#fic: fragile verse

[profoundbondfanfic]

Fragile and Composed

Fragile and Composed by cgf_kat Rating: Teen Word Count: 16k

“What did Rowena say?” he asks. “You called her, right? This isn’t like one of those attack dog spells of hers, is it?” That’s the last time Dean can remember seeing Cas actually sweat like this. Usually, he’s immune to such human inconveniences, but as of right now his dark hair is plastered to his forehead, moisture prickling his skin. It’s disconcerting. Wrong. “No, no not like that,” Cas rasps. He lets his head tip back, compliant as Dean gently thumbs at the skin around his eyes to pull them open farther, to get a better look at them. To confirm they’re not bloodshot and bleeding like they were then. “It’s—there are no other effects...not...nothing’s in my head. It’s just...very painful.”

*drops this piece of 16k words of pure, unadulterated hurt/comfort right in front of your feet*

Don’t you ever dare say I didn’t give you anything 😁

So if you’re really in the mood for all the pain and worry and protectiveness that this special trope has to offer, then please don’t hesitate to click on the link and enjoy all the misery!

In this particular story Castiel is suffering from the effects of a nasty spell, being crippled by sudden bursts of pain, and Dean is just desperate to help him in any way he can and make his suffering a little less bad. Which include lots of touching, moving into Dean’s room together, sharing a bed and Dean mother henning the whole time, not only concerned about his angel but also Jack who blames himself for the whole mess in the first place. 

Yes, they’re all not having a good time right now, but I promise there is a happy end in sight!

So if this is right up your alley, dive right in 💗

[pyrosomatic-metamorphosis]

(ao3)

The worst thing, Bad knows, is the way that nothing changes. 

The clouds move slow across the sky, gentle giants on an eternal trek. The waters dance with fish; the brooks burble and sing. Grass grows. Sheep eat. Grass regrows. 

On, and on, and on, and on. 

Bad breathes in, slow, and holds it. 

It’s enough to go mad over. To become enraged for. To rip everything down just so that everything can match the- the keening lack in his heart. Grass grows. Grass has always grown. There is nothing that could ever stop grass from growing. 

His hands are curled into the ground at his sides. He clutches handfuls of the wretched plant and pulls, almost gently, and doesn’t snap a single blade.

He exhales, slow, and doesn’t inhale again. What point is there? He’s alone. No one will know whether or not he needs to breathe. He’s been alone before- days that Dapper doesn’t wake up, days where the other eggs are with their other parents. Days where he falls asleep in his chair and the ghosts are left to amuse themselves. He’s been alone before. 

He’s lost before. 

There is a sob in his throat. He refuses to let it out. It chokes him, and he takes another deep breath to try to settle it. 

There’s always- he misses Skeppy. Of course he misses Skeppy. He can’t lose Skeppy, but Skeppy isn’t here.

Dapper isn’t here. Pomme isn’t here. Richarlyson. Leo. Ramon. Chayanne. Tallulah. They’re-

Bad tears the grass out of the ground. He stares at his hands, dark claws curled around torn green plant. He tries to imagine the grass is white fur instead, but he can’t find the enthusiasm. That’s okay. The anger will be back later. 

He just- he can’t feel much beyond the loss, right now. The lack. The empty, quiet island where sheep eat grass and clouds keep moving and no eggs place any signs at all. That’s not okay, but he knows that, at least, will change. That’s how grief works. The world ends, and you end with it, and while you claw yourself up from the rubble the world ends again and sends you back under, and then again, and then again, but by the third go around you know what the tremors look like. You start to predict where it hurts the most. Then the world keeps ending but the ending just becomes a part of your world, and sometimes everything shakes but you shake with it and it’s not okay but it’s better. You get so used to the shaking that sometimes you forget that your world ever ended at all. 

How long will it take for him to forget them? 

Bad leans forwards, slowly, until he slumps into a miserable little puddle of limbs. He presses his cheek into the cool grass and when the sob rises up again he bites it back with teeth. The sun is blocked by a sombrero, now fallen awkwardly over his face, that Foolish had cheerfully placed on his head hours before. Bad doesn’t know why Foolish had put it there- except he does, and he’d seen it in the in the slightest tremor of Foolish’s smile, and so he’d kept it on. 

He can’t see them, but he can hear them laughing. Mouse, Jaiden, and Foolish, just around the corner. There have been so many people ‘just around the corner’ today. They’re so loud. They’re not the right type of loud. He feels guilty for the way that they’re comforting him, that he’s taking up their time, and then he feels angry that he feels guilty because he remembers the cage, and he knows what he really means to them, and-

They’re still here. The eggs are gone, and they’re still here. 

Forever isn’t here. 

Forever hasn’t given him a gift basket yet. 

…

…It doesn’t work. It’s a close thing, though- there’s a flicker of irritation at the thought of Forever’s awful, handsome face. Not anger, not nearly enough emotion to fill the void that is Bad’s heart, but maybe it could be. He’ll try again tomorrow. Isn’t that fun? Isn’t that something? There’s so much emotion he can’t feel any of it at all. 

Maybe it’s a bad dream. There were no remains. There was just Dapper’s top hat, and Pomme’s beret. No shell, no dead eggs. No eggs. It’s driving him mad, the maybe-yes maybe-no nature of his children’s fate.

He thinks, maybe, that tomorrow he will build a drill. 

Today, the world is dark beneath the sombrero, and the grass is scratchy and full of small twigs. Foolish laughs once, too loud. Automatically, Bad pushes himself up, because he knows Foolish, and knows how long he’s been away from the group, and he feels sick. He fumbles for his warpstone and- Foolish’s head pops around the corner- Bad freezes. Too late. 

Foolish looks at him, grin bright and neverending. Bad looks back. He can’t bring himself to say anything- he drops the sombrero at their feet. 

Foolish’s smile fades. Bad activates his warpstone again and, though the particles, he sees Foolish give him a sharp, left-handed salute. Bad can’t bite back his little laugh; Foolish knows him, too.

And then Foolish is gone. The world is purple. Then the world ends, once again, in Bad’s home. All of Dapper’s machines have stopped. Echoing noise to almost-echoing silence. Ah. Right. None of the island’s machines are working correctly. Bad will have to make a smaller drill. But he will build his drill, and he will dig, and he will find his son. 

“Dapper?” he calls, his voice cracking. The sound echoes. Only the animals answer back- they’re the only thing that stops the base from being completely silent. Grass grows. Sheep eat. Grass regrows. There’s so many animals here. What good company. It occurs to Bad, suddenly, that they’re good company. Dapper is gone, and his animals are still here, and Bad- 

He won’t kill Dapper’s pets. He is suddenly holding his scythe and he won’t hurt his son’s pets because he can’t trade them for his son and there’s a special sort of heartache to the fact that his son left behind instructions to machines that don’t work and so many animals that can’t keep Bad company the way Dapper kept him company and Bad- 

He’s holding his scythe. He’s holding the Sunshine Protector. He tries to take a breath but it comes out stuttery and he bites his tongue and. Dapper was-is always so sweet. He made Bonnie to keep Bad company, and Bad is always haunted by little ghosts but now most of all he is haunted by the love of his son. 

“Where are you?” His voice cracks on the third word. He stumbles to Dapper’s room and doesn’t think about the fact that they never got to build one for Pomme.  

The hole in his heart could swallow an island. 

Please don’t take- 

The scythe gets left outside. Bad can’t bear to look at it. Protector. There is a secure door in front of him that keeps nothing secure because now there is nothing to protect and Bad- 

-my sunshine away. 

He falls to his knees next to the empty bed. He chokes out, “I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you, Dapper.”

When the sob rises again, he lets it.

[norikuna]

LAST FRIDAY NIGHT — choso kamo

welcome to the christmas tour ! take a seat in section (d) and let the show begin !

prologue. → it's been seven days since you wobbled into your apartment and almost threw up on your best friend. seven days since you confessed your love to him. seven days of radio silence as you've done your best to shut him out, hoping that the earth swallows you whole. there's no way he's going to want anything to do with you now!

but it's been years since choso had started silently loving you.

want to try sitting somewhere else ? take a look at the ticket chart again !

pairing. choso kamo x afab!reader

warnings. vírgin!choso, spítting, kíssing, makíng out, thígh kínk (mild), yuuji being a menace 😭

word count. 8k! song inspiration. last friday night — katy perry

a/n. i can't believe i don't write for choso more. i really put a lot of love into this fic but i wish i had expanded on it a bit more 😭 one thing abt me is that i love adding side characters to cóck block

mp3. think we kissed, but i forgot!

"did you hear about the girl who lives in delusion? breakups happen every day — you don't have to lose it."

you jab at the skip button like it's personally offended you, cutting off the mournful strains of the evermore bonus track mid-verse. normally, you'd let the singer's poetic misery hold your fragile heart in a pretty gentle chokehold, for she understood your heartbreak like a nobel laureate in emotional devastation. but not today.

not on this particularly dreary friday, right before christmas, where even ms. swift's dulcet agony felt obnoxiously on the nose.

pinned under the suffocating weight of your quilt, you let out a dramatic sigh that could rival a victorian heroine wasting away from heartache and humiliation.

with the theatrics of someone clawing their way out of a shipwreck, you work one arm free, waving it weakly into the air like your tragic signal of defeat.

the cocoon of your quilts and covers isn't warm nor comforting. it's a smothering trap, a quilted tomb of your own making.

"this is it," you mumble to the empty air of the apartment, your voice muffled by layers of fabric, "this is how i go."

the universe, for its part, remains unbothered by your suffering.

with a theatrical groan that would earn you a standing ovation in a one-person tragedy, you yank the quilt over your head. plunging yourself into darkness once more.

but unfortunately, the muffled strains of your 'sad girl winter' playlist refusing to take the hint seep through, like overly persistent ghosts of your bad decisions in the past. it seemed that evermore was feeling less like a balm for your soul, and more like the soundtrack to your public humiliation.

somewhere in the tangled chaos of your bed, half pillows and half-sulking regret, your poor and neglected nintendo switch lies face down like it gave up on your hours ago. its screen has long since gone dark, but if you listen hard enough, you can almost hear your animal crossing villagers whispering conspiratorially, drafting a formal petition to evict you.

no doubt tom nook is already sharpening his capitalist claws, repossessing your house with an unsettling amount of glee.

but the rest of your room is not much better. the string lights on your walls flicker half-heartedly, casting an uneven glow over the wreckage of the past week.

it's not the charming nor dramatic kind of mess that makes for an artsy photo dump. no, this is the slow and unflattering unravelling of someone who let life beat them up with zero resistance. if rooms could file restraining orders, yours would have done it by now.

teetering laundry piles of discarded sweatshirts are haphazardly stacked in the corner. nearby, an empty hot cocoa mug sits, sticky with the remnants of whipped cream. candy cane wrappers are strewn across the room, the aftermath of a peppermint explosion that made your jaw ache.

but the true centrepiece of this disaster? your phone, face down on your nightstand. neglected and on silent. the one object in this room that's probably begging for attention, and one that you've been skilfully ignoring. and yet, right on cue, it buzzes again.

lighting up with a contact number that you've been ignoring all week.

choso.

and you squint at the notification, at the glowing screen that makes your eyes sting in the dim light.

sweet, dependable and utterly loyal choso.

your best friend of over a decade. the one person that you can't bring yourself to face.

the one person that also deserves so much better than this radio silence, and yet the last person that you can humanly confront. especially not after what happened last friday night.

and here, good friends, lies the crux of your problem.

that doomed night, seven days ago, has mostly dissolved into a series of blurry and fragmented snapshots. like a bad, half-finished film that you'd walked out of halfway through.

but the lead up? oh, you remember that part with the kind of clarity that should have been reserved for more important moments.

you could still feel the heat of storming out of that overpriced restaurant, half-drunk and fully pissed off, tears streaming down your cheeks and thickening your throat.

your ex-boyfriend? well, he had been your current boyfriend, before he decided to break up with you. in public. for all that classy, emotional damage that was so in character for him.

and with a line so perfectly cliché, it practically begged to be immortalised on a 'worst breakup excuses' list in cosmopolitan: i'm sorry, baby. i just don't see it working anymore. we're just too different. oh! and i found someone else.

oh, sure. but you should have been glad to have been rid of the man-child that thought frankenstein was the monster's name, the man who commented 'oxford study' on innocent tiktoks, and called pinterest 'girl instagram.'

god, what a fuckin' loser.

fuelled by a mix of public-induced heartache and questionable tequila choices, you had practically charged across street crossing. your feet hitting the pavement with the reckless kind of abandon reserved for teenagers sneaking out after curfew.

and there choso had been in your apartment. your best friend had been sitting cross-legged on your rug, surrounded by wrapping paper and ribbons. probably wrapping yuuji's christmas gifts with military precision. he had been balancing a roll of tape in his mouth, scissors over his lap dangerously close to the family jewels. but you had barrelled through the door like a feral cat in a downpour.

his eyes had widened, a little startled, as you made your entrance. the tape had fallen out of his mouth, chestnut hair falling over his face as he gaped. you couldn't blame choso, of course. you had looked entirely like a bedraggled, disheveled mess in a storm. cheeks streaked with mascara trails, but then everything went...fuzzy?

what did you remember? crying. lots of it.

and boy, was it a show. the kind of weeping where your face contorts into a puffed-up, berry-red disaster, and you would feel the headache creeping in even before the tears had finished.

choso's arms had caught you before you could face plant into the couch. solid, broad. warm and familiar.

you had caught the scent of clove and pepper, alongside faint citrus that you had been associating with him over the years. you had been saying something, raw and desperate.

your words had spilled out of you like water from a broken faucet.

and here you were now, reaping the glorious consequences of your own unfiltered word vomit.

seven days of stewing in your own shame and regret. but seven days were not enough to undo this level of self-sabotage. you briefly considered the options: faking amnesia, dropping out of university entirely, or best case scenario — moving to antarctica and herding emperor penguins.

you groan, sinking deeper into the abyss of your covers. and then, of course, your phone buzzed again. the dull and persistent vibration drilled into your skull like a tiny, digital drill.

cho 💜

(01:09am) hey, are you doing okay? (08:42am) tell me if you need anything! (04:23pm) hello? did i do something?

you peek at the screen, trying to avoid making eye contact with the tiny and terrifying letters. your sheet mask scrunches uncomfortably, making you look like a particularly pathetic mummy. choso's sweet and utterly patient messages were a sharp control to your gross sulk, and his concern makes you want to curl into a ball and crawl into a snowbank.

outside, christmas snow fell gently, blanketing the world in a soft and untouched white. it was like something out of a dream, a world of calm and peace. peace that your trifling ass didn't deserve.

if choso wanted to speak to you, he'd have to drag you out of your self-imposed misery himself. and even if he were to arrive at your apartment door, he'd only find a note tacked to the wall. with a map leading to the south pole.

so, what exactly had happened last friday night?

the memory rolls out like an old film reel, all jagged and distorted. the kind that you can't skip, even if you wanted to. it comes in fragments, each one more excruciatingly clear than the last. the haze of vodka-infused whipped cream shots over hot drinks slowly melting away like a bad handover.

the door to your apartment? you remember that part with embarrassing clarity. you had kicked it open with awful, ragged flair. your heel slipping on the floor, and you had nearly stacked it. face-first into your own doorway, standing there with the grace of a giraffe on roller skates.

the second the door had slammed shut behind you, a gust of frigid winter shot through the apartment like a chill reminder of your situation.

choso had been sitting cross-legged on the floor by the coffee table, in the midst of complete, barbaric chaos. the roll of mauve wrapping paper teetered precariously on his dark jeans, and scissors dangled from his lap while a stripe of tape was wedged between his teeth. in between the mess of clippings and discarded tape, he seemed more like an absurdly morose-looking christmas elf that had been tasked with being santa's helper after an entire bottle of mulled wine.

but as you had walked in, or rather stumbled in, his gaze had shot up. his chestnut hair falling in messy curtains around his face, with one unruly strand intertwined with a red-white rogue ribbon. choso's face had twisted in alarm, his usual solemn manner replaced by someone who looked like they were trying to figure out whether they needed to brace themselves for good or bad news.

"hey," he had said, voice soft but sharp, like he was trying to handle fragile glass. choso had spat the tape out of his mouth unceremoniously, and he had been tugging the ribbon free rom his hair, concern all over his fine features, "what's wrong? are you okay?"

and you? a disaster. drunk, crying, furious. the recipe for an emotional molotov cocktail.

"i hate him," you had snarled, yanking off your beige coat, hurling it in the general direction of the couch. instead, your aim missed entirely. flopping halfway onto the floor, and halfway across choso's knee.

choso simply plucked the coat off his leg with two fingers, gingerly draping it over the arm of the couch. your best friend was frowning as he set down his oversized scissors, rising to his feet in a fluid motion. amber-hazel eyes flicked to yours, wide with alarm as he stepped closer, "are you hurt? is this about —?" he was hesitating, "your boyfriend?"

"no, my ex-boyfriend!" the words were ripped out of you, and your voice pathetically cracked halfway through as tears spilled down your flushed cheeks, "and 'm not hurt, cho. unless you count emotional damage," punctuating your statement with a tragic, breathy hiccup.

choso's perpetual frown deepened, as thick and unruly brows knit together, "okay," he said, voice low and steady, "do you want to sit down? i can get you some water, wait." his steps are slow, purposeful as he closes the distance between you gently, with measured care. or like he was defusing a bomb.

but you were having none of his gentle care, "no, i don't want water! i want — i want to un-date him," you wail, arms flailing as you start pacing like a caffeinated hamster, "god, i'm so stupid for dating him in the first place. and yes, i know, stop looking at me like that. i know you want to say i told you so, but he's such a —," you pause mid-rant, clawing the air for the right word, "a troll. a goblin, an ogre."

choso blinks, "maybe you should just get some fresh water in you," but there's an underlying layer of grimacing amusement painted over his quiet features, "and i didn't even say i told you so."

"no," you blurt, your head snapping so fast that your neck immediately files a complaint in the form of a sharp crick, "i don't want water. i want —"

and then, your brain short-circuited. because that's when you'd actually looked at him. like really looked.

warm hazel eyes framed by dark, sleepless circles that seemed to follow choso around like cursed ghosts. soft, feathery strands of mahogany hair that refused to stay tied back, and tumbled rebelliously into his face. that damn sweatshirt, loose and charcoal gray, and perfectly slouched over his broad shoulders. the sleeves pushed up just enough to reveal forearms so solid that they could make a renaissance sculptor pack and quit.

and like a freight train at full speed, like whee-woo, the realisation hit you. choso kamo.

your best friend in the entire world. your steady and reliable, and kind to a fault best friend. better than any stupid ex that you'd ever had.

and because tequila is the nectar of chaos, and heartbreak has no filter, your mouth decided to unleash the words that you would haunt you for the next week.

"i should have been dating you."

the room is silent, as choso freezes entirely. like someone had smacked the pause button on him, and his hand, mid-reach for a glass of water, stops cold. his eyes are wide, mouth parting as though he hadn't yet processed what you had said.

"what?" choso finally manages, the words soft and stunned, like he wasn't sure that he had heard you correctly.

you, in your infinite wisdom (or rather, drunken idiocy), barrelled on like a bull who had just seen red cloth, "i'm so serious! you're the one i should've been with all along!"

you wave a hand at him, as if showcasing him to an invisible jury, "you're smart and you're sweet, and you actually care about me, unlike him!"

choso blinks, his expression unreadable, "okay," he says slowly, setting the glass back down on the table, "i think maybe, uh, you should sit down?"

"i don't wanna sit down, i want you to stop looking so perfect right now."

there's a faint flush creeping up choso's neck, like red pigment staining cream watercolour canvas, "perfect?"

"yes!" you hiccuped, teetering over the couch, "you're supposed to be my best friend, and instead you just stand there with your stupid forearms, and your everything, and it's not fair!"

choso doesn't move, doesn't even speak. just stands there, vaguely dumbstruck. like you had hung the moon, and then yanked it back down to earth to hurl it at his chest.

"i should've been dating you, cho," you declare again, louder this time, and your finger jabs his broad chest like it was somehow his fault, "you're the best, y'know that? and you're so hot, how did i not realise this sooner?"

your best friend's expression goes on a journey of varying emotions, shock and disbelief, panic and confusion. all while his candied pink lips open and close, "uh," because by now, eloquence had left the room for both parties. his hands hovering awkwardly like he wasn’t sure whether to steady you or flee. his ears noticeably red, the flush creeping down his neck.

but drunk-dumped you wasn't done. oh no, this was your oscar moment. the hill you were going to die on. the ted talk that no one asked for.

and you were on a roll now, "i mean, look at you! you've got the broody, hot guy thing down so well, and you know that's my type. and everyone knows it, like why aren't we dating already?"

choso's mouth curls again, but no sound comes out. he looks like he wants to crawl into a snowbank and bury himself there forever, "okay, i think maybe you should sit down before you hurt yourself, or, uh, the furniture."

"i'm fine!" you'd declared, throwing your arms up in defiance just as your knees decided that they were absolutely not fine. you wobbled, and in an instant, choso's warm hands are on your shoulders, steadying you with ease.

the searing heat of his touch makes your heart lurch in a way that felt far too real for comfort. you look up at him, his face close enough that you could see the faint freckles dusting his nose, and your breath hitches.

he's close enough now that his lips could press against yours with the mere turn of his head. but you know that choso's just too kind and thoughtful to kiss you in this state right now. he also looks like he's about to gently suggest that you pull yourself together. you wouldn't know, because you've just bulldozed right over him with zero brakes.

tears stream down your face still, but they're starting to slow. sticky and hot, tacking to your cheeks, as you deliver the final blow, "if i asked you to kiss me now — like genuinely right now, would you, cho?"

you would never know what choso's reply would be, because you hiccup violently. the kind that punches your chest and makes you sway. fate was never done with you, because your stomach lurches in warning. you had clamped a hand over your mouth, eyes wide with panic.

choso, bless his heart, had looked ready to throw himself in front of you, "bathroom. now," he'd commanded, his voice taking on a rare, firm edge.

and that's right where your memory cut off, mercifully plunging you into the black void of your vodka-soaked brain. no idea if you'd made it to bathroom. no idea if you'd thrown up all over him, classy as always.

but the last thing you did remember, the thing that haunted you eve now, like a ghost tapping on your shoulder, was the look on choso's face. wide-eyed, jaw slack. like you had flipped his entire world upside down.

choso sits cross-legged on the cold dorm floor, the faint creak of wood beneath him. in his hands is a neatly wrapped gift, small and unassuming. but painstakingly chosen for you. the crimson ribbon, shiny and festive, catches the light of the desk lamp.

it wasn't extravagant, nothing flashy nor pricey. but it was thoughtful, personal. something that he had picked out weeks ago, back when everything between you two had been normal.

back when you didn't look at your phone, and decide he wasn't worth answering.

choso's thumb grazes the corner of the box, smoothing over the edges of the paper that he had meticulously folded after watching youtube tutorials. but now? the box felt heavier than it had any right to. would you even want this anymore? would you even want to see him?

choso sighs, letting his head tip back against the edge of his bed frame. it was a tight and awful feeling, something small and sharp that had wormed its way into his chest.

it wasn't just the silence. it wasn't even the unanswered texts or the way you’d been avoiding him like he was the human incarnation of bad news.

it was the fact that you were you. his best friend. the person he always knew how to read — until now, when everything felt scrambled.

he stares at the gift again, his brows furrowing. he'd been turning this over in his mind for seven straight days, wearing grooves into his thoughts like a track stuck on repeat. did you regret it? did you even remember what you said?

and worse — what if you did mean it?

that last thought was the one that always hit hardest. he exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair, the dark strands falling back into his face. somewhere on his desk, his phone buzzed softly, and for a second, his pulse jumped. but when he checked, it wasn't you.

because of course it wasn’t.

"pathetic," choso muttered under his breath, dragging a hand down his face.

seven days.

seven long, agonising days since you'd stumbled into your apartment like the ghost of heartbreak past — tear-streaked, half-drunk, and dropping words so raw they’d knocked the air out of choso's lungs.

seven days since you’d looked at him like he was everything good in the world — right before nearly puking on him and passing out on the couch in a heap of drunken devastation.

and seven days of brutal radio silence ever since.

choso groaned, dragging a hand down his face as he slouched against the edge of his bed. he got it — why you'd be embarrassed. he, he was still processing it, the memory looping in his head like a cursed highlight reel.

"you're amazing, cho. you're perfect."

the words echoed, soft and slurred, over and over like a broken record choso couldn’t shut off. a selfish part of him — a really shameful, awful part — had been glad your ex was out of the picture. not that it was a surprise; choso had never liked that guy. too loud, too cocky. the kind of guy who thought buying overpriced cologne absolved him of skipping deodorant.

but then there was the other part of him — the one that made him feel like a jerk. the part that felt guilty for feeling anything at all. because he wasn’t supposed to feel this way about you.

choso wasn't supposed to have spotify playlists privately curated with all your favourite songs. wasn't supposed to have started buying extra hair ties, just because the thought of you stealing one was so annoyingly appealing.

and he definitely wasn't supposed to have been quietly, hopelessly in love with you for five years and counting.

how many times had he messaged now? four? five? enough that he was starting to feel like that guy, the one who couldn’t take a hint. what if you'd sobered up and realised last friday was just drunk nonsense? what if you didn't like him like that at all?

had he not spent seven days drowning his misery in tubs of mango and pistachio ice cream? enough was enough.

choso's thumb hovered over your contact for a long, stupid second, debating whether to send one more pointless text. but before he could add another "hey, just checking in," he swiped away and hit a different contact. a boisterous teenager with a shock of pink hair.

he shoots off a quick text, almost grimacing as he hits send.

Choso Kamo: Need advice. Got a hypothetical situation. yuujithegoat2003: if this is smth weird i'm not googling it for u

choso rolled his eyes, already regretting this decision. but he needed to hear an outside opinion.

Choso Kamo: It's not weird, serious this time. If someone confesses something private to you while they are drunk, then avoids you for a week, what do you do? Hypothetically?

a pause, and then:

yuujithegoat2003: is this someone a hot girl lol

choso sighed, his dry lips twitching despite himself.

Choso Kamo: Yes. Also, serious answers only. yuujithegoat2003: ok ok. do they remember what they said? Choso Kamo: Most likely not.

yuujithegoat2003: huh...so did they say something good? or was it rude? Choso Kamo: It was good. Really quite good. yuujithegoat2003: bro this seems easy, just ask if they meant it.

choso blinked at his phone, at the...almost reasonable response. suspiciously reasonable, coming from his younger brother.

Choso Kamo: And if they freak out? Or say that they didn't mean it? yuujithegoat2003: then u say 'just kidding' and blow the place up and leave the country. i can get u a fake id, i know a guy. i know lots of guys.

Choso Kamo: You need to stop being influenced by Gojo Satoru. Just because his public break-up landed on national news does not make it a premise for my own situation. Hypothetical situation. yuujithegoat2003: ok, gojo just said no one gaf abt your love life anyway. seriously tho if u like this hypothetical person, just be chill. don't be all intense and scare them off bc its never that deep.

Choso Kamo: Love is that deep. Especially when you care for the other person a lot. yuujithegoat2003: ur so dramatic bro. anyway good luck.

yuujithegoat2003: also if you get rejected don't tell me bc i can't handle second hand embarrassment. thx. gtg to work. these pizzas don't deliver themselves ay

choso glances down at the gift still in his lap, the ribbon he'd so painstakingly tied now a little crushed — much like his pride. the box stares back at him accusingly, as if to say, what's the plan here, genius? wait for her to magically show up?

choso exhales through his nose, sharp and frustrated. sitting here wallowing wasn’t doing him any favours, and neither was yuuji's unhelpful voice.

"yeah, sure," he mutters under his breath, shoving the box into his jacket pocket. he stands abruptly, grabbing his jacket off the back of his desk chair.

if you weren’t going to talk to him, fine. he'd bring the conversation to you. answers, he thought, stepping out into the cold. the winter air bit at his face, but it was bracing, grounding even. one way or another, tonight was going to settle this.

the knocking was relentless.

you tried to ignore it at first, clutching your blanket like it was a shield against all outside forces. whoever was at the door would get the hint eventually. probably. hopefully.

but no, the knocking persisted, evolving into a deliberate rhythm, like some overzealous drummer auditioning for a garage band.

"unbelievable," you groaned, peeling your headphones off and tossing them onto the pillow where they landed with a hollow clatter. if this was the pizza guy you'd ordered from two hours ago, he was wildly late, and you were too broke to tip him anyway.

dragging yourself off the mattress felt like an olympic event. your legs wobbled, your blanket fortress collapsed behind you, and your pride was buried somewhere under the covers still. at least you'd showered earlier — small victories.

your damp hair dripped cold trails down the back of your oversized sweatshirt, and you caught a whiff of cocoa butter as you shuffled to the door. that was…something acceptable at least. but then the mirror by the entryway betrayed you, reflecting sleep-swollen eyes, and the faint ghost of face mask residue clinging stubbornly to your skin.

perfect. a vision of grace and dignity.

you yank the door open, ready to unleash a pointed what do you want? — but the words lodge somewhere in your throat.

smooth. and oh, just your luck.

there stood choso, a walking anomaly in the drab matrix of your sad little existence. his tall frame fills the doorway, backlit by the flickering hallway light, clad in a baggy black tee and faded denim that didn't quite match the nervous energy rolling off him in waves. his hair was tied up in a messy bun, spiky strands sticking out like an afterthought, and of course, he looked unfairly good for someone who had probably spent the past week avoiding the sunlight.

"uh, hey," he says, his voice softer than usual — careful, even. like he thought you might throw the nearest piece of furniture at him and sprint into the night.

"hey?" you echo, voice brittle as you folded your arms tighter. the sweatshirt you were wearing — his sweatshirt, one that he had left here weeks ago — suddenly felt two sizes too big and painfully obvious, "what are you doing here?"

choso scratches the back of his neck, his gaze flickering over you briefly before darting to the floor, "i needed to see you."

"at…eight at night? without warning?"

"would you have answered if i'd texted you?"

the air between you stilled as your brain scrambles for a retort, but he had you dead to rights. with a reluctant huff, you step aside. "fair point. just come in."

choso hesitates for half a second before stepping inside, his presence making your already small apartment feel even more claustrophobic. he's taking a quick glance around, and you watched, mortified, as his eyes landed on the pile of crumpled tissues precariously close to a half-drunk mug of cocoa and a bottle of jack daniel's teetering on the edge of the coffee table.

"sorry for the mess," you mutter, your voice defensive as you crossed your arms tighter.

"it's fine," choso says, a little too quickly, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets. his gaze lingers on you for a beat longer than necessary, "i didn't mean to…interrupt."

"you didn't interrupt anything." you wave vaguely at the disaster zone that was your apartment.

choso's lips twitch, almost like he wanted to smile but wasn't sure if now was the time, "look, i just —" he trails off, his usual dull voice faltering as he pulled something small and neatly wrapped from his pocket, "i came to give you this. and talk."

you stare at the gift in his hands, shiny crimson ribbon and all, your pulse kicking up like it had somewhere urgent to be, "christmas came early? thanks, cho," you say, mirroring his words with the kind of ease that only comes from too many shared silences. "i'm fine, though. i wasn't up to much."

choso cracks a small, half-hearted smile, but it's like watching a flicker of light in a dim room — there, but not really there. "i tried texting," he says, glancing at you, searching for something.

"i know," you murmur, suddenly finding the floor very interesting, "i just wasn't in the mood for much talking."

choso huffs, a sound halfway between exasperation and amusement, "i noticed," he says dryly, and that only makes the air in the room more thick and uncomfortable.

you sigh, letting your shoulders slump as you flop back onto the couch, curling your knees up to your chest like you're trying to make yourself small enough to disappear, "so, what? you came here to check if i'm still breathing?"

"kind of," choso admits, settling awkwardly on the edge of your coffee table, his long legs folded beneath him in that way that makes him look like he’s trying to physically contain himself. his knees bump into yours, and you have to fight the urge to pull away, like you could get too close, "but mostly...i came to talk about last friday night."

your stomach does a horrifying little flip, the kind that sends cold fingers crawling up your spine. you stare at him, silently willing him to read the begging look in your eyes and back off, but he doesn't. he's never been the type to take the hint.

"i've been thinking about it all week," he continues, his voice quiet but steady, as if he's preparing himself for something big, "and i need to know if —"

"nope," you interrupt, holding up a hand, "nope. we're not going there."

choso blinks at you, like he's trying to process the sudden barricate that you've just put up. but you're so not ready for this conversation, not now, nor ever. and you'll be damned if he gets any closer to the minefield. he scowls, his brows knitting together like he's resisting the urge to push you off the couch, "why not?"

"because it doesn't matter, okay?" you lean your head back against the couch, staring at the ceiling like you can will this conversation away, "i was drunk as hell, cho. you're overthinking it."

he scoffs, his voice sharp now, like he's cutting through your flimsy deflection with a blade, "i don't think i am."

you wince, shrinking a little under the weight of his stony gaze, "why does this even matter?"

"you think i can just brush it off like it didn't happen?" and there's a rawness in choso's voice that hits you harder than expected.

your cheeks heat up, a fiery blush creeping up your neck, "i didn't mean it," you mutter.

"yes, you did," choso snaps back, with uncharacteristic heat, and he leans forward, enough to close the distance between you two, "and you know how i know? because you've been ignoring me all week. if it was just some drunk nonsense, you would have laughed it off by now. but you haven't."

you open your mouth to argue, to push back. but the words stick heavy in your throat. nothing comes out, and it must prove choso all the more right, because you watch as his bottom lip is captured by his teeth, suddenly watching plush skin split.

"do you want me to apologise?" you ask finally, voice a little too sharp for comfort, "because i will. i'll say i'm sorry for putting you in that position and —"

"i don't want an apology," choso cuts you off, and the dim light of your apartment makes the dark circles under his eyes stand out like bruises, "i want the truth."

you freeze, your heart thudding like a drum in your chest, "what truth, cho?"

"that you meant it," choso says softly, "that you meant it when you said that you wish it had been me."

the words hang in the air, heavy and electric. your breath catches, as your mind goes blank. an entire power outage, as you blink at him like a fish out of water. finally, after what feels like an eternity, you force the knot in your throat to loosen just enough to speak, "yeah," you whisper, "i meant it."

choso's whole body seems to deflate, like he's been holding up the weight of the sky. his shoulders slump, and the sheer relief on his face hits you like a tidal wave. it's almost enough to undo you. there's a sound, soft and shaky and far too vulnerable that escapes him.

neither of you move. the moment stretches out, fragile. like it could snap in half if either of you dared to breathe too loud.

then, choso is the first to move.

there's no hesitation, no uncertainty. just pure intention, like a dam finally bursting open. he shifts forward, hands finding their way to your waist with an urgency that makes your pulse go into overdrive. choso's grip is firm, but there's a reverence to it, as if you're something he's waited his entire life to touch. he pulls you to him, and you can feel the heat of him flood your chest, your blood, your bones.

"what if you regret this?" you murmur into his chest, voice muffled as your arms slip around his necks, holding onto the beautiful man like he may float way.

"not a chance," choso replies, and his voice is raspier than you've ever heard it, like he's saying it more to himself than to you.

choso kamo finally kisses you.

the kind of kiss that feels like a storm is finally breaking over clear skies, with an unrestrainted longing that crashes over the both of you.

his sweet lips meet yours with a hunger that makes your head spin, raw and real. choso clearly doesn't want to hold back, and neither do you.

his hands tighten at your waist, pulling you closer as your fingers thread through his hair, tugging lightly at russet strands.

choso groans into your mouth, a soft and burning thing that ignites every nerve in your body.

without breaking his hold on your lips, his wide hands slide down, finding the back of your thighs, making you shamefully clench them closer together.

but he's tapping them in silent invitation, and you leap into him, your legs wrapping around his waist as he lifts you effortlessly. the world around you blurs as he stumbles backwards.

and when the back of his knees hit the edge of your bed, gravity does its job. you both tumble into the mattress in a jumbled mess of limbs and muffled laughter, your heart pounding so loud, as you muster up the courage to prod your tongue at his lips, letting him part his mouth so you can take up more of choso.

you land beneath him, his weight pressing into you in the best way possible, sending sharp spikes of heady arousal through you. and you blink up at him, breathless.

choso is so close now, his hazel eyes locked on yours with a rare intensity, like the calm façade is entirely shattered now. but there's a smile on his lips, a crooked little thing that sends a rush of warmth through you.

"hi, choso," you whisper, your voice soft yet breathless as he chases your lips again, a desperate hunger in his eyes. it's as if he can't bear to be apart from you, even for a heartbeat.

"hey," he murmurs back, that low rumble sending shivers down your spine, igniting a heat you can't ignore.

you keep pressing kisses to his glossy lips, the world narrowing down the press of his mouth and how choso's hands cradle your waist like you might slip away if he doesn't hold on tight enough.

without breaking contact, choso shifts, his strong hands guiding you gently, firmly.

"don' wanna crush you," he spills against your mouth, his voice low and rough, and before you can reply, he flips you effortless.

the movement is seamless, fluid even. and you're suddenly perched atop him, straddling his thighs and sinking into the worn denim of his jeans.

he's leaning back against the covers beneath him, as his chest rises and falls in unsteady waves as he gazes up at you. expression caught somewhere between awe and hunger.

choso looks so completely, heartbreakingly in love with you that it leaves you breathless. his hands tighten on your waist, fingertips pressing with a near bruising intensity into the soft fabric of his sweatshirt that clings to your frame.

his cheeks are flushed a deep, telling pink, and you can't help the soft, teasing coo that slips from your lips as you trace the curve of his temple with gentle fingers, "is something wrong, cho?" you murmur.

his lips, swollen and glistening from your kiss, part slightly, his breath uneven and catching on the edges of unspoken emotions, "nothing. nothing, i swear," he says, the words tumbling out rough and raw, his voice pitched low and vulnerable.

his hands slide you closer, his grip firm but trembling slightly, and his next confession nearly undoes you, makes your core moisten even, "just…never done this before."

"really?" you whisper, eyes widening as you take him in — the flush on choso's cheeks, the way he won't quite meet your gaze, the way he holds you like you're something precious.

the realisation that he's never shared this part of himself with anyone else tugs sharply at your heartstrings, "never?"

choso swallows thickly, nodding once, his voice a quiet hum as he admits, "mhm."

"ah, you're so cute, cho," you giggle, watching as the man scrunches his nose in mock protest.

"tch, 'm not meant to be cute."

you huff, feigning disappointment, "and here i was, wishing you a very merry christmas eve." he whines as you lean in, pressing a teasing kiss to his neck, right where his heartbeat thrums beneath his pale skin. your lips find their home at the juncture, and you can't help but smile at the way he whines at your touch, bucks his hips up into yours.

"must have been real good to get a holiday gift like this."

you pull back just enough to admire your handiwork, a little red bloom that blossoms on thin skin, bruised petals that mark him now. choso's swallowing thickly, his adam's apple bobbing, as a soft whine escapes his lips again as you lean in, this time closer to the jaw. leaving a trail of kisses in a messy that makes choso squirm.

you press your thumb against his lower lip, feeling the soft and trembling skin quiver under your touch, "hey. open up," you coax, a teasing lilt colouring your voice.

choso looks up at you, his wide eyes clouded with desire as dark strands of hair fall across his forehead, "huh, what?"

you tap his lip again, impatience bubbling in your chest, "c'mon, open your mouth. properly," and the way he immediately obeys, parting his glossy lips sends a thrill through you. the scent of clove and citrus envelops you as you lean in closer, running your tongue over his lower lip.

you let a glob of spit fall from your lip into his mouth, with a thick thwack! echoing in the air. you deliberately miss, just a little bit, to watch him squirm as he swallows, eyes fluttering shut and inky lashes staining his cheeks.

"so good, aren't you? good at playing nice, hah," you use your thumb to smear the slick over his lips, just a bit. to watch him shudder, entirely captivated by you. it's exhilarating and makes your cunt clench around nothing. probably seeping through the thin material of your shorts and onto his thick jeans.

bang bang bang!

a sharp knock that booms at your door, enough to make your ears ring. you hear choso groan beneath you, shifting slightly so you can feel the full, thick curve of his bulge right where you need him most.

"think we can ignore that?" he rasps, his voice rough and low, the sound of it leave slick strands clinging between your thighs.

you spread your legs just a little wider over him, watching as his frown dissipates and his jaw drops, distracted by the preview you've given him, "i'm really hoping so."

but whoever is at the door has no intention of being ignored. another knock rattles the wood, followed by an all-too-familiar voice yelling, "hey! open up! delivery!"

your brows furrow, recognition sparking, "cho, isn't that—"

he cuts you off with an apologetic sigh, lifting you off his lap with surprising gentleness. choso sets you down on the quilt, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead before muttering under his breath, "it better not be."

you watch him go, more than a little distracted by the sight of his broad shoulders and the way his messy hair bobs with each step. already, you're plotting exactly how you’ll get your hands back in it once he returns.

choso swings the door open, and you hear a collective, "what the hell?" echo through the apartment — one part you, one part choso, and one part…

"itadori yuuji?" you blurt, leaning over to get a look. sure enough, there's choso's younger brother, standing in the doorway in a bright red pizza delivery uniform, balancing three large boxes in one hand and his phone in the other.

yuuji blinks at the two of you, then raises an eyebrow, his expression a mix of confusion and something vaguely accusatory before reading off his phone in a robotic voice, "uh…merry christmas eve. i have three pizzas. extra cheese. stuffed crust," he pauses, not able to keep the act up as his golden eyes narrow, "but, uh — bro, what happened to your face?"

you bite your lip to keep from laughing as choso straightens, his expression caught somewhere between mortified and furious, "yuuji—"

but the younger man's attention shifts to you, his gaze taking in the oversized sweatshirt you're wearing, choso's sweatshirt, and his jaw drops, "oh hell no. this is the hot girl you texted me about?"

choso visibly flinches as you burst into giggles.

"that's like your best friend? that's like my sister-in-law!" yuuji throws up his hands in mock disbelief, "you really keep your circles tight, huh, man?"

before choso can even respond, yuuji leans in closer, squinting at his older brother, "and seriously, dude, what's all that on your face?"

choso groans, snatching the pizzas from yuuji with one hand and shoving him toward the hall with the other, "okay, that's enough. get out."

"you haven't paid me! that's against the law!" yuuji protests, but choso grabs the scruff of his brother's uniform collar, steering him out the door.

"i'll pay you double. triple. just leave."

"my pizzas are probably cold now anyway," you call out, adding fuel to the fire.

"yeah? well, you look a bit too busy to eat them anyway," yuuji swivels his head over his shoulder to wag a finger at you with a grin, before choso finally shoves him fully into the hallway.

as the door slams shut, you hear yuuji's muffled voice echoing, "i'm telling everyone. i'm telling dad. i'm telling sukuna. i'm telling gramps, gojo, nanami —"

you can hear their bickering voices fade down the hallway, to where choso is probably gonna pack him into the car and send him off.

you glance down at the box you'd set aside earlier, your curiosity getting the better of you. carefully pulling at the ribbon, you open it to find a small scrapbook, beautifully made. inside are photos and clippings of you and choso: movie ticket stubs, receipts from late-night takeout runs, train tickets from your trip to the coast.

your chest tightens as you run your fingers over the familiar handwriting scrawled in the margins, a quote from a cheesy romantic movie that you had forced choso to watch with you a few months ago. what an honour it is to be loved like this.

[slowd1ving]

Hi! I love your lookism fics, I would love to see your take on Seongji Yuk x gn reader. Something sweet and simple would be great!

I see that you like using science metaphors and im curious to how many can you use in one fic. I’m a complete chemistry nerd 🤓 😂

THE MUNDANE . 　⁺ ✦ SEONGJI YUK

In which an amateur stargazer finds that no, they do not teach biology in Cheonliang, and yes, gravity does in fact affect everything with mass. woah... gravitational fields.... woah inverse square law... woah, G.... ik you probably wanted more chemistry but I couldn't resist the physics gnawing away/// arghhh pairing: seongji yuk + gn reader warnings: prejudice (quite literally lookism) wc: 1.3k

LOOKISM MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

There’s a monster living in the Cheonliang mountains. 

A flutter of cloying kindness greets you when you first pull up to the rural village: tires burning on summer asphalt, senseless droning of cicadas, and warm rain seeping through your thin clothes. No rhyme or reason as to why you decided on this particular village to stop by; though, the rhyme might just be the hiccuping couplet of your pulse. Specifically, this pair of beats as your motorcycle drives past the tunnel; heavy, like two black holes encountering each other for the first time. Spinning, spinning. As the wheels on your bike do, naturally. 

Six fingers and toes, he’s cursed by the gods! Hark, my children—

Newton’s theory of gravitation dictates any particle with matter attracts any other with a force inversely proportional to the square of the distance between them. This is the inverse square law. It’s used for practical and theoretical applications, but it’s pretty useful when considering why people are drawn to something when they are close to it. Emotionally, physically, empathetically. Psychologically. See, once one begins to increase the proximity of two souls, there is a certain degree of attraction that occurs consequently. 

Pray should you ever encounter this one, for he is but a merciless, mad beast.

It’s a stagnated hum that twines through the fields. Little kids begin the verse, and their elders finish it while you leisurely drive past. Over and over. They play hopscotch to the rhythm in their secluded playgrounds, clap their small hands to the beat, and seem to have no eerie feelings behind their bright smiles. A distorted tale, wound through with the modest price of one person’s dignity. There’s a basis for every tale, after all—bitterly warped to suit the storyteller’s perspective. 

Do not pity the one abandoned by all. 

Thus, when you begin the winding slopes through the fields and up around the mountains, it reduces the distance between you and the epicentre. You trust your gut. You believe (mostly) that what compels you to park your motorcycle on this particular trail is no madness, but rather a tangible, logical reason. A scientific one, if you will. You’re a mass, the monster of Cheonliang certainly is a mass—thus gravity objectively binds you both. 

It’s not entirely implausible to suggest the rumours entice you as much as anything, but the heavy telescope bound to your vehicle is as good a reason as any to stop by this eve. And that: the buzz in your very cells, that seem to divide simply to tug you in the direction of the sprawled forest. Stargazing in Cheonliang it is, then. 

Despite your idle curiosity, you don’t go looking: quietly setting up your equipment in a clearing where the breeze flows cleanly, like fragile forgiveness in a peaceful room. It’s a saccharine solitude—as sweet as tanghulu when you close your eyes. 

“It’s dangerous.” Those are the first words you hear in this village that aren’t blighted by eerie insinuation. Here, where the mountain is solitary and sepulchral, that is the only time you find someone who isn’t the real monster in this mired town. Human, flesh and blood and warm. 

“Isn’t everything?” You peer through the eyepiece experimentally, focusing on the calm tide in his voice—

“No need t’be a smartass.” His cadence becomes slightly rougher as you hear a dull thump; by the movement of syllables, you’d judge he just leaned against a tree. “Was a piece of friendly advice.”

Hmm. You look away from the sky that’s somehow cleared up—miserable grey giving way to faint periwinkle, then atrament smattered with incandescent freckles—then at the stranger peering right back at you. 

“What should I be wary of, then?” There’s a relaxed sort of ease in your body, one you’re unfamiliar with. 

He stares at you askance, as though you’re an idiot. 

“Strangers,” he answers brusquely, pointing at himself. “Haven’t you heard the rumours about this place?”

“Oh.” You turn back to the equipment, leaning down to bring the height of the scope up comfortably. Stars, you think dreamily. “That stupid song? Here I thought you’d say boars or something.”

“Stupid song?” he echoes. “And you still went up?”

Six digits on his left hand as it sways downwards, six on the right hand nestled in his pocket. He’s tall, so much so that anyone would feel intimidated staring up at the guy. Close—he’s close by, which is perhaps why you gravitate towards him. Two masses, feeling greater force with greater proximity. This was the epicentre that drew you here. 

“Is biology class illegal here or something?” you counter incredulously. “Do I need to pay attention to fear mongering?”

“No,” he murmurs thoughtfully. “I guess you don’t.”

It’s strange. Your first encounter with Seongji Yuk can only be classified as abnormal. Gazing at the massive bodies scattered across the heavens, it’s perhaps common sense that the man next to you interests you as much as those heavenly giants. He’s closer, after all—kneeling down beside you so he can peek up at stars just as large as him. 

Maybe it’s fate. Maybe it’s simply science that ties the two of you together. He gives you his name, you offer yours in return. Seongji Yuk. Lying in the grass with damp seeping into your shirt, you ramble about astrophysics, while he carefully coats fruits in molten sugar. Shards as sharp as the words at the base of the mountain, though far sweeter. 

He’s cautious—you can feel his eyes on you as you sit on his wooden steps. In fact, his eyes trail after you when dawn breaks and it’s time to move on to your original destination. 

“I’ll come visit,” you vow, for the cycle of orbit has already begun. Two masses have drawn closer to each other, and naturally begin the spin round their counterpart. 

“No one told you about stranger danger?” You’re too damn trusting: haloed in ditzy stars, the type in cartoons when characters hit their heads. Except it’s permanent, and you don’t look stupid, but rather awash in their glow. 

“Everything’s dangerous,” you evade sheepishly, and that’s that. 

Summer comes and goes, but it’s fine not bringing your telescope in the chill of autumn. After all, you’ve found something equally as captivating to stare at. Inky eyes, dotted with such a shine that it looks like a star’s emerged rather than a pupil. 

It’s as if the year is put into distillation—monthly visits condensing into fortnightly ones, then weekly ones, before you’re driving the hour down to this place every few days. He’s made you a little space in his house: one where you can snooze on a spare futon with little worry for safety. For there’s no place more secure in a ‘monster’ lair than by the side of a so-called ‘monster’. 

“Quit staring,” he warns, matter-of-factly while the axe collides with the wood on the stump—cleaved neatly in two, almost too cleanly. 

“You’re pretty, I just can’t help it,” you sigh, leaning back on the creaky porch. There’s a book by your side: a thick text filled with particles and numbing quanta. 

You’re strange. He’s had this thought for a while, but especially today. In fact, you may be more supernatural than he, for each time you say such things, his heart skips one or two beats. Like clockwork, the mechanical nature of your spell is guaranteed: mouth going somewhat dry, ears seeping with a faint crimson, eyebrows creasing minutely. 

Why? 

“Have you seen yourself?” you counter incredulously, and that is when he realises he did not keep his thoughts silent. “You’ve literally got stars in your eyes, man. You….”

Ah. It’s moments like these where he feels so utterly ordinary; listening to you ramble on about things he doesn’t particularly understand, just like anyone else his age. 

It’s nice being bound to someone like this: close to another, experiencing the gravity that draws two people together for himself. 

Science is a perfectly plausible thing to believe in, after all. 

[cal-daisies-and-briars]

2024 Fic Roundup :)

I was tagged by @exhuastedpigeon to do a 2024 fic roundup!

This year, I have posted 47 new fics, finished 1 2023 fic, and still have one from 2023 ongoing. Which is roughly 1,019,891 words. Excluding things I have written but not posted yet! (a lot of Eddie as a Swedish forest monster, for example).

I am just going to copy/paste the list directly from my masterlist doc:

January

Eddie Diaz is NOT a Birthday Person(4,704 words)

Summary: Eddie doesn't put much stock into celebrating his birthday, as an adult. But for the first time since moving to Los Angeles, it happens to fall right in the middle of a four-off. Buck schemes. Romance ensues rather accidentally.

Rating: Teen

Angst Meter: 😨

Winter Prayer (18,229 words)

Summary: When a work conflict prevents Athena from accompanying Bobby to Minnesota for the ten year anniversary of his family dying, Buck and May offer to go instead. Over the course of the trip, they all learn more about each other, and Bobby faces his grief.

Rating: General

Angst Meter: 😨😨😨😨

You Can’t Surprise Evan Buckley(4,971 words)

Summary: Ten months into their relationship, Eddie has not been able to execute a romantic surprise for Buck. But on Buck's birthday, things are about to change.

Rating: Mature

Angst Meter: 😨

February

Spinning Out (2,326 words)

Summary: The sun always rises in the east and sets in the west. What goes up must always come down. And if Eddie Diaz is in a helicopter with his team, it must fall from the sky.

AKA: Speculation into Eddie's reaction to flying on a chopper with his team into a storm, as per the trailer dropped on February 17th.

Rating: General 

Angst Meter: 😨😨😨😨😨

Precious and Fragile Things (46,918 words)

Summary: Buck is the Fallen Angel of Petty Temptation, who has been tasked with tempting human Eddie Diaz to sin and enjoy life, but just a little. He thinks the job will be easy - get in, get out, go back to Peru to continue messing around with eternity. But when Buck arrives in Los Angeles, he finds Eddie is harder to tempt than expected, and more compelling than Buck had hoped.

AKA the Small Miracles by Olivia Atwater AU that you don’t need to have read Small Miracles to enjoy.

Rating: Teen

Angst Meter: 😨😨😨

March

Loose Threads (3,745 words)

Summary: New to dating and keeping it quiet, Buck and Eddie get a little carried away on a slower shift at the firehouse. But when the alarm eventually sounds, a spur of the moment mistake leaves them a little mixed up.

Rating: Explicit

Angst Meter: 😨

a mouth full of teeth with nothing to sing  (7,060 words)

Summary: Post 07x03, Hen struggles to process the cruise ship rescue and drunk driver call in the midst of ongoing tension with her friends.

Rating: Teen

Angst Meter: 😨😨😨

April

 Pennsylvania Under Me (22,391 words)

Summary: When unexpected circumstances require Buck to travel back to Hershey for the first time in over a decade, Eddie and Chris are right by his side.

Rating: Teen

Angst Meter: 😨😨😨😨

May

Cowboy With A One Track Mind (22,439 words)

Summary: Spin-off Sequel to Evan Buckley & the Coma-Verse of Madness - Chapter 7 (Land):

Grieving and tortured, Evan Buckley has been living alone in Montana in a remote cabin for nearly a decade. After an incident that leaves him missing six months of his life, and suddenly in connection with a group of strangers from Los Angeles, Evan must decide whether to remain in his self-imposed exile, or take a chance at life again.

Rating: Mature

Angst Meter: 😨😨😨😨

change the prophecy (30,150 words)

Summary: Buck has never felt secure in any of his relationships; he’s been searching for someone to see him the way he feels he’s meant to be seen, but after things start going downhill with Tommy, he thinks that person might just not exist. Eddie cannot figure out what’s wrong with him when it becomes clear things with Marisol aren’t going to work out. But what if they’re both forgetting something?

Rating: Mature

Angst Meter: 😨😨😨😨😨

A Lot Like You (14,236 words)

Summary: The dynamics between everyone change when Buck and Eddie have another child and Bobby moves on from the 118.

Affectionately referred to as the "Grandpa Bobby fic"

Rating: General

Angst Meter: 😨😨😨😨

June

i told my future by reading your lips (7,295 words)

Summary: In 2018, on their way to a call at a child beauty pageant, and feeling a little strange, Buck and Eddie are suddenly thrown into a fast-paced look at some key moments from their future. And, what they see? Well it can only lead to one logical conclusion.

Rating: Teen

Angst Meter: 😨😨😨

like a bird stealing bread out from under your nose (21,661 words)

Summary:If you’d asked Eddie back in May what rock bottom looked like, it was his son leaving him. That felt like it; everything ruined so entirely that there was no way to ruin it further.

There’s always more to lose.

---

Eddie Diaz breakdown, Season 7 finale fix it fic

Rating: Mature

Angst Meter: 😨😨😨😨

Slow Broil (2,975 words)

Summary: Five times Bobby helped Eddie cook a meal for Buck over the course of their relationship, plus one time Eddie did it all by himself.

Rating: General

Angst Meter: 😨

you could make light (4,171 words)

Summary: When a sudden blackout leaves May and Buck trapped for hours, the two find themselves getting a lot off their chests, and bonding over several important parts of their lives.

Rating: Teen

Angst Meter: 😨😨

are you not the lost and found? (15,764 words)

Summary: In which Bobby has the opportunity to meet an alternate universe version of his daughter, who has lived to adulthood, but her life has not been without its own complications - including their relationship.

Rating: General

Angst Meter: 😨😨😨😨😨

i’ve seen a couple suns that set forever (7,041 words)

Summary: Freshly home from Texas and faced with the prospect of his dad's feelings for Buck, Christopher's abandonment issues surface. A conversation with Bobby, and realizing the parallels between Buck's relationship with Bobby, and his relationship with Buck, gives Chris the perspective he needs.

Rating: General Audiences

Angst Meter: 😨😨😨

July

Jumper Cables (2,396 words)

Summary: Right around the time they're both wrapping up their time at Dispatch, May calls on Eddie for help when her car battery dies and she doesn't have jumper cables. He ends up giving her a boost and talking her through some stress.

Rating: General

Angst Meter: 😨😨

this postcard tells you where we’ve been (3,452 words)

Summary:.Eddie finds a collection of postcards Buck sent to Chris over his summer in El Paso.

Rating: General

Angst Meter: 😨😨😨

I Hold It Like a Grudge (11,665 words)

Summary: Buck and Maddie come into unexpected and unwanted conflict when their parents meet Buck's son for the first time, by surprise, when he is under Maddie's care.

Rating: Teen

Angst Meter: 😨😨😨😨

Steal My Sunshine (30,473 words)

Summary: Memories hazy and unreliable, Eddie Diaz wakes up every morning in a house at the end of a cul de sac, goes to his office job at a petroleum engineering company, and comes home to his wife and son. But something is missing, and the more Eddie begins to put the pieces together, the stranger the predicament he finds himself in.

Rating: Mature

Angst Meter: 😨😨😨

no one can be born too many times (10,114 words)

Summary: When Ravi's younger brother shows up at the station unexpected, the 118 gets a better glimpse into his life, and Ravi gets a better perspective on both his families.

Rating: Teen

Angst Meter: 😨😨😨

If You Can Make the Music (14,878 words)

Summary: Spin-off Sequel to Evan Buckley & the Coma-Verse of Madness - Chapter 5 (Seaside): A year after a whirlwind two week love affair with bartender Buck in Galveston, Texas, Eddie Diaz finds himself coincidentally relocating to the area. But when he attempts to reconnect with Buck, he's in for an unfortunate surprise.

Rating: Mature

Angst Meter: 😨😨😨

treat an opportunity like it’s treating you (12,771 words)

Summary: After losing his leg as a result of the fire engine bombing, Buck is presented with the opportunity to have a service dog donated to him.

Rating: Teen

Angst Meter: 😨😨😨😨

I Always Wanted My Own Spark (5,752  words)

Summary: In 2040, during the midst of a family crisis, Christopher Diaz and his younger brother butt heads.

Rating: Teen

Angst Meter: 😨😨😨😨

August

Jeep Talking (2,252 words)

Summary: A ride in the backseat of Buck's Jeep with Buck and Eddie in the front gives Chim new perspective on his brother-in-law's strange dynamic with his so-called "best friend.' And Chim is sick of them being so oblivious.

Rating: Teen

Angst Meter: 😨

this could be the year for the real thing (8,780 words)

Summary: It's December, 2016 and Chimney is a bit down on his luck. But a chance meeting with Beverly Hills heiress Maddie Buckley, right before her parents' big annual New Year's party, might be just what he's looking for. OR a Madney Cinderella AU.

Rating: Teen

Angst Meter: 😨😨

april love is for the very young (6,269 words)

Summary: May is deeply frustrated with her college roommate. Everything about her. Until a conversation with Hen and Buck makes her rethink what her problem is. (Lesbian!May Grant college rivals to lovers).

Rating: Teen

Angst Meter: 😨

the best endeavor waiting (12,477 words)

Summary: When quarantine puts the 118 on the front lines of the pandemic, Eddie asks Buck and his service dog, Cranberry, to stay with Christopher.

Rating: Mature

Angst Meter: 😨😨😨

Weary Memory (11,872 words)

Summary: After an argument about the circumstances of Bobby's sudden retirement, Buck and Bobby each find themselves inexplicably experiencing one of the other's difficult childhood memories.

Rating: Teen

Angst Meter: 😨😨😨😨

September

Long Death (79,506 words)

Summary: In the summer of 2024, a never before seen form of vampirism breaks out in Los Angeles. Just as Eddie is about to get his son back.

Six months later, Buck's life is permanently changed.

Rating: Explicit

Angst Meter: 😨😨😨😨😨

Clammed Up (11,868 words)

Summary:  Captain Gerrard dies suspiciously at a murder mystery party held at Tommy Kinard's condo, with most of the 118 present. As the case unfolds, Athena finds she no longer knows who among her friends she can trust.

Rating: Teen

Angst Meter: 😨😨😨

Sweet Talk (6,563 words)

Summary: Eddie asks to crash at the loft while Christopher is gone, struggling to be on his own. Only problem? There's only one bed, and no couch.

Rating: Teen

Angst Meter: 😨😨.5?

time likes pulling my teeth (24,349 words)

Summary: Buck is enjoying the last day of a family vacation with Eddie and Christopher. Over and over and over again. And Eddie seems determined to keep it that way. (Buddie Time Loop Fic)

Rating: Mature

Angst Meter: 😨😨😨😨

A Little Wisdom (8,623 words)

Summary: Christopher comes home from Texas and needs his wisdom teeth removed, which leads to a larger discussion on hurt and comfort and needs that Eddie doesn't see coming.

Rating: Teen

Angst Meter: 😨😨😨

watch out, you might get what you’re after (2,272 words)

Summary: Buck unintentionally woos Eddie. And then has a hell of a time processing the way he feels about that.

Rating: Mature

Angst Meter: 😨

October

Late Fines (12,750 words)

Summary: Buck is a children's librarian at the branch closest to Eddie's house. When he gets himself involved in the lives of a cute kid and his handsome single dad, he gets a glimpse of what he wants in life. It might just take a few years to get it.

Rating: Teen

Angst Meter: 😨😨😨

Any Other Way (102,659 words)

Summary: In a switcheroo alternate universe, Buck spends young adulthood in the military, while Eddie, who has no idea Christopher exists, spends his twenties messing around, finally enjoying freedom away from his family’s expectations. When they both end up in Los Angeles, at the 118, some things are different, and others will be the same in any universe.

Rating: Explicit

Angst Meter: 😨😨😨😨

Advice For the Young At Heart (3,630 words)

Summary: Buck and Bobby overhear big news about Eddie. Buck spirals. Bobby talks him through it.

Rating: Teen

Angst Meter: 😨😨

a cold world for such a long life (12,977 words)

Summary: Eddie befriends Bobby's estranged older brother in a virtual support group for queer adults struggling to come out. The only problem? He has no idea that's who Charlie is.

Rating: Teen

Angst Meter: 😨😨😨

 all our bruises beg for a chance (10, 257 words)

Summary: Buck is adjusting to life living with Eddie, Chris, and his service dog Cranberry, when his parents visit for the first time since he lost his leg.

OR:

A Cranberry-verse take on the events of Buck Begins.

Rating: Teen

Angst Meter: 😨😨😨

i just might turn to smoke, but i feel fine (2,957 words)

Summary: A few days before his first date with Buck, Eddie comes to the fire station early to work out and blow off some pent up steam. Only problem? Buck's already there.

Rating: Explicit

Angst Meter: 😨

we won’t look back, we won’t be lost (37,526 words)

Summary: Over six years after the 118 rescued a baby from a pipe, Buck meets that same child again on a different call. And in all that time, she never found a home.

OR:

Buck adopts Pipe Baby while Eddie waits for Christopher to come home.

Rating: Teen

Angst Meter: 😨😨😨

November

we all assume the worst the best we can (6,059 words)

Summary: When a rescue goes wrong, Buck and Bobby are trapped, while Eddie and Chim scramble to save them.

Rating: Teen

Angst Meter: 😨😨😨😨

December

go and kill, go and die (59,935 words)

Summary: The 118 are a group of survivors in a small California town in the wake of a zombie apocalypse. For months they've been isolated and safe. But the arrival of some new players, the search for some missing loved ones, will shake everything up and put their little team in jeopardy.

Rating: Mature

Angst Meter: 😨😨😨😨

take what the water gave me (20,701words)

Summary: New transfer to the 118, Eddie Diaz, has a secret. And upon getting to know his coworker, Buck, who is also hiding something, he begins to suspect their secret is the same. He's wrong.

Rating: Mature

Angst Meter: 😨😨😨

Promising Light (20,145 words)

Summary: Buck and Eddie fall asleep drunk and in separate rooms after the night of Buck and Tommy's breakup. They wake up seven years later, in an unfamiliar future, only to find out that they're married.

Rating: Mature

Angst Meter: 😨😨😨

No pressure tagging @pantsaretherealheroes @goldenbcnes @aroeddiediaz

@theotherbuckley @tizniz @steadfastsaturnsrings @diazsdimples

@mangacat201 @wellcollapse @alliaskisthepossibilityoflove @kultiras

@wildlife4life @adarkermiserablecrow @epicbuddieficrecs @diazheartsbuckley @kwills91

@watchyourbuck @buddieswhvre @your-catfish-friend @l0v3t0hat3y0u @lyricfulloflight

@theautumnbard @lightningmcqueer8 @nibblyssacrifice @swiftiefirefighters

[writtenbyjeanofarc]

#!! - 𝑰𝑵 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑪𝑶𝑼𝑹𝑻 𝑶𝑭 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑪𝑹𝑰𝑴𝑺𝑶𝑵 𝑸𝑼𝑬𝑬𝑵 — 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐧𝐞 ; ᴄᴏʀᴏɴᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ᴅᴀʏ

(Cross-posted from my AO3)

CHAPTER ONE - CHAPTER TWO - CHAPTER THREE

𝖌𝖊𝖓𝖗𝖊: smut.

𝖕𝖆𝖎𝖗𝖎𝖓𝖌: Griffith X You (fem! Reader)

𝖘𝖞𝖓𝖔𝖕𝖘𝖎𝖘:

Having been spoiled by your father as an only child after your mother’s death, there existed you, a young, yet rebellious maiden known amongst Midland as Princess Scarlet. Being the subject of envy by commoners who wanted nothing more than to overthrow the kingdom, you were rather…..indifferent. As a princess, you exercised pride in your achievements, deeming you fit for the role of succeeding your father on the throne.

Even after your father’s death caused by poisoning, your dream to have your own kingdom never faltered in the slightest. In fact, ruling over Midland with an iron fist has been made easy and simple considering your royal blood.

Subsequently, your ambitious demeanor and philosophy attracted none other than the military genius who led a group of mercenaries known as the Band of The Hawk. Sir Griffith; a man who never fell short of what were to be defined as a noble, if it were not for his common blood.

To put it simply, Griffith never planned on building his empire overnight. Instead, he harbored ulterior motives where he would rather…..bend you, the Queen, to his liking before taking over Midland.

….And the consequences of YOU having a fragile ego never ceased to reveal itself.

𝖈𝖜: none as of now.

𝕬𝖚𝖙𝖍𝖔𝖗’𝖘 𝕹𝖔𝖙𝖊:

No smut for the first chapter!

To minors: this space isn’t for you. Berserk is a warning in itself. Go away. Do not interact.

Anyways, I’m back with a new fic and it’s basically my own version while still keeping the canon verse of Berserk clear.

In this verse, expect certain things:

— Princess Charlotte does NOT exist.

— YOU are the Princess/Queen of Midland.

— The story will mainly focus on Griffith, not Guts.

Before commenting, I would like to caution you for potential rape/non-con elements (it’s Griffith we’re talking about here) to be depicted in later chapters of the story.

What I write is pure fantasy, and is mostly just me projecting on my original character (in this case, Queen Scarlet) who has a rather peculiar relationship with Griffith.

Anyways, grab some popcorn, and chill a little while we watch our original character slowly get taken advantage of by the devil himself.

The Kingdom of Midland. Such is a name given to the central region of the Physical World where nobles dominate and savages eliminate. One had the luxury of resting within the comfort of their own home while dining with only the finest cuisine made known to man. The other had to hustle and kill for the sake of money and survival…....while for potential evildoers and traitors, the sake of achieving their dream.

It was your coronation day after all, one of the most awaited events in all of Midland’s history. Following your father’s death caused by an incident of poisoning, the nobles immediately turn to you as a successor to the throne. You were a bit nervous, so to speak, but ready to accept your new role and give your speech as the newly appointed ruler of Midland.

It was already sunset, the halls decorated with red roses, bushes, and your favorite type of flower, the Amaryllis. You just loved the sight of red the way you liked your tea. Red, so to speak, was your favorite color. It just looks and feels powerful, like the way sunlight pierces its way through your eyes. You liked shoving your presence down people’s throats, to make them remember your name as you rejoiced in your own superiority as the new Queen.

Red was the visual embodiment of your dream—to rule and render yourself capable of building your own empire. Because of that, the King, your very own father, feared for your safety. And boy, was that prediction true.

Not only was your safety compromised, but prior to meeting the White Hawk who was addressed as Sir Griffith, things went downhill after that encounter as a sudden number of royal guards dropped dead. Not only were you disgusted by the smell of blood that filled the hallways the week before your coronation, but the five words whispered to your ear was what sent chills across your spine. Those five words made you shiver in questionable fear despite you taking it as just an empty threat.

“You belong to me, Princess.”

And then came the surge of mysterious events such as your father’s death.

Supposedly, you were expected to be excited for such an event like the coronation ceremony as you longed all your life to become Queen, but something about the whole situation didn’t feel right. You were at a loss for words, being unable to understand why your father was poisoned in an instant and how planning the ceremony felt rushed.

You shivered at the thought of meeting the Band of the Hawk once more, immediately suspecting that one of them killed your father.

“Our beloved guests, our crowning guests, respected parents of the nobles, and that of the civilians. Ladies and gentlemen, good afternoon.” announced the event speaker of the ceremony. “Once again, we have gathered here to witness the coronation ceremony of the Royal Family to be headed by Queen Scarlet and the rest of the officials appointed to serve her Majesty. Kindly rise for the ceremony proper.”

A huge audience of youngsters stood to give thanks towards your family for a job well done in leadership, singing songs of praise as time passed by. You were, of course, getting quite the goosebumps knowing your time is up as a princess. However, you can’t help but falter, thinking of your father’s untimely demise just about two weeks ago.

You were lost in thought, unable to pay attention to the songs sung in honor of you. Something was very wrong. You sweat and panted hard, not because you didn’t know what to say or do given the situation, but because you didn’t want to actually meet up with Griffith and the rest of his comrades due to some suspicions about the leader’s motives.

“Before we start, may I request everyone to observe silence as the ceremony begins to maintain its solemnity. Reserve your ‘hoorays’ for the latter part of the coronation. Thank you very much for your full cooperation.”

The rest of the coronation ceremony followed. You were nervous, biting your nails as you slowly prepared your speech in front of thousands. You knew Griffith would be watching

Tick-tock. Tick-tock. Tick-tock.

Alas, it was your turn to give out a speech that serves as a public declaration of your aims, intentions, and actions to be taken to further improve the economic and sociocultural growth of Midland.

Standing up, you could feel the eyes of crowds searching you from head to toe, but none of them ever gave you the impression that someone was truly watching you.

At the exterior of the venue, there sneaked a young man with white, flowing hair and a pair of blue eyes. It was him. Griffith. He didn’t make his own presence clear before you, he covered his tracks very well. But, little did he know, you could peek at his silhouette from afar. Knowing he made his way past the guards with extreme caution showed his prowess in strategy and disarming opponents with great ease.

Yes, he just wanted to hear your speech. After all, knowing how someone would open up about a fraction of their lives would be crucial in undergoing one’s plan to achieving their dreams, yes?

This was your moment. You let out a deep breath and spoke clearly as you cleared your throat.

“Greetings, my beloved fellowmen. It’s been a pleasure having to meet with you all to this very moment.” you greeted the audience with a friendly, approachable tone. “Throughout this memorable day, I was able to discern all your prayers dedicated to me and my family, especially in honor of my father’s passing. As an inherent successor to the throne, I have maintained a significant awareness through the years that my people, spread far and wide throughout every continent and ocean in the world, were united to support me in the task to which I have now been dedicated with such solemnity.”

The muffled voice of your speech was rendered audible to Griffith from the outskirts of the palace. He was perhaps….fascinated by your rather….pushy attitude on things. It didn’t take long before he palmed the area between his hips, hiding such an unsightly appearance as he began to fantasize about you under his control. He wanted nothing more than to dissect you in every detail possible, to know your deepest fears and motives of having to rule such a flawed kingdom. But little did you know, was that he wanted this kingdom all to himself.

“The ceremonies you have seen today are ancient, but some of their origins are hidden in the mists of the past. Their spirit and meaning still rise from the flames of finiteness. Perhaps, they still shine more brightly than we’ve expected them to do so. I have pledged allegiance with all my heart that I shall lead this kingdom, uplifting it further to claiming a thousand more victories than you would ever anticipate. Throughout all my life and with all my heart I shall strive to be worthy of your trust.”

Griffith’s eyes narrowed as he hid behind the doors alongside the two guards who were apparently slain before they could even fight back.

He wanted you.

And there was nothing more satisfying than breaking one of the strongest, most powerful women who once took an interest in the art of swordsmanship. But he would rather not challenge you to a duel; not because he underestimated your capabilities, but because he saw such barbaric acts to be unbefitting of a lady with high status.

An hour later, trumpets played as the Grim Reapers of the Battlefield were to be promoted as bodyguards, yes, bodyguards, of your kingdom. The King trusted you to this group of mercenaries who promised nothing short of protecting your integrity and wellbeing as the princess. But one thing’s for sure, it’s that their leader was bound to be missing.

You stepped down from the stage to observe your audience for any problems which may arise from the White Hawk’s absence.

“Wait, where’s Griffith? But he was just here about minutes ago!” Rickert exclaimed. “He can’t just be wandering out in the open like this! Griffith! Hang in there! We’re on our way!”

“Cut the crap.” Guts said, alerting his fellow comrades. “There must be a way to proceed with the ceremony without Griffith being of any concern.”

“But Guts-”

Recognizing and appreciating your bodyguards (or perhaps, some new friends) wasn’t all that bad. Perhaps you were intimidated by some of the mercenaries, but they played an integral part of your big day.

It was only one moment within that band that spooked you, it was the White Hawk revealing himself—it was Griffith. By that moment when Griffith claimed you to be his, you began to not take those words lightly and managed to develop a slight sense of fear. What did he exactly mean by that?

You brushed off your thoughts on the matter and shook hands with nearly all the members, with Griffith being an exception (obviously). Rumor has it that he’s still hiding where the sun doesn’t shine, covering his tracks in order to reveal himself before you in the very end.

And God forbid what kind of plans he had for you that night.

[bittersweetresilience]

author's commentary part one

now that we've reached the end of the fic, i will finally explain the beginning.

i named this piece after 大鱼, a song whose title means big fish. in the fic, jing yuan references void songs twice, which i imagine are the sounds that void song whales make. if you remember, yukong talks about these whales in her visitor dialogue. they swim freely through the stellar seas while their sibling species on the luofu has disappeared into history.

whale songs. dream fish. the call of the void. the language of longing. to me, renjing.

author's imagery only the most important bits

the sky is freedom and departure, and it is jing yuan, eventually. the sea is the dissolution of the self and the thing that will swallow him, and it is yingxing. the lightning is the portent of death, but also the electricity of being in love. the wine is the representation of shared wishes and togetherness and history. the starskiffs are the memorials of the past and the vessels into the empyrean. the fire is desire and destruction. the ink is the color of blade's hair and the sincerity of the letters jing yuan writes. the bandages and the iron are blade and the violence of his existence. the paper birds are the fragility of jing yuan's memories, which cannot be buried. the nightclothes are the vulnerability he will shed in the morning. the string is the red string of fate between renjing, but also the strings that tether jing yuan to the luofu and to his ending. the womb and the egg are the places of rebirth and the representation of returning to the beginning. the sun is the stellaron, and it is jing yuan before the sky and the sea consume him, and it is the end of the dream.

author's commentary part two

below is my translation of the song.

大鱼 big fish

海浪无声将夜幕深深淹没 the waves soundlessly submerge the night 漫过天空尽头的角落 rising over the corners of the edge of the sky 大鱼���梦境的缝隙里游过 the big fish swims in the rifts between dreams 凝望你沉睡的轮廓 watching your sleeping visage

看海天一色 听风起雨落 seeing the sky and the sea in one color, hearing the winds stir and the rain fall 执子手 吹散苍茫茫烟波 holding my son's hand, i blow away the hazy ripples of smoke 大鱼的翅膀 已经太辽阔 the wings of the big fish are already too vast 我松开 时间的绳索 i let go of the thread of time

怕你飞远去 怕你离我而去 afraid you'll fly far away, afraid you'll leave me 更怕你 永远停留在这里 even more afraid you'll stop here forever 每一滴泪水 都向你流淌去 every tear flows toward you 倒流进 天空的海底 flowing backward into the ocean floor of the sky

(...)

看你飞远去 看你离我而去 seeing you fly far away, seeing you leave me 原来你生来就属于天际 so you were born to belong to the sky all along 每一滴泪水 都向你流淌去 every tear flows toward you 倒流回最初的相遇 flowing backward into our first meeting

without this song, this fic wouldn't exist. every part of the two was intimately interwoven. in particular, the line about the thread of time was what made me certain it would be a nonlinear narrative and the mixing of the sky and the sea was the image that created the entire story.

i further drew from the lyrics the most important imagery, the idea of ending on the beginning, and the son's hand as not only yanqing but everyone jing yuan leans on today in order to support himself against the weight of history. i drew the themes of dreams and reality, the dialogue on leaving, and the breathless, surreal atmosphere of melancholy and yearning. but in addition to all of that there is a double meaning in this song to me.

the first time you hear it, you think it's about jing yuan. and it is, of course. everything is about him. he is the holder, the sleeper, the one submerging. but by the last verse, you realize it is also blade, talking to him as he walks into scalegorge waterscape. trying and failing to call him back from within the endless dream.

both of them were born to belong to the sky. only one of them truly died in it.

author's dictionary

rèn, 刃, word for 'Blade' (lit. 'blade's edge') jiāngjūn, 将军, word for 'general' gānbēi, 干杯, word for 'cheers' (lit. 'dry cups') mèngdié, 梦蝶, word for the shortness of life (lit. 'butterfly dream') (this was not said explicitly but alluded to in the first dream) shīfù, 师父, word for 'martial master' bàitáng, 拜堂, word for the act of bowing to the heavens and the earth, the parents, and then each other in marriage (this is what the high-cloud quintet was joking about) yǐnyuè-jūn, 饮月君, word for 'Imbibitor Lunae' (lit. 'moon-drinker') nàihé qiáo, 奈何桥, word for the Bridge of Oblivion where souls drink Meng Po soup to forget the memories of their past life in preparation for reincarnation húlu, 葫芦, word for 'gourd' (this is what bailu uses to dispense medicine) qīng, 卿, word for 'senior official' (this is the honorific jing yuan uses for fu xuan in light of her position as master diviner) xiàngqí, 象棋, word for 'Chinese chess' (this is what starchess is based on, where my vision designates aurumatons as cannons, starskiffs as elephants, and cloud knights as pawns) gē, 哥, word for 'older brother' (this is a casual term of address for older men) shíhuǒ mèngshēn, 石火梦身, word for 'Starfall Reverie' (lit. 'sparks in stone, body in dream')

author's references

all of the xianzhou trailblaze missions. all of the relevant characters' character stories and companion missions. character dialogues. visitor dialogues. battle dialogues. battle mechanics. lightcones. relics. readables. item descriptions. character designs. character messages. the new trailblaze continuance. area maps. chinese voiceovers and their english translations. character trailers. combat guides. animated shorts. possibly more things i'm forgetting to mention. my wealth of insanity.

author's appreciation

wiki editors who came before me. people who upload youtube videos of different dubs of each trailblaze mission. spouses and ssswips. my beloved commenters. the composer of 大鱼. renjing.

[katyawriteswhump]

whumptober omegaverse preview!

This year (enabled by the patient and wonderful @wheneverfeasible) I've decided to 'bless' whumptober, with my first ever foray into writing omega-verse. I'm not going to post every day, as that would probably destroy me. The plan is to post a couple of fic, which will be updated using various prompts, hopefully chronologically.

Here’s a sneak preview of fic one (as yet untitled—eeep!)

Summary: Newly presented Omega, Steve, gets lost in a storm while out searching for Dustin. Unclaimed and un-mated, he's vulnerable to any predatory Alpha... but he can trust Eddie Munson, right? Whump, whump, whump but also shameless fluff!

...

Steve’s breaths beat against Eddie's throat, and Eddie sensed the too-fast patter of the Omega's heart. Dammit, Steve aced at presenting tough. Right now, stripped bare, Eddie saw only how goddamn fragile he truly was.

“Thank you, Alpha,” murmured Steve, kinda startling Eddie, “D-doesn’t hurt so much. Not c-cold anymore. Can’t feel my leg.”

Okay, that was a touch disturbing.

Once again, Eddie forced himself to focus. Which was harder than ever. This was the first time any Omega had called him Alpha, let alone one he was dippy about. If things were different, he’d have been howling ecstatically toward the next glimpse of the moon. Oh, and revelling in Steve’s ethereal prettiness, the shadow of those long lashes across his cheek, and the faintest vibration of the Omega’s purrs.

Oh, and there was also the problematic fact that Eddie's knee-jerk notion of ‘comfort’ had been to douse Steve in his scent.

Good call, Munson. Douse first. Think later. When your dick’s gonna do most of the thinking for you.

...

More tomorrow...

[ladyk8tie]

Na'vi Medical Practices---Riley-Verse/Fanon

The Na'vi used Lakri (StagFly Ant) heads as sutures. While moderately effective, this practice is excruciating, as anyone bitten by a StagFly knows. However, these heads can be fragile and need to be replaced if they fall off or break before the wound heals.

In some parts of Pandora, a plant called Paywll (Dapophet) grows, which is known to be healing. But it is not a cure-all, and not every Clan has access to it. If you get injured, you still need medical attention. However, it can help start the healing process and prevent some injuries from becoming fatal.

Some think that the Tsahik is the only healer of the clan. However, this is not true. The Tsahik can be a healer but is the spiritual leader first and foremost.

You would think that Na'vi would already be well-versed in using actual sutures considering how adept they are at needlework. However, they use larger needles and fiber-yarn for stitching fabrics together and larger beads, and they hand tread any smaller beads. Tattoo and piercing needles aren't able to be used for sewing.

Riley continues to use standard surgical needles made for avatars. The Na'vi use ones they carved from animal bones. They use sutures made of plant fibers.

The Na'vi are relatively resistant to infection, especially when being properly treated. So being completely sterile isn't as necessary. Not that the Na'vi are doing any major internal surgery anyway.

The Na'vi and Avatar have another small lobe in the front of the brain, which ties into the occipital lobe. and when they focus, it allows them to see the forest differently and they can even see things more clearly in the underbrush.

Human medicine does not work as well on Avatars and Na'vi. IT DOES WORK, Just not as effectively. It helps that they don't get infections as easily.

These are just some Fanon Na'vi Medical thoughts I've been thinking about while I work on my Quaritch x OC fics. Unfortunately, we don't have a lot of info on Na'vi medicinal practices and my OC is an MD so I needed to come up with some things.

[quiteliterallyilliterate]

If you want another request, how about something with Four? I feel like he is an undertapped Link in the LU x reader fic verse. I also think he fits in well with a bunch of different story types. He has the skills to live a peaceful life at home with a partner, he has the Colors, he also can be small (or a Minish depending on whether you believe his is small or transforms into a Minish), & shadow…. I am not picky whatsoever , but if you are willing, could you do some Four x reader?

Order up!

*ahem* I AM MOST DEFINITELY WILLING. GIVEGIVEGIVEGIVE- I agree with you. This man needs more love. Formatting a little differently this time, let me know what y’all think!

(thanks again to @litrllyvoid for proofreadin’)

Hope you enjoy~

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝

Long he had lived a simple life. Even with the dramatic disruptions of the world, he could tell it wasn’t a life cut out for him. That grandeur had called to him, and when he responded, there was only judgement in turn. Since he was little, Link had found peace with the small world within his village. Running through uneven grassy hills and causing havoc, hand in hand with you. His arms and legs bruised, but with a full heart and genuine grin. Though, the older he gets, and the more the edges of his memory begin to fray, he wonders if that were truly the case. Perhaps it wasn’t that he was content with the world he was born into. It is on cold mornings such as this where the question burdened him most. Was it life that made him happy, or was it just you?

He burned the thought away, tugging at the fragile nerves that caressed his heart. He shrugged on some clothes with little regard for what he adorned himself with. It wasn’t as if there was anyone to impress— especially when he’d be working for the most of the day.

Each stair step creaked and groaned. His grandfather sat at the table, already eating breakfast. He plucked an apple on his way to sit, its waxy skin once a luxury that would’ve been shared. He no longer needed a knife to split the core in half. The juice tasted less sweet when there wasn’t sweet laughter accompanying it.

“Yikes, bad apple?” His grandfather laughed huskily in reaction to his dismay, crows feet and smile lines etched into his face. How was it that he could find happiness here where Link could not?

“Rough morning.”

“Ah. I see. Please… take a break if you need to” The old man clasped his hands, bony elbows rested on the table. It wasn’t hard to spot the concern in the deepset wrinkles of his grandfather’s face. Link found the strength to nod and move on for the moment.

The dull ache of his arms never faded as he worked. It was to be expected, forging something from an abstract nothing was not a task even the gods found simplistic. Monotonous, sure. There was a rhythm in each strike against the metal, a pattern to be found within the firings.

There was a finality like death in the quench of the blade.

The weight of his work and a life brought to an abrupt end.

And like a body, he decorated the corpse with wood, wrapping it in delicate cloth— a casket of its own.

Creation was not a task meant for mortals, he thinks. Though people often try to make it so, the hollow pain in his joints and sear of his muscles make it apparent. It strains him, though it is what fuels him. There is a sense of grief whenever he hands over a blade he slaved over— a mourning so powerful that no amount of rupees wish away.

It was in such a similar manner that he loved you. With such a sense of fullness and unconditionality, he did not stop to think of a world for which you were not in it. It is foolish of him to long for his childhood just because it was spent hand in hand with you. But he’d give anything to have colors be so bright again and for his smile to be so wide and genuine. It didn’t matter how bruised he’d be, so long as he gained those bruises running down riverbeds with you.

Now, he dressed up the body of those memories. Decorating you in his mind's eye with blue thistles, sprigs of rosemary, wild poppies and violets. Each aspect of him paying homage to their love of you. Of who he can only hope you continued to be.

The blade he held cracked when it was dipped into the water, split in twain. He looked at the jagged edge where the hilt was severed.

He could not find it within himself to remeld the pieces.

It would not be the same again.

He needed to move on.

He was close enough when adventuring with his brethren. There was enough fighting and adrenaline to keep his mind off his wounds. He let himself attach —maybe not in such a similar fashion as he did you— but in a way equally fulfilling.

What a fool he was.

How could he not notice the darkness creeping its way in? The abyss called for his return, sentencing him back to a cage he built. And so, he returned. Back to a life wherein he could reap no joy but couldn’t muster the strength to leave.

He wished he had his brothers. Time to help him forge a plan of escape from the mundane. Twilight to offer assistance in the smaller tasks— so he could manage life just a little bit easier. Sky to boss him into taking a break, even if it were just stretching. Legend to banter with as he worked, taking the weight off of the task. Wild to make use of the end product, to give the life of the blade meaning. Even just the careful eyes of Wind studying what he did. He missed how individual he felt, yet still holding his place among the set. He’d always have a home there, even if he was fundamentally different from his brethren.

He wished he still had a home with you.

You still had a home with him.

If only you’d return to him…

But life is not such a simple endeavour, and he doubts your parents would be content with you marrying some blacksmith, even if he held the title of hero. That was if you weren’t already forced to marry. That was if you still loved him.

He hopes whatever life you’ve been condemned to is happy.

Because if he is not there to protect you from the worst that fate has to offer, he can at least hope that there’s someone there who can.

Even though it isn’t him.

[smuttyandabsurd]

3x Book!Armand-centric fics

Shameless plug for the Vampire Chronicles fics written in my youth that are surprisingly Not Terrible TM. Book canon-verse, of course, but I hope they can be enjoyed by both book and show-only fans of Armand.

Blood Kiss [AO3] (Armand/Marius de Romanus) He lies in intoxicated sleep, a Fallen Angel. Why must I love his beauty, his insubordination? Marius consummates his love for Amadeo.

Simmering Poison [AO3] (Armand/Daniel Molloy) The things I touch, I see, I hear, smell, taste! – they serve to remind me of my mortality, the fragility of my human existence, that one day all around me would cease to be. And it maddens me to know that it need not be so! Daniel anguishes over his mortality.

The Saint Unmasked [AO3] (Armand/David Talbot) Beautiful and eternally young, the face of a Boticelli angel. Refined cheekbones betray his Slavic heritage, and those smouldering eyes hint at his calculated cunning. The Vampire Armand, dangerously seductive, a hunter and a blood drinker most capable of cruelty, in the deceptive form of a 17-year-old innocent. David Talbot admires Armand in all his beauty. Set to take place at the very end of The Vampire Armand.

If you enjoyed reading, I'd love to hear your thoughts!

[ravensmadreads]

What Love Means

A/N: so remember when I said I wasn't gonna write again? Yea I'm a lying liar who lied.. anyway, this came from me screaming about my unhinged love for David York to @chronically-ghosted , who then once asked me what I thought love meant to David and the thought sent me in a spiral. It's not really so much a fic as it is a stream of my own consciousness. If anyone cares though, there definitely is a whole fic about these two and their backstory.

Warnings: uhhhh bad writing? So David is probably ooc (but this version of him is my comfort character sorry), description of a panic attack, mentions of canon violence, and like the barest hint at smut.

Taglist: @chronically-ghosted (sorry ily) @fuckyeahdindjarin (i know Dave is not really your thing, but it felt wrong not to tag you- feel free to ignore tho no pressure! )

He gasps awake. Panic creeping slowly at the edges of his consciousness until it lunges and swallows him whole. He's not even sure why. The lingering effect of a nightmare he can't remember anymore. Shadowed figures drenched in blood and violence have been a part of him for so long that it's hard to distinguish the memories from the monsters. He bites his lip to stifle a cry. Fists holding tight onto flowered sheets and jaw clenched tight as he tries to remember to breathe. In and out right? It's simple.

His eyes fall shut as he swallows the bile that threatens to choke him. He's well versed in the art of fighting alone. He's been training for years. They've drilled him so hard, for so long, that he can pick an enemy apart in the dark and not make a sound. His fight or flight has been torn down and beaten until the only option he remembers is fight and win. The voices inside him never rest. Never go quiet. The pressure in his chest tightens. Was breathing always this difficult?

And then.

A movement.

He can't make out the sounds, but he knows someone's coming. His heart is pounding. It's inching closer still. Soft, steady footsteps just on the edges of the room. And yet he can't move. Can't open his eyes. Can't breathe. The voice in his head spits venom: Coward. A thud on his nightstand. A dip as the bed shifts and the world tilts a little.

A gasp that he can't hold back; and suddenly his eyes fly open.

Deep laboured breaths. Blurred vision. Every muscle on high alert. There's someone in front of him. He can't move. Fight or flight? A blink. Fight or flight?! Another gasp. Fight, you coward! But he can't move. Fight! He can't breathe. Would it really be so bad if he stopped?

"Dave!"

****

He blinks. There's another voice now. But it's outside the raging in his head. Outside the voices screaming for blood. It's soft. Softer than anything he knows. Anything he deserves. It's you. He can't make out the words but it's enough.

Another gasp.

Another blink.

You.

A lungul of air.

Inhale. Hold. Exhale.

One more time.

One more time.

One more time.

He's well versed in the art of calming himself down on his own. He doesn't have to though. Not anymore. Not when your arms hold him like he's the most fragile thing in the universe. He'd scoff at the thought if he could breathe.

Inhale. Hold. Exhale.

He can feel again. The tingling in his skin slowly being replaced by soft warmth. Soft lips on the side of his neck. Gentle hands running through his hair. Fistfuls of cotton fabric in his hands. Strands of your hair on his cheek.

Inhale. Hold. Exhale.

Strawberry scented shampoo. Vanilla bean candles from the corner of the night stand. Something inexplicable that he can never name but that he knows is undeniably you.

Inhale. Hold. Exhale.

Whispered assurances in his ear. The gentle hum of the air con. The rain pattering on the window and the wind that's slowly settling down now.

Inhale. Hold. Exhale.

Metal in his mouth because he bit his tongue trying not to scream. The aftertaste of the last cigarette he had before bed.

Inhale.

He can't open his eyes. What if this is the dream? What if he wakes up alone again? Fingers clutching tighter. Nails digging into skin. You feel solid. Warm. Present.

Hold.

His eyes blink open. Starry glow from the nightlight you've turned on. The pulse pounding steadily in your neck. The birthmark in the hollow of your neck.

Exhale.

Is this what relief feels like? What safety means to him now? Does he even deserve a taste of either after all that he has done?

He blinks, and it's you. It's all you. He's surrounded by you. Your scent, your walls, your colours, your skin, your presence. The one holding his hand. The voice in his head. Talking him out of the terror. Walking him out of the darkness. It's you. But then again, it has been you since the moment he fell off of that cliff. The only fragment of his life that remains. The only thing from before that he can hold on to.

Your hands cup his face, and he smiles. It's a small thing. Twists into a grimace far too quickly. He opens his mouth to apologize. For all that he is, all that he can never be, and all the horrors he darkens your doorstep with. For all his scars and all his pain. Even if he does deserve every single one of the demons wreaking havoc in his head and trying to tear him apart from the inside.

But you know him too well. Know what he's thinking. And you're already shushing him before the words can even form on his tongue. Pressing gentle kisses over his forehead. A warm smile and soft eyes staring back at him. He has never known quite what it is you see in him. Has tried to convince you of the monster that resides within, but you refuse to acknowledge his self flagellation anymore.

He grabs you tighter and starts to lie back down. Your heart beat against his racing one. Your arms around his neck. Inhale. Hold. Exhale. Maybe he can pretend. Just for a minute. That he's someone worth saving. That he's someone worth loving? He falls before he can finish the thought.

****

He wakes up in your arms. It startles him. The normalcy. The state of nothing. He's not used to silence. Not the comfortable kind anyway. If ever there's silence with him around, it either beckons death or follows it. And he's been drilled in the art of war for as long as he can remember.

He's not entirely sure what to do now. With hands on soft skin. A quiet mind. Who is he when the sun comes up? In the gentle breeze of dawn? When there's no list of names waiting to be scratched off; and when the sun filtering through the curtains chases away any shadows where monsters like him may lurk. When your breath tickles his neck and he can wake you with gentle hands and small kisses.

"Hey." A hand through his hair. "You okay?"

Trust you to start worrying about him the minute you wake up. He smiles, and it's a genuine one this time. The muscles in his face ache from disuse. He's been smiling more and more now, even if it feels unreal, like a skin he's trying to put on. You've been relentless in chasing them out anyway, and he's still surprised every time he finds a reason to smile.

He doesn't really remember what happiness feels like anymore. Small echoes of it maybe. From a distant past. Of army buddies laughing in the trenches, two little girls giggling around him, a leader that felt like an anchor and a mentor who felt like family- now all gone; too quickly, too violently - he shakes his head. It doesn't matter anymore. You're all the reason he needs now.

****

There's a word on the tip of his tongue. It lingers there. Quiet. Subtle. Just a little bit out of reach. It comes to him in the quiet moments. When your hand is in his hand, your head on his chest. When you listen to music and he pretends that he's not watching the dimple in your cheek. When you sway as you cook a meal and he forgets to remember that he's forgotten how to smile.

It comes to him in other moments. When he's on top of you, surrounding you, clinging to you. When your eyes are on his, your nails leaving delicious marks on his back. When your hands pull his hair and the only word you speak is a quiet and reverent David. He has always hated his name, but he's learning to crave the way you say it when you're overwhelmed by him.

It comes to him in the afterglow. Lingers on the edge of his consciousness. With your hand over his heart, his arms wrapped tight around you and his lips on yours. He's sinking into sleep. The warm embrace doesn't scare him any longer because no monsters in his head could never win against the light in your soul. He reaches out to hold it, that word, the one word he never had, just as his eyes flutter shut. He smiles into the kiss. He'll tell you tomorrow. You'll understand. You probably already know. You're the reason that word exists after all. And he knows you'll keep it for him until the day he dies.

Safe.

[qoldenskies]

Not gonna lie, I really love crossovers so one of my first thoughts while reading Clipped Wongs was ‘what would happen if canon verse bros met CC bros?’ I imagine Leo, Raph and Mikey would not take it well, even if they knew everything that happened was because of a curse

i think it would start out very appalling for all of the canonverse bros, mostly because so much has been like. aired out from the events that went down in CL and forward, pretty much all of them were GUTTED for all of the things theyve gone out of their way to keep hidden because of this. unveiled all of their little complexes. got their metaphorical entrails ripped out. they're going to come out stronger in some ways and more fragile in others, like i think they'll be a lot more communicative/close but there's a lot of soft spots. with donnie especially, although that's obvious

but after that i think they'd soften and be more understanding. canon donnie (cv? i'll just use cv for shortening purposes) would probably even reframe the way his OWN brothers see him, seeing how the pain they inflicted on cc!donnie experienced influenced them all. and i think it would be unnerving to see how they all look at him like they're looking at a ghost (cc!leo especially...). he never had his entire identity shattered, i think it would be difficult him for him to process the depth of that pain

and imo i feel like cv!leo would find cc!leo uhhhh Uncomfortable. like WAOW that is a little too close to home, too vulnerable, bro chill. ESPECIALLY if we're talking pre-movie (little tangent but i always think its weird when people make leo get super closed off after the movie in fic because it feels antithetical to like. the themes? whatever. i think it'd make sense for him to be a lot more open instead of hiding behind all the bullshit like before, although he has some new things to be stressed about. honestly i felt like the point of all of that pain was for him to be a better communicator)

cc!donnie would probably find the cv alternatives of them a lot more comfortable because its a glimpse of normalcy. i dont think they'd treat him like he's made of glass or get weird and overprotective, which is a trap his brothers in cc are going to fall into even long after things have blown over (theyd go so ballistic when he's hurt!). and i think they would know how to handle him a lot better because they're not clouded by this intense guilt-driven bias, although i think their demeanor would gentle exponentially the first time they see him freak out/have a flashback. its a fun thing to think about frrr

[alteon77]

Updated Masterlist of Writing and Art

About the writer/artist: I like to write and paint. My current obsession is Sandman, but I enjoy most fantasy fandoms as well as anime (I think I’m on season seven billion of One Piece right now 🤣). I'm also weird as they come (and awkward, too), so just please ignore my oddball (coughTERRIBLEcough) sense of humor.

On a more personal note, I have PTSD and suffer from severe manic depressive episodes. Writing and art are my most familiar coping mechanisms, and I need them like I need oxygen. Seriously, there were times in my life that knowing I had to finish a story or a piece of art was the only thing stopping me from ending up dead. So, I don't take part in fandom drama. Having my peace and protecting my mental health are very big deals to me, and I won't risk those for anything if I can help it.

As for my writing, it ranges from short one-shots to ridiculously long novel series. I use third person POV (on longer series) as well as second person (on shorter things). I also try to always exclude physical descriptions when writing main character OCs and assign them nicknames to avoid using Y/N. I love to read Y/N fics, but writing them makes me feel like I'm at work. And who actually wants to ever feel like they're at work when they're engaging in a hobby? Definitely not me.

Lastly, there's usually more stuff on my AO3 page than I have listed here, because I forget to post it pretty often. Oops. I'll get around to moving it all over one day. Probably. Maybe.

Feel free to leave an ask if you want or just drop by my DMs. <3

Artwork links are at the bottom of this list, so if you're here for those, that's where they are.

Sandman 'Verse

All the Precious and Fragile Things (so easily do they break)

After banishing his lover from the Dreaming for her betrayal, Morpheus learns that she is pregnant with his child.

And that she’s been captured by a revenge-seeking Alexander Burgess.

What the both of them are unaware of is that this will set in motion a cascade of unfavorable events, causing a chain reaction that threatens the whole of existence itself.

PART I: All of This Past

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

PART II: These Tender, Loving Mercies

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

PART III: When It All Falls Down

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

PART IV: The Dark of War

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Epilogue

Sometimes He's Sweet

Morpheus hates the holidays.

As excited as she seems to experience the mortal holiday, he's… less so. Much less so. With the entire collective unconscious contained within him, this time of year can be wholly overwhelming, a miasma of too much red and green, too much worry, too much loneliness, too much excitement, too many similarly themed dreams, too many similarly themed nightmares, and far far too many holiday songs. It all bleeds out from the collective unconscious into his own mind, sticks there like weeping sap to a tree until he feels half-mad with the unrelenting presence of it, with his inability to get free from its cloying trespass upon his very being.

This is just a little sweet fluff for the holiday season. It takes place between chapters 19 and 20 of "All the Precious and Fragile Things". No spoilers here if you've read that far!

The Dog Debacle (or how best to sneak a dragon into the dreaming)

Morpheus' daughter gets a new dog.

Well..... kind of.

That Familiar Feeling of Family (or how Hob Gadling ended up as an uncle to his stranger's oftentimes feral children)

It's a pretty universally known thing that families are just strange. As Hob is quickly figuring out, however, this little fact is magnified by AT LEAST a billion when the family in question is Endless.

(A lighthearted story in which Hob Gadling finds out his stranger has married, makes friends with a homicidal maniac/ruler, and manages to become an exemplary uncle to a pack of magically mischievous children. Really, now all he has to do is convince everyone to stop calling his and Dream's weekly meetups "playdates", and then his life would be practically perfect.)

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

The Maker, the Muse, and the Sundered Song

In his temple, what remains of Orpheus waits in trepidation. Something is changing. Something that he knows might alter the very fabric of the world as he understands it.

Finally freed from captivity, Calliope struggles to make any meaningful changes to the laws that saw her bound and taken in the first place. When the strange woman appears on Mount Parnassus and offers help, Calliope knows she would be a fool not to accept it. Even if she thinks that she's being lied to.

Meanwhile in the peace of the Dreaming, Morpheus grapples with guilt over his son's fate. As he basks in the love of his new children, he can't help but to regret his own failings where Orpheus is concerned.

And as for May, she's really just got a job to do. And her own traumatic issues to deal with. And if it's all hella awkward because she's having to work alongside her husband's ex-wife, she'll see it done anyway. There's even the small possibility that she might eventually admit to Calliope the truth about her identity. That is if she can ever actually work up the courage to say it aloud.

Chapter 1

Nothing in This Closet but Boots and a Boy

Morpheus is wildly protective of his daughter.

That's probably bad for the boy in said daughter's closet.

AU's and Other Stuff in the Sandman 'Verse

Of Exes, Hellhounds, and Waffle Fries

Morpheus shows up to rescue the woman he probably loves (though he won't admit it) from hellhounds and ends up getting roped into helping with her family. This is one of those extras that doesn't fit into the main story, but it's fun, so I'm posting it.

The Bizarre Breeding Habits of Anthropomorphic Personifications

It's a tale as old as time.

Two idiots fall in love. Two idiots fall out of love.

Neither one of them is expecting a baby to come along and derail their unhappily ever after.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Original Fanart

I like to play around with different styles and to try new things with my artwork. Sometimes it works. Sometimes it doesn't. I'm still learning, and I am so far from being a professional that it's laughable. But I only post things that I think look decent or that I think others might enjoy.

The Lover's Argument (Morpheus x oc)

Oneiros (Morpheus in Grecian garb)

Because I could not stop for Death, she kindly stopped for me... (Regency era Dream and Death)

[late-to-the-magnus-archives]

Fragile - a Malevlent fic (Intermezzo spoilers)

Arthur got low in Larson’s house. He hit bedrock; he admitted, brokenly, that they won.

John didn’t let him drown. Which is ironic, because John was already drowning.

Spoilers for Intermezzo.

AO3

———-

Humans were fragile.

John knew this. He’d known it since before he was ‘John,’ when wicked memories seeped through the torment of loss and damnation.

Arthur was fragile, too.

John did not know this, and this new and acidic knowledge threatened the unset foundation John had built his everything upon. 

#

Your hands, Arthur. You have broken pieces of his eyes under your thumbnails.

Hardly like John hadn’t done things like that  when King, hadn’t done things like that for Kayne, hadn’t torn people apart until he knew them down to the cellular level. It wasn’t that eyeballs were gross, or the violence was too much; it was that Arthur was the one who did it.

Arthur. Who’d stayed so strong through cult and coma. Who’d kept his head in the prison pits, and forgiven John more than any saint could.

Who’d cut his own damn throat to keep the King from winning.

John knew it had been less than a day for Arthur. (It had been… longer, for him.) Less han a day. How could Arthur change so much in less than a day?

“I…” Arthur sounded fucked.

Instinctively, John tried a lever, tried to use that name to prize Arthur from the mud. Imagine what she would think. Faroe wouldn’t want her father to be this. To lose himself in this way.

The lever did not work, and Arthur slumped down, bleeding, and wept. “I’m lost,” he said, and It was a terrible sound. “I’ve lost. I’ve sunk too far.”

Less than a godsdamned day.

No, said John, scrambling in the wake of shock. I know you, my friend. You are in there. You saved me before. (Arthur had, everything he’d done, everything he’d said, had saved John in the Dark World, had kindled his only lingering light and hope. Arthur could not lose. He could not sink. If Arthur did…)

John vowed: I will not let you drown.

Arthur sobbed.

A good sob? A broken one? Don’t be scared. 

“They’ve won, John,”  Arthur wept in a high, unrecognizable voice. “He won. Faust. I… I wanted to kill him. I wanted to fill his blood within my hands. I wanted to feel the crunch of his bones beneath my palms. They won.”

This couldn’t be happening.

No.

No.

Arthur was his light. Arthur was his hope. The source of a purpose in a life so short, the proof they didn’t have to win!

Kayne’s voice might only be in his head, but it rang cruelly true: If he was this wrong about not letting them win, what does that say about his hope for you?

No!

Humans were fragile. Arthur was less fragile than most, but still human, and John...

John knew what to do. 

He was ashamed of it, this innate, easy understanding of manipulation, of control, of (pleasure it had always brought him pleasure as the King) pretty words to make Arthur do what he wanted, to shift Arthur’s sails and steer him from the rocks.

He felt ill. Sick. He shouldn’t do this. Good people did not think like this.

Would it really be “good” to let Arthur wreck on the rocks of himself?

It would not (and John told himself it was for Arthur’s sake and not to shore up his own cracking foundation), and so John made his choice. Followed his instinct, and manipulated. How could they have won? We’re nowhere near finished.

That was the exact right delivery, and it snagged Arthur’s attention like a lure (fish, Arthur, now caught). 

Next, communication the way Arthur thought in his quietest hours: Whose woods these are, I think I know... Because Arthur thought in music and poems. Because Arthur’s sobs slowed as John quoted, pulling the verses from the shared well of their mind. 

My horse must think it queer, to stop without a farmhouse near... Because Arthur might deny that gloriously artistic part of himself (of which John, as King, was keenly aware), but he could not resist the siren-song of rhythm and introspection and beauty, and he’d listen to this when he’d kick all else in the teeth. 

The woods are lovely, dark, and deep, but I have promises to keep… and miles to go before I sleep. He would not lose this man today (maybe if the King had used poetry instead of compound fractures, he would have gotten somewhere). And miles to go before I sleep.

It worked. (Of course it worked. It had to work. It was back to the Dark World if this didn’t work.) Arthur, as John knew he would, responded. “I’m sorry, John,” he said, and he finally sounded like Arrhur again. “I’m so sorry. For everything.”

(He’d missed him so much, his changeability, his chosen softness.) I’m sorry, too.

“Why? For what? You…”

For what?

For what he’d done to get back here.

For the lies he’d told.

For the wickedness he’d wrought.

For—

For leaving you for so long. But that was too close to the truth of things Arthur must never know. Now. Let’s leave this place.

“No,” said Arthur (because his stubbornness took no time at all to reassert itself). “We need to help those people. Down in the mines.”

And there he was. The Arthur Lester of John’s imagining. The flawed but willingly good human, the anchor to which John clung, the mortal for whom he’d debased himself, for whom he’d died.

He’d done… so many things to stop being dead. Arthur (canonized in memory, precarious on his pedestal) would never understand.

How could he? Arthur was human. Humans were fragile. And even Arthur had people he would not forgive.

He could never know. It’s a new beginning, Arthur. A clean slate. For both of them.

“No, no. Not a clean slate.”

John’s metaphorical heart clenched. No? I thought that’s what you wanted.

“That was easier than to remember what I’ve learned, what I’ve preached, not only to you but myself… that we can’t escape these things we’ve done,” said Arthur, fragile human, with no idea he was telling John that John was beyond hope.

John had to escape the things he’d done. He had to.

This confirmed it all: If Arthur knew what John had done, he’d never forgive him, and that flickering hope-light in would finally go out.

John couldn’t really reply. Okay.

“But it still is another,” said Arthur, sounding like his soul had shed a thousand pounds. “And I’d rather greet a new day like an old friend—with fondness and appreciation.”

Oh, Arthur. How did that fragile hope always survive? (He could never know.) Okay, Arthur.

“My friend. Let’s leave this place.”

And of course, Uncle’s body was still there, still shaking Arthur with reminders of savagery.  “I… I lost…”

Damn it. You’ve beaten yourself up enough over this, Arthur. It’s fine.

It clearly was not fine. “You’re right,” lied Arthur Lester.

Nope. Misdirection time (and John refused to think how easily the manipulation came). Oh! There’s a corpse in the bed.

And just like that, the detective switch was flipped, and finally, Arthur actually was fine.

It would all be fine.

It had to be fine.

The danger was past. John would never, ever need to tell him what he’d done. Arthur would continue to hope in John. It would be fine.

He couldn’t handle all that horror, anyway, John told himself as they dove into mystery and memory. Arthur was fragile, after all.

[frodothefair]

Eothiriel have twins?!

I kind of want Éomer and Lothíriel in the TGH verse to eventually have twins. This probably won't end up in the actual fic, so I suppose it's post-canon, but hear me out.

Per canon, Éomer has "at least one son," Elfwine, who is the heir to the throne, but this does not preclude him having other children, including one born a mere 20 minutes later!

Having identical twin sons can open the door to a world of dramatic possibilities, including:

--slender and fragile Lothíriel carrying a twin pregnancy is all sorts of whump-compatible, and leads to an Éomer mad with worry. Twin pregnancies are often more miserable than singleton pregnancies, and also more high-risk.

--Lothíriel declaring that she bore an heir and a spare at once, which is more than anyone asked of her, and she's never doing this again.

--poor Hafrith, the lady in waiting who was forced to give up an illegitimate child and decided never to marry (there will be a whole subplot about this) will be involved in childcare by necessity, and will become a loving aunt.

--the absolute chaos that will be wreaked in a royal court when there are two almost identical humans, but one of them is the heir to the throne, while the other is not. Everyone is always horrified of mixing them up, because this can cause a crisis of succession. The twins take full advantage of this once they become old enough, you can be sure of that.

--competitive wrangling between the twins, the fact that they're incredibly close, but also worlds apart because of a quirk of timing and law

What do you think?

@konartiste @from-the-coffee-shop-in-edoras @emmanuellececchi @celeluwhenfics