#ye this is related to the other drabble thing i wrote

[camels-pen]

I'm still thinking about vampire Usopp w/sanuso btw, just like

Sanji insisting Usopp come to him whenever he's hungry, for multiple reasons, but primarily bc he's the cook, it's his job to keep his cremates fed above everything else. And Usopp going along with it, asking for blood around the same times he used to ask for food. Thinking Sanji would tell him if he ever took too much.

Sanji, however, is a fool. A very kind, but large fool. He doesn't tell Usopp when he's taking too much or too frequently. In fact their whole arrangement barely lasts a few weeks before Sanji collapses in the middle of food prep.

Like, just the idea of the guy who gives and gives and, yeah it feels nice to give, but can't fathom the idea that there are others on the crew able to do the same. That he doesn't have to give until there's nothing left.

Idk just. Physical manifestation of his problems with accepting unconditional love without having to give anything to earn it. As in, the more he gives without bounds, the more he's literally killing himself.

And then. And then.

Usopp coming into the galley, ready to sheepishly ask for a snack, just like before this whole thing, and finding Sanji on the floor.

And he yells for Chopper before looking Sanji over. Coming to the realization that this was him- this was his fault. He took too much. Asked for too much. Asked too much of Sanji.

And he's just kicking himself the whole time, telling himself it was stupid to ever think Sanji- Sanji of all people- would ever deny him a chance to fill his belly.

He comes to the conclusion he can't ask Sanji for blood anymore. He can't ask anyone for blood anymore. He couldn't risk this happening again. To any of them.

After Sanji got a transfusion and isn't at risk of falling over anymore, he and Usopp begin an agonizing back and forth routine.

Sure, Sanji can't give blood for a while- doctor's orders- but there are some rather big fish in the aquarium, and Usopp has always loved the taste of fish. He drains the blood out of a few, stores the excess in the fridge, and offers a glass to Usopp to make up for the lunch portion he never got.

Usopp says something or other about grabbing a bite from a sea king earlier and waves him off. Sanji frowns but doesn't say anything.

And this same bit continues and continues and continues, until Sanji puts his foot down. Literally.

Kicks Usopp's ass to the galley. Has an infuriating conversation with him. Continues to try and get him to drink. Ends up coming to a conclusion that Usopp only liked drinking blood from the source. A passing thought making him consider that there was only one source- one person he'd drink from.

Usopp- tired and fuzzy and hungry, so so hungry- is trying his damnedest to keep Sanji satisfied with lies he doesn't have the energy to make believable. He's trying and trying but Sanji is bulldozing through each one, not taking no for an answer and-

Is it me? Sanji asks, his voice far, far too hopeful. Do you only want to drink from me?

And if Usopp wasn't tired- wasn't literally starving and finding it hard to keep his thoughts from slipping away- he would examine that voice. That tone. Run through his own daydreams with different words, different contexts, being implied with those words.

But he is tired. And he is starving. And he needs to get a grip before he wavers even more in his resolve.

And so, it's surprising yet all too expected when Usopp declares Sanji's blood as the nastiest thing he's ever tasted. Says he never wants to get within smelling distance anymore, it's that bad. Too late, he realizes his smelling distance, now, covers the entirety of the ship and then some.

Sanji stays silent. Usopp contemplates taking it back. He doesn't.

Casually, Sanji reaches over to his knife block. Despite his current status as a member of the undead, Usopp fears for his life. He wonders if Sanji was just as skilled with a knife as Zoro was with his swords and desperately hopes that's not the case. Aloud, he tries to calm Sanji down while subtly trying to put distance between them.

Without any warning, practically without sound, Sanji tilts his head and cuts a thin line near the juncture from his neck to his shoulder. And all of a sudden, Usopp's filled with another, far more terrifying, kind of fear.

It's just like Boin, Usopp, he thinks to himself, eyes glued to the spot where dark red beads of blood well up on pale skin. Just like Boin.

[lynbels]

ONLY WHEN HE WANTS ME ୨ৎ 이희승

pairing 이희승 x reader

୨ৎ synopsis: you navigate the emotional wreckage of a toxic relationship, where fleeting tenderness masks control, and survival means staying quiet. ✉️ 7265 - tw. manipulate, toxic, abusive relationship, reader is stubborn, unprotected sex, hair pulling, praising, dirty talk, kissing, skin-ship, abuse, manipulation, gaslighting, violence, body image / weight related comments, self-worth issues, physical intimidation, implied sexual coercion, toxic relationship dynamics, emotional abuse, burnout/emotional exhaust, verbal abuse

📝 is this supposed to be a Drabble account? Yes. Did I just write a whole ass story? Yes. ‼️ i do NOT think of heeseung like this at all. I’m just really angry today and wrote this.

Dont like it? Dont read it. mdni

The apartment was supposed to be a fresh start.

You’d been together for a year — long enough to know his rhythms, to crave his presence, to think moving in was the natural next step. When Heeseung had smiled at you over takeout containers and said, “Let’s get a place together,” it felt like everything you’d wanted was finally aligning.

You didn’t expect it to fall apart so fast.

It started with the little things. The way he’d stop answering your texts when he was out. The way his tone would shift when you asked simple questions, like you were interrogating him. He used to call you babe every time he walked through the door — now you’d be lucky if he looked up from his phone.

The boxes were barely unpacked before the silences started stretching longer. His moods changed like weather — some mornings, he’d kiss your shoulder and whisper how lucky he was; other nights, he’d barely speak to you at all. But when he touched you, it was like he flipped a switch. He knew exactly how to make your body react — and maybe that’s why you let him.

Because when you questioned him — even gently — it never went well.

“You’re overthinking,” he said once, brushing you off with a hand on your thigh and a smirk that made your chest tighten instead of flutter. “You know I’m busy. Don’t be clingy.”

You hated that word. Clingy.

But you started believing it. Heeseung had a way of making everything feel like your fault. If he was distant, it was because you were too much. If he pulled away, it was because you were “suffocating him.” And when you tried to talk about how you felt, he’d laugh and say, “Don’t ruin what we have with your insecurities.”

Some nights, he didn’t come home. Said he fell asleep at a friend’s, or stayed late at the studio — even though there were no messages, no missed calls, no proof. And when you asked why he didn’t tell you, he shrugged like it didn’t matter.

“Why are you so obsessed with keeping tabs on me?”

“I live here too, you know. This isn’t your place to control.”

“Are you seriously crying right now?”

You started sleeping on the far edge of the bed.

You stopped bringing up how cold he’d gotten, how he only seemed to show affection when he wanted something — when he wanted you. You didn’t know how to explain the feeling in your gut, the sick twist that came every time he touched you with lips that felt too familiar, too practiced.

Because the truth was sinking in slowly, like water through cracks in the floor.

You were in love with someone who only loved you when it was convenient.

Heeseung never touched you the way he used to—not in the soft, reverent way that made you feel adored. Not anymore.

Now, it was late at night when he suddenly needed you. When he’d come home hours after midnight, smelling faintly of liquor and something else you didn’t want to name, and find you lying in bed, half-asleep, still waiting. Always waiting.

His voice would be low, rough. “Take this off,” he’d mutter, tugging at your shirt like it offended him just by existing.

And you’d let him.

Because it was the only time he really looked at you. The only time he saw you—eyes heavy, hands urgent, whispering things against your skin that made you feel wanted, even if just for a moment. Even if it wasn’t real.

When he was inside you, his hands gripping your waist like you were something he owned, it was the closest thing to love he ever gave you anymore.

He’d say your name like a curse, like a prayer, like he needed you to breathe.

And you’d believe him, just for a second.

Because in that moment—underneath him, beneath the weight of his body and his lies—you could almost pretend you meant something to him.

His hands are on you before you can speak, tugging your shorts down roughly, not caring where they land. He kisses you like he’s punishing you for something, all teeth and desperation, his fingers digging into your skin as if he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go.

You arch into him automatically, your body trained to respond to his touch no matter how hollow it feels now. His palm slides between your legs, and you’re already wet—because this is the only version of him that feels like he wants you. The only time he pulls you close instead of pushing you away.

“Fuck,” he mutters against your neck, his voice low and wrecked. “Always so ready for me.”

You don’t answer. You just spread your legs wider when he pushes two fingers inside you, curling them in that way he knows drives you insane. Your hips move without thinking, chasing friction, chasing anything.

He watches you with a smug glint in his eyes, but there’s hunger underneath it—something darker, something hollow.

“Is this what you want?” he breathes, pulling his fingers out and replacing them with the thick press of his cock. “This is all you ever want from me, right?”

You bite your lip as he thrusts into you in one hard stroke, making the mattress creak beneath you. You want to tell him no, that it’s not all you want. But your body betrays you, moaning before your mouth can form words.

He fucks you hard, fast, like he’s trying to erase every fight, every silence, every cold shoulder. His grip bruises, his pace relentless, and when you come around him, shaking and breathless, he groans like you’re his salvation.

But when it’s over, he rolls off without a word.

And just like that—you’re back to feeling like nothing.

The next morning, it was like nothing had happened. Like you hadn’t let him use your body as a way to feel needed. Like you hadn’t clung to his touch just to feel something real for once.

He didn’t kiss you. Didn’t say good morning. He just rolled out of bed, scratching the back of his neck, yawning as if your body wasn’t still sore from the night before. He didn’t even glance at you as he pulled a hoodie over his head.

“You gonna make coffee or what?” he mumbled, already halfway out the room.

You pushed yourself up slowly, skin still warm from where he’d held you, still aching in the places he’d gripped too tight. You didn’t say anything. You never really did. Just pulled on a shirt and padded into the kitchen, filling the kettle, grinding the beans. Hoping that maybe, maybe, today would be different.

But when you handed him his mug, he barely looked at you before taking a sip and grimacing.

“Did you forget how to make coffee?” he scoffed, setting it down hard on the table. “Tastes like shit.”

You swallowed hard, staring at the steam curling off the surface. “Sorry. I’ll make another—”

“Forget it,” he cut in, already unlocking his phone, thumbs scrolling. “You’re not even good at simple shit.”

It was always like that. A good night followed by a cruel morning.

He’d leave his laundry in a pile by the door and when you didn’t wash it fast enough, he’d say, “What do you even do all day?”

He’d ask you to grab his charger, his keys, his jacket, and then scoff if you didn’t move fast enough—“Useless,” under his breath like it was your name.

He’d call you clingy when you asked for his attention and cold when you didn’t. No answer was ever right. No version of you ever enough.

Some days, he’d come home and act like nothing was wrong, ruffle your hair, tell you to sit on his lap like things were normal. He’d bury his face in your neck, call you his girl, tell you he missed you. You’d want so badly to believe it—but the next day, you’d be back to chasing after his warmth like it was something you had to earn.

Like the love he gave you came with terms and conditions.

“Hey, clean up your mess before you leave,” he’d call when you were already late, pointing at the dishes he left on the table. “And don’t forget to call my dry cleaner. You said you’d do that yesterday, but like always…”

He didn’t even finish the sentence. He didn’t need to.

Because by now, the silence said everything.

Because by now, you already believed it.

It started small.

A shove when you stood in front of the door during an argument. Not hard—just enough to move you, to make you stumble back a little. He didn’t apologize. Just glared at you like you had pushed him, like your presence alone was an offense.

You told yourself it was the heat of the moment. That he didn’t mean it. That it wasn’t that bad.

But it didn’t stop there.

The second time, it was your wrist. You’d touched his arm when he tried to walk away mid-fight, desperate to make him stay, to make him hear you. He turned so fast you barely saw it coming—his fingers wrapped tight around your wrist, squeezing hard enough to make you cry out.

“Don’t touch me when I’m fucking pissed,” he spat, shoving your arm away like it disgusted him.

You cradled your wrist for hours afterward, hiding the red marks from yourself. From him. From the mirror.

And the next morning, he acted like nothing had happened. Like he hadn’t left bruises on your skin. Like your silence wasn’t screaming.

Eventually, it became routine.

A slap to your thigh when you said something he didn’t like. A harsh grip on your chin when you looked away during another lecture about how “you don’t listen.” Sometimes he’d grab your arms too tightly, slam a door too close to your face, throw your phone across the room so hard it cracked the screen. You flinched so often it became muscle memory.

But he never hit you in the face.

He knew better.

After every time, he’d either pretend it hadn’t happened, or twist it in his favor.

“You made me do that.”

“Why do you push me like this?”

“You know how I get when you don’t shut up.”

And sometimes—sometimes—he’d hold you after, breathing hard like he was the one who had been hurt. Like you had made him fall apart.

“I don’t wanna be like this,” he’d whisper into your hair. “But you make me crazy, baby. You make it so fucking hard to be good.”

And you’d cry quietly in his arms, because for a moment, it felt like he cared.

Even if he only held you after he broke you.

Sometimes, when you were standing at the stove—barefoot, hair tied up, mind somewhere between recipes and the silence he left in his wake—he’d come up behind you without a sound.

His hands would slide around your waist, chest pressed to your back like he belonged there, like he hadn’t just ignored you all morning.

You’d barely have time to react before one of his hands slipped under your shirt, fingers cold and greedy as they cupped your breast.

“Missed these,” he’d murmur against your neck, voice low and lazy, like he was complimenting something he owned.

You’d stiffen for a second, spatula still in your hand, heat rising from the pan in front of you—but then his thumb would brush over your nipple, slow and deliberate, and your body would betray you all over again.

He’d groan when you arched into him, one hand squeezing possessively as his other dragged your shirt up just enough to expose your skin.

“You’re always so warm,” he’d whisper, mouth trailing over your shoulder, voice coated in that honeyed filth that made your knees weak. “Can’t even let you cook in peace, huh?”

You never said anything. You didn’t trust your voice. Not when part of you ached for it—ached to be touched, to be wanted, even if only for a few seconds.

Even if he’d walk away a minute later, without tasting a bite of what you’d made. Even if he’d leave you flustered and alone in the kitchen again—like he only ever came close to remind you he could.

You barely had time to flip the stove off before he turned you around, lips crashing onto yours with a hunger that felt more like control than affection. He kissed you like he was starving, like claiming your mouth would make up for all the ways he ignored you, belittled you, pushed you away.

Then he spun you again, pressing you forward until your hips met the cool edge of the kitchen counter. His hands were already tugging your shorts down, rough and impatient, knuckles brushing against your thighs as he exposed you piece by piece.

“You knew what you were doing,” he muttered, yanking your shirt up and bunching it at your waist. “Walking around like this, teasing me.”

You opened your mouth to protest—to remind him that you hadn’t done anything—but then he was pressing against you, hard and ready, lining himself up behind you with a low groan.

His hand slid around to your chest again, squeezing your breast harshly, fingers pinching your nipple as he thrust into you in one deep, brutal stroke.

The counter dug into your stomach, but you barely felt it over the stretch of him inside you, the obscene sound of skin on skin echoing in the quiet kitchen.

“This is what you’re good for,” he grunted, thrusts sharp and punishing. “Bending over like this—letting me take you however I want.”

You whimpered, fists clenched on the cold counter as he fucked you harder, faster, one hand gripping your waist while the other stayed under your shirt, still groping your chest like he owned every inch of you.

And maybe he did.

Because no matter how cold he was, how cruel his words felt—your body still responded. Still melted under his touch. Still craved this. Craved him.

Even when you hated yourself for it.

Even when the only time he held you like you mattered… was when he was breaking you in half.

You flinched when he reached for the remote. When he stood up too fast from the couch. When he walked into the room and his footsteps were just a little too heavy.

It wasn’t always dramatic. Sometimes it was barely noticeable—a twitch of your shoulders, a quick breath caught in your throat, a subtle step back like you needed space even when he wasn’t touching you. But your body reacted before your mind could reason with it. Like it was protecting you before you had the chance to lie to yourself again.

He noticed.

“You always act like I’m gonna hit you,” he said one night, annoyed, tossing his phone on the bed like you were the one ruining the mood. “You’re so fucking dramatic.”

But he didn’t say it like he cared. He said it like it was inconvenient for him. Like your fear was an insult.

And maybe it was—to the version of himself he pretended to be. The sweet-talking boyfriend who made people laugh in public. The one who said “I love you” with the same mouth that spit venom in private. The one who told you to stop crying because it made him feel guilty—not because it hurt him to see you in pain, but because he didn’t want to feel like the bad guy.

You started moving differently around him. Quieter. Smaller. You’d stay in the kitchen a little longer so you wouldn’t have to pass by him in the hallway. You folded laundry in the bathroom with the door locked, even when he wasn’t home.

Sometimes, when he walked behind you, your body would tense without you meaning to. And when his hand brushed your arm or your lower back, you’d suck in a breath before you could stop it.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” he’d snap. “You’re acting like I’m a monster.”

But the worst part wasn’t what he said.

The worst part was that you started to believe maybe it really was you. Maybe you were overreacting. Too sensitive. Too much. Maybe you were the problem after all.

So you said nothing.

And your silence became just another thing he used against you.

When he wanted something, he’d change—like flipping a switch.

His voice would soften, just a little. He’d smile at you like he used to, the curve of his lips so familiar it made your chest ache. He’d touch you gently, like he hadn’t been cold for days, like he hadn’t made you flinch just yesterday.

“Babe,” he’d say, dragging out the word like a melody, like it still meant something. “You’re so good to me, you know that?”

Sometimes he’d kiss your cheek, fingers brushing your waist as he leaned in. Ask you to cook something he liked. Grab him something from the store. Pick up his clothes. Cover for him when someone called. Always followed by a “thank you, baby” that sounded sweet enough to make you forget.

And for a moment, you’d feel warm. Needed. Like maybe things were getting better. Like maybe he was trying.

So you’d do what he asked. Even if it hurt. Even if you knew better.

But as soon as it was done—food on the table, his plans covered, favor finished—he’d pull away again. No more soft voice. No more hands on your waist. No more babe.

Just silence. Or worse, indifference.

He’d barely look up from his phone when you spoke. Would answer you in clipped, flat words. You could ask him something and wait two minutes for a response, only for him to say, “What? I wasn’t listening.”

And it would hit you again—hard, cold, cruel.

The warmth had only been a tactic. A tool. A way to get what he wanted.

Because Heeseung only ever touched you, smiled at you, softened for you… when he needed something. And the rest of the time, you were just there. Convenient. Quiet. Useful.

Until you weren’t.

You were exhausted—mentally, emotionally, physically. The kind of tired that clung to your bones and made your limbs feel too heavy to move. You hadn’t slept properly in days, hadn’t had a full meal that wasn’t made for someone else, hadn’t taken a breath that didn’t feel like it belonged to him.

The apartment was quiet. Heavy. You were sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at nothing, mind blank, heart numb. You didn’t even hear him come in until the mattress dipped beside you.

His arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you toward him, and you froze.

“Don’t,” you said quietly, voice thin and cracked. “Not right now.”

But he didn’t let go.

He leaned in, lips brushing your shoulder, your neck, your jaw. “You’re always tired lately,” he murmured, like it was a joke. Like he hadn’t made you this way.

“I said stop,” you whispered, a little firmer this time, your hand coming up to push at his chest—but his mouth was already on yours, kissing you like he needed something, like he was desperate to feel in control again.

You pulled away, shaking your head. “Heeseung, I’m serious. I can’t. I’m tired.”

But he kissed you again.

And again.

Soft at first. Then deeper. More insistent. Like if he kissed you hard enough, you’d forget how empty you felt. How hollowed out you were. How much you wanted to scream.

You kept saying no, kept pushing at his chest, but his hands were on your thighs now, slipping beneath your clothes like your exhaustion didn’t matter. Like your boundaries were just noise.

“Baby,” he breathed against your skin. “I need you. Just let me, okay? Just… let me feel you.”

And you hated it—hated how your body still reacted, how your breath still hitched, how even now, a part of you wanted to be wanted. Even like this. Even when it hurt.

But you were tired. So, so tired.

And when his mouth trailed lower and his hands gripped tighter, all you could do was close your eyes and disappear.

It was supposed to be a calm afternoon. You had cleaned the apartment twice over, made tea, even laid out the snacks Heeseung liked—trying, always trying, to make everything perfect when his parents came by.

His mom was sweet, warm, always polite. His dad quieter, reserved but kind enough. They sat on the couch, talking casually about nothing, the kind of conversation you didn’t need to force. And for a moment, things felt almost normal.

Until Heeseung couldn’t find his watch.

He walked into the living room, jaw already clenched, tone sharp like glass. “Where the fuck did you put it?”

You blinked, confused. “I—I didn’t touch it. I think you left it in the bathroom last night.”

“No,” he snapped, cutting you off before you could finish. “You always move my shit and never put it back. Is it that hard to just leave things alone?”

Your heart dropped. Heat rushed to your face—his parents were right there. Watching. His mom’s smile faltered instantly, her brow furrowing, her eyes darting between the two of you.

“Heeseung,” she said quietly, firmly, “don’t talk to her like that.”

He paused, lips parted, clearly not expecting to be corrected—especially not by his mother.

“She didn’t do anything wrong,” she continued, voice gentle but edged with something protective. “I’m sure the watch will turn up. But don’t raise your voice like that, not in front of us—and not to her.”

Heeseung didn’t say anything for a moment. Just looked away, jaw flexing like he wanted to argue but knew better. He muttered something under his breath and walked off, footsteps heavy down the hall.

You stood there, frozen. Embarrassed. Small.

His mom turned to you, her expression softening as she reached for your hand.

“I don’t know what’s going on between you two,” she said quietly, “but you don’t deserve that, sweetheart. Don’t ever let anyone make you feel like you do.”

And you smiled back, weakly.

Because what were you supposed to say?

She didn’t know this was just a glimpse. That what she saw today was nothing compared to what happened when no one else was watching.

You were in the kitchen, hands submerged in warm, soapy water, rinsing off plates from the visit—silent, focused, trying to steady your breathing. The sound of the faucet running helped drown out the quiet tension still hanging in the air from earlier. You scrubbed a plate harder than necessary, the ceramic squeaking under your grip.

Behind you, out in the hallway, you heard footsteps. Soft. Measured.

It was Heeseung’s dad.

He approached his son cautiously, hands in his pockets, glancing over his shoulder toward you, his voice low so you wouldn’t hear. But the apartment was small. And everything felt loud when the rest of your world was quiet.

“Is she okay?” he asked gently.

Heeseung didn’t answer right away.

“I mean it, son. She looks… thin. Too thin. She’s lost weight, hasn’t she?”

You froze for just a second, the dish slipping slightly in your grip. But you kept your eyes down, kept scrubbing. You didn’t want to hear it. Didn’t want to feel it. Not when your ribs had started to show in the mirror. Not when your favorite jeans hung off your hips now. Not when you only ate when you remembered, which wasn’t often.

Heeseung just sighed. “She’s fine. She’s just been tired. Busy or whatever.”

“Busy with what?” his dad asked, voice more serious now. “She barely talks. She doesn’t look like she’s sleeping. You snap at her like she’s not even—”

“She’s sensitive,” Heeseung cut in, brushing it off. “She takes everything personally. I can’t say anything without her acting like I hate her.”

Your chest tightened. You blinked back the sting in your eyes and scrubbed harder.

Because it was easier to blame yourself than to admit the truth. That maybe you were too sensitive. That maybe if you just smiled more, talked less, didn’t overthink things, he wouldn’t get so angry. Wouldn’t lose his patience. Wouldn’t look at you like you were a burden instead of a person.

You rinsed the plate off, stacked it carefully with the others, and started on the next.

You told yourself it was your fault.

Because if it wasn’t, then what was left?

Just the ugly truth you weren’t ready to face.

As soon as the door closed behind his parents, the apartment fell into silence again. That heavy, thick kind that made it hard to breathe. You were still in the kitchen, wiping down the counter for the third time, just to have something to do with your hands. Something to make you feel useful.

Heeseung walked in slowly, hands stuffed in his pockets, eyes dragging over you in that way that always made your stomach turn.

“You made it weird,” he said flatly. “You couldn’t just act normal for a few hours?”

You swallowed hard. “I didn’t do anything…”

He scoffed. “Yeah? Then why did my dad pull me aside asking if you were okay? Saying you looked sick? That you’ve lost too much weight?”

You didn’t answer.

He stepped closer. “Are you trying to make me look bad? Is that it?”

Your mouth opened, but nothing came out.

“Look at you,” he sneered, eyes scanning you like you were something broken. “You’re barely eating anymore. Your face is sunken in. You think that’s attractive? You think people don’t notice?”

You shrank back instinctively, pressing your back to the counter, but he was already moving toward the fridge.

“Sit,” he ordered, yanking it open and grabbing whatever he could reach—leftovers, a carton of juice, snacks you’d forgotten were even in there. “Sit down and eat something. Right now.”

You hesitated.

He dropped the food on the table with a loud clatter. “I said sit.”

So you did.

And he sat across from you, arms folded, eyes locked on your every move like you were some kind of test he was determined to pass. Or punish.

You took a bite. Then another. Chewed slowly. Swallowed. You weren’t even hungry—but he didn’t care. He just kept watching, tapping his fingers against the table, jaw clenched.

“Keep going,” he said coldly. “All of it.”

By the time you were done, your stomach was cramping. You felt sick, too full, like your body was rejecting every bite. But you didn’t complain. You couldn’t.

Because deep down, you knew it wasn’t about food. It was never about food.

It was about control. About proving that he still had it. That you were still his to shape, to break, to rebuild however he pleased.

It was almost midnight when you heard the front door slam.

You froze on the couch, phone still in your hand, heart already picking up speed. You knew that sound—the stagger in his steps, the keys dropping to the floor, the heavy exhale as he stumbled into the apartment reeking of alcohol and bad decisions.

Heeseung was drunk. Again.

You stood up slowly, cautiously, peeking down the hallway just as he turned the corner, bottle still in his hand, eyes hazy but sharp. Mean.

“There you are,” he slurred, a twisted smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Sitting around like some bored little housewife. You waiting up for me or just keeping the couch warm?”

“I was just watching something,” you said quietly, trying to keep your voice steady. “You’re late.”

He scoffed. “Oh, so now you care where I go?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“No, but you meant it,” he snapped, taking a few stumbling steps forward. “You always mean something with your quiet little attitude. Always so fucking passive. So fake.”

Your mouth opened to defend yourself, but he didn’t give you the chance.

In one sudden motion, he hurled the half-empty bottle across the room.

It hit the wall two inches beside your head—shattering, spraying glass and cheap liquor across the floor. You jumped back with a scream, hands flying up to cover your face, body instinctively curling in on itself.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Heeseung just stood there, breathing hard, staring at the wall like it was your fault it didn’t hit you.

You didn’t speak. You couldn’t.

Your hands were shaking, your chest tight with fear that you were trying so hard to hide. You looked at the broken glass, then at him.

He didn’t apologize.

Didn’t move toward you.

Didn’t even look sorry.

He just wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, muttered something you couldn’t catch, and walked past you like nothing had happened.

Like nearly hurting you was a passing inconvenience.

Like you were a ghost in your own home.

You stood frozen for a moment, the sound of the bottle shattering still ringing in your ears. It wasn’t until you shifted your weight—just slightly—that you felt it. A sharp sting, sudden and deep, biting into your calf like fire.

You gasped, instinctively lifting your leg, only to see a thin sliver of red trailing down your skin, glinting glass buried in the cut. Tiny shards were scattered across the floor, catching the light in jagged reflections. One of them had found its way to you.

You reached down with trembling hands, trying to brush the smaller pieces away, but the pain pulsed harder with every touch. Blood smeared under your fingers as you hissed through your teeth, blinking fast to keep from crying.

Heeseung didn’t turn around.

Didn’t look back.

You could hear him in the bathroom, the sink running, cabinet doors slamming. Like it hadn’t happened. Like he didn’t care. Like the sight of you bleeding was beneath his attention.

You limped toward the hallway, teeth clenched, heart hammering. The cut wasn’t deep, but it hurt. And worse—it reminded you of how close it had been. Of how easily it could’ve hit your face, your head. Of how this wasn’t the first time something had been thrown at you… just the first time it actually landed.

And still, you said nothing.

Because somehow, it always turned into your fault. Somehow, you always ended up cleaning the mess—both the blood on your skin and the damage he left behind.

Alone.

The next morning, sunlight crept through the thin curtains, soft and quiet—too gentle for a space that had been filled with so much violence just hours before.

You were still curled on the edge of the bed, facing the wall, your leg wrapped in gauze from the sparse first-aid kit in the bathroom. Sleep had come in waves—light, broken, haunted by the sound of glass shattering and the sharp pain that came with it.

Heeseung stirred beside you.

You felt it before you heard anything—his weight shifting on the mattress, the faint rustle of sheets. Then a long exhale. Then stillness.

A moment passed before his hand reached for your shoulder.

“Hey,” he said softly, voice hoarse from the night before. “…You awake?”

You didn’t answer.

He moved closer, his arm brushing yours, his touch hesitant—careful, like he knew he’d gone too far.

“About last night,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “I was drunk. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

You stared at the wall.

“I—I didn’t know the bottle was gonna…” He trailed off, jaw tight. “I didn’t mean to throw it at you.”

You finally turned your head, slowly, meeting his eyes for the first time since it happened.

“There’s glass in my leg,” you said flatly.

His face crumpled, like guilt only just started to reach him. “Fuck,” he breathed, reaching for your hand, but you pulled away.

“I cleaned it myself,” you added.

“I know,” he whispered. “I saw. I was—I was going to help, I just—” He cut himself off again, frustration flashing briefly in his eyes before guilt took its place.

“I’m sorry, baby,” he said, softer now. “I was drunk, but that’s not an excuse. I know that.”

You didn’t respond. Because you’d heard this version of him before—the remorseful morning-after version. The soft voice, the reaching hands, the guilt that never lasted longer than it took for you to forgive him.

He leaned in closer. “Let me make it up to you. I’ll take care of you today, yeah? You don’t have to do anything. Just rest.”

You turned back toward the wall, slowly.

And said nothing.

He stayed quiet for a while after that, like he was waiting—for you to nod, to speak, to accept the apology and let him slip back into the rhythm he always did. Sweet words, gentle hands, just enough softness to make you question everything that had happened before.

But you didn’t give him that this time.

You lay there, unmoving, eyes fixed on a crack in the wall you hadn’t noticed until now. Small. Thin. But deep.

Eventually, he got up, shuffling out of the room. You heard the sound of cabinets opening in the kitchen. The soft clink of a glass, the fridge door. The hum of the kettle heating up water.

He was trying.

Or pretending.

You finally pulled yourself out of bed an hour later, body stiff and sore. The gauze on your leg was already stained a dull pink. You winced as you moved, but you didn’t say a word when you found him in the kitchen, setting out a mug of tea and a plate of toast like he could erase what happened with breakfast.

He glanced up at you, eyes searching your face. “I made your favorite.”

You nodded once, mechanically. “Thanks.”

You sat. Ate a bite out of obligation, not hunger.

Heeseung watched you the whole time, barely touching his own food.

“I’m gonna fix this,” he said suddenly, like he meant it. “I don’t want to be that guy. I just—things get too much sometimes, and I don’t know how to deal with it. But I’m gonna change. I swear.”

You nodded again. Just a little.

Because you wanted to believe him.

But deep down, something in you had already gone quiet. Detached.

Like that crack in the wall.

Small, at first.

But deep That night, the apartment was dim and still

That night, he left the bedroom door open.

That alone felt like something. After a week of making you sleep on the couch—no matter how cold it got, no matter how much your leg ached, no matter how small your voice had gotten when you asked if you could come back in—he finally said, “You can sleep here tonight.”

Not I want you to.

Not I miss you.

Just you can.

You stood at the edge of the bed for a moment, unsure. You could still hear the echo of his voice from nights before—Go. Sleep on the couch. I don’t wanna see your face. The way he’d slammed the door in your face, the way he didn’t even flinch when he heard you crying through the walls.

But your body was tired. And your leg still throbbed.

So you climbed in slowly, careful not to take up too much space, careful not to brush against him. You lay on your side, back to him, the sheets feeling unfamiliar even though this had once been your place, too.

After a few minutes, the bed shifted. You felt his arm slide across your waist, tentative, like he was checking how far you’d let him go.

“You’re warm,” he mumbled against your neck. Like it was a compliment. Like it meant something.

You didn’t answer. Just closed your eyes and tried not to tense up under his touch.

He pulled you closer.

And for a second, it felt like you were his again.

But not because he loved you.

Because he let you.

You woke up before him.

The room was dim, soft grey light filtering through the curtains. His arm was still draped over your waist, heavy, like a reminder. Your body ached—not just from the weight of him beside you, but from everything you’d been carrying alone.

You lay still, afraid to move. Not because he was asleep, but because you didn’t know which version of him you’d wake.

The one who whispered apologies and kissed your shoulder like he couldn’t bear to lose you?

Or the one who threw bottles and made you clean up your own blood?

You shifted gently, trying to slide out from under his arm. But the moment you moved, he stirred.

“Where you going?” he murmured, voice thick with sleep.

“I was just gonna go wash up,” you whispered.

He tightened his grip for a second, pulling you back in without opening his eyes. “Stay.”

You hesitated. “I’ll come back.”

He sighed, lips brushing your neck. “You always say that.”

And then he let go.

In the bathroom, you looked at yourself in the mirror. There was a faint bruise on your collarbone—fingers, probably. Your leg was stiff, the cut angry and red, the gauze already needing to be changed. You looked pale. Smaller. Like someone you barely recognized.

But you cleaned yourself up anyway.

Made breakfast.

Waited.

Heeseung came out an hour later, yawning, shirtless, acting like everything was fine. Like last night hadn’t happened. Like the week on the couch didn’t matter.

He kissed your temple.

“You sleep okay?”

You nodded.

Because it was easier.

Because fighting never fixed anything.

Because even when he hurt you, you still wanted to be something he didn’t throw away.

That day passed slowly, thick with silence that neither of you tried to fill.

Heeseung left for a few hours—said he was meeting a friend, but didn’t say who, and you didn’t ask. You just nodded, gave a faint smile, and watched the door close behind him. The apartment felt heavier once he was gone, like his absence still left pressure in the air.

You wandered from room to room. Picked things up just to put them back down. Cleaned the same spot on the counter twice. Folded clothes you’d already folded.

When he finally came home, it was almost dark.

He didn’t say much—just tossed his jacket on the couch and walked past you, muttering a low “hey” that didn’t land like a greeting. You stayed in the kitchen, pretending to scroll through your phone.

Later, when the lights were off and the sheets pulled up, he reached for you again. Just like the night before.

Familiar hands on your hips, pulling you close. His breath warm against your neck.

“Missed this,” he murmured, voice low, like it meant something. Like it erased the couch. The glass. The blood.

You didn’t say anything.

Because saying no never worked.

Because saying yes didn’t feel right either.

So you just stayed still and let him take what he needed, waiting for it to be over. Waiting for morning. Waiting for a version of him that might not come back.

And afterward, when he fell asleep with his arm around your waist like nothing was broken, you stared at the ceiling.

Eyes wide open.

Still waiting.

Heeseung came home later than usual.

The door clicked open with that familiar rattle of his keys, and you glanced up from where you were sitting on the couch, legs pulled to your chest. You didn’t say anything—just watched him toe off his shoes, shrug off his jacket, and drop his bag on the floor like always.

He looked tired. Or maybe just bored.

“Hey,” he said, not really looking at you. “You eat?”

You shook your head. “Not yet.”

He walked past you, heading straight to the kitchen. You heard the fridge open, then close. A few seconds passed before his voice floated back toward you.

“There’s nothing made?”

You hesitated. “I was waiting for you.”

He sighed loud enough for you to hear it. “You were home all day and couldn’t throw something together?”

Your fingers tightened around the edge of the blanket. “I wasn’t feeling great.”

He walked back in, his expression unreadable. Not angry. Just blank.

“You’re always tired lately,” he said. “Always saying you don’t feel good, but you still expect me to come home and cook for both of us?”

“I didn’t say that.”

He raised a brow. “Well, you sure didn’t offer.”

You pushed the blanket aside and stood, trying to keep your voice steady. “I’ll make something now.”

He didn’t say thank you. Just dropped onto the couch where you’d been sitting and turned on the TV, like that was the end of it.

In the kitchen, you moved on autopilot—pulling out rice, eggs, vegetables. Something fast. Something he liked. The ache in your leg from the healing cut flared up every time you shifted your weight, but you didn’t let it slow you down.

Not tonight.

You stirred quietly, keeping an ear on the volume of the TV, on the way he shifted behind you. Part of you still flinched at loud sounds. At movement. But tonight was calm. Tense, but calm.

And that was good enough.

Because sometimes, good enough meant surviving.

The sound of the pan sizzling filled the small kitchen, and you focused on it—on the rhythm of chopping, the smell of garlic in the air, the steady motion of stirring. It was something to do. Something simple. Something safe.

Heeseung didn’t say much from the living room. Occasionally he’d laugh at something on the TV or scroll through his phone, but otherwise, it was quiet. You weren’t sure if that was better or worse.

By the time you plated the food, your hands were a little shaky, not from effort, but from the weight of everything else—his mood, the tension, the lingering bruise just below your collarbone that you’d had to cover up earlier.

You set the plate in front of him on the coffee table. He didn’t look up.

“Thanks,” he muttered, already reaching for a fork.

You made your own plate and sat at the far end of the couch, knees drawn up, eyes flicking between the food and the screen. You weren’t hungry. Not really. But eating made it feel more normal.

Halfway through, he looked over at you.

“Why’d you put so much salt in this?” he asked.

Your stomach dropped a little. “I didn’t mean to. Sorry.”

He took another bite, chewing slowly, and shrugged. “Whatever. It’s fine.”

You nodded, forcing yourself to eat more.

A few minutes passed in silence before he spoke again.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said. “Maybe we should get out of the apartment this weekend. Do something.”

You blinked. That was… unexpected.

“Like what?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. Just go somewhere. You’ve been off lately. Kinda checked out.”

Your mouth felt dry. “I’ve just been tired.”

“Yeah, well. Maybe you need to shake it off. You don’t talk to me anymore, you barely look at me unless I touch you—” He paused, eyes narrowing slightly. “You’re not… mad at me or something, are you?”

You looked down at your plate. “No.”

“Good,” he said, nodding like that settled it. “’Cause I hate when you do that silent treatment shit. It’s manipulative.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat and nodded again.

You wanted to say I’m not trying to be silent. I’m just scared to say the wrong thing.

But instead, you just finished eating. Quietly.

Because the last thing you wanted was to give him a reason to be anything but calm tonight.

want longer fanfics like these? Check out @shy9-29

[findafight]

For the STWG daily drabble prompt “accidental confessions” (I wrote this half in bed last night, half in bed this morning. Forgive some mistakes thanks) took it in a different direction.

It takes a full day for Steve to be released from hospital after they’ve confirmed he had broken ribs and a concussion amongst his other more minor injuries. Claudia is incredibly greatful she had the foresight to offer being the poor boys secondary emergency contact in the spring, seeing as Dustin had complained that Steve’s parents took a week to sign him out in November.

She got the call and was able to pick Dustin up and follow the ambulance to the hospital (Steve’s nervous friend had ridden with him, needing attention herself but refusing to let go of his hand). The smell of the smoke from the embers of Starcourt is something she doesn’t think she’ll forget, the stink sticking to Dustin’s hair and clothes. She’s sure it was the same for Steve.

He was under observation (and they did assist him in bathing, thank goodness) before being able to check himself out. She had swooped in and bundled him into her car as his friend’s parents ushered her away with the promise that the two could call, but needed to be home with family for a while to heal.

No one mentions that Claudia Henderson is not related to the Harringtons. If they had, she thinks she would have lost whatever composure she has been clinging to since she saw the sky burning red above the former mall and pulled up to be told her two boys had been caught in the chaos. Steve had been with Dustin when the Hargrove boy had threatened Lucas and protected them, had been coming around for dinner or to drive Dustin around, or to help him style his hair or countless other little things or no reason whatsoever. He has slotted into their lives easily, fitting into a place that neither Claudia nor Dustin realized they needed. He is her son in any way that mattered, and she needed him home. With her.

Finally pulled into the driveway, she opens the passenger door and holds her arms out, letting Steve grip her shoulders and securing a hand in his armpit. She hauls him out and supports him as he stumbles through the entryway.

“This way, sweetheart. You’re in the guest bedroom. Dusty helped air it out for you earlier, so everything’s fresh.” She says, nudging him towards the room. He nods and goes where she guides.

She helps him change into a matching pyjama set she had tucked away for him, as sometimes Dustin had horrible nightmares and could only be calmed by seeing Steve, awake and no longer visibly harmed, and he ended up sleeping on the chesterfield or Dustin’s floor. They were soft, and buttoned down the front, so everything was comfortable and he didn’t over exert or hurt himself trying to get the top over his head.

“I can do the pants myself, mrs. H.”

She smiles. “Of course. I’ll turn around and you let me know when you’re ready so I can help you get settled.”

“‘Kay.” There’s more shuffling than she would like, and more groans, but Steve gives her a “ready” before she gets too worried. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, loose pants the hospital provided kicked into the corner, looking a bit lost. His eyes are drooping, eyebrows slightly creased, and his mouth gapes a little, like he’s trying to figure out if he should speak.

Gently, she tugs the quilt out from under him, helping him lay back and tuck his feet under the sheets. She pulls everything up to his chin and kisses his forehead.

He hums contentedly and she brushes his hair further out of the way.

“Would you like me to turn the lights out?”

Steve slowly blinks his eyes at her, fingers curling around the edge of the quilt. His answer is a soft “yes please” followed by, “don’t leave?”

It’s so small, so desperate and resigned, it breaks Claudia’s heart all over again. She steps away from the bed, flicks the switch and turns right back around to sit on the edge of the bed. She’ll get a glass of water for him later, but now she just runs her hand through his hair, petting him soothingly.

He sighs, his body losing some of the tension he’s been holding, and his eyes droop. Humming, he burrows dirtying into the blankets but whines when she moves her hand away. She returns to petting. “There, there, honey. You’ll feel better after you sleep more, alright. And you don’t need to worry about anything. I’m right here.”

He nods just slightly, smacking his lips together and pressing his forehead into her palm. “Mmm. That’s good. I wish you were my mom.”

The admission is followed by another sigh and Steve losing the battle to keep his eyes open. It strikes Claudia through the heart, all this time seeing Steve as her own, trying to make sure he doesn’t feel smothered by her need to…well. Smother. And she had rarely considered that Steve would admit to wanting or needing the kind of support and warmth she was restraining (very badly) from throwing at him.

He probably only said it because of the concussion and the various pain or antibiotic drugs the hospital had given him, but it must have been true. He has asked her to stay, and whines when she moved her hand away. Over the past months he’d gotten more and more comfortable in their house and told her more about his frequently absent and disappointed parents. Steve needed support, and steady and reliable presence he trusted. And he saw that in Claudia.

If Steve wishes she were his mother, then his mother she’ll be. She’s been that for him probably since that first night they officially met in November, a beat up boy clutching her son’s shoulder in the Byers house and assuring her he didn’t let the kids get hurt, regardless of his status of also being a kid.

She leans down and kisses his forehead again, and says “well, that’s good, because you are my son.” Even if he can’t hear it. If he wants, she’ll say it everyday until he believes it. For now, she let’s him sleep as she pets his hair gently.

[leslie-lyman]

Election Night

A Euclidean Geometry drabble

Summary: Election night 2024 does not go as they’d hoped.

Pairing: modern!Pero Tovar x Frankie x Jack x nameless!OFC/f!reader (written in third person, reader is only referred to as she/her/their girl, with no physical descriptors)

Word count: 1.1k

Rating: G, just some election-related angst/hurt/comfort

a/n: Trying to work through my feelings about the 2024 election results. Would like to have three large Pedro boys comfort me. Had a breakdown. Wrote this.

Masterlist.

———

She hadn’t wanted to stop watching the results come in.

Not even after the swing states had started to fall, one by one, like red dominoes. But at some point the hands she’d pressed tightly over her mouth had begun to shake, tears spilling down her face, breath catching in her throat with each shallow inhale.

Frankie had finally turned off the tv, slipped her phone into his pocket, and carried her to bed. They’d pressed in tight against her as she sobbed, soaking the front of Jack’s tshirt as he held her against his chest, crying so hard she nearly made herself sick.

I don’t understand, she’d said, over and over. I don’t understand. This can’t be happening again. I can’t do it, I can’t face another four years of this…

In that moment the worst thing is how helpless they feel. The three of them are smart, strong, capable men, men who are trained to protect, to figure out how to get out of impossible situations. And if they could they’d burn the world down if anyone or anything caused their girl to hurt like this. But there’s nothing they can do to fix it.

She’s scared for herself, yes, but they know she’s far more worried about the three of them. The horizon of possibility stretches terrifyingly wide before them.

Pero has his green card, but will that matter? How careless and indiscriminate will the promised deportations be? At the end of the day, being a tan-skinned, Spanish-speaking immigrant may be more than enough to put a target on his back. Frankie and Jack are citizens, but neither has to branch out terribly far in their respective family trees to find relatives who are undocumented.

To say nothing of the fact that the four of them live together in a queer, polyamorous relationship. Where even now they have to be vigilant in public, wary of how obvious they are, always aware that simply being who they are out loud could result in unexpected attack. How much worse will it get? How much harm will be caused?

And as they do their best to soothe the woman they love, they know this reaction isn’t just about fear, or frustration, or anger.

It’s grief.

It feels like suffering through a death because that’s what it is. The death of a hope, of a dream, of what could have been and what should be if there was any justice or common sense or decency in the world. And even though this grief inwardly pummels them black and blue too, they know they will never truly feel it the way their girl does. The unique pain of women, who hope so much for so little, for even just the opportunity to be equal, and to be denied so resoundingly. To have gotten so close to a woman president and to have that chance ripped away by a man as odious as he is dangerous not once, but twice? It’s just cruel.

They do what they can for her, holding her close, letting her cry it out, murmuring soft words of reassurance.

It’ll be okay, sweetheart. Just let it out.

We’re here. We’ve got you. We’ve always got you.

I’m sorry, darlin’. I’m so sorry.

Tears roll down their cheeks and they try to muffle their sniffles for her sake, but the looks they share with each other are pained and haunted.

At last their girl quiets, having cried herself into a fitful doze. The clock on the bedside table reads 1:37am.

Jack, Pero, and Frankie all lie awake, ingrained military instincts refusing to let them sleep when they have something precious to keep watch over.

Jack breaks the silence.

I’ll call our lawyer later today, he half-whispers. Make sure we have all our paperwork in order. Wills, power of attorney, that sort of thing. So we’re as protected as possible, legally speakin’, should anything happen to one of us.

Frankie and Pero nod in silent agreement.

We should sit down with Robert soon, Frankie adds, mentioning their financial advisor. Reassess where we’re at, have a contingency plan in case we decide we need to move.

She’ll want to increase where and how much we donate, Jack adds, looking down at their girl with her head on his chest, one first curled into his shirt.

This is good. This is a plan. This is what they need.

We should go away for a bit. Pero’s voice is low and deep in the dark. Take some time somewhere remote, just the four of us.

I can think of a long weekend in January when I wouldn’t mind be disconnected from the rest of the world, Frankie quips humorlessly.

There’s an old Daniels family cabin in the U.P., near Mackinac, Jack says. Snow-covered trees, big roaring fireplace, little to no cell service…

Their girl shifts to blink sleepily up at him, just awake enough now to interject.

What about someplace warm, Jack?

Oh you’d be kept plenty warm, sugar. Don’t you worry about that.

He softly brushes her hair back from her tear-stained face, placing a delicate kiss to her forehead.

How are you feeling, querida?

She reaches for Pero’s hand to anchor herself before she answers him.

Sad. Scared. Angry.

That is how you should feel, Frankie murmurs, and the validation is strangely reassuring.

And tired, she says, tears starting to clog up her throat again. Fuck, I’m so damn tired. Tired of fighting, of resisting, of feeling like I’m screaming at the top of my lungs to have my and others’ basic humanity recognized by people too devoid of empathy to care. I’m so, so tired.

I know, querida, I know you are. And it seems overwhelming right now. But the alternative is giving up. And that is the only thing that truly feels impossible to do, no?

Her hand squeezes Pero’s as she nods, reluctantly conceding that he’s right.

But not at this moment, Frankie says. We should rest. There’s nothing else we can do at this moment.

Their girl turns to face him, making sure she’s still touching all three of them before closing her eyes and snuffling down into the pillow.

Should call our lawyer, she mumbles, starting to slip away into sleep again. And Robert…make sure we protect ourselves…as much as possible…

The three men share an amused look.

Those are great ideas, baby, Frankie praises her quietly, pulling a blanket up to her chin. We’ll do that.

And maybe…find a place to go…a beach somewhere?

Muffled chuckles break out around her.

Whatever you want, darlin’, says Jack.

It doesn’t matter where they go. And whatever happens next, they can face it, as long as they’re together.

[dawnsdragon]

Summary:

“𝓛𝓸𝓿𝓮 𝓲𝓼 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓶𝓸𝓼𝓽 𝓽𝔀𝓲𝓼𝓽𝓮𝓭 𝓬𝓾𝓻𝓼𝓮 𝓸𝓯 𝓪𝓵𝓵.”

Genre: Hurt, very little comfort; Weirdly sweet in a way; They love each other in this I swear!; Some fluff in the end Rating: Mature (?) CW: Allusion to death; no actual death; Allusion to suicide; no actual suicide; idk what else but please let me know; Forgot to add, but brief blink-and-you’ll-miss-it spoiler for Caleb Tender Moments Skyline Characters: Caleb, MC Wordcount: 520 Relationships: Caleb X (Fem!)MC AN: So this is still a drabble and I am so sorry that it took so long to write. I started student teaching and I've been drowning （；´д｀）ゞ

“You promised me. You promised me you would always be by my side, in this life and in the next. So come with me. Caleb, come with me.”

And that was the problem with love. 

It wasn’t a fickle thing. It was temporary, fleeting, and time had a way from keeping it withstanding. Love was painful instances, memories filled by tragedy and yearning with brief moments of burning reprieve. There was no peace, no autonomy. It didn’t motivate anybody. It wasn’t freeing. It held no joy. Love was oppressive, demanding, a soul crushing force that drowned all those hypnotized by its allure within its illusionary falsehood. 

And that was the problem with people. 

They weren’t morally pure beings. They were vile, disgusting, and circumstances had a way of drawing out self-righteous zealots. People were foolish dreamers, idealists fueled by fairy tales and myths with promises of utopic happily-ever-afters. There were no heroes, no saints. They weren't seeking unity. They weren't repaying kindness with kindness. People were vindictive, greedy, monsters who treated everyone as an end to a means despite their spurious smiles. 

And that was the problem with them.

MC and Caleb had broken their strings. The two of them, dolls, puppets, had found serenity in one another. A pair who were dependent, always reaching out for the other, and not once noticing the sinister entity seeking to shatter their sanctuary. He had paradise, Eden. And her adoration illuminated the darkness. She cradled jubilation. MC was eternal. And yet, the two were dissected, questioned, seen as obsessive and it was only a matter of when one of them would drown the other with their possessiveness. 

But, as Caleb sat quietly by MC’s side, he could only wonder if the problem was actually with time.

It was an endless cycle. Life. Death. Life. And death once again. There wasn’t any way of stopping it. It was pointless to fight against it. Poets wrote about it. Scientists experimented with it. But no one found a way to murder it. Caleb had seen the horrors of it and MC had lived through its ceaseless endings. It never showed empathy. There couldn’t be bias.  Time sought to maintain its perennial rotation, suffocating all those who did not follow along with it.

And maybe that was why Caleb couldn’t survive this.

Love.

People. 

Them.

Time.

All of it was seeking to destroy. Two fools were given the short end of the stick and Caleb could only stare at the ashen face of the women who would gladly allow their demolition. Because that was the problem with love. It made you idiotic. But that was also the problem with people. They were stupid enough to believe in it. And that was the problem with them. Caleb and MC would never get to experience it. Because the problem with time was how short it is.

“Caleb?”

Yes, all of these things lead to their destruction. There wasn’t a point in trying to stop it. 

Reaching out, Caleb brought what little was left of MC to him.

 “Of course Pip-squeak, but maybe not as seagulls okay?”

AN #2: this totally disregards some lore about MC and the Aether core. Also idk when or where this would take place but I really wanted to write about the complex relation these two shared.

[olderthannetfic]

Adjacent, but not directly related to this- https://www.tumblr.com/olderthannetfic/781254375513505792/ive-grown-to-loathe-the-phrase-be-the-change-you?source=share

Yeah I wrote half the tag for my favorite archetype. Its uh. Great. Its not discouraging at all.

Its great when people sit there and tell me that both of the [tags that are adjacent but not the same and even the tag wranglers agree] are the same thing and there's TONS of that.

Its. Its not the same.

If it were the same the tags would be synned. And they aren't.

"Blorbo works for evil organization" and "Blorbo works for evil empire" are two VERY different things than "Blorbo is villainous in a way that can not be folded into those two things". (I personally like "the monster that is on your side" flavor, but that's just me.) And it DOES feel really *great*. Just FANTASTIC. When someone goes "People write plenty of [not my thing], you can't say you wrote half of [entirely different tag that is my thing]." There are FOUR fics in the tag.

Two are mine. Yes I wrote half of that tag. (More than, if we go by word count. the other two are a 2k word oneshot, and a 100 word drabble. Mine are approximately 40k. I write slow as fuck. one's not finished, and I am anticipating it all ending up with multiple other 30k+ works since I broke it up into a series.

And me going "More people could write blorbo being a villain for their own sake and not tied to either of the two big villainous groups. It would be fun! I promise, I wrote half the tag, its fun!". Should not garner "but what about [the two tags that are not that tag, and are distinctly different]." Snark from people combing through the tags for fanfic writers in the fandom. Yes "evil organization" AUs exist in spades. It is not the same thing as writing "lets give the original flavor a villainous twist in motivation, while keeping much of the overarching situations adjacent to canon". Of COURSE "part of the evil empire army doing an expansionist war" AUs exist to the point of being nauseated. Still not the same thing. Makes me think people just see "villainous [blorbo]" and turn their brains off and lose all reading comprehension skills.

--

[writtenbygracewilliams]

Ranking my fics from this year

This is for funsies and also my own rankings of my own fics. If you have a fave, I would love to hear what and why. Also thank you so so so much.

[This is only new works I’ve posted on ao3 this year, up until The People We’re Made Of which I only posted yesterday. All are complete. No tumblr drabbles are included, nor is my baby Obligated].

15. Last Night

Written in 48 hours of January 2020, I pulled this Calum Hood x Jake Peralta one shot from the vault. It’s not my best writing, but it’s fun. I’m loyal to my unhinged crossovers, but it was the only one I posted this year!

14. Beautiful Night

Also from the deep vault, this was a Mashton one shot written in late 2022. It’s a bit left field, and mashton are easily the least popular 5sos ship, but I do love soft and fluffy so this is that. Soft bois, as the series is titled.

13. you only wanna love me in the dark

This is very emo and angsty mcdanno, which is sometimes what we need, but it makes me sad :( it’s based off the PeachPRC song Secret, that I had on repeat for weeks after it came out and related to a bit too much.

12. Appropriate Workplace Behaviour

Mcdanno I’m sorry for another low ranking, especially because I do really love this one shot. This is where the ranking got harder. It’s silly goofy fun, and one of my go to feel good fics. Chin is an icon, Lou is as sassy as ever, and Joons and Tani are traumatised. Steve and Danny just love each other, that’s not a crime. (It might be.)

11. My Delicate Flower

A sequel to @sissytobitch10seconds fic! As a long time mpreg lover, I was deeply hooked on the idea of Anthony carrying Hyacinth and had soooo much fun expanding on this idea and universe. I have another follow up very slowly moving along in my drafts.

10. Never Been Kissed

The sequel to Strawberry Kisses, this is another silly goofy feel good short story. This is a bit crack, but honestly had such a fun time writing and creating this fic and thus spreading the Nikki Webster agenda. Also, farm life Kanthony???? Yes.

9. Laws of Attraction

This isn’t even my favourite suits fic that I’ve written (though it’s still the only one I’ve posted 😭) but I value not only it being my first suits post, but also the speed at which I wrote and posted it. I overthink things a lot and lock fics in my vault, so writing, editing and posting in under two weeks was liberating for me. It is peak stupid idiots to lovers marvey.

8. Alignment

There is such tight competition in the top ten I love all my darlings, so it’s a shame this is as high as mcdanno got. I actually wrote this mid 2023, a year before I posted it, but it holds a special place in my heart for lots of reasons. It’s the longest fic I’d written and finished in a while, helping get me back into the groove of multi chaps, and it’s also the first thing I’d done using my beloved world building from ease but in a completely new fandom and setting. Soulmates will always be my fave trope.

7. touch me ‘til I find myself

White Collar!!!! Neal Caffrey and David Siegel are in love, it’s true. I had lots of fun exploring their relationship, and how and why David is in many ways the only perfect person for Neal. I want to do it again.

6. Strawberry Kisses

Narrowly missing out a top 5 spot, Strawberry Kisses (and Never Been Kissed) were incredibly self indulgent and supported by the lovely @newtonsheffield. This fic reignited my childhood in a way that made me soft and gooey on the inside. Nikki Webster you will always be famous.

5. Ignorance Is Bliss

Maybe it’s recency bias, because I just reread this a couple days ago, but I truly love this fic. It’s written quite differently to most of my other stuff, which made it fun. One of my favourite things about writing is exploring techniques and styles, and this allowed and captured that. I’m also an ABO lover, and writing Kanthony ABO in a way that felt very authentic to canon was so enjoyable.

4. Bittersweet

The first Bridgerton fic I posted!!! And it’s lesbian!!! And I wrote and posted it within 24 hours!!! Of course it made the top five. I’m an Edwina lesbian truther, so Franwina felt like a natural experiment to do. Had fun, might revisit the ship in a less emo setting.

3. Ja Pense A Toi

TAFFREY. MY BABIES. Truly no one will ever understand what Neal Caffrey and Gordon Taylor mean to me, but I am trying to spread the agenda. I have two more WIP’s for them, but I digress. Writing their adventures in Paris felt very natural, and I like to think that the two versions of Neal I have (him with Siegel or Taylor) are the devil vs the angel in him.

2. The Compensation Explanation

Maybe a left field choice, as the only big bang theory fic I have posted and probably ever will post. It’s the first thing I posted in 2024, which is sentimental in itself, but this one shot is just special. It’s sad, a little angsty and soft around the edges. It’s a story of being comphet from a deeply religious upbringing and mother, even if she always has and always will love you deeply, and about both the mother and son grappling with relationships—her with god and her son, him with his mother and boyfriend. It feels like a hug in fic form, and it’s one of my own things I reread the most.

1. To Commandeer a Husband

It would be unfair to put anything except this baby as number one. It was my longest (completed) fic in years. The first Bridgerton fic I wrote, how I got my first mutual and beta on here (@tofanasmuse thank you ilysm) and fundamental in building so many parts of my community. Even if it was largely built out of my bottom Anthony agenda and powerful women kink; I love these characters, their dynamics and their relationships so much. Also, writing a Whistledown to start every chapter was so much fun. I promise I’m working on a benophie sequel lol.

Thank you to anyone who read anything I wrote this year, let alone this post that is mostly just for fun. I wanna turn this into a game??? Everyone please rate your fics from the year, I’m so curious and I think it’s fun. You can rank them using whatever metrics you want. You can rank WIPs, smaus, tumblr fics, whatever you like!

I’m tagging @newtonsheffield @hydriotaphia @tofanasmuse @harnitbee but please truly anyone can do this I promise the last thing I’m doing is gate keeping. Let’s all celebrate the year we’ve had, and art we’ve created!

–GW xo

[quordleona03]

My OTW interview

Back in 2023, I was asked if I'd like to be interviewed by the Organisation for Transformative Works. I said yes, sent in my answers, and only just wondered - 2024 was a rather busy year - if they ever used it. They did, and here it is:

How did you first find out about fandom and fanworks?

In the old Science-Fiction Bookshop in Edinburgh, a couple of years after the end of the 4th season of Blake’s 7 was first broadcast, I found a book called Blake’s 7 The Programme Guide. In the back of the book were the names and addresses of groups of B7 fans, and I found you could write to them and join. I got stamps and postal orders, sent typed letters – and got fannish newsletters back.

Somewhere in this, I found out about fanfic. I had no idea. The first B7 story I wrote, prior to this, was in the form of an episode – because I had no idea that you could do anything else for a TV series but write episode scripts, nor that there was anyone else out there who wanted to.

What made you decide to reach out to Open Doors about archiving Iolanthe’s works on AO3?

I was friends with Susan when we were all on LiveJournal. I was watching M*A*S*H reruns and had joined MASH100 on LJ and written drabbles. I met Susan – who was Scarlatti on LJ and Iolanthe on her lovely personal site, A Priest in Korea. Susan’s stories inspired me to start writing what became For Ever, which was the original nucleus of Sins and Virtues.

Susan died in June 2006, while Such As We was still in first draft – I sent her sections as I was going along because she had cancer. Other things happened, and I’d stopped writing M*A*S*H fanfic in about 2011. Then about ten years later, I started thinking about M*A*S*H again, and Hawkeye/Mulcahy, and Susan’s stories. I found her old site on the Wayback Machine, re-read her stories, and thought of the story idea that has become All We Know. I also thought, “I could get these stories on to AO3 and everyone could read them: I bet they have a process for that.”

And I did, and they do, and – A Priest in Korea moved to AO3.

What was it like working with Open Doors?

Once we had made contact, it was very easy! Julie, an Open Doors volunteer, was my Virgil, and sent me clear emails with easy-to-follow steps. I understood what to do and why to do it that way. The first step in the process could have been the hardest – I had to get consent to transfer the archive to Julie from someone related to Susan – but fortunately, I was still in contact with Doug, Susan’s partner, and he was pleased to know that her stories were to be archived.

Was there anything about the import process that surprised you?

Not really. Oh, I suppose finding out that “Tag Wrangler” is an actual job. At some point I sent the tags Susan had used to Open Doors, and Julie explained there would now be a pause of a few weeks to let the tag wranglers do their work to ensure that the tags I was to use when I posted the stories were in the right AO3 form.

And then I got an Excel form which outlined exactly how to post the stories. I could never have used AO3 before in my life, and it would have been clear how to post Iolanthe’s stories in her memorial account. But, step by step, everything about the Open Doors process seemed so obvious, and quite unsurprising, even if I hadn’t thought of it before.

How did you hear about the OTW and what do you see its role as?

I heard about OTW because other fans were talking about it on LiveJournal in late 2007. I’d left LiveJournal for other reasons in June 2006, so I was not involved in those discussions – but I was aware they were happening. I now see the role of OTW to, specifically, protect the existence of AO3 as a host site for fanworks of all sorts and to, generally, protect the right of fans to create transformative works based on all sorts of media.

What fandom things have inspired you the most?

Stories. I love reading fanfic, and I love writing fanfic. Writing is my passion.

Also: that fandom exists. That we have made fandom – and everything in it – out of love and words. This entire eccentric diverse muddled dramatic multilevelled Escher-staired magical structure, half castle, half space station, half Faraway Tree, half fae and half heaven and half hell: we made it. Fandom exists because we want it to, because of what we love, because of how we love, because of words.

[venomous-qwille]

Hi!!! Don’t know if you can answer my questions or not, cause they could be spoilers but I’m going to ask anyway and hope for the best!

1 - Are Soleil and Clip.exe the same animatronic? Like a yes or no is enough of an answer for me. I’m just a little confused with the recent art I found under the Ghost in the Machine tag.

2 - Given that Misuta has Sanii’s room ready for him including his clothes in there, does that mean that the only thing that didn’t arrive to the collector’s home was Sanii himself?

3 - This one is related to question 2 (although probably very stupid) if Sanii’s glasses and jacket are in his room does that mean that the animatronics have like multiple pairs of the same clothes or where they like send naked? (Again very stupid question, but my brain tends to focus on small details like this.)

4 - How many years as Sanii been missing?

5 - Fazbear Entertainment closed like 15 years ago in your AU (correct me if I got the number wrong), so what I would like to know is for how long as each DCA animatronic as been living with the collector? Like 10 years? 2 years? 6 months?

6 - Reader is fixing the original Sun/Moon but are they still two different AI’s or are they just Eclipse now?

7 - I believe that you said that Soleil, Fool, Clip.exe, Misuta, Sunspot, Nova and the original Sun/Moon are the main cast of Act 1, which makes 7 DCA animatronics. 8 if you include Sanii. What I would like to know is are you planning on introducing any more DCA animatronics in to GITM? Like how many?

8 - Are Soleil, Fool, Clip.exe, Sunspot or Nova like the original Sun/Moon, two AI’s in one body?

9 - And do the DCA animatronics in GITM wear the same clothes that they used to wear when they were with FazCo or did the collector buy them new ones? Does the collector like buy things for them? Like those books for Misuta. (Again with the stupid questions 🤦🏻‍♀️)

Sorry if some of this questions sound kind stupid, but my brain tends to focus on all sorts of details and strange things.

Hope you can answer my questions!!!

Hi!! I will try answer these as best I can! 1. Soleil and Clip are not the same animatronic! The art you saw was in relation to a drabble I wrote on discord- in which Clip.exe shapeshifts to look like Soleil. 2. Yep! Pretty much the only thing that didn't arrive was Sanii himself. 3. Some of the animatronics have multiple pairs of the same clothes- or multiple costumes, especially if they came directly from their plex, some don't, some prefer to wear human clothes, others don't. It really depends on what their personal situation was when they were 'acquired'. 4. Misuta has been at the house for about two years. Sanii has been missing for that length of time.

5. Sunspot has been with the collector for the longest time at about 11 years. Misuta the shortest at two years. I want to keep the rest a little vague as it's spoilery. There is a considerable gap between when Fazco shut down and when most of them were acquired.

6. This fic will feature Sun, Moon and Eclipse :)

7. Soleil, Fool, Clip.exe, Misuta, Sunspot are the main cast of act one. Ruin and Nova are added in act two. Beyond that there are other characters, but I'm not ready to share details on them yet!

8. Ah sorry, I can't answer this fully because of spoilers! Some of the animatronics are dual-ai, some of them were made separately. This will all be explained in fic.

9. Yes Harry does generally buy things for them if they ask. Some of them take advantage of this (some of them dont). e.g Sunspot and Sol do have many sets of clothes/other stuff that has been bought for them when they ask. Misuta and Fool have a preference for their old clothing (which luckily they have several sets of).

I hope that's helpful? ^^ Most of these questions will be answered explicitly in fic!

[dansconcepts]

Talentswap AU - Nanamiki HCs

I'm posting these in case I don't finish the drabble I wrote for them in time for when I usually post things.

Ultimate Baker Chiaki:

Chiaki spaces out a bunch

She takes naps while waiting for something to bake and wakes up bc of her timer’s alarm

Chiaki’s ace but not aro (yet also she’s figuring out how not aro she is bc her and romance never really aligned much until Mikan)

Her favourite things to bake are custard buns

Her favourite flowers are sunflowers

When baking, Chiaki hyper-focuses on getting the right measurements, the right airiness, the right amount of mixing, etc. etc. and everything else sort of gets tuned out

Chiaki’s palate is sensitive, so you won’t find her eating spicy things much. She’s not afraid to work with spice though (although taste testing is gonna hurt…)

Sleep schedule? What’s that? Chiaki bakes all day and her sleep is during the times the oven is on and its door is shut (do NOT try this at home, that is 100% NOT safe)

Chiaki loves baking because she enjoys the trial and error process, and not necessarily because she wants to feed others (but she does have to do something about her creations, and she likes seeing other people happy with something she made)

On that note, she’s not someone who usually takes requests (and why she won’t open a bakery) because she prefers baking what she wants, yet she will for the people she’s closest to

Ultimate Florist Mikan:

She has deffo cut herself on thorns (she does wear gloves! sometimes…)

Flower love language? ABSOLUTELY! She lives and breathes it and loves requests related to it

Mikan’s bi (bi gang rise up)

Her favourite flowers are hyacinths (in all their many colours, but white particularly)

Her favourite thing that Chiaki bakes are soft, plain dinner rolls. She loves being able to quickly nyom without too much hassle

Mikan makes potpourri and sells that too 

Mikan 100% knows flower anatomy and will speak about it in extensive detail (and make jokes about it)

Lowkeys always has her gardening apron on and she got it fitted along with her gloves

She grows her own flowers and also sells them (it’s flowers in particular because they were her only comfort sometimes)

Them HCs:

Mikan gives her flowers or potpourri dishes sometimes dedicated to her love and adoration for Chiaki and Chiaki decorates her dorm with them 

Mikan gazes at Chiaki while she naps 

Mikan isn’t that big of a sweets fan, but she does love Chiaki’s food so Chiaki gifts her with treats and bread every so often 

Physical affection? Chiaki dotes HARD. Cuddling is free real estate. Mikan’s equally as touchy, but usually doesn’t initiate in fear of causing discomfort (but usually Chiaki’s okay with it and she voices as much)

Their height diff is so cute, Mikan leans down to place forehead kisses on Chiaki (which she’s cool with btw!)

Mikan is basically Chiaki’s pillow and she is NOT complaining

Chiaki is SO patient she’s willing to hear Mikan out or be there for her or give her space when she needs it

Mikan worries she’s doing a bad job doing that for Chiaki, but she’s not, Mikan always communicates and asks Chiaki about her comfort 

Chiaki makes the conscious effort to be more forthcoming and tries not to say wishy-washy uncertain statements when it comes to Mikan (saying “You’re adorable” instead of “You can be pretty adorable.”) 

She sometimes says wishy-washy statements because she’s embarrassed at being forthcoming but she gets more comfortable longer into their relationship

Chiaki and Mikan watch horror movies and Chiaki expects Mikan to cling to her during it but is surprised to find Mikan completely fine 

Also they DO have movie nights and they are 100% a ploy to drag Chiaki away from baking for a while 

Mikan rants (and yes! Mikan being around someone she trusts means passionate ranting) around Chiaki about some bouquets she made that day or even about bad customers and Chiaki blissfully listens as she’s preparing dough

The flower shop Mikan runs also sells some treats that Chiaki made

Although Chiaki’s very used to it, Mikan is DEFINITELY worried about Chiaki’s room burning down and switches between eyeing the oven for a bit before going back to looking at a napping Chiaki and making her more comfortable

While Chiaki bakes, she ain’t cooking, and Mikan deffo isn’t (she did try and she’s actually pretty good at simple dishes, but she doesn’t like cooking), so they’re the type to order something when they want other types of food

Chiaki definitely makes flower puns/jokes and Mikan will be amused on principle (being used to it with a small smile) but if anyone else does it, she will be very intolerant (“W-what? What are you saying? You shouldn’t sully flowers like that…”)

[tavyliasin]

Fic Writer Questions~

Tagged in by the delightful @redroomroaving so I'm going to throw this out to @thylyre @tynithia @morb-untamed and anyone else who would like to fill it out and tag me as their reason~

Answers under the cut:

1) How many works do you have on AO3?

133, though 3 of those are semi-duplicates~

2) What's your total AO3 word count?

686,068 - however if I subtract those semi-duplicates that brings me to the mildly less horrifying 588,660 but that does mean I'm closing in on that 600k milestone!

3) What are your top five fics by kudos?

Tavylia's Short Drabbles 373 Kudos, a collection of shorts and warmup pieces

Bear Your Fangs, With Heart 271 Kudos, a one shot Halsin/Astarion soft-ish smutfic blending kink and emotional development~

Of Living, Loving, and the Strangest of Bedfellows - A Tav's Guide to Fucking Across Faerun: Sordid Coast Edition (ATG for short) (Unabridged - All Chapters) 158 Kudos, my main longfic in its single work version (I also have a series version for better tag filtering)

Above Him, Down Below (Smash) 144 Kudos, a long one shot Yurgir x Reader smutfic that goes all out on the kinks~

The Wizard of NotAsleep 140 Kudos, a one shot Halsin/Gale soft and smutty piece~

4) What fandoms do you write for?

BG3, it's all BG3, with a couple that technically feature characters from D&D lore that aren't in the game.

5) Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

Always! I treasure every comment and want to respond even if it's only a brief thanks or a cheeky wink. I've made friends through chatting to commenters, and helped people find our discord communities and more friends there~ There are also some fics like The Love of Loviatar which are very personal and special to me - yes it is a smut fic pairing a reader with Abdirak, but the reader character specifically suffers chronic pain, and it works as comfort-smut with how Abdirak's character plays out in my interpretations. The people who comment on that tend to be disabled and/or chronic pain sufferers like myself, who found something special in that piece. That means the world to me.

6) What’s the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

Sweet Dreams of Winters Warm (Choose Your Own Ending) so far. It has 2 possible endings to it - one that's comforting, optimistic, and the other that's the complete polar opposite. I devastated my own emotions writing it.

7) What’s the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

Bouquet of the Frontiers - the end of this is Wyll learning just how much he is cherished by everyone around him, and all the wonderful things they see in him. I like that. Wyll deserves happiness. He's a sweetheart, and in Act 1 of the game he's gone through so much and it breaks my heart to see him refusing to join everyone at the party because he doesn't feel like he belongs there. So I had to change that~

8) Do you get hate on fics?

Not that I've ever seen. I have comment moderation turned on for my piece of mind, but I've not encountered anything hateful about my works - if anyone is saying anything nasty they're doing it where I can't see. I honestly hope none of us have to hear anything awful about works we poured our time and effort into. If something wasn't for me, I would just leave and move on. We all have such different taste, there's something out there for everyone!

9) Do you write smut?

That's about 90% of what I write, and I love it~ Everything from teasing and light erotica to full explicit hardcore kink and everything in between~

10) Do you write crossovers?

Yes and no? Technically there are 2 fics that include D&D characters that don't appear in BG3 but are tangentially related. Those are: - Snide and Prejudiced has Grazilaxx, an illithid who is another founding member of the Society of Brilliance alongside Omeluum, Blurg, and others, but isn't in the game. In this fic, Grazilaxx is paired with Volothamp Geddarm who is in BG3 as well as wider D&D lore. - The Path to Enlightenment which includes an Ogre named Little One who resides in Candlekeep. He has a headband of intellect, just like Lump the Enlightened who appears in Act 1 of BG3...so this fic has Tav finding lump after the game end and taking him to Candlekeep to meet another intelligent Ogre. Which is a very lovely explanation for 8,000 words of mostly stone top femdom smut. - Someday I have been contemplating going for some Dragon Age Inquisition crossover, I had a start for it but I'm not sure where it's going. I'll see if I get it moving someday.

11) Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Not that I'm aware of, but it would be deeply disappointing - I try to encourage people so we can all keep writing and build our confidence in it, to push our skills to improve and as a result have a wide range of available pieces! It may also be harder to copy mine without being noticed when I've been writing more and more rare pairs (often the first in the pairing tag)

12) Have you ever had a fic translated?

Not that I know of, but it would be nice to know if there was one~

13) Have you ever cowritten a fic before?

Not really, but I'd like to~

14) What’s your all-time favorite ship?

This is so hard to choose! There are so many good ones... I'm giving a top 3 and the series that go with them because I feel like trying to convert people~

Raphael x Haarlep - the most obvious, but I am so obsessed with the potential for how their dynamic built up over the centuries that I'm nearly 60k words deep in the prequel series The Scent of Cinnamon

Abdirak x He Who Was - nowhere near ever meeting but these are two sadomasochists with so much hot potential I have been going deep into the heavy end of BDSM kinks in the first 4 parts in the series The Book of Loviatar - Stories of Delicious Agony

God!Gale x Enver Gortash - this one is absolutely doomed and toxic and they make each other worse, but at the same time it is excruciatingly hot as a dynamic and I'm so down bad for everything about it~ They're made for each other... Ambition and Tyranny 

15? I didn't have a 15 in the one I copied

16) What are your writing strengths?

I have compliments on character voicing and dialogue sounding true to the character, and I also think I'm pretty good at writing kink and creative sex scenes. I'm also great at falling into a weird fugue state and slapping down far too many words into what was intended to be "short" so there's that too.

17) What are your writing weaknesses?

Keeping to a schedule, finishing longer fics, and for both of these it's a mix of chronic health conditions and the fluctuations of confidence in pieces. I'm 1 chapter from finishing the longfic that started my writing for fandom, and it terrifies me. There's another series that only has 1 part left too, but I'm not ready to emotionally devastate myself on that one yet.

18) Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in a fic?

Up to the writer - I don't think I've done it myself, but if it's not a fantasy language then it's best to get someone who speaks that language as their primary language to give you feedback on it to make sure there's no mistranslation or mixed idioms.

19) First fandom you wrote for?

BG3, it's all BG3 all the way down so far~

20) Favorite fic you’ve ever written?

I really find this so hard to choose! But I am going to pick The Love of Loviatar because it has that more personal connection to me, and there's something special about it connecting to others too.

[eliza-writes-stuff]

hey guess who wrote a songfic

yeah me and i still don't know how to write one lol

so yeah it's another claudeger short fic or drabble... idk what to call it. let's just say i wrote this as a warmup for a longer fic coming up!

anyways, enjoy this very fluffy songfic based on Let's Call the Whole Thing Off :D

i also put this fic in ao3 link so check it out!

The mini boombox plays a familiar tune, yet people might’ve forgotten this ancient song. Since it’s a 150-year-old song… Still, it’s a good classic for Claude. The mutant doesn’t really keep up with the trends unless it’s related to his job. He prefers listening to jazz and some old rock. Everyone has their taste.

Things have come to a pretty pass

Our romance is growing flat

He does not know what Albert’s favorite is. It’s obscure, that’s for sure, but whatever makes him happy. As long as he gets to see Albert do his little dance. Although, his lover loves to drag him along to the beat.

For you like this and the other

While I go for this and that

Oh, Claude didn’t notice that his hands were in rhythmic motion to the song playing. Even though he’s just washing the dishes. It makes it less boring, he guesses. He puts the clean plate on the drying rack, and he continues on the next one.

Goodness knows what the end will be

Oh, I don't know where I'm at

It looks as if we two will never be one

Something must be done  

His ears picked up the sound of footsteps behind him. Claude’s body relaxes when affectionate arms wrapped around his waist. At the corner of his monocle, the head of his lover rests on Claude’s shoulders.

“Hello, Albert.” The mutant greeted. He’s still focusing on washing the dishes. “How did your little nap go?”

“Not the same without you.” Albert’s hands wander on Claude’s stomach.

You say either, I say either

You say neither and I say neither

Either, either, neither, neither

Let's call the whole thing off, yes

“Someone must do chores around here.” Claude said.

“I could’ve helped you...”  

He chuckles, “But you look so peaceful, dear. I didn’t want to disturb you.” Well, Claude knows what Albert’s ability is for his ‘work.’ From what he heard from his boss, plus his lover. Albert doesn’t actually sleep during the duration of his ‘session’.

That’s why Claude drags him back to the couch. To cuddle into a fulfilling nap. They sound like an old married couple, huh? They might compete with Vincent and Victor. Albert would love to relish in that if they were the best couple.

You like potato and I like potato

You like tomato and I like tomato

Potato, potahto, tomato, tomahto

Let's call the whole thing off    

“Hey, our song is playing.” Albert mentioned. His hands now rested on Claude’s wrist. The mutant stopped what he’s doing right now.

“Yeah?” The mutant sets down the dish in the sink.

Albert turns Claude around until they face each other. His hands hold on to the blue, soaked hands. With the song playing in the background. They’re staring at each other with endearment. Sort of romantic. Albert drags him away from the sink. Claude can’t help but let out a laugh.

“Hey, hold on-“

“The dishes can wait, honey.” Albert stops himself and turns up the boombox. Then he leads Claude into the living room.

Their cat, Sock, stares at them with curiosity. The couple tries not to trip over. However, one of them bumps into the coffee table. Albert has his hand on Claude’s shoulder, and the other one is holding his hand. Claude almost forgot what to do, but he rested his hand on Albert's waist. He supposes this is nothing to complain about if he gets to be close to Albert.

Their bodies didn’t move in synchronization with the beat. There were stumbles, and sharing carefree laughter. Very clumsy. They can only dance with uneven steps in this space. Claude amusedly spins Albert underneath his arm before bringing him close to Claude’s body. His heart soars when he gets to see Albert having a genuine smile. But it’s best to not worry about the minor details.

As long as they’re close together, nothing matters..

But oh, if we call the whole thing off

Then we must part

And oh, if we ever part

Then that might break my heart

“Dear,” Albert had to stop his laughter, “It’s strange I wished we would stay like this forever. That I want to be a goby fish to your pistol shrimp.”

Claude rolled his eyes. “Are you saying we have a symbiotic relationship, or are you calling me blind?”

“The first one, of course! But I’m also glad to be your eyes.” Albert leans in close to Claude’s face, noses slightly touching.

[cavka]

20 Questions for Writers

i was tagged by the ever lovely @oakashandwillow

1. How many works do you have on AO3? uh... are we counting works i've orphaned over the years? if not, 16 over two accounts.

2. What's your total AO3 word count? 41,118

3. What fandoms do you write for? currently, it's all star wars all the time, though there's probably going to be a one piece fic out of me soon. other fandoms i've written for include dragon age, naruto, and stranger things.

the rest of the ?s are under a cut to save space!!

4. What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

(i promise you that) we're marching on | naruto fic, sakura-centric gen

the long and short of it | witcher fic, geralt/eskel, bonus fiberarts

the unexpected series | stranger things fic, steddie, rule 63!steve with surprise baby

quid pro quo | star wars: the clone wars fic, rex/echo, smut

the will to carry on | stranger things fic, abandoned wip, rule 63!steve

5. Do you respond to comments? i try to! i don't always have the spoons for it tho

6. What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending? surprisingly, it's not the fic that's all about grief and recovery. it's a star wars drabble, changing of the guard.

7. What’s the fic you wrote with the happiest ending? the joke answer is quid pro quo. (because it's smut.) but most of my endings tend to be content or hopeful if not happy, so this is hard to quantify for me.

8. Do you get hate on fics? not as of yet, but given i write cloneshipping i'm honestly just bracing for it to happen at some point

9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind? indeed i do. i currently only have one smut thing uploaded, so idk if i can say anything for certain about trends, but given my wips... emotional sex and smut as character studies seem to be my thing.

10. Do you write crossovers? What’s the craziest one you’ve written? nope. not really my thing.

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen? nope! thankfully, i've heard horror stories

12. Have you ever had a fic translated? i think one that no longer exists was once translated. (i had a sad habit of deleting or orphaning things i was less than pleased with when i was younger. i know better now.)

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before? ahaha yes but none of it i'm going to mention by name. all my co-written fic happened in middle school with IRL friends.

14. What’s your all time favorite ship? i'm a filthy multishipper this question is like asking me which of my hairs i like best

15. What’s a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will? oh man. definitely the will to carry on and the couple of stranger things wips in my wip file. not that i don't love the stories anymore, but certain parts of the fandom annoyed me right out of any inspiration or desire to touch anything related to said fandom with a twelve foot pole.

16. What are your writing strengths? i like to think i'm good with characterization and dialogue.

17. What are your writing weaknesses? writing anything longer than 3k words max lmao though that has been improving lately and i have high hopes for the sev fic getting finished

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in fic? there... there is a whole can of worms here that this question opens for me and i don't think anyone wants my ramble about dialogue, other languages, conlangs, dialects, and the effects of having been in anime fandom for so long so. this is not getting answered other than with a shrug

(unless someone wants the ramble in which case i will happily oblige)

19. First fandom you wrote for? teen titans cartoon when i was a wee thing. it was a self-insert fic that was less than a page in ms word, single spaced :')

20. Favorite fic you’ve written? this is such a cop-out answer but i genuinely don't think i can pick a favorite. maybe ordinal, just because i'm still super proud of having finished it and what i did with the characterization at missing scenes? but augh i want to put more here too

i'm tagging @bisexualdinahlance, @bilbosmom-belladonna, @cacodaemonia, aaaaand @cabezadeperro but no pressure if you're not game :> and if anyone wants to do it but isn't tagged /points to eyes /points to u

[seabxund]

munday writing detail meme!

repost, don't reblog. feel free to edit/add your own parts!

Name: Rowanberry, Rowan, Vinny Age range: under 18 | between 18 and 25 | 25 and older Pronouns: they/he and sometimes it/its Random fact about me: I was a vtu/ber for a short period, and I am currently an aspiring conte/nt cr/eator in general. I'm planning a series on yo/utube called " I played/read/watched __ so you don't have to " with two versions with one to help people with ADHD/etc to easier consume information on a media.

When it comes to planning threads: I like to wing it completely | I like to plan the start of the thread | I like to plan several key points in the thread | I like to plan every reply | It depends - in the way that i like to plan some beats depending on if we talk about it or not, but i do love to just see where we take each other a lot of the time. i am always down for very specifically planned stories though, especially ships and AUs Pre-established relationships between muses: I enjoy them | I like them occasionally but mostly prefer to play the relationship out | I don't do pre-established relationships When it comes to replies, I like to: Keep mine short (1-2 paragraphs) | Keep mine to medium length | Keep my replies long (10+ paragraphs) | It depends - I do a lot of one-liner funny things for quick activity, but that doesn't mean I'll be upset if someone decides to make it serious, or extends the length. I try my hardest to match length if I can, but I do tend to stay in the 3-6 paragraph range most of the time. I generally try to reply in: 1 day | 3 days | A week | Within a month | More than a month - this is mostly because of the nature of one, a multimuse, but also the fact that i am the most active during my work shifts.

I like getting asks for memes I reblogged a long time ago: Yes | No | Depends ( depends on the meme ) I like getting random IC asks from my mutuals: Yes | No | Depends I like getting tagged in unplanned starters from my mutuals: Yes | No | Depends I like getting getting OOC asks from my mutuals to plan our threads: Yes | No | Depends ( yes, but also please don't be afraid to DM me ) I like getting getting OOC asks from my mutuals just to chat about things not related to RP: Yes | No | Depends

I enjoy writing: I like romance, familial interaction, action, hurt/comfort, introduction threads, crossovers, everyday interactions, fights, mysteries, all sorts of things!! I don't enjoy writing: I'm also going to put fights here, because it really depends on the mun and our writing synergy. I also don't think that writing out NSFT/NSFW is necessary, but I will indulge if I'm comfortable with the mun. My favorite tropes are: Mostly relationship tropes, though not romantic/qp exclusive ones. Give me people who would die for each other, give me the two touch starved people yearning for comfort, give me rivals, and oscillating relationships. I also really like family dynamics, and enemies. PLEASE give me the Antagonist and Protagonist who cant function without each other. GOD - Opinion on shipping (for a specific character or in general): Shipping doesn't just have to be romance. I really want to do more threads of interactions and relationships that may be more like how I experience my own attraction as a aroaceflux/quoiromantic person. But I am a sucker for a good ship that has good chemistry. PLEASE please please come to me with your queerplatonic and romantic ship ideas. [ grabby hands ] I get inspired to write by doing this: When it comes to Canons, it's usually through indulging in the source material ( game/manga/anime/etc ), but for OCs it tends to be the sort of " what would __ do in X situation" talks with friends or writing drabbles like I do with Rubel. One of my favorite threads/drabbles/etc: This actually goes to a drabble I wrote on my main MuMu @/lxmitlxss for my Hughes Is Alive Verse/AU for how Acedia felt dying. A writing partner (or partners!) I've enjoyed writing with: @/patetpluvia, @/flamesignite, @/pareidolah / @/fingerfiend A mutual I want to write with but haven't yet: @/seaoftheworst, @/scarlxtleaves, @/moenxs

Tagged by: taken directly from @littlememebox

Tagging: anyone who wants to do it!

[taegularities]

oh my god, i'm seeing so many fic: ruin you asks these past months. it's so fulfilling to see nobody forgetting the couples. also, the fact that a!oc gained so much traction even among the new readers? :')))) used to be my favorite oc too, despite the fact that we first knew ry!oc and had attachments with her haha. still adore her. idk why, rid but i see yourself the most in a!oc amonst your other ocs :''))))) perhaps due to the sweetness <333 btw, all these asks even bring me to ask, since idr it being revealed before- when did tae/a!oc first tell each other i love yous properly? because i rmbr a!oc only saying she is falling for him before the timeskip

remember your old post where you expressed your worries regarding writing a new drabble or something related to the series? because you thought nobody any longer would be interested? then your recent post with similar thoughts concerning fic: cmi too? riddyy, i get where those come from but are you kidding us?! we will eat up anything like a starved little nation! we're never tired of your contents. whatever it may be. whether it's an old fic or new release! go for whatever your heart inspires. i'll always root for you, my favorite tumblr girl!

but to reassure you once more: i'm looking forward to the promised fluff of cmi, riddyyy <3 it's much much needed indeed. i'm looking forward to the upcoming new jungkookie fics, i'm looking forward to you bringing back ry couple/s (probably tae and a!oc more lmao because we have so little of these two), i'm looking forward to anything your beautiful brain and heart comes up with really. anything, really. like so many others on this app. i hope you see our love in the way we always write to you and our unhurried anticipation!

sjiskaiakkak anyway, stay healthy and happy vacations to you!!!! also, are you still in turkey? safe travels <3

ohhhh i wanna tell ry/ruined babyfans that the taekook angst is in cmi too 😮‍💨 although, not as bad since circumstances are slightly different HAHAHA

babe this is a love letter what the heck !!! 😭 so i'm going to give you one back.

you literally echoed my thoughts – it's always so nice to see people still care so deeply about these characters and that they still live in your minds after all this time. it's the same with c&f – i didn't expect everybody to love it so much, and even less for people to remember it. probably the biggest reason why i wrote another part at all <3 haha yesss, i do love ry!oc but a!oc has a special something about her that we've grown to adore, right? 🥺 no wayyyy, you see me in her?? that's a top fkn tier compliment what 😭

ahh yeah, oc told him she was falling in love with him and then in the very last scene there was something like "you love me, right?" – "i do." but i think they'd been together for a couple months when tae came up with this big, elaborate date where he'd take her to their favourite exhibition.. then they went to a restaurant at the end of the town and took a walk and he just couldn't get himself to finally say it lmao until they reached a small hill, and he was like, "ok this is the moment," and told her he loved her 🥺 this entire date just to tell her 🤍

ughhh, yes, my brain is a menace like that 😭 sometimes it's hard to convince myself that people really care (i think that's what cmi oc + jk and i have in common? :')), so it's the sweetest thing of you to remind me that you're still here. i do always worry bc things get quiet here, but i'm so thankful you're all here to reassure me and don't get annoyed by these moods of mine jfkahdkf and you never, ever rush me, so i truly love you sm.. :(

i'm back home now!! turkey is gorgeous. thank you, my love <3 oh wait, is there taekook angst in cmi? elaborate 👀 haha but yeah shit is definitely different this time around 😂

[wannab-urs]

The Spreadsheet Digest - Fic Recs | Vol. 8

Hi darlings! This week's digest is a little small because I took the time to catch up on a bunch of WIPs I've been reading (and they've all already been rec'd). That being said there are some bangers on here if I do say so myself. Oh also I'm at Pride this weekend, that's why this is like 5 hours later than usual.

The spreadsheet is here! It's up to 217 fics now!

cute lil joel pic to kick us off ;)

Feelings on Fire - a Joel series by @joelscruff

This one is for my religious trauma girlies lmao. I personally relate a little bit to how this Reader was raised (southern baptist instead of catholic) with the grades and the extracurriculars and stuff, but I was nowhere near as sheltered. I say all that to say that while I usually have trouble immersing myself into a fic where the reader is this level of innocent, I did not have that issue at all. And GOD do I want to immerse myself in this fic.

Landlord from Hell - a (dark) Frankie one shot by @absurdthirst

If you like You, this one is for you. I loved it but I also was hollering at Reader the whole time to run the fuck away. I was so fucking uncomfortable the whole time, but also the smut was fucking excellent lmao. Incredible horror/thriller fic AGH

more - an Ezra one shot by @ezrasbirdie

This did very unexpected things to me. I'm a pretty firm no on not one, but two of the kinks in this fic but... I'll do anything for Ezra I guess lmao. Read the warnings friends, this one is a (beautiful) doozy

What he deserves - a Dave York one shot by @absurdthirst

Dave is so.... daddy. This is one of those completely indulgent fantasy fics for me. Live in nanny fucks the super hot dad and the kids are also a dream and the ex wife is evil so there's no guilt... perfect!

Sold to Joel Miller - a Joel one shot by @beskarandblasters and @wannab-urs

Totally serious and not a joke fic at all, what?

In My Hometown - a Joel series by @swiftispunk

Oh boy. I got pining, smut, AND angst all in one fic? Hell yes. And it's like... believable angst, which isn't always the case. I felt so fucking bad for Joel, I just wanted to wrap him up in my arms and hold him forever. I love a man who is just absolutely pathetically in love. Just completely pitiful. Down bad. There's so many good things about this, I'm doing it a disservice with this explanation. Just read it.

Thought That I Was Dreaming - a Dieter one shot by @haylzcyon

Ohhh this Dieter made me unreasonably happy. He's such a cutie... and so fucking sexy. Oh how I dream about getting high with Dee and spending a whole weekend fucking each other silly.

-------Pre-Digest Fic Recs-------

adding more of these than usual since I didn't read much new stuff this week :)

Seams - a Joel series by @fuckyeahdindjarin

I'm Starvin' Darlin - a Joel series by @me-and-your-husband

All Work, No Play - a Javi P one shot by @loquaciousferret

I Think of You - a Din series by @prolix-yuy

No Drug Like Me - a Dieter series by jazzelsaur (ao3)

Tied - a Din series by @radiowallet

Friendly Fire - Joel series by @the-ginger-hedge-witch

Designated Person - a Frankie series by @whatsnewalycat

Not from around here - an Oberyn series by @mishasminion360

-------- My Fics --------

I wrote one (1) tiny little drabble, but hey better than nothing!

Bruise - a Dieter drabble set in my A Ghost of You universe (deadbeat druggie artist boyfriend with severe mental health issues + reader is his entire universe. She has a savior complex. It's a lot. Read that here). Dieter and Reader get unreasonably high and decide to paint each other. Written in a style I've never shown anyone before, sorry if it's weird lol

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

Happy Reading!