#tl drabbles

[waddingham]

oH Ted as the 'someone coming every week to cook and stock her fridge with meals'!! your brain does so much good work and I am so thankful we get to reap the benefits <33

yeah!!!!!! and i couldn't think straight until I got rid of it!!! here take this it's killing me!!

×

She begs Phillip to keep her on. She begs him, tries to double his fee even, to keep him from total retirement, but he's steadfast in his decision. 

The thought of hunting down another chef is horrific. But he gives her no choice. 

She blows through them like tissues for three months, suffering over-complicated meals, over-powering flavors, chefs clearly trying to impress as if she wants a Michelin star meal every night. She doesn't – if that was what she wanted she knows exactly where to get it. 

When she's at home she just wants good food, that's easy to reheat and easy to eat. Which is how she ends up finally succumbing to Leslie's repeated insistence that she give his man a chance.

“He comes over once a month,” he tells her, more than once. “Puts together some things we can freeze and just pop in the oven. Simple enough for the boys to do it, so Julie and I can have at least a couple evenings where they can feed themselves.”

He brightens when she gives and asks for his info, and when she gives him a call, she's struck dumb hearing his American accent.

She's running out of options, so she takes a chance on him.

×

She taps her fingers on the counter, waiting for the doorbell, checking her watch when she finally hears it. He's perfectly on time, but she feels like she's already searching for a reason to be disappointed with him.

He has a pleasant smile for her, though, and a friendly demeanor and a firm handshake and a handsome face – none of which she can immediately find fault in as they introduce themselves.

“I'm sure you're busy,” he says as she leads him to the kitchen. “So I appreciate you taking the time to let me peek at the kitchen and ask you a couple questions.”

“Of course,” she says, used to the procedure by now. Most of them have some kind of sheet they have her fill out, usually via email, but she doesn't mind taking a moment to meet the person who's going to be cooking her food.

“Oh, this is nice,” he compliments, looking around the kitchen, as he sets down the backpack hooked on his shoulder.

“Thank you,” she says, gesturing for him to claim a stool. “Though you can probably infer from your presence that it gets little use.”

“That's okay, I'll go easy on it,” he chuckles, pulling a binder from his bag and opening it up on the counter. “First, though, I wanna make sure I know what I'm cooking.”

He doesn't have a questionnaire or the like, it seems. The lined paper in front of him is blank before he scrawls her name at the top.

“How many people am I cooking for, first of all?” he says without looking up.

She licks her lips, her gaze shifting. 

“Just me.” She keeps her tone matter-of-fact. She hopes.

The way he glances up makes her doubt whether she managed it.

“Makin’ it easy on me already,” he says with a soft smile, adding a 1 to the corner of his sheet. “You have any allergies or dietary restrictions?” 

“No,” she says, then adds, “Though, I do have the tendency to drop meat for a while every so often.”

“A part-time vegetarian?”

She cracks half a smile. “Sure.”

“Okay,” he chuckles. “What kinda meals are you after? Breakfast, lunch, dinner?”

“Dinner, mostly, though I won't say no to the occasional breakfast. Mostly out of curiosity.”

She doesn't think any of the chefs she's hired have offered to make breakfasts.

“I make a mean frittata,” he grins. “What do you like, then? What are some of your favorites, so I can get a feel for what you want?”

“When I eat at home, I want quick and easy,” she says. “The less steps for me, the better. I don't want extravagant, elaborate meals. Shepherd's pie, any kind of pasta, soups, salads. Fish, chicken, red meat on occasion, not every week preferably. Anything veg heavy will probably be a hit with me.”

He nods, taking rapid notes in what must be a very familiar format to him. He fires off a few more questions for her, elaborating a bit further on what she likes before switching gears.

“Anything you absolutely don't want?”

“Not especially,” she says. “I don't like to limit a new chef too soon. I'd rather you make me your best and I'll let you know.”

“Uh oh,” he smiles.

He does that a lot.

“Am I on trial?”

She opens her hands up, giving him a small smile and he chuckles.

“I've had six chefs in ten weeks,” she tells him. “So yes, maybe a little bit.”

“Why didn't they fit the bill?” he asks curiously. “So I can avoid a similar fate.”

“I don't think they quite believed me when I told them how simple I wanted things,” she says. “Too many sauces and sides and heat this up separately and put this on this. If I want a five course meal, I know where to get one. When I get home from work, I want to throw something in the oven or dump it on a plate and microwave it, not anything glamorous.”

He looks pleased to hear it – he seems to actually relax slightly, as if he'd been uncertain he could deliver on what she wanted.

“Well, I can guarantee you that going too fancy will not be a problem with me,” he says, writing a few more things down. “I'm used to basic.”

“Good.”

“I've got Tuesday afternoons free, if we're doing every week.”

She nods.

“Between noon and four, if that works for you.”

“I'll be at work, so you'll have free reign,” she says, opening a drawer on the island and pulling a house key from it. “Make yourself at home.”

“Alrighty,” he says, taking it from her. She watches him pull a roll of masking tape and a ring of maybe half a dozen keys from his bag. He rips off a piece of tape and labels it with an RW before adding it to the keyring. 

“If you ever have any requests, that number you have is my cell. Shoot me a text before Tuesday if you want it that week, or you can leave me a note.”

“Okay.”

“And let me know if you think of anything else you want me to know,” he says, starting to pack everything away again. “If you hate olives or can't stand Bleu cheese.”

“I love olives,” she says emphatically. “And there's no kind of cheese I will refuse.”

“Cheese is the best, right?” he remarks. “They're all good. Yellow, white, hard, soft. Even stinky, moldy…still good.”

She snorts a bit, but fully agrees.

“I'm pretty much always stocked with fresh mozzarella to nibble on so feel free to help yourself.”

“Oh, don't tell me that,” he says, shaking his head. “I'll clean you out every week.”

She chuckles as he throws his backpack over his shoulder. 

She sees him out, intrigued now to see what he cooks up for her.

×

When she gets home on Tuesday, there's a delicate cacophony of smells hanging in the air and she remembers for the first time today – after a long, trying weekend – that Ted was meant to come.

And apparently did.

The kitchen is spotless (thank God – chef number two had a tendency to slack on the cleaning up bit) and she eagerly makes her way to the fridge.

Each covered pan has a strip or two of tape on top – 35 minutes @ 175° the small square one requests. Thank God. One singular step.

If it tastes like shit, she's going to cry.

It reveals itself to be a lasagna and she flips the oven on, lets it get hot while she peeks at the rest of what he's made, then pops it in the oven while she goes upstairs and gets comfortable.

She notices the extra pan by the kettle when she comes back down, this one without a lid, left on a trivet. 

Three neat rows of shortbread lie within it, a note flat on the counter in front of it.

A little extra treat – maybe a bribe so I don't end up being Disappointing Chef Number 7 – and a thanks for giving me a shot. I'm told these are a winner with a cup of tea. 

He's signed it with a mustached smiley face that makes her chuckle.

They smell divine. She can't resist prying one up and taking a bite.

“Oh, fuck me,” she mutters to herself, looking at the biscuit with a bit of wonder as it melts on her tongue, perfectly sweet and salty.

Oh, wow. She glances at the oven, then the pan in front of her.

She might have struck gold.

×

Everything is delicious. He's clearly not a professional five star chef, but every bite has her in disbelief.

It's just so good. She was skeptical, but he even nails a shepherd's pie for her, dumping cheese on top without her even requesting it. Nothing is unpleasant or poorly made, nothing has her thinking to text him and tell him she didn't love it. His portions are more than enough for her and she frequently takes what's left to the office with her. She has never taken lunch with her to work. Ever.

His cooking tastes like dining at a friend's house, like family made it, like he loves cooking for people and puts it in every bite.

And the biscuits. She finished the pan before the week was even out, unable to help herself.

She's a little bit devastated when there are none on the following Tuesday. 

She leaves a note the next time she expects him.

Any chance for biscuits again? 

She's ecstatic to find a fresh pan when she gets home.

She's nursing her last three by the weekend, determined to make them last long enough to request more.

×

I hope no notes is a good thing?

She's been meaning to text him, tell him how pleased she is with everything he's made, but it continued to slip her mind.

How am I doing?

No notes is a very good thing, she sends back. Everything has been absolutely delicious.

Oh good :)

I love to hear it

The biscuits have become a problem though

No biscuits next week then?

God no

I'm hooked on them

Don't do that to me

You got it boss

×

She almost laughs at herself when she gets home.

She's turning down dinner dates and good-looking men in favor of a date with the container labeled prosciutto stuffed chicken breast in her fridge that she's been thinking about all day.

He'd probably get a kick out of the fact that his food is so good it's ruining her dating prospects, but that's most definitely not something she'll be telling him.

She gets herself a little bit of this week's salad while she waits on the oven – romaine with candied walnuts, dried cranberries, gorgonzola, sliced green apple with a deliciously sharp vinaigrette. She peruses the fridge in her typical Wednesday fashion – on Tuesday evenings she's made a habit of grabbing the first thing she sees and letting him surprise her – looking for the small container of sauce that the lid of the chicken makes mention of.

She chuckles when she sees it. Some of his notes on things have gotten more elaborate, sometimes teasing, sometimes with a wine pairing suggestion, sometimes just with a little smiley face. The lid for the sauce only says creamy pesto, but there's masking tape wrapped in a spiral over its sides, covered with writing.

I know, I'm gonna get in trouble for making a separate sauce for something but all you gotta do is dump it on when it's done! It's worth the extra step I promise! 

She snickers around her salad, setting it on the counter. 

It's well, well worth the extra step.

×

When she gets home on Tuesday, she's unexpectedly greeted by a strong, delicious smell and noise from the kitchen. She leaves her heels and her coat before turning into the kitchen.

Ted's at the stove, looking almost mortified as he immediately starts apologizing.

“I'm sorry, Rebecca, I'm so behind today, but this is my last one and then I'll clean up and get out of here–” he rambles, but she's taking him in more than listening. Namely, she's taking in his tired bloodshot eyes and his disheveled hair and the way his hands shake as he gestures to the mess of the kitchen. 

“I'm sorry–”

“No, Ted, it's alright,” she insists. “It's not a problem.”

“I'm almost done.”

“Are you okay?” she asks gently.

“Yeah, yeah, I'm fine, I just need to finish this…”

She frowns and rounds the island, unconvinced and unsettled – he's almost frantic with energy.

“Come here.” 

He frowns as she pulls him away from the stove.

“No, it'll burn–”

“In which case I'll survive with one less meal,” she says firmly, pushing him to the dining table. “Sit.”

He does – reluctantly – and she gets him a glass of water.

“Take a deep breath. Relax,” she insists before stepping to the stove. The pan there has a sauce in the making, a plate of meatballs next to it, as well as a pot of water getting hot.

“What needs done here?” she asks.

“I can–”

“Stop,” she commands, lifting a brow at him before he can rise. “Sit. Just tell me.”

“The, the cream needs to go in,” he says. “Give it a second, then the other two little bowls there, the Dijon and the Worcestershire and then the spices.”

“Okay,” she says, keeping her voice steady, hoping it'll relax him, show him she's far from upset that he's still here.

She follows his instructions, pouring the measuring cup of cream in and mixing it with the little whisk that's already there. She lets it get hot, then adds the rest, stirring it in.

“What am I making?” she asks with a small smile.

“Swedish meatballs,” he supplies, sounding distracted. “One of my favorites.”

“Swedish, hmm?”

“Well, I can't speak to them being authentic,” he says. “Recipe was my mom's. And she's definitely not Swedish.”

It smells delicious – whatever spices she just added were warm and aromatic and it makes her mouth water.

“What next?”

“Uh, turn the heat down and let it simmer,” he says. “Needs to thicken.” 

She dutifully turns the stove down and then joins him, taking a seat next to him. 

“What's wrong?”

“Nothing,” he deflects, “I'm fine. Just…didn't sleep so good and then this morning was…I'm fine.”

She doesn't push, seeing how much effort he's putting into forcing a smile and changes course.

“Do you have anywhere else to be today?” she asks.

“No, no, you're my last client on Tuesdays.”

“Then stay,” she insists, gesturing to the stove. “Looks like enough for two.”

“I shouldn't,” he tries, shaking his head. “I should get out of your hair.”

“You're not in my hair,” she asserts. “I would enjoy the company and I'm most certainly not complaining about getting a meal fresh off the stove.”

He looks her over for a moment, presumably looking for any hint of falsehood before he nods a bit haltingly.

She smiles.

“Should, uh, should put the meatballs back in to finish ‘em,” he murmurs. “And get the noodles on.”

“Yes, chef,” she says, giving him a wink when he finally smiles. 

“I'll do it,” he says, and she lets him this time for how much calmer he seems. She occupies herself by offering him a drink and pouring herself a glass of wine. He accepts a couple fingers of a scotch he's apparently had his eye on for the last few weeks and she watches with interest as he takes a sip.

“Oh, that's nice,” he mutters. 

“The only one I buy anymore.”

“You have excellent taste, I have to say,” he remarks. “Thank you.”

She helps him get the rest of the dinner together and is glad to see him relax more and more, until he's smiling easy as they both sit at the island with bowls of noodles and meatballs.

“Well, it smells fantastic,” she says, eagerly stabbing a forkful of noodles and half a meatball.

It's delicious. Creamy and warm and truly everything about it screams comfort food. 

“Oh, Christ,” she mumbles around it. 

“Yeah? That one a winner?” 

She nods emphatically, eyeing him as she chews.

“Nothing you make is bad,” she mumbles, watching him take his own bite.

“That's ‘cause I only make what I know I can make good for you,” he chuckles. 

“Why's that?” she asks. He can take a chance on her – he's built up plenty of faith in him already. One bad meal isn't going to have her canning him.

“Oh, to impress of course,” he says with a crooked smile that she returns. 

“You've already done so,” she says. “I haven't had a single thing I didn't like.”

“I'm very happy to hear it,” he says, sounding very genuine about it.

They eat slowly because conversation comes very easily. Whether it's the drink or the distraction of her company, he's light-years away from the frazzled ball of anxiety she was met with.

“Safe to assume you don't enjoy cooking much, huh?” he asks her as they both scrape their bowls. 

“I don't think I would mind it if I had ever learned,” she muses. “But I've had a cook for most of my life and learning how now just to feed myself seems more trouble than it's worth.”

“You've had a cook most of your life?” 

“My parents kept one when I was a kid, and then when I was married, my ex-husband insisted on a cook,” she says, half rolling her eyes. “Thank you, by the way, for not inundating me with pork pies and sausage rolls and roasts and dousing everything in gravy.”

“I enjoy a good gravy, but, oof, that's heavy eatin’ right there.”

“Too heavy,” she agrees. “Though my tastes were rarely taken into account.”

He hums as he wipes his mouth and she finds understanding in his eyes.

“How long were you married?” he inquires.

“Twelve years,” she says slowly.

“That's a lot of gravy,” he says more seriously than the words might call for. She hears his meaning plain enough.

“Yes. It was.”

“Well,” his tone brightens a bit, “now you got me to make whatever you please.”

“Too right,” she chuckles, sipping her wine. “And it's always spectacular. I don't know how you do it, what you're lacing everything with…”

“Oh, I just make sure I put a little love in everything, that's all,” he grins.

She takes in the sight of him, smiling and content, his creased eyes warm, and she likes this. She's enjoying this. She likes him. 

It's so hard to know though, even as his eyes move over her face, the quiet stretching long, if she likes him or if she's simply missed enjoying a comfortable meal at home without having to do it alone.

Her eyes drop, aware of how intensely she’s looking at him. She's not sure when it happened but they're both turned completely towards each other on their stools, leaning on the counter, and his fingertips are right there at the edge of hers – the mere straightening of her fingers would bring them into contact.

“I appreciate you letting me stay and have some of your dinner,” he says softly.

“You made it,” she offers with a grin.

“You paid for it,” he returns.

“It's not a problem at all,” she says, meaning it wholeheartedly. “It's nice to have some company.”

“I'm gonna be honest with you, Rebecca, you don't seem like a woman who would have any problem finding company.”

Her brows lift alongside the corners of her mouth, a little internally delighted by his boldness.

“I think I'll take that as a compliment,” she grins.

“As it was meant,” he assures.

“In which case…I'll amend to say it's nice to have such comfortable and easy company.”

His cheeks round, his gaze dropping in something akin to bashfulness and she thinks it really might just be him that's growing on her.

“I’m glad you stayed,” she says, her smile slanting crookedly. “Even if I pretty much made you.”

“I didn't wanna impose. You were very kind to give me a second to…calm down.”

She's not sure if it's embarrassment, exactly, or shame that has him toying with his glass instead of looking at her.

“Felt like I was trying to catch up to myself all day,” he admits.

“I know the feeling,” she sympathizes.

He's quiet for a moment before he responds. 

“My ex-wife was supposed to come out with our son in the next couple weeks here, but she called and they pushed it back until the summer.”

His frown is back and his gaze is faraway, but she doesn't speak.

“Been here for almost a year now and they still seem to be getting on just fine without me.” He sounds like he wishes he could say it with detachment, but it comes out rather devastated. 

“They're in the States?” she asks gently, pulling him back to here and now as he shakes himself a bit. 

“Yes.”

“Why don't you go see them?” she tries, though she's very aware she's got the bare minimum of facts.

“‘Cause I'm still stinging from her snapping that she just needs some goddamn space,” he says, giving her a twisted, wry little grin. 

She frowns but he shrugs, lifting his drink to his lips. 

“S’pose it's about time to just get over it,” he mumbles.

“That's not easy to get over,” she says kindly. “Especially from someone you love.”

“No, it's not,” he agrees. “Ain't much love to lose these days, though. You're probably right, should just take matters into my own hands, hop over the pond.”

“Don't go too long,” she says, only half teasing. “I shouldn't be left to feed myself for a prolonged period of time.”

He smiles again and the sight has warm satisfaction melting in her.

“Oh, if I go anywhere I'll set you up, don't you worry,” he assures her.

“Thank goodness.”

It's odd how difficult she finds it when she rises and steps away. A part of her wants her to stay put, keep the space between them minimal, but she writes it off as a result of just how long it's been since she had sex.

“Now, I don't see any biscuits,” she says. “But I suppose I'll give you a pass this week.”

He rises with a soft chuckle, following her with his own dish to the sink. 

“No, no, I'll do it,” he says as he starts to clean up from dinner. “Unless you need your kitchen back.”

She starts gathering dishes – he must clean as he goes, because it's not nearly the mess she'd imagine would come from cooking four whole dinners. 

“Oh, for what? You think I have a chef on the side coming over tonight?”

He turns, expression scandalized, a hand landing on his chest as if he's been shot.

“Tell me you'd never.”

She chuckles, joining him at the sink, hands full.

They clean up together and then she pours them both another drink before she claims a stool, content to watch as he puts together a batch of biscuits. She watches him move comfortably around the kitchen, chatting easily with her, and it's making an impression, one she's blatantly ignoring.

She half expects him to try to leave her once they're in the oven and has her excuses for him to stay at the ready, but he sits again, waiting the half hour they need to bake at the island with her. He asks her about her job, how she came to own the club, and conversation wanders to and fro.

“I'm intrigued to see what you've cooked up for me this week, chef,” she remarks at one point.

“You know I ain't really a professional chef, right?” he chuckles. “I dropped out of culinary school actually.”

“Really? Why?” 

He lifts a shoulder. “I wasn't having fun. I love cooking, I love making food and feeding people, but I didn't wanna do it the way they train you to, you know, cooking in a restaurant or joining the race to be the next big something. I like doing it this way. Getting to know people and cooking what they like. Feels like I'm paying the bills by cooking for friends and that's…” He clicks his tongue with a nod. “That's just perfect for me.”

“Well,” she says, smiling at how clearly he loves what he does. “You're still a chef. Definitely to me at least.”

He rises when the oven chimes, giving her a smile. 

“That's enough for me.”

The biscuits have filled the kitchen with the warm scent of vanilla – the same scent that's usually still barely lingering when she gets home.

He stays long enough to let them cool slightly and cut them and she watches as he arranges them on the trivet by the kettle, just as he always does. He packs his things up then and she sees him out, exchanging smiles and goodbyes.

She's still smiling when she finally goes upstairs to change for the evening and it takes her a while to identify the feeling.

She feels like she just got home from a really, really good date.

×

It wasn't a date, so she doesn't know why she's disappointed when she doesn't hear from him again over the week. She doesn't contact him either, trying to recategorize the evening in her mind. 

She's very pleasantly surprised, in that case, when she comes home the following Tuesday and he's still there. She knows by the smell of something sweet and nutty filling the air before she even gets to the kitchen. 

It's spotless this time. He's not all anxious energy this time either – he smiles when she peeks in, looking rather uncertain about his welcome, but it still makes something deep in her chest ache.

It's rather nice. To come home to a smile from someone.

“Hi,” he says.

“Hello.” She lets her smile ease his uncertainty and her tone ask her questions for her.

“I, uh, wanted to say thank you,” he explains. “For last week, when I was…when I wasn't feeling so great, for being so kind, letting me hang out for a while.”

She starts to wave it off again, but he continues.

“I made a little something special for ya. Something I can't really leave for you to reheat later,” he says, gesturing to the ovens. “If you want a little snack?”

She nods eagerly, kicking her heels off toward the stairs before she joins him.

He pulls a dish from the oven and sets it on the counter. He fiddles with something there, but she doesn't see what until her turns, sliding a round plate to the center of the island between them.

Whatever it is is perfectly golden brown, looks delicious and smells heavenly.

“Honey baked brie,” he informs her. “With some walnuts and some fig jam, tiny bit of rosemary.”

“Oh my god,” she almost moans. “And it's what, wrapped in pastry?”

“Yes, ma'am,” he smiles. “Thought it might be something you like.”

“I can tell you already you're correct,” she says, rounding the island to find them some forks. “I can't wait to taste it.”

“Let me know how you like it.” She frowns, but he's got a small smile when she looks up. “I'll let you…”

“You think I'm going to eat that entire thing myself?” she asks, lifting her brows as she pulls two forks from the drawer.

“Well, I know how much you like cheese,” he chuckles.

“I'll share,” she says, handing him a fork. “With you.”

She doesn't even have the patience to sit down – she slices her fork through the pastry and creamy brie begins to ooze out. She scoops it up with some pastry, catching a nut and a bit of fig and shoves it in her mouth. 

“Careful, it's hot–”

“Fuck me,” she mutters without thought.

It's delicious. Creamy and sweet and savory, the pastry flaky and buttery. It's rich and indulgent but not sickeningly so and she’s in love.

She's bringing another bite to her mouth when she realizes he's just smiling at her, pleased as punch.

“Please eat some,” she begs around her bite. “Because I can not eat all of this and I will if you leave me alone with it.”

“Alright, alright,” he chuckles, cutting off a bite for himself. 

He hums, pleased with his handiwork. “Mm. Not to toot my own horn, but that's good.”

“Mm!” she hums, getting an idea. She steps away to the wine cooler, squatting down to look for one of her less frequent whites. She comes back with a pair of glasses and an off-dry Riesling.

“This was a bit too bright and citrus-y for me, but it might be gorgeous with this.”

“Okay. You’re the sommelier here, not me,” he says as she pours, then slides a glass to him.

“Oh, please, your pairings are always spot on.”

It does go nicely, complimenting every bite.

“God, this is lovely,” she tells him. 

“I'm glad you like it,” he mumbles around his own bite. 

“Did you make the pastry?”

He shakes his head. “No. Normally I would, but I didn't decide on this until I was shopping today and that takes some time.”

“How long did this take?”

She listens with interest as he explains how he made it, amazed at how straightforward it sounds.

“Christ, it sounds like I could make it.”

“Uh oh,” he says, eyes widening. “Am I talking myself out of a job?”

“Oh, hardly. Even if I figured out how to make everything you cook for me, I'd still keep you around,” she admits. “You’re good company.”

“Well, that's nice to know,” he smiles, eyes soft.

“Also, knowing how to definitely doesn't mean I actually have any desire to cook any of it myself,” she chuckles. “So you still have plenty of use.”

She winks with her teasing as his warm laugh has him tucking his chin, his crows feet deepening. 

“I see how it is.”

She can't help but take him in, delighted by how carefree he is today. God help her, she really does like him – she wants to know him better. He's so genuine, so unselfish and generous, and she wants to keep him smiling.

“Thank you,” she says when she finally really can't eat any more, maybe a quarter of the round of brie left on the plate. “That was very kind of you.”

“No, thank you,” he echoes. “It was nice last week, to sit and eat with someone and I needed it.”

She nods get agreement, leaning her hip against the counter.

“I won't, uh, make a habit of just hanging out here, though,” he says, presumably to reassure her.

Her brows tip, eyes on his as she lets out a disappointed, “No?”

His lips part, but he doesn't manage to form a response. It hardly matters – they're communicating plenty in their gazes, trading glances at each other's lips. The moment stretches, and stretches, her breath changing to suit the surplus beats of her heart at the intensity in his warm eyes.

He leans closer, tipping his head, and something jolts through the center of her when he kisses her. She returns the gentle pressure, daring to part her lips to close them against his. Her fingers curl into her hand at her hip with restraint, fighting the urge to sink into his hair or pull him closer.

It's too delicate, this lovely feeling, and draws a tenderness up through her she hasn't been able to find for months.

He eases back slowly and she catches the breath he stole. Her eyes open, finding his still closed and she watches his parted lips begin to tighten as he fights a smile. The sight inspires one of her own, pulling at her cheeks as he opens his eyes, the smile winning and straightening his mustache out.

“I, um…”

She rolls her lips into her mouth, not even trying for words. She has none.

He can't find any either.

She drives forward again, prepared this time with a little extra breath in her lungs, a little more confidence. He kisses her back with a little more something too and she can't restrain her hands anymore from rising to hold his face. She tries to imbue the motion of her lips with plenty of invitation, but it's not until she pulls back and he follows, wavering toward her, that he steadies himself with a hand on her hip. Her attention goes straight to the heat of it through her dress as it slides to a more respectable height on her waist.

“You are very welcome to linger here as much as you like actually,” she exhales.

“Oh, I feel welcome,” he says, voice low.

She grins, pulling him in again. “Do you?”

“I sure do.” 

He barely gets the words out before they're kissing again. She opens to him, tastes the brie and honey and the dry sweetness of the wine and finds it appropriate that he should be so indulgent. His hands finally make their way around her, narrowing the space between them even more. She's not sure when her arms found their way around his neck but they tighten there in response.

He doesn't let her go far when they part again, dropping a kiss on the corner of her mouth, her cheek. Her eyes close with the sensation, the scratch of his mustache and his warm lips. 

“I really like cooking for you,” he murmurs.

The way he says it makes it sound like a deep confession and she feels silly for how fluttery it makes her to hear. She smiles against his lips and discovers this isn't new information to her. It's in every bite.

“I know you do,” she says low in his ear. “I can taste it.”

“Can you?” He sounds surprised and pleased.

“Yes.” She guides him back to her lips. “I can.”

[serenescribe]

thank you @oddberryshortcake for letting me write something based on this absolutely heart-wrenching post! i am in shambles from the newest update. spoilers ahead.

“Silver,” Lilia whispers, in a voice that breaks as it spills past his cracked lips.

Lilia pays no attention to the way his knees ache, kneeling for as long as he has been, the thin fabric of his stockings rubbing raw patches into his flesh. Nor does he focus on any of the other ailments afflicting him — the blanket of fatigued exhaustion weighing down his shoulders, the throbbing agony pulsating through his head, the scratchy dryness itching up the inside of his throat. The only thing he has eyes for is his son: Silver, who lays in his arms, cradled close to Lilia’s body, his head lolling against Lilia’s chest.

Silver’s eyes remain firmly shut. He is still asleep.

Oh, Lilia’s heart crumbles with each ticking second, eyes fixated upon the slow rise and fall of Silver’s chest. He is not dead — Not yet, a terrible, pesky part of Lilia’s mind, words uttered from the lips of a disillusioned general, tells him, to which Lilia bats away, trying to ignore the thought. The sight of his breathing should fill Lilia with relief because it means Silver is still alive.

And yet, Lilia can only hang his head over Silver’s body, cradling him even closer, arms wrapped protectively around the body of his son, his child.

“Wake up, Silver,” Lilia murmurs into his ear. He blinks, eyes wet and heavy, feels something sliding down his cheek — a single solitary tear, but not alone for long. Wet droplets land on Silver’s body, sinking into the fabric of his shirt. How long has it been since Lilia cried like this? He cannot remember. Seven hundred years spent alive does that to someone — it numbs their heart, dries their tears, makes it nigh impossible to cry, especially when so much of their past is occupied by something as numbing as the wretched consequences of wars long fought.

Silver still does not stir.

Distantly, Lilia notices the faint tracks marring his cheeks, echoes of tears long since shed. He reaches for it with a thumb, swiping at the dried stains, as though wiping it away could erase all of the pain Silver must have gone through in his dream. He knows enough of what happened, knows of it from what the others has told him, and it makes his heart shatter — the thought that Silver had nearly succumbed to his own blot, all because he found out his past, a past Lilia tried to hide for fear of Silver being judged for the sins of his fathers, breaks something nestled deep inside of his chest.

Lilia closes his eyes. “I love you,” he breathes, words he has been so terrified of saying all these years. He does love Silver, truly — but to utter those three words, the words a young Silver have always said to him so freely with that beaming smile spreading across his chubby child cheeks… For years, Lilia has evaded ever speaking them into reality, to return the obvious affection of his son instead of laughing it off and saying “I know.”

And as a consequence of that, Lilia is now far too late.

He knows he is not alone in this room. He can hear things — conversations that swirl together, hushed murmurs, snatches of his name and Silver’s own, footsteps and doors creaking open and shut. He can see things — in his peripheral vision mainly, shadows that approach and depart, the occasional sight of footsteps slipping into view. He can feel things — a hand coming to rest on his shoulder, fingers reaching out to stroke Silver, all touches that Lilia shrinks away from, pulls Silver away from. Because as far as his addled mind is concerned, the only thing he can process right now is him and his son.

A memory haunts him: He is a few years younger, finding Silver for the first time. He uses his magic to explore his memories, discovers the identity of the child in the cradle, and finds out that he is the spawn of his enemies. And yet, all Lilia can focus on is the knowledge that Silver was fated to slumber until his true love woke him up, an unending rest only broken when Lilia stumbled upon him.

He is Silver’s true love, and Silver is his.

“Silver,” Lilia tries again, his voice cracking into splinters as he forces his name past his lips. “I love you. Wake up.”

Silver is his, isn’t he? Just as he is Silver’s — an absolute truth that Lilia turned a blind eye to for years, too scared to reciprocate the emotions swirling about his soul in full force, to unleash the depths of his love for his dear son. If Silver could wake from the throes of a sleep that had addled him for four hundred years all because of Lilia’s love for him, a love he had not realised the extent of when he found Silver for the first time, then surely he can do the same now, right?

Surely Lilia’s love for him, a love he knows now to show freely in the way he hugs him close, presses kisses against his forehead, will be enough to wake him… right?

So why is he not waking?

Why is he still asleep?

Is his love not enough? That cannot be the case. Lilia loves Silver — with all his heart, with all his soul; they have been bonded since the moment Silver was born, the invisible strings of fate entangling the two of them together before either of them knew it. Lilia is the key to Silver’s lock, his very presence opening the boy’s heart, dispelling the effects of a curse that has kept him in stasis for four long centuries. His only mistake was not showing his affections sooner, of keeping his heart carefully guarded until it was far too late.

So why then?

Why won’t Silver wake up?

[thelonelyshore-if]

Perri 🤝Ravi

( writing their drabbles and trying to hint at their character arcs & romances & Issues while also trying to keep the really important bits quiet )

[ahundredtimesover]

Hi 👋🏽 I’ll be going on an indefinite break that may (or may not) be for good.

Writing fanfiction was an escape for me these past 2 years. It was a way to express my love for the tannies in how I wrote them as comfort characters, and it was a way for me to make sense of my own experiences and emotions. These fics have always been very personal, with a bit of me in every OC, my pains reflected in their stories, and words I wish someone told me growing up expressed in the dialogues. And I’ll always be so thankful that many of you related with them, found meaning in them, and found comfort in them. That will always be my favorite part 💜💜 stories are so powerful! They’ve allowed me to connect with so many people and make memories in this (mostly) lovely part of the site.

But the process of writing has also been draining, not as cathartic as it used to be, and not as fulfilling. So much as I find myself going back and forth with the numerous stories in my drafts, I can’t bring myself to continue with them. Not anytime soon, at least. Maybe one day the itch to write will be so intense, or JJK1/KTH1 drops and I’ll lose my shit (Untitled and Belong were born out of Indigo and D-day after all), or after rereading my stories, I’ll miss writing so much. The thing is, I’ve never loved BTS as much as I do right now; perhaps I’m content with screaming about that love to myself in the meantime.

I’ll be lurking around here, maybe pop in every once in a while (so plagiarists, keep off my work, pls). My stories will remain here as your comfort 😌 and I’ll do my best to put out the PLM drabbles I promised! Other than that, all the stories are complete for you to enjoy (sorry to those waiting on TLA 😔 I hate that I’m unable to continue). I also have Twitter (jmimi_mi). I’m also just a lurker but say hi if you want! 😊 we can talk bts and fics and whatnot over there (I’ll try, I promise).

Please give love to the authors who are still lovingly putting out work for the community! 🥰

[timechange]

MCFLY JULY ‘24 — backyard cookout.

JULY 4, 1986

“Jesus, the whole block is out there.”

Marty can’t stop looking out of the window, watching distantly as every single resident of Lyon Estates seems to be staking claims on their backyard. The people, the tables, hell, even the food, are all plastered in stars and stripes. His dad is welcoming everybody with a handshake, a clap on the shoulder, and a smile, like there’s a paparazzi hiding in the rose bush. His mom is chatting up Mrs. Wilson from across the street like they’re old pals, which is hilarious considering they were this close to shanking each other with the free, shitty mini candy canes at his dad’s company Christmas party two years ago. 

“Of course it is. It’s the same every year,” Dave returns, balancing vats of macaroni salad and potato salad as he works his way out the door, dressed in Sperrys, red shorts, and a navy polo shirt. 

What if I died, Marty briefly wonders, what if I died in the thunderstorm in 1955 and God screwed up and stuck me in yuppie heaven? What the hell did I do to deserve that?

“Aren’t you ready yet?” Dave promptly derails his train of thought. “Mom and Dad are insisting on taking family photos again this year. I tried telling ‘em I’m twenty-three and way too old for that shit, but–” 

“Dave, shut up,” Linda interrupts dryly, carefully carrying a bowl of punch so as not to spill it down her sleeveless blue and white dress. Marty spares a glance toward the red polo shirt and white shorts that are laid out for him. Matching outfits, Jesus Christ. “Marty, he’s right. Go get your stuff on.” 

“Uh, actually…” Marty rubs the back of his neck. “Actually, guys, I think I’m gonna sit this one out. I-I mean, there’s plenty of people out there already, and–”

“Sit it out!” Dave interjects. “Marty, what’s gotten into you lately? You love this!”  

“... I do?” 

It’s only at Marty’s look of genuine confusion that Dave’s face turns from indignant annoyance to deep concern, making lines in his forehead he’s way too young to have. 

“Quit being a dweeb,” Linda, halfway to the door, gives her brothers a glance over her shoulder. “Go get changed. I’m not bringing all this out by myself.” 

Searching his kid brother’s face one more time, Dave follows his sister out the door. 

When he’s actually outside and sitting on the front steps, watching the kids waving sparklers and running around the yard, Marty realizes he can’t feel his hands. 

It doesn’t freak him out now, but back when it first started happening, his breath would freeze in his throat, his heart trying to make a break for it out of his chest as he made sure that he wasn’t being erased from existence. Now, it’s just one of those things. Maybe he’ll ask somebody about it, but he doesn’t want any more people looking at him the way Dave just did.

Shrieking and talking and sizzling bounce all around him, but it sounds like it's coming from a radio in the other room. Maybe somebody left the TV on again. Maybe–

“Marty?” 

He blinks. Worried brown eyes look back at him and there’s a hand on his cheek he almost– almost– shrinks back from. 

“Jennifer?” he breathes. “The hell are you doin’ here? Your parents… your parents go to Montara for the Fourth. Right?” 

“Yeah, but for the last couple years I’ve stayed in town with you,” she responds. “Remember?” 

“I…” 

“Come on,” Jennifer encourages, gently taking his hands and pulling him up. She lets go of one hand but tightly holds onto the other. “It’s a little crowded for me.”

“Yeah,” Marty agrees, squeezing her hand back, smiling despite the pricking behind his eyes and the lump in his throat. “Yeah, me too.” 

Even if everything else is a shit show, at least two things have stayed the same; one, he doesn’t deserve Jennifer Parker, and two, he’s crazy about her. 

She leads him back inside where she’s put her roller skates and helmet by his skateboard, propped up against the front door. Once they’re geared up, they skate off hand in hand down the streets of Hill Valley. 

The sound of Einstein’s barking and Jules and Verne laughing greet them. The boys are chasing the dog around– mostly through the elaborate automatic sprinkler system Marty had helped Doc had set up earlier in the summer– while Doc fusses over the grill and Clara sets the patio table.

“Hey,” Marty tentatively tries, leaning his skateboard up against the side of the house as Jennifer undoes her skates, “Room for two more?”

“Marty!” Doc exclaims, immediately abandoning his post and sweeping the boy into his arms, an embrace which is gratefully and tightly returned. “Jennifer!” Marty moves over and Doc extends his arm to accommodate her, and she eagerly joins the hug. “You made it!” 

“Marty’s here, Marty’s here!” Verne whoops, pumping his fists in the air victoriously. 

“Hello Martin! Hello Jennifer!” Jules chirps, waving with both hands. 

“Emmett, the hamburgers!” Clara calls to him, laughing, as Doc lets out a theatrical gasp and races back to the now slightly smoldering patties. 

Clara joins the two teenagers, wrapping a maternal arm around them both. 

“I’m so glad you could join us,” she says warmly, “We were hoping you would. I know it’s not anywhere near what your family puts on, Marty, but–”

“No, Clara, it’s great,” Marty reassures, leaning into her touch. “It’s all great.”

[aswallowssong]

Here's my masterlist of the prompts for this year (maybe this time I'll finish them all!)

“I’m not hungover, I’m just sick” (Or vice versa)

Too much of a Good Thing/Overindulgence

Campus/Con Crud

“Great. I got a cold for my birthday.”

“I didn’t mean to wake you up”

Dizziness/Vertigo

Borrowed Hoodie

“The closest doctor is probably hours away from here!”

Overdramatic Patient/Caretaker

The Sniffles™

Medieval Treatment

“You’re not fine, you’re throwing up/coughing up a lung”

Doctor’s Note

Clean Sheets/Fresh Pajamas

“Who decided ______ is ‘sick people food?’”

Toxin/Poison

Brain Fog/Spaced Out

“My body is one big ache”

Hypochondriac Tendencies

Medication Bribery

Anaphylactic Response

“You didn’t use my cup, did you?”

Under a Spell

Tales from the Waiting Room

Summer Flu

Flushed Cheeks

“This is non-negotiable”

Pulling a ‘Ferris Bueller’

Sick on a road trip

Hospital Bed

Some of these are the alternates, because there are things I don't always feel comfortable writing about (or a desire to, tbh.)

[knighteclipsed]

when children go to war.

a drabble: following round 1 of boel this year. word count: 353 words

Valter didn’t stick around after his victory.

There was no point—to waste time on waiting, on watching when he could be out there in the brawl. Already, this year’s bout was turning out better for him than the last: he’d even had the chance to avenge himself, in part, about his prior loss to the Golden Deer. (He would not be satisfied, of course, until he brought the Lions to victory as well.) The task was a simple one, really, and he would continue this road until the end.

Lance shatters the grass, crunching dirt; an odd angle. (It’s mostly the result of the suddenness with which he sent it flying.) Iron stood not too far away, easily within hand’s reach if he dashed, but for now–

‘You know, I still treasure that flower crown.’ (A self-absorbed scoff.)

For what was the purpose of such an asinine comment? To remark to a stranger that you ‘cherished’ something from them—really, it only spoke of her more than anything. (To value it to begin with was a foolish thing, but to bring it up as they were opponents, combatants, enemies–)

A crunch from a near distance. Head jerks around, spotting pink—flames conjured to descend; the Moonstone steps back, using the magic as cover. The crackle becomes footsteps, the light casting shadows—he always had thoughts on forests, but for now, it was the sight of an attempted ambush. Hand draws the new weapon acquired from the Golden Deer.

Click.

And the student falls—not dead though, importantly. (It didn’t take much analysis though for Valter to recognize the ease with which it could happen.) Instead, they are only disarmed; rendered incapable of fighting but not of committing the long trek back to camp. It is not the priestess, of course, for he had already defeated her. (The thought isn’t even worth having, to be frank—that somehow, he had not succeeded.) Eyes widen in the shadows, locking for but a moment before Valter smiles, stepping back.

Because in the end, the fight is all that matters. (Sentimentality could find a place in the heart of a weaker man.)

Imitation Dakka acquired!

[oficeandwind]

he HATES nightmares. more specifically, kami hates the nightmares that feel too vivid and real. the ones that have him crying out, unable to move, and only able to watch as the demons in his dreams stalk closer and closer to him. the same nightmares that have him bolting upright with a scream, because said demons share his mother's face.

makoto hasn't haunted him in a very long time. not that he misses her face or presence; that stupid hallucination had fucked with him plenty to last a few lifetimes. he just hates that every now and then, he'll wake up too terrified to discern nightmares from reality, like she's there with him.

being panicky is never helpful, and neither is staying in bed when he's trying to calm his racing heart. he can feel it now, hand pressed against his chest to feel that rapid thrumming that reverberates through his head. even his breathing is in pace with his pounding chest, making it hard to even THINK straight. his main two thoughts are of his cousin in the room next door, and the still visceral fear that something is looming in the darkness. of course, his heart sounds and feels like some echoing drum beat that signifies something ominous that is to come.

that fear is enough to launch himself out of bed, throwing himself against his door with a series of loud thunks. kami doesn't even know what time it is, though the tiniest beams of light from his window tell kami that it is still far too early for him to make this much racket.

it's such a fucking pain to learn how to be considerate of roommates now.

at least opening his door and moving from his room to his living room is a relatively quieter act. kami flops down on the sofa with a groan, burying his face in the cushion and pressing his head down. this makes it hard to breathe, but at least this option is better than the hyperventilating he was close to achieving. not that his heart rate is any closer to slowing down, yet.

this is almost nice though. his sleep addled brain is likening this to his stint in the facility, when he had to be subdued and quarantined for nightmares and other outbursts. it's STRANGE, how such a dark time in his past would also be one of the few memories to bring him comfort now. it's a twisted sort of comfort, but his brain always had a tendency to work in the strangest of ways.

how had the staffed calmed him down back then? everything had been repetitive, designed to keep him subdued. the staff soothing him with low voices, letting him temporarily play with stim toys, or even offering him candy to suck on if his cravings got too bad.

turning his head to the side, he keeps his eyes closed as he sucks in a small breath. it's more of a painful gasp, since he's still trying to slow his breathing in general, but it's something. he's also stretching his arm downward to fish for something he KNOWS is under the sofa. kami loathes the taste of candy, but this item is the next best thing. (or in some ways, better than candy.)

it's an expired pack of cigarettes. pushing himself upright, he rests on his knees, leaning against the arm of the sofa to peer inside the box. the still faint light from outside is more than enough for kami to see what the contents are. two cigarettes remain, with one of the cigarettes bent and crumpled. the second one looks like it's been snapped in half, with all contents spilling into the box. well, now spilling ash onto the carpet.

future kaminari can clean that up later. ren, if he comes out of his room, can deal with the smell. he can't remember if ren ever smoked or not, but that's not something he's going to concern himself with for the moment. right now, kami is taking the still intact cigarette and putting it between his lips. the stale, almost gross scent hits his nose and throat instantly, and he's slumping to the side, lying back down and pressing back against the sofa.

it feels like a light switch had been flipped; his heart starts slowing down, along with his breathing. his eyes even roll back as the nostalgia sends dopamine straight to his brain, the nicotine cutting through that stress and panic like some security blanket. for a brief moment, kami can even pretend the cigarette is lit.

he doesn't smoke anymore. it had been hard to quit in the first place, but he'd managed it, mostly. it had taken a lot of effort from both cyno and chongyun, and even his therapist had pitched in where she could. that doesn't mean kami got rid of all his cigarettes completely; there are still boxes stuffed into various corners of his apartment. he likes to take them out and hold them sometimes, just to FEEL like he can relax. like now, for example.

the cravings will always be there, of course. and kami LOATHES them. he hadn't wanted to even pick up smoking in the first place, detesting the way the nicotine calms him down with it seems like nothing else will. it's disgusting, but it's all probably makoto's fault anyway.

somehow, her issues had always been his messes to clean up. even after she'd passed, he still had to work out all the stupid details. the stress of being an orphaned teenager had definitely taken its toll. no WONDER he'd turned to drugs and ended up with a bad crowd. maybe this was her way of continuing to punish him for simply existing, he doesn't know. all he really cares about is that somewhere along the way, he'd fallen into a dark pit that he's still trying to climb his way out of.

kami hasn't told anyone about everything. chongyun and cyno know bits and pieces. they know a lot more than ren does, that's for sure. they'd been there while kami spent his time in the facility trying to get his head screwed back on straight, and they were there to help him readjust to life on the outside.

they were also there when ren supposedly died.

as far as what REN knows, kami isn't sure how much more he wants to offer his cousin. ren has his own issues to deal with, and everything about his lifestyle feels kaminari with more dread than he realistically knows how to handle. it just means kami CAN'T burden ren with this. ren knows enough to recognize kami isn't exactly stable, but just how much of kami's past, and how much he'd taken over the years, is still in large part a mystery.

it would break ren's heart to learn that kami still struggles with ren showing up on his doorstep. the nightmares from that alone have kami downing more coffee than he probably should. recovery and stability never seem consistent anymore.

kami loves all of them though. the last thing he'd ever want to do is HURT them, considering how much they care about him in turn. which is why, when he now hears ren's bedroom door open, followed by the bathroom door closing, kami is yanking the cigarette out of his mouth and shoving it back into the box. he clutches the box tightly in his hand, almost SQUEEZING, before stuffing it back under the sofa. the temporary high he felt moments ago is gone, leaving him feeling anxious again, though less so than when the nightmare woke him.

it's kami's love for ren that has him hiding these things from him. kami doesn't want to explain why he still has cigarettes hidden throughout the apartment, nor does he wants to explain why he still sticks them in his mouth. sure, ren would probably want to know. he's probably even going to find out, given how rancid they all smell. kami's noticed that ren seems driven to PROTECT him. the gesture is apppreciated, and kami's even leaning into it. it's hard to remember the last time he had someone so driven to care for him like this (though chongyun and cyno certainly help). unfortunately, ren can't chase away kami's inner demons, nor can he lift a sword to defend kami against himself. even if kami would like for that to actually occur.

besides, kami's vow to help ren out takes precedence. the fatui are still out there, and kami isn't about to let his cousin slip through his fingers again.

the sound of the toilet flushing snaps kaminari back to reality. before ren can come out of the bathroom, kami's on his feet and kicking the stray ash under the sofa as well. the smell of stale cigarette is already starting to seep into the carpet, and kami knows he's going to have to explain himself at some point. it's a conversation that can happen LATER. he's already walking back to his room, trying to make it before ren can come out of the bathroom.

though, kami doesn't bother shutting his door behind him. for some reason, he feels safer with the door open, rather than closed. at least with the door open, ren is only next door, and neither of them will have to fight in case kami NEEDS something from him.

grabbing his phone, kami flops down on his bed before checking the time. it's only five in the morning, which earns a loud groan. for most people, this would be a great chance to sleep for another couple of hours. for kami though, his alarm going off at seven just means he'd end up more tired than if he just stayed awake. he might as well just play around with cheap mobile games for the next couple of hours. that's better than letting himself drown in his thoughts.

at least this time, he's not stewing alone. even if ren is hiding in his room, either asleep, awake, or somewhere in between, he's still only a wall-knock away.

and progress is still progress.

[iinexorabile]

                  Chosen || Drabble

’They put up a good fight. I think one of them almost cut me back there,‘ slowly, Yaha pulled the sharp end of his scepter from the back of a bandits head, one of the many corpses that surrounded the blonde elf.

Urick was a couple of paces away, with no shortage of dead bandits laying at his feet as well. 

’One of these guys?' Urick would step over a severed arm, doing his best to not get his shoes dirty with blood. If there was anything that was difficult as hell to clean off, it was blood.

’I doubt that! I think you’re giving them a bit too much credit,’ Urick smiled, looking over at the blonde elf, his best friend.

Yaha was staring back, a smile, just as bright as Urick– nay, brighter, creased upon his lips.

’Ahh, maybe I am. It’s not like that is a crime, though.’ Yaha would make his way toward Urick, not caring for the corpses he stepped over/on. There sure was a lot of them, just how many had he and Urick dispatched? Ten? Twenty? Thirty? It was so hard to tell. There were lots of bodies laying on that cave floor, many of them cut into a myriad of different pieces.

Their numbers may have been lost, but if the mass of bodies and body parts said one thing, it was that Urick and Yaha were a great team. There wasn’t anything they couldn’t accomplish when they worked together.

’I would not be giving you too much credit, if I said you fought like a true knight back there, would I?’ four or five feet away from Urick, and Yaha stopped, his eyes focused on Urick’s own.

Urick chuckled, giving his friend a nod of approval, ’Haha, no of course not! I know when to take a compliment.’

The white haired Lieutenant would then turn around, stretching, and giving a loud yawn. It was about time they returned to headquarters, they had achieved their goal. Find the bandits planning who were planning a raid on one of the districts, and end them, that’s all they had to do, and now that they were done, Urick saw no reason to stay around this corpse gathering any longer.

Turning around like he did is when he first saw it though. What did Urick see? A scythe. Toward the end of the cave, laying upon a wide stone table, sat the most interesting weapon Urick had ever seen. He hadn’t noticed it before amid all the fighting, but now that everything was calm, it had finally caught his eye.

Curious, Urick moved across the cave, once again carefully avoiding any piles of innards or blood. The weapon looked nice, but he still didn’t want to get his shoes dirty, especially with Yaha present, they were gifts from the guy after all.

’Hey Yaha, do you see that?’ Urick says, gesturing to the scythe.

’See what?’ Yaha had only focused on two things during this whole trip, the bandits, and Urick, and now that the brigands were lifelessly scattered about, he hadn’t given much thought about anything else but his fellow lieutenant in this dank cave.

’This weapon–’ Urick had already gotten close to the scythe, his eyes looking directly down at the masterpiece before him. ’– look at it. It must’ve belonged to the bandit chief.’

Yaha eyed the weapon, a cold chill traveling down the back of his spine in effect. There was something about that scythe that didn’t feel right. Yaha was not one for religion, but that scythe simply felt, and looked..unholy. There was no better way to describe it. The table it sat upon didn’t help either; some sort of macabre altar, by the looks of it.

’Are you sure you should be touching that?’ Yaha voiced his concern, concern that was also evident in his golden eyes.

’It’s just a weapon!’ Urick, jovial as always, picked the scythe up from its resting place. The weapon was heavy, heavier than expected. Even so, it was nothing Urick couldn’t handle. ’A very nice weapon. Better than that rusty heap of metal I was assigned.’

Yaha frowned; he wanted to tell Urick the weapon didn’t seem right, he wanted to tell him to put it down, but Yaha could not work up the will to do so. Urick seemed so excited about the scythe, and the last thing Yaha wanted to do was make Urick of all people sad. When his fellow Lieutenant finally turned around, the scythe still in hand, Yaha forced a smile onto his face. ’It certainly looks more imposing. Are you going to keep it?’

Urick would look down at the scythe once more. From the tip of the blade, all the way down to the skull-themed ornament below the handle, this weapon seemed..perfect. It wasn’t an axe– the kind of weapon Urick was familiar with–, but it was shaped like one.

Yes, Urick was going to keep it, he was dead set on that. ’I think I will! I’d be crazy to pass something like this up.’ Urick would bring his eyes up off his new weapon, looking back toward his friend.

The two of them continued on talking, no doubt speaking on their plans for returning to the Knight’s headquarters.

Unbeknownst to either of them, there was a dark entity listening in, watching them, but mostly, watching Urick, from the skull on the scythe’s handle.

          F̢̩͍̠̅̒̀̀ḯ̫̬̙̙̌̈́̉ǹ̪̱̭̲̑̓̕a̛̯͉͙̖͂͊͗l̜̗̖̭̾̔͒̋l͓̼̱̬̇̇̽͝y̡̗̣̎̀͑͠ͅ,̦̞̬̰̃̿̓̕ ͖̹͔͇̀͛̏̃a̧̡̳̩̎̋͒͠ ̢͖̱̂̓́̍ͅv̧̼͇͈̍͗̽̐e̙̤͉͖̽́̃̏s̡͉̝̖̔̂͆̋ŝ̮̱̺͇͑̈̈́e̳̞̦̗͐́̊̏ľ̠̻̦̟̈́̾̍ ̦̰̤̆̃͋̚͜ḧ̡̦̫̳́̽̇́ą̩̮̥́͛̉́ṣ̭͕͍̋̓͌̓ ̙̳̮̬̊̎̀̊b̭̤͇̬̋̄͛̏è̛̤̪̝̱̌͝é͎͖͓̬͛̕̚n̦͙͖̖̊͐̊̉ ̣̙̩̞̈̿͊̔c̜͉̹͔̄͊̅͂h̦͉̤͍͋́̑̈́ơ̞̣̫̯̑͌̋ș̢̯̗͑̂͆͝ė̘̖͘̚͜͜͝ṇ̙̹͎͌́̉͠.͚̯͔͍̏̈́̃̓

[waddingham]

rebecca wants a pet

this is just a silly little ditty but here <3

Amongst all these things and more, he has learned that she does not do subtlety. Her opinions, thoughts, wants are shared unflinchingly, in a way he admires as someone who tends towards pleasing others over himself. She doesn't demand and criticize but simply shares herself with him – her opinion is always a prompt to hear his, her thoughts are little hands reaching out to know and be known by him, her wants passed along in hopes of him wanting too. And she makes it easy to respond in kind.

There's probably half a million things he's learned about Rebecca Welton in the first year of living with her. Big things and small things – she can destroy a bowl of berries and nuts in a matter of seconds. She has an almost frightening ability to hold her alcohol. She does a tiny bit of yoga everyday and those minutes of solitude are important to her. She loves him voraciously, would do just about anything for anyone in her club, and doesn't believe she will ever uncomplicate her relationship with her mother.

And because she so rarely employs subtlety, he doesn't think it's anything notable at all when she finds a new minor interest. 

"Look at this."

He turns his eyes from the TV to her, stretching an arm along the cushion as she scoots closer along the couch. She angles her phone so he can see – it's a video of a tabby cat with a mouthful of leaves, chirping as it crosses someone's yard. He grins at it, chuckling as it drops them and sits with satisfaction next to its contribution.

"She brings them a little pile of leaves everyday," Rebecca chuckles.

"Look at her go. Doin' her part."

"She's a good girl."

"Lot better than a mouthful of mice," he remarks.

She gives him a horrified look. 

"What?" he chuckles. "You never had a cat?"

"No," she says, shaking her head. "Have you?"

"There was an outdoor cat when I was growing up that hung around our house. My mom hated it 'cause she's scared to death of mice and loves the birds and he would come around with either one or the other dead in his mouth and leave it. Tryin' to get on her good side, I guess." 

She stares at him. "That's disgusting."

He laughs a little bit, tilting his head. "Yeah. He brought a bird up on the stoop once, still movin', and Mama was so mad, she smacked the back of his head for him to drop it. And he did. And then another little bird came flutterin' out of his mouth and flew off."

She shakes her head, a smile pulling at her mouth. "You're full of shit."

"I am not," he laughs. "Saw it with my own eyes. He was a big fella."

She snorts, looking back down at her phone. She stays close, leaning against his side as she scrolls on. 

It takes him a while to take notice of the running theme. They send all kinds of silly stuff back and forth – videos and pictures and jokes. She sends him screenshots of funny tweets she sees, sometimes about him or the team, sometimes just random things she thinks will amuse him.

But suddenly there's a very large uptick in cat videos. 

×××

She blames Keeley. It's Keeley's fault entirely.

She doesn't know what possessed her friends, if it was the influence of Phoebe or what, but they've adopted a cat – a beautiful, lithe, sleek one that could nearly be taken for a tiny leopard for its coloring. She's a lively little thing, playful and talkative, but she seems to adore Rebecca. When she goes over, she spends the length of her visit circling her feet or pacing her lap on the couch, purring like a fiend, pushing her head into Rebecca's palm.

And, goddammit, Rebecca likes it. She likes watching her prance around, flopping around on the floor for attention, just in general being entertaining and sweet. 

She sees them everywhere now – or at least is really noticing them as she scrolls through social media, seeing Leslie's sons posting videos of their new kitten and Keeley and Roy's little minx chasing her tail and random strangers with unnaturally gorgeous felines. 

She hasn't any idea how Ted feels about getting a pet. And normally she'd just tell him, have all her arguments outlined, or just recklessly show up with one one day, but they have quite literally just settled into living together. She doesn't want him to say yes just because she wants it and then hate it and hate taking care of it – she wants him to want it too. So she's going a little more insidious. Or trying to, sending out feelers by sending him cats and seeing what he says. 

She's not having much luck. He will aww and ooh, but doesn't express any disdain or desire to get one. Which isn't helping her.

"Who's idea was the cat?" she asks Keeley. 

"I wanted a dog and Roy wanted a cat," she says, stroking Camilla's back as she arches on the couch next to her. "But we settled on her 'cause she's so cool and active and spirited, she's like a low maintenance dog."

Keeley gives her a little grin. "You want one, don't you?"

"I do," Rebecca admits, scratching Camilla's neck as she crosses to her. 

"You guys should get one then," Keeley says. "They're so easy."

"I haven't asked Ted what he thinks yet," she says. 

"Well, I don't think he would refuse you anything, first of all," she says, sipping her wine. "And also how cute would he be with kittens all over him?"

"Stop," she says, tilting her head. "Or I'll show up at home with a box of them tomorrow."

Keeley giggles. "I think he would like a cat. Or a dog, but I would guess you–"

"I do not want a dog," Rebecca says. That's a lot more mess, care, and maintenance to jump right into when she's never even had a pet.

She hopes he wouldn't rather have a dog.

She supposes she's going to just have to bring it up outright – he's not catching on and she's already tired of trying to be slick about it.

×××

"Hey," he calls out when he hears the front door open. He gets one in response as she comes in, kicking her shoes off. She's earlier than he expected – she usually lingers late into the evening when she goes over to Keeley and Roy's.

He looks up at her from his sprawl on the couch as she rounds the sofa and immediately plants a knee between him and the cushions, crawling up and laying over him.

"You weren't gone long," he remarks as she settles herself against him, his arm landing on her back, her head on his middle.

"No," she sighs. "I left when Roy got back from his sister's. Keeley seemed…eager to be alone with him."

He chuckles, pushing his hand through her hair. "Well, cheers to them."

She giggles a little bit, rubbing a hand along his side over his t-shirt. She relaxes against him – the loveliest blanket he's ever had the pleasure to be covered with.

"I like their kitty," she remarks and he smiles.

"She's a lil' firecracker," he says. "Cracks me up."

She rolls her head until her chin is planted on his chest to look up at him. Her eyes are a little wide, eyebrows tipped up. 

"Can we get one?"

His smile grows as he tilts his head. He never would've taken her for a pet person.

"Sure," he says. He likes cats.

She almost scoffs, closing her eyes. 

"Of course you're going to be that easy about it."

He chuckles. "Do you want me to argue with you about it?"

"No, but I thought it would take at least a little convincing," she says and he squints at her a little bit. 

"Is that why you keep sending me cat stuff?"

She does scoff then, rolling her eyes. "Yes."

"Why?" he laughs. "What do you think I have against cats?"

"I don't know," she says, laying her head back down in exasperation. 

And since when does she do sneaky?

He chuckles again, smoothing a hand over her hair. 

"We'd have to go get some stuff," he muses. "But I remember Higgins saying he can't go to the pet store on Saturdays 'cause the shelter sets up with a bunch of kitties and he knows he'll go home with one. We could go then. Get the stuff and peek at the cats." 

"I already have everything saved to order online," she mumbles and he laughs.

"You could've just said something, Rebecca."

"I was trying to sniff you out first," she says. "But you gave me nothing."

"I'm sorry," he chuckles. "What kinda kitty do you want?"

"A soft one. Sweet one. Not so crazy as Camilla."

"Alright," he says. "Kitten?"

"I would like a kitten, I think," she says, lifting her head again to look at him. "Start from scratch."

"Okay, then," he smiles. "Sounds like fun."

×××

He didn't know what he expected when she said she had stuff saved, but he really shouldn't be surprised. The things that arrive over the next couple days look like something straight out of a housecat's dreams. A water drinking fountain and several very soft beds, toys, dishes, food that now has a shelf in the fridge, and, good lord, the litter box.

He just laughs when she sets it on the kitchen island. 

"It's automatic," she says, then lifts her hands, defending herself. "Do you want to do it? Because I don't."

He reads the side of the box, still grinning. "It connects to the WiFi?!”

"Oh, stop," she says. "Like I was going to skimp out on this."

"How much did this cost you?" he asks, looking up with a grin. 

"What does that matter?" she says innocently.

"C’mon, tell me," he says. 

"No."

He looks in the shipping box, spying an invoice and snatching it before she can stop him. 

"Give me that–"

"Seven hundred pounds?!" he says, laughing. "Oh my God, Rebecca."

"Stop," she says, swiping the paper from him, smiling at his teasing. 

"You know it's gonna poop in it right?" 

"Exactly. And then neither of us has to touch it."

"Now I feel like we're not adopting a cat but selecting one lucky winner to come live a life of luxury and refinement."

She laughs, wrapping her arms around the box, giving him a haughty look. 

"If you'll excuse me. I have a cat shitter to set up."

He chuckles, watching her go, but following after a few minutes to help her. 

×××

"I was excited, but now I'm just sad," she remarks as they walk through the narrow room. 

"Yeah," he laments. "Now I feel like adopting a nice round dozen or two."

"I think we'll have to start with one," she says, taking another step, giving the next cat its due attention. "Hello. Aren't you lovely?"

They wander through at a slow pace, having been told the kittens they have are at the far end of the room, but she stops at every cage, offering her fingers and compliments to each kitty. 

They don't make it to the far end – he didn't really expect them to. 

"Oh," Rebecca says, coming to a complete stop at a cage. "Oh, look at you."

The cat inside is a pale gray that fades into white at its paws and nose with long fur – not the longest they've seen, but longer than the shorthairs – curled up in the little bed in the corner.

"Oh, he's pretty," Ted says, stepping closer.

"How do you know it's a he?" she remarks, sticking her fingers into the cage, greeting the kitty. "Hello."

It lifts its head, peering at them with lovely gray blue eyes. He sticks his own fingers in, watching the cat take an interest, standing and stretching.

"Oh," Rebecca says sadly, and he turns to her, finding her reading the information card hooked on the cage. 

"Hmm?"

"'My loving owner died and I had nowhere to go'," she reads aloud. "'I'm an affectionate, easygoing kitty that enjoys lots of lap time.'"

She turns to him with a frown, then to the cat as they both feel him rub himself along their fingers. Ted curls his fingers into his soft fur, turning back to Rebecca, finding her watching the kitty with a little heartbreak in her eyes. 

"I like him," she says.

"I thought you wanted a kitten," he reminds her softly.

She doesn't respond, watching the little guy push his head against her knuckles. He steps around her, trading spots to read the rest of the card for himself.

"He's already ten years old," he says, sliding a hand over her back. He doesn't have a problem with it – he wouldn't mind an older cat, but she seemed set on a baby.

"I know," she says slowly, like she's realizing she's pretty much made up her mind. "But I think he deserves a nice retirement."

He smiles at her, watching the kitty sit close enough for Rebecca to brush her finger over the soft fur at his chest, primly adjusting his big white paws in front of him before curling his tail around. He peers at them, then lets out a soft little mow that has both of them chuckling.

"See, you agree, don't you?" she says. "You're a little sweetheart, huh? I didn't even look to see what your name is."

Ted looks, having skimmed over it too, smiling at what he finds. "Arthur."

"Arthur?" Rebecca chuckles. 

"What a name, huh? Who picked up this little guy as a sweet little puffball of a kitten, looked at him on the most exciting day of his life and then gave him the most old man name possible? I'm so sorry, buddy."

"Oh, stop," she says, scratching at Arthur's chin as she reassures him. "I think it's a great name. And I don't think Theodore has any room to talk."

He laughs fully at that, hearing Rebecca chuckle with him. "Well, that's me told," he says, squeezing her side, pulling her attention as she turns. "Should we see if somebody will open his cage up so we can meet him?"

She nods, giving him a bright smile.

×××

Of course they brought old Art home. And it doesn't even take two days before they're both absolutely smitten. 

He's taken to following them around curiously, as well as flopping and rolling against the shag rug in the living room. He'd been absolutely riveted by the dining room, chirping and chattering at the birds through the windows – to their endless amusement – and surveying the backyard as if it were new domain he's claimed. 

He's just adorable. And quickly growing very comfortable here. 

Clearly.

"Well, he didn't take long to settle in, did he?" he remarks.

Rebecca's laid out on the couch with Arthur stretched along her front, his head nestled against her chest, paws stretched toward her chin. He can hear the little guy purring from where he stands at the end of the couch as she strokes his fur from ears to tail, grinning with pure delight.

"And he found the best spot already."

She chuckles, bending her knees to make room for him to sit. Arthur lifts his head, eyes opening at being jostled. 

"Oh, relax," she mutters. "We share with Ted, alright?"

She lays her legs over his thighs as he chuckles. 

"I see you're having no trouble bonding with our new resident," he says as his arms stretches along the back of the sofa.

"Of course not," she almost coos, rubbing at Arthur's cheek. "And don't think I didn't see you carrying him around like a baby yesterday."

"Oh, c'mon. He was lookin' up at me and making the saddest little noise. And you know what, I ain't even gonna pretend I wouldn't die for him already."

She chuckles, holding Arthur's little face as he just purrs and purrs. "You hear that? You have Ted's eternal devotion."

"Christ, he looks more in love with you than I am," he muses.

She laughs at that, glancing up at him. "I'm pretty sure he's very happy to not be in that cage anymore."

Arthur stands at the disturbance, stretching his back before he traverses Rebecca's body to see what Ted has going on. 

"I think you made a good choice, darlin'," he says to Rebecca as Arthur just stands on Ted's thighs, pressing up into his hand as he strokes him. 

"I love him," she mutters.

He smiles as Arthur throws himself against Ted's abdomen, rolling in his lap.

"Me too."

×××

When she steps into the bedroom, she just has to grin.

Ted's lounging on the bed, scrolling his phone with Arthur cradled in his arm against his chest, dead asleep.

It's almost hilarious to think about now – that she was uncertain if he'd enjoy having a cat. More than half the times she comes upon him in the house, he's either holding or talking to Arthur. He carries him around like a little prince and he just purrs like a madman.

Maybe they didn't end up with a box of kittens, but it's still unbelievably cute. And she hates to disturb it, but, right now, she's going to.

She crawls up onto the bed, leaning on an elbow next to him.

"What's going on here?" she asks, scratching the top of Arthur's head, startling him if his little mrrp is anything to go by.

"He needed snuggled apparently," Ted says as he drops his phone next to him. "And I think I make a pretty good bed if I do say so myself."

"I can confirm," she nods. "But he might have to go."

Ted frowns at her, stroking Arthur's side almost protectively. "He's fine here." 

"Okay, but what if I'm trying to have sex with you?" she asks, watching Ted's brows lift again. 

"Ah, well, I think you're a little late," he says, gesturing to the cat. "I think I'm otherwise engaged for the evening."

She gives him a flat look, getting a little grin back. 

"Arthur, buddy, I think you're in danger," he whispers to the cat, who has no reaction whatsoever. Ted shifts him to get him up and he just lifts his head and glares at him, dead weight against his chest.

"Oh, c'mon man, don't do this to me," Ted chuckles as Rebecca pantomimes looking at a watch. "Look at her. Be a little wingman here, huh?"

He's unenthused as Ted lifts him up and leans to put him on the floor. 

"There," he says, immediately rolling into her until she's on her back, grinning up at him. 

"I'm all yours," he mutters against her neck, his hands immediately bunching her shirt to get to her skin. "Though you might have to work out a schedule with the little man."

She snickers, pulling him down hard against her with a leg, sliding her hands against his back as she catches his lips with hers. She hums as he grinds against her, the little fever in her core telling her this probably isn't going to be especially leisurely–

They both freeze at the sound of the sheets rustling. They look towards the end of the bed, where Arthur's jumped back up, ears pinned back, feet braced against the duvet. Before either of them can say anything, he dives forward, chasing nothing, then does a fast loop before freezing again. 

She can't help but snort when he looks back at them, eyes wild before he does another circle, then gets distracted with licking his leg.

"What is he doing?" Ted chuckles, then startles when Arthur spins and leaps at his toes.

"Oh, Jesus, man!"

She barks out a laugh as he jerks his foot away and she's in stitches as Arthur chases after it before finally doing another loop, leaping off the bed and sprinting out the door. 

"What the hell–" Ted laughs, turning back to her as she catches her breath, pulling him against her again.

"He's not the forgiving kind apparently."

"Who wanted a cat again?" he asks, his grinning mouth falling to her jaw.

"I did," she laughs. "And it was so worth it."

[soulsxng]

@arcxnumvitae and @fatestouch replied to your post:

WHAT?!

👀👀👀

"It is not an issue of having grown tired of my position, or anything of the sort...though it would likely be a lie if I were to say that I were not feeling somewhat drained."

There's a small hum, and Sivel finally lifts his gaze from the mage pools to regard Ranadi and Alsina, who had eventually begun with a steady (albeit nervous) stream of questions. Why he had brought this up. When he had begun to think about it seriously. Would it be temporary, or permanent? Who would replace him, and what he would be doing, instead?

...What had happened to make him want to abdicate in the first place?

"I love Vasyri...I do. And I love my people just as deeply. But over these past few years, I have come to wonder if, perhaps, I have done all that I am able to for them. Vasyri deserves someone with a fresh outlook on things. Someone who does not look at potential alliances and associations that could benefit us, or end up overly focused on how things might go wrong. Someone that does not feel compelled toward the need to do things on our own, even if we do have allies, so as not to potentially open ourselves up to further threats."

"I think about my home, and I think of what I need to do so as to not fail them again. How I do not think I could stand to see any of my people suffer as they did in the past. And no matter whether I realize that or not, I am never able to shake myself from being almost as overprotective of them as I am of all of you. Of my family..."

"That makes any growth or evolution difficult, if not outright impossible. I know that, and yet...I find that, more and more, I am unable to justify the risks necessary to see much worthwhile change take place. So...while I do not necessarily believe myself to be a poor leader, I feel as though things have grown to be stagnant."

"And all of that is without mentioning the ire that so many outside of Vasyri view me with. I worry that, as long as I am Luminary, the stigma attached to myself and my deeds will continue to weigh Vasyri as a whole down, as well."

He talks through everything in a soft, even tone. It's obvious to both Ranadi and Alsina that this is something he had put a good deal of thought into, since a year or two ago, when he had commented half-jokingly about it to the pair of them.

"Besides...I miss it. How things used to be, when we were younger. Being able to go wherever we fancied at a moment's notice. Exploring and experiencing things with our claim-- something that I have never had the opportunity to do with Ania or Cyrus even once. It feels like, by becoming Luminary, I somehow came to believe that I had to give up so much of myself that, even in my earlier years of ruling, I would never have imagined doing. As if I gave up a part of my culture, pieces of who I am, moments with my loved ones...I look at the person I have become on occasion, and oftentimes, I do not like what I see. What I turned myself into, simply because I thought it was for the best of everyone involved. Because I thought that people would be more impressed, or more intimidated."

"...I do not intend to leave Vasyri forever, nor is this something I intend to rush. I want to be sure that whoever I pass this title onto, they are going to be the right fit. I still want to be around here and there to offer my support and assistance, and to teach people where I can-- both the new Luminary, and whoever else may want to learn from me. And when I'm not doing that, I think I would like to start by going along with Ania, Cyrus, and Sivan on one of their expeditions. After that, maybe I will take them on a trip to some of the spots that mother and father used to bring us when we were younger, with Naya and Nesimah...perhaps Quella. Both of you as well, if it is something you would be open to? It would hardly be the same, otherwise."

"Going back to my abdication, however. As I said, it is not something I intend to rush. I...am coming closer and closer to the conclusion that it is simply my time to take a step back, is all."

[pridelessdaydreamer]

✧ liberosis: the desire to care less about things. :3

obscure sorrows drabble prompts (still accepting bc i'm sillay)

// blood and death.

Linhardt, again, feels sick to the stomach.

The first time today was when they had first set out on this mission; though they knew they were in the care of a highly capable mercenary (well, Professor now) and that their enemies were no more than mere bandits, there had still been an unease that they couldn’t quite shake away. It was haunting, in a way; a ghost.

That unease is here as well, staring down at the lifeless bandit body before her. How quickly it had gone from threatening her life to being dead on the floor: a corpse. She remembers the sudden approach, the swing, her impulsive retaliation–

He cannot explain why he feels so upset about it; he simply does.

( You did this, Lin. )

As an act of self-defense (get up)—but that does little to lessen the nausea. It is nothing, he knows, in the face of all the bandits’ previous victims; it is a service, even, to put an end to those who terrorize the common folk. (The blood is still flowing.)

Does this life matter so much more simply because you can see them bleed?

It is a desire to care more and less all at the same time—less, that they might feel nothing and move on without another thought; more, that their determination to help others may override their predispositions to begin with. They are in the middle ground of their emotions—caught in the moment in the worst way.

He curls into himself then, trying to hold his insides together. (Everyone else had been so excited—so eager to demonstrate what they’ve learned.) Linhardt alone was the odd one out; he could not stand the sight of blood.

If only I could be more like Caspar. (Perhaps she could see this as entertaining somehow?)

Standing, sinking, then standing and sinking again; just breathe, Lin. (You have to continue after all.)

“This is terrible,” they mutter to themself. But it’s the only way to make sure he’s safe.

[serenescribe]

I don't know whether this is acceptable but- Sebek in his dream of the status quo, where Lilia isn't dying soon, where his liege and Lilia merely doing internship. Where both Malleus and Silver can be happy, before Silver woke him up

[✐meme] three sentence fic meme [✐] ficlet frenzy

In all truth, Sebek shall greatly miss his liege and mentor when they depart on their internship journeys in their fourth year. Who wouldn't, when faced with the prospect of not being able to serve the great and magnificent Malleus Draconia for the next year? And yet, all the same, Sebek is tremendously proud of them — that they are able to take the next step in their studies, a path that he, himself, shall take someday in the future as well!

So he shall see them both off with nary a tear at their farewell parties, because this is not a permanent goodbye, but rather a temporary parting of ways until next time. And when they return, Sebek shall make them both proud with how much both he and Silver have grown — truly, he cannot think of anything more perfect, or anything that could possibly make him happier!

[frankenjoly]

I'm pretty satisfied with my writing + I'm a bottomless pit of writing (& insp) so I had to be nerfed with fear of being too spammy cjfjjgjfkfdndk

[dirtyoldmanhole]

(bolts upright in the middle of the night) ohhh i think i know what i'm going to write for gunter's birthday. ;w;

[dinosaurgreasestain]

He did not often celebrate Halloween, but starting the week off in a good mood meant that he had plans for the holiday and ones that would be particularly fruitful; to heal a bit of the lingering ache and pain that came from the last attempt at a mutiny and to satisfy the hunger that came with it.

For the days leading up to it, he'd ran his demons ragged. Brutal and commanding as he shoved them into willing Hosts to work undercover along the surface and creep and crawl their ways into certain circles where believers in the occult were rampant and ferocious in their faith. Rumors spread - the ritual known as the Profane Sabbath would bring them eternal life with enough of their devotion, contribution, and just the right amount of souls gathered in the name of a demon, falsely named Ahancurael. (He'd had to workshop that one a few times until it seemed at least marginally believable, with the first few passes being absolutely incomprehensible.)

The promise of eternal life was an easy one and humanity was inherently hungry for something so permanent. The convincing was easy, the gatherings were easy... It all seemed so easy.

But the night itself was what mattered. For them to truly believe in what they were doing, Pride had to truly sell the reality of the ritual. The old, decaying home far out on the outskirts of the city nestled in between rotten and dead trees was just Blair Witch enough for it to be a perfect nest for the kinds of morons that he was setting the trap for. Half-melted candles lit with darkened flames that threatened to be snuffed out by the cold, dank air any second joined together in a ring around the wooden and creaky floor, red stains of dried blood flecked across its surface. He'd had to make an early kill for a bit of ~decor~. They wouldn't be missed.

Pulling some of his tar from his body, he left it in streaks along some of the rafters above and on a few of the old surfaces and walls. Enough of a sign for anyone who wandered in to find it otherworldly and strange. It pulsed and swam like a live thing - and under the semi-shrouded moon on the holiday itself, the rats that had strode in following their demonic pied pipers were in awe of its sheer ability to contain what seemed to be power.

(It was really just him making the tar move and wiggle as he watched from nearby. May as well have been a cheap haunted house trick.)

The humans did their weird little chants and their stupid speaking in tongues as they mingled and strode around what was to be their ritual space. Sharing their ideas of what the "eternal everlasting" would be like when the world decayed around them from war and famine. Pride almost got impatient when it seemed more like an impromptu party than anything. But eventually, one of the humans - who was much uglier than the others and, to him, very obviously not human at all, but one of his seedy underlings in disguise - began to encourage the others to find their place in the ritual circle.

Patience was not Pride's virtue - if he had any at all. When they finally took a hint; pulled daggers and knives to carve deep lines in their palms to trace over the floorboards in a goofy, misshapen pentagram (they couldn't even draw a STAR correctly), the Sin wasted very little time.

He put on a show, as he was prone to do, manifesting from the middle of the pentagram with red eyes gleaming at them and arms thrust open wide to designate THEM as the oh-so-special winners of the grand prize! The humans seemed elated; murmured congratulatory words to themselves in the middle of their open-mouth stares at him (which he ate up in spades, of course).

Often enough, Pride had feeding frenzies with his demons. He'd let them rush in and rip and tear; feed him just the Souls and keep the rest of the viscera and flesh. But not this time.

This time, Pride went full-force movie monster.

As he drifted to the first human, he made a move like he was going to pat them on the shoulder. A job well done.

Instead, his claws turned razor-sharp and he ran the man through with points that snagged and yanked some of his innards straight out the other side. Knew that at that point, the others would know that he was certainly not a benevolent creature. And probably not the Ahancurael that they had assumed. The Sin wrapped around the body of the first and consumed it whole: body, Soul, and all.

He wasted little time in hunting and slaying the others, blood spraying with each of his over-the-top methods of murder and teeth in his tentacles gnashing with disgusting delight. Two bodies and then three. Four and then five. There were twelve humans in all. Twelve Souls to gorge himself on and the remaining flesh to further build his strength and size.

His one demon that remained took a few steps away and cowered in a corner before he abandoned his Host entirely and scrabbled away, out of Pride's reach, lest he be consumed too.

The Sin opted to devour the abandoned Host instead that had barely regained cognizance of where he was before he too was lost.

When he was full, he was sluggish, though his appearance did not give away that he'd consumed anything, save for the now stark absence of any wound or injuries. He looked perfectly healthy, if a little lazy in his movements. Like a male lion who had just had a feast dropped in front of him by his lionesses and had spent the rest of the day with his face buried into a gazelle's bloated carcass.

Pride did not bother to clean up the house. The poorly-drawn pentagram and the blood that painted the remainder of the place would be enough to feed some good local rumors and maybe a horror movie in a decade.

As he made his way back home, he made a mental note to keep an eye out for the dramatic retelling.

Now this was a holiday tradition he could see himself repeating.