#He actually didn't spill any ink. He just.. | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

allurearia · 8 months ago

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Coffee and Ink stains.

Where Theodore Nott Visits your muggle coffee shop.

Theodore Nott x reader! 6.5k words

19 June 1996 Wednesday

The bell jingled as the door swung open, and you glanced up from behind the counter. A boy around your age stepped inside, the hot summer air was clinging to him like a shadow. He wore a loose black sweater, hands buried deep in his pockets, and his dark hair fell messily across his pale face scattered with moles. His sharp, tired eyes scanned the room intently, filled with a as if he was stepping into unfamiliar territory. A few customers lingering here and there. Some quietly chatting.

"Hello, what can I get you?" you asked, giving him a polite smile.

He hesitated before clearing his throat. "Just… an Espresso. Over Extracted."

You nodded, grabbing a cup. "You like it bitter, huh?"

He shrugged, looking away. "I guess."

The conversation ended there. He found a seat in the corner by the window, quietly sipping his coffee in silence. You kept stealing glances at the boy watching him briefly.

22 June 1996 Saturday

The bell chimed again three days later, and there he was again with the same slouched posture, same messy hair. His hands in his pockets, just a different sweater this time. He hovered near the door, his hand still gripping the handle as if debating whether to leave or stay.

"You’re back," you said, a little surprised. "Didn’t think you’d come back."

"Didn't really plan to." His voice was low, almost a mumble. He looked around awkwardly before stepping closer to the counter. Noticing how most of the customers now held a book in their hands as they quietly sipped their coffee, the sounds of the espresso machine running and the occasional pages being flipped filled the room.

You arched a brow, the smallest of smiles tugging at the corner of your mouth. “Well, here you are.”

Theo shifted his weight from one foot to the other, clearly uncomfortable under the attention of being recognized. His gaze drifted over the handful of other customers again, now noticing the mismatched bookshelves that had littered the corners of the cafe,Theo’s brow furrowed slightly as he glanced from one reader to the next. The way they seemed so lost in their own little worlds, as if the world outside this cafe almost didn't exist, seemed to baffle him. He tilted his head toward you, his voice horse with curiosity.

“You.. have books here?”

Your smile widened. "Yeah. They’re free to borrow while you hang out. No card, no deadline, just don’t spill coffee on them, or you might be paying double the price of the book" you joked.

“Got any… mugg—uh…” He stumbled over the word and quickly corrected himself, almost too fast to catch. “Got any classic literature?”

“Classic literature, huh?” you said, tapping a finger against your chin thoughtfully. “You’re one of those?”

He raised a brow, and for the first time, you caught a glimpse of something almost playful in his expression. “One of those?”

“Yeah.” You leaned an elbow on the counter, meeting his gaze head-on. “The type that walks in and pretends not to care about anything, all broody but secretly likes reading the old stuff. Let me guess you’re into the tragic classics, huh? Dostoevsky? Kafka? Something depressing enough to make your coffee taste sweet in comparison?”

Theo huffed out a sound that might have been a laugh, though it was more like a sharp exhale through his nose. “Actually, i uh… might need a bit of help with this," he admitted, his words stiff.

You arched a brow, intrigued by his response, "Anything specific you're looking for? Drama? Romance? Or just something to make you question the meaning of life while sipping overpriced coffee?”

You wiped your hands on your apron and stepped out from behind the counter, making your way to one of the cluttered bookshelves tucked into the corner of the café. Theo followed at a distance, his hands still shoved deep into his pockets. You could feel his eyes on you as you scanned the shelves, searching for the right book.

"Alright, let’s see…" You turned toward the shelves behind you, running your hands along the spines of multiple books. “We’ll start with something manageable. Nothing too stuffy just enough to give you that ‘I read classics now’ vibe.”

You plucked a book off the shelf and held it out to him. "The Great Gatsby. Full of a whole lot of terrible decisions. Perfect for someone only starting out.”

Theo took it carefully. "What’s it about?"

“Rich people being sad," you said with a shrug. "It’s shorter than most classics, and it’ll introduce you to the concept of 'dreams ruining your life.'Real fun stuff."

He gave a short, skeptical hum but held onto the book.

You grabbed another one, handing it over with a bit more enthusiasm. Pride and Prejudice.

Theo eyed the cover thoughtfully. “What's this one about?”

“Witty dialogue, drama, and a slow-burn romance.”

Theo raised a brow, turning the book over to scan the summary on the back “Romance?”

“Yep. With tension so thick you could cut it with a butter knife,” you teased. “It’s about misunderstandings, misjudgments, and realizing too late that you’re completely in love with someone you swore you hated.”

Theo gave you a flat look. “Oh that enemies to lovers crap?”

You chuckled. “Yup,But in a good way. And Darcy? Total gloomy nightmare at first, but you’ll warm up to him.”

Theo glanced down at the book, flipping it open as if testing its weight. "So it’s... not just romance?"

“Oh, there’s a lot more to it. Class, pride, family expectations, the works. But the romance is what makes it all worth it." You grinned.

He gave a small snort through his nose, like he was trying not to smile. “I’m not sure how much I care about the whole enemies to lovers whatnot.”

“Trust me,” you said, leaning closer. “Once you meet Elizabeth Bennet, you’ll be hooked. She takes zero nonsense.”

Theo ran a thumb along the edge of the pages, frowning slightly but not rejecting it. “Guess I could give it a shot.”

“That’s the spirit.” You tapped the cover playfully. “And who knows? Maybe you'll learn a thing or two about romance while you're at it.”

He rolled his eyes, but you didn’t miss the faintest twitch of amusement at the corner of his mouth. "Yeah, right, I'm already quite the charmer, ill have you know? "

“Sure Mr- Uh”

“Theodore”

“Just Theodore?” you ask jokingly.

“Yeah or you can call me yours if your feeling bold”

“Theo is quite fine”

He doesnt point out the sudden nickname.

The sudden ring of the bell at the cafe's door indicating the arrival of a customer takes the both of you out of the trance.

“Well then can Theo get his espresso to go along with his romance books?” he asks playfully, his face now harbouring a full smile, or a smirk.

“Oh yes of course” You said hurriedly smoothing out your apron and running back towards the back of the counter ready to take the customers order and prepare Theos black coffee.

As you were preparing the coffee you take notice of Theo sitting by the same seat he had sat in the last time he was here. Right on that corner window seat, But this time he had two books, one of them carefully laid on the table, the other in his hand waiting to be read.

As you finished the espresso, dark and bitter, you glanced toward Theo again. sunlight from the window casting soft shadows along the sharp lines of his face. His dark hair, slightly messy, fell across his forehead like he’d run his fingers through it one too many times.

The sweater he wore this time wasn't black but rather a slightly muted olive green with intricate patterns with warm toned colours running along in vertical strips, he sat upright like he was used to taking up as little space as possible. There was always that guarded, careful look about him, as if being comfortable was a luxury he didn’t allow himself too often. And yet, here he was, here reading a book, an espresso waiting for him.

Balancing the small saucer and the cup on top in your hand, you made your way toward his table. The soft murmur of the café buzzed in the background, but your steps felt louder as you approached. He glanced up as you neared, his dark eyes meeting yours for a brief moment, and for a second, you could have sworn you saw a flicker of something, you didn't want to pry more.

You placed the espresso gently on the table, careful not to make a sound, but Theo still noticed. His gaze dropped to the coffee, then back to you. "Thanks," he said, his voice low, smooth, but with that awkward undertone, like saying ‘thanks’ wasn’t something he did very often.

“No problem,” you replied, flashing a quick smile. “Bitter, just how you like it.”

He gave a small nod before turning back to his book, fingers brushing the cup almost absentmindedly.

You lingered for half a second longer than necessary just long enough to notice the way his fingers curled around the edge of the pages: long, elegant, with faint calluses along his knuckles, hinting at habits or activities you didn’t really want to assume. When he reached for the espresso, those same fingers wrapped smoothly around the small cup, his movements deliberate and precise, as if he was always in control—even in the little things.

Without another word, you returned to the counter, but not without sneaking one last glance. Theo had already gone back to his reading, but the corner of the Great Gatsby peeked from underneath the other book on the table. A small smile tugged at your lips, knowing he might just stick around a little longer this time.

29 June 1996 Saturday

The bell above the café door chimed softly, announcing his arrival, and without needing to look up from behind the counter, you knew exactly who it was. By now, Theo had become somewhat of a fixture in your small corner in London. He'd been coming in nearly every day throughout the last week of June, At the same time too, always slipping into that same seat by the window like it had been his all along. You couldn’t help but wonder if he liked the consistency or if there was just something comforting about the space, as if it gave him a moment to breathe.

You glanced toward him as he entered, trying not to smile too obviously when scanned the café in that careful, subtle way you’d come to recognize. This time, though, his gaze lingered, not just on you but on the café itself. The afternoon sunlight was pouring through the windows, filtering warmly through the potted plants that crowded the shelves and hung from hooks near the ceiling. Branches of ivy curled lazily from their pots, and the leaves of a plant split into intricate patterns, casting shadows on the worn wooden floor. It was a slow afternoon today, with only a few customers scattered around the tables, and the soft hum of a record playing from the back gave the place a peaceful kind of stillness.

Theo paused just inside the door, his eyes flickering over the shelves filled with old books and the small clusters of mismatched chairs. His fingers brushed over the strap of the worn satchel that slung over his shoulder, a gesture so familiar now you almost smiled. It was like he was drinking in every detail he hadn't before, sinking it all in that quiet, observant way of his only this time, he didn’t seem as guarded as before. Something had shifted. The edges of him had softened, like the café had managed to coax just a bit of comfort out of him.

You busied yourself behind the counter, preparing his usual order a double shot of espresso, no sugar, no milk. Bitter, just how he liked it. He hadn’t even needed to ask the last few times; you just knew. And you couldn’t deny the little amount of joy that ran through you each time he came in, like you were part of a quiet routine you both shared.

When you turned with the espresso in hand, you found him already settled in his usual spot right by the window. But instead of immediately pulling out a book from the bookshelves like he normally did, Theo was sitting back, arms draped lazily along his lap, his eyes half-lidded as he took in the view outside. The sunlight kissed the sharp angles of his face, softening the shadows beneath his eyes and making the messy waves of his hair glow a muted chestnut. His sweater today was a dark charcoal, simple but elegant in that effortless way some people just carry. He looked both like he belonged here and like he didn’t—like he could vanish at any moment if you blinked too long.

You took a deep breath, steeling yourself as you carried the espresso over to him. As you neared the table, he glanced up, and this time, you swore there was the faintest hint of a smile lurking at the corner of his lips—a rare and fleeting thing, like a secret not quite ready to be shared.

“Morning,” you greeted, placing the small saucer on the table with a practiced ease. “Double shot, just how you like it.”

Theo’s fingers brushed against the cup, and for a moment, his gaze flickered to yours, as if weighing something invisible between you. “Thanks,” he murmured, his voice low and warm, carrying that same quiet awkwardness you’d come to expect from him. But this time, it felt less like discomfort and more like… a habit. A habit that's been growing on him.

You hesitated, just for a second, before sliding into the chair opposite him. “Mind if I sit for a minute?” you asked, and to your mild surprise, Theo gave a slight shrug, permission without fanfare.

He picked up the espresso, bringing it to his lips with the same deliberate precision you’d noticed before As he took a sip, his gaze wandered again, drifting lazily over the plants that decorated the café. The vines, the monstera leaves, the potted herbs sitting in the window box each one caught his attention for just a second.

“This place…” Theo began, his voice trailing off as he searched for the right words. His thumb absently ran along the handle of the espresso cup. “It’s... peaceful.”

You smiled, watching him as he studied the hanging ivy. “I like to think it is. That’s kind of the whole point.”

He gave a small hum of acknowledgment, taking another sip of his espresso. His gaze was far away now, as though the plants, the sunlight, and the slow hum of the music had pulled him somewhere deeper inside his own head.

“You’ve been coming here a lot,” you said, leaning forward slightly. “You like it here, huh?”

Theo’s lips twitched, almost like a smile was trying to form but didn’t quite make it. “It’s… nice,” he admitted, his voice quiet. “Not too loud. No one bothers you.”

You chuckled softly. “Well, except me, I guess.”

He glanced at you over the edge of his cup, and for a second, there was a flicker of something almost playful in his expression. “You’re not that annoying.”

You raised an eyebrow, pretending to be offended. “I'll take it.”

A silence fell between you not uncomfortable, but easy, like the kind of silence that settles between two people who don’t need to fill every second with words. Theo shifted slightly in his chair, his attention drifting once more to the plants near the window. His gaze softened just a little, the sharp lines of his face easing into something more relaxed.

And then he spoke, almost as if it were an afterthought.

“I won’t be around much longer,” Theo said, voice low and nonchalant, like he was mentioning the weather.

You blinked, a small knot tightening in your chest. “Huh?” You tried to sound casual, but the word came out too quickly, your voice no longer bothering to hide the shock “What do you mean?”

He exhaled, shifting in his seat. His fingers tapped the edge of his cup lightly, a habit you noticed he did whenever he was deep in thought. “I’ve got to leave by September. Back to…school.”

You tilted your head slightly. “Boarding school?” you repeated, surprised. The thought of someone like Theo going off to boarding school seemed strange somehow, like he belonged more to books and shadowy corners than strict dress codes and school rules.

“Yeah,” Theo said with a slight shrug, avoiding your gaze. “Something like that.”

There was a carefulness to his words, like he was holding something back, balancing just on the edge of what he was willing to say. You could feel it the way he danced around some sort of truth every time you both had a conversation, not lying exactly, but not being entirely open either. And for some reason, instead of making you feel distant from him, it made you feel closer. It was like you were both sharing an unspoken understanding, even if you didn’t fully grasp what it was.

You leaned on the table slightly, propping your chin in your hand. “You don’t seem too excited about it.”

He let out a quiet scoff, more breath than sound. “I guess I’m not.”

Something flickered in his expression, something complicated and weighty, like there were a thousand things he wanted to say but knew he couldn’t. His dark eyes met yours for the briefest moment, and you caught a glimpse of something vulnerable beneath the layers he usually kept so tightly wrapped around himself.

“So,” you said, trying to keep the mood light, “no more quiet mornings with espresso and books after September, huh?”

His lips quirked, not quite a smile but close enough. “No,” he said quietly. “No more mornings like this.”

It was such a simple statement, but it carried a heaviness that settled between the two of you, lingering in the air like the scent of freshly brewed coffee. For reasons you couldn’t fully explain, the thought of him leaving left a strange ache in your chest. He hadn’t been in your life long, but in just a few days, he’d become a part of your routine, a constant presence in the quiet moments of your day.

You swallowed, unsure of what to say next. “Well… at least we’ll have each other the entirety of July and August”

“I guess so,”

16 July 1996 Tuesday

It was pouring outside, God you hated British weather at times.The bell over the door chimed softly, but this time, it wasn’t the familiar warm and snug sweater that adorned Theos lanky frame but rather it was a rush of dampness and the smell of rain soaked air as he stepped into the café, his hair dripping and his clothes clinging to him from the horrendous British weather outside.

“Bloody hell,” you muttered, grabbing a stack of towels from one of the cabinets, as he looked around, a bit dazed. His eyes met yours, and you could see the faintest touch of embarrassment creeping into his expression, though he was clearly trying to hide it.

“Looks like you swam here Theo” you joked, approaching him with an easy smile that he had grown to adore over the days.

He gave a half-smile, clearly embarrassed. “Wasn’t expecting it to rain this hard,” he muttered, running a hand through his damp hair in an attempt to straighten it, only for it to stick up in a few unruly curls. He was about to stick his hand out as you approached him to receive the towel and dry himself, what he wasn't expecting was for you to quickly rush towards him and put the towel over his head, gently rubbing his head to dry it, momentarily caught off guard by the unexpected gesture. And in that moment, you noticed something about him, something small and vulnerable, softened by the care you were showing him.

“Here,” you said, gesturing toward the big and slightly dragging his hand towards a cozy chair by the bookshelves, a corner you’d always imagined was meant for curling up with a good book on days like this. “Why don’t you sit there for a bit? You’re dripping everywhere, and i really don't want to clean this floors again Theo” You teased.

He hesitated, eyes glancing from the chair to you, as if to question whether you were serious or not. After a moment, he gave in, moving toward the seat with a cautious sort of grace, draping the towel over his shoulders as he sank into the soft cushions.

“Stay there,” you instructed with a small grin. “Let me make your espresso, it’ll warm ya right up!.” You headed back behind the counter, and while preparing his usual dark and bitter espresso, you glanced over to see him, looking somewhat out of place yet oddly comfortable in the oversized chair. His eyes had drifted to the bookshelves, fingers idly tracing the soft fabric of the towel you’d wrapped him in. You couldn’t help but notice how much softer he looked, somehow, without the usual guarded edge in his expression.

When the espresso was ready, you brought it over, placing it on the small side table next to him. “One bitter espresso to warm you up,” you said with a smile, your voice just a bit gentler than usual.

“Thanks,” he murmured, wrapping his hands around the cup and breathing in the warmth, his shoulders finally starting to relax. The café was quiet, with only the sound of light songs playing in the background and the patter of the raindrops against the window, There were no customers today which you had guessed, Well no one except Theo

As he sipped his coffee, you took the seat across from him, watching him carefully. There was something different about him today, a sense of vulnerability that wasn’t usually there. Maybe it was the rain you had guessed.

After a moment, he glanced up, catching your gaze. “ I'm sorry I just couldn't be at home right now-” he began, his voice barely louder than a whisper. “being here… it’s different. Easier, maybe.”

You nodded, leaning in just slightly. “Its ok Theo, You don’t have to share anything you don’t want to,” you replied softly. “But if you do, I’m here to listen.”

He looked down at his cup, fingers tracing the rim thoughtfully. A silence fell between you, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was easy, almost expectant silence, the kind that doesn’t need filling. You sat across from him, leaning in a little, unable to hide a small smile. “You’d think you’d be used to the rain by now,” you joked lightly, hoping to lift the tension a little.

He gave a small huff, a ghost of a laugh, though his eyes were far away. “Not really,” he admitted, blowing on his espresso. “I didn’t always live in London. The weather back… where I’m from, it was different. A lot more sun.” There was a faraway look in his eyes, as though he was seeing something long ago.

“Sounds nice,” you said softly, trying to imagine him somewhere warmer, more open. “I guess you miss it?”

A shadow passed over his face, and he shrugged, looking back at the coffee. “Sometimes. But things… well, they just don’t last.” He paused, hesitating. “There are… expectations, you know?” His voice was quiet, and you caught a flicker of something pressure? maybe, or weight he carried that he wasn’t sure how to share. “Things I have to do.”

You reached over and touched his arm gently, a silent offer of comfort. He didn’t pull away this time, just looked down at your hand with a quiet, almost puzzled expression, as if kindness was a foreign thing he wasn’t sure what to do with. But the slight nod he gave, subtle as it was, felt like his way of accepting it, even if he couldn’t say it aloud.

You let your hand rest on his arm, hoping he felt the warmth, the quiet reassurance. “It sounds like… you’re carrying a lot,” you murmured, not wanting to pry into something he was keeping from you.

Theodore’s gaze lingered on your hand, his expression hard to read. He took a slow sip of his espresso, the silence stretching, and for a moment, you wondered if he’d say anything more. But finally, he sighed, a sound so soft you barely heard it over the rain tapping against the window.

“Sometimes I think it’s all… a bit too much,” he admitted, almost to himself. “I mean, my life wasn't supposed to be like this.” His brows furrowed slightly, as if he was trying to convince himself. “There’s always been this… expectation to be a certain way, to follow a certain path, and sometimes… I don’t know if it’s mine. It's set in stone but it's not mine.”

You nodded,“I think everyone feels that way sometimes,” you said gently. “Like they’re living someone else’s version of their life.”

A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, a shadow of his usual reserved expression. “Guess so,” he murmured. “But it’s like I can’t afford to slip. I just— cant” He broke off, his gaze distant, fingers tapping rhythmically against the espresso cup. “It’s not exactly easy, being… expected to live up to someone else’s standards, especially when that someone wasn't around to help. Ever.”

You wanted to ask what he meant by that, but the look in his eyes made you hesitate. He didn’t seem ready to share more, and you didn’t want to push. You only had Theo for this summer, you'd be damned before you scare him off. you leaned back, letting your hand slip from his arm but keeping your presence close, your gaze warm.

“Well, whatever it is, I hope you know you don’t have to live up to those expectations here,” you said softly. “Sometimes, it’s okay to just… be.”

Theo’s eyes flickered to yours, something vulnerable and raw in his gaze. For a moment, he looked like he was going to say something else, something he’d kept hidden. But then he closed his mouth, gave a short nod, and took another sip of his espresso.

“Thanks,” he muttered, almost inaudibly. And though it was a small word, you could tell it meant more than he could express.

Theo shifted in his seat, adjusting his weight with a sigh, when suddenly something slipped from his pocket and fell to the floor with a faint noise. You looked down, catching a glimpse of what appeared to be a thin, polished stick, about ten inches long and intricately carved with swirling patterns. The sight of it piqued your curiosity instantly, and you bent to pick it up, turning it over in your hands.

Your eyes widened in a sense of curiosity, but you quickly masked your surprise with a casual smile. “Nice stick,” you quipped lightly.

Theo’s cheeks flushed a faint red as he scrambled, patting his pockets, a hint of embarrassment creeping back into his expression. “Oh, that um, it’s just something I found,” he stammered,

You raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Just something you found? It looks a bit more… special than that,” you teased gently, trying to coax him out of his shell.

“Yes,” he replied, nodding way too quickly, his cheeks flushed. “It’s, um, from the woods near my old place. Found it one day, thought it looked… cool.”

You tilted your head, an amused smile tugging at the corners of your lips. “You carried a stick with you… all the way to London?”

“It’s a sentimental stick,” he added quickly, his tone strangely defensive. “You know… keeps me grounded.” You quickly hand him his “cool” stick back, not wanting him to fluster himself more.

You couldn’t help but chuckle. He was giving you the most absurd story, and yet, there was something endearing in the way he tried so hard to cover it up. He tucked the stick or “cool stick,” as he’d dubbed it back into his pocket, avoiding your gaze as he adjusted the neckline of his sweater and pulled his sleeves further down his wrists.

“It must be some ‘stick’” you said, glancing at him with playful intentions. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone so protective of a piece of wood before.”

Theo shrugged, looking down at his espresso cup he had hastily put down, an awkward silence settling between you both. Finally, he muttered, “Well… guess I’m just weird like that.”

“Hey,” you said, trying to make your voice as gentle as possible. “You know… you don’t have to make stuff up with me. I don’t mind a little mystery, but you don’t have to pretend, either.”

Theo’s shoulders relaxed just a bit, and he finally met your gaze, the guarded expression in his eyes softening slightly. There was a flicker of hesitation, like he was deciding how much to let you in, how much to trust you with. You got the impression that honesty wasn’t something he was used to, not the kind of honesty that made him vulnerable, anyway.

“Maybe I’ll tell you one day, Bella” he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. He gave a faint smile, a stark contrast to the reserved, cautious Theo you were used to.

“One day, huh?” you replied, tilting your head with a grin. “Fine, I’ll hold you to that.”

A small laugh escaped him, and he rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. “One day. Maybe.”

“Wait—hold on, you're Italian?! I knew there was something familiar about your accent!”

His laughter was warming you up more than any coffee could.

22 August 1996 Thursday

Three weeks had slipped by since that rainy evening, but the memory still lingered in the corners of your mind like the scent of coffee and ink that clung to the walls of the café. Since that night, Theo had come in just as frequently, though something between you felt changed. you couldn’t help noticing the subtle shifts in his behavior.

There was a new kind of attention in the way Theo looked at you or maybe it had always been there,that you hadn't noticed before and now you just couldn’t ignore it. He would linger by the counter, asking for book recommendations he would have shrugged off before, as if he were searching for an excuse to talk to you longer. Sometimes he’d offer to help with closing tasks, like wiping down tables or arranging chairs. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to make your heart flutter, and every time he left, you found yourself watching the door, almost hoping he’d turn back around.

It was a quiet late afternoon, the kind where the café’s ambient noise had faded into a soft hush, with just a couple of tables left to clean before closing. You were at the counter, tidying up, when Theo walked right to the counters after finishing his espresso.

“Closing up already?” he asked, glancing around at the empty café.

“Just about,” you replied, offering him a smile. “Why, coming in for a last-minute order?”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Actually, I thought I’d… help. You know, in case you need an extra hand.”

You raised an eyebrow, “I’m not one to turn down free help,” you said with a playful smile. “Grab a rag pretty boy and you can start wiping down tables while I finish with the counter.”

Without another word, he slipped off his jacket,rolling up his sleeves and grabbing a rag. Making you glance at his forearms, The two of you worked in comfortable silence,You couldn’t help sneaking glances at him as he wiped down the tables, his usually focused expression softened in this quiet, almost domestic moment.

The soft chime of the doorbell startled both of you, and you looked up to see an elderly woman entering the café. She was petite, with a kind smile and a bag hanging off one shoulder, her movements slightly hurried as if realizing she’d arrived just a bit too late.

“Oh dear,” she said, a look of apology in her eyes as she took in the nearly spotless café. “Am I too late? I don’t want to keep you if you’re closing.”

You stepped forward, smiling. “Not at all, ma’am. Please, take your time. We’re just tidying up.”

The woman’s face lit up in relief as she moved toward the counter, glancing around the cozy space. “Thank you, dear. I only wanted a quick coffee.”

As you prepared her order, she looked around, her gaze eventually landing on Theo, who was now wiping down the last table near the window. She gave you a knowing smile, her eyes twinkling with a bit of mischief.

“You two make a lovely couple, you know,” she said, her voice warm. “It’s so sweet to see your boyfriend helping out around the shop.”

Your hand froze mid-reach for the coffee cup, your face instantly warming. “Oh! We’re not…” you began, but the words seemed to fumble as you caught Theo’s gaze.

He looked equally taken aback, his cheeks tinged with a light flush as he cleared his throat, his gaze shifting away as if he’d suddenly become very interested in wiping a nonexistent stain from the table.

The woman waved a hand dismissively, her smile unwavering. “Ah, you young ones. Always too shy to admit it, but it’s obvious to anyone who looks. I can see it in the way he watches you.”

Before you could even think of a reply, she gave you a quick nod, taking her coffee with a grateful smile and heading for the door, her voice a soft murmur as she left. “Goodnight, dears. And don’t let a good thing slip away.”

The door closed behind her with a final chime, leaving you and Theo standing in stunned silence.

You dared to glance over at Theo, who looked as flustered as you felt. He had stopped wiping the table and was staring down at the rag in his hands, the corners of his mouth twitching as though he were struggling between a smile and sheer disbelief.

“She thought…” you began, then trailed off, feeling your cheeks heat up even more. “She thought we were… together.”

Theo gave a small, almost sheepish chuckle, scratching the back of his neck as he looked at you. “Yeah, she did.”

For a moment, the air between you felt charged, each of you studying the other with a mixture of surprise and something else something unspoken that neither of you seemed brave enough to address outright.

“So… would it be that surprising?” Theo asked suddenly, his voice quiet but his gaze steady, a glimmer of vulnerability in his eyes.

You blinked, momentarily thrown off. “What do you mean?”

He hesitated, glancing away briefly before meeting your gaze again. “I mean… I don’t know. We do spend a lot of time together,” he said, his words measured. “People might assume things.”

You nodded, your heart pounding. “Yeah… I guess they might.”

A small, awkward silence settled between you as you both processed the unexpected moment, neither quite sure where to go from here. Finally, Theo let out a nervous laugh, running a hand

After a moment, Theo cleared his throat, breaking the silence. “Well… I should probably finish up with these tables.” He gave you a small smile, his expression a little more guarded now, as if the weight of the conversation had caught up with him.

“Right,” you replied, feeling the tension settle but not dissipate.

Together, you resumed your tasks, though the atmosphere felt subtly changed. Every glance, every accidental brush of your hands seemed amplified, an unspoken question hanging between you, waiting to be acknowledged.

As you finally finished closing up, Theo picked up his bag and glanced at you, his expression thoughtful. “So… see you tomorrow?”

You nodded, giving him a small smile. “Yeah. See you tomorrow.”

He hesitated for a second, looking like he wanted to say more, but then he simply nodded and turned to leave. You watched him walk out.

It had been nearly a week since you last saw Theo. The café felt emptier without his occasional visits, his quiet presence always a welcome comfort. You’d gotten used to his easy smile and the way he would slip in his sarcastic comments during your shifts, offering to help or just sitting in the corner with a book. Now, as August neared its end, you couldn’t help but feel the quiet buzz of dread settling in.

You knew what was coming. The last few weeks had flown by, each day slipping into the next, and soon enough, Theo would be gone. Off to his boarding school, back to the routine he seemed to almost resent, but one he couldn’t escape.

You couldn’t help but wonder if it would be different this time. The thought of him leaving, not knowing when you'd see him next, felt strangely heavy. The café would still be here, the bookshelves would still be stocked, and the espresso machine would hum along. But without him it felt like something important would be missing.

You tried to push the thought away, but it lingered in the back of your mind, creeping into the corners of your quiet moments. He hadn't said much about it, but you could see it in the way his shoulders tensed when the subject came up, the way he tried to avoid the conversation altogether. It was clear he wasn't looking forward to leaving.

But here you were, waiting, just hoping for one more moment to enjoy his company before he disappeared into the world of school and expectations again. You tried not to think too much about the empty seat he’d leave behind or the quiet afternoons when the café felt like a little less of a home without him there.

It almost felt wrong seeing someone else pick a book and sit in Theos spot near his window seat.

You wondered if he felt the same way. You hadn’t talked much about it, and he always seemed to avoid the subject when it came up. Maybe it was easier for him to push it aside, to focus on the present, on the last few days of freedom before he returned to the structure of his school life. But you could see it in the way he hesitated when talking about the future. You could feel the tension when he would change the subject, the subtle reluctance in his voice that spoke more than words ever could.

You wanted to say something to tell him you’d miss him, to admit how much it would hurt when he left but the words felt too heavy. You didn’t want to make it harder for him either, to make him feel guilty or conflicted about leaving. You just wanted to enjoy the time you had left, even if it was in fleeting moments between the end-of-day rushes.

And so, as August drew to a close, you held onto the quiet anticipation of his visits. Glancing constantly towards the door, hoping everytime it chimed you would see the familiar brunette with moles scattered along his body and his funky sweaters.

#theodore nott x reader #theodore nott x y/n #theodore nott x you #theodore nott fluff #theodore nott #theo nott x reader #theo nott #slytherin boys #theo nott x you #HEAVILY HEAVILY INSPIRED BY THE BOOK IM CURRENTLY READING #before yhe coffee gets cold<3

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kitscutie · 1 year ago

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hush (eric, a quiet place x fem!reader)

pairing: eric!aqp x reader

warnings: injuries, blood, just general pain but comfort too!!

summary: after you obtain an injury which requires stitches, you do your best to keep absolutely silent.

a/n: requests for eric open :)

word count: 744

You and Eric emerged from a hole in the ground beneath the church, the water you had just escaped seemed stained red as you turned, pulling yourself up and onto the marble flooring.

You knew you were hurt, would be stupid not too seeing as there was a burning coming from your shin though it was diluted through shock.

You were pulled from your focus on the pain as Erics arms wrapped under your armpits, lifting you until your legs were completely out of the ground.

You turned to face him as he lifted a hand to his lips, reminding you to be quiet. As if you'd forgotten.

He lay you down gently against a pile of rubble, quickly searching through the group of others in the church for help, 'doctor?' scribbled onto the back of his hand in the ink of a pen he found at the churches alter.

Finally after minutes of staring at the ceiling, eyes drifting in and out of consciousness he returned. Stood behind him wearily was an older woman, maybe sixty five-ish? In her past life she was a nurse, before the monsters came crashing onto New York City.

She seemingly collected a dust covered first-aid kit, hung on the wall near the entrance. You prayed there was actually enough in there to save your leg, though you doubted there would be blood- of which you were losing by the litre.

'The quicker it's closed, the better." He wrote onto a note pad, handwriting scribbled in his hurry.

"Closed?" You mouthed, under the impression you would simply need bandages. Lifting your head up you watched as the woman threaded string through a needle. You knew what that meant.

You began frantically shaking your head at Eric, 'No, no, no.' being mouthed repeatedly as your pupils dilated in panic.

"I'm sorry." He mouthed back moving you to lie between his legs, head in his lap. Your efforts to escape proved helpless as your pain emerged through any shock left over though you were confident stitches would hurt more.

He wrapped his own arms around yours, effectively tying them down. Your breathing turned rapid and shallow, panic setting in as you accepted all the pain you were about to feel.

The first time the needle went in you felt nothing. And then whit, hot burning pain. Your back shot up off the ground, a silent scream leaving your mouth as tears spilled from your eyes uncontrollably.

Eric did all he could, shushing you silently, eyes dark and filled with guilt. Though it didn't ease the pain- nothing could. No amount of sweet nothing and comfort that you couldn't actually hear would help.

He watched in his own emotional pain as your fists turned white, breathing only getting quicker, and quicker as each stitch pierced your skin.

He could no longer bear it, leaning down so his forehead touched yours in an attempt to give you solace. Your cries grew heavier, soft sobs leaving you. Panicked that soon enough they would become loud he put his mouth so close to your ear you could feel every hair on his chin as he spoke.

"You're okay, it's okay." He repeated like a prayer. Were you okay? It wasn't truly clear. Hearing it from him though, Eric with his soft British twang brought you back to reality, even if it did come in the form of a shaky whisper.

This time when he shushed you with gentle care it was audible and soothing. Your breathing slowed but the tears and pain never ended, you could only hope the stitches were almost complete.

He kept his forehead against your own but brought a hand away from your arm, instead reaching up to wipe your burning tears away, thumb moving back and forth smudging ash into your skin.

As he moved away, your eyes stayed locked with his, attempting to disassociate from this moment and focus instead on him. His curly hair, brown eyes, dirty collar which looked pristine and ironed fifteen hours ago. It all brought you pain to think of now- the simple things like clean clothes which didn't smell like smoke but nothing hurt more than the look on his face as he starred at you, as though you were broken.

You never liked that term, never like being viewed as weak or vulnerable though in this moment you had never been so grateful to have someone like him by your side, protecting you and you him.

#eric x reader #eric aqpdo x reader #eric aqpdo #eric a quiet place day one #a quiet place day 1 #a quiet place day one #eric a quiet place x reader #eric a quiet place x you #eric a quiet place day one x reader #joseph quinn #joseph quinn x reader

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sphireath-wisp · 5 months ago

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#Backstage Pass!

Synopsis -> What an electrifying performance, it was worth all that money and time waiting. It was so good that you wanted an encore - in private, with less talking and more action.

Warnings -> Not proofread, all aged up, suggestive, language, Rin is objectively sweeter than Sae and Kaiser, mean Sae and Kaiser

Featuring -> Michael Kaiser, Sae Itoshi, Rin Itoshi x F! Reader

"Oh, of course, you like MICHAEL KAISER, of all people," You force a sarcastic smirk, eyebrows creasing as if you eye her up and down as if you were judging her for some sort of malefaction. Honestly speaking, you should have foreseen this. You're the one who wants to go to the concert; you dragged your friend along so it wouldn't be a solo trip, but she's developed a liking for the blonde boy. He's the playboy type who goes on stage shirtless, flaunting the ink adorning his skin. Even when he makes the gracious decision to wear a solid-coloured tank top, it doesn't take away any attention from the prominent cerulean rose blooming on his throat. Her blase favouritism of Kaiser was nothing new.

Beneath the charisma - so lamentable, it was laudable, Kaiser had an ego that reached for the stars. But it was his solipsism that made him such a star, an unbreakable confidence that shined even brighter as he played. It's unusual for a bassist to get so much attention in a band, but everything was absurd about Kaiser in the first place. And the worst part is: he had the skill to back it up, every single shit-eating grin.

"An encore?" You watch Kaiser mouth out to the audience, and the crowd goes wild - especially the fans with the tips of their hair dyed a gaudy blue. Your friend shakes you back and forth, spilling a mix of 'thank yous' and 'ohmygosh' past her lips. His grin only grows wider as he hears the crowd cheer, almost expectantly, like the crowd was supposed to meet his expectations.

"You have a backstage pass, right? Do you think I could snatch his number?" Your friend nudges you, readily waiting for a supportive response. You hum - pretending to think so you wouldn't have to turn her down so flatly. "He's kissed fans before, so you'll need to try your luck, yeah?" You give your friend a comforting pat on the back, but you're the one who needs to reassure yourself, "Anyway, he's just eye candy, right?" She nods insouciantly: after all, it's not like they know each other.

When you see her soothing smile, for a split second, you wonder if you're being too critical of Kaiser. Your friend seems to enjoy the concert, maybe this has created common ground for you and her to bond. This smug bastard and his god-given charm may actually be a blessing in disguise.

"Don't you know how to swallow? You're drooling," You soon learn that you're a good judge of character when Kaiser forces his thumb into your mouth. You realize that your gut has always been right, and you can't decipher whether the uncomfortable churning in your stomach is due to butterflies or the sickening taste of nail polish on your tongue. Gosh, you feel like an idiot for doubting yourself and, most of all, doubting how much of a bastard he can be. Kaiser pulls you closer on his lap as if he couldn't get enough of your Carolina Herrera, and palms the swell of your ass when you scrape your teeth over his knuckle.

Your nails, freshly coated in a shade of rose that disgustingly reminds him more of that keyboardist than himself, scratch his forearm on their way up to his clavicle, leaving a trail of hot fire in their wake. Your raspberry-flushed skin matches his, especially when your fingers - more suited for loving than burning - wrap around the expanse of his neck and threaten to crush his airways. His fingers are out of your mouth, and his breath is already lost before anything has begun; you're starting to see the appeal in womanizers when his half-lidded eyes - glossy and lovestruck - stare with a shimmer that rivals stars.

"Didn't expect to find a beauty like you in the crowd, but you were giving me such a dirty look," His words are coated in honey, like flattering women is second nature for him. Your grip unconsciously loosens at his praise, and he uses his newfound leeway to capture your lips in his. He smells like Maison Margiela's Jazz Club, rum rubs off your sweat-slicked skin, and you swear you feel his teeth on your tongue when you press your chest against his.

His hands undo the clasp of your bra, and his tongue plays with the rest of your sanity. You swear to whoever's listening that you need another bottle of beer to wash this feeling of longing away because you're sure you're drunk on him. Kaiser's always been known to kiss his fans, but he kisses his haters even harder.

"SAE ITOSHI, apologize this instant!" Kaiser mimics their manager, arms crossed and voice in an ear-gratingly, squeaky high pitch. Almost condescendingly, he grabs the keyboardist by the hair and forces his gaze down - to the point where he's at a 90-degree bow. "How could you treat a young lady like that?!" He scoffs as Sae swats Kaiser's hand off of his hair, clicking his tongue, irritation crystalline clear.

"R-Really, it's okay...!" You try to get a word in, raising your hands awkwardly to try and ease the situation. Kaiser is dead set on humiliating Sae, though; he's planning to get a good laugh like the carefree narcissist he is. You have to visibly hold back your laughter, heaps of air gathering in your lungs, and it bubbles in your chest. Sae straightens himself out, clearing his throat as he looks down at you from on the stage. Hopping off the platform to get on your level, the only thing separating the both of you is the railing set up for crowd control (and the bodyguards), he lets out a deep sigh.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to get your shirt wet and... I hope I didn't ruin the performance for you," He scratches the back of his neck awkwardly and cranes his neck to look away, not out of shame, though. Rather, Sae isn't sure where he's supposed to look. Your see-through white shirt is drenched, and the lacy black bra you have under is clear as day (though it is partially your fault for wearing black under white - Sae's gone through enough girlfriends to know that women are aware of these things, but he'll admit his faults and apologize anyway.) To be frank, he finds the event a blessing in disguise; you're gorgeous in lace, but he wouldn't say that aloud lest he be considered a pervert.

It was already past midnight, and the concert had ended, fans still stuck around to snag a photo with their favourite member, though. Seeing you at the front of the crowd (and the obvious 'accident' with your shirt), Kaiser caught him staring and decided to be a bigmouth. Swooping in like the playboy he is, he acted all righteous when he heard what happened and well... Sae Itoshi has his head bowed like a little boy apologizing to their mother.

"I'll make it up for you, yeah?" he states firmly, and the air shifts when you agree oh-so-sweetly. Ladies first, he would say, to avoid staring at your chest, but you could feel eyes glued to the mound of your ass from under your miniskirt.

He's making it up to you, alright, with his knee between your thighs. Long, slender fingers slip up your skirt, and the lacy black panties you have under make his star-etched pupils morph into hearts right before your lovestruck eyes. He's patient, he's graceful, and he's deft with every kiss to the point it makes you feel hungry. Diet Pepsi by Addison Rae plays on the radio, and he cages you onto the cushioned seats.

Your legs wrap around his waist like poison ivy, and there's sweet venom every time your collar is stained royal purple. His tongue dances on your skin, and it's even more mind-numbing when his tongue traces yours. With a gasp, or a squeal, or maybe a mix of both, you wonder how long it's been and why he's torturing you like this, and your eagerness tastes like honey to Sae.

Sae swears he's never met a girl so noisy before, but hell if he cares. He wouldn't mind if he met you after every performance, or if he snuck you into the studio to have you right there and then whenever that bastard Kaiser opens his mouth. Bleary-eyed and half-lidded, he thinks you look cute like this and, damn, his eyes weren't lying when you looked good in lace. He almost feels bad. You swear your skin feels like it's on fire, and he's your fuel. You breathe him like oxygen and he's as starved as you, he never knew what air felt like before you.

Sae's fingers, the ones that used to be so rough from playing the guitar with his little brother, the ones that have grown long from years of playing the keyboard, slip under the waistband of your lacy panties. He whispers apologies that he doesn't mean, and he swears to buy you another set as soon as possible. You don't care about his apology, you knew he was a half-hearted bastard the moment he blatantly ogled at you earlier. What's more important is the new set and this perverted idiot better give you another stress-relieving night for the trouble he's put you through! You know Sae Itoshi always keeps his promises.

RIN ITOSHI, the exceptional newbie in the band. Introduced as the 2nd electric guitarist, he hid his prior connections with Sae Itoshi to avoid accusations of being a mere product of nepotism. People had already acknowledged his skills by the time the truth spread. He didn't really catch your eye in terms of personality. He was as reclusive as his older brother but more vocal with his thoughts. If his brother had an "enigmatic" appeal to him, he would be "unapproachable".

"He's cute, isn't he?" Your friend playfully hums by the shell of your ear, and you shrug indifferently in response. Your gaze trawls through his black leather jacket, which looks like it was inherited from someone older, with its sleeves folded to the middle of his forearms. His stringed necklace dangles down to his electric guitar when he slouches, calloused fingers hovering over the strings. "Pretty good for someone new..." Your friend continues, her own eyes the furthest thing from chaste. Yet, instead of chiding her, you'll be the one apologizing sooner or later - you couldn't catch anything she said when Rin happened to glance up in your direction, no less. Coincidence or not, his tongue peeks out of his mouth, the pink muscle running over his lips.

Slim teal eyes narrow at you sharply when you don't look away immediately. You stare back as if you haven't sensed his annoyance and sheer arrogance, and you're utterly shameless about it too. As if mocking the guitarist, you stick your tongue out before openly running it over the canvas of your teeth.

You pass it off as flirting with no goal in mind, especially when his face scrunches up in belying disgust. It was nothing more than passive teasing, the kind of thing you'll dream about when the boys you know act stupid and the tension you'll crave when life gets dull. It's something you'll romanticize for the rest of your life until Rin Itoshi is muddled in a scandal, and you can't see anything attractive in those piercing eyes.

Well, you were half-right.

"Isn't your friend looking for you?" he half-mocks with a tone that makes you want to slap him stupid until the apple of his cheeks is as swollen as your cherry red lips. His mouth is as dirty as it tastes, and he doesn't know how to treat a woman at all. There's nothing remotely sweet about Rin, but the naivety blinding him - convincing him silently that he doesn't want this as bad as you do - is caramel on your tongue.

He's too young and dumb, your voice of reason echoes in the expanse of your skull, and you're sure he hasn't locked the door, but he's already kissed you silly. The black dressing room table feels a little shaky whenever his tongue slips into your mouth, or perhaps your whole world is shaking because of him. Your back crams against the mirror, and the warmth of the LED strips make your brain fuzzy. Eagerness and embarrassment conflict when he holds your waist, rough fingertips shyly slipping under the hem of your shirt and tapping against your skin as if asking for permission. His hesitation is evident when you pull away and the thought of upsetting you strangely eats him whole.

Your chest heaves up and down, off-beat from the temperamental percussion of your heart. "You're asking that now?" you manage out whilst guiding his curious hands further under your shirt, "Sweetheart, don't act like you're worried someone will catch us." Catching your breath, you yearn to lose it again as you lean forward for another round, the white quartz of his stringed necklace cold against your skin once he flips your shirt up.

You can't tell if the lights are flickering or if the flash of a camera has caught you so vulnerable, like putty and moulded into Rin's embrace. But, you don't care, and Rin seems to care even less with the way he whispers sticky sugar promises to buy you another Dior lip gloss and a new bag to boot. It'll be his first scandal if the paparazzi have caught the both of you, but you'll celebrate it with a bottle of champagne in the walls of his apartment, for sure.

Taglist: @dewwberry, @mikmwehehe

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bones4thecats · 1 year ago

Note

Could I request Azul, Silver, and Jamil with a baker reader?

What If Their S/O Was A Baker?

Type of Writing: Request Name: What If Their S/O Was A Baker? Characters: Azul Ashengrotto, Silver Vanrouge, and Jamil Viper Requester: Anonymous

A/N: This is slightly shorter than my average piece, but I have like 6 other requests to get through so, bite me😑

✧⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋄✧⋄⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋆⋄✧⋄⋅⋆⋄✧⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋆⋄✧⋄⋅⋆⋄✧⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅

🐙 As we all know, Azul loves to eat sweet foods. It falls into the category of unhealthy foods (which he loves) vs healthy foods (which is canonically his least favorite)

🐙 When he had first seen you bake, he had come back from a housewarden meeting and smelled both a sweet and a more fungal-like scent lingering in the air, and that mix made him slightly fearful but more curious

🐙 He had walked into Mostro Lounge's kitchen and saw that you and Jade were cooking together while Floyd sat down and slept at the counter

🐙 You had looked up from the cookies you were frosting to look like small underwater creatures such as stingrays, clownfish, sea slugs, and even a small bundle of eels like Floyd and Jade, and smiled

" Azul! Come here, I made you something a little bit ago! You came right on time too, it's still a little warm. "

🐙 Walking up behind you, you had reached into a basket with a sea-shell printing that Azul had gifted you a couple weeks prior for your personal usage, and you had pulled out a small cookie

🐙 But not just any cookie, one that was molded at the bottom to look like small tentacles. And as if led upwards, it began to form a small body, the body of a slightly purple and blue octopus

" Since I was making little sea creatures and I thought that you'd be tired from the meeting, I figured I could make you something to heighten your mood! " " Well, you did your job well, my Pearl. "

🐙 Before Azul could actually take a bite of the baked good, you had shook your finger in a 'not-so-fast' way and lifted the rest of the basket's cloth, revealing a small litter of baby octopus in various positions. One even was spilling ink!

🐙 Chuckling at the gesture, Azul laid the sweet inside the basket and hugged you before kissing your forehead with delicacy

" I love you, Y/N. " " And I love you, my little octopus~ "

⚔️ Let's be honest here; Silver definitely falls asleep when the aroma of your sweets enter his nose. No doubt.

⚔️ Whenever you had started baking and your boyfriend began to catch a whiff of the baking items, he would close his eyes and begin to let his mind wander as his eyes began to close

⚔️ But, when you had baked while he was out training, you had taken a small bag of them outside and noticed that he was sitting on a bench, sleeping of course

⚔️ He wouldn't be your boyfriend if he didn't catch his 29th nap of the day

⚔️ Holding the bag as you smiled at the silver-haired male you called yours, you heard your name being called out by a familiar voice; Lilia Vanrouge, Silver's adoptive father

" Y/N~ I just so happened to notice that you have a bag of delectibles. If I may ask, who are they four? They better be for my son. " " They're for Silver, I noticed that his naps seemed to be getting in the way of having literally any kind of food in his stomach, so I decided to just make these and have him get something in during a break in training. "

⚔️ Looking at your resting boyfriend, you chuckled;

" Though, it seems I was a hint late for that. "

⚔️ Lilia smiled and thanked you for considering his son's meals in balance with his training, as he held that in high regards. And as he floated away to train Sebek for the time being, you laid the treats in your boyfriend's bag and kissed his forehead before walking away

⚔️ Unbeknownst to you, Silver had opened his eyes once you left and smiled. What did he ever do to deserve such an amazing S/O as you?

🐍 This guy. This guy- he literally does everything in his dorm. And it drives you insane whenever he has to start rushing around to bake and cook for a surprise party that Kalim decided to throw

🐍 So, when you had spoke to Kalim and learned hours prior, while Jamil was away grabbing stuff from down the mountain, Kalim got news that one of his siblings was dropping by and he wanted to throw a party

🐍 And at that party, he wanted a lot of baked goods. His sibling, he said, had a very large sweet-tooth

🐍 You took this opportunity and told Kalim that you were going to bake up some stuff and wanted some recommendations from the person closest to the guest, making him smile and ramble for a little while

🐍 So, when Jamil came back into the dorm and smelled a strong scent of sugars and spices, he had thought that Kalim tried cooking again... or maybe Lilia came back to destroy his kitchen

🐍 Speed-walking to the area in particular, Jamil stood in shock seeing you wearing Scarbia-branded oven mitts as you took out a small tray of freshly baked pistachio baklava

" Y/N? What are you doing in here? "

🐍 When you smiled at him and told him that you had taken care of all the long-time desserts and began to time the long-time main courses and sides for the impromptu party for the Al-Asim sibling, Jamil both sighed in annoyance at Kalim and he slightly chuckled at your appearance

🐍 You had flour on your pants and some batter on your face with frosting and a few sprinkles, and seeing the normally clean you look like such a mess made him laugh. This must be why you laugh when you visited him in the kitchen week prior during the last large-serving party of Kalim's

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janeyshivers · 6 months ago

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i think a big part of the reason why, even when Pratchett was alive, it was always Rowling who was held up as the gold standard of a modern British fantasy author, is that Pratchett was above all else just far more honest about like, The English writ large.

a lot of ink has been spilled on the saccharine nostalgia of Harry Potter books, particularly as they went on, that longing for the WW2 Blitz spirit that Rowling herself didn't actually live through, but is lionised in our culture and was subsequently regurgitated uncritically by her, on account of her being an unimaginative hack. "keep calm and carry on" is the core aesthetic of the later books, while the earlier ones are far more of the sort of irritating, faux-charming, brilliant baffling bouncing Britishness that captured the hearts of teaboos who knew no better around the world, and also presented a highly self-flattering image to the people who have to actually live on this shithole island. this was especially true of cultural institutions such as schools, libararies, etc, who found it germaine to push these middling children's books relentlessly on kids, while massive multimillion dollar movie projects were cranked out, because they were deeply, painfully in love with a cutesy mirage of England that we like to project to the world to cover for the fact that this place is the husk of a dead empire, inhabited by tiny islands of obscene hoarded wealth in an increasingly desperate sea of insane deprivation and poverty.

and on a certain surface-level reading, you could almost accuse Pratchett of doing the same thing. after all, he also wrote whimsical fantasy tales largely set in a transparently England-ish setting (that is, Ankh-Morpork and the surrounding countryside areas on the Discworld). they even feature lots of witches and wizards! his books are full of bumbling, good-natured Englishmen doffing their caps to the lord, scenic countryside vistas, dirty and yet charming city streets, bustling fairs, rascally pickpockets, and generally a lot of the same aesthetic signifiers of Rowling's earlier work especially.

but.

read any amount of Pratchett's stuff and you realise very quickly that he understands that there is a persistent, genuinely violent nastiness underpinning a lot of this stuff. I Shall Wear Midnight is a good example, as the honest, hard-working country folk of the Chalk never even acknowledge the shameful mob killing of the old toothless woman who Tiffany has had to bury. these charming communities are places where well-known cases of domestic violence go unaddressed until a pregnant girl is beaten so badly she has a miscarriage, and they are places where miserable, curtain-twitching sneaks spread lies and rumours with impunity. Guards, Guards! fits here as well, a book about how the not-insincere love of the people of Ankh Morpork for their new king is insane and destructive and ends up getting quite a lot of innocent people killed.

what i appreciate most about how Pratchett talks about this stuff is that neither the nastiness nor the more charming elements are artifice. while they seem to exist as a contradiction at first glance, a core feature of English culture from Pratchett's perspective is that these impulses exist in a tense balance at all times. Mr Petty hits his daughter until she miscarries, and also stings his hands gathering nettles to make a little grave for the poor kid before trying to hang himself. that doesn't make what he did ok, but it does mean grappling with the fact that people are complicated and don't make sense, culture doesn't entirely cohere, and that the things you might like about "Englishness" are part and parcel of some genuinely horrifying shit.

obviously i'm not going to sit here and pretend that Pratchett was some plucky underdog compared to Rowling, the dude had a knighthood, and there are even a few movies based on his stuff (I'm rather partial to the 2008 The Colour of Magic adaptation myself), although nothing on the scale of the Potter movies. but at a glance, it does seem strange that Rowling was our nation's marquis literary export in the 2000s, considering that Pratchett was more established, working in the same genre, and also a significantly more technically skilled and insightful writer than her. but, that's the thing, he was insightful enough that his writing didn't make for decent cultural slop like Rowling's did. Harry Potter is vapid enough for corporate interests and cultural institutions to build a multinational media empire on, not through some insidious conspiracy to poison the minds of a generation of irritating millenials, but because it was there and it was popular enough and it was easy to use, because it's not very complicated or challenging. Discworld is not perfect by any means, and i have my personal disagreements with Pratchett's (relatively) rosy perspective on humans as being fundamentally very decent. but the stories make you think, they encourage you to engage with the world critically, and they are written with a degree of empathy and kindness that clash with any earnest attempt to shore up "English values".

#“english” chosen quite deliberately here btw #not using it interchangably w british #discworld #i shall wear midnight #guards! guards!#terry pratchett #fuck harry potter #fuck jkr #long shiverposting

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hogwartslegacyreactions2 · 1 year ago

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HLC REACT TO MC HAVING AN OUT OF CHARACTER OUTBURST

Requested by: @ma1egamer

MC had a bad week. The worst week. An awful horrible week. But they still smiled. No one could know what was broiling just beneath the surface. They were the cool popular kid at Hogwarts, they had a reputation. If they just kept up appearances until the end of the day, they could go out after classes and fight a few dark wizards. That would help them de-stress.

They were lost in thought when someone accidentally ran into them, knocking their bag off their arm and causing it to spill its contents all over the floor. One of their ink bottles smashed, staining what was a lengthy essay they had just completed the night before for astronomy.

MC lost their carefully collected shit. "WHY DOES THIS KEEP HAPPENING!? IF ITS NOT ONE THING, ITS ANOTHER!! EVERY! SINGLE! DAY! But, if we didn't have bad weeks, the good weeks would be so amazing." It was like someone flipped a switch. MC was entirely calm again while using their wand to clean up their stuff.

The hall was dead silent. The whole crowd of students and faculty watched MC pack themselves up and walk away smiling.

SEBASTIAN SALLOW: "Welp, I feel sorry for any dark wizards or goblins that cross MC's path today." This included himself. He steered clear.

OMINIS GAUNT: "What happened? Why did they shout like that? Are they okay?" He needs context. He's worried.

ANNE SALLOW: She avoids eye contact with anyone in the crowd. She doesn't know what's going on, don't look at her.

IMELDA REYES: "What, in the actual fuck, was that?"

NATSAI ONAI: She marches after MC. They clearly aren't okay and she wants to know what's up.

GARRETH WEASLEY: MC's outburst made him drop a jar of pickled slugs. Now he was having a bad day too. The smell was awful.

LEANDER PREWETT: "They're cracking under the pressure. Sad."

AMIT THAKKAR: He has shrunk away from the noise. He doesn't deal with that kind of energy very well and removes himself from the situation.

EVERETT CLOPTON: "Merlin's beard, and here I thought Kogawa had a temper."

POPPY SWEETING: "Yeesh, I knew MC had fangs but I've never seen them take it out on a random student. I wonder what's bothering them."

ELEAZAR FIG: "Oh dear." He shuffles through the crowd and shepherds MC away. "What was that about? Are you alright? Please, don't lie to me."

MATILDA WEASLEY: She bristled at MC's volume. She could take house points for that, but instead ask MC to come to her office. She wants a word.

CHIYO KOGAWA: "Move along, everyone. You all have places to be." She shoos the crowd and stops MC from leaving. "Let's talk. My office."

AESOP SHARP: He gets it. As far as anyone is concerned, he saw nothing.

ABRAHAM RONEN: He's immediately by MC's side, helping them with their books. "Can you spare a moment to chat?" He wants them to be actually okay.

MIRABEL GARLICK: She walks quickly to catch up with MC and hands them a colorful bloom. "Here...it's Worry's Blight. It'll help you feel calm. You seem to need some more than me today."

MUDIWA ONAI: She invites MC up for tea. A special blend and good conversation is what they needed.

BAI HOWIN: Everyone has a bad day. There was no confrontation about the items dropped, so she let it go.

DINAH HECAT: "You shouldn't be shouting the halls, MC. However, instead of taking points, I have an assignment for you." She gave them a small price of paper with a location. "This is an ashwinder camp I heard wind of in the Three Broomsticks. It's a big one. Use this information as you may."

CUTHBERT BINNS: He just ghosted on out of there. He had a lecture to prep.

SATYAVATI SHAH: "No shouting in the halls. That's five points, MC." She didn't notice the vein fit to burst on MC's neck when they just smiled back at her.

PHINEAS NIGELLUS BLACK: "Children. Always whining about how hard life is. They know nothing of the real troubles life can throw at you."

#hogwarts legacy #sebastian sallow #ominis gaunt #amit thakkar #garreth weasley #hogwarts legacy reactions #natsai onai #anne sallow #imelda reyes #hogwarts legacy fandom #hogwarts legacy professors

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goldenlionprince · 3 months ago

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The Only Thing That Looks Good on Me Is You

One more in @sorenphelps The Bodyguard AU before the nice little bubble they are in might burst with reality again. But not right now. Right now we get a little fade to black smut-ish thing because I suddenly felt like it (and I totally didn't take notes for that while on a subway😂)

if you want to catch up on previous parts of mine, I have a collection on AO3 for all of them. Tags for @neverenoughmarauders @lovelymasks

James stops at the bedroom door. A smile spreads on his lips as he leans against the doorframe.

Sirius on the bed is a true vision. James almost wishes he would be a better artist, the temptation to try and capture the moment itching under his fingertips even if he knows he wouldn't be able to do it any justice. It's been years since he has tried to sketch anything at all. Still Sirius would make a fine muse, his sleep tousled hair spilling over his naked shoulders as he lies on his stomach, skin and ink on display in the soft morning light.

“You look good like this,” James says, his voice as soft as the sunlight.

In answer Sirius just lifts his hips off the bed and slides his knees apart, spreading his legs, and James forgets how to breathe, transfixed.

“Want to come over here and tell me again how good I'm looking?” Sirius asks, throwing a small grin over his shoulder, his voice still a little rough with sleep.

“I can't tell if you're teasing me or if it's an invitation.” James pushes away from the doorframe and makes his way over to the bed slowly.

Sirius huffs a laugh against his bent forearms. “It's an invitation, actually,” he says, then shrugs. “But if you're not interested...”

“I am,” James says eagerly. The mattress dips slightly beneath his weight as he sets a knee down on its edge, leaning over Sirius. “I just didn't think you'd be into that,” he says, trailing one finger down Sirius' spine, following every little raise and bump.

“Not always. Not with everyone.” Sirius shrugs again and looks over his shoulder at James. “Sometimes. When it feels right.”

Somehow it sounds like when it feels safe.

James' heart squeezes a little in his chest. He doesn't know what to do with that feeling.

“You know,” he says instead, leaning down closer to Sirius. His lips follow the way his finger has taken only moments before. He kisses his way down Sirius' back, lips brushing over skin as his dog tags brush along Sirius' spine. He stops at the base of it, letting his tongue dip playfully into one of the dimples there before nipping at one of the firm arse cheeks, making Sirius chuckle. “Since you already look like a delicious meal, it would only be polite to eat first.”

“So you're a fan of cannibalism now?” Sirius teases, a little shiver running down his spine as James' warm hands cup his cheeks and spread them apart just a little.

“You're still using too many words for my taste,” James grins and dips his tongue between the spread cheeks.

It effectively renders Sirius' speechless for a while.

#hp #prongsfoot #sirius black #james potter #the bodyguard au #my writing

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kore-arts · 7 months ago

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Au where Janet Drake lives

Tim was relaxing with Dick on the hedge between their houses when they both heard it.

Now Tim had a grin, knowing he wasn't the Drake who released that growl and shriek as he heard the click click of the heels he and his mother favored. Now if he could just figure out what she said, his mandarin being rusty. He giggles as he jumps down with grace to follow the beautiful fury his mother trailed

But Dick's hair rose on his arms. His eyes wide as he watches what had to be a demoness push open a gate that even he never knew was there. No alarms, no surprise yet to be seen on the gardener's face.

But Tim's reaction was… reassuring. As he follows his brother by emotion and vigilante bond his heart races.

Tim knew his mom. Janet Drake, the Dragoness of Artifacts and Business. Her eyes honed in on the sunbathing Bruce as she steadily walked with grace. Ah she screeched Bruce's name. He hides a grin as he perches on a chair, his mother long used to his eccentricity while in a comfortable place. Bruce's eyes are wide, truly caught off guard as Janet taps her nails on the seat she took. Her hat shading her face with her blood red lips twisted in displeasure.

“Do tell me dear Bruce. Whenever were you going to let me know my son is following you officially” Janet's nails click as her fire like tone wrapped around her words.

Tim… did not expect that. He already told her. His eyebrow raises as Janice grins

“I- wait. Tim, you didn't tell me that your mother was Jannie?!” Bruce exclaimed “whenever did you move back?”

Tim mouths ‘Jannie’ the nickname, feeling weird. Dick does the same and they look at each other.

He blinks slowly before it hits him

“Bruce. Please don't tell me you thought I was just a random kid named Tim Drake” Tim groans as Janice looks even more disappointed

Bruce's eyes look away.

Tim decides to be a menace and his mom nods in approval “Bruce. Bruce, did you even think about where I learned my detective skills? My ability to stalk you for years?”

Dick's little ‘’what the fuck' goes ignored

Bruce does look ashamed. His face red but not from the sun “I thought you just were a natural”

Janice and Tim both laugh at that. Both knowing that talent was earned not given at birth.

Tim presses on “oh and what about my knowledge of the Arkham Family? or how I already knew tiny bits of the league?”

“History hyperfixation?”

Tim blushes, yeah thats true. But he still shakes his head “No you Deaf Bat!”

Janice shakes her head “I understand you keeping me away because of the night activities Bruce. But no calls? I just have to see our boys on the hedge like the family version of Romeo and Juliet?”

“Hey! The hedge is comfy” Tim and Dick say at the same time. Tim winning the Jinx and getting handed ten bucks as Bruce sputters

“Jannie! No no! I thought you cut me off! Jack said so”

Janet's scowl deepens into something murderous. Her hair spilling out like black ink as she takes her hat off and holding it as she holds back her fury.

Dick's confused shout startles her “Uh! Little explanation here?”

Her eyes blink slowly as she looks at a shrugging Tim.

“Oh. That's right, you never actually met me. My maiden name was Janet Arkham-Woosan. I am one of Bruce's cousins. Albeit what most would say I am a Bastard born out of an affair in a very tiny village. Not that my sister is any different.” Tim giggles as Dick's face slowly cycles throughout emotions. Janet gently ran her hand through both boys' hair.

Bruce shoves his hands in his face and slowly drags them down “Jack's lucky to be dead.” It's a whisper before he straightens “well. It's lovely seeing you Jan. But yeah, This is my son Dick, The rest are inside”

Tim smiles and helps her stand “you gotta meet Cass! Oh and you'll adore Damian! He's such a serious little guy, almost killed me three times! Oh and Babs!”

Dick stares at Bruce as Tim practically drags his mother into the Manor

Bruce shrugs “Janet and Sandra were probably the two most important people to me other than Alfred. I did wonder where Tim got his penchant for the more subtle things. I am glad to see her. Honestly it wasn't even us finding out we were blood related that connected us as teens.” Bruce looks happy and haunted at the same time “we separated still, I was still out to discover myself and train. And they had a different path to that.”

Dick nods as he walks alongside Bruce “and that was? She looked weirdly familiar”

Bruce hummed. “Let's just leave it as Janet was not her birth name and Barbara is going to be even more surprised then I was to see her”

Dick startles hearing a shriek

“Lady Shiva?”

“Oh you've worked with my sister!”

#murder aunt lady shiva #yes this makes Cass his cousin.#murder aunt lady shiva au #for later #taking commisions #tim drake #dc tim drake #lady shiva #janet drake #also talia and Ra's randomly drop things off for any of the three #i might be willing to expand if asked

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iolypse · 6 months ago

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hi hi is anyone interested in potentially beta-ing for a drv3 chapter 5 fic? it's a hanahaki au in which kokichi kidnaps shuichi instead of kaito, and it makes all the difference

snippet of the first chapter below

"Hey," Ouma calls, dragging Shuichi from the memory. "I won't ask a third time. Strawberry or lemon?"

Shuichi's thoughts snag on the idea of open cuts and lemon juice. "... Strawberry?"

Ouma clicks his silver tongue. "That's too bad! I actually only have lemon."

The door swings open with such a force that it hits the wall and bounces closed behind Ouma, who skips inside clutching a colorful bag. He unceremoniously drops onto the ground, sitting criss-cross, and spills the bag's contents all over the floor. Wrapped pieces of candy scatter across the tiles— one with a cute pink design bumps Shuichi's foot. A lie. Of course it was a lie, but why lie about that?

Ouma promptly begins to sort the candy into piles; grape, strawberry, and lemon, judging by the colors. Shuichi takes him in while he works.

He's sectioning them in groups of five like pills, though his hands shake almost imperceptibly— he only notices because Ouma misses one and only gathers four, and the brief furrowing of his brow makes Shuichi certain it's a mistake. The sides of his pinkies— both pinkies, Shuichi notes, what has he been writing so much of that he has to switch hands when one begins to cramp?— are stained with ink, and his nails are practically bitten down to their beds. The bags weighing at his eyes are dark and heavy. Ouma is pale, paler than he normally is, and it's not the poor lighting of the bathroom diluting him, either. Shuichi can't help but think he looks sickly.

"Poisoning these was so annoying, you know," Ouma drawls, not looking up from his task. His voice holds a harsher rasp than usual, like he's hiding blades in his throat. "I had to unwrap and then rewrap every single piece! Do you know how time-consuming that was? It took forever. You better be grateful. I'd make you get down on your knees and lick my shoes if I weren't feeling so generous right now."

Shuichi takes the piece at his foot. The packaging crinkles as he rolls it between his fingers. As far as he can tell, it was never opened— there's no signs that the wrapper was resealed, and he can't find any holes Ouma might've poked with a syringe, either. Satisfied, he peels open the taffy and pops it into his mouth. Strawberry, as promised. Artificial.

"So, Saihara-chan!" Before Ouma are three piles, and Shuichi can't help but notice that the grape pile has half of either of the other piles. He sweeps the grape pile towards himself with an arm, then rolls the strawberry and lemon piles to Shuichi. "What's it like being my prisoner? Five stars? Eleven out of ten? Tell me! I wanna know!"

Shuichi blinks. "Uh. Two stars, I guess?" He tugs at his bangs. Conversing with Ouma is always a challenge— he's volatile, and when his eyes begin to fill with tears, Shuichi is quick to add, "I mean— I'm not exactly here willingly, Ouma-kun. You, ah, you did kidnap me. But you haven't hurt me, so it's not too bad? Maybe three stars?" He winces. Nice save.

"Oh?" Ouma tilts his head, tears gone in a blink. The action casts a shadow across his face, and the narrowing of his eyes, the constricting of his pupils, tells Shuichi he means business. "Does Saihara-chan want me to hurt him? Would that make the experience better?"

"No! Ah, no, that's— not what I meant. I'd really prefer if you didn't, actually." He swallows, heart jackrabbiting in his chest, and it's almost painful. "Thank you for the candy." Shuichi tries his chances with one of the lemon pieces and immediately regrets it. Ouma giggles at the puckered expression he makes, happily chewing his own grape taffy. There's a growing pile of empty purple wrappers in his lap.

The following silence is neither comfortable nor suffocating. There's no conversation, just the crinkling of candy packaging and Ouma obnoxiously smacking his lips every time he eats a new piece. Shuichi should be acting right now. Although Ouma's sitting right in front of the door, his back pressed against it, Shuichi's fairly certain he could get up fast enough to dive past him, but what then? He doesn't know what Ouma has done to the rest of the hangar, and he definitely couldn't reach an exit before Ouma sicced the exisals on him— even Momota's training couldn't prepare him for that. Maybe he could fight him for the remote, but Ouma's slippery, and between the assortment of items he holds on his person, Shuichi isn't sure which pocket he's keeping it in.

It's an ultimately useless endeavor. Shuichi resolves to choke down more strawberry taffy in lieu of hatching an escape plan. He'll have to bide his time, wait for more information, an opportunity. He wonders, casting a sideways glance towards the small window casting light into the bathroom, when Momota will visit him again.

#danganronpa #danganronpa fanfiction #danganronpa v3 #killing harmony #kokichi ouma #shuichi saihara #saiouma #oumasai #hanahaki au

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dandelion-wings · 9 months ago

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Re-reading the Kaeya de-aging fic this morning and a comment made me think about the external, longer fic idea that it came from and I am never writing. But in that larger framework, this scene, from Diluc's perspective, is actually crucial to the overall arc:

"And now I've injured him, and frightened him badly enough that he tried to run away. Jean certainly won't be impressed."

"I'm sure you can apologize," Adelinde says soothingly.

"And tell him I won't do it again? That would be a lie."

"Master Diluc-"

Diluc holds up a hand to cut off Adelinde's protest. He takes a deep breath and tries to swallow down his anger before he can frighten his employees. Not that either of them look frightened. They know the only person he's angry at is himself.

That night in the rain--he's still not sure if Kaeya deserved the lashing-out he so cruelly and deliberately provoked. Diluc has lost sleep for years now to that question. But right now Kaeya is only a child, and doesn't deserve any injury at all.

Even if he's seemed to expect it. The way he looks at Diluc even before Diluc hurt him, when he wasn't making a heartbreaking pretense of being harmless and helpful and happy to see him.... And now that injury, however accidental, has confirmed all of his fears.

"Was he always this scared of me?" Diluc asks aloud, only barely managing to bite off the follow-up. *Did I deserve it?*

He thinks perhaps he does. His memories of his youth are faded, jumbled, too many fading into a yawning blackness that had spread over them like spilled ink, the blot growing wider every step he took away from his abandoned Vision. But he remembers resentment, even fury, at seeing Father so delighted in another child. As if Diluc wasn't *enough*.

The memories linked to that feeling exist only in snatches, now. Smashing Kaeya's fingers in a drawer knowing that he would bite his lip to stay quiet and never tell Father. A locked closet and telling Jean he didn't know where his new brother went. Kaeya covered in mud and hunching his shoulders as Father scolded him for ruining his new jacket, which Diluc had been very careful only to tear, not to scorch.

Fierce satisfaction when Kaeya vanished in the chaos of a new business endeavor, simply *gone*, out of Diluc's life at last. Sickening, aching regret as Father grew pale and anxious and people started to whisper about hilichurls and bandits and business rivals, and the worst things that could happen to a small scared child if those who took him didn't even know the ransom in their hands. Guilt, when he realized how thoroughly he'd failed at all the responsibilities his future knighthood demanded.

"Not always," Adelinde says, soft and gentle and looking at him with so much understanding, so much *confirmation* in her eyes that Diluc wants to tear his gaze away. She holds it, though, as she goes on, just as gently, "He did get over it, given time and care. He will get over it again, if you give him the chance to do so."

Even as Diluc's gut twists with regret, there's relief in Adelinde's calm assurance. Diluc trusts her more than he trusts himself.

"I intend to," Diluc tells her, and is rewarded by her proud smile.

#fic bits #diluc and kaeya need so much therapy #adelinde deserves a pay raise

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zzoomacroom · 2 years ago

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Hey guys, soooo I have never written fanfiction in my life, but this just fell out of my brain for some reason. I don't know what came over me, but here's a little crackfic drabble for ya. Just a thousand words of Matthew being a complete idiot. Enjoy! (Yes, I know this premise has been done to death, but I'm having fun so shhhh)

Edit: now on ao3!

.......

So there Matthew was, just minding his own business, catching up with Merv in the gardens outside the palace, when a goddamned nuclear bomb went off.

"JEEZUS FUCK!" Mervyn bellowed, his cigarette dropping from his open mouth and into the pile of leaves he'd been raking. Matthew squawked and catapulted himself ungracefully to the top of the nearest tree.

Oh, so not a bomb then, thought Matthew as he watched the stunning display of fireworks that had erupted above the palace, gold and crimson embers now drifting lazily towards the ground. Still, what the hell was that all about? He would have to ask the boss--if there was some kind of celebration happening in the Dreaming, he wanted to join the party! Hopefully he'd be off his feathery tits on dream champagne before the day was over.

Matthew launched himself from the tree branch, ears still ringing as he made his way up to the palace. He soared through an open window to the throne room. Hmm, empty. So where was the party? He made his way to the library--Lucienne would know what was up.

"Heya, Loosh," he called as he circled down to the table where Lucienne was occupied with cleaning up a puddle of ink that was spilled all over the yellowed scroll she had been writing on. "What was up with the fireworks?"

"Hmm?" she glanced over to him, preoccupied. "Ah. That sometimes happens when...actually, it's probably better if you don't know. For your own sake," she adds pointedly, peering over her glasses at him.

Uh, wow. Ouch. "What? Aw, come on, don't leave me out of the loop. Ravens aren't invited to the party? Wait, why aren't you at the party?"

Lucienne stared at the raven, confusion and irritation mingling on her face. "What party? Lord Morpheus is in his private chambers, there is no--"

But Matthew was already hopping off the table and flying towards the nearest window. So it was a private, VIP kinda thing, then. He was a little hurt that he wasn't invited, but no matter. He would slip in and infiltrate the event, just in case the boss needed protecting from a disgruntled fae or something. And if he managed to dip his beak into some unattended booze, he felt he was sneaky enough that no one would be the wiser.

"You really don't want to know!" Lucienne called out exasperatedly as he flitted away, not looking up from her work. "Don’t say I didn't warn you!"

Yeah, yeah, he'd been to parties full of snooty elites before. Whatever weird shit they were into couldn't be any worse than what he'd seen during his recent trip to Hell. He circled upwards towards the highest tower and perched on the balcony outside the boss's private chamber. There was definitely something happening in there, judging by the noises coming from inside. It sounded like things were getting crazy--a shout, glass breaking, a thud like a body hitting the ground, a screech that may or may not have been human. Shit, the boss man might be in trouble! Good thing Matthew was here to...well, he wasn't really sure how he could help, but he'd figure something out. And he just really, really wanted to know what was going on! Curiosity may kill the cat, but the raven should be fine, right?

He darted into the darkened room and blinked as his eyes adjusted. Oh. No party, then. The boss was standing in the middle of the room, looking even more like he'd just sucked on a lemon than usual. His robe flicked around him and drooped off one shoulder, like he'd just hastily pulled it on (was that...a tentacle peeking out from under the hem?). And was he sweating? He didn't normally sweat, did he? And hold on--did he have cat ears?? Matthew stared, and just as he noticed the ears they receded down into his disheveled mop of hair and disappeared.

"What is it, Matthew?" the Dreamlord demanded icily.

"Uh...sorry to interrupt whatever...this...is, but I thought maybe you were in trouble. And I was just wondering what was up with the fireworks. Scared the bejeesus outta me and Merv," Matthew explained.

The boss looked confused for a moment before answering. "Ah. My apologies for the disruption," he said, voice dripping with sarcasm even as Matthew failed to get the hint. "The matter has been handled. You need not come to my defense."

At that, a poorly-stifled chuckle sounded from behind a marble pillar. "Sorry," the pillar mumbled sheepishly. The boss shot a withering glare at it and the pillar instantly dissolved into a pile of sand, revealing...

Ohhhh. "Um...hi, Hob," Matthew said with an awkward wave of his wing, wishing very much that he could dissolve into sand right about now. Hell, that may very well be his fate soon enough, based on the way the boss was glaring at him.

"Hey Matt," Hob replied with a bashful smirk. He was mostly naked except for an Elizabethan ruff, white knee-high stockings and a pair of 18th century shoes with little bows on them. And he was wearing the boss's helm. But not on his head (cool, cool, not like Matthew had followed the boss to Hell to get it back or anything). Oh, and he also had cat ears. Wonderful.

"Ya know, I better get going, I think Merv may need some help with--oh, yep, he set the garden on fire." Matthew peered out the window down to where Mervyn was currently shouting at no one and flailing around a steadily growing conflagration. "So I should go deal with that. Just wanted to check in, glad everything's good here. Uhhh nice to see you Hob, Boss. Not that I, uh, saw anything. Okay bye!" Matthew zoomed out the window before either of them could say anything else. God, he really needed a drink now.

.......

Morpheus continued to glare at the spot where Matthew had been perched as Hob came up and wrapped an arm around his waist.

"Right. So where were we?" asked Hob, apparently unphased by the whole incident.

"I think we should take this to the Waking if we wish to avoid any further interruptions," Dream replied through gritted teeth.

Hob chuckled and started to massage the knots out of his lover's shoulders. "Yeah, probably. Kids, right?" he sighed.

Morpheus raised an eyebrow at him. "Matthew is not my child."

"Isn't he, though?" Hob replied with a grin, peering over Dream's shoulder to watch Matthew and Mervyn frantically darting around the flaming pile of leaves, making no progress whatsoever in putting out the blaze. Morpheus merely sighed in exasperation.

#the sandman #sandman #sandman fanfic #sandman fanfiction #sandman crack #sandman crackfic #fanfiction #crack fic #dreamling #matthew the raven #mervyn pumpkinhead #lucienne the librarian #dream of the endless #morpheus #lord morpheus #hob gadling #zoom writes

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satancopilotsmytardis · 1 year ago

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1) as someone who goes feral for a mag/Kurogiri ship it's so fucking nice to see mag actually get someone to be shipped with- cursed or not my girl deserves some action

2) I've been wondering, what did Shigs think when dabi turned from Oni to a person and admitted that he loved him

I think they deserve to be passionate fucked up little weirdos together, I'm glad you enjoyed them!

The others were right, you were right that Onigiri wasn't like any other cat in the world. They were right when they said he sounded too human. But you'd already made up your mind then. Onigiri could have been a person, he could have been a nomu, and you wouldn't care. You would keep him anyway because he is everything to you. He is the first thing you've had in your life that is really yours. He is the only thing that has ever made you want to be more than what your Teacher told you to be. You wouldn't be who you are now if you didn't have him and you love him for that.

This man with his skin stapled together and scars running like ink across it is not the same as your cat though, and with a lump in your throat you have to offer, have to let go of him.

"But I won't force you to stay. If you want to leave--"

"No. I don't want to leave. I want to be here, I want to be yours--" The confession spills from his throat, "I love you." His hands cling to your sleeves and the bright blue eyes you've come to know and adore so much are set into a human face. A human face, human words, human emotions spilling messy and broken past his lips.

You take his lips for your own, trying to stop him from falling apart, trying to cling to him as hard as he's clinging to you. You will be everything that this man needs if it just means that he won't stop being your entire world. It's not what you thought you were signing up for when he barged into your life, but you would rather have this and everything else than lose any of it. You need him here.

You kiss him harder and try to give him everything he needs in turn.

#tanco speaks #ask #asks #shigadabi

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born-tobea-nymph1 · 2 months ago

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Bound in Black Ink - prologue

Professor Tom Riddle x student reader story.

Summary: Rainey Vale is ready to do all she can to defeat Voldemort, after years of studying everything about him. But she doesn't realize it means going back in time to stop Tom Riddle from ever becoming evil. Can she stay out of his dark web? Or is there more to the story?

Warnings: Mentions of magic, pain, broken arm, child abuse (if you can call it that)

A/n: Please excuse my lousy summary- I promise my actual writing is better. This is the prologue to my new story Bound in Black Ink, I really do hope you enjoy! Feedback (kind ones only though) are welcome, and commenting is encouraged! ALSO let me know if I missed any warnings. Please excuse any errors in grammar, I've already edited it like 17 times so I just gave up.

Words: 2,403 (just a short chapter to get y'all started)

A single cart rolled itself down the infinite aisles of the Hall of Prophecy within the Ministry of Magic. The obsidian floors glinted from the reflection of the bright orbs. Each aisle passed rose like an endless tower, a beacon of time and eternal revelation. As the cart rolled itself, the smokey spheres lifted weightlessly, settling onto the shelves as their enchanted words swirled inside, repeating destined fate.

The Hall of Prophecy transcended time: past, present, and future all collided. The small cart turned down row ninety seven, one wheel squeaking. Only two orbs remained.

Each orb slowly raised from their spot and into the air. One ball rose, hovering gently, before it dipped down to rest on the bottom shelf, while the other soared, rising to the top. The blue fog inside the orb tumbled around as it rose, its words of fate spilling into the quiet air, restless and ungentle.

The prophecy whispered,

“The Serpents path shall seek to bind.

Through bonds of death and the maidens mind.

Bound in ink, in blood, in breath.

She walks the path of love and death.”

It settled onto its spot in the shelf, almost tipping over the edge-perhaps still restless. But suddenly, it surged forward. Down it soared reversing its path, until it hit the floor. Glass shattered, and blue mist rose like fire. Its whispered prophecy died out, faded into silence.

Now, only the tortured soul who uttered these words, will ever know what this prophecy foretold.

~~~

August 1937

The crusted bologna and cheese sandwich was thrown down in front of Tom, just like every other afternoon.

He stared down at his sandwich, and the unpleasant flavor filled his mouth. His stomach twisted. Bologna and cheese was all they ever ate and Tom wished it wasn't. It was too salty and the bread was stale. But most times he didn't have to worry about eating it anyways, the other kids would steal it off his plate-mocking him all the while.

Every day, when the clock struck twelve thirty, Madame would call all the children in from playing outside into the dining hall for lunch. It wasn't really a dining hall at all really. It was one large room with three long tables and set of windows with the curtains always shut tight. The paint on the walls were a cream white and had begun to peel. The long tables were made of a thick wood, but the polishing had rubbed off.

The room filled with a light chatter, and small laughter. Tom sat at the front edge of the table farthest from the fireplace. This summer was especially cold and the storms didn't help. The children would fight for the spots closest to warmth of the fireplace, and no matter where Tom sat he was always pushed and shoved to the end. Tom had given up trying to fein some warmth from the room a long time ago.

Tom nudged his plate away from him when, abruptly, something cold and wet hit his cheek. The other kids laughed loudly, no doubt at him. Whatever hit him slowly flopped onto the table. It was pink and round.

Bologna.

Tom didn’t dare look up, unsurprised, yet he clenched his fists under the table.

“Oi, freak! Got any more magic tricks for us today?” One of the elder boys, Robby, heckled. He was tall and lanky, with short blonde hair. He was one of the strongest of the slowly emaciating children, notorious amongst the few for his bullying.

Heat rose up Toms neck, anger began to rise.

Tom picked at the peeling polish on the table while Robby continued to throw insults, “Why the long face? Did you run out of shows for us?”

"Shut up," Tom murmured. He hated the insults, hated the looks of disgust. It wasn't his fault, Tom thought. He knew he was different he just didn't know why.

No matter, Madame and her helpers liked to blame the lack of money and slight starvation of the children on Tom and his "situation", neglecting the fact that the government had to recently fund a war. Tom on many occasions had heard them whispering about it. Since the money had been used for funding and repairs, the orphanage got the dregs of what was left-which was barley any-resulting in the malnourished children and disheveled state of the furniture. Not because of Tom.

No one else's had the power he had, but to the others that didn't make him special. It made him dangerous. Madame and all the staff would only refer to them as 'incidents', something that needed fixing. But Tom didn't care about their fixes. He had power and that made him better than the others.

Everyone else thought there was something wrong, so Tom had been checked by every doctor, and physician.

"He seems to be a perfectly normal boy," They would say, a fake smile on plastered to their face. They'd write up some remedies to try, meditations to practice, but in the end the 'incidents' always happened.

Tom didn't mind the fear from others, he knew he had power. But it was the looks of disgust that made him angry. The glances that told him he was nothing.

He looked backed up from his plate staring directly into Robby's eyes. He had that look, the same one of disgust.

"What'd you say, huh?" Robby taunted. "You wishing for your mummy to come get you?"

The anger grew hot within Tom, it burned at his fingertips. Tom knew few stories of his mother, the only ones being she was young, gave birth to him here, and had given him his fathers name.

"Don't talk about about my mum." His voice came out louder and more confident than he'd meant it.

"Or what? Your father is going to come beat me up. He didn't even want your mother. He's never coming back for you."

Tom caught his breath, anger surging, as his vision went white. A tingling sensation turned hot and radiated through him. Every nerve in his body felt it, it grew and grew, a power emerging from within.

His heartbeat was all he could hear, then finally it all came to a crescendo. But as Tom regained his vision, the only thing he saw was Robby's arm twisted and bent into an unnatural position.

Robby let out a guttural scream, reverberating in Toms skull.

The next thing Tom knew, Madame was at his side, her hand clenching his arm like a vice. She drug him out of the room, scolding him all the while. The door swung closed behind them, but not before Tom could get one more glimpse at Robby in pain. A smirk threatened Tom's lips.

"What have you done." Madame hissed, her voice laced with years of frustration and contempt. "Look what you did. You mutilated him."

"It wasn't my fault." Tom said, simply, as if he was telling her what color the sky was.

The older woman's face set in a scowl, angry eyes ablaze. Madame wasn't her real name, it was just what she had the kids call her. Her hair was pulled away from her face into a knot at the back of her head. Her blonde hair was tainted with streaks of gray. Her lips curled into a nasty grimace.

"You think this is a game, Tom?’ Madame spat, her face twisted in disgust. "You’re a monster, a curse on this place. All of this... it’s because of you. You bring this suffering on us!”

Tom pulled his arm from her grasp even angrier than before. "I'm not a monster! This was all Robby's fault. He did this to himself!"

Madame's eyes widened further, it looked as if her eyes were going to pop out of her head.

She threw her hand out and it collided with Toms cheek with a loud smack. She yelled, "Go to your bedroom!"

Tom glared at Madame, his hand soothing the burning on his cheek and the words she spat still ringing in his ears. He felt his rage surging to the surface again, but he willed it to comply, walking back to his room with clenched fists instead. Every step to his room felt like a victory and punishment at the same time. The image of Robby hurt, made pride swell in his chest-but the thought of madame left something cold in his stomach. The pride and victory now felt hollow.

~~~

It had started raining not even ten minutes into Tom's discipline. It tapped relentlessly against the widow, a storm like Tom's anger. The sky was streaked in all the shades of gray, and thundering with angrresion. It felt familiar. Tom, too, was like the thunder.

He sat alone in his room for the rest of the day. A welcome solitude. It was far better than dealing with the other children or sitting through their insufferable lessons. Madame had told them all it was required and important for them once they become adults in the real world. Tom, however had quickly realized that this form of education wasn’t for him. He didn’t care much for it, or anything else in this wretched place.

He perched on the edge of his bed, staring out the window. His room overlooked a bustling street below. People scurried about, dodging the downpour, their clothes quickly soaked as they rushed toward shelter.

Others, more relaxed, strolled through the wet streets, embracing the rain.

The cold seeped into Tom's room, into his bones making him shiver. His gray uniform offered little against the chill.

Tom's gaze followed a mother in a pale blue trench coat running hand in hand with her child, a small ginger haired boy. They crossed the street, seeking succor from the arching canopies. Their laughter echoed throughout the small street into his room. The mother bent down, brushing hair out of her sons face, and kissed him on the forehead. He giggled wrapping his arms around her.

Tom scowled and turned away, lips curled in disdain. Something about this grated his nerves, a small dull ache twisted in his chest. As he sat anger pooled around him again, dark and unyielding. He hated this orphanage. Hated madame. Hated Robby. Even the thought of his mother filled him with disgust.

Why had she brought him here and left him with these people?

Why name him after his father who didn't care for him?

Those question had pestered Tom for ages. It once used to make him cry, but not anymore. He had made a vow long ago-the day he stopped crying-that he would leave. One day, when he was stronger than Robby, he would escape and make those who had wronged him pay.

~~~

The next morning, soft light streamed through Tom's curtains, waking him gently. He rustled between the sheets of his bed, muscles sore from the mattress. After many years of use, the mattress fluff had begun to fade, leaving only the harsh springs to jab his body in the middle of the night.

Tom threw his sheets to the side, legs sliding against the soft fabric of his bed to the edge of the mattress, his feet gently thudding against the cold wooden floor. The storm outside seemed to subside, leaving only the gray clouds as trace that there was ever a storm.

The sharp ring of madame's bell, echoed from out in the hallway, followed shortly by her voice, "Up now, children! Get on your clothes it's time for breakfast."

Groaning lightly, Tom got up and wandered to his wardrobe. He reached for the handle, it opened with a creak. Hanging on hooks inside was his daily uniform. At the bottom, certain keepsakes. Somethings he'd found, others he'd taken from the boys and girls.

Then, madame's knuckles rapped against Toms door, acting more as a warning than as a polite gesture. She opened the door, sticking her head inside, "Tom, get dressed quickly you've got a visitor." She said then slipped back out into the hallway.

Tom's hand stilled from reaching for his uniform. He had a visitor. Another doctor most likely-it's all he ever had. Especially since yesterdays incident. His mood darkened now, he didn't like the doctors. The way they prodded and poked at him made his stomach twist in disgust.

He threw on his uniform, waiting patiently at the side of his bed, like every other time.

Two sets of footsteps echoed through the hallway shortly after. Madame accompanied by the doctor, stoped outside the door. Tom listened carefully.

"You must understand, there's has been incidents with the other children. Nasty things. "

"Yes. Yes, I understand." The doctors voice came from behind the door. They spoke in hushed whispers-though it was no use, Tom could still hear them.

His bedroom door swung open with a whisper of a sound. Standing there was the doctor. Though to Tom he looked nothing like the ones who've come before. He wore no crisp white shirt. No black trousers. His hair wasn't even slicked back.

Instead, it was a tall man with a long hair that fell past his shoulders and an equally long beard. He wore a purple ensemble, head to toe. Tom knew it took a certain amount of confidence to wear that, and the man-his eyes- the brightest blue. They were framed by half-moon glasses. He smiled, and it reached his eyes. There were small wrinkles across his face-he was older than the others, weirder too.

Suddenly Madame walked away, leaving a lingering suspicion in Tom's stomach. She never leaves when he gets inspected. Maybe she's had enough of the same answers.

"How do you do Tom?" The man asked, stepping into the room with careful curiosity. Tom watched him closely. He wasn't like the other doctors, not close at all. Most of the doctors are fearfully cautious, worried an incident would happen to them. Sometimes their hands would shake or they'd rush to pull their hands away as quick as possible after finishing their inspection of Tom. But this man had no fear at all. "My name is Albus Dumbledore."

"You're the doctor aren't you?" Tom sat still, inspecting this so called Albus Dumbledore.

"I'm a professor," He said tucking his arms across his chest and sitting down next to Tom on his bed. He smelt of a touch of lavender, mingling with the crisp scent of parchment and something almost magical—like the air just before a storm.

"I don't believe you," Tom stated. "She's had me looked at, plenty of times before. " He paused staring into the mystical blue eyes. They seemed to sparkle with secrets. Maybe this man wasn't a doctor.

"They think I'm...different." Tom admitted.

"Well perhaps they're right."

The sudden familiar tingling arose in Tom's chest again, just like yesterday. "I'm not mad," He spat.

"Hogwarts," Dumbledore started. "Is not a place for mad people. It's a school, where I teach. It's a school of magic."

Tom's brow furrowed. Madame had always claimed magic wasn't real, even when Tom couldn't explain why the incidents happened. Some kids said he was preforming witchcraft, Madame always scolded them.

"You can do things can't you Tom? Things other children can't."

Tom swallowed. "I can make things move without touching them." He paused unsure but continued anyway, "I can make animals do what I want without training them. I can make bad things happen to people who are mean to me. I can make them hurt-if I want," He listed it off, everything thats happened. All of the incidents, and Dumbledore still didn't seem to cower in fear like the others.

"Who are you?" Tom finally asked. He didn't believe he was a doctor, he didn't fully believe he was a professor.

Dumbledore paused, then whispered, "I'm different."

Tom cocked his head. Different like Tom. He could do things. "Prove it," He challenged.

Then suddenly his wardrobe lit up in flames, red and orange, fiery and angry. The flames curled around the wood, yet his wardrobe wasn't charring. Tom almost smiled.

"I think there is something in your wardrobe trying to get out Tom," Dumbledore said, and gestured to his closet.

Tom looked between his wardrobe and Dumbledore twice, then stood up and walked towards his closet door. He pulled it open and at the bottom, surrounded by a ring of fire, but not touched by a single lick of flame, was his box that he kept his keepsakes in. He stood in awe. Tom had never been able to do something like that.

He reached in and pulled out the tin box. Immediately the closet door swung shut behind him and the flames died out. Tom held in a gasp. He walked back towards his bed, where Dumbledore still sat and laid out his trinkets on the mattress.

"Thievery is not tolerated at Hogwarts, Tom." Dumbledore said calmly.

Tom lifted his eyes. He felt no shame. The others he stole from deserved it.

Dumbledore continued, "At Hogwarts you will be taught not only how to use magic. But how to control it. You understand me?"

Tom stared into the bright blue eyes again and nodded. He would do anything to leave this orphanage. Albus straightened his back and stood.

"Good. Well then Tom, I must get going," His eyes glinted before he reached for the door handle.

"I can speak to snakes too," Tom blurted. He wasn't sure why, his own voice betrayed him.

Dumbledore paused, fingers lingering on the brass handle.

"They find me. Whisper things. Is that normal for someone like me?" He pictured the green garden snake that would slither along the orphanage fence. He'd talk to it when they got to play outside. None of the kids wanted to be near him. So, in his solitude he would walk the length of the fence until he found the snake. It was his only friend, if you could call a snake that.

The old man turned his head back to look at Tom. He spoke, "You'll find that at Hogwarts all the students have gifts." And like a whisp of smoke he left the room, his magical scent the only thing that lingered.

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