#I did answer my question but my curiosity is simply not sated

[da3drat]

I was GOING to go to bed at a reasonable time tonight and then the bedtime fanfic movie posed a question (always a bad sign)- does Meri play the lute or the lyre? So now I'm elbow deep of the history of the lyre. That's fun.

[xxsycamore]

—𝘖𝘯𝘦 𝘔𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘊𝘩𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘮𝘢𝘴 𝘞𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘠𝘰𝘶

► SYNOPSIS:

Deep down, Comte is a greedy man.

If Christmas time reminds him of his beloved, it's only natural of a greedy man to start indulging in it early.

▍comte x mc ▍rating: G ▍tags: fluff; humor; christmas decorations; kissing ▍wordcount:  1,250

▍masterlist

▍a/n:  Another fluffy fic! I don't know how many of you happen to have played his route around the holidays, but for me there will always be something about Christmas and Comte... and, I thought this would be a cute little thing between them if it happened in canon. Either way, I hope you enjoy!

Written for mine and @voltage-vixen’s ‘Tis The Season For Love challenge!

PROMPT: Starting with preparations way too early

Entering through the front door, MC nearly drops the shopping bags she's holding to the floor. What is today's date again?? Did she run through any time-warping doors on her way to the marketplace? Upon exiting this morning, she clearly remembers the chilly early November air hitting her face-first, and the fact that she remarked it being early November. Now, she's not so sure. The mansion appears thoroughly, utterly, excessively decorated for Christmas.

"We just took down the Halloween decorations…what is this?"

She mutters to herself, getting a better grip on her many shopping bags, bracing herself to bring them to their final destination in the kitchen already. She desperately needs to ask a certain butler what's all of this about, assuming that when something is happening in the mansion, Sebastian would be the first to know.

Released from the weight she's been carrying, MC doesn't get to also be released from the heavy question mark lingering over her head, as the kitchen is empty. Ignoring her pending tasks for the time being, for the sake of sating her curiosity, she goes on a little investigation, tying her housework apron while walking.

She bumps into a very confused looking Jean, glad that at least she's not the only one feeling like this. Asking him if he knows any details, however, leaves her even more puzzled. He leaves shortly, and MC snaps from the trance only when she spots a familiar black suit through the opened door of a room up ahead. She speeds up her walking, having had enough of being left in the dark.

"Sebastian what is going on with the-"

She walks on the sight of a very worried Sebastian holding the ladder as Comte appears to be putting up garlands. Now, this is something you don't see everyday, and even for MC and her new bizarre life, this is certainly something she didn't expect seeing.

"Ah, ma cherie, you're home early." Comte's face lights up in a near grin that is only barely hidden by years and years of mastering a perfectly modest smile. He gets down the ladder shockingly fast, much to Sebastian's concern. A greeting hug is offered to MC, and while it's not a gesture too intimate that she'd blush from it (moreso when only Sebastian is present and Sebastian has seen everything already), she puts an early end to it, looking in Comte's eyes for answers. It seems like he sees nothing he needs to explain himself for, so she tries with words.

"What is happening here?"

"My, what does it look like? We're preparing for Christmas. I'm putting up some decorations, but don't fret. I know how much you love doing that, I made certain to leave the major spots for you, especially the tree."

"But," she starts, not much less confused than before. Comte seems to have gotten the wrong idea about what part of all of this needs to be addressed. "But, why now? It's definitely too early for this! I just ran into Jean, poor Jean, did you know that he thought he simply slept through and skipped a whole month? He never keeps track of time, imagine how confused he was…"

"Ma cherie."

Comte grips her by the shoulders to gain her attention, and gently moves her hand until it's linked with his elbow. Then he leads the way to the garden, not without ensuring that MC has put her coat on, of course.

The familiar walk towards the gazebo is not as calming as MC remembers, but soon the racing thoughts in her mind are cleared out for an even bigger question mark taking their place. Everything around the gazebo and the gazebo itself is covered in fluffy white snow.

"I swear it hasn't snowed today, I was just out in town fifteen minutes ago!"

Comte lets out a mysterious little chuckle, honey-colored eyes following her reactions. He's not so heartless as to keep toying with her this way, so he moves to stand before her, bringing up her hands in his own to grasp lightly.

"Comte," MC interrupts, just one important question before everything else. She appears pale as a sheet and very, very worried about this one. He hums, still smiling, waiting for her to go on.

"Is this. Asbestos."

"Oh no, it's baking soda."

MC releases what feels like the biggest sigh of relief in her entire life. Ignorance is bliss, and coming from the 21st century with knowledge about all the slow killers (an understatement) in the daily life of a normal person in this time era is… a headache, to say the least. At least her lover comes with a sizable brain and with remarkable levels of knowledge from his many visits from the future.

"Ma cherie."

"Ah, yes?" Color returning to her face, she takes note of the way Comte rubs gentle circles in the skin of her cool hands.

"You were wondering why I'm doing all of this so early." He looks down briefly for a moment, looking at their intertwined hands. "But the answer is very simple, it's almost laughable. You're free to call me a fool because of it, my dear."

Frozen and caught in a suddenly embarrassing and romantic scene, MC waits for him to go on. Even though the answer starts forming in her mind, she doesn't want to guess on her own.

"When we got together, it was Christmas. With the weather turning cold, it was as if it only became warmer and warmer in my heart. I'm a greedy man, ma cherie."

Breath hitching in her throat, MC wants to say something, but can only stare at her Abel and his little guilty smile. It all makes sense now. But he says the rest of it, just in case. Because he loves laying himself bare in front of her and her alone.

He leans in, his voice a whisper, close to her already reddening ear. Would he notice, he'd be fast to take her inside, even if he knows better than to assume that the cold is at fault here.

"And greedy as I am, I couldn’t wait for Christmas, so that I could get to relive those precious memories we share. Seeing you run around merrily, kissing your hair that smells of those special cookies you made for all of us last year… Ah, I told you it's laughable. You seem to have reduced me to a little kid that cannot wait for the holidays to come."

The laugher that Comte expects doesn't come, because MC can't produce any sound when she's pressed to his chest. It's a little surprising how tightly she hugs him, but he welcomes it gladly, returning the hug. If he is the one to break it first, it would be only in order to kiss her. And that's exactly what he does, having long accepted that around his darling he's never going to be as in control of himself as he normally is.

"I'm looking forward to the second best Christmas ever, Abel."

Second best? Now that sounds like a challenge, through as much as he thrives to impress her, Comte is not so sure how he's going to compete against the miracle of love that took place last year. He feels that same youthful excitement rushing through him, and he kisses MC again as if to make her feel it, too.

One thing is certain; it would be a Christmas to remember. Their second Christmas together.

Taglist: @arsnovacadenza @ale-teodora @kimi00twin @otomelady @privilegedpancake @g-kleran @pumpumnnnp @thesirenwashere @ravenarld @kimmy-banana @devonares @animeworldsposts @randomanimatedhusbandoseeker @galaxyprison @sadshaxk @starshards26 @pro-cat-stination @acethephoenix256 @ikevamp-shrine-2 @nad-zeta @crystal13unny @keen19thcenturygoatsstudent @lordsister @ikemen-banshou @themysticalbeing @canaria-blackwell @otome-scribbles @rhodolitesrose @coornn @kpop-and-otome @queen-dahlia2 @kisara-16 @chaosangel767 @ikemenlibrary @queengiuliettafirstlady @aurora-morning @aquagirl1978 @ikemenlover24 @violettduchess @mcofthemansion @tiny-wooden-robot @joy-the-reader @katriniac @ikemen-prince-writers-posts @atelieredux @cilokgoang let me know if you want to be tagged/untagged!

[hisuianhellion]

Reflections In A Flame

A small red candle.

It sat upon a small desk before Rose, the warm light gently flickering upon a waxen body.

A void to the left. An abyss to the right. Past the candle-lit desk was emptiness, and behind her was nothing but nothingness itself.

She didn't know where she was. She couldn't know where she was. There was nothing to learn. There was nothing but the candle to see. The one real light in the darkness.

She didn't know how she had arrived here. It was peaceful. A gentle silence, lacking the oppression such a lack of sound would normally hold, was surrounding the candle and woman within its radiance. Her glasses shimmered visibly in the light ring of warmth it emanated.

She stepped forward. It did not seem to be any closer.

She stepped forward once more, a few more times to make sure. The fire seemed to ignore her attempts to approach.

Her brow furrowed, and her legs began to jog to bridge the gap. The candle merely scoffed at her attempts, visibly flickering in what she could only perceive as mild annoyance.

Why do you approach?

The question settled in her mind like a memory playing in real time. No voice spoke it. No air passed any lips, no sound to pierce the silence. But she knew what was conveyed. She felt the power behind it.

Her mouth opened to speak. No voice spoke out. No air passed her lips, her tones never piercing the silence. And she was immediately met with the recollection of an immediate thought once more.

Do not use your words. They hold no power. Words are a tool that serve no purpose here. Words hold mistruths and half-lies. You will speak with your own convictions, or not at all.

Her eyes blinked. She tapped her lips softly in response for a few longer moments before looking to the side.

Curiosity. Fear. A mixture of both in equal measure.

The flame flickered once again, and a small drop of wax dripped upwards. It vanished into the darkness above, leaving the candle as if it had never even been upon it.

Well isn't that interesting? You approach to sate your burning curiosity despite the fear coldly clinging to your chest? No wonder you seek the flame... Step forward. Once.

She obeyed soundly. The candle visibly became closer. She was only a few steps away, but she could tell. Reaching forward would serve only a lack of purpose.

What do you desire from the flame? If that wording is too vague, simply answer what you are curious about.

That gave her pause. It was enough that not one, but two drips of the candle's wax spread away from it. One to the left, another straight back, vanishing into the black void. The candle was shrinking, but it was at a rather steady rate. One that she could not shake an uneasy feeling about.

I don't know. I'm not sure what the flame is. What you are. I know the name Reshiram, but is that truly you?

The candlelight seemed to shift backwards, bobbing back then up straight, back then up. A soundless laugh, the amusement oozing into her former, made present thoughts.

How quaint! You admit to knowing my name. And yet it cannot be inferred why you should. Step forward once more. You are more honest than most to be so forward with that question.

Her foot clicked onto the nothingness before the table. She was just out of reach. Maybe one step would do it. She could have taken a larger step, but her fear held her back just enough to be at a "safe" distance as she watched another drop of wax swirl away past her head. Pulled away by the void once more. Was the flame... losing its candle? It's foundation? She could not wait.

I know this is your domain, but are you safe? Are you alright? You're losing wax, or... whatever the wax may represent.

Concern for the unknown? For a being you fear? Now isn't that something... There is merit to your fear, however, and it is why the foundation of the flame must be kept strong.

The candle dripped once more, the wax hotly slipping down its length until colliding with the table below it.

It cut right through, smoking with the second sense Rose could pull together: the smell of wood burning. It cracked visibly and audibly, finally giving her the third sense of sound, and making her blink and reach forward.

She didn't know how she had grasped the candle, but she felt that she had to in order to save it from the table. She didn't know why the candle seemed to allow her to grasp it. But the candle finally gave her a fourth sense, the final of her repertoire: the feeling of heat. Searing heat. Burning heat. Rose let go in alarm with a soundless yelp, the candle landing right back on its base upon the table as she stepped back once again, putting that light distance between herself and it as she looked down at her now harshly reddened hands. The table was steady... for now. But the candle was looking smaller than ever.

The flame is not something to simply be looked upon with no fear. You had been losing that as you approached despite your unease. You need to know that there is pain if the flame cannot have a solid foundation within you. A solid conviction. Courage is not the absence of fear, but the perseverance despite it. And the knowledge that anything it touches could burn away in a moment's notice. Yourself included.

She looked down at the flame, the pain in her hand numbing gently in the coldness of the void surrounding her. Stasis to stop the pain. A draining of the burn's effects... as she felt the absence of its warmth spreading through her. She slowly panted. And very quietly... she let her teeth grit. A glance at the candle, and she felt her body flare. Light settled upon the table... but it was not from the flame, oblivious to this fact as she was.

How dare you! How dare you! I reached out to help you, afraid you were about to lose your support, and you promptly lecture me for trying?! You think hurting someone to teach them a lesson is the way to convey that? You think pain is a suitable teacher for forming a strong conviction? No! It teaches fear and fear alone! It inspires nothing but following the directions you're told! You can give me any warning you want "but I will not listen to someone forcing whatever they think is true through pain!"

She hadn't even realized her voice had barked outwards, piercing the silence even further than the crack in the table had. The candle shrank with each word, and her hand reached out, grabbing the table to pull it towards her more. Despite her fingers and palm screaming in agony as she had done it, tears perking at her eyes, she reached out to grasp at the candle once more.

It tilted on its own. The candle was not what met her hand. It was the fire itself. Her fingers nearly snuffed it out, but once she realized what had happened, they loosened. The candle fell, lifeless and empty. But the table remained illuminated. Lit from Rose's hand and Rose's direction. And as she opened her hand to look at the flame... she noted the blue hue it had taken. It should've been hotter. The closer to white it was, the more searing the heat would become. And yet... it felt almost meekly cool. Warm, yes. But not painfully so. Soon, as she studied, even cradled the fire with a tense curiosity, she sighed, searching her memories to see if a new one was forming. And it was, the flame's conveyance settling with a quieter tone than before despite its soundlessness.

You speak with such conviction that it broke my hold over you. I should be insulted. I should be furious at you. I may even be. And yet even with how violently your fire burned as a result of the pain I inflicted, I could not feel hatred. I could not feel a desire to harm. And I have a curiosity in my core that feels... new. Overpowering to the fury. Tell me one more thing. If you will allow me.

Rose stared. Her eyes stared hard, piercingly sharp in the blue glow upon her hand and the orange one surrounding her. "... Fine. Ask."

What is an irrevocable truth of the world? One you would see as what defines it. One that cannot, should not, would not ever change under your watch. That you would use your own convictions and perseverance to uphold.

"That humans and Pokemon are not destined to stay separated for their own good. We can be partners. We can be family. We can honestly and truly help each other in a way that should never be taken for granted. I'd be a nobody without my family. And the trust they look at me with when we explore and battle tells me they love me just as much as I love them."

Blue eyes met blue. The soft, rounded pupils of Rose's met the angular, sharp ones of Reshiram. And after a moment of looking her over from the flame, they closed gently before nodding in response.

Travel with your family, then. Show me the strength of your truth. Convince me of it. I will be watching to see how brightly your flame can burn. And I will see if you can keep that flame from burning yourself or those around you. To the one who spoke to me with words I did not see as lies... I will be watching.

Rose twitched. She felt her bedroll beneath her. She felt the egg in her arms. She looked about, feeling one hand gingerly coiled about by a still sleeping Barry as the light from the sun gently peaked into the closed window beside her. Nanami glanced over in her direction, giving a soft murp of concern. But he was met by Rose softly smiling at him and reaching up to pet along his head.

Eventually, though, her eyes settled back on the windowsill. The Light Stone sat there, motionless. It... was that where she was? Brought into the stone through her dreams? Hmm...

Her eyes sagged gently, and she nestled into the pillows once again, sighing out of her nose. She felt... tired. But relatively peaceful. A peer at her hand, and the lack of a burn upon it helped solidify that peace.

... Alright, Reshiram. She'd bite. She'd take your little test. And rub your damn snout into it when she proved herself right.

[heretic-altias]

FFXIVWrite Day 27 - Sole

Sometimes an ending requires closure. Even if you think it's kind of stupid and pointless (and yet go anyway, so how do you really feel Altais?).

Don’t know my characters? Here’s a basic breakdown to help you out!

~

There were some matters Altais had to confront alone. She had fought the battles that led her to this point with them at her side. She trusted them with her life.

But family matters were best resolved alone. Solar did not deserve Altais’s mother and sister inflicted upon them.

Truthfully, there wasn’t a matter that needed resolving to begin with. Altais had put her family in their place when she won the Naadam. But there was a certain closure she wanted at the end of everything. A curiosity she had to sate.

It was something she had to resolve herself. An ending to a saga only she really knew.

And so she flew low and fast over the Steppe astride Mercury’s back, the griffin’s powerful white wings carrying them forward. Some people below would turn to look. His striking white feathers stood out against the darker grays of the yol that usually occupied these skies, and Altais was fairly sure he was faster than any of them.

And by now every Xaela knew the griffin signaled the approach of the Steppe’s khagan. Altais took pride in that. She was the strongest among them and they all knew it.

So it drew a considerable amount of attention when her griffin dropped down into the Dazkar’s current camp, dust flying up in a cloud around him. Altais jumped down from her saddle and left her mount to preen the dust from his feathers.

No one stopped her as she crossed the camp, in fact the entire tribe had gone silent on her arrival. Gossip spreads fast in a tribe, and they all had known for a long time the grievances Altais had with her mother. This had happened after the Naadam too, people watching in silence as Altais argued with her family. 

At some point as both a Warrior of Light and the Steppe’s khagan, her presence had become too large to ignore. Especially after she’d led some of the tribes into Garlemald to face the Final Days with the contingent. That created a strange array of silent spectators, seemingly torn between just going with their day and wanting to know what such an important figure was doing in their camp.

Not that Altais cared. They could listen if they wanted. What difference did it make? She didn’t like them anyway. They’d never helped her.

They were just lucky Bahamut’s energy was still far too spent for him to offer any ideas. Things got dangerous when the fire in Altais’s own heart matched the primal’s rage.

Still, as thrilling as the thought of killing every single person who had ever wronged her was even without an angry primal to encourage it, Altais knew enough by now to know that would never make her feel any better. If anything the extra blood on her hands would just make her burdens that much heavier.

So instead she would settle for one last inevitable shouting match.

The last because this was where she would finally get the answer she wanted.

As she reached her mother, the older Xaela having stepped outside to see the commotion, she drew her gunblade and pointed it. This was the only greeting that would suffice between them.

“What is it this time?” her mother questioned, drawing a bow in response.

“Do you still believe you’re right? After all this time? After what I have done? Do you still think my path is the weak one despite the foes I have bested and the people I have saved?” Altais demanded.

She would not waste any time. This was the question she wanted answered. The one she needed answered to move on with her life. A part of her had still wanted to know if she would ever be enough. How strange it was. How pathetic even. To still even spare a thought for it. But it wasn’t that the answer would bother her now. It was simply an answer her younger self wanted. Something to silence a small nagging her mind still held onto stubbornly.

It was an utterly useless answer, but she’d still wanted it enough to fly out here when she’d realized she’d accomplished the make or break. What more could be asked of someone’s strength than traveling to the edge of the universe? Than confronting world ending despair in a place so distant her home was not even visible among the dead and fading stars?

There was nothing else. She was undeniably one of the most powerful people in the world. So if her mother still denied it? Then there was no hope for the old woman and never would be. A single answer to tell Altais if anyone was enough in this woman’s eyes.

“I’m not blind. Your strength isn’t the issue. It’s your silly loyalty to those friends of yours. They’ve made you soft, look at you risking your life for the weak and the hopeless. Even now you mentioned saving people. Do you expect me to care that you've saved anyone other than yourself?”

And that would be the answer.

“I didn’t. But I needed your final answer. Nothing is ever enough for you, and that is what I needed to know. What about your favorite child then? The one you’re convinced did the right things?” Altais demanded.

“Oh she’s still pathetic in her own way too. Not that it’s your problem”

“It’s not my problem. I literally do not care what you find wrong with her. Just the fact that you find something.”

Altais’s gaze shifted to the gunblade she had pointed.

“I don’t believe I’ve shown you this weapon. I introduced the last one as Ukhel. But this one is Tasralgi. That should tell you all you need to know on how I feel about who I have become”

She rarely introduced the weapons while talking in the Xaela tongue, and it was a strange thing to do since their names were words from that very language. Death and Unbroken respectively if translated to Eorzean. It meant her mother knew exactly what she meant though.

And that meant they were done.

Without waiting for another word, she held out arm in a signal. Mercury raced forward from where he waited, forcing a few bystanders to scatter. Altais’s outstretched hand grabbed the front of his saddle and the griffin launched himself skywards, Altais pulling herself on in one quick motion as they ascended.

It really was an utterly useless answer. She felt no different about herself. But there did seem to be a weight taken off distant memories somewhere far behind her. 

After all, a child cannot fail that which is impossible.

Still, this was not a trip she would be telling anyone she made. Sure the Xaela would gossip, but that gossip probably would never reach Solar.

And Altais was not admitting to her friends she’d flown all the way out to the Steppe just to ask a stupid question.

[tellescope]

@talesimagination said: 2 for Dialga (I think he has a bag, if not, 1 is fine) *from Kuro*

>>From this meme

//Dialga actually does not have a bag, unless you count the occasional bag of poffins xD So pockets it is! He also did not start with pockets. That was something he added to his human guise's clothing after many visits to the mortal realm indicated it might be a useful thing to have. Enough people had given him things that it became a problem as he couldn't just pop back to his tower to drop them off without freaking out the people who didn't know who he really was. Luckily there was an easy solution. As for what's usually in said pockets, well you said 'from Kuro' so I'll give you something in character, as if Kuro had asked :)

     A pause as Dialga contemplates what could have prompted such an odd question. An answer does not come quickly enough to prevent awkwardness, so instead the Guardian of Time simply reaches into said pockets (one on each pant leg, emulating human clothing) and stiffly removes the contents to display in his hands; in one hand a small spiral notepad with an image of Palkia on the cover, and a black pen that clicks instead of a cap. In the other hand a business card for the Veilstone Department Store, and a small, clear gemstone he'd picked up from a shrine offering to him earlier today. As for the purpose of everything but the gem, Kuro is likely the only person he would ever admit this to...

     ❝My memory is not what it used to be.❞ When you are as old as time itself it becomes exeedingly easy to forget the insignificant happeninings of the mortal realm, gone in the blink of an eye as they often are, even if you did not intend to. The business card and gem are returned to their pocket, but the notepad in the other hand falls open. He tries to shut it but it only closes after stiff fingers fumble with it long enough for Kuro to glimpse awful handwriting in the form of a checklist. Several items are crossed out, the only ones left alone reading 'tak to Palkia abowt mownten' and 'repa Giratina'.      When he finally manages to get it closed it and the pen are swiftly returned to their respective pocket, no emotion on his face as if his clumsiness had not occurred. Don't you dare bring it up. ❝Does that sate your curiosity?❞

[tiny-cloud-of-flowers]

A question for Zero! Is there anything particular that drew you to Lorenza? :3

(Zero takes a few moments to contemplate her answer.)

"When the two of us first crossed paths, all that time ago.. it was at a rare instance when both of us were quite well-sated. Such sensation was uncommon enough to be able to reach in itself, given the constant lack of aether our world and its inhabitants are faced with. So, the idea of encountering a fellow voidsent in a similar state was enough of a surprise by itself. Let alone one of such power as her - why would a princess stray from the courts?

This did, I think, spark some small manner of curiosity in me.. but she was by far the one who displayed it more outwardly. I wouldn't exactly call her enthused, by any means, but- it was clear she wished to find out more about me. Perhaps she could sense the more.. unusual part of my nature, even back then. Or perhaps something about me simply caught her eye.

So, you could say that it was Lorenza - or, Colombina, as she was known to me then - who was more drawn to me than I was her. But that was only true of the beginning. Once we had conversed, it grew clear to me that.. she was someone of the kind I would not meet again, should we part ways. And so, the selfsame desire to remain with her set in - first to sate that curiosity, and then for more than that..

That's.. all I wish to share. I'm grateful to have been asked something; this answer is my compensation for your question."

[angelic-bee-enthusiast]

Hope you'll enjoy it... It's just a short fic, but I wanted to write something a little bit more light-hearted for a change, hope it worked adhajks. It's canon compliant up until Jack's birth, then it diverges., though that's not really important. Again, I'm fairly new to this and still learning, so it may be a little bit ooc, I still need to figure out how to write each of them! ca. 1,1k, post-canon, domestic idiots, background toddler!Jack

Yes, he once led armies and was one of Heaven's best strategists. Yes, he is an Angel of the Lord, a celestial being unfathomable to the human mind. Yes, he is currently partaking in a heated discussion with Dean about which is the best bed to get for his toddler in the middle of an IKEA.

"Cas, man, I'm sure he'll be happy with whatever choice you make. He's three, and I don't think he has that big of an opinion on interior design. However, I personally think the one looking like a car is the best one," Dean argues, not even trying to hide his distaste for Cas' choice - a simple wooden frame.

"Not everyone is as fond of cars as you are, Dean. I know you think it's 'lame', but we could paint the bed on our own, that way Jack would have something a little bit more personal," Cas answers, hoping to finally reason with the other man.

"Didn't know you were much of an artist," Dean simply replies.

"Well, actually, I hoped you would do most of the painting, maybe add some little bees or flowers?" I saw the drawing you did of me for the bestiary - you're really good at it."

Obviously, Cas knows the hunter is shy when it comes to his artistic talents. It's something a lot of people don't even know about him.

As expected, Dean blushes immediately. Scratching his neck, he mumbles something that suspiciously sound like 'didn't know you saw that'.

Sighing, Cas continues nevertheless. "So, can we please just take that one and leave? Sam and Eileen have been alone with Jack for hours now, they'll need a break sometime soon."

"Dude, they can watch the kid for half a day - I've taken care of Sammy's sorry ass since I was four, they'll handle a Thursday afternoon. Besides, when we're already here, don't you wanna get something for your own room, too? Just something a little more homey than the standard bunker stuff," Dean responds far more cheerfully than he's been just minutes before, though there's also another, underlying question on his mind.

Ever since Jack was born, Cas started to spend more time and the bunker, but of course, there have also been times he had to leave, together with Jack, to protect him. Thankfully, everything calmed down the last couple of months after their last big fight ended, and even though Cas has been living with them ever since, Dean feels like the Angel doesn't see the bunker as his own home, too. The older Winchester wants to change that, first, to make his best friend feel welcome, secondly, to keep Cas from leaving.

It's selfish, Dean tells himself, wanting to keep his friend close at all times. Additionally, his non-existent self-worth supplies that Cas, a celestial warrior as old as creation, could certainly do a lot better than a broken 40-something-year old. Trapped in his self-deprecating thoughts, Dean, at first, doesn't even realize Cas asked him a question.

"Oh...I didn't know this was actually my room?", Cas retorts shyly, blue eyes now avoiding his gaze.

Gobsmacked, Dean stares at him, trying to figure out if that was a joke. It had to be a joke, right? Doesn't Cas know how important he is to them? Crap, they really need to get that into his thick skull ('Maybe if you used your words for once, he'd know it', another, unhelpful voice inside his head condescendingly points out).

"Buddy, you gotta be kidding me. Yes, obviously it's your room, dumbass. You know we like having you around just because you're you, right? Not only in live-or-die situations or when we need your help," Dean chooses his next words carefully, admitting he cares doesn't come easy to him after all. "I want you to stay, you gotta know that."

It's as close as he ever came saying that three words that have been laying on the tip of his tongue for years now. Suddenly, it's Cas time to turn slightly red, despite angelic control over his body.

"I'm sorry, I didn't really... not like that, anyway. Thank you for telling me," the Angel softly murmurs.

After that, it takes Dean a second to notice that he's been pulled into a tight hug, then another second to return the gesture.

In the corner of his eyes, the hunter sees that an older lady is watching them, smiling friendly. They embrace each other a little bit longer than it may be strictly platonically acceptable, but who cares? Dean doesn't. After they've parted, the woman starts approaching them.

"Please forgive me for interrupting, but I just wanted to say, you two really make a lovely couple! It's not often you can feel the love radiating off of strangers," she compliments the two men.

While Cas' initial reaction is mostly confusion, Dean feels like he's just been slapped. No even knowing what he's going to say, he opens his mouth and closes it again, only for a rushed 'Thank you?' to come out.

Nodding, and giving each of them one last smile, she returns to her own shopping cart.

Cas must have caught up to the situation now, because he doesn't let Dean off to easy.

"You could have corrected her," the Angel sates, a hint of curiosity behind it.

"Oh...yes, I guess I could've. I mean correct her, because - because we're not actually together. But I didn't."

The hunter is internally begging himself to stop at this point, never before having felt a desire that strong to just shut up. He doesn't even know why he said it, but maybe talking about their home and their... Cas' kid, the domesticity of it, made Dean's meticulously crafted walls crumble.

Squinting, and most likely seeing right through Dean's babbling, Cas decides to casually drop another bomb at him.

"You know, I don't mind you... not correcting people," he tentatively approaches the subject.

"You, uhm, you don't?" Dean asks, eyes huge enough to really earn him the nickname squirrel.

Cas doesn't know where he suddenly, after more than a decade, gets the courage from, but he reaches for Dean's hand, who lets him.

They're staring in each other's eyes, as if they could decipher what the other thinks just by looking hard enough. Finally, his expression soft and full of no longer hidden adoration and love, Cas whispers, "No, I really don't."

Something melts inside Dean, seeing his Angel like that, hearing the words he never thought he'd hear.

"Then let's get this stupid bed and head home, I think our plans for today just have changed," Dean grins like he hasn't in a really, really long time.

[wasted-headspace-98]

Cataegis: Part II

Summary: An apprentice to the famed Mace Windu, your master has made sure you are strong with the Force. But, sometimes the Force has other plans. And you happen to be caught in the middle of them. Rating: 18+ Warnings: Nonexplicit sexual content, slow-burn, noncon elements (non explicit), underage elements (non explicit), inappropriate use of the force, etc Pairing: Sith!Obi-Wan x Reader Masterlist

Cataegis (n.) Latin word meaning tempestuous storm

Part I

“Master?” you asked tentatively, approaching him with your hands clasped behind your back.

Mace turned his head slightly when he heard your footsteps approaching. “I can feel your worry from across the temple, Padawan.” he said. “What’s troubling you?”

You sighed, shaking your head and dropping to your knees in front of him, mirroring his meditative position. You hadn’t had any other Force interactions with the Sith Lord since that day a week ago. But you could feel a presence pushing at the back of your consciousness, and you knew it was him. And you didn’t understand why the connection was so strong or why it had been made in the first place.

“What…what exactly happened? I’ve heard that Cataegis was once a Jedi. But what turned him to the Dark Side?”

Master Windu let out a breath. “I thought you would come looking for answers,” he said. He relaxed his position slightly, no longer as tense as he was a few moments ago. “I can’t give you everything you’re looking for, but I can give you a start.”

You patiently waited for him to continue. You knew that talking about a fallen comrade wasn’t an easy thing, and even less so when one had fallen so far from the light. So, you didn’t press him, simply allowing your master to take his time.

Something tapped on your mental walls and you blinked in surprise. Windu had closed his eyes and began breathing evenly. That tapping was coming from him. Relaxing into your seat, you closed your eyes and allowed him inside.

Master Kenobi was one of the most loyal Jedi I had ever met. Qui Gon trained his padawan well.

Images of the Jedi Master flashed in your mind. Master Windu began sharing some of his memories with you, allowing you to feel what knowing the man had been like. Pride and a strong bond of friendship flooded your system as you witnessed various points in the Jedi’s life. The emotions were Windu’s; he was simply allowing you to feel them as he had.

He was a strong Knight, one with a powerful connection to the Force. He grieved the loss of his Master, but did what he could to train Anakin.

Darth Vader, you responded.

Yes. They worked well together despite Anakin’s unusual approach to many situations.

Now, now, little one. Opening your mind to another Force User? Tsk, tsk, tsk. And here I thought what we had was special.

A loud gasp fell from your lips and your eyes slammed open as you yanked all of your mental shielding back up. Mace was forcibly ejected from your mind with a grunt, and he quite literally fell backwards a bit when he came to.

“Y/N, what-“

If you wanted to know more about me, love, all you had to do was ask.

“Get out of my head,” you hissed aloud, scrunching your eyes shut once again.

He hummed quietly. As much as you and I would both enjoy that, I don’t think I can. So, it seems you’re stuck with me.

When you opened your eyes again, you were still sitting across from Mace, but another figure had entered the room as well. He stood back towards the wall, his black robes blending into the shadows that danced in the dying sunlight.

“Master-“ you choked, eyes widening the longer you stared at the man.

“There’s no use, love. He can’t see me. That privilege belongs only to you.”

The deep voice and smooth Coruscanti accent rolled off his tongue with ease, sending a shiver down your spine. Every instinct you had was telling you to run, to get out of the dangerous situation you found yourself in.

But something else came over you, something you hadn’t felt before. A deep sense of calm flooded your system, sinking down into your very core. You felt yourself relax, and your shoulders dropped from the tense and defensive position you had taken.

“There’s such conflict in you,” Cataegis said with a frown, coming closer to you. You couldn’t see much of his face from beneath the cowl, save for the glowing golden eyes of the Sith Lord. “Has Windu not even taught you to control your emotions?” he asked in surprise.

“He has, you said, taking a shaky breath. “But it’s a bit difficult in a situation like this…”

Cataegis cocked his head as he examined you. He raised his hand, fingers outstretched to brush across your cheek. “Such power runs through you, little one. It’s no wonder you have a hard time keeping it in check.”

You didn’t even have to force yourself to stay still beneath his touch. The soothing calmness that washed over you kept you from doing so.

“Why are you here?” you asked eventually, now more curious than anything.

“I could ask you the same thing, love. Why am I here? It seems you have a power held over me that even I don’t understand.”

You frowned in confusion. “I’m not doing this,” you insisted. “I’m just as confused as you are.”

Cataegis hummed quietly and looked at your Master for a moment. Mace looked confused for a moment before quickly realizing what was happening. He stood back with his arms crossed, allowing you to deal with your experience.

“A Sith and a Jedi,” he mumbled to himself. “A dark Lord and a warrior of the Light.”

You frowned. “We have nothing in common, Sith. What do you want from me?”

He tsked you again, shaking his head. “I think we have more in common than you think, little one. The Force wouldn’t connect us like this without a purpose.”

You rolled your eyes and scoffed. “I doubt the Force is doing this.”

Cataegis raised an eyebrow at you from under the cowl. “Then Windu hasn’t taught you well enough,” he said. “The Force works in mysterious ways. Sometimes it takes more than a Jedi to see that.”

A huff escaped your lips. You were getting nowhere with this man. And honestly, you weren’t sure if you wanted to. The whole thing confused you to no end and you didn’t want him in your head. You raised your mental shielding even further, trying to quite literally shove his presence out of your mind. But as if reading your thoughts, Cataegis let out a quiet chuckle. “There’s no need to try and hide your thoughts, my dear. I won’t pry unless I need to.” You gave him a skeptical look and he rolled his eyes with a sigh. “Even as a Sith, I realize that there are things sacred to each individual. I won’t deprive you of that right simply to sate my curiosity.”

That gave you pause for a moment, and you blinked in surprise.

He snorted at you. “Don’t look so surprised. I might be a Dark Warrior, but I still have my morals.” He seemed rather put off by the fact that you would think otherwise. Why, you didn’t know. But he was right, it had surprised you. You were expecting him to simply reach in and take what he wanted instead of standing there speaking to you. And you had to admit, this turn of events wasn’t unpleasant, although unexpected.

“What do you want from me?” you asked eventually.

He hummed as he approached you, clasping his hands behind his back and walking in a circle around you. It was as if he was appraising you, taking in every detail that he could. “I would imagine it’s much the same as you want from me, love.”

The closer he walked, the more you felt your senses softening. There was something about his presence that soothed you to your very core. And that alone put you on edge. It was a rather interesting feeling to say the least. His presence was powerful, and you knew he was capable of unspeakable things. But strangely, you felt no sense of danger from him. Instead, there was nothing but peace. It was a similar feeling to that which you had while meditating. There was an odd calmness that washed over you whenever he was near you. And the affect didn’t go unnoticed. You opened the eyes you hadn’t realized you closed, coming eye to eye with a sea of golden depths.

“You feel it too,” you said quietly.

Cataegis felt no need to question you. He knew exactly what you were talking about. “Yes.” he said simply. There was a hint of curiosity in his tone, and you had to admit that you had the same feeling gnawing at you. As much as your training had gone against everything you were doing, you stood in front of him, not moving a muscle. You could feel his breath fan against your face as he reached up and brushed his knuckles across your cheek.

“I think our time is up, little one.” he said quietly. You stared at him unblinkingly as he brushed a piece of hair behind your ear. It had fallen out of the braid around your head, catching his attention. “But I think we’ll be seeing each other more often than not.”

Your eyes opened with a gasp as a wave of force energy exploded from your body. Your ears picked up on the sound of breaking clay and glass, and short circuiting wiring within the walls. Even your Master was sent flying through the air, his back colliding with the wall hard enough to crack it. You yourself were covered in a sheen of sweat and you realized yo0u were shaking.

“Y/N?”

Your eyes focused on Windu, who was pulling himself up and making his way towards you. You managed to pull yourself out of the trance you were in and you gasped, immediately bolting to your feet. You helped him up, quickly checking him over for any major injuries.

“Are you alright, Master?” you asked.

He coughed a couple times before letting out a quiet chuckle. “I think I can take a few hits.” he said. “The question is, are you alright? I haven’t seen you in a meditation like that before.”

You shook your head. “It wasn’t a meditation,” you said.

Mace raised an eyebrow at you. “Then what was it?”

A frustrated sigh escaped you as you helped him find a seat. “I think it was a vision,” you said.

He hummed quietly. “I can feel your fear, apprentice. There’s no use in hiding it.”

And it was true. You were scared. You didn’t know what these visions meant, or how they were happening. Cataegis seemed to think it was a Force connection. You had to admit, that made sense. But that didn’t mean you understood it. There was a chance it was all his doing and he was simply manipulating you into believing it. But then you thought about what his presence had felt like. Sith or Jedi, you’d never felt anything like it before. And you couldn’t bring yourself to believe that he was projecting it. There had to be something else, something stronger binding the two of you together.

“I saw him again,” you said quietly, grabbing Windu’s arm to examine one of the wounds there. A piece of a vase had embedded itself in his flesh and you made yourself busy with cleaning it up.

“Saw who?”

“Cataegis,”

A hum sounded from deep in his chest. You knew that sound. It wasn’t often that your master was perplexed. But when he was, it was a troubling puzzle indeed. And you couldn’t stand the thought of being part of that mystery.

You’d known Master Windu your entire life. You’d grown up admiring him as a youngling. And when he had decided to take you as his apprentice, you were over the moons. He was more than simply your master. He had become more of a father figure to you than anything. You relied on him and trusted him more than anyone in your life before. Yoda had said that it was a special bond between Master and Padawan, but you knew it went deeper than that. The two of you had been through hell and back. You’d been his commander in the middle of the Clone Wars, his Padawan in training, his closest friend in times of peace. But one thing you’d never been was a mystery.

Becoming one now was going to test the limits of your patience. You didn’t even understand what was happening, or why. You didn’t want to be a puzzle for Mace to pick apart.

“There’s no use asking,” you said after a moment. “I don’t know what he wants or why I’m even seeing him.”

Mace shook his head. “That’s not what I was going to ask,” he said softly. “I was going to ask if you’re alright.”

You blinked in surprised, taken aback by his words. “Oh,” you said. “I..I don’t know.” you said honestly. You weren’t sure how to process what was happening, and you were even less sure that you could trust what your eyes were telling you.

He nodded. “That’s understandable, Y/N.” His tone was gentle as he spoke, which was something he did only when he knew how much of a toll things were taking on you. He believed that trials were what built character and made one stronger. But even he knew there were things that were too much, even among the Jedi. “We’ll figure this out together.”

Taglist: @rogueheretic555 @lordofthenerds97 @say-something-nice-missy @doctor-warthrop

[soulmate-game]

Bio Dad Bruce Wayne Month 2020

Day 1: Meeting for the first time

Not my best work, but decent. I hope you enjoy!

—*—*—*—*—*

Mari was intelligent. That much could not be disputed— and despite her dislike for the sciences in general, she was fully capable of comprehending them when she wanted to. She just usually didn’t care enough to try. But genetics? That was kinda cool. So, when she was ten years old and they began their short unit on it, she was obsessed. And by obsessed, she dove in head first. Like, the fact that her eye color didn’t match either of her parents or grandparents. How could she have blue eyes when none of them did? She delved in deeper and deeper until she uncovered a truth her parents hadn’t wanted her to figure out quite so soon.

She was adopted.

Mari never told her parents about her discovery, the epiphany only managing to sate her curiosity. Who needed blood relation when her parents loved her like real ones anyway? But as the years passed and certain life changes came up, she couldn’t help but feel intrigued by the mystery of where her DNA came from. The heroism thing had to have some root in genetics, right? Okay, so maybe she was just looking for someone to be mad at besides Master Fu. But still, could she be blamed?

So, when Marinette was thirteen years old, she traced her DNA back to her biological parents. And for a while, that was it. She had once again sated her curiosity. She didn’t need anything else. Her mother was dead, and she doubted her biological father knew a thing about her. So Marinette forgot about her discovery, or at least let it sink into the recesses of her brain. And there it stayed, until she was eighteen.

—* — * — * — * — *

It had to be one of the most accidentally dramatic days possible. Top floor of Wayne Enterprises, in one of Bruce’s massive conference rooms with every member of his large family in attendance. Even Kori and Mar’i were there, and Jason’s boyfriend Roy. Everyone was getting fairly restless, considering that Bruce had only informed a few of them (Read: just Dick, who was vibrating in his seat and not soothing anyone’s nerves) about what they were even all called in for. In their civilian identities, no less. It was very odd. Damian, not least of all, was sitting beside Bruce with his jaw clenched but eyes scanning the room in curiosity. He had come a long way from the surly ten year old, and he hadn’t even killed anyone in four years. He had well and truly become a Bat, and with that progress came the lessening of his old temper and brattiness.

Make note: lessening. Not erasure.

It wasn’t long, maybe ten or fifteen minutes of Bruce checking his phone and grinning secretively without answering anyone’s questions, before a businesslike tap-tap-tap sounded on the door to the conference room. Immediately, everything went silent. Kori, Tim, and Jason stopped trying to get Dick to say anything intelligible and went instead to just keeping the man in his seat at all. Bruce let out a rare, soft chuckle before raising his coffee mug to his lips. He called out:

“Come on in, miss MDC. We’re ready for our meeting,” before taking a long sip.

And as soon as the door opened all the way, admitting a short woman of asian descent with navy black hair brushing the bottom of her shoulder blades and piercing (familiar. Too familiar) deep blue eyes, he promptly choked. Trying his damndest not to get coffee everywhere, Bruce devolved into a coughing fit even as his eyes continued to flitter up to the figure just admitted into the room. The woman pretended not to notice his suffering, closing the door behind her and walking forward towards the side of the rectangular-set-up ring of tables that was closest to her and also unoccupied. She plopped a heavy bag down onto the table, reaching in and pulling out a large red and white polka-dotted journal from within, along with a black pen. But despite her businesslike movements and her silence, nobody missed the way that her far too familiar stunningly blue eyes twinkled in suppressed mirth. She didn’t seem surprised at all.

That was the last time Bruce was ever gonna let Tim do someone’s background check on his own. He should have at least looked at the file Tim had made, but of course not. Tim was capable, he trusted the boy with half of their entire family’s company. One background check on one highly reputable designer? Of course he could trust Tim.

Except apparently not. This is what Bruce got for keeping secrets.

“Marinette Dupain-Cheng,” Bruce spoke once he got a handle of himself, pushing back his chair almost hurriedly and standing. Damian followed suit, laser focused on his father along with everyone else who knew just how out of character the older man was being just then. It was hard to fluster Bruce at all those days, let alone make him choke and hurry to stand. “I— Welcome to WE. I’m—“ Bruce was cut off by a soft chuckle.

“Bruce Wayne, my biological father and employer for the next few weeks. I know,” Marinette interrupted, sending a sly smile his way. “I had a feeling somebody didn’t actually tell you my name. I was planning on coming to Gotham later this year after I graduated Lycee and demanding to get to know you, but it looks like you did the hard work for me without even knowing. But,” her smile widened in good humor as she walked up closer to Bruce, holding her hand out for a shake. “I do have to say, now that I’ve seen you in person I feel a bit cheated. With how tall you are, you’d think I would have inherited at least a couple more inches.”

“Excuse me? Who do you think you are, claiming to be a Wayne?” Damian asked, tone sharp and his emerald eyes glaring straight towards her. Bruce just took Marinette’s hand, shaking it gently from surprise, but his foot gently kicked his son in the ankle.

“Damian,” Bruce said simply, the single name laced with warning as it came out of his mouth. He turned his attention back to the girl in front of him. “It is nice to finally meet you in person, Marinette. I admit, I did not know of our relation until a few years ago, and I wasn’t in the right mindset back then to welcome another child. Besides, I had it on good authority that your adoptive parents are more than wonderful to you.”

Marinette shrugged. “I don’t mind. I didn’t look into who my biological father was until I was thirteen, anyway. I don’t think things would have ended well if you had just shown up in Paris one day asking to be involved in my life. Enough of that though,” Marinette turned to the sixteen year old by Bruce’s side now stiffened and wide-mouthed. His entire expression, subdued as it was, still managed to clearly telegraph betrayal. And then those eyes locked on Marinettes, and the emerald simmered into something much more vile and acidic. Marinette was not perturbed, merely giving the younger boy a smile and holding out her hand for a shake.

“You must be my half-brother, Damian. I expected someone carved out of stone, with how the tabloids paint you as unfeeling and cold,” she joked. Damian glared harder. She raised an eyebrow. “You seem pretty heated and angry, like a hissing cat, to me. And by the way, I never claimed to be a Wayne. My last name is Dupain-Cheng, and I don’t plan on changing it anytime soon. Having the same blood relation as you does not mean I plan to throw away the name given to me by the ones who actually raised me. But, it does mean that I will get to know you one way or another. I’m not easy to get rid of, and I’ve always wanted a sibling or two.”

That was when the room couldn’t hold it any more; everyone bar the three in the center of the room burst out laughing. It wasn’t too raucous, confusion dampening the hysteria that usually would have taken over, but there was a good round of chuckles and laughter. When it settled down, Damian’s shoulders had slightly relaxed but he still hadn’t taken Marinette’s hand. Instead, he turned to his father again.

“Explain.” He demanded. Bruce sighed, his gaze connecting with Marinette’s own identical one. He searched her for any hesitation, but only got a flash of a bright smile in return. Bruce straightened his shoulders, clasping his hands behind his back and turning to face Damian and the rest of the room.

“I found out about Marinette shortly after Damian was… introduced to the family,” Bruce admitted, resisting the urge to glance at Marinette after the hedged mention of how he met Damian. “I decided to scour every resource I had to make sure I couldn’t be surprised by another biological child. And, lo and behold, I found out that I was right to do so. Her biological mother passed away in childbirth however, so she was adopted by a couple in Paris. I did not see any need to contact her at the time. A friend of mine did happen to be in Paris back then though, and hung around to make sure Marinette was being treated well before leaving again.”

“You sent a friend of yours to spy on me?” Marinette asked, but she just sounded thoroughly amused. “Geez. Now I know where I get it from. When I was thirteen, I had a bit of a bad habit of spying on my friends when I was worried instead of confronting them head on. It took a while to grow out of, and even now I can easily slip back into the habit if I’m not careful. But, as great as this reunion is, it isn’t what I’m being paid to be here for,” Her grin turned downright wicked as she snapped open her sketchbook and clicked her pen.

“I am MDC, the owner and CEO of the up and rising fashion label Spotted Designs, where every look will turn heads and ensure confidence. Monsieur Wayne,” her grin turned into a sly smirk when she said his name, which visibly made Bruce twitch. “Has hired me today to design all of you a new outfit for his gala in four months time, as well as a casual outfit of your own choosing should you want one. Before I get started, I would like to ask you to please sign your NDAs, which my assistant and best friend will bring in for you in a few minutes, before we conclude this meeting. I go by an alias for a reason, I value my privacy, and I would prefer it if word did not get out about my being MDC just yet. Being CEO of a business I started from scratch when I’m only eighteen right now will garner attention that I am not patient enough to deal with right now.”

The silence was near palpable until Jason huffed in amusement and remarked: “Yup. I can see the resemblance.”

“Resemblance?” Duke asked, leaning forward with an incredulous look on his face. “It’s like seeing a tiny, genderswapped, innocent copy of Damian. Is anyone else terrified right now?”

“Tt,” Damian tutted, letting a heavy breath out through his nose before shoving his hand forward. He didn’t look pleased, but neither did he look venomous or betrayed anymore. “Miss Dupain-Cheng. I am Damian Wayne, and I look forward to working with you.” He greeted as if the past few minutes hadn’t happened at all. Marinette beamed, letting out a short belt of delighted laughter before clasping his hand firmly with hers.

“My competence always wins people over,” she teased.

“Only if they don’t see you trip over empty air first,” a new voice joined in, lightly joining the teasing. It belonged to a tall, blond haired green eyed man that looked about the same age as Marinette herself. He came carrying a large two-foot stack of papers as easily as if he was only carrying one sheet. Closing the door behind him with his foot, he went around the large square of tables distributing NDAs to everyone who hadn’t already signed one. “Mari’s the clumsiest person I’ve ever seen, but I’ve also seen her hand sew a double sided ball gown with a layer of knife-resistant fabric in less than thirty hours and still threaten anyone to come near with a needle to the eye, so I’ve learned to just not take anything about her at face value anymore.”

“Oh shut up,” Marinette snapped back cheerfully, rolling her eyes. “This is my best friend, assistant, and business partner Adrien Agreste.”

“I deal with all the paperwork and spotlight that she doesn’t want to handle,” he agreed, nearly blinding everyone with his beaming smile. “Now. Please sign these NDAs, and you can experience Marinette’s skill firsthand.”

After papers were signed and Adrien left, Bruce tried to start another conversation with Marinette.

“So, when did you find out—“

“I’m going to start with taking all of your measurements, if you don’t mind. You first, Monsieur Wayne.”

Bruce blinked, not used to being interrupted. “Ah. We can do this tomorrow, I wasn’t expecting—“

“That’s not my fault, Monsieur Wayne. I came here knowing exactly who I was going to deal with, and you want me to make a quite frankly horrifying amount of clothing in a very short amount of time. Any designer lesser than me would be completely incapable of meeting your deadline. I plan on sticking to my schedule, which means that we are going to get everyone’s measurements and a baseline of the kind of designs you all want done today before the end of our scheduled appointment.”

“Marinette, I would really like to talk about—“

“Arms out. And take your suit jacket off, I can’t get an accurate measurement with it,” she once again interrupted, businesslike and efficient as she took her measuring tape and lined it up against various parts of his body, jotting down the results. She didn’t entertain any of his attempts at conversation in the meantime, instead using the dead time to grill Damian on what he wanted for his suit design.

And, like a partnership that never should have existed, Damian merely smirked and played along with her game. He answered her questions thoroughly but precisely, never allowing their father a chance to make actual conversation. Next thing the poor eldest Wayne knew, Marinette had already taken everyone’s measurements and almost an hour had passed. No less than ten pages of her notebook were already filled with neat lines of notes and numbers.

“You really take this whole thing seriously, don’t you?” Tim asked, in the middle of describing his ideal suit to Marinette. She hummed, grinning up at him mysteriously. As if she was in on a joke he hadn’t heard.

“Designing is my life, Monsieur Drake. This company is something I’ve been building from the ground up since I was thirteen, I’ve made my own clothes since I was ten. Of course I take it seriously. Now. I believe that is everything I need,” she stood up, asking a few last second questions as she gathered up her things. Seeing his chance, Brucie walked her to the door.

“Really, Marinette, I would like to talk to you more. Would you like to come to the Manor tonight, for dinner maybe?”

Marinette smirked, opening the door before Bruce could and turning her head to say over her shoulder: “Not tonight, but maybe tomorrow. Do me a favor though, and try not to get too injured on patrol. I need you all in good enough shape to stand while I do your initial fittings later this week. Gotham might need it’s vigilantes, but you will all regret it if you break a bone before I can fit my prototypes to you.”

Nobody was able to say a word before she closed the door behind her and continued briskly to the elevator. Bruce stood, dumbfounded. Tim, Jason, and Dick, after a moment, started cackling.

“Oh yeah. That’s Damian’s sister.”

“Tt. At least this proves it.”

Bruce, suddenly very exhausted, turned to his son while rubbing his forehead. “Proves what, Damian?”

His trademark razor sharp smirk overtook his face as Damian replied: “Your blood children really are much more competent and effective than the strays you took in.”

“Hey!”

—*—*—*—*—*

“You didn’t have a full conversation?” Adrien guessed, looking exactly like the cat who caught the canary. Marinette had her head in her hands, her entire face red.

“I didn't know how to have an actual conversation with them, Adrien! You should have seen it, Monsieur Wayne—“

“You can just say your father, you know.”

“—Wanted to talk about feelings. Emotions! Gooey, family stuff and probably sentimental things. In front of so many people, too. I panicked!”

“You panicked and went full Business Empress mode,” Adrien agreed, patting her back in both comfort and condescension. “It’s okay. You at least agreed to dinner tomorrow night.”

“Fuuuuuuuuuck, I diiiiiid. Quick, let’s come up with a way to fake my kidnapping.”

“No.”

“Damn.”

[pitviperofdoom]

TMA Fantasy Week, Day 2

Prompt: Fae

Summary: A faerie imprisoned by hunters receives a strange visitor. (Pre JonGerry)

Warnings: Imprisonment, forced obedience.

Part of a larger story I’m working on. I’ll be posting it on AO3 when I’m finished.

***

He smelled the she-wolf before he saw her.

When the door to his little chamber opened, he kept his eyes shut, as always. Why bother opening them? The hounds had become tiresome to look at of his own accord. If they needed him, then they could bark his Name and be done with it.

And so he smelled her first—fresh blood and grave dirt clinging to her fur—and heard her claws click on the cold stone floor, until the sound softened as heavy paws became lighter feet.

It was a shoe that nudged him, none too gently, before she spoke in a voice laced with a low growl. “Get up, Keay.”

He rose because he could not do otherwise, even with only a fragment of his Name in her teeth. Reluctantly he opened his eyes to find the she-wolf standing before him, windblown and bloodstained from a recent and successful chase.

That was odd. The hounds rarely hunted without consulting him first, wringing answers from his unwilling lips until they were satisfied that they knew their prey. But here she was, eyes bright and hunger sated, without his help.

“What do you want?” he asked.

“Shut up,” she snapped, and his jaw clicked obediently shut. Satisfied, Julia looked over her shoulder and called out. “Bring ‘em in, Trev.”

The other hound entered, though he stayed back by the door. And then, a moment later, a third figure crept cautiously through the doorway, skirting Trevor before coming to a halt at a respectful distance from Julia. In an instant, their eyes were on him.

They were small, though anyone would look small while standing near the hounds. They were nearly plain as well, but for a few flashes of beauty. Dark brown eyes, deep and sharp with curiosity. Dark hair that brushed their shoulders, shot through with silver. Slender hands on delicate wrists, that would have been graceful if they weren’t trembling so. It only took a glance to know why—their skin was darker than his, but he could still see the familiar bruises that marked their wrists. The wolves had been rough with them—another prisoner to share his cage?

No—they would never bother keeping a human. What good was a human to them, when they had him instead?

Only… someone must have aided in their hunt.

“Here you are, then,” said Julia, with a dismissive flick of her hand. “You want a story? He’s got plenty.” The human’s eyes narrowed at this—not angry, merely thoughtful. “Don’t look at me like that. We’ve heard what you do with stories.”

(His ears pricked at that—a human with sharp and curious eyes, aiding hunters and asking for stories in return. That could mean nothing, or it could mean everything.)

“Count yourself lucky we didn’t just rip your throat out too,” Julia growled. “Save everyone else the trouble.”

The human carefully shifted their shaking hands behind their back. “That won’t be necessary,” was their polite reply.

“Good.” Julia nodded shortly. “That’s our end of the deal, then.” She shouldered roughly past them, knocking them neatly out of her way as she rejoined Trevor. From some hidden pocket within her coat, she drew out a familiar slip of old, weathered sheepskin between her fingers and showed it off with a careless wave. “Give us a shout if he gets mouthy, and we’ll set him right.”

“You’re not staying?” the human asked.

“Trevor hates being around him too long,” Julia replied.

“Gives me the creeps.” Trevor’s lip curled past the tips of his teeth. “Looks human but ain’t. If it wasn’t so useful, we’d have killed it ages ago.”

“Door’s unlocked, so come out when you’re done,” said Julia. “Don’t worry about him escaping—he knows better.”

As the wolves left the dark chamber and closed the door behind them, not once did he take his eyes from the scrap in Julia’s hand.

The moment they were gone, he sat down again, and with a rustle of fabric his visitor joined him at a distance. Their eyes never left his face, even as he refused to meet them.

“You want a story,” he said. It was not a question.

“I don’t know if ‘want’ is the right word,” the human replied.

“You’re the Archivist.” The words slip easily off his tongue—the truth, then. “Why are you here?”

The Archivist was silent for a moment. “I led prey to them,” they replied. “I helped them hunt. I asked for a story in return, but they didn’t want to give one, so they brought me to you instead.”

He smiled at that, wide and angry in the dark, clenching his teeth until he could imagine the taste of blood. “Did they, now.”

“Will you tell me one?” the Archivist asked.

It was a question, not a command, and even if it were otherwise, without his Name in their hand it would have no teeth. “No,” he replied, savoring the taste of the word like fine wine.

It was not freedom that he felt in refusing, but if he closed his eyes and imagined, it felt close. It was his favorite word, if only because he so rarely got to say it. Sometimes it felt as if gold would fall from his lips when he did.

It was worth the pain that always followed.

The Archivist looked confused, but not quite surprised. “No…?”

“Their debt is not mine to pay.”

“I suppose it isn’t.” The Archivist regarded him thoughtfully, curiously. Their lips pressed together firmly, as if holding back a deluge of questions.

He waited for his visitor to rise back up, call for their hosts and demand they make good on their deal by forcing a story from him. There wasn’t much he could do to defy the wolves that held his Name, but defiance still tasted sweet in the moment.

But the Archivist remained where they were. Either they thought they could cajole or force him themself, or they simply hadn’t thought of it yet. If that was the case, then he wasn’t about to remind them.

“Then we’re at an impasse, I suppose,” they said after a moment. “Unless there’s something I can offer you?”

He bared his teeth in a smile. “Your name, if you don’t mind?”

“I do mind,” the Archivist replied without batting an eye. “You may not have my Name. But if you like, you may call me Jon.”

He spread his hands wide. “Then we are at an impasse,” he replied. “Jon.” A simple name, but it sat nicely on the tongue.

“I suppose we are,” said Jon. They glanced at the door, but made no move to approach it.

Perhaps they were simply stupid. Rather unfortunate, for someone so significant to the Court of the Eye. Then again, it didn’t take much in the way of cleverness to collect stories.

“Was there something else you wanted?” he asked.

Jon shrugged. “It hasn’t been enough time for a story yet,” he said. “If I leave now, they might wonder why.”

That was not the answer that he was expecting. “And?”

Jon raised an eyebrow at him. “Do you want them to rip one out of you against your will?”

He stiffened. “No,” he admitted, almost petulantly. Not stupid after all, then. “Don’t you?”

He didn’t like the way Jon looked at him after that, measuring him with a glance. “Not particularly,” they replied. “They’re the ones indebted to me, so they should be the ones to pay, not you.”

“Oh.”

From the other side of the room, the Archivist’s eyes remained fixed on him. “They have more than just your name,” they said, and though their voice didn’t rise at the end of it, he knew it for the question it was. “You’re a full faerie, or as near as you can be.”

He nodded. “Only half of one, by blood,” he replied. “But these things don’t really care much about blood.”

“Except vampires.”

“Obviously except vampires,” he snapped. The Archivist cringed at his tone, drawing in their shoulders to make themself even smaller. “What matters is power. And, for the Court of the Eye, knowledge. But I’m sure you already know that.”

“Yes,” Jon replied, a little hoarsely.

“Knowledge matters here, as well,” he went on. “That’s why they keep me.”

“They showed me that scrap she had,” said Jon. “They said it had your Name written on it. I thought it was awfully risky, showing me something like that when they want to keep you.” Their eyes narrowed in thought. “I’ll bet, if I called it right now without that slip in my hand, it wouldn’t work for me.”

It was not a question. In fact, the Archivist sounded like they were trying very hard to keep it from being one.

“What of it.”

Jon studied him for a moment longer. “Just curious,” he said. “In the meantime, is there something I can call you?”

The question puzzled him, though he didn’t show it. “You know my Name already.”

Their face spoke volumes—a tightening around the lips, to hold back something more telling. “I don’t think I’d like it if people used my Name, even if it was useless to them,” they said. “Is there something that you’d like to be called?”

The question tugged a “Yes” from him, though no more than that. He could have kept silent, and in spite of everything he knew about the world, he suspected that Jon would even let him. In the end, he replied, “Gerry.”

They smiled. He wasn’t sure what to make of that. “It’s a pleasure, Gerry.”

“No it isn’t,” he said, and the smile slipped from their face.

“No, I suppose it isn’t. I don’t suppose… is there anything I can do?”

“Steal my Name back from the wolves, and deliver it to me,” he replied. “You’d get a story from me then.”

He’d meant it as a joke, an impossible task posed to flaunt what little power he had. And yet the Archivist looked thoughtful, as if they were genuinely considering it.

“They’d rip you to shreds before you got close,” he said.

“Yes,” Jon mused. “I suppose they would. Considering how they’re trying to repay my favor, they don’t strike me as particularly fair.”

“Yeah, they’re big on foisting debts on others.”

“Sounds like you speak from experience,” Jon replied, and barely flinched when he showed his teeth. “From what I’ve seen, I doubt they won your name fairly in the first place.”

He ground his teeth. “I think it’s been enough time, don’t you?”

“Not really,” Jon sighed, but got up anyway. At the door, he paused and looked back. “One more question, if you want to answer.”

“What now?”

“Do you know if someone’s looking for you?” they asked. “Anyone you’d like to send word to? Anyone wondering where you are?”

“There’s no one.” Nothing was pulling the truth out of him this time, but it still poured hot and foul from his throat. “No one but the one who gave out my Name in the first place. My mother is gone, and my father died so long ago that I never even learned his name.”

Something sparked in the Archivist’s eyes. Not just emotion, but power—the very power revered in the Court of the Eye. He hadn’t expected that, and he couldn’t help wonder what his honesty had wrought.

The moment passed, and without warning, the Archivist smiled again. “Thank you, Gerry.”

They said it precisely and clearly, with obvious intention. It made him balk; the Courts worked in deals and trades and favors, and words of gratitude came with the risk of accepting a debt. He had to wonder once more if the Archivist was stupid.

But he wasn’t going to get an answer. Jon knocked on the door, and moments later Julia opened it.

“All done?” she asked gruffly.

He sat back, tired and vaguely curious. The Archivist was odd, odd enough to reawaken his own curiosity, long since buried after the wolves took his Name. It was a shame to see him leave so soon.

“Not quite,” Jon replied, startling him. “I have business with the Court and I have to leave, and I was only able to hear a piece of his story. I’ll be back later for the rest.”

What?

Irritation flashed in Julia’s eyes, but she stood to the side with an impatient huff. “Fine then. Guess the quarry you found us was worth a lot.”

The Archivist glanced over their shoulder before they left, briefly meeting his eyes. That strange light still shone in Jon’s gaze, steady and curious and otherwise unreadable. They were gone before he could properly decipher it.

Julia barely spared him a second glance before shutting the door on him and leaving him in the dark. He sat back with a sigh, thoughts running through his head with frantic energy. Had he caught the attention of the Eye? Had Jon caused it, or was he merely a symptom of that attention? Perhaps he would find out, the next time the Archivist came to visit him.

It was an odd feeling, to have something to look forward to again.

[lovelivingmydreams]

What is a happy ending?

So someone (looks sternly at @rondoel) thought giving me insight in a certain OC of theirs and making me feel things is an okay thing to do. That I won't proceed to write a heartbreaking epilogue to my two part Virgil king story. This one not as long. But still. Enjoy:

What is a happy ending?

"Why happily ever after?" King wondered aloud as He studied their latest piece of art.

No one had ever answered that question for Him. Not in a meaningful way at least. And it never truly stopped bothering Him.

"Your majesty?" Anxiety asked carefully. Probably not sure if he had been meant to hear. King wasn't so sure Himself.

Oh well. He might as well finish the thought. Something interesting might come from it.

"Happily ever after. It's so... boring. Why does everyone like it so much?" He had wondered so often...

Anxiety shrugged. "Princey loved that crap. He hated it when I called out the flaws, though he could be just as bad with plot holes.

It's not realistic at all and... well boring is one word for it." His tone and face could almost be mistaken for dismissive, but King could swear He spotted fondness in the upturn of Anxiety's mouth and a slight wistfulness in the shine of his eyes.

King however was more interested in this more nuanced perspective on the story trope. Answers at last?

Anxiety noticed his king desired for him to elaborate and immediately started fidgeting as he tried to find the words to express his thoughts sufficiently.

"I suppose... everyone thinks that's what they want?" His nerves turn the sentence into a question. "When they are little it's an easy goal. You find the one who'll make you whole, or defeat the villain, or both. And then nothing ever bothers you again.

It's not how life works though... and growing up... I think everyone still has a part of them that wants to hold on to things being that... simple..." Anxiety trailed off and looked up at king curiously. His face strangely focused as if he was looking for an answer himself.

"Simple?" King urged wanting to hear more. Anxiety was so close to making sense. So close to bringing about that wonderful feeling when curiosity was sated. A story complete at last.

"Um... yeah... I mean even I feel a little... I don’t know... it feels right?

When you do the right thing, even when it's hard and you get the stuff you want anyway. And when people who hurt you don’t win. You want the world to work like that. If not for you then at least for the servant girl, who just wanted a night off, or the waitress who just wanted to buy her father's dream restaurant. Hard work, kindness, patience... they should be rewarded right?" Anxiety explained. Sounding frustrated. "And..." he let out a resigned sigh before straightening up and continued more decidedly. "Since the world doesn't work that way... why not escape somewhere where it does?" It was passionate. Perhaps in defense of Roman's favorite thing in the world. Then that fight and righteous defiance fell away in favor of a nostalgic fondness. "Thomas did it all the time growing up," Anxiety sighed before returning his attention to the painting that had prompted the question. A Father's Day movie night.

Hugs and snacks and movies with happily ever afters galore. All of Morality's favorite things.

King had to admit it had... stung to discover that Morality had taken up the role He'd given him even after he betrayed everything that title stood for.

Had he ever felt even the slightest bit conflicted when hearing Roman calling him 'Padre'?

Or was it supposed to be fine, since he thought Roman was the only half of Him who felt attached to him that way?

Had it truly never occurred to him that while he took in the confused Roman, he left behind a disoriented and heartbroken Remus who didn't understand why daddy was ignoring him.

What had he done wrong?

Why did he never get bedtime stories or hugs from dad? Why was he shoved away, scolded, ignored?

Why was he not allowed to play in the imagination with his brother?

The last thought had plagued both halves for years.

Even Roman who had stopped admitting to it to please Morality felt conflicted during story times and hugs to this day.

Telling Thomas that he didn't want anything to do with his brother had hurt more than the bump on his head...

But all of that was in the past. They were gone and their unresolved issues were a waste of His time. He had berated, tormented, Anxiety over this. He would not fall victim to such sentimentalities Himself.

"I see... escapism then?" He muttered, trying to get back on topic and not to show the... somewhat emotional turn His thoughts had taken.

Like His halves, His 'Padre' was gone. He probably never existed in the first place.

And Morality would pay for that betrayal and the way he abandoned Remus and how he made Roman fight to earn his love, only to abandon him as well. His suffering had only just begun.

Not because it still mattered. But... any excuse to justify and fuel His wrath even a little bit more was good enough for Him.

He'd probably avenge slights against his minister simply to feign kinship and watch the traitors squirm under his rule just a bit more. Not that he needed a reason to do anything. But justified rage was so much more satisfying to set loose. Because the targets would feel, deep down, they brought this upon themselves.

"Yeah... there's enough crappy stuff going on in the world right? Thomas... wants to use his talents to make people smile. And while that's cheesy, it's also... well it's him," Anxiety shrugged. King hummed in agreement as He framed the picture and put it away. He'd barely paid attention honestly. The answer was satisfactory. But there was a new question on His mind. As He mused over His minister's attachments to His enemies and how to sever them He recalled something intriguing about his recent behavior.

Anxiety had been pulling away from Morality. Why? What had caused a crack in 'the bestest most dynamicest duoest duo'?

And was this something he could use to forge an allegiance. Or to hurt Morality as deeply as He'd been hurt. Or, ideally, both?

King smirked to Himself as He laid a gentle hand on Anxiety's shoulder. He asked about a drawing of the young side and Thomas. He was pleased to note that His minister no longer shrank away every time He moved in his general direction. He might not be comfortable with His touch yet, but he was getting used to it. Something that would surely get to the others who still tiptoed around Anxiety's boundaries.

Maybe, at some point, he could be made to truly see things His way. To see the traitors for the villains they were. Just the thought of the chaos that this realization would unleash... It would be magnificent.

Morality had forgotten something important about 'happily ever after's.

Bad guys don’t get them. And the victor is always the hero.

It was only right that King reminded him of the shadow side of his favourite ending.

By making him live it.

Virgil knew that it was a bad thing that he found himself enjoying talking about his memories to the king and watching them turn into pretty cool paintings.

He was Anxiety, this was definitely a crisis. He can't relax now, not around the reason of said crisis... but if he doesn't relax a little his thoughts might do something really bad. And if he doesn't do whatever the king wants, then the king might do something bad.

So he had to balance on this weird edge of anxious, but cool with it.

The others were counting on him. To stay safe, to keep it together, to keep King distracted, to find a way to get him to lay off a little...

"Worthless." And... the thing is back.

"Dude, seriously, not now!" He snapped at his... shadow.

King just looked on intrigued. Great. Now the shadow had King's attention.

"Failure," it hissed. Right... King is not his biggest problem right now.

So far the shadow had only been mildly annoying even quiet for the most part. But clearly anxious thoughts made it remember it could be a pain in the behind. And worst thing is it got to Virgil even more because it laid out his true fears for King to see and use against him.

"You... you are just... you're just a thought. You can't hurt me." Virgil insisted.

Thomas could deal with his irrational fits. Surely he could manage this thing, right?

"Monsssster," the shadow hissed. No he didn't think that anymore!

"Guardian!" Virgil bit back. Patton said so, Logan said so, Roman said so, Thomas said so... why cant he just believe them?

He found himself struggling to breath again. The thoughts... they were real now... what if they could hurt him...? Can he die? What would happen to Thomas?

"Begone!" Virgil snapped out of his near attack at the sudden outburst from King.

What...?

He looked up just in time to see a flash of metal and shadow's dissolving figure.

"It'll reform later," King muttered as he sheeted his sword.

"It became too bothersome. You should not let your creations have power over you young one. You are their master, don't forget that," he instructed calmly, not looking at him.

Did he just...?

"Return to your business now, I find that I am in need of a break," he then declared as he walked away, still not looking back.

"But..." he came to a halt. "Should you wish to finish our gallery... I might be willing to indulge your presence later."

Virgil didn't quiet know what to do, so he bowed, just in case the king could see it somehow. "Y-yes my king. Thank you," he stammered hurriedly.

When he looked up, the king was gone.

And Virgil ran. He needed to find Lo and Pat before the shadows returned.

His thoughts were a confused mess... he hadn't imagined that right?

King had really stepped in to save him instead of letting Virgil's punishment, gift, curse, whatever run its course...

And then he left it up to Virgil to decide if and when they'd finish up.

There was probably some messed up reason behind it... but still.

Virgil wasn't stupid though. Even if saving him had been a purely noble impulse, King hadn't undone his 'gift' to make sure it wouldn't happen again. Telling him to put his foot down with 'his own creations' didn't really count.

King still messed up real bad and would have to do something pretty impressive to make up for all of that.

And Virgil was pretty sure that it wasn't just his pessimism talking when he thought that the king was no where close to wanting to make nice with any of them.

Or not for the right reasons anyway.

He shook his head. He can worry about all that later. Right now he has to find the others. Before King runs into one of them.

Virgil's trip down memory lane might've been deemed 'entertaining' or whatever, but he hadn't be around for whatever had happened to make the king be out for blood in the first place.

He didn't want to find out what King's idea of 'having fun' was when it came to Pat, Lo or even Janus. Whatever they did, it was still his duty to protect Thomas. Physically, socially, mentally and emotionally. Whether he wanted him to or not.

And not even King was going to stop him from fulfilling his purpose.

@antiredhuman you wanted to be tagged if I wrote more for this au so here you go! Hope you like it!

[tiaragqueen]

Can I request Yandere Inosuke capturing Y/N? Y/N simply deals with him so she can live another day. But there comes a situation where Inosuke question what is a kiss and wants to try it on Y/N. So Y/N gets it over with...Now Inosuke have a new addiction which is for Y/N's kissesn.

Aggress

✂ Pairing: Yandere! Inosuke Hashibira x Demon Slayer! Reader

✂ Word Count: 1,1k+

✂ Trigger Warnings: Mention of abuse, isolation, forced affection, possessiveness

[Edited]

Do not re-upload my writing to another website or use it without my permission.

***

Feral boar time! I made him aged-up if you don't mind.

If you like my writing, please support me on ko-fi!

“Hold you, hurt you, love you, need you, love you, wrestle you down to the ground. Bite you, love you, hold you. I wanna kiss you.” - I Wanna Kiss You [Paula Cole]

You wouldn’t say that you were afraid of Inosuke, but you were afraid of him. He was simply too unpredictable, too chaotic, and too insensitive. Obviously, you couldn’t really blame his upbringing. He was raised by the boars, after all. It’d be understandable if he didn’t know much about manners or tact, or how to treat a lady properly. There were only so many things Tanjiro and Zenitsu could teach him – or drilled into his head – if he remained stubborn with his old ways.

And everything just got worse ever since he dated you.

… Well, not really. It was more like… he forced you to date him. You doubted what he felt for you was ‘love’, either.

As expected from a feral child, Inosuke was possessive and aggressive as a lover. Anyone who so much as looked at you would earn a growl from him, and you didn’t want to remember the number of times he almost punched every guy that talked to you had his friends weren’t there to restrain him. The two boys, and Oyakata, were probably the only people he allowed you to speak to. And even then, he forbade you from spending too much time with them, especially Zenitsu.

Little by little, Inosuke became the only person you could interact with.

His intense personality and restricting ‘rules’ eventually wore you down. You were stressed, physically, and mentally. Tanjiro had tried to comfort you, and even Nezuko had made a flower crown in an attempt to cheer you up, but none of them worked.

It’d never work unless Inosuke was gone from your life – from this world. However, knowing his fighting skills, you doubted anyone would want to dispose of him so easily.

It was the reason why you were unable to fight and train to your fullest. And it was also the reason for your downfall.

No longer did you fight to survive from demons. Instead, you fought to survive from his rage now.

And no, not the combat type. You were fully aware of the gap between your skills, as much as you hated to admit it. Rather, you stayed compliant. It was the cheapest and most humiliating tactic you ever did in your entire life, but anything was better than enduring his accidental abuse.

Though, sometimes, you wondered if he purposefully hit you. It wasn’t as if he knew how to be gentle, anyway.

But it seemed that life desired to make you suffer even more, because these past few days, you’d caught him staring at your lips for more than once.

You didn’t want to think about those lingering glances, because although you’d never dated anyone before, you knew what it meant – knew what it could possibly lead to.

And you didn’t want to.

You didn’t want to give your first kiss to someone who had taken advantage of your near-death experience to lock you up in an abandoned cabin. You didn’t want to satisfy his curiosity over the taste of your lips. You didn’t want him to touch you more than a long, bone-crushing hug.

However, there was only so much you could do to prolong the inevitable.

“[Name], what is a kiss?”

You almost choked on your spit at his abrupt question. No, not this…! You weren’t ready to hear whatever he was about to say.

“It’s… it’s…” you stammered, cheeks flushing slightly as you racked your brain. What was the right answer that could both sate and deter him? “It’s an act of… pressing one’s lips… to another.”

“What?!” He reeled back, pure distaste contorted his pretty features. It wasn’t a response that you didn’t expect, but you welcomed nonetheless. “That’s disgusting! Why would anyone want to do that anyway?!”

Yes, it’ll be more disgusting if I have to do it with you, you said mentally.

Silence ensued. You shifted a little on your spot, trying to predict his next move. Should you excuse yourself to somewhere else? Should you stay inside? Inosuke looked like he was contemplating something, and you weren’t sure if it was a good thing or not.

“… Can I try it?”

It felt like something had knocked the air out of your lungs. Gaping, you stayed immobile as if hoping he’d forget that you were there. Inosuke was peering at you now, long eyelashes occasionally caressed his pink cheeks. He was embarrassed yet curious. Oh, God…!

“N-no, of course not.” Blinking owlishly, his expression slowly turned sour. Oh, no. Now you’d done it; you made him angry. That… that wasn’t good. You needed to escape if you wanted to retain your sanity and dignity.

But he was fast, and you weren’t even able to stand up before he pushed you to your back, uncaring of your squeak and groan. Firm hands gripped your wrists as pale green eyes bore down to your trembling ones, fierce yet bashful.

“You dare to disobey Inosuke-sama's order?!” he yelled to your sweating visage. 

“N-no! Let me go, Inosuke!” You tried to wriggle and even head-butt him, but it was futile. His skull was thicker, and he was just too strong. “I don’t want to kiss you and I never will!”

Inosuke fell silent. You thought he finally came to his sense and release you, but you were terribly wrong.

A squeak went muffled against your mashed lips as he crashed his teeth against yours. Gradient blue hair tickled your face and pricked your stinging eyes. The tears that you’d tried so hard to contain trickled through your lashes and dripped on to the floorboard; one of the many tears you’d shed later.

After seconds that passed by too long, Inosuke withdrew slightly. He was huffing and panting, the blush had deepened into scarlet that covered nearly his entire visage. Despite being flustered by his own brazen action, he seemed satisfied. Euphoric, even. You didn’t want to see that smug expression any longer, so you closed your eyes and prayed he’d be gone by the time you opened them.

“Heh, that was quite surprising. Who would’ve thought something so disgusting could end up being so sweet?”

You didn’t know, and you weren’t sure if you wanted to know. Maybe you’d feel it when that beloved someone kissed you; the delight, the pleasure, everything sweet that he wouldn’t be able to put into words.

But it was too late for that, wasn’t it?

It might sound pessimistic, but you truly thought you couldn’t be free. Not now, not ever. And unless someone finally took an initiative to save you, Inosuke would always keep you with him.

That was the only conclusion you could gather as he grinned down at you, his pearly white teeth bared and eyes dilated in a barely restrained joy. He was terrifying, then again, when has he didn’t look at you like he wanted to devour you whole?

“Again! Give me more kisses until I’m satisfied!”

[shiversdownyerspine]

5. Deprived

Gettin a little hot in here. :B

18+

The kittens arrive in the quiet of the night, stars dotting the deep dark blanket of sky. Sleep had failed to find you, and so you had shuffled your pajama-clad way to your kitchen with a chunky knit blanket wrapped around your chilly shoulders. The thick charcoal colored material dangles to the backs of your knees as you wait impatiently for your kettle to boil water for a big cup of chamomile tea.

As the water softly bubbles to your earnest desires of being lured to sleep, you find yourself distracted by a soft knock on your front door. You perk up, knowing by experience that this would be your nameless, faceless animal transporter. And just like with every other task animal, when you open the door you find nobody in sight, just a randomly sized pet kennel resting on your doorstep. You kneel and scoop up the crate to bring it inside.

Excitement momentarily stealing away your drowsiness, you quickly switch off the heat of your stove and carry your cargo to your room. Tea can wait a moment, the water will still be plenty hot by the time you're done. Closing the door behind you, you take a quick peek to find two fuzzballs huddled together at the back of the crate. The kittens are awake but clearly tired, and judging from their quivering bodies, probably a little bit stressed. Not wanting to cause more discomfort, you quietly unlock the kennel door to slowly reach in and gather them up for a quick health check.

Eyes, ears, and noses look clear and healthy, tiny claws and whiskers and tails are where they should be, no bumps or scratches to be seen. You briefly tut at the lack of towel or blanket in their kennel, worried about the absence of warmth and comfort. You've tried requesting some basic amenities for when your task animals are being prepared for delivery, but your needs have yet to be met. You're fairly certain by now that they never will be.

Both kittens are male and look to be around seven weeks old, still a bit too young to be neutered. As a matter of fact, they are still too young to be away from their mother, but some things just can't be helped. Judging by the pale bodies and dark brown coloration of their ears, face, tails, and paws, they are chocolate points. Satisfied, you pop the babies back inside and grab up the fluffy towel waiting on your dresser, carefully pushing it in and around the kittens before moving them to your bathroom.

Nestling their kennel in the corner of their 'room', you drape another blanket over them to offer privacy and leave the crate door open a crack for if they choose to explore. Softly closing the door to your bathroom, you head out of your bedroom and step once more to your kitchen to finally fix your mug of tea. Hot drink in hand, your gaze settles on the stove clock which reads 4:57 AM. With a sigh, you sip your tea and tug your blanket further up your shoulder, lamenting the lack of sleep you will be suffering from come morning. You suppose in the end you'll just have to rely on good ol' fashioned coffee to offer you any sort of alertness today. Resigned, you wander off to your bedroom, but are interrupted before you can make it there.

Midstep, you nearly drop your mug when the door to your guest room opens and there in the doorway stands a groggy, long john wearing Otto. Long hair ruffled and eyes half-lidded, he peers down at you questioningly. You freeze, your eyes sweeping up and down over his defined muscles before a blush rises to your cheeks and you drop your gaze to your feet, murmuring an apology for waking him and quickly explaining away the disrupted sleep because of the kittens arrival. You apologize once more and quickly scurry to your room as a befuddled Otto looks on, wondering why you had been up long before the kittens arrived.

Three cups of coffee in, the morning comes and goes relatively uneventfully. You do have to insist to an avidly interested Oscar that he wait just a little while longer to meet the kittens as they are still waking up and quite uncertain about their new home. You promise after their breakfast he can visit, lightly patting the grumbling man's back in reply as his brothers drink their coffee. With kitten food in hand, you hope this will help coax the babies out of their kennel. You amusedly eye Butternut and Pumpkin who are crowded around the door to your room, smelling intently.

You nudge them away with a hum of, "In due time you goofs."

To your delight the kittens perk up noticeably after feeding, and after some consideration you poke your head out your room to softly call for anyone interested to come see. As long as they keep the other cats out, that is. Oscar is naturally the first one up out of his chair while Axel and Otto hesitate before joining their younger sibling. They were simply bored, but they did have some interest in the mystery surrounding you and thereby extending to your room as well.

You tell the brothers to mind their feet before noticing Otto subtly eyeing your odd assortment of bits and bobs you have collected in a small jewelry box that had long since lost its shine and its lid. As Oscar and Axel carefully slip into the bathroom, they linger to watch you curiously from the doorway as you step to Otto to reach in your treasure box.

"I'm a bit of a collector, if something has a good texture and makes an impression, I tend to keep it."

An old bullet casing brushes your searching fingertips; you hold up the item for Otto to take, which he does, warm fingers brushing against your own slender digits. He rolls the hollow shell between thumb and forefinger as he inspects it closely. Perusing your other little knickknacks, you muse aloud how you never really plan to do anything with the trinkets, just allow yourself to indulge in an odd whim every once in a while.

Hearing the squeaky inquisitive sounds from the kennel in your bathroom, you and your little entourage find your attentions being redirected. With a gentle bump of your knuckles against Otto's wrist, you motion to follow you. Behind you the man's eyes drag up and down your figure in a surreptitious slide, settling minutely on the full curve of your rear before forcing himself to focus instead on the little jewelry box as he returns the tiny article to its rightful place.

With curiosity sated and more information shared about the tiny fuzzy additions to your home, you usher your guests out of your room as the kittens settle in for a much needed nap. You're tempted to follow their lead and crash on your bed, but you have a couple more things to do. One task being to introduce the towel you had rubbed the two kittens down with to your cats as a pseudo meeting. The Swedes watch in the living room from the sofa as Pumpkin takes a whiff, fluffs up, and slinks away while Butternut just plops herself down next to the towel like it's the most interesting thing she's ever smelled.

The other task? Well, technically you owe Axel and his brothers a tidbit of information after you refused to answer a question about your feathers during his 'interrogation'. And as you admit to the Swedes that you owe them some extra information, Oscar jumps right in.

"What is...favorite animal..no..task animal?"...It's technically against the rules, but it's a good question so you'll allow it.

Excited, you gush, "My pekin duck! Now, I love all my animals, but being my very first task, she's special. Most likely she was going to be prepared for food but the target never made it to dinner. She was wild-caught so it wasn't difficult to rehabilitate and release her. Good thing the woods have a lake. Well, more of a glorified pond really, but she loves it."

Axel side-eyes you slyly, "Duck makes good meal, shame."

You gasp, "No!..Well okay, probably, but I could never eat Ducky!"

Simultaneously, Axel's brows lifted high, Otto choked, and Oscar gasped, "Ducky?! Her name?"

You hesitate, ears red, before exclaiming proudly, "Yes, Ducky. Ducky the Pekin duck...come on this shouldn't surprise you, I named my cats after squash! Don't you dare laugh!"

Otto was roughly huffing into his fist as you floundered. Oscar had shifted closer to you with a wide grin, bumping his knee against yours. 

Axel smirked, teasingly sounding out the two syllables, "Duck-y..."

The glare you send his way is intended to be irritated, but is quickly ruined by your twitching lips fighting back a smile.

"I-It's a childhood thing! I couldn't bring myself to call her anything else!" You rub your cheeks, as if that would somehow lift the vivid color from your face.

"The lake by our orphanage had a variety of birds, and every single one in that water was Ducky. I was too young to really care about the differences. Also it drove our poor caretaker crazy, which ah...kind of enforced the habit."

Your mirth falters as you process your little slip up...that's what your lack of sleep gets you, you suppose. Okay, no use fretting. Push on.

"So when I saw my first animal, her name was already decided really." You smooth the material of the towel in your hands, relaxing your posture. 

"Chickens." You blink, looking quizzically to Axel. He nods towards Oscar.

Otto shifts his weight from one leg to the other, hands tugging his suspenders as he adds, "Chicken thief."

Your gaze settles on the youngest Swede with a playful gasp, "Oscar, really?"

The man meets your feigned incredulity with his ever-wicked smirk and declares with devilish pride, "Salt and Peppar."

It clicks, "...You named them after seasoning. Because you were going to eat them?"

Axel drags his eyes from Oscar to you, "Eventually."

You can't help but giggle, the three men twitching at the sound, "So, when you were younger you stole chickens? Wait wait, I'm going to guess...it wasn't just Oscar..and he roped you two into it?"

Oscar barks a laugh as the other two sigh and nod. You grin, "Goodness, chicken thieves in my home. Did you all get caught?"

Smug, Oscar shook his head as Otto responded, "Nej. Too fast. We...kept for eggs, ate later...old age."

You bump your elbow gently against Oscar's arm, immediately drawing his attention to you, "I've never had chickens before, but my old Ducky does have a bit of an attitude. How were Salt and Peppar?"

Axel snorts, leaning forward, "Angry. Not bad killing mice. Also good flavor."

Otto folds his arms across his chest, nodding in agreement. You chuckle, "Okay if any of you see Ducky, you can't eat her. It's just not allowed."

Still staring, Oscar licks his lips, "..Can we eat you?"

Axel and Otto tense, eyes boring holes into the scoundrel. You scoff, completely missing the lewd innuendo, "Oh ha ha clever; I have feathers, like poultry. Very funny."

You stand with a smile, realizing you should really grab some kind of food mat for the messy eaters resting in your bathroom before lunch time rolls around. You retreat to the kitchen to search while the brothers linger in the living room, staring Oscar down. Butternut in his arms, the youngest removes himself from the floor just to lazily stretch out on the sofa, innocent as can be as he ignores his brothers obvious ire. Pumpkin slips out from under the coffee table to hop up and settle on his stomach in classic cat-loaf position.

Axel begrudgingly turns his attention to you, recalling your cheeky attitude and fiery stubbornness concerning his prior questions in the kitchen a good while ago...yes, he won't deny how heat had pooled in his loins at your antics, bubbling even more when he glimpsed charming pink shyly sweep between your lips. But obviously it wasn't enough to tempt him; no, he didn't imagine himself seated at that very same chair, boots planted firmly on the kitchen floor as his hands squeeze your rear, bouncing you naked in his lap, fucking the defiance out of you as you moan and beg and promise you'll be good- he sucks in a breath, nostrils flaring. Taking a moment to reign in his hormones, he stalks off to the garden for fresh air, scowling all the while. Oscar.

Otto grimaces at Oscar's impertinence and clenches his hands, hesitating as remorse unsettles his stomach as he remembers the feel of you, your back against his front, his hands holding your body helpless and trembling with distress...and wonders instead about making you shake with something else; smoothing his hands over soft fabric to push under your sweater and up quivering belly to gently palm your breasts, pushing fabric away to bare them to his touch, fingers brushing your nipples, lightly pinching and plucking as your head lolls back, your hips rolling to push your ass against him- he exhales, trousers feeling just a tad uncomfortable. With a rough swallow, he lumbers off down the hallway to their room to...regain his composure. Fucking Oscar.

Oscar knows damn well what he's done. He's noticed the way his brothers' eyes linger on you, their growing infatuation not nearly as hidden as they thought. At least not from each other. Now they won't be able to get some rather debauched ideas out of their heads; just like he can't get rid of the thought of your pretty startled eyes blinking up at him, but instead of up, you're peering down, doe-eyed as he moves down your body and between spread legs, preparing to demonstrate the actual meaning of his joke as his hungry mouth hovers teasingly over your panties, just close enough that he can smell you as the heat of his breath warms the dampening fabric.

Oscar strains his neck to sneak a glance at you in the kitchen, adoration softening his expression as he hears your joyful exclamation when you track down the food mat for the kittens. It's possible you were just doing your hostly duties, but they all notice how you blossom as you accept their presence and he and his brothers gradually accept yours. He has no doubt his brothers are subconsciously beginning to consider you theirs; he saw with his own incredulous eyes as big, brutish Otto held you still, firm but careful, not a single feather crushed under fist...or how Axel, steely, stern Axel, was opening up to you about their own lives, tiny piece that it was. He had almost been stunned into silence with that one.

The thought of you in their beds had been just that; a tempting thought, conjured by night and temporarily sated come morning. But seeing his brothers' walls cracking, little by little? How curious. He can't resist giving his stubborn brothers a little push, jostling their imaginations, maybe some taunting thrown in to strain those cracks?...oh, this will be fucking fun.

[donttouchmeimwriting]

Argo ch. 2

Friday the 13th - Friendship/Romance - Jason Voorhees/OC M/M ship

2084 words, 3rd person POV

I love to hear feedback on my fics so please don't be shy! You can also tell me your thoughts on anon if you don't want your name on your comments!

Cross-posting on FFN under PyroTheWereCat

...

Meeting Lijah face to face threw off Jason's rhythm for the rest of the day, and for the entire day after. He had no idea what to do with himself. He could go home, but his mother would want progress by now and he did not want to try to explain how he let Lijah go when even he didn't know exactly why he did it. He could start planning the killings of the other counselors, but he couldn't focus long enough to think about that. His mind was stuck on Lijah, and he determined the only way to get unstuck was to see him again. He had to know why he wasn't afraid and treated him so kindly. There had to be some sort of motive.

Darkness fell over the camp that Friday night, and Jason patrolled the outskirts until every last fire went out and all noise had subsided. His blood was on fire, and he could not rest until his curiosity was sated. He quietly crept to the counselor cabins, searching for number five. Would Lijah be alone? Was this a good idea to come here at all? Jason berated himself internally for his interest in this person. This was stupid. Why was he here? He could easily just kill them all and return to his mother as usual. What was different this time?

There, a little distance from the other cabins, Jason saw a large number 5 painted on the side of the building. The lights were off, save for one room where the soft yellow glow spilled out into the woods where Jason stood. He steeled himself, prepared to fight if an ambush awaited him. Not quite ready, but ready enough, he approached the window and peered inside.

Lijah's bedroom was relatively tidy, minus the small heap of dirty clothes in one corner, and some posters with ragged edges and some tears that were taped to the walls. A dresser stood on the right side of the room next to the door, a small radio and some books resting atop it. Above the dresser hung a simple mirror, and it reflected Lijah's slim legs as he lay on the bed on the opposite end of the room. Jason turned his gaze to the left, seeing Lijah in a thin t-shirt and boxer briefs, reading a book on his bed. Was there ever a time he did not look so at peace?

Jason contemplated simply letting himself in, but he felt compelled to avoid scaring Lijah as long as he could. He sighed heavily and knocked on the window, hoping this wasn't the worst decision he could possibly make. Lijah gave a small start at the sound and turned to see who had made it. To Jason's surprise, Lijah's eyes lit up and he smiled as he set the book down and hopped off of the mattress. He lifted the window open and stepped aside for Jason to climb through.

"Hey!" Lijah greeted cheerfully, "I was hoping I'd get to see you again!"

Jason awkwardly clambered into the room, his size proving troublesome for the space provided by the window. He grunted as he heaved himself through, but he managed without Lijah's offered assistance. He closed the window behind him and turned back to Lijah, the closeness of the walls and ceiling emphasizing just how much of a height and width difference there was between them.

"Have a seat!" Lijah insisted, patting the bed, "Make yourself at home. I was just reading a few chapters to make myself tired enough to sleep, but I can stay up to hang out with you."

Jason sank into the mattress, watching Lijah the entire time. Was something wrong with him that he didn't perceive a threat from Jason? Or maybe he was just leading him on and tricking him into trusting him, and then he would turn against him later. Lijah stepped over to his dresser to retrieve one of the books. Jason saw that it was a spiral bound notebook with a pencil jammed in the binding. Lijah brought the notebook to the bed and climbed up to sit next to him, folding his legs underneath himself.

"I figured since you don't talk, this might help if you want to tell me something about yourself or ask me questions," Lijah explained, "Are you comfortable with writing?"

Jason shrugged. It had been a long time since he had written anything, not counting his own name in the dirt yesterday. He was able to read, but he wasn't confident in his spelling or handwriting. He accepted the notebook anyway, having some questions for Lijah that he could not express through body language.

"cant rite good. ELijah college?" he wrote, needing to spell the full name and crossing out the 'E' to get it right.

"Do I go to college?" Lijah checked, and upon Jason's nod, he elaborated, "Yup, I'm on break right now, but I'm going back in the fall for my senior year. I'm studying psychology and sociology. I'm hoping I can get into social work or therapy or something and help a lot of people."

Jason's frustration increased at this declaration. There was no way he was this good. There had to be some dark side to him somewhere.

"What about you?" Lijah asked, "Do you live around here? And, I don't mean to be rude, but how old are you?"

Jason nodded and returned to the notebook.

"live with Mother by camp. im 23."

"Oh, nice, you're only two years older than me!" Lijah commented, "Do you get along well with your mom?"

Jason nodded and pointed to Lijah as a means to ask him the same question.

"I don't live with my parents anymore," Lijah answered, his tone changing very slightly to hint at some discomfort, "They're good people, but I couldn't live in that environment anymore once I started college. I've pretty much been living either at school or at summer camps for the past few years, but I'm looking into apartments for myself so I can have a place to live after I graduate."

There was the lead. Something must have been wrong with Lijah's family life to force him out on his own, and the implication that he didn't have friends to stay with made the mystery all the more enticing. He remembered the female counselor from the day before who had asked to go with Lijah before he and Jason had met.

"frends?" Jason wrote, "girl frend?"

Lijah laughed, and Jason felt a shiver at the sound for some reason.

"I get along with everybody, but I don't really have any close friends," he said, "I haven't dated anyone for a while now either. I've been focusing on myself and getting through school, though also the people I tend to date are...not the best for me."

From what Jason had seen of Lijah from afar, he seemed like he had lots of friends and was close with many people, but now it seemed he was just as alone as Jason himself. He stared at Lijah for a moment, trying to figure him out. It was then that he noticed some tiny details about Lijah's face that he hadn't seen in the woods yesterday.

Lijah had freckles on his nose, and his eyelashes were long. His eyes were a greenish hazel, and crinkled at the corners when he smiled. His usually fluffy brown hair was somewhat damp looking, possibly from a recent shower. Jason couldn't explain it, but Lijah was rather pleasant to look at.

"So you don't have to answer this if you don't want to, but I'm a little curious," Lijah prompted, snapping Jason back to reality, "Why do you wear a hockey mask? Is it good for keeping bugs out of your face?"

Jason tensed. He didn't want Lijah to see his face under the mask. That would surely scare him and make him hate him like everyone else. Jason shook his head and tried to think of an excuse to write down, but all he could think of was,

"i like it."

Lijah nodded upon reading this.

"That's a good, solid reason for anything," he agreed, "I should start living by that a little more, honestly."

Jason relaxed at this, relieved that Lijah accepted that answer. He wasn't sure why, but he was beginning to want Lijah to like him. It was almost like when he was a child and wanted to be friends with the other kids at camp, but this felt different somehow. Lijah didn't have friends of his own either, so they would only have each other if this worked.

Jason did not even think about possibly killing Lijah at this point. He was far too invested in who he was as a person, as well as excited at the possibility of having a real friend, to remember what his mission was. Mother wasn't expecting him back until August. It should be fine.

"Alright, Jason, I'm gonna tell you something and I don't want you to get upset," Lijah began, scratching the back of his head, "But I figure if you wanted to, you could have easily killed me a few times by now, so I think I'm safe. I honestly thought you were gonna kill me yesterday in the woods - we've all heard the stories of the Killer of Crystal Lake or whatever; they warned me of the history of this place when I was hired - but I like to give everyone the benefit of the doubt and treat everyone the way I'd want to be treated. I figured if I died, I would die putting my best foot forward, and, wouldn't you know it, I did that literally."

Jason blinked. Was that really all he'd needed to not kill people? Someone being nice to him?

"For the record, and I'm sure you know this already, but I'm not scared of you now. People don't have to look a certain way to be good or bad. And, hey, if you helped me out and came to visit me like this, you can't be all bad, can you?"

Either Lijah was too naive for his own good or he was very good in the field he was studying. Perhaps both? Jason wasn't sure. He picked up the pencil again to write,

"can i see u more?"

Lijah read this and nodded.

"I'd love that!" he enthused, "Please, come see me this time of night any night you want. I've got lots of books to read, I've got food in the fridge, you can shower here if you want to...I'm the only one who uses this cabin, so really, I don't mind you being here and making yourself comfortable."

Jason wasn't an expert at body language or understanding people in general, but it was clear to him that Lijah desperately wanted a friend. He felt a twitch at the corners of his mouth, a small smile breaking through. Whatever this was between them, they both wanted it, needed it, and Jason looked forward to exploring an actual friendship with someone his own age. Maybe he could bring Lijah back to Mother and show her that there was someone special in the outside world, someone who cared about everyone.

It was a nice thought, but nice thoughts never lasted long.

-------------------------------------------------

Jason and Lijah spent several hours that night getting to know each other. Jason could not believe how easy it was to communicate with him and even more so how easy it was to let his guard down. He found himself having fun, something he couldn't remember the last time it happened. Lijah did grow quite tired after midnight, however, so Jason excused himself through the window to allow Lijah to sleep.

He returned to his temporary campsite in the woods to get some rest as well, wanting to have plenty of energy tomorrow to spend more time with Lijah. He wondered if he had tried to approach the counselors he'd killed differently, if he had a more approachable mask and cleaned up the rest of his appearance, would he have been able to befriend them too? He doubted that notion the instant it materialized in his mind; those counselors weren't like Lijah and would have been afraid of him either way. Lijah was special...Jason could feel it deep within him. Just a few hours with him made Jason reconsider killing anyone this summer.

He hoped Mother would approve.

[chaoticevilbean]

“What the blazes are you do- gahk!” Callum’s head nearly hit the tree trunk as he attempted to maneuver out of Rayla’s grasp. Her fingers refused to leave his mouth, pressing his lips up so the human could see his teeth.

“I thought elves had fangs,” she pouted. “Was that just a myth?”

Callum managed to pull his face away just as she leaned closer, hissing the moment he could. She yanked her hands away, eyes wide, before grinning even more widely. In moments, she was close enough to almost be in his lap, staring into his eyes.

“You can hiss! Can you purr? Is it an elf thing? Can you make other noises? Wh-”

“Rayla.” Runaan’s voice cut through the air sharply, drawing the girl’s attention. “Let him go. We do not invade others’ space, and we most certainly do not put our fingers in their mouths.”

She scooted a little ways away at that, but remained close enough that Callum kept his focus firmly on her silhouette out the corner of his eye. He wasn’t going to stop watching Adju, but there was no way he was letting the strange assassin get close again.

It took all of two minutes before her resolve crumbled and she started asking questions again.

“So do you really drink blood?”

“Wha- NO! Why would I ever do that‽”

“That’s what the myths say about elves.”

“Elves do not drink blood!”

“Do you curse any humans that enter your territories?”

“First of all, we don’t have territories, we have cities and towns just like humans. Second of all, most elves don’t even know enough magic to ‘curse’ anyone. That’s an entirely different category of spell-casting, and only very advanced mages ever learn.”

“Do you kidnap children in the night? Wait, I already know that one.”

“NO! One, it was the Dragon King. Two, he saved Adju! Three, it was broad daylight!”

“Well, then what are elves actually like?” Rayla looked at him expectantly. “If so many myths are wrong, what’s the truth?”

He was silent for a moment, thinking. He didn’t want to give any information away that could be used against him, but these assassins really did seem like they weren’t going to kill them. Trust was another thing entirely, but maybe he could divulge simple things, at least to sate the human’s curiosity.

“We eat the same things you humans do, only it’s Xadian ingredients. We do not have fangs.” Callum ignored Adju’s knowing smile. “There are six different types of elves: Earthblood, Tidebound, Sunfire, Moonshadow, Startouch, and Skywing. Startouch elves are incredibly rare, while Sunfire elves are some of the most common.”

“What’re you?” The elf clenched his jaw, before taking a deep breath to steady himself and replying. He couldn’t fault her for not knowing something she’d never experienced before.

“I’m a Skywing elf.”

“What makes you different, though?” He startled at that. Her gaze was sincere, but he didn’t understand what she meant.

“What?” It seemed to click that she’d forgotten to explain.

“Well, you were living with the princes and Dragon King, so what’s the story behind that?”

“My dad was a Dragon Guard, he died, and no one knew my mother. So I just sorta... stayed with the Dragon King. Besides my raising, I’m a normal Skywing elf. I don’t even count as an official Dragon Guard.”

“But you managed to get from the ground to that ledge!” Callum didn’t know whether he should regret that now or not.

“Magic.”

“But what magic?”

“Sky magic.”

“So you just levitated up there?”

“No, I was banned from doing that in the den after I got a concussion.”

“That was hilarious!” Adju giggled from near Runaan, clutching his stomach as he and Zym laughed together.

“It was painful!” the elf shouted back, though he had no heat behind his words as he did when he yelled at the older humans.

“What happened?” Adju instantly answered the girl’s question, ignoring his companion’s protests.

“Callum was arguing with one of the Dragon Guards about visiting the Moonshadow elves, and so he decided to start levitating to get out of the conversation. But then the guard kept arguing as Callum just floated up into the air, and they were both yelling really loud so they could hear each other, and then Callum whacked into the ceiling. Luckily the guard caught him, but levitation got banned from the den. Callum had to spend a day on bedrest and he was so bored because he wasn’t allowed to use magic until his concussion healed.”

“He just started floatin’ and none of you said anything?”

“The guard started yelling about he couldn’t just use magic to get out of everything, but Callum never listens.”

“Not to Ibis,” said elf muttered, glaring into the air.

“Ibis?”

“He’s the Dragon Guard who always tries to teach Callum the ‘proper’ way to behave. Let’s just say that no matter what he tries to tell you, Cal is actually very very weird.” Adju stopped talking then, but Rayla was having none of that. She leaned against the tree where Callum was sitting, staring intently at the human prince.

“How so?”

“Well, when he hissed at you, to start. I haven’t met a single elf that does that besides him. Maybe Kazi, if Cal or I asked or someone told them to sleep.”

“Kazi?”

“They’re a Sunfire elf. They were the one that translated Callum’s signing.”

“Ah. Continue.”

“Or, y’know, don’t,“  the Skywing interjected, ignored once again.

“Most elves are incredibly formal around dragons, Dragon Guards, and any form of nobility, simply by nature. Callum is not. He used to remind himself not to hug Janai because she’s royalty, but never did that for Kazi because they didn’t care and they also aren’t in any way a noble. I think he nearly combusted when Janai-”

“SHE DOESN’T NEED TO KNOW ABOUT THAT-”

“-When Janai came over and asked him if he hated her.” Rayla glanced at the now very red elf (huh, she thought he’d blush blue) before inquiring further.

“Why did she think he hated her?”

“Because he always gave me hugs, and Kazi hugs, and any dragons he saw, and many of the other elves, but never her. He turned even brighter than he is now when she asked, and he couldn’t speak at all. I had to explain for him, and Janai now refuses to not get a ‘proper goodbye’ if she sees so much as one other person getting them. It’s hilarious!”

“It’s not hilarious if you’re the one who has to hug two royals before being allowed to leave.”

“Two?” The elf lightly cursed to the Great Ones, before very pointedly turning away and nodding his head towards Adju in deflection. Rayla and Runaan both looked expectantly at the prince, who was glowing at the opportunity to share more stories about his companion.

“Janai has a sister, Queen Khessa. We’ve all gotten really close, and Callum didn’t hug either of them because he thought he had to be formal and stuff. So then, when Janai found out that he was doing that, she told Khessa, and he now isn’t allowed to leave Lux Aurea without giving the literal Queen of Lux Aurea some sort of informal goodbye, which means he has to give Janai one as well. And he always resorts to hugging because that’s just how he is.”

“He doesn’t seem very huggable to me,” Rayla commented, lightly poking the elf’s side. He jerked around to glare at her, before facing away again, refusing to make eye contact. The assassin glanced at Adju, startling slightly when she saw him miming something to her. She narrowed her eyes in focus, a grin forming as she realized what he was trying to say.

‘Try it’

With glee, the girl jumped onto Callum’s back, hugging him with all her might. He tensed instantly, squeaking in shock. It seemed that he was too surprised to say anything.

Three seconds later, he was leaning back into Rayla’s body, limp as a sack.

“Is he... asleep?” Runaan asked, leaning down to talk to Adju. The prince shook his head, holding Zym in his own hug.

“No, Callum just can’t find it in him to refuse a hug. So, since some people have tried to kidnap him by grabbing him like that, he goes limp. If they’re giving him a hug, they won’t let go. If they don’t let go, but are still bad, then he usually just elbows them in the stomach. At that point, he knows it’s not a hug, and he’s perfectly okay rejecting kidnapping attempts.”

“People tried to kidnap you?” Rayla stared down at the blue-skinned being, eyes widened.

“Hmm, mhm.”

“... Are ya gettin’ sleepy?”

“Mhm.”

“....Do you want me to let go?”

Silence met her statement, and they all looked at the young elf to find his bright green eyes completely closed.

“Alright, then. I guess I’m gonna be a pillow for now.”

[h-sleepingirl]

Personal Reflection on Hypnosis and Magic

I was fairly obsessed with magic as a child. I grew up in a secular household -- my mother’s side was mixed Christian but she didn’t inherit the beliefs and my father’s side was Jewish but not observant. We did Christmas and Chanukah and Easter for a little while but just as a cultural practice; we never went to church or synagogue and we never even had conversations about God.

I liked fantasy novels a lot, and I liked Harry Potter, and for a bit of time around age 8 I was making a concerted effort to transform into a unicorn. I found sticks outside and pretended they were wands with the neighborhood kids. Fairly standard. It was no surprise that when I started wondering if I should attempt to connect to spirituality in some way as a teen I discovered Neopaganism and Wicca. It was a lot of shy reading in the 130 section at the library and keeping a Book of Shadows and learning how to meditate and all the bells and whistles of ritual and correspondences.

I remember sneaking outside and kneeling in the grass in the backyard under the moon, I remember going to Salem for the first time. I felt like sometimes maybe I was communicating with gods or divine powers but I never was able to buy in, despite completing my year-and-a-day dedication and making the actions a part of my life for several years, on and off. Starting to smoke weed in college refreshed my curiosity and reinforced belief to some degree, of course, but eventually, I had to come to terms with the fact that this wasn’t something I should force myself to do if I didn’t truly feel a connection to it.

But though I dropped the label and identification, the rituals of Wicca (and Feri witchcraft, which I had started exploring) had filled a role for me that childhood religion does for most. They became something I was comfortable conceptualizing, something that I had gained innate familiarity with, even if I ultimately eschewed the spiritual and metaphysical.

Hypnosis was never connected to that, for me; it felt sacrilegious to make an association between something that was supposed to be sacred and divine and something that was, for a long time, a shameful part of my sexuality. But it was around the same time that I was earnestly practicing magic that I began really studying and doing hypnosis.

A partner of mine at that time -- with whom I was doing hypnosis -- asked me, “Isn’t hypnotic trance the same thing as meditation?”

Naively, I vehemently disagreed.

--

The big-name NLP practitioners are obsessed with calling what they do “magic.” “The Structure of Magic,” “Frogs Into Princes,” etc. Their books are filled to the brim with the metaphor that people who use language effectively are wizards, because language is a representation of the world and has the capability to transform (or “trance-form,” as they say). 

I struggled with hypnosis for a long time -- both trancing others and being tranced myself -- for a variety of reasons. But one of them was that I always felt like other people wanted to do stuff with hypnosis, while I just wanted to do hypnosis itself. For a while even when I was more comfortable in my skin, I described myself as “boring” -- I liked things like fractionation and really deep trance and control, but I struggled with articulating if I had attractions to specific activities. Doll play? Sure, I guess that’s fun. Oh, is the induction over already? Ok…

This mirrored an issue I had while practicing Wicca -- spells were always meant to do something, invite love, heal, connect with the divine, whatever. But while I often wanted to do magic, I had a difficult time deciding on what to do with it. This was made even more complex when I realized I was likely stuck as a nonbeliever -- why did I sometimes return to the rituals, and what was I trying to achieve? How could I incorporate it into my life without feeling disingenuous?

Even up until a year ago, when I tried out tarot and kept asking the cards, “What is my relationship with magic?” -- twofold, looking for an answer (that never came), as well as to have the opportunity to simply try to read cards when I had no actual pressing questions I could think of (ironic).

Bandler et al, as well, work within a model where goals and change are the purpose of magic.

What I was seeking, the whole time, was not using any of these processes for anything, but simply to feel the thing I felt while doing them that was both difficult to illustrate and uniquely recognizable, unlike anything else.

Once I realized this, I used to try to describe it in hypnosis as that I wanted to focus on the induction, or that I didn’t care what we did, or that “change” wasn’t important to me. But that’s not accurate, either. Transformation, manifestation sates that desire when done in a certain way -- surely then I think that NLP perfectly describes my model?

My hesitation there is that I think for myself, it is the pure exhilaration from doing the thing that is what feels like the sweet spot, and it’s not dependent on what direction it goes, what form it takes, or what goal is being achieved.

For me, that feeling of “doing magic” and “doing hypnosis” are completely interchangeable. It is a pure thrill. It is a specific feeling in my mind and body that I can attempt to describe but can never fully enunciate. It changes and shifts but it is always recognizable on some level.

It is much more like doing recreational drugs than it is about prescribing something. Purely hedonistically, I am seeking a high.

--

I don’t believe in magic. I have had a handful of experiences in my life that have made me deeply question that at times, and they are experiences that I have never reconciled, but that is sort of besides the point. Nothing has ever pushed me into a place where I am able to fully embrace the concept that magic exists in any real sense.

But when I do hypnosis, it is impossible not to work within this model. How else am I supposed to describe what it feels like when I look at someone and know what they are thinking, or I just imagine my will suppressing theirs and their eyes flutter, or I think about what I want and my mouth starts moving elegantly in a way that makes it happen? In kinesthetic hypnosis, it is almost too much. My muscle memory is to do things like manifest energy flowing into and through my fingers, affecting my partner, and it was years of trying rituals like blue fire Feri meditations that made that so easy to feel.

It is not that I can make an easy statement like “hypnosis is magic.” It is not literally true. But as a metaphor, it holds a lot of potency. And magic is a powerful and ubiquitous metaphor; it is culturally ingrained in us in the stories we tell and our history. It is vague; there is no universal definition of it, which allows us to stretch it extensively and apply it wherever we feel it fits.

Metaphor itself is a type of magic, and this is one area where my thoughts about the metaphysical qualities of hypnosis shine through. Magic is about symbolism. We use objects, words, actions that we assign meaning to in order to manifest something. Herbs are purported to have affinities for different concepts so we include them in ritual -- and it’s not just that those affinities are inherent; there is meaning behind the correspondences that works best when we understand it. Similarly, when we are attempting to relate a concept to someone, we often do so indirectly, by telling a story, by creating metaphors or associations.

I don’t believe in magic, so to some degree, when I do it, that action is metaphorical. I am using actions that I don’t literally believe to hold any power in order to find a feeling; I am telling a story about a journey in order to find a real destination. This holds true to one of my beliefs, that symbols themselves hold little to no objective meaning. NLP and Alfred Korzybski say, “The map is not the territory; the word is not the thing; this is not a pipe; there is no objective truth.” Our entire world is made of symbols and metaphors that we all have to buy into in order to function as humans. We assign values to things that intrinsically have much different or nonexistent value -- prices, nostalgia, connotation. A magical symbol, in my eyes, is only as powerful as the connections we’re able to make with it in our minds. Color associations are symbolic. The action of casting a circle is symbolic. 

Words are symbols as well, and I do drink the Kool-aid with NLP on this, to some degree. I think about how words are dependent on a vast, intangible amount of variables in order to settle on their presumed, subjective interpretation by a listener or reader. We do this processing as well as thinking about our intent unconsciously, for the most part. If I assume that language is at least partially representative of our experiences and worlds, that gives communication a lot of power, and sure, yes, fine, that smells like magic to me, I’ll take your 20th tired book now Mr. Bandler, sir.

So to some degree the metaphor of magic is about things that are too big, or too grand, or too unknowable to talk about concretely. We often say something is magical when it is difficult or impossible to explain any other way. I can talk plenty about unconscious reading and microexpressions and altered states and language patterns and any number of artifacts that factor into hypnosis, but although it’s fascinating to know about them and helpful to consider and learn, I don’t often think about them when it actually comes down to it. I used to, but not for a while, and there is surely something to be said there for what “becoming experienced” means in both concepts.

It connects to when I think about what things we tend to call “magical” in hypnosis. When I respond without conscious effort, when something is “too fast,” when I feel like I can just purely make someone do something amazing. Sure, it can be easy enough to pick those apart and use academic language and explain them, but sometimes I drive myself insane trying to do that when I just want to say, “It’s magic; it feels like magic.”

--

After leaving my exploration of witchcraft for a while, I ended up adopting parts of it back into my life. I had more connection to the holidays on the Wheel of the Year than any others, really, and Wiccan ritual feels natural to me. I don’t call myself a witch, and I struggled for a long time looking for a label that fits what I do.

When I picked it back up, it was for a Samhain (Halloween) ritual to show my partner. It had been years, but I felt more comfortable casting a circle and doing all the things than I ever had been. I realized that my magic practice had begun to look a lot more like my hypnosis practice. I was speaking and acting unconsciously, simply filtering whispers of my intent through my words and actions. I had no plan and was following no script, but I knew what to do and say. We were both in very deep trance and we could feel the boundary of the circle as a physical thing, the air buzzing. It was the first moment that I had allowed a harmonious marriage between my knowledge of witchcraft and my practice of hypnosis, and I got the druglike thrill that I always seek. We sat in the circle for an hour, unbeknownst to us.

I did some searching to try to find if others had a similar experience or worldview. The best I could describe what I was doing was “psychological magic” or “witchcraft-flavored hypnosis.” I found very little; chaos magic and secular witchcraft were not what I was searching for.

Despite feeling a little lost, the experience reignited my desire for magical ritual. It has always been complicated to go through the motions that logically have no objective power to me, and saying that I give them power feels like a cop-out when I feel like I give them nothing. To some degree, equating it to hypnosis on any level feels like a crutch, but it’s one I’m used to; after all, there is plenty of me that doesn’t really believe in hypnosis, either -- “Hypnosis is bullshit.”

But “spellwork” became the most effortless thing in the world to me when it used to be so careful and unsure and measured. I take my props, I think about what they could symbolize, I think about how they connect to all the other ingredients available to me. I assign value and meaning through those connections and logic in a pattern my brain knows all too well. It is just like manipulation, and I use that to feel things. Creating rituals is just like giving a good suggestion; identify the message of the utterance and craft something poignant and poetic with the tools at hand to give it meaning. In hypnosis, the tools are your place in the story/trance, your vocabulary, the tone, the props, your history and the history of the person you’re with. In magic, the tools are the same, but possibly with a different flavor. A hypnotic tool is the logic that the word “deeper” is a sensory-rich word; a magical tool is the logic that clockwise motion can be equated to “more.” Both tools are malleable.

I mentioned poetry, and I think for me, one of the most important parts of good magic (and good hypnosis) is that it’s beautiful in some way. Wicca, like other religions, puts emphasis on reverence. Even many secular witches will be awed by nature and use that as a motivating force. Magic is not inherently naturalistic for me, even though I borrow the aesthetic. I don’t necessarily seek that kind of divine wonderment, but my attraction is adjacent.

--

My desires with magic are incredibly reflective of my desires with hypnosis -- power. Blind desire for power, whether to have it or have it taken away from me. It sounds evil to write it out, but at its base level it’s much less about anything but a simple feeling. It feels good and heady and awe-filled, and while on some level that’s sexually driven, I think it might also come from another, deeper place.

I still get uncomfortable when magical rituals feel too sensual, and there is a similar discomfort when hypnosis scenes feel too spiritual, but the latter is easier than the former. Generally, I still don’t know “what” to do when I do magic -- I only know “how” to do it. And not to mention “why” I would do magic if I don’t believe in it.

There’s a lot left that I haven’t reconciled. I suppose from a very broad lens, trying to codify the connections I feel between these two concepts is an attempt to make it easier to think about from a variety of different perspectives. I think about how I got over the phase of calling myself “boring” with hypnosis for only seeking feelings, not concepts, and think maybe that will help me with magic. I think about how I became more comfortable over time with my motivations to do hypnosis -- then less comfortable, then more comfortable. A key of my self-growth has always been recognizing and accepting my cyclical nature. (Wicca might say something about moon phases or a myriad of other natural cycles here; hypnosis and NLP might say something about patterns.)

To some degree, these kinds of explorations are valuable because they force us to limit our frames of reference as well. I barely touched upon connected ideas like religion or kink as a whole, how teaching and writing play in, my skill with self-hypnosis (surprisingly low) or connection to mesmerism/magnetism, and so much more. But it’s approaching nebulous concepts like this in a variety of different ways where we find answers, because often we don’t really even know what questions we should be asking.

--

I hope you enjoyed this piece! There was of course a lot I wanted to say and I’m very interested if this sparks any ideas or conversations -- when I first talked about this on Twitter, I was happily surprised how many folks had some similar thoughts or experiences and wanted to relate.

If you liked this writing and want to see more, you can find similar pieces available on Patreon or Gumroad; I write 6-8k words per month, sometimes academic and sometimes more exploratory like this. Please check it out! You can also get this writing as a downloadable PDF and tip through Gumroad, if you feel so inclined.

Thanks as always for your support, no matter what form that takes, be it monetary or simply reading through what I have to say.

- sleepingirl