and despair.

You can't believe what's happening, can't believe that the person you trusted the most has become your worst nightmare.

But even as you cry into your pillow, a part of you knows that this is only the beginning.

────────────

Days turn into weeks, and the abuse continues. You try to find ways to resist, to fight back, but his control over you is absolute.

He's always watching, always waiting for the slightest sign of disobedience. You start to feel like you're going mad, trapped in a cycle of fear and pain that never ends.

But you keep the secret, hiding your bruises beneath layers of clothing, smiling when you know he's watching.

────────────

One evening, as you're serving dinner, a knock at the door pierces the tension that's become a constant in your home.

It's a friend from school, someone who's been worried about you since you stopped hanging out. You can see the concern in his eyes as he asks about your well-being.

Your brother's grip on your wrist tightens, a silent warning not to say a word. "She's just been busy," he says, his voice too cheerful. "Aren't you, little sister?"

You nod, your voice barely above a whisper. "I've had a lot of... stuff to do."

The friend's gaze lingers on you, searching for the truth behind the forced smile. "Well, if you ever need anything, you know where to find me," he says, before finally turning to leave. The door closes, and the room feels smaller, suffocating.

He pulls you closer, his grip painfully tight. "You're mine," he says, his voice a low growl. "You don't need anyone else."

His eyes bore into yours, demanding assurance, and you nod, the lie rolling off your tongue like a well-rehearsed script.

"Yes," you murmur, "I know."

────────────

As the days go by, the lines between fear and obedience blur. You learn to anticipate his moods, his needs, his desires.

You become an expert at hiding your own emotions, burying your pain beneath a mask of submission. You go through the motions, cooking, cleaning, smiling when he enters the room.

But inside, you're screaming, a caged animal waiting for an escape that never comes.

One day, you're in the kitchen, your hands shaking as you prep dinner. The knife slips, slicing your finger, and blood wells up, a stark crimson against the pale flesh.

He's there in an instant, his eyes flickering with concern before they darken. "Careful," he says, his voice a low warning.

"You're too clumsy for your own good." He takes your hand, leading you to the sink to clean the wound.

But instead of the gentleness you expect, his grip turns cruel, his fingers pressing into your palm until you wince.

"You're going to be more careful," he says, his voice cold. "You're too precious to be ruined by something as stupid as an accident."

You nod, your heart racing as you watch the blood swirl down the drain. "I'll be more careful," you whisper, the words feeling like a noose around your neck.

He releases your hand, his eyes never leaving yours. "Good," he says, his voice softening slightly. "I'd hate for anything to happen to you."

But the way he says it, you know he's not just talking about accidents.

He's talking about you leaving, about you telling someone. The fear is a living thing inside you, a creature that feeds on your hope.

He leans in, his breath warm against your ear. "Do you want me to kiss it better?" You can feel his arousal pressing against your side, his desire for you a constant, unyielding force.

You nod again, because what else can you do? He takes your injured finger into his mouth, his tongue swirling around the cut, the sensation surprisingly gentle.

The room spins around you, the line between love and hate blurring until you can't tell the difference.

His eyes never leave yours, his gaze holding you captive as his mouth works its magic. When he pulls away, you're left gasping for air, your body a battleground of emotions.

"Why?" you finally manage to ask, your voice shaking. "Why are you doing this?"

He looks at you, his expression a mix of anger and confusion. "Because I love you," he says, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. "Because you're mine, and no one else can have you."

You pull away, your heart racing. "But we're siblings," you protest, your voice barely above a whisper. "This isn't right."

He sighs, his grip on your hand tightening. "Don't say that," he says, his voice a low warning. "You're the only one who makes me feel alive, the only one who truly understands me. I'm going to marry you, make it official. No one can ever take that away from us."

His eyes are wild, desperate, and for a moment, you see the little boy who protected you from the monsters under the bed.

But the monster is him now, and there's no escape.

You nod, your voice trembling. "Okay," you say, the word sticking in your throat. "I'll be yours."

It's a hollow promise, but it's what he needs to hear.

His smile is like the sun coming out from behind a storm cloud, lighting up the room and your heart despite the fear.

That night, he takes you gently, as if you're made of glass. His touches are softer, his kisses more tender.

But the pain is still there, a constant reminder of the power he holds over you. You lay there, your body bruised and used, your mind racing with thoughts of escape, of telling someone.

But every time you open your mouth to speak, the fear clamps down, silencing you.

────────────

As the weeks turn into months, the abuse becomes a twisted routine.

You find yourself craving the moments of tenderness he offers, the fleeting moments when he's not a monster, but the brother you once knew.

His love feels like a drug, an addiction that you can't shake, no matter how hard you try.

And he's always there, watching, waiting, making sure you know you're his.

One evening, as you lay in his arms, the room lit by the flickering TV, you feel something shift inside you. You've been playing along, pretending to be the obedient little sister and wife he wants, but the weight of the lie is crushing you.

You look up at him, his eyes closed in contentment, and for the first time, you feel something other than fear.

It's anger, burning hot and pure, a fire that's been smoldering deep within you. "I can't do this anymore," you say, your voice shaking with the force of your emotions.

He opens his eyes, his expression a mix of confusion and concern. "What do you mean?" he asks, his hand stroking your hair.

You sit up, pulling away from him. The words come out in a rush, the dam of your fear and anger finally breaking. "This isn't love, it's not normal. You can't just take what you want from me."

You can see the hurt in his eyes, but it's mixed with something else—a hint of anger.

"What do you know about love?" he snaps, his grip on your arm tightening.

"You're just a kid, playing games you don't understand." His voice is low, dangerous.

"You're mine, and you always will be. You don't get to decide who loves you, or how."

You try to pull away, but his hand is a vice, his nails digging into your skin. "Let go of me," you say, your voice trembling.

But he doesn't.

He pulls you closer, his eyes searching yours, looking for the submission he craves.

"You don't get it," he says, his voice a harsh whisper. "You're all I've ever had. You're all I've ever needed. And now that I have you, I won't let anyone else touch you."

His grip tightens, and you know he's not just talking about love anymore. He's talking about possession, about control.

You try to fight back, to push him away, but he's too strong. "Please," you whimper, the word a pitiful sound in the quiet room.

But it's not enough.

He's already decided what you are to him, and he won't be swayed.

He yanks you closer, his breath hot and sour in your face. "You're going to learn," he says, his voice a snarl. "You're going to learn to love me, to want this."

His hand moves down your body, cupping your breast roughly, his thumb flicking over your nipple. You flinch, the pain mixing with the fear and anger. "Look at me," he demands, his eyes boring into yours.

"Tell me you want it."

You can't find the words. You can't bring yourself to lie to him, not when you're so close to breaking free of this psychological cage of hoping he'd change.

Instead, you look away, your eyes filling with tears. "I can't," you murmur, your voice barely audible.

The anger in his eyes flickers, and for a moment, you think he might hit you again. But instead, he sighs, his expression softening slightly.

"You will," he says, his voice a promise and a threat. "You just need time." He releases your arm, his hand moving to gently wipe the tears from your cheek.

"But for now, you're mine. You're going to stay here, with me."

────────────

But, that doesn't mean he's not vengeful.

Your older brother drags you down the stairs to the basement, his grip unyielding. The cold concrete floor hits your bare feet, sending shivers up your spine. You struggle, your body protesting, but his strength is too much.

He throws you into a dank, dimly lit corner, the scent of mold and dust thick in the air.

Ropes coil around your wrists and ankles, securing you to a rusty pipe that runs along the wall. You whimper as the metal digs into your skin, leaving a trail of cold, metallic pain.

"Why are you doing this?" you manage to ask through clenched teeth, the reality of your new prison setting in.

He paces the floor, his eyes burning with a mix of anger and disappointment. "Because you need to learn," he says, his voice echoing in the confined space.

"You need to understand that you can't just decide to stop loving me."

You stare at him in disbelief, the ropes biting into your skin as you try to pull away from the pipe. "This isn't love," you spit out, your voice raw with emotion. "What you're doing to me is sick."

He stops pacing, his gaze meeting yours with a cold intensity. "You think I don't know that?" he snaps.

"But it's all I know. It's all we have." He strides over to you, crouching down so he's level with your bound form.

"You're going to stay here, and think about what you've done." His hand comes up to caress your cheek, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw.

"And when you're ready to tell me the truth, when you're ready to love me the way you should, I'll be upstairs."

You feel bile rise in your throat at his touch, his words a twisted echo of the love you once knew. "I can't," you whisper, your voice trembling. "Please, just let me go."

He sighs, his expression a mix of frustration and something else—something that looks almost like regret.

"You don't get it," he murmurs, his hand dropping away. "This is for your own good." He stands, walking towards the stairs.

"You're going to thank me one day, when you realize what I've saved you from."

You watch as he ascends, the door at the top of the stairs slamming shut with a finality that makes your heart sink. The darkness of the basement envelops you, the silence deafening.

You try to scream, to call for help, but your voice is hoarse from the weekend's screams. You're alone, trapped in the cold embrace of the concrete walls.

────────────

Days crawl by, each one a blur of pain and despair. He comes down to check on you, bringing you water and the bare minimum of food to keep you alive.

He doesn't touch you, doesn't speak of love. His eyes are hard, his expression unreadable.

But the silence is worse than the abuse—it's a constant reminder of the distance he's put between you. You beg, you plead, you scream, but he just watches with a detached air, as if you're nothing more than a petulant child throwing a tantrum.

On the third day, he finally speaks. "You've had your time to think," he says, his voice cold and unyielding.

"Now it's time for your next lesson." He crosses the room, his boots echoing on the hard floor.

You shrink back against the wall, your heart racing.

You're not ready for this, not ready to face the monster again.

But there's no escape, not here in the dark.

He unbinds one of your wrists, pulling you to your feet. You stumble, your legs wobbly from days of disuse. He leads you over to a dusty old chair in the center of the room, the legs scraping against the floor with an eerie sound.

"Sit," he commands, his voice devoid of warmth.

You do as you're told, the chair creaking beneath your weight, as he restrains your arms and ankles to the chair. He then stands in front of you, his eyes raking over your body with a hunger that makes your skin crawl.

"You're going to tell me you love me," he says, his voice low and menacing. "You're going to mean it, or you're going to regret it."

You shake your head, the words caught in your throat. "I can't," you choke out. "I'll never love you like that."

His expression darkens, and for a moment, you think he's going to hit you again. But instead, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a knife, the silver glinting in the dim light.

"You will," he says, his voice a promise. "I'll make sure of it." He flicks open the blade with a metallic snap, the sound echoing in the basement.

You try to jerk away, but the ropes around your ankles keep you in place, the chair digging into your back. "What are you going to do?" you ask, the fear in your voice clear.

He steps closer, the knife glinting in his hand. "I'm going to show you what happens when you deny me," he says, his voice a low growl.

"You're mine, and you will say it." His hand moves to your chest, pressing the cold steel against your skin just above your heart.

The threat is unmistakable.

You swallow hard, the fear thick in your throat. "I can't," you whisper, your eyes filling with tears. "Please, don't make me."

He sighs, his expression shifting from anger to something almost pitying. "You're so damn stubborn," he murmurs, his thumb tracing the blade's path along your collarbone.

"But I'll break you. I'll make you love me." He leans in, his breath hot against your skin as he presses a kiss to your neck, just below your ear.

You shiver, trying to keep your revulsion from showing. "I'm sorry," you whisper, the words feeling like acid on your tongue.

"I love you." It's the first time you've said it, and you hate the way it feels—like a betrayal to every part of yourself that's been violated by his hands.

He pulls away, his eyes searching yours, looking for the truth he so desperately needs to see. You force a smile, hoping it's convincing enough. "I love you," you repeat, the words a little easier this time.

For a moment, you see a flicker of doubt in his eyes, but it's quickly replaced with satisfaction. "Good," he says, his voice soothing now.

"Very good." He reaches down, his hand brushing against the ropes that bind you to the chair.

"Now, let's see how much you mean it." He traces the knife along the fabric of your shirt, the cold metal sending shivers down your spine.

With one swift motion, he slices through the material, exposing your bra. The knife lingers for a moment before he cuts the clasp, the cups falling away to reveal your breasts. He cups one in his hand, his thumb circling your nipple.

You can't help the gasp that escapes your lips as he pinches it, the pain mixing with a twisted form of arousal that makes you feel dirty and disgusted with yourself.

"Look at how beautiful you are," he says, his voice a hypnotic purr. "So perfect for me." His other hand moves to the fly of his pants, the knife still in his grip. He opens them, freeing his erection, which stands tall and demanding.

You feel a fresh wave of dread as he steps closer, the knife still hovering near your skin.

"Now, tell me you want me," he commands, his eyes dark with lust. The blade presses harder against your flesh, the sting of it making you flinch.

You look away, unable to meet his gaze. "I want you," you murmur, the lie tasting bitter on your tongue. You feel his hand tighten around your breast, his thumb flicking your nipple until it's hard and sensitive.

"Please," you add, hoping it's enough to satisfy his twisted desires.

He seems to consider your words, the knife pressing into your skin just enough to make you whimper. Then, with a smirk, he pulls away.

"Good girl," he says, his voice dripping with satisfaction. "Now, let's make it official." He grabs the knife again, this time bringing it to the waistband of your pants. With a quick jerk, he slices through the fabric, exposing you completely.

You struggle, trying to pull away from his touch, but he's too strong. He forces you to remain still, his hand moving down to cup your sex, his thumb stroking your clit with a brutal gentleness that makes you squirm.

"You're going to tell me you're mine," he says, his eyes boring into yours. "You're going to scream it."

You bite your lip, trying to keep the tears at bay. "I'm yours," you murmur, the words a defeated whisper.

He smiles, his grip on the knife loosening slightly. "That's my girl," he says, his voice a sickening blend of affection and triumph. He steps closer, the knife now tracing patterns on your exposed thigh, sending shivers of fear and anticipation through your body. You can feel his erection pressing against your leg, hot and insistent.

Without warning, he slams the knife into the chair, the blade sinking deep into the wooden frame. You flinch, your heart racing as you realize how close you just came to being sliced open. He grabs your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze.

"Now, tell me," he says, his voice a demand.

"Tell me you're mine, and mean it." He repeats.

You stare into his eyes, the fear and disgust warring within you. But the knife, still lodged in the chair so close to your body, is a stark reminder of his power. "I'm yours," you murmur, the words barely audible.

His smile widens, and he leans in to kiss you, his breath hot and sour. You force yourself to remain still, to accept it, to survive. His hand moves from your chin to the back of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair as he deepens the kiss, his other hand still playing with your body.

You can feel the wetness between your legs, and you hate yourself for it—hate that your body can betray you like this.

He pulls away from the kiss, his eyes gleaming with triumph. You're panting, your heart racing from fear and the unwanted arousal his touch brings.

He takes the knife from the chair, the wood protesting as it's yanked free, and you can't help but feel a pang of relief that it's no longer a threat to your skin. But his gaze is on your thighs now, and you know that relief is short-lived.

"Look at me," he says, his voice low and commanding. You meet his eyes, trying to keep the fear and disgust from showing. "You're going to carry my mark," he continues, his tone matter-of-fact. "So you never forget who you belong to."

He grabs your chin, tilting your head back so you're forced to watch as he brings the knife closer to your skin. You flinch as the cold metal touches you, the tip hovering just above the delicate flesh of your inner thigh.

His hand is steady, his eyes never leaving yours as he traces the first letter of his name—a deep, painful groove that makes you try biting your lip to keep from screaming. The blood wells up, a crimson line against your pale skin.

But, it doesn't work.

The second you feel the searing pain of the knife digging deeply, your scream rips through the basement, echoing off the cold concrete walls.

He tightens his grip on your chin, forcing you to keep watching as he carves the next letter into your skin, the blood running down your thigh in a warm trickle. Your eyes are wide with shock and horror, your body sweating and shaking with pain and fear. He's methodical, taking his time with each stroke, his gaze never leaving yours.

The sound of your own cries is the only thing that breaks the silence, mixing with the wet, sickening sounds of the knife cutting into your flesh.

When he's done with the last letter, he pulls back, admiring his work with a twisted smile. "There," he says, his voice smug. "Now you're truly mine."

He reaches out to wipe the tears from your cheeks, his thumb coming away smeared with your blood. "You're beautiful, even when you're crying," he murmurs, his tone almost tender.

You can't help but flinch at his touch, the pain from the fresh wound making your stomach churn.

You look down, the sight of your own blood and his initials etched into your flesh making you feel like a piece of meat, marked and claimed. The pain is unbearable, and you can't stop the tears that stream down your face. "Please," you beg, your voice barely above a whisper. "Please don't do this to me. No more, please, I beg you."

He frowns, his expression one of disappointment. "You're supposed to be happy," he says, his voice tight.

"This is a declaration of love, not something to be feared." He grabs a rag from the floor, pressing it against the wound to stem the flow of blood.

"You need to learn to appreciate this, to cherish the bond we have." His tone is firm, brooking no argument.

You can't find the words to respond, your teeth chattering from the pain and the cold. You watch as he dresses himself, his movements deliberate and controlled.

He picks up the knife, wiping the blood off on the rag before slipping it back into his pocket. "I'll be back with something to clean you up," he says, his voice gentle, as if he's just finished giving you a present instead of violating you in the most horrific way.

He leaves you alone again, the door slamming shut like a tomb. The pain in your thigh is a constant reminder of his ownership, a brand that feels like it's burning into your soul.

You slump forward in the chair, the ropes digging into your skin, and sob into your knees. The basement is cold, the only warmth coming from the throbbing in your leg and the hot tears that fall onto the concrete floor.

────────────

When he returns, you're too tired to even look up. You feel him approach, his footsteps heavy on the stairs. He's carrying something, a first-aid kit maybe, but you don't care.

You're beyond caring.

He kneels in front of you, his hands surprisingly gentle as he takes the rag and replaces it with something cool and clean.

"Shh," he whispers, his thumb brushing away the tears on your cheeks. "It's okay, it's okay."

The pain is overwhelming as he cleans the wound, the sting of antiseptic making you whimper.

You try to jerk away, but he holds you firm, his grip unyielding. "You have to let me take care of you," he says, his voice soft but firm.

"You're all mine, and I'll always take care of what's mine." He applies a bandage, his movements careful and precise, his eyes never leaving yours.

"It'll heal," he murmurs, his thumb brushing over the bandage.

"But you'll always remember."

He stands up, his gaze lingering on your naked form. "I'll leave these off," he says, nodding to the ropes around your ankles. "But don't try to run. You're not going anywhere."

The door opens, and he steps back, giving you a view of the stairs leading up to freedom.

The temptation is almost too much to bear, but you know better than to try.

You nod, the reality of your situation sinking in deeper with every second.

He walks over to the stairs, his back to you. "You're going to stay here," he says without looking back.

"Think about what you've done to deserve this. Think about how much I love you."

The door closes again, and you're left alone with the echoes of his footsteps.

The ropes around your wrists cut into your skin, a constant reminder of his control. You try to tug them loose, but they're tight—too tight.

Your eyes drift to the bandages. Hiding the deep, scarring marks just right above your pussy, his initials branded onto you like your mere cattle.

You can't believe it—you can't believe he's done this to you.

But the pain in your thigh is all too real, a pulsing, raw ache that throbs with every beat of your heart.

You can feel the sticky warmth of blood seeping through the bandage, a grim reminder that you're not just his sister anymore.

────────────

List of Fandoms and Characters

Ace Attorney: N/A

Blue Lock: Rin Itoshi, Sae Itoshi, Yoichi Isagi

Boku no Hero Academia: Dabi

Brutal: Satsujin Kansatsukan no Kokuhaku: N/A

Death Note: N/A

Demon Slayer: Rui, Sanemi Shinazugawa

Dishonored Series: Kirin Jindosh

Genshin Impact: Ayato Kamisato, Childe / Tartaglia, Scaramouche

Haikyuu!!: Atsumu Miya, Hajime Iwaizumi, Kenjiro Shirabu, Suna Rintarou, Tobio Kageyama, Yūji Terushima, Ushijima Wakatoshi

Honkai Star Rail: Blade, Boothill

How to Live as an Illegal Healer: N/A

Hunter x Hunter: Chrollo Lucilfer

I'm Not That Kind of Talent: Demon Aru

Jujutsu Kaisen: Naoya Zenin, Suguru Geto

Kill The Hero: Se Jun-Lee

Mobile Legends: Bang Bang: Xavier

Naruto Shippuden: Kabuto Yakushi, Tobirama Senju

One Punch Man: Amai Mask

Reverend Insanity: Fang Yuan

TOUCHSTARVED: Ais

Undertale Multiverse (Human AU): Dust! Sans / Murder! Sans

Wuthering Waves: Geshu Lin, Scar

────────────

If you want to be added or removed from the tag list, just comment on the MASTERLIST of Forbidden Fruits: Intimate Obsessions, Unhinged Desires. Thank you.

General TAG LIST: @uniquecutie-puffs , @ikevampharem , @tnsophiaonly , @mokingbrd78k , @cooldeermagazine , @mimitk-blog1

[thewhumpyprintingpress]

High Stakes and Bloody Business is open for submissions!

Bring out your vampires! For WPP's fourth anthology, we’re looking for stories that involve vampires. Your vampire(s) can be the whumpee, whumper, and/or caretaker. We will also consider stories about vampire-adjacent creatures such as dhampirs, succubi, etc.

Word Count: Up to 17,500 words

For this anthology, we are looking for stories in the following categories:

Micro-fiction: 250 words or less

Flash fiction: 251-1,000 words

Short Story: 1,001-7,499 words

Novelette: 7,500-17,500 words 

Each author can submit one story per category. So for example, you can submit a short story and a micro fiction but you can’t submit two micro fictions. 

Compensation: ebook contributor’s copy, one free paperback OR $10 USD, and discounts on additional paperbacks

50% of proceeds from the sale of this book will be donated to charity.

Submissions Open: November 1, 2024

Submissions Close: July 31, 2025

Expected Publication Date: October 2025

Submit here!

The Nitty-Gritty (aka more details about submitting)

Simultaneous submissions: Allowed, but let us know immediately if your story is accepted somewhere else.

Multiple Submissions: One per category. So for example, you can submit a short story and a micro fiction but you can’t submit two micro fictions. 

Reprints: Allowed, but please indicate where your story was originally published. This includes if your story was originally posted on AO3 or Tumblr!

Rights: Nonexclusive worldwide English language electronic and print rights. All copyright remains with the author. A simple contract will be provided.

Compensation: One ebook contributor’s copy, one free paperback OR $10 USD, and discounts on additional paperbacks

Submissions are open to residents of any country.

You must be 18 or older to submit.

No explicit torture of children under the age of 13. No sexual content of characters under the age of 18. No torture or sexual content involving non-sentient animals.  

No fanfiction, for legal reasons. No stories generated partly or in whole by artificial intelligence. 

Formatting: Please submit your story as a Microsoft word document with 12pt, Times New Roman font, double-spaced. Indicate scene breaks with ###.  

Edits: Stories will be lightly edited for spelling and grammar. The content of the story will not be changed, and all edits will be sent to you for approval.

[writeblrfantasy]

My queer fantasy novelette The Stranger at Blackwood Hall is live on my Kofi right now. To give you a taste of what this story's all about, here is the first bit! Immerse yourself with Lord Serian of Blackwood Hall as he discovers a stranger at his doorstep on a stormy night...🌩️

I don’t often receive strangers at my door.

The wards hiding my home prevent people from simply stumbling in off the main road. Anyone who comes here that I’ve not invited and escorted personally is someone in dire need of aid. The sort of aid only I can give. Aid that should never have to be given, after all other resources are exhausted and an individual is left desperate.

And so, one such event occurs on a night like any other. I begin my evening by stepping outside alone. It is my tradition to go for a walk along the path surrounding my generous home each evening. The fresh air clears my head and heals my body.

Even on nights like tonight, when the sunset is hidden behind dark rain clouds and raindrops fall as thick as one’s finger, I take my walk. A momentary escape from the busyness of the inner walls is vital to maintain my sanity.

Tonight, I vow to stay under the overhang so as not to be utterly soaked. I clasp my hands behind my back and take my first step towards the eastern gardens, but a shadow in the corner of my eye turns my focus.

There on the cobblestones lies a dark figure, collapsed face down into a heap. He is clad in all black, and his long, dark hair covers any distinguishing features. He is soaked from the rain.

I freeze. For a moment, I fear the worst—and then the figure’s torso expands in a slow, shuddering breath. The muscles of his back lift and fall with his efforts. The pitiful sound of his wheezing brings a sympathetic shiver to my skin.

I break free of my stupor and move quickly, throwing open the door to call for aid. I venture out into the rain and shiver at the burst of cold against the back of my neck. If only that single drop threatens to chill me to the bone, I fear to wonder how long this soul has been out here.

I lay my hands on the stranger and flip him over, searching for injuries beyond the effects of the elements. With practiced ease, I unbuckle the light armor the man wears and search him as best I can in the dim light. I don’t risk dragging him even a few feet out of the rain, in case he has hidden wounds and I hurt him further in some unseen way.

As it is, the wounds aren’t hidden. I find them quickly. A deep gash to his side, and the tip of an arrow stuck in his right shoulder. The wounds appear more than a day old, untended, and bonded to his thick wool cloak with blood.

🌩️Purchase The Stranger at Blackwood Hall for only $2.99 to learn more about Serian's mysterious guest.🌩️

[dbh-bb]

Yet More Questions

As we come up to the final sign up deadline for Artists we've been receiving a lot of questions about how much we expect by June 1st, so we wanted clarify some information for both artists and writers

ARTISTS

Oh my god, how much do I have to have ready to submit by 01 June? What will the form ask for?

The form will ask you to submit the following things:

Identifying info (obvs), including whether you are a minor

Your willingness to be paired with a minor

A sketch, layout, or concept of your art

The premise of your concept for the story

Ratings you’d be happy with on the story

Things you really don’t want to see in the story

Let’s break down a few of those.

Sketch, layout, or concept of your art: 

This should be substantial enough to get your idea across to the writer. It does not have to be finished or near-finished (although it can be if you’re there). If you work in a medium that takes significant time to generate, or where the concept of a “sketch” is hard to apply (such as 3D render art, gifs, or fanvids), do your best to express what the idea is. This could include a storyboard, a rough sketch, stick figures, and/or references/examples to show what you mean. We want the writers to get the general idea of what the final art will look like.

We will ask these submissions to be in standard formats (i.e. .png, .jpg, .gif, etc) that can be accessed on anyone’s computer without the use of special software. Your final art can be in your preferred format.

There will also be a text box where you can describe what the final art will be, like you might for an alt-text.

Premise of your concept for the story:

Artists aren’t just sharing a sketch, they’re sharing the concept behind that sketch. The concept of your story should be enough to give your writer a good direction to head in, without being so limiting that you’re ‘ordering’ a story rather than planting an idea. Yes, you can give ideas for bits of dialogue, and scenes, and major story beats and character dynamics. We want you to be either providing a jumping off point that a writer can build from, or full on working with the writer to tell a story. You need to give them enough that they can write ten thousand words from it, so we want more than the idea for the scene you are depicting yourself and a pairing.

That being said, this isn’t an opportunity to demand a very specific story out of a writer; that’s called a commission. There should still be room for the author to help shape the story as well. As Atro said, you’re giving them the blueprints; they’re building the house.

Things you don’t want to see in the story:

This is where you can let writers know anything you really don’t want added to the story. Including your personal specific do-not-wants is a way to help writers pick which stories they want to bid for. For example: “No X/Y, I prefer X and Y as platonic,” or “Please no background A/B.”

Keep two things in mind: first, writers are not allowed to add any of the AO3 Big Four to a story unless the artist suggests it first. Second, we do expect writers to work with the artist’s concept. So you don’t need to list out every single possible thing you don’t want.

What if my idea is risque, or even extreme?

We’ll make sure you get into the version not provided to minors, and you’ll have the same space to explain your concept as everyone else. Sometimes having a more extreme concept makes it harder to find a writer …but sometimes, you find that one person who does see your vision! All we ask is that you remain flexible in case the idea has to evolve to find you a match.

I’m not a writer. How much do they need for 10,000 words?

In writing terms, 10k and up is a novelette or a novella — either way, a short novel. Significantly, this will introduce plot. Now sometimes people think “plot means an entire movie” and it might not — sometimes the plot is “X and Y on a date.” Sometimes the plot is porn. But 10,000 words gives you both room to play with moving pieces. 

Example for artists who don’t write: Let’s use a very generic concept: a heist fic. You want the Jericrew on a heist. THESE ARE ESTIMATES DONT COME AT ME based on mods being old enough to remember when a drabble was 100 words exactly, but in general:

~3000 words will get you a scene. A dramatic scene or a confrontation! Cool! But a single scene.

5000-7000 words is a bit of the plot. Maybe the heist itself. Or a bit after the heist. More details, some repercussions.

~10,000 words will cover… let’s say planning the heist, executing it, and a bit of what comes after. 

A full mystery novel is usually 70,000-90,000 words. 

I’ve seen heist fics that break 200K.

This is why the minimum is 10,000 words — we want to generate deeper works where things happen. And the artists get to start the process this year. For those of you who wanted to make multiple arts and are limited by our writer count: this is your chance to think of other artworks you’d like to make within this concept!

WRITERS

How much information / freedom am I going to have?

First: We ask that writers do not add any of the AO3 Big Four to a story unless the artist suggests it. 

Second, see above for the information artists are being invited to share, to get a feel for it.

Third: There will be a variety of offers to choose from. Some artists might have a much more vague concept, while others might have a lot of the story in their head already. Remember that writers get to pick in this scenario. So if you prefer jumping into a fully-formed idea, look for those. If you prefer a less-firm idea where you can really collaborate with your partner to flesh it out, look for those. 

Artists are expected to understand that their concept is a suggestion, not a commission. So even if an artist sounds like they have a narrow view of the story they want, they know that they need to work with their writer to make it belong to both of you. Even at low levels of collaboration, we’ve seen this work out so that both contributors can be happy. So if there’s an idea you love but/and have suggestions for, go for it — there’s a good chance your artist will be happy with all your enthusiasm.

[rnanqo]

Bree, Bree! As a fellow author, am I allowed to ask what you're writing? 👀💖

yes absolutely!!

the main project is Book Draft. it is a fantasy novel about two gentleman rogues seducing a lady so they can steal her big magical tornado. to pull this off, they will have to convince this lady they’re completely normal about her big magical tornado, completely normal about each other, and definitely not that pair of guys who’ve been in the news for trying to steal big magical tornadoes (they’ve been plotting and scheming and never succeeding). they will also have to ignore a variety of glaring red flags from the lady herself, who mostly seems interested in using them for hard labor and might also be creating an army of statue people. oh and her big magical tornado is in danger of breaking free and wreaking destruction over the land. can our heroes act like normal dudes long enough to fool this lady, seize her big magical tornado, and make sure it doesn't break loose? or will their obvious codependency and inability to admit their own mistakes be the death of them both???

(it will be a secret worse third thing, and I’m VERY excited to get there)

beat for beat this is an expanded version of a 15k thing I wrote last year. which i could not sell because when a story is that length you run out of places to send it VERY quickly. luckily I have always been a novel gal anyway so I was like lol time to write everything that comes after this lil 15k episode! and then when I had like 80k of followup I tried writing a query letter about it, realized I was trying to cram a trilogy into a novel, did some soul searching, and now we are here, on book 1. hopefully I can start querying it sometime this year!

i complain about it under ig tag. i collect relevant memes for my own dread purposes under whimsy tag. @mercyisms even made a meme about what is now book 3!!

other than Book, im renovating the ending on another possibly unsellable 15k novelette, working on a short story that revolves around a stupid pun, and writing on a narrative podcast about building pyramids in ancient egypt! all very exciting and fun. and the cause of wrist tendonitis