#self fanfic i guess

[goodluckclove]

Edgar Blog Takeover Sneak Peek!

Now Playing: Crosseyed and Painless - Talking Heads

For some reason I still think it's a good idea to try and make the recipes I come up with in my dreams. It's not like I have them all the time, but for some reason every time Katy takes me drinking I end up having crazy dreams where I end up making some kind of new meal.

This time it was onion ring nachos, and when I made them in my dream they made a lot of sense, right? I wasn't even surprised by myself in my dream. I was just like "yeah, hey, time to make onion ring nachos like I do all the time". So on a subconscious level I must have found it a viable idea. And then when I woke up I was - well, hungover. Very hungover. We tried to make picklebacks without a recipe so I think I was drunk off Jameson and just...brine. Ugh.

But through the headache I also didn't really think it was a bad idea, you know? People make chili cheese fries. That already exists, I didn't make that up. And I had just gone grocery shopping with Katy so she had actual food in her apartment - plus she had an air fryer. I wish I had an air fryer. I'm the only one that uses her air fryer. I wonder if she'd notice if I stole her air fryer.

Anyways, the recipe seemed simple. Just regular oven nachos with a basic canned chili sauce (I'm not about to, like, brown ground beef. Pull out the cumin? From where? I brought sea salt flakes to Katy's place once when I was making dinner and she acted like I pulled out a dish of caviar. And she wonders why I ask her in advance if she has butter), only you substitute onion rings for tortilla chips.

Cook the onion rings before hand, at least ten minutes longer than what the directions on the bag say because the directions on the bag are wrong most of the time. Then heat up the chili and drizzle it with shredded cheese and whatever toppings you can find in your trash-eating best friend's kitchen. Katy has maybe six different hot sauces, which is totally not excessive for someone who can't remember to keep bread stocked in their place.

When I plated it it seemed real. That's stupid. You know what I mean - it seemed like a meal. I even arranged the onion rings so they were more overlapping to allow a better distribution of chili. I sort of figured this was a fork meal, because even if you char the rings when you broil them with the chili they'll moisten and gain an uneven weight that doesn't make them great for picking up by hand. Other than that, I could see some bullshit food truck selling something like this for too much money.

Eating it was not great. I think the first thing I realized when I ate it was the importance of tortilla chips as a concept. Those motherfuckers are sturdy, with a surface area that actually allows the nacho to exist as a proper experience. Taste wise it was pretty good, slightly sweet from the cooked onion, salty and savory from the chili and hot sauces. But fuck it, I'll say it - the texture was bad. You shouldn't eat a food and only process the taste. I might as well have had it as a drink, it was unnerving.

It would work better if I just dipped the onion rings in the chili, and now I'm upset that I didn't just do that. So stupid.

Katy liked it. I ate about a third of the serving before it started depressing me, but then when I came back after taking a shower she'd taken the plate back to her daybed in the living room and was just sort of...eating seems like the wrong way to put it. Absorbing, maybe. Slurping? Whatever she was doing it was very slug-like and I think she was still probably kind of drunk.

Anyway dreams are dumb and tortilla chips are important. There's your lesson for the day.

[nina-rosa]

(read from left to right →)

🌸 The negligible self 🌸 chapter 1, p.1 to 7

A comic based on a serirei (from mp100) fanfiction written by @homosexual-fanfiction (@/ch_am on Ao3)! Please go read the fanfic there too because it’s really good!!! T v T

I don’t know if I’ll adapt the whole story (even if I really want to!!!) so for now I’ll try to do as much as I can, starting with that first chapter (which is already entirely storyboarded)!

Thanks to Camp for allowing me to draw their story and for helping me while designing some of the settings and Aimi <333 and thank you again for writing such an awesome and inspiring story!!

You can find Camp here too: @ch-am

I hope you’ll enjoy this first bouquet of pages!!💐

Here’s the link to the fic!!

[velvetwilde]

Daddy issues?? Me??

My comfort character is Spencer Reid, of course I have daddy issues

[tea-cat-arts]

I simply think this fandom doesn't give Wei Wuxian enough credit for the various ways in which he saved Lan Wangji

[youchangedmedestiel]

Leaving with memories from the future

Salty Dean 

Happy 15th anniversary 

Beautiful soul

Cosy Sunday morning

Healing guilt

Thanked as deserved

There is nothing stupid about you and me 

Need for comfort 

Inspiring Fanfiction

A gift to listen and keep

Never going to apologize for saving you

How to like Halloween and scary movies

Offering pie is the solution

Kissing you is like fireworks

Light touches

You did everything you could

My old man

Warm and soft skin

Love you babygirl

Just a small green ball

Too close to step back

A little knife to save you

Angelic bubble

You are perfect the way you are

Quit being cute! 

I can't resist you

Looking when you aren't

Dying sunset

How to make an angel of the Lord dance

Slutty boy

OCDean

Summer paradise

[tae-rhymeswithslay]

self indulgent cringe content ftw💪💪

i drew myself as casey’s teammate.

thats it. yep, thats the post.

does this count as an author reveal lol? idk, i definitely drew myself way better looking than i actually am in real life

no glasses in the second lil thingie bc i don’t usually wear glasses on the ice

casey is my little pookie bear and i love figuratively punching the ever loving shit out of him 🥰

i will probably be drawing more of these…

[pastelshroomsbasement]

Dont bother her shes in her zone.

[twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat]

TWENTYFIVEMICEINATRENCHCOAT. DROP ANOTHER SATOSUGU X GN READER FANFIC, AND MY LIFE IS YOURS. (please get the reference)

YOU’RE IN LUCK ANON………. i’m working on another stsg/reader fic rn, just not sure when i’ll get to posting it!! but have a snippet from it that makes me feel severely ill ily mwah <333

“i think you need to cry, honey.” “… i don’t want to.” “i know,” he coos, his voice like honey in your ear, smooth and reassuring. “but you need to.” you feel him move, behind you, his lips meeting the crown of your head. he exhales against your hair, and you feel yourself crumble — taking a shaky inhale. “… and you're going to,” he continues, voice still soft and molten, a gentle command. “for me.”

[leelajun]

"As they say, the ugly wife is a treasure at home." - Bao Pike about (?)

Surprise🎉 random artwork of some minor (but beloved) characters from the Moshang fic I've been writing for like a year!

Will I ever publish it? Who knows... (posting this so yall can bully me into finishing it lol)

[local-maenad]

This is so silly but please hear me out. Ok so Arthur Aguefort offers Gorgug a position at the academy as a professor once he graduates. So to give him a head start and to see if he likes it, they kinda sorta give him this “project”.

The project being teaching The Rat Grinders about team building and adventuring. Ofc all The Bad Kids are involved but mostly just to help their friend out. Idk this is honestly mostly about The Rat Grinders and their path to redemption and what not. I just love Gorgug tbh

[chickenparm]

By Choice or By Accident (Wanderer/Reader)

Spoilers for Interlude Chapter: Act III Inversion of Genesis

i made the executive decision that the traveler fucks around a bit and takes a good while longer to decipher what scara changed with irminsul and wow, that's a convenient amount of time for him to get real soft on someone huh-

(also i believe scara says he doesn't like sweets only because ei DOES like sweets and he secretly loves them you cannot change my mind, back off)

AO3 LINK

Wanderer/Reader

5,258 Words - SFW

Nothing heinous. Fluff, 2 seconds of Angst, meandering narrative, skipping time a little bit, Reader is a candy maker. Very indulgent, don't take this seriously.

---

Despite its status as a hub of commerce, it’s rather obvious when a new face arrives in the Grand Bazaar. Even more so when they’re dressed like that - soft blues against striking azure, a wide hat and carefully placed body armor to show martial skill. 

When the grocer across the way brings home a straggler, your initial thought is to be wary. There’s an unsettled quiet around him as he keeps his head ducked low and his face carefully hidden. The protection on his arms and shins suggests some martial skill, yet there’s no vision to be seen on his person. 

In the beginning, you’re wary - and rightfully so. Then his head lifts and his eyes move around the bazaar before he realizes you’re staring, and something fundamental changes in that split second. The air around him shifts, the guarded expression in his eyes bleeds away, and you’re left staring at excited eyes and a smile that shines with both anticipation and trepidation. 

The grocer’s new stray becomes a fixture. One that you quietly watch from your stall of handmade sweets, your gaze occasionally broken by the excited child or curious adult, all of whom are the sources of your livelihood here. But even your regulars find it hard to keep your attention when something so interesting is just across the way. 

Initially, the first word you’d use to describe him is untouchable. Like something priceless to be placed on a shelf. Only to look at, never to hold in your hands and sully it with your touch. Even as he works diligently at the grocer and displays less than fragile tendencies, you still can’t keep yourself from marveling at the otherworldly sort of perfection. 

Then, just like that, it’s swept away in the span of a short interaction. 

While you’ve overheard his quiet arguments with the grocer about not accepting pay, you know for certain he’s been tipped on deliveries to their customers. It’s what gives him the means to tentatively cross the walkway to your stall, stand a respectful distance away, and let pretty violet eyes wander over what you have on display for the day. 

And they are pretty. A color you’ve never seen before, even in a city like Sumeru where fabrics in all manner of hues are commonplace. You’re not entirely sure that someone could accurately recreate such a shade of purple. 

Quietly, as if to keep from imposing on you, he steps a little closer and squeezes the pouch of mora in front of him with a grip so tight his knuckles turn just a little lighter than the rest of his pale skin. It’s painfully obvious that he’s nervous, but his chin lifts and his chest expands with an inhale, and you’re impressed with the bravery he’s showing to simply peruse a candy stall. 

“Please recommend something to me!”

He says it like he’s about to run into battle - and your heart that was wary at first melts. Any caution is thrown to the wind as your shoulders relax, and a smile spreads across your face, and you ask, “What do you like?”

To your surprise, he clams up for a moment, twisting at the ties of the mora pouch until you’re certain the ropes are going to unravel. The last thing you expect is a quiet, “...I’m not sure.”

Okay. You can handle that, as strange as it is. Going into your usual sales pitch with gusto, you try your hardest not to be distracted by the way he cocks his head and leans in, listening with rapt attention as you point out each little piece, which were handmade and which you had brought him, which were your favorites and which ones most people seemed to gravitate toward. 

“These ones aren’t popular, but I like them. They’re sour, but once you get to the middle, there’s a sweetness that chases it away. Just don’t eat too many, they’ll make your mouth sore!”

“It’s sour, but you say they’re good?” His fingers pinch his chin in thought as he looks at each flavor you have of the small selection. It’s no use keeping a large stock when its audience is few and far between. “Sour on the outside, sweet on the inside, huh?”

“It makes the sweetness that much nicer if you can make it through the tough bit. It’s kind of like life, isn’t it? Once you make it through the difficult parts, the moments that are softer are that much better when you’re in them.”

Violet eyes watch you in wonder, lips gently parted as he mulls over your impromptu advice. With warm cheeks, you busy yourself with straightening the rows, the smallest bit of embarrassment making your fingers shake. They don’t look any neater when you’ve finished.

He picks one of everything you indicate as your preference, carefully counting out the coins and giving a little extra that you try to place back in his hand. But he grasps your wrist until your palm is up, pushing the extra coins there and using his free hand to curl your fingers around them securely. The smile on his face is wider than any you’ve seen, cutting into his cheeks and making the corners of his eyes squint in its wake. 

“Just for being kind, that’s all.” And his touch lingers for a moment long enough to make your heart skip, your fingers itching to grasp at his own so he could stay just a little longer. “Can I come back tomorrow?”

“I don’t think you’ll get through all that candy in a night.” Or he could, you’re in no place to judge him for it. Certainly, children much smaller than him have performed that feat before. 

In return, he smiles sheepishly and focuses on his hands holding yours, his thumb pressing against the pulse point of your wrist. There’s no doubt he can feel your heart racing from his touch and his presence, his soft grin and the slight flush on the apples of his cheeks. “Maybe not. But… just to talk to you? I’d like to know you if you’d let me.”

If he notices your persistent giddiness for the remainder of the bazaar’s open hours, he mercifully doesn’t make any comment on it. He simply returns the next day with praises over what you’d sold him the day before, exclaiming that the sour candies were his favorite, and an earnest question. 

“Could you teach me how to make this?”

And how could you say no? When his hands were fisted at his sides to hide how they shake at the prospect of such a simple question, there’s no way you could deny something so… sweet.

That evening, after he closes up with the grocer, he crosses the pathway that separates you and offers to help you carry your goods home for the day. It’s with great pleasure you gesture to a house just two doors down - your home and workshop all in one. He doesn’t let you carry your goods, anyway.

“It must be nice, living so close. I’m glad to see it.”

“Glad?” You ask, watching carefully at how he carries a box with one arm that you often have to drag across the ground on a nightly basis. He must be deceptively strong. The hat he wears is tucked beneath his other arm, leaving his smooth hair a little mussed after a day of wearing it. 

His head bobs as he watches you unlock the door with a key from your pocket, the hinges groaning as you step inside and urge him to follow as you work to light the lamps. The answer you asked for comes as the room illuminates. “I’d hate for you to have to walk so far at night. It’s not very safe.”

“True, but the bazaar is one of the safest places in the city. And I’ve lived here all my life.”

“Spending your life somewhere doesn’t always make it safe,” he pauses, just long enough to set the box of goods down on the table that dominates the center of your home, “but it’s not really my place to be overbearing about your safety. I’m sorry if that was too much.”

“No! It was… nice. Thank you for caring.” The words strike him into stillness, his hand resting on the lid of the box, thumb curling around the edge to press into the wood. His other hand rubs over his chest, just beneath the dangling ornament and pinion that jingle slightly in the comfortable silence. 

The swallow he makes is audible, a show of that nervousness that comes when he seems to be faced with sincerity he doesn’t know what to do with. To his credit, his voice doesn’t waver, even a little. “You’ve been nothing but nice to me. Of course I’d care, even a little.” And that endearing pink comes back again, barely visible in the lights that are just beginning to grow stronger as the flame catches the wicks.

“You’ve been nice, too. Give yourself a little credit.” 

Outside, other merchants are making their way home. The sound of carts and laughter trickles into the room, breaking the tension that’s somehow formed despite such an innocuous topic. Clearing your throat, you ask, “You know, I don’t actually know your name. You’ve never told me.”

While the tension is gone for you, it doubles down on him as his shoulders clench, and he pointedly looks away. The far corner of the room suddenly becomes impossibly interesting to him, at least compared to how you begin to move closer to unpack the box. 

“That’s because… I don’t have one. I’m just a wanderer. Any name I might’ve had, I don’t remember it anymore.”

“Do you not remember by choice, or by accident?”

You don’t miss the way his eyes follow your movements as you bring the sour candies out. Pointedly, you pull a few from their bag and push them across the table to him. As if he were afraid they’d disappear, his fingers wrap around them and drag them closer. One pops in his mouth, and he waits until the sweetness makes itself known before he finally answers.

“A little of both, I think.” The candy clacks against his teeth, running along his molars from one side to the other, as if he’s preventing a single spot from being scoured by the sourness. Perhaps it’s also a tactic to delay what comes next, something you only realize when he says it. “You should know… I’m not exactly human. I’m-... I’m a puppet.”

“Okay.”

“...Okay?”

Giving him time to ruminate over that, you finish unloading the box before stowing it away beneath the table. It gives you enough time to formulate a tactful response. Palms on the table, you lean to get the weight off your feet from standing all day, and explain yourself. “That doesn’t change anything. I still like you, I’ll still teach you. You must’ve lived a long time then, huh?”

He doesn’t give you a number, and you don’t exactly ask, but the way he exhales until his lungs are empty tells you that in his mind, it might have been a few too many years to walk through. Has he wandered all that time? Alone? It doesn’t feel right to ask - so you don’t. 

Instead, as you begin to lay out supplies for tomorrow’s stock, you quietly make a promise to yourself that if you can help it, perhaps he won’t need to use the term lonely to describe himself ever again. 

—

When you first opened your stall, it was commonplace for you to grow sick after contacting so many people on a daily basis. It was just expected, it came with the territory, and you only needed a handful of months for your body to grow used to it. Nowadays, you hardly find yourself feeling ill at all.

Then there were days like today, where the world is too bright, and your skin feels too hot and too cold, uncomfortable no matter your position. The softness of your bed curls around you, cradling your aching joints as you struggle to maintain a comfortable body temperature. The windows facing the street show that the sun is already risen, though at this time of day, not as much of it makes it down to the bazaar, even at the outskirts as you are.

Wrapped in your blankets in the throes of a cold chill is how the wanderer finds you. His steps into your home are tentative - you’d given him a key, and you thank yourself for the foresight. Looking into your bedroom, his expression goes from curiosity to something that couldn’t be mistaken for anything other than fear.

“What’s wrong? Look at me-”

“I’m okay.” Talking makes your head feel thick and muddled, stuffed too full of the meager thoughts it requires to get words out. But he’s kneeling next to your head now, hands hovering over you but not quite touching, like he’s unsure of what to do next. It lightens your mood a little, seeing him fret like this. “Just a little sick - it goes around this time of year.”

“What do you need me to do? Do you need food? Have you had anything to drink today? Hang on, let me get a washcloth.”

And he’s on his feet, moving to your kitchen and out of your ability to call him back. A quiet laugh leaves you as you roll onto your back, snuggling beneath blankets and listening as he sifts through your cabinets to find a bowl, then fill it with cool water to bring back to you. His eyes are more focused on the bowl as he enters, determined not to spill it until he’s able to set it down on your bedside table. 

Before you can say a word, the back of his fingers press to your forehead, and he hisses through his teeth. There’s no need to say that you’re burning up, not with how he hurriedly wrings out the cloth and folds it delicately on your forehead. Even chilled as you are, it feels like heaven, and you all but melt into the blankets as the fingers of his hand linger along your brow. 

“Better?”

“Mm… yes, thank you.”

“Okay. It’s okay.” He sounds more like he’s reassuring himself, rather than you. There’s something haunted in his eyes, something that’s clawing at the back of his mind. Far be it from your place to ask, but the fever has lowered your inhibitions, and you can’t help but lick the chapped dryness of your lips before asking what you wish to know. 

“Why are you afraid? Look at you, you’re terrified.”

The answer is immediate, maybe even instinctual. “I don’t know.” His eyes linger over your face, trailing over the dark circles beneath your eyes and the weariness that lingers. “My mind is telling me terrible things, almost like I’ve… lost someone like this. But I’ve never-... I haven’t been around anyone long enough to care. Not like this.”

He cares. About you. Sure, that was obvious enough at this point, but the fact that he puts it into words so candidly makes your heart flutter nervously. It’s been a long time since anyone would go to these lengths for you in your time of need, and for it to be him… It makes you feel leagues better already.

“I’m… I’ll make you something to eat. And get you something to drink. I’ll be back.”

The words tumble out of him, one after another, with little control. He’s nearly out the door by the time you comprehend that he’d been pink in the cheeks, fingers nervously twirling the golden feather on his chest. He cares. What a novel thought.

It doesn’t take him terribly long to return. Just long enough for your eyes to droop closed and your mind to wander off into dreams of pretty violet eyes and the faint scent of flowers that you’ve never come across before. Soft smiles, a hand running down your arm, a thumb across your cheek as a familiar voice urges you to reawaken. 

“Just a few bites, then you can sleep.”

Easy enough, when the spoon finds its way to your mouth of its own accord. Yet it’s not sentient - it’s held by lithe fingers that guide it steadily. At your back is his arm, helping you sit up so you don’t spill over your sheets. Quietly, you shift a little closer and bask in that faint floral smell that’s like nothing in Sumeru. The only way you can explain it is if you were describing the wanderer himself.

Drinking is an easy affair, thanks to the straw he’d somehow found you, and once he’s satisfied you’ve completed the tasks he’s laid out, so too does he lay you back on your bed. With distance comes a stark loneliness, and you reach for his hand as he stands from where he’d been kneeling. “Stay? Please?”

“Let me grab a chair at least. Your floor hurts.”

You want to tell him to just climb in your bed. To let you curl around him for all the comfort he can offer, greedily taking and taking because he’s always so willing to give. But the last bit of your self-control pulls you back in, releasing your grip to allow him to drag a chair across the floor to sit at your bedside with an exasperated smile. 

“Sleep now. I’ll be here when you wake.”

“Hm… Promise?”

“I swear it on my life. I’m not going anywhere.”

The last thought before you drift off is a quiet murmur of your heart repeating that he cares. About you, about your wellbeing. He’ll be here when your eyes open, hopefully with less of that fear he’s still holding onto. The washcloth on your forehead is changed, slim fingers wipe away stray water droplets, and all the while he hums a tune under his breath that sounds like the sweetest song.

—

The wanderer has only one devastating, debilitating flaw - he’s a worrier. 

Whether it’s after a long day and you’re bone tired, or you were too busy to eat lunch, or even if you’re just feeling a little ill, he has an incessant need to coddle. On anyone else, it wouldn’t be a good look. You’re a grown adult, you can take care of yourself, keep yourself safe and cared for. 

But something about the way he does it soothes any outrage you could possibly feel. Insistent, quiet, offered with a smile that seems almost pleading. And you know that while he’s making you dinner and taking on the duty of meticulously creating fruit-shaped candies for tomorrow’s weekend sale, it’s for his own sake as much as it is yours. 

And so, if it keeps him smiling as he carefully pours soup into a bowl for you, you’re more than willing to let him get away with it. 

Chin propped on your hand, elbow on the table, you let your eyes drift closed as the weariness of the day catches up to you. The festival over the weekend was one of the biggest in a long time, and your preparations were wearing you impossibly thin. It meant longer evenings to finish creating stock, longer days to account for new tourists, and all the stress that comes with it. 

Not to mention the last straggling bits of your illness that had kept you homebound for days, still lingering after two long weeks. Your muscles still felt weak, your head still fuzzy.

But the wanderer had been a huge help, especially as the grocer had all but kicked him out of his stall to send over to yours. The grocer had been trying to foist him off on you for weeks now, and he hadn’t really needed to try that hard at all. 

The sound of ceramic sliding across the table in front of you is the indication he’s dropped your food off, and you crack your eyes open just in time to see the golden pinion of his ornament dangling in front of your face as he presses a kiss to the crown of your head. 

Both of you freeze. 

But he doesn’t pull away, and neither do you. Instead, you reach with a shaking hand to the golden feather, grasping it lightly with your fingertips and rubbing your thumb along the subtle ridges. Your curiosity serves an alternate purpose; it keeps him close, prevents him from backing away from you. 

A sigh breezes along your scalp, humid from his breath, and a shiver from you breaks you both out of the odd trance. 

“I’m so sorry-”

“It’s okay.” You cut him off, already anticipating the unwarranted apology for something you desperately wanted him to do again. Even standing above you, he looks incredibly small as his hands clutch at the opening of his kimono, worrying at the edges without a care for the wrinkles he’s creating. 

Letting the feather drop back to his chest, you reach for one of his fretting hands and hold it tight enough in your own that you can’t tell if the tremors come from you or him. It could even be both. Suddenly you’re filled with anticipation so strong it makes your stomach turn painfully. 

But it’s not bad. It’s welcomed, wanted. The only relief you know of is sought after with a simple question. “Could you do it again?”

“...Again?”

“If you’d like to. If it wasn’t a regretful accident.”

His lower lip disappears between his teeth for a moment, then pops out with a pink hue from the abuse. You’re only allowed a second to admire the shade before the only thing you can see is alabaster and violet, your view of the world cut off as he presses his lips to yours with a clumsiness that is borne from inexperience. 

A thud rocks the table from his palm hitting it, an attempt to brace himself as he leans further into you until he’s nearly climbed into your lap. A whine brushes across your cheek through his nose - a high-pitched, cracking sort of sound that’s sweeter to your ears than any song could be, any candy could taste. 

That evening, the wanderer becomes your wanderer. 

And the world seems more vibrant, the music of the festival is more joyous than anything you’ve ever heard. Your wanderer closes your stall and guides you to the theatre to watch Nilou spin and sway. Her movements are nothing short of hypnotic, but hardly enough to catch your attention as you lean against him and let your eyes follow the cut of his jawline, the brush of his hair against his ear, the subtle pink of his blush as he catches you staring from the corner of his eye. 

For an evening, the entirety of Teyvat feels like it’s in harmony. He smiles down at you, and the stars above shine just a little bit brighter. An arm winds around your waist to hold you closer, and the lyrics to the music lose their meaning, the tune grows meandering and unimportant compared to how he smiles so, so gently. 

If asked, you’re not sure that you’d be able to think of a single thing you wouldn’t give up to recklessly chase after this feeling with him. Safe, warm, loved. It’d been there from the beginning, quietly growing subtle roots until it ingrained itself too deep to remove - as if you’d want to. 

That night, you nearly tell him you love him. Something stays your tongue, but you’re not quite sure what it might have been. Tomorrow, you promise yourself as he brings you to your door and kisses you so sweetly that you can do nothing but melt in his hold. Tomorrow, you resolve as you watch him backpedal down the street, giving you that smile you favor so much. 

Tomorrow, you promise the following day as the market quiets following such a busy event, unwilling to break the peace for a confession you’re not entirely confident he’s ready for. Instead, you prop your elbow on your stall’s counter and watch as he smiles at the grocer. As he squats to the level of a child that’s examining fruits, and offers one of the familiar candies from your stall to him. 

Over the child’s head, he catches your eye, and the placating smile turns to one that’s teeth and pink cheeks, embarrassment at having been caught with such softness but not ashamed enough to stop. In the heat of the afternoon, the quiet murmur of the bazaar, the daylight stretching the shadows long as the sun crosses its apex and begins to descend, everything feels the closest to perfection you could ever achieve.

Tomorrow doesn’t come. 

Or rather, it does, but he’s missing. The grocer mentions he’d stepped out of the city to make a run for sunsettias, then left on an errand with a golden-haired newcomer and their floating companion. The Traveler, you recognize vaguely from gossip through the grapevine. They’d keep him safe, surely, but you can’t help but feel a looming sense of dread when he doesn’t return that evening. 

For the first time in months, you eat your dinner alone. 

—

The tables are turned, for once. It’s you that worries over his well-being, so much so that you close your stand for the day and pace around your home like a caged animal. Certainly he must be fine, but he would’ve mentioned it to you if he were leaving, wouldn’t he? It feels wrong to not be aware of his presence, to not simply turn your head and have him at the corner of your vision as a steady presence. 

The grocer stops by to drop a few pieces of produce off, an attempt to check on you and reassure you of the wanderer’s safety with the Traveler. It does little to assuage your fears - nothing does, until the door opens and it’s filled with a familiar silhouette.

Except it’s… not. 

There’s a different set to his shoulders. A tension that lingers for a moment too long before it bleeds away at the sight of you. But his eyes are still the same, taking you in with immeasurable reverence that doesn’t fade even as he steps into your home that’s dimmer than the midday market outside. One, two, three long strides bring him to you, close enough to yank you to his chest and hold you impossibly tight with both arms. 

“I’m sorry.”

Even the tone is different. It’s lower, more tentative, almost as if he expects you to refuse him. Adamant, you wrap your arms tight around his waist and link your hands together, squeezing with everything you can muster as you mumble into the fabric over his chest. “You should be. You had me so worried.”

“That’s… I’m sorry for that, too.”

“You’re sorry for something else?” Pulling your head back, you look up at him. Nothing could have prepared you for the way his face falls, his lip drawing between his teeth as he takes in the sight of your confusion and weariness. 

There is no stalling further. His hand comes to the back of your head, bringing you back close again as he speaks over your shoulder. “I need to ask you something. Don’t be afraid to tell me the truth. Even if you think it will hurt me.”

“And if it will hurt me?”

“It’ll hurt more if I don’t ask it at all.” His chest beneath your cheek shudders with his exhalation, its wavering shaking you to your core as you realize it’s tinged with tears once he continues. “If someone walked in here that looked and sounded just like me, but they were inarguably an evil person… would you still want to stay with them?”

“Looks and sounds like you…?”

“If you couldn’t tell the difference, beyond the knowledge that for the entirety of their existence, so many of the actions they’d taken were for horrible, inexcusable reasons.”

It shouldn’t be a simple answer. The question he’s posed to you has so many layers despite its surface-level simplicity. But with the way he looks at you - wild, desperate, clinging to the hope for an answer that lets him stay close to you - it only takes you a moment to come to a conclusion that settles into place like a key turning a lock. Smooth, easy, with a satisfying click.

“Whoever that person might’ve been… they’re not who you are now.” His breath hitches, stilling under where you rest your head. Whether that’s the right answer or the wrong, you’re unsure, but you’re too far to backtrack now. “I know who you are. People are allowed to change, that’s just what humans do.”

“I’m not human.”

He’s not. He’s told you so himself that he was created, not born. But it’s easy enough to forget that fact when he’s here in front of you, trembling in your arms and clinging desperately to the normalcy you’ve unknowingly provided. The front he puts up is so convincing that you’re not sure it’s even false anymore - he’s experienced all there is to being a human.

“But you’re close enough, aren’t you? You laugh, and you hurt. You’re hurting right now. And the most important part of being a human is love.” Pulling back enough to look at him, to note the shine of tears and the harshness of his bite on his bottom lip to hide its quivering, you ask, “Do you feel love?”

“Yes. So much, it’s killing me.”

“Ah, you just need to let it out then. Of course, I’d stay with you. If it’s like you say, then there’s a long road ahead, and I’m happy to walk it with you, if you’ll let me.”

Choked laughter leaves him, high-pitched and disbelieving. It signals the floodgates of his tears falling, and he releases one arm from you to rub at his eyes to catch them before they fall. It’s a futile effort, one you’re happy to see, even as he surges forward to kiss you, wetting your cheeks with his own. 

Against your lips he murmurs, muffled and sloppy, “Thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou-”

As if you would have left him after coming to know him like this. It only hurts for a second that the thought had even crossed his mind to doubt - and perhaps that doubt will creep back in over the coming days. When things are difficult or when stirrings of a life past-lived come back to rear its head, threatening the tenuous peace he’s found. 

There are times that he looks at you with eyes that aren’t as familiar. They’re darker, edged sharply, but it’s still him. A different facet shining in the light, but if you tilt your head, you can see the core of him that lies beneath. Still the same, no matter how he refracts it. As he comes and goes, it feels as if a new page turns each time - some new, some old. A wildness exists that seeps through, visible only when he holds you a little too tight, kisses you a little too hard. 

Unsteadiness is something he’s worn since the first day you’ve met him, and with the return of memories he’d lost, it doesn’t settle over him as often as it once had. Only when you notice the shift does he avoid your gaze, the sheepish little smile lifting the weight on your heart, and his in turn.

He’s trying. That’s enough, you think.

[corduroyserpent]

Written for @moshangevents and in collaboration with the lovely @hayateart 💗

✨️ Check out all 10 chapters here! ✨️

And a brief snippet to entice you below 💙⬇️

A leaf, thin and razor-sharp shot out from behind a tree. It would have sliced a pale line across Shang Qinghua’s cheek, then fluttered to the dusty ground below, if the mere sound of it headed his way hadn’t frightened him terribly. He stumbled backwards in an attempt to avoid it. And his surroundings changed between one blink and the next.  Shang Qinghua sprawled flat on his face, getting a mouthful of scorched dirt. The candle flame had gone out when he hit the unfamiliar ground. His thoughts were a jumble as he took in the fact that he had somehow landed in a large crater, and given that he had been holding the Jade Doorway…he must have traveled tens of thousands of li away from Luo Binghe.  “Shit, shit, shit!” he cursed to himself. “You had one job! How could you fuck up this badly?! Ah, Shang Qinghua, you really—” He pushed up onto his elbows and found himself face to face with the most handsome man he’d ever seen. His vision narrowed to a long, straight nose and eyes the color of a pale winter morning, blue and unforgiving. He had described those features hundreds of times. Mobei-Jun. Shang Qinghua yelped and tried to scoot away but in an instant, he was on his back beneath the man who was fated to one day kill him. Glittering stardust drifted down, catching on Shang Qinghua’s clothes and face and the tips of his dark eyelashes. He didn’t even have time to process that his most beloved creation was attempting to subdue him far earlier than expected, before the mechanical voice of the System suddenly blasted through his mind.  [Expert Level Quest – CATCH AND RELEASE – has been unlocked. Complete before the fifteenth day of the eighth month or risk severe consequences.]  To have been assigned an expert level quest without even the option to accept or decline it—aiyah, not good! The System tended to be curt with him but wasn't that a bit much? Shang Qinghua mentally knocked on the System’s door. “System-dage, could you spare a few more details for this humble author?” [We wish you luck.] Fuck. 

[allmyhomieshatelawns]

fighting w myself bc i’m writing a John Dory is Branch’s dad AU and i just feel like something is missing??? and like, i feel as if that missing part is a partner for our daddy~

and originally right, i was gonna use someone else’s OC, but then i’m like “why do that, just pick someone who exists” and i like pairing Hickory w bitches so i was like “BOOM fixed”

but now, i’m in the story, and this troll keeps wanting to be made??? i think? idk i just want a partner for JD sooner, but if Hickory shows up now it’ll be way too weird since he’s like Floyd’s age, but i want Branch to have two parents rn. grrrrrr

i guess i’ll just make my own troll OC? it won’t be a sona probably. but it’ll have some characteristics of me bc i’m writing it and i impart myself to all my characters whether i originally made them or not. it just happens ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

weirdly enough the hardest part is figuring out what they would look like.

[zedif-y]

Tango is quiet. Too quiet.

The cut on Impulse's head stings with disinfectant, the skin around it an angry red as blood beads and threatens to flow. He winces as Tango wipes at it with a soft cloth- and the silence itches at him even more.

Seriously, it's almost worse than getting yelled at. At least then Impulse knows where they stand.

But no.

Impulse had shown up on Tango's doorstep, bleeding sluggishly and beat up to hell. He half-expects Tango to close the door, to glare at him and tell him to fuck off, I'm not babysitting you again. Something like that. Something angry.

He didn't expect the immediate worry on Tango's face, nor the the way red claws usher him inside, a muttered curse on his lips.

They've been in this situation a million times before, and yet it always catches him off guard.

He doesn't seem mad, Impulse thinks, trying to get a look at Tango's face. So then why is he...

His head swims, lightheaded and fuzzy. Impulse shuts his eyes tight.

"You good?" Tango frowns. His tail curls at Impulse's feet, "The cut isn't super deep, and there wasn't that much blood..." He trails off, muttering to himself.

Impulse huffs, cracking an eye open. "Lack of sleep."

Tango snorts, "Of course." He turns away for a moment, replacing the dirtied cloth. Impulse leans back against the chair.

"Worried?" He smirks, just to lighten the mood.

He expects Tango to smack him with his tail, what do you think? he'd snap, expression twisted in a scowl. or maybe he'd scoff, you're getting too used to this-

Tango turns back to him, a strange look on his face. Impulse's stomach drops.

Tango sighs, "Always am, when it comes to you."

Impulse swallows. What?

And then- Tango just goes back to dressing his wound. Like he didn't just hit Impulse with that.

Emotion comes bubbling up to the surface, "Aren't you tired of this?" Impulse blurts out, his eyes a molten gold as he looks up at Tango. "Each game, you patch me up at least once. I come to you, beat up or- or crying, and you always..."

Impulse looks at him, eyebrows furrowed as he says, "You always let me in. No matter what."

A dry, humorless laugh escapes him, "You'd think that after the third time, you'd have the sense not to open the door."

"So why do you?"

Tango's eyes drift away from him, and he chews his lip. "You tell me," He replies, sounding far away. Then, "Maybe I just like playing hero."

Impulse bites the inside of his cheek. There's something he isn't saying.

Quietly, "You've gotta get better hobbies, man." He aims for lighthearted- but it comes out raw, far too heavy. Tango huffs a laugh.

"Maybe," He agrees. Scarlet eyes settle back on him, and he shakes his head, smiling a little. "Look what you did, you've got me all sappy and mushy and stuff."

Tango puts a smear of healing balm around the cut, and the biting pain recedes, for the most part.

Impulse laughs, "Hey, you signed up for this," He points out. "You'll learn eventually. Next time, just toss me some bandages."

Tango pulls away.

"You know I'm not doing that."

His words feel like a splash of cold water, shocking Impulse into silence.

He tries again, "Tango," his lips curl into a frown, "Aren't you tired of this?"

"Don't-" Tango's eyes flash, a flicker of a flame. "Don't be like that."

"Be like what-?"

Tango makes a frustrated sound, "Like-!" He lets out a sharp breath, "Don't act like this-" He gestures to Impulse, "-is a burden on me. It's not."

Tango's tail flicks this way and that, "Taking care of you isn't a chore. Not to me."

Impulse's heart sits lodged in his throat. It beats at a clumsy rhythm, and Tango flushes red, his expression closing off, "Nevermind. I'm just- tired, yeah? From building my base, and, and... All that fun stuff." He finishes lamely.

Impulse wonders if his head wound is worse than he thought.

"Yeah," Impulse echoes, because what else is he meant to say? He swallows around the lump in his throat, eyes aimed forward. "Yeah, obviously."

"Obviously."

"Nothing else."

"Mhm."

They can't seem to meet each other's eyes.

After a while, Tango hums, satisfied with his work as he takes a step back. Impulse feels like he can breathe again.

Tango tosses a shirt at him, smirking when Impulse fumbles with it. "Go change," He says, his hand on the doorknob. "You stink."

"Hey--!"

The door clicks shut.

Impulse huffs, looking down at the red shirt. Tango's words repeat in his head like a record, and his hands shake, just a little.

Taking care of you isn't a chore. Not to me.

Impulse stands, looking at himself in the mirror.

"Not to me, huh?" He mutters, tracing a hand over the clean bandages. "Not to me..."

Impulse takes in his reflection- tired eyes, stubby horns, messy hair, a day-old stubble.

What does he see? Impulse thinks. What does he see in me?

The stars flicker in the night sky. When he looks outside, shadows flow like rivers under moonlit trees.

In the quiet night, Impulse wonders.

(He hopes Tango never changes his mind.)

[thedwarventradesman]

Hollow — Tech x GN!Reader Batcher

Description: Tech x GN!Reader Batcher, established relationship; POV is 1st person so there's no use of gendered pronouns (: Warnings: Angst, major character death, grief, very vague allusion to suicidal thoughts and self-destructive tendencies Word Count: 916

A/N: This is the first time I've really written any fandom content since high school. Or at least, with the intention of letting others read it. Tried to balance the mix of recounting the past while also shifting to how reader/oc is in the present which can be tricky so I hope it reads well.

Image Credit: @ilcuoreardendo-fic

Everything happened so fast.

It was like any other mission gone bad — shots from grounded enemies, shots from the sky, and having to problem-solve on the fly amidst the chaos. Then… it was very different.

There was a violent shake as the rail cars were hit and then I was looking down at my husband hanging far below the car. Momentarily, all sound became an indistinguishable noise, garbled voices of distress mixed with ringing and roaring in my ears, as you struggled to climb up to the car.

As I moved to help you, the car creaked and, snapping back to reality, I heard you shout up, “Whoa! Don't! Any shift in weight could send both of these cars over. You must sever the connection hinge. Now!” Wrecker and I immediately exclaimed our rejection of that idea. I could feel my panic rising, my desperation increasing. There must be something. There HAS to be something. Anything to fix this mess and save you.

Your next words, spoken so calmly and matter-of-fact, slammed into me. “There is no time, cyare. Plan 99.” “Don’t. You. Dare, Tech.” My voice cracked on your name. Gently, desperately, I repeated my words, punctuating them with “please”. Your eyes locked with mine — soft, sad, and full of love. “I love you, cyar’ika, but when have we ever followed orders?”

When you shot the connection and began to fall, a deafening scream ripped out of me. “NO!” My body automatically lunged for the side with my hand outstretched before Wrecker grabbed me and held me firmly. Thrashing to escape his grasp as the car began to move, I screamed, “TECH! No! No no no! Go back!”

As the car got further and further away, the shock of the situation overtook me — numb, unseeing, unmoving with that same mix of indistinguishable sounds in my ears. My body went into a survival autopilot – moving as prompted but I wasn’t there – and the team had to help drag me back to the Marauder through the attacks.

Once aboard the Marauder, standing in the middle of our quarters, my knees gave out as I crumbled. Ripping off my helmet and goggles, my agonized sobs finally broke free and echoed through the ship. So full of grief, my body shaking, I leaned forward on my hands for support, fingers digging into the metal floor. One hand reached up, taking my chained wedding ring from underneath my undershirt and I clutched it so hard a mark was left in my hand.

At some point, I had stopped crying and left my body. I didn’t even know the ship stopped. Feeling a gentle hand on my shoulder, the only acknowledgment of awareness I could give was a hoarse, emotionless mumble, “You should have let me go with him.” 

From there, I don’t truly remember much of anything. There’s a blur of being dragged to my feet and out of the ship, and of having wet hair and clean clothes while AZ checked me over with no memory of cleaning up or changing. I’m ashamed to say that I don’t even truly remember Omega being taken. All I truly remember from the past month and a half is waves of soul-crushing pain surrounded by numbness as I attempted to lose myself in my work. I keep crying and feeling flashes of disbelief and anger. I’ve lost my appetite… and my desire for self-preservation. All this while moving on autopilot to complete my tasks and finish the mission. Find and save Omega. That is all that matters right now.

Hunter, Wrecker, and Echo are concerned for me, often pushing food on me and otherwise fussing. Up until now, there were eyes on me almost all the time, it felt like, and I hated it, but I understood why they hovered. Echo left a couple of weeks after the events to rejoin Rex, but I still hear him comm Hunter every so often to check in on me and find out how the search for Omega is going.

The days are often easier than the nights since I’ve taken on most of Tech’s tasks alongside my own. Hunter and Wrecker have tried to take some of them, wishing to lighten my load, but I adamantly refuse. I need them. I need the memory of helping with and hearing about them from him by doing them. They’ve let the situation be, but still intervene to make me sleep.

That’s when it gets unbearable.

The emptiness beside me screams, his scent got fainter with each passing day until it disappeared, remembering the quiet moments we shared in this space, and hearing his final words on a loop in the silence. Once the exhaustion finally takes me… I often watch Tech fall and wake with tears streaming down my face or stinging eyes and a heavy heart. Some nights, I think Hunter has been slipping me medicine in my food ‘cause those are the only nights I get any decent sleep.

Despite all this, I have, believe it or not, been getting better. Slowly, I began to reengage with the boys and be open with them. They stopped having to watch me as close or force me to take care of myself. Now, it’s reminders and intervention as necessary along with occasional check-ins when I seem particularly off one day. I’m still far from okay and I won’t ever be the same but, thanks to our brothers, I become a little less hollow each day.

[wanderingcas]

so like if i unofficially offer a physical copy of where there is darkness what do we think about that