#AND THE FACT THAT TEA FOLLOWED ME IS ENOUGH MOTIVATION

[jubshead]

I'm thinking about starting to edit again….

[forresttfirre]

— the “informant” (jason todd x reader)

Summary: You mark up one of Jason's case files, and it slips both of your minds the next day. So, when Jason brings the file with him to the cave, everyone quickly catches on to the fact that Jason is working with someone. He's able to pass it off as just an informant, but one sibling stumbles upon the truth. Word count: 1.1k

Jason lands as quietly as possible on the fire escape attached to his apartment — top floor corner, adjacent to an alley with almost zero lighting and a building with no windows. Great for a vigilante at least.

He crouches down by the window, pressing a disguised button to disable the alarm attached. After the soft popping sound, he pushes up the window and steps through into his apartment. His boots land on scuffed hardwood with a thud and he quickly shuts the window, turning the alarm back on while doing so.

The apartment is silent besides the soft rush of air coming from the air conditioner. As he moves into his kitchen, he hears a mug be placed on the counter gently, then the scratch of a pen against paper. A small fond smile forms on his face, hidden by his helmet, which he takes off as he passes through the archway.

You're sitting at the counter, a cup of tea to your right and a file in front of you. "You snoopin' through my stuff now?" He teases. You pick up your head the slightest, and he can make your sheepish smile. "You seemed a little stumped, thought I could offer my expertise." Jason is reminded of the past you once held, following your "mentor" around the world as they battled assassins and the like. You had a similar life to him, but you left your cape behind for a new start in Gotham of all places. He got lucky meeting you.

Jason watches as you twirl a glittery, purple gel pen in between your fingers. He silently removes the rest of his getup as you return to making small notes in the margins of the case profile. Being with you is easy, because sometimes his presence in the room is enough. No words have to be exchanged even as time passes.

He peels off his mask and washes away the 'glue' on his face. Jason can feel your eyes on him, watching as he shrugs off his leather jacket, then his gloves. "You joining me?" He asks when he turns around, tipping his head toward the hallway that leads to the bathroom. Sometimes, when he arrives home and you're awake, you'll join him in the shower. It's never anything sexual, but relaxing nonetheless; with your hands gentle as you run the soap through his hair, and your soft words. "Mmm...sure. I'm about done, anyway." You slip off the stool silently, closing the file before stretching your arms above your head.

A moment later, Jason is in front of you, placing a kiss on your temple, your cheek. "I think they might be selling to Scarecrow, some of the chemicals are similar to what he's been using lately." Jason groans at your statement and his head falls to lean against your shoulder. "Not now, I do not need more motivation to go back out there."

"Later, then."

Later never comes; Jason picks up a shift at the auto shop near the edge of Park Row, and you go into work as you usually do. He completely forgets about your 'annotations', so he brings the file with him when he visits the cave later that night.

"Since when do you own a glitter pen?" Tim teases from his spot by the computer, Jason's file open in front of him. "What— Gimme it." Jason springs forward, memories from the previous night coming back to him. Tim quickly grabs the papers, holding them in the air and leaving the manila file folder on the desk.

"What's going on?" Steph questions, eyes narrowed as Tim stands on his chair to get a height advantage over Jason. "Todd uses a glitter pen." Damian rolls his eyes before going back to sparring against a hologram.

"It's purple," Tim grins and laughs as Steph gasps dramatically. "You do like purple! I knew it!"

"I do not! Give me the file, replacement. I'm serious." Jason wraps his arm around Tim, pulling off the chair and into his arms. Tim squirms, then falls to the floor with the papers still in his hands. He scrambles up quickly, and extends his staff. "This isn't your handwriting...you're working with someone!" Tim exclaims, poking Jason away from him as he quickly reads through the top paper.

"Jason, we should talk before you let anyone else read our case files," Bruce comments as he easily grabs the papers from Tim's hands. "I'm not working with anyone," Jason grumbles, rolling his eyes behind his mask. However, his cheeks are red hot, thankfully hidden by his helmet.

Dick peers over Bruce's shoulder, reading as well. "Tim's right though, this isn't your handwriting," He grins brightly, walking over to Jason with a giddy smile. "Did you make a new friend, Little Wing?" Jason can hear Steph and Tim laugh in the background as he groans.

"It's— They're just an informant, I did background checks and I've known them for a bit. I trust them." Everyone goes quiet for a bit, staring at him like it's hard to believe that he'd let anyone else get that close. "That's good," Dick comments, and everyone murmurs their agreements. It's awkward, because they still step around like he'll snap at them any second.

"I'm leaving." He stomps over to his bike, the engine roaring loudly as he starts it up. There's eyes on his back until he's out of the cave.

After Bruce and Tim read through the papers annotated by Jason's informant, Cass grabs them. Tim had taken pictures to try and analyze the handwriting, and she could see Bruce's silent questions about who the informant could be. Whoever Jason gave the file had insight even Tim missed the first time, and they added funny little comments on the side. When she goes to put the papers back in the file folder, she finds a sticky note on the inside in the same glittery purple pen. You're welcome Jay; I <3 U :).

Cass smiles softly, taking out the sticky note carefully and putting the papers back. When she goes out, she starts in Crime Alley first, even if it's Jason's territory. He finds her quickly.

"What're you doing here, Bat?" Jason asks, arms crossed over his chest. Cass opens one of the pockets on her belt, and pulls out the sticky note. She unfolds it before handing it to Jason. He reads it, then quickly looks at Cass again. "You didn't show anyone, did you?"

She shakes her head and Jason sighs in relief. "Thanks." Cass nods before leaving the rooftop just as fast as she came.

Jason folds the note back up with a smile. He'll have to delete some of his mask footage tonight.

my first time writing for jason, i hope you enjoy ☺️

[sixosix]

ONE LOOK (MEANT JUST FOR YOU) | WRIOTHESLEY

700 words of wriothesley visiting your home and pure fluff ensuing

Moving swiftly around the kitchen, the clinking of glass plates and glasses left you no room to detect Wriothesley's stealthy entrance. You only noticed him when you moved to wipe the table, only to see a broad figure standing by your doorway, a fond smile on his face.

The moment your gazes lock, Wriothesley takes it as his cue to gently shut the door behind him and make his way inside. He moves with some difficulty—limping, almost, and if you had been anyone else, you might not have noticed.

Your eyes track each movement. “Feeling unwell, Your Grace?”

“Yes, unfortunately,” he grunts out.

Despite that, his tone has this playful chipper to it that brings a smile to your face. You swipe over the table with a wet rag, leaving suds. “Anything that needs immediate medical attention? …Anything that you’ve kept from Sigewinne?”

“Don’t worry,” Wriothesley huffs a laugh, sinking against your couch. He groans out in relief as he melts. You wince upon hearing a crack here and there.

Wriothesley pays visits to your home whenever his schedule permits. While there are days when work keeps him occupied in his office, there are more than enough occasions where you can see that nothing has changed. This is still the same Wriothesley who shared affectionate moments with you in the comfort of your home and who flirted shamelessly and endlessly in his office at the Fortress of Meropide. He was never reticent about expressing his intentions and words. Good times.

You wring the cloth and let clean water run over your hands to wash the remaining suds off. You feel Wriothesley’s piercing gaze follow you around. “Want some tea?” You cast him a glance over your shoulder.

He flashes a wicked grin, able to look all regal even when he has his cheek pressed against your sofa’s headrest. “You know the way to my heart.” He shifts, extending one free arm outward as if preparing for a hug. “Though, I need you more than I need tea at the moment.”

A snort escapes you, diverting his attention from your stunned surprise at his shamelessness. “I’ll make you your favorite.”

Wriothesley says something about you’re his favorite but you tune him out in favor of not slipping and splashing hot water all over the floors you’ve just cleaned. He calls for your name again, dragging it out and wilting in defeat when you shoot him a stern and disapproving glare.

“Don’t distract me, idiot,” you say, watching the water steam and boil. As it does, you rummage through the cabinets for the cubes of sugar you’ve been buying more often because of that guy. “It’s not every day I was bored enough to take it upon myself to clean. I was taken by the burst of motivation.”

Wriothesley chuckles and thankfully lets himself enjoy the silence. The only sounds are the gentle padding of your feet around the kitchen and the clinking of tea cups against the table, all enveloped in a comforting atmosphere. Wriothesley's mere presence has the power to make anyone feel secure and at ease. It might be the broad shoulders or his feared name and title, or it might be the fact that he swore he would protect you as much as you protect him in sweet moments like this.

You place the two cups on the coffee table before him. Wriothesley then pulls you into his chest, causing you to yelp and tumble right into his waiting arms.

“Your tea is getting cold,” you say.

“Your lips look colder,” he says, his breath hot on the shell of your ear.

You narrow your eyes. “Wriothesley…”

He snorts, placing a kiss on your temple. “None of whatever you’re thinking, sweetheart. I just need you close.”

And keep you close he did. He has you trapped in his arms, but you feel far from trapped. You shuffle until your head is resting on his bicep, and you can meet his eyes. He’s silent.

“...Wriothesley.”

He fixes his heavy stare on your face, his own unreadable. “Hm?”

You press your hand against his jaw. “Is there something wrong?”

“God,” he murmurs, cupping your cheeks, “you’re so cute.”

Your heart flutters and threatens to flee from your chest. “I—I know. You should feel fortunate that you’re the only one who gets to hold me like this.” You try to sound haughty. It fails miserably at the warmth quickly spreading all over your face and your heartbeat, making you trip all over your words.

“I’m the only one, huh?” A gleam sparks in his eye, turning somewhat dangerous—fierce. “What I like to hear.”

for @naosaki with the chibi wrio pfp

[p2pecleanerwitheyes]

Say you'll never let go

Pairing: Lilia Calderu x Reader

Summary: You had a testing day and wanted to finally feel good, though going against Lilia's rules never proved to be a wise choice...

Warnings & content: Masturbation, hurt/comfort, light angst, nipple play, spanking, crying, fluff, mommy kink

uhhh thats it i think, lmk if i missed any

A/N: I have literally never written anything like this before so please be gentle with me. Huge thanks to @aggieharkness for motivating me to write this and being my excellent beta reader, couldn't have done it without ya boo. Let me know what yall think!!

Ao3

The day had been quite long, far too long. Customers coming in demanding their meals be 

made to perfection while tipping either nothing or the bare minimum.

People had slipped on wet floors, the cook had ended up burning his hand and you were now stepping into Lilia's shop and home with the smell of grease  on your clothes and a breadstick in your pocket. Too damn long. The moment you stepped inside the room it was like your entire body could finally breathe and relax, the aroma of cinnamon and incense overshadowing the grease on your uniform, and what a wonderful smell it was. Your bag landed on the floor by the curtain and your keys flew to the kitchen table, where a cup of cold tea rested.

You needed a release, something to make you feel even a little better after the horrendous day you had. Lilia was always very dominant in bed, she liked the control it gave her and she liked how much you needed her in those intimate moments. Sure, she always carried an essence of tenderness, but she had rules and all hell would come down on you if you broke them. 

You recalled the memory of one night, when you touched her without permission. It ended with you tied to the bed with a vibrator whirring relentlessly against your engorged clit with no mercy in sight. The thought alone made you shudder. 

Don’t touch yourself without mama’s permission. That was the main rule, and one you never ceased to follow but today you were just too past your limit to care so you pulled the bed down from the wall and laid down, praying that Lilia wouldn’t come home early. 

You made no effort to even remove your stained uniform before getting to work. Opening the fly of your stained chinos and pulling your underwear to the side, having to peel them off your wet crotch. 

Your hand made its way down your pussy, and the lingering thought of what Lilia might do if she caught you was clouded by the fact that you needed this. Your middle and ring finger immediately found your clit, this was a lot more rushed and sloppy than you would usually find yourself but the pleasure was warming you from the inside out and the stress of the day seemed to melt away imminently. The slick that traveled down your arse and dripped onto your knickers was proof enough of this fact. Small gasps turned into whines and whimpers as you drove yourself closer to the edge, imagining that it were Lilia rubbing her good girl instead, or at least watching. 

Little did you know, she was. So consumed with pleasure, you had failed to notice her arrival home and how she was stood, eying you like a hawk as you did the one thing she had forbidden you to do. As your moans grew louder and your throat became raw, Lilia’s look of disappointment turned into a smirk, she knew what she had to do. 

You were close, she could tell, she knew your body and the cues it gave. With one final cry you reached your peak, only to feel a cold, aged hand pry your fingers away from your aching mound, ruining your orgasm. Oh shit. 

Your eyes shot open to see your girlfriend, hovering above you with a wicked smile. Her expression carried a faux sense of gentleness that you knew would be gone within the minute.

Her voice was soothing as she cooed 

~ Oh doll… whatever will we do with you hm? 

~ I…Lil…you’re home early.

A blush crept over your face as you took in the compromising situation, Lilia was towered above you with your hand in her own. Your hand that was glistening with evidence of your fuck up, Your fly was still open and your underwear had been haphazardly moved to the side, leaving your dripping pussy on full veiw. 

~ Mm it would appear so…were you really that needy that you had to take matters into your own hands? That you had to go against me? 

~ N-no…I…it’s not like that, please just let me explain. 

Lilia chuckled mockingly, her mind was reeling with ways she could punish you and she wouldn’t let any excuse deter her. 

~ Oh you have some nerve hun, you think you can just defy me and then try to seek sympathy? Absolutely not! Here’s how it’s gonna go, since you so desperately want to cum, I'll let you-

~ R-really? 

~ Ah you didn’t let me finish I was going to explain how I am going to force you to cum over and over until you are begging me to stop.   Maybe i should spank you just for interrupting me? 

Usually those words would leave you dripping, you had always liked it when Lilia had her way with you and this is information she knew and definitely took advantage of. She would never truly hurt you and you both knew that, but you really wished that she would just hear you out today and provide you with some gentleness that you hadn’t received much of at work. Nevertheless, she had a plan and she was going to carry it out.

~ You know the drill. Be a good girl and get on all fours for mama. 

Her voice was commanding and sharp, leaving no room for discussion. Despite your need for some love and tenderness, you obliged. You stripped reluctantly, discarding your clothes and assuming the position on the bed. You felt vulnerable and tired, so very tired.  

Lilia didn’t notice your unusual demeanor as she was so consumed by her own desires, any other day she would have checked in with you first but not today, today she needed this. 

~ How many spanks does mama’s girl think she deserves for being such a disobedient slut? 

~ I don’t know. 

~ I don’t like your tone, young lady. Ten for touching yourself without permission and another ten for the manners you have forgotten to use twice now. And you best count or I’ll add on two for every number you miss. 

Without another word, Lilia’s hand met your ass, creating a noise that reverberated off the walls of the small apartment. Then the tears fell, you just wanted to be shown at least a small amount of care and yet here you were with your ass up, being spanked by the woman who is supposed to be showing you that love you so desperately needed. Your thoughts were interrupted by Lilia’s voice, which had only become more angry with your silence. 

~ I seem to recall telling you to count, looks like that’s two more, you’re really disappointing mama today. 

The mixture of Lilia’s harsh words and the next slap, which was much harder than the one before, made the tears flow stronger. Your silent cries became sobs that pierced Lilia’s heart. How could she be so stupid? You were obviously the victim of a bad day and she had only gone and made it worse. Her hand quickly soothed your sore bottom as she leant forward to whisper in your ear. 

~…Doll, are you okay? 

Only now did she see the hurt in your eyes and the mascara running down your cheeks. You were still on all fours and waiting with your eyes pried shut, scared for the next hit. The ringing in your ears had grown so loud that you didn’t hear Lilia’s question. She had never seen you look so broken and fearful of her. 

~ Y/N, it’s okay, im not gonna hit you again, come back to me. 

Finally, her words made their way to your ears, your eyes opened to see Lilia’s face close to yours and the warmth in her smile reassured you that you would be okay. 

~ There’s my girl

Lilia leant back on the headboard and opened her arms for you to crawl into, the guilt rested heavy on her heart and she wanted to make this better any way she could. As you nestled in the crook of her neck, her hands found your back and your hair, stroking soothing circles down your spine and combing your sweaty locks. The tears never stopped flowing, in fact, they became worse. As the stress of the day flowed out of your eyes Lilia shushed you and told you how much she loved and cared for you. Finally, you spoke through sobs, your voice hoarse but understandable. 

~ M-mama…can I…have…

Lilia didn’t need any more of that question before she had her patchwork dress pulled down slightly and her breasts spilling out of her black lacy bra. Your eyes followed her wrinkles all the way to her stiff peaks that were made for you to latch onto, and your mouth immediately connected with them, suckling lightly as Lilia let out soft moans. 

~ Mmm that feels so good baby, mama is so sorry for making you feel like this and I am never disappointed in you. It seems you haven’t been treated too well today. We can talk about that later if you want to? 

You hummed in agreement as your sobs slowed down. You were only focused on the comfort brought by having your mama in your mouth. You were still naked and vulnerable but now you knew that Lilia would give you all the love in her heart. 

As your mouth worked on Lilia’s chest, your vagina ached with the broken promises of an orgasm and this wasn’t something that Lilia would ignore. She could feel the way you subconsciously grinded against her thigh and the way your cheeks carried a red hue that could only mean your libido was through the roof right now. Though this wasn’t a feeling of lust, rather a genuine need to be made to feel good by the woman you loved most. 

Lilia’s hand stayed on the back of your head, keeping you close to her as you switched between her nipples and latched on like a starved newborn; and the other one moved south. Stroking down the small of your back, to your thighs that were curled as you took on a fetal position. This action sent fresh heat pooling in the bottom of your stomach and made you suckle harder as you grew more and more needy. 

~ Does mama’s girl want to feel good? 

You looked up eagerly with drool covering your bottom lip and made an attempt to move into a more suitable position, but Lilia’s hand stayed firm on your head. 

~ Honey it’s okay, you don’t have to move from there. Let mama take care of you like this. Okay? 

Without another word, Lilia’s skilled fingers found your sensitive clit and began to rub slow and tight circles. You whimpered into her chest - creating vibrations that shot down to Lilia’s core but her movements on you never stuttered. Her fingers increased their pace as she kissed the top of your head, she was being gentle with you and you appreciated it more than words could express. 

Lilia’s fingers spread up and your high was approaching very quickly, she could tell. A fresh sweat coated your brow as your body tensed up. 

~ You know I usually don’t let you cum without permission, but today you can cum whenever you’re ready. You’ve been such a strong girl for mama and you’re doing so well. 

Her voice was low and caring, and just what you needed to send you over the edge fully. Every muscle in your body became stiff as you clenched around nothing and pushed your head closer to Lilia, her fingers still working to prolong your orgasm. And as your chest heaved, she slowed. 

Lilia’s eyes never left yours as you squeezed them shut. The guilt was still prominent, but her heart was now overflowing with love and adoration for you. As you came down from your high and aftershocks consumed you, Lilia never let go of your small figure, absorbing every laboured breath that left your mouth. 

~ Are you okay? 

~Mmm 

Lilia let out a small chuckle at your non-committal response and the way your eyelids grew heavier by the second. She got up, having to pry you off of her and grabbed a damp cloth to clean you up. 

~ There, all good. How about we talk about your day tomorrow? I don’t want my girl to fall asleep on me mid conversation. 

~ No, it’s okay I’ll talk now.  

~ Are you sure? You need to rest doll. 

You smiled softly and nodded, reassuring Lilia that you were okay. 

And with that, Lilia removed her clothes, knowing how much skin-to-skin contact soothed you. You bathed in the afterglow of your orgasm and nuzzled in the crook of Lilia’s neck, inhaling her scent and feeling at peace. 

~ So, what happened baby? What got you so worked up hm? 

Your fingers mindlessly picked at the beds of your nails - a nasty habit you had picked up from years of stress. Only when you felt Lilia’s hand covering yours, did you look up. 

~ Darling, you know I don’t like you doing that, you’ll make yourself bleed. 

~Sorry…habit. 

~I know, but you have nothing to worry about, I am here to listen and we can take the conversation at whatever pace you want to. 

The smile that she gave you made you know that she was being truthful, and your resolve crumbled. The tears flowed once more as you explained how things had gone at the diner and how you only touched yourself because you needed some satisfaction after the awful day. Your numerous apologies were shushed and interrupted by Lilia. 

~ Oh honey, I am so so so sorry that I didn’t check in with you before doing what I did. I should’ve paid attention to how you were and I should’ve at least helped. I know it might be too late now but is there anything I can do to help?

~ Just being here, holding me, is enough. 

~ Of course, I’ll always be here for you. I love you, Y/N. 

~ You’re not so bad yourself, Calderu. 

Lilia let out a small chuckle at your response. She held you all through the night, stroking your hair and coaxing you to sleep with words of love and reassurance. 

[thekatebridgerton]

HAVE YOU SEEN WHAT THEY DID TO MICHAEL STIRLING?!

I haven't seen part 2 yet but I definitely saw the spoilers on my dashboard. And for all that its worth, I'm really sad about it right now.

I've seen a lot of posts invalidating the feelings of book fans by saying things along the lines of 'if you don't like Michaela Stirling you're ...you guessed it a #BadPerson' and I'm trying to process which person's feelings matter and don't matter in a world where those same people preach acceptance and support. I want my feelings to matter, I want to be allowed to be sad about the fact that this character I was looking forward to seeing is no longer going to be on screen. But the truth is a lot of people keep saying that my sadness and sorrow is invalid shaming people who feel like I do with all the self righteousness of a pastor in church. because apparently not liking the genderbeding of Michael Stirling makes me a #RaginghaterOfMinorities.

And lets be clear, everyone can say what they want, but book Michael Stirling is not going to be on screen, his story was too emeshed with the gender roles of the era, for a genderbent take to not strip and reorder the character's motivations and major plot lines in order to make him a woman. Michaela Stirling is for all intents and purposes a new and improved character. More power to her.

Still that doesn't take away the fact that I am sad and disappointed that Michael Stirling won't be on screen and that it will take me time to process this in a healthy way.

So in case nobody has said this to the crowd who is heartbroken over the genderbeding of Michael Stirling, those who feels upset and disappointed over the loss of a beloved character and don't feel brave enough to express it. Let me be the first to tell you that your feelings are valid, disliking the change in direction that was taken for a fictional character doesn't make you racist or homophobic or anti feminist or any other of those ' you are a raging hater of minorities ' epithets. ( Some of you may even be the kindest people I've met on the site) In my opinion, those feelings just make you human, and you should be allowed to feel it and process the loss in a healthy way without being told youre selfish and a bad person.

Does being heartbroken over this give anyone the right to go and harass actors like Masali Baduza for doing a job they were hired and paid to do? No. Does it give anyone the right to go send nasty harassment anons to people who actually liked the change? Also no. In fact it doesn't give the right to people who have a different opinion to harass you either. Boundaries are a two way street. Don't harass others and don't consent to receiving harassment is a rule we should all follow

But it does give you the right to feel your emotions, process them, accept the change and move on with a healthy mindset.

Its going to take me a while to get there myself, but that's what I'm doing.

And that's the tea

[two-white-butterflies]

❀ - accustomed to destruction (III)

Description: Elrond makes his suspicions known to Lord Celebrimbor. Thranduil seeks out a man named Adar.

A Helen of Troy inspired fic where Annatar abducts Thranduil's wife.

Pairings: thranduil/reader, annatar/reader

Part Two |

ELROND

Elrond hesitated at the threshold, his hands danced against the wooden details of Celebrimbor's door, but he remained reluctant. He had a conversation with his wife last night, and truly, their hypothesis sounded plausible, but that was tonight, and now it was already morning, the sun was beginning to shine upon the courtyards of Eregion. Matter of fact, Elrond feels the damning eyes of the sun staring at him with a raised eyebrow: Really, Lady Danaë is the missing princess? 

He almost bites back a groan. 

"What are you doing there?" He hears Celebrimbor's voice from behind him. Elrond slightly pales in embarrassment. "I wanted to speak to you, my lord." He opens his mouth to speak, praying that Celebrimbor wasn't there long enough to witness his internal monologue, for that would be far too embarrassing. Elrond eyes the other man from his head to his toes, able to surmise that the Lord was still wearing his smithing attire - he must've come straight from the forges. "Nothing serious, I hope." Celebrimbor lightens the mood while opening the door to his office. 

Elrond follows after the Lord of Eregion. 

Celebrimbor has always been known for his acclimation towards everything luxurious, and Elrond was not surprised to see his office decked in dark wood and gold. It was a room that rivaled the office of King Gil-Galad, although Elrond supposes that the King doesn't mind - for he isn't known for his jealousy nor his love for luxury. "I do not mean to disappoint you," Elrond sits on the chair opposite Celebrimbor's. "- It is the matter with the elven princess." 

Celebrimbor raises an eyebrow while pouring himself a cup of tea. 

"Has she been found?" He asks. 

"I think I know where she is," the herald claims with 5/10 certainty. Well, to explain those chances, it is the same chances as a six-sided die rolling out even numbers. "You said that you have hired a new smith, Celebrian tells me that his name is Echthrós." Elrond begins the conversation, not failing to see how Lord Celebrimbor paled, nervously drinking his chamomile. 

There was more than what meets the eye, truly. 

"I do not mean to impose, but I find it peculiar that a man arrives with his wife and a child, when a wife and a child are missing in Greenwood. On top of that, the babe's name is a Silvan one." Elrond pointed out the coincidences that appeared far too often for it to be considered a coincidence. "I believe that Sauron would be wise enough to give the babe another name," Celebrimbor's lips settled into a thin line. 

That was what I was saying! Elrond screams inside his head. 

"- but nevertheless, given the circumstances," Elrond argues. 

Even when the odds seemed far too impossible, Celebrimbor should still look into that Echthrós. It is what King Oropher would do if they had happened upon the same scenario. 

"I understand your concerns, I truly do, but Echthrós is a good man. I have spent long nights with him, and he has shed thousands of tears in memory of his family. There is a tenderness inside of him that cannot be replicated by any dark force." Celebrimbor defends the foreigner, whom he is unsure if he can call a foreigner, for Echthrós insists that they are kin. 

"- But I shall look into it. You are right, we cannot be too careless." Celebrimbor settles on a compromise. 

Elrond finds his tone antagonizing, almost foreign, as if the other man is controlled by a force. He might as well be. They might as well all be damned. 

"I would like to lead that investigation." Elrond insisted. 

It is the least that he could do; finding the elven princess and uncovering Sauron's motives would ensure the safety of the realm. Elrond takes a deep breath, his mind returning to the daughter that he was forced to leave in Lothlorien. Arwen, his inspiration, who was probably giving her grandfather one hell of a time. Elrond cracks a smile at the thought of stoic Celeborn taking care of a small crying babe. I must return home soon, but first I must solve the matter with Celebrimbor, Elrond thinks to himself. 

Celebrimbor looked partly taken aback, but knowing the calamity of this problem, he had no choice but to agree. "Of course," he forces a thin-lipped smile, after all, Elrond has already forced his hand. 

.

.

.

THRANDUIL

In more ways than one, the elven prince found himself careening into a chamber of madness, only kept sane by the thought of you suffering under the weight of Gorthaur's games. Gilda says that the Dark Lord marched into your chambers wearing his face - he cannot even begin to imagine the lengths of your torment. Each night, when he sleeps under the careful watch of the stars (he sleeps only when he is tired; the hollow bags underneath his eyes are proof of his torture), he dreams of you - his wife, his princess. 

He sees you inside a dark chamber, fighting against claws that scratch your porcelain skin, drawing blood. Every morning, he wakes up needing more rest than when he previously slept. 

He closes his eyes, tries to feel Arda for your fea, but he is answered with silence. A deafening silence that should make him believe that you're dead, but still, he holds hope, because he hears your fea faintly, voice, rattling like the leaves of a dying tree. He hears it in the wind, the green leaves delivering the sounds of his babe's giggles. His hope is renewed with every blow of the wind - his dedication to bring you home made anew. 

It has been twenty and four turns of the moon since he left the comforts of Greenwood, for he knew that there was only one person who could answer the whereabouts of Gorthaur. "I've heard whispers of you, elven prince, but I did not believe them to be true." A voice from behind him beckoned. Thranduil's heart thumped furiously, twelve turns of the moon since he started searching for the man who calls himself Adar, and now... "I apologize for trespassing on your lands," the elven prince tried to keep his voice low. His head bowed. 

The other man responds with an amused chuckle. 

"These are not my lands, and you really must be desperate," the man mumbled while taking a step forward. 

Thranduil lifts his gaze, momentarily taken aback by the sight of the other man. His pale alabaster skin was marred by cuts and bruises that would never heal, but it was not his skin that made the Prince gasp, but rather his pointed ears. "You're an elf," he whispers out loud. 

"I am not," the man growls. "Apologies," Thranduil quickly says. 

His grip on his bow felt clammy, his mind counting every second of this conversation; that is all he is doing nowadays, counting each second he's spent away from you and his child. "- You say that you've heard whispers of my search, then surely you must also know my purpose?" Thranduil inquires, his clever mind not dulled by restless sleep. "I have," Adar's face softens slightly, but returns to its previous coldness. "My wife was taken from my home by the very darkness that you once professed to have vanquished," Thranduil informs, his intonation heavy on the word wife. 

Adar mumbles something to himself, but Thranduil does not hear. 

"I do not know where he is," Adar responds, testing to see the lengths of the other man's yearning. Thranduil clenches his jaw, his shoulders tensing up at the mention. The Prince takes a step forward, without fear, fighting against the grumbling of his stomach at the feeling of the other elf's dark spirit. Oh, the Prince would very well ally with Morgoth if it meant bringing you back. "But you have defeated him once," Thranduil points out. 

"It was not easy," Adar reiterated. It took centuries of planning, centuries that he is sure Thranduil does not want to sacrifice. His problem is time-sensitive, too fragile for someone like Adar to handle. "But you still did it," Thranduil points out. 

"I thought you came here to find your missing wife. Now you are speaking of defeating Sauron." Adar almost scoffed, but the other elf's gaze did not falter. 

"If that is what it takes, then why not?" Thranduil raises his eyebrows in defiance.

"He stole my world, the one that I built with blood and love." He adds, fury following each word that he uttered. Sauron stole you, pried you away from his unwilling hands. "He took the woman that I shared my life with, and my child, whom I was not given the courtesy of holding in my arms. If the only way to get them back is by defeating Gorthaur, then let it be and I shall make him swim in a river of his own black blood." Thranduil professed, and Adar did not doubt him for one second. 

Perhaps, there was a sense of kinship between the two of them - both having known the feeling of loss. Their blood both flowed for the promise of revenge, and Adar could not help but hold his tongue. He remained silent.

Thranduil had made mention of a child...he has children too. 

So with a sigh, Adar opened his mouth and said: "Follow me," 

.

.

.

"Where are we going?" Thranduil asked for the thousandth time now. 

Adar rolls his eyes while leading the elf to a more secluded part of the forest, where he and his children had previously set up camp. "Where do you think?" Adar couldn't help but retort.

Thranduil rolls his eyes. 

"Mellon, I do not have time for meaningless dialogue." Thranduil reminded, his fingers tapping against the grip of his bow, meaning he was still counting every second without your presence. "We cannot fly to camp, elfling," Adar snaps, and that was enough to keep the prince from complaining about walking. "- Might I remind you, you have been waiting more than a year." 

"Yes, and I cannot wait another," The Prince breathes, gazing up at the sky and seeing brief hints of smoke. That means that they were close. "You are allowing your distress to cloud your judgment," Adar points out, an observation that only someone who has lived for thousands of years is able to make. "I suggest that you calm down," the other man said plainly. 

He's right, Thranduil thinks to himself. 

So for a moment, Thranduil pries his pointer away from the grip of his bow, opting for it to be held by his thumb (thank you Eru Illuvatar for giving him big thumbs), and for the first time in two years, he stops counting. He allows his mind to be free of time, and instead, he thinks realistically of the ways that he could bring you back. 

.

.

.

Adar welcomed him inside the closed confines of his tents. The entire room smelled like herbs and fruits. "It is not wise to keep your tent in the middle of camp," Thranduil says while settling his bow on one of the crates. "It is also not wise to leave your weapon within reach of a stranger," Adar responds, but the other elf still leaves his bow on top of the crate. "I am inside your camp, surrounded by thousands of your men. I am already doomed regardless," the Prince responds. 

For a second, Adar contemplates whacking the Prince on the back of his head. 

Adar reaches for a box hidden under a crevice inside his closet. The Prince clears his throat once again, and the other man turns around slowly, a hint of annoyance flashing across his features. "Before you show me what is inside that box, let us first come to an agreement," Thranduil demanded, ever a man of his word. 

"What agreement?" Adar raised an eyebrow. 

"- that we are not to harm each other, that we are allies." Thranduil enunciates. 

"We are not to harm each other. We are allies." Adar replied adamantly. They both needed each other, and from what he was able to observe, Thranduil was a decent warrior. It would be a shame to kill someone with his talent. "Alright," the Prince points at what Adar was about to do. 

Adar drags the metal box with difficulty, settling it on the carpeted floor. 

Thranduil did not need to wait for Adar to speak, for he could feel the darkness persisting in the air, covering the room in its moldy scent. The Prince took a deep breath, peering into the dark box that Adar went through difficult lengths to keep hidden. "The Iron Crown of Morgoth," Thranduil's eyes widened, both elves sharing a knowing glance. 

.

.

.

DANAË  

It is such a harrowing feeling, the feeling of no control. 

It came as a floating sensation at first, like trying to sleep after an entire day of foraging under the warmth of the summer sun. It was blissful succumbing to the maiar's spell; it smelled like lotus, cinnamon, and the ground after rain. It was peace. You were just peacefully inside the void, like a raft floating with the river currents. 

Days like those flew by very quickly. 

But then came suffocating pain - the feeling of your soul being ripped apart, the feeling of memories attempting to make themselves known. The feeling of your memories being stolen away, replaced by someone else's illusions. There was nothing living inside the void, not even you, for you wielded no autonomy over the darkness. You could not even remember your name, the title that predetermined each creature's fate. 

Legolas. 

His name echoed throughout the closed maze of your mind, and suddenly you were able to open your eyes. Legolas. "Not a step closer," you blinked while pointing a dagger at Gorthaur. "Danaë," the Maiar said while taking a cautious step forward. How long have you been trapped inside that void? Where is your son? 

"That is not my name," you replied sharply. 

"It is the name that your father gave you." He said harshly, as if he was making you remember a memory. You winced, feeling a harsh wave of power force its way through your head. "I will not fall for your tricks," you fought against his power with much effort. "Woman, you cannot even remember your name." Echthrós laughs mockingly. "Shut up!" You raised your voice. 

His left hand was on your shoulder now, his right palm wiping your tears away. 

"Don't touch me," you shoved his hands away. 

"What's your name then?" He teased. 

What is my name? 

"You are Danaë. You are my wife." He repeats, almost like an incantation. 

"I said that isn't my name!" You growled at him, all the while attempting to remember your real name. Your tangible name that made you remember the scent of lotus and pine. "Shh," he wraps his arms around you, pressing kisses upon the crown of your head, your dagger falling loudly on the floor. "I don't know you, please," your voice was partly muffled by his chest. 

"Danaë," he repeats your name. 

"That's not my name," 

"It is," 

"It's not," 

"Go to bed, you are tired." He pulls away from the hug, giving you a thin-lipped smile. "I have to go home. I have a husband, I-I don't live here." Your grip on his forearm tightened, almost begging him to believe in you. 

"Yes, I am your husband. You are safe," he comforted, rubbing circles on the small of your back. "You're not," you whispered. 

You're not. 

But he would not listen to you. 

"I am," he nods his head. "I am," he repeats. 

Next Part >>

@mrmountainman @lovestruckelf

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Trying

Warnings: allusions to fertility issues, unwanted touching, and other possible dark elements. Proceed with caution.

Note: I got carried away with Blind Offer but here is another Corrupt a Wish! Ft. our boys Steve and Ransom!

Please leave some feedback so I know you want me to do more of the wishes I got. Otherwise, I find it hard to keep my motivation.

Wish Corrupted: I wish Ransom would be a simp for me despite the fact that I’m Steve’s girl 😏 by @stargazingfangirl18

“He’s in his office, writing again,” you keep on hand on the door as you speak to the man on your stoop. “Something about a book deal…”

You grin and Ransom’s cheek dimples. Nothing more. Sometimes it feels like he only tolerates you because you're attached to Steve. You try to give them their space, to stay out of the way. You’d hate to spoil this for your husband.

“Right, so..” Ransom tucks his hands into his russet jacket and looks over his shoulder, “you sending me back out in that?”

“Not at all,” you step back, “come on in.”

He looks back to you with that expression you can’t read. His eyes speak more than his features but they are cryptic. There’s a light behind them you can’t quite place. He steps inside, rivulets on his jacket and a few sparkling droplets caught in his dark hair.

“Can I get you a tea? Coffee?” You offer, balling your hands to keep from wringing them.

He unbuttons his jacket and hangs it from a hook. He smooths his hands over his hair, the rain seeping into the strands. He faces you and tilts his head.

“Got anything stronger?” He asks.

You try not to show your surprise at the request. It’s three in the afternoon. On a Tuesday. Your liquor cabinet is rarely opened even on the weekends. It’s more decorative than practical.

“You like gin, right?” You venture.

His lash flick and he narrows his eyes at you, a ripple in his forehead. He plants a hand on the wall and bends as he thumbs off his wet shoes. He keeps his gaze pointed at you, “you remember?”

“Lucky guess,” you shrug.

“Lucky,” he looks around the entryway, “I’d say so.”

You try not to betray your doubt. It’s hard to tell with him what is meant as a compliment or shade. He speaks in riddles. You almost want to suggest he takes up writing himself. It is in his blood.

“I’ll go see what we got,” you say and spin on your heel.

You’re quick to flee the stolid pressure of his persistent gaze. It’s as if he’s weighing you, judging your worth each time he sets sight on you. It wouldn’t be the first time someone thought you weren’t good enough for Steve. And how could you be? How do you live up to the Captain America?

You go to the cabinet in the dining room and unclasp the door. You peruse the bottle and find a tall bottle of gin. You slip it out over the tops of the other bottle and gently close the cupboard. You bring it to the kitchen and search for a suitable glass among the crystal.

“You got club soda?” Ransom frightens you as you pull down a tumbler.

You turn your head, looking at him from your peripheral. You sidle over to the fridge, “might…”

He crosses the tile as you search and you feel the door shift. As you close it, his hand follows, staying flat to the metal as he peruses the calendar stuck to it with a magnet. The squares are crowded with clusters of your and Steve’s writing. You highly doubt he has any concern for your doctor appointments.

“Busy,” he comments.

“Yep,” you agree as you open the can of soda, “sorry, I don’t have any citrus.”

“It’s fine,” he comes closer as you pour the soda over the gin and the clear mix bubbles to the rim. “Thanks, doll.”

He reaches and slides the glass towards him. For a moment, looming so you can smell the bergamot in his cologne and feel the warmth radiating from his ivory knit. He backs away as he brings the glass to his lips.

“I should go find the old man,” he declares.

“Right,” you move the half-empty can and cap the gin, trying to contain yourself.

You listen to him retreat. His steps are lazy and carry no urgency. You glance over to make sure the kitchen is empty and you lean on the counter.

Doll… only Steve calls you that.

💕

Ransom stays for dinner. It’s not unusual. You don’t even have to ask as two hours pass without a peep from the office. That’s how your husband spends his days lately; burrowed away, writing, grumbling over his laptop, and occasionally calling for help. You smile each time he tells you typewriters were so much simpler.

As you bring out the serving dishes to the table, Ransom chats about some editor’s meeting, Steve looks over as you place the roasted potatoes down, he lets his hand wander to your lower back and smiles up at you. He’s in a better mood than usual.

You touch his shoulder, too shy to kiss him in front of Ransom. You just hate how he’s always watching. The last time to gave your husband a peck on the cheek, it resulted in a snort and a mean joke about PDA.

You go back to the kitchen and grab the pan of drumsticks. You stop as you pass the fridge, staring at your writing, the highlighter over the letters. A few more days… The specialist will be able to figure it out. They have to.

You shrug away that thought and continue into the dining room. You place the last piece of the meal and claim your seat. You sit and wait to take a serving of potatoes until Ransom and Steve get some, then scoop up some grilled asparagus, and a single drumstick.

“Sorry, could I trouble you for another drink?” Ransom asks before you can lift your fork.

“Oh, of course, I forgot,” you push your chair out and grasp the arms as you stand, “Steve?”

“Just water for me.”

You nod and hurry back to the kitchen. Your stomach is roaring with hunger. You pour the rest of the soda in a new glass with the gin. Then you fill a glass with water from the filter on the fridge. You return and give each man their drink.

“Thought you were cutting back,” Steve remarks as Ransom swigs his drink greedily.

Ransom pops his lips and lets out and ‘aah’, “well, I’m only on number two. Usually I’d be at the bottom of the bottle.”

“Fair,” Steve shrugs. He doesn’t drink, even if he did, it doesn’t have any effect for him. You stopped drinking months ago so you could… Well, it hasn’t helped, has it.

“So, first draft when?” Ransom chortles as Steve answers with a growl. “I’m teasing. You’ve made good progress. I mean, the whole world just can’t wait to hear the story of good ole Cap from the man himself… and my grandfather is especially looking forward to it.”

“Mm,” Steve chews, jaw tight with irritation. No, how quickly his good mood flies away. “Deadlines… I am very aware.”

“He’s been working hard,” you offer, “he’s in his office everyday. I think you’re the first guest we’ve had in a few weeks.”

Steve nods but doesn’t comment. Ransom takes another drink. “Must be hard for you,” he remarks, “lonely.”

“I told her to invite Wanda over,” Steve snips, “if she’s lonely, she’s free to solve that problem.”

“Yikes, sorry I said anything,” Ransom cringes, “lighten up, old man.”

“Would you stop calling me that?” Steve huffs, “it’s not funny.”

“Well… you’re what…a hundred or something now? Pretty damn ancient if you ask me–”

“Hugh,” Steve snarls.

Ransom’s grin disappears in an instant. He puts his glass down heavily and leans forward. The men glare at each other. Then suddenly, they’re laughing at each other. You don’t get it. You can’t figure out if they actually like each other or not. It does your head in.

“Mathematically speaking, you’re old, but I’m sure the wife will say you’re spry and youthful in spirit, huh?” Ransom winks in your direction.

Steve sucks back his last laugh and rolls his eyes, “don’t be gross.”

“What? It’s a compliment.”

"It's none of your business," Steve warns.

Ransom laughs again. Steve doesn't and you keep your head down. You can't wait for him to finish this book, hopefully that will be the end of this relationship; professionally and otherwise.

💕

Ransom leans heavily on Steve. The supersoldier shoulders the man with ease as he drsgs him up the stairs. The upstart heir to a bookhouse empire babbles drunkenly.

"So, I get out of this meeting and see my fucker uncle–"

"Language," Steve girds, swiftly ignored as the story continues with similar profanity.

You follow behind, clasping your hands together anxiously. This isn't how you thought the night would end and you know the change in plans will upend Steve. You swallow a dread-filled sigh as your husband angles the houseguest into the spare room.

He as good as tosses Ransom onto the bed. You can tell he's annoyed.

"What were you doing feeding him drink all night?" Steve accuses as he faces you, hands going to his hips. That posture, great, now you're in trouble.

"It was only two," you sputter, "really– you can check the bottle."

Ransom giggles and lets put a belch, "I dropped a few xanny after that idiot uncle of mine got in my face."

"Really?" Steve twists to sneer at the sprawled man. Ransom is so pathetic it's almost impossible to hate him.

"What? Taking the edge off. You should try a few, old man."

"Go to sleep," Steve points at him and turns, marching towards you.

"I'll get some water…" you offer softly.

You precede him out, ready to scurry away from his roiling wrath. He catches your arm as he pulls shut the door. He tugs you back to him, lowering his voice.

"Are you…" he stares at you, his meaning in the angle of his jaw.

"First day," you know he checked the calendar.

"Good," he lets you go and exhales deeply, "I need it."

You nod. He used to be romantic about. Now it's just another chore. Almost mechanical.

"I'll just grab that water and–"

"I'll be waiting," he grits as his throat constricts.

You touch his chest and kiss his lips, "then I'll hurry."

His chest rises and he swallows loudly. He turns away first and you flit away. You know better than to keep him waiting.

You go downstairs and find a fresh glass from the cupboard. You watch the clear water flow into the crystal and balance it carefully to keep it from sloshing over the edges. You come back upstairs and gently tap on the spare room door.

With no answer, you let yourself in, assuming that Ransom's succumbed to his Xanax cocktail.

He's on the bed, just as you left him, eyes closed as he breath subtly under his sweater. You near the night table and set down the water. As you do, you feel a pinch on your ass.

You squeak and recoil. Before you can retract completely, Ransom catches your wrist and yanks you towards the bed. You hold firm, teetering but not succumbing.

"What are you doing?" You touch his thick fingers.

"You're too good for himmmm," he drawls out, "you know that?"

"Ransom--"

"No, it's true. You're so sweet, dolllllll."

"Don't call me that."

He snarls and you're suddenly flung forward with his strength. He pulls you so you collapse onto the bed, against him. You whimper, but not loud enough to be overheard.

"And pretty and..." He caresses your cheek as you turn your face away, squirming as he wraps you up in his other arm, "and perfect. The way you make my dick hurt..."

He rolls his hips and you shove against his shoulder, "get off."

"Shhh, baby, I know you want it too. He doesn't treat you nice. He can't give a baby, but I will--"

You struggle as he grabs your chin and rolls, pinning you to the mattress as he leans over you. Helpless, you writhe, kicking your legs as he smothers you in a sloppy kiss. He tastes like gin.

You bite his lip and he snaps back. You take the opportunity to shove him away and you scramble up off the bed. He reaches for you again but you stay beyond his reach.

"Sleep it off," you hiss and twirl away from him, off kilter as you try not to show how unsettled you are.

You flick the light switch and shut the door, leaning on it as you touch your lips. Hopefully, Steve doesn't taste the gin on you. Not like he really kisses you during anymore.

[angeldeviloshi]

Ok I have to talk about the translation here.

In JP, Yoru says 私とやりたいのか？(watashi to yaritai no ka?) "You wanna do it with me?" which ofc, has common usage in referring to participation in sex with someone.

The availability of that implication is interesting here following my recent thread about Yoru and Denji's relationship.

In that it sounds like Yoru's reminder to Denji about what their relationship is based around and who holds the leash because of it. An owner reminding her growling dog of the promised treat if he behaves.

It's a romance that operates on a level of superficiality that's thinner than every woman Denji has had that run in with so far at least with its current presentation, that it feels like Denji being thrown a bone that's well bare-bones. Esp with the appearance of Chimerasaw Man here. Like ok the hero kinda gets what he's always wanted but is this realllyy what he wants? If he just wants to get it on with Yoru why get mad that she's devilishly cruel? She's after all, his "only woman". Yoru nipping his alternative convictions to keep him obedient.

But the double entendre of the phrasing works for misdirection too!

Especially so when it's the virtuous, just replica of Chainsaw Man that Yoru takes aim at!! That it's this voice of justice that inquires Denji if his conflict with Yoru is a falsehood and Denji's like NOPE she's just that bad!!

And Yoru responds by saying it's cold, that she's going home! The coldness befalling them in Denji's awareness, his distancing from apathy, ignorance because of Yoru's actions.

The heat Yoru represents for Denji thus far in the place of his family, so he doesn't have to face the cold.

But knowing now that Famine was in fact Death kinda further solidifies my thoughts on Denji's continued distancing of what death carries for him. Death as the bogeyman essentially. Denji inching closer towards fire/sex for warmth so he's further from the cold (the snow). The poignancy of his house w Nayuta and the pets going up in flames as he leans into being the CSM bc the heat from the fire that destroyed his normal beckons to him in the wake of his loss, him telling Pochita his next dream is "I want to be Chainsaw Man". Denji reminiscing Power and Control in what is already lost as Yoru makes him hers. His family the frozen potstickers that Yoru cooks with the heat she provides through sex and romance in making him her family as the potstickers take a messy form through her cooking and love. But then Denji cooks the potstickers himself to revive that normal in some fashion against the backdrop of death with him and AsaYoru at the center strung by their family.

Just as the heat of Makima's tea warmed up his cold hands at her house in his grief over Aki as her dog, the comfort of not having to think.

AND THEN THIS????

The heroic Chainsaw Man defended, saved by the cluster of his fandom just as much as they've become his collateral.

That these civillians are made inextricable from this embodiment of Chainsaw Man as justice as what should be Denji's justice as a hero. The heart that made him a saviour to the people in the first place.

I see what is represented here to be a case of Denji's heroism being presented to us via Chimerasaw Man in Denji's actions and his heart vs Yoru in Denji's desire and material goal. The way Denji's hero's journey is officiated through Makima's promise, teaching of sex by defeating Gun.

And we see it again in Yoru's promise of sex, love by defeating Death. The notion that Denji's heroism is marked by achievement reached by being unthinking, unfeeling. Motivation pushed by plot over character nuance.

If Denji has Yoru, he doesn't have to worry about saving lives, only killing Death matters, only having sex matters.

But there's more than what meets the eye, just as fondling Power's boobs wasn't the only reason Denji cared enough to save Power, but because he empathised with her feelings for Meowy.

Chimerasaw Man using the coldness of the snow in Denji's hands and the height which his heart and body falls in his remembrance of it against him as a mirror of justice.

Him saving Asa from falling in this shared cycle of pain and grief in his inheritance of Aki's that led Aki to saving Angel.

The way we're presented w this just 2 chapters after ch.200 as its counterpoint.

What does being Chainsaw Man mean for Denji? Is Chainsaw Man all sex and violence or is there still heart behind his story despite it all, with a life like his in a world like csm.

What makes The Chainsaw Man Denji and vice versa.

[cerealmonster15]

The Perfect Birthday Treat [Jamil/Azul]

Summary: Azul's birthday is coming up, and Jamil enlists Riddle and Ruggie to help him find a suitable gift. It has to be good enough to repay Azul for the spices he bought for Jamil's last birthday, after all. That, and perhaps another, not-so-secret reason…

Word count: 3361

[Ao3 Link] [See Ao3 for more tags and notes]

Jamil stood in front of the shelf, arms crossed, scowl cemented onto his face. His eyes scanned the array of trinkets before him, but no matter how long he glared at the items, his look of displeasure did not soften. 

“You look like you’re trying to vaporize that plush octopus,” Ruggie said, coming up from behind to stand next to Jamil. “Is that what you’re gonna get him?”

Jamil shook his head. “There’s no way Azul would accept that as an equal exchange for what he gave me last year.”

“Yeah, but it’s not like you asked him for those.” Ruggie shrugged, folding his hands behind his head as he spoke. “That’s kinda on Azul if he went to all the trouble to find fancy spices himself."

“You know how Azul is, Ruggie,” Riddle said as he approached from Jamil’s other side. “It doesn’t matter if Jamil asked for it; the fact of  the matter is that he’s already given Jamil the nice gift, and he will be incredibly insufferable about it if Jamil’s next gift to him isn’t up to his standards.”

As Riddle spoke, a scowl akin to the one Jamil wore on his face formed on Riddle’s, as well. Such was the effect that thoughts of Azul Ashengrotto tended to have on people around him. 

Ruggie, however, only smirked. “Yeah, well, I bet Jamil wouldn’t be giving half as much thought to this if he didn’t have a big old CRUSH on the guy, shishisi…”

Jamil directed his scowl at the snickering Ruggie, his cheeks growing warm. “Shut the hell up. You agreed to come help me, so help me.”

“I really don’t understand your taste, Jamil…” Riddle shook his head. “But, Azul’s ulterior motives and your own feelings aside, a gift must be repaid nonetheless. Have you considered buying him something practical? Such as a new tie pin, or a desk organizer?”

Ruggie scrunched his nose at Riddle’s suggestions. “Yeah, because we really want Azul thinking about office supplies when he looks at Jamil.”

“Wh- Practical gifts are perfectly suitable to give to your peers!” Riddle sputtered. “What better way to show that you care for someone than to get them something that they can and will use on a day to day basis, and has meaningful functionality, so that you know it won’t burden them by just taking up space and collecting dust?!”

Ruggie shrugged. “I dunno, something fun? Or something expensive. Jamil, what’s your budget for winning over Azul’s affections?”

Jamil shut his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m leaving you at school next time.”

“It’s a valid question!” Ruggie protested, trailing after Jamil and Riddle as they moved further down the shopping stalls. “I bet if you handed him a fancy schmancy ring, his heart would stop.”

“Octopus have three hearts,” Riddle corrected. 

“Who’s to say he still has three when he’s on land? If those tentacles of his disappear, maybe he’s down two hearts.” Ruggie scratched the back of his head, looking to seriously consider this train of thought. “You think he’s still got blue blood when he’s on land?”

“None of that matters right now, and I’m not buying Azul a ring,” Jamil snapped. “We need to focus. Practical suggestions only.”

“I gave you two practical suggestions already,” Riddle huffed, “but, fine. Why not follow Azul’s own example and purchase him something consumable? There is a tea shop nearby that I visited with Trey and Cater recently. You can purchase from their selection of tea to take home, and I would say it is rather excellent quality. 

Jamil paused to consider this option.

As did Ruggie, who turned to Riddle with a grin. “Tea shops usually have good desserts, right?”

Riddle turned away, his cheeks dusting a light read. “...Y-yes, this one is no exception… But Azul holds a strict diet with himself, from what I recall, so I’m not sure how relevant those options would be.”

“Oh, c’mon,” Ruggie put a hand on both his companions’ shoulders. “Everyone likes a sweet treat, deep down. Let’s go check it out!”

“Th-that’s hardly the case with everyone, Ruggie!” Riddle protested, thoughts of Cater flashing in his mind. He turned to Jamil with a questioning look. “However, I do think it would be worth visiting, at the very least to check out the tea they have to offer. Are you interested, Jamil?”

For someone who outwardly and openly claimed to follow a perfectly curated meal plan, Azul’s lingering glances on the dessert displays in the cafeteria did not go unnoticed by Jamil. Really, that was something he felt that Azul and Riddle had in common. If the flustered look on Riddle’s face at the mere mention of this tea shop’s forbidden delicacies was any indication of the quality of said desserts, then perhaps even Azul wouldn’t be able to feign indifference when presented with a hand-selected snack. At the very least, he could pick out a few tea bags to go with it, so if Azul really insisted on denying his sweet tooth, he wouldn’t end up empty handed.

“Alright,” Jamil decided, “lead the way, Riddle.”

-

“So, we definitely have to sample everything before we can make the perfect decision on what to pick out for Azul, right?” Ruggie said, his eyes growing wide at the vast array of desserts and teas on display for purchase. “I mean, it would just be irresponsible if we didn’t take our time to really make sure we’re finding the absolute best possible choice, right?”

“Ruggie,” Riddle chided, “while there are no rules posted about a limit on how many samples you can try, there is still an unspoken expectation of etiquette to not overindulge yourself or waste the store’s supply!”

“Aw, c’mon,” Ruggie nudged Jamil beside him with his elbow, “how else is Jamil supposed to show Azul how dedicated he really is, huh? We’re talking about the fate of our friend’s love life, here!”

Jamil pointedly turned away from Ruggie and faced Riddle instead. “You’ve been here before, and your dorm serves a lot of tea and desserts for parties, right? Can I count on you for some recommendations?”

Riddle smiled. “Yes, absolutely. Come with me,” he said, leading Jamil over to the side of the shop where various tea bags and jars of loose leaf tea were displayed. “Perhaps we should start with selecting a tea first, and then I can help you pick out a dessert that pairs well with it. You drink quite a bit of tea as well, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Jamil nodded, “that part won’t be too difficult, but I’ll just have to decide on a flavor profile, and if I want to give him something more herbal and relaxing, or a more energizing, caffeinated tea…”

“I suppose I can see the benefits of either in terms of Azul. A black or green tea may be more suited for his busy days, but then an herbal blend would be a nice respite when winding down after a long week…”

The two pondered silently over the selection before them, carefully picking up each choice to examine the ingredients, description, and packaging. One could never be too careful, especially when dealing with as fickle a recipient as Azul Ashengrotto.

“Some cake oughta help you think clearer, shishishi…”

Jamil and Riddle turned around, and Ruggie handed them each a toothpick with a cube of glazed lemon cake samples stuck on the tips. 

Riddle narrowed his eyes, but he and Jamil accepted the treats regardless. “Ruggie… You had better be pacing yourself.”

“Hey, don’t worry about it!” Ruggie grinned. “I told the nice granny at the counter the total truth, and she said she’d be happy to help us out with as many samples as we wanted!”

Jamil, chewing on the lemon cake cube he was offered, narrowed his eyes at Ruggie. “...What exactly did you-?”

“Oh, so these are your little friends!”

The little old lady that Ruggie mentioned walked up beside the group, holding out a platter of miniature samples of various desserts that were on display at the counter, alongside small sample-sized cups of teas they had in stock, as well. “You all can call me Granny Marigold. Your friend here told me all about your situation, so please don’t hesitate to try anything here that you’d like.”

“Thank you, Granny Marigold,” Riddle said, eyeing the plate with a barely concealed look of intense desire. “I hope Ruggie didn’t pester you too much for free samples.”

Granny only laughed. “No, not at all! …Oh, I recognize your face, sweetheart,” she said, smiling down at Riddle. “You were here just last week with a few other friends, weren’t you? Riddle, was it?”

Riddle blinked up at her in surprise, eyes wide. “Yes, I-I was… I thought the service and quality was excellent, and recommended we try looking here for the gift. I, er, did not expect to be recognized from my last visit.”

“I always remember my customers,” Granny smiled, then turned to Jamil. “Your friend Ruggie here says you’re looking for a gift for a special someone, hm?”

Jamil averted his gaze away from the knowing look that both Granny and Ruggie were giving him,and instead focused on the plate of samples in front of him. “...Yes,” he mumbled. “A classmate. His birthday’s soon, and he got me a really nice gift for mine a few months ago.”

“Oh, well, isn’t that sweet,” Granny cooed, much to the embarrassment of Jamil and the delight of Ruggie. “Well, you’ve come to the right place. They say the way to a man’s heart - or anyone’s, for that matter- is through the stomach. Do take your time with choosing, and let me know if you need any help. But, if you want my advice,” she said, leaning over with a whisper. “You can’t go wrong with a slice of dark chocolate cake.”

Jamil, picking up a sample cup with a piece of strawberry shortcake and handing it to Riddle, nodded. “Thank you, I’ll try that out.”

Riddle, flustered yet again that his silent desires had been so easily clocked, quietly accepted the snack. He offered Jamil a trade, selecting one of the sample cups of tea and handing it over. “...The black tea selections often go well with dark chocolate. ”

And he was right, Jamil thought. The tea’s strong flavor complimented the strong, bittersweet taste of the dark chocolate alongside it, and made for a flavorful combination. Still, the cake itself tasted rather rich. Perhaps Azul would be more willing to accept the cake if he got some fresh fruit to go with it…

“Mmm, hey, Riddle, what’s this one?” Ruggie asked, shoving his sample cup into Riddle’s hand next.

Riddle frowned at how nonchalant Ruggie was being, and chose to give it a sniff instead of tasting from someone else’s cup. “...It’s hibiscus,” he said, handing it back to Ruggie and turning to Jamil. “If you wanted something more herbal to go with the cake, that would be a good choice, as well.”

“Hey, why not get him a mix?” Ruggie suggested. “No rules say you can only get one option. Get him one of those tester boxes of tea and call it a day!”

“That’s not as thoughtful as something hand picked,” Jamil mumbled. 

“Aw, right, I keep forgetting you’re doing this for LOVE.”

“If we weren’t in the middle of a tea shop, I’d kick you.”

Ruggie only snickered again.

“...Ruggie may have a point,” Riddle said. “Perhaps you could pick out a small handful of choices? That was you would have the benefit of a selection with thought put behind in terms of flavor combination and recipient preferences, but also a bit of variety, so that Azul cannot complain that you got him something unsuitable.” 

Jamil couldn’t help but smile at that comment. Azul was fussy, but the three of them had dealt with him long enough that his mannerisms were becoming all too predictable. “Yeah, that sounds like a good plan.”

-

Azul snapped out of his dozing state when he heard a knock at the door to his office. He rubbed his eyes and glanced at his watch, wondering who on earth would be coming to see him at nearly 10pm on a school night. He thought for a moment about sending whoever it was away, but if they were coming here at such a time, then they surely must be desperate for his assistance…

“Come in,” he said after debating for a few more seconds in his head. He was surprised, however, when he looked up and found not a generic and desperate looking student entering the room, but instead, Jamil Viper. 

“Oh, good, so you haven’t already gone to sleep.” Jamil said, walking over to Azul’s desk and placing a nicely wrapped box in front of him.

“Well, well, what a surprise…” Azul eyed the box, and then glanced back up at Jamil. “And here I thought you’d forgotten to get me anything for my birthday, what with how many times we’d seen each other today.”

Jamil rolled his eyes and sighed. “Yeah, well, I had to keep most of it in the refrigerator. It would’ve been no good to give it to you at the start of classes, and then I had basketball right after. I wasn’t about to let you chide me for being a day late, so I made sure I got over here once Vargas let us go.”

He chose to glance around Azul’s office, focusing on looking at anything that WASN’T AZUL as Azul began unpeeling the wrapping paper,

“Oh, in the refrigerator? Something homemade, I presume?” Azul mused, sliding his nail carefully under the tape.

“Not this time,” Jamil responded, and then immediately, mentally kicked himself for such word choice as he noticed Azul glance back up at him out of the corner of his eye. “...I was out shopping with Riddle and Ruggie yesterday, that’s all.”

“I see…” Azul finished removing the wrapping paper - An agonizingly slow process, in Jamil’s opinion - And his eyebrows rose with recognition at the tea shop’s logo on the box. “Oh, I’ve heard of this shop. It just opened recently, no? Some of my staff mentioned it the other day, and I had been meaning to go see it for myself - For market research, of course. It’s always good to stay up to date on what the competition is offering, you know.”

Jamil was on one hand, relieved to hear that he seemed to be on the right track with his gift, but on the other hand, really wished that Azul would shut the hell up and just open the damn box. Perhaps he should’ve made a run for it after handing over the box, but it was too late for that now.

Finally, Azul did in fact open the box, and his eyes widened with surprise when he saw what was inside.

“Is this…  A slice of chocolate cake?”

“And some tea,” Jamil said, pointing to the tin containers in the box alongside it. “We picked a few kinds. Black tea, green tea, and an herbal blend… Riddle said the place is really good, and we sampled all of these before picking them.”

A wry smile spread across Azul’s face. “Oh? You went to all that trouble, just for me? Why, I’m honored, truly.”

Jamil only grit his teeth and crossed his arms in response.

“Well,” Azul continued, glancing down at the cake. “I suppose it would be a waste not to try something you spent so much time picking out for me, and I did say I wanted to do a  little market research…”

“Can you not talk about this like I just handed you some sort of inconvenience?” Jamil huffed, turning to leave. “Eat it, or don’t. It’s not my problem anymore.”

“Now, hold on, a moment!” Azul called out, stopping Jamil in his tracks. “I haven’t even tried it yet. We have to see if it’s really as good as you and Riddle claim, yes?”

Jamil slowly turned back around. “...Hurry up, then. I should be getting back to my dorm.”

“Mmhm, always in such a rush, aren’t you?” Azul said, his smile unfaltering. He picked up the fork that conveniently lay in the box beside the cake, and gave it a few pokes. “The raspberries are a nice touch.”

“Do you always talk so much before you eat?”

Azul only laughed, and then FINALLY took a bite of the cake… And then immediately covered his mouth and turned his face away from Jamil, going quiet.

Jamil felt his body tense. Was it that bad? Did Azul secretly hate chocolate, or something? Maybe Granny Marigold had accidentally given him a slice of an old, stale cake that she’d meant to throw in the trash? Or maybe-

“It’s delicious…” Azul mumbled. “I, ahem, imagine it would taste even better alongside the tea you selected to go with it.”

Jamil exhaled a sigh of relief. Really, why did Azul have to make everything so complicated?

“...Yeah,” he answered, “that’s the idea. I guess you could save the rest for tomorrow, or whatever. Uh…” Jamil tugged at the hood of his sweatshirt, resisting the urge to tug it completely over his face. “...Glad you like it. See ya.”

“Ah, yes... Well, thank you,” Azul said, reaching for the top of the box to close it up. “Good night, then-”

“Actually,” Jamil suddenly stepped forward, putting a hand on top of Azul’s before he could fully close the box. “...Are you busy right now?”

Azul looked startled at the sudden contact, glancing at where Jamil’s hand clutched his. “I… Um…” His gaze shifted to the papers he was looking over before Jamil arrived - and before he started nodding off - and then back up at Jamil. “…Well, I was just going to finish looking over today’s sales, so I planned to be awake for a bit longer…”

Jamil removed his hand from Azul’s, and instead reached into the box to pick up the tin of herbal tea. “Would you… Like some company? This one is good for helping you relax and wind down for the day. I, uh, can go boil some water for you.”

Azul’s look of bewilderment slowly melted into a warm smile. “And it looks like there are enough leaves for at least two cups worth, no?”

He stood, reaching for the tin. “You’re my guest. Allow me-“

“It’s your birthday,” Jamil took a step back, holding the tin to his chest. “Sit down and just tell me where to go. I’ll do it.”

“Must you be so stubborn?” Azul sighed, but neither of them could hide the smiles on their faces. 

“Well, if you’re going to insist on it,” Azul continued, “then at least allow me to show you the way. Perhaps if you start getting used to Octavinelle’s layout, you might reconsider that dorm transfer offer?”

Jamil sighed, about to throw another eye- roll Azul’s way, but couldn’t quite muster it when he instead felt the sensation of a gloved hand reaching for his, their fingers slowly, gently intertwining. He glanced down, making sure he wasn’t imagining such a  feeling. When he glanced back up, Azul was smiling back at him with what might have been the softest, warmest expression anyone had ever looked at him with before.

“...Yeah,” Jamil found himself saying, voice barely a whisper, caught in the moment, “maybe I would.”

Maybe it was a joke, or maybe there was some truthful longing to the statement. Either way, they both knew the unlikelihood of such a drastic change happening… But, sometimes, it was nice to pretend, if only for a moment.

Jamil tucked the tin into his hoodie pocket and then reached over to Azul,  plucking the hat from atop his head and placing it upon his own. 

“Well?” He asked, grinning at Azul’s once again startled expression. “How do I look? Does it suit me?”

“...Yes,” Azul breathed out. “You look right at home.”

“Come on, then,” Jamil gently tugged on Azul’s hand, leading them out of the room. “Let’s go make that tea.”

[aishangotome]

Alfons Sylvatica: [Mad Love] Epilogue

Chapter 25 His POV

♡———♡

Since I decided to live by Alfons' side - about one season had passed.

Liam: In the end, we couldn't find any weaknesses in Al, right?

During afternoon tea with scones baked by Victor, Liam, who was uncharacteristically off from his stage rehearsals, tilted his head slightly.

Roger: Oh, yeah, I remember talking about that. We even went as far as disguising ourselves and following him to find out his weaknesses.

Elbert: We asked people all over Crown for his weaknesses, but...

All eyes turned on me, and my face flushed with embarrassment.

Kate: I apologize for any inconvenience we may have caused...

Liam: No, not at all. But I was wondering what happened in the end.

Kate: Well... I've gradually come to realize that his weaknesses don't matter, so I still don't know what they are.

As I answered Liam, I reminisced about my days with Alfons.

I had been determined to find his weaknesses and use them to control him, but as I got to know him better, I found herself drawn to him.

Liam: Even El doesn't know? Like, he can't swim or he's afraid of bugs?

Elbert: Al can swim, and I don't think he's afraid of bugs...

Elbert: He seems to have learned a lot since he came to my mansion, and he quickly became proficient in reading, writing, arithmetic, and cooking.

Elbert: He even surpassed me in dancing.

(I see... He's really good at everything, isn't he?)

I always found myself listening intently to the stories that Elbert would tell me about Alfons, because they were always the truth, without any lies.

Roger: Is it okay not to know his weaknesses, lil lady?

Kate: Huh?

Roger: That guy's late-night drinking and slumming habits haven't changed. Don't you feel uneasy not knowing at least one weakness?

Kate: ...Well, if I were to say I wasn't uneasy... I'd be lying.

Even now, Alfons still spends his nights drinking and visiting the slums.

(But that's the way Alfons lives his life, and I don't want to deny it.)

(I don't want to deny the meaning or value of what Alfons is doing.)

Kate: I don't want to find his weaknesses and use them to threaten him.

Kate: I just want him to love me enough that he doesn't look at anyone else.

Liam: Wow, Al is really lucky.

Elbert: ...hehe

Roger: Well, then, maybe you should know another "weakness" of his.

Kate: Another weakness...? What is it?

Roger: Well, of course it's his body.

(His body...)

Kate: - - What are you saying, you pervert!

-

Alfons: You seem rather quiet for someone who's finally been able to see a play after being denied for so long.

Kate: Huh!?

Today is a theater date with Alfons.

I was able to enjoy the play itself, but once my consciousness was drawn back to Alfons from the stage,

The "weakness" story came to mind and I was at a loss for words.

(Roger, because you said that...)

Kate: I really enjoyed it! And I'm glad you invited me.

Alfons: I know you enjoyed it. You were so absorbed in the play that I didn't have time to play any pranks on you during the performance.

Kate: W-were you going to play a prank on me...?

Alfons: You think I would invite you on a wholesome date without any ulterior motives?

The seductive gaze that Alfons was giving me suddenly softened.

Alfons: ...But you were so starry-eyed that even I felt guilty.

I feel like he's been showing me more of this soft, gentle expression lately, not provocative.

(Just that makes me happy and excited... I'm so simple.)

This lover is a terrible scoundrel, but...

At times like this, I realize that I love him, including that part of him.

(What does Alfons like about me...?)

"I want him to like me so much that he doesn't even think about looking at anyone else."

The words I said to Roger were my true feelings.

Once I start to think about it, I got curious and fidgety.

Kate: Um... Alfons.

Alfons: Yes, yes, what is it?

Kate: What do you like about me...?

Alfons: .....

(Oh, he's surprised...)

Alfons immediately looked away as if to hide the fact that he had revealed his true self.

Alfons: Well, let's see, your cat-like qualities, I suppose.

Kate: Cat-like...? Me?

Alfons: Yes. You know, you meow and cling to me,

Alfons: And then the next moment you're sulking...in bed.

Kate: ! ?

Alfons: And you know, you scratch my back mercilessly...

Kate: S-Stop it... I understand.

Alfons: Ah, speak of the devil.

Kate: I said I understand...

Alfons: There's a cat over there.

(Huh...?)

I turned around and saw a small cat looking at us from the top of a fence.

Kate: Wow... It's cute...

The cat jumped down from the fence and rubbed up against Alfons' feet.

Kate: You get along with cats?

Alfons: I feed them on a whim, so the strays around here know my face.

(If he likes my cat-like qualities, maybe I can learn something from cats...?)

Alfons crouched down and the cat rubbed its forehead against his leather gloves.

Alfons: Hehe... I don't have anything for you today, unfortunately.

(Alfons... looks happy...?)

(M-Maybe it's okay to be honest and act spoiled like that sometimes...)

(...Can I do it?)

As I was thinking about this and observing, I suddenly noticed something strange about the cat's hind legs.

(Huh?)

Kate: Alfons, isn't that cat hurt...?

-

Roger: It was probably scratched in a fight with another stray. I disinfected it, so it'll be fine.

Roger disinfected the cat, even though it was swatting at him with its tail, looking grumpy.

Kate: Thank you, Roger.

Roger: Don't worry, I'll get my due.

Alfons: Please collect from the cat, not Kate. It was the cat who was treated.

Roger: Still, I can't believe you're taking a cat home. Is this Kate's influence, too?

Alfons: I don't know what you're talking about.

Roger: You hate cats, don't you?

Kate: Huh!?

(He hates... cats!?)

(But... he said he liked cats the day after we met.)

(And today he just said he liked my cat-like qualities...)

Shocked, I stared at Alfons, but

Alfons: Someone like you wouldn't understand the complex emotions of love and hate.

His face was plastered with a fake smile, and he wouldn't tell me which was the truth.

-

After returning the cat to its dwelling and taking a shower, I changed into my nightdress––,

Before collapsing onto the bed, I opened my mouth.

Kate: About the cat... which is it, really?

Alfons: ...Do you want to ask that while kissing your lover?

Kate: Hmm... but... well, you said I resemble a cat...

Kate: My feelings for you aren't a mix of love and hate... it's pure adoration, and I want you...

Alfons: You're a fool... to take such nonsense seriously.

Alfons: I like cats. But they also remind me of unpleasant memories, so my feelings are complicated.

Alfons: But you're... different, right?

Alfons: You're... like a cute little cat, my plaything.

Kate: Hmm--

While receiving a deep kiss, I ruminated on his words.

"Unpleasant memories" – he will surely never tell me about them.

But I could guess it was probably related to the "rumor of a human turning into a cat," which was the reason Roger met Alfons.

It must be a deep scar in Alfons' heart.

(Maybe it's Alfons' weakness, but)

(I still don't want him to show me his scars...)

More than that – I want to engrave him with fun, pleasant, and happy memories.

So that the old scars are buried and fade enough to be nostalgic.

Kate: Alfons... please give me your hand.

Alfons: ...Hehe, what are you scheming...?

Alfons held out his hand, still covered in a leather glove.

I nibbled at the tip of the nails and slowly removed the glove.

"Removing the glove" is... now a signal for the start of a sweet night,

Usually, I'm the one whose breath is taken away by his gesture of removing it, but––.

Alfons: ––Ah... you're very good at that.

As I slipped off the glove, Alfons' bare hand was revealed.

I dropped the leather glove onto the bed and rubbed my cheek against his palm.

Kate: Hmm...

Alfons: Oh... I thought you were seducing me, but are you just being affectionate?

Kate: ...I'm imitating a cat.

Kate: You said you liked them... so I was observing.

Alfons: Aha, you're quite the diligent student.

Alfons: ––Nn.

The moment I licked his palm, Alfons' fingertips twitched in response.

(...!)

Alfons: ...Surprise attacks are cowardly.

(Was it because it was a surprise attack? Or...)

Kate: ...Hmm.

As if to confirm, I put his fingertip in my mouth this time.

Alfons: ...Nn... ha...

As I ran my tongue over it, a sigh escaped Alfons' lips.

Kate: ...Are your hands weak...?

Alfons: No... I don't think they were, but...

Alfons: ...When I think you're doing it on your own... it tickles.

(...!)

Alfons' reaction made me happy, and the core of my head melted sweetly.

Pretending to forget my embarrassment––,

I licked his finger from the base to the tip of the nail, just like Alfons does, teasingly entwining my tongue.

Kate: Hmm... ha.. is it just... ticklish?

Alfons: ––No.

Alfons: It feels very good.

(...I'm glad.)

Kate: I found a weak spot that makes you feel good, Alfons.

With my head melted in joy, I put his fingertip in my mouth again.

––That was the trigger for the reversal of the situation.

Kate: Nnn..ah!

Alfons: ....When I'm twisting and turning between your tongue like this, it feels like when I'm stirring inside you and it gets me even more excited.

Kate: Nnn, uhh....mmm--!

Alfons: Oh, so you like to be rubbed on top of me as well as inside, do you?

As he freely stirred in my mouth, Alfons narrowed his eyes in ecstasy.

Alfons: Hey, Kate... Shall I teach you more about the weaknesses that makes me feel good?

Kate: Hmm, uh...?

Alfons: I like the feel of your soft hair when you come to me sweetly in the morning.

Alfons: If I were to be selfish, that timing is the best.

Alfons: And the pain from when you scratch my skin because you can't stand the pleasure anymore. I like feeling that so much.

Alfons: And when you're about to come, you like to kiss me with your tongue.

Alfons: I also like it when you say you can't take it anymore, but then you push your hip against me and beg me for more.

Kate: Hmm... huh, what... hmm...

Alfons: ...When I bully you like this by saying embarrassing things,

Alfons: You'll sulk and turn your face away, pouting your lips, right? I'm also weak to that profile.

Alfons: Ah, right now, my fingers are in the way, so you can't hide your face, can you?

Kate: Hmm... huh...

His fingertips pull out of my lips, eliciting a slurping sound.

Alfons: Do you understand what I'm saying?

Kate: Ahh....nnn, ahh....?

The pleasure of him playing with my mouth, and the flood of words filled with love and desire pouring into me at the same time made my head spin.

Alfons: I think I have a weakness for you.

Alfons licked my wet fingertips and laughed.

Kate: That's... unfair.

Alfons: Ah ha! What is?

Kate: Saying things like that... it makes me so happy I could forgive you for anything.

Alfons: Isn't that a good thing? Please forgive me for everything.

With a gentle push to the shoulder, I fell back onto the bed.

I couldn't put any strength into my legs, so I parted them and hung them loosely,

and Alfons licked my wet spot from the bottom to top.

Kate: Ahh...!

Alfons: Do you get this turned on just from me sucking on this spot?

Kate: I... I mean...

Alfons: I'm going to lick you a lot. I know all the weak points that can make you come.

-

Kate: …… Hehe

Roger: You're in a good mood, lil lady. Did something good happen?

Kate: I found out Alfons' weakness.

Roger: Dirty jokes at the breakfast table? You're full of energy.

Kate: N-No, that's not it...!

Kate: …… He said that I was his weakness.

I'm so happy, my chest still feels warm when I think about it.

(Maybe more than I think...)

(Maybe he's fallen for me so much that he won't even look at anyone else...)

(Is that being a little too careless?)

Alfons: Kate, did you already tell that man over there about my weakness?

Kate: Eek!?

Suddenly, a breathy voice whispered in my ear, and I jumped up and turned around.

Alfons was leaning back in his chair, his eyebrows furrowed as if to blame me.

Alfons: I thought it was our secret... You're a cruel person.

Kate: Eh!? I-I'm sorry...!

Alfons: No, I won't forgive you.

Alfons rested his cheek on the back of the chair and smiled mischievously.

Alfons: I'm jealous. Please cheer me up.

(Oh no... I was tricked again.)

Even after all the embarrassing things he did to me last night,

And even though I haven't learned my lesson, he's still playing me like this today.

Kate: I understand. …… I'm sorry for talking about it without your permission. I love you, Alfons.

Alfons: That's not good enough. More passionately.

Kate: Don't get carried away...

But in the end, I'm the one who forgives him for everything––,

Maybe I'm the one who's weak to Alfons.

FIN

-

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[Return to Ikevil Masterlist]

[imrowanartist]

@pricegazweek Day 7 (forgot to post this, oops) - ‘That morning I heard water being poured into a teapot. The sound was an ordinary, daily, cluffy sound. But all at once, I knew you loved me. An unheard-of thing, love audible in water falling.’

Tags: sick fic, fluff

_

“I see now why you never invited me here,” a voice says dryly as John blinks awake, head heavy and body sore.

It takes him a moment to register his surroundings and who the voice belongs to; like coming up from the depths and breaching the surface after a deep dive. Then it comes back to him.

They’re in Hereford, at John’s old as shit flat. ‘They’ being him and Gaz, apparently.

They came here because Kyle insisted on it, after John came down with a cold on the way back from their latest stint abroad. He’d planned on just sitting it out at base, but of course upon arrival he’d been informed that because of maintenance the barracks were partially unavailable. Including his room. So Kyle had offered to drive him home instead, which he had reluctantly agreed to. A testament to how shit he actually felt.

What he had not expected, was for Kyle to stay.

John wants to quip something back at Kyle, defend himself and his flat, but what comes out is an unintelligible grumble due to his parched throat. Kyle, standing in the door opening, tuts at him. He looks much too chipper for what time it is, and John is pretty sure that the shirt he’s wearing is not his own. It sends a shiver of excitement through him. And, if he dares to admit it, a wave of possessiveness too, being able to call Kyle his now.

“You still broken?” Kyle asks and John huffs at him before forcing himself to sit up with a grunt, his duvet pooling around his waist. He feels a brief flush of embarrassment at wearing nothing more than yesterday’s boxers, but then he remembers they’ve seen each other in even less clothing by now.

“Fit as a fiddle,” he grumbles, annoyed at how hoarse he sounds.

Kyle simply chuckles at him. “Let me make you some tea. If I can manage to find any clean cups in this house.”

He doesn’t wait for a response, disappearing in the direction of the kitchen. John sits in bed for another minute, just blinking through the fog that seems to have permanently settled over his mind, then forces himself to move, limb for limb. He should at least put on some clean underwear and a shirt.

Briefly he wonders if Kyle slept on the couch, but the indent on the pillow next to him tells him enough. Good. He wants Kyle to feel at home. Like he belongs here.

When he shuffles into the kitchen Kyle raises a dark eyebrow at him.

“Sit down before you fall down,” he orders and John obediently sits down at the kitchen table that has seen better days. He has to resist the urge to lay his heavy head down on the surface, but seeing Kyle putter around his kitchen is giving him all the motivation he needs not to. The fact that Kyle is also wearing his clothes only adds to the heat pooling in his gut.

Mesmerized, he follows Kyle’s movements as he prepares the tea. The way he blows some dust off two mugs before rinsing them. The way he scoffs softly to himself when he only finds bagged tea (that has miraculously not expired yet). It’s all so mundane and domestic. Such a sharp contrast to their job and what it forces them to be sometimes.

And it’s all for him.

John didn’t ask Kyle to stay. Didn’t ask him to make tea and look after him. But as Kyle pours the hot water into the mugs, the love in it is almost audible to John. As Kyle carries the mugs over to the table and takes a seat across from him, he can’t help how his skin flushes as he’s unable to pull his eyes away from how lovely Kyle looks in the early morning light.

No one has ever shown him love like this. So easy. Without asking for anything in return. It makes John’s throat close up as he forces out a thank you and takes the cup from Kyle.

“You sound even worse than usual,” Kyle comments, unaware of how John’s heart is racing in his chest.

Why are you here? I’m just a broken man.

“Don’t be dramatic,” Kyle snorts and John blinks at him. He hadn’t realised he’d said the words aloud. “I’m here because I choose to be. Because I want to be. And you know, I do kind of like you.”

Normally, John would rise to the banter, but not today. Today his brain is mush and his limbs feel like lead and his wit has completely abandoned him.

“You should be home with your family,” he says, because he knows Kyle is close with his parents and they must miss him terribly. John would, if someone like Gaz would disappear from his life for months on end. His heart aches at the thought alone.

Kyle hums thoughtfully. “They can last a few more days without me. Are you always this morose when you’re sick?”

“Hmmm,” John grumbles and it’s neither a confirmation nor a denial.

Kyle pats John’s hand. “Something tells me that’s a yes. Now drink your tea.”

He watches like a hawk to make sure John finishes it all, while casually sipping at his own. Part of John wants to object against the attention, wants to scream that he’s independent, that he doesn’t need to be treated like a sick child. But part of him is relieved that he can finally let go. That someone is willing to look after him for a change.

When he has finished his tea, Kyle gets up and goes back into John’s bedroom. He comes back out with his arms full of pillows and a blanket.

“I think a sofa day is in order,” he says, arranging the pillows in a way that John can only describe as a nest. He huffs at the idea of it, but Kyle seems adamant to make him comfortable.

Is this real? Is he really allowed to have this? He feels like he’s in a daze, a fever dream. But the way Kyle looks at him so expectantly must be reality, his brown eyes soft and inviting.

Slowly John drags himself to his feet.

“I want to kiss you,” he says, barely able to resist the want that seems to take over his whole being.

“Mhm, I understand.”

“Oh, really?”

Kyle gives a cheeky grin. “Who wouldn’t. But better not, unless you want to take care of me next.”

“It would be a fair trade.”

“Stop thinking like that,” Kyle softly admonishes him, “this isn’t an equivalent exchange. Just accept that I want to do this without you giving me something in return.”

“Alright,” John whispers, letting Kyle guide him to the sofa.

It’s an old thing, made of leather that’s almost disintegrating at the seams. Without the extra layer of blankets Kyle has put there it’s not even comfortable anymore. Who needs a decent couch when you barely spend time using it anyway? But clearly Kyle is set on changing that.

He settles John on the sofa, making sure he has more tea and tissues within reach, then sits down on the floor, resting his back against the side. The back of his head is warm against John’s thigh and with the soft sound of some National Geographic documentary playing on the telly, John can feel his eyes become heavy.

He wonders if Kyle will still be there if he closes them. He still can’t entirely believe this is not a dream, having him here in his flat. Someone with his amount of red in his ledger should not be allowed to have something like this, right? He doesn’t deserve it.

“I’m not leaving,” Kyle whispers, “just go to sleep, I’ll be here.”

“Mhm,” John mumbles, finally believing him. He gives in to the pull of sleep and closes his eyes, hoping that some more rest will have him waking up feeling better.

He has a kiss to cash in on after all.

[kiwi-luminaryofthestars]

Thank you for 4K hits and 200 kudos!!

HOLY SHIT GUYS THANK YOU??? We’ve passed the 4K hits and 200 kudos mark on the same day!

Sincerely, thank you to everyone who has read this fic. I gain so much pleasure and happiness from writing it and the fact other people like it too gives me so much motivation to keep doing it. Everyone who is a part of any of these numbers, please accept a metaphysical hug from me from beyond your screen lol ✨ 🫂

To celebrate, as is tradition, below the cut is a sneak peek of chapter 7. This one’s longer than the other ones I’ve done! But I thought it was more than deserved 🥰 I kinda drop you right in a dialogue exchange because I’m tryna not spoil much, just fyi, but should hopefully still be enough to follow what’s going on. 😁

Ouma folds his arms smugly over his chest. “Not bad for a guy who’s never owned a pet before, huh?”

“Oh, really?” Shuichi asks, awkwardly settling into the seat across from him and attempting to ignore just how out of place he feels among the over-the-top cat-themed wallpaper and the garish, frilled stockings of the surrounding waitresses. 

“No, it’s a lie~” As he continues, Ouma withdraws his silverware case from his pocket and takes out his own fondue set: fragile rose gold with an assortment of scarlet gems encrusted on the handles. “No actual pets, but my gardener helped me sneak in a baby alligator, once!”

Shuichi gawks. “Wh-what?!” 

“Nishishi~ Is it really all that surprising, Saihara? I thought it’d be obvious that only a monstrous, terrifying beast is fit to be my pet.” Plucking his metal straw from the inside of his breast pocket, he drops it in his iced tea and takes a swig before chirping, “I was just picking out a name for him before my parents found out. Oh they were so mad, cherry-tomato-face sorta mad.” 

When Ouma leans backward, Shuichi finds himself leaning forward— unable to conceal just how intrigued he is at the prospect of finally hearing something true about Ouma’s life. More than likely it’s embellished— Ouma seems like the type of person who wouldn’t be able to resist overexaggerating his own stories— but this is the closest he’s ever gotten to learning more about the Ultimate Affluent Progeny’s life. 

Ouma holds up a finger and his pitch deepens, mocking sternness. “Pops is boring so of course he was all like, ‘an Ouma doesn’t fraternize with reptilians except to wear their skin as a coat and blah blah blahhhh.’ So of course my punishment was asking the seamstress to make it into an actual coat, then wear it for like a whole week. There’s still pictures of me out there at a gala in that stupid thing with big, snotty tears all over my face.” Despite how Shuichi’s frown is slowly growing more mortified, Ouma’s giggle is so innocent. “So it’s probably a good thing I didn’t name it, y’know?” 

Shoulders stiff and fingers fidgeting, Shuichi mutters, “Were you, ah… H-how old were you, when that happened, Ouma?” 

He cocks his head, donning a peculiar half-smile. “Hm. I dunno, maybe nine? Ten? Something like that.” Looping a strand of his violet bangs with his finger, he giggles, “You’re not interrogating me, are you?” He pauses his twirl and gasps, “Wait, you’ve been wearing a wire this whole time, haven’t you?! And I’ve just spilled all my secrets, haven’t I?! Have I been totally cheated— expertly fooled by my handsome date?!”

After a hesitant bite of his inner cheek, Shuichi says quietly, “Well, I just… I think that must’ve not felt very, ah, good at the time, what your dad did.” He meets Ouma’s knitted stare. “And I’m sorry that happened to you.”

The strangely blank expression on Ouma’s face remains, but there’s a miniature twitch in his philtrum as he stares holes into the man across from him. Though Shuichi still can’t read the Ultimate Affluent Progeny all that well, this frown feels introspective, like Ouma is dissecting something within himself— something monstrous, like the mouth of a massive blue whale swallowing him whole. It’s mesmerizing, watching how his thoughts play so subtly across his face.

Without warning, Ouma’s expression snaps and he lets out a shrill cackle so loud other attending patrons look their way. Shuichi startles and cringes into himself, hand instinctively traveling upward to tug down the brim of his hat he’s not even wearing. 

“Well duh,” Ouma laughs, crossing one leg over the other. “That was the point, Saihara: so I wouldn’t do it again. But I totally got him back, don’t even worry.” Cheeky grin bleeding into a wicked smile, he presses his fingers to his lips and whispers, “He sure regretted ever fucking with me when I filled all the toilets in his office with frog eggs~”

[daytaker]

Tea Time

In which MC and Satan accidentally travel to a pocket dimension simulacrum of the underground labyrinth in the demon lord's castle.

Ship: None (MC & Satan, not MC/Satan) Word Count: 2.6k CW: Choking Set in the Nightbringer timeline.

You can find it on AO3 by clicking here.

(Author's note: Just as a heads-up, this is a very "early on in the game" version of Satan. He is mean. He is violent. He is mean and violent towards MC. I keep the tone light but I figured I should be a bit explicit about what you'll find below the cut.)

Record scratch. Freeze frame. Perfect.

So...yep. That’s me. I’m the one on the left, running for my life through a torch-lit labyrinthine corridor, being chased by a three-headed devil dog. Now, it might be a cliche, but we’ve already done the record scratch bit, so I might as well go all out:

You’re probably wondering how I found myself in this situation.  

Well! Let me direct your attention to the other individual onscreen. On the right, has black horns, a fur mantle, and murderous intent written all over his face. This charming person is Satan. Yes, that Satan. But also, no, not really that Satan. For this story to make any sense, you’ll have to take my word for it that Satan is, in fact, a skinny blonde kid who looks like he's in his early twenties. 

Suspend your disbelief for me, please.

So what happened was this...

I spilled some tea on a book lying haphazardly on the floor of Satan’s room. It was an accident, of course, but try telling him that. I was bringing him tea in bed because he was griping in the group chat about his headache and I’m a very considerate attendant and friend, when suddenly the whole room shook.

Now, I never did figure out why that happened. Maybe Cerberus was acting up. Maybe someone ate Beel’s custard again. Maybe there was an earthquake! I don’t know if Hell has those, but it might be a possibility. The point is, the room shook, and I shook, and the teacup shook, and the tea inside the teacup shook, and it all poured out onto a book on the floor. I hardly noticed it, since the only drops that didn’t land on the book had scalded my hands, meaning I was a bit distracted, but Satan sure did. I don’t know if that headache of his had been exaggerated or if he was so angry that he didn’t care about the pain, but before I even found a place to put down the teacup and tend to my burns, he was out of bed and in my face.

It was scary. I’ll admit it. Satan scared me. Back in my own time, I’d always had the hardest time feeling like I was “getting to” him out of all the brothers. Even Lucifer had clear enough motives and something resembling a moral code that I felt like I could follow. But Satan was different. Always different. He put me on edge with his cynicism and short temper, and he carried himself with a haughtiness that devolved into irritation whenever he felt someone was doing something stupid.

Still, we’d gotten to a point where things were at least friendly between us, and I sometimes got the feeling that he was trying to play-act the sort of easy friendship I’d formed with Mammon and Levi and the rest. But it never felt…authentic. I appreciated the gestures–book recommendations, shopping trips, things like that. But he was never really comfortable, so I was never really comfortable. I guess, more than anything, I felt sorry for him. 

…It makes me feel like an asshole to admit that to myself.

That’s Satan from my time, though. This Satan… Where do I even begin? Trying to explain would be tedious, so I’ll just continue with the story and let you figure it out yourself. To recap, this was the situation: I’d spilled tea on his book, but the expression on his face made me feel like I’d been caught killing a kitten. Horror. Disgust. Disbelief. But most of all, rage.

His hands were on my throat before I could get a word out. So we’re back to where I was before this little tangent, when I said: Satan scared me. I was scared. Part of me knew that this wasn’t actually going to be how I died. I’ve been assaulted and almost killed by demons too many times to count. Maybe I should have been used to it by now. But the panic that set in when I couldn’t get air to my lungs, and when I looked into his green eyes, clouded over with fury, and when I felt his hot breath on my face, like I was staring down a raging bull–

You don’t get used to that.

My eyes were watering and my chest was burning and I was clawing at his hands, and as darkness swept over us, I thought that maybe I really was going to die like this.

But then, the hands were gone, and I fell onto my knees, sputtering and wheezing as my pulse thundered in my ears. It was only after a few seconds of steady breathing that I realized my hands were touching a cold stone floor. Wiping my eyes, I looked up. I was in a dark hallway lit with only torches, with divergent pathways splitting off in a variety of directions. It was musty, and damp, and my skin felt clammy, but there wasn’t anything new about this place. Not for me, at least.

“What happened?” Satan’s alarm seemed to have overridden his anger for now. He looked up and down the hallway, peeking down a few of the off-branches, before turning to me again. “What did you do?”

I made a weak attempt at answering, but the instant I inhaled to speak, my throat stopped working, and I burst into a frenzy of dry coughs, gripping my burning chest and neck.

Satan tsked and turned away from me uncomfortably, looking the hallway up and down again. Something seemed to catch his eye at the same time that I caught my breath.

“I don’t… know what happened, but…” I wheezed, and Satan cast me a sharp glare over his shoulder. “I know where we are. This… is the labyrinth… under the Demon Lord’s castle.”

There followed a fresh fit of coughing, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t playing it up somewhat at this point. I wanted him to feel bad. I wanted to see some flicker of guilt on his face. The Satan that I knew was at least capable of that.

“Would you stop that?” was all this one said to me. “I have a headache. And I know where we are. I lived here for a year, or did you forget?” He reached down and picked something up from the shadows by the wall. It was the tea-stained book. He turned and held it out for me to see, silently gloating in this evidence that, whatever had happened, the tea fiasco was related, so this whole thing was really my fault.

Satisfied by my silence, he approached the nearest torch and held the book up to the light. "Mysteries of the Demon King's Castle," he read off the cover. "Now equipped with easy-to-use pocket dimensions, giving you a fully immersive experience– dammit !”

He stopped reading and hurled the book down the hallway, out of sight.

“...I didn’t realize pocket dimensions were unlocked with tea,” I muttered sullenly. “Why did you leave a book with transdimensional charms on it lying on the floor?”

I thought it was a sober, reasonable question, but based on what I could see of Satan’s face, he disagreed. As he turned on me, he suddenly seemed taller than I remembered, so much so that he blocked out the torchlight. “Are you saying this is my fault?”

I couldn’t see what kind of face he was making in the dark, and I was glad about that as I backpedaled somewhat. “I’m… I’m just saying there’s fault to go ‘round!”

That didn’t seem to do much to quell his mounting annoyance. I wasn’t entirely sure what he was angry about at this point. The spilled tea? The wet book? The pocket dimension? The suggestion that he might be partially responsible for our current predicament? All I knew was that there was a dark energy stirring around him. It wasn’t out of control yet, but I took note and stepped back.

“...This is stupid,” he finally mumbled. That illusion that he was taller than before had ended, and he was the same stature as always as he walked in the direction he’d tossed the book. “I’ll get us out.”

I stayed where I was, rubbing my sore neck, and stared into the darkness after him. The sound of footsteps slowed. Everything was silent.

Then the sound of footsteps picked up again. Rapidly. Satan was running back in my direction, and chasing him was–

“Cerberus?!” I was running before I had time to think I should be running. “What’s he doing here?!”

“Shut up!” Satan said rather unhelpfully. Then he made a sudden turn, and I nearly tripped over my feet skidding to a stop and running after him. I made a grab for his hand, just to have something to keep us from being separated in the dark, but he hissed like the touch burned him and pulled it free again. 

Now, I was starting to feel pretty angry too.

“Why are we running?” I snapped between pants. “Isn’t that your dog?”

“Lucifer’s,” was his terse reply. “Stop following me. If we split up, at least one of us will live.”

“Are you being serious?” I struggled to keep up my pace while giving him a look of appropriately scathing incredulity.

Satan didn’t appreciate my expression, because he refused to look at me. He kept running, eyes trained forward, gritting his teeth. “I don’t know! I need a minute to think! So shut up!”

Fed up with him, I picked up my pace with the last of my flagging strength and shoved him bodily into a crevice. He was so shocked that for a few seconds, while he was reattaching his jaw to his skull, I was able to take his own advice and assess the situation clearly. No running like a lunatic. No accusatory jabs. Just me and my thoughts… And that was all I needed.

It was incredibly simple. Cerberus was here because Cerberus wasn't really here. This pocket dimension was designed for the book it came with, so it goes to figure that the creatures living in it were little more than illusions.

“How dare you–?”

Satan had recovered his senses and looked ready to lunge at me, so I sidestepped out of the crevice and into the path of the other beast.

“Wind and fire, heed your master’s call!” I shouted. The wind began to whip fiercely around me as the torches blazed. I never got tired of this. It was badass every time. But I didn’t have time to appreciate the theatrics. Cerberus had just rounded a corner and was loping towards me, all three jaws snapping. “Vile illusion! I cast you back into the darkness!”

The wind blew so violently that I could barely keep my balance, and from the sound of a thud and a hissed “damn!” behind me, it seemed like the wind was even less considerate of Satan. But in front of me, the gale seemed to blow the image of Cerberus away. The wind rushed, the torchlight blazed, and in seconds, the creature had vanished completely.

The air settled down and the torches dimmed to their usual brightness. In the absence of the howling wind, every sound was intensified. My heavy breathing. Satan’s heavy breathing. His voice behind me when he rasped, “What…?”

“It wasn’t real,” I answered breathlessly. “Just… an illusion.”

“What…did you do?”

I turned around to face him, only to find him on his knees, fists clenched on his thighs. I wilted somewhat. I hadn’t meant to draw power from him, but he was right there, and the illusion had been so intense…! 

“I…guess I had to borrow some of your power to banish the illusion. It- It wasn’t intentional…” I started to stammer out the best excuse I could pull from my ass, but then he looked up at me. His eyes flashed dangerously, his teeth were bared, and the sound he made was more like a snarl than a voice.

“This is my body! You can’t use it! You can’t, you can’t, you can’t! I’ll kill you!”

As enraged as he was, he was too weak to do much about the situation. I mumbled an apology, taking a step back. Satan kept muttering curses under his breath, head bowed, and before long, I’d pushed his words out of my mind. It wasn’t like this was the first time one of the brothers threatened to kill me, and it wouldn’t be the last.

Fatigued from my own burst of mana output, I shut my eyes, slid down the wall, and sat on the floor, running a hand through my hair as I exhaled. We would be fine now, I reassured myself. Satan would blow off his anger, and we’d figure out some way out of here. Leaving a pocket dimension should be relatively simple. Even if that failed, at the very least, Lucifer or Solomon would figure out how to rescue us. Right… All we had to do was…

......

I didn’t remember falling asleep, but then again, who does? When I woke up a short time later, stiff and sore against the stone wall, I was alone in the hallway.

“Satan?”

My voice echoed in the stone passage, and I reflexively shuddered. How many creepy things have chased me down these halls? Sure, this one wasn’t the real thing, but… what else besides Cerberus might be waiting in the wings?

It took some courage for me to shout louder. “Satan!”

Nothing.

I groaned. Loudly, too, just in case he could hear it. That bastard. My head reeled as I forced myself back to my feet. There was no way he would have just walked off into this maze without me, was there?

…Was there?

A nervous knot was growing in my stomach. “Satan, if you can hear me, you’d better say something!”

“Something.”

The voice came from directly behind me, and I shrieked. It was an ugly shriek, and it was loud, and when I turned around indignantly, I saw Satan. That asshole. He stood watching me with an irritating expression of self-satisfaction, and in his hand, he held the damn book that started all of this in the first place.

“So you’ve decided not to kill me?”

It was a stupid thing to say, and I knew it wouldn’t do anything besides annoy him, but I was embarrassed and I wanted to wipe the smug smirk off his stupid face.

It worked.

“Don’t you ever get tired of asking such irritating questions?” he snapped. “I was going to tell you I’ve found a simple way to get out of this nightmare.” He started thumbing through the pages, which smelled strongly of green tea.

One haphazardly sketched pentagram later, we were both standing in Satan’s room. A quick glance at my D.D.D. confirmed no time had passed during our little excursion to the illusory labyrinth. Thoroughly drained, I sighed and plopped down onto the floor with a bump. Three precariously stacked books proceeded to fall and hit me on the head, one after the other, like this was some sort of Looney Tunes skit.

“Careful!” chided Satan, steadying the stack. “You’ll start an avalanche, and I don’t have the patience to deal with that today! I have a headache.”

As I stood up, he flopped down on his bed, his back facing me. I stared at him for a few long seconds, then sighed. I could no longer repress a smirk.

“Want me to get you some tea?”

This was something I wrote while I was developing Let's All Be Shadows. It's a little sillier tonally. While I'm finishing Chapter 19, I figured I'd post this here, since I realized I hadn't done that yet.

[ldysmfrst]

I Got Interviewed!

Hello, dearest readers,

I had the honor of being interviewed by @psychosupernatural!

You may have seen the ask that was sent to my inbox.

After a mini-freak out for being asked in the first place, I agreed.

They also permitted me to share the interview with my readers!

I don't want to sound self-centered by sharing this with you.

I just thought that if someone was interested in knowing (even if it was for school), maybe others might want to know as well.

So here you go!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

What’s your motivation for writing fanfiction?

I started my first story, ‘Breaking and Entering,’ for myself because it was the first winter after COVID-19 broke out, and the world was shut off from itself.  Then, after reading fanfics for the first time, I started writing my second story (Reciprocal Synergy) and stopped after no one paid any attention to it when I posted it on Tumblr and AO3.   After reading a fantastic story by @yoongiofmine, I was inspired to write American Mate—A BTS Hybrid Playmate AU. I was initially going to keep it to myself because the online world had already shot down one of my stories, so why do it again? My oldest child (15 years old) said, “So what? Do it for yourself.” And I did.

I tell newer or struggling veteran writers, “Write for yourself. Enjoy what you wrote. Somewhere out there, someone else will match your freak. Someone else will want to escape into your world. Someone else needs to feel that support, even from a character in a story on their electronic device.”  At this point, it's like an inner mantra.

How have you learned to write good fanfiction?

First, it is still being determined whether my fanfiction is good. Like all works of art and creativity, what I do may not be everyone’s cup of tea.  The fanfic that I write takes a lot of time to cultivate. Most of my time is spent researching anything from sciences and behaviors to interviews and documentaries. The ability to tie facts into my works is what I think sets me into a category that draws in others because it makes it subconsciously believable despite the characters being werewolves, hybrids, aliens, or soul mates with abilities.  I also use my American Sign Language and Psychology education to help build these miniature universes. When I write, I consider the characters' psychological aspects, internal processes, and non-verbal communication. For works that also include animalistic tendencies, I research that to the furthest of my ability. I have done it so frequently that my city's large animal and exotic animal veterinarian has helped me several times. This can make the writing good if the readers want to read it. 

How do you judge the quality of your fics? 

Quality requires consistency and continuity. If side notes, footnotes, or character reference sheets are not used to ensure a solid foundation in the story, the reader will be confused. That confusion, that difficulty to read fluidly, is where the quality lies.  I could have a fantastic idea, but if it is not easy to read, no one will read it.  As for the wording, grammar, and the like, I practically failed every English class. My degrees are very much fact-based research papers written in MLA and APA. Due to my horrible history with writing, I never had the guts to take something like a creative writing course, although I have had a poem published worldwide.  When I read something I have written, if it pulls me back into the story and makes me want to read on and keep writing, it has good enough quality to show others. 

How did you / do you learn the “rules” and conventions of fanfiction?

I don’t think I have to be honest. There are common boundaries of respect, such as placing warnings, indicating where adult themes start and end, and noting where influences have come from. As a writer, I follow these out of a desire not to shock or trigger my reader and to support other fanfic writers.  I have been the reader who started reading an out-of-this-world fanfic and was thrown into a panic attack because there was no warning. I ended up messaging that writer and letting them know they have a trigger in their story. That writer was shocked that the story was triggering. When I explained that it was gracing the edge of being a particular type of fanfic, yandere, and how it was doing that, the writer understood and updated the warnings.  Unfortunately, fanfics do not have a predetermined set of rules that everyone is made aware of before starting their fanfic writing journey. It is a game of mimicking with individualizations sprinkled in. Also, as a writer, you have to be able to take in the thoughts of your readers and make adjustments without taking offense to that feedback.

Do you tend to stick to only one fandom, or do you migrate from one fandom to another?

I migrate fandoms.  My first fanfic was ‘Breaking and Entering,’ an original Young Adult high school werewolf story. I started writing it because I was bored while having COVID.  One of my most popular fanfics, American Mate, was inspired oddly. I read a BTS fanfic written by Yoongieofmine. The Playmate AU aspect of her story caught my attention because BTS is not among the top K–pop groups I follow. However, that story made my mind run with the thoughts of combining Playmates with Hybrids. I ended up writing Yoongieofmine and asking permission to write ‘American Mate.’ I have also written for other K-pop groups, Ateez and Stray Kids, and a Thai Boy-Love Drama, KinnPorsche.

What sort of relationship exists between you as a writer and the characters that you create on the page?

Interesting question, to be honest or not…  All of my stories, except the werewolf ‘Breaking and Entering’ story, are written in a y/n style, meaning the main character is the reader. These stories are written to pull the reader into them by negating a leading character name and replacing it with the notation y/n = your name.  I have to put myself in that leading character role to write these stories.  I fully understand that the stories are just that– stories. None of what is written is in any way possible. Still, while the reader or I read the story, I do my best to immerse myself in the place of the leading character and have those relationships, experiences, trials, and fears with the other characters.  Each chapter that is written starts as a dream or fantasy that I have personally had. Those give me an outline to work with, but I have had the experience where I am so into and connected with the characters that when I stop writing, I think, “wait, what happened?” So, I have to go back to read over what I have written, and then it's a moment of “Oh!! That is what I wrote. Well, that came out of nowhere.” Simply, I have a connection with them because I don’t think I could write them if I didn’t; however, I am not delusional enough to think they are anything more than words on a page. 

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[peaches2217]

I'm slowly but surely easing back into writing now that I'm acclimating to my new job! I can't say for certain when I'll have my next completed piece up, so in the meantime, please have the first page and a half of one of my longer WIPs, because if I don't post something I am going to gnaw my arm off like an understimulated animal. So please accept this gift which I'm presently calling...

Musings on a Motivation (WIP, also still looking for a less cringy title 😅)

~~~

“Did you truly want to marry me? Or did you just want to take Bowser’s victory for your own?”

Peach presented Mario with this question in the Snow Kingdom, huddled across from him in the corner of some Shiverian cafe. Her quiet voice was resolute, yet she couldn’t tear her eyes from the mug of hot chocolate in her hands.

For the first time in two days, Mario felt cold. She had warned him, told him she was going to bring it up again, but he didn’t feel any more prepared in spite of the advance alert.

“There’s no wrong answer,” she assured him, and though her smile was sad, it was equally sincere. “No matter what you tell me, I won’t think any differently of you. I just… I want to know.”

He nodded, though his head felt heavy and disconnected from his shoulders. Right. He supposed he did owe her an answer.

This wasn’t the first time they were discussing the incident on the moon. He knew for a fact it wouldn't be the last, either.

Half an hour after the offending event, Mario had broken the silence of the trip back home with an apology, face flushing redder and redder with shame the more he dwelled on it. His princess, l’amore della sua vita, the one he would travel to the ends of the earth and beyond for, had almost been forced into a marriage with the Koopa King Bowser, the very creature who caused her constant torment.

And what had Mario done after saving her from a marriage she hadn't asked for? Tried cornering her into another one. Proposed to her, a proposal that was quickly challenged by Bowser himself. Gotten into a squabble over her hand with the aforementioned creature like two boys fighting over a plastic toy. All of this minutes after rescuing her.

Peach had tiredly forgiven him, but asked to discuss it further once they were home and rested. Three days later, she reaffirmed her pardon over cake and tea, but held none of her own feelings on the matter back: how childishly he’d painted himself in her eyes, how she felt like nothing more than a trophy, some grand prize that would go to whoever shoved flowers in her face the hardest, how little she worried he valued her affections if he actually thought Bowser, of all people, was competition. The timing was bad, the execution was infinitely worse, and she felt both affronted and humiliated by the last man she ever expected to cause her such distress. 

Mario, for his part, was grateful. If she could feel all of those things — if he could cause her to feel all of those things — but she could still forgive him, then perhaps she still trusted him. 

But it stung no less to hear, and it certainly didn’t soften the blow when she asked for a break. 

“I need a vacation,” she had sighed. “We both… we need space. Some time apart.” Mario had numbly agreed.

In parting, he had taken her hand and pressed a gentle kiss to her knuckles, wishing her safety and happiness on whatever ventures she had planned; she had excused herself quickly, but not quickly enough to hide the first of her tears. That image routinely kept Mario awake into the early hours of the morning.

Glancing at the untouched slice of cake lying before him, he gulped. That had been a month ago. Peach had parted from the kingdom the following afternoon, and after a few lethargic days hiding beneath his blankets, Mario heeded the pleas of his brother and his newest friend and decided a vacation didn’t sound half bad. 

Luigi elected to stay home and tend to some sort of balloon-adjacent business, yet even without his twin, Mario found himself mercifully distracted. It began as a week-long expedition to both the major landmarks and best hidden alcoves of Cappy’s home nation. But somewhere between Big Beanie and Bucket-Hat Palace, their sightseeing stint segued into another hunt for Power Moons, fueled this time by adventure and pure entertainment rather than necessity, and Mario came to discover that an international game of hide-and-seek is an excellent way to distract oneself from heartbreak. 

So that was what he threw himself into, and the less excitable but every bit as goal-oriented Cappy was more than happy to assist. Yesterday was Day 35 of their adventure, and having spent the previous week roughing it in the choking heat of the Forgotten Isle, they’d agreed easily that a cooler change in scenery would do them both good. They arrived in the Snow Kingdom that morning and planned to spend the day acclimating in the (relative) warmth of Shiveria, then soldier on in their quest with no end goal. 

But just barely within the walls of the town, a black beret and a halo of golden hair stopped Mario in his tracks. 

Peach’s face was flush from the cold, but her eyes shined brighter and bluer than the carbonated sea of Bubblaine, and she called his name with all the warmth of a stroll along its sunny shores, and how his legs didn’t give out on the spot he wasn’t entirely sure. Suddenly the month that had flown by without her felt like an eternity. 

~

If y’all have any feedback thus far I would appreciate it most sincerely, I wanna make sure it’s at least somewhat coherent so far!!

[flame-of-tar-valon]

End-of-Year Special 10: Beaconhill Lighthouse

Vivimani hummed to himself as he set the finishing touches on the meal presentation. It wouldn’t win the Dellemont d’Or, but it looked tasty enough by Vivimani’s standards. He just hoped his message would be enticing enough to convince his honored guest to follow him here. (It seemed a tall order — Beaconhill sat on a tall rocky bluff, its tunnels and battlements fitted with enough stairs to put Sasamo’s penance to shame.)

Vivimani needn't have worried, though: barely a quarter bell passed before he spied her on the ascent below. Good. She had guards, of course, but the builders of Beaconhill had made the doors Lalafell-sized, which would at least mitigate the size of the entourage she would bring.

Dewlala Dewla entered the tower alone, her guards positioned outside so that she and Vivimani could speak in confidence. Vivimani welcomed her with a deep courtesy, a warm smile on his face. “Might I say it’s a delight to see you so well, despite the… terrible damage the Sacrarium has suffered,” he greeted her as he showed her to the table. “That her Prioress should nevertheless be graced with a seat on the Syndicate truly speaks to Nald’s great blessings.” She did look well; she was not at all winded from the climb as far as he could ascertain.

Dewlala spent the next several seconds studying Vivimani’s face; finding nothing blatant to take umbrage to, she eventually spoke, keeping her voice carefully neutral. “It is the privilege of the Order of Nald’thal to counsel the Royal House of Ul. It is this duty that we place before all else.” She did her best to suppress a grimace. She must know she sounded defensive. And for what? She was the head of the city’s religious affairs, justifying herself to a mere adventurer after meeting him outside the city — at his invitation, no less. Oh, that must sting.

Dewlala’s eyes narrowed. The urge to smirk at her suspicion bubbled under Vivimani’s skin. Still, he pushed it down. In order for the veiled subtext of his speech to truly rattle Dewlala, she'd have to sift it out from Vivimani's affected piety herself: “How curious that the Sacrarium lies in ruins, yet its Prioress has the funds to purchase a seat on the Syndicate. I wonder if this ‘miracle’ holds up to more secular forms of bookkeeping?”

The table was set with a modest Thanalan dinner: roasted nopales, a spicy tuco-tuco loaf set on flatbread, and a couple meat miq'abobs, with a chilled pitcher of spiced Sil’dihn tea to accompany the food. Vivimani was curious to see if she would take any of it. She had no way of knowing if it were poisoned. 

(It wasn’t, at least by Lalafell standards; Vivimani never bothered to learn what ingredients were poisonous to the other humanfolk, but he vaguely recalled tavern chatter about tuco-tuco meat on the menu.)

Taking a bite from his own miq’abob, Vivimani took pity on Dewlala. “It is a precarious position you hold. The Sultana’s seat grows weaker by the day, and your colleagues on the Syndicate circle like vultures. But the fact that you showed up to dine with me today tells me three things with absolute certainty.” He leaned in, tugging ever-so-slightly on the mana housed within Heartstrike, and dimmed the lights in the room. The effect was almost imperceptible — enough to make Dewlala more pliable under the tension, but not enough for her to realize he’d done anything. 

“Firstly, that your council is fractured. You serve the city, just as you serve the Traders. And that means when you heard about the missing crown, you had to act.” Dewlala’s grip tightened on her scepter. There was no surprise in her eyes when Vivimani mentioned the crown. There should have been — only a handful of people were supposed to know about it at this point — but instead of confused or shocked, she looked grim. But she didn’t speak, which Vivimani took as tacit permission to continue his monologue. 

“I have neither the means nor motive to cause any significant harm, to you or to the Sultanate,” he said, which walked a tightrope between truth and lie so fine that Vivimani himself wouldn’t be willing to gamble which it was. “I can but assume that you have your informants, which is more than I can say for myself, as I have but my guildmates at my disposal — and that, only assuming their loyalty doesn’t waver.” He was downplaying his connections, and Dewlala knew this — as Prioress, she would know what had been going on in the Thaumaturge’s Guild. So, although he didn’t spell it out, Dewlala heard his second conclusion: that Vivimani could trace her network back as far as he needed to — as far back as the Immortal Flames, perhaps.

“Most importantly,” he said, moving in for the kill, “despite all the ways I may be a danger to you, your career, or even your bloodline… you believe that the best odds for keeping the city afloat in these trying times rely on a partnership with me. You don’t know me well — you don’t know my price, my morals, my past — which is a comfort in some ways and a danger in others. It’s hard, in a city as cutthroat as ours, to find someone without skeletons in their closet. But there’s something to be said for the devil one knows being more reliable than a stranger.”

Dewlala flushed with indignation and opened her mouth to speak —

Vivimani bowed. Deeply. Face to the ground. “By the most sacred name of Nald’thal, I, Vivimani Qiqimani, hereby pledge my lifeblood to the service of the Order and to the Sacrarium, ‘till gold erodes to dust and ‘till flesh burns away to ash. So do I swear.” Then, drawing on the magic of the dagger again — Mormo clamored to be let out, but Vivimani kept a firm grip on the leash — Vivimani summoned a flame, just a candle’s worth, and stretched out his hand to let it mark him. Dewlala stared. He held onto it, just until he had to hiss from the pain, then let it vanish.

“You don’t know if you can trust me. I understand that. There’s a lot of my own past I can’t recall. But while I’m here… I’m going to do what I can.” Until I choose not to, at least. 

That was the thing about piety. It was very meaningful to a lot of people. It was also, essentially, theatre. If a burn scar on his hand was all it took to convince a member of the Syndicate that he was trustworthy, Vivimani would make that sacrifice a thousand times over. There were far worse ways of getting friends in such high places.

Still, a part of him — deep down, buried underneath all his anxieties about Mumuepo, underneath his guilt about the Qarn mission, even underneath his last words to his parents — a part of him really hoped the day would never come where he would have to brazenly betray an oath sworn to Nald’thal. Nor to any of the Twelve.

* * *

The meal Vivimani prepared consists of roasted nopales, a tuco-tuco mole loaf, meat miq'abobs, and mulled tea. It was difficult to come up with an authentic traditional Ul'dahn meal, but I think this is ok.

Fun fact: Dewlala uses Plainsfolk model and naming conventions, but it doesn't make sense for her not to be Dunesfolk — even the Encyclopedia Eorzea says that she is canonically Dunesfolk! So I'm giving her their poison resistance (if not extending it to all Lalafell just because I can).

Join me tomorrow for the grand finale of this preview series, to see what happens when Lleidspaer, Nia'a, and Vivimani all find their paths converging...