#undisturbed. able to really pay attention in blissful quiet.

[musherum]

i can stay alive long enough to make the mushroom soup ive been wanting to make. i can do that, at least

[tales-unique]

QUARANTINE  II

—Question from DeadlyNighshade97: That’d be interesting... What if, for a separate chapter also, Reader gets sick anyway, despite best efforts not to? And all four of them, burdened by guilt for all the stress caused that likely made Reader sick in the first place, /all four of them/ pay Reader back in the same fashion? I can’t tell whether that’d be chaos or peaceful maintenance... or both?

“Ah— Ahh-choo!” It’s about the seventh sneeze that’s come from you in a row and you almost feel as though your body is going for a world record. It’s no surprise that you’ve become sick after taking care of the Horsemen when they were ill, but what did catch you off guard was how slowly it had taken to manifest itself. Weeks had come and gone since then and all of the Four were back to their normal selves and, at first, you had only suffered a small cough. However before long you found yourself overcome with a fever, your throat sore and scratchy, while your nose grew stuffy and useless.

Whimpering from the nest you had made from every blanket you could find you curl up tighter, trying to get as much warmth as you could without much success; your body burned, raging with your fever, but you still felt cold. It was one of those moments where you truly hated life and were very much feeling sorry for yourself. As you wallow in misery you conclude you’ve had enough of the hell that is daytime television, feeling as though your brain may begin to dribble out of your ears at any given moment. With a frustrated huff you toss the remote of your T.V. aside, leaving the drone of The Pioneer Woman behind you as you shuffle to the kitchen, kicking off the sheets as you go. As you rummage around for another bottle of Cold & Flu you’re oblivious to the sound of your front door opening and closing, the rumble of footsteps approaching, because your clogged sinuses prevent you from hearing properly. Strife and War easily enter your home with the key you’ve given them, having gone ahead of Fury and Death so they can conclude business in peace before they too come over. “She really does have it bad,” the elder of the two murmurs, shaking his head as he flicked his gaze over the mountain of blankets strewn about your couch and the crumpled tissues overflowing from your bin. “Hey!” He calls out, peeking his head into the kitchen to see you chugging the medicine like your life depended upon it. This causes the Horseman to snort in laughter, beckoning his brother to come and see but War had already settled on the couch after pushing the blankets to the other end of it. With a shake of his head he looks back to you, all tired eyes and wild bed hair, and gives a sympathetic smile. “You look rough,” his voice was low and quiet and you’re thankful that he’s considerate of the pounding headache you have. “Yeah,” you croak, voice raw from coughing, “because of you guys.” It’s all in good humor, he can tell from the smile on your face as you shuffle past him to return to your blanket nest. War looks troubled upon your return, his brow creased with concern at your awful complexion and scratchy voice, but remains quiet and inviting when you come to him. He sits back as much as he is able on your small couch, allowing you to curl up with your blankets against his side for warmth. The behemoth is always devilishly hot and it’s glorious right now. Strife follows close behind and can’t help but feel a slight tug of, well, something that he doesn’t care to name when he sees how you’re already making yourself quite at home leaning against War. “You’re so warm,” you groan in delight, burying your face into the crook of his flesh arm without a care in the world. It doesn’t take long for Strife to ditch his armour and helmet in favour of taking the unoccupied space at your side, spreading out, ( laying claim , you would say ) and lazily running a hand through your locks. They’re damp with perspiration and he frowns when he feels how your skin is hot to the touch. Sharing a look with War, who is equally perplexed at the scorching heat that’s radiating from you, Strife decides that it’s time they gave you a little TLC. It’s the least they can do after you so dutifully looked after them when they were ill. War is the first to speak up after the mutual, silent agreement between the two, mimicking his brothers low tone to minimise any pain it may cause your head. “Perhaps you should got to bed? It would be more comfortable than here,” he suggested, grumbling when you responded by burrowing deeper into your blankets against his side. “C’mon, sweetheart, we’ll come too,” Strife chimes in, trying his best to coax you out with a loving nickname and the promise of cuddles. “No,” you reply stubbornly, voice muffled from the fabric. It goes on like this for a few moments before it’s obvious that you’re not budging, so War decides he’s had enough and proceeds to lift you up, blankets and all, and escort you to your room. You try to make it difficult, squirming and grousing the entire way, but you’re no match for the towering Horseman. Once again Strife is quick to follow, laughing as War sets you down, a pout on your tired, pale face. “That wasn’t fair.” “Life isn’t fair, sweetheart, now c’mon, snuggle up, it’s time for the cuddle pile!” You stick your tongue out a Strife, who returns the gesture, and you can’t help the small giggle that escapes you at his antics as you make yourself comfortable. Strife, obviously, is quick to be at your side, joined by War on your other side, once he has shed the bulky armour he sports. The sudden heat erupted from such contact has you melting into the sheets, a blissful smile on your lips. You’re unsure what time it is when the sounds of hushed voices rouses you from your sleep. Your throat is dry, your nose still stuffy, but you feel a tiny bit better after such an undisturbed sleep. It’s then you notice the flowing, magenta hair of Fury as she sits perched on the edge of your bed, speaking with Strife. Deciding that you have no real need to move you stay where you arm, resting your head against Strife arm, War’s warm body at your back; still asleep, you assume, from the way his breathing is deep. “She’s still no better? Sickly little thing. She’s been ill for weeks!” Typical Fury, always impatient, but her tone betrays a note of worry. “You know how Humans are, that’s why she needs us,” Strife counters, voice warm and affectionate, “Has Death made that tea yet? I want her to have some before she goes down for another round of z’s.” Death. Making tea. For you. Oh, this you have to see, if only to prove it’s not a fever-induced hallucinations. Wriggling slightly against the confines of the blankets, you let out the most believable yawn you could muster, blinking up at the two Horsemen, who now turned their attention to you. Strife shifted so he could brush your hair from your face, smiling as he did so, while Fury turned to sit cross-legged in front of you. “Hey sleepyhead, you have a good nap?” Strife teased, and you caught Fury’s eye-rolling as you nodded. “Yeah, I feel a lot better.” “Good,” Fury soon chimes in, tilting her head as she looks you over, “you’ve been moping around in this place for too long.” “Well, being ill will do that to ya, Fury,” you chirp, watching with a cheeky smile as she huffs and turns away. You were feeling much better with them there to raise your spirits, but it wasn’t long before your flu reared its ugly head and you began spluttering, trying to hold your cough in. Strife, sporting a frown, rubbed your back soothingly while Fury left to get Death and the tea he had been brewing. The commotion cause War to wake, blinking bleary white eyes for a moment before sitting up straight, panicked by your hunched over form. Before he could speak you quickly shake your head, hand practically flailing. “I’m fine!” You quickly wheeze out trying to contain yourself, “just coughing!” It’s hard but you manage to stifle the awful cough, laying back to catch your breath just as Fury returned, closely followed by Death. Sitting up straighter, you wipe at the slight wetness that pooled at the corner of your eyes, smiling to the masked Horseman as he offers you a languidly steaming mug ( your favourite, the one with the minimalist crows flying on it ) before crossing his arms. “Drink all of it,” Death starts, pointing to the mug held cautiously in your hands. It doesn’t smell too pleasant, but then again the best medicines never do and you trust Death to not give you anything that would harm you. “It’ll work better that way,” he added, softer this time, but still firm. He was affectionate in his own, muted sort of way, and you nodded with an appreciative smile. He wouldn’t coddle you, not like the others, but would come and offer you support when needed. “Thanks Death,” you called out when he turned to leave, catching his gaze as he glanced over his shoulder at you, watching you sip the drink before giving a nod of his own, satisfied you would do as told. He would be back and so you let him leave the room, allowing him his moments of solitude while you soaked up the attention of the remaining three. “Every drop, sweetheart,” Strife teased as he watched you drink Death’s tea, chuckling warmly at the way your nose crinkled at the taste once you had finished, setting the mug aside. Now you could focus on lapping up the attention they were giving you. With a satisfied hum you curl up between War and Strife, beckoning Fury to come lay with you all once she’s finally settled on a film to watch; Wonder Woman. You can hear that the T.V. in the living room has been turned off, no droning of cooking shows or as-seen-on-tv adverts, which prompts you to conclude that Death is settled there, no doubt on standby should anything happen. It isn’t long before the Horsemen have all fallen asleep to the sound of glorious battle and Wonder Woman’s iconic image. You give a soft, relaxed sigh at the sight of War laid back against you headboard, content in his rest, and Strife curled at your side, clutching a blanket that no doubt smelt of you to his face, is equally as content. Fury, unlike her brothers, slips in and out of sleep, dozing here and there as she tries to stay awake to watch the movie. Her voice is soft when she calls your name, having heard and felt you shimmying out of the covers and get to your feet. “Where are you going?” She asks, leaning her head onto her hand from where she lays, stretched out like a cat, along the width of your bed. “Getting some water,” you hum, looking to the door, “and to check on Death, I was hoping he’d come join us.” You keep your voice quiet out of habit, not wanting him to hear you, but you know he probably still can and it causes you to frown slightly. The female Horseman notices and sighs, eyes stark in the light from the T.V. “Death is...Well, Death. He likes his own company sometimes, always has, but he does care.” It’s awkward and her gruff tone doesn’t make the words sound sincere, but you know her better than that and you know what she means. With a warm smile and a nod you leave your room, pulling the door behind you so it’s mostly closed. Padding quietly into the living room you don’t make it far on your path to the kitchen before Death gives a small cough to gain your attention, though he doesn’t get up from his seat. Instead he reaches out a hand, a simple gesture, and beckons you over. It’s not uncommon for Death to be affectionate like this and you accept his advance eagerly, forgetting your need for a drink altogether. “Are you feeling well?” Death asks, voice quiet and soft yet still firm. It was a delectable mix, one that always made you weak to him. “Yeah, much better,” you murmur as you settle on the arm of the chair he’s sitting in, his outstretched hand coming to rest on your lower back. “But that tea tasted awful,” you added, laughing lightly. “As long as it helps, does it really matter about the taste?” Quips the Horseman as he easily pulls you from your perch to his lap, allowing you a moment to get comfortable. “Yeah, actually! It does!” You huff, but there’s a grin forming on your lips and you’re struggling to keep your laughter at bay. Death’s snarky humor always makes you feel better, almost as much as his medicines do. “Hm. I beg to differ,” he answers easily, leaning back in the seat. You settle against him with practiced ease, able to find him comfortable despite the sharp features his body possesses. With a turn in your fever you’re thankful for the coolness of his skin, it helps to dampen the raging heat that radiates from your flesh. You swear that, at this point, you rival War in how hot you are. Blowing a piece of hair out of your face you hum in contentment, finding solace in his quiet presence. “I’m glad you all came today, I feel a lot better thanks to you guys,” you mutter through a yawn, eyes closing. “It was no trouble,” Death answered, chuckling slightly when he could feel how your breathing became rhythmically slow and deep. At least you didn’t snore, unlike his siblings.

[holylangdon]

From Eden (Michael Langdon x Reader)

Request: “Something with Michael and him asking "do you love me?" - Anon

Warnings: Fem!Witch!Reader, Christmas celebration, kissing, slight mention of almost-choking, I flipped the roles here

Word Count: 1.7k

A/N: Finals are finally over. Hail Satan.

Christmas parties had never exactly been Michael Langdon’s forte. He absolutely hated gaudy sense of superiority and self-righteousness that everyone carried around this time of the year. This was especially evident in the warlocks from out of town, the witches too. The disingenuous kindness didn't go unnoticed by him either, but certainly in the wrong ways. And not to mention he was the literal Antichrist. He definitely wasn't fond of celebrating his father’s worst enemy’s birthday. Or death day, or resurrection day, or anything else of the sort.

It’s not like Michael didn't have a choice whether or not to come to this little event, though. He did. His mentors had encouraged everyone to come, of course, but had also given them the rare freedom of an entire night to themselves in their dorms, not to mention without any work to do. Many, many students took this opportunity to relax, but the moment Michael realized you’d be here with your coven... He simply couldn't resist the chance to see you again. Even if three other entire covens would be there, too. His, yours... The rest didn't much matter.

So, so many months ago when you had first visited the Hawthorne Academy for Exceptional Young Men with the witches council, he had immediately seen the raw, undisturbed innocence within you. He found himself absolutely weak at the thought of being able to ruin you. To make you see the harsh realities of the world. To take away your naivety and open your eyes a bit more. He wanted nothing more.

That weekend, he began his process. After introducing himself and making small talk with you, the next night he called you to his room when no one else was awake. Enchanted the locks so no one, not even his so-called superiors or any of your own mentors, could eavesdrop on the two of you. Just moments after you entered the room, the blond boy pressed you against the wall. His hand came to rest against your throat, stroking the soft flesh. He savored the quiet moan that fell from your lips when his arm slid behind your back, your body arching into his chest. Already so needy for his touch.

It didn't take him long to give in to his own desires and let his lips crash against yours. He kept you close, even as your hand trailed down his body and inched closer and closer to his cock. He gasped when your small hand began to palm his length with a feather light touch. That was the last thing Michael expected, but he let it go on for a few minutes before releasing you from his room.

The memory alone was almost enough to get him hard.

Michael found himself very disappointed that weekend when you went back to New Orleans. He tried to forget about you, to shrug you off like he would with anyone else. And it almost worked until the Grand Chancellor announced that several of Miss Robichaux’s students would be coming back to the Hawthorne School to learn from the male warlocks for a week while they sorted out something or another in Louisiana. He almost prayed that you'd be one of the chosen few. But he didn’t have to. Luckily, you were.

The students and staff alike were tense and frustrated for those seven days, not too fond of the witches intruding into their territory. Everyone questioned why the Supreme hadn’t chosen a different, closer coven to send their sisters to, or why it had to be them, but Michael didn't bother asking such trivial questions. His Y/N was back.

You’d been assigned a room down the hall from his, and by the end of the week, he’d made a habit of sneaking around to see you. The two of you would do the most mundane things together there, like reading or just talking for hours  on end. It didn’t take long for him to kiss you again. Things only got more and more heated from there until he finally took you. He thought the relationship would be done and over with when you finally went back once more, but he was proven wrong when he found himself not being able to take his mind off of you.

Now, Michael stood at the rail of the loft, looking over the sea of people below him. There were at least a hundred bodies beneath. And those were just the ones that he could see. There were maybe more, but he couldn't quite tell. Everyone’s black dresses and suits blended together. The white collar on the few attending student’s Hawthorne uniforms were barely visible under the dim white lights overhead.

A small voice interrupted his thoughts as you came to stand beside him, whispering a ‘hello.’ He could tell already that you were nervous about approaching him, especially with the way your foot tapped against the wooden floor as you gripped the cold metal fence rail to the loft.

“Hello.” With a content sigh, he turned away from the party beneath him to look at you. You’d came back for him. You sought his face out in the hundreds and hundreds of people in this building. Michael took in the sight of you before him. After a moment, he came to the conclusion that you were beautiful, always. “I wasn’t sure you'd be attending.”

That was a complete lie, but you knew none the better.

“Uh, yeah.” You smiled shyly, looking over the crowd beside you so you wouldn't look up into his icy blue eyes. They always made you so weak, and you really didn't need that at the moment. “Madison said it would be good for me to get out a bit. Meet some people, you know? But there’s just so many people here, it’s a bit... It’s a little overwhelming.”

With a smug expression on his face, he grabbed your hand, leaving you with no real choice but to follow him. Your cheeks got warm as he pulled you through the crowded hallways, paying no mind to the fellow students and powerful mentor’s eyes that seemed to follow your movement. The further he took you, the less and less people you saw until finally, you found yourself in an empty bedroom. You quickly realized that it was his, but it had changed since you’d last seen it. Or maybe not. Safe to say you weren't paying a whole lot of attention to your surroundings last time.

The walls were still a light beige color, some kind of stone, the same kind that the rest of their bunker was made from. His bed was neatly made up with grey blankets, a dark red throw draped over the wooden footboard. His desk sat in the corner underneath a clock and the armoire was across from it. A radio hummed a classical tune from somewhere around the room. It was sort of beautiful, actually. Not at all like your room back at Robichaux’s, which was white and sunny and shared with a friend of yours. 

Michael gestured for you to sit on the bed while he shrugged his black blazer off, laying it across the desk. You traced your fingers across the duvet for a moment before looking up at him. He was beautiful, truly. Strawberry blonde waves and bright blue eyes that complimented each other perfectly, his smooth vanilla skin and toned physique only making him more attractive. 

“Michael?” You asked, looking up at him. He hummed in response as he unbuttoned his uniform top, a t-shirt resting beside him. You watched him for a moment before speaking up again. “Why am I here?”

“Why did you come with me?” He countered, turned to look at you. Your eyes immediately rose to see his curious gaze. “Hm?” His questions were met with silence for a moment. You didn't have a response. “That’s what I thought.”

You watched him tug the black shirt on with ease, his back turned to you once more as he quickly took the black slacks off and slid on a pair of sweatpants. “I think I’m in love with you.”

Not exactly how you planned to tell him about the startling revelation, but it worked. He paused when you spoke, silent and stilled. It seemed like he was lost in thought, or contemplating your words. Finally, he began to walk closer and closer to you. He stood at the foot of the bed, an intrigued expression on his face. His tongue poked out to wet his bottom lip before he spoke.

Little did you know, he was arguing with his own mind. He wasn’t upset that you'd confessed your feelings. Not repulsed by the thought of having you by his side or in his pocket, like he would with anyone else had they said those words. Instead, he felt a warm, fuzzy buzz in his chest that he wasn't sure he had ever felt before. But he knew exactly what it was. It was the feeling of affection. Reciprocated feelings.

But he had one question before he made his move. “You think?”

You nodded. “I think. I’m not sure.”

It was a blur, the way he moved from the foot of his bed to you. How he had pinned your body down onto the soft mattress as his lips crashed against yours, a little gasp escaping him as your hand came to rest on the back of his head, pulling him in closer. He almost smirked against you as your hips rolled against his when his hand began to creep down your waist, his fingers teasing the hem of your top. He savored the little moan of his name that allowed him to slip his tongue into your mouth moments later, almost giving you one of his own when your fingers looped into his messy waves.

Michael only pulled away when he had to catch his breath. His forehead still pressed against yours as the two of you simply breathed, your eyes closed. He glanced over your features in some sort of blissful state. He watched your lips move as you whispered to him.

“This might be the best Christmas ever, huh?”