#manna fic

[theredofoctober]

MANNA- CHAPTER FOURTEEN: TRIPE

Dark!Hannibal Lecter x Reader x Dark!Will Graham AU fic

TW for eating disorders, noncon, abuse, drugging, Daddy kink, child abuse and more (check the tags)

Read after the cut

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By some sense of duty, or else an undug tendril of guilt, Will volunteers himself to oversee your evening routine alone. You allow him this, being in scant possession of what slim tolerance has borne you through Hannibal’s accompaniment thus far.

Will proves himself to be far less involved than the other man would have been in his stead. He leans against a wall with the nonchalance of a prison warden as you shower blood and spend alike down the receiving drain, allows you to pad into your bedroom, towel-wrapped, to select a clean nightdress and sanitary products with his head turned nobly aside.

You cannot determine if his distance from you is through respect for your condition or some lasting dislike of you, neither of which holds entirely true.

More likely it is that he does not see you as his child, yet, nor quite with the equality of a lover.

Still, as you get into bed he cannot help but come to you, uncertain as he his of his purpose.

“Will you give me a goodnight kiss?” you ask, part in bitter jest, and part in annoyance with his indecision.

That a man can fuck and beat you in throes of black delight and still skulk about like a repentant sinner would have confounded you in the days before you became accustomed to such duality. To what end, and upon what strength the latter side subsists is now the greater puzzle, for it is this that drags its heels and restrains Will from his full devilry.

“Well?” you say, brusquely. “What are you waiting for? Dad’s permission?”

Will gives a hard laugh, one hand kneading the back of his neck.

“I admire your commitment to the part, but you don’t have to keep it up so seriously when it’s just you and me.”

“I promised I would,” you remind him. “Why can’t you? You had no issue kissing me in front of Hannibal. I don’t see why it’s a problem now.”

You see Will’s fingers go to the bridge of his nose, wanting the guard of the eyeglasses he’s neglected to wear.

“It’s not genuine,” he says, flatly. “The only reason you’re asking is to manipulate me.”

“So what?” you say. “Scared that it’ll work?”

“Not scared, no.”

“Sure you’re not.”

There is something hysterical in your tone, the cut string of a trapped and weary madness.

Will examines you, aware of the power play you’re attempting over him, intrigued by it, despite himself. Attracted, even.

His gaze is like a stone in the sun, all heat, all black, all blue.

He knows what revulsion you must push past to test him like this, still slightly high from the forced euphoria of fucking, and the drugs. You’re beyond consideration of the consequences, irrational, barely attached to the tongue and teeth that bite at the air in their ire.

Still Will hangs from your words like a pilgrim knelt before an oracle, dependent on your answer.

“Haven’t you had enough of me kissing you tonight?” he asks.

Sniffing, you turn to face his gargoyle shadow on the wall.

“So it’s a no. You’d make a really terrible father.”

“One...”

“Not my name.”

So Will says it, gently, and you roll back towards him, your heart quick and high behind a rail of bone with the thrill of his appeasement.

Your truce, the union of flesh: they’ve altered Will, for as he looks at you a second time his pupils are the chasms between worlds, wild and deep.

Kneeling up on the bed, you make a trellis of both hands through his curls and clutch him to you in an ungainly kiss. Will stumbles in the force of it, his arms spilling about your back so as not to fall upon you with all his weight.

You gasp against his lips with eagerness to take what he has taken, to fallow the rose flesh of his inner mouth, the lathe of your tongue churning. Will is too surprised to kiss you in return, but as you hitch one leg after the other upon his hips you feel the vine of him against your groin, wanting you again, as always.

You think of him fucking you now, pinning your wicked hands with the nail of his fist as he thrusts through a sheen of blood. Though you despise him still, your loins smart with interest in engineering the act rather than merely suffering it as ever before.

At last Will returns your kiss, but briefly, and with a knowing restraint before he lays you back upon the bed again.

You grasp at his face in an attempt to reclaim his lips. He pushes you lightly away.

“Hey,” he grins. “You made your point.”

“Oh?” you say, coolly. “And what is my point?”

“That I like kissing you. That I want to kiss you, whether Hannibal’s here or not.”

“Right,” you say, twisting a corner of your quilt around one finger for something to do with your hands. “But you never would have picked me. Like, if I was in one of your FBI classes. If I was your student. Would you even have noticed me?”

Will laughs again, with a startled unease, as though the notion is foreign to him.

“Starting affairs with students isn’t exactly my style. I turn up, I teach. That’s it. I don’t get personally involved. Or didn’t, till now. Letting people get close is... uncomfortable for me.”

He glances down at the bunch of quilt in your closed knuckles. Unlike the ever-tactile Dr Lecter, he makes no attempt to take it away.

“So how come you got so close to Hannibal?” you ask. “Didn’t you say you had reservations about him?”

“He saw me even when I was making an effort to turn away. He and I have commonalities I can’t ignore, and enough differences to keep me wondering who he really is. There’s a lot even I don’t know about him, and there are times I wonder what I’m doing letting him in.”

You’re on the verge of another question as Will steps sharply back from the bed.

“We can talk more tomorrow,” he says. “I’ll still be here in the morning. But if you want my thoughts about Hannibal then it’s only fair that you tell me a little about you in return. If this is going to work long-term I need to know who you are.”

Then he goes over to the light switch and closes you in behind a shutter of night.

*

 

You’re roused from the saccharine heat of your bedcovers the following morning by Will rapping on your bedroom door. His face appears in the crevice between it and the frame as though wary to trespass, the broken spell of your desperation in his eyes.

“It’s so early,” you whine, noting the bare line of sunlight beneath the curtains. “And I feel like death, thanks to you and Dad. Can’t I stay in bed?”

“Hannibal just rushed out to an emergency appointment,” says Will. “One of his patients is having some kind of crisis, so it’ll be just you and me for a while. You want coffee? I was about to make some.”

An apology, you think, something to alleviate the swaddled and perspiring misery of your comedown.

“Sure,” you say, weakly. “Black, please. Sweetener, if there is any. The low calorie version.”

Will’s brows rise.

“You think Hannibal keeps that around?”

Reflecting on the little paper sachets that had been favoured throughout high school you say, “Ha. I guess not.”

Within twenty minutes you’re sitting up against your pillows, one hand gripping a delicate, steaming cup, the other soothing your stomach through which bites the first monthly cramp.

Will takes a nearby chair, eyeing the bars on your window as though assuming your daily view through the glass.

Though you loathe him still in his unpredictable oddities, you’re keen to make closer yet the allyship you’ve struck up with him, watchful though he is of that very attempt. If he will not help you escape, then a friendship at least may fortify the sanity you fear will leave you in this quasi childhood.

Will doesn’t seek your regression quite as Hannibal does— a cantankerous teenager is as young as he perceives you, the sick girl that never grew up. This house, then, is a Neverland in reverse, a sumptuous den of brutal sex.

Closing your eyes against such thoughts, you take in your coffee, each dark mouthful a long-acquired taste. You remember forcing back cup after cup of it, trusting it over plain water in the belief that it would burn calories as you drank.

Suddenly you’re acutely nostalgic for the days spent in your childhood room, scrolling through online threads of ailing young women in a community of mutual suffering.

It occurs to you that you may never feel so entirely comprehended without judgement as you were there again. You understand Will rather more through the thought, his convergence with Hannibal a relief to so lonely a monster.

“Tell me about ‘Dad’,” you say, into the silence. “You said you would, last night. Like, who even is he? Where did he come from?”

Will blinks, stirred up from his own brooding thoughts. In the dreary daylight he has the face of a beautiful invalid, all its angles skirted in shade.

“Hannibal’s from Lithuania, originally,” he says. “He had a younger sister, Mischa. She died a long time ago. I don’t know the finer details of what happened to her. She’s the only family he’s ever talked about, and even then it’s been bare bones.”

You sit up straighter, envisioning a young girl with Hannibal’s eyes, and none of his appetite.

“Huh,” you say. “That makes a lot of sense.”

"Hannibal would disagree. He doesn’t put much stock in the past making him who he is.”

“Seems kind of a weird thing for a therapist to say. He’s always digging into mine.”

Will looks at the floor, as though distinguishing some new pattern from the grains in the carpet.

“Hannibal views himself as... separate from other people. Being that he acts outside of ethics and the law in his own profession, I’d guess that what’s between us isn’t his only secret.”

“I’ve tried to tell you,” you say, tapping your coffee cup with bitten fingertips for emphasis. “I’ve known this for so long. But since you’re going along with his games how can you even judge him for whatever horrible things he’s doing?”

“Without knowing what he has or hasn’t done,” says Will, slowly, “I can’t say that I do.”

He gets up from his seat and paces before the window, his hands gesticulating like pigeons frenzied into startled flight.

“You assume that what I’m trying to learn about Hannibal—the core of who he is—is something ugly. But that isn’t what I’m afraid of. It’s the possibility of him lying to me. I don’t know if I could forgive him for that after the bond we’ve made. After what he encouraged me start with you.”

“You shouldn’t trust him,” you say, urgently. “Don’t. You don’t need him.”

Scoffing, Will says, “Jack seems to think I do. Alana— she’s convinced I’m one nudge away from disappearing so far into a case that I kill someone without even knowing it. Hannibal's the only one that doesn’t think of me as broken.”

You consider informing him of his suspected encephalitis, that Hannibal surely withholds this truth and more so as to keep his favour.

In the end you retain your silence; better that Will discovers the manipulation alone and behold how he has been misled upon this trail of darkness.

“Enough about me,” says Will, abruptly. “I know that someone hurt you, long before Hannibal. Before me. Someone you've never forgotten.”

Alarmed by the twist in conversation, you stammer, “I— I already told him some of it. I said I didn’t remember. But I was lying about that. I just don’t know if it was only one, long night, or it happened other times. I don’t know which is worse.”

You pause, slightly breathless. Like a portent from the white lips of some phantom you know that you must tell Will the truth, adhere him to your weeping heart with empathy for you.

“I was just a little kid,” you say. “And he was an adult. Nearly family— I used to call him Uncle Lee. Hannibal probably told you that. Anyway, I got my ‘wrong’ feeling about him way before he did what he did. Like I knew it was coming. Then he came into my room alone one night and... it happened.”

You put down your coffee cup, almost knocking it from the bedside table with the shaking of your hand. Will comes away from the window at once, dragging his chair to your bedside to listen. He neither speaks nor looks into your eyes, aware that you can bear neither without faltering.

“He touched me,” you say, “and the whole time I couldn’t even face him. I don’t even remember what I felt. Maybe I didn’t feel anything at all. Just stared at the ceiling or whatever. He did stuff to me that changed me forever. I felt like a tiny old person in a kid’s body, after that, knowing about things I wasn’t supposed to know.

“And the worst of it was still having to see him after. My parents— I tried to tell them, but I couldn’t get the words out. They just thought I didn’t like him. So he came back to the house, now and then. Never saw any consequences.

“I’ve always wondered if I was the only one, or if there were others. He was a plumber, or something; he could have access to people’s daughters anytime he wanted. Just walk into their room and... you know. I think maybe he did do that, a couple of times. Who knows.”

Your restless fingers pick at the gold embroidery on your bedspread, working it loose from the velvet. One of Will’s hands folds over yours, gently holding them still.

“What I always think about is how he treated me, afterwards,” you say. “I tried avoiding him, but it didn’t always work. One day he cornered me at the top of the stairs— my parents were in the kitchen, so it was just me and him.

“I must have been maybe twelve or so. Not far off thirteen. My body was changing. I was growing up. He said, ‘you’re getting a little chubby, you know. You ought to do something about that before you look like your mother.’

“Then he smiled at me, and just walked into the bathroom like there was nothing wrong with what had just come out of his mouth, or what he’d done to me all those years ago.”

Inhaling an unsteady breath, you try, with dubious success, to smile.

“So now you get why I’m like this. And knowing it wasn’t my fault, that Leland Frost is just a predator... it doesn’t fix anything. Like, where do I go from there?”

“He injured you,” says Will, softly. “And it may never stop hurting. But you can recover. No matter what you believe, it is possible. His shallow cruelty is not your compass. You don’t have to live on the basis of an insult.”

Scowling, you pull away from Will, trapping your hands under your armpits.

“How can I change when I’m reliving what I went through every day? Why does Hannibal think this’ll heal me? Why do you? Oh, yeah. You don’t.”

“I want it to,” says Will.

You snort dismissively.

“Yeah, yeah. Not so long ago you would have punched the air to see the back of me. You don’t want to share Hannibal with anybody.”

Will leans back in his seat, arms folded; it takes a moment for you to register that he is, by some subconscious impulse, copying your posture.

“I’m not sharing Hannibal with you,” says Will. “I’m sharing you with him. And I want to do that. You knew it before I did.”

His gaze snaps to yours, more arresting than his hands on you had been.

“You’re more like me than I cared to admit. Hannibal was right about that. And though everything about you should repulse his sensibilities he finds you adorable. You clearly don’t appreciate it, but there it is.”

You yearn to deny him, to condemn this speech as sophistry, but you are silent, as much a congregant to him as he has been to you.

“Leland Frost tore you down because he saw that you were growing up and away from him,” says Will. “He knew that one day you’d have a life, and achievements, and people that really cared about you. He was going to fade out of your world, and he couldn’t stand not leaving a mark.”

“I just don’t get it,” you whisper. “He loved me. Why did he do it?”

Will shifts his chair even closer to the bed so as to lean into you, his expression tender, tragic, sombre with a father’s sympathy.

“Leland never loved you, and that’s no reflection on you or your worth. It makes him weak, that he could throw away the relationship he had with you over an urge.”

You don’t have the strength to rage against the whited sepulchre in Will, not when he speaks the truth you’ve always yearned to hear from another. Pain winds through your body, throat to gut, great, twisting pulses, as though eviscerated on a blade of past.

What advice would Will give for you to survive what he and Hannibal have done, and will do?

Nothing. Not a word. He knows that the structure of the home, even comfort from those that afflict you has changed you in so short a time. Your desperation to be gone from him he senses, too, and with it your lust to be loved.

Will holds your hand for a long time before he speaks again, on another subject quite as dreary as the last.

“When you said it’d been years since you...”

“Since I last had my period?” you ask, touching your stomach through the sheets. “Yeah. It has been.”

Your body, the betrayer, making a scarlet banner of your betterment through cruelty.

“I never wanted it to come back. Having it again means I’m not as sick anymore, and that’s like... messing up for me.”

Will's head tilts, his face carved up by the shadows thrown from your barred window into a lattice of snow.

“Failing to die is barely a failure at all,” he comments.

You shrug yourself further under your bedcovers.

“It is if what’s happening to you is something worse,”

“Is it always so bad, being here with us?”

Will’s hand rises. Doesn’t quite touch your face. You turn your head away, but not cruelly; he’s not a bad man, you decide, only contorted so utterly from the ways of his fellows that he is some creature other, or from before, the flint-armed hunter of the caves.

And like such a creature, he seeks your answering affection for want of some warmth in the dark beginning of the earth.

You allow him to kiss your forehead, clumsily, inclined towards him as though you were not both aware of the fiction that allows this contact.

He can only guess how far you’d run from this, had you your chance. How readily you’d betray him.

*

 

You’re much recovered by the time Dr Lecter returns, having been hydrated and energised by a selection of unnamed supplements Will had you take with lunch; there is a cure for every ailment in the makeshift laboratory of the kitchen, it seems.

Hannibal discovers you at your usual perch of the parlour couch, writing in your journal with a blanket tucked loosely around you against the October cool.

Will stands to greet his companion, setting aside a book you’d offered him from your shelf to peruse, its cover depicting the bloody half-brain of the sun on a desert horizon.

“I didn’t expect our charge to be in such high spirits,” says Hannibal, with unmasked surprise. “Thank you for caring for her this morning, Will. I’m aware that whatever time you can spare for us in the midst of an investigation is very precious.”

Likely aware of your eyes on him, Will says, “I’m glad I stayed. I appreciated the company. How’s the other patient?”

“Suitably quieted. I doubt that I’ll be called away again on her behalf. Still, I made the most of the journey home.”

Hannibal reaches into a shopping bag looped over one arm and produces from it a wrapped package of fresh meat, marbling the paper with blood.

Grimacing, you say, “Ew. What is that? Looks like an organ.”

“It is. I’ll be making trippa alla romana tonight. It’s an Italian dish made from cow stomach. Don’t turn your nose up till you’ve tried it. Have I served anything to you yet that you haven’t enjoyed?”

*

After dinner, all three of the household recline, full and talking lazily before the fire. Had your company been any other than your abusers you would almost be content, for having been allowed to leave the table after a valiant half plate you are not so guilt-soaked as you’d have been had you finished it all.

You had, in fact, disliked the meal, a first in Hannibal’s house. The thought of the organ, plucked from the rib of a butcher’s shelf, had struck bile to the back of your mouth from the first bite.

A cup of chocolate, warmed to a froth and unadorned with cream is set in your hands instead, which you drink in feline licks to make it last.

Will’s phone shrills abruptly in his pocket. Frowning, he glances at the lighted oblong of its screen and starts at a familiar name.

“It’s Jack,” he says. “I’d better take this.”

He promptly exits the room, speaking with clipped tones into the device.

Alone with Hannibal, you become acutely aware of him looking at you, not quite with suspicion, but not so far from that.

"I see that you and Will are becoming close,” he says, at last. “I’m glad to see it.”

Humming vaguely, you snatch up the journal again and weave your pen about in a pretence of writing.

Hannibal says, "Still, it saddens me that—for all your pretty words of promise—you display a lesser willingness to befriend me.”

You do not answer, pressing your pen so hard against a page that it blots through to the other side.

"Put your journal down a moment, Little One,” says Hannibal. “I’m speaking to you."

Without looking up, you answer, "I don't know what you want me to say."

"You needn't say anything at all. It's your behaviour I wish to change."

In a flounce of irritation you throw the journal upon the floor, its spine creasing.

“I do what you say, and I don't fight you anymore,” you say. “Isn't that daughterly enough?"

"For the purposes of your treatment,” says Hannibal, “it is not. You remain closed to me, parted only by narcotic aid. I'd prefer you to open to me of your own volition. With Will, you prove yourself increasingly capable of that.

“I’ve given you all you’ve asked for, and more, and yet you show little gratitude. I wouldn’t wish to remove these luxuries for you to appreciate my endeavours.”

You look at him, then, this man both jealous and performing jealousy to groom you into his concubine, and in looking see that he will deconstruct your room into the barest cell, should he not have his way.

"I do appreciate what you’ve given me," you hastily protest. "I do, Daddy. You don’t have to take anything away. But I— I just don’t know you the way I know Will.”

“But you do,” says Hannibal, rising to sit beside you, a dangerous proximity. “That’s why you are so afraid of me, is it not?”

You begin to object, trailing off at the sound of approaching footfalls as the younger of your captors returns, listing in the churning swell of stress.

“It's the investigation,” says Will. “Another doll’s been found. Savannah Belmont. It’s too soon to be the Lover’s kill. He has a cool off point between each abduction.”

Hannibal straightens in his seat, rapidly alert.

“A copycat, then.”

Will nods, his throat tightening. His eyes touch your face briefly, and you offer him a small, close-lipped smile, an extension of comfort from across the room. His shoulders drop from their rigid line, and when he speaks again the frantic note in his voice is tempered slightly.

“Definitely a copycat,” he says. “The Lover disposes of the dolls by throwing them into rivers like garbage. No attempt to lay them to rest. Savannah was put on display, placed in a chair on a dirt bank as though she was waiting to be found.

“Both killers meant to degrade their victims, but only the copycat’s is implied to understand and accept that humiliation. Savannah Belmont died aware of her inferiority in the eyes of her murderer.”

You find yourself sitting on your hands to prevent them from betraying your agitation with their unsteadiness. Your leg, however, you cannot control, the right foot gyring an inch above the floor.

Hannibal eyes it without speaking, folding your reaction into the lengthy tome of his mind.

“The victim’s stomach was missing,” says Will, turning to pluck a bottle of whiskey from a nearby cabinet like some bronze fruit. “That’s new. The Lover’s mutilations are all with the purpose of fitting the bodies of his victims inside their silicone casings. He has no surgical skills.

“This new killer obviously has expertise. Savannah’s stomach was cut precisely from her body with the clear intent of taking it as a trophy.”

“Her stomach?” you repeat.

You feel the heaviness of meat within you and are chilled by the coincidence.

Hannibal could not have known what the copycat would take to reference it, could not have known of his existence to begin with, and yet as you glance at him under your lashes you don’t quite trust the seriousness of his expression, his eyes gleaming dimly as tarmac in the rain.

“You mustn’t worry, Little One,” says Hannibal, turning to lift you up onto his lap. “The Lover can’t hurt you. We will protect you, always.”

He settles your head against his chest, which resounds with the slow beat of his heart and the machinery of organs digesting his own rich meal.

The monster knows of your renewed distrust and is unthreatened by it, declawed and tooth-filed as you are by his influence over you and all the passageways of the world you’d otherwise cross in your escape.

“Thank you for taking care of me, Daddy,” you mutter, against his shirt, and the warmth of Hannibal’s palm cups your buttocks with a tormenting friction, both threat and tease at once.

While you hate him—are in terror of him, always—your form is increasingly enamoured by his touch as though it knows that it must be so, or die.

“No need to thank me for performing my duty to you, Little One,” says Hannibal, into your ear. “For you belong to me, and to Will, and you must never forget it.”

[kinnenvy]

Hi! I’m just coming by to say I recently came across your qaf fics and I read them all while I was on a 30 minute work break. And holy shit I kind of hated myself for how quickly I read them because each one of them was amazing and I wish I would’ve saved them to slowly read through them and enjoy them. My heart absolutely melted and broke at Forward. Gosh that was probably my favorite one, it was so amazingly written and it was just everything! From angst to happy to smiling like an idiot to wanting to grab them both and shake them. And then Fifty took me for a spin of emotions! I mean Brian turning 50 alone makes me want to sob. But then it was cute and angsty even and then they talked! Fucking finally! And then the plot twist! obsessed!!!!! And Framing Ben….i mean, need I say more except DAMN. Needles to say, my lunch break was time well spent :)

😳😳😳😳!!!!!!!!!

this is so crazy anon thank you so much!!!!! thank you for reading them, i'm glad to know that you enjoyed them! and thank you for taking the time to send me this message!!!!! i will treasure it forever🥰🧡

[twola]

Chasing Waterfalls

Arthur Morgan x F!Reader  Smut (18+), MDNI

➵ Fic Masterlist ➵ AO3 Link ➵ Next

Welp - this is an interesting one. A half-cooked challenge where some fic writers are inebriated? Perhaps.

To my dear @reddeaddufus - I feel slightly silly dedicating a piss kink ficlet to you, but actually this makes a ton of sense for us :D

cw: watersports, piss kink

“Can we stop up here?” You whine, pulling on Arthur’s jacket from your place on his mare’s rump. You’ve been riding for hours- your back is sore and bladder full, and it’s still another two or so hours before you reach camp. The moon has risen over the pines, shrouding the forest

Arthur looks back at you with an amused smirk. “You sick of ridin’ there, Princess?”

“We’ve been riding for hours, Arthur. I need to stop.”

“Fiiiine.” He complains but urges the mare off the road and a little further back into the woods.

Arthur swings down from the saddle and reaches up to take you by the waist, lifting you from the horse’s rump with ease, setting you down as if you were as light as a feather.

“Y’know, Princess, we’re gonna be back in a tent tryin’ to be quiet again in a few hours.” His hands move from your waist down, down to cup your rear through your skirts, squeezing gently.

“Mm.” You agree, winding your arms up around his shoulders - he did have a point. A knowing smile graces your features.

Your cowboy takes one hand, tilts the rim of his hat up, and leans back down to capture your lips in a searing kiss. His large frame pushes you backward a couple of steps until your back presses against the trunk of a large pine. 

The clicking of metal rings out in the forest as Arthur wrenches his gunbelt open and it clatters to the ground. The rustling of fabric against fabric, the wet smack of lips meeting echo in the night.

“Pretty little thin’,” he rumbles as he starts to hike up your skirts. You clutch at his shirt as you feel him grope for your bloomers, his greedy fingers catching the fabric and pulling downward as he suckles at the curve of your neck. You moan, loudly, enjoying the ability to do so outside of camp.

The syllables of his name drip from your mouth like manna. You pull one leg up as he works the fabric down your legs, then lift the other to step out of your underthings. He tosses your bloomers to the side and they disappear in the tall grass. You give a slight frown before he devours your lips again, pressing you against that pine tree’s trunk once more. You yelp into his mouth before melting into his embrace, and it’s an instant more before he spins you around to face the tree. He pulls you back half a step so that your arms stretch out to press against the trunk as he once again lifts your skirts.

“Think you’re ready f’r me?” He grunts into your ear as he bends you slightly at the waist.

“Always-” you pant, “I’m always ready for y-”

He presses into you and it’s a punch to your gut. Hard, hot, thick inches of him slide into your cunt and you moan like a goddamn whore.

“Oh yes, you are.” Arthur retorts, you can see his smirk in your mind's eye as he he gracious enough to allow you to grow used to his intrusion.

But not too gracious.

His hands clamp around your hips hard as he thrusts his hips once, twice, three times slowly before moving into a much more punishing rhythm.

It’s not long - it never is, until he’s able to bring you to the edge of orgasm - your cunt full of him and cleaved just enough to find pleasure. You bite your bottom lip as you come, trying to stifle the scream that bubbles up from your lungs.

“Ss-stop-” You stutter as he pounds into you, after your orgasm you feel like your bladder is going to burst. As if his steel-hard cock pistoning into your cunt wasn’t enough pressure in your hips, he shoves one of his hands between your legs, and his thumb parts your folds to find that bundle of nerves of your pleasure.

“Stop-  Arthur, I’m gonna-” You squeal and try to jerk away from him, but with the vicegrip he has on your hips, you’re unable to move.

It’s too much - his cock shoved fully up your cunt, his thumb furiously working at your clit, your knees shaking, it’s too goddamn much-

You try to push his hand away but moving him is like trying to move a brick wall - a brick wall hellbent on you being wrung out and left to dry. A groan escapes your mouth through gritted teeth, nearly pained - “No, stop, m’ gonna - you’re gonna make me piss m’self.” 

“Do it.” He grunts hoarsely, rocking his hips forward ever so slowly, even gently, compared to the assault of his digits on your swollen clit. The hand that was clamped near painfully around the curve of your hip bone starts gathering up your skirts, hamfisting them up above your hips so that your legs are bare as you lean against that tree.

“Wh-what?” You grit out, your eyes crossing as you unconsciously clench on his flesh within you.

“Let go.” Arthur groans, his cock twitching within you as he slides his hand upward slightly, so that his thumb rests above your pubic bone while his ring finger continues lazy circles on your abused nub, pleasure racked and overstimulated.

He presses on your bladder with that strong thumb of his and it’s over. You cry out - half in pain and half in relief as that great pressure is loosed from your pelvis. Hot liquid pours from you, forcefully against the ground and you squeeze your eyes shut tightly against the sensation - heightened by the inches of flesh crammed up your channel. 

Arthur slides his hand down to let the stream run through his fingers before pooling on the dirt between your feet.

“Good girl,” he murmurs into your ear as tears collect under your eyes, and you couldn’t stop if you tried. His hips pulse forward jerkily once, twice, and he moans far louder than he ever has with you in the past, his dick splattering his spend into your cunt as your bladder empties first through his hand then pooling on the ground.

“I- I need -” Arthur pulls out quickly, and stumbles forward half a step. You feel his pubic hair against your rear, one of his hands wrapped around his softening cock, “M’ gonna- don’t be mad -” He rambles, and suddenly you feel warm moisture on the back of your thigh, trailing down your leg over your boot. He groans in satisfaction as you gasp breathily, eyes widening as rivulets of hot piss course down your leg. You tighten your grip on the tree to stay upright, your blunt nails digging into the bark until Arthur makes a choked-off gasp and the liquid peters off.

“I- uh,” Arthur pants as he straightens up.

“You…like that?” You glance over your shoulder as he steps away from you.

Arthur is sheepishly tucking his cock back into his pants, cheeks blazing red and his gaze unwilling and unable to find yours, “I…,” he buttons his pants with fervor, turning his head away to make himself even further from you, “I understand if you don’t wanna do this no more cause of-“

You spin around and grab at his fiddling hand once he’s finished buttoning his pants.

“I mean… I’m okay with it, as long as we wash up afterward.” You say, shaking your boot slightly, drops of moisture falling to the ground as you step away from the veritable puddle that was between your legs.

“Seriously?” Arthur finally looks up, skepticism plain on his face.

Half a smile comes across your face as you drop your skirts with your other hand, “Let's head on down to the river to clean up. I don’t want to feel sticky.”

Arthur’s frown remains, but he lets you pull him toward the forest toward the nearby river, he leans over after a few steps to grab his discarded gunbelt, throwing it over his shoulder.

Once the two of you reach the bubbling waters of the mountain stream, you let go of his hand.

“Think we could probably take a bath.” You start playing with the laces of your skirts.

Arthur looks around in either direction, knowing that the road’s river crossing is rather close to where the two of you stand.

“Yer not worried about gettin’ caught naked as the day you were born?”

“I mean… worried ain’t the word that I would use to describe it.” Your skirts drop to the ground, your skin completely bare in the moonlight below your waist.

Arthur’s lips crook up into a smile as he starts to unbutton his shirt.

[felinecryptid]

A Local Delicacy

or the fic where hobie stares at pav and misses all the vital information

(please pay attention to the tags ✨✨ no cw's for this one)

"Wha's this thing called again?" Hobie frowned at the small, inflated crisp looking thing.

'It's called a Pani Puri, stop being so difficult," Pav reached up to hit him on the head, failing not so miserably. Hobie wanted to laugh at his disgruntled face. It had been a hot minute since they had hung out. Plus, Miles could probably use a break after the entire 'destabilising the multiverse' debacle. Pav had immediately dragged them to a nearby stall stacked to the top of the colourful umbrella with these Pani Puris, while blabbering non stop about foot traffic.

Hobie supposed some things transcend universes. Like crowds. Stray animals in narrow alleyways. Rude people. Rude cops. His crush on Pav. Capitalism. You get it. Hobie was broken out of his thoughts by the stall keeper handing him a tiny leaf cup. It was 5 centimetres at most.

"What are these for?" Gwen asked.

Pav smiled. Hobie's heart skipped a beat. "For eating. You'll see." He answered cryptically.

"Thoda time lagega beta, abhi kate pyaaz khatam hogaye," The stall keeper started chopping onions at the speed of light, his knife clacking against the ratty wooden board.

"Koi nahi kaka, aap aaram se karo," Pav bounced on the balls of his feet, replying to whatever the stall keeper said, in his sweet voice. Hobie loved when Pav spoke Hindi, there was something so flowy about it.

"What did he say?" Miles asked. Hobie was curious too. He only caught the heavily accented 'time'.

"He said it's gonna take a few mins, he just ran out of onions."

"That cutting board does not look hygienic," Gwen said, as Pav manoeuvered everyone to stand in a loose circle around the vendor.

"Arey bahut saaf hai beta! Very hygienic!" The stall keeper nodded at her, now chopping coriander. Gwen went red. Miles burst out laughing.

Pav looked embarrassed as well, and Hobie wanted to just. Hold him. He'd settle for standing close to him as he tried to sputter out something.

"Bura mat manna kaka, aapko pata hai yeh videshi log kaise hote hain." Pav scratched his neck, flashing a winning smile at the vendor and Hobie felt something stab in his heart.

"Chalega chalega, badi hi gori dikh rahi hai, pata chal gaya yahan se nahi hai." The stall keeper said while arranging the dishes around. "Uske liye kam tikha dun?"

"Gwen, do you like spicy food? Miles?" Pav asked.

"Nope." said Gwen as Miles nodded.

"What about you, Hobie?" Pav turned to him, his deep brown eyes glinting something pretty in the late afternoon light.

"Sure, why no'." Hobie shrugged, a grin inexplicably tugging at his lips. Pav turned back to the man, saying stuff in lilting tones Hobie didn't understand.

The stall keeper nodded, and cracked open one of the crisps, scooping peas and potatoes inside it and adding the green liquid and onions inside it. He swiftly placed it in Hobie's cup.

"Tha's it?" Hobie was unimpressed. This little thing?

"No, bro, you gotta eat it to get more. Put it in your mouth all at once. Don't nibble at it, or it'll get soggy and get all over your clothes." Pav said, entirely shoving his own Pani Puri into his mouth like a visual example of what to do. Hobie looked at the Pani Puri in his cup for half a second more before deciding to fuck it and copied Pav, mouth closing over the stuffed crisp.

Flavours exploded on his tongue. The sweet tanginess, the crunchy onions and the spicy peas; it was nothing Hobie had expected it to taste like and nothing like anything he had eaten in his life. He chewed, feeling the bits of the crisp puri poking all around his mouth, but that was the experience. It felt otherworldly yet somehow fulfilling. Hobie automatically extended his hand for another one.

Gwen got hers, stuffing it in her mouth, with no small amount of trepidation visible on her face. It was valid, considering she started coughing the moment she chewed it, going 'hoff, hoff, hoff!' which Hobie took to mean 'hot, hot, hot!'.

"Goddamnit Gwen, how are you gonna eat dinner with us?" Miles said easily eating the puri without breaking a sweat, his Puerto Rican taste buds used to the level of spice.

Gwen glared at him, face red and sweat dripping. "Can't you cook unspicy food for me?"

"Mami will never let you in again if you eat like a white person,"

"I am white."

"Yeah, and?"

"Hooo- kaay! Calm down children! Gwen, we can go get a kulfi for you later. Miles, stop antagonising Gwen," Pav made a 'chop' gesture at them, shaking his head frantically.

The vendor had plopped another one in his cup and was holding another one in his hand waiting for them to finish bickering. Hobie ate it, only a few drops of the green liquid spilling on his fingers. And the next one as well. And the next one. This street vendor was so fast, the fuck? With only Pav and him at the stall, because Miles was busy with Gwen, the vendor seemed to make three for each one Hobie ate. Pav didn't look bothered at all, scarfing down every one as it came.

"'oly shit, Pavi, ask 'im to slow down, 'M strugglin' 'ere, mate," Hobie managed to speak in between the positive barrage of puris.

"No way, it's part of the vibe, dude, keep up," Pav was way more graceful, easily talking between the Puris, time seeming to favour him and him only.

"Seriously?" Hobie muttered on the tailend of a particularly large Pani Puri. Pav grinned again, his right canine getting caught on his own lip. Hobie was well aware that he had a staring problem, and if he didn't get himself together, Pav will be too.

"Okay, okay," Sometimes Pav looked at Hobie in a way that had him swearing his feelings were requited, and this was one of those looks that made Hobie wonder how he's still standing up straight and not a puddle on the floor like he felt on the inside. "Kaka, thoda ahistha dena, Hobie bhi yahan naya hai."

"Theek, theek, beta," The vendor laughed. "Apke aashiq ko impress toh karna padega."

Pavi choked on his Pani Puri. Hobie turned to him concerned, as he said something in 3 octaves higher than his normal voice.

"Kaka- aashiq nahi hai woh- hum bas dost hain," Pav said, wiping tears from his eyes with his sleeve.

"Meri beti bhi apne bf ko dost bolti hai. Woh dono bhi ek dusre ko aise hi dekhten hain. Usko lagta hai mujhe nahi pata lekin ham bhi toh aapke umar ke the," The vendor winked, and Hobie was sure this conversation was not about anything he could imagine. Why on earth would this random man be winking at Pav? "Aur hum yeh bajrang dal jaise vishwas nahi rakhte, pyaar toh pyaar hota hai na?"

"Ji kaka." Hobie could see Pav's blush that seemed to radiate because why else Hobie would feel flustered too? "Ahem," Pav looked at his wrist like he was looking at the time, except he did not have a wrist watch on. "Kaka abhi hame jana padega- chemistry coaching hai- kitna hua?"

"Itni jaldi? Theek hai, sukhi puri lelo," He said, handing over two flatter crisps. Without the liquid. Hobie felt it was easier to fit this in his mouth after all the other Pani Puris. "Sath rupay hue,"

"Kya kaka, angrez dekhte bhau badha dete ho? Main akele khata toh chalis ka hota," Pav said, his voice taking a complaining tone and Hobie was surprised to find him even more endearing.

"Beta, jab aap dhanda karoge tab samajh mein ayega, abhi apko coaching nahi jana?"

"Han, kaka, din dahade loot lo," Pav said, and Hobie got a sense of defeat from his slouch, as he forked over what Hobie assumed was the price of the Pani Puris. "Let's go, before uncle embarrasses me in front of someone."

"You paid money to your uncle?" Hobie thought it'd be easier to get around in Earth-50101 as time went on, but here he was, getting more questions and no answers as he hung around.

"He's not actually my uncle, I'm calling him that out of respect. It's a cultural thing, don't worry about it," Pav answered, grabbing Hobie's hand as he wove between the forming crowd. Hobie sighed, letting Pav drag him around, his hand warm in Pav's soft palms.

___

i have nothing to say.

translation (not literal translation bc then id have to explain a shit-ton of grammar, slang and indian pop culture to yall):

Thoda time lagega beta, abhi kate pyaaz khatam hogaye - it's gonna take some time, [I] just ran out of the chopped onions

Koi nahi kaka, aap aaram se karo - no problem uncle, take your time

Arey bahut saaf hai beta! - oh its very clean, kid

Bura mat manna kaka, aapko pata hai yeh videshi log kaise hote hain. - please don't be offended uncle, you know how foreigners can be like.

Chalega chalega, badi hi gori dikh rahi hai, pata chal gaya yahan se nahi hai. - It's okay, she looks very light skinned, [I] assumed she wasn't from around here.

Uske liye kam tikha dun? - should [I] make it less spicy for her?

Kaka, thoda ahistha dena, Hobie bhi yahan naya hai. - Uncle, please slow down [the pace], Hobie is new to this too.

Theek, theek, beta - Alright, kid

Apke aashiq ko impress toh karna padega. - [I know] you have to impress your boyfriend.

Kaka- aashiq nahi hai woh- hum bas dost hain, - Uncle- he's not [my] boyfriend- we're just friends,

Meri beti bhi apne bf ko dost bolti hai. Woh dono bhi ek dusre ko aise hi dekhten hain. Usko lagta hai mujhe nahi pata lekin ham bhi toh aapke umar ke the. - My daughter also claims her boyfriend is just a friend. They look at each other the same [way you do]. She thinks I don't know [about them], but we [adults] used to be your age.

Aur hum yeh Bajrang Dal jaise vishwas nahi rakhte, pyaar toh pyaar hota hai na? - I don't believe stuff like Bajrang Dal. Love is love, isn't it?

Ji kaka. - Yes, uncle. (in this case)

Kaka abhi hame jana padega- chemistry coaching hai- kitna hua? - Uncle, we need to go- It's time for my chemistry tutorial classes- how much [were the Pani Puris]?

Itni jaldi? Theek hai, sukhi puri lelo, - So fast? Okay here's your [aftersnack snack (that's that least complicated way to explain what a sukhi puri is)]

Sath rupay hue, - it's 60 rupees.

Kya kaka, angrez dekhte bhau badha dete ho? Main akele khata toh chalis ka hota - C'mon, uncle, y'all see a foreigner and increase the price? If I was here alone, this would have cost 40 rupees.

Beta, jab aap dhanda karoge tab samajh mein ayega, abhi apko coaching nahi jana? - Kid, when you grow up and have a job, you'll understand, now, don't you have classes to attend?

Han, kaka, din dahade loot lo - yeah, okay, why don't you just rob me,

Some context (you dont need to read this)

kulfi is an ice cream equivalent, usually flavoured with almonds, pistachios and saffron

beta literally means 'son' but its used to refer to any kid who's very young relative to the speaker's age; and also for jokes b/w buddies but that's a different thing

kaka literally means 'father's younger brother ie uncle', but can used to referred to any man who isnt related to you and is about the age of the speaker's parents; there are also other terms depending on by who and how you were introduced to the person

Bajrang Dal - an anti-societal group against religious and sexual minorities(as defined in the indian constitution, do not come at me with politics). Famous in pop culture for being vehemently against valentine's days and premarital eye contact (you think im joking)

The Chemistry Coaching thing is a big deal. Kids have great pride about which institute they go to. The institutes teach accelerated courses for specific competitive examinations, usually in an unethical way. It's considered kinda shameful if you don't go to one. (very dystopian, ik)

[thesandsofelsweyr]

BOY TOY

《 CHAPTER 1/2 // READ ON AO3 》

While the Bird's away, the Clown will play.

《RATING》 🔞 Explicit 《WORDS》 1,094

《PAIRING》 Joker x Jason Todd/Robin

《TROPES》 Hurt No Comfort, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat

《WARNINGS》 Somnophilia, Non-Consensual Touching, Ownership, Implied/Referenced Torture, Aftermath of Torture, Genital Torture, Caning, Blood and Injury, Scars, Underage, Non-Con

《TAGLIST》 @aaliyah-wayne @ladytauria @betty-1880 @deans-spinster-witch @hlg8 @plantixst

Written for @dcdarkweek 2024

Day 2: Consent Issues: Somnophilia, Forced Orgasm (Ch. 2)

Day 3: Interpersonal Dynamics: Underage

Day 5: Power & Control: Ownership

Day 6: Graphic Violence: Stress Positions, Genital Torture, Caning

《NOTES》

This is a DARK FIC so please be aware of the tags!

There will be smut in Chapter 2. It will be my first attempt at writing M/M

If you enjoy the read please kudos, comment, and reblog 💛

《 READ ON AO3 》 (excerpt below the cut)

Exquisite. 

The sight before him inspires many words, but exquisite is the one Joker likes best. He sighs a contented sigh as his eyes crawl up and down the unconscious figure before him, from matted black hair to bruised and broken toes. His latest pair of Batman imposters had left the naked kid dangling by his bony wrists after their playtime was over, and Joker can’t help but think of this mutilated slab of boymeat as an offering, a sacrifice to him. Batsy’s little lambchop led like a sheep to the slaughter, and he’d been waiting, bib tied ‘round his neck, knife and fork in each hand at the ready. A slavering wolf cartoon about to devour his long-awaited feast.

Joker slips off his lavender gloves, finger by finger by bleached-white finger, while he stalks toward his ensnared prey. Toddy’s head hangs dejectedly between dislocated shoulders. Swollen eyelids swim in pits of purply-black bruises and hide behind a veil of stringy hair. His cherub face is puffy, streaked where tears cut tracks through the caked filth. Protruding ribs rise and fall as his lungs gasp for air, each coveted breath sucked in with an adorable wheeze. His toes are curled like a proper ballerina, desperately reaching for the merciful floor below. Fresh blood dribbles down his skinny arms from where the metal cuffs bite into that paper-thin skin.

Joker’s ravenous grin splits wider as his mind drifts back to his little bird’s last playtime. After the bogus Bats had beaten him silly, they’d stripped the jailbird of his orange jumpsuit and cut away his briefs before stringing him up for a flogging. That big brainless brute Blockbuster turned out to be an expert at wielding a bamboo cane, leaving the kid’s backside striped bloody, from the nape of his scrawny neck to the hollows of his knobby knees. Oh how his bird had begged while his skin was shredded to ribbons all over again! But that wasn’t the best part of the performance, no sirree. Before leaving the kid to his tears and fears, Catman had squeezed the baby birdie’s bruised balls in a gauntleted fist until he’d passed out from the pain.

And here they are now: his darling boy still sleeping unsoundly, brain still scrambled from the good Doctor Quinzel’s overdose of hallucinogens. Joker stops short before this tapestry of torture. Resisting the urge to trace the puckered ‘J’ forever seared into his boy’s delicate cheek, he instead takes a moment to admire the full expanse of his handiwork. When the Boy Blunder had fallen into his lap like manna from heaven, he’d been built in the Bat’s own image: a well-muscled adonis with a roleplaying fetish. But after months of depravity those bulging muscles had all but withered away. Now only pallid skin remains, hanging loosely from broken bones. Deeeee-licious!

Read the rest on AO3→

[mannatea]

okay so if you had asked me yesterday: "manna, did you ever write and finish a fire emblem longfic?" i would have told you no, definitely not

and that would be incorrect because apparently i wrote AND FINISHED a post-game hector/farina fic that i have literally NO working memory of even though it was barely more than a decade ago????

whUH???? did i stroke out in 2013 and wake up in 2014???

how did i forget this?????????????? ??? ??? ? ???? ?? ? ? ? ?? ? ?? ? ? TONS OF PEOPLE commented on it and even returned to the fandom after years away just to read it!!! someone read this fandom blind for some reason! and yesterday i would have been like "yeah i never wrote a decent or complete longfic for fe7"

?????????????????? hello?

[theseshipsshallsail]

Summary:

Did he know then, that Elio was already offering him a way out? Permission, almost, to preserve their perfect summer romance in amber. To pack his memories up in a neat little box until such times as he could look back and smile?

Shameless reblog because I've just had a lovely comment on this little series, and despite often forgetting that it exists, these fics are actually some of my favourites...

ETHEREAL

When he dreams he can hear the roar of the ocean. Smell the salt-tang of the waves that swirl between his bare toes. Feel the coarse sand whip at his reddened skin as the wind ruffles his hair. 

When he dreams, he can see him.

Elio.

His true self.

His sunlight in the shadows.

When he dreams, when he says I’ve been happy in B, he finishes his sentence the way he’d originally intended. 

I’ve been happy with you.

Did he know then, that Elio was already offering him a way out? Permission, almost, to preserve their perfect summer romance in amber. To pack his memories up in a neat little box until such times as he could look back and smile? 

Did Elio know himself it was an impossible task? 

That like Sisyphus, his upward struggle would be incessant?

So many wasted days. 

So many weeks, months, years spent grieving that which he’d deemed impossible.

You’ll be fine, he’d said in the moment, but when he dreams, it’s Elio who asks if he’ll be okay, and Oliver, knowing the truth deep down to his soul, who reaches out and cups his cheek, rests it there, unable to lie.

“I love you,” he says instead, thumb tracing light patterns over Elio’s evening stubble as trembling fingers rise up to capture his wrist.

His pulse races in his ears, Elio’s eyes a solemn promise when he parts his lips to speak. “I loved you, too," he says at length - always the past tense - and in doing so confirms the gentlest of nightmares are actually the cruellest.

“Elio,” he chokes out, threading his hand into those windswept curls to draw him closer, his other arm banding around his waist, hauling him into his lap. Three years may as well be yesterday in this maelstrom of emotion, and Oliver’s words fall woefully short of what he truly feels. What he’s always felt. Always will. “My Elio…”

Already, he can sense the illusion slipping away. Hear the sobs Elio doesn’t want him to see. Smell the train carriage as it waits to depart the station. Feel the lurch of turbulence as his heart breaks all over again.

But when he dreams, when his lips find Elio’s like a bee to nectar, the sweetness of his kiss freezes all other considerations on the landscape of his mind. A perfect Monet, he thinks, as Elio sighs the same plaintive sound he makes upon first stretching awake, opening his mouth to his. Soft and wet. His own personal manna in this self-imposed exodus. 

It’s not enough though - not nearly enough - and Oliver hugs him tighter until he can hear the gulls circling overhead. Feel the sun-warmed rock beneath the soles of his feet. Smell the peaches on Elio’s breath. Kisses him like a man starved until reality crashes back, squeezing his eyes shut until the very last second before whispering his own name between them.

Elio doesn’t get the chance to respond - he never does - and the bitter sting of tears stays with him long after the six o’clock alarm call.

[thetisming]

am i in post limit hell: no

post limit blog: @amperstan

i'm Reggie, my pronouns are he/him and i'm a trans & autistic teenager. if you misgender me i will explode you with my mind

❤️🧡💛💚💙💜

i do art & i write fanfiction! im not great at art yet as i only started recently (and im only doing paper sketches rn) but i am open to drawing requests if you can accept that they will not be very good. also i only draw ni no kuni, ghibli creatures & animals

writing requests are also open! ni no kuni only. ive played dotdd, wotww & rk and i will MAYBE play cross worlds. i hate the movie if you ask for movie fanfic you will be exploded

❤️🧡💛💚💙💜

i like:

• Ni No Kuni

• ghibli movies

• wolf children

• musicals

• zombieland

• zombie movies in general. recommend zombie movies i dare you

• cats & dogs but cats are the main beloved animal

• horror games

• commentary youtubers (Danny, Drew, Kurtis, ChadChad, funkyfrogbait, Jarvis, etc)

• dropout

• community

• those 3 gay disney cartoons you know the ones

this is mainly a Ni No Kuni blog currently & i will never make a sideblog. you will listen.

former &j blog and i will probably return to it eventually because its one of my special interests

❤️🧡💛💚💙💜

I LOVE ZOMBIES. ask me for a zombie au and i will explode with joy. ask me for ni no kuni manna arc fic?? i love you forever. i love zombies. wait disclaimer i mean the creatures not the disney movie

❤️🧡💛💚💙💜

i have two cats and post about them here!!

their names are Matcha and Pablo i love them so much

❤️🧡💛💚💙💜

block the tag #reggie plays dotdd and #dotdd spoilers if you want

❤️🧡💛💚💙💜

disclaimers:

i have very bad mental health & i do post about it sometimes. i dont tag for triggers outside of sex & pet death because i generally just. am too tired. i sometimes have panic attacks and post about them here. and if you can please check in on me if im having one cause otherwise i will decide everyone hates me.

i dont respond to asks for money & i dont reblog fundraisers. i am pro palestine, sudan & all other countries currently suffering a genocide, but i dont post about it on here because i have bad mental health, little money & for me the internet is a space away from my problems

asks are currently closed because i couldnt handle all the asks for money

okay enjoy my blog <3

[residenthesitant]

hey what if i wrote a passover fic

Title: Manna from Heaven Warnings: None Rating: Gen Relationships: Married Tubbo/Ranboo, Tubbo & Everyone Characters: Tubbo, Ranboo, Techno, Michael B, Foolish, assorted others Tags: Post-Canon, Domestic Fluff, Jewish Holidays, Pesach | Passover, Tubbo-Centric, Found Family Summary: One of the perks of having a rich husband, in Tubbo’s opinion, is getting to send out the fanciest, most over-the-top invitations for what is, essentially, a small dinner for friends and family. The size of the dinner does not matter. The amount of invitations being set out does not matter. The fact that Tubbo can commission a calligrapher to make ten overly-decorated and horrendously fancy cards to invite people to his home is what matters.

You are cordially invited to the Underscore-Beloved’s home on Friday at sundown for Passover. Contact Tubbo or Ranboo to RSVP.

Oh, gods.

Tubbo’s never hosted a seder before.

i wrote the world's most self-indulgent passover fic in the world for @mcyt-passover-event! read it on ao3 <333333

[theredofoctober]

MANNA- CHAPTER TWELVE: FRUIT

Dark!Hannibal Lecter x Reader x Dark!Will Graham AU fic

TW for eating disorders, noncon, abuse, drugging, Daddy kink, implied child abuse

This is chronologically the twelve chapter

READ AFTER THE CUT...

-

You ascend to your room alone, glancing back over your shoulder in the paranoia that one or the other man pursues you like night after the sun.

Neither have taken you by way of carnality since Will rutted you against the wall. It seems an unnatural strike of fortune, and one unlikely to last.

There is too much lust between these beings, hunger of such echoing depths that the sensual urge is but one chained within. Their eyes all evening have picked you to the bone like carrion set at by desert birds. Your cunt parts, empty, about the memory of Will’s fingertips; there is a sense of art unfinished, a crescendo in the crashing of keys only the hands of men can bring into violent birth.

In dread of missing the sound of their approach across the landing you lie quiet in your bed, no music nor comforting hum of the television as your night-time companions. Yet footsteps only halve the house when your captors go to bed, each in their own room, an anti-climax. 

You think of Hannibal, tossed amidst the curse of unsung ardour, then of Will, crushed under the density of an unsated sleep. Such lonely men, in their way, divided by what lies unchartered between them, and with you.

Though by now settled, the skin which Will has touched—struck—still seems to burn with him. Five fingers, the rounded oblong of a palm, a hand that feeds dogs, has fired a gun, has rocked you, fucked you. A hand that Hannibal Lecter reaches for across dead miles of darkness to know as you have, and to love what you have loathed.

Unsettled, you roll on your stomach, but the pulse you hear when overwrought seems to peal through your very bones in its jeering song.

Filth, sin, soil: you taste your shame in its salt, as you have each night since long ago. Yet before your taking for the purpose of this ritual science there had never been pleasure in it, only the experience of staring always at the edges of things. The corners of ceilings, the light at the top of a door, a wall torn to grain by the night, liminality your legacy of innocence.

With Will, with Hannibal, you cannot look away, are made to witness and to partake in every aggression and gentleness with the same focus of attention. For that is what they want, your immersion in the devil’s playhouse. For you to be a doll, a daughter, embraced after the most inclement incident into a state almost soothed.

You cry yourself to sleep, wanting such a practice of love from someone who’s never once hurt you.

*

Hunger wakes you in the night, a restless drumroll that compels you upright in its rallying beat. As you stretch, thinking morosely of the marvel it is to have gorged and still not be full, you hear someone stumble in the nearby hallway, thudding against the adjoining wall.

A fight? Some drunken struggle? An intimacy overheard? No—

There is but a sole pair of scuffing footfalls on the floorboards beyond, too unbalanced to be Dr Lecter’s.

In consternation you go to your door and try the handle. It gives way easily under your hand, allowing you to peer out into the black mystery beyond.

Will lists against the right-hand wall, his eyes glazed and rolling under twitching lids. As you stare, abashed, his limbs fall under him, and he sprawls thrashing in unconscious spasms of animation.

There is blood on his face where he’s bitten his tongue, ebony in the negation of light. An oil spill on a seabird, drowning. A splash of mud on a bog's sunken dead.

You should let him suffer, step over his convulsing form and dart for nearest open window or outer door, but horror shakes you senseless of the thought before it takes full form.

Will’s fit continues, throwing the young man’s slim frame about like a machine caught in the throes of grim malfunction.

God help you: you pity him. He is human, and you are, as well.

“Will?” you say, stepping gingerly towards him. “Daddy? Can you hear me?”

It occurs to you that Will’s death is also yours, your lifelines enmeshed, a symbiosis in which only he would survive your parting. You kneel with your palms hovering over him, recalling very little that you know of First Aid, and entirely terrified of making him worse.

Hannibal’s voice comes from your left, uttering your name with a softness that somehow bears all the authority of a bellowed command.

He steps up quickly behind you, his hair disrupted from its usual tidy arrangement.

“Will’s having a seizure,” you say, in despair. “I don’t know what to do.”

“I’ll help him,” says Hannibal. “Go back to your room.”

You stare at him, dumbfounded by his apparent calm.

“But—”

Again Dr Lecter says your name, without raising his voice, or with any particular emotion. Yet you scuttle back the way you came, jarred by the suggestion of temper in that subtle repetition.

You hear Hannibal calling to Will, the sound of him lifting the other man and carrying his dead weight back to the spare room. The door closing, the subtle murmur behind it of Will rousing, his friend's soft, reassuring reply.

Silence, as of an exhibition ended.

Half an hour edges by, and not once do you stop shaking despite the heat of the autumn night.

Presently a knock comes at your door, and the doctor enters, his eyes lowered in remorse.

“I apologise if I spoke harshly to you. I know that you weren’t being deliberately disobedient. It wasn’t my intention to imbue your evening with additional distress.”

“It’s not your fault,” you say, quite disarmed by the apology. “It’s nobody’s fault. I mean, I shouldn’t have left my room, but I couldn’t just not go out there and see what was going on.”

Hannibal’s expression is opaque, a mask of ivory.

“I detect a concern for Will that isn’t entirely manufactured for my benefit,” he says. “Could it be that such a little cynic loves something other than her hunger?”

“What choice do I have but to care about Will?” you ask, shrilly. “What’s wrong with him?”

Adrenaline runs so high within you that you see the room on a tilt like some demented circus mirror reflection.

“What’s wrong with him?” you ask, again.

This time Dr Lecter answers, his tone low and even so as not to incite further upset.

“I suspect that Will is suffering from a combination of stress and fatigue, although I can’t deny the possibility of a neurological disorder.”

“Jack said he was sick,” you mumble. “And the other night, when I— you know. He looked awful.”

Will's face is punched into your retina like a flash of light, all blinding awfulness.

“And he’s been getting so angry with me,” you say, in a panicked rush. “Even though sometimes he’s almost nice. Is that why? Because he’s not well?”

“Will’s health has certainly contributed to his recent outbursts,” says Hannibal, smoothing your rumpled coverlet with fastidious hands. “The absence of control he feels amidst his fever leads to acts of impulse, particularly when in an environment he’s uncertain of, or feels threatened in.”

“I’m not threatening him,” you insist, hotly. “How could I?”

“I don’t mean in the literal sense. Will has very few close confidants, and those he possesses he guards dearly— that, or it is he himself that Will defends against his competition.”

You look up sharply, and Hannibal smiles, all benign conspiracy.

“Yes, little one. Having considered your thoughts on Will's dislike of you, I suspect that he also fears you may supersede him, or else share intimacies with me that he alone would otherwise possess. Yet Will’s envy is more complex than mere romantic ire, for unlike other rivals he has contended with, Will finds himself in the position of dizzying power over you.”

Dr Lecter pauses, his head at a rueful incline.

“For my part, I admit that it was rash to elect Will as the disciplinarian between us without taking all factors into account. It seems that I underestimated how antagonistic your relationship would become as his immersion in your treatment progressed.”

This you do believe, at least in that the doctor’s dissuasion of Will’s most outrageous verbal lashings is clearly genuine. Your bickering, in its familial likeness, he enjoys: an outright skirmish, repellent it its indecency, he does not.

“As you’ve indicated,” says Dr Lecter, going about your room to address its customary disorder, “Will’s becoming aware that his resentment is not entirely warranted as he finds himself increasingly sympathetic to your case. Such feelings are at odds with his desire to be alone in my company— an intricate conflict for any mind, let alone one so fiercely ablaze.”

“Ablaze?” you repeat. “What do you mean?”

“If my suspicions are correct, then Will’s condition may have been agitated by the ingredients in various dishes served in my home these past few weeks. The symptoms are closely matched to Will’s behaviour— disorientation, loss of consciousness, personality changes, mood swings. It’s unfortunate that I didn’t notice this much sooner.”

There is something performative in Hannibal’s guilt, his unshed tears like the glass eyes of a taxidermy animal. He’s known of Will’s ailment far longer than he suggests, and as he turns his back to close your chest of drawers you feel relieved, no longer forced to entertain this show of lies.

“You mustn’t mention any of this to Will until he’s received a formal diagnosis,” says Dr Lecter. “It may be that he’s simply mentally unwell, which would be a far more complicated outcome to navigate. But what you’ve seen of him lately is merely a conjunction of symptoms and heightened territorial emotions. Will’s true self you’ve yet to meet.”

The assurance is of little comfort to you, being that the nearest you’ve come to perceiving Will at his most natural and honest is in his private conversations with Dr Lecter. Through these you’ve glimpsed a complex creature, one that approaches evil with a newborn’s chary exploration.

You want to believe, for your own sake, that the sensitivity you’ve received from him sporadically evidences the continued persistence of his soul. Yet you cannot decide if he began a good man, changed through Dr Lecter’s influence, or if he’s always been a hunter, each kindness a flash of marsh fire luring you to drown.

The image of Will—twitching, defenceless—ultimately overrides this dilemma of thought.

“So what do we do now?” you ask. “We have to help him.”

Pleased by your concern, Hannibal leans across the bed to kiss the downturned corner of your mouth.

“I’ll reschedule tomorrow’s appointments so that I can tend to him. Will needs rest, first and foremost. As for his role here, it would be safest for him to delegate the majority of his more strenuous duties until he's recovered. I’ll continue them, in his stead.”

Choosing not to linger on the implications of this, you ask, “What about me? What can I do?”

“Healing Will is not your responsibility, little one.”

“But I’m making things worse,” you say, fretfully. “I know it. How can I make him like me?”

Not without humour, Hannibal says, “You can begin by tempering that sharp tongue a bit. Like Will, you rarely attempt to sweeten your words. I’ll never encourage you not to bite, but it is important that you roll on your back when we bid it. You must be our good girl, above all else, or if not good then charming, at the very least.”

You roll onto your side, crushing your face into a valley of pillows.

“I guess I really haven’t been playing along enough,” you mutter.

Hannibal chuckles.

“Not nearly enough, for all your promises. But it’s early days yet, sweet girl. We’ll see how you are once we're used to one another.”

*

 

Morning comes rudely, stalling the excitement like an opera’s intermission.

You take breakfast with Hannibal, only distracted from the usual struggle of eating by the presence of Will’s vacant seat. Having thought of him without respite for hours you’re in state of nervous delirium, your flinching knee a seismic force under the table.

“I want to see Will,” you blurt out, at last. “I want to see if he’s alright.”

“I’ll be taking a tray up to him in a few minutes,” says Dr Lecter, scarcely bothering to hide his delight in this new interest. “Don’t ask him too many questions. No doubt he’s feeling somewhat delicate this morning.”

You watch as Hannibal prepares a separate meal for the other man, cutting fruit and stewing tea leaves with loving ceremony. When he puts a strawberry to your lips you take it, your tongue rasping the juice gamely from his fingertips.

The shock of the previous night has amputated your mulish declination to humour him; even the disgust that meets your every concession is hushed, made redundant by a renewed vow to leave this house on soft feet rather than screams.

Other women have befriended their keepers and lived, as will you, if you can bear to pander to Dr Lecter as long as they.

*

Accompanying Hannibal to Will’s room you find that you’re oddly excited, even gleeful in anticipation of the visit. You’re taken with the notion that his seizure will incur some unknowable change, though whether in Will himself or the dynamics of the households you cannot predict.

Never have you seen him so utterly fragile, the dilapidation of a man. You think of a child, foisted on a detached father by a mother Will had never seen fit to name.

Will he be ashamed that you’ve seen that self so clearly? Will he be angry, indifferent, or else fear the power his weakness allows you as though your thumbs press deep in the fluttering dell of his very throat?

There is another possibility, however, the one your morning-fresh hopes hang onto by their nails: that he’ll remember how you’d crouched at his side and called to him as he shook in the darkness.

“Wait here for a moment,” says Hannibal, as you crowd up behind him at Will’s bedroom door. “I’d like to speak to him alone first.”

You hang back as Dr Lecter goes in, pressing your ear to the door the moment it shuts at his back.

“You’re awake,” says Hannibal, simply. “How are you this morning?”

There is a pause as he sets down the beautifully arranged tray somewhere in the room.

“I feel like I could sleep for another forty-eight hours,” says Will, his voice thick and slightly nasal, a sickbed tenor. “I should probably get up and head home. I need to check on the dogs.”

“I called Alana and asked her to look in on them,” Dr Lecter replies. “It’s inadvisable to drive in this condition. Try to eat. You’ll revive much quicker if you line your stomach with something.”

“Yeah, well. I can’t make any guarantees of keeping it down.”

You hear the metallic scraping of a fork about Will’s plate and writhe in envy. Even unwell he eats without thought of the fat that disallows your enjoyment of any meal. You live vicariously through him, in that moment, imagining the liquor of fruit across his tongue, the forbidden pearls of white sugar.

What you’d give not to be a slave to thinness, the goal whose end will never form.

Hannibal says, "Present issues aside, I can't help observing that you've been conflicted, as of late, Will. One might even say confused."

"Have been since the start of all this,” says Will. “The clouds still haven’t cleared. A bilious forecast.”

"Yet you've no wish to abandon this project for brighter climes."

Will gives a little snort of derision.

"I'm too enmeshed in this household to extract myself now. The night I first touched her was my signature at the end of the page. Indelible ink. No taking it back."

You flatten your face to the door so as to better interpret Hannibal’s silence.

"You feel a genuine duty to our little one, for all your misgivings,” he says, at last. “I was beginning to question if I’d made a mistake."

"She's abrasive,” says Will. “Not exactly malleable. I believe you know what you’re doing, but on paper it seems like an ill-fitting adoption."

"Children are reflections of their parents, and so far she’s shown herself to be a mirror of you. Towards me she is cool, distant, and distrustful. With you, there is an attraction of sorts. Not sensual, nor even familial, but it’s enough that, in spite of your every rebuttal and harsh word, she’s beginning to develop something of a rapport with you."

Laughing tersely, Will says, "Not sure I see it."

"You don't allow yourself to,” says Hannibal. “But you’re aware of that truth, all the same. Each time you relent into even momentary tenderness you turn against her in savagery that is vastly unearned.”

“You asked me to punish her,” Will says, sharply. “Encouraged me to— relish it.”

The admission does not move you; these men have knifed ecstasies of you like oyster flesh enough times to have indicated their tastes.

It is the why you listen for, the object they skirt about with the same flirting avoidance of a tryst that cannot be.

“I’m not referring to punishment,” says Dr Lecter. “This I have openly supported. It’s how you address our charge that’s beginning to make her feel displaced.”

“Are you criticising me, Dr Lecter?” asks Will, with a smile in his voice.

“Certainly not. I’m merely observing a pattern of behaviour, and its impact upon my patient.”

To this Will says nothing, but the tension between the two men is as visible as the door that stands between you.

"If you yearn for the hours that you and I once spent alone, I'm able to accommodate by replenishing that time together,” Hannibal says, at last. “But the blame for that neglect is solely mine. I've foisted our little one upon you without consideration of what response such an abrupt change would elicit."

"You don't have to apologise,” says Will, as surly as ever. “It’s an adjustment. I’m getting used to it.”

Your ears catch the delicate action of him lifting the tea cup on his tray, then of setting it down again.

“I spoke to her alone last night,” he says, abruptly. “Told her of my intentions to stay part of this. For a moment it felt like we connected. Like that was the promise she was looking for. But when I refused her something she wanted, she accused me of being ‘like him’. I figured you'd know who she was referring to.”

“Yes,” says Hannibal. “I can make what I imagine is an accurate guess.”

“Whatever parts we try out here, I don’t want to become the unnamed shadow that stands at her shoulder. It made her the way she is. There’s a tastelessness to that kind of evil.”

"I know. It’s more than apparent that you repel her less through genuine hatred, and more through the necessity to protect yourself from what it would mean to know her, and for her to know you in return.”

As Will replies you hear the huskiness of genuine emotion forced out between gritted teeth.

“All this would be a wasted effort if she were ever taken from me.”

“That won’t happen again,” says Hannibal, at once. “The pillar of salt left when you looked back at Abigail will never form with our new charge. When our second daughter turns to me with the same thirst for intimacy she’s developed for you she’ll be, at last, our Chloris, the nymph turned mistress of flowers."

He speaks with such tender compassion that it starts an ache somewhere in the underwing of your ribcage. What necromancy he conducts here to wake your dead and mangled innards into a living heart you cannot guess, only fear the compassion you’re capable of towards such creatures as would destroy you.

"Our little one would like to speak to you, it seems,” says Dr Lecter, closing the previous subject with a seamless finality. “Should I let her in?”

Will shifts uneasily on the bed, creaking its springs.

“She asked to see me?” he asks.

“She did.”

You imagine the younger man scraping a tangle of hair back from his temples as he gathers his thoughts.

“Where is she?”

Thus your cue to enter announces itself: you open the door, peeping at its edge, oddly shy.

"Hey,” you say, in a semi-whisper.

Will is as grey and moist with feverish sweat as deep-sea stone. His vast eyes nest in violet shadow, the whites a thread work of capillaries.

You pity him, this shambling experiment of Dr Lecter's creation, one of many, no doubt.

"Hello,” says Will, dully. “Sorry about last night."

Edging into the room, you allow Hannibal to slip discreetly away behind you with a light pat on your shoulder.

"Are you okay?" you ask. “How are you feeling?”

"Tired, mostly,” says Will. “I'll get over it. Need to. I’ve got a case to work on."

He scrutinises the half-empty tray before him from under lowered lashes.

"I'm surprised you helped me. You could have run off. Hit me over the head with one of Dr Lecter's vases."

"I wouldn't do that,” you retort. “You even said so. That I— can't."

"No, but you could have gotten away. So why didn’t you?"

There is no surprise in his voice, nor even suspicion, which you’d expected. He merely sounds ill, and trying to be interested, in spite of it.

“I don't know,” you admit. “I felt bad for you, seeing you like that. I didn’t want to leave you."

A weary cynicism twists Will’s features into momentary ugliness.

"You were afraid of being alone with someone you could never hope to understand without me."

"Not just that,” you insist, alarmed by the truth of the insight. “I was scared for you. Really. You should go to a hospital. You need tests. Meds. Scans and stuff, maybe.”

Will searches your face with eyes like dull rain, and some of the guardedness falls away from them.

"If it gets any worse, I will,” he says. “Just not today.”

You see how much he detests his own weakness, the potential to be devoured like an animal fallen in a savannah. If you strike, he will struggle, and sick as he is, you will lose.

So you offer him the gift of submission instead, the cunning exertion of a child's mite power.

"Okay, Daddy.”

You feel rather than see Will straighten in response to the word.

"Don't think I'll ever get used to that,” he says. "It’s alright to use my name. There aren't any rules against it."

"No, but he wouldn’t want me to.”

“When have you ever cared what Dr Lecter thinks?”

Shrugging, you mumble, “I guess I’m just sick of fighting all the time.”

The sick man scrutinises at you for so long that you hop from foot to foot in discomfort, itching your sole against your calf.

“It’s going to be hard for me to trust you,” says Will. “You’re probably just going to pretend until you see an avenue to get out of here.”

“Everything’s pretend, here,” you say, smartly. “Nearly all the conversations in this house are about myths and dreams. Dr Lecter talks about them like they’re real, or something.”

Amusement lights the sunken dark of Will’s gaze.

“He finds their philosophies more valuable than the moral structures most people follow.”

“And me?” you ask. “Am I valuable to him?”

Being that you’re still convinced that your worth to Dr Lecter is entirely reliant on Will’s continued interest, you only ask to discern if he himself understands this, or if he believes Hannibal would love you of his own accord.

With a tired caution, Will says, “Right now, I think you entertain him. What else he feels about you I don’t know.”

“And what do you feel?” you persist. “Still don’t like me?”

At this the young man laughs and shakes his head.

“Ask me again once I’ve gotten to know you. If you can agree to a truce, that is.”

“Fine,” you say, and you put out your hand for him to shake. “Truce. Let’s try that.”

With a wry grin Will accepts, letting go almost at once with a sharp inward breath.

“You’re freezing!”

“Haven't you noticed?” you say, hastily stuffing the offending hand under one arm. “I always am.”

It’s an unfavourable symptom of your hunger, this blood and touch of ice. Under even the sweltering gasp of summer’s heat you’ll shiver, knock-kneed, and suffer at the slightest feather of a draught.

Still, that cold affirms you. Were you to be warm again you’d hate yourself, having regained enough of the weight your system craves to regulate its heat.

Glancing up, you notice Will examining his own hand as though he shares your temperature, his fist a twin to frost.

"Come along, little one," says Hannibal, materialising in the doorway again. "Will needs more rest. Perhaps you’ll see him later on.”

But by late afternoon Will has dragged himself home without saying goodbye, and as before his absence eats a crescent into the house.

*

Some days later you pass an evening with Hannibal like so many others, yet unlike for the new state induced in you through his medicinal enterprise.

You're accustomed to the concoction of drugs that regresses you to a needy youth, the sleepers, the stimulants, the tea that lowers you from the electric heights of righteous hysteria into something slowly numb.

Yet whatever element comprises the pill flushed down by water from today’s gently tipped glass elevates you to orbit a heaven above you, so removed from your imprisonment that you observe all below with an objective eye.

Dr Lecter has bestowed upon you the rare trust that you may eat without prompting or assistance, and you have done so, temporarily rescinding your disordered agitation to a mycelium half-dream.

Thus entranced, you watch yourself drape the tines of your fork back and forth across your half-eaten plate, enthralled by patterns on the porcelain that are not there.

Your eyes drift repeatedly to a painting on Hannibal’s wall, mounted coyly for any dinner guest to comment on.

Naturally, you’ve seen the piece many times before, and have been, in turns, startled and disturbed by its subject.

Now you find yourself dully intrigued, as you were by the Japanese prints. This attention does not go unnoticed by Dr Lecter.

“What is it, little one?” he asks, intently. “Do you have an interest in art?”

“I don’t know,” you say, confused by the banality of the question. “It’s just this picture. Isn’t it... rude?”

Hannibal smirks, eyeing the image with a fond appreciation.

Its focus is a supine young woman, draped, half-naked, on a rumpled bed towards which a curious swan approaches with its curved neck bowed.

Likely it is the original painting, procured at auction, its price unimaginable; all things in this house are ripe with expense, even you, its demanding charge.

“Artistic nudity is only considered rude by children,” says Hannibal, blithely, “or else by shallow and ignorant adults. Does the depiction of genitalia offend you, my darling?”

You gaze up at the cowrie of a cunt under its shadow cap of hair, pinkly presented on spread silk, and think how often your own has been arranged likewise for Will or Hannibal to admire.

“Why is it in this room, specifically?” you ask.

You struggle with the syllables of the words, spitting the sibilants in a manner unbecoming of so distinguished an event as dinner with Dr Lecter.

“Doesn’t it put people off their food?”

“I find it makes for an amusing conversation piece,” says Hannibal, pouring himself another generous glass of wine like the blood of some celestial giant.

You attempt to grimace, none of your muscles quite taking to the motion.

“I don’t think it’s funny at all. Just creepy. Sad.”

“Are familiar with the story of Leda and the Swan? Zeus, a virile and insatiable God, looked upon the queen of Sparta and desired her. So, in order to seduce her, he transformed himself into a swan so that she would be fooled by his beauty and appearance of vulnerability to take him to her bed.”

“He tricked her,” you say, quietly. “He didn’t seduce her, at all.”

Dr Lecter’s face scarcely moves, but there is something of laughter in the lines of his strange beauty.

“So it’s the deception that unnerves you,” he says. “The pretence that he was an innocent creature rather than the all-powerful and lustful deity he truly was.”

You nod, not wanting to admit that you see your own face mirrored in the brushstrokes of the damned queen.

Prophet-like, Hannibal interprets the gesture with flawless vision.

“You empathise with Leda. Recognise the parallels between her story and your own.”

“Is that why you put it there?” you retort, emboldened by the miles between you and the girl slumped in the dining chair. “Because you think you’re the swan?”

“The bird is a shield for the truth, remember,” says Hannibal. “So what would the swan be, in me?”

Dropping the fork with a discordant clatter, you consider.

“The polite, handsome doctor,” you say, at last. “You fool everyone: Jack, Alana Bloom. My parents. They would never have left me here if they knew what you really were.”

Hannibal turns his head at a slight angle, as though by doing so he might uncover some mystery in your face.

“And what am I, little one?”

“I... don’t know,” you admit; a killer, certainly, though there is more to him even than that. “There are a lot of things you’re hiding from me.”

“Tell me your perceptions, then. There’s no need to spare my feelings; after all, you so rarely do.”

Amidst your mushroom-made divinity, you are fearless in your answer.

“You’re a bad person. You’ve done things that would get you into a lot of trouble. Hurt people. Not just me. Not just Tobias. And you don’t feel bad about it. You think that everything you do is right, somehow. Like you should be allowed to do it. Like you’re the gods in all these stories.”

Hannibal absorbs this with the silence of having been sated by your answer.

“And what about Will?” he prompts, some moments later. “Is he, too, a starving monster under the cunning guise of a tender animal?”

“No,” you say, with less certainty. “He’s... sick. You're using him, making him think that this is what he wants.”

Your captor laughs over the rim of his wine glass.

“That’s where you’re wrong, little one. The Will you think you see is only one wing of a swan. Soon, you will glimpse beyond that fragile veil, and feel the mythic need of all immortals to plunder from the weak, merely for the pleasure of knowing that they can.”

A sudden sadness tugs you back to earth like a choke chain, iron-like the lump in your throat.

“So you don’t want to help me, after all,” you mumble. “It really was all a lie.”

Taking your hand across the table, Hannibal presses a thumb to the pulse at your wrist, a soothing motion.

“Not at all,” he says, firmly. “I’m quite fond of you. I wish you to be strong. Each time you find yourself resenting Will and I you must remember that Leda did not die after Zeus bedded her: she became a mother. In you, I seek another outcome. More than one, and not all of them so horrible as you imagine. There will be beauty in this conversion, as well.”

You gaze at him with disbelieving eyes, close to rejecting the hope he grooms in you.

“What other outcomes are you looking for, Dr Lecter? How can I become all the things you want if I don’t understand them? What’s really going on?”

Hannibal kisses your knuckles and places your fork back into your hand.

“Nothing you need to think about at the moment,” he says. “Now, finish what’s on your plate. I’d like you to move on to dessert.”

Just like that, you are his little girl again, the moon having passed across the sun.

[gingerlee-holds]

On the Featherflake

This was at the suggestion of Hypah (Ms. SS2023 herself!). It was originally meant to be a simple info page, but I ended up inserting a tiny fic (?) about this character I made up named Eren Fernsby. I was imagining this eccentric little Victorian British twink, wearing little spectacles and messy black hair - I'm sure you can imagine the character in your head, you're a clever little cutie, I believe in you. I hope you enjoy the fic! Let me know if you'd like to see anymore from the character ("The Fernsby Journals" has a nice ring to it). I'm also in a rush because I have a lot of schoolwork, so that too.

Word Count: 711 Reading Time: ~5 minutes Warnings: Un-proofread fic lmao- not the usual level of "quality"- also a lot of feathers

The featherflake is a rare phenomenon, only witnessed by a lucky (or unlucky) few. 

The flake itself is nothing impressive. It's a small, white flake, resembling a snowflake from afar. However, upon further inspection, an observant passerby will notice key differences.

The most noticeable attribute of the featherflake is its size, ranging from 12 millimeters to 25 millimeters in diameter. Furthermore, their structure allows the flake to cluster, interlocking to form large piles.

If one were to look closer at such a pile of featherflakes, one would instantly notice this structure. Instead of a crystalline water-based design, it appears light and fluffy, similar to a goose feather. Indeed, the average featherflake has about eight "feather" structures connected in the middle to form a flake. This is another key difference: eight points instead of a snowflake's six.

The observer may even step a little closer, hesitantly picking a small cluster of featherflakes up to inspect them closer. The feeling of the feathers may tickle an exposed palm slightly, but for someone wearing mittens on a cold winter's day, one typically pays no mind. They aren't cold like snow is. For all the observer may know, feathers have fallen randomly out of the sky. 

Despite how uncommon this is, a featherflake event has happened throughout history, and many a prudent meteorologist has documented the event well. For instance, in 1744, then-amateur natural philosopher Eren Fernsby recorded the following in his journal on a particularly blustery November evening:

"How remarkable this all is! An act of God indeed, though instead of manna, He has brought feathers! For what end, I know not - this weather seemingly defies explanation. At 6:42, right when the sun had peaked from behind the hills, I was lying in bed, and I must confess, I did not wish to rise. The wind had been pressing at my windows so violently in the night that I had shuttered them tightly. However, when the sunlight began permeating my little room, I saw with surprise that my windows had been flung open! Grumbling with chagrin, I rolled over and held the covers over my head, cursing the sun for its horrible punctuality.

It may have been another hour when I awoke with a gasp. I felt something soft against my stomach, and upon observation, I saw it was a snowflake... made of feathers! Imagine my surprise when I looked around my room and saw the place teeming with them, covering every imaginable surface! Oh, what a chore to clean - or at least, that is what I would have thought were I not enraptured by the sight. I stepped out of bed, yet I severely miscalculated my bedsheet's location and fell onto the floor with an indignant yelp. Instead of an annoyed mutter, I let out a soft giggle. How very strange it felt! The troublesome little feathers had found their way into my bedrobe. And it felt extraordinarily tickly sensitive.

As I rolled about on my floor, attempting to untangle my ankles from the bedsheet, I only managed to agitate the flakes' positions, causing them to fly everywhere in my clothes in a flurry. I would not count myself as a particularly ticklish sensitive individual, but I must admit I cackled hysterically chuckled lightly at the feeling. The feathers swirled about in my robe, wiggling over my stomach, sides, thighs, and chest. I squealed and squealed. No matter how many times I squirmed, they continued their onslaught. It took half an hour to get rid of them! I was breathless, wheezing, blushing, and immediately began this journal entry. 

What possible cause could be engendering such a strange occurrence! I think I loved it It was very odd. I look forward to seeing this event again, if it ever does repeat, purely for research purposes.

Upon rereading this journal a year later, I have decided to add a post-script. At various points in this entry, I have broken decorum. If I ever choose to publish this journal, I must adequately expunge any and all unprofessionalism. I have an image to maintain, after all."

Mr. Fernsby (and later, Sir Fernsby) did indeed record other entries about other featherflake blizzards and other phenomena, garnering him wide acclaim. He always seemed to scribble out some parts of his journals, though.

Read the following entry in The Fernsby Journals!

[love-bokumono-fics]

Fresh Crops! July 1 - July 7, 2024

This week's newest fics and chapter updates for Harvest Moon and Story of Seasons on AO3!

A Wonderful Life - by Aqueird; WIP, 1/?, 1.4k

Rating: Mature; Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply; Category: F/M Fandoms: A Wonderful Life, DS Cute Relationships: Cody | Gordy/Chris, Cody | Gordy/ Original Character(s), Pony | Aya | Jill/Rock, Pony | Aya/ | Cody | Gordy, Chris/Wally | Suarii; Characters: Pony | Aya | Jill, Original Characters, Cody | Gordy, Chris, Hugh, Wally | Suarii Additional Tags: Cheating, Implied Sexual Content, Established Relationship Summary: Chris needed a distraction: “Something to cope. Life can hit you unexpectedly, so you either let it lay you down or you hit the ground running. And if you can’t run, you find something to lean on” Gordy eyed her for a long moment without moving from his position on the bed. “So, you’re leaning on me?” He asks more like a statement. Chris fastens her buckle tightly, “I’m walking with you.” Chris and Gordy have a conversation about an upcoming gallery opening.

Her Voice Within - by syavwits; WIP, 11/?, 23k

Rating: Not Rated; Archive Warning: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings; Category: F/M Fandoms: Back To Nature Relationship: Claire the Farmer/Gray; Characters: Claire the Farmer, Pete the Farmer, Gray, Rick, Kai, Cliff, Doctor | Trent, Mary the Librarian | Marie, Karen, Popuri, Ann the Innkeeper | Ran, Elli | Elly, Manna, Duke, Doug | Dudley, Old Ellen, May | Mei, Stu | Yu, Zack, Won | Huang, Anna, Basil the Writer, Saibara, Harris, Gotz | Gotts, Kano, Louis the Entomologist | Chuu, Greg, Barley | Mugi, Aja | Adge Additional Tags: Friends to Lovers, Romantic Soulmates, Soul-Searching, Mystery, Mute Protagonist, Found Family Summary: It's not that Claire can't talk, she sometimes speaks yes, but only when she really put all her energies to do it. Then there's Gray, the stoic guy with the famous resting b*tch face, he doesn't want anything to do with anyone, everyone, even the new girl although she's… cute. While Pete tries to save his farm, he also confides in Claire and asks her help to search for his unknown childhood friend, his first love, who apparently is one of the girls in Mineral town?!? Will Claire manage to find Pete's long-lost Best friend? Will Claire find what she truly desires in her second chance at life?

Tumblr Posts for A Wonderful Life Characters - by actaeoncross; WIP, 54/?, 62k

Rating: Not Rated; Archive Warning: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings; Categories: F/F, F/M, M/M, Multi Fandoms: A Wonderful Life Relationship: Multiple Characters x Reader; Characters: Celia | Seperia | Cecilia, Cody | Gordy, Daryl, Flora, Gustafa, Lumina, Marlin | Mash | Matthew, Muffy | Molly, Nami, Rock, Reader Summary: A collection of Tumblr posts for A Wonderful Life Characters x Reader prompts.

Sugar and Spice - by Chibimiie; WIP, 64/?, 173k

Rating: Mature; Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply; Category: F/M Fandoms: Animal Parade Relationships: Chase/Molly the Farmer, Angela/Luke; Characters: Molly | Hikari, Angela the Farmer, Chase, Luke, Kasey the Farmer Additional Tags: Slow Burn, oh god how do you tag fics, mentions of eating disorders, alternating povs, Friends to Lovers, Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, bumped up the rating because i honestly should have a little bit ago, burn so slow it's honestly a simmer, Mutual Pining Summary: Wanting to get away from past hurts of the city, sisters Molly and Angela decide to respond to a flyer advertising an abandoned farm on the faraway island of Castanet. Leaving behind their closest friends and brother Kasey, the two take a chance and move to the tiny island hoping for a new chance at life.

And two Not Safe For Tumblr stories by Thefallen1986, with NSFT Titles.

[antimony-medusa]

Fic Recs April '23

What did I read this month? As ever, it's mostly going to be Dream SMP, but I wander outside the fandom ocassionally, and we've got some QSMP and 3rd Life this month! You can keep an eye on my Ao3 bookmarks if you ever don't want to wait the full month, but here's a shor tlist (I tried to keep it short) of especially fun/intersting/good things.

The Fics - Oneshots

Human condition by InsomniWillow Fandom: QSMP Rating: Teen Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationship: Alexis | Quackity/Wilbur Soot, Wilbur Soot & Tallulah, Wilbur Soot & Phil Watson | Philza Tags: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Fluff, Developing Friendships, Human/Monster Society Length: 1/1 chapters (this might be a multi-chapter though), 3,515 words

New to Qusadilla Island, Ordinary Guy Wilbur Soot brings his tiny daughter to the new school that's opened up. The school that is FULL of terrifying players and their kids. This is just super cute slice of life fluff and it's a fun setup to see Wilbur go "oh god, that's a demon, that's a shark god, is that Philza Minecraft?????" while he's trying to remain chill for his daughter.

where you hide your heart from me by 75hearts Fandom: DSMP Rating: Teen Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationship: Alexis | Quackity/Wilbur Soot Tags: Pogtopia, Suicidal Thoughts, Wingfic, Wilbur Soot Is Not Okay Length: 1/1 chapters, 2,223 words Just gonna grab the summary for this one cause it's perfect.

“I’ll fucking kill you if you pull a single feather,” Quackity says. “Don’t threaten me with a good time,” Wilbur says.

-

or: in Pogtopia, Wilbur preens Quackity's wings.

They're SOOO prickly and the situation is just two people full of broken edges hitting off each other, and you want it to be better, and at the same time this is the only way it could be.

you think they'll make it? by honeyblock Fandom: DSMP Rating: Teen Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationship: Niki Nihachu & Wilbur Soot, Niki Nihachu & Jschlatt, Niki Nihachu & Wilbur Soot & Jschlatt Tags: Alternate Universe - hadestown Fusion, Niki Nihachu-Centric, niki as orpheus and wilbur as eurydice, implied/referenced suicide. Length: 1/1 chapters, 7,968 words

Niki breaks into Hadestown to try and get Wilbur back. And then she meets Jschlatt, and then she goes spare. Oh man this is a beautiful and lyrical setup, and then Schlatt is just so odious and hateable, ad then Niki getting furious enough to take on a god is So Satisfying. Delightful.

Manna from Heaven by ResidentHesitant Fandom: DSMP Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationship: Ranboo/Tubbo Tags: Married Ranboo and Tubbo, Domestic Fluff, Pesach | Passover, post-canon, slice of life, Found Family Length: 1/1 chapters, 3,152 words

Tubbo hosts his first seder. This is just a joyous slice of life with the whole community coming together to celebrate passover. A glimpse into other traditions for me, and full of love for the characters and for judaism. This fic is so happy. It's canon to ME. I love it.

take this life and hold it by the hand by Odaigahara Fandom: DSMP Rating: Teen Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationship: Technoblade & Philza, Wilbur Soot & Technoblade & Philza Tags: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Crow Hybrid Philza, Piglin Hybrid Technoblade, Accidental Baby Acquisition, Happy Ending, Inspired by that video of Kestrel Dad. Length: 1/1 chapters, 2,292 words

Technoblade is just having a perfectly normal day with his family (who are polar bears) when his friend the crow shows up with— Phil, is that a BABY? What are we gonna do with it? And what does it eat? This is just so so funny. Techno and Phil are both so helpless with a tiny baby, they don't now how to feed this little one, at one point a dead mouse is put on the baby's face and everyone looks at him hopefully. It's so funny.

The Fics - Longfics

The Musketeers - SBI AU by Anarchy_and_Piglins Fandom: DSMP Rating: Teen Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationship: Wilbur Soot & Tommyinnit & Technoblade & Philza Tags: Alternate Universe - Historical, 3 Musketeers Fusion, BAMF Everybody, Tommyinnit Angst, Philza Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff and Humour, Emotional Hurt/Comfort Length: 2/4 chapters, 8,086 words

TommyInnit is on a mission of vengance to kill the man who murdered his father, with only his dying words that a man named Philip d'Athos is responsible. Philip, meanwhile, is trying to figure out who's impersonating musketeers. They are on a direct collision course in 17th century France. I'm sure this will go well.

missing or obstructed by skelew Fandom: Hermitcraft, 3rd Life Rating: Teen Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationship: Grian & Rendog, Grian & GoodTimesWithScar, Rendog & Martyn InTheLittleWood Tags: Post 3rd Life, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Watcher Lore, Amnesia Length: 4/? chapters, 13,890 words

Grian is back in Hermitcraft but he can't forget what happened in 3rd life. Unfortunately everyone else has forgotten what happened. Everyone except Rendog, who he remembers very strongly as his enemy. This one started as a character study and you can tell, it's very deliberate and mediative with the characters, and it's just slowly growing through the questions of what they do now, and what they do with these relationships they have to people they care so much about and also those people don't remember it.

See How They Run by Aard_Rinn Fandom: DSMP Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationship: Tubbo & Tommyinnit & Ranboo, Technoblade & Philza Tags: Alternate Universe - Borrowers Fusion, Rescue, Captivity, Dark SBI, Dehumanization, Non-consensual touching (nonsexual), Tubbo-Centric Length: 3/3 chapters, 10,590 words

Benchtrio are Borrowers, and Tubbo gets caught by Emduo! Man, this starts with Tubbo falling into oil and not being able to climb out (he's eventually rescued by Emduo), and it's honestly terrifying. I really felt like I was a tiny creature clinging to a spoon. It continues to play with the fact that Tubbo is just so TINY and defenceless.

wasteland by chrysalizzm Fandom: DSMP Rating: Mature Warnings: Major Character Death Relationship: Dream SMP Ensemble Tags: Alternate Universe - Heroes & Villains, Hurt/Comfort, Disillusionment, Morally Grey Characters, Political Corruption, Systemic Bigotry, Unreliable Narrator, Alternate Universe - Superheroes & Superpowers, Mind Control, Bittersweet/Open Ending, Multiple POV, (and more! It's a series) Length: 11/30 fics, 72,431 words

MASSIVE sprawling superhero epic digging into power issues, morality, villainy, cohersion, sexism and other 'isms, marching towards an inevitable end. It all ends in tragedy, but oh my god the journey there is so rich and beautifully drawn. Each fic in the series is a different spot on the timeline and you see characters from so many different POVs, as events come into greater focus and you realize what the fuck HAPPENED to break people like that. This is very much a fic to read while spamming the sobbing emoji in the chat with a friend, but oh man I have to see how it all comes together and if ANY of my guys make it out. I don't know if any of my guys make it out! :SOB:

sharp temporary walls (the long-term cliff edge of the world) by Odaigahara Fandom: 3rd Life SMP Rating: Teen Warnings: Graphic Depictions of Violence Relationship: Grian & GoodTimesWithScar Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ghosts, Memory Alteration, Corpse Desecration, Animal Death, Friendship, Horror, Angst with a Happy Ending Length: 1/3 chapters, 5,042 words

3rd life is down to two players, but they're both hurt. They decide to wait and heal before a final fight. The world waits around them. Just the tone of this one is so eerie and creepy. The world is just so silent and malevolent, while Desert Duo tries to heal, while also knowing that it all ends in death. I'm not gonna spoil it but what happens when Joel's dogs show up looking for their master is SO GOOD and SO BAD at the same time.

And They Were Ghosthunters | TNT Duo AU by commaclear Fandom: DSMP Rating: Mature Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationship: Alexis | Quackity/Wilbur Soot Tags: Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Fish out of Water, Alternate Universe - Angels and Demons, Happy Ending Length: 21/21 chapters, 46,984 words

Wilbur Soot is a demon who's tired of being bored in Hell and decided to go to Earth, where he gets a job on a Ghost Hunting show run by a guy named Quackity. Surely he has lots of oppurtunity for sin here! Two problems though: Quackity is really cute and might actually be a genuinely good person and Wilbur is falling for him, and Love is toxic to demons. This one is legitimately so very funny and such a fast read. I sat down to read the first two chapters and then i looked up and I'd read 46k.

catbag by supinetothestars Fandom: DSMP Rating: Teen Warnings: Graphic Depictions of Violence Relationship: Wilbur Soot & Technoblade & Philza & Tommyinnit, Tommyinnit & Tubbo Tags: Alternate Universe - Superheroes & Superpowers, Villain SBI, Hero Tommyinnit, Child Abuse, Truth Serum, PTSD, Secret Identity, Found Family, Hurt/Comfort Length: 5/? chapters, 30,665 words

Okay so the summary for this one was:

Suspected of betraying the Hero Guild, Apprentice hero Tommy (A.K.A. Blindspot) is put under Security Protocol Catbag: a locked-on noise cancelling mask equipped with truth gas. His mentor, Dream, calls it a necessary teaching tool.

Meanwhile, SBI wants to know why their least favorite loudmouth little Hero has suddenly stopped talking.

And I read that and I was like "supinetothestars is going to get me back into reading tommy-centric superheros", and it's happened. It's so good, the characters are so thoughtful (and feel way more like canon characterizations vs fanon), and they run up against each other in really interesting ways. Wilbur is a paranoid bastard in a way that feels realistic and canon! The superpowers are interesting and interestingly played out (tommy's power is he can make himself unnoticeable!) and the relationships are adhering to tropes enough that they're like, oooooo, what happens next, I have a delightful suspicion, but they are pulled off well enough that they still feel fresh. It's really good.

Double Down by Onelituli Fandom: DSMP Rating: Mature Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death Relationship: Dream & Tommyinnit & Tubbo, Ranboo & Tommyinnit & Tubbo, Dream & Sapnap & George, Tags: Alternate Universe - Imawa no Kuni no Alice | Alice in Borderland Setting, Rated for Language and Dark Themes, Mystery, Flashbacks, Slow Build, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Heavy Angst, Grief/Mourning, No Villains just Antagonists, Bittersweet Ending Length: 11/13 chapters, 67,663 words

Oh man how even to explain this one. The Dream SMP ensemble is imprisoned in this post-apocolyptic setting where they have to compete in challenges to win cards. The higher the suit of the card, the harder the challenge. And people will die, they are dying, the challenges are killing them. They don't know why they're here or who is making them do this, but all they can do is try and make it together despite a structure that keeps trying to turn them against each other and destroy them. This is structured with lots of flashbacks and mysteries, and the mystery of what HAPPENED to these people is ever-present. And how on earth they possibly make it out of this challenge with even one person alive. This one is such a mystery, I don't know what's HAPPENING but I want to KNOW. And that's it for this month! I'll see you next time!

[not-sewell]

@ava-du-mortain, my beloved, tagged me to post 10 songs i've been into. so here goes:

songs i've been vibing to this month, in no particular order

1. All Things End by Hozier

the heavenly chorus. that's it. that's all.

2. Sunflower by Tamino, Angèle

this song, the music video everything makes me feel downright unwell.

3. Left Right by Abdullah Siddiqui, Ali Sethi, Maanu & Shae Gill

i'm just such a hoe for Ali Sethi and Shae Gill's pair and i'm eternally grateful to @zeesqueere, my dear friend, for sending me this.

4. Hum Aapki Aankhon Mein by S. D. Burman (performed by Geeta Dutt & Mohammad Rafi)

it's a very Mona x Nate song and i'm stuck with a Mona x Nate fic idk what else is left to say

5. Adiye by A. R. Rahman (performed by Sid Sriram)

well. i have one A. R. Rahman song zooming through my brain at any given time.

6. Khabar-e-Tahayyur-e-Ishq by Ali Sethi

Ali Sethi + Ghazal (specifically, ones with the themes of mysticism) has my body, mind and soul, friends.

7. Ay Hairathe by A. R. Rahman (performed by Hariharan, Alka Yagnik, Mohammed Aslam & A. R. Rahman)

OKAY SO I LIED. i always have multiple A. R. Rahman songs zooming through my brain at any given time.

8. Unnai Kaanadhu Naan (Live) by Berklee Indian Ensemble

this version of the Vishwaroopam song fucks severely. that's all.

9. What Colour Is Your Raindrop by Tajdar Junaid

this has exactly my kind of sentimentality to it, so... 🤷

10. Hoyto Tomari Janya by Sudhin Dasgupta (performed by Manna Dey)

again, this is has got a very Mona x Nate vibe, and i'm stuck with a Mona x Nate fic. :))

tagging (and pls ignore if you've done this already skfjks): @zeesqueere, @brightpinkpeppercorn, @bengalifairy, @serenpedac, @amlovelies, @ottobooty

[iammistressofmyfate]

I started writing a Chef!Ronan AU because I'm obsessed with Chef's Table and started watching The Lost Kitchen and now I have to write something about it because that's how that works

Now, at twenty-nine, Ronan is in his second season of cooking out of his home. Most, if not all, of his ingredients are found right on the property. From the beef to the herbs, The Barns is literally farm to table.  

Ronan is always full of kinetic energy, constantly moving in some way, shape, or form. He looks nothing like a chef, from his buzzed hair, to his muscles, to his tattoos, but everything he plates is like manna from heaven. 

I'm trying something totally new with this fic, so we'll see how that goes (but still the usual sweet, ooey-gooey kind of fic that I love to write)

[mannatea]

going back through old fire emblem fics and mY GOD i really just wrote any stupid thought that came to mind didn't i 😭 my folders are just a giant manna cringe compilation

highlights:

there are 3 or 4 novelization attempts (that i've found so far)

the ouiaboo fic titles make me want to die

WHY DID SOMEONE PROMPT ME "LACTOSE INTOLERANT" FOR THE LETTER L and more importantly WHY DID I WRITE IT

the original lyn-gets-poisoned fic was titled "shades of grey" and while this was WAY before that book came out i still want to die and be dead.

let's not talk about the original lyn-marries-erik fic title. i'm cringing down to my tOES

i was forced to remember i started a fic from the perspective of the animals in the army god

the multiple aus and/or chaptered fics that i never finished...i'm haunted.

also the stuff that was never posted at all lol. you're welcome. i saved you.

who the fuck prompted "rainbow unicorn attack" "fe7" and also why did i write 5 pages of it and then leave it to rot? i want to die for titling this "always" hahahahahhahahaha

most of this stuff i didn't even want to remember. or like, i'm ashamed to remember. there was one story where i saw the title and instantly thought, "oh yeah that was the ghost!kent/just like heaven-inspired story wasn't it."

the utter chaos of the fe100 challenge 😔

the song fic titles 😔

the fact that some of the stories i have literally ZERO MEMORY OF EVER HAVING WRITTEN. like what do you MEAN i wrote some modern day AU where Kent was trying to propose to Lyn??? a prologue and most of a first chapter??? (i don't think i ever posted this.)

the fact that most of my fic collections were posted as multichaptered fics makes me writhe with rage. like the alphabet meme/fe100 is fine in concept but my GOD until i actually pull up and read each story i have NO CLUE who any of the stories are even about! don't make me read the cringe to find out!!!

this comment in a review someone left for a godawful story i wrote: "Ah, another KentLyn huh? Well, I guess that is to be expected of you." i know i 100% deserved this😂

all these fics for all FEs are also all mixed in together with zero separation because for years fire emblem was just fire emblem!!! remember, on ffnet it was just all lumped in together! i should actually make more folders and sort it better...even though i'd argue my fanfic is pretty well sorted compared to most people

there are hundreds of fics and frankly it's overwhelming. i wonder if even half of these are ever worth looking at again.