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[rcpladv]

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[aarunresearcher]

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[yueyimold]

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[supplyside]

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Dassault Mirage 2000 formed a potent interceptor and strike component of the French Air Force. It has proven a capable performer under extreme combat conditions and has seen action across Europe, the Middle East and in North Africa.

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[saoodoffice4]

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[whore4mattsturniolo]

Valentine - Dealer!Chris x Stoner!Reader

In which...Chris gives angel a late valentine's day gift

You'd be lying if you said your heart didn't race once you saw Chris' contact photo, the bright cell phone screen illuminating your dark bedroom. It'd been weeks since you'd talked to him, and even longer since you'd evem heard his voice. You'd secretly hoped that he'd reach out for Valentine's Day, but who were you kidding? He wasn't your boyfriend and you didn't want to be his girlfriend.

The phone went silent, leaving you in the quiet, dimly lit room, the only sound being the low hum of the air conditioning unit. You let out the breath you didn't know you were holding, only for the phone to ring yet again. It was as if each buzz got more and more angry as they continued.

"Hello?" You finally answer, your voice soft and groggy as you rub your eyes.

The voice on the other end is muffled, drowned out by the sound of wind blowing and the drone of cars driving past. "Hey angel," Chris says, "What'cha up to tonight?"

You sigh, throwing your head back. You knew better than to expect anything more than a booty call from Chris, especially at this hour. But, you couldn't help but be just a little disappointed.

"I was planning on sleeping, considering its 2:30 in the morning, Christopher," his name rolls off your tongue like butter, a groan escaping Chris' lips from his end of the phone call, "What do you want from me?

He clicks his tongue, "Was in the neighborhood. Had a few j's in the glove box. Wrapped 'em in your favorite. The fuckin'...that kitty shit y'liked..." His words were slurred, each syllable hanging off the other. "I'm already outside so—"

"Chris," you say, hiding the shakiness from your voice as a flurry of emotions rush through your head, anger and sadness as the primary components. "You realize this is the first time I've heard from you in weeks? I'm not gonna be another one of your little girlfriends you text any time you wanna get your dick wet. I got what I need and it's not from you—"

"Angel, hey, angel," He cuts you off, not listening to any of his well-deserved tongue lashings. He rubs his hand over his face, the other gripping the steering wheel tight as he groans. "First of all, I don't got any girlfriends. Get that shit out'cha head right now. If I was fuckin' anybody else, you'd know."

Your ears prick up at his words, your heart almost dropping to your stomach. Your brain wanted to believe that he was lying, that his sentences were nothing but meaningless words to manipulate and deceive you. But your heart chose to believe otherwise. He was obviously sleeping with somebody else. That's why he'd been dodging you. That's why he hadn't been over in weeks. That's why you started sleeping with someone else too. Obviously

"Second of all—" Chris' slurred speech breaks your train of thought, "If you didn't want me to come, if you really didn't wanna see me, you wouldn't have picked up in the first fuckin' place,"

You bite the inside of your cheek. He's right. There was nothing more you wanted than to see him. Every time you picked up your phone, you hoped you'd see a message from him. Even at last night's valentine's day dinner, seated at a booth in one of the nicest restaurants in Boston, across the table from one of the finest men in the damn country, you could barely get Chris out of your damn head.

"I know you angel. Don't turn me away, a'ight?" His voice goes soft, awaiting a response. He silently begged for your agreement, begging for you to let him in again.

You sigh, eyes darting around the room in thought before nodding, forgetting he can't see you. "Alright. Fine," A grin spreads across Chris' face as he knocks on your front door, ending the phone call.

Crawling out of bed, you make your way to the living room, opening the door to find Chris waiting, leaning against the wall. He stared at you with red, half lidded eyes, his hands shoved deep in his pockets with his hair messy, sporting a light stubble as opposed to his regular clean-shaved look. He flashes a small smile, pushing past you and making his way into your dimly lit apartment.

His eyes darted around the living room, searching for any hint of change, any remanent of someone else being in there. His eyes finally lock on the vase of white roses sitting on the dining table, the sweet scent filling his nose as he neared them.

"Fuck are these? This ain't the kinda flower you like," he smirks, looking between you and the roses, though there was a tension building in his voice. He clenched his jaw as he brushed his fingers over the soft petals, his eyes trailing down to the red heart in the middle of the vase.

Happy Valentine's Day Beautiful

Anger and jealousy begins to pool in his stomach, his adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed the emotions threatening to bubble over. "Happy valentine's day beautiful," he reads in a mocking tone, a slight glare in his eyes as he turned to face you. "Can't believe you started fuckin' with a lame just 'cause I wasn't givin' you some attention

You hadn't done anything wrong. You were moving on in your life. Moving on from someone that clearly didn't want you. Stepping closer to him, you lean against the dining table. "You talkin' shit 'cause he bought me flowers?"

"No angel. I could give a fuck less about your guy buyin' you flowers," Chris scoffs, shaking his head and stepping in front of you, tracking soft circles on your arms. "I'm talkin' shit 'cause I'm standing here, in your apartment instead of him.

Your breath hitches at his touch, but you push him back. "What are you even doing here, Chris?"

He runs his hands over his face, making an exaggerated groan. "Told ya, I just wanted to smoke this nice lil' joint I rolled for you," he pulls the joints out of his pocket, the adorning pattern of Hello Kitty catching your eye. "C'mon, ma. Don't act like you don't want it. Don't act like you don't want me. Y'know I'm better than that lame you got hangin' around."

"Stop calling him that," you assert, crossing your arms. "You're a lame."

"Maybe," he smirks. "But I know damn well he don't make you feel as good as I do," he nuzzles his face in the crook of your neck, muffling his voice as he starts to leave soft kisses.

"Does he know how much you like getting kissed right...here...?" His tongue trails down to the area where your neck and shoulder meet, and you go silent, your body melting at the feeling of his touch, the low hum of his voice in your ear. "Or is that only for me?" He smirks against your skin, before pulling back to look at you, your wide eyes looking into his deep blues.

"S'what I thought," His eyes glance down at your plump lips, running his thumb over the bottom. "He know you still wear my shit either?" His fingers trail down to the collar of the oversized baby blue shirt that hung off your shoulders.

"No," you say flatly, your eyes threatening to shut as he moves his face just centimeters from yours, his scent intoxicating. You can feel the heat and arousal radiating off his body, watching his lidded eyes stare into yours.

Chris grins, and without warning, his lips crash onto yours, a grunt escaping his throat as his hand tangles in your hair. He rips his jacket off, discarding it on the floor behind him. He moves down your jawline, continuing his assault on your neck, leaving hot, open-mouthed kisses down your throat. He sucks at a sweet spot near the back of your neck, leaving a dark purple mark in his wake.

He pulls back, pupils blown out with lust as he pants, watching you get so flustered from him. He quickly spins you around, bending you over the dining table. You gasp at the sudden motion, biting your lip in response as he pulls your pajama shorts down, your panties going down with them, pooling at your ankles.

He runs his index finger over your leaking folds, arousal dripping down your inner thighs. "Knew you were missin' me. Look how fuckin' wet you are," he grunts, taking his soaked hand to his mouth, swirling his tongue over his finger. "Drippin' all down your thighs..." He laughs to himself softly.

You moan, begging for his touch, anything that'll sooth the aching heat between your legs. "Chris, please," you plead, looking back at him as he unbuckles his jeans.

"Please what? What d'you need angel?" He grins wickedly. He knows what you want. All he needs is to hear it from your lips. He moves closer behind you, spreading your legs and gently rubbing his growing erection rubs against your slick pussy, making you both hiss. "Tell me what you need...and I'll give it t'you...anything you want..."

"Please," you moan again, rubbing yourself against his bulge. "Fuck me," your voice is barely above a whisper, laced with lust and a bit shame. A trail of arousal connects the two of you as he pulls back, yanking down his Calvin Klein boxers, his hardened cock springing out and slapping against his stomach.

Beads of precum pool at his red tip as he slowly strokes his length. "Spit," he says roughly, bring his hand up to your face, and you do what he says, gathering saliva in your mouth and dropping it into his palm, using it as lubricate before aligning himself at your entrance, pushing his dick into you gently.

"Fuuck baby—" a groan leaves his mouth as he feels your tight walls constricting his cock, each inch stretching you out, molding around him. "You always this tight when I don't finger you? Can barely fuckin' fit..."

He holds onto your hips with a deadly grip as he bottoms out, the two of you moaning in sync. "Gonna have you stretch her out again huh?" His cocky laugh comes out as a ragged gasp. His eyes flutter shut as he begins to pick up the pace in his thrusts, "Gonna make sure she only wants me."

"Fuck!" You choke out, holding onto the cold, wooden table as Chris rams his cock into you, the sound of skin against skin echoing throughout the apartment. "So—so good baby—"

He smirks, watching you fall apart for him, listening to the squelching sounds of your dripping pussy as he pistons into you. He watches you desperate try to hold onto something, his thrusts hard and fast. "Stop runnin' and take this dick," he says breathlessly, his grip on your hips growing impossibly tighter, his fingers leaving indents in your skin.

The symphony of moans and whines is broken by the loud clatter of glass falling onto the ground, breaking you out of your trance and making you gasp. The roses. You look back at Chris with pleading eyes, looking down at the mess of glass and rose petals all over your floor as he refuses to slow his movements.

He flashes you a wicked smile, reaching a calloused hand into your hair and tugging, "Dick got'cha going dumb? Knocked over your pretty lil' flowers and everything," he coos with mock sympathy, your moans growing louder with each graze of your cervix from his cock. The sensations make you ignore your surroundings, your vision going blurry as you focus on chasing your release.

"M'gonna—" you whine, holding onto the table again, your fingertips digging in the wood. "Gonna cum—"

Chris groans, his cock twitching as your velvety walls pulse around him. "I know it angel...Can feel you squeezin' me..." He traps his bottom lip between his teeth, biting hard enough to draw blood. "Tell me whose pussy this is and I'll let you cum, yeah? Tell me whose it is, angel.

You cry out, your brain going fuzzy as the hand tangled in your hair moves to your throat. "S'yours!" You manage to stutter out, before your orgasm crashes over you, ripping a guttural moan from you as your legs begin to shake, causing you to lose balance.

He grins, watching you fall apart as he keeps you pressed against the desk, both his hands moving back your hips as he chases his own high. "All mine. All fuckin' mine," he shudders, his thrusts growing staggered as your tight walls clench around his dick. His moans grow louder as he gathers the mental strength to pull out, though its one of the hardest things he's ever had to do. He jerks his cock in swift motions, painting your back in ribbons of his pearly, white cum.

The two of you sit in silence, the only sound being the shared panting as you both try to catch your breaths, your warm, sweaty bodies still flushed together. Chris leans forward, pressing soft kisses along your shoulder blade, "Happy valentine's day, angel. I'll get'cha some new flowers yeah? Some better ones."

"Fuck you, Chris," you laugh breathlessly, staring at the mess on the floor. "You're cleaning that up."

He looks at you with a confused expression, his eyebrows furrowing. "Fuck I'm not. You knocked the shit over, not me," he takes a few steps back, grabbing a towel and wiping his release off your skin. "On some 'Oh God! Fuck me Chris! Your dick feels so good!' shit," he mimics your moans, rolling his eyes back exaggeratingly. You glare at him while you pull your shorts and underwear back up and slap his arm, watching him rub the impact spot.

You grab one of the joints off the table, flopping on the couch and grabbing the lighter out of the side table.

"Didn't I tell you I'm not cleaning this shit up?" Chris says, pulling his own pants up and running his hand through his messy hair.

"Clean it up and I'll let you go for round two," you smirk, watching him rush to pick up the mess of roses and glass on the floor, feeling the weed enter your lungs as you melt into the couch.

valentine's day special !

tags: @yourmother29 @bowsandsturniolos @sweetshuga @sturns-mermaid @leah-sturniolo @spideylana @dykes4chris @sophsturns @mattsbunnyxx @slut4christopherr @trevorsgodmother @sosasturns @emely9274 @courta13 @mattsbrowser @oldermenwh0re @chrissweetheart @leoslaboratory @mattybsgroupie @conspiracy-ash @chriss-slutt @secretlocket @sagebutter11 @chrepsi @pr3ttylittleslutt @iloveduckssm @tezzzzzzzz @evansturn @nickgurl4life @izzylovesmatt @mr-wrinkleton @sturn777 @theyluvpeach @chrisslut04 @wildfluer @espressqe @imaladykiller @zootedcrackdad @mooki3-bear

inbox is always open for reqs, asks, or just to talk <3

[bad268]

Hi I loved your clingy Antonelli five and was wondering if for a part 3 based on the prema video that was on insta of kimi in the ice bath if you could do clingy kimi trying to convince reader to join him in the ice bath 😂 maybe the prema team and Toto are watching his attempt

4+1 (Andrea Kimi Antonelli X Reader)

Clingy Antonelli Universe

Fandom: RPF/F2/F3

Requested: Clearly (hehe this was kinda fun thank you <3 Also on a side note, you'll never guess who works in a motorsport company now (technically)!!!)

Warnings: Aged up Kimi (Starts at Qatar)

POV: Second Person (You/your)

W.C. 2270

Summary: The 4 times Kimi tried to get you into an ice bath and the 1 time you did.

As always, my requests are OPEN

MASTERLIST // HITLIST

~~(^Pinterest)

1) Qatar 2024

The first year at a new track was always going to be difficult. There was no data to go off of. Only base it on F1 drivers and if the teams were willing to share anything.

You remembered Qatar last year. There were drivers passing out, vomiting, and needing to retire. You did not think this would be a good idea for junior drivers to race here, but that was something the FIA decided. You couldn't really argue with it. 

The sprint race was hot for you, let alone the drivers, and Kimi had to retire from the race. He was starting on the front row for the feature, so he could make up points then. The car overheated five laps before the checkered flag, and he would have fried crucial components if he had stuck it out.

The team had to help Kimi out of the car once he got back to the pitlane, and they drove him back to the support paddock where you were sitting in the Prema trailer. Anthoine sent you a quick text letting you know what was going on with Kimi and asked you to start filling an ice bath for him. Anthoine would get the ice when he brought Kimi over. 

It was something you were accustomed to at this point since you were studying to be a physical trainer. You had also seen Anthoine do it almost a gazillion times before.

You went out behind the trailer and set up the travel tub. The hose was not far, so you turned it on and threw it into the tub. You went back into the trailer because you knew there was at least a half bag of ice in the freezer from the last ice bath he took, so you took it outside to throw in the tub as well. That way, it would be cold as soon as Anthoine and Kimi arrived.

All the running around you were doing outside made you remember why you decided to stay at the trailer. The Prema trailer had air conditioning. The garages had fans, but they just blew around hot air. You purposefully did not want to be in that for the whole race, so you opted to stay in the trailer. Well, now, you’re walking around outside with no air con and no fans. You went back into the trailer, and you found a random shirt in Kimi’s backpack. 

You took it back outside and threw it into the ice bath, so it would get cold. You could put that on your neck. You were busy turning off the hose as the tub was filled, and you didn’t hear or see them pull up. You pulled the shirt out of the tub just as Kimi walked by you in his swim trunks and practically collapsed into the tub. Anthoine just laughed and went off to get the ice.

“You look like you enjoyed that,” You chuckled when Kimi brought his head back out of the water. You reach over to push some of the wet curls out of his eyes before moving your hand to cup his cheek. “Are you feeling better?”

“It would feel better if you were in here,” He kind of asked as he peaked an eye open at you just as Anthoine dumped blocks of ice into the ice bath. He shook his head with a chuckle as he left you two alone.

“I would love to, but I’ve got this now,” You answered, gesturing to the still-damp shirt across your neck. “Maybe next time.”

~

2) Australia 2025

The first race of the season was always your favorite, especially now that you were now practically given unrestricted access to the F1 paddock. Well, not unrestricted, but you were able to explore a bit more since Kimi was in Mercedes now.

Australia was always one of your favorite races. The atmosphere, the fans, and the weather were never too bad. Maybe it wasn’t too bad for you because you weren’t in a car with no air conditioner, driving on the limit in the heat.

You were sitting beside Kimi while he was in an ice bath, talking to Carmen while she sat next to George who was in his own ice bath. You two were walking nonsense while George was teasing Kimi who was just staring at you.

“It’s a little creepy,” George laughed, catching your attention.

“What’s creepy?” You chuckled back.

“He’s always staring at you,” George pointed out as he got out of the tub, wrapped a towel around his waist, and left with Carmen. “Get me out of here.”

“Wow, are you always staring at me? I didn’t notice,” You teased, leaning over to gently rest your head against Kimi’s shoulder.

“Maybe I’m just lost in thought,” Kimi muttered, leaning his head on top of yours.

“Penny for your thoughts,” You whispered back.

“What would it take for you to get in with me?” Kimi asked as he pulled back a little to look down at you.

“I would, but I have a meeting in 15 minutes,” You sighed, looking up at him. “I would if I could.”

“One day, I’ll get you in here with me.”

“I’m sure you will, too.”

~

3) Miami 2025

You weren’t ready for this one. Despite hearing from friends and knowing that Florida was humid, you did not expect it to be that bad. It was disgusting! It was pretty, but the humidity was not it. 

Kimi did well in the race, earning a respectable fourth place. He’s proving himself to be a good replacement for the seven-time World Champion. 

You hugged Kimi as soon as he entered the garage, and you walked with him toward his driver's room in the Mercedes motorhome. You conversed about the race while you walked through the paddock. All was fine until you heard a bit of commotion behind you, and you saw Kimi’s entire team running after you with a cooler of ice water. You immediately pushed yourself away from Kimi as they dumped it over his head. You still got splashed a bit, but it was not nearly as bad as Kimi. The team all laughed at how you totally threw Kimi under the bus while some of the PR team got the whole thing on video.

He turned to pout at you as he opened his arms. “Why’d you leave me?”

“I have my phone in my pocket,” You chuckled as you walked into his arms, not caring that his entire race suit was soaked with cold water. “I kinda need my phone to check in with my mom. You don’t want my mom angry at you now, right?”

“Right,” He sighed as he wrapped an arm over your shoulder as you two continued on your way to the Mercedes motorhome. “One of these days-”

“One of these days, I’ll get you in an ice bath,” You mocked, turning to look at him. “I am aware. And that day will come eventually, but that day is not today.”

~

4) Azerbaijan 2025

You could not understand why they moved Baku back to the hottest time of year in Azerbaijan. It made no sense to you, but again, you’re not in the FIA. They probably had a better reason for it. Or not. They’re the FIA. 

It was coming to the end of the season, and Kimi was feeling the pressure against Red Bull, Ferrari, and McLaren. He was fighting for fifth in the championship, but prior to the start of the season, you and he decided the goal was the top 15. He was more than exceeding those expectations. Max was directly competing with Charles for the championship title, Lando and Lewis were fighting for third and fourth, and Kimi was fighting Oscar for fifth. Currently, Kimi had it, but all it took was one bad weekend for the cards to completely change. 

This time, you two were back at the hotel. You’re flight to the next race would be in the morning, and you wanted to chill out in the privacy of your temporary home rather than the very public paddock. You had no real reason to want privacy. Your social battery was just dead.

“Do you want-”

“Do not ask if I want to get in an ice bath with you,” You cut Kimi off immediately. He was just walking out of the bathroom while you were almost falling asleep on the bed. Despite the fact that you two just got to the room within the past five minutes, you were ready to call it a night. You sighed, realizing what you did was mean as you looked over at him. “I didn’t mean to snap, but I will fall asleep if I lay in any body of water, regardless of the temperature.”

“I think you underestimate how awakening ice water is,” Kimi chuckled lightly as he walked up to the bed and laid on his side next to you. He propped his head up on his hand as you used his other hand to brush through your hair. “You need to get clean. You hate going to sleep after sweating all day.”

“I’ll just suffer for once,” You muttered as you started falling asleep. Kimi started moving around, collecting your things. 

“Come on,” Kimi whispered as he gently shook you awake. You opened your eyes wearily, wondering how long you were asleep. “I’m not risking you being mad at me tomorrow for letting you go to sleep sweaty.”

“I appreciate it,” You replied with a sleepy smile as you pushed yourself up and stretched before heading into the bathroom. Before you got in the shower, you peeked back into the room and saw Kimi packing up the last of your things. You got his attention, “Kimi, thank you. I owe you, so I’ll get in an ice bath with you next time, I promise.”

“I’ll hold you to it.”

~

+1) Qatar 2025

Now, you had experience at this point. After last year’s outing in Qatar, you were ready for it. You were wearing just about as little clothing as you could get away with, and the heat was not nearly as bad as last year. Maybe because last year, you didn’t know what to expect, and you wore jeans and a team kit. Yeah, not this time. 

The season had been long and grueling, but the second to last race was proving to be a highlight of the year. Kimi raced for his life, knowing he needed to prove he was worthy of a contract extension, and when he jumped out of his car in Parc Ferme after taking the checkered flag first, he was certainly going to be back in Mercedes for his second year. 

You were right against the barrier when Kimi jumped into the team as they all cheered for his first win, and securing of fifth place in the championship. Even if Oscar won the next race and got the fastest lap, he would not be able to catch Kimi. 

After the celebrations and post-race interviews, you two snuck off behind the Prema trailer again. You got approval from the Prema team because Kimi thought it would be funny to make you get in an ice bath in the same area he first tried. 

Kimi had coordinated with Anthoine to set it up while he walked you around the track. He had a plan, and he was going to stick to it. He distracted you as he walked you backward through the Prema trailer until you reached the stairs. 

“Don’t tell me there’s an ice bath out there,” You chuckled as you planted your feet before Kimi could move you any further. He didn’t answer you, so you knew exactly what he was doing. “Kimi, no.” 

Kimi, yes,” He laughed as he picked you up and threw you over his shoulder. He walked straight through the door, down the stairs, and around to the back of the trailer where there was a blowup kiddie pool filled with ice. You couldn’t see it, but you saw the hose leading where Kimi was heading. You just accepted your fate at this point as Kimi stopped just before stepping in the pool and set you down on your feet. The backs of your legs could feel the coolness through the plastic, but you were ready for it. “Are you going to walk in or am I going to need to carry you in?”

“Would I like you to carry me? Yes because it’s romantic. Can I walk in on my own? Yeah, but where’s the fun in that?” That was all you had to say before Kimi reached down and put his arms under your knees and behind your back, lifting you up. 

“Quick!” Someone shouted just before Kimi stepped into the water. “Smile for the camera!”

That’s when you noticed the entire Mercedes crew standing and cheering around you two. You looked up at Kimi, nodding that you had the same thoughts. You both looked directly at the cameras, faces adorned with glares and frowns, which caused the team to laugh. After a few seconds, you two could not keep straight faces as you laughed with everyone. Kimi took your distraction to step into the water and sat down with you in his lap.

“Ah, it’s so cold!” You shouted as you were caught off guard and tried to get out. “Let me go, Kimi!”

“No,” He smirked as he held you tighter. “I’ve been waiting for this moment. I’m getting at least five minutes.”

~~~

Part 5 -> (Coming Soon)

Series masterlist

~~~~~

© BAD268 2024. DO NOT REPOST WITHOUT PERMISSION.

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Hello! By any chance, do you have synonyms or related words to "decompose"?

Thank you in anticipation!

Hi! Here are some words related to decompose:

Decompose—to break up into constituent parts by or as if by a chemical process

Addle - to become rotten; spoil

Atrophy - to waste away (as from disease or disuse)

Corrode - to wear away gradually usually by chemical action

Corrupt - rot, spoil; to cause disintegration

Crumble - to fall into small pieces; disintegrate

Curdle - to go bad or wrong; spoil, sour

Decay - to undergo decomposition

Decline - a gradual physical or mental sinking and wasting away

Deteriorate - to become impaired in quality, functioning, or condition; degenerate

Devolve - to degenerate through a gradual change or evolution

Dilapidate - to bring into a condition of decay or partial ruin

Disintegrate - to break or decompose into constituent elements, parts, or small particles

Dissolve - to separate into component parts; disintegrate

Fester - to undergo or exist in a state of progressive deterioration

Mildew - to become affected with mildew (i.e., a superficial usually whitish growth produced especially on organic matter or living plants by fungi)

Mold - to become moldy (i.e., covered with a superficial often woolly growth produced especially on damp or decaying organic matter or on living organisms by a fungus, as of the order Mucorales)

Mortify - to become necrotic (usually localized death of living tissue) or gangrenous (local death of soft tissues due to loss of blood supply)

Necrotize - to undergo necrosis (i.e., usually localized death of living tissue)

Perish - deteriorate, spoil

Putrefy - to undergo putrefaction (i.e., the decomposition of organic matter)

Putresce - to become putrescent or putrid; putrefy

Putrid - being in a state of putrefaction; rotten

Rot - to undergo decomposition from the action of bacteria or fungi

Rust - to be affected with a rust fungus

Sour - smelling or tasting of decay; rancid, rotten

Sphacelate - to become gangrenous (local death of soft tissues due to loss of blood supply)

Spoil - to lose valuable or useful qualities usually as a result of decay

Taint - to affect with putrefaction; spoil

Tarnish - to dull or destroy the luster of by or as if by air, dust, or dirt; soil, stain

Wither - to shrivel from or as if from loss of bodily moisture; to lose vitality, force, or freshness

Hope this helps with your writing. Do tag me, or send me a link. I'd love to read your work!

More: Word Lists

[rahuratna]

Synopsis: Post-Shibuya Nanami x Classical Dancer Desi Reader

In the aftermath of Shibuya, an injured Nanami struggles to balance his eroding self-worth with his desire to conduct his duty as a sorcerer. He finds healing in the fragrant garden of your dance.

Genres: Romance, angst, suspense.

Content warnings: depictions of low self-esteem, dealing with trauma, erotic and sexual content.

Thanks to @tsukimefuku for reading and editing this piece that is so precious to me. 🧡💜

Please refer to the glossary for the meaning of certain terms used. 🧡

(I)

Pushpanjali: an offering

"Tha ka dhi mi, tha ka dhi mi, tha ka ... "

It is a chant that spans centuries, leaping from the high-ceilinged, airy chambers of a land and time long past, to here, and now. It winds between the gently rippling silk scarves that adorn the walls, a drumbeat like the slow collapse of ancient kingdoms under the steady tramp of cavalry.

Time seems to pass at a stagnant pace in here, in this place where your domain has taken root and unfurled, a red, red bloom in the heart and hand of a painted god.

Feet slide and strike against the worn wooden floor, precise and weighted, as you perform the basic stance before your pupils, watching faces tight with the concentration of the inexperienced.

"Tha ka dhi mi, tha ka dhi mi ... "

Your voice guides them, as does your form, an arm straightening here and a pair of knees bending further as they watch you. The twist of your lower back, the stretch of your arms in a line to some point behind you, the rejoining of your fingers in katakamukha, the arch kept between chin and the line of your shoulder, all shifting in a single fluid movement that requires no thought.

Incense snakes through the air, close to the glass double doors, the heady scent of sandalwood gathering in tendrils there, where the gentle push of the breeze cannot dissipate it. It is through this fine mist that you see him, for the first time, standing just outside the doors in the narrow passageway.

Shoko had informed you of his arrival, of course. She had warned you about his physical condition, about the nature of his grievous injuries. It wouldn't be the first time she'd made use of your services to assist in the rehabilitation of wounded sorcerers.

Your eyes meet his, through the shifting coils of fragrant smoke from the brazier, and you see, in a single, fractured moment, why he is here. He has been sent here for a form of healing, but his gaze is not soft and receptive. It is shuttered, its passion muted and closeted away, defences piled so high they might as well be weapons. He scans the dance hall with the kind of predatory clarity that long, long years of being a sorcerer would bring.

You excuse yourself and step outside, the open door allowing the scent of the incense and the soft evening air to filter out into the hallway. Behind you, the silk scarves flutter gently in the draught.

He is a tall man, poised and elegant. He wears the jacket and comfortable, warm trousers in a way that speaks of someone more accustomed to formal wear. As soon as you enter the hall, he bows with deep formality, and the mellow resonance of his voice seeps into the narrow space like honey spilled across the floorboards.

"Nanami Kento. I was referred here by - "

"Shoko. Yes. I've been expecting you."

You return his bow and introduction, aware of his scrutiny travelling the length of your spine. You can sense that he is picking you apart in his mind, fitting together the components to try to build a coherent whole.

Close-up, the severity of his burns are evident. A layer of darkened scar tissue covers the left side of his face and scalp, running down his neck and further, where your eyes cannot follow. The left eye, according to Shoko, had been unrecoverable, now shielded with a soft, surgical patch. The damage to his arm had been even worse, as it seemed he'd used it to shield himself. A fuzzy growth of pale hair had started along the scorched skin of his scalp, a sign that even now, his body was knitting itself slowly back together.

Your eyes travel over his sharp-edged countenance, and he stares back, unphased. You make a rapid mental list, a trickle of first impressions that will later build to a torrent.

Stength, and plenty of it. A deathly, well-controlled calm that permeates his living flesh, skin over smooth stone. The martial bearing and powerful arms and shoulders, even scorched as they are, speak of the force he must have presented on the battlefield.

He assesses you in return, and you tilt your head as the dim sunlight filtering into the corridor catches his eye, turning the honeyed brown of their depths to a moss-flecked river bed, steady and cool.

Beautiful.

That is your first impression of him.

(II)

Alarippu: the flowering

Recovery.

Kento has heard a dozen variations of that word by now, couched in the language of choice. 

The road to recovery. 

Recovering your mobility. 

Getting your old self back. 

A return to routine.

He is aware, by now, that any such full repair of the damage that has been done to him is a castle in the air, one he cannot summon the lightness of spirit to ascend to. Positivity had never really been his hallmark. Now, even less so.

The world had shifted around him while he was asleep, you see. Comrades had fallen. The new generation had triumphed. The very fabric of Jujutsu society had been rewoven, the dawning of a new age embroidered for all to see across the hard-won horizon.

The sacrifices he'd made were but a few of many. They'd hardly mattered, in the larger scheme of things. Many had given their lives. What had he offered up?

The ability to walk without aid, for one. Also, most of the skin on the left side of his body. Basic movements, things that had once been second nature to him, were now carefully calculated because of the pain.

The lunge of an arm through a coat sleeve when he was in a rush. The brisk pace he'd maintained to keep his body temperature up in cold weather. The sensation of a soft cashmere scarf against his cheek, or the brush of an aerated cotton shirt against his skin in summer. The cascade of hot water on tired muscles, after a long afternoon swinging diligently at cursed spirits. All muted, fuzzy, lost.

And what else?

Kento had never been soft with himself. People often thought that sentiment never clouded his cool judgment, allowing him to make objective and sensible decisions. While that was largely true, it flew wide of the mark in terms of what really pushed him, what gave him direction. It was ironic, as he'd speculated later, that his mortal enemy had been the one to identify what many of his comrades hadn't.

Mahito, in that light, youthful, jubilant voice, declaring how he'd seen Kento's soul quivering. And he was not wrong.

Kento was a man driven by a quiet, desolate desperation, a desire to fill an empty space that yawned endlessly within his soul, a black hole with an insatiable appetite. Emotion was as vital to his function as breathing. It drove him out of bed everyday, into the office, into the boardroom, into the bakery, back to jujutsu tech, into rain, snow, sun and wind, into the face of his darkest imaginings.

He watches traffic from the window of his room at the private clinic, pedestrians going about their lives, people chatting on precariously held phones, children dancing through a world of make-belief, people on lunch break. People with purpose, a certainty of their place in the world. What could he offer, in this world of colour, sound, movement and shadow, this world that threatened to leave him behind?

Kento had paid the price, and would do it again, and again, and again, in every known reality, if it meant maintaining the stability he saw outside his window.

(But if that was the case, why was the darkness inside him more ravenous than ever?)

********

Shoko comes to see him most frequently, even with her workload at the Tech. She can't really help it. Nanami is her last remaining bridge to the past, as selfish as that makes her seem. She doesn't care much, not anymore. She'll take what she can get.

A tenuous bridge, is Nanami.

Shoko is accustomed to seeing the damage that can be done to a body by the uncontrolled hatred of a curse, or the more conscious destruction of a cursed technique. She has seen it all, performed the most grotesque procedures on the corpses of those she loved. But something about seeing Nanami's injuries, seeing him like this, is more jarring than any of those horrors.

Her technique has allowed his skin to heal, the raw flesh, exposed tendon and muscle beneath now covered by the new epidermal growth she has stimulated.  The chances of oedema and infection are also minimal, considering her precautions. All that was left now was his slow physical conditioning and therapy.

(If only that were all.)

If Itadori, Kugisaki, Fushiguro and Ijichi had their way, Nanami would never know a moment of solitude. They wanted constant updates on his condition, to bring him his favourite foods, to talk, weep, mourn and rejoice with him. She allowed them to see him, every other day, but drew a firm line, citing his recovery as priority. She didn't have the heart to tell them that every gentle glance, every proud smile, every glimpse of the old Nanami they received came at a great cost.

Standing in the doorway of his room now, she could see it. Or rather, the lack of it. That vitality, that pain from which he drew his vigour, the firm lines of his back and shoulder that reminded her of an implacable bulwark against the raging of the cursed world, all absent. When he didn't think anyone was looking, that is.

Stepping into the room, she offers a slight nod as the door slides shut behind her. The change is immediate. He straightens, the corners of his eyes regaining their sharp edge, the set of his mouth firm and familiar.

"Shoko."

"Nanami. Ready to talk about physical therapy?"

She gets straight into it, knowing that he wouldn't want it any other way.

"I'd like that very much. When can I begin?"

His words are still slightly muffled, the burnt edge of his lips stiff with a new layer of scar tissue.

Nanami had never been a vain man. He had always been in possession of striking features, and had taken care of his appearance, but in a way that was more attuned to practicality; if he was neat, well-presented and unremarkable, Nanami considered this a success.

It was why he had been able to look in a mirror with such equanimity for the first time after his treatment. All she had seen was a slight tightening at the corners of his mouth, a slow nod, a brief look of exhaustion and resignation as to this new set of scars.

The loss of his left eye and the damage to the arm on the same side had been the worst of it. There, she'd done everything in her power to restore the lost tissue, but Nanami would never regain his eye, or the full range of motion with that limb. There was, however, the soft growth of new hair on his scalp, a promising sign that elsewhere, her rejuvenation of the underlying tissue layers had somewhat succeeded.

Shoko doesn't reply to his query just yet. She approaches the bed, and he sits up, unlacing the front of his hospital gown, accustomed to the routine by now. She place her palms a few inches from his skin, closing her eyes as she maps him out, bone, muscle, blood and water, the minute synapses where impulses leap in a frantic race, the steady beat of his heart.

Inhaling deeply, she steps away.

"The sooner you begin, the better. I know you've been walking a lot. That alone won't help in the long term."

There is a hint of reproach in her voice. Nanami, displaying his singularly stubborn streak, had been discovered out of bed on more than one occasion, standing by the windows, staring into space in a way that made her worried.

He gives a wry, crooked smile.

"What do you recommend?"

Shoko places the file she'd carried along carefully on his lap.

"There's a family with a specific cursed technique I've corresponded with before. Sent some of my patients to them. They specialize in therapeutics."

Nanami is watching her closely, taking note of the way she focuses on the view out the window.

"And you're sending me to them?"

"They aren't local. The main clan is located in India. Scattered at various locations in the Tamil Nadu province. One of their members moved here, some years back, to conduct research on the compatibility of their techniques with ours. It wasn't a success, for various reasons, but he stayed, with his family."

"So it's a hereditary technique?"

"In a way. It manifests with varying degrees of efficacy. I'd simply like ... for you to meet with their representative."

She returns his gaze, and when she speaks again, he understands why she has been so hesitant.

"It's not just physical therapy, Nanami. We can achieve that pretty well here. Their methods go ... deeper than that. I can mend physical wounds. They might be able to help you heal in other ways."

He doesn't agree to it immediately, looking through the list of exercises that came after the therapy recommendation letter. One eyebrow lifts slightly in a comfortingly familiar query.

"You want me to do yoga too?"

"Gojo's idea. He added it to the list before he - "

She stops abruptly, one hand finding purchase on Nanami's ankle, squeezing lightly on it where it rests beside her, under the blankets.

"Anyway. He said he wanted to make video edits of you with your ass in the air. Said it would be good to bring you down to earth a little."

Her chuckle doesn't sound hollow any longer. She can talk about her friend (yes, he was that too) without that tell-tale catch of agony in her chest. Nanami sighs before opening up the file, his good hand leafing through the printed pages.

"I suppose ... I could humour him. This once."

(III) 

Shabdam: The Word

In a month's time, with Shoko's regular treatment, Nanami is in good enough condition to leave the clinic. He still makes use of a walking stick, especially for longer distances and steeper flights of stairs. Ijichi makes sure he is permanently on call, for the occasions when Nanami simply needs to get out of the sterile halls of the clinic, the rapid intake of the world outside enough to sustain him.

Nanami has, for the most part, been following Shoko's regimen religiously, adding his own variations without her knowledge. In this way, his strength and endurance steadily build up to a point where he is ready to be discharged (with daily check-ins, of course).

Nanami keeps the file that Shoko had handed over, but every time he spies it out of the corner of his eye, he occupies himself with something else, procrastinating in a way that is wholly unlike him. Eventually, his own conscience prevents him from delaying further. He is entirely skeptical that anyone can truly help him. He has felt that way since Haibara died, but even he can admit that there's no harm in trying.

He finds the address given with little issue, and Ijichi is more than willing to take him there. The place is nondescript, no signage giving any indication of the activities that take place there. There is an wood-panelled foyer, a colonial style spiral staircase leading to the upper floors. The stairs themselves have been worn smooth by many generations of feet.

Nanami is half an hour early, anticipating some kind of registration process, or introductions, as there had been in martial arts dojos he had frequented. There is nothing of the kind. He finds himself in a corridor, flanked by two pairs of glass double doors. In one of the rooms, a wide open space with a wooden floor and a view over the city, he sees some kind of class in session.

Approaching slowly, he hears it. The rhythmic thump and shuffle of feet, the feminine voice that called out a pattern that he's never heard before, but seems familiar all the same. The glass doors give him a clear view of the room, of the five occupants (a small class, then) who were engaged in some kind of dance practice, and the instructor, up front.

He pauses, body coming to a complete and rare standstill. He watches as she moves through a repetitive step, in time with the beat she calls out, firm, musical, lilting. The grace of movement, the low centre of gravity, the rigidity of the lower body in contrast with the flow of the upper, arrests his vision.

The disciplined line of her throat turns, and she is facing the door, facing him, hands brought together in a signature pose. Long lashed eyes, observant, catching and holding his glance. For a moment, he feels the desire to back away from the door, to hurry out into the street, a return to his comfortable routine. He stands his ground, as always.

He watches as she approaches the door.

********

Once your introductions have been dispensed with, you gesture to Nanami to follow you into the smaller room you use for individual therapy. His gaze lingers on the class that continues, even in your absence.

The same silk scarves ripple gently along the walls of the room next door, orange, grey, red and green. The rug is old, but rich and plush. There are two chairs, comfortable and supportive, their orange upholstery lined with faded gold thread, and an urn on a stand nearby, on the boil in readiness to prepare chai.

You pour him a cup now, the fragrant liquid a rich, caramel brown in the small glass, eyeing his expression through the steam.

There. Immediate interest. A man with a varied palate, considering the way he accepts the tea with polite deference, but takes an appreciative sniff before sipping deeply.  The way his shoulders relax slightly afterwards has the corner of your mouth tipping up.

"So, Nanami. Shoko told me that you're here for our specific line of therapeutics."

He puts the cup down with a decisive motion.

"Yes. She told me a little about the effects of your technique."

"Did she explain what exactly it involves?"

He pauses, gaze traveling to the students in the dance hall next door who were now stretching and rounding up their practice.

"I assume it has ... something to do with that?"

You set your own cup down and clap your palms together.

"Well observed. It has everything to do with dance. Bharatanatyam, to be exact."

He raises an eyebrow, and you explain obligingly.

"Where I'm from, Bharatanatyam is one of many classic dance forms. The practice itself goes back centuries. My family's technique is rooted in the principles of the dance itself."

Nanami cleared his throat.

"I'm afraid ... I'm not a good dancer."

Your laughter comes easily.

"That's what they all say, in the beginning. But don't worry. You won't have to do anything strenuous, nor am I going to make you prance around in a dhoti."

"You have my thanks, I suppose."

"We will do plenty of physical conditioning, but you will also be my audience. My technique requires that you are ... receptive and open to answering the things that I ask."

Here, the easy flow of conversation stills a little, and the tea swirls gently through the motion of his dexterous fingers. He does reply, eventually, softer than before.

"I chose to come here. I think that speaks for itself. I will accept whatever your technique can do for me."

The non-committal nature of his reply does not escape you. You nod, understanding that this is the best you'll get from him, for now.

"Hmm. I think it's best that I demonstrate. That always works better than sitting here and explaining."

You stand and gesture for him to do the same, observing his movements carefully.

There. The burned side of his body has slower movements, as expected. He still displays agility and grace, despite the stiffness and pain he must feel. You approach and stand directly in front of him.

"Nanami, I'm going to lay my hand here, on your abdomen. Please tell me if this is fine."

He nods, but his body is now taut, anticipatory. This close, you can smell the surgical cleaning fluid that he must still use when changing dressings, the scent of the clinic still clinging to his clothes and hair. Beneath it, something warm, vital, pleasant. The scent of him. His hair falls over one brow, unhindered, and he impatiently pushes it back. Judging from the length, he must like it shorter than it currently is.

"Please try to relax."

Your hand presses against the firm planes of his stomach, centering around his navel. He is shockingly solid, vitality surging under your fingers. And something else. You frown, but keep your hand in place. After a few minutes, your fingers begin to move. You start to tap out a gentle rhythm against his skin, tentative, repetitive.

You keep this up for a while, eyes shut tightly, focused. When you eventually look up at him, he is watching you with close attention. You know what he sees, that he is following the currents of cursed energy that swarm around your body, fluttering and pulsing in accordance to the pattern you've been tapping out.

This part is crucial. The manner with which you approach this will determine his response, and you can feel his resistance to an invasion of this kind, how he could shut himself off from you, the giant ribcage of self-preservation sealing to the sternum, forever shielding his heart.

You step back and take your seat again, and he pauses before doing the same. He leans forward, elbows on knees, watchful. This man doesn't miss a thing.

"Your diagnosis?"

He had a lot of cheek too.

"There is no diagnosis. Not in the sense you're thinking."

"So, what was the purpose of ... that?"

"It allows me to plan my dance. For next time."

"Your dance?"

You reach for your glass, take a quick sip of the cooling liquid.

"In plain terms, my technique is called Arangetram. It's named after the dance recital performed by a bharatanatyam student after many years of perfection of their art. The recital takes place in stages, and each stage reveals more of their dedication, their skill and their unique talent."

Your palms, placed together, draw apart and Nanami's gaze falls between them.

"It's an unfolding. A gradual one. My technique enables me to read deeper into the patterns of your own energy, gently peeling apart each layer in stages, until we reach the crux of the issue. The wound to your Atman. Your true, and eternal self. With my guidance, and your cooperation, we can possibly help heal that."

As you speak, Nanami's gaze falls to his glass, the bitter dregs collecting at the base. He stands abruptly, and turns away from you, facing the window. You remain still, waiting.

When he speaks, there is something in his voice that makes you wince slightly. So much heaviness. So much despair. The weight of it must be crushing.

"That sounds ... familiar. Before I was saved by another young sorcerer, someone I helped mentor, I ran into a curse that could have ended my life for good. I'd met him before, you see, but he escaped me at that time. His technique ... wounds the soul. Our perception of ourselves."

You take in a sharp breath. What Nanami was describing was a form of cursed technique in direct opposition to your own. Nanami continues, eyes fixed on the steady stream of cars that pass by below.

"Are you telling me that you can heal that kind of damage completely?"

"No."

"Why?"

"Because damage to the soul requires accurate perception, but a callous disregard for any and all forms of life. Destruction is part of universal balance, but to actively go about it, without any consideration for what you will create, is ... inhuman."

You stand, wanting to meet his eyes when he turns to face you again.

"Healing the soul is nothing like this. Nor can it be done in the same way for every person. But Nanami, here's the question I want to ask most right now. Why, even now, are you thinking about all the victims of this curse? Why, since you've heard the nature of my technique, have you never once thought about how it could actually help you?"

This demand is what it takes for him to finally tear his gaze away from that window, mouth opening in protest, but your silencing finger is up. You're not touching his lips, not quite, but close. His warm breath ghosts over your finger.

"Dont answer that question now. Answer it tomorrow, after you watch me dance."

(IV) 

Jathiswaram: Purity of dance

He is early the next day, and you can sense that this will be a pattern. A seasoned sorcerer, through and through, gaining intel on the lie of the land. He is dressed with casual elegance once again, this time in a soft sweater and old jeans.

You guide him through a series of stretches and stances, eyes following his movements. As hard as Nanami is to read, you can tell, from the softening of the lines at the corners of his eyes that these exercises give him relief.

He is also unlike any other pupil you've ever encountered. There is something about having that keen gaze trace every line your body forms with such close attentiveness, the lithe mimicking of each pose, the easing of the stiff line of his mouth when he gets something right, and is aware of it.

It is like practicing yoga alongside a panther, one that won't harm you, but with every stray connection of the eyes, you are aware of just what it is physically capable of. It is both thrilling and strange; new.

When the first short session is over, and he seems slightly more at ease, you serve him tea once again.

"Take a few minutes. Relax. You'll wait in here until I call you into the hall next door."

"What would you have me do?"

"There will be a cushion on the floor. You're going to sit cross legged, as comfortable as you can get. Arms relaxed, hands resting on your knees. Then, you watch."

"A performance of some kind?"

"Yes. To be more specific, you're going to be inside my domain."

This was the one detail he seemed most hesitant about. You wait, in silence, giving him a chance to defer, to push back, to delay the inevitable. He doesn't do any such thing. You're beginning to understand just what kind of courage this man possesses. It takes a different kind of bravery, you're well aware, to face your own demons rather than the gnashing beasts of the cursed world.

*****

Kento does his best to let the soothing spiced heat of the tea perform its dutiful relaxation of his limbs. He sits, legs spread slightly, staring at the wall. The door to the small side room effectively cuts off any sound from the dance floor beyond. He does not know what to expect and he doesn't like it.

Finally, a soft chime sounds. His signal. Setting the glass of tea aside, he stands and makes his way into the corridor, then into the room beyond. He pauses, taking in the transformation.

The view of the city outside has been completely blocked by rich, embroidered curtains, a screen propped up all along one end of the room. Behind it, he hears soft voices speak in another language, rapid and lyrical. The experimental pat of drums and the musical clink of small cymbals indicates that a band of some kind has set up back there, in readiness with their instruments.

Following the instructions he'd received earlier, Kento pads quietly to the centre of the room, where the large, solitary cushion sits, and lowers himself onto it. It is surprisingly comfortable. When everything seems to be in position, a hush falls over the room.

The first hint of her approach is the chime of the anklets she wears, many layered, the bronze shimmer of the individual bells catching the buttery light. She wears a sari, but something about it seems tailored differently from those he'd seen before. The waist has been cinched in with a belt, the pleats of the skirt fanning out around the knees. Beneath, she wears a pair of loose-fitting pants, the shimmering material caught in at the ankles by the bells he heard earlier.

Her hair has been fixed back in a long braid, flowers framing the outline of her head. Dark kohl lines her eyes, and her hands and feet are decorated with a red stain that stands out against the ocean-coloured silk of the sari.

She approaches and crouches nimbly before him, that long-lashed gaze travelling over his form, attentive. Her voice is low pitched, as always, but now there is a new undercurrent to it. He can feel the latent energy within her, as if she has been calling to it, like some long- submerged civilization breaching the surface of the sea.

"Nanami. I'm about to start. In order for me to do so, I need you to picture something in your mind's eye for me."

He nods, slowly.

"I'm going to touch your navel the same way I did yesterday. When I do, don't fight the image your mind throws up. It is natural. It may be a good memory, or an upsetting one. Either way, just let it be. Do you understand?"

"I do."

The pressure of her hand is barely tangible through the material of his sweater, but her cursed energy slides against him with a force he can push back against. He doesn't. Even as it goes against every preservatory instinct he has, he lets her in, watches the slow dawn of soft surprise in her eyes. She has kind eyes, he is only just realising.

And then an image flashes across his mind, just as she warned. Another era of lost kindness, a boy who looked at him with eternal patience, good humour and warmth. In the instant that he sees that face, laughing, animated, lips peeled back from wide, white teeth in that trademark grin, the world shifts. The face is no longer filled with life and humour. It is cold. Pale. Lips purplish and creased, dried blood flaking from the corners.

He wants to pull away, to stop, but he cannot. This is important. This has to be done.

Her hand comes down on his abdomen, harder. Then again. She is finding a rhythm in his own cursed energy, hand mapping out the pulse, scenting his weakness, his pain, following it. Again. And again. And again. The steady pattern builds. So does her cursed energy. It fills the room, filtering into every space, until Kento feels like he is the inhabitant of a fish tank.

Blue silk fluttering, she steps back suddenly. The scent of the incense is heady, intense. Behind the screen, the unseen musicians have somehow struck up the same tempo she has been playing on his abdomen. Her expression changes, and he straightens, slowly.

The kohl-lined eyes open wide, the whites stark gains the smoky backdrop of her lids. She drops to the same stance he'd seen her adopt in the class she'd taught yesterday, knees slightly bent, thighs holding a rigid line, arms outstretched, hands slightly bent at the ends. Her entire upper torso forms an elegant line, see-sawing gently, before the arms snap back and forth, as if tugged by an elastic band.

Red-painted, flickering like four flames, her hands and feet move with rapid precision, taking her through a fluid series of steps that are timed exactly to the beat of the drums, the beat of his own cursed energy, humming and writhing. Her dark, dark eyes meet his, and he understands, now, that every movement she makes entwines their energy, tangles it further, a cat with a ball of yarn, edging the threads closer to a woven pattern.

Her hands stretch toward him, shaped in what seems to be something symbolic of a flower. They spread, and he follows the reddened unfurling of her fingers, the crash of the cymbals louder, a portent of her ability.

He sees the incorporeal lotus, the shadow of it on the screen behind her, petals rifling past each other like the pages of an endless book, and her hands are dragging something out and away from him, emptying like fragrance into the room.

This is her domain, and he shudders in sudden understanding, as memories he'd long buried, bruised and raw, come fluttering like a cloud of butterflies to the surface of his mind.

The first time he'd met Haibara, the way the bright-eyed boy had handed him a shared ice cream, that hot, hot summer's day. The way he'd followed Kento, ignoring his grumpy demeanour, pressing snacks and home-made creations (less successful) into his hands. The long days of training, the sudden and pleased widening of his eyes when Kento had let slip that he'd been improving. The muted tones of his exuberant voice when he'd spoken of his sister, of the path he'd make sure she'd never choose.

And that, right there, was that focal point of pain, the sore spot that had festered, untreated, deep in the knowledge of his soul. Haibara had known, all along, the dangers of their job. He'd known, full well, how easily his life was spent by those who did not understand the full value of such currency. He knew that his youth was a fool's game, one that may never be completed. And for all of these years, since his death, Kento had chosen to -

The loud clash of cymbals dissipates those thoughts instantly, the energy permeating the room, surrounding them both, snapping back to her still form, controlled and under her command. She is watching him closely, the tight grip he now has on his knees, the sweat beading on his brow.

She takes three steps forward, legs lifting high in the stylized movement of her dance form, and her palms come together as she bows to him. Instantly, the performer is gone, and she is back with him, no longer in command. She pads quickly over to him, kneeling and touching his leg.

"Hold on to those images for a moment. Tell me, who was that boy?"

Kento pauses, swallows thickly.

"Haibara Yu. A boy who studied at the Tech with me. We trained together."

She does not need to ask what has happened to Haibara. She has seen it, through the binding of her dance. She has seen his death. Her next question catches him off guard.

"Why is his spirit so strong inside you? You carry him with you like a briefcase to work everyday. Why is his reflection on every surface you pass? Why does he force you forward, and yet, drag you backwards too?"

Kento is still, the sweat cooling on his temples. His muscles are rigid, cording. Pain flares along his jaw, where he has been clenching it. She raises a hand, palm up.

"Don't answer me now. Take the next few days off, and think about the questions I've asked."

*******

He does consider it, as she asked him to. In fact, it's all he can dwell on. As much as it robs him of sleep, leaving him tossing and turning, blankets rumpled and damp with perspiration, he thinks that this is better than staring into formless space. This torment is preferable to the endless battle played out against the pale, sterile walls of the clinic.

How long has it been since his pain has been cut out of his chest, a fully formed, hard-edged diamond, the corners so sharp they slice through him at every touch? How long has it been since he's turned over that crystalline fragment in his hands, allowed himself to remember, to cherish, to grieve?

He understands why he could not, before this. There were missions to undertake. Work to be done. Curses to be dispatched. An endless cycle of activity to tear his mind away from such things.

And then, there had been the students. He goes over each of their names in his mind like a mantra. Yuuji. Megumi. Nobara. Maki. Panda. Inunaki. Ino. The faces of children, the minds of warriors, the scars of those who had known their worst fears and overcome them. It was his duty to protect and serve, to keep them safe, and yet ...

If he had convinced himself, so many times over, that Haibara had needed an adult like the one he had shaped himself to be, then why wasn't he needed any longer?

(V) 

Varnam: The Centerpiece

When you see him again, you can't help the smile that breaks across your face. Nanami is a tricky customer. In spite of his natural strength and charisma, you can tell that he is unaccustomed to relying on others for his emotional well-being.

And yet, here he is, standing in the hallway, expression controlled and muted as always. There is a certain tension and guarded quality to his demeanour that is lacking this time around, however. He has seen the extent of your technique. It cannot harm him any more than he harms himself. This, you are also aware of.

"Nanami. It's good to see you."

He nods, that keen eye of his taking in your expression.

"You were not expecting me to return."

It is not a question. You laugh and gesture to him to follow you into the smaller room beside the dance hall.

"I can't say what I expected. But rest assured ... I'm glad to see you here."

He dips his head in acknowledgement as he follows you through the door. You note that he's had a haircut since the last time you've seen him, the flowing blonde hair slicked back on the right side. His surgical patch has been replaced by a soft black one. His walk seems a little steadier, even if he still has to use the sturdy cane to navigate the stairs.

You pour him tea in silence, waiting for him to initiate the topic that you've asked him to consider. He takes a sip, a soft grunt of satisfaction escaping him, before he sets the glass down with that decisive motion you've come to recognise.

"Last time I was here ... you asked me about Haibara."

"I saw him. In your memories. He must have been important to you."

"I said that we studied together. We were in the same year. There was ... a mission. It was assigned wrongfully, by the higher ups. The difficulty level was ... too great for two fledgling sorcerers. We'd held our own against curses before, but this was different."

"And Haibara ... "

"He was killed. I escaped."

There it was. The words seem to exit him easily enough, because he's probably said them many times before. There is a raw quality to them, though, that cannot be disguised. He has never forgiven himself for Haibara's death. You give him a minute before resuming your questioning.

"My technique showed me that Haibara had a sister. He did not want her to become a sorcerer like you two?"

Here, Nanami's hesitance is tangible.

"No, he didn't. He knew the dangers of our work."

"And yet, in your memories, you clearly see him as someone to be protected."

"He was."

The words emerge sharper than Nanami likes, because he tries to lessen the bite of his tone as he continues.

"I believe that the younger generation of sorcerers should be protected at all costs, whenever necessary. It doesn't matter how much they've seen, how much they've experienced. What matters is that they are not robbed of responsible adult figures in their lives, who can help them cope with what comes later."

"Did anyone help you with coping? With dealing with what happened to Haibara?"

For the first time, Nanami does not meet your gaze. There is a softness to this man, that shows in the gentle, considered way he touches objects, the way his dark lashes shadow his cheeks, the way he is always thinking of someone, anyone other than himself.

"No."

His voice is charged, but quiet.

"And so, you think to play this role for the future generations?"

"I hope to. Yes."

You already know what must be done, as painful as it may be.

"Nanami, is it possible for me to meet with your students?"

******

"Nanamiiiinnnn!"

The boy with soft-hued pink hair is enthusiastic in his greeting, none of it contrived. You can see from the way his eyes light up, the way his whole body gravitates to the sorcerer standing beside you, that Nanami means the world to him. The girl with the eyepatch beside him gives a more staid greeting. There is a certain tough rakishness to her bearing that you've come to recognise as well-earned bravado.

It's Nanami you are more focused on. He introduces you to the students who greet you politely, each giving a small bow.

"How's the progress, Nanamin? You look great!"

The young sorcerer, Yuuji, truly means it. He is taking in Nanami with an air of triumph.

"It's slow, in some ways, but I'm getting there, Itadori."

You note how he still refers to them by their family names, even after everything they've been through together.

"Why don't we have lunch together?" you suggest.

Nobara immediately points at Nanami.

"Ask him. He's knows all the good places, in just about every part of the city."

And so, you find yourselves seated at a small soba place, one you haven't come across before. The food is excellent, and Yuuji and Nobara chat animatedly across the table with their senior as they plough through a selection of dishes.

It is now that you notice all of the things that Nanami doesn't.

The way Yuuji constantly keeps an eye on how much his mentor eats. The way Nobara adjusted the table when they sat down, such that Nanami could be more comfortable. The way they both scoped you out with clear protective instinct, forming their opinions of you.

Yuuji keeps up an encouraging stream of comments, complimenting Nanami on his receptiveness to treatment, on his hair, on the fact that he's been getting out more. He asks Nanami's advice on missions he'll be undertaking solo, and with others.

"So, Ino got his grade one promotion!"

"He told me."

Nanami cannot help the small smile that appears on his face. Yuuji shakes his head.

"Ha. I bet he told you before he told his mom."

Nobara snorts in agreement.

"Did you know he's picked up wearing a suit on missions now?"

"He does?"

Nanami seems surprised by this.

"Sure does. Keeps his hair shorter too. Thought I was teaming up with a Yakuza the last time we went on a mission together."

"Surely not."

"Oh, absolutely! He tried acting all cool, until I told him I'd video him and send it to you, and then he stopped with the persona real fast."

Nanami chuckles. It is a rich, warm, hearty sound, one that flickers over the table like the heat of a fireplace. You see the aching softness in Yuuji's eyes, the way Nobara grins triumphantly at having wrung that sound out of him.

And you understand, fully, like you knew you would.

These are no fledgling sorcerers. Nanami can never again offer them the kind of protection he once had. It is obvious that they value him no less for that. He is a glowing lantern of comfort, of hope to them. If he'd ever desired to play the role of responsible adult to these youngsters, then he'd exceeded every expectation and made himself indispensable, and loved.

If only he could see that.

You catch yourself watching Nanami's smile throughout the meal. It is, at times, contagious, at times shy, at other times a sarcastic tilt. He likes sandwiches, as you learn, and Nobara makes fun of the time one of Yaga's cursed dolls knocked a fresh salmon bagel out of Nanami's hand and he'd snapped and almost destroyed the garden it had escaped into.

It's only when the meal is over, and you are gathering up your purse, that you spy Nobara's eyes on you. The curve of her lips is discreet, and knowing.

*******

During the next few weeks, Nanami's physical condition slowly, but gradually improves. He does not ask when you will ensconce him in your domain again, and you do not offer. You feel that there is some fundamental hurdle he needs to overcome before this.

He still comes regularly, though. For someone who lived a regimental lifestyle like he did, you suppose it has something to do with maintaining a routine. Every other day, he is present, and sometimes, you note, he arrives almost half an hour early, watching the dance practice through the glass doors from the room across the hall.

You now leave the chai where he can help himself to it, and the cushioned mats rolled out so that he can take himself through the preliminary stretches while he waits.

The muscle atrophy, that is sometimes expected in cases of severe burns, does not present in any such way with Nanami. You can see, in the firmness of his stride, in the way he is able to balance his weight, in the slow loss of infirmity, that he has been working hard to maintain his strength and regain his physical abilities.

This is not what worries you. It's what comes after.

One month after treatment began, you see him ascend the staircase without assistance from a cane. He looks across the small distance, that bewitching hazel eye so firm, so proud, so accomplished, turning to you for acknowledgement that you cannot help the small sound of delight that escapes you. You also feel your stomach clench in anticipation.

Once in the room, you notice the small hint of amusement on his face, as you serve him from a plate of samoosas. You lift a curious brow.

"What is it?"

"You don't have to look so concerned. I won't be trying to take on any missions."

"I'm not concerned about- "

You cut yourself off, busying your hands with the tea. When you look up again, your breath catches slightly in your throat. He is watching you with what looks like tenderness, one hand still holding the plate you've absently passed to him. He speaks again, leaning back in his chair.

"There is something I haven't told you yet."

"And what's that?"

"About a dream of mine. One I've had for a very long time."

"And I presume it's a good dream?"

"In every sense. When I worked as a salaryman, I planned to save up enough money to retire. Live somewhere affordable, near the sea. Somewhere like Kuantan. I'd finally get to read all the books I'd bought and never finished. I'd live peacefully. Travel now and then."

You hum slightly, considering this dream.

"That sounds wonderful. Do you still think that this dream ... belongs to you? That it can be your reality, someday?"

"I always have. But ... I also know that such dreams come at a heavy price."

"Nanami ... I'd say that you've paid a thousand times over for such a dream."

Your heart twists at the pained knowledge in his glance. You've underestimated his astute nature.

He knows.

"I did tell you that one of the younger sorcerers saved my life, before. It was Yuuji. He found me when I was half conscious, burned, hallucinating about ... but that's beside the point. When I walked through that subway, I kept thinking the same thought, over and over again. 'Haven't I done enough?'"

The silence that descends upon the room is stifling. You clasp your hands over your knees.

"And have you?"

"I don't know, truthfully. Every time I think I have, there is something else. There will always be those who need the help of sorcerers. As long as I am able, how can I deny them that help?"

He is testing the waters, you can tell. Something about the last time he entered your domain must have triggered a curiosity in him, a desire to know just how much you could help him. You're not sure what it is, but you feel a rush of hope, a sense of a dawning breakthrough.

He spoke of a dream, and you know that Nanami never speaks idly. You pour him another glass of tea.

"I have a suggestion. Would you like to enter my domain again?"

(VI) 

Padam: Simplicity

This time, there is no pre-amble. Nanami seats himself on the cushion at the centre of the room with preternatural calm, but you sense the roil of emotions beneath. It gives you a sense of purpose, as you prepare, focusing your technique as you braid your hair and apply the red alta dye to your hands and feet and leave it to dry.

When you enter the room, you see his gaze immediately follow the movement of your hands. You crouch beside him, and something feels different.

Prior to this, Nanami was yet another patient of Shoko's, referred to your family for the kind of healing that physiologically-based cursed techniques couldn't touch. It was the reason that the study of their connection had fizzled out. Practitioners like Shoko were fully aware of the effects, but could not recommend them without a sense of hesitation.

And what was Nanami to you now?

You'd been avoiding that question. You know, full well, that helping him has become a desire birthed inside you as vital as breathing. You want to see him well, you want to see him happy, you want his laugh to echo through the corridors of Jujutsu Tech and his feet to find their way to warm sands and the gentle caress of waves. It is that simple.

(You wish it was.)

Your touch on his abdomen is charged with the weight of this knowledge, the heat that floods your veins intoxicating as he opens himself to you. You feel for the thread that hangs in the still interior of the self, the quivering vibration that changes and slides from his soul to yours.

There. It is different this time.

There is a tug of greater urgency, a rhythm that swells into a powerful current that threatens to snatch away your control.

No. You won't let it.

The reigns twist in your hand, but you pull them further into yourself, taking them, pioneering your way across the ocean of his desolation and uncertainty. You begin the steady rhythm, synchronized with the music of his soul. The drums behind you take it up. The song holds power, heady and fractious.

There will be theater in your performance tonight.

You spring away from Nanami, the connection between you thrumming with latent energy. The visions of his mind's eye flash upon yours, a series of broken images. You need more coherency. And so, you dance.

You allow your expression to mould to a frightening form, eyes wide, shadows gathering beneath them. Your palm raised, the other thumb above it, quivering.

Illumination. Let the soul reveal itself.

And it does. Nanami's form, dragging his feet, fresh, horrific burns across his torso, swimming into your vision. As you take measured steps across the floor, knees poised high, anklets chiming, his footsteps echo yours.

You turn, palms facing floorward and ceilingward, the red seeping between your fingers in the dim light reminiscent of the blood that creeps sluggishly from the raw ends of his scorched flesh. You take his pain into yourself, whirling across the floor.

And then, something startling. Yuuji appears, but not as the heroic saviour. There is a gaping hole in his chest, those bright eyes, fervent with life, now empty and soulless. He collapses with a solid thud and your steps falter.

This is not -

And then, Nobara. Your hands draw back, foot placed on the flesh of the enemy, but Nobara's face explodes in a bloom of scarlet, painting the walls with a hibiscus flare of bone, flesh and matter.

Why is he -

Nanami's face and neck are drenched in sweat, his eyes shut tightly. There are crescents forming in the fabric of his trousers, over the knees, where his fingernails dig into the flesh. The cymbals are now clashing to a faster pace, and you are drawn along, the river of his despair breaking its banks.

You see them, one by one, in-between the rush of your spinning braid, arms and the red flash of your fingers. All of them. All of the students Nanami holds so dear, lifeless, bodies broken beyond repair. A thin, bespectacled man in a dark suit, motionless on the ground, blood seeping from beneath him. Shoko, with her lackadaisical smile and lazy warmth, neck slit, dropping to her knees. Haibara Yu, his youthful face ghastly and pale, one finger raised, pointing.

There is a dreadful sound emerging from Nanami's throat, pain and loss and suffering ground between his teeth to spill into his lap, along with the dampness that rushes from beneath his single, uncovered eyelid. You fight against the overwhelming current, back towards him, the muscles of your legs screaming as his cursed energy pushes up from all around him, a defensive wall.

You're on your knees beside him now, reaching past the battering of his energy, grasping hard at his shoulders.

Come back. Come back to me.

He is twisting in your grasp, his strength all but overwhelming, even in his weakened state. You position your hands on either side of his face, gently, the tendons in your neck standing out with the effort of keeping them in place.

Come back to me.

You are vaguely aware that words are spilling from between his clenched lips, the muffled sounds slowly gaining clarity as you fix your gaze on his mouth.

"Why not me, why not me, why not me, why - "

You feel an answering dampness on your own cheeks as you draw him closer, feeling his cursed energy envelope you, binding you even closer in mind and body.

"Not you, Nanami. Not you. Because your life is not going to be spent like this. Not like this."

Through the atomic engagement of your cursed energy, you feel for the familiarity of him, and you flood his awareness with images that push away the darkness that lingers. Of Yuuji and his kind eyes and watchful care, of Nobara with her brash humour and protective glance. You force him to confront the reality of the others he's buried in his memory, of the bespectacled man scurrying around his office, of Shoko puffing out a dense, white cloud as her head tilts back against a pillar, of the other students, traipsing back in, exhausted after a mission, of a young man pulling a ski mask over a cheeky, lop-sided grin.

"They need you, Nanami Kento. They need you to be alive and well. That's all they've ever wanted."

Your voice has lowered to a whisper as your domain is finally able to manifest, unfolding in the absence of his resistance. The many-petaled flower blooms in shadow, until the shining heart of it breaches like a whale's head above the turbulent waves.

And Nanami is enfolded in your arms, head pillowed against your shoulder, as your voice draws his drowning mind inwards, a solitary lifeline.

*****

Nanami does not return for his scheduled appointment the day after, or the time after that. Two weeks go by with no sign of him. You debate calling Shoko to enquire after him, your concern growing like a viper, hatched in the pit of your stomach.

Something holds you back, however. The same idea that forces you to confront what Nanami Kento has become to you. Your technique alone is based on facing the uncomfortable truths buried deep in your soul, and your feelings for him are no exception.

You cannot, in good conscience, call Shoko when the man you have come to care for so deeply wants nothing more to do with you, or your domain. The best thing for both of you would be to remain as silent ships, passing each other on the vast ocean, as Nanami gradually finds his way to the uncertain shore of recovery.

You cannot help but wonder, though, if you did truly have some impact on him. Had it worked? Would he now make more positive changes in his life that you would simply remain unaware of, or would he ignore all the progress you had made since the first time he'd stepped through those doors? You had to make peace with the idea that you'd probably never know.

(It still leaves you breathless with hurt, remembering the tender scent of him that remains on your clothes.)

******

Nanami does return, just not in the manner you'd expected.

It is a cool spring day, a full month after the incident in the dance hall. You've just come down from your apartment on the third level, wrapping a scarf around your neck and steeling yourself to brave the chill. You hear footsteps on the stairs, and you will your heart to a regular beat as their steady pace and weight sounds familiar. You've long given up the chance of seeing him again.

And then the distinctive wing of blonde hair makes an appearance past the rickety balustrade, followed shortly by the rest of him, and something in your chest constricts, because all of your discipline and mindfulness is about to fly out the window, and -

He mounts the final stair, pausing as he takes you in, in your outdoor clothes. You are trying, failing, trying so hard not to read too much into his expression, but there ... you see it. His eye kindles; the warmth of it floods the narrow space between you two, seeping into you down to your bones. No scarf can replicate this.

He steps forward, uncertainly, face twisting slightly in pained apology.

"Am I ... I hope you're well."

"I am. You look ... "

He is finally clad in the form most natural to him, a tan business suit, dark blue shirt beneath, a speckled tie cast to one side by the wind. His hair has grown drastically in the time he's been absent, one half of his scalp covered by a short growth of luxuriant white. He wears a dark glove over his left hand, presumably protecting the sensitive burnt skin there.

He is walking, completely without aid, only a slight stiffness betraying the original severity of his injury. All the elegance, strength and beauty you saw in him at first glance, now magnified beyond your comprehension, because something else is different.

His soul, the Atman that had struggled like a wounded tiger, frantic and torn, beating against its constraints, is not whole. Not just yet. It is, however, expanding beyond the borders of his body, exuding that confidence and grace you knew were such a vital part of his being. This is Nanami, the shackles of his mind trailing with uncertainty behind him as his gaze seeks yours.

You take a breath, but he holds up a hand.

"Please, let me speak first."

Seeing your slow nod, he seems slightly relieved.

"I apologise sincerely for not coming sooner. I felt that ... I needed to make progress on my own, to come to terms with what you'd shown me, before I came here once again. Above all I was ... "

Those rich, mellow tones of his drop to the range of the barely audible.

"Above all, I was ashamed. Of how obtuse I'd been. Of all the things I'd missed. I had to make that right somehow, to work harder to show the people who care about me that I can learn. That I can change. That I can ... think of myself and prioritize my well-being."

You are vaguely aware that you've drawn closer, a hapless moth, fluttering closer to a consuming flame.

"And are you at such a point now? You can really think of yourself?"

He huffs a soft laugh, eye traveling slowly, softly over your hair, your face, your lips.

"Yes. Yes, I think I can. If you choose to forgive me, maybe I can accompany you on your walk now?"

******

It is not the only time he walks with you. Nanami starts to visit again, regularly, but not just for yoga and exercises. Many of his visits are social, calling on you with a small gift of some edible treat or other that he'd discovered.

He tells you that he has started working at the Tech again, but in a purely advisory capacity, holding special seminars for younger sorcerers on the dynamics of co-operative missions, prioritizing the safety of oneself and teammates, strategy and appropriate preparation before missions.

He watches each young face that peers earnestly at him from the audience and feels a sense of peace, that he is doing all that he can to help them survive the harsh world that awaits. He is also liaising with various counseling services, trying to build a solid foundation for sorcerers who require emotional and psychological support.

You listen to each of his endeavours with delight, especially when he asks if you are willing to be part of this new co-ordinated team, bringing your area of specialty to the table.

Other times, you sit on the balcony with him, watching the ebb and flow of humanity in the city below, your bubble of tranquility untouched. These times are the most precious to you, because that is when Nanami's shoulders ease, when the lines at the corners his eyes deepen with merriment, when he tells you stories of places he's visited, people he's come across, anecdotes from his days as a salaryman and the latest exploits of the students.

There are times when he leans in close, when your breath halts at the verdant, warm, masculine scent of him. There are times when you pass him a steaming glass and your fingers brush the ends of his, and you notice that he always takes off his glove when he sits with you. Sometimes you stand, side by side on the balcony, your upper arm pressed slightly against his, revelling in the sweet, solid proximity of him.

It is one one of those occasions that you turn to him, to point out a new store that has opened not far away, and you see that he is watching you. There is no shame in his glance, only a gentle wonder that weaves a golden bridge between the both of you. Your voice is soft, reverent.

"What is it?"

"I'm remembering the first time I saw you dance."

"Oh?"

"You were teaching a class, as I recall. I remember standing by the door, watching, and some time later, your eyes were on me. And I realized that I couldn't remember anything that had happened in between."

He reaches for you, the glove absent, and you lean into his touch without hesitation. His fingers are light, so light, as they trace across your temple, your cheek, the corner of your lips.

"And ... during our second session, when you held me, I knew that I couldn't continue like this. That you were using the strength of your soul to heal mine, and that if I didn't do my best to understand what you had shown me, then all your effort would have been for nothing. I couldn't accept that."

Your forehead finds purchase against his, a natural movement that echoes the press of your palm against the substantiality of his chest.

"And now?"

"Now ... I can walk beside you in the sun."

The taste of his mouth is a nectar you've never known you've craved. It is heady, a fiery joining of soft and rough, the edges of the scar tissue tracing along your lips like the light drag of a fingernail.

You open your arms to him once more, and this time, he stays.

(VII)

Thillana: Revivification

After learning the soul, learning the body is as natural as breathing. You were hesitant about touching him, wondering how much he'd allow after his injuries. You needn't have worried much on that account. As much as he makes your heart flutter and sing with his praises, with his eager, gentle touches, with the growing harshness of his lips against yours, all that he seems concerned with is how to use his body best to bring pleasure to yours.

You have seen the barest desolation of his soul, and its healing, and the damage to his body means as little to both of you as the muted rush of traffic outside your small apartment.

His urgency is sweetened by the clumsy tug and pull on zips and fastenings, on the shedding of clothes, the soft exhales, painting skin with warm moisture in between the frantic pace of your lips and his.

His hands are so large, spanning your ribcage as you lead him to your bed, circling and finding purchase on the dip of your waist. His body is a moving furnace that warms you as you stumble and clutch at each other, the ripple of muscle like an unseen beast beneath the waves as your palms explore his shoulders, arms, torso, hips.

Kento's skin is a map of hidden treasures, the smooth, tawny, gold- flecked expanse of chest meeting the ridges of scar tissue halfway across. The new growth of white hair on his scalp is downy soft between your fingers, in contrast to the silky texture on the right. His powerful thighs slide between yours, the forward thrust of his hips spreading you open to receive his weight.

He is not forceful, and yet, takes the reigns of your intimate dance almost as if by instinct. He pauses above you, propped on his hands, chest heaving slightly as he takes you in, his amber-shot gaze misty with adoration and lust. You reach up,  tracing the firm line of his nose, the sharpness of his jaw, the sinew of his neck. Every new angle you spy reveals more, that elusive, predatory beauty that never fails to enchant you.

His head dips, the blonde strands falling forward softly against your skin as he kisses a line of fire down your torso, quickening your breathing as his tongue flickers against your flesh. He holds you down, pressing you firmly into the mattress as he worships each breast, lapping, suckling, savouring.

He moves further down, and your sharp breathing devolves into whispered pleas and whimpers as he nudges your inner thigh softly with his nose. So deliriously slow, so decisive, as in every action he takes, he devours his way to the apex of your thighs, sliding his hands underneath you as you lift your hips and present yourself further to him.

The feast he has been waiting for lies open beneath his gently probing fingers, their honey smearing over his lips as he tastes you, eye snapping up as a breathy moan escapes your lips. He laps at you with heady abandon, that smoky, devoted gaze never leaving the contortions of your face as he brings you to each hard-won peak, drifting you back down to a mellow lake of blinding pleasure.

Your fingers slide and catch on his shoulders, anchoring yourself as blood thunders in your ears, and a rising storm, electric and charged with fresh potency, builds at every ultra-sensitive point of contact. He is your passionate guide, leading you to a shining horizon, familiar and yet fraught with the overwhelming knowledge that he is the one who pulls you over the edge of the thundering waterfall.

You are submerged, the shake of your limbs and the hoarse cry of your voice reaching up from beneath the surface your senses have yet to emerge from. When they do, you glance down at him, past your heaving chest, at the blaze that roars within him as he beholds you splayed out, breathless; an offering.

He takes it.

The slow crawl of his skin, sliding against your damp flesh, the brief touch of his mouth at the hollow of your throat, the brush of his nose against yours. He takes your lips in a soft request for entry, groans into your mouth as you trace the ridges of his spine. 

Kento is almost too much for you, the burning vitality that steals your breath, the fullness of your arms as they embrace all of him. The air rushes out of your lungs as the hardened press of his length breaches you, fills you to overflowing.

He holds you close, so close, as if he could meld your bodies as you had once done with your cursed energy, ragged puffs of air escaping his lips to collect like clouds in the evening sky of your hair. His movements are slow, dragging tears from the corners of your eyes, drunk and blissful moans cocooned within the slowly rotating vessel of your lovemaking.

You are at sea with him, around him, washing over his starving self and nourishing his spirit with every slick press of your bodies together, every arch of your back, every trace of his scarred skin, every gentle touch of your lips to his brow, cheek, mouth. He is now taking as well as giving, rolling his hips hard into the widening harbour of your thighs, soft grunt and pants deepening in their urgency.

The unfolding within you is different, completely out of your control. A wild, reckless dance, the rhythm ever-changing, golden threads running like molten metal between the undulations of your bodies. The flower of your combined desire unfurls, petal by petal, each dropping to the floor as new layers of delight and abandon are reached.

The bed creaks beneath the weighted push of his thrusts, his hands flying to your cheeks as your cries grow louder, louder, raspy and choked. This is the true face of passion, the complete submission to the will of your lover, the way you take all that he gifts you with and reciprocate with the finest nectar that slides from the deepest parts of you, soaking the sheets beneath you.

It is here, it is here in the glazed film of his eye beneath dusky lashes, the sweat between his body and yours, the heat that stretches on and on to an infinity within your knowing and snaps-

Washing over his ears in your sharp scream of release, in the wanton covering of his mouth with yours, the ecstasy of a thousand fluttering birds within the cage of your ribs. This time, the gentle ripple of your tide pulls him forward over the edge, his deep groan of guttural satisfaction reverberating through your whole body as his hips stutter and still their frantic pace.

You lie with him, afterwards, limbs entangled, aware only of the shift of his nose against your collarbone, the tightening of his arms around you, the way you wrap yourself around his form, as if to shield him, just for a moment, from the world he has been born into.

Kento. 

Brightness, shadow, mellow and hard-edged, the loveliness of everything in-between. 

Yours.

How can you ever call it anything other than love?

(VII) 

Mangalam: Gratitude

To be in Kento's presence is to discover a thousand tiny precious shards, hidden in the silken folds of your changing life, piecing them together to form a diamond of unparalleled value.

He is quiet, stubborn, brave, resilient, mischievous and agile of mind. He challenges your thoughts on the jujutsu world, brings summer to your heart and draws you into the sunshine of his embrace. The fractured nature of his soul is not one that can be undone, but weeds (hardy and weathered) have grown through the cracks and your own flowerbed finds a home there, gently blossoming.

You are reminded of every richness he has brought into your life on one summer night, in the aftermath of a taxing mission for some of the students, when he meets them for supper and a discussion of what had occurred.

This time, Megumi is also present, and he reminds you a little of Kento as he watches Yuuji's animated re-enactment of the battle, rolling his eyes at obvious embellishments, adding a solemn word now and then. Kento leans forward on his elbows, listening attentively, as always.

When Yuuji is finished, Kento sits back, contemplatively sipping his coffee.

"What you've described is certainly concerning. I'd take this information up with the research committee as soon as you've filed your report. They may want to know details like that."

Yuuji nodded fervently.

"Already on it. I've been looking it up and there was a similar surge in cursed energy in Okinawa a few years ago. Pretty much leveled a small village. I'm not taking any chances with this one. I've texted Ijichi about sealing technique specialists and requested a team to map out energy signatures in the surrounding area. Anything I may have missed?"

You take note of the small smile that graces Kento's face, the pride that spills out along its sharply defined edges.

"No. You've done well, Yuuji. It's exactly what I would have done under those circumstances."

"Oh?"

Yuuji's surprised expression quickly morphs to something else, a deepening realization that silences him and brings a tight, tender quality to the set of his mouth.

Kento has called him by his first name.

********

On the slow stroll back to your home, you link your arm with his. The night sky is flecked with faint stars, unusual to see in the normally smog-laden sky over the city. You speak into the comfortable silence.

"Yuuji handled that well."

"He's a born leader. I've always thought so. He has the confidence and drive to be the strongest, not just in technique. Not to mention the magnitude of what he's already accomplished."

He pauses, one finger idly tracing over his eyepatch.

"I noticed it on our first mission together. He was not just a young sorcerer, going through the motions, trying to survive. He genuinely felt for the victims of the curse. It ... reminded me of Haibara, a little."

He gives your hand a small reassuring pat.

"Not that I've ever confused the two. They're fundamentally different. But Yuuji ... Yuuji had a light inside of him. He made me take note. He made me see him, and his spirit."

Your fingers entwine with his, tugging his hand up to your lips.

"Your spirit is quite marvellous too, you know."

He eyes you sideways, slyly.

"It is?"

"Of course."

"Would you like to elaborate?"

"Fishing for compliments, are we?"

"From your lovely tongue, always."

Your laughter echoes in the silent street, stretching out along the sidewalk, shimmering in the puddles that had formed after the rain.

"You are beautiful, Nanami Kento, and you're- "

You never finish that sentence, as his hands draw you closer, his lips finding yours in the glow of the street lamp. In that moment, you can think of nothing else apart from the man who strides with quiet confidence beside you, on every conceivable path to an unknown future.

He is a red-painted center, kindling in the palm of your hand, the tiger that inhabits the secret garden of your heart, the flame in a gilded brazier that never goes out. 

************

[wheelsgoroundincircles]

1973 to 1974 Pontiac Trans Am SD-455

1973 to 1974 Pontiac Trans Am SD-455

1973 to 1974 Pontiac Trans Am SD-455

1973 to 1974 Pontiac Trans Am SD-455

End of an Era: The Trans Am SD-455 emerged during the twilight of the muscle car era, as rising insurance rates and federal regulations stifled high-performance vehicles in the early 1970s.

Miraculous Production: Producing the SD-455 was a feat, given the political climate against high-performance cars. It almost didn't happen.

Firebird's Near Extinction: The Firebird line, including the Trans Am, was nearly canceled after 1972 due to plummeting sales, with a drop of more than 56% from the previous year.

Unique Engine Components: The SD-455 engine featured almost entirely unique parts, from the block and heads to the intake manifold and carburetor.

Initial Power Rating: Initially, the SD-455 was rated at 310 horsepower. However, emissions regulations required a revised camshaft, dropping the rating to 290 horsepower.

Delayed Production: Production delays meant that by the end of 1973, only 295 SD-455 Firebirds had been built, leading to significant customer dissatisfaction.

Costly Upgrade: The SD-455 engine added $521 to the Trans Am’s price and $675 to the Formula, equivalent to over $3,700 in today's money.

Transmission Options: The Trans Am SD-455 came with a four-speed manual transmission standard, while the Turbo 400 three-speed automatic was optional.

Performance Metrics: Despite a compression ratio of only 8.4:1, the SD-455's 395 lb-ft of torque and exceptional airflow made it the quickest car out of Detroit at the time, achieving quarter-mile times in the mid-to-high 13-second range.

Short Production Run: The SD-455's production ended in 1974, with a total of only 1,286 units produced over two years.

Enthusiast Admiration: Despite its short production run, the SD-455 received universal praise for its performance, even as other high-performance cars of the era lagged behind.

Collector’s Dream: John Nikolas, an avid collector, owns four SD-455 Trans Ams, highlighting the car’s enduring appeal among enthusiasts.

Well-Preserved Models: Many SD-455 Trans Ams, like Nikolas's 1974 Cameo White model, have been well-preserved, maintaining their original components and features.

Luxury Options: The Trans Am SD-455 could be equipped with various luxury options, including power windows, power locks, and air conditioning, pushing the sticker price to nearly $6,300.

Functional Shaker Scoop: The iconic shaker scoop, initially functional, was capped in 1973 for noise reduction.

[lune-moon-nuit]

A post to read and share absolutely

The media are lying about the Freedom Flotilla and Rima Hassan.

Let’s set the record straight against the echo chambers of genocide apologists saturating television and radio. For over 30 hours now, Netanyahu and the genocidal Israeli government have been forcibly detaining MEP Rima Hassan and three French nationals. They were illegally arrested despite the United Nations demanding a safe and secure passage for the Freedom Flotilla on its way to Gaza. This ship's mission was to break the blockade that is starving the people of Gaza.

The genocidal Israeli government is now imposing an intolerable and illegal condition for the release of Rima Hassan and the French citizens: they are being pressured to sign a document stating that they entered Israeli territory illegally. Rightfully, Rima Hassan and the French nationals have refused to sign this false document.

It is false because they did not enter Israeli territory illegally. They were illegally intercepted in international waters as they approached Palestinian territory and its maritime zone, which is itself illegally controlled and occupied by the Israeli state.

Mainstream media are repeating Netanyahu’s propaganda talking points word for word. They refer to the Flotilla as a “cruise,” they call it a “PR stunt” in an attempt to downplay the immense courage behind the Freedom Flotilla. Some even go as far as to claim that Rima Hassan does not wish to be expatriated and is refusing repatriation. None of this is true. They are lying live on air. They are carrying out the same mass disinformation campaign that has been ongoing for more than 20 months in an effort to erase the reality of the genocide. They are complicit.

And Emmanuel Macron is complicit too. Why hasn’t he condemned this illegal arrest even once? Why is he allowing French citizens to be illegally detained by a genocidal government?

The answer is quite clear: Just last week, he approved the delivery of fourteen tons of French-made assault rifle components to an Israeli arms manufacturer.

In short: French ammunition is killing Palestinians while France allows its own citizens to languish in Israeli detention centers—facilities that have already been condemned by the UN for multiple human rights violations.

Rima Hassan and the French citizens must be released immediately and unconditionally.

As a French citizen, I can testify that the majority of the French population supports Palestine and condemns Israel. The results of the surprise legislative elections imposed by Macron a year ago confirm this. Those elections were won by a coalition of left-wing parties, including La France Insoumise—of which Rima Hassan is a member—as well as the Greens.

Unfortunately, Macron, dishonest and driven by a fragile ego, never accepted this defeat. He appointed only right-wing politicians with far-right mindsets as ministers. He would rather let someone like Hitler stay in power than allow a single victorious left-wing MP from the last elections to become a minister.

Moreover, since Macron’s first election in 2017, all the major corporations and media outlets have been privatized and are now controlled by right-wing, far-right, and particularly Zionist billionaires and millionaires (like Vincent Bolloré or Bernard Arnault to name just two). As a result, French mainstream media have increasingly—and alarmingly—turned into pure propaganda machines serving the bourgeois, promoting racist, Zionist, and especially Islamophobic narratives.

They do not hesitate to scapegoat Muslims—especially veiled Muslim women—in order to distract public attention and blame them for all of France’s problems, problems which are in fact caused by the same capitalist bourgeois elites who continue to impoverish the working class to enrich themselves further. They have clearly taken a page from the playbook of Trumpism (and Hitler's nazism).

Since October 7th, their Zionist propaganda has been relentless. Macron even allowed Netanyahu to spew his propaganda during the week of June 6, 2024—daring to exploit the memory of France’s occupation and D-Day to weaponize Holocaust trauma and justify his ongoing genocide by portraying himself as a victim. I have never felt so insulted as a French citizen as I did that day.

Macron has allowed Zionist propaganda to dominate all private and mainstream media outlets. Peaceful, non-violent pro-Palestinian protesters denouncing the genocide are violently arrested by police forces, whose brutality continues to go unchecked. Netanyahu is allowed to fly through French airspace even though he is under international arrest warrant, and France is legally required to arrest him. Instead, they sell him weapons.

I don’t even have the words to fully express the disgust and humiliation this man makes us, the French people, endure. If you believe this government represents its people, I swear to you—it does not.

We are trying to fight every single day, even though we are beaten down, growing poorer, losing more and more of our social protections, getting arrested for protesting. Racism and homophobia are becoming normalized because of their propaganda.

Of course, Rima Hassan has been their enemy from the start. As a Franco-Palestinian MEP, she possesses an intimate and complete understanding of the Israeli genocide and the Zionist propaganda that has existed since 1948. Coming from a Palestinian family of survivors and resisters, it is obvious why she would threaten an entire system built on bourgeois Zionist interests.

They have always tried to silence her, to discredit her. But what they didn’t anticipate was that, by joining the Freedom Flotilla, Rima would expose the contradictions in Israel’s and Zionism’s false narratives and propaganda.

Israel and Zionists claimed that it was Hamas who was blocking the entry of humanitarian aid into Gaza. But when humanitarian aid comes by sailboat, they themselves prevent its arrival and arrest those involved—without any legal or valid justification, and in international waters.

Since yesterday, thousands of people have been protesting across France, especially in Paris. Some have set up tents in Place de la République, declaring that they will not leave until the blockade is lifted and Rima, along with the others, is fully and unconditionally released.

They are exposing the cognitive dissonance between Zionist propaganda and Israel’s actual actions. This will help awaken those who hadn’t yet paid close enough attention to realize the gravity and urgency of what is unfolding.

The reason why the bourgeoisie, the media, and right- and far-right political figures participating in the Zionist propaganda system harbor such intense hatred toward Rima Hassan right now is not only because, alongside the Freedom Flotilla team—including Greta Thunberg—she has once again brought the spotlight back onto Gaza, but also because Rima, like Palestine itself, is becoming a symbol. A symbol not only of the movement to end the genocide perpetrated by Israel, but of the broader fight to dismantle the colonial, far-right, racist, and capitalist system these people represent.

If Israel loses, they lose as well.

At every rally I’ve attended over the past 19 months, at every uprising against any form of oppression, every time the state has chosen to serve the destruction of the planet, to kill our children, to violate the rights of migrants, of women, of minorities—anywhere in the world—whether I was there in person or witnessing it through images: I saw keffiyehs.

And this is only the beginning.

They know they’ve already lost. This unleashed, frenzied violence we see everywhere marks the end of a system. They can feel it—and they are afraid.

When words no longer suffice, when their ideas no longer hold, all they have left is barbarity.

They have lost.

Every new victim, every mutilated and emaciated body only lengthens the already endless list of their crimes.

It’s over.

They have lost everything—starting with their souls.

Free Palestine, free world. We are all children of Gaza.

[hillbillyoracle]

Preparing for a Winter Storm

I thought I'd share what I'm doing to prepare for the winter storm that's supposed to blow through on Sunday evening into Monday morning in case it's helpful to anyone. I know a few people got a lot out of my post on tornados and the first winter storm I went through on my own really rattled me so I hope it helps someone.

This wound up being longer than I thought it would be so TL;DR is stay warm, stock up on foods that don't require cooking, know when and how to bail.

The Challenges

Snow and ice cause different but related problems. The ice totals are what look more nasty for my particular area so that's what I'll be focusing on.

With ice there's some key issues I've experienced in the past:

Power Outages - this impacts all aspects of the home, lighting, cooking, hot air, hot water, communication, etc.

Cell Phone Outages - this can make getting help in an emergency very difficult, can make it difficult to search for information you need as well

Pipes Freeze and Burst - pretty self explanatory and also hell

Damage to Cars - tree limbs falling on it, ice can build up and cause issues if there are gaps that allow it to get into internal components, can cause damage to gas lines, driving in hazardous conditions can lead to a wreck, etc.

Trees Falling - Can fall on house, power lines, car, people, etc.

Power Outage Prep

Food

Stock up on foods that don't require any cooking at all. Try to get 3 days worth. I'm getting things like crackers, chips, Bobo's PB&Js, dried fruit, fruit pouches, and peanut butter. You might consider trail mix, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, clementines, etc.

Get paper plates and plastic utensils if you'll be using a back up cooking method. Cleaning becomes infinitely more onerous in a winter storm so it's best to limit it. I'll be using my rice cooker plugged into my Jackery as a backup cooking method. Back up to the backup is an alcohol stove - which you might be able to find for pretty cheap at a camping store. Propane camp stoves are another good option you can find in most Walmarts.

Have a plan for your fridge and freezer. People not infrequently wind up with food poisoning after a power outage because they try to eat food in their fridges and freezers that they shouldn't. USDA recommends you discard all food in the fridge if the power is off for more then 4 hours - this is with not opening the door. For you freezer, the recommendation is 48 hours (for a full freezer). If the temperatures allow for it, you can place your frozen goods outside.

Heat

Layer, layer, layer. Find all the warm clothes in your wardrobe and be prepared to layer up. Socks and hats are particularly important. You do not want to sweat though! If you start sweating take something off.

Blankets galore. Make sure you've got plenty of blankets. If you've got a decent sleeping bag, even better. You can use sheets to help trap a little more air around you like a tent.

Know the signs of cold exposure and know when to call for help. Cold exposure involves more than I can get into here but it's one of those things that can kill very quickly and in a way where people are often too far gone before they notice. Basically if you are cold and having trouble staying awake - call for help.

Know where your local shelters will be. Emergency departments often put this information out on Facebook and Twitter. You can also call the non-emergency line and ask in most places. Keep in mind many won't accept pets.

Grab a spare heater if you can and know how to use it safely. I live in an area where woodstoves are common but my place doesn't have one (yet) so I have a propane heater (you can grab small ones for apartments even). If you have a spare heater, be sure to grab fuel if you're able (tends to go fast). I also have an air quality detector which is extremely important. A lot of ice storm deaths are from people dying of monoxide (and similar) poisoning.

Hot water bottles are a godsend. If you live in an area with propane for hot water, then you'll likely still have it if the power goes out. When I was younger we got through 8 days of no power in the middle of winter in part because of hot water bottles specifically. They're so handy.

Keep a fire extinguisher handy. Even if you're not using a heater honestly.

Power

Charge batteries and battery banks. Pretty self explanatory. If you're able to grab even a cheap back up battery, I would. So many people in past ice storms sat on their phones, drained it of battery, then didn't have it to call for help when they needed it. Even a small boost could be good in an emergency.

Know where your electrical box is. Sometimes power outages can cause issues with breakers. Know where it is in case you need to turn things off or back on.

Have a radio. I mention this all the time. With no power your radio is your lifeline to public emergency broadcasts, weather forecasts, and locating resources. Get a radio. A cheap one is better than nothing.

Lighting

Charge flashlights. One thing a lot of people don't realize about power outages in winter is just how much we've come to rely on artificial light. Have backups to your back ups if possible. They're a safety tool.

Consider a solar light. My solar lantern has saved my ass so many times not it's not even funny. They tend to be very energy efficient - so easy to recharge off of a battery bank - but the you have the option of charging them slowly in the sun you get during the day.

Turn a small light into a lantern. I've used this trick so many times I almost forgot to include this. If you need to take a small light and make it more of an area light, fill a bottle (ideally plastic and 1L+) with water and place the light right on the bottle. This works great for headlamps especially. It'll cast the light like a lamp instead of focusing it on one area, making it easier to do chores and play games in the dark.

Chores to do before the storm:

Laundry

Shower

Dishes

Take out trash

Cell Phone/Internet Outage Prep

Write down important numbers somewhere that isn't your phone or laptop. If you run out of power on either, you still might be able to borrow someone else's phone and call.

If you're unfamiliar with your area, print or buy a map. In the event you need to leave, you need to know your way around enough to get where you're going.

If you have a ham radio license and gear, make sure it's charged and has local repeaters programmed in. Check to see if any will be running any weather nets you can monitor. If you don't have a license, you are technically allowed to transmit if you're experiencing a true emergency so if you have access to that gear also make sure it's charged and you have an idea of how you'd do that.

When the power goes out, use the phone as a phone only. Something I see every ice storm ever since smart phones took over, is people having nothing to do so they sit on their phones and drain it of battery. Or everyone overloads the cell towers and they go down. I am begging you, please, if the power goes out, do not use your phone for anything other than calling for help or checking in with neighbors and loved ones (once or twice a day).

Create an entertainment box. Grab an box. Put in things you can do with absolutely zero power. I recommend playing cards, puzzles, board games, books you might want to read, art supplies, TTRPG (there are solo ones). This way when you start to get the itch to check your phone, you know where to look instead. I know it seems simple but having it prepped ahead of time saves you a lot of brainpower (believe me).

Water + Pipes Freezing Prep

Leave facets dripping and cabinet doors open. Vital you do both. They help prevent your pipes from freezing and bursting.

Find out where your water shut off is. I just found out mine is underneath my house in the crawl space - hurrah for me. Most apartments have much more easily accessible shut offs. Even if you're not certain you can shut it off yourself, know where it is so you can save time and direct someone who can. In the event a pipe bursts, shut the water off immediately and do not turn on water in the house until a professional can service it.

Find a number of a well reviewed plumber (or two) ahead of time. Sometimes cell service and internet goes out. Consider having these written down somewhere other than your phone or computer ahead of time.

Find out how you can flush your toilet with no power. Most people can add water to the back of the tank and still flush. So if you still have water you're good. Some places require a pump that runs on electricity. So find out beforehand. During power outages my family adopts the "if it's yellow, let it mellow, if it's brown, send it down" toilet rule to conserve water.

Consider grabbing a backup toilet option. I keep a five gallon bucket and extra trash bags for just such an occasion (and some cedar chips to help with smell but it's not strictly speaking necessary). Separating liquids from solids also helps with smell. I do this because if a pipe bursts, there's a good shot you won't be able to use your toilet any more. This is also important if your toilet runs on an electric pump and the power goes out.

Damage to Cars

Keep your car filled up to at least a half a tank. This protects the fuel lines and gives you enough gas to get out if you need to.

If you'll be traveling during the storm, make sure you have a winter car kit in the vehicle and know how to flag for help if you get stranded. It's beyond what I can cover here but there are a ton of great articles out there.

Check your levels and make sure nothing is running too low.

Have the number of your mechanic written down somewhere that's not your phone or laptop. Pretty self explanatory.

Trees Falling

I'm gonna be honest, I don't have a lot for this one given my disabilities. I have a plan with my neighbors who are in a better position to use it. You could consider grabbing some extra tarps in the event that you need to cover a window that gets damaged or similar. Basically, just have an idea of where your most vulnerable trees are and keep an ear out for them as the storm progresses.

Hope these spark some ideas for how to prep and stay safe out there!

[diz-eaze]

sorry if this is stupid, but what do you think would happen if reader pulled a hexenzirkel and became a deadbeat parent on Albedo and "their" kid?

referring to the parent trap post

anon i apologize if you haven't finished the 5.6 quest, but this will contain spoilers ! <3

; yandere, 5.6 spoilers.

before getting into the nitty gritty, with added context on how exactly synthetic humans are created, we know now that it isn't an easy feat. albedo was the only living synthetic human as his predecessors were discarded for being deemed a failure, and the official, second synthetic human created would be the now-turned-human durin.

it can't be said for certain if creating durin was also the same procedure that rhine did to create albedo. however, i do believe that since rhine is a much more skilled alchemist and has a penchant for creation prior to albedo (a la OG dragon durin), he was created in a different method. durin was turned into a synthetic human through various combinations - the remains of an immortal from mare jivari, the embryo that rhine herself uses for her creations, a soul contributed by simulanka durin, and the beating heart of the OG dragon durin. in order to gain access to these materials, meticulous planning needed to be done, and he had to pass through a trial conducted by the hexenzirkel witches... !

with all of that combined, in my head, human durin was in a way used as a prototype to ensure that his transmutation of life goes well with no complications happening along the way. so that his second attempt goes much smoother.

this line really stuck with me. there's two (2) living synthetic humans in the world now, and in my delusional mind, both albedo and human durin crave more synthetic human kin. this is where (y/n) and albedo's obsession with them is brought to the table <3 in albedo's second attempt, he goes through the painstaking process of gathering materials needed for the transmutation once again: the embryo by rhine, flesh from that immortal, and a strand of your hair. he's not quite at the level of his master yet, wherein he can grant life from thin air. instead, he needs a basis for your child's soul, which is a much-needed component for the creation. a sacrifice, if you will.

albedo doesn't kill if it's unwarranted; that's been established in the quest. he killed the primordial albedo because it acted against him first in an attempt to eliminate him. he's also morally gray, so when finding your synthetic child's soul vessel, he preys upon the vulnerable, orphans. those without a home. he promises a young child to grant them a home under one condition: that child will undergo a process of rebirth - they will don a new face, body, and name, but the soul will be the same. not that it matters, the child will forget their previous life once rebirthed in a much younger body, one of an infant.

he goes through so much, and puts in a lot of work (maybe even with the help of human durin at times) in the creation of your child. it's a labor of his love in itself. he's now created two successful synthetic humans, he's a great farmer. and he doubts he'll stop at just two.

this is family, too. him, you, durin, and the newest addition: a synthetic infant baby.

so when you up and go without a second thought, not even bothering to look back after he introduced you to your brand new, little family... attempting to abandon them, even... he's a bit peeved, he'll admit. perhaps he had been too lenient on you since you managed to have these lucrative ideas inside your head, so it's only right for him to correct it. he's not a violent person, far from it, in fact.

but conditioning does not happen when one only enforces positive behavior; a form of punishment is needed. and isolation sounds like an adequate one.

also alice's line about albedo being just like his mother,,,, oh. dilfbedo realness??? guys.

[yueyimold]

two colour heating flap mold

China 2k mold maker, offer multi shot automotive AC flap mold, 2 component ventilation flap mold, two colour heating flap mold, double mold air conditioning flaps

[garyroachsandersonsbf]

COD Characters as Different Military Aircrafts

———

Soap -> A-10 Thunderbolt: Known for its loud and heavy gatling gun, outstanding close air support and its durability against damage. Its fierce and accurate air defense marks it as one of the best support aircrafts to exist.

Ghost -> B-2 Spirit: Advanced stealth tactics and its ability to easily evade enemy detection to reign down its deadly force makes this bomber, a ghost in the sky.

Roach -> F-14 Tomcat: Despite its air superiority and esteemed long range capabilities, the uncommon design of its “variable-sweep wings” marks it as the most distinctive and intriguing aspect of the aircraft.

Gaz -> AH-64 Apache: Designed for high survivability and equipped with advanced technological targeting components makes it one of the best air support aircrafts in active service.

Price -> P-51 Mustang: An oldie but a goodie; was the star of the show in its prime with its outstanding range of speed, maneuverability, durability, and it’s skill to adapt quickly to different conditions.

Laswell -> E-3 Sentry: Designated for surveillance, communications, and command; it’s your eyes in the sky.

Rudy -> KC-135 Stratotanker: You can always count on this aerial refueling tanker. When in need of support when you’re down, it’s got your back, always loyal to its allies.

Alejandro -> F-15 Eagle: Was built for extreme power, resilience, agility, and to display its aggressive dog-fighting capabilities proving it better than the feared oppositions. Never lost a fight protecting what it stood for.

Valeria -> F-22 Raptor: This jet’s extreme capability to fly nearly completely invisible through radars makes it dangerous in its attacks. The state of the art technological advances allows it to fool anyone who comes across, creating a perfect chance to strike and claim victory.

Graves -> V-22 Osprey: Although its dodgy components can wear the reliability of this aircraft thin, it’s service is still exceptional.

———

If you want a part 2, recommend some characters below for me to do next @_@

[saoodoffice4]

INVERTER PCB REPAIRING COURSE | INVERTER AC REPAIRING COURSE IN TILAK NAGAR DELHI

Learn the fundamentals of inverter AC repair through Microchip Expert Institute's Inverter AC Repairing Course. From basic troubleshooting to advanced component replacement, experienced instructors provide invaluable instruction that equip you with all of the skills required for success in this dynamic industry.

The Inverter AC Repairing Course provides you with all the skills needed to begin or advance a career in AC repair. Once complete, this course will enable you to diagnose and repair inverter AC units efficiently and confidently. Here are a few topics addressed during our Inverter AC Repairing Course: Basic AC Theory / Components; Troubleshooting Inverter AC units Advanced component repair are some key areas. Practical exercises Our Inverter AC Repairing Course can be taken both online and in person in Delhi. The online course can be taken at your own pace while in-person courses take place regularly throughout India. To gain more information on Inverter AC Repairing Course, visit Microchip Expert Institute website or contact at +9716460781.