Welcome one, welcome all!

This account is run and managed by a curious creature often referred to as "That one Secretary" - despite its rather ominous title, it's ironic weakness is its inability to write angst, combatted as it is by the sheer amount of fluff that overseeps it.
It is also in possession of the strange and particular magick that enables it to turn copious amounts of sugar and caffeine into plot driven words- Granted , it's methods lose efficiency the longer it stays up past its bedtime.
Impeccable body clocks and their faults are no stranger to it.
It also claims to run another account on Quotev, a website it uses to play with the many people trapped in its control, and their worlds- peculiar as it is, it seems to have original works!
They aren't worth pursuing however, theyre nearly 2 years old and on hiatus.

Do mind the unfinished manuscripts as you walk, they're simply story ideas that the creature may take up.

What's that?
These are of interest to you?
Well, who am I to say otherwise? Feel free to browse!

STORIES THAT MAY BE TAKEN UP-

Of Red Dahlias and Withering Violets (KHR)

Rokudo Mukuro had always stuck in my mind as the most dangerous of the Vongola Guardians; wary as I was of the way he seemed to easily bend words from empty lies into sharpened daggers that could cut much deeper than anything a blacksmith might achieve. Having said that, his voice had been the handle of those daggers, and so, as I struggled to make more sound than a harsh breath, I realized how bloody damn screwed I was; if the trauma of reincarnating into a fictional bloody character wasn’t enough insult to damn injury. Did I mention the pineapple hair that travels across dimensions to haunt me, and laughs better in the face of death than I ever could? (Fem! Mute! SI/OC! Mukuro)

Shadows cast by the Sun (KHR)

It was with a calmness unbefitting of his age that the obsidian eyed boy held the gun to the suited woman’s head- he didn’t ask her any questions about the flickering golden Flames that licked at her wounds, nor of the similar ones that curled around his shattered leg. Instead, he pulled the trigger with a greeting of (Or perhaps it was a farewell?) ‘Chaos’ on his lips. And Chaos it was, for what else would you call it when the world was burning down around you, with naught but the screams of civilians ringing in your ears; drowning out the gun fire and screeches of the Mafia? (Fic following Reborn’s life)

Inversed (KHR)

In which Hayato is a formal and elegant hitwoman of professional standards, Takeshi is a blood thirsty teenager looking to pick bones with the local yakuza, Hibari is a calm, suave bisexual that has Namimori under her thumb, Mukuro is a crude yet terrifyingly practical revenge monger, Tsuna is the intimidating sarcastic asshole hated by everyone that knows her, and no-one quite knows how the tenth generation got so out of hand.