#I LOVE WRITING HIS DIALOGUE TOO

[lemonisntreal]

BLINKY BLINKY BLINKY BLINKY BLINKY BLINKY BLINKY BLI

[kenjakusbraincum]

Hi, i can’t help but request this because you write so beautifully.

So I just had the idea of a former ballerina being sacrificed to Sukuna. She does her work good and gracefully but she longs for old times where she was able to dance and feel like she’s flying again. So she does it in the evening in Sukunas garden. He of course notices and as culture lover he is he makes her his personal dancer. And a cute lil love story forms from this scenario.

I would be so thankful if you form this to a proper story because i don’t have enough imagination. Love your work

Thank you for the compliment! I apologize in advance for my butchered descriptions of dance scenes and hope you like what I came up with anyways <3

Swan Lake

Sukuna x Reader

Word count: 6.3k

Tags/warnings: gn! reader but the words maid, whore and bitch are used, true form! sukuna, bullying, fluff with a very brief and soft smut scene at the end!

Sukuna doesn't care where his servants come from. People get offered to him all the time, and he takes them when he feels his palace is understaffed. And that happens quite often, considering how eagerly Sukuna gets rid of his servants for the smallest inconveniences. His staff is disposable to him, having no value beyond the services they provide him with.

So he doesn't know about your past. He doesn't know you were once an esteemed entertainer. He doesn't know that you were touring the world, sharing your art with audiences of all different classes and ranks in society. He doesn't know you were once the star of the stage, hypnotizing people with the fluidity of your movements in rhythm with the music. He doesn't know you were snatched from fame, taken against your will and brought to him to pay your capturer's debt. You're not sure he's even properly looked at you, much less heard your capturer tell him who you are. You were that worthless to him.

Now you are but a maid. You spend your days on your knees, mopping blood soaked floors. At night, you share chambers with dozens of other servants. Privacy is a foreign concept in Sukuna's palace. You are not entitled to it even in the bathroom. Everything is shared for the servants. There's no space for you to even try to indulge in your beloved profession, even as a hobby. Except...

The garden. Most servants are in bed, prepared to sleep, but your eyes linger on the windows. In every way, going to the garden would be to your own detriment. Losing sleep was dangerous, it could lead to getting caught slacking off, or being ratted out about it. And the consequences for that... well. One could only imagine it wouldn't be a simple slap on the wrist.

Still, you longed for this. The work you did during the day drained you, it was repetitive and soulless. You weren't made to clean floors. You were made to dance, it was your destiny. Since childhood, you don't remember a period of time as long as this one, where you haven't had the opportunity to enjoy your passion. Tears stung your eyes as this revelation found you. Every day, you could feel your life slipping through your fingers. You were alive, but your energy, your liveliness, your personality, all of it was dissipating in the pools of blood you were forced to clean.

''Can you be quiet? Some of us are trying to sleep.'', a servant who sleeps in the bed next to yours snaps you out of your thoughts. You are sobbing. You apologize quickly, and snuggle in bed, trying to muffle the noises against your deflated pillow.

But sleep just doesn't take you that night. You grow more and more frustrated, as time passes and you toss and turn in bed. Eyes wide open, fixed to the window across you. The garden lures you, calls for you. Damn it. You have to try. This is not much of a life anyways, you think. Sooner or later Sukuna or Uraume would find faults in what you're doing anyways, and you'd be served for dinner. You don't exactly have a lot to lose.

Sneaking out of the chambers is easy. You spent your whole life on your tippy toes. No one moves in their sleep as you cross the room, open the door and slide through the crack. Quietly, you make your way around the mansion. Outside, you're greeted by a light summer breeze. The garden is eerily peaceful, lit by the moonlight in this late hour.

You start to warm up, hopping, circling your neck, swinging your legs. Feeling the stretches in muscles you forgot you had. The grass tickles your legs as you splay across the ground and reach for your feet. Then stand and shift your weight to your toes, feeling out how rusty you've gotten in the time you've missed out on practicing. It's not too bad.

So you start out slow. The music plays in your head and you mouth silently, counting the rhythm. Your eyes are glued to the ground, you're trying not to trip and fall on the uneven surface. Your movement feels as smooth as it did before, but you can't see yourself in the mirror to check your form. You close your eyes, surrendering to the cadence of your motions. The music carries you, and as you turn into a poised second arabesque, time seems to slow. It's only a moment, but when you turn back to continue...

Slam. So hard you start to fall back, but his arms catch you around the waist. If you weren't scared out of your mind you would've wondered how did he even show up there without you noticing. But of course, he's Sukuna. You look at him with eyes so wide you think they may fall out, and he stares back with an amused smirk. Then he bites the air in front of you, clanking his sharp teeth together, and you scream in response. His hand flies to your mouth in an instant and he shuts you up.

"Quiet now. You wouldn't want to wake your colleagues up, would you?", he tilts his head, observing your terrified expression. "Or do you want everyone to slack off with you tomorrow?"

"I-I won't slack off I promise!!!", you panic, hands shaking as you bring them up in a defensive stance. Tears pool in your eyes as you stare death in the face. He is... weirdly beautiful, lit by the moonlight. And he holds you sturdily, but gently. It doesn't hurt. And he doesn't seem particularly mad.

"Is that so?", he asks. There's a smile on his face, but it feels dangerous, threatening. Like everything else about him. "Then just what do you think you're doing outside at this hour?"

"I was- I was dancing -", you stutter, struggling to form coherent sentences. Why are you so close to him? You're pulled flush against him. You can almost feel his -

"I didn't know I had a dancer in my ranks. Why didn't you say so?", he says, and surprisingly lets go of you.

You're so sure he's playing with his food. You're so sure he's going to slice you into pieces. You've already crossed so many lines, broken so many rules. You look to the ground, only now remembering eye contact with him was strictly forbidden.

"Speak.", he growls, audibly irritated by your refusal to reply.

You didn't think he was genuinely asking. What the hell are you supposed to say? Why didn't you say so? Maybe because you wanted to see the light of day again? "I ... A lowlife such as myself has no place speaking to your Highness.", you duck your head low in an apologetic manner. And he seems satisfied, smiling playfully again. Except you don't see it, you feel it. Sukuna's presence pulls the most demeaning, self-depricating things out of people's mouths.

"Humble.", he comments and walks a couple steps around you. He's huge. "Go on then, dance for me."

You stand frozen. It's not that you're ashamed... you've performed for audiences bigger than you ever could've imagined. But the weight of his stare is harder to bear than that of hundreds. And the stakes are higher than ever. He has to like it, or else...

"Dance!", he orders sternly, and crosses his arms over his chest. So you give it your all. Remembering where he interrupted you, you get back into position and start. Dance. Your life depends on it, doesn't it? Well if there's one thing you can do to save your life it should be this.

But it's not like before. Fear seeps into every muscle in your body, and your movements are unsure. Every jump is fleeting, every landing shaky. Tears blur your vision, and it's so hard to keep your breathing steady when you're struggling not to cry. But you're a ballet dancer, you were trained to endure. You finish the variation, cross your legs and gracefully bow.

Sukuna watches intently with narrowed eyes, like a predator stalking his prey. You can't see the sly smile on his face, but you can feel it.

"I apologize, your Highness.", your voice trembles. "It wasn't my best."

Sukuna huffs in amusement and waves his hand dismissively. "Go to sleep.", he orders.

You bow before him again, and quickly turn back towards the mansion. You don't feel relief from his piercing stare until you disappear behind a corner in the hallway.

You can't shake the feeling when you're back in your bed, snuggled in the sheets up to your eyes. You just survived a close encounter with Sukuna. And he must've liked what he saw at least a little bit, if you're still alive.

The next morning, you wake up and start getting ready for work with the other servants. The bathroom is busy, and as there's little else to do in the servant circles, gossiping starts immediately.

"Did you hear the scream last night?", the servant taking up the sink next to yours says, tapping foundation into her skin.

"Screams come from Sukuna's chambers all the time. It must be a new pet getting used to him.", another one replies. You shiver.

"Everyone knows how that sounds. This was different!", the two maids exchange a look.

The second rolls her eyes. "So, he killed someone. Nothing new.", she shakes her head.

"No. Uraume would've called someone to clean it up immediately.", the first servant continues. You really, really wish they would just drop it, until... "Hey you.", she turns to you. "Your bed was empty last night, did you hear anything?"

Your blood runs cold. "I was... feeling sick. And went to the bathroom.", you say quickly. "I probably couldn't hear... over the sound of throwing up."

"Hm.", both of them look at you now. "Well you look sick too.", one of them says. "Be careful with work today.", then they finish up and leave. You breathe a sigh of relief and finish up getting ready.

The next few days pass spotlessly. You don't cross paths with Sukuna. But some nights, you feel his presence in the garden. You stretch and practice simple movements in the bathroom, when no one's around. And the variations, you save them for the garden. At night. The only time you feel alive, the only time you feel like yourself. Human. Free. You think you might just get away with no one knowing, but then...

He walks past you and another maid while you're scrubbing the floors in the hallway. Both of you freeze as he passes by, assuming a submissive position and greeting him. You pray he won't notice, pray he won't know you by your voice, but he stops. Right by you, and then there's a moment of silence. He lifts his foot, touching your chin, and nudges you to look at him.

"Oh.", you watch his stern expression soften. "It's a shame for a talent like yourself to waste away on their knees.", he says. You look to the servant next to you, and she mouths a silent 'what?' as she turns her head in your direction.

You swallow your shame. It's not the first time you had to in front of Sukuna. "Its an honor to serve you, your Highness, even if it's on my knees.", you say.

Sukuna hums. "What a good servant you are.", an amused smile graces his face once again. "Well, get to rubbing then.", he nudges your face back downwards with his foot, and walks away.

You and the servants keep rubbing intensively, until he's out of sight and a couple minutes have passed. Then she grabs you by your shoulders and gives you a look that is both terrified and angry. "You did what with Sukuna?", she asks.

You frown, offended. Why does everyone in this mansion immediately think of that? "He knows I'm a dancer.", you say simply and look back to the floor, rage brewing in your chest.

"When did you do it. Was it you screaming? Oh my god it was!", the revelation hits the servant and she puts her hands on her cheeks, looking at you in shock.

"It wasn't me!!", you lie, agitation showing in your voice.

"Does he really have two dicks?", she asks.

You drain the washing rug and smack her in the face with it. "You disgusting pervert, how dare you ask that about your master!"

"You hit me! Whore!", she smacks you back, but harder, and her rag is full of dirty water.

"I'm not a whore!!", you cry, and wipe your face with your dirty, wet hands.

"Dancer. Yeah right, I can only imagine!", she throws the wet rag on you, and it sits on your lap, soaking you in the nasty liquid. "And you're a liar too! How shameless!"

"What is this commotion about?", a voice calls from the back of the hallway, and you turn around with teary eyes. Uraume looks like a blob of white in your vision, nonetheless they're recognizable.

"Tell them! You hit me, you little bitch!", the servant slaps your shoulder. You don't have it in you to fight back. The injustice pains your heart, and you can't bear the embarrassment.

Uraume smirks, noting your disheveled appearance. Your whole uniform is soaked now, even your hair. There's a pool of water forming around you as the liquid seeps out of the rags. "Clean this mess immediately. Master will be notified of this issue.", they say, and walk past the two of you.

The servant looks at you with contempt burning in her eyes. Then spits in front of you. "Clean.", she says, takes the rag you hit her with and starts cleaning.

Sukuna sees you that evening. He sits on his throne, head in his hand, and looks down on you and the other servant. He hides his inner smile, the joy he takes in executing power over others. And it's you again. He asks what this is about, and the servant wastes no time pointing her finger at you, saying you hit her first.

Sukuna's critical stare turns to you. ''Is that true?'', he asks, scanning you from head to toe, noting the state you're in. He's not particularly happy to see you like that.

You timidly nod, admitting your fault in the situation. Your stare is fixed to the ground, where dirty water drips down from your soaked clothes. You smell, and look like a rat, all of that in front of Sukuna. You wish the ground would swallow you whole and spare you this humiliation.

But he knows you. You've captivated him. Otherwise he wouldn't have cared to ask if you have anything to say in your defense. You tell him, omitting the details of her perverse question, you simply say she was slandering his holy name.

Sukuna moves, leaning his elbows on his knees. You care about his name? How lovely. So what is this slanderous thing his servants fought about?

Silence. You and the servant exchange uncomfortable looks. If there was one thing the both of you could agree on for the day, it was that repeating it in front of him was too vulgar. With that, Sukuna quickly grows bored with the situation. When he raises his hand, both of you flinch, expecting immediate punishment. However, nothing happens when he flicks his fingers. You're dismissed.

Quickly, both of you scurry away, leaving the throne room and going back to your jobs. The rest of the day is harrowing. The rumor spreads among the servants quickly, and you are the butt of every joke. You hear whispering and giggling behind your back, and everyone's stares linger on you as you go about your day. The culmination happens next morning, when the servants are getting ready in the bathroom, and the insults start getting more direct.

''Show us how you dance for Sukuna, why don't you?''

''Did you take both at the same time?''

''He didn't like you very much if you're still working as a servant.''

And then everyone goes quiet. When you turn around, you see Uraume at the door, their eyes fixed on you. ''Come.'', they say quietly, and leave without waiting for you to catch up. Well, it seems your punishment is due. You gladly leave the bathroom and follow them down the hall, anything is better than spending another second with the other servants. But now that you think of it, where is the servant that shares your punishment? Have you even seen her this morning? Or after the meeting with Sukuna at all?

You turn a couple corners, and stop at the end of the hallway. Uraume opens the doors to a room, and ushers you inside. What is this? It's furnished. Modestly, but... You open your mouth to ask a question, but you're quickly cut off.

''Make yourself at home.'', they say, and turn their attention to you.

''What about my things?'', you ask, looking around the room, then back to Uraume.

''You won't need them. Do you have good table manners?''

''Uhh.. yeah... I think.''

''Great. You dine with Master Sukuna tonight.''

''Huh!?''

''Your outfit is on the bed, be ready by sunset. I'll come to pick you up.''

Then the door closes and you're left alone in your new room. This isn't what a punishment should look like. Not when a beautiful kimono waits on your bed. Not when there's a barre fixed onto a mirrored wall, and there's a box on the ground, and when you open it, you find pointe shoes. Multiple pairs. He didn't know what size to get you. Ribbons, a sewing kit, glue, scissors... everything you need to break them in. Under that, a simple black leotard and a wrap skirt. By all means... this looks more like a reward.

You try everything on, find the perfect pair of shoes, and test them. It's not a big room, but there's enough space for you to practice with the bar. For the first time in so long, time passes quick. You're doing something you enjoy. It feels like in a blink of an eye, your shadow gets long on the wall opposing the window, and you have to get ready for dinner. You put the kimono on to the best of your ability - you don't have the opportunity to wear it often as a servant, being usually restrained in a uniform. And then reality hits you. Sukuna wants to have you over for dinner. This... is this a date? Unless he was planning to eat you, but you suppose he wouldn't have bought you shoes and furnished a room specially for you if that was the case... Come to think of it, what are you eating tonight?

Uraume knocks on the door, and takes a long look at you when you open. They fix your collar and nod, taking off down the hallway and expecting you to follow. They lead you to the dining room, vast and expensively furnished. You hear your heartbeat drumming in your ears. You only let your eyes explore for a second, before you fix them back to the ground and lower your head in Sukuna's presence.

''Your Highness.'', you bow in his direction.

''Master from now on.'', he says, and stands up to greet you. Master. You've only heard Uraume, and occasionally his pets, when he'd walk by with them, call him this by this... less formal title. He towers over you as his hand touches your shoulder, urging you to turn around. You follow obediently, making a circle and displaying your outfit.

He hums in approval. "Suits you much better than a cleaning uniform.", he says, and pulls your chair out for you to sit. You mutter a quiet thank you and sit down, already overwhelmed by the interaction.

He sits on the other side of the table, facing you. You can't bear the intense eye contact, and the silence that spreads across the room. Your eyes are fixed to your hands in your lap. ''Don't be shy now. I didn't invite you to sit there and be quiet. I reserve such duties for my pets.'', he breaks the silence.

''Master. Sharing a meal with you is a privilege, and I want to thank you for that. I'm not sure I'm deserving of it, though, and how my company may be of use to you.''. The kitchen servants scatter around the table, bringing food and pouring drinks. Various appetizers decorate the table, and only now do you notice you're hungry. You shyly pick the foods that catch your eye the most.

And your humility draws out a smile from him. ''You are an artist. And I am a man who takes great joy in consuming art.'', he says, and taps his finger against his glass, watching you pick. He's getting to know you, through your taste in food.

''I didn't know that about you.'', you say and look to your plate. You feel your hand shaking as you reach for the cutlery. You know Sukuna is judging every move. He was in your territory when you were dancing, now you're on his. And he will recognize the smallest mistake.

''Oh.'', his tone changes. It sounds like he didn't particularly like that comment. He finishes chewing. ''Did you take me for a savage?'', he narrows his eyes. More food is brought to the table, plates come and go quickly as the conversation progresses, and the tension grows.

You stutter, reading his volatile mood. ''I've only heard rumors.''.

He huffs in amusement again. ''I've heard rumors about you too.'', he says, leaning into the table. ''To be fair, I was asking around.''. So he took interest in you. ''They say you were the best there was, until you got captured.''

You chew slowly, taking his story in. He continues. ''They asked about you. Asked if I knew where you are. I said no.''. Sukuna watches as you grow visibly distressed by the mentions of your team. ''The best there is? What a wonderful prize. I'd rather keep you to myself.''. Oh. So that's what this is about. He gets off on the thought of owning you, the best there is, just for himself. You curse whoever told him about you. ''You showed me your worst, and mesmerized me. I want you to show me your best. Dance for me. Convince me you're worth my patronage.''.

The servants bring the main dish, and your head droops, stare fixed into the finely decorated red meat. You touch it with your cutlery, feeling it's texture. Sukuna eyes you as you cut a slice and bring it to your mouth, expectantly waiting for your reaction. You chew slowly, savoring the taste, but your expression is puzzled. ''What is this?'', you ask. And to make sure it doesn't sound like you're unhappy, you cut another slice. Truthfully, the food is incredible, but... you can't quite place the meat.

Sukuna bares his sharp teeth in a grin. ''Veal.''.

The conversation steers into a different direction then, and you quickly forget about how powerless you felt just moments ago. Sukuna is nothing like you've imagined him. He's right, you did take him for a savage. After all, everything you've heard about him pointed to a monster, who only took pleasure in wreaking havoc and destruction. Now, you find him to be eloquent, knowledgeable, and quite sophisticated. In a way, he appears similar to the other people you've met through your job. But way more powerful, and with it, way more intriguing.

Once again, time passes quickly, slipping through your fingers. The dinner is over, and you're facing Sukuna at the door. He seems to be pleased with your company, if you can read his face at all. ''Should I consider my offer accepted?'', he inquires. ''Everything will be provided for you. You just have to dance.''.

Well, it doesn't sound half bad, does it? You're not sure if the terms of the offers convinced you, or his presentation during the dinner. It might just be him. He made you feel you wouldn't be a jester, but a respected entertainer. And not for just anyone, but for a man as thoughtful and cultured as Sukuna proved himself to be. ''For you, gladly. Master.'', you smile at him. And he smiles back, taking your small hand into his, and planting a soft kiss to your fingers. You bow to him, wish him a good night, and you part ways.

Later, in your new bed, you find yourself replaying the interaction. Tracing his features in your memory. It's the first time you've had the chance to observe him, without fear of consequences. And he was beautiful. So elegant in the way he dressed and carried himself. Like a true king.

From then on, life in Sukuna's mansion is a game. Sukuna courts you in his dining room, feeding you delicacies from all around the world Foods that are hard and expensive to come by, that you've never heard of before. He courts you with the things he allows you to do, and the gifts he gives you. You dance and eat and walk around his garden and library. You don't dine with him every night, but when you do, rest assured that a new outfit is waiting for you in your room when you get back from practice.

And you court him on the floor, with feathery leaps that leave him on the edge of his seat, and dizzying turns that force him to focus all four eyes on you. You court him when you finish the variation by bowing before him, on one knee, a breath away from where he's sitting. And when you look up at him, he sees a lover rather than a personal dancer. Even though he's never touched you, or pressed his lips to yours.

There is love in the foods he picks for you specifically to enjoy, and there is love in the way you let him watch you practice. Even if you mess up, misstep and fall out of rhythm. Even if you stumble and fall in the most unceremonious of ways. There is vulnerability in letting him see you fail. It only happens a handful of times, but when you slip before him, you feel more naked than you would ever feel with your clothes off. And the relationship that the two of you foster grows intimate, despite the formal distance you keep from each other.

And that distance closes in, one day when Sukuna is there during a particularly nasty fall. You yelp when you hit the ground, and reach for your ankle, checking for injury. You only notice Sukuna when you feel his hand on your shoulder, and his brows furrowed in worry as his head looms over you. Your eyes meet for a moment, and you're hypnotized. Then you look away quickly, feeling your face heat up from the closeness.

''It's nothing.'', you say, and look down.

''Sure?'', Sukuna asks and stands up. You nod, and he offers you a pair of his hands, to help you stand. You take them, and he hoists you up effortlessly. And now you're face to face with his chest, and you're still holding his hands... ''That should to for today.'', he says, and when you look at him, there's a tender smile on his face. It sounds like a suggestion, but you've learned Sukuna is subtle about giving you orders. You nod, dust yourself off and untie your shoes.

That night, you recall his touch on your skin. Long fingernails ghosting over your shoulder, sending shivers through your whole body. You never expected Sukuna to have it in him to be gentle. But, that wouldn't be the first time he's broken the mold you thought he fit. And now in the cold of night, you find yourself craving him.

The next time you're invited to dinner, the tension is almost unbearable. ''Aren't you a sight to behold?'', he tells you when he welcomes you into the room. He always gives you compliments, but tonight they weigh heavy on your heart. You look across the table and curse every plate and glass that stands between the two of you. You look at him with quiet longing, and you think he knows. Because his smile is victorious, almost teasing. And when you accidentally hit his leg under the table, you start to credit it less to his size, and more to him deliberately crossing into your space. Subtlety is not a word you ever thought you'd attribute to Sukuna, but it seems this is the way you've established communication. You resist the instinct to remove your leg apologetically. So they stay touching.

Unfortunately, this little interaction slowly turns your brain into mush. By the last bite, your hand is trembling and you know you don't have the precision to pick up the last piece of food with your chopsticks. So you leave it on the plate, and wait for a moment when Sukuna is at least a little bit distracted, to attempt eating it again.

But such a thing doesn't happen. Today, he looks at you like you're the food on his plate. "Come on, eat it.", he nods in your direction. You can't read his expression, but it seems benevolent.

"I'm so full.", you make up an excuse.

"Just one strip.", he nudges your leg under the table, and you flinch, cheeks heating up.

"I.. I think I'll combust.", lies.

"I'll be offended.", Sukuna plays along with your game.

"Ah...", he wins, and you pick up your chopsticks with shaky hands. But as hard as you try, the little piece of food keeps escaping you, traveling through the plate.

"What makes you so flustered today?", he asks. "Is it the leg?". You blink at the plate, and feel your face going as red as the wine in your glass. "Come.", he waves his finger at you. You lean into the table, used to following his commands. And in no time, he is looming over your plate, one hand picking the last piece of your food with his chopsticks, and the other gently taking hold of your chin, nudging your mouth open. You part your lips obediently, and he places the bit onto your tongue, never breaking eye contact. His face is mere centimeters away from yours, observing you as you chew.

And the moment you've swallowed, and opened your mouth for air, he seizes you in a kiss. Slow, as he tastes your lips, and lets you adjust and catch up with him. He feels you go tense with the initial shock, then relax in his hold and kiss him back. His tongue brushes past your lips, and you think you'll sink right through your chair, and into the earth beneath the floor. The taste, the smell of him, so expensive and intoxicating. If this moment could last forever -

Foolish you. So much stress and tension, and you barely notice how quickly it passes. , how quickly his lips leave yours. His eyes scan your face, making sure you're alright, and then he's back in his chair. "There.", he says, "Have something to be flustered about."

That night, you think about his lips, slipping away from yours and moving to your neck, collarbones, shoulders. Not stopping until they've explored your whole body and touched your soul.

In the meantime, you practice your chosen choreography to perfection. And when you're standing in his throne room and awaiting the music, and your deciding performance to start, it's the first time in a while that you recognize feeling nervous. Uraume is there too, and his other disciples and guests. But he is the only one that matters. The only one your life depends on. Although the times when your life was truly on the line are long gone, Sukuna is still your patron, and now it's your turn to either satisfy or disappoint him.

The music starts, and the nervousness wanes as you start dancing. Sukuna's gaze is heavy, critical. He's seen you do this times and times already, but now it's final. Now, he's telling you, ''Bewitch me.''. Now, you're joining it together, one seamless show just for his enjoyment. And with every spin, you keep your eyes fixed on him. Enticing him with your movement, seducing him.

And for once, time passes quick for Sukuna as well. He finds himself lost in your dance. In your quick glances, in the way your body moves, contorts, withstands your weight on your tippy toes with so much grace and fluidity. You make it look easy. You nail the landing you failed so many times before his very eyes, perfectly, effortlessly. He almost wonders if you fell intentionally when he was watching you. And he's captivated. By the end of your performance, you earn his smile. You earn the clap of his hands, you even earn his standing ovation. The king himself, honoring you with the highest form of praise.

''It takes quite a performer, to entertain a crowd all by oneself.'', he comments later, over dinner. ''You've convinced me. You're worth keeping.''

''And when I can't dance anymore?'', you ask.

''You'll still be able to eat with me.'', he says.

At the doors, he bends down to kiss you again. You anticipate it, and accept it, kneading your hands through his hair. He asks if you're tired, and you shake your head no. He asks if you want to come with him. Yes, please yes, you've wanted to for so long. You almost thought he'd never ask. Again, his face lights up in a victorious smile.

He walks you through the halls, to his quarters of the mansion. Vast, and decorated with various works of art. They hang on the wall, or stand on the cupboards in forms of statues of various sizes. Sukuna likes to collect things, if that wasn't evident by your presence in the mansion.

''You're dragging behind. Did you have a change of heart?'', he asks, and extends his hand towards you. You step closer, and he wraps his arms around you, pulling you closer. You're standing at the doors of his bedroom.

''I was just admiring the interior.'', you smile at him, and take it upon yourself to cross the doorstep. His bedroom overlooks the garden, through a tall set of windows, little plants sitting on his windowsill. And his bed is massive. You think it could fit four people of your size. But then again, Sukuna is not a normal sized person. Your hand finds the mattress, testing it's sturdiness. And when you turn around, he's right behind you. Towering over you, and forcing you to look up at him, like the king he is. But you're not scared. You have no reason to be.

''Lay down.'', he orders, but his voice doesn't sound stern. Still, you obey, climbing into the bed. And he follows, letting you ease into the pillows only for a moment, before he settles above you, urging your legs apart. You welcome him, finally feeling the closeness you've been craving for so long. His body, big enough to enclose you completely under him, so carefully pressed against yours. Light enough not to hurt, but heavy enough to establish power. To give you what you want, what you've craved for a very long time.

He never lets you forget whose grasp you're in. He folds your smaller body with ease, adjusting you to his liking. And you let him, trusting him with your body and pleasure. He takes you gently, slowly, making sure you're comfortable in the process. You feel so full of him, but it's not enough, not enough until all of your senses are overwhelmed with him. You feel up his muscled arms and back, wrap around him, pull him closer with every stroke, every swipe of his lips against yours. Sukuna draws the moans out of you with practiced thrust of his hips, hitting spots inside you you didn't know existed. In no time you're seeing stars - his four eyes, never leaving yours as you come apart.

And Sukuna is stoic for the most part, but by the end of it, even he is loosing his composure. Hungry moans slip past his lips, his brows furrowing as he concentrates, trying not to let out too soon. You encourage him, babbling sweet nonsense into his ear. This flustered Sukuna, completely engulfed in the chase of his own pleasure, is as close as you've come to seeing a god. Moments later, his hips still, and you feel his muscles tense as he reaches completion, deep grunts filling your ears like the sweetest music.

You lay in his embrace, and trace your fingertips over his tattoos. Your stare is fixed on him, as he tells you various anecdotes from his long lifetime. You enjoy the opportunity to admire his beauty from up close. His eyes, so unusually benevolent as they stare outside the window and turn to you from time to time, to check if you're awake. The curve of his nose, the glimpses of his sharp teeth, his strong, masculine jawline. He is an art piece on his own.

After a while, he notices you struggling to stay awake. His hand on the back of your head nudges you to lay on his chest. He whispers you a good night, and runs his hand through your hair as you drift off. It's been a long day you've dedicated entirely to him, so he finds you worthy of this special treatment. After all, it isn't often that someone claims the title of both Sukuna's personal dancer and his lover, much less in the same day.

[heartsgettingwiser62]

So when are we as a fandom going to stop pretending that jonathan byers isn't one of the best written and most interesting characters in st

[queerbting]

rewatching nuwho and i'm rlly.... why is human nature / family of blood just racist hit after racist hit after racist hit against martha . followed by a heavy dose of classist (+ misogynistic!!!!) behavior directed against her afterwards where the humans of 1913 england treat her like a weird alien from another world (the doctor in human form included!!!).

also, why do they have the doctor a) be actively bigoted and b) fall in love with a racist nurse who specifically speaks down to martha (someone who the doctor cares for). they create this "unassuming" white woman character and then have her be awful to martha but we're supposed to believe that she is kind and sympathetic worthy of being the human doctor's love interest, more than martha being treated as a human being. (and then that we should cry over her lost love/future in the end)

like why. genuinely why. what is the point .

also objectively what function does the nurse serve that martha jones could not have. she's even a medical student like !!!!!! going undercover as a nurse would not be that far off!! and plus, i'm not even a tenmartha shipper but it would fit more for the emotional arc of martha's character to get what she wanted all season in human nature / family of blood (the doctor falling in love with her!!! wish fulfillment !!!!!! ) only to realize the cruelty of what this would be like in reality if she were never to open the watch (despite her finally having what she "wants"), and finally understanding and having to give john smith up. it could've been a really tragic, but human moment (like a lot of other things in dw!).

then 10 and martha's relationship could actually be on some sort of equal footing. bc martha had a taste of what it would be liked to be loved by him (or someone similar to him, at least), and chose in the end to let it go. it would give her emotional closure, etc. and would show her choosing the /actual/ doctor (not human) and the friendship she has with him, rather than a lifetime with a human that she fell in love with who happens to look like him.

could've been a really cool moment of both character development and then bonding between the doctor and martha afterwards in their newfound partnership, so half of martha's character is no longer swallowed up by her pining for him.

but no. instead they go and hide in racistville and martha is a servant who experiences racism/misogyny/classism and microaggressions from white people + aliens over two episodes for nearly no reason .

[fragmentedblade]

Ratio isn't just socratic nor is his method just socratic. There's a lot of sophist too, with how he is paid and the Genius Society looks down on that.

[shady-tavern]

Deals and Revelry, Quin's Backstory

The lovely @fyrenwater requested some more pieces for Deals and Revelry and I started with Quin's backstory. Hopefully it's a fun read! With Quin there is of course a warning ahead for implied murder.

***

The temple was old and not in the broken, long abandoned kind of way, overgrown and damp and too dangerous to enter. Quin had seen plenty of old places, had walked through plenty of runes. He lived for the danger, made a living out of going where no one else wanted to thread.

The upper temple had looked like one would expect, half swallowed by the swamp, covered with plants and little pieces of walls and fallen pillars stuck out of the knee-deep water and morass. 

He had even found the remains of a statue's face, nearly whittled to be unrecognizable by time and the environment.

The place clearly had been looted to hell and back, but something had felt different. Something had compelled him to stay. So he had looked around, using every single ounce of his talent and bullheaded tenacity until he had found it three days later. A hidden entrance.

The temple that laid below the broken skeleton husk above ground was not destroyed or crumbling. It was perfectly preserved, even if water had clearly found its way in. Nothing had grown, however. There was no slick algae, no signs at all that nature and the elements had wriggled through the cracks.

A few roots dangled from the ceiling, but they were all dead, crumbling when he reached up to touch them.

The temple was old, old in a way that told Quin it had withstood the tooth of time without a single scar for centuries. Something was still alive in these halls, even as everything that touched it died.

For just a brief moment he felt like he inhaled something otherworldly, a strange kind of power permeating the air. Whatever was down here wasn't even hiding that it existed, even if its presence had barely made it above ground.

This was what he had felt, what had made him trudge through mud and water and get bitten relentlessly by mosquitos for days. 

His steps echoed as he walked, a heavy presence to the silence around him. The sort of presence that only came with something ancient that refused to disappear. That refused to die even after it had been forgotten.

Quin wasn't a fool, however. He took his time, carefully examining his surroundings, disarming traps and escaping the few he didn't notice in time by the skin of his teeth.

The first time his blood spilled he felt the entire temple around him sigh and tremble. As if a great beast had tried to move in its cage.

And this temple was a cage, he realized as he walked and considered the ancient writing on the walls, his rations dwindling by the day. But he couldn't leave, it was almost feverish how he kept looking and searching, being drawn ever deeper into the temple.

Or rather, the tomb. This was meant to be a final resting place for something too powerful and ancient to comprehend.

A part of him knew he was pulled along by whatever was entombed here, but he allowed it to happen. He wanted to know what was down here.

He found his answer in a comparatively small, circular room. Paintings glittered on the wall as through freshly finished, the paint still wet.

Plaques with text were left below the artworks, as well as big words pressed into the floor. A strange kind of metal had been used to form the letters of a civilization long gone.

The presence was strongest here and Quin set up his camp, studying the ancient texts. A warning was on one part of the wall, showing two giant beings battle it out. The next text was easier to guess, if only because of the depiction of one giant being slain and the people at its feet using its blood and bones to seal the other.

Just as his last crumb of food was devoured and his last sip of water swallowed, Quin figured out the ritual. He still didn't understand too much about what exactly was down here and what exactly had been done to it to put it there, but he knew how to at least...wriggle loose the bars of its prison a bit, so to speak.

He used his blood to write, each ancient letter precisely placed between the metal writing on the floor. The moment he finished, his blood glowed a dark and deep red and he heard a sigh in the very air itself.

The being's presence became cloying and overpowering and while he couldn't quite make out words or any kind of spoken language, he could make out intent. A pact. A promise of power and wealth and everything he could possibly ever want, so long as he carried it out into the world.

Quin didn't hesitate so much as he turned the offer over in his head. He knew the stories of deals made with devils, with sealed away entities and rumored demi-gods and of course with very human monsters. He knew they were always a bad idea.

One could not trick or out-deal creatures that lived and thrived on such things.

But this deal was the very thing he had been searching for when he had first started dungeon delving. Power. Purpose. To be more than he was now, to no longer walk with blunt teeth and hidden daggers.

He wanted to be sharp and dangerous and deadly and powerful.

So he reached out with all that he desired and the being accepted. His world turned dark and black as, in his mind, a maw massive enough to swallow the sky opened wide.

*.*.*

The thing was in his head now, kind of. Quin was not fond of this part, but he managed to figure out how to shield his thoughts as he traversed the ruin, collecting the treasure the thing was guiding him to. Wealth was a part of power after all and power was what he had wanted, first and foremost.

It was...exhilarating. He was no longer human, he knew that in the very marrow of his bones. He bled red still, he learned and his emotions and thoughts were the same as before. He hadn't lost his humanity, however much of it he had possessed in the first place.

But he was stronger, faster and sharper now. As dangerous as he had always wanted to be and he reveled in it.

His bags filled with gold and jewels he emerged from the tomb-temple and the world was just slightly sharper around him, his senses stronger. He knew he could actually track something down by scent alone if necessary and it made him grin.

He set out with a confident stride, tall and fierce in ways he hadn't been able to even emulate as a human. He was different now and as he traveled, he slowly got used to all the changes.

Of course, every pact came with its downsides. People who had spoken freely with him before or had been willing to share information or even secrets over a couple of drinks shied away from him now.

Quin found that no one dared to meet his gaze and he checked his small pocket mirror multiple times, but his eyes were still the same. Dark and soulful, as his mother had once said. Gods rest her soul, she had always encouraged him to do what he wanted. To take what he wanted.

Quin traveled on swiftly, outstaying his welcome at every new place within mere moments. The thing in his head wanted something, but communication was still iffy and frustrated the both of them.

Then Quin stumbled across a whip-thin young woman, left bleeding at the side of the road. She was dying, that was easy to see, but her eyes told a different story. She did not shy from him the way everyone else did, a defiance to her as though she believed him to be the reaper and she was going to cling to this life with all she had.

Quin wasn't her end. If anything, he was her knew beginning, as he produced a contract for her through his...what was the thing, a patron? It was no benign entity, that was for damn sure. It roiled with malice and bloodlust whenever he focused on it.

The woman took the contract and found herself healed and changed, much like Quin had. They traveled onward together and Quin realized that people avoided her as much as they avoided him.

"What are we?" the woman asked as they camped outside a village that had refused to house them.

Quin shrugged. "Better," was all he said with a smile he knew was too sharp, dangerous in a way human smiles weren't. "Eat up, we're having a long road ahead tomorrow."

Treasure weighed heavy and it soon brought the unsavory attention of bandits and robbers. Quin had never shied from bloodshed, from protecting what was his and this was no different.

The fight was almost too easy with all that he was capable of now. He and the woman stood over the dead once it was done and dealt with. He inhaled the smell of blood, sweet and coppery, iron and salt and smiled to himself.

"You are right," the woman said quietly as she helped him loot the bodies. "We are better now."

They continued on together, picking up a couple more people along the way. A man tossed out on his ear by his family for loving another man, twins who were rumored to be born with black magic, a couple that had fled from their wrathful noble families. A betrayed merchant left in rags.

They all accepted the contract Quin offered them and soon he called them his hunters. They were vicious when necessary, absolutely deadly and no longer quite human. They weren't as strong as he, the contract he could offer a diluted version of the pact he carried in his soul and mind.

They approached a city a couple of weeks later and the thing in the back of his head stirred, hungry and greedy, feeling all those souls within calling out. It pressed images into his mind, of deals and contracts, of all the ways he could feed it. Make it stronger. Help it break its cage in given time.

Quin did not like that he didn't have much of a choice in this matter. The thing would take back the pact if he didn't listen and that would kill him and his hunters. And curse him, but he had grown fond of this lot of lost souls that followed him like he was their shepherd. 

Maybe he was, in a way.

His treasure got him what his charm no longer could: people willing to listen. He found an empty, unexpectedly large tavern and settled in. It was nice to have a home, he had to admit, after traveling for so long.

He soon had to concede the business side to employees who had no deals with him. For if he or his hunters were behind the bar or walking around with serving trays, the few that had shown up left swiftly.

It took time and effort to build a bit of a reputation, but slowly he carved out a place for himself in this large city. Mostly he was known for his deals and his tavern for offering nice ale and food to acceptable prices.

As he sat in his usual booth, waiting for people to approach him for a piece of his patron's powers, he realized that this wasn't quite the life he had wanted for himself.

Sure, he had gotten quite a lot out of the pact, but mostly he had wanted to be free. To do whatever he wanted. To have all the different versions of power to be untouchable and uncontrollable. To be really, truly free.

He watched a man gather the courage to approach him, his arms gripping a clearly sick babe. He'd get the mildest contract Quin could create.

Quin would help the guy for free if his patron allowed such things, which it of course didn't. For all of Quin's occasional depravity and ease at murdering, he did not like to take advantage of the truly helpless.

Of the people his parents had once been.

'Well,' he thought to himself as he smiled as mildly as he could when the father walked towards him at last. 'If this is my lot in life, I better make it a damn fucking good one.'

So he remodeled the tavern, hired performers and grabbed his carefully hoarded treasure. He spent and invested the gold, bartered and made deals that had nothing to do with the coiling darkness connected to his mind and soul.

He set himself free in almost all aspects. The pact had given him many things while shackling him down and even if the shackle was something he had to live with until his dying day, there were still other chains to break.

Chains made by society and stupid rules even he had stuck in his head despite his best efforts.

So Quin set himself free as much as he could and built his reputation anew. He built the Revelry and it grew beyond the bounds of his tavern with every year, gold flowing back to him first in a small trickle and then in a big river and he took it and invested it into his business, his street. His life.

Within a couple of years he was as powerful and untouchable as he had always dreamed of being. He had the sort of reputation that made people avoid his gaze for more reasons than one. 

Some days he could delude himself into thinking that it was his bloody and dangerous reputation alone that made folks inch away from him, rather than what his patron had turned him into.

Sometimes it was a lonely life, sure, but he had a...yes, a family now. His hunters meant the world to him and he cared for his employees, making sure they had everything they needed to be happy.

In return, they were fiercely loyal, bringing him rumors and secrets and warning him of backhanded deals and impending betrayals by business partners. He grew untouchable in more ways than one thanks to them.

He kept his patron fed and content, made sure it had everything it could possibly want. He was careful, however, never quite feeding it as much as it really wanted.

He didn't want it to get out of its tomb and while he knew some day it would happen, he'd drag it out as long as he possibly could.

Quin made the Revelry and dedicated himself to it, gave it his heart and blood and most of the time it was enough. Most of the time he felt like his life was nearly perfect.

As long as his patron was quiet, he pretended as though every part of him, his everything, could be dedicated to what he had built. That all his choices were his own and could not be controlled by another.

This was a good life, he reminded himself, trying to ignore the greed for more within him. The greed to reach that extra little inch to true freedom, the shackle on his foot keeping him firmly grounded.

He had a rich, free, powerful life. The sort of life written about in stories and that he had dreamed about as a boy while helping his mother scrub pots and pans and his father with mending clothes. 

He almost wished they were still alive to see him now. Sometimes he poured a drink in their honor and hoped they were watching from whatever afterlife they were in now.

He hoped they were proud, that he had taken all their lessons and challenged the world. That he had come out the other side as the person he wanted to be.

He hunted and made pacts, terrified foolish nobles and bartered for information to get the city guard fully under his thumb. He already had a number of people on his payroll, but he really wanted to get his claws into the captain. Then the city really would be his at long last.

He had no idea how soon his wish would be fulfilled.

It was a night like many others, filled with joy and laughter, wild partying and people cutting loose in a way that fed his very soul and spirit. Quin was in a very good mood as he made a contract with a burly man who could scarcely stand to even glance in his direction.

"My right hand will take care of things," he said, gesturing lazily and his first hunter melted out of the shadows.

His oldest friend, sometimes pain in his ass and a stalwart, loyal companion. Quin knew, deep down, that he would have withered away emotionally without his hunters at his side.

The deal made and on its way to being fulfilled, he got up just as someone tripped, stumbling towards him. He caught that person just in time, casting a brief glare at the drunk woman that had decided shoving his guests was a good idea.

The woman hurriedly looked away and Quin plastered on his best smile, straightening up the one in his arms. "Now there, usually I have to put in some work to make people swoon like this."

And the first thing he noticed was that the stranger met his eyes, unafraid and unflinching, before listing a bit to the side. Ah, a drunkard.

Or not, he realized when, for the first time, someone refused to be parted from him. Cold fingers clung to his silk doublet and the feeling that something was wrong tingled in the back of his mind.

So he reached out, hooking his finger under an equally cold chin, not yet knowing that he was looking at the one who would change his life forever in all the best ways.

The one to set him free, truly free, at long last.

*.*.*

Tag List:

@those-damn-snippets @the-cash-cache @queenofbooknerds @14-lizards-in-a-trenchcoat @fern-writes-whump @bexterbaileyw @setsailforthestars @piperjistic @addrai @catloverlawyer @permanentlydepressedpigeon @tama-on-vetta @marateleam @transparentdiplomatlandgoth @cheesecakev2 @myst3rious-figur3 @warriorofbooks @aprilraine

[someonetheelusivefangirl]

Wrightworth/Narumitsu Fic Rec!

(Thank you @wr1ghtw0rth for the fabulous rec!)

Have you had the pleasure of watching Edgeworth fall headfirst into being a dog parent?

Need some wonderful domesticity set during the 7 year gap, along with what I might dub my favourite hug scene of all fanfic??

Want an interesting and emotional case full of mystery???

Have you not yet witnessed Edgeworth (reluctantly) ask Pess to pick the evening's wine????

Then do yourself a favour and indulge in 'Kindred' by timepatches (@monimolimnion)!!

Wrightworth/Narumitsu Masterpost

[prettyflyshyguy]

............................................. I'm regretfully writing a fanfic.

It's not gonna be big, but dialogue has been running in my head 24/7 and if I don't write it down I'll explode. Writing is a fun break from drawing besides and I genuinely feel like slowly dissecting other characters is helping me revisit my original stories, and dissect my own characters and bring more continuity and subtlety into them.

[una-hive5]

Giyuushino brain rot: Giyuu changes of perspective toward Shinobu.

Kocho Shinobu. One of the demon slayer corps.

We were always assigned together to kill demons.

We are comrades.

I started to enjoy her company.

She is chatterbox, hardworking, and calm.

Somehow.

I grew attachment toward her.

Somehow.

I feel blissful when I see her.

Somehow.

I got itchy inside me when I see someone else getting closer to her.

We are partner.

She is a chatterbox.

But never about herself.

She is a hardworking person.

And always exhausted.

I'm worry.

She is calm.

But she have her limit.

We are friends.

She love teasing me.

Poke fun at me.

Poking me.

She help me a lot.

She is caring.

She is lovely.

We are close friends.

Somehow,

Something about her,

I care about her more than anything.

We were best friends.

This feeling.

Something about it, when I found out she passed.

I felt regret.

Why?

Regret of wasn't there to save her?

Regret of wasn't there to see her for the last time?

Regret of never said thank you after she treated me?

Something.

Something about her.

That I never realized.

When I see her, my heart is pumping.

When she is talking, I listen.

When I look at her, I can't help but felt distress.

Those eye bags. Your face getting pale. Your muscles aching. You lost focus easily. Your reflexion quit slow.

"Kocho"

"Hm?"

"......!"

"....."

...

"Take care."

....

"I'll be fine, don't worry."

[my-gf-is-kazuichi-soda]

As fun as it was to draw cursed baby Hifumi (ah, thank you D3 for giving us cursed baby Kaede) it felt like a sin to draw a baby without chubby baby legs.

[todayisafridaynight]

This might not be anything, but while writing about your fics, the way you have the characters' mannerisms down PERFECTLY got me thinking about mirroring...

There's a lot of it in 7 (Horii is a directorial genius etc etc), most of it more intentional than these probably are, but there's something so interesting about mirroring that takes the tone of a (relatively) fond memory, a familiar gesture, and inverts it in the way shown here.

OH I'M GLAD YOU'VE NOTICED THESE TOO I think I mentioned it months back (or I drafted a post 'bout it but didn't think it was anything noteworthy) but I always really did like how the Arakawa Family mimicked each other's mannerisms (also circling back to how Jo and Masato calling Ichiban 'Ichi' presumably after picking it up from Arakawa)!

Aoki actually does the same sitting gesture too! I went back to double check and skim through the rest of the game's cutscenes, and as far as I could tell unless I skipped a scene, it really is only these three that do this specific pose:

It's such a small detail but I love it immensely and it really does highlight their connections with each other and it drives me insane

[thetomorrowshow]

normal is relative (love is love)

Hola folks! if you weren't aware, i am on hiatus! however despite completely cutting myself off from social media, i haven't stopped writing. i wrote this last week and emailed it over to my bestie and beta reader, afternineattheoasis, who is now posting it here and on tumblr for all to enjoy. otherwise, my queue should post every second tuesday of the month until i'm back :)

~

"And, I was just wondering . . . um, I—oh, this is just—I can't do this."

Doc raised an unimpressed eyebrow. "Try again," he said.

Mumbo sighed, adjusted his tie. "Right. Well, I was just in the neighborhood—in the neighborhood? I've never said that in my life, I don't know—"

Doc harrumphed loudly. "Again."

"Okay." Mumbo took a deep breath. "Hi, G! Uh, I was—I have, I mean, or, or, I want? Look, it's—we're, we're good friends, right?"

"Stop."

Mumbo, gratefully, stopped.

Doc watched him for a moment, eyes roving over Mumbo, from his head to his toes. Mumbo stood there, awkwardly, just waiting for him to say something. Anything. Any piece of advice.

"Lose the tie," Doc said eventually.

"I—what? What? Lose the—lose the tie?" Mumbo sputtered. "It's—I always wear a tie!"

"It feels too formal. Take it off."

"That's absolutely ridiculous," Mumbo said. "I don't see how that's supposed to help me."

"I don't see how I am supposed to help you," Doc said. "What do you want from this? Why me?"

Well, Mumbo had thought that was obvious! Why would he go to anyone other than Doc?

"You're the only other aspec person I know," he said, pushing up his sleeves. That felt awkward. He pushed them back down. "I figured, because you and Ren have your—your—"

"Our QPR?" Doc supplied.

"Yes! Yes, that. Well, you and Ren have feelings for each other, and your relationship is a QPR—"

"I do not have feelings for Ren," said Doc, nose wrinkled. "Ren has feelings for me, and I like his feelings."

"Oh. Right." Mumbo blinked a couple of times. He was pretty sure that's exactly what having feelings was, but okay. "Um, well, how did you confess? Or how did Ren confess, I guess? Like, how was it different from confessing other feelings?"

It was Doc's turn to blink, a slow action, his robotic eye spinning circles around in his head. "Different?"

"Yes. How is—" Mumbo patted his pockets, a tic he'd developed some time ago that he did when he was searching for a word or trying to explain something— "How do you confess feelings of like? Isn't that—isn't that weird?"

"I do not understand."

Mumbo bit his lip. Doc had to be messing with him. "Well, like, a love confession is normal. But, well—a platonic confession? And asking to be in a QPR? That's weird."

Doc frowned. "It is still a love confession, Mumbo. Love is love. Platonic, romantic—just two different loves. All deserve a confession."

"Well, sure," Mumbo waved, "but it certainly isn't normal."

"Normal is relative," grumbled Doc. "Nothing is normal."

"Something—some things are normal, and—"

"Ask Zedaph what normal is to him. And then ask Joe. And then ask Keralis. They will all have different answers. Normal is relative."

He shouldn't have tried to argue with Doc. "All right, but, but a committed platonic relationship is not normal to Grian. He could—"

"I don't understand," Doc said. "You care about him, yes?"

Well, yes. Mumbo did care about Grian. He cared about him very much.

But what if Grian felt differently? What if Grian didn't want a committed platonic relationship?

What if Grian wanted more?

What if Mumbo was wrong about everything? What if he didn't actually want a QPR? What if Mumbo wanted more?

"Do you think," he said slowly, "that I might actually want a romantic relationship but I just don't know it? Like—I've never felt this with anyone before—before Grian. Maybe, maybe I actually want to date him, but I don't know it because I don't know what romance feels like and—"

"Do you want to kiss Grian?" Doc asked, one eyebrow raised.

Mumbo felt a bit of revulsion for a second, just to imagine such a thing. That would weird, a total violation of the relationship they have. "No."

"Do you want to woo him?"

That got the same feeling. "No, no—I—"

"Do you want to play footsie under the table and giggle about it?"

Mumbo actually almost gagged. "No, that sounds—"

Doc held his hands up, a look of satisfaction on his face. "There you are. I do not think you have romantic feelings for Grian."

Mumbo wasn't so sure that was a definitive test, but it did help a little bit, in reassuring his identity. He'd been identifying as aromantic and asexual for as long as he knew they existed, but his recent feelings for Grian had made him start to doubt his entire existence. It was good to have that little confirmation.

"Right," he said, still turning Doc's words over in his mind. "Okay. So—but what if Grian doesn't like . . . the idea? Of a, uh, not-romantic relationship?"

Doc sighed. "Mumbo, why are you so afraid of platonic love?"

That—he wasn't afraid of platonic love! He was just—just nervous, he supposed. Nervous that—nervous that Grian would be. Absolutely not afraid.

"Love is love. And besides, you really just want to . . . ah, put a label on your relationship, yes?"

"Well, yes, and also—make it committed? But what if Grian doesn't want—what if he wants a romantic relationship, not with—not with me, with someone else, and I don't—and we're a, uh, platonic couple? And I'm not comfortable with that?"

Doc waved his robotic arm. "Relationship. Such a messy word. Relationships are . . . ah, transitiatory, I suppose? They develop, and change, day to day. Especially in a mixed-orientation relationship, like the one you want to be in."

Mixed-orientation relationship. What, because Grian was alloromantic and Mumbo was aro? Or would it mean something else entirely?

"What exactly is a mixed-orientation relationship?" Mumbo asked hesitantly. "Just to, er, make sure we're on the same page."

"Something like what Ren and I have," Doc explained patiently. "Ren is alloromantic. I am not. Ren has romantic feelings for me. I am fine with it. He knows that I do not return them. It involves much communication, and our boundaries change frequently. That is what you want, yes?"

Not that Mumbo knew what to expect, but that sounded like something that he wanted. Maybe not the whole bit about Ren having romantic feelings anyway. Mumbo didn't really like the idea of Grian wanting that sort of relationship, and Mumbo not being able to provide.

"Does it ever get—is it ever hard, to know—or, does, er, when Ren wants things you don't want, is that hard?"

Doc stared at him for a moment, clearly trying to parse out the question. He chuckled suddenly, crossing one leg over the other.

"Right, I forgot that you're asexual also," he said, still chuckling. "No. No, Ren and I never have that problem."

That was probably too much information. Mumbo could've lived without knowing that. He could feel his ears heating up, like they always did when he got embarrassed. Change the subject change the subject—

"Um, right then. But, like—did you ever feel bad that you can't, you know, return his feelings? Give him what he wants—in like, a feelings, romance sense? You know?"

Doc, again, sighed. "Mumbo Jumbo, my platonic . . . er, love for Ren is not worth less than romantic love. They are equal, if different. You must understand that before anything, yes? There is no love greater than another. All love is worthy of love."

Mumbo knew that. He really did. He knew about love, and the different kinds. He had learned that being aspec didn't mean broken, just different.

Why couldn't he keep it straight when it came to Grian?

"I think I'm just having a hard time with this today," Mumbo said eventually. "I know this stuff. Like, remember when Joe signed us all up for that gender and sexuality conference so that we could learn how to use Cleo's pronouns? I went to the, uh, the aspec panel, and they talked a lot about that. And I've also just . . . just read about it online. So I know—I know that you're right. I know this. It's just hard. You know?"

"Ah, I remember that conference," Doc said, gazing off into the distance with what was either a fond or a disgruntled expression. "Some racist man threatened me. The fun thing about threatening a part-creeper is that you're sure to lose."

Mumbo really didn't like Doc's smile. Maybe it would be best to return to the main subject.

"Another thing I'm scared about—"

"Another thing? Mumbo, how many fears can one have about this?"

Mumbo laughed self-consciously. "Well, well, I've—I've got a lot, so just—buckle in, bud. Another thing is what if . . . well, what if he says no? And then he thinks it's weird, that—that—that I feel that way. And he doesn't want to be friends anymore. Then what?"

Doc stared at him. "You are making things up now."

"No, I'm—this is a genuine fear! I just want to be—"

"Mumbo," interjected Doc, "when Grian first joined, I thought you were in a QPR."

Oh.

Well, Mumbo rather liked that. He and Grian already gave off QPR vibes? That was—maybe not, not great, but it made him feel kind of proud.

"Of course, others on the server assumed it was romantic," Doc continued. "My a-dar has never been wrong."

The others thought—?

Mumbo could deal with that later.

"I don't think it counts as an a-dar if I already came out to you, mate," Mumbo pointed out.

Doc waved. "Potato, potato."

"Those were the same potatoes."

"Mumbo Jumbo."

Mumbo sighed, properly looked up at Doc. When had his eyes fallen to his shoes?

Doc stared into his eyes as he spoke. "If Grian is worth anything, he will never stop loving you. Understood?"

Mumbo didn't argue this time. Doc was right. And Mumbo knew Grian. Even if Grian rejected him and it was a little awkward for a while, nothing would change.

He took a deep breath. He could do this.

"Right. So let's say I'm going to confess right now. What do I do?"

Doc, again, surveyed him up and down, robotic eye moving slower than his natural one, from Mumbo's shoes to his hair.

"Lose the tie."

-

Mumbo didn't lose the tie.

He did loosen it, though, on his way out of his tree, after doubling back to check himself out in the mirror.

Doc was right. It felt too formal, too much like he was inviting Grian to a dinner party rather than asking a close friend if they wanted to change their brand of friendship.

So he loosened it, then left to find Grian.

Grian was meant to really get some progress done on his alley build today (because of course they shared a calendar, how else would they ever get anything done?), but Mumbo didn't see him passing by, so he headed instead for Grian's starter base.

There was no one there, either. Grian must have been out mining or something. Which kind of sucked, really, because Mumbo had just gotten up the nerve to actually talk to him. Now he would have to do it all over again—spend a day hyping himself up, an hour getting ready, skip breakfast so that he doesn't throw up, et cetera—another time. After all, since Grian wasn't here at the exact time Mumbo planned, everything had entirely fallen apart and nothing that day would work because Mumbo hadn't prepared for it.

He turned to go, trying not to look too dejected. It was fine! He was fine. It was all going to work out, and everything—

"Mumbo Jumbolio!"

Grian landed in front of him, elytra clicking neatly together on his back. He smiled, big and sunny and welcoming.

Mumbo felt a bit weak in the knees. And not because—not because he loved him, or anything, but—

No. He did love Grian.

"What are you sneaking around my house for?"

"Just—just looking for you, dude!" Mumbo said, sticking his hands in his pockets.

Any suspicion cleared from Grian's face instantly, even though Mumbo probably sounded like the most suspicious person ever. Instead, Grian just turned away and started walking, so Mumbo hurried up and fell into step beside him.

Instinctively, Mumbo slowed his pace, matching the stride of Grian's shorter legs. Grian started chattering about some builder thing like block palletes or something that Mumbo automatically tuned out. It wasn't that he didn't want to hear about block palletes—he was trying to become a better builder, after all—or that he didn't want to listen to Grian talk, he was just kind of busy not having a panic attack. Breathing exercises kind of took up a lot of his mental capacity at the best of times.

They arrived, somehow, at the Boatem Hole. Grian sat down on the edge of it, swinging his legs back and forth, still talking.

Mumbo didn't really like to sit at the edge of the Boatem Hole. He always felt like Impulse or Grian would be right behind him, ready to shove him in.

He sat down, anyway. He needed to have this talk with Grian right now, or else he'd chicken out.

"—right?"

Mumbo turned to Grian, trying not to look too much like a spoon.

Grian raised an eyebrow. "Were you even listening to a single word I just said?"

Mumbo swallowed. Loudly. Audibly. That swallow was probably heard by Grian. That was awkward.

How was he supposed to casually transition to his intended subject? He hadn't planned for small talk! He'd kind of just planned to turn up on Grian's doorstep and give his whole spiel!

He had to leave. He had to get out of there, regroup, and come back in five to two-hundred business days with an actual plan.

"Oh, your tie's all messed up—here, let me—"

Mumbo went perfectly still, heart pounding, as Grian started messing with his tie, tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth just the tiniest bit. 

They'd hugged before, and cuddled, and just generally hung on each other. But this, somehow, felt like it meant something more than anything else. Like Grian knew what Mumbo was here to say.

Or assumed. Or maybe assumed that he was going to suggest a romantic relationship, because fixing someone's tie was generally considered romantic, right?

Mymbo didn't know. He hoped desperately that Grian couldn't hear his heartbeat.

When Grian finished, he sat back, surveying it with a frown.

Grian actually ended up making it worse, Mumbo realized, as he looked down at himself. The back part was half poking out, the collar stuck under part of it. The tie itself was not really any tighter than it had been.

"I know how to tie a tie," Grian said, eyes narrowed. "I don't know . . . what went wrong."

"I'm aromantic," Mumbo blurted out.

Grian blinked, looking a bit taken about. "I know?"

Right. Grian did know that. How could Mumbo save this? 

"I'm asexual."

"I . . . know that too?"

Okay. He could still save this. He could still make it work.

"Well, I don't—I'm not really looking for a romantic relationship, because of, because of that—not that every aspec person feels that way, but, but I do—" he was such a spoon— "so I don't want to date, not like—not like that, not romantically, but, like, if you would be all right with it, maybe platonically?"

Silence.

Grian half-turned his head away, then back, a look of utter confusion on his face. "Run that by me again?"

Oh, dear.

"Right," Mumbo said, ears on fire. "Um. Would you be interested in a—er, in a committed platonic relationship?"

Grian stared at him for long moment. Mumbo kind of wished he could shrink down to the size of a frog and hide under a rock. Not something that would be very practical or logical for most situations, but definitely something to work on.

Maybe he could put Zedaph on it.

"It's okay if not," Mumbo said belatedly. "Like, it's mostly an aspec thing, so if you aren't comfortable or—"

"Oh, like a QPR?" Grian asked, face clearing of his confused stare when Mumbo nodded. "Okay, I think we're on the same page, now."

Mumbo nodded several times. "Great," he said stupidly. He wasn't sure what else to say. What else he could do to keep his heart from being shattered.

"Wait—you're asking me—aw, Mumbo!" said Grian, a silly smile spreading across his face. "Of course, I'd love to!"

No way.

Yes yes yes yes yes yes yes—

Streamers, confetti, a big sign rolled out that read 'he said YES' in big letters—

Mumbo, who was so busy celebrating in his mind, almost forgot to pay attention to Grian, who had begun speaking again.

"So, I don't really know how this works? So maybe we can have a sleepover tonight and do some research and stuff?"

Mumbo nodded vigorously. "Yes! Yeah, of course!"

"Because all I really know—you remember that gender and sexuality conference that Joe had us all go to, the one where Doc got us all kicked out on the second day? Well, before we had to leave, I went to the aspec panel—well, you were there, of course, we sat next to each other—and they talked a bit about QPRs there. But that's all I know."

He said yes.

Grian didn't do any of those horrible things that Mumbo had laid awake imagining, he hadn't rejected him or laughed at him or broken their friendship or tried to kiss him or anything.

He said yes. He said he wanted to learn. He said—oh, he was still talking—

"—that they have, but I imagine it'd be a bit different?" Grian was saying. "Not just because you're a different person from Doc, but because you probably have different needs than him. And me from Ren. Right?"

"Right," agreed Mumbo. "Yeah, of course, dude. Er—"

"Dude feels weird now," Grian said, brows furrowed. "Do we get, like, new cool nicknames and pet names?"

Mumbo had been thinking about the same thing last night. "There are a few," he said. "I mean, names are names and no kinds of names ought to be restricted by anything, so if you—if you wanted to try some, we could—but there are a few that already exist. Um, QPP? Like Queer Platonic Partner?"

"QP Partner," said Grian thoughtfully. "Cutie Partner. I like it. Anything less formal?"

"Um, datemate? Because we're like—just mates on dates, mate." That was so awkward why would he say that why would that come out of his mouth— "And, um, Zucchini? That's one—"

"Zucchuni!" Grian exclaimed, actually clapping his hands together. "You're my Zucchini, Mumbo Jumbo!"

Mumbo could have sworn his heart flew straight out of his chest.

This was so many new developments. Everything was changing all at once—in a good way, of course, but Mumbo kind of needed a moment to scream into a pillow and try to not have a panic attack. Or maybe just have it and get it over with.

But he didn't really want to leave Grian to go do that. Not while Grian was so excitedly redefining their entire relationship.

And as if he could read his thoughts, Grian took a deep breath and sat back.

"You probably need a bit of time to process, yeah?" he said.

Grian knew him so very very well. They had been best friends for years, after all.

"That would be wonderful," he said gratefully. "I'll, um, meet you for our sleepover?"

"I'll come over once the sun starts setting," confirmed Grian. "Don't be afraid to come find me if you need me earlier than that. And I'll text you in an hour or two, all right? Just to make sure you're doing good."

Mumbo nodded, heart bursting. Grian was like that, always remembering his anxiety and helping to remind him that he's cared about. 

He said yes.

Mumbo was officially in a QPR with his best friend.

He really did need to go cool down for a little. He felt like he was going to jitter out of his skin.

"Well, er, good talk!" Mumbo said lamely, standing and helping Grian to his feet. Grian sent a brilliant grin his way.

"Absolutely, datemate," he said, before suddenly pulling Mumbo into a hug.

Mumbo was never going to get used to this. He was in a QPR, for goodness' sakes—he was in a relationship!

He needed to get used to it, honestly. He wasn't sure he could stand this level of jitters every day.

He would have to tell Doc that his tie suggestion did absolutely nothing, Mumbo thought to himself as he headed back to Treesa. All that happened was Grian tried to fix it, and it halted all conversation, and gave Mumbo the chance to confess, and. . . .

Well. Maybe Doc was right.

Who would've thought?

[ravencromwell]

Ros Vortalis trans headcanons

There are some remarkable trans Holland fics and headcanons, but can we talk about Ros Vortalis, whom all of his friends simply call Vor? Who, even when he’s _dying Holland calls Vor, to be expected, but also Vortalis which’s so much longer than Ros.

A bit of googling informs me Ros is “protector” in German, which’s chef’s kiss one hundred/ten no notes V.E. But it’s also, more frequently, a diminutive of Rosalind. Disclaimer before I start these that I respect and love! the headcanons of Makt as fairly gender nonrestrictive, with power being more of a defining factor of treatment. My Makt, however, is more complicated, with gender and gender transitions being imperfect but still a site where joy can be created, much like the rest of White London existence. Putting the rest of these beneath a cut with that in mind because as a trans person, I know some days I can’t handle transness as careful complication to be navigated and don’t want to inflict it on anyone unprepared. (Though, I promise! there’re fluffy as fuck nsfw Vor/Holland and Vor/friends headcanons in here to cut the angst.)

Ros retains a shortened form of his given namefor business purposes within the Shal—we know Shal means “market” in Red London, and I tend to think it means the same in White, such that when Holland calls him a “thug from the Shal” he’s referring to Vor being in the merchant/smuggling business. When he transitions, he’s relatively young and honestly to flagrantly demand a name change would be seen by too many as blood in the water. His greatest focus, always, is Makt rather than his personal happiness and he’d rather be burdened with the “nickname” Ros and be capable of rising in the Shal in service of becoming king.

There’re two ways of transitioning: the easiest and least painful is utilizing a spell similar to Astrid’s with Lila and stealing a face and voice. But that spell fades with death and though Vor understands that his body is likely destined for desecration once he’s gone as Makt’s people drain its blood and magic, there’s still this stubborn demand that they destroy a body without the face that made him shudder every time his child self caught a glimpse (he is so grateful for a lack of mirrors in Makt for much of his young adulthood.)

So he chooses the harder, excruciating method: finds a bone magician to permanently reshape his body. Session after session, over months traveling abroad on a ship with only the open sea and crew to hear him scream himself hoarse.

The first time they share a bed, Holland strokes along the broadened shoulders, runs fingers along the scars on his chest—eyes fixed on Vor’s all the while— and murmurs: “If they did not believe you would hold the throne, they were fools.”

“I’m flattered.” He’s bright-eyed, with that deep, rolling-sea laugh.

“After this, very little would stop you.” Fools have marveled at the extent of spells across his body, and inwardly he howls in hysterical laughter because there is very little to dull pain in Makt, and the shipboard pain was so vast it made everything else feel like pinpricks by comparison. He’s never bedded someone who would know that as intimately as the man who had done his damndest to use that same magic in stopping Vor’s fist before it connected with his face, and the admiration uncoils something deep in his chest. “Sometimes I’m certain I can’t keep it. One moment it will be there and then not.” He manages a farse of a smile “Foolish, after all these decades, but such is the weakness of your future king, Holland.”

“Lucky you would have an Antari to put it back, then.”

By the time he returned to London, voice rumbling deep from an expanded chest, people understood quickly to use “Ros” with the proper pronouns or see just how effective the runes on his hands were. But well…Ros is an easier shirt than Rosalind to slip into, but it will never sit comfortably. As he develops allies, he finds that Vor and Vortalis fit easier. And it becomes a good gauge for trust. Those who understand implicitly how painful his given name is and respect that, are people worth keeping. It becomes easier, as fewer and fewer people survive who remember Rosalind.

There are far too many moments to count when former friends or lovers try to use “Ros” as a weapon, with a little smirk that says: “You never said we _couldn’t call you that.” And he’s deeply glad he made a relatively small name fuss and provided only a small chink in his armor. (Those sorts of people tend, inevitably, to cause the use of his knives. As though letting them close and showing kindness is an invitation for open season. But such are the risks in Makt, and he is a man who craves touch and closeness. What good to craft the ideal body only to never have it appreciated. The way Holland simply…withdrew from people after Talya is something almost unfathomable. Whether they’re the closest of friends or both king and night and! king and beloved—which’s pretty much always in my head—there’s a deep, profound ache that he could never touch Holland enough to make up for too many years alone.

It’s the dimmest flicker every time he sees the “knight” and “Antari” masks slip, when Holland leans against his shoulder or puts his head in Vor’s lap, eyes half-closing at fingers in his hair. But, simply because the task is nigh on impossible, doesn’t mean he won’t do his best. Vor touches Holland Vosijk a hundred thousand times in those two years of rule—and so, so many more if they both survive—and is so very, very grateful he could take the touches the best of his lovers and allies offered over the last thirty years. (On a slashy front, can we also just talk about how, as a couple, there’s an incomparable way arousal and awe intertwine for Vor _every time Holland reaches out and shows affection: a kiss against his temple as Vor lets their foreheads rest together; a hand moving slow and easy down his back. To be trusted enough for the most guarded man he’s ever met—it took Vor _months to convince him to kill Gorst and he’s never had to work so hard or wanted so desperately for someone to say yes in his life—to touch him is such a valuable thing that he has immense responsibility not to break.)

Also in couple’s verse: If Vor has a small regret, it’s that the bone magicians are far more skilled with outward, above-the-waist presentation—because the best of them have not only done this for trans people, but for criminals etc. seeking a disguise. Thankfully, they had no trouble cutting him open to ensure he would never be with child—he doesn’t have the vocabulary for dysphoria, but the idea of his stomach rounded and heavy is one of the few things that can make him viciously soul-deep terrified. But the below the waist equipment well, it’s not a magic Makt has the luxury of learning.

By the time he meets Holland, it’s the very faintest of regrets: he has a collection of strap-ons for when he and a lover want to indulge in that particular fantasy—and is comfortable enough in his skin it’s an indulgence and not a requirement. It’s beautiful to watch lovers slide to their knees and take them in their hands or mouths or slide inside and watch them arch with pleasure. But oh, oh he wishes he could _feel it. It’s not a complaint worth voicing, and honestly after he becomes king, there’s very little time to indulge.

But one day, Holland comes back, smelling of flowers holding a box, tells the guards to wait at the end of the hall because he has crucial business from “the other London” for the king’s ears alone, which has Vor intrigued and concerned because he hasn’t come close to asking Holand to send a message. But before the concern can swell to anything beyond a flicker, he sees a flush so faint anyone would miss it who wasn’t watching. (Even before the Danes, Holland held his feelings and desires in an iron grip; Vor learned early in sharing a bed that Holland loathed the idea of being heard by those not his lovers when losing control: not merely a discomfort that could add spice to an evening, but viscerally, the way it would take everything Vor had to turn his back on an armed opponent.) This is pleasure, not business and he flicks his fingers in a silent command before they can even turn to look.

"Go get yourselves some dinner,“ he says for good measure, "If there is a foe Holland cannot protect me from, there’s little more bodies can do.”

When he opens the box…there are the usual straps but the cock. The cock feels like _skin. “The Arnesians-” and oh, there’s still so much contempt in those words “With their infinite supply of magic have learned to transmute. From earth to bone, and then something softer. There is an illusion for the Arnesians who want to forget the straps.” There were layers upon layers beneath that statement: neither of them wished, at least then, to go begging for scraps, but to _take a little of the bounty Arnes had hoarded,

“_Yes!”

Neither of them know how the illusion works: it is as mysterious as the fireworks Holland has seen that fool his eyes into certainty dragons fly across the unbearably vivid Arnesian sky. It does not matter; in those moments when Holland’s mouth is hot on skin, Vor is utterly, entirely certain Holland is swallowing down the cock he has always had.

It’s almost too much, leaves him speechless for the first time in decades, has Holland scrambling up and onto the bed even as his eyes are still glassy from watching the king come undone to wrap himself around Vor’s back until the world comes into focus again. “Is it only good once or-” he asks, finally and Holland’s smirk is wicked.

When he’s upending the Ost table and coughing up blood—, so much, too much kajt I hope Holland can take the throne because whoever these bastards are they can’t rule, the thing he clings to: more than “Stay with me"—though he _tries—, more than the raw panic in Holland _swearing—is the name. _Vortalis, he says when the table overturns—though it would be such a forgivable mistake to use Ros. Vor, he says while chanting stay and one of his blood spells. He will die as who he made himself, not as he was born.

The three threads of coherence for Holland are the blood spell. That Vor _has to stay. And that if he cannot be enough to stop this, he _will not let Vor die hearing him use the wrong name.

In verses where Vor lives, they both know the "thank you” when he wakes is not for the healing, though to be alive is a joy.

[audioletter]

you also have to write a drabble based on one of your new stickers but it does not have to be tonight

I chose this sticker because John having a DS is canon:

"So you got your little...unit thing, huh."

"Nintendo DS. And yes."

"The Daedalus brought it?"

"Yup."

"It looks fun."

"It is."

"What are you playing, you're getting pretty intense there with the stylus."

"Nintendogs."

"Wh-what? Nintendogs?"

"I'm patting my dog. See?"

"Ah, I see. So do -"

"RODNEY!"

"Jesus John, I'm right here, don't need to shout!"

"Oh, no, sorry, that's the name of my dog in the game."

"Rodney?"

"Mmmm."

"I - should I be flattered?"

"He's pretty cute."

"Um. Yeah. Look, is this like those Tamawhatsits things?"

"Nope. Real dog. Real needs."

"Real dog. You named Rodney."

"Yup."

"I'm. Okay, but why."

"He looks like you."

"I'll take your word on that one and choose to be flattered."

"Good. RODNEY!"

"Let's...I'm going to just check on Zelenka."

[littledeadling]

writing another little fic snippet...

[askamnesiamoonjumper]

me after editing the aau prologue for the bajillionth time