#or you'll end up in their writing

[silveringofrose]

A Comedy of Egg-pic Proportions

Once upon a time, in the bustling city of Wordville, there lived a self-proclaimed literary genius named Bartholomew Bumptious. He had an ego the size of Mount Everest and an attitude as sour as pickled lemons. Especially when someone called him Barty, which unfortunately for him, everyone did.

Now, dear reader, I must tread lightly as I describe him, for he was a man who believed himself to be exceptional in every conceivable way. So of course, he would not stand for anyone disagreeing with him about anything ever (even though everyone did, and often at that).

Incensed by the audacity of these uneducated buffoons (his words, not mine), he would head off into hours-long repetitive rants affirming his own superiority over anyone foolish enough to try. His demeanour (and his mouth) demanded respect, and by golly, he would get it if it was the last thing he did (not to spoiler the ending or anything, but it would never be a thing he did).

So let us begin this tale of absurdity and ridiculousness by delving deeper into the intricacies of Bartholomew's peculiarly unremarkable existence. Picture, if you will, a man of middling height, his dumpy figure clothed in garish suits that clashed with the vividness of his imagination (and everything else to be honest).

But despite the glaring faux pax that was Barty’s dress sense, this was not in fact, the most remarkable thing about his appearance. For you see, dear reader, Barty was possessed of a head as bald as the moon, polished to a gleaming perfection that could rival the most lustrous of hard-boiled eggs.

His oddly shiny pate was the epitome of his misguided confidence, a beacon of narcissism that invited mockery. Though he remained blissfully unaware of the laughter that so often followed in his wake (or rather, he remained blissfully unaware of the true reason for the laughter).

You have to understand, dear reader, that his baldness was indeed a thing of marvel. Many would spend hours in front of a mirror, wrestling with hair products and styling tools, in a desperate attempt to tame their unruly tresses. They would mourn the loss of even one strand of their luscious locks. But not our Barty, oh no!

Instead Barty embraced his lack of follicular abundance with an unwavering (and completely unjustified) confidence. His gleaming dome, devoid of even a single wisp of hair, became the pièce de résistance of his appearance, an emblem of his unique charm—though, perhaps, charm is not the most accurate word to describe the effect (it is definitely not the most accurate word actually).

Whenever Barty entered a room, his bald head would precede him, catching the light like a beacon of questionable taste. Followed as it was by his attempts to disguise his expanding waistline with ostentatious patterns and outlandish accessories, this pure lack of fashion sense (or any sense really) was doubly reinforced.

But it was his baldness, oh that gleaming head, that truly captivated the attention of all who encountered him. Its lustrous sheen was a sight to behold, dear reader, and yet, the man himself somehow remained completely oblivious to the effect it had on those around him.

Like a moth drawn to the flame that would ultimately destroy it, the curious souls who encountered him couldn't help but be captivated by the brilliance of his shining pate, the garishness of his outfits or the outlandishly pompous proclamations of self-importance.

Nor could they ever quite hold back the incredulous whispers of disbelief to their companions, no matter how many times they had encountered him before. And yet, Bartholomew remained blissfully ignorant of the truth, his narcissism shielding him from the mocking whispers and stifled chuckles that followed in his wake.

In his mind, his bald head was not a subject of ridicule, but rather a symbol of his unique individuality. He believed that its polished perfection set him apart from the mere mortals who dared to sport a full head of hair (or, to be fair, a single strand).

In his misguided self-assurance, Bartholomew prided himself on his head's resemblance to a hard-boiled egg. He boasted to anyone who would listen about the similarities between his shiny dome and the smooth surface of a perfectly cooked breakfast delicacy. Oh, the comparisons he drew!

He would go on at length, using culinary metaphors to describe his head's reflective allure, as blissfully unaware as ever of the absurdity that echoed in his words You see dear reader, Barty fancied himself a writer of unparalleled talent, convinced that his prose would reshape the very fabric of the written word.

He spent his days hunched over his typewriter, pecking away at the keys like an overzealous chicken, convinced that he was penning the next great masterpiece. The clattering cacophony of keystrokes echoed through his dusty study, serving as a symphony to the inflated ego that was matched only by his deflated talent.

In Barty’s twisted universe, he was destined to achieve a level of success eclipsing even that of the once billionaire author Who Deserves No Name. He fantasized about book signings with mile-long queues of adoring fans, clamouring for a mere glimpse of his genius. Literary awards, Pulitzer Prizes, and Nobel laureates were mere stepping stones on his path to greatness. Oh, the world would tremble before his mighty pen!

 In every social interaction, Bartholomew believed himself to be the life of the party, the centre of attention that none could bear to look away from (which they couldn’t, but not for the reasons he believed). Oh, how they stifled their laughter, dear reader, as Bartholomew regaled them with his inflated tales of literary grandeur. They exchanged knowing glances, their eyes sparkling with mirth, as his gleaming head bobbed up and down with each animated gesture.

Oblivious to the suppressed giggles and bemused smirks that trailed in his wake, he waltzed through life with a spring in his step and an unwavering confidence that defied logic. To him, the world was but a stage, and he, its shining star.

Alas, dear reader, reality had a cruel sense of humour it seemed. The truth you see, is that Barty’s writing was nothing short of catastrophic. His prose was as captivating as a tax form instruction manual and as riveting as watching paint dry on a dreary afternoon.

Every sentence he conjured had the elegance of a new born fawn attempting to navigate an ice rink, and his metaphors were as clumsy as an elephant on roller skates.  But Barty managed to somehow always elude this glaring truth, even when the reality of his complete lack of talent made every effort to bash him over the head with the unequivocal evidence of his uninspired and lacklustre storytelling.

And beneath this façade of imagined grandeur and mind consumed by delusion? A heart teeming with bitterness and an unfounded obsession with another writer, a young and vibrant talent named Zara Scribbleton, who just happened to possess a gift for words that far surpassed Barty’s feeble attempts at literature.

Her words danced upon the page like graceful ballerinas, enchanting readers with their effortless charm and leaving them yearning for more. Her subtle feminist undertones wove a tapestry of empowerment, casting a spell of inspiration upon all who dared to immerse themselves in her narratives. Her debut novel was set to be released, and whispers of its brilliance had spread like wildfire throughout Wordville.

Barty, in his self-absorbed bubble, saw Miss Scribbleton as nothing more than a threat. He convinced himself that she was out to sabotage his path to literary superstardom (or a phantom saboteur poised to steal his moment in the spotlight depending on the day of the week).

In his warped mind, she was orchestrating a diabolical plot to hijack his half-baked ideas, weaving them into her own tapestry of success. The irony, of course, was that Miss Scribbleton was barely aware of Barty’s existence, let alone harbouring any ill will toward him. At least, she was at the beginning of this story.

As fate would have it, Bartholomew's larger-than-life personality and laughable antics as he stalked her all over social media and the literary world, caught the attention of our budding author. In her insightful wisdom, she recognized the comedic potential of a character like Barty. And in a delightful twist of irony, Barty unknowingly became a muse for Miss Scribbleton's first novel.

She crafted a bumbling buffoon named Bartleby Bluster, a laughably villainous character that bore a striking resemblance to our dear Barty. She wove him deftly into her tale, using him as a means to satirize societal expectations and an unwitting source of amusement that provided readers with a character to both loathe and laugh at (which every tale worth its salt should have if it wants to be truly successful).

But our tale does not end there, dear reader. In another peculiar twist of fate, Barty managed to procure a coveted ticket to Miss Scribbleton's highly anticipated book launch party. With an unwavering determination, he donned a suit that seemed to have been stitched by blind lemurs and stepped into the venue with his familiar air of misplaced confidence.

The room buzzed with anticipation as Bartholomew's arrival sent a ripple of disbelieving whispers throughout the crowd. For though she had never confirmed nor denied it, everyone who had ever encountered Barty was sure he was the inspiration behind the villain everyone already took gleeful pleasure in absolutely detesting.

The moment his eyes fell upon young Zara, his heart raced, his palms grew clammy, and his delusions reached new heights. "Ah, Miss Scribbleton," he exclaimed in his typically boisterous and painfully loud way, as if his presence alone was a gift to her. "I must say, your success has been...inspiring. Although, I assure you, once the world lays eyes on my literary genius, your little novels will fade into obscurity like old chewing gum under a park bench."

Miss Scribbleton, a vision of grace in her resplendent gown, swallowed a knowing smile and politely extended a hand. "Thank you for your kind words," she replied, her voice carrying the warmth of genuine gratitude, though Barty would never know why. "It's always wonderful to see fellow writers supporting one another."

Bartholomew, blinded by his own delusions, misinterpreted her words as a cryptic acknowledgment of his superiority. He spent the rest of the evening circulating through the party, regaling unsuspecting guests with his convoluted theories about his own greatness. The room buzzed with an electric combination of bewilderment and stifled laughter as he rattled on, blissfully unaware of their amusement.

Days turned into weeks, and Miss Scribbleton's novel soared to the top of the bestseller lists, capturing the hearts of readers far and wide. Meanwhile, Bartholomew's manuscript languished in a dark corner of his attic, gathering dust and cobwebs. His dreams of literary stardom, once so grandiose, were dashed against the jagged rocks of his own inadequacy.

One fateful day many months later, Barty was seeking solace in the dusty shelves of a local bookstore that he had once considered buying. Not because he wanted to share the written word with everyone, but because he wanted at least one place that would have no choice but to sell his written words.

While wandering the near empty shelves, he found himself picking up Miss Scribbleton's novel. As he leafed through its pages, realisation dawned like a lightning bolt of irony striking his inflated ego. Fragments of his own persona were interwoven into Bartleby's antics, a clever parody that exposed his shortcomings for all to see.

That fact, of course, was lost on him, as he believed it to be a testament to his influence on the literary world — which of course he did. And never, not once in all the years that followed, did the truth seep into Bartholomew's consciousness. His ego remained unyielding; his delusions steadfast in the face of every single ounce of evidence to the contrary.

As Bartholomew continued to bask in the illusion of adoration, he remained oblivious to the fact that he was the laughing stock of the literary world. He believed that his gleaming bald head was a symbol of his uniqueness, his shining dome an emblem of distinction.

Little did he know that it had become a running gag, a visual cue that brought a smirk to the faces of those who witnessed his grandiose presence and knew that it was only a matter of time before he began announcing proudly how he was the true inspiration for the most reviled character to ever meet the printed word.

And so, our tale comes to a close with Bartholomew Bumptious forever trapped in the confines of his self-delusion, unaware that his quest for literary greatness had become nothing more than fodder for the amusement of others. Meanwhile, Miss Zara Scribbleton continued to pen her whimsical stories, delighting readers and leaving a lasting mark on the literary landscape, all the while casting a knowing smile at the universe's wry sense of humour.

In the tapestry of life, dear reader, there are those who unknowingly become figures of laughter, providing mirth and amusement to those around them. Bartholomew, with his bald head gleaming like a hard-boiled egg, was one such unwitting jester. And as the pages turn and the laughter continues, let us relish in the irony and satire that colour this peculiar tale, a gentle reminder that sometimes, the greatest comedy lies in the simplest of observations.

#my writing #flash fiction #short fiction #short story #I'm usually a poet #but you know that thing #about don't piss off a writer #or you'll end up in their writing #well #someone maybe pissed me off a little #and then it just became ridiculous #and then I made a Ko-Fi #where I promised words in exchange for donations #and now here we are #annaittheriot #this ones for you #SilveringOfRose #Silver writes #Silver writes short stories #Silver was in a mood y'all

[flowercrowngods]

It's unreal. The light is streaming in through the windows, the curtains still drawn to block out the midday heat, tinging their living room in golden hues that match so well with the light grey fabric of their new sofa.

Eddie should probably snap out of it and head over to the windows, open the curtains and let the light in, and with it the warmth and fresh air of a surprisingly wonderful day.

It's March, he hears the echoes of Steve's giddy voice a week or two ago. Everything's better in March.

Eddie didn't agree then, and he's not sure he agrees now, but he must admit there is something magical about this moment.

Still he remains rooted to the spot, leather jacket heavy on his shoulders, his hands hidden in the sleeves of it, just in case this really is a dream. Just in case someone will come in and snap him out of it, take away their couch and leave an eviction notice.

It's dumb. But Eddie doesn't deal well with things that are unreal. Things that he knows aren't meant for him. Things that he knows he only gets in this one play-through of his life, while millions of other Eddie Munsons are out there in parallel universes who never get to even lay eyes upon a couch this nice. Let alone buy it. From their own real adult money.

It's a corner sofa, the fabric light grey, and he remembers it being harder than it looks. Solid. Just perfect for both their fucked up backs, scar tissue pulling if they sit wrong for too long, phantom pain and muscle aches coming in hot when all they want is to just relax and enjoy a lazy evening.

Eddie bites his lip, trailing his eyes along the pristine fabric, the pillows lining the back of it, the flawless stitches keeping everything in shape.

They have a couch now. A sofa.

It's so fucking unreal.

He drops to the floor right then and there, sitting with his back against the wall, and never once taking his eyes off their sofa. It feels important to look at it for a while. It feels important to wait for Steve. It feels... It feels like maybe he'll ruin everything if he goes and sits on it now.

And it feels really fucking big.

At some point he hears the front door opening, their lock going so smoothly now that Steve fixed it with some graphite, and the sound makes Eddie smile. That's another thing that's unreal. The key barely making any noise, the lock not rattling, the door not creaking and cracking. Eddie pulls a strand of hair between his lips, the smile feeling too silly for this room, for this home, for everything he gets to have now.

For all the tiny things that matter now. All the tiny things he gets to have, turning the key's smooth slide into an allegory of everything he ever wanted but never dared to hope for.

The slide of curtains, the click-click-click of the window handle being turned to let the air in. The breeze of fresh spring air dancing around his nose.

It's all a little much. It's so fucking addicting.

And then Steve. Socked feet coming to a stop beside him, a hand landing in his hair, a voice that's so endlessly warm and fond and maybe a little worried sounding from above him, "Hi, angel."

"Hi," Eddie says, tearing his eyes away from their couch to meet Steve's. The sunlight from the windows hugs him, making him glow. Eddie smiles. He smiles and smiles and never wants to stop.

Steve hums as he leans down to press a kiss to his forehead, and Eddie weaves his arm through Steve's legs, holding onto his knee.

Everything feels a little less silly now. Like every time Steve doesn't question his little moments of sitting on the floor and just staring at things.

"We have a couch now," Eddie says, because it feels important to point out. Because Steve isn't looking at it.

"We do," he hums. "I got the call earlier. Thanks for helping with that, baby."

Eddie nods again, leaning his cheek against Steve's knee and trailing the couch again with his eyes. It looks brighter now that the curtains don't turn the room into something out of a sepia-type movie anymore.

Steve's hands comb through his hair, massaging his scalp a little with his nails. It's nice. It's warm. It's pretty.

And it's so unreal.

"I'm twenty-four," Eddie says then, and some part of him wants to carve that into the fabric. He won't. But maybe he should carve it somewhere else. "And I own a couch. It's a little crazy."

Steve comes to sit down beside him, their shoulders pressed together and he links their hands, resting them in his lap after a brushes a kiss to Eddie's knuckles.

"Why's it crazy, angel?"

He shrugs, resting his head on Steve's shoulders and curling into his warmth some more.

"Most of my life I never thought either of those would happen, y'know."

Another hum, followed by another kiss to the crown of his head. Another smile.

"But you did it," Steve whispers. "You made it. And we've got a couch now."

"We've got a couch now."

Saying it out loud doesn't make it feel any realer. It only makes his heart race and his eyes prick.

"I love you," he says, finally looking away from pretty grey fabric to meet prettier hazel eyes. "I love you so much."

Steve leans in, kissing the tip of his nose. "I love you. Thank you for buying a couch with me."

And it occurs to Eddie then that Steve understands him. Sitting there on the floor with him, hearing his words and listening to those unsaid, understanding Eddie on such a fundamental level that it should be scary. And it is, sometimes.

But he's not scared now. Because they have a couch. And they have pretty curtains that keep the light outside and still turn the room into something magical. And they have a lock that only needed a bit of graphite to let the keys glide smoothly.

And they have each other.

They stay on the floor until Steve's stomach growls, and they eat dinner with their backs against the couch and Eddie's feet in Steve's lap. They hold each other close after dinner, just breathing each other in as the breeze blows around them.

In the end, Eddie is the first to sit on the couch, with Steve standing between his legs and giving him a scalp massage in silence. In the end, Eddie buries his face in Steve's stomach to hide the tears, and Steve lets him.

Because this is real. And he gets to have this. They both do.

🤍 permanent tag list gang: @skiddit @inklessletter @aringofsalt @hellion-child @stobin-cryptid@hotluncheddie @gutterflower77@auroraplume@steddieonbigboy @n0-1-important@stevesjockstrap @brainvines @puppy-steve @izzy2210 @itsall-taken @mangoinacan13 @madigoround@pukner@i-amthepizzaman @swimmingbirdrunningrock @hammity-hammer @stevesbipanic@bitchysunflower @estrellami-1 @finntheehumaneater @goodolefashionedloverboi @awkwardgravity1 (lmk if you want on or off, for this story or permanently)

#steddie fic #steddie fanfic #steddie #steve x eddie #listen i have a couch now and if you know me you know that i get really fucking emo about the tiniest things #i fixed my lock with graphite btw when i was blackout drunk. it still fills me with so much joy #sorry tag list gang idk what this is but it wanted out #i could write fics/poems/whatever about the most mundane things until the end of my days tbh so today we have: couch #dio words #dio's steddie ramblings #the hurt/comfort is implied like you'll catch it when you reflect on the words but most importantly this is healing. and comfort. and fluff #and so much love and understanding it makes me wanna throw up

[tlbodine]

OK, look, I guess I have to say this...

The killer's identity in a mystery/thriller/horror needs to mean something.

I think a lot of folks read a couple Agatha Christies and came away with all the wrong lessons. So let me clear this up for you: the mark of a good murder mystery is not that the killer is completely impossible to guess.

The response you are looking for from a reader is "ohhh, of COURSE! now it all makes sense!"

You are NOT looking for "wait, what? who the fuck is this guy?"

Introducing a walk-on role on page 5 and then patting yourself on the back for "foreshadowing" it when he's revealed as the killer is stupid, actually. Not only is that not really playing fair with your reader, it also fails to say anything interesting.

Look: The cozy mysteries where the victim is an asshole and everybody in town could plausibly be the killer because everyone has motive? That entire construct is saying something. It's a form that follows function.

The reason why "everyone in the slasher thought the killer was the weird guy who's in love with the final girl, but actually it was the rich/popular guy" is such a common construct is it is taking an expectation we have in society about who is trustworthy and inverting it.

If your killer is the weird creepy old dude, that delivers a message about your world-view.

If your killer is the rich handsome prep, or the scorned lover, or the trans person, or the quiet religious one, or WHATEVER, that is sending a message whether you intend it to or not. So you'd damned well better pay attention to the message you're sending and be willing to own it, or else change gears and put a different killer in the hot seat.

And, yeah, you absolutely can have the take-away message of your piece be "there is no meaning to this, the killer is not significant in any way" but if that's what you're going for, you have to commit to it and build it up through the narrative, not just tack it on at the end for a surprise shock value twist.

#writing advice #writing tips #mystery #horror #playing fair with the audience #stories have messages whether you want them to or not #own it or else #you'll end up saying shit you didn't mean #or else just feel like you're writing half-baked nonsense

[hailsatanacab]

"give me a fandom and a prompt and i'll give you at least five sentences"

Ok then.

Jazz, Danny and Bruce are in the same age range, and Bruce has been harboring a massive crush on 7'foot tall Jazz since just after he began his training journey.

His kids know about and are mercyless. Danny thinks he's a bit of a fruit loop and 100% knows Bruce has a crush on his sister.

Into the future his coworkers find out that batman has been quietly pining after the Ghost Kings sister for years.

Chaos.

love that this reads as a challenge. Ok then. Write it. i will, let's goooo!

(sorry i kinda took it so that Jazz, Danny, and Bruce were all old friends but in that horrible adult way where you can only hang out with each other once in a blue moon when your work schedules miraculously align)

——

"Respectfully, Batman, you can take your "it's not necessary" and you can shove it up your arse. There's a demon the size of a skyscraper heading towards Metropolis and we need reinforcements."

"Superman can—"

"Superman can't. You do remember the part of the report I made telling you this, right? Or did your stubborn little bat brain just shut down when I mentioned magic?"

"Actually," Nightwing interrupts from the side, a shit-eating grin on his face, "I think his brain shut down when you mentioned the Ghost King."

"Nightwing." Batman growls in warning, his jaw clenching so hard Constantine can swear he hears the bones creaking.

Nightwing just snickers, and turns away to press a finger to his ear, no doubt letting the rest of the bat brood in on what's happening here... Whatever that is. All Constantine knows is that Batman is standing between him and fixing this mess for no God-forsaken reason.

Luckily, some of the more reasonable members of the League step in to try and talk some sense into Batman. It gives him some time to calm down.

"Batman. We need him. I know you dislike working with unknowns, but he's our best shot."

It actually looks like Wonder Woman might be getting through to him, Batman even opens his mouth to actually explain some things—a huge step forward for this incredibly emotionally constipated man.

Instead, Nightwing snorts and beats him to it. "Unknowns? More like—"

"Nightwing, please."

"Oh, for Pete's sake, get your head out of your arse and let me do this. The Ghost King is our only hope. I'm summoning him, no matter what you say."

For a long second, Constantine thinks that he'll refuse and he might have to resort to more violent methods of persuasion—which, honestly, Constantine has fantasised about many times during the more boring JL meetings—but eventually, Batman relents and steps out of the way.

"Fine. Nightwing, go check in with Red Robin."

Nightwing has the kind of devious smile that makes John glad he doesn't have kids.

"Oh, don't worry about it, B. Red Robin's coming here. So's Red Hood, I don't need to go anywhere."

"Nightwing—"

"Sh, it's starting." So saying, Nightwing then very obviously ignores Batman's protests with a poker face that even Constantine envies. What he wouldn't give to be able to shut the bat out like that.

The summoning goes quickly, thankfully. The lights flicker, the temperature drops, and the chalk circle erupts in green flames. Standard summoning practices, sure. Even the impromptu appearance of Red Hood and Red Robin—"Did we miss him?", "No, not yet! I got 2:37, what about you guys?"—doesn't throw him off.

It does pique his interest, though. Just what the hell is going on with them? Constantine's weighing up the pros and cons of asking them once all of this is over when the ground splits open and the clawed hand of the Ghost King begins to pull himself out of the ground.

John's a seasoned summoner. It's practically his job, he's done it countless times.

The icey fear that grips his heart, that freezes his breath in his chest, is new.

Pure, unadulterated power floods the area and he feels small, so, so small, like a child playing with things he doesn't understand. When he finally tears his eyes away from the portal, he catches a glimpse of the other magic users in the room, the same horror he feels clear in their faces. Even Captain Marvel stares slackjawed.

The pressure rises, death magic screaming in his ears, almost forcing him to his knees, and suddenly he's not so sure this is a good idea.

Too late to back out now, though.

Sickly green light pours from the crack in the ground, growing brighter and brighter as the giant figure rises, until Constantine has to close his eyes and look away. The last thing he sees are eyes, teeth, horns, a crown so bright that it burns an afterimage into his retinas.

When the light dies down and he opens his eyes again, a humanoid man floats in the centre of the circle. The ground is whole, nothing is burning, the man doesn't even have a crown. Instead, other than the wispy white hair, slightly green skin, and the—you know—floating, the Ghost King appears pretty normal. Huh.

Constantine blinks, rubbing his bleary eyes, and checks around to make sure everyone's okay. Most of the League are doing the same as him, taking fortifying breaths and trying to appear as if they've not just been completely blinded.

Most of them, that is, aside from the Gotham vigilantes.

Batman himself stands upright, arms crossed, looking completely unbothered by the whole thing and John's got to admit, he wishes he could do that, too. That was... a hell of a show.

The others, however, are waving frantically with huge smiles on their faces.

What?

There's a brief, taut silence, as everyone else tries to catch their breath.

As much as he would rather take a bit of a breather, John should probably start making introductions. Unfortunately, he only gets as far as opening his mouth before the Ghost King beats him to it.

"Oh, Ancients, hey guys! It's been forever, how are you? Look at you all, so grown up, wow—Nightwing, buddy, do a flip!"

It doesn't take much to get Nightwing going, and he certainly doesn't leave it at one flip. The whole of the Justice League and Justice League Dark watch with open mouths as Nightwing performs for the Ghost King.

What, and John can't stress this enough, the fuck?

As soon as Nightwing rights himself, Red Hood swats him across the back of the head and calls him a show off.

The Ghost King just laughs as he claps. "There's my little monkey, look at you go! And I'm loving that leather jacket, Hood, is that new? Looks good on you, really your colour. Brings out the red in your helmet."

"Thanks, Uncle D. At least someone around here appreciates fashion."

"Are you kidding me, you know I breathe fashion, need I remind—"

"Need I remind you of the Discowing incident?"

"That was era-appropriate and you know it! Uncle D, tell him it was era-appropriate!"

"It was era-appropriate, but so are crocs and it doesn't make them fashionable." The Ghost King—and holy shit, is this actually the Ghost King? Or did Constantine just accidentally summon a deceased family member, what the fuck is happening here?—turns to look at Red Robin with a smile, resolutely ignorning the argument he created. "How you doing, Double R? You get that tablet Tucker made for you?"

"Yes, thank you! It's so cool, how did he—"

"How's Tucker doing?" Batman interrupts, his hands now hidden underneath his cape.

As soon as the question leaves his lips, everyone groans. Red Robin makes a show of lifting up his wrist and staring at it intently.

"Incredible," Red Hood mutters with a shake of his head.

Even the Ghost King seems put out, rolling his eyes and answering in a flat tone as if he knows Batman isn't interested in what he has to say.

Not for the first time, Constantine feels like he's missing something.

"Tucker's doing very well, thank you for asking."

What follows is the most awkward silence Constantine has ever had the pleasure to be a part of.

All three of the Gotham vigilantes, including the Ghost King, are staring at Batman, waiting for something. Batman's cloak shifts as if he's moving his hands, fidgeting. If Constantine didn't know any better, he'd say he was nervous.

"Good. That's good, I'm glad to hear it."

Instead of saying anything else, the Ghost King just raises his eyebrows and continues to stare at Batman. Has he offended him in some way? Are they all going to die because of this?

After what seems like an agonising few minutes but could only really be a few seconds, Batman's shoulders dip and he takes a breath. "And Jazz?"

They all erupt into shouts, the Ghost King being the loudest. The only thing John can make out is when the Ghost King throws his hand in the air to point at Red Robin with a shout of "Time!"

"1:30.91, we got 1:30.91 on the clock, who's closest?"

"Did you even try to hold it in at all, old man? I'm so disappointed in you. People think you're cool. People think you're suave, I don't understand how they could be so wrong."

"Thank you for that, Hood."

"No, thank you, I won. Again. Because you're so predictable. Actually, I had one minute seventeen, so you held out longer than I thought you would."

Batman pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs loudly.

Constantine feels like doing the same thing.

Whatever. He's going to have to interrupt... whatever this is. There's still a rampaging demon heading their way that they've got to bargain for. He can untangle Batman's personal connection to the Ghost King later. Or he could leave it alone and forget everything about it.

Yeah, he'll do that one.

But before he can actually open his mouth to say anything, the Ghost King, again, beats him to it.

"So, B-Man, did you summon me here for a particular reason, or was it really just so you could ask about Jazz?"

There's a beat of silence before Batman mutters, "I asked about Tucker, too. We've not seen each other in so long, it's only polite."

"And I'm sure you meant it, you're the paragon of manners." The Ghost King nods slow and wide-eyed as if he doesn't believe him at all.

At this point, even Constantine doesn't believe him.

"It has been forever, though." The Ghost King muses, bringing his hand to his chin and folding his legs underneath him. "We should all get together sometime! If you get Alfie to make some of his cookies again, I'll get Clockwork to lend us a pocket dimension where we can spend as much time as we want, deal?"

"It's a deal."

No hesitation at all, incredible.

Hold on. Wait. John has to fight the urge to pinch himself, because this has to be a dream, right? Is Batman actually smiling? He didn't even know he could do that.

An itch niggles at the back of John's mind. He's starting to get an inkling of what's going on here and it's... weird, to say the least.

"Oooh," Nightwing singsongs, like a child in a playground tickled by the very idea of romance.

But then, who's he to judge? John's no stranger to strange bedfellows, that's for sure. Whoever this Jazz is, she must be something incredible—she'd have to be, if Batman can't even go two minutes without asking about her.

"Batman and Jasmine sitting in a tree," Nightwing continues, with both Red Hood and Red Robin joining in for the rest. "K—I—S—S—I—"

"Stop," Batman growls, completely drowned out by the Ghost King's laughter, but...

But.

It all suddenly clicks for John.

The Ghost King Phantom.

Her Royal Highness, Princess Jasmine Phantom.

Jazz.

"Holy shit, mate," John breathes, unable to stop himself as everyone looks his way. "You have the hots for the Princess of the Infinite Realms?"

The Justice League meeting room has never descended into chaos quicker.

#dpxdc #danny phantom crossover #danny phantom x batman #hoooolllyyy mackeral #it was hubris thinking i could keep anything to five sentences really wasn't it? #fucking played myself with that didn't i??? #anyway here's even more words on this i hope you enjoy!! #some things that didn't make it in: #duke doesn't come to see danny because he's too bright when he's in his ghost form and it gives him a migraine - he still plays the game #though and is second closest! #damian is there he's just biding his time. it's become a tradition for damian to try and stab danny whenever he turns up #he hasn't managed it yet but danny keeps encouraging him to try again! you'll get me next time champ! #it infuriates damian to no end - no he's not doing it because he's having fun he legitimately wants to kill him shut up! #danny loves cass so much and when they do all get together they always sit together - it often ends up with cass curling up around danny #ellie turns up every now and then! she's like an honourary wayne at this point #she's always down for any pranks and shenanigans #thank you for the prompt!! it was very fun. as you can see i got rather carried away haha #thank you i hope you enjoyed it!!! #my writing #cab writes

[shady-tavern]

Missing Piece

@piperjistic had asked for a forest spirit and while this isn't fully in line with your request, I still hope you'll like it!

Minor warnings ahead for non-graphic violence and a wee bit of body-horror towards the end, though it doesn't happen to the main character. Please be sure to take care of yourself!

*.*.*

For as long as the little girl could remember, it felt like something was missing within her. She could never put a finger on it, but it made her a restless child, picking up and discarding games, struggling with consistently staying interested and some days she just felt very strange. 

Like that one stained glass window she had seen when her parents had taken her to a nearby city. All disjointed fragments that still managed to be a picture, but it would never be one entire piece.

The stained glass window at least had been pretty compared to the ugly feeling within her.

"Have you ever felt like something is missing inside you?" she asked her grandma, who came to pick her up many a day while her parents worked. 

Things were strange between Gran and her parents, she never talked to them and they never talked to her and she never set foot onto their garden, preferring to wait for the little girl at the gate by the little dirt road.

Gran stilled and when the little girl glanced up at her, her face had gone dark and grim and for the first time in the girl's life, her beloved grandma, a joyful soul who loved her with all her heart, looked just a little bit frightening.

But her hand around the girl's remained gentle and the older woman kept walking at a sedate pace so her short little legs didn't struggle with keeping up.

Everyone always said to the girl that she would grow to be bigger and she couldn't wait for that day to arrive. Gran was silent for so long that the girl thought she was never going to answer.

"You best ask your parents about that," Gran said at last, voice quiet and heavy with something unspoken. Strangely, her voice reminded the girl of a draft horse she had seen, who had been forced to pull a too heavy burden, body straining as it slowly and laboriously set one hoof in front of the other.

"Alright," the girl answered and grinned up at her grandmother, hoping to break up the awful mood her innocent little question had created. "Can we make blueberry cake today?"

Gran smiled and it was like the sun returning after a dark, scary storm, her face brightening and looking as kind and loving as ever. "Of course, little chestnut." She leaned in, voice dipping into a conspiratorial stage whisper, "My wife picked an entire basket just this morning."

The little girl giggled and soon the two of them reached the end of the village, all talk about missing pieces and resulting, scary expressions forgotten. The blueberry cake was delicious and maybe a bit messy since the girl had tried to help a bit too enthusiastically and the cute little apron Gran had made for her was stained with purple-blue juice on one corner.

Gran's wife, Tanya, arrived just as they had taken the first bite of a still warm slice of cake.

"You baked without me?" she gasped in a mock scandalized voice. "Oh, the betrayal, how it stings!" She dramatically fell onto the kitchen table and the little girl laughed when the two older women broke out into a full blown performance just to ensure she kept laughing.

Gran brought her back home just as the sun set and a strong, steady wind blew in from the forest, bringing with it the smell of spring moss and damp, cool earth.

"If you ever meet any magical beings, be wary," Gran said as she stopped in front of the gate that creaked noisily as soon as it was two thirds of the way open. 

She looked down at the girl, her face serious. "One day you might and if you do, they will offer you deals and nothing good ever comes from accepting their offers. They will only bring ruin in exchange for empty promises."

As solemnly as the little girl could, she offered her little pinky. "I promise to be careful," she said and a shadow of a smile crossed Gran's face as they hooked their pinkies around each other gently.

Gran leaned down to kiss the top of her head before she left with a glance towards the house and the girl briefly glanced towards the forest. It was an old forest, not quite as ancient as in other places, but surrounded by plenty of stories and mysteries. 

The girl had heard rumors about creatures living in the woods, of magic being alive in ways the mages in the big cities could never hope to replicate. She decided to be very careful whenever she went into the woods to pick berries and mushrooms. She had promised, after all.

She entered her parents' house, neatly putting her boots beside her mother's and when she looked up at her parents, the question tumbled forth without much thought, "Why do I feel like I'm missing something?"

Her mother, who was currently carving leather, stilled so thoroughly she might as well have turned to stone. Her father, in the process of cooking, seemed to freeze in place, the stirring of his ladle abruptly falling silent.

"You're still growing," her mother answered at last, voice quiet and her gaze on her work. "It will pass in given time."

The little girl stared at her, startled silent and with increasing heartbreak as the seconds passed, for she had just learned what her mother sounded like when she lied.

*.*.*

The conversation with her parents stayed with the girl as the months and years passed and she never asked again. Gran said nothing either, but every time she picked the girl up, she now glared at the house. 

Gran knew, the girl realized, but either couldn't say why she felt wrong or she didn't want to tell her.

Though, knowing her Gran, she probably couldn't for some reason. Gran had been born a rebel and she said she would die one, encouraging all of the little girl's bad habits, as her parents called them, with no remorse.

"This world will chew you up and spit you out, if you let it," Gran told her when she picked her up from school, her hand warm and gentle. "So don't be afraid to bare your teeth, little chestnut. Stand up for what you believe is right, that is the only way to slowly but surely kill off all things vile and dark."

The girl wasn't sure she entirely understood, but she nodded seriously anyway. Gran always told her everything no one else wanted to, blunt and direct without scaring her or hurting her feelings.

Gran felt strong, like a rushing river that wore down even the largest, toughest of boulders. The girl hoped she could be like her one day.

It was her Gran's teachings that got her in and out of trouble over the years and her words guided the girl into understanding when something was wrong. And how important it was to do something when she discovered evil.

As the village turned into a cute little town and more and more people moved in, drawing towards a hopeful future by their fertile lands and abundant forest, the girl had grown into a headstrong young woman.

Not once, in all that time, had she shaken off the feeling like she was lacking something. Like something was missing that should be there.

Her parents could no longer deny that something was wrong and their increasingly guilty and troubled looks said it all. It showed in the woman's life, that something within her was gone. As soon as someone looked into the little house she had moved into, they saw that no project was ever finished, every hobby dropped just after she had gained a modicum of skill in it.

She bounced from job to job, working for whoever hired her, before losing that job again, sometimes by leaving, sometimes by more talented, more passionate people coming along.

It was that restlessness that caused her to drift far enough from the town, the feeling of wrongness seemingly guiding her step, to cross paths with what she first thought was a traveling kind of circus.

There was a man leading the entire caravan of wagons, pale and primly dressed, clearly a mage considering his robes and pompous behavior as he hailed her down.

"We are no circus, young lady," he said when she asked about his business, but his eyes were cold and his smile about as pleasant as holding a palm full of slugs. "I am Master Egam and this is my curious collection. I intend to thoroughly impress the local lords."

He made a sweeping gesture at the wagons and she peered past him, at covered cages and grim looking soldiers.

Her gaze almost immediately fell back to the mage, however, and something ugly writhed within her chest. She couldn't put a finger on what it was, but it felt like sharp, uneven edges pressed against her ribs from within, accentuating the feeling of wrongness.

"Now, which way to the nearest town? It's growing rather late," Master Egam said, his smile wide and winning and yet it caused something cold to drip down her spine. There was a sudden taste of wet iron and rotting earth on her tongue.

It took her a moment to realize why, for she had never experienced anything like it. He had put magic into his words and it filled her mouth with a nasty taste. "This way, about a mile or so."

"Why don't you guide us?" he asked, patting the coach beside him. When she hesitated and saw a flash of curious danger in his eyes, she offered a bland smile.

"Thank you," she said, climbing up to join him, careful to keep some distance between them.

He stared at her for a moment and she resisted the urge to shift uncomfortably. "You seem strangely...familiar," he mused after a moment. "Have I met you before? Or family of yours?" When she looked genuinely surprised, he shook his head. "Right, that is very unlikely. Then again, you country bumpkins all look the same to me."

She was desperate to distract him from her, which was thankfully easy enough to accomplish. All it took was a question about his exploits and soon he regaled her with all the horrifying details. Of the creatures he captured, the magic he had soaked up from them, the power he carried at his fingertips.

He was bragging, yes, but she could tell that every word was the truth. That he had chained a vampire into enduring sunlight at his leisure, that he had plucked all the feathers of a harpy to parade her around naked and that he had a griffin eating out of his hand for his amusement.

That he had caught one the most dangerous beings of all, a forest spirit.

She was deeply relieved when her hometown came into view and then she got to see the effects of his magic first hand. His voice seemed to be made of gold, for all he had to do was speak and people immediately rushed to obey, star-struck expressions and delighted, downright smitten smiles appearing on their faces.

She inched away from Master Egam and ended up by one of the wagons instead. Unable to resist, she tugged a corner of the covering up and peered inside.

Green eyes that shimmered like all the shades of plant life in the forest met hers and broken antlers rose from red and gold hair that tumbled down in long, thick waves. The forest spirit, she realized as she stared at him, wide eyed, his face sun-kissed and freckled and even chained down as he was she could see his innate power and grace.

The broken antlers disappeared, swiftly replaced by wolf ears as he now bared vicious fangs at her, wicked claws scraping over the iron lining the bottom of his cage as he growled.

"Careful with that one," Master Egam's voice made her jump and drop the tarp. "He's the most dangerous one I ever caught. A nasty piece of work."

"Why do you catch them?" she found herself asking and as she looked up at him, she already knew the answer before he opened his mouth.

"Because I can," he said, his smile as empty as his eyes were cruel. "Because the wild powers in this world need to know that they can and will be tamed. Now run along and don't tell anyone about this."

His magic was iron-rot on her tongue as she nodded, hastily pasting a smile on her face. It felt like fleeing as she turned and hurried away, her heart racing in her chest and the ugly, vile feeling that had scraped around her ribcage finally lessened.

The wrongness within her was as present as ever, a constant companion of subtle misery that dodged her steps, silent only whenever she found joy in things. Joy that was taken from her by its steady, suffocating grip sooner or later.

As soon as she was home, she began to pace, her mind whirring. She had to do something and whatever magic Master Egam possessed, she was somehow immune against it. She might be the only one who could think clearly around him.

Taking a deep breath, she forced herself to calm. Master Egam was dangerous and she was just a magic-less young woman who was all wrong inside. If she wasn't careful, she wouldn't have to worry about what was missing for much longer.

It wasn't hard, in the end, to find out that Master Egam was staying in the mayor's house, that he had tossed him and his family out and now treated the most lavish place as his. The mayor and his wife and two children seemed dazed but they didn't question what was being done to them, they just went to stay with their extended family.

The wagons were kept by the mayor's house, blocking most of the street and guarded by the soldiers, which were armed and armored.

She watched them as the last sunlight faded, thinking. Beyond the window she could see the mage and people came to his home, bringing downright decadent food with loving smiles and hazy eyes, leaving again empty handed.

An idea began to take form. A foolish one, most certainly, but it was likely her best chance. While Master Egam was busy feasting and ordering people around, most likely fancying himself a king among peasants, he would be distracted.

On second thought, he was most likely not traveling to impress lords, but to work his way up to becoming the actual king of these lands. Maybe even an emperor, holding court among captured creatures and his magic charming everyone into blind obedience.

So she joined a group of townsfolk who came with carefully made little cakes and desserts and they barely acknowledged her. The soldiers didn't even looked at them, most likely long used to this song and dance.

It was less easy to go unnoticed by Master Egam, but the man was easily distracted by the new offerings, already a good way through half the food he had been given.

No human should have been able to consume so much without bursting, she thought and she wondered if this was the price of his magic. That he not only could eat far too much, but had to.

"Bring this to the beasties," he said, gesturing at a little bucket of bones and food scraps and the young woman took a decisive step towards it, keeping her head down as she grabbed the bucket, stepping outside without being stopped. Her mouth was filled with the taste of iron-rot.

The soldiers didn't pay her any heed now either. They looked bored and hungry as they watched another plate of food being brought in, but they said nothing. She wondered if they could even if they wanted to. If they were similarly charmed as anyone else.

"I need to feed them," she said politely to the nearest soldier, who moved woodenly to stare at her with a slightly hazy gaze. Ah, that answered her question. "I need the key, please. Master Egam's orders."

He handed the key over, because why wouldn't he? When everyone was always so fully under the mage's control, there was no reason to doubt. She went to the forest spirit's cage first, ignoring his low growl as she pushed the tarp up and began to look for the lock.

He fell silent as soon as she slipped the key into it and opened the door.

"I'll get you out," she whispered and his head tipped to the side, his wolf ears flicking as he considered her. And then, ever so slowly without removing those intense eyes from her, he tipped his head back, baring his collared throat.

She crawled into the cage, making sure to pull the door almost-closed behind her, the tarp falling down and leaving her in murky darkness with only her slightly fast breathing and pounding heart. She slowly inched forward, patting the ground, until clawed fingers carefully closed around her hand, guiding it up.

The collar had no lock and she stilled, her heart leaping in her chest. What was she supposed to do now?

"Bleed," the forest spirit said, voice such a horrible rasp that she was half convinced his throat was full of glass shards. "Willing offer."

She wasn't even thinking when she reached out with her free hand, gripping his fingers and pressing her palm against his claws. She felt him jerk in surprise, but the pain was already blooming, blood running down her hand in a hot line. She reached out to press her hand to his collar, smearing as much of her blood on it as possible and the next second the collar clicked open, crashing to the floor with a rattle of chains.

The forest spirit inhaled sharply and then she felt his hands touch her shoulder, careful and helping her shuffle a bit to the side. Freeing the path to the cage door, she realized

"Free the others, please," he whispered, his voice no longer sounding like he was gargling gravel, but instead charming and lovely-sweet. Her mouth was filled with the faint taste of meadow-flowers and cool spring water.

Then he was out of the cage and she scrambled to follow him, catching the door before it could slam shut.

The guards were lying on the ground and she saw the forest spirit springing past the last one he had taking down, vaulting over a confused man with a tart and heading straight into the house, face snarling in rage.

The next cage held the plucked harpy, who hissed a high-pitched shriek at her, but fell similarly silent when the door to the cage was unlocked.

Her collar too opened with blood and then the harpy was out, her feathers re-growing with a burst of magic that was almost painful with its relief. She took flight immediately, though she clearly struggled as she escaped, as did the griffin the young woman freed. 

The vampire slunk out of his cage with a look of wild hunger and gratitude before he was gone between one moment and the next. Just in time for all the windows in the house to shatter outward in a massive wave of pressure, the forest spirit crashing to the ground, wheezing and covered in blood.

The young woman was at his side in no time and as she gripped him and saw him in the light of the street lanterns without the distractions of his eyes, she realized just how thin he was. How his limbs shook as he struggled to his feet.

He stumbled, eyes going wide when she dragged him with her, just in time to round the corner before Master Egam came out of the house with magic whipping around him, a howl of rage filling the night as he found all his cages empty, his guards unconscious – or perhaps dead – on the ground.

"What are you doing," the forest spirit hissed, but he seemed unable to free himself from her grip, which told her everything she needed to know. She wasn't weak by any means, but she got the impression that he should be far stronger than she.

"Saving you," she hissed back. "You're in no condition to fight!"

"Return them to me!" she heard Master Egam's voice boom behind her, so loud and rattling it filled the entire town, making people cower and stumble, their gazes going hazy. "And find me the one who did this!"

Her mouth was filled with the taste of iron-rot to the point where she had to gag, but she managed to push on, reaching the little house she had moved into after she could no longer stand the guilty silence of her parents. The moment they were through the door, the forest spirit collapsed to the floor, breathing hard, sweating and bleeding.

"His magic," he said as he stared up at her with wide, bright green eyes that she knew she could get lost in if she allowed it. "It doesn't work on you. Why?"

"No idea," she murmured back. "Come, we have to hide you."

She had managed to empty out a large storage chest and squeezed him inside despite his protest just in time for her neighbors to come knocking.

"No one is here, I came looking," she said, heart pounding and blood still dripping from her hand as she gestured at the hastily strewn about contents of her chest. "I made sure they weren't hiding."

"Come help search," her neighbors murmured, gazes hazy and she followed them outside, hoping that the spirit stayed where he was, that he wouldn't be found.

She searched with the others until they were all ready to collapse and only then did Master Egam order them to rest with such fury that the cobblestone cracked around him. He had long since roused his guards – most of which were still alive – and had sent them out to the forest to capture those that had run for the woods.

"They can't go far," she heard him mutter to himself as he turned around to head back into the house. "Not with the state I left them all in."

He wasn't wrong.

When the young woman returned home, she found the forest spirit still in the storage chest, asleep and looking utterly exhausted. She dropped into her bed and slept until hunger forced her awake. 

The smell of cooking food woke the spirit as well and she stared in astonished surprise as he ate at an alarmingly fast rate. Half her pantry was gone by the time he curled up in front of the hearth and went straight back to sleep. She dropped a thick blanket on him and arranged pillows to hide him from the outside and sat down, thinking.

Master Egam was powerful and she had no idea if she could hide the spirit until he regained his strength, especially if he needed that much food every day. And even then there was no guarantee that he'd be powerful enough to defeat the mage. But, she reasoned, he might be able to escape, which was just as good in her opinion.

She dozed off and woke feeling warm, blinking blearily to realize the blanket was now draped over her, the pillows carefully arranged to leave her in a little nest. Only the floor beneath her was a little hard. Peering around, alarm searing through her, worrying that something had happened, she relaxed as soon as she saw the spirit.

He stood with his back to her, looking at all the half finished projects she had lying around, not having the heart to put them away, even though she already knew she'd never finish them. That this was it and her love for a new hobby she had found was instead curdling into quiet, miserable grief.

"Thank you," he said before turning towards her. He already looked far better than yesterday, less gaunt and shaky on his feet. His injuries were gone as well, leaving only a somewhat tattered, stained shirt and worn, knee-length pants over hale and whole skin behind.

He tipped his head and the way the light of a lit candle reflected in his eyes reminded her of the way animal eyes would look when a lantern swept past them in the dark. "What do you want in return for your help?"

She paused after sitting up, then shrugged. "I don't want anything." Gran had been very firm about deals with magic creatures, that they brought ruin more often than not, her voice harsh and bitter as she had said it. As if there was more to her words than mere warnings.

Besides, the young woman had grown up on stories about daring knights, wise mages and courageous princesses and princes. She had always wanted to be like them, to do good with her own two hands whenever possible. Had secretly dreamed about one day saving someone as she had grown up.

It had been far more scary and harrowing than in her imagination, but she'd do it all over again in a heartbeat.

"You want nothing," the spirit repeated, sounding like he didn't believe her. "Everyone wants something, help is never freely given. Especially not from my kind and especially not when you saved my life. Do not take that kind of thing lightly."

"All I want is for you to be safe," she said. "Don't get hurt again, promise me that."

The forest spirit inhaled sharply, pupils blowing wide until only a small ring of green remained and she felt a warm shiver go through the air. Like something powerful had just exhaled a blessing.

He said nothing for a long moment, before he dipped his head, suddenly looking regal as the wolf ears melted away and antlers appeared that looked far more intact than last night. "Very well." 

He joined her by the hearth, dropping down to one knee and offered his hand. "Let me see your wound."

She held out her hand and felt a tingle of magic, could taste soft, gentle meadow flowers and refreshing water as relief took away the lingering pain. Her palm was unmarred, not even a scar remaining.

"You have no idea what you just gave me, do you?" he asked quietly when she looked at him, his gaze so very captivating it looked like the entirety of the forest had gathered in his eyes.

She offered a small, crooked smile. "I've never been around magic," she said, all too aware that he was still holding her hand, skin warm like sunshine. "You can hide here until you've recovered."

He tipped his head to the side. "You would welcome me even now, knowing who is looking for me?"

"You're safe here," she answered. "He can't charm me and you need time to recover. Just make sure no one sees you."

"What do you desire for your help in return?" he asked. "And don't say nothing again."

She thought of the wrongness within her and wondered if magic could fix it. Then she remembered Gran's warnings about deals and ruin and bit back a sigh.

"I'll think about something," she said, though she didn't intend to. Once the spirit was strong enough, he would either fight or leave, but either way she doubted she would ever see him again.

He didn't look happy about that, but accepted her answer graciously enough. Getting to her feet, the young woman waved him with her to the kitchen corner. If he was eating her out of house and home he could help her cook.

When it became clear he was actually the better cook, since she hadn't been able to learn too much before her wrongness had kicked in, she happily left him to it and grabbed her money, sneaking out.

The entire town was walking around in a strange sort of haze, half of them still searching and the other half catering to the mage. 

She saw people bring more food to the mayor's house, along with other things. Jewels and prized possessions, feathers the harpy had and griffin had lost and one or two held squeaking bats in their gloved hands, as though hoping they might be the escaped vampire.

No one looked twice at her when she bought as much food as she could at the market and she bit back bitter worry when she saw Gran and Granny Tanya bring blueberry cake to the mage with happy smiles.

Only her parents didn't seem to be out and about. Strange.

She brought the food back home and the forest spirit noticeably relaxed once she was back, thanking her quietly before falling quiet again. The young woman, however, could only stand the silence for so long before she began to ask questions.

Before long she knew that the forest spirit had gotten captured in his sleep, that his home was to the north and that he could sense the power of the nearby forest.

They both fell asleep in front of the hearth and by the second day, the young woman dragged her bedding out into the living room and made a proper place to rest for the two of them. 

The forest spirit was in a better mood today and she realized that under all the tense grimness he was rather playful and enjoyed teasing and, most of all, making her laugh. She noticed as the days passed how he regained his strength, the gauntness disappearing faster than it would have for a regular person.

They kept busy in the small house in different ways. She watched him finish some of her craft projects and taught him to dance, he conjured sprigs of flowers for them to 'pretty up the place with' as he said and he let her brush out and braid his hair after long baths, the bath water never cooling until they were well and truly done.

Every night they curled up on the hearth together and it was then, as he looked at her, hair a healthy, shining red and gold and fox ears perked to listen better, that the truth spilled out.

How wrong inside she felt and he frowned at her in what she recognized as worry.

"May I?" he asked, holding out his hand and she put hers into his without a moment's hesitation. His face went soft and gentle in a way that ached somewhere around her tender heart as he held her hand with care.

Then he closed her eyes and she could taste meadow flowers and cold water and his frown deepened.

"I - you must talk to your parents," he said and as soon as the words were out, his head reared back a bit, ears pinning flat to his head as he blinked, looking startled and irritated. "Oh, how nasty."

She stared at him, wide-eyed and for the first time got the feeling that something was very, very wrong in a different way than she had thought.

"I'll go now," she whispered and he nodded, giving her hand an encouraging squeeze before she got to her feet.

Her parents looked worried and tense when they opened the door, relaxing a bit when they saw it was her, only for the tension to snap back into their frames. She realized immediately that they knew why she was here.

That there was a reason why she and they alone weren't slaves to the magic-charm of a mad mage. That they did know why she felt like a piece was missing.

"What's wrong with me?" she asked, sharp and hard in a way she had never spoken with them and they stepped aside to let her in.

They stood around the living room awkwardly until her father broke first, guilty and defensive and shoulders hunched, the silence around them heavy and thick and oppressive like summer heat without a cooling breeze.

"We didn't know," he said, almost pleading as he looked at his daughter. "When we met that...that man on our travels. We didn't know."

Something hot was wrapping around her heart and throat and a bad feeling unfolded in her gut, wriggling to get comfortable like a cat in a beam of sunlight. "Tell me the truth. Now. You owe me that much at least."

"We asked for a good life," her mother whispered, staring down at the ground, arms wrapped around herself and her head bent, shoulders tense. "We asked for nothing unreasonable, because being greedy only curses you. We asked for a good, warm, house, for enough money to buy what we desired until our deaths and to lead healthy, long and safe lives. We wanted the sort of fortune that would ensure we would have everything we desired until the day we died."

The heaviness in the air seemed to press down harder, like a thick blanket over sticky, sweaty skin, trapping heat and impossible to shake, no matter how desperately she wanted to get rid of it.

"What was the price?" the young woman asked, her tongue almost numb in her mouth. Though, she already knew. Could feel it in the marrow of her bones, could feel it in the stained glass shape of her soul, all disjointed and wrong and missing missing missing. Always missing something.

"You were but a babe," her father answered before she could ask again. "We didn't think...when he asked for a piece of you, something that wouldn't hurt you if he took it, we thought, well, if you grew up without it...you wouldn't know what you were missing."

Her heart shouldn't break, she thought, as pain and anger and grief greedily dug into her chest and belly. It shouldn't break when she didn't even feel all that surprised to hear what they were saying.

She thought of her life filled with things she couldn't finish, couldn't dedicate herself to no matter how deeply she loved, like her hands were too restless, desperately trying to find something to fill the void within her. All the friendships she had lost over the years, the disappointed people she had worked with and most of all, how miserable she had been.

She thought about feeling wrong and disjointed and like a stained glass window made by a clumsy apprentice and with the intent to make other people whisper and point and laugh instead of impressing them.

Weird, strange, not-fitting-in. Wrong.

Wrong, wrong, wrong, had sung through her veins for as long as she could remember and she had walked through life feeling like a part of her was gone, but unable to voice it. Unable to even name what was missing. 

Thinking that, maybe, this was just her lot in life. That nothing could be done about it and she had tried to do her best with the hand she had been dealt by fate.

And all this time, her parents had just...traded that part of her away. For small comforts. For a future they could have made themselves with their own hands had they cared to try. For a life bartered and paid for by someone else, so they wouldn't have to shoulder the burden. 

And then they had lied to her about it, had left her thinking that nothing could be done to make her feel better. That this was normal.

"Who?" she asked numbly and she blinked, realizing she was halfway to the door. When she looked at her parents, hot, angry hatred crawled up her throat like a wave of lava at seeing their wounded, self-pitying faces. "Who did you allow to hurt me?"

"Master Egam," her father whispered, his voice barely audible in the heavy, suffocating silence. "We can't let him see us or he might remember."

She was out the door before he could finish speaking, heart breaking and racing and she wasn't surprised at all, even though she thought she should be. So that was why his magic wasn't working on her – and her parents, if part of their deal was to remain healthy and unharmed at all times. Just what had Egam taken from her to make a deal that protected them no matter what?

She didn't remember the path home, but the moment the door fell closed behind her, she looked at the forest spirit and all the breath rushed back into her lungs. He was waiting with a plate of cookies he had baked that afternoon and his gaze was so gentle and understanding it made the wounded part of her tremble.

He opened his arms, a silent invitation and for a moment there was so much awful anguish in her, she didn't know what to do. Had no idea how to react if someone touched her, if it would drain the pain and anger or make it spill over, ugly and messy and raw. Like a wound that had had years and years and years to grow until it had spread and festered.

Then she moved and let him catch her and cradle her close as she broke down, crying as bitterly and hard as she had never cried before. He held her tightly as she shook apart, her head tucked under his chin and she cried and cried until she felt empty inside. Empty and wrong.

"They gave a piece of me to Egam," she whispered, voice thick and scratchy and he stilled. She tightened her grip on the shirt she had gotten him during one of her trips to the market, where food had started to grow scarce. "In exchange for a good, comfortable life."

He cupped the back of her head and kept holding her, offering no empty platitudes and no 'I'm sorry's, for which she was grateful. She didn't want sorrys. She was...she was too damn fucking furious for that, she realized, now that the pain had momentarily drained away.

"I want it back," she said, biting the words out like they were bones snapping between her teeth. "I want it back and I want this monster gone."

He hugged her tighter and she felt his smile press against her temple, sharp and dangerous and fanged and not the least bit afraid of her rage. Not the least bit judgmental the way others had reacted to her anger over the years.

"Let's shred him," he whispered against her hair, soft lips brushing forehead. "Let's get back what he stole from us."

*.*.*

It hadn't taken too long to prepare. The forest spirit had recovered fully and there wasn't anything in town that could help them against a mage, but in the end, they didn't need much anyway. 

They didn't need fancy things or mage slayers. Not when the mage in question would give them the weapons they needed, born out of his own greed and hubris.

Born out of a deal he had made with her parents and Gran really was right, deals only ever brought ruin. Because she and the part Egam had taken from her were about to become his.

The forest spirit gave her hand a squeeze and they exchanged one more look as they got ready behind her house, his eyes fierce and so trusting it briefly stole her breath away.

"When this is over, travel with me," he said, out of nowhere. "I want to show you my home. The brooks and meadows and mountains and lake."

She smiled back, a warmth that had nothing to do with the burning rage spreading through her, smoothing down her edges and settling around her heart like a protective blanket.

"Gladly," she answered quietly, then her smile turned a bit crooked. "What, you aren't going to ask for anything in exchange, leaf boy?"

He laughed softly and leaned down to press a kiss to the top of her head. "You're too precious for deals," he said quietly and she could taste his magic, sweet and cool and it almost brought tears to her eyes, though she couldn't quite say why.

"Let's go," she said instead and he reached up to gather his hair, pulling it aside to allow her to put the pilfered chain from the wagon around his neck. They had scratched out all the symbols on the inside of the iron, destroying the enchantment that would block his magic.

With a bit of glue it would stay shut for now and he caught her hands, pressing a kiss to her knuckles until they stopped shaking. They both took a deep breath and stepped onto the street, a glamor settling over his skin, making him look gaunt and injured once more. He limped, casting her one last wink before people noticed them.

The townsfolk paid attention to her for the first time in nearly a month as she went to the mage's house. Word must have traveled ahead, for Master Egam was already awaiting them and the mayor's house was saturated with iron-rot. She could see a few hints here and there of the chaos that must've reigned before he had gotten things cleaned up to welcome them, sitting on a padded chair like it was a throne.

"Bring him to me, girl," he said, beckoning and his smile benevolent and his eyes glittering like cold glass shards. His hunger was deep enough to cut and she bit back a shiver at the disgust that crept beneath her skin the closer she came to him.

"My prized possession," Egam murmured, already ignoring her and his magic grew thicker in the air, almost making her gag. The forest spirit pretended to fight, snarling as he was dragged forward, looking like he was too weak to resist. "And you put him back in his proper attire too, good girl."

He absentmindedly patted her on the head and she made herself smile at him, empty and dazzled, like the other townsfolk, swallowing down bile. The spirit had told her that Egam had stolen a piece of his magic too, forcefully instead of willingly, but it was in his hands all the same.

It was time to get back what belonged to them.

She handed over the chain, his gaze on the forest spirit like he wanted to devour him whole. Like the monsters and villains in her stories growing up, greedy and cruel and insatiable.

Egam moved past her, already discarding her as unimportant. As under his control. As just another 'country bumpkin'. He was the powerful mage after all and, as he had said, he already had one of the most powerful beings under his control.

A powerless girl might as well be dirt under his boots.

That was the exact reason he didn't see her nick her hand on a small knife hidden in her pocket. Why he didn't see her smile at the forest spirit over his shoulder before reaching out. 

He didn't look at her and therefore couldn't react in time when she stepped to his side and reached up, pressing her bloody hand over his heart at the same time that the forest spirit lunged forward. 

The mage did react, aiming his magic at the bigger, perceived threat, like they had suspected. And just like they had hoped, his magic slid off of the forest spirit harmlessly, for when the young woman had saved his life and he had offered her compensation of the same magnitude, she had asked for him to be safe.

The forest spirit was unhindered, pressing bloody palms to the mage's chest, right over his heart, sharp, sharp teeth bared and he snarled, "I undo the deal."

"I undo the deal," she spoke simultaneously with him, the words the forest spirit had taught her, steady and patient as each one was nothing but pain in her throat. Because she wasn't supposed to say those words, but then again, parents weren't supposed to give away what didn't belong to them either, so she had a right to this.

A right to undo what had been done to her, as long as she could get through the pain that tried to keep her from speaking. Pain that was worse than any wrongness had ever been, any loneliness and pain and grief and self-loathing for not being like all the other people. 

For never getting to keep doing the things she loved, forever searching for something she hadn't known she'd have to buy back with blood and pain.

It was the worst pain she had ever endured, but it wasn't stronger than the rage in her veins, the taste of iron-rot on her tongue and the sun-warm hand that took her free, unharmed one, grounding and strong. The look of startled anger on the mage's face swiftly morphing into fear was everything in this moment.

"I undo the deal made made without my voice, without my consent, without my agreement. I undo it as it was made, in pain and blood and betrayal," they spoke in perfect unison, their only chance to both get back what had been taken from them.

Their only chance to catch him so by surprise that he did feel betrayed, that he was as helpless as they had been, asleep and a babe respectively.

The moment the last word left her mouth, a sudden relief gripped her throat, releasing the burning agony that had torn through it and at the same time, she felt something warm and big spread through her chest.

The wrongness disappeared in an instant, the feeling of missing turning into wholeness so filling and great she almost stumbled back, her skin tingling and euphoria singing through her so brightly she had to sob. Because that wasn't just a missing piece, a sliver of soul that he had taken and that was now returned to her.

Magic, he had taken magic from her. It glittered like stars in the dark in her veins, spilled through her mind like bright sunlight on shimmering waves and wrapped around her with a desperation like it had longed to return to her as relentlessly as she had wanted it to return to her.

Egam was screaming as he stumbled back and they let him, watched him trip and spill to the ground as he writhed, clawing at his chest where blood smeared, hot and red and the forest spirit gripped her hand tighter.

His magic was heavy in the air, making her taste rivers and entire fields full of flowers and even from the corner of her eye she could see how much more vibrant he was now, the glamor dropped. Captivating and downright otherworldly, beautiful and mesmerizing.

"What have you done!" Egam shrieked but his words no longer tasted of iron-rot in the air and she blinked, realizing the power of his voice had been stolen from someone else. As she watched him seemingly shrink down, magic leaving him, her breath caught.

Oh. Her magic had been the first he had stolen. Her magic was what had bolstered all of his and now that it was gone, everything he was unraveled until it left behind a pitiful little man, with eyes so mean and cruel he should belong in a story, not in real life.

"I promised you I would be your end," the forest spirit said and his voice was filled with magic. The sort of magic that had previously been used by Egam to charm everyone. "I think your hunger and greed are better suited in a different shape and form. In something that grows, don't you?"

And Egam tried to scramble to his feet and run, but the magic of the forest spirit was so thick in the air it her own magic sing in return, bright and sparking and the fury was still a living, roiling wave of heat within her. She reached out without much thought, letting her magic wrap around the forest spirit's, who threw his head back and laughed.

He laughed as Egam screamed in a pitch no human throat should be capable of. He laughed as the screams cut off and branches broke out of his back, his skin turning to bark and the mage grew and grew and stretched and the young woman found herself pulled out the house as floorboards and walls, doors and furniture and remains of windows were devoured.

She watched as a tree grew and grew and grew until the trunk was as wide as the house had been and it reached high into the sky, the canopy so thick and wide it sheltered the entire town under its boughs. 

And her magic was singing and singing and singing and she felt so hale and whole she felt like she was floating. The forest spirit turned towards her, grinning and took her injured hand, pressing a kiss to the cut, smearing blood over his lips as he healed it.

"We're free now," he whispered, eyes so very green and then she was laughing and crying and pulling him forward and he followed her, pressing kisses that tasted like fading copper and brightly like flowers and cold water to her lips.

They were free. Free and whole at last and she felt like she was truly breathing for the first time since she could remember. Deep breaths that seemed to fill her entire body, her magic twining with his as it surrounded them, forest and sky and her tears were wiped away with gentle, gentle hands.

"We are," she whispered, sinking her hands into his hair until she had threaded starlight through it. "Let me introduce you to Gran and Granny Tanya and then I want to see your home."

He laughed and picked her up and twirled her in a circle and she found herself laughing as well, flowers blooming to form a crown on her head.

Where previously a quiet sort of misery had loomed in her future, saturating all coming days, she now couldn't wait to see what the rest of her life looked like.

Bright, she thought as she held his face in her hands, their foreheads gently pressing together. Her future was bight and free and full of love and she was still laughing and crying, happy beyond words. And her magic, finally, finally returned to her, sang and shone and at long last, she felt nothing but right inside.

*.*.*

You want to support my stuff? Want more of my nonsense? Want to lord this over your mortal enemies as you laugh down at them from the top of your castle? Please consider heading to my patreon! A new short story gets posted every month =)

#my writing #short story #forest spirit #magic #fairy tale style #a bit dark tho #a wee bit of body horror at the end #and a wee bit of violence #rather non graphic tho #this took forever to write #i have around 11 k discarded words on this little mess #but I loved how it turned out #so I very much hope you'll enjoy reading it too! #also if you wonder #shady how do you come up with names? #i encourage you to spell egam backwards #I'm funny like that (not) #but I admit #his name amused me every time I typed it #alright done with rambling in the tags for now I guess #hope you liked my story! #btw just in case you're new to my stuff #this is LONG #a long short story

[osamusriceballs]

Private Tour

Tsukishima x fem reader

Warnings: None

Words: ~ 2,1 k

About: Musuem guide Tsukki- idk, he's kinda cute, kinda flirty and mean, and kinda awkward. He's Tsukki~

A/n: The way I looked up actual information about that museum and Sendai city- no way I'm LEARNING THINGS BY WRITING A FANFIC WHAT THE HECK-

"I can show you around, Miss."

You look up at the very first time you've been hearing English words ever since you started walking around in the Sendai City Museum.

A surprisingly tall, blonde guy looks down at you- a pair of stylish glasses sitting on his nose, as well as a slightly arrogant look on his face if you’re being honest with yourself. A look at his name tag reveals that his name is "Tsukishima" and after looking at him dumbfounded for a few moments, he bites the inside of his cheek, exceeding a mixture of annoyance and regret. "Do you not speak English, Miss?"

You blink a few times before you finally nod, feeling embarrassed by how long you have been staring at him. "Uhm- yes I do."

"You've been walking around aimlessly for quite some time. Our security guard put you on the "watch" list, but I figured you simply don't speak Japanese and don't understand the structure of this museum."

You stare at him again, impressed by his flawless pronunciation- and after realizing what he just said, you keep on staring but with heated cheeks.

"Oh... I didn't want to cause problems. I don't speak Japanese, you're correct. I'll take a leave then." You nod and slightly bow, appreciating that he deemed you as "not suspicious enough to get her kicked out by the security guards, but still weird enough to politely kick her out myself". You quickly turn on your heels, avoiding to look at the very security guard that probably put you on the "suspicious" list, as well as that blonde museum guide that apparently wants to get you out of there as well.

"Wait, wait- I didn't mean it like that-" a few big strides form the tall man, and he has already caught up to you, extending his long arm to stop you before he quickly steps in front of you.

You stop abruptly, confused by his effort to catch up to you and the deep irritated frown on his face. "It's fine. You don't need to apologize." You reassuringly smile and lift your palms to show him that it's really fine, it’s not his fault after all, but he bites the inside of his cheek once again. A habit?

"I meant the offer. I can show you around."

It's your time to frown now at his sudden persistence-

You look at him intensely for the first time, trying to figure out his intentions at this point. The sleeves of his white dress shirt are rolled up, and his upper arms seem surprisingly muscular- he generally makes a very fit impression to you. His blonde hair is curled, slightly falling down onto his forehead, and even though it should look messy like this, it's rather cute and handsome on him. He looks really intelligent- probably the combined effect of the intense look in his pretty brown eyes and his position as a museum guide. He's actually very attractive-

"Please." He adds after a few seconds, the word coming heavily from his lips, and you’re somehow convinced that he's genuine with his offer.

"Um... okay. If you insist. But if you're just being polite, there is no need too. I've already seen most of the exhibit, I don't mind leaving now."

He nods after your words and slightly bows, his face looking a bit more relaxed now that you've accepted his offer. "Follow me."

His arm rests behind your back, almost touching you for a second to guide you the way towards the entrance. " My name is Tsukishima Kei. We'll start in chronological order of the exhibit, it's easier for you to get into the topic that way."

"How do you know my age?" You ask him dumbfounded, simply following this man wherever he leads you. "The security guard checked your ID when you entered."

The way he nonchalantly states it makes you stunned for a few seconds, but you're quick to recover from it. "What's your age then? And your birthday?"

He rolls his eyes at your words, but you don't feel real annoyance from him. "Why should I tell you that?"

"Isn't it unfair that you know my birthday and I don't have the chance to know yours?"

He hisses quietly and rubs the back of his head, and you wonder if he already starts to regret talking to you. "September 27. 1996."

"Oh." You nod at his words, actually surprised that he seems so talkative and considerate now. He suddenly stops, and you find yourself standing in a big room that you have passed before. You remember your attempt to read the pretty engraved information on the walls, but quickly giving up when you notice that there were very few words written in English. Is the way you fidgeted with your phone for an eternity and (futilely) used a translator why you were put on the "watch" list?

"Have you heard of Date Masamune?"

You purse your lips to suppress a smile- an embarrassed smile when you recall where you've heard that name before. Tsukishima raises a brow and takes your lack of response as answer.

"You've heard that name. From anime I guess?"

You slowly nod, avoiding looking at him at all cost, but a sudden snort makes you look at him- and you realize that he's laughing. You would be mad at him for making fun of you, but his laugh sounds surprisingly cute and so contrary to the cold persona that he has displayed so far that you don't find it in you to get angry. He regains composure after a few seconds and clears his throat before he turns back to being serious and bored- but the short glimpse at this side of him makes your stomach tingle.

"He actually found the city of Sendai. He was a regional ruler during Japan's Azuchi–Momoyama period and the early Edo period."

"Really? He found this city?" You look at him with raised eyebrows, impressed by the new information.

"He did. However, the Sendai area has been inhabited a very long time before that actually. The story of this city mostly began at around 1600 though."

"With Date Masamune?" you ask, and he nods with a pleased hum. "Correct."

"I would assume that you led me here to show me his battle armor?" you gesture towards the metal suits in front of you, and he nods once again. "Correct again."

"See, I don't need you, I can figure it out on my own." You try to joke to lighten up the mood, and much to your surprise, his lips turn into an amused curl at your words.

"Sure. You want my name tag and show around the next group of visitors?"

"Y/n Tsukishima doesn't sound too bad, does it?" You grin- and freeze when you realize the meaning of your words. He coughs, a slight redness now tainting his pale cheeks, and you quickly avert your gaze.

"I guess it doesn't." Your breath stocks at his words, and now you definitely don't have enough courage to look at him.

"Tell me more about his battle armors. Why are there so many? I can't believe he's worn all of them." You quickly try to turn his attention to something else, and he turns his body towards the exhibition again.

"This is his original battle armor." He gestures towards a black armor with a crescent moon on top. "The design is also used in most anime depictions of him." He side eyes you at the comment but you decide to ignore it, not wanting to tell him that he nailed it. "But some of these armors have only been worn for ceremonies. And the ones in the back are from Toyotomi Hideyoshi." You try to keep your poker face when he drops another familiar name, but he is too smart to not notice how you tensed up for a second.

"I guess you know him too?"

"I uhm... I wouldn't mind learning some historically accurate information about him." You're certain that your cheeks are burning at this point, and you're relieved when he just settles for a small chuckle.

"Don't worry, I'll give you an overview about his life and influence on Japan. I need to make sure that someone who tries to steal my job and my last name knows about Toyotomi Hideyoshi."

"I'm not trying to steal anything here, just to make that clear." You shoot him a burning glare, but he doesn't mind it at all.

"I know at least two security guards who think otherwise."

You look at him blankly, and he returns your gaze with the same blank expression- until you both start laughing.

He has a pleasant laugh and voice- that's what you realize after your conversation with him so far. You're convinced that you could listen to him talking all day- maybe he should voice one of these audio guides?- and you find yourself even more attracted to this man, to his intellect and his wit.

A small group of men suddenly catches your attention though, and you slowly stop laughing- especially when they suddenly gesture towards the two of you-

"Oya oya, what's with that look on his face?"

"I've never seen Tsukishima smile like that- is that his girlfriend?"

"Oyy, Tsukki! You promised us a tour, didn't you?"

"Don't bother the other visitors, Bokuto-san."

You're stunned at the way Tsukishima immediately pales and tries to hide his face- that tall tree of a man with bright blonde hair trying to hide himself with a measly attempt like that?

"Do you know them?" You point towards the group, and he "tsks" and nods finally. "Yes. I didn't expect them so early though."

"Oy Tsukki, will you play with us later? It's been a while, I want to show you my new skills."

"What are you doing here?" Tsukishima's tone significantly changes compared to the way he has been talking to you. No more friendly and polite note, just annoyance and embarrassment.

"We told you we would come, didn't we, Tsukki?" A tall man with black hair and a lazy grin wraps an arm around Tsukishima and rubs his head, effectively messing with his blonde hair.

"And who is that young lady over here? Your girl?"

"Kuroo-san, you're embarrassing him." Another guy with glasses comes up to the front, quickly followed by a very energetically walking man with broad shoulders and white hair.

"Tsukki, introduce us to your girlfriend!" His smile is almost blinding, but you're too perplex after the sudden commotion to answer him- "We’re leaving." Tsukishima shrugs his shoulder until the tall guy lets him go, and you're stunned when Tsukishima suddenly wraps an arm around your shoulder and guides you a few steps away before he removes his arm quickly.

"I'm sorry for that."

He scratches the back of his head and avoids eye contact when he finally brought you out of their reach, clearly flustered by the unexpected situation he just found himself in. "It's fine." You reassure him and try to stay focused on him, and not on the way the guys started talking about the two of you way too loudly, the words "Tsukki's cute girlfriend" making their way too your ears way too often.

"These are... acquaintances from me. Don't mind them. They are fools sometimes."

"They seem nice actually. You should introduce me someday; you don't want to withhold your girlfriend from your friends after all." You attempt to joke to lighten up the situation, and he quickly glances towards you again, his glasses reflecting the white light from the lamp above when he does so.

"I thought you already had my last name? I feel like we skipped a few steps here."

Your cheeks heat up at his words, and you find yourself lost for a suitable reply, only for him to smile again. "Let's start with step one."

His left hand moves into his back pocket, and he fishes for his phone, handing it to you after quickly unlocking it- and you manage to get a short glimpse of his dinosaur background before he presses the contact button.

"I- Can you-" he bites the inside of his cheek- you start to believe that he's suppressing a hiss with that habit whenever he's irritated or doesn't know what to do- and you quickly save him before his cheek turns bloody at this point.

"I still need to learn more about Hideyoshi. If you promise to be my private guide next time too?" You reach for his phone and he willingly gives it to you, now suddenly lost for words. Tsukishima nods, silently watching you while you type in your number, and you read it three times to make sure it's correct before you hand it back to him.

"Here you go. Will you be here tomorrow too?"

"Yes. I'll be here till 5 pm. You can come whenever; I'll make time for you."

You smile at his words and walk towards the exit, shyly waving at the group of men that are still watching you both, and they happily wave back when they notice you leaving.

"See you tomorrow, Kei."

"See you tomorrow."

You finally turn but you don't miss the smile on his face though when he reads your contact’s name.

"Tsukishima y/n."

#haikyuu fanfiction #haikyuu x reader #tsukishima x reader #tsukishima #tsukishima fluff #I wanted to write smut actually #but ended up with this #- #like fluff or fun or idk >.< #ANYWAYS! #I hope you'll enjoy it! #I liked it when I started writing it #but now I'm very insecure about it #GAH #writer's problems T.T #Inspired by blue lock Rin speaking English #HE SOUNDS SO GOOD WHEN HE'S TALKING IN ENGLISH I CAN'T T.T #blessing us with Tsukki's English speaking voice too #AND THAT WOULD MELT ME #SO SO GOOD T.T #pls simp with me here T.T #FOR TSUKKI #AND RIN ITOSHI AJKDJHJDHD-

[sassenach082]

hey so remember when I said the next chapter was spicy it's possible I lied

...I forgot about the ANGST??? oops

So it's... uh. Angst. With... with a dash of spice.

You'll thank me later?

#you won't #sassy speaks #you guys are going to be so pissed at me #not me witch cackling as I write this chapter that I totally forgot needed to happen to make plot things wrap up nicely #THERE'S 23 CHAPTERS NOW WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME #I think you'll like part of it #but you're going to be suuuuuuuuper mad at me for how it ends haha /awkward/ anyways #you've been warned!

[hamletshoeratio]

Can y'all just be you know normal Marina Thompson for like 5 seconds? Because christ, the sheer Misogynoir that some of you spread about her character is insane and you don't even realise it.

#marina thompson #bridgerton netflix #bridgerton spoilers #bridgerton #amanda & oliver are her babies #she's not a surrogate she's their mother #can y'all not root so loudly for her to literally kill herself so discount mr rochester can get with eloise #& so that Eloise will lose her personality and end up in a relationship that is her literal nightmare scenario #i see people wanting eloise to end the season writing to discount mr rochester because the pen lw reveal will probably impact marina #and quote unquote be what pushes her to the edge #and that is beyond vile #of course marina will have a reaction she has every right to but to actively want her to harm herself #so that discount mr rochester can be reinserted into the plot? fuck no that's absolutely vile #if you are going to write about a character struggling with mental health issues do so respectfully or don't do it all #because you'll do far more harm otherwise #if Eloise does write to anyone i hope its to Marina #i don't think we'll see marina again but i want her alive and happy off screen #my heart is still rooting for theo & Eloise but I'm enjoying Cressida & Eloise atm #but so long as her endgame is a happy one that she deserves and not discount mr rochester I'll be happy #ruby barker #<- she deserves the absolute world

[beanghostprincess]

I am so normal when writing break-ups. The most normal person in the world. Mental stability 10/10.

TW for ??? I don't know what the hell I just wrote. I guess implied Eating Disorder and Suicidal thoughts, and whatever the fuck this is because I don't know--

This is Sanuso btw. I had too much fun writing fluff now it's time for the angst.

The plot is basically Sanji breaking up with Usopp for reasons I cannot explain yet because I'm gonna drop this fanfic like a bomb in a few days when it's done and then run away.

#i feel a bit evil for this one ngl #but you know what sometimes you have to be angsty to be poetic and that's okay #they have a happy ending don't yell at me i am incapable of writing angst. it's always with hurt/comfort #the thing is. sanji is bad at break ups. funny because he's the one breaking up with usopp. but you'll see #also sanji never beating the bpd allegations #one piece #sanuso #black leg sanji

[hazbinhappy]

does no one ever wonder about like the children and family members of sinners? like i do A LOT

#hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin hotel #i love husk x wife #even alastor x wife for when he was alive #add vox to that too #but like what if they meet in hell like damn bro what did you do to come down here too? #that's why i like to headcanon that progressively as you spend time in hell if you don't actively try to keep your memory and write down #or find people from your past you'll just end up as a new person in hell #or maybe you have faint memories only #that's why Sunnie exists :) to have that layer of angst #i might draw one of her friends #idk about my sona yet #her friend reincarnated as a bear :D he is down in hell because he was the one who was drunk driving and tbf he also sold drugs as well #he was a good guy besides those 2 things #lemme add that to a separate post #hh thoughts

[bmpmp3]

sorry to be a bit of a hater but i do wish youtubers weren't so scared of making their videos just like, "reviews", whys everything gotta be a "video essay" all the time. every day my recommendations are filled with 40 minute videos titled "_____: An Underrated Masterpiece" where the first like five minutes are reading the wikipedia definition of "masterpiece" in a somber voice with dramatic themed text on screen. please just tell me how good or bad you think something is and use the rest of the runtime to explain why. you dont need to put on all these airs

#i know the ahem. channel. of some awe....... that whole situation kind of scared people off from using the word review #but like we live in the future now. you can make a review. i believe in you #AND LIKE i like a good video essay!! but im picky. because i read academic shit for fun #when i see a capital E essay im expecting theses. im expecting sub headers. im expecting multiple examples AND footnotes with asides #(and i know this is a controversial topic but i do expect them to be long. because if you read aloud a 4 page journal article its gonna) #(take a bit of time LOL maybe i just read too much academia shit. but i dunno man. theres not a lot you can say about like a big huge) #(topic with multiple angles if you only have like 10 minutes. maybe i just talk too slow. i need to breath <3 ) #theres other formats too. surveys. retrospectives. informative essays. persuasive essays. etc #and like i also read lots of reviews not just of like movies and books but of like gallery exhibitions and shit!! they can be extremely #interesting a lot of work and some really beautiful writing!! nothing wrong with a review!!! theyre important #but i do get annoyed with like. the odd air of pretention i see in a lot of video essays. especially cause its usually not backed up by #the content. i dont care for those airs in academia either. nor do i like it in documentaries #just talk naturally. you'll find your voice. there might be pretention in it in the end but it'll be yours #if im making sense. i hear a lot of people talking in a pretention that is not their own. something they put on because thats what they #think they should do. you need to find your own pretention. be pretentious in a way that feels natural to youuuuuu #hell im being pretentious. about this LOL but like its my own. it is a pretentiousness ive built over the past half decade #play around. write a blog. i dunno. find your voice dear youtubers. find your voice

[ryuvnosuke]

writing kunichuu for the first time. let's go

#if what i write ends up sucking ass then you'll see me on the news #we need to feed the kunichuu nation. (me + another two ppl at most) #but i don't write kunikida nor chuuya often so what if i get them wrong and then i need to die for my sins #ela.txt

[kanerallels]

That awkward moment where you're writing about the good guys but. like. you're about eighty percent certain they're committing war crimes here

#human experimentation?? seems like a problem?? #BUT THEY'RE TRYING TO HELP #but they also kidnapped this guy #HOW DID I END UP WRITING MORALLY GRAY SCIENTISTS??? THIS IS NOT MY WRITING NICHE AT ALL #yet here we are #if you'll excuse me i'm going to go google the geneva conventions #the damascus project (story)

[crescentfool]

recently, i’ve been thinking about what a 100% social link/confidant run is like from the perspective of the persona protagonists, rather than the player. i’ve always been a sucker for thinking about the type of narrative created by a person’s gameplay choices (it can be so fun and deep) so!! i wrote this analysis / musing.

some notes before we start: this was written with the lens of persona 3 being the most recent game i played- but the concepts are applicable to the p4/p5 protagonists as well! no spoilers for any of the games are mentioned; this is moreso a general discussion of ludonarrative dissonance with the game mechanics and narrative and how it makes for fun angst (ft. personal interpretation).

(more under the cut!)

the framework: game mechanics

in all of the games, the social link system’s existence coincides with the social stats mechanic. certain social links require a specific set of stats in order to initiate it, or surpass a certain rank. each game has around 20 of these- each of which represent the major arcana (+ some bonuses, e.g. aeon / jester / faith / councilor).

for any players going for a 100% social link run, this basically requires each social stat to be maxed out. anyone who’s followed a guide for a 100% run would know that the beginning of the game tends to be very “strict” with how time can be used, most of which involves getting the stats raised  as soon as possible.

outside of characterization and worldbuilding, completing social links are incentivized for a variety of gameplay reasons. so how could this completionist play style affect the protagonists?

prioritizing social stats over everything else: a general view

regardless of which protagonist you want to put under a petri dish, with a 100% run, you’re essentially asking the protagonist to form amicable bonds with 20 or so people, give or take. granted, not everyone becomes adjoined to the hip to the protagonist.

personally, i feel that forming 20 different bonds over the course of a year would be rather strenuous. during these 100% runs, the protagonists may feel that they’re spreading themselves thin trying to dedicate their resources to multiple different people as well as raising their “social stats.” i find the implications that this has on said bonds is so, utterly fascinating.

while this isn’t reflected in the game and would be better represented within a fic, i find it difficult to believe that this type of behavior doesn’t have any ramifications on the quality of the protagonist’s closer relationships (or their self-image, for that matter).

just… imagine calling one of your close friends but then they consistently give responses along the lines of “lmao sorry i’m busy doing other things,” and they rarely make the time of day for you. how would you feel? gameplay-wise, this deterioration of the relationship is best represented in persona 3 with social links reversing if you haven’t spent time with them in awhile.

part of my fascination with this concept is influenced by my own experiences. trying to maintain so many relationships can be difficult to keep up with and it quickly gets overwhelming (see dunbar’s number for more information). jumping between so many people also makes it difficult to focus on a few relationships meaningfully- meaning that relationships may be limited to being simple pleasantries. even then, ‘successfully’ keeping every relationship satisfying comes at the cost of being unable to pursue your own development and interests.

overall, i think that trying to do so many things ends up lowering the quality of the relationship(s) involved, especially when you also consider the fatigue from going to school as well as fighting shadows.

playing the therapist friend / listening role: a general view

another aspect of the 100% run that i think about is how the protagonists rarely open up to other people. a good chunk of SLs follow a storyline of the protagonist acting as a therapist friend/helping the other person through one central issue. some SLs are an exception to this and have a more casual “we’re just hanging out vibe.”

basically, SLs tend to be weighted toward the other character’s growth, moreso than the protagonist’s (which is handled by the main story). that said, the idea of mostly playing a listening role across most of your relationships and not having many that you feel comfortable to speak freely about your own stuff… feels really unbalanced and unhealthy?

i do think that part of the lack of “input” can be attributed to the silent-protagonist approach taken in the games (which is a whole ‘nother topic). but!! i find that each protagonist’s options, while limited, are fun to think about! some of the traits and interpretations i’ve seen for the differing protags, to name a few, include:

being afraid to open up / get attached and keeping people at arm’s distance as a result

needing to be around other people, even if it’s just listening them, to distract from their own struggles / pretend nothing’s wrong with them

enjoying helping others, being a good and careful listener who can provide an appropriate and helpful response

the willingness to prioritize others over themselves; a lack of self-preservation

compulsive people pleasing

at its worst, the lack of “protagonist talking” or equal reciprocation in response could be misinterpreted by the other person as disinterest (like they’re talking to a wall). alternatively- the lack of “personal tidbits” could be taken as, “you don’t trust me enough to be able to open up, huh.” and i just think that seeing this in a fic would be the biggest shitshow ever (and i would read that).

concluding thoughts:

overall, i feel that the protagonists taking a predominantly listening approach to several relationships at once can lead to compassion fatigue and general burnout. the protagonists are rarely at the receiving end of being listened to and/or having their issues worked through… and that’s kind of sad?

while the 100% social link run can provide great power to any persona fusions (and other cool battle abilities + hijinks)... i ultimately think that there’d be a lot of mental strain that would make achieving this much more difficult when you take a narrative-emphasized approach.

i do realize that it is possible to see the general vibe of this post as “100% social link is bad,” but like… there’s something i find really appealing about the messiness of attempting to manage so many relations at once- only to fall short in several of them and attempting to salvage the last bits of their sanity. when you think about the complications of the 100% SL run from the shoes of the protagonist… yeah!! that’s the good shit!

anyways! if anyone knows of any fics with this kinda vibe for the p3/4/5 protags… feel free to drop it in my askbox… i like them all VERY much :3c… and if this raised any food for thought- i’d be equally honored! let the protags go through shit i wanna see their emotions and coping mechanisms damn it! 👏

#persona 3 #persona 4 #persona 5 #yes it is 3am and im posting this. i couldn't sleep so i wanted to write something that i've been thinking abt as of late :x #highly recommend looking up ludonarrative dissonance btw! if ur interested in game storywriting its SOO interesting bc its definitely- #an occurence that happens every now and then in a video game. persona included. like.. when game mechanics tell one story but the narrative #-ends up contradicting that (or some other thing in reality ends up doing that...). does that even make sense?? #i tried to keep this post general to p3/4/5 but if you know me well enough you'll see how my p3 bias has shaped this post. lmao #i also could go on a tangent about how i feel about orpheus telos as a thing w/rt p3 social links BUT I WONT. unless...? #i have more i want to say on the topic (maybe will do so at a later time) but feel free to ask for more specific hcs with the protags? #maybe not p4kun though just bc ive only watched p4 so i havent had the time to let it sit btwn play sessions #anyway bye im just going to let this float in the void while i sleep. have a good day #meta #hc and au nonsense #lizzy speaks

[sxcret-garden]

Can you pick fic prompts for me to write about and post? I need fic ideas for seonghwa, if you like you can do multiple situations :)

Ohhh hi anon! Fic prompts for seonghwa you say...?

Well, i'm a big sub!hwa believer so what about reader domming him for the first time just to try it out, but turns out they both really end up liking that kind of dynamic?

Or maybe something more specific... like reader edging him throughout the day until it's evening and he's finally allowed to cum... (i think it was @wooyoungisbaby who put this scenario in my head a whiiile ago hahah)

Ororor if you'd rather have a not so subby hwa.... what about him tying reader up 🫣 i'm thinking shibari, but ofc anything works that you're comfortable with writing!! And having his way with them... worshipping their body while gradually driving them more and more insane bye djdbndnd

#how do i have so many ideas for him yet i barely write anything for him fjndndnd #anyway!! i hope this sparked an idea or two for you^^ #hehe i actually never got an ask like this so that was fun :3 #alsoalso please do let me know if you end up writing any of these!! i'm rlly curious what you'll do with these thoughts~ #ask #answered

[dootznbootz]

opinions on helen of sparta being compared to prey animals? blink blink

*blink blinks back* Then immediately sits like this because of the question.

It's a good question that I'm happy to answer! It just makes me mad.... I sincerely hate the wording of "prey" being used to describe her.

SHE IS A VICTIM! THAT DOES NOT MEAN SHE IS "PREY"!

I can...see how people in ancient times may have used that word and still meant it in how she is a victim... but modern-day English-speaking people calling her that??? (considering how in different languages the word "prey" could have different meanings.) I'll just say that as someone who has been "prey" herself at one point, I REALLY hate that word as a descriptor. Just say victim or survivor. 👍

Honestly to call ANY victim "prey" is so fucked up. "Prey" to me, feels like "it's meant to happen." "Prey" are part of the food chain and so that's what happens. And to compare that to abduction and SA? Almost as if "that's our place"? It also kind of implies something being "eaten" or killed... Helen SURVIVES. She's traumatized and definitely needs healing and support but it's not like she can't find joy or peace ever again. Prey just feels so fucking gross.

Also, if someone calls victims "prey", I hope they know that Moose, Elk, Boars, Bovine, ZEBRAS, etc. are technically "prey". And these are VERY aggressive animals while still being "prey" for some other animals. And also that doesn't mean that "Oh, they're powerful! Clearly they should've been able to stop it." That's victim blaming :P

She is a clever, determined, caring woman who was ripped from her home for YEARS because Paris was a dipshit who decided he needed the prettiest woman in the world despite already having a wife. He didn't care about the fact that Helen didn't want to be there and was already married. He is so selfish that he will not let her go back even when THOUSANDS have died in the war! EVEN HIS BROTHER HECTOR AND PRIAM DO NOT BLAME HER! Granted, we do not know if Aphrodite would have let him undo their deal of "I want the prettiest woman" if he DID end up feeling bad for Helen and he wished to let her go home (I doubt it based on his personality though).

"Oh, if she is so independent/strong, then why didn't she just kill Paris and leave?"

AGAIN! Victim blaming!!! First thing, people who ask that have media literacy that is piss on the poor. You also have no idea about the political implications that would have happened if she DID kill Paris. She literally cries about staying there and argues with Aphrodite about seeing Paris, only to get strongarmed by Aphrodite as, guess what? A GODDESS WILL ALWAYS OVERPOWER A DEMIGOD. (This isn't Percy Jackson where he "killed" Ares as a 12 year old (Percy, you were my childhood, but that's bullshit.))

Even confined in Troy, she ARGUED with APHRODITE about going to see Paris! She is not some meek woman who just does as she's told with no pushback! She argued with a GODDESSS! Very few survive doing that!!!

She's not "Prey to fate", she's a "VICTIM of Fate".

#Thank you for the ask anon!!! :D It's a very fun question! I just really don't like the word of 'prey' being used to describe her. #... #Yes. there's poetic shit with writing. but if I heard someone say 'Helen is prey to Paris' I would be miffed and think that person's stupid #Prey just feels like 'one and done. You'll be a victim from now on and nothing else. You have no life after this.' #I mean you can probably say that if you simply mean that Paris is an abuser I guess. but...idk homies. I just really hate Helen being calle #that you know? #as if she could never be anything but prey in a way. as if she herself has never been the one pulling the strings or the trickster #Helen isn't a rabbit in an eagle's talons about to be eaten. She was a PRISONER. Who still lives and thrives afterward. #idk I'm probably looking too far into the word 'prey' and what it means to ME as an animal lover and survivor but it just feels #really bad to me. like wrinkling my nose and thinking 'out of all the words out there. that's the one you use?' #*sighs* #probably got quite fired up about this :P #ask #anon #yes I plan to write Helen as a big buff cheeto puff but again. she could never fight a goddess no matter how strong!! she's Mortal! #end of story!! I just want to write her that way as A.) it's fun. B.) Sparta upbringing. #(I got SUPER into ancient athletes stuff. (look up Pankration. it's so cool) and since I really love writing women. I just...like it :D #And no. everybody is strong in their own way even if they don't physically fight. I have plenty of women who are not fighters #but still have their own strengths and personalities and silliness #Leda actually doesn't like the 'exercising lifestyle of Sparta'. Ctimine loves running but that's it. Anticlea is the one who taught #Odysseus how to carve wood and is a 'trickster' but she's not really into athletic stuff. (she actually has a heart condition later on) #there's more too it but...tags are already long as hell #Mad rambles #shot by odysseus #my headcanons #kind of #If Helen is prey then she is “prey” like those clever mother birds who pretend to be injured to get predators away from their nest. #*shrieks into a pillow* I'm fine now :D