#tea writes

[doodles-bi-tea]

radio ga ga

Mickey’s a bit of a fanboy. Paparazzi is too.

pairing: lt. mickey “fanboy” garcia x fellow wso reader [second person, no y/n – callsign: paparazzi]

warnings: probably inaccurate pilot/in-sky jargon, profanity, alcohol consumption, no beta / real editing, ambiguous ending…

word count: 1,974

a/n: I thought my overly-top-gun-obsessed days were long behind me (in the days of 2022/2023) but one of my two film classes said “NO! go back to hyperfixating on lewis pullman and danny ramirez in the midst of your james mcavoy obsession.” and here we are, folks.

[good god I went through a whole tizzy trying to figure out what exactly I wanted the reader’s callsign to be. “paparazzi?” no, that’s plural! “paparazzo?” grammatically correct, but solely masculine. “paparazza?” feminine-aligning in the native language but not everyone is solely feminine (myself included). I gave up and just went with the grammatically incorrect “paparazzi” because then it doesn’t have to be a gender thing – I already have enough trouble figuring out what gender I am, I don’t need this to send me down another rabbit hole. ... ANYWAY that was my little rant about the callsign. I have a whole list, because, let’s face it: are you really a top gun fan if you’ve never thought about what your own callsign might be?]

4/14/25 update: UM as of posting this, this was actually started a really long time ago and I kinda gave up on the ending so either it’s bittersweet and ends here or I can write a part two if anyone really wants it lmao… but i’m back to obsessing over romance games and mythic quest again so that’s a thing! I literally just finished my s1-s3 rewatch and started s4 right before I saw jessie ennis' story about how it got cancelled bro 💔💔

˚⋆࿔༄ᯓ ✈︎

ᯓ ✈︎｡༘⭒

“Comms check. This is Paparazzi, filling in for Harvard, behind Yale. Yale, Fanboy, Payback, do you copy? Over.”

“Payback here, I can hear you loud and clear. Over.”

“Yale reporting for duty. Over.”

There’s a pause.

[paparazzi] “Fanboy, do you copy?”

[fanboy] “No, Paparazzi, I do not copy.”

[paparazzi] “Payback, tell Fanboy to check his comms.”

[fanboy] “Checking ‘em right now.”

[payback] “Fanboy, you can’t hear us?”

[fanboy] “Nope.”

Another pause.

[paparazzi] “He’s fucking with us, isn’t he?”

[payback] “...Yeah.”

You turn your head to the left to look at Payback and Fanboy’s F/A-18, flying parallel to your and Yale’s own aircraft. He’s already looking back at you.

“Sorry, Paparazzi. The opportunity was too good to pass up.” Fanboy’s laugh crackles over the radio as you flip him the bird.

˚⋆࿔༄ᯓ ✈︎

ᯓ ✈︎｡༘⭒

“What a gentleman.” You scoff, knocking your knuckles on the back of Mickey’s blue-streaked helmet.

He clearly wasn’t expecting it from the way his neck gives way at the contact. You two walk side by side on the tarmac after the exercise with Reuben [Payback] and Logan [Yale].

“I hadn’t realized this conversation was suddenly about Bob.” He chuckles, before trying to knock your own helmet out of your hands by smacking it.

Your grip falters slightly but instead moves the helmet to rest against the side of your stomach furthest from Mickey.

“My tone would be different if it were actually about Bob. Not that I expect you to know the difference between jokes and seriousness.”

“I do, too! You play too much.” He says dismissively, as if actually offended at your comment.

˚⋆࿔༄ᯓ ✈︎

ᯓ ✈︎｡༘⭒

“I play too much? Are you hearing yourself right now?” You laugh incredulously into your mask.

Fanboy’s F-35 flies somewhere slightly behind yours. You, Bob, Halo, and he are engaged in a pretty routine individual speed drill. Being WSO’s, you don’t get as much flying time as your respective partners, but still need the practice just as much.

“No, actually, I can’t. It’s pretty hard, since, we’re, you know, in planes right now?”

You roll your eyes behind your tinted visor – not like he can see it anyway.

“Break right!” Bob’s voice rings clear over the radio.

You see him, at the front of the line, start to turn, soon followed by Halo, who flies directly in front of you. Your gloved hands move along the plane’s controls to follow the two of them.

“Leaving me on heard? Real cool of you, Pap.”

Beneath your mask, your lips press themselves into a thin line. You bite your tongue for the time being, knowing you all need to finish the drill on time or Mav (and Hangman) would be on your asses about it. Fanboy’s taunts can wait.

“Break left!” Bob instructs. “We need to speed up a little, guys. Increase after the turn.”

All four of you follow suit. Turning left, then pushing the thrusters. Pulling G’s makes your body ache a little, your head feel like it’s under a weighted blanket (not in a good way!), and your stomach turn ever-so-slightly. Your mind goes blank, thoughts drowned out by the engines’ rumbling.

“Mark!” Halo calls, breaking you out of your trance. “We got two minutes, forty-seven seconds. Better than last time.”

The four of you slow and align into a horizontal line rather than a vertical one, now flying side by side.

“Good run, guys.” Bob says into the radio.

You can’t see his face, but you can tell he’s smiling when he says it.

˚⋆࿔༄ᯓ ✈︎

ᯓ ✈︎｡༘⭒

You’re packing up your duffel bag in the common room, waving goodbye to Cassie [Halo] as she leaves, when Mickey exits the mens’ lockers and enters the room. You try ignoring him at first, but he initiates conversation regardless.

“What happened up there, Pap? Did pulling G’s fog your brain up so much you couldn’t come up with a decent response?” He sets his own bag down on the pool table as he folds one of his shirts.

“Stop saying ‘Pap’ like it’s a good nickname.”

“Doesn’t mean anything bad.”

“It sounds like a… fuckin’ pap smear or something.”

“That…” He tucks the shirt into his bag. “Oh.”

You roll your eyes for the “who-knows-how-many”-th time of the day and harshly zip your bag closed. The heels of your shoes resounded muffled clicks on the carpet as you went to leave.

“Hey, wait, I, uh, I know I’ve been particularly annoying today,” Mickey stutters over his words as he throws his bag over his shoulder and runs to catch up. “But do you wanna go to The Hard Deck?”

“So you’re aware of it?” You scoff, continuing to walk towards the door – click clack, click clack.

He chuckles sheepishly, now walking at your side. “Maybe a little. But really, you wanna come with me?”

“And why should I?”

“Because… Uh…”

You hum hesitantly. He hums eagerly back. There’s a moment of silence before he breaks.

“I’ll pay?”

The footfalls finally stop as you both reach the door.

˚⋆࿔༄ᯓ ✈︎

ᯓ ✈︎｡༘⭒

And that’s how you end up four beers deep at The Hard Deck, sitting across from Mickey at a small table on the outside patio overlooking the beach. The sun’s gone down a long time ago, the brisk, salty air is chilling the tips of your nose and fingertips, and your beer bottles are empty. You and Mickey sit in a quiet, slightly-drunk stupor together. Looking at the ocean together only furthers the warm feeling that pools in your stomach from all the alcohol.

“I’m gonna go pay now, be right back,” Mickey’s words slur together slightly as he stands up and takes his wallet out of his pocket.

You hum in acknowledgement and slump down, arms folded over the table and head resting on top. The door opens, then shuts, as you hear Mickey go inside. The cold air prompts you to close your eyes – for just a second. Or, at least, what feels like a second.

When you open them, you’re met with Mickey’s curious and playful gaze. His face is still relatively far away from yours but you make eye contact because he’s leaned down to look at you. It’s almost as if you’ve grazed hands or held onto an embrace for too long. He smiles, in a surprisingly meek fashion, before gently nudging your arm.

“Wake up, soñolienta.” [“Wake up, sleepy.”]

You hum, before sitting up. The beer bottles are all cleared from the table and the bar is mostly empty, like the patio had always been. Penny stands behind the bar, wiping the counter. Jimmy sits across from a young man at a table on the side, talking while drying now-clean glasses. A few random customers are dispersed around the edges of the room but whatever party had been in the room earlier was clearly over.

“Thanks, Mick.”

“No problem,” he responds softly before going back to sit down in his chair on the opposite side of the table.

There’s a comfortable pause.

You rest your chin on your hands. “You’re actually kinda nice when you choose to stop being so damn annoying.”

“You too.”

You both laugh, another bout of warm silence – contrasting the chill of the sea air – following soon after. Your eyes lazily trace the surroundings. Where the sky meets the sea; Where the sea meets the sand; Where the sand meets the patio. The sand bleeds onto the sun-bleached wood. The patio meets the rest of the building, its sliding-glass doors, and the warm-toned LED globe lights that are suspended on the overhang (you and Bob had gotten into a pretty interesting conversation about lights with Penny, the two of you eventually convincing her to buy LEDs instead of using the old incandescent bulbs she previously used). The few speakers that are attached to the underside of the roof’s overhang play some random radio station. The tune doesn’t sound familiar, until the first song ends and a new one starts.

“Hey, I like this song,” You mumble absentmindedly.

Mickey perks up upon your mention of the music – he pauses to listen with you.

“Is this Djo?”

A surprised smile sneaks its way onto your lips.

“You know Djo?”

“Duh,” He teases. “Who doesn’t?”

“I’m just surprised. I don’t know what kind of music you listen to, besides the stuff you post on your Instagram stories,” You chuckle. “Which is mostly rap or really random hype music.” [shoutout to the danny ramirez instagram follower gang, his stories make me giggle bc he’s just such a boy and always posting about the miami canes and random selfies and stuff – I feel like a lot of danny’s personality bleeds into his characters (joaquin torres especially) so I tied this in with mickey…]

“I gotta keep up appearances, you know? Can’t be posting random pop and alt when people want the manly…” He motions around aimlessly with his hands while he looks for the words. “Hype stuff. I don’t know.”

“Sounds to me like you just don’t want to admit you have any semblance of decent music taste.”

“That is not true.”

“You’re a dork.”

“Says you, dork.”

“I can tell a lot of thought went into that. Great comeback.”

“Too bad you couldn’t come up with one when we were in the air.” He raises his eyebrows and cocks his head slightly in your direction with a toothy grin.

“Whatever. Just let me enjoy the radio in peace.”

Another eye roll added to the count. And yet, you can’t help the slight upturn of your lips as you look away in an attempt to seem aloof – key word being ‘attempt;’ it doesn’t work.

“I actually really like ‘Go for It,’” Mickey suddenly says.

His admission is another pleasant surprise.

“Damn, maybe you are a real fan.”

“It’s all in the name, sweetheart.”

You try to ignore the way your heart leaps into your throat at the nickname, a slightly flustered scoff working its way past your lips. The beer still sits in your stomach, but instead of providing warmth, it now feels stagnant. You glance over at Mickey as he checks his phone for a moment.

Was he always this cute? Or is it just the way he stands out against the night sky under the yellowing light? The way the outer edges of his eyes are threatening to press together as a content smile sits on his closed lips? It could just be the fact that his mouth is closed, for all you know. You don’t know, but it’s making you rethink everything. It’s… not a great feeling.

He must notice your smile drop as you space out, staring blankly in his direction, because he turns his phone off and looks back at you.

“You okay, Pap?”

Shaken from your daze, your jaw goes slack for a moment before you press your lips together and turn away. Your ears barely register the nickname.

“Oh, yeah, sorry, just… thinking.”

Mickey quirks an eyebrow. “About what?”

“You.” Is what you want to say.

The name of the song he mentioned seems to mock you. ‘Go for It?’ Yeah, right. You’d settle for biting your tongue instead of dying of embarrassment right here on the beach.

“Just work stuff,” You shrug it off – it’s technically not a lie if you’re thinking about your co-worker.

Mickey hums in understanding. “I get that. I feel like work follows me off-base, home, more often than I’d like.”

You glance back at him now. His face is to the ocean, so you only see his side profile, similar to when he was on his phone. Any semblance of the smile he usually wears is completely gone. His sobriety is… sobering, to say the least. It’s not often he drops the jokester persona. It almost tugs at your heartstrings a little bit.

“You wanna talk about it?” You tread lightly.

Mickey pauses. “Nah, it’s okay. Just tired right now, I think. Just… ‘work stuff.’”

You both chuckle halfheartedly at that. The sea air grows stale as the silence grows.

“I should, uh, get home,” He suddenly clears his throat and throws his hoodie on.

A sense of panic arises in you as he finishes tugging the grey material down his torso. Say something or let him leave.

Say something? Or let him leave?

[spot-of-tea]

There's Something Wrong With Iggy Dragneel - Chapter 70

“I just got word that the black wizard has officially been captured…”

Well were really in it now guy!

Enjoyyy >:3c

You can read the new chapter here

[teahoused0ll]

Okay hear me out, this is tabiori (at least in Unlike a Fairy Tale) except it’s Karasu’s pov.

[tea-and-typewriter]

9 Lines, 9 People

Thanks, @aether-wasteland-s for tagging me!

I’m passing this along to @indoorghost @finchmomentwrites @darlingplanetary and @ryns-ramblings , plus an open tag to anyone else who sees this and wants to add their own lines.

Rules - post 9 lines from your WIP and tag 9 people (or whoever - I only tagged 4, so who am I to judge)

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Here are the first nine lines of my current WIP. I picked it back up after two years of it collecting dust, and rewriting this passage was one of the most recent things I've done. The main character's name is still subject to change.

Content Warnings: space, solitude, general danger

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Del Kendri prided himself on his vast knowledge of the universe, but the cold feeling of drifting alone through space wasn't on he had planned on learning. Well, he supposed, sometimes knowledge finds you whether you want it to or not.

An asteroid the size of his chest flew past him, pulling him back from his thoughts. It had missed him, but barely. Del wasn’t sure how much longer his luck would last.

The asteroid storm had started suddenly, and Del had been too absorbed in his work to notice until the first asteroid flew by. They came with a fury, bouncing into the ship with metallic thuds. Delany raced towards one of the ship’s top hatches, ducking as an asteroid flew at his head. His safety line wasn’t so lucky.

[tearingskies]

some things you just can’t speak about

Read on AO3 or below the cut.

Ginny in the aftermath of the War.

TW: mentions of death & implied torture

Note: This is my first (finished) fic! It was written over the course of one year and sat in my drafts for ages before I finally got the sudden urge to just post it and be done with it. Hope you enjoy!

Ginny sits in the crowded Great Hall and feels utterly alone.

There’s a dull hum that hangs in the air, a combination of melancholic murmurs and quiet, tear-streaked condolences. Ginny’s numb, sitting on a bench with a half-empty tea mug going cold in her hands. Her clothes are covered in blood, ash and Merlin knows what else and she thinks her arm might be bleeding. But none of that matters, because she’s still sitting there.

Her mind is struggling to make sense of her surroundings. Of the pale hand peeping from beneath a sheet nearby, the red splashes that dot the dated stones, and the muted cries echoing in the vast empty spaces left by those who have moved beyond this world. Everything feels hollow and out of place.

There are some things in life that can’t be comprehended before they have happened. And even when they do, they are senseless and wrong.

Death is one of those things.

Someone speaks up near Ginny in a hushed tone. She grips the cold mug in her hand and keeps staring at the pale brown hand that can’t touch anything anymore. It’s stained pink by dried blood.

Ginny wonders who it is – if she’s passed them by in the hallways, what kind of a life they lived. The hand looks too delicate, too young to be so still. They were once someone’s child, someone’s everything. Now there’s just cold flesh and a still heart.

A gentle pressure on her shoulder breaks Ginny’s thoughts right as someone pulls the sheet down to cover the lifeless arm. Her eyes stray towards the grieving face of her mother, who clutches her shoulder tightly, as if to make sure she’s still there, breathing.

“Let’s go get some sleep, Ginny, dear.”

Ginny blinks up at her.

Her name sounds strange, like a foreign word spoken for the first time. She feels like an outsider in her own body.

“I’m not tired.” Even though she is. She’s so tired she doesn’t know how she managed to say those three words. But the thought of closing her eyes makes her feel sick. She doesn’t want to face the imagery her cruel mind will create from heartache and fear. Being awake in this reality is already a nightmare.

Her mother’s lips purse and tears start glistening in her red-rimmed eyes. “We’re all going to go together—“

“I’d like to stay for a bit,” Ginny says because she doesn’t know if she’d even be able to move. She doesn’t want anyone to know how broken she feels, doesn’t want them to see the constellations of scars stitched on her skin. Doesn’t have the strength for the questions and tears they’ll inflict. There's already enough pain without hers added to it.

“No, we have to—“

This time it’s not her that interrupts the sharpening tone. “I’ll stay with her.”

Ginny doesn’t have the energy to look at him, which is a small mercy since she thinks she might truly break if she did.

He sounds as exhausted as she feels. Ginny wonders when was the last time he felt safe enough to sleep through the night. It’s been ten months since she did.

Distantly she can hear her mother attending to him, hugging him tight in sobs of relief. She feels so far away.

“-and you’ll come with us, of course! Minerva has arranged a chamber for the family,” Molly goes on. Ginny can feel the emotion radiating from him at the inclusion, and she wonders if he’ll ever feel like he’s a member of the Weasley clan. He’s been her parents' seventh son since the moment he stepped foot in the Burrow that very first time. He’s been her…something for a long time now.

“Thank you, Mrs. Weasley, really, but I’ll stay with Ginny for a while.” His voice is firmer, more insistent this time and she thinks he might fight her mother for it. But there’s no need because he’s Harry. She envies him for that sometimes.

Molly is quiet for a breath, and there’s a low murmur that might’ve been Ron. He’d understand, Ginny thinks. Out of everyone in her family, Ron might get it – her pure exhaustion and the importance of this moment between her and him.

“Alright, then,” her mother says, and that’s that. Her brothers file out, Percy walking an ash-drawn and glass-eyed George towards the doors of the Great Hall. He’s clutching a watch in his hands, knuckles white and face empty, like he’s withdrawn from this world that couldn’t possibly keep on going without his other half.

Bill’s hand squeezes Ginny’s arm as he and Fleur pass her, their hands entangled tightly together. Her father leads her mother out after them, calming down her protests with whispered words and a gentle arm around her.

Ginny watches them go, wondering if they’ll ever be the same again. She knows the answer, but it hurts to even think of it. They’re all broken, and they’ll all heal differently. But they will never be the same as before, nothing will. And that’s how it’s supposed to be.

Through her peripheral vision, she sees Ron pat Harry’s shoulder and throw a concerned look toward her as he and Hermione follow the family out, fingers interlocked in quiet comfort.

Then it’s just them in a hall full of people mourning. Ginny feels his gaze on her. It’s raw, the way he looks at her like there’s nothing he expects from her but herself. She wants to look at him more than anything in the world.

He walks forward, evading the white sheets that cover patches of the floor. She keeps looking at nothing. He sits down next to her, an arm’s width away but closer than ever.

Harry moves his hand and envelopes her free one with it, lodging their fingers together. Ginny stops breathing because his skin feels warm and real, and maybe this isn’t just a fever dream after all. Her heart cracks, the pieces correcting themselves to fit together again, like breaking a bone that’s healed incorrectly. She releases a shaky breath and clenches her hand, getting a press of his thumb against her skin in return.

They sit like that, side to side with their hands interlocked. Ginny doesn’t know if it’s minutes or hours or days that go by in the comfort of his presence, the utter lack of expectations that hangs between them. He doesn’t try to talk, neither does she, and perhaps he’s just as exhausted as she is. But they’re just there, quietly existing in each other’s space. They don’t need words in this moment. The silence is enough.

Ginny thinks of the things she wants to say, can’t say, and needs to say. I’m not okay. I’m broken and I don’t know how to stitch myself back together. I love you. She squeezes her eyes shut.

They have days, months, years to talk.

Or maybe they never will. Maybe there will never be a time for them. She doesn’t know, but she hopes they’ll get there. Someday, somehow, when everything doesn’t hurt as much as it does in this moment.

For now, Harry’s thumb smooths over the jagged scar on the back of her hand that wasn’t there all those months ago. Ginny leans against his shoulder and listens to the beat of his heart.

Harry's alive, and Tom is not.

And she’s breathing, too, even if it takes everything to do so.

There are just some things she can’t say yet, if ever. War rattles people, and even if she’ll never be fine, she will still live for the ones who can’t, no matter what it takes.

I’m glad you’re here, she thinks because his presence speaks multitudes.

[dar-jeerling]

Bend The Elbow Outwards (Kurokawa Izana x OC)

read on AO3 instead

Prologue: Can't Make An Omelette Without Cracking A Few Eggs

The human brain is quite an interesting thing: pattern recognition is set in it so deeply that, whether subconsciously or not, one ends up making connections to different, completely unrelated things with the ease of a bird taking flight.

Whenever the girl hiding under the name Nagahara Kyouko thinks about her father, the first sound that comes to mind is not his warm laugh; not his accented Korean as he taught her how to read Hangul, nor his off-key singing of Japanese children’s songs about vegetables, memorised from cassettes sent to him all the way from Tokyo of children’s morning programmes.

Crack, goes the egg he’s showing her how to open at the edge of the bowl. They’re making tamagoyaki for breakfast - her on the dining chair dragged to the counter of their miniature kitchen, their one apron dwarfing her pudgy body as she giggles at the slimy texture of raw egg whites running through her just-washed hands, him right next to her, laughing and fishing eggshells out of the mixture.

Crack, goes the gun in the unfamiliar man’s hands on their doorstep. Her father’s head goes crack, too - falls in little, messy pieces on the floor and on her like the clumsily-cracked egg she’d held in her hands just this morning.

Brain matter isn’t as slimy and runny as egg whites, and skull fragments aren’t as soft and breakable as egg shells, and the blood and fluids on her (just-washed) hands makes her father’s gun difficult to hold—

(—crack, goes the gun again, and dying truly is an instantaneous thing when you’ve been killed correctly—)

—but the girl who will carry the name Nagahara Kyouko in a few short years wasn’t only taught by her father how to crack eggs.

Crack, goes the gun in her hands.

Crack, goes the man who (has, can, will) kill her.

An eternity later, when the blood has cooled and she has collected and separated her father’s remains from his (their) murderer’s, there’s a voice she has only heard on the phone, sharp and furious as always:

“Can’t even die properly, what is wrong with this useless child? That’s what I get for hiring incompetent idiots; can you imagine, getting dropped by a three-year old? An embarrassment to our clan! Hey, you, do you even know what I’m saying? That bastard’s Korean was worse than nonexistent, of course you don’t. Aish, playing with corpses, such a stupid brat. You’ll stink up my apartment for days now, why couldn’t I have you dead…”

A pause in the rapid stream of words; she doesn’t look up from the bloodstained floor, but the cutting glare of a predator scenting weakness is strong enough to make her dizzy.

“Hey. Japanese. You understand, yes?”

A heartbeat’s length of silence; is it better to stay quiet, or to make a sound? But if she opens her mouth, she’ll throw up, and then the life her father gave her will be forfeit. A nod, slow and low enough to also count as a bow; never look in the eyes of someone who is searching for something you have.

“Well, at least that you can do.”

The high-heeled shoes stop in front of her with a deafening crack; pale knees, a sensible, expensive, tailored suit in gray, blood-red lipstick on a mouth pursed in discontent for having to crouch closer to such a failure in this mess. A small, oval face, downy brown hair sensibly pulled back into a bun, fox-shaped eyes the colour of dried blood.

“No matter what that imbecile has tried to fill your head with, you’re still a daughter of the An Family. Your blood, though tainted, still has some use to us.” A smile: warm, friendly, inviting; no teeth in sight, and yet she can feel them closing around her jugular with every hammering heartbeat. “It must have been scary, right? Getting shot. But because we are of the An Family, we always find a way to fix it; your survival is proof you belong with us.”

The girl who will one day run away from the family legacy and take on her father’s surname meets the eyes of this woman who she could pass as a twin to, (if) when she grows up. What a comic way to put it - fix it, like reliving the measly five years of her life again after getting her brains blown out, perpetually swimming in terror as to when the one who gave birth to her will finally tire of her and her father’s existence and end this once and for all, was in order to join the An Family officially.

That An Family, blessed by a legendary gumiho with the power to change the future centuries ago, what has it done for her and her father, other than arrange their deaths? How arrogant of this woman, to think the only thought in her child’s mind in the face of death is ‘I have failed this family, I want to do my role better’ - when it was, in fact, simply, ‘I want to go back to those sunny days in the kitchen with Dad’.

Changing the future after death - that’s the ability the descendants of An Gildong are granted through his union with a Heavenly Fox. But she has not changed the future in the way she wanted; by the criteria laid in front of her, with this failure, she is unworthy of being a part of this family.

So with this loophole firmly in mind, Nagahara Tatsu’s daughter looks her mother in the eyes and says, “Whatever it is this esteemed person is talking about, I’m afraid it doesn’t pertain to me.”

Crack, sounds the collision between backhand and cheek. Blood drips down her face, mixing with the dried puddles on the floor. Over the vicious scolding she’s getting, a thought well-treaded forms yet again, this time confirmed after such a catastrophic failure:

Otou-san, truly, I have always wished to only share blood with you.

[ssweet--tea]

hi i just wrote a very short one-shot! which im happy abt because it's been a while since ive written and POSTED something. yippee

[knife-filled-plushies]

i love the Smiling Critters as a cartoon concept and if it ever developed like mlp or something like that I can absolutely see something comical like this happening djkfskf

lesson at the end would probably be something about getting a healthy amount of sleep and staying on a good schedule jfhskf

[doodles-bi-tea]

how you met the love of your life, benny miller

pairing: benny miller x bartender reader [second person, no y/n]

warnings: mentions + consumption of alcohol. that’s really it. flirting?? idk

word count: 2,116

a/n: heyyy I’ve been really inactive (at least in terms of posting) but I’ve opened up requests recently! this isn’t a request but thought I’d write something just for fun and to get back into writing. here’s the post where I talked abt the requests, feel free to send something in!! also sorry I kind of weirdly switched time perspectives closer to the end so uhhh hope you don’t mind it just felt weird trying to fix it so I didn’t. but yeah I’ve been hella obsessed with benny miller from triple frontier so figured I’d write smth for him 🤗 honestly not entirely sure I like this oneshot that much but yeah whatever if you enjoy feel free to lmk <3

The bar was quiet, to say the least. It was a Saturday night, which typically meant that many of your usuals would be there, as well as other strangers looking to unwind after the work week. But, fortunately for you, it was mostly empty, save for most of the aforementioned usuals. This was an empty shift no one else wanted to take, and you didn’t have plans so you just decided to take it on a whim. You wiped off a glass and set it on the counter next to a few others, hearing the bell on the door ring again.

Glancing up, you saw a group of four [hot] men come in, talking and smiling with each other. You watched them as they made their way over to a booth closer to the back. They got settled in as you continued to dry different beer and cocktail glasses behind the counter.

Since it wasn’t busy, you spent most of your time just doing mundane tasks to clean and fix different things around the bar and in the back. Eventually, one of the men came from the booth and up to the bar to grab drinks. He wore a dark red t-shirt and beige pants, with a navy baseball cap atop his head and aviators covering his eyes.

He asked for four beers, which you then handed to him. He nodded in acknowledgment, and was turning to leave with the bottles, but paused.

“Hey, by the way-“ he turned again to face you. “-my friend over there thinks you’re cute.”

You were admittedly a little stunned to hear that, but you let your eyes drift over to the booth where his friends sat. Also to your surprise, two of the other three were looking back at you. The one wearing a blue button up over a white tee and a backwards green baseball cap put his hand up with a grin and winked.

“What’s his name?” You waved back, albeit more hesitant.

“Benny. I would’ve sent him over but didn’t know if you’d like that.” He put the beers down on the counter as he leaned against it.

“Tell him he can come over if he wants, I don’t mind. Oh, but what’s your name?”

“Just call me Frankie.” He stuck his hand out and you shook it. “Let me know if he starts harassing you or something, I’ll beat ‘im up.”

You smiled and chuckled quietly. “I don’t think that’ll be necessary, but thank you.”

He nodded before grabbing the beers and heading back to the booth. You saw him put the bottles down on the table before sitting down and saying something to the rest of the group. It probably had something to do with what you said about Benny, seeing as he stood up suddenly and began [nearly] bounding over, beer in hand, like a golden retriever with a stick in its mouth.

“Hey.” You greeted him as he sat on one of the barstools and leaned against the counter.

“Hey,” He smiled at you, the corners of his eyes crinkling upwards like his lips. “I’m Ben, or you can call me Benny.”

You didn’t know what you were expecting but it certainly wasn’t his voice when he first spoke. It was deep and smooth, with a hint of a southern drawl, like music to your ears or honey for your tea.

“Yeah, Frankie over there told me.” You nodded over in the direction of the booth he had just come from. “Said you thought I was cute?”

Benny chuckled, letting his head tilt downwards as if to look at his shirt or shoes bashfully. It was a wonderful sound. “Yeah, yeah, I still do.”

You suddenly became aware of the fact that you were feeling warm all over, and a little nervous. You’d have your fair share of people hitting on you, but Benny seemed different for once. He seemed very genuine.

You weren’t sure what it was. Maybe the way his dark dirty blonde hair peeked out from the edges of his backwards baseball cap. Maybe the way his eyelashes were so thick and dark that you could practically see them from a mile away. Maybe the way his voice had your stomach doing somersaults any time he spoke. Anyway, you weren’t sure what it was.

“Well thank you then, hon.” You smiled back at him. “I think you’re pretty cute too.”

“Thanks.” He chuckled again, before taking a sip of his beer.

That noise. You would never get enough of it. It was deep, slightly raspy, and had a bit of a stutter to it. Your knees nearly buckled underneath you when he looked back up at you with those pretty blue eyes.

“So,” Benny started, setting his bottle down on the counter and crossing his arms. “Could I get to know you a little better?”

The once-boring evening turns into something much more enjoyable from that point on. You continue serving the customers that are already there and the ones that come in later. Benny sits at the counter, talking to you about each of your likes and dislikes, daily life, stuff like that. He asks you about the bar, you ask him about his fights and training. It’s nice and calm, and he’s very easy to talk to. He makes a joke about every other sentence, but you can tell he’s not trying too hard, it’s just something that comes naturally to him.

You ask him a couple times if he needs to get back to his friends, who are still nursing their beers and talking amongst themselves, but he smiles and waves the notion away.

“I’d much rather talk to you, honey.”

This man was going to be the death of you, with his stupid pretty blue eyes and fluffy hair and soft jaw defined by that barely-there stubble.

The night continues on. You and Benny end up talking until closing, long after his first and only beer is gone, when you realize that it’s only you two and his friends left in the building.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I talked your ear off all night. I should start closing up.” You apologize, wiping the counter with a rag one last time for the night.

Benny smiles at you gently. “You’re fine, don’t worry about it. I had fun, even if all we were doing was talkin’.”

“Me too.”

There’s a bit of silence as you finish cleaning and putting some things away, before you decide to speak again.

“Hey, I hope it isn’t too forward of me, but could I get your number?” You’re not sure where the sudden confidence comes from, but it appears and you welcome it.

“Honey,” Benny grins a little wider this time. “You can never be too forward with me. Here, hand me your phone real quick.”

You feel your cheeks warm up again as you hand it to him, waiting as he creates a contact for himself. He hands you the phone back a moment later. “Benny Miller,” the contact reads.

“Thanks, Miller.”

“No problem. Make sure to text me later. I’ll be waitin’ for it.” He winks.

You can only chuckle in response, feeling almost giddy as you notice his friends make their way over to the bar behind Benny.

One of them, not Frankie, though, came up next to Benny. He was slightly shorter than Benny if he were standing, but looked somewhat like him, instead with shorter hair of a similar dark blonde hue, and more grown out facial hair. He shared Benny’s striking blue eyes.

“Hey, we’re heading out now.” He told Benny, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “You wanna leave with me or do you need the keys to the truck? I can leave with Frankie and Santi if you need to stay longer.”

Ah, so that’s the name of the other man next to Frankie. All four of them were very attractive, now that you get a nice up-close look at them. You give a little wave to Frankie as he talks with “Santi.” He smiles and waves back, not breaking their discussion.

“Oh, uh…” Benny trailed off, before looking back at you. “Did you need a ride?”

As much as you would have liked that, you had your own car to take home. Damn, the one time you choose not to get an Uber.

“No, I have my own car, it’s fine. And I need to just close up anyways, I’ve cleaned up most of the stuff already.”

“Okay,” He grinned at you before turning back to the other man. “I’ll take the keys, thanks.”

The man nodded and fished them out of his pocket, along with his wallet. He placed a $20 and a $5 bill on the counter and slid it over to you.

“I’m Will,” Like Frankie, he holds his hand out for you to shake, which you take. “Thanks for the beers. Let me know if you need anything.” He says that last part to Benny, before nodding again at you in acknowledgment and then turning to leave with Frankie and Santi—who you didn’t get to talk to, unfortunately.

He seemed fun, though, as he yelled out to Benny as they began opening the door. “See you later, tonto!” [“See you later, silly!”]

You giggle a little as the door swings closed and Benny scoffs under his breath. “They sound like a fun group.”

“Yeah, they can be. A bit of a handful, though.”

“Present company excluded?” You tilt your head slightly and raise an eyebrow.

“You’ll just have to find that out when we go on a real date, honey.” He flashes you a smile, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he does so. “Could I walk you out when you’re done here?”

For nearly the tenth time tonight butterflies arise in your stomach at his antics. “Yeah, that’d be nice. Let me go in the back real quick and then we can go.”

He nods and checks his phone as you head behind the doors to the storage rooms and kitchen area, just doing a check-up to make sure everything’s locked and secured. You finish that up quickly and turn off all the lights in the rooms before coming back out behind the bar counter to face Benny.

He looks up from his phone and gives you a sweet smile as he turns it off and slides it back into his back pocket. “Everything good?”

“Yep,” You reach into a cabinet behind you to grab your bag and coat. “Ready to go.”

You finish putting on your coat as you come out from behind the bar to stand next to Benny, who gets up from his seat before pushing in the stool.

“Shall we?” He holds his bent arm out to you as if you two were about to go out on a walk in a fancy flower garden.

You chuckle quietly at the motion, before going to hook your arm with his. “We shall.”

And so the two of you walk out—you locking up before you leave, of course—and he leads you to your car.

“Thanks for walking me out.” You smile at him under the mixture of the glow of the moon and the shine of the streetlights. “You’re real sweet, you know that?”

“It’s no problem. Just been raised that way,” Benny grins back. “Gotta make sure you get home safe.”

You hum in agreement, tracing his features with your eyes for the last time that night. Your ears almost don’t hear what he says because you’re so enthralled with just studying his face. “Real pretty too, Benny.”

His smile drops for a moment, out of shock, you think, before he just looks down again at the ground, cheeks flushed. He almost looks embarrassed, and for a moment you’re afraid you’ve said something wrong. You open your mouth to speak but he says something first.

“I think that’s the best compliment a man like me could get, honey.” He brings his gaze back up to make eye contact with you, his voice smooth and deep. “Thank you. You’re real pretty too.”

Even as you head home alone, driving along the dark and near-empty streets, you can’t stop thinking about him. About how pretty he looked under the moonlight in the latest hours of night, the early hours of the morning, in that barren parking lot. About how easy it was to talk to him and how interested he was in the things you had to say. The dark was unsettling, but his presence made everything a bit brighter.

You would definitely have to find a way to thank Frankie for introducing you later.

[spot-of-tea]

There's Something Wrong With Iggy Dragneel - Chapter 69

Iggy had a plan. He’d thought about it too, had gone through every possible scenario and came to the conclusion that it was... a plan. unfortunately the only plan left that would mean the magic council would leave his uncle alone.

Oh Iggy!

Enjoyyy >:3c

You can read the new chapter here

[teahoused0ll]

are there any characters you decided not to include in Unlike a Fairy Tail for any reason?

Blue Lock has such a huge cast, and they're pretty much all great for their own reasons, but yeah when writing a fic you can only add so many.

A lot of the characters I've included are around pairings I like- fanfiction is fun like that, it's self-indulgent. Some of those characters have other characters they come as a package with- so while Karasu and Hiori are a pairing, it also feels weird to write Karasu without Otoya. Aiku and Sendou were meant to be a throw-away comment, but after s2 finished I thought they deserved some light.

Aryu and Niko aren't included because they're part of Sendou's friend group outside of hospital. Igarashi I just don't know how to fit into the narrative, so he won't appear. Kurona won't appear until towards the end as I've planned something there.

I hope this makes sense rather than being a non-answer!

[hellcifrogs]

Took A while more than I hoped, but here are the details in team 7's Students AU designs. (Without Sai bc his design was the last and mostly made to match these)

[tearingskies]

dead and gone (life goes on)

Read on AO3 or below the cut

George learns how to go on without Fred.

TW: spiralling and mentions of death

In the end, it’s not the body or the funeral or even the heart-wrenching, gutted cries of his mother, but rather the open-ended joke without a punchline that finally makes it sink in for George. 

He sits at the table unmoving, every muscle in his body constricting as he waits for a quip to fill the oppressive silence that has overtaken the Burrow. It extends, inflating limitlessly as a quiet ringing starts in his ears. It’s like something has burst in his chest. Something that now presses against his heart and squeezes it tightly in a cold lover’s embrace.

Seconds tick by and he faintly hears someone say something that doesn’t have an impact in this wretched alternative universe he must be living in. Because there’s always a punchline with Gred and Forge. 

The first time they truly pranked someone was Percy when they were three years old. The pompous git had been acting all high and mighty and confiscating some “unsafe” device from them, thus prompting the very levelheaded and mature response of having his fingers turn into rolls of sticky tape that unwinded and hit his face repeatedly. 

George remembers high-fiving Fred for the coordinated piece of accidental magic and running outside to pull garden gnomes’ ears as Percy went wailing to their mother. It was the beginning of their joint lives. Lives that were supposed to remain intertwined until the day their hearts stopped beating while they sat side by side in creaky rocking chairs. 

But now George is here and Fred is not and the punchline hangs in a vacuum. 

“He’s dead,” he whispers. “He’s gone.”

Locks pop open and he breaks. Swirling, tumbling, rocketing through memories, possibilities, and countless what-ifs that would never happen. He’s a comet racing towards a black hole aiming to suck his very soul dry. 

And then there are arms curling around his shoulders, and a warm hand pressing solidly against his racing heart to ground him before he floats away. 

George swallows a shaky breath and becomes aware of the salty streams on his cheeks. 

“Yes, George. He’s gone.” 

It’s Ginny, because of course it is. His bulletproof, bold sister who has flown circles around the rest of them, jinxed Fred and him countless times for their silly jokes, and faced horrors beyond imagination yet carried on living. She’s the one who has never sugarcoated things for him, the one George can always count on to tell the hard truths when it’s time for them to be said. 

He leans against her, sobs breaking free from his throat like choked hiccups. Ginny’s fingers sooth through his hair while the hand on his chest begins tapping a small, steady beat on his heart. Tu-tum, tu-tum, tu-tum. 

Minutes, or maybe hours, pass. George starts to feel the pressure on his chest loosen. He draws in rapid breaths and clutches Ginny’s arm like a lifeline. 

“He- He didn’t finish the joke,” he mumbles out, words folding together in of-kilter syllables. 

He faintly hears his mother crying, sees the grim, grieving faces of his brothers, and feels his father’s palpable sadness radiating across the table. 

“Yes, he did,” Ginny says to his ear, voice firm and sure like it’s an irrevocable fact. “He’s just keeping the good stuff to himself for now.“

George wants to believe her. That there’s a place beyond where his twin has found peace and watches over him. A place where they will meet again one day. He misses the echo of another who shares his thoughts and finishes his sentences, those looks they shared and instinctively knew what the other was thinking. How the world just worked with them in it together. Now it feels like everywhere he looks, the colours are dimmer and he doesn’t know where he fits anymore. 

Fred was the self-assured one, the life of the party, who lit up every room he walked into. George doesn’t think he’s ever found quite the same yearning to live every day like there’s no tomorrow as Fred had. It feels like a waste that he’s not the one still breathing. 

George looks down at the two mismatched watches that wrap their leather bands around his right arm. One has a russet background and warping iron tendrils curling around the clock face, while the other is a deep forest green with cracked glass courtesy of a prank gone wrong in their seventh year. They tick away in harmony, like two heartbeats pulsing against his skin. He touches the crack on the clock closer to him and smiles ruefully at the memories it holds. He hasn’t removed it since he first put it on after the funeral. 

“I miss him.” 

“I know, George,” Ginny says. “I miss him too.”

And perhaps that, the knowledge that he’s not alone in his pain, is what kickstarts his mind again. He races past lacklustre trunks filled with memories of mischief and weaves between tall, swaying shelves full of half-completed ideas and concepts. His heart aches, but it beats the same steady rhythm as its twin somewhere beyond. 

What is life without Fred? For George, it seems like a bleak, faded existence that he already despises. But it’s a dishonour, a complete betrayal of all the things his better half stood for to wilt and wallow in grief and bitterness while the world awaits in bubbling colour and tittering sound. Three months is long enough — far too long if you’d ask Fred, he thinks — to merely exist when another can’t live. It’s the burden and responsibility of the living to go on and live. George wants to live for Fred, no matter how much the thought of it may hurt his soul. Because Fred Weasley deserves to live on in humour and strength and Skiving Snackboxes. 

So, here he is: “We…I need to reopen the shop.”

“Oh, George, do you think that’s a good idea, dear?” his mother worries. “Don’t you think it might be too overwhelming? And it’s so soon, you really ought to rest…”

“No. No, I-” George falters, his voice cracking with emotion. ”He’d want me, all of us, to go on and live like he’d have lived. With laughter and stupid pranks and ear jokes.”

Ron claps him on the shoulder, firm and comforting in a way that wouldn’t have ordinarily come to mind when thinking of him. At least compared to how George remembers seeing him before the war. “And we’ll help, George. Get things up and running like he would’ve wanted.”

George smiles wetly at the nods and sounds of agreement reverberating from his family. 

“I can have a look at the books, help out in the office,” Percy volunteers. 

“And I’m sure Verity would love to help – she knows all the everyday stuff,” Ginny pipes up with an encouraging grin. George nods a little. 

Harry shifts across the table and looks at Hermione and Ron before speaking up, “We’ve um, we’ve got some gold from the Ministry that needs a solid investment. I figured since the last one turned out so well, it’s a guaranteed thing, really.” He rustles his hair awkwardly while Hermione smiles softly. 

George chuckles with a half sob, “Lifetime’s worth of complimentary dungbombs for you three.” The trio wince abashed at that, and he laughs some more. 

Ron lifts his glass in a toast, “To Fred. And all the mischief his legacy will accomplish.”

George’s family raises their glasses, fond smiles and teary laughs accompanying the echoed words. He feels the cold ache in his chest deflate a bit. The grief lingers, as it always will, but there’s a warmth cocooning it now. He might not get to create memories as a “we” anymore, but he would cherish every “I” moment over the coming decades to share and laugh over when they would finally be reunited. 

“I love you, Forge,” he whispers as he raises his glass, and the warm presence pulses in acknowledgment. 

Life goes on with a little more pranks and mischief after that. 

[annievrse]

tea party

girl dad!sukuna —ᡣ𐭩 blurb a/n: this has taken over my life

you'd left for the grocery store an hour ago, and sukuna wondered what you could possibly be doing there for that long. nonetheless, he sat in the living room, surrounded by stuffed animals at his daughter's tiny round table. he shifted uncomfortably in the miniature chair he sat in for the 'tea party', and watched as layla shoved her tiara back on top of her head.

"daddy," she said. "tea?"

sukuna sighed but nodded. "yes, baby."

her little squeal made his heart do weird things, and she tilted the teapot in her hand into the cup in front of him.

"whoa, whoa!" sukuna yelled, earning a confused look from layla. "that's enough tea; it's gonna overflow."

his daughter slapped her hand over her mouth, something she learned from you, but loud giggles escaped. "sorry, daddy."

with a soft smile on his face, sukuna adjusted the crown of his head—it dug into his scalp. "now, give mr squishy a cookie; he's starting to eat my fingers."

layla continued her contagious giggles, aimlessly tossing a wooden cookie at the stuffed bear.

sukuna glanced at the clock again but paused when he heard his daughter whispering to her stuffed devil (courtesy of your husband). he was about to put on a character to make her laugh again, but when he heard her words, he tilted his head.

"...that's my daddy... he's big and strong... i love daddy."

now, sukuna didn't cry. sure, he'd teared up happily when layla was born, and on the night of your wedding when he realised he'd be spending the rest of his life with you. but he couldn't recall the last time tears actually fell from his eyes.

until now.

"kuna?" your voice rang through the room, and he jolted, wiping the wetness from his cheeks haphazardly. he didn't even hear you come in.

sukuna scrunched his face up in confusion because what the fuck? he doesn't even remember starting to cry.

"what happened?" the worry in your voice was what brought him back to the moment, and he laughed deeply, shaking his head.

"nothing," he grumbled, looking at layla, who sat there, eyes wide with fear. "the tea was too hot."

and when his daughter fell back into a fit of giggles, squealing about 'daddy being funny', sukuna knew he'd changed; the phenomenon of having a child had officially broken his cold, cold heart.

[ssweet--tea]

wrote a fic for mafuyu's birthday 👍

[choccy-milky]

sometimes you gotta lure your overly-studious ravenclaw gf into spending time with you 🥰 📚 ( from 'Every Teardrop is a Waterfall' by Kat_12739 on ao3, GO READ IT!!! the first story is about seb falling sick and still pushing himself/not admitting he's sick until he ends up in the hospital, the second story is about the birth of seb and clora's daughter and seb's reaction to clora almost dying in childbirth, and the third is about dealing with a fussy newborn lewis😭🥹THEY'RE SO GOOD AND SWEET AND SOMEWHAT SAD (not to mention beautifully written) so go check it out!!💖💖 )