#writing this took way longer than expected

[anneapocalypse]

Respectfully, I think there's a false equivalency in the point about physical depiction and the timescales involved. Yes, one or two lines could tell you there is a battlefield full of soldiers, but probably not with the level of detail that many hours of drawing or painting could render. And if two lines do convey a comparable level of detail--action, setting, mood, color, symbolism, etc--then those lines probably took longer to write than you might think at first glance. With the understanding that visual and language arts are fundamentally different art forms, to verbally describe a battlefield full of soldiers in a way that lands with similar weight upon its audience as, say, a painting of the same, might represent many hours of writing and rewriting, revising and editing. Even, and especially, if it's a deceptively short and poetic description. It does feel a bit dismissive of writing as a craft to say otherwise.

And not to get too real, but while the censoring of visual works is probably what's most immediately apparent on social media platforms, in the big picture written works are just as much under fire, now and historically.

I think in the broad strokes, acknowledging a limited and potentially biased sample set, the polls results play out about as I'd expect. Writers overall consider drawing to be harder; artists overall consider writing to be harder; and among those who do both, it's about an even split. The majority of comments in the notes, from what I've read, seem to reflect this, and while there's always someone coming out of the woodwork to say "anyone can write," those responses seem refreshingly few and far between here. Most responders seem quite self-aware about the reasons behind their personal selections, sharing a lot of interesting perspectives.

Take two cuz im forgetful - Genuine question

please rb im so curious

[cercess]

hi! I'd like to req anaxa and ratio with reader who is so scarily quiet, unless they're actively watching them, the characters will NOT hear them. Lmao can you imagine the scares we'd produce if we snuck up behind them

Hi anon! Sorry this took so long. I haven’t been able to write much recently due to personal reasons, but I’m back at it now :)

If I had a nickel for every star rail character that was a mean professor, I’d have two nickels, which isn’t a lot, but it’s weird that it happened twice. I love these two and had a blast writing it! Ratio’s gets a little suggestive because I’m a degenerate, I hope that’s okay!

✧ Tags: fluff, Anaxa and Ratio being grumpy (but also split), slightly suggestive content in ratios ✧ Rating: Mature ✧ Word Count: 730

ANAXA

As always, Anaxa is experimenting in his private laboratory. He’ll never admit it (primarily to preserve his academic integrity) but he finds it relaxes him after teaching. The saying that “there are no bad questions,” isn’t true; he would know after enduring thousands of bad questions. Clarifiers are one thing, but the endless drone of mundane queries have driven him to the brink.

Experimentation is simple, because ingredients and equations do not ask stupid questions. He allows himself to get lost in rhythm of the scientific process, drowning out the stressors of his day with a symphony of data.

“Anaxagoras,” your voice snaps him out of his state of focus with a jolt.

He does his best to appear unaffected by your sudden appearance, resorting to professionalism to maintain his facade. “May I help you?”

“Were you scared?” You asked, a sly grin creeping its way onto your lips.

“I was absorbed in my experiments, and did not expect you to arrive unannounced.”

“You jumped a little.”

Anaxa sighs and turns away from you. “I’m very busy.”

Even with his back turned, you can picture his pout. He always insists he would never do something so childish, but you’ve come to recognize the telltale sign of him hiding from you.

“I’m sorry I startled you,” he stiffens when you wrap your arms around his waist and rest your cheek against his back. What your beloved professor lacks in muscle, he makes up for with layers of robes.

“I’ve never come to a conclusion on how you manage to move around so quietly.” Of course he’s contemplating the unknown. You suppose it’s part of his charm.

“Perhaps Zagreus has blessed me, and I’d be better off as a thief than a scholar.”

Your mention of the Titan coaxes a scoff from the one-eyed man, but you know there’s so real annoyance behind it. If he were irritated, you would no longer be resting your chin on his shoulder, peering over at the mess of ingredients that lays before him.

“A caravan of dromas just arrived. I was wondering if you’d like to visit them with me.”

Anaxa perks up at the mention of his favourite animal. Triumph overcomes you as he begins tidying up the table. “Allow me to lead the way. We do not need you spooking the poor animals with your sudden appearance.”

DR. RATIO

The bath has always been a place of serenity for Veritas. It is one of the few places he feels he can allow his brain to rest after endlessly exercising in the pursuit of knowledge. He’s reading the latest craze amongst mathematicians: a book on computing Pi in the anti-organic equation. Truly thrilling stuff.

He recites the number to the two-hundred and thirty seventh decimal, only to be interrupted by someone placing their hand on his shoulder.

Veritas scrambles to see the intruder, his frantic movements causing him to slip on the porcelain and dunk his head below the water. When he surfaces, he finds you watching him with amusement.

You lean down, and straighten his headpiece. Why he wears that thing in the bath, you’ll never know. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You should have knocked. I’m indecent.”

“Is that supposed to deter me from entering?” You grin as you sit on the edge of the bath. When you dunk your hand in, the water is a comforting warmth, perfect for relaxation.

As you create small waves, an unfamiliar object brushes against your fingers. You pull out a drenched book, its pages utterly unreadable.

“I dropped it when you appeared.” The sigh that escapes Veritas makes guilt bubble in your chest. You really hadn’t meant to scare him, but sometimes you forgot about your propensity for stealth.

“I’ll make it up to you,” you grin wolfishly, shrugging off your jacket.

“By buying me a new book? It wasn’t easy to obtain you know, I had to-“

His complaining is cut off by your lips meeting his. He’s quick to disregard the soggy book once again in favour of pulling you closer. You consider the debt forgotten when his neediness nearly pulls you into the water. “Someone’s eager,” you smile against his lips.

“Seeing as my reading ended prematurely, I might as well find stimulation elsewhere.”

“And how do I compare to that book of yours.”

“You know better than to ask stupid questions.”

[widowsweet]

could you write something about the winter soldier having a crazy intense and possessive obsession with a Ex-Widow!Reader?? No pressure if u don’t feel comfy tho ❤️❤️

My little Widow

Obsessive!Winter Soldier x Ex-Widow!Reader

Summary: She ran. Changed her name, her life, her country. But no one escapes the Winter Soldier.

WC: 2,3k

Warnings: Obsession, psychological tension, suggestive language, Red Room trauma, stalking, unhealthy dynamics. (16+!)

A/N: Hope you like it!! Thank you for the request! Please forgive any writing mistakes — I admit I’m not that good at writing this kind of stuff LOL. Enjoy the read!

Read while listening to Angel by Massive Attack

He had found her.

It took years—maybe longer than it should have. But he found her.

A house in the middle of nowhere, tucked between low hills and overgrown grass, with a weathered wooden fence and the muffled sounds of chickens in the distance. It looked like a dead place. But he knew. She was here.

He knew.

The Soldier watched from a distance. He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe deeply. The body trained to kill remained still beneath the cover of trees, while his eyes tracked her every step across the yard.

She had changed. Older. Hair longer. The lines of her face softer. But the way she moved—quiet, alert, like someone who still expected an attack even while carrying a bucket of water—that, he recognized. That was hers. That was his.

Because he had shaped it.

He remembered.

Not everything. Not with clarity. But he remembered.

The little girl, dark eyes locked on his. The sound of a piano behind the ballet room door. The heavy silence that filled the air whenever she stepped into the training space.

He had trained her. Pulled her arm roughly. Bound her wrists. Threw her to the ground. And in every movement, there had been a strange control—almost involuntary. He hit her, yes, but never like he hit the others. Never enough to break her.

She was different.

She was only his.

Even back then, he knew. Not in words. But in instinct.

She was the only one who never looked away.

The only one who struck back with precision.

The only one who made the blood boil beneath the metal.

And then she ran.

Since then, he had been looking for her. Not under orders. Not on assignment. But because something inside him needed to see her again. To understand if she was still real—or just a memory implanted in his mind, a shadow he could never quite erase.

The night was dense, made of silence and shadows.

No headlights. No voices.

Only the dull chorus of crickets in the dark and the soft rustling of tall grass stirred by the cold wind.

He stood motionless among the trees, boots sunk in wet earth, body fully camouflaged by the night. It took no effort. He was born in silence—shaped to vanish even when present.

His eyes never left her.

She had stepped out of the house minutes ago, wearing a fitted white corset top and a long, flowing skirt that brushed against her boots with every step. The fabric moved with the breeze, soft but heavy. She carried a metal bucket in both hands, the weight of it clinking faintly with each step.

She was probably going to wash the chickens’ feeder—some nighttime routine she kept without realizing she was being watched.

But he saw.

He saw more than that.

He saw the glint.

Clipped to her belt, caught in the dim porch light, there was a familiar flash—silver, sharp, cold. A weapon.

Not hidden. Not ornamental. A part of her.

Always alert.

Always sharp.

She moved with that same contained gait, the weight of the past echoing in her legs, her shoulders, in the way her eyes scanned the corners before she turned them.

Something tightened in his chest.

Not pain.

Something older.

Recognition.

She hadn’t forgotten how to survive.

She hadn’t become some sweet civilian who left her front door unlocked.

She was still the one he remembered. The one who didn’t flinch.

The only one who passed through him… and came out alive.

The wind picked up, and she stopped—lifting her head for just a moment, as if she felt something shift.

He didn’t move.

But for a second, her gaze went straight into the darkness where he stood.

The wind picked up, and for some reason, you stopped.

Lifted your head, like the air itself had changed in density. You stood there, in the middle of the yard, still holding the bucket in your hands, feeling the leather belt at your waist grow heavier than usual. Your eyes narrowed as they locked onto a specific point in the darkness — the kind of shadow that looked too thick, too still. Like something was there. Someone.

But there was no sound.

Just the hum of crickets. The rustling of the grass. And the sound of your own heartbeat pounding harder than it should.

You didn’t think much. You just turned around and headed back toward the house, climbing the wooden steps without making a sound — like stepping through a minefield. The door creaked as you closed it, and for a second, you just stood there, staring at it.

Then you started locking it.

First the main lock. Then the second latch. The horizontal bolt. The lower deadbolt. The one at the top. One by one. It wasn’t paranoia. It was instinct.

The living memory of a place where danger never knocked — it simply walked in.

You turned, crossing the room with silent, precise steps. Your eyes swept across the space like they already knew something was wrong, even if everything looked exactly the same.

The bookshelf in the corner was just as you left it: packed with all the books you read when things got too heavy. When the memories came in waves and you needed words that weren’t the ones shouted at you back in the Red Room.

But behind the shelf… was a different story.

You shoved it aside with your hip, quick, like someone who’d done this a hundred times. The frame slid a few inches to the left, revealing a low opening hidden in the wall. That was where she kept everything. Everything tied to who you really was — or who you never stopped being.

Inside, there was a small, concrete storage room. Cold. Bare. Lined with metal crates and weapons hanging from hooks on the wall.

You scanned them like old friends.

Grabbed the biggest one. The one you’d never used, but always kept clean. The one that made it clear you weren’t here to play house.

Before that, you reached for your waist and pulled out the gun you always carried — the one glinting under the porch light just minutes ago — and placed it down on the small metal counter inside the armory. You needed both hands for what was coming.

You were ready.

Back in the living room, the silence felt different.

More… alive.

The air had weight now. Thickness. And even with every door bolted shut, you could feel it. Feel him the same way she used to back then — long before he’d even enter the training room.

He was here.

Maybe not inside the house.

But close enough for you to know…

You weren’t alone.

The air felt different — heavier, almost electric.

And then, it happened.

A sound.

Sharp. Small. But cutting.

Like the scrape of something across wood.

Maybe a light vase. Maybe a lock deliberately nudged.

Just enough to set her on edge.

Just enough to confirm it.

You knew it was him.

Because he never made noise.

He was a shadow. A blur. A silent ghost.

If something moved, it was because he wanted you to hear it.

Because he knew that you knew.

Your hands tightened around the grip of the gun. Finger already firm on the trigger.

Your eyes — trained and cold — scanned the room like it was hostile territory.

You pointed toward every corner. The narrow hallway. The kitchen door. The living room window. The mirror. Under the stairs.

Cold. Fast. Almost automatic.

You were built for this. Trained to shoot before thinking.

But with him…

With him, it would never be enough.

He could come from the right. From the left. From above. From inside the damn walls.

You would never truly know.

Not with him.

You started stepping backward. Slow, deliberate steps. Gun raised. Focus locked.

Your heart was pounding so loud you swore you could hear it echoing against the walls.

Every breath was measured.

Every muscle in your body coiled tight.

It felt like you was back in the Red Room.

Like that forgotten, buried piece of your past had crossed oceans just to look you in the eyes again.

One more step.

Then another.

And then—

THUD.

Your back hit something.

Hard. Solid. Cold.

Your entire body froze before you could even turn around.

You didn’t need to look to know.

You knew that silence.

That presence.

You knew him.

And the moment that truth settled in your bones, you snapped back into herself.

You turned fast — breath sharp, ragged — eyes blazing and finger ready on the trigger. The gun came up in one swift, practiced motion, aimed directly at his chest.

But he was faster.

Before you could even steady your aim, his vibranium arm shot up, catching the barrel of the weapon with an iron grip.

The metal groaned softly under his fingers, and you stood there — frozen, face-to-face — like two ghosts recognizing each other across a battlefield.

Your chest rose and fell rapidly. You weren’t breathing. You were surviving.

Heart racing, blood roaring in your ears, hands trembling just enough for you to feel it — not out of fear, but disbelief.

He was real.

He was here.

And he hadn’t changed.

His eyes met yours with that same predatory stillness. That same quiet hunger. Cold… but not dead.

Not anymore.

There was something obsessive burning behind his gaze — feral and locked onto you like a target he never forgot.

A target he never let go of.

You couldn’t speak.

Couldn’t move.

And for a split second, neither did he.

Only the tension between you moved — stretching, pulling, suffocating the air between your bodies. You stayed completely still, eyes locked on his, breathing fast and shallow, but never looking away. You were frozen, but not weak.

His hand was still wrapped around your gun, like the metal was a part of him. And then, without a word, he ripped it from your grip with ease and threw it across the room. The sharp sound of it hitting the wall echoed through the house like a warning. You didn’t flinch, but your muscles coiled. Your body tensed as he began walking toward you with firm, heavy steps that made the floor creak beneath him.

He approached like a storm that had taken too long to break, and you stepped back, one measured movement at a time, never faltering. Your eyes never left his. Not once. Not even when he got close enough for you to feel the heat radiating off his body.

That’s what he always loved about you. You never looked away. Never lowered your head. Never backed down like the others. You never gave him the fear he was trained to crave.

“You have no idea,” he murmured, his voice rough and worn, like words didn’t come easy to him anymore. His eyes scanned your face with restrained hunger, like he had been waiting for this exact moment. “How long I’ve been looking for you.”

One more step from him. One more retreat from you.

“I searched every fucking corner of this world,” he continued, something bitter caught in his throat — like even your silence had betrayed him. “And nothing. No trace. No shadow. Just emptiness.”

He breathed in like the air between you was yours — like he needed it to keep himself going.

“I missed this. Your presence… the sound of your steps… the way you smell.”

And that — that was enough to make your whole body lock up.

Not out of fear. But because of the weight in his voice. The familiarity that hit deeper than you wanted it to.

You said nothing. Didn’t blink. Didn’t give in.

Until your back hit the cold wall of the room, and you realized there was nowhere left to go.

He had finally reached you. He was close enough for you to feel his breath brush against your skin.

Close enough for you to know — with every nerve in your body — that he was no longer a ghost.

He was here. Physical. Present. Obsessed. And he had never, not for a second, stopped wanting you.

He stared at you for a moment, drinking you in like a man starved—like the very sight of you was the first real thing he’d seen in years. Then, without warning, his metal arm snapped up and clamped around your jaw, fingers tightening just enough to tilt your head to the side. Not enough to break. But enough to bruise. Enough to remind you who he was. Who you were.

Your hands shot up instantly, gripping his wrist with both of yours, trying to hold him back. Not resisting fully. Not surrendering either. Just bracing. Reacting. The instinct was still in you, buried under the years but far from gone. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t loosen his grip.

He leaned in, his face inching closer until his nose was buried in your hair. You could feel the cold press of metal burning against your skin, and the contrast of his breath—warm and steady—ghosting along your scalp. He inhaled. Deep. Slow. And then let out a quiet sound from his throat. Low. Guttural. Like it settled something in him. Like it fed something feral.

Then he lowered his head until his lips were just by your ear, not quite touching. Just there. The heat of his mouth enough to send a shiver down your spine.

“You’re my little widow…” he whispered, voice low and rough like gravel dragging through smoke. “You’re not running from me again.” His words sank into your skin, heavy and final.

“You’re gonna be my good girl… just like you used to be.”

[kwnnies]

late night talks - 이지훈

(0.9k words)

warnings: none really, mentions of reader's coworkers being mean

a/n: something a bit shorter while i'm on a trip and can't write anything longer but yeah i think i actually like this one :33 let me know what you think!!

jihoon didn’t expect to see you today.

especially not at 1am, standing at his doorstep with mascara smudged on your cheeks, quiet sobs breaking the silence of his solo apartment as you stood right in front of him, eyes glued to the floor.

‘what are you- did something happen?’ jihoon muttered, voice a bit uncertain as he took a step back inside, an awkward gesture for you to come inside.

you didn’t answer at first - taking your shoes off at the entrance and walking inside like it’s your own place, plopping on the couch with a small thump as a worried jihoon walked right behind you, brows furrowed and face puzzled, still awaiting an explanation to your sudden appearance.

but he didn’t push; he just sat beside you and let you take your time.

‘i had dinner with my coworkers today.’ you sniffled after you’ve managed to slightly calm yourself down, a tiger-shaped pillow (courtesy of soonyoung, you’re still surprised jihoon kept it) keeping you company and giving you comfort. ‘i thought it was going well- i thought they all liked me.’

jihoon listened attentively, worried eyes scanning your face.

‘i excused myself to the bathroom for a second.’ you continued recalling the evening, voice shaky as your grip on the pillow tightened just the slightest bit. ‘they started talking the moment i left the table. they’ve been openly making fun of me for months on end, they even have a stupid groupchat for it. i- i feel so stupid for not noticing.’

you felt yourself tear up once more but were too tired to try and stop the tears from escaping your eyes.

‘wait.’

you looked up to see jihoon leave the room for a minute or two, coming back carrying a few different things in his hands. he put some of them down on the coffee table, leaving only a pack of wipes in his hands.

jihoon crouched down in front of you, reaching out towards your face.

‘may i?’

you blinked a few times then nodded slowly. jihoon’s hand went up to tuck your hair behind your ear before cupping your face with one hand ever so slightly, the other gently wiping the smudged makeup off of your face.

the next five minutes went by in complete silence as you closed your eyes, letting your friend help you out. you’ve managed to calm down - aligning your breathing with jihoon’s as you listened to him inhale and exhale calmly, almost as if this situation was completely normal for him.

‘they don't deserve you, you know.’ he mumbled as he put the used wipes away, making his way back onto the couch as he sat down. ‘it’s difficult to hear those untrue things about yourself, but it’s better to be aware of someone’s true feelings towards you than live in a lie. there’s multiple people out there who cherish you deeply.’

‘really?’ you mumbled, head turning towards the man. jihoon smiled softly.

‘of course.’ he said, and you noticed the tips of his ears getting slightly red. ‘your friends, soonyoung… me. we all care about you a lot. you don’t need everyone in this world to like you. the important thing is that you like yourself.’

jihoon let out a breath of relief once he saw the small smile appearing on your lips.

‘you’re surprisingly good with words.’ your quiet voice filled the room. ‘maybe i should go to you with stuff like that more often.’

anytime, he thought.

you can come to me anytime, no matter the reason.

‘i try.’ jihoon chuckled awkwardly at your statement. ‘do you think late night takeout would boost your mood?’

‘are any places even open this late?’

‘i know a few.’

your smile widened upon hearing those words.

‘will you let me pick a movie to watch while we eat?’

‘sure.’

‘of course you will.’ you said, taking the blanket jihoon brought to the room earlier and wrapping it around yourself. ‘you’ve always been amazing like that.’

jihoon just smiled, his focus on the phone in his hand as he ordered the food for the two of you.

not even an hour later and you were sound asleep on his couch, wrapped in a blanket and with that stupid tiger pillow still in your hands.

oh, and with your head resting on jihoon’s thigh - which definitely did not affect him at all.

his cheeks definitely weren’t burning red.

he didn’t dare move - not when you looked so peaceful when asleep. you deserved to rest well after all the negative emotions and he knew that, so he didn’t even try to wake you up or carry you elsewhere.

empty boxes of takeout laid on the small table as the movie played in the background quietly; it was one of those scenes that were crucial to the plot and understanding the movie’s premise. and yet in all of this, jihoon’s eyes were only on you.

jihoon smiled.

he paused the movie, not wanting to risk the tv waking you up. he exhaled deeply, lips curved up in a soft smile - one soonyoung would���ve definitely called the ‘you’re so whipped’ smile.

‘goodnight.’ his words were barely a whisper. ‘i love you.’

and maybe if jihoon had been brave enough, if he hadn’t been a coward, he would’ve said it to you earlier - before you fell asleep, before you couldn’t hear his words anymore. he wasn’t there yet.

maybe one day, jihoon will confess. but for now, he’ll have to settle for this.

[thatonegrimm]

HIHIII can I request a Saja boys with a S/O who is also an idol, but they makes angsty songs? Like in an almost concerning way, and it's to connect with their fans in a way (if this request doesn't cross boundaries) thank you!

Thank you for the request!❤️

This one can be read as a part 2 to (this) —especially with the angsty idol angle. Here you go! 💌

🌙Saja Boys x Angst Musician!Reader

------------------------

🧿 Jinu

He hears the song alone. That’s the worst part. He wasn’t prepared.

It starts as background noise in the dorm kitchen—your voice through a Bluetooth speaker, soft and raw over the crackling sound of eggs frying. Then the chorus hits.

“They say I’m golden / But I’ve rusted inside / Smile on the surface / Nothing left to hide.”

Jinu stops mid-motion. The spatula tilts sideways in his hand, eggs hissing and forgotten.

By the time the second verse rolls around—“If I vanished, would they cheer or cry?”—he’s standing in front of the speaker like it said your name.

When you walk in twenty minutes later, he doesn’t say hi. Just… looks at you. Slow. Steady.

“Is this how you… really felt?”

You shrug. “Yeah. Back then. Not now.”

“But it’s still yours.”

His voice is low. Tight.

You nod. “It’s mine. But I gave it to them. To the ones who don’t know how to say it yet.”

Jinu doesn’t say anything else that night. But he brings your tea exactly how you like it and lingers longer than usual.

Later, when you think he’s asleep, you pass by the living room.

He’s sitting on the couch, alone in the dark, your voice playing on repeat. He’s holding the lyric sheet in his lap like a prayer.

------------------------

💪 Abby

You show him the track early. Not because you’re looking for feedback—but because you trust him.

He listens with his eyes closed, arms crossed, jaw flexing as the bridge climbs.

“Don’t ask if I’m okay / I’ll just say I’m fine / Learned to cry behind stage lights / Learned to lie in time.”

When it ends, there’s a long silence. Abby doesn’t open his eyes.

Then—

“That was honest. Like… really honest.”

You chuckle, a little hollow. “Yeah. That’s the point.”

“I know. But... I don’t like that you had to write it.”

He finally opens his eyes and looks at you. Not upset. Just present. Grounded.

“It’s okay if it’s heavy. But you don’t have to carry it by yourself, y’know?”

You blink. He doesn’t mean the song. He means the feeling.

Abby’s not dramatic about it. He doesn’t demand that you stop writing this way. He knows it helps people.

But the next time your group does a comeback, he’s in the crowd. Masked, hood up, but there. Arms folded, eyes red.

He sings the chorus under his breath like a spell to keep you safe.

------------------------

📚 Mystery

You don’t think he listens to your music. He’s never mentioned it.

Then one night, you're up late writing in the dorm’s shared study room. You step away for tea. When you return, the paper’s been moved.

Your lyrics—half finished, scratched out, rewritten—are now neatly recopied in dark, careful strokes. In a second language. One you recognize only from the oldest tomes Jinu hides.

Underneath, written in Mystery’s scratchy Korean:

“I felt like this once. It almost took me with it.”

You freeze. He’s not even in the room.

Until you turn your head—and he’s there. Sitting in the shadows near the wall, cross-legged, watching. Quiet as always.

“I didn’t want to read your words,” he says softly. “But they were calling.”

You don’t know what to say.

He doesn't expect anything. He just nods once—like a cat acknowledging a door you’ve opened—and melts into the dark again.

When the song comes out, you don’t have to explain anything to him. He already knows. And he listens to it. Alone. Headphones in. Eyes closed. Like it’s sacred.

------------------------

💋 Romance

You finish the recording late. It's one of those ballads that left your voice raw and your soul a little thinner than usual.

When you step out of the booth, Romance is already standing there.

You blink. “How’d you even get in here?”

“Mystery’s shadows. Don’t worry about it.”

He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. He holds out his phone.

“That last chorus… I need you to explain something.”

You pause. “Okay?”

“There’s a lyric. ‘Kiss me like I’m leaving. Love me like I’ll break.’ That’s not metaphor, is it?”

You look at the floor. “Not when I wrote it.”

Romance nods. There’s no teasing in him now. No dramatics. Just the quiet ache of someone who feels too much on purpose.

Later that week, he sends you a file.

“Just a guide track. In case you want something softer for the next comeback.”

You open it.

It’s… beautiful. Strings and synths and this warm, slow heartbeat underneath it all.

He titled it “Hope (For You).”

You don't say anything. You just text him: thank you And he replies: for being brave.

------------------------

🔥 Baby

He hears the song at the live broadcast. Front row, backstage pass, arms crossed, sunglasses on even though you're indoors.

The moment the lyrics shift—when you sing “I left pieces of myself backstage / And no one ever noticed I was missing”—his jaw tightens.

After the performance, he finds you before anyone else can.

You expect teasing. Or some snark about the emo vibes.

Instead, he looks at you dead-on and asks:

“You still feel like that?”

You shake your head. “Not really. But someone out there does. And I want them to know they’re not alone.”

He nods once. Short. Sharp.

“Then it’s a good song.”

That’s it. No flowery praise. Just Baby, who never wastes words unless they matter.

Later, you find a playlist he made. Just titled ‘Keep.’

Your song is the first track. The rest? All things that sound like comfort. Songs with sunlight in them. Songs that don’t hurt.

“For later,” he says when you ask.

He won’t admit it, but he made it in case you ever go back to that place.

And he’d do anything to keep you from staying there.

------------------------

M-List

[sergeantbarnessdoll]

Hi! I so much love your writing! Always checking your account.

I hope you are doing well.

I would like to request something, just if you want and have any time and if you are comfortable with it.

I was thinking about angst, heavy angst.

Tw

Bucky and the reader are married or in an established relationship.

They have a kid, a few months, maybe two or three and the reader has clearly postpartum depression, she snaps at Bucky, she cries, she can't take care of the baby properly, she doesn't remember to eat, clean, wash herself. She can't handle the baby.

Bucky works and the reader is on a leave, but it's Bucky who almost does all the work with the baby, he tries at least.

Until one night the both of you fight, something about the reader not getting help, the reader snaps bad, she throws a glass or does something dangerous for Bucky but she almost hits the baby.

And then I leave you to it!

Just if you are comfortable.

You pick if it ends in angst or not!

Thank you sooo much

🔮

I Don’t Recognize You Anymore » Bucky Barnes/Winter Soldier

Pairings: Husband/Dad!Bucky Barnes x Wife/Mom!Reader

Summary: Postpartum depression hits you hard and on top of that, you and Bucky get into a fight.

Warnings: Angst, Fluff ending, language, postpartum depression, crying, kissing, pet names

A/N: Thank you for the request, nonnie🩵

Written on my phone. My apologies for any mistakes.

Header made by @buck-star / divider made by me

GIF IS NOT MINE! Gif credit goes to the creator.

You’ve heard all about postpartum depression. You know it’s affects women at different times. Sometimes it doesn’t last long. Sometimes it lasts longer than anyone expected. You got postpartum depression on and off shortly after you and Bucky brought yours and his daughter Jamie home from the hospital. Jamie 3 months old now. You assumed it wasn’t going to last long so you didn’t think much of it. This time it stayed longer than you expected. It hit you harder than you expected.

You’ve barely eaten, taken a shower, and cleaned the house since this wave of postpartum depression hit you. You barely have enough energy to take care of your own baby. You’re trying. You really are. Bucky is at work and you’re on maternity leave, taking care of Jamie. Recently, your postpartum depression has gotten worse. Bucky has noticed it too. You feel like you’re about to loose your mind, but you’re trying to not let that happen.

“Jamie, mommy doesn’t know what you want.” You say as you tried to soothe your crying daughter.

You fed and changed Jamie a little bit ago. Even with low energy, you’re trying your best to calm your baby girl down. Nothing is working. You’re out of options. You feel like you’re on the verge of a meltdown. Tears filled your eyes as you tried to think of a way to soothe Jamie.

Bucky just got home from work. He heard Jamie crying in the living room. He went to the living room immediately, seeing you lazily trying to soothe Jamie while your head was leaning against your hand.

“Can’t you hear her crying?” Bucky asks as he takes Jamie from your arms.

“Yes I do. I’m not deaf, Bucky.” You say.

“Then why are you doing anything?” He asks.

“I was until you took her from me.” You say.

“No you weren’t. You were just sitting there and not doing anything.” He says.

You rolled your eyes and got up to get something to drink while Bucky tried to get Jamie to calm down.

“What’s wrong, princess? Why are you crying?” Bucky coos.

You walked back in the living room with a glass of water. Bucky got Jamie to calm down in a couple minutes and then she fell asleep. He put her in the bassinet that you and Bucky keep in the living room during the day.

“What the hell, Y/N? I worked all day and I come home to you not doing a single thing to take care of our daughter.” Bucky says, clearly pissed off.

“I was taking care of our daughter. I fed her and changed her. I thought of everything I could to get her to calm down.” You say.

“No you didn’t. You just sat there being lazy while Jamie cried.” He says.

That’s when Bucky took a look around to see the messy state the living room is in at the moment. Not just the living room. The whole house is messy. Actually, it’s been a mess for almost a week. You were going to get to it while Bucky was at work, but you had your hands full with Jamie and your postpartum depression that you forgot about it. Even when Bucky is working, he tries to do what he can at home.

“Did you even try to clean the house while I was at work?” Bucky asks.

“I was going to, but I forgot.” You say.

“Of course you did.” He scoffs. “This is something else I have to deal with.” He says under his breath.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean, James?” You asked, clearly offended.

“You barely done anything all month. You don’t clean the house, let alone clean up yourself. You were barely taking care of Jamie when I walked in here.” He says.

“I have a lot going on, Bucky.” You say.

“You’ve been saying that so much lately that it doesn’t mean anything anymore.” He says.

“It’s true!” You say, raising your voice a bit.

Bucky rubs his hands over his face and then ran his fingers through his long hair.

“If you don’t get your act together, I’ll take Jamie and leave.” Bucky says.

“You wouldn’t do that.” You say.

“I will if I have to.” He says.

That set you off. Without thinking, you grabbed the glass cup you drank water out of and threw it towards Bucky. He dodged it and it hit the wall, dangerously close to Jamie. The glass shattered and went everywhere. Broken glass didn’t get in the bassinet. The sound of the glass hitting the wall woke up Jamie and she started crying. Bucky immediately picked up Jamie and checked her for any cuts. She didn’t have any.

“I don’t even recognize you anymore.” Bucky says.

Bucky took Jamie to her nursery while you stood in the middle of the living room, gasping to yourself when you realized what you just did.

“What the hell did I just do?” You asked yourself.

You ran to yours and Bucky’s bedroom and closed the door. You sat down on the bed with your legs crossed and put your head in your hands.

“I almost hurt my baby.” You say to yourself.

You felt your chest getting tight and tears began to stream down your face. You started to breathe heavily. The thought of you almost hurting your daughter broke you. Meanwhile, Bucky got Jamie to calm down for a second time since he got home from work. He gave her a bath and fed her.

“Mommy would never hurt intentionally you, princess. It was an accident. She’s just going through something right now.” Bucky says softly as he put a short sleeved onesie on Jamie after he put a diaper on her.

Bucky picked up Jamie and gave her a kiss on her chubby cheek before putting her in her crib.

“Daddy is going to see if mommy is ok.” He says softly.

Bucky walked out of the nursery, leaving the door cracked a little bit. He went down the hall to yours and his bedroom. He seen you crying and breathing heavily when he walked in the bedroom. He quickly made his way over to yours and sat down next to you on the bed, wrapping his arms around you.

“I almost- I almost hurt my baby.” You cried.

“Jamie is fine.” Bucky softly assures you.

“She is?” You asked.

“Yes.” He replies softly.

Bucky helped you calm down. You melted into his touch after you calmed down. He rubbed your back as you tried to relax.

“You should just take Jamie and leave me.” You say.

“Doll, I didn’t mean that. I was just mad.” Bucky says.

“Take her and leave. It would be better that way.” You say.

“Y/N, I’m not going to do that.” He says.

“You should.” You say.

“Stop saying that. I didn’t mean it.” He says.

“You said it yourself, James. You don’t even recognize me anymore. I don’t even recognize myself anymore either.” You say.

You started crying again. At this point, you’re not sure if it’s the postpartum depression making you cry or if it’s your emotions.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me, Bucky. I don’t know what to do.” You cried.

“It’ll be ok, babydoll. We’ll figure it out together. Right now, I’ll take care of you. Ok?” Bucky says softly.

“Ok.” You replied quietly.

“You take a nice hot shower and I’ll take care of Jamie.” He says.

“Ok.” You say.

You mustered up enough energy and strength to take a shower. Bucky checked on Jamie at the same time you got in the shower. She was awake and smiling up at her daddy.

“There’s my smiley girl.” Bucky coos at her.

Bucky picks her up out of her crib and gave her a kiss on her chubby cheek.

“Is my smiley girl hungry?” He asks.

Jamie made a babbling noise in response. Bucky took that as a yes. He went to the kitchen and made a bottle for her and then he went back to yours and his bedroom to feed her.

“How do you feel now?” Bucky asks as you walked out of the bathroom.

“A little bit better.” You say

“That’s good.” He smiles.

You got dressed and sat down on the far side of the bed, not trusting yourself near your daughter after what happened in the living room a little bit ago.

“Don’t be like that. Come closer.” Bucky says softly.

You moved closer to Bucky and Jamie. You got a good look at her to make sure the shattered glass didn’t cut her. Even though Bucky already checked her for cuts, you wanted to check her for yourself.

“When’s the last time you ate and slept?” Bucky asks, seeing dark circles under your eyes.

“I don’t know.” You mumbled.

“You need to eat and sleep, doll.” He says.

“I can’t. Jamie needs me.” You say.

“I got Jamie. You need to eat and sleep.” He says.

“Ok.” You mumbled.

Bucky took Jamie back to her nursery and put her back in her crib for the night. Then he made you something to eat. You ate in bed and then went to sleep. While you were sleeping, Bucky cleaned the house. You must’ve gotten a good night’s sleep or at least a nice long nap, because you woke up refreshed and with more energy than you had lately. You got out of bed and went to the living room. You saw Jamie in her bassinet and picked her up. She smiles up at you.

“You’re mommy’s smiley girl, aren’t you, sweetie?” You cooed.

Jamie made a babbling noise and grabbed onto your finger, making you smile.

“There’s my girls.” Bucky smiles as he walks in the living room.

Bucky walks over to you and gave you a soft kiss on your lips.

“How do you feel, doll?” Bucky asks softly.

“Better than I’ve felt in a while.” You say with a smile.

“Good. That’s good.” He smiles back.

You looked down at your baby girl with the look of adoration on your face. Not only is your energy coming back, your happiness is coming back as well.

“I promise I’ll try be better, Bucky. Please believe that.” You say, your voice cracking and your eyes tearing up.

“You know I believe you, babydoll.” Bucky almost whispers, caressing your cheek.

Bucky kisses you softly and sweetly.

“I love you and Jamie so much.” You say softly.

“We love you so much too, doll.” Bucky whispers back.

-Bucky’s Doll

[neurotica-tales]

A Visit to Berk (Yandere Hiccup x Berserker!Reader x Yandere Toothless)

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

You were never supposed to be anything more than a guest.

When Hiccup visited your Berserker village, you kept your guard up. It was just a diplomatic visit—nothing more. But the Chief of Berk saw something in you he couldn’t let go. Something he needed to keep close. And when he invited you to visit his island, you said yes. Just for a little while.

Berk is peaceful. Warm. Kind. Hiccup is sweet, attentive, never overbearing. And Toothless—the affectionate, impossibly clever Night Fury—seems to adore you too. Their presence is comforting. Disarming.

So you stop questioning the way Hiccup always seems to be nearby. Or how Toothless guards your path like a silent sentinel. Or why no one ever asks when you're leaving.

It all feels so natural… until the quiet coincidences become patterns. Until the world starts to shrink around you. Until one day, something goes missing—and Hiccup’s standing there, watching. Smiling. Waiting.

He’s not forcing you to stay. He just made it so you can’t leave.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Up Next: You Can't Sing--But You're Mine, The Chief, The Fool & You (Yandere Hiccup x Reader x Yandere Tuffnut)

If you liked this story, don't forget to also check out my other Yandere HTTYD stories HERE!

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

A/N: I’ll be honest—what I posted earlier was originally meant to be the prompt for this story, but as I kept writing, it quickly grew into something much longer than expected. So yes, a Part 2 is definitely on the way!

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

You hadn’t been paying him any attention.

The Berkian delegation had arrived three days earlier, docking in the gray light just before dawn. You’d barely glanced up from your work. The visit had little to do with you—formal negotiations about dragon patrol routes, trade rotations, shared airspace in the north seas. All things for the chieftains and diplomats to argue over.

You’d been assigned your usual role: keep the training grounds running, make sure the younger riders didn’t embarrass the tribe, and, if necessary, step in when tensions got too high between dragons. You weren’t worried. Nothing ever came of these things.

You certainly didn’t expect to be noticed.

That morning had begun like any other—early wind, chilled breath, the clinking of buckles and steel fittings in your hands as you adjusted the harness on a restless young dragon. The apprentice with you was nervous, fumbling over the straps again, lips pressed together in frustration. You’d guided him patiently—if a little curtly—and stepped in to correct the alignment yourself.

You didn’t see him watching.

Didn’t feel his gaze at first, though it hadn’t left you from the moment he’d passed the fence. He wasn’t close. He didn’t approach immediately. Just stood there with his arms folded, his figure half-shadowed by the stables, eyes fixed on you with an intensity that was softened only by something close to wonder.

You tugged the strap tighter and stepped back, brushing dust from your gloves. The apprentice stumbled through a flustered thank-you and scurried off toward the tack shed.

Then you turned.

And saw him.

He didn’t look away.

The wind tugged lightly at his hair. His leathers were dark and worn but well-maintained, his prosthetic braced steady in the packed dirt beneath him. There was no one else nearby. Just him, watching you as if he couldn’t help it.

“Something wrong?” you asked, your voice quiet but measured.

He blinked, startled as though caught in the act, and took a single step forward.

“Sorry,” he said, voice warm and even. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“You didn’t.”

He smiled—a little lopsided, like he wasn’t used to being caught off guard. “You handled that really well, with the apprentice. The way you explained the cinch—it was simple. Clear. That’s harder than people think.”

You frowned slightly. Not irritated—just cautious. Your posture didn’t shift. “I wasn’t aware the Dragonmaster was here to audit our training routines.”

That made him laugh.

It wasn’t a scoff, or a smug kind of chuckle. It was low and genuine, like it had slipped from him before he could decide whether it was appropriate.

“No, not at all,” he said. “But I can appreciate good training when I see it.”

You eyed him. He didn’t seem to be teasing. In fact, there was something oddly… sincere about the way he looked at you. Not flirtatious. Not flattering. Just observant. Attentive.

He took another half-step forward and extended a hand.

“I’m Hiccup.”

“I know.”

You accepted the handshake briefly, just long enough to be polite. His grip was firm, not overcompensating. Warm, calloused. He didn’t try to hold on longer than necessary.

And yet when you let go, there was a beat of stillness in the air—like something had passed between you.

A moment.

You didn’t linger. Neither did he.

But when you walked away, you could still feel his gaze resting between your shoulders.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

You assumed that would be the end of it.

Most foreign chiefs kept to their duties. Met with elders. Walked the village perimeter once for formality and returned to their ships when business was done. Maybe they drank at the feast, maybe they didn’t. Either way, they didn’t linger.

But Hiccup did.

The very next day, you saw him again.

You were checking the iron clamps on a training rig near the edge of the dragon pens when the air shifted. It wasn’t sound that caught your attention—it was pressure. A subtle thrum under your boots. A sensation in your ribs like a low drumbeat rising beneath the earth.

Then you looked up—and froze.

A black silhouette cut across the clouds like ink in water. Sleek. Effortless. Silent.

The Night Fury landed in a whisper of wind and dirt, talons folding gently beneath him, wings tucking with precision. His head turned immediately—toward you.

Around you, stablehands murmured in unease. A few took careful steps back.

You stood your ground.

He didn’t growl. Didn’t move aggressively. He simply stared.

You met his gaze evenly, tense but still.

Then, with the slow certainty of a creature who knew exactly what he was doing, he padded toward you.

The wind tugged at your cloak. You stayed rooted.

Toothless’s eyes were wide, curious. He let out a low chirr, something inquisitive, almost playful.

He was within arm’s reach now.

Then, surprisingly, he nudged his nose against your side.

You didn’t flinch. You weren’t sure why.

A beat later, boots sounded across the gravel.

“Toothless! Hey, come on—give her some space.”

You turned as Hiccup jogged into view, boots clinking softly against the stones. He slowed as he approached, a mixture of apology and amusement on his face.

“Sorry,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “He’s usually better about personal space. I think he’s just… excited.”

“To see me?”

“Apparently,” Hiccup said. “He’s picky about people. Usually takes him a while. But with you…”

He trailed off as you reached out—slowly, cautiously—and let your fingers graze under the dragon’s jaw.

Toothless practically melted into the touch.

You arched a brow. “Is this normal?”

“Not remotely.”

The look in Hiccup’s eyes was unreadable.

Not surprised.

Not suspicious.

Something else.

Quiet. Focused. Like he was watching something fall into place.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

He never forced your attention after that.

That was part of why you didn’t resist his presence. You were used to men who pushed. Tried too hard. Pried too deep. You weren’t used to one who simply... stayed.

He never asked personal questions. Never lingered longer than was appropriate. But he always showed up at the right time—just when you were struggling to lift a crate, or when you needed help coaxing a younger dragon into the roost.

He fixed the latch on your gear chest without being asked. Offered to help test a new flight strap design. Nothing bold. Just helpful. Unobtrusive.

Thoughtful.

You weren’t blind to it.

You were cautious. Always had been.

But Hiccup didn’t ask for trust.

He earned it by simply being kind.

Toothless began showing up more often too.

Sometimes alone, sometimes with Hiccup, but never disruptive. He’d sun himself near the training hill where you practiced morning drills. He’d nudge your boot gently when you stood still too long, chirping like a spoiled pet waiting for praise.

You didn’t notice at first how close he always stayed.

Or how his gaze followed you even when his eyes were half-closed.

And Hiccup?

He never pointed it out.

He just smiled when you scratched behind the dragon’s horns and said, “He really likes you, you know.”

“I’m not giving him treats,” you replied, deadpan.

“He doesn’t want treats.”

And then, after a beat:

“He wants you.”

The words didn’t register until later. You brushed it off at the time. Just a joke.

But Hiccup never laughed.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

The day he was meant to leave came quickly.

You’d nearly forgotten. His presence had become so steady, so folded into your days since you first met him, that it didn’t feel like he was supposed to be temporary. But that morning, the docks were loud. Busier than usual. Voices called out numbers and orders in the distance, and the faint clatter of crates being moved echoed down from the shoreline.

It was the kind of noise that signaled departure.

You stood alone at the cliffside near the edge of the western trail, arms loosely folded as you watched the waves pull against the rocks below. The sea was calm—too calm. You didn’t like the stillness of it. The kind that made your thoughts stretch too far.

You heard him before you saw him.

Not loudly. Just the light scuff of boots behind you and the soft drag of something across gravel—maybe the edge of his prosthetic, maybe Toothless’s tail swaying behind him.

You didn’t turn.

Not right away.

But he stopped beside you without saying a word, standing just close enough that you could feel the shape of his presence through the breeze. He looked out over the water too, as if this was always where he planned to be.

There was silence for a moment. Comfortable. Not expectant.

Then, without looking at you, he spoke.

“I was thinking…” his voice was quieter than usual. Not timid, but... deliberate. “If you wanted to... you could come to Berk.”

You turned to him slowly, surprised.

Not because it was a strange suggestion, but because he said it like it was obvious. Like it made sense.

His expression didn’t shift. Calm. Steady.

“Just for a visit,” he added quickly, raising a hand in a small motion—as if he already sensed your instinct to pull back. “A few days. Maybe a week. You don’t have to decide now. I just—thought you might like to see it.”

You said nothing at first.

Because the truth was… it was tempting.

And that’s what made you hesitate.

You didn’t say no. But your chest tightened in that way it did when things moved too quickly. You weren’t used to invitations like this. Not from people who felt this kind, this familiar, this suddenly important.

You were cautious by nature. You didn’t jump into new places. New dynamics. New warmth. Not without watching first. Not without asking why.

You opened your mouth to respond—but the words caught.

“It’s beautiful this time of year,” he added, softer now. “There’s a sea of dragon nip near the rookery. The dragons love it. I think you would too.”

You glanced at him.

He wasn’t pressuring you.

That’s what made it harder to refuse.

His voice held no weight, no push. Just hope. Like he wanted to share something with you—not trap you in it.

Then you felt a warm bump at your side. Toothless.

You turned slightly to see the dragon had slinked up behind you without a sound and now gently nudged your hip with his head. He made a low, pleased sound—like a question. Or an agreement.

You looked between the two of them.

Hiccup. Toothless.

Both watching you with open patience.

And slowly—too slowly—you exhaled.

“Alright,” you said, the word tasting foreign in your mouth. “Just for a visit.”

The way Hiccup smiled wasn’t wide or triumphant.

It was quiet. Contained.

But deep.

Toothless gave a pleased chirr and laid his head against your back.

You reached up to rest a hand lightly on the dragon’s neck.

You didn’t notice the way Hiccup looked at you then.

Not quite relief.

Not quite happiness.

Something else.

Something like possession disguised as tenderness.

Because now… you were coming with him.

And whether you realized it or not, he’d already decided: You were never coming back.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Berk was smaller than you expected.

Not geographically—no, the cliffs stretched far in every direction, flanked by forests that draped down into ravines and trails carved carefully into the bones of the island. But something about it still felt… smaller. Contained. Tucked away in a fold of the world where time slowed, and things forgot to change.

You felt it the moment your boots touched the dock.

It wasn’t just the sound of waves or the distant flap of dragon wings overhead—it was the people. They moved with rhythm, like a tribe whose days had always been filled by the same footsteps, the same sails and signals and smells of sea smoke. No urgency. No pretense. You weren’t used to that. Berserker life was disciplined, sharp-edged. Even in peace, your people moved with purpose. But here… they smiled easily. Offered small nods. A few children whispered your name behind cupped hands and ducked behind barrels when you looked their way.

And at the center of it all stood Hiccup.

Waiting for you at the dock like he belonged nowhere else in the world but there, his hands resting on the belt of his leathers, hair tugged sideways by the breeze, face lit with a smile that wasn’t just happy—it was relieved.

He didn’t say Welcome to Berk. He said, “You made it.”

You didn’t tell him that you almost hadn’t.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

He held out a hand to help you down. You didn’t need the help—you were used to rougher landings and steeper climbs—but you accepted it anyway. His palm was warm, firm. There was no insistence in his touch. Just… intention.

Toothless was already there before you could even look around—bounding up like he’d been waiting by the dock all day. He leapt and pressed his massive head into your chest, startling you with the weight of it. His purr was deafening, vibrating through his ribs into yours. You caught yourself stumbling a half step back, only to laugh softly, your hands pressing into the cool black scales behind his ears.

“You’d think he hadn’t just seen you three days ago,” Hiccup said, voice rich with amusement. “But he missed you.”

“He’s… enthusiastic,” you murmured.

Toothless let out a pleased warble and twined his tail briefly around your leg like a possessive cat. Hiccup watched you with a look that felt deeper than pride—almost like admiration. Or awe.

“Do all dragons greet people like this?” you asked, brushing a speck of ash off your tunic.

“Only when they’ve made up their minds about someone,” Hiccup replied. “And Toothless… well, he’s rarely wrong.”

You met his gaze. There was a warmth in it that unsettled you, not because it was too much—but because it felt natural. Too natural.

You dropped your eyes first.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

You didn’t unpack right away.

You didn’t need to.

By the time you walked your dragon to the guest stables—simple, well-kept, shaded under a canopy of evergreens—Hiccup had already caught up with you again, this time holding a small folded map in one hand and brushing his fringe out of his eyes with the other.

“There’s a lodge up by the rookery,” he offered. “Private, clean. We don’t use it much anymore. I thought you might like the quiet.”

You looked at him for a long second. He wasn’t flustered. Not exactly. But you could see something behind his words—an eagerness not entirely masked by his even tone.

“You planned this?”

He gave a short laugh and rubbed the back of his neck. “Maybe. I didn’t want to assume you’d say yes, but… I hoped.”

You didn’t respond immediately. You weren’t sure what you wanted yet—privacy, yes. But distance? You weren’t certain. Berk was still unfamiliar. Still foreign. The people here weren’t hostile, but you felt eyes tracking you all the same. Curious, cautious. Hiccup’s presence made that easier to ignore.

“The lodge is fine,” you said.

His face brightened slightly. “I’ll show you the trail.”

Toothless was already ahead of you by the time you finished fastening your dragon’s feed trough, turning back just once to blink and chirp expectantly—tail flicking in a come-on gesture.

The walk was quiet.

Up the winding slope past a low wall of dragon nests, through a forest trail that opened out suddenly onto a cliffside. The air smelled cleaner here—pines, distant ash, the scent of deep water.

When you reached the lodge, you paused on the threshold.

It was small, but solid. A dragon-sized landing nestled against one side, and a wide window that opened toward the ocean. The door creaked slightly on its hinges. Inside, you found the fire already lit. A kettle steaming gently beside the hearth. The floor swept clean. A blanket folded precisely at the foot of the bed.

You turned to him. “You said it was empty.”

Hiccup looked mildly sheepish. “I may have sent someone to dust it out yesterday.”

You narrowed your eyes slightly. “You weren’t sure I was coming.”

“No,” he admitted, “but I wanted it to be ready in case you did.”

There was something in his voice that almost made you feel guilty.

Almost.

You stepped inside.

He didn’t follow.

“I’ll let you get settled,” he said, already turning toward the path. “But if you need anything…” His eyes lingered on you for a beat longer than they needed to. “You’ll know where to find me.”

Then he whistled, and Toothless trotted after him.

You didn’t close the door right away.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

You spent your first full day alone.

By choice.

Your dragon needed the flight, and you needed the time to think. You rose with the wind, climbing over the peaks at the edge of Berk’s western cliffs, taking in the terrain. The island revealed itself in fragments—the way the forests dipped into valleys, the shine of sunlight on the seaweed-stained bay, the black-smoked trails of dragon fire warming the sky.

It was beautiful.

In a quiet, self-sufficient way.

You didn’t speak to anyone.

Not that morning, not that afternoon. You kept your distance. You were never rude—just quiet. Watching. Your instincts remained sharp, even in peace. Every village had its own rhythm. Its own rules. You weren’t ready to be part of Berk’s.

But still, everywhere you went, you saw him.

Not Hiccup himself—at least, not always.

But his presence.

The little things.

The people greeted you with polite nods, sure, but it was the way they spoke his name. The familiarity. The trust. Even when you passed through the market stalls, the smiths and tanners seemed to know that you were with him. No one said it aloud. But it was there—in the softening of their gaze, the way they never asked you why you were here, or for how long.

And then there was Toothless.

He joined your patrol by midday, swooping in with a dramatic arc and a pleased chirp as he settled into a loose formation beside your dragon. He didn’t interfere. Just walked alongside—sometimes nudging your saddle playfully, sometimes breaking a tree off to show you his 'drawing' like a child showing off.

You let him.

It was easier than trying to send him away.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

By nightfall, you found your way down to the forge.

You hadn’t planned on it.

But one of your stirrup straps had split mid-flight, and the repairs you’d brought weren’t holding.

The forge was open—dimly lit, embers glowing low in the hearth. You stepped inside, expecting to find someone else. An apprentice. Gobber, maybe.

But it was Hiccup.

Seated on a low bench, sharpening a blade against the wheel with a quiet, rhythmic motion.

He looked up immediately. His face lit the moment he saw you.

“Hey,” he said, brushing soot from his sleeve as he stood. “I wasn’t sure if you’d drop by.”

You held out the broken strap. “I need a replacement.”

He took it from your hands gently, fingers brushing yours. He studied the tear, then turned to the worktable without another word.

You leaned against the post near the door.

He worked quickly. Quietly. You watched the way his hands moved with confidence, the way the firelight caught against the edge of his jaw, the focused line between his brows.

He didn’t speak again until he was done.

“That should hold.” He held it out to you. “I added a second stitch at the weak point. You won’t even notice the difference.”

You reached for it.

Your fingers touched.

He didn’t pull away.

But neither did you.

“Thanks,” you said.

He smiled. “Anytime.”

You left the forge without another word.

Behind you, the fire flared, then settled.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

You woke to a golden hush.

The morning sun filtered through the cracks in the lodge’s shutters, draping everything in softened light. It cast a warm glow across the wood floor, glinting on the cooled iron buckles of your satchel. Somewhere outside, gulls called in the distance, their cries caught and carried by the sea wind.

You stayed in bed longer than usual.

Not out of laziness. Just... because. The lodge was still. The kind of quiet that didn’t press in, but invited pause. And your dragon was resting deeply on the perch just outside, breathing slow and even—his shadow a comforting curve across the edge of the deck.

You listened for footsteps.

Nothing.

No rustling. No voices. No sound of Hiccup’s light knock on the door, which had, oddly enough, become a near-daily occurrence.

That small absence made you ease out of bed and begin dressing with the intention of exploring the southern ridges. A longer trek. You hadn’t told anyone your plan. Not even Toothless, who had taken to waiting just beyond the lodge most mornings like he owned the tree line.

But when you began climbing the ridge trail, winding up through switchbacks that overlooked the forest floor far below...

You heard footsteps.

You paused mid-turn on the rocky incline.

And then you saw him—Hiccup—just ahead.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

He was descending the opposite trail, his silhouette sharpening with every step he took toward you, leather tunic darkened by mist, a satchel slung over his shoulder and wind-tossed hair ruffled with salt. A thin scratch curved along one arm, as though he’d pushed too close to some briars.

His eyes lit up when he spotted you.

“Oh,” he said, offering a surprised smile. “Didn’t expect to see you out this way so early.”

You didn’t answer right away. You glanced down the path you’d come from, then back at him.

“I thought I’d scout the southern ridge,” you said slowly, your voice unreadable.

Hiccup’s smile softened, as if this were the most natural coincidence in the world. “So was I.”

You frowned slightly, but said nothing.

He gestured toward the peak with a light shrug. “Toothless loves the air currents up here. Perfect for gliding. I try to bring him here when we both need to clear our heads.”

Your gaze flicked behind him. There was no Toothless in sight. No sign of wingbeats or dragon prints in the dirt. The path behind Hiccup didn’t lead to the ridge’s clearing. Not directly, anyway. But he stood there, relaxed, easy in posture—no nerves, no tension.

Just… like he belonged.

Maybe he does, you thought.

Still, you didn’t miss the way your stomach tightened.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

The wind grew colder near the summit.

The two of you walked in silence for several minutes, crunching over wind-smoothed gravel, boots brushing against dew-speckled ferns. You didn’t talk. Hiccup didn’t press you. It was one of those silences that wasn’t loaded, wasn’t uncomfortable—just... open.

At the top, the trail opened onto a stretch of cliff framed by scraggly pines and low brush. The sky above looked almost too clear—washed in soft blue with streaks of high, fast-moving clouds. From this height, Berk seemed smaller. A series of soft, rounded hills bleeding into black-stone cliffs and jagged waves.

Hiccup stepped beside you, arms crossed loosely as he gazed out. “I never get tired of this view,” he said quietly.

You didn’t respond. You weren’t looking at the view.

You were watching the way his eyes flickered, taking you in from the corner of his vision.

The wind tugged at your hair. You shifted slightly away. Not because you didn’t want him there, but because his presence—his ease, his familiarity—was beginning to unsettle something you couldn’t quite name.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

You didn’t stay long.

After an hour, you told him you were heading back down a different route.

He didn’t question it.

He just smiled, and said, “I’ll see you later, then.”

You made it halfway down the slope before you stopped, turning to glance back up the path.

But Hiccup was already gone.

No sound of footsteps. No lingering figure on the trail.

Just you and the wind.

You told yourself it was fine.

Coincidence.

Just another coincidence.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

That evening, you tried to avoid the village altogether.

You didn’t even tell your dragon where you were going. You kept to the northern treeline, brushing past saplings and crunching over frost-stiff moss, your shoulders loose but your awareness sharp. The sound of the forge and the bustle of the market square felt like too much today—too many eyes, too many unspoken so you’re still here glances.

The cliffs were quiet. Sharp with wind.

You found a patch of hardy wildflowers blooming against the rock face—tiny, tough things in violet and white, growing in defiance of the cold. You crouched beside them, brushing your fingers over the petals.

The rustle behind you came softly. Almost gently.

You stood up straight, slowly turning.

Hiccup was crouched a few meters away, halfway through retying a snare net onto one of the old aerial training posts. The kind they used to catch falling gear—or wild chickens, apparently.

He blinked at you, then smiled.

“We keep bumping into each other,” he said lightly.

Your gaze narrowed, not unkindly. “What are you doing out here?”

“Repairing this,” he said, gesturing at the half-mended net. “The twins thought it’d be funny to launch dinner into the canyon. I figured I’d come fix the damage before anyone got stuck again.”

You didn’t answer. Not right away.

The village was a good walk away. So was the forge. And the odds of you both being here—on the same day, in the same corner of the island, at the exact same time—were getting harder to ignore.

Still, you said nothing.

Not because you believed him entirely.

But because something in his tone was too... simple. Like the truth might be even quieter than the lie.

You nodded once and walked past him.

As you moved, you felt his gaze on your back.

Warm.

Measuring.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

It didn’t stop.

Not the “accidents.” Not the meetings. Not the timing.

It happened again the next day.

You went to the rookery to check on your dragon’s saddle harness, and he was already there, elbow-deep in soot, polishing an old bridle.

“Didn’t expect company,” he’d said.

Then the day after, he appeared near the shoreline where you’d flown to hunt for driftwood.

“Looking for seaweed. Toothless likes it fresh,” was his excuse.

You never asked him to join you.

But he stayed near.

He always stayed near.

And he always offered something.

A sharpened blade. A cup of tea from a merchant. A map with tiny red ink marks that showed where the cliff winds were weakest. Always helpful. Always generous.

Always just... there.

And strangely, you let him be.

You told yourself it was harmless.

That if you wanted to pull away, you could.

Anytime.

You could stop walking those trails. You could leave the forge in silence. You could ride out over the sea and not circle back for hours.

But every time you turned to leave, he’d say something soft. Or smile that almost-boyish smile.

And you’d stay just a little longer.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Toothless, for his part, had become your shadow.

He didn’t wait at a distance anymore. He didn’t hide in the trees or nap behind your dragon’s paddock.

Now, he waited directly in front of your lodge door each morning, tail curled protectively around your porch post like a coiled rope. His eyes would blink open the moment you stirred. And if you left for the cliffs or the village without greeting him first, he’d follow you with that low, half-wounded whine.

You tried to ignore it.

Once.

Just once.

You made it halfway down the main path, pretending not to hear the sound of his footsteps behind you. Toothless didn’t chirp. Didn’t playfully nudge.

He just walked.

Close.

Too close.

Until you stopped, turned, and sighed.

He blinked.

Then licked your cheek.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

From that moment on, he didn’t even pretend to hide his attachment. If you sat in the grass, he curled around you. If you flew, he matched your wingbeats. If you walked, he trailed at your heels like a particularly large dog with wings.

You’d seen dragons bond deeply with riders before.

But this didn’t feel like that.

This felt... possessive.

Protective in a way that felt less about danger and more about keeping you contained.

The worst part?

You let it happen.

You told yourself it was harmless.

That you were being cautious. Observant. That you would know when to pull back—if things changed, if the line between comfort and control ever blurred.

But that line was thinner than you thought.

And some days, you weren’t even sure if it was still there.

Because Hiccup never raised his voice. Never pushed. Never asked for more than you were willing to give.

He just... appeared.

He just smiled.

And you smiled back.

And Toothless was always nearby. Always.

So when you stepped outside one morning and found your dragon’s saddle missing—completely gone, not stolen, just… gone—you didn’t panic.

Not at first.

You thought maybe it had been moved. That one of the village boys had borrowed it. That Toothless had dragged it somewhere and chewed on the buckle again.

You searched the stables.

Nothing.

You asked the handlers.

They hadn’t seen it.

You turned slowly, eyes narrowing.

And in the distance—at the edge of the forge—stood Hiccup.

Leaning casually against the doorway.

Watching you.

Smiling.

Too softly.

Too still.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Tags: @captainsaveahoes

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

[thevanillerose]

SWAP | YANDERE!ITADORI/SUKUNA x READER | JUJUTSU KAISEN

~ WRITING COMMISSIONS ~ ~ PATREON ~ ~ KO-FI ~ ~ NOVELS ~ Join my Patreon to get early access to my works, exclusive stories and free commissions!

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I do not own anything except my own writing. All properties belong to their respective creators. Content Warning: YANDERE | Non-con (non-explicit) A/N: I love secretly psychotic and/or possessed pink-haired men ok

You’d been sleeping beside Yuji for months now.

It had become second nature. The way he tucked his chin against your head, how his legs tangled with yours, how he always kissed the top of your spine before drifting off. You knew every line of him in the dark, every sleepy murmur and muscle twitch.

Given you had been dating for a while, you were used to having Yuji’s presence, close beside you, just like this.

But lately… Lately something had changed.

His hands still held you gently, but they lingered longer than before. His kisses were slower. Too slow. Like he was memorizing the shape of your mouth. Not loving you, but savoring you.

And when he was half asleep, holding you against him, sometimes he would murmur things.

Low and raspy, like someone else was pressing against his lungs. 

“Mine.” “So soft…” “You taste so good…”

You’d shaken him awake a few times, tried to laugh it off, but each time he blinked at you like he didn’t understand why your hands were trembling. He didn’t seem to believe he’d said those things. 

He’d just pinch your cheek and insist you were being silly. 

…

Tonight felt worse.

You couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t breathe right. You kept lying there beside him, eyes fixed on the bedroom ceiling, heart beating too hard in your throat. Outside, the wind scraped gently against the window panes. The city lights bled silver across the floorboards. 

Yuji was warm behind you, his breath brushing your nape. Suddenly you realized. He wasn’t asleep. 

“You’re awake,” he said.

And it wasn’t Yuji you heard. This voice was deeper. Darker. It rumbled through your chest like thunder.

You froze. “Yuji…?” A low chuckle rolled behind your ear. “Is that my name?”

You rolled over, slowly, trying not to panic. And there he was. It was still Yuji’s body, it still looked like him. But it wasn’t. The way he smiled wasn’t right. The way he looked at you wasn’t right.

Those eyes—Yuji’s soft brown eyes—were now sharp and half-lidded, glowing faintly red beneath heavy lashes. It was a sultry, seductive sort of expression, the sort that you would never expect him to wear. 

This certainly wasn’t Yuji at all. This was someone else entirely.

“Took him long enough,” Sukuna murmured, tilting his head as he studied you. “I’ve been waiting...watching. Every night he touched you. Every time you moaned his name. You didn’t know, did you?”

You backed up in bed, the blanket tangled around your legs. A cold sweat flourished over your skin, trembling in your bones.

He followed you, crawling so the gap shrank again.

“You thought it was still him,” he said, voice thick with mock sympathy. “Sweet little Yuji. Poor thing. He never had a chance. Not with me around…” His clawed fingers curled against your hip. “So close. So hungry, all this time...”

You slapped his hand away. “Stop it. You’re lying. You’re fucking with me!” He blinked. Then laughed, head thrown back.

“Lying?” His grin widened as he leaned over you, bracing his arms on either side of your body, caging you beneath him. “Tell me…does it seem that way?”

You couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move. His fingers traced down your arm. Slowly and deliberately.

“You love him. I know. I feel it. That pathetic little warmth he gives you.” He leaned down, mouth near your ear. “But you belong to me.”

“P—please—just give him back.” His gaze sharpened. “Not this time.”

You froze.

“He tried resisting me at first,” he said after a pause, a cruel softness to his tone. “At first. But when he realized how much I wanted you—when he felt how much you wanted to be wanted—he started to give in.”

“That’s not true—” “Isn’t it?”

Sukuna’s smile turned lazy, dangerous. “Deep down, you wanted this. You wanted someone to hold you tighter. Someone to want you with their whole being. Not sweet. Not kind. Hungry. You needed a man like me…”

His hand cupped your face. His thumb brushed your lower lip. “I can give you what you really need.”

Your heart was racing. But your body wasn’t pulling away. He leaned down, pressing his forehead to yours, and his breath felt hot against your parted lips.

“He’s still in here, of course,” he whispered. “Screaming. Tearing at the walls. Begging me not to touch you.” His voice dropped to a hiss of pleasure. “So that’s exactly why I will.”

And then he kissed you. Not like Yuji. Not gentle. Not slow.

It was possessive. Wild. Like he was trying to consume the breath from your lungs. One hand locked behind your head, the other pressed low against your spine, dragging you up into him like he couldn’t stand even an inch of space between your bodies.

You gasped into his mouth, and he swallowed it like a prize. It deepened to the point that it was almost suffocating, like your very energy was being stolen and sucked into him.

When he finally pulled away, your lips were swollen. Your head spun, and you flopped weakly against the pillow.

“You taste so delicious,” he murmured against your skin. “Still too innocent though. But that’s alright. I’ll ruin that soon enough.”

Your voice cracked. “Why…? Give…give him back…”

He paused for a moment. Then, with a lopsided, twisted grin, he seized your wrists and pinned you harshly to the bed. With a yelp, you squirmed, but there was no getting away from him. “Ah ah ah…”

Clutching your wrists easily together in just one clawed hand, his other lifted to your face, a pointed digit trailing along your delicate jaw. “Don’t worry…he’s going to be gone for a while…but I’ll take good care of you…”

A moment passed. “...I’ll be good to you,” he said, taking on a sickly sweet tone that was almost like some imitation of the man you’d fallen in love with.  “Soon enough…you won’t miss him at all.”

You tried to look away, but he gripped your jaw.

“No more running or resisting,” he whispered. “You sleep in my arms tonight.”

And you did.

Because you couldn’t move. Because Yuji wasn’t strong enough. Because Sukuna wanted you bad enough.

And had wanted you for a long time. 

Had been waiting. Waiting. Learning how to love you.

His way.

Like my writing? I can write for you! Check out my WRITING COMMISSIONS!

[wingherc]

｢𓆄｣ "I'll be fine, I promise." Being able to play off the racing in his chest as just a case of nausea was the plan, though, he really wished he hadn't eaten so much, because this case of vertigo could very much go sideways, so he'd stave that off as best he could.

But, when she offered her hand his way, he wasn't one to look a gift horse in the mouth. Hawks had accidentally played her perfectly, and he really couldn't complain. So, he took her hand in his own, something about it was much gentler than his usual approach.

She had probably expected him to do something along the lines of pulling her down to his level, or something else that was just as playful and not serious. But, instead, he started talking.

"Y'know, this last year's been a lot of fun. If you asked me a year ago where I'd be in terms of the city, I don't think I would've answered anything like this." Specifically, there's one conversation they had about a year ago that they had that comes to mind for Hawks. He's since learned to be a lot more delicate when putting ideas on the back burner. Hawks had a lot more to learn when it came to just being a person, so he was glad Aerith was so patient with him. "No, wait, I definitely wouldn't have answered anything like this." And they both know it.

Hawks is a yapper at the end of the day, taking a million words to say things normal people could say in four. But, leave it to him to be the monologue-y optimistic type.

"I've been revisiting the idea in my head for awhile..." But, he didn't know how to approach the subject, but her constant glances at the boutique windows adorned with white gowns that Hawks pretended to pay no mind to, told him all he needed to know. And he didn't have to worry about getting her hopes up if he for whatever reason, decide that maybe it wasn't the time nor place. Anytime he did visit the idea in his head, though, he would find his mind wandering more and more each day, unable to really think about anything else, hell, even the silly arguments in his head he imagined them fighting about was a part of the deal that he wanted just as much. They wouldn't fight over big things, just stupid things like board games, or the plot of a half baked movie that the other swore they could write better. "It's hard to really approach the subject without getting someone's hopes up or ultimately disappointing them by not delivering..." The thinly veiled forlorn expression that Aerith wore when window shopping had been bothering Hawks for weeks now, and who was he to deny her that joy.

Because it's something he'd been wanting for much longer than he probably realized, but had just never occurred to him until recently. "And, while I know we promised each other a ways back that it'd always be us, if we could help it...I wanted to revisit that promise...Maybe even make an addendum to it." With his free hand, he reached into the pocket of his windbreaker, pulling out a box that popped right on open with the click of a button. The band that sat on the velvet pillow in the box was quite vine-y and adorned with small jewels that caught the light just right. Though dainty, there was one bigger jewel that the band wrapped around.

She really was going to have him come out and say it, actually, just like when he'd asked her out. Hawks couldn't entirely blame her, it wouldn't feel real if he didn't come out right and ask her.

"For as long as we're in Spirale, do you want to get married?" His wording was precise, he wanted it to seem like a joint decision, that if he was turned down, it wouldn't break either of them. And he didn't want it to seem like he was entirely leaving up this huge decision to herself. Hawks made up his mind, Aerith just had to meet him halfway.

"Even if one of us disappears, that's a low I'm willing to risk if it means I get to experience the highs with you. Hell, even just the mundane."

What she hadn't expected was for him to seemingly give up so easily! Once he's thrown to the ground and the cabin slowly comes to a halt, Aerith leans forward to check on him. "You okay? I was expecting a lot more fight in you! Should I have gone easier...?" Eyebrows furrow as she looks down at him, worried. "Sorry! I didn't mean for you to get sick..."

"Need some help up?" She reached toward him, offering her hand. If he wanted to sit next to her to help orient himself, he could.

[hyvyinjie]

hi! Can I ask for a headcannon about Minamoto teru x childhood friend reader? Where teru is really over protective and gentle towards the reader. Reader is a lazy person, and often sleepy, the things he likes are reading comics and playing game in their phone. They also refuses teru's invitation to join the student council. Thank you! :)

why of course! it’d be an honor to grant such an ask. apologies for taking quite a while to do so—though i hope my work meets your expectations, wonderful nonie!<3

—LOST IN THE HAZE OF YOUR DREAMSCAPE.

featuring ; minamoto teru & you as our star.

+ small akane & aoi mentions.

ah, minamoto teru; the very embodiment of perfection—as he was hailed and as he carried himself with utter conviction.

a master of powers, a paragon of academic prowess, and a maestro in all things extraordinary. could there be anything he did not conquer?

yet, his persona, a labyrinth of complexities, as if harboring a multitude of souls within his very being.

now, here you arrive in his peculiar life—meeting with the intricacies of his existence.

when your paths converged, it ignited a tempestuous collision, a clash of peculiar forces.

initially, your mere presence held no sway over him. in truth, he perceived you as an encumbrance, burdened by your languid nature. for he, a relentless pursuer of flawlessness, demanded nothing less.

but lo and behold. fate—that cunning trickster—wove its intricate threads, meticulously mending the frayed tapestry of your connection.

through the passage of time, a tapestry of happenstance encounters and the subsequent flourishing of interactions—a nascent camaraderie took root. he slowly, but surely grew attuned to your idiosyncrasies, harmonizing with your rhythm. while the power to surmount every obstacle at your side eludes him still, he persists, striving to offer his utmost.

oh please have mercy on this young man—forever enmeshed in the whirlwind of his exorcist duties. and yet, even amidst the chaos, his devotion knows no bounds when it comes to those he holds dear.

one might assume that quality time would be sacrificed for the trivial, but fear not, for you found yourself on the fortunate side—the one he’d willingly carved out moments to be with.

initially, your encounters were fleeting, brief snippets of time. however, as the sands of time trickled down, these fragments transformed into meticulously planned sleepovers. he meticulously orchestrated these occasions, ensuring they did not encroach upon his demanding schedule.

your bond thrived during these cozy gatherings, or tranquil rendezvous, where he wholeheartedly immersed himself in your passions—comics and video games.

though not extensively versed in these realms, one might imagine that you—with your infectious enthusiasm to the field—was the catalyst for his exploration and understanding of the realm of entertainment. this was evidenced by the gradual increase in invitations to game nights and his newfound willingness to engage in discussions about captivating narratives. perhaps, you both even exchanged recommendations for comics, as kindred spirits often do.

as the both of you and the world grew older—it became evident that he honed his social skills; presenting himself as a complete package. every aspect of his being held an irresistible allure, captivating the hearts of women, and even some fellow men. many yearned and openly expressed their desire to be the chosen one by his side.

however, even amidst the clamoring crowd, his gaze remained steadfastly fixed upon you.

of course, as the old adage goes; with great power comes great responsibility—the price of his popularity gradually revealed itself.

certain students, teetering on the edge of obsession, noticed the distinct tenderness he displayed towards you, surpassing his general kindness towards all. seizing upon this perceived vulnerability, they occasionally resorted to devious methods, seeking to eliminate you from the equation, taking advantage of moments when slumber claimed you.

naturally, he swiftly uncovered their plot, intervening before they could execute their nefarious intentions.

needless to say, the number of such audacious attempts dwindled significantly. what exactly he did to deter them remains a mystery known only to him and his would-be victims.

still, worried that the possibility of a recurrence and his absence to intervene, he took it upon himself to practically implore—some might even say beg—you to join the student council. this would ensure that he, or even akane if needed, could keep a watchful eye over you with greater ease.

however, true to your nature, you steadfastly rebuffed each futile attempt to persuade you. despite his persistent efforts, you remained resolute in your refusal.

eventually, your golden boy relented, recognizing that his endeavors were in vain…but that was just because he found an alternative solution.

he encouraged—forced—akane to be the one to look after you discreetly whenever he couldn’t. only choosing to partially reveal his intentions to avoid alarming you at the time, as you were unfamiliar with akane’s existence.

or so it had been until he observed that you and the school’s vice president shared a rather unique bond.

although akane would occasionally scold you for being so excessively somnolent, mistaking it for you being irresponsible, hence, occasionally comparing you to the greatness of his lady aoi—teru—ever vigilant and mindful of akane’s every interaction with you, ensured that his usual brutal tendencies were significantly tempered. still—it remained a part of the deputy’s essence, defining his very being, just albeit subdued in your presence.

it could be surmised that akane once attempted to tease—or rather, foolishly inquire, about teru’s subtle yet perceptible shifts in behavior whenever you were involved.

“it’s almost as if you like them.”

in an almost immediate reaction—the president paused, slowly turning his head to gaze at akane, a shadow casting a smile that concealed the upper portion of his closed eyes.

the ginger-haired vice executive, feeling an ominous presence despite the absence of visible eyes, found himself sweating profusely as he cautiously added,

“—to the point where anyone could mistake you for family!"

sensing the gravity of his words, akane mentally vowed to never broach the subject again. he restrained himself from ever mentioning it whenever he witnessed the two of you together.

curiosity gnawed at you as you noticed his all-knowing gaze transform into one of horror whenever you turned your head, as if peering behind you; at none other than the pretty blonde himself, who seemed to be doing nothing wrong, merely proven to have been innocently smiling the whole time, or so he put up whenever you looked back at him.

oblivious to the truth, you always dismissed it as ‘akane’s peculiar moments of ptsd flashbacks’ whenever he saw teru.

however, let me share a little secret with you.

did you know the true reason behind teru’s death stare? no? well, do you wanna know?

then do allow me to spill it for you.

it was simply because akane, using the keyword; "like," insinuated that teru had a ‘liking-only level’ romantic feeling for you. the misconception provoked such a reaction from teru, for he wanted to correct that statement because he loved you, not just liked you.

seriously, can’t people let him finish what he’s saying?

[kusanagihaku]

running in love in the season of you 

⭢ haru x mc, 4.4k

k is for kindergarten. ˖⁺‧₊⟡ alphabet series | ao3 for @aayakashii!

Children typically speak their first words between 12 to 18 months of age (Zubrick et al., 2007). 

The first time you meet Haru, it is in a blaze of fire and light. 

Or rather: the first time you meet Haru, he is lit by the bright of a summer bonfire, eyes crinkled up in amusement and laughter shimmering in the air between him and his friend. His hair is messy and wind-swept; as he runs his fingers through them, the fiery red catches the light and catches your eye. 

You nudge your roommate. “Who’s that?” 

She squints in his general direction, bringing her hand up to shield her eyes from the glare of the bonfire. “Haru Sagara, I think. I heard he’s an Early Childhood Education major. Lives on the third or fourth floor, maybe?” 

Before you can ask her anything more, though, she is swept away by an enthusiastic acquaintance, disappearing into the noise of the dorm welcome party like smoke in the night. 

You sigh. It shouldn’t be surprising, with the way she’s always been a social butterfly, but you feel some shade of helplessness all the same. Maybe she was right – maybe you do need to make some new friends at this party.

You sip slowly at the cup of Coke you’ve been nursing so far. The cold condensation on the outside of the cup leaves your hand dripping and uncomfortably wet; you hope nobody asks to shake hands. 

Your eyes return again to the man on the other side of the bonfire. His head is thrown back in laughter this time, cackles floating through the crowd as his conversation partner, a tall blonde man in a black turtleneck far too thick for the summer, regales him with some story or another. 

In the heat-shimmer of the fire between you he looks almost like a mirage. 

You watch as he lifts his cup to take a sip, then makes a little frown. He pouts at the man opposite him, who laughs and motions for his cup before standing up and walking away. 

He turns back to the bonfire. 

His eyes meet yours. 

All at once the roar of the bonfire fills your ears, a crackling hush that dims the rest of the party to a dull murmur. Your cheeks burn with the embarrassment of having been caught; yet there is something in the way he holds your gaze, lips lifted in the beginnings of a smile, that stops you from looking away. 

Haru tilts his head. It is as much an inviting question as a quick puzzlement, but before you can decide which one it is his face splits open in a blinding smile. It reminds you so much of a puppy you barely have time to register it before you’re smiling back. 

Perhaps, perhaps you should—

But his friend returns, red cup in hand dancing at the edge of your vision, and just like that the moment shatters in a spit of sparks.

He looks away, mouth rounding out a response to an unheard question. 

You stand, and leave. 

(Or rather: the first time you meet Haru, he is lit by the flickering glow of a bonfire and a radiance of his own making. He sends the thump of your heart racing faster than the rush of summer wind, his smile a glow that will suffuse through your dreams for nights to come.) 

—

Children typically develop two-word combinations between the ages of 12 to 26 months (Brown, 1973).

The second time you meet Haru, it is in a dingy elevator lazing its way to the basement. 

The elevator slows to a stop on the third floor, red digital display flashing twice before dimming. You shift your laundry basket to your other hip. 

The door dings open. 

You come face to face with a shock of fiery red, tamped down by a cream white hoodie emblazoned with the name of your university, similarly balancing a laundry basket on his hip. 

His eyes meet yours, half-formed smile already dancing on his lips, and it slips a laugh out of the both of you as you shift to make way for him.

“Hi,” he says. His voice is far brighter than the artificial warmth of the elevator lights. “I’m Haru.” 

You grin back. “I’m Y/N.” 

He hefts his laundry basket higher. “You were at the dorm welcome bonfire, weren’t you?” 

“Oh, yeah. Good memory.” 

Haru hums. “I remember wanting to introduce myself! You left before I could, though, and I couldn’t find you afterwards.” 

The elevator slows to a stop. You try to keep the sudden loud bumping of your heart under control, try to keep the stray spark of his grin from landing on where your throat has suddenly been lined with gasoline. 

“I decided to turn in early,” you say, carefully. The doors slide open. 

He waves you forward. “Healthy sleeping habits?” 

You snort. “As healthy as sleeping at three every night can be.” 

“Eh?” He looks at you incredulously. “Here I thought I had the bad sleeping habits.”

You learn, as you’re putting your laundry into the washing machines, that Haru’s not only a double major (Early Childhood Education, of course, along with Animal Studies), but also a volunteer with at least three different clubs. His schedule is more packed than you expected from a college student – he spends his Wednesday nights building huts for turtles and feeding owls at the local animal sanctuary, then his Sunday afternoons conducting book readings in the warmth of the children’s library, not to mention the occasional nights he delivers food scraps from the university dining halls to the nearby animal shelters. 

It makes you feel like your twenty four hours aren’t quite the same as his, and when you tell him this, shovelling armfuls of clothes into the cranky white washing machines, he laughs, loud and boisterous.

“Can’t help it, I guess,” he says. He dumps the last armful of clothes into his front-loader and shuts the door. “I’m interested in far too many things to give any of them up.” 

“I’m sure they appreciate your help, though,” you say. You slip the last pair of pants into your washing machine and reach for your detergent. 

Haru hums. “My grades sure don’t!” 

It pulls a laugh out of you. “What classes are you taking, anyway?” 

Haru squints at the level of liquid detergent he poured into the washing machine. “Marine Conservation… Ecological Policies… Literature of Children and Adolescents… what’s the last one…” 

He drips a little more blue liquid into the washing machine, then leans back, satisfied. He caps the detergent bottle. “Ah, Child Language Acquisition!” 

“Oh,” you say in surprise. “I’m taking that.” 

Haru turns to you, eyes widening. “No way!” 

“I didn’t see you last week at the first lecture, though?” 

Haru looks thoughtful for a moment. “I usually sit in the back row. Where do you sit?” 

The washing machine under your hand starts with a groan. You set your empty basket atop it. “Front row, but all the way to the right.” 

“Huh,” Haru says. “A good blind spot. They never pick on students sitting in the aisle seats… I should try that.” 

You laugh. “You’d catch anyone’s eye no matter where you sit.” 

Too late you realise the implications of your words; Haru’s ears flush red as you sputter a retraction. “I mean, with how bright your hair is and all, it’s hard not to notice you!” 

Your tongue stumbles along to the beat of your heart, but thankfully Haru buys it. His responding laugh is slightly awkward, but warm, “Gahaha, can’t refute that!”

“Anyway,” you say, trying to pull away from your inadvertent compliment, “I heard that class is pretty content-heavy.”

“It’d be nice to have a study partner,” Haru hums in agreement. He stuffs his hands in the pockets of his sweatpants. Neither of you make a move to leave the laundry room, despite having already started your machines.

You run your thumb along the tooth of your keys. You don’t want to overstep, given that you’ve just introduced yourselves to each other, but there is something in his easygoing smile that glints so hopeful it sends a rush of words out your mouth. 

“We could study together,” you say, and watch his eyes light up. 

You realise, heart sinking and hopeful, all the reckless things you might say to get him smiling at you like that again. 

“Maybe I can get your number,” Haru says, and he beams so brilliantly you couldn’t bring yourself to refuse even if you wanted to. “That way we can figure out some sort of schedule?” 

The offer is taken up, of course – you input the digits into his keypad with hands you barely remember moving, and are rewarded with the soft September warmth of his smile. 

It stays with you long after you part ways in the hazy grey of the elevator, and lingers in your memory for the rest of the week like the tail-end of summer, sweet and sparkling on the tip of your tongue. 

-

At three years of age, children begin to play beside one another engaging in the same activity (Stagnitti, 2021). 

Haru, as it turns out, is notoriously busy. 

Every time slot you suggest is occupied in one way or another by the others’ classes, club activities or volunteering work. You had no idea it was even possible to fit so many activities in one day – if you didn’t believe so ardently in the sincerity of Haru’s offer you would have suspected long ago he was avoiding you on purpose. 

It takes a bit of back and forth to settle on a time, but it opens up the opportunity for semi-regular texting, at least. 

Did you know, Haru says, in the bruise-purple of Friday twilight, that red foxes have an extra toe on their front paws? Isn’t that amazing? 

Dining hall ran out of eggs (´Д` ) nooooo, comes bright and early Saturday morning. It coaxes some form of fondness from the morning fog of your brain – you can almost hear his voice through the text. 

Read Ten Fat Sausages to the kids at the library today, arrives in the slant of Sunday sunset. One kid asked me if she could listen to it since she was vegetarian… 

Every text he sends sends a jolt up your fingertips; every piece of himself that he shares spreads a giddiness along your veins. If anyone else notices how much you’re smiling at your phone and jumping at notifications in the past few days, well, no they did not. 

How’s Thursday night sound? Your phone buzzes. 

You swipe to check your calendar. Bingo! 

That’s my laundry night, you tap back. If your laundry basket is full you’re welcome to join. 

Amazing!!! ψ(｀∇´)ψ I’ll get my detergent ready!! 

If you were alone you’d be kicking your feet and giggling. But your roommate is asleep, as is the healthy thing to be at two in the morning, and so you settle for closing and opening your messaging app a few times just to give the butterflies in your stomach time to settle. 

Gotta make it through tomorrow’s lecture first! You tap back, then watch as the three dots above your message bar dance and pause, dance and pause, dance and pause. 

Can I sit beside you? 

Your heart jumps a little too high, and lodges somewhere between your last two braincells. Before you can reply, however, another message pops up. 

Just so we can cross check study notes, of course!! 

And then– I promise not to call too much attention to myself!!!! 

You think your cheeks might cramp from smiling so hard. As long as you pay me back for compromising my blind spot. 

Haru’s reply breezes in seconds later. Deal! ٩(˃̶͈̀௰˂̶͈́)و

Payment comes the next morning in form of a warm white paper cup balanced precariously on the edge of a tiny lecture chair table. Haru slides into the seat next to yours with a grin, rust-red hair tucked under the hood of his jacket, eyes waned into crescent moons. 

“I wasn’t sure what you would like,” he admits, sheepishly, “so I made a guess.” 

You crack open the plastic lid. The moment the smell of coffee hits your nose you lean back into your seat with a satisfied groan. “God, just what I needed.” 

His eyes crinkle up in amusement. “Coffee addict?” 

“You have no idea,” you say, taking a sip. “Mm, is this the honey oat latte from round the corner?” 

Haru beams as he sets his laptop on the table. “You’re so well-versed in their menu! Or is it your favourite? Did I get it right first try?” 

You laugh. “Unfortunately not.” 

“Aw.” His face falls so quickly you briefly think about saying that now it will be, but before you can, he’s smiling again, leaning his cheek into his palm as he turns sideways to face you. “Well, good thing I get to keep trying!” 

Your cheeks burn, and you spend the entire lecture telling yourself it is from the heat of the coffee and not at all from the sun of him, bright and radiant and all too breathtaking for the muted dim of morning. 

-

Children begin to develop the grammatical use of additive conjunction ‘and’ at age three (Glória et al., 2016). 

It becomes an all-too-regular thing – you and Haru, front row on the right, matching Monday take-away cups and coffee-tinged sighs. 

Your study sessions turn more-than-weekly too; you find yourself side by side with Haru more often, textbooks cracked open and lit by the soft glare of your laptops as you sit without the groan of washer-dryers in the back of your minds. Not that you spend much time studying when you’re with him – most of the time is spent talking about something or another, basking in the light of his laugh. You learn more facts about marine animals over the course of the weeks than you ever thought possible. 

In some ways, you do spend time studying – you learn that Haru’s favourite colour is orange, and that he takes his coffee with way too much sugar. You learn that he is way too popular with everyone, with people from different clubs constantly waving hi or coming up to ask him about something or another, and that he talks to them all with the same dazzling smile on his face, welcoming and tireless. 

(He complains to you about his club members sometimes. You learn the way his voice slips into a whine when he tells you about how Ren can’t clean the rabbits’ cages properly, and learn the way you can’t take your eyes off his lips when he pouts.)

You learn that Haru smells like morning rain and linen, a gentle sort of clean, and that he types quicker with his left hand than his right. You learn the jangle of keychains he keeps on a metal loop, the sparkle of his hum when he’s distracted, the glint of the hoop piercing on his left ear. You learn the four-beat vibration of his phone he set specifically for his roommate so he’d never miss a call from Rui. 

(You learn, then, that Rui is astonishingly bad at remembering to bring his keys out, and that Haru is very good at picking locks.) 

And, oh, between the two of you you learn that his hands are always rough and warm, that his ears tint pink. You learn how dark red can be when he meets you after a shower, and how rich it can be when he is fluffy and sleep-mussed. You learn the angle at which his eyebrows tent whenever he’s worried, the lop of his frown whenever he thinks too hard, the curve of his eyebags whenever you decide it’s time to turn in but somehow cannot bring yourselves to leave. 

You learn the way Haru looks at you. You learn the way it makes you feel like you’ve been holding the stars in your lungs, too much and not enough. When your roommate asks you for your weekend plans, the “Haru and I” that graces the start of your sentences leaves you that sort of glowing, breathless, weightless. 

It makes you wonder if maybe being with him is how flowers sound like, all slow and soft as they grow into what they are meant to become. As the semester melts into the cold of October you begin to wonder what it would be like to bloom. 

-

At 3;6, children begin using subordinating conjunction ‘because’ (Glória et al., 2016). 

Sunday finds you in the cosy, sunlit reading room of the library next to the park. It is full of caregivers and their children, bustling with laughter and yells of children excited for book-reading time. 

It is more packed than you expected when Haru invited you to his weekly volunteer session, and you seek to tuck yourself into a corner, sitting cross-legged on a cushion underneath a painted display of The Very Hungry Caterpillar.

Haru sits at the front of the room. He has two books resting on his lap as he chats with the children sitting in the front row, eyebrows dancing through expressions as he gasps and exclaims in response to their clamouring. The delighted giggles of the children in response to Haru’s dramatic begging for them to go one at a time sends a strange sort of fondness through the swell of your heart. 

But at last it begins; Haru claps his hands to be heard over the noise, and the din hushes instantly. 

“Deep in the fridge, and behind the green peas,” Haru starts, “way past the tofu and left of the cheese…” 

If he wasn’t already the centre of your attention, he would be now – when he reads, dancing through the pages in different voices and pausing to ask the children questions, his hands arc through the air, animated and bright as he pulls laughter and gasps from his young audience. The story is appropriately entertaining, you think, but you don’t remember a word of it.

Instead, as his eyes alight on yours again and again, bright and twinkling, you find yourself smiling in time to the rise and lilt of his voice. The sunlight sings through a nearby window; it paints Haru in the glow of the afternoon and sends tangles of fire-gold through the rust-red threads of his hair.

The image of him just like this, haloed and gentle and looking at you from across a room that is too big and too small all at once, freezes and melts, stretches and folds in the space between you, and then collapses, neat and sweet under the tip of your tongue. It dawns on you, slowly, that maybe you were wrong all along – Haru has never been sparks and summer, has never been the scorch of fire and sun. He has never been the blaze of midday, but the gradual warmth that creeps in with sunrise, the quietness of dawning light. 

The promise of him blooms over you as you sit, still and quiet, amongst the muted shout-laughs of the children. Maybe loving Haru, all along, has been like spring – like the arrival of the season he has wrapped himself around you, slowly, completely and surely. Without you noticing the thought of him has already sunk its roots into the crevices of your days despite the business of his own. 

You exhale, and with it comes the sudden undeniable certainty that yes, yes, yes, you are in love with Haru and the way he is filled with love. The way he gives so many parts of himself away and still manages to find more. The way he has been fitted with a heart five sizes too big, the way he will stretch himself thin to make time for all the things he cares about. The way his hands and arms are scarred from things that have hurt him, over and over again, but the way he will not keep himself from reaching back out to help. 

There are a million reasons to love Haru, you think, but perhaps they all boil down to this – when his eyes meet yours again at the end of the storybook, crinkled up and flitting across the thrum of the room, his gaze feels like it is sliding home. 

-

Speech intelligibility is expected to reach nearly 100% at four years old (Coplan & Gleason, 1988). 

“Maybe I should just drop out,” Haru says forlornly. He drops forward, resting his cheek on his arms as he tilts his head to look back up at you. 

You laugh, and set your pen down next to your coffee cup. If you cross your arms maybe you won’t feel as tempted to run your hand through the fluffiness of his hair. “Come on, two chapters to go.” 

“I can’t cram anything in my brain anymore,” Haru whines, and he looks so adorable you give in. 

You rest your fingers on his head. You ignore how soft his hair is under your fingers, and ignore how close he’s sitting, with your thighs nearly pressed together under the table. “You’re already doing so well. Just two more chapters!” 

Haru blinks up at you, small pout forming on his lips. “You’re so encouraging… maybe you should be the kindergarten teacher instead.” 

You pull your hand back – if you don’t, you’ll never stop threading your fingers through his hair. You focus instead on the smattering of freckles across his nose bridge, studying the constellations of sun that have painted themselves across his cheek. “That’s not true. You’re going to be the best kindergarten teacher your kids will ever have.” 

“They’ll never have a kindergarten teacher if I don’t graduate,” Haru grumbles. His cheek is still smushed against his arm, slightly slurring his words. You bite back a smile. 

“You’re going to graduate just fine. You’re perfect for this job, kids love you,” you say, softly. You can’t imagine anyone not loving him. 

(Yourself included.) 

You fish a small plastic-wrapped sweet out of your pocket. The wrapper crinkles between your fingers as you free the yellow candy from it, and when you nudge the sweet at him he opens his mouth obediently for you to slip it between the soft pink of his lips. 

“You’re going to be their favourite teacher,” you continue, and leave the wrapper next to your cup. 

“Will I be your favourite teacher?” Haru says, and he smiles a little, a sweet grin that bursts behind your teeth and makes your next breath feel all sorts of fragile. 

The way he looks at you, wide and trusting, hitches in your throat. You daren’t speak for fear of shattering the moment, the anticipation in his eyes glass-thin, but the words build themselves in your tongue anyway– 

You will always be my favourite. In a room full of people you will always be the only one I’ll be drawn to. In a crowd your voice will always be the first I will hear. 

But Haru tilts his head, looking up at you, and something bubbles in you with a reckless confidence. 

You lift your hand. Your fingertips brush along the soft of his cheek. 

“You’re already my favourite,” you say, quietly. “You’ve been my favourite since the moment we met.” 

He sits up, then, a slow unfolding of himself, sunflower-like. 

“From that day at the bonfire,” you say. You let your hand and your gaze drop back into your lap. “And that day in the laundry room, and every day ever since. You’ve always been my favourite.” 

There is a huff from your right. You look up, half-expecting another self-deprecating laugh as Haru is wont to do, but you are met with eyes twinkling and soft and fond. The bright grin that he gives you as he leans in is warm, like cloudless days on rolling hills, all blue skies through the clear of a window, all Haru. 

“Come on,” Haru says, and as he takes your hand, carefully and gently, it fills you with the sort of dizzying, giddy golden you can only imagine fields of daffodils shine with. “You’re my favourite, too.” 

-

By four years of age, children are able to compare things using words like bigger and smaller (Sheldrick et al., 2013).

The first time you meet Teacher Haru, it is in a riot of colours and clamour. 

Or rather: the first time you meet Teacher Haru it is across a small wooden childproofing gate, painted a delightful blue and littered with misshapen origami flowers. The wattage of his smile the moment he catches sight of you matches the blinding yellow of his apron, but he barely opens his mouth before he is swept away again by the cacophony that accompanies playtime in a kindergarten class. 

You squat down next to the child for whom you’ve been called in to do a speech assessment. You wait until he looks at you, then smile kindly. “Hi, Boo.” 

The boy’s eyes round. He stares warily at you for a moment, clutching a small, red toy truck between his hands, before whispering, “Hi.” 

It takes a while for him to open up to you, but you are nothing but patient – you eventually get him to respond in longer sentences at the end of fifteen minutes. 

You prod at the toy truck that now rests between you. “Who’s your favourite teacher, Boo?”

Boo gives you a shy smile, then glances away to the front of the classroom. “Teacher Haru.” 

You can’t help it – your eyes slide back to where you know Haru is standing. The sunlight streaming through the open classroom windows haloes him, basking the red of his hair in a familiar, golden sort of warmth. His head is thrown back in laughter, hands fending off crayons from a gaggle of enthusiastic preschoolers as they clamour for his attention.

In the sea of noise between you he looks almost like a mirage. 

He turns, slightly, to look at you, his gaze brimming with a familiar fondness, a magnet finding its way home. 

His eyes meet yours. 

“Guess what,” you find yourself saying. The toy truck drifts from your fingertips as you smile back at him. “Teacher Haru’s my favourite teacher too.” 

[burstfoot]

Figured I'd make a post outlining Arknights' auxiliary material for those who want to see more of the universe and aren't aware of all that's out there! ANIMATION Arknights Prelude To Dawn (S1) and Perish in Frost (S2, currently airing): [Crunchyroll]

A straight up adapation of the main story, up through Chapter 0 to Chapter 6! It's much more fast-paced than the story, so I wouldn't use it to replace actually reading it, but it's very cool to see some of these scenes in full animation. Lee's Detective Agency: (Youtube)

A mini-series animated in a chibi-style with a comedic tone focused on the adventures of the Kuroblood-illustrated Lee's Detective Agency! Distributed by Crunchyroll globally, but entirely free to watch.

Closure's Secret Files: (Youtube)

A cut-out styled series of shorts hosted by Closure which outlines a lot of the game's basic mechanics!

Holy Knight Light: [Youtube]

A short Youtube OVA focusing around Penguin Logistics delivering a package, celebrating Arknights' first anniversary!

[Upcoming]: Kay's Daily Doodles: (Twitter Annoucement)

Another free youtube mini-series that starts airing December 1st, focused around Ceobe! Here's some additional animations! Each event usually also has a 15 second 2D animated preview of the event, but there's so many of those that I can't list them all. Official Anniversary Event 3D Animations: Lone Trail Where Vernal Winds Will Never Blow Il Siracusano Ideal City Stultifera Navis Invitation To Wine Near Light Dossoles Holiday Under Tides Bonus 3D Animated Shorts: Legend of Chongyue Arknights Special - IL Siracusano Lo Scontro Youtube Shorts: Ch'en and Lin's Watermelon Splitting Game Part 1 Ch'en and Lin's Watermelon Splitting Game Part 2 Amiya's Siracusan Food Guide Part 1 Amiya's Siracusano Food Guide Part 2

Comics, Manga, Manhua

Officially Translated Rhodes Island's Records of Originium: Rhine Lab: (Offical Website)

A canon manhua centered around the circumstances that lead to Silence falling out with Saria and joining Rhodes Island with Ifrit, as well as Ifrit's attempt to save a dying infected stowaway on the landship. Essential reading for understanding the Rhine Lab storyline and characters - read it right after Mansfield! One of the characters, Darya, is mentioned in both Ifrit's module and briefly in Lone Trail.

Rhodes Island's Records of Originium: Blacksteel: (Official Source)

A short story focusing on the lives of the Blacksteel operators aboard the landship. While it often gets overshadowed by the Rhine Lab manga which is bigger in scope, this is a great read especially if you're interested in Franka or Liskarm.

Rhodes Kitchen -TIDBITS-: (Official Source)

An anthology story related to the cuisine that's important to a variety of operators. While it might seem unassuming, the art is gorgeous and it's really well-written. I particularly recommend the Goldenglow (Chapter 4) and Rosa (Chapter 5) chapters.

Unofficially Translated

Arknights Comic Anthology: (Mangadex)

As the title says, a series of non-canon anthology stories regarding the cast of Rhodes' Island! Note that the link provided only has complete translations up to Volume 4 (and Vol. 4 is missing Ch. 7), and most of the chapters avaliable after that point were MTL'd, so I can't vouch for their accuracy. Chapters I'd recommend are: Volume 1: Chapter 12 (focused on Myrrh trying to improve her medicine), Chapter 14 (focused on Saria and Silence trying to put apart their differences to take Ifrit on vacation, afaik the only place where they are directly referred to as her "moms") Volume 2: Chapter 1 (Manticore tries to make friends), Chapter 3 (The LGD gets drunk), Chapter 11 (Texlapp and Mosexu yuribait), Ch. 13 (Magallan tries to find a pet), Chapter 16 (Ethan spies on the interior lives of Rhodes operators) Volume 3: Chapter 6 (Snowsant, Ifrit, Nian and Shaw are forced to make friends), Chapter 7 (Gummy flashes back to Chernobog), Chapter 10 (FEater and Shaw yuribait), Chapter 13 (Blackout on the landship, as well as Ayerscarpe and Leonhardt yaoibait)

Volume 4: Chapter 4 (Thorns tries to make friends with Weedy [this one is my favourite]), Chapter 6 (Tomimi tail spankings), Chapter 9 (Elysium helps Frostleaf get along with Dur-Nar) Volume 6: Ch. 1 (Whisperain opens up to others) [this one isn't MTL'd afaik]

123 Rhodes Island: (Mangadex)

A series of non-canon gag 4komas! Many of the games' offical stickers are done in this series' art style.

Arknights: Operators!: (Mangadex)

A compilation of 4komas posted on the official ArknightsJP twitter account! Thank you to @sleepywoodscans for their work on translating these, please show them some love!!

[Edit: For clarities sake, the only stuff here that has used MTL is later chapters of the Comic Anthology! Sleepywoodscans’ work on Operators! is all done by hand (they’re a native Japanese speaker). Again, I really appreciate their work!]

Arknights: A1 Operations Preparation Detachment: (Mangadex)

Part of the Terra Historicus website and not yet officially translated, focusing on Fang, Kroos and Beagle, and a catastrophe striking the Columbian city of Tkaronto. Unfortunately, only translated up to Chapter 6, but one of the characters (Elba) has a brief cameo in Light Sparks in Darkness! Edit: Chapter 7 has been translated by @pooce-art, and they're working on Chapter 8!

Angelina: Sketches of THIS Messenger's Journey: (Mangadex)

Also published as part of the Terra Historicus website and not yet officially translated, focuses on the adventures of Angelina travelling across Terra as a Messenger! Recent chapters relate to the upcoming Sami event & IS4, as well as the upcoming So Long, Adele.

Prelude Suite: Unrestrained Play: (Wiki)

Unfortunately, I can't find a full translation for this one - an epilogue to Hortus De Esscapismo focusing on Arturia's background. Of course, major spoilers for Hortus apply - if you can find a full translation yourself.

As well, an upcoming manhua focused on the Break the Ice cast was annouced during the 4.5 Anniversary stream. As far as I'm aware, chapters have not begun releasing yet!

Other:

Arknights Ambience Synesthesia: (Youtube)

A series of concerts (3 so far), focusing around Arknights' music! A live performance has been done every year, with skins released in-game for the concert's theme & 3D animations produced featuring the skin's cast in 2022 and 2023.

Monster Siren Records: (Spotify) (Official Website)

Arknights' official (and-in-universe) record label publishing game OSTs, themes for almost every 6 star operator that releases, and occasional bonus songs.

Arknights: Endfield: (Twitter)

An upcoming 3D action gacha game from Hypergryph, set in the far future of Arknights' universe on another planet. Currently in closed beta testing for their CN servers!

Arknights: Nomad City: The Founders: (Youtube)

A to-be-released CN Arknights board game! Unclear of if it will ever be translated or released globally, unfortunately...

Terra: A Journey: (Wiki)

An upcoming CN lore book focused on the intricate details of Terra's worldbuilding. As well, unclear if it will be translated or released globally.

UNOFFICIAL:

Some fandom-developed tools that might be of use to you are the Arknights Terra Wiki - which just transferred from FANDOM to wiki.gg, and has very detailed information on both game mechanics and world-lore.

As well, the Arknights Story Reader can help you catch up on stuff you don't want to or can't read in game!

Finally, Aceship's Toolbox provides access to a variety of tools, including a levelling calculator, a calculator to ensure the best recruitments, and all the CGs, backgrounds and character sprites that are avaliable in-game.

Conclusion:

Thank you for reading! I hope this provided some new information to you or at least provides an easy reference resource in the future. There's a lot to check out even outside of the game, and I hope you find some stuff you enjoy!

[make-friends-with-the-rats]

Color Symbolism in Newsies

Newsies (1992) is much beloved for it's use of color. From the pastels of the ensemble newsies to Jack's distinctive red bandana, the use of certain colors in the film do an excellent job of helping to tell the story. Exhibit A: the contrast between Jack's bandana and David's blue shirt which creates a visual representation of the contrast between the personalities of our two main characters.

Coupled with historical context and meanings, there are many connections between and insights into characters that can be gained by paying close attention to how Newsies uses color.

For the sake of brevity, I'll just be analyzing the colors in Newsies as they are used in costuming and ignoring set design or we could be here all night.

Red

In political history, red has often stood for revolution and rebellion. It's no wonder then that the leaders of Brooklyn and Manhattan both wear red. Red also indicates passion and bravery, which are key to the strike.

Besides Jack and Spot, Pulitzer wears red when Jack is brought to his study and attempts to bribe Jack to scab. Aka, Pulitzer is dressed in red at the height of exercising his power over Jack.

Center: Jack And The Beanstalk. Illustration for unidentified book of children's nursery literature, with Kronheim illustrations, c 1870

@sarahjacobs has an excellent post that talks about red symbolizing power in Newsies which you can read here.

Another interesting meaning for red comes from Jewish belief where the color red is linked to sin, but also to sacrifice and redemption. Jack scabbing to protect David and his friends after Pulitzer threatens them comes to mind.

You could consider Jack dawning his bandana again during "Once And For All" as symbolic of his redemption and reconciliation with the Jacobs and the newsies.

Red: Uncovering the Historical Significance of a Bold Color - Symbol Sage Political colour, Red - Wikipedia What colors symbolize Jewish culture?, Red

Pink

When most people think of pink, they often associate it with femininity. However, pink being a "girl" color is actually a modern idea which only gained significant popularity in the 1950s. Before this, pink was worn beginning in the 1700s by European aristocrats and became a color of success and class.

This meaning makes pink fitting for Miss Medda Larkson, the Swedish Meadowlark.

In the later half of the 19th century in particular, pink was also tied to youth, which is why we see Sarah and several newsboys alike in the color. As The Art of Dressing Well (1870) dictated, pink "is only fitted for the young. It is a charming color, and those to whom it is suited look very graceful in it."

Because it was also seen as a "paler shade of red", pink had masculine connotations that were also associated with red. Pink therefore occasionally shares the meanings of passion, aggression, and bravery with its parent color.

The first time Sarah wears pink is when she discovers Denton's article and becomes directly involved with and passionate about the strike.

Oscar Delancey, arguably the more aggressive Delancey, wears a pink undershirt. You also have Kid Blink in a pink shirt who is known for being very passionate and short tempered.

The shade of pink that Blink wears is the same shade as Sarah's shawl which she wears when she punches Morris Delancey in the face. Medda too isn't afraid to fight back and speak her mind at the rally. She and Sarah both exhibit bravery.

Refined, rebellious and not just for girls: A cultural history of pink | CNN Tickled pink: colors in the Victorian era - Recollections Blog The complicated gender history of pink | CNN

Blue

You've likely heard the phrase "true blue" before, this is because blue has a reputation stretching far back in history for representing loyalty and trust. Blue also often represents intelligence and tranquility. It's extremely fitting then that David Jacobs is always seen in blue, especially because he values honesty and prefers peaceful means of protest to violence whenever possible.

The color blue, specifically tekhelet or a shade of blue described in the Torah, holds significant weight in Judaism. It is sometimes referred to as the 'color of God’s Glory’ in Rabbinic literature and has been used in ancient and modern Jewish symbolism alike. This connects the color blue to the Jacobs family as a whole.

Even without the association to Judaism, the Jacobs family puts high value in education and truth. After all, it was Mr. Jacobs who taught his children not to lie and who insists on David and Les returning to school.

Left: King David with the Lyre, 18th century Sebastiano Conca (1680-1764)

Left: Tekhelet (תְּכֵלֶת) or "sky blue" tzitzit; Right: King David. Psalterium et horae ad usum Sanctae Capellae Parisiensis, 1360-1400

Because blue was historically both an expensive dye and pigment for painters, blue was worn by and used in art for only the most important subjects. Thus, blue became symbolic of nobility.

To the Renaissance artists, there was no subject more important than the Virgin Mary. While blue had been tied to female figures and goddesses previously across several cultures, Renaissance depictions of Mary led to blue becoming widely associated with humility, grace, and femininity in the Western world.

Left: Periwinkle flower, a symbol of grace and femininity and a Christian symbol of the Virgin Mary

Pastel shades of blue in particular became commonly feminine colors suitable for women and girls in the 18th and 19th centuries. Hence, it makes sense that Sarah would wear blue at the rally.

All You Need to Know About What the Color Blue Symbolizes | Slightly Blue What does blue mean in Judaism? | Slightly Blue The Secret History of the Color Blue — Google Arts & Culture The History of Blue as a Women’s Color

Purple

Because of its rarity in the natural world, and the labor historically needed to create purple dye, purple was highly prized and was considered a symbol of high status and honor.

Spot Conlon is the only member of the our main cast of newsies to wear the color purple, which visually symbolizes the newsboys' respect for him, his reputation, and his involvement in the strike.

The purple detailing on Medda's costume when we first meet and are introduced to her by Jack is also an indication of the respect other characters have for her.

Purple can also denote ambition and independence, characteristics that suit both Spot and Medda well seeing as Spot has "moved up in the world" and Medda owns her own theater.

Why is Purple Considered the Color of Royalty? | HISTORY Purple: Color Meaning, Associations, and Effects

Black and Grey

What about lack of color? In Newsies, we can easily tell our heroes from the villains through the use of color. Or can we?

The villains or "opposing forces" are all dressed in dark greys or black as opposed to the pastels and shades of brown that the newsies and their allies wear. Jack Kelly is an interesting exception, dressed head to toe in dark hues with the one color being the red of his bandana. Visually, Jack could fit into a crowd of newsboys, or of scabs and goons.

Black has long been associated, for obvious reasons, with darkness and secrecy. Similarly, grey is often seen as representing foreboding, moral ambiguity, and evasiveness.

The use of grey and black for Jack clues us into the fact that he is lying about his past and his family and also foreshadows his betrayal of the strike.

Which Colour represents evil?

[holysadwetcatbatman]

My Favorite Tropes I've Seen in Batman Fanfics (Ao3)

This is not in order btw:

Social Media fics

twitter, reddit, tiktok, youtube or in universe press also Reality TV fics (also also that one bachelor fic)

Independent Gotham

there's not alot of fics about this which is sad but basically gotham is its own state now, this is usually tied in with No Man's Land so yeah :)

Sentient Gotham

so gotham the city is alive and maybe cursed, and depending on the fic she can be protective and loving towards batfam, or manipulative and cruel. Either way I find and eldritch city interesting

White Collar Crossovers (X and Neal Caffrey are the Same Person)

haven't actually watched white collar lol but basically a dc character usually dick is undercover as neal caffrey a criminal informant to the FBI and shenanigans ensue or angst thats cool too

Identity Reveal (a classic)

identity reveals along with their adjacent tropes such as identity porn or identity fail is always entertaining to me. theres alot of drama and intrigue with a secret identity being revealed and its interesting to see how others react especially with many members of the batfamily having public personas. this usually occurs with other dc superheros though and very rarely with civillians or the public at large which i find unfortunate because i find the idea intriguing with all the fallout a public reveal would entail

The Malones

i like how this trope has bruce/others juggle yet another secret identity. i especially like when the rest of batfam have an identity corresponding the the Matches Malone identity. I think its interesting to see how they act as criminals. also worth a mention is the mafia/crime empire au which is related

Time Travel (another classic)

time shenanigans are always fun, but also time travel fix its are chef's kiss

Dimensional Hopping

could be very interesting comparing different characterizations of characters. the reactions of characters when facing their counterparts or another version of someone they know intrigue me

Body Swap

I like the "Walk a Mile in My Shoe" kinda situations. I also like body sharing, but that isn't as popular.

Cryptid Batfamily

i just enjoy the batfam being BAMFs and being creepy.

Isolated Batfamily

i think i enjoy these because and isolated batfamily is usually a tighter knit one and thats always cool. seeing how they develop as a family and vigilantes without the intervention of the community as a whole is cool

Platonic Soulmates

I like soulmates as a trope in general in romance but batfam for me is all about the found family dynamics and platonic soulmates hit that mark. i love a fic where bruce has like 10 different soulmates when he expects to be a loner

Omega Bruce (Gen Fic A/B/O)

as i just said batfamily for me is all about the found family dynamics and this trope is all about that. omega bruce just highlights the protectiveness and motherly instincts I enjoy seeing with his kids but most general rated omegaverse fics are interesting to me. I also like omegaverse a plot device and the social commentary that can come from it

Asexual Bruce Wayne

I think its interesting to see him written that way when his public persona is so wildly different. I also like to see it because I could kinda get to see how asexuals experience things through the lens of a character I enjoy

Slut Bruce Wayne

opposite end of the spectrum lol. its just as entertaining to see how much he plays into his role. it think it being juxtaposed with him being batman and all broody like is interesting

Brucie Wayne

i just love that dumb himbo billionaire. there are many flavors of brucie, but i think seeing him act out in outrageous way is very amusing especially at the expense of others

Tim Drake (or other :D) Joins the Batfamily Early

with tim this usually involves his parents being wildly neglectful (as opposed to absent in canon) to downright abusive and then Bruce gets custody yay :D. ive also read ones where both tim and jason come early and those are pretty nice. I think what's appealing is that tim and jason don't interact until after everything goes to shit so its nice that young tim can interact with young jason and dick and bruce. its also nice that they could save a little heart ache by coming to bruce earlier rather than later.

Outsider POV

could be unreliable narrator which is nice, but also seeing what others not in the know think of batfam's actions could be interesting. having a normal random person interact with the crazy that comes with being a vigilante is cool

Jason and his Goons

not sure if its actually considered a trope and kinda falls under outsider pov. i just think its neat

Batman and Rogues Friendship?

ive read a couple fics involving bruce & harley or bruce & harvey (would bruce & selina count? lol) and I just think exploring the relationship between bruce and his enemies is interesting. it really speaks to his character, or atleast what i think which is second chances, seeing the good and hope in the damndest of cities and its people. its one of his core philosophies and a part of what makes him batman.

Bruce Whump

everyone loves a good whump, right? right? woobified batman ftw amirite. angst is good yes :>

Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent

also Bruce Wayne Tries to be a Good Parent. kind of a given, but i just love batdad. the opposite trope of bruce being a bad parent could be interesting, especially if you like other members of the batfam, but I don't think my heart could take it. I think bruce should always be at least trying to be a good parent, and possibly failing because angst, but him just being bad just makes me sad :C. its good when done correctly and him failing despite how hard he tries but I came here for the good family feels not ASB&R

CPS involved

kinda funny with my previous one, but I like it because it tests how bruce cares for his children. its a plot device for drama but also its a very real thing that he should deal with because we want the best for the bat children. I think its also an excuse for them to be outraged on behalf of him. I think of a comic panel i saw of bruce crying while talking about jason when talking to a social worker.

Bruce Wayne Kills the Joker (DCU)

i know that not killing is his whole thing, which i agree should be a thing and is valid, but i also like the thought of him killing for his kids, sacrificing him morals, or even him mental well being for them, especially Jason because that is kind of their whole dichotomy and wouldn't that be great, for bruce to do the one thing that jason asks and them being happy again? Technicially if memory serves right bruce does kill the joker in Death in the Family but then it might of gotten retconned? maybe he stopped himself inbetween the comics, or somehow joker survived the murder attempt, but either way the intent was there. anyways I like the moral dilemma and potential fallout it may entail.

Bruce Wayne is a Troll

bruce having a sense of humor yes. bruce fucking with people even more yes. I love me those fucking with the JL fics. I love me some crack <3.

De-ageing

good for angst, good for fluff, just good overall i guess. Similar to time travel in that people have different amounts of information. 10/10

Truth Serum

another good plot device for angst, also for fixing shit. the best way to force emotional conversations when the whole family is emotional constipation™

Young Bruce Wayne

I love the exploration of his character before becoming batman. I think there should be more fics about his childhood. Fics with him and alfred are <3

[amphorographia]

Something interesting about Pathologic that I don't see people talk about very often is the fact that technically none of the protagonists are doctors and, of the three, it's actually Artemy that's the closest to a real physician.

The fact that Daniil is specifically referred to as a "Bachelor" of medicine is something that was always sort of confusing to me but is actually extremely telling when put together with all the other details we get about him.

There's an excellent video essay about Daniil's character by Horror Game Analysis which goes into more detail about this [x], but he points out two things about thanatology that I think are really significant:

It was first conceptualised as a field of study in 1903 by Ilya Mechnikov, a Russian-Ukranian immunologist and microbiologist, who felt that there was not enough known about the phenomenon of death itself; and

Thanatology straddles the line between the humanities and the sciences because it's investigations grapple with the physical, psychological, socio-cultural, philosophical, and spiritual elements of death

With all that in mind and Pathologic's ambiguous time period, Daniil could very much be read as the in-game world's equivalent of Mechnikov. Despite his (sort of) alignment with the philosophically-minded Kains, Daniil is consistently shown to be very much focused on the physical components of death. He came to the town hoping that "[Simon's] tissues will help [him] defeat death." Rubin, Artemy, Victor (and Lara, Yulia, Aspity, Anna, and Clara) all need him to collect and examine blood samples for evidence of the disease. Once the plague begins, his focus in on the creation of a vaccine - a tool for immunisation - instead of a cure.

All of the evidence points to Daniil, at his core, being a microbiologist and researcher. His medical knowledge, while far above average, is highly specialised and doesn't indicate that he has any practical experience as a physician. He's not a doctor, he's a bachelor of medicine using his theoretical and academic expertise to fight an impossible disease in the only way he knows.

Now, Artemy does have some practical knowledge. Isidor taught him about the traditional medicine of the town while he was growing up before sending him to "study modern medicine in the academy" when he was 16. However, in his opening description, all we are told is that Artemy is returning from several years of "travelling from town to town learning theoretical and pratical surgery." In Pathologic Classic, Artemy is canonically 26 years old so if he spent 6-7 years travelling, his formal medical education was likely either short or incomplete. Not to mention that the emphasis on Artemy as a surgeon and menkhu (much like Daniil as a bachelor and thanatologist) implies a very specialised area of expertise which, although closely related to practical medicine, is not the same thing.

This is reinforced in a number of ways. For example, while there are multiple dialogue options which let you dismiss the town's local medical practices, they appear mostly (or only) in conversations with outsiders - responding to Daniil's admission of underestimating the value of "steppe medical knowledge" with "there's nothing medical in their knowledge" and telling Block that he has "an education in the civilized world and ha[s] forgotten two thirds of the specific local practices." Ultimately, Artemy is more consistently aligned with the Kin's more bodily approach to medicine. That distinction between Kin and Town is important, since the traditional medicines Artemy makes are not valued or trusted by townspeople and the kin refuse almost all of the modern medicine (specifically antibiotics) sold in the town.

He also seems to be either unfamiliar or seriously out of practice with the more formal language of science and medicine a university-educated physician should know. At several points, Artemy is shown to be dependent on Daniil's medical knowledge, and various members of the town poke fun at him for asking clarifying questions - Boy: "You graduated from a university and this is your question…?" Rubin: "I thought you were [away] studying." Artemy's story is about trying to fill his father's role and, while he succeeds in becoming a menkhu, his position as the town's doctor is less clearly defined even after the plague. While he begins the game with the most practical experience of the three protagonists, the fact that he's not qualified to be a physician but has to act as one is what drives his story forward.

I won't go into Clara since it's obvious she's not a doctor. If anything, she's more like a personification of a cure for this one specific disease (just like her 'twin' is the plague). She couldn't reset a bone or diognose the flu any more than she could synthesise antibiotics or distinguish between bacteria in a blood sample. Still, she's an interesting comparison point and does serve to remind the player that the protagonists don't really represent different approaches to medicine, but different approaches to healing.

The Bachelor is the modern healer of formal scientific practices who sees healing as the result of understanding the body, disease, and their interactions.

The Haruspex is the traditional healer with the spiritual or ancestral right to protected knowledge and practices who sees healing as a reflection of cultural duty, customs, and community.

The Changeling is the divine healer chosen by a Deity (or Deities) to carry out their will on earth who sees healing as an act of religious faith and demonstration of the existence and power of God(s).

[kaye-go-moo]

Shapes and Strange Ciphers AU: Need a hand? Pt. 2

SaSC by me

Shapes and Pines by @/void-dude

Next Part

Jheselbraum, on the rare occasions she saw Bill in town, noticed his behavior gradually becoming increasingly strange over the span of a few weeks. At first, his movements were clumsy and awkward, stumbling through the streets like a child learning to walk. She initially assumed he was drunk, but as time passed, it became clear something else was wrong. His walk became more refined, but completely different from his usual stride—his head held high, his steps confident, and his hands clasped neatly behind his back. However, this wasn't nearly as disturbing as his newfound hostility towards others. Bill, who had always been somewhat stand-offish but never rude, acted arrogant, treating those around him as if they were beneath him. 

Bill also appeared disheveled; his hair was long and tangled, his clothes dirty, and his face gaunt. There was also something off with his eyes. Jheselbraum couldn't place it, but they just looked wrong—dark and empty, like something had crawled inside of Bill's skin and was poorly imitating him. Jheselbraum was filled with a growing sense of unease, the feeling in her gut that had kept her in gravity falls returned, leading her to pay Bill a visit.

-

When she entered his house, Jheselbraum was taken aback by its state. The place was a wreck—papers strewn everywhere, cobwebs draped over the furniture, and dust filled the air. Is Bill really living here?

She called out his name, but there was no response. She ventured down into the basement and found him working on the portal. He looked awful. With his long hair tied into a messy ponytail, revealing his condition was far worse than Jheselbraum had initially believed, "Bill?"

Bill jumped and looked up in surprise, “J-Jhesel? What are you doing here?”

"I was worried. About you." Her gaze lingered, examining his decrypate from, her face a mix of shock and concern.

Bill’s expression darkened as he turned to continue his work., “Im fine. You can leave now.”

"Fine? You call this fine?” Her anger surged, “Bill, what the hell is going on with you?" 

For once, Jheselbraum didn’t hold back. Normally, she would leave in quiet frustration, wanting to avoid confrontation, but not this time. She had reached her limit. If escalating was the only way to get Bill to listen, then so be it.

She unleashed everything—her concerns and frustration from the last year, picking apart his every action. She questioned his sanity, asking if he was having a mental crisis. She tore him to pieces before threatening to contact his family, “Is that what it will to get you to pull your head out of your ass?”. However, this only managed to anger Bill and send him over the edge.

Bill had been frozen in stunned silence, but the mention of his family caused him to snap. His face contortinf with rage as he yelled, “Leave them out of this!”

He unleashed a barrage of cutting insults, using her insecurities and regrets as amunition. In his rage, he grabbed a nearby tool and flung it at her.

It missed, bouncing off the wall behind her and clattering to the floor. Jheselbraum stood in shock, face pale and eyes wide. She stumbled back, turned, and bolted up the stairs, fleeing the house and driving away.

Bill sat there, paralyzed, the weight of his actions crashing down on him. He wanted to chase after her, but his legs wouldn’t move. Minutes passed before he managed to stumbled to his feet and up the upstairs. The front door was open, left ajar by Jheselbraum. He reached outt, his hand hovered over the doorknob. I should apologize.

“You should stay here,” Bill shifted his attention to Ford. “Things will only escalate if you go after her.”

Bill, deflated, slowly closing the door. He stood in silence, staring blankly at the knob, fog clouding his mind. “You should rest.” Ford glided in front of Bill, forcing him to meet his gaze.

Bill silently obeyed, numbly turning and walking to his bedroom. He slumped onto his bed and stared at the ceiling. Eventually, exhaustion overtook him, and he feel fast sleep, unaware of what Ford did while he rested.

When he woke, he back in the basement, a sticky note left by Ford sitting in front of him: ‘There's nothing to worry about. The problem is solved. Continue fulfilling your legacy.’

A pit formed in Bill’s stomach and a lump formed in his throat. He swallowed hard, let out a shaky breath. Rising to his feet, he turned back to the portal, but a chilling anxiety brewed in his chest as he forced himself to continue working.

-

A week had passed with Bill tirelessly working on the Portal and Ford taking over his body at night. But eventually, something clicked in Bill's mind. Why wasn’t anyone banging down the front door? Why hadn’t anyone called? Knowing Jheselbraum, she would’ve definitely told his family about their fight. So why was no one there?

A cold shiver ran down his spine as Ford’s words flashed in his mind ‘the problem is solved’. What did that mean? Bill thought back, remembering all of his doubts, doubts he had kept hidden—doubts Ford had somehow known. Ford knew exactly what to tell Bill to keep his fears down. To keep him down. Something wasn’t right.

Unable to shake the feeling, Bill raced out of the house and into town. Heading towards Jheselbraum's apartment, he spotted her wandering the streets. Relief washed over him as he ran up to her and began apologizing, stopping when he noticed her confused and worried expression.

"Do I know you?"

Bill’s heart sank. His face paled as he looked her over. She was wearing the same clothes from when he last saw her, but no coat or shoes—in the middle of winter. He quickly wrapped his jacket around her, ushering her towards his car and out of the cold. But she recoiled in fear, wriggling out of Bill’s grasp before running away.

He tried to chase after her, but his exhaustion slowed him to a wheezing crawl. Bill spent the rest of the day searching, but the cold forced him to stop. Desperation pushed him to ask the police for help, but all they could offer was a vague promise to “keep an eye out.”

Bill had no choice but to return home. He needed to call the Jheselbraums family and tell them. Tell them... what exactly? That their daughter had gone mad? That she lost her mind and was now wondering underdressed through the cold? Thinking about it, he realized he didn't even remember their numbers. He couldn’t remember anyone's number. Bill never could, always having to rely on an old notebook with the everyones contact information listed.

Bill frantically searched the house, but the notebook was gone. Even his phone had disappeared.His breath quickened, becoming ragged, as the world collapsed in on him. Nothing was where it should, no one was acting how they should be. Nothing was right and he had no one—not his friend or his family. He was alone.

Bill crumpled to the floor in a sobbing heap before waking to a familiar cosmos. Ford hovered above him, trying to explain away all of Bill’s doubts.

Bill stayed quiet, listening to Ford try and rationalize what Bill saw. Then Ford paused, seemingly interrupted by a silent voice. He looked down at Bill, examining him with a narrowed eye.

"I want the truth." Bill's voice was cold, his eye fixed on Ford.

Ford sighed with annoyance, looking at Bill with disappointment. "I'll give you this one chance, Cipher."

With a snap, the dream unraveled, and Bill was bombarded with flashes of creatures and places he had never seen before, inventions he could never dream of creating.

"This will all be ours, my protégé.” Ford gestured towards the images, “Anything we desire. Everything we deserve."

Bill's head was spinning. Overwhelmed, he squeezed his eyes shut and turned away, "No! I asked for the truth, Stanford! Give me the truth!"

Ford's eye darkened, and a flash of red anger painted his shape. He closed his eye, recollecting himself before he raised his hand, fingers bracing against each other. His eye reopened, staring at Bill with a cold indifference.

"To think I would've let you join me."

Snap

-

Ford took control of Bill's body, forcing it up from the floor and over to the basement door. First, he changed the doors passcode before heading down to the lab. There, he grabbed one of his secret side projects: a pin lock, which he installed on the closet door. Afterwards, he turned his attention to the portal, picking up where Bill had left off. He worked until Bill’s body reached its limit, its hand’s trembling too much to use. Finally, Ford locked himself in the closet. Now, Bill was trapped—only able to leave when Ford possessed his body.

-

Ford continued working on the portal, knowing it would be complete in a few more days. However, Bill didn't make it easy. When awake, he tried breaking down the door, leaving his body too exhausted for Ford to use, delaying the portal's completion. Bill’s continued escape efforts lead him to work his frail body past its limits. In a desperate attempt to slow Ford's progress, he restored to hurting himself. Forcing Ford to work with broken bones and trembling limbs. Ford tried reasoning with Bill—through flattery or insult—doing everything he could to break him down. But Bill held strong.

After a few days, Bill finally managed to break down the door and weakly climb upstairs, only to be met with another lock installed by Ford. In that moment, Bill nearly gave up. His body was wrecked, the pain being the only thing keeping him conscious. Ford tried encouraging Bill’s weakness, insisting his actions were pointless. But Bill fought off his desire to quit and steeled his resolve. 

He tried kicking down the metal door, but his legs were too weak. Taking a moment to assess his surroundings, he realized he could just break through the wooden wall instead. With renewed determination, he shuffled back down to the lab and grabbed his tools. He spent hours tearing at the the wall, all while enduring Ford’s manipulation. Eventually he broke through.

Bill raced to the front door, only to be halted by a raging blizzard. It was too risky to push through the snow—he could die of hypothermia or pass out, giving Ford to the chance to regain control or manipulate someone else into finishing the portal. He had no choice but to find a solution inside the house.

Bill frantically searched for something—anything—that might help him deal with Ford. It was a feverish attempt made more difficult as night fell. Ford had taken the time to remove every light bulb in the house, leaving Bill in the dark and forcing him to return to the basement. There he found a busted old torch that he used to light his way.

During his search, he came across an old photo of him with his friends. A heavy pit formed in his stomach as he stared at the picture, a reminder of forgotten memories and broken friendships. Before he could dwell on it for too long, another photo caught his eye.

In it, a younger Bill smiled proudly as he held up a first-place prize from a science contest. Beside him stood someone he hadn't seen in almost a decade—his old babysitter, first friend, and big brother, Tad. Tears welled up in Bill’s eyes as he realized just how much he missed Tad. How much he’s needed him—now more than ever.

Suddenly, an idea grounded him. Bill jumped to his feet, rifling through drawers until he found an unfinished postcard addressed to Tad. “What good will that do?” Fords voice cut through Bills thoughts “He abandoned you, Cipher. What makes you think he’ll come back?” Bill paused. Ford was right. And even if he wasn’t, who was Bill to ask Tad to travel all the way to Gravity Falls just to help him? They hadn’t spoken in years. Did Tad even remember Bill existed?

Taking a deep breath, Bill steadied himself. I won’t know unless I send it. He wrote “PLEASE COME!” followed by his home address. Once the blizzard died down, he bundled up and made his way into the woods, placing the letter in an old, rusted mailbox. He lifted the flag and left, hoping—praying—Tad would receive it.

-

While waiting for Tad, Bill loaded up on caffeine and energy medication, trying to stay awake for as long as possible. He couldn't risk Ford taking over his body and locking himself somewhere he couldn't escape. Bill continued his search for something against Ford, but he couldn’t find his journals. He nearly tore the house apart, but there was nothing—Ford had either hidden or destroyed them. Defeated, Bill shifted his focus to dismantling the portal.

It was far from an easy task. Bill's body was weak from a lack of food and sleep, and with his journals gone, he had to rely on scattered notes and his foggy memory. He gathered what he could find, but between Ford’s constant badgering and Bill's sleep deprivation, it was hard to focus. Things only got worse when he started to have hallucinations—or what he convinced himself were hallucinations.

Every bump and creak sent Bill into panic, scrambling to find its cause. The only way he could get any work done was by tricking himself into thinking everything was fine. As long as he saw Ford, he was safe, his presence brought Bill a strange sense comfort. He could keep and eye on him and didn’t have to be completely alone—though its debatable if being alone would’ve be better than hanging out with your captor.

One night, after ignoring a series of thumps upstairs, Bill was startled by the sound of breaking glass. He looked around and realized Ford was gone. He’d been so focused on the portal that Bill didn’t notice his absence. Grabbing a long metal pipe, he raced upstairs, slowing as he neared the source of the noise. He was chilled to see a decaying body crawling through the broken window, its eye glowing a golden hue.

"Stop with these games, Cipher." The corpse’s voice was raspy, its words disturbingly familiar. Ford. "I gave you the opportunity to do one worthwhile thing in your pathetic life, and you wasted it."

Bill froze, trembling as the corspe staggered to its feet. "This is your last chance."

A bloody hand reached out toward him. Bill's grip on the pipe tightened.

"Cipher, my protégé, don't—"

Before Ford could finish, Bill swung the pipe down onto the hand, then back at Ford’s face, landing with a sickening crack. The corpse slammed into the ground. Bill stood panting, waiting for Ford to get back up, but the body lay still. Shining his flashlight into the dead man's eyes, Bill saw no glow—the pupils small and unreactive.

Bill dragged the body outside. It took him a while, but eventually, he managed to lay it beside the back porch. He stumbled back inside and returned to the basement. He tried dismantling the portal, but his hands wouldn’t cooperate. Shaking so violently he could barley hold a tool without dropping it. He told himself that he was just the cold, but even after an hour of sitting in the warm basement, his hands pressed tightly against his chest, the trembling wouldn’t stop. And then came the tears.

-

At one point, Bill toyed with the idea of blowing up the house. It would be the quickest solution and would set Ford back significantly. The idea intrigued him, but the intrusive thought of being inside when it exploded quickly snuffed out the plan. Besides, it was only a temporary fix. Bill needed something permanent. And then there was Tad. If he comes—when he comes— how would he feel, finding nothing but the ashes of Bill’s homes?

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