#biscuit writes

commission status: currently OPEN

Yeah, no, if you're not at least 18, we can't work together. I will need you to show me a photo of your ID card, with your age. You can cover everything else but leave the day-month-year, because I don't want to end up writing smut for children and taking their money. :) We good? Onto next details.

PRICES

drabbles (<1k, max 1k words) - $15

1k-1.9k words - $20

2k-2.9k words - $25

3k-3.9k words - $28

4k-5k words - $30

6k (maximum for one fic) words - $40

10k words - $85

>10k words - $100

These prices are for 2 characters (ch x ch or ch x reader) For each additional character (poly relationship/ threesome/ side character) + $10 will be added to the length range price.

I accept payment through PayPal (please wait for my invoice) or Ko-fi

RULES

#1

For any NSFW (18+) commission you will have to show me somehow that you are over the age of 18. It works with an ID or driving license (for Europe) with everything covered but not your date of birth and eventually the name you will be paying from

#2

Depending on the length and my real-life job workload you will receive the requested fic after around 2-3 weeks.

#3

You will receive the fic as a PDF on an email you provide or via Discord, and only after you've read it (and agree, of course) I will post it on my Tumblr; you choose if you want to be tagged in the post.

#4

Fandoms: Bleach, Kaijuu #8, Jujutsu Kaisen, Chainsaw Man, Haikyuu, Attack on Titan, Tokyo Revengers, BNHA, Naruto, Kuroko no Basket, Demon Slayer, Free!!, Spy x Family, Black Clover. (there are some characters I do not write for, though, so better ask me)

I do “x readers” but you have to fill in a little template, so I could describe you in the most appropriate way.

I accept OCs and you can fill in the template with their info. (this applies to side characters as well)

I can do character x character as long as it follows my rules

#5

ALL THE CHARACTERS ARE AGED UP TO 20 yrs old!

I do not write the following: rape, non-consensual, underage (adult x child, nor child x child), teacher x student, incest, stepcest, yandere, gore, necrophilia, gerontophilia, fury and other non-human creatures, verbal or physical degradation, sadism/masochism, abuse of any kind, cheating, irresponsible use of drugs or alcohol; nor some kinks that I’m not comfortable with (e.g: scat, watersports, punishments, pet play etc. - feel free to ask me if there is something not on this list)

#6

There is a maximum of 5 slots open at a time, especially if they are all 3k+. If you want a shorter fic, tell me in the google form or in DM and I might slip it in between.

This is the order:

we discuss and agree on prompt + length + price

I make a rough sketch and I share it with you on google docs with additional questions if I have any (usually regarding details)

I send the invoice and you pay it

I write the fic in full and send it to you

Please note that I do not agree with reposting. The fic is yours to keep and enjoy, as it is personalised for you, but you are not allowed to post it on any platform.

You can contact me via Tumblr dm or ask

some old commissions recently, I've decided to not post commissions anymore, they only belong to the person who paid

You've been haunting my dreams quite a bit lately, do you know that?

I suppose it's not really surprising. Twice you've flitted in and out of my life so quickly that I sometimes wonder if I simply made you up.

My first friend.

We were so small the first time. Barely close enough in birthdays to be in the same class.

I loved your hair.

So pale the sun would turn it silver-white. The same hair the other kids would mock and pull. The hair they would say made you look like an old woman. I thought it was the prettiest I'd ever seen.

You would say the same about my mind. That I was clever and good at making things out of nothing. That you enjoyed the games as we ran about my yard chasing monsters we couldn't see.

Maybe that's why I doubted you were real. A figment, just like those monsters. Because you were happy with me.

Or maybe it was because of how soon the games ended. How soon you were gone.

How fast you vanished.

There one day and no longer around the next.

Mama said you probably hadn't told me you were moving so I wouldn't be hurt.

Oops.

How wrong she was.

I started to forget you, you know. Like all imaginary friends, you were relegated to the recesses of my mind, and you stayed there and stayed there for so long. Only briefly surfacing as a distant memory once in awhile.

Until you suddenly weren't there anymore.

You were right in front of me.

"Let's be friends again," you said with a smile that made my heart hurt, the curls of your silver-white hair floating in the breeze like clouds.

But we didn't, did we?

You disappeared again, just as quickly as the first time.

Had you ever really been there?

Had my mind just been playing tricks on me?

Had I been dreaming again?

You've been haunting my dreams quite a bit lately, after all.

Maybe you always were.

Goodbye, dear.

She wanted to be someone who spun sentences from stardust, pulled eloquent phrases out of midair, polished words into shimmering smooth stones that formed a yellow brick road through the pages. Someone who could conjure up crisp fall days just by touching pen to paper, who could transport people to the wildest places in their imagination just by turning a page, who could make emotions hidden in inked words feel as real as one's own heart thumping in their chest. But she was never going to be like that. At least, not yet.

So, day after day, she plugged in her earbuds, put on a playlist in Youtube, and continued to chip away tirelessly at her story. Kept creating, editing, deleting, so that, slowly, inch by inch, brick by brick, she built a whole world springing from the pages. Molded characters from nothing until they breathed, lived, triumphed and broke, until they felt as real as the friends she might have had. And every night, as she looked at her bedroom ceiling peppered with glow-in-the-dark stars, she reminded herself to keep on dreaming, working. Reminding herself that one day, her story would be finished, and then published, shared with the world. Because her real dream, the one deepest in her heart, was to have something to be proud of, have something that was hers, that she could say, with pride in her voice and not a hint of shame, "That's mine."

And then, it faded.

Her characters became flat shadows of themselves. The places that used to be stunningly real in her imagination fell into disrepair. She stopped writing daily, forgot to scribble down ideas when they came to her, set aside more time for homework, tests, the friends who had slowly been coming into her life, started forgetting her dream, until it'd stolen away through her fingers like sparkling gold sand. Day after day, her writing became paler, more transparent, until the words seemed like ghosts of themselves and the sentences lost their meaning. She stopped living through her stories and started to step into the real world, where she was meant to be, leaving her intangible story hanging, unfinished.

High school passed, then college. She got a job at a biotech company, researching how viruses could be used to attack cancer cells, trying to cure a disease that seemed invincible. She started dating, visiting her boyfriend's apartment more than her own. Made new acquaintances, went out on Friday nights and after work to bars, restaurants, someone's house, to relax, laugh, complain about the new boss and all his strict work standards.

And finally, the day he proposed, the day she said yes, the happiest day of their lives, was the day she found her stories again.

She had told him she was going back to her parents' house to clear out her things, since she'd be leaving soon, living alone with him in a house they planned to buy. But he'd insisted on going with her, so in the end, she told him to wait outside with his car, that she'd be back out in a couple minutes.

~~~

She walks in, thinking about how sweet his persistence had been, and smiling a little. Her parents aren't home yet; she'd left work early that day, and the house is still and silent, nothing moving except for the squeaking of the floorboards beneath her feet. She climbs up the stairs, noticing her old childhood pictures still hanging on the walls, faded a little from the sunlight. Her bedroom still looks the same, with the empty dresser and dusty bookshelves right where she had left them when she moved out to college, all those years ago. The only thing that's changed is that now, the floor is more cluttered, with boxes and piles of unused items stacked haphazardly around the room. Her parents must have started using her room as a storage closet, for all the things they bought but never used, the things they thought would be a waste to throw away.

She starts sorting through it all, kneeling on the floor among all the mess, rearranging, organizing. She's almost overwhelmed: some of the things seem so useless, and at the same time, she can't bear to throw them away. So she makes two piles, slowly and reluctantly, of things to keep and things that she'd decide what to do with later. She finds the things she'd once thought she lost: the small fuzzy keychain, a waterproof watch, the small salt crystal she found on the pavement that had been so special. She finds all the trinkets, the small toys, the stuffed animals, left behind in her childhood, things of which she only has lingering memories.

And in the corner, in a box she barely remembers, she finds her stories.

The cardboard box is small, dusty, and covered in spiderwebs, and at first she mistakes it for a misplaced crate of her school things: old projects that she kept, notes on biology and algebra and how to write analysis paragraphs. She opens it, sees page after page of writing, and knows instinctively it'll be a long time before she'll get anything sorted out. At first she starts quickly skimming over the pages, wanting to get everything over with, knowing her fiancé must be wondering what is taking so long, nearly positive this is her last item to go through. But she starts slowing down, once she starts really taking in the writing, really reading the words that sat on paper for so long and never saw daylight.

She revisits the pages where her hand used to move across, taking in her younger self's handwriting, still the same messy scrawl it is now. The characters come back to her, the places feel real again, and as she flips to the last page, reads the last line, she finally appreciates how well she used to write. And to think that she used to think it was all rubbish, just a silly game she made up that nobody would understand.

She smiles, but it doesn't make the longing go away. The yearning feeling that has suddenly risen in her chest, that prods her to go finish the story, to take up writing again, to pour her emotions into the paper again. So she replaces the whole bundle of papers, scribbles, and journals gently in the box, clears the lid and all around of the dust of years, and lugs it back outside. He is waiting, patiently, in the car, and half-smiles when she gets in.

"Only one box? I thought you'd bring more than that."

"This is the most important thing right now."

~~~

The night breeze was cool in her face as they drove along the narrow road. She sighed contentedly. Everything was perfect. She always loved nights like this, when the sky was clear and the pine trees swayed gently with the breeze. It was always the small things that made her day.

“Look at the moon.” She pointed out the sky roof, at the thin crescent of light hanging among the stars, like a small hammock fit for fairies. He turned, looked where she was pointing, and smiled softly.

"It’s almost as pretty as you," he told her. His smile widened as she dissolved into a flustered mess. He laughed as he drew her close, and she buried her face in his neck, feeling the vibrations of his chest as he laughed.

She rested her head on his shoulder, humming a little, and waited for his laughter to stop. And when it finally did, she asked the question she’d been wondering ever since they started driving.

“So, why did you take me out here?”

He hummed. "Do I always need a reason to see you?" he asked as he nudged her playfully. She laughed a little at that. "But really," she said "Why did you bring me out here?"

He tilted his head, considering her, and how much she could take. “I missed you. I missed being alone with you. And-” But he was interrupted as she stole his lips in a sweet kiss.

“I missed you too. But we’ve got all the time in the world now, right?” He couldn’t meet her eyes when she said that, and he knew she had noticed. He sighed. He heard her take a shaky breath but still, he didn’t look at her, didn’t meet her eyes. "What's wrong?" she asked. "What is it now?"

He closed his eyes and wrapped his arms around her tightly. He heard the slight breaking in her voice as she asked, "We've suffered so much. Do we still not deserve our happy ending?"

“I- I don’t know. Listen, it’ll be alright, I know that much. We’ve gone through this before, and we’ll come out of it again, like we always do. Believe me.” And he wished he himself could believe it.

"Your mouth twiches a little when you lie, you know," she told him quietly.

"I'm sorry" he said, resting his forehead against hers. "I'm so sorry".

She put a hand against his cheek. "It's okay," she whispered, even though she knew it wasn't.

"It will be okay. Just... Just come back. Come back to me alive."

“I will. I always will.” And he raised his hand towards her in the dark, stuck out his little finger in the shape of an unfinished promise. She took it, curled her own pinky around his, felt his skin, inexplicably smooth, and felt the promise bind them together. After a long moment, they let go.

"How long?" she asked. "How long do I have with you?" 

He shook his head. "I don't know," he replied. 

"And how long till I-" her voice broke off at the end. She didn't finish the question. She didn't have to. He gazed at the moon for a moment before he replied. 

"I don't know that either," he told her. "And somehow it terrifies me". 

She leaned into him. "Don't be," she said, trying to comfort him, but it sounded pathetic to her ears. A pathetic attempt to comfort them both. Make them hold on to something imaginary. He turned to look at her, a wry smile on his lips.

She loves the summer, because it feels like home.

~~~

Feedback is welcome and appreciated! <3

She loves the fall, because it feels like a celebration.

~~~

Feedback is welcome and appreciated! <3