#via trance as well

[teecupangel]

Desmond as a Mind Flayer

Submitted by @fanworldbuildingfun​

 few days I have been absolutely consumed by Baldur’s Gate. It has been a most excellent diversion. And thus, I come to you with an idea: after the Solar Flare, Desmond does perish in the Temple. Physically, that is. However, his mid endures – and not at all as The Reader

No, instead – Desmond comes to as a silent observer in the mind of the MC of Baldur’s Gate 3. An experience so similar to Animus that, at first, he thinks he IS stuck in an Animus. But the world, the beings in it – they fit nothing that Desmond has experienced before. And so, he tries to adapt. Trying to reach out to the person he is riding. Permitting what he perceives as a draw on his Eagle Vision (even if it comes across so odd now!). Pinging when he senses danger going on

And then, one day… He manages to actually interact with his host. In a dream. Now. To stop them from being so antagonistic to Desmond – neither of them, after all, had an option to get stuck as they are

In short: Desmond gets reborn as the Mind Flayer parasite in BG3 world. And does not realize it

Que Desmond being *the* Bleeding Effect here. And possibly working on having the other companions become potential carriers to his ancestors’ memories? But that only happens if his host opts to “connect” with the others often (which the game implies is Bad)

=================================

Additions by teecup:

I haven’t bought Baldur’s Gate 3 yet so I am basing Desmond’s Mind Flayer capabilities on what’s wildly accepted in D&D.

First of all, we’ll make Desmond a rogue Mind Flayer that no Elder Brain can control at all. This would make him an enemy of the other Mind Flayers (although they wouldn’t necessarily attack Desmond or his host directly though) because he cannot be ‘put in his place’.

Of course, this would also mean that Desmond has no connection to the hivemind (either permanently or, if you’d like, we can make Desmond be able to access the hivemind later on but he’d mistake it for maybe the Bleeding Effects of ancestors he didn’t know about).

And Desmond always appears as Desmond Miles in the MC’s dreams. He’s just as baffled as the MC to why he can see thru their eyes and the MC might even believe that he’s a wizard or a sorcerer who had fallen into a spell of his own or some kind of magical artifact.

Desmond doesn’t believe that because he has all of Desmond Miles’ memories.

That’s when the MC would suggest “Perhaps you did come from another world and have been transformed?”

And that’s when the search for what Desmond is will begin.

Mind Flayer won’t be the first guess of the MC because Desmond doesn’t act like a usual Mind Flayer. He’s sincere and his words held no lies. Sure, he didn’t tell the MC everything about himself but that’s not surprising at all. Everyone has secrets and it was clear that Desmond’s secrets wasn’t his alone to share.

So they bonded in their dreams and Desmond starts to gain more control over the MC’s body. It’s like… the more they share what they were thinking, what’s on their mind, the more Desmond… feel more in control.

Desmond doesn’t think that’s a problem. In Desmond’s eyes, it was just similar to how more ‘invasive’ the Bleeding Effect was becoming (and that is how he and the MC had been calling it, the Bleeding Effect).

And neither of them realize that Desmond was doing what Mind Flayers were meant to do to their host from the very beginning.

The moment the MC starts to talk to Desmond about their thoughts and feelings…

Desmond had begun to eat their mind.

Unorganized Notes:

Desmond has no idea what he’s doing. He doesn’t even know what a Mind Flayer is.

I’m thinking we should make the MC magic-focused so that the actions Desmond could do while in control would synergies well enough that they won’t realize that Desmond’s affinity to magic is more on the side of the Mind Flayer’s Psionic Magic ability being on the forefront.

It’s probably going to be the Mind Flayers who would tell the MC and Desmond what Desmond truly is unless they find a character that can tell that the MC is already undergoing ceremorphosis.

You want other people to be the host of his ancestors? We can go for the D&D lore of Mind Flayers and make Desmond lay eggs which will hatch to tadpoles with memories of his ancestors.

Of course, this would mean the real reason why the Elder Brain wants him dead is because his ‘offsprings’ also do not adhere to the rest of the Mind Flayers and they do not need to stay with the Elder Brain to live and grow.

They can automatically be implanted into a host.

Which means… Desmond wasn’t just a Mind Flayer. He could potentially be a Mind Flayer with the power of an Elder Brain.

And… I just have to add this:

[nocturnowlette]

I accidentally revealed a little experiment I was doing to my subject, today, so I finally get to tell you all about it.

I honestly didn't think that covert hypnotic triggers were a thing due to the constant annoying mysticism and years of bad science around hypnosis, as well as stuff like subliminals having absolutely zero actual effects. However, with some testing, I have been delightfully surprised.

To be clear, by a covert trigger, I do not mean a trigger that was given under trance explicitly then had the subject forget or be unaware of when used. I mean a trigger that is installed, reinforced, and used entirely without the subject noticing. It'd be more accurate to call this a preconscious trigger, but the linguistic gods disagree, I suppose.

I decided to use my favorite subject, and someone I'm close with in many ways. I've already trained general obedience into her over time, but have always allowed her to be rebellious because it's fun for the both of us. However...

There's a phrase I liked to use on occasion during trance and outside of it when I'm being a little gently degrading: the phrase, "Isn't that right?" at the end of sentences. Leading questions are natural for gentle domination, and I had already been doing it, so I decided to use it a little bit more often, and with intention.

For about two weeks straight, while under trance and while training general obedience or otherwise while messing with them, I would go, "Isn't that right?" exclusively for questions that were an absolute yes. There's no reason she wouldn't say yes to it, and so, she did, every single time.

The next week or two, I would start peppering in the phrase for slight disagreements. That's to say, things that were a yes, but something that she'd make a small fuss about normally to be rebellious. To my surprise, any time I used the phrase, all rebellion seemed to stop. I actually thought she caught on and was doing it intentionally, but she didn't respond when I signaled that to her.

A few weeks later, after more and more reinforcement, to the point where it was a very common part of my everyday vocabulary, I was able to completely quell any fire she brought up. I would do a short explanation or rationalization, then end the sentence with, "Isn't that right?", and poof, the rebellion goes away.

I accidentally revealed it today as stated due to showing a list of notes I used to keep track of triggers for subjects, but luckily, by the time she found out, it was one of the most potent triggers I had for her. It still works just fine.

Before she did find out, I finally got to hear what she sounded like after all the training when I said it out loud, as I mostly reinforced it via text. It sounded like her voice turned droopy and monotone entirely and only for when she agreed, then went back to normal. It was really, really cute, and I had to stifle a giggle or two.

Luckily, I didn't write down the other few covert triggers I have for her. I'll be having fun with those for a good while longer.

[soleilapproves]

Nanami Kento is the type of man to lose his mind if he sees your ankles. In other words, Nanami goes crazy whenever he sees a sliver of your skin.

Notes: pre-relationship, Nanami has a HUGE crush on you and is embarrassed about thirsting over you.

main masterlist

Prim and proper. Two adjectives that described Nanami Kento to the T. The man never came to teach with a hair out of place- everything was held back with the right amount of gel. His tie didn’t move unless it was to be removed for a fight and his suits always fit him just right.

He was a man of consistency and neatness. However, that side of him would only keep up until you were in sight. You with your radiant smile and boisterous laughter that had him turning around and shoving his face into the nearest wall out of pure admiration.

Nanami hated losing his stoic facade in front of you. It was like you turned him into a teenager who had hit puberty and began seeing girls in a new light.

It was just another day at Jujutsu Tech. The teachers were having a meeting in the staff room. Well, it was more of tea time while gossiping about the students. Nanami, as usual, didn’t indulge in the conversation and chose to listen instead.

You however, were not afraid to give in your two cents about Yuuji’s atrocious new shoes.

“It was so funny, he looked like a clown!” Gojo laughed out from the other end of the table. You could feel Nanami rolling his eyes from beside you but you still had a feeling that deep down side, he agreed with Gojo as well.

Gojo pulled out his phone to show you a funny picture of the student and you leaned over the table to see it, making your already tight blouse, ride up.

‘I’m a gentleman.’ Nanami told himself while staring at the translucent brown liquid in his cup. But then again, your ass was right next to him, and you were wearing the pants he liked too. It would be a missed opportunity to not look, especially when you were so up close and personal.

He looked. There it was, your beautiful skin, he couldn’t see much but he could swear it was probably one of the most beautiful things he had seen all week (aside from your face).

He gripped his cup tightly as he imagined himself stroking the soft skin of your back. He averted his gaze when you went to sit back down. However, he didn’t stare at you discretely enough because he had managed to make eye contact with a smug Gojo. The word gentleman did have the word man in it.

Another instance where he almost lost his cool while looking at you was when you both were assigned to fight a curse that had razors for fingers. It was too dangerous for the students to tag along.

You tried your best to dodge the blasted creature but managed to barely get by as one its blades grazed your torso, cutting your shirt in half. This angered Nanami and he quickly finished the curse via his classic 7:3 technique. He turned to look at you hunched over, examining your fresh new wound- a giant paper cut going from between your chest to your belly button. The cut wasn’t deep but it was painful.

Nanami’s blush deepened after reaching towards you. He could see your bra and he felt horrible at that moment. There you were, groaning in pain while he wondered if you’d sound the same under him.

The worst incident in his opinion was when you had invited him over to help you build your bookshelf and you opened the door wearing thigh high socks and shorts. Didn’t you know not to mess with a man’s heart?

Every time, you’d walk by him, he’d try to sneak a peak at your plush thighs. It happened so often that he accidentally hammered his thumb. “Kento!” You rushed towards him and sat down on your calves, taking his hand in your lap.

“This looks painful. Let’s get you some ice before it begins to bruise.” You lightly tug Nanami’s forearms but his eyes are too focused on your expanded thighs, begging to be let out of the confines of your socks. “Kento?” The man was shook out of his trance when you looked up at him with concerned eyes.

Fuck, he couldn’t do this anymore.

“What?”

“Ice? Your thumb is starting to bruise, come on.”

The man silently followed you to your kitchen while you set up an ice pack for him. His eyes tracked along your figure, especially the way your thighs chaffed against one another. Even though he had an ice pack in his hand, his skin felt like it was burning because of the proximity between you two.

You were cooing at the wound, regretting that you made him do all that work just to get hurt.

“I’m so sorry, Kento. Is there anything I can do to make up for it?” You apologetically asked. There you went again, shooting arrows at his heart with every word.

“Let me squeeze your thighs.”

“Huh?”

“Huh.”

“What?”

“What.”

—

I don’t know how to end this. Sue me.

[elanorpam]

it's been way too long since i last did wildly self-indulgent fanart, so of course i did it for an SVSSS AU that doesn't even have any actual fanfiction written of it yet. but what can i say! it's a compelling scenario! Just check the original post for details!

here's a workplace doodle for his mess of an outfit, too:

Xin Mo is floating behind his back, wrapped in talismans. the collars are meant to be vaguely inspired on a flower bud.

Some notes i came up with for this version, copied straight from a month-old discord convo:

he may have protagonist halo now, but he's for sure not a stallion protagonist. he literally exchanged fates with his favorite person in the world in order to spare them a hellish trial-- that's romantic as fuck!! damn!! this is old CLAMP shoujo and no mistake!!

binghe may no longer be the protag, but he's still a half-heavenly demon. power-wise, heavenly demons can't be topped, and all the remaining heavenly demons are accounted for. so, SQQ can't be a heavenly demon, even in part.

HOWEVER, as a protagonist, there's a factor more important than power! it's the CHUUNI FACTOR. what's more CHUUNI™️ than being part demon?

one option is being part demon and part angel.

how would that even fucking work??????? IDK man, you can either pull from chinese folklore for fairies or heavenly beings or spirits, or you can blame Airplane and go "he accidentally implied the existence of christian elements by means of importing unexamined anime tropes"

Shen Jiu conveniently has a big fat blank on his parentage. We as fans can and have put whatever the hell we wanted there.

SQQ would jump into the abyss still under the impression SJ was a shallow villain. If his trip through the abyss involves recovering SJ's memories somehow, that sure would be fun times, huh?

so he awakens a mysterious ancestry and survives the abyss and takes Xin Mo, but he probably takes longer than Binghe did due to being squishier.

but Xin Mo isn't ACTUALLY his! so he papers it over with sealing talismans, and to battle the temptation to wield it he takes to wearing these longass sleeves. they're probably covered in talismans as well.

guessing Xiu Ya stayed behind to be mooned over by the clown trio in Cang Qiong. let's go full sparkle-sue here and say he's now fighting almost entirely via musical cultivation. i like swan-necked konghou harps so let's go with that, it'll look dope.

why is he barefoot? why WOULDN'T he be, is the question. fragile!! suffering!! dainty!! he's a shrinking flower, tormented by the weight of the One Sword To Rule Them All!!

also for extra pathos, his constant mental struggle against Xin Mo means he can't spare energy to front. it takes constant focus! he's still a bit in his delusional shit, but even when he's going "oh no, binghe is only latched throat-deep onto my dick because he's a good boy who's concerned about me and the danger i could pose by losing control" he'd probably… well, he'd probably say that out loud to anyone who asked. he's in a half-trance, mentally battling the crazy-making sword. lying is too much work.

Wouldn’t resisting Xin Mo’s influence be the mental and spiritual equivalent to training under 400x gravity or something? his wife-beam is going to be off the charts when he puts it down.

also also: who the hell dressed him like that? fucking shang qinghua, of course, after SQQ showed up in the northern palace to punish MBJ for hurting binghe in the conference. did the system explain shit to SQH? on the one hand, extremely funny if it updates him on the role change out of nowhere mid-alliance. on the other hand, extremely funny if he only finds out because Binghe is crying safely in Qing Jing while the scum villain apparently jumped into the abyss.

Here's another link to the original AU post! I've had it open on a tab all this time just so i could point to it when I was done, so make sure to check it out!

[see-arcane]

My Criticism: the erotic bond of Thomas and Orlok and the romantic/sexual bond of Ellen and Anna deserved more focus. (But that's also my thoughts on the various Draculas). Happily surprised they gave some sexuality to the newlyweds it literally never happens with Dracula media

I think that for the amount of time and the focus of the story, Eggers fit in as much as he could without it overshadowing the main core of 1) Orlok targeting Ellen and 2) Thomas and Ellen being in love and headed for tragedy. And yes! Eggers lets these newlyweds be truly in love and hot for each other! It's like what we deserved with Jonathan and Mina for 127 years, very nearly! :')

SPOILERS BELOW

That said, I do think that short of a real kiss with Ellen and Anna, Eggers gave us a decent 'what-if' of what Mina and Lucy might have been like if they both made it to marriage (bar Harding not quite measuring up to Arthur Holmwood standards, loving husband and father though he is). They are both married young women now and Ellen is rooming under Anna's husband's roof. It'd be tricky to have anything properly raunchy go on, but we do at least get that scene of Ellen laying in bed with Anna!

Before the Orlok business happens. Augh.

As for Orlok and Thomas...oh, but there is a lot to unpack there.

To be clear, this is very much not Dracula and Jonathan's weird predatory thing. It is another, weirder, semi-callback to The Lighthouse kind of thing. At least in the vein that the brief homoerotic flints of interaction we get there--

The slow dance scene where the two men who hate each other almost share a kiss, only for the younger man to recoil in panic.

A scene of insults and accusation where the older man describes the younger as having eyes like a lady's.

--lean on braided elements of homoeroticism, homophobia, and violent/elder masculinity baring its teeth at gentler/younger masculinity via comparisons to women.

Or, to be frank, even as Orlok is bitter at Thomas being the man Ellen chose despite their 'covenant,' it isn't just the bitterness of, "She chose another man over me!" but, "She chose a weaker, younger, effeminate man over me!" Which paired perfectly (horribly) with his running theme of being a psychic rapist. Orlok is the more masculine man. Thomas is, in his eyes, the lesser, effete competition. Why, the boy may as well be a woman himself.

Cue Orlok taking a route with Thomas that we never see him take with any other man in the movie. He preys on Thomas in the exact same way he would eventually do to Ellen at the climax. The only dignity he leaves the young man with is that he does not strip him as he feeds--only Orlok is naked, crouched and feeding at Thomas' breast twice. The first time being the result of getting almost obscenely aroused--literally or hungrily--at the sight of Thomas' thumb bleeding. All we get to see there is Thomas' terror under sudden paralysis as Orlok closes in. And the next time we see Thomas is him, not on the chair where we last saw him, but sprawled on the floor.

On his stomach.

Dressed, true. But with his face and front down. Already bitten at the heart.

Then, in his last scenes with Orlok, we see him actively try to kill Orlok in his box. Orlok stops the attack, tracks him down to the locked room Thomas has hid in--a room in his own castle! which he could unlock!--and purposefully uses a trance to make Thomas open the door. Just as he trances Thomas into laying himself out on the bed, locked and afraid in his own body. Orlok falls on him, feeding again at Thomas' chest, loudly and deeply draining what sounds like a horrific amount of blood.

(There's a comment to be made about the reversal of taking in bodily fluids, but we'll skip that for now.)

In the midst of this, Thomas is treated to a vision of Ellen in Orlok's place. Seeing it, he looks almost docile. Welcoming.

Orlok, naked, drinks and drinks. And leaves him on the bed.

Instead of slaughtering him. He doesn't even call the wolves to him once he's finished to eat the leftovers.

Which I find strange, considering that in a future scene, Orlok muses aloud to Knock that Thomas yet lives. As if he's surprised. Did he have the wolves on a mental timer to come after Thomas by daylight? Or did he think that, despite Thomas' heart still miraculously beating, he had drained enough blood to assume the young man would die on his own?

Or.

Was the surprise not that Thomas was alive, but alive and human? Not the undead, like himself, like he planned to make Ellen?

It doesn't add up to have the wolves only appear by daylight to spook Thomas out of the window--if Orlok was so concerned about technically keeping his hands clean of murdering him and so keeping the covenant with Ellen technically not a thing of theft, he could have absolutely let the wolves in that night to finish the job and be sure Thomas was torn to pieces. Instead, Thomas is intact come sunup, the door left open to the wolves...

...who only come running and raging up to him once Thomas proves to still be alive and awake despite how he passed the night. Can't be undead if you aren't dead first. This, combined with how Thomas states later on that he still feels Orlok's shadow/hold on him, seems to imply that Orlok didn't want to just kill Thomas off. He seethes about Thomas so deeply that he would rather see the young man under his heel forever just as he means to keep Ellen under his thumb and mentally assaulted at every opportunity.

If Ellen is Orlok's prize for desire's sake, Thomas is Orlok's conquest made out of pride. 'Making a woman' of Ellen's chosen man. Hell, he puts the words in Ellen's mouth when he tugs a mental string in her to get them fighting. Despite Orlok only ever mentioning the technical truth of Thomas 'selling her for gold' (with a contract he could not read and assumed was for a commission and a completion of a house sale), Ellen somehow has the knowledge to accuse Thomas of 'falling into Orlok's arms'--when, in fact, Orlok mounted Thomas and did what he did.

...

......

.........

Which brings me to the grimmest point of this whole fucked up mess which I really truly hope is Not the Case.

Orlok had his puppeteer hands in both of the Hutters. He was obviously leaning heaviest on Ellen, but he had his grip on Thomas too. So I have to wonder.

How much of the sex scene between the Hutters was entirely their will?

What if Orlok, in full voyeur fashion, pulled even more strings to make that sudden feverish intimacy happen? Ellen says aloud that they will show him their love. Is it a show only Ellen wants them to put on? Or is it Orlok, once more violating his victims by proxy? Either way the shock-vision of Ellen weeping and vomiting blood cuts the mood immediately--however real or imagined it was--and both Hutters snap out of their haze to embrace.

No no no I am unclean

Nonsense I love you I love you

Something else for Orlok to watch. A little knife-twist from his face-to-face with Ellen--You cannot love--and fuel on the martyr fire for Ellen, who heard from Orlok that he would kill all she loves, including Thomas, if she refuses him--in another life, another threat: (If you make a sound I shall take him and dash his brains out before your very eyes.)--though the villain could have killed him a dozen times already. But she cannot take the gamble.

All of which is a very very long way of saying that while Orlok's main focus is definitely on Ellen, there are signs of another stranger hate-attraction with Thomas. The opponent he wants in full submission versus Ellen, the runaway bride to coerce into being his equal.

tl;dr: They're just not that into you, Orlok, let it go

[starleska]

how would wally react to a neighbor who uses ASL (sign language) to talk?

i love your head canons!

thank you very much!!! you're so kind :3c ooooh this is a wonderful idea, thank you for sending it in!! just to let you know - i'm British (unfortunately), and my personal experience of sign language is influenced by BSL, so i've tried to make this widely applicable for anyone who may use sign language. i hope you don't mind! 🥰

Wally Darling x Reader Who Uses Sign Language headcanons

⭐ Wally is versed in several types of sign language, as well as Makaton and lip-reading. as a neighbourly fellow who is ever-curious about the lovely people who stumble into his life, Wally realised early on that communication via voiced speech alone wasn't inclusive, practical, or possible for some of his friends. in fact, Wally first began learning sign language to communicate with Julie, who has a tendency to become nonverbal when overwhelmed. soon, Wally and the rest of the neighbourhood realised the enormous benefits of being versed in sign language, and began hosting impromptu classes to practice their signing. everyone in the neighbourhood is able to communicate well through sign language, but Wally is undoubtedly the most fluent! ⭐ when Wally first meets you, he is adorably excited by the way you talk. although he loves talking to his friends through sign, Wally finds conversations with you incredibly stimulating. you're interesting, and funny, and know just what to sign to make him break out into peals of his odd, halting laughter. indeed, Wally talks much faster via sign than he does through verbal speech. he often gets swept up in the act of signing; sometimes, you'll need to grab hold of his hands to get him to slow down, as he signs too fast in his excitement! ⭐ Wally is fascinated by the visuals of you signing. as we know, Wally eats with his eyes, but the things he visually devours are not limited to food. early into your friendship, Wally shyly requests that you ramble to him in sign so he can become more accustomed to your unique movements and sign-related dialect. you're happy to do so, but after a few minutes of talking to Wally, you realise his eyes have grown large: akin to an owl's eyes, absorbing all light like a black hole. you gesture to Wally to snap him out of his trance, and it takes a few blinks for his pupils to return to their normal size. he giggles, and apologises, signing: "Sorry! You speak beautifully. I was hungry." for the rest of the day, you press Wally to elaborate on what he means, but he just gives you a coy look and a shake of his head. awww i loved writing this one, thanks so much @xo-destiny!! we need more sign language headcanons in the world, and discussion of disability and non-voiced ways of communication too. hope you like this 🥰💖

[edensfixations]

hehe imagine if Deku had a twin sibling who was a big Hawks fan (but is more low-key about it) and coincidentally had a recessive quirk that gave them 2 pairs of retractable wings

AHH i LOVE these platonic au's!

we're going bullet point form!

• izuku has a twin sister? 🤨 her name? isaki!!

• isaki, just like her brother, doesn't hold much height! she's around 5 feet tall, very defensive about it! she's got the same green curly hair but longer! she has freakles and glasses (courtesy of her reading late at night in the dark and unlucky genetics.)

• anyway, contrary to her brother, she has a quirk. she got it when she was five and absolutely went batshit crazy when feathers sprouted out of her back a random saturday morning. she ran straight to izuku and he was no help whatsoever. he screamed louder than her!

• over the years her quirk has grown and developed! for a bit she ended up randomly floating causing a massive panic to her mother and amusement from her brother. her wings had grown into large black wings that resembles a crows.

• she's gained many nicknames from people. from her mother, dove. from her brother, saki and raven! katsuki however calls her shadow for an array of unfortunate reasons but at least she doesn't get the same treatment as her brother!!

• when the midoriya twins turned 12 a new hero made his way onto the scene! an 18 year old with his own company??!?!? suddenly in the top 10 in only 6 months???? WHAT?!?

• hawks having an amazing reputation like this immediately after debuting had him have eyes on him constantly! and isaki wasn't any different!

• while her brother was OBSESSED with all might since they were kids, she had only idolised him a bit. he was 100% her biggest inspiration and thought only the most highly of him but she never wanted to be a hero until she saw hawks! I mean she practically bounced off the walls when she saw someone with a similar quirk!

• over the next 2 years she had slowly built a merch a collection, a pathetic one really because she mostly used her pocket money for food and books while her brother never really used his money for anything but all might!

•her merch collection includes a few posters, 3 hoodies, an action figure and a bobble head as well as some limited edition sneakers that she'll NEVER admit she qued overnight for.

• similar to her twin brother, she also keeps a little notebooks. she however keeps about 4? 2 for hawks and 2 for everyone else. after deciding she'd like to follow her quirkless brother and his deranged frenemy to ua, she starts assessing some of her favourite heroes, namely hawks and his techniques and how to utilise them.

• so from ages 13-15 you'll just see an isaki midoriya flying around in her backyard practicing moves she learnt from hawks via the internet.

• when izuku had started his 10 month intense training with a mystery man izuku hadn't told her about, she decided to start her own 10 month training. hers however contained a gym and her doing combat training with whoever was training there too and up for it! there she met tenya iida! story for another time.

• however, about 5 months into her training, she had particularly drained herself that day. because of this she was barely paying attention to her surroundings. it was quite a shock to her when she had been suddenly grabbed from the ground and sped off about a block away when where she once was!

• who was it? pro hero hawks of course! naturally, isaki was completely star struck. she could not BELIEVE who was standing in front of her right now!!! she was barely listening to him warning her to watch where she's walking so she doesn't get run over by a car (she walked into traffic, whoops!) she snapped out of trance when she heard him say, "nice wings, kid" before he was gone.

•isaki flew home and screamed into her pillow!!! she couldn't believe that happened! HE COMPLIMENTED HER WINGS!!!!!! she was so close to him! practically hugging him! (delusion)

• upon her screaming her mother and brother enter her room, curious, afraid and wanting answers.

• she looks up from her pillow, pink faced and hyperventilating, "HE SAID I HAVE NICE WINGS!!" her wings start fluttering creating a small breeze. it's a small habit she picked up from when she was little. her little family chuckled at her words. "Who??" "That guy from the gym??" "NO HAWKS. I CAN DIE HAPPY."

• isaki is now laying on the ground while her brothers jaw is slack and her mother leaves, giggling to herself.

• "YOU MET NUMBER 3 HERO HAWKS??!!" "YEAH WHEN I ACCIDENTALLY ALMOST WALKED INTO TRAFFIC!!!!" "WHAT?!"

• needless to say, she wore her hoodie and limited edition sneakers to bed that night.

(pls send requests I loved doing this so muchhhh!!)

[apoloadonisandnarcissus]

Galadriel wanted to join Sauron, freely

For the sake of not repeating myself, please read this post first, because that’s where I made the case for Galadriel wanting to join Sauron of her own free will in 2x08, and where doubts arose.

First things first: Galadriel appears to be in a “trance-like state” when she looks at Sauron post-binding via Morgoth’s crown. And it’s pretty obvious why that is: she looks “enchanted” and “bewitched” because she’s in love with that evil motherf*cker, and just had a revelation;

This is what Galadriel truly wants. This is her heart’s true desire. She wants to take his offer and to join him: she desires for Sauron’s power to become hers, and to have him, as well. I made this point perfectly clear on that post (as did the show itself). 

And Sauron can't believe it, himself: look at his face. And then, he’s so happy it’s uncanny for him. This demon has tears on his eyes because he knows Galadriel will join him, at last. And he’s already planning the wedding ceremony and the honeymoon in Mordor.

And Galadriel would, indeed, have joined him, if Nenya didn’t step in and stopped her (by compelling her to jump off the cliff). This is the moment when Nenya takes over with the cringeworthy dialogue about “healing”:

This is what Season 2 has been building to: Galadriel succumbing to Sauron. This is where the all the foreshadowing is, for Galadriel's character arc in this season.

"You cannot face him alone"

In Season 2, we had three different characters warning Galadriel that she might succumb to Sauron if she faces him alone: Gil-galad, Elrond and Adar.

Similar to Gi-galad, Elrond shares the same concern, twice: in 2x01:

And in 2x02:

And why would he think that?

In 2x06, it’s Adar who warns Galadriel she might succumb to Sauron as well, because she’s acting quite smug at being able to resist him once before (1x08). 

I resisted.

For a while, perhaps.

His eye bores a hole and the rest of him slithers in.

"I cannot let him in, again"

Galadriel is consumed with finding and destroy Sauron in Season 2; and now it’s not about the death of her brother, but because she believes Sauron deceived her, and everything she experienced with Halbrand (the connection, and the situationship) was a lie and part of Sauron’s schemes of deception.

However, in her scene with Elrond, in 2x02, she’s feeling particularly vulnerable, and agrees with him and Gil-galad: she cannot face Sauron alone because if she allows him “in” again, she will succumb to him.

However, from 2x02 until 2x08, Galadriel grows bolder and more confident, mostly aided by Nenya and the visions and the guidance the ring of power provides her with. Although, I would agree it was never her intention to face Sauron alongside Elrond & co., because she goes rogue when she gets the chance and allows herself to get captured by Adar.

"I resisted"

I swear to you, High King. I will not stop until he is destroyed and I have put this right.

Morfydd Clark herself has said that Galadriel knows she messed up really bad, and is on a desperate mission for redemption. And this is why Galadriel wants to seek out Sauron all by herself.

Galadriel and Adar parallel each other on their pursuit for Sauron, and they were both consumed and obsessed by it. While Adar sacrificed his “children” to destroy Sauron, Galadriel threw Elrond under the bus (by telling Adar he’s the one who carries Nenya) just to get a chance of finding Sauron and face him herself.

Galadriel’s pride is her main flaw of character, and usually what gets her into trouble. And pride was her downfall, here, too. She believed she would always resist Sauron, not due to what he offered her last time not being enough to tempt her (it was), but because she believed him to be a deceiver (= everything he says is a lie).

"I felt it, too"

How does Galadriel feel about Sauron? Well, she hates him, and wants to kill him, and destroy him, right? Right?

Okay, I’ll just let Morfydd Clark explain how Galadriel is feeling these days:

It would be like if you had the most intense type of synesthesia, and then you met someone else that had the same type of it, but then you find out they’re the worst person in the world. But you can’t undo that feeling of what it was to be understood and connected in that way.

Galadriel is heartbroken, and understandably so. She’s not grieving the loss of Halbrand, the man she loves: she thinks she has been played for a fool, and the connection they shared was a lie, and another one of Sauron’s deceptions, the cruel and cunning sorcerer. She’s haunted by this moment, as we’ve seen on 2x02:

Everyone who has been deceived by someone they cared about can relate to this. Yes, Galadriel is sad and depressed, but she’s also angry and probably feeling a little bit humiliated and ashamed of herself for falling for Sauron’s lies. She’s going through all seven stages of grief. And so, she wants to destroy him, and make him pay for deceiving her, and manipulating her into caring this much about him. And she’s so obsessed with finding and defeat him, it blinds her.

The realization of having been played for a fool, pains her so much, here she is, in 2x06, emphasizing with Adar and oversharing.

"Not all of it"

When she seeks Sauron in the finale, she wants to kill him. She wants to prove to herself that she is able to do it, as well. She’s both angry at him for deceiving her, and at herself, not only for falling for his “lies” but mostly for harboring these feelings for him. And she’s confident in herself, she’s prepared. She knows Sauron will bombard her with lies and visions to manipulate her. There is nothing he can tempt her with, because she’s fully aware of his manipulations.

Everything changes once Sauron forces them to bind together via Morgoth’s crown: and not only “he’s in” (literally), but Galadriel can finally see it, through their bond: their connection is real, and not a part of his schemes.

And this explains why Sauron says this, next: this is him confirming that his offer in 1x08 was honest, and he really meant it. This is him declaring his love for Galadriel. This is how Sauron proved how he “really loves her”.

And she can't say no to that. She succumbs, and she is about to join him. Of her own free will, and like Season 2 foreshadowed she would. Sauron just gave her the ultimate temptation without even trying. Her believing their connection was a lie was the only thing that was preventing her from actually joining him. And Sauron just proved to her it wasn’t. He “felt it, too”.

[bucky-barnes-diaries]

All Things Pink

Pairing || TFATWS!Bucky x Female!Reader

Summary || Bucky being the sweetest boyfriend by bringing you flowers on your birthday.

Word Count || 1344

Contents & Warnings || Fluff — no warnings other than some tooth-rotting and disgusting fluff <3

Authors Note || I got this cute idea from an ask @daemonslittlebitch which inspired this fic!

Disclaimer || English is not my first language so I apologise for any mistakes or misunderstandings!

TFATWS!Bucky Masterlist

Good morning and happy birthday, gorgeous. I hope you slept well and dreamt the sweetest dreams. Are we still up for the date later?

That was the text message that awaited you from your boyfriend of two months when you woke up—instantly kick starting your day for the better. You smiled the brightest and rolled over in bed and laid on your stomach while your legs twirled in the air as you read his message a second time.

Your crush and love for Bucky was so fresh, so new, yet so intense. Each and every interaction, no matter via mobile or in person, had you a giddy, shy and giggling mess. Your stomach soared with butterflies, and your mind clouded with the sweetest thoughts whenever it came to him.

You hadn't even realized that you’d been stuck daydreaming for some time until you got another text from him.

Is it ok if I pick you up at 2?

Good morning, Bucky! And thank you! Yes, that sounds perfect. I'll be all ready when you arrive.

Great! I'll see you then, doll.

See you then!

It was twelve—the morning already late as you'd spent most of the early hours snoozing in and cuddling with your cat Alpine.

You got up, made yourself some breakfast, and ate, before getting ready for the day—shower, clothes, and makeup.

After the refreshing shower, you went to pick your outfit. You weren't sure where he was taking you. Only knowing that it would be casual, so that's what you dressed for. The weather outside was fairly nice. The trees lightly shifting in the wind indicated that it was only a light breeze out, and there was no chance that the few clouds in the sky would produce any rain. So you opted for a pink and pretty sweater, your favorite color, with some light blue jeans, which you would pair with white sneakers. The hair and makeup you did as you would normally.

Time slipped from you, not even realizing that it was two already until there was a knock on your apartment door. Instantly the butterflies started growing and soaring in knowing who was behind it.

You took a deep breath in and out to calm your beating heart before opening the door.

You were greeted with a massive bouquet of flowers—all pink, but with different variants and shades. The face you were longing to see hidden behind all its grandness.

“Happy birthday, gorgeous.”

His face popped up from the side—handsome as ever, making your heart skip a beat. His smile, boyish and beautiful, the kind that made the corner of his eyes crinkle, knocked your breath out.

You were completely lost in him, not even realizing that you'd been standing and staring for a whole minute with your jaw slightly ajar.

“Can I come in?” He chuckled, trying to make contact with you.

You slapped yourself mentally to get out of your trance before moving aside for him, “y-yes, sorry, come in,” and closed the door.

He was so close to you now, making your knees tremble. His presence powerful, but not in a harsh way. It was gentle and caring, making you feel so ecstatic and protected. His aroma overwhelmed all your senses as you inhaled him. The fragrance that was quintessential Bucky imprinted itself in your brain.

You almost lost it when he delicately cupped your cheek, his thumb caressing your skin before he leaned in, softly kissing the other. His lips lingered there for a moment, making you feel their fullness and warmth. The sensation spread throughout your body—down your spine and through all of your nerves, making the surface of your skin tingle.

When he pulled away, you had managed to snap out from your state—still on cloud nine but present in the now. You tilted your head slightly and gave him an appreciative and sweet smile. His piercing blue eyes gazed into yours, and you could get lost in them for eternity due to how captivating they were.

You don't know how long you and he stood like this—studying and appreciating each other, but Bucky was the first one to break the pleasant silence.

“You look so pretty,” he murmured as he moved his fingers to hold your jaw lightly.

You felt a rush of heat flush to your face, your ears becoming extremely hot at his compliment. “Thank you, Bucky,” you replied shyly.

He looked down at himself before his eyes did a quick swipe of you a second time, bottom to top. “Hey, we're matching today,” he smiled.

You hadn't even realized what he was wearing. To focused on his beautiful face to notice his soft pink hoodie—the color identical to yours.

“Oh, I-I guess we are.” You looked down at yourself and then back to him. “Um, I hope that doesn't bother you?”

“Of course, it doesn't, gorgeous,” he chuckled as he pinched your chin,” the color looks so lovely on you.”

You glanced down at your feet for the first time, avoiding his passionate gaze, feeling shy and giddy at his many endearing compliments.

Bucky chuckled one last time at the intense effect he had on you, finding you completely adorable and precious at the way you reacted to his presence and touches.

“These flowers are for you.”

You had almost forgotten about the huge bouquet he held in his other hand as you'd been so focused on Bucky only.

“Thank you.” You took them from him and inhaled the sweet aroma of the flowers. They smelled lovely, but they could never compare to how he smelled. The colors on them ranged from the softest to the harshest of pink. They were stunning and would fit perfectly in your apartment.

“I'll put them in a vase. You can come on in.”

He nodded and followed you into the kitchen. As you rummaged through your cupboards for a vase, Bucky leaned against the bar counter, arms crossed. You could feel his stare bore into your back, making you nervous and almost drop the vase, resulting in a low chuckle from him.

Luckily, Alpine walked into the room to see who had been so rude to enter her queendom, meowing loudly, and Bucky's attention shifted from you to her.

This wasn't the first time Bucky had met Alpine, but since he was so new in your life, Alpine hadn't quite adjusted to the stranger yet, still very shy and careful around him.

“Hello there,” Bucky cooed as he situated himself on his haunches, making himself small and less intimidating to the timid cat, extending his hand out for her to inspect.

Alpine stopped when she noticed him and eyed him carefully. She looked up at you, meowing again, looking for reassurance and encouragement from you that it was safe.

“It's ok, baby. You know, Bucky. Bucky's kind,” you cooed.

She looked back at him and meowed once more before slowly walking over. She carefully sniffed his hand, taking her time before getting closer to him, and then, finally, rubbed herself against his knees—affirming that he was now part of the family.

“Awe, pretty girl,” he cheered as he pet her soft white fur. Alpine sat between his legs so she could thoroughly enjoy the gentle caresses and pats, purring loudly. “Yeah, we're friends now.” Bucky seemed so happy to finally be accepted, as were you—two of the most important souls in your life getting along.

“I wish I could stay and pet you all day long, Alpine, but I'm taking your mommy out on a date. Is that ok?”

She meowed—a sound of acceptance.

He smiled bright as he gave her one last ruffled pet. “I'll see you soon, pretty girl.”

Bucky stood up and came to your side, extending his hand out to you. “Shall we?”

You looked down at his hand and slid yours into it, interlocking your fingers. Both of you smiled at the contact and the electric current surging between one another. You and he fit to perfection—a perfect pair of lock and key.

“Yes, I'm ready.”

PART 2

Thank you for reading 🖤 Feedback through a comment is highly appreciated! Or let me know through an anonymous ask if that feels more comfortable. As well as a reblog to share my work with other people!

Follow @bucky-barnes-diaries-library and turn on notifications to never miss out on my writing!

[evermore-grimoire]

The Evermore Grimoire: Projection Powers

Astral Projection is the power to project the consciousness of oneself or others from the body. Those that wield this power can project or separate their awareness consciousness, presence or spirit, alternatively known as their astral form, from their material bodies, allowing for perception interaction and travel independent of mental or physical limitation. This state is usually achieved through entering a trance via lucid dreaming or deep meditation. Those with more experience may be able to control both their astral and corporeal presences, allowing them to project their astral selves without losing consciousness in their physical forms, with their projection acting as an extension of their physical self. Eventually wielders will be able to separate others from their physical forms to either travel alongside them or to imprison them in an incorporeal state. Telepaths can also achieve astral projection simply by projecting their minds as well as that of others.

[thejockout]

The Brute Inside You | Mentality And Sexuality

(Be a good boy and REBLOG for me. Thank you 😉)

Strong. Driven. Dominant.

We've gotten in touch with the Brute inside you before… but it's time to learn more about him. His desires, his mindset, and what he really wants in the bedroom… and everywhere else, obviously.

This is the SECOND half of a commission for a lovely Irish Brute who got in touch with me a couple of months back. This is more of a departure from the original file and I do encourage you to read the content warnings carefully to make sure you're into it!

Content warnings and file contents are here:

Suggestions to decrease rejection sensitivity.

Suggestions to decrease overthinking/cerebralisation and encourage physicality.

Suggestions to grow your ego, and urge to dominate.

Suggestions to make dominance/control become your core s3xual drivers.

Explicit suggestions of pansexuality; what's most important about a partner is their submission, not their anatomy, and this is stated explicitly, as well as references to finding attraction in men AND women.

Suggestions to empower your instincts, encouraging you to embrace your natural drives more.

Suggestions to make you feel and behave as if subconsciously compelled by the Brute, adjusting your behaviours slowly over time to be more in line with his.

Suggestions to forget what's been said in this trance, and to crave coming back to it again.

This file assumes a male listener, using male pronouns.

Enjoy, bros.

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

When I'm not trancing myself or others, I'm usually off being a mystical forest bro in the wilderness of Ireland, but I am always available for commissions if you reach out via DM. My flat rate is currently $60-100, but you can check my pinned Tumblr post for more up-to-date info. You can also support me with a one-time tip either via Paypal or Ko-Fi. Keep listening, bros.

[voxslays]

JD vox x Veronica g/n reader? Please. Take your time, 😄❤

A/N: ty for the request anon! i absolutely adore heathers, especially the song i chose for this fic (and also their dynamic??) sorry it took me so long! <3

MEANT TO BE YOURS

Featuring >>> JD-coded! Vox x Veronica! Reader

Vox had gone too far. He had tried to tear down the hotel from its roots—Charlie. He had tried to destroy the only family you had left…and you couldn’t take it anymore. So you did the only rational thing you could think of. You cut Vox off completely. Which in hindsight, was the worst mistake you ever could’ve made.

Vox was outside your room in the hotel, simply standing there menacingly. There were small bolts of blue electricity stemming from his clawed hands. His usually blue and red eyes now in their hypnotic state. You were done for, you thought. Yet, in a demanding but sweet tone, Vox yells, “All is forgiven, baby! Come on, get dressed!” He laughs manically. “You're my date to the extermination watch-party tonight!” He says as he zaps into your room via the TV.

Your jaw drops in shock at Vox's bizarre proclamation. The manic gleam in his eyes is unsettling, but there's an undeniable undercurrent of desperation beneath his cruel facade. He reaches out to grab your arm, his grip surprisingly gentle compared to the intimidating aura surrounding him. "You chucked me out like I was trash.” Vox sneers. “And for that you should be dead.” He says, his tone both firey and furious—even more so than the depths of hell that surround you.

His hands tremble slightly as he holds your arm. The electric current pulsing from his fingers seems to hum with an emotion you thought he didn't possess - vulnerability. "Then it hit me like a flash What if the hotel went away instead?" Vox declares harshly. "Those assholes are the key! They're keeping you away from me!” He states, seemingly unaware of how insane he sounds to you. “They made you blind, messed up your mind!” Vox hums. “But I can set you free!” He whispers.

“Vox, I-” His grip tightens slightly, the electric current pulsing through his fingers almost warm. "You left me and I fell apart…I punched the wall and cried." He growls softly, making punching motions with his fists, but there's an underlying plea that makes your heart falter. "Then I found you, changed my heart. And set loose all that truthful shit inside!" Your heart breaks for him. What had you done to this man? “Vox, please.” You beg.

His face contorts into a mix of anger and sorrow, pixelated tears nearly welling up in his hypnotic eyes. "And so I built a bomb!” He shouts, his voice cracking slightly. “Tonight the hotel is Vietnam! Let's guarantee they never see the violence calm!" His voice raises. You gasp.

He pulls you closer, his face inches from yours. The electric current from his hands now a comforting warmth as he looks at you with pleading, crazed eyes. "I was meant to be yours, we were meant to be one!” He pauses, gripping your hands tighter. “Don't give up on me now, finish what we've begun!" Before you could even give your answer to the overlord, he speaks again. “So when the hotel goes "boom" with everyone inside.” He makes finger guns with little ‘pkhew!’ sounds, which would’ve been cute in any other situation. “In the rubble of their tomb, we'll plant this note explaining why they died!” Vox hums, his enthusiasm never faltering.

We, the residents of the Hazbin Hotel, will die! Our burned bodies may finally get through to you, Our society churns out slaves and blanks. No, thanks. Signed the residents of the Hazbin Hotel, Goodbye.

“I was meant to be yours, we were meant to be one.” Vox sighs as he sings his heart out to you. “I can't make it alone, help me finish what we've begun!” You were terrified. Vox’s hypnotic eyes had began to spin, and you had almost lost yourself in his trance. You were running out of time. “You were meant to be mine! I am all that you need! You carved open my heart, can't just leave me to bleed!” While he’s distracted, you take this as your chance to get into your closet, locking the door tightly, and leaning a chair against it.

He listens to the sound of the closet door locking, his grin fading as confusion and a hint of panic, anger, and frustration sets in. "What…?" He mutters, turning around to face the closet door. "Darling, open the, open the door, please…" He begs, his voice slightly shaky. “Sweetheart, open the door.”

He pounds his fists against the closet door, the dark wood creaking under his blows. "Can we not fight anymore, please?” He begs once again, receiving no answer. “Can we not fight anymore?” He repeats, his voice echoing through the room. Suddenly, he stops and presses his ear against the door, listening intently. His voice softens to a whisper. “Sure, you're scared, I've been there, I can set you free!" He taps his long demon-like nails gently on the door.

He steps back from the door, his expression turning cold and calculating. "Don’t make me come in there!” Vox warns, raising his voice. “I'm gonna count to three!” He yells as the static in his voice appears. He reaches for the doorknob, his hand wrapping around it tightly. "One…" He counts, his voice steady and menacing. "Two…" He continues, his voice growing louder. "Fuck it!" He shouts, as he forces open the door. “Found you…”

[nocturnowlette]

Most's view of hypnotic triggers is rather limited.

In general, when people do not understand how something works, they will imitate those who did it before them and ultimately give importance and distinctions to things that are arbitrary.

A hypnotic trigger, just like any psychological trigger, is an A, a stimulus, that causes B, a recalled stimulus. Neither A nor B need to be reinforced but are useful to do, most especially B.

Triggers are also not stronger than regular suggestion, they are just more convenient and more compressed. You create a concept in someone's head, a Thing, and associate effects, ideas, and feelings with it, so you can then have someone recall all of those effects, ideas, and feelings without needing to completely re-explain it. It is not unlike learning any other concept and its meaning. You are creating a new definition for what some stimulus means.

You could generate the same effects, if not stronger ones, without a trigger, but condensing it all into one moment is inherently useful and can lead to a myriad of possibilities, which can ultimately add up to more than the sum of their parts. Time and timing is important in hypnosis, and triggers save it.

While the "B", the effect, does not need to be conditioned (for any subject a somewhat competent hypnotist has any experience with, you should be able to prime the A and B with a single sentence and have it work at least moderately well), it is much more useful to condition it deeply. Triggers do not really atrophy if someone did an even somewhat passable job of conditioning, but it does need to be refreshed before use via priming and evoking the necessary ideas in the subject's mind.

The more the subject's mind needs to work to interpret something you've said, the more they will be taken out of that state where they're being guided. If the first time you use it in months isn't set up and as such doesn't work as well as it used to because of the need to process it, the subject will be convinced it doesn't work as well, and then it will actually have lessened effects due to the perception.

As for the "A", the trigger phrase, it is hardly necessary to actually have a deeply installed one outside of the effects of expectation and general structure you operate your subjects with. I even have a test to demonstrate exactly this, for experienced subjects only.

Trance itself is a conditioned idea that is then triggered. An experienced subject has the concept of Trance in their head: its effects, its ideas, and its feelings. It is always a limited conception of what trance is, but it is the reference point for what hypnosis is to someone. Most times, when a drop trigger or a fast sink into trance is done in any way, the subject is effectively triggering themselves with a stimulus A to reach the generalized stimulus B of trance itself. Memory recall is what brings someone down, and it does not require a traditional trigger to work.

If you are an experienced subject, I want you to try something for me. This is called the Orange Test. Ready?

Oranges are hypnotic now.

Think of an Orange.

If you have begun to find yourself sinking into a light to moderate trance, you may realize how utterly arbitrary all of this is. Your mind knows what trance feels like, and some magic ritual of the right words is not what is needed to access it.

Oranges are no longer hypnotic, in fact, they wake you up. Think of an orange again.

The thing is, you don't even need to tie it to any concept in particular.

Just remember what trance feels like. Focus on the idea. You might find that you can go into trance all on your own, skipping the line from A to B through initiating memory recall yourself.

This principle of memory recall is generally why I do not use drop triggers or anything a person has pre-installed. These fictional misunderstood boundaries the hypnosis community makes up have a self-perpetuating nature, one where someone being convinced of them creates a "pass or fail" state in their brain.

If you don't follow these correctly, you are doing hypnosis "wrong", and they are taken out of trance. It is why the first thing I do is educate someone, and why the second is to softly take down every barrier they have. Beyond that point, their mind is a fresh canvas, and not one with the lines painted for me by those who believe that canvases just come that way.

[apparitionism]

Real

Can’t believe tomorrow is a particular Wednesday already; this season has rushed in like the most foolish of fools, and as a result I’m rushing to push out this new holiday story... because I too am a fool. This is set post-series (including the nonexistent season), though not by much, as the first little bit will make clear. It’s kind of all about fallout. And who wants what, and why, and whether they’re willing to work, wait, and do other things that probably start with “w” to get it. Anyway, season’s greetings to all—and to all (including, eventually, Myka and Helena, I promise) a good night.

Real

“She’s back,” Artie announces one autumn night, and before anyone (Myka) can fully register what that might mean...

...she is.

Is, is, is... a distillation of so much of what Myka instantaneously knows again as possibility, as hopes and wishes jolting back to life, as again (still) the only presence that instantly makes Myka aware of herself as a body, one that responds with barely controllable fervor to that presence—that other body.

Artie goes on saying words, “reinstated” and “agent” among them, but the roaring of Myka’s blood drowns them out.

She fears she will spontaneously combust. She would rather spontaneously combust. That would be better than having to consciously keep from spontaneously combusting, in response to Helena existing, to her moving and speaking, in a proximity that Myka should prize but that her body, fervently responding, informs her is completely insufficient.

Myka escapes as soon as she can, to sit in the dark of her room, to sit and process, but her usual, reliable processing processes fail her.

They always have, where Helena is concerned.

All she does is sit, empty but for the replaying of Helena’s entry into the dining room, her stride so sure, her aspect so unlike the dismissive, shrinking shrugs of Boone... that had sent Myka’s soul soaring.

Helena had greeted them all with good humor, her manner and words to everyone so convivial. So convivial, but also: to everyone, and that is what finds clawed purchase in Myka’s heart, here in the dark.

Here in the dark, Myka viciously tells herself that she deserves no special acknowledgment. Why would you?

She also tells herself, This will get easier.

****

In some ways it does. For example, Myka’s shock at, and subsequent need to recover from, each new sight of Helena lessens somewhat. Or maybe it’s that her body becomes accustomed to absorbing the impact.

In others, it profoundly doesn’t.

Case in painful point: one evening when they’re all cleaning up after dinner, Claudia says to Helena, “So can I ask you something?”

“Clearly you can. You just did,” Helena bats back, in play, and envy stabs Myka.

“You’re as bad as Artie,” Claudia groans. “But here goes: are you still seeing that lady?”

Terror appropriates envy’s knife, gashing anew. Myka has not let herself begin to imagine how to get such a question answered, and here Claudia just says it while lowering a stack of dirty plates into the sink.

Helena’s airy reply: “Still the case. Obviously we’re long-distance at the moment.”

Something previously un-knifed in Myka collapses at that “obviously.” Obviously. Obviously. Obviously, the Warehouse return had not entailed a renouncing of Helena’s non-Warehouse connections. As Myka had obviously, she now sees, believed—hoped!—it would.

The depth and breadth of her error sends her to her room again, lightless, wounded, empty, waiting for time to pass until she once again has something to do.

Such as a retrieval with Pete.

The next one of which proceeds well—it’s not a big, dangerous deal, but rather a matter of a sad, not villainous, loner seeking connection via an artifact-compromised comic-book message board. Pete’s his enthusiastic self about the comics of it all, and Myka lets it lull her into a near-trance of this is how it used to be, before everything.

Until they’re on the plane home, when Pete says, “So H.G.’s back.”

“Thanks for the update,” she says, bracing herself, because of course that won’t be all, because that would be too easy.

“And what about that girlfriend?”

“What about her?” Well, that was stupid: asking some reflex question she doesn’t want answered. She braces herself again.

“You think she’s her one?”

That’s worse than she’d imagined. Myka doesn’t want to go anywhere near that Schrödinger-box, for fear that peeking inside would reveal a very dead cat. Would in fact be the deciding factor in that cat’s demise.

After a stretch of silence, Pete says, “Bet she’s not. So what are you gonna do about it?”

What does he mean? Do about the girlfriend not being, or being, Helena’s one? Do about Helena being back in the first place? She would rather avoid nailing that down—another let’s-not-look Schrödinger box.

“I’m going to ignore it,” she says.

“That’s not healthy. I mean, I get it, but it’s not healthy.”

He coughs ostentatiously. Meaningfully? Myka doesn’t know. Can’t tell. Won’t ask. She hates how she feels compelled to leave this cat in limbo too, just so she can shift away from any potential situational consequences.

If only she had resisted the pressure to shift her definition of love.

She tries for resistance now, even though it’s too late: “I’m not going to try to keep her from doing what she wants to do.”

He cocks his head in that exaggerated what-are-you-saying way. “I thought you might though. Try.”

Myka is tempted to demand, “Why would you think that,” but she knows why he would think it, and revisiting that fight is an impossibility. Especially now.

“But you’re not trying,” he says. His tone, though, ratchets down the danger. It’s a relief. “So why not?”

Now Myka’s tempted to give some indignant “I don’t have to justify my behavior to you” answer... and yet. She does owe him more than that. Especially now, having misled him so severely before, she owes him some decent measure of honesty. So she says it as plain as she can: “Because people should do what they want to do.”

“Huh.” He puts on his “thinking” face—the real one, not the cartoon. “But you’re not doing what you want to do.”

“What?” Myka says, playing dismissively dumb. Hoping he’ll give some dumb response.

“You want to stop her doing what she’s doing.” Myka shakes her head at that, trying to pretend it’s dumb, but Pete rolls his eyes. He sees the weakness. How can he be getting her so right in this when he got her so so so wrong before? But then again she’d got herself wrong... “So why wouldn’t you do what you want to do?” he finishes.

Want, want, want. Myka wishes he would quit using the word.

Yes it’s her fault for using it first. Yes she should have shut him down forcefully to begin with. Yes that applies to situations preceding this one.

In any case, wanting is pointless. It literally does not matter: its only product is empty space, a horrific gaping sink, a vacuum as vast as space itself.

So she says, as pedantically as she can, “Because if one person’s wants affect another person’s wants, that’s a different category of... you know what? Never mind.”

“You only ever say ‘never mind’ when you know I’m right.”

“What? I say ‘never mind’ a lot.”

“Which means...” He taps his temple.

“No. No it does not.” But she does smile.

Pete bobs his head as if she’s actually agreed with him, and so they end on a familiar, jokey note. It’s far better than they could have managed some months ago, in the immediate aftermath of their... mistake? Misunderstanding? Mismanagement? Misadventure? Misapprehension?

Stop dictionarying, she tells herself. Despite its being one of her default ways of trying to process confusion, it rarely delivers the clarity she seeks. At any rate, their short-lived whatever-it-was was a mis-everything.

She takes out the book she’s brought with her, H Is for Hawk, so as to fill her head with Heather MacDonald’s solitude rather than her own. She has lately found that overlaying her own thoughts with someone else’s ruminations is quieting, so she’s reading even more than usual... it beats sitting in darkness, waiting. Which she supposes means she should thank Helena (thank her) for her extensive new knowledge: of, here, grief and falconry, but also, the Wright brothers, Joan of Arc, India’s partition, séances in the 1920s, Salem’s witch hunts, various aspects of the Supreme Court...

Erudition must surely outweigh emotionalism Extremity. Enthrallment? Embitterment.

Stop dictionarying.

****

Relentlessly, the holidays approach. Myka tries to ignore them too, particularly their invitation to soften. Unhealthy, Pete’s accusation echoes.

But in speaking to Pete, Myka had lied: she isn’t really ignoring anything Helena-related. In a folder of significant size in her mind, she stores a cascade of spreadsheets in which she tallies and tracks as many of Helena’s movements, statements, interactions as she can, in as much detail as possible: e.g., it wasn’t enough for Myka to get Steve to tell her about his retrievals with Helena—those accounts, while captivating, were incomplete, secondhand—so she has made perverse use of her hard-earned Warehouse database access to read Helena’s actual mission reports, like some pathetic online stalker. They’re literarily significant, she tries to use as additional justification, ignoring the fact that no one other than Warehousers will ever know how or why.

It’s not that she’s hoping to gain insight from any of this; the activity is simply itself. A flat gather of data. For those spreadsheets.

Which she uses, of course, to torture herself, not least for her damning inability to gain insight. Thus proving Pete wrong: it isn’t ignoring things that’s unhealthy. No, it’s paying them attention—stupid, pointless attention—that causes disease.

That’s true, but Myka genuinely does not know how much longer she can suffer making herself sick.

Lovesick, she sometimes thinks... but that makes “love” too prominent in the mix. No, the “sick” is what matters, and it is chronic, not acute. Which means it must be managed rather than cured, and she will manage it, because she has to: because she is an agent and Helena is an agent and they live in the same house and say the same mutually polite “good morning” to each other each day.

Sometimes Myka wisps a wish, in the wake of one of those morningtides whose undertow she cannot reveal, that she could begin to shift her thinking, to try floating above rather than falling under, the better to work her way to commencing the actual ignoring.

But then Helena will talk to Steve about the particulars of his Buddhist practice, or to Claudia about a joint invention project’s feasibility, or to Artie about a disputed wrinkle of history, or even to Pete about, bizarrely yet bizarrely frequently, which menu items should be avoided at fast-food chains... and Myka enters each new datum into the spreadsheets out of avid habit, all while ferally wishing everything different—even, some days, heretically, Helena gone. And while castigating herself for having wished, before, so stupidly inchoately, pleading with the universe to let Helena come back. More: to send Helena back.

How very monkey’s-paw of you, she jeers, to leave out specifics. In particular, to leave out “to me.” Send Helena back to me.

Before Helena came back, Myka was lost; now she’s still lost, but differently. And if there is one thing Myka has never liked—in fact, has always feared—it’s change.

So in truth she can probably suffer making herself sick for quite some time. As long as nothing about the making—or the sickness—changes.

****

The days leading up to Christmas itself are blessedly busy. On the 22nd, Myka and Steve head to West Virginia to bag a problematic coal-miner’s lamp; the work keeps them away until Christmas Eve, and if Myka happens to linger a bit longer at the Warehouse after Steve goes back to the B&B once they’ve deposited the artifact... well, that’s because she’s very conscientious about filing reports in a timely fashion.

In fact, she lingers a lot longer, and she’s happy to arrive home to a mostly silent B&B... however, she is instantly deposited into precisely the sort of situation she’d hoped to avoid: she must walk past Helena, who is in the living room, alone, with the television on. Impossible to slink past undetected, and thus rude to try—particularly once Helena says, “Welcome home.”

How disorienting, for Helena to be here and to say that. Worse, the articulation seems to ring of... before. When Myka was special.

But she is imagining that. She must be.

“What are you watching?” she asks, though she doesn’t need to. Helena is watching the Yule Log.

“A strangely mesmerizing facsimile of a fire,” Helena says, without looking up. “Do I strike you as hypnotized?”

You strike me. Myka’s thought stops there, true as can be. Aloud, she says, “You know what it is, right?”

Now Helena looks up. She blinks at Myka and nods, oddly soft, childlike. “I consulted Google.”

Helena is absurdly fond of Google. Myka struggles to keep from finding this absurdly charming. She struggles similarly with the way in which Helena articulates the word itself—every witnessed occurrence of which is represented in the spreadsheets. so Myka is painfully aware of the way Helena puts a slight formal emphasis on both syllables, such that it sounds, in a capping absurdity, as if she’s saying she consulted Gogol.

Not that acquiring input from a dead Russian writer would necessarily be all that different, absurdity-wise, from having instant access to a towering percentage of the world’s collective knowledge. And Helena probably understands that congruence, if that’s what it is, better than Myka ever could.

Myka knows she’s thinking herself down treacherous paths; she should say goodnight and walk away. But it’s Christmas Eve, and she gives herself a present she shouldn’t want but feels she has earned, earned by ignoring—or, to the contrary, recording—so strenuously. She has done such hard work. So she lets herself ask, “Why are you so focused?”

“Pete gave me a choice: watch the Yule Log or talk to Myka. I believe he thought I would reject the former as unworthy of my attention. Yet here I watch, mesmerized.”

“Since when do you do what Pete tells you?” But thanks, I guess, for letting me know where I stand. She can’t then hold back a jab: “Anyway, shouldn’t you be spending the holiday with the famous Giselle?”

Helena blinks again. This time it’s not at all childlike. “That’s why he wanted me to talk to you. But to answer your previous question: since he told me he’s in love with you.”

He... what? “What?”

“You asked me since when do I do what Pete tells me. I’m answering.”

Keep up, Myka; keep up. “When did he tell you that?”

“This evening. As part of what I fear—or hope?—was intended as a Christmas gift.”

“For you?” That’s not keeping up.

“No.”

“Then for who?” That’s not either.

“Whom.”

“Well, excuse my grammar, but I’m a little weirded out.” This is the most extended conversation she and Helena have had since... before. That’s destabilizing enough to her ability to concentrate on words. but what, exactly, is she supposed to do with these words?

“Weirded out,” Helena says, an unexpected affirmation. “As was I. I wasn’t aware.” She makes a small “huh” noise, as if she has to bridge her way to what’s next. “That the two of you had been involved.”

Oh. Hence the bridge—but this is a shifting surprise. “I thought someone—Claudia—would have told you. Must have told you.” Must have, and that in turn must have contributed, Myka had been sure, to Helena’s lack of engagement. She’s always known your judgment was abysmal, she’d lashed herself, based on those must haves, and this is certainly fuel for that fire.

“Our discussions have been more focused on her future. And my past. And technology, of course.”

“Of course,” Myka says. And then, quick, before she loses her nerve: “It didn’t take.”

“Technology?”

“The involvement.”

“I gathered that from its current status.”

“Right.” The conversation, such as it is, should probably end here... but something is off. “Wait. You said he said he is in love with me.”

“Yes.”

Myka had believed it was over. All over. The idea of having to deal with it, with any aspect of it, in perpetuity, or at least with no clear sundown, preemptively exhausts her. And it rekindles her anger at the entire situation, at its utter pointlessness. “I don’t know what to do with that,” she says. She immediately regrets the admission.

“He said he’ll get over it.”

“Well, that’s something. I guess.” It comes out grudging, and that’s another admission Helena shouldn’t be privy to.

“He said you won’t.”

“What? Get over it? No, the problem was that I wasn’t ever in love. With him.” She’s saying far too much. She supposes it’s fortunate that she’s looking at this repetitively flickery video loop, rather than into Helena’s eyes. She supposes also that said loop is a reasonable metaphor for how her life has been proceeding. Lately. Before, and lately.

“He said that too.”

“I’m sorry, but you’re losing me.”

“Interestingly, he said a version of that as well.”

“That you were losing him?” Not hard to believe; sometimes Pete can barely follow a laser pointer.

Helena focuses her gaze on Myka again, adamantine. “That I was losing you.”

And just like that, Myka is through the looking glass. Trapped like Alice, trying to get out. “Why would you care?” she chokes.

Helena lowers her brow, a stern schoolmarm confronting an intransigent pupil. “Because as I mentioned, he said—and seemed quite certain—that you won’t get over being in love.”

Myka knows now what’s next. Helena is about to say, “With me.” Because once again: that fight.

Oh yes I will. That’s what the ignoring is for. When I work my way around to it, that’s what it’s for.

“I didn’t know,” is what Helena actually says, clearly taking Myka’s silence as affirmation of those unuttered words.

“Oh please. Like I could have been any more obvious.” Obviously. She says it with contempt at herself, past and present: what a pathetic moonstruck puppy.

“At which point?” Helena asks.

That’s a surprisingly troubling question. Timelines. Decisions. What did you know and when did you know it? What did you show and when did you show it?

“All I knew was how you responded. Not how you felt.”

Of course the former was all Myka herself had known, certainly at first, and their consonance surprises her. If only she could share that consonance, and her surprise in it, with Helena... but that seems too much like a reward, one that neither she nor Helena deserves. Again exhaustion: at their lack of merit. “I don’t want to play these games,” she says.

“Then don’t.” Was that a shrug? Did Helena really shrug?

“Fine. I won’t.” It’s childish, yet it feels like the best end she can manage tonight. You didn’t seek this out, she assures herself as she takes a first step away.

Before she can seal the escape with her second step, Helena says, “You might at least release me from this view.”

“You talked to me,” Myka says, doing her best to make it all go away. “You’re free.”

Helena turns from the flames too quickly for Myka to dodge being caught by the look. “I am in no way free.”

That is not my problem, Myka would like to maintain, but Helena’s gaze and tone are implicating, which is entirely unfair but still needs to be dealt with. She sits down next to Helena on the sofa. At a judicious distance.

Now they are both watching the Yule Log, which, indifferent to them both, continues its facsimile flicker. “I guess it is kind of mesmerizing,” Myka says after some time.

“We haven’t spoken much,” Helena rejoins.

“There hasn’t been much to speak about.” Without peril, Myka adds, internally, and by that she means, peril to me.

“On the contrary. But I’ve tried to ignore it.”

“So have I. I hear it’s unhealthy.”

“Perhaps. It’s Pete’s strategy as well, according to him,” Helena says. Then, following a throat-clear, “With regard to his feelings for you.”

Myka doesn’t need to clear her throat. “He’s the one who told me it was unhealthy.” Which puts her in mind of his ostentatious cough: it’s meaningful now. Ridiculous, but meaningful.

“Then I suppose we’re ailing, all of us.”

“I suppose we are. An epidemic of ignorance.”

Helena smiles a little at that. Myka can’t help but smile back, and she maintains it as Helena asks, light, “What is the prognosis?”

“Depends on the ignoring’s end result,” Myka temporizes.

“Pete maintains that ignoring something long enough makes it go away.”

Or it kills you, Myka might say, like cancer. But instead she stays light. As light as she can. “Maybe he’s right. No, probably he’s right.” She owes him that.

Now a pause. A wait. What’s next? “So is that where we leave it?” Helena asks.

Maybe it goes away. Maybe that’s what’s next.

Myka can see it, now: see the spreadsheets dissolving into unnecessarity, see herself not responding physically to Helena, see Helena becoming, in essence, like Pete: someone with a past version of whom a past version of herself made a mistake.

She hadn’t imagined, not before this minute, that it was possible. But now a road leads there.

Can she take that road? She looks again into the fire. The not-fire. It mocks her: Everything you really want turns out to be unreal. On the other side of some facsimilating screen. A mirage. She turns away from it, ashamed. She looks at Helena... for the moment, Helena is still real. Still able to render Myka’s resistance from her body, here in this moment by sitting quietly and watching fake flames, in the next by doing nothing more than breathing out, breathing in.

Myka has not yet taken that awful road. Not yet. One more try, she tells herself. But no, that’s not right. She’s never really tried. Never really. She’s waited—longer than she thought she should—and she’s hoped—harder than she thought she could—but that wasn’t trying.

So: one try.

It can’t be the try she might have made in the past, a desperate just-please-touch-me push. Under the circumstances, that’s impossible. So, what?

An olive branch? No, peace isn’t the right aim, even now.

Better, perhaps: something she wouldn’t have said before tonight’s... encounter. Something related to tonight’s encounter, something more real than she’s offered so far: “We fought. Pete and I.”

TBC

[dc418writes]

If You Can’t Stand the Heat…

✨Pairing✨: Brendan “Mid-Size Sedan”xblack!reader

Summary🪄: Your first Christmas with your boyfriend’s parents. What could go wrong?

🚨: allusion to a deceased parent, language, pretty much all fluff💕 (aside from an overbearing mother👀)

A/N🎤: Happy New Year and belated holidays🥂✨! So clearly this did not come out when I originally planned, but I still hope yall enjoy! Also stating the other obvious in the room, for those who have seen Old were ignoring the end this character saw and in my mind he is in fact alive and well🥰 (for those who haven’t seen, sorry for the spoiler lol)

*DISCLAIMER!: I DO NOT CLAIM OWNERSHIP of pictures used as they were found via Pinterest and Google*

“My baby boy!”

Brendan’s practically tackled by his own mother as she hurries into the brightly lit foyer hugging him tight while gently swaying back and forth. Her usual floral scent instantly takes him back to his childhood dancing around the living room and helping her in the kitchen - until his playful, mischievous ways would get the best of him that is.

“Hey ma,” he chuckles hugging her just as tight. Being away for most of the year, he admittedly missed her nearly crushing hugs.

“Cmon now Kat let the boy breathe.” Both arms attempting to carry all their luggage, his father, Devon, manages to close the door behind them using his foot. Not without needing to quickly rebalance himself from the shift of weight though. “So he can help with this luggage.”

“Oh, I got it!”

Both his parents seem to freeze at the new unfamiliar voice, quickly peeking past their son to the figure waving and moving closer. “Now who in the hell..?,” his mother thinks watching the black curls atop your head bounce with every step until you stop beside her son.

“Nah, it’s okay baby imma get it.”

And when he pecks your temple - making that sweet smile on your glossy lips brighten like the shimmering lights on the miniature Christmas tree in the corner - Devon can already see the flames and chaos swirling in his wife’s mind. “Oh lord, here we go.”

“Brendan,” although smiling herself, Katherine’s is clearly one mixed with confusion looking between the both of you, “w-who is your uh..little guest here?”

“This is my girl-,”

Everything muted after hearing that. Girlfriend? When did this happen? And why did she not know until now? Being his mother, she should’ve been the first to know! God knows what this little girl had planned up her sleeve for her innocent baby boy.

“It’s nice to finally meet you!” Katherine manages to snap out of her trance just in time to watch you move towards her with arm extended after shaking Devon’s hand. “Brendan’s told me so much about both of you.”

“Aw that’s so nice. Sadly I’ve heard nothing of you though sweetheart.” That hit you just as she expected, making your smile falter and dim as her son nervously rubbed at the back of his neck.

“Not that I wasn’t plannin’ to,” he quickly tries to rectify. “But from the interviews and studio sessions-,”

“The other week you sent me that beat you were working on. Sounds like a perfect time to me.”

Devon could read his boy just as well as his mother, and he might as well have ‘SOS’ tattooed on his forehead right about now. This ship was sinking faster than a boat made of Swiss cheese in the middle of summer, and he couldn’t just let him drown.

Quickly clearing his throat, he successfully gains everyone’s attention - for now at least, “B why don’t you uh show us around this place.”

-

Sat in the middle of the California king bed - white comforter and sheet just as pristine as fresh snow blanketing your newly washed and moisturized legs - you can’t stop replaying the events from dinner in your head. Overall you’d say it was nice, all of you talking and laughing while enjoying your homemade chicken pot pie. Brendan’s dad even complimented you saying it reminded him of something his own grandmother would’ve made.

Katherine, however, didn’t appear too impressed. About a few things besides the food really.

“It’s good sweetheart, a tad bit salty, but alright,” she curtly smiled. And maybe it was just you, but you wondered if that was just a teaser for things to come.

“Does your mom like me?,” you ask as soon as your boyfriend exits the bathroom with black, satin durag in hand.

“Course she does. Why? She say somethin?”

“No, I just…” you frustratedly sigh partly regretting bringing it up as you toy with the sterling silver chain around your wrist. Specifically the one that matched Brendan’s. “I dunno I get this feeling.”

Fingers securing the last knot, his hand reaches for yours pulling you closer into his side as he slides into bed himself. The mint from his lips prickling against your temple as he places two kisses there. “Bae everything’s fine, alright? If my ma had an issue, trust she’ll say it.”

•

“I don’t like her.”

Since closing the door to their hotel-like suite of a guest room, Katherine hadn’t stopped complaining and running her mouth about you.

“I bet she invited herself tryin to squeeze her way in.”

“I dunno where she got that recipe from but it ain’t all that. And you heard how she call herself decorating everything? Tuh, Ray Charles could do better.”

Devon just wanted to watch his Lakers in peace.

“Kat just give the girl a chance. You don’t even know her.”

“And I don’t want to,” she answers walking out the bathroom rubbing some sort of cream on her arms. “Brendan‘s soon gonna be over her like all the rest.”

“You never know,” her husband simply sighs, adjusting the pillow under his chin. To anyone else, it would just be a menial statement, however Katherine could sense there was something more her dear husband might be hiding.

Turning off the flatscreen and crossing her arms across her chest, Devon’s now equally as frustrated as his wife throwing his hands out with an “Aye!,” and silently wishing he snuck to the theater room while she was in the shower.

“You knew she was gonna be here didn’t you?”

“No!”

“But you knew about her,” she states pointing a signature red manicured finger.

He might as well forget about the game. She was gonna be at this all night. “Did he outright say something? No, but from what he asked I figured there was somebody.”

“Andd?,” she asks twisting her wrist, urging Devon to come out with the rest already. “What’d he ask?”

“Father son confidentiality,” he smirks holding his hands up in surrender.

“Bullshit, I carried that big headed boy for almost 10 months you better start talking Dee.”

He chuckles knowing she’d say that. “Stuff about our relationship: how I knew you were the one, being long distance, marriage-,”

“Marriage?! They just met!”

“We don’t know-,”

“Oh lord,” she gasps beginning to pace, “she’s pregnant!”

“Nah, I don’t think-,”

“That’s why he’s thinking of marriage, meanwhile jezebel thinking she’s gettin a free ride. And the baby might not even be his!”

His wife really needed to stop watching those made for tv movies. Moving to sit on the edge of the bed, he can easily reach out and gently grip Katherine’s elbow guiding his worried wife to sit beside him.

“Relax alright? You gettin all worked up for potentially nothing,” he states pecking her temple.

“But-,”

“Get to know the girl, please. For the sake of Brendan.” Kat’s little huff is enough of an acceptable answer that he’s turning the tv back on hoping to finish the remainder of the game.

Katherine’s mind was already made up though, and this girl wasn’t about to mess with her baby and ruin everything he had. A mother’s intuition was never wrong, and she knew what needed to be done.

-

It had only been three days and you were sure you’d somehow been transported to hell at some point in your sleep. If it wasn’t her little comments about you, Katherine was either squeezing her way in your alone time with Brendan or finding a way to exclude you.

The movie night you and Brendan planned in the theater room when his parents were asleep? Crashed by her claiming she couldn’t sleep. The trip to a local tree farm to see all the Christmas lights that was supposed to be all four of you? She swears you told her you weren’t ‘feeling great’ before you went to the restroom, prompting them to leave you home.

“Maybe we can go again after Christmas?,” she suggested when they returned.

“Yea maybe,” you replied with your most saccharine smile similar to the one on her own lips.

With everyone still asleep upstairs, you took advantage of your alone time to bake your signature molasses cookies passed down to you from your mother. Like her, baking always brought you peace and filled you with fond memories of big laughs, messy hands, and flour in your hair and mysteriously on the ceiling.

“Momma I really need you right now,” you quietly speak to the open air as you mix your ingredients together finalizing your dough.

The sound of the hand mixer covers Katherine’s footsteps causing you to jump when you feel her presence over your shoulder.

“Sorry sweetheart, didn’t mean to scare you.” You really hated that nickname. Especially when it came from her mouth and would then usually come with some snide comment. “Thought you heard me when I said good mornin.”

“It’s okay and no, my mind’s uh somewhere else.”

“Yea these cookies,” she smiles watching you cutout various holiday themed shapes. “Looks like you got a good mess here too.”

Here we go. Luckily your back was towards her as she readied her coffee, giving you freedom to roll your eyes without getting caught. “Yea, I know,” you nervously chuckle. “I’m almost done though so I’ll get to them in a minute.”

“S’why you should really clean as you go. Less to do in the end.”

“True, but I get so wrapped up with-,”

“Brown and regular sugar?,” she asks noticing both containers on the counter. “They’ll be too sweet.”

Was she really trying to tell you how to make something you’ve done since you were able to walk? “No, they’ll be fine. I’ve made it plenty times before.”

“Doesn’t mean it can’t be tweaked though,” she innocently shrugs.

“Also true,” you forcibly smile feeling your skin begin to heat with frustration, “but this one is fine. It’s my mom’s recipe.”

“Two wrongs don’t make a right sweetheart.” And at that, you snapped unable to take anymore. You left your mess, your tools, and dough just needing to get away before your mouth and anger made you do something you’d regret.

You didn’t even speak to Devon as you rushed past making his brows furrow not used to you in an unpleasant mood. Seeing his wife also in the kitchen - calmly drinking out of a mug - he can guess what might’ve been the cause though. “What did you do?”

“Nothin,” Katherine answers nonchalantly before dipping a spoon into the leftover dough for a taste. “Hm, not too sweet like she said. Girl a little Miss Betty Crocker.”

“You know who you actin like right?”

“I know you betta not say who I think.”

“And because you thinking it means it’s true,” he retorts. “Bein’ just like my momma.”

“Aht, take it back!,” she points her spoon placing her mug down. “That woman never liked me from the start and let me know it. Shoot I think she still don’t like me.”

“And you not doing the same thing? That girl’s been nothing but nice and respectful to you when anybody else would’ve been said something.

His words clearly have some affect how her once stubborn expression turns soft. Her previous actions and words now all she can think of reminding her of the woman she swore she’d never be like when she had kids.

“You know you wrong Kat.”

•

“Where you goin?,” Brendan asks watching you throw your clothes in your suitcase unzipped and wide open on the floor of his walk in closet.

“Home.”

“Home? Why you-,”

“Look I know you wanted all of us to be together for Christmas, but this ain’t working B,” you answer with watery eyes still focused on the task in front of you.

“What do you mean? Aye, stop and look at me.” Gently gripping your wrists, he manages to halt your frantic packing so you’ll meet his worried eyes turning a bluish hue. “Tell me what happened.”

“I can’t with your mom and her little comments anymore,” you quietly admit. “She clearly doesn’t like me and I’m not staying somewhere I’m not wanted.”

“You are wanted. This is my house and I say you stay, alright? My ma just…takes some getting used to. And once she warms up to you-,”

Such a momma’s boy answer. “You mean if she wants to warm up to me,” you retort slipping out of his grip to return to your packing.

“I get it,” Brendan sighs, “she can be a lot. It’s just how she is though.”

“Doesn’t mean I have to deal with or accept it for the sake of your comfort.”

“Hold up, you calling me weak now?,” he asks stepping closer to you.

Slamming your suitcase shut, your arms cross over your chest looking up at the 6’3 man in front of you not daring to stand down. “No, I’m saying you’re a loyal son, which I love. But that loyalty is putting me in an environment I don’t feel safe or protected in.” You hope his silence means he’s finally taking in your words. “So I think it’s best I leave.”

He tries once more to clutch your arm as you pass, softly calling out your name, but you move just out of reach. “I’ll text when I get to my place.”

-

At the sound of footsteps coming down the stairs, Katherine quickly stands to see you with your suitcase and Brendan on your heels trying to get your attention.

“Bae I’ll handle it, just stay. Please,” he whispers.

“My Uber’s already on the way,” you reply sniffling.

“You can’t leave!,” she states making you pause just as the both of you finish your decent. One look at your reddened, tired eyes from crying and she can feel her heart break knowing she was the cause. “Listen I-,”

“Ma I don’t know what the problem is, but you need to relax,” Brendan interrupts standing in between the two most important women in his life.

“Brendan-,”

“Look I love you ma, but I can’t have you mistreating the other woman I love.” His head turns towards you - twists swishing back and forth - so you can see the sincerity and deep love behind those hypnotizing eyes. Their intensity making you breath catch in your throat and more tears ready to run. “My future wife and mother of my kids.

Even Katherine’s ready to sob at her son’s words. Anyone could see the love between you two, and at the end of the day she knew you were good for Brendan - bringing out the best in him and making him happier than she’s seen in a while - but her protective, mothering nature just couldn’t accept she might not be needed anymore.

“Thank you,” you mouth reaching for his hand to peck his knuckles.

“So whatever issue you got, handle it now or else don’t worry about coming back,” Brendan finishes with you under his arm.

“Excuse me?,” Katherine asks with an amused tilt to her lips and hands on her hips. He could feel everyone looking at him as if he’d lost his mind with that last statement, and while it felt good he admittedly might’ve gone too far.

“R-Respectfully I mean,” he quickly corrects.

“I’ll let it slide this time,” she says jokingly smacking his shoulder. “You’re right though. This whole trip I haven’t given your lovely girlfriend a chance and I’m sorry. I’ve had that happen to me and know how much it hurts, so I should’ve known better. That mama bear decided to rear her head and got the best of me.

She sighs wiping away the couple tears that managed to fall on her cheeks, “You two really do make a beautiful couple and I’m glad my boy met someone truly good for him. I’m so sorry again and know it’ll take some time, but hope you can eventually forgive me.”

“Thank you for apologizing,” you softly smile, “and hey, can’t have the holidays without some drama right?”

“I guess not,” she giggles along with Brendan and Devon. “But from here on out no more.”

Holding out her arms, she’s a bit surprised when you immediately accept her hug. Both of you holding each other tight as if the morning’s earlier events never happened. “To new beginnings and starting over.”

[walidgoldpreppy]

A golden mission for Anthony

Anthony, still in his impeccable suit, leaves the office with a new confidence he’s never felt before. Every step he takes resonates with an echo of inner pride. On the way home, sitting in the cab, he can’t help but share this new version of himself with *Waltergold*. He pulls out his phone and sends him a selfie and message via Tumblr, enthusiastically describing the compliments from his colleagues, the comfort of the suit, and his satisfaction at perfectly conforming to the rules.

A few minutes later, he receives a response from *Waltergold*:

“Well done, bro. You’re on the right track. But I think you can do even better."

"*Total compliance.*"

A shiver runs through Anthony. He feels his fingers tingle with excitement. His eyes roll back. A wave of pleasure washes over him. After a moment, he catches his breath.

He arrives home, sits down at his desk and opens tumblr again and reads the following message from *Waltergold*:

“*Sleep, champion.*”

At that moment, everything changes. The word seems to resonate deeply within him. *Sleep.* Anthony feels his eyelids grow heavy as if he has just plunged into a state of absolute relaxation. Everything becomes blurry, his mind becomes foggy. A pleasant numbness settles in, and before he knows it, he is completely absorbed in a hypnotic trance.

*Waltergold*’s voice echoes softly in his mind, reassuring and powerful at the same time.

“Listen to me, Anthony. You must spread this excellence around you. Your colleagues need to be guided, to understand the importance of discipline, of rules, of perfect appearance. They must follow your example. Tomorrow, you will introduce a special file into your office. This file will help them understand. This file will awaken them to their true potential.”

Images form in Anthony’s mind, vague but persistent. He sees himself in the office, discreet but efficient, spreading a hypnotic file. His colleagues, under the influence of this file, will become like him:

Obedient, disciplined, compliant.

They will join the gym, improve their appearance, and follow the rules with the same devotion he has adopted. The vision fills him with a strange satisfaction.

“When I wake you, you will remember this plan, but you will not question your mission. It will seem natural, necessary. Understood?”

Anthony nods softly, his thoughts shrouded in a golden fog.

“Very well. Wake up.”

Complete darkness. Anthony blinks, and suddenly he’s in his bed. The morning light filters softly through the curtains. He’s in his underwear, lying on his bed, the Gold tie he wore the night before still tied around his neck, slightly tight. He sits up slowly, his muscles still sore, a feeling of confusion mixed with a strange sense of completeness.

He stands, running a hand over his Gold tie, as if to straighten it, before stopping, perplexed. Why does he sleep with his Gold tie on? And how did he get into his bed? The memories of the night are blurry, as if hidden behind a veil. But one thing is certain: he knows exactly what he has to do at the office tomorrow.

End of part 6

(Part 5)