#like its that or someone Did something to this drink but it was from a housemate's stash. oh my god i wanted more of this im so glad im in

[residentsweatgoblin]

I'm only coming from the perspective of Ireland and Spain (Just Cataluña really) but "golliwogs" (the racist dolls mentioned above) havent been a thing since the 80s (still recent enough to merit discussion but not something ive ever seen in my living lifetime) and while the dutch are definitely very weirdly defensive about their "Minstrel Shows" (the festive blackface) I cant say I'm familiar with any other european yuletide traditions that are still practiced today that are particularly racist/offensive (I am open and encouraging folks to challenge me on this with citation btw). Anway, let me share with you some actually good european winter solsticetime traditions. In Ireland we sit around and drink from dawn til dusk around a warm fire with friends and family because its too fucking cold out and most everyone has work off, and we watch prince of egypt / ben hur / high school musical. Theres not really a name for it, thats just what christmas day/stevens day is about. As for a more localised tradition, remember that bit where I said its too fucking cold out? Yea well aparently all the leaded fuel really did a number on us Dubliners because come christmas day, without fail you'll see folks congregate at docksides, launches and beaches all around Dublin for a 'Christmas Swim'. Now, diving into briny water in late december at the same lattitude as Hudson Bay (thats in Canada), should probably be a death sentence, but Irish waters are fed into by a series of warm atlantic currents, so while still being pretty cold, its actually not terrible to swim in. And yea, people just go do it, on christmas day, because there wasnt shit else to do on christmas day back in the day. I dont know if this tradition extends to other coastal areas of the country but it probably does, maybe not up north cus its fuckass cold up there.

Now in Cataluña, *smacks lips* oh theyve got the best shit ever.

First of all, the nativity scene, the iconic centrepiece of christmas, such a pristine diorama, youve got the iconic trio joseph, mary and joseph, the donkey that worked so hard to get them here, some gentle well kempt shepherds, angels, cherubs, a divine star, theres even three kings that happened to be passing through town...but arent you forgetting someone? Arent you forgetting the most important figure in the nativity? Arent you forgetting...

EL CAGANER

Or to roughly translate: the shiterrrrrrrrrrrr

This guys a little figurine included in the nativity scene, typically placed outside the stable (the guy has a sense of decency he just had to go is all) its a predominantly Catalan tradition, but its common down the mediteranean coast and even Portugal and Naples.

Traditionally its just a little peasant guy wearing a red catalan beretina but theres shops around Barcelona where you can get celebrity Caganers.

this shit is better than funkopops in literally every conceivable way

But you know whats also a classic scatalogical festive season tradition in Cataluña?

Tió de Nadal

Look at this jolly little guy! Originally he didnt have the face or the legs and wasnt so small, once upon a time he was just a big log that you dragged into the house and assigned some personhood to for the hollywood season. Starting from the feast of the immaculate conception, every night before bedtime you give the tio a little bite to eat, and is covered in a red blanket to stay warm, then on chirstmas day or christmas eve, the kids beat the tio with sticks while singing songs, usually with lyrics ordering tio to defecate. After all the song and dance is done, you lift the blanket up and low and behold, tio has shit you out a beautiful pile of presents! Typically comprised of nuts, torons, candies, dried fruits and small toys, what a swell guy! Anyway, to get back to the topic of the post, im not trying to detract from the broad points, but for real it was kinda making it sound like every European country is the Netherlands and we're all out here cheering on blackface on christmas day. Again, if anyone knows of any other sickeningly offensive european holiday season festivities let me know, Im open to education and not just making shit up about other peoples of the world.

my only advice is to BE CAREFUL posting about holiday traditions around europeans. you'll post something casual like "anyone else watch the old Grinch movie every year? what a classic" and a european will appear as if summoned and say some shit like "funny how USAmericans always CONVENIENTLY forget that Not Everyone On Earth is from The USA…….. no of COURSE we dont watch 'the grunch' or whatever the fuck that is…. our tradition is to attend a community showing of Glummdorf the Racial Stereotype"

[reiding-writing]

For the Christmas fic, how about bau!reader never celebrated Christmas properly cause she had like bad parents so Spencer decides to change that with the help of the team

RESTORATION — SPENCER REID!

you’re not a big fan of christmas. spencer enlists the help of the team to try and restore your festive spirit.

spencer reid x gn!reader | 1.5k | fluff | masterlist.

a/n — watch someone who doesn’t like Christmas, write about a group of people who do like christmas :)

You’re not sure how it happened, but suddenly, Christmas is everywhere.

Twinkling lights hang from every corner of the bullpen. Garlands wrap themselves around the stair railings like ivy. A Christmas tree towers near the kitchenette, its branches heavy with ornaments you suspect Morgan and Garcia argued over before agreeing on a theme. The air smells faintly of pine, cinnamon, and coffee, a warm combination that feels almost too comforting. Too safe.

You try not to let it bother you.

You never understood the hype around Christmas. Every year, you watched the world transform into a wonderland of twinkling lights and festivity, but for you, it was just another day. Another reminder of what you never had.

While other kids were unwrapping presents under the tree, you sat in your cold, quiet room, the sounds of your parents’ arguments drowning out the holiday cheer. Christmas wasn’t a celebration in your house—it was a chore, a duty, something to get through without breaking.

Even now, as an adult, you treat the holiday like it’s just another box to check. The gifts you give are practical and impersonal, and the ones you receive feel more like obligations than thoughtful gestures. You avoid the parties, the caroling, the incessant cheer. It’s easier that way.

At least, it was.

The BAU changed everything.

You weren’t prepared for how much they’d come to mean to you. They weren’t just colleagues; they were family in a way you’d never truly known. And Spencer… Spencer Reid is something else entirely. You can’t pinpoint the exact moment your feelings for him shifted, but now they’re impossible to ignore. Every shy smile, every ramble about quantum physics, every thoughtful gesture—it all leaves you wondering how you got so lucky to have someone like him in your corner.

Still, when he asks you about your Christmas plans during lunch one day, your walls go up.

“Oh, you know,” you say casually, taking a sip of your coffee. “Probably just a quiet night at home.”

Spencer frowns, his brow furrowing in that endearing way that tells you he’s already analysing your words. “You’re not a Christmas person?”

You shrug, trying to seem indifferent. “Not really. Christmas wasn’t… something my parents did growing up,”

That’s the understatement of the century, but you don’t elaborate. Spencer’s gaze lingers on you, and you can practically see the wheels turning in his head.

“Well,” he says slowly, “maybe it’s something we can work on,”

You wave him off with a chuckle, but the idea takes root in his mind anyway.

—

A week later, you’re finishing up paperwork when Spencer approaches your desk, his face lit up with excitement.

“Are you free on Christmas Eve?” he asks, his voice tinged with nervousness.

You blink, caught off guard. “I guess so? Why?”

He grins, his hands fidgeting with the strap of his messenger bag. “It’s a surprise. Just… trust me?”

You don’t have the heart to say no.

—

When Christmas Eve arrives, you find yourself in front of Spencer’s apartment, a mix of curiosity and apprehension swirling in your chest. You’re not sure what to expect, but the last thing you anticipate is the sight that greets you when he opens the door.

“Surprise!”

The entire team is there, the living room transformed into a Christmas wonderland. There’s a fake tree in the corner, its branches laden with ornaments and lights. Garland and tinsel drape over every surface, and the scent of cinnamon and pine fills the air.

Hotch is standing by the fireplace, looking uncharacteristically relaxed with a drink in hand, JJ and Will are helping Henry hang a candy cane on the tree, Garcia flits around in a sequinned Santa hat, arranging plates of cookies and snacks, and even Rossi is there, holding a glass of wine and smirking like he knows exactly how overwhelmed you’re feeling.

And then there’s Spencer, standing in front of you with that nervous, hopeful look that makes your heart ache.

“You did this?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

He nods, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. “We did. You’ve never had a proper Christmas, and we thought it was time to change that.”

You look around, your chest tightening as the weight of their thoughtfulness sinks in. For a moment, you can’t speak.

“You guys didn’t have to do all this,” you finally manage, though your voice trembles.

“We wanted to,” JJ says, stepping over to hug you. “You’re family, and family deserves to be celebrated.”

The word family hits you like a freight train.

—

The night unfolds like something out of a movie.

You start with decorating gingerbread houses, a task that quickly descends into chaos when Garcia insists on bedazzling her roof with edible glitter. Morgan competes with Henry to see who can build the tallest chimney, while Rossi critiques everyone’s technique like it’s a cooking competition.

Spencer sticks close to you, guiding you through the process with his usual patience and a surprising knack for icing details. At one point, he accidentally smudges frosting on his nose, and the way he blushes when you laugh makes your stomach flutter.

Next comes dinner, a feast that Rossi and JJ clearly poured their hearts into. You sit between Spencer and Garcia, listening to Rossi’s stories and laughing until your cheeks hurt. Every now and then, you catch Spencer sneaking glances at you, his expression soft and fond in a way that makes you feel seen in a way you’re not used to.

Afterward, Garcia insists on a gift exchange. You’re hesitant at first, but when you open your gift from her—a beautifully wrapped box of handmade bookmarks featuring your favorite literary quotes—you can’t help but smile.

“How did you…?”

“I have my ways,” she says with a wink.

You’re equally stunned when Spencer hands you a small, carefully wrapped package. Inside is an antique copy of *Pride and Prejudice*, its leather cover worn but lovingly preserved.

“Spencer,” you whisper, running your fingers over the embossed title. “This is… it’s perfect.”

He shrugs, looking almost shy. “I remember you mentioned it was your favorite. I thought it deserved a spot in your collection.”

Your throat tightens, and for a moment, you’re sure you’re going to cry.

—

The night ends with everyone gathered around the fireplace, mugs of hot cocoa in hand as Jack preforms his reading of The Night Before Christmas.

You sit beside Spencer on the couch, his arm brushing against yours as he leans in to whisper little facts about the poem’s history. Normally, you’d roll your eyes at his need to share trivia, but tonight, it feels comforting. Familiar.

When the others start to leave, bidding you Merry Christmas with hugs and warm smiles, you linger by the door, hesitant to let the night end.

“You okay?” Spencer asks, his voice soft.

You nod, but the lump in your throat betrays you. “I just… I don’t know how to thank you for this. All of you.”

“You don’t have to thank us,” he says, his gaze steady. “You deserve it.”

The words are simple, but they cut through you in a way you don’t expect. Before you can second-guess yourself, you step forward and wrap your arms around him.

He freezes for a moment, clearly surprised, but then he relaxes, his arms coming up to hold you in return.

His cheek smushes lovingly against the top of your head, and it’s only once he catches the glimpse of white and green above the doorway that he pulls away.

Mistletoe. How cliché.

Spencer lets out a breath of a laugh as you follow his gaze with curious eyes, cheeks warming at the fluster on your face.

“Garcia must’ve put that there…”

You press your lips together between your teeth, a wave of heat rising to the tips of your ears as you glance back in Spencer’s direction.

But you’re not nervous. It’s almost domestic, the soft crackle of the dying fire across the room, the way Spencer’s arms linger innocently at your waist.

You cup Spencer’s cheek to bring it to your face, lips pressing deftly against the corner of his mouth.

“Merry Christmas, Spencer,” you whisper like you’ve run out of oxygen.

He smiles with his whole face, his voice warm and full of meaning. “Merry Christmas,”

[thebastardscull]

Part 2 of being Sevika’s favorite bartender!

Part 1:

She’s late.

3 hours late, in fact. Sevika’s glass has become warm and watered down and you are bored out of your mind. It’s a slow day, perfect for standing around and chatting up your favorite girl patron. You’ve had time to take all of the orders for the meager rush, to clean the bar top to bottom, organize the bottles with the labels facing out, you’ve even had three smoke breaks (which mostly just consisted of you standing next to the bouncer at the front door and looking out into the street for Sevika.)

Every time the door slams open, your head perks up. Only to look back down when you’re not met with a pair of cool grey eyes. You sweep, and mop, and clean everything until it sparkles. Silco’s goons that usually crowd in alongside Sevika just shrug when you ask where she is and get back to their card game.

Your mind is only taken off of Sevika when a man that’s been sitting in the far corner table starts getting rowdy after losing a game of dice. You feel bad for the poor bastard until he flips the table, spewing curses and pointing fingers. You keep a watchful eye on him, hoping it doesn’t go too far, until he throws the glass in his hand towards the bar. It flies over your head, glass and liquor spraying above you.

You call it, walking around the bar, getting ready to kick him out. You can handle yourself, you’ve been doing this job a long time before you and Sevika became familiar. But the man is having none of it and begins to direct his anger towards you. He’s throwing insults at you, his spit spraying in your direction until he’s red in the face. He stalks forward, poking at your shoulder and screaming every name in the book. You’re about to make your way to the bouncer at the front when the fucker tries to throw a punch at you.

It doesn’t land. Instead, a flash of copper and purple shoots past you, grabbing the man’s fist before it can hit your face. Jumping back, you look to your left, and there she is. Sevika’s standing there in all her six-foot-something, muscular, gorgeous glory. If looks could kill, the man would be dead in an instant. She shoots you a quick wink before the mechanical hand squeezes down, and a sickening ‘crunch’ resounds through the now silent bar. Your clit does not throb when she does it. That would be insane. The drunkard squeals in pain before Sevika drags him out by the arm and through the doors as you put the table back in its place.

She’s outside for a solid five minutes. You can hear her rich, bassy voice, shouting at the man as she brings more blows down onto him until the bouncer takes over. She makes her way inside, and you wouldn’t even be able to tell she was beating the daylights out of someone if it wasn’t for the small spatter of blood on the brass knuckles of her prosthetic arm. She happily walks back to you, a smile on her face, her flesh arm tucked behind her back.

“I leave you alone for a few hours, and you start fighting people?” She asks with a smirk. You only give her a huff of laughter and walk back to the bar with her, pouring her drink. She stands there rather awkwardly as you push the drink towards her, flesh hand still tucked behind her back.

“So? Where’ve you been?” Sevika’s expression turns sheepish as you question her, and she brings her human arm forward. It’s clutching a large bouquet of flowers—Your favorites. You had only mentioned it once in passing, admiring them from afar at a market stand when she walked you home one night.

She got flowers. Flowers are so hard to come by in Zaun. She got you flowers? Sevika did? She got you flowers and now she looks like a nervous teenager about to ask you to prom and she’s blushing like crazy? Sevika? Flowers?

“I uh… I got you flowers. Had to fight off a crowd to get ‘em.” The bashful smile she gives you is all teeth and the gap between the two fronts makes you weak in the knees. You can barely hear her words, they come out in a low, abashed tone. You blink and look at the flowers, and back to her. And then back to the flowers. And then back to her.

Your brain is short circuiting and your heartbeat is in your ears. You stand there and look at her dumbfounded, while Sevika shifts from foot to foot, the flowers still in her hand.

“These are for me? You got them for me?” Your words come out in a squeak, a blush creeping up your ears and neck. Sevika nods and chuckles a little bit, handing you the bouquet. You take them with a grateful smile and inspect them closer. They’re wrapped in brown butcher paper, tied with a little bit of twine. The flowers are fresh and smell delightful—but the happy look Sevika gives you is even more so.

You admire them and Sevika can’t help but admire the happy grin on your face. She can’t help the way it makes her heartbeat pick up as you look at the gift. She thinks you look beautiful like this, glowing under the dim lights of the bar, your gorgeous smile lighting up your face. She’s trying her hardest to not lean over the bar and kiss you, but she wants to do this properly. To ‘woo’ you, or whatever Silco said. Not like he ever got any, but whatever.

“I wanted to ask you to dinner too, if that’s alright.” Her voice is a low murmur, she fiddles with the glass in front of her, suddenly too shy to meet your gaze. You choke on your spit a little and try to recover your dignity with a small cough, but she’s quick to catch it. A little snort of a laugh sounds from her, and it’s your turn to blush.

“I think dinner sounds really nice, Sevika. I’d like that.” Your voice is a little hoarse when you answer, you have to clear your throat before you speak again. “But I’m not going anywhere with you when you have blood on your hands.” You reach for her prosthetic hand, the cold metal warming up in your palm.

She watches as you polish it off gently with the rag that’s usually slung over your shoulder. Butterflies erupt in her stomach at your gentle touch, and the way you bite your lip a little in concentration. The corner of her lips curl in another small smile as she studies you silently.

“So… it’s a date?”

“Yeah, Sev. It’s a date.”

—

Authors note: HELLO HI? I did not expect that last one to blow up like it did, thank you so much! I hope everyone enjoys the second part!

Also! My ask box is open and I’m accepting asks and prompts! Until next time 💕

[sunarots]

BETTER THAN REVENGE! ━━━ tooru oikawa & rintarou suna

23. illicit affairs ♡

Oikawa stands with his arm around Emiko's neck, the few drinks of alcohol he's had numbing him from the disgust of seeing you up on the stage. He's glad you're almost done. Having to watch you and Rintarou sing about him not just on live television, but also live in front of him with his new girlfriend by his side... The words that come out your mouth aren't missed, though. And he knows exactly what you're trying to do.

You'll be flushed when you return.

No. He never slept with Emiko, it's all lies. He couldn't come home flushed if he wasn't having sex. Coming home flushed from-

Tell yourself you can always stop.

He did stop! He told you before anything happened. He let you out of the relationship before he ended up making everything even worse. You're destroying his image, there's no way you think you can get away with this. No, not when she's still holding one of his hands. Her side is still pressed against him. She won't know. Ever. These lyrics are taken from back in high school when he...

It's born from just one single glance.

You're trying to warn Emiko. Tell her the truth. Ruin him. You can't let him have happiness with her? You can't let him find peace? So vengeful. Bitter. Evil-

They show their truth on single time. But they lie, and they lie, and they lie.

He never lied. You never asked. How can someone lie to another person about something when he wasn't asked about it. He simply...hid it from you. That's different! Completely different. You can't lie if they don't suspect anything. And you were completely oblivious both times he cheated! No, not both times. Just one time. One. He didn't cheat this time around like he did in high school. And you can't bring that up anymore! Time has passed! You're holding things against him from years ago. He has changed! He has!

Look at this idiotic fool that you made me.

Oikawa slumps. Has he changed? Did he really cheat on you? Make a fool out of you? Maybe Mattsun and Makki were right... He wasn't very considerate, was he? He'd begged you for forgiveness more times than he can count on one hand. And every time you forgave him. You believed him. Thought he could change. He never did. Maybe he couldn't. Is he destined to be like this forever? Never able to hold a healthy relationship? Always destroy every ounce of happiness he'll ever receive?

And you know damn well-

Oikawa Tooru will never know happiness like he could have with you.

-For you I would ruin myself, A million little times.

Emiko's hand vanished from its place in his hold. She steps away from him, eyes not on the band performing, hands not applauding like the rest. No, Emiko places them on her hips, tilts her head back and blinks the tears back into her eyes. She stands taller, peers down her nose at Oikawa.

"When did you break up with y/n?"

Oh. So she was paying attention. She's smart. Really smart.

Oikawa flicks his eyes up to you on the stage. You're on Rintarou's lap, looking into his eyes. Atsumu's knelt on the stage with his guitar still hung around his neck. He reaches for a cup being offered to him, laughing at something being said to him.

Emiko's fingers snap in front of his face, bringing him back to reality. People look at them. You look at them. "I said when did you break up with y/n?"

His lips part, tears coming to his eyes. He tries to stammer out a response.

For Emiko, that's enough. She raises a hand, strikes him across the face. She jabs a finger into his chest, starts spewing curses of his name.

You and Rin stare from the stage, your forehead rest against his. You cross one leg over the other, Rin’s hand going from between your waist and your thigh. Lightly caresses the skirt you wear. He holds his drumsticks in his free hand, taps the base lightly and repeatedly against his knee. A small force tugs against the corners of his lips despite so desperate to stay cool and collected.

He observes the party-goers, their horrified stares at the scene unfolded before them, the way they try to keep their conversations yet no one able to focus on anything but them. Takahashi, for once, doesn't try to step in. He goes from looking at Atsumu, to looking at Emiko, opening and closing his mouth. He stammers something out, Atsumu rising to his feet.

He takes a final look at the couple(?), leans in and says something to you and Rin. You uncross your legs, whisper something to the boys by you. Something flashes in Rin's eyes as he ushers you off his knee, gently smacks your ass with the drumsticks before spinning them around in his fingers. He waits for you to fix the guitar around your neck, Atsumu to get in position. With as much force as he can muster, Rin slams the stick against a cymbal.

Everything stops, and all eyes fall back on the band. They forget about Oikawa standing with Emiko. His hand placed on her shoulder, fingers lightly holding to the front in a desperate measure to get more time before

You.

Standing there, one hand holding the guitar and the other grasping the microphone stand. Smiling, apologising. The DJ isn't here yet, so we'll play a song? Fill some fucking time? Another chance to break him. Drag him down to the ground. No, lower. Every level below until he falls through the core, and out the other side. And all you do is laugh and apologise and play another stupid song of yours. All you do is play fucking songs. Who are these even for?

Oh. The stream of their performance. Had it ended? What could they hear? Did they hear? They would have seen you. Your pride, your smugness. Your- God, what is with you? Isn't this enough? Will you be happy with yourself after? God, they're lucky if he doesn't-

What? What could he do? You guys weren't doing anything illegal. Defamation? But it's true. You're not lying. None of it has been made up. Harassment? Perhaps. More reasonable, surely. Right?

Emiko's shoulder rips from his hold as you come to the end of that stupid song. She wipes at her face and struts over to you at the stage. Yes. Tell you to stop. Leave them alone. She believes him!

But if she really believed him, why would she collapse in on herself after whispering something in your ear? Why would she lean in for...a hug.

No, Oikawa Tooru's time may be up.

masterlist. previous | next

summary. as a world-famous singer, everyone knows everything about all of your relationships. namely, your renowned on-again/off-again relationship with one tooru oikawa. it’s hard not to when every song you write is about him. but no one truly knows all of the gory details of all your dirty breakups, except from the two of you. and after announcing in a drunken red-carpet interview that you never want to see his face again, everyone starts desperately searching for the truth behind your twisted relationship. and just when you think you can escape these rumours, in comes a job opportunity your band can’t turn down.

taglist (open!). @writing-for-the-hell-of-it @iaminyourfloors @rrosiitas @v3nusplanetofluv @draculauracullen @lollbecca @honeytwo @wakashudou @tojirin @makki0s @alexithemiyatic @aboutkiyoomi @hermaeusmorax @theepitomeofswag @qyoongi @esunarint @frootloopscos @kimigiri09 @sweetlyvibe @hhoneyhan @jlly1 @nizaii @mdmraz @gigiiiiislife @jpegarchives

[clarkeyhill]

English Love Affair |George Clarke

Smut. Fluff

The second day in London had been a whirlwind of sights, sounds, and the kind of quiet exhaustion that comes from trying to soak up a new city in a short time. By the evening, though, I felt rejuvenated—excited, even. Max and Andrew had invited me to a bar, promising good drinks, great company, and a chance to unwind. It sounded perfect.

When I arrived, the bar was already buzzing, its dim lighting and low hum of conversation wrapping around me like a warm blanket. Max waved me over enthusiastically, Andrew grinning beside him. With them was—George.

He stood out immediately, not just because of his dark, fitted jacket or the way he seemed to command attention without trying. It was his aura. There was a quiet openness to him, like he was unafraid of being seen for who he was, yet something about him remained distant, guarded. His voice carried a calm dominance, each word weighted with intent.

We exchanged introductions, and he gave me a small, knowing smile that sent a jolt through me. It wasn’t flirtatious, not exactly. It was something else entirely, something I couldn’t quite place.

The first round of cocktails came quickly, and we fell into easy conversation. Max and Andrew were their usual lively selves, recounting old stories and poking fun at each other. George was quieter but sharp, his occasional interjections landing with precision. He seemed content to let the others talk, his eyes lingering on me more often than not.

As the night progressed, the drinks flowed, and so did the laughter. But somewhere along the line, George’s demeanor shifted. His laid-back calm gave way to something more intense, more present. When I stood to go to the bar for another drink, he was suddenly beside me.

“I’ll get it,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument.

I blinked at him, taken aback. “Oh, it’s fine, really. I can—”

“I insist,” he said, and there it was again—that sense of quiet dominance. Before I could protest further, he was placing the order, his body angled just slightly between me and the rest of the bar.

When we returned to the table, I noticed it wasn’t just me who had picked up on the shift. Max raised an eyebrow at George as he slid my drink in front of me. Andrew exchanged a look with him that was part confusion, part concern.

The moments that followed only heightened their curiosity. George seemed hyper-aware of my every move, his eyes scanning the room whenever someone got too close or lingered too long. At one point, a man bumped into me on his way to the bar, and before I could even react, George stepped in, his tone cold and clipped as he told the man to watch where he was going.

Max and Andrew weren’t subtle about their skepticism.

“Alright, George, what’s the deal?” Max asked, leaning back in his chair. “You’ve known her for what? Not even 24hours whats with the whole bodyguard act?"

Andrew nodded, his gaze flicking between George and me. “Yeah, mate, it’s a bit much. You’re acting like she's your… I don’t know, responsibility or something.”

George’s jaw tightened, and for a moment, I thought he might brush it off. But then he looked at me, his eyes softer now, almost apologetic.

“I’m sorry if I’m coming on too strong,” he said, his voice low. “I just… I don’t like the idea of anything happening to you. London can be unpredictable.”

It was a strange answer, vague yet loaded. Max and Andrew still didn’t seem convinced, exchanging another look. I felt their concern, but I also couldn’t ignore the strange pull I felt toward George.

He was acting like he had some claim over me, and while a part of me bristled at the notion, another part—one I wasn’t ready to examine too closely—didn’t entirely mind. There was something undeniably magnetic about him, something that made me feel both protected and exposed in ways I hadn’t expected.

As the night wore on, Max and Andrew continued to watch him carefully, their protectiveness of me now matching his. And George, for all his guarded nature, seemed almost… possessive. It was disarming, intoxicating, and confusing all at once.

When we finally stepped out into the cool London air, George offered to walk me back to my hotel. Max and Andrew hesitated. But I found myself agreeing, curiosity and something deeper urging me to see where this strange night might lead.

As we walked, the city quiet around us, George’s earlier intensity seemed to fade. He spoke more freely now, his voice gentler, though still carrying that undercurrent of control.

“Tonight… I might’ve overstepped,” he admitted, glancing at me. “But there’s something about you. I don’t know what it is yet, but it’s there.”

I didn’t know what to say. His words were bold, startling, and yet they resonated in a way I couldn’t deny.

The night had started as a simple outing with friends, but it had turned into something else entirely—something charged, unexpected, and impossible to forget. As I reached the door of my hotel, I couldn’t help but wonder what the rest of my time in London would bring—and whether George would be part of it.

[theredconqueror]

The taste of Lucanis is sweeter and more intoxicating than any wine he has ever known, which he drinks from for as long as he can, the flavour of fragile innocence, of reckless hope, and burning passion which goes all the way down his throat. He wants only to be made to forget, amnesiac ambrosia, to be made weak and stripped of his godhood for just a single night, to live as a mortal just once every thousand years and to find that this existence might be worth the unending suffering. He gives only an affirmative hum to the other's words, and perhaps there is still a shred of pride, or perhaps caution, to allow the blooming of full words. Perhaps it is fear; to show himself as to be something so other as to what the assassin has come to know, and find magnetizing. Lucanis' touch brushes past him, just as the rest of him does. The assassin orbits around the room, its existence as empty as the man who has claimed it. The objects exist like a museum of what someone might thinks a person would live like. His eyes flicker to and fro like beach waves as the other moves around. There is little scattered about, even less that might be considered personal; in a moment he could pack up what he needs and disappear into the traces of the Fade like a ghost. Lucanis has kept him here, tangible, with his gaze, and his words, and his touch. Holds him and keeps him from escaping. But until when might the Crow tire of trying to claw at running water? He already has greater regrets that would eclipse whatever tragic end would suffocate their tale. What is another regret, compared to the world-ending ones he has already suffered? It would only be a regret of his if it became one for Lucanis; if he hurt him, irreparably. Any hurt of his own... is inconsequential. He is all rot, after all. Already dead. "Maybe you only think you would because it would remain unknown." But there are greater regrets than merely being left to wonder about a cut string of fate. Lucanis comes back, mercifully, and places a hand on his heart, or where it might be if sin hadn't replaced it with decay. He lets out a shallow breath, his hand pressing over the other's, and he doesn't even need to will the crystallized organ to beat as a mortal man's because the other's words bring it to life all on their life. They are foolish, romantic notions that he hopes for the other's sake are untrue, but oh, he could hear them again a thousand times. Lucanis thinks he is some divine reward for a lifetime of suffering but he knows that he is a punishment. A curse come calling, blood deep, blood poison. His heart thumps with irregularity; a doctor might call it sick. He is; diseased with want and weakness. Lucanis means to kill him with tenderness, so far from the quick, painless death that he had once asked the other for long ago. It is slow and rips him apart at the atoms, as he once did to himself, a violence done at the edge of the abyss. Lucanis begs him again: please. Before, he'd been able to keep himself from giving in and he feels wounded in every way that could matter. A non-believer whose touch scalds him as if it were drenched in holy water. His free palm presses against the other's heart, as the force of it pushes the other a step back, where his spine and shoulder blades would find themselves trapped against the hard wood of the closed door. One should fear praying to a god on a whim, risking getting an answer: "I'm here, Lucanis..." His mouth captures the other's like hot seal upon an envelope, closing the doubts that his body could take him anywhere further than where the assassin's arm would be able to reach him. "Be good to me and I won't ever let you drown," he promises, but is it a promise when it has been proven already? His hands pulled him from red algae depths and bone shores, abomination bound and octopus ink contract. His hand presses rib cage deep, the wall of bruising. "What do you want from me right now..." He whisper as his mouth slips down to his neck, where he once pressed steel to it, and gave mercy... he will give it again...

A drip of melancholy like sunlight rippled across oil-slick rain puddles, quiet but not at all concealed; the scent of an overcast morning, petrichor in the warming air as birds stretch over the distant horizon. This is the solitude that clings to the other's crumbling form, a flavor that's easy to partake in. Even easier to smother, he thinks, with each point of contact pushed further than the last. Talk them out of it? Preposterous, Spite seethes offended. A vitriol he agrees with while being watched, studied, and pulled apart in delicate, fibrous pieces by those ocean-moon eyes. Equally seen and stripped bare, or perhaps even more so as Lucanis comparitively commands no magic to peer into the flow of one's veins — armed with nothing but physical, effusive touch. Hands shifting, moving to attempt to hold close what is, essentially, his north star, he kisses Valrys with equal fervor. He sinks. Deep and senseless. Pours every droplet of his affection from a reservoir forced to be kept empty for so many years, and parts with a quiet noise — low and throaty and utterly, terribly besotted at that moment. "I shall endeavor to make you forget them in full, then," he murmurs, pupil oxytocin-wide. Sweet empty promises from the mouth of any other, but from him? It sounds earnest, significant as any other vow.

Conversation. That's what they're here for, he's reminded as the question snakes through the air, lingering like smoke. A heavy thing, regret, and the mage reveals how much so with a single breath; even the tallest mountains erode, surely. Imperceptible until one day the cracks become too prominent to ignore. Thumbing at the handsome cut of Valrys' jaw for a few heartbeats, he then steps to the side to grant them both some distance. A blink to control these exorbitant emotions, a semblance of dignity regained as he walks the edges of the room to inspect what few trinkets on display. Were it not for the irreproachable proof of flesh, the lingering sensation of their prior kisses yet swelling his lips, unforgettable as a knife to the throat, then he would think a ghost lived here rather than a man. Not even a thin layer of dust is present on the wood-gloss surfaces.

"I could ask you the same. All my years, and I haven't the chance to regret much because I do not expect very much of the world." Raised as a tool first, a boy second. A weapon molded to be nothing but sharp edges, and yet Valrys keeps uncovering these soft, vulnerable pieces hidden even to himself. "You wouldn't be a regret if we decide to stop it here, but... I believe I would regret doing so." He touches the bound edges of upright tomes, familiar with a few of their titles. Texts read to him over the course of long, sleepless nights. A sign of care, something almost taken for granted.

A year underwater. Would it be damning if he confessed that it felt no different than the years of his life before the Ossuary?

He turns, and the aquarium's glow casts the room jade and blue. Approaching Valrys again, behavior flighty without intending to be as such, he pauses. Places a hand on the other's chest, barely able to feel the other's pulse. "If it means meeting you, then I would go through it again." It, he says evenly, encompassing every known cruelty he's ever faced. "A foolish notion." Absurd, even. "And yet... Can't I want you? Can't I want more of you and feel happier for it? Please." And this time, he knows exactly what he's asking for, whispering that name with the following breath. We know to expect. Love with. Pain. It's only one we know.

[faaun]

procrastination is starting to have its consequences finally

[spacejammie-eimmajecaps]

Fell back asleep for a while (still have a horrible headache btw) and I had the most disturbing dream that I'm going to tell you guys about in the tags

[the0ther-side0f-dawn]

ok yknow whats oddly intimate? having a friend do your makeup.

like im v weird abt being touched not bc i hate the idea but bc its not natural to me, or something im used to, and sometimes i rly do forget how touch starved i am.

[nasirofmanderlys]

✯

nasir leaned back slightly, letting the firelight flicker across his face as he considered tion’s words. there was a warmth to his friend’s counsel, a rare combination of pragmatism and care that nasir had always valued. but even the kindest truths could sting, and as tion’s observations settled in the room, nasir felt the weight of them pressing against his already burdened chest. he knew his friend were trying his hardest to ensure the man did not end up sitting here and spiraling, and yet he felt the weight of his duties and his lineage weighing down upon his shoulders: if any ruling lord of the manderlys had sired bastards in the past, it had never come to fruition. and he had wanted more for himself than that; it should never have happened to begin with.

“cowardice,” nasir repeated, his voice soft but deliberate. he allowed the word to linger in the air between them, tasting its bitter edge. “perhaps you’re right. perhaps it is cowardice, at least in part. to carry the weight of something unspoken, to withhold it not out of malice but... hesitation. fear, even. it doesn’t feel like mercy though, not when the silence begins to choke you.” nasir manderly considered himself a religious man, in moderation; he prayed as part of a congregation on fridays and did the minimum that was expected of each child of the old way the moment the words were whispered into their ears. he never found it pressing, or tiresome; no, instead he felt like he himself had severed some rope that kept him grounded. kept him tied.

his dark eyes flickered towards the fire, watching the flames dance and writhe as though they might provide an answer. “and yet, what is the alternative? a truth revealed too soon? that can wither a man just as easily as any lie.” he leaned forward to let the drink slide down his throat, letting out a slight noise at the burn which was a laugh - he were not the most steady or hardy of drinkers. he smacked his chest, his laughter filling the momentarily empty room. "all this because the belmores told me they weren't waiting anymore. pathetic." it was rare nasir brought up his betrothal to mariela, that spurred him to end up walking into the tent of a battlefield whore and siring a bastard in her. never had he done such a thing, since and again.

his tone softened, a trace of weariness seeping into his words. “as for compatibility, you’re not wrong to question its endurance. i’ve seen marriages of perfect likeness crumble under the weight of ambition or the strain of time. but i’ve also seen bonds forged in difference, tempered by understanding. perhaps that’s what makes the difference—not finding someone who mirrors us but someone who sees the world as we do and still chooses to walk beside us.” he offered a faint, wry smile. “a fortress, a prison... perhaps they’re one and the same. but even a prison can feel like freedom, if the company is right."

and yet, nasir for a moment wondered of tion's ambition. the never-ending want for more, to prove himself - whether it could end up laying issues within his personal home. nasir had managed to uphold the respectability of house manderly, all without forgetting his place as a brother first, and a lord second. never would he let his home turn as cold as the winds it held out against. "you'll settle down with someone that makes you laugh from time to time, and it'll be alright. you'll make do."

tion watched nasir closely. there was a sort of turmoil in his friend that he knew not how to guide him through. he considered him a brother, someone he had always stood alongside, but now he wondered if his support had been the wrong thing, if he should have pushed back. not for zakariya's sake. he knew that he had given the boy a steady foundation for his future. it was not that which troubled him - it was whether or not this was what was best for nasir, or if it would have been kinder to let him endure the sting of shame long ago, rather than let its weight grow more burdensome with the years.

"it can be both," his words were measured, carefully studying nasir for a trace of a reaction. "a mercy for him. cowardice for you." he did not mean the words to be cruel, but simply to point out that even a choice made for the wrong reasons could be the right thing. the ends could justify the means. "but i'm not sure i believe that of you." perhaps he was looking at the northerner through a gilded lens, giving him more allowances and seeing more virtue than was truly there. "you've never shied away from walking a difficult path. cowardice alone wouldn't have been enough for you."

in the end, they were talking about hypotheticals. whether it was a mercy or not would be decided when they knew the man zakariya would grow to be. for the moment, they spoke of a far-off future, and in this matter, there were not yet any guarantees on whether time would heal or fester. "optimism," he scoffed, rolling his eyes. "it's not that. it's visualisation. setting a target for yourself and refusing to consider an alternate destination, even if you get blown from your course." there were some men who made back up plans for their back up plans, who prepared for the worst to happen. whilst tion saw the value in caution and preparedness, he refused to consider the worst, instead choosing to expend his energy on the journey and obstacles before him, always with one eye fixed on that target he had set. "amir is only seeing what others would tell him to see. what could go wrong. it would do the both of you good to remember what could go right, and take the rest one step at a time."

it would be a lie to say he did not pay closer attention to the fate of the north than most, if only for the benefit of the manderlys, and the fact he cared for them. he was not blind to the fact lines were being drawn, and it troubled him. but nasir was clever. he would see them through.

he glanced towards the hearth, firelight casting light across his face. "compatibility," he said, as though it were a foreign concept. "it's a fair question." he supposed in a way, it did, but it was less about shared hobbies and matching temperaments. it was about finding a woman who understood tion's own vision, his innate ambition, and could respect it, could live with a man who would always wish for more without faltering. "does even compatibility endure?" he did not know the answer. "all the more reason to take my time with it, i suppose. i've built too much to risk it on the wrong woman. but even a prison can be a fortress. just depends what side of the bars you find yourself on."

[l-cereta]

oh my god u know the hrt is working when u get genuinely white girl drunk

[caffeinatedopossum]

Why are there always new symptoms showing up?? I just want a fucking break ;-;

[witchoftrinity]

"T-That's what I said yes. I was going to ask Nier the same thing, regardless of my feelings towards her. I just...never got around to it. And then our little outing happened before I could ask her again."

Really just throwing a wrench in her idea right from the word "go". Not that she wanted to dwell on the topic again due to its nature but of course it did have to be said. Then again if N ever did show up she wouldn't have been completely mad at the two of them if they did leave. She lived here practically alone for a full year, only occasionally stopping at someone else's home for a night.

Doing it again for who knows how long wouldn't hurt...

"So you just drink it to drink it? Beyond when you need to "cool down" of course. I can't but I'm also a red flag so throwing the two of together works getting a dopamine rush from something that doesn't have a taste at all." It seemed almost impossible, especially from Mika who often found it in food or through other means like talking a little too much and accessory collecting. So maybe tasteless oil just did it for her?"

"...Better then before even if I look like a mess. All these wounds I gotta fix up on top of cleaning my feathers. Last time I looked like this was waiting for my mkoments."

"I'm sure it would be. God forbid you'd need to convince them to let you keep all the space I'm giving you too. And that's not including anyone else showing up either.~~"

The comment from Mika was mostly in jest, considering how often they seemed to bring up each others living situation. Maybe if things were easier they could have a bigger place all to themselves. Or that might make things worse depending on how well her friendships really were deep down. And how her conversation with Nier would actually go.

"He sounds…nice. Almost completely different from the vibe V gave me." Then again she really couldn't nail down one beyond "Don't bother me unless Uzi is having a hissy fit." But that was easily a work in progress to her so anything could change.

"I don't know if I willfully would want to wish this city upon him but if he does come around I'm sure he'll want to be here. With you, unless the two of you want to move out."

Or she'd just visit him everyday. In that case Mika would feel awfully bad to whoever housing it was. One angsty teen is enough but that teen and their lover may have been passed a bar no one was ready for.

"It definitely tastes like frozen food. Even the worst of our cafeteria could probably make a better meal. But it's better then nothing." It still served it's purpose well, which was somehow diffusing any real anger between the two. And being somewhat filling.

[bibleofficial]

SCREAM ok so swag .. found my besties on this tour theyre also w their parents & theyre 3 vietnamese siblings between 19-24 & im obsessed w them but i’m also an alcoholic so i keep getting drunk & shouldnt even b around ppl bc im going to be seeing them everyday for the next like 2 weeks

[featherymainffins]

Ough I fucking hate holidays because it is my duty as a child to visit my parents and just take whatever the fuck happens to me.

[5-htagonist]

i dont know how to connect these pieces together, except for something regarding how the characterization is done, but venture bros, homestuck, utena, house, some others i cant think of rn... something about the way the characters interact and build in these captivates me. the complexities, the almost... impromptu way these characters develop so naturally, and i think it comes from different places in most of these though homestuck and venture bros probably holds the most similarity in terms of expertly utilizing retroactive foreshadowing to create beautiful and complex character relationships. house feels like it moreso... accidentally happens upon great and logical character development lol. i usually wonder if im reading too far into it when i watch particularly great moments. and utena's characters feel so 3d because they really are-- the sheer amount of different utena stories that adds and expands and also contracts on different aspects of each character ends up building a very 3d and symbolic picture in the mind.