teakettle72
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wouldn't you like a taste (of the power) by teakettle72
Fandoms: Hermitcraft SMP, Life Series | 3rd Life SMP Series
25 Nov 2025
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He wanted to run. He wanted to die. He wanted to save his crew. He never wanted to return to this blood-soaked island, and he wanted to raze it to ashes. He wanted so much, but when he heard the jingle of bells and the barest hints of a flute through the leaves, all he could do was gasp.
“Well, I must say, that was quite the sight you just saw, wasn’t it?”
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the purple sun (and its comet) by teakettle72
Fandoms: Life Series | 3rd Life SMP Series
11 Nov 2025
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The silver highlights that showed the gaps of the perfect pink leaves were blocked, Joel noticed, by a presence over top of them, a red glow tinged with a stronger but muted magic that exposed his predator and prey.
Grian stood, watching from above.
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Ever since Legundo was young, he saw ghosts. He never said anything, but does what he can to help them move on. He liked to think he was good at it too. Then war came knocking on his doorstep, afterwards, he was never the same. Now, he is in Oakhurst, determined to help the people he's found himself in the company of. One of those being Owen-the lumberjack that has taken to staying far away everyone. Save for a haunting specter that has attached itself to the man.
Can Legundo help both ghost and man move forward? Or has he finally gotten in over his head?
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- English
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Bookmarked by teakettle72
22 Feb 2026
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- Words:
- 63,483
- Works:
- 8
- Bookmarks:
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Legundo dies. He finds himself unsurprised by this. But he awakens not to an afterlife or to nothing, but to a town two hundred years ago. One with a kindly mayor and a sick lumberjack.
Bookmarked by teakettle72
16 Feb 2026
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Mumbo had always been the sort of man who appeared halfway translucent in lamplight, tall and thin as a page marker, his face drained of color except for the stark ink-black slash of his mustache and the anxious flutter of his eyes. He worked too late, slept too little, and lived in a house so small that “roommate” felt like a generous word for the arrangement. The creaking wooden cottage was barely large enough for one person, let alone two grown men pressed together like forgotten books on a narrow shelf. Every night, after Mumbo finished hammering away at article drafts in their living room, he would slip into the single bed he and Grian shared, more out of necessity than intention, and Grian would roll close, warm chest against cold back, a quiet presence clinging to him like smoke.
They were friends. At least, that was the name Mumbo had given to whatever strange gravity held them together.
This work is a gift to my lovely friend @ahllohehn on Tumblr. The AU Scarlet Quill belongs to him as well.
Bookmarked by teakettle72
16 Feb 2026
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The humans were rebuilding again, or maybe destroying something new, Owen didn’t know, didn’t care. What mattered was that he couldn’t find Legs anywhere. His favorite human. No, not his human. The doctor. He wasn’t supposed to think of him that way.
Still, he missed the steady sound of his voice, the rustle of papers, the scent of pine and herbs clinging to his clothes. He’d gotten used to it without realizing.
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What would happen if Owen, in his bat form, fell asleep on a certain doctor's head?
I have been inspired by lovely @gh0stlyscooter's art (on Tumblr) of Owen as a bat sleeping on Legs's head and wrote something something off of it.
Do check his other works as well, his style is just chef's kiss!Bookmarked by teakettle72
16 Feb 2026