#(if you guess what the fic is just from the title you get a cookie and also a preview if you want it lol)

[nach0]

i've got a few isat fic ideas so i throw it to the people: based on title (or vibes if i haven't got a title yet) alone

[healmyhrt]

⌗ a night alone, c. sturniolo

chris x fem!reader

summary: you and chris have the house to yourselves and decide to do something other than… inappropriate things, and fail. (lmao)

disclaimers!: established relationship, oral sex (male receiving), mild smut, kissing, cursing, use of y/n,

a/n: yall. its short. all my shit is short unfortunately, I APOLOGIZE. I WILL MAKE LONGER FICS IN THE FUTURE. until then, HERES A CHRIS FIC FOR MY CHRIS GIRLS 😜 | also didn’t proofread <3

the boys were out for the night, so it was just chris and i. we often have nights to ourselves, but we usually choose to do more… inappropriate things. that’s why i wanted to have a simple date night tonight.

“okay come up!” i yell down toward his bedroom. chris jogs up the steps, and his eyes widen at the kitchen table.

“what’s this?” he smiles.

spread across the wooden table were all the ingredients to bake cookies, and a few candles. he looks over to me, and smirks. “oh, you shouldn’t have.” he says in a dramatic tone, walking toward me.

he puts his arms around my waist, and i place my hands around his neck, slightly looking up at him. “i thought it’d be a nice change for our night alone.” i grin back.

chris glances back over at the table, and then back at me with the sweetest smile ever. “and it is.”

i kiss him, impatiently, and he tilts my jaw upward with his index finger. a repetitive sound interrupts us, and i look over at my phone on the table. “sorry.” i sigh.

“i set a timer for the butter to thaw.” i chuckle, holding up the now soft, stick of butter. chris laughs and then stops abruptly, looking at all the ingredients again.

“wait,” he starts, “does this mean we’re not fucking?”

oh my god.

“chris—” he continues walking around the table until he gets to the assortment of cookies. “wait, babe.”

i scoff. “yeah?” he picks up the cookies, and turns it so i can read the title. “these are bake only, they’re pre-made. we dont need all these ingredients.” he laughs.

i snatch the cookies from his hands, and read the title again. “shut the fuck up.” i mumble. chris takes the cookies from my hands, and places them on the table.

“so, i guess we can fuck.” he smirks.

“chris, noooo. we need to do something different.” i gesture to the cookies he just put down. he places his hands on my waist, lifting me up like it’s nothing.

i automatically wrap my legs around his waist, and he places both hands on my hips, holding me up.

“please, baby.”

i gently bite my bottom lip. that’ll do it for me.

“fine. but only for a little.” chris smiles instantly, and smashes his lips against mine. the kiss is hungry, like he couldn’t get enough of me.

he sits me on the counter, and slowly lifts up my nightgown. i pull it over my head, and do the same to his shirt, then he throws it on the floor.

“pants.” i say through a kiss.

chris’s hands leave my hips, and begin shimmying his pants down. i hop off of the counter, and adjust him so he’s leaning against it. “what’re you—” i interrupt him by putting my hand over his mouth.

he nods, and i move my hand, using it to pull down his boxers. chris’s breathing becomes rapid, and i smile to myself.

i hold his shaft in my hands, and spit over his tip. chris watches while it slowly trickles down from my lips and onto him.

he trembles as it slides down his shaft, and i hold eye contact with him while i move my hand up and down, spreading it.

i had grown bored of touching him with my hands, so i move my mouth to his cock, and wrap my lips around his tip. i look up asking for his consent, and chris gives me a quick nod.

i took more and more of him, stopping halfway because i couldn't swallow any more. i started bobbing my head on his cock, collecting the precum.

“ah, ah…” chris moaned every time i put more of him into my mouth, and felt his tip hit the back of my throat.

“please, ma…” he spoke through whimpers, and grabbed a handful of my hair. chris thrusts into my mouth, bruising my throat.

i tap his thigh, and he comes to an abrupt stop.

i pull myself off of him, and his cock leaves mymouth with a pop sound. “too rough?” i wipe my mouth, and stand up, kissing him.

“it’s okay. i like it when you’re like that.” i smirk.

chris pulls up his boxers and his pajama pants together, and looks around for his shirt. i slide my nightgown back up my legs, and straighten the straps on my shoulders.

“so, we should probably make these cookies now, huh?”

[pyr0-kai]

Would you be able to write about mike x taller f!reader? I'm 5'11" and much taller than Josh/Mike, and most if not all fics/oneshots i find it's implied that the reader is shorter than him LOL. But yeah! I'm chill with any plot, but a first meeting would be cute :)

Damn he’s only 5’5?? Short king fr.

I’m 5’8 myself so I can understand ya lol.

I might make HCs for this later too. Us tall ppl deserve more rep lol

Fluff, no real spoilers, bad writing. I wrote this w free time in Class, bad title

-

Treat

You worked at a small cafe in town. Nothing too interesting, just a local mom and pop type shop. It was a regular Monday morning shift. Serving the typical annoying customers. Until A very tired looking man, and what looked like his daughter walked in. He had to turn his head up quite a bit to see you. You smiled at him from the other side of the counter before he spoke.

“My sister wanted a doughnut for breakfast on her birthday.” He motion to Abby, standing next to him.

“And i guess I’ll take a black coffee.” You could hear the tiredness in his voice.

You rung everything up, as he opened his wallet, pulling out a 10$ bill. You look at him, then down at his sister and back up again.

“Nah, don’t worry about it.” You say, waving his hand back.

“Y-you sure?” He replies, a bit up-hauled at your kind gesture.

“Yeah its no problem, its her birthday, I don’t mind.” You smile, taking Mike’s order from a co-worker and handing it to him. He seemed to have a genuine smile on his face as he walked out, holding his litter sisters hand.

—

This Kind gesture led to him coming around to your work a lot more, just to see you, if your schedules allowed. He would often try and get to see you around your break time. Sitting against the back wall of the cafe and taking about anything and everything either. His eyes seemed to shine when he looked up at you, it always seemed to make you smile. These hang outs at work led to you eventually giving him your number. You two would text a lot before he left for work at 12 am. It really seemed like he enjoyed talking to you.

Soon enough you were being invited over often. Abby loved that you would often bring donuts or cookies with you. And Mike seemed to feel comfortable around you in his home. Sometimes you’d lay your arm across the top of the couch, and he would lean his head against it, his curly hair tickling your arm, until you’d eventually wrap your arm around his shoulders. This seemed to unlock his love of touch. Whenever you were over since then, he would always want to have an arm of yours wrapped around him. Or he loved the fact that you were tall enough to hug him from behind and rest your chin on his head, or shoulders.

Pt. 2?

[bleachbleachbleach]

For one of the fanfic memes :D :

2.How do you react to positive comments?

4. Post a screenshot of one of your favorite comments

15. What fic of yours would you most like to rewrite?

33. Which of your fic titles is your favorite?

Aahhh, thank you for these!! I didn't actually reblog this meme (just the responses someone gave me when I sent in an ask for theirs), but I will *happily* take the opportunity to play, anyway, any time! <333

2. How do you react to positive comments?

I do this for any comment or kudos/like I get, but: I’ll click through on the person’s username and look at their page and their fics (if applicable—usually it isn’t), profile, bookmarks, etc. to try to learn more about who they are (and perhaps find things for me to read, too).

I re-read the comment multiple times over the course of multiple days, maybe even a dozen times, depending on how much there is to take in, by which point I probably have portions of it memorized.

I reply to comments to say thank you and to revel in the opportunity to have a small blorbo and/or craft conversation with the person, because that’s what I wish fandom were like alllllll the time, but it’s actually mostly not. So I try to do as much as I can with the moment!

4. Post a screenshot of one of your favorite comments I’ll forego any comments I’ve received from anyone on Tumblr who might see this post, though I treasure them and love them dearly. <333 But a comment that’s stuck in mind wasn’t even a comment someone gave to me or wrote directed at me, or ever wrote a me-directed version of.

There used to be a fandom convention of having large anonymous forums where people would talk fandom together anonymously, including fanworks. (I guess the modern-day equivalent here is private Discord servers, which are even more inaccessible, rip.) These threads could be pretty brutal, because they were anonymous people addressing other anonymous people and not thinking about the author at all—but they could also be the most interesting, because it was clear people involved in the discussion were actively reading and interpreting and critiquing. They were really giving your work their time.

My thread for this particular fic was 50/50 in terms of positive/negative reactions, but this comment was the first one in the thread that was positive, and it’s stayed with me for over a decade now:

15. What fic of yours would you most like to rewrite? Having waded back through that comment thread, jesus, that one, I guess! But not really. I’d just write another fic (and have, in fact, gone one to write 13 more years of fics for those characters—when I wrote that one, I was a year or two into writing fics for them).

I feel like fics belong to their specific time and place, and end up being imbued so closely with whatever flavor my life is at the time and whatever experiential details of my life are staying with me that to rewrite would be a different fic, anyway. I remember those highways and those watermelon cookies and moving in the middle of writing this fic and sitting in a towering forest of cardboard boxes eating cereal straight out of the box because that’s the only food that was unpacked.

33. Which of your fic titles is your favorite? Fic titles are interesting, because they’re a piece of the fic that rarely has any use? I can’t refer to a fic by title and expect most people to know what I’m talking about, because that would require a general audience to have familiarity with my writing, or to have read it. So I usually just describe the fic rather than use its name, if occasion comes up to talk about it. So a fic title is at its most functional for me in the AO3 kudos email, where the litmus test is “do I know which fic this kudos is for, based on its title.” The answer is generally yes, even though I have a fic titled "Instructions" AND a fic titled "Instruction," and a fic titled "Gone Fishing" AND a fic titled "Gone Fishin’"… (In my defense... different randoms/different pseudonyms!!)

Even though I do it a lot I don’t really like it when I use titles of already-existing media, or song lyrics, or single-word titles, though often the referentiality is the point and why I liked the title enough to use it. I do really like double entendre titles. Going back through all my titles on AO3, this morning I’m really liking:

Clutch, Bite — because who doesn’t love VERBS, especially such visceral ones. But it’s the title of a fic about violent grief and also learning how to drive stick shift, so I love the additional reference to a clutch’s “bite point.”

Set and March — I’ve talked about this title before, but I like it because the fic is a tag to an episode titled “Game Night” and I think the title-play is clever, haha.

This is a ghost story / This is not a ghost story — These titles were just funny to me because they were two fairly unrelated fics I posted on the same day and they were both ghost stories.

That Were — which is a line from already-existing media, but it’s such a deep cut of a line I feel like it loops back around to original. I just like the the weird tense play and the fact that there’s no actual noun to be seen. (The full line is “the pearls that were his eyes” from T.S. Eliot’s The Waste Land, lol.)

[memethebum]

Got my @sesecretsanta fic out for @moriohpissky :D

Hope you like ittt 😭🙏🏽

————————————————————————

“Hey, how much longer till’ those cookies are ready Eater?” Spirit shouted from his seat on the living room couch, causing Soul to bristle at the question.

“40 fuckin’ minutes. Now ask me that question one more time and I’ll shove these cookie cutters down your-“

“Ugh, can you two get along for ONCE,” Maka grumbled over Soul before he set the whisk he was holding down and turned his head to see the young woman pouting on the couch next to a suddenly intimidated Spirit.

“I’m sorry Angel, it’s just that-“

“No, I’m through with your excuses. You promised me you’d stop being so crabby with Soul the day he proposed, and it’s been what a year and a half and I still don’t see any improvement!” Maka continued while dropping the photo album she was working on upon the table in front of her with an elongated huff.

A terse silence then began to make it’s way across the apartment, forcing Soul to realize that it was his turn to comfort Maka about the situation.

“Your old man….isn’t all that bad anymore though. I mean, he gave us his blessin’ for marriage so I guess….” Soul started, only to become lost within his erratic thoughts about his father-in-law’s odd behavior on the night he asked him to green-lit the imminent proposal.

“I know the kind of man you are Eater, so let’s see how much marriage changes that. Especially with-“

“Hi Mama!” Maka tittered over Soul’s train of thought as he picked up the whisk again and slowly started to toss the dry ingredients together, all while keeping his ears perked on the conversation behind him.

“Yea, I already set up the guest room for you and…is that this week?” his wife then mumbled, causing the younger Deathscythe to come towards a standstill once again.

“But I don’t understand…you-you couldn’t even come for the wedding and it’s about to be Christmas so I thought…no-no I don’t want to hold you up…no it’s-ok bye Mama,” Maka whispered before tapping a finger onto her phone screen, chucking her phone upon the sofa, and making a sprint towards the bathroom.

Soul immediately set the bowl he was holding down onto the counter and scurried in the direction Maka ran towards. He was able to reach the narrow hallway just as a few muffled sobs began to leak from behind the bathroom door.

The Deathscythe could feel Spirit standing a few feet behind him before he slowly rapped his knuckles against the door and then heard his wife let out a low cough in between her sobbing, which served as all the feedback he needed to silently turn the doorknob and enter the bathroom with a solemn expression.

Soul then watched while Maka looked up at him from the corner she’d wedged herself into within their small bathtub, only to shake her head a moment afterwards and haphazardly kick at a bottle of conditioner laying beside her.

“Hey…,” Soul mumbled before flopping into the bathtub as well and gently circling an arm around his wife’s back.

“I just-just don’t get why she has to raise my hopes just to do this,” Maka lamented while resting her nose onto the crux of Soul’s neck, probing him to nod through the pinpricks forming on his shoulder.

“It’s really fucked up,” Soul commented before pushing back a few strands of Maka’s hair and noticing the way her usual valiant demeanor seemed to be sapped away from her each time she failed to muffle her crying.

Fucked up enough for me to get to the bottom of all this crap myself Soul thought, hoping that his embrace would be enough to let his wife know that her unrestrained crying was the bravest thing she could do in such a shitty situation.

———————————————————————

I can’t believe it’s worked so far the Deathscythe noted while skirting past the babble of families occupying the halls of Death City Airport.

He could feel a few watchful eyes on him, although he was completely certain it was because of his title as the “last Deathscythe” after customs had let him into the terminal once he’d agreed to take a few pictures and scribble out some autographs.

“34 D will be boarding soon,” a voice announced through the airport intercom, causing Soul to push through the crowd before him at an erratic pace.

“Watch where you’re-Eater?” a man then barked at him after being flitted to the side.

“What the fuck are you doin’ here???” the Deathscythe hissed as Spirit turned to face him with a scowl.

“I could ask you the same thing,” his father-in-law grumbled, eliciting Soul to let out a groan in agitation.

“Never mind, I don’t have time for this shit. The receptionist said the next flight for Paris-“

“It’s 34 D? Yea, that’s why I’m here too kid,” Spirit spoke over Soul, probing both men to glance at each other for a split second before they began to push through the crowd once more.

“Guess I can’t complain about ya’ being here all that much, since I hardly know what the lady looks like,” Soul commented, probing a scoff out of the older Deathscythe.

“You’ll be able to tell. She’s got a pretty scary aura…which is probably where Maka gets it from too,” Spirit replied, only to be pulled to the side by Soul a moment afterwards.

“Is that her??” the younger Deathscythe whispered while pointing to a woman situated in one of the airport seating areas.

“Yup, that’s her all right,” Spirit sighed, allowing Soul a quick moment to silently judge his mother-in-law.

She does have a scary energy going on about her Soul noted as he watched the way Kamiko Bushida smoothed through her raven locks of hair with one hand while deftly holding an open magazine ontop her crossed legs with her other hand.

“Lady looks way too fuckin’ cozy to be-“ Soul started, only for his scowl to turn into a look of confusion once Spirit began to march forward.

The younger Deathscythe skidded after him just as Kami looked up with a bewildered expression and loudly slapped her magazine shut.

“Kami.” Spirit enunciated while the woman began to narrow her eyes at Soul once he meekly stood next to his father-in-law.

“Spirit. Can I…help you?” she hissed, forcing Soul to subdue his growing urge to step a few feet back.

Alright, alright remember why you’re here Evans. Someone has gotta get this lady off her high fuckin’ horse��for Maka’s sake he noted before watching Spirit take a step forward with a leveled expression.

“I know I have no right to come here after you, but fuck Kami this isn’t about me. This is about Maka and how much she was looking forward-“

“It’s a shame her feelings had to be crushed like that because of someone else’s actions,” Kami cut over Spirit, causing the older Deathscythe to silently gape at her while Soul began to take a few tentative steps forward.

“Oh so you wanna punish your own daughter for something she couldn’t even control? Is that why you just treat her like a toy you can get bored of after a monthly phone call?” Soul seethed out before watching the woman turn her head in his direction as the flight attendant behind them began to unlock the plane entrance.

“First off young man, you have no right to assume the kind of relationship I have with my daughter. And secondly, Maka understands that my line of work keeps me busy. It’s a shame to see how she has a sensible mind on her but ended up marrying such a-“

“Oh no, don’t you start projecting me onto him Kami. You’re pulling a lot of lows here but that-“

“OH, I’M PULLING LOWS NOW?! YOU’RE THE ONE WHO CAME HERE WITH YOUR HOOLIGAN SON-IN-LAW TO CORNER ME INTO A TOWN I NEVER WANT TO STEP FOOT IN AGAIN!” Kami then screeched, causing a few people around them to flinch at the sudden rise of her tone.

“No one is trying to bring you back there, I swear! We just want you to meet Maka at least once, maybe grab some donuts from the airport Death N’ Donuts or even-“

“What the hell did we say to make ya’ jump to that conclusion?” Soul cut over Spirit’s pleas, probing Kami’s eyes to widen at the question.

“It’s not about what you said, it’s about you two even being here,” the woman elaborated before the younger Deathscythe let out a low whistle.

“So what you’re sayin’ is that you can’t even find a reason to start jumping to conclusions-“

“THAT’S NOT WHAT I-“

“No, no lemme explain it for ya’. See, I got a lot of experience with a shitty parent myself, so I can kinda call it when I see it. Now the old man here-,” Soul elaborated before sticking his thumb out at Spirit.

“He was a shitty husband and kinda a shitty dad when me and Maka first partnered. But, I never saw the old man stop tryin’ to push past all that. Sure he’d bitch and whine when Maka would bring it up, but that didn’t really stop him. You see what I’m gettin’ at here? You can stay away from your past, but you gotta acknowledge the way you’re screwin’ up in the present. Maybe then you’d see why we’re the ones here and not my wife,” Soul monologued, only to feel something warm come splashing against his arm while he slowly became aware of how he’d essentially released all the internal anguish he had for a woman he’d only ever previously met once in his life.

“I-I’ve had enough. I don’t need to hear any of this,” Kami gasped as she stared between the cup of coffee she’d spilled onto the tiled airport floor and the security guards marching in their direction.

“Oh and one more thing…” Soul coughed out before the woman turned her back towards him and Spirit.

The younger Deathscythe then unzipped the duffle bag he’d been lugging around the entire airport and carefully picked up the item he’d stowed within it.

“Merry Christmas,” Soul finished while placing the picture album Maka had designed onto the seat closest to Kami, which allowed him a brief moment to watch as his mother-in-law stared at the item with tear-stained eyes before the security guards began to lead him and Spirit away from her.

———————————————————————

“You’ve got some guts saying all that to her kid,” Spirit sighed while slumping further into his seat.

“Yea, well I was hardly thinkin’ shit through when I did that,” Soul replied as he glanced at the wall clock that’d been fixed near the entrance to the airport security office.

Let’s just hope they let us outta here before Maka starts to worry the younger Deathscythe then thought while watching Spirit give him a sideways glance before facing forward and proceeding to clear his throat.

“Ma’am, I know we both broke a few airport security laws and all, but could you let my son go this one time please. Would it be so hard to let him spend his first Christmas as a married man with his wife-,”

“Sorry sir, but you’re gonna have to wait for my boss to get back here and decide if we can let you two go,” the security guard murmured over Spirit before shifting in her seat and going back to scrolling through her phone.

His what??? Soul thought to himself while watching Spirit’s face mold into a grimace.

“Honestly, you’d think people would have a heart around this time of-“

“Your…son huh?” Soul then questioned over Spirit’s misgivings, causing the older Deathscythe to give him a bewildered look before his expression mellowed into a slight scowl.

“I know you’re not that dumb, Eater. Probably in denial but definitely not an airhead when it comes to things like this,” Spirit whispered while tipping his head backwards against the cream colored office wall.

“Then…”

I know the kind of man you are Eater the younger Deathscythe abruptly recalled before watching his father-in-law furrow his eyebrows at his sudden pause.

“Ya’…really don’t hate my guts?” Soul eventually questioned.

“I did. Still kinda do sometimes, but I can’t deny the good you’ve done for my daughter. When I found out that frog witch and her wolf boyfriend advised you to talk to Stein and Marie about proposal advice, I was pissed. You know why?” Spirit responded, eliciting Soul to gape at the man before he answered his silence with a low scoff.

“It’s because I knew Maka would say yes. She loves you and Death, no matter how much I wanna deny it, I can see why. You’re a pretty good kid at heart Soul, and y’know what? I’m glad I got a son-in-law that’d be insane enough to get locked up in a airport security office with me on Christmas Eve just for Maka,” his father-in-law then elaborated, probing Soul’s eyes to go wide at the sudden confession.

“D-don’t tell anyone I said any of that crap, ALRIGHT! How about we just…uh call this a truce,” Spirit finished before stretching a hand out to Soul, who met his eyes for a split second and then let out a sneer at how his father-in-law began to raise an eyebrow at him.

“Yea, guess a truce wouldn’t be all that bad dad,” Soul exclaimed while clasping his hand against Spirit���s, only to hear the office door violently slam against the wall a moment afterward.

“UGH FINALLY!” the two men heard a voice shriek out before watching the security guard drop her phone in shock and then being crushed against Maka’s quivering figure.

“I don’t know if I should hit you two upside the head with a hardcover or hug you to death!” Maka exclaimed as her grip against them became increasingly tighter.

“Think it’d be really nice if you chose neither of those two,” Soul choked out before his wife let out a small chuckle and pulled away her arms to directly face them.

“Maka angel, we-“

“It’s ok Papa. Stein and Marie already told me your plan while we were driving here. I came to get my family, nothing else. Can’t really celebrate Christmas without you guys, right?” Maka exclaimed over Spirit’s consoling while reaching down and planting a quick kiss onto the older Deathscythe’s forehead.

Soul then watched as Spirit’s eyes softened from the action, only to feel Maka’s lips press against his own soon after.

“Eugh, I’m gonna go look for Stein and Marie,” the older Deathscythe grumbled just as Soul deepened the kiss, only to let out a huff in protest once his wife separated their lips a second after.

“Oh, um about that. I may or may not have…punched a security guard to get here,” the young woman exclaimed, causing both men to level a startled gaze at her.

The reaction seemed to fit what Maka had been anticipating, as she gave Soul another chaste kiss before pulling him up from his seat.

“Guess we should head out, that way I can apologize to the security guard and let him meet the two men I’d kill for,” Maka finished before taking Spirit’s palm into her free hand and pulling both men out of the office. Soul couldn’t help but let out a sigh at his wife’s words, although it soon turned into a slight grin once he noticed his father-in-law attempting to stifle his tears of happiness.

[warnerswilsons]

The More You Reassure, The Less I Trust

Fandom: Jackbox/You Don’t Know Jack

Word Count: 2,658

Hey, everyone! This is a fic I’ve been working on for about a month, and it is finally finished! I’ve cross posted it on AO3, so the link will be at the bottom.

Anyway, this is based on two prompts from @cosmophoriia’s angry love confessions prompt list. The two prompts being used are ‘Character A choosing to avoid Character B for a while after B goes out on a date, and is so confused on why A is avoiding them’ and “‘why do you care?’ ‘Because I’m in love with you!’” I immediately knew I wanted to write this fic with Schmitty and Cookie, so here it is!

Just a heads up: characters do get locked in a booth at one point.

Title is from “Against the Kitchen Floor” by Will Wood

Even on a Monday morning, the studio seemed to be bustling with energy, and this one was no exception. As everyone piled through the doors, they broke into conversation, catching up on major events from over the weekend. Cookie had arrived relatively early. After his let-down of a weekend, there wasn't anywhere else he would have wanted to be aside from at the studio with his fellow game hosts. Though, even as more people walked through the doors, something still felt off. Cookie's gaze shifted back and forth between the door and his phone, as if waiting for some sort of message. The Fibbage host started subconsciously tapping his foot as he glanced down at his phone one last time, before looking up and meeting the eyes of one of the interns. He failed to stop himself from jumping back slightly out of surprise.

"Uh, Mr. Masterson?" To Cookie, it didn't seem like the intern had picked up on his startled response. He let out a sigh, dusting himself off, ready to act like everything was going fine.

"What is it?" The bored, impatient tone that tinted his response wasn't entirely feigned. Cookie would've much rather been talking to someone else.

"Helen told me to tell you that you're, uh, needed in the booth. Something about a cameo or whatever?"

The intern's voice faded into the background as Cookie tried to discreetly glance over their shoulder and around the room. His eyes lit up as he noticed Schmitty walk though the door. He glanced back at the intern, who was still relaying the message, and quickly waved a hand at them.

"Yeah, yeah, hold that thought..."

"But-"

"Just, tell Helen I'll be up in 5, okay?"

"I guess I-" Cookie didn't even wait for the intern to finish before running off. He exchanged some quick greetings with co-workers as he continued to survey the room. He picked up his pace slightly upon spotting Schmitty once again, very briefly meeting his gaze. Almost immediately, Schmitty glanced away, much to Cookie's dismay. Though, he did manage to catch up to his fellow host before he could leave the room.

"Schmitty! Just the guy I wanted to see!"

"Cookie."

That wasn't the answer he was hoping for, but at least it was an upgrade from none at all.

"Nice to be back in the studio?"

"Oh, yeah sure."

Cue an unamused stare from Cookie.

"Really? You're not gonna give me anything else? Not even just a tidbit about how your weekend went?"

"You wouldn't want to hear about it. It was probably way more uneventful than yours." Schmitty let out a sigh, briefly averting Cookie's gaze. There was an edge to his tone of voice that couldn't quite be placed. "Yeah, you had that date, didn't you?! Bet you can't wait to share how that went."

"Well, actually I-"

"Save the story for another time, Cookie. I've got some things I've gotta take care of so..."

"I get it." Cookie tried his best to hide that he wasn't at least slightly disappointed. He was finally able to chat with his fellow host, and that was how it ended up. Cookie barley had enough time to add anything else, though, as Schmitty waved a silent goodbye as he headed towards the door. Once Schmitty had left, Cookie shook his head, and turned back to see the intern standing in the standing in the same spot from earlier.

"What the fuck are you still doing here?"

"I wanna know about your date."

"How did you-" Cookie stopped, still processing what the other had said. "Were you eavesdropping on us? Actually, I don't want to know." Cookie began to head towards the door, seeming far more stressed than he had minutes ago. "Tell Helen I'm heading up now."

*******************************************

Schmitty hadn't exactly meant to avoid Cookie for the weekend. In fact, he figured everything would be okay again on Monday. Unfortunately, when he and Cookie had locked eyes, he knew that it wasn't, and it was all because of that date. Of course, Schmitty was happy for his fellow host, but as he heard Cookie talk about how excited he was, the Quiplash host felt a pang of something else. Something like a mix of disappointment and jealousy. For the rest of the day, Schmitty didn't engage much with Cookie, aside from a goodbye as he left for the weekend. That feeling still remained for most of the weekend, but Schmity hoped it would go away soon. After all, heading back to the studio on Monday, and hosting a few games would definitely take his mind off of it, right?

Well, within 5 minutes of arriving to the studio, that sense of longing had only grown stronger. As soon as Schmitty brought up the date when talking to Cookie, he wished he hadn't. Why would he go and remind himself of the very thing he was trying to forget? Thankfully, he made an exit, as awkward as it was, and took some tome to refocus on the day ahead in the minutes he had before he had to be up at the recording booth. If all went according to plan, he could at least have a temporary distraction.

Unfortunately, a wrench had been thrown into that plan. For lo and behold, there was Cookie, in front of the booth, having a quick, yet conversation with Helen and one of the interns that was just too quiet to make out.

"Oh, you've gotta be kidding me."

That got the other three in the room to turn to face Schmitty. Cookie immediately flinched, and he averted his gaze, turning back to Helen.

"See? I told you we shouldn't have done this today!"

"Hang on, what are we supposed to do today?" Schmitty crossed his arms as he slowly made his way into the room. As he did so, both Cookie and the intern glanced at Helen, silently asking her to explain.

"Well, you two are doing cameos for each other's games, so I thought we should do an extra rehearsal and sound check before then." Helen sighed as she went over the plan. "Didn't you get the email I sent about it?"

"Uh, nope. Must've missed that one." Schmitty shrugged, arms still crossed. Helen briefly glanced over at him before turning towards Cookie, seemingly picking up on the tension between them.

"It won't be ideal, but we can reschedule this for another-"

"Nonono! Doing this today sounds great!" Schmitty practically marched over to the booth, his previously quizzical expression becoming a strained smile. "Let's just make it quick." He didn't pick up on Cookie's quiet sigh of relief as the other host followed him in.

"So I guess we're doing this now!"

*******************************************

Unfortunately, the rehearsal took longer than everyone hoped it would. Helen had left to oversee something else, and left the intern to man the controls, much to the concern of the two hosts. On top of that, Schmitty's delivery was constantly coming across as aloof and had an extra edge in his tone that was rarely that present. By the end, Cookie was one run-through away from flat-out screaming at his friend about what exactly was going on.

"And I guess that's a wrap." The intern leaned into the mic as they stood up, grabbing something on the table.

"Oh, thank god!" Cookie and Schmitty uttered their reactions in almost perfect sync. This was immediately followed by an awkward stare. They just barely noticed the intern heading towards the door.

"Well, I don't know about you, but I need some water after that."

"Really." Schmitty raised an eyebrow as the intern rushed out of the room, leaving the door swinging for a bit. The Quiplash host took that as his cue to leave as well. "Well, I've gotta head out now, so-"

"Hang on." Cookie was now even more determined to get an answer from his fellow host. "What has been going on with you today?"

"Nothing's wrong, Cookie!" Schmitty put his hands up defensively, his expression contradicting his answer. "Now, I've got things I need to do, and places I-" He went to open the door of the recording booth, the knob doing nothing more than shaking in his grip. "Shit."

"Yeah right." Cookie scoffed, not yet processing the other's shift in demeanor. "You've been acting all weird ever since you got here today!" The Fibbage host froze as he finally noticed Schmitty aggressively shaking the doorknob. His eyes went wide. "Oh god. Don't tell me."

"Should've guessed when that intern didn't even open the damn door." Schmitty uttered the words just loud enough hear, not letting go of the doorknob.

"This can't be happening to me. Not again." Cookie clenched his fists as he took a deep breath and walked over to the other host. "Are you sure it's locked?" That got Schmitty to let go of the handle and turn to face the other.

"No, Cookie. I was just wiggling the doorknob that frantically as a practical joke." The Quiplash host narrowed his eyes before spinning back around and banging on the door. Cookie didn't join him just yet.

"Jeez, Schmitty! What is your problem with me today?"

"I already said I don't-"

"That's bullshit." Cookie frowned crossing his arms as Schmitty slowly began to face him once again. "While we're stuck in here, you might as well tell me what's actually going on."

"Why? This already seems like the perfect story to tell on your next date!"

Cookie paused, processing what Schmitty had just said. It was all starting to make sense now. "That's what this is all about? I thought you were excited for me!"

"Yeah, I was!" Kind of the truth. "More or less. But it felt weird hearing about it, and you seemed so happy, so I just decided to...get out of the way for the weekend." Schmitty took a breath before going on. "I didn't want to seem like an asshole about it, you know?"

"And you think that this isn't being an asshole about it?"

Silence.

"Yeah, that's fair." Schmitty leaned against the wall with a sigh. He had given up on getting someone to come to the door minutes ago. After a few seconds, Cookie walked over and joined him.

"You know you could've told me about this beforehand, right?"

"Pssh, yeah right!"

"I'm serious." The Fibbage host turned to face to other.

"Well, what was I supposed to say, then?!" Schmitty pushed himself off of the wall, walking around the edges of the booth. "'I don't want you to go on that date, Cookie! I wish that you had decided to ask me out instead...'" Schmitty clasped a hand over his mouth as he felt his eyes begin to widen. Cookie had almost the same reaction. "Just...just forget I said anything. Once we get out of this booth, we can pretend like this whole thing never happened! It'll be fine!"

Cookie blinked a few times as he stared at his fellow host in disbelief. Based on Schmitty's reaction alone, there was no way that his remarks were merely sarcasm.

"What did you just say?"

"Uh, nothing! Absolutely nothing important that there's no need to think about!" Schmitty knew his attempts wouldn't make the other host forget what he had just let slip, but it was at least worth a shot.

"Well, it sure sounded like something." As expected, it was an unsuccessful shot. "You know, actually, I think admitting to hoping we'd go on a date is a pretty big something!"

"Look, it just kinda slipped out okay?" Schmitty hoped he didn't sound as shaky as that felt to say. He turned away from his fellow host, letting out a long sigh. "Can't you just forget I said that?"

"No!" Now it was Cookie's turn to start pacing around the booth. "This isn't exactly something I can just stop thinking about! Why do you want me to forget about it so badly?"

"Why the hell do you care?"

"Because I'm in love with you!"

Once again, there was silence. Schmitty had begun to turn back around, but froze as Cookie's answer hit his ears. After a few seconds, the only thing that could be heard was a quiet, strained laugh from the Quiplash host.

"You're fucking with me, aren't you?"

"What-?"

"Yeah, you're definitely fucking with me." Schmitty put his hand on a wall, taking a few steps. He didn't notice Cookie take a few steps closer. "What else would explain this? First, you had that date over the weekend, and then I accidentally confess my feelings to you, and now this! It's like you wanted to help me make an even bigger fool of myself!"

Cookie's gaze shifted between the other host and the floor. He wasn't sure what exactly to say but he knew that he'd have to be the one to break the silence. The Fibbage host reluctantly glanced over at the other.

"I, uh, actually cancelled my date."

"What?" Almost immediately, Schmitty whipped around, meeting Cookie's gaze. "Why?"

"It just didn't feel right. Like I would've been going out with the wrong person." That got a nod from the Quiplash host. "I tried to call and tell you, but you didn't pick up."

"Oh. Sorry."

"No, it's fine, Schmitty. I just wanted to spend that time with you."

For a few moments, it seemed like Schmitty was frozen in place, staring at Cookie, then he finally shook his head and blinked a few times. "You're being serious..."

"Why wouldn't I be?"

"I don't know." The Quiplash host briefly glanced away, lightly tapping his feet in the ground. "I'm sorry. For...everything between Friday and right now."

"Well, I get it." Cookie stared straight ahead at the window. "And I'm sorry if I pushed you too much just then."

"Eh, I probably needed you to anyways." Schmitty shrugged, waving a hand in the air. "No hard feelings, okay?"

"Yeah. No hard feelings." Cookie smiled slightly as he echoed his fellow host. For a moment, the two of them just stayed there, not adding anything. Schmitty let out a sigh before fully breaking the silence

"So...what now?"

"I'm not sure..." Cookie trailed off, trying to think of a better answer to the question. "Maybe we could-"

Before the Fibbage host could continue, the door swung open. Helen stood in the doorway of the booth, staring at the two.

"What are you both still doing here? You've got games about to start!"

Cookie let out an awkward chuckle as he made his way out of the booth. "Sorry, Helen. We kinda forgot about that."

"To be fair, we did also get locked in." Schmitty quickly joined the others, letting the door close behind him. "So we're not entirely to blame."

Helen shook her head, pinching her nose between her fingers. "Remind me to have a talk with whoever was manning the booth for you." The producer began to head towards the room's exit. "You guys have five minutes until the games start, so hop to it." As Helen left the room, she received a chorus of affirmatives from the hosts. The two of them began to follow suit, when Schmitty stopped.

"So, uh, why don't we talk about this some more later? Maybe over lunch?"

"You know, that actually sounds great." Cookie nodded. Whatever tension had been in the air ten minutes ago had dissipated completely. "I hope you get some fun players to work with in the meantime!"

"Right back atcha!" Schmitty grinned, shooting the other host some finger guns as he made his way down the hall. "See you later, Cookie."

"See you then, Schmitty." Cookie returned the gesture with a short wave of the fingers, shaking his head and laughing slightly to himself. After a few seconds, he turned around, and continued on his way. It was beginning to feel like a fantastic start to the week.

Here’s the AO3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/54756895

[syrhra]

UA Christmas - Mistletoe edition ❄️

oc x canon 改善.晴翔 x 爆豪.勝己 I think just by reading the title you know where I'm headed c: ---merry christmas! 🎄 I guess this counts as my first fic? story? not sure what to call this, let's say scenario. either way I hope you enjoy it <3 (psst, there's a mini surprise at the end!)

The common room of Class 1-A’s dormitory glowed with warm light as the students gathered for their annual Christmas party. The scent of hot cocoa and fresh-baked cookies filled the air, and laughter echoed as everyone exchanged gifts. Snow fell gently outside the windows, frosting the world in a peaceful white.

Kaizen stood near the fireplace, his navy sweater adorned with small golden stars glinting softly in the light. He sipped from a steaming cup of cocoa, his gaze flicking between the sparkling tree and the chaotic antics of Mina and Kaminari as they argued over holiday trivia.

This is... nice, he thought, a small, content smile playing on his lips. Back home, it was always just him and his Mom. Those were good times—quiet, simple, but filled with love. They’d cook something special together, watch old holiday movies, and she’d always insist on putting up way too many decorations.

He chuckled softly to himself, recalling how his mother would hum carols while decorating their tiny tree, her cheer infectious despite the simplicity of their celebrations. It was enough back then. It was perfect.

But tonight felt different.

Being here, surrounded by people who’ve faced the same struggles, the same fears—it felt warm in a way he didn’t expect. It’s messy and loud and completely chaotic, but that’s what makes it so special. Everyone fought so hard, and now everyone gets to laugh, to breathe, to just exist together.

His gaze lingered on his classmates. Mina’s boisterous laugh as she teased Kaminari, Midoriya fumbling with a ribbon he couldn’t untangle, and Todoroki’s quiet amusement at it all. It felt like a special time to be alive.

Until his thoughts were interrupted by a sharp, familiar voice.

“No way I'm wearing that! Get that thing away from me!” Bakugo’s voice cut through the noise, sharp and exasperated. Kaizen turned just in time to see Mina fling a Santa hat toward Bakugo, who dodged it like it was a live grenade.

Kaizen chuckled softly, a small smile tugging at his lips. “I’m surprised you’re here!”

Bakugo shot him a sharp glare, though it lacked his usual bite. “Tch. Not like I could sleep with how noisy these idiots are.”

How the roles have switched.

Kaizen tilted his head, his expression softening. “Well, I’m glad you came. The room feels brighter with you in it.” His voice was quiet but sincere.

Bakugo faltered, a faint flicker of something unreadable crossing his face before he snorted, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You’re so damn weird, Haruto.”

Their exchange was interrupted by Mina’s gleeful shriek. “Oh my gosh, look!”

Kaizen followed her gaze upward and froze. Dangling just above him and Bakugo was a sprig of mistletoe, tied with a glittering red ribbon.

“Mistletoooooooe!” Mina sang, her grin mischievous as she clapped her hands.

The room erupted with whistles and laughter, all eyes now fixed on the pair.

Bakugo’s face turned scarlet. “What kind of stupid prank is this?!” he barked, glaring at the offending plant as though it had personally insulted him.

“Don’t look at me!” Kaminari said, throwing up his hands in mock innocence. “But rules are rules, man. You know what’s gotta happen.”

Kaizen, his cheeks dusted with a faint pink, tried to diffuse the situation. “It’s just a silly tradition,” he murmured, offering Bakugo an amused smile. “We don’t have to—”

“Oh no, no, no,” Hagakure chimed in, pushing them closer. “We’re all watching now. You can’t back out!”

“Like hell I—” Bakugo started, but the intensity of the stares around him, combined with Kaizen’s calm, almost amused expression, made him hesitate. His crimson eyes flickered to Kaizen, who simply tilted his head with a soft smile.

“It doesn’t have to be a big deal,” Kaizen said softly, his tone steady but playful.

“Fine!” Bakugo growled through gritted teeth. Before anyone could react, he leaned in, planting a quick, almost aggressive kiss on Kaizen’s cheek before stepping back.

“There!” he barked at the room. “Happy now, you damn extras?” His ears burned red as he stomped toward the snack table. “And if anyone mentions this again, they’re dead!”

The room burst into cheers and applause, Mina and Kaminari collapsing into a fit of giggles. “Oh man, that was even better than I imagined!” Kaminari wheezed, wiping a tear from his eye. Mina nudged him with a grin, her laughter tapering into a soft chuckle.

“Alright, alright, we’ve had our fun,” she said, her voice still carrying a playful lilt. “Before Bakugo actually blows us up, let’s move on.”

Yaoyorozu stepped forward, her smile serene as she gestured toward the table stacked with cards and board games. “Shall we begin the games? Everything’s ready, and we still have plenty of time before the night ends.”

Kaizen, meanwhile, touched his cheek where Bakugo’s lips had brushed, a soft laugh escaping him. “Can't believe he went for it,

How cute."

Later that evening, as the party wound down, Kaizen found Bakugo leaning against a shadowed corner, arms crossed and scowl firmly in place.

“You survived,” Kaizen said lightly as he approached.

“Barely,” Bakugo muttered, refusing to meet his gaze.

Kaizen smiled, his voice lowering. “Thank you for coming, Bakugo. You could’ve skipped, but you didn’t. I think that says a lot about you.”

“Don’t read into it,” Bakugo grumbled, but his tone lacked its usual venom.

Kaizen leaned back slightly, spectating his classmates from a new angle. “It’s moments like this that remind me why we fight so hard every day. This—being with everyone—it’s what we’re protecting. I’m glad you were part of it tonight.”

Bakugo stared at him for a long moment, then sighed, the tension in his shoulders easing just slightly.

Kaizen stepped forward, a soft smile on his lips. “Merry Christmas, Bakugo.”

For a moment, Bakugo didn’t reply. Then, in a voice so quiet it was almost lost in the hum of the party, he muttered, “Merry Christmas.”

Nearby, hidden behind the couch, Kaminari and Mina whispered gleefully.

“Told you the mistletoe idea would work,” Mina whispered triumphantly, elbowing Kaminari. "Bakugo's reaction was priceless, just as I expected."

“You’re a genius! Is that why you planted Kaizen there?!” Kaminari replied, stifling his laughter.

"Had it been anyone else, I doubt Bakugo would have wanted to stand next to them." Mina shrugged.

“Do you think they’ll ever figure it out?”

Mina grinned. “Not a chance. And even if they do, it was totally worth it. Now, help me figure out how to get Iida under the second mistletoe...”

The two exchanged a quiet high-five before disappearing back into the party, their plan a resounding success.

[quinloki]

Been doodling and thinking about Novalie a lot recently, so here she is in all her punk (and Host Club) glory! Thank you for including her in the Host Club AU!

Novalie is the MC of my One Piece WIP fic called Fucking Up The Canon (You're Welcome). In which Novalie, who was unfortunately murdered on her way home from her bar tending job at the nightclub, she gets Isekai'd right onto the deck of The Moby Dick and proceeds to fuck up the canon as best she can to save everyone.

Profile stuff:

Name: Novalie Soho (if you guess what song inspired her last name, you get a cookie. Hint: it's a punk song)

Age: 31

Eye colour: Blue

Birthday: 7th November

Height: 5'7

Favourite food: Spicy garlic chicken and rice

More information:

She can death metal scream and she absolutely blew the minds of the crew of the Moby Dick when they heard her do it for the first time. Her band started out as metal before moving onto a punk sound, but she still uses her ability to scream in some of the band's songs.

Is a One Piece fan thanks to her Bassist getting her into it. She was fuming about never seeing the end of One Piece before realising that she's going to get a chance to witness it herself.

Has an enormous crush on Thatch. She's pretty good at keeping her cool about it but as soon as Thatch calls her Sugar, Darlin' or any other affectionate term; her cool is gone and she's cherry red from the neck up.

Lives by the motto "Do No Harm But Take No Shit". Novalie has had to push that way of life aside a lot since she landed on the Moby Dick and learn how to fight in order to protect herself from enemies.

Novalie struggles to come to terms with her murder as well as the who and why. She is plagued by nightmares about it, along with dreams that seem to be showing her the aftermath of her death.

I love her \o/ I love all this new info too - I can’t wait to get back into the AU - zines and comms have my time currently, but I’m getting through them and I’ll be back into my long forms soon enough =3

YOU DREW HER IN UNIFORM FOR THE CLUB EXCUSE ME WHILE I SCREAM

I have no idea the song, but that’s not a surprise coming from me - I love music but I am absolutely awful at remembering band names and song titles. But I love the isekai vibes - and the murder mystery and the death metal scream xD

I love that the punk OC is on the Moby and not the Victoria - not that that would’ve been bad in the first place, I just love the subversion of expectations- and a crush on THATCH \o/

Thatch deserves all the love and attention, honestly xD big old romantic pompadour having Bear of a Man. Whew

Thank you for sharing \o/

[justablah56]

why dont you try and make predictiojs on what esch fic is about based on the title

hcjekcm ok . I don't think I'm going to get like . any of these very good . but it seems silly so I shall try

1. "stab wounds"

I have absolutely zero ideas for what your planning with this hey cookies wdym stab wound . do I need to be worried . is it metaphorical . I have no idea what to expect from this but I am soso excited

2. "it's not mutual pining, it's marriage"

ok so I'm guessing this one is swiftli being gay and the other teens being like man the mutual pining and swiftli being like hey we're not pining were literally married stfu

3. "giddy when I'm with you"

eem . I'm guessing this one is just one of em (probably Taylor ... idk .....) just seeing the other n being silly and smiley and happy and then being like huh what are you smiling abt and Taylor being like you <333 n then idk a conversation .... maybe ......... n then they kiss .

5. "did it hurt?"

I am 100% certain this will end with Linc carrying Taylor bridal carry style and probably a "did it hurt when you fell from heaven/hell" joke . that's all I got .

6. "protecting the paladin"

Taylor being protective of Linc n just ,,, helping Linc ... bcs Linc helps Taylor so often so now Taylor's gonna help linc

[skyyknights]

20 Questions For Fic Writers

Tagged by @zeldaelmo @nocturne-side-blog @aegon-targaryen !! Thank you all!!

1. How many works do you have on AO3?

59 in total, but only 46 are available to the public 😅 I think I ended up putting some of the ones I wasn't as fond of, or ones that I just didn't feel like updating ever again, to a private collection lol

2. What's your total AO3 word count?

212,020!

3. What fandoms do you write for?

hooboy.

Legend of Zelda, mainly, but also: How to Train Your Dragon, Miraculous, LOTR, 1917, MCU, Narnia, Endeavour, and a few other extremely obscure fandoms hardly anyone else is in XD

4. What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

the faces left behind (LU which I know many people hate but I like it so don't judge lol)

Marinette Has Cookies (Of Course Chat Showed Up) (what an annoying title actually??) (Miraculous)

Just Allergies? (How to Train Your Dragon)

Juli's Tree (Flipped)

The Power of a Hot Drink (Skyward Sword)

wow I am... not good at coming up with fic titles 😂 nowadays I just pick a song lyric from a song that applies and slap it on the title but other than that they're pretty horrible 💀

5. Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

Yes! Although sometimes if there's really no way to respond to it I just mark it as read.

...also usually it takes me a while to get the motivation to reply. I've been known to take months before answering a comment 😬

6. What's the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

Oo hm... I can't decide so instead I shall dump a handful of them

One Last Look - Skyward Sword Zelink, after that scene

Age - Sksw Zelink through the years, with a bittersweet ending

Golden Sands - this is one of the first fics I ever posted (originally posted on Wattpad... oof). but basically it's about the robot Skipper from Skyward Sword, thinking about his past life while broken and unable to move in the present.

Incomprehensible - POV of other hobbits in the Shire, unable to understand why the four Travelers act the way they do, or why eventually their number drops to three.

Regrets - Joandeavour talking about... tough things :(

Please, Ada - Babey™ Legolas wanting to hang with his father and his father does NOT want to hang with him is the happiest way I can describe it

7. What's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

Take three because I'm indecisive.

Worthy - Edmund Pevensie coming to terms with the fact that he is loved

Spidey - Spideychelle being oblivious. that is all

Rainy Days - TP Zelinkkkkkk

there's definitely more but I think those are probably some of the happiest

8. Do you get hate on fics?

My fics usually have a pretty small reception so I don't think so? The most would be someone saying the plotholes of the fic were killing them which then sent me, a major overthinker, into overdrive, even though it's not that bad XD so no, thankfully, I don't think I've ever gotten any (although anon hate is another thing entirely. LOL)

9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

nope! don't ever plan to either

10. Do you write crossovers? What's the craziest one you've written?

erm. I don't think I ever have?? I've read one or two before, but I don't believe I have ever actually written one

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

I don't think so XD

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

again, idt so!!

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

nope! It's a dream of mine though, Noct and I have several things planned >>>>>>:)

14. What's your all-time favorite ship?

oh boy.

so

this is a tricky question

and

the answer is.

all of them

ok jokes aside I genuinely cannot narrow it down, so I'll list... my top five, I guess.

Zelink, Joandeavour, Spideychelle, Rudy/Liesel, and Hiccstrid

(Hm. Thinking about it Joandeavour is probably my favorite just because it's so heartbreakingly tragic, but Zelink is a very very very close second)

15. What's a WIP you want to finish, but doubt you ever will?

hah.

Probably this, a fix-it Spideychelle fic that I have a lot written for but idk if I'll ever have the guts to do much else with it

16. What are your writing strengths?

d. description I guess?? I've never been a good judge at what I'm good at XD

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

I tend to be a bit Victor Hugo-esque with my sentences, aka I have to control myself so the sentence doesn't stretch on for five paragraphs

and we don't talk about my old fics <3

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language for a fic?

I mean? For LOTR I would definitely sprinkle in elvish just for the vibe of it, also because he did so, but I would also provide translations. For real-world...hmm. I think I did throw in three or four German words in The Book Thief fic I posted recently, but again, the author himself did so, and I think so long as you're not adding a full, necessary sentence that the reader is then required to look up in order to understand what's going on, and if you instead just use a curse word or a muttered phrase of annoyance or something in the other language, I think that's fine.

19. First fandom you wrote for?

LOTR, I believe. Hand-written in seventh or eighth grade XD

(And then I wrote dozens of unfinished Loz fics in the notes app on my mom's ancient phone she didn't use anymore, fics that completely misunderstood any of the games because I hadn't played them yet. It pains me to think about those fics).

(also this is not counting those "add on to the end of the story!" assignments teachers used to give out in middle school)

20. Favorite fic you've ever written?

oh hot dang lemme see

againnnn we are doing several (look my decision making has been ATROCIOUS lately, I cannot be faulted <3)

you feel like home - SkSw Zelink, a teeny tiny bit of angst but mostly fluff (also Link nearly throws hands with Scrapper which is a bonus. When I tell you I cranked that fic out in a day after getting so salty with Scrapper I nearly snapped my wiimote in half)

would I run off the world someday - a very recent TP Zinc fic!! It has traces of Midlink; essentially, it's about Link refusing to stop grieving Midna, and thus hurting himself and Zelda, who is in love with him due to having shared a soul with Midna. It's basically a 4+1 fic and does end happy with the promise of future Zelink, very different from my normal Zelink stuff though

annnd...

Forbidden - Zinc week fic that didn't get as much attention as my other two ZW fics, but I actually really really love it so. <3 I just. idk I love the prose of that fic, I suppose :) and the ending hehe

I do have a few other favorites but I think it's unfair to include them because they're unfinished lol

tagging: @aheavenscorner @minstrelsmusings @onewingedsparrow (sorry if you've already been tagged oops)

[betweenthings2]

tst!!!!

what is the 2nd angstiest thing you’ve written recently

whats a matty outfit that you like in particular

what do you think of fig newtons

tell us about a fic u are working on rn.. snippet 👀 vibe??

Talk shop Tuesday!! Thank you for the ask!!

I'm including the past couple weeks in lately because I haven't really had the time to do a ton of writing with finals going on, so the second angstiest thing I've written lately within that time frame is A Quiet Kind of Numbness, just behind I Need to Tell You Something (which should have been titled I Think There's Something You Should Know). If you want something I haven't published yet, though, it's probably a prompt from the November list that will be up soon-ish.

My favorite Matty outfit might be that white skirt he wore on stage ages ago with the BauHaus(?) t-shirt, not because it was his best look ever, but because I love the skirt. I can never find a picture of it when I'm looking for it, or I'd link it. I'm also fond of this polo, somewhere on my blog is a collection of photos of Matty in a red button down that's also wonderful--red works well for him--and he had a sweater that looked wonderfully soft in Pittsburgh last year.

I am ambivalent about fig newtons. There are better snacks, like, have you ever had Trader Joe's peanut butter cups? I'd commit an atrocity for those peanut butter cups. Or brie on a slice of fresh bread with a little bit of honey? A homemade chocolate chip cookie?

A fic I'm working on now...hmm. I have a couple things I'm actively working on. I've been working on the Guess Remix fic, which still doesn't have an actual title, but I am really working on it. I also have been working on a fic that deals with self harm because I got an ask about it a while ago and I love making all of us sad. And then I have another fic in the works centered around fictional!Matty developing an eating disorder. I think it's going to be a three part fic with a chapter set around self-titled, A Brief Inquiry, and Covid lockdown. The Guess Remix fic is way closer to being done than anything else, so here's a little snippet.

Matty casts a glace at himself in the mirror, sticks his lipgloss into his bralette, then takes the shoes and heads down the hall, the back of his dress still only halfway zipped.

"George," Matty calls out as he's walking down the hall. "I need you do the zipper."

George appears at the end of the hallway, but he pauses when he sees Matty. "You," he says, "look like something out of a fucking dream."

"I need you to do the zipper," Matty repeats. "Why'd you buy me a dress I can't get into on my own?"

George laughs and urges Matty to turn around so he can zip the dress, saying, "Because you can't get into on your own." He zips the dress, and runs a hand over Matty's shoulder, then adds, "And because you can't get out of it on your own."

Matty turns to face George, realizing then that George looks amazing, too. He steps forward just a bit and stands on his tiptoes for a kiss, still holding the shoes, and when they separate, says, "You look really good."

"So do you," George responds. Then, a little less sure of himself, asks, "Do you like it? All of it?"

Matty nods. "'course I do. You picked it out."

"All of it?" George repeats.

"All of it," Matty echoes. "Particularly this bit," he adds, taking George's hand and guiding it under his skirt so George can feel his lace clad cock.

George doesn't move his hand, but uses his free hand to pull Matty close and kisses him again.

"You're gonna have to move your hand if we're gonna make our reservation," Matty murmurs when they separate.

"I kinda wanna miss it."

[writeshite]

Hello! Would it be possible to ask for a Mark fic where the reader takes some weed cookies by accident like how it happened in 14x20 (clever with the ep choice) and he’s just super giggly and more affectionate than usual with Mark, and Mark finds it amusing while trying to calm him down a little. Yes, I know Mark canonically isn’t in the episode, but I don’t wanna talk about it lmao

Tumble Weed

Summary:

“Those cookies tasted funny,” George mumbles, his voice dragging on before he starts laughing. “Funny. Funny. Funny.” He laughs some more, kicking up at the table.

Pairings:

Mark Sloan x Male!Reader

Tags:

Weed Cookies | Affectionate!Reader | Crack Fluff

Words: 674

Author's Note:

First person to guess why the title is Tumble Weed gets a gold star because they understand my sleep-deprived brain's humor. Fun Fact, I am nowhere near season 14 so as the logical person that I am, I went and read through the Wikia for the episode you mentioned and also spent a few minutes googling about weed cookies.

A wise man would have waited until someone came into the canteen before tasting the cookies, but considering how good they looked and how nice they were, you just couldn’t resist. The first one was a vanilla crumble cookie, the icing swirly with sprinkles, and the second, your favorite, was a chocolate chip cookie; after another two, you felt sort of full. Another five, and you felt high as a kite, which according to the others, you were. You weren’t the only one who enjoyed the treats; George and Izzie were sat next to you. Well, you were lying on the table, Izzie was slumped between three chairs, and George was on the floor.

“Those cookies tasted funny,” George mumbles, his voice dragging on before he starts laughing. “Funny. Funny. Funny.” He laughs some more, kicking up at the table.

You smack the table in response, both of you making noise, Izzie joins in singing at the top of her lungs, and soon enough, you’re all singing the theme song of Little Einsteins. “Wait, wait, wait….what…what comes next?” You’d gotten past the line ‘in our favorite rocketship’ and were now lost.

“ZOOM!” Izzie bellows out, but George disagrees, kicking at the table, “ZOOM!” she says to get another reaction out of him. After another series of kicks, you resume your singing, “Ok, from the top!” Izzie commands.

“We’re going on a trip in our–our favorite rocket ship, zooming through the sky,” Izzie sings.

“Little Einsteins!” You and George sing the chorus.

“Climb aboard; get ready to explore! There’s so much to find!”

“Little Einsteins!” Izzie slides off her chair; she barely manages to regain any standing before she topples to the floor; George’s following laughter is loud. Izzie pouts, then shoves George; they play fight, then it escalates as they run around the room; at one point, George runs into a chair. Izzie climbs the canteen counter, hands on her hips, and proclaims herself queen of the canteen. George groans on the floor, “Silence, peasant!”

It’s then that the commotion draws attention; Meredith walks in, followed by Alex, Mark, and Andrew. They glance between the three of you, and you perk up when you spot Mark, calling out his name, and sit up. You open your arms, beckoning his to you, he walks forward, and you put your arms around him, “Soft,” you mumble to yourself.

“Woah, sweetheart,” Mark startles when you fondle his ass. 

“Ok, I did not need to see that,” Alex groans.

You chuckle, placing your head on Mark’s chest, “Very soft.” You make a kissy face, but Mark shakes his head, “Kissy, kissy, kissy. Gimme a steamy kissy.”

“Oh my god, he’s out of his mind,” Andrew says.

Meredith scoffs, “I’m pretty sure Izzie’s the one completely out; I mean, she’s hanging off the canteen hood. Then again, George is currently making snow angels on the floor.”

Mark startles again; taking your hands away from his ass, he holds them in front of him, “Ok, how about we keep our hands over here.”

“But I want to hold you,” you pout. He laughs, reaching out to the few remaining cookies; you smack his hand away from them, grabbing one, you shove it in your mouth. Mark sneaks another, sniffs it, and then sighs.

“Sweetheart, how did you get your hands on cookies packed full of weed?” 

You shrug, “Found them here, took a bite, they tasted funny, not funny bad, funny good. Good like you, my soft cookie.” You lock your legs behind him, “Maybe I should make you my hard cookie, my creamy hard cookie…” you bite your lip. 

Mark’s eyebrows shoot up, “Maybe later, right now, you need to lie down.”

“No,” you whine.

“Sorry, sweetheart, thems the rules; come on.” Mark moves back, and you follow, stumbling forward; his arm supports you as he moves to sit you down on a chair. When he’s sat down, you slide into his lap, ignoring the chair he’d pulled out for you, and snuggle close to your soft cookie.

End Note:

This is the funniest shit to me now, I gotta write a drunk reader at some point.

[i-will-physically-fight-you]

Along Came a Spider (1/3)

Title: Along Came a Spider (1/3)

Summary: Virgil has two secrets. The first secret is that he misses them. He misses Patton’s warm hugs and his soft, gooey cookies. He misses Logan and his rants about astronomy. He even misses Roman--loud, noisy prince who gets on his nerves with his bravado and flights of fancy. He should've known it wasn't ever meant to be. Now just thinking about them makes him feel like a worm on a hook–it’s like a sharp pain stabbing into his intestines that he can’t squirm away from.

The second secret? Well, it's something he's hidden from the others for a long, long time. And he'd rather put up the "Big Bad Anxiety" persona than for the others to know the truth. He knows they'll never forgive him for it and he can live with that. He has to.

Pairings: Platonic Prinixety, Background Platonic LAMP 

Word-Count: 3.4k

Warnings: Injuries, Blood Mention, Attempted Strangling (multiple times!), Panic, Non-Graphic Violence, Spiders, Mild Body Horror, Misunderstandings, BIG MISUNDERSTANDINGS, Things Are Not What They Appear to Be, Some Characters Make Some Morally Grey Decisions, Angst with a Happy Ending

  This fic is dedicated to @theeternalspace​, happy bday friend! I hope you find this fic to your liking. It takes place sometime after DWIT, so vaguely canon-adjacent up until that point. It'll be in three parts, so be on the look-out for the next two parts to this fic.

-

There’s a rat in the cell. It’s not even a cutesy one with fluffy fur and bright perky eyes, the kind that Patton would happily squeal about and the kind that’d cause Logan’s eyes  to spark with interest. Logan wouldn’t admit it but he loved rats. If given a chance, he’d rattle on for an hour about how smart the little critters were.

Virgil also liked them. He guessed it was because he could relate to them. Rats were creatures that were feared and despised by most, seen as dirty vermin that should be exterminated and kept under control. As the personification of Anxiety, it was quite easy to feel a kinship with them.

Roman, however, was a different story. He grew uncomfortable at even the mere mention.

“Pah! Dogs are much more noble creatures!” Roman said once, folding his arms against his chest in a classic princey pout.

“What about the rats in Ratatouille?” Virgil snarked back, “wouldn’t you say Remy’s dream of becoming a chef is noble?”

“Th--that’s different!” Roman threw his arms in the air, “It’s Pixar!”

But the rat in the cell isn’t a well-groomed, domesticated rat. It’s a huge, massive thing. Like maybe the size of a small cat. It’s unkempt fur brushy and bristly. It has sharp red eyes and pointy yellowed teeth. The rat tears through Virgil’s dinner with ease. He thinks maybe he should do something about the rat. After all, he hasn’t eaten in who knows how long.

He tries to do so.  The slightest inch in movement causes the rat to unleash a screech in his direction. It’s an ear-splitting sound and so Virgil stays put. For this rat is a creation of Remus. Who knows what eldritch atrocities the rat is capable of.

He has never understood Roman’s hatred of rats until this moment. He wonders if Remus has ever sicced a pack of rats on his brother. Did Roman manage to fend them off? Or did the rats overwhelm him, gnawing on his flesh and eating him alive? Of course, death is a very temporary thing in the Mindscape–but the twins’ realms of imagination make it feel anything but temporary.

God, Virgil wants to throw up just thinking about Roman being eaten alive by rats. It’s too dark even for him. That thought can’t belong to him. He’s been in Remus’s realm for weeks now. His influence must be infecting Virgil’s function, decaying it.

Virgil hopes this isn’t affecting Thomas negatively. He already fucked up once by ducking out. He refuses to allow it to happen a second time. Not when this is for the sake of the others.

The rat is still busy gnawing at the bread. It looks close to breaking its’ damn teeth on the thing. No wonder, it’s stale and hard-as-a-brick. Virgil could’ve used it as a projectile and knock out his imprisoners if it came to it. He wouldn’t. Not after the deal he’s struck with them.

Virgil shivers, pressing further into the corner of the cell he’s in. He’s curled up in an almost fetal position, desperate to conserve as much warmth as he can. Prickly goosebumps cover his skin. There’s no fierce, biting winter wind. No snow, no ice and yet it feels like a literal tundra inside the cell.

“Oooh, I’m so excited,” Remus had said, arms flaring out in a way that is too familiar, too Roman-like, “I’ve always wondered if we could die of hypothermia. Oooh, ooh! They say in the final stage of hypothermia, victims’ bodies feel unbearably warm--isn’t that fascinating?”

Well, he hasn’t reached that stage yet, so that has to be good, right? Although freezing to death isn’t that bad. Especially compared to the other things Remus has put him through these past few weeks. Things like facing a zombie apocalypse as the last survivor and playing “hide-and-go-seek” in an inescapable maze with a flesh-eating cryptid entity. So yeah, death by hypothermia? Not that bad.

He hopes Remus grows tired of using him as a plaything soon. Maybe Deceit will step in soon and demand Remus to quit it. Virgil knows he’s close to his breaking point. Close enough to where he’ll do anything if Deceit will save him. He hopes he can hold onto his resolve. If not him then for Thomas’ sake.

It’s the only hope he can cling to at this point. He’s literally Anxiety, it isn’t like he has optimism in spades. He’s not expecting to be rescued from a hole he dug himself.

Virgil hasn’t slept much these past few weeks. Not that he gets good sleep in general. His life motto is “Never Resting, Always Worrying.”

Still, even he has to succumb to sleep and face the nightmares that await him there. Lately his nightmares have been centered around Roman, Logan and Patton. Namely, their reaction to the stupid stunt he pulled.

“What are you doing?!”

“What needs to be done.”

“Virgil, please--”

“Don’t call me that. It’s Anxiety to you, got it?”

“Anxiety. I do not understand. Can we not discuss this together and work things out as a group? Based on past events, it is best--”

“We can’t. It won’t work, not this time.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’ve realized something, about how a bunch of clueless morons you guys are. You act like everything can be solved in twenty minutes like a cheesy sitcom but real life? It doesn’t work that way. And I was wrong to think it could.”

“Virgil, wait! Don’t leave--”

But he did. He left them, head held high as he walked into awaiting jaws of Remus and Deceit.

Now he’s alone in a cold, dark cell. His only company? A rat that is one second away from biting his hand off. The worst part is that it’s all his fault. He doesn’t get to feel sorry for himself. He doesn’t deserve that privilege.

He inhales shakily as he reaches to clutch onto the necklace around his neck. He’s always worn it, keeping it underneath his shirt and out of sight of the others. It’s a simple black cord with a pendant of his Stormcloud emblem hanging on it. He holds onto the pendant, rubbing his fingers across the cold metal. It grounds him, keeps him from unraveling. Ironic, considering the gifter of the necklace.

He counts silently to himself. One, two, three, four, hold breath. One, two, three, four, five--his composure breaks, a sob rattles his throat. He grips his necklace tighter. Again . One, two, three, four, hold breath. Good! Now hold your breath for seven seconds. One, two, three, dammit. He closes his eyes, his heartbeat accelerating. He can do this, he must do this. He has done this, and he will do this again. One, two, three, four--he keeps going.

Several times, he messes up again. He’s used to this--it’s kinda his thing to make mistakes. In thirty years, he’s learned to keep moving forward regardless. Even when everything inside of him screams to give up. Patton would probably put some positive spin on that. He’d pat Virgil’s shoulder and tell Virgil how proud he is of him. Logan would rattle off some beneficial statistical facts. Roman might sprout some admirable speech. Just thinking about them makes him feel like a worm on a hook–it’s like a sharp pain stabbing into his intestines that he can’t squirm away from.

He misses them. He misses Patton’s warm hugs and his soft, gooey cookies. He misses Logan and his rants about astronomy. He even misses Roman--loud, noisy prince who gets on his nerves with his bravado and flights of fancy. He never thought he’d get used to their acceptance. Get used to seeing them look at him with love, like he actually possesses worth and value. For the longest time, he waited for things to drift back to normal. Back to the insults and the shunning. All alone in his room as the others’ laughter of joy from outside taunts him.

“You can’t tell me you honestly think this whole ‘charade’ will last forever,” Deceit told him, “it’ll be less painful if you end it on your own terms, then if an...outside force ends it on their own. ”

Virgil had believed him. He still believes him, even now. It’s better for him to be the screw-up like always than for the others to know the truth. The others will never forgive him and he can live with that. He has to.

Screeeeeeech.

Virgil’s eyelids fly open, hands flying to protect his face. His immediate thought is the rat. It’s attacking him. Surely his meager prison meal isn’t enough to satiate its hunger. Except he realizes three things.

The first thing is that the rat is gone. He doesn’t know where it went. It could’ve disappeared into the shadow realm as far as he knew. The second thing is that the door to his cell is open. It’s an old creaky door with rusty hinges because of course it is. Remus wouldn’t have it any other way.

The third thing he notices is Roman.

At least, he thinks it’s Roman. Bright light from the outside pools into the cell, causing a stinging sensation in his eyes. They need time to adjust to the change in light. Still, he forces himself to squint up at the silhouette in the doorway. Its’ broad, imposing, larger-than-life stature is unmistakably Roman

All of Virgil’s fears and what-ifs melt away at the sight of it. Because Roman is here. He’s here and somehow, in some way, Roman would make things right again.  A sliver of hope runs him. Weak and thin, but still present. He shouldn’t be disarmed so easily. It has to be from exhaustion, he thinks.

The hope doesn’t live long. A second dark figure appears behind the first, shattering the illusion. Remus’ wide-eyed grin meets his slackening pale face.

“Viiiirgil! I have a boy toy for you!” He crows, “I hope you’re into humping nearly-dead corpses.”

Unceremoniously he punts the first figure into the cell.  Virgil hardly has time to react before the cell door shuts with a loud clang. He rushes to the still form on the ground as an ocean of panic swells up inside of him.

Is Remus messing with him? This can’t possibly be Roman lying face-down on the ground. Roman whose complexion is whiter than his uniform. It can’t be. It has to be a construct, something Remus created to fuck with him. Both figuratively and literally, knowing Remus. God, he does not need that last image in his head right now. He tries to ignore it, to attach himself to any other drifting semi-coherent thought than that one.

Help. Construct or not, Virgil has to help this Roman. He’d do anything to help the Core Sides. Something Remus and Deceit know too well. He wouldn’t doubt if they are watching from a secret camera. They’re probably stuffing their faces with greasy popcorn and cackling at him at this very moment.

Virgil rolls him onto his back. Brown bangs drenched with sweat hang down in the Prince’s face. They barely cover the bruise forming around his right eye. Little cuts nick the sides of his cheeks, likely from a knife or a sword. The angry red slashes also decorate his arms and legs, fabric of his uniform torn along with it. Roman’s white tunic has a high collar but even it can’t hide the ring of green-black forming around his neck. Did Remus try strangling him to death?

He can hardly focus on that however. His eyes drift further down the prince’s tunic. He realizes with a start that it’s a lot more red than it should be. The red isn’t from Roman’s sash. He lifts the tunic away, trying to ignore how it’s almost pasted to the wound. The wound, well. It’s bad. He curses, throwing off his jacket without a second thought. He presses it against the wound, trying desperately to stop the blood wound. God, please don’t let this be his Roman. Please let this be some twisted, cruel prank by Remus. Please, please, please.

“Roman, wake up!” Virgil says. Silence. “Princey, I--I swear I’m going to steal your Disney VHS Collection if you don’t wake up right now.”

It’s such a weak attempt at a threat, but Roman’s eyelids flutter open at it. His eyes are unfocused, looking around in a bewildered way before settling onto Virgil. His mouth forms a small ‘O’. His eyes so wide and glistening, alit with a dazed wonder.

“Virgil,” Roman says, managing a weak grin, “You’re alive.”

Virgil’s heart lodges in his throat because he knows without a doubt it’s Roman. His stupid heroic, obstinate, foolhardy idiot of a prince. No way Remus could perfect such a carbon copy, right down to the barest of micro expressions.

“What are you doing here? They promised they wouldn’t hurt you and the others--” Virgil shuts his mouth, horror seizing him at his own words.

Deception and Intrusive Thoughts. Why had he ever trusted in their words? Remus who lives his existence always doing and never thinking.  Or in Deceit, whose very name defines his character? The answer is very simple, of course. It is always the answer to all of his problems; Virgil had let his irrational fears get the best of him.

Meanwhile Roman’s grin grows wider, gleeful even.

“Hah,” He manages before descending into a coughing fit, “K-knew you weren’t the bad guy.”

“How’d you...how’d you know I wasn’t the bad guy?”

“I couldn’t make the same mistake twice.” Roman stares at him. His eyes hold such a firm, unyielding conviction that Virgil almost wants to turn away. He doesn’t.

Okay, yeah it hurt a lot back then. Back when Roman flung barrages of insults in Virgil’s direction. As Creativity, Roman knew how to craft insults that hurt worse than any sting of the sword. Even though Virgil has long since forgiven him, it still hurts at times. Especially when the two fall back into their old ways of bickering and mean taunts. It’s far too easy for them to do that than to play nice.

Still, Virgil knows even then he deserved them. He’d given Roman no reason to trust him. Sure being the bad guy had been an act but even pretending can hurt. He knows this better than anyone. He wants to argue Roman and the others made a mistake believing Virgil could be anything more than the bad guy. Especially once they knew what he’d been hiding from them.

Virgil swallows, the lump in his throat refusing to dissipate.

“I--I’m sorry,” He says, the words rushing out of him, “I was an idiot, I panicked--”

“Shh,” Roman hushes, his hand clasping on top of Virgil’s. He cranes his neck upwards, doing his best to maintain eye-contact with Virgil, “Don’t apologize, my stormy knight. The blame is--is all on me, I’m afraid.”

“What?”

Roman gives him an indecipherable, anguished look.

“It’s all my fault. I failed you, I’m sorry, I should’ve been able to--”

“What are you sorry for?” Virgil presses.

“To..save you. What kind of,” Roman coughs again, “prince am I if I can’t save my loved ones?”

Oh... Ohhh . Remus and Deceit didn’t capture Roman? But that would mean...Roman went after him. That shouldn’t be as big of a surprise to Virgil (considering Roman’s heroics) but it is. Did Patton and Logan even know what Roman did? Or did he trudge in without a plan, armed with only his goal in mind?

“You idiot,” Virgil hisses, and immediately regrets his word choice when Roman flinches at it. Virgil presses down on the wound harder, “Roman, I am not worth the trouble--”

“Virgil,” Roman interrupts, grasping his hands as tightly as he can, “I’d die a thousand deaths if it meant seeing you safe and sound.”

Roman’s declaration takes him off guard. It’s not necessarily the words but the glint in the other’s eyes. It’s not a case of Roman being facetious and overly dramatic. Virgil knows he means them. He knows and it scares the hell out of him.

He changes the topic abruptly, “Remus did he--”

“It’s not the first time my wretched brother has bested me,” Roman said, his mouth forming a thin, tight line, “I’ll be--be fine--”

Roman coughs and coughs, his whole body trembling with exertion. Virgil watches helplessly. Red speckles fall from his mouth. Roman sags, his grip on Virgil’s hand loosening.

“Like hell you’re fine!” Virgil hisses, “Roman, damn you, stay with me!”

Roman smiles at him. He looks like he wants to say more, but his eyes close shut and his hand falls away from Virgil’s.

“No, no, wake up! Wake up!” Virgil demands, shaking the prince to no avail. The only thing that keeps Virgil from completely breaking down is the faint yet stable heartbeat coming from Roman.

Your fault. Your fault. Your fault.

The mantra runs through his head to the rapid beat of his heart. This wasn’t supposed to happen. But Virgil can see now that his actions had been selfish and caused harm rather than good. Roman is hurt. He has to do something to make this right. Even if it means doing the one thing that drove him down here in the first place.

Virgil’s the type to overthink things to the point of insanity. Not this time. With anger swelling in his veins, Virgil grabs hold of his necklace and rips it off. As he stares down at its broken clasp, light ripples through his body.

He forgets about the pain; it’s always worse the longer he suppresses it without any release. The pain hits him like a steamroller, flattening him down to the ground in an instant. It’s prickly and piercing like needles.

He bites back a cry, sharp fangs digging into his gums. His face burns and he reaches for it—wanting to claw it off when everything goes dark. He jerks his hands away as knives dig at his back, tearing apart flesh. No, not knives. Long, spindly black limbs sprout from his back, stretching and elongating. They twitch and flail of their own volition, sending another crashing wave of pain his way.

He fights against it, growling as he sits up. His vision clears, eight pairs of eyes blinking away bright white spots. He takes a shaky breath, hunching in on himself. It’s been so long since he’s taken this form. Too long.

Virgil tries to ignore how his lungs breathe in air more freely, how he is able to fully stretch out his spindly limbs rather than feel them writhe beneath his skin, how his vision is brighter, more clearer.

He looks down at Roman, scowling. He doesn’t have the time to dwell on it. He reaches out for Roman’s prone body–

ItSy BiTsY LiTtlE PriNce, WOulD loOk aLl niCe wrAppEd uP iN A WeB?

Virgil freezes, hands curling into fists. “NO!” He growls, “NEVER!”

He knows it’s one of Remus’ wild intrusive thoughts, probably sent to torment him specifically. It does not have a physical form, but he can still sense its presence hovering over them.

ItSy BiTsy liTtlE PrinCe, sPit on hiM and mAke hiM aCiD?

Virgil’s hands pull at his hair as he tries to block out the intrusive images. But he can’t do that. If...if what Logan had said is true, it only gives it more power. He has to continue on in spite of the Intrusive Thought. He can’t let himself get distracted for Roman’s sake. He grits his teeth, letting go of his hair as his hands fall to his sides.

itSY BiTSy PrINce, noTHiNG leFt bUt sAsH anD tUNic?

Virgil ignores it, carefully gathering Roman into his arms. He draws himself to his full height, his legs dangling several feet in the air, on spindly spider limbs. His head almost hits the ceiling of the small, cramped cell. He looks down at the rusty cell door, bares his fangs and...vomits acid onto it. There is no other pleasant way to go about it. The acid turns the padlock into nothing within seconds. He taps a foreleg against the cell door and it screeeeches open.

“Itsy bitsy spider comes out the waterspout.” Virgil mutters sardonically, skittering as fast as his spider limbs can take him. The intrusive thought is silent. Perhaps it has run away to warn Remus. Virgil does not care.

In Remus’ realm of the Imagination, there is very little rhyme or reason to its rules. The few rules it has are nonsensical--like that of a twisted grotesque Wonderland. But there is one thing and that is unlike Roman, Remus prefers stories where the bad guys win.

Lucky for Virgil, he just so happens to be a bad guy.

[makerofmadness]

i decided to write an all-hurt-and-no-comfort cookie run fic to show off one of my headcanons so yeah that's cool

some highlights include:

*milk cookie dance-stimming :3 (for like a few seconds)

*devil cookie being a little pest (affectionate)

*ouija boards (idk if they exist in the cookie run universe but they do now I guess-)

*the last two parts are the best please read until those at least :'3 I spent multiple days on this dndndnndndnnn

Fic under the cut 'cus it's kinda long

"When the Blue Bottle Breaks"

(I'm on my phone rn so I can't put that in the title spot just pretend this is the title-)

Blackberry Cookie had gone out looking for Adventurer Cookie (again), and Milk Cookie had offered to clean up the mansion for her that day. The two were decent acquaintances, so she trusted him with the task and left.

The mansion was already very neat and tidy thanks to Blackberry Cookie’s diligent work, so Milk Cookie didn't have too much to do. Just a bit of light dusting here and there, sometimes straightening a picture frame or two. He walked around the mansion a few times, making sure he didn't miss anything.

Milk Cookie didn't have anything to preoccupy himself with while he waited for Blackberry Cookie to get back. Growing bored, he started somewhat dancing around instead of just walking. It was much more fun that way.

He wasn’t paying too much attention to what he was doing. Humming a tune and twirling with closed eyes…

Then, he felt himself bump into something, followed by the sound of something shattering.

Milk Cookie immediately stopped and opened his eyes to see what just happened:

He had bumped into a table, knocking a vase off. It had broken when it hit the floor. 

Milk Cookie immediately felt the horror sink in.

“...oh… oh no… oh no oh no oh no… what have I done?...”

Milk Cookie kneeled down at the broken pieces of vase on the floor. It was awful.

It had been a beautiful, shiny, expensive-looking purple vase full of pretty blackberry flowers and violets. Even on the floor, their petals soaking in the spilled water, they still smelled just as sweet. But now, the admirable vessel they had been placed in was a mess. No one can admire a mess.

He couldn't believe he let this happen. How could he have been so careless?

“H-How am I going to explain this to Blackberry Cookie?...”

“Explain what?”

Immediately, Milk Cookie was overcome with dread, hearing the sound from right behind him.

It was Blackberry Cookie. She was back already.

Blackberry Cookie knelt down next to Milk Cookie, who was unable to bring himself to speak. He just stared fixedly on the mess he had made.

“...an accident, I presume?” Blackberry Cookie said calmly. Milk Cookie felt ashamed.

“I'm… I’m so sorry, I- I should’ve… I shouldn’t have…”

“It’s alright. It was only a vase. It can be replaced easily.”

Blackberry Cookie got up to her feet and was about to leave to get a dustpan, when she turned to look back at Milk Cookie and said:

“You may leave now. I can take care of the mess. You look a bit unwell right now. Please get some rest…”

Milk Cookie forced a smile and stood up.

“Th-That’s alright, I’ll just… I'll leave now. I'm sorry for the trouble…”

The moment he left the building (without even speaking to Adventurer Cookie), Milk Cookie really felt the guilt set in. How could he have been so careless? All because of mere boredom, he started acting reckless. The embarrassment was extreme, as was the guilt.

Much more extreme than it should've been for a situation so minor.

He felt like crying, but he didn't quite understand why. Blackberry Cookie said it wasn't a big deal, and yet his feelings made it seem like quite the opposite, in his eyes.

Did she really just want him to leave because she thought he needed to rest, or did she just not want him to mess anything else up? Regardless, he couldn’t let himself cry over it. He never let himself cry. He couldn’t risk someone else seeing him like that. 

“Just smile, Milk Cookie. It will make you feel better. It always makes you feel better…”

His strategy for dealing with sadness had always been to keep it inside, as to not risk it bringing pain onto others. He did not want to make anyone feel obligated to comfort him. He wanted to be the one to comfort others. He wanted to be a beacon of hope. 

Thus, he couldn’t let himself feel hopeless.

~

There was still time left in the day. So, Milk Cookie hoped he could successfully help someone else that day to make up for his failing.

“Wow, thanks for agreeing to help me out!”

“Of course! I think I've seen my friend Purple Yam Cookie watching one of your videos before, yes?”

“Oh, yeah! He's the guy who keeps threatening to unsubscribe, haha!”

Black Garlic Cookie had been planning to stream her exploration of a long-abandoned house on one nearly deserted street, one that was the subject of many urban legends, particularly relating to the place being haunted. She wanted to try to contact the ghosts there via ouija board. 

It takes two to use a ouija board, so she posted about it on Crumblr asking if anyone would volunteer to join her for the stream, and Milk Cookie took up the offer.

The house's windows were boarded up, the roof had visible holes from the outside, and the walls seemed cracked at some parts. It looked as if one small breeze would be enough to make it collapse entirely. 

The paint on the outside, while likely once vibrant and beautiful, had long since faded in color. It was dull, lifeless, and bleak. 

Even the air around the house was weighted with a strange melancholy and looming sense of dread. The light gray of the clouds covering the sky and the cold chill of the wind blowing through gave off the sense that this place had long been abandoned, and that it should stay that way. 

Milk Cookie felt a bit nervous, especially after the events at the mansion. However, Black Garlic Cookie seemed enthusiastic. She turned the camera on and greeted her audience:

“Hellooooo, everyone! How are you all doing? It is I, Black Garlic Cookie, your one and only ghost professor, back at it again! And this time, we have a special guest on the stream!”

Black Garlic Cookie’s channel wasn’t that big, but immediately she got a few viewers commenting in the live chat:

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

tea_o_clock: A guest, you say? 

RobotMaster: Well, come on! Show us who it is!!

Purple Yam Cookie: YOU STILL HAVEN’T TOLD ME HOW TO UNSUBSCRIBE!!! -----------------------------------------------------------------------

Black Garlic Cookie giggled and pulled Milk Cookie into frame.

“Everyone, please give a warm welcome to Milk Cookie!”

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

Purple Yam Cookie: …What!?

onionbunny: Mr. Milk Cookie’s here…?

tea_o_clock: Oh?...

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

“Um… Hello, everyone!” Milk Cookie said nervously. “I, uh… um…”

Strangely, he was at a loss for words. He had never been on a Cookietube stream before. However, he usually did not get this nervous about anything.

Black Garlic Cookie, noticing this, whispered to him:

“Maybe tell them to like and subscribe!”

“O-Oh! Uh, remember to like and subscribe, please!”

“That’s the spirit!” Black Garlic Cookie said cheerfully. “Now, I hope you’re all ready! Let's go!”

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

tea_o_clock: Hmm, alright then.

onionbunny: I don't think I'm ready… Can I have a few more minutes, please…?

RobotMaster: I’m not scared! Just go in already!

Purple Yam Cookie: …fine. I'll stick around, I GUESS. But don't think I’m not still ANGRY!!!

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

Walking through the door and the hallways inside, the damage was even worse than on the outside. Some spots in the floor seemed especially weak, as if they would collapse the moment any pressure was applied. The walls were full of cracks and the wallpaper was peeling off. There were cobwebs everywhere, and dust caked the furniture. Milk Cookie held the flashlight while Black Garlic Cookie held the camera.

When they got to the living room, Black Garlic Cookie quickly set up for the ghost-contacting. She put a few candles up and lit them, set out the board on a table in the middle of the room, and set up the camera nearby so that the viewers would be able to watch.

“Alright, now we both need to put our hands on the planchette…”

Things started getting interesting, as it was surprisingly seeming to work.

“Hello, spirits, is someone there?”

(YES)

“Can we ask you some questions?”

(YES)

“What’s your name?”

However, before they could get an answer, the lights suddenly flickered on, before immediately turning back off. At the same time, an old, faded painting that had been hanging on the wall fell to the floor.

Both Black Garlic Cookie and Milk Cookie jumped at this. 

“Uh… h-hello? Spirits?” Black Garlic Cookie asked out loud, having now removed her hands from the planchette. “If you're there, please, come out and say hi!”

The moment she said that, all hell broke loose.

The candles went out, the lights began flickering rapidly, and the furniture started flying all over the room. It was absolute chaos.

And amongst the chaos were many, many ghosts.

“Q-Quick! The camera!!”

Milk Cookie was too frozen with fear to notice Black Garlic Cookie yelling to him to get the camera before it could get hit. Seeing his lack of a response, she quickly jumped to action, tackling the camera out of the path of a flying chair. 

Luckily, the camera was unscathed.

Black Garlic Cookie got up with the camera in her hand and addressed her audience.

“S-Sorry, everyone! It looks like we might have to cut this short soon!!”

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

RobotMaster: So there are really ghosts there after all?!

onionbunny. I-I’m scared!!! -----------------------------------------------------------------------

“Milk Cookie!” Black Garlic Cookie yelled. “It looks like the spirits don't want us here! We need to get out, NOW!!!”

However, Milk Cookie was still completely petrified by fright, something which he wasn't accustomed to. He didn't normally feel fear, or at least he didn't let himself.

“Milk Cookie, snap out of it!! Look out!!!”

Black Garlic Cookie quickly ran over to Milk Cookie and pulled him out of the way before the chandelier above him came crashing down. At this point, Black Garlic Cookie had had enough. 

“Hey!!!” She shouted. “Knock it off!!! This isn't funny!!!”

“Oh, you’re no fun!”

Surprisingly, a voice answered. Then, the source of the voice came out of the shadows and revealed themself.

“Wait, Devil Cookie?!”

It was Devil Cookie, snickering mischievously. The moment they revealed themself, all the spirits came to a halt. The lights all came on.

Milk Cookie finally came to his senses. 

“...D-Devil Cookie?” he said weakly. “Wh-What are you-”

“You know, Black Garlic Cookie,” they said, completely ignoring Milk Cookie, “I would’ve expected a so-called ‘ghost professor’ to try something better than a ouija board!”

“Wh-What do you mean?!” Black Garlic Cookie said. 

“Oh come onnnnnn! We all know those things only work because you end up moving it by yourself without realizing it! Those things are total shams!” 

Devil Cookie rolled their eyes with their arms crossed. Black Garlic Cookie was dumbfounded.

“B-But, the ghosts…!”

“I brought them along myself! I saw you were going to do your little live-streaming thing here and thought, hey, might as well have some fun with that! So, I rounded some spirits up and brought them over here with me! You should’ve seen the looks on your faces!”

Milk Cookie just stood there, silenced by his own embarrassment. He didn't normally get scared by such things. He was always the brave one. He would look danger in the face and laugh when others couldn't. How could he have been so weak in this moment?

He gave a glance around the trashed room. The furniture, while weathered by time, had clearly been beautiful in their prime. The grand, faded colors of gentle greens and golds… It had clearly once been a respectable room, but now it was a mess. No one can respect a mess.

“...Milk Cookie,” Black Garlic Cookie said with a sigh, “thanks for the help. You can go now. I'll end the stream. Guess there weren't any ghosts here after all… at least before we planned on showing up.”

Milk Cookie felt as if he were going to cry, but managed to suppress it down to a whimper. He knew he had to leave before he could risk anyone seeing the tears spill. The camera was still rolling, several cookies were no doubt watching this all unfold. He couldn't risk disappointing them any further. 

But that didn't make Black Garlic Cookie’s words hurt any less.

“I-I'm really sorry,” Milk Cookie said, “I-I’ll get out of your hair now…”

~

“Thanks for agreeing to help out today!” Sandwich Cookie said with a smile. “Can’t believe half our staff got sick around the same time…”

“No need to thank me! It’s my duty to help those in need!”

“Haha, well, alright!”

Milk Cookie still felt very tense after his previous accidents, but this seemed rather simple to pull off. Besides, he couldn't just leave Sandwich Cookie to deal with all those orders practically alone. 

It was a typical day at the Sandwich Shop, but most of the staff had recently gotten sick. Milk Cookie decided to take the opportunity to help out. He wasn't exactly the best at making sandwiches, but he didn't see much difficulty in bringing the customers their orders. 

Things were going pretty smoothly. Not too many customers that day, things were peaceful, and Milk Cookie was starting to get his previous mistakes out of his mind. 

Then, in came Hero Cookie and Croissant Cookie.

Things seemed fine, and Milk Cookie was walking to their table with the food in hand, humming to himself cheerfully. Things were at last going well for him.

But then, it happened:

He tripped, falling face-first to the ground and dropping Hero Cookie’s order.

The thud of him hitting the floor was overshadowed by a loud shattering sound, a sound which seemed to reach the whole shop, turning the cheerful chatter of the patrons into shocked silence.

Pushing himself up on his hands and knees, Milk Cookie looked at the mess he just made. The plate had broken, and the sandwich had fallen apart, its contents scattered on the floor.

Poor Hero Cookie’s sandwich was ruined.

“...wh… why…”

Milk Cookie glanced up at Hero Cookie, who had previously been chatting with Croissant Cookie. Now, both of the cookies were staring at him.

“...Milk Cookie,” Hero Cookie said with a concerned voice, “are you alright?” 

Milk Cookie couldn't bear to keep looking at him, so he just looked back down at the mess that had been Hero Cookie’s sandwich. The sandwich that Sandwich Cookie had so carefully prepared.

It had looked so delicious. She had clearly put a lot of effort into it. This had been a sandwich made with pure tender love and care, to be consumed by a dear friend. But now, no one would be able to enjoy it. It was a mess. No one can enjoy a mess.

Sandwich Cookie, having heard the commotion, came running over to the scene. 

“O-Oh, oh dear… uh, Mr. Milk Cookie, sir, would you mind cleaning this up while I make another-”

“WHY!?!? WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY CAN’T I DO ANYTHING RIGHT TODAY!?!?!?!?!?!”

Milk Cookie could no longer hold back the tears. He couldn't stop himself. He stopped thinking about his surroundings, about the other cookies, and loudly sobbed. 

Strangely, it almost felt relieving.

Croissant Cookie was speechless. Hero Cookie got up and approached the mess.

“How about I take care of the clean-up?” he said to Sandwich Cookie. “I'll go get the cleaning supplies. I think that Milk Cookie might not be, um, how should I say this… in the right state of mind for this right now.”

Hero Cookie went to fetch the cleaning supplies. Croissant Cookie still didn't seem to know how to respond to the situation, sitting there in awkward silence. 

Sandwich Cookie looked down at Milk Cookie.

“...Milk Cookie, uh…”

Milk Cookie looked up at Sandwich Cookie, whimpering with tears running down his face. 

He was feeling so guilty.

“Uh, s-sir, I really appreciated your help, but… I don't think you’re really… fit for this right now.”

Sandwich Cookie could immediately see the heartbreak in Milk Cookie’s eyes when she said that. 

“D-Don’t get me wrong, you did a good job, I swear! It's just… you just don't seem to be feeling all too well right now, so… uh… maybe you should take a break…”

Sniffling, Milk Cookie wiped his teary face with his arm and shakily got up to his feet. He put on his best smile.

“I-I am alright, please don’t worry about me. I just… I’m deeply sorry, but I am afraid I must be leaving now. I hope you can forgive me…”

Before Sandwich Cookie could respond, Milk Cookie turned toward the doors and walked them. 

He seemed uncharacteristically weak as he pulled the door open and somewhat stumbled his way out. 

“...I guess he’s alright now…?”

Sandwich Cookie was concerned, but it was out of her hands now.

~

Milk Cookie continued walking with that same smile on his face. He ignored the other Cookies he passed, too caught up in his own thoughts:

“Do not lose your composure, Milk Cookie. This is not the way heroes act.”

“Just keep it inside. You have kept it inside for the whole day. You have kept it inside every other day. You can get yourself back under control.”

“You have to be a good example for younger cookies. You must not let them see you as a mess. No one can look up to a mess.”

“Dark Choco Cookie would not be proud of this…”

These thoughts only temporarily fueled him, until he finally saw no other cookies around him. There, alone, he stopped.

He couldn't keep the mask on anymore. He couldn't keep his composure anymore. That smile of his took too much energy to maintain. 

Energy he no longer had.

He dropped to his knees and stopped trying to hold back the tears. He had to cry, and cry he did, loudly. His sobs echoed, yet they reached no one.

Even though there was no one around, he still felt the need to cover his face up with his hands. Such fragility should never be exposed. It was the least he could do to contain it to some degree.

He was desperate to get himself back under control, but these feelings were far too overwhelming for him to think through. He felt weak, and helpless, and alone.

He was tired, so tired. But he felt he hadn't done enough work. 

He hadn't done anything right that day. He hadn't been able to help anyone that day. Every time he tried, he just messed everything up.

He was a failure. 

[internalsealpanic]

The War Unpacks its Things

summary: It is hard to breathe, hard to think. This is especially hard with beefy people piled on you.  a/n: I haven’t had the best last few weeks, so here is a cuddle fic. I will probably change the title when I come up with a  more fitting title. Yes, I got the title from a poem. Whoever figures it out without google gets a cookie. This can be read as purely platonic, poly, or something else that I cannot come up with.  warning: hints of a panic attack, grounding, and coping mechanisms

masterlist

 Sprawled on one of the couches—knees curled into your chest, face pressed into the cushions, and book long abandoned on the ground—you fight down the taste of the previous night that was heavy on your tongue.

 You breathe quietly knowing there were still Titans with super hearing resting in the tower. It's sort of dumb to pat yourself on the back for breathing quietly—it sounds ridiculous in fact. But given that the act of breathing itself is difficult (dare say herculean), you're giving yourself two entire gold stars. 

 "1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6," you count to yourself as you breathe in and "6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1," as you breathe out. Repeat at nauseum. 

 The urge to make that statement a reality ebbs away and your fists loosen, leaving crescent indents in your palms. Slowly, you turn your face away from the cushions only to be met with Dick's face leaning over yours. Whatever nausea you had managed to tuck away rushes back up, the tingle of nerves from surprise making the sensation more unpleasant. It is only through sheer force of will that you do not spit acid on Dick's face. 

 "Hi."

 "Hi."

 The rigidity of your posture is mirrored in his. You force yourself to relax it but your body recoils even more, so you give up. 

 "Go away," is what you think of saying to him because that is the necessary course of action to avoid any further action but the acid is still hot in your throat. That little "hi" was all you could manage. 

 After a long moment, Dick walks off to who knows where. You don't really bother guessing where he goes. Bat-people just tend to disappear and no one really questions it at this point. You're just thankful he didn't ask. Taking the opportunity, you close your eyes and swallow the acid. You take a slow breath, still quiet because 'who knows where' is never actually that far.

 In the space of 2 or 6 breaths, Dick comes back, his feet consciously making sounds. There's a thick comforter heaped on in his arms and one Wallace West now by his side. 

 They're both smiling down at you suspiciously. Your stomach curdles. 

 Or maybe that's just Wally's stomach grumbling. "I'll be back in a jiff," Wally says, a little embarrassed.  Dick snorts and you just wave him off. He zips away and the resulting wind makes you shiver. 

 "I'm not moving," you say. 

 Dick shrugs. "I know," he says as he lowers himself onto the couch, body flattening on top of yours, settling the quilt over both of you. 

 "You look uncomfortable," you say, sweater paws squishing his cheeks. 

 "Am not." 

 The squirming makes it entirely unconvincing. 

 You sigh, turning over and allowing Dick to ease into the new position, face pressed to your sternum. His face is covered with a flop of hair. You run your hand through his hair and he croons silently. Startled, you respond reasonably by shoving his hair back down. 

 There's a laugh from behind you. You tilt your head back to see Wally, in a baggy Coast City Sucks Hoodie he borrowed from Roy and a bowl of assorted cookies balanced in one hand. You beam up at him tiredly as he cocks his head in a question mark, curls that don't stick whichever way they want tilt along with his head. 

 Did he ask a question?

 "Hey," you say with a little wave of your sleeve. Dick's 'hey' is slightly muffled by the thick comforter. The question mark angle of his head becomes more pronounced as he answers you with a "Where am I supposed to sit?"

 Unsubtly, you look around to the very unoccupied couch not too far away, recliners, bean bags, and floors.  Wally makes the conscious effort to ignore this, so Dick answers kindly by saying, "Just pick one." 

 Wally pretends to consider his options then piles on top of the two of you. 

 This is how you die. 

 Unlike Dick, you decide to go quietly into the night because the heavy pressure is pleasant and grounding. Dick does eventually stop trying to buck Wally off after you told him it was fine. The stupid smile Wally has on does help.

 They're flicking through the channels as you start to nod off. It was likely the lack of oxygen but you suspect it was also that you didn't want to give input on channel selection. 

Vacillating between wakefulness and a shallow sort of sleep, Roy's presence goes unnoticed until he blocks your view of Tom and Jerry: Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. 

 You all look up at him. He's standing over you, hands on his hips. His hair is pushed back messily by a headband. You kind of wonder if Roy is aware of how to use a headband. He should, right? You give up eventually and turn your attention to his crop top. You can't remember if it was yours, Dick's, or Donna's. It's probably just a community crop top at this point. 

 He looks cold. 

 Or you're cold.

 Or maybe five o’clock shadows and bed heads just make it easier to warm up. 

 What if he's just a weirdo?

 "Scoot," Wally whines.

 Roy looks back to see what you guys were watching and exactly as he does, the movie goes through the tunnel of hell scene. Dick buries himself even more under the quilt. You sympathize with him but it's actually hard to move.

 Roy's hip quirks and all you can think about is Dinah. "Are you guys trying to give (Y/n) nightmares?"

 Dick makes a noise of assent. 

 "It's Tom and Jerry." 

 Roy waves frantically at the TV which is still playing the tunnel of hell scene. It is indeed mildly concerning.

 "It's Tom and Jerry," Wally repeats. 

 Roy sighs.

 Wally smiles smugly. 

 Roy rolls his eyes looking like he's about to argue. You blink up at him to show how you're so not in the mood for them to bicker. Roy opens his mouth then shuts it, huffing and crossing his arms. You try to radiate gratitude then immediately regret it when Roy piles on the three of you.  Wally wheezes, Dick makes another little noise, and you just exist there. 

 You're dying. 

You're scowling up at Garth. "No."

 "But—"

 "Sorry, Gill Face, no room," Roy says a little too cheerfully. You shove one of your sweater paws in his face. He's not innocent here and frankly, you can't feel any of your organs at this point, so you're allowed to be the tiniest bit cranky. 

 Garth crosses his arms grumpily and taps his foot, drawing your attention to the fuzzy fish socks he's apparently never gotten attached to. Never. 

 "Buddy," you say, "I'm dying here."

 "I can see that," he says scowling at the other three. 

 Great, this is gonna be a really short conversation, you think.

 It is a short conversation because Garth doesn't say anything as he hauls the other three off of you and slots himself easily into your side. You laugh, feeling the blood flow back into your limbs. 

 It’s great not being crushed under three people. 

 "See, problem-solving," he says, snuggling into your shoulder.  He looks so pleased with himself and it is ridiculously funny to you that *this* is the time he chooses to be rude. Given, it’s not exactly rude to help you but the other three seem peeved. 

Incredulous.

 That is the only way to describe the loud slurp Donna produces as she stares at the strange pile of bodies on the couch. Wally, Roy, and Garth wave at her awkwardly while you and Dick kind of just die.

 She slurps louder in response. 

 You're just happy that she isn't immediately piling on. 

 Instead, she forms a rectangle with her fingers. This is not how you want to be immortalized. You say as much with a dead look in your eyes. There is likely an angry-looking bruise on your cheek (courtesy of Garth’s foot) to match the one on your chin (thanks, Wally), the bump on your head (Roy), the bits of cookie in your hair (Dick), and the bruises under your eyes (you).

 She takes another sip then pulls the flash mug away from her lips to reveal a wry smile. That's not promising. "Should I ask?"

 You try to make yourself look more like a corpse in response. 

 Donna laughs, "now you know how I feel dealing with these people."

 You scrunch your nose at her. "I thought you liked these people," you say, kicking the heap of people on top of you. Donna laughs again, even less sympathetic somehow. 

 "I do," she says, wrenching you out from the pile. Your blood rushes to your limbs once again as Donna drags you over to the other couch like an oversized, disgruntled kitten. 

 You are, in fact, very disgruntled.

 She tucks you into the corner of the couch. Your taut muscles deflate instantly, the cramped space easing your nerves. Unabashedly pressing herself to your side, Donna sticks her tongue out at the other four. You roll your eyes and wave your sleeve at the quilt slung over the back of the couch. 

 As soon as Donna hands you the quilt, you fan it over the both of you and slouch into the couch until the fabric rises above your nose.

 She pats your head and you make a little delighted noise. 

 One by one, they slot themselves into a space close to you. Garth settles in front of you, his long hair within braiding distance in case you need it.  Roy sits by Donna, Dick sits by him, and Wally sits next to Dick. They all lean to try and squish you and Donna. For her part, Donna, unfortunately, cannot fight gravity and you get squished a little which makes you feel safer. 

 You grip the quilt and lean into Donna's shoulder. There is no acid in your throat and your tongue is thick with the taste of chocolate chip cookies. 

[inkykeiji]

you’re like a drug to me, a luxury, my sugar and gold

character: gojou satoru

genre: smut with a sprinkle of fluff at the end

notes: aaaaah first jjk fic ever!!!! uhhh this is honestly just pure smut and punishment, satoru is a Bad Daddy, and it’s set in a curseless AU | title cred: handclap by fitz and the tantrums

warnings: 18+ minors dni, dubcon/noncon, slight size difference/size kink, belly bulge, spanking with a belt, rough sex, minimal prep, minimal aftercare (at first), toxic and unhealthy relationship (satoru is mean n a bad daddy!), daddy kink/slightly implied ddlg dynamics, praise kink, dacryphilia

words: 3.1k

synopsis:

And although you can—and do—get away with a lot, you can’t get away with everything. A little brattiness he can handle, a little brattiness he thinks is cute. But on the days when you’re really misbehaving, purposefully (or not) breaking every rule, acting out and refusing to listen, rejecting any bargain or compromise with him at all—well, he’s only human.

And he snaps.

Gojou Satoru is a bad Daddy.

He’s a sweet Daddy, a silly Daddy, a Daddy who’s almost incapable of saying no. He’s a Daddy with a massive sweet tooth, a Daddy who frequently allows both of you to have dessert before dinner—sometimes dessert for dinner—and a Daddy who gives his princess nearly everything she desires, weak to your pretty pout and puppy-dog eyes and please, Daddy?’s. He hates to deny you, aches at the thought of you being even just a teensy bit displeased, because he wants his baby happy, always.

It’s his fault, really, you’re saying, insisting, when he calls you a spoiled brat. Because, honestly, it is; Satoru is entitled—he always has been, born with a not silver, not gold, but platinum spoon in his mouth—and his little princess is entitled, too.

Because he gives you anything and everything you ask for the moment the demand leaves your mouth, dotes on you hand and foot, absolutely adores you, lavishing you in the finest silks and prettiest lace, always indulging you just as much as he indulges himself—as much as he has always been indulged, growing up filthy rich.

Because you weren’t always like this; or, at least, you weren’t always this brash about it.

But years of getting exactly what you want, exactly when you want it, has forced your attitude to change, to shift.

You haven’t changed, Satoru tells you one day, a tub full of melty ice cream in his lap as he shovels another spoonful into your mouth, waning sun bathing the penthouse terrace in translucent gold and coral, brilliant colours reflected in his crystal eyes. “I didn’t do anything—I simply revealed your true nature,” A devious little smirk spreads across his lips, eyes glinting in an almost ominous nature, and you shiver. “You’ve always been a selfish materialistic brat, haven’t you?”

Well, you guess he has a point.

And although you can—and do—get away with a lot, you can’t get away with everything. A little brattiness he can handle, a little brattiness he thinks is cute. But on the days when you’re really misbehaving, purposefully (or not) breaking every rule, acting out and refusing to listen, rejecting any bargain or compromise with him at all—well, he’s only human.

And he snaps.

It’s always something little, after a day full of disobedience, that does it, that finally lights the fuse and forces an explosion. Something that would normally be inconsequential, something he’d usually laugh off with a coo and a loving pat to your head.

Because you fought him on bedtime last night, then fought him on going to university this morning. You demanded pancakes for breakfast and when he denied them to you, because he’s got an important meeting in the afternoon and thus hasn’t the time to make them, you refused to eat anything at all—only to whine and bitch and complain about how starved you were for the entire duration of his conference. And yet, throughout it all, he was the perfect picture of patience, endlessly cool and nonchalant in his responses to your multiple tantrums.

Until you rushed into the kitchen in a famished frenzy, diving straight for the cookie jar and shoving three in your mouth.

“Sweets are not an appropriate dinner, baby,”

The words are sighed out in pure exasperation, his thumb and his forefinger pinching the bridge of his nose, lids shut tightly.

Eyebrows furrowing, you tilt your head in confusion, speaking around your mouthful. “Since when?”

His eyes snap open, blazing azure glaring at you with such an intensity it makes you flinch, cookie crumbs turning to ash in your mouth.

“Since forever,” he seethes, mask of impassivity finally beginning to break.

“What?” you laugh around the word, but it trembles. “What are you talking about? You rarely enforce that rule—especially since you don’t even follow it yourself!”

“It doesn’t matter,” he snaps, nostrils flaring with a particularly harsh exhale. “I am the boss, and what I say goes,”

“Daddy!” A sock-clad foot stomps against the marble floor as you whine out the word, arms crossing tightly over your chest. “That isn’t fair! You can’t just—”

“Enough with this attitude!” he snarls, moving like a crack of lighting as he lunges at you, lithe arms embracing you in an iron grip. “I can, and I will,”

And then he’s hauling you over his shoulder, one strong arm wrapped around you and pinning you draped over his body, delivering swift, harsh slaps to your ass every time you kick your feet or beat your fists against his back, while every whine and complaint earns you another spank in his mind, mentally tallying them up and vocalizing the thought a moment later.

“You’re being a meanie,”

“That’s twelve,” he growls.

“I don’t care!”

“Thirteen.”

“So what?”

“Fourteen.”

“That’s nothing,”

“Twenty-five.”

And that—that gets you to pause, but not to halt, not to stop, potent brattiness mixing with fury as it boils in your chest, the need to defy, to disobey, burning through your veins.

“I-I can handle that,”

“Thirty,” his voice is calm—serene, almost—and ice cold. There’s an underlying challenge sown into it, daring you to try him again, to utter another word. He’ll go higher, you can almost hear his apathetic voice floating through your mind; he’ll go as high as he needs to in order to teach such an ungrateful little brat a lesson.

Thirty it is.

The buckle of his favourite belt jingles as he undoes it, that dainty clink! forcing shivers to pebble across your naked skin, pressing your chest further into the foot of his bed, fingers curling in cashmere.

You’ve developed a love-hate relationship with that belt; it’s so fun when you get to undo it yourself, gentle fingers tugging and toying as you squirm eagerly in his lap, yet the clank and clattering of that heavy buckle as nimble fingers skillfully unfasten it and pull it from the loops of expensive trousers is almost menacing, carrying with it portentous threats it fully intends to see through.

He never warns you when the first strike is coming, reveling in the way your muscles are coiled in tension, in foreboding anticipation; basking in the surprised yelp that bubbles up in your throat.

“Relax,” he tells you with a callous chuckle, leather squealing between large, smooth hands as he folds it. “And count,”

It’s his usual response, predictable and scripted by this point, but he never seems to tire of it, notes of delight lacing his voice.

And that first blow never counts.

Gojou Satoru may be a bad Daddy by most standards, but his punishments are harsh, brutal, and cruel, and they happen to be one of the only things he takes seriously in life.

There’s rules to each of his punishments—so many rules he’s made you write them out multiple times, until your hand ached and fingers cramped and the heel of your palm was swollen, so they’d stick in that pretty empty little head of yours, so you never forget—and his spankings are no different.

You are not to move until he tells you to. You are not to speak unless spoken to. You are to count each lash, loud and clear before the next strike lands. Each mistake, each misstep and slip-up and refusal to comply, will earn you one extra slap. The tool is to be decided based on the severity of the offence.  

The belt, all rigid rawhide and sharp edges, cuts into the supple flesh of your ass with each easy, nonchalant flick of his wrist, abrasively snapping against you.

Each collision of leather against flesh sears a tingly sting into your skin, biting rapidly rising welts into your ass and sending spiky jolts of agonizing pain bolting up your spine, the pain fading to a dull throb for just a moment before another blow is delivered.

“Gorgeous,” Satoru murmurs to himself halfway through your punishment, the word nothing more than a little huff of breath. You don’t dare respond, simply crying out the next number as he lands another harsh blow to your abused skin. He doesn’t think he’s ever heard a more beautiful sound, he continues, voice appearing faint and far away, mingling with the combined symphony of the crack of leather and pathetic whimpers muffled by sheets.

“It’s incredible,” he says, louder this time, voice dripping with wonderment, as if he can’t believe he’s created such a magnificent piece—the streaks of blood staining once perfect, unblemished skin; the high-pitched whines and sharp cries of each subsequent number; the resounding slap of the belt against your bare ass that evokes it all.

The whole thing sends a surge of intense power rushing through his veins, the tingling buzz it leaves behind enthralling and invigorating. You don’t need to look at him to know this, don’t need to see the way his eyes shine with it, the way his chest heaves with it, the way his entire body trembles with it—you can feel it in the atmosphere surrounding you, can feel the shift as his ego saturates the air, as his pure superiority bleeds into it, dense and suffocating, stimulating and revitalizing.

It infects your body, seeping in through your skin and flooding your veins, re-instills the need to be submissive, the ache to be good, providing you with the strength to endure.

The punishment lasts for forty-five excruciating minutes, accumulating a total of thirty three spanks—the extra three tacked onto your original punishment of thirty, one for each time you broke a rule. He’s on you in less than a second the moment it’s over, belt dropping to the rug-covered floor with a distinct thump as soft, eager palms roam your sweaty body, lips crushed against yours, still trembling as they spill pitiful whimpers into his mouth.

The luxurious bedroom—all cream and gold and drenched in sunlight—is blanketed by backhanded praises, warning you not to be a brat and just take what he gives. He’s sadistic when he gets in moods such as these, a feral glint in crystal eyes as large hands hastily flip you over—so fast it knocks a gasp of his name from your chest—seemingly unconcerned about the fresh blood oozing from the thin swollen welts that embellish your ass staining his thousand dollar sheets.

“Daddy needs you now,” he growls when you try to protest, breathing erratic as fingers flex on your hips, squeezing and kneading before pressing down hard, a silent order to stay fucking put. “And you’re going to be a good little girl for your Daddy now, aren’t you?”

Of course. Of course, because you are a good little girl, his good little girl.

But he’s a bad Daddy.

And, like a bad Daddy, he defers aftercare—it can wait, he practically snarls as he drags you to the edge of the bed, folding your legs up on either side of your body, knees nearly nudging your jaw; and foregoes prep almost entirely—two slender fingers slipping between your slick folds, prodding your hole and deeming you wet enough to take him.

And you’d be lying if you said you didn’t absolutely love it when he gets like this, when that façade of indifference finally shatters to pieces, replaced with desperation, with urgency, with neediness.

Your head lifts from the plush mattress, neck straining a little as you watch him push his trousers down his thighs through bleary eyes, residual dewdrops of tears clinging to spidery lashes. His cock bobs a little as he kicks the pants off, and it’s just as pretty as he is, smooth and symmetrical and perfect in every way.

“This would be part of your punishment,” he pants out, speaking over your cry of discomfort as he begins to shove his cock into you, little cunt aching as it attempts to accommodate the sudden intrusion. “If you didn’t love it so much, fucking slut,”

“Daddy!” The pet name claws its way up your throat in a yelp, hands scrabbling against his shoulders, nails digging into his flesh through his Armani button-up in an effort to steady yourself, eyes squeezing shut against the severe burn that accompanies the stretch. “Gonna—Gonna tear me in half,”

“You’d think you’d be used to this by now,” Satoru muses, voice already returning to its apathetic playful lilt now that he’s half buried in your cunt, breathing already calmed. A malicious little smirk decorates his lips and he observes you as if awestruck, one of his hands moving to trace the curve of your cheek, cold fingertips soft against your scalding skin.

“So beautiful like this,” he whispers as he finally bottoms out, hips pressed flush against the back of your thighs.

And you are, fresh tears that glitter the way his eyes do in the waning sun streaming down your cheeks, leaving the prettiest streaks of salt staining your flesh; lips swollen from merciless teeth sinking into them, an attempt to silence yourself, to keep those whines and complaints of Stop, Daddy! and Hurts, Daddy! safely stored in your throat.

Your little hole flutters around him, still struggling to adjust to his girth, and his head droops forward, long tongue unfurling from his mouth to lap at the bitter water adorning your face, slow languid strokes from your jaw to your bottom lashes, replacing shimmering tears with viscous saliva.

Saccharine sugar stings your nose, sticky toffee bathed in decadent chocolate and garnished with a touch of vanilla enveloping you in a sickly sweet embrace.

Such a scent—his scent—starkly opposes the vicious snapping of his hips, setting a merciless pace from the very start, blunt nails biting deep half-crescents into your flesh as they hold you in place.

But the pain only heightens the pleasure, contradicting sensations clashing together with every one of his brutal thrusts, cashmere feeling as rough as sandpaper against your raw, wounded ass. Thorns of pain pierce through your abdomen and shoot up your spine, back arching off the bed, and the muscles in your thighs flex and clench with every slam of his cockhead against your cervix.

It’s potent and intoxicating, a heady exhilaration clouding your brain and flooding your veins, and soon there are tears leaking from your eyes again, dribbling into your mouth and mixing with strings of drool that coat the words you’re babbling out.

Blood rushes in your ears, procuring a deafening ring, and you’re not even sure what you’re saying anymore, voice vibrating indistinctly in your chest as saliva soaked mewls ooze from your mouth. Your Daddy’s staring down at you, condescension etched into his pretty features, eyes morphing from dainty crystal to the navy of a tumultuous sea, framed by strands of cream and ivory dripping with sweat.

And he’s so big, too big, stuffing you full to the hilt with each ruthless piston of his hips, mattress trembling beneath you from the sheer strength; and it’s so much, too much, you swear you can feel him in your tummy, can see the way your lower abdomen cutely bulges in synchronization with every pounding thrust.

You must say it in some way, in some shape or some form, because the patronization varnishing his features melts away, sharp smirk dissolving into a genuine grin, blue eyes lightening with pure adoration.

“Such a good girl,” you think he’s saying, through it’s hard to tell when your eyelids keep drooping, hard to hear when a symphony of broken moans and hitched whimpers and the sharp slapping of skin against skin blanket the room, reverberating off the walls of your skull. “You’re such a good, good girl for me,”

Yes, Daddy, you want to say, such a good girl for you, only for you.

“Y-Yours,” you manage instead, locking your arms around his neck and clinging to him.

“Mine,” he growls, possessiveness lacquering his eyes, brilliant and bright and shining with devotion. “That’s right, mine,”

It only takes another three thrusts before you’re gushing all over his cock, the intense spasming of your cute little cunt drawing the prettiest whines from the back of his throat as he rams into you.

“Beg for it,” he demands, and although it’s an order, it comes out more like a plead, desperation sown into his voice. “Beg for Daddy’s cum,”

You obey immediately, words spilling from your lips without a second thought, automatic and instinctual. Please, Daddy, gimme your cum? Please, please, pretty please, want your cum, Daddy, fill my belly with it, Daddy, I need it, need it so bad, please?

He gives you what you want only a moment later, cock throbbing almost violently as he fills you with thick, scalding cream—so much that you’re sure it’s dribbling out of you, trickling down your ass and onto his pristine sheets—and you roll your hips up, attempting to milk him for more.

“G-Greedy,” he pants out, but there’s a dazzling smile slapped across his face, and so much love in his eyes it’s nearly overwhelming, a fresh wave of tears casting a gleaming shield across your own.

He notices immediately, both of you wincing a little as he pulls out, a wrecked little whine escaping your mouth.

“My poor little princess,” he’s saying as he untangles his briefs—Balenciaga, this time—from his trousers, abandoned in a heap on the hardwood.

“Daddy,” you rasp, a frown marring his face, fingers encircling your ankles as he helps you unfold your stiff legs.

“I know, I know,” he’s murmuring as gentle hands pull the soft clothing up your silky thighs. “It hurts, I know baby, Daddy’s gonna make it feel better now,”

A shiver courses through your body, and he tuts, nimble fingers making quick work of the buttons on his shirt, shrugging it off before he hoists you up and drapes it over your shoulders, tenderly threading your arms through the sleeves.

It’s cozy, and warm, infused with his scent—melted sugar and expensive cologne—and you snuggle into it, weak arms pulling the material tighter around your body, swathing it in comfort. Tears prick your eyes again, blearily blinking them clear as you glance up to find him backing away. A noise of indignance sounds in the back of your throat, eyebrows knitting together as you make grabby hands for him.

“I’ll be right back, princess,” he reassures you as he laces your fingers together and allows you to pull him back towards you, voice soothing like a lullaby. Fingers trail along the curve of your cheek then trace the line of your jaw, palms smoothing hair back from your face. “Daddy’s just going to go get the first aid kit so he can clean you up, okay?”

“‘N then food?”

He coos with a little chuckle, cupping your head as he tilts it up towards him, eyes overflowing with fondness.

“Yeah, baby, and then food. Whatever you want, it’s yours,”

Gojou Satoru may be a bad Daddy, but he is also your Daddy, and that makes him the best Daddy.