#tea writes

[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]

Okay so this is my first bit of worldbuilding for my fic, I'm gonna do a family at a time.

So as a preface the fic starts a few years after the end of the main story. it's all canon to the fic and I like to think that 100 yrs quest is canon too but I don't really follow it so it's just in the background.

The main bulk of the fic takes place about 25-26 yrs after the end of the main story so the main cast are in their late 30's, early 40's by now and have mostly had kids.

(edit: so I'm going back through all the families and updating them, I figured it was time for a clean up)

So the first family is:

The Dragneel-Heartfilia Family

Natsu takes his sweet time asking Lucy out to begin with but when he does it's because of his own misunderstanding that they've been dating for a long time already. The two eventually tie the knot and Natsu refuses to let Lucy give up her name because Lucy being anything other than a Heartfilia would just be too weird to him and instead decide to let their kids choose whichever last name they want.

Which leads us to:

Luna Heartfilia

The eldest daughter of Natsu and Lucy, born with her mothers looks and brains, she's a Heartfilia through and through with a dash of her fathers passionate personality. Luna very much became an older daughter, and through a series of unfortunate events was forced to mature too quickly. After becoming fiercely independent she often butted heads with her father. She learned Celestial spirit magic so that she can continue her mother's family legacy and is the current holder of Aquarius, Capricorn, and Gemini. Along with several of her own silver keys which she has collected herself.

Nashi Dragneel-Heartfilia

The middle child, often regarded as Natsu 2.0, she's loud, reckless and overall a destructive force of nature. Unbeknownst to many though she is far smarter than most people give her credit for and is by far the most observant out of her family. Nashi was named after her Edolas counterpart, Nasha, when Natsu and Lucy couldn't think of a different name that would suit the young girl. Nashi has formed her own team along with Storm Fullbuster, Yajeh and Shutora Redfox, and Simon Scarlet. Nashi has learnt the basics of Celestial spirit magic from her mother but never quite took to it like her sister, while she does currently have Virgo's key and a couple silver keys that she can use for utility purposes her main magic is (and points for if you saw this coming) fire. Nashi learned fire magic from her uncle Romeo as a way to surprise her dad, he definitely didn't cry (he so did) when she showed him.

Igneel Dragneel

The youngest of the bunch, Iggy has been considered something of an oddity in the family. While he looks more like his father than his mother he actually has neither of their colourings. He instead bears a striking resemblance to his only biological uncle. Bubbly and determined Iggy takes most things that come his way in his stride and with a smile. Iggy has become something of a powerhouse in his own right, with both sides of his families culminative magical prowess all coming together with him. Iggy often shows off his considerable intellectual prowess by crafting his own spells and building upon current magical systems. His main set of spells involves crafting complex enchantments using archive magic.

[teahoused0ll]

Probably going to have an interlude before this, but the next UaF chapter should keep things moving.

[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.

[ephemeraltea]

[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

[whatifyouareboring-and-alive]

what to do when you’ve gotta get out

go down to the reservoir. go down

to the basin of stoplights and white bike memorials. go down

to the store and get some frozen fluorescents for dinner. go down

to the contorted plastic limbs where the lichen-loved swing set used to be. go down

to the basement and sigh. go down

to the station and sigh. go down

to the bottom of your glass and get tired of sighing. go down

to the churches where everyone looks like you and sounds like something else. go down

on your knees and pray. go down

on her. go down

to the half-bath and drink all the cough syrup. go down

with a cold two weeks later. go down

to the pharmacy and buy some more fucking cough syrup. go down

to the bottom of the pool on a dare. go down

to the bottom of the pool on a truth. go down

with a fight. go down

without one. go down

on your knees in the shower and try to pray again. go down

the rabbithole til you hit the mantle of the earth. go down

deeper. go down

under the deck and see all the old cigarette butts you thought you could bury. go down

screaming. go down

sighing. go down

like a girl falling from an enflamed factory building or

the meteorite you and your dizzy dad and sick brother

all wished on at once. go down

to virginia beach at night

and stare at the little shimmers of fish

in each breath of the waves. go down

on your knees and pray to them. go down

into the blue-black glass and pray with them. go down

into yourself and understand

no matter where you go

you’ll always

want

to

leave.

[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

[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.

[doodles-bi-tea]

Hey I’m 🌱🫖 Anon the one that asked for that detailed Brad Bakshi fic, and I wanted to ask if you are going to release it or if you don’t feel like writing it anymore (it’s totally fine either way) is mostly just to know.

Also I love how you have decorated your blog with a F1 theme. I’m a fellow F1 fan (since childhood) and I’m also Spanish so seeing that you have a Carlos profile picture always makes my day ☺️

-🌱🫖

crying lightning (unfinished/pt. 1)

Brad Bakshi was by no means a warm person. At least, not that you had thought until now.

pairing: brad bakshi x coworker reader [second person, no y/n]

warnings: a couple of cliches, fear of dark and thunderstorms, power outage, profanity, developing feelings. mostly fluff/comfort. brad is a little bit of an asshole, as expected (and now you’re caught up!), but not the whole time. one mention of c.w.

(unfinished) word count: 2.3k

a/n: based off of this request here! heyyyy 🌱🫖 anon, I really appreciated the request! hope you don’t mind I focused it more so on season one/two brad. sorry this took so long to post and I didn’t even get to finish it, I got caught up in the struggles of daily life smh 😔 but thank you so much for your patience, I might finish it if I get the motivation but at the moment I’m not sure… also yes I’m into f1 now!! I might write for some of the drivers if people really want that but I’m not sure since I’ve been very busy. let me know if you’d be interested in that!

Your keys clinked together as you locked the front door of your apartment. After that was done, you slipped them into your bag and began the ten-minute walk to work. The sounds of Los Angeles were blocked out by the headphones you wore, listening to music and podcasts as you crossed streets and walked along the pavement. People, although no more than faces and outfits, passed you every day on the same route you went to get to Mythic Quest headquarters. It felt like just another day.

“Fuuuuuuuck.” You groaned, slouching down and letting your head hit the desk with a thud. The rain was absolutely pouring outside, you could hear it.

Being on the writing team wasn’t as glamorous as you had hoped it would be. C.W., as much as you initially admired his works, was an incredibly lousy head writer. That was normal, but especially today, he or one of the other slightly psychotic department heads were extra adamant on making sure you couldn’t get any work done. Thus you’d needed to stay a little later than normal.

It was only an extra half hour to revise a rough draft and a couple storyboarding charts, you’d told yourself. That was before the rain started twenty minutes into those extra thirty minutes. If you had left on time, you would have been able to get home – and with time to spare! – without needing to get rained on. Since you’d waited, though, the rain started, and forced you to stay in the building until it dissipated. When you checked your phone that morning, the forecast was only clear and sunny. That was clearly not the case now. Locked in your workplace, you decided to continue working until you either finished or the rain stopped.

Back to the present moment, you had just finished the work you needed to do, but the rain hadn’t let up. It didn’t seem like it was going to any time soon, either. If anything, it sounded like it was getting worse. You sat up, leaning back into the rolling chair you had, and pressing your hands to your closed eyes in frustration.

“What are you still doing here?” It was almost like Brad could smell the despair emanating from your being.

Not expecting his sudden presence, you nearly jumped at the mere sound of his voice.

“Jesus Christ, Brad,” You abruptly pulled your hands away from your face and gripped the armrests of the chair. “Scared the shit out of me.”

He scoffed. “I try. But what are you doing here? Work ended an hour ago.”

“I could say the same for you.”

“Yeah, you could. But I asked first. And you still haven’t answered.”

You inhaled through your teeth before pursing your lips. “Okay, fine, I wanted to just finalize some stuff the writing team and I were working on today. Poppy and Ian wouldn’t leave me alone because they were having one of their little… piss fights and were bothering everyone to see who was ‘right.’ I wasn’t gonna stay for that long, but the rain clearly had other plans.” You halfheartedly gestured to the windows in the main room that showed the overcast sky and harsh rain happening outside.

Brad didn’t even bother looking behind him. “And, what? You don’t have a ride or something?”

You furrowed your brows at his response. “Dude. I literally walk to work every day. It’s easier because it’s not that far and I get to avoid the issues of traffic and having to park in the parking structure, you know? And the gas prices, have you seen that bullsh-”

“Yeah, yeah I get it, whatever. Just shut it. I didn’t come here to listen to you complain.” He waved a hand around aimlessly as he began to roll his eyes.

Neither of you said anything further for a moment, you just sat there watching as he studied the ground. If you hadn’t been looking at him, you wouldn’t have noticed the very subtle twitch of his eye and the little exasperated sigh he let out as he seemed to be weighing his options. He opened his mouth, but paused. Then he went on to speak.

“You don’t even have like a flimsy little umbrella or something? A raincoat? Nothing?” He hung his head slightly lower, talking with an air of disbelief.

“Does it look like it, Bakshi?” You held your hands up and swiveled around in the chair a little, glancing quickly around the room with furrowed brows. “If I had either of those I would have left already.”

“I don’t know what goes through your mind,” He scoffed again. “I’m not a lowly writer. I’m the HOMIE.”

You didn’t really have any words. You wanted to so desperately insult him but you knew he would easily be able to destroy you with less effort. Instead you opted for just biting your tongue.

“Whatever. I’ll probably just wait it out. Even if it means I have to sleep in my office.” You moved your chair closer to the desk and laid your forehead down, quietly groaning in defeat.

Although you couldn’t see him, you could tell Brad was fidgeting slightly from where he stood in the doorway. The rain pattered onto the pavement outside, but you could hear the slight rustle of whatever sweater he was wearing, the tapping of his shoe on the carpeted floor, the liquid he swirled around in his mug. Eventually he spoke.

“Did you…” He trailed off, clearly reluctant. “Did you need a ride?”

Your brows furrowed, again, against the cold desk. “Really?” You were in disbelief as you sat up in your chair. “The infamous Brad Bakshi, greedy, heartless bastard of MQ, offering to give a ‘lowly writer’ a ride? Is this real? Am I on a prank show? Where are the cameras?” You gave him an exaggerated gasp as you quickly whipped your head around the room and spun around in your chair.

“Do you want that car ride or not?” His blank expression said it all. Brad was not amused.

“Fine, fine, just let me get my stuff real quick.”

Brad walked briskly, not waiting for you to catch up as he practically sprinted through the staff parking structure. “Pick up the pace, writer.”

You grumbled little insults under your breath so he wouldn’t hear, and began walking faster to keep up. “Fine, ‘homie.’”

The two of you eventually got to his car. It was nothing too extravagant. Fairly generic, but sleek enough for his taste.

[I’m so sorry I don’t know or remember what car Brad drives/would drive – if anyone has an answer for this please hmu LMAO. I feel like it would be either silver, blue, or black (some of the most generic car colors but with somewhat deeper connection to him as a person/character).]

The inside smells faintly like an air freshener but more like something more comfortable and just there. Somewhat like dust, but not unpleasantly so. You get into the passenger seat as Brad gets into the driver’s. He hands you his phone, already open to a navigation app for you to put your address into. You begin doing so, but a weather advisory appears. At the same time, you can feel your own phone vibrate inside your bag, presumably giving you the same notice. “Harsh rain and possible storms in the general LA area. Staying home is recommended.” it read. Brad leans over a little, just to see the notification.

“Hm. Would have been nice to know before I left for work this morning.” You scoffed, a little weary but continuing to type your address before you gave him his phone back.

He took it and began the route, the two of you leaving the parking structure in silence. It was a little uncomfortable, you had to admit, but not for long.

“If you want music you can put something on. Just connect your phone with bluetooth.” Brad said softly.

It was unexpectedly quiet and gentle, a stark contrast to his normal brash demeanor.

“Oh, okay.”

You pressed some things on the dashboard, before connecting your phone and playing some of your favorite music. It didn’t seem like Brad had much of an opinion on it. Rain continued to patter on the windshield as the car was stagnant.

“Thanks, by the way.” You kind of blurted out, but it was genuine. “I forgot to say it earlier, but it means a lot.”

His response was brief. “It’s whatever.”

The temporary silence returned. Another buzz sounded from your phones. Rather than taking yours out, you just leaned over to look at Brad’s phone. Another notice, but this time a warning. “Expected storms within next twelve hours. Power outages in some areas of LA and southern California. It is advised to stay off the roads during this time frame.”

“Shit.” You murmured, clearly more worried now. “My apartment’s still another ten minutes away because of the traffic…”

“Yep.” Brad was still stoic.

“Hey, by the way, where do you live? Are you far away from here? ‘Cause I don’t want you to have to drive to my apartment and then all the way back if it’s like the opposite direction.”

“It’s like five minutes away from MQ.”

You were silent for a moment, out of disbelief. “What?”

“Yeah. I live five minutes away.”

“And you don’t just walk?”

“Nope.”

“Why not?”

“‘Cause.”

“God, Brad, you’re such a-”

“An environmentally apathetic asshole? Self-centered douchebag? Lazy bum? I’ve heard it all and I really couldn't care less.”

“Okay, but seriously, I don’t want you to, like, hydroplane and-or get into an accident on the way back to your place. You might as well just drop me off here and turn back now.”

Brad turned to you, an eyebrow raised and head cocked slightly to the side. “As ‘on-brand’ that would be for me, that’s an actual asshole move, and I don’t want your death to be on my hands if you get swept up and away by some random gust of wind.”

“Oh, wow, so he does have a heart.” You quipped.

Brad rolled his eyes again, looking out at the cars in front of you. “As much as I hate to admit it, yes, I do. All humans do, because it pumps blood throughout their fucking bodies. I thought you were smarter than this, writer.”

“You know what I mean. I’m not that much of a dumbass.”

“Really? I hadn’t noticed.”

“Oh, my god, just… shut up. Also are you not in any way worried about our current situation? We’re bound to get into an accident at this rate, we need to get to our places as soon as we possibly can.”

“Okay, well, the traffic to get to your apartment is still not clearing up, so if you’re so worried, I’ll drop you back off at MQ and then I’ll head to my house.”

You shook your head at the notion, groaning. “No, no, no, no, I can’t stay at MQ overnight…”

Brad turned back to look at you. A strange hint of a smile graced his lips as he scoffed.

“What happened to ‘I’ll wait the rain out even if it means I have to sleep at my desk?’”

You felt the heat of embarrassment rise up your neck and to your cheeks, turning away from him and facing the window to avoid eye contact. “I don’t know, I didn’t think I’d actually have to do it. Especially after you offered me a ride! And now we’re in the car, it seemed pretty unlikely that it would still be happening.”

For the first time in you ever knowing him (your two years at MQ), Brad Bakshi laughed. It wasn’t one of his sarcastic chuckles, nor a strained noise, but a genuine laugh. You had a puzzled look on your face, and whipped your head around to see him. His eyes were shut, he was slightly hunched over, and his smile was clear as day. He continued to laugh–presumably at you–but for once, you didn’t mind. The sight was a joy to see. Sure, Brad was an asshole, but he had his moments. A smile of your own crept its way onto your face as you watched him laugh for a few seconds longer. As his laughter wound down, a sudden crack of lightning flashed across the sky, a rumble of thunder following immediately after, startling the both of you.

“Shit!” You hissed, jumping in your seat. “Okay, okay, we really need to get to safety, like… now. This shit is actually dangerous, Brad. I don’t want you getting injured or worse because of my lack of preparation. If you really need to drop me off at the office on your way to your place, that’s… fine.”

Although unhappy that the start of your weekend would be ruined by having to sleep over in your office building, you figured it would be better than causing Brad to get stuck in the storm. You awaited his response, once again watching him as he thought for a moment.

Suddenly, he let out a quiet groan, tilting his head down, leaning his forehead lightly against the wheel. “I can’t believe I’m about to offer this to you, of all people, but if you’re so god damn worried about my safety… I have a guest room at my house.”

His sudden generosity confuses and delights you. It’s strange, that’s for sure, but it’s a welcome surprise.

“Really?”

“Why else would I have said it?” It was a question but it came out as more of a statement.

“I don’t know, it’s just… weird. Not to say that I don’t accept, but it’s oddly kind of you. Not something commonly associated with the image of Brad Bakshi.”

He shrugged. “I know. So do you accept or not?”

“I do, thank you so much.” You spoke quickly, hoping he wouldn’t rescind the offer. “I’m sorry to cause you so much inconvenience.”

“I’m sorry too. I’m sorry you’re so dumb that you didn’t prepare a way back home.”

“Oh, my god.”

[spot-of-tea]

I see my future in your eyes

She sighed once more and peered into her now empty champagne glass. While all her friends were off starting families and finally settling down she was still painfully single. She’d tried to date, don’t get her wrong, but after everything that's happened most guys were only interested in her for the fame and prestige that came with her. Guess that’s what happens when you save the world.

Link to the fic

Okay I'm definitely not procrastinating tswwid. This little brain worm just had to be set free though, so here have it.

Hope you guys like it.

[teahoused0ll]

True crime is always frustrating to listen to. I think about the scumbag men I've had in my life. The narrow misses, the violence, how they cannot keep their hands to themselves, how very few are willing to confront the uncomfortable things the other men in their life do. The things they do. I think about how if I protected myself with my hands or an object, I would get the heaviest punitive punishment possible. If my boyfriend, husband, father, brother did it then it would be less harsh. I think about the men who would defend him, who'd say I had it coming and who was denying men the true nature of men. I think about how I've survived but so deeply scarred, and all times I've reached for help have been so drenched in the same toxicity. Victim-blaming rhetoric. How do you recover when it's a genuine fear that danger lurks around every corner? And no, this does not include trans men, and we need to make that distinction of lived experiences. They suffer under this same oppressive patriarchy too. Nor does it include the numerous other marginalised men, many who are convenient scapegoats and not permitted "boys will be boys".

[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!!💖💖 )

[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. 

[teashadephoenix]

everytime i see steven yeun im reminded of that story i wanted to write where him and john cho play brothers struggling to keep their ranch from going under (its a western) and the local cathouse is run by a rupaul-esque madam (bc why tf not) and there's probably a bad guy in there somewhere i hadnt actually got much further than that (but in my head its prolly gonna be pedro pascal bc i want to see that man as a johnny ringo kinda character like the deserts miss the rain)