#his 401K is empty

[zolanort]

This is how I remember it happening.

[foreverfalling21]

OKAY BUT JASKIER'S WIG IS A HATE CRIME. What did they do to you, you sweet, gentle, surprisingly buff man???

[tteokdoroki]

˗ˏˋ 💎  JJK MEN AS OVERPROTECTIVE GIRL DADS gojo, sukuna & geto .ᐟ

⋆˙ ᯓ★  about ! “a little girl’s first love will always be her father." three scenarios in which the daughters of three jjk men introduce their boyfriends to their fathers. ( 5.7K )

warnings ! minors blank and ageless blogs do not interact. video banner. not beta read. sfw, fluff, angst if you squint, no-curses!au, mentions of pregnancy, children and babies, the children have no names, some family issues, married life, domestic bliss, husband + father!jjk men, mother + fem!reader.

sonic says ! hello everyone !! i wanted to try my hand at some head canons and scenarios, i couldn’t get this idea out of my head so put a pause on working on kinktober to write it lol!! hope you enjoy <3 - m.list ⋆ read on ao3 ! ִ ࣪𖤐₊ 

ᯓ★ SATORU GOJO:

before meeting you, satoru gojo had never been fond of a family dinner. 

in his childhood home — they were cold and quiet, pockets of clattering cutlery would cut through painstaking silence and distract from the loud emptiness of the seat at the head of the table where his own father was supposed to be. his mother, often solemn and sunken in the shoulders, never spoke. never cooked and slipped small bites to her son in between preparation or steps.

they had staff for that, they had staff for everything.

to keep the household clean and together. to keep him fed and breathing. to keep him alive. all requirements felt almost clinical, the environment in which he was raised almost like the white walls of a hospital — without a trace of love needed for a child like satoru gojo needed to thrive. 

even if he had all the money in the world, he hadn’t a drop of love. he wasn’t ever sure if he was capable of the warm and fuzzy emotion, didn’t know if it was something his heart could ever open up to — sealed in by layers of cool, cold concrete and cement. kept in a safe without a key. at least until you miraculously found it and melted the thick layers of ice blocking satoru’s veins. you brought back colour to his cheeks and light to his eyes, taking up the space in his heart where his family had left a swirling, black void. 

to satoru, you were a saving grace. his everything… and he swore he’d never be like his father; who left his wife unhappy and empty, like a abandoned shell. he promised; he’d do much better than his parents ever did. especially when you found out you were pregnant, even more so when your little girl came into the world with plentiful white curls and lashes, screaming at the top of her teeny tiny lungs. 

at the time, you were sure you’d never seen satoru gojo so in love ( and so teary eyed too ) — but you knew what becoming a parent meant to him. what it meant for the new life you now shared.

but now, having met you and married you and created life with you — satoru had found a new appreciation for family dinners. they were a sacred event, a special time for him to keep up with the lives of his children and let them know he was there. present. 

it wasn’t a time to be imposed on and certainly not by meddlesome boyfriends brought home by sixteen year old daughters.

“so kid, what’s your 401K look like?” 

satoru carries a look of disdain, his nostrils flared, blue eyes narrowed and perfect pink lips curled in an unhappy frown. 

the young boy opposite him, a little scrawny and awkward, shrinks underneath the white haired man’s intense gaze — if you squinted, you could probably see him shaking like a little leaf in the intense wind from across the table “um… i don’t know?”

“hear that little guy? no 401K… how’s he meant to take care of your sister. yeah, yeah.

you’re right, i’ll give him a chance,” he mutters to the baby boy snoozing happily in his arms under his breath, engaging in a one sided conversation before switching his focus back to his daughter’s…sorry excuse for a partner. “okay then… finances, clearly not. academics and common sense —“ pausing,  the white haired father of two clicks his tongue, pushing it into the soft flesh on the inside of his cheek as if to feel his next words out in his mouth. “do you even know what a bouquet of flowers is, kid? a corsage? gojo women don’t play about their flowers, yanno.” 

“sir—“

without giving the boy a chance to speak, gojo drops his intrusive gaze under the table and back up again — pointing an accusatory finger at his little girl’s partner. “your top button’s undone and your shoe laces are untied. you might wanna fix that! if you care about my daughter’s safety!” he turns his nose up all petulant like a picky toddler being forced to eat his veggies, he even sticks his tongue out for good measure. gojo’s eccentric movements nearly jostle his sleepy son in place. the baby whines and gurgles a little bit, only soothed by a pat to his back from dad — who repositions him to snooze over his shoulder.

in a silent, quieter gesture, satoru uses two fingers to point between his eyes and the boy’s. almost as if to say ‘i’m watching you.’

catching him in the act, the eldest gojo daughter bounces into the room carrying plates of steaming hot food, exhaling with worm down patience evident in her body language. “daddy please, you don’t act like this normally. stop messing around.” rolling her eyes, she sets the dishes down, freeing up her hand to smack the back of her dad’s clearly empty skull. just like her mother.

“well sooooorrry for being a good dad and caring about your wellbeing! who you’re dating! who you’re bringing into our bloodline!” gojo rebuttals with petish grunts, unable to cradle the back of his injured head like he does with his son.  

and as if by magic, you, his beautiful and loving and gorgeous wife appear with dinner plates in hand to double down on a scolding the white haired man. amused, you also swat at your husband’s head and tut down at him. “satoru? what are you doing?” there’s something about the way you tease and tell gojo off that always makes his heart race, even after all these years of marriage and raising his kids. he loves you, his family so much. he almost keens into your touch like a pathetic dog, until your daughter starts gagging at the sight — slipping into her set. you were supposed to be watching the baby. not interrogating the poor kid.” 

“we’re having a heart to heart, babe,” gojo swoons, clearing his throat as his head bobs in the direction of his daughter’s boyfriend. “jimbob here was just telling me about his 3.4% grade point average.”

“it’s hiro sir! and uh… 3.5% sir.” the boyfriend in question chirps shyly.

you know that your husband feels… almost threatened by another man entering your daughter’s life — they’ve been practically inseparable since the moment she first opened her eyes. to give up the duty of loving and protecting her and pass it onto someone else is probably what scares him the most. “that’s pretty good hun!” you comment absentmindedly, hoping to pull satoru away from the conversation.

“no it’s not! our daughter has a 4.0%.”

“s-she was failing in math, i was tutoring her.” the boyfriend hopefully interjects again, whispering next when the baby stirs at the dining table. “i hope that makes up for my 401K sir. i-i also work part time to save for college and—!” 

“haha — no i wasn’t!” the younger gojo girl tenses in place, elbowing her date in the ribs not so discretely from under the table. it’s this interaction that makes her father smile, only briefly, before you scowl his way.

“i thought you told them we met at a tutoring session.” 

“you were failing?” you raise a brow, taking your own seat beside her father. 

“see! this boy failure is a bad influence on our daughter!” a glare settles on the slopes of satoru’s angelic features, mirrored by your child’s unimpressed expression across the table. in his arms, your youngest fusses about as if he senses the mounting tension at the table — earning a bounce or two from daddy, who turns your way all matter-of-factly like. “see, this why he doesn’t have a 401K”

“why would a teenager have a 401k, satoru!” comes your exasperated sigh.

“i had one when i was his age.” satoru shoots back and the kid sinks nervously in his seat. the poor boy looks as though he wants to disappear, squirming in place like he’s no better than a worm on a bait hook — it’s torture being interrogated and inspected by someone so close to the person you love most, but even he knows how important satoru’s approval is to your daughter.

she wouldn’t say it now, not when she was all grown up and finding her way out in the world — but she idolised gojo, all of her fondest memories are painted in his colours. shades of sapphire and azure like his vivid eyes, snowy white from his hair that almost rivals the clouds in the sky — the backdrop to days spent riding her father’s shoulders through the big wide world, racing down grassy green hills and wasting the hours away. she wouldn’t admit it here, today, but she never wanted to leave those memories. leave her father behind in her youth — it was written on each dip and curve and highlight on her youthful face, she wanted her father to move into this next phase of life with her too.

“daddy, you were a trust fund baby with shit grades and no prospects until you met mum,” she huffs but her words hold no malice, even if the sass brims over the edge of her tone like an emotionally charged, overflowing glass of water. you’d chide her for cursing — but you know she means well, stubbornly expressing her desire for approval to her man child of a father. “a loser, if you will.” 

gojo slumps, the rosey petals of his plump lips pushing into an age old pout. “how could you say that about dear old dad?” he whines, as though he’s a wounded animal. 

“well she’s not wrong, baby. you were a loser satoru, you still are.” the words are fond and light hearted on your tongue, a similar state to the wisps of a smile that trace over your own lips. leaning in close, you tickle the nose of the gurgling baby boy in his arms, heart heavy with affection — grateful that the one interaction you had with your husband all those years ago ( when he was a scrapier and misunderstood ) led you both to the beautiful chaotic family you have together now. “a hot one at least.” 

“gross.” your daughter groans and buries her embarrassed gaze in the spread of food on the neatly laid table — grabbing a plate and piling it high to cope.

her boyfriend chuckles nervously, wanting nothing more but to eat and do the same. desperate to hide from gojo’s intimidating aura, but too afraid to cross another one of his ridiculous invisible lines. “i think that’s very sweet mrs gojo!”

the brief moment of peace in the war of dad v boyfriend is then interrupted by the white haired man’s temper tantrum, realising that his only daughter is still in the room. “don’t push it kid.” the father of your children all but wails and finds something else about the young couple to pick apart. “you’re sitting too close together! move apart!” 

“daddy—!”

“w-what?”

“i said move it or lose it kid, before i keel over and die of heartbreak.” “betrayal. my own daughter, leaving me for someone else.” 

the two separate, shifting their chairs away from one another despite never actually being too close. you share an empathetic look with your eldest, empathetic to your husband’s actions. you both knew he wouldn’t handle the meeting well, but this was beyond your whilst dreams. the young couple’s hands remain intertwined under the table cloth as the meal begins properly, and when satoru notices, he doesn’t comment — biting down hard on his unhappy tongue. he knows all too well what it’s like to love against the odds, his father in law hardly wanted him around you. it’s not like he wasn’t aware how bad he was for you, how your standards might have even dropped for the man to be with him. but you loved satoru with your entire being, wholly and against all of your own parent’s wishes. 

in a way, the dinner tonight reminds him of himself meeting your father for the first time — how he had to work for his approval too. prove that he was more than just a spoilt brat. too caught up in the memories, the odd sense of loss threaded between his every breath and the love he holds for his daughter settled in his lungs — gojo almost kissed the way you whisper to him adoringly, head drooping to rest on his shoulder mostly to look at your baby but partly to comfort him. “you’re being dramatic satoru. look at them, don’t you just love young love.” 

and he does, he looks, really looks — softly staring across the table and through the haze of his own judgement, noticing how happy his little girl looks all wrapped up with her boyfriend. all he’s ever wanted is to keep her smiling, give her a life that his parents couldn’t give him, he feels all of his resentment and fear or losing his daughter melt away like a plain sheet of paper dissolving in water. he loves her too much to not let her be happy, his baby. his little girl. 

“no, not at all,” satoru finally relents with a wobbling voice and silvery tears that dot his vision — shaking his head back and forth to stop them from dropping onto his sleeping son gathered in his arms. “w-why would you say that? god, is it allergy season? my eyes are killing me. they’re not cute at all, why would you say that i’m crying?” 

your teenage daughter glances over, relief evident in all of her identical gojo features. “no one mentioned you crying, daddy.” she coos softly in an attempt to console satoru.

it doesn’t work, he starts dry heaving and sobbing. which is new for her, he hasn’t cried this hard since her baby brother was born.

the kid scrambles into his pocket and damn near stumbles over the table in order to hand your white haired lover a tissue. “i don’t think you’re crying sir!” 

“shut up!” gojo sniffles dramatically, putting on his best theatre kid act and drapes himself ( and the baby ) all over you. “shit, is this cushioned tissue? three ply?” pale, deft fingers swipe at the blue pools of eyes which well with tears while the kid nods over enthusiastically — desperate to please his girlfriend’s guardian. “good stuff this is… but this doesn’t mean i approve of you for my daughter!”

“gojo!” 

“whaaaaat!? he doesn’t have a 401K!”

ᯓ★ RYOMEN SUKUNA:

if you’d told sukuna, almost a decade and a half ago, that he would end up with a life shrouded in domestic bliss — he would have laughed in your face. maybe even called you a cunt whilst telling you to fuck off. back then, when he was younger and the spirit of ambitious fire burned brightly in his veins as though he had petroleum for blood, the pink haired man never dreamed of settling down. buying a house. getting married. or having kids.

he was as untameable as a wild horse, with only one goal in mind. to open up his restaurant and get his family out of that shithole town by all and any means. he’d cross whatever rivers he had to, climb whatever mountains he needed to — push past societal hurdles that judged him for the pink in his hair and the thick ink on his body. ryomen sukuna did not care. not about anyone else, only about his goals.

at least, until he met you. 

in many ways, you were a blessing to the world where sukuna was a curse. his complete opposite, the day to his night. though the worlds and lives you came from were completely different — 

nowadays, the man is a little softer around the edges and weaker in the heart — they say that’s what true love does to you.

a set of keys jingle at the front door, followed by the dull thud of trainers on the shoe rack and footsteps on the mahogany wood floor. sukuna hardly looks up from the article he’s reading — something about the best recipes for autumnal vegetables. who would have thought, ryomen sukuna, reading up on gardening. he would tell anyone who asked it was for his restaurant, not because he actually enjoyed it. would make him look soft. 

“hey, i’m home!” the voice that calls to him is sweet and youthful, a dulcet symphony that tugs paternally at the pink haired man’s heart strings. “is ma here?” 

sukuna smiles to himself behind the newspaper, inhaling its fresh ink scent. “in the kitchen, workin’,” he replies absentmindedly, listening to his daughter skid down the hall after dropping her backpack. “oi squirt, you ain’t slick. you know what day it is, report card. now.” 

there’s a dramatic sigh that follows footsteps trailing back into the living room. sukuna’s daughter, his pride and joy clings onto the doorframe with a scowl that could very well rival his own, ruby red eyes twinkling with annoyance — she’s in a rush to chat with her mother after school, he knows, but he can’t help but to tease her just a bit. “s’in my bag, can i go now?” she whines impatiently but takes off at the first gentle nod from her father in reply. 

but the pink haired parent’s peaceful evening is quickly turned upside down at the discovery he makes in the bottom of his pride and joy’s bag. no matter how much time has passed, how many decades have gone by in which he’s been a father — nothing could prepare him for this new challenge, the new wave of emotions that come with having a tween daughter and swirl hotly in his chest.

“what the fuck is this?” he announces with a foul snarl, slipping into the kitchen where his girls chitchat idly over a test batch of cookies sukuna had made earlier in the day. for his restaurant of course. not because he’s a doting husband or loving father. he’s got an image to uphold and it’s not one of domestic bliss. 

his daughter chirps, not looking up from the sweet treat she picks apart and pops into her mouth — seated on the kitchen island while you work away on your laptop. “what’s what, daddy?” her innocent nonchalance about the older sukuna’s discovery almost makes him pop a vein. “also, ma told you to stop saying the f-word. so, swear jar.”

the hulking man with the contrastingly soft pink pokes his tongue into the soft epithelium of his cheek, his jaw ticks and a playful frustration tingles throughout all four of his limbs. the swear jar was something you’d brought into play as soon as [daughter name] had learned how to talk, afraid that your rough and rugged husband’s potty mouth would rub off on her young impressionable mind. every time a cursed word falls from between ryomen sukuna’s lips, a couple hundred yen is popped into the jar as punishment. the thing was practically full by your baby’s third birthday, so you’ve been putting it down as her college fund ever since.

paper rustles between deft and tattooed fingers as sukuna reveals not a report card, but a crinkled note like the kind passed back and forth between distracted kids in the middle of that one class before lunch. “don’t play dumb with me, squirt.” ryomen holds the note up to the light so that both of his girls can see, blood diamond eyes squinting so he can inspect it better. somebody get this guy his glasses. “‘do you want to go out with me? tick for yes, cross for no.’” he reads out loud, each word leaving a bitter taste on his tongue, his frown so deep that lines of disapproval form on his well-aged face.

thoughts of the once all-important report card vanish into thin air, the relaxed aura in the room replaced with a palatable tension that not even your husband’s finest knives could cut. your precious baby girl shoots up from the counter to scramble with her dad over the note in hand. he holds her back with a large palm to the forehead.

“oh my god! you weren’t supposed to see that! daddy, give it here. please!”

“fat chance, squirt,” the tattooed man retorts. “you passin’ notes in class? that why you’re hidin’ your report card?” 

“you can have my report card, when you give that back!”

with the two standing side by side, the resemblance strikes you as clear as day. they share the same hair, same scowl and same rugged intonation to their voices. they’re both yours, your entire world under one roof. before they can blow said root off, you stand between the elder and younger sukuna — turning to your husband with hooded eyes and a gentle hand on the centre of his broad chest. “oh ryo,” you coo in flirtation, slowing his train of thought as you sneakily swipe the crushed paper from his grip. “shut up ‘n let me see that.”

your daughter gags behind you at the display of affection, contrasting with the amused smirk you share with your long time lover. after all this time, marriage and the perfect kid, you’re still able to make a fool out of him — make sukuna’s heart skip a beat and a heat he refuses to acknowledge crawl up the back of his neck. he’s gone soft, for you and his family. for now, for you, he relents on taunting his precious little girl. 

casting your gaze over the note, you grin at the pink-ink chicken scratch scribbled across the page. it’s sweet and endearing, reminding you of young love. “did atsushi finally ask you out?” you ask tenderly, handing the paper back to your daughter who cuddles it to her chest like the  physical version of a precious memory. 

a bashful expression lines the contours of her face, seeping into features you’d recognise from your husband on her. sukuna would argue that she has the shape of your eyes and your beauty too — but all you see is a culmination of love. “ma you were so totally right, playing hard to get really works!” 

she gushes dreamily over her crush like it’s puppy love, biting her lip and bouncing on the spot. 

“like a charm, every time.” comes your entertained response, much to your husband’s dismay.

“you weren’t playin’ hard to get with me…” sukuna questions rather than states, trying to piece together parts of the gossip that he’s missed. an anxiety corners the beat of his heart at the thought of his daughter dating, something in which the burly man never thought he would be afraid of. the world had been hard on sukuna; he only worries that it’s not as safe for his pride and joy as it were for him.   “never mind that; the brat asked you out with a piece of paper?  y’better not have said yes. we have standards here.” 

his words make you roll your eyes with the hint of a smile. ryomen almost reminding you of your own father around the time you’d met him.

your daughter scrunches her nose petulantly, gearing herself up for a witty reply. “well ma married you, so her standards can’t be that high.” she snaps, earning a stifled laugh from you and an unimpressed grunt from her hardheaded dad. “and no, i didn’t. told him he needed to ask me out  properly. face to face. with words. he said to meet him on the running track tomorrow at lunch for a surprise!”

pulling her into a hug, you kiss her round youthful cheek. “oh baby, i'm so happy for you!”

“well i ain’t! show me the damn kid, need to see what kind of pitiful brat wants to ask out my little girl,”  sukuna crosses his arms and grumbles to himself, black ink tattoos flexing menacingly as he does so. almost as if he’s preparing to threaten the kid before even meeting him. “whatever happened to askin’ for permission to court or whatever. he should have been on my doorstep asking for your hand.” 

“firstly you would have said no, and secondly this isn’t the olden days, dad. nobody does that anymore.” your cheeky daughter chides him loudly, her words slipping over her snarky little tongue. like father like daughter, the way they snip and snap at one another has an uncanny resemblance.

tilting your head upwards towards your fuming husband, you laugh breathlessly in a way that washes away his anger.“she’s right ryo; though my dad hardly approved of you either.” you say softly. even now, you make him feel weak in the knees and dizzy in the mind, like he’s so anything for you. whoever dates his daughter should feel the same about her.

“i freakin’ earned it, didn’t i? 

“just barely.”

sukuna huffs but settles a hand on your waist from behind and his head atop yours. he needs to soothe himself somehow, his daughter is growing too fast. “stop ganging up on me and lemme see the damn kid.” 

“here, isn’t he cute.” 

lips downturned, sukuna craned his neck to look at your daughter’s phone from over your shoulder — scrutinising the instagram page that she’s opened now offering the kid his only child has taken an interest in like a lamb at the slaughterhouse. “brat looks like a noodle.” haughty laughter fills the kitchen, reverberating against the bones and organs in ryomen’s chest and buzzing right though your back. “you’re right i woulda said no as soon as he fuckin’ turned up!” 

two sets of scolding eyes similar in shape, belonging to the two girls he loves the most swivel around to face the pink haired man disapprovingly.

“ryomen sukuna!” 

“daddy!”

“yeah yeah, i know. swear jar.”

ᯓ★ SUGURU GETO:

“my love, were you aware that our little munchkin has a boyfriend?”

suguru looks up from the bubbling pot of child friendly pasta sauce on the stove. if it were just the two of you having dinner tonight, like it was merely three (nearly four) years ago — he would have planned for a more adventurous meal. perhaps sought out a bottle of fine aged wine for you both to enjoy on the balcony and even gotten a dessert to sweeten the date in. but now, you both had more than two hungry tummies to worry about, and bottles of wine could only be purchased when the little one was off with her uncle satoru.

“no, i wasnt. i don't believe that’s come up in discussion before,” your dark haired lover turns his narrow gaze to the giggly little girl swaddled in your arms — her chubby cheeks and dark, curious eyes just peeking out of the fluffy duck-themed towel you’ve wrapped her in. bath time is usually after bed, but someone got into the paint pots at nursery school and managed to get blotches of blue streaked through her hair and under her fingernails. “care to elaborate sweetheart?”

suguru taps the wooden sauce spoon against the side of the pot and swipes his hands on a nearby tea towel before allowing them to rest on his hips, look of faux irritation settling on the contours of his face and slopes of his features. thin brows draw together like closed gates in the middle of his forehead — the expression earning airy light and squealed laughter from your baby girl.

“nuh uhhh! not my boy-fend!” she babbles her way through the big girl word, missing a few syllables here and there, but geto still grins with pride — happily leaning forward to press enthusiastic kisses to his little angel’s damp forehead. “no boy-fend papa!

bouncing your daughter slightly, you cock your hip out to hold her weight and cheekily roll your eyes. “such a daddy’s girl, lying to him already? he’ll let you get away with anything if you keep that up,”  though you muster up a pout to rival the toddler’s, the uncanny resemblance warming the cockles or your husband’s heart, your tone is playful and adoring — it’s lilt full of love for the baby girl you made together. you pinch her chubby cheek, waggling it from side to side as more of her childlike laughter tangles with the scent of pasta in the air.  “we bumped into the fujioka boy and his mother at the gates this morning, he held her hand all the way up to the classroom. it was quite cute. you had to be there, love.” 

“i’m sure,” he responds, gentle mirth and protectiveness swirling in dark framed eyes.

you relay the information to your husband as though it’s hot gossip fresh from the press, whispering over your dark-haired daughter’s head not so secretly. even with the hair and eyes to match suguru’s, she’s still just as much your carbon copy as she is his — he tends to say all of her spirit comes from you, not to mention the way she laughs and smiles.

shaking her head between you, both — your baby chimes in brightly. “noooo mama!! boys are gross, i don’ hold hands with boys.”

this time suguru manoeuvres to pinch her other chubby cheek, clicking his tongue as he does so. “not even papa?” he pretends to pout, crouching down with his hands on his knees to coo into her sweet little face. 

“nuhhh, papa isn’t gross!! papa is my favourite boy!” she quickly tacks on with a dribbly smile.

“that’s right. i’ll be the only boy in your life always, just you and i princess,” your husband reaffirms with a firm shake of his head and presses a promise in the form of a kiss to your daughter’s nose. her chubby little hands, still wet from bath time, smack either side of suguru’s face and keep him close — close enough for her to plant a soggy smooch onto his forehead affectionately. a wet kiss only a father could love. “that settles it, i’m no longer sharing my kisses. papa says no boyfriends until you’re ninety.”

once your two loves are done sharing their candied affections, you seat your daughter on the edge of the kitchen table to allow geto the room to finish up with dinner. the comforting symphony of baby babbles and kitchen utensils clanking and food boiling fills the steamy air, it makes you smile. it feels like home. “oh come on suguru, they’re only three. don’t you think it’s the tiniest bit adorable?” you say with a sing-songy voice, entertaining both your little one and her father.“they even share their animal crackers during break time and crayons when it’s time to colour, one of the supervisors told me.”

with his back now to you as he stirs through the pasta sauce one final time, you hardly miss the way suguru’s shoulders tense at the mention of the little boy your girl has taken a liking to. he wouldn’t dare frown about it in front of her, what upsets daddy upsets baby too. that’s why he’s always smiling for her, and you find the man’s subtle jealousy endearing. it’s always supposed to be suguru and his princess, with no room for anyone else ( aside from you, of course ) 

“nope, no boyfriends. no amount of cuteness can convince me otherwise.” voice falling tight and flat, suguru reaches into the cupboards for plates and bowls to dish up his lovingly prepared home cooked meal, slamming them into place at the table with a little less patience than before. 

the idea of some… little boy chasing after his daughter’s heart? over his dead body.

“boy-fends are gross!” but your daughter is forever a daddy’s girl, furrowing her brow and crossing her tiny arms in an act of defiance — supporting her papa’s cause. boyfriends are bad! 

fuelling her excitement and even more support for papa — food is served shortly by your husband, who plates up as best as he can with toddler safe dinnerware. you adjust your little girl into her high chair at the table, giggling to yourself softly when she cranes her neck to keep an eye on suguru. “does that mean papa’s gross? he’s technically mama’s boyfriend.”

“husband, love, there’s a difference.” 

three plates of hot, aromatic spaghetti are organised in a table — each a domestic reminder of the family suguru geto has been blessed with. in that moment, he thinks he would be happy if he spent the rest of his life as just the three of you. briefly his mind wonders to setting a fourth place at the table in a decade or so’s time, once his daughter truly is old enough to date. the very thought makes him feel ill. 

round, doe eyes dart between you and suguru as you take your seats either side of your darling daughter at the table — she mimics you both with fumbling little fingers that reach for her baby fork and concentrates as she attempts to repeat your husband’s words. “can i have a husbsband-love?”

you laugh and kiss her cheek, helping her to gather a bite of pasta on the full end of her fork. “husband. just husband, my love. make sure you blow on your food please!” she follows your instructions with a comical air, cheeks puffing and breath huffing while you explain why her father is a second away from blowing his top. “good girl. husband’s aren’t for babies, baby. and i think papa might not like it if you got one now.”

“if you got one ever!” suguru interjects, eyes narrowing while he fights with his lips to avoid a scowl. “the answer is still no, princess. no husbands and no boyfriends until papa is old, cold and in the ground.” 

now that your hands are free, you grab the nearest tea towel and wind it up in your grip — launching its tail end at geto as though to swat at  him. he jumps in surprise and your daughter shrieks in amusement as she begins babbling again. “don worry, papa!. fujioka is  no my boy-fend!!” she says over food in her mouth and happy tummy. geto wipes over her face again. she’ll definitely need another bath later. “hasegawa is!!”

the pair of you share a look and this time, you really think suguru might just throw in the towel. 

how could he compete with pre-school love and paint pots shared over playtime gossip? 

“two boyfriends? oh god, love… i think need some air.”

꒰ end. — all rights reserved © tteokdoroki 2024. do not copy, repost, translate, feed into ai & recommend elsewhere.

[banj0possum]

So… ah…

Gift! Take! Present!

CW: blood!

I’m in love with these goobers. Thank younsm for all you do!

Bonus? Some HCs that have been swishing in my empty empty noggin: (dunno where else to put them but here)

- Screw calls his treasures “Sparklies”. He also likes marbles. It’s hard for him to actually play, but he like the Sparklie. He has a big one that is his prized possession… but you can hold it if you want…

- I swear Ribs was big into Among Us or FNAF bc bro be venting. That’s all.

- In the “Bite HC” thing you said that the boys associate biting with eating/ their teeth are sharp, so I just thought of in Part 1 Soda is deadass trying to eat Reader with everyone standing there. But it’s in a funny haha way not in a scary way. My heart couldn’t take that.

- I HC that Bo drools. Not a lot, but more than the others. His gums are just out, poor guy.

- I was thinking about what the boys did before the apocalypse, so here are my silly dumb thoughts.

- Screw was a student, most definitely. Just an art or lit student scrimblo stumbling his way through college. (Also he likes Sanrio *cough*)

- As mentioned by you, Ribs is a party boy. I feel like he’s the type that did odd jobs. He;s all over Fiverr and Craigslist. Also he has no regards for savings. It’s is blessing in disguise he’s undead. No 401K to worry about.

- I feel like Soda worked at like a “fancy clothes rental” store or something to do with hospitality. I say that bc it was mentioned that he keeps his hair and clothes cleaner than the others. Although he could totally be like a VTuber or professional gooner for all ai know.

- Obvi Bo was conscripted into the military, but I could totally see him as a teacher. Dunno what age group tho.

Thank you for taking the time to read this far! Also don’t be afraid to cut so,e stuff out since ik it was long.

Love your work!! (qwq)✌️

akjhfikauvkhfnvujbghuhgb!! this is amazing !! :0000000

this is all canon now, i said so, its all canon

soda please share your hair routine sir please sir please share your hair-

[fellshish]

just felt like letting you know im makin my way through your spn bookmarks on ao3 and its saving my life 💚 do you have an ultimate-nothing-compares destiel faves from the bunch?

YES omg these are the fics that rewired my brain changed my life etc:

And this your living kiss (M, 56k): au where dean is a self deprecating former poet who used to write anonymously under the pen name jack allen. Now he’s finding his way back to loving poetry by taking a class at a college taught by professor novak… only he doesn’t know professor novak happens to be the number one jack allen scholar in the country. Amazing. Inspiring. I’ve reread it several times and it’s probably my favourite fic of all time

The cheapest room in the house (E, 89k): one of those fics whose writing i’m jealous of, it’s mind bogglingly good. And hot. The destiel grindr fic — cas downloads grindr and dean helps him. The rituals are SO intricate. But really, nothing i could say could do justice to how good this is.

Fenario (E, 47k): cas empty rescue fic. Certain paragraphs and scenes are just seared into my brain, amazing writing. I still think about “Cas’s legs give out and he pitches forward, falling the rest of the way into Dean’s lap in a mockery of a pieta” — that’s the point where i knew this fic was gonna become a fave

Right where you left me (E, 93k): cas comes back from the empty but it’s years later. He rings the doorbell and finds dean married. This fic was an event while it was still updating. Supremely well written and with an emotional maturity needed for the theme

Am I a man or am I a muppet (G, 7k): one of the funniest fics i’ve ever read. Dean wakes up as a muppet. Just roll with it! It’s crack, sure, but so good?? This inspired a scene in one of my gomens fics even

Burn this into your brains forever (E, 10k): to me this is an underrated fic for how funny it is. Fake dating between dean and garth but don’t worry, it’s a destiel fic

Half empty (M, 37k): more of a dean study. Reads like you’re dreaming and nothing makes sense. Dean is confused about everything. Kind of a mysterious vibe, excellent writing

There is rest for the wicked (G, 14k): sleepy, domestic dean. The destiel happens so…. Idk. Naturally. It’s a fic that really stays with you for a long time

Ninety one whiskey (E, 401k): one of thee destiel fics of all time. It’s famously a must-read and for good reason. A war fic, so quite heavy and not for everyone. But an absolute experience. I read the last few chapters in bed middle of the night tears streaming down my face. Simply iconic

A winter’s tale (T, 64k): this fic forever changed the way i see cas’ human arc on the show. Not super destiel-y but can be read that way. Again quite heavy. Northernsparrow is an excellent writer.

The dean winchester beat sheet (E, 144k): au where dean is in college and in complete and utter denial about his sexuality. So supremely funny. I will say this dean is not for everyone. But to me he is iconic and i think about certain scenes still. Forever changed the song i want to break free for me.

What has eight tentacles and isn’t allowed to eat pie? (T, 16k): basically uhhhh dean gets turned into an octopus. HEAR ME OUT. This fic will change you fundamentally as a person. It’s funny but also smart. A classic!

Maybe it really is the end (M, 2k): it’s short but there’s not a word out of place. Basically, belphegor taunts dean and cas while in the body of jack. It’s so good and so underrated. I think about it all the time

How a grocer watches dean pull his head out of his ass in seven days (E, 51k): destiel written from an outsider pov, a christian lady who’s easily scandalised and whose narrative voice is SO hilarious. One of the funniest fics i’ve ever read. Fake dating too!

[talesfrommedinastation]

My Redneck Neighbor Doug has watched The Bad Batch Season 3 opener:

LEEEEET'S GET READY TO RUMBLE!

This is more pithy than normal: Doug's been busy with work, as have I. But I'm determined to hear his thoughts on The Daddy Warcrimes 'n Company so here we go!

These were all via text messages, btw.

CW: Doug Doug's as you know Doug will do. Away!

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

Episode 1: 'Little Orphan Blondie's Shit Internship at The Museum of Science and Industry'

Poor Little Orphan Blondie, stuck in The Museum of Science and Industry in a shit summer job because they got bills to pay. Except they got rid of the dinosaurs and walk in heart and filled it with gross shit.

Hey look, they still got the coal mine exhibit! Man I miss Chicago.

(Doug, that museum has never had dinosaurs. “What, since when?”)

MUTANT JIMMERS EVERYWHERE! Aw, Little Orphan Blondie gave one her chicken nuggets! And it’s shy, aw, I hope it’s okay.

Poor Mutant Jimmers…she named her?! Swear to Christ Almighty if that dog gets Old Yeller’d I’ll just lose it. 

That freaky alien thing that ran the mall on the ocean looks sad, I bet she wishes she fell into the water and got eaten by a shark or something. I wish you did too, lady. 

The Sons of Robocop really are everywhere, they must be a cult or something. They look cool, I’d join, why not. Think they get 401ks?

Oh man, Daddy Warcrimes is down bad. Poor Daddy Warcrimes. Man, all my clone boys are stooped and sad…this ain’t good. 

At least Little Orphan Blondie can craft! Man, she should start selling those at the Museum of Science and Industry’s gift shop. Maybe Tarkin can bring one back for the grandchildren he’s not allowed to talk to since the restraining order was put in.

Oh, there’s Stepsister Beth, she seems on edge. Must’ve gotten divorced recently, don’t blame her ex, I bet she screamed at him for leaving cabinets open who knows. How do her eyeballs not hurt after wearing those dumb glasses all day?

Episode 2: 'Night Elves and Neverland Ranch'

The night elves from Warcraft invaded Star Wars and got horns or something and now they have a castle that looks like a boss level in Diablo IV or V or how many Diablo games they got now.

Now they yelling at people and throwing them in the basement today. Makes sense, gotta fight the orcs and stuff. Think they fight the orcs in the basement?

The Night Elf Horned Queen hired Daddy Rambo and Julio to get people, I guess they’re turning into Boba Fett or something. They got her son's horn back, guess that's good. Oh they need new paint jobs on their armor.

Do they end up in the basement in the Diablo Boss Level? No? And off they go! 

Daddy Rambo and Julio are in their homeland of FLORIDA! Hell yeah, SPACE FLORIDA! And they’re bringing the talking trashcan with them using straps! Go Julio go!  Yeah, boa vines, this is TOTALLY the Everglades! 

Escaped clone boys! Oh man! Shit, is Neverland Ranch in the jungle? Oh man–oh, they know what they’re doing. Good kids. Real good kids. Oh what happened to the rest of them? Oh Meat Muffin, this ain't good :(.

You know what? Them clone boys are smart, take it back, this ain’t Space Florida, this is Space Louisiana! Them baby boys gone get feral and run off into the bayou and live in the caves and now you know my origin story, Meat Muffin! 

If this was Florida they'd just end up working the late shift at Zaxby's and smoking rocks in the parking lot. We know better, we French and all.

I bet they’ve been living on nutria and half-empty chicken boxes from behind the gas stations. Resourceful scrappy kids and I can tell its making Daddy Rambo proud.

Oh holy SHIT, there go them vines! It's like the kudzu all over again, maybe this is LaFourche Parish?

See, them boys are definitely white trash, Mandalorian rednecks. Look at em, living in the woods and hijacking a plane, but they good kids, saving their brothers. Even saved the robot too. 

Man, all the feels, them poor little boys. What will they do now?  Oh, they're going to Space Daytona! Good, wait, I saw the trailer, doesn't the Empire invade it? THIS AIN'T GOOD MEAT MUFFIN!!!

Wait...where's Toaster Strudel and Rex?

Episode 3: 'Blondie Got a Gun'

Well here's the Emperor. He wants to be immortal. Gotta make that other movie make sense or something.

Where's Darth Vader? Is he running the government when the Emperor is running around giggling?

Don’t you DARE kill Mutant Jimmers, you damn droid. I hate that ugly assed stupid thing. It looks like its scarecrow daddy fucked a microwave and then left it enough money to go to Planned Parenthood but instead spent it on crack and there ya go.  

Oh shut your goddamned yap, Jimmy the Scientist. I bet he gloves that hand up because he keeps shoving it up his own ass and that's why he walks funny all the damn time.

The Emperor also has a Diablo IV or VIII boss level all to himself too at the Museum of Science and Industry. How many Diablo games are there, Meat Muffin?

YEAH, LITTLE ORPHAN BLONDIE! GIT ER DONE!!! They're out! Oh wow! There she goes with Daddy Warcrimes! Kill em all and let GOD SORT THEM OUT! That's my GIRL!!!!

Blondie’s got a gun 

Blondie’s got a gun

Her whole world's come undone

Shooting droids is FUN!

GO MUTANT JIMMERS GO!!!! 

YEAH BLONDIE DADDY WARCRIMES AND MUTANT JIMMERS!!!!!!

I AIN'T A BULLS FAN BUT REPEAT THE THREE PEAT! YEAH!!!!!!

....so when we gonna get Toaster Strudel and Rex? Next one? Where's my reg boys?!

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

Tagging those who missed my Cajun neighbor. LOOKS LIKE REDNECK DOUG IS BACK ON THE MENU, BOYS!

@skellymom @amalthiaph @eyecandyeoz @cdblake1565 @sued134 @merkitty49 @supremechancellorrex @yeehawgeek @wrenkenstein @techs-stitches @deezlees @autistic-artistech @perfectlywingedcrusade @auntie-venom @megmca @thecoffeelorian

[profoundbondfanfic]

hi there just wondering what is the angstiest fics you guys have collectively read? I’m in search for the angstiest angst to ever angst

Hey there, sorry for the delay, but here are a few of our fav angstiest fics!

A Complete Kingdom by komodobits [Explicit, 85k words] #major character death

The sea; it swallows me. It comes up to my knees and it swallows me. The boys owe Jody a few dozen favours, and so when her niece goes missing near an old fishing village on the coast of Maine, Dean, Sam, and a newly human Castiel agree to take the case on. They settle into an old abandoned lighthouse-keepers' cottage, and slowly the tide comes in. (post-s8)

Angels Don't Fear the Reaper by you-cant-spell-subtext-without (ayreisha) [Mature, 144k words] #angst with a happy ending

"When his eyes first open, there is nothing but darkness. Not the velvety, deep black of night, but the steely, thin murk of nothingness. Of cold. Of death. Of Death. Somehow, it feels like coming home."

Every Part of the Animal by Askance (doomcountry), komodobits [Mature, 47k words] #major character death

It’s their first case after the Trials, after Heaven has collapsed: playing back-up to another team of hunters taking out some werewolves in the mountains. It's a routine job, an easy job - at least until the radio goes silent. Sam, Dean, and Cas follow after, but the caves into which the hunters have vanished wind deeper and darker than they could have expected, and something is wrong. Cas can feel it. The Winchesters may not believe what he’s hearing, but there's something down here with them—and it's not the people they came here to find, and it's not the werewolves they've been tracking. It's something else, something older, something violent, and it knows they're here.

Grey by Valinde (Valyria) [Explicit, 65k words] #angst with a happy ending

In a world where people don't see in color until they find their true mate, the first thing Dean sees when he pulls himself out of his grave is the blue sky. When Castiel raised him from the Pit, he inadvertently claimed Dean as his mate.

Man in the Wilderness by OneHundredSuns [Explicit, 68k words] #angst with a happy ending

Dean Winchester is fresh out of Purgatory along with every other Tom, Dick and Wendigo that called the cesspool home. As the monsters lay waste to the Earth and eat anything they can get their hands on, Dean sets out to find his only remaining family so that they can hunker down and fight the assholes head on. He doesn’t mean to stumble upon Castiel Novak and his adorable twins in the middle of the apocalypse and he sure as hell doesn’t mean to offer them a ride to wherever they are trying to get to. But the world is a dangerous place now and he’s always been a sucker for blue eyes and cute kids. So he’ll help them out and just hope it doesn’t get him or them killed in the process.

Ninety One Whiskey by komodobits [Explicit, 401k words] #angst with a happy ending

In the spring of 1944, the 104th Medical Battalion of the United States Army is disbanded, and its men reassigned to various infantry companies in preparation for their invasion of occupied France. For First Lieutenant Novak, this is less than helpful, as he has so far met his platoon’s designated medic a grand total of twice, and has both times found Sergeant Winchester to be the optimum combination of reckless, arrogant, and downright insufferable so as to make cohesive platoon function near impossible. When the time comes to move out, however, Castiel has to reconcile himself to the fact that men are going to go down and trust that Dean Winchester may well be the only person who can put them back together again. WW2 ETO infantry AU.

Right Where You Left Me by outdean [Explicit, 93k words] #angst with a happy ending

Ten years after the empty swallows Cas up, it spits him right back out—but a lot can change in a decade. OR The "Cas comes back from the empty to find that Dean is married" fic.

The Benjamin Franklin Key-and-Kite Experiment by beerenee [Explicit, 122k words] #angst with a happy ending

“Thank you for stopping by, Dean,” Emmanuel says, holding out the jacket. “I hope to see you in church on Sunday.” The tips of Dean’s fingers accidentally brush over the back of Emmanuel’s hand when he reaches for the jacket. “Probably not,” Dean laughs as he pulls Dad’s jacket around him. “Like I said before, I’m not exactly a believer. You?” Emmanuel doesn’t answer immediately. Then, without really looking at Dean (more like looking through him,) he whispers, “I will be.” Or 1.12 but Dean's faith healer is Emmanuel!Cas

the inexhaustible silence of houses by Askance (doomcountry) [Teen, 31k words] #unhappy ending

Almost two years after the world doesn't end, Castiel falls from grace—and loses his voice in the process. It is the impetus for confession and change; before long, he is settling into a loving relationship with Dean, the Winchesters are tired, and hunting for a place to land has taken precedence to hunting anything else. Dean and Castiel fall in love with the strange little house on the end of Swallowtail Drive, and for a little while life is as it should be—sweet, affectionate, and beginning afresh. But more and more Castiel sees and hears things in the house that beg the question of whether or not a place itself can be alive. The walls and rooms seem to shift and grow and breathe, and one night, Dean comes home from a hunt changed in a way that Castiel cannot explain. In the months that follow, their domestic bliss takes turns for the dark and sour, and the confusion of their circumstances will ultimately test everything Castiel knows about the man he loves, and everything he believes to be true.

The walk by Persephoneshadow [Explicit, 196k words] #angst with a happy ending

Dean's been living on the streets and turning tricks for a while. Most of the time clients just find him. After a job goes wrong he goes looking for work and finds more than he expected with a married man of faith with blue eyes and a trench coat.

To build a Home by intothesilentland [Mature, 383k words] #angst with a happy ending

Twenty-three years of head-over-heels, devastating devotion and love, love, love for the man with bright eyes and dark hair. Fourteen years of friends, best friends, of always together. One moment of rejection. Nine years of apart. Nine years of heartbreak, nine years of continents away, of not speaking, of no acknowledgement, no interaction, no closure, no peace. No happiness. Nine years of Dean’s life entering motions, going through them, constant, cold and mechanic, like clockwork. Nine years of alone. God. Nine years. A lot has changed. And yet Dean still loves Cas just the same. Even if his heart hurts all kinds of different. On the day of Jimmy Novak’s funeral, Dean sees Cas for the first time in nine years. He adored Castiel the moment he met him, at only four years old. But after fourteen years of friendship destroyed by one moment of heartbreak, and after nine years of silence, Dean is convinced Cas will want nothing to do with him. And it’s killing him.

Twist and Shout by gabriel, standbyme [Explicit, 97k words] #major character death

What begins as a transforming love between Dean Winchester and Castiel Novak in the summer of 1965 quickly derails into something far more tumultuous when Dean is drafted in the Vietnam War. Though the two both voice their relationship is one where saying goodbye is never a real truth, their story becomes fraught with the tragedy of circumstance. In an era where homosexuality was especially vulnerable, Twist and Shout is the story of the love transcending time, returning over and over in its many forms, as faithful as the sea.

What Is Tomorrow Without You by sobsicles [Explicit, 93k words] #angst with a happy ending

Cas is dead, and Dean is living through hell all over again. Experiencing hell as he'd first lived it, Dean aches for peace. When Jack enters his life, it only brings him a purpose. A mission for revenge sends Dean spiraling out of control as Jack does everything in his power to help Dean, going as far as to using his power to let Dean visit Cas where he resides after death. But when Dean depends on these visits and learns a few things about how he truly feels for Cas, the line between what's real and what's not starts to blur. Dealing with grief and his need for revenge, Dean struggles to find a way to get his family back together while also coming to grips that he might have to find a place in a world without Cas in it. Fortunately, Cas comes back, and Dean has to learn to navigate through the life he'd been wanting. But things aren't quite what they seem as their relationship blooms, and Dean realizes he's the reason Cas is slowly changing, and not for the better.

What Used to be Mine by someonetoanyone [Explicit, 48k words] #angst with a happy ending

“There is…” he starts; he licks his lips and glances away; his fingers twitch and fiddle, “... there is one thing she's afraid of. There's one thing strong enough to stop her.” That sounds too good to be true, so Dean waits for the other shoe to drop. It doesn’t take long. Cas at least has the wherewithal to look Dean in the eyes when he says, “when Jack was dying, I made a deal to save him.” ___ a terrible, evil AU that posits; what if the divorce arc was even worse, what if Dean never apologized in Purgatory, and what if Cas internalized all of that, making his ultimate confession less confident, though no less heartfelt, and he died thinking Dean hated him?

You Can Keep Holding On by NorthernSparrow [Explicit, 352k words] #angst with a happy ending

Hiatus fic set after the S11 finale. Dean's alive, Sam's alive, they're going to get Cas from wherever he got zapped to, and everything's finally gonna be all right. Dean's on top of the world. A little voice in the back of his head is whispering "It's never that easy," but Dean ignores it.

[aestariiwilderness]

Bad Batch -- Actually Probably Not Spoilers?

But Just In Case:

Like, for plot reasons, I see why they couldn't do it. But my biggest (and possibly the funniest) peeve I have with Bad Batch is this: Canonically, Tech is some kind of master hacker. Can forge chain codes after learning about them five seconds ago. Hacks battle droids -- presumably, you know, SECURED in some way -- on the regular. Masked a ship's signature or whatever. Calculates percentages of plans' successes on the fly while hanging upside down from a screechy flying reptile. Has zero fear (except when Omega is driving the Marauder or someone is doing the Wikipedia entry who isn't him) ("it's not affecting life support. We're fine"; riot racing; everything he's ever done). The moral heart of the Batch pre-Omega ("the systematic termination of the Jedi was a big one for me"; "I understand. I do not agree with you"; "of course we are a family"; "we have not always seen eye to eye with Crosshair but he is our brother and we do not leave our own behind"; but has no issue being pragmatic when it's called for (see: Cid, riot racing again, missions for Rex, interruptions thereof, etc.). Seriously. Wack job of a man. Crazy. Strict moral code arranged almost solely around his family that absolutely nobody sees coming and that, specifically, does NOT preclude massive destruction, property damage, and lethal measures. Ridiculous man. Homeschooled. Genetic Mandalorian. COMPETENT. (Usually.) Bona fide, literal, genetically-engineered test tube genius who is also biologically nine years old. Has no concept whatsoever of overkill. Point being -- he is EXACTLY the kind of person I would expect, once it sunk in that: 1. They are no longer Kaminoan/Republic property 2. They are, in fact, on the run with fam + new baby and - cranky but nonetheless beloved sniper bro who picked a terrible time to be stupid And 3. that "money" is now a thing they must Account For.... Give him two days to study finances, economy, and the various mafia; send him on a weekend trip to Nal Hutta to observe gangs, and hey presto -- the Hutts? overthrown in a year. Black Sun? Under new management. Pykes? A thing of the past. The Senate? Convening emergency sessions to discuss Where All the Money Has Gone. Palpatine's Secret Slush Fund #43? Drained. Hemlock's Science Budget? Currently funding the clone rebellion. ISB 401ks? Being used to pay someone to "retrieve" (read: kidnap) Crosshair from Rampart. Cad Bane's baby-stealing revenue? Currently outfitting the Marauder with gold plating. My point: WHY ISN'T TECH HACKING STAR WARS ATMs Story would have been over six episodes in. Tech would have foreclosed on the Palace; the Death Star would have fallen prey to insurance fraud; Omega would have grown up with more gowns than Padme. The Banking Clan bows to their new and, uh, eccentric overlords. Wrecker has thirteen new Z-6 cannons. Echo has thirteen natborn employees and is thoroughly enjoying himself. Hunter took an actual shower (still didn't get a new bandana). The Empire is turning over the empty coffers and shaking them out, wondering if they have rats. Mas Amedda is standing on street corners with an upturned hat. Crosshair is happily occupied with suing the Kaminoans for emotional damages. The end

[lonepantheress]

♡ txt as summer jobs

pairing: ot5!txt

genre: crack

warnings: completely unserious.

a/n: my inspiration? work has been kicking my ass and i thought it'd be funny if a shitty summer job kicked their ass too! will be updating with a REAL FIC so soon

Yeonjun

Works everywhere and is somehow always broke

It starts to freak you out

Like you see him as your cashier getting ice cream

And then he’s stocking shelves at the store and you’re like, “Oh, that’s weird..”

And then he’s your waiter at a restaurant

And you’re like, “?????”

He’s all cute and nice and hates his job(s) and is like, “I’m saving for a car!”

But he can blow through a paycheck in like a week. 

If he’s your coworker omg I could imagine him being the coolest person ever.

Willing to pick up shifts, is fun to talk to when it isn’t busy, and gets shit done when it is.

I don’t see him being like the manager type, but the type that all the managers love even when he’s being super lazy just because he’s charming.

Soobin

Really sweet barista at Starbucks 

The type that you run and tell your friends about after you see him because he’s so attractive and so nice

He hates his job though.

I could see him not being a manager but instead being a “team leader” which is basically a manager in training wheels.

Always stressed. Always saying, “I think I’m going to quit soon”

His ass is NOT quitting soon

Like- if he quit, his coworkers would probably cry

Constantly cleaning because he’s constantly knocking things over.

Any embarrassing customer experience? He can safely say he’s had it

Really good at saving his money well

Like… suspiciously good.

Beomgyu

Works at like Forever 21 or something

And using “work” here loosely because he never shows up

How he isn’t fired a month in? Who knows.

A stickler for his job title too

“Oh, so you’re like a cashier at-”

“I’m actually a style consultant.”

He’s just a cashier with a fancy name.

He will hide in between clothing racks and play on his phone or chit-chat with someone else

And if he’s on register, he’s really not paying attention to his surroundings

“Hi, are you able to check me out?”

“What..”

“Like, can I pay here?”

“OH, YES, RIGHT! I WORK HERE!”

Will tell customers all the workarounds and codes and coupons they can stack without them even having to ask.

His giving out company secrets will probably get him fired before him never doing his job.

Taehyun

Works at some fast food spot and wins management over in like a week.

So efficient, so smart, so practical, he gets promoted in record time

the embodiment of this meme I'm sorry

He’s genuinely very good at his job and not necessarily proud of it, just good at it.

And he’s only so good because he uses common sense.

The old ladies that come in love him and are like, “You remind me of someone I knew when I was in high school!”

Will not cover any shifts for the LIFE of him, he would actually prefer you call out before asking him to cover your shift for you

He’d also be so annoying to couponers. It’d basically become a battle of who knows the company policy better

GOD at saving money. Has a 401k and retirement and college fund.

Kai

Game stop employee

Like if you’re buying a game that he knows, you’re stuck for another half hour listening to him talk about it

He gets in trouble for stashing away things that get sold out quickly for himself

He’s actually so sweet to the nerdy little kids in the store

But he also would tell their parents, “This game has a lot of violence and gore btw!!!!!” before they buy it for their kid

As a coworker would have the most fucked up inconsistent schedule

Shows up every day for 2 weeks in a row

And then disappears

And then shows up every day again and you’re like “hello???”

Would initiate the oddest small talk ever while the store is empty

“Do you ever wonder if a little pebble in your shoe is actually your toe rolling around?”

“No….”

“Yeah, me neither.”

[missmeinyourbones]

TO LOVE IS TO BE LOVED (TOUYA x READER) 

part 6 of the series: to love is to…

"And what kind of madness is it, anyway, to be in love with something constitutionally unable of loving you back?

Are you sure��one would like to ask—that it cannot love you back?” 

- Bluets, Maggie Nelson

“We can’t keep doing this.”

The words are not new—to you or from him. Tonight, they cut through the silence that rocks you to sleep in the midnights of your bedroom.

Your phone read a blurry 2:41 AM when the familiar rhythmic knock on your window pulled you from your slumber. Touya crawled through the half-open sill with ease. No words were exchanged when he tracked his clunky boots across your home. Dirty and soiled with mud and guilt alike. 

The routine had unfolded as it usually does, seamlessly and like the back of your hand. Touya throws his shoes clumsily by your door and sits wordlessly as you pick and prod at the newer burns and cuts decorating his face. He doesn’t say anything when you reheat your dinner leftovers and put them on a plate in front of him. And you don't say anything when he goes to shower and you hear him emptying his stomach into the toilet. 

It's normal, it's your normal, and while it isn't ideal, it's him. You don't care how it is, you just care that it is. 

And now in bed, Touya utters ther recognizable words as he fights off sleep in a guilty haze. 

“We can’t keep doing this.”

After a moment of his words lingering in the open air, he feels your voice vibrate his side, “M’not having this conversation again. Go to sleep.”

“I can’t keep doing this to you,” he persists, voice devoid of any emotion though you know he feels anything but barren. 

With a sigh, your head is lifted from his side and finds its home resting on top of his torso. Your ear pressed against his stomach, you can hear his insides digesting what’s left inside of him. It's a bittersweet reminder that he’s alive; tangible and real according to all of your senses. 

“You’re not doing anything to me,” you gently remind him. 

“I’m ruining you,” he repeats the script he always finds himself reciting, “by letting you love me.”

When I know I’m gonna leave, he wants to scream. When I know I'm dying.

“Touya,” you breathe, and he winces. The name is new, to your lips and to his ears. “You don’t know anything,” your words seem to answer his thoughts.

“I know you probably deserve someone normal,” he spits out the word like it's venomous on his tongue. “Some bitch of a businessman with a 401k who can hold down the hot meal you make em’ without throwing it up.”

His eyes aren’t on you, but instead focus on the speckled drywall of your ceiling. He exhales and you watch the grey smoke slip from his mouth like a ghost, the cigarette in his hand held far away from you as he clicks the ash against your bed frame. 

“Deserve someone who doesn't show up at your window in the middle of the night all bloody and filthy. Someone who can at least pay you fuckin’ rent if they cant give you a place of their own.”

You hate the way he thinks about things. How he views this, the love for him you refuse to tuck beneath your pillow, as an exchange of goods or a favor you decide to spare him. 

You pluck the cigarette from his hand and press it against the edge of your window. Touya doesn't resist, but his eyes flicker to where the end of the stick glows red between your fingertips. 

“You’re always talking about what I deserve,” you note. “Have you ever wondered what I want?”

He pauses in thought.

“Don’t know why you’d want anything fuckin’ less than that when you—”

“I want,” you interrupt, “to love you, how I am right now.” 

Your hand finds his cheek and gently turns it to face you. 

“I want to hear you come in through the window on rainy nights and track your ugly boots through the hallway. And I want to clean up the mess the next morning. And I want to cook for you and watch you eat it because even though it’s short-lived, it still fills your stomach.” 

Touya feels the building of tears that can never come beneath his lashes as he watched your eyes scan his face with adoration. 

“Because it’s you, and it feels like you. And if this is how I’m able to get you, then I’ll take it ten times over.”

A kiss is placed on his lips; it tastes of ash and mint and love, and though he should know what the latter tastes like, he overwhelmingly does. 

“Because I want to,” you whisper with a smile, one that Touya can barely see through the dark but ignites him like the sun all the same. 

“You’re so fuckin’ weird,” he whispers into your mouth.

If anything, your smile grows. “Thank you.” 

Your head is returned to his chest with ease and he can’t help but scoff at the situation at hand. His hand finds refuge in your hair and its the softest thing he’s ever known. 

“There’s somethin’ seriously wrong with you.”

“Don’t care,” you retaliate with ease. He feels a kiss on the scarring of his chest before you speak up once more. 

“So just shut up,” kiss, “let me love you,’ kiss, “and go the fuck to sleep.” Kiss, kiss, kiss.

The lack of light in the room doesn't seem as intimidating as it was a few moments ago. If anything, it feels comforting. Like a blanket that can shield his childish blush and contrary scowl. 

“And if you hate the window so much,” your hushed voice is the last thing Touya hears that night, “just use the spare key next time.”

[florencemtrash]

The Wisp Between Worlds

CHAPTER ONE: BLACK WATERS

Acotar fanfic/rewrite. Inner Circle x OC. Eventual Azriel x OC.

Summary: Have you ever wondered what you would do (and do differently) if you found yourself trapped in the fantasy world of your dreams? For Nora, this fantasy of hers is about to play out when she finds herself portaled away to the Moral Lands south of Prythian. But all is not as it seems. Feyre Archeron is missing and the deadline to break Amarantha’s curse draws near. Who will save Prythian now?

Warnings: None for this chapter that I can think of, but expect angst, death, and sadness in the future.

Masterlist

________________

She needed to get outside. Callahan Barge was too tall, too sweaty, and too business casual for the kind of night she wanted to be having. Makeup swam down her skin cutting brilliant blue rivers down the tan of her cheeks. When she’d last caught a look at herself in the dusty bathroom mirror she’d been shocked and intrigued at the wide, kohl-lined eyes that stared out from beneath the glitter and paint. Lauren had decked her out in a skimpy, shimmering black dress, fish-net stockings, and the accompanying makeup to “let her live out her party fairy fantasies.” After all, she deserved to dress the part for her first Halloween as a 21-year-old. But that well-deserved fantasy took a hit when Callahan, cosplaying as an aspiring accountant (as per usual), started flirting with her at the bar.  

“Why don’t I buy you a drink?” his perfect white teeth gleamed in the UV light of the club glowing almost as brightly as the white button-down shirt he wore.

“I’ve got one already.” She stared directly in his eyes, taking a sip of the fruity mocktail the bartender had shaken up for her. He eyed the drink in her hands and she raised her eyebrow, daring him to make a comment. She was the designated driver for the night and the strongest liquid currently sloshing around in her cup was lemonade, but he didn’t need to know that.

“A second drink then?”

“No.”

He fiddled with his wrist watch, visibly flustered. “So about your thesis-” He began, desperately trying to spark a conversation.

“I have to go find my friends.”

“Oh right,” he pushed back his golden waves, “well hey, if you’re free after-”

Nora ducked behind the body of a passing security guard who’d been alerted to the sound of retching towards the right of the bar. Slipping nimbly through the crowd she tried to ignore the prodding of elbows and the occasional misplaced grinding of hips. Callahan was a nice guy, the kind that would have a position at Goldman Sachs by January and a 401k set up by May. The problem was he didn’t seem to understand why being randomly partnered with Nora for a creative writing assignment was enough grounds for a relationship. 

Fuck this. Nora thought to herself after five minutes of circling the lower and upper levels of the club. It would be impossible to find Lauren and Garett in this crowd and calling was pointless. The music raged from the speakers so loudly she could feel the bass rattling her bones.

She made her way towards the back doors, pressing against the sticky handle and sighing when the rush of cold, autumn air whisked the moisture from her skin. The wind carried the scent of the sea across the boardwalk. She breathed it in, having forgotten what air smelled like when it hadn’t been circulated through hundreds of drunken, jerking bodies. 

I’ll be outside for a bit. Let me know when you guys are ready to leave. 

With a whoosh the message was sent and she tucked the phone back into her pocket, wrapped her arms around herself, and made her way down to the pier. 

Aside from the handful of people smoking around the lamp post’s pool of light and the couple grappling at one another on a bench, the pier was empty. Nora kept her head down to give them all their privacy and walked to the edge, staring out at the inky black waters. She couldn’t see three feet past where the last lamp post feebly flickered, but she heard the licking of waves against the rocks, growling and slurping like some hungry creature.

Salt opened up her airways, leaving its distinct taste in her mouth and a faint burn in her lungs. It was in moments like this where she let herself wonder, truly wonder, about what would happen if she simply stepped over the edge and let herself get swallowed up.

You’d probably break your legs against the rocks you idiot. 

The thought of flailing about in the cold waters waiting for someone like Callahan to fish her out like a wet rat made her cringe.

I’d never actually do it. Stupid Freudian death drive.

It was just something she wondered about. What if there was something that was waiting for her? What if she was just wasting time waiting for the big thing to come along?

And what would that big thing be? 

Who knows.

And if it never comes?

Shut it.

Nora scolded her midnight thoughts. This was supposed to be a night of mindless fun and dancing and here she was standing alone in the cold being philosophical. But just as she turned away from the water a gust of wind brushed up against her back. No, not the wind… something else. A presence hovered over her shoulder, calming but unfamiliar as it traced down her spine. 

She froze, too scared to scream and too curious to move. Squinting her eyes she couldn’t make out any figures on the boardwalk or along the pier. She was alone.

Before she could make the executive decision to start sprinting back to the club, she heard it. Faint whispers curled around her ears, wrapping her in phantom arms until she could no longer feel the chill. Through the dozens of voices that called out to her in a mess of sounds and unintelligible words, one stood out. 

Low and silky and sensitive it asked, Where are you? Tell me where you are. Please.

Nora blinked.

The boardwalk faded away from her. She could still catch the faint outlines of the lamp post and railings, but more concretely she saw a room. Thick black curtains drifted along some invisible wind framing a brilliant city beyond that glowed like a thousand candles. The night sky was so crisp and clear she could make out every star.

She blinked again, readjusted her contacts, and it was gone. She was still on the pier alone and her vulnerability sent a shiver down her spine. 

The presence remained with her, breathing down her neck. She still couldn’t decide if she was afraid or not.

Wait… Run. RUN! The voice commanded her, barely a whisper in her ear despite the urgency of its words. 

Somewhere in the water far beyond where the light could reach, she felt a stirring, like the earth was rolling onto its side beneath her feet. A loud, low moan pulsed through the air and the pier’s wooden beams groaned in turn, protesting whatever force had begun to bend and snap them like toothpicks. 

Nora turned on her heels and started to run.

Fifty meters later and she was cursing her body, feeling the warmth in her legs build as she forced them to go faster. Breathe along to your favorite song, Nora. Dad had said that to her before every cross country race in high school. She was a shit runner then and she was a shit runner now. 

God I wish I kept running in college.

Another beam closer to her broke with a scream and Nora was thrown to the ground, landing awkwardly on stinging hands and knees as the water split open and began swallowing the pier. Like a beast it chomped at the wood, slurping the contents down into its throat. She dared a glance behind her and gasped as cracks formed along the surface of the ocean, blue-white light spilling outward. 

Scrambling to her feet she continued to run feeling the ground beneath her tilt further and further backward. The cracks deepened, crashing against wood. With a final sigh the last of the beams beneath her feet gave away, sinking into the mouth of the blue chasm below.

Nora screamed, lunging to the side to avoid the spear of wood that erupted by her legs. Cold water drenched her clothes, weighing her down as she was plunged into the frothy, glowing water. 

The pier had snapped in two. 

What are you doing you fucking idiot? Scream. She thought to herself. But even though she screamed, first in fear and then in frustration, no one heard her.

Nora gasped as the blue light finally reached her, wrapping around her body. She wished she had the mind to appreciate its beauty, but all she could think about was the terror that fueled her muscles to keep swimming, even as the current dragged her further down.

“HELP!” 

She begged anyone who might still be on the pier. She prayed to God, pleaded with the voice that had tried to warn her. 

No one’s coming to help. No one could help even if they wanted to.

Nora looked back, helpless as the water consumed her.

When her body had sunk beneath the depths - deeper than anyone could fathom - the portal sealed itself and there was nothing left but the ruined pier and the silent lamp posts as witnesses.

________________

Author’s Note: Hi! As the summary already mentions, this is going to be an acotar rewrite with an OC that’s really just a cooler, more competent version of myself that I like to insert into every book I read. It’s been over a year since I finished reading the main trilogy so apologies if I don’t get the plot/plot elements exactly right (but also I might change the plot to better suit the story). I don’t know how many chapters this will be yet, but I have a small chunk of it already written and am hoping to get some regular posting schedule worked out. Thanks for reading this little blurb and I hope you enjoy! 

[batslime]

Hi guys it’s been a while since I’ve made one of these but this is Vicki and she owns the ONE and ONLY lesbian bar/ restaurant in Florida, The Lady’s Room, and it’s at risk of closing. She’s tried getting a loan but the banks are refusing despite her good credit. I’ve made a few posts like these that got some great traction, I would love to see Vicki get the support she needs too 🙏🏼

Please consider donating to her GoFundMe!

Currently she’s at $12,203 of her $100k goal (Tuesday April 18, 2023).

Please spread! If you can’t donate atm the next best thing is to boost.

Video transcription under cut

VIDEO TRANSCRIPTION:

Vicki, a butch lesbian, wearing a black jersey sporting rainbow stripes and embroidery reading “love is love” across the left breast, is leaning against a counter with her tattooed arms crossed. A pride flag hangs behind her in what is presumably her bar. The piercings on her face ride the knit of her concerned brow as she speaks. “A month, maybe two, then it’s on the market. I don’t have a choice; I’ve sold all my properties, I’ve emptied my 401k; I’ve tried banks, I’ve tried finance companies…”

“I went in, I said, you know, I wanna take out a loan to invest in my bar, and they said, we can’t do it. Okay, I have 7+ credit score, I own my cars. I own my home… what the Hell.”

“They won’t touch it. I don’t know if it’s because it’s a lesbian bar, but that’s what it felt like.”

The caption “We have one month to save Florida’s only lesbian bar!” is overlaid the video for its duration.

End transcription.

(This is the first time I’ve written a video transcription, I tried to keep in mind what I would find helpful but please lmk what I could do better if you have any suggestions)

[erebusvincent]

I read yesterday that Donald Trump wants more control over the Fed of re-elected, and I don’t know about that.

He’s not a smart man. He has a shocking lack of basic knowledge about the world. There is no way he understands the intricacies of the Fed, or Econ 101, well enough to get involved with its functioning. That’s not a guy who comprehends econometrics or statistics. I doubt he has a firm grasp of rudimentary finance either.

Something else to consider about him is that he never sees economic indicators for what they mean for the American people, only how they look for him. Jobs numbers are about him, not about our ability to find gainful employment and support ourselves. The stock market is about him, not about our stock portfolios and 401k’s (and hence retirement security.) Interest rates are about him, not about the cost of money for us.

All in all, the dude’s just lame. Sure he’s weird as Hell, but he’s also cringe. No one in New York has ever been impressed by him. He’s only ever conned the yokels. Unfortunately, we have a lot of yokels.

What has he done with his life that should impress the rest of us? Hosted a reality show someone else directed and produced? Made money in real estate? I would have made a buck or two if my dad had given me money to buy empty lots in New York back in the seventies too. And when he’s attempted to do his own projects, he’s been shockingly unsuccessful. He ran an airline into the ground that was a guaranteed money maker. He actually failed at running a casino. That isn’t even possible.

Anyway, what a loser. I’m still angry enough to vote for him, but he’s not exactly a get for the country.

[manufactoredxbyxdesign]

" Hey! Trenchcoat! " Oh god, she's back. Doe's voice precedes her presence, echoing through the empty hallways of R.P.D. in tandem with the light thuds of her footsteps. 

Doesn't this survivor have better things to do? Scratch that, probably not, all things considered. Pathetic as it may sound, the Entity hasn't exactly outfitted the Realm with much in the way of entertainment outside of each other and the trials. Really, would it kill Her to make a playground or something? It might save the killers a bit of annoyance. 

" There you are! The others said I'll find you here," Traitors. Still, at least on the surface, Doe's expression seemed to be anything but malicious. No, the smugness that Wesker had previously witnessed throughout their many brief interactions was all but absent and, with it, any sense of playfulness gone. She seemed sheepish, if not outright nervous. 

" Could you be honest with me for a second?" A dangerous request, at least where Wesker is considered. She seems aware of this, to an extent, not holding eye-contact, or eye-to-sunglasses contact in their case, for more than a second. " You know the big blue guy, lots of tentacles, looks a bit like you— those things that follow him around. The Shamblers, are those actually... human? " Her voice cuts off on a high note, uncertain in her words, at least if the peak of her eyebrows is any indication. " Like people-human? Walking around, news watching, having a day job and 401K— family-type people? Not test-tube people." 

Turning her focus down to her hands, she starts wringing them roughly, her skin turning an enflamed red where her nails scratched. 

" There's this new guy at the campfire. He's been telling us stories about the world he came from, and the blue guy and I—" her voice shrinks further, sounding uncharacteristically small. " I'm not entirely sure what to think about it— I figured you'd know about it,"

The instant he hears that voice a loud sigh escapes his lips. Without even turning around he knows exactly who it is that has decided to scamper in to disrupt his peace this afternoon.

He refrains from commenting on her revelations - though he wonders if the ones that sent her might have done it out of malice instead of genuine kindness. Is it possible to direct one to the lair of a monster and have it be kind? He considers it like a riddle, momentarily distracted as she speaks in front of him.

"You are referring to Nemesis T-Type." He bluntly retorts, knowing by about halfway through her creative description which of the killers she is attempting to describe.

"He is a T-103 Tyrant - meaning that he was developed to be an bio-organic weapon in the world I came from. The viral strain he inflicts upon you in the trials is the T-Viral strain. Typically, the "shamblers" as you call them would be a result of that infection. As the strain can result in infected subjects reanimating or mutating... Though it appears that The Entity limits him to controlling only a the select few that are summoned in trials."

A small scoff cuts through his words at that. As if he finds the limitation almost childish in a way.

"I do not know if they were people previously - though it is quite possible. There was an outbreak of that particular strain in Racoon City many years ago. Leaving opportunity for The Entity to collect them for her purposes."

The corner of his mouth twitches. Another at the campfire? It felt like every other month someone new was dragged in.

"Does this "new" survivor have a name?"

[barovianchickenandwaffles]

Retaking BCnW: A Barovian Tale

(Recovered from Twitter with minor editorial updates, also dedicated @bluetspur-brain)

So, here I was in the village of Barovia after being gone for so long on a business trip to Sithicus that went south. The streets of Barovia were empty, rain came down in sheets, and it was silent as a grave. Then, I heard a brief yelp coming from inside my old shop. Nothing but darkness in there waiting for me.

The dead corpse lying in my parking lot was nothing new, but part of his skull was missing and I knew who was responsible. Gary. The High Master Illithid.

A voice invaded my mind. “Back so soon, Oleksii?”

So much for the element of surprise. A showdown was inevitable. I clutched my silvered spatula, and then my hand felt for the loaded crossbow. I’d only get one shot at this.

I am a pretty quick shot, but Gary … anticipates things somehow.

I stepped from the light outside into the shadowy interior. A couple peasants sat by one table chewing their food slowly, their blank stares never registering my presence. A body was slumped over another booth, lifeless.

Okay, so the shop wasn’t in complete disarray.

Behind the counter was Gary, tentacles gripping another peasant by the skull firmly. A terrible slurping sound, another agonized yelp, and then it was over. Gary dropped the body like a ragdoll.

“Welcome back,” I heard a calm voice in my mind.

Gary’s face was slick with cerebral fluid, facial tentacles writhing greedily in the eerie lighting. “I’ve been minding the store as you can see.”

It was then that I noticed that Gary hadn’t updated the seasonal menu in weeks.

“Gary, where is my Mordorhubu delivery team?”

The Illithid flinched. “Ah yes, the elf, human and halfling. They resisted my management style and I had to put them on write up. When they threatened to form a union, I made short work of them. The elf was quite tasty.”

“You ate all three?” I growled as I whirled behind a pillar, and stealthily drew the crossbow.

“No, I fired the human and werewolves got to him later. The halfling is washing dishes. I was going to save him for later,” came a casual reply.

“You fool, you have no idea what you’ve done,” It’d take weeks to hire more gullible adventures.

“On the contrary,” said the haughty voice in my mind, “I’ve been restructuring this ailing franchise. You should thank me.”

My mind was flooded with strange eldritch imagery: supply chain management, strategic planning, market segmentation, and the most blasphemous word of all: benchmarking.

“Enough!” I begged. I whirled around and took my shot.

Gary was ready. The Illithid’s beady eyes locked onto me from behind the counter, while the bulbous head shifted out of the way just in time as the shot zipped past and ricocheted off a hanging pot in the kitchen.

Miss.

I dove toward the near side of the counter and drew the kitchen knife with the old Barovian runes on it. The ones that drink the darkness and sate for blood.

I leapt up to attack but Gary had been ready. A rainbow colored cone of energy blasted my mind.

I collapsed to the ground, knife clattering to the floor, my mind seized with pain.

“Allow me to present my business strategy, Oleksii,” Gary chuckled eagerly.

Unfortunate for Gary, I rolled a nat20 on my next INT save.

I dashed for the knife, snatched it, and whirled around. The blow was deflected and the Illithid lunged at me. I blocked tentacles with my free arm just in time.

“Your babusya can’t save you, Oleksii,” the voice gloated, “I want a raise, a 401k, and paid time off.”

“Fine.”

Gary got his benefits, profits increased by 8%, and the halfling stuck around until he got caught stealing from the till to feed his ragweed habit. I let Gary take care of the offboarding process.

And then we all learned the True Meaning of Strahdmas or something. The end.

End credits scene: As the fight rages on, a kender, who stowed away on the cart all the way from Sithicus, emerges from under the covers. Surveying this new land it grins curiously, leaps off the cart and runs into the night.

[bakuliwrites]

I posted 464 times in 2022

That's 464 more posts than 2021!

219 posts created (47%)

245 posts reblogged (53%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@arsenicxarcana

@bakuliwrites

@epoch-smog

@helpiminhell

@ask-count-lulu

I tagged 452 of my posts in 2022

Only 3% of my posts had no tags

#the arcana - 193 posts

#lucio morgasson - 102 posts

#julian devorak - 87 posts

#count lucio - 55 posts

#beautiful artwork - 54 posts

#dani writes - 50 posts

#nadia satrinava - 46 posts

#dani admins - 42 posts

#dani shares a random thought - 33 posts

#nanami kento - 30 posts

Longest Tag: 139 characters

#my friends and family bought me drawing lessons so i'm going to take some and hopefully feel confident enough to post my drawings of her so

My Top Posts in 2022:

#5

Elliott: The lobster slippers stay ON during sex

289 notes - Posted October 8, 2022

#4

Work Hard, Play Hard- Kento Nanami x Reader

Rating: 18+ (MINORS DNI)

Fandom: Jujutsu Kaisen

Relationship: Kento Nanami x Reader

Summary: Nanami is working overtime, until he sees a text from you that he can't resist.

Tags: PIV, Oral, Brief s*xting, Kitchen S*x.

A/N: OhmyGod, Kento Nanami. I haven't fallen this hard for a fictional character in a hot minute. He looks like an accountant with drip. He would do my taxes for me and it would be the hottest thing ever. He's probably paid off his mortgage, has a 401k, and a designated spot in his house for his keys and briefcase. I bet you he knows how to fold a fitted sheet and tuck the corners into the bed. This man is immaculate and I am here for it. Expect more Kento Nanami content from me because I'm a thirsty disaster. As always, thank you for reading! Likes/reblogs are always much appreciated! Lots of love &lt;3

Read here in this post or over on my AO3.

Kento leans his head back, a deep sigh escaping his lips. He eyes the clock, watching as the second hand moves like molasses past each number. Overtime sucks. Work sucks. All he wants is to go home, to be in the comfort of your presence, and to enjoy a quiet evening, just the two of you. But instead, he’s stuck here, trapped in this corporate world until he’s finished his goddamn work. 

He straightens up again. Maybe if he powers through, he can go home in the next half an hour. The harsh light from the computer screen stabs at his eyes. The office is empty aside from him, dead quiet except for the occasional clack of his keyboard and the bloop from the water tank in the far corner. He’s about to get up to make himself another cup of coffee when he feels his phone buzz in his pocket. It must be you, asking where he is and when he’s going to be home. He pulls his cellphone from his pocket, exhausted gaze sweeping over the screen. But when he unlocks it, his eyes fly wide open. 

The picture that greets him is you in an apron, and nothing but an apron. The apron ties frame the curve of your hips. Your breasts threaten to spill out of your minimal clothing, and you’ve got a little smudge of flour on your cheek. The longer he stares at the picture, the more Kento wonders if it’s worth finishing up his work. Then he reads the text underneath.

You better come home soon, or I’m going to start without you ;), you threaten. 

“Fuck overtime,” Kento mutters to himself, shoving his phone back in his pocket and grabbing his coat. He’s hauling ass to get home. He can finish his work later. He’s got much better things to do right now. Traffic on the way feels like it’s against him. The strain of his growing bulge in his pants is getting painful. He’s desperate now to get home to you, to lift up the hem of that apron of yours and bury himself inside you. He’s never one to look at his phone while driving. Safety always comes first. But he’s awfully tempted. And with how long this drive is taking, he’s even more tempted. 

What feels like hours pass and then, dear God, he’s finally home. Kento pulls into the driveway and barely waits for his car to come to a stop before he’s leaping out and bounding up the front steps. The house is cozy and smells pleasantly of warm bread baking in the oven. 

“Kento?” he hears your voice call out as he drops off his keys and briefcase in their designated spot in the hallway. And then he sees you, peeking around the corner in the kitchen, a mischievous look in your eye. 

“What happened to your overtime?” you tease, twirling a strand of your hair around your index finger. 

“No more overtime from this moment forward,” he returns matter-of-factly, tugging off his coat and striding confidently towards you. Before you can even say a word, his lips are crashing into yours, kisses sloppy and hungry. His large hands rove rapaciously along your body, kneading the tender flesh of your hips. 

“I missed you today,” you whimper at him when he allows you a moment to breathe. 

“Hmmm,” he hums pleasantly, suckling your neck and luxuriating in the tiny moans you’re letting out, “I missed you, too.” 

You tug at his leopard-print tie, pulling him towards the dining table. The look he gives you is deliciously pathetic, wanton and needy. His brows are furrowed and the angles of his cheeks are flushed. When the small of your back hits the edge of the table, you stop and start to undo his belt. 

“Baby, this must hurt,” you coo, palming his bulge and watching as his eyes flutter shut, “No wonder you hurried home.”

Kento smirks as he masterfully rips off his tie with one hand, the other occupied with grabbing handfuls of your ass. His lips are back to pressing messy kisses to yours. His tongue traces your teeth, exploring the familiar warmth of your mouth. With his belt off, you manage to undo his buttons and yank down his trousers and boxer briefs. They pool around his feet and out springs his cock, the tip angry and pink. 

“So needy, my love,” you hum, cupping his balls and massaging, before teasingly dragging your fingertip along the underside of his shaft. He shivers under your touch, an unintentional husky keen escaping his lips. With the pad of your thumb, you smear the little bead of cum that’s formed at his tip. But before you can go any further, he stays your hand, deep brown eyes dead serious as they gaze into yours. 

“Wait,” he begins, voice low and commanding, “Allow me.” 

Kento gently picks you up, sitting you atop the kitchen table. He lifts the hem of your apron, revealing your already soaking folds to the cool air. All he wants is to taste you, to feel you glide along his tongue. He’s thought about it his whole ride home: your wet pussy against his lips. Your sweet succor on his taste buds. After the day he’s had, it’s all he can think of to relieve his stress. 

“Spread your legs a little wider for me, princess,” he begs, kneeling to the ground. You follow his instructions and let him pull you closer to the edge of the table. Kento Nanami buries his handsome face between your legs, trailing kisses along the sensitive flesh of your inner thighs. His warm breath fans against your heat as he glances up at you to make sure you’re ready. You nod quietly, watching as he dives in. His tongue swipes up your slick, nose bumping against your clit, sending electric tingles through your body. His hands grasp at the supple flesh of your hips, kneading as his tongue darts in and out of your entrance. You throw your head back, letting out a salacious moan as Kento expertly eats you out. Your fingers tangle in his blonde hair, each gilded strand soft against your skin. 

“Ah! Kento,” you whine, heat blooming across your face, “You’re so good to me.” 

His hum reverberates through your body and he draws his attention away from your entrance. His tongue swirls deftly around your clit, languid at first, teasingly slow. You gently rock your hips in time with his motions, one hand still tangled in his hair, the other cupping your left breast. It drives Kento wild when you play with your tits while he’s busy with your heat. You catch him glancing up at you, one of his hands leaving your hip so he can stroke himself. 

“Kento, I’m so close,” you whimper, feeling the fire in your core burn brighter. He picks up his pace, tongue circling faster, each flick bringing you closer and closer to ecstasy. 

“Come for me, princess,” his husky voice commands when he leans back for air, before diving in once again, this time relentlessly circling your clit. Your hips rock faster as Kento’s tongue works its magic. With a cry of his name, the fire in you bursts like a supernova, and you come undone. Kento’s hands grip your hips, keeping you in place so he can finish you off properly. He laps you up like the sweetest elixir he’s ever tasted, luxuriating in your ecstasy. 

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321 notes - Posted October 20, 2022

#3

A night in with Kento Nanami (one-shot, slight spice):

He invites you over to his place. A nice apartment not too far from the office building he used to work in. On the elevator ride up, you look yourself over in the mirror, smoothing over any wrinkles in your dress, making sure there are no stray hairs on your head. When you reach his doorway, you knock softly. A second later, the door swings open, and there he is: blonde hair slicked back and parted perfectly, deep brown eyes twinkling with quiet joy at the sight of you. Over his dark blue button down and tan dress pants, he's wearing a pink apron with little cat faces printed on it (a gag gift from Gojo that he secretly really likes). He's not wearing a tie and it's the most casual you've ever seen him. The sight of his collarbone alone is enough to make you blush; a silly notion but, it's true. He's always so buttoned up.

Kento invites you in, offers to take your coat for you, and guides you towards the kitchen, where something simmers softly on the stove. It smells heavenly, whatever it is. His apartment is immaculate: minimalist and clean, not a thing out of place. He has a couple plants in the windowsill, low-maintenance ones that are hard to kill. He offers you a glass of chilled white wine and says dinner will be ready shortly. As he makes his finishing touches, you chit-chat quietly with him about the day. Something you say makes him laugh, and it's music to your ears.

Dinner is delicious and happens to be one of your favorite dishes. He remembered how much you like it and thought he would try his hand at making it himself. You tell him it's turned out perfectly. You catch the little blush that blooms across the angles of his cheeks when you compliment him. He tells you that you're too kind. You toast to each other, to the future, to wondrous possibilities. Mischief sparkles in your eyes as you bring your wine glass to your lips. You swap life stories, mostly ridiculous ones. He's got plenty of wild stories about his school days (and even more about Gojo). Kento listens so intently when you speak. He asks you questions, wants to know you, and remembers all the little things you've said before.

After dinner, you offer up the pastries you picked up on your way over. Kento is delighted and makes a pot of coffee for you both to share. When dessert is finished and the plates are cleared away, the two of you retreat to his living room. Finance magazines sit in a small stack on the coffee table alongside this morning's newspaper. The city lights twinkle beyond the apartment windows, mimicking the stars above. Slow R&B plays quietly in the background and all you really want to do is dance. Together, you and Kento sway gently to the music, his arms wrapped around you, your hands resting on his chest. He seems so calm, but you can feel the wild flutter of his heart under his ribs. It's cute, how nervous he is. Unflappable Kento Nanami, as nervous as a schoolboy with you in his arms.

You rest your cheek against him, the fabric of his shirt soft. He smells like fresh laundry and cologne. Kento presses a lingering kiss to the top of your head, before you lean up to capture his lips with yours. After a little while, you find yourselves seated on his couch, cuddled close. His hand is on your thigh, fingers softly grazing the skin just beneath the hem of your dress. Your fingers play with the buttons on his shirt. His eyes are locked on yours, and yours, his. The hour is late and the conversation deep. He tells you about all the books on his shelf that he hasn't gotten around to reading yet. You share your deepest insecurities. He reassures you, before sharing his. You wonder what he wants out of life and realize it's the same thing you're looking for. This moment changes everything. It's something you can both feel. A spark, like starlight.

You close the distance between the two of you. His fingers tangle in your hair, your tongue traces his lips. He tastes sweet like the pastries you brought. His hands explore every inch of you, and you want to know every part of him. You're aware of every sensation, every caress, every kiss, every breath. You're drunk on Kento, like he's drunk on you. Kento lifts you off the couch, carries you back to his room, and lays you carefully on his bed. His shirt was long ago discarded, and your dress spends the night on his bedroom floor.

Kento Nanami makes love to you, slow and tender, his hips rolling rhythmically with yours. When he cries out your name, it's like a hymn. And when you call his, it's just as lyrical. His heated kisses trail along your body, his hands searching desperately. His muscles relax under your touch, and his whispered praise is enough to send you reeling. Kento's velvet voice sounds those three words you've wanted to say for so long, "I love you." And when you return them, you feel relief flood your body. After it's said, you can't stop saying it, and neither can he. Amongst giggles and kisses, you and Kento repeat it over and over again.

His afterglow is rosy and pure. Kento's face is so serene as he slumbers that night, holding you close, breath fanning softly against you as he sleeps. You feel safe in his arms. It's the best night of sleep either of you have had in a long time.

In the morning, the two of you make breakfast together. Laughter fills his kitchen and sunlight streams through the windows. This time is blissful, sacred, and joyous. The corners of Kento's eyes crinkle when he smiles. He looks at you like you are his everything, his whole world. You feel the same. This could be your forever. You want this to be your forever. And something about this moment tells you it will be.

A/N: Thanks for reading! I wrote this in a frenzy. Just a short little fluff (and slightly spicy) piece for Nanami. He's all I can think about right now. Gosh, this man just really does it for me. Love of my life &lt;3

348 notes - Posted October 24, 2022

#2

M6 and Sexy Keepsakes

Here's a little headcanon of some sultry little keepsakes that I think the M6 would keep on them when they are away from MC. Spicy, of course. 18+, Minors DNI!

An enchanted necklace MC helped craft for him that sends delightful tingles through his body when he caresses it. He and MC made matching necklaces together. They combined their powers to imbue it with deeply personal magic. The process of creating it was intensely intimate, involving a union of both the physical and metaphysical.

The necklace is fairly subtle in the way it looks, made of moonstone and citrine. The crystals hang on an antique bronze chain that dips low under the collar of his shirt. It pulses a gentle, familiar energy where it rests against his heart. Whenever he travels, he makes sure to wear it. He feels joyously flustered when he remembers the day he and MC created it. He likes to relive that memory a lot.

Asra makes sure to wear the necklace every time he communicates with MC via his water skype (I saw someone call it that once and that's honestly the only way I can think of it now, haha). MC's matching necklace has a magical connection to Asra's, which the two can certainly have some fun with...

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472 notes - Posted June 7, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

Upon a Forest Throne, Thranduil x Reader

Rating: 18+ (MINORS DNI)

Fandom: The Hobbit/Lord of the Rings

Relationship: Thranduil x Reader

Summary: As Thranduil's Queen-to-Be, you worry his subjects will not accept you. So the Elven King takes it upon himself to show you just how worshipped you are.

Read here in this post or over on my AO3.

The air in the dining hall is stifling. A cacophonous din of voices swirls through the air, weighty and suffocating. Eyes fall on you: some curious, others disdainful. 

Interloper, they speak wordlessly, glaring pointedly, Fraud. Thief. 

From where you sit at the head of the table, you can sense every guest, every dignitary, trying to feel you out. Attempting to figure out the woman who has claimed their King’s heart, and is soon to claim the throne beside his. Thranduil seems to take no heed of the accusatory glowering and inquisitive gawking. His cool and collected gaze sweeps over his guests before settling on you. You try not to show your discomfort, smiling softly at your betrothed, but the way your hands fidget with the sleeves of your gown betray your growing unease. Thranduil’s dark brows crinkle, his striking azure eyes awash with concern. But before he can say anything to you, he’s interrupted by an attendant furtively whispering something in his ear. He nods in understanding and the attendant scampers off.

“Esteemed guests,” the Elven King’s commanding voice rings through the room, voices falling away to silence, “I invite you to join us in the adjoining salon for after dinner drinks.” 

One by one, people rise from their seats, followed by the clink of silverware being abandoned on plates and the scrape of chairs scooting out from the table. You and Thranduil are the last to rise, trailing after your guests as they file into the room next door. 

“Meleth nîn,” your voice sounds, barely above a whisper, halting your beloved in his tracks. He looks to you, handsome face scrunched with concern.

“What troubles you?” he hushes, taking this private moment to pass his thumb gently across your cheek. 

“Might I have a moment on my own? I’ll join you when I’m finished. I just need a few minutes of quiet,” you request. The crease between Thranduil’s brow deepens. Air falters in your chest, lungs constricting with the anxiety of having to face that whole room staring you down. This is supposed to be a private dinner meant to introduce you to other Elven dignitaries from across Middle Earth. To test to see how you might get along with them as Mirkwood’s Queen-to-Be. Yet, here you are, wanting to escape. The tension is too much to handle. You’ve put on a brave face all night, made small talk with people who obviously don’t want to get to know you, and have been scrutinized like some sort of wretched specimen. You need just a few undisturbed moments to gather yourself before you repeat this all over again.  

“You need not ask me for permission,” Thranduil reassures, softly beaming, “Take as much time as you need.” 

You slip your hand into his, giving it a small squeeze before you flit through the hallways in search of a more tranquil place. Lost in thought, you allow your feet to carry you where they may. Your steps echo through the grand halls of the palace as you wander aimlessly, mind fixated on the piercing gazes that still seem to prickle along your skin. You find yourself standing before the throne. Swirling tendrils of branches creep their way up the sides and back. Large antlers hang imposingly at the top, mighty and grand. A reminder of the power of the Elf King, himself. 

You imagine Thranduil, draped languidly across the throne, his robes spilling over the sides. His subjects look adoringly upon him, admiration and respect in their eyes. And then there’s you. A foreigner and a thief to them. They glare at you from your place beside your soon-to-be husband. Their distaste for you is clear. They’ve made no attempts to hide it. They’d grown used to a kingdom with one ruler. And now here you are, a usurper. Parvenu, you heard one whisper once as you passed them in the hallway. Your sudden fame and status seem hardly fair to them. Earned only because you’ve somehow managed to “bewitch” their King. Though you are an Elf, you are not of Mirkwood, nor are you of any important lineage; and, this troubles them. 

“You radiate sorrow tonight, meleth nîn,” Thranduil’s velvety voice sounds from somewhere behind you, startling you out of your thoughts. You whirl around to face him, mouth pursed and brows crinkled. 

“I didn’t realize how tragic I must appear,” you return, chuckling ruefully. He smiles softly at you, gracefully ascending the staircase to meet you before his throne. 

“Not tragic,” he reassures, his silver-blonde hair cascading down around his shoulders, “But melancholy enough for your betrothed to notice. What troubles your heart?” 

“Shouldn’t you be with our guests?” you venture, feeling guilty for taking him away from his royal duties. And knowing his guests must be gossiping about you this very moment, horrified that you would take their King away from them, blaming you for his absence. 

“They can wait,” Thranduil responds, cupping your cheek in the warmth of his palm, “I have far more important matters to attend to.” 

You allow your eyelids to flutter shut, pressing your cheek further into Thranduil’s touch, comforted by his quiet presence. To many, he is unapproachable, aloof and intimidating. But he has shown you a tenderness and gentility most others are not privy to. 

“I fear your subjects do not accept me. And never will,” you breathe, inhaling his familiar scent. Your nose fills with autumn spice and forest rain, settling your racing heart and laying to rest some of your most fretful thoughts. 

“Why do you say that?” your betrothed’s even voice inquires. You feel him place his hand on the small of your back and draw you into his chest. You lean your cheek against him, listening to the quiet thrum of his heart. 

“I see the way they look at me when I am at your side,” you explain, wanting so desperately to remain locked in his embrace for the remainder of the night, knowing full well that you will eventually have to return to the party, “I’m an intruder to them. Someone who has stolen the affection of their King and used it to rise in their ranks. I sense their disdain for the strange woman who’s dared to promise herself to their royalty and take the throne as her own.”

Thranduil leans back, a stern look cemented firmly on his face. His eyes are serious as they meet yours, filled with their usual regal sheen.

“They will warm to you. Many of them have only known one of their own to sit atop this throne,” he gives a sweeping gesture towards his chair, guiding you up to it, “But as they come to know you, I expect their hostile sentiment to dissipate. And for those that remain disdainful of you- well, their ignorance is truly without end.”

“What if they feel I am not worthy?” you fret, allowing your fingers to graze the end of one knotted arm of the throne, before pulling away as if scalded by it. 

“You have proven your worth to me, and more,” Thranduil reasons, gently taking your hand in his and placing it back on the throne. He holds it there for a moment, grasp firm but not too tight, making sure you feel the wood grain beneath your fingertips. Ensuring that you feel that this throne is just as much yours as it is his. 

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530 notes - Posted June 24, 2022

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