#Like half the other people in this thread

[didyoulookforme]

a different arrangement

a fluffy, rambling, unedited blurb based on this from months ago.

it just kept popping up in my mind, so yeah...

—

the morning feels like a secret. the air is cool and delicate, the kind that belongs to an hour when most people are still tangled in their dreams. the cafe patio is calm, empty except for the shuffle of leaves and the scrape of chairs against concrete. you’re moving through it on autopilot, balancing a tray in one hand, the other shielding your face from the sun cutting low across the horizon. the smell of coffee—warm and grounding—clings to you, though it does little to wake you up. opening shifts always feel like borrowed time, half-remembered and hazy.

and your feet slow when you spot him.

he’s sitting at the farthest table, one leg is stretched out, the other tucked beneath him, and a suitcase sits neatly at his side. his notebook lies open, its corners curling slightly, and a pen twirls idly between his fingers. his hair is dark and messy in a way that feels intentional—like he’s pushed it back a hundred times and given up. sunlight catches on the soft scruff along his jaw, softening the sharp lines of his profile.

he’s focused, brow furrowed as though the page in front of him holds a puzzle he hasn’t solved yet. but there’s no rush in the way he sits, like he has all the time in the world. polished isn’t the right word for him—he’s too unruly for that—but there’s something distinct about him, something that makes this sleepy town feel even smaller. and yet, he doesn’t seem out of place. he looks like he belongs to the morning in the same way the sunlight does, temporary but perfect for the moment.

the tray in your hand feels heavier as you approach, the cups clinking louder than you intend. “black coffee,” you say, your voice steady but unfamiliar in the quiet.

he looks up, and the moment stretches, folds itself into something unexpected. his eyes meet yours, and they’re darker than you’d imagined. not cold, though—there’s warmth there, something sharp and curious. he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t look away the way most people might. and then, the faintest smile curves his mouth. it sends a quiet, breathless ache somewhere deep inside you.

“thanks,” he says, and his voice is low and easy, his accent stretching over the word like honey. it’s the kind of voice that feels like it belongs to another life entirely, something out of reach.

your eyes flick to the suitcase beside him before you can stop yourself. “heading somewhere?” you ask, feeling suddenly too aware of yourself.

“yeah. back home later today.”

“and where’s home?”

“london.”

you blink at the answer, the word heavy in your mind. london. it feels distant and impossible, like it belongs to movies and postcards, not to this conversation on this patio.

“i’ve always wanted to go,” you say softly, the admission slipping out before you can think better of it. “but i’ve never made it past here.”

“why not?”

his question feels casual, but the way he asks it—his eyes steady on yours, his tone light but sincere—makes it feel like more. your fingers tighten slightly on the edge of the tray. “life, i guess. work, family, money… the usual excuses.”

he hums, tipping his head slightly as he taps his fingers against the mug. “sounds like you need a break.”

you let out a soft laugh, trying to deflect the way the comment lands too close to something you’ve been avoiding. “don’t we all?”

“maybe,” he agrees, his voice dropping to something softer, more deliberate. “but you mean it.”

there’s a certainty in his tone that makes it hard to meet his eyes for too long. you glance toward the cafe, catching sight of a regular waving for your attention. the moment breaks like a thread being pulled loose.

“i should—” you start, nodding toward the door, but he interrupts gently.

“wait. what’s your name?”

the question feels startlingly intimate, even though it’s simple. you tell him, your name unfamiliar on your tongue, and he repeats it softly, like he’s testing how it fits in his mouth. it sounds better coming from him, and you hate how much you like it.

“matty,” he says, offering his name with a tone that feels just a touch warmer than before. “nice to meet you.”

the words stick with you as you retreat into the cafe, your heart thudding in a rhythm that doesn’t belong to the quiet morning. when you glance back, he’s still watching, his expression steady but unreadable. it’s enough to make your pulse stutter all over again.

—

matty doesn’t just sit at the table—he claims it. every time you step outside, he’s doing something different, though the focus in him never wavers. at one point, he’s writing, the pen in his hand moving with a kind of urgency that makes you wonder if the page will catch fire. later, he’s leaning back, one arm draped lazily over the chair, a crossword puzzle in front of him. the grid looks like a battlefield—half-filled answers, some scratched out, others left untouched. his pen taps against his bottom lip, his brow furrowing like the clue in front of him holds the answer to something far bigger than a single word.

you also notice the napkin—a blank canvas when you brought him his coffee, now covered in tiny sketches and spirals. there’s a cartoon coffee mug with a ridiculous expression, a constellation of stars, and looping scribbles that don’t seem to form anything in particular. it’s messy and oddly endearing, the kind of thing you wouldn’t expect from someone who carries himself like he’s got everything figured out.

when you bring him a refill, he pulls out an earbud before you’ve even reached the table, his attention snapping to you like he’s been waiting. the way he smiles makes something unfamiliar twist low in your stomach.

“you’re spoiling me,” his is voice warm with humor, his fingers tracing the edge of the mug you’re refilling.

you tilt your head, feigning nonchalance as you set the pot down. “you say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“not bad,” he says, leaning back in his chair as though the morning were made just for him, “just risky.”

his reply catches you off guard, and your face betrays you—just a flicker of surprise before you recover. his mouth curves slightly, almost smug, like he’s pleased he’s thrown you. you lift an eyebrow, refusing to let him win. “i’ll take my chances.”

his eyes dip briefly to the crossword, and he twirls the pen between his fingers before gesturing toward it. “you any good at these?” he asks, as if it’s the most natural thing to include you in whatever this is.

“why? need rescuing?”

“possibly.” he glances at the page, his lips pressing together like he’s fighting off a laugh. “turns out ‘chaos’ doesn’t fit into a six-letter space.”

your laugh is soft but unrestrained, spilling out before you can catch it. his gaze finds yours again, heavier this time, and your pulse stutters under the weight of it. “try ‘mayhem,’” the suggestion tumbling out before you’ve had a chance to think about it.

he raises an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching in amusement. “clever and helpful,” he murmurs, jotting down the word. “what would i do without you?”

the question lands somewhere it shouldn’t, leaves a warmth behind that lingers too long. you glance away, catching sight of the tattoo covering part of his forearm. it’s bold against his skin, and you’re grateful for the distraction.

“mortal kombat?”

his gaze follows yours, and his smirk widens into something softer, almost nostalgic. “yeah. childhood obsession.”

“didn’t peg you for a gamer.”

“i’m full of surprises.” his tone dips, playful but steady, and he leans forward slightly, closing the space between you just enough to make you breathless. “what about you? ever play?”

“once or twice,” you admit. “terrible at it.”

“button-masher,” he accuses, the word landing like a challenge. the laugh that slips out of you feels unintentional, easy in a way you didn’t expect.

“is there any other way?” you counter, crossing your arms as though to steady yourself.

his smirk softens into something quieter, his gaze lingering on you for a beat too long. “not if you want to win.”

—

“so, you’ve always lived here?” he asks, not quite a question, more like a statement he’s waiting for you to confirm.

you nod, brushing a hand over the edge of the tray still balanced against your hip. “born and raised. it’s not exactly exciting, but it’s home. predictable, you know?”

he hums softly, his expression thoughtful as he glances past you toward the street. “predictable’s not the worst thing in the world,” he says after a moment. “but you don’t strike me as someone who’s too thrilled by it.”

you laugh softly, the sound more honest than you intended. “no, not really. but it’s easy to get stuck, you know? years go by, and suddenly you’re still here, doing the same thing you were five years ago.”

“sounds familiar,” he admits, his voice dipping lower, quieter. “sometimes i think the only reason i’m not stuck is because my job keeps moving me around. but even then, it’s not like i’m actually living in those places—just passing through.”

“what do you do, exactly?” you ask, tilting your head slightly.

his gaze shifts back to you. “i scout locations for films. basically, i find places that match the story—where the light works, or the atmosphere feels right. spots that set the tone before anyone even says a word.”

“that’s… unexpectedly poetic,” you say, smiling despite yourself.

he chuckles softly, the sound warm and easy. “yeah, well, the reality’s a bit messier. lots of late nights, arguing over budgets, dealing with directors who want impossible things. but every now and then, you stumble across somewhere that just works, and it makes all the chaos worth it.”

his gaze flicks back to you, steady and deliberate. “this place… it’s got something. quiet, sure, but there’s a kind of honesty to it. like it’s not trying to be anything other than what it is.”

you raise an eyebrow, smirking slightly. “honest? that’s one way to put it. most people would just say boring.”

he shakes his head, leaning back in his chair as his fingers drum lightly against the table. “nah. it’s not boring. it’s… understated. besides, if it was so dull, you wouldn’t still be here.”

his words settle into something heavier than you expect, and you hate how much they get under your skin. you glance down at the tray in your hands, brushing your fingers over its edge.

—

you find yourself wandering back to his table. it’s not because you have to—his coffee’s still half-full, and he hasn’t waved you over. but something about the way he’s sitting there, relaxed and yet quietly focused, draws you in.

“everything alright over here?” you ask lightly, tilting your head as you stop by his side.

his attention shifts to you immediately, like you’ve just become the most interesting thing in the room. “more than alright,” he says, his lips curving into that expression that’s already starting to feel dangerous. “though i wouldn’t say no to a top-up.”

you pour slowly, the steam curling between you. when you glance up, he’s watching you again—not just watching, but really seeing, like he’s cataloging every little movement.

“so,” he starts, setting the pen down and leaning forward slightly. “if you could get out of here, just for a little while, where would you go first?”

the question catches you off guard, and your hand stills over his cup. “i mean… anywhere,” you say, shrugging slightly as you set the pot back on the tray. “i’ve always wanted to travel—see places that feel bigger than here. but it’s not exactly in the cards right now.”

“what if it was?” he presses, his tone lighter but still carrying a hint of something more serious.

you raise an eyebrow at him. “what are you getting at?”

he leans back again, crossing his arms over his chest. “hear me out,” he says, his smile widening just enough to make you suspicious. “you stay in my flat in london for a couple of weeks. see the city, live a little. in the meantime, i’ll stick around here. get to know what it’s like to slow down for once.”

the suggestion hits you like a splash of cold water—shocking, absurd, impossible. “you’re joking,” you say, though your voice doesn’t carry as much conviction as you’d like.

“dead serious,” he replies, his face softening into something clearly sincere. “you said you’ve never left. maybe it’s time to change that.”

you blink at him, your mind racing to keep up. “and you’d just… what, live my life for a couple of weeks?”

“something like that,” he says, shrugging easily. “seems like a fair trade. i get to breathe for a bit, and you get to see the world—or at least, a small corner of it.”

“you don’t even know me,” you point out, your voice quieter now.

he tilts his head, his gaze steady. “i know enough,” he says simply. “and besides, this isn’t exactly a permanent arrangement. think of it as… an experiment.”

you let out a soft laugh, shaking your head. “this is insane.”

“most good ideas are,” he counters, his voice dipping lower, warmer now. “so? what do you think?”

you hesitate, your pulse quickening under the weight of his gaze. “and how exactly would this work?”

“easy,” he says, reaching for the napkin covered in doodles. “give me your number. i’ll reach out once i’m back in london, and we’ll sort out the details. no pressure—you can back out anytime.”

his tone is light, but there’s a flicker of something earnest in his expression, something that makes it hard to look away. against your better judgment, you take the pen resting beside his notebook and scribble your number in the corner of the napkin, your handwriting slightly slanted from the nerves tightening your grip.

“don’t make me regret this,” you say as you slide the napkin toward him.

his fingers brush against yours as he takes it, the touch brief but enough to send a shiver up your spine.

“i wouldn’t dream of it,” he says softly, his grin returning just enough to make your heart stutter.

you straighten up, clutching the tray to your chest like it might keep you grounded. “we’ll see,” you manage, though your voice feels far less composed than you’d like.

“we will,” he says, and the way he says it—calm, certain—makes it feel less like a question and more like a promise.

—

the minutes stretch and settle as the day unfolds, but matty stays rooted at his table. his coffee cup sits empty now, his notebook tucked back into his bag, but he doesn’t seem in any hurry to leave. you catch glimpses of him through the window as you move around the cafe—leaning back in his chair, his gaze wandering over the trellis above, as though he’s letting the stillness soak into his skin.

when he finally stands, the scrape of his chair against the concrete draws your attention. you watch as he stretches, arms reaching high above his head, his movements slow and unhurried. his suitcase, still sitting neatly beside him, serves as a quiet reminder that this is temporary—that he doesn’t belong to this place the way you do.

he adjusts the strap of his bag and slips the folded napkin with your number into his pocket. the motion is deliberate, careful in a way that makes your pulse flutter, though you try not to let it show.

he lingers by the table for a moment, his gaze sweeping over the patio as though trying to memorize it. when he turns, his eyes find yours through the doorway, and that faint, crooked smile of his returns—softer now, less teasing but no less disarming.

“thanks for the coffee,” he says, his voice low and warm, carrying easily through the space.

“anytime,” you manage, though the word feels flimsy under the weight of his gaze.

he nods once, his expression calm and steady, before turning toward the street. you watch as he pauses at the curb, his head tilting slightly as though deciding which direction to go. the sound of his suitcase wheels clicking against the pavement feels louder than it should, each step pulling him farther away.

just before he disappears around the corner, he glances back. his eyes find yours again, and the curve of his mouth deepens into something warmer, something that makes your chest ache in a way you don’t want to name. he lifts a hand in a casual wave, his movements easy and unhurried, and you lift yours in return, your heart racing as you watch him disappear from view.

the rest of the day passes in fragments—orders taken, tables cleared, polite conversations carried out without much thought. but his words linger, echoing softly in the back of your mind.

by the time you lock up for the night, the patio is empty, the chairs stacked neatly under the trellis. the air is cool now, carrying the faint scent of ivy and coffee grounds, and for a moment, you let it all settle around you.

[phyx-m]

Beneath The Silk | True form Sukuna x Reader

🔗 Masterlist

Chapter 26: The Other Daughter

Content warning: Sukuna, cannibalism, violence, murder, blood, gore, threats, threats of cannibalism, implied threats against women and children, implied threats against everyone?

🔗 Songs for this chapter:

Fallen Paradise - Hocico Stranger Than Kindness - Fever Ray Treacle And Revenge - Frayale

* * * * *

Chapter 25

* * * * *

A month before the union…

“Sukuna Ryomen, I’m here to escort you from here.”

The King of Curses tilts down his chin, his crimson eyes thinning as he takes a long look at the northerner bowing before him. The man is tall and thickly built, carrying the physicality of a warrior, likely chosen to bring him to the snake as a gesture of neutrality.

This so-called neutrality is a disguise, a carefully crafted deception dressed in costume meant to impress him.

It won’t.

“Let’s get this over with then,” Sukuna drones, gesturing toward the clustering treeline ahead, beyond which a vast, empty field stretches. No villages speck the landscape—just flat, open ground. The kind of place where a battle could easily ignite.

It also marks the divide between his territory and that of the Kasai clan—a neutral boundary where north meets south. An ideal setting to negotiate the union of two people.

The northerner turns and moves ahead, pressing through the lush summer greenery, deliberately putting distance between himself and the King of Curses.

Sukuna is well aware this might be a trap. He’s also aware of the weapon the man is concealing. He can feel its presence, secured beneath his kimono.

It’s only a matter of time before the idiot turns to strike.

A foolish mistake.

He’ll kill him anyway, just for the insult of bringing it.

He hopes the man will take it.

Unbothered by the potential threat, Sukuna threads his upper hands into the wide sleeves of his kimono while his lower ones rest lightly, folded against his torso. A tightly fitted underlayer lies below his garment. The summer air steams hot against a solid cerulean blue sky, the day thick with sticky heat. But this extra piece of clothing isn’t meant for comfort or absorbing sweat. Its purpose is far more practical—a barrier between his skin and whatever else he’s about to walk into.

Soon, he is led farther and farther away, from where his mount is tethered to a tree in the forest behind him. Ahead, the open field expands wide, with a lone tent rising from the grass—his destination.

As Sukuna approaches the edge of the treeline, where branches tangle and claw for sunlight, he slows, his red gaze sweeping the area. Only then does he notice—the northerner has vanished.

Of course.

A trap. A fucking trap.

The corners of his mouth begin to hook up.

Then, without warning, the air sings sharp.

In half a breath, the man is behind him, the cool edge of his weapon slicing toward the King of Curses’ neck.

“Keh keh, I see you,” he laughs, stepping aside with ease.

Clang!

The blade misses, driving into the ground and tearing through the wildflowers at their feet.

Sukuna moves, shifting his weight, his lower arms hidden within his kimono while his upper arms unfurl.

“Is that it?! I’ve slaughtered women and children who fought harder than this,” he taunts, that eternal smirk carved into his face widens as he turns fully to face the northerner.

He looks the man over, unimpressed. How could this be the whelp they’d sent to kill him? Sukuna sees only parts—a body cobbled together, not a worthy opponent. 

They’ll need to try harder. To send something better. Someone better.

And he’ll wait for it.

The man snarls, rage transforming his features as he retrieves his weapon from the ground and raises it again. A breeze stirs their clothing, the only movement in the passing calm. 

“Try again,” Sukuna hums arrogantly, his upper arms curving in a welcoming gesture. “Show me another clumsy swing of your blade. I’ll even stand perfectly still for you.”

The way he sees it, this fool has two choices: prove he deserves to stand before him or prove he doesn’t. It’s only fair to offer him this chance before he dies—an opportunity to show his worth. There’s a certain satisfaction in watching someone strain against their limits, clawing for every ounce of potential, only to see what they might become in their finest moment before reducing them to nothing but sliced flesh.

“I’ll tear your grotesque fucking limbs and all your skin from your bones, demon!” the man screams, hatred crawling in his eyes as he charges recklessly.

Sukuna’s mouth widens. The insult tickles him. Those words amuse him. He wants to laugh. To tell him there’s going to be no enjoyment from his cursed bones, but he doesn’t bother.

Instead, he spreads all four arms wide, inviting chaos. 

“Yes, that’s it!” Red eyes shine, flaring open and hungry as the distance between them collapses.

The man runs, keeps coming, feet pounding through the grass, each step fueled by seething, festering hatred. It seems to grow within him like a spreading fungus, consuming reason, leaving only rage. Making him nothing more than a stupid beast unaware of his surroundings.

With impressive velocity, the weapon arcs upward, aiming for its mark.

Sukuna doesn’t move. He doesn’t need to.

The air grows cold.

This will end with one simple flic—

A dull, wet sound punctures the air. The man screams. A protruding icicle erupts through his lower stomach from behind. Pearled droplets of blood splatter across the grass, staining it a vivid scarlet. When he crumbles to his knees on the ground, his shrieking grows in agony.

Sukuna’s smirk fades, pressing into a rigid pout.

“Apologies, Master Sukuna.” Uraume steps forward, having been trailing them, and circles the now-whimpering man, blood pooling from his mutilated gut. “He was rather annoying.”

“Mhm,” Sukuna grunts, his disappointment mild but present as he steps forward.

Lowering his heavy frame, he crouches, allowing his presence to crowd the trembling figure. Inside his layers of clothing, his stomach maw stirs. The mouth ripples open, its tongue laving hungrily across his abdomen, tasting the promise of nourishment.

“Which organ should I consume, hm?” He reaches out slowly, walks his fingers across the man’s chest, then down, taking a moment to press his index into the open wound and feel its warmth. Uraume’s ice now melted from all the hot blood. “How about your kidneys?” 

Groaning in agony, the northerner's mouth opens and closes like a small fish drowning in air.

“Nothing to say? Then how about your lungs? We’ll see how long you last without breath.”

Another suffering whimper. Sukuna slants closer. Through the tiny sliver of distance, he can almost taste the man’s sweat that beads on his forehead.

“Or, let’s make this simple. The heart.” He straightens slightly, tilting his head as though weighing the idea.

Considering the confrontation ahead, that organ feels like the perfect choice.

“Glutting on your heart feels… appropriate.” The monster leans in, his lower right hand gliding to the spot where the muscle beats frantically against the man’s chest. Slowly, he brushes aside the fabric, exposing the flesh. “Any last words?”

“F-fuck you!” The northerner hisses, spittle cresting at his bottom lip.

Sukuna tips his head back and chuckles cruelly.

“Is that all?” he muses, fingertips teasing and applying pressure to the bones, to his sternum. “The flavour of your hatred-filled heart… I imagine it will taste rather sweet.”

Pressure.

The man groans.

More pressure.

Red eyes narrow.

A bit more. And then—crack!

So easy.

The man shrieks and flails. The frantic movements scatter grass and dirt as he desperately tries to escape.

A flick! Another crack as Sukuna severs the bones inside the chest cavity, breaking through and exposing the pulsing organ within. Hands dipping inside, he peels back the ribs like a pair of wings. The man’s blood mists warm and salty over his face. He doesn’t mind. 

Curling his fingers around the trunk of the arteries, there’s another tug. He unwinds and retrieves the heart, dragging it free from the man’s squirming body, the nerve endings dangling soggy between them.

“This is the best the snake could muster?” Sukuna sneers and straightens, the heart dense and warm in his palm. The northerner’s body twitches once before going lifeless, his head falling softly to rest into the grass.

For his ruin. They’ll need to try harder.

Much, much harder.

With half-lidded eyes, Sukuna regards the organ lazily, then raises it to his lips. Mouth parting, his teeth sink into the wet muscle, and he tears.

One bite. He swallows, savouring the tang.

Metallic. Salty. 

Perfect.

He licks his bottom lip and glances at Uraume, blood smearing his chin.

“Come. I’m sure our host is eager to see me,” he says dryly, the heart still in hand as he walks toward the distant tent.

Horses shift and whicker in the field as they approach. Guards, their clothing proudly bearing the embroidered crest of a serpent, stand at attention. Everyone’s gaze follows Sukuna and Uraume wearily as the pair arrive.

Without hesitation, the King of Curses pushes through the tent’s opening. The lack of light inside is abrupt, the air, warm, stagnant, and heavy under the cotton fabric that barely allows a breeze. A few steps inside, a line of men stands braced and armed to the teeth.

At the back, perched on a raised platform beside an ornate silkscreen, sits the bastard—Kasai Takuma—flanked by a man at his left, waiting.

Choking the now half-eaten heart in his palm, Sukuna walks forward.

Everyone and everything falls deathly still.

Drip, drip, drip.

Blood leaks between his fingers, leaving red trails in his wake, soaking into the woven mats underfoot. Reaching the edge of the platform, he stops, towering over the seated man.

It had been seven years since Sukuna was last this close to him. Back then, he had likely been dismissed as nothing more than a calamity. A rare phenomenon that swept across the northern land in a single, brutal night. But now? Now, the snake knew precisely who he was.

And he, of course, remembered what this man had done.

“Lord Sukuna, you honour me with your…” Lord Kasai begins, eyes dancing between the King of Curses’ face and the pulpy mess in his hand. “…presence,” he finishes smoothly, inclining his head—perhaps to recover his composure, or perhaps to conceal the fact that he had just attempted to have him assassinated.

Sukuna remains quiet but raises his eyebrow, making a silent point to get on with it.  

“Well,” the snake clears his throat, gesturing before him, his voice shifting to a formal tone. “Shall we discuss terms regarding our treaty?”

Sukuna lets the heart slop to the ground, where it lands with a splatter. Slowly, he lowers himself onto the mat, leaning heavily on his upper right arm, while his lower arms remain folded inside his kimono. Behind him, Uraume stands in silence, hands tucked neatly into their sleeves, ever watchful.

“Before we begin,” Lord Kasai announces, nudging his head to his right, “there is someone here who is eager to meet you.”

The King of Curses doesn’t turn. He doesn’t need to. His eyes remain forward on the scourge sitting before him, but with the lower right one, he catches the movement in his periphery. Two attendants step forward, their hands reaching to draw back the silk screen that has been sitting idle, hiding something—or someone.

A faint rustle of fabric whispers, marking the newcomer's arrival. Light footsteps follow next—one, two, three of them.

A woman steps into his view, swaddled in the finest silk kimono, colours of pale fabric decorating her.

The faint lantern light plays tricks across her features, shadows consuming half of her face as she bows.

That face.

He remembers.

Sukuna shifts subtly, retrieving his upper arms and folding all four neatly inside his kimono.

“Hello, my Lord.” Gracefully, the woman lifts her chin. “I’m the daughter of Lord Kasai.” Her lashes lower as the corners of her lips curve into a delicate, charming smile—the kind designed to tempt and loosen clothing. “But since I will soon be your wife, you may call me Yuna.”

Silence follows. A weighted quiet.

Sukuna says nothing.

Motionless, he watches as the snake’s daughter kneels tenderly beside her father, directly across from him. She is well-taught and well-mannered.

One might even call her desirable and lovely.

Her fingernails, dyed a soft red to match her lips, catches his attention as she smooths out her kimono. A soft glide to rid the wrinkles. His lower eyes remain fixed on them—watchful of how close she gets, and, more so, of where those vile little fingers might wander. Meanwhile, his upper eyes refuse to leave hers, locking them together in an unbroken stare.

Silent. Both of them, just staring.

Lord Kasai’s voice eventually breaks the quiet, his words droning on and on about treaties and terms and this union.

Sukuna sits and listens, or rather, pretends to.

He doesn’t care about the treaty’s promises—a truce, retention of the land he’s subjugated, a cessation of attacks on the north.

None of this matters.

Why should a piece of parchment—or this man, who took from him—dictate his rule or his fate?

Yet he doesn’t mind. He can sit here, waiting patiently, as he has before. Patient, but waiting impatiently.

What’s a bit more?

“No.”

Or perhaps not.

The single word has Lord Kasai’s brows arching. He glances up from the parchment, narrow jaw tightening to suppress his confusion.

“Excuse me?” he asks, his tone strained, the pretense of respect slipping.  

Sukuna clicks his tongue behind his mouth, and his attention drags from Yuna to the snake.

“No,” he repeats calmly.

The tent falls silent. The atmosphere shifts.

Behind him, the men shuffle nervously. Sukuna doesn’t need to see them to know their hands are drifting toward their weapons. 

He smirks, and with ease, the King of Curses pulls his upper right hand from his kimono and begins to roll the gnarled red muscle on the mat with a single finger. The light pressure bursts it slightly, and a trickle of blood stains the ground.

“I find your devotion to this treaty—this union—fascinating,” he says, freeing his upper left arm and forming a fist to lean his face against. “So devoted, in fact, that you’d offer me the so-called gem of the Kasai clan.”

Over the years, he’s steadily uncovered more and more about this family. Little by little, intriguing details have come to light—hidden truths, darker secrets—things he’s sure they’d rather he didn’t know.

“Tell me,” Sukuna drawls, his words flowing smooth and unhurried. “Is it love for your power that drives you to offer your daughter to something like me? Or is it something else entirely?”

Desperation. Control. Deception.

Lord Kasai says nothing.

The silence stretches.

Sukuna lets the weight of the moment hang, then shatters it with a soft, dark chuckle.

“You see, I never knew the ones who spawned me. Never saw their faces or learned their names. And I believe that was for the best. Some legacies, after all, aren’t worth inheriting.”

He offers no further elaboration. The truth of what this man has done is a history Sukuna keeps for himself—one he shares with no one.

“But,” Sukuna continues, his grin widening, blood neatly staining his rows of white teeth red. “I’ve learned something about you and yours.”

The deep grooves in the corners of Lord Kasai’s mouth tighten. Yuna shifts, her hips tilting to adjust her strict posture.

Another bit of pressure, and the heart bleeds again. Droplets drool onto the ground, the mats beneath greedily soaking them up like long-awaited rain.

“And what might that be?” the snake asks tersely.

Sukuna patiently lowers his fist from his cheek.

“You don’t have just one daughter,” he states, holding up a finger. “You have two.” A second finger joins the first.

Yuna stiffens, her hands forming tight fists against her thighs.

Sukuna lets his hand drop to his lap, the grin fading from his face, replaced by an expression of cold, cruel detachment.

“I want the other one. You’ll give me the other one,” he demands harshly.

“No!” Yuna’s polished facade crumbles in an instant, her voice breaking with desperation. “Father, please! You can’t let him do that!”

Lord Kasai silences her with a vicious glare.

“Quiet!” he barks.

Sukuna leans back slightly, watching the spectacle unfold. He takes pleasure in the panic in Yuna’s voice—a sound born of true affection for her sister, however misplaced. Affection she seems willing to cannibalize and twist if it serves her own ends.

“Please,” she begs her father again, her brows tugging together as tears gather. “She’s too soft. She won’t survive him!”

True. But that was, after all, the point.

One of Yuna’s arms extends, her hand reaching for her father in a plea. He recoils, jerking away from her touch. Sukuna’s mouth gleefully widens, much like a wolf’s would.

Almost instantly, Lord Kasai’s hand sweeps back, ready to strike her across the face. But before he can, there’s a sudden movement to his left. A blade is pushed into the back of his neck. 

A warning.

His arcing hand freezes midair.

The man who had been seated quietly beside him all this time—the one who seemed perfectly aligned with the clan head—now steps forward, his blade firm against Kasai’s skin.

Interesting.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” the man murmurs, voice calm as he presses the metal just enough to draw a line of blood. Yet, under his smooth control, his eyes crack with anger.

Sukuna chuckles.

Their destruction will come from within their own clan.

“A snake consuming itself, indeed,” he spits, a demonic grin splitting his face. “What an interesting little family and clan you have, my Lord.” His four eyes flit between the three, dissecting the tangled web of alliances and betrayals.

He already knew where most of the hooks were buried, where the strings were tied. All that remained was to pull them free—whether all at once or, better yet, one by one. Patiently. Painfully.

For her, not for me.

“Now,” Sukuna hums, leaning back as he draws their attention onto himself. “Do we have an agreement?”

Lord Kasai remains silent, his gaze darting nervously between the others. A thick bead of sweat slithers down his neck, settling in the hollow of his throat.

Pathetic.

It’s Yuna who speaks first.

“Please, my Lord. You can’t have her. Just take me instead,” she pleads, her voice trembling with desperation, though he hears her subtle performance.

Sukuna clicks his tongue in irritation.

“It’s your choice, snake,” he comments, his patience wearing thin as he fixes his gaze on Lord Kasai.

He’s tired of their squabbling, tired of her pleading.

There is only one thing he wants.

One tiny, fucking thing.

And he will have it.

His face turns eerily lifeless, his eyes hollow and devoid of pity.

“If you refuse me,” Sukuna continues, “I will return. Not to raze your land, this time. But I’ll finally begin with your clan.”

The man with the blade at Lord Kasai’s neck finally withdraws, stepping back in silence.

“First, I’ll slaughter the women and children. And when I’m done with them, I’ll eat them. Piece by piece.” His gaze sharpens as he leans forward. “A year later, I’ll come back for the men.” A lazy gesture behind him. “Drag them all away, their blood still warm as I consume them before your eyes. And then, finally, I’ll come for you. All of you.” He points to the three and pauses. “By then, your name will mean nothing. And when all that remains of your legacy is a pile of bones, I’ll leave only one alive. So, choose. Do you hand her over, or do I make a feast of your entire clan first? Or—”

He pauses.

Temptation stirs.

A heartbeat passes.

Sukuna leans back, movements fluid, as his lower hands slip free from his kimono, like an insect emerging from its protective cocoon. They come together with purpose. Thumbs extended, index fingers curling downward.

“I could just—”

His middle and ring fingers snap upward.

Yuna swallows. All three of them shift.

“—kill you all…”

Urgent murmurs ripple through the men behind.

“…right now…”

The last two fingers, his pinkies, curl inward.

“Ryōi—”

“She’s yours!” the snake blurts, his words tumbling in haste. “You will have my youngest daughter.”

Yuna's hunches inward with defeat while her lip trembles.

Sukuna bares his teeth in a horrid smile.

Good. He wants them alive. Force-feeding someone incapable of seeing requires… inspiration. Slowly, he lowers his hands, fingers parting, allowing the handsign to dissipate.

“Then it’s settled. You have my word—you’ll have your treaty.” The final words drip from his mouth. Then, he rises, leaving the bloody organ abandoned at his feet, on the ground where he’d sat.

His gaze shifts, clashing with Yuna’s once more. Her eyes flicker, her features cracking. A dangerous, dangerous woman when denied. Hatred twists her face, her jaw tight enough to pulse.

I see you, serpent. I know what you are.

Sukuna’s red-stained teeth curve into another sharp, knowing smile.

And I’ll see you again.

Without a backward glance, he strides toward the exit, Uraume moving silently behind him, their steps a whisper against the mats.

“In one month,” Sukuna calls over his shoulder. “You’ll come south—and bring her to me.”

He doesn’t wait to hear a response.

Stepping outside, the stifling air of the tent gives way to a soft breeze brushing against his skin and garments.

One month.

One more month of waiting.

He can wait. He’s good at it. He’s had seven years to perfect it—patient but waiting impatiently.

Waiting for you. To have you. To keep you.

To see you again.

Though not for the reasons he should.

* * * * *

Moments ago…

“Say that again…”

Standing before you in the grove, the darkness of the trees casts your husband in colours of the earth—hues of ochre, midnight blue, shadows upon shadows. Heavy. Deep. Dark.

Despite the chaotic laughter that had burst from him moments ago, when he lowers his head from the sky, his red eyes flash with new intensity, as if the words you just spoke have woken something ancient—a creature stirring in the depths of a cave.

Hungry. He was hungry.

Sukuna takes a closer step, a slow, heel-to-toe, through the browning grass that crackles under his weight. The sound scrapes against your nerves, goosebumps pebbling up your body. The grove around you seems to grow colder with his approach.

For a fractured heartbeat, you feel as though you’ve been here before.

This. Him. Advancing like this.

You press the heel of your palm into your left eye, trying to retrieve the thought—or memory—but it slips away.

“Say. It. Again,” Sukuna bites out in fragments, his red eyes narrowing, predator to prey.

You drop your hand to your side.

No. He wasn’t hungry.

Bloodthirsty.

Refusing to back down, you swallow your fear and meet his gaze.

“I want you to kill everyone in the Kasai cla—”

His upper right hand snaps out, clamping around your throat and cutting you off. He forces you backward, the rough bark of a yew tree digging into your spine as he pushes you against it. His towering frame eclipses the faint beams of moonlight dappling through the branches.

“Do you have any fucking idea what you’re asking of me?” he snarls into your face.

The question throws you—it’s not a challenge to the act itself, but a demand to know if you truly understand the weight of your request.

His lower hands press against the tree on either side, palms sinking into the wood, trapping you. The pulse in your throat pounds wildly beneath his palm.

“Yes.” The word ambles from your lips, unsteady, as you fight to stay steady.

Suddenly, his mouth stretches wide, the corners pulling back, showing his sharp canines press over his lower teeth.

“Do you?” he murmurs.

Slowly, agonizingly, he leans closer to where he has you pinned, his breathing calm, but you can hear it in his chest.

Closer.

Close enough that, for a moment, you wonder if he’s about to kiss you.

You stare at each other.

“You want to watch me tear apart your entire clan?” he breathes, bringing his face before yours, mouth parting. “Watch them split belly to groin? Watch them scream, crawl, and bleed as they die?”

Your mind empties when the hand at your neck moves to the back of your head, wrapping the length of your hair tightly around his fist. He yanks your head back, baring your throat, and presses his pelvis into you. A sharp breath escapes your lungs under the force of his dominance.

“Is this truly what you want?” His voice drops as he jabs two fingers into the top of your sternum.

Another hidden question.

“Yes,” you repeat, breathless.

“Say it again.”

“Yes.” Stronger this time.

His four eyes study your face, his gaze starting at your lips and ending at your eyes. You feel the stare. It bores into you, searching, looking, waiting for something—hesitation, weakness, doubt? You almost want to shut your eyes and look away, but you don’t.

“Why should I give you this?” He cocks his head as he asks quietly, mustering you.

Why?

Why?

Because if you do this, my father and Onishi will die, and this nightmare will end.

Because if you do this, I’ll finally be free—from them. From you.

Because if you do this, Yuna will be safe and unbound by expectations or duty.

Because if you do this, perhaps I can grasp a life of my own.

But that is too much honesty to give him.

“Because you’ve seen how I’m treated,” you say instead, your words clipped, emotion tucked tightly away. “My father—”

The abuse. The anger. The hatred. The shame. The regret.

You stop yourself.

Bottle it up. Don’t let it out.

The anger you feel, the hatred you feel.

“It’s what I want.” Your voice steadies, cold and unemotional, erasing any doubt.

What you’re asking for, the betrayal, the magnitude behind it.

His jaw tightens, his eyes steady in the dark, as if trying to see through you. To find even the smallest crack.

“I want this.”

Kill. Take. Find.

Another pause. His mouth twitches into a smirk.

“If I do this, there’s a condition,” he drawls, twisting your hair tighter in his fist, the strands scraping against your scalp, your head tipping back painfully.

“I’m listening,” you breathe through clenched teeth.

He urges you closer. The space between you shrinks to nothing. If you leaned forward, your lips would touch.

“A vow will be placed between us,” he coos before his upper left hand sinks to grasp the curve of your waist, his thumb brushing along your hip bone. “One to be called in at a time of my choosing. And when that time comes, you will give it to me.”

A vow.

Shit.

A terrible feeling rises in your throat, sinking deep into your stomach.

Telling him no means your father lives. Onishi lives.

Telling him yes means binding yourself to Sukuna. A contract with the King of Curses—a gamble you cannot win.

It's stupid and reckless.

But what choice do you have?

Do what needs to be done.

Your sister’s voice, in your head.

Maybe you can escape him before he enacts it.

“Fine. I accept,” you say calmly, forcing the words that seal the pact. “What is it you want from me?”

His grin splits wide, patchwork shadows from the grove draping him like a second skin. His lower hands drag away from the tree, slipping to the small of your back. He pulls you forward, urging you to step closer, as you move through scattered leaves while he moves backward. Each step guides you toward the grove’s center, where he finally stops. You stop with him.

He stares down at you. Scarlet eyes burning against the dark. 

Again. That feeling from before.

Leaning down, his mouth brushes against your ear, making you inhale deep into your lungs.

“You have no idea the things I could demand of you in exchange for what I’m about to do,” he whispers lowly, dragging his lips across the curve of your ear, and your knees threaten to fold. “But for now… you’ll have to be patient.”

Your pulse races as he pulls back, releasing your hair. The cage of his arms falls away. Without another glance, he turns and strides toward the edge of the grove.

For a heartbeat, you hesitate, then gather the hem of your kimono and rush after him, following his shadow out of the grove and back toward the compound.

Silently, through the garden, you trail behind him.

Then, inside, you spill into the corridor.

Quiet.

Where is everyone?

The two of you begin to move through the dim passageway, the same one you walked not hours ago when it had been a chaotic mess of people. Now, it’s nothing more than a deserted stretch of wooden floors and walls. Abandoned. Painfully silent.

No drunken revelry, no shameless fucking, no voices.

But it always seems to happen this way—on nights when everything holds its breath, waiting to exhale.

Just like seven years ago, on his arrival.

And now, he’s coming again. Death is coming. And it’s with you at its back.

Traitor.

A harsh wave of nausea rolls from your stomach to your throat. You fight the urge to vomit and swallow it back down.

It doesn’t matter if they brand you a traitor. None of that matters now. What matters is what’s about to happen.

You let a spark of fire in your belly grow, burning away your doubt and fueling your focus.

I’m doing this for her. Then she’ll take care of me, like she promised.

Walking ahead of you, you watch as Sukuna’s upper arms reach for his burnt umber obi, untying it in a single fluid motion. Behind him, his lower hands tug the rest of the garment free. It slips away, revealing the expanse of his tattooed back above dark hakama. He casts the cloth aside without a glance.

Your eyes climb upward, drawn to the motion of his shoulders. His gait is mesmerizing—brutal in its rhythm, each step a controlled shift of limbs and muscle, coiled and efficient. The sight of him sets your blood rushing in your ears, your heart knocking against your ribs.

An inexorable force.

At the corridor’s end, the attendant from before startles at your approach, their eyes widening.

“Get the fuck out,” Sukuna commands, flicking two fingers toward the open garden door.

They don’t hesitate, vanishing in seconds.

Alone, Sukuna turns and kneels before you. The floor creaks faintly under his weight as his hands abruptly part the front of your kimono, revealing your legs.

“These come off,” he murmurs, tapping your footwear with two fingers before sliding his hand to your tabi socks. “These as well.”

Holding your garment open, he watches you slip your feet free from your footwear, nudging them aside. With trembling fingers, you bend to remove your socks next, leaving them discarded on the ground.

Without warning, his lower hands grip the hem of your kimono and tear the fabric in a seamless motion, splitting it to your ankles. The ruined ends are tossed carelessly to the floor.

“What was that for?” you ask, your toes wiggling against the cool wood as you try to ground yourself.

“Bit of advice.” He sets the remaining fabric back into place. “Don’t step into enemy territory with loose ends like that. You’ll need to run.” He rises to his feet, towering above you, and you follow his movement with watchful eyes. “It’s a liability.”

You nod faintly.

It makes sense.

He straightens with a smirk.

“Besides,” he adds smoothly, “we can’t have you scrambling around, slipping and taking a tumb—”

“Don’t fucking say it.” You interrupt with a nervous, broken laugh. His mouth twitches, amused, before he leans in to gather your hair, tucking it neatly into the back of your garment.

Another loose end secured.

“Thank you…” you mumble quietly.

His eyes soften momentarily, turning almost gentle.

“Don’t forget to breathe.” His fingertips brush your abdomen, his hand splaying wide, pressing just enough to feel its rise and fall. His gaze locks onto yours, serious now. “And stay out of my way, or you’ll become a stain like the rest.”

You swallow and nod.

That wouldn’t be a problem.

Sukuna taps the scabbard hidden in your obi.

“You won’t need that either,” he remarks smugly.

Your eyes flick down to his hand, then to your own gloved ones.

Maybe it’s time to tell him the truth—why you were sent to him in the first place, chosen over your sister, the better choice for a wife, and what you really are, how you were sent to kill him.

He pulls away, stepping toward the door. His hands reach for it, and goosebumps pull up along your skin.

“Wait.”

He pauses, casting you a piercing sidelong glance, the swell of his tattooed shoulder partially obscuring his face.

It stops you cold.

The words stick lost in your throat.

What if the truth leads to your death at his hands? What if he sees this as a betrayal? You’ve been living at his shrine under a guise, all the while carrying this secret.

The risk feels too great.

You swallow back the words, letting the secret fester. It’s for the best—or so you tell yourself. Yet, deep down, a voice whispers that you’ve chosen self-preservation over honesty. One day, you might regret it.

Not if I’m gone.

“The name you want is Onishi,” you say confidently, lifting your chin and giving him exactly what he came here for.

There’s a pause.

All four of his hands twitch.

“Broken nose?”

“Yes, my Lord.”

“Was that your doing?”

“Yes.”

Sukuna’s nostrils flare, and a feral satisfaction washes over his face.

“He dies first,” he growls with heavy aggression.

Then he turns and, with a brutal motion, flings the doors open.

Bang!

The sound crashes through the corridor, making you jump.

Sukuna steps in.

Every head within the main hall turns. Every conversation dies.

Don’t forget to breathe.

Inhale.

Gracefully, as though he owns the space, the King of Curses stalks deeper inside. His four arms hang relaxed, his bare upper body bathed in the pulsing light of the stone lanterns lining the edges.

The concubines scattered across the room—some partially naked, others entwined with men—understand the danger immediately. Quietly and smoothly, they gather themselves and retreat, slipping out through the far-left corner of the room.

Exhale.

Bare feet tapping softly against the floor, you step inside after him, keeping your distance as he commanded. You take your place at his back, standing slightly off to his right.

Joining him.

A slow, creeping horror descends over the room. Faces twist, expressions collapsing into ugly shapes of dread.

No one moves. No one speaks. 

And the ones who know you? Their eyes scream with murderous accusation.

Strange, how once upon a time, that might have hurt.

Your eyes cut away, shifting to Sukuna. He stands motionless, his four eyes sweeping over the crowd of roughly forty people. One of his fingers taps rhythmically—he’s counting again. But then his gaze thins, narrowing as confusion gives way to cold realization.

He snaps his head toward you.

“This is not everyone,” he hisses. “There are some missing.”

Your eyes dart around.

He’s right.

Your sister is gone, as planned. Likely long gone, riding away on her horse.

Good.

But Onishi… Onishi is missing, too. So is the black-haired woman who deliberately bumped you earlier. And the entire Zen’in clan.

Still, most of your clan and another remain present.

Suddenly, Sukuna steps closer, his upper lip peeling back in a snarl.

“What the fuck did you do?” he growls, his voice just shy of a shout. “Where the hell is she?”

She?

You shake your head, unable—or unwilling—to answer.

If he thinks that killing everyone in your clan, means he’ll get to your sister, he’s blind to who you are. You would rot all four of his arms off before he could lay a single fucking finger on her.

Inhale.

Your eyes dance back to the room, finally locking onto a lone figure seated at the other end.

Father.

He rises to his feet. His hawkish eyes have never been forgiving, and he looks at you like you're unworthy of even existing.

You incline your chin defiantly. Remembering every vile word, every scornful strike and every hurled insult. Twenty-five years of malice for this man.

Sukuna’s attention shifts. He turns, aligning his body with your gaze, directing it toward the man you’ve silently cursed a thousand times over.

But something happens.

Something you didn’t predict.

Something Sukuna might not have either.

Because from where you stand—beside the greatest threat in the room, the greatest threat in Japan—you had expected the command to be for everyone to rush the King of Curses.

But you are wrong.

So fucking wrong.

Your father’s arm stretches out, a single finger lifting—not to point at Sukuna, but at you.

You. His daughter.

Sister. Protector. Tool. The last one, no longer.

Your eyes dart to Sukuna’s. His burn with bright, hot, unforgiving rage.

Exhale.

His energy unfurls, snaking outward, filling the room with oppressive, suffocating weight.

The loud clang of frenzied metal vibrates through the air as everyone present throws themselves to their feet, drawing their weapons in unison.

Inhale.

A stillness settles over the room. The hounds are waiting, their eyes trained on their master and you, their prey.

They wait.

And wait.

And wait.

And—

“Fucking kill her!!!”

Teeth agape, your father screams the order.

You forget to exhale.

Sukuna moves.

And all hell breaks loose.

[uhhlifeig]

The Black Lake - Nov. 24 - word count: 525 - @wolfstarmicrofic

The breeze rolling off the Black Lake carried the sharp chill of the late afternoon, biting through Sirius's shirt and crawling over his skin. 

He hardly noticed. 

The lake stretched before him, glassy and serene, but the calm didn’t reach him. Instead, he felt like he was drowning, pulled under by the weight of his own thoughts.

He sat on the bank, knees drawn up to his chest, arms locked around them. 

The voices from earlier still rang in his ears- Remus’s sharp, furious words, James’s frustrated yelling, the stifling silence from Peter.

You’re no different from your family.

The words gutted him. He could handle anger. He could handle yelling. But that?

Sirius clawed at the dirt beneath him, the grit catching under his nails. He wasn’t his family. 

He’d spent years proving that, hadn’t he? But if Remus- of all people- thought he was…

The thought made his stomach churn.

He picked up a small rock and hurled it into the lake, watching the ripples spread and fade. He wanted to scream, to cry, to do something, but all he could manage was to sit there, silently suffocating in his thoughts.

Footsteps behind him broke the silence, crunching softly against the grass. He didn’t turn, half-hoping whoever it was would just leave him alone.

“Sirius?”

Peter’s voice. Of course.

“What do you want?” The noiret asked.

His friend- ex-friend?- hesitated, then came closer. “I, uh… I wanted to check on you.”

Sirius let out a bitter laugh. “Why?”

“I’m sorry,” Peter said after a long pause.

“For what? “You didn’t yell at me. You didn’t call me-” The dog animagus broke off, shaking his head. “Never mind.”

The shorter boy fiddled with a loose thread on his robes, his gaze fixed on the ground. “I didn’t stick up for you,” he said quietly. “I should have. You didn’t deserve… all of that. I mean, you made a mistake, yeah, but-”

“Stop.” Sirius’s voice cracked, and he looked away again. “Don’t.”

Peter fell silent.

They sat like that for a while, the sounds of the lake filling the space between them. The water lapped gently at the shore, the breeze rustling through the grass. The older boy stared out at the horizon, his mind a whirl of guilt and self-loathing.

“You’re not like them,” the other boy said suddenly.

Sirius froze, his breath catching in his throat. “But Remus-”

“You’re not,” Peter repeated. “I don’t care what Remus said. He’s angry, and hurt, and… I get it. But you’re not your family, Sirius. You’re not them.”

He laughed bitterly, shaking his head. “Yeah, right.”

“You’re not. They wouldn’t care.”

Sirius didn’t reply. He couldn’t.

The rat animagus sighed, standing up and brushing dirt from his robes. “You should come back. I know things are…messed up right now. But sitting out here by yourself isn’t going to fix anything.”

No response.

Peter hesitated for a moment, then turned to leave. “I’ll see you back in the dorms,” he said quietly before walking away.

Sirius trudged up to Gryffindor Tower, but stopped in the common room. 

Who would want to see the face of a traitor?

pt. 1, pt. 3

@estellethewriter

[zaycheese]

Uhhh snapdoodles, probably a librarian, or a star on hit kids cartoon show wild Kratts, I wanted to be one of the Kratts brothers.

@jasperthejest @purpleartrowboat

if we lived in a world where u had to do the career u were first interested in as a child what would u be doing, id be a firefighter

[whoatemyshoe]

[nugatorysheep]

Sometimes being unpopular is a good thing, actually

[dykeyuu]

every day when i wake up i say to myself “dykeyuu you are not purchasing any sanrio merchandise today” but then i find the deal of the century……..

[bladesalvation]

kinda down abt not having a whole lot of relationships for any of my characters knowing damn well I am at least part of the problem--

[desalvar]

ayo i'm not dead!

[kxllerblond]

Happy Tuesday everyone, I will now be unloading unsolicited opinions about the RPC.

People take 'This is a hobby!!' way too far to the point you are not taking into account other real people also exist and are only thinking about yourself and it can come across as scummy and self-absorbed and a lot of people use the 'just a hobby!' to excuse this shitty behavior and an inability to communicate with other hobby enjoyers like adults.

No one should get mad at people for dropping threads or not being active, but it's also super shitty to just ghost people and go 'teehee just a hobby so you aren't allowed to be upset!'. Like, yeah, you have limited time and a real life but so does?? everyone else on here?? It's super not cool to just invalidate people who are upset their limited time is, in their view, being wasted.

Obviously, I'm not defending people that don't just unfollow or block and move on and who get passive aggro about it all. And I'm also not calling out the people that don't do much but are like PRESENT to some degree even if it's just ooc shitposting.

I mainly mean the people I see who refuse to do threads, to answer asks, to communicate when stuff is being dropped to some degree, to participate and be social in any capacity and then get kinda pissy when no one wants to send them shit anymore. Like you are entitled to exist and participate in this hobby as you see fit....but it is a social hobby. You HAVE to give to get and if people pin you as someone who only takes, they're going to stop giving. None of us have little meow meows that are so interesting that we can just expect people to frolic to them and gush about them and shower them with interaction without some sort of reciprocation.

And, frankly, I don't think there's room to complain when that happens. You can't have your cake and eat it too in this scenario. You can 'this is just a hobby!' your way through things how you like, but you also have to realize the consequences of that and you can't be upset when they come down on you and your blog.

[valeriefauxnom]

Things that the "It-Which-Must-Not-Be-Named" Manga hinted at that might have been interesting, were it an actually good work:

So, as we all know (or maybe we don't?), there was a terrible two-part Dragalia manga that they made at the beginning, likely just as a sort of advertising. One problem: it was bad.

For starters, whomever was in charge of it seemed to have a very, very poorly understanding of Euden as a character. The best I can describe it is if you put Euden, Emile, and dash of Leonidas' inability to remember his siblings' names into a blender and let 'er rip. And I dunno about you, but Emile and Euden are not exactly alike. But no, somehow the writer got the understanding that the reason Euden hasn't set out to form a pact was out of laziness than just a peacekeeping measure that the actual Euden was doing (well, a bit more to it than that, but I'll come around to it later).

When combined with the author unable to not have Euden be, let's say, weird in regards to Zethia (a thing that Dragalia itself commendably relentlessly fought against even to the end despite a depressingly large party of the community thinking otherwise. Before I get on that whole tangent, I'd just like to remind everyone that in the very last event they both stressed that no matter what they still see themselves as siblings) because, you know, everything's gotta be stereotypical (read, bad) anime and manga, right?

So yeah. Needless to say, we are pretty much wholly in AU territory from the start. WillofWinnie aptly described it (a headcanon I have incorporated) is that it is Euden through Emile's perspective, ie, assuming Euden is more like him and otherwise putting him in an unflattering light.

However, AU itself is not necessarily bad. And when I look at the few little hints of what might have been an interesting alternative telling to Dragalia, I just mourn all the harder that it might have had something compelling.

Here's a collection of things that might have been fun/interesting, were they not in so poorly a manga. That's right, I'm addressing the dragon in the room, the biggest forbidden topic in the Dragalia Fandom, and made myself Suffer(tm) to not only snip out parts that I think might have had potential, but also incidentally make this thing look much better than it was! Strap in, folks, cause this is gonna be long!

-First of all, this isn't even a manga-exclusive thing, but I just like seeing Sol Alberia properly. Turns out it's this massive city enclosed in walls!

-Perhaps the biggest change implied of all is that manga!Alberia seems to have a much more fluid understanding of who the next-in-line is. In canon, it's pretty much lock and key that provided nothing happens, Leonidas will inherit. Nobody really challenges his authority as heir-apparent. And with him regularly reaffirmed to be the eldest, it's clear that he isn't actually a younger sibling that just happens to be the favored for the throne right now.

Euden (well, dream Euden, but this imagining of him is of a much more in-character version of him than Gala!Mym's imaginings) even had this to say in a story:

But the siblings in the manga are stated to be in an outright inheritance war, which, since they're not just murdering each other, means that there would be other ways to gain the throne without eliminating the competition through death:

(Gotta say, the overly-ominous framing of the siblings is something pretty funny to me even if they are indeed bad news early Dragalia)

This could be its own point of interest, because notably, it's the exact thing canon Euden feared pre-game. Canon Euden establishes that his primary reason for not even attempting to make a pact is because he doesn't want to be viewed as usurper with dreams of power, now making a move. He'd rather be viewed as the weak, ineffectual sibling that is no threat to preserve harmony. However, given the more locked-in inheritance order in canon, Euden's fears are perhaps slightly excessive.

For the siblings to be worried about him as a true threat, they'd have to be worried about him killing Leonidas, Phares, Chelle, Valyx, and Emile before he'd be the crown prince. Of course, there's other ways to gain power, but the fear he's trying to take the crown would likely be a more remote fear.

In Not!Euden's world, though, Canon Euden's fears would be fully justified. Here, the throne is not near-guaranteed to rest in Leonidas' hands, and here Euden is immediately a threat if Aurelius starts to view him more favorably than his 'competitors'.

On a tiny note, this might also help align one of the relations diagram they put out as an ad before Dragalia launched, wherein Leonidas and Phares mutually consider each other 'worthy rivals':

In canon, we mostly only see shades of this relationship in Phares' lines wherein he comments that his alchemy work started after Leonidas' and how he's happy to have surpassed him in that, as well as Leonidas' general respect (well, for Leo) of Phares, but that's all. In the manga, though, they could be rivals in a more true sense for the throne.

The implications of this big change are also interesting in regards to Emile. Emile is his same-old abrasive self in the manga, but in the manga world, some of his initial anger would also be more justified surrounding Euden being sent out to pact.

As was ever-so-gently brushed upon in canon rarely, the Dragon Choosing and pacting is not an easy process by any means, physically or mentally. Here, Emile is upset that Euden has essentially been given a fast pass and cut the line, the agony, all that, and is in his view being favored by Aurelius, which I think is fair.

Aurelius might only be doing this just for the emergency of the situation instead of letting the Dragon Choosing/pacting being a voluntary endeavor like it was for the rest, but Emile (and likely the rest of the siblings) would naturally view this as huge favoritism and a sign the throne might go to Euden if they don't do something to regain favor/make him look bad.

And you know what? That might have been an interesting AU direction to take things, had they committed to it. The understandable misconception that Euden is now somehow the golden child (even more inconceivable compared to canon Euden as it is) leading to sibling arguments for the throne could be cool.

-On a lighter note, not!Euden is correct in one thing: Emile certainly will bring harm to him!

-Euden vs Combat, fight!

The relationship between Euden and not!Euden regarding fighting is a very interesting contrast. Both don't exactly love it; Euden might go to lengths to try and resolve things before coming to blows, but is ultimately willing.

Not!Euden, though, while he similarly dislikes fighting, goes a bit further than Euden does.

He skips sword lessons (a thing only attributed to Emile in canon), completely lacks any sort of will to fight. As I mentioned at the start of this, the bulk of it is attributed to laziness, but there's a small caveat.

This is where it gets frustrating, because at times the manga edges close to the canon personality of Euden but shies away from every fully meeting up to where it could take it in a new direction whilst remaining true to the core. Case in point, not!Euden here also dislikes fighting/power because he dislikes spilling blood, and because, as Zethia puts it, dragons=power=conflict to this Euden, tying back in to the whole inheritance war.

This could have been an intersting fork off of Euden, because they additionally share another divergence: talent, or lack thereof.

Canon Euden is actually addressed several times to not really have any talent in swordplay. He's fledgling, mediocre, as remarked by people like Raemond and Leif, and lacks for the natural skill Leonidas or any of his other relatives might have had with a weapon.

It's only through his incredible hard work and perseverance he's shown to have (plus all the do-or-die moments he's forced into over the years) that he gains the skill that he does, which again immediately contrasts with not!Euden skipping outright.

And yet, manga!Euden is noted to have talent. He's just not using a lick of it to actually gain skill.

This might just be Leif trying to puff him up, encourage him, but it doesn't seem to be when he's privately talking to Aurelius later:

(Leif get some sleep to get rid of the bags under your eyes, even if I'm sure dealing with this iteration of the family is even more taxing than normal). Ahem. The point is, is that this Euden has talent but no will or drive to get better but canon Euden has the inverse. While it might be tempting to frame this as an immediate way that the manga is worse ('oh of course, he's secretly got all this talent that he can just bust out at the convenient plot moment, get stronger for doing nothing at all'), I could see it as an interesting fork to Euden as a character if they handled it right, which they admittedly wouldn't in the manga.

What I mean would be mixing some of what we know about canon!Euden into the mix. Namely, Euden has a notably deficient sense of self-worth I've gone over several times. With siblings like Emile and Leonidas, it would be easy to further that into a thing partially caused by their attitudes that tend to push down others. In essence, I think one could have reconstructed his low self-esteem as a result of sibling bullying to the point where he even views trying as a futile endeavor, but as the story goes on and as he is no longer 'under their thumb' quite as much and then can actually use that room to allow any talent and skill to bloom. A sort of healing process and the change from derision to encouragement from those around, you know?

I'll stop there before I go start writing an AU of a bad AU of Dragalia, but hopefully you get where I'm going with that idea. The point is, him having all this apparently ~secret talent~ doesn't necessarily have to be bad!

-On another more lighthearted/less plot-heavy note, I will commend the artist for taking the bold step in finally giving Zethia some darn shoes, even as sandals.

-Honestly, regarding Zethia, she just kinda girlbosses her way through the manga, and good for her! Plenty of legitimate criticism can be levied with the way Zethia is initially handled as just another damsel in distress, but in its brief, generally poorly life, at least this manga's Zethia was kicking butt.

She's unequivocally the stronger between her and Euden, and as a result her overprotective side is on better display from the get-go (as both the twins had it in canon, and a later plot thread was actually getting them more independent of each other. Euden's was just naturally the one with more exposure)

Also ouch on the roasting there Zethia, but not!Euden probably deserves it.

Hard as it is to give credit where credit is due for this, again, good for her! (Even if it is just set up as a means to point out that terrible old 'protagonist is a useless baby' trope in anime/manga, but I digress.)

-Back to plot heavy stuff, Aurelius vs. Morsayati, fight!

As we know from canon, Aurelius was perfectly fine until he entered the Binding Ruins, wherein he was possessed by Morsayati and then started chapters 2-26. Manga!Aurelius, though, apparently seemed to have potentially had a bit of creeping Morsayati in the blood from the get-go.

I think this also would have been an interesting fork, since it also can connect with actual canon knowledge. Alberius explicitly sealed Morsayati in his blood, with the aim of his dragonblood being so diluted over the generations that Morsayati could no longer reform/possess one of his descendants. With this in mind, it's more than feasible to instead change the Other's possession method as more of a slow creep than an instant take-over as with Aurelius and Zethia.

It could have been interesting to see Euden slowly have to weigh if this is his father anymore, if Aurelius initially displayed more of his own personality. Canonically, his change is so abrupt and so jarring that Euden instead is devout in his correct belief that this just can't be his Father, and instead some shapeshifter thing masquerading as his father, whom he seems to view as in need of rescue:

With that in mind, I think it could have been compelling. Maybe the possession is still fully completed at the Binding Ruins, except maybe the Other just slowly pushed Aurelius into going there. Maybe Euden then and the townsfolk get worried over all the siblings the moment they feel as if any in the royal family might be starting the path to possession. Maybe Euden himself has to personally grapple with fears that he's somehow being possessed as he grows more used to having to make hard decisions as a leader in war and all that, that he views as 'evil'.

Also, we later find out in canon that Aurelius went to the Binding Ruins in an attempt to help Nedrick and was consciously gambling with controlling the Other's power for that end, which almost assuredly wasn't in the minds as of the manga's inception, but maybe it could be tied into that.

Aurelius, increasingly fearing, perhaps paranoid for how he's going to protect all his family, -including Nedrick still suffering on the north side of the continent, -starts heeding that little voice that in the Binding Ruins, surely there must be something from the ancient civilizations there he could use to gain power enough to protect his children? Again, not to create an AU of a bad AU, but I could see potential!

-And last but not least, on another lighter note, but given not!Euden's...everything, I do appreciate that his personal guards(?) are always prepared for when they need to use their magic lassos to bodily drag him down from a tree:

Given that we do know that Euden had at least a minor proclivity to go outside the castle/escape when he wasn't supposed to growing up, it might have been funny to see some of Euden's escapades, instead of not!Euden's. That being said, the guards also channel one's feelings quite well in regards to having to deal with this not!Euden:

So yeah, there's a little bit about NotMy!Euden's thankfully brief if disastrous stint in the world of manga! My apologies for either informing you or reminding you about it, but I do hope you gained something of vague interest from this, or rather, what it could have been!

[izzyizumi]

Digimon Ghost Game ~ Hiro & Gammamon + {Tanabata}! (Japanese cultural holiday taking place on July 7th!)

[opisasodomite]

Not to downplay cost of living and inflation etc etc but it’s very funny how many times I see people complain about expensive groceries and their grocery bill and then it’s almost always that they’re buying like, 6 packs of meats lmao

[embervoices]

A very useful thread on Bluesky:

(There is a lot more. Rather than give you all the images, I've copied the full text below.)

Meredith Rose‬ ‪@mrose.ink‬ November 8, 2024

This is not going to be a repeat of 2016-2020. It will be better, it will be worse, but most of all it will be different. Here are things I want every single person to keep in mind as we head into round 2 of a Trump admin.

My credentials: I’m a queer female public interest attorney working on tech policy in DC. I’ve been doing this for a decade--longer than some, not as long as others. I had to navigate three different administrations, as well as Congress, regulatory agencies, courts, and the advocacy world.

FIRST: don’t let despair override your media literacy.

The left has grifters, just like every other movement. If you’re able and compelled to donate, give to orgs with established track records. Avoid giving to individuals, especially anyone who emerges overnight with a one-weird-trick “plan.”

The left is not immune to misinformation, and everyone—EVERYONE—falls for it sometimes, present company included. There is no shame in it. When (not if) it happens to you, you should acknowledge it; delete or retract the post to reduce the spread; and move on.

If a source consistently shares half-truths or outright misinformation, it is not trustworthy, no matter how much “their heart is in the right place.” Unfollow and move on.

Prediction, analysis, and reporting are three fundamentally different things. Learn to identify them for what they are. Reject attempts by amateur “analysts” to predict the future. They know as much as you do.

Real subject matter experts know and acknowledge their limits. They’re also (usually) hesitant to try and predict the future. The best frame their predictions in terms of a range of possible outcomes. Subject matter experts may also disagree with one another! It happens!

SECOND: What we know for sure about how the Trump, how he operates, and how that will impact the next four years.

Trump is a narcissist who avoids reading and doesn’t care about details. He cannot be persuaded by argument or logic; he’s moved mostly by flattery, and will agree with the last person who flattered him. He can and will upend his own administration’s work without warning, often by tweet.

As a result, most policy experts—even those "on his side"—dread him taking an interest in their field. Ask any Republican staffer who worked in Congress during the last administration, and most of them will confirm that their greatest fear was Trump tweeting about anything related to their work.

As such, people who are serious about their work will do everything to make it as invisible and boring-seeming as possible. This is the policy equivalent of defensive camouflage. Lots of “normie” work will continue in silence. (The lion’s share of tech policy ends up in this bucket.)

If you have a niche issue that you care about, now is a great time to donate to orgs that work on it. Lots of money will be funneled to big legacy orgs working on headline issues: ACLU, climate change orgs, etc. Consider sending your donations where they matter most: local, niche, established.

Trump runs his cabinet like the Apprentice. He thrives on chaos and making people compete for his approval. Not only does he not reward collaboration between his subordinates, he actively undermines it.

Moreover, everyone who works with him knows that they’re vulnerable to being thrown under the bus at a moment’s notice, for any reason (or for no reason at all). His cabinet is going to be scorpions in a bottle. They will not be able to coordinate, for good or ill.

One scorpion can still do a lot of horrific damage. But large scale inter-agency coordination is unlikely, particularly after the first few months, by which point he will likely (prediction warning!) have gone through a handful of cabinet secretaries already.

FINALLY: The view from inside civil society heading into 2025.

In 2016, Trump was a largely unknown quantity. The left and establishment right alike wasted a lot of time trying to read tea leaves and make sense of this guy, because he was completely outside the realm of what anyone had dealt with. That’s not happening now.

He did us a favor by broadcasting his plans in advance (aka Project 2025). Civil society has spent the last 2.5 years strategizing around it. We’re not starting off flat-footed.

The Biden admin did a good amount to future-proof its own achievements. Folks can speak to their own areas of expertise, but clean energy and CHIPS and Science Act (investing in domestic semiconductor production) have benefitted from huge sunk investments. That money’s not getting clawed back.

OVERALL TAKE-AWAYS:

It's going to suck. But civil society and the political left have some advantages we didn't have last time. We know him, we know his angles, and we know who he's bringing in--none of which we had in 2016.

We'll get through this. It will be grim, but we'll get through it.

John Cutting‬ ‪@johncutting.bsky.social‬

Thanks Meredith. I really valued your analysis over the past few years, and I think this is a reasonable, actionable framework to think about the upcoming storm

Meredith Rose‬ ‪@mrose.ink‬

I really cannot overstate how much time was (necessarily) wasted in 2017 trying to figure out this guy and his influences. The fact that he's not only a known quantity, but ran the most over-studied administration in this nation's recent history, makes this a very different game.

John Cutting‬ ‪@johncutting.bsky.social‬

I bet we can weaponize his narcissism. Let's say some ghoul starts making progress with a mass deportation effort, if we start calling that ghoul that "shadow president" en masse, Trump would fire him in right away and appoint Hulk Hogan or something

‪Meredith Rose‬ ‪@mrose.ink‬

This is exactly why I don't think Musk will last very long. Trump is very clear that he's the only one in the room allowed to have an ego or any kind of brand name.

[pummelos]

i love crossing the street in front of cars where i can see the driver is visibly annoyed because like. are you mad at me? am i making you mad? are you upset? are you gonna kill me about it? gonna vehicular manslaughter me? gonna split my head open like a watermelon with that big strong manly truck? are you mad at me?

[clownattack]

The fact crinkle had the gall to draw himself with backstab wounds SURE IS SOMETHING considering he was the one doing all the backstabbing from start to finish.

Crink never got backstabbed neither by me nor by Night. He just didnt like the fact we didnt take his bs laying down and that i retaliated. Like sorry but if you choose to smear me and make yourself an enemy then i will treat you as such! Literally why would i ever feel any sense of loyalty to someone who did me dirty first. Someone who betrayed my trust completely and then victim blamed people who he was very comfortable hurting for MANY, MANY MONTHS. Like yeah OFC ill air your dirty laundry for that! Its not backstabbing babes, its getting even. Shouldnt have been hurting me on purpose while i thought he was just going through a rough patch. Shouldnt have taken advantage of my trust. Shouldnt have called me a "dear friend" when he was so willing to discard me for someone who turned out to be a fairweather friend.