#i really love . writing twisted fics / i love when characters are sick in the head

[twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat]

writing this fic and once again remembering why i’m not into yan content (i’m having fun though!!!)

[generalsmemories]

THE MILESTONE EVENT REQUEST (LOVE THE IDEA BTW):

Fluff sentences 6+8

AND ..!

Fluff scenario 2

WITH IL DAN HENG + GN! READER

Good luck (⁠｡⁠•̀⁠ᴗ⁠-⁠)⁠✧

Intertwined

✧ Imbibitor Lunae!Dan Heng x gn!reader

✧ prompts used: "you're so warm." "i hear you, but we really need to get up, love." + "youre going to get sick if you keep coddling me" "and you're just going to get worse if i don't..." + playing with their hair until they fall asleep || 1k event

✧ content: established relationship, fluff, humor, sick!fic, the reader is the one sick here, mentions of other characters (astral express family), personal headcanons for dan heng (literally only the fact that his blood runs cold)

✧ a/n: crank the fluff meter up cause everything i write about dan heng whether in his IL form or normal form is just fluff. thanks for joining the milestone event anon! i hope this was a comfortable read - not beta-read as well yeehaw.

Dan Heng can feel an added weight on him - a weight that wasn't there the previous evening when he went to bed. He can also feels the unusual warmth of the hands splayed on his back. The sudden weight and difference in temperature on his normally cold skin makes him blink his eyes open.

The only sight he's greeted with however, is the top of your head as you rest on top of him. Your hands had wormed themselves underneath his shirt to seek solace against his cool skin - It's not unusual for you to sneak into the archives to sleep alongside him, mostly on the claim that he was the perfect temperature to hug since his body temperature was naturally cooler in his real form. However, his ears twitch a bit when he hears your low groan when he tries to maneuver the two of you around, Dan Heng stopping in his tracks to actually take a good look at you.

There's a slight flush to your face, and while you look relatively peaceful right now, your eyebrows furrow everytime he tries to move - snuggling closer to him whenever he tries to pry you away from his body. The action makes him let out a defeated sigh, bringing up a hand to gently brush the hair that's been sticking to your face due to sweat away before pressing his palm to your forehead.

The effect is almost immediate, the furrow in your brows receding from his cool touch - but Dan Heng's own eyebrows knit together in concern when he feels how hot you are. He retracts his hand while looking around the futon in search of his phone, but the twists and turn of his body eventually manage to wake you up, "... Dan Heng...?" you murmur, and the Vidyadhara stops in his tracks to focus his attention back on you, "Good morning, how are you feeling?" he asks in a low whisper, maneuvering his hand to rest on the back of your neck which makes you shiver from the difference in temperature.

"I could be better," you say with a laugh, dropping your head back down on his stomach after Dan Heng manage to wriggle you further down his body so he can at least sit up on the futon, "You're so warm, so I was able to sleep better," you utter, words muffled from having your face buried in his shirt.

"... Yeah, you're really sick," Dan Heng confirms once he hears the one comment about his temperature - because you out of everyone should know the fact that his body temperature ran colder than an average human, "But we need to get up, love. Or more specifically, I have to get up to grab something for that cold of yours," he tells you, gently prying your arms away from his waist so he can stand up, but you weakly try to wrap them back around him with a low whine, "No," you protest meekly, eyes still too hazy to comprehend what you're doing, but still firm in staying close to him.

"Don't act so stubborn now, I'm only going to be away for a couple of minutes at most," he reprimands you, already having wormed himself away from you and standing up, but you still manage to meekly grab at his tail before he can scurry off, "... Then take me with you..."

Yeah, that's not happening.

"... Fine I'm not going anywhere, just lay back down for now. You move more than this and you're just going to get worse," he reminds you, pushing you softly aside so that you can lay down on his futon properly, summoning his tail so it can wrap around your waist - a small giggle leaving your lips when the you're able to grab the end to hug, letting a sigh of relief at the cooling sensation against your own heated body.

It doesn't take long before you doze off again, which lets Dan Heng fish out his phone from underneath the pillow you're currently laying on and sending a message to the groupchat.

The Astral Express Family

[Dan Heng]

[Name] is sick and they won't let me out of their sights. Can anyone grab some medicine and come in here later with some food? There's also some medicine Bailu helped me make when I was visiting the Luofu in the medicine cabinet if someone could grab that as well - should help with general fevers.

[Himeko]

I'll ask Pom-Pom to make some congee, how are they doing?

[Dan Heng]

Could be better, they're just a bit out of right now. Some medicine and good rest should be enough.

The Vidyadhara puts the phone aside after informing everyone before leaning over to assess your condition. Your breathing is still shallow, and your temperature is still hot - but at least you're not waking up from sudden movements from him.

Dan Heng eventually settles himself down beside you, propping his elbow up to rest his cheek against his closed fist. His free hand coming up to brush through your hair to help you sleep better.

There's a knock at the archives door around an hour later, and Dan Heng merely utters a quiet, "Come in," before the door slides open and Welt walks in with a sympathetic smile and a tray, "You've really become their cuddle pillow," he comments upon entering, placing the tray by the desk.

In the hour that he waited, you had woken up from your slumber and without a single word leaving your lips you had merely untangled yourself from his tail, gestured for Dan Heng to sit up before sitting on his lap, arms wormed around his waist with your face pressed against his neck.

"Can't say I'm surprised really, thanks for bringing the food in, Mr. Welt."

"Of course, text the groupchat if you need anything else, Pom-Pom would be ecstatic to help again - they haven't moved so fast in a while after all."

Dan Heng lets you sleep a bit longer before he brings a hand up to rub your back, ducking his head down to whisper into your ear, "[Name]? Wake up, try to get something to eat so you can drink some medicine, okay?" you groan in response, rubbing your face further into his neck, "... 'm not hungry," you utter.

"You are. And even if you're not, it's still best for you to eat something. Just a few bites and then you can go back to sleep, okay?" he coaxes, leaning away from you to cup your cheeks so he can look at you, "Come on, for your own sake?" he asks, leaning in to peck the corner of your mouth.

You're only able to get a couple of mouthfuls in before you twist your head away from the spoon, reaching for the medicine laid out before you and gulping it down before letting yourself fall down back on his futon.

It doesn't take you long before you turn over and reach your arms for him, wriggling your fingers to get him to lay down with you - and Dan Heng knows from experience that the more he denies you, the more you will try.

So he merely sighs, laying down before wrapping his arms around you - the content chuckle you let out makes him smile a bit, "You know you're going to get sick if you keep coddling me like this," you muse, and Dan Heng merely rolls his eyes at that comment, "And you're just going to get worse if I don't, so where do we go from there?" he utters back, to which you only make a sound of acknowledgement.

"Can Vidyadhara's even catch these sort of colds?" you ask, pushing yourself up from his hold to instead rest on the man himself, Dan Heng letting out a small grunt at the added weight, but his tail nonetheless worms itself back around your waist to keep you steadily on top of him.

"No, we don't," he confirms, and you give him a cheeky grin, "So I can still kiss you while running a high fever?" you question while leaning a bit closer and he merely raises his eyebrow at you.

"At least I know your fever is going down with how you're joking around like this," he comments, reaching a hand up to cup your head and gently pull you down towards him, giving you a small peck. Your eyes widen in surprise at the notion, and Dan Heng lets out a quiet laugh at your shocked face, "What? Didn't expect me to actually kiss you?"

"... To be honest, no. Not with how you like to keep things clean."

He huffs out a laugh, "I can make a few exemptions for you," he says, reaching a hand behind your head to pull you down to his chest, "Now go sleep. The sooner you get better, the less I have to worry."

"Mmm, thanks for taking care of me."

naru and her struggle with ending drabbles hits again yeehaw.

[aspiring-artist-em]

Crimson Rivers, is it back? What now? Does that mean Zar is back?

So, like a normal, sane reader, when I get an AO3 notification, I immediately drop everything and check it out. In my little tiny brain filled with angst and smut, I was thinking that it was maybe a chapter being updated, or maybe someone I love replying to a comment I left about how their writing is so fantastic and giving them vivid descriptions of how I wish to burn it into my brain because how good it is. Turns out, that was not the case.

It was a fucking notification about Crimson Rivers being posted.

I sat on my bed, and just stared. My brain wasn’t working. I was halfway though a bag of chips that my dog really wanted and staring at an email that bizarrestars fucking posted Crimson Rivers.

And Best Friend’s Brother.

And Just Lovers.

And all of those fics I was dying to read were back. All the fics that had me frothing at the mouth with want and the insatiable urge to consume everything he put back out into the world. And so, I followed the link in my email and oh my god-

They were back.

All of them. 

Every single one of their fics was back up and I was fucking psyched because I have an AO3 account and I have access to it again. Me, along with many other fans of his works and readers in this fandom, texted friends and loved ones. We smiled and downloaded the files, swearing that we will never lose those works again. 

___

So, like a normal, sane author, when I get an AO3 notification, I immediately drop everything and check it out. In my little pea brain filled with ways to torture my readers and ways to get them off through my words, I was thinking that maybe someone had kindly left a kudos on my work, or maybe even comment on it. All my works are ongoing and to be honest, I was a little scared to open my email because what if it's a negative comment? What if it’s someone telling me that they hate me because I’m sick and twisted, writing the filth I do. What if it’s someone telling me that they hate how I made a certain character bisexual because in their mind, bisexual women can't also be attracted to women? What if it’s someone telling me that the trauma I write about is misrepresented and that I am an awful person for romanticizing it when I swear I’m not, when I know that I’m drawing from experience. What if it’s someone saying the aforementioned trauma is too dramatized, and that the way that I write it as something to be worked through, doesn’t fit their “one kiss and all the bad memories go away” narrative they have in their head. What if it’s someone telling me I should be ashamed, telling me that I am disgusting, telling me that I shouldn't write what I write even though I have hyperlinks embedded in my fics and even though I have additional warnings per chapter and even though I have so many tags the plot is given away. Turns out, that is not the case.

It was a fucking notification about Crimson Rivers being posted.

I sat on my bed, and just stared. My brain wasn’t working. I was halfway though a bag of chips that my dog really wanted and staring at an email that bizarrestars fucking posted Crimson Rivers.

And Best Friend’s Brother.

And Just Lovers.

And all of those fics people were dying to read were back. All the fics that had people online frothing at the mouth with want and the insatiable urge to consume everything he put back out into the world. And so, I followed the link in my email and

oh my god-

They were back.

All of them.

Every single one of their fics was back up and I was filled with fucking dread, because all I could focus on is how there’s a shiny new prongsfoot fic right there on the top of their page, the first thing people will see. All I could think about is how they talked about people not respecting their wishes with their fics  and how people on the internet are fucking relentless. All I could think about are the videos I will see with people complaining that they can’t read it because they don't have an AO3 account and people attacking them for the two chapter prongsfoot fic right there, and how people fucking idolized the guy, putting him on a pedestal and hailing him as the “best fanfic writer ever, right there along with misskingbean (who may or may not be Taylor swift (I swear, Taylor is NOT misskingbean))”All I could think about is the exit he, and MANY OTHER authors made because people got ahold of their work and were fucking rude about it. All I could think of is someone who was practically pushed off the internet for doing what he loves so well that people started hating when he wrote what he wanted to write, and how now, he’s back and honestly, it scares me a little bit because he didn’t deserve the hell people put him through.

___

Crimson rivers, is it back? What now? Does that mean Zar is back? Short answer, yes, yes, and yes. Long answer, yes but only if you have an AO3 account and ONLY IF people can be fucking nice this time around and maybe remember that zar is a fucking person with fucking feelings and something called a fucking mental health to take care of. Authors have feelings too, we aren’t some mindless fic generator. If you want that, go to chat gtp or some shit. We put our hearts and souls into our work and share it because we want to put it out there, not because we want to get bullied.

Now, I know what you're going to say, “oh, but I just really loved the guy, he was like the second coming of christ with his words like I just really wanted to read more because I loved him so much, like I forgot he was a human because I just loved him and a little love never hurt anyone.” 

But like, that’s also really fucking problematic and actually obsessive. Just think about it. Like this guy is a person and like, maybe you shouldn’t treat him like he is anything more OR ANYTHING LESS. Like honestly, he probably didn't start posting his work to gain fame, like this was probably really unexpected for him. AND EVEN IF HE DID, IT DOESN’T MEAN YOU GET TO TREAT HIM LIKE A FUCKING PRODUCT GOD DAMN. Like, this is a PERSON. Imagine if your best friend or little sibling came to you and was talking about people putting enormous pressure on them and being obsessed with everything they do and how they feel like they have to be perfect and please everyone because if they don't, they’ll get harassed online and like, it’s genuinely damaging their mental health. Like, imagine if that happened to you. What would you tell them? Well, hopefully, you would tell them that those people are fucking obsessed and that they need to take a break and maybe, just maybe remove the works so they could put their mind to rest, because that’s better than this. Like come on everyone, can’t you fucking see the problem with that? Idolization and bullying go hand in hand and the poor guy has been though enough. 

Also, remember, be kind to the guy and like, idk, treat him with fucking human decency? Don't deadname him maybe? Don't like, idolize him? Don't get mad when he writes what he wants to fucking write because you don't like it? And maybe like, respect his wishes? It should be pretty fucking simple tbh, but apparently it's a difficult task for some of you. He isn’t a fucking god and maybe like, before you comment, actually sit there and reflect on what you are going to say to him.

SO MAYBE, BEFORE YOU COMMENT SHIT, REMEMBER THAT ZAR’S, (and, for the record, every other author’s) MENTAL HEALTH IS MORE IMPORTANT THAN A 800K WORD STORY ABOUT DEAD WIZARDS. LIKE PLEASE, YOU CAN FUCKING LIVE WITHOUT ONE SPECIFIC FIC WHEN THERE ARE SO MANY OTHER FICS OUT THERE, AND SO MAYBE LIKE, REMEMBER TO RESPECT THE AUTHORS WHO WRITE YOUR STORIES.

MAYBE, JUST MAYBE, BEFORE YOU SAY SHIT, THINK ABOUT WHY HE FUCKING LEFT IN THE FIRST PLACE, DEAR GOD.

[ao3-shenanigans]

Okay wait here me out!

I never truly understood Hanahaki AUs where once character A confesses, B's all like "Actually, I liked you too for a while now!" because isn't it a sickness about unrequited love?

Don't get me wrong, I don't mind when characters finally confess and they get the sickness cured but what about literally SO MANY OTHER POSSIBILITIES!! I have a couple ideas in my head but don't have the chance to write them atm, but I was wondering about your thoughts on them!

So the first idea is what if you still want that happy ending but don't want the instant gratification? Like, A confesses to B and B is like "I'm sorry, I don't love you, but I want to take care of you to make this process go smoother for you." (And maybe add some guilt for some ✨spice✨) And eventually, B SLOWLY falls for A as they take care of them, but are unaware of said feelings until A's final dying breath and their final request is at least a kiss, even if B didn't love them. B desperately follows through trying to save A after realizing that they finally got feelings for them and BOOM! Happy ending!

Another idea is where character A is Aromantic so they literally cannot love B, and they know that. After realizing that B has gotten Hanahaki, A stays silent about it, not wanting to assume that B got it over them and wants to take care of them. B then says in a feverish state just how much they like A and let's just say the angst can get pretty heavy with this...

Now I like this one idea I have cause it mixes Hanahaki and the Red String of Fate! This one actually involves many characters and is a little more complex so my there are still some wrinkles in this idea, but what if A got Hanahaki for B, and B has Hanahaki for C, who's interested in someone else and C even gets with that person later. Eventually A confesses to B and B gets with A, curing A's Hanahaki, but B still dies because they couldn't let go of their feelings for C. That's when character D comes along, able to see the Red String! D can see other people's string, but doesn't have one for themselves for whatever reason (idk yet) and can see A's broken string and C actually even has a broken string because of their deep friendship to B. D then tries to figure out what the broken strings mean because they never seen it before, eventually falling for A, who (maybe) falls for them back. Again, still working on this idea! Just thought it'd be interesting to combine 2 AUs together!

This is all I have for now, but if you want more for me to share, I can gladly do so! If you could rate the Hanahaki trope in general out of 10 what would you pick? Feel free to even rate my ideas if you want! I won't take it personally if you don't like them, haha! Have a lovely week!

Friend I’m listening 👀

I did read a fic where the love interest couldn’t love back, not right away and it scared him because how are his feelings responsible for the life of his friend? How do you fall in love with someone on demand? It was really good

(I’ll link it below for anyone interested)

Ive read maybe 6 or 7 hanahaki fics? Its not one I frequent often, but I do enjoy the ones with a fun little twist in them :D

If you continue the AU please! Send updates and ideas! I’d love to hear them!

Fic mentioned:

Full, riotous bloom by BigTed on ao3

[kylorengarbagedump]

Playing Soldier: Chapter 4

Read on AO3. Part 3 here. Part 5 here.

Summary: Ohh, okay, so that's why he's called The Butcher.

Words: 6100

Warnings: Graphic depictions of violence/animal death

Characters: William Tavington x Reader

A/N: Co-written with @bastillia <3

YAY finally some horny content oh my god we were literally salivating to write some of it. Very much appreciate everyone reading and interacting - it literally makes our day!! I think we probably just have to admit to ourselves at some point this is becoming a full-blown fic, but what can we say, we simply love this petty cunt of a man LOL. Love y'all so so much! <3

“Colonel,” you said. “May I ask you something?”

William Tavington exhaled softly through his nose. “My answer to this inquiry is irrelevant.”

You twisted your lips in thought, nodding to yourself. He understood you well enough.

The ride so far had been quiet—you’d slept through most of the day and evening prior, awoke with horse hobbles on your ankles, and had them exchanged for rope when the redcoats had packed up camp. Before you’d left, Tavington had gathered you back on his mount and bound you into a human rucksack once more. You weren’t sure what time you’d set out, but the sky was still dark, and the crickets still chirped in song between the hoofbeats of the horses.

The sleep you’d had was deep and halfway restorative. With the addition of water and food, your head had stopped pounding and your body had stopped quaking. Despite the horrific obscenity of your thirst the day before, you vacillated between grateful for the colonel’s offering and furious you’d even been put in the position to be grateful for it.

There was also the confusion that it happened at all. Even if the British weren’t supposed to treat their prisoners the way he treated you, you’d thought you’d had an accurate read on him. He should want you weak. Suffering. Compliant. Since betraying that, he’d wound you off on a new, inspired approach.

“What is the plan for when we arrive in Charleston?”

“Give me the benefit of assuming that I am not inclined to reveal military strategy to you.”

“Not military strategy,” you said. You lowered your voice. “It’s about Grace.”

“Ah, first the soldier, now the negotiator.”

“Try to use those large ears of yours to listen,” you said. “I’m aware of why I’m being taken to Charleston. But Grace—she really doesn’t know anything. She doesn’t belong in those prisons.” You knew as well as most that the conditions inside the prison ships were as good a death sentence as any formal order to hang. The thought of her sick, starving, alone—your heart quickened. “She… I…”

“Your sister has, whether knowingly or unknowingly, aided and abetted the enemy.” The lack of interest in Tavington’s voice dripped from his teeth. “She will receive her punishment accordingly.”

You sighed in frustration. “She hasn’t, though,” you said. “I handled everything. I was the only one to speak with my father. I was the only one he trusted. I am the only one you want.”

“And we have you,” he replied brusquely. “Was there a point to this conversation other than demonstrating to me your capability to recall simple factual information?”

Leaning closer, you implored him. “I’ll—I’ll do whatever is needed. I’ll comply with your orders. I won’t try to run.” Desperation congealed in your throat. “Trade her for me. You lose nothing, and you gain my cooperation.”

“You know,” he said, “you may be an even worse negotiator than you are a soldier.”

“I’ll pledge loyalty to England!” you said. “Let her go and I’ll swear allegiance to King and Country.”

He snorted. “Certainly you don’t believe that to be of any conceivable value.”

“If you refuse, you get nothing from me,” you spat. “You can torture me or starve me or—or do whatever your general demands. I won't speak a word. I'll die. With everything I know.”

“Ever the little lionheart.” He tutted. “Fearsome.”

“You…” Blinking, you let out a breath. “You don’t think I can withstand it? You think I’ll break?” You balled your fists, your bandages shifted uncomfortably under your restraints. “After everything you've seen?”

“Your death is all but guaranteed either way,” he drawled. “I don’t see why your chosen path to the noose is of any consequence to me.”

“The consequence is—”

“My court-martial?” He said it so matter-of-factly that your jaw shut with a click. “Ah. You see, I think you’ve rather misjudged my standing with the General. Delivering you to Charleston will be more than sufficient to avert it, but thank you ever so much for your concern.”

If the British army had a commendation for obstinacy, you were certain he would have been the incumbent winner for the past lifetime. The letter you'd discovered from Cornwallis didn't say, deliver some colonial woman to me and be forgiven. It said actionable intelligence. And you were feeling far less than actionable at the moment.

“You’re bluffing.”

“Willing to bet your life on that?”

“Yes,” you said. “You know as well as I do that your general expects results. Without what I know, I'm nothing. I'm nobody.”

You wondered if Tavington suspected you to be bluffing about your supposed knowledge as egregiously as he was bluffing now. But you guessed he wasn’t willing to risk his career on abandoning the only lead he had—at least, far less willing than you were to risk your life for your sister's.

For a moment, all you could hear was the familiar sounds of the South Carolina nighttime chorus. Each of you rocked with his horse’s gait, back and forth, steps syncing with your breathing. There was no indication of his thought process, no tensing of his stomach, no twitching of his arms.

The last tool you had was supplication—which would require precision, but not deception. There was truly nothing you wanted more than to secure your sister’s safety. But the moment he sensed any deliberate manipulation of your tone, you knew he’d deny you.

You held your breath, became even quieter, murmuring towards his ear. “Colonel Tavington,” you said, a tinge of that desperation working its way onto your tongue. “Please. I’m… I’m begging you.”

Tavington straightened in his seat. Only by a hair—but he straightened. “Are you, now?” he said. “I don't believe I heard you.”

It took nearly all the strength you'd managed to gather over the past evening to swallow your rancor. Bastard.

“Please,” you said, only slightly louder than before. “I'm begging you, Colonel. Please, release Grace.”

“Hm.” Tavington was silent for a moment, then exhaled, lifting his chin. “No.”

Your jaw dropped. You weren't sure why you expected anything different, but it struck like a boulder to your chest regardless.

Fingers twisting together in your bondage, you ran through your options. You'd have to find some way to bargain for her freedom. If not for yours, then for something. Your home, the little patch of land your father had built it on, anything at all. You'd figure it out, you were sure of it, you just needed one person at Charleston to hear you out and—

“Enough with your ceaseless fretting,” Tavington said.

You blinked. So what if your brow was drawn and your lips were pursed and your forehead was crinkled—that didn’t give him the right to say that. You were allowed to think about whatever you wanted whenever you wanted. God, he irritated you. But the thought of giving him the satisfaction of your response irritated you more.

“It does no favors to your face.”

“I—excuse me?” You needed to stop making promises to yourself that were so easily broken. “I suppose instead I should adopt a habit where I look down my nose and sneer at everyone I pass?”

He shrugged a shoulder. “It would be more respectable than wrinkling your nose like a farm animal at every fleeting thought.”

“Do you have a talent for making all women feel this special, or did you reserve your charm for me?”

Tavington hummed. “I’m not certain what part of you qualifies as a woman.”

Heat came to your cheeks, and you barked a laugh. “Oh, no, I think you can remember which parts qualify,” you said. “If you think very hard about it.”

For one truly blissful moment, Tavington did not respond. Triumph resounded within you, deafening the tiny whispers of confusion that this past minute had wrought within you. What did he mean, does no favors to your face? How closely had he paid attention to your face? What about being reminded of your body had managed to quiet him, even for a breath? After all, he was the one so disenchanted with your breasts to begin with—you couldn’t imagine that his memory of them was particularly appealing.

“Hm?” he said. “Were you saying something?”

Or maybe he was still just toying with you, as he ever was.

To your right, your group passed a church that appeared still unoccupied for the moment. The sight had you rise in your seat, tighten around your captor. You must’ve arrived in Dorchester. You glanced behind you, seeking Shaw and Edwards for confirmation of your curiosity, but they avoided your gaze, craning their necks and shifting on their horses to focus on the road ahead. Beneath you, the ground flattened into a trodden dirt road.

The sky had lightened, the horizon spilling cream into its inky breadth. Just beyond it, the sun would rise—and you would be another day closer to rescuing Grace.

A scream echoed in the distance. Then a gunshot. Multiple gunshots. Tavington turned to stone beneath you, as did his horse. He raised a hand for his lieutenants to halt. You pressed closer to him, peering over his shoulder. Fire flashed in the darkness, shadows moving around the tabby walls of the fort you had been approaching. Your eyes widened, and you curled tighter to his back.

“Colonel?” said Shaw.

“Militia. Lieutenant Shaw, alert the garrison,” Tavington said. “They’re raiding the magazine.” A growl rumbled deep in his chest—his hand landed on his sword and whipped it free. “Charge!”

The horse exploded forward. You clutched around Tavington’s middle, your thighs clamping down to stay balanced as the grass turned to a blur beneath you. As gunfire and shouting grew closer, your heart leapt up your throat.

Tavington’s body felt like wrought steel, an extension of his blade that flashed in the dawn glow. Then it arced downward, and sprayed the grass with red.

The air around you fractured into bursts of light, cracks of powder, screams of death. Beneath you, the horse leapt forward, and Tavington’s blade cleaved flesh once more. Warmth splattered your neck, your mouth, leaked copper between your teeth. You burrowed into his spine. Willed yourself to think. To react. To do something.

But there was nothing you could do. Nowhere to move, no action to take but to cower behind your living blade and pray that each ensuing blast wouldn’t herald your death. Your own helplessness clawed you, squirmed and writhed like a panic-blind animal.

Flashes of battle swung past the very corner of your sight as Tavington’s mount slowed, turned. Bodies littered the grass, a row of gore sown in his wake. Beyond them, more men rushed the fort, meeting with fire from its defenses. The tabby wall loomed above you, now on your opposite side. Tavington was peeling back around for a second charge.

You tucked down again as the horse bunched and sprang. Between your arms, you could feel breath rolling through Tavington in a rhythm as wild and steady as the hoofbeats jarring your bones. A distant part of you wondered if he even remembered you were there.

Daring to look up, you glimpsed a familiar, reedy form fighting by the opposite treeline. Edwards, now on foot, had one of the minutemen flanked. Frail sunlight illuminated several more strewn on the ground around him. Then two shadows surged forth from the trees, and a bayonet emerged from Edwards’ sternum. He toppled forward off of the slickened blade, and then the barrel turned—directly upon you.

“Colonel—!” you screeched just as his sword split a throat, and the musket flashed.

The horse bellowed. The world dropped away. For a moment, you were weightless. Then you and Tavington struck the dirt in a rolling, conjoined heap.

You coughed, groaned, trying to wriggle away, but found your whole arm pinned underneath his torso and feeling somehow wrong. Tavington felt your movement and scrambled alive, throwing your arms from his body like a garland. Pain erupted through your shoulder and your arm fell limp, useless, back to the ground. Hissing, you rolled to your stomach with a sickening shift of bone somewhere below your clavicle.

On his feet, Tavington spied his sword yards away and retrieved it, his hand on his pistol as he barreled into the fog of iron and smoke.

The man before you became an instrument of war, his body singing every note of battle. It was a refrain, you could tell, he’d rehearsed hundreds, thousands of times—the slaughter a symphony, and death a dirge only he was tuned to perform. Men toppled before him in a crescendo of entrails, his sword carving through flesh like a metronome. His pistol fired, a staccato, skull-cleaving coda.

Musketfire crackled, exposing his silhouette to the light, and your jaw fell in awe. He was smothered sanguine, his chest heaving in exhilaration, his eyes wild with a fervor reserved for men at the foot of their marriage bed. He was electric with excitement, dripping with desire for more, more blood.

Breathless, you found yourself transfixed, the reality of the fight waging around you drowned in the weight of your—your—

An unintelligible whisper by your ear, and you screeched, jerking around. You came face-to-face with one of the minutemen, crouched, his attention flicking between you and Tavington, who was currently reloading his gun and seemed focused on far more important things.

“Miss,” he said, waving you toward him, “miss, come with me. We can get you out of here.”

You shook your head. “What?”

He glanced at your bound wrists. “You are a captive, miss?”

“Oh. Yes, yes, I am!” You inched forward, wincing as you raised your arms to him, one supporting the other like a hook dangling a fish. “Can you untie me?” Your rational mind sputtered alive again. You had an objective. “Can you get me to Charleston?”

He grimaced, wagging his fingers like it would make you move faster. “We need to move.”

It wasn’t as if you could refuse, so you nodded, sneaking a glance at Tavington. He was studying the treeline, just about finished reloading. Throat tight, you rolled onto your knees, and the man hovered above a squat, his arm waiting to prop you up, but you staggered to your feet without him.

“Quickly,” he murmured. He grabbed your hands. “Follow m—”

The man’s head popped like a pressurized cherry. Something hot splashed your face. He went limp, and hit the ground.

You turned, finding Tavington’s gaze trained straight on you. A snarl crested on his upper lip, and he returned to the fight, crouching low as he reloaded his pistol again. Gunshots pierced your ears and you dropped to the ground with a gasp, realizing you’d stood in the middle of a fire fight.

The remaining men were torn between Tavington and the magazine barrier. Above the half-bastion walls, a Galloper gun fired—thunder split the air, dirt spewed to the sky, bodies collapsed in pieces. Some of those still standing broke rank and tried to retreat, finding themselves impaled on Tavington’s sword as they fled.

Chest to the grass, you attempted to assess your surroundings. The fort: near-victory. The militia: almost all dead. Your would-be rescuer: definitely all-dead. Your captor: a harbinger of bloodshed, and exquisitely, grotesquely alive. You: uncertain if these facts terrified or elated you.

Outfought and outgunned, the few living minutemen fell to their knees in surrender. The Butcher gutted, slit, and bled them as they begged to live.

Horse hooves rumbled by the treeline, and in the emerging dawn, you saw Shaw, charging forth with his pistol drawn. He was passing the two men still hiding in the woods who remained unaware their regiment had been obliterated. They’d catch him, you realized. Your heart flipped. He was going to die. For a brief, confusing moment, you wanted to warn him.

Before you could reconcile that urge, a bullet burst through his chest, and he tumbled from his mount in a crumpled heap. Wincing, you watched as the horse galloped off without its rider, revealing the two colonials that had broken into the field. One was reloading. The other was ready to shoot.

Tavington raised his weapon, pulled the trigger. The latter man dropped. The former scanned the field, realized he was alone, and his movements became frantic, desperate to get off the shot and vanish unpursued. But Tavington was casual, pouring powder into the barrel with the urgency of a lion stalking a meal. Despite his confidence—or perhaps because of it—the colonial moved faster, nearly fumbling his gun as he slipped the ramrod free.

Tavington was too damned stubborn to see he was outpaced, or he was too bound by bloodthirst to care. Either way, it was plain to you he was about to get shot.

The realization catalyzed you to do something. The dead man in front of you had no need for his pistol. You lurched forward, grasping it in your tied hands. There was no shake, no tremble to your grip, no heeding of the pain in your shoulder as you stood and raised it, only the hope that the pan was properly primed, that a bullet was waiting in the barrel.

The two men stood beyond your muzzle. Tavington was pumping his ramrod into his pistol. The colonial was pulling his free, tossing it to the side. He was ready to fire. If you hesitated, Tavington would take the bullet. Or, it occurred to you, you could turn the gun on him yourself.

In any tale, this was your moment of triumph—David slaying Goliath with a stone slung through Goliath’s red-jacketed back. In any tale, this was where you’d escape, where you’d scamper into the woods with your fellow colonials and find your way to Grace with their help.

In any tale, you realized, except this one. In this tale, you needed Goliath as your ally. And you wanted him alive.

You shifted your stance, aimed your shot. The colonial, your dread mirror, aimed his at Tavington. You pulled the trigger.

The bullet struck the colonial dead-center, and he scanned the field, eyes landing on you in horror. Like a deer, he wobbled, groaned in disbelief. He heaved, spit blood down his chin and crumbled to his knees. Tavington paused and turned his head, his eyes wide as they settled on you.

Ice pooled in your chest, your gut, as you watched the man you betrayed slump forward into the grass. Though you swallowed rising bile, the breath you took was steady. As if reassuring you of your choice. Tavington eclipsed the dead man’s shape.

He was a storm. Raging a path straight toward you, carnage in his wake. His eyes sparked. His shoulders rolled. You were witnessing the very last sight beheld by so many men on this battlefield. He tossed his sword to one side, his pistol to the other, gaze never leaving yours. And you could do nothing but lift your chin and meet his advance.

He slapped the gun from your grip and his palm slammed your throat, lifting you onto your toes.

“You—” He was an inch away, eyes searching between yours. You couldn’t fathom what he found there. It wouldn’t be fear. Nor shame. Some wild tempest of your own had brewed in this chaos. It was licking to the surface along the seam where his grip met your neck, where your hands had come up to clutch a sliver of his bare wrist.

“Colonel!”

His head whipped to the side. Two redcoats were quickly approaching from the fort. Tavington’s gaze, however, fixed upon the gate from which they’d emerged.

He wrenched you around until you were facing them, and you coughed when he released your throat. His grip moved to your arm, crushing down to the bone, and he shoved you forward. The two redcoats staggered to a halt as he began to advance with you.

“Sir, we a—”

“Begin a perimeter sweep,” Tavington barked.

The men jumped out of his path with stuttered affirmatives and made for the treeline.

The gate approached fast until you were shoved through it, meeting with the wide gazes and stiffened spines of several more soldiers as their eyes fell upon Tavington. His arm shot out to your periphery, pointing at a pair of redcoats who instantly became an inch taller.

“Meet the garrison when they arrive. Brief them on the attack.”

The men sprang toward the gate and disappeared. Tavington turned to the remaining men, glassy-eyed and waiting.

“Clean up the bodies. I want a full report.”

“Yes, sir.” They followed suit without hesitation.

The fort stood empty aside from the powder magazine, a small building hunkered in the middle. You were alone. Your breathing stalled. A lurch, and you were moving again.

Tavington bashed open the door to the magazine and marched you through. You had barely blinked against its murky interior before the door slammed behind you and you were wrenched backwards. Your spine hit solid wood, your arms were pinned above your head, and the Butcher’s body collided with yours in the darkness.

“Why?” he hissed.

Pain screamed through your shoulder, mangled your thoughts. Reeling, you shook your head.

“I… I don—”

The fingers of his free hand clamped around your jaw, forced it up until you were looking into his eyes. You could just make them out, reflecting the weak light that bled beneath the door. They were shining. Deranged.

“The colonial,” he growled. “You killed him. Tell me why.”

With his grip still locked on your jaw, all you could manage was a muffled mmph in reply. Then he released your face, and his hand delved to your hip, your thigh.

“Who sent you?” He sought your pockets, the seams of your trousers. In the darkness, his hand brushed between your legs. You gasped. “Was it Cornwallis? Did he order you to spy on me?”

“What? No, I—ah!”

His hand slipped beneath your shirt, fingers plundering your waistband. The leather glove was supple and warm against your skin, trailing flames in its wake as it slid from one hip across your belly to the other.

“What are y—”

“Shaw and Edwards,” he said, panting. His breath fanned your neck as he continued searching, his hand circling to the small of your back, then around to brush across your ribs. “Did they know? Were they part of this?”

Beneath your shirt, his knuckles skimmed your breast. Every flame left flickering across your skin shot straight down between your legs, and you yelped. It was too much.

“Get off.” You bucked hard, your hips colliding with his.

He drove back against you, pinning you flush between the door and his body.

“You were trying to escape,” he gritted, the words skimming the shell of your ear. You squirmed and felt the hilt of his sword prod your hip. “Tell me why you shot that man.”

“I’m not… I’m no spy.” Thrashing, you achieved nothing but to impale yourself again on his…

He’d left his sword on the battlefield.

“Tell me.” He thrust forward with such force that his knee slipped between your thighs and his coat buttons grazed your nipples. That same hardness ground against your lower stomach.

A wave of molten heat flashed up your neck, soaked your lower abdomen, and a whimper escaped your throat. The pressure that flared alive in your center dizzied you. Pressing your thighs together against it, you met only the firm length of Tavington’s leg between them.

“You were—he…” The explanation tried to form on your lips, but nothing seemed to make sense any more beyond his body covering yours. The warmth of him, the weight of him against you, the vicious thrill through your thighs. The scent of copper, gunsmoke and sweat flooded you. “I just…” Your own voice sounded far away. Breathless. Needy. “I just needed to—“

He snarled, his hand coming up to lock around your throat and silence your pathetic attempt to form a sentence. It squeezed, sending cotton through your vision, and his face brushed past yours. You felt a breath skim the slope of your neck.

The charybdian maw of your desire opened, ravenous, his breath on your skin the gale that would deliver you. As your body melted to his, ready to succumb, one final thought pierced the squall like a pinprick of light.

“Release Grace,” you heard yourself croak. His grip loosened fractionally. You gulped at the stale air.

“What?”

He had gone still as marble. You craned your neck under his grasp until you were looking at him again. The tip of your nose brushed his, your breaths mingling in the gloom. Pools of blackest ink had devoured the blue of his eyes. You sucked in a breath, heart hammering under his palm.

“Release. Grace.”

You didn’t dare move, didn’t dare struggle, terrified you’d spur him on, more terrified that you wanted it.

Tavington’s lips parted. He examined your face, attention falling to his hand on your throat, your trembling chest, the junction where his hips were pressed to your belly. A short, sudden intake of air broke him free from you, the tempest vanishing from his gaze. His brow pinched together, and he shouldered you aside to open the door, pushing you out before shutting it behind him.

As he marched you forward by your good arm, a new redcoat—a captain, you thought—approached the gate, backed by what looked like at least a couple dozen soldiers, perhaps more you couldn’t see.

The man tipped his hat toward Tavington. “Colonel.”

“Take her to the holding cells at the barracks,” he said, jostling you toward the captain. “Ready a transport to Charleston.”

“Oh.” The captain halted you as you stumbled into his arms. “Sir—”

“Did my orders confuse you, Captain?” he snapped. “See it done.”

The captain blinked, then nodded, turning you around and pushing you toward his subordinates. They received you silently, trading looks of concern with their superior officer before guiding you out of the fort.

The walk to the barracks in town was silent and relatively short, your head spinning to catch up with the past half-hour. Shaw and Edwards’ bodies joined you in a cart pulled by a couple of privates, their limbs jostling from the uneven path.

You certainly didn’t mourn them, but to see them in death felt strange, like recognizing a face you’d long-forgotten. You remembered how your mother looked when she died—though you were small and Grace too young to recall—and found no similarities there. She’d appeared to be how you imagined serenity. These men laid with mouths gaping, clothes festering with blood.

When you arrived, you were placed in an outdoors holding cell with several other prisoners of war. With your restraints and clearly limp arm, you appeared to fit right in. A relief, since you weren’t sure how welcoming these men would be if they knew you’d just killed one of their own.

Their eyes followed you as you sat in the corner, sparking awareness again of what you’d been wearing and the fact that you were the only woman being held. The attention felt unwelcome, uncomfortable, like you were a rabbit wandering into an enclosure of wolves. For a brief, despicable moment, you wondered how bold they’d be if you’d been standing next to that very same colonel.

The thought twisted your stomach. Standing next to Tavington, indeed. Blinks of memory—breath on your neck, hand on your throat, hips crushing yours, his… his—

You shook your head. The entire encounter was befuddling. And it seemed to have befuddled him, too. He’d almost lost control. Almost lost control on you. More befuddling still, between his performance in the fight and your apparently traitorous inclinations, you were nearly disappointed.

Every man you’d grown up with, every man you’d met since had been a plain-parchment imitation of a person. Talking with them was tedious, their behavior when courting was saccharine, and their estimation of you was frequently, constantly deficient. Grace often teased you about never getting married, but it didn’t bother you. The idea of spending your life with someone who bored you to the grave seemed far less appealing than the idea of spending it alone.

A man had never, ever stirred you before. Never, of course, until now.

Not that you wanted to marry a man who happily murdered surrendering innocents. But your body certainly had some ideas of what it wanted with such a man.

The ghosts of his hands retraced your skin, dragging shivers in their wake. Your eyes fluttered, tried to close. You almost didn’t see the man approaching from across your cell. Almost.

You shot to your feet, squaring your shoulders to him with eyes wide. He held his hands up to you like the skittish animal you surely resembled and slowed his pace. Back pressed to the perimeter, you measured his approach.

He wore a tattered Continental Army uniform, dappled with blood and dirt. The shadow of a beard clung to his face, his cheeks not yet hollow enough to be starved. A line of dried sweat and dirt encircled his receding hairline where a wig recently sat, and his eyes—brown and strangely familiar—were still bright. He couldn’t have been imprisoned for more than a few days.

“S’all right,” he murmured, taking in your bunched shoulder and challenging stare.

You gave him no reply, grappling to assess the threat he posed. The man was a colonial. He should be your ally. Shouldn’t want to bring you harm. But then again, Colonel William Tavington was a redcoat who should have wanted nothing more than to bring you harm. And he had thoroughly, vexingly, defied that expectation. It would be foolish to default on assumptions now, given everything the past few days had taught you.

“You, uh,” he continued, glancing back at the other men before stepping closer. Your feet shifted beneath you, lending strength to your stance. “You were at the battle? We heard shots.”

After a small hesitation, you nodded, sending a bolt of pain through your shoulder that you ignored. He stepped closer, lowering his voice.

“Continental forces? How many?”

“Militia,” you replied, counting the number quickly in your head. “Thirty-two.”

He frowned, raised a brow in thought, then looked back at you. “Any other survivors?”

You grimaced. “None.”

His face fell, then flickered with hope again. Another vague spark of familiarity struck you. “Y—you’re sure you didn’t see soldiers? The militia could have been a cover. They could be coming to break us out.”

It wasn’t likely. But you couldn’t begrudge the man his hope. You simply shrugged your good shoulder.

“You—“ He blinked rapidly, frowned as he took in your attire. “Were you… with the militia?”

There was no good way to answer. No, I shot one of them to save the Colonel of the Green Dragoons didn’t seem like the best option. A change of subject did.

You nodded toward his uniform. “Where were you fighting?”

“Oh.” He followed your gaze down to his own torso and back up. “Waxhaws. North of here.”

Your eyes widened. A wheel of memory slotted onto its axis and turned.

“I know you,” you whispered.

He blinked again. “Begging your pardon, miss?”

“Or…” You shook your head. “You know my father. Michael. He left to join the Continental Army with you in the Wilksburg company.”

He muttered your father’s name under his breath, recognition expanding in his eyes. You leaned forward, pulse picking up a gallop.

“Do you know what happened to him? When did you last see him?”

“At the battle,” his brow furrowed, like he was conjuring the memory with some difficulty. “Three—three days ago? Some of us were captured. He escaped.”

“Do you know where he went?” you implored.

The man shook his head. “He didn’t return home? Or send word?”

“I wouldn’t know.” Deflating, you leaned against the wall behind you. “Redcoats took me and my sister from our home that night. They were looking for him.”

The man’s brow creased with pity. You felt an irrational stab of anger—you didn’t want his pity. You wanted answers.

“What was his objective?” You straightened, meeting his gaze again. “You battled at Waxhaws, were you ambushed? By whom? Where was your regiment heading?”

“S-slow down.” He took a step back, raising his palms. Only then did you realize you had advanced on him.

A jeer sounded from across the cell. Your head snapped in its direction.

“Scared of the girl, Wilson?” one of the other men called, laughing to and with himself only. “Don’t worry if she’s a biter, I’ll still make her purr.”

You glowered over Wilson’s shoulder. Perhaps some of your assumptions about men still held water. Wilson shook his head and let out a sigh, long-suffering. Your attention shifted back to him, still awaiting an answer.

“We were meeting a detachment from Virginia,” he said. “They gave us dispatches to distribute to the South Carolina commanders. We thought the Charleston forces would never catch up to us by the time they headed back north.”

Wilson swallowed. You leaned in further.

“We—we weren’t expecting the Dragoons.”

“The Dragoons,” you said, as if you barely recognized the term and hadn’t been pinned to a wall by their colonel less than an hour prior. “What, uh, happened with the Dragoons?”

“They slaughtered us,” he replied. “It was a massacre. Over a hundred dead. Maybe two. Your father was one of the few who got out alive.” He paused. “At least, I thought he was.”

You pursed your lips. How comforting to know that the man who stirred you could’ve been responsible for murdering the only important man in your life. God willing, the person you’d killed hadn’t been a father, or anyone important to anyone else on the planet. Though that seemed unlikely. Regardless, you would've killed the man again if it went even a sliver towards Grace's safety. And your newest moral quandary meant nothing as long as you didn't plan to act on it—and you most certainly didn't.

“Well, I have to hope,” you said. “Perhaps he met up with the other riders after escaping.”

Wilson shrugged in a hesitant agreement. “Perhaps so. They rode out all across the colony. Some followed the Ashley River, some followed the Santee.” He found your gaze. “It would take more than a few redcoats to trip up your father,” he said. “He’s a wily man.”

“Wily, huh?” said the awful, annoying man behind Wilson. “Does the daughter favor her father in that regard?”

You rolled your eyes. “Thank you,” you said to Wilson. “I… It’s a relief to know he might still be alive.”

“My pleasure, miss,” he said. After stepping back to the group of men, he added, “Don’t let Paul here bother you too much.”

Paul huffed. “Bother her?” He stumbled toward you, his mouth black with rot and his face damp with sweat. “Am I bothering you, young miss?”

“Not yet,” you replied, trying to retreat but finding yourself cornered.

Wilson made to put a hand on Paul’s shoulder, but Paul slapped him off, inching closer to you, close enough for you to choke on the stench of dirty blood oozing from him.

“Then can you explain for me why Wilson thinks I’m bothering you?”

“Perhaps I can. You’re a tiresome lout,” you returned, your rising panic making you too brash. “Can you explain that?”

Something sinister fell across his face. Your feet ached to run.

“Come, now.” He spoke through his teeth, stepping forward again. “Don’t be unladylike.”

Just as he reached out to snag your collar, you propelled forward and smashed your forehead into his nose. His flesh gave a wet crunch. The man reeled back, clutching his face, blood geysering between his fingers. You felt a trickle of it slip down the bridge of your nose.

“God’s fucking balls!” Blood spewed, smattered the ground as Paul screeched, stumbling onto his backside.

Wilson laughed at him. Another averted his attention, appearing nauseated. The last one scowled at you. Lifting your chin, you returned his glare. Finally, he turned away as well.

Your assailant remained on the ground with his hands over his face, groaning and spitting blood. You sank back into your corner, nodding at Wilson. None approached you again.

The sun had met the sky by the time your transport was readied. New redcoats led you out of your cage full of starved wolves, putting them all in bondage before leading you toward a covered wagon. You supposed that once you reached Charleston, you’d be in an entirely different cage of wolves, or perhaps even bears, and you’d need to figure out how on God’s holy earth you were going to free Grace.

At the front of the line, you spotted Tavington perched atop a new mount, mostly cleaned of blood, surveying his domain. As you stepped toward the wagon, a stranger’s blood dripping down your face, he peered over his shoulder. His stare landed on you.

In the glow of sunrise, his eyes shimmered like water. He watched you board the transport, gaze never leaving yours until you disappeared behind the canvas.

[kamiversee]

IK THIS ISNT GOING TO HAPPEN BUT I HAD SUCH A GOOD THOUGHT! Imagine this whole book was actually a movie that they were filming. So gojo, choso, sukuna, the reader and everyone else are just actors. So like when the book ends, it’s interrupted by a “Cut!” and then everybody js breaks character and start telling eachother great work and congratulating everyone for finally finishing this movie. And gojo and the reader are actually close friends so while everyone’s busy cleaning up and getting ready to go home, he asks her if she could get him his bag from his dressing room. She says sure and makes her way there. She enters the room and spots his bag, while picking it up, a book falls out. Originally, she was going to grab it and js place it back inside but her curiosity gets the best of her and she opens it. She realizes its a journal and while she’s skimming through it, shes giggling to herself at the first silly pages her best friend had written. But then she gets to a rather odd page. Covering the whole sheet, leaving no spaces of white whatsoever, is her name. Just her name. Over and over again. And it went on for atleast 4 pages. After turning the fourth page, she finds something very disturbing. The funny and silly man you knew as your good friend had written about how obsessed he was with you. He wrote that he would look forward to seeing you everyday, obsessed with your scent, hair, eyes, legs, hands, mouth, etc. Basically every single part of you. While you kept reading it, it js kept getting weirder and weirder. When you turned the page, there was hair taped to the book. YOUR hair. SEVERAL strands. Your face twisted in disgust and your hand flew to your mouth. There was more writing on the next page and smth disturbing had caught your eye at the end of the entry. “If you think about it, I really don’t have to do much acting for this role. Part of it is being an obsessive freak who would do anything for the woman he loves. And that’s exactly me. Can you really blame me? Look at her. Shes so pretty. Especially when she’s sleeping. But lately she’s been getting a little too close to Choso..i really don’t like that. But it’s fine! I’ve gotten rid of that problem already so i dont think he’ll be talking to her anymore..” Her eyes grow wide and you realize..Choso hasn’t been here these past few days. Someone had called in saying he was sick and wouldn’t be showing up for the last few scenes you guys had to film…that’s why you never grew worried. But now..now you know that choso was probably never sick. Oh god..was he..? Before you could finish your thought, someone broke you out of your trance. “what are you doing.” Your head slowly turned towards the door of your room and there stood gojo, lifeless, serious look on his face. You couldn’t speak. He continued to stare at you with dead eyes until he smiled at you. A wide creepy smile. “Guess you know my little secret now, huh? Sweets.”

GIRL WHY DID U JUST WRITE A WHOLE ASS SPINOFF?😭🙏 This was good wth?

& funny because I like to think of all my fics as movies that I’m directing & everyone’s just an actor💀

I do rlly love this concept tho, 10/10, ty for this <3

[lou-struck]

Sick Days With You

Meguru Bachira- sick fic

Prompt: 🤧🤒 + cuddles

~When you’re feeling under the weather, Meguru jumps at the chance to take care of you.

a/n: I love a good sick fic, and I hope you do. This was my first time writing for any Blue Lock Characters so I hope I didn't mess it up too badly.

~This is one of the requested prompts for My Emoticon Expression’s Event; check out the masterlist On my welcome page.

The morning sun hasn’t even picked through your blinds yet, and you are awakened by a devilish pounding in your head. Your joints ache, and your skin is clammy with an uncomfortable layer of sticky sweat. You’re definitely sick.

Your poor throat feels tight as you breathe out a tired little whine, twisting yourself so that your back is to the window.

You reach an arm out across the mattress, hoping to find the familiar figure of your boyfriend sleeping next to you, only for it to lay flat against the cold- slightly wrinkled sheets.

How rude, “you think to yourself. You must have gotten this cold from standing in the rain watching Meguru’s last home game. 

He never forces you to go, but he refers to you as his good luck charm, so often you feel the need to make it to as many as you can. 

Reluctantly, you pull yourself out of bed and head to the bathroom, searching the cabinets for some medicine that will make it easier for you to rest. Turning on the light, you can see your reflection in the mirror, and you look rough. All natural color has been completely drained from your face, and your skin shines with a sickly hue; peering in closer, you see that your eyes are bloodshot and watery. As for your nose, there are definitely some bats in the cave, but the thought of doing anything about them just makes your head pound more.

After taking a bit of medicine, You have just enough sense about you to send a quick message into work telling them that you will be taking a sick day. Before your head hits the slightly cooler pillow and you drift off into a dreamless sleep.

~

Something touches your cheek. It’s just a little tap, innocent, playful. But It’s enough to have you peek open your eyes. Meguru’s bright citrine gaze stares back at you kindly. “You’re not feeling too well, are you?” He asks the question in his usual chipper voice, but you can’t tell that he is worried about you. 

You shake your head; you are not feeling any better than you had this morning. You didn’t think it would be possible, but now you feel worse. “No,” Your throat feels tight and itchy as you croak out your response. “I-I think I’m sick.”

“I can check for you,” he offers, placing the back of his palm on your dry forehead. His much colder skin feels like heaven against your own. 

“Oh my, you’re really burning up.” His features light up in a way that doesn’t quite fit the mood, and you furrow your brow, trying to figure out why he looks so eager about the whole thing. 

 “Isn’t this exciting?” he says earnestly.

“What? Exciting?” You wheeze pitifully, your body shivering underneath the blankets as you pull them impossibly tighter.

“Very exciting,” affection and adoration clear as day on his face as turns walks across the bedroom. Tossing open the closet door, he pulls out a pile of folded, fluffy blankets and plops them on the edge of the bed so he can unfold them. “It’s exciting to me that today, I get to be the one to take care of you.”

He carefully drapes the first one over your still shaky form and tucks it tight against you. 

“I don’t know if I’d call this exciting,” you murmur, watching him unfold another blanket and lay it on top of the other one, effectively turning you into a human blanket burrito. As you look at how much care he puts into such a simple action, you know it’s not just the blankets that are making you feel a bit warmer.

“Oh, but It is.” he grins, tucking the last of the pile over you. “You took care of me when I wasn’t feeling well, so now I get to be the one to do it.” He makes the idea of caring for you sound so dreamlike you may not understand what goes on in his head. But you know he’s being honest when he says he wants to help you.

There is a familiar tingling sensation under your nose, a sneeze, the kind of sneeze that threatens to spill the contents of your overstuffed nose everywhere. Your arms are tucked so neatly into the blankets you are unable to free them in time to reach for a tissue, or at least your arm.

But just as you are about to blow, your boyfriend carefully presses a wad of them against your nostrils. The feeling of having someone else do it is foreign to you, but it works, and instead of looking disgusted, Meguru looks almost accomplished, having helped you out already for the second time.

“See? I told you I’m here to take care of you.” He smiles, tossing the wad into the nearby trash can, sanitizing his hands.

The sneeze may have partially cleared up your sinuses, but that headache from before has returned in full force. Can you try and borrow yourself further underneath the covers to shield your sensitive eyes from the light? You are unsure why, but now you are feeling so, so self-conscious about this whole thing.

“Meguru, you really should get away. Right now, I’m cold, hot, and shaky. My head feels like it’s going to fall off, and my stomach is doing flips” You try again, speaking to him from underneath the covers. It will be much easier if you don’t have to look at his cute face while you reluctantly tell him to go away. You don’t want him to leave, but he shouldn’t have to deal with you like this, “you have a big game this weekend; you shouldn’t get sick taking care of me..”

“I’m not leaving, you are telling me all these things to push me away, but they only make me want to help you more.” he says, gently pulling the blanket off your head, “I don’t care about getting sick; I just want you to feel better.” You were ready to send him off with another brigade of excuses, but then he brings out the pleasing puppy dog eyes. “Please let me help you.”

Dammit, He’s good

“Sometimes, you are just too persuasive for your own good.” you sigh as he slips a large pillow behind your back to prop you up. “If you really want to help me out, I won’t stop you.”

He beams victoriously; the look in his eyes is almost as joyously intense as when he megs a goalkeeper to score. “Just wait; I am going to take such good care of you; you will feel better in no time.”

You wiggle a bit, working to free your arms from the confines of your blanketed prison. You have a feeling today will be much more enjoyable if you are able to move them freely. But the blankets don’t budge. “A little help, please…” you huff. 

“I tucked you in a bit too tight, didn’t I” he giggles. “I guess that was my way of trying to keep you in bed today.”

You laugh at his joke but quickly lose your breath. Your whole body heaves with each cough putting fat tears in your eyes.

“Hey, You gotta take it easy,” he says, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead as if he thinks that True Love’s Kiss is powerful enough to cure a common cold. You love that he is a romantic, but you really don’t feel much better and continue to cough into your sleeve as if you are dying.

“What can I do to help you right now?” 

You are about to ask for a glass of water to soothe your dry throat, but he gets ahead of himself.

“Oh, I know; I can run down to the grocery store and pick you up some Gatorade, so you stay hydrated. I should also get you some good things to eat and pick up some medicine.” he starts pacing across the room, talking more to himself than to you. “Then when I get back, we can watch some of your favorite movies, or maybe if you are up for it, we can play those video games you like.”

He got so lost in his ramblings he forgot that you actually need something until your next fit of coughing hits you. “Are you okay? What do you need?” he’s kind of freaking out.

He starts to rush to the kitchen but stops and comes back, realizing that your voice is already so weak you shouldn’t have to yell for him.

“I’m sorry, baby,” he says, taking a deep breath and getting close, calming down for both your sakes. “What can I get you?

“C-could I have a glass of water, please,” you say in a small voice.

He nods eagerly, rushing out of the room as quickly as he can. His eagerness is utterly adorable. 

At first, when you heard the clinking and clanking of glass and doors in the kitchen, you were concerned, but you truly know that Meguru Bachira is a capable adult who won’t burn the place down just by pouring a glass of water for his sick partner.

He comes back with a tall glass of water, a pitcher, a few tablets of Ibuprofen, and a frozen water bottle.

“Thank you,” you say, taking a pill for your headache and chasing it with a greedy gulp of water. “You’re the best,”

“I haven’t even started yet.” he laughs, cheeks turning a bit pink from your praise. “Is there anything else I can do to make you feel better?”

Despite the mountains of blankets already on top of you, your coughing fit has given you quite the chill. Your skin covers itself in goosebumps as you look up at him pitifully. “Could you get me another blanket?” 

“Another one? You really must be freezing,” he says, looking in the closet for any more blankets. “I don’t see anymore, but I have something better in mind.”

You cock your head to the side as he strides across the room, springing onto the bed. Before you can object, he wiggles underneath your mountain of blankets and lays next to you. “Wait, what are you doing?”

“Keeping you warm with some Cuddles,” he says innocently. “I told you before that I don’t care about getting sick, so why don’t we just relax and watch your favorite comfort movies. I placed an order for some groceries, so I won’t have to leave your side today.”

You cling to the heat he is giving out and enjoy the feeling of his embrace. “Do you promise?” you hum.

“I promise,” he shoots you a playful wink and holds you even tighter to his chest. “After all, I would never want to miss out on a sick day with you.”

[cailynwrites]

Harry Potter Rec Fest Day 13 - Over 100K

I so appreciate the dedication that it takes for someone to write over 100K words; I think even my M.A. thesis topped out at 30K (with much academic padding). I've read a ton of long fics so there's probably some recency bias here for @hprecfest day 13, but I've also tried to share a couple different pairings ...

Blood Magic (Podfic) written and read by houseofthehebrideanblcks and thestralsofspinnersend Pairing: Draco x Harry Word count: 334,676 Length: 33:05:11 Rating: E

@thistlecatfics already said all the things about this fic in their recommendation for the podfic the other day, and said it in a much lovelier and more eloquent way than I ever could. I guess I came at it from a different perspective though - as someone who is very lucky to feel not too traumatized by life or struggling with addiction or mental health (not a brag, just context), I got to see inside the brains of people like that and feel great empathy for them. Isn't that what art should do - put you in the shoes of different people and make you see the world differently? This is a slow, beautiful story of down-and-out Draco AND Harry heading toward something like peace and love, but it's a long road to get there. Also featuring endlessly patient counselor Luna, supportive Ron & Hermione, and lots of magical creatures.

The podfic is also really well done. The authors recorded it as a podcast originally. If the 33 hour single file on InternetArchive isn't really your speed, you can get the podcast version here, which includes their commentary after each chapter. Maybe not for everyone, but I found it interesting as a companion piece to hear their writing process and talk about trauma, treatment, and recovery in their own lives.

Choice and Chance by @chaoticcrumpets (Podfic by @etl-echo-audiobooks) Pairing: Draco x Hermione Word count: 116,972 Length: almost 10 hours Rating: M

This fic is so interesting. I had gotten a little burned out on Dramione before listening to this fic and this fully resparked my interest. I don't want to give too much away, but it's a mystery, a time travel adventure, and a romance. All the characterizations are very real, even though there might be more than one characterization of some of the characters. Can I use character more times in one sentence? Ah, and the twist at the end!!! *Chef's kiss*

Sweater Weather written by @lumosinlove (Podfic by @itsaash & cast) Pairing: Wolfstar, other adorable OC pairings and more! Word count: 156,108 Length: 15:23:00 Rating: E

I didn't think a hockey AU would be for me, even though I kinda like hockey. I was tempted by the prospect of Everyone Lives (TM) and I'm so grateful for it. This fic is beautiful, the development of all the characters, both canon and original, is incredible. I laughed, I cried, I gasped, I sighed, and when I was done, I wanted to start reading it all over again. At the time, it was newly finished and a sequel was on the way. I've been waiting for a nice vacation or sick day to reread it and its sequel, Vaincre. @lumosinlove has created a wonderful world and I just want to see the characters play around in it forever. I haven't listened to the podfic, but I'd encourage everyone to give it a shot!

************************************************************************

This one barely counts as a self-rec because I'm really just gushing about the author ...

Way Down We Go by @xiaq Podfic read by Cailynwrites (with @etl-echo-audiobooks) with beautiful album art by @abrilas-art Pairing: Draco x Harry Word count: 109,767 Length: 13 hours Rating: T

If you had asked me the ratings of my two out of three of my favorite novel-length Drarry fics yesterday, I wouldn't have thought the answer would be T, but apparently it is. This story, along with Away Childish Things, rewired my brain. I love the pace, I love the development of both boys' characters, I love the ancillary characters both old and new. It's just a perfectly told story. Although I should be encouraging you to go listen to my podfic on AO3 or Spotify, I can definitely also recommend the reading experience. Don't skip the adorable author's notes containing the adventures of the author's dog and grad school woes (relatable).

If you want to get a taste for the podfic before diving in, try this snippet or this one.

[ssreeder]

oh my god. oh my goodness fucking gracious me.

so I just have to tell you that I found your fic this morning and I fucking SPEEDED through that shit (even though it was SO long--IM NOT COMPLAINING I LOVE LONG FICS) but oh my god. oh my god

you're so talented??? first of all, like I'm on my knees wondering where all this came from. like you came up with this?? it was in your head?? and you wrote it by yourself? oh my god reSPECT

also it's so beautifully written‼️‼️ I went back and looked at the character development and the everything because good lord it was so well paced. like I was on the edge of my bed seat during every single chapter. good lord

zukka + all of ATLA is my current hyperfixation and your fic has soothed me so completely

jesus christ on a cracker do you understand how talented you are?? do you *grabs you aggressively by the shoulders and stares deeply into your eyes* DO YOU UNDERSTAND HOW INCREDIBLE AND SKILLFUL AND GORGEOUS THIS IS??? PLEASE

okay but in all seriousness, here are some of my favorite lines(mostly from the last chapter because jesus fuck I do nOT have time to scroll back through everything your wrote):

"And here he was, all these years later… not used to it. He knew he would never get used to the blood curdling scream a person made when the fire stripped their body clean and their bones were reduced to nothing but a pile of ash and a terrible smell.

No wonder the world referred to them as ash-makers."

Jesus fucking fuck. CHILLS BBY I HAD CHILLS

"Watch out for your little brother" OHOHOHO HEHEEEE

"'Your teacher will be someone who has mastered Neutral Jing. You need to find someone who waits and listens before striking. Do not worry about your old friend Aang, he isn’t buried in the ground yet!' Bumi cackled the way that he had since they were just kids.

...

'The white lotus Pai Sho piece? I don’t have a set, no one else knows how to play.'"

AHAHAH THE TOPH AND UNCLE IROH DROP IM GOING TO BE SICK

"I'll go wherever you go." KILLING MYSELF WHY ARE THEY SO SWEET

anyway that's enough from me (I feel like you should know I typed all of this while either rolling around on the floor screaming or sitting very still with a DEEPLY disturbing (so I'm told) and very somber expression on my face).

i hope you have a lovely day you gorgeous beautiful perfect human being

This is me reading your ask… dude wtf this is so nice!!!!

I AM BEING SHOULDER GRABBED WITH LOVE AND I REALLY LIKE IT AHHHHH!!! its so funny because its been so long since i wrote the first book you sent me those quotes and im like uhhhuhhh ohhh yeah mhmmmm wait i wrote that?? Haha (except the “watch out for your little brother”) cause that was twisted in a way that made me smirk.. haha that sentence meant so much!!! (I do think the bumi quote was directly from canon though so I take zero credit for that just trying to keep it canon haha)

I’m glad you like my writing enough to come scream at me. I love when people scream kind words at me I WANT TO BE SHOULDER GRABBED WITH PRAISE MORE AHHHHH!!!

thanks for this epic ask you’re fucking amazing never change

[until-another-one-comes]

Since we haven’t gotten a story mode yet, I’ve made up headcanons of at least 3 different versions of what Francis’s character is like in my head. They’ll change once the game’s updated in the future.

1) Average Joe Francis: Francis is just your basic white guy. Nothing remarkable about him. He just wants to live a normal life but gets really worn out by his job. All he wants is to do his work and get back to sleep. Doesn’t like to stand out, really simple but very shy and humble to everyone. He doesn’t have much confidence in himself and is pretty lonely. He may or may not have a normal upbringing or he could have a neglectful family. I headcanon that this version of Francis had a fling with Nacha because he was desperate for companionship but ended up getting her pregnant. He still pays for child support and cares for Nacha and Anastacha but gets very awkward around them.

2) Dead on the outside, dead on the inside: this Francis grew up in an abusive home that warped his perception of others and love in general. He was mistreated by everyone as a child that he developed some form of mental illness that kept him up all night. Francis became an empty shell of a person when he grew up and just works to survive. He’s not afraid to get bloody if anyone crosses him and it gives him a form of sick delight as the life fades from his victims eyes. If some housewife wants to have an affair with him (I.e Nacha), Francis wouldn’t have a problem with it not because he’s excited about wrecking a relationship, it’s because he’s got nothing better to do. Deep down, he believes he’s unlovable and that he screwed up all his life. If he does end up caring for someone, he will turn even more insane for them. He will do whatever it takes to make sure that person stays with him.

3) A true goth underneath: this is based off Yog Sothoth from the nightmare mode. I think the reason why Francis is a vampire is because of the inside joke that milkmen are known for home wrecking like vampires sucking away the blood and life force but that’s based on how the doorman sees him. Contrary to popular belief, this version of Francis prefers to not sleep with anyone at all. He just wants to do his job. Nacha might be an exception because I think they liked each other at one point but their relationship fell off because Francis was really moody and pessimistic. And since Yog Sothoth has a goth design to it, I feel like it can also reflect this Francis’s behaviour as a typical angsty brooding goth who hates life. This Francis loves dark places, loves sad music and writes poetry in his free time. In short, he’s a dark artistic soul /j

What do you think?

I love first one the most! Yeah, thats more or less my vision for him (except I have my own backstory for him and Nacha), just Some Guy tryna live his life while also going through his day with the threat of the doppelgangers. And tbh I think thats the most 'canon' way to see him.

Second one- I don't think Nacho-sama would make it canon, or at least not seriously, but again it is kind of sus that Francis's doppel and nightmare version is related to blood. Even though its fanservice I still see Yog being a vampire to allude the whole 'milkman are homewreckers' thing back in the 50s. But yeah I wouldn't be all that surprised if theres a twist of him being like that (especially since we already got confirmation that Afton has something going on, if one neighbor can be sus why not two. Or three. *Looks at Angus*)

HELP GOTH FRANCIS REAL?? LMAO I love that idea. RIP Francis you would have loved modern alt fashion.

(Sorry you didn't ask for this, but about Nacha- my backstory for them that I hope to write a fic for is that Nacha was married before her husband was a cheater. She had a one night stand with Francis (who didn't know she was married) and then left her husband once she realised she was pregnant. After giving birth to Anastacha they moved around a lot before finally settling into the current apartment. That just so happens to be where Francis lives)

[tessatales]

Is That What You Think? (Bucky x Reader)

A/N: Hey! This is a quick Song Fic because I’ve had this song on repeat and I had a vivid image of several of the marvel crews reaction to hearing Reader sing this song. I picked one character to write for rather than a ‘Marvel character react’ kinda post (did that make sense?)

Anyway! Enjoy!

Theme: Comfort, Bucky helps, words of encouragement, you can read this as a mutual pining/love story or as a platonic friendship (up to you lovely’s)

Warnings: non really, swearing (mainly in the lyrics) negative self image.

*Bucky’s POV*

‘I don't go out much

'Cause parties are too much

And I don't need any more judgement’

Bucky didn’t make a habit of listening in to people singing in their room, but something about the lyrics mixed with the emotion in Y/N voice made him pause.

With trained silence, Bucky crept closer to the door, stoping when the muffled sounds through Y/N’s bedroom door became clearer.

‘So, you keep your gossip

You're cool and you're toxic

Already got someone who does it’

Bucky went to knock on the door, only to have his hand dangling in mid air as the door creaked open with the first tap. Through the now ajar door, Bucky watched as Y/N continued to sing, their large headphones deafening them to their visitors knocking.

‘It's me, and that voice in my head

Telling me that I'm better off dead

If you think that you can make me cry

More than me, myself and I

Well, go ahead and try’

Better off dead? Bucky thought, his body going still with the shock of the statement. Backing away from the door, the ex assassin took a deep breath as he felt the wall make contact with his back.

‘If you talk to me like I talk to myself

I'd give you the finger, I'd say, "Go to hell"

You can be mean, make it sing pretty well

But you can't say shit I don't say to myself’

“F.R.I.D.A.Y?” Bucky whispered as he moved slowly away from Y/N’s door.

‘Yes Mr Barnes?’ F.R.I.D.A.Y whispered back, the female voice so close that if the person existed, they’d of been right beside Bucky.

“How do I find that song?” Bucky asked, his voice returning to normal as he entered his rooms.

F.R.I.D.A.Y was silent for a moment.

“I could get the song up for you Mr Barnes. Or you could listening to it via Y/N’s public playlist” F.R.I.D.A.Y replied.

Bucky thought for a moment, before taking his headphones from the stand by his bed.

“Send it to my headphones please”

“Of course Mr Barnes” F.R.I.D.A.Y confirmed.

*A few hours later*

‘I wish you could hurt me

So maybe when I bleed

I could blame somebody else

But she's sick and she's twisted

A bit masochistic

There's no point in calling for help’

As the chorus played again, Bucky made another note in his journal, his handwriting barely legible, as he scribbled to keep up with his own thoughts.

‘Like you're useless, you're stupid

You're hard to love

No one likes you, you're crazy, you're totally fucked

If you talk to me, like I talk to myself

I talk to myself’

Bucky paused the song, barely able to keep his emotions in check as he re-read the lyrics he’d noted down. Useless? Stupid? Hard to love?

“How can you think this about yourself Doll?” Bucky asked the silent room, his heart thrumming against his chest uneasily. With a sigh, he pressed play, hoping the song didn’t get any worse.

‘It's me

Yeah, that voice in my head telling me

That I'm better off dead

If you think that you can make me cry

Well, me, myself and I

Make me wanna die’

As the chorus played for the final time, Bucky could hardly see, his eye a blur as he read and re-read everything he’d written in his tiny black book. The Winter Solider sat motionless and unseeing for a moment, allowing himself to process everything he’d heard before reaching for the red pen he kept spare on his nightstand and getting to work.

*Your POV*

“Whoever’s knocking on my door at 1 am better have a good reason!” You shout as you stumble sleepily to your bedroom door. After a particularly turbulent mental health day, you’d hoped the extra sleep would help prepare you for a better tomorrow, but apparently the person at your door didn’t care about your beauty sleep.

“Who- Bucky?” Stunned at the Winter Soldiers presence, you stop your angry rant before it comes. Bucky looks disheveled in your doorway, the weak hallway light barely hiding the messy hair and stress lines on his face.

“Who died?” You asked, only half joking. Bucky didn’t blink, only stepping forward to envelop you in a hug. You hadn’t realised how ally you’d needed one until you’d felt his arms cross your body firmly, holding you tightly against him as you felt your legs buckle slightly.

‘We love you Y/N” Bucky whispers into your hair, placing a kiss on your forehead before letting you go.

“Of course i do, why are you saying that?” You replied, frowning at the man in front of you.

“We all don’t say it enough. Here” Bucky said, handing you what seemed to be several pages from his notebook.

“What?” You said, barely getting the word out before Bucky walked away.

“Read it” was all he said as he retreated back down the hall. Closing the door, you stared at the tiny bundle of notes in your hand, confusion shaking you fully awake.

Sitting on your bed, you unravelled the notes, looking at each page scrawled with black and red writing. Some of the writing was almost eligible; although it only took you a few moments to realise what you were looking at.

The song

You could see it now, the lyrics you’d woken up with playing in your head; letting you know that today was not going to be a good day to be in your own head. But something was different.

You could see the original lyrics, all of them scribbled in deep black ink but it was the red notes on the side that crisscrossed between the margins of the song.

Like you’re useless, you’re stupid What a ridiculous statement!

You're hard to love Bullshit! We love you, I love you.

No one likes you, you're crazy, you're totally fucked If i could climb into your head and tell you how all of this is totally wrong, i would. But I’m not asking Stark or that ant dude about the science of that.

Further down, where the lyrics talked about death, your breath hitched at what Bucky had wrote.

Well, me, myself and I

Make me wanna die.

How long have you felt this way? Do you feel this way all the time? Or just sometimes? Why don’t you come to us? Why don’t you come to me? You know we’d be here for you. You are loved, you are smart. You couldn’t be hard to love if you tried! Please read these notes when you need them. Please don’t suffer alone. We’re here. - Bucky.

It was the little red heart scrawled next to his name that broke the dam inside. Your tears spilling over until they spilled onto the page. You dabbed at the paper quickly, stopping the liquid before it distorted the only below.

‘Thank you’ you whispered into the darkness. You’d express your thanks, your love and your gratitude in the morning, but right now, all you wanted to fall asleep to was the deep red letters etched on the paper in front of you.

A/N: Hey guys! I wasn’t sure really how to end this one- you know when you get a half baker idea but it just won’t go away until your write it down? Yeah that was this story- yet no matter how much I though- the rest of the story wouldn’t bake! So apart from that, I hope you guys enjoyed this little story- I hope to make some more one shot fics soon

[lurkinglurkerwholurks]

Catch Me

First posted: August 28, 2019

Focuses on: Dick Grayson and Clark Kent

Favorite bookmark: “Really refreshing in the unexpected stylistic choices the writer made in each sentence. Really held your attention with figurative language. Also, lots of nightmares and cuddles, so... :)"

Tier: Middle-ish

This is my “behind the scenes” series where I indulge myself horribly by annotating my fics. Link to the fic itself above. Thoughts below the cut.

The title from this one comes from "Tightrope" from The Greatest Showman. Fun fact, before I was friends with @audreycritter, she did a fundraiser for a friend that included a fic component. I donated so I got to pick the prompt, and it was also this song, because it gives me BIGGGGG Dick & Bruce emotions, and that prompt became The Hand In My Hand.

Go listen to that song and think of these two. It's amazing.

Anyways. This fic was written for @husborth as a late birthday gift, if I remember correctly. I sussed out preferred characters and took it from there. Sickfics are always fun, but this ended up being a horrible prophecy of a fic, because I wrote it and then BOTH of us got sick, separately, in separate states. But did EITHER of us have a Bruce to lovingly tend to us? No.

This had happened before. He knew what was coming. He couldn’t stop it.

Poor Dick. I am very mean to him in this fic. (Not meaner than the original writers who made him watch his parents plummet to their deaths, but.) Thankfully I am not prone to nightmares, but I do get rerun dreams, and I am usually just as annoyed about it as you might suppose.

Dick’s ears filled with the roar of the crowd, the tumult pressing down on him like corpses, pinning him in place. 

"How many ways can I describe things in terms of death and dying before anyone actually dies?"

They were cheering, not screaming, urging the spangled bodies high above to climb higher, to step out onto the narrow platforms, to jump.

"How. Many. Ways."

He could feel the air, oppressively full and stifling, wrap over him like a soaked towel. He couldn’t move.

Can I just say. Getting trapped in blankets with a fever? Like physically getting an arm or leg wrapped in a twisted sheet or something? The worst. Just cut it off, I don't need it.

Dick collapsed forward, weeping and wheezing in equal measure. Strong arms caught him, lifting him back onto the bed before he could hit the floor.

Having Bruce catch him was so important, given the song. Also, it's just lovely to read, imo.

He didn’t want to dream again, didn’t want to get caught in that sickening loop that had played over and over and over, spurred on by the heat tearing through his head and prickling down his spine.

Poor Dick. When I have fever dreams, they're usually less of a dream and more having every moment of thought invaded by a line from a song. One time it was the theme song to Calamity Jane and it was the actual worst.

The arms moved, muscles hardening to shift Dick so his burning face rested against cool, soft fabric. A fridge-chilled washcloth wiped the tears from his cheek and the sweat from his brow. 

I used so many adjectives in this fic. It feels excessive. Me @ me were they on sale??? put some back!

“I want my mom.” Dick hiccuped and curled his limbs in tight, fists pressed to the bridge of his nose. He trembled in every muscle, in every tendon, in every centimeter of his marrow. He ached with fever and exhaustion and grief. He wanted his dad to cradle him like a baby. He wanted his mom to sing him to sleep. He wanted to remember what their faces looked like. “I want my mom.”

That was the line I was writing for, right there. Dick wishing his mom were alive to take care of him again. (It is usually what I whine when truly ill, even as a very grown adult.)

A throat ground down to gravel by years of wear hummed a lullaby, soft baritone to the tenor of his tears. . . .

“Bruce. Bruce.” “I’m still here, chum.”

Bruce 👏 is 👏 his 👏 children's 👏 bedrock 👏

“Father?” called someone quietly, voice high and young. “Will Richard be alright?”

I remain SO incredibly pleased with the reception to this line right here. When I started writing, I couldn't decide if I wanted to write about baby Dick or grown Dick... so I cheated. My highest hopes were just that readers wouldn't be too confused but instead the comments were shock and delight over what seemed to be taken as a mega-twist. I didn't expect that level of surprise, but I'm happy about it!

Bruce hummed an old tune, something low and swayed that made his chest rumble beneath Dick’s cheek like a monstrous cat’s purr.

And here I cram in two things that are important to me—Bruce singing to his kids and anyone fortunate enough to rest against him comparing him to a massive predator that is also remarkably comfy and soft.

And that was enough.

I could swear I've ended at least one other fic like this. Maybe more than one. Endings are hard.

[jacksonscouts]

Hey Scouts! We're wrapping up our self-rec celebration with a final fic review for @roselees's story, Blood runs thicker than water!

It was such a pleasure to read everyone's fics. If you feel moved to, I hope some Scouts join me in commenting on one or two fics from the bake sale.

Now without further ado....

This premise alone already melts my heart. Tess Lives? I love it already. Joel, Tess, and Tommy raise Ellie from the start? Holy shit, I’m hooked. I think my favorite aspect about this fic is how in-character everyone feels. I also love that Tess is southern like she was in the game. I think they made her a dirty yankee in the HBO adaption lol.

The dynamics you portrayed are beautiful. Joel and Tess can pretty much read each other’s minds and their love and trust for each other is apparent in every scene they’re together in. Joel and Tommy’s dynamic is a wonderful blend of seriousness and playfulness. Their banter made me smile so much which makes what happens later even more devastating.

All three of them and their dynamic with Ellie over the years was just precious. Watching Ellie grow up from a curious little one to a potty-mouthed kid is something I didn’t know I needed until this story. They all fiercely love that girl just like we readers do. Baby Ellie is so adorable and I’m so glad you made Tommy the main cause for her usage of curse words.

Another aspect I really enjoyed was the theme of grief for both Joel and Tess. Whenever you include introspection about their dead children it creates this haunting undertone for the scenes, even when the scenes are otherwise lighthearted. Joel and Tess’s shared grief also adds to their complex dynamic and you portray it so well. There was an interaction that’s gonna live rent free in my head where Tess mentions Sarah and apologizes with a touch and Joel nods and they didn’t have to say a word and aghhh my heart. I just adore subtle moments like that. Also, you must have a psychology degree or something because your introspective prose is so thorough. Reading this felt like being really deep in the characters' heads.

And the twist!! I LOVED how you set it up—the little hints with Ellie’s “imaginary” friend and the POV switch to Marlene where you didn’t reveal who was speaking to her over the radio—It was expertly done and so fun to see it all build up to that payoff. I’m also very angry at a certain character, though I’m sure you intended that. The moral grayness is chef’s kiss. Now there’s a nail-biting tension in the story because I have no idea if I can trust this character to make the right decision in the end.

Thank you for writing this and for making me feel like I got to hang out with some of my favorite characters again. This story is such a treat, no, a 5-course meal, because you wrote over 200k words! Like what kind of wizard are you?? Tell us your secret please and thanks. Also, congrats on working on a story for almost a year!! I can tell how much love and effort you put into this and I’m excited to see how you wrap up this little survival family’s ending.

Phrases I loved:

“Don’t you use her against me. Don’t you talk about her.” he hissed through gritted teeth.

like the sound of a crying child would be enough to send him spiralling right back to cradling her in his arms, begging her to stay with him, to just hold on until they could get her hel– (Aghhhhhchh th painnn)

Joel glared, and truth be told he was lucky he didn't have the energy to be more offended by that. (The brother banter is top tier)

it was like a part of him was dead and buried along with her, and try as he might he couldn’t scramble his way out of the grave.

he looked at Ellie and couldn't help the crushing sort of guilt strong enough to wind him, twisting his insides into knots at the sick idea that he was trying to replace her. (😭)

she bristled as though she’d been burnt, finger still curled, hovering above the trigger.

“And in English, for those of us that don’t speak doctor?” (Tommy, my beloved 😂)

[sabraeal]

Fic authors self rec! When you get this, reply with your favorite five fics that you've written, then pass on to at least five other writers. Let’s spread the self-love ❤️

As I said on my first fic rec post, I have written very many fics and I love almost all of them, so I can't pick FAVORITES so much as CATEGORIES, and this category is going to be "Fics Joanna Made Me Write Outside My Comfort Zone Because It's Good For Me Or Something"

Whenever I view the moon on the battlefield This was the FIRST fic I wrote outside of ANS fandom, and if that was not already out of my usual groove enough, it's also from the POV of one of the minor characters in Hakuouki, Shimada Kai. The concept was originally conceived while I was streaming a playthrough for the obiyuki discord-- Yamazaki (our best boy) and Shimada are both spies and spend quite a bit of time off screen, so we kept running into scenes and being like "how AWKWARD is it for those two to be watching this right now?" And so when it finally came time for me to throw my hat into the yamachi ring...Joanna asked for THIS to be the fic. You know. Instead of one where Yamazaki and Chizuru actually kiss or whatever. Sigh.

The Most Perverse Creature in the World Listen. I know there are people out there who LOVE xReader fics. I'm happy for you, truly. I am not one of them. But after answering the fandom fuck/marry/kill game (otherwise known as only one bed/slow burn/enemies to lovers) with small littler blurbs about the kind of story I would write for the older gentlemen in ANS (Shidan, Lata & Haruka), SOME PEOPLE got very invested in Haruka's little enemies-to-lovers blurb. Some people made puppy eyes. Some people made puppy eyes and then got very sick after, and I AM A GOOD FRIEND and wrote ONE CHAPTER and have never known a day of peace since. Six years later it's up to thirteen chapters, has a very complicated plot involving the politics of taxing oral sex, and I've learned how to effectively write in 2nd person.

don't speak boyshit I cannot properly explain how absolutely in our heads the Maria/Kamitani pairing is, but like. It's good okay?? Joanna did not so much force me to write this one so much as like...emphatically encourage its existence, to the point where I have a very complicated outline and she routinely reminds me I'll finish it when i'm like. 50. But this is certainly the gateway fic to the OTHER fics for this pairing she DOES want to twist my arm over, SO ON THE LIST IT GOES. I am one of TWO authors in this ship tag, and also one of TWO fics...and yet this is one of my most popular non-ANS fics 🤣

If the Mind Is Willing This is a fic Joanna will HAPPILY admit to being the main driver for, since, as she puts it, "there is no one else who could possibly ever write this fic." Taking TWO very niche concepts (LARP and a SURPRISE FOR LATER) and a very niche pairing (yamachi) would perhaps not have been MY first choice...but Joanna asked for the first chapter as a birthday gift a few years back and here I am, learning a whole new tabletop system and really giving my FBI agent something to talk about at the watercooler.

He Who Studies Evil Of all the niche fics Joanna has convinced me to put to paper (or at least, word document), this is probably takes the top spot. A prequel to my obiyuki Star Trek AU, this covers events about 10 years previous, with Haruka taking over DS9 and immediately being thrown into a political nightmare when he is informed that the Cardassians are in possession of a missing human child. This took...an INORDINATE amount of time to research and write-- I hadn't seen DS9 since I was in high school, and I watched through nearly half a season just to get the timeline right-- but I still REALLY love how it came out. Which is good, because it is definitely one of my least read fics 🤣

[yuukei-yikes]

do you think shintaka ever sort out their codependency or does it just get worse

*cracks knuckles*

they do sort it out. but it's obviously not super ideal lol

in my sick twisted mind it is all stitched together with the mess of shinaya too. I WANNA WRITE A FIC SO BAD *banging table* i have this very specific relationship hell for shintaro thought out. *scratches head*

i talk a little bit abt it here and i think in other places but heh. honestly when i link to other posts its not rly like begging u to read them its more like a disclaimer that i might repeat myself which honestly i dont mind doing bc im crazy and im gonna talk abt the same things 1 billion times GLADLY. SO... >:3!!!! ITS MY TIME. have fun:

basically. so the usual right, takane feels like if she isnt watching shintaro all the time he could suddenly revert back to being a shut in and shintaro is comfortable having takane because she's familiar and the single constant in this life and all other lives in all other timelines. ene has always been there. takane = ene while a shock, to shintaro he can barely make a big deal out of it after retaining is activated bc he's seen it a million times. of course takane is ene. if anything the one needing closure over this reveal is takane.

i think post str shintaro is incredibly kind to her about it though. i think he feels immensely guilty for route xxx and is able to be openly thankful and they have a tender moment together. i think this single heart to heart changes everything for them. shintaro acts annoyed over takane's clinginess post str but becomes terrified when she's away, and sort of desperately looks for her the same way she does for him essentially reciprocating the sick need of each other, the difference is that he tries acting all cool abt it and making excuses while takane is sort of more direct abt like. HEY ARE U ALIVE??? JUST CHECKING IN LOLLL OK TALK TO U LATER ASSHOLE LOVE UUU!!! while shintaro's like ermmm...i was calling u cuz my comp is acting weird?? idk i tried some stuff but id rather u look at it to make sure. and takanes like LOL

like takane is totally delighted. shintaro isn't resenting her, he's gladly accepting her into his life and treating her like a friend and she KNOWS him so she knows that even if he says he wants her away the way he acts says otherwise. like she can read him like a book there is nothing he can hide from her, takane is able to see everything going on thru his mind. no one but her is more mindful abt everything that retaining eyes implies. maybe ayano, but we know which one shintaro is more comfortable about HEH. the fact takane is so direct about knowing about it and how hard it must be is also immensely comforting to shintaro (AGAIN ayano also does this but ayano is scary to shintaro) shintaro reciprocates takane's need for him again bc she is familiar and a comfortable constant but also because she is taking care of feeling all the heavy things for him. shintaro is desperate to stop feeling and takane is desperate to ignore her own feelings. but it doesn't REALLY work. shintaro still feels sad and broken and terrified. and takane still feels overwhelmed and in disbelief and unsure about everything. does this make sense.

takane's thing is like... okay erm. let's put takane under the microscope for a single moment. I'll try not to go TOO crazy.

ok. disclaimer. i could get very fun and nitty gritty abt the misogyny in takane's writing, how all her povs revolve solely around haruka & shintaro and essentially ends up being a female character who revolves everything around 2 guys, if not one the other and etc. but. i will not do that. i will just mention it there in passing and do what u do with it lol. that aside, basically takane is the kind of person who desperately focuses on worrying about someone else so she doesn't have to think of herself and her own problems.

takane is dealing with... a lot. because she had given up on life. well life gave up on her rather. she was dead you know. she decides to dedicate herself to shintaro and shintaro alone. her purpose was being company for him and keep him moving. and all of a sudden she finds herself alive and having to face the life she unwillingly left behind, and everything that comes with that like. having a body, being honest with haruka, accepting her illness is a part of her, etc. i think takane deals with a lot of existential crisis LMAOO like she CANNOT BELIEVE she is real. she has 1 line saying she felt like the whole time she was ene felt like a dream and it felt like a relief to hear shintaro talk to her as takane because it made her see it really happened. and i took this line and RAN WITH IT‼️‼️‼️

shintaro needs to be needed by takane and takane needs to be needed by shintaro. lol. they got 30 mental illnesses💗 but the thing is. one has retaining and the other doesn't 💥

their relationships to haruka & ayano are important in this and play a huge part in it too not only because its REALLY REALLY REALLY funny for takane to ditch haruka all the time to go find shintaro's wallet or something and for shintaro to tell ayano ok u can sleep over tonight i practiced cuddling with takane so im all good to go like that wont make ayano scream in her pillow for the next day. like theyre so sick in the head. but anyways ITS SO mixed in with shinaya's sick as hell relationship that i already wrote like 80 posts about and im not repeating myself im just gonna assume u know what i mean LIKE THIS IS WHY I NEED TO WRITE A FANFIC whatever.

as that happens with shinaya (like actual dumpster fire sirens going off glass breaking trashcan falling over etc) takane has haruka. haruka has his own set of problems feeling not good enough for her + survival guilt (for konoha) + terrified of being alone again. but takane's aware of the codependent issue basically bc haruka keeps telling her even if not as firmly and she would need so it takes longer than ideal. it's like present in her mind that it's a totally fucked up way too feel. also haruka & takane are totally in the same page abt holy shit we're ALIVE?? AND WE HAVE OUR BODIES??? WE HAVE TO FACE OUR LIVES AND MOVE FORWARD?? WE'RE IN OUR TWENTIES??? AUGGHHHH lol they go thru it together MAN I LOVE HARUTAKA sorry im normal. i know jin is allergic to giving takane a problem that isnt related to a guy but to me she also goes thru the same omg im in my twenties thing as haruka. bc like. yeah hiyori and ayano were stuck in the daze too but haruka was also watching everything outside. like takane he was a painful bystander. even if takane's spirit wasnt in the daze she was still playing a sorta similar role outside. like u can watch but u can barely do anything!! because youre DEAD!! haruka&takane understand each other's struggles more than anyone else, and suddenly they're alive and also the oldest in the group and they're like. ok lol. let's fucking go i guess. haruka and takane existentialism crisis crying for 3 hours then having to pull themselves together bc they have to do groceries. the horrors are indescribable but we have to pay rent. i love harutaka *shaking*

and haruka is super comprehensive about takane's thing with shintaro even if it's mixed in with all his feelings of omg takane prefers him omg takane is super best friends with the dan who all probably resent me for replacing konoha omg im gonna be alone augghhh like lol he's GOING THRU IT TOO but!!! takane also helps him!!!!!! theyre there for each other!!! they dont weaponize these things against each other, in fact it brings them closer. total opposite to shintaro and ayano. so takane's getting out of this mindset before shintaro does and she is really self aware and slowly making progress and ermmm becoming a little pissed off abt how he takes her for granted. bc he does.

again. takane is a constant. that means she is always here. in shintaro and takane's relationships it doesnt go both ways how they help each other. they dont help each other, takane helps shintaro and thats it. ene's always been secretive and ene is always been ene and now ene is always been takane and while shintaro knows this he's also never... had takane as takane before? so even if she's familiar and accepting her helicoptering over him, he's also totally preoccupied with all his other issues to even think about takane's side of things. shintaro despite his babygirl tendencies is at the end of the day a very self centered person, its hard for him. i dont mean it to say he sucks or anything. i think its genuinely rly hard for him!! he's going through a lot!! and he's bad with people and words and emotions!! he doesnt... stop being self centered though. not for now at least. and takane isnt exactly begging him to help her or anything because HARUKA is helping her with her issues. while shintaro is trusting everything on takane, and ayano is begging him to open up to her, takane is trusting haruka and continuously lets him help her and also helps him with his stuff. like shinaya and harutaka are dealing with similar situations in TOTALLY different ways

so for shintaro to find out/realise takane is also hurting he's like oh my god im such an ASS because OF COURSE SHE IS!!! but he's like i thought letting her be insane abt me was enough help??? bc AGAIN he hasn't really recognized that it actually goes both ways and he needs her as much as she needs him. it only becomes apparent when takane is needing him less and less bc she's been healing outside of their fucked up dynamic and he's like wait a damn moment???!!!!! so he's like TAKANE why didn't u say anything!!! and takane's like erm idk. it just kinda played out like that it's fine haruka is there for me im working on it and stuff and shintaro is SOOO insane abt it because realising takane's been relying on someone else takes him out of this familiarity and he's like oh my god TAKANE IS ALIVE HARUKA IS ALIVE AYANO IS ALIVE OH MY GOD THEYRE ALL MOVING ON WITHOUT ME OH MY GOD and its so uncomfortable for him. its so uncomfortable to see takane with haruka the same way it makes him uncomfortable to be with ayano because it makes him so painfully aware of like. THIS IS THE GOOD ENDING. yknow.

anyways... shinaya breakup happens lol!!! takane is again here to pick up the pieces. and shintaro is SO broken over this that takane soooorta reverts back bc YIKES HES NOT DOING GOOD. shintaro is clinging on her so bad it makes him look stupid. like i said in the insane shinaya reply. being back to being despaired over ayano and crying on takane is familiar! self sabotage at its finest, its pain that he knows. new things he hasnt seen are terrifying!!! and this way.... takane is away from haruka, rather paying attention to him instead and he is dragging her down with him!!! its awful but its comforting to think for him like YES!!! TAKANE IS ALSO BAD!!! TAKANE IS ALSO STUCK WITH ME!!!! BTW THIS IS ALL ON AN UNCONSCIOUS LEVEL FOR SHINTARO LMAO.

but takane is AWARE... like yeah she gets he's sad over his breakup but takane doesnt TOTALLY revert back. like by this point its been a long time and she's totally aware of their codependency & working on it & already resenting a little how shintaro takes her for granted. and when it's been long enough and shintaro is still pathetically sobbing abt ayano, takane's been back in ene mode trying to distract him and cheer him up like always but she's like. man i have a job to get to. can we wrap this up for today. LOL LIKE takane has a fucking life so even if shintaro's (unconsciously) like omg yess its like it used to be, it isnt because takane has shit to take care of outside of him😭 she can be like. sorry man i gotta go i got a thing with haruka and shintaro's like ???? because... "normally" she would cancel on haruka for him and now she wont and shintaro's like wh??? and maybe he points it out and it REALLY pisses takane off LOLLL

ok so takane ticking time bomb abt to tell shintaro off + shinaya breakup + kanoshin insanity. *rubs hands together* shintaro about to accidentally finish destroying his relationship with takane that's already hanging by a thread. because he's dealing with all the guilt over his breakup with ayano and the newly found kinship with kano(+internalized homophobia) and he's like... so desperate. he's like. ok. there is 1 person in this world who will still have me and make me feel normal abt being this way.

sorry for shipping shintaka and being insane. shintaro wants to date takane. SORRY I KNOW its born from an insane fucked up situation and its truly the last straw for takane because she's like WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU TALKING ABOUIUUUT WHAT THE HELLLLLL bc shintaro's only going to her bc 1. to make me feel straight 💥 2. to make me feel valid💥💥💥 LIKE HES NOT THINKING OF HER FEELINGS AT ALL and i do think he'd fall for her in a little fucked up way like well idk??? i dont know but i definitely think shintaro&takane feel a very specific way abt each other and in his desperation shintaro decided to call it love LOL. takane would treat it sensibly if SHE DIDNT FUCKING KNOW WHAT WAS GOING ON and she sends him to hell for it LOLLLL !!!!! this also distances haruka & shintaro because SHINTARO KNEW haruka is insanely self conscious and insecure and always treated the situation with kid gloves in fear of takane being like lol u dont like me hanging out with shintaro?? bye then. like he knows haruka has always been scared of takane choosing shintaro over him (even if not romantically) and then HE GOES AND DOES THAT AND even someone like haruka is like. bro... because listen by this point!!! haruka and takane have grown A LOT as people and as a couple while shintaro was stuck in this insane quarrel with ayano and himself and has his head so far up his own ass he couldn't see how horrible of an idea it is until he does it and ends up fucking up with friendship with both takane AND haruka. fun

SO............. umm. ur question. yes they do sort it out. shintaro has to grow a lot though. i think its his fallout with takane that is his last straw and he sort of realises he has got to make a change and accept this reality as terrifying as it is. its definitely a quartet fallout too. ofc they makeup!! ofc shintaro apologizes, of course they start talking again (i don't think they'd go long without talking btw i think takane's just like we. need time apart) and ofc they get to a point where the quartet is all together again even if shintaro and ayano are broken up, they get to be on friendly terms after enough time apart, and shintaro and takane can also be normal friends. they are still bestest friends but definitely more proper and shintaro now acts like a person to takane instead of taking her for granted and is there for her like a proper friend would be and etc. ofc it gets to that!!! but lol. isnt it so fun to have a circus first :3

THEY JUST NEED A BIT OF TIME APART..... but they are best of friends. they're one of a kind to each other💗 erm. Hi

[rewordthis]

If Love Unravels…

☔️

463 words SuguSato NSFW (and angst! Take it or leave it.)

Summary:

Geto Suguru never spiralled enough to turn himself into an outcast from the Jujutsu World.

What his internalised conflict brought about however, was a drastic change in his character…

The suppressed hate and desperation from feeling trapped made him volatile and often found release in covert yet vicious outbursts, most notably against the one person he trusted the most but also blamed the most.

The one that acted as a chain and a root to this twisted, cursed world—

Hello, sweeties~ I come bringing yet another 🔞 fic. I mean idk, I was minding my own business watching K-pop vids and then it hit me: “He pulls off his hat and runs a hand through luscious black hair.”

Like… that’s it. That’s what this whole fic is about! That one line. Go figure, ok? And no, I don’t feel one bit sorry for making Geto like *gestures vaguely* this... I’m not on that ship. lmao

They have just arrived home from their evening missions and all they both crave right now is a hot bath and a light dinner before going to sleep.

But he is irritated for some inexplicable reason. He just can’t relax. He pulls off his hat and runs a hand through luscious black hair.

It never registers with him how much overwhelming his aura has become, filling the room with anxious energy.

The other is just following his every move, engrossed in his very presence. Captive of the sensations these hands have left on his skin that suddenly feels too hot to bear and yet, frozen in his place with unreasonable fear.

Whatever has put him on the offensive, is going to be resolved one way…

And that is what terrifies him.

They have done this enough times until now for him to know that whenever the raven-head was in this state, it would become unbearable if he didn’t outer his anger. The fact that most of his piled up frustrations came from various times and incidents was making things worse, sending him over the edge with one wrong touch — one wrong word — like throwing a lit match in a tank full of gasoline.

And next thing he knows, is the cold of the surface he’s being pushed against or the hardness that grinds his bones when he’s finally snapped.

He knows the roughness that he is. The hard yanks and angry thrusts. The heat of his possessive marking.

The sickness of overstimulation…

He fucks him raw on the spot where he stands the minute he loses control of himself. And there is never — never — an apology that follows. A reason to justify his desecration. Just anything, to make him feel like this all is worthwhile.

There is… nothing—

That’s not to say he’s never been treated with delicacy and tenderness. He has. He’s found himself lost in his arms more times than he’d like to admit; warmth blooming under the chaste kisses and traces of his digits ghosting along the lines of his body. Their heated breaths mingled into whispered sweet words. Playful licks and soft bites. Long-lasting embraces and contented smiles.

He’s been a happy man.

Yes.

Yes. For a while now.

But every added time they do it like this, has him wondering whether he’s being used as a punch sack or if it’s just his imagination.

It hurts. And it’s not just his body or his pride. It hits someplace different. Deeper. Somewhere that would make him feel disgusted and sick in his stomach.

It’s not a feeling of being fed up with it, rather, it’s the sensation of emptiness that has his guts turn and makes him retch.

‘If love can unravel… it is while waiting for your return.’

———•———

a.n.:

Thanks for reading this far!!!

This is ridiculous, actually… had this siting in my notes since last year; probably from September or October — definitely before mid-November — inspired by this K-pop live short I saw on YouTube ‘cause welp… *bonks herself on head* started it with a specific pair in mind when suddenly halfway through I was writing for another!? lmao

So yeah… I liked how it turned out but I couldn’t really appoint it to any of my ships because the dynamics ended up a bit distorted…? Or more like all over the place! Yeah… ahahaha 😅😂

I mean it’s literally this one single line that sparked this short, that is also the only thing that kept my hands from tagging with any of the ships I drew inspiration from… 😗🤨 And oh, boy! After reading it it was screaming yet another one, too!? Gah!

Ngl, I short-circuited my brain many times thinking about a black haired seme and an uke that could fit the bill but nothing came to mind… 😮‍💨🙄 (ironically, also why this survived my writing app fiasco. Well, I don’t want to dwell on that anymore sooo, I just guess it sat in my notes long enough!)

But, hey! After a year — literally this week — Geto and Gojo popped up in my head and while I first went ‘Nooo!’, they did sound so good for this! I mean Gojo is so going to be this quietly suffering mess not because of character but because this is Suguru? Pff! I can see it so clearly, now! And Geto of course would exploit Satoru’s secrecy for his sake and neither would face the issue until they both become unable to face each other, like… Don’t you think so, too? I’d like to hear any thoughts on this, I’m very curious. hoho

Again, if you read through all this long-ass rambling, thank you so so much and I hope you had a nice time reading this story! 😊