#I want to write some drabbles to share

[irishmammonagenda]

“What do you think you’re doing?” The Avatar of Gluttony says, uncharacteristically angry, demon form out, bhí a sciatháin ildaite ag bualadh go feargach.

You’re trembling still, the previous altercation sparking in your nerves, although, cool, refreshing relief courses through your veins as you look up at the redhaired Demon.

Beel’s eyes. That was all you could look at. You had seen a plethera of emotions painted in his purple pupils, most commonly serenity, or joy, hunger or thirst, less commonly sadness poisoned his expression, rarely anger, annoyance yes, the expression he’d make before he went on a rampage that was a mix between hunger and anger, yes. But you’d never seen the pure unbridled fury ablaze in his eyes like you were seeing right now.

Not directed at you, never at you. Rather directed at the demon who had tried to give you a beating; Beel had stumbled upon it whilst looking for his twin, and A Thiarna is a Dhia, was he furious. You shivered, it was a scary sight.

Iridescent ildaite wings buzz angrily. The air is thick, Beel runs his tongue over his fangs threateningly, staring menacingly at the demon, who, gaining its senses, flees, tail between its legs. Beel lets it run, having a longtime learned from Lucifer how to play an cluiche cleasach.

Besides, letting the demon wallow in its fear for a while would make it taste a lot better when he disposed of the threat.

He wouldn’t tell you that, though, to protect your soft, pure, sparkling human soul.

Leaving you alone with a seething Demon, you trembled. Normally, you would trust Beelzebub with your life, but the sheer power buzzing around him paired with the rage doused you in icy cold water, a strong reminder that your reisdent softy was ifnfact capable of horrors beyond you comprehension.

You whimper, Beel snaps his head towards you in an instant, the fury in his eyes softening. Suddenly, his hands are on you, pulling you into strong arms. You shake involuntarily.

Beel coos at you in a language long dead, the syllables are harsh and guttural, like waves crashing into the shore. A huge hand comes up to pet your hair, so gentle it almost hurts.

You stay there for a while, in that empty classroom, enveloped in Beel’s arms. Slowly but surely you lean into his touch, your heartrate calmed, your head resting against his muscled chest, it was silly to think even for a moment that he would hurt you, laughable even.

divider by @saradika-graphics

dia daoibh (hello to you [plural]) grma for reading as per usual 🫶🫶, heres the meanings of the words:

‘A Thiarna is a Dhia’ (A year-nah is a Yee-ah’) is a way of saying, ‘Goodness Gracious’/‘Good God’ etc

as per usual I cant write pronounciations😔

‘An Cluiche Cleasach’ (An Clue-Heh Clah-Sa) -The Sneaky Game’, bc i have no idea how to say the long game in irish and cluiche fada sounds wrong.

Now for the big one😰:

‘bhí a sciatháin ildaite ag bualadh go feargach.’

(pronounced: Vee ah Scee-ah-han ill-dat-che egg beh-whale-oo go fair-eh-gawk’)

as per usual the ‘k’ sound in feargach is pronounced with your throat, its technically right to just pronounce it ‘k’ (like the word chick in english) but its not the way native speakers pronounce it‼️

this roughly translates to: ‘His colourful wings were flapping angrily’

bualadh comes from the verb ‘buail’ which can mean a lot of things, but paired with ‘ag’ and ‘sciatháin’ it means ‘flapping wings’

heres a photo of me trying to explain it, please ignore my handwriting i tried to make it neat😔✊

[fortune-maiden]

:DDD for the fic writer ask, 12 and 19?

Yay! Thank you <333

12. What was the first fandom you wrote for?

Pokemon! :D

I was a geeky middle schooler writing fics about my super cool OC getting her super unique starter from Professor [Insert Tree Name] and getting all the badges and saving the world!

(Or really just the first part because even back then I never had the stamina for long fic xD)

19. How do you get over writer's block?

.........I....I don't think I do...... :')

my Writing Slump is celebrating it's third anniversary and I'm not sure I can see an end in sight ^^"

But even when I don't feel like I can write anything else, I still really enjoy writing Drabbles. I think because there's a strict word limit, I'm able to focus on just the core of story I want to tell and hide my shortcomings in everything else . Daily drabble challenges also help rebuild a habit of writing a little every day which I think is also important for overcoming writer's block

But also I think for fanfic in particular, fandom culture is very important. If a fandom no longer sparks joy then it's time to find one that does!

(I'd like to think I found one *prayer emoji*)

[babyboywilson]

happiness is having someone comment that your writing is beautiful when you’ve been insecure to get back to writing again

[sisterdivinium]

Now is the time to place your bets on whether or not this hyper self-indulgent doctor superion Vampire the Masquerade AU fic will or won't get to 100 handwritten pages...

[quirkle2]

who wants zombie au writing. don't answer that ur getting it anyway (1.6k words)

His shoes knock against the old flooring of the house, wood creaking under rubber soles that slide over the woodgrain. He drags them a bit, lifts his limbs up no more than he strictly has to, and they lead him to the nearest sittable surface.

The couch is old and dusty and has likely gone untouched for months, much like everything else nowadays, so he watches the thin cloud of dust billow off the cushions largely with disinterest. He collapses into the fabric heavily, feels the whole thing scoot back an inch and hit the wall behind him. The sound echoes, carried by lifeless rooms, while he unceremoniously drops his backpack to the floor by his feet.

The breath he lets out is slow and methodical and born of pent up muscles, aimed at the ceiling where he rests his neck against the back of the couch and relaxes every limb one by one. It’s a process he forces himself through, if only to rid the constant ache beneath his skin.

Slow, sweeping footsteps meander around the room in front of him, and Ritsu angles his gaze down from his craned back position to look at his brother. He wanders, like he so often does—seemingly aimless, but there’s something procedural about it that he’s convinced he just hasn’t figured out yet.

Shigeo’s empty eyes crawl along the hearth of the fireplace, explosions of ash sprayed out across the red brick. His head tilts up to trace his attention around the angular lines of the television, hung on the wall and screen grey with dust. He flits back and forth between the roundness of the bricked mantle and the sharp edges of the screen, like he’s taking notes.

Shigeo paws the television. Four lines of muck are cleared. The zombie blinks, paws at it again with dusty, curious fingers. Ritsu watches him make a mess of the television screen in silence, blinking tiredly.

He almost closes his eyes, but he fights against the urge and moves his fingers down his lap to reach for his bag. His middle hooks around the loop at the top and he lugs it up and into his lap, where he unzips it and peers into the shadowy contents.

Ritsu fishes out the water bottles. He finds the one with the messy R scribbled along the cap in sharpie and takes a big swig of it. It’s warm going down, constantly insulated in a bag of old, sweaty clothes. He feels like he can taste the odor in it, but it clears the grain in his throat from stomping all over dirt roads today, so he’s still grateful.

He holds out the one labeled S to Shigeo. “Thirsty?”

Shigeo looks at him from where he’s crouched down to the floor now, inspecting the soot along the hearth. Unfortunately, he sees handprints in the black already, and when his brother reaches a hand out to take it, his palm is covered in soot.

He lets him have his fun and settles his own bottle back in the mess of tangled clothes and rolls of bandages. Ritsu rakes his fingers through their stock with no real purpose—he knows exactly what’s in here, and none of it is useful.

They’d been searching all day; Ritsu doesn’t really know how far they’d walked, but it had to be a lot of miles. In and out of stores, up and down empty houses, weaving between warehouses—they didn’t really stop for a break. Not when Ritsu can hear Shigeo’s stomach from here and he himself has shaking hands. They can’t afford a break.

Nothing, though. Not a single goddamn thing worth taking. A settlement must have come through here long ago and swept the highway. They’re in the countryside, where houses are spaced out acres from each other and there’s entire cow pastures between properties. And yet every house they’d seen and entered provided nothing.

Ritsu stares into the negative space in his bag where there should be supplies. His stomach cramps and if he smells another whiff of that godawful sweaty, bloody sweatshirt he still carries, he’s going to throw up bile.

He leans away from the open pouch, eyes wandering to his brother who draws… something into the soot of the hearth. His water bottle sits on the floor, abandoned and still unscrewed. Ritsu leans forward with great effort and a grunt, leaning over his bag to grab at the top of it.

It takes him two tries to get Shigeo’s attention, and one more for an answer on where the cap is. It’s then placed in his palm, covered in soot and also saliva. Ritsu swallows down the nausea that rolls up his throat and wipes it off with his frankly already disgusting sleeve, and screws it back on.

He leans back again, succumbing to the urge to let his eyes rest, and he listens to the very subtle swipe of his brother’s hands across brick. There’s birds outside, chirping, and even though it’s still very much a common occurrence, Ritsu cannot help but feel nostalgic about it.

If he ignores the awful hum of silence, and the distinct lack of an electric thrum throughout the walls, and the fact that this is a stranger’s couch and not his, he can almost imagine normalcy. He can almost say this feels like those quiet moments after school, when he settles on the couch and scrolls through his phone in a house that only holds him and his brother because their parents simply aren’t home yet.

He can almost hear the creak of wood from Shigeo walking around his room upstairs. He can almost tap his fingers on the couch cushions to the pattern of his brother making his way down the steps. He can almost hear the fridge opening, and the sound of milk being poured into glass.

Almost. But Ritsu listens to sharp silence instead, and he tries not to think too hard.

He drifts for a while, feels himself truly sink into the couch and let the cushions claim him, and he thinks about nothings because if he doesn’t, then he’ll lose it. He carefully sifts through the nothingness of his mind, through the passing thoughts that have no bearing, and he focuses on that, on the lack of substance. His head is too full of things that have too much substance.

He misses boredom. He tells himself he misses boredom—the complete insubstantiality of it—because if he lets himself think of what he really misses, it’ll drive him insane.

The cushions move, and Ritsu peels his eyes open and lets himself get pulled from liminal mindspace. The cotton in his head recedes, and he blinks, and then he’s swiveling his head to look at his brother who sits in the cushion right next to him.

His hands and the cuffs of his hoodie are smothered in black. Shigeo sits hunched, gaze still wandering even when there’s not much decoration in this house to look at. He studies the off-white walls, the chips in the paint, the holes drilled in where there maybe used to be photos hung.

Ritsu gazes at him quietly, chest instinctively rising and falling to match his brother’s rhythm. He watches the expansion there, under his hoodie, in the subtlety of the folds and the way they warp over the movement. It’s slightly quicker than what he’s used to, but Ritsu knows his brother’s heart rate is much slower. He’s felt it before. He’s listened to it before, with his ear against a chest.

Ritsu’s attention moves to his eyes, and the heavy bags underneath them, and the paleness of his pupils and the ghostlight of him underneath that. He stares into them, looks for stray, familiar thoughts that might enter his head. Looks for old memories that might shine through in the form of recognition when he sees furniture layouts, and candy wrappers, and ads for soda.

Ritsu looks for it all the time, that glint of familiarity. And he finds it, sometimes. And really, he thinks that’s keeping him going more than food ever will.

Shigeo turns his head, and looks at him. Sometimes, when his brother looks at him, there’s not much there. No substance, no anything. And Ritsu finds it a bit evil that he craves silence in his own head, and yet noise in Shigeo’s, and often times it is the other way around.

His brother looks at him now, though, with that comforting recognition. That growth of the pupils, that softening of the hard edges of his face where unknown stressors have gotten to him. Ritsu wonders what zombies get stressed out. He figures it’s the same deal with humans, considering they’re largely alike.

Ritsu wonders if Shigeo knows he’s sick. He wishes he could ask him. He wishes for a lot of things. Silence in his own head is one of them.

Ritsu swivels his head away and stares at the ceiling, if only to force the thoughts to pause. He studies the popcorn ridges above them, traces the peaks with his gaze. It calms him, gives him something to focus on. He looks for patterns in the shadows they make.

Shigeo shifts next to him. And then he shimmies down, settles into the cushions, and plops his head right down on Ritsu’s shoulder.

Static roars in his mind and his heart stammers. Ritsu swallows the lump in his throat but that just makes it bigger, so he clamps his mouth shut and breathes carefully through his nose.

The tears cut through the grime on his face. He plops his own head down against his brother’s, and lives in the noise.

[mezzmerizd]

Oh my fucking god i just realised that if i switch to a new phone literally ALL of my writing will be gone,,,

^^^ uses samsung notes like a goddamn lunatic

[theloveinc]

hey sorry i feel the random need to defend myself but i wanted to let u guys know i have been writing a TON lately actually but its just i havent been finishing any of it.

[scvrllet]

crazy to think that i started this blog stressing about going to uni and now i’m graduating in less than a month

[rambunctioustoons]

a very quiet heads up that irl stuff has completely slashed the way I manage art/writing.

It's extremely odd to not be constantly chipping away at things, but please know I am constantly still Thinking About those Blorbos. I am just so out of routine.

[cxpperhead]

The days were getting shorter and so was Copperhead's tolerance for the cold, the abrupt end of summer leaving a distinct chill in the air he hadn't quite gotten used to yet. Doing so would take time; the changing of seasons always caught him off-guard even though he could feel it in his scales that winter was coming, speeding towards the land on hurried winds of mist and cold. Just the thought made him not want to get up ever again, to never leave this haven of comfort and warmth even though he knew he couldn't stay forever and neither could his guest for that matter, despite having spent a most wonderful night nestled within his coils... A rustle in the blankets caught his attention suddenly, movement in the blankets next to him alerting Copperhead that his companion was not only stirring but beginning to awaken, their new position quickly leaving him cold as their bodies momentarily seperated- "No, don't move yet." Copperhead mumbles sleepily, muscular tail sliding around their torso before soundly dragging them back into his nest of blankets and duvet covers with a soft thump. Renewed warmth instantly floods through his scales, bringing him fresh waves of pleasure though perhaps much to his bedmate's chagrin, now finding themselves being treated more of a captive than lover.

[paintedonmyteeth]

Besides doing my posts w/ Pyramid Head, Ghostface, and so on I wanna share some things with my ocs from time to time as well but also I’m scared and my rambles aren’t much besides the one moot usually looking at them. 🫠

[good-beans]

WIP Poll Tag Game

I'll write as many sentences as there are votes for the winner of this poll! Thank you @thepatchycat -- this is such a cool game aw! My dusty wips thank you as well... 😂

(For the audio editing I'll do like 5 minutes for each vote or something 👍)

And I'll tag @chinchillasinunison, @fayesdiary, @elegyofthemoon, @plantpretender, @jannede @nitetime-moon, @red-moon-at-night, and @amugoffandoms -- and anyone feel free to join in!

[novella-november]

Novella November 2024 Announcement Post

Hate AI, but love writing challenges?

Want to take part in a global, fun project to write a Novella in one month?

Grab some friends, and take part in Novella November, by writing 1,000 words a day for the month of November, ending with a 30,000 word Novella to test and stretch your novel-writing skills!

Your goal is not perfection, but merely getting into the habit of writing a litte bit every single day :D

No website, no sign-ups -- Just a community initiative to write using only your own word!

What are the rules? Just Three so far!

#1 - No AI

#2 - No Plagiarizing

#3 - Wordcount for the month should only come from what you write during the month.

What does that mean?

Only words written during November should go towards your Wordcount for the month... but! Feel free to use your 30k words as a continuation of previous writing, or just make it the first 30k words in a longer novel!

Don't think you can write a whole entire 30k word story? Write a series of short stories that total up to 30k!

Not ready to write original works yet? Write a 30k word fanfiction that you can post after the month is over!

Share your writing experience, tips, encouragement, and questions in the #Novella November tag!

---

EDIT, from the tags: Want a progress tracker? Track your progress with TrackBear!

https://trackbear.app/

Don't have a word processor? Use LibreOffice , the free and open-source alternative to Microsoft Word!

Want to organize/storyboard your Novel and don't want to pay a subscription? Try 7writer by Simon Haynes!

Want to be able to listen to your story aloud for proofreading using TTS (text to speech)? Try Balabolka!

Or, create some custom progress / Goal Cards in advance you can fill out as you reach word goals! For ideas and templates, search this blog for "goal cards" :D

Want to do a writing challenge in more than just November? Check out my ideas here for year round challenges to keep you writing consistently! Got feedback? Send it in, I'd love to see everyone's ideas!

---

EDIT 2: I almost forgot to mention, if you are unable to write/type your story, you can also narrate/dictate your story to your preferred recording device!

If you're doing a Recording only and it doesn't automatically generate a transcript, it would obviously be hard to judge the word count -- but you're also working with a lot of obstacles, so I'd say if you're able to complete your story via voice recording from start to finish, you've definitely achieved the goal!

Edit #3: added the title "Novella November 2024 announcement post" to the top to make it more standard with my Ominous October and Drabble December posts (will be updating Outline October shortly) , added "Official Announcement Post 2024" to the tags so people can easily find the monthly events for 2024, and added a bit of bold to the third bullet point in the original post from September 2nd 2024 for emphasis.

[tohruies]

a realisation that home was here. home was now. and it had been all along … 🥺💘

— ☆ 𝐇𝐎𝐌𝐄 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐂𝐇𝐑𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐌𝐀𝐒

alhaitham x ryu. this is obviously a selfship piece for ryuhaitham and it’s in first person. canon au. comfort. fluff. read here if you want more context on us. 0.7k wc

I sat curled on the couch with a blanket drawn tightly around me, staring at the modest decorations I’d strung up days ago when Alhaitham first left for Akademiya business. The lights, the strings of ribbon—they felt out of place here, like foreign embellishments in a world that had no meaning for them.

Christmas. Once upon a time, it had been everywhere—woven into every light, every note of music, every breath of winter air. It wasn’t as though I’d celebrated Christmas extravagantly but the absence of it here made the ache of displacement settle heavy in my chest. Even if I’d only half-participated in the holiday back then, its laughter and warmth had always been a comforting constant.

Teyvat moved without pause. The winds of Mondstadt whipped across snow-buried plains, Sumeru’s ever-shifting leaves played on the breeze and Liyue’s lanterns flickered against a fading sky. It was timeless and unchanging, as if the universe was indifferent to the celebration I longed for. But like the decorations I’d strung up, Christmas had no place here. And in that knowledge, my homesickness deepened, the distance between my old world and this one stretching farther.

Suddenly, the door creaked open, and I startled, my gaze snapped to the figure entering. Alhaitham’s silhouette was outlined against the dim light of Teyvat’s evening and in his hand was a small neatly wrapped package, the paper a rich shade of crimson, tied with thin, silver silk that shimmered softly in the light.

“You’re back,” I mustered, rising slightly from my seat.

“I am,” His gaze swept over me, and a crease formed between his brows. “You look troubled.”

I offered a fragile smile, “Just thinking about… you know.” I trailed off, eyes drifting to the window where whimsy unbeknownst to me twinkled in the inky expanse above.

Without preamble, he extended the gift toward me. “Here.”

I blinked in surprise, looking from his hand to his face. “What’s this for?”

“Isn’t it customary to exchange gifts for… Christmas?”

The word fell from his lips tentatively, as though testing its weight. His eyes searched mine for any sign that he had mispronounced it. Then, a bittersweet ache unfurled in my chest.

“You… remembered?”

He remembered. Even in passing, even if I hadn’t explained it in detail, he had remembered. And more than that, he had acted on it.

“You mentioned it once,” he replied, the faintest hint of awkwardness colouring his tone. “I don’t fully understand the tradition, but it seemed important to you.” He paused, then added softly, “I thought it might remind you of home.”

My fingers brushed the wrapping paper, tracing its edges as a quiet laugh escaped me. “You didn’t have to go to all this trouble.”

“It matters to you. If it makes this place feel less foreign, then it’s no trouble at all.” He spoke as though his sentiment was the simplest truth in the world.

I bit my lip, his words filling the emptiness in my heart like the flickering flame of a candle in the dark. Slowly, I unwrapped the gift, the paper falling away to reveal a delicate glass ornament, its shape a perfect, crystalline star. It caught the lamplight, scattering prisms across the room like a reflection of something celestial—like fragments of a distant sky.

“It’s not much,” he almost sounded apologetic, “but stars seem to hold significance in your world’s imagery for this holiday.”

I stared down at the gift, my vision blurring as the sting of tears welled unexpectedly. The ornament trembled in my grasp, held close to my chest as the first drops slipped free, unstoppable. “Thank you,” I whispered, so softly it felt like the words might dissolve and me with it.

Watching me closely, a shadow of concern crossed his face, as though uncertain whether he had made me uncomfortable. “You’re crying…” His voice wavered, caught somewhere between a statement and a question.

I wiped at my tears, smiling through them. “They’re happy tears,” I told him. “I really needed this.”

Alhaitham sat beside me with the same calmness that defined his every action. The silence now brimmed with a bubbling warmth, deeply felt like a steadfast anchor.

“If you’d like,” he started, “then we’ll celebrate it. Here, every year. However you wish.”

His offer settled gently. “I would like that,” I said, already untethered.

Alhaitham nodded, brushing his hands against mine, the touch so tender it seemed to carry a promise with a three word phrase hanging in the air. As the glass star shimmered between us, the ache of homesickness began to ebb. In its place bloomed a sense of belonging.

A realisation that home was here. Home was now. And it had been all along.

© 2024 grimmweepers — do not repost, copy, translate, modify my work on any platform

divider: @/adornedwithlight

[acid-ixx]

— masterlist !

ngl imagine pulling up in a matching suit with clark kent, your affair partner, your cute, definitely not superpowered lap dog, to the function, being openly affectionate with him in public, allowing his to flirt with you in public as a huge middle finger to bruce wayne as revenge after he's neglected you. THEN removing the first button of your shirt, revealing love marks in front of him and yet never once batting an eye to him, instead choosing to proudly display your ravaged body like an artistic piece of work, as an even bigger FUCK you to him.

like yeah sure, he can sport a raging boner at your braveness, knowing your spiteful attitude paired with your softness to family is his type, but he also has to wear the hat of universal shame 'cause he's not even divorced to his own spouse yet and yet here they are in another person's arms. in clark kent, superman's arms.

bruce can already hear his children swearing at him up and down for how hard he legitimately fumbled. damian is SICK after watching the scene before him, fuming from jon being so sickeningly sweet towards you, careening from your attention like a damn prideful peacock. you're handfeeding jon all the pastries, kneeling before his level and coo'ing when he makes a disgusted face at the food he doesn't like. and damian hates jon's open childishness!!! (he wishes it was him).

steph's all like, "THIS COULD'VE BEEN MY FATHER/MOTHER FIGURE I ALWAYS WANTED IN MY LIFE?!" just watching conner totally, definitely not purposely being clumsy and spilling food all over himself, just for you to gently scold him and help clean off the mess with your handkerchief— tim's already planning a contingency on his best friend in the background, cass is ready to beat throw some hands after the gala.

jason keeps grumbling, swearing at bruce because in no way, shape or form was this man NOT madly in love with you from all your years of marriage! you're literally the perfect spouse material and bruce done fucked up sleeping with others while you both lived under the same roof. (as if he himself wasn't involved in the shared neglect they all had towards you, but he doesn't want to admit it, and he can't deny that it's also a great excuse to bash on the old man, too).

world's greatest detective? more like the world's greatest fumbler of the century. both in canon and in fanfiction and i'm never letting him live that role down.

☝️ this is basically the premise of my upcoming oneshot for a loving family, an unpalatable desire because i kinda wrote way too much words for a supposedly short drabble, and also because i'm excited for the new superman trailer!!! so think of this as my gift LMAO. i'm also trying to finish writing my other oneshots related to this series.

(i chose to make the reader wear a suit because one: suits are so perfect if you want to maintain an elegant vibe and still keep it neutral to the reader's gender. two, because i think bruce would find his own spouse in a suit hot. three: matching lapel pins with clark kent is way too adorable to me is all i can say).

[kashverse]

CAN you PLEASE PLEASE make a drabble of Toji taking care of sleepy Mamaguro and Megumi? I think it would be so adorable. 🧎

oh to continue writing happy toji and happy mamaguro reader... 🚬

the mission was simple: stay up until 12 a.m. to wish toji a happy birthday. you and megumi, the last-standing warriors of the fushiguro household, sat by the door like hyper puppies, waiting for your beloved husband—your fearless protector—your batman (you are not explaining to a six-year-old what an assassin is)—to return home. it was going perfectly until your phone buzzed.

gonna be late. emergency job. don’t wait up.

you stare at the screen. then at megumi. then back at the screen.

the bastard forgot his own birthday.

your son, wise beyond his years, folds his arms and scowls. “so, what, we just give up?” you slap the table dramatically. “absolutely not.”

if there was one thing you and megumi had in common—besides your unwavering judgment of toji’s life choices—it was stubbornness. this mission would not fail. if your husband wanted to be late to his own birthday, that was his problem. but you and megumi? you were gonna be ready. so, naturally, you both made the worst decision possible.

sugar boost.

you and your six-year-old co-conspirator sprawled across the couch, sharing a single pack of gummy bears like it was some kind of sacred ration. one gummy at a time. chewing slowly. blinking at the wall in utter silence like two very small, very deranged owls.

"mama."

"yeah, baby?"

"do you think papa is the strongest man alive?"

"of course."

megumi chews thoughtfully. "do you think he could lift a cow?"

you consider this. "...easily."

"two cows?"

you hesitate. 

-

it’s 11:57 p.m. standing in the doorway, looking like he just crawled out of a damn action movie, is toji. the duffel bag slung over his shoulder drops to the floor with a heavy THUD, and he’s met with—

a beautiful handmade "happy birthday, papa!!" banner, decorated with poorly drawn badtz-maru stickers, because megumi has commitment to the bit.

you, sprawled out on the couch like a crime scene victim.

megumi, passed out on top of you, his little hand still clutching a half-eaten gummy bear.

toji stares. something in his chest tightens. he lets out a quiet sigh, running a hand through his hair as he steps inside, shutting the door behind him. exhausted as he is, something about this sight makes his heart ache in that weird way—the kind of warmth he’s still getting used to, the kind that makes him feel like maybe, just maybe, he didn’t screw up as badly as he thought. without a word, he moves over to the couch. and because yes, he is that man—he lifts both you and megumi in one go. you stir slightly, groggy, mumbling, "cow..."

toji frowns. "what?"

megumi snorts in his sleep, muttering, "two cows..."

toji, confused as all hell, just grunts and carries his weird, sleep-deprived family to bed.

the next morning, as the sun peeks through the curtains and the birds chirp outside like they're personally taunting you, you and megumi prepare for phase two of toji’s birthday celebration: chaotic wake-up call.

toji, the strongest man alive (and also the biggest sleeper in the house), is sprawled out on the bed, dead to the world. he sleeps like a log, one arm thrown over his face, mouth slightly open, because even assassins need their beauty rest. you and megumi exchange a look. a silent nod of understanding. then, in perfect sync, you both take in a deep, deep breath and—

"HAPPY BIRTHDAYYYYYYYYYY!!!"

toji’s entire body jerks like he just got shot. his arms flail, his head snaps up, and before he can even process what's happening, you and megumi double down with a second round of high-pitched, ungodly shrieks right in his ear.

"what the hell—"

but before he can even think about grabbing a weapon (because let’s be real, his first instinct is to attack), he realizes exactly who the culprits are. and oh, oh, you two are in trouble. his sleep-deprived brain short-circuits for about half a second before years of combat training kick in.

he lunges.

"oh—RUN!" you shriek, shoving megumi, but it’s too late—toji grabs you both in one swift motion, rolling over and pinning you down, locking both of you in a vice-like headlock.

"GOTCHA!"

"NOOOO—!"

megumi screams in betrayal as toji mercilessly ruffles his hair. you’re not spared either, as he buries his face into your neck, delivering an absolutely brutal barrage of kisses like it’s a full-scale attack.

“YOU WANNA WAKE ME UP, HUH? THAT HOW WE’RE PLAYIN’ THIS?”

"toji stop—" you wheeze, kicking your legs as he plants an exaggeratedly loud kiss to your cheek. megumi shrieks, wiggling with all his might, but toji just grabs him tighter, pressing another series of dramatic, disgusting dad kisses to his forehead. "UGH, PAPAAAA!" megumi yells, offended.

"nah, nah, you started this, kid," toji cackles. "you and your big mouth—what was all that ‘two cows’ shit, huh?”

"STOP!" megumi flails harder, but he is six and toji is built different. eventually, though, he relents, flopping back with a satisfied smirk, letting you both gasp for air like shipwreck survivors. "you’re the worst," you pant. megumi, hair now a disaster, groans. "i hate birthdays."

toji just smirks, stretching. "eh, still my best one yet."