#and I think something in my brain exploded

[sixeyesonathiel]

satoru absolutely baby talks you when you’re sick.

not in a mocking way. no. this is full-blown softie satoru, disgusting levels of wife guy activated, baby voice on max, coddling you like you’re the most precious, fragile little thing in the universe—and not because he thinks you’re weak, but because it’s the one time you let him get away with it without putting up your usual walls.

because you’re sick. hot forehead, flushed cheeks, big watery eyes that blink up at him like you’re seeing god—or worse, like you might actually cry if he leaves the room. like you need him. and honestly? that does something to him. wrecks him, even.

and you do need him. you’re fevered, shivering, curled up in bed in one of his oversized shirts, your hair a mess, nose stuffy, brain thoroughly fried. your fingers twitch like you want to reach for him but can’t be bothered to try, lips parted in a weak sigh as you breathe through your mouth. your usual bratty, mouthy, too-proud-for-help self? gone. obliterated. absolutely bulldozed by the flu. all that’s left is a miserable little lump of a wife who clings to his sleeve like a koala and mumbles, “’toru… i feel like a soggy towel…”

his whole body stills. there’s a twitch in his brow, like his heart has physically clenched. his lips part, just a little, before curling up in the softest grin. eyes soften behind pale lashes—just a hint of red at the corners from how tired he is too—but none of that matters. not when you’re looking up at him like that. the corner of his mouth tugs upward, not in amusement—but in something far gentler. reverent, even. and then god. he melts. instantly. his heart shatters into a million pieces and reforms just to explode again.

“awww, my poor widdle baby,” he coos, already pressing a kiss to your damp forehead. his breath is warm, his nose brushing yours. “does my soggy towel need her soup? wanna be spoon-fed by the hottest nurse in the world?”

you don’t even roll your eyes. you nod. actually nod. sluggish, dazed. and then flop into his arms like dead weight, forehead nudging his neck, skin hot against his collarbone. you let him hold you like you’re made of glass.

he almost cries. really. because you’re letting yourself be coddled. cuddled. taken care of. no sass. no biting remarks. just tiny, pitiful sniffles and pouty faces and your arms wrapping around his waist like he’s your anchor. like you don’t want him to go anywhere. like you can’t function without him.

and satoru eats that up like it’s a feast.

“you want juice, angel? how about some water? apple slices? forehead kisses every ten minutes? medicine with a kiss as a chaser?”

“mmm… apple. but peeled…” you whisper, voice small and hoarse, eyes half-lidded and glossy.

“of course, peeled! only the finest fruits for my fevered little dumpling,” he gasps, hand dramatically on his chest like he’s been knighted for a sacred quest. there’s a shine in his eyes—something starry, something stupidly in love.

he tucks you in like a burrito, tugs the blankets up to your chin, and then scoops you onto his lap because apparently that’s where you sleep best. his fingers comb through your hair, slow and tender, while your cheek rests limp against his shirt. he puts on your comfort show, even though you barely keep your eyes open long enough to register the sound.

he hums something soft—tuneless and low—while cradling you like a fevered woodland creature. his tone dips lower when he leans in again.

“do you still love me even if i’m gross and sweaty and my nose is red?” you mumble, lips wobbling, brows pinched like the thought genuinely upsets you.

his hand smooths along your cheek. “i love you way more,” he says instantly. “you’re my sweaty, sniffly soulmate. cutest germ gremlin i’ve ever seen.”

“you’re lying…”

“baby, i would kiss your snotty nose right now if you asked.”

there’s something almost reverent in the way he says it—like it’s a vow. and he means it. he’d do it without hesitation, wouldn’t even flinch. because if it’s you, there’s no such thing as gross. not when he’s this stupidly in love. not when every part of you, even at your messiest, makes him want to wrap you up in his arms and never let go.

you groan into his shirt, muffled and pitiful, and he grins like you just serenaded him.

“who’s the most handsome man in the world?” he asks out of nowhere, fingers curling behind your ear, brushing tenderly as if coaxing the answer out. his voice dips low, honey-sweet and just a little smug. not because he expects the answer—no, he needs it. his entire self-worth depends on your silly little validation right now.

“you are,” you mumble, cheeks squished slightly against his chest, nuzzling closer without shame.

his fingers twitch where they cradle your skull. his whole face lights up like a sunrise. pale lashes flutter, and his pupils dilate like he’s just been told he won a lifetime supply of you.

“louder.”

“toruuuuu… it’s you…”

the pleased little noise he makes is downright sinful. his lashes flutter shut as he closes his eyes in smug bliss, and he tilts his head back like he’s soaking in the warmth of your praise. if he had a tail, it would be wagging.

“that’s right,” he beams, practically preening, fingers now stroking under your chin. “say it again. for my health.”

“you’re the handsomest… in the whole world… even when your hair’s stupid…”

he gasps, clutching his chest with a hand like you just shot cupid’s arrow straight through it. “rude and true. i’ll take it.”

his heart is doing somersaults. he’s convinced there’s never been a more fulfilling moment in his life. not the promotions, not the accolades, not even the recognition. just this—this feverish little version of you, croaky and honest and too tired to pretend you’re not as in love with him as he is with you.

he whispers the dumbest, softest shit while holding you against his chest like you’re something sacred. calls you every pet name in the book and then invents new ones on the spot: baby, sweetheart, princess, dumpling, snugglebug, fever bean, coughy cake, angel face mcsweats-a-lot.

you blink up at him between fits of sleep, lips parted like you want to say something else—but all that comes out is a pathetic little whimper. his hand smooths over your spine again, touch featherlight.

“what was that, baby?” he whispers.

“love you…” you murmur, eyes falling shut.

his heart flips. flips, spirals, and lands in a fucking somersault.

he kisses your temple and you go quiet.

and when you finally pass out, nose smooshed into his collarbone, snoring faintly like the most adorable little gremlin, he exhales like it’s the best moment of his life. like the universe aligned just for this. like his purpose has been fulfilled. his hand never stops moving—stroking your spine, combing your hair, tracing shapes into your shoulder blade beneath the fabric of his shirt.

he lives for clingy, soft, unguarded sick-you. because even though he adores the bratty, sharp-tongued, little menace version of you that picks fights and flicks him on the forehead and makes him earn every kiss—this version? this sleepy, dependent little furnace wrapped in blankets and his love? she needs him.

and satoru loves being needed. loves being the one you reach for, even when you’re half-delirious. especially when you’re half-delirious.

he leans down again, voice barely audible now.

“rest up, baby,” he whispers, brushing your hair from your clammy forehead. “you’ll feel better soon. and then i’ll go back to being emotionally bullied by my beloved wife.”

[shewhooncegripped]

Pt 1 / Pt 2

[As Sinclair speaks so fondly of Kromer, the woman in question can't help but wildly blush. The gentle words speaking of progress Kromer hasn't even realized has happened sends Kromer into a flustered sputtering.]

[Perhaps Kromer isn't quite used to such heartfelt compliments. Or, maybe, the warm smile upon Sinclair's face is enough to shortcircuit Kromer's brain. She's... Never seen such a look on Sinclair's face. It's almost as if Sinclair is proud of Kromer.]

[Kromer appears to be unable to form a coherent response by the time Sinclair shifts the subject. Kromer doesn't have time to refute Sinclair's words. Kromer doesn't have a chance to return fire with her own observations of Sinclair. Instead, pink paints the faces of both friends as the topic slips into Kromer's fellow sinners.]

[...It takes Sinclair's words for Kromer to realize that... Kromer does trust her teammates. Kromer is fond of them. Even if some of them are annoying, Kromer finds herself willing to die for them.]

[And... Kromer doesn't know if that makes her strong or weak. Has Kromer fallen from grace? Is she weaker than she once was because of a new set of morals and friendships?]

[The woman decides to set aside that thought for another day. Instead, she allows Sinclair to change the subject once more.]

Baoyu isn't above identity theft, surprisingly. I knew that he had already gotten on your bus already to meet his other self-- he would tease me about how close he was getting to talking to you during our unintentional meetings. Though, I don't think this last visit from him was malicious. He didn't seem to be violent at all today.

But that person he mentioned... Demian. I guess I could understand why you have complicated feelings about him.

[Kromer hugs Sinclair closer as she seems to think over what to share. Maybe Sinclair is her teddy bear now.]

...When I got my Sinclair into Nagel und Hammer... He told me that a man in blue named Demian used to visit him when I wouldn't be present. Demian apparently stopped visiting Sinclair after I brought him to NCorp with me. But... I wasn't told of the nature of the talks Sinclair would have with Demian. Just that Demian was a bit... Unsettling.

[Kromer appears to be very cautious with her word choice the entire time. She's dropping a lot of information in so few words, the woman's hands shake as if she fears Sinclair to suddenly judge her for sharing this sliver of information.]

[However, Kromer continues.]

I've only seen Demian once. When he killed Sinclair. Well, I guess Sinclair is alive... So... When he exploded Sinclair would likely be more accurate.

[Kromer's voice starts to wobble as she continues to speak.]

But... From Baoyu's words... It appears as if Demian wants to meet me. Or... He wants to see something from me? I... I wasn't really listening at that point...

Is this Demian the same person you are thinking of?

Sinclair, Do you need help? I'm hearing.... Noises from the changing room.

- @dreamsoftheredchamber

Sinclair swallowed uncomfortably. She felt the foreign, mechanical musculature move, swallowing her spit, and yet it still felt foreign. Like there was a piece of phlegm, or mucus stuck that she couldn't remove as she tried to open her mouth. Her chest ached and her eyes were... Sore, in a way. They ached, from tearing up, and yet she knew that it wasn't right. It felt different. It felt foreign. It was a mimicry.

It was false.

Still, as the knock rang out, she set her PDA down, and shifted her hand, towards her wrist. She opened her mouth, and pushed past the oddity of the new form, and allowed her voice to echo out.

"A...A... U-Um... I'm, not sure?"

Her voice was worried. Shifting. Unsteady and... A little higher, than she remembered it. It was afraid. Scared. And most of all, there was a slight tinge. A slightly, mechanical tinge, the perhaps only she could hear, and yet it was there, all the same. It was hideously panicked.

"Th... The, um... Anon-- Th... They changed me and I... My head hurts, and these memories, they're...!"

She tried to explain. Explaining would... Make it easier, and yet she knew she sounded insane. Her head hurt. It ached, and everything was wrong. Her hands gripped at her arms, and her 'breathing'... No, the simulacrum of a breath stifled itself in her chest, as she tightened her grip. It hurt. It hurt so much. But it didn't feel right.

It felt... Like it had back / t h e n . When she had f / a / l / l / e / n .

When she had f a i l e d .

When even Glass Slippers had been unable to save her. To save Abe, or... Anyone.

Her head hurt.

[letmetellyouaboutmyfeels]

Director: So my interpretation here of the relationship is that Bea and Benedick - oh hey that’s so funny your name is Ben ha ha anyway - totally slept together at one point and Benedick treated it as casual and wouldn’t commit and that’s why they’re like that at each other.

Winter: *stuck on the images THAT immediately gives him*

Jones, face in hands: Could we maybe give my character a backstory that WON’T remind half the county of the times I forced them to dump me because I was too focused on my job?

[thatnununguy]

What if I built a robot version of you that makes it obvious that I completely misinterpreted your entire character? Haha, jk.... unless.....

[thekittyokat]

you ever just have a lot, a LOT of feelings all at once about a character and not even remotely enough words or brainpower to FORM the words to describe everything you're feeling. so it feels like you may explode. yeah

[cerealmonster15]

yknow i understand that the memes are Not That Deep and it is fun to make jokes and relating w/others about like "oh no i started another wip when i have 90000 other wips im neglecting!!! i had another idea when i should be working on the projects i already have!!!" and i get that it is a good habit to like, finish what you start and the want to see things through and such. like shore i relate 2 these too. but ☝️! i must ask. is it really so bad to have many ideas. is it really so bad to have several idea pools to bounce back and forth from when perhapeth you get stuck on the current one youre on and wanna mix it up a little. IS IT SO WRONG to not finish a wip. must everything be a completed project that is pretty and cleaned up and perfectly done?! i do know, as i said, that it is Not That Deep. but also i do worry that perhaps for some people, it Is That Deep. i would personally like to reject the concept that all ideas must be completed start to finish in a nice little order otherwise it's "not right" or whatever. sometimes you start something and it doesnt really go anywhere! that's fine. sometimes you put it away for a few days or weeks or months or years and then you come back to it later!! whats wrong w/that. who is putting deadlines on these things, if they are in fact hobbies. business is i guess another story but im not TALKING about business. i am talking about fun teehee hobby time. cutting away imaginary rules and putting false pressures and having FUN why is it so SHAMEFUL to have many ideas and working on them as you GO!!!! be free. do whatever u want FOREVER!!!!!!!

[ragnarlothcat]

I know I’m a chronic overthinker but I’ve been in the same fandom for three years or so now and I was reflecting that writing seemed so much easier when I first started out. Just looking at my output since 2021 shows a clear trend: I’ve been writing much less and it’s been taking me way longer.

I figured that I’d gotten a little burned out and that three years is a long time to focus solely on the same two guys making out and that there’s a limit to the number of situations I can put them in before I start to get bored. But I don’t think that’s quite my problem because even now, a million years later, I have ideas for dozens of fics and AUs that would be interesting to explore or funny to write.

No, it’s that I’ve let the larger fandom overwhelm me and it’s left me constantly second-guessing my writing. And I don’t mean that I’ve gotten nasty comments or asks, because I haven’t! All the other fans have been consistently wonderful and fun people with really valuable insights. And it’s not that I’ve been obsessing over stats or comments or worrying about going against popular headcanons. I mean, I’m just as excited as anyone else to see an AO3 email in my inbox but I’m also perfectly happy posting niche fics for an audience of me and my three weirdest friends.

It’s more that after so long engaging with other fans and other fics and the general meta, I’ve ended up writing too self-consciously. I’ve read so many interpretations of canon events, analyses of characterization and comparisons between fiction and real-world politics over the years, and I’ve enjoyed them because I genuinely care about these stories and these characters! I like seeing what everyone else thinks and then considering their points of view, no matter how bewildering they might seem at first.

But now it feels like I’m writing almost defensively, like I have to justify every choice I’m making based on this enormous and contradictory body of information. Three years ago I’d have written a scene in a few thousand words and moved on to the next plot point with my momentum intact. Now I’m constantly wringing my hands over things like physical details (I guess he’s not exactly a redhead) or broader social implications (is this trope misogynistic?) or finicky logistics (these locations are too far apart for this scene to make sense) or controversial character nuance (does writing this guy as a kind, doting husband make me an abuse apologist???) and the result is that I’m paralyzed with indecision and a ridiculous need to support everything I write with a lot of context that isn’t especially fun to write or, I suspect, especially fun to read.

I’m aware that this problem is entirely in my own head and that no one has asked me for any of this. And it’s not that all those questions aren’t interesting and important things to contemplate. But I miss the days of sitting down at my laptop and going “wouldn’t it be funny if these dorks played a video game together?” and then writing exactly that.

I don’t know. Were my fics better three years ago? I kind of doubt it. I’ve looked back at some of them and if nothing else I now have a better grasp of what tense I’m supposed to be using. But I definitely had more fun writing those older stories, which maybe feels more important.

[beetlehoven]

tw? cartoon gore but it's not like im good at it so it's rlly not detailed. and it's stupid

logan thoughts tyy. his bones are weeeirddd and i wouldn't like to be in that situation

but maybe i wouldn't mind a logan hand glove actually like just slip it off like scchlp as a souvenir tyy luv u hairy smelly boy logan

[m340700]

he should be fine

[kelpermoosee]

Knocking them over and watching them scramble to get up with those big ass heads

[skrunksthatwunk]

hey you ever think about how okuyasu probably had to see (if not help) his brother try over and over to like maim and dismember their father in an attempt to euthanize him, something that clearly hurts and distresses the guy despite his immortality?

do you ever think about how the boys were beaten "for no reason" (existing around their father) and then when their father turns keicho says that if he beats his dad enough he can be obedient but he never stops scratching around in that box and it makes him murderously angry. and then it turns out that their father's been trying to scrape together some reminder of the family they used to be this whole time. he's doing something innocuous and mildly obtrusive that pisses keicho off so much despite the fact that he would understand if he just looked a little closer, at a different angle, that it was his father seeking love and connection in the same way he was as a child, and that he is reacting in the same way his father did to it?

or how okuyasu (who was young enough to not Quite remember the abuse in the same way as keicho) was the one to want to shift gears towards curing him over killing him, to restore his memories and mind so they could heal their relationships - break the cycle? how you might think it's his distance from that contributes to his ability to want that in a way keicho can't, until keicho dies and okuyasu still chooses to focus on the scraps of good within their relationship (while acknowledging that keicho was Not a good person) despite how directly he experienced abuse from keicho? and how that speaks so much to okuyasu's deep sense of loyalty and love (even to his own detriment)?

or how it's josuke (with the power to heal, to fix, that kind power) who is able to start those relationships mending through his emotional curiosity and empathy? and how it's josuke okuyasu clings to in the wake of his brother's death? someone so different from the men he grew up with who only ever hurt each other because they were hurt and someone who proves that kindness and love are like. sustainable? how josuke didn't change him into being a loving person but finally answered it to form a healthy relationship? buh

[lemongogo]

oo u want 2 draw soo bad..

[vaguely-concerned]

I know this is just insane shipping brain goggles and probably not objectively true in any way, confirmation bias in action klaxon and I acknowledge this fully and freely, but I swear to god that rook's thank you lines to lucanis in battle sound so much more weirdly... flirty than the ones for anyone else hfsjk. (in a fashion somewhere halfway between mannerly and😏. 'thanks, lucanis (politely restrained yet with carnal intent)')

[ganondoodle]

i often really do feel like an .. unwanted part of the fandom, i dont draw beautiful landscapes, i have unpopular but strong opinions im constantly annoying about and rarely change, dont like/dont draw the pretty young popular twinks and hot gurls to fanboi over nor do i turn characters into one, the opposite moreso, draw only one ship no ones heard of really, got little energy to interact with the few people that are nice to me and send me asks so it probably looks like im ignoring everyone and unfortunately but still rarely get so stressed i get overwhelmed and emotional about pehaps seemingly minor things and spiral almost into a breakdown feeling super embarrassed about it afterwards but the damage is already done and i look like a freak or agressive weirdo

[floorpancakes]

ok but im rly into the idea of till having a new era that brings the light back to his eyes and drives him forward if he gets to escape the arena. idk where he'd go from there but i want to see ivans sacrifice both haunt him and drive him to actually live his damn life after being the captured bird refusing freedom cause of mizi. once he knows she's alive with the resistance he might be able to actually experience other things and widen his world and if that happens and he puts his personal sense of rebellion towards the human cause OR settles into finding some other way to feel fulfilment that isn't a single person that could be deeply fascinating to me i think

[violasmirabiles]

theres a dog at the office and im not gonna lie his presence is easing my anxiety