#thread: when the world burns drink tea

[vegan-peppermint]

Frost and Flour

Pairing: Krampus!konigx reader

Cw: size kink, power play, slight cnc, breeding;

Inspired by this post.

Summery: in your village, men would dress as monsters on Christmas stealing women and children and run around the town. Your krampus had other ideas.

Did not proof read, I saw this post yesterday and tried to speed run this fic for it to be ready before Christmas. Might be bad and rushed. Will edit after new years.

Word count: 4k

The snow fell thick and soft, blanketing the jagged peaks of the mountains like a heavy quilt. The air was sharp and bracing, scented faintly with pine and the smoky warmth of wood-burning stoves. This was the village of your childhood Christmases, a place where the world seemed smaller, quieter, and steeped in old traditions. Nestled deep in the heart of the mountains, it felt like a hidden pocket of time where the modern world dared not intrude.

Traditions are the heart of the holidays, the thread that weaves magic into the season and shapes the way people celebrate. In every corner of the world, they bring warmth and wonder: streets lit up with strands of melted honey, the soft glow of advent candles peaking through the frosty windows and the -oh too comforting- aroma of cookies baking in old family kitchens.

But this village had its own unique tradition, one that set it apart from the glittering cities and quaint holiday fairs elsewhere. Here, Christmas wasn't just about warmth and cheer, it carried a shadow, a reverence for the old ways—

both enchanting and a little haunting.

When winter arrived and snow blanketed the wooden rooftops, the young people who had left for the city always hurried back to their childhood homes. So did you. This year, you came earlier than most, arriving in November to help at your family’s bakery. The holiday season brought plenty of special orders, far too much for your grandmother’s old hands to handle alone.

As your hands kneaded the cookie dough behind the counter, your mind was heavy with thoughts and debates. The life you’d built back in the States wasn’t bad—a steady job, a cozy apartment near the city center—but as the warmth of this small, close-knit community enveloped you, a cold stone pressed heavily in your chest. Before sinking any deeper, the bell on the door jingled.

"Hello! Welcome to Frost and Flour, how can I help you today?" you greeted with a cheerful smile.

The man—who, no doubt, had to bow his head to fit through the doorframe—returned the smile, his lips barely visible beneath a fluffy green wool scarf.

"Hallo," his voice came out muffled, the words soft behind the thick fabric. Snowflakes clung to his blonde hair, drifting down like sugar crystals. He shook his head with a swift motion, trying to flick them off, and the gesture reminded you of a puppy entering your shop on a snowy day.

You recognized him, yet you couldn't really match the face to the name. He was the son of the lovely, old woman living on your street, Frau Lieder. Unlike her son, who resembled the mountains that surrounded your village rather than a man, Frau Lieder was as delicate as a breeze, tiny as an ant. Even though she was always quiet and humble, she'd always sit upright and proud when talking about her son, the colonel.

"It's not too late to place an order, no?" He spoke, taking his scarf off revealing his red, frozen cheeks.

"No, not at all. Come in, come in!" You encouraged quickly running to the tap to wash your hands off. "It's really freezing outside! Would you like anything warm to drink? Coffee, or tea?"

He shook his head in refusal, but the way his frozen eyelashes trembled seemed to tell a different story. "How about a coffee? I made too much for myself already," you patted your hands dry on the apron.

The man opened his mouth to protest, but you didn’t give him a chance. Gently guiding him to an empty table, you set down the coffee before him and sat down beside him, placing your own cup next to his to ease the tension. He didn’t seem eager to speak, so you attempted to fill the silence, though your words came out a little more forced than usual.

"You came a long way, didn't you? You look like a snowman," you remarked, trying to break the ice.

He only hummed in response, a soft sound, and you hesitated for a moment before pressing on. "Want sugar in your coffee?"

"It's fine like this, thank you," he said, his voice calm but distant.

An awkward silence settled between you both, thick and uncomfortable. He looked tired so you decided to give up. Not everyone wants to chit-chat, you understood that.

"So, what do you want to order?" You got right to the point.

"Oh, Ja... I need two Stollen," he replied.

"Yeah, we can definitely do that," you said, quickly moving into a list of other things you could offer. You kept talking, listing the flavors and sweet treats, drifting in how they were made and why you made them the best. He seemed taken aback by your sudden burst, but after a while, you saw him relax. He leaned back in his chair, spreading his legs comfortably, and took another sip of his coffee, the steam rising around him like a cloud. His icy blue eyes didn’t leave you as you talked, causing your words to spill faster. They were fixed on you with a piercing intensity, scanning your every expression.

"So I think you should really add the chocolate cookies- we also make them vegan if that's the case-"

"That sounds good," he finally said, agreeing to the order. You jotted it down quickly.

"Great choice, I'll throw in some samples of the others as well!" You grinned, excited for people to try your new recipes.

The cups were filled with coffee still. You lingered as much as you could, writing as to avert his eyes. What's up with people with blue eyes and staring like that? You could still feel his gaze on you as you re-read the same 5 items for the thousandth time.

You shifted in your seat, unsure of what to do with yourself. He seemed to notice, and you caught the glimmer of amusement in his eyes.

"Something wrong?" he asked, his voice laced with a playful tease.

You swallowed, trying to regain your composure. "No, just... not used to quiet customers," you murmured, avoiding his gaze.

He hummed, just as you were accustomed. You stood up quickly, feeling the need to escape the weight of the silence, and found something to occupy yourself behind the counter, fiddling with a few stray utensils. The soft clink of ceramic was the only sound until, after a moment, he spoke. "You going to the Christmas fest tonight?" His voice was low, almost secretive.

"Yeah, so excited," you replied with a laugh, grateful for the change in topic. "It’s the reason I came all this way!"

"Me too," he said solemnly, and something familiar downed on you. That’s when it hit you. "You're the one dressing as Krampus, aren't you?" you exclaimed, a bit too eagerly.

The surprise on his face was brief, quickly replaced by an expression that matched your own newfound curiosity. "I—I remember you," you added, turning to face him, a rush of memories flooding back. "Last year, I brought my younger sister too—you stole her and lifted her up in the air—swinging her around. She loved it so much."

"Ah, seems like I did a shit job—kids are supposed to be afraid of me," he chuckled.

You thought about the scary outfit he'll wear tonight, the furs that will coat his big back doubling him in size. How he'll run around, stalking and shouting- you couldn't help but hope he will be chasing you as well.

"Being punished by Krampus sounds pretty good, to be honest—"

You caught yourself too late, the words already hanging awkwardly between you. Maybe if you played dead, he’d just walk away, pretend nothing happened. You refused to acknowledge what you’d said, refusing to even glance at him. Faking a heart attack or any kind of medical emergency sounded plausible—anything to escape the tension creeping up your spine. The silence stretched on, thick and uncomfortable.

You opened your mouth but no words came out.

A Christmas miracle happened right in that moment as an elderly customer entered the shop.

"Welcome to Frost and Flour! How can I help you?" You beamed without skipping a beat, grateful you didn't have to start choking or throw yourself on the floor.

As you listened to the customer and answered his questions, you felt a heavy set of eyes pressing down on your frame. You didn't look at him again, tried really hard not to. He finished his coffee, got up, and left without saying a word. At the last possible moment, the second between the door hitting the frame, his eyes met yours for one last time. And as the door shut with a loud thud, leaving a sudden silence in its wake, you realized you hadn't asked for his name. You looked down at the empty line left at the bottom of his order and wrote:

Krampus.

The sun set down, the sky turned from blue to orange and back to blue again. You had met with some friends at the small Christmas market, wandering around the little wooden shops that lined the square. Laughter and chatter filled the chilly air as you and your friends picked up festive Christmas toys, nibbled on gingerbread, and sipped warm drinks. The air was alive with the sound of the Christmas choir, their voices drifting through the market and adding a touch of magic to the evening.

As time passed and the night grew darker, the atmosphere shifted. The carolers’ songs faded and adults began to gather around the tables, glasses in hand. It wasn’t long before Krampuses started appearing, stalking through the crowd. The sound of children screaming and running to their parents echoed through the square, while some men pretended to be brave, stepping forward to protect their girlfriends. You couldn’t help but laugh as some of your friends found themselves the prey of a particularly mischievous Krampus, who chased them with exaggerated growls, making the whole scene feel like a playful dance between fear and festivity.

"What's wrong?" Your friend asked through laughter. "Come on, why they long face?"

You suddenly became aware of your thoughtful expression and quickly excused yourself. You had been thinking about your Krampus- both embarrassed and hopeful to see him again. "You better cheer up soon, or the krampus will get you!" Another friend teased.

The air was suddenly filled with the deep, resonant thud of drums, each beat like a heartbeat pounding through the square. A group of men pushed their way through the crowd, their rhythmic movements sharp and precise, their boots striking the cobblestones with deliberate thuds. Their dance was primal and hypnotic, an echo of something ancient and untamed. Behind them, two towering Krampuses loomed, their enormous cowbells clanging with a deafening ring that sent shivers through the crowd. Draped in heavy, fur-lined cloaks that swayed with each step, their grotesque masks twisted into demonic faces that seemed to leer at anyone who dared to meet their gaze. The crowd recoiled instinctively, a ripple of nervous laughter and gasps breaking the tension as the Krampuses stalked forward, commanding both fear and awe.

The main drummer, the same one who had parted the crowd in two, struck his drum with a horrendous bang that swallowed all other noise. In unison, the crowd fell silent, their collective breath caught in their chests. Yet, despite the stillness, a distant rhythm lingered in the air—a pulsing thrum that echoed: the rapid, heavy pounding of every heart present.

Thud!

The crowed took a step back in anticipation as the Krampuses looked around hungrily.

Thud! Thud!

The beats served as a count down, a warning and threat before the krampuses will be set free. You were too mesmerized by the show that you haven't realized you were being watched.

Thud! Thud! THUD!

That's when you noticed the taller monster staying still, focusing on you. Shivers creeped unbidden down your spine, cold and sharp, leaving goosebumps as they passed. Your stomach plummeted, a hollow, twisting ache of dread settling deep within you, even before your gaze met his. You didn’t need to see his eyes to recognize it was him—undeniably, inescapably him.

The rhythmic pounding of the drums grew faster, more frantic, but the meaning escaped you, lost in the haze of your thoughts. Blurred figures rushed past, their panicked shouts blending into something you barely registered. Shoulders slammed into you, hands shoved, voices screamed, everything—the chaos, the fear, the blinding motion—blurred and faded, except for that mask. That awful, looming mask. Its hollow gaze pinned you in place, your focus narrowing until it was the only thing in the world that mattered.

Then, like the sharp crack of a pin dropping onto glass, the veil lifted. The muffled roars of the crowd became deafening, the banging and fireworks thundered in your ears, and the swell of scared people pressed against you, pulling you back into reality.

Run.

The word tore through your mind, an instinct louder than the drums, louder than the crazy fantasies you had. Run. You have to run.

The adrenaline hit you in full force, blood pumping hot through your veins as your feet pounded against the uneven ground. The small, twisted streets were making it harder for you, but you didn’t dare look back—you didn’t need to. You knew he was there. You could feel it, like a cold breath on the back of your neck.

You knew in the moment you broke eye contact, the second your body shifted to flee, he was already moving. His feet swept through the mud, closing the distance with the precision of a predator. He wasn’t chasing—you realized, with a spike of fear—he was hunting.

Exhaustion hit you hard, your breath coming in ragged gasps as your legs felt like lead, slowing to a near halt. Your body begged for rest, and you made the mistake of glancing over your shoulder. The street was empty—silent. No sign of him, nothing but the faint echo of your own heavy breathing. As you huffed in relief, grateful for the brief moment of peace, a hand clamped down on your waist, and another shot up to cover your mouth, muffling the scream you let out instinctively.

It all happened so fast, the way he grabbed you and spun you on his shoulder as if you weighted nothing. He ran away with you through the crowds, some people cheered and others ran away in fear of being the next victim. He ran past the crowds, past the houses and the gardens. The snow was getting higher and the lights were getting dimmer as the two of you strayed further from the towns fest.

No matter how much you screamed or how many questions you'd ask, he'd remain silent, eyes straight ahead not minding you at all.

"Please, stop! Put me down!" you begged for what felt like the hundredth time.

This time, he paused. With a grunt, he hurled you onto the snow-covered ground, your body colliding with the icy surface.

"You make so much noise," he growled, his voice low and rough. "I wonder how much louder you can get."

You stumbled onto your feet but the slippery ground betrayed you as you slipped again. Above you, the massive figure loomed, his imposing horns casting jagged shadows across the snow.

Your eyes were getting watery and your lip began to tremble. You were scared- your heart thumping and body trembling, that was fear. But the excitement that grew in your stomach and the urge to rub your legs against each other were something else entirely.

"Please," you whispered as a last plea, curling up as to make yourself as small as possible.

"Don't play dumb with me, little one. You deserve to be punished, you'll take what I'll give you and say thank you," he said.

Your eyes moved frantically from his mask to his muddy boots, then up his legs to the hard erection visible through his black pants before meeting the black holes where eyes were supposed to be.

"Please," you cried out doe eyed not sure what you were begging for.

The beast fell to his knees with a heavy sound making you flinch. You tried to push yourself further, but his strong hand grabbed at your ankle harshly. He dragged you by the foot, your skirt rising up as your ass slided on the cold snow. He let go of your leg, hand moving to your inner knee, slowly dragging his nails up your thigh.

"So sensitive," he coes when your skin reacts so eagerly to his touch. You instinctively grabbed at his hand which hovered above your panties. He paused his movement, seemingly amused at your attempt. "Go on," he leaned closer, covering your body with his own, the mask mere inches from your face. "Fight back," he breathed out a threat. "Try and fight me off, little lamb."

His hand slapped your clothed pussy, the weak attempt at a stopping him completly ignored. You let out a loud moan at the sudden feeling of pain.

His calloused hand started rubbing up and down the thin fabric. The daunting realization of how wet being hunted down like pray made you hit you as the panties became drenched.

"Aren't you ashamed?" He teased, fiddling with the zipper of his pants, tugging them just enough to free his large cock. "Being violated gets you this wet, Schatz?"

You whimper and squirm trying to get away from his touch, thriwing your hands at him- scratching and grabbing at his horns and neck.

Pathetic. That’s the only word for it. You know you’re not trying to escape or fight back. No, you’re just edging him on, hoping he'll snap and take out all his built up anger on you.

He easily grabs your wrists in one rapid motion. No matter how much you'd try, pulling with your whole body and then some, his grip would effortlessly stay the same.

"I'm going to fuck you," he announced pinning your hands above your head with one hand. "You will cry and scream and plead- and you will swallow every inch I give you."

He pulled your panties to the side placing his angry tip at the entrance. In the dead of night, under the midnight sky the lewd, wet sound of his dick spreading your juices was so loud.

No waiting, he pushed himself inside your throbbing cunt splitting you open.

"F-Fuck," you plead. "T-Too big, 's too big!" Your gummy walls stretch around his girth, causing your to choke in pain. The resistance slowly fades away as your cunt leaks more with every shallow thrust as he fills you up in ways you've never thought were possible.

"You can take it," he hissed, allowing you to adjust to his size. His cock was throbbing inside of you, pulsating eagerly. "You feel that? Feel what you do to me? I'm so hard for you, Schatz. Don't you wanna make me feel good?"

"Agh~," you cry out as you feel more of his size slipping inside your wet cunt. He let's go of his tight grip bringing one of your hands down to your stomach. His hand on top of yours as he's bullying his cock inside you. You feel him moving, the buldge in your stomach rising and lowering in sync with his thrusts. He growled loudly as you spammed around his dick so soon, moaning loudly and rolling your eyes in the back of your head, finally allowing him complete access as you cum on his fat cock.

"You're the tightest cunt I've fucked in a long time," he said bringing his hands on your hips angling you slightly better. His balls were hanging on your ass and his tip was pushing twords your womb.

If you could think straight, you'd be embarrassed of cumming just from being filled, of the moans and gasps you made with every inch he gave you. But the warmth of the village is distant and the ground behind your back is freezing, you need him- his warmth- to keep the cold from swallowing you whole.

Through teary eyes, you look at him. The faint light spilling from the village clings to his mask and coat, tracing his silhouette in an otherworldly glow, as if he were carved from shadow and firelight. He is no longer just a man draped in beast's clothes;

And yet, his gaze lingers on you, heavy and unreadable, somewhere between a silent threat or solemn apology.

It started slowly, dragging his member out then pushing it back in with slightly more forced than before. Your whole body was pressed deeper into the ground, head bobbling to his increasing rhythm.

One if his hands reached up to your chest, cupping one of your breast through the cotton material of your dress, the other digging into the side of your hip. He found your hardend nipple with ease, rubbing it between his fingers. He'd pinch and drag them only to see them bounce more viciously.

"Shush," he'd scold through heavy breaths. "If you keep moaning like that people will hear you. They'll see you spread wide getting your pussy stuffed, is that what you want?"

When his words were only getting you more riled up, he'd let go of your hips moving it to your loud mouth. He fell onto of you, his heavy body crushing your smaller frame, one hand desperately pulling at your tits while the other pressing hard on your mouth. He pounded into you like a man starved, abusing your needy hole.

You looked so pretty right now, your Krampus thought behind his mask. Your face was flushed, your eyelashes sticking together from tears. Strands of hair, damp from the snow melting behind you, clung to your face, yet your eyes were hazed with pleasure. He got you like this, so pathetic and cock drunk. You tried to say something but your words were muffled.

"Shut up, just a little- a little longer longer-," he sounded desperate, a change in his steady demeanor. "You'll take all I give you, every last drop of cum- Fuck- I'll pump you full of cum, you horny bitch," he groand against your neck, thrusting into you deeper than before.

He fucked you through his orgasm, cock twitching and slaming hot cum inside your cunt, a white ring foaming where your body met.

He fucked you through your orgasm, his dick barelling into you making sure you won't spill a drop of this gift he had given you.

Your legs were shaking around him, hands dirty and tired from clawing at the ground. His chest rumbled against your own.

After he pulled out, he shoved his fingers in its place- pushing his cum deep into you. You'd lick them clean afterwards, after he pulled you back on your feet. Your eyes tried to find his behind the devil mask, as his fingers explored your mouth.

You didn't.

The night didn’t feel as cold as before, the stars no longer just wishes in the sky, but silent witnesses to everything that had unfolded. You didn’t dare move, or speak—not before he would at least. You tensed, waiting for words that never came, as he grabbed you with an eerie calm, lifting you once more, just as he had in the beginning

[battyaboutbooksreviews]

Insta | Storygraph | Literal | Goodreads

🦇 This Is How You Lose the Time War Book Review

❓ #QOTD If you could travel to any time or place, where would you go? ❓ 🦇 Among the ashes of a dying world, an agent of the Commandant finds a letter. It reads: Burn before reading. Thus begins an unlikely correspondence between two rival agents hellbent on securing the best possible future for their warring factions. Red belongs to the Agency, a post-singularity technotopia. Blue belongs to Garden, a single vast consciousness embedded in all organic matter. They have nothing in common, save that they're both the best, and they're alone.

🦇 What began as a taunt, a battlefield boast, grows into something more. Something epic. Something romantic. Something that could change the past and the future. Except the discovery of their bond would mean death for each of them. There's still a war going on, after all. And someone has to win that war.

💜 This novella burrowed soft seedlings deep within my bloodstream, sprouted saplings that tangled my mind in a war waged on time, and left me blossoming, tears brimming in my eyes. Red and Blue's slow burn, sapphic romance is compelling, imaginative, dizzying, and disastrous; a beautiful collaboration I hope will breed many more. Amal El-Mohtar and Max Gladstone ensnare you from the first page; their prose takes root DEEP and stays. I'll be nursing this book hangover for a while yet. Once Red and Blue are mentally (and in some ways, physically) intertwined, they bloom purple, their dueling prose uniting into a timeless, ethereal poetry. No real world could contain this story, but the pages of this book did well to contain their love. It's difficult to say more without spoiling the story's potency. No review I could write, even given a thousand threads or lives, would do it justice.

💙 I've made a mess of highlighting this one, each line lending to the next. However, I will say there are some references that left me unable to fully appreciate a well-written line (my own problem, really). I would have appreciated more information about the time war, the Agency, and the Garden, but it's not really necessary when the story's true focus is the blossoming rivals-to-lovers slow burn romance between our protagonists.

🦇 Recommended for fans of Killing Eve (imagine them as time-traveling pen pals and you have Red and Blue's story).

✨ The Vibes ✨ ❤️ Time Travel 💙 Sapphic Romance ❤️ Steven Universe Vibes 💙 Sci-Fi ❤️ Rivals to Lovers 💙 Slow Burn ❤️ Poetic Prose

💬 Quotes ❝ There’s a kind of time travel in letters, isn’t there? ❞ ❝ I want to be a body for you. I want to chase you, find you, I want to be eluded and teased and adored; I want to be defeated and victorious—I want you to cut me, sharpen me. I want to drink tea beside you in ten years or a thousand. ❞ ❝ Listen to me—I am your echo. I would rather break the world than lose you. ❞ ❝ I have built a you within me, or you have. I wonder what of me there is in you. ❞ ❝ I love you. If you’ve come this far, that’s all I can say. I love you and Iove you and I love you, on battlefields, in shadows, in fading ink, on cold ice splashed with the blood of seals. In the rings of trees. In the wreckage of a planet crumbling to space. In bubbling water. In bee stings and dragonfly wings, in stars. In the depths of lonely woods where I wandered in my youth, staring up—and even then you watched me. You slid back through my life, and I have known you since before I knew you. ❞ ❝ Dearest, deepest Blue— At the end as at the start, and through all the in-betweens, I love you. ❞ ❝ “Some things matter more than winning.” ❞

[sunflowerromcom]

would you consider writing rebecca telling ted about what happened to her when she was younger with the paparazzi from suddenly?

Hello there!

Actually, I did write this scene in Suddenly! I'll post the snippet here for you until you can read the whole fic, which hopefully won't be too long from now.

“Anything you want to do today?” he asked before drinking the last of his coffee.

She arched an eyebrow, and he chuckled at the look in her eyes. “Oh, do you mean besides my husband?”

He laughed. “I mean, I won’t complain if that’s the only thing you want to do.” It wasn’t like they could go out and do all the touristy things like most normal folks on their honeymoon. He didn’t mind much. He’d rather stay inside, and give her that homey, domestic slice of life where he could show her how loved she was that she hadn’t had with her former husband. After taking the last bite of his eggs, he rubbed her thigh affectionately. “Isn’t this the fashion capital of the world? You want to go shopping or anything?”

“Oh, no,” she said, waving her hand between them. “That’s okay. I’d rather just stay here with you and laze about. I have enough clothes at home as it is.”

“Even fancy new shoes? I know you love those.”

She smiled, but it seemed forced.

His brows furrowed. “You alright?”

She shook her head while picking a piece of nonexistent lint from the duvet. “It’s silly, really.”

Reaching over, he took her hand and thread their fingers together. “Nothing silly if it’s bothering you.”

She let out a breath, her eyes cast down on their hands. “It’s nothing…”

It wasn’t nothing. That much was clear. “Rebecca, honey, you can tell me.”

She set her cup of tea aside and he did the same with his plate, his hunger forgotten.

She moved closer and took his hand again. She traced her finger over his knuckles. He waited, not wanting to push her. “When I was younger�� I was—a man grabbed me and almost... Sass and I were teenagers. We were shopping. I had my security, but we thought we were invincible, and we were reckless for it. We left a store and were swarmed by paparazzi. There were so many cameras, and everyone was shouting. Someone took my arm. I thought it was Walter, Roy’s father, at first, so I let him pull me away…”

“Holy shit, Rebecca…”

“It wasn’t Walter at all. But some... man. He didn’t get far. But he took me around the corner, and he grabbed me by the hair when I tried to run, but I stomped on his foot with my heel and punched him in the nose. By then my security was there and got me away and they held him until the police took him.”

He reached up to brush away a tear. “Please tell me you had on a pair of your fancy heels?”

“I did. And I’ve worn them ever since.”

“Come here,” he said, tenderly drawing her against him.

“I’m okay,” she said with a long exhale, her arms wrapping around him despite her words. “It was a long time ago.”

“I know, but I still wanna hold ya for a minute.” Ted didn’t believe in violence, but the white-hot anger he felt toward the man who hurt her burned bright in his gut. If anyone ever tried to touch her, he wouldn’t hesitate to protect her. Taking a deep breath, he pressed a kiss to her brow. He felt her hand caress its way up and down his back, and he had to smile at the way she could read him so well. That she knew he needed the extra bit of comfort. What they both needed was a distraction. “How about we go watch a movie in that fancy theater of ours? I think it might behoove us to watch some movies of the Disney variety. That way, when our munchkin gets here, we’ll have all the songs memorized.”

The side of her mouth lifted in a smile. “I think that sounds perfect.”

[firstwcman]

Lilith's return to Hell, regardless of the method of how, is never as comfortable a return as she would like it to be. Being imprisoned within Heaven for seven years was seven years of being exposed to the unabashedly raw presence of holy energy day in and day out. She is an ancient Infernal of great power and status, so it does not effect her as much as it would the regular demon, and honestly the consistent consumption of her husband's angelic blood since her first turning has aided quite a lot as a shield against the hallowed presence. But still, that consistency had its effect on her; since her return to Pride, the re-introduction to the Hellish environment has made Lilith quite sick. What has been absorbed in her skin for all these years is having a very bad reaction and is dragging her down for an ugly ride.

The Queen's body feels like it is burning, and her temperature - normally always very chilling - is actually through the roof in high numbers. She is sweating, she is nauseous, she is experiencing bouts of disorientation, and her body is feeling old aches from the fall that had been long since forgotten acting up - the last holy affliction that had been done to her person. Hypersensitivity to hellfire and the natural glow of the Rings can flare up at any time, leading to the necessity of wearing sunglasses.

She is absorbing Hell and its ambience again, and her body is sweating out the blessed radiation gradually. She is recovering! As much as Lilith would like however, she cannot jump headfirst and eager into Hotel activities - she is present, and she is fitting her way in until she does land her role as the Hotel Witch (where she will be mostly / fully recovered). But in-world timewise, she is a little out of commission for responsibility for a little over three months.

What helps alleviate and speed her journey along through the illness is exposure therapy to Hell itself. Going out, meditating in the Palace Garden, spending time outside. In terms of consumption, re-introduction to drinking Lucifer's blood - albeit in slow and incremental amounts - helps a great deal, along with a consistent diet of natural hell grown produce and native creatures (fruit, vegetables, juice, fauna - nothing like fast food or snacks, she has to be on a strict diet like this until she is back on her feet). Belphegor is prescribing her a medicine that would make Heaven recoil; harvested dark energy in capsule form. Or powder, to mix in with her tea!

When Lilith is well enough, she will be going on a vacation throughout the other Rings to fully crash course with the full energies of the Realm. Her longest stays are going to be within Lust and Gluttony, both of which will be a month's long visit. This is absolutely an excuse to visit with Asmodeus and Beelzebub daily to catch up with her babies.

This sickness I will play with in threads that involve her fresh return to Hell. More settled-in threads where she has been established for a while is where she will be fully recovered and back in action.

[capsensislagamoprh]

The ice cold wetness of a dream melting into the abyss seemed to echo thrugh the threads of the weave, dripping musty agony into the sleep of the young boy. No amount of silk sheets or soft bedding could take away the physical reaction of his calling. His body burned. He could see the bright, golden light of the warmest, most welcoming spring creep along the edges of his nightmares, turning the pleasant gloom into a bright morning. The closer he got to catching it, the more it glittered, radiating daylight. When finally his hand went to touch it, the sounds it made an angry caress, he felt something try to take him over. Try to squish that light like a fire fly, spreading its glowing guts in a florescent streak, soaking it in, turning his flesh from ashen black to bronze.

The boy knew this hand. Knew this clawed, jagged thing that pretended to be him. It was him. It was what used to be him. Samhain.

He was Samhain. He had been created to let the mortal world interact with that of the Dream. He was how they survived the harshness of winter, faced the terror of death, lived into the next breath of life. With out him... with out Samhain there was no way for things to have meaning. Only reason. With out him the world was orderly and neat and sterile in its brutality. When he was born from humility, kindness, wonder, possibilities, the world of the gods was made visible to humankind. The gods played tricks on their mortal worshipers; mischievous to the last. Their tricks were fraught with danger, charged with fear, and full of supernatural episodes. Which is why the mortals created this body, this form and it's unwavering abilities. This was the importance of him, of Samhain.

And that light? That glowing summons at the edge of his dreams the previous body tried to capture? Tried to becomes? That was his other half. That was Beltane, the eternal flame of life itself. He was the fire of rebirth that blessed the fields, animals, and community, and maintained the wary, careful balance between the human and faery realms. A veil of unimaginable fragility, burning all who touched it. Survive and you could access the Dream. You could access the great power of Samhain. Many thought the Hero protected mortals, and there for the dream. This was a lie. Beltane was his shield, and with out him, without his bright, glimmering beauty, Samhain would be left bare, unable to protect the very essence of Dream. Need. The boy, tangled in the silk sheets, felt himself manifest the vorpal blade. Felt his armor form on his sweat soaked skin. He could feel his steed calling to him. It cried for battle. His very being whispered into the dread, looking for the essence of Beltane, trying to find that distant light. It was as natural as breathing. It would be so easy to look into the horizon of Dream and see which direction he needed to go to find him.

Go, whispered the shadow, tempting him with death soft whispers. Find, tempting his body with the thoughts of action. Yours to claim, it smiled into his ear. Take, like a pleasant refrain.

The boy suddenly jerked upward, his wakeful mind still lost to dreams. "NO!" Moments latter the au pair rushed into the room, feeling his heated head, cooing and making fuss. Otabek had fought back the Darkness in his dream. It rewarded him with a vicious case of chicken pox. ---- The boy shook, his fervor high. Golden locks soaked with sweat stuck to his head in limp trendels as his dadushka applied cold compresses, urging him to drink tea, sip a little broth. He'd had the flu for over a week, each day worse than the last. Nikoli took the Yuri to the hospital, got the medicine, diligently insured every instruction was followed. It wouldn't let up

Nikoli thought if the sun would just shine, if the snow and grey skies would let up, his vnuk would get better, stronger. Rising, he left Yuri's side to get fresh, cool water for him to drink.

In his fitful sleep Yuri could see a dark, forbidden place waiting for him to explore. It promised wonder and excitement, it offered acceptance and unconditional love. It threatened to meet his fire with calm, his anger with comfort. It offered to be what it was, and to respect what he was in return.

Yuri was tempted.

He felt himself fly at the edge of the shadowed place, trying to get it to come play. It seemed for a long moment that it might. It certainly seemed to want to, but it didn't. Yuri tried to taunt, to tease, to entice. He could feel a longing coming from that cool, welcoming place. It seemed to reach for him, and he was happy. Then it stopped, struggled, the shadows becoming darker than night, pulling in light, swallowing it whole. It frightened him.

The gentleness in the dark place pushed Yuri forcefully away, flicking its will against the wind, letting his small form fly with ease. When he was back in the safety of the warmth of summer, he tried to see what was going on in that gloomy place. For a moment he saw someone standing there, stopping something vile from spewing forth. It began to glimmer in the darkest shades, taking on the form of stories his dadushka told, of the brave people from the T.V. He heard something whispered from the repulsive place. It was threatening to open old scars, to rip open his soul, to bare his mind and feast.

Yuri knew fear.

And then that darkly glimmering being called a single, discordant note. The dream shattered and Yuri was free, his fever breaking. Above him, Nikoli looked relieved, reading a thermometer by the first rays of dawn.

part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6, part 7, part 8, part 9, part 10, part 11, part 12, part 13, part 14, part 15, part 16, part 17, part 18, part 19, part 20, part 21, part 22, part 23, part 24, part 25, part 26, part 27, part 28, part 29, part 30, part 31

[gctchell]

Lilith's return to Hell, regardless of the method of how, is never as comfortable a return as she would like it to be. Being imprisoned within Heaven for seven years was seven years of being exposed to the unabashedly raw presence of holy energy day in and day out. She is an ancient Infernal of great power and status, so it does not effect her as much as it would the regular demon, and honestly the consistent consumption of her husband's angelic blood since her first turning has aided quite a lot as a shield against the hallowed presence. But still, that consistency had its effect on her; since her return to Pride, the re-introduction to the Hellish environment has made Lilith quite sick. What has been absorbed in her skin for all these years is having a very bad reaction and is dragging her down for an ugly ride.

The Queen's body feels like it is burning, and her temperature - normally always very chilling - is actually through the roof in high numbers. She is sweating, she is nauseous, she is experiencing bouts of disorientation, and her body is feeling old aches from the fall that had been long since forgotten acting up - the last holy affliction that had been done to her person. Hypersensitivity to hellfire and the natural glow of the Rings can flare up at any time, leading to the necessity of wearing sunglasses.

She is absorbing Hell and its ambience again, and her body is sweating out the blessed radiation gradually. She is recovering! As much as Lilith would like however, she cannot jump headfirst and eager into Hotel activities - she is present, and she is fitting her way in until she does land her role as the Hotel Witch (where she will be mostly / fully recovered). But in-world timewise, she is a little out of commission for responsibility for a little over three months.

What helps alleviate and speed her journey along through the illness is exposure therapy to Hell itself. Going out, meditating in the Palace Garden, spending time outside. In terms of consumption, re-introduction to drinking Lucifer's blood - albeit in slow and incremental amounts - helps a great deal, along with a consistent diet of natural hell grown produce and native creatures (fruit, vegetables, juice, fauna - nothing like fast food or snacks, she has to be on a strict diet like this until she is back on her feet). Belphegor is prescribing her a medicine that would make Heaven recoil; harvested dark energy in capsule form. Or powder, to mix in with her tea!

When Lilith is well enough, she will be going on a vacation throughout the other Rings to fully crash course with the full energies of the Realm. Her longest stays are going to be within Lust and Gluttony, both of which will be a month's long visit. This is absolutely an excuse to visit with Asmodeus and Beelzebub daily to catch up with her babies.

This sickness I will play with in threads that involve her fresh return to Hell. More settled-in threads where she has been established for a while is where she will be fully recovered and back in action.

[johnprine69]

The streets of Barcelona are fine spirits: sophisticated, biting, filling me up with sensational ideas. What if I stayed here? What if I walked twenty minutes up the hillside to the squat in the old leper’s hospital, introduced myself, vowed to help with the vegetable garden and in exchange found a bed of my own where I could hide under the covers with some book or the other? Maybe I would have a view of the sea or maybe I wouldn’t, but even if I didn’t I could step outside with a cup of tea and look out over it, feeling warmer in the garden than in the shadows in my room. This thought comes to me when I descend six flights of stairs from the apartment to the street, or look out over the sea, salt and water crashing onto the rocks and my face and the pier made of concrete. I let myself be caught up in it then, in wonder, in openness. Like anything could happen to me, like anything has.

Yesterday I stood in the kitchen on the top floor of the flat in Barcelona and I spoke to a stranger in Norwegian. When she responded in Swedish I could understand enough to respond, and on, and on. We made a simple pasta together, tomatoes and garlic and onions and oil, and it occurred to me that not only am I living a life my younger self would have dreamed of, but a life that is the result of every choice I have ever made. I am speaking Norwegian because at seventeen years old I decided to learn it, and I am in Barcelona because of a fascination with Spain that grew from a man I met while studying in Norway. I am in Europe because when I was twelve I wanted to learn French for my ballet classes and, ten years later, I live and work in France. I am traveling alone because I have always dreamed of it; I am making pasta with garlic and onion because I once lived in a community in northern Minnesota that taught me that cooking is holding those you love near to you, letting them know they are loved. I am meeting with strangers and walking up foreign hillsides because I learned to trust myself and trust in other people and trust in that shimmering thread that ties us to one another when I lived in the forest and believed in a world that was beautiful, that could be beautiful.

Some days ago, someone with those same beliefs was shot and killed by police, and here in Barcelona I am drinking espresso and tilling dirt and daydreaming, and in Minneapolis my friends are attending a vigil and marching in their name, and in Germany Greta Thunberg faced off with police for the first time on her twentieth birthday. In another life I could have known them, and they could have known each other. I found out later that an old friend and comrade, someone dear from the times when I lived in the woods and believed in a more beautiful world, was arrested at a march in Atlanta. She’s been framed with arson for the burning of a cop car and now she’s being held without bail in a county jail; she has only eaten peanut butter for the last week as they’re denying her vegan food. She asked for recommendations of intermediate Spanish textbooks, something to fill the indefinite hours ahead, and I sent them to her from across the ocean. In Georgia she is starving, without sun or grass or food. In my apartment, I am making a hearty potato soup and writing about her.Months keep slipping by, days too, and now my 23rd birthday was one month ago and that morning I woke up beside a pretty boy I may never see again. My next birthday will be in eleven months, and then another year of my life will have passed, each day containing a thousand lives I might have lived but only one that I will. I am twenty-three years old today and the future feels infinite, but one day I will be old and everything will be decided for me, by me.

[jagellicn]

When the world burns, drink tea | Adelaide & Mariana

The world was going to Hell. There was no other explanation to what was currently happening. The world was either ending, descending into Hell or was going through a purge, because this... if the situation had not been as dire, it probably would have been comical ( there was nothing comical about death, but she was numb - too numb to care ). Since the world was going to end, she thought it would be a swell idea to find herself a decent, comfortable seat, a nice cup of tea ( it was still too early in the evening for a glass of gin, but Gods above and below she was tempted to get herself one - and a tall one ), and some company. Since the world was about to burn anyway, she thought there would be some poetic justice in it, if her companion had the hair made of flames, living embers cascading down her back. Of course, she had already met and spoken to Teresa Trástamara, but she did not meet the elder sister yet - so, why not now? As if timing mattered anymore.

Adelaide had sent word to the eldest princess ( a title she herself used to bear, but nooo. her deceased brother just had to have a child - and the said child just had to conveniently reanimate herself in the most opportune moment possible ) to join her for a cup of tea and indulge in a conversation or two, and she was rather pleased that the woman accepted. Setting up a nice little soiree for herself and Mariana Trástamara on one of the secluded terraces, Adda strolled towards their rendez-vous point, clad in black with silver and gold adorning her head, ears, neck and fingers - she was rarely dramatic, but the situation required it of her and she would hate to disappoint. She had reached the spot in time to notice the princess striding towards her. Fixing her face in a polite smile ( the best she could muster given the circumstances ), Adelaide greeted her; “Ah, princess. I hope you do not mind the setting. My chambers were a little depressing at the moment, and I figured we could use the privacy of the terrace. Rarely anyone comes here at this hour.”

@lovelesslettrs​

[unhealthyfanobsession]

Alright so I almost never have WIP’s but Nesta as a witch has been consuming my thoughts for so long now and so I’m pulling a @vidalinav and posting this little peak into a fic. Enjoy!

Luminescent grey eyes sprung open on the witching hour, consciousness pulled out of her body like a thread from a sweater. Nesta’s body always had been timed to the moon. Of course, where that statement had once been a giggled explanation from her sister to explain Nesta’s insomnia, it was now a literal truth. Now that magic coursed through her veins instead of blood. Magic that called to the moon. When midnight crested high and bright in the sky, she woke to greet it.

The soft caress of spiderweb silk sheets tangled with and then swiftly fell away from naked, youthful, ancient limbs.

Even Nesta didn’t know how old she was anymore, but whatever arbitrary method of counting time these humans were now using certainly could not account for the smooth, tight, pale flesh that stretched across ancient bones.

Bare feet padded over maple bark soft floors, one hand lifted, calling the silver chalice she had forged and tied to the essence of her once human soul too many lifetimes ago to count.

As it did every midnight, the glorified cup floated through the air, dragging through a boiled over cauldron of moonbeam tea before settling in her outstretched hand.

Nesta did not even pause her movements through the little space. She sipped her tea and waved a hand so that the twisting vines concealing the door to her home retracted and let her out.

Bare feet sunk into dry, soft dirt and Nesta lifted her face to the sky.

Silvered moonlight splashed across every inch of her exhausted, naked, body and brought energy anew.

The moon.

The only source of life brave enough to run pale hands across the mystic walls of her body.

Boastful, golden sun could have easily reached its rays into this patch of stolen forest, but it chose not to.

Spring green grass could have grown true and bright to cushion Nesta’s footsteps in the space around her home, but it chose instead to shrivel up beneath the dirt.

Worms could have wriggled through the earth,

Butterflies could have soared through the sky above,

But they did not.

The living world paused around this place.

The witch’s cottage.

A soft hum pulled it’s way out of Nesta’s throat as she lifted the chalice to her lips. Drinking in the moon as it drank in her. Absorbing its power as she did every midnight.

Tonight was special, though. Tonight her skin did not just awaken, it glowed.

She could feel herself illuminated by the full moon, power rising and crashing against the weak prison of not quite mortal flesh.

Rising,

Rising,

Risin-

Snap

Nesta’s head turned slowly to the side, hand already uplifted to bend apart the solid bark of trees the intruder was trying to hide behind.

“I didn’t believe them.” The intruder was nearly the size of the tree he tried to cower behind. Silver moonlight danced across deep black hair and contrasted starkly with golden eyes. Golden and green. The colours of sun and earth and warmth.

“You do not belong here.”

The man swallowed. Nodded slowly, but took careful steps foreword anyway. “I’m here to see you. I heard… you could help.”

“You heard wrong,” Nesta stated simply. Only managing to hold back the power that sparked at her fingertips because of a grudging appreciation for the way his hazel eyes remained trained on her own.

He did not leer at her naked breasts or linger upon her moon bright skin.

When her body was human, even encased in scratching cotton and long skirts, the men she knew only looked at all the wrong places.

Good men of virtue who tried to burn her for awakening their own temptation.

Desirable female flesh was only witchcraft when it was not available to powerful men.

“Please,” the man bowed his head reverently and Nesta nearly gasped as he took a step forward and bright, lush, grass sprung up from the dirt where his boot had been. Nothing had grown so close to her in centuries. “I found an old journal of my grandmother’s. You… I think you helped her once. And I am hoping you can help me.”

Nesta looked at him more closely now. The deeply golden brown skin, light brown eyes chorded through with emerald green, hair so black it sucked in moonlight.

Yes, she remembered his grandmother. Had it really been so many years since the beautiful girl had sought her spell? How short were tragic human lives that Nesta felt as if the girl had come last week and yet here stood her very much adult grandson.

Nesta had fond memories of that girl. Her mission was one that Nesta approved of and she had rejoiced in the spell she crafted for her. Were it a granddaughter and not a grandson who stood in front of her, she might have helped.

But through centuries and lifetimes and vast oceans of magic, Nesta had always stuck to one cardinal rule.

“I do not help men.”

[professorthaddeus]

Mother, Father. This will be my final letter.

You know, I used to find the two of you everywhere. I would see the love I betrayed in the faces of families who are whole. I would hear your terrified screams in laughter. I would see your bodies twisted in agony in the flickering of a campfire. I would feel your blood on my hands every time I cast a spell.

I would find you everywhere, and so I held fast to the possibility that I would bring you back.

Today, I relinquished the chance of it ever becoming a reality.

I could have gone back and saved you. It would have worked. There were puzzle pieces in that chamber that I would have clicked into place; there was magic buried in those relics that I would have unlocked and unleashed.

I would have joined the ranks of mages of myth. I could have unraveled everything.

The chamber is nothing but ashes now.

I still find the two of you everywhere. Your dreams for my potential are in the spells I learned from Essek. Your hope for the Empire is in Beauregard’s pen as she fights for our people, stroke by stroke. Your love is in the grin that Veth shines on her son when he fires a toy crossbow at the ass of a local shopkeeper.

I miss you. I love you. I am sorry.

I hope I can still make you proud.

~

Caleb closes that worn, leather-bound book for the last time. Tucks it back beneath his arm, stands, walks to the entryway of his tower. His hand shakes as he reaches for the handle.

Well, you and the Nein got me to the door. Now I have to walk through it.

He takes a deep breath, then takes his first step outside.

He arrives in Blumenthal alone, visits their graves, leaves his letters in the ground.

And he gets to work. But in this, he is not alone.

Beauregard is there, matching every armload of books he carries with two of her own. They spend their days compiling records and narratives, wielding the truth both in court and behind the scenes—children of the Empire leaving their home better than they found it for the children who will come after them, just as they always vowed.

What wasn’t planned is this: a couple times every week, Beauregard drags Caleb out of the library. They teleport to a remote cottage in a location that few are privy to, where Yasha will have started preparing the ingredients for a new recipe from Caduceus. The instructions are often passed through a jumbled chain of Jester’s messages, and there always seem to be a suspicious number of bugs included for supposedly vegetarian dishes, but they make it work all the same. On more than a few occasions, Caleb plays referee while Beauregard and Yasha spar, safe in the knowledge that their attacks are of their own free will and they will never truly harm each other again.

Jester and Fjord spend much of their time on the open sea, but Jester’s voice is never far from Caleb’s ear. She tells him of everything from her newest tattoo victim to an encounter with a dragon turtle with a grudge, from a shanty about dicks she came up with on the fly to an update on a young half-orc girl Fjord has taken under his wing. Every once in a while, Jester will demand a reunion, too. Some of them are out of necessity—such as when Uk’otoa finally comes knocking and Fjord can no longer sail the other away—but many are not. They meet in Nicodranas when the Nein Heroez docks for a pastry run, they meet in Hupperdook for a night packed with drinking contests and celebone sticks and hugs for Kiri, they meet on Rumblecusp when life becomes too much and the nine of them sorely need to fuck off to a vacation. Soon, even Darktow is open to them, once Kingsley has unseated the Plank King and lifted their ban from the island. His reign is long, and it is magnificent. Until he grows bored.

Caduceus joins them for every mandated reunion, but for the most part, he tends to his garden or explores the world on his own. But he is never out of reach, and when he does not come to the rest of them, they go to him. It is not uncommon for Caleb to arrive in the Blooming Grove to see Beauregard already meditating by the pond. Other times, Fjord will be there drinking tea with Caduceus, and the three of them will share a quiet conversation, each far more secure in their words than they’d been over fish and chips all those years ago. Often it is just Caduceus and his parents and siblings, and Caleb will be invited to a family dinner in a home that Ikithon could not burn down.

Veth remains a constant in Caleb’s life. Of course she does. Sometimes, when the two of them are teaching the neighborhood kids how to point a copper wire, or reminiscing over a glass of sherry, or simply talking while she weaves flowers into his hair on the beaches of Nicodranas, he’ll think back to his old fears of losing her to her family and laugh. After all, how could such a thing be possible when he is a part of her family himself?

There are others, too.

Countless students who pass under his tutelage and grow into young mages who know that power should be used to protect, not to manipulate. A cat—well, there are many cats, but there is one in particular that Caleb does not own, a snowy white fey cat who slinks in and out of his classroom as he pleases, whose eyes seem to flash when the Martinet arrives to have a word, who settles into place around Caleb’s shoulders with a purr when the rare nightmare returns.

An unexpected kinship with Yeza, forged at first through mutual respect and an understanding in their love for Veth, but eventually growing into a friendship in its own right. It is one that unfolds in quiet nights by stacks of books, in gleeful debates when comparing notes on magic and alchemy, in exhausted evenings watching over Luc together while Veth takes a girls’ night out to cause some chaos with Jester, Beauregard, and Yasha.

His old friends, who, try as they might, never seem able to sever the threads that have always tangled their fates together. It is Eadwulf who comes around first, with the silent offering of a bottle and a grim smile as he and Caleb crumble the bricks of Vergesson to dust. Astrid takes time. It makes sense—she has always been a fantastic dancer, and for a while, it appears they will be trapped in a precarious political tango forever, stepping around each other in their roles as the Archmage of Civil Influence and a simple teacher who may or may not be practicing treason in his classroom. But in the shadows, Astrid pulls a few strings to keep Caleb out of prison. Caleb hears a rumor and sends the might of the Cobalt Soul after a colleague who wants Astrid dead. And eventually, she begins joining him and Wulf on their evening walks through the streets of Rexxentrum. They return to the dance hall. They get lunch. They share memories, relearn each other’s old scars, and discover that solace can still be found in each other the way it was when they were children. It will always be complicated. It starts to become beautiful.

And of course, floating by Caleb’s side every step of the way is Essek, a drow who has learned to curb his ambition and care for others, who has decided to make his own amends. The former Shadowhand to the Bright Queen, who now spends his days picking up cupcakes for Jester in Uthodurn, planting seeds in the Blooming Grove. Sitting in on Caleb’s lessons with a different face each week, sketching runes into the floor of Caleb’s home amongst scattered papers and spell components, curling up on a couch beside Caleb and begrudgingly getting through Tusk Love because he promised. A traitor, a hero, a lifelong friend. A steadfast love.

So when Caleb Widogast arrives at the final page of his story, he is no longer shrouded in guilt, or grief, or regret. No, he is surrounded by the warmth of his chosen family when he takes his last breath, when time has run its course and he is finally ready to meet his parents again.

(And even before he sees their faces, he knows. He knows he made them proud.)

—————

also on ao3 | my other cr fics

[dearsnow]

SELFSHIPS

current fav: johnny <3

The Quarry

[dylan lenivy] - mercury.

- beachboy (mccafferty)

INCLUDES

↳ mario kart sessions, nerding out while talking about our interests, making playlists for each other, joking back and forth, trail mix (we eat the bits the other doesn’t like), stargazing, bug spray, him teasing me for caring too much, dove coconut dry shampoo, rusty water bottles, watching the sun go down after the last day of summer, keeping in touch from miles and miles away, sharing fries, flicking moss at each other, sharing earbuds, drawing really stupid portraits, gentle (slightly awkward) kisses, linking pinkies and holding hands, playing with his hands when i’m nervous, smearing bits of food on the other’s face, banana cream pie, driving with no destination in mind, late-night fast food runs, him doing everything in his power to fluster me (it always works), making him bend down so i can kiss his cheek, playing pranks on me and scaring me, resting my head on his shoulder, cuddling late at night, scary campfire stories, burying him in sand, the campers trying to set us up all summer before we finally, finally confess.

“I literally hate you, that was the stupidest prank to ever exist.” I say, sighing at his “cut-off” arm. “You can’t scare me like that.”

“Why, do you care about me or something?” He jokes.

“Yeah. Of course I do. Always have, always will.”

Genshin Impact

[diluc ragnvindr] - sun.

- fever dream (mxmtoon)

INCLUDES

↳ blood soaked snow, sparring with him, winter in mondstadt, fancy wines, cold baths, red roses, creeping vines, relaxing with him after a long day, running my hands through his hair, fresh walks in the morning, collecting souvenirs, corks, rich hot coco, stupid bets, pouches of mora, seeing our breaths in the air, dead leaves, burying myself in his coats, petting stray animals, ham, frosty gloves, snowmen, cooking for him, sweet madames, chicken coops, adjusting his collar, gold jewelry, hot soup, picture frames, lost connections, giving me every flower he sees on his way home from work, warm taverns, booze that burns the back of your throat, collapsing on top of each other after long days, christmas, loose beads, glasses, dirty crystals, big old books, hairpins, apple cider, crackling fireplaces, red ribbons

Diluc hums as he pours another glass for me. “Drink this slowly. It’ll warm you up.”

I take a sip and grin up at him. “Y’know what will really help me warm up? A hug."

Game of Thrones

[jon snow] - moon.

- young and beautiful (lana del rey)

INCLUDES

↳ holding me bridal style as i try to catch snowflakes in the air, secretly worrying about me when i go off on my own, warm smiles, snowstorms, breathing in his woodsy cologne, trying to teach me how to use a sword, strong drinks, my hands threading through his curls, passion, brushing my hair back, staring at me fondly when i pet ghost, silver and gold, small and cold gemstones, fancy cutlery, rough love, fur coats, drowning in his clothing, looking into his dark eyes, tyrion telling him to be kind to me (he always is), soft enemies to lovers, playing in the snow, snowball fights with him and his family, awkward dinner conversations between our families, touch as a love language, stoic x overdramatic, knives, reading books to him at night, a snowy wedding, serious conversations, content shivers, warming our frozen faces by a fire, bard music, exploring the woods, forehead kisses, snuggling up to him in bed, making things for him and his siblings, him looking over my shoulder as i write

“You are beautiful.” Jon mutters, hands finding their way to my face.

“I am?”

“The most beautiful in the world.”

House of the Dragon

[jacaerys velaryon] - jupiter.

- getaway car (taylor swift) / like real people do (hozier)

INCLUDES

↳ kissing my hands, tea by the fire, traditional courting, friends to lovers, walking in the gardens, dragon rides, tucking my hair behind my ear, hot stew, carrot cake, studying together, playing with luke, windy days messing up our hair, beach trips, reading together while tucked in bed, goofy faces, family trips, college, holding his sword, little lizards, nerd x jock, cuddling long before we ever get together, spinning bar stools, stained wood, video games, hand-holding and cheek-kissing in public, him dressing up in my clothing, petting random dogs in the streets, shelter visits, cheesy prom signs, wearing his letterman, bacon, brown beads, cooking together (it rarely goes well), leather, dumb pranks, modern au, holding my paintbrushes hostage, ferns, accidentally killing every plant we attempt to own, lamps, caricatures, writing on coffee-stained paper

“Hey, you know what would be funny?” I smile.

Jace looks at me with a raised eyebrow and kind eyes. “Yeah, actually finishing this homework.”

10 Things I Hate About You

[patrick verona] - uranus.

- my girl (the temptations) / wanna be yours (arctic monkeys)

INCLUDES

↳ cigarettes, record stores, louder-than-whisper talking in libraries, telling him to quit smoking, late-night escapades, 7-11 slurpies, playing with his hair, dumb pranks, him trying to scare me on purpose, haunted houses, picture collages, talking during class, helping him with schoolwork (he never ends up finishing it no matter how hard i try), making fun of rude teachers in secret, rough palms, motor oil, cramped but cozy apartments, black coffee, she fell first he fell harder, loud music, warm leather / jean jackets, competing in everything we do, dragging him to places he absolutely does not want to go, concerts, outcast x good girl, fake awards, laughing too loudly, joking around in the shopping mall, red candy, spicy cinnamon cologne, broken chargers, old phones, kissing in front of the tv static, really crusty dogs, pushing each other just a little bit, really long phone calls, not confessing for a really long time, laughing at lovey-dovey couples, gifts even when we can barely afford them, back and chest kisses, chains, tank tops

“Your eyes have a little green in them. It’s pretty.” I mention, turning my pencil over in my hands.

Patrick looks at me from his position on my bed. “Not as pretty as you.”

Dead Poets Society

[charlie dalton] - mars.

- mary’s song (oh my my my) (taylor swift) / orlando (leith ross)

INCLUDES

↳ childhood friends to lovers, corny poetry, picnics, rubbing his shoulders after work, caves, dark academia, goofy smiles, play fighting, the smell of freshly sharpened pencils, studying together (we never get anything done), thick jackets, messing up his hair, romance gone wrong, pen ink smudged on the sides of our hands, teasing winks, comparing hand sizes, calling me his girlfriend before ever actually dating, old records, paper mache, glue, a natural sort of opposites to lovers, him slinging an arm around my shoulder at all times, making fun of my height, placing his chin on top of my head, scrunched noses, a hint of warm cologne, whispered words of love, yellowed parchment, whipped cream/frosting on our noses, barely-noticeable freckles, sword fights with twigs, funny faces, brown, blazers, shirley temples, sharing soda, sherpa blankets, him commenting on movies while i’m trying to watch, backwards sweaters, candlelight, gray skies, so much teasing

“You know it’s ice skating, not ice scooting, right?” Charlie asks, laughing at my wobbly legs.

“Shut up and hold my hand.” I grumble.

The Outsiders

[johnny cade] - star.

- first light (hozier)

INCLUDES

↳ washing the grease out of his hair during shared showers, stray cats, sleepovers in the lot, stargazing, holding his hand in his pockets, denim, wired earbuds, graphite stains, cold fingers, being anywhere but his house, whispers of confessions, microwaved meals, freezer burn, hanging out with the gang, switchblades, him defending me whenever possible, tutoring him, quick but meaningful phone calls, record collections, mixtapes, small trinkets, blueberries, holding each other as close as possible while sleeping, patching him up, burning alcohol, starlight, assuring me i’m all he could ever want, standing by my side when i talk to people, ice cream and drive-thru dates, old movies, him coming over so frequently we practically live together, greasy burgers and fries, being teased by dally, linked pinkies, hushed promises, young but loyal love, convenience stores, slushies, getting him to quit smoking, him keeping a picture of me in his jacket pocket, holding each other while we work out our emotions

Top Gun

[bradley bradshaw] - venus.

[robert floyd] - saturn.

[nataliedanovelist]

GF - Stars Aren’t the Only Things That Glitter

A Drifting Stars AU short, collaborating with @clownwry.

2nd, 3rd, 4th.

~~~~~~~~~~

“Grunkle Ford, look out!”

“Mabel, stay back!”

BANG!

“Mabel… MABEL! HOLD ON! I’M COMING! MABEL!”

~~~~~~~~~~

Mabel looked at the blazing fire, trying to pretend to ignore her great-uncles muttering so she might pick up a swear word, be it alien or English was perfectly fine by her. Mabel didn’t pick up any swears, but she did hear the words “reckless” and “irresponsible” and “inconceivable”. The Listening Game did a fair job of distracting her from the pain on her arm and shoulder. Except when Grunkle Ford’s bandages were a little too tight and she would wince at the friction on her burn.

Still muttering through his teeth, his eye glued to the injury through his single-cracked glasses, he did it again, pulling on the bandage a little too hard, this time making Mabel accidentally let am “ouch!” slip past her lips. Ford looked up at her and his expression grew softer and more nurturing. “I’m sorry, my dear, but really, you shouldn’t have done that.”

“They were gonna shoot you…”

“I don’t care.” Ford said firmly. “If I tell you to run, you run. If I tell you to hide, you hide. If I tell you to save yourself and leave me behind, you do so.”

“No.”

The nomadic scientist blinked, slightly surprised by her stubbornness. Only slightly surprised, because she is a Pines, after all. But she is a good kid and in the month they had been traveling the Multiverse, she had never outright defied him like this. “Excuse me?” He wasn’t even stern or angry; he was too surprised (and maybe even a little proud) to properly scold her anymore.

“No. That’s stupid.” Mabel answered, her little cheeks puffed up in determination, her eyes sparkling with the reflection of the fire, a flame of her own in the windows to her soul. “I’ll never leave you behind. We’re a family, we gotta stick together if we’re gonna survive and get home. We need each other. Besides, if the tables were turned, would you leave me behind?”

“That’s an entirely different matter.” Ford said with a small smile on his ruffed-up face; he resumed his work on the burn more gently now and finished wrapping it up, securing the bandage. “I’m old, I’ve lived my life. You take priority.”

“I don’t care.” Mabel said, copying Ford’s exact tone and voice from earlier. The grown man snorted with amusement.

Ford decided to put this little argument on hold, seeing how there was no changing Mabel’s mind right now. And he didn’t want to spend the entire evening rebuking her. “You did do a very good job disarming those hunters. I’m very proud of you.”

Mabel sat up a little straighter and smiled up at Ford. “Thank you.”

Ford smiled at her and stood, moving to his large backpack to fish out the things for tea and dinner, though it would probably only be dried meat and oats. “I’m just glad you’re okay, pumpkin.”

Mabel’s eyes widened as her world was put on pause. She felt like she was being sucked into a time vortex, transported into a memory.

Grunkle Stan was dusting some zombie parts off of his armchair when Mabel was walking by, leaving the kitchen after giving Soos his cure for zombification. Stan noticed that Mabel looked very tired. He smiled at her from her seat, and Mabel ran up to him and climbed into his lap for a big hug.

“Hey, you alright?” Stan asked.

“Yeah, I’m okay. Are you?”

“Oh, I’m fine. I’m just glad you’re okay, pumpkin.” And he gave her a secure squeeze and Mabel happily hugged him back.

Mabel was shoved back into reality, accompanied by a sinking feeling of loss. She missed Grunkle Stan. She missed Dipper. She missed Waddles, and Soos, and Wendy, and the Shack, and Oregon, and California, and Mom and Dad…

Ford turned back to the fire with a kettle and wire-spider in hand, ready to ask Mabel to fetch some water (she always enjoyed being of assistance), but he stopped when he saw her crying with her eyes shut and wiping her cheeks dry with her wrists. Ford was immediately halted and his priorities shifted drastically. Nothing mattered at this moment but making her feel better.

He was swift. Ford scooped up some water from the clean stream into the kettle, then used the wire-spider to hold the kettle over the fire. Giving the water plenty of time to heat up and steam, Ford gently picked Mabel up from her seat on the log, only to hold her close and let her wrap her arms around his neck. He didn’t say a word, being a social-cripple and having no idea what he could say that would make her feel better, so he stayed silent and was simply there for her.

And really, that was all Mabel needed.

~~~~~~~~~~

The next morning the two humans were lucky to come across a small rustic town in the woods, reminding Ford of the small Tennessee-town Fiddleford grew up in. Except of course there were no humans, but blue-skinned elves with pointy years and the occasional centaur.

Ford had stolen a bit of money from a hunter yesterday, which meant they got to restock on supplies and even buy a cheap breakfast at an outside cafe. Sitting at a table under an umbrella, Ford was going over his plan with Mabel while she munched on her sweetly-cooked purple apples tossed in spices and sugar.

“... so once we reach this cavern here, we’ll reach a very interesting town called Flush Valley. I’ve heard it specializes in building mechanical limbs and prosthetics, but it’s surrounded by rich minerals perfect for building, so we can find what we need easily here. There may even be a day-by-day job I can get to earn a bit of money for food and shelter.”

“I can work, too! Daddy always said I was like a French horse!” Mabel added in excitedly.

Ford chuckled. “We’ll see. I would feel more comfortable if you were working so I could keep an eye on you. Moving on,” The old scientist sipped his strange alien coffee, but it contained caffeine and somewhat resembled his home dimension’s coffee taste, so he drank it. “The way there could be crawling with scavengers. A lot of people come to Flush Valley just barely hanging on by a thread, easy targets for hunting and stealing food and supplies. So we need to keep our guard up for the next two days.”

“Okay.” Mabel said, as nonchalantly as if Ford told her to remember to add milk to a grocery list.

Ford gave her a firmer look and added, “So, if we think we’re being followed, what do we do?”

“We pretend we don’t know and we keep walking calmly.” Mabel replied. “We keep our eyes open for a way to lose them, and where the sneaky-peaky spies are.”

“Very good.” Ford smiled at her. “If we decide to try to lose them, what do we do?”

“Run as fast as we can. If I can’t catch up I get on your shoulders and focus on making them go away, while you get us away.”

“Yes, excellent. What do we do if we decide to confront them?”

“I grab by sling-shot and exploding rocks and hit as many guys as I can. I aim for the knees or feet so they fall and can’t shoot us. Oh, and we stand with our backs to each other so we see everything, together.”

“Couldn’t have said it better myself. Now, if we are surrounded and I find a way to escape, what do you do?”

“Make sure you go in so you can lead the way!” Mabel answered with a grin.

“N-No, honey.” Ford said gently with a smile, as if informing a kindergartner that 1+1=2, not 11. “If I find a way to escape, you go first…”

“No,” Mabel said, still smiling as she shook her head. “You go first so I can make sure you’re coming.”

Ford sighed and took another sip of his drink. “Okay, if I tell you to run, you…”

“I grab your hand and run with you, making sure no one gets lost.”

“Mabel, no.”

“Mabel YES!” The girl grinned with determination. “You’re stuck with me, old man! You can’t get rid of me!”

Ford was getting annoyed at this point. He pinched the bridge of his nose, lifting his glasses up slightly, and growled, “I’m not trying to get rid of you, I’m trying to save you!”

Mabel gave him a very serious look and questioned, “By leaving me alone out here?”

“No! I-...” But Ford stopped and bit his lip. His niece did have an excellent point. As much as Ford was willing to do anything to keep her safe, as much as Ford was willing to sacrifice his own life for her’s, that really wasn’t a good idea.

There was a good chance Mabel could survive without him, at least until she found a nice family to take her in (or, somehow, miraculously, Stanley opened the portal and brought her home, but Ford didn’t dare to hope for that). But she was so young and inexperienced in the Multiverse. At least when Ford was first thrown into the chaos he was an adult and was accustomed to weirdness thanks to his six years of researching Gravity Falls. Mabel was extremely resourceful, imaginative, intelligent, and clever. She was also stronger and faster than many would assume. But she was too trusting. Too innocent. So, not to belittle Mabel or underestimate her, but she was right; she needed Ford, and as noble as it would be to exchange his life for her’s if it came down to it, that would also be incredibly stupid and only buy Mabel a little more time until she was captured or enslaved or killed or even worse.

And of course, only someone as people-smart and clever as Mabel could make Ford see that.

He sighed tiredly. “O-... Okay.” Mabel smiled proudly at him. “Okay, I’ll… I’ll try to be more careful.” Ford promised. “I… I just need you to be safe.”

“Don’t worry, I think we do a pretty good job of keeping each other safe.” Mabel complimented, holding out a bite of her fruit on a fork for Ford.

The old man held up a polite hand and declined, but his stomach turned against him and growled, and Mabel frowned at him, giving Ford a deja vu feeling of his mother forcing him and his brothers to eat their vegetables. So Ford smiled and accepted the sweetly cooked fruit. “Yes, I think so, too.”

[seokmingiggles]

sleepytime herbal tea.

Prompt: "How about something warm? It will help you sleep."

Pairing: Xu Minghao x gender neutral reader

Genre: fluff, mutual crushes, roommate!au, college!au.

1.65k words

No warnings.

Sometimes, you believe there’s something unspoken between you and your roommate. Sometimes, he’ll do little things for you or say little things to you that will make your heart warm like it’s a teabag brewing in a toasty cup of fragrant tea.

Alternatively, maybe Minghao is your human equivalent of a cup of tea: warming, calming, and all-around comforting—particularly at 3 am when the rest of the world is asleep.

A/N: What started with Minghao shall end with Minghao. (Just kidding! I’ve already written a second piece for some members! ^^)

Back to the teacup masterlist.

•• "Oh, hey. What are you still doing awake?"

Minghao looks up from his novel to see you making your way into the kitchen. You're wearing the pair of slippers he got you for your birthday; the shuffling sound scampers across the apartment's wooden floor. Your hair is messy, going in every which direction, and your eyelids droop heavily. Your eyebrows furrow slightly.

"What time is it?" his expression is confused, lips gently pouting as he rubs his eyes with his free hand, the other one acting as a makeshift bookmark between the pages of his novel.

You glance at the clock on the microwave, "Just past three in the morning."

"No kidding," he mutters, standing from his spot on the sofa to stretch out his limbs after remaining in the same curled-up position for hours. The boy creases the top corner of his page, setting the book down on the couch's armrest. "What are you still doing awake?"

"I couldn't fall asleep," is your answer. You frown, "I was just lying there until my mouth got dry. But when I reached over for my glass of water, I realized it was empty."

Minghao hums, knowing the all-too-familiar feeling. "How about something warm? It will help you sleep," he says as he wades over to the kitchen, ending up by your side. He reaches up into the wooden cabinet above your head, "I like this one. You're welcome to try it tonight."

With a short hum, the boy presents his favourite herbal tea in the adorable little box: the brown bear clad in pyjamas and sat by a fireplace in its comfy armchair.

You set your empty glass on the kitchen counter and take the thin cardboard box in your hands. "Your sleepytime tea? I thought this one is off-limits."

Minghao shrugs, a gentle smile forming on his face in the dim lighting, "It normally is, but this seems like a special occasion."

"Us—both being awake at three in the morning with classes later today—is a special occasion?"

"Don't make me change my mind, (Y/N). Here," he grabs a pair of mugs from the dish-rack by the sink, "I'm going to have some too."

Minghao moves to fill the kettle with water and places it on its base, adjusting the setting on the side with a shrill beep at its programmed start.

You fiddle with the handle of the ceramic mug, trying to distract yourself from your roommate's delicate features in the faint light sourced only from the oven range hood and the moon outside the far window in the living room.

"What were you reading?" you ask him, still fixated on the countertop. "It must have been good if you lost track of time."

The boy nods with a hum. "One of my friends recommended it to me a little while ago—the one in my literature class. I haven't had the time to read it until tonight—or last night, I suppose—but I must be a third of the way in already. Maybe even half-way by now."

"What's it about?" you nonchalantly question, continuing the conversation while keeping your eyes low.

Minghao's ears begin to burn. "Ah, nothing in particular," he softly clears his throat. "Just a slowly-building love story between a couple of childhood friends. But," he adds quickly, "it's quite contemplative and poetic."

"A romance novel?" your eyes eventually meet his. "I wouldn't have taken you for someone who enjoys reading love stories, Hao," you can't help the playful smile that wiggles onto your lips.

The kettle's signal is high-pitched as the water reaches its desired temperature, giving Minghao a reason to pull his eyes from yours. He pours water into both of the mugs, allowing a few centimetres from the rim. You watch the rising steam as it tickles the bottom of your roommate's circular glasses when he leans over the counter to place the kettle back on its stand.

"It can be fun to read stories about a picture-perfect relationship sometimes," the boy continues. "Novels are the only forms of romances so pure and heartfelt. They're carefree, too," Minghao says in a hushed tone. "It makes me wonder why real-life isn't the same way."

You're now fiddling with the hem of your shirt when you whisper, "It could be."

Minghao looks up from his gaze on the teacups. He swears he sees a twinkle in your eye when you follow his movement to meet his stare.

"Relationships in real-life can be sincere and passionate too," you continue with a low voice to maintain the quiet three o'clock atmosphere. "Maybe not in the ideal way fiction can depict them to be, but that's what makes them real. It makes them human."

"Since when are you such a philosopher of romance," Minghao chuckles.

"At three in the morning, Hao, anything is possible."

"Anything, huh?" the boy smiles and nudges one of the mugs closer to you across the kitchen counter.

You softly thank him and take the cup in your hands. Your eyes focus on the teabag spinning in lazy circles, a solo slow dance on the surface of the hot water.

"Let's go sit down to drink our tea," you hear Minghao say as he begins to walk back to the couch.

You let him lead you, following behind in his shadow.

It's times like these where you aren't sure how close you should sit next to him. You sometimes wish you could curl up against his side and feel him hold you tightly in return, or even being able to rest your legs overtop his lap with his hand on your thigh.

Tonight, though, you take a seat at a respectful distance from the boy: about a couch cushion's length away.

Minghao rests his head on the sofa's backing, eyes trailing upwards to the speckled ceiling displaying the moving pictures of shadows from the foliage projected by the moon and streetlights outside.

"If you could have the perfect relationship, would you?"

Your eyes search for Minghao's once you hear his question, but he remains to look upwards and away from you.

You hesitate momentarily before saying, "No."

Minghao lowers his gaze and takes a sip of tea. He finally peers at you. "You wouldn't?"

You shake your head. "No. Because although disagreements and turmoil can be difficult to deal with, without either of them results in a relationship that won't grow," you take a small sip of your steaming tea. "If nothing else in life is perfect, then why should a relationship be that way?"

"Nothing's perfect, huh?" Minghao traces your facial features, trailing along the bridge of your nose and lingering at the dimple of your cupid's bow, but stopping himself before his gaze reaches the plush of your lips. He suddenly returns to your eyes, "But you have a point. Perhaps perfect relationships should stay within the pages of novels and works of fiction."

The wind rustles the tree branches nearby, and you find yourself bearing a small smile at Minghao's words. His gentle voice, combined with the warm mug of herbal tea in your hands, makes you lean deeper into the couch and pillows. Your eyelids suddenly feel heavier.

"I could lend you the book after I finish it if you'd like," the boy asks, turning his head to the side to gauge your reaction. But upon looking at you, he takes in the sight of your closed eyes with your head pressed against the couch backing, all while still sitting up.

Minghao's heart warms at the image. The boy drinks the remains from his cup before standing and moving to your side. He quietly places his mug on the table in front of him before slowly taking yours, still clutched between your hands, and setting your cup next to his on the coffee table. Your palms and fingers radiate the tea's warmth—his touch lingers.

"And you didn't even finish your tea," he whispers to no one, shaking his head with a smile.

He looks at you fondly before gently maneuvering your body to lie you down. Minghao gathers the blanket draped over the side of the couch and places it overtop of your body. He takes extra care to make sure it reaches all the way up to your chin but also without your toes peeking out from the bottom.

"Goodnight, (Y/N)," he speaks softly, carefully moving some stray hairs that have fallen onto your face.

Seeing you nuzzle into the soft blanket in your sleep nearly makes him coo at your cuteness.

An image pops into Minghao's head: he can picture himself leaning down, delicately kissing your forehead while his hand gingerly grazes the side of your face, thumb tracing the high of your cheekbone; he can feel your warmth radiate through his fingertips. He can feel your smile as it spreads across your cheeks. He can see your eyelashes flutter open and your eyes crinkling with your grin when you notice his proximity, your hand reaching up to thread into his hair when he leans in, and you close your eyes all over again–

But instead, Minghao decides he'll wait until you're awake so he can kiss you properly for the first time. He's not sure when it will happen—it could be this week or this month, perhaps when you're done with your semesters. It could be later today. It could be a year from now.

It may not ever happen for all the boy knows; what even are the odds that you return his feelings?

Minghao takes one last admiring look at you before he stands and retreats to his bedroom for a long-awaited sleep, collecting his novel from the edge of the couch on his way.

A pair of mugs remain on the coffee table—one entirely empty, one nearly full, but both belonging to hidden romantics. Buried feelings brew beneath the surface, steeping like the gradually darkening herbal tea.

••

[goodlucktai]

What about some hurt/comfort for Natsume & Natori? (Not slash tho)

Natori doesn't seem like he has anyone in his life to take care of him except his shikigami :(

x

"You need to sleep," Hiiragi says. Her tone is unchanging, an unhurried monotone, but somehow it manages to carry a thread of concern.

Shuuichi waves her off, sifting through papers. "In a minute. I just have to finish this."

A group of exorcists in over their heads sent these reports earlier today. Yesterday, now, Shuuichi amends inwardly with a bleary glance at the clock in the kitchen, which reads an inappropriately cheerful 6:07 AM. And they'll arrive to collect them, along with Shuuichi's notes, in just a few hours.

"They are presumptuous," Hiiragi says, "to assume you had this time to spare them, and on such short notice. You're busy."

"Not with anything that matters," Shuuichi laughs. It comes out not sounding like a laugh at all. Hiiragi tips her head incrementally to the side, no doubt staring at him behind her mask.

"Your work does matter."

"This work does," Shuuichi says, laying a hand on the papers scattered across the desk. "The other stuff-- "

"The 'stuff' that pays your bills," Hiiragi says. "The 'stuff' that keeps you fed, and gives you reason to leave your house and interact with people who won't make you think about ghosts."

It's Shuuichi's turn to stare. "I didn't realize you were such a firm believer in my acting career."

"I don't understand it," she says frankly. "But you enjoy it. It may not be.... 'vanquishing evil,'" she goes on, quoting the report the exorcists sent as if it's something slimy she's peeling off her shoe, "but that doesn't mean it doesn't matter."

It might be the lack of sleep talking, but Shuuichi feels strangely touched. He has to swallow before he can reply, something that happens rarely, if at all.

"I'll make sure to sign an autograph for you," he teases, grinning. "But only after I've finished this."

"Hm," Hiiragi says. She doesn't call him an idiot, at least. A few minutes after that she leaves from the living room window, ostensibly to patrol the neighborhood.

Shuuichi will just finish his notes, and then set an alarm for-- he checks the clock again, and winces-- and hour and a half. He'll get that much sleep, at least. He's worked with less.

At some point, the front door opens. That's odd. Only a few people have a key to his apartment, and none of them who do live anywhere near here. His shiki certainly don't use the door.

A familiar voice says, "Hi, Natori-san."

Shuuichi lifts his head, so fast his vision swims. There's Natsume, standing in the doorway between the kitchen and the sitting room, hands full with a cardboard drink tray and a brown paper bag bearing the distinctive golden arches. He looks decidedly windblown, as if he flew the whole way here. He probably did.

His brow is wrinkled, mouth tucked into a frown. It's the way Shuuichi imagines Hiiragi's face looks behind her mask at least ninety-percent of the time.

"What on earth are you doing here?" Shuuichi says, pushing himself upright. He has to lean on the desk to get there. Natsume clocks it with a flick of his eyes but doesn't comment. "Don't you have school today?" Shuuichi goes on, desperately trying to remember what day it is. Friday, right?

"No school," Natsume says, putting the drinks and the bag on the counter. "Teacher's institute."

"Are you in trouble?" Shuuichi asks carefully.

"I have to be in trouble to come visit you?"

Natsume wanders into the sitting room and sets his messenger bag and his ugly cat down on the sofa. He actually points a stern finger at the cat in clear warning that it needs to behave itself, as if it isn't actually a giant monster capable of leveling buildings should it so choose. Something about that manages to be hilarious, where it isn't slightly horrifying.

Shuuichi smiles a bit. This weird kid means the world to him.

"Did you bring me breakfast?" he asks lightly. "I hope that's coffee."

Natsume is so receptive to any manner of kindness, even after the life he's lived, that he smiles back like a knee-jerk reaction. It still feels like an accomplishment when he does.

"Tea," he corrects. "And some egg sandwiches. The sausage ones are for sensei. Can you eat with me, or-- if you're too busy-- "

"I can take a break," Shuuichi says, and slings his arm around Natsume's shoulders, steering him back into the kitchen. "Let's talk about what dragged you all the way out here in the early hours of the morning, shall we? Does your mother know where you are?"

"Of course she does," Natsume insists. "She even sent some leftovers with me. I put them in the fridge already."

Shuuichi is in a vulnerable state, and that just about undoes him. He clears his throat and takes a big, scalding gulp of tea instead of saying or doing anything embarrassing. "Tell her I said thank you," he manages.

"Or you could just call her," Natsume points out dryly.

"Or I could just call her," Shuuichi agrees.

In his defense, Shuuichi truly didn’t stand a chance. The combination of heavy food and a hot drink… the pale fingers of dawn creeping through the shades at the kitchen window… the steady back-and-forth of comfortable, friendly conversation… no one asking anything of him, expecting anything from him, except his company…

He dozes off in his chair at the counter, face buried in his folded arms. He feels someone draw a blanket around his shoulders, their cold fingers lingering protectively near his nape, and Hiiragi’s voice says, “Thank you. He’s very stupid.”

“No he isn’t,” Natsume replies loyally. “Well, not all the time.”

It’s ridiculous how well Shuuichi sleeps after that.

He wakes up a solid ten hours later, the blanket slipping to the floor. The TV is on in the next room. Hiiragi is perched on the counter beside him. Her mask somehow manages to appear both smug and judgemental without actually changing at all.

“Sleep well?” she asks with no inflection.

“What-- time is it?” Shuuichi asks blearily, looking around for the clock.

“A little after four,” Hiiragi says. “Those exorcists have come and gone.”

“What?”

“They didn’t come inside. Natsume dealt with them at the door.”

“Sorry, Natori-san,” Natsume pipes up in the doorway. He shuffles a bit, self-conscious until Hiiragi seems to catch his eye. Then he lifts his chin a little and says, “You seemed tired, so I handled it. Hiiragi and Sasago both said it was okay.”

Betrayal, Shuuichi thinks, glaring hard at Hiiragi. She gazes serenely back, entirely unmoved. He’s firing her.

“Natsume, I appreciate it,” because there’s very little in this life that Natsume could do that Shuuichi wouldn’t back him up on, “but don’t talk to strangers. Even though they’re exorcists, that doesn’t automatically make them trustworthy.”

“I don’t trust most exorcists,” Natsume says plainly. “You’re one of, like, two exceptions.”

And there’s a lot to unpack there, but for some reason the first thing Shuuichi thinks of to ask is, “One of two? Who’s the other one?”

After a beat, in which Natsume looks as though he doesn’t want to answer, he admits, “Hakozaki-san.”

“Hak-- the recluse with the dragon shiki? The owner of that mansion we watched burn?” Shuuichi laughs, unable to help himself. It unwinds tension in his body he hadn’t even realized he was holding. “Natsume, you never even met him!”

“I still liked him!” Natsume says hotly, embarrassed. “He was friends with yokai!”

“And I’m sure if he’d had the chance to know you, he would have spirited you away as his son and heir within two business days.” Shuuichi chuckles, leaning back in his chair. “Lucky for me he didn’t have the chance, I suppose.”

Natsume huffs, but he still climbs into the seat next to Shuuichi. After a beat, Nyanko-sensei hops up into his lap.

“I might have gotten you in trouble with those exorcists,” the boy admits. “I told them to do their own homework from now on. That if they kept taking advantage of your kindness, you wouldn’t help them anymore.” He glances at Shuuichi sidelong from beneath his fringe, and adds, “They got mad, so I sicced sensei on them. I, um, think they thought he was my shiki. I also think they thought I’m from your clan. I couldn’t tell ‘cause they were all, um-- screaming, at the same time.”

And-- okay. There is a right and a wrong way to react to this, clearly. A teenage boy using his terrifying yokai friend to menace people within Shuuichi’s network? Not good! Very bad, even!

But Shuuichi has to lean forward against the counter, face buried in his hands, because he’s absolutely howling with laughter. Natsume is stammering, trying to explain himself, but he doesn’t say sorry. He isn’t sorry for sticking up for Shuuichi. He showed up at Shuuichi’s apartment at seven AM with McDonald’s on his day off from school, and chased a bunch of exorcists out of the building, because his friend needed a break and that’s just the kind of person Natsume is.

The kind of person who deserves something fancy for dinner tonight, Shuuichi decides, and he’s still smiling as he reaches for his phone.

Hiiragi places it neatly in his hand.

“I don’t want your autograph,” she says. She doesn't call him an idiot out loud, but she's probably thinking it.

Hell, he’ll order something fancy for her, too.

[pedropascallovebot]

had to repost this because my internet is awful but huzzah i have returned from a writing hiatus i have been doing nothing but reading sambucky fics and i decided to curse the world with a bucky x reader even though no one asked me to. you may now put me in exile.

-

Bucky likes the smell of the candles you burn in your apartment, even though he swears to you that you have to stop forgetting to blow them out before you go to sleep. He knows that your record player in the corner collects a bunch of dust. He remembers laughing when you had defended yourself when he joked about your devastatingly low vinyl count- "I swear, I do use it! But look me in the eye and tell me Spotify isn't more convenient." He likes the various little crystals and stones you have scattered on your windowsill, even if he doesn't know anything about that stuff. Bucky really likes your bookcase, though. You told him upon his first visit to your place that you thrifted it for an absolute bargain, and it appears that it's been put to good use, given there's not a single place on the shelf for another book to fit without stacking some on top of one another. Most of all, he likes that you’re there. He’s only known you for a short period of time, and he gets that nothing is really official yet… but he likes you. He can’t say it out loud to himself yet, but his therapist definitely knows your name.

All throughout his horrible, miserable, no good bad day, Bucky is thinking about how warm and safe your apartment feels, and consequentially, he's thinking about you. He knows he's got it bad, but there's little to be done about it when his brain starts screaming profanities at him whenever he dares dwell on the thought of your face for too long. He misses you, though. Especially when he's nursing some embarrassment and frustration caused by a group of anarchists pushing him out of a moving truck. He wants so desperately to call and check to see how you're doing, what you're up to, but by the time Sam's got him back home it's nearly one in the morning and he shouldn't wake you. Right? He should lock his door, hang up his jacket, and settle in for a long night of doing nothing but scrolling through the guide of all the weird movies his cable company is playing. He shouldn't be halfway down the stairs of his apartment building to walk across town in the middle of the night to come see you.

But it's inevitable that he ends up at your front door. That annoying yelling in his brain is back, telling him that he should just go home before he knocks and wakes you up, but his hand is already rapping on the wood and he can hear scrambling from the other side of the door. It was only then he realized it might of been a good idea to call ahead, because God, what kind of person is answering the door this late, and who's to say you don't already have someone there already, and fuck, fuck, fuck, it's not too late to just hide behind the big artificial tree that the apartment complex put up for decoration-

You open up right before he can entertain that thought. You look like an absolute angel, he thinks. You’re in some t-shirt that’s way too big for you, and your eyes smile when you see him. But from what he can tell, you're tired. Maybe he did wake you up, and he feels that familiar pinch of guilt in his chest.

"I was, uhm.. in the neighborhood," he starts, his hands very focused on the loose thread of his jacket sleeve. "figured I'd stop by and see how you were."

And there goes your eyes again, kind and soft and welcoming, something that Bucky isn't really used to feeling yet. He's being ushered in, and suddenly realizes the television is still on. The guilt subsides knowing he didn’t wake you.

"You should absolutely be sleeping right now, but I'll let it slide because I miss you," you smile, and Bucky knows he's a goner when you press a kiss to his cheek before shutting the door behind him.

“So should you.” Then, a quiet “I miss you too.”

"Want some tea? Or some coffee? I've got the kettle going with some hot water and I was planning on making some sleepytime tea, but I think I've got a few packets of that instant espresso crap buried if you don't wanna wait for the coffee pot to brew..."

You trail off into a comfortable silence for a minute as he watches as you grab a box of the celestial seasonings that you always kept in stock, the one with the bear sitting by the fireplace. Feeling inclined to help, Bucky attempts to step foot in the kitchen and grab a couple of mugs before immediately being banished to the living room, where he then listened to your rant about how he looked like he just got run over by a moving vehicle, and how he should sit down. Well, you were kinda right. You go to drop a couple of teabags into hot water, but not before you warn him to get on the couch before he falls asleep standing up.

He doesn't follow directions very well, because his feet lead him over to your bookshelf, where you've got some sort of scented wax over a tea light. Eyes trailing over the numerous books you have, he recognized a few. A Farewell to Arms, Main Street, and the two copies you had of The Great Gatsby. He knows you have a love-hate relationship with Harry Potter, but all seven of the books sat at eye level, a bit faded from countless rereads as soon as the weather got colder and you needed something cozy and familiar.

His gaze is caught on one book in particular; one that he thought about earlier today, before a teenager punched the living daylights out of him and before Walker and his unbearably chirpy sidekick made his day go from bad to worse. The Hobbit sat tucked away to the left of The Lord of the Rings, and Bucky reached out and gently pulled it from the row. It wasn't the same cover as the one he had at his apartment- yours had drawn trees and mountains, with runes lining the edges of the illustration. His own copy had what he assumed was a still from the movie adaptation, something he never bothered to watch. He still felt compelled to buy the book when he saw it sitting on the shelf at a store.

"I already called dibs on the Star Wars mug," you joked, heading out into the living room carrying two mugs of tea. "You're gonna have to drink from the-"

"Can you read to me?"

He does feel bad for interrupting you, but to be fair, the words slipped out before he could even stop them. He feels his nerves swell up a bit before you answer him, and the book in his hands feels heavier than it should.

You set the tea down on the small table at the end of the couch before switching on the lamp, offering the room some light which was previously only provided by a few candles, the kitchen, and the glow from the television. You switch that off, too, and the nerves that Bucky was sure were radiating off him melt away.

“Only if you stop standing ten feet away and come cuddle me while I do.”

When you spoke, it took Bucky all of two seconds to make his way to the couch, grabbing the blanket he knows you love and draping it over the both of you as you trade him his tea for the book.

“Teasing me about wanting to read The Hobbit is off the table, doll.” Bucky drapes an arm over your shoulder, making himself comfortable. “A friendly reminder it sits on your bookshelf.”

He hears you giggle and he’s in absolute awe of how much he wants to kiss you. Sure, you both have done plenty of that over the course of time he’s known you, but there’s something about you sitting in his arms with a book he knows so well open in front of you. Home.

“I’ll admit, it’s been a while since I’ve read this, my knowledge of Middle Earth is a bit spotty.”

“I’m willing to bet it’s been even longer for me,” he jokes, but there’s still a sting when he says it. Bucky pushes it aside.

“Alright, old coot. Let’s start from the beginning.”

-

“The dark filled all the room, and the fire died down, and the shadows were lost, and they still played on.”

It takes Bucky all of five minutes and a few sips of tea to get him tired before he’s placing his cup down and resting his head on your shoulder, and you’re almost down for the count, ready to retire to your bed. But you only have about ten pages until the end of the chapter and Bucky is way too good of a pillow to even think about moving. The dwarves start to sing their song, and if you’re remembering correctly, this is when things really start to get good. You debate if you want to continue, but then you look down and see Bucky absolutely zonked, and your mind is made up. You yawn and set the book on the table before reaching over and shutting off the lamp, attempting not to wake up the sleeping figure next to you.

[somuchbetterthanthat]

Post 200. CW for flesh(sortof), dark, lonely, beholding, web, desolation; lil implicit d/s, sort of; martin and jon being fucked up but trying to love each other all the same; 

Martin sits up with a gasp; his heart is racing, and he finds himself blinking frantically at the white, unfamiliar wall in front of him.

No.

Not unfamiliar.

“Martin?” mumbles a beloved, infuriating, sleepy voice behind him. 

A gentle hand creeps up under his shirt, fingers dancing on his lower back. Martin closes his eyes again, and tries to slow his breathing.

“I’m fine,” he mutters. 

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“I’m fine, it’s all fine.”

“...Right,” says Jon quietly.

Martin’s heart is heavy, and he immediately feels guilty. But he doesn’t look back. It’s too early to look back. Jon’s hand has too many fingers again this morning.

*

Martin stares at the white, blank wall in front of him. He wishes he could look at the window instead, but the sun hasn’t risen this morning; the day is black as night, except there’s not even a moon, or stars, or any sort of light -- but the wall is there, pristine white even now, and it’s so empty.

“We should decorate,” he says, eventually.

“Mmh?” Jon’s face is hidden against his hip. He hates it when it’s all black, the same way he hates it when they’re losing touch of who they are, or what anything is. 

“We’re gonna be here forever, aren’t we?” Martin asks. It’s not the first time. He can’t help reminding himself, sometimes. “So we should decorate.”

Slowly, Jon raises his head; there’s an incredulous and fond smile on his lips that make Martin’s insides twist as ever. “I’m not sure it’ll stick,” he says. “You know how this house is.”

“Yeah, well.” Martin hesitates. Licks his lips. Squares his shoulders. “It’s ours now, isn’t it? We live here. So. If we’re playing by its rules, maybe it should let us like; put, put a frame or something, y’know?”

Jon’s eyes are crinkling. “I suppose,” he says. “We could try.”

“Good.”

“Good.”

Martin tries to think of what they could decorate the wall with; his mind came up blank. Never mind, he tells himself, glaring at the shadow monster that’s trying to grow alongside the corner of the bedroom. Never mind. There’ll forever be a tomorrow, anyway.

*

Martin is staring at the wall of the bedroom; the faces in the picture frames smile at him, mouth and eyes faded. They never truly existed, did they? Or if they did, they were nothing but a reassuring lie. Outside, the fog is so dense it covers everything. Martin itches to get up and open the window. 

A denser shadow than the rest closes the curtains abruptly; there’s anger and fear in the gesture, and when Martin slowly turns to study it, the shadow slowly turns into Jon. 

They stare at each other. Jon hesitates. Opens his mouth. Closes it again. 

His eyes are a bottomless pit of loneliness, a perfect reflection of Martin’s. It does not matter that this is their bedroom. They’re not together, they’ve never fitted together, they’ll never be together ever again. Jon always meant to chose the world before Martin. It’s how it is.

It’s how it’ll always be.

He blinks. The man he loves is a grey shadow that seems to disappear in the walls. Martin lays back in bed, and lets himself fade as well.

*

Jon is staring at the wall of their bedroom. No. Martin is staring at it No. The wall is staring at them both. 

“Can’t you make it stop?” Martin asks, exasperated. “I just want to sleep.”

“Tough,” Jon mutters distractedly, which is even more infuriating.

“Jon.”

“What?”

“Just! Do something!” 

“I think we both agreed, multiples times, that whenever I try to do something it’s bad,” Jon snaps.

“So what, you’re never going to make choices ever again?” Martin asks, exasperated. “What a brilliant plan.”

“I don’t have any choice to make,” Jon says, waving at the eyes peaking at them through every single corner of the room, of the myriads of faces pressed against the windows, eagerly waiting for them to fight again. “All I have to do is to wait and to keep them here. With me. If you don’t like them, Martin, there’s always the baseme--”

“Don’t you dare--”

“What? If you hate it all so much, I can’t do anything about it, but you can --”

“Shut up! Why do you always do this?”

“Why do you always ask me to find solutions if you don’t like the ones I came up with?”

Oh, how they’re drinking it all in, outside; how happy they are; how flushed Jon is, because it is his day, isn’t it, he looks more healthy than ever, and on those days Martin feels so sick --

“Do you want me to go there?” he asks. 

Jon stares, baffled; his anger deflating immediately. “Of course not.” 

Of course not. Martin wears it like a cape. Of course not. “Come here,” he says, and opens his arms. Jon leans to melt into the embrace easily. They hold each other too tight, and their eyes are burning. Is this the story they’re condemned to have? They think, together. Are they only ever going to be this, sadness and recriminations and frustration and --

Jon’s nails dig into his back. “I love you,” he murmurs. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” Martin breathes. “I’m not leaving this house. It’s ours.”

*

There is a spider danging from the happy framed picture on the wall. Martin glares at it. 

“We’ll kill it,” Jon tells him. 

And so they will; they spoke it into existence. Martin decides it’s more important to focus on his husband that the small, helpless thing that’ll be crushed in a moment. Jon’s curls are full of cobwebs. Martin carefully starts to pick at them. Such fragile threads, that he easily captures and plays with --

He could push them under the bed, he supposes. Instead, he uses them to make the web necklace around Jon’s neck just a little bit more intricate. 

“Oh?” Jon hums. It’s careful, but not unhappy.

“I’m not going to choose forever,” Martin says quietly. “I don’t think I’m that good at it either, all things considered.”

“Better than me,” Jon breathes.

“But that’s the thing, isn’t it? You’ve barely ever got to decide anything at all. Not really.” 

“Martin --”

“You know it’s true. It’s just hard to accept, and that’s fair, I get it, okay? I can choose. Just for a little while. But not forever. I’m not doing it forever.”

There is so much tenderness and gratefulness in Jon’s eyes. Martin’s not sure he deserves such devotion, sometimes. But god, he wants to believe maybe he could grow to. Eventually.

“Okay,” Jon says. “Okay.”

“Lay back,” Martin orders gently. “I’m taking care of you now.”

*

The houseplant is ashes again; it’s the sort of day that’s so hot it makes Martin want to peel his skin off, except it’s not that kind of day day. Instead everything is dead and melting, and Martin still stubbornly reaches for Jon, who’s staring at the window, and the little girl who’s crying outside, her bright red hair falling into the grass one by one, creating little sparks that will soon make the world ablaze. 

“It’s the seventh time we’ve watched her burn,” Martin mutters.

“Eighth,” Jon corrects, because of course he does, before adding: “They’re not exactly imaginative.”

“Guess not.” Martin presses a kiss against his hair. “Why are you looking, though?”

“Just thinking.” Jon’s hand finds his, and squeezes it gently. “I don’t regret it, you know.”

Martin blinks. “Regret what?”

“The one choice I did make. I don’t regret it. If we’d waited, I would not have seen this; I wouldn’t not been able to save anything at all.”

“..Jon --”

“I want you to know,” Jon declares, firmer. “It’s important to me than you know. I don’t like that I trapped you into an eternity of -- of fear guardianship. But If we had gone with the original plan, if they’d managed to escape, ... I wouldn’t have been able to live with it, Martin. I wouldn’t have gotten better. There wouldn’t have been any fixing it. But here -- with you -- I... I think I can be happy. I want us to be happy.”

“Me too,” Martin says. “I want us to be happy too.”

“...Good,” Jon says.

“Good,” Martin repeats. And then, because he is tired of staring outside by the window, or at the wall, because Hill Top Road is much bigger than the bedroom they insist on spending so much time in, he tugs at Jon gently. “Come on,” he says. “I think I’d like some tea.”

“In this weather?” Jon asks, because he’s a brat, but when Martin rolls his eyes and pulls him away from the window, he follows with a warm smile.