piece written in collaboration with my beloved friend and one of my favorite people, @rahuratna, for nanami's (a.k.a. internet's collective husbando) birthday. 💜🧡
content warning: fluff/comedy/sugestiveness
word count: 1k
Nanami wasn't one to make big celebrations on his birthday. Up until he met you, he'd usually go about his work day quietly, saving up a few extra hours to simply go bowling or visit his favorite restaurants for dinner.
After you both started dating, not much had changed. You'd simply tag along for whatever he had planned, and would usually surprise him with something by the time you both got home - a box of dark chocolate, a new set of lingerie, a nice warm scented bath, a new CD album he had been looking for.
This time, however, you decided to push your luck on teasing the poor man.
On his birthday, of all days.
"Kento, how do you feel about surprise parties?" you ask, hiding the smile pulled on your cheeks behind your tea cup.
On the couch by your side, you could feel Nanami holding the urge to flinch the moment you were finished speaking.
"They are not my favorite," he answers in earnest.
"Seriously?" you inquire with a faux disheartened look.
"Yes," Nanami replies, with a tinge of concern to his voice.
"That is... unfortunate, then," you ensue, putting your tea on the coffee table and pulling your robe tighter around your body.
His Adam's apple bobs as he silently gulps.
"Why?"
"Well, my plan was to surprise you when you got home, but I figured you wouldn't want to get instantly jumped. So I told them to wait in the room," you finally say, with a grave finality, pointing to the closed bedroom door.
Truth is, he has no clue what you are really up to.
"Darling…" Nanami sighs, ever so patiently, "I thought it would just be the both of us unwinding, like the past years."
"I… I'm sorry, I really wanted to surprise you with something different this time."
You do sound regretful, and he plants a soft kiss on your cheek in response. Even now, he doesn't quite find it in himself to be annoyed at you, even if the prospect of Gojo lurking around his bedroom is enough to send disgusted shivers down his spine.
"It's… fine. Let's get this over with at once, and then have the house to ourselves."
"Are you sure? I could always go in there and tell them to-"
"No," he counters firmly. "You've arranged something a little different this year, and I'm going to appreciate it."
"Come on, then."
As perceptive as he is, Nanami doesn't notice the mischievous smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. Naturally, since you have successfully planted a seed in his mind, a terrifying image of his pristine suits being tried on by students and his custom made bowling ball being transformed into a disco light by the white-haired menace he calls a colleague.
When you reach the door and step aside for him, he visibly braces himself, fingers almost straightening a phantom tie at his throat.
"Sweetheart, I need to go and fetch a scarf. It's a little chilly in here."
Bless his heart. He's actually playing along.
You raise your voice.
"Oh, I left the blue one on the top shelf. Your closet."
"Right."
Nanami heads in with the air of a man charging from the trenches to face a volley of cannon fire. He stops dead in his tracks, eyes taking in the room.
It is empty of people, for starters.
The comforter on the bed has been pulled back, the white sheets scattered with rose petals. Candles have been placed strategically on the bedside table and vanity, emitting the subtle scent of the ocean. On a corner of the bed, a few ribbon-wrapped gifts await; a small stack of books and a box of his favourite dark chocolate with orange.
You saunter in behind him and he turns to you with a look that is both a solemn reprimand and a loving promise of a punishment you may appreciate later.
"Hmm. It's awfully crowded in here, my dear."
"Well, the rose petals were quite chatty, Kento. They've taken up all the space on our bed."
"They have indeed, you little-"
You laugh as you slip out of his reach, standing coyly in the doorway.
"Have a look at your gifts first."
He narrows his eyes, but approaches the bed, fingers unraveling the ribbon that holds the books together.
"What do we have here? 'The Master and Margarita.' Ah, wonderful. 'Bowling your way home: A salaryman's escape from bondage.'"
He pauses and raises an eyebrow and you gesture airily for him to keep going.
"Fine. What's this one? The-"
His voice cuts off abruptly.
"Kento? Are you all right?"
Very slowly, he turns to you.
"You got me the Kama Sutra?"
"I figured it would make a nice addition to your collection. I may even borrow it, from time to time."
You approach him now, casually opening the book to where you've placed a strategic leather marker within the section on sex positions.
"Since it's your birthday, maybe you'd like to start with the Virsha here?"
He considers the page seriously, before taking the book from you and flipping through it.
"I'm not sure, darling. You've put in enough effort setting all of this up."
Handing it back to you, he watches the flush that spreads upwards, across your neck as you are presented with the Indrani pose he has chosen instead.
"How about you let me do the work from here on out?"
"Well... "
"No, I insist."
His voice has that special intonation now, the husky rumble of desire, the inflection of hushed intimacy, the promise of that playful nature that only reveals itself when you're entangled in the sheets together.
You lay the book down, open to the very instructive illustration.
"In that case, let me present you with my last gift."
"There's another?"
Wordlessly, the robe you've been so studiously arranging around yourself slides to the floor. His kindling gaze takes in the sheer, violet lace, the tiny flowers embroidered strategically over the parts of you that he will discover at leisure.
***
Later, when the gossamer material lies discarded on the floor, when his exhausted limbs entwine with your own, when his golden hair runs like silk between your fingers, you speak into the hush of the bedroom.
"Happy birthday, my love."
His voice is muffled from where his face is pressed against your stomach.
"That was quite the surprise party."
"Maybe we should have one every year."
He snorts indignantly, but his lips curve in a smile against your skin all the same.
Title: Praxic Blades
Summary: In which you perceive the seductive allure of authentic swordsmanship through a combined acumen blending strategy, strength, and sensitivity, shaping the wielder’s fingers well before he grasps the hilt of his blade.
A collab brought to you by @rahuratna and I, paying homage to some of the finest fictional sword-wielders.
Featured Characters (each x Reader): Kento Nanami, Sanemi Shinazugawa, Soshiro Hoshina, Toshirou Hijikata, and Levi Ackerman.
Word Count: 4.9k
Divide and Conquer - Kento Nanami
“Can you tell us, for the record, why you’ve decided to return after all these years?”
For all of its static, the tape recording had faithfully picked up the softened inflection you’ve noticed Yaga to employ whenever he addresses a former student of his.
You study Nanami Kento.
At the most rudimentary level, this means you study his file—a twenty-page chronicle opening with the recruitment of a young, gifted teen from the countryside back in 2006, and closing with a transcript and accompanying recording of the interview the former salaryman has undergone before the small panel of Tokyo Jujutsu Tech faculty members led by Principal Yaga, just two short weeks prior.
But as a window tasked to onboard what were usually new sorcerers on their first official missions in their graded capacities, you know all too well that what’s kept on file seldom tells a Jujutsu sorcerer’s full story, Nanami’s being no exception.
After all, this is not a world to which one returns on a whim.
So beyond studying his file, you study him, quietly, obliquely, filling in the blanks where they could carry any insight, to such a point that you must tell yourself that it’s more out of a natural habit that comes with a duty like yours than out of some personal urge to trace a shape around this reserved, world-weary man.
You've noticed the way his gaze cautiously tracks any room he enters before settling on anything specific.
You’ve stolen glances at him, even today, through your rearview mirror as you drove him to this mission site, taking in a tension set in his shoulders that speaks of a certain weariness you can’t imagine being worse than the world he’s about to step back into.
Two weeks of proximity granted by overseeing his onboarding have provided ample opportunities for observing Nanami, all culminating in the one you’re experiencing now, as you watch him commit to the final test separating him from his definite reinstatement to active duty sorcerer.
A polite nod, a terse press of the corners of his lips, a slight readjustment of his glasses over the bridge of his nose—it’s all he offers once you draw the curtain and inform him of the other Grade 1 sorcerer on standby, just in case the mission calls for it.
And yet, here you feel it, an energetic undercurrent, seismic in its shift just as he strides by you to enter an arena that is as physical as it is mental.
Here you find yourself studying Nanami in real-time, as his arm flexes to reach behind and under his suit jacket, pausing briefly before closing his fingers over the hilt of his cleaver, as if to check if it would still answer him.
He doesn’t speak, and yet you hear his words, carrying the same clarity and conviction as when he’d delivered them in response to Yaga’s question a fortnight ago.
“I’m better suited to this.”
Today’s study topic: the renewal of a man’s pace as it sheds a hesitation that doesn’t seem to belong to him anymore.
Then, he draws his sword.
Behind the curtain, you take a step back.
As if directing some subterranean current, cursed energy flares to life around his still form, stirring the neatly combed hair.
The blade in his hand is hefted, his grasp tightening experimentally.
There it is, a small adjustment of his stance, elbow pushing further back, a tensing of the thighs.
The curse that writhes before him is a chimeric monstrosity of gnashing teeth and raking claws, the cold, inhuman eyes swiveling forward.
Nanami does not move.
Surging forth, limbs thunder against the tarmac, the head swaying to the left, unnaturally fast.
These movements defy physiological laws, a hallmark of the many ways curses catch hapless sorcerers unaware.
Another observation: Nanami Kento does not number among such sorcerers.
The colossal teeth close on empty space as he vanishes from sight, a blur of pale fire within the darkness of the curtain.
The soles of his shoes strike up sparks as he gains momentum, the mottled cleaver suddenly no longer a weapon, but an organic extension of himself.
His coat flares around the powerful turn of his torso as the sword comes down on one of the creature's flailing limbs.
A cry rings out, great and terrible, as dark, steaming fluid jets across the pavement.
Observation three: in such arenas, Nanami does not pause to re-group.
He sees an opening; he takes it.
You're witnessing a first grade sorcerer's predatory instinct, through and through.
The phone you'd been holding at the ready, fully prepared to summon backup, is slowly returned to an inner coat pocket.
Where has he gone, that tired salaryman, clad in the vestiges of a life that had robbed him of all hue and vitality?
In his place, a vengeful rip-tide, speed born of crystalline focus, punishing every minute error the horror before him stumbles through.
There is some calculated precision in the fall of his cleaver, each blow dealing the kind of devastation that other sorcerers often have to build up to.
Observation four: he does not falter.
A saw-edged spike catches his sleeve, tearing through, smearing scarlet over pristine folds.
Nanami shakes himself free, preternaturally calm in the face of the lacerating injury.
His blade flicks out and he strides forward, each step measured with growing confidence.
The suit jacket is almost casually shrugged off, the blue shirtsleeve over the injured arm rolled and tightened around the elbow, as if adjusting his appearance before entering a boardroom.
In this moment of startling clarity, you understand that within a few minutes, the curse will be dead.
He brings the idea to swift fruition, even as the spirit launches into its deadliest, most desperate defense.
Nanami is almost methodical, brutality woven with the artful threads of grace, taking apart his opponent with one blow, then two, three, four.
One final shift of his foot over fouled, glistening tarmac, and he straightens, taking a moment to confirm his kill.
The cleaver is returned to the sheathe at his back, fingers flexing at his side, as if welcoming the ache of remembered exertion.
Eyes closed, one shoulder raises and rolls with slow intention, then the other, a satisfying release of tension.
He allows himself this single luxury before he turns decisively on his heel and strides back toward you. His voice is mellow, genteel and firm, devoid of the ragged pull of adrenaline you'd expected.
"Exorcism complete."
Sunlight breaks through the curtain that you surrender control of, darkness seeping away to reveal the smoking remains of the cursed spirit.
There is minimal damage to the surrounding buildings, only scorch marks and scoring on the roadway serving as testament to the battle that has occurred here.
Efficient, precise, powerful, not a breath of wasted effort.
Following Nanami back to the vehicle, you can't help the wry smile that finds its way to your lips.
For all your observation, there is one undeniable conclusion: he is, indeed, suited to this.
Bait and Switch - Sanemi Shinazugawa
There’s a certain dissonance to the cracking sound produced by the impact of your wooden blade as it strikes Sanemi’s, to the disorienting jolt it sends up your arm as it disperses, slipping past him.
It bears all the indicators of a hit that hasn’t landed as cleanly as it should.
Your shoulders chase after the rest of your weight, arms trailing closely behind as you seek and recoup your balance, but Sanemi has already moved, already drawn his return strike, and he lunges at you so swift, so sharp and unforgiving, that by the time you perceive the edge of his sword, he’s already pointed it with a ghost of contact over the critical spot over your ribs, where a real blade would have long since pierced you.
Only now do you realize your over-extension.
Thankfully for you, the restriction Sanemi imposed on tonight’s training exercise bars your reliance on breathing techniques, limiting you both to your bokken.
Your gaze locks with his untamed eyes.
“Go again,” he grunts, the contempt in his tone carrying through the vacant training zone behind his estate as it darkens under the evening dusk.
“You didn’t even try to block this one,” you mutter under your breath as you turn your back to him, resetting your position.
“Nothing to block, so why the hell would I?” he snaps with the sharp edge of blunt dismissiveness.
A hallmark of his signature hard-coaching style that you’ve come to quietly embrace as his recently scouted Tsuguko, Sanemi typically spares no verbal truculence for any stumble on your part. But right now, your calls for specific feedback, both subtle and less so, appear to be as good as swallowed by the nocturnal breeze.
Your irritation rises at this, like pressure building before a storm. You barely allow him to reset before you go at him again, an attempt at converting your resentment into a successful bout. If he isn’t going to push you, then you’ll make him.
He doesn’t let you.
Even as each subsequent clack of your sword against his rings out louder than the last one, each also only yields diminishing returns.
It’s like hitting wind.
“You’d better adapt,” he warns as you both find a natural point of reset, his tone tinged with growing impatience.
“You don’t think I’m trying?” you huff, already swinging again.
He scoffs, his riposte as verbal as it is physical, carried in sharp words accompanied by a swift opening jab that brims with lethal intent.“Not even nearly enough.”
Sanemi arcs his sword high and overhead, a movement that reveals a tapestry of scars on his chest, each a testament to the indomitable will that has seen him endure and defeat the land’s most dreadful demons. They only magnify his current, menacing allure as he gives his weapon a vigorous twirl, as if winding it up, manifesting before you as one with the cyclone he’s creating.
When he comes at you, it’s hard, it’s fast, it’s relentlessly reckless, and you know he’s told you to adapt, whatever the hell that means, so you move to shift your position into a stance that helps you brace for his strike with every fibre of your energy.
The force you expect to hold against his slides past you instead, and you stumble backward for the half-step it takes you to readjust before Sanemi’s weapon finds you again in the form of two taps to your shoulder from behind you that hint at force without fully giving in to it.
“You’re not thinking,” he grates.
“Shut up,” you hiss, a deep scowl now etched onto your face.
He comes at you sharp, each movement multiplied, each demanding your attention, pulling your focus in every wild direction into which his sword swings. You’re barely holding on, now completely pushed to the defensive as Sanemi’s strokes shift to the kind of momentum that should land something violent, that should effortlessly destroy anything in its path… And yet doesn’t.
At this realization, your next strike falters, and you nearly miss the next deflection to it, enough to create enough room to work with.
This time, it’s his hands that you keenly watch.
Nothing jumps out at you at first—you observe as scarred, dexterous fingers adjust their grip over the two-toned handle of his bokken, driving the same sharp, forceful motions in an aggressive, untraceable rhythm.
But as you scramble to block strikes that promise impactful blows yet land in rather measured thumps, you begin to understand a key facet of the Wind Hashira’s sword technique, to trace its outline for the first time.
It’s what he does before impact that briefly catches your eye—the way his wrists shift just before contact, a glancing affair, shimmying the slightest bit off-trajectory, transforming collision into redirection. He imbues his movement with a force yielding to a specific motion geared not at but around you, baiting you, like a draft that turns your own weight against you.
So instead of bracing for a hard return, you shift, a half-step off your line, allowing Sanemi’s strike to pass just by you in the space you’ve now vacated, leaving him with nothing to snag on.
Sanemi now finds himself adjusting after his strike, rather than prior.
You quickly move again, capitalizing on the opening with a short swing of a motion, a tighter angle into the line his sword has just left open, just missing him.
“Better,” he says, excitement edging his attempt at a neutral tone.
“Yeah?” You toss back his measured approval, hoping to shrug it off like it’s nothing, like it hasn’t ignited a flare forming in your chest, one that lingers warm and bright as you move to smooth it over and to reset.
You both move again, synchronization slipping between you as you maneuver around one another.
His strikes retain their wild allure, but you now manage to find the thin line of control beneath them, along with the exits he’s already planned, meeting him at the door, time and time again, until you clash with one final, hard, tight press of your weapons, until they lock there in place.
“No one is pure force, Sanemi,” you breathe, “not even you.”
This earns you a brash taunt from him, his voice rumbling lower than you expect it, both in tone and volume. “I was wondering if you’d ever stop fighting the wind. Now we can have a real duel.”
Your faces are so close now, close enough for you to feel the weight of his commendation in the minute softening of his pupils as they swallow his light purple irises, close enough to feel his quick, warm breaths mingle with yours.
“You can praise me properly, you know. It’s not like I’ll tell anyone…” Your verbal bait is deployed as a murmur, a knee-jerk offensive defense against the precipitous warmth that blooms in your chest.
Sanemi pushes back against you, forcing you both apart as you naturally reset to neutral. If your provocative words catalyze his renewed energy, then it is the transient flicker of disruption you’ve just witnessed cross his eyes that fuels yours.
Mist and Shadow - Soshiro Hoshina
Before the steel wing of death passes, there is silence.
Perfect control, each corded muscle wound like a singing trebuchet before launch.
Here he is, your Soshiro, a war machine in guise, and a man beneath, but at times like these, one is barely distinguishable from the other.
He stands on the pristine wooden floor of the practice room, a wall of mirrors opposite.
His eyes are closed, because he has long since memorized the stance he has fallen into, the form more natural to his limbs than breathing.
By now, you know his hands, the slim, powerful fingers, the palms upon which decades of hard practice have drawn their callouses, the faint, pale scars that criss-cross his knuckles, reminders of all the battles he has seen.
You know how those hands feel on your skin, in your hair, tracing the shape of you under still-warm sheets, pressing gently into the soft yield of your lower lip.
Perhaps this is the reason you cannot look away.
He hasn't moved, at least not to the untrained eye, but you've watched him long enough to spy the subtle shift, more of intuition than posture.
Now, drifting slowly up the hilt, the tips of his fingers compose the prelude to impossible speed.
Two, three, four -
There.
You've never taken your eyes from him, but the sword is now aloft, a katana, one he'd only ever practiced with in complete privacy.
Soshiro had always seen the single blade as the territory of his brother, had marked it as such under some mental folder, as was his way, and worked that much harder to forge his own unique style.
Held over his head, turned as if to pierce the ceiling, the katana gleamed in the soft light of the practice room, silver flame above a tranquil violet sea.
Steady, steady, never faltering an inch, here came the signature reverse hold, the sinew of his wrist bunching momentarily as the sword pivoted.
The strength of his grip meant that even with the new angle, the steel tip never swayed, never gave in to the pull of gravity.
Soshiro dances.
He passes across the floor like the mist at dawn, functionality enshrined in grace.
Art born of precision, clean and economical, his swings are less fierce than they are in the field, but no less powerful.
Sweat gleams on his brow, dark bangs clinging to his forehead.
The removal of his uniform jacket reveals the hard, solid lines of his torso, each sinuous stride and sway reminiscent of some great predator.
He has fangs, your Soshiro, piercing and cold, marvelous in their elegant butchery.
You've seen that before too, when his lips curve as he crawls across the bed towards you, shoulders rolling like thunder beneath supple skin.
A panther, playing with its intended prey.
For all his teasing and nuance, there is a warrior's discipline beneath, one that cannot be compromised.
Soshiro's resolve is terrifyingly evident at all times on the battlefield, as it is here, in the solemn hush between these walls.
He must have sensed you watching him.
He always does.
This doesn't stop the sweep of his blade as he lowers his stance, making short work of distance as he speeds up.
Closer, you can see the veins straining beneath the skin of his arms, ridged and furrowed with hard training and old scars.
Sweat flies from the flare of his hair, darker patches spreading across the chest and back of the black shirt.
You circle to gain a better angle to observe him from, and he catches your eye.
He doesn't smile, not yet.
When he's like this, gaze sweeping across you like a blood-dyed sunset, you know exactly what he's doing.
He's gifting you a rare glimpse of the man who loves to swing a sword above all else, who makes the steel within his grasp sing as sweetly as you do, after a different kind of conquest.
Still maintaining his perfect posture, he straightens, fingers caressing the hilt as the katana slides home into its sheathe at his waist.
His eyes have never left yours.
You reach up, aware of the heat pulsing beneath your skin, half-consciously wiping away the trace of damp that has formed at the hollow of your throat.
He focuses on the movement, that swordsman's discipline keeping him still and observant.
Then, he smiles.
Control and Release - Toshirou Hijikata
Morning sunlight threads through the leaves of the cypress trees that delineate the Shinsengumi Headquarters courtyard, emerging as glittering ribbons of light that sway at the whim of the early spring breeze. It slips through the dojo’s windows, stitching itself along its fated destination of a sword’s handle before bursting into a flaring gleam as it strikes the weapon’s metallic guard, where it catches your gaze.
In the safe distance of a quiet hallway, your eyes briefly fall to the neat stack of paperwork in your hands—a testament to your unsung heroism in security-related shogunate bureaucracy, now bound for the commander’s office. In having to navigate a system that defaults to dismissing voices like yours, you’ve found your steadfast discipline to be your reliable, grounding anchor, a far cry from this nameless sentiment that usurps your mind, drawing you to lift your gaze once more.
The sheath leans against Hijikata Toshirou with a long-carried familiarity emulated in his current posture: one foot angled forward as the other moors him without restraint, knees flexed in a readiness devoid of tension, all while finding his balance with a precision perfected by countless past corrections.
It’s a stance that embodies the enduring spirit forged by the many iterations of the man assuming it, from illegitimate child and kid brother, through student and lover, to rebel and vice-commander—all distinctions without a difference, you come to understand, as his right hand stills to hover over the hilt of his blade.
Indeed, it is neither the juvenile you imagine him to have once been, nor even the martinet who’s earned the Demon Vice-Commander moniker who stands here, despite what his standard-issue black vest, snugly fitting over a crisp white dress shirt whose neatly rolled sleeves expose the taut muscles of defined forearms, might lead one to believe. Instead, it is a coalescence of all these identities into a single, simple one: swordsman.
Steadiness incarnate, his gaze remains unwavering, his breathing a measured cadence punctuated by wisps of smoke emanating from the freshly lit cigarette held firmly between his lips.
For the better part of a minute, Hijikata’s hand holds a closed, slightly inward shape, allowing only a preview of the several years’ worth of ridged callouses, thickened pads, and faint scars that adorn the skin that spans its palm. It hangs just close enough to secure the spiritual distance between sword and man, poised at the precipice of merging as one.
There is no preface to the first movement.
When stillness shifts to motion, it is through the extension of Hijikata’s thumb, which swiftly finds the guard without having to search for it. The rest of his fingers follow, extending out to reveal veins that stretch from their tips down to where fabric neatly bunches over his elbow.
Intuition guides the incremental but no less negligible degrees of adjustment of Hijikata’s index finger as it readjusts to find the precise angle from which to make a clean draw.
Indulgence decidedly takes command of your mind, your body closely following, unbudging against better judgment, except for a reflexive tightening of your fingers around your documents.
Hijikata’s grip finally settles firmly around the hilt with as much conviction to command as patience to attune himself to what the moment expects of him. A yearning palm meets an expectant, leather-bound handle, moving into a resolute draw, and sunlight maintains its shimmering gaze all along the length of the metallic blade as it finally takes its path to action.
There is no waste in his motion; his deliberately minute re-anglings of his wrist make sure of it, as a restrained whisper of steel easing against lacquer emanates from the emerging blade, right up until the last inch exits the sheath.
The first arc is both controlled and contained, curving into the air with no resistance, as if following a predetermined path. His body follows as he redistributes the weight in his feet, the pressure in his fingers, and the strength of his grip to set up the next movement that will only serve the one following it.
Your breath slows, without express permission, without any reason other than to align yourself to this subtle negotiation between control and release, to this intentional performance devoid of pretense, to this seductive display of strength absent of any strain.
You observe, as the fabric of his shirt tautens and loosens as he steers through a graceful sequence of arcs that serve their returns, years of repetition living in each of his deliberate movements. His forearms shift in stable tension, and you watch the way his tendons flex as his fingers tighten, easing and adapting along the hilt.
Under your distracted fascination with this scene playing out before you, your world narrows into a fine focus, until there is nothing else but Hijikata Toshirou.
The imminence of his final motion doesn’t announce itself.
Instead, the blade simply halts in the air, drawing a straight line from his shoulders and through the extension of his arm, as if pointing to a target just ahead.
For a charged moment, everything stills.
“You’ve lingered far longer than usual today.”
It’s without so much as a glance in your direction that Toshirou utters these words, his gravelly, commanding tone betrayed by a near imperceptible tinge of playfulness that you’ve come to recognize.
Even so, heat touches your ears, sharp and immediate at the implication that your indulgent curiosity over the last week’s worth of daily briefings has not been as surreptitious as you thought it to be.
“Careful, Hijikata-san. You almost sound like you’ve come to expect it.” You deliver your rebuttal in a practiced parry that surprises even yourself as you mentally cling onto your composure with something of a self-preserving reflex.
Hijikata slowly lowers the sword, gradually releasing the pressure around his grip. With a low but audible whiff, he slips the blade until it is fully sheathed once more.
When he finally turns towards the door, it’s only to find you gone. The light scoff he’s been holding in for a moment finally breaks free, visually manifesting through a perceptible puff of smoke as his mouth softens into that unguarded, devastatingly mellow smirk of his.
These days, you’re the only one who consistently manages to turn his edge without yielding ground.
Perhaps it’s what draws him to keep striving for that initial perfect strike.
Wire and Wind - Levi Ackerman
Amongst those who slay titans, blades are disposable.
Ejected by simple function, cast away when they bear damage or grow blunt, they litter the ground after battle, as if marking so many anonymous graves.
Levi had been through his fair share of blades, and considering his formidable kill-count, had seen far more of them come and go.
Titans fall, as blades do.
In the quiet sanctity beside the campfire, however, he pays careful attention to his instruments of execution.
Both worn swords, plunged upright into the ground, reflect the flickering light of the flames.
His gaze bores into them, as if they could provide him with answers, which have been scarce in the world of late.
You'd watched him wield those same blades earlier, to take down three towering titans in quick succession.
Levi never moved as ordinary soldiers do. It's only a small fraction of what sets him apart.
The launch of his grapple hooks is but a soft whir, an advent of his arrival, a whirlwind of steel, perfectly balanced, certain death announced by the rapid spooling of wire.
After all your time spent as part of his squad, you believe that you've gained some uncanny sense for his presence.
You'd been close enough to him before to notice the heavy strength of his hands, the fingers blunt-edged, knuckles thickened from brutality and trauma.
You'd seen the effortless turn and power of his swings, aided by the rotation of the ODM gear, the lift of his jacket and the wind in his dark hair.
You'd felt the inhuman strength of his compact shoulders and arms as he'd effortlessly lifted an injured comrade from your grasp.
Now, however, seated by the fire, his features cast in softer aspect by the ruddy glow, he seemed nothing more than a man in deep contemplation.
Summoning your courage, you stepped closer, seating yourself on a log nearby.
You warmed your hands in silence, sensing his glance pass over you and shift back to the blades.
"There's tea in the pot."
His voice startled you, level and hard as always.
"Thanks, sir."
Making your way over as bid, you poured yourself a steaming cup, noting the rich aroma. This was Levi's special blend, the kind he saved for after lengthy missions.
He must have picked up on your hesitancy.
"It's not poison. I made extra. Just drink it."
Embarrassment rearing, you took a large sip, wincing as your tongue suffered the scalding.
"I know. I just - thanks for the tea."
"Stop babbling and sit down."
"Yes, sir."
All things considered, he seemed more chatty than usual today.
Taking another sip, slower this time, you eyed the blades planted in the ground near him.
"Why did you keep those? They look blunted."
He was silent, and you'd begun to wonder if you'd overstepped, when his reply came, low and measured.
"There's still use in them."
Before you had a chance to reply, he'd slotted the hilt over one of the steel stakes, drawing it up, holding it out for you to inspect.
You took it from him, feeling a little bolder as the tips of his fingers brushed yours.
The sword sat with familiarity in your grasp, still warm from his own handling.
Yes, you could see it now.
The ultra-hardened steel used to manufacture these blades suffered one shortcoming: their brittle nature. They began to wear down with constant use.
This blade, however, was not useless just yet.
It had been blunted slightly in some areas, but it was still in fairly good condition.
For a man of his title and renown, Levi was always given first preference when it came to quality and quantity of swords, but it seemed that he hadn't taken that for granted.
He'd use this sword until it was beyond repair, brought to a natural end in his expert hands.
Your throat had grown unaccountably tight, some emotion welling within you.
Handing it back to him, you watched the deft turn of his wrist as he plunged it back into the ground, awaiting the time for action, or deployment to the next camping ground.
Such was Levi's nature, never wasteful, never overestimating his own power, as considerable as it was.
It was why he wielded his swords with such ferocity, coming to the aid of his soldiers again and again.
There was no life, among those which should be protected, or those spent on the battlefield beside him, that was not entirely precious to him.
"That's a good blade, Captain."
He regarded you from beneath the shadow of his lashes, steel lit from within by some hidden lustre.
"They're all good. Every one of them."
Today my little blog reached 500 followers. Which is ... sort of mind-boggling to me. When I started posting fanfic on Tumblr, I had a grand total of 3 followers, (LOL) which slowly grew as I met new people and made some online writing friends.
I want to say that being part of the Tumblr community has always felt a little different, a relaxed, flexible space where I can post on my latest fixations, shoot the breeze with friends and post the flood of disjointed ideas and stories in my head.
Be assured, my mind is always flooded with ideas, both related to fandom and not, and creativity has always been the most therapeutic channel for every single one of my emotions. I would have continued to spill over with the words that surge up until I cannot contain them, even if nobody read my work.
The fact that you all do is something I am always going to appreciate more than I have the skill to convey. To have so many people read and appreciate my writing is an absolute privilege and still something of a surprise to me. Thank you all for supporting me, humouring me and being such wonderful readers overall. 🥰
Hello, Haitch! I was hoping we could discuss the extent of emotion or attachment towards fictional media? If the topic intrigues you as it has significant personal relevance to me 🤔
I just feel so intensely, so much, towards fictional media. Like it’s a tidal wave of emotion. For example, reading “Annihilation” has gotten my pulse skyrocketing and adrenaline rushing. It’s followed with the urge to have an in-depth book discussion with like a literature professor or something. Or when I’m reading your fics, I’m kicking my feet in the air and I have to pause to take deep breaths because, oh my goodness,oh my goodness, the room just got 10 degrees F hotter. Or when I read the lyrics to “Where our blue is” before bed, I legitimately woke up at 4:00 AM for no reason other than the feeling of emptiness. What did I do solve it? Listen and read the lyrics to “Akari” 💀💀 (Two skulls because I died twice that day.)
It’s strange because I do not have these strong reactions in my everyday life outside of reading and TV. I don’t find myself having the same level of intensity. If I were to describe the comparison of emotional reaction between life outside of media and my attachment to media, it’s almost like a parallel circuit. I will even draw a diagram below:
Voltage represents the intensity of emotions. Path A involves multiple resistors which represent the every day events outside of media. Here, each resistor has less voltage (less emotional reaction). Path B has only one resistor which represents fictional media I consume as a whole. There’s only one resistor which means it has LOTS of voltage, meaning that I experience more emotional intensity towards media than the events of day-to-day life. *Sigh.* What a terrible analogy. I do not know why basics physics came to mind.
I think a lot of my friends who I’ve confided in misunderstand me. This does not mean that I value the lives of fictional characters over my own life. (That’s not healthy.) I place equal importance in both aspects, and hence, that’s why I drew a parallel circuit! The same total amount of voltage travels through each path.
I value media because it’s an opportunity for me to immerse myself in something new, to be able to learn something I’ve never thought about before. It’s an opportunity to be able to empathize with certain characters, to change your perspective, to be able to apply what you have learned from media into real life. So while media and life outside of media seem like separate entities, they are— for me, personally— very connected. The lessons I intake from media combined with real-world experiences make up who I am. Two different paths, but it is still part of the same circuit. (I feel so cheesy for saying that 😂)
Before I’ve always limited myself to being just an observer, never actually participating in discussions. I’d keep my thoughts and feelings about whatever I read or watched to myself in a little notebook. (I have managed to use all the pages of that notebook!) Maybe visit forums or watch YouTube analysis videos and see what others have to say, but I never participated. Only recently have I felt this surge of intensity (borderline overwhelming). And because of this, I have the strong urge to express these ideas and feelings to people who get it and are happy to talk about it.
I mentioned this before, how you’re the reason I downloaded Tumblr and started participating in a community. And I sincerely mean it. It’s because of the fluffy and/or smoldering emotions that bombarded me because of your fics. It was too good, how could I not acknowledge how much positive emotions you 🫵 made me feel. Not only because of how indulgent and engaging (😏) your fics are, but because of how you imbue the essence of Nanami Kento himself into it (and you deny being a goat 🐐). And this prompted me to think more critically about why I admire Nanami Kento, which led to very blissful discussions of Nanami and more character analysis!
This is why I feel an enormous amount of gratitude towards the community. Especially you, @mrhaitch, and @rahuratna. For being open to talk to, for having genuine interest in these in-depth conversations, and for taking the time and effort out of their day to be so thoughtful. It’s very, very meaningful to me.
*This ask has undergone two rounds of revision. I hope it’s comprehensible-ish? 🥹
It's absolutely comprehensible, and a delight to read. Thank you. I adore it.
So, I am speaking as someone who's neuromild, but firstly I suspect you're neurospicy. This isn't an issue, but I have seen and heard this reported much more amongst the neurospicy, especially those with a tendency to hyperfixate on media forms, who perhaps find it slightly more difficult to read and relate to others in 'real life' situations. I only raise this as a contextual element to my upcoming Thoughts™️. I, as a neuromild, also experience it though (just to reassure you).
Characters in books, and the storylines attached to them, are 100% designed to be relatable or repulsive, and to provoke a certain reaction in you. It is structural, deliberate, mapped, with signposts showing you the way. There are even side paths mapped out; you can take detours down trails to explore the reactions of others to this character and scenario, the wider societal impact of events, the past or the future related to these characters or events. Characters and situations are very often explored extremely thoroughly, with just the right terrain to lead you by the hand through how you should feel.
Daily life and daily interactions and daily demands are rarely so well mapped, extensive or well signposted. The ground is tarmacked, genuine emotion suppressed behind facades of social expectation. People won't tell you or show you how they feel, or think, and there is no omniscient narrator behind them to fill in the blanks. Side routes have no-entry signs; you must be Level 10 or over to access this information! You don't want to walk this path, but it's the only route available, and as such, you must; and your disappointment at being on this path makes you look at the ground instead of the sky.
We yearn for connection. We yearn for the power to resolve our own problems and to be the masters of our own story, and at every turn we are corseted by societal restraint, daily tedium, and barely 10-20% of the volume of information and stimulation that media forms will give us. And when our brains cannot work out the difference between adoring real life characters and scenarios, and adoring fictional characters and scenarios, it goes for the bigger meal; why have 10-20% when you could have 100%?
Even worse! Your feet ache and your heart aches, and new paths appear, leading you to fandom and other people who are enjoying this journey as much as you. You can't resist, a glutton for more; why have 100% when you can have 120%? And people aren't writing fanfiction about real life. If they do, it's fiction, and while it's juicy it's still not as satisfying as fantasy, which offers so much more.
This holds hands with your voltage theory, I think.
Again, I say this as a neuromild instead of a neurospicy, but I am guilty of this too. I do often feel greater intensity of emotion for fictional scenarios because they are designed to be that way. When you have a vivid imagination, and are intelligent, as clearly you are, that stimulation sends fireworks through you. You are absolutely alight, every nerve stimulated, and the emotion just fizzlepopping through you.
I don't believe you're 'abnormal', but it is always good to self-reflect. Are fictional scenarios and media forms reducing your ability to enjoy/feel things for real people and daily life, or do you enjoy/feel things for real people and daily life as much as you always did? Think carefully now. The relative hugeness of the things you feel for fictional scenarios may, at first, convince you that it's the former, and convince you that you're slowly becoming numb to life. If you work out that it's the latter, and you are not becoming numb to life, then this sounds like a healthy, if extreme, response to media forms. If you're gradually becoming more numb, we need to address the root issues, mental health worries or life/social dissatisfaction or need to escape something pathologically unaddressed, often being the answer.
I often feel different. I often feel like I connect to emotion harder and more viscerally than the people around me. I am a social chameleon, and exceptionally good at being whatever a social situation wants me to be. @mrhaitch understands what lies underneath, and gets to experience me as I am at base. I often spend so much time being another version of myself, that I forget who I am, and have to come back to myself.
I tend to suppress or limit my involvement, because I like taking the overview, allowing my feelings and opinions to develop as new information comes to light. I am self-possessed over my own opinions and their ability to grow and change, and as such, don't feel pressurised to feel a certain way. I don't feel the need to engage in fandom rhetoric, and actually, I strongly dislike engaging with it; this is as close as I'll get. Being a 'creator' suits me well. I almost never discuss my thoughts and feelings about series' etc aloud, in comments or real life. I'd discuss it, if prompted, but I certainly don't seek it out.
There is also the core part of me that needs/wants to maintain a certain image in real life, and as such, most people don't know that I'm even into anime. The barest couple of people, I can count on one hand, know that I even write. I'm fine with this; I am perfectly happy to conceal parts of myself, that belong to me alone, with my long-suffering husband as a privileged/punished bystander.
I think extreme emotional connection to media forms can show good empathy. I would overall be more concerned about someone who does not show deep emotional responses to media forms that are designed to make them feel this way. I believe that progressive societal numbing to emotion is routinely seen in daily life, and begins in childhood; how many of us recall being told that our emotional reactions are abnormal, irregular, over the top or embarrassing? We learn to suppress, early on. This leaks out, and we suppress more and more as we grow, becoming number and number to the struggles of those around us. Progressive degradation of empathy is real, and we can and should resist.
r.e. my writing, and me, though I viscerally hate to discuss my personality like this: I can acknowledge two traits I have; I am eloquent with a broad vocabulary, and I am very good at making other people feel how I want them to feel. This counts for real life and writing. This is good, and bad, and I try very hard not to be the Evil™️ version of myself. I write with an aim, and I like critical hits. I'm a perfectionist and I always have been. I'm sorry to hurt you in this way. I usually use this socially (not consciously, it's just how I am) or at work, where I advocate for women and make sure they feel loved and safe. I'm quite good at it. Channelling this into creating stories for other people to enjoy has been an ability I didn't know I had until very recently.
I agree that @rahuratna is a very rare talent. Arguably, I find her to be an exceptionally uncommon author. She would do very, very well to write a novel, if she ever felt it. Her writing skill is phenomenal. I only wish I had more time to read all of her work; I sadly find myself having to choose how to spend the very limited social time I have, and I often choose writing, as it relaxes me more than reading. But please know, rahuratna, I'm coming for you. Also know, @bunny584 is one of the rare ones, I'm my humble opinion.
Perhaps that's why you like my writing? Just thoughts.
Thanks for the amazing Inbox. I don't often get the time to do massive responses but I absolutely try my hardest.
spreading positivity for yourself and for others: what are some fanfics you've written that you're proud of? who are your favorite writers in the fic community?
Let's start with my favourite writers in the fandoms! All of these writers have been instrumental in encouraging me to experiment with different genres, have produced some of the most beautifully written works both here and on other platforms, have helped me expand my skill set and have also given me the courage to put my efforts out there to be seen and read by others:
@tsukimefuku @kentocalls @actuallysaiyan @redlikerozez @mysteria157 @lazyjellyfish300 @yasu-1234 @cmdrfupa @pmpmyread @courtneedsleep @wibben @dreamingkitsunewrites and also @theoxenfree who is a most phenomenal writer of original pieces.
As for the fics I'm most proud of, two spring to mind:
Ikemen Kaisen, which was my absolute first foray into writing for the JJK fandom (and also for Nanami!). I loved every minute of writing it, and it also led me to one of the warmest and most encouraging communities I've ever been part of in fandom.
Also, Comrade in Irons, my first (and only) Naruto fanfiction which I started writing in 2011! It was the first taste I'd had of plotting a complex multi-chapter mystery, and it gave me an itch for writing in this genre that stuck with me. I got back to this fic after a 13 year hiatus ... and completed it! So I'm definitely very proud of that.
I've been asked a few times if the Nanami Relationship headcanon fic will continue, due to the way Part 11 ended.
The answer is, yes. I originally didn't intend for that chapter to have such an air of finality, but I felt like that aspect of their relationship, the establishment of feelings, is coming to an end. The new challenges they face, now that they are sure of how they feel about each other, are only beginning!
Thank you for sticking with my little fic for this long and I hope you continue to read and enjoy!
Yay! I mean, wow. When I started this little blog, I was so happy to have even one reader for my fics, and I appreciate each and every one of you, always. 🥰
