#utter fluff
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I'm late to the party and just saw the one you know I'm especially 👀👀👀 over, but how about 'can’t trust anyone chestburster?'
i answered that one ⚠️here⚠️ and don’t have more really that i can add to it, but since i DO know which one you are especially 👀👀👀 over, i’ll give you another snippet of that instead? 😊😊😊
He brings enough food for Jesse and Kix too, in case they’ve finished canoodling, and he was right to do so. Jesse looks a bit dazed, and he has several bite marks, bandaged with seaweed.
“Good honeymoon?” Waxer says, because as a little brother it’s his duty and birthright to give Jesse a hard time.
“Good start,” Kix says, and grins with all his teeth.
“He breathed for me,” Jesse says to Waxer, sounding a little bewildered but a lot pleased. “Didn’t know that was a real thing; did you?”
“Boil told me,” Waxer says, “so I wouldn't worry you drowned or anything.”
Jesse turns to Boil as if just remembering he’s there. With emotion, he says, “Thank you.” He’s not just referring to the reassurance. He means everything.
Boil shrugs it off, quietly pleased, and shoves some food into his mouth so he doesn’t have to continue to engage in conversation.
“Don’t want to give you the bends,” Kix says to his husband. “I’ll come out soon.”
“Stretch your tail as much as you need,” Jesse urges.
“I’ll be back in no time,” Kix insists. “I want to be with you.”
Waxer’s maybe a sucker for romance. He always hoped he’d find someone who looks at him the way Kix does Jesse, and Jesse’s no better at hiding the love in his expression. They’re smiling softly at each other as Kix drops back from the ledge; Waxer had never imagined what sharkishly tender might look like before, and now he doesn’t need to imagine it. Adorable.
Waxer jumps a little when Boil’s arm wraps around his waist and Boil buries his face in Waxer’s side, hanging off the ledge.
“Want to be with you,” he mumbles, echoing the other merman.
#fanfiction#cloneshipping#star wars tcw#waxer/boil#clone trooper waxer#clone trooper boil#mer au#jessix#utter fluff
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There’s an Elio-shaped lump snoring softly on the tan, leather couch when Oliver slips into his darkened living room. The throw blanket from their bedroom is bunched up to his nose, and the small, ceramic reading lamp in the corner casts a series of shadows upon the sculpted ridge of his cheekbone.
It’s been a long day of Political Theory and paperwork drudgery, but the sight alone is an instant balm to the senses as he toes out of his Birkenstocks, lining them up against the wooden skirting. His satchel, he leaves by the door, and avoiding the creaky floorboard he crosses over to the Hi-Fi on the jam-packed bookcase, running his thumb along the sleeves of their vinyl collection until he finds the one he’s looking for.
“The soul is somewhere full of music in a minor key,” Elio told him once, when describing the Paul Verlaine poem that inspired it, and a heavy weight lifts from Oliver’s shoulders as the atmospheric piano notes of Clair De Lune fill the air. The birds in said poem are encouraged to sing by the sad and beautiful light of the moon, but it’s not quite sunset here on the Lower East Side, so Oliver settles for switching off the lamp and taking a match to the fresh citronella candle on the coffee table instead.
Unsurprisingly, the tortoiseshell from the alley is purring loudly atop his oblivious boyfriend’s legs - the furry menace having realised their fire escape was a sure-fire route to fancy tuna soon after they moved in. He’s a finicky little thing - not unlike his adoptive owner - but Oliver ignores the judgement within those bright green eyes as he ferries him to the armchair, dropping to his knees beside Elio’s slumbering form.
“Rise and shine, Sleeping Beauty,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to his riotous curls. Clearly, the past week of rehearsals has taken its toll on his perfection-driven maestro, and Oliver chuckles when he wipes the thin patch of drool from his stubbly chin. “Anyone would think you cracked open that Limoncello without me…”
“Don’t think I wasn’t tempted,” Elio grumbles, blinking groggily into consciousness. “You’re late, professore.”
“Tell me about it,” Oliver mutters, unravelling the woollen cocoon in search of his boyfriend’s hands. “I would’ve been even later if Mitchell had his way. Honestly, if I’d known he was going to drop a department meeting on us, I’d have made sure to finalise my lesson plans last night.”
Elio scoffs into the cushions. “Liar.”
He is. And a blatant one, at that.
Last night saw Elio bound to the headboard with one of his ties.
The same tie Oliver found himself stroking through tiresome talk of deadlines, budgets, and troublesome students.
“Tu es pardonné…” Elio mutters, yawning widely. "I’ll be sure to send the Dean a strongly-worded letter of complaint.”
“Is that so?”
A hum. “Bullet-pointed and everything.”
“Goose,” Oliver snickers, guiding him to his feet.
“You love it.”
“Love you more,” he murmurs, welcoming Elio’s weight when he nuzzles in. The rich aroma of tomato and basil lingers in the air, and if he closes his eyes he can almost imagine they’re back in B. Stealing arancini fresh from the fryer as Mafalda bustles around the kitchen. “Please tell me I haven’t missed dinner?”
“As if I’d eat without you,” Elio says, straightening his collar. “The sauce can be reheated while we cook the tortelli.”
“Cremaschi?”
“I wish.” Blunt nails linger at the short hairs of his nape. “Garlic and herb,” Elio confirms. “Just don’t tell our favourite housekeeper I bought it readymade, yeah?”
Oliver feigns a shudder. “And suffer a repeat of the birthday tiramisu incident?”
“Exactly.”
Elio’s sigh washes over his neck as Oliver wraps an arm around his waist, the other sliding from elbow to wrist, holding him close. Swaying gently, he laces their fingers together, and with a gossamer brush to each bony knuckle he lays them flat against his too-full heart, guiding his half-awake dance partner into a simple back-and-forth.
“Happy anniversary, sweetheart,” Oliver whispers, turning them slightly to avoid a teetering stack of score books.
“Two years today, amore mio.”
And five since they first met.
He can hardly believe it.
Elio’s own converse lie abandoned on the rug, and kicking aside the potential trip-hazards Oliver breathes in deep, savouring the combined scents of Aquafresh toothpaste, Lucky Strike cigarettes, and something else.
Something woodsy, with just a hint of lemon.
“I see you’ve found your gift."
“I did.” Yawning again, Elio rises up on tiptoes for a proper kiss. "Is it…”
“The same one I wore in Italy?” Oliver closes his eyes against the sting. “God, I hope so,” he says, having spent the better part of Wednesday afternoon at a variety of department stores, boutiques, and perfume counters.
According to the sales clerk in Macy’s, that particular aftershave had been discontinued in the winter of ‘88, and what little remained of Oliver’s original bottle had long since been hurled from his Morningside apartment. Overly-dramatic, yes, but too-little sleep and too-much bourbon had led to a heartsick purge of anything that reminded him of the summer that changed his life.
Of the boy he’d been unable to keep.
Of the man who - for six short weeks - he’d allowed himself to be.
“Last week you mentioned liking how it smelled on you. So.”
Elio laughs. Low and wicked. "I think I mentioned liking how it rubbed off on me."
“That too.” Oliver rocks their foreheads together. Bites his bottom lip. Ignores his rumbling stomach. “Dinner will keep, yeah?”
Elio flashes a smirk. “Dinner will keep,” he agrees, attention falling to the half-windsor knot at Oliver’s throat. "Shall we see if it works both ways?”
“The cologne?”
“Sì.” Elio nods. “La colonia.”
If Oliver didn’t know better, he’d look like a picture of innocence, but the fact that he does - know better, that is - has his lips curling upwards in a futile attempt to keep from smiling. The vestigial tension drains from his body - helped in no small part by the answering pressure against his thigh - and Oliver falls further under Elio’s spell as he revels in the bone-deep intimacy that comes from being accepted for who he is. Of laying himself bare. Of trusting. Of belonging. Of celebrating the love they’ve found - the love they’ve reclaimed - despite the obstacles time and duty have heaped upon it.
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FFXIV Write 2022 - Day 9 - Yawn
I’ve missed the last couple of days due to a combination of sickness/exhaustion and just plain lack of time to write, but I shall try to return to them on makeup days!
Today, we visit Aymeric and Willow, the WoL from my Snow White AU ‘Where Wild Roses Bloom’. Aymeric is a prince hiding out with the Seven Scions and has ofc fallen head over heels for one of their number.
There were many things that Aymeric loved about reading. The chance to slip into another world, so far removed from the one that ordinarily kept him busy. The chance to learn of cultures and histories far removed from his own. The poetry in the words of ones far more artistic than himself. In Urianger’s collection, he found all this and more, and he was sure he would blush were any of the Scions to tally the hours he had accrued within the walls of their humble library. Yet if he were asked to define one thing that made those hours worth it, that truly brought joy to his day, it would not be the books, nor the literature. It would be the woman currently curled into his side.
Willow claimed that she liked to read, but he had never seen her use a book for aught else than a boost to a high shelf. So when she had climbed upon the sofa next to him and gazed down upon the worn pages of the tome in his hand, he had known that she had not entered with literature on her mind. Still, he had read to her all the same and somewhere between the adventures of a Meracydian scholar and what could be loosely interpreted as religious scripture, she had fallen asleep upon his shoulder; a fact betrayed by the gentlest of snores and the thinnest rivulet of drool dampening his shirt.
He had not the heart to disturb her. And so he had continued, reading on and on, until she shifted but a little and fell face-first into his lap. Almost immediately, he cast his book aside and reached down towards her, worried she may have somehow hurt herself. Alas, no. The warrior snapped her head back and looked around with bleary eyes.
“Mayhap it is time to move to bed, my dear?” Aymeric asked, barely hiding a soft smirk of endearment.
“Nngh,” said Willow. She arched her back, stretched out her arms, almost hit him in the face with her tail. With a wide hiss of a yawn, she settled back onto his lap and…immediately fell back asleep.
Aymeric could not help but laugh. What was he to do with this woman? This inexplicable creature who had so wilfully stolen his heart. She who kept him from his duty and yet mate it ever more imperative that he return.
Alas, such were not considerations for tonight. So, he stroked her copper hair, picked up his book, and continued to read.
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Something that I love about Jude and Cardan is they actually raise hell for each other. In other books, characters will often make these grand declarations of love and say things like 'i would burn the world for you' or destroy everything for you or whatever, but with Jurdan, they don't rlly say stuff like that to each other, they just do it. Like Cardan signing off a peace treaty allowing the undersea to attack the land and risk war to get Jude back, going against his morals and killing Madoc's guards when they were taking her, or Jude letting Snardan poison the land as long as possible because she was searching for a way to bring him back.
#showing utter devotion through acts of service>>>>#their love language>>#jurdan#tfota#jude x cardan#jude duarte#cardan greenbriar#the cruel prince#the wicked king#queen of nothing#holly black#tcp#twk#qon#htkoelths#jurdan fluff#they're not like the other books teehee
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Harry is at a Quidditch game, and he’s having a dreadful time. There should be some universal rule that negates this possibility. It’s Quidditch, he’s Harry – it’s the perfect pairing. He should be watching the Wimbourne Wasps crush the Ballycastle Bats and munching on some delightful treacle Sugar Sweeps while enjoying his first date in months.
Except they only have the licorice-flavoured Sugar Sweeps.
Except his team is losing horrendously.
Except his date – Jeanine, or Jeannie; something with a J – is more interested in flirting with anyone other than him. She’d tried to catch the eye of the unfairly attractive man sitting on Harry’s other side for a good twenty minutes. When she made no progress, her attention shifted to orchestrating a threesome with her friend and Draco. Rude.
(And no matter how far they’ve come from the bitter rivalry of their youth, Harry still hates to lose to Mal– Draco. He’d feel worse about that if the other man didn’t feel the exact same way – and if the prat looked less bloody smug.)
This is the last time he lets the blond convince him to go on a blind double-date. Merlin, what was he thinking when he agreed to this?
The Wasps call a timeout to discuss strategy (not that it’s likely to help at this point) and that’s when the worst of it happens. Some genius decided Quidditch needed a kiss cam for the slower moments of a match. If Harry ever finds out who, he’s going to hex their toes off.
That’s the thought that runs through his mind as he sees himself and Jacqueline on each of the floating screens bobbing around the Quidditch stadium.
His eyes slide helplessly to the side, where Jasmine is already inching away from him. This is so bloody embarrassing. He can feel his cheeks redden in mortification and is sure his deer-in-the-headlights expression will be immortalised in tomorrow’s Daily Prophet.
He sure wishes he had a time turner – he’d go back to this morning and stay in bed the whole day.
He can hear laughter breaking out from the other spectators the longer the camera lingers on him. Why haven’t they moved on to another pair? Or at the very least shifted three feet to the right; Harry’s certain Jolene and her friend or Draco (or hell, all three, why not) would be happy to give the viewers a show.
And then he feels a tap on his left shoulder.
It’s not that he’d forgotten about the extremely hot man sitting to his left. But the reminder of the human perfection to his side while this debacle unfolds kind of makes him want to stand up and leave. Or blow something up.
He turns to Mr. Sex-on-Legs and smiles weakly. The man returns his smile, and while it’s a little sharp, it’s not mocking. Hurray for small mercies.
“May I?” Unreasonably Handsome Stranger asks.
“Uh,” Harry replies eloquently. May he what? Harry swiftly decides he doesn’t need more details. This man could be asking for his kidney and as long as it makes this whole situation less painful, Harry’s on board. “Sure…?”
Unreasonably Handsome Stranger tilts Harry’s face up and swoops in. Harry can’t stop the confused squeak from leaving him – so much for less shameful – and then he’s being kissed within an inch of his life. Holy shite.
This is awesome.
Harry kind of forgets why this man is kissing him and what’s going on around him, because it doesn’t matter. The most gorgeous person he’s ever seen in real life is pressing his lips against Harry’s with intent, with skill – is that his tongue? All higher brain functions have ceased in order to enjoy this moment to the fullest.
When they finally pull back for air, Harry finds his hands are gripping the man’s collar and holding him close. He figures that’s fine, considering the man has one hand wound through Harry’s hair and the other is still cupping his jaw.
“Wow,” Harry breathes, brain still taking a break from thinking. The other man smirks knowingly at him, and Harry would probably take offence to that if the man’s perfectly formed cheekbones weren’t flushed pink, showing he’s not as unaffected as he might pretend to be.
“Er. I’m Harry.”
“Tom.”
“Nice to meet you, Tom.”
This makes Smokin' Hot Tom chuckle, which in turn makes his eyes crinkle up adorably. Oh bother – Harry might be in trouble.
He’s aware, peripherally, that someone behind him is aggressively clearing their throat. He only bothers to care about it when Tom shoots an unimpressed look at the source of the noise.
When Harry turns to follow Tom’s gaze, he comes face to face with an irate Julienne, her glaring friend, and Draco, who can’t seem to decide whether he’s impressed or pissed off.
He shrugs, grinning dopily. “It just isn’t going to work out, Josephine.”
She gives him a baleful look. “My name is Petra.”
Whoops. Not even close. “Sorry – Petra. Have fun with Draco and …your friend.”
He sends a teasing salute to Draco and starts dragging Tom towards the exit. Speaking of having fun – he’s sure they can find an alcove somewhere around here to continue what Tom started.
—
Harry’s picture is indeed in the Prophet the next day. But he supposes that’s only to be expected when he’s caught publicly snogging the visiting ambassador from the French Ministry of Magic.
#harry potter#tom riddle#tomarry#i may have already shared this#in which case#whoops?#please don't stone me in the streets#kiss cam au#quidditch#fic snippet#can't stop won't stop#now that i have wifi again#crack#fluff#utter silliness
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Mmm… snippet of future Musical Chairs?
“Thinking about him hurts like a kick to the gut. He hasn’t seen Sapnap since he… died. Since he drowned in poisoned blood. Since he limped through the snow, a bloodied trail behind him, knowing the way and yet feeling utterly lost, wondering if he’ll ever forget the cold look in Sapnap’s eyes and the apathetic greed of his voice when he too asked about the book right before swinging a sharp sword (his sword!) into his flesh just like his fiancé had so many times before. If he’ll ever lose the frost freezing his heart as Sapnap, his friend, his brother stood there in the last possession to his name, denying Dream that small mercy of having what is his. If he’ll ever forget the sound of Sapnap’s disbelieving words as he questioned if the torture really happened as if it wasn’t clear as day from his appearance. As if he wasn’t leaning to one side, standing on a knee bent in the wrong direction. As if a vast spread of scars didn’t sprinkle across the patches of his exposed skin. As if his once dirty blonde hair wasn’t crusted in layers of blood. As if his words meant nothing, weren’t worth enough to even consider. As if he didn’t lie the last time they spoke saw eachother about coming back to visit him.”
#ah and this is what I write as Sam works on removing my will to live… freaking Sapnap…#in other words if life was nice to me I’d finally be able to write the fluff I have planned for good cop bad cop but until then…. aaaannngst#c!dream#dsmp#dreblr#mmm more musical chairs… referring to of course when Sapnap killed him… brutal…#I’d post the next chapter but I’m not happy with the dialogue…. Sam is the utter worst and I hate writing him so much…#so I guess enjoy this for the moment until I stop falling asleep which editing chapter 3 🤦♀️…#musical chairs#crows nest#dsmp fanfic#happy angst month#don’t judge too hard it’s my first draft literally written a handful of minutes ago#dream smp#c!dream and c!sapnap#dsmpblr#c!sapnap#dream fanfic#fanfic snack#sigh why is it so much to ask for some nice peace and quiet to sleep…. :’(#and for something to work properly like it should…
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When you finally spit me out and I regain my bearings, I can’t help but to stare up at you in awe. I don’t think I’ll be able to look at you the same way again after this. The thought won’t leave my head.
I was just IN there.
I’ve seen the inside of your body. I know what it’s like in there, now. I know you both inside and out in the most literal sense. I don’t know if I’ll be able to touch you without thinking of what lies just under your skin. I’ve gotten an up-close look at the systems that keep you running. It’s... amazing, honestly.
Behind those kind eyes, that gentle smile, lies a hunger only I can sate. The desire to bring me in there with you, entrusting me with your life, your innermost thoughts and feelings. You... allowed me to witness all that.
On my mental map of the world, you’re no longer just a solid object, or a moving, interactive person, but also a place that I can go to. The thought makes me giddy, that under your surface, there’s a perfect hideaway available to me, where I can go to be loved and cared for until I’m ready to face the world again.
So thank you, for granting me access to that space. As I smile back at you, I wonder if you can see the wonder in my expression. The sense of immensity I feel when looking at you, reflected in my eyes.
You laugh softly and take me to get washed off. As you walk, I nestle into your hold, focused on the fact that you’re a living, breathing, loving mess of intricate, complicated systems. Your body is amazing. And so are you.
—————————————-
DNI NSFW blogs, blogs that post exclusively hard and/or fatal vore, weight gain blogs, proshippers, TERFs, ace exclusionists, etc.
#soft vore#safe vore#extreme cuddling#prey POV#fluffy vore#vore thoughts#*gets upset* *goes to drafts* *finds the softest half-finished thing I had* *writes complete utter fluff while still vaguely upset*#aaaaaand post >:c#lol I'm not actually upset anymore I just thought that was funny
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Thinking about small acts of intimacy with Toji. Kisses that you brush up against his cheek, or your finger lightly scratching at his scalp. Hugs from behind where you nuzzle your head into his back. Toji’s not used to it. He didn’t grow up with intimacy, with love in the form of physical touch. You’re the one who shows him that touch can be soft and filled with love rather than punishment filled with aggression.
He melts whenever you initiate gentle acts of physical intimacy and he curls in on himself, in a way you’d never seen him before. He’ll pull you close, shoving his head into the crook of your neck to hide the heat in his cheeks while your lips graze the bottom of his ears and your fingers gently massage the back of his neck.
“Jus’ want you to feel safe. It’s all I want for you , Toj.” You mumble against his skin.
Toji shivers against your body. An incoherent murmur of acquiescence meets your ears, and you know that’s as close as Toji can get to verbally affirming his love for you. Getting him to trust you physically has taken time, but he’s done it. So you know that words of affirmation will follow suit in time.
For now, all that matters is this moment. This moment between the two of you where Toji places his whole self in your hands. You’ve taught him, shown him, that solicitude is meant to be gentle and filled with warmth. And he figures if he gets burned by this love in the long run, the danger will have been worth it. As long as he can feel your touch just one more time.
#Toji fluff#spurned by the fact that I was browsing the toji tags and it’s just utter…#well it’s utter something#i won’t elaborate but iykyk#tj.drabbles#Toji x reader
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What if…. Just reader and will on a soft… like…. At home date thing….
(Literally I'm shrieking this is so cute- asskkfkamsmjkk I JUST WANNA BE HELD BY HIM SO BAD-)
CW: None, save for some cuddling and light angst if you squint. This was not beta read-
“Moonlight || Wilbur × Reader”
The ever familiar crisp scent of one of those shitty candles ordered from Amazon, much like everything else in this flat.
A night in- it's jarring how frequent nights like these are; that mostly stemmed from Wilbur's social anxiety and innate dislike for getting recognized in public… I'm lying, he didn't really dislike it; it just frequently reminded him that, as a content creator, he didn't truly have a private life. He preferred to keep his life as private as it could be. The lingering smell of burnt pasta still lingered over the signature, cheap scent of Seabreeze... A product of him attempting to cook for you, which ended in dumb smiles and banter that had his cheeks growing hot.
At some point in the night, he'd gone quieter than usual, a lingering afterthought about how he should be taking you out, spoiling you- instead of always staying in, opting for movie nights with slightly charred popcorn.
“I'm sorry we don't get out much…” Wilbur's tone was light and apologetic, rumbling your cranium where you rested your head against his bony chest. Despite him being a bag of bones, he was always warm; like a furnace.
“Nah, it's fine” You murmured in response, drawing circles in the beige knit of his sweater- looking up at him through eyelashes. God, he was so effortlessly pretty- the artificial light of his Amazon standing lamp did him fucking wonders. Pale cheeks highlighted in dim hues, it was hard to miss the faint blush dusting his soft face. The way his mess of curls fell over his forehead.
Sometimes he still looked like he was twenty-two, despite him being almost thirty.
It really took him a moment to process that you were fine with staying in, having a cozy date- He almost forgot your somewhat anxious tendencies. God, he felt so selfish for it.
“Oh…” He opted for that comfortable silence to settle between you both. His fingertips idly drew circles across your shoulder blade. He was thinking. “Well… um…” His russet eyes almost searched the room for something to say, anything.
“Take your time.” You teased him. Wilbur's face turned a few shades redder than before, his fingertips prodded the divot in your waist, causing you to nearly jump out of your skin.
“Oh hush-!” He found himself scolding. He was never good with his words in real, genuine situations. Hence why he was so hesitant in commitments. “I just thought you'd be more interested in lavish restaurants or strolls on the beach…”
“Those things are nice…” You mumbled, pressing your face into the scratchy fabric- why did his favorite sweater have to be so pokey on the outside?
“...But just being close to you is nicer.” Your voice was muffled by his beige jumper.
The room was darker, an indication that his tv had gone into sleep mode from lack of use; which made sense, you were too busy paying attention to each other. His fingertips tapped the ghost of a guitar melody against your spine, even in leisure he's still working. Strange how his brain works, sometimes you'd just wish you could really get a good look at what goes on up there.
He had a brilliant mind.
The thought caused a stupid smile to stretch across your face- hiding it once again in that sweater. This had him stiffening up like a board, his languid motions ceased as he kept his soft gaze on your frame- his voice was even softer.
“Now what are you grinning about?” He murmured, always soft- always gentle. You answered, no matter how tacky it was, a simple response-
“How glad I am that I have someone like you.”
My first fic on here- and ugh it's- IT'S SOMETHING. (Bare with me. I'm so rusty ugh)
#wilbur x reader#wilbur soot fluff#God this is just utter shite#Fuuuuuuuck im bad at writing#Ravernngrave#🎸💛
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entirely anonymous user here. that tadgh x reader fic was good.... perhaps could u...... write a little fluff, maybe...... for nobody in particular
You bet I can!
Warm Clothes
Tadgh Conneely x Reader Fluff
Rains would pelt the windows in the late evenings; the chill of such tides never worried you. You knew Tadgh would be back and perfectly sound. Always punctual that door opened up and he shuffled inside. Damp. Just damp. Never soaking wet. But always a little cold. He never stopped you from undressing him and helping him redress in something dry and warm, hanging his wet things in front of the fire. The way he smiled was like he had either been caught doing something embarrassing or like he had lost himself in the world of awe and adoration.
You had pushed a cup of tea into Tadgh’s hands. He shared that moment, clutching yours and his together over the mug, his dark gaze watching you intently, closely as he uttered his warm and low “Thank you,” and pressed a warm and tender kiss to your cheek with still cold lips. They did not stay that way for long, heated by the blush that crept into your face. It sent a jittery joy skittering through your body. And that smile came, knowing how pleased he made you.
You both settled in front of the fire, the pattering of rain like the gentle taps of something trying to get into the warmth and security of the cottage. He allowed you the length of his body, arms coveting you like something precious when he did not have his hands occupied with the mug of tea. He would talk about some local story, a tale of something or another or the gossip of the other families sometimes, though he preferred to talk about the stories of the sea and the water, the things that made their homes there. It was like a settling anchor, nestled deep in the silt below as you listened to him regale stories and folklore, the amber flames of the fire warming your bodies. His steady breathing and the feeling of his lungs inhaling and exhaling, the rumble of his chest and the steady tick of his heart. You were safe there. Safer than you’d ever been, settled comfortable in the warning evening against the sturdy warmth of Tadhg Conneely.
#tadgh conneely x reader#the secret of roan inish#reader insert#fluff#I had gone to bed. So this is a tad late!#But an utter delight to write nonetheless!#Do enjoy!
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fuck man. cirrus has been clouding my thoughts nonstop and it's starting to influence what media i consume
#i need him. i need him to Treat Me Like That forever fuckfuckfuckfuckfffuck#i cant even enjoy fluff as much. it HAS to be twisted for me to enjoy it right now#im gonna cry i need cirrus. so bad. i need more GAIS. I CANT EVEN DRAW HIM RN BECAUSE IT MAKES ME TEAR UP BECAUSE I HAVE SO MANY EMOTIONS#it's so embarrassing lmao#i open fireaplaca and think about how i wanna start and i get stuck thinking about him instead and i just. sjisbslshlsbsksnvsjsnvusjsbsknsu#im so obsessed with him i need. assistance.#obscura vn#I EVEN. IT'S NOT BUTTERFLIES IN MY TUMMY. MY GUT IS FULL OF LOVE AND FIRE AND DREAD AND COMPLETE AND UTTER DEVOTION#i am so glad he isn't real because he has me acting up.
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“I’m home! Sorry I was gone for so-“
They’re greeted with a sharp, indignant bark. As the caretaker tries to discern where the sound came from, a small dog bounds into the entry way with pattering feet. Whumpee’s not far behind, albeit limping and moving a bit slower.
“Sorry, sorry, I was gonna try and explain this better-“ they’re fumbling and out of breath, scooping the dog up off the floor, eyes wide and apologetic. The pup is a tiny, scruffy little thing, with curly tan fur and a furiously wagging tail. It eyes the caretaker suspiciously, before letting out another bark and curling back up against whumpee.
“Shhhh, hey. They’re one of the good guys.” Whumpee kisses it on the head, then meets caretaker’s questioning stare with apologetic eyes. Blissfully unaware of the proceedings, the small dog darts out a tiny pink tongue and begins licking whumpee’s chin.
Caretaker eyes the various piles of clutter and the overturned potted plant that definitely wasn’t there when they’d left, then back at whumpee. “You wanna…tell me what happened this afternoon?”
Whumpee swallows hard, fingers protectively resting on the pup’s head. “I….I found them. I was walking by the store - you know, like you told me, taking a walk around the block to get fresh air and do my stretches, and it just…came up to me. It was all dirty and skinny, and it didn’t look like anyone had been taking care of them….” Whumpee trails off, eyes darting down to their new friend. “And then they just followed me all the way home. So I gave them a bath and some food, and now…I guess they like me.”
Caretaker raises an eyebrow. “And the rest of the house?”
“I thought you were coming home later. I swear I’m gonna clean it up. We just got…carried away.” Whumpee swallows hard, eyes pleading. “I know there’s been so much going on, but I promise they won’t be any trouble.”
Caretaker’s about to object, to say that thar whumpee doesn’t need one more thing to take care of and be stressed out by right now.
But then they see the way whumpee tenderly holds it in their arms, the way that they stroke their fur like they’re scared they’re going to break them, and the way the little dog curls right into the whumpee and dozes off, safe and warm. More than that, they see a spark in whumpee’s eyes that hasn’t been there in a long while, one that’s been missing since everything happened.
So caretaker sighs, takes a deep breath, and asks one more question: “….what’s their name?”
A relieved smile breaks across whumpee’s face. “I was hoping you could help me pick one.”
#error 404: whump not found#only fluff#recovery#whump prompt#hey sometimes you just need utter cotton candy of a fic#so here you go
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My Marius de Romanus emotional journey as told by emojis:
😕🤨😟😠😤😶🤔🫠🙃
#if you went back in time and talked to me two years or maybe even a year ago#and you told me i would not only be writing fanfiction but i would be writing shippy fluff about marius of all people#i probably wouldn't have believed you lmao#it's fascinating how quickly my view of him changed once i started allowing myself to take his whole being into consideration#and not let myself get so hung up on his negative aspects that i refused to examine anything else about him#yeah he's an utter asshole and i'd probably slap him in real life but he truly is really fascinating to read about. complex and compelling.#and once i allowed myself to legitimately examine him he became one of my favourite characters in the series to think about#the vampire chronicles#vampire chronicles#tvc#vc#vampire#vampires#marius#marius de romanus
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Okokok hear me out
#1968-9#Sylvia has a child and a kind of deadbeat boyfriend#Tim only finds out after she bails him out of jail#bc they haven’t talked in a while#after seeing the utter chaos she is in w a baby#and just. Not doing great in life#he decides#why don’t you just come live w me#it’s family fluff omg#the brain will be thinking of this for a while Omg
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Scars
"How'd you get this scar?" Sally murmured, face buried in the crook of Billy's neck. She was idly tracing the large scar on his hip, listening to his quiet breathing. Billy leaned into the touch, verdant green eyes half-lidded.
"Hmmm...that one?" Sally nodded, and he chuckled drowsily. "I remember that one..." And he told her the story behind that scar. As she listened, Sally frowned slightly.
"You need to be more careful." She murmured, with a yawn, pulling Billy closer towards herself. Her hand found another scar, and she traced this one.
#toasty's writing#this is tugs#tugs shipping#tugs sally seaplane#tugs billy shoepack#utter fluff baby#tugs humanized#tugs human au#tw scars#< new tag#snippets & fics from discord
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Oh yeah Pierce said I make really good pb cookies and HELL YEAH I DO!!!
#THE TRICK IS TO BEAT THE BUTTER AND SUGAR LIKE IT OWES YOU MONEY :D#Actually though cause that's like half of how I made soft and ''fluffy'' cookies >:)#Let's see do I remember the recipe off the top of my head uuhhh#1 stick of butter 1 large egg medium is fine 1/4 cup white sugar 3/4 cup brown sugar#No measurement for vanilla you measure that with your heart#1 1/2 cups of flour and 1 tsp of baking soda and if you used unsalted butter then add a little bit of salt#You wanna use room temp or just softened butter and a room temp egg but idk how much egg matters#And you wanna whisk the utter hell out of the butter and fluff it up#Basically just literally beat the literal hell out of the butter and then the butter and sugar basically just everything up to the flour#After that you stop using a whisk and you use a spatula#Also roll the dough balls in sugar and don't forget the fork pattern#I WOULD SAY that I forgot the fork pattern on one batch#BUT. GUESS WHAT. PIERCE STOLE THE FRONT FROM ME AND HE WAS THE ONE WHO FORGOT IT#SO IT WASN'T MY FAULT >:(#HE WAS LIKE HEY BRANZY YOU FORGOT THE FORK PATTERN ON THIS ONE THEN WENT OH WAIT I DID THAT#YEAH >:( IT WAS YOU >:(#/lh anyways the fork pattern is just a moral obligation for pb cookies#Also 350° for 9 minutes!! Should y'know include that part#[''roll the dice!'' | 🎲.txt]
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