Since I Could Actually Come Up With Something,, Comfort Kisses With Either Jams Or Rugbert

Since I could actually come up with something,, comfort kisses with either jams or rugbert

Ily btw <3

sleepy love!! jamil viper, ruggie bucchi

Since I Could Actually Come Up With Something,, Comfort Kisses With Either Jams Or Rugbert

jamil kisses you lazily, sloppily, reaching up to you but not quite reaching you, longer-than-average tongue sticking out between his lips as he his eyes narrow, you becoming a problem to solve. his untied hair falls lazily over his now bare shoulder, his tee slipping off as he captures your lips in another, better, more proper kiss, eyes smouldering like burnt charcoal- in victory.

ruggie nibbles you slowly, trailing up your body with his sharp, pointy teeth, leaving a dotted trail of love bites all over your body from your thighs to your neck. murmurs of quiet praise vibrates across your flesh, and while you can't say these are kisses when you asked him for kisses and cuddles, these feel so much more intimate. sacred. you're scared to touch him and pull him closer, but ruggie knows, ruggie always know, and his lips meet yours once, twice, thrice, and you feel him smirk against you.

a/n: ily too, inky!! <3 i hope you're feeling much better now, and have a good day <3 note: became mildly suggestive, somehow. uhhhhhhhh

word count: 155 words

Tags

twisted wonderland jamil viper ruggie bucchi jamil viper x reader my two favorite boys ruggie bucci x reader

The Woes of the Witch of the Wastes (Howl's Moving Castle AU)

Gender Neutral Reader x Vil Schoenheit (+ Reader x Neige LeBlanche) Word Count: 7.3k

Summary: The Witch of the Wastes has long come to terms with the fact that to keep a hold on his powers and beauty, he is going to have to be every bit the terrible monster that everyone assumes him to be. And then one day he goes and curses some stupid little hatter and his entire world is turned on its head.

A/N: Based on this horrid, mind-melting, brain rot that has not left me alone in days

The Woes Of The Witch Of The Wastes (Howl's Moving Castle AU)

Vil Schoenheit was only a small child of nine when he was swept up by the Royal Sorcery Academy and told he would ‘accomplish great things indeed.’ Madame Suliman, the King’s Head Sorceress herself, patted him on his head and proclaimed him the brightest talent of his generation.

Vil Schoenheit was fifteen when he cured his first ‘incurable’ poison. And then created his own draught that could actually bother to live up to such a lofty title. The Palace gave him all sorts of fancy medals and when he stood there in the throne room, the Crow King nodded at him in approval. ‘Vil Schoenheit is certainly meant for great things,’ he said, just as everyone always had. Meant for it. Like Vil didn’t wear himself ragged training, and fretting, and putting every part of himself into his work until there was nothing left to give. But that was fine—because perhaps being ‘meant’ for something and improving yourself enough to be worthy of those things in the first place went hand in hand.

Vil Schoenheit was well into established adulthood when he turned down a very lovely, very traitorous, offer from a foreign enemy, and his loyalty landed him yet another set of medals and even more slant eyed looks of admiration. ‘The most gracious treasure in all the lands,’ they called him. ‘A beauty unrivaled in both grace and intelligence. Someone who was no doubt meant for only the best life had to offer.’ Vil stood at the center of the room, beneath the spotlight of an entire nation, and grinned white and sharp. His beloved mentor approached him from amongst the throngs of near worshippers crowding the halls. There was a wispy, young, man at her side. The poor thing looked terribly out of place in the upper crest gallantry of the Royal Capital. He was wearing all the wrong colors, all the wrong cuts of fabric. He looked soft, and earnest, and like someone who would be eaten alive by court politics before he’d even managed to squeak out his first greeting.

“This is Neige LeBlanche,” Madame Suliman introduced, with a sort of sickly, sweet, fondness that had Vil’s stomach souring into something entirely unpleasant. “I’m sure you’ve heard of him—from that messy business at the Coast.” (The business he’d stopped, she meant? The conspirators he’d ousted?) “Such a natural talent,” she crooned. “He really is exceptional.”

“Of course I’ve heard of him,” Vil offered, polite. He turned then to Neige with a smile that showed perhaps a few too many teeth. “I’m sure you’ll do great things.”

Madame Suliman squeezed her new ward’s arm and Neige LeBlanche went as pink as freshy plucked Meadowsweet. Vil fought to keep from digging his fingers into the fine edges of his champagne flute. The very one he’d been offered to toast his own successes.

“No doubt he’s the brightest talent of his generation!” Madame Suliman beamed, and Vil grit his teeth through the dark, curling, spike of something that speared through his gut.

Vil Schoenheit was sitting in his own, personal armchair, in his own, personal lounge (all gifted to him for his own, personal achievements), when Madam Suliman walked into the room with that same, dainty, interloper on her arm. ‘Excellent news!’ she’d smiled, in that way that wasn’t ever really a smile. Neige LeBlanche—with his stumbling, bumbling, kindness that bordered on idiocy, and his myriad of unimpressive successes built on nothing but luck and happenstance—had been named her successor. By decree of his Majesty the King himself.

Naturally, Vil decided to… politely object the announcement. Which very rapidly descended into black swirls of poison eroding the palace grounds and calls for his execution.

And So Vil was chased out of the home that he’d built for himself—that had been promised to him. He hid himself in the Wastes until he’d regained enough of his shattered arcana to ensure he could at the very least survive an encounter with his pursuers, even if the outcome would be far from pretty.

There were Demons in the Wastes. Strange, ethereal, things that Vil had once been ordered to eradicate on sight. But now he was one of those miserable, undesirable, vermin too, wasn’t he? So why not consort with the beasts? A Demon of Envy sought him ought first, offering justice like it was a fruit ripe for the picking. Like anything could be that simple. Then came a Demon of Fire, and another of Poison. All weaving their honeyed words and bowing low as they begged to take something, anything, of the Grand Sorcerer for themselves.

So Vil traded away bits of himself piece by piece. A lock of his hair, the flesh from his forearm. His skin cracked and dripped with inky, dark, magics that swam through his veins and worked to replace all the parts he sold away. And wasn’t that so funny? That these Demons put a high enough value on his little odds and ends that he could probably sustain himself off their fancy for an eternity, and yet the people whose favor he’d courted so earnestly, so faithfully, for his whole life had been so willing to offload the entirety of him at the first opportunity.

Vil learned to hide his cracks with a harsh-edged, grandiose, layer of illusions. He learned to wipe away the tar and to stitch himself back together into something better. He grew so quickly and so strongly under these new patrons of his that soon enough the hunting parties disappeared altogether. No one was willing to go toe-to-toe with someone who could curse you to a literal death with nothing but a wave of his hand. The common people whispered his name under their breaths like a dark incantation.

‘The Witch of the Wastes,’ they called him, in panicked, hushed, undertones. They spread rumors of him feasting on the hearts of virgins and laying towns to ruin under the weight of his black magic. They talked of his power as if it was a thing to be afraid of, and most certainly it was.

‘Perhaps it is not so terrible to be feared,’ Vil mused to himself, the sharp, small, smile permanently affixed to his painted lips twitching at the corners. ‘If it means I’m also revered.’

And so the years passed in this fashion, with the country growing more and more wary of the icy beauty who’d made the Wastes his fortress. When the Royal Sorcery Academy reported an upset in their ranks, finally admitted that despite their star pupil, their outputs were floundering and their students lackluster, Vil watched with a righteous sort of glee. When Neige LeBlanche inevitably fled from Madame Suliman’s tutelage—publicly absconding into the night with nothing but the ill-suited clothes on his back—Vil laughed and laughed until the storms curling off his tongue had wiped out an entire harbor.

So he’d won, hadn’t he? Neige had been run off, the Academy was near ruin—Madame Suliman more so. But when rumors started to swirl of a powerful, ethereally lovely, mage who traversed the countryside in his slowly crawling, architectural nightmare of a castle, that bitter part of Vil reared its head with a vengeance. It wasn’t enough for the rat to come in and swipe his cushy, imperial, position out from under his nose, but now he was gunning to take the Witch’s mystique for himself too?! People were even saying Neige was the one eating hearts! Which was entirely unfair!

And then one horribly, ugly, sunny afternoon, Vil encountered his nemesis entirely by happenstance. Despite years of outright hunting the man, in spite of all his well-planned traps and schemes, Neige LeBlanche had only finally appeared before him by accident.

There he was, waltzing through the open market air with some ridiculous little commoner clinging to his arm. Vil watched the pair with open disdain—that inky, awful, part of him raking its claws up his spine. Neige stepped through the sky like he was descending some grand, ballroom, staircase, and the startled look of half-terror, half-awe on his partner’s face didn’t do much to improve its complete lack of remarkability.

Something even more bitter twisted in The Witch’s gut at that. What was it with these pathetic, mediocre, untalented, pieces of garbage that had his cohort swarming to them like dogs after a choice cut of meat? It was disgusting. It was unfair.

That evening, spite drove The Witch to darken your doorstep. This was a small town, and it was hardly difficult to track down one, insignificant, little nobody. Especially when that ‘nobody’ still wreaked of a too potent, too bright, magic that Vil could scent like a shark to blood.

“What a tacky shop,” he hummed as he stood in the foyer of your modest store. “I’ve never seen such tacky, little, hats,” he continued, amethyst eyes slipping over your tight countenance. It was such a stupidly, boring, plain, face. His own expression twitched into something sour. “Yet you’re by far the tackiest thing here.”

You raised your chin at him, your upper lip going stiff in a bitten off frown.

“I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” you demanded, making your back to the front entrance and pulling it open with a brisk, irritable, tug. “The door is this way, sir. We’re closed.”

Vil leaned forward with a sharp bark of laughter, and the lights overhead flickered into shadow. A trail of inky wetness slid from the corner of his lips, and the air seemed to grow heavy with it.

“Speaking like that to the Witch of Wastes,” he tutted, reaching up to swipe away the smudge of stinking, black, goo. “How quaint.”

“The Witch of the Wastes,” you echoed, eyes widening almost comically in horror as that awful, cloying, sludge swirled around you like a storm. It settled over your skin and seeped through your clothes. Vil could feel the heavy pull of the curse as it took hold. He plucked at the magic like it was string on a harp, and he could feel it thrum through your veins—settling itself in like a terrible plague. He could already see the affliction working away. Your skin began to droop and fold, your back hunching up under the sudden weight of years you’d never even lived.

So ugly, so ordinary, he thought bitterly. Whatever made you worth anyone’s attention, it certainly isn’t there anymore.

“The best part of this spell is that you’ll never even be able to tell anyone else about it,” he chirped, entirely unpleasant, and glided out the door in a whirl of purple smoke. “Give Neige my regards.”

Vil didn’t see you or your wrinkled frown again for weeks, though the fact that you were alive still at all to cross paths with him in the first place was a bit of a surprise.

You were perusing the markets of a small fishing town with a little, grumpy, old man at your side. The tiny thing was clearly cloaked in some low-level illusion spell, with a staticky, lilac, beard that swallowed his head whole and puffed-up brows that seemed to weigh down his entire face like a tangible thing.

“Hrmf. I hate potatoes,” the boy masquerading as a retiree complained.

“Pay up,” you chirped, lining at least a dozen along the bottom of your wicker basket. You didn’t look quite as old as you should have—more of a ‘gracefully aging into your twilight years’ than the ancient, broken, hag you were meant to be. There were always caveats to curses. By their very nature, they were built to one day break. Finding the key to that lock, however, was meant to be the crux of the problem. And if one was keeping with that whole metaphor, Vil’s curses were very hard to pick. Had you managed to find something? Impossible. He was sure he’d battened the magic down as tight as it could go.

Vil watched you move about through the slitted eyes of one of his inky, purple, henchmen. If you were here, did that mean you’d managed to find refuge despite the curse he’d inflicted upon you? Or perhaps—his eyes narrowed—you’d been found. Shadows slithered out like grasping claws, and he could taste the burst of too bright, too wild, magic on his tongue. Neige.

You walked towards a fisher’s stall, cane clicking along the cobblestone. And despite his earlier grumblings, your little shadow snatched the basket from your hands and followed diligently at your heels.

“Hrmf. I hate fish,” it grumped from behind the mouthful of purple poof. And then held the woven basket up again when you went to lay a wrapped salmon amongst your other purchases.

“Epel, you’ll never get any taller if you don’t eat something better than bread,” you chastised, like the grandparent you were.

“I don’t need to get taller!” your companion hissed. “I can beat up everyone from down here just fine!”

You laughed, and it sounded young. The crinkles at the corner of your eyes deepened with mirth rather than manufactured years, and when you smiled some of the harsher lines of age vanished altogether.

“Of course you can, you little ankle biter.”

“Don’t call me that!”

Vil frowned sourly, but before he could do anything further, there was a commotion in the harbor. The King’s most recent war had clawed its way to even these outskirts it would seem. You and your little shadow disappeared in the chaos, but Vil was too distracted by the fluttering storm of recruitment fliers that followed to care.

‘All Able-Bodied Witches and Wizards Are To Report to the King’ they read. All of them.

And when The Witch of the Waste received his own, personal, invitation with Suliman’s signature sitting curled and elegant at the bottom, he couldn’t help the spike of private satisfaction that wormed through his veins. The parts of him crying ‘trap!’ were silenced by the much larger, much more smug, swirls of contentment settling heavy alongside his blackened heart. Of course they wanted him now—to clean up the mess that he certainly could have prevented entirely in the first place. Of course they’d come crawling back. Of course they’d finally realized just how much they needed him.

Running into you yet again as he made his way to the palace felt like more than a coincidence, but Vil brushed it off with a sneer. As if you were actually important enough for your presence to mean anything. Bah.

“Why, if it isn’t that tacky little creature from the hat shop,” he drawled as you walked alongside his intricate, feathered, carriage. There was a gangly, black, crow perched at your shoulder, and it glared at him with beady eyes. Vil curled his lip at the thing and it fluffed up like a startled cat. “What business does someone as poorly connected as you have here at the palace?”

“Job hunting,” you scowled, and the crow squawked like a protest. “And what about you? I didn’t think the Royal Guard would be prone to welcoming someone as reviled as the Witch of the Wastes into their ranks.”

Despite all that vicious scowling, somehow you looked younger still than the last time he’d seen you. Something small and bitter unfurled in Vil’s gut. Even some lackluster, magicless, commoner was breaking through his incantations now. He shook his head to clear the heavy, cold, press of inadequacy and tilted his chin back to preen.

“After all this time, the idiots running the palace have finally realized how much use they can find in my abilities,” he huffed, lips curled in satisfaction. You went quiet, and watched him with an odd sort of look in your eye.

“If you’re so great and powerful, you could always get rid of the spell you put on me,” you offered, like that was any sort of incentive at all. And like you’d only even asked to keep yourself from saying something else entirely.

“Apologies, darling. But my talents lie in casting curses, not breaking them,” he crooned, entirely unsympathetic. And you didn’t even blink at his prodding. Vil let the curtain fall back over the small window of his carriage with a wave of his elegantly manicured hand. “Enjoy the arthritis.”

His carriage carried on as you shouted after him—waving your cane and threatening to beat him black and blue.

“If I didn’t have to worry about you being here I would have clobbered him,” you grumped at the little, decrepit, crow shuffling along your arm. It rattled its wings at you and you almost swatted the thing, before letting it teeter its way up back onto your shoulder with another frustrated sigh.

The Witch of the Wastes had only just crossed through the great, gleaming, gates of the Imperial Palace when his elaborate, peacock, carriage fell to bits—crumbling under the weight of talismans nearly as ancient as the fortress itself.

“What’s the meaning of this?” he snarled, and the guards assessed him like he was no better than anyone else who came stumbling through these gates. Like he hadn’t spent the better part of his life trapped within these very walls. And like he wasn’t here now, all these years later, on a personal invitation.

“Apologies, sir!” one barked. “Vehicles are prohibited beyond this point!”

A sharp and sudden crack rocked through Vil at his core, and the panic that followed was acute and near painful. Whatever these wards were, they weren’t just suppressing the magics he used for his carriage. This was… This…

But, no. He’d been invited. And powers dampened or otherwise, he would hold himself together until he could make his way through those grand doors.

Climbing the first few stairs felt like coming home, felt like pride. And then the Witch reached the fourth, stone, step and the elaborately crafted heel of his boot snapped like a toothpick—the magic sucked away like water being taken in by a sponge. He nearly stumbled over, and only just managed to catch himself without falling outright.

There was a surprised sort of gasp from behind him, and he whipped around with a snarl to see you standing at the base of the same stairs—eyes locked on his faltering steps with obvious confusion. Vil curled his lip at you in a silent challenge and you shook yourself out of whatever funk had settled over your brain. Then you too began the trek upwards, your cane clicking against the stone as your went.

The next splinter that worked its way through him was outright agonizing, and with no small amount of distress did Vil realize he was leaking. There was a sharp, thin, crack running from his temple to his jaw, and the burbling, black, goo welled up beneath it like blood to a wound. It dripped against the stone with an awful, thick sounding, plap. Thankfully this time, you had the self-preservation not to go making any confused noises at his situation, but your stare was a heavy weight on his back nonetheless.

Another crack appeared along his collarbone, and he could feel the endless layers of elaborately crafted, gem-toned, cloaks grow wet with the miasma slipping down his skin. He could feel a creaking, groaning, misery building along his joints—like a doll that was being slowly pulled apart at the seams. The Witch barely bit back a gasp when the delicate fabrics along his sides split against his cracklings ribs, and then you finally did grumble at him again.

“Why don’t you just give up?” you asked, shaking your head. Vil’s lips (or whatever remained of them at this point) curled up over his canines in a snarl. And while the words themselves dug at him in a way that was too personal for someone as ignorant as you to be fully aware of the bite of them, you didn’t look… mean about it. Your brows were tucked up, like it was a genuine inquiry—like you were concerned. Either way, he sneered up at you and you frowned harder, before offering a bewildered, “You’re killing yourself.”

“Do you have any idea how long I’ve waited?” He spat. “Fifty years. Ever since Suliman—” he rasped, a spasm of sharp pain ripping through his hide like claws, “—banished me to the Wastes.”

You stared at his miserable, dripping, form for a long moment before you huffed and turned to continue your climb. “Too bad I’m not younger, then. I could have lent you a hand.”

Vil snarled and it bubbled up like tar. He felt a trail of it burst along his chin. “Next time I’ll turn you senile too.”

You laughed at that, and the bird on your shoulder squawked when your giggling jostled it around.

“I’ll hold you to it,” you smiled, and turned to keep making your way up towards the grand, gold, doors.

You’d passed him by now—with your wrinkled, old, legs and withered muscles. Even with that ugly crow cawing and rattling around at your collar like the world’s most obnoxious scarf, you still managed to hobble your way to the top of the stairs before Vil had even reached the halfway point.

“Almost there!” you mocked, waving your hand at him.

But when he continued to struggle, you turned to one of the guards at your rear with a tight little frown.

“You should go help him,” you said, with just enough gentle fussing that you certainly must have been genuine, and Vil wondered deliriously for a moment if his ears really had melted off his head. When the guard spouted off some nonsense about ‘strict prohibitions’ and ‘court etiquette,’ you snorted and turned back to face Vil and his slushing, inky, mess with a tight thunk of your cane. “That’s ridiculous! The King himself invited him!”

When all those blank faced soldiers still refused to move, you offered Vil a little cheer that he hoped broke your stupid, elderly, knees.

“Come on, then!” you called after him, with another weird, wide, gesture. Though this one was far less antagonistic. “You can do it! Let’s go! Are you a Witch, or aren’t you, huh?”

“Shut up,” Vil seethed as he finally clawed his way to the top of the steps.

You didn’t reach down to pull him to his feet. He wouldn’t have let you do it even if you had, but you watched him with a grumpy sort of concern that had him feeling prickly in indignation. Who were you to pity him?

“Pull yourself together,” you ordered after a long moment of trailing at his heel like a skittish dog, and like he wasn’t literally being held together with the magical equivalent of some tape and a bungy cord. “Isn’t this what you’ve been waiting for, hmm?”

The pain was terrible. Horrible. So sharp and miserable that Vil couldn’t even will a corresponding insult into his thoughts, let alone past his panting lips. You stared down at his hunched form with a tight sort of concern, and with that same stiff lipped not-frown that you’d been wearing the night he’d swept into your store and torn the youth straight from your bones.

You stayed at his side for the entire walk through the corridor, which meant you must have purposely slowed yourself to match his lagging stride. And when he began to sway beneath the weight of some heinous, creaking, mass of shadows, you dipped just close enough into his space that he was left leaning against you in a decision that was most certainly not of his own accord.

Soon enough though you were shuffled off into a separate room—the crow honking on your shoulder like some old, awful, squeaky toy. The cavernous hall Vil was led to was familiar, and instantly all those silenced rationalities about this being a trap came crawling out from where he’d so furiously buried them.

They bound him into a grand chair that was a mockery of a throne. Lights danced across the room, their high-pitched drone scraping through his ears and melting whatever remained of his panicked, terrible, thoughts to mush. He could see the shadowed outlines of all the Demons he’d contacted over the years—all their thin, pale, bodies twining around him in a macabre sort of dance. They locked hands and he watched his own split beneath the weight of beastly talons. He felt the remainders of his magic as it was stripped away layer by layer, leaving him bare, and hideous, and every bit the monster he’d tried so hard to hide behind crafted perfection for so many years.

When he was wheeled into the Gardens after they’d taken everything from him all over again, he felt like the main attraction in a freakshow being put up on display. The world was spinning, and whirling, and nothing would stay still. Suliman’s shadows stretched throughout the glass dome like an insect crawling through the muck. And you were there. Looking… younger again, somehow. Bright, and alive. And when your youthful gaze landed on him it filled with fire.

“Once he too was a magnificent sorcerer,” Madam Suliman sighed, speaking about her long-lost protégée with the same sort of emotional investment as someone lamenting over a spilled cup of coffee or a wasted coupon. “So much promise. He could have done such great things…”

The words stung nearly as terribly as the wounds spanning the whole of him. But before they could seep in further and tear out whatever living bits remained of him, you bolted up from your chair so quickly that you sent the thing toppling over. And then you were moving to stand between the monster and his maker, squaring your stance as if to guard him. Like you intended to protect this awful, wretched, melting, creature—

“You’re insane! I get why Neige was so afraid to come back here!” you barked. “It’s all a trap! You lure people in with promises and false invitations, and then strip them of all their powers!”

The rest of the encounter was a bit of a blur—colored by nothing but the pain and shame mulling Vil’s senses into nothing but a perpetual curtain of static. There was someone else there eventually. Neige, he would guess, by the way Suliman was puffing up and throwing her magic around. And my, was there a lot of magic. Cold, tactical, enchantments that wore away even at his already shredded senses. You were shouting something, and he could feel your hands grasping at what were once his shoulders. And then the lot of you were flying away—higher and higher into the sky until Vil was too dizzy to tell up from down.

The pain and exhaustion took him eventually. He wasn’t entirely sure what had happened—only that when he blinked back into consciousness, he was collapsed atop a heap of rubble and there was a little, blue, fire demon yowling in his face. When he woke up again (slightly more coherent this time), he realized he was in a room. A swaying, creaking, room. And ah, this must have been that Moving Castle he’d heard so much about.

You were seated across from him, looking a bit worse for wear, but when you noticed his eyes slide open you were immediately lurching to your feet rambling about bandages, and antiseptic, and ‘gods I need to get some food into you before you wither away.’

When you sat back at his side with a little first aid kit and reached for one of his battered, twisting, limbs, Vil snarled at you with a noise that was so inhuman he almost managed to startle himself in the process. The cracks along his skin pulsed unpleasantly, and the smell of ash and muck filled the air. You stared him down firmly for a few more moments before sighing and moving to stand back on your feet. You didn’t take your kit with you, just slid it a few inches closer before taking your leave.

When you returned a few minutes later, you were balancing a plate full of toast and toppings. You sat yourself down once again and went about buttering a thick, fluffy looking slice of bread. Once that was made up to your liking, you reached over to set a little pot of jam off to the side with a teaspoon sticking out of it like a flag post. When Vil made no move to partake in your offering, you stared at the Witch and the hulking, twisting, mass of shadows that made up the entirety of him. Then you stood back up with a hum and returned a moment later with a sturdy looking mug. You filled it about halfway with a ladle of light, herby, smelling broth.

“This might be easier to get down,” you said, but it mostly sounded like you were muttering to yourself.

He glared at the cup bitterly. His fingers—claws now—flexed against the table where you’d set his meals, and they left deep, crackling, gauges in the wood. You stared him down rigidly and after a long moment where you very nearly started tapping your foot at him, he reached out with his clunky, mucky, talons and scooped the mug into his hands. When he took a tentative sip, you beamed—all that petulant frowning melting into something outright indulgent. You immediately went doddering about to fetch him a bit more.

“Stop feeding it!” the fire shrieked. “You’re wasting perfectly good food!”

“That I could be giving to you, you mean,” you chastised, topping up the mug with more of that thin, warm, broth.

“He’s evil!” the fire squawked at your accusations but very obviously did not deny them, perfectly indignant. “And have you forgotten about the you know what that’s got you stuck looking like a you know who!”

You waved off the little Demon with a shrug. “Oh, he’s alright.”

“He is not!” the fire wailed.

“He’s just as cursed as the rest of us,” you said, with a note of stern finality to your voice.

With that, there was a great clatter at the stairs, and a horribly familiar face clamored down to join the rest of you.

Neige LeBlanche had grown into his awkward warmth, Vil would give him that at least. He wore those same loose-fitting pastels and billowing jackets like they were things of comfort, something carefree. His dark hair had grown out a bit shaggy, but it still sat in that same choppy, artfully mused, style atop his head. Like a fluffy, ebony, halo. There was a youthfulness to those bright, brown, eyes that would probably never fade, but at least he looked a bit more like a person now, and less of an over manicured doll sitting at Suliman’s beck and call.

“The Witch of the Wastes at my breakfast table?” the Wizard mused, not without kindness. The teasing tone had Vil grinding his molars. “Whatever possessed you to let him into my house, Grim?”

“I didn’t let him in!” the demon yowled. “Your stupid hatter crash landed a plane into my face!”

Neige burst into peels of delighted laughter and clapped a gentle hand against your shoulder. “I knew you’d make a great pilot!”

A few of the wrinkles around your brow vanished when you scoffed, your lips curling into a smile even as you rolled your eyes.

“Your wall has a new hole in it that would beg to differ.”

“Excuse me!” the fire wailed. “But are we just going to ignore the fact that the Witch of the Wastes is sitting in our kitchen! Looking like he just crawled out of the pits of Hell!”

“He’s my guest,” you said after a moment, face pinched up again like you were trying to look stern. You turned a pointed frown on Neige and squared your shoulders. “You said I should treat the Castle like it was my home, too.”

“I did,” the brunette beamed, looking positively giddy. About what, Vil didn’t even want to consider. Whatever awful, sentimental, drivel was woven into your declaration was none of his business.

“…I guess we can’t just kick him out,” the purple haired boy grouched after a moment, stabbing at his porridge.

“Yes! Yes we can!” Grim shrieked, and you made a motion like you were threatening to upend a cup of water all over him.

“Nonsense,” Neige chirped, brown eyes melting into something warm and gooey. “If my dearest friend trusts him, then so do I!”

Dearest friend, Vil wanted to scoff. Please. As if the affection bubbling up and out of him was in anyway platonic.

Not long after, Neige darted off with a promise that he was ‘preparing something special!’ You nodded at his enthusiasm as he swooped off through his magical Portal Door, and then turned back to Vil with that same stiff lipped determination you were so prone to.

You showed him to a little room off to the side of the main parlor and dubbed it his. You lowered the curtains to dull the sharp brightness of the afternoon into something more tolerable, and brought in extra blankets when the Castle walked through a chilly valley. Even though Vil sat through your fussing in obstinate silence, you still chattered at him every time you stopped in. You carried in trays of delicate, bland, snacks that would be easy on his stomach. When he refused to touch them, you brought more of that broth instead. You puttered about cleaning the inky miasma that pooled on the floor beneath his feet, and only silently offered him a fresh handkerchief and cup of water when the tar built up so thickly on his tongue that he couldn’t even manage to swallow it. When you caught his glare resting on the intricate mirror hung on the wall opposite his new bed, you rolled up your sleeves and bodily yanked the thing off its frame.

“Is there something I should call you?” you asked, maybe a week into this new situation of his.

When he didn’t answer, you just hummed under your breath, considering.

“It just seems like—well, you mentioned that you were banished to the Wastes,” you mused. “So I can’t imagine you really enjoying being called their master.” You smiled a little crookedly, something teasing sparking in your eyes. “I know I wouldn’t like to go around with people calling me The Ruler of Retirement Homes, or whatever.”

“I am what I am,” he managed to croak after a moment, and didn’t even let himself feel too pathetic over how utterly miserable and inhuman he sounded.

“You’re whoever you want to be,” you replied with a shrug. “You can be a Witch if you like. I just figured I’d ask.”

You’d finished up your cleaning and were on your way out the door when he spoke up again.

“Vil,” he sighed, so quiet he wasn’t even sure you’d be able to hear him at all. But you stopped at the threshold and turned to look back at him with your head canted to the side—like a curious, little dog.

“Vil,” you repeated with a nod, and something entirely foreign cracked through his chest. For a moment he was worried that somehow there had been a part of him yet left unbroken, and that now he’d lost even that. But… This was a different sort of ache. Even if it was no less worrying.

Each day after that you greeted him with a cheery ‘Good morning, Vil!’ and brought him his evening herbal teas with a gentle ‘Goodnight, Vil.’ It was the first time in more than half a century that he’d heard his name spoken aloud. Sometimes he’d even wondered if he’d managed to forget the sound of it entirely. But here you were—some silly, little, hatter rattling it off like it was something easy, something palatable.

Then one day you came to visit him smelling like flowers, your brow scrunched in obvious unease.

“You’re certainly looking your age this afternoon,” Vil huffed at you, and the corner of your lips only just barely quirked in amusement before falling flat all over again.

You stared out the window with an absent sort of expression on your face. Distant.

“What’s the matter?” he asked, hoping he sounded more sour and put upon than he probably did. A trail of dark, wet, muck slid down his cheek to land on the floor with a heavy plap and you moved to his side to wipe it up.

“…Sometimes I just get this feeling that all this is likely to change at any moment,” you said finally, quiet. “That even though I’ve worked so hard to make a place for myself—to be happy here—that it could all just…”

Something painfully familiar curdled in Vil’s gut. The hot sting of failure, the bitter inadequacies that had dogged his steps his entire life. He reached out to lightly thwack you across the back of the head with one of his too-long, clawed, hands. A couple of drops of inky magic splattered along your cheek and you frowned at him petulantly. Good. Pouting was better than whatever that miserable look had been.

“Get over yourself,” he huffed. It rattled oddly in his wrecked throat, like something animalistic. “You think you’re special enough that the whiles of the Universe would seek out your sad, little, life to ruin? Please.”

You spluttered at him indignantly for a moment before that irritable puffing melted into hiccups, and then finally laughter. You laughed into your palm like a secret, and something in Vil’s chest eased that he hadn’t even realized needed easing to begin with.

“Of course, Vil,” you beamed. “How silly of me. Thank you for reminding me how meaningless I am. It makes all the difference.”

He sniffed, putting on as much an of an air of irritability as he could manage.

“As if that was for your benefit,” he argued pointlessly. “There’s only enough mops in this place to allow for one person to be leaking unmentionables all over the floors at a time. The last thing this poor, hideous, Castle needs is to be stained with your tears on top of it all.”

“That would be quite the inconvenience,” you agreed, warm.

You glanced at him out of the corner of your eye, almost nervous. And then you ducked forward quickly to wrap yourself around him in a hug that was more a desperate sort of clutching than anything else. It was tight and small, and with all the cracks and holes in him, it was certainly far from enjoyable. There wasn’t even enough time for those grotesque talons of his to tuck around you in return. Not that he would have! It just—it was only an observation! You’d just… darted in and out. Like that tiny crutch of affection was all you dared take. Nevertheless, that same, strange, thing in Vil’s chest yawned open all over again. Even though his body was literally splintering into bits and his throat was always bubbling over with the horrible consequence of selling himself away, this was the first time he’d really felt like he was drowning.

“Thank you, Vil,” you said again, softer than he’d ever heard you, before slipping back out the door.

When the War he’d been summoned to help the Crown fight finally made its way to their doorstep, Vil was unsurprised when Neige rushed forward to clutch at your hands and urge you to safety.

“I’m tired of running,” the Wizard said, pale fingers twisting with the telltale shadows of magic overuse. “Especially now that I have something worth fighting for.”

And oh, Vil realized with startling clarity as bombs dropped around their strange, walking, home and smoke filtered through the air. That was it, wasn’t it? The key to the curse he’d so thoughtlessly bestowed upon you.

‘Who could love such a retched, ugly, thing?’ he’d thought.

But they had—they all loved you. The fire demon that cooed for your attentions and the little boy that curled into the fringes of your cloak like it was his favorite blanket. And Neige, with his open doting and the soft heart he wore on his gaudy sleeves. All that love had slowly worn away the dark ailment he’d cast upon you, like water beating down the jagged edges of a stone.

You were shouting something at the little fire demon, and then the Castle was groaning and heaving like a dying beast. It felt like the world was collapsing in on itself, but with the swirling weight of his musings curling through his thoughts like the headiest of drugs, he couldn’t really find it in himself to care. Even when the ceiling crumbled on top of him, nearly burying him alive, it was hard to focus on much else beside the horrified look in your eyes as you stared after him with your youthful, lovely, face.

But why now? He wondered a bit blearily, as you kicked through the wreckage of the Moving Castle to crouch at his side. You prodded at the gashes on his cheeks like he could still bleed, like the little wounds he’d collected meant anything in the grand scheme of all his aches and miseries. Why now when all these poor fools had clearly already cared for you for so, very, long?

“It’s going to be okay, Vil!” you smiled at him, a bit teary, and helped him to his feet. “I promise!”

And as those last dregs of black magic were washed from your features—when those thin, lingering, lines faded back into the sharp determination of youth, and all that remained of your ailment was a shock of silver lightening your hair—he had another, horrible, moment to think oh.

No wonder it’d broken.

Because how could it not? When he loved you too.

By the time you managed to dig them all out of the shattered remains of the Castle, Vil couldn’t help but wonder if maybe Neige had gone and died. If that’s why you’d come into his room the other day, sniffling about change and happiness. If you’d known he was about to sacrifice himself so that his little, hobbled-together, family would be able to survive the upcoming trials at least somewhat intact.

There was a lump sprawled out across your lap that didn’t look entirely human—blot ridden and blood soaked. And maybe… With the way you were staring down at it with a trembling mouth and misty eyes, surely that had to be him. Surely that was—that was it then. It was over. But then the little fire demon was swirling up and around, jumping about in a wave of blue sparks and spouting nonsense about returning his master’s heart.

With a final indignant yowl, Grim curled over the empty cavity beneath Neige’s collar and vanished in a gentle roll of sapphire flames. There was a burst of sparks, a bout of excited, feline, trilling, and then Neige LeBlanche was jolting up with a gasp.

“Ack,” the Wizard groaned, immediately falling backwards with a wince. “It—Ouch. It feels like there’s a weight in my chest.”

“Of course there is,” you laughed, scrubbing away the relieved tears that were brimming along your lash line.

Your soft, warm, gaze traveled fondly along the wizard sprawled out in your lap, then to the little, lavender, boy and the ancient crow perched atop his shoulder. And finally it settled on Vil—a heavy, tangible, weight that he could feel all along his spine.

“A heart’s a heavy burden,” you said, soft.

And Vil, who had spent the better part of his life breaking his own into splintered shards to barter away to whoever would take it, couldn’t help but agree.

Tags

vil shoenheit Howls moving castle au

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sad-sie

3 years ago

Staycation (n. informal)

— a holiday spent in one’s home country rather than aboard, or one spent at home and involving day trips to local attractions.

Hi, I’m Cadence, and I’m a staycation enthusiast.

I love staying in hotels and there has not been a moment since last summer when I’m not moaning about how much I miss travelling (I miss travelling). As a result, I have fostered a newfound love for staycations where you get to stay somewhere nice and get that feeling of escaping from the burdens of everyday life even without leaving the country.

Since it’s summer and it is the season for vacations, there is no better theme to have for a summer event than to take everyone on a nice little staycation getaway✨

Accepting asks from 1/6 10:00 hkt to 4/6 23:59 hkt

All posts for this event will be tagged with #secondhand hotels & resorts

Let me show you around...✨

Check-in

— send in details of your dream vacation + a colour scheme + a character and get a 9-grid mood board themed around a perfect stay at one of our hotels and resorts tailored to your tastes!

— e.g. somewhere sunny where I can lounge around the warm sand all day and relax under the sun, it would be a dream if we’re staying in a villa where no one can interrupt us and it feels like we’re in our own world + gold + Hinata

Concierge

— you came alone? That’s alright, tell me one thing you totally would have done in the past year if it wasn’t for the whole covid situation + m/f preferences and you might just meet someone lovely during your stay here;)

— aka you tell me things and I’ll match you up with someone by working the magics of being the manager of this hotel to put you two at the right spot at the right time

— e.g. I had plans to go on a road trip with my friends across cities but it didn’t happen🥲 + no specific preferences

Luggage area

— send in a description of what type of packer you are when you go on overnight trips + a character and I’ll tell you three absolutely unnecessary thing they brought with them on the staycation

— e.g. I’m moderate with my luggage. I don’t really feel the need to bring everything I use on a daily basis but I have certain things that I insist on bringing even though not carrying them with me won’t be too big of an issue either. I never bring more than one bag or suitcase with me. + Bokuto

Room service

— tell me your go-to takeout order (whether it’s your favourite food or just the thing you can’t go wrong with when you don’t know what to eat) + a character and we’ll provide you with a romantic dining experience

— aka tell me things and I’ll give you an aesthetic that has to do with food✨with descriptions and song included

— e.g. (this is something I actually order all the time btw lmao) curry rice with fried pork cutlet with a side of gyoza + Kita

Bar & lounge (nsfw)(CLOSED)

— below are a list of potential places for you to... do things people love to do😌send a number + a character to get an elaboration on what you are doing there, you know the drill

on the bed (yes you paid money for that sweet hotel bed don't you dare say it's too boring)

against the room window

against the wall

in the hot tub

on the balcony

in the elevator

on the rooftop

on a sun bed at the side of the pool

in the pool

on the beach

in the gym

in the shower

on top of the bathroom counter

against the door that connects to the room next door (is it locked? Is it not? Is there someone on the other side? Idk you tell me😌)

on the writing desk at the corner of the room

under a mirrored ceiling

(any other you could think of, I’m sure some of you are more creative than I am;))

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sad-sie

2 years ago

you’re the sunflower, i think your love would be too much. // m.c.

a collection of spiderman!chifuyu hcs + drabble of you finding out about spiderman’s real identity

pairing. spiderman!chifuyu matsuno x reader

wc. 3.7k (hcs - 1.8k, drabble - 1.9k)

tags/cw. spiderman au, fluff, very very minor angst, mentions of injuries, implied violence, mentions of doubt and insecurities, mix of past + present tense for story telling purposes (hcs), a little ooc, not beta-ed (?) + please let me know if i missed anything !

a/n. second time writing bullet hcs !! it was definitely an experience and im definitely up for creating more short-format content im the future. this story was inspired mainly by @/_slvx0 spiderman!chifuyu fanart and my recent tasm obsession. PSA.chifuyu’s character was adapted to fit my vision of spiderman instead of fitting spiderman to who he is. this means his character might be ooc. bear mind that this is my first time writing for chifuyu and so im not a 100% with his characterization — i apologise for any ooc-ness in that regard.

m.list ˖ tags ˖ byi/dni

You’re The Sunflower, I Think Your Love Would Be Too Much. // M.c.

Keep reading

Tags

chifuyu matsuno spider man au

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sad-sie

3 years ago

Hello! Congrats on the milestone you deserve it!! Can I have a Deep Spring please? With male preferences.

Fav historical period is the Victorian Era, I like those big dresses

I love fall my allergies act up less and it’s not to cold :D

Thank you!!

hello hello thank you and coming right up🥰🥰

˚｡⋆.deep spring: for sad-sie

in the face of science and ingenuity of mankind, the soft foliages of fall and their colourful laces leads way to an era of grandness and dark prestige. i think this kind of strength coupled with the fragility of society beneath the surface matches v well with ushijima wakatoshi!

thank you for coming to the spring tea session🍵🌸

Tags

matchup

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sad-sie

2 years ago

Could I request Vil, Malleus, Leona, and Jamil being voted 'gorgeous man you'd like to spend your life with' by their s/o?

GORGEOUS MAN ♡

he cared for his looks a lot therefore the compliments from people however when you praise him so, he can't help but feel love once again

characters: vil, malleus, leona, jamil

warning: none just fluff and fluff

a/n: I'm sorry I haven't been posting my brain was empty during the whole time trying to figure out a way to write all the requests. I'll try to be more frequent. and I kinda wrote it like reader told him he's gorgeous I hope it works too. I wanted to try and use gradient and safe to say it tore my ass

✧ ˚ 　· 　　 .✧ ˚ 　· 　　 .✧ ˚ 　· 　　 .✧ ˚ 　· 　.

VIL SCHOENHEIT

his face is like art which captivates everyone and you were too. his fair skin with no blemishes is a sight to see. you've always admired him for his beauty and brain. just as much as he is good in sports and studies, he is that good in maintaining his face as well.

you loved his face therefore you would stare at it a lot but these days it have been more frequent. while on an outing with him under a tree while he slept in your lap. you had this lovestruck gaze in your eyes graced with a soft smile on your lips. as he asked why you kept staring at him so much these days your reply was "everytime I look at your beauty my mind is filled with the thought of me spending my life with the gorgeous man sleeping on my lap" which was followed with a light chuckle

he was taken aback by your sudden declaration of your love for him but he muses to your adorable antics. 'how cute' he thinks as he spends the day with you by his side

MALLEUS DRACONIA

he was the ruler of a kingdom. his people sung his praises since the day he was born. compliments on the way he rules, his eternal glory and his grace. he has heard them for many ages.

however, there's something he feels whenever praises slips from your lips. a slight burning sensation on his cheeks and hot ears. they weren't painful nor were they annoying rather he enjoyed feeling them whenever he would feel butterflies dance in his stomach.

when he took you out for a dinner in a fancy restaurant while having your food, he felt your gaze on him. he inquired you thinking that you weren't feeling well but did not want to trouble him but his worries soon washed away when you said "looking at your face always makes me believe that in the future if we get married..we would be a happy family. I would like to spend the rest of my life with a gorgeous man like you malleus". your words were so simple but so filled with love that those left him breathless

with you, in every moment, he feels a wide array of emotions. if this is what will be his everyday with you in the future then he would like to get married as soon as possible.

LEONA KINGSCHOLAR

Leona wasn't the type to dream about a future. the only thing he wanted were to not be ostracised. to not be ignored by people. to be acknowledged equally as his brother. not to have the vast difference in the treatment he receives from people because of the 'personality of a ruthless beast' that they make him out to be.

Leona was someone who would use underhand tactics to make a person indirectly submit to him but when it came to you, he felt as if protecting you from harm was his priority. even with his nature you still loved him. you never criticised him. you never turned him away, rather you welcomed him with open arms inside a warm home. he was still getting used to your unadulterated affection for him since this was not something he received from others.

he is rather ashamed to admit but he still couldn't trust you well enough. he would always think that you are just using him to create your own base where you are a leader and he is a servant servicing your demands but when you told him that you want to spend the rest of your life with a gorgeous man like him on a rainy night inside a blanket. he felt warmth. a feeling he first felt around you as he tried to process those words.

he lightly chuckled at your words and whispered a quite 'alright'. so this is what it feels like to be loved.

JAMIL VIPER

Jamil spent most of his childhood as a servant of the al-asim family. to the heir of powerful family a perfect servant was required to service him. he would never complain and he knew kalim since childhood. while one would grow a different view and he should be treating kalim as a friend but he did not want to let go of the professionalism.

since he had to serve the family heir at all times the possibility of a future with you was something far fetched and he thought he wouldn't really be able to give you the time and affection if you two would get married.

so he postponed the idea of marriage and shoved it into a far corner of his mind and he eventually forgot about it until you, one day told him that you would like to spend the rest of your life with a gorgeous man like him. he had a pink hue dusting his cheeks and it was clear to him that you already made plans of your future and a marriage.

maybe..maybe he can take the possibility of a future with you no matter how much workload he might have. he promises to spend the rest of his life with you as well if it is what you wished for.

Tags

leona kingscholar vil schoenheit malleus draconia jamil viper

712 notes View Post

sad-sie

3 years ago

In the moonlight

summary; you give akaashi the courage he needs

♡ pairing; a.keiji x gn!reader

♡ genre; angst, fluff, friends to lovers

♡ w.c; 856

♡ warnings; cursing, drinking

a/n; this made me so soft </3 find me a man like akaashi pls

*this fic is a part of my ‘five ways to say i love you’ mini-series. check out the other stories here!

“They don’t like me.”

He says it so assuredly that you almost believe him. But it’s Akaashi Keiji you’re talking to, so you know it’s a big fat lie. He reconsiders his words then shakes his head. “No, that’s not it. They like me but they don’t like me the way I want them to.”

You nod and take a large gulp of your gin and tonic. “How are you so sure?”

He looks at you over the rim of his glasses, cheeks so pink you wonder if they’re hot to the touch. You really want to find out. “I just do,” he sighs, head lolling forward. “Or maybe they’re just as stupid as they say they are.” Again, you bob your head and drink.

“Hey, maybe. I know I can be.”

Akaashi gives you a wry smile. “Yeah, you really can.”

The party seems so far away even though it’s going on right behind you. The sliding glass door does well to block out most of the noise, though you can vaguely hear that one song that’s been stuck in your mind and the excited shouts of Bokuto and Konoha. You lean over the porch railing, your red solo cup dangling between your unsteady fingers.

“Keiji—” his hand twitches— “you deserve so much,” you sigh. “More than you think you do.”

“What makes you think I don’t know what I deserve?”

He chuckles at the sharp look you give him. ”Okay, okay. Point taken.”

“You deserve the world.” The gin doesn’t burn the same way the words do. “And if they can’t see how amazing you are, then fuck them.”

He’s silent as you drain the last of your drink and you blink furiously at the moon. “Tell me more.” His voice is soft yet you shiver at the quiet command. You can’t look at him as you continue.

“You’re brilliant, so bright like the moon,” you say, tilting your head back and closing your eyes. “You’re attentive. You make sure Bokuto always has a snack before practice—“

“Because he won’t stop whining about how hungry he is when it’s over—“

“You’re compassionate. You’re willing to help Kuroo when he needs tutoring…”

“He needs all the help he can get honestly—“

Akaashi’s eyes widen as you press a digit to his lips, a smile plays on yours.

“You’re humble,” you whisper. “Kind, patient, honest to a fault—“ He laughs at that one, grabbing your hand to remove it from his mouth and holds it against his chest. “You’re reliable. You give so much of yourself away and never ask for anything in return, even though Bo and I have told you time and time again that it’s okay to need someone, to let someone in—“

“You’re going on a tangent, love.” His touch is searing when he rearranges his hold on your wrist to intertwining your fingers. You stare at your interlocked hands and exhale. “And if they can’t see all these great qualities about you then they don’t deserve you.”

The upward curl of Akaashi’s plump lips is beautiful, painfully so. Under the silver light of the full moon, you can’t help but wonder how one can be this ethereal. Tendrils of inky black hair curl around his smooth skin, brushing along the thick fringe of lashes surrounding his cerulean eyes. The thin slope of his nose, the prominent shape of his cupid’s bow… Aphrodite would curse him out of pure jealousy, Selene would stop her chariot if only to marvel at his perfection. His crush, whoever they may be, would be an absolute fool to not want the man in front of you, the man who glimmers like stardust in the moonlight.

You blame your alcohol-addled brain for this one. “Y’know,” you wave your empty cup around, the last remnants of gin flying about. “You should, you should just kiss them! Grab their stupid face and plant a big wet one on them! Because if they’ve been this blind all this time, maybe they just need something more ‘in their face,’ y’know?”

It’s quiet, save for the music thumping behind you, as he contemplates your suggestion. Akaashi’s grip tightens when he leans a little closer to you. “That’s one way to go about it,” he muses while he drums his fingers along your skin. “It’s someone you know,” he says cautiously and your stomach dips. “Intimately. Would you still recommend I just go up and kiss them?”

You are a fool, an enormous idiot who is helplessly in love with stardust. “Why not? Life’s too short not to take risks.” You hope he doesn’t notice the way your voice cracks, the way your plastic cup crinkles under your shaky hold.

Akaashi hums. He lets go of your hand and you protest when he takes your cup. “Hey,” you say with a pout. “I was gonna get some more.” His lips quirk up on one side as he carefully balances the two cups on the railing.

“I’m just taking your advice.”

With one hand on your hip, and the other cupping the back of your neck, the man who glimmers like stardust kisses you.

Tags

BEAUTIFUL!!! IM CRYING akaashi keiji

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