John stepped out of the loo, pulling the slightly too long dressing gown tighter around his body, and entered the kitchen. Sherlock was sitting at the table already, The Guardian spread out in front of him, nibbling absently at a slice of toast. No, John corrected himself, just bread. Not toasted.
“Were you too hungry or too distracted to bother?” he asked, not quite able to suppress the smile.
Sherlock hummed questioningly, looked up at John, then at the bread in his hand, before his eyes snapped back to John.
“That’s my dressing gown,” he stated.
“Yep,” John agreed, making his way over to the counter to make some tea and toast. “Only fair. You wore my hoodie yesterday.”
“But,” Sherlock tried to protest, but John went on. “Besides, you’re wearing my shirts quite regularly. Also, I bet you’re wearing my socks as we speak.”
Sherlock pouted, and John ducked down to look under the table to find, indeed, his socks on Sherlock’s feet.
John straightened up and leaned back against the counter, smirking victoriously at Sherlock.
“You might have a point,” he mumbled, and John laughed.
“Good thing your bum is rounder than mine, or you’d wear my pants as well.”
Sherlock pursed his lips. “Well, my arse might be ‘rounder,’ but your hips are broader, so…”
John’s smile faded somewhat. “No, Sherlock. There’s no way…”
Wordlessly, his eyes never leaving John’s, Sherlock hooked one thumb under the elastic of his pyjamas and pulled them down just enough to reveal his pants. Red pants. John’s red pants.
“You see, but you do not observe,” Sherlock stated.
John gaped, slowly shaking his head. The toast bouncing up from the toaster pulled him out of his state of shock and he buried his face in his palms, giggling.
“Christ Sherlock, you’re mad.”
Sherlock tilted his head, watching him with a mixed expression.
“What if wearing your clothes is my love language,” he asked, just a little bit pouting, and John took a deep breath, trying to calm his fit of giggles.
“Your love language?” he repeated, turning around to pour the tea and spread butter on the toast.
Sherlock hummed affirmatively.
“Do you… believe in those love languages?” John asked tentatively.
“You mean the five? Physical touch, acts of service, gifts, words of affirmation and quality time?”
John laughed at the sheer disdain Sherlock put into those last two words.
“Alright, so I suppose you’re not a big fan of the original.”
Sherlock harrumphed. “I’m generally not that convinced by social psychology. Some approaches or models may be valid, but there’s also a lot of utter nonsense and idiocy. Ever wondered why almost none of the studies are actually replicable?”
“Never really went that deep into the matter,” John shrugged.
“And these love languages dictate five ways to express love and therefore lead people to either build up expectations or use those languages to justify their behaviour. Also, those five aspects don’t even cover half of– It’s not…” Sherlock gesticulated with his hands, a little helpless.
“Never thought about it this way,” John admitted, frowning. He turned his gaze out the kitchen window. Then he looked back at Sherlock.
“Just so you know, I’m not. A fan of those love languages, that is. I mean, I can relate to the idea. You are very cuddly, just as an example.”
Sherlock glared at him and John laughed, coming over to Sherlock and pressing a kiss onto his hair.
“Right, your tactile, not cuddly. My fault. Well, and I like to… I don’t know. But surely I’ve got some tendencies.”
“You’re also quite one for touching me,” Sherlock muttered, looking down. “You also like to do small things for me. Just take your idea to do this month. You continue to try and surprise me. You like…” He paused, frowning up at John.
“I think,” he said slowly, “you like to see me excited.”
John’s smile softened. “I like to see you happy. Whether you’re excited about a new case, or just content as you snuggle up to me. I like knowing you’re well. I like knowing that I can provide you with what you need.”
Sherlock frowned. “You don’t have to provide me with anything John. You are what I need.”
John’s cheeks felt a little warmer than they ought to be. “Well,” he chuckled. “I hope you get what I mean.”
Sherlock shrugged, then nodded. He moved his chair back from the table and spread his arms, inviting John straddle his lap.
John followed only too willingly, winding his arms around Sherlock’s back and burying his face in the crook between shoulder and neck.
“Why did you bring up wearing my clothes as love language, then?”
Sherlock was silent for a moment before he answered. “I’ve seen an article about it. I suppose the topic was just still floating around in my head.”
John pulled back a little to look at Sherlock. “You didn’t delete it, even though you thought it rubbish?”
“I’m still learning how to do this, John. I want… I want to be good for you. It might’ve been of importance.”
John closed his eyes against the onslaught of emotions. “Oh love,” he murmured. “You’re perfect for me, just as you are. Don’t try to change for me.”
“We’re changing constantly, in many subtle ways,” Sherlock remarked, and John huffed a laugh at that.
“Yes, right. But don’t… Don’t force anything because you think I need it, yeah? We’ll muddle our way through.”
Sherlock hummed, and it didn’t sound as insecure as it did during the first months of their relationship.
“I love you,” he whispered into the skin of Sherlock’s neck, and Sherlock’s arms tightened around him.
---
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Flufftober Day 1, Alt 22: “Wearing Each Other’s Clothes” — Leverage
Parker wears Hardison’s favorite hoodie when she’s sad or depressed. She steals Eliot’s oversized flannel shirts on cold rainy days, and routinely grabs Sophie’s dresses out of her closet if the con calls for an outfit she doesn’t have.
Everyone on the team has slowly realized that this is her way of expressing love for them. Hardison knows to give her a hug when he sees her wearing his hoodie, and Eliot only grumbles mildly when he finds his last clean flannel shirt missing.
But the one that made everybody stare—the one that made Eliot snicker, Sophie turn away to hide a smile, and Hardison choke on his orange soda—was when Parker walked in for a debriefing wearing one of Nate’s fedoras.
Summary:Brenda and Teresa are most content with a simple life with each other.
1,300 words
The plain blue sweater was unnecessary for the spring weather. There was plenty of sunlight outside, basking the short haired girl in warmth. The air was alive and bright, flowers and butterflies filling the Earth like a cliche Disney movie. The weather was in no way negative, providing a much needed break from their snowy beach.
And still, Brenda sat on the porch, watching the sun rise with coffee in hand and her girlfriend's sweater around her arms. It had become her favorite piece of clothing, an article she still made sure Teresa would wear so it would smell like her. The scent of cleaning alcohol, once a strange, stinging nostalgia of the Scorch, had become everything to her, a comfort she could always rely on.
Closing her eyes and leaning her head against the wooden beam helping support their house, she thought about how everything had led up to this. How the story of them unfolded.
~ ~ ~
The dark town had the faint scent of something musty and metallic, an inherent darkness that made everyone shudder. No one dared say anything as they stayed as close to the vehicle as possible, some of them closing their eyes like they were hiding from monsters. Jorge could only pretend not to notice their fear as he kept on driving, determined to complete the mission with these random teenagers he met two hours ago.
Brenda wasn't the first girl Teresa had seen in her life. She wasn't even the first one she could remember.
She was, however, the prettiest. Her dark brown eyes held sarcasm and secrets, a glistening light that left the long haired girl in awe. That small half smile she gave them not too long ago, the one not so subtly making fun of them, would haunt her dreams, a taunting want for reasons she couldn't explain.
“So,”she began, looking over to see her already staring. She tried to pretend she didn't feel her cheeks warm in the cold as she gazed into her bright blue eyes, a deep conflict that she understood all too well. “You're really the only girl?”
“Yeah,”she nodded, holding in an unfortunately.
“Oh. That sucks.”
“Yeah,”she shrugged, keeping her face and voice neutral despite everything.
“I was stuck with a lot of them. A lot of them suck.”
She couldn't help but feel a weight lift off of her shoulder, a deep relief that she wasn't wrong for questioning their motives until she actually got to know them. It's not like WCKD had been any help with that either, keeping their history from all of them.
“When they're good, they're good. And when they're not,”she sighed, leaning her back.
“They're really not,”she finished, a humorless smile crossing her lips. She nodded before letting out a yawn, her head dropping for just a moment. When she realized, she jolted up, paranoia sketched into her face.
“I’ve got lookout,”the shorter girl assured her without a second thought. Or even a first one. She knew there was a surge of protectiveness coursing through her, a need to keep this stranger safe.
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah. Yeah, get some sleep.”
Trusting this person she just met, believing in someone who had helped have them tied up, she leaned her head against the window and shut her eyes, letting herself drift off.
~ ~ ~
The Safe Haven had done them well. Extremely well. While they both still jumped at unexpected noises and had fight or flight over everything, they had grown to accept that nothing would snatch them up in the middle of the night. They finally believed that Right Arm truly had brought down the enemy. They finally understood what it was like to go to bed without worrying about not waking up.
“Slow day,”Teresa sighed, watching her fishing line remain the exact same. Brenda nodded in agreement, holding in her own sigh at the disappointing sight.
“Nothing we can do about it though,”she shrugged, pushing her hair back with her free hand.
“That's the third time you’ve done that. Do you want me to fix it?”
“If you want,”she responded, trying to pretend her heart wasn't racing at just the thought of being touched by her, a side effect of her presence that was growing worse and worse. The ability to act casual despite how her soul changed colors upon hearing her name was a skill she had mastered by now, pushing down any hint that her face was warming. Pushing down the real reason she always made sure to be by the long haired girl.
Entrusting Brenda with her fishing line, she handed it over for her to hold. As she took it, their fingers brushed against each other, an accidental touch that made Teresa's shoulders tense, her breath being held against her will.
Brenda felt it too. She felt it so, so much.
But just as quickly, they pretended nothing had happened, one girl closing the line in her hand and the other sitting behind her.
Her hand gently touched her ear as she pulled her hair back. Closing her eyes, she silently prayed that the goosebumps on her skin weren't noticeable, that her feelings for her best friend weren't obvious.
With the hair tie she saved just for her Brenda, she collected her growing hair into a loose bun, careful not to get her head. She was always so cautious with her, treating her as though the world was meant to bow down to her every want. And Brenda always seemed to be just as fine as Teresa wanted.
Little did she know, it was because of her.
“Your hands are soft,”she absentmindedly remarked. Biting her lip, she bowed her head to hide her blush as she let her fingertips linger, craving it the way she always pretended not to.
This was her best friend. Teresa had become her everything, her rock, her support, her reason to wake up. It drove her up the wall, kept her up night after night. She was going insane with love.
A confession could lead to so many uncomfortable things. She could be disgusted because she only likes boys. She could awkwardly laugh and make an excuse to never talk again. She could say she doesn't feel the same but promise everything is fine only for it not to be.
If they were together though, if she felt the same, they could wake up together in the same bed. They could share quick kisses before they had to go to work. They could dance in their living room as the world stopped for them.
“I love you.”
They had said those words before, many times in fact. When they had to go to bed, leaving the other’s side, they said it as they were walking off. They said it when they had to go more than a day without seeing each other. They said it. So. Many. Times.
Never like this though. Never with such an unhidden fondness, a desperation for fantasy to become reality. The attraction, the longing, the romantic need, was finally all on the table.
Teresa felt her breath stop at what she had waited years to hear. She couldn't find a way to make words come out, to explain that she understood it was different now, and even more so, that she wanted it to be.
So she leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to her shoulder, swearing her love just as deeply.
~ ~ ~
“Hey,”she smiled. Brenda turned around, hand wrapping tighter and more protectively around her coffee, as she met her lover's captivating eyes.
“Good morning.”
“That it is,”she nodded, taking a spot beside her, hugging a familiar red hoodie closer to her body as she rested her head against her shoulder.
FLUFFTOBER MASTERLIST | 2025.
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[A03] [Fanfiction.net] [Wattpad]
summary: Tamaki’s hero work leaves him anxious and exhausted, but Mirio’s solution is simple: swap clothes, share some laughter, and remind Tamaki he’s more courageous than he knows.
warnings/themes: Tamaki Amajiki & Mirio Togata, Wholesome fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Softness, Vulnerability, Light Angst, Support, Sharing Clothes, Found Family, Slice of Life, Attempt at Humour, Safe Haven, Platonic Cuddling, Feel Good Fic, Canon Compliant.
As the city sky bleeds into dusk, warm streetlights flicker alive, guiding the UA students returning from patrol back to their dorms. Tamaki Amajiki is one of the first back. After a small breakdown in the bathroom, he plants himself stubbornly on a battered sofa in the corner of the common room, the rough fabric scraping at his elbows through the thin material of his hero costume. The room hums with distant laughter and the shuffle of tired heroes, but all the noise is muffled behind the fog in Tamaki’s head.
He curls his fingers in his lap, gaze fixed on the scuffed tile floor. His hero cloak—too crisp, too attention‑grabbing for his comfort—sits slung over the arm of the sofa. It had felt like nothing but a weight on his shoulders the entire walk back. Every mistake from the day echoes in his mind: the hesitation, the missed cue, the way his voice faltered over the comm more than once. He sighs loudly to himself, wishing he could shrink, curl up and disappear, become as small as an actual bean sprout. Maybe nobody would notice.
A shadow falls over him. The energy behind him is big and bright, and impossible to ignore.
Mirio Togata drops down onto the sofa with the force of a meteor, sending a ripple through the cushions. He grins, blonde hair a little messy. His hero cape is draped perfectly over him as if it weighs nothing at all.
“Hey, Suneater! Mind if I join your gloomy corner?” His voice is easy, a little too loud, bouncing off the walls and into Tamaki’s bubble of shame.
Tamaki shrinks further, pulling his knees up a little. “You… you can sit. If you want,” he mutters, barely above a whisper.
Mirio doesn’t wait for more encouragement. He scoots closer, shoulder to shoulder, his warmth radiating like a small sun. “Tough day, huh?” he says softly now. “I saw you out there. You did great, Tamaki.”
Tamaki flinches, fingers tightening. “I didn't. I messed up. I… I panicked and I—I should’ve been better. Everyone else—” He stops, swallowing hard. “You don’t have to say nice things. I know I'm not like you.”
Mirio hums, thoughtful. He surveys the room—the battered vending machine humming in one corner, the long shadows painting stripes across Tamaki’s shoes. Then, without warning, Mirio unclasps his own hero cloak and sweeps it off his shoulders. The fabric is still warm and vibrant red, lined with scuffs from real battle. He drapes it gently around Tamaki.
“This,” Mirio says, tugging the cape straight, “is my official, 100% All Might-approved Courage Cape. Gives you at least +10 bravery, guaranteed. Maybe even more if you do a superhero pose.”
Tamaki’s face turns scarlet. He tries to shove the cloak off, his hands trembling. “No—I can’t—Mirio, I… I don’t deserve this. You’re the one who—who saves people. I just… I freeze up. I let everyone down.”
Mirio doesn’t budge. Instead, he snatches up Tamaki’s discarded hoodie from his backpack—soft, worn, definitely at least two sizes too small for Mirio's broad frame—and wriggles into it. The effect is instant: the sleeves barely reach halfway down his forearms, the hem rides high, and Mirio’s muscles strain against the fabric.
He puffs out his huge chest, beaming. “Hey, look at me! I'm Amajiki! Is this how it feels to be the super cool Manifest hero?” Mirio tugs the hood over his head and crosses his arms, striking his best imitation of Tamaki’s quiet pose. It’s giving 'golden retriever in a baby’s sweater', but he still looks delighted. “I feel twenty percent more mysterious already. How do I look?”
For the first time all day, Tamaki’s lips twitch. The cloak pools around him, grounding him, smelling faintly of Mirio—sunlight, detergent, and something hopeful. He doesn’t try to push it off again.
Mirio leans back, stretching dramatically. “See? Not so bad. And, y’know, your hoodie is actually super cosy, even if I feel like a big sausage in a bun.” He glances sideways, grinning. “We could start a new trend. Hero costume swap days. Or just, like, ‘hug the nearest Tamaki’ day. That’d be a good one.”
Tamaki shakes his head, but he’s hiding a smile behind the fabric of the cape. “I think… it suits you,” he murmurs, voice muffled.
“Right back at you,” Mirio says. His tone is softer now. “My cape looks good on you! Brave! Not as good as yours, though. You should wear it proud. You’ve earned it.”
Outside, the world has quieted—city lights twinkling through the dorm windows, the last sunbeam slipping away. The common room empties, leaving just the two of them and the ever-steady thrum of the vending machine. Tamaki lets himself relax, just a little, burrowing into the cloak’s warmth.
Mirio nudges him gently. “You did good, Tamaki. Even when you don’t feel like it.”
Tamaki blinks, the heaviness behind his eyes easing. “Thank you, Mirio.”
Silence settles. Tamaki’s head tips sideways, eyes fluttering shut before he can help it. Mirio shifts, draping a blanket over both of them, still awkwardly squeezed into Tamaki’s tiny hoodie. He stays close, humming a quiet, nonsense tune, his presence a shield against the lingering doubt inside Tamaki's mind.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Woooooooo we’re so back @flufftober
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: 天官赐福 - 墨香铜臭 | Tiān Guān Cì Fú - Mòxiāng Tóngxiù
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Hua Cheng/Xie Lian (Tian Guan Ci Fu)
Characters: Huā Chéng, Xiè Lián, Ghosts of the Ghost City
Additional Tags: Teasing, Hua Cheng being a little shit, Xie Lian also being a little shit, Undressing Each Other, For convenience of course, Anniversary, Married Couple, No it's not a wedding anniversary, Gambling, Hua Cheng stile: gege cannot lose
Summary:
What better way to celebrate a joyous occasion by granting that same luck to everyone else? Except by everyone else Hua Cheng only means Xie Lian, and by granting that same luck he means letting things end on a draw...betting their own clothes.
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