#🍩 writes

[cookiekissers]

Genuinely and desperately ask for Crunchy Chip cookie x male reader! Crunchy Chip always puts up a front of not wanting/caring for sweet stuff but deep down loves it. Imagine him like that but with people, he acts tough around others but completely melts when he's around reader. Thank you for existing and doing the Lord's work 🙏 lmao

[Crunchy Chip x Male Reader]

I haven't written or posted that much yet, but thank you!! It's an honour <3

Crunchy Chip Cookie works diligently to keep up his image as a hardened warrior. But like the sweets he pretends to despise, he can barely hide his feelings around you, Y/N Cookie. If he had a tail, it would be wagging whenever he sees you! He can't help it!

Around others, he acts like his usual prideful self, but as soon as he spots you, he gets quiet and flustered. Crunchy Chip believes he's good at concealing his feelings for you, but it's apparent to everyone what's really going on. Even if you're the oblivious type, you'll eventually notice because it's so obvious. Crunchy Chip isn't exactly subtle. But this only makes him all the more charming!

If you pretend you haven't caught on to his feelings yet, and decide to start teasing him, it will make him melt. He tries hard to deny the intense feelings you "inflict" on him, how his heart pounds when you get a little too close to him and tease him, and how you have all but taken over his thoughts. He constantly scolds himself for how mushy he's acting! You have turned him into a lovestruck puppy and he hates it. Acting this way is unbecoming of a great Dark Cacao warrior! Yet… ask a favour of him or call for him and he will run to you without hesitation.

If you're waiting for Crunchy Chip Cookie to make the first move you will have to wait for a while, so you will probably have to take initiative on this one. But once you two do get together officially, expect to see his softer side much more often. He only does this in private and around you. No one else gets to see Crunchy Chip like this but you. <3

It's a little different in private. When you're alone with him, he relaxes a little bit, but not by much. His code of pride and rigorous discipline has been drilled into his head, so its a tough habit to break. If you gently remind him that he does deserve to relax a little and have care and softness, he will indulge somewhat guiltily. But he is still afraid of being "caught in the act," so his relaxation with you will be restrained. But afterwards, he will dream of it. Being in your arms, having you stroke his hair lovingly while he rests in your lap. Crunchy Chip will wake up in his tent amidst the snow on a frozen mountain and daydream about looking up at your handsome face and yearn to experience such tenderness and warmth again.

But don't try to bring up your affectionate sessions in public, Crunchy Chip will panic and try to play dumb and pretend that it didn't happen. It's not that he didn't enjoy being with you! Honestly, the guy is yearning and pining so hard he thinks he's physically ill.

[angelgoeslewd]

White Lies. [Prologue.]

🔮 summary: becoming Fyodor’s house-spouse is a trial.

⚠️ warnings: unhealthy relarionship dynamics. this excerpt is SFT, there will be more in this series that will not be. please read accordingly with attention to the warnings.

📝 a/n: this got away from me … these were supposed to be headcanons 😰 yes i have more planned. this is only the beginning.

The relationship between you and Fyodor began as a mutually beneficial agreement. Fitting, for one as conniving as him and as cornered as you, but odd, considering his... allure.

It was easy to consider him "out of your league." His status outweighed yours by a fair amount and this didn't even weigh in his looks or platinum tongue, his bank account alone probably tipped the scales in your favor. But your... situation was rare, one that worked in his own interests.

As the eldest of a well-to-do family, you knew, knew from an early age you would be expected to marry. Expected to give up any life and passions you had to seek the hand of someone who elevated your family's status. And as the days passed by, your days filled with schooling and artistic pursuits, the arraignment of your betrothal was a closer and closer possibility. Every leaf that fell on the cold stone pathway of your college campus seemed like just another reminder of the time that was slipping through your fingers.

That was why you saw him as an opportunity. When your friend offhandedly gushed that The Fyodor Dostoevsky was seeking, "a fair person of good standing and kind graces to accompany him in his quest for comfortability and tranquility," (which sounded like something straight out of a Jane Austen novel, for God's sake) at your coffee date and how exciting the possibility was, your desperation got the better of you. You tried not to hope, tried not to let your wretched attempt, your last-ditch effort of securing your own freedom seep into your voice as you asked her for more details, wondering if she heard it, wondering if she saw your hand shake as you lifted your cup to your mouth and she peered at you, questioningly. Thankfully, she asked nothing and simply divulged in full.

You found yourself at the meeting hall in question 5 minutes late, on the date of the supposed event. Her information was true, as you quickly found out, entering the hall to be met with a crowd of every type of people from every corner of your school. All ages were there, young, older, older, to meet Mr. Dostoyevsky. People who had colored hair, people who were draped in jewels, people who had neither of either and looked like simple office workers. They gave you a number when you checked in at the booth, a simple white ticket with nothing but black ink printed on it in a large font. You tucked it into your bag and finding nowhere to sit, you subtly made your way outside to wait.

Sitting on a small brick wall, separating you from a small flower bed, you were near enough to hear any instruction, but far enough from the crowd to not be bothered. You took out your latest novel, began to read, and waited.

And waited.

And waited.

It only took about half an hour for you to notice people streaming out of the building; some with red faces, others in open tears. Concerned, you shifted on your seat, wondering if this was really worth it. But you made no move to comfort the people, nor did you move to leave. You knew, subconsciously, you had no other choice.

Eventually, your number was called, and you grabbed your things hastily, walking into the building and suddenly hitting the nicely warmed air. You didn't even realize how cold it was outside, your mind was lost in the book you held. Your fingers were thankful, still red from the cold, but it felt almost uneasy inside, with only a couple people left and nothing but the company of the sound of your shoes hitting the floor as you made your way to the man who beckoned you. The people left -- a woman with beautifully coiffed hair, lined with jewels and fur; a man in a dark blue, wrinkle-free suit and slicked-back hair; a person with shortly cut hair and a long, cotton skirt, colored with natural dyes, all smiled at your sympathetically.

The pit in your stomach dropped further. But you continued without skipping a beat of your thumping heart.

The room you entered was barren. There was nothing but a dimly lit table, even the lights were turned down, somehow, something that didn't seem possible at your meager campus. The table legs were dark wood, cut off halfway by a simple, white, linen tablecloth. Nothing was on the table. But there he sat. The dark, imposing figure of Fyodor Dostoyevsky.

He eyed you quietly as you sat down in the chair across from him and thanked the man leading you to what felt like your social downfall. The simple act felt much sinister than it was. You leaned down to place your bag next to the side of your chair, then sat up straight and faced the man who held your future in his cards.

“It is nice to meet you, Лисичка.” Russian. You didn’t know Russian. His accent was thick and heavy, but his voice was soft and gentle, reminiscent of new footprints on soft, powdered snow.

“The honor is mine, Mr. Dostoyevsky.” You reached your hand out, across the table, to greet him, and a gloved hand appeared from below to grab yours. His other one then followed, covering your own, something much more intimate than needed in such a place, and something that would be scolded by your father. You introduced yourself, then pulled your hand back as quickly as social niceties would allow.

“Tell me, Лисичка, what brings a person as lovely as yourself here today?”

You took a deep breath. At that simple request, your mouth dried. Your honesty was preferable, but the rules in this scenario didn’t allow for such dark and bleak hardships to be shared to someone you had barely just met. That wasn’t proper. Nor would you expect him to care. You wouldn’t want him to either. This was your burden to carry, not his. You didn’t want his pity or his sympathy for your plight. It left a bad taste in your mouth to even think such thoughts. It might bring a bad look to your family if you shared such feelings openly, which, neither you nor they, needed to deal with at this time. But you also had a feeling that he would know if you lied to him, and besides, that wasn’t a look you wanted for yourself, either. With being dealt such a bad hand, you decided to take a bigger risk than you ever had in your life.

“Mr. Dostoyevsky.”

“Please, Родна́я, call me Fyodor. We are equals at this table.”

You didn’t mean it to, but a small laugh escaped your lips. His lips flickered down for a small, almost indeterminable moment, and his eyebrows raised at your presumptuousness. “With all due respect. We will never be equals. Even if I sit at this table permanently. Even if you choose me. There will never be a time you and I will be equals. And I accept that.”

He tilted his head in what seemed like approval, leaning back in his chair, crossing his legs, and gesturing lithely for you to continue. You, on the other hand, leaned forward, placing your hands on the cold linen, careful not to shift the cloth, but enough to make this obvious that the next piece of conversation was for you and him only. “Mr. Dostoyevsky. You can fool all those people out there if you want, but you can’t fool me. You need something — not someone, something. To gain, to escape — I honestly could not care what it is.” His face did not shift, staying the same as when you started. “I need something too. Right now, what I need, if you even care, the protection of your attention. Nothing else. Not your money, not your feelings, just the fact that you are with me. I don’t want to know what you gain from this, but I do know that you need me too. This situation would benefit both of us.”

He was quiet for a while after your spiel, letting the weight of your words sink and settle into the corners of the room as he gazed at you. You swear you saw his jaw set as he sat there, and you tried your best not to lick your lips nervously. Then his hand, which had been clasped in his lap, inched onto the table. A small bell which had escaped your notice was rung. The man from before slinked into the room. You felt ill. Did you read the situation wrong? Was it just like the bell, some innocuous thing that slipped your attention?

“Anton.” He called firmly. It was an order. If it wasn’t so cold, you would be sweating. “Tell the others to leave. I have found my company.”

The relief you felt was almost orgasmic. A breath you didn’t know you were holding was released, and your lungs sang. As the man left, Fyodor leaned forward to meet you. “I normally don’t appreciate such direct accusations,” he said, softly. “But I can appreciate a keen eye and a person who knows how to dance between truth and dishonesty. That is what I am seeking.”

He, himself, seemed to be teetering on the brink of honesty with you. But you felt like you had already pushed your luck for the day and said nothing. He could tell you felt something, but waved it off. “Think no more on it. I will only require you to do that with warning.” It was phrased like a joke, but again, that feeling of somehow being lied to and being told the honest truth sat with you. You tried to push it off and do as you were told. “The movers will fetch your things. You must be reinvented if you are to be seen with me.”

With that, Fyodor Dostoyevsky got up and left you sitting there. Alone, in a dimly lit room, with nothing but yourself. A situation you would find yourself in time and time again before everything changed.

[jolapeno]

sometimes, you write that thing because it makes you happy. and it leads you to finding people who feel happy from it. you all might not live happily ever after, but for a moment—a pause in the day-to-day—you smile, as they smile, and it’s enough.

[crybaby-bkg]

okay now that I’ve finished scorned and can start working on one shots again………….

feel free to ask about any of them, since I have most already started and have the premise of how they’re all gonna go!!!!

[caramwlflan]

PKMN S/I MASTER POST

"Eden is an npc from the Pokemon Legends Arceus game. He is a baker from the Alola region that appears in the Hisui region following an *accident in his native region that forced him to flee Alola."

Eden will first be encountered shortly after finishing Obsidian Fieldlands. Firstly arriving at Jubilfe Village as a tourist. After the player has obtained the use of Ursaluna, he will begin to appear around the region at night, talking to him will unlock “The Noire Cafe” a cafe that only works at night and attends pokemon with nocturnal habits and earning the player the ability to buy pokepuffs and different sweets that will increase a Pokemon EVs, alongside their Friendship Level.

After the player calms the Noble Voltrob, he will make requests to see a Combee and later on, a Buneary. Completing these requests will inspire him and expand his repertoire of pokepuffs and sweets.

*The accident in question was a fire, where Eden was blamed. This explains his fears of fire and lack of fire types.

PKMN TEAM.

[skippydiesposting]

we don't talk enough about how that article about the metaverse that went viral on tumblr was written by the author of Skippy Dies

[schoenht]

My topic on this position paper was “Should cheer be considered a sport?” And I got 44/50, ending my grade with a B+, that’s damn impressive if I do say so myself

🍩

THAT IS IMPRESSIVE I REALLY WANT TO READ IT NOW

[seiwas]

I was talking about this under a post of @/ktsumu's; but this concept I have in my head for single dad osamu who's struggling to get his restaurant off the ground while also caring for his toddler daughter :') love 2 see a man being responsible, you feel?? I might just end up writing it as a non reader insert fic tbh, but also I feel bad because I am SUCH an osamu stan and the one fic I have for him has such a questionable reader lol (I'm worried this sounds like a plug, I swear it's not omg)

omg a single dad osamu 🥺 with a lil daughter PLEASE MOCHA this alr sounds like it’s gonna wreck me 😭 i think osamu 100% tries to do everything he can 🥺

oh how precious it would be, to have him clock out (or even close shop if there aren’t any other employees yet) for 30 minutes in the morning and 30 minutes in the afternoon just to bring her to school and pick her up 🥺 he makes up for it by using his 1hr lunch break to work 🥲🥺 and a core memory for her is definitely waiting for her papa to finish up in store at the end of the day, kicking her feet back and forth at a booth near the staff door 🥺 her little legs still can’t touch the ground 🥺

reader insert or not best believe i am RUNNING to that fic mocha 🥺 the premise already has my heart 🥹

[hyaina]

sleep headcanons.

@fel-mi-er​ asked:     ☾ : My muse and sleep. (How much they sleep, how much they wish to sleep, if there is something that never fails to put them to sleep, e.t.c.)    

PART I. 

Ruggie Bucchi doesn’t underestimate the importance of sleep. He acknowledges that a good night’s rest is integral to one’s functionality and, being someone whose physical performance heavily impacts his income, Ruggie doesn’t neglect his slumber.

Ruggie is a light sleeper. It comes with the territory; he is also quick to fall asleep.  That’s not to say that Ruggie is Leona Kingscholar-level talented when it comes to sleeping, but Ruggie knows how to respond in accordance to his environment. He will wake up to unfamiliar sounds and movement, but can resume sleeping promptly enough so that it won’t have a negative impact upon his following day’s performance. (If I had to compare it, Ruggie’s sleeping behavior would be similar to how a dog would wake up if you moved too closely near them, but they would also fall asleep seconds later after deeming your movement as a non-threat.) 

Ruggie’s attentive nature amidst rest comes from his times during the slums, as well as the natural hearing capacity he possesses as a hyena. Ruggie’s hometown always had background noise: Endless chattering between the residents, leaky pipes, distant howls, rickety ceilings, you name it. Occasionally, the sounds of whooping calls and other vocal indications of unfamiliar trespassers in his slums would stir Ruggie (as well as others) awake and to attention. Learning how to filter out the unfamiliar from the familiar was a must, as well as the capability to take immediate action. 

Ruggie is an early riser. The amount of hours he gets varies, heavily depending on what chores gets thrown upon him and sometimes his progress in studying. He naturally wakes up through the exposure of the sun, just in time for early morning chores and Savanaclaw’s morning Spelldrive practices. Likewise, an early riser means an early sleeper and Ruggie isn’t an exception to the norm. He tends to get tired at around 10:00PM, but will forcefully keep himself awake in order to fulfill remaining work that needs to be done. He will definitely knock out before 1:00AM though. 

(more to be continued in part ii). 

[star1117-archives]

Head empty only Soob

[promptsstuff]

Blog 14

(Master money and Mr determination)

Master Money and Mr Dedication were neighbors. Master money had great life, he can buy, fly, make people cry, have all things at a fingertip. Mr dedication can't do either, his moves were slow but firm.

After few years, Mr dedication was at a firm height. And Master even don't have a place to hide.

Money can be solution, but success is a firm behaviour. Do you agree.

[naomi-nana]

*dies from too much fluff*

-🍩🐈

aaa thank u so much for requesting!! i'm sorry if it's not what u expected T^T

[maehemthemisfit]

lyney is .. not one to trust easily.

you found it ironic.

or, perhaps, it fit perfectly — because why else would someone without trust become a magician if not to fuel their cynicism?

you were aware of this since first meeting him. he had a suave demeanor, sure, an air of swoon-worthy confidence — but that was just the type of person you were always weary of.

you didn’t believe in magic. he didn’t, either.

he had piercing eyes. a gaze that looked as if it could bore into your very soul and sear it while still hiding his intentions. yet, the look in his eyes was the one thing that he was unable to mask; and you, ever-observant as you are, picked up on the sorrow and hesitation within them without a second glance. though, in your opinion, it didn’t take someone as astute as you to notice that he was not all flowery words and romantic gestures.

it was a facade. that, to you, was clear to see — even with how desperately, and how adept he was, at trying to hide it.

the moment someone asked him about his troubles and he simply diverted their attention was the one that solidified your suspicions. while you never really had a solid foundation to build doubt upon, it seems you were correct — as usual. you relied more on intuition, you supposed, though that was just as unreliable as the look in someone’s eyes.

you, of course, did not inquire about this instance. after all, you figured prying would be a step forward and three back.

instead, you kept a close eye on him whenever you met. harboring a sly tongue, showcasing an air of confidence, and working in a field based around sugarcoated lies — why wouldn’t you?

it was only an attempt at learning more about someone born out of skepticism. so, imagine your surprise when this very same skepticism turns into more of a curiosity, then an infatuation, and then love.

you never really thought you could fall for someone like him. he was just too guarded, too dishonest — a far cry from yourself, who valued truth above all else.

even so, you two grew close. slowly but surely, he’d opened himself up to you, even as it scared him greatly to do so.

first, it was a small truth, here and there, in a sea of lies; until the honesty began soaking up the deception like a sponge, and instead what poured out of the sink next time you turned the faucet on was all verity.

soon after, your birthday came. it had already been a year since you’d met..? it didn’t feel like that long.

lyney was the first to approach you. that wasn’t unusual, of course; you two practically saw each other every day, now. he waved you down, sauntered up to you, and presented you with ..

“i have a feather here, just an ordinary feather... go ahead, you can hold it and see for yourself.”

you did as he said. you took the feather from his deft grasp, careful not to brush against him even if his hands were gloved.

“ready? and... boom!”

you didn’t flinch when it ‘miraculously’ changed shape in your grasp, turning into a flurry of colors before your very eyes. after all, you were used to his tricks by now.

“it was a party popper all along. happy birthday!”

he reached into the air, grasping a scattered piece of it between his thumb and forefinger.

“see this? i caught one of the paper streamers floating down. now, make a wish and picture a birthday gift in your mind's eye as i light it.”

and, you do. you don’t believe in magic, and you definitely don’t believe he can read your mind — but, perhaps .. you’d humor him. just this once.

“three... two... one... great! verrry good, i know exactly what you were thinking now. the last step, put your hand inside my hat...”

and perhaps he wasn’t all lies, because the moment he turned and pressed a soft kiss to your lips was the moment you did begin believing in magic — and, maybe, he did, too, because this time, it wasn’t a trick or meticulous setup. it was a true miracle.

“well? it it the gift you wanted?”

— the mutual who asked about sending a fic earlier!! happy (maybe belated, now?) birthday!

UUUUUUUUUUGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

YES. YES THIS IS THE GIFT I WANTED !!!!!!!!!!!!! UYERHYJUEKSURUDSKDEDMURNMFJRH

[sweethoneyrose83]

1. In a world where colors have flavors, write a scene where an artist discovers that strawberries clash horribly with the paint from a mysterious brand, creating unexpected chaos on their canvas.

2. Explore a quirky culinary competition where chefs are challenged to incorporate a bizarre ingredient—strawberries—into dishes painted with a specific brand of unconventional paint.

3. Craft a short story set in a surreal art gallery where each painting's success is determined by the peculiar combination of strawberries and a particular brand of paint, leading to unexpected masterpieces and disasters.

4. Write a humorous dialogue between two characters trying to redecorate a room, only to find out that their chosen brand of paint clashes terribly with strawberries, leading to amusing misadventures.

5. In a dystopian future, describe a society where strawberries have become a forbidden fruit due to their disastrous interaction with a widely used brand of paint, exploring the consequences and challenges faced by those who dare to defy the prohibition.

[skippydiesposting]