#i guess this is also a reminder for all fic writers

[crescentmoonrider]

so it's been 3 days since the site disappeared and at this point im just assuming FFn is dead for good :/

so if you followed me or any of my fics over there, well. you know. i'm on AO3 under the name Yumi_Take

right now all my fics are set to registered users only bc of a scraping bot for gen-AI problem, but hopefully i'll be able to go back to getting everything in the wild soon. so uh, yeah

thats sucks i guess

[curawrites]

Bonded

Ridoc Gamlyn x fem!markedone!Reader

Warnings: Fourth Wing spoilers, Iron Flame spoilers, a little angst I guess, fluff, smut, cursing, dry humping, p in v sex, cumming inside.

Note: Sorry for the late post! Exam season has been kicking my ass and figuring the plot of these fics has been a bit tricky! I decided to include a little bonus that I wrote this for this story initially but didn’t end up working so enjoy! 💚

Tag list: @ttheslutttybookwworm @sheblogs @mazzer @luvly-writer @river-of-woe @celeste-fourthwing

You had always imagined that you would've been the kind of cadet to party when you finally graduated. But nothing felt worthy of a celebration after what happened at Resson. The deaths of Liam and Solei had scarred you deeply. They had been some of your closest friends along with Garrick, Bodhi, Imogen, and Xaden.

Losing them had put into perspective how much you were going to miss the remaining friends you had now that you would all be separated.

While Imogen and Bohdi would be staying at Basgaith for their third year, Xaden and Garrick would be deployed to their assigned outpost in Samara, as would you, except your outpost was in Athbyne.

Your summer was spent with them all of course, but you did prioritize spending time with Bodhi and Imogen more. Unlike Garrick and Xaden who you'd be seeing for your weapon smuggling endeavors, visiting the quadrant to see the former two was out of the question.

At least that's what you had thought.

It seemed that witnessing Deigh's death had caused your dragon Iskra, a beautiful red female morningstartail, to realize how fleeting a dragon's life could be.

In the many centuries that she had been alive, she had never taken a mate, until now.

You should have been happy for her, excited even and you were, truly. But her choice of mate only left you with questions..

“Remind me again why you decided to become mates with Aotrom..? He’s a fucking idiot of a dragon..” You sighed heavily in your mind.

Iskra lets out a sound that could be interpreted as a purr through the bond, “He makes me laugh.” She replied, her tone dripping with warmth as she watched Aotrom do some sort of mating dance for her.

You smacked your face into your palm with a loud groan.

Not only had she chosen an idiot for a mate, she had also tied you to his idiot rider, Ridoc.

Its not like you were completely unaware of his existence prior to your dragons mating. But back then he was simply another bed hopping first year that wasn't worth any of your time.

And now he was your... Fuck buddy? Lover?? You didn’t really know. It was complicated to say the least.

You were well aware that you had grown rather fond of Ridoc as the result of the bond, as did he towards you. Your relationship had even progressed beyond the point of meaningless sex and it scared you.

The secrets that you kept from him were far from simple. Not only were you hiding the fact that you were apart of the revolution, and that you've been smuggling weapons along side Xaden and Garrick to flyers so they could fight the venin, but you also had a second signet.

Startling you out of your trance, Ridoc had slithered his arms around your waist as he hugged you from behind.

He pulled you in close as he tucked your head under his chin, comfortably resting his own on top of yours, “And they say romance is dead.” He scoffed as he observed the scene before him.

You watched as Iskra walked to Aotrom’s side, dragging her tail under his chin in a soft caress as she eyed him hungrily. They must have been communicating through their bond, because before you knew it both dragons had taken off and were flying in the direction of the vale.

You shook your head in disbelief, "I can't believe that dance actually worked on her.." you sighed.

He only hummed in response as his arms tightened around you, “I missed you.” he said affectionately through your bond.

A blush crept up your cheeks, “I missed you too..” you grumbled, letting yourself bask in his embrace.

A grin spread onto his face as he lowered his head to your shoulder, “Awww your blushing, Y/n/n.~” he teased.

You throw him a glare from over your shoulder, “Don’t push it or I’m not staying with you this weekend.” You warned playfully.

He gasped dramatically, “You wouldn’t dare!”

You eyed him mischievously, “Oh but I would! Bodhi and Imogen have been begging me to go out with them so maybe I’ll do just that!” You smirked.

He rolled his eyes, “As if- You literally only spend your time here with them and Xaden if he’s here! It’s my turn.” He whined.

A soft sigh left your lips, “Well when two of your friend dies tragically you kinda want to spend as much time as you can with the others.” You tried to joke but it fell flat.

Ridoc looked at you with a saddened gaze, “Y/n, I didn’t know that was the reason..” He mumbled.

You blinked at him a few times before looking towards the ground, “Well I never really told you.. Anyways take me to your dorm already I'm dying to get out these flight leathers.” You huffed.

A grin returned to his face, “With pleasure.~” he teased.

-

“Gods Y/n/n.. please never stop wearing those nightgowns.” Ridoc muttered as he watched you brush out your damp hair.

After taking a quick shower, you had slipped into a short, gauzy, blue, lace trimmed nightgown you had bought off of a flyer during one of your weapon drops.

You glanced towards him, “You like em?” You asked, knowing very well the answer.

He nodded as he sat up from his previously laying position, “You have no idea how much I love them. I would literally give you money to buy more.” He said as he watched you braid your hair.

That made you snort, “I’d have to find time to go buy more.” You sigh quietly before walking towards his bed.

Ridoc pulled you into his lap, “The next time I’m in Athbyne we can go together. Then I get to pick out whatever I want.~” his hands found their way under the gauzy material.

Your cheeks warmed, “Mmm..~ That would be fun but I can’t have you leaving the outpost. The General would have my head if more cadets end up in danger near the border.” You say as you dragged your hands down his chest to his abdomen.

The excuse wasn’t a complete lie but it wasn’t the whole truth either.

A groan left his lips as he caressed your bare hips and ass, “You’re not wearing panties..~” he said huskily through the bond.

Your eyes meet his lustful gaze as a smirk tugged at the corners of your mouth, “I’m not wearing anything but this nightgown.~” you purred as your hips shifted against his growing erection.

His hands immediately traveled upwards to cup your tits, “Spoiling me tonight now are you?~” he grinned as he groped and squeezed your mounds.

Heat began to pool in your core as his hips moved against yours, “I’m just really in the mood..~” you bit back a moan.

Ridoc let his hands return to your hips as he guided them to grind against his, “I can tell by the way you’re soaking my briefs..~” he sat up and pulled you into a kiss.

Your lips melded against his as your fingers grasped at the elastic of his underwear. “I want them off. Now.~” you demand.

He smirked into the kiss, "You're so needy for me.~" he teased, nipping at your bottom lip.

You shoot him a flustered glare, "Don't even start.~" you huffed as you tried to hold yourself still against his moving hips.

The grip he had on your hips relaxed as he stopped grinding against you, "Fine, fine, fine.~" he rolled his eyes playfully as he let you sit up and away from his lap.

Your entire face flushed the second you saw the wet spot that stained the front of his briefs. Gods you had no idea you made such a mess. Before you could focus to hard on it, Ridoc was pushing his underwear down his thighs.

When you heard the thump of his underwear hitting the floor you couldn't stop yourself from sitting in his lap again.

A soft gasp left his lips as he felt your bare pussy press against his errection, "Eager now are you?~" he teased as his hands slipped under you nightgown again to caress your hips.

His touch made you shiver, "It took you long enough.~" you grumbled as you began to grind against him.

Ridoc groaned lowly, "Its not my fault that you're so needy tonight..~" he huffed as he guided your hips into a rhythm with his.

You leaned forward and kissed him passionately, "Shut up..~" you whined through your bond.

He smirked against your lips, "Never.~" he said defiantly.

Eventually you pulled away, panting softly as you pushed him down on the bed, "I need you..~" you muttered.

His cock twitched from how dominant you were being, "Need me how?~" he asked grinning.

Your hands plant themselves firmly on his chest as you rise to your knees, "Inside... I need you inside..~" you sigh as you hovered over his lap.

Not wanting to keep you or himself waiting, Ridoc reached under you to line his tip to your fluttering hole.

Slowly, you sink down the length of his cock, sighing softly as your pussy stretched around him, "Gods Ridoc..~" you muttered as he held you flush against him.

He held your hips firmly as he adjusted to the feeling of your walls squeezing around him tightly, "Fuck you feel so good..~" he sighed.

Using his chest as leverage, you begin to move on top of him, rolling your hips against his as you bounced yourself on his cock.

A breathy moan left your lips when you roll your hips just right, making his cock press against your g-spot, "Oh my gods.. that feels amazing..~" you pant as you rode him harder, chasing the pleasure that pulsed in your core.

Ridoc couldn't stop himself from moaning lowly as he thrusted up into you, "You're so wet and tight.. fuck!~" he muttered as your arousal pooled at the base of his cock.

Your thighs burned as you tried to keep up with the pace you had set, the tingling sensation eventually turned into numbness which spread down the rest of your legs. "N-no..~" you whimpered as you loss your rhythm, making your hips stutter to a stop.

Without you even asking, Ridoc planted his feet against the matress. "I got you Y/n/n..~" he panted as he continued to thrust into you, the hands that held your hips moved you against him.

Sweat dripped down your back as you sat up straighter in an attempt to relieve some of the strain on your legs.

Feeling the fabric of your nightgown sticking to your skin, you tore your hands away from his chest and pull the garment off, leaving you completely naked on top of him.

His cock twitched at the sight of your bouncing breasts, "Fuck you're so hot.~" he groaned as he thrusted up into you harder.

Moans tumbled freely from your lips as he kept pounding right into your g-spot, "Don't stop!~ Feels so good..!~" you beg as you felt your orgasm rapidly build in your gut.

Ridoc looked up to meet your half lidded gaze, "Are you close?~" he asked huskily through the bond.

Your pussy clenched at the sound of his voice, "Yes.. I'm-I-" you stuttered as his thumb rubbed your clit. "Gods.. I'm gonna cum..!~" you whined before throwing your head back as your eyes fluttered shut.

A loud whiney moan tore itself as your climax hit you full force, making your core tingle as pleasure wracked your entire body.

Your hips twitched and bucked against his thumb as he kept rubbing the sensitive bud. "Ridoc please..~" your eyes opened again, meeting his desperate gaze.

The sensation of your pussy fluttering and squeezing him tightly was tarting to become to much, "Oh fuck Y/n..~ You feel way to fucking good..~" he glanced to where you bodies met.

Your release had pooled at the base of his cock, forming a white ring as he kept thrusting inside of you.

He groaned as the sight pushed him over the edge, "I cant.. Fuck I'm cumming..!~" his thrust quickened messily.

Ridoc moaned lowly as he cummed into you, holding you firmly down on his lap as he panted.

Only the sounds of your labored breathing could be herd in his dorm as you both came down from your highs.

Eventually, you were the first to move, carefully removing yourself from his lap before sitting down beside him.

He propped himself up on his elbows as he turned his attention to you, "Are you okay?" he asked, noticing you were rubbing your hands over your stretched out legs.

A breathy laugh left your lips, "I'm just trying to regain feeling in my legs." you said before your eyes met his, "What about you, are you okay?" you flipped the question back on him.

Ridoc smiled softly, "I'm all good, Y/n/n.” He said as he stood up, “I’m just going to go get us something to clean up with, okay? I’ll be right back." he said as he handed you your night gown.

You took the garnement from him and slipped it back on, “Alright, thank you..” you said quietly before he walked off.

He was barely even gone for a minute before he returned with a warm, damp rag in his hand.

A breathy yawn slipped past your lips before you spoke, “That was quick..” you mumbled as you parted your legs for him.

Ridoc carefully cleaned his cum from your thighs and pussy before wiping whatever was left of his soften cock.

While you got yourself comfortable under the covers of his bed, he busied himself with putting his underwear back on and throwing the rag into his pile of dirty laundry.

Once done with that, he joined you under the covers and cuddled you from behind before pressing a soft kiss to your rebellion relic covered neck.

He nuzzled his nose against the marked skin gently before sighing contently, "Goodnight.." he muttered as he closed his eyes.

Your cheeks warmed, “Goodnight..” you whispered back quietly.

While the sweet gestures gave you butterflies, they also made your gut churn with guilt as you were reminded of all that you hid from him..

-

Bonus! (I couldn’t help but use the ShxtsNGigs podast “Do you miss me when I’m not around?” conversation as inspo for dialogue lol!)💚

After a long eventful week you were finally able to get some well needed rest. You were exhausted to say the least, both mentally and physically. Not only was your entire body aching from all the flying you'd done, but you were unfortunately forced to fight some fliers during one of your patrols. It killed you on the inside but you couldn't risk outing yourself as traitor to your fellow lieutenants.

By the time you had finally made it to your barrack, all you could think about was getting out of your flight leathers as fast as possible and going to sleep.

Using the last bit of your energy to open the door, you were finally able to gaze upon the one thing you craved most. Your bed.

But it wasn’t empty.

In it laid a shirtless Ridoc Gamlyn, comfortably tucked under your blankets, playing around with the wooden dragons Liam had made you.

A groan left your lips, “I forgot that you were coming here this weekend.” You sighed as you stepped into your barrack.

Ridoc set down the figurines on your night stand before he sat up in your bed, “I sure didn’t, been looking forward to it all week since I didn’t even see you last weekend.” He grinned as he watched you undress.

You rolled your eyes, “I didn’t know that I had to see you every time and since you’re probably wondering, I hung out with Bodhi an-“

Ridoc interrupted you as he scoffed, “First of all.. you’ve been spending a lot of time with Bodhi and I feel.. left out.” He admitted.

Your head turned swiftly in his direction, “What? I can’t hang out with my friend? I literally see you every weekend, Ridoc!!” You cried out.

“Yeah for the dragons! You only come to Basgaith because they can’t be apart!” He shouted.

You chuck your flight leathers to the side angrily, “You come here for them too you idiot!” You yelled.

Ignoring your point he continued, “If our dragons weren’t bonded you wouldn’t come see me every weekend!” He retorted.

Your hands ran down your face in exasperation, “I literally wouldn’t be able to! Not to mention this-“ you gesture between yourself and him, "Would have never-"

Before you could finish your sentence he cut you off again, “Do you miss me when I’m not around?” He asked rather randomly.

You stared at him in complete disbelief as you tried to figure out if he was actually being genuine or not, “What do you even mean by that?” You chuckled awkwardly.

He let out a frustrated groan, “When it’s Friday and you’re seeing me in the evening do you think ‘Can’t wait to see Ridoc’? Or do you roll your eyes and say ‘Ridoc is arriving tonight’?” He stared at you expectantly.

You take a minute to actually think about it before answering, “It depends-“ You admit.

Ridoc gasped loudly as a smirk slowly spread across his face.

Panic quickly set in as you realized what you said, “Wait- wait! Let me answer! Let me answer!! Let me answer!!!” You wave your hands around wildly.

Ridoc laughed, “Y/n!! I’m asking you if you miss me when I’m not around!!” He whined.

Your eyes roll dramatically. “You’re fucking ridiculous..” you sighed as you took off the remainder of your clothes before slipping into a nightgown.

After a beat of silence he sighed, “Go on then, tell me what you did with him. Gods I can’t even say his name- What did you do with him?” He asked as he laid back down and stared at the ceiling.

You shake your head in exasperation as you climbed into bed next to him, “You’re so jealous.” You teased as he dragged you into a spooning position.

Ridoc huffed, “So what if I am?” He brushed away the hair from your neck.

A shiver ran down your spine as his fingers grazed your skin, “Well, if you would have let me finished you would have known that I hung out with Bodhi and Imogen.” You sassed.

He rolled his eyes, “Like that makes it any better.” He huffed, pressing his face into the crook of your neck.

An exasperated sigh left your lips as your eyes fluttered shut, “Goodnight, Ridoc.” you muttered as your body succumbed to its exhaustion.

You felt his lashes tickle your neck as his eyes closed, “Goodnight..” he sighed quietly.

[hoshinasblade]

you are so close to gaslighting yourself into thinking that maybe, just maybe you have already told hoshina's mom in the past what your favorite tea is.

the problem with that thought is today was the first time you met the mother of your boyfriend.

you denied it in your head - for all you know, perhaps mrs. hoshina is just really a good at guessing. that, or you are going batshit crazy.

because at that very day, people you have met for the first time - people who may be friends with hoshina soshiro but are practically strangers to you - seem to be aware of small details about you.

captain ashiro complimented you on your blue dress after shaking your hands, saying it's obvious why it is your favorite color, emphasizing how it brings out the intensity of your eyes. even okonogi, who you know works directly with the third division's vice-captain, had a specific joyful aura on her friendly face as she offered to hang out with you in the future, mentioning how she is a fan of true crime documentaries too and suggesting in the same breath that you should try the pudding sold in the headquarter's cafeteria.

you could have let all of that go if only you did not blush like a teenager after hoshina's own older brother called you by your childhood nickname during family dinner.

"i'm sorry." hoshina's hand found yours, his thumb drawing patterns on your wrist. he knows you'd been on edge since morning, and although this is entirely your idea - meeting his friends and his family in one day - he wouldn't blame you if you're overwhelmed.

"they did their research on me or something," you tried to laugh the nerves away. it didn't work.

"ah." hoshina suddenly looked guity. " that. well -" he stopped for a moment, gathering his wits, choosing the right words to say. "i mean, it makes sense that everyone who actually knows me would know about you, really."

you wanted to joke as a response; you wanted to say that he's talkative and tends to yap for hours about stuff he loves so yes, people around him would naturally know things about you. but then you caught yourself because this is yet another confirmation of what hoshina soshiro had been telling you for months now - that you are someone he loves.

you did not know being known could feel this sweet.

"huh. do you reckon i can extort them for information about you next time?" this time it was your turn to grab hoshina's hand, and with your forefinger, you traced three little words on the warm skin of his palm.

[author's note: hello guys, i know i haven't been posting a lot anymore, but i am thankful to everyone who still remembers this blog - yes i can read your asks, yes i see that you've tagged me in a fic, yes i checked my notifications in this blog every now and then. it might take me long to respond most of the time so apologies in advance but please know that i appreciate all interactions from everyone.

also i dont need to remind you but i don't tolerate copy-pasting or reposting any of my works anywhere. i read a lot from here too, and other writers can attest to this as well - we know if a line or a paragraph from any of our works is copied and/or reworded. ]

[lenacethemenace]

So I fear I may be writing a fanfiction for Shadamy.

Okay so for context, I opened google docs one day and giggled because the font I was using reminded me of Amy (she’s me guys) and I thought it would be a BRILLIANT idea to write her getting stood up on a date she was supposed to go on with Sonic, from her point of view. Now I love love LOVE Amy Rose, so this was a fun little writing exercise.

GUYS, IT’S NOT JUST CUTIE PATOOTIE ANYMORE!!! I’ve written over 20k words so far, switching between Amy, Shadow, Tails and Sonic’s POVs. It got SO crazy in fact that one of my friends offered to be a free editor. I have no idea who would be interested in reading it, but I have so much content planned, and art to make for it.

I’m only about 1/6th of the way through the story, since it follows events that happen over the course of a couple of months. It’s mutual hurt/comfort, some nice fluff, a decent amount of Angst, and a bucketload of personal head-canons thrown in for some spice. It’s during a time of peace, and I’m not exactly too familiar with the extensive lore of the comics (IDW, Archie, or even Fleetway) but it’s been consuming my life, and I’m investing in them as we speak.

I’ll probably be posting updates on the state of the fic because it’s not currently nowhere NEAR ready to publish even the first chapter, but I’m so genuinely enthused about the project that I’ve been writing thousands of words per week (I started writing barely two weeks ago.)

I’ve been SO invested I practically eat sleep and breathe this ship. Made like 3 playlists all over 7 hours long by now.

If anyone wants to know the details I’d love to answer questions and have an excuse to yap about them. I’m not the best writer, but I’d rather post a mediocre self indulgent fanfiction then have to keep it to myself.

(Yes I will be posing updates)

Update one!

Update two!

Update three!

Update four!

Update fivvveeeeee!

Update 6, art?

GUYS! WE HAVE THE SAMPLE!

[stormyelliotwritez]

Hey could you write batfam x male reader who is Jason's secret brother? Like batfam as in Bruce, dick, Jason, Tim and Damian, and like after Jason's death and resurrection they finally figure out that Jason had an older brother? Jason hardly remebers him because 1. He died and his memories are a bit fuzzy and 2. He was very young when he last saw his brother. I feel like the male reader took care of Jason, but at some point to try and give Jason a better life he left for sile shady work that promised a good amount of money, that would help Jason stay afloat? And after the batfam find out they obviously try to find him, and Bruce obviously tries to adopt him (even if he's an adult) so he can be reunited with his brother

yes yes yesssss. I was just going to write headcanons but I ended up with too many ideas so have a mini fic! I don't have the best grasp on the whole resurrection part coz I haven't read under the red so that'll be a bit vague. I'm so sorry this took so long. I got crazy writers block but here it is. Tell me if you want more of them or like headcanons because I'm lowkey obsessed with Jason having an older brother.

—————————————————————————

"Hey Bruce, why isn't Jason the first Todd that comes up when you look up Todd death report?" Dick asked as he walked into the Batcave and sat down on the table behind Bruce.

Bruce turned to look at him and raised an eyebrow. He had no idea what his son was talking about as he'd never looked up the reports. He knew his son had died and he hadn't wanted to know anything more. He'd failed his son, and he didn't want to be reminded of it.

"He's the only Todd I'm aware of," Bruce turned his chair around and looked at his eldest son, "Jason doesn't have any relatives."

Dick turned his laptop around and right at the top of the report, it said Y/N Todd. The cause of death just said explosion and body not found.

"Does that sound suspicious to you as well, Bruce?" Dick asked as he leaned forwards slightly.

"Go ask Tim to look more into it," Bruce turned his chair back around, "and don't tell Jason. We've only just got him to stay so there's no need to spook him."

Dick nodded and then walked out of the Batcave.

                                                        ~~~~~~~~~

A few days had passed, and Dick hadn’t brought it up to Bruce again. He had gone and asked Tim though and sworn him to secrecy. He didn’t talk to Jason much, so it wasn’t that hard anyways.

Jason was sitting in the library when Dick came in and seemed to be second guessing himself.

“You don’t read,” Jason said bluntly without looking up from his copy of Pride and Prejudice.

“I totally read,” Dick stumbled through the sentence as he walked over and sat down on an armchair opposite from Jason, “What are you reading anyways?”

Jason looked up at him, confused. What the fuck is Dick on, was all he was thinking. Dick was being nice, and he was normally nice, but this was awkward. This was like the same level of awkward he’d been for the first few days that Jason had been living at Wayne Manor. He had been so confident but also such a nervous wreck.

“Pride and Prejudice. Did you get sprayed with some drug on patrol?” Jason asked as he looked his older brother up and down.

“Nope nopity nope. I just wanted to hang out with you,” Dick said as though that explained why he was more skittish than a newborn kitten.

Jason nodded and then went back to reading. “I don’t remember him that much,” he said offhandedly as Dick went to stand up.

“How did you-” Dick said as he swung around and almost tripped over his feet.

“Tim talks a lot when he’s tired and you’re holding a coffee that he so desperately wants,” Jason replied with a shrug.

Dick’s jaw dropped. “You’re not mad that I’m snooping in your business? When you were little, I touched one of your first edition books and you cried for days.”

Jason’s head turned to look at Dick in two seconds flat. “I what?”

Dick’s eyebrow raised as he stared blankly at his little brother. “You don’t remember?”

The two of them stood silently as they processed what had been said. Jason hadn’t thought he’d lost that much. Dick hadn’t realized that either. He hadn’t realized Jason had lost anything. They didn’t talk much. Talking hurts and they’re both fragile which is seeming to be a trend in this family. (Bruce pay for therapy challenge???)

They stayed in silence for a few minutes before the door opened again and Damian walked in.

“Tim snitched. Your brother worked for some gang guy in Star City until he somehow quit. He’s back in Gotham for the next two weeks staying with,” Damian looked down at his phone and raised an eyebrow, “Selina?”

“How does Tim still keep his identity secret? Wait, so like dads on-off girlfriend, Selina?” Dick asked as he looked at their youngest brother with his eyebrows raised.

“Do we know any other Selinas, big bird?” Jason asked as his head swivelled to look in Dicks direction again.

Dick shrugged and seemed to be thinking. “So, we could just call Selina and ask about your mysterious brother?” He said observantly.

Damian sighed in frustration. “Yes, lets just call up Selina and ask her if she’s hosting Jason’s supposed to be dead brother!”

“It’s a good idea,” Dick tried to protest as he looked to Jason for backup. Jason raised his hands as if to say nope don’t involve me.

“No, it’s not. It’s really surprising that you’re not father’s actual son. You’re both stupid,” Damian replied as he scrolled on his phone until he found what he was looking for. His face lit up and he showed the screen. “There’s a gala on tomorrow. Selinas bound to go just to flirt with father, and she’ll probably take Y/N.”

“Ok, that is a better idea than mine,” Dick muttered as he crossed his arms and sulked.

“All of demon brats ideas are better than yours, Dickybird,” Jason said as he sat back down and reopened his book.

                                                  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The night of the gala couldn’t come quick enough. Bruce was sitting at the kitchen table in his suit a good hour before they had to go and at that point, he wished he’d hadn’t broken his earbuds the day before. Jason and Tim were shouting at each other in the main first floor bathroom and Damian was about to tackle Dick for making him wear a blue tie. Cass and Steph were on a video chat with Barbs because she was currently at a tech conference so couldn’t make it.

Five minutes before they had to leave, Damian ran out of some room with Dick chasing him. Jason and Tim both tried to run out of the bathroom door at the same time, so Tim slammed into the wall. Steph and Cass walked calmy into the kitchen and laughed at the boys running rampant. Duke had offered to go on patrol solely because he didn’t want to go to the gala.

They all left the mansion and clambered into multiple cars.

                                               ~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The gala was bustling, and Bruce made his entrance followed by his entourage of children. The questions started up, but all Jason could think about was whether his older brother was there. Dick was standing close to him and swatting away any stuffy aristocrats who wanted to say how much he looked like the Wayne son who had died as a child.

Tim dragged his feet across the gala to where Dick and Jason were standing. He flopped onto the chair next to Jason and slammed his head down onto the table.

“No coffee?” Dick asked as he leaned against the wall and death stared another aristocrat who wanted their weekly Wayne drama fix.

“When have any of these events ever had coffee and I’m too young to drink and also Y/N is at the bar,” Tim rambled as he sat up straight and rubbed sleep out of his eyes.

“You’re like 18, I was drinking from like 15,” Jason started before his brain caught up with the whole sentence, “The bar?”

Tim nodded and fell forwards again. Dick put his hand out at a speed that could rival Wally and caught his younger brothers head. He nodded at Jason who jumped out of his chair and started briskly walking towards the bar.

At the bar, there sat a guy who looked to be in his 30s with bright red hair. A champagne glass was seated in front of him, and he was staring off into space.

Jason walked over and sat down next to him. He didn’t say anything but instead asked the bartender for a gin and tonic and glanced next to him. Y/N looked just like the fuzzy memories he had of him.

“You new around here?” Jason asked as he waited for the bartender to finish his drink.

The guy who was most likely his older brother didn’t say anything in response. He just sighed and sipped his champagne.

“Haven’t seen you at one of these before. You, uh, came with Ms Kyle?”

The guy gave him a nod in response as he rolled up his sleeves slightly. Jason looked down and saw the burn scar from when they’d been making pasta when he was little. His jaw dropped slightly before he recovered quickly. This was absolutely his older brother so what was he supposed to do now?

“I’m Jason Wayne,” he said so as to not spook Y/N.

“Y/N Todd,” Y/N glanced at Jason, “You look like someone I used to know. Have we met before?”

Jason laughed nervously. “If you’ve come to a gala before, probably.”

“Yeah, probably,” Y/N stood up from the chair, “Well I think Selina wanted an early night so I should go. Nice meeting you.”

Jason sighed as his older brother walked away. He downed his gin and tonic before standing up and walking over to where Dick was still sitting with Tim. He sat down on a free chair and leaned his head on the table.

“So?” Dick asked cautiously as he moved his hand out from under Tim’s forehead.

“He’s my brother,” Jason said tiredly.

Dick gasped and leaned in closer. “So, what you going to do about that, little bird?”

“No idea,” Jason said as he sighed.

                                                ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A few days later, Jason was sitting in the library again when Tim ran inside. Jason looked up from his book and raised an eyebrow expectantly.

“He’s been spotted. Cass saw him. Dick’s waiting for you at Wayne Industries,” Tim said out of breath.

Jason placed his book down and ran out of the library. He sprinted down to the Batcave and got changed into his suit. He ran to his bike and pulled out of the cave. He drove down the highways and roads and felt the wind pushing against him. It felt just like how when he was younger, and it was just him and his older brother against the world. He flew down streets and side alleys. He pulled up in front of Wayne Industries and saw Dick sitting on a brick wall nearby. Their comms crackled to life.

“Cass has him and Selina on the roof of Wayne Industries, come on,” Dick said before he ran at the building and started scaling it.

Jason followed suite. The two of them made it to the top in record time and looked around. Cass waved from where she was standing and chatting to Selina. Jason’s older brother was leaning against the staircase door with a frown on his face as he glanced around.

Jason watched him for a moment. He had red hair just like how he did when he didn’t dye it. He was wearing a leather jacket like he did. He had a mask on which resembled the Robin one but not fully. It looked more like a masquerade mask. He was wearing boots, a pair that looked like ones Jason remembered sitting by their childhood apartments door. His older brother looked just like he remembered but also nothing like the teenager he’d idolized.

There was a scar above his eye. There was a necklace around his neck with a black rock. His hair was short and clipped, unlike when they were younger,

 and it sat above his shoulders. He looked so grumpy. Jason had never seen his older brother look that annoyed. He’d always been patient and kind.

“Selina, can we go? I didn’t come all this way just to stand around and chat with your boytoys kids,” Y/N said loudly, interrupting Jason’s thoughts.

Selina turned from Cass and scoffed. “Yeah, you came so far, all the way from Star City and your sad little retail job,” she said sarcastically before turning back to Cass.

Y/N rolled his eyes and finally noticed Jason and Dick. “He has more? How many of you vigilantes are there? Does he grow you in like a lab?”

“One of us was actually,” Dick said as he took a step forward, so he stood in front of Jason, once a protective big brother, always a protective big brother.

“Long story? Yeah, I’m getting used to that,” Y/N shook his head before he glanced at Jason, “What you staring at me like that for?”

Jason tilted his head slightly before taking off his helmet which caused Dick to groan.

“Secret identities, little bird,” Dick said annoyed as he slapped his forehead.

“Oh, shut up,” Jason stepped around Dick, “It’s me, Jason.”

Y/N took a step back and slammed against the wall. “You’re dead.”

Cass turned from where she was talking to Selina and rolled her eyes before resuming their conversation.

“Surprise?” Jason said with jazz hands. “I think we’ve got a lot to talk about.”

Y/N nodded and took off his mask. “Yeah, I think we do.”

                                    ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Two weeks later…

Y/N, Bruce and Jason were sitting around the manor’s dining table. Bruce was leaned forwards and staring Y/N down. Jason was leaned back and smiling. He hadn’t stopped since he got Y/N back. Y/N looked like he was about to run out of the room.

“Jason, tell your creepy dad he can’t adopt me. I’m a grown ass man who isn’t going anywhere anyways,” He said as he scooted his chair slightly further away from Bruce.

“Hey, he’s still trying to figure out if he can adopt me and I’m legally dead,” Jason said as he raised his hands in mock surrender.

“So am I!” His brother replied exasperatedly.

“I already adopted you, Jason,” Bruce leaned back in his chair, “Found a technicality.”

Jason turned quickly to face his dad. “Ok, you cannot just drop that in conversation, old man.”

Bruce stood up from his chair. “I’m not even 50 yet. You’ve gotta stop calling me that.”

Jason smiled and shook his head. “I’ll call you what I want, Bruce.”

Bruce smiled to himself and walked out of the room. The older Todd leaned closer to Jason and smiled.

“Your family is weird, Jase,” he said with a chuckle.

“Our family actually, big brother,” Jason said with a wide grin as he stood up from his chair. “Wanna go for a ride?”

His big brother jumped out of his chair and smiled. “I bet my bike goes faster than yours.”

The two of them ran towards the manors front door with the widest grins.

Up on the staircase, Bruce stood as he watched them with a smile. Alfred walked up behind him with a smile and tapped him on the shoulder.

“You must stop adopting all these children, Master Bruce,” he said quietly.

“He makes Jason happy, doesn’t he?” Bruce asked.

Alfred pondered for a moment before replying.

“Yes, he does, Master Bruce. That doesn’t mean Master Jason doesn’t still need his father though,” Alfred said, his voice full of care and love for the two of them.

Bruce nodded as he heard the motorbikes start outside. He then smiled and walked off to attend to his work.

                                             ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

[hai7ani]

every day i get closer and closer to leaving this blog for good :( i know i say this a lot, but i haven't felt the passion to write in a very long while. i have tried visiting my old works to rewrite them and also get my groove back, but lately it feels more forced than me wanting to do it because i want to write. i've been treating writing like a chore, always looking at it from a professional perspective rather than it being a hobby and what i've always wanted to do and frankly it's not fun anymore. maintaining this blog feels very stressful and i constantly feel the need to update every once in a while to keep interactions going, and oftentimes i get so fomo when i hop on here as hai7ani. writing doesn't feel the same and maintaining this blog just seems like a routine rather than a hobby that i used to enjoy. to be frank i also feel very lost on the direction that i want to proceed with this blog, but i guess that's mainly because i haven't been writing/posting so all i can update on here are reblogs and sometimes selfship things, so i don't know what to do on here as hai7ani. i do feel like maybe it is time that this chapter has come to an end, as i also have big things coming up and i don't want to drag this complication with me to that new chapter in my life, even more so that i view writing as a burden now. but at the same time, i don't want to leave this blog that i have worked so hard on for the past 2/3 years. i have been in the fandom since the anime blew up in 2021 and have been writing for rindou since 2023. this blog is very special to me and so is writing, and rindou as a character in general is a huge part of my life because i do selfship so i treat this blog as a part of me and him. but it hasn't been fun recently (it's been months) which has really fucked me up for quite some time, including some other personal matters that i have been losing sleep and stressing out over offline. i care a lot about what other people think of me/perceive me as and i like to think that i'm genuine with everyone i become friends with, but that would often spiral into me getting anxious over my relationships and caring too much about what other people view of me to truly be who i am, as i have always been one to struggle with keeping people close. it really messed with me for a while. so with all of this going on, i'm just so lost. i think it'd be fair to my followers (rindou nation 😭), even though i know i don't owe anyone any explanations, to say that i won't be writing anymore for the time being. i'll post stuff if i want to, but i won't be promising fics or anything like that so i don't get anyone's hopes up. i'll be on here sometimes, but obviously not posting fics and i'm not leaving tumblr of course as i still have my main blog and my own interests that i enjoy seeing on my dash. i'll think about the next step more maybe. whatever happens next, happens. and i will keep reminding myself that i'm not on tumblr just as a writer/creator, but as an ordinary person who just enjoys something.

thank you for all your love and time 🩷

- yves :>

[ckret2]

On chapter 30 of The Writer Uses Misleading Graphics To Trick You Into Looking At This Fic About Human Bill Being The Shack's Prisoner: Summerween part 2! Bill wheedles Mabel into helping him make a costume. Mabel wheedles Bill into spilling some of his preciously-guarded secret backstory. Ford is kind of in awe.

Also there's like 4.5 drawings in this chapter. They're all very silly drawings.

####

Bill wouldn't tell Mabel what his costume was—"I want to see who can guess it"—but all it needed was a brown bedsheet, a long red wig, cardboard (to be drawn upon), and flip-flop sandals.

The bedsheet was the easiest to acquire. Dipper's barely-worn brown sandals were just slightly too big for Bill but Mabel helped tie them on with yarn. the shack's cardboard supplies were still depleted from making Bill's triangle mask, but they could make do with paper and popsicle sticks. Mabel didn't have a red wig but she did have a blonde wig and red markers. Since Bill was, by his own reporting, terrible at drawing, Mabel offered to do the fancy artwork if Bill did the tedious task of recoloring the wig. He claimed he'd feel like a mortician putting makeup on a car wreck victim, but nevertheless accepted the deal, and they settled in around the living room table to get to work.

"So just a bunch of houses, right?" Mabel asked, starting on the first drawing.

"Ancient Greek-looking houses," Bill said. "So, marble and columns. Don't think too hard about the details—this is a 21st century American costume holiday, not a historical reenactment. You can slap columns on anything and call it 'Greek' and every human in town will buy it."

"Do ancient Greek houses have chimneys?"

"No," Bill said. "But adding one would be funny."

Mabel considered that, weighed up the value of historical accuracy against entertainment value, and decided giving one house a chimney would be funny. She gave the whole house a thick black outline in marker, and pulled out crayons in black, white, and whale blue to quickly add some light shading to the marble. 

Mabel didn't think she'd ever seen Bill focus so hard or so quietly on anything the way he did on coloring that old wig red. He was giving it more attention than he did his own hair: while his golden locks were a tangled, uncombed, soggy mass shoved dismissively over his shoulders, he was dying the cheap wig (and his fingertips) strand by plastic strand with the bright-eyed morbid fascination of a third grader studying a pack of ants as they disassembled a bird's corpse.

This was the longest she'd been around Bill without conversation—usually, you couldn't even walk into a room without him immediately chattering at you like the motion-activated animatronics at the Summerween store. It was hard to think around him. Bill didn't give you room to think.

What did Mabel think about Bill?

He was right, she was still mad about the mall. No—mad wasn't the right word—mad was his word—she was scared. She'd never really stopped being scared of him, if she was honest with herself. But everything he'd done that day, from tricking her into trapping herself to reminding her of almost dying, had just reinforced why she should fear him.

But. She thought he felt bad about it. And she didn't think she'd ever seen him feel bad about anything before.

Maybe that meant her experiment was working. Maybe he was changing. Yeah, he was still scary—but he was Bill Cipher, he had a lot of scariness to work through. He was moving in the right direction, and she wanted to encourage that.

He hadn't apologized for the mall; but, since he'd tried to make up for it at the time, and that was a sort of apologetic action, Mabel decided she could tentatively forgive him for that day—provided he continued to improve. Put him on forgiveness probation. And that meant they were on friendly speaking terms again.

Which was good, because the quiet was starting to get uncomfortable. She surveyed her art for something they could talk about.

After a couple of as-historically-accurate-as-she-could-imagine houses, Mabel had started varying up the designs by redesigning houses she could remember off the top of her head with columns and white marble. She'd made a stately marble Mystery Shack, and a columned-covered doppelgänger of the house with the terraced yard across the street at home, and then she'd decided to make a Greek-ish version of her own home. "Hey Bill. Have you ever seen my house?"

"In person? No. But it came up from time to time in you kids' dreams, so whether I've seen it depends on how accurate you think your dreams are," he said. "It has less plants and more windows in your brother's dreams than in yours."

Mildly disturbing answer, but not disturbing in the direction she'd expected. "What! You mean you haven't haunted our neighborhood or anything? I don't believe it."

"Do you think I spend all my time stalking random humans? Don't flatter yourself."

"Well, seeing it in dreams isn't good enough!" Mabel pulled over a blank paper. It was hours until trick-or-treaters showed up, they had a little time to waste. "I'll draw it!"

"Wow, really?" Bill looked up from his wig. "You're not worried about letting the big bad triangle see your house?"

"Come on! You already know where I live, right?"

Bill immediately rattled off, "1337 Fairview Drive, Piedmont, California, on the northeast side of the street where it's less hilly."

"Exactly—you creep. So who cares if you know what it looks like, too?"

A square, sky blue house with two stories and a triangular roof; a big living room window on the left, a covered door on the right, three windows on the second floor, and a chimney. Mabel had drawn her home plenty of times—but doing it for a friend (?) was different from doing it for a teacher or a librarian, and she put extra effort into the rose bushes under the living room window. She added her and Dipper's smiling faces in the upstairs windows and Waddles's face downstairs in the living room.

"Waddles sleeps in the kitchen, but he basically owns half the yard to wallow in. This is my room, and here's Dipper's—I get three windows, but Dipper has the biggest window and a bigger room, so it's fair, no matter what he says—"

"Oh, you two have separate rooms now?" Bill was leaning halfway around the table and craning his neck to see the image right side up.

"Uh, yeah? Since we were ten?"

Loftily, Bill said, "I don't know how you'd expect me to know that. You both still dream about sharing a room."

Mabel paused and tried to remember how often she dreamed about Dipper in his new room. Sometimes she woke and was still disoriented to find her bed in the middle of the room instead of against one wall with Dipper's on the other side. "Huh."

She added a few more details—the front steps, the gate, the shingles. (Bill watched nervously as she pulled out the gray crayon to color the driveway—but she didn't notice how it had been tampered with.) She talked about her home, and in turn Bill told her weird things, like that Dipper often dreamed of monsters coming out of the fridge. When she finished, she autographed her name with a star on the "i" in Pines, offered it over grandly, and said, "Here, you can keep this!"

Bill accepted it without the customary effusive gratitude with which one ought to accept a generously-gifted original artwork from a 13-year-old prodigy. "What am I gonna do with it?"

"That's your problem!"

"Fair enough!" He checked his leggings for pockets and, when he didn't find any, set the page on the table by his elbow. 

Offering accepted. As Bill resumed coloring his wig, Mabel picked up another piece of paper and got to work on the next columned house. "What does your house look like?"

Bill stopped dead, looked straight at her, and said, "My what?"

What was weird about the question? "Your house! Or whatever you lived in before you came here. You came from somewhere before you tried to invade Earth, right? You didn't just pop out of somebody's dream."

Bill laughed. "Yeah I did!"

"Bill."

"4500 years ago the construction workers of Egypt had a shared nightmare about the immense tombs they'd spent the last century building—"

"Biiiill."

"—and when they awoke they found the combined psychic energy of their terror had spawned a sleep paralysis demon more powerful than Ra! So then I ate their souls—"

"Seriously, Bill."

"I'm being so serious right now."

Mabel rolled her eyes. "Okay, fine! I get it. You're embarrassed." She shook her head and returned to coloring.

She felt the combined spiritual energy of hundreds of imaginary Egyptian construction workers beating down on her face from Bill's eye. Like a laser. "'Embarrassed'?"

"Because you don't have a house," Mabel said. "I think it's okay, you don't need to be embarrassed! I don't think you're a loser or anything. It's just kind of sad—"

Bill snatched up a blank piece of paper. "You want a house? Fine! I'll show you a house." He grabbed up an orange crayon, muttering, "It'll put your stupid overpriced shed in California to shame— Where's the ruler—?" Mabel tried not to grin.

For several minutes, he was perfectly silent. Mabel glanced over to see him coloring with three crayons at once, only for him to shove a hand in her face and snap, "No peeking."

Mabel got through two more drawings before Bill slapped down his paper over Mabel's. "There! How about that?!"

She looked at the drawing, which Bill had helpfully labeled "Party Central!" in red crayon. A great stone pyramid so dark brown it was nearly black, with bricks outlined in brilliant gold and molten orange and fiery red, and a sharp multicolored X hovering above it—

Mabel gave Bill a flat look. "This isn't your house, this is your Torture Temple."

"The what? Hey, is that really what people are calling it?! It's not the Torture Temple, it's the Fearamid!"

Despite herself, Mabel burst out laughing. "You named it the 'Fearamid'?!"

"It's a pyramid and humans fear it! It's genius. Portmanteaus make great names."

"What's a portmanteau."

"It's a word made from the unholy Frankensteinian fusion of two other words. Like getting 'electrocute' from 'electricity' and 'execute'!"

"Or 'romcom'?"

"Yeah, or that."

Mabel considered the drawing. "If you want to scare less people, you could call this your Bill-ding."

"HA! Oh, I'm saving that."

"Anyway, this isn't where you live," Mabel said. "You were there for like a week tops!"

"Yeah, before your great-uncle killed me. I'd still be living there if it weren't for you jerks." He stuck out his tongue.

"Come on, Bill. I showed you my house. Draw where you grew up or something!"

"What's wrong with the Fearamid?"

Mabel crossed her arms. "Why don't you want me to see your real house?" She raised her eyebrows at him.

Bill opened his mouth to protest, but then stopped, a thoughtful look on his face. "Eh, you know what? Why not. If you're gonna be so ridiculous about such a silly thing." He pulled over another piece of paper. "But if I don't have enough time to finish coloring this wig, you have to help me."

"Fiiine." She returned to her own drawings as Bill got back to work.

After a long silence—longer than he'd taken to draw and color the Fearamid—he said, "Okay, done. Here." And he pushed over the paper with one dismissive finger.

She eagerly accepted the drawing—and frowned. There was nothing on the page except for a straight flat black line, interrupted by three line segments of bright blue and a cluster of red and green dashes. "What is this?"

"Where I grew up," Bill said, innocently, already back to coloring the wig. Mabel could see his mischievous smirk. "As seen from the front. Just like your drawing of your house. So we're even now."

Mabel's brows furrowed as she stared at the page in confusion. "What...?"

"You do know I'm from the second dimension, right? A universe that's flat like a piece of paper. I figured Sixer would've told you all about it by now." Bill picked up the drawing and held it between his and Mabel's faces, so that, viewed from the edge, all Mabel could see of the paper was a thin flat line. "What do you think the second dimension looks like to somebody in the second dimension?"

Mabel took the paper back, looked at the underwhelming flat line representing the front of Bill's house, and said, "I hate you." 

"We had the prettiest roses in the park," Bill said, pointing at the red dashes. "Crayon really doesn't do them justice."

"Shut uppp."

Bill laughed at her; but then, to her surprise, he said, "Okay, all right, I guess a big fancy 3D creature like you can't understand the nuances of two-dimensional sight. So, here." He flipped over the page. "Top down view."

The back of the page had what looked like a floorplan. A narrow room on the left, a large L-shaped room, a tiny room nestled into the L's top right corner, and a medium room on the right. Little shapes filled the rooms—furniture of some kind?—but she didn't see anything immediately recognizable like a top-down bed or table and chairs. Green and red spirals dangled off the bottom of the floorplan.

"I'm no Edward Bishop Bishop, but it gets the idea across," Bill said.

She studied all the strange little figures in fascination, looking for anything familiar. She pointed at a few shallow bowls filled with blue sticking out of the wall between the L-shaped room and the tiny room. "Are these sinks?"

"Hey, you're pretty sharp. Sinks and the tub." 

"So the little room's the bathroom."

"Right again." Bill pointed out the rooms on the floor plan. "Master bed's on the right, kitchen and living room in the middle—and you found the bathroom—and second bed's on the left. That was my room! The one with a million books," he pointed at a wall with countless tiny multicolored lines coming off of it. "I was a big reader as a kid. I've always been an intellectual."

"Who was in the other bedroom?"

"I never really went in there, who cares." Bill made a dismissive gesture. "I think there were some desks and stuff in there too, but I didn't bother to draw them since I never used them." He picked up a yellow and a black crayon and added on to the drawing, dexterously turning the crayons in his hand to switch between colors without setting either one down. "I spent most of my time in my room." He'd drawn a little yellow triangle with an eye. He picked up a red crayon to point an arrow at the triangle and label it "Me!" "I didn't even have to leave the room to see the TV. The perks of psychic powers!"

Mabel wondered which of the weird shapes was the TV; but before she could come to a decision, she was distracted by the scale of Bill drawn in his room. Maybe he'd just drawn himself big, but he seemed cramped in that narrow space. And he'd hardly have room to turn around in the bathroom without his corner smacking something. "It looks pretty small. Is that normal on your home world?"

"Ah, I rarely spent time at home—it was just a place to sleep between speaking engagements," Bill said. "I was always on tour. Living the life of the rich and famous! Hotels, jet planes, and tour buses!"

Mabel shot him an irritated look. "You said this is where you grew up."

"This is where I grew up! I got an early start making my fortune. I was already famous by the time I was, uh..." he pursed his lips thoughtfully. "Developmentally, I think I would've been about equivalent to your age. Maybe a bit younger."

How much of all this was true? It didn't feel like a lie—and she couldn't see how he'd benefit from lying about any of it, except maybe claiming to be famous. So it probably had to be true. He'd actually made her a drawing of his house. Even after he'd complained about being so bad at art. She beamed at him. "Thanks, Bill. Your weird alien house is neat! I like the squiggly spiral flowers! Are they actually roses?"

"They were the flower that everyone mentions in poetry and that you have to bring home when your wife is mad, so, same basic function as roses," Bill said. "Fun fact, they grow in spirals so that they're pretty on the outside, but—"

####

"—but have more surface area to absorb sunlight on the inside," Mabel said, pointing at the flowers. "Alien biology! And the orange things are couches and the colorful box in front of them is his TV, and Bill says he could watch TV through the wall but he never really liked TV, he preferred live performances—maybe we should take him to a musical! And the little sideways cushions on the walls are their beds because gravity goes to the left because their house faces east—I have no idea why!—so, I guess that's their 'floor'? But if that's the 'floor,' Bill didn't explain why all his books were on the 'ceiling' without them falling off, and..." Mabel trailed off, giving Ford a concerned look. "Grunkle Ford? Are you okay?"

He was gaping at the drawing. "Wh—? Yes. Sorry. I'm just..." He shook his head in amazement. "I never even got that slippery eel to admit he has a calendar system, and you got the blueprints to his childhood home?"

Dipper said, "Yeah, this is amazing. How did you get this out of him?"

"Oh, I didn't do anything special," Mabel said casually. "Just drew our house and then suggested he was too scared to let me see his."

Dipper grimaced. "You showed him our house?"

"Don't worry about it! He already knows where we live."

"Of course," Ford said, taking a quick note in his journal. "Exploiting his ego. He's very proud; undermine that pride and he'll feel compelled to defend his honor." Ford had started goading Bill into giving away more than he meant to the same way. He wished he'd started doing it far earlier; but he'd spent so many years foolishly assuming Bill's pride was objective and justified that he sometimes forgot what an egomaniac Bill really was.

As Mabel had spoken, Ford had filled several pages with bullet-pointed half thoughts: dodges questions about the master bed—his parents' room?; no bed or bedroom for a sibling, he seems like an only child; "speaking engagements" is probably a euphemism, what was he doing to become a child celebrity; were his books his only childhood possessions or just the only thing he valued enough to draw; did he gain his "psychic powers" while amassing the power he needed to "liberate"/destroy his dimension? "Can I borrow this drawing to make a photocopy?"

"Sure! Don't forget the line on the back," Mabel said. "And you can copy the Fearamid, too! Did you know he named it the 'Fearamid'?"

"Oh yeah, I heard him call it that," Dipper said. "I think I recorded it in Journal 3?"

"I should've read that before we threw out all of Grunkle Ford's Bill stuff," Mabel sighed. She slid over the Fearamid drawing to Ford. "Bwop! He drew it tilting all weird to the left? He wasn't kidding when he said he's bad at drawing."

Ford studied the drawing and frowned. He lay his pen on the drawing to use like a makeshift ruler. "It's not 'skewed'—he drew the front face as a perfect equilateral triangle, and then extended a side on the right to turn it into a pyramid. It's poor perspective—there's no point of view from which one side would look like a perfect equilateral triangle and you could see another side, but..." He trailed off again as he made a note to himself about what this might mean about Bill's ability to perceive the third dimension and his artistic sensibilities.

"So he draws like Picasso!" Mabel concluded. "Oh! Bill mentioned a name when he gave me his house, he said he wasn't like Edward Bishop Bishop—and I remembered it because it sounds funny. Bishop-Bishop. Maybe he's another artist Bill likes? Or somebody who makes blueprints?"

"I'm sure I've heard that name. I think he was a mathematician?" Ford frowned. "I can't recall, though." He wrote down another note: Edward Bishop Bishop – mathematician/artist? Something to look up later.

Dipper glanced back and forth between Ford and Mabel as they talked, feeling his stomach sink at how excited they were and how easily they got along. First the mysterious disappearing crystal shop in Portland, now Mabel made this huge discovery about the guy Ford had spent years trying to learn about... Dipper swallowed hard and tried to tell himself he shouldn't feel jealous after he'd gotten Ford to himself for basically the past year. "I can't believe you found out all this."

Mabel immediately looked at him. "Hey, what's that supposed to mean?"

Dipper winced. He'd realized a moment too late how he must have sounded. Quickly, he said, "I mean, it's great that you did! Finding out more information about him is great. But, like... investigating the paranormal is my thing. It's what I spent all last summer doing, and it's my dream job, and... and now, the biggest paranormal mystery in human history is in our house, and you're the one getting all the info out of him?"

"Well, yeah," Mabel said. "I'm our official Bill spy, remember? I'm the one who made friends with him."

"I know, I know." He shrugged jerkily. "I'm just... kind of disappointed that I'm not prying eons-old secrets out of an alien demon. You know?"

Ford had paused in his writing to listen to Dipper thoughtfully. "I understand. When you're exceptional at something, it can be... difficult to share the limelight," he said. "Not because you don't think anyone else deserves it. You just don't know if you'll ever get it back."

Dipper's face heated up—he didn't want Ford to think he was bad at sharing, of all things—but he mumbled, "Yeah, I guess." Ford patted his shoulder understandingly. 

"Aww," Mabel said. "Didn't you say that if we're running an experiment on being nice to Bill, you want to be in the control group?" She punched his arm. "Welcome to the control, bro!"

"Ow!" Dipper rubbed his arm and laughed weakly. "Yeah, okay, you're right. This is what I get."

Mabel said, "You should try talking to Bill! Maybe he'll tell you stuff too. He's really easy to talk to as long as you don't mind him sometimes saying creepy nightmare things."

"And as long as you're prepared for his mental tricks," Ford said.

"Yeah! Grunkle Ford's got a whole class for that," Mabel said. "He'll teach you about the BITE model! It's how cults sink their teeth into you!"

Dipper chuckled. "Sure. Maybe I will. We're gonna be at home handing out candy for a few hours, maybe I'll find an opportunity to interrogate him."

"You're not going trick-or-treating?" Ford asked.

"No," Mabel said, with an exaggerated sigh of disappointment.

Dipper elbowed her for her theatrics; they'd already agreed on what they'd do tonight. "We've got plans with friends. But we do get to wear matching costumes again."

"Creepy ghost children!"

"Ah," Ford said. "That explains your..." He gestured at them. They were wearing a suit and a dress, old-fashioned and gray, with tattered hems and dusty black dress shoes.

"Barty helped us put the outfits together," Dipper said.

"We still need to do our makeup," Mabel said. "What about you, Grunkle Ford? What are you doing for Summerween?"

"Ah." He glanced toward the ceiling ruefully, as though he could see The Enemy in the shack through the many layers of dirt above. Summerween had been one of the things he'd missed most about Gravity Falls; even during his years as a reclusive scientist in the woods, he'd usually taken off Summerween and Halloween to hand out candy to the children bold enough to visit his house.

But Bill's eagerness to participate had sucked the fun out of the day. The thought of celebrating Summerween in the same house as Bill felt too much like celebrating with him. "Nothing, I suppose. I was planning to stay down here." He gestured at his desk. "Continue my research."

"What are you working on right now?" Dipper asked.

Ford quickly said, "Nothing. Just—the same research," and was immediately hit with a pang of guilt. Remember what happened last summer when you tried to keep secrets about Bill out of embarrassment? Reluctantly, he said, "I've... split some research duties with Fiddleford. While I'm waiting to hear back from him, I'm looking into—some magical knowledge Bill revealed. To determine how much of it's true."

Dipper looked puzzled. "Revealed when?"

Mabel slammed her hands on Ford's desk. "Grunkle Ford, you can take a break from gathering intel on the enemy for one day! It's Summerween! Promise me you'll do something to celebrate before the day's over."

Ford let out a huff, but smiled. He wanted to do something. Surely he could come up with something that would let him avoid Bill? "All right, I promise. I won't invoke the Trickster's wrath tonight. Could you leave your costume makeup in the bathroom when you're finished? I'll find something to do with it."

"Perfect!" Mabel hugged him; then grabbed Dipper's hand. "C'mon, let's finish getting dressed. The trick-or-treaters will be here any minute!"

"Okay, okay." Dipper waved at Ford as Mabel dragged him to the elevator.

When they were gone, Ford turned back to the papers Mabel had given him. Bill's childhood home... Assuming he wasn't lying, at least. But an entire blueprint seemed like a complicated spur-of-the-moment fabrication even for him. If Bill was lying, it was a lie close to the truth.

It was strange to imagine Bill as a child with a bedroom full of books. Strange to imagine Bill as a child at all. What did a young triangle look like? He couldn't imagine anything different from how Bill always looked.

The floorplan did look small. Smaller even than the apartment over the pawn shop had been. Ford tried to remember what the homes he'd seen in Exwhylia had looked like...

He raised his head as something the kids had said registered. "Barty? Who's Barty?"

####

While Mabel was downstairs, Bill inspected her box of crayons.

The wrapper around the gray crayon was coming loose.

He took the glue stick they'd been using to reinforce the paper houses with popsicle sticks and carefully stuck the wrapper back on.

The house was too quiet without anyone around to talk to. He hated the quiet.

From the corner of the living room behind the table, when Bill leaned on the wall, shut his eyes, and listened closely, he could faintly hear the hidden elevator. He headed upstairs to stow the drawing of Mabel's house somewhere safe, and then went to the downstairs bathroom to finish dressing for Summerween.

####

(Y'all I worked hard on those fake crayon drawings. Anyway I know we're all collectively going insane today over the book news but if you took time out of your day to read this, I'd love to hear what y'all think!)

[kaija-rayne-author]

Dragon Age, as a series, deserved so much better than Veilguard.

Spoilers for Veilguard and maybe other DA stuff.

Obligatory 'I'm not an asshole' disclaimer. Feel free to jump to the cut if you've read it.

Something came to my attention. I need to make it crystal clear that I utterly love the diversity in DAV. It's fantastic. I'm also a heavily left leaning, non-binary, queer as fuck reviewer, editor, and author.

I was on media blackout while I played DAV. Please be safe and take care of yourselves. Arguing with incels and white supremacists is completely pointless. They sea lion worse than an actual sea lion. Your mental health is important.

Though, every single time the anti-queer brigade comes out for a new DA game, I sit there thinking 'have you bozos ever played any DA game, like, ever?' My guess is nope.

Note. None of my writing on DA, but especially DAV, is edited. This is just my off the cuff writing. I don't have the time, energy, or heart to edit them properly.

The Solavellan romance deserved a much better end than 'die and go to fade prison'. I agree that Inky would likely be happy to leave. She's as traumatized as Solas for having to lead when she didn't want to. But I needed more than a craptastic Romeo and Juliet ending.

I refuse to do the heavy lifting for the writers. If it wasn't shown in the game or in supplementary materials, it didn't happen. Showing us the story was the writers' and devs job, not mine.

I mourn what will never be, even as I work on a Solavellan fix it fic.

How could they betray the IP so badly?

How could they betray their fanbase so badly? The fanbase that kept hope for that game alive for 10 years. I've seen so many people saying they've lost their interest or passion for the entirety of Dragon age. That they're not even remotely interested in another game because absolutely none of the choices we made in previous games matters anymore. They've wiped everything clean... or blighted it anyway. (I have absolutely no interest in another DA game. Not with Epler/Busche/Weekes involved. And whoever designed that ridiculous fighting system.)

The only way I could possibly be interested in another game would be if they loudly decanonized DAV, gave us a DLC (they've already confirmed there will be no DLC) that showed us Solas and Inky happy and not in a horrible place. One that showed us that somehow, something changed for the elves.

But that's so unlikely it's laughable.

The elves deserved a better ending. Are the survivors still enslaved or living in alienages? What actually changed for the elves except the largest portion of the Dalish being dead from blight? (That’s a real elvish win, isn't it?)

I'm a stubborn person. I refuse to let Epler's 'hate-revenge on Solas fan fic' ruin something I've loved for years. I still have the first 3 games. I'll make an actual happy ending and a decent romance for Rook in my fic.

And by the fact they paid a fortune to big gaming magazines while denying game keys to bigger honest reviewers... they knew.

They knew gamers wouldn't like it and tried to blow so much smoke up our asses with the interviews and AMAs.

How do they even sleep at night?

I'm a creative too, I write, do graphic design, digital (learning) and traditional (good) art.

My stories are important to me. They deserve not only an ending, but an ending that respects the characters, lore, and world that I've created.

My readers deserve that, too.

I, as the creator of my stories, deserve a decent, respectful ending.

Dragon age deserved it, too. A good, well thought out, and well written ending to the story of the Dreadwolf storyline, which, if you're paying attention, is intertwined through all 3 games. It's not just in Inquisition. One that made sense to the collected Lore, his struggles and mistakes, his literary role as an anti-hero.

I would never be able to do what they've done to a beloved series. I could never knowingly mislead fans like they did.

It's just a really painful reminder that beloved stories can be utterly destroyed in the wrong hands. And a reminder that there's so much talent and skill in Fan fic.

Busche worked on the Sims. No wonder the companions often feel as interesting as wet cardboard. Most Sims NPCs do, too. (I actually enjoy the Sims, but the NPCs aren't why I like it.)

And she had the gall to blame 'culture wars' and 'identity politics' for why the game is tanking. Rather than take ownership of the incredibly bad calls made for DAV.

It's just gross. I wish I could stop thinking about it. But Dragon Age got me through some tough times. It means a lot to me.

And it just deserved better. So did we.

[cherub-berry]

*:..｡o○ CRAVING SMOKE | Porco Galliard x Reader

╰┈➤ Contents: fem! reader, both Porco and reader smokes cigarettes, reader wears glasses, reader is an eldian nurse, reader carrying an injured man, mention of injury, mention of war, the aftermath of war, guilt, survivor guilt, cigarette kisses, Porco opening up, mention of Marcel, teasing and banter, writer is not good with grammar

╰┈➤ Word count: 5.9k

╰┈➤ Note: this is inspired by my illustration of Porco. I also wanted to thank my friend Ari for co-writing this fic with me, with out their help I don't think I can finish this, so a big applause for Ari!

The smell of blood and fear lingered in the air, clinging like a vice. The war had ended or so they said. But for the war veteran and survivor, it was a never-ending cycle. He stood atop his titan, smoke rising from its neck as the giant's body slumped to the ground. Porco Galliard, or as most people knew him, the Jaw Titan. The sky, once a clear blue, now darkened to shades of purple and orange, a beautiful scene if he didn’t notice the endless bodies beneath him. Eldians and Marleyans alike lay caught in the crossfire, everyone is a victim of war, even if they never participated.

Porco wishes he were a simple man with a simple dream, but what he wants is anything but simple. Yet here he is, bloodied and brooding, weighed down by the weight of a wish he never truly understood. He got what he wanted, one of the Nine Titans, but at what cost? Marcel’s death? Bertholdt’s fate? Or even the betrayal that still hangs between him and Reiner? The power, the legacy—it all feels hollow now, a cruel reminder of the sacrifices made. Each Titan form, each battle, has only deepened his pain, leaving him to wonder if the price was ever worth it.

He watches as the Warrior candidates celebrate, hugging and cheering for Gabi Braun, elated by the success of her sacrifice. He can't help but smile, ruffling her head as if to say, "Good job." But as he watches them, a bitter knot tightens in his chest. Their troop is dwindling at a rapid pace. Every single day, the enemy's weapons grow deadlier, more advanced, more terrifying. Porco himself almost tasted death recently, saved only by the Armored Titan, Reiner Braun. Meanwhile, the Warriors’ tent is filled with the sounds of laughter, men drinking tasteless alcohol and eating MREs to their heart's content. They laugh as if they don't care about what awaits them when they return home or if they'll ever return at all.

The night drags on, and eventually, the lights in the tents fade to black. Everyone is deep asleep, like corpses, except for Porco. War Chief Zeke Yeager is awake too. Zeke is focused on a book—a children's book, of all things. How peculiar, Porco thought. But this is Zeke, no one can ever guess what he's really thinking. A metallic mug of coffee is clutched in Zeke's left hand, while his right flips through the pages of the book.

"Stop staring so much, you're going to make me blush," Zeke muttered, his eyes still transfixed on the pages.

Porco raised an eyebrow, gesturing toward the book. "Is it interesting? I mean, it’s a children’s book."

Zeke glanced up briefly, taking a sip of his coffee. "It has its charms. You never know until you read it."

Porco smirked. "Charms? For a kid’s story?" He sat up on his cot. "You’re not getting soft on me, are you?"

Zeke chuckled, eyes back on the book. “Soft? Perhaps. We need more simple things in a chaotic world that's going to fall apart”

The Jaw Titan studied him for a moment, watching as the man in front of him tracing the book cover. He shrugged “can’t say I found comfort in kids’ stories. But hey, if it helps you sleep at night…”

After a long pause, Zeke smiled at him. Closing the book and finishing his coffee. “The world needs hope more that it needs war, even if it's for a brief moment”

The night hung heavy around them as Porco fell silent, he can't lie Zeke is a very interesting person, but also a dangerous one.

"Gonna go smoke for a bit," Porco said, breaking the silence.

"If I were you, I wouldn't," Zeke muttered. "The war is over for us, but not for the nurses. It’s chaos out there.”

Porco ignored Zeke’s warning and headed out into the night. The cold air hit him immediately, as a gust of wind tousled his hair. He pulled his jacket tighter around himself, exhaling smoke into the crisp night. The silence outside was different—empty, almost suffocating. He stood there for a while, letting the chill sink in, his thoughts drifting as the smoke swirled upward. Zeke’s words echoed in his mind, but he pushed them aside.

He lights a cigarette and exhales a cloud of nicotine into the frigid air, the wind growing sharper and colder. He glances into the distance, where the medical tents stand far from the others. The muffled sounds of screaming and crying drift toward him. Unlike the warriors' tent—silent, warm, and inviting, the medical tents are bright, chaotic, and soaked in blood. Curiosity tugs at him, and he steps closer. The screams grow louder, and he sees nurses rushing about, covered in blood, their faces hidden behind masks and surgical gloves.

The head nurse stumbles by, her eyes wide with panic as she clutches the gruesome bandage “what are you doing here!? Stay back,” her voice strained. “We're losing him, quickly, morphine!”.

Porco watches in silence, in awe. Cigarette forgotten as the ashes drop down to the dirt floor. Another nurse passed him, not glancing at him. Her gaze never meeting his. Zeke was right, it's war here.

Your hands are shaking as you struggle to open the morphine bottle, the lid slipping from your trembling fingers. As you fumble, your glasses slide down your nose and nearly fall off, but you barely notice, too focused on the task at hand.

Getting a syringe you dipped the needle into the bottle giving it a light tap before injecting it into the dying man, preparing him for the pain that will follow.

Time seemed to slow down for Porco as he watched the nurses rushing to help the unconscious man. Every moment felt stretched, the hurried movements of the medical staff blending into a blur of urgency, while his own focus remained locked on the scene unfolding before him.

But one nurse stood out to Porco—the woman with glasses. She didn’t appear much older than he was, yet she was carrying a half-dead man alone, her movements steady and deliberate despite the heavy burden. The sight of her, focused and determined, carrying the unconscious man toward the operating tent, struck Porco deeply. To him the woman was not only carrying his life, but the hopes of a fallen soldier.

“It's going to be okay Mr. Charlie! You're going to go home soon,” You said, gently lowering him on the bed, reassuring him and also yourself.

Nurses swarmed around the man, preparing him for surgery, while your hand trembled, heavy with the responsibility of his life.Your chest tightens, the weight of the moment pressing down, and your breath catches in your throat. It's the sudden, overwhelming realization of how fragile life is, how much is at stake in this very moment.

“(Name), you did well today. You can take the rest of the night off,” One of the older nurses said, putting on her mask and surgical gloves.

You nod quietly, too exhausted to argue. In truth, you wanted to stay—to assist the nurses, to see the surgery through. But as you turn to leave the surgical tents, the weight of your fatigue pulls you away, each step heavy as you step out into the cool night air.

The breeze brushes against your skin, a soft, fleeting touch, like a kiss that might vanish at any moment. Adjusting your glasses you finally notice a young man staring outside one of the tents, a lit cigarette dangling from his fingers. You approach him and tap his shoulder once—did he not feel it? You tap again, then speak.

“Excuse me, sir, you're not allowed to smoke here.”

“Shit, sorry.” He drops the cigarette and crushes it under his boot. His voice sounds distant, almost detached, but there’s an unmistakable tension in his posture. Though his face remains calm, his eyes reveal a different story, one of turmoil and inner conflict that he’s trying hard to hide.

You look at him from head to toe. You know this man, the infamous Jaw Titan. His face carries the unmistakable feature that haunts Liberio. Nurses often fawn over the warriors, often calling the man in front of you “a handsome asshole with a good heart”. A certain charm behind those cold and rigid eyes that will make people swoon.

Porco’s eyes met yours. And for a moment, your breath catches. There's something undoubtedly intimate in his gaze—unacknowledged attraction. The connection feels so short yet so magnetic, it makes you want his gaze even more.

“You’ve got something on your cheek,” He says, pointing to his face to clarify.

Your eyes widen slightly as you quickly wipe your cheek, only to see the dark stain of blood smeared across your skin. Maybe he wasn’t looking at your eyes after all—maybe it was your cheek he was focused on. A wave of self-consciousness hits you as you glance down at your uniform, now caked in dirt and blood. The grime and the mess suddenly seem more obvious, and you can’t shake the feeling of being exposed, like all the weight of the day’s chaos has left its mark on you.

"Thanks..." The words barely escape your throat, soft and barely audible.

"Mr. Galliard, if you're looking to smoke, I know a place." You clear your throat, hoping the sudden awkwardness doesn’t linger.

He glances at you, then back at the ground. "Oh—uh, sure. Lead the way." His tone is a mix of surprise and something else, almost like he wasn’t expecting an offer, but couldn’t refuse it either.

You lead him into the cool evening, the air carrying a sharp bite that makes the night feel even more isolated. As you walk side by side, the silence between you both is oddly comfortable. The faint crunch of gravel beneath your boots is the only sound, and you’re acutely aware of his presence beside you—his movements casual, but you can tell he’s paying attention to the surroundings.

You guide him to the back of an old, abandoned shed, though calling it a shed feels generous. It’s little more than a crumbling wooden wall with a rusted door, barely standing against the wind. The dim light from the nearby lanterns casts long shadows, adding a sense of quiet intimacy to the moment. It’s a place hidden from prying eyes, and as you both step into the shelter, the world outside feels just a little more distant, a little more forgotten.

“Here we are, enjoy your time Mr. Galliard. Goodnight,” You pivot on your heel and head back toward the nurses' tent, hoping to find some rest or at least a brief moment of peace away from the chaos.

A calloused hand reaches out, brushing against yours. You turn back, and for a split second, you catch the blonde man’s eyes. They flicker from yours to the ground, his brows furrowing in a quiet struggle, as if debating something he can’t quite put into words. He lowers his hand slowly, almost surprised by his own gesture.

“I—uh, forget it. Goodnight,” he mutters, the words awkward and heavy, like he’s wrestling with a thought he isn’t ready to share.

His eyes linger just a little longer than necessary, betraying the quiet curiosity that seems to hang in the air between you—an unspoken desire to know more, but uncertainty keeping him at arm’s length.

You know he wanted to know. The makeshift question barrelling in your head: how did you know this place? The question feels simple yet complicated.

You smile softly at him, feeling the weight of the moment shift. Sliding down the wall, you settle onto the ground, your posture casual but inviting. You pat the spot next to you, looking up at him with a quiet, unspoken request.

"Sit with me?"

For a moment, he hesitates, eyes flicking between the empty space beside you and your face, as if debating whether to break the distance or remain standing. After a beat, he lowers himself slowly, sitting beside you without a word. Shoulders almost brushing, his body heat radiating.

You slip your hand into the pocket of your uniform, pulling out a cigarette box, the edges worn from constant use. You shake it lightly, feeling the last few sticks inside, then retrieve an almost empty lighter, the flame flickering weakly at your fingertips.

“I didn't know nurses can smoke,” He says, you can hear faint hint of a smile in his voice.

“Well, we aren't supposed to,” you reply, taking a drag and letting the smoke curl up into the air, "But I still do anyway.”

He chuckles softly. "I guess some rules are meant to be bent."

You exhale slowly, watching the smoke dissipate in the cool evening air. "Maybe. But it's not exactly the healthiest habit, either way.”

“You should tell that to Zeke.” he says, a grin creeping in.

"The head nurse has," you reply with a dry laugh, "She told him to quit, but he just keeps on going. It’s like telling a cat to stop being a cat." You take a long drag, enjoying the bite of the smoke as you watch the haze swirl around you.

Porco watches you exhale another puff of smoke, his gaze following the way the smoke curls into the air. After a moment, he pulls out his own cigarette and a lighter from his jacket, biting the tip between his lips with a small grunt of concentration. He flicks the lighter, but the flame sputters out before it can catch, the tiny spark vanishing into the cool night. He shakes the lighter impatiently, then tries again, only for it to fail once more. With a frustrated sigh, he tosses the lighter aside with a muttered curse.

“Can I borrow yours?” He points toward your lighter with a half-embarrassed look.

You nod, handing it to him. He takes it and flicks the fuse multiple times, but again, the flame refuses to appear.

"Guess no cigarette for me tonight," he says, a hint of disappointment in his voice, as he hands it back to you. "Lucky you. You've got all the fire."

You chuckle softly, slipping the lighter back into your pocket. "Maybe it’s a sign you’re not meant to smoke tonight."

He smirks, rolling his eyes. "Could be.”

“Here, I'll share mine with you. Get close”

Porco raises an eyebrow, intrigued but cautious. You bring the lit cigarette back up to your lips and position it so the glowing tip is almost exactly in line with his—just a hair's breath apart, the two cigarettes hovering close. He leans in slightly, and you both, without missing a beat, gently bring your lips together, the tips of your cigarettes now nearly touching.

For a brief, intense moment, you both exhale at the same time, the smoke mixing and swirling around you, the soft glow of the lit tips connecting in a silent, almost intimate dance. The flame transfers easily between the cigarettes, igniting his with a soft hiss. He takes a quick drag as you pull back, both of you now holding your cigarettes with your lips.

"Now that’s how you light a cigarette," you say with a grin, watching him as he exhales, a small smile creeping onto his face.

Porco chuckles, still holding the cigarette between his lips. "You’re full of surprises, huh?"

You shrug casually, the smoke trailing lazily in the air. "I like to keep things interesting."

For a moment, the world feels quieter, the shared action something unspoken, just a little closer than it probably should be. A little too intimate than it should be. You lower your hand to the ground, just a breath away from his, the space between your fingers humming with an unspoken promise. You linger there, so close that the air seems to tremble with the possibility of touch, but neither of you moves.

Porco raises an eyebrow, his smirk growing as he glances at your hand, hovering near his. "Careful," he says, voice low, a teasing edge to it. "You might be getting a little too close for comfort."

You hold his gaze, a small, knowing smile playing at the corner of your lips. "Comfort’s overrated," you reply, fingers barely brushing the edge of his.

His eyes flicked between you and your hand. “You're the type to make things complicated, aren't you?

You stretch your body, your spine arching gracefully as you move, the motion fluid and effortless. His gaze follows you, intent and focused, drawn to the curve of your back with an almost predatory intensity. You feel the weight of his eyes on you, but you don't falter. As you shift, your hand drifts even closer to his, the space between you shrinking with every deliberate inch. You hold his gaze, a quiet confidence in your eyes.

"Only when it's worth it," you say, your voice soft but clear, as if the words are as much a challenge as an invitation.

Porco's gaze sharpens, he takes a slow drag from his cigarette, exhaling the gray smoke to the cold night sky. “Is this one of those moments?”

You don’t answer right away. Instead, you shift your hand a fraction closer, just enough to send a jolt of tension through the air. "Maybe," you say softly. "Maybe not."

His lips quirk upward, the challenge in his eyes clear. "You’re a tease. I kind of like it.”

The air hangs heavy with tension, thick and almost suffocating. Neither of you dares to move, as if any shift would shatter the moment. The silence between you is electric, every heartbeat magnified, the space between you pulsing with something unspoken.

“You're not going to make this easy, aren't you?” He asked, voice husky and hushed.

“Where's the fun in easy?”

"I like seeing how far I can push before things... change," you murmur, your eyes locking with his, daring him to respond.

He leans in, just a fraction, closing the distance with a teasing, almost unreadable look. "Is that what you want? To see what happens when everything shifts?”

You challenge him with a quiet smile. “Maybe I do”

Porco’s gaze flickers from your eyes to your lips, his breath catching ever so slightly. His pulse quickens, the subtle shift in his expression betraying the tension building between you both. There’s a brief hesitation, a quiet moment where it feels like time itself has paused, before his focus sharpens again, drawn in by something deeper, something he can’t quite pull away from.

“You're going to keep looking, or do something about it?” You challenged.

He chuckles softly, a low rumble vibrating between you two. “You sure you want me to?”

“You're the one getting closer.”

His hand shifts just slightly, brushing against yours, and for a split second, you think he might pull away. But then, his fingers curl around yours, slow and deliberate, the touch grounding in a way that feels more intimate than anything that’s come before.

"Guess you’re right" he murmurs, his voice barely above a breath. "Maybe I’ve already done something about it ”

You take his hand in yours, your fingers gently tracing the rough lines of his calloused skin. The touch is tender, lingering, as if you're mapping out the very contours of his hand, feeling the strength in every worn ridge.

His soft lips graze yours, a delicate touch that lingers in the air. The scent of cigarettes, faint and smoky, clings to him, but it fades as you close your eyes and melt into his kiss. In that moment, the world blurs—the chaos, the noise—everything softens, leaving just the rhythm of his breath and the warmth of his presence.

The touch of his warm hand feels like a warm lantern in the dark and cold of the night. It's a comfort, a reassurance that you never knew you needed until now. You wish for nothing more than his touch, his presence, to stay with you, to never let go. In this fleeting moment, everything else fades away, and all that matters is the warmth of his hand in yours. You never want to leave this small, perfect moment.

You pull apart first, your cheek flushed, the rush of blood making your head spin. You’ve kissed others before—men and women, but none of those kisses were like this. Not this urgent, not this brief. There’s something about it that stirs something deeper inside you. You feel shy, vulnerable, as if something sacred has just unfolded between you. His warm eyes meet yours, looking at you with such intensity that it threatens to overwhelm you. Something catches in your throat, and you blink rapidly, fighting back tears. It’s a moment you never want to forget, a fleeting piece of time you wish you could hold on to forever.

“Are you okay?” He asked softly, hand caressing yours.

You swallow, steadying your breath. “I—yeah, just… I never felt like this. Its so different.”

“Different good, I hope?” He said softly, placing his forehead gently against yours.

You nodded, the closeness is making your heart race. “Yeah, different good”

He stays there for a heartbeat longer, unwilling to pull away, as if afraid the quiet connection between you might vanish the moment he does. The world around you is eerily still—too still for a soldier like him. It feels too gentle, too faint, a softness he's not accustomed to. His heart beats faster, the silence pressing in around you both.

You rest your head to his shoulder, looking at the cigarette in your hand so fondly. “It's so…quiet”

He shifts slightly, his warmth pressing against you, grounding you in the quiet. “Yeah,” he says softly, his voice almost drowned by the peace surrounding you both. “Feels strange, doesn’t it?” He takes a long drag from his cigarette, the smoke curls upwards, disappearing into the night.

“I feel like a storm is about to happen” You whispered, voice certain. The words hang in the air, as if they were supposed to happen.

He turned towards you, his expression unreadable for a moment as he studied your face. "Ugh, I hate this," He muttered, a dry humor lacing his voice. "After this hell of a storm, there's another one waiting. What a drag." He let out a short, humorless chuckle, but his face remained unreadable, the tension in his eyes betraying the joke.

“A warrior can’t catch a break, huh?” You teased, a grin playing at the edges of your lips.

“Nope,” he shot back, the word blunt, almost with a hint of amusement, as if the irony of it all wasn’t lost on him.

“Honestly, if I were a Titan Shifter, there’s no way I’d have the guts to bite my hand or slice it open to transform,” You say, chuckling at the thought of it.

He takes a drag from his cigarette, exhaling the smoke with a grin. "You should try it, it’s a real rush." He taps the cigarette, letting the ashes fall to the ground.

You shake your head, smiling “Uh—huh, sure. ‘cause nothing says fun like turning into a giant nutcracker wrecking everything in sight.”

“It's oddly therapeutic, you should try it sometime. Nothing like the feeling of smashing stuff to really clear your head.”

The banter continues, but with each passing minute, the mood shifts. Your laughter fades, swallowed by the deeper currents of the conversation. You both sit there, the world moving around you, but the two of you remain anchored to the moment, surrounded by the haze of smoke and words that were meant to be light but now feel heavy.

Your cigarette, now little more than a smoldering nub, threatens to fall, but neither of you moves to snuff it out. It's one of those moments that doesn’t seem to need much attention, as if the world’s outside the bubble you’ve created. A bubble where jokes come easy and laughter rings free, even though neither of you could be further from truly being carefree.

You glance over at him—the man beside you, Porco Galliard. The man who has seen and done things you couldn’t even begin to imagine. The man whose hands have taken countless lives for the sake of his country, soldiers who never had a chance. The man who wears the burden of the Titan Shifters curse like a second skin. And yet, despite all of that, here he is, sitting beside you, casually flicking ash from his cigarette as if this were the most normal conversation in the world.

"You think smashing things is fun?" you ask again, this time with less sarcasm, more curiosity. A genuine question.

Porco pauses, his gaze shifting toward the horizon for a moment. When he speaks, his voice is steady but edged with something darker. "I'm smashing things because of orders. It's not fun at all. It's torture.”

“You ever get tired of it?" You ask, not sure what answer you're hoping for. You expect him to laugh, to brush it off, maybe even make another joke. But instead, he seems to sink deeper into his thoughts, his gaze fixed on something distant.

“Tired? You don't get tired. You just keep going, that's all you can do. You just keep moving and hope that you're not too far gone to realize you've lost everything.”

His words hang in the air, heavy and final, but you can see it in his eyes—he knows the truth. He’s lost everything. The weight of it settles around him like a shroud, suffocating, unspoken. He still has his parents, but that’s not enough. Not without Marcel. Without Marcel, what’s left for him? The bond they shared, the brotherhood, was the one thing that tethered him to something real, something that made the endless violence and sacrifice bearable. But now, in the aftermath, it’s all gone.

You listen to Porco’s words, and for a moment, the air between you feels thick, like there’s more than just the weight of the conversation in that space. There’s something you both share now, something you never thought you’d relate to.

Your fingers brush the cold metal of the lighter in your pocket, instinctively reaching for it. You’ve held it a thousand times before, but tonight, it feels heavier than it ever has. The two wings carved into the surface—delicate and intricate—are a reminder of a place you can never go back to, a memory that’s already fading at the edges. A gift from back home. A piece of something you’ve left behind, but it doesn’t feel like a gift anymore. It feels like a weight.

Guilt surges up from somewhere deep inside you, twisting your stomach. You close your eyes for a brief second, overwhelmed by the flood of memories that rush in. Home, warmth, faces you can’t recall without pain. The weight of responsibility that was thrust upon your shoulders—too young, too unprepared, yet here you are, carrying the same heavy burden that Porco now bears, the same impossible task of surviving a world that seems to demand too much.

Your hand tightens around the lighter, but the feeling of loss doesn’t ease. It only makes the ache sharper, a reminder that you can’t go back, and you can’t undo what’s already been done.

“I have also lost some important people in my life, the people that have shaped me to be who I am now.”

The words slip out before you can stop them, and for a brief moment, you almost regret saying anything at all. But there's a truth in it, something raw and real that hangs in the air between you both. The people who helped mold you, who gave you purpose, who made you feel human—those are the ones that stick with you, long after they’re gone. And it’s their absence that leaves the deepest scars.

“It’s like they’re still with you, but not really,” you add, your voice distant. “You carry them with you, but sometimes it feels like they’re just ghosts. And all you can do is try to make sense of it all, even when it doesn’t make sense anymore.”

"You know," he says after a beat, the humor in his voice gone, replaced by something more subdued, "sometimes I wonder if I'd be less of a mess if he was still around. Maybe he could’ve talked me out of some of the shit I’ve done.”

You don’t respond right away. The shift in his tone isn’t lost on you. It’s not the playful jab you’d been expecting, but something rawer, something closer to the truth than either of you had expected to share.

"You don't need him to tell you what’s right or wrong, Porco," you say softly, trying to keep the conversation grounded. "You’ve been making your own choices for a long time now. Maybe it’s time you stop leaning on ghosts to figure out what you’re doing.”

Porco’s gaze flickers toward you, a wry smile tugging at his lips, though it doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Guess you’re right. But it sure would’ve been nice to have someone who actually got it. Someone who didn't treat me like a fucking weapon.”

You feel the words hit you harder than expected. "You know, you’re not just a weapon, Porco. And you’re not the only one who's ever felt like one." The words spill out before you can stop them, the quiet vulnerability in your own voice surprising even you. You didn’t expect to be the one offering comfort here, but somehow, it feels right.

Porco takes a long moment to respond, staring at the cigarette between his fingers before flicking the ash off into the night. “Yeah, well, it’s hard not to feel like one when that’s all anyone’s ever used you for.”

You don’t have an answer for that. Instead, you let the quiet settle in again, the space between you two filled with an understanding that doesn’t need words.The conversation, like everything else, eventually fades into something quieter, easier. But there’s still the lingering feeling that, despite the ghosts, despite the weight of everything that’s been said and done, you’re both still here. Still standing. Still breathing.

“Maybe one day we’ll stop letting the past haunt us so much,” you say, almost to yourself, more as a hope than a statement. "Maybe then we’ll figure out who we really are, without all the ghosts.”

Porco glances at you, that familiar smirk returning, though there’s something softer about it now. "Maybe. But I wouldn’t hold my breath."

You grin, nudging him lightly with your shoulder. “Yeah, well, we’ve been breathing this long, haven’t we?”

The two of you share a quiet laugh, and for a moment, the world feels a little lighter, the weight of the past suspended in the air around you. The sound of your laughter breaks the tension, and you take a deep breath, letting it all go for just a second.

You glance down at the short bud of your cigarette, finally snuffing it out on the ground, watching as the small amber glow fades.

"This has been one interesting conversation, don't you think?" you say, a grin tugging at the corners of your lips.

"Yeah, it has been," he says, his voice softening a bit. "I kinda enjoyed this..." He glances at you for a moment, his expression unexpectedly earnest, before looking down and snuffing out his own cigarette.

You yawn, the small droplets of tears gathering at the corners of your eyes. The conversation had been so engaging, so full of playful teasing and back-and-forth, that you hadn't even noticed how tired you were becoming. The words and laughter had kept you wide awake, but now, with the sudden stillness between you two, the exhaustion caught up to you all at once.

You rub your eyes, stifling another yawn, and glance at Porco. "Guess I didn’t realize how tired I was," you admit, your voice a bit slower now. "This conversation’s been so much fun, I almost forgot about sleep.”

Porco glances at you, a small smirk tugging at his lips. "Didn’t think a conversation could wear you out," he says, his tone light but with a hint of amusement. "Guess I’m just that interesting, huh?"

You let out a soft laugh, rubbing your eyes. "I think it’s just a combination of you and how late it’s gotten.”

Feeling the drowsiness creeping in fully now. Porco watches you for a moment, his smirk replaced with something more genuine. "Take care of yourself, alright? Don’t keep your bed waiting.”

You flash him a tired smile, nodding.”I'll try, need a shower first though. See you around, Mr. Galliard.”

You pivot on your heel, heading toward the nurses' barrack, but suddenly stop, realizing you’ve forgotten something. Turning back, you casually call over your shoulder, “Oh, and if you ever need some tender, love, and care, just head to the Marley Military Hospital and ask for (Name) (Last name).” You drop your name nonchalantly, a playful glint in your eyes.

As you glance back, you catch Porco scratching the back of his neck, his ears tinged pink, a smirk tugging at his lips. He seems caught off guard, yet amused by your casual remark.

The man glanced at you one last time before walking back in the opposite direction, a strange warmth settling in his chest. There was a sense of closeness, an unspoken connection that lingered in the air. He knew he’d see you again.

As he entered the barrack and made his way to his cot, a giddy excitement bubbled up inside him, the feeling of anticipation and something more—something he couldn’t quite place, leaving him smiling to himself as he settled in for the night.

As he lay down on his cot, the blanket feeling unusually warm around him, a smile spread across his face. There was something about the way you had casually dropped your name, something about the playful teasing and the easy way you two had connected, that had stirred something inside him. It wasn’t just the usual flirtation, it felt like the start of something new, something exciting.

He turned onto his side, eyes closing, but his mind was far from the quiet darkness of the barracks. Instead, it was filled with the memory of your smile, the sound of your voice, and that small spark of warmth he couldn’t ignore.

His heart thudded with that familiar feeling like the glow of a new flame flickering to life. It was different from anything he’d felt before, but it was real. He could feel it deep in his chest, the flutter of excitement, the anticipation of what might come next.

He chuckled quietly to himself, shaking his head as he finally allowed himself to drift off to sleep, his thoughts still lingering on you. He had a feeling that this new connection—this spark was only just the beginning.

Just like the cigarettes, the two of you had snuffed out the conversation, the words fading into silence. What had been a lively, playful exchange now rested quietly, the air still with the echoes of your teasing and laughter. As the both of you walked away, the moment came to an end, leaving behind a comfortable sense of finality, like the last ember of a cigarette dying out. The connection had been made, and now, it was simply a matter of waiting for the next time.

[brockkboeserr]

bad at love

Breaking your brother's only unspoken rule—don't date his teammates—has never been an issue in your adult life. Until now.

pairing: jt compher x reader

warnings: angstttt, smut, a minor car accident with mentions of injury (broken bone/concussion), and the usual (alcohol, swearing, etc. etc.)

word count: 4.9k

a/n: hiiiiii @comphy-and-cozy i'm your super secret fic exchange writer! sorry this is a day late and a dollar short. one of these days @wyattjohnston is going to perma-ban me from participating in exchanges. until that date she remains my ever loyal editor. mad thanks to @thomasschabot for reading it first and telling me they loved it even though they're contractually obligated to do so and for physically being there when the fic idea popped into my head <3

It’s not the first time you’ve shown up at your big brother’s house with a face full of tears and a couple bags full of all your worldly possessions. Despite your best efforts and well intentions—if you had to guess—it likely won’t be the last. 

It is the first time you’ve done so with him being a married man, and so it’s your sister-in-law whose comfort you really seek and are expecting to pop up behind the slowly opening door in front of you. 

Unfortunately for you, and for the poor soul you really don’t know that well, it’s not Kenzy who opens the door but the over-the-summer pick-up from Colorado. 

If it had been any of the other, more tenured of your brother's teammates, you might have been waved inside with nothing more than a sympathetic glance and an unspoken ‘again?’. 

Instead, JT’s look of utter confusion has quickly evolved into something more akin to a quiet rage, and you’re reminded that he is a big brother himself. The look is familiar to you, having inspired a similar one on Dylan’s face more times than you can count. 

It’s been a really fucking long day, and you don’t have the emotional bandwidth to have any sort of reckoning with some guy you barely know in your brothers drive way. 

JT’s in the middle of some sort of sentence that begins and also ends with “What—” as you none too gently push past him in order to finally gain entry to the house. 

The mix of sympathy and feigned disinterest that greets you on the faces of your brothers teammates who occupy the large sitting room has your stomach rolling uncomfortably. It seemed like the entirety of the Detroit Red Wings were always around to witness your spectacular failures. What must they think, watching you disappear with the next great love of your life, only to reappear once again with bags packed in a manner of months?

You could hazard a guess at what your brother thinks, the variants of ‘I told you so’ that live and die on his tongue without ever leaving his lips. He wraps you up in an infamous Larkin hug that serves to fix a tiny crack of your broken heart, and so you revel in it like you used to revel in the comfort when the pain you felt was because of falling off the monkey bars when you were a kid. 

But, he has a house full of hockey players to entertain and Kenzy has a glass of wine with your name on it. Dylan returns to the living room and you slide out to the back porch with your sister-in-law, briefly catching the eye of the one who let you in. You don’t see the telltale signs of judgment reflecting back at you, but maybe something else entirely. 

Outside you pour your soul alongside the Malbec. Curled up on the wicker chair under a blanket you tell Kenzy about Owen and the promises he failed to keep. She oohs and ahs at the appropriate times, commiserating without belittling you. 

By the end of the night your heart—and the bottle of wine—feels a little lighter. There’s a little less shame as you make yourself at home in the spare bedroom that might as well permanently be yours. 

Owen visits you in your sleep, breaking your heart again and again until his face morphs into one with a ginger beard and kind eyes. 

-

Those kind eyes become a fixture in your post breakup life. If he’s not hanging around your brother's house, he’s bumping into you at the local coffee shop you frequent when you’re in Detroit. If he’s at neither, he’s obviously at the games you attend in support of Dylan alongside Kenzy. 

At Dylan’s, you barely speak to his teammates and friends beyond simple pleasantries. At your coffee shop, it starts at small talk but grows to be considerable conversations that dip just below surface level. 

It’s at Little Caesars Arena where he really endears himself to you though. Warm ups are arguably your favorite part of the games you attend. You like to look out at the signs, from the heartwarming to the obscene—picking out your favorites and giggling about the latter with your sister in law. 

Dylan’s always been really good about tossing kids pucks, and his big bleeding heart only grew larger when he got the red C strapped to his chest. Some of the other guys, even some of the so-called vets are less good about it. 

JT’s just like Dylan, maybe even a little kinder hearted. He takes the time to read the signs that are meant for him, never turns down a trade for a puck and even gives a stick to a kid whose sign says he came all the way from Denver to watch him, his favorite player, play in Detroit. 

It warms your heart. 

So much so you don’t even notice you’re staring until Dylan’s slamming himself into the boards in front of you to startle his wife. She rolls her eyes and calls him a name not worth repeating while you try to pretend like you weren’t just fixated on his teammate. 

The thing is Dylan has never outright said his teammates are off limits. Not since you were a teenager making eyes at his USNTDP teammates anyway. 

The memory keeps you from looking JT’s way the rest of the warmups, but once the puck drops your eyes can’t help but wander. 

-

Wandering appears to be your specialty, considering you’ve gotten yourself lost in the underbelly of the arena. 

Your first mistake was leaving Ken’s side—she was your ferryman, guiding you down the River Styx, and without her, you were lost in Hell. 

Were you overdramatic? Maybe. Were you lost with no hope of getting out? Still overdramatic, but definitely a possibility. 

The walls begin to look the same, and you’re half worried you’ve accidentally fallen into a back room or something stupid when you stumble upon the one who caught your eye earlier. 

‘Stumble upon’ is a gracious way of saying you absolutely smack into him and fall on your ass. 

He hauls you up effortlessly with one hand and your skin burns beneath his grasp. 

“What are you doing?” you both say in near unison before he laughs. 

“I was getting my shoulder checked out, what are you doing all the way over here? Are you lost?”

Regardless of what he was doing, JT obviously has more of a reason to be found wandering the halls of the arena. And he’s right, you’re most definitely lost but you play it off like he’s crazy. 

“Me? Lost? No, I know exactly where we are,” you bluff. 

JT’s eyebrows raise and he nods slowly. “Which is…?”

Well, he’s called your bluff but he also gave you a key context clue. “Near the athletic trainer, obviously.” 

He laughs again and it has your cheeks feeling hot. 

“Okay fine, maybe I’m a little bit lost and maybe I was contemplating how I’d be trapped down here forever before you knocked me over.”

“I’m sorry, but you ran into me.” You roll your eyes and begin to argue, but he doesn’t let that happen. “Doesn’t matter, I can help you find your way out.”

You swoon dramatically, only half joking as you reply “My hero.”

Now that you’re no longer focused on navigating your way out of Pan’s Labyrinth, you’re free to focus on your close proximity to JT. Based on the way his eyes dart between meeting your own and staring at your lips, you assume he’s just as aware.

Is this not what you’ve been wanting since you knocked on Dylan’s door? But that’s part of the problem, and you’re sure JT is thinking the same. Not only is your brother his teammate—and you’ve always been off limits to your brother's teammates to your chagrin growing up—but he’s JT’s captain, too. There’s a million ways this thing could go wrong and blow up in both of your faces. 

You could get caught, and be forced to sit with Dyl’s disappointment. You could hurt the one person in your life who consistently showed up for you and loved you and cared for you. 

Not to mention you could risk it all for nothing—could crash and burn spectacularly as you were wont to do. Could fuck it all up with not only your brother, but JT too and be left with nothing. It wouldn’t be the first time you’d gone behind your brother’s back, but you had a sneaking suspicion things would be worse than they were when you were 15 to his 16. 

Ultimately you decide fuck it, because what’s life without a little risk?

Tentatively, you slide your hand over the rough beard covering his jaw. When he doesn’t flinch or move away from you, you lean in closer. 

He’s not pulling away, but he’s also not moving closer, letting you make the first move. 

It’s probably a terrible fucking idea, but you’ve never been accused of being someone who makes good decisions when it comes to romantic partners. 

The first press of your lips to his is cautious, barely a brushing of your mouths, just to get a taste. Quickly you become a woman obsessed. Unable to get enough, the kisses turn frenetic, bordering on sloppy. 

He reciprocates in kind, his mouth hot and heavy on yours while his hands grasp and pull and hold. His very essence consumes you, taking over all of your five senses and pulling noises from you that you didn’t know existed. 

If your arm burned from his grasp earlier, your entire body has caught fire. 

You’re unaware or probably more accurately uncaring of your public nature, despite your earlier hesitance. Now you just want more and more and more of JT, as much as he is willing to give and maybe even a little more. 

He seems to be on the same page, entire body wrapping around you and pulling you deeper and deeper. 

Unconsciously your hands begin to pull at the waistband of his pants and it’s then that the two of you finally separate. 

You’re worried you’re going to find regret in his eyes and excuses on his tongue, but he’s just looking at you intently. 

“Not like this,” he says. “Not here.”

“I don’t want to wait,” you protest, but he shushes you with his mouth. 

“It’ll be worth the wait.” 

And worth the wait it is. 

-

It's sexy at first. Clandestine meetings in dark hallways, sneaking in and out of JT’s apartment that’s on the same floor as Jake Walman’s, covert texts and quiet phone calls where you get off on the sound of each other's voices. 

It doesn’t take long for you to want more, though. To fantasize about not just what his calloused hands can do to your body, but what it would be like to hold one in your own while walking down the street. To show up at a home game and have everyone know you were there to support not only your brother, but JT too. 

It’s a fantasy that is only stoked by the comfort you feel walking around JT’s apartment in just his t-shirt with his number on the shoulder. By nights spent together at his dinner table, on his couch, in his bed. By sweet texts and stupid memes and random photos of things that made him think of you. 

You don’t dare speak your desires out loud though. For fear of JT not wanting the same thing or for fear that he would, you’re not quite sure. 

It’s a tough situation to be in. One where you’re worried you're heading to a fork in the road that has JT on one side and your brother on the other. 

You have no delusions about the two paths eventually forging back together again, know that you’ve come dangerously close to that intersection marked with a big fat caution sign. 

Probably you should speak to JT, get on the same page about where you’ve been and where you’re going. Following that, assuming he secretly yearns for the same thing you do, you should probably then come clean to Dylan. 

Probably you should do a lot of things, but unfortunately what is done in the dark always comes to the light and sometimes it happens quicker than you can make your mind up. 

-

A road win presumably has JT in a good mood. He’s texted you letting you know he’ll be home before midnight, requesting your presence in his bed. 

It’s an easy yes, considering you’re already in the aforementioned bed. It’s nice to get out of Dylan’s house, of the suffocating feeling that you’re intruding in someone else’s home, on someone else’s life. 

There’s really nothing particularly sexy about the way he finds you, but his eyes darken upon finding you curled up in his bed just the same. You’re not attempting to recreate a sexy pose from a boudoir photo shoot, and one of JT’s shirts and a pair of boy shorts aren’t exactly fancy lingerie. 

That doesn’t stop him from dropping his bag dramatically and stripping from his dress shirt and pants. 

“Awfully presumptuous,” you say as if the very fact that you’re in his bed in not much more clothing than he is. 

He shrugs, “Not presuming anything. I’m fine if you just want to sleep, but I’m sure as shit not going to sleep in those dress pants. Bad enough I had to sit through a plane ride like that.”

His tone is teasing, but the implication that he would be just as fine falling asleep beside you as anything else pretty well takes all the fight out of you. 

“C’mere,” you say instead of a catchy comeback, lifting the covers and inviting him into his own bed. 

He wastes no time sliding in beside you and curling up around your body. “Hi.”

You snort and hide your face in his neck. “Corny.”

“I’ll show you corny,” he says, but you shush him by pulling his face closer to yours until your lips brush. 

“Thought I was presumptuous,” he says upon breaking the kiss. 

You roll your eyes—“Shut up.”—and kiss him again. 

He doesn’t manage to keep his mouth shut, but at least this time it’s to slip his tongue into your mouth. 

The temperature of the room rapidly increases—between the weight of his body covering your own and your body’s reaction to his fervid kiss, you feel the need to lose at least one item of clothing. 

“I need—“

Luckily he quickly understands what you’re trying to accomplish by pulling at the hem of your shirt, lifting off of you long enough to assist in removing it from your body. 

He makes a noise of appreciation at the bare skin revealed to him before diving back into your lips, this time with one hand cupping your right breast. 

Appreciative noises of your own build in your throat when that hand slides down your body to dip into your underwear. It’s teasing touches at first, until you reciprocate by cupping him through his boxer-briefs. 

Finally you both shed that last remaining layer, uncaring of where they end up in the bedroom. There’s a brief pause while he rolls on a condom and then he’s entering your body like it was made for him and him alone. 

There’s no rush about his pace, just gentle thrusts and soft moans and sweet praises. 

Sex with JT is so good, better than with anyone else you’ve ever been with. He’s the very opposite of a lazy, selfish lover. It’s like your needs and your pleasure come first, and you certainly do too. 

The positioning of your bodies is so intimate, bodies close, mouths slotted over each other with intermingling breaths. 

You worry you’re getting too caught up in that intimacy, possibly running in a direction not quite warranted and so you seek to depersonalize it a touch. 

“Let me,” you say softly while gently pressing a hand against his shoulder, indicating you want him to lay on his back. He moves willingly, even helping you climb atop him. 

It feels just as good with you on top, and the bit of distance between your upper halves means you can breathe a bit better. 

It’s easy to get lost in the feeling, to tilt your head back and focus on your movements and the feel of his bruising grip on your hips. 

Feeling the pressure build in your stomach, you slide a hand down your abdomen to where your bodies meet while the other grasps your breast just for something to hold on to. The added friction to your clit is pulling you closer and closer as you move on top of him. 

He’s staring up at you with lust filled eyes, mouth open in a mix of awe and pleasure. A look of almost disbelief on his face. His hands are still on your hips, now helping the movement of your body on his when your body lights up like the fourth of July with your orgasm. 

It’s hard to keep moving while in the throes of pleasure, but it’s like JT can read your mind, gripping your hips and thrusting up into you until he finishes too. 

Your whole body tingles as you collapse on top of him, relishing in the feel of his arms wrapping around your body. Leisurely you kiss for a minute, until your heart rate returns to normal and you feel like you’re not likely to fall over when going to the bathroom to clean up. 

When you return, you’ve slipped on one of his shirts once again. There's a soft look on his face as you crawl into bed beside him. It only cracks when you quietly whisper, “should we order pizza?”

“I think you’re the girl of my dreams,” he laughs. 

The room is quiet, filled with only the sounds of your breathing and occasional kissing as you wait for the delivery. 

Finally the doorbell rings. “I got it,” you tell JT and pull on a pair of discarded sweatpants before pulling the drawstring so they don’t fall. 

You don’t bother to check the peephole, certain it’s your food which turns out to be a giant mistake. 

Not only is it not your pizza, it’s also the last person you want to catch you with sex hair in oversized clothing that obviously belongs to the guy you’ve just had sex with. 

Dylan’s mouth has dropped so far down it would be comical if it wasn’t also horrifying. 

“Dylan I–” you start to explain yourself but pause midway through. How could you even begin to explain?

“I can’t believe this.” He shakes his head, hands curling at his side. “Actually no, I can’t believe this from JT, I can definitely believe this from you.” 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” you snap. 

Your brother laughs sardonically, “Well you’re not exactly known for making the right decisions when it comes to relationships.”

JT exits his room, no doubt lured by the loud voices and the lack of food. “Hey man, come on, let's talk about this like adults.”

“Like adults?” Dylan is incensed in a way you’ve never seen before. “Now you want to talk about things like adults? The time to talk was before you started sleeping with my sister behind my back.”

“I’m sorry you found out like this–” JT continues to try to defend himself, defend you while you stand there speechless. 

Dylan interrupts, “Sorry I found out or sorry you got caught?”

JT goes to respond but Dylan cuts him off again. “I trusted you dude. I told you she was off limits, and not only did you ignore me, you went behind my back.” He then turns to you. “And you? My teammate? Seriously? You couldn’t have chosen literally any other douchebag to treat you wrong?”

That snaps you out of your stupor. “JT doesn’t treat me bad!”

A different kind of look crosses your older brother's face then. “Well when he does, don’t come running back to my house and crying to me.” 

Dylan slams the door and you sit in the quiet of the room for a minute with your ears ringing. 

The reality of the situation hits you. 

“I can’t stay there, God not only am I a fuck up but I’m homeless too.”

“You can always stay here,” JT offers and it really bothers you that you can’t tell if he wants you to, or if he’s just offering because of his hand in the most recent blow up of your life. 

“I’m pretty sure his baby sister shacking up with his teammate he doesn’t want her with isn’t exactly going to win me any favors with Dyl,” you reply. 

“Well I’m pretty sure he’d rather you be here than living on the street.”

Ordinarily you think that would probably be true but the look on his face when you opened JT’s door is seared into your mind. “I wouldn’t be so sure.”

-

In the end you do move your things into JT’s apartment. Kenzy is the accomplice to your crime, helping you pack your things while the team has practice, wrapping you in her arms and telling you that he just needs some time. 

“He loves you,” she says. 

You’re not so sure. 

That’s probably overdramatic. You’re sure he loves you, and you sure hope he forgives you. You’re just worried that this time you’ve both done and said things you can’t take back and you’re not sure how things will move forward from here. 

It’s not all bad though. 

Living with JT is surprisingly easy, even right one might say. You fit directly into each other's lives like perfect puzzle pieces. His strict routines of practices and morning skates and games—both home and away—allow you the space to complete your own work on your own time. Cooking pregame meals together and curling up beside him when he takes his pregame naps quickly become some of your favorite activities. 

You dance around the feelings talk, never quite broaching the subject. But it can’t feel this right if it’s all one sided, all in your head, right?

He’s even kind enough to let you drive his SUV even though the price tag makes you nervous every time you’re behind the wheel. You’re not a bad driver, as evidenced by the fact JT lets you drive the Audi, but you are possibly on this side of over cautious as a result of a bad car accident in high school. 

Three home games after your fight with Dylan and approximately zero words or text messages exchanged between the two of you, you find yourself in the passenger seat. 

“I could have taken the bus,” you protest weakly, almost knowing exactly what JT’s response will be. 

“Over my dead body,” he laughs, eyes flickering over to you before focusing on the traffic in front of him. “Just pick me up after practice or text me if you’re still out and I’ll find a ride.” 

“I’m not gonna leave you stranded at the arena, of course I’ll be there after you’re done.” 

It’s oddly domestic, kissing JT across the console and then sliding into the driver’s seat that he vacates. You wait as he grabs his gear and walks away, you do really love watching him walk away. 

The moment is cut short by catching a glimpse of your brother's vehicle. He’s not in it, obviously already inside the arena, but the sight of it makes your stomach clench all the same. 

Thoughts of Dylan and his disappointment and worry that he’ll never forgive you flood your mind the entire drive. So much so that when the next light turns green, you let off the gas without realizing that there is a larger SUV running the red. 

It all happens so fast. The screeching of tires, the crunching of metal, the pop of airbags going off and then a blinding pain in your wrist. 

In the end, you’re pushed into the wrong lane of traffic, the other vehicle damn near in the passenger seat you occupied only fifteen minutes ago. There’s a distinct ringing in your ears and you offhandedly wonder if this is what it feels like to get boarded. 

“Are you okay? I’m calling 911.” The words sound like they’re underwater, and it takes you several seconds to realize they’re being spoken to you. Turning your head to the side, you try to get the words out to say you’re fine, but you’re blocked by the airbag that has gone off near your head. 

Emergency services come quickly, a perk of living in Detroit you suppose. Embarrassingly, it takes the jaws of life to peel off the driver's side door to get you out. A cop takes your statement and then you end up in the back of an ambulance. Despite your assurances that you’re fine, one raised eyebrow from the female paramedic and the idea that you’ve probably broken your wrist has you agreeing to the ER visit. 

It’s then that someone asks you if there’s anyone you want to call. Heartbreakingly, your first thought is Dylan and your second thought is you’re not sure he’ll pick up. 

Your third thought is JT and his SUV that you’ve probably totaled. 

One of the paramedics helps you dial the equipment manager’s number, the one you were instructed to only ever use in case of emergencies. If ever there was a reason…

When he picks up the phone, you have to explain that you’ve gotten into a tiny fender bender and if you could please speak with JT and yes I mean JT not Dylan. 

“Are you okay?” JT all but demands when he picks up the phone. 

“I’m totally fine,” you fib, and then concede based on that same female paramedic once again raising an eyebrow. “Okay so I might have broken my wrist but–”

“Which hospital are you going to?” he interrupts. 

You tell him, but try to say, “It’s okay you don’t have to–”

He interrupts again, “I’ll be right there.”

He hangs up quicker than you can ask how he’s going to get there without the car that you’ve wrecked. 

True to his word, he’s sitting on a chair in your hospital room when you return from getting an x-ray. He stands abruptly upon your entrance and takes the three strides to stand in front of you before hesitating, like you’re made of glass. 

You take matters into your own hands and slide your good arm around his back, careful to not jostle your injured wrist. There's a slight tremor to his body that you feel run through yours. 

“I’m okay,” you say comfortingly, rubbing your good hand along his back before pausing. “Your car though….”

The tears are already starting to pool in your waterline as he pulls back. 

His hands slide to cup your jaw as he speaks seriously, “I don’t give a damn about the car. It can be replaced, you can’t.” A tear slips out before you can stop it and he brushes it away with his thumb before kissing you softly. “I care about you. So much. And that phone call scared the shit out of me.”

Despite the less than stellar background and circumstances, his words have your heart leaping in your chest. “I really care about you too,” you whisper and kiss him again. 

“Where is she?” you hear coming down the hall and it occurs to you that your brother is still your emergency contact. 

“Did you tell him?” you ask JT who promptly shakes his head. 

You don’t even have time to step back from JT’s embrace before Dylan comes crashing into the room. JT wisely pulls away and gives Dylan the space to place his hands on your shoulders and scan for any signs of injury. 

“I’m okay,” you reassure him but the words feel hollow considering they’re the first you’ve said to him in more than a week. “Broken wrist they’re gonna cast and probably a concussion. Can’t say the same for the car.”

Eerily similar to JT, Dylan replies, “Cars can be replaced–”

“But I can’t,” you say in unison with him. “I know, JT said the same thing.” 

It’s like Dylan remembers his teammate then, eyes sliding over to where JT stands and then back down to your slowly purpling wrist. 

The room is silent except for the sounds of medical equipment and the faint sounds occurring outside the door. 

“I’m sorry,” you say in unison with your brother again. 

“No, I'm sorry,” he says first. “I’m your big brother and I’ve seen you get your heart broken too many times. I’m always going to worry about you but I was out of line.”

“I’m sorry we went behind your backs and I’m sorry you found out that way. We should have just talked to you, I should have just talked to you.” 

“Truce?” he asks, like you’re 10 and 11 again, fighting over something silly and trivial. 

“Truce,” you confirm, hissing when you knock your broken wrist as you pull him in for a hug. 

Later, when you’ve gotten over the guilt of totaling JT’s barely used Audi and the cast on your wrist is long gone,  it’ll be a fun story to tell at parties. About how it took an idiot running a red light for you to define your relationship with JT and to reconcile with your brother. 

[itgetzweird08]

Stuck.

Katsuki Bakugo x Gender Neutral!Reader Angst Hcs

A fic based on July by Noah Cyrus (I am so NOT sorry for this :)

Warnings: Nothing major, just mentions of drinking, implied cheating, and heavy language. Also general angst

A/N: I know a lot of y'all want the next part of Endevour's Secret Daughter and The Spark That Lit His Fuse. I'm working on it I swear, just got a little writer's block. But I promise I'll get it done soon! For now, enjoy this sob fest :))

I've been holding my breath

I've been counting to ten

Over something you said 

The stress of growing as a hero was heavy, of course, you knew, but recently Bakugo seemed to be taking it out on you. When there was a bad mission, he would come home with a hard slam of the door, sparing you nothing but a hard glare. He would push you off and away when you would offer comfort, and when you tried to suggest he take a breath, he raised his voice to you.

“Can you get fuckin lost? Hell, I wish you would stop being so fucking annoying!”

I've been holding back tears

While you're throwing back beers

I'm alone in bed

This wasn’t a once-off either, as now it seemed like he would snap every time you would look at him. You felt like you had to hold your breath every time you were around him. But now, it seemed like everything was only getting worse. At least for a while, he would still come home, but now there were nights where you laid in the cold bed alone for hours until he would come back smelling like sweat and beer... and perfume.

You know I, I'm afraid of change

Guess that's why we stay the same

You knew you could leave, you knew you should. But fuck- something in you just couldn’t handle the thought of losing him. You had been together for so long, you liked the consistency of your relationship. And you didn’t want to feel as if you were giving up. You never gave up. To you, this was all just a hard challenge that you would overcome eventually. This hard roadblock would pass…wouldn’t it?

So tell me to leave

I'll pack my bags, get on the road

If he told you to leave, you would. But you wouldn’t be able to just give up on your own, not while you still felt some semblance of hope that your relationship could survive this.

Find someone that loves you

Better than I do, darling, I know

You wouldn’t be mad if he did decide to leave. Maybe he was right, maybe you weren’t cut out to be the partner of the number two hero. You were quirkless, and went to school for art. You knew nothing about having a special ability or hero work for that matter. Maybe he needed someone who did understand. 

'Cause you remind me every day

I'm not enough, but I still stay 

“What the hell do you know? You’re quirkless, you’re nothing. You’ll never be able to understand what I’m going through.”

Feels like a lifetime

Just trying to get by while we're dying inside

Six months…you’ve been stuck like this with Bakugo for six months. Nothing has gotten better. The small spark of hope you had for the relationship was slowly fizzling out. Now every bit of this relationship felt like torture. And yet you didn’t go anywhere.

I've done a lot of things wrong

Loving you being one

But I can't move on

You knew there were probably plenty of people in this world for you. But none of them were Katsuki. Maybe falling for him was a mistake. Everyone had warned you whenever news got out that you were dating him. Even his own friends, while teasing, dropped subtle hints.

‘I’m surprised anyone could stand him’

‘I can’t believe he found someone he’s considered worthy’

‘Thanks for putting up with him, I know he can be..a lot’ 

No matter what they said, you didn’t listen. You could never regret loving Katsuki.

So tell me to leave

I'll pack my bags, get on the road

“You’re too much of a distraction. You’re only holding me back.”

“What are you saying, Kats?”

“...I’m done, Y/N. I need to focus on being number one, not on being your boyfriend.”

Find someone that loves you

Better than I do, darling, I know

‘Dynamite and Uravity, Japan’s new IT Couple’

'Cause you remind me every day

I'm not enough, but I still stay

[signanothername]

Challenge for the character ask meme if you so choose to take it: All of the questions you haven't answered about Cross or Error or! An approaching new contender Reaper.

Decided to see which character I answered the least amount of questions for and it turned out to be Error with only 3, so doing Error for this one

Putting it under read more cause I have mercy

1. Why do you like or dislike this character?

Answered here

2. Favorite canon thing about this character?

Everything tbh, his design, his story, his character, he’s just fun

3. Least favorite canon thing about this character?

None

4. If you could put this character in any other media, be it a book, a movie, anything, what would you put them in?

Would definitely put him in kinitopet cause it could be really fun

5. What's the first song that comes to mind when you think about them?

I'm an Albatraoz - AronChupa

6. What's something you have in common with this character?

His trust issues dgxggzgzgzg

7. What's something the fandom does when it comes to this character that you like?

When they make him grumpy, I love grumpy characters, but if it’s done in moderation

8. What's something the fandom does when it comes to this character that you despise?

When his Haphephobia is either completely ignored, or turned up to 11, where’s the balance 😔

9. Could you be roommates with this character?

Yes, I think Error wouldn’t be too bad of a roommate (except for loud TV noises I guess dhdggxg), if Error doesn’t see me as an anomaly and erases me that is xhhxhxhxh

10. Could you be best friends with this character?

Yes actually, I think we’ll definitely get along just fine

11. Would you date this character?

Hell nah

12. What's a headcanon you have for this character?

Answered here

13. What's an emoji, an emoticon and/or any symbol that reminds you of this character or you think the character would use a lot?

I actually love to think Error wouldn’t use all sorts of emoticons from >:( to <3

Also anytime I see a windows XP setup or program or design, Error is on my mind

14. Assign a fashion aesthetic to this character.

Honestly can’t think anything specific for him? He strikes me as the kinda guy that like, wears something that’s both comfortable and fashionably casual, but a bit messy looking

15. What's your favorite ship for this character? (Doesn't matter if it's canon or not.)

None, I love to think he’s absolutely bitchless

16. What's your least favorite ship for this character?

Errorink (sorry errorink lovers)

17. What's a ship for this character you don't hate but it's not your favorite that you're fine with?

DestructiveDeath (Error x reaper)

18. How about a relationship they have in canon with another character that you admire?

His relationship with Swap

19. How about a relationship they have in canon that you don't like?

Nothing in particular comes to mind

20. Which other character is the ideal best friend for this character, the amount of screentime they share doesn't matter?

Fresh, I will not elaborate

21. If you're a fic writer and have written for this character, what's your favorite thing to do when you're writing for this character? What's something you don't like?

Never written for Error specifically

22. If you're a fic reader, what's something you like in fics when it comes to ths character? Something you don't like?

Something I like: when he’s shown to be actually a bit silly, Error is silly, I wanna see it more than seeing him grumpy

Something I don’t like: when he’s made into an absolute tsundere

23. Favorite picture of this character?

What is that?! KILLITKILLITKILLIT

24. What other character from another fandom of yours that reminds you of them?

Rob - The Amazing World of Gumball

25. What was your first impression of this character? How about now?

First impression: yoooo this guy got a cool design what’s his deal

Impression now:

26. What's something the character has done you can't get over? Be it something funny, bad, good, serious, whatever?

Answered here

———

Character ask game

[class1akids]

Genuinely so happy that we got closure for Touya but also upset as well 😭 next to Shouto he’s my favourite Todoroki! Honestly though, I really have conflicting thoughts because I really hope he didn’t stay alive for too long because it’s got to be kind of lonely to be strapped into that tube being kept alive by that machine, possibly pumped with painkillers or something like that’s not a nice life BUT I hope he didn’t pass away too fast because for many reasons 1) I like to think he got proper closure, without Enji speaking over them, with Rei, Fuyumi and possibly Natsuo 2) I like to think that he also got to know Shouto a bit more and vice versa and 3) I don’t like the thought that Enji essentially gets a free-pass on his promise of visiting Touya every day once he passes away, I hope had to keep that promise for at least a while. I also hope Touya wasn’t alone when he finally did pass away!

I saw some people speculate that Shouto didn't call him Touya-nii, but only "Touya" in Ch 431, because now he's older than Touya when he died. Shouto is 25 during the time-skip chapter, and Touya was 24 in the end and it was summer. So that implies, he would have died within a few months max.

As for Touya's suffering - if you look at the translation by pikahlua, it specifies that Touya's slow death is implied to be a gentle and easy one - more like a "slipping away".

I think also it's implied that Touya would be sleeping most of the time, only awake for a few minutes every day and Enji and Rei promised to be there every time. And Fuyumi and Shouto would come when they can. So I don't think it's lonely in that sense. (With Natsuo - it's left open - I think it's up to fandom fic writers to imagine various scenarios). From the way Shouto remembers Touya, I'm confident they worked it out at least the two of them.

As much as I want Endeavor punished, I don't think his atonement should take precedence over Touya getting a death that gives him peace. In the end, the writing failed the Todoroki family when Hori decided that Enji would "atone for Touya's sins" to make him look cool, rather than be brought to justice for his own crimes of domestic violence. Showing that even the No 1 hero is not above the law would have gone a long way to change society, but I guess Hori was more interested in giving Endeavor a substitute family made of sidekicks.

I guess since Enji is now fully aware of how fucked up everything he did was, once Touya passes away, he's left with his own conscience, a daily reminder of what he did to his family whenever he looks at Rei's scarred face. Knowing that he could have had it all, but threw it away for nothing.

[writingsoftarnishedsilver]

a personal post/reflection on ai use

some of you reading this may have seen the message i received accusing me of using ai to write my work. i wanted to take a moment to talk about how it made me feel and, more importantly, the impact that accusations like this can have on writers in general.

I won’t lie: seeing that message in my inbox, being told that the stories i spend hours writing aren't “real", that my effort and creativity don't belong to me, was really disheartening. then i had to defend my own writing against these accusations and that wasn’t exactly fun. and while i know i shouldn’t let it get to me, the truth is that it does, because I'm a real person!

It’s made me overthink everything i write. I already reread my fics multiple times before posting, checking for flow, consistency, and coherence, but now, i find myself second-guessing every sentence. Does this sound too robotic? Is my phrasing too formal or too stiff? Or maybe it’s not polished enough? Maybe it's too polished. What if i accidentally repeat a word or structure a sentence in a way that someone deems “ai-like”? Will i be accused of this again?

I want to be clear also that this isn’t about seeking sympathy. I just feel it's important to remind people that fanfic writers are real people with real emotions. We write because we love it, because we want to share stories for others to enjoy for free. And yet, there are people out there who treat “spotting ai” like some kind of witch hunt, who feel entitled to send accusations to complete strangers without any basis for it.

And I don't say this to be elitist, but for some context, I have a master’s degree in computer science. I work in tech every day. I specialize in machine learning. When I say there is no reliable way to tell whether a passage of text was written by ai or a human, i'm not just making shit up. ai detection tools are completely unreliable. they give false positives all the time, and they are, quite frankly, complete bullshit.

And I get that there are legitimate concerns about ai-generated work in creative spaces, especially when it comes to art, writing, and other forms of expression that people put their hearts into. I have taken ethics courses in ai for this reason. I understand why people are wary, and i’m not saying that those concerns aren’t valid. But this is exactly why we should be mindful of how we engage with content. If you don’t like something, if you suspect it was ai-generated and that bothers you, the best thing you can do is simply not engage. don’t read it, don’t share it, don’t support it.

But going out of your way to harass people, to send accusations without evidence, to act like you’re some kind of ai-detecting authority is not just absurd, but it’s harmful to real people because you will inevitably get it wrong!!!

At the end of the day, this is fan fiction. no one is paying for this. no one is being scammed. so why do people act like they need to police something that’s supposed to be fun, creative, and freely shared? if you love stories written by real people, support those writers. but please, stop making this space even more stressful for the people who are already here, giving their time and creativity to share something they love.

And if you still think making accusations about people using AI for their writing is the correct and virtuous thing to do, I invite you to read this online thread of freelance writers discussing the legitimate harm that has come to their livelihood due to the false positives of ai detection tools and false accusations.

[actualyuuri]

Hey I was thinking back to YOI and came across your fic just wanna say thank you for the entertainment! I am so glad you like Computer Science you said something about wanting to get back into writing and not knowing how the best thing I can say find something you like and just try to write little dabbles no thought out plot nothing for anyone but you and for fun obviously you shouldn’t force yourself too but I stoped writing because it stopped being a me thing and that really helped me just care about it again what ever you do I hope you are doing well :) good luck with your life!!!

Hi everyone, I hope whoever is still here on Tumblr is doing well. Was looking through some old messages today, sorry to folks I haven't responded to! PSA: I've got a lot of messages asking if people can translate my fics, and just want to say here that all translations are welcome, and I'm super honored that people would take the time to do that. I used to post links to the translations on the main AO3 entry for the fic, but to be honest I'm not even sure if I know my AO3 login anymore (!!) so no plans on updating that at the moment. But yeah, take this message as a go-ahead to translate whatever you'd like, if you did link back to the original when translating that would be cool. :)

Anyway, this anon message is so nice... I think I stopped writing fanfic because I entered a new period of my life (and got pretty busy), but also because I became a bit of a perfectionist. I got nervous that I'd put something out and people wouldn't like it, whereas when I'd started I was more writing for fun and it was great when people liked it but that wasn't my goal per se. I started creative writing again recently (not fanfic, but who knows where it will lead!) and am trying to have the same outlook that I had when I started this blog. It reminded me of actualyuuri/braveten, so thought I'd log in and see what's been happening!

Thanks to anyone who has ever read my fanfics, interacted with my blogs, or posted content that I used to enjoy on here. I really think that this blog and braveten were super impactful on my life, and sparked my love for writing and creativity in a powerful way.

I think fanfic is super underestimated, in terms of its ability to empower writers... That's something I'm appreciating more and more as I've been starting to try and write "independent" projects. Fanfic provides pre-established characters and relationships, in the sense that when I start reading I kind of know how these people should behave in the story and generally where things might end up (i.e. who is going to end up together in the end!). This has the added benefit of a built-in set of readers (us) who already love these characters. It lets writers launch their own story off of an existing foundation, without having to deal with as much world-building, audience-finding-and-convincing, and character-creation. This is a great way to hone writing skills, and most importantly have fun.

Sorry for my little rant, guess I'm sappy now. Not sure if it made any sense. :) Anon, I hope you get back into writing too, and are having a great life. I really do wish you the best. And I want everyone to know that I'm doing wonderfully and look back on this blog so fondly. <3

[joelsprettyprincess]

sorry i haven't been active lately. idk i guess ive just been unsettled and unmotivated lately. i don't want to say "depressed" but...im just not as happy. i've been unproductive bc im on break so that may be part of it. also my grades are nowhere near what i'd like them to be.

i have not made any progress on tlou for the past month- idk..i just don't like such stressful and suspenseful games 😭 i want to play it bc i spent MONEY on it and im JOELSprettyprincess but i kind of just wish i could skip all the stealth and fighting. should i just throw in the towel and watch someone play it instead? i don't know 🙁

perhaps i'll just start a new playthrough of rdr2. i feel like i've waited long enough.

i also am not sure what to write. in my "ideas" doc i still have a couple dutch ideas but my dutch fic flopped so idk 😭i also wanted to write some arthur hcs but im just not good at those...and finally obviously my stalker joel fic. i'm still kind of struggling to piece together the psyche of joel- i saw someone complain that writers always make joel a weirdo and a creep, and though that's my favorite flavor of him and they need to shut up, it reminded me that i really want it to be deep. like, it's not just "oh joel stalks you and he's so obsessed with you because you're beautiful!!". i really want to delve into his MOTIVATIONS and his BRAIN.

so maybe my next fic will be a stalker joel one shot that won't be canon to the larger future stalker fic. somno? panty-sniffing? joel jerking off in his pants? more likely than you think.

honestly i just think i'm bored. once i go back to school i'll feel better, i think. i've been spending far too much time on twitter.

but let me include at least a couple positive things. i just finished season 3 of invincible and IT WAS CRAZY. I LOVE THE MORAL DEBATE MARK CECIL AND OLIVER WERE HAVING AND JEFFREY DEAN MORGAN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! HE DID SO GOOODDD AS CONQUEST MY LITTLE BABYYYY I LOVE HIM

season 5 of YOU is coming out in april!! IM SO EXCITED but i definitely need to rewatch it.

ok that's all. im gonna start planning the joel one shot. love u all 💓