#I also should update the New Years one too...

[arkofangels]

Hang in there, BABY?

Pairing: Hank(s) x reader

Summary: When your friend unexpectedly drops off a baby for the night, you and your five hanger boyfriends—The Hank(s)—are thrown into a whirlwind of diapers, pacifiers, and existential panic. 

A/N: sorry its been take me so long to write, my computer is literally on its last legs and I can't afford to get a new one :(

(its a 8 year old Mac book and i swear i can hear it cough after every update 💔)

You don’t ask questions when your friend drops a baby off at your door.

You try, of course. You get out “Wait, why—” before she slaps a diaper bag into your arms, kisses your cheek, and says something like “It’s just overnight, you’re the only one I trust, I’ll explain everything later, BYE.”

And then she’s gone.

And you’re left holding a real, human baby. And also surrounded by five animate "hangers" in jumpsuits who have very strong and very different feelings about this.

“A baby?” Hank 2 squeaks, already Googling CPR on your cracked phone. Hank 1 crosses his arms. “We can handle a baby. We’ve done trick dives into volcanoes.” “Those were miniature volcanoes made out of papier-mâché and sadness,” mutters Hank 4. “Do we think the baby’s got a favorite already?” teases Hank 3, batting his lashes. He’s immediately silenced by a diaper to the face. “I love this baby,” Hank 5 whispers, gently cradling the child with sock-like reverence. “We should build it a tiny hammock and name it Bean.”

You make a list. You don’t know what babies eat (mashed peas? socks?), but you know what you have:

Five hanger boyfriends

A half-eaten sleeve of saltines

Eight Red Bowls

And now, apparently, a baby.

Operation: Don’t Let the Baby Die begins.

Hour 1: Hank 2 is already spiraling. He’s checking the baby’s pulse every six minutes. “What if we drop it? What if it senses our fear? What if Red Bowl finds out and tries to sponsor it?!”

Hour 2: Hank 1 builds a diaper-changing station out of your bookshelf. It is both sturdy and somehow... emotionally grounding. “Babies need confidence. Eye contact. Structure. And a little jazz.”

Hour 3: Hank 3 plays peekaboo. But it turns into an impromptu stand-up set. “You ever notice how pacifiers are just, like, emotional corks? Amirite?” The baby stares. Then drools. Hank 3 swoons.

Hour 4: Hank 4 is writing a detailed list of potential baby names (even though you told him it already has one). “What about Clasp? Or Hookifer. No? Too thematic?”

Hour 5: Hank 5 and the baby are both asleep in a pile of pillows and blankets on the living room floor, baby toys scattered like confetti around them. You gently drape a blanket over them and whisper, “This is my life now.”

You didn’t expect this. You didn’t expect to be jobless, babysitting someone else’s infant at 3 a.m., surrounded by five sentient hangers in jumpsuits who somehow care more about your well-being than most people ever have.

But when the baby starts to cry at 3 a.m.—a loud, wailing, existential sound that cuts into your sleep like a Red Bowl promo jingle—they all show up.

Hank 2 with a warm bottle. Hank 1 with calming noise (a Spotify playlist labeled “Jazz for Infants and Sad Adults”). Hank 3 with interpretive dance. Hank 4 with one (1) stolen baby sock he insists is sentimental. Hank 5 with a lullaby that is definitely just the Red Bowl theme song hummed gently.

And you.

Tired. Overwhelmed. Absolutely not ready to be responsible for anyone, let alone six people (five of whom used to live in your closet as inanimate hangers—until the glasses happened)

But you hold that baby. And the Hanks hold you. Figuratively. And then, literally.

And in that tangled pile of limbs, soft snoring, and the faint scent of baby powder and Red Bowl plastic, you realize: this is your family.

In the morning, when your friend returns and gasps, “Wait, why are there five hot men in jumpsuits in your living room?”—

You just shrug.

“Long story,” you say. “But we’re good with babies.”

[lush-escape]

The Vigilante's Guide to Grief

pairing: Jason Todd x f!reader wc: 1.3k a/n: sorry for the slow update - work was crazy. being a stand in hotel housekeeper is no joke. i cleaned up a LEECH. if you or anyone you know leaves their hotel room looking like a pig sty? your mom's a hoe. also I messed up on the last chapter's title - ignore that, I fixed it. prev: shock

next: anger

Stage two: Denial

Hey,

It's Friday the 13th. We should be watching scary movies right now like we do every year. The classics. Halloween, scary movie, Friday the 13 obviously. A new final destination came out. You always loved watching those stupid movies, making fun of everyone's stupid choices. Christy (the stupid therapist who's not that stupid) told me it can be “healing” to keep traditions like that alive. I think it's dumb. No one will ever have commentary like you do. No one else in the family can handle horror movies like you do. It wouldn't be the same. Besides - that was our thing. You and me. Ever since we were kids.

Jason can feel those heavy emotions weighing down on his chest. For a second it's harder to breathe. He takes a second to breathe, to let his mind relax. And then his phone dings. And then again. And again.

With a sigh he picks it up. An influx of messages from the Batfam group chat. Playful warnings to stay safe this Friday the 13th.

“Jay!” You let out an excited little laugh as you curl up into your favorite corner of the couch with a blanket draped over your lap. “Hurry up, you're wasting valuable movie time.”

Jay chuckles lowly from the kitchen of your shared apartment, “‘m almost done in here, baby. Start the movie - I'll be there in a second.” He's in the kitchen getting together snacks on a tray. Popcorn, your favorite candy, cookies.

“No way, I'm not starting it without you. I've been waiting all week for this.” You look over the back of the couch and catch sight of him with his back turned to you. Big, hulking Jason looking soft as ever in your top cramped kitchen getting sweets and snacks. You let out a small sigh, your smile turning soft. There's a warmth that spreads from your chest to your stomach as it hits you just how much you do love him.

“Stop it.” He finally speaks up with a tone of amusement. He knows you so well he doesn't even have to look at you to know you're staring.

“No.” You tease him back, your smile growing more playful. “I can't help it, you're too hot to ignore.”

And even though you can't see his face you know he's blushing.

“Shut up,” You hear him mutter, bashful. “Don't say stupid shit like that.”

You laugh at him, “What? It's true.” Your voice is more loving, adoring, and it makes Jason falter for a split second.

“Whatever, you're crazy.” He teases with a shake of his head before he's in the living room with you.

“Yeah, crazy in love.” You exaggerate batting your eyelashes before popping a piece of popcorn into your mouth.

“God, you're obnoxious.” Jason smirks with a roll of his eyes as he's sitting next to you. He props his feet onto the coffee table in front of the two of you and slings his arm over the back of the couch. A silent invitation for you to cuddle into him which you happily accept.

With your head on Jason's chest and your arm around his stomach he pushes play on the remote and pulls you even closer to him.

“Ready to watch some people die?” He asks and you snort a laugh in response.

part of me hates that they don't get it.

Jason is sidetracking now, putting his every thought down.

They haven't lost anyone like I have. I know they lost you too. They all loved you love you. But they don't get it. Normal things like today? It's just another Friday to them. To me it's one of the days I can't even turn on the tv or look at my phone without thinking of you even more than I already do. It's fucking hard baby. So fucking hard

Jason stops to blink away a tear, “Dammit…” he can hear himself sniffle and he hates it. He clears his throat and continues writing.

Some days I don't want to believe you're gone…

The manor was eerily silent that day. An official two weeks after your death, one after your funeral service. It was a small gathering; the Wayne's, the Kent's, Roy and Lian and your best friend. Your parents didn't show up, blaming Jason and the Wayne family for your “mysterious” death.

Jason doesn't like to think about it. So he doesn't.

As Jason walks through the manor he already knows where everyone is, where to avoid. Duke is on patrol, Damian is doing homework in the library, Tim and B are in the cave working a case, Dick is in Blüdhaven, Steph and Cass are training in the gym.

Except Dick wasn't in Blüdhaven. Jason rounds the corner to the kitchen to find him sitting at the island staring at a cup in front of him.

Jason doesn't greet Dick, not verbally anyway, just gives a grunt of acknowledgement. Dick looks up and he can see how tired Jason is. It makes his heart ache for his little brother. There's stubble on his face, the bags under his eyes are deep and purple.

“Hey,” Dick speaks up. His voice is quiet, a little tired. A sign that he's struggling just a bit. He watches Jason pull a beer from the fridge and he sighs. For once in his life he's <I>nervous</I>. He knows Jason stopped drinking a long time ago for you. It started as a bet that turned into a habit. He's scared to bring it up but there's something nagging at him in his brain to do so.

“Thought you stopped…” Dick mumbles. He sees Jason stiffen.

“Whaddya mean?” Jason asks, he's refusing to look at Dick as he takes a long swig.

Dick hesitates, “The bet… you both-”

“Look,” Jason forces a laugh, it doesn't even sound like him, “what she doesn't know won't hurt her. Just don't say anything and I won't get in trouble.” He jokes.

There's silence. It's heavy and tense and awkward and Dick audibly swallows. He stammers for a second. While still dealing with his own grief he was having to handle Jason's as well. He felt a pit open in his stomach.

“Jay…” Dick's voice is so soft and so tender that it makes Jason turn to face him. And when he does finally turn around Dick can see how hard he's fighting to hold it together.

“What?” Jason asks in a shaky voice.

“She.. there's no one…” Dick doesn't know how to navigate this. “She's not coming back, Jay…” the words came out thick and choked one.

Jason shakes his head and forces on another smile, it doesn't even look human at this point.

“You've always been pretty funny, y'know that.” Another drink of beer. “‘course she's coming back. She just- she's just.. not,” Jason clears his throat “, not here right now. It's fine. She'll be back soon.”

Dick wonders how long Jason's been feeling like this, how long he's been in denial or if it's a new thing he's going through. But part of him is afraid to call Jason out on it, to burst his little bubble of happiness in the midst of his despair. And honestly? A small part of him also wants to believe that you're gone, that you'll be back soon from some little trip or something.

“Oh… yeah, okay. I won't say anything, Jay.” Dick is almost whispering now as he chokes on the lump in his throat.

The part of Jason's brain that knows this is just a defense mechanism is relieved.

“Thanks, Dickie.” He claps Dick on the shoulder as he walks by.

But I know you are. I hate it. I hate accepting it. This

Jason pauses his writing before finally sighing in defeat.

this isn't how it was supposed to be.

taglist: @vellichor01 @thy-crimson-king @theendofthematerialgworl @tinasdcstuff @4rachn3 @cecebookworm

[serenadeonacanoe]

Untitled, 2025 (GD x OFC) Chapter 7: March 25th

Pairing: G-Dragon/Kwon Jiyong x OFC Genre/Warnings: Slow Burn, Tour Life, fluffyfluff, yearning, eventual smut, 2014 ==> 2020 ==> 2025.

It’s 2025 and the King of K-Pop is back. He and his music are everywhere. On the charts, all over social media and smack in the middle of Maddie’s work schedule. Sometimes she still can’t believe this is her actual job now - documenting the chaos behind the scenes and trying to make sure no one on his team gets lost, bruised or accidentally starts a viral scandal.

What’s even harder to believe? That she and Jiyong met five years ago. Actually… scratch that. They met ten years ago too. Time has a weird sense of humor like that and things get blurry when you’re busy, nostalgic, and maybe just a little bit smitten. Also, life throws more daisies your way than you’d expect.

Part 1 2 3 4 5 6

More on AO3 —————————————–

Summer 2014

The sky looks too cheerful for how I feel. Blue, sunny, a few lazy clouds. Birds are chirping. It’s offensively peaceful for a day full of hangovers. I’m standing by the gravel driveway, sunglasses on, hoodie up, suitcase beside me like I can’t wait to leave and… well yeah, I really can’t wait to leave. Everyone’s pretending to be fine after last night’s party. Maybe they are, but it smells like old beer and regret here.

I’m not mad. Just ready to go. “Hey, Daisy.” I turn. It’s Jiyong. Of course. He's holding a coffee cup like a prize. Sweater hood pulled low, hair underneath a mess, tired. Still looks too good for someone who should probably be hiding from the world. “You leaving without saying goodbye?” he asks, voice all smooth like this is charming, like it’s a joke. I blink. He smirks. I hate that it still does things to me.

“You’re cute when you’re mad.” “Oh wow. You really just said that?” He shrugs. “You’re not mad?” he asks, stepping a little closer. “No” I say honestly. “Just not impressed.”

He tips his head like that’s new information. Like I’m supposed to be flattered he’s even here talking to me. I can tell he’s still drunk. Or maybe that’s just who he is. His smile falters. Just for a second. But he catches himself and goes back to grinning like this is still salvageable.

That’s when Daesung walks past us with a huge plastic bottle of water. “You two flirt way less sexy in daylight” he says without stopping. “We’re not flirting.” I call out after him. Jiyong raises an eyebrow. “Speak for yourself.”

And that is when I walk away. Not fast. Not dramatically. Just done. I’ve got a train to catch and enough dignity left to not waste another breath on him. Still… in the car, on the ride to the station, head resting against the window, I find myself replaying the look on his face. That tiny crack in his confidence. That moment where maybe - just maybe - he didn’t have it all together. Not that it changes anything. But it lingers a little.

March 2025

It’s the 25th. The album is out. Übermensch is here. A couple of days have passed since that snowy walk but it feels like a lifetime ago.

We’ve seen each other nearly every day since - at work. Surrounded by people. Surrounded by deadlines. Surrounded by too much caffeine and not enough sleep. Everyone is exhausted in that giddy, running-on-adrenaline kind of way. No one has time to breathe. Let alone flirt.

We’ve texted. Brief little things. Updates. Memes. One photo of one of his cats. Nothing romantic. Nothing that said hey, remember how we kissed like our lives depended on it?

It’s fine. We’re fine. I’m not spiraling. Okay. I might be spiraling just a bit.

I didn’t want to be of course and at first I didn’t even want to admit it, but fuck. It’s always in the back of my head.

The worst part is he seems normal. Not cold. Just… busy. Charming to everyone, polite to me. A couple of long glances across meeting rooms, but nothing that lands. I start to wonder if I made it bigger in my head than it was. Maybe it was the snow. Maybe he felt something for five minutes and then went back to being whoever he is now. A pop star with a schedule that has its own gravitational pull. I tell myself not to take it personally.

The day comes and goes. Some of it - a lot of it actually - feels like a dream. Hard to grasp, in a way, because we worked so long and hard on this album. It’s hard to believe it’s finally here, people are listening.

Tonight is the album release party at a swanky venue downtown and I was hoping to enjoy the night but I still feel so much pressure when I get ready. This is still work after all. Maybe come tomorrow it will get better? Or will we forever run after the next thing and then the next thing… Or am I just being anxious because of everything?

When I arrive it feels good… but at the same time I disappear into the background. There are so many people I know and so many I know of. Pictures are being taken and flashes illuminate the otherwise dark red-tinted room. Is this a party? Or just the photo op of a party?

I sigh at myself. What did I expect.

Well… at least a pretty tight hug.

Instead I try to at least have a good time.

It’s after midnight and I am standing in a hallway toward the back entrance of the venue. I needed a quieter moment, a strong coffee and a moment to lean against this table after dancing for quite a while. My feet hurt. My voice is hoarse. A part of me wishes I was drunker. Another just wants to go to bed. And a third one wishes I wasn’t thinking about Ji.

Of course it’s hard not to. I’ve seen him all night. Deep down I know I’m being hard on myself but what can you do.

Daesung walks past me toward the exit, probably to sneak a smoke outside and grins wide at me. I know that grin. He’s trying to make me smile as well because he can tell I am not a hundred percent, he is good at that. The sound of his footsteps gets me out of my thoughts. I check my phone once he’s gone and wonder whether I should just go home. My duties for today are done done done.

That’s when a second pair of footsteps comes up, much quieter and not quite as startling anymore.

When I look up, Jiyong has already walked up next to me. He’s now also leaning against the table and just props his chin onto my shoulder, pretending to look at my phone with me. A hesitant smile from him. Then me smiling as well.

My heart is about to explode. I feel… shy and somewhat relieved. Confused but happy. It’s a lot. “Hi,” he says, looking up. He doesn’t move away. Still leans over at me, but now we’re on eye level. “Hi.”

For a second we just… look at each other.

It’s strange how familiar he feels and also how much space we’ve let grow between us the last few days.

“I’ve been hoping to catch you alone all day. Several days actually.”

Mad, almost concerning, how these two sentences from him make all that spiraling disappear for a moment. Thank fucking god. I wasn’t alone in this. Well, I was. But we were on the same page. Just not together, unfortunately.

“Busy. I get it,” I answer, trying to be casual for some reason, pretty sure that my face gives me away anyway. To be honest, I have no idea why I say that. It’s stupid.

He nods. Then adds, almost shyly “I couldn’t stop thinking about you though.”

I swallow, look down at the steam from my coffee cup. Then I sigh all my relief away and now I’m the one who lets her head fall to his shoulder.

Ji moves an arm around my back and puts his cheek to my head and we just stand there for a second.

There are so many things I want to say but now that I have the chance my head is so empty. I just want to be here with him… quiet for a moment. And so we are.

Until I finally break away to look into his eyes again.

“I hope… I really hope this album does as well as it deserves. Like… you deserve. I hope people appreciate it because…”

Why am I getting teary-eyed. I haven’t even expressed what I mean. That I’m proud of him. That he doesn’t need the praise but I still hope he gets it because the music is so great and every stupid little detail and… I’m tired but happy now and… too many words. Too little at the same time, so I stop and stand there with slightly open mouth.

He just looks at me and presses his lips together. Raises one hand to gently let the side of his thumb glide across my temple. Nods slowly a couple of times, as if to say It’s okay, I get it. And I think he really does.

I take another deep breath and then I just hug him. That might be reckless but I don’t care, because finally, the pressure is gone. All of it. Work and the stupid questions in my head. Nothing is clear yet, but I think there is nothing I can do.

Of course that is when Daesung appears again, muttering curse words and something about “nobody has lighters anymore these days.”

But he stops right away, mid-sentence, mid-step and starts grinning when he sees us. Makes another four steps until he is right next to us. Throws his arms around both of us at once like we’re in a sitcom.

“OH… my gawd” he practically shouts. “You guys are totally fucking.”

I almost choke. Jiyong makes a sound somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “We’re not,” I manage. “Yet” Jiyong adds under his breath.

Daesung gasps like he just won a prize. Gossip Gold, basically. “I KNEW IT” he announces to absolutely no one. “Oh this is crazy, I can’t believe you finally… oh wow.” Then he bounds off again, still laughing. I panic for a second before I realize that whatever this is is safe with him. He loves gossip but he’s been doing this for long enough.

We’re left blinking. Jiyong looks at me with wide, amused eyes. “Well… that’s one way to get found out.” I nod, laughing into my cup before I take another sip.

And just like that, everything that was heavy lifts. Not everything is fixed. Not everything is said. But we’re back in orbit.

Jiyong shifts just a little closer. Not obvious. But close enough that I can feel the warmth of his hand brushing against mine. And then, gently, deliberately, his fingers slip into the space between mine. I glance down like my hand suddenly belongs to someone else. His thumb grazes mine once. Just once. And I swear to god it short-circuits something in my chest. I look up at him. He’s still smiling, but softer now. Like we’re in a bubble and he knows it. His hand tightens just slightly around mine.

Then I start smirking because I just remembered that... “So… yet? We aren’t fucking yet?” He audibly sucks in some air, rolls his eyes and is actually a tiny bit embarrassed, I can tell. But there is also a hint of a mischievous smile on his lips and the combination of all that is so intoxicating.

Instead of saying anything he moves both arms back around my waist and rests his face back against my collarbone. His currently very green hair is tickling me a little and I move one arm around his back, the other to the back of his head. Let my fingers glide into his (well, a little crispy) hair. For a second I close my eyes while there is the biggest smile on my face. I am so goddamn happy.

It’s a short moment that could have ended quite badly. We got luckier than we probabyl deserved there. So in the end that is all it is. A few minutes of hugging and shared silence. We return to the party hesitantly but both know it’s better that way.

By the time I get home, my cheeks are still warm. It’s the alcohol and the fact that it’s still really cold outside. 

But it’s the hand-holding. It’s the yet. It’s how much lighter I feel compared to a couple of hours ago.

I kick off my shoes, toss my coat on the back of the chair and lean against the wall for a second, just breathing. The city is quiet outside my window. My phone is still in my hand. I stare at the screen, thumb hovering, considering. Maybe I’ll just send a goodnight. Something chill. Something casual and completely non-deranged like hey hope you made it home safe and also I’m still thinking about your hand in mine and my brain’s made of fireworks now ok cool sleep tight.

Before I can type anything, my phone buzzes.

Jiyong: made it home, you there yet? Jiyong: you looked really pretty tonight btw

I smile so hard it hurts.

Me: same Me: home I mean Me: but also… thanks Me: you didn’t look too bad either Me: for someone emotionally attacked by daesung

Jiyong: tragic

Me: he might have printed shirts already Me: there might be a shipping name

Jiyong: might take me years to recover Jiyong: unless you and I can hang out again sometime soon Jiyong: that might help Jiyong: just us this time

I bite my lip. Consider typing something witty, but then don’t. What he wrote didn’t make much sense, but I am so glad he asked.

Me: I’d like that

I beam. Alone in my apartment. At my phone. Like an idiot. But not really an idiot. I am not an idiot. I am just fucking smitten. Why be unkind to myself about that. It feels amazing.

Me: Soon?

Jiyong: Yes please Jiyong: Sleep tight, Dais.

[cal-daisies-and-briars]

max of 📸 and 🪷 please!! your writing is so good

500 for 📸

---

Eddie expects it’s simply something gooey and romantic about it being the new year. About starting 2026 together. Something Eddie might think and struggle to articulate, and then blurt out half-formed when he sees Buck next. With that in mind, he waits to listen to it until he’s back at the station. 

But when he lifts his phone to his ear at 12:41am, a soft smile on his face, it’s not exactly what he’s expecting. 

“Hey, Eddie. Uh… Don’t freak out. I’m on my way to get Chris. He called me. Knew you were working and that New Years Eve is a pretty busy night. I guess something happened at his friend’s and he’s pretty upset. He asked me… Anyway, don’t worry. I’m getting him, I’ll make sure he’s okay, he can crash at my place. Just wanted to keep you updated. Okay. Love you, bye. Oh, and uh, happy New Year’s.” 

Eddie definitely freaks out. He calls Buck back immediately. He knew something would happen at that party. He knew it! Is Chris drunk? Is Chris high? Was he peer pressured? 

“Hey,” Buck answers, whispering. 

“Buck, what happened?” Eddie demands. “Is he okay? Is he intoxicated?”

“Whoa, hey. No. Stone cold sober. He’s fine. He’s good. Just got into an argument and it sounds like two friends sort of ganged up on him. Got kind of heated.” 

“A fight?” Eddie asks.

“No, a verbal disagreement. I swear, he’s fine. He just got worked up and didn’t want to stay. We talked it through. He’s mad at them, but okay.”

Eddie exhales heavily.

“Okay, uh… Well, thank you. Fuck. Thank you for going to get him.”

“Yeah, of course.” 

“What did you do with Penny?” Eddie asks.

“Ah, she slept in the back seat. Hardly knew what was happening.” 

“Thank you,” Eddie says again.

“Seriously, don’t mention it. I’m glad he trusted me, you know?” 

“Of course he does,” Eddie says. But he’s glad Chris thought to call Buck, too. It makes him glad. Of course, Eddie would have figured something out, but it’s nice knowing there was another option - not Eddie’s parents - who Chris could rely on.

“He went right to bed,” Buck says. “I’ll get him to call you in the morning though?”

“Please,” Eddie says. “You’re good with him until then?”

“Totally. I’ll make a big breakfast. Save you some.”

Eddie smiles. “You’re the best.”

He hears Buck hum happily.

“I gotta go to bed, but… Work’s okay?” 

“More vomit than usual, but fine,” Eddie replies.

“Cute.” 

“Go to bed,” Eddie says. “Thanks for rescuing my kid. Love you.” 

“I love you, too.”

---

500 for🪷

---

“Would you like one?” Chris asks stiffly.

“S-sure,” Shannon says. “Thank you.”

She takes the apple fritter gratefully. She’s getting very hungry. Also, something sweet is never bad when you’re freaking the fuck out. 

“Who is the third one for?” She asks after taking a bite.

“My roommate,” Christopher replies.

Shannon looks around the donut shop, as if someone else is going to walk through the door. No one does.

“Your roommate?” She echoes. 

“I’m going to text him to come,” Christopher says. “He should be awake. Uh… Then I’ll call Dad. Maybe.”

“M-maybe call your dad?” Shannon asks. 

She would like him to do that. She would really like to see Eddie. It’s been sixteen years and he probably moved on pretty easily after what she did, asking him to commit then dumping him when he did, but… But she needs something grounding. Something she understands. 

“I need to be sure first,” Christopher says. “I won’t… I won’t make him think… Not if I’m not sure.”

There’s a surprising amount of vitriol in his eyes. Shannon shrinks back in her seat. She’s missing something. 

“What-what do you mean?” Shannon asks. “I mean, if I was, like, a hallucination, Raelynn couldn’t have seen me. I couldn’t eat this fritter.”

“I don’t think you’re a hallucination,” Chris says.

“What, then?” She asks.

“What’s my middle name?” He demands. “What’s my birthday?”

“Adrian,” she says. “September 26th. Do you think I’m… I’m not me?” 

“Anyone could know that,” Chris whispers. 

Well, okay. Sure. But only she was the one doing the birth. 

Shannon frowns. “Okay, could anyone know it was 9:12 in the morning, or that you were exactly nine pounds? Which is rude, for a first baby, by the way. Or could anyone know we chose the middle name Adrian because your aunt was a literal child at the time and cried when she found out we were having a boy because she wanted a niece so bad and we wanted to make her feel better? Could anyone know your army medic father was terrified of cutting your umbilical cord?”

Chris blinks. “That’s a bit more specific, yeah.”

“I’m not lying to you, Christopher,” Shannon promises. “I woke up on the street here. I have nothing. It’s sixteen years in the future and my son who was a little boy a second ago is an adult man. I’m not lying about that.”

“It’s impossible,” he whispers. His mouth pinches at the corners. 

She shrugs. “Clearly not.”

Christopher swallows heavily. He looks down at this phone.

“I’m going to tell him to come get us,” he says, voice cracking over emotion.

“Your dad?” Shannon asks hopefully.

“No, my roommate.”

[siixkiing]

I ALMOST FORGOT TO CHANGE TO MY CHRISTMAS ICON.

[thepersonperson]

Sukuna’s Loneliness Part 4 (Sukuna’s Negative Rizz)

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 5

Some warnings before we start.

1) This analysis deals with sexual topics.

2) I will be mainly using the TCB scans because of their accessibility. Raws are from mangareader(.)to.

3) This was written as of JJK 262 266. (I'm just going to keep updating this until I stop finding things I should've noticed earlier.)

4) The raws broke me in ways you cannot possibly imagine.

(Click images for captions/citations.)

Fighting as Communication

Baki the Grappler. This is a manga where men destroy each other’s bodies as a test of strength. It’s poorly written but the art is terrifying and I love it so dearly. Between fights of extreme violence and body horror the characters eat. And that’s it. That’s the manga.

I bring Baki up because Gege is a huge fan of Fujimoto Tatsuki, the creator of Chainsawman. Fujimoto is a fan of Gege too, but more importantly, he is a huge fan of Itagaki Keisuke, the creator of Baki. (His daughter made Beastars btw.) In a way, this means Jujutsu Kaisen has been influenced by Baki. But that’s not a surprise, a lot of manga is.

Itagaki’s work is so massively influetial on Japanese media that it’s kind of hard to grasp since it’s not as popular overseas. When listening to interviews from various Japanese creators, Baki will often be cited as a major influence. And the thing is, you can tell when a creative has read Baki. There’s nothing quite like it. If you’ve read Baki and consume Chainsawman, you will see its bones everywhere. I feel the same about Jujutsu Kaisen.

The main antagonist in Baki is Yujiro Hanma. He is the strongest creature alive. So much so that he has no one to call a rival. He’s bored. He causes trouble. He kills his wife to motivate his son, Baki into becoming stronger. His son, Baki, who he grooms into becoming a fighter that might beat him in combat one day. Kind of sounds like Sukuna, right?

But that’s not my point here. My focus is how Baki doubles as a discussion about strength and manhood. It’s aggressively bisexual. Men love each other with their fists. Straight up the main character says having sex with women is the same thing as fighting men.

And it just doesn’t stop there. The homoerotic nature of the fights is never shyed away from. Here’s an example of my favorite.

He grabs his balls and compliments their size. That’s pretty gay, right? Well there’s this reanimated prehistoric caveman called Pickle that fights Baki’s brother Jack. And how do they fight? They kiss.

I didn’t call it a kiss. Itagaki did. I didn’t say they melded together. Itagaki did. This mangaka overtly calls attention to the homoerotic nature of men fighting men, and how men communicate their love for each other through violence. And yes, it’s sexual. Itagaki wants you to read it that way.

But sometimes he doesn’t want you to read it that way. Sometimes the fights are a dialogue, an emotional conversation. Like one between father and son.

Itagaki is a master of narrative framing. When he wants you to feel a certain way, you will feel it. He also tells his readers that there’s more to the fights than just fighting.

Those are the ideas that help me see the bones of Baki in other works. Men loving men with violence. Men communicating with men through violence. I see these ideas in Jujutsu Kaisen too.

Jujutsu Communication

I’ve gone over how Yuji commucates with other people on their own terms. And a lot of it is through fighting. A conversation without words, learning how someone works. Yuji is good at using fights as tool of communication.

But he’s not the one who tells you that there’s more to the fights than just fighting. Maki does in her spar with the sumo guy.

Just like Baki. Fighting is a means of communication. Gege has told you that there can be more to the fights than fighting. It's a tool used to understand the self and others.

With that in mind, I want to reexamine a particular fight under the lens of Baki rather than Umineko.

Sukuna vs Gojo

Baki tells you that homoerotic readings of its fights are intentional. If you ask me, this probably stems from historical stances on masculinity and homosexuality in ancient Japan. Men loved men and women differently, but both were ok. That’s how Baki can have a girlfriend and his gay fights. Peak bisexual optimization.

What does Jujutsu Kaisen have to do with this? Well it has been extremely queer friendly. We have a multidue of canonical trans characters, non-binary characters, and other flavors of queer characters not disparaged for their identities, Gojo Satoru included. It may not be stated outright, but Gojo and Geto do love each other in a gay way. The subtext is so persisent it’s basically text.

In other words, Gege has already told us, yes please have queer readings of this text. It’s the same way Baki tells you, yes this is straight up convoluded gay sex. So that’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to reread the Sukuna and Gojo fight as some ridiculous mating display between two men who are fighting over can miscommunicate their intent the hardest.

Framed as Courtship

Let’s start with the framing. The pre-fight set up. How does text tell you queer readings are allowed?

Kenjaku does. It’s romantic. It’s a date. This reading has been made valid explicitly. And if there’s room for doubt because of the sarcasm? There’s still additional support for it.

We already know how badly in love Gojo is with Geto. The fight is on the 24th of December, the most romantic day in Japan. And in a fun little Geto parallel, who declared the start of war on this day, violence underlines this new romantic venture.

That doesn’t include Sukuna who recalls Yorozu’s words about teaching love in the context of marriage.

Gojo never heard that conversation which is why the next point is absolutely insane.

The outfit Gojo initially is in resembles that of a groom at a Shinto wedding.

Shinto weddings were implemented after the Heian era. Part of the ceremony includes a priest and a shrine maiden who respectively stand to the right and left of the altar. A purification ritual will occur, lead by the priest, to cleanse the shrine before vows are exchanged. Gakuganji is the priest and Utahime is the shrine maiden. To the right and left of Gojo respectively.

The bride at a Shinto wedding wears mainly white. After the 200% Hollow Purple cleanses the area, the dark shawl is removed and Sukuna remains in mostly white.

How interesting that this battle has been framed as one between groom and bride.

The thing is, marriage in the Heian era was far more lax. There were no major ceremonies. If a man was interested in marrying a woman, he would visit her for 3 nights after receiving approval from her father. Upon the passing of their 3rd night together, the family would have an informal celebration of their union in private. Even after marriage, multiple partners were allowed and sometimes encouraged.

Yorozu’s big celebration proposal to Sukuna and banning of concubines was quite improper by Heian standards. Though it is in line with modern marriages. If Sukuna did not consume any Shinto wedding literature, he probably didn’t recognize that Gojo was dressed as a groom.

But did Gojo dress this way for Sukuna intentionally? The Toji fit served an entirely different purpose. It’s the robes and pre-fight ceremony that catch my attention. So I propose the following:

1) Gojo dressed up as a groom to die and be wed with his one and only Geto in death.

2) Gojo dressed up as a groom in part as an offering to Sukuna. And because Sukuna is from the Heian era it went over his head entirely.

3) Gojo intended for both of these things at the same time and left who he would end up with to fate.

Regardless of what Gojo was going for here, it’s a visual cue combined with the knowledge of it being Dec 24th that encourages the reader to perhaps consider the fight as something other than just a fight. A date perhaps? Kenjaku made the connection and neither Gojo or Sukuna really denied it. Gojo gave the weak excuse of a death anniversary confusion. But much weirder, given how hostile he was to Yorozu, Sukuna did not object to the romantic framing in any capacity.

Am I reaching? Is this reading intentional?

When I start getting this confused by how a translated work wants me to read it, I try to refer to the original language text and anyone who knows it for missing context. Sometimes localizations add things that weren’t there or push readers towards one interpretation. So for the rest of this analysis, I’m going to be focusing on the raws.

I’m going to be honest. My Japanese fudging sucks. I can barely read kanji and can’t reliably translate anything. Feel free to correct me if I got something wrong. That being said, with what little I do know, I have discovered something interesting.

In this post I talked about how weird Sukuna’s manner of speech is. I focused on his you pronoun usage of お前 (Omae) for everyone else and 貴様 (Kisama) for Gojo since this is a strong indicator of how a character views their relationship to someone.

Here's a summary of the two points I made in that post:

1) Omae is informal and either a casual thing amongst peers or indicates the speaker's higher status. Since Sukuna is arrogant, we can reasonably assume he's talking down to people.

2) Kisama historically was a formal show of respect, but in modern times it is a hostile insult, much more rude than Omae. Since Sukuna is 1,000 years old and hates Yuji (who he uses Omae with), we can reasonably assume Sukuna was being friendly to Gojo when he used Kisama.

With that pronoun usage in mind, while examining the raws for the infamous “You Cleared My Skies” speech I found this:

Kisama. Sukuna is very happy and lavishing Gojo with praise. The assumption it was formal from the start seems to be correct. It's hard to read this any other way.

Though Japanese can easily be dubious in its interpretation, there are instances where context can cut off all other readings. I truly believe this one of those cases.

Now, to confirm Sukuna is still only treating Gojo this way I started looking at his you pronouns as he got excited post-Gojo death. Maki is the person he seems to admire the most.

He’s still just using Omae. What does that mean? Gojo is in his own fudging category for Sukuna and he has been there since the start of the manga. (For more on why this is significant, refer to this post.)

Wow ok. That’s pretty intense! We’ve got Gojo dressed up as a groom on December 24th and Sukuna treating Gojo different from anyone else. I read their fight again under the lens of explicit courtship and focused in on these specific panels.

Satisfaction. Now that’s a word that can easily carry a sexual connotation. Love as well. The parallel syntax fascinated me in English. So I decided to look at the raws and see how close they are.

Pretty much the same except for "the one who will teach you love" and "the one satisfying him now". Since the one being satisfied is Gojo by Sukuna, it really seems we can assume the one being taught love is Gojo by Sukuna.

Time to learn some Japanese again!

Kanji has multiple readings. Most have at least two. The Onyomi (Chinese) reading typically used for nouns and the Kunyomi (Japanese) reading typically used for verbs. (This is not always the case but it’s the basics.)

That’s probably why 満 is read as まん (man) when Gojo and Geto are talking about “satisfaction” using the On version and み (mi), the Kun version, when the narrator is talking about who “satisfies” who.

However 満 on its own does not mean satisfaction. It means full. To be filled. Or fullness. 足 (zoku) is added as a modifier after 満 to be read as satisfaction 満足 (manzoku). 足 usually means feet, but it can also mean to be sufficient. Manzoku therefore has a direct translation of being sufficiently full. It’s not a surprise a lot of food places in Japan use Manzoku in their names or advertising.

But what’s this? Why is this sentence written as 満たして or Mi(tashite) instead of 満足して or Manzoku(shite)? The addition of Zoku is what transforms Man into "satisfying". Without the Zoku, it’s just "fill". The means this sentence can be read as “The one filling him up now is—”

We’ve already established that the blank is Sukuna. The new problem is that he’s filling Gojo up. And boy, does that sound homoerotic to put it lightly. But perhaps I am reaching.

So I did what any sane person would do in this situation. I read hentai.

Surely if the phrase 満たして (mitashite) can carry a sexual connotation I will find it in hentai.

...

I immediately found a yaoi doujin called Fill me with your Big Love aka おっきな愛で満たして (Okkina Ai de Mitashite). Honestly, I found too many doujins about creampies specifically. (You have internet access verify this yourself.) When you search Manzokushite the results are much more in line with life satisfaction than sexual satisfaction. ...So Gege decided to use the more frisky phrasing.

Manzoku is also the name of an active sex toy manufacturer (I’m not linking them use a search engine.) and a discontinued adult entertainment news company. So the satisfaction Gojo and Geto talk about, along with Geto using 妬 (ya), the jealous kanji often used between lovers, is definitely probably carrying a sexual connotation too.

So, I’m not reaching. What the fudge did Gege mean by this?

Now that we've established that I am NOT reaching. What do we do with this information?

Well, we ruminate on the fight with the knowledge that Sukuna, of his own volition, decided to get Gojo off, probably.

I have forgiven Nanami for calling Gojo a pervert. If I watched someone bust a nut after being cut in half by his sworn enemy instead of saving the country, I too would be like what the fudge.

Anyways, the typical phrase used for an orgasm in Japanese is 行く(iku). It translates as to go. And yes it can mean to die, as in going to the other side. To die and go to heaven if you will. Which is what Gojo did with a big old smile on his face.

There’s also the term 心天 (tokoroten). It refers to a dish were a semi-opaque white substance is pushed through holes to create noodles. Literal translation using the kanji for heart 心 (kokoro) and the kanji for heaven 天 (ten). (Don’t ask me why them being smack together turns the Koroko into Tokoro. I don’t know.) Which in slang refers to prostate orgasms. This has nothing to do with this analysis I wanted to drop this fun fact in here. …And this image of Sukuna clutching his heart while looking at someone he sent to heaven.

(This is a reach but the idea of this being an elaborate gay pun amuses me greatly.)

I have another fun slang term: 賢者タイム (kenjataimu) which directly translates to sage 賢者 (kenja) time タイム (taimu). This refers to post-nut clarity sending someone into a meditative-like state.

Oh that’s a bit familiar. Sukuna was giving sagely advice to Kashimo and reflecting on satisfaction and love.

And what’s this? Mitashite has made a reappearance! Sukuna is saying “I’ve never thought about needing another person to fill me up.” Which 1. further supports the 'The one satisfying/filling him (Gojo) now is—Sukuna.' reading and 2. suggests Sukuna is a top suggests Sukuna really doesn’t have sexual interest in people. (Since the context of this convo is relationships and love.)

By the way. Acts of eating in Japanese can be modified to carry sexual meanings. It’s a bit more suggestive than English, but it carries over pretty well I think? 肉食系 (nikusokukei) refers to someone who aggresively pursues romantic or sexual relationships. Composed of the kanji 肉 (niku) for meat, 食 (ta) for eating, and 系 (kei) class. If you noticed, 食 isn’t usually read as Soku. It becomes Soku when paired with Niku for some reason. (I don’t know why someone please help me.) Side by side the kanji 肉食 (nikusoku) means meat-eater.

食 is still interesting on it’s own. The 食べる (taberu) reading is normal eating. The 食う(kuu) reading is an innuendo. It can mean to devour someone, like a cannibal, or devour someone sexually.

Sukuna has made it very clear that his eating of people is literal. There’s no innuendo. In fact, if you read into it, he’ll kill you (rip Yorozu and Kashimo).

Gojo, however, appears to be his sole exception to this rule. When Sukuna tells Kashimo not to spoil his pleasure he uses the kanji 興 (kyou). This of course can be directly translated as pleasure, but the Chinese reading of it can also indicate intense excitement or sexual arousal.

Sukuna is pretty good at double-entendre wordplay if his earlier stunts with the kanji for Enchain doubling as Megumi Activities if read a different way is anything to go by. He's a fan of Chinese literature. It's not a stretch to assume there's more going on here.

And if notoriously homophobic Reddit dudebros are posting things like this. Maybe there's a lot more merit to this reading than I can currently grasp.

I’m still pretty convinced Sukuna is aroace. That of course doesn’t bar him from pursuing romantic or sexual relationships. Sometimes there’s the one exception. Sometimes the desire to be with and please an allo partner allows for engagement of activities they aren’t into. Sometimes the actions are pursued without the emotional attachment because they physically feel good. There’s also the gray-scale and demi labels to consider.

With that in mind, I want to emphasize this all points to how important Gojo is to Sukuna regardless of sexuality. He tried to engage with and understand Gojo on terms he won’t for anyone else. And he’s been pursuing this connection relentlessly since the start of manga.

Sukuna’s Negative Rizz

Ok I established that reading the Sukuna vs Gojo fight as unhinged courtship is supported by the text. That doesn’t really say anything about Sukuna sucking at it.

But, my dear reader, that in of itself is proof of his negative rizz. I had to sit down. Learn about Heian era and Shinto wedding rituals, learn more Japanese, splice seemingly unrelated manga panels together, read hentai, and know that Gege is into yaoi to come to this conclusion. I had to rip every little shred of characterization and context apart and rearrange it into something comprehensible.

You know who can’t do that? Gojo.

As far as Gojo is concerned, Sukuna hates him. Kisama is an extremely hostile you pronoun in modern times. And if Gojo can’t tell Shoko (his closest friend after Geto) is stressed over him being used like a meat puppet by her visibly falling back on her addiction, he’s going to default to the assumption Sukuna hates him just as much as everyone else.

And Gojo does just that. He assumes he failed to reach Sukuna. Despite how often they did hand to hand combat and weaponized their knowledge of each other, Gojo believes they never had proper conversation through fighting. He dies not understanding Sukuna, convinced the other was not trying to communicate with him at all.

And if you recall, all of this fight occurred while Sukuna was wearing Megumi’s face. That boy is pretty much Gojo’s adopted child. From my experience, most single parents do not go looking for clones of their kids as partners.

If someone wore the skin of my family member I would assume they were trying to torment me. And torment Gojo Sukuna does. He draws attention to Megumi’s soul being used as collateral and attacks him with the 10 Shadows. We as the audience know this is all for the sake of getting past Infinity using his Shrine. Gojo doesn’t know that. He’s fighting an evil dude who is puppeting the body of his son for god knows what reason.

Seriously, Sukuna sucks at communicating intent.

In Part 3 of my examination of Sukuna’s loneliness, I said Dismantle is a tool Sukuna uses to understand. And that him upgrading it by making Gojo the center of his world was indicative of his desire to reach him. I also said his refusal to use it on Yorozu was him expressing how little interest he had in her.

Yorozu is pissed by this. She sees it as Sukuna rejecting her and I don’t think she’s wrong. Sukuna saved his special Cursed Technique (CT) for Gojo while turning Yorozu down. If we’re considering all the wedding imagery and references that started with Yorozu, I’m certainly allowed to read that as him saving himself for Gojo. (Think of how he lied to Gojo about being the first one he killed.)

There’s also the fact that Yorozu saw their battle as an expression love and lust—that the usage of CT is a type of foreplay under certain circumstances since it is an extension of the self. Combine that with the established premise that fighting is a type of a communication thanks to Maki vs Sumo Guy and you can start to see the courtship logic behind Sukuna’s treatment of Gojo.

If we are to read “The one who will teach you love is…Sukuna” there’s another adorable caveat. Yorozu uses the you pronoun あなた (Anata) for Sukuna.

It’s an informal you pronoun used by people learning Japanese. Native speakers try to avoid using it as it can come across as rude. But in the context of love? This is colloquially called the wife pronoun as its often used by a wife to her husband.

If you wanted to localize its usage in the way Yorozu means it, Anata might become “you, dear”. So here we have Sukuna dressed in white, like a bride to Gojo’s groom, thinking of him as Anata.

The problem is, Gojo doesn’t know that. Sukuna never bothered to open his mouth and say this was an act of love. Sure he told Kashimo in the most roundabout way possible, but Gojo was the one who needed to hear that. If a courtship is going to be this diabolically complicated, there has to be clear hints for the other party. JJK is not Umineko where there’s a witch that can revive the dead over and over until the idiot finally understands this was all for them.

Gojo also doesn’t have access to the kanji Sukuna uses to describe certain techinques or words. He hears the phonetics and runs with whatever best fits the context. This means there’s no way for him to catch the double-meaning unless he’s a certain type of lingust, which he is not. His manner of speech and personal interests don’t line up with the flowery language of the Heian Era. The types of written works Gojo is into are historical war politics from the Sengoku period (known for violence more than the fine arts), Shonen manga, and physics/math.

And what's this? According to CFYOW (the canon light novels): JJK Thorny Road at Dawn, Chapter 3 Asakusabashi Elegy, Gojo doesn't even like ancient poetry. You know, the thing Sukuna enjoys and tries to communicate with.

The Kokin Wakashu Gojo off-handedly disparages is a compilation of Hiean Era poetry known as Waka. This was the primary means of communication amongst the noble class and spiritual leaders at the time. And the thing is, this poetry is supposed to be read into. Down to the quality of stroke and paper, not just the kanji written. Especially for courtship.

It’s not that Gojo is stupid. He just doesn’t specialize in the studies that would give him a more critical ear to Sukuna's words. And Sukuna doesn’t seem to understand that no one in the modern era communicates like this anymore.

If you didn’t know, this is why Japanese characters introduce themselves they often describe what kanji their name is spelled with. Take for example: Satoru. He uses the kanji 悟 meaning enlightenment. This kanji can be read as Go instead of Satoru. Additionally, the name Satoru can be written in kanji as 聡 for smart, 智 for wisdom, 知 for knowledge, 了 for understanding, 哲 for philosophy, 聖 for virtuous, or 暁 for daybreak. That’s 8 different kanji possible if you hear the name Satoru.

This is why Sukuna’s wordplay for everything else can be easily missed by other characters. They hear the words and cannot read the kanji like us. Context decides what Sukuna means for them. And since Sukuna’s context for most is violence and insults, it’s very hard for them to think about his words in any other way.

And boy howdy does Gojo miss it. Sukuna straight up calls him his husband and it took me several rereads to catch it. While mocking Gojo for being unable to open his domain, Sukuna calls him "painfully ordinary". This is localized from the word 凡夫 (bonpu) which can also be translated as unenlightened. (A layered insult! Sukuna is pretty much saying Gojo's sorcery is so boring he shouldn't even call himself the Honored One.)

The thing is...Bonpu is comprised of the 2 kanji 凡 for mediocre, and 夫 for husband. (Please note that there are many other ways to call Gojo a ditz without using the kanji for husband.) And an update from the Replies: Turns out there's layers to the gayness too.

It's come full fudging circle. Gojo came dressed as a groom for a wedding and Sukuna thinks they're already married. The miscommunication is off the rails.

But wait! There's more...

Earlier I mentioned that the kanji for Enchain doubles as Megumi Activities. Let's break that down more. (Unfortunately the Twitter account of the person I referenced may or may not be nuked so here's this screenshot I've doctored.)

So we have the translation of Enchain from 契闊 (Keikatsu), which might be better localized as Separation.

This term comes from a Chinese poem about lovers who are husband and wife in The Book of Odes, Section I (Lessons from the States), Chapter 3 (The Odes of Bei), Poem 31 (Banging the Drum). (Here's a link to the full poem and context of it.)

In summary, it’s about a soldier who is on the brink of death, having lost nearly everything after being abandoned by those in power, lamenting the happiest days of his life with his love are ones he can never get back. (Hey that sounds just like what Sukuna did to Yuji!)

Keikatsu specifically comes from this passage:

“Our vow is beyond death and life”, I and you are together I always remembered. I will hold your hand, And together we grow old.

Too pitiful we are faraway apart, The distance separates us to meet again! Too miserable this takes forever, And it does not let us fulfill our vow!

Keikatsu is used to exemplify how the physical distance between the husband and wife prevents them from fulfilling their wedding vows. And that's just what Keikatsu/Enchain does to Yuji and Megumi, it causes painful separation neither of them wanted.

Keikatsu also tells Yuji exactly how Sukuna plans to do it. 契(kei)闊(katsu) can be written as 恵(kei)活(katsu). The kanji 恵 can be read as Kei or...Megumi. (It's the literal kanji used for his name.) The kanji 活 (katsu) can mean "activities", which is how we get Enchain=Megumi Activities.

A two for one special! Sukuna mocks Yuji for being so close with Megumi while telling him exactly how he's going to destroy their relationship.

It seems this has nothing to do with Gojo until you consider the 3rd possible reading from wordplay with 契闊 (Keikatsu). The kanji 契 when read as Kei refers to a promise, pledge or vow. When 契 read as Chigi? It can refer to sexual intercourse, especially between husband and wife.

So we have 契闊(keikatsu, separation), 恵(kei Megumi)活(katsu, activities), and 契(kei chigi, spousal sex)活(katsu, activities). It's no wonder he erased Yuji's memory of it.

Keep in mind, that when Sukuna uses Keikatsu, the only vow that he has made at this point is his promise to kill Gojo. He eventually does that using Megumi's body during a fight framed between groom and bride. And for reasons beyond their control, Sukuna and Gojo have been unable to fulfill that vow through lengthy separation.

Notes from poem "Banging the Drum" Sukuna references include the following:

"And during the operation, he lost his horse, which was a desperate situation (horses in ancient time carried soldier supply and weapons, are life companion for soldiers in advance or retreat), he lost his horse, his supply, maybe his armor and weapons, and the road he was facing that we may lose his life so he may never go back. In all these mess, he started searching, and somehow at this hopeless moment he started to revisit his happiest moment, when he together vowed in marriage ceremony with his wife, and he was even afraid that he might never see his love again."

"And His last statement for his true value is his home, his love, his fulfillment of his vow is his true duty. Hero's duty is to pursue love."

In Buddhism, which JJK is heavily influenced by, horses are a pretty big deal. Horses can represent the path to enlightenment, especially since The Buddha's horse is what takes him on this journey away from his wife and children. They separate in the end though, the horse dying of a broken heart.

Remember how Sukuna called Gojo unenlightened? He sort of guided Gojo to enlightenment using Mahoraga, whose Eight-Handed title is a reference to the Eightfold Path to be followed for enlightenment. Buddhist enlightenment is centered around liberation from suffering. (Just check the wiki entry to verify this.) Infinity was the source of Gojo's suffering and Sukuna cut right through it.

Sukuna has been running around with a broken heart for a good chunk of the post-Gojo fight. And if you take that into consideration with this poem and all the other symbolism, he's somehow a Buddha, a Bodhisattva, the dying husband, the widowed wife, and the heartbroken horse all at the same time. Not unlike his wordplay taking on every possible meaning at once.

But my point here is that Sukuna might’ve seen his fight with Gojo as consummation of their marriage. (There's probably a joke in here about the husband reaching climax while leaving his wife unsatisfied.) Remember in the wise words of Itagaki Keisuke, "Fighting and sex are exactly the same!"

In Conclusion?

This is possibly one of the most bizarre and elaborate expressions of love I have lost my mind over. Sukuna gave everything Gojo ever wanted from Jujutsu violently. He did it in such an unpleasant and cruel way that the target of his affection thought there was nothing between them. Sukuna also hid his intent under social norms that no longer exist. Unless Gojo happened to be into ancient literature, there was never a scenario where he would catch onto this. Sukuna's failure is critical on multiple levels.

It’s impressive. It really is. No one knows how Sukuna’s strange little brain works so he’s stuck being loner without anyone that fully understands him. (I’m still thinking about how Uraume didn’t know Sukuna was a twin for over 1,000 years.) He’d have to let people in and tell him outright, but he’s just like Gojo so I guess that’s never happening.

[victorluvsalice]

GUESS WHO FINALLY FIGURED OUT "FREE CAM" MODE IN BUILD/BUY! :D With a big shoutout to "sahm and bean" over on YouTube for creating the short little tutorial video "how to use the Sims 4 free camera in live or build mode #sims4," which has all the controls for this camera mode -- including HOW TO ROTATE THE CAMERA. Yes, I admit, I couldn't figure that out on my own -- I thought since you used WASD to move, there was a key or something to rotate! Not that you clicked the mouse so that your cursor disappeared! *sigh* I was chewing at the watermelon through the rind, sue me.

Anyway, I did figure it out, and holy shit, it's awesome. :D I never fully realized just how COOL it is to be able to tour one of your own builds as if you were one of the Sims living there! Not to mention this allowed me to get in and around and show you a bunch of stuff in the rooms with the walls up from angles that I'd never be able to get at with the regular camera! Like, it was damn near impossible to properly show off the wall decorations in the hallways and Smiler's room in the traditional camera mode because those are all interior walls with not a lot of space between them -- but in THIS mode, I can zoom around and give you a proper look! Nothing is missed out because I can't figure out how to show it properly! It's great! I wish I'd figured this out ages ago! At least I figured it out for this one --

Because I do love this house. :) I had a lot of fun building and decorating it and turning it into a place where I think my OT3 might like to live. It -- it just feels like them to me. To the ultra-colorful front foyer and living room; to the delightfully extra kitchen; to the various bathrooms with their cats and mountain-scapes (Snowy Escape was worth it just for those fun onsen tiles, I swear); to everyone's personalized rooms -- even the bedroom, which I feel is the weakest room in the house because I wasn't sure what to do with it, is cute because of the combination loft-and-double bed, and all the fun accessories and whatnot I added in. I'm glad I made it, and I'm glad I get to share it with you. :) And who knows? Maybe I WILL do the landscaping outside. Eventually. XD

[icewindandboringhorror]

Apparently I can meet my goal of roughly 400,000 words in 6 months if I just somehow write at least 2,200 words a day ghbjh... Almost 2,500 today... huzzah...

[street-corner-felines]

Zero Day Director commentary - With actor Andre Keuck

[violetsareblue-selfships]

good morning!!! <33

[adhdari]

Whoever has the url sc0w0ps know that I will never forgive you

[fiercynn]

on ao3's current fundraiser

apparently it’s time for ao3’s biannual donation drive, which means it’s time for me to remind you all, that regardless of how much you love ao3, you shouldn’t donate to them because they HAVE TOO MUCH MONEY AND NO IDEA WHAT TO DO WITH IT.

we’ve known for years that ao3 – or, more specifically, the organization for transformative works (@transformativeworks on tumblr), or otw, who runs ao3 and other fandom projects – has a lot of money in their “reserves” that they had no plans for. but in 2023, @manogirl and i did some research on this, and now, after looking at their more recent financial statements, i’ve determined that at the beginning of 2024, they had almost $2.8 MILLION US DOLLARS IN SURPLUS.

our full post last year goes over the principles of how we determined this, even though the numbers are for 2023, but the key points still stand (with the updated numbers):

when we say “surplus”, we are not including money that they estimate they need to spend in 2024 for their regular expenses. just the extra that they have no plan for

yes, nonprofits do need to keep some money in reserves for emergencies; typically, nonprofits registered in the u.s. tend to keep enough to cover between six months and two years of their regular operating expenses (meaning, the rough amount they need each month to keep their services going). $2.8 million USD is enough to keep otw running for almost FIVE YEARS WITHOUT NEW DONATIONS

they always overshoot their fundraisers: as i’m posting this, they’ve already raised $104,751.62 USD from their current donation drive, which is over double what they’ve asked for! on day two of the fundraiser!!

no, we are not trying to claim they are embezzling this money or that it is a scam. we believe they are just super incompetent with their money. case in point: that surplus that they have? only earned them $146 USD in interest in 2022, because only about $10,000 USD of their money invested in an interest-bearing account. that’s the interest they earn off of MILLIONS. at the very least they should be using this extra money to generate new revenue – which would also help with their long-term financial security – but they can’t even do that

no, they do not need this money to use if they are sued. you can read more about this in the full post, but essentially, they get most of their legal services donated, and they have not, themselves, said this money is for that purpose

i'm not going to go through my process for determining the updated 2024 numbers because i want to get this post out quickly, and otw actually had not updated the sources i needed to get these numbers until the last couple days (seriously, i've been checking), but you can easily recreate the process that @manogirl and i outlined last year with these documents:

otw’s 2022 audited financial statement, to determine how much money they had at the end of 2022

otw’s 2024 budget spreadsheet, to determine their net income in 2023 and how much they transferred to and from reserves at the beginning of 2024

otw’s 2022 form 990 (also available on propublica), which is a tax document, and shows how much interest they earned in 2022 (search “interest” and you’ll find it in several places)  

also, otw has not been accountable to answering questions about their surplus. typically, they hold a public meeting with their finance committee every year in september or october so people can ask questions directly to their treasurer and other committee members; as you can imagine, after doing this deep dive last summer, i was looking forward to getting some answers at that meeting!

but they cancelled that meeting in 2023, and instead asked people to write to the finance committee through their contact us form online. fun fact: i wrote a one-line message to the finance committee on may 11, 2023 through that form, when @manogirl and i were doing this research, asking them for clarification on how much they have in their reserves. i have still not received a response.

so yeah. please spend your money on people who actually need it, like on mutual aid requests! anyone who wants to share their mutual aid requests, please do so in the replies and i’ll share them out – i didn’t want to link directly to individual requests without permission in case this leads to anyone getting harassed, but i would love to share your requests. to start with, here's operation olive branch and their ongoing spreadsheet sharing palestinian folks who need money to escape genocide.

oh, and if you want to write to otw and tell them why you are not donating, i'm not sure it’ll get any results, but it can’t hurt lol. here's their contact us form – just don’t expect a response! ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

[pitlanepeach]

Radio Silence | Chapter Fourteen

Lando Norris x Amelia Brown (OFC)

Series Masterlist

Summary — Order is everything. Her habits aren’t quirks, they’re survival techniques. And only three people in the world have permission to touch her: Mom, Dad, Fernando.

Then Lando Norris happens.

One moment. One line crossed. No going back.

Warnings — Autistic!OFC, jealous lando, protective grid, sexual content

Notes — Welcome to the 2021 Formula One season! (Testing, but still... it counts). Also... hehehehehehehe double update <3

Want to be added to the taglist? Let me know! — Peach x

2021

WhatsApp Groupchat — 2021 F1 Grid

Lewis H. A warm welcome to our 2021 rookies! Mick, and Yuki :)

Lando N. Yeah, welcome or whatever More importantly, does anyone know if I can call up the Apple store in Woking and get them to deliver to me? Even though it’s closed rn

Lewis H. What happened? Did her iPad break?

Lando N. Yeah mate, completely toast.

Max V. Shit. I can have one express delivered to your flat, Lando. It is, of course, a work expense.

Yuki T. Uh hey I guess! I thought this was a work only chat? Did I get the wrong briefing?

George R. It usually is, but as admin I allow Amelia-based chat @Yuki

Mick S. Hey! Great to be here. Um, just curious though. Who is Amelia?

Max V. My lead technical engineer.

Lando N. My girlfriend.

Lewis H. Zak Brown’s daughter.

Fernando A. Her iPad is broken? I will bring her one now. Lando, send me your home address.

Mick S. Ohhh, I actually know Amelia Brown!

Lando N. ?????????? @Mick

Fernando A. Lando you have not sent me your address.

Max V. @Fernando I have already purchased the iPad.

Mick S. @Lando we met years ago, mate. She used to ski with her family where mine did in the winter.

Lando N. You heard the part where she’s my girlfriend, yeah @Mick?

Mick S. Yes…

Lando N. Good.

Fernando A. @Max She will need it delivered to her soon.

Charles L. It finally broke? Wow. Lasted far longer than I believed it would.

Lando N. @Charles Not a good time for jokes, mate. She’s devastated

Daniel R. Should I start carrying a spare iPad to races with me just in case? LOL.

Lando N. Wait that’s a good idea Somebody write that down Max write that down

Max V. I purchased three. I will carry the spares

Fernando A. Vamos, Max!

Pierre G. I bet the rookies are so confused lmao. Welcome to the grid group chat. We discuss penalties, race conditions, plane shares, and Amelia Brown.

Carlos S. @Lando How is she? Did she freak out?

Lando N. She’s good now. All chill.

Lewis H. Tell her that I just bought her a new bunny sticker book. I’ll give it to her at testing.

Lance S. If I buy her the entire Apple company, do you think she will come and fix the Aston Martin car?

Max V. NO.

Yuki T. This is the weirdest thing I’ve ever seen in any grid group chat, and the f2 chat used to get weird lol

George R. Welcome to the grid, Yuki. Keep your head on straight, and if you ever find a lost iPad with a bunny sticker on it anywhere in the paddock, make sure it gets back to Amelia asap

Lando N. Thats important for all of the rookies to know @Mick @Yuki 

Mick S. Sure I’ll keep an eye out!

Lando N. Actually I change my mind Mick if you see an iPad just leave it yeah :) 

Mick S. ????

Pierre G. This is going to be a great year. 

Checo P. All of the other drivers have this chat muted, yes?

Kimi R. Yes. 

— 

Amelia was crouched down by Max's car, her hand resting on the tire as she scanned through the data on her iPad. The numbers on the screen felt too slow, almost static, compared to the racing thoughts racing through her head.

Beside her, Jos loomed over her, a red-ink pen poised above her little black notebook. He was taking notes for her. Her mind was moving faster than her hands could keep up, and sometimes, just sometimes, she needed someone like him, methodical, steady, and patient, to help her process it all.

Her fingers flicked over the screen, swiping through the data from Max's morning run, when she paused, eyes flicking to Jos. “You see what I see?” she asked, her voice low, as if speaking any louder might break the delicate focus she’d managed to carve out for herself.

Jos nodded, his eyes scanning the information on the screen before looking back down at the scribbles he’d started in her notebook. “More rear stability in the high-speed corners. We’ll need to adjust the dampers again,” he said, his voice calm and matter-of-fact.

Amelia’s eyes tightened slightly as she thought. “We might need to soften the rear more. The front’s too reactive. Max is going to be fighting it in corners three and four, especially.” She tapped the screen lightly, zooming in on the section of the track map. “The car’s settling into a snap too fast, can’t keep up with the rear load in the high-speed sections.”

Jos made a mark in her notebook. “Front end’s still too eager, then?” He sighed. 

“Yeah, exactly,” Amelia made a face. “We soften that just a little bit more. Max needs more confidence in the corners. Less initial bite, more consistency. Maybe tweak the ride height slightly too.” Her words were coming faster now as the solution to their issues fell into place in her brain. 

As the day wore on, Max’s car was fine-tuned with the adjustments, and Amelia watched on with satisfaction as everything came together in perfect harmony. 

They had a plan. The tweaks would work. Max would be happy with the handling.

She turned to Jos when the mechanics started to wheel Max’s car back into the garage for the final time, day one of testing officially over, giving him a small but appreciative smile.

He pulled her notebook out of the pocket of his jeans and handed it over. “I hope you can understand my handwriting.” 

— 

Amelia sat opposite Max at one of the small team tables in the Red Bull hospitality unit. Most of the staff had already filtered out for the night, their voices fading down the hallway as engineers, PR reps, and mechanics headed for shuttles and taxis. But the two of them lingered — Amelia, still editing Jos’ scribbled notes from earlier in the day, and Max, who had quietly gotten into the habit of not leaving until she did.

It was almost sweet. He dropped her off to Lando at her hotel room at the end of every day like she was a preschooler getting passed between divorced parents. She hadn’t said anything about it, partly because it was practical, and partly because she didn’t mind it. It was nice not to have to worry about being alone.

Across from her, Max was hunched low in his chair, arms folded tight across his chest, mouth set in a hard line. His gaze flicked from the tabletop to her notebook and back again, a rhythm she’d seen a hundred times before. It meant he was thinking. Hard. Or more likely, overthinking.

She didn’t bother looking up. “Just say it.”

He blinked. “What?”

“You’ve been fidgeting with your straw for six minutes. It’s starting to irritate me.”

Max exhaled through his nose, leaning back into the bench with a groan. “You are very annoying.”

“Mhmm,” she hummed, finally meeting his eyes. “Max, tell me.”

He hesitated, then shifted forward, resting his elbows on the table. There was a pause, a rare, tentative kind, and then, quieter than usual, he said, “I’m nervous.”

That made her put the pen down.

“For the season?” she asked, although she already suspected the answer.

Max nodded. “Everyone keeps saying 2021 is my year. Like it’s inevitable. Like this is it. And I want it — Fuck, I want it so bad. I’ve worked for it my whole life. But now that it’s here, I don’t know…” He rubbed a hand down his face. “What if it doesn’t happen?”

“It might not,” Amelia said plainly.

Max looked like he wanted to argue, but stopped short, blinking at her. “Comforting.”

“You’re not asking for comfort,” she said. “You’re asking if you’re good enough. And yes, you are. But this sport doesn’t always care about that.”

He let that sit for a moment. Nodded.

Then, quieter still, “There’s something else.”

Amelia raised an eyebrow.

“I met someone. Over the break.”

She made a face. “Someone?”

He groaned. “Don’t do the eyebrow thing.”

She relaxed her face. “Who did you meet?”

Max scratched at the edge of the table. “I met her in Monaco. She’s nice. A lawyer . She thinks I’m just… Max. I didn’t tell her about the racing. About… everything. She doesn’t follow F1.”

Amelia leaned forward slightly. “So she doesn’t know who you are.”

He shrugged helplessly. “She knows who I am. Just not… what I do.”

Amelia tilted her head. “And you like that?”

“I think so,” he said. “It’s peaceful. She talks to me like a normal person. No hero-worship, no pressure. Just… calm.”

“You’re lying to her, essentially,” she said bluntly. “Not a good foundation for a relationship.”

He shot her a withering look. “Jesus. You’re worse than my dad.”

“I take that as a compliment. We have the same goal.”

“I know.”

She looked down at her notebook, flipping a page and skimming it for a second. “You think you can manage both? A relationship and a championship battle?”

He hesitated. “Is that selfish?”

“No,” she said, then looked back at him. “But it might be a bit stupid.”

Max chuckled dryly. “Thanks.”

“I’m not saying you can’t have both,” Amelia added. “I’m just saying that it probably won’t work.” 

He frowned, nodded slowly, then said, “But you’re managing your relationship and my championship.”

“I’m not the one driving the car, Max.” She argued. 

“Still,” he muttered. “You’re making it work. I could make it work.”

She shrugged. “Okay. Is she nice?”

Max nodded, “I almost ran her over.”

She blinked at him. “Oh. That’s… romantic?” She tried. 

He laughed shortly. “She was in a rush, didn’t look properly. I apologised and gave her a ride to work. She— she, uh, thinks that I’m just some wealthy businessman’s son, or something.”

She chewed on her bottom lip, anxiety curling in the pit of her stomach. “You should stop lying to her. I would… I would not like it if I was in that situation and I found out that I was being lied to.” 

Max sighed. Nodded. 

Then he stood, grabbed both their jackets, and slung hers over the back of her chair. “Come on. Let’s get you to your boyfriend before he starts texting me again asking where you are.”

She gave him a flat look. “He has a GPS tracker on my phone.” 

Max rolled his eyes. “Of course he does. Typical Norris.”

She shrugged. “It’s sweet. Sometimes I get lost and he has to come and find me.” 

Max laughed, and for the first time all day, some of the tightness left his posture. “Yeah,” he said, holding the door open for her. “Probably good that he has it, then.” 

— 

The lights of Manama twinkled in the distance, warm and hazy against the desert night. From the balcony of their hotel suite, the city looked like it belonged to another world; quiet and golden and slow in a way the paddock never was. The hum of the air conditioning inside was replaced by the occasional distant honk of a car, or the hush of wind weaving through the palm trees below.

Amelia was seated cross-legged on one of the outdoor chairs, wrapped in a white robe, her hair still damp from her shower. Lando, in a t-shirt and joggers, was fiddling with a tiny bottle opener, attempting to open a bottle of some obscure sparkling drink he’d insisted was “romantic, okay baby? Trust me.”

Their room service tray sat between them on the small table. Grilled flatbreads, mezze, roasted lamb. Lando had ordered for them and he’d gotten everything right.

“I don’t know how you always remember this stuff,” she said, dipping a piece of bread into a tangy yogurt sauce.

Lando grinned, finally getting the bottle open with a victorious pop. “Because I listen when you talk. I know the face you make when you think something tastes bad or has a yucky texture. I have eyes. Shocking, I know.”

Amelia gave him a pointed look. “Last week, you kissed my eyeball because you were being lazy and tried to kiss me with your eyes closed.”

“Shut up.” He huffed. 

She laughed quietly, curling into him, giving him a bit of the blanket. “I think Max might be in love,” she said suddenly.

Lando blinked. “Max? Verstappen?”

“Mm,” she nodded, chewing. “He told me today that he met someone over the winter. She doesn’t know who he is. Like, really doesn’t know. Thinks he’s just some rich guy named Max.”

Lando made a face. “That… feels impossible.”

“She’s apparently very disconnected. Doesn’t follow the sport. Max likes it.”

Lando nodded slowly. “Weird. But kind of sweet, I guess.”

She frowned at him. “I told him he shouldn’t be dating during a title fight.”

“Very romantic of you.” Lando teased. 

She shrugged. “I never said I was romantic.”

“No,” he said. “But you are.”

She rolled her eyes but didn’t disagree. Instead, she reached for his hand where it rested on the table, her fingers brushing over his lightly. “I hope you do very well this year, Lan.” She told him, earnest and hopeful. “You deserve it.” 

Lando turned his hand over to lace their fingers together. “So do you. Deserve to do well, I mean. You’ve worked so hard this past year. You deserve to see it pay off.”

Amelia didn’t say anything right away. She just leaned over and kissed him; soft, sweet, clinging. It wasn’t meant to lead anywhere at first, just a thank you. But she didn’t pull away. And he didn’t let her go.

She ended up in his lap, her legs curled against his chest, her robe brushing his knees. His hands slid instinctively around her back, fingers splaying wide against the thin fabric, grounding her. Grounding himself.

They stayed like that for a long time. The balcony lights dimmed behind them. The city hummed faintly in the distance, the last remnants of dinner cooling on the table, the silence between them easy.

Then, gently, she climbed off of him and stood. Her bare feet whispered against the tile as she stepped forward, and she stopped just in front of where he sat, between his knees. Her eyes searched his face for a beat, then she reached for the hem of his t-shirt.

“Come inside with me?”

Lando’s breath caught slightly. He looked up at her, her expression steady, soft, open, and nodded. “Yeah. Okay.”

Inside, the hotel room was cast in warm light, golden from a low bedside lamp. The curtains were drawn against the city, muffling the world outside. The bed was turned down, sheets crisp, pillows fluffed. A quiet kind of invitation.

She tugged him by the hand toward the bed, and he followed without a word, heart thudding in his chest.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t awkward.

There was a kind of reverence to the way they undressed, slow, curious. Amelia’s robe slipped from her shoulders, caught briefly on her elbows before pooling at her feet. Lando’s hands hovered just for a second before brushing up her arms, like he was making sure she wouldn’t vanish if he touched her too quickly.

Their kisses deepened, still hesitant but filled with intent, with the weight of everything they’d been building toward for over a year. Every laugh, every shared moment of delicate intimacy, every time they’d caught each other’s eyes across a garage or a hotel lobby, it all settled into the space between them.

Lando’s mouth trailed across her skin with an almost startled sort of wonder, like he was learning a language he’d been waiting to speak. Her fingers threaded through his curls, tugging gently when his lips brushed the hollow of her throat. They moved together with quiet urgency, limbs tangled, breath catching against skin.

At one point, Lando paused, hovering just above her, his eyes sweeping across her face, flushed, focused, real.

“You’re so... fuck,” he whispered, barely audible.

Amelia blinked, lips curling faintly. “Not sure that’s a compliment.”

He kissed the curve of her shoulder, then her collarbone. “It is,” he murmured. “It really is.”

And when they finally settled under the covers, tangled together with her head tucked beneath his chin, Lando let out a shaky breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding.

She didn’t say much, but her fingers curled into his shirt like she wasn’t planning on letting go anytime soon, and that was enough. 

— 

The sunlight was already creeping through the sliver of the curtains when Lando stirred, warmth pooling low in his stomach before he was even fully awake. For a moment, he didn’t move, just blinked up at the ceiling, trying to remember if he’d dreamt the night before, or if it had really happened.

Then she shifted against him.

Amelia was tucked beneath his arm, hair a little wild against his chest, one bare leg tangled over his. Her cheek was pressed just below his collarbone, lips slightly parted, her breath steady and warm against his skin.

Definitely not a dream.

He smiled, slow, stupid, unbelievably content.

She felt it too, maybe, his laugh or the way his fingers brushed along her back, because she mumbled something that sounded vaguely like a complaint and burrowed closer, clearly not ready to be awake yet.

Lando tilted his head, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “Morning, baby.”

She made a noise that was more sigh than word. “Mm. No.”

“No what?”

“No talking,” she murmured, her voice thick with sleep. “Too early.”

He laughed quietly, the sound muffled by her hair. “It’s almost seven.”

“Too early for you to be this cheerful.” She grumbled.

Lando shifted just enough to look down at her, brushing a lock of hair away from her face. “I’m not cheerful.”

“You’re smiling.”

He smiled wider. “Can you blame me?”

She cracked an eye open, blinking up at him. Her face was still soft from sleep, a little puffy and makeup-free, but to him, she looked... ridiculously beautiful.

“What?” she asked, because he was staring.

“Nothing,” he said, brushing his thumb along her jaw. “I just really like waking up next to you.”

Her expression shifted slightly. And then, a second later, she exhaled and said quietly, “I like it, too.”

Lando kissed her, just a little one, lazy and warm.

They lay tangled in the sheets, the morning light spilling gently across the room. For a while, neither of them moved, perfectly content to exist in the quiet, wrapped up in warmth and each other.

Eventually, Amelia stirred, shifting just enough to reach over to the nightstand. She blinked blearily at her phone and then sighed and glanced across the room.

“Shit,” she muttered. “I forgot to charge my iPad.”

Lando, still half-asleep, pressed a slow kiss to her bare shoulder. “I plugged it in when I got up in the middle of the night to go for a piss.”

She turned to look at him, her expression soft, a little surprised. Her voice came quiet. “You did?”

He nodded, eyes still heavy with sleep. “Didn’t want you waking up to it dead.”

A pause. Then she gave him the smallest pout, sleepy and affectionate and so purely her. “I love you.”

He broke into a grin, one of those quiet, full-body smiles that lived in his eyes. “Yeah,” he murmured, brushing her hair back. “I love you too.”

—

The McLaren motorhome was buzzing with early morning energy, the consistent hum of coffee machines working overtime. Amelia slipped through the front doors with her badge swinging around her neck, hair still damp from a rushed shower, and Lando trailing behind her, half-yawning into a croissant.

Zak spotted them first, already seated at one of the corner tables with Daniel, who was halfway through a heaping plate of scrambled eggs and talking animatedly about something.

“There’s my girl,” Zak called, waving them over.

Amelia dropped into the seat beside her dad with a tired sigh. “Morning, dad.” She kissed his cheek. 

“You sound tired,” he frowned at her, sipping his coffee.

Lando slid into the chair beside her, nudging her with his knee under the table. She handed him a napkin in response, gesturing for him to wipe the crumbs away from his face, and he smiled. 

Daniel looked between them, eyebrows raised. “You must be Amelia. I’m Daniel. Can’t actually believe we’ve not met properly before now.” 

“I know.” Amelia agreed, already reaching across the table for a muffin.

Daniel leaned in a little, grinning. “Lando talks about you all the damn time. In debriefs, pre-race meetings, on his radio—”

“Please stop talking,” Lando glared at his new teammate, clearly embarrassed.

“She’s worth talking about,” Zak laughed, patting Amelia on the shoulder with a fond smile.

Daniel smirked at Lando, thoroughly enjoying his discomfort. Lando just narrowed his eyes at him, his cheeks flushing slightly.

Amelia took another bite of her muffin, savouring her food. But before she could finish, her phone buzzed violently against the table. It was from Max.

iMessage — 7:33am

Max Verstappen Are you here, sister? I want to talk about my steering set-up

Amelia On my way to you now.

She shoved the rest of her muffin into her mouth and stood up in one swift motion. “Okay. I gotta go.”

Lando looked up, surprised. “Already?”

Amelia kissed him quickly on the cheek, her lips lingering for just a second longer than expected. She gave her dad a quick shoulder squeeze before smiling at Daniel, her usual bluntness softened by a bit of shyness she wasn’t used to showing in front of him. “Max wants my advice.”

Zak called after her with a grin. “Tell Jos I want my daughter back for lunch.”

“No promises,” she replied with a glance over her shoulder, already speed-walking toward the exit. Her hair bounced with each step, and her phone was pressed to her ear before she even made it out of the motorhome.

Daniel leaned toward Lando as she disappeared down the hallway. “You’re screwed, brother.”

Lando shot him a look, kicking him under the table. “Shut up.”

— 

WhatsApp Groupchat — 2021 F1 Grid

Yuki T. I have Amelia’s iPad in AlphaTauri garage

Lewis H. Yeah, this has to be a new record.

Lando N. Lol she’s just been rly busy. Probably hasn’t noticed she hasn’t got it yet

Max V. She just noticed and started freaking out. @Yuki I’m on my way to get it.

Lando N. She okay @Max?

Max V. Yes mate, no need to worry.

Mick S. @Max Can I pop by your garage and say hi to her? It’s been years!

Lando N. @Max Say no. Max, say no. Max, say no.

Max V. @Mick No, she is too busy for friends.

Lando N. LMAO, REKT @Mick.

Mick S. Bro????? I really don’t want to steal your girlfriend 😭

Fernando A. You do not believe my Amelia is good enough for you, Schumacher?

Max V. What the fuck Mick

Charles L. Uh oh 😬😬

Pierre G. Bro that was NOT the right thing to say 😭

Max V. @Mick She wouldn’t even look your way. 

Lando N. Wild angle, mate @Mick

George R. We are witnessing a man dig his own grave live in chat

Daniel R. *shovels faster* Keep going, Mick. Say you think she’s boring next.

Sebastian V. This feels like bullying.

Yuki T. I think it is  

Carlos S. @Mick Just lie down. Accept it. The storm will pass.

Mick S. I DIDN’T MEAN IT LIKE THAT 😭😭😭 I literally just meant she’s your girlfriend and I respect that! @Lando

Lando N. Sure you did. 

Fernando A. In my country we have a saying — "Schumacher has placed his own foot in his own mouth."

Lewis H. Pick your words better next time yeah? @Mick

Lance S. This is why rookies don’t get access to Amelia.

Esteban O. Wait does that mean I have access to Amelia?

Max V. No.

Fernando A. Absolutely not.

Lando N. You do not.

Valtteri B. I do not speak much in this chat but I just want to say: Mick, this is very funny.

Antonio G. +1

Nicholas L. same 😭

Sebastian V. Let it be a lesson to all of us. Never try to be polite in here. It will be weaponised.

Charles L. I miss when this chat was about tyre pressures and strategy.

George R. That’s adorable. It’s never been that.

NEXT CHAPTER

[pizzapottah]

I’m gonna pack my things (and leave you behind)

summary: You’re five years old when Darth Vader kills your mom. Or — so you think — your parents.

pairing: han solo x skywalker!reader (eventually), platonic skywalker family x reader

word count: 4.3k

warnings: so many feelings, reader's anakin and padme's daighter, also she's a itty bitty haunted by the force, anakin and padme die but it’s not really explored much (yet), mentions of childbirth, nightmares, mentions of anakin’s demise on mustafar, one swear word i think

author's note: I know y'all want an update on the heir and the wolf and that the star wars fandom is as dead as pope francis but PLEASE HEAR ME OUT ON THIS ONE 🙏🙏🙏 this is for the 2 people that said they would read it lmao

divider from @saradika

You’re four years old when your mum comes back to your apartment on Coruscant with the happy news. 

She nears your room, where you're trying to screw back together a toy lightsaber that you somehow managed to dissect — tongue sticking out of your mouth, a concentrated pout prominent on your face. You’re really your father’s daughter, she ponders sometimes, thinking back to that blonde boy on the sand planet that managed to build a whole robot with scraps. The nurse droid, RO-N4, is dutifully watching your work, assuring that you don’t hurt yourself in the process and hinting at the pieces that should go back together; she raises her head when she sees that Padmé has returned. 

You jump up when you notice her, running to give her a big hug, almost making her lose her balance; but she’s used to it, and wastes no time in hoisting you on her hip. The robot stands up, ready to gently reprimand you, but your mother gingerly shoos her away with a smile. “Why don’t you go out with Threepio on a walk? I’ll stay here with her. We have something to discuss.” she winks at you, “Some serious girl talk to do, am I right?”

You giggle — that childish, innocent laugh that makes hours of relentless debates in the Senate worth going through — rubbing your cheek against hers. “Yeah! I have shoooo many things to tell you, mama!” 

The robots follow the senator’s suggestion, stumbling their way out of the door, and you soon go back to the area dedicated to your toys to show her your hard work. “Look, mama!” you’re basically jumping up and down in joy, holding up the pieces of the once toy lightsaber. “This is the cyber crystal–”

“Kyber crystal, sweetie.” 

“Ky-ber crystal. And then this is the one part of the handle with the switch–”

You could go on and ramble for hours, she thinks. She’d happily listen to all and any of your thoughts and wonders and never get tired from it. Soon enough, Padmé’s lying down on the soft sponge puzzle pieces of the playmat that serve to prevent any possible injury from falling over. We’ll need to change those soon, she thinks absentmindedly, she’s already grown out of the always-falling-over phase. 

She isn’t sure of how much time passes; at some point your ramblings slow and you scoot closer to her, sniggling in her lap. “Mama,” you mumble, yawning. “‘m so happy that you’re here. I missed you a lot today.”

Her heart breaks. A hand carding through your locks, she smiles sadly, “I know, sweetie, I’m sorry that mama has to work so much. But I promise it’s just so that once you grow up you will be able to live in a peaceful Galaxy, without ever worrying about learning how to fight like your papa.”

You perk up. “But I wanna be like papa when I grow up.”

She shakes her head, feigning her best scandalized expression. “How dare you? What am I, chopped liver?” she takes you in her arms and blows raspberries in your cheeks, making you squeal and thrash around. “Nooo! Don’t, mama, it’s ticklish!” 

“What about being a senator, mh?” she offers, not unkindly. “We can fight too, you know.” She puts on her best imitation of Palpatine and presses a matter of utmost importance, “Senator Skywalker, what do you think we should have for dinner as of today?” 

Your chuckle makes your little chest rumble against her belly. Your surname is not Skywalker — it is Amidala, often Naberrie when on Naboo, but never have your parents referred to you as that; they mostly leave it out when asked, avoiding the question but never stating either the truth or the cover-up. There’s still hope to change the Order, Anakin always says, that one day she can wear my surname without it causing a scandal. And Padmé believes him: and she believes that when the time comes, you’ll be rightly known as Senator Skywalker. 

Suddenly, you go quiet. “I want papa,” you whisper it like it’s forbidden — it kind of is, but you shouldn’t know that. Padmé’s heart breaks a little again. Anakin was sent out on a mission two weeks ago and hasn’t even been able to keep in touch ever since, making you miss him terribly. 

She laughs as softly as she can — she doesn’t want to hurt your feelings. “No can do, sweetie. Papa isn’t due to be home in at least another three days, but I’m sure that once he’s here he’ll be elated to spend some time with you. Besides, you can’t eat papa for dinner.” she rests her cheek on her hand, patting the free space next to her. “Until he comes back, it’s just you and me. What would you like to do tomorrow? I have no Senate meetings.” 

You scoot closer, lying down on the spot she just patted, curling against her chest, “Can we see Ahsoka, then?” 

She chuckles a little quieter now. Her and Anakin still don't know how to explain to you that she left the Order a while ago and has no intention on returning to Coruscant any time soon. “Ahsoka’s away like papa, honey. But I’m sure that once she comes back, she’ll be just as happy as he will to spend time with you.” 

She smooths your hair back, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead, pressing her hand up and down your back. She wonders how good of a sister you’ll be; and even if she knows you’ll be wonderful with the new baby, she still can’t bring herself to say it out loud. “How about I make some shaak meat and then get you prepared for a good bubble bath?”

You look up at her, pouting, “But I’m big now! Do I really have to bathe?” 

Padmé bursts out laughing. “You’ll have to clean yourself your whole life, sweetheart, to hopefully not smell like a bantha.”

You huff, glaring at her. “Papa barely even showers.”

“Papa stinks. He was raised on a planet with barely any water and still considers showers optional. Do you ever hear me tell him how I love his perfume? No, that’s because he doesn’t use any. You hear me sending him to sleep on the couch because he smells terribly, though.” 

You end up eating your dinner — vegetables included — without a fuss and going to take your bath like a champ. Somewhere along that timespan both the nurse droid and C-3PO came back home to be of help in cleaning the kitchen as Padmé prepares you for bed, lying down next to you and reading to you one of the stories in the hologram that Anakin bought on one of his last missions. 

MId-story, she notices you get eerily silent. She carefully turns her head, trying to understand if you’re already sleeping, only to find you more awake than her, eyes open wide. “Is… is everything alright, sweetie?” she asks, a bit bewildered– just a moment ago, you looked like you were about to fall asleep, and now you look like you’re ready to fight everything that could be thrown at you. 

“Mama,” you whisper it like it’s a secret, “I just remembered. How are they?”

She blinks, confused. “Who?”

“The twins,” you say, “Luke and Leia.” you pat her belly as if to state the obvious. 

She looks at you, horrified — she found out she was pregnant today, and no droid or doctor mentioned twins. “I– sweetheart, what?”

You lean your head, confused. “I saw them yesterday in a dream. They asked me about you.” 

Her heart almost stops. She laughs nervously, looking at you with wide eyes, expecting you to say something about the weird and absolutely not real dream that you had, but instead you just stare at her, completely serious. “What… what do you mean?” 

You frown. “If you don’t know, then I can’t help you. Nighty night.” you tuck yourself under the covers and curl above her chest once again, sighing happily. 

Padmé’s heart feels heavy. It’s happening again– you murmur something about having had a dream, say something even more alarming, then completely ignore what you just said and act like nothing happened. It’s getting worrying — Padmé managed to get you out of the Jedi program last year just because of her status as senator, but she is sure that this year, she won’t be as lucky. The quantity of midi-chlorians in your blood can’t be hid, unfortunately, and in probably less than a year she will be forced to give you up to the Temple. 

Anakin’s sure you will make a great Jedi, but your mother’s worried — and how can she not be? Her husband’s more away than he is at home, and with the war going on, it’s already a miracle he manages to visit Coruscant. The fact that you seem to possess your father’s horrifying ability to dream about possible futures doesn’t ease her worries. 

“I’m just worried about her–” 

“But why? She’s young, she’ll be trained–”

“She will, but I don’t want her to be haunted by the thoughts of possible futures and whatnot.”

It’s late. You’ve already gone to bed, shushed by Anakin’s stories and anecdotes from his latest mission, and even if this should be a carefree and happy moment because her husband has managed to come back home unscathed again– your mother just can’t get something out of her head. 

Anakin huffs and puts his hands on his waist, looking at Padmé like she’s crazy — there it is, where you got your attitude from. “I can always call one of the Temple guards and tell them that there’s a Force-sensitive kid here. They can train her until I can take her as Padawan; it’ll take, what? Six, seven years? Hopefully I’ll be done with the war by that time and will be able to focus on her as my padawan.” 

His wife crosses her arms, glaring at him, “I don’t want her as your padawan,” she grits out, “I want her safe, here, where we can have a decent relationship and she won’t be stripped away from my arms.”

He leans his head and raises an eyebrow. “Sweetheart, I can’t make her dreams go away. I don’t even know how to make my nightmares go. But at the Temple, they can teach her how to control them, how to use them for her own good– for the Order’s and the Republic’s own good–”

“You say that just because you wouldn’t have any problems in seeing her,” she sniffs, “you’ll be a welcome, familiar presence in the Temple — but it is known that they don’t let anyone outside of the Jedi enter.” 

His shoulders drop, and he starts shaking his head. “Padmé…”

“Don’t. Don’t tell me that we have to give her up to the Temple, because I don’t want to and I won’t–”

“But we’ll have to, Padmé, they’ll teach her everything she’ll ever need and–” 

She bursts out crying. It might be the pregnancy, or the fact that she still hasn’t told him about it and it’s eating her alive, but she’s much more emotional than usual. “I don’t want them to take her away from me!” 

Anakin’s eyes soften, his posture breaks, “Oh, dear,” he mutters, pulling her in his arms and letting her cry out in his chest. “It’ll be alright,” he murmurs, lips pressed to her head, “we’ll find a solution for everything.” He still doesn’t know when or how, but he’ll try with everything he has to solve this situation to the best of his ability.

He had honestly thought Padmé was exaggerating when she said that you were having visions, probably thinking it was just baby babbling or something, but he is proven wrong that same night, when he is abruptly woken up by the sound of the door of their bedroom opening. 

“Papa?” you call out from the doorstep, voice sleepy. 

He manages to get himself out of bed — when he’s home, night duty is always on him, as Padmé already deals with it enough while he’s away — and, yawning, he walks off to you and kneels down to your level, sending a glance to your bantha plushie safely tucked under your elbow. “What is it, sweetheart?” 

Blank stare on your part, you look at him like a war veteran would. “You were being burned, papa.” 

He blinks and counts to five before accepting that it’s way too late in the night — or early in the morning, he has no idea — to deal with this type of shit. “Okay, listen– how about we go catch some fresh air outside, hm?” 

You let him pick you up without any protests, curling up in his arms as you whimper quietly. He drags his feet along the pavement of the apartment, sliding open the door to the terrace that overlooks the whole city; it’s like it never sleeps, always someone going around and about with their speeders, lights often left on in the apartments below. The night air sends a chill down his spine and he instinctively holds you tighter in hopes to shield you from the cold. 

“Mum told me about these dreams you’ve been having,” he starts slowly. 

You hum, pressing closer to him, the plushie squashed between you two. Your eyes look tired, almost older than you actually are, and his heart squeezes at the sight. “Papa, do you know Darth Vader?”

His heart skips a beat. He knows no Vader, surely not a Sith named like that, but the fact that you dreamed about it almost makes his knees buckle. He mentally promises himself to make some digging in the archives and reports for any Vaders that might be hiding out there. “I don’t, sweetheart. Do you?” 

Your brows furrow, your little hand patting the skin above his heart. “I don’t think I do.” 

He presses his lips into a thin line. “Well, what does he do in your dreams?”

Your frown deepens. “I never see him. But Obi-Wan’s afraid of him– or, or angry at him, I’m not sure. Maybe both.” 

His frown mirrors yours. You’ve never met Obi-Wan aside from a time or two when he was assigned as bodyguard to your mother, but that was years ago; you shouldn’t be able to remember him. “How do you know who Obi-Wan is, sweetheart?” 

You stare at him like he’s stupid. “Isn’t he a friend?”

“I mean, I guess he is, but you’ve never actually met him, have you?”

“Then I think I will.” you cuddle back on his shoulder like nothing happened. 

Yeah, we gotta send this one to the Temple, he bitterly thinks. The thought of your mother alone in this apartment after years of having you around makes him sad, but there’s no one else apart from the masters there that could help you — he would try to, if the war wasn’t stripping him of all of his free time. 

Anakin has no time to properly train you. As of now, he could manage to give you chopped notions and barely any principles; in the Temple, all the Jedi solely focus on the younglings’ training, a luxury he can’t afford right now. 

She’s still so young, Padmé’s voice rings in his head, I don’t want her to forget about me. 

Six years old might be already too old for a youngling, Anakin ponders, but five years old would be perfect. They still accept kids that age. 

Another birthday for Padmé, he decides, another birthday and then off to the Temple she goes. 

Except, he doesn’t know there’s no time for another birthday. Not for Padmé, anyways. Nor for him, too, some could argue. 

“Papa,” you mumble, “could you sing me that lullaby?”

He chuckles affectionately. “Aren’t you getting a little too old for that?” He teases, with no actual intent in ever stopping to sing Ghost Star to you. You could be forty and him on his deathbed and, if you asked, he’d still sing it for you. “Ghost star, wonder where you are; Ghost star, are you very far? All night long, I will sing your song, if you watch over me…”

You do end up properly meeting Obi-Wan. That is, unfortunately, after — for what you know — both your parents die. 

The air in the spacecraft is eerily still, as even C-3PO is stunned to silence. The tears on your cheeks have long since dried, and you keep fidgeting with a small, faintly glowing cube in your hands  — the only thing you managed to take with you when your mother loaded you into the spaceship directed to Mustafar. She’s — was, was, was — able to open it, but you still have no idea how to do it; your father promised he would have taught you to, but… well. He now never will. 

The cries from the med bay stopped a while ago. And while you’re still so young, you know that the silence means nothing good. You might not be a master of the Force, or know enough about it to understand fully what it means, but you’ve felt it — your mother’s presence slipping away in favor of two smaller ones. 

Finally, after a time that seems never-ending, Obi-Wan emerges from the door connecting the hallway with the infirmary, his expression full of sorrow. He looks surprised by your calmness, almost as if he had expected you to have gone crazy by now. “Hi,” he breathes lowly, tired and remorseful. How do you tell a kid her mother’s dead when just a few hours ago you had to break the same type of news about her father? 

After he understands that you’re not going to reply, he gets closer and kneels in front of you, taking note of the cube you’re holding in your hands — a holocron. Does she know how to open it, yet? “Hey, kid,” he tries as softly as he can, “I…”

“Mama’s gone, isn’t she?” You interrupt him. Obi-Wan almost stumbles; the look in your eyes is scaringly similar to the one Anakin had sometimes, strangely old for your age. “I felt her slipping away like papa did.” 

His lips are pressed into a thin line as he puts a hand on your shoulder. “I’m really sorry,” he says it even though he knows it won’t change anything. “We tried everything, but even the medical droid had no idea what to do.”

“Oh,” C-3PO mumbles as R2-D2 beeps sadly. “This– this is horrendous news.” 

You nod absentmindedly, like you’d seen it coming. “Are Luke and Leia okay?”

He raises his eyebrows. “Who?”

“The twins. Are they okay?”

As even Padmé looked surprised by the fact she was having twins, he wonders how in the world you knew and gave them names. Your mother left no names behind, and he had thought about just naming them after your parents, but if you already had names picked out… then it’s not his place to name your siblings, is it?

“They are.” C-3PO sighs in relief as R2-D2 lets out a happier beep. “Would you like to see them?” 

You nod timidly, almost stumbling as you stand up from the chair you sat in and taking Obi-Wan’s hand when he offers it to you. You’re still gripping on the holocron like a lifeline, its dim glow faltering every now and then. “Do you know what that is?” He asks, pointing at it as the door to the infirmary opens. 

You glance at it, unsure. “Dunno. Mama always played the hologram inside when I missed papa, but I tried opening it and it didn’t work.”

If Padmé managed to open it, then Anakin must’ve programmed the holocron so that the Force frequency needed to open it was small enough that she could play it; even if you were a prodigy like your father, though, it would be impossible for you to open it without directions or a minimal training. 

The nurse-droid your mother brought with her is feeding some milk to one of the twins when you enter — Obi-Wan guesses she might have had it with her the whole time, because he doesn’t remember this ship having such a thing as baby formula in its stocks. 

RO-N4 places the infant back in the cot with the other twin as soon as they burp, and since you’re still too short to properly look at them Obi-Wan has to take you in his arms for you to have a good peek. 

“This is Leia,” he murmurs softly, pointing at the baby with small tufts of brown hair. “She was born first.” He then points to the smaller, uglier and balder twin, “And this is Luke; he was born right after.”

You coo, pushing your index finger against Luke’s cheek. “They’re so ugly,” you state, not exactly with the intent of insulting them– just saying what’s in your mind. 

Obi-Wan chuckles fondly. “Well, I’m sure you were at least as ugly as them when you were this little. Pretty much everyone is.”

You turn to him, holocron still in hand, hesitantly nudging it to him. “Mister Obi,” you say, calling him with the nickname that later on will stick to him for pretty much your entire time spent with him, “do you know how to play this?”

He nods, taking the holocron in his hand and changing his hold on you so that he can use his other hand while still keeping you upright, “This is a holocron. It’s used by Force users to store information and files, and it opens if infused with the Force. Let’s see…” 

He concentrates on the cube, focusing a small amount of Force within it, then delicately twists the corners as it starts to glow steadier. Just as he expected — the smallest amount of Force that even Padmé could’ve been able to conjure up. The holocron starts to float, projecting a hologram in the dim-lit room. 

It starts with Anakin, clearly just knighted as a proper Jedi: he’s still a bit scrawny, his hair’s yet to grow after the braid and the small ponytail for padawans had been cut. He looks a bit embarrassed to be in front of the camera as a small baby’s cries echo in the recording. “Do I really have to do this?” He mutters. 

A laugh comes from the side, and the baby’s cries get louder — maybe closer to the camera. “Of course you do!” It’s Padmé’s voice, amused but clearly tired, stabbing directly into Obi-Wan's heart. That poor, poor girl… “It’s the only way she’ll stop crying, and since you’re mostly off-world, she’s mostly crying. This will solve a lot of my problems — even the droids are starting to go mad.” 

A pair of arms and a swoosh of a dress appear to the side, and suddenly a crying infant is trusted into Anakin’s hands. It’s you, his master realises, crying as if the world’s about to end, face all red and pudgy, definitely a bit less ugly than your siblings. Your father’s eyes soften in a way that makes Obi-Wan’s heart ultimately crumble. 

“Hey,” he murmurs, cooing and humming as he presses kisses all over your cheeks. He winces as your face contorts even more, “Now, c’mon, don’t look at me like that,”

“Please, Master, just sing the song!” It’s C-3PO’s voice in the distance, full of despair and anguish. “Another sob and the metal holding me together might just turn to rust!” R2-D2’s beeping seems to be of the same idea as him. 

Anakin huffs, glaring down at you with no real hostility. “You’re one hell of a spoiled baby, you know that?” 

Your cries continue nonetheless. He glares at the camera. “Padmé, I love you, but if anyone else ever sees this, I’m divorcing you,” 

“You would never,” your mother’s knowing voice is a mere rumble in the distance as Anakin settles to hold you tight to his chest, pressing a kiss to your forehead before starting to sing. 

“Ghost star, wonder where you are; Ghost star, are you very far? All night long, I will sing your song, if you watch over me. Ghost star, hiding in the night, all your friends are all so bright… when the sky is clear, I can sense you near, looking down on me. Ghost star, silent in the sky, now I start to wonder why. Show me your light; I've waited all night. Ghost star, won't you sing with me?” 

He sings the lullaby multiple times until you’re completely knocked out, dismissing Padmé when she offers to take you back to your room, preferring to keep you close for another while. His stare as he looks at you is so tender that Obi-Wan can’t believe he just had to leave him to die.

Soon enough the recording restarts, the same banter and song again, but he lets it play. Every word is a guilt trip, every laugh a stab in his chest, and the image of Anakin with a baby happily sleeping against his chest might just be the end of him. 

By the time he finally shuts the holocron off both you and the twins are passed out; he tries to convince himself that the hole in his chest isn’t gnawing away at the last bit standing of his sanity. He looks at you, carding a hand through your hair, of the same tenderness as your father but with the same curl of your mother's, and decides here and there to never tell you about what really happened on Mustafar. Not that he really had the intention to do, as of now, but… you don’t deserve to know about Vader. Obi-Wan won’t let you live with the knowledge that your father killed both himself and your mother, no. 

And so, the lie about Darth Vader killing both Senator Amidala and her loyal guard, Anakin Skywalker, who lost his life fighting for hers, is born. 

[alexlwrites]

𝑭𝒐𝒓𝒈𝒆𝒕 𝒎𝒆 𝒏𝒐𝒕

✿𝑷𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈: Jungkook x Reader

✿ 𝑺𝒖𝒎𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒚:  The one where everytime you get dumped you pretend that you never met the guy before to mess with their heads. To the point that if you run into them somewhere you reintroduce yourself and act like you’ve never seen each other before.

Enters fuckboy Jungkook who disappears after your night together, not knowing how much he was about to regret that choice.

✿ 𝑻𝒂𝒈𝒔:  Romance, Humor, Fluff, Angst, College AU

✿ 𝑨/𝑵: I’m truly sorry for this sad excuse of an update.

(Fanfic masterlist)

(support me on my ko-fi)

°•. ✿ .•°

𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞 - 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐬, 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐠𝐮𝐞

(<<< part two)

You were on a date. Or so Jungkook believed.

He was skulking outside yet another coffee place, as you seemed to have a financially unadvised obsession with those. And although it might’ve seemed so to any passers-by, he was not stalking you.

He just so happened to stumble upon this place where he knew you usually had a chocolate cappuccino on Tuesdays at around 3 in the afternoon, as you didn’t have classes after 2 on Tuesdays and Fridays. 

All of that knowledge had been acquired through days of observing and cataloguing your quirks and traits. Jungkook had decided upon further introspection that just his charm and thick, veiny arms would not be enough to lure you back into his bedroom and so he decided to do some research. His findings were both surprising and not at all: you were fucking weird.

There was the caffeine addiction, the concerningly decorated messenger bags and your fixation with small fuzzy animal figurines - which he had confirmed with his little sister were called Calico Critters and, according to the expert appraisal of the nine-year-old, your collection was worth quite the money… His investigation had brought him many findings and eventually led him here: your third favorite coffee shop where you seemed to be laughing way too hard at some guy’s probably lame jokes. Couldn’t be better than his, Jungkook thought bitterly. You had laughed way harder at your… Well, one date.

Jungkook was once again taken by irrational anger, as that was all you seemed to invoke in him. How come he was climbing up the walls of his tiny dorm, haunted by the thought of your psychotic self and you got to move onto the next man (or should he say victim?) as if your night together had never happened? He felt used!

He was so close to an epiphany with that particular thought, he could feel self-actualization kissing his piercings. Alas, Jungkook was not interested in facing his own hypocrisy that day. No, he only craved confrontation and so he stepped into the cafe with squared shoulders and puffed chest like a New York pidgeon on its way to the last breadcrumb.

“Y/N” he called while approaching your table.

Your tired eye roll sent a shiver down his spine, but with you he could never tell if it was annoyance or arousal. 

Most likely both.

“Jeon” you answered in a clipped tone “how unsurprising and unpleasant to see you yet again. This is Jihoon” you gestured towards the man sitting in front of you, watching the whole interaction with mild interest “Jihoon, this is my stalker.”

“I’m sorry to interrupt your little date” the way Jungkook spat out the last word made it clear that he was not at all sorry. “Also, I’m not a stalker.”

“That’s exactly what a stalker would say.” Jihoon extended his hand with an amused smile “So nice to meet you, Mr. Stalker. And please, don’t worry about our date” you snorted, making Jungkook feel like he was being left out of a big joke “this is just a couple of cousins catching up. You can still stalk her freely, although I don’t see why you would. Is it like a romantic gesture?”

“He’s already obsessed with me as it is. Don’t encourage him or I’m gonna end up in his basement.”

Jungkook felt the sudden urge to bite his fist and let out a five minute long suffering groan. Of course you were related. That look of unhinged superiority could only run in the family.

“Jeon, can I talk to you outside for a second?” You asked, but it seemed like an order as you pulled him away by his arm, Jihoon waving behind as you left the cafe.

Were you about to whoop his ass, he wondered. He didn’t doubt for a second that you could.

“This has gone too far now, Jeon” You said as soon as you were out of earshot from your curious cousin. “It was funny for maybe five minutes watching you throw a bitch fit but I’m tired of being afraid of opening my fridge at night and find you lurking behind the milk. You’re in my classes, my favorite coffee shops, the library and God knows you’re not reading in there… I even had to learn your name and for what?! What do you want from me? A therapist recommendation? A fucking exorcist?!”

“I want to take you out again.”

You blinked. Once. Twice.

“I hope you mean take me out with a gun and put me out of my misery!”

“I want to take you out on a date” he repeated resolutely.

“Why?! You said it yourself, you don’t have feelings for me, we have nothing in common… Haven’t I treated you shitily enough? Aren’t you loved at home?”

Jungkook scoffed. “We have plenty in common!” he said with very little conviction.

“Yeah? Like what?”

“Well…” he scrambled his brain for something believable, because he doubted you would believe he also enjoyed reading mildly erotic retellings of Greek Mythology in the school yard, like you so clearly did “That movie theater on Fifth Street that you love. I also love that place.”

“You do?”

“They did a marathon of a couple of Marvel movies.”

“They only show foreign movies.”

“Well, that one happened in Wakanda, so… Foreign.”

You looked at him like he had just said the stupidest thing on earth. Honestly, knowing himself, he probably did.

“First of all, it’s weird that you know my favorite movie theater and it does nothing against the stalker allegations.” Jungkook just shrugged “But fine, if we got so much in common like you say, why don’t we go watch a movie tomorrow? Mind you” you pointed a stiletto acrylic nail at him before he smiled too hard “this is not a date. This is a friendly get-together. After all, we have so much in common, right? Surely we’ll be the best of friends, like rats and the plague.”

It was not what Jungkook wanted, but being your friend was better than hiding behind the shelves of the university library, so he agreed. This was just a start and the perfect one at that. What could be better than a movie date, right?”

***

Jungkook had been crying for the last 50 minutes. When you suggested watching a movie about a dictatorship, he thought it was going to be a war movie filled with action, like Wonder Woman or A Bug’s Life. Instead, he sat through the extremely emotional retelling of a family who lost its dissident dad to the military-forced disappearances and bawled the whole time, because, hey, he loves his dad, okay? Meanwhile, you were stuffing your face with popcorn and holding back a maniacal grin, patting his head softly like he was a lost child at the mall. 

When the movie ended, credits rolling down the screen, he excused himself to go to the bathroom and try to wash his tear-streaked face. Ok, so crying (sobbing, really) at the movies was not the sexiest move he could’ve pulled, but surely an intellectual woman such as yourself liked an emotional man, right? His manly empathy probably got him some brownie points, no?

“So” you started once he left the bathroom, dabbing at his eyes with a tissue “Did you enjoy the movie?”

“Ye-yeah, I did. I mean, it was kind of sad, I guess. Did you enjoy it?”

“Oh, I had already seen it.”

Jungkook stopped “What?”

“Oh, yeah, I downloaded it illegally months ago when it first aired in the Venice International Film Festival but I wanted to see your reaction. Honestly, it was so worth it.”

Jungkook had never in his life had met a more infuriating woman than you and he had a younger sister with a mean streak. Everything you did and said sent him into a spiral of frustration that had him testing the enamel of his teeth from so much grinding. “Do you enjoy watching grown men cry?” he said through a fake gritted smile.

“Yeah, don’t you? This could be one of the things we have in common! Do you want to invite your friends next time?”

Honestly, that was not that bad of an idea. Jimin and Taehyung had both been on his face for the past few days, making constant fun of him for his useless attempts at wooing you, so Jungkook would really enjoy some revenge. Maybe he could film it and become TikTok famous, maybe… Jungkook shook his head. He was not about to agree with you!

“What are you doing, Y/N?” he asked, trying and failing to hide his annoyance at your constant nonchalant teasing “I thought this was a friendly hang-out. Why are you being a brat?”

You raised your brows and crossed your arms and Jungkook just knew he was about to get the verbal beatdown of his life. Even the weed-smelling teenager sweeping the carpet of the movie theater seemed to know that, as he quickly swept his way into the broom’s closet with a wince. “Trust me, this is not me being a brat yet. This” you gestured towards the both of you with a menacing finger “is me being friendly. This is me being friendly to the guy who has been following me around campus for a week, disrupting my studies and my schedule. This is me being friendly to the guy who has not been able to take a hint so clearly in his face that even a blind Sherlock Holmes would say it’s fucking elementary. This is me being friendly to the man who created a narrative in his hair-filled head where he slept with me, left me and got annoyed and offended when I didn’t want to do it again. This is as friendly as I can get with bored, spoiled men-children who seem to have nothing better to do with their days besides annoying women into going out with them to fill a void they refuse to address in therapy. This is all the friendly you’re going to get from me, Jeon.”

Silence reigned over the movie theatre and even the popcorns seemed to stop popping to listen to the on-going drama. It was hard to find something to say after being emotionally stripped naked like that on a Wednesday, but Jungkook had not yet learned to take an L and shut up. 

“Look, I get that I may have given you the wrong first impression” you scoffed and seemed to be ready to go for round two “but! BUT! People can change, can’t they? I get that I’ve been pushy and I shouldn’t have called you crazy…”

“That was actually the one thing you got right.”

“But I’ve been working on it! I found out the things that you like, I watched that sad as fuck movie for you, I even got you this!” he reached into the pocket and pulled out the last thing you expected from him.

A tiny bunny figurine with a baker's hat.

“Is this a Baby Bakers Edition Calico Critters Bunny?” you asked, voice half awe and half confusion.

“My little sister said they’re limited edition. See?” he pushed the small bunny into your hand, watching you cradle it gently “I’m trying out here. What is it going to take for you to give me a chance?”

You toyed with the miniature’s ears, petting it gently as you frowned deep in thought. 

“A good reason” you answered at last. 

“What?”

“You asked what’s going to take for me to give you a chance. That 's it. I need a good reason. When I ask you ‘Why do you want to go on a date with me?’ I need you to give me a good reason.” You pocketed the bunny and stared deep into his eyes, an unsettling feeling growing in his chest “I don’t want to be some sort of point you’re proving or a challenge you’re overcoming. So I want you to give me a good reason why you want me.” you started walking away, leaving him confused once more “When you have that, then we can talk.”

(part four >>>)

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✿ My taglists are open! Click here to be added <3

[dcxdpdabbles]

Hi I love rereading all your fics and prompts! Like, multiple times throughout the day. I have a schedule. Your works are my literal bed time stories (wow that sounded weird).

Anyways (before I ramble any worse). Any updates for Child support? I just love it so much and wondering if there's more

John throws himself to the side, barely avoiding a grab from a fifth-dimension demon throwing a fit after he rejects its request to marry his son. He rolls across the ground, powering up a spell, as he mentally curses his age.

Maybe Batman was right. He should work on his physical form a little more.

"Wait! Wait! I'm sorry! Can we talk about this-" Whatever the demon was going to say is lost after John's spell slams into its chest, throwing it back out of his dimension and sealing him from his Earth for fifty years. The spell is helpful, but fifty years doesn't mean much to demons, and it will wait decades to come back and bother them.

Thankfully, John will likely be long-dead before then. It's always been his solution for most of his problems. Pushing a problem to a later date where it can become someone else's problem.

But what about his son?

Danny, who was half of Time itself, would likely be around in fifty years. If there was one thing he didn't want, it was to leave Danny with all his messes. He'll have to learn a new banishing spell and find some instructors who could teach him an entirely new magic dueling technique.

It was the responsible thing to do. Ugh, fatherhood was making him an accountable bore.

John heaves himself off the floor, sweat pouring from his forehead, and grimaces. On the stove, the eggs he was cooking for Danny's breakfast are smoking, burnt into a dark black smudge. The House of Mystery's old wood groans, displeased with all the smoke, and a second later, the stove and counter vanish as the house creates a hole to drop them out of.

"Now that's just plain rude," John tells the house, dusting his knees. "It's not like I asked to be attacked first thing in the morning. What am I going to feed Danny now?"

The house's floor tiles shift in what John has come to learn was meant to be a shrug. The blasted thing has started copying Danny's teenage behavior, including that of his son's friends, and now seemed to enjoy rebelling against John whenever possible.

Thankfully, the house also seemed to really like Danny because one of the drawers opens, and a local Gotham breakfast dinner menu is flung at him. John catches the sheet with a sigh. He won't have to go too far when dropping Danny off at school.

"Morning, Dad," Danny greets, walking into the room wearing his Gotham Academy uniform. The dark night blue blazer, black tie, and dress trousers make his son look like the heir of the second most powerful being. It only took one glance to see that Danny came from nobility.

John knows he's a handsome bloke, but he had nothing on Clockwork's human form. That man was a temptation itself, and it looks like Danny has inherited his beauty.

John will never know how the brats in Danny's other schools could not see that. His son was perfect. John fights the urge to summon a camera. He always thought the fools always showing off the children's pictures were idiotic. Now that he's a father, he understands.

He smiles, "Morning, love. How about we go out to eat for breakfast?"

__________________________________________________________

They arrived at the dinner just as it was opening. John told Danny to order some black tea and went to the bathroom. He was only gone for a few minutes, but when he returned, he found his boy surrounded by a group of teenagers wearing the same uniform.

There was a splash of angry red on Danny's face as a girl gestured to him, obviously mocking him, and the rest of the teenagers laughed. Danny's hands were clenched in his lap, shoulders hunched, and head lowered as another teenager reached out and flickered his ear.

This one was wearing those ridiculous American leather jackets for some sport. He was also the biggest teenager there, a boy who thought himself too important for his own good.

John's jaw clenched.

Bullies.

Danny had bullies at Gotham Academy. Why can't his son just be left alone?!

John was just about to march across the room, ready and willing to fight a group of children, when Danny suddenly raised his head to yell in the face of the leather jacket git.

Alarmingly, the teenagers don't have the reaction that John expects. The large boy blushes, and the teenagers all seem to grow flustered.

No, John realizes with horror. No, they fancy him. The little rats bothering Danny are into him. Were all the other bullies just dumb kids who were terrible at flirting, too?

He is so stunned by the realization that he misses the way Danny attempts to push past the boy and somehow ends up tripping over his own two feet. He tries to catch himself on the table but the thing tilts over and their drinks fly.

Danny ends up half on the ground covered in drinks and looking bloody misaberle as the rest of the children snicker. John draws to his full height, deciding that it didn't matter what these kids felt for Danny.

His son thought they were bullying him because they made him feel terrible. So they were all going to feel the wrath of the one human who bullshits his way to being one of the mightiest spell casters in history.

"What the bloody hell are you urchins think you're doing!?" He yells. The kids all take one look at him before they scatter, rushing towards their posh cars outside.

"You alright, love?" He helps the boy to his feet, wiping some liquid with a napkin.

Danny looks small as he wipes away at his eyes. There weren't any tears; he was just taking the tea that had run down his face off. "I'm okay. Thanks, Dad."

"Do they bother you a lot?" He asks, anger growing in his chest. "We can go to your headmaster."

"No! Telling the principle will only make things worse!" Danny shouts, looking up in alarm. "Besides, they don't really bother me that much. Damian can usually scare them off. They should go for me, I can handle it; most other kids don't."

Fuck, where has he heard that phrase before?

It's alright if he hits me. I can handle it better than Mum.

John takes a breath through his nose, willing it to calm him down. This is another change that has come to be ever since he learned about Danny. Before, John would have gone off the handle, started a fight, yelled till he was red, drank, or slept through his issues, and damn the consequences.

He's got to think with a clearer head now. He owes Danny because of what his other father will do and because John wants to be the kind of father he never had.

The waitress rushes over, helping them get things set to right, and Danny apologizes for repeatedly knocking on the table. She waves away his worry, stating she saw the group and that, as someone who's worked near Gotham Acadamy for years, she knows what kind of students go there.

She also mentioned seeing what happened to the scholarship students over the years after nodding her head to Danny's pin. John hated that it was a requirement for Danny's uniform as a "show" of his accomplishments when all it did was single him out as a target.

While his son is distracted, John sends a quick text message to Bruce, informing him of the bullying Danny is going through.

Bruce responds with a single message: "It shall be handled." for once, he doesn't roll his eyes at the theatrics. A small thump on the window makes him glance up from his phone screen.

Pressed up against the glass is a blond teenage boy with wide eyes, breathing heavily and looking like a child staring at a feast of their favorite foods. John makes a face as the teenager's palms' and nose lean more into the glass, disorientating his image, but nothing could top the manic grin on his face.

John follows the boy's eyesight to where they practically devour his son, who is busy looking at the pasty bar. The waitress told him to pick anything he liked in the house to try and cheer him up from his bully.

Danny takes his sweets very seriously and studies his options with hyper-focused determination. He bends at his waist to look at the far-back brownies, and the teenager in the window lets out a cat-like growl of approval.

Alarmed, John steps in front of Danny, blocking him and his bum from view. The teenager, wearing the same uniform as Danny, and John was pretty sure he's seen this kid at Gotham High School when they had been touring the place before deciding to take Burce's offer, locks eyes with him.

John doesn't have to see into the stranger's scowl to confirm what he already knows.

That was not a human in control of the body. A demon likely took the unfortunate human for a joy ride. John raises his hand, spell crackling at his fingertips, and the scowl turns darker as the demon wearing the stolen face seers.

Just as he is about to fire off a spell, Danny's voice cuts through the tension, stepping around John with a happy "Bernard!"

His son walks up to the window before freezing and then looks back at John with the same bone-chilling expression of anger that he has only ever seen on one other being. That one being who could make the very fabrics of the universe fall apart despite not shouting or rampaging.

Danny inherited Clockwork's anger, it seemed.

"That thing is overshadowing my friend Bernard Dowd." Danny's voice is low and echoing. Somewhere behind him, John can hear the waitress gasp for air as the room's pressure increases, to Danny's displeasure. "I'm going to kill it."

John's knees shake as he fights to stay upright. "Alright. Make sure you finish murdering it before your second class. You have a chemistry test today."

Danny nods, walks outside, and grabs Bernard's arm to drag him into a dark alley. The dumb thing looked pleased, spraying something into its mouth. I thought Danny was going to snog it.

Fool.

As soon as Danny left, the pressure disappeared from the dinner, every human inside sighing relief once they could breathe better.

"What in the world was that!?" The waitress demands, her voice strained with fear.

John turns to her with a shrug. "Puberty."

Outside, a loud honk is heard as a certain teenager in a leather jacket slams his head against his steering wheel with a wail. His friends are quick to comfort him to the best of their abilities. They likely saw Danny drag the possessed human into the alleyway.

Good.

"Do you have any alcoholic drinks?" He asks the horror-stricken woman. "I need something strong."

"It's seven in the morning."

"Ah, a coffee then. Black. Strong. Anything to help me raise my boy and get through the day."

There is a long pause before she responds. "Of course, and it's on the house. Not easy being a single parent to....whatever that was."

At least she has a heart.