#gotta be writing some fluff

[justpked]

THE DEPRAVITY HATH RETURNED UNTO US. ALL HAIL

Merry Christmas, and Happy Holidays everyone.

Let us commit some sins.

[twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat]

come rest your bones next to me ; satoru gojo, suguru geto

synopsis; satoru shares the first snowfall of the year with the two people he loves most. 

word count; 4.6k

contents; satoru gojo/reader/suguru geto (poly relationship!!), gn!reader, you're all whipped, reader referred to as spouse, fluff fluff fluff!!, sickeningly domestic, just comfy vibes all around, mostly from satoru’s pov, suguru has a favorite (its you) (but also not really he just likes bullying toru <3), satoru gojo may or may not have unresolved mommy issues

a/n; happy satosugu holidays to those who celebrate <33 geto died today isnt that crazy. dont u think its fucked up how love figuratively and literally killed him. anyway! help urself to two very whipped husbands <33

”holy shit!”

the raspy tilt of satoru’s voice echoes throughout the bedroom, stirring you from your comfortable slumber. a soft groan spills from suguru’s lips, deep and husky, as he pulls you closer into his embrace — smoothing a warm palm down the back of your head. trying to soothe you back to sleep, muttering under his breath.

”satoru, it’s too early for this...”

”it’s snowing!” said man continues, unperturbed. unmistakably giddy. he’s standing by the window, hands pressed flush against the cold glass; entirely entranced by the sight in front of his cerulean eyes. 

your eyelids begin to flutter. a tiny tug of your subconscious, a pang of something excited flowing through your veins, an alert to your sleepy brain.

(snowing.)

with groggy movements, you wriggle out of suguru’s grasp — a displeased grumble leaves his throat, almost a whine — allowing you to scramble out of bed. ”really?” you chirp, rubbing the sleep from beneath your eyes. a raspy, meek little voice spilling into the air.

satoru grins, watching you move closer, watching as a tiny gasp pushes past your lips. watching as your droopy eyes widen — brightening, glittering, starlight and snowflakes painted on the interior of your iris. a breathtaking sight, he thinks. 

maybe even more breathtaking than the winter wonderland reflected in it; beyond the pure opaque frosting of the window’s glass, out into your backyard, buried beneath a thick layer of snow. soft and fluffy, covering the city, suguru’s long-frozen tulip garden, the bare branches of your apricot tree. every roof in sight. all of it dyed a pure white, glittering in the light of a morning sun yet to fully rise, tiny snowflakes descending down to earth. 

it’s beautiful. 

satoru loves winter. he always has, he thinks. it comes to him as a memory — blurred at the edges, gleaming even still, the first time he saw those snowflakes up close. someone held him in their arms, he recalls. a warmth long faded. 

all he can properly remember is that sight. one that knocked the breath from out his tiny lungs, all glitter and something almost other-worldly, something frightening in its majesty. like it broke through a rift in the stratosphere. 

the first snow of the year.

and he’s loved it ever since; the soft crunch of snow beneath his feet, an air heavy with the scent of cinnamon and candied apples, bouts of laughter to be heard from faraway apartments. red and green glimmers of artificial light, sweet frosting on the christmas cake he would always gobble up alone in his room. the cold wind, nipping at his bare fingers — a reminder of his capacity for ache.

there are lots of things to love. lots of memories to cherish. and every single year, he gets the chance to make more.

like this; the light in your eyes, the smile on your face, the excitement in how hurriedly you turn to meet his giddy gaze. a nostalgic kind of joy simmering in the space between you.

and before either of you know it, satoru’s pulling you towards the hallway, intent on dragging you outside to see it all up close. almost tripping over his agumon plush, lying unassumingly on the floor, kicked off the bed once again. 

(probably by satoru himself, though he’ll always insist it was suguru’s doing. overcome by his jealousy, unable to stand the sight of his cute husband cuddling up to a plushie instead of him. satoru understands, he does — he feels the same when he sees you hug that 3’0 cat plushie of yours.

and, sure, maybe once or twice he’s been lucid enough to register the subconscious kick of his leg and agumon’s subsequent fall to the floor — but he’ll still blame suguru in the morning. if only to see the way said man rolls his eyes, clicks his tongue, maybe flicks his forehead if he’s lucky.)

high on the spirit of christmas, spurred on by childlike elation and sleep-deprivation, you stumble towards the door. satoru pulls one of his jackets over your shoulders, delighting in the way your hands don’t fully reach through the sleeves. wrapping you up in a cozy scarf when suguru shouts at you both to dress warmly, barely awake and already tired of your antics.

and the moment you step through the door, satoru is engulfed by it. that mystical, mystical feeling. 

a little lonely, a little too satisfying to pass up. a cold breeze that nips at his fingertips, snowflakes that brush against his cheeks and stick to his white lashes. a warm hand in his, as you cling to his side, shuddering — but smiling, as you look up at the sky, putting a hand out just to feel the snowflakes melt against the skin of your palm.

he feels you let go of him, but doesn’t mention it. a little too mesmerized to tug you back. dipping his toes into the bittersweet nostalgia of it all, staring at the flurry of white all around you, the skeletal branches of your apricot tree. suguru’s poor tulips. humming a jolly tune, subconsciously. a little delighted.

— until something cold and wet hits the exposed skin of his neck.

satoru twitches, a chilling shudder trickling down his spine. the snowball just thrown at him begins to melt, droplets sticking to his nape, and he turns to you with a raise of his brow. a devilish grin on his lips, when he hears your muffled laughter, sees the crinkle of your eyes.

(you’re cute, he thinks. but you need to be humbled.)

”oh, so that’s how you wanna play?” he drawls, eyes gleaming with amusement. taking a step forward, reaching down to gather some snow in his palm. a wide grin on his glossy lips. ”fine by me.” 

he's fast, but you act quickly, running towards the apricot tree with laughter in your throat. feeling the pitter patter of your heartbeat resound in your ears, as the snowball misses its mark by just a hair — and you waste no time in making your own.

it’s a hard-fought duel. snowfall blocking your vision, nerves beginning to numb, red cheeks and runny noses as you chase each other with giddy breaths. unfortunately for you, satoru’s arms are unfairly long, fingers unfairly nimble, and his stamina never even seems to falter.

so before long, your energy begins to dwindle. chest heaving, hands too cold to form a proper snowball, while your husband seems like he hasn’t even broken a sweat. they just keep on coming, snowball after snowball colliding with the fabric of your jacket, and when one of them hits your collarbone you squeal — falling backwards, right into a fresh pile of snow.

satoru moves forward, a triumphant smirk on his handsome face. you’re out of breath, and your hands are red, and he’s fairly certain you’re gonna catch a cold. suguru’s going to scold him, but right now all he can think of is you. the frown you’re wearing, the little huff that slips from your lips.

”ready to admit defeat, sweetheart?” he practically purrs, standing above you with his hands on his hips. smug. and you grin right back.

”never.”

a hum. something glimmers in his eyes, a devious little glint, and you come to regret your decision when satoru gathers a heap of snow with his overgrown arms; only to drop it all on top of you. too tired to fight back, all you can do is shield your face, silently accepting your fate.

a shiver wracks through your body, and satoru almost feels bad. just a tiny bit. but then you finally relent, murmuring bitterly under your breath. ”fine, fine…” a soft pout forms on your lips. ”you win.”

and satoru smiles. crouching down to meet you at eye level, on his knees in front of you. there’s a teasing mirth in his eyes, when he reaches out to cup the fat of your cheek. ”that’s all i wanted to hear, sweet pea,” he drawls, trying not to giggle when you exaggeratedly roll your eyes.

his voice curls down an octave when he continues, leaning forward to brush his nose against yours. hot breath against your chilled skin. ”now, for my prize…”

his lips meet yours, sweet and chaste — a little cheeky. you scoff into the kiss, but satoru’s smile only grows. honeyed, a little bit adoring. his tongue flits out to lick at your cold bottom lip.

he lingers, for a bit. like he’s trying to savour the way you taste, faded strawberry chapstick sticking to his lips, smudged against your own. and you sigh, softly, melting a little, comforted by the fleeting warmth that blossoms on your face. 

when he's finally satisfied, having dragged his prize out to its completion, satoru helps you up. brushing snowflakes off your jacket, cradling your ice-cold hands in his. they’re not faring much better, but a worried tug of his heartstrings compels him to warm you up. bringing them to his lips, hot breath fanning over your skin, tender little kisses against the knots of your knuckles.

you can’t help but blush, and a raspy chuckle flows from out his lips. 

hazy morning sunshine licks at the branches of the apricot tree behind you, illuminating the contours of your face, the shine of his eyes. a blue smudge on a canvas painted white and gray. the air smells of pine cones and something smokey, crisp. it courses through his burning lungs when he inhales, exhales, a breath of vapour that scatters up into the sky.

satoru loves winter. always has. but now, he’s certain he loves it even more.

because now, he has two people to share it with. two people to drag out into the snow, two people whose hands he can tenderly warm up, two people who’ll laugh and sigh at his antics and still indulge him. two people to pelt with snowballs. 

what more could a man want?

”hey, idiots!” 

the voice that echoes throughout the air is exasperated, a little teasing. yet fond. suguru’s got his hair tied into a messy half done bun, black turtleneck sweater enunciating his broad chest and the curve of his waist. there’s a fatigue in his eyes, the creases of his face, but a lazy smile is playing at his lips.

”i’m making breakfast,” he shouts, voice deep and smokey and soft even still. ”come in and warm up before you catch a cold.”

”is that any way to speak to your husband and spouse?” satoru chimes back, a melodic lilt to his sugarsweet voice. something satisfied. pleased.

suguru shoots him an unimpressed look, but his eyes soften. melting a little, at the words that spill from satoru’s lips, as if they were always meant to be there. 

(husband. spouse. suguru wills himself not to smile.)

with matching grins on your faces, the two of you stumble back towards the door. snow crunching beneath your feet, a happy noise pushing past your lips when you collide with the warmth of your husband’s chest.

”look, suguru. isn’t it pretty?” you chirp, smiling brightly. an expression he mirrors — brushing some snow from the top of your head, warm palms caressing your cold skin, setting a mental reminder to scold satoru later. sparing a brief glance at the snowy veil over reality.

then he exhales. a fond hum. ”it is.”

satoru joins you both by the door, stretching out his lanky limbs. tousled hair, wet strands sticking to his skin, reddened cheeks and a signature pout. ”suguru, my hands are cold,” he whines. ”warm ’em up for me?”

a click of his tongue. ”should’ve put some gloves on, satoru.”

a hum buzzes in your throat, and you put your hands out. itchy, a little dry. a sad frown tugs at your lips when you speak. ”my hands are also cold.”

and, like clockwork, suguru’s eyes soften. a coo tiptoeing on his tongue, engulfing your hands in his larger ones. ”aw, c’mere, my love…” his breath fans over your frozen fingertips. ”let’s get you warmed up, hm?”

satoru gasps, a hand on his chest, and you stifle a giggle. he’s acting, you both know, being a little drama queen. he knows you’re just exaggerating suguru’s double standard as a bit, that your husband would probably set himself on fire to warm either of you up.

despite that, his voice comes out thoroughly offended. ”oh, i see how it is,” he huffs, walking past the both of you. pouting deeply. ”you hate me. you hate me, and you want me to die. i understand.”

”satoru,” you coo. he hmphs, but stills, waiting for you to wrap your arms around him. and you do — a little too eager to appease your giant baby of a husband.

”we’re just joking around,” you assure him, holding back a humorous chuckle. squeezing his waist with palpable fondness. ”love you sooo much. you know that.”

satoru stays silent. but he cranes his neck, to meet suguru’s gaze, standing just behind him. narrowing his cobalt eyes — a meaningful look.

suguru sighs.

”yes, yes. we love you oh so much.” he takes a step forward, ruffling the white head of hair by the door. a lazy smile on his lips. ”now behave and go change out of your pyjamas. they’re soaked.”

his voice is teasing. exasperated, more than a little condescending. but it’s suguru, so satoru accepts it — following you both into the warmth of your home. the scent of cinnamon and vanilla hangs heavy in the air, a hint of espresso and firewood, lulling him into a sweet state of tranquility. rich with comfort, safety.

he changes out of his wet clothes, pulling a black hoodie over his head before waltzing into the kitchen. and you do the same, emerging from your bedroom in one of suguru’s cozy sweaters, knitted and smelling of bergamot. 

when suguru notices, his gaze shifts into something fond. palpable. a look satoru always finds in the scope of those warm eyes, amber and cedar bleeding into something sweet, only ever directed at the two of you. a look said man assumes goes unnoticed. he’s not as slick as he thinks.

the kitchen simmers with hazy sunlight and gentle movements, something sleepy and kind. satoru is a little bit enamored with it; from bowls of cat food by the corner, to camellias by the windowsill, cookie jars and dried lemon slices, the fading scent of baked goods and wishlists stuck to the fridge.

(yours and satoru’s are filled with scribbles, new ideas popping up daily, while suguru’s is almost entirely blank; mostly necessities, one or two things he’d like for himself.

and then, of course, the same thing he writes at the top of his wishlist every year; some peace and quiet.)

suguru shuffles around the kitchen, long strands of black hair cascading down his back, swaying with his movements. he sends you both an affectionate glance when you step in, already in the process of making satoru his cup of hot chocolate — topped with marshmallows and whipped cream, colorful sprinkles in the shape of tiny stars, a touch of cinnamon. satoru licks his lips.

when it's finished, the cup is promptly handed to him, paired with a tender kiss to his forehead. and suguru starts the meticulous brewing of your coffee, steady hands, finely chosen coffee beans, the low purring of the espresso machine. soothing.

that’s when you attach yourself to his back. wrapping your arms around his waist, a sleepy yawn muffled into the fabric of his turtleneck. he places a big palm on your hand, thumb smoothing over your knuckle, and you nuzzle into him silently. suguru smiles.

”still sleepy, baby?” he questions, a coo on the tip of his tongue. his voice is soft, palpably so, buzzing with warmth and safety and something that makes you want to stay cuddled up to him forever.

satoru senses an opportunity to insert himself into the conversation, and forces out a yawn of his own. stretching his limbs like a big cat, blinking drowsily, eyelashes fluttering. hoping it’ll come off as endearing. ”mhm.” 

but suguru shoots him an unimpressed look. ”not you,” he tuts, patting your arm, ”this baby. i wasn’t asking you.”

a pout. ”why are you so mean to me?” he whines, shooting you a doe-eyed look. bottom lip jutting out slightly, a feigned glassiness to his eyes. ”sweetie, tell your husband to stop being so mean to me.”

you smile. indulgent, as always. ”don't be so mean to him, suguru. you know he’s sensitive.”

a sigh. deep, tinged with exhaustion. satoru shares an amused look with you — stifling a shared chuckle at suguru’s exasperation.

and suddenly, he feels something warm flutter in his ribcage. a sunkissed butterfly, wings brushing against his ribs, coaxing his lips into curling up. unmistakable fondness, almost too much to bear. the need to reach out and touch you creeps up on him, a hunger he can’t deny, but he holds back; you look comfy like that, curled up against suguru’s spine. so he only inches closer, without a word. 

his husband casts him a glance, but satoru stays silent. lips pursed, waiting for something. patient.

and suguru relents. he reaches a hand out, to tuck a stray strand of white hair behind his ear — an excuse to touch him. a silent apology. 

(i'm sorry, you big baby.)

satoru grins.

you shift from foot to foot, leaning over to see what suguru is doing, pressing buttons and taking two ceramic cups out from a wall cabinet. your eyes zero in on a particular shelf, narrowing in suspicion, before flitting over to meet your husband’s gaze.

”satoru, did you use up all my peppermint sweeteners again?”

he stiffens. just a tad, before swallowing a gulp — followed by a silly chuckle, sheepish and performative, eager to wiggle his way out of your cold gaze. ”… which sweeteners do you mean, honey?”

”don’t pull the ’honey’ card.”

”and don’t play dumb, either.”

a pout crosses his lips. betrayed. ”suguru, who’s side are you even on?”

said man gives him a look. that one look, characteristically suguru, the same one he always sends satoru’s way. one so thoroughly unimpressed it makes him feel like the world’s biggest clown. 

and satoru plays along. your dutiful, beloved clown, his posture wilting like a sad flower. suguru exhales through his nose.

”don’t steal their sweeteners.” he smooths a thumb over your knuckle, absentminded, meeting the cold metal of the ring on your finger. smiling a little at the sensation. ”buy your own.”

satoru huffs, drawn out and childish. crossing his arms, leaning against the kitchen counter. ”ah, i see how it is. leaving your sweet husband to buy his own sweeteners?” he clicks his tongue. ”chivalry is dead.”

you bite back a little chuckle — satoru recognizes the cute noise you make when you do — and suguru rolls his eyes. fondly, always. ”remind me next time i go to the store and i’ll consider it.”

”hmph.”

suguru is smiling. it’s small, but genuine, worth a thousand words. and you are, too, the vague crinkle of your eyes giving you away. even as you bury your face in the curve of suguru’s back.

and ah, satoru thinks. there it is again. 

that sickeningly sweet sense of deja vu; the sensation of a certain something flourishing deep inside his chest. warming him up, trickling through his frost-bitten veins. that one little itch he never manages to satisfy, that never goes away, something that took root inside his heart years ago — watered by the sweet looks on your faces.

this everyday slice of heaven, right in front of him, that he’s been greedily partaking in ever since he moved in with you. since he married you.

(married.)

sometimes he still can’t believe it. 

”it’ll be done in a minute,” suguru hums, and satoru blinks. broken out of his syrupy stupor. ”you two go wait by the kotatsu, okay? must be cold, poor babies.” 

and, as always, his voice is a little teasing. a tiny bit condescending, if you really strain your ears, in typical suguru fashion. but it’s laced with a touch of sweetness; one that would be too much for either of you to stomach, if it were to drip out of his lips with nothing to water it down. so satoru accepts it. welcomes it, even.

and you follow his suggestion. making your way towards the living room, satoru trailing behind you, continuously enamored by every little thing he sees. every little piece of the home you’ve built for yourselves.

your living room is cozy. several potted plants seated here and there, a thick quilt to cover the kotatsu, a bowl of satsumas on top of it. a sleepy cat on your couch, golden sunshine ruffling her fur. a santa hat lies beside her, and satoru snags it without much thought. pulling it over his head.

his gaze shifts to the christmas tree over in the corner, eyes filling with a childlike kind of wonder. it’s decorated to completion, weighed down by colourful ornaments and lights, a star at the very top. suguru cut it himself, bringing the biggest and prettiest one he could find back home.

(satoru had gone with him. partially to help carry it back, mostly to get a glimpse of suguru's biceps flexing with the swing of the axe. he’s a simple man.)

and beneath it, presents are already beginning to pile up. carefully wrapped, in bows and silken paper, growing more each day. shattering suguru’s hopes of maybe having a more lowkey christmas this year — but satoru couldn’t be more relieved. this is the only time of year you let him get away with pampering you both to his heart’s content.

a smile blooms on his lips. he plops down on the floor, crossing his legs, right as suguru walks in with a coffee pot in hand. their gazes overlapping.

and something mischievous begins to brew within the blue of his eyes, something that makes suguru narrow his own. satoru pats his thigh, twice, a coo on the tip of his tongue. santa hat sitting pointedly on top of his head, fluffing up his hair.

”c’mere, suguru! sit on santa’s lap.”

”— you’re disgusting.”

the words are playful, but a pout still slips into the curve of satoru’s lips, and he huffs out a displeased little breath. his husband pretends not to hear it, so satoru turns to you — sitting so prettily to his right, already anticipating his next move. puppy dog eyes on full display, he gives you a soft tilt of his head, snowy tufts of hair falling over his eyes.

and you sigh, in what he knows is resignation. his faux pout turning into a satisfied grin.

you curl up in satoru’s lap without much of a fuss, letting him circle his arms around you. an indulgent smile rests on your lips, but he knows you love this; his broad chest against your back, the heat of the kotatsu warming your feet. breathing in the fading scent of your shampoo, he leaves a peck on the sensitive spot right behind your ear, and you try not to shudder.

then satoru smiles. squeezing you, lightly, sweetly, eyes rich with honeyed affection. voice dripping with playful endearment. ”there we go,” he coos. ”what does my angel want for christmas, hm?” 

”i want you to stop stealing my peppermint sweeteners,” comes your answer. instantaneous.

silence fills the room. a moment passes. outside your frosted windows, a bird takes flight from the branches of your apricot tree. and satoru clicks his tongue.

”… santa can only do so much, baby.”

two deep scoffs fill the air, heavy and bemused. one from you, one from suguru. satoru only giggles.

”just kidding!” he chirps, planting a kiss on the top of your head. ”don’t you worry. santa’ll give you all the peppermint sweeteners you could ever want.” 

you raise a brow, exhaling amusedly. craning your head to meet his gaze. ”and he won’t end up using them all himself?”

”of course not! blasphemy.” 

a moment passes.

”… maybe one or two. as a treat.”

a string of protests slips from your lips, and satoru tries not to burst into a fit of giggles. suguru just watches, silently, smiling lightly as he pours hot coffee into two ceramic cups. steam wafting up to the ceiling, a cat jumping down from the couch to curl up in his lap. he places one in front of you, not taking a single sip of his own until he hears you hum blissfully at the taste — pink lips against white ceramic. a bitter taste on his tongue, sweetened by your approval.

then he starts peeling three satsumas, absentmindedly, and satoru swallows down the love-ridden honey choking up the back of his throat. pretending the domesticity of such a simple action doesn’t melt his heart down to the marrow. 

he turns his attention towards the window. frost sticking to the glass like spider-woven webs, soon to be melted by the glow of the mellow winter sunrays. flitting in through the curtains, cascading over the room, splattering across the floorboards. framing the hue of your hair, the smile on suguru’s lips.

and a memory comes to him. sudden, hazy, faded at the edges. ghosting his subconscious.

he remembers the frost, the biting wind, the frightening majesty of the snow that fell that day. breaking into his world through a rift in the stratosphere. he remembers the contrasting warmth of the person who held him, who cradled him close; the soft lull of a woman’s voice. 

for a moment, satoru thinks he can almost, almost see it before him. hear those gentle words, see her tired smile. why was she always so tired?

(look, satoru. isn’t it pretty?)

— he can’t recall how it sounded. if it was melodic and soft, or raspy and broken, happy or sad. but he does recall that it made him feel safe. safe enough to find comfort in a sight so other-worldly, so very foreign.

it should’ve been frightening, but it wasn’t. the first snowfall satoru ever saw knocked the breath from out his lungs, stole his heart with cold hands, left him with a suffocating nostalgia. but the memory is precious.

and now, he feels that sense of other-worldliness in this; a kotatsu for three, a warm house, peeled satsumas and promises of a christmas cake soon to be baked. one lovely spouse in his lap, the other gazing at him with that fond look he always assumes goes unnoticed. a cocoon of safety — a ghost he doesn’t need to chase anymore.

warmth. enough warmth to make up for the snow and frost outside your home, all the experiences he missed out on as a child. warmth, warmth, warmth. funny, how that happens to be satoru’s favorite thing about winter. 

he looks at the two of you, hoping you won’t pay any mind to his silence. for once, he hopes you’ll stay wrapped up in your awful, awful coffee, so bitter that just looking at it makes his throat feel dry. just so he can get away with admiring you for a little longer. from the contours of suguru’s face, to the skin of your collarbone, to the rings on your fingers. ones he put there himself. 

and ah, satoru thinks, there it is again. again and again, as always, forever. that warm, warm feeling flourishing in the depths of his chest. 

he hopes it never goes away.

[ghouljams]

More Fae!König, and more of our new MC, yes he gets his own Darling, no she is not happy about it.

When you took over running the shop the owner told you she’d just be gone for a vacation. That was months ago. You’re pretty sure she’s never coming back.

“Ah ah!” You yell, rolling your magazine to point threateningly at your personal Goliath, “Out. You’re banned. Get out.”

“Was!” König gasps, it’s sort of comical really, “I am not banned!”

You point over your shoulder at the bulletin board of shop rules, at the top in large bubble letters it reads “do not Touch the staff.” He studies the board for a moment before turning his attention back to you.

“That is a new rule.”

“It’s basic fucking courtesy.” You bite back.

“I did no harm,” he leans forward, you lean back, “you are well, your eyes are still in your head where they are supposed to be.”

Your eyes widen then narrow. You don’t think he’s trying to intimidate you, he’s just weird as hell. You smack his forehead(you hope it’s his forehead) with the magazine, he straightens up with a whine. “Store is now closed to anyone who’s just here for the vibes,” You call out, “and you can thank him for that.” You point to König whose eyes go wide as every other thing in the store locks its glare on him. “Out,” you hiss.

He clicks his tongue and turns on his heel to stalk out of the store. You look at the rest of your unearthly patrons and gesture for them to leave as well. The remaining humans in the store shuffle out of the way as you go back to your perch behind the counter. He had some nerve coming back here after the migraine he gave you yesterday. 

König’s mouth is watering, spilling over his teeth like a river of want. The eyes, the eyes, the eyes. The looking. You were giving him an itch just under his gums, there was so much fire in you. When were you born? He hoped it was a warm month. He wanted to sink his teeth into you, taste you through the flowers that conceal your scent from him. 

He grabs one of the smaller fae as they scamper out and away from your doorway. He tips his head towards them, nearly crushing their arm in his grip. They whimper, and tug at his iron grip. Their babbling is annoying, pitiful, he’s not paying attention them why should they beg? His eyes are glued on you through the front window. “The shop girl, was ist der name?” He asks, the fae doesn’t answer. He tightens his grip, feeling the bone splinter, the scent of blood fills the air drawing the attention of others.

“She doesn’t give it out,” They say quickly when he turns his gaze on them. König purrs, good girl. He doesn’t bother watching the fae run when he releases them, useless thing.

“So smart, Liebling,” He smiles, eyes back on you, “what are you, mein Schatz?”

[lovingapparition]

i’ve got a river running right into you.

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader

Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Slow Burn

Warnings for descriptions of medical gore.

Ghost gets hurt. Ghost is touch starved. You just want to help. It’s awkward. 

NOT COMPLETE / NO BETA

It's loud in the medical bay. The lights overhead buzz, adding their hum to the sound of clinking medical instruments, shouted calls for supplies, and the pained sounds of the injured. No set of hands are still as the wounded are wheeled in on gurneys or dragged in by their fellow soldiers. There's too much iron in the air to really adhere to the stricter medical protocols, and it's a scramble for everyone to assess and treat the damage in front of them. Each doctor's movements are efficient and practiced; stitching a wound just as a soldier would clean a gun. 

Just another day on the job.

You were hustling from one sectioned off bed to another, caught in the flow of all the action in the medical bay. The thin curtains between beds did nothing to muffle the chaos of the situation. Too many bodies were moving in and out of the area, it was almost dizzying. Your section of the unit had been chaotic for the better part of three hours, leaving you no time to stop and breathe. It seems things had gone south on the recent mission. The details of which were lost on you, but they didn’t matter now.

Stepping behind a curtain, you immediately get to work assessing the situation the soldier on the bed has found herself in, and you set about putting her back together. She's only caught minor fragments of shrapnel in her upper arms and chest. Nothing deep and nothing dangerous. It doesn't take you long to patch her up, thankfully. As you work, your brain vaguely registers that your medical team must be shifting focus to the less severely injured of the bunch.

You and the soldier both breathe a shared sigh of relief as you finish up her sutures. She only needs a few, and you tell her to return in about a week to check in before they can be removed. As you fill out her paperwork with a quick hand, you notice that the sounds of the room have hushed. You must be reaching the end of the torrent of injured soldiers.

Though small, your team was incredibly efficient; working like a machine during frenzied moments like these. Every second counted, nothing could go to waste.

You briskly step into another curtained area to see a broad, masked man on the gurney. The poor bed looked like it might strain under the weight of his bulky frame and plethora of equipment. For a moment, you can't even tell what's wrong with him. Stepping closer, the scent of fresh blood hits you just as you notice the dark wetness blooming on the upper right thigh of his gray fatigues. It looks like he’s used his own belt as a tourniquet. Your eyebrows scrunch down as you move to his side, your gloved hands automatically moving to his mask.

"Are you awake? Hey-" you're interrupted with a stiff, gloved hand gripping tightly at your wrist. Looking through the skull mask's eye sockets, you can see the whites of his half-lidded eyes starkly against his eyeblack. He's staring evenly back at you.

"I'm awake," he rumbles, low in his chest as if through water, "leave the mask." The directive is clear, even through the murk of his discomfort. You're not sure who this guy is, but from his tone he clearly expects to be obeyed. You knew there was a special operations unit active out of the base, and you can only guess that he's a part of it. Those types tended to be.. odd. This guy fit the bill.

The exchange doesn't last long though, and you immediately move down to visually assess the rest of his body as you open a new emergency medical kit. "Can you feel anywhere other than your legs that you've been injured? Have you hit your head at all?" you ask, running through regular questions since he seems to be lucid enough to give clear answers. He watches you intently, blinking slowly and almost lazily when you look at him, trauma shears in hand.

He simply shakes his head, grunting what sounds like a negative response. Great, how very helpful. You sigh as you work the shears beneath his pant leg. Without even looking up at him you slide the shears up, cutting half of his pants away to reveal the mess of both fresh and congealing blood on his thigh. Without a second thought, you cut through his briefs, pushing them aside just enough to allow him privacy as you get a better view of his injuries. The belt stays for now, it’s probably the only thing keeping him from passing out. 

It's not great. He definitely needed to be seen sooner, and you're worried about exactly how much blood he's lost. Some of these wounds are deep and still bleeding. Small bits of metal are visible through the clots. You can see bruising already beginning to form on the skin around the lacerations. The hot iron scent of his blood floods your nose, thick in the air between you.

"I need help in here- I've got shrapnel, heavy blood loss and I need extra hands!" you shout to your team without looking up, busy flushing his wounds with saline to clear any loose debris. Your hands are practiced and steady, one hand deftly wiping the blood and saline as you work. The man shifts, a strained breath escaping him. You spare him a sympathetic glance, knowing this part made many uncomfortable. Why had no one tended to him? He should've been among the first.

Evidently, so is the man in the bed. 

Before you can ask, your colleague steps in and immediately gloves up before getting to work with you. Together, you clean and stitch the man's wounds. He remains almost totally silent for all of it, save for the soft grunts as he's sewn back together. Even with the local anesthetic, it's still a bit uncomfortable. Throughout it all, he peers at you, his pale eyes flitting between your hands and your face as you work. At one point his gloved hands twitch at his side like he wants to move them. He doesn’t.

Your colleague quickly removes the man’s vest, knowing just as you do that there could be more injuries beneath it. The vest goes in a chair by the bed for later. The black shirt shirt he's wearing beneath it isn't torn or bloody, but you’re aware of your colleague’s intention to begin feeling for broken ribs as you get his IV drip ready. 

His hands catch your colleague’s wrists with a quickness you wouldn’t have thought possible given the amount of blood he’s already lost. “That’s enough,” he hisses. Your head snaps up, and you can only see the tight narrowing of his eyes through the mask. Before you can react, your colleague jerks from his grip. 

"I need to get these pants the rest of the way off, and then we're done. I'll get you cleaned up and finished for the night," you explain, falling back into your doctor mindset and practiced speech to ease the tension. He makes no response to this, so you take his silence as the go ahead. It's not like his pants were salvageable anyway.

"Are you gonna be okay in here? I have to go check on someone," your colleague asks, clearly annoyed. It wasn’t anything new to have a rude patient, but everyone’s nerves were fried after the hectic shift. You couldn’t blame them at all.

You wave them off, tired. “Don’t worry about it. I’ve got him. Shouldn’t be much longer anyway.” They head off, and you turn back to the man, sighing. He’s clearly had a rough night, maybe he could use the benefit of the doubt. You were certain that you’d be a bit pissy after catching some shrapnel. 

"Do you think you can get into a clean bed without ripping those stitches?" you ask tiredly as you remove your gloves. Without looking up, you move to unlace his boot. You swear you can feel him watching your fingers loosen the laces, watching your hand wrap around his ankle as you pull the boot off. His stare holds a weight in it you've never experienced before. When you look up at him, he's ready looking away.

You offer him a fresh towel for privacy as you cut his pants and briefs the rest of the way off and gingerly slide them from beneath him. They go straight in the red trash bin specifically for biohazard waste. You gingerly clean his thigh one last time and apply a thin layer of ointment to his sutures to encourage healing before you wrap his thigh in gauze. He helpfully spreads his legs enough to allow you to securely tape the gauze in place. His skin is warm, even through your gloves.

You blink once, twice, forcing the thought away as you finish up. 

"I can." is all you get out of him. You sigh, it's been a long day. His boots join his vest in the chair, and you roll a clean cot into his room. This one has a thin cotton sheet and a blanket on it. You could almost swear his head is cocked, ever so slightly, with a question, and you answer it without thinking. "You're sleeping here tonight. You've lost a lot of blood and you'll need IV fluids to recover. It's not much, but it's better than that gurney."

He huffs, you can only guess he’s annoyed, but he looks the bed over. The cushioned pad was minimal at best. He would definitely feel it in the morning in addition to whatever pain arose from his stitches. “Look, I’m going to override whatever authority you think you have here. It’s safest for us to be able to watch you, just for tonight.” It’s your turn to leave him without room to argue.

For a long moment, he looks at you indignantly, like he’s not covering himself with a thin towel and your sutures aren't in his thigh. Then the tension slowly eases out of his shoulders, and he nods once.

You don't look away as he slides his legs around to the edge of the gurney, one massive hand still covering himself with the towel for decency. It's nothing you haven't seen before, and you're more concerned with whether or not he's okay to stand without support. You step closer, clearing your throat to cut the silence.

You roll an IV pole to the side of his cot and hand the fluids you’d prepared earlier on it. “Okay, last thing and then I’ll fuck off for the night, I swear,” you tell him dryly. He huffs, a short sound that’s close to a laugh, you think. 

"I'm here, if you need a hand," you tell him, more confidently than you feel. Seeing him standing now you realize he's nearly a full head taller and twice as broad as you. Your hand finds his elbow, and to your surprise he doesn't tell you to back off as you help him ease into the bed.

A low, cut off groan escapes him as he sits tentatively on the edge of the bed. When he eases back to lay down, his shirt rides up just enough to hint at the bloom of a purple bruise draped over his side. His eyes are pinched shut as he slowly settles into bed.

He doesn’t get the chance to try to help himself get comfortable. “Here, just let me. I’ve got it.” You tell him quietly, batting his hands away from the sheets. You gingerly help him maneuver his legs into a comfortable position and tuck the blankets loosely around him. Another stolen glance at him tells you he’s still got that dreamy half lidded look. It’s enough for you to not exactly trust him with getting settled in bed on his own.

“I’m going to give you an IV to replace the fluids you lost and some light pain medication. Then we’re all done,” You tell him as you add more of those shitty military issue pillows to the bed. It’s the least you can do to make him comfortable. The local anesthetic won’t last him the entire night, and you’re certain the rest of his body must be sore from the aftermath of the mission. 

Placing his IV goes without fuss. He's slumped back against the pillows, breathing evenly as you fill out his paperwork for his overnight check in. You'd managed to fill out most of it, but you still didn't know his name or what unit he belonged to. "Hey, what's your name and unit? I need to fill this sheet out for my records,” you ask, not even looking up.

"Ghost. One four one," each rumbling word has you bristling, your face paling. Oh hell. 

"..Thank you sir." Your throat feels like it’s closing up. You don’t even bother asking for his actual name. You’d heard about a Ghost on the base, but you’d never seen him; never thought you would. It was all just rumors, something to shoot the shit about over dinner in the cafeteria. 

You wanted to sink into the floor. How could you have missed the literal skull mask? The hectic rush of the day coupled with your exhaustion must have completely cleared your brain out of any irrelevant gossip, and now it was biting you in the ass. For the last half hour you’d been practically ogling him and talking to him like he was any other soldier on the base. 

The rest of the shift moves by in a blur, it’s mostly paperwork and cleanup since everyone has been seen too. You luckily are not chosen to pass food out, so you’re saved the further embarrassment of having to interact with Ghost even more. With any luck tomorrow morning would be the last you two ever speak, and he could go back to being invisible to you, and you’d be saved from dying of embarrassment.

A low chuckle rolls from his chest, and your head sharply snaps up. You fight the urge to apologize and dig your hole deeper. You can feel your cheeks flush with embarrassment as you realize he’s laughing at you. You had heard rumors about his particularly efficient methods of combat and data extraction from captured enemies; some of the things you’d heard made your spine chill.

You can only smile nervously back at him and tiredly drag your hand over your eyes. You can only cling to the last vestiges of professionalism that you have left. “You’re all set here. Once things calm down someone will be by with some food for you, if you feel like eating,” you tell him, your mouth dry. He hums softly in response, and you figure the pain medication has started to take effect. “I’ll be back in the morning to check in, have a good night, sir.” 

[l3viat8an]

Most down bad OM stans aren't the monsterfuckers (Levi/Barb) or the Lucifer stans.

It's Mammon simps.

They're the biggest one, you can't escape them, wich makes them scarier. They post wholesome content but also the most toe curling smut that only Tumblr is known for.

They are so downbad for a broke tsundere with issues it's almost scary.

If they decided to make a church I wouldn't be surprised if by the end of the year it over takes Christianity in terms of wealth.

It's amazing and terrifying at the same time

Honestly I love Mammon simps <3 no matter what they keep the fandom alive by simply refusing to let go of their wet little simp of a demon- (Mammon himself dhsjhs)

Some of them are a lil too much- but they’re mostly on TikTok and easy to block lmao

Tho you really can’t escape them which is scary in its own way, they’re simply everywhere!!

[smolvenger]

i know u have been feeling stressed and hopefully this might make u feel better but for a request steve rogers x reader and theyre on their honeymoon

Hi there nonny!!!

Awww, I love that! Steve is the sweetest cinnamon roll so of course we have to write it!!!! This is so sweet, I have to!!! I hope you like it and it's accurate enough, it's my first time writing for him!

No warnings, just tooth rotting fluff!

Honeymooning with America's Ass, Steve Rogers, would include...

Poor boy has never flown before so you have to arrange the details. Once you are packed up and ready to go, he is fascinated by a modern airport. You have to hold his hand so he doesn't get lose because he likes looking in all the shops and different restaurants!

You finally get in and he gets nervous when the plane takes off so you laugh and hug him. You go "darling...you fought Red Skull, but a plane going up makes you scared?!" teasingly and kiss his cheek.

It's a long flight so you show him how to watch movies and play games on the little device thingies that are on airplens and he stays awake the whole time playing on it.

So then you guys...spend the honeymoon in ITALY!!!!

You go around to see such tall, ancient buildings. Far more ancient than Mr. Brooklyn has ever dreamt. At one point, the tour guide calls this building young since it was built in 1673 and he just stares dumbfounded!

But Steve would pick up Italian quickly. He likes calling you Italian terms of endearment like "mia/o carino/a" or "mia/o angelo/a" to make you smile.

Of course, he has to start the day by cuddling you! Though he is too excited to get up and can only take so much cuddling- like an excited puppy!

He remembers enjoying Italian places in Brooklyn when his mom and he would go to celebrate something. So he loves trying Italian cuisine. Telling you stories about his mother- and about how much she would have loved you.

He always holds your gelato like a gentleman <3 As tempted as he is, he never takes a bite of yours, he wants his new spouse to enjoy them.

However, at one point, a pickpocket creeps by you and grabs your wallet. You let out a shout and gasp as he breaks into a run.

Boy did that asshole make a mistake considering your supersoldier hubby.

Steve just fucking BOOKS IT. The pickpocket turns around and gasps. He tries to run, but Steve gets closer to him in a few steps and decks the guy until he falls easily, kicking him until he's flying like a soccer ball through the air. He then grabs your wallet throws the pickpocket to the cobbled ground and returns your wallet.

You go to all sorts of incredible art museums. Steve himself loves to doodle and when you take sitting breaks, he tries to make little copies of them. You put his hand gently over his and lean into his cheek as he does, holding his free hand.

Of course, since a lot of Italian people tend to have darker hair, they make huge eyes at his blonde locks. Some even try to flirt with him, but he quickly pushes them aside to give you a hug or flash them the new wedding band, assuring you with small kisses. There are smiles and looks of jealousy- the incredibly handsome blonde man is your husband and yours alone, as you are his.

He talks to and befriends everyone. Old ladies in cathedrals praying and kissing their crucifix necklaces. Children running around streets and jumping sunburnt into the sea. Fellow tourists in wide hats and billowy shirts. Chefs of mom-and-pop shops with rosy cheeks and loud, boisterous voices and stories in every dish.

It only makes you love him more.

[keicordelle]

Chiluc Fluff ✧✧゜

"Doesn't that bother you, to have your hair all tangled up like that?"

Diluc twisted in the bed, further tangling the red snarl that twisted under his back and caught in his armpits. Childe beside him watched him with bright eyes, one hand pillowed under his cheek and his own mop of ginger curls a cowlicked mess. Diluc fought down the smile that rose -- it was too early in the morning for teasing. "No," he answered simply, though he did reach behind himself to tug it free. Childe's eyes traced the movement, stroking like a palm along his tricep and over the fiery hair in the hollow of his arm. "I'm used to it."

Childe's eyes flicked back up to his. "But wouldn't it be less annoying if you tied it back or something? You do it during the day anyway."

Diluc shrugged -- or at least made his best intimation of one while lying on his side in bed. "It tugs on my scalp if I keep it tied up that long. Besides, I thought you liked it down. You're the one who's always telling me to let it loose." The growing collection of hair ties Childe had stashed somewhere was testament enough to that.

"Well, yes," Childe hedged. "I just thought maybe I could braid it for you. I bet you'd look good in a braid. I could weave flowers in it, or grapes! I bet a grape vine would weave perfectly through your hair."

Diluc arched a brow, opting to ignore the second half of his foolishness to ask the more surprising question. "You know how to braid?"

"What do you take me for?" he asked in mock-affront. "I'm the best big brother in all of Teyvat. Of course I know how to braid hair! I even learned a bunch of fancy styles. My sisters loved it. It was-- nice. To get to do that together. It's been a while since I've seen them."

Diluc watched him for a moment, a longing of a different sort passing over his face. He could understand that. It had been years since he and Kaeya-- Well. It had been years since there'd been someone around to braid his hair. "Alright," he relented. Childe perked up, his worries forgotten, or at least shoved into that little box in the back of his mind that Diluc knew he carried. He had one just the same, and he shoved his own ancient memories in it to focus on the man sharing his bed, his eyes alight like an eager puppy. "I guess it wouldn't be so bad to tie it up at night."

Childe smiled at him, warm and contented. The expression sent tingles through Diluc's chest. Who knew he could be so sweet?

Until he opened his damned mouth and ruined it.

"Plus then I won't have to wake up with your hair in my mouth anymore!" Childe finally admitted with a grin.

Diluc laughed. "Ah, now the truth comes out!"

[clevereverest]

So… Christmas or holiday fics, anyone?

I have two Christmas fics planned myself - any other Newsies authors working on new holiday stuff, too?

Additionally, I will gladly take holiday-centered fic recs!

- Fluff or Hurt/Comfort

- Race/Spot or Jack/David

- And if you know me at all, I also love Albert/Finch, but I don’t think they have as much :( PLEASE correct me on that if I’m wrong, I’d honestly love to be wrong

Feel free to self-promote!! (I basically did lol) Just keep it to holiday-themed works, please!

[dollsome-does-tumblr]

whenever i post a fic that is sort of risky or out of my comfort zone, i then immediately become obsessed with the idea of writing a new super normal and very me-style one to post asap so THAT is at the top of my ao3 profile instead, as if to atone for kinda trying something. this is normal, right?? 😬😬😬😬😬

[kitas-cleaning-supplies]

finished a wip i've been working on for months and now i'm just sitting here like now what-?

[unexpectedstormy]

Shelter in the Storm (part 1?)

Random fic I had the idea for last night and I spent all day today writing. Wild gets stuck in a cave in a cliff in a storm. I do have some more written and an end goal in mind for this story but who knows if I can focus long enough to get there. Anyways. Here you go. (1373 words)

******

Wild wakes. He’s cold. Everything hurts. He blinks his eyes open. It’s dark and he can hear rain falling and wind whistling and moaning. He doesn’t know where he is or how he got there. He’s there, but not really there, and he doesn’t even notice his eyes closing and he slips off to sleep again.

The next time he wakes, he’s cold. So cold.

He needs warmth. That’s all he can think of: warm, warm, warm, he instinctually seeks it out like a lizard in the morning. He can’t see anything but he doesn’t need to. His hand finds a way into the pouch on his belt and gravitates toward the heat of his flameblade. He takes it out and lays it beside himself surprised when his arm lances with pain above the cold-dulled soreness he has everywhere else in his body, but he doesn’t care to figure out why.

The light of the flame blade is the only thing Wild can see in the darkness and he takes comfort in knowing he isn’t blind. He tries to sleep again but only dozes on and off for an indeterminate amount of time. The sword isn’t doing enough to stave off the chill in the air. He groans and rubs his face in his sleeves. Again, he reaches into his pouch. His hand shuffles around clumsily and with minimal feeling in his cold-numb hand. His hand closes around a bottle and he pulls it out. It’s glowing softly orange—a warming elixir—just what he needs.

With great effort he sits up. His grip strength is weak and his hands shake as he wrestles the cork from the glass, then downs it in gulps, suddenly aware of how thirsty he was. It may not be a heart elixir but it still has a minor degree of healing effect. He slumps against a stone wall and closes his eyes and drifts as warmth washes over him and the pain fades away.

Wild wakes up sometime after the sunrise but it’s still dim. The warmth of the elixir has worn off and he’s cold again, but it’s tolerable. He starts, eyes widening when he sees how his hands and arm are a bloody mess. His clothes are damp and filthy and tattered and he has no recollection how it happened.

He’s in a relatively small and shallow cave of jagged and crumbly stone. Beyond arm’s reach at the mouth of the cave, his glider lays, the cloth shredded, just like his sleeves and arms. What could have done all this?

Wild staggers to his feet and limps stiffly toward the mouth of the cave. The ground where the glider lays is splatted with bird or keese guano and he grimaces in disgust. He picks up the glider and tosses it further in away from the edge. He can’t repair it. He doesn’t have any spare fabric suitable for it, nor does he even have a sewing kit or skills.

He looks out into a dark and stormy sky and far below, a field of bright green grass. He’s in a cave high up on a cliff. He leans out as far as he dares and looks up to see the top, but he can’t, rock overhangs the cave entrance blocking his view. He can’t glide out of the cave with the glider (and his arms) in the condition they are, nor can he climb the rain-slicked cliff. He’s stranded in the cave until the storm lets up.

He backs away from the opening and looks at he slate. No map. They’re not in his Hyrule.

That’s right. This is a new Hyrule.

It comes back to him now. The Chain had entered a portal into a new Hyrule and Wild ended up alone at the top of the cliff in the storm. He’d walked along it for a while but didn’t find anyone. He’d thought he’d heard Hylian voices echoed up from the field below and he had jumped off the cliff to glide down.

His memory of what happened next is foggy. He remembers being in great pain and terrible fear, scrambling to not die. There’s a gap in his memory and the last thing he remembers is flopping to the ground in the cave and immediately passing out.

What had happened to him while he was gliding? Had he been attacked? Did he slip off the glider’s handles and fall? Had he been struck by lightning? Did he run out of stamina? Had he fallen into the cave or climbed up to it? Were his injuries and the damage to the glider caused by the jagged cliff rocks or by something else?

At any rate, he was stuck. He’d have to camp out and make the best of it.

Wild had another warming elixir and then went about starting a fire. Once it blazed strong enough that a gust wouldn’t put it out, he set up the cooking pot and started heating up water. Gingerly he peeled his tunic off, splashing warmed water onto his arms to unstick the tattered fabric from where it had adhered to his wounds. Tunic removed, he inspects his hands and arms, rinsing off blood and dirt (he hoped he hadn’t gotten any guano on them, but he couldn’t tell). Hot red streaks (rope burns?) spiral around both his arms from the knuckles of his hands to his elbows like ivy encircling a tree. A multitude of cuts and bruises litter his skin from his fingertips and along his palms and the undersides of his arms. It feels as if the bones themselves were aching.

As much as Wild hated to admit it, he ought to use the ointment Hyrule gave him once. It was some kind of sticky honey-based ointment that was supposed to somehow prevent infection and help with healing. While Wild had an excellent immune system and rarely ever got sick, he’d been told that being cold, dirty, and not caring for injuries immediately all increased his chances of getting an infection.

Wild finished washing up, used the whole bottle of ointment to cover both his hands and arms, then bandaged them. He put on his snowquill set and tossed his dirty clothes in a pile. Between the warming elixir, the snowquill set, and the fire he was quite cozy. He dumped the washwater at the mouth of the cave and it ran out and away off the cliff, washing away some of the guano. He set a new pot of water to boil in order to make tea and porridge.

He frowned at the thick and heavy clouds. How long would this storm last? How long was he going to have to linger in the cave? He doubted the others would find him halfway up a cliff in a cave; when could he leave to go look for them? The storm didn’t answer but raged on with no sign of letting up anytime soon. If he had to guess, he was going to be stuck there all day at least, and probably all night too.

After breakfast Wild sets up camp. He constructs a low windblock wall around the fire of loose stones he’d found from the back of the cave, sets out bowls and pots at the entrance of the cave to collect rainwater, hangs up his dirty clothes on the cave wall, piles firewood nearby, and rolls out his bedroll. Taking inventory of his supplies, he finds that while he had plenty of ingredients, he is low on actual meals and elixirs. Hmm. He knew what he was going to do to while away the stormy day.

But first, a nap sounds nice. Despite only having been up for an hour or two, he feels himself starting to crash again. Though it is rather unusual for him to be so tired, it did happen from time to time on his adventures. There was nothing for it except to sleep and hope he felt more awake and less foggy once he awoke up again. And so he lays back on his sleeping mat, feeling warm and safe and well fed, even if the ground was a bit lumpy and his body was sore.

[n7punk]

Pairings: Adora/Catra (Catradora). Fandom: She-Ra and the Princesses of Power (2018). Series: Children of the Crystal - Light Hope’s Kids AU 12/14.

Rating: T. Chapters: 3/3 (Complete). Words: 9.8k.

Summary: Light Hope raised them. She taught them everything. In hindsight, that let her perfectly form their blind spots around her. (Or, the one where Light Hope’s true colors shine)

[twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat]

i was gonna try to pump the kenny fic out this weekend but fuck it happy sick satoru sunday <3

[actual-changeling]

"i will just write a few sentences" yeah. same story as usual, it got out of hand. rip. [insert surprised pikachu]

have some more cee and ezra bonding with a LOT of physical touch and sleepy cuddles, healing everyone's childhood trauma one word at a time.

[itooaminthisepisode]

here to thank you for using your writing skills in hilson direction too because I literally layed one night reading ur fluff and as a result severely bawled my eyes out (never felt better❤️)

ehehehehe kickin my legs and giggling thank you so much!!!!!! :D

[defectivehero]

“Well, shit,” the villain groans, pinching the bridge of their nose. They blink several times, to the hero’s confusion. Their gaze remains fixed on a point on the ground near their feet. “Might as well turn myself in now.”

“What?” the hero sputters, confused by the sudden turn of events. They look around to see if they missed something. Nothing seems to be out of the ordinary, to their knowledge.

“My glasses,” the villain sighs, pointing to the smashed spectacles near the hero’s feet. “My eyesight is horrible without them.” The hero looks down at the ground at their feet, lifting a shoe and revealing a mess of cracked glass. They look back to the villain and find that, sure enough, their enemy is squinting. The hero resists the urge to groan. 

“Come on, I doubt it’s that bad,” the hero sighs, crossing their arms over their chest. An idea comes to their mind. It’s not a great idea, but it’s an idea nonetheless. “How many fingers am I holding up?” For a painfully long amount of time, silence stretches across the space. The hero holds up three fingers patiently, waiting for the villain to reply. When their enemy finally does respond, what they say is entirely unexpected. 

“On second thought, I’m just going to punch you,” the villain hisses, stepping forward. The hero grimaces and turns on their heel to run away, ignoring the shouts of their enemy behind them. 

[©2022 @defectivehero​ All Rights Reserved]

endnotes after the cut :)

it’s so annoying (in my opinion) when people say shit like “how many fingers am i holding up?” or, as they’re trying your glasses on: “wow, how can you even see out of these?!” it’s also super predictable??? idk the moment someone asks to try on my glasses i immediately stiffen... like... no. if i wanted to hear how bad my eyesight is, i would go to the eye doctor. not you 💀💀 /lh

also i know the copyright thing may seem unnecessary but i find it easier to use than simply putting “not a prompt” in the tags. I'm more confident posting shorter pieces with the copyright statement than the simple tag, because there’s less of a chance of someone misinterpreting my writing as available for use. yuh. I've gotten comments saying “bUt thIs lOoKs lIke A prOmpT tO mE” and I'm just sitting here like -_-. i don’t think that preventing people from copying and/or using my writing is selfish, but some seem to think it is. ah well.  

[ plus the prompt tag usually boosts engagement and I want to use it but, at the same time, I feel like tagging it as such makes people think they can use it. ah, whatever. engagement isn’t most important to me, anyways... sorry, I'm rambling. ]

last note,,, I would like to remind everyone of my absolute patheticness (I know that’s not a word but it is now.) okay sO story time my dad made bratwurst for dinner the other night and we have leftovers in the fridge. I planned to have a brat for dinner but when I walk out to the kitchen, the brats are out on the counter... they had been sitting there for like three hours since my brother ate them for lunch meaning they were spoiled...so with my mind set on a brat,,, i had to change my mind to an omelette. sO I went out to the kitchen and started getting the cooking stuff out,,, only to open the eggs and find that THERE WAS ONLY ONE>>> i was so furious lol... so i thought “well fuck it” and grabbed one of the frozen personal pizzas we have... and microwaved it (because i was too hungry to wait for the oven plus the box recommended microwave).. three minutes later i find that the pizza box is a FAWKING LIAR and that shit is not microwaveable in the slightest... so I gave up and reheated some shrimp fried rice.... yeah. it was so pathetic. like idk how i managed to fuck up a microwaveable pizza but 

[not this being longer than the snippet 💀💀]