#in lieu of certain events...

[teavich]

TRANS RIGHTS STARLIGHTS!!!! 🏳️‍⚧️

I'll also take this opportunity to state in clear words: I am transgender. Non-binary. They/them. All that jazz.

This blog is a safe space for all my transgender siblings. We are who we are. 🏳️‍⚧️

idolverse by @zucchiyeni idol dream by me

[lullabyes22-blog]

Arcane S2 and its Critiques Therein..

There is a reason why I side-eye the 'arcane critical'-critical crowd who insist we cannot equate real world politics with fictional universes, or project our 'leftist' agenda on a world of pretend.

There seems this undercurrent of condescension in the attitude, as if it stems from people who have perhaps not considered why they enjoy the shows that they do, or how a certain character or plot makes them feel; either positively, by representation, or negatively, by erasure.

And yet... we are drawn to stories that resonate with our own experiences.

These stories, in turn, are written by writers who live in our world and who often pull their ideas directly from it. We gravitate toward characters who are reflections of ourselves, and avoid the stories which cause us discomfort for whatever reason. Even 'guilty pleasures' stem from an inner desire to explore themes or issues which we know exist (and may be problematic in social spaces) but which, through fantasy, become more bearable because we can safely distance ourselves from what is real.

Ultimately, most writers put something of themselves into their work. A little sliver of self always peeks through the cracks; a touch of idealism here, an emotion felt there, a comment on a political issue sprinkled somewhere in between.

It does not mean that fictional universes are a perfect mirror image of our reality; but it behooves us not to forget how influential 'RL' has been, and always will be, when writing fantasy or science fiction.

Tolkien was undoubtedly inspired by his experiences of war, all of which would later bleed into the pages of his Middle-Earth tales. Even in a tiny microcosm, I notice how life events and current political attitudes affect the way I write my stories, whether they are fan-based or original pieces.

We live in chaotic times. Fiction, at its crux, mirrors that chaos, because it comes about as a result of real life. As much as we wish to escape from harsh truths or present-day issues... they still seep through the veil between imagination and reality.

Escapism should not blind us to the truth that stories are products of our environment, and therefore, inevitably political.

With that in mind, there's something innately disingenuous about insisting that Arcane is somehow separate from real world issues - when, on so many levels, it borrows from real world problems and confronts its viewers with topics which are inherently political: poverty, inequality, state violence ... even the underbelly of the Piltover elite and their dealings with the undercity echoes how we see corruption occurring in governments worldwide.

That the show, by S2, reduces these issues to aesthetics - for instance, the writers admitting they wrote up Vi's backstory with her parents being killed by Enforcers to introduce an element of conflict into hers and Cait's future romance - or, worse, resolves these conflicts without any further nuance - like Sevika becoming a Zaunite representative on a Council that plainly disdains her, and the narrative coming away thinking this is acceptable in lieu of actual independence - is, in essence, disappointing for the themes that were promised.

It feels like the writers realized halfway through writing these plots, that they either did not have the time, budget, know-how or interest in delving too deep into these gritty, tough-to-solve sociopolitical pickles, and instead opted to pander to a (admittedly broad, myself included) subset of viewers who just wanted a sapphic couple with soft angst and sweet reconciliations to contrast all of the ugly machinations happening around them, while the rest of the cast was going through literal hell.

This is not enough to say we shouldn't enjoy Arcane for what it is. I've made plain, on several occasions, that I found the finale visually spectacular, thematically satisfying, and a masterpiece in terms of animation.

And yet, what elevated Arcane S1 to such high levels of acclaim was also its willingness to probe the uncomfortable issues surrounding power, control, exploitation, abuse, morality and free will; as well as, at least initially, its decision to offer a critical lens into how we approach each of these themes, as refracted to a cast of different characters.

We can acknowledge these strengths while simultaneously recognizing their flaws.

Arcane is far more than 'just a video game show.' It's a beautifully designed piece of fiction that deals with so many real-life issues, in spite of its fantasy setting. Yet the criticism that 'we cannot project real world politics onto it' feels inherently unfair - because no story ever exists in a vacuum, least of all one which confronts us with stark contrasts between poverty and wealth, oppression and liberation, authority and agency.

There is nothing wrong with simply wanting to sit back and enjoy the ride. But please spare me the holier-than-thou attitudes whenever people try and open up discourse on why certain shows should take responsibility when it comes to the messages they broadcast.

Because, believe it or not, there exists a slew of media that, in fact, sticks to the landing re: difficult questions about humanity, society and politics. Media that does not ignore, diminish or erase people who are struggling, precisely because those very same issues resonate in real life - and thus, have real consequences for real people.

It isn't asking much that audiences look past the veneer of aestheticism to find the beating heart within stories. Nor should we be belittled for wanting to hold writers to account if the world they create becomes nothing more than a pretty backdrop.

This can be done without hate-mongering, derision or critique; in fact, I'd go so far as saying that critique is a necessary aspect of engaging healthily with art, media and fiction.

At the end of the day, writers are responsible for the world-building of fictional universes and their plot choices; and both things do have an impact on those who watch those worlds come to life. That doesn't mean writers need to pander to every opinion out there; hell, playing to the gallery (and the shippers) rarely ends well, and more often than not detracts from the message of the tale.

But it does mean we can hold storytellers accountable for the impressions they leave behind, for better or worse - especially when said impressions further compound real world experiences of inequality, erasure or prejudice.

As consumers of media, let's be willing to dig beneath the surface to uncover the meanings of story. Let's not settle for anything less than writers who do everything possible to deliver compelling narratives that ask questions which reflect our humanity in meaningful, resonant ways. Let's enjoy our sweet sapphic ships and our goofy doomed sciencebros, while still looking closely at all of the other issues bubbling beneath the surface.

Let's keep up the healthy dialogues and stop dismissing criticism as merely spiteful.

Escapism is only truly fulfilling when, upon returning to the 'real world,' you feel that something has changed inside you; where you have been enriched, uplifted, inspired even... and sometimes, yes, educated.

Stories carry the weight of imagination; and we must allow ourselves to be transformed by wonder. But never forget to question the reality that is portrayed. Stories are born out of humanity, after all, and thus carry within them fragments of us. When we embrace fantasy, we also learn a lot about the way we see ourselves, and the kind of world we choose to live in.

And if all else fails, I guess we'll have fanfic to fall back on.

But that is another post, for another time.

<3

[slttygeto]

♡ ̆̈ loml ; loss of my life — Hanma Shuji

♡ ̆̈ content warning: heavy angst, hurt/no comfort, i honestly don't want to say more. discover for yourself.

♡ ̆̈ word count: 2.3k

♡ ̆̈ inspiration songs: loml by taylor swift, ghostin by ariana grande.

Was it normal to feel like a burden at all times? A second choice to someone whom you hold very dearly to your heart? 

It wasn't that you didn't know your worth, it was the fact that you didn't feel like a priority anymore. But people change, and life happens and major events are bound to change the way someone behaves. 

But it hurts really badly.

You're not too sure when you started to notice it --- the distance, the quiet hums in lieu of an enthusiastic nod accompanied with a loud laugh, a cold hand to your shoulder that never lingered anymore. You could lie to yourself and say that Hanma wasn't a tactile person, that his love language was anything but physical touch but you would be worsening the pain you were experiencing from his shift in behavior. 

And it wasn't like he said anything to you---no, you would prefer if he did. It was his silence that felt like a heavy weight on your chest, pulling you down to the deepest and darkest parts of an ocean you knew you would drown in. You fight  back tears as you stand in the quiet bathroom, the sound of your breathing echoing in the large space your husband had once designed specifically for you. The excitement shining on his face when you had mentioned moving in together as boyfriend and girlfriend felt like a breath of fresh air, and a shy giggle escaped your lips as he scooped you into his arms and whispered in your ear about how living with you might just be the highlight of his life.

Yet here you were, grasping the wedding ring delicately wrapped around your finger while you choke back sobs at how mean your husband has been lately.

"I'm going in the shower," you announce to the man from the door, peeking your head around the corner to see him approaching the bathroom.

"Good." He gives a curt nod but his eyes never meet yours---they're too busy focused on that damn phone, that same device that had been driving you crazy. 

He claimed that he was always busy, shrugging his shoulders at your questioning look when you pointed out the twelve missed calls he claims he hadn't seen. But you know him---probably better than he does, and you are certain that he had been blatantly ignoring you. 

Your heart shatters quietly in your chest, but you hold back tears as you choke out the next sentence. "Not gonna join me?"

Like you always do?

"Nah, I'm good." He pushes past you to wash his hands, tucking his phone into the pocket of his sweatpants before retreating out of the bathroom the moment you started to undress. 

Was it normal for married couples to go through a phase like this? 

Even if you wanted to get answers, nothing about your relationship with the criminal was normal---not the way the two of you met, or how quick you decided to move towards marriage. You couldn't explain your situation to anyone, not even your closest friends in Toman. Not only would it piss off Hanma that you were going around and whining about relationship problems to others instead of him, but you felt too pathetic to utter the words out loud.

I think my husband fell out of love with me. 

That night, like many others, Hanma sleeps with his back facing you. And like every time, you turn to face him in hopes that he could feel your eyes staring at the back of his head. 

You don't dare to touch him, but it had been a habit for your hands to be all over him---caressing his stomach, whining about the tough muscle in his arms, melting against the warmth of his neck and chest---it was yanked out of your grasp so abruptly, heartlessly, leaving you stranded in a place you thought would be your forever after with the tall criminal. 

But old habits die hard, it is the only explanation for what you do next, letting your fingers grasp the hem of his shirt. It feels warm on his body, and the material is a little worn out but you know Shuji doesn't mind. You squeeze the fabric in your hand, your bottom lip wobbling as you start to sniffle.

"I'm sorry," you choke out quietly, praying it doesn't wake him up. "For whatever I did, I'm sorry. Please. I don't like how you're so cold to me." Your stuttered breaths force you to sit up in bed, slowly slipping out of the bed so you could cry on the balcony without waking up your husband. 

It takes you a couple of minutes to calm down, the cold of the night numbing your skin and therefore your heart. You hug your knees to your chest on the patio chair, wiping the remnants of your tears with the paw of your sweater. 

A loud knock makes you jolt, you whip your head to the glass door where you find a grumpy Hanma with a confused look on his face. "What are you doing?" He mouths from behind the door and you shake your head as you gather yourself. You slide the door open, keeping your gaze down as your feet drag you towards the bed. "Couldn't sleep."

"Ah," is all he gives as a reply, his back facing you. You notice that he stands there for a while, unmoving and staring at the spot where you had been sitting. It takes him a couple more seconds to move, walking to the bathroom to do his business. 

Ironically, that had been the longest he had acknowledged your presence in weeks. But your heart takes it and makes a blanket of it, shielding itself from the storm you had been enduring for so long. Soon enough, your eyelids start to feel heavy and sleep washes over your senses shortly after. 

--

You've only seen Hanma wear a special suit once. 

Despite the fact that his job was rather messy, it required him to look presentable at all times. However, he gagged at the idea of wearing that kind of attire to his wedding. It was insane even for a man like Hanma. 

"This feels like a shotgun wedding," Kisaki mutters to the tall man who grins at his reflection in the mirror. "I never thought you'd be the type to have a small wedding."

"You mean, you never thought I was the type to get married."

Kisaki makes a face at the thought, realizing that his right hand was indeed about to settle down. And with a girl he fell in love with during his reckless teenage years. "That too."

Hanma straightens up after fixing his tie, hair brush fixing a few strands before turning to look at his boss. "So, how do I look?" 

"Presentable for once. Now let's go."

And true to Kisaki's words, the wedding was indeed small. A short, intimate ceremony with a couple of people who had been present in your and Hanma's lives up until this point---the venue wasn't that large, but it was impressive enough for you to feel nervous as you walk down the aisle, grasping your older brother's arm.

"Out of everyone," Ran mutters under his breath and you roll your eyes, nails digging in his forearm. "You chose him."

"Shut up." You say through gritted teeth, but it was nothing serious. Out of the corner of your eye, you could see that Ran's eyes were glossy and he refused to look at your face. His body was stiff, and his chest was puffed out as he swallowed thickly. Those were all tell-tales that he was on the verge of breaking into tears, and it makes your heart swell. 

That night, Hanma kissed you deeply in front of everyone. He held you in his arms like a fragile being, beaming at the wedding ring adorning your finger before bringing his lips to your knuckles. You teased him about how good he looked in the suit, and he replied, 

"I can't wait for you to take it off of me."

"Maybe I won't," your fingers wrap around the end of the tie, grinning at him. "You look pretty handsome in it."

"Oh, so the suit stays on?"

"Mhm," you shift on his lap, wrapping both arms around his neck as you whisper in his ear. "And we can use the tie for something else."

After that night, he took the suit to the washers and hid it deep in his closet once he retrieved it. 

Then life was great for a while after that---three years of bliss in a marriage you never expected to happen given the long separation the two of you had endured. You wished you had appreciated the small moments better, but you knew they were tucked in a memory box in the back of your head. It was only a matter of when you could retrieve it. 

So why was he wearing that special suit again? And why did he look so...peaceful? 

He had been excited on your wedding night, he was full of life as he dragged you to the dance floor so you two could warm up. But was it all a show? A façcade to convince people that marrying you was what he wanted, especially after chasing you for many years, a web of lies you found yourself tangled in because he couldn't be honest with you? 

That suit was supposed to be special, it represented the day he swore loyalty to you and you did the same---it felt disrespectful that he would dare wear it again, with rosy cheeks and hair combed in a way he would never choose for himself. 

And he was supposed to be standing tall, smirking proudly at the fact that he easily towers over everyone. He would then shake his hands once then twice, feigning confidence as he fixed his posture. 

Not so relaxed and moving.

Then, he would run a hand through his hair like he hadn't spent minutes fixing it with his comb.

Instead, he doesn't attempt to touch it, and you figure it's because he hates the gel that's keeping it down. 

His grin would look boy-ish, but along with his chiseled jaw, he would look the right amount of manly. Just about enough for the woman standing at the end of the aisle to be swooned. 

Yet the smile adorning his lips was doing anything but---and you push yourself, forcing your body to approach him as you try to make sense of the situation. 

"Someone did your hair," your voice shatters the stillness in the room, and you choose to ignore the other people standing there watching you. Hanma doesn't say anything in return, and you shake your head as though he had given a reply. "No, no it looks---it looks good. Just not something I've seen before."

Hanma remains silent, unmoving, and you brace yourself to keep the conversation going. "Your cheeks---I've only seen them this red when you're sick--are you sure you're not?" 

And when nothing comes, you shake your head. "I just wanted to know."

But the longer the silence stretched, the thinner your patience was running. Your hand grips the wooden box for support, and your chest puffs out as you hold in sobs. "That suit was fucking special, Shuji." And you had promised yourself, him, that you would never cry if it came to this---but the reality was harsher than expected. "That fucking suit--was the one you wore on our wedding! How fucking dare you wear it again!"

"Hey," Chifuyu's hand rests on your shoulder, but you swat him away.

"You can't---you can't be serious, you can't just lay here and say nothing!" You point to the people behind you, Toman executives you had both known while growing up. "You're going to let them see you like this?! You're gonna let them watch you sleep?!"

And you wait for it---for his loud retort, a dry chuckle, a low voice calling for your name and telling you to cut it out. But it never comes, and all you're met with is his innocent, peaceful smile.

"You can't fall asleep here---you can't do that Shuji," your hands scramble to grasp for the white material wrapped around the lower part of his body, but you pull it up higher, as though afraid that he might get colder. "It's not like you---" 

Tears finally start to spill like a faucet, you use the hem of your blazer to wipe them down as your other hand keeps tucking him in. "You can't leave me like this."

"You did this to me, Shuji." Your sobs are gut wrenching as you lean over the casket, your tears wetting the material of his suit. "You gave me everything---you can't take it away." 

Your brother approaches you from behind, hands resting on your shoulders as he attempts to pull you away. "It's time."

"I'll never forgive you. Ever. You fucking coward!" Your fist collides with the casket, and you lean closer to his face. "You could've told me! We could've run away--you could've...you could've been saved, Shuji. I would've done anything to save you." 

But as you watch them approach the casket to finally close it, you realize that the last thing Hanma would ever hear was that you'd never forgive him. You push yourself out of Ran's grasp, and no one tries to push you away as you lean down and press a kiss to his cold, chapped lips. 

He doesn't pull you in, nor does he try to kiss you back and your lips tremble as your thumb traces his cheek. 

"I love you. Even if you don't say it back, I love you so much." 

Then your lips meet his for the last time.

[its-leethee]

Lucia the first elves and archdragons, who designed and built the camp cosmic order, is angry and scared that the spark human's use of primal magic is going to spread through the camp and endanger everyone--

It happened long ago, when humans had only just learned to hold fire in their hands without burning. They nurtured their precious primal flames secretly—in the dark of night, beneath shadows and shrouds—as cultivating its glow drew the eyes and ire of monsters. Eventually, for the audacity of their fire, they were hunted, and—though they looked to the stars for salvation—the stars, too, looked down upon them with disdain. Humanity had been given something it was never meant to have. And so there came a calamity.

--Ripples

I've been thinking about why the stars and the Cosmic Order would turn their backs on and refuse to watch over Xadia. If they could see the future - why is there nothing they're willing or able to do to stop it?

But if the human's unchecked use of magic would attract the attention of a certain type of monsters -

Speculation that Aaravos was hoping to attract a star devourer dragon to destroy Xadia is an idea that's been bouncing around the fandom for a while.

And this would explain why the other Startouch elves on the Cosmic Council would stay out of the way; why they would turn their backs and avert their eyes; why they wouldn't want to look past a certain point via their timeblind powers either.

"...the beginning of the end. The long slow spiral to chaos." They won't look past the cosmic-prophecy-event-horizon because there's a star devourer dragon sitting just beyond.

They're afraid of being driven mad.

"...I can feel my very being shattering from the inside out!"

Aaravos gleefully goading the humans on; taunting the Cosmic Council, "are you watching?"

I have not seen the stars in centuries. But when I see them again—when the stars are forced to look upon me, their dark brother—they will know how I have waited. And when everything they have built lies shattered, I will savor their fall from the sky.

--Patience

In lieu of a conclusion paragraph I'm gonna leave y'all with a piece of my terrible humor:

--2x01 foreshadowing???? i love this show so much

[studioeisa]

fight my way ♾️ minghao x reader.

“would you call me a saint or a sinner? would you love me, a loser or a winner?” # day five of (the)8 days of minghao.

aspiring olympian!minghao is five years old when he starts practicing wushu. his parents coo at him, calling him an adorable little thing, as he stumbles over his stubby legs in an attempt to pull off the bow stance. in this universe, it is not dance that sets his body aflame; it is the lead foot pointed straight ahead, the squat on one leg before he lunges.

aspiring olympian!minghao shows potential. enough potential for his coaches to pull aside his mother and father, to tell them, your son is good. he can be good. his parents share a look because they do not know yet what it means, to have a miracle on their hands. what to do with that when it comes their way.

aspiring olympian!minghao is seven years old when he begins to train more regularly. he's nearing the age where he can compete in the children's martial arts competitions. he has parents who believe in him and a coach in his corner. he cannot lose, he thinks, for more reasons than one.

aspiring olympian!minghao is eight years old when he experiences a plethora of firsts. it's the year of his first real wushu competition, where he clinches second place with a score of 9.19. five points shy of gold. but the silver medal pales in comparison to the more important first— the first time he meets you.

aspiring olympian!minghao who watches wide-eyed from the bleachers as you compete in a different category. he is mesmerized as you glide across the mat with your bo staff, every single one of your movements perfectly controlled. your footwork is immaculate. your demeanor is unflappable. minghao nearly boos when you don't get a score high enough to finish on the podium.

aspiring olympian!minghao finds you afterwards. his coaches will tell you that he's more quiet and restrained than the rest of his peers, but there's none of that now as he shoulders past athletes and trainers to seek you out. when he does, he's slightly out of breath and his eyes are a little wild. his first words are blurted without much preamble. "we have to be friends," he'll insist, and you are helpless to deny him.

aspiring olympian!minghao, your confidante, your rival, your friend. throughout your childhood, the two of you share that world. the life of competitive martial arts. of training sessions after school, of watching and rewatching tournaments in a constant bid to compare and improve.

aspiring olympian!minghao becomes a constant presence of yours at these local events. the two of you cheer each other on when you aren't on the same mat. you sit by the bleachers and talk shit about everyone else because the two of you are young and arrogant. when you run out of other people to talk about, there's your lives outside of wushu to discuss. minghao's gripe with his teachers. your yearning for the newest cellphone. whenever you two part ways, it is with the promise to see each other again next time.

aspiring olympian!minghao is thirteen years old when you just... disappear. he thinks it's a one-off, one of those competitions where you've opted to prioritize school instead of sport. but then you're not at the next one. or the next one. he's thrown off his game; he doesn't even finish podium at a certain point. his parents are concerned. his coaches, baffled. he doesn't know how to explain himself.

aspiring olympian!minghao decides to do what he does best. he looks for you. he hunts you down, asks around, until he's at your front door with a look of utter frustration on his sharp features. "what gives?" he asks in lieu of 'hello'. there's no point in playing it cool. he's upset. he's hurt. he misses you. "where the hell did you go?" he demands, because it's easier to be angry than it is to be sad.

aspiring olympian!minghao is speechless when you tell him you've quit. quit. the word doesn't make sense to him. he's been in this game for nearly a decade now. you had done it for just as long. and now you were just— giving it up? "but you're so good," he stammers, his hands quivering around the glass of water you've poured him. "you can't quit!"

aspiring olympian!minghao is scandalized, sure, but you realize very quickly that his distress has less to do about the sport and everything to do about something else. and so you apologize for leaving without warning. you explain the reasons why you're doing it. and then. and then, you reassure him. you assuage his worries. "just because i'm quitting wushu," you say, an edge of tentative hope in your tone. "it doesn't mean we have to quit being friends."

aspiring olympian!minghao decides he'll take that. he thinks it's still a mighty shame, a waste of someone who could have had it all. it's your life, he convinces himself, and if your life isn't this sport, then he can't blame you. he grieves the loss of what you once shared, but he'd rather be your friend than not have you at all.

aspiring olympian!minghao picks up the slack. he wins gold in his next competition. then the next one. then the next. his coaches smirk amongst themselves. his parents once again share amused looks. the reason for his drive is back in the stands, scrutinizing his every move like they're one of his trainers themselves.

aspiring olympian!minghao still talks to you about all the other people he's competing against, about the rigorous routines and the classes he enjoys. you trade him stories of the life you're building away from these gymnasiums. sometimes, he feels a tinge of jealousy. he wants in. he wants to be part of your stories, too; wants to be more than just a guy you come to watch every couple of months.

aspiring olympian!minghao is sixteen years old when he announces that he wants to compete in the olympics. go big or go home, he says, with that smirk of his that borderlines on cocky. except that grin is wiped out when his coaches inform him that wushu isn't an olympic sport. it is in the southeast asian games, they tell him, but a part of minghao knows that isn't enough.

aspiring olympian!minghao asks, "okay, so what martial art is in the olympics?" his coaches hesitate but they answer him anyway. there's judo and taekwondo. minghao weighs the options for a long moment before decisively saying, "i'm going to start training for taekwondo."

aspiring olympian!minghao is unfazed as you cuss him out, as you rain punches down his back. "are you insane?" you're screeching, your eyes flashing with indignation. "what are you thinking, just switching up like that?" in his head, his explanation is bulletproof. wushu and takewondo are sister combat sports, with similar forms and acrobatic movements. he feels very much like that girl in that one american movie you made him watch, the one where the blonde said what, like it's hard?

aspiring olympian!minghao is a little exasperated when you get so annoyed that you freeze him out. he's called a lovesick fool and a door mat as he chases after you, but he's been on the receiving end of those assumptions for the better half of his teenage years. they no longer have any effect on him. in the end, he manages to convince you that it's just something he wants to try. he'll just try, he tells you, and he'll go back to wushu if it doesn't work out.

except aspiring olympian!minghao has never done anything half-heartedly. he spends the next four years training his body to get used to the forms, kicks, and punches of taekwondo. he practices new sparring techniques. he leverages his agility and flexibility; he fails more than he has in his entire sports career, but he pushes on.

aspiring olympian!minghao finds solace in your friendship. you're there when you can be, with your diet-friendly snacks and heat packs and sanrio band-aids. you still seem skeptical about his transition, about his relentless drive to be an olympian, but your hesitant support still means the world to him. he laps it all up and holds it all to his chest as he vies for qualifiers.

aspiring olympian!minghao doesn't qualify in the first year he tries. you think that's it, he's done; he'll go back to wushu. but he's twenty years old and raring to go. he got this far, didn't he? that's what he tells you as he gets back in to his dobok, as he negotiates to be put in a different weight class. "there will be more olympics," he tells you, that self-assuring grin still very much in place. "i'll be at the next one."

aspiring olympian!minghao clinches gold at a national taekwondo competition. not enough, he thinks, so he goes on to smash records at the world taekwondo championship. his pathway for qualification is paved. he fields all his bets in the -58kg weight class. he is twenty four years old. he makes it. you are one of the first people to find out.

olympian!minghao trains, and trains, and trains. for months, he is just a rotation of ailments. sore thighs, busted lips, bruised knuckles. he feels alive, though. he is bruised and battered, but he is also heading to paris for the goddamn olympics. he can deal with the scrapes and the aches.

olympian!minghao gets a little more clingy with you in the weeks leading up to his scheduled departure. he plans dinners and blocks off weekends. he pouts when you miss some of his exhibitions. he steals away from training to pick you up from work. you try to reason that this is a manifestation of his nerves; how he is seeking out one of his oldest friends for support.

but olympian!minghao isn't doing this solely because you're his pillar when it comes to sports. you realize this, one evening, when you tease him about finding some nice olympian to date while he's in the city of love and he looks at you like you're crazy. "why would you say that?" he asks. "i'm courting you, aren't i?" (he may have forgotten to inform you, he realizes. oh, well. at least now you know.)

olympian!minghao doesn't play around with courtship. he strives to balance it with his rigorous training schedule even as you insist that he should focus on practice, that this is a discussion the two of you can have once he's back from paris. he only shakes his head and asks what you want for lunch. in his head, he has already waited long enough.

olympian!minghao begs you to hold back on your answer, though, until he comes home. the night before his flight, he tells you why. "it will motivate me," he admits quietly. "i want you to be with a winner." you attempt to protest, to tell him that it doesn't matter, but he asks you to indulge him. "let me have this. it's stupid, i know— but it keeps the fire burning."

olympian!minghao is stunned when you give him a parting gift. at first, he's confused by the neon orange plastic ring hanging from the silver chain until you shyly tell him where it came from. it's from the wushu competition where you were both eight years old. where he'd zeroed in on you and decided, that is somebody i need in my life. you'd been wearing it during your exhibition. he takes it from you, now, like it's made of gold.

olympian!minghao heads to the olympics. he is called a rising star in his weight class. he gains a small cult following for his looks and his skill. his parents laugh; his coaches shake their heads. the modicum of social media fame and the adoring fangirls have nothing on who is waiting for minghao. who he is waiting for, in turn.

olympian!minghao makes that abundantly clear as early as his first round. you are watching back home when the cameras focus on him. the announcers read it aloud— his accolades, his background— but you are distracted by what he chooses to do, instead, with his few minutes of screen time.

olympian!minghao catches the camera and gives the smallest of smiles. he tugs at his dobok until he's pulling out the chain around his neck. then, like the fool that he'll always be for you— he presses the plastic ring to his lips. after all: he has never done anything half-heartedly, and that includes loving you.

[ghcstao3]

marine biologist au :)

-

Soap almost misses the call from Price one unsuspecting three AM, but he wakes up in the nick of time.

He barely has his eyes open to press answer, squinting into darkness as he mumbles out some greeting before waiting to learn why in the world Price is calling him at this time.

“They’ve finally hatched,” Price tells him. And before the cogs in Soap’s head can start turning, Price clarifies, “The turtles, Soap. They’re finally out. Get your arse out here.”

It’s such an announcement that kicks Soap’s brain into a hard reboot, and suddenly he’s flying out of bed and running for his car keys, barely caring that he’s still in his pyjamas as he speeds down the road at this godawful hour. He doesn’t remember when Price or he had hung up, just knows he needs to get to the beach, and now.

The team had had their eyes on a particular bale of sea turtles since they’d laid their eggs, and had waited for so long for the hatching with continuous efforts to make sure all would go perfectly undisturbed. He couldn’t afford to miss this.

And it seems, arriving to the spot, that other scientists had a similar idea. That, or Price had called them, too.

Soap finds the man with just a bit of difficulty between the silhouettes of the small group standing a ways from little black specks crawling through the sand. He claps Price on the shoulder, whispering his excitement as his eyes adjust to the bright moonlight.

“Incredible,” Soap murmurs. He hasn’t felt wonder like this in ages, even if this isn’t the first time he’s witnessed such an event.

There’s just something so special about it.

“I’ll say,” Price whispers back, that same wistfulness.

Except… it’s not Price. Still tall and wide shoulders and rough voice, but… decidedly not Price.

Soap nearly jumps back, recoiling when he realizes he’s been hanging off a stranger’s shoulder in lieu of an old colleague’s. The stranger seems to realize the mistake without ever taking his eyes off the baby turtles, laughing quietly under his breath.

“I’m so sorry,” Soap says. “I thought—“

“Thought I was someone else?” The stranger replies, not unkindly. He angles his head just enough for Soap to catch the outline of his face in the silver glow of moonlight. “I think I can forgive you. We’re all half-asleep, anyway.”

Soap can feel a blush raging across his face, thankful for the cover of night to hide its tint. Even so, he ducks his head as the stranger goes back to watching the hatchlings. Soap takes the opportunity to do the same, though putting some distance between himself and the man, this time.

Eventually, though, their shared silence feels like too much with the hushed chattering of others surrounding them. Soap taps the man lightly on the shoulder and says, “My name’s John.”

“Simon,” Soap is told.

The quiet feels more comfortable, after that. And as time goes on and more and turtles make it out to sea, the other voices seem to die down as well.

It’s not until everyone is certain all of the hatchlings have made it that the group of scientists begin talking again, still quiet, but now above a whisper. Simon finally fully turns to face Soap, who thinks he may be experiencing his second bought of wonder that night, seeing Simon’s face in the dim light.

“It was nice meeting you.” Soap smiles softly up at Simon. “Do you think we’ll see each other again?”

Simon nods, shoving his hands in his pockets. Once glance tells Soap that he’d been rudely awakened as well, and somehow he finds comfort in it.

“I’m sure we will,” Simon says. “Especially since Price is in both our circles. You should probably go find him, by the way. Since—“

Soap groans, burying his face in his hands. “Please don’t remind me. I’m sorry again.”

Soap peeks through his fingers just as Simon grins at him, something almost bashful. “Don’t be. I liked your company. Have a good night, Johnny.”

Johnny.

Soap’s ears burn as Simon walks away. He sort of wishes a crater would open up in the sand and swallow him whole.

He should go find Price.

But… in a moment. Soap can reminisce on his brief encounter with Simon for just a few seconds longer.

[i-will-physically-fight-you]

Tangle up the True and the Fable Fic

Title: Tangle up the True and the Fable Pairings: Janus & Patton (Paternal Mociet) Summary: Janus groaned when he saw the small figure creeping along the fringes of his castle walls. Not another one, it'd be the second time this month. // Or in which, Janus is tired of the so-called gods sending teenagers and children to fight their own battles. Word-Count: 1.9k Warnings: Fantasy AU, Magic, Anger, Hurt/Comfort, Crying, All of the Sides are Present (the other four just play minor roles in this) AO3 LINK Hello this was written for the @tss-camp-and-coffee's Camp Cartoon event for @dndeceit. Their prompt was: "Fantasy AU - young hero winds up being adopted by the dark lord they're meant to defeat." It should come to no surprise to anyone that has read my fics that I immediately snatched this one up, lol I also took inspiration from this tumblr post, which I've been saving in my tumblr drafts as inspo for years now.

Janus groaned when he saw the small figure creeping along the fringes of his castle walls. Not another one. 

“This is the second one this month.” Logan commented out loud, standing beside him to view their intruder. The teenager’s hand rested on his chin contemplatively, “Do you think you’ll be able to reason with this one without violence?”

“Oh, like the way I was able to reason with you?” Janus asked, raising an eyebrow. “I seem to recall a certain someone greeting me with a knife to the chest in lieu of pleasantries.” 

“At the time, the element of surprise had been the most logical course of action,” Logan refuted, as he always did when this topic was broached, “I know better now.”

A flash of blue emanated from their intruder. Janus frowned as he felt their magic clumsily poke and prod at his wards’ defenses. With a flick of his hand, he acquiesced to its brash, abrasive demands. 

The figure hopped backwards a bit, as if startled their spell had worked. Slowly, hesitatingly, they stepped through the broken ward. 

“Logan,” Janus said, adjusting his gloves, “can you let the others know we have a guest?”

Logan nodded, “Of course. I will also prepare a room for them.”

“Good.” Janus said, before hopping out of the window. For a moment, he was weightless before he shifted, twisted into a form suitable for the air. With a few flaps of his wings, he landed with ease in front of their intruder.

He snorted a bit, smoke trailing out of his nostrils like tendrils. Their little intruder gaped up at him. They were indeed little–even in Janus’s humanoid form, this one would barely reach his chest. Their armor was ill-fitting, meant to fill out a person with adult proportions. It was hastily modified with belts to keep it from slipping off their frame.

Janus held back a snarl at the sight of it. Sending teenagers to fight their own battles was pathetic and cowardly; but a child? Would the next one be a toddler? 

“Dragon!” The little intruder called out, “I–I’ve come to fight you.”

Janus tilted his head. With a twist and a shift, he shredded his scales for his humanoid form once more. “Brave one, are we? What do you plan to accomplish by fighting me?”

The child’s hand gripped the hilt of his sword. “You’re an evil dragon–I have to fight you and–and–”

“And what?” Janus pressed.

“Kill you.” The child admitted, their own face twisted up at the thought of it.

“Have you ever killed a person before?”

“Never! Killing is bad, b-but you’re evil so I ha-ha-have to–” The child broke into a sob. 

“Young one, you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.” Janus said. 

The child shook their head. With one heaving, gulping breath, they pulled out their sword out of its hilt and charged towards him. The sword glowed blue, enhanced by their magic. Janus sidestepped the first strike, then the second and the third.

The sword nicked him on the fourth hit, barely a scratch given his accelerated healing. Impressively, the swings of the sword were quick, unnaturally so, but still not enough.

The fight, if one could call it a fight, did not last long.

The child collapsed of their own volition, the sword falling out of their grasp with a clatter. Its blue glow spluttered before fading with a pop . Magic depletion. The child’s magic was rough and unrefined–it lacked the necessary control to keep spells from burning exorbitant amounts of energy.

The young one coughed, their skin clammy with sweat. Janus smelled blood before he saw it seeping out of the side of their mouth. But instead of being a crimson red, it was gold.

A godling, one of their own young.

“Shh,” Janus murmured as he approached the now-sobbing child, “You’ve been so brave and I’m proud of you. But that’s enough now. It was cruel of them to make you fight me–you never could have won. It’s not your fault.”

His gentle words and calm composure betrayed none of the roiling anger beneath it all. Anger not at the child, but at the so-called gods who continually sent teenagers and now a child (one of their own, even) to fight their own battles.

He leaned downwards and gathered the child into his arms with ease. The young one went painfully still, their eyes tightened shut as if expecting the worse. Janus’s fury only ever deepened.

‘Focus.’ He reminded himself. He had more pressing matters that required his immediate attention, such as keeping a child from fainting from magic depletion. Already the young one’s magic instinctively clawed at his own, begging for nourishment. 

He hummed, concentrating. He had to be cautious with how much he gave to the child–too much and it would only exacerbate the problem. Carefully, he allowed a sliver of his magic to be absorbed, enough to bring some color to the child’s cheeks.

The child sniffled, their eyes slowly opening up with a spark of realization.

“You’re not going to…kill me?”

“I don’t kill children.”

“B–but you killed all the other heroes.”

“Ah, is that so?” Janus asked with a tsk. Of course that was the lies they fed to the little godling. He opened his mouth to speak further, when enraged shrieks echoed from behind them. 

He did not need to turn around to know there was a rabble of teenagers spilling out of the castle.

“No fair! I want to be the first–”

“Well too slow, bro!”

“Guys, you’re going to scare them–”

“Virgil is right, while I understand you two are excited, it is best we do not crowd and overwhelm our guest.” 

The child peered over Janus’s shoulder, their fingers digging into Janus’s shoulder to get a better view of the disorderly entourage. No doubt Remus and Roman were leading the way, pushing and tripping up one another in an arbitrary race to be first to the scene. Virgil was most likely a step behind, a protective shadow since he arrived earlier this month. Logan would not be not far off, walking at a more measurable pace. 

“As you can see, they’re very dead. Not at all alive and eating me out of my house and home.”

The child kept staring.

“Would you like to meet them? I can send them away if you are uncomfortable with meeting them.”

“But…why?”

“Why what, young one?”

“You’re–you’re supposed to be evil. My dad said so. But–” The child sunk their teeth into their lip, “You seem nice. Your words taste true.”

Taste true? Oh, interesting. Did this godling possess the ability to sense the truth behind one’s words? 

One of Janus’s ears twitched as the noise behind them quieted. It seemed Logan and Virgil had managed to persuade the twins into waiting until Janus gave them permission to approach. 

“Was your dad the one who sent you to me?”

The child nodded, words getting tangled in their throat. Their magic cried out in their stead, blasting Janus with an onslaught of visages. Of a sword pressed into too-small hands, their fingers forcibly curled around it by larger uncaring ones. Of a young voice bounding themself to a pledge, awkwardly repeating the words of a booming distant voice. Of a child meandering and stumbling through the wilderness, scarcely surviving off berries and stale bread. 

It seemed Janus was not the only one blasted with the psionic outburst. There was a murmured outburst from the teenagers. Their voices kept hushed but still too loud for an attempt at discrepancy. 

He kept his attention on the godling.

“Young one, do you understand what a pledge is?”

“Yes–it’s an important promise. Like a pinky promise.”

“Exactly like a pinky promise.” Janus smiled, “What did you pledge to your dad?”

“I had to kill the evil dragon, in order to keep everyone safe and happy,” The child said, “Dad is always really busy but he said if I–I did it, I’d prove myself to him and he’d let me live with him.”

Janus doubted he could explain to the godling how subjective the concepts of good and evil were. Much less, that love is something freely given and not earned. But he could begin with tearing away the putrid pledge held sway of the godling.

‘There is no evil dragon in this land, only a dragon who is neither wholly good nor evil. Thus, this pledge is invalid and void.’ The fibers of the pledge tore apart, disintegrating. 

There were many reasons why the gods feared him and this was one of them. Their magic came from mortals’ belief. An acknowledgement in the idea the gods were almighty and powerful. More than that, through this belief they siphoned mortals’ own magic and took it for their own. This was why so few mortal mages existed. 

But from a young age, Janus had not given them such acknowledgement. His magic grew untampered and untainted by their influence. For a long, long time, the gods had not known. Why would they take notice of a mere mortal who pretended to be faithful? It wasn’t until he started making more unsubtle moves that they took a more offensive approach. A cowardly, despicable approach to be precise.

The godling relaxed in his embrace, the weight of the pledge leaving their body. He wasn’t sure if they knew what he’d done, nor was he sure if he could begin to explain why he’d done it.

“Young one, I will pledge to you that I will not intentionally harm you as long as you are with me. And if I do so, then I will suffer your decided consequences.”

They squinted their eyes up at him, “You’ll feel…really sad!”

“Really sad?”

“Yes.”

“Alright. I will agree to those terms,” Janus said, “I, Janus, pledge to abide to the aforementioned promise to you–”

“Patton.” The child provided helpfully.

“To you, Patton. Should I break it, I will be split asunder with the consequences of feeling really sad about it.” Janus said, finishing it off with a dramatic hand over his forehead.

Patton giggled, the child’s tears drying up.

“You mean it…you really mean it!” Patton exclaimed, giddiness floating off the child. Literally. Janus could feel it try and squeeze itself around his chest cavity. “You really are a nice dragon!”

“I am kind to those who are reciprocal of such kindness,” Janus said, mindful of his phrasing. He did not know how much Patton could sense truth behind words, and he did not want to break this tentative trust so soon. 

The hushed murmurs behind them were only increasing in volume. Janus chuckled under his breath. 

“Now, would you be up for making some new friends? They’ve been very patient and are excited to meet you. But you do not have to meet them if you do not wish to do so.”

Janus followed Patton’s gaze, finally acknowledging the others for the first time. Remus gave them an enthusiastic wave as he laid on top of Roman, who apparently lost the race. Virgil held up a hesitant hand, his wings pressed tight together to appear smaller. Logan stood by him, his eyes bright with curiosity.

“I want to meet them.” Patton tugged on Janus’s cloak, insistently. A yearning ache gnawed at Janus’s bones, slipping through his defenses with its fierce desperation.

Janus smiled, ignoring the way it threatened to grow taunt with a snarl. The gods were going to die a slow, agonizing death once Janus was finished with them. But that would be saved for another time.

Right now, the most important thing was ensuring Patton felt safe and protected within his castle walls.

[katerina-marie]

The Tragedy of a Duality

Gojo Satoru x Female Reader and (Past) Ryomen Sukuna x Female Reader

Chp 1, Chp 2, Chp 3, Chp 4, Chp 5, Chp 6, Chp 7 (Final)

In the present, you are a sorcerer and the cherished wife of the Honored One. In an era long gone, remembered by only one, you were ordinarily human and the beloved bride of the King of Curses. How fitting it would be, in an evening of destruction, to have your heart torn in two.

Content: JJK Universe and Canon Events (tho tweaked to incorporate reader), Fluff, Angst, Flashbacks, Ambiguous ending, Violence, Death, Female reader but left descriptively vague, No use of y/n, True Form Sukuna in the past, Itadori Yuji is Sukuna's vessel in the present but nothing inappropriate b/n reader and Itadori as the vessel, Innuendos, Allusions to + Vaguely described sex so avoid accordingly, Mildly Possessive and Jealous Satoru. Will add more CW to each chapter if needed.

WC: 6.1k

Chapter 5

You suspect that Sukuna still knows it’s you approaching the doors of his bathing chamber even if your footsteps are rendered nearly silent because of the stockings on your feet. The hour is late and the night is cool, and you are just a little vexed that he hadn’t come to see you upon returning home from his two weeks away. When one of the maids had whispered the news to you as you sat reading in the room you share with Sukuna, you hadn’t dallied and only slid on a robe over your nightgown before slipping into the hall.

Now, however, when you stand in front of large, double wood doors with your fist poised to knock, you find yourself hesitating. You still aren’t quite certain of how far your formalities with your new husband are supposed to go. Three months is barely enough time to become familiar with a person, let alone bind yourself to them in matrimony, yet you’ve resigned yourself to both. In an effort to find success in such endeavors, you’ve dipped your toes into the metaphorical waters and pushed at what boundaries you could find when it comes to establishing your place at Sukuna’s side, even when it proves difficult. 

When his temper isn’t mercurial he’s stoic, when it isn’t enough for him to be quiet he hides behind aloofness, and the rest of your communication is all done in some annoyingly blunt manner. Teaching Sukuna tact isn’t something you had foreseen as a wifely duty for yourself, but alas, maybe the two of you would be better off for it.

“You may enter.” 

The suddenness of his voice makes you jump, and you realize Sukuna must have grown tired of sensing you waiting and contemplating on the other side of the door. Embarrassment warms your cheeks, and you consider fleeing back to your room, but something about the weariness of his words stills your feet. Concern has you pressing open the doors. 

Thick steam rises to meet you and billows out behind you into the hall until you shut the doors again. Hundreds of candles are scattered along the perimeter to cast flickering light against the walls. The room is humid and damp, and instantly the fabric of your nightgown begins to stick to your skin uncomfortably. Below you three steps down is an expansive pool built into the floor. Large grey stones and black tile trim the edges of it, and at the end farthest from you, Sukuna lounges on a ledge in waist deep water. You blanch when you notice the pink tint of it and when your eyes flick to the corner behind him, soiled linens lay in a heap of dirt and blood and who knows what else. 

“You have returned,” you say in lieu of a greeting. You carefully maneuver down the set of stairs and stop when your toes reach the edge of the pool across from him. A grumbling noise is his only response until Sukuna lifts his upper set of arms out of the water and drapes them along the edge of the pool. Two of his fingers on his right hand curl back and forth in a request for you to come nearer. Not interested in denying him, you pad over to him, mindful of the slickness of the floor and the stockings still on your feet. 

You come to a halt next to his left arm, and you have to stifle a gasp because the state of him is evident up close. Sukuna’s hair is saturated in blood and drying in matted clumps. Dirt and more blood mar the skin of his face and chest not obscured by his tattoos. For a second, you fret over how much of it might be his own, but there are no visible wounds to his body and you shove down the building panic. 

Sukuna continues to watch you, and when you cast your eyes about the room and they fall onto a basket of cloth in a corner, an idea comes to mind. 

You tilt your head towards the basket. “May I?” 

He turns infinitesimally, and you see his eyes flick back to where you indicated. After he gives an elegant nod of his head, you scurry over to the basket and lift into your arms. Back at Sukuna’s side, you glance between the steaming water, the awaiting cloth, and the hem of your robe that is darkened from the moisture it has already absorbed. Without debating it further, you undo the tie that keeps your robe shut and shrug it off your shoulders. In the next instant, your nightgown falls to your feet and the warmth of the room hits your bare skin. You toe off your stockings last, and just as you go to step down into the water, Sukuna lifts an arm to supply you a steadying hand. 

When you first enter the water, the heat of it stings your skin and draws a hiss from between your teeth. You go to lower yourself to your knees next to Sukuna’s side, but halfway down his hand tightens around yours and pulls you forward. His other hand helps you straddle his hips, and the burn of the water continues up your body to where it laps at your shoulder blades. At least you could blame the heat in your cheeks on the temperature of the room, though whether Sukuna would believe that to be the cause over the way his naked body is flush against yours is unlikely. 

Sukuna reaches with the arms not on you for the basket of linens. He drags it across the stone so it is within your reach and then lets his eyes drift closed as his body relaxes. You feel a smile tugging at your lips, and with a gentle hand, you dip a cloth into the water and wipe away the grime on his face. You brush over his brow and then trace down his cheek, pausing every so often to wet the cloth again before it becomes so dirty that you discard it and replace it with a clean one. When you finish with his face, you continue down his neck to his shoulders and then the solid plane of muscle that is his chest. 

From your peripheral, you catch Sukuna looking at you through a single slitted lower eye. His stare isn’t critiquing, nor is it cautious or wary. Instead, though it’s difficult to be sure through the steam, you would think it’s focused, content on following every lithe movement of yours across his body. One of his lower arms is wrapped around the small of your back while the other grasps your thigh under the water. His nails scratch softly and mindlessly, back and forth, and the act of it sends goosebumps all over the skin exposed to the air. Dare you think, Sukuna missed you. 

“Why did you hesitate outside the doors?” 

“Is that what I was doing?” you ask innocently. A glance from beneath your lashes gives you a glimpse of a frown on his face. 

“You are my wife, are you not?” And Sukuna clearly is not interested in whatever evasive game you try to play. You scrunch your nose in defeat. 

“I suppose so, in every sense of the word.” 

“Then I must ask you again: why did you hesitate?” 

Your sigh is long, and you let your hands fall into the pool with a small splash. “I am not sure,” you tell him honestly. “Perhaps you intimidate me. I am still getting to know you, and what you allow of me.” 

Sukuna’s face is surprised and pensive. “Do I?” 

“Mhm,” you hum, and you lift your hand out of the water to resume wiping at his skin with a soaking wet cloth. “Quite the reputation precedes you, if you are not aware.” 

A hand smooths up your spine. “Well, let me be the one to reassure you, Wife.” 

You assume Sukuna will further part your thighs or find some hidden place on your body with his lips that makes you call out for him, but instead, one of his fingers hooks under your chin so he can raise it up until your eyes meet his. The burning red of them is intense.

“Would it please you to hear how your beauty bewitched me the moment I saw you standing under that pear tree?” 

Your breath hitches, and the cloth in your hand tumbles into the water with a heavy plop. 

“Or,” Sukuna continues, and there is a genuine grin that is beginning to form on his face, “I can tell you how your intellect and wit far surpasses anyone else’s that I know. You are stunning and magnificent in all your ways.

“If I had not kept you for myself, if my selfishness was not near as great, then ultimately, some worthless mortal man in that unassuming village of yours would have asked for your hand and never realized the treasure he keeps under his fingers.” 

Your body flushes warm all over, and you can no longer blame it on the heat of the water. You know Sukuna can hear your heart pounding because it is ringing in your own ears, and he confirms it when another hand slides up to settle over it in between your breasts.

“Do not cower from me,” he tells you, and his voice is resolute in its sincerity. “Come to me, when you feel so inclined, and I will always be willing to let you find me.” 

You are rendered speechless from his declaration and thoroughly flustered in every other way. Sukuna watches you patiently as your mouth opens and closes as you try to come up with some dignified response, but nothing sensible finds your tongue and you look everywhere but at him. 

There is a chuckle from Sukuna, and he lets his hand on your chest and back drift away to give you whatever space needed to not overwhelm you. Contented, he seems, he leans back again and shuts his eyes while waiting for you to continue with your earlier ministrations. 

You are thankful that his focus is no longer on you, and with a stuttered breath, you pick up another cloth to dip in the water and resume making progress on removing the evidence of whatever battles Sukuna fought from his skin. 

A few minutes later, once you have finished with his body, you turn to his hair and click your tongue in disapproval. “Did you not have the opportunity to bathe?”

Sukuna opens one eye lazily and grunts. “I did.”  

“Truly? The state of your hair and body would prove otherwise.” 

Hands tighten on your waist and thigh and now all of Sukuna’s eyes are on you. 

“I was occupied the last remaining days,” he refutes. “Besides, now I have no intention of doing it myself ever again when I know I could have your assistance instead.” 

There is heat in his voice, but you ignore it in favor of cleaning his hair. You rest your knees on top of Sukuna’s thighs and sit yourself up as tall as you can in order to stretch your arms up and above his head. One by one, you pick out bits of leaves and other questionable objects before softening the blood in it with warm water. Your stomach tilts and churns as you comb the matted parts loose with your fingers, but you manage to keep any bile down as you rinse it out. 

Sukuna sits relatively still and patient with eyes closed as the water runs down his face and over his shoulders, but as you spend an extra minute working at a particularly heinous knot right above his ear, you feel him nipping at the underside of your breast. The scraping of his teeth draws a squeal from your mouth as you shy away from him, but the strength of his grip doesn’t allow you to venture far. Instead, he urges you closer against his chest and looks up at you with eyes that are asking and beseeching.

Sukuna has never forced you. Not into the marriage that saves you from a bleak life of nothingness in a village that is equally lackluster. Not into his bed the night after the ceremony, though you did find yourself there and under him willingly. And not anytime after that, despite his best efforts in persuading you to indulge in him. He still does not now, even when you can feel him between your legs. 

There must be something answering and pleading on your face because Sukuna suddenly has two hands that grip at your rear while another cradles your jaw and brings your head close to his. Water splashes at the edge of the pool, and the knot in his hair is all but forgotten.You rock against him in a way that wrenches a gasp from you and a rumble from his throat, but you pause in making any more movement with your hips to whisper against his lips.

“Promise you will take me with you the next time you must leave and every time after that.” 

Sukuna grins at you, and it is devious and thrilling all at once. “Anything you desire, you shall have.” 

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

When you pop your head around the doorframe of Nanami Kento’s office, he is hunched over his desk with a pen in one hand and the side of his face propped up in the other. 

The paper he’s focused on is full of an elegant script you’ve always been envious of. Even in school, when Nanami was staunchly dedicated to transcribing every lecture in writing, the delicate strokes of his letters and the straightness of his sentences made his notes akin to art. You would tell him so at every opportunity, and the way the bridge of his nose would flare pink afterwards was a test to every bit of your self control to not squeeze him out of some affection-induced aggression. 

To this day he continues the habit, even if his face is lined by exhaustion and the burden of responsibility. Nanami has not once forgone wearing his fine-pressed suit or rather uncouthly patterned tie since returning to sorcery after abandoning corporate monotony—despite your gentle coaxing to do so. And the sight of him now, when it’s way past lunchtime and he clearly hasn’t taken a break all morning, makes you ever more grateful that you managed to stop at a quaint little bakery on your way back to the school. Nanami is perfectly capable and independent to nearly a fault, but you can’t help thinking he’d do well with someone to care for him. 

“Hey there,” you announce, and you do so delicately to avoid spooking him. When Nanami lifts his eyes to see who awaits at his door, you let yourself in and share a kind smile as he sits back in his chair and plucks his glasses from his face.

“Hello. It is always a pleasure to see you.” 

You don’t miss the emphasis on that last word, and you can’t help the giggle that arises from it. Anyone who has been around long enough knows of Nanami’s meager tolerance for Satoru’s antics. Diametrically opposed in their personalities, the two of them have just as many—if not more—moments of ire-filled tension than any that are relaxed and easy, and oftentimes one is in need of saving from the other (namely Nanami.) So, when he’s already worn out and not looking to be overstimulated, you know Nanami is grateful to not see your other half trailing behind you as he usually does.

“Even more so today,” you tell him, swinging a brown paper bag containing a fresh sandwich and half a dozen varieties of bread at your side before plopping it on his desk. “I’ve come bearing gifts.” 

Nanami has already been eyeing the bag since before you set it down, no doubt catching a whiff of the intoxicating scent of freshly baked bread when you entered the room, and in an impressive show of self restraint, says, 

“You shouldn’t have.”

“I insist.” You wave your hand dismissively as you fall back into one of the two tan wingback chairs Nanami has situated in front of his desk. “Besides, it’s not an entirely selfless offering. Or at least not completely. Consider it partly as a thanks for doing Satoru’s research a while back, and also because I would like to pick your brain if you can spare the time.” 

Nanami’s hand is halfway into the bag by the time you finish, and a small part of you feels bad when he withdraws it so he can sit up straight in his chair and turn his attention to you. The other half of you is desperate for information and doesn’t get hung up on the fact he’ll have to wait a couple more minutes for his lunch. 

“Of course,” Nanami says, interlacing his fingers together and resting them on his desk. “What can I assist you with?”

“Did you find anything else in your research on Sukuna pertaining to a wife of his?” you ask. “It’s not that I don’t have faith in Satoru to keep the information straight, but I just want to make sure he didn’t accidentally leave anything out, I guess.” 

Nanami nods in understanding. “I shared with Satoru everything I found, but to be thorough, why don’t you repeat what he told you and I’ll let you know if anything is missing.” 

You tell Nanami everything Satoru told you that night verbatim, but to your disappointment, he is shaking his head at the end. 

“That is the entirety of it, I’m afraid.”

You slump in your seat as some of the wind leaves your metaphorical sails. It’s not as though you expect some grand, unspoken details to emerge from the depths of Nanami’s brain, but you did hold on to some meager hope that he’d have something new to share.

 “I was wishing that wasn’t the case.” You sigh, and Nanami looks apologetic, but you let go of the disappointment in favor of moving on to your next question. “Next thing, if you don’t mind. I know since Itadori ate that one finger he’s—,”

“Three fingers, actually,” Nanami interrupts hesitantly.

“Three?” you repeat flatly, and he nods. “Where did the other two come from?” 

Nanami leans back in his chair as his eyes flick upward in consideration, and then takes a moment to click through his computer and scan through something before shifting back to answer you. 

“The first is the one Itadori found at his school and then consumed while trying to help Fushiguro. I’m assuming Gojo came home from that assignment late and told you about it?”

How could a name sound so familiar when you know you have never heard it before?

It’s your turn to nod as you stare a bit dazedly at your longtime friend. Surely Satoru didn’t intentionally withhold the information about the extra fingers from you, but you’re still shocked that you’re just now hearing it from Nanami. 

“The second Itadori ate the same day Sukuna appeared in the lounge and claimed you were his wife. Gojo gave it to him later in the afternoon.” Your mind flashes back to the unassuming black box almost hidden under used napkins. 

And the strange dream and odd tingling of your skin that followed later that night. An eerie, but reasonable coincidence?

“The third?” Something in your voice must be off because Nanami looks at you with a furrow of his brows.

“Itadori informed us that Sukuna ingested the third finger after he took over during the first year’s assignment at the detention center.”

Another vanishing dream; the urging throb in your chest; the same white-noise sensation over your arms while in the morgue. Denial could make anything sound like a second coincidence, right?

“Oh,” you breathe out, and your nail bites into the meat of your finger as your hands sit in your lap. “I didn’t realize I was missing out on all that information.” 

“I thought Gojo would have told you about the second, but the record of the third was documented in the report that Shoko wrote up that night.”

You must have stopped paying attention to the words on the paper by that point. 

The sigh you release sounds just as tired as Nanami looks, and he offers you a small smile of shared pity. 

“All that’s to say, there are twenty fingers total that Itdaori will ultimately come to consume, and that will result in the full manifestation of Sukuna’s power as it was a thousand years ago. It’s just a matter of time until we find them all.” 

For once, you did happen to know about the extra set of arms that Sukuna had, hence the twenty fingers, but it wasn’t something you like to think about too much. The idea of it is a tad off putting. Freaky, if you have to choose a word. What is concerning to you, however, is a burgeoning theory you aren’t sure you believe that is unfortunately taking up space in your head. 

Would these bizarre dreams you can’t quite remember and the odd sensations on your skin continue to occur each time Itadori ingests a finger? And what could possibly happen when he eats the last one? 

“That sounds ominous,” you say because you don’t know how else to describe it. 

Nanami sighs and leans back in his chair. “We’ll all be here to handle it together, I suppose.” 

Your only response is a nod, and you glance about Nanami’s office before pushing off your knees to get up. 

“I appreciate your help. But now,” you tell him with mock sternness, “please enjoy your lunch.” 

Nanami’s face lights up, and he reaches for the bag with an enthusiasm only reserved for his favorite indulgences in life. It brings a smile to your face.

He says his thanks as you turn to leave his office, but just before you walk out the door, you spin back around. Your eyes flick to a little postcard that sits on a bookshelf behind his desk—an image of golden sand and sparkling blue water—and you call his name just as Nanami is bringing the sandwich to his mouth. 

“You should really take that vacation soon,” and Nanami’s eyes go soft as a chagrined smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. “You deserve it.”

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

“You’re hovering.” 

“Is that what I’m doing?” 

“Mhm.” 

“I like to think of it as I would rather never be parted from you.”

“The intention behind the action is what differentiates the two, Satoru.” 

It is not unusual for Gojo Satoru to always be right at your side at any given moment. 

“Concerningly over-attached,” is what Nanami calls it. 

“Clingy is an understatement,” Shoko remarks most days. 

“Dedicated,” is how Satoru proudly puts it. 

For you, it’s somewhere in the middle, maybe a combination of all three, but trying to decipher which one it is at any specific time is more work than you care to commit. All you know is that you don’t really mind that your husband trails after you like a love-sick puppy, or that he will always slip his hand into yours if he thinks it’s been too long since the last time he touched you. If anything, you’d argue you are equally besotted with Satoru, though maybe you reserve your physical proof of such for when it’s just the two of you. 

No matter, you would never take for granted how Satoru chooses to express his love for you, but it feels like as of late that his constant presence near you has more to do with who resides in your shared student than his desire to spend every waking moment with you while you’re at work. 

“Fine,” Satoru pouts, and he slumps over you to rest his chin on your shoulder. You’d normally bat him away for showing physical affection in front of the students, but Itadori is currently preoccupied with practicing fighting stances in the obscure training building you found in a remote part of campus, so you decide to indulge Satoru while the two of you stand in the corner observing him. 

“Care to tell me why?” you ask. You reach your arm up behind you and around his neck so you can scratch your nails through his hair, and it earns you a pleased grumble. You can feel the vibrations of it where he is pressed against your back, and you smirk—both at the sound and the way you know it’s an effective tactic to get Satoru to loosen his tongue. 

“I dunno,” he mumbles, more focused on turning his head every which way so that he can receive the maximum amount of scratches. “Just checking in on you.” 

You would narrow your eyes at Satoru if he were looking at you, but he isn’t, so you give a gentle, albeit pointed, tug of his hair. He whines and lifts his head from your shoulder. 

“You sure about that?” 

Satoru comes around to stand in front of you, though not quite enough to block Itadori from your view, and his face is drawn in some sort of concern. “I promise, I just want to make sure you’re okay.” 

A weary sigh puffs your cheeks as you let it out, and you tip your chin down a little as you level Satoru with a look. 

“And I assured you that I was alright.” 

“Yeah, I know,” Satoru says, and you can’t see if there is any worry in his eyes through his blindfold, but you hear it in his voice, “but you looked upset last night when I got to the morgue and he—,” 

“I was just a little taken aback, Satoru.” 

You do reach out for his hand and give it a squeeze in reassurance, and your heart does the same when he takes in a stuttered inhale. It’s not like Satoru to be so anxious, and you try to put aside whatever disgruntlement you have in favor of making sure he feels alright. He smiles at you in return, but you note how it’s not quite as bright as usual. 

“You would tell me if there is something to be concerned about, right?” 

The question is unexpected, and you hate how it puts something inside of you on the immediate defensive. 

You smile tightly at him. “You know I would, Satoru.” 

You assume he’s studying you before he finally nods, and when he takes a step back, you pull your phone from your pocket to check the time. “Off to train Fushiguro?” 

“Yup,” Satoru quips, shoving his hands into his pockets. “I’ll pop back in later?” 

You bob your head a bit half-heartedly in acknowledgement before giving him a small wave goodbye. Satoru hesitates in turning towards the door to leave, but when he finally does, he calls for Itadori to offer his encouragement. 

“This month will go by quickly, Yuji. You’ll see.” 

And to some extent, Satoru is right. 

Itadori bounces back from his temporary stint in the land of the dead with relative ease and normalcy. He is eager to return to his training, and though he’s disappointed his survival has to remain a secret from his friends a while longer, he complies without complaint. From then on, the days pass with little-to-know fanfare. However, much to your displeasure, it doesn’t escape your notice that you aren’t left alone with Itadori for very long at any given time. 

Nanami claims he’s hiding from Satoru when he slips into the lounge with you and Itadori some afternoons. The boy is ecstatic to see him and hangs off every word Nanami shares with you two, but you eye him suspiciously, a little amused at how he very intently refuses to meet your gaze. You decide not to pester him too much about it, figuring that it isn’t his decision that is forcing him here, and instead you watch as Itadori does his best to crack a smile from your normally impassive friend. The two of you both cheer enthusiastically when Nanami inevitably gives in to a grin with a shake of his head. 

On other days, Satoru is already spread out on the sofa next to Itadori by the time you make it to them. Even through his blindfold you can tell that he watches Itadori carefully when you come around the sofa to greet them, but when nothing happens and Itadori simply gives you a wave and happy smile, Satoru’s shoulders relax. He reaches out for you when you stand in front of the two of them, but you are mindful of your student in the room and only allow Satoru a quick brush of your arm before you step away and laugh at the pout on his face. 

As for Sukuna, he keeps himself relatively scarce except for the rare instance. Every once in a while during training, Itadori’s eyes go blank when they are set on you. You do your best to ignore it, and once Satoru catches on to it, he’s quick to step in between and block you from Itadori’s line of sight. On another random afternoon, when you return to the lounge with your lunch in tow, a bright green pear is waiting at your place at the small dining table on one side of the room. You look questioningly at Itadori, but he only gives you an unaffected shrug, too preoccupied with shoveling his own meal into his mouth to bother with an explanation. 

When you ask Satoru about it later, assuming it was him who left the pear since he would be the only one who pays attention to your favorite snacks, his face hardens before he denies that it was his doing. You stare at each other in the following silence, and you know both of you are thinking the same thing: 

Sukuna. 

You know it’s nothing, that at the end of the day, whatever minute happenstances that occur between you and Sukuna mean nothing. Satoru, however, seems to vehemently disagree, and his penchant for hovering tips into the realm of the excess. By the time the month of Itadori’s sequestration is over, you’ve reached your limit for how much you can handle Satoru and his lingering doubts without any conversation being had about it. 

So, you breeze into your shared office one evening, long after the school day ends, and round on him with hands on your hips as you ask point blank, 

“What are you doing?”

Satoru isn’t surprised to see you, clearly having sensed you coming since his blindfold is already hanging around his neck, and he turns to you from the computer on your desk with a smile. 

“I’m actually working. You should be proud,” he says blithely and folds his hands primly in front of the keyboard. His voice is light, if not a bit snippy, but you notice the rigid straightness of Satoru’s shoulders and the way he seems to be guarding himself, and it keys you into the fact he’s playing dumb. 

“That’s not what I meant.” 

He’s unbothered by the unimpressed arching of your brow and the way you cross your arms over your chest while your toe taps against the rug on the floor. “Oh?”

You let out a sigh of frustration and poke your tongue into your cheek. “Nanami has been supervising every session I’ve had with Itadori this month.” 

Satoru shrugs, dismissive in his attitude. “Maybe he’s missed hanging out with you.” 

A muscle under your eye twitches, and you struggle to keep your voice calm. Arguing with Satoru is something that seldom occurs, but when it does, your spats tend to escalate more than you would like—a wrongdoing you are both culpable for. “And what about the times he was unavailable? You were always there before I even arrived.” 

“Well, have you thought that maybe I missed—,” 

Your patience vanishes. “Satoru, that’s enough!”

The sudden loudness of your voice and the command that snaps from your mouth stuns him into clicking his jaw shut as he jerks back against his chair. His earlier smile is long gone, and the frown that takes its place is hard and displeased. If you weren’t already so worked up, both by Satoru’s overprotectiveness and now his antagonizing behavior, you’d let the argument go in favor of having a more productive conversation when the two of you have had a moment to calm down.

“That was uncalled for, I’m sorry,” you admit, but you scrub your hand over your face before letting it flop back against your side in frustration. “I just…really, really don’t like feeling like I’m being babysat because someone is doubting my abilities or questioning the trust they have in me.” 

Satoru’s expression changes into one of confused alarm, and he pushes back from the desk to make his way over to you in just three long-legged strides. 

“That’s not what I think,” he insists, crossing his arms in front of his chest so he mirrors your stance. 

“Really? Because that’s how it comes off.” You glance over Satoru’s shoulder out the window of your office and then look at a picture of the two of you hanging on the wall before returning to him. “Is this about Sukuna?” 

Satoru looks taken aback. “Why would this be about him?”

“What else on earth could this possibly be about, Satoru?” You gape at him in bewilderment and bristle at how unforthcoming he’s being. “Is what he said bothering you?” 

“Of course not!”

“Are you sure? Then explain to me why it’s only ever when I’m working with Itadori that you and Nanami just decide to come join us. That never happens when I train Fushiguro and Kugisaki.” 

Satoru sputters and drags a hand roughly through the ends of his hair. “I’m just looking out for you. I promise I—,” 

“But why? I am perfectly capable of protecting myself!” A thought crosses his mind and you gawk at him accusingly. “Do you think I’d be unfaithful?” 

Satoru’s eyes bulge and he waves his hands wildly in denial. “No! No, of course not. That’s not it at all.” 

But he pauses for a moment and his tongue darts out over his lips as he considers his next words. Even the brief hesitation stings and you feel your hands begin to tremble. “I just…what if what Sukuna says is true and you—,”

“‘I’ what? He’s a monster, Satoru!” you burst out in frustration. One of your hands slashes up through the air and you feel your throat go tight as tears burn your eyes. For a split second, you wonder which of the two of you needs the reminder more.

Sukuna is nothing more than a latent curiosity, an academic inquiry, a brief musing when boredom strikes.

 “Sukuna is evil and a murderer, and there should be no reason that conceivably convinces you that I would ever entertain the idea of being with him willingly! Where did that idea even come from? Do you really think that lowly of me?” 

Your voice rings out in the quiet of the room, and you’re left breathing heavily as Satoru stares at you with wide eyes. When his shoulders start to sag and his chin lowers in defeat, the haze of anger and betrayal fades, and you start to feel incredibly guilty. 

“Satoru—,”

Someone clearing their throat behind you interrupts whatever attempt at an apology you are about to make, and when you spin around to see who is there, Itadori is standing in the doorway of your office with a sheepish expression on his face. Your heart sinks to your stomach and embarrassment heats your cheeks as you take a deep breath. 

“I-I’’m sorry,” Itadori stutters, and his eyes flick between you and where Satoru still stands behind you. His feet begin to shuffle backwards seemingly on their own accord and he rubs a hand at his temple. “I wanted to ask Gojo-sensei about the reveal tomorrow, but it can wait.” Itadori spins on his heel as he waves hurriedly. “Sorry again for the interruption!”

The boy is gone before you can get a word out, and with a disappointed groan, you turn back to Satoru and throw an arm out in the direction Itadori just fled. “One of us should go after him.” 

His sigh of defeat hits you in the chest and has you yearning to reach for him, but Satoru is already stepping around you and towards the door before you make up your mind to move. 

“I’ll do it,” he mumbles, and you hate how he yanks his blindfold up over his eyes without looking once at you. “We’ll talk later.” 

Without another word, Satoru is gone, and you’re left in the silence of your office to stew over how things went wrong so quickly. 

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

A/N: Just two more chapters after this 🥹

Taglist (open): @kalopsia-flaneur ; @kafanizdakicokiyi

[dramioneasks]

Christmas Fics (2024) (Part 6):

Wrapping Chaos by Mirabella29 - E, WIP - Draco Malfoy is a fucking arse. A magical delivery error causes all the gifts ordered by Draco and Hermione to be sent in the wrong place. To her great misfortune, her erotic potion books and sex toys land in Malfoy’s hands, who takes great pleasure in mocking her. Bloody Hell, if she could bury herself alive right now, she would.

All I Want For Christmas is (To Defeat) You by Anonymous - T, one-shot - Hermione Granger built a surprising bond with one of her professors when she returned to Hogwarts for her eighth year. But when she wants to surprise that professor with the perfect Christmas present, a certain someone gets in her way.

We'll Take a Cup of Kindness Yet by Anonymous - M, one-shot - To avoid suspension after an incident involving a student, Draco Malfoy is forced to spends his holidays at Hogwarts, babysitting the students who are holding over. The only thing that could make this worse is Hermione Granger.

Pansy's Matchmaking Services: A Christmas Miracle by Slytherinked - E, WIP - Pansy has spent the year collecting wants and wishes. Now, it's time for her to produce a Christmas miracle. Maybe then all her friends will stop whining. - “Draco Lucius Malfoy,” she hissed, and his blood ran cold, “get your shit together and stop acting like a petulant three year old. Do as you are told!”

Chaotic christmas by lemidox - M, 17 chapters - Hermione is in a slump, it’s Christmas. She’s single, having atrocious luck and just wants to get in the spirit of things. (Un)luckily she has Theo and Ginny, ready to drag her kicking and screaming into the holiday cheer. Santa fighting dragons, a snowball fight, dreadful gingerbread houses, copious amounts of fire whiskey, slytherin’s plottting and secrets that come to light in this chaotic Christmas special. And let us not forget, hilarity and fluff that leads to smut... eventually 😈

No Space of Regret by New_Ponyo - M, one-shot - Draco Malfoy is engaged to marry Astoria Greengrass on New Year's Eve in less than two weeks. As the wedding night approaches, Draco finds himself more of a wreck than he thought possible. He wakes up in his study with a throbbing headache, the beginning of a black eye, and the ghost of Fred Weasley throwing pistachios at his face. Fred and Draco visit Christmas’s present, past, and future, piecing together what connects them beyond the veil. This is a spin on A Christmas Carol, Dramione style.

Home Truths by Anonymous - M, one-shot - “You know every year I think these things couldn’t possibly get more heinous and every year I am proved wrong.” A silver flask was offered to her but she tipped her champagne glass in lieu of a rejection. “Champaign is for celebrating, unless—did I miss an article in the prophet, have you and Weasley finally split up then?” Malfoy mocked, taking far to much delight in the hypothetical misery. She rolled her eyes at him and huffed in indignation “You’re such a fucking asshole.” “I never claimed to be otherwise but at least I’m an honest asshole.

Mistletoe, Mayhem and... Malfoy by Calliope_dreaming - G, one-shot - When an enchanted mistletoe traps Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger together at a Ministry Christmas gala, completing its whimsical tasks is the only way to break free. As they bicker through decorating trees and dodging exploding desserts, old prejudices give way to unexpected truths. Can they uncover the magic of connection under the mistletoe, or will the evening end with more sparks than they bargained for?

So this is Christmas; War is Over by kiyoshikiyoshi - not rated, WIP - “How did you find me” She demanded savagely. “Didn’t I tell you I wanted to be in a cabin and die in the forest after all this is over” He looked at her rather more intently now. For a moment, Hermione froze. These were passing events, deviations from the war that she was trying to forget. After the war, Hermione Granger retreats to an isolated cabin in the middle of nowhere. Somehow, Draco Malfoy finds her. In the stillness of winter, they learn to live life as it was once again.

I Just Want a Heist for Christmas by Anonymous - M, one-shot - Congratulations, you are invited to the first annual Hogwarts Christmas Heist! The Goal: Steal the Portrait of Snape

mine by Anonymous - E, one-shot - “You’ll behave for me, won’t you baby?” Draco played with her curls, before roughly grabbing her neck and forcing her attention on him. He stared at her, his eyes darkening in mere seconds as he waited for an answer from his little girl. “Answer me.” “I’ll behave.” Hermione whimpered. “Do you promise me?” He commanded, his grip on her curls tightening.

Gift-Wrapped by swift_knight - E, WIP - Hermione Granger-Malfoy is a good girl, but her plans for her husband's Christmas present—all tied up with a pretty red bow—might cause her name to end up on the naughty list.

Do You Hear What I Hear by Yeuxverts - E, one-shot - Unspeakables Granger and Malfoy have to spend Christmas Eve in a non-magical tent in Scotland, huddling for warmth. Despite her earlier assertion about compliments, whatever classification of her that was about to leave his mouth was likely to be unflattering. She attempted a deflection via academic nitpick. “Malfoy, I’m trying to sleep, but on the subject, you know you can’t have a species that’s just one person. How would I propagate?” “Granger.” He rolled to face her as though now she had his full attention. “It sounds like you just asked me to tell you how to fuck yourself.”

Hagrid's Special Eggnog by Anonymous - M, one-shot - Pansy, on principle, does not do unity.

[audreyscribes]

Ω PJO DEMIGOD HEADCANONS: ⚖ NEMESIS: Goddess of Balance, Retribution, and Vengeance wheel ♎

Author's note: Hello everyone! In lieu of posting the major gods demigod headcanons, here is the minor gods version! As usual these headcanons will contain what it's like being claimed and what it's like for the respective god and cabin, followed by a small story between you, the reader, and the respective demigod of that god. Thank you for reading and please like and reblog! [PJO MINOR GODS DEMIGOD HEADCANONS MASTERLIST] Disclaimer: To new fans or strictly TV watchers of the PJO series, future spoilers for the entire PJO series books will be referenced. Read at your own risk.

When you get claimed, it’s usually after one of the following: when you help exact revenge, serve justice, or rage vengeance. Of course when you hear those words, you’re going to think you have to do one of those large, epic moments but in reality, it’s pretty simple. That can be catching something unfair, doing what is right, getting back at your opponent, or simply saying No to something when it is unjust. When you get claimed, something feels balanced within you.

If you have some reservations about being a child of Nemesis, one of your half-siblings tells you it is an honour to be a child of Nemesis. Not just because Nemesis and what she stands for is important, if not sometimes harsh, but because Ethan Nakamura. You’re told about the tale of Ethan and who he was, how he was one of the inspirations for Percy to make the gods vow to claim their children and why the Minor gods have a cabin. You’re even shown the portrait of Ethan at his own altar in the cabin, as a reminder of his sacrifice and his life. If you’re lucky enough, Percy Jackson introduces himself and welcomes you himself to the Nemesis Cabin, just saying something “it was just right”. 

However, following that, they also warn you ‘an eye for an eye’ is more than what the eye can see. 

If you weren’t ambidextrous before, you are now. 

You’re always perfectly balanced and symmetry is important to you. Being fair is also an important factor in your life and one way or another, it will be done. 

Because of the domain Nemesis presides over, your cabin becomes a place that acts like a court. You and your siblings often get asked to preside or become mediators in arguments, and be the verdict who is the wrong and who is right. But the deciding factor is always fair. This also means you can pick out lies, though probably not to the extent of a child of Apollo.

You become a believer in working hard for your efforts, and you reap the rewards. If you’re not paid or treated fairly, everyone looks out. 

You know other people’s hubris by nature of Nemesis’s domain, so you know to be careful of ignorance and being modest. Just because you know other’s hubris, doesn’t mean you don’t have one. 

Given Nemesis is also known to be a distributor of fortune, neither good nor bad, the Nemesis Cabin has a connection with the Tyche Cabin, the goddess of Fortune and Luck. 

This isn’t a common fact, but Nemesis’ chariot is pulled by Griffins and you have a certain connection with them. If you manage to get your hands on a gryphon, and tame it, fairly, you’re allowed to ride them in camp. Just, don’t let them go near the Pegasus. Otherwise you’re going to get a long, stern lecture from Butch Walker. He’s still mad that one of the Nemesis children’s gryphons hurt Rainbow Dash. 

Speaking of pets and animals, you all have a goose or geese as its Nemesis’ animal. If you have encountered geese before or played the goose game, you know it’s a perfect fit. There has been one time, the Golden Goose, that lays the golden egg; however, it comes and goes as it pleases. Some of your siblings think it is Nemesis herself but who knows? Just don’t give any of the geese a knife or sword or weapon of any kind. Please, no one has recovered from that catastrophic event yet. The Apollo cabin doesn’t want a repeat of reattaching limbs by goose related causes any time soon, even if Paulo said he was okay.

When you get claimed, the feeling of being claimed is being merged with the sweet feeling of catharsis. You got back at one of the campers who has been mercilessly bullying you and trying to establish themselves as bigger than you. Everything came to a head when the two of you were put in a spar and all the time you’ve been honing your weapon skills and observing your opponent, you’ve finally had a perfect opportunity to exact your revenge. 

When you were given the moment to go, you readied your weapon, kept your grip firm, and attacked back. You pushed forward with anger and retribution as you swung and moved. You pushed your opponent further and further into a corner, and you kept knocking them onto their back, knees, and hands. You purposefully showed yourself drawing it out, showing them what it was like to be bullied and what it was like to be on the other end of their act; making them feel helpless, fearful, and shamed.

You decided to finish drawing out their punishment as you were declared the winner. People cheered for you, some louder who were once at your position, and as you raised your weapon in the air in victory, everyone gasped out and cheered harder as they saw the claim of Nemesis floating upon your head. 

You stared up wide-eyed at the claim as the announcement of your claim was yelled out for everyone to hear. You felt your mouth sour slightly as you remembered faintly from your mythology lessons about who Nemesis was. You weren’t entirely sure if you followed Nemesis’ reputation and domain. 

You see a boy come towards you as he looks you up and down before nodding in approval. “You’re definitely showed that you are a child of Nemesis. You delivered their punishment fairly and didn’t take it too far” he complimented. 

“Thanks…but I’m not sure if being a child of Nemesis can be entirely a good thing” you said truthfully, shrugging as you did. 

The guy rolled his eyes as he put his hands on his hips. “Nemesis isn’t an evil god and she’s just as important, like Ares either. The same goes for being her child. In fact it’s an honour” he said. 

“How?” you asked confused.

Damien smirked before he gestured for you to follow. “Because I’m also a child of Nemesis too. My name is Damien White, and I’m also the cabin leader for the Nemesis Cabin” he introduced before taking you to the cabin. You didn’t get a chance to look at the building before he opened it and guided you to a portrait inside. You saw a japanese looking boy who seemed a bit cold, especially with an eyepatch but clearly he was important with the amount of flowers and offerings that laid on the table below his portrait. 

“This was Ethan Nakamura, a child of Nemesis. He was the one who made a deal with our mother that brought back balance and helped inspire the hero Percy Jackson of the 2nd Titan War, where he used his divine wish to the gods to recognize the minor gods and their children in camp. His sacrifice is why the Nemesis cabin, and the other cabins are here” told Damien as he looked at the portrait of Ethan. He then turned to you, “Being a child of Nemesis is just as the same as the other demigods, but it’s more of an honour because our former brother.” 

You felt better as you nodded. “It might take a while to wrap my head around it but... I’m glad we’re related to such a demigod.”

Damien grinned and nodded, before he guided you out of the cabin, “Come on, I’ll help you grab your stuff from the Hermes cabin and get you settled in your new place.”

You nodded and when you had packed your stuff up, Damien grabbed your stuff for you to let you and another recently claimed demigod say goodbye to the Hermes cabin members, who was just claimed as a child of Tyche. They left first, since they came a bit earlier and their cabin leader was waiting for them outside. By the time you finished saying goodbyes, you came out to see your cabin leader arguing with a girl, who was also with the new child of Tyche. 

You saw Damien and the girl yelling at each other, almost getting into their faces and you thought of stepping forward to intervene, lest a cabin war breaks out. You don't know if it's a thing but you're not going to wait and find out. Before you could though, you're interrupted by a voice, 

“Oh don't worry about it, those two always argue with each other but they don't ever take it too far” you heard. 

You turned and saw a boy, with brown hair and blue eyes. He seemed familiar but you weren't sure where though. 

“Are you sure?” you said, looking at the two arguing people. 

The boy nodded as he took out his ukelele, plucking a few strings. Something to shift in the air, as you thought “Oh he's a child of Apollo maybe”. As if he heard your thoughts, you jumped when he turned to you with a smirk.

“The girl you see Damien arguing with is Chiara Benevnuti, daughter and cabin leader of Tyche, the goddess of Fortune and Luck. Nemesis and Tyche are sort of connected, so seeing their two children get along isn't unusual.”

“You call that getting along?” you replied skeptically. 

“Oh, you would be surprised. One time when the two of them were stuck in the medical tent, I saw Damien move to the cot next to Chiara and the two only argued with each other when people were around” snickered Lester. “If I were ever more poetic, I would say this is a perfect haters to lovers haiku right now.”

“Wait, how do you know this? Who are you?” you asked.

The boy smiled at you and you saw his blue eyes almost seemed like the sky for a moment. The sun glowed behind his head, highlighting his brown hair into what looked like gold. A shiver ran through you and you had an inkling of who this guy was. “My name is Lester Papadopoulous, nice to meet you.” 

[wcrriorhearts]

Her hands were still shaking, even though it had been hours since she wound up at her uncle's house, crying and shaking even harder than she does right now. In lieu of being kicked out of her father's house, running to Daemon had been Rhaenyra's only idea. Ever since her early childhood, he had been her comfort person and gave her everything her father never had. After her mother's death, Daemon had been the only one who actually tried to be there for her, while her father remarried at light speed and acted like nothing had happened.

Daemon had naturally allowed her to stay in the room that was hers anyway at his mansion and personally gone to his brother's estate to rage and hopefully pick up the things Rhaenyra needed. She had given him a list of everything she had forgotten at her former home in the flurry of last night's events and even though she was slightly disappointed that she would not be able to witness Daemon's anger management issues, she was glad she didn't have to see her father any time soon.

Her uncle had given her an ultimatum, however. She was allowed to stay and he would help her as much as necessary, but she had to inform the boy that participated in putting her in this situation, because even though he might choose not to take responsibility at his age, he still deserved to know. Or so Daemon had said. So Rhaenyra had been sitting on her bed, phone in hand for about an hour now, typing and deleting several messages. Daemon had told her that this was a conversation that should happen in person, but Rhaenyra just couldn't bear the thought of facing Harwin. They had met at a party, had their fun and she was certain it hadn't been more for him. Heck, she could barely remember that night herself.

So what was she supposed to say to his face? The mere thought made her shudder and panic, so despite her uncle's wishes, Nyra decided that telling him via text was sufficient. They were not together anyway and she was merely informing him about...something. Something that would potentially change their entire lives, but - oh well! Taking a deep breath, she directed her focus back to the text message she was trying to send. The best way to say this was perhaps as straight forward as ripping off a band aid. There was no sense in trying to wrap it nicely or beating around the bush. 𝙷𝚎𝚢 𝙷𝚊𝚛𝚠𝚒𝚗, 𝚒𝚝'𝚜 𝙽𝚢𝚛𝚊 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝙻𝚊𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚛'𝚜 𝚋𝚒𝚛𝚝𝚑𝚍𝚊𝚢 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚢 𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚑. 𝙸𝚍𝚔 𝚒𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝙸 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚕𝚎𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝙸'𝚖 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚐𝚗𝚊𝚗𝚝. 𝙸𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚊 𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚔, 𝚑𝚖𝚞. 𝚂𝚝𝚊𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚝 𝚖𝚢 𝚞𝚗𝚌𝚕𝚎'𝚜 𝚛𝚗. 𝙷𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚊 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚍𝚊𝚢!

Yes, this was an absolute disaster and Daemon was entirely right, but before she could reconsider it, Rhaenyra had sent the message. She panicked almost immediately and tried to unsend it, but of course that was no longer possible, because almost instantly two blue little check marks appeared, which meant Harwin had read it. Oh God, she wanted to die somewhere in a deep sinkhole where no one would ever find her. Groaning, she threw her phone across the room and flopped face down onto her bed.

plotted starter for @heirtoharrenhal <3

[grannie-nasty]

"If people can't handle weed smell, they aren't cool enough to be at a concert" potheads stop being dumbasses challenge impossible

I honestly haven’t smoked for years. I realize my tags on that post were bitchy, but something about the phrase “non-consensual drug use” made me fucking furious. Secondhand weed smoke will not get you high any more than touching some fentanyl will kill you dead. If it’s an issue of respiratory problems and air quality, there are lots of venues that are explicitly non-smoking, and anyone who is smoking in them can reasonably expect to be asked to leave. If you simply do not like the smell, I am sorry to inform you that there are many unpleasant smells in this world.

I am just really fucking tired of people expecting everybody in the world to be anticipating and catering to their comfort to the point of saying things like “non-consensual drug use” or calling accidentally witnessing nudity or sexual acts a violation of consent. There are lots of things that I don’t like when I go out in public. I don’t like people’s dogs off leash and I don’t like to see them shit on the sidewalk. But I’ve also accepted that that is a behavior I cannot control, because it’s turns out the only person whose behavior I can control is me.

I know I’m being very strident about this is that a lot of people will dislike it, but that’s what it is. I’m all for norms being set for a specific space— like the band or the venue stipulating that the concert will be no smoking, or masked, or that people not use flash photography, for there to be church services with no incense or grape juice in lieu of wine or gf bread, or for there to be events where people request no children or pets, or for bathhouses to have clothing optional hours and specific times where clothes are mandatory. I’m even in favor of city ordinances to enforce these norms (if they can be fairly enforced, which they probably can’t so nm)

But simply going out in public and getting upset that people are doing something that doesn’t work for you? Fine! Fine I guess! I don’t smoke regularly, I probably wouldn’t choose to smoke indoors, but I’m not going say someone is committing some heinous sin smoking weed at a show.

Ooh, for example, if I leave my inbox open I can’t stop people from beefing with me on anon (although I’m fairly certain I already blocked the person who sent this, I’m not interested in making this a thing) but I don’t send people anons like this because I’m an adult, and if I have an objection to something someone says I put my name on it.

[mesmir-ized]

also apparently forgot to post p2ponies 😞… sorry !! orz

(cutie mark rambles below~)

i always think crazy hard about cutie marks they are like my #1 stressor when it comes to ponies……. so here’s why i chose certain cutie mark designs !!

also i tried really hard to make sure they all shared some colours , especially making sure to include each others’ colours !! i wanted to have the original masked circle all have a star somewhere (BC.astrology or something…) LOL , maya sort of stands out both in colours and cutie mark , but that was on purpose !!

tatsuya: his was 100% the easiest to come up with . it’s gotta be his lighter !!! not only is it like His Thing but also very much representative of the bonds with his friends , as well as everything that got them into the events of IS … both in the game and here , the lighter is a symbol of both destruction/power and connection/creation !! which really fits tatsuya :] you can also think of it being like he “lights the way” !! the little teal star is in lieu of the little prince quote , and it’s kinda clear who this star is meant to represent ;U

jun: THIS ONE TOOK FOREVER TO DRAW . my issue was i had an idea , but couldn’t figure out how to make it work !! i wanted to include both flowers and a shooting star and fought 1 million battles trying to figure it out….

i wanted to include a shooting star for many reasons !! stars obviously for jun’s love of stars , but also because the shooting star is a symbol of something to follow (like Jun making himself a leader/savior as joker) as well as being representative of wishes and dreams (which is joker’s whole thing !!) !!! i wanted to add 4 forget-me-nots for both the obvious meaning of memory and his love of flowers , but also to mimic other stars and represent both masked circles he was involved in ! i love jun if you can’t tell

lisa: though this one looks simple it actually was pretty thought-out !! i wanted to figure out a way to both have her love of kung fu and role as an idol represented , which led me to these sort of boom-flash symbols ! these symbols are meant to be representative of her personality (feisty and explosive, but also fascinating and even lovely !) as well as what i said earlier , both of her paths~ they can be read as punch SFX , as well as the flash of cameras/lights on stage !! they’re pretty simple , but i feel like they pack a lot of punch (LOL)~!!

maya: the standout girlie of the whole bunch !! i immediately had the sort of idea for an intersection of heart/moon , and came up with this ! the heart is for ahh.. reasons most people know , but also she’s just associated with hearts in general (think mr bunbun) !! they obviously are related to her compassion and big heart , and if we want to have a sort of more darker and serious inspection of it.. how she’s the heart of her friend group and the loss of that heart (literal and figurative , in many instances) makes everything fall apart .. i also wanted to include the moon for her association with the moon (and Artemis !) , which also serve to show her duality and antithesis to the heat and light of the tatsuyas ! i like to think the EP cast’s colours would be more based around her cutie mark colours , like how IS were all based around each others’ !!

eikichi: i struggled with this one the most & i think it’s obvious.. U~U; .. i wanted to , again , make a symbol that’s not too complex , but is able to encapsulate so many different elements of a character ?! i ended up coming up with this skull (for his association with death/self proclaimed title as the “death boss”) and rocker/vkei/darker alternative aesthetics in general~ the starry eyes are BC welll…! star ! and also because it’s like he’s “starry-eyed” and looking towards the future :] the little glowy shine thing is meant tp be a spotlight , like he’s in the spotlight ! maybe one day I’ll come up with soemthing better , sorry eikichi , i love you ! 😞💦

Okies that’s all !! hope you like my cutie mark rambles , i love explaining my thoughts !!! ^7^

[lavampira]

#ffxivbridgerton — countryside

Dearest Gentle Reader, The wheel of time turns ever onward, and with it, so does our eventful season. Whether in light of prior scandal, or perhaps simply the progression of their swift dalliance, this author cannot say, but it appears D’alia has accepted Sidurgu’s request for her hand. If the rumor mill is to be believed, the pair have already been spotted with rings and taken an early retreat to the countryside in lieu of any grand ceremony. Regardless of veracity to the claims, after witnessing their captivating courtship from the start, one thing is for certain: this has been quite the love tale for the ages. Yours Truly, Lady Whistledown

[lunavagans]

||Back to lore hub||

Pre-manga set-up

The Dark Mirror

After the events of Twilight Princess, the Twilight Mirror was mostly forgotten by everyone except for the Yiga, but they only kept it in memory because that‘s where a former alteration of Ganon „was born“. They didn‘t know that it still contained a trace of magic, although after centuries of neglect and Midna sealing the passage it wasn‘t enough by far to enter the Twilight Realm anymore.

Once Ganondorf (the FS version) was exiled from the Gerudo and gained a name as some sort of hermit monster warlord, the Yiga correctly saw the next Ganon in him and brought what remained of the Twilight Mirror to him, now dubbed Dark Mirror in lieu of not knowing its original name anymore. Ganon made them repair and fashion a frame for it, which explains why it looks so different to the TP version.

While it‘s true that the mirror contains an infinite amount of magic(/force) to feed from, it‘s like a spring: only a limited amount can be drawn from it at a time, which is then divided up between its users (Shadow and Vaati, maybe also Ganon). Another way of looking at it is that it isn‘t a reserve of magic, but a generator of it. But the magicks involved aren‘t fully hyrulean and, with the Twilight Realm inaccessible, may never be fully understood by anyone, especially not with it broken now.

Force Gems

So force gems are, according to the manga, found in certain places, and it‘s canon that monsters contain them. As I really dislike the idea that monsters aren’t just animals (with exceptions), I take „certain places“ to mean „in every living being“.

This means that Shadow contains them, as do Vaati and Ganon. In fact, the glimmers that Vio gathers after Shadow‘s death are the force gems left behind by him when his body faded.

But what are force gems? As the name says, they‘re force; more precisely, life force. It‘s generated in a body during it‘s development and dissipates after its death. Thus, living beings are the only method of storing them that‘s commonly known among those that practice magic. The only other method is the Four Sword, or rather its handle. Expansion on that somewhere else.

But magic can take on so many different forms, while force only gives life, so how does that happen? These seemingly different magicks all spring from an impulse, a manipulation in the amount of energy somewhere else. The trick is to expend the least amount of force to get the biggest reaction without letting go out of control. And the danger is that if you try to correct your spell by expending more force, eventually you‘ll have none left. Then you die.

This is why, even among those that have had the basic education for magic, there are so few practicing mages - it‘s fucking dangerous - and why there‘s such an emphasis on proper preparation before action by absorbing force from certain sources. There‘s a big debate on how to ethically do that, and the consensus is that mages take the force from sick and dying animals and sometimes people to store it over months at a time, sometimes years.

(If the mirror generated force, does that mean it was alive? I genuinely don‘t know, y‘all. Interesting question, nevertheless.)

On Red‘s magic rods: let‘s just say they work with essentially the same principles, taking force from their user, but are constructed efficiently enough that only a tiny amount can create a big reaction.

The cult/the Yiga

The Yiga worshipped Ganon already way before this alteration appeared, and continues to do so after his defeat. As much as it‘s the belief that their origin lies in a group of Sheikah that dissented and betrayed the royal fanily centuries ago, the truth is that this group was only a fraction continuing the Ganon cult. Still, it spawned many prejudices against the Sheikah in addition to their image as cynical assassins in service of the crown.

The story that the religion behind the Golden Three tells is that Ganon is a demon king and God of Hatred that wants to take revenge on the hylians for being imprisoned deep underground by the Goddesses way back after his very first attempt to break the borders that had been established before and conquer the world, and occasionally some of his power manages to seep out and sow chaos. So far, no Hero had had to face the true God of Hatred, and with the help of the Goddesses, it won‘t come to pass, either.

Meanwhile, among the Yiga it‘s said that Ganon was wrongfully imprisoned by the Goddesses out of fear of his power, that the attack on their realm was merely Ganon‘s troops retaliating, and that the reincarnating soul of the Hero is their tool to ensure Ganon stays a prisoner; a warden, basically. However, one day Ganon will inevitably break out and take his revenge, and then the only ones he will spare are those that worked to fulfill his goals all along, while all others will be forced to be essentially his work stock, suffering until he allows them to die.

They mostly target people with a crisis of faith, people afraid for their future both immediate and beyond the grave and the closer social circles of those who are already members. Some people they helped with personal issues with their funds and troops, then suggested they take part in their meetings, through which these unsuspecting victims were roped more and more into the cult‘s affairs, all the while being probed for their use.

What the Yiga mostly did was to build resources and a network for the eventual arrival of Ganon, implementing their people in the trade, the military, regional politics (they couldn‘t make the jump to the royal court just yet). Once Ganon was actually there, they brought him the Dark Mirror, cleared out the Tower of Winds, advised him to find and create more allies. Since their specialty is less outright combat and more undercover manipulation, they stayed discrete during the manga, however, deciding to abandon this alteration of Ganon and wait for the next one.

Shadow‘s position in the cult was a weird one, in that he was both revered as the ‚Prince‘ of their god and his son of sorts, since he was created by him, and demeaned and objectified as a weapon, a means to an end. Shadow had a clear purpose with a clear-cut end, and if that purpose was fulfilled, nobody knew what Ganon would do with him. Nobody really cared all that much, either.

Considering that Vaati was 1. only present at Ganon‘s side for a very short while and 2. not all too involved in the cult itself, merely seen at their god‘s side, the most they thought about him was that he must be yet another monster Ganon made an ally. He wouldn‘t be the first one.

Ganon, naturally, was the one in power, so everyone including Shadow and Vaati did their best to appease him because he had a habit of ‚making an example‘ out of those he disliked most, and rewarding the others. Some traits that would inspire rewards were few questions, quick execution of orders, little time wasted on flattery or gifts, while the opposites would get you fed to the wizzrobe, the dragons or used as bait and training target.

[rafent]

"Now isn't this something," Griss says in lieu of a greeting, catching the dragon as they disperse from the clearing and its strange performance before he can slip away again. "Looks like we're on different teams."

Plucking proudly at the green cloth collared around his neck, he nods at the blue one that Lord Rafal wound up with. Where others - knights or otherwise - might be disappointed to find themselves separated from their lord by some flimsy, arbitrary allegiance, Griss looks all too excited about this turn of events. His lord might very well have guessed why already.

"You know what that means, right?" He can barely contain himself. "So you better not hold back when it comes time to lay on the punishment, got it?" Sliding a little closer, grinning fangs just a lunge away from the other's neck, he giggles into his ear. But instead of some profound secret, he just pulls back again and keeps walking with his fingers laced behind his head.

"Oh yeah, do you know how to sleep with your eyes open?" A pause and a glance back.

"I do." Suddenly, he bursts into laughter. "Alright, see ya, Lord Rafal!"

Before long, he found what he was looking for; namely, in the knight who found him first. That an unknowing Rafal was 'intercepted' by Griss was mere illusion. A mendacious idea with the truthful underbelly turned from sight. Reality instead to produce that he'd waited, caught the view of insidious blacks and greys, his memorable green, and lingered - ever so slightly - within range until this very conversation could occur. Exactly as looked, desired, and waited for.

. . .Even if their differing allegiances did not go comparatively as expected. "How heartbreaking such news. I am certain to cry myself to sleep for every second we are apart." Silent surprise surrendered to drawled mockery, and then without perception: curious disappointment. An uncertain contrast to that openly worn glee.

Why ever should two different colored scarves prove cause for his consternation? He who was untouchable against all else; he who weathered far worse? The theory was beyond outlandish, of course, the cause beyond childish. But at least it was easy to rebound. To disdain that strange pollution of sense and take what was cleaner. Offered plainly. Even an overture as misshapen as snapping fangs within reach of throat, even a menacing voice that could never let spill reassurances over blood and violent delights. Fine alternatives, both.

"Heh. A senseless request. I do not recall holding back before, and I do not intend to start now. And let us be clear—if that is a threat, Griss, you know to do better." Not even a flinch as the threat of teeth should pull away, peeks of glittering eyes retracted with them. Only a tickle where warm breath had been; only the partial turn of head as Rafal watched him go, ringing with laughter. And that was the end.

Footsteps carried him forward in the consummation of two diverging paths. They would meet again. Soft-hearted affirmations weren't needed for that.