#and I think they were always more vague about that

[isaspsp]

I think my parents did pretty similar things. I'm feeling sensitive right now so, story sharing time.

I did misbehave every now and then, as all kids do. I don't remember this incident, but my mom does. I was doing whatever naughty thing, and she hit me to make me stop and discipline me. I stopped, started crying, and went away. My mom never hit me after that. She says it's one of her biggest regrets.

I remember when we got our big TV. I was maybe 8-9 and we had been at the store all day. I wasn't particularly interested in picking out a TV cus that seemed like adult business, and children have no right to poke their nose of that. But then, my dad crouches next to me, points to the final two tvs they were deciding between, and asked me which one I thought was best. And I do remember asking, "Why are you asking me this? I am a child." He laughed and said something among the lines of, "Children are always honest." And that gave me all the confidence and reassurance to choose what would be our TV for the next 10+ years.

They took the effort to see my side aswell. I grew up with my cousins. We were 6 kids in total, and with two of them being older, we 4 youngsters played together a lot. Of these four, the oldest used to bully me a lot (I bit him really hard once as revenge, but that is another story) and I had two younger cousins, the youngest of which, was the one I saw most often. He would come with us to trips and such. But he was the younger child, so he had preferences over me. If I had anything he wanted, I HAD to share. If he wanted to sit where I was, I had to move, lest he makes a fuss. But, if he had something that I wanted? He was under no obligation to share. It was Easter time, I was about 13 (?), and we had gotten ourselves fancy chocolate eggs. My aunt had gone along with us to shop. I'd done my research at the site of the store we were going to, so I knew exactly what I wanted. My aunt didn't know what to get my cousin, so she followed my lead and got him the same two eggs. My aunt used to be paid to clean our house once in a while and just so happened that that week my little cousin had come along. I was going to travel that weekend, and my eggs would be left behind, I'd only have them when we came back. So, having been thinking and fantasizing about the chocolate eggs for weeks, I sneaked around, opened one of the boxes, grabbed a piece, ate some, and put the rest in the refrigerator My aunt saw me do this. Later, my parents confronted me about it; my aunt had told them what happened, that I tried to hide just so I wouldn't have to share. I started crying about how if I didn't sneak around I would've had to share with my cousin, who had the exact same egg at his home, who wouldn't have to wait to come back from a trip, and that I would never get the same kindness back, the piece he would've taken from me, the egg that I so researched to get, that I beheaved and did well in school to get, I would have to give away, even if it was a small piece, and tgat, even if I asked nicely, my cousin wouldve said no, and nothing would be done anout it. And the damn was broken, so I mentioned also all the other times I had to give in because I was older, he was younger and I was bigger and could hurt him more. They looked at each other... and agreed with me. I was forced to share less after that. I still shared, of course, but now... I wasn't forced as much. (At least by my parents, we couldn't control everyone or course u_u)

I genuinely remember very VERY few times of my parents taking away my stuff or banning m3 from activities. If I remember at all, because all I have are "vague feelings" that it happened. And honestly, I think I turned out better for it.

I am exceptionally lucky in that my parents never hit me, grounded me, confiscated my things, banned me from my hobbies or threatened any of these actions to make me behave as a kid. as an adult it has made me realise how very very long a road most people have to traverse before they can take a statement like 'no rule that must be enforced by threat is legitimate' seriously.

[heavysighing-dreamyeyes]

Woke up from the sweetest dream of eating ice cream with Jason in the middle of the night, both in our jammies hunched over a pint in opposite sides of the kitchen island and its just so special to not be doing this exact thing alone.

"There's something so sweet about loving and being loved. Knowing and being known. Especially by a man who makes every past moment of suffering so worth it if it's lead us to this." 🥺🥺

Late Night Desserts 

Pure Fluff ~1k words

It's late, the kind of late that's so far into the night that you can start to call it early. Your kitchen is dark, lit only by the dim street lights and the occasional stray beams of moonlight that break the clouds hanging low over Gotham's sky. There's the sounds of cars driving by, the faint whirl of a helicopter flying overhead, but it's all drowned out by the quiet giggles bouncing off the walls of your apartment. 

"Why are you even whispering," you stumble out between hushed laughs, voice barely above a breath as you point your spoon at Jason, eyes narrowing in accusation.

He grins, mock offense dripping into his quiet tone, "I could ask you the same question, sweetheart." 

"I'm whispering because you're whispering," you bite back, gaze leaving him so you can dip your spoon into the pint of your favorite ice cream resting between you on the counter. 

Jason scoffs, all teasing and playing as he reaches over to knock his spoon against yours, digging into the frozen dessert for another taste, "I'm whispering because it's still dark outside, and the walls of your apartment are thinner than paper."

"That's not my fault," You pout, taking your own bite of the ice cream. Your eyes narrow, but there's no heat to the action, not when the moment feels as sweet as the dessert you're sharing.

"Didn't say it was, doll," he hums, catching you entirely off guard when he reaches over the kitchen island to swipe his thumb over the corner of your lip, collecting what remains of the ice cream on his finger. His gaze never leaves yours as he licks his thumb clean, smile never fading.

He seems intent on knocking your world off center for a second time, because he speaks again, an easy grin on his face, like his words have no consequence either way, "You could always move in with me. Then it wouldn't matter how loud we were at night. Opens all kinds of doors, ya know?"

You think you manage to keep the surprise off your face when you answer (you don't), "It would?"

"Sure," he hums, jabbing his spoon back into the cartoon, it's the only sign that he feels even slightly nervous over the question he poised, "We could cook after eight pm without your neighbors complaining, blast music in the morning, and, ya know, if we ever get the dog you've talked about, it would be nice to have thicker walls."

His words sweep you right off your feet, his easy answer, the slight tension in his shoulders, all point to one thing. He's thought about this. He's planned a future with you, even if it's just coming up with small, mundane reasons on why you should move to his apartment. 

The realization steals your breath away, and it's only when his face furrows and his eyes start to dart over your face, searching for any clues of how you feel, that you remember you have to respond. 

"That sounds nice. I'd like that, " You say, voice melting into a different kind of soft from your previous whispers. It's a soft that's fond, almost reverent in the face of his feelings for you, the cusp of something more you want to build with him. 

The tension drains from his body, and his smile returns to something bright, something real, "Good." Jason lifts his spoon back to his mouth, face thoughtful like he's mulling over his next words, "You could move in anytime, you know. If you wanted. Half your stuff is already there anyway."

The ice cream melting onto the counter doesn't matter anymore, and you drop your spoon, letting it clatter loudly to the granite surface. Jason only has enough time to look confused and vaguely alarmed by the noise before you round the island to get to his side.

He tries to play off his eagerness with a nonchalant shrug, but you see right through your boyfriend. And suddenly, the moment feels so big.

The feeling nearly bursts from your chest. The warm, fluttery love that's so pure and right in your soul that it's nearly overwhelming. The idea that every path you've ever walked has led you to him, and him to you. 

He opens his mouth to talk, and you steal whatever words he means to say with your tongue. The kiss is sweet, so, so sweet. Sweeter than the dessert you were sharing, sweeter than anything you could tell him, sweeter than all the emotions fluttering in your stomach over just how much he means to you. 

Jason kisses you back with a softness that speaks to all the adoration he feels for you, dropping his own spoon to cup your face, to wrap an arm around your waist to draw you closer.

You only pull away first so you can watch the way his eyes flutter open slowly, lingering in the ghost of your lips against his.

"What was that for," he asks, voice so breathless and dreamy it nearly brings you to your knees.

"Just wanted to," you hum out, pressing a kiss to his jaw, to his chin, to his cheek. It's not a lie, it just doesn't encompass all the warmth you feel in your heart, the goofy smile you can't wipe from your face.

His dumbstruck smile matches your own as he squeezes your waist, saying everything he needs to say back with a simple touch. You melt into arms, ice cream, and quiet whispers long forgotten.

But you don't need to explain, don't have to elaborate. Jason knows what you mean when you press another gentle kiss to his lips, he knows what you're trying to say when you tangle your finger in his hair and memorize the feel of his body pressing against yours.

He always seems to know what you can't find the words to say. 

It's just a moment, just a stolen minute of peace as dark creeps towards day, but it's yours. Yours and his. Another warm memory to write into your story, another step towards something that feels like forever. 

The moon lights up your kitchen as it breaks the clouds once again, and Jason chases your mouth for another head-spinning kiss, sealing the promise of words unsaid, emotions that are far bigger than can be spoken into the calm, quiet air of the night.

[dadsdog]

Kinda vague prompt but can you do some of your ur usual shit but like. In a truck. Like one with a bench seat. I like pretty much all the shit u post about. Js... truck. In a truck.

as an avid truck sex enjoyer, this is awesome ty :] this one's not very forcemasc-y but it's VERY dad/son fauxcest-y

while i'm all for dad/son incest fantasies, i can't stop thinking about a teenage boy, who opens up to an older man (maybe a family friend, a friend's father) about his relationship with his dad. how he was never there, how he never supported his son when he needed it most. the older man comforts him, wraps him up in a tight hug. "hey... you're gonna be okay bud." the boy sniffles and looks up at him, still clinging to him desperately, "thank you. im sorry for dumping all of this on you." he shakes his head. "don't say that kiddo, there's no need to be sorry. i'm happy to listen. just say the word and i'm there."

he starts spending less time at home, and more time with this older guy. he takes the boy to get food, shows him all his old interests, let's him ramble on for hours about one thing or another. and if the boy's father did anything that upset him, he would always be there to listen.

this kid finds himself thinking about him all the time. how wonderful he is, how patient and kind. he wonders what it would ve been like for him to be his dad instead. he thinks about how he smiles at him when he speaks, how handsome he is. he thinks about how whenever they re going out somewhere, he always rests his hand on the nape of the boy's neck. his hands are big and calloused, but so gentle. he wonders why he gets so excited when he touches him. wonders how his hands would feel cupping his chin or petting his hair.

"i wish you were my dad." the boy confesses to him, on a late night drive. he looks down, finds his hand gripping the truck's bench seat. the older man has gone strangely quiet. looking over at him, the boy tilts his head. "what's wrong?" the man feels his knuckles whiten on the steering wheel. "you shouldn't say stuff like that, kiddo." "why not? you might as well already be my dad, you're the one actually looking out for me."

the man pulls over jerkily, stopping in a forgotten, tree lined road. he exhales heavily, hands still clenched. "hey, what's wrong? did i do something?" he's never this quiet. the kid slides closer to him, and hears him inhale sharply, like the older man had just been burned. "are you ok? what did i do? i promise i wont do it again. please, just tell me whats wrong." he lays a hand onto the older man's knee.

suddenly, the man has the boy by the shoulders, gripping him tightly and pushing him away. he gasps, clearly spooked by the roughness of his touch. "i'm sorry, kiddo. you didn't do anything wrong. it's me." his hands loosen their grip ever so slightly, he starts to rub comforting circles up and down the boy's arm. "you can't say stuff like that." the boy tilts his head. "why?"

he had no idea what to say. because i've wanted to fuck you ever since you first cried into my shirt. because the idea of having you as my son gets me so hard i can't think. because i don't know how long i can have you in my car without losing control and taking advantage of you.

"because i..." he stares down into the boy's eyes.

"you just shouldn't." he starts to break away from the touch, but the kid moves to hold his hand, pouting up at him. "but i really do think of you like that. i think of you as my dad." he inhales sharply again, feeling his cock throb in his jeans. he tightens his jaw and his mind strains with the effort of not grabbing the kid and rutting his cock into him through their clothes.

the kid looks up at him, creeping even closer.

"i love you, dad."

the final shred of self control left in the man is shattered into nothing. he grabs the boy by his waist roughly, and puts his other hand in his hair. he brings their lips together in a sloppy, clumsy, hungry kiss. the boy's eyes go wide and his mouth falls open as he lets out a cry of surprise. this only allows the man to slip his tongue into his mouth.

"wait- mmh!" the boy is pulled roughly onto the man's lap, where he can feel the hard cock pressing up into him. the older man finally pulls away from the kiss and holds the boy's head on his shoulder. "fuck- 'm sorry. love you. god, you're such a good kid. fuck."

he's grinding into the boy's pussy, hissing his apologies into his ear. he can feel the boy take fistfuls of his shirt, gasping and shaking. "wait-what are you doing, please-" "shh. it's okay. you're okay. fuck, i'm sorry- just let me-" his hands grab hold of his hips, pushing the kids small body against his, listening to his shocked moans. the boy is too stunned to say anything, to ask what he's doing, why it makes him all wet down there, why it makes him feel so good. "mnh. shit. im sorry, have to have you- doing so good, champ-nnhgh." he feels the boy lift his head to look him in the eyes. tears are dripping down his cheeks, but his face is twisted in pleasure. his cock throbs so hard the kid can feel his pulse through his jeans.

"feels- nnh! it feels- weird, dad. nmh! dad!" he can't stop himself from slamming the boy's hips down onto his cock. "call me dad. fuck. do it again, son. nngh- say i'm your dad." the boy's thighs shake on his lap. "dad. nngh- you're my dad. mngh! ah! dad- please don't stop- hhnm" the kid feels warmth spreading through his body, and pooling in his stomach. the friction and the rubbing and the hands on his hips are all too much. he feels a pressure building, making his cries for dad even louder.

"ah! nmh! dad, m-my- it feels- nngh! oh god, dad. oh god oh god oh god dad." he feels the kids thrust his hips back and forth on dad's cock, chasing that fuzzy warm feeling in his tummy. "ngh- shit. such a good boy. c'mon son- fuck. gonna make me cum. gonna make your dad cum. nnnh, fuck!"

"dad, dad, dad! nnh! my- it's gonna- oh god daddy! daddy!" the boy doesn't know what's happening. his boxers are soaked through and his head is fuzzy and the pressure in his tummy is too much. he grinds his pussy into his dad's lap hard, in a long downward motion, that finally lets the pressure release.

his dad watches as he quivers, cumming on his lap, completely overwhelmed by the shock of his own orgasm. he watches his boy moaning and crying for him, and feeling his orgasm build, he grabs his hips and presses him down onto his cock, thrusting upwards and cumming in his jeans for his little boy.

the kid collapses into him, panting and shaking, occasionally twitching with aftershocks of his orgasm. the man, huffing and sweaty, embraces him, placing soft kisses on his head. they sit like that in his truck for a long few minutes, catching their breath, before his boy looks up at him.

"i love you, dad."

[meeraonpole]

Kisses That Last Forever : OP81 X Y/N

Summery: Reader always kisses oscar mole and he finally asks why

The soft glow of the bedside lamp cast warm shadows across the room, illuminating the peaceful stillness of the night. Oscar lay on his back, one arm resting behind his head, the other loosely wrapped around Y/N’s waist as she nestled against him. The rhythmic rise and fall of his chest was soothing, a steady lullaby in the quiet of their shared sanctuary.

Y/N, content and sleepy, traced idle patterns on his skin, her fingers ghosting over his collarbone before they wandered up to his neck. She shifted slightly, propping herself up just enough to press a soft kiss against the little mole in the middle of his neck. Then, as always, she moved to the second one just above it, leaving another gentle peck there before settling back down against his chest.

Oscar let out a small huff of laughter, his lips twitching into a smile. “Okay,” he murmured, voice laced with curiosity, “why do you always do that?”

Y/N blinked up at him, caught off guard by the question. “Do what?��� she asked, playing innocent as her fingers now traced over the fabric of his t-shirt.

“This.” He gestured vaguely towards his neck before he mimicked her movements, pressing two light kisses to his fingertips and tapping them over his moles. “You always kiss them.”

A soft blush dusted Y/N’s cheeks as she hid her face in his chest, mumbling something incoherent.

Oscar chuckled, tipping her chin up so she had no choice but to meet his gaze. “What was that?” he prompted, amused.

Y/N sighed, her expression softening as she reached up to gently touch the mole on his neck. “I don’t know… I just think they’re really cute,” she admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “Like little constellations on your skin.”

His eyes flickered with something warm, something tender. He hadn’t thought much about them before, but hearing her describe them with such fondness made his heart squeeze in the best way possible.

“You’re ridiculous,” he murmured, shaking his head, but the smile tugging at his lips betrayed the fondness in his voice.

Y/N grinned. “Maybe. But you love me anyway.”

He sighed dramatically, pulling her even closer until their noses brushed. “Unfortunately for me, I do.”

She giggled, pressing another lingering kiss over the mole on his neck before whispering, “Can’t help it.”

Oscar let out a content hum, burying his face in her hair. “Guess I’ll have to live with it,” he murmured, his arms tightening around her.

The soft intimacy of the moment enveloped them both, as the world outside seemed to disappear. Oscar felt the warmth of her presence against him, the steady beat of her heart matching the rhythm of his own. It was as if nothing else mattered but the quiet, tender connection they shared, the little things that made their bond unique.

Y/N, feeling the same sense of peace, closed her eyes, her fingers still gently tracing the outline of his shirt as she let the weight of the night settle around them. She was content, more than she could express. The simplicity of their love, the way it was made up of these quiet, unspoken moments, felt like home.

“I love you,” Oscar murmured, his voice thick with affection and something deeper, something lasting.

Y/N smiled into his chest, her heart fluttering at the sincerity in his voice. “I love you too,” she whispered back, her words floating between them like a promise, gentle and unwavering.

And as the room was filled with the soft hum of their breathing, the world outside still and silent. In that moment, it was just the two of them, wrapped up in the warmth of each other’s arms, content in their shared solitude. The night stretched on, peaceful and full of the quiet assurance that they were exactly where they were meant to be.

This is the moles on his neck i was refering to

Alsooooo the blue banner was from @bernardsbendystraws

not the one with the hearts i cant remember who the hearts are from but ifyk plz tag them

[moonydoodlez]

Little White Lies

Pairing: James Potter x Slytherin!Reader

Summary: Reader smells something that's vaguely familiar in the Amortentia but can't quite figure out who it is.

Warnings: Use of y/n twice

Wordcount: 1,149

A/n: Reg, Barty, Evan, and reader are all not friends with snape or mulciber

Hogwarts at spring was always your favorite. The bright sun warming your skin, lovely meadows dotted with flowers. Classes always seemed a little easier, everything just felt lighter.

You longingly stared out the window you were sat next to. Fingers tediously playing the with quill that was in your hands, destined to stain your fingers black. God was it too perfect of a day to waste inside.

A few giggles surrounding you suddenly broke you out of your daze. Your eyes darted around the room when suddenly they fell on Professor Slughorn. His eyebrow cocked up and a playful glare on his face.

"Am i bothering your nap time" He jokes. "Or shall I continue"

"Yeah sorry" You smile nervously, setting your quill back down on the table and adjusting your position to actually pay attention this time.

"Like I was saying Potter and y/l/n" He reads off your names, before just as quickly moving onto the next pair.

Your head whipped to the left to find James and the rest of the marauders already glaring daggers into your head. You weren't one to hate many people, despite what nonsense the green that adorned your body put into peoples head.

James and his co marauders however had become the exception over the years. You had never spent much time with them but you were one of the many who were prime targets for their pranks.

The first two years of school you managed to get away from their mischievousness, and you even thought it was funny. Especially when they went after Snape and Mulciber. Who even you could agree were utter twats.

However when you became friends with Regulus, Barty, and Evan you began getting lumped into the 'bad slytherins' group. Which was weird considering Barty wasn't even in your house.

Time had passed and everyone had expected the boys to get over their childish antics. Yet even in your sixth year they seemed to cause a daily quarrel amongst everyone.

You sighed and look back down at your quill and parchment, wanting to no longer think about the boys who were definitely still staring at you.

"Can anyone tell me what this is" Professor Slughorn asks, pointing at the large cauldron with a bubbling pink liquid.

A Ravenclaw who sat next to you quickly shot her hand up answering.

"Good, yes it's amortentia" He smiles proudly. "Does anyone know what it does, and or the side effects of it" His eyes trail around the classroom before finally landing in you. "Y/n"

"It's a love potion but it causes obsession not love" You answer making sure to keep your answer short and concise.

In the corner of your eyes you could see blonde curls shaking around. Your eyes wandered to Evan smiling putting both thumbs up. You tilted your head at him giving him a confused smile. What a weirdo that one was.

"Correct, it also is extremely powerful" He adds. "Now if everyone would please find their assigned partners we can get started.

You waited until the majority had already found their new spots before stalking to the other side of the room where James was standing looking into the bubbling cauldron.

"Goodluck" Barty smiled pushing his shoulder into yours as he walked by. You were going to need a lot more than luck. A gun maybe.

"Potter" You snarled looking up at the boy.

"I don't want to be around you any less than you don't want to be around me" He looked up and down slowly before his eyes settled on the front of the classroom.

"Alright now I want everyone to smell what's in their cauldrons and discuss what it is you smell" He smiled. "However do no drink it or touch it, or anything that seems stupid" He added.

Nobody missed the pointed looks that found their ways to the marauders from others in the class and Professor Slughorn.

You watched James lean slowly in closing his eyes as he took a whiff of the potion. Slowly pushing his messy curls back in precaution. You hated to admit it but you understood why girls seemed to flock to him.

His lips parted for a moment before his eyes opened again.

"What are you smiling at" He huffed staring at you.

You quickly straightened up, your slight smile dropping as quickly as it had formed.

"Move let me smell" You grunted slightly pushing him out of the way. Closing your eyes you inhaled the scent.

Broom polish, tangerines, and a faint smell of what you think is coconut oil.

You pulled away, a slight frown on your face, the smell felt so familiar like it was something you had smelled a million times. It felt like you should've been able to guess it instantly. Yet you couldn't

"What did you smell" James asks. Moving his hands to the table and leaning a little closer to you.

For a moment you're confused because he almost actually seems interested in what you have to say. God were you tempted to tell him but who were you if not petty.

"Tell me yours first" You challenge.

James began saying the first thing he smelled before Sirius laughed loudly and there was a large noise from behind and suddenly James was no longer by your side.

You rolled your eyes giving one last smell. Letting the flavors mix and you felt so close to figuring out who it was.

When suddenly like a bird hitting a window, it hit you.

Shit.

...

"He is so infuriating i don't know how i am going to be able to stand him for the rest of another year" You groan throwing yourself onto Barty's bed.

"You could always murder him" He suggests, not a single ounce of sarcasm in tone or face.

"Yes Bartimaeus that is a wonderful idea, thankyou for your input" You sarcastically smile at the boy before it instantly falls.

"It's okay babe you tried to help" Evan smiles sympathetically at Barty who is wiping fake tears from his eyes. "We can murder someone another time" He coos, rubbing his hand up and down his back.

You rolled your eyes, covered your face with a blanket to block out the light. You heard footsteps before there was a dip at the end of the bed. The smell of expensive cologne filled your sense as you closed your eyes.

"You know it could be worse, you could've been paired up with my brother" Regulus added.

"Well I guess that's true" You replied.

"So what exactly did you smell" Evan asked before rolling over on top of Barty and stuffing his head into the boys sweatshirt.

"Oh um i don't really remember" You giggled nervously.

They all looked at you, a weird look on their faces. One that clearly read that none of them believed you.

"Hmm must've been Snape" Barty laughed.

taglist: @chososrightpigtail

Masterlist James Potter Masterlist

[cherbii]

FOOL FOR YOU | Gojo Satoru

PART 1 -> THE FOOL

summary -> it’s all eyes on you, as your wedding looms over you like a grey cloud. You’re gloomy and sullen and you want out, thankfully there’s the court jester who’s ready to sweep you off your feet, literally.

warnings -> kissing

next

The grand hall of the palace was alive with the murmur of nobility, the flutter of silken gowns, and the soft clink of goblets filled with wine, as the air hung heavy with the scent of roses and perfumed candles. It was the king's latest celebration—an event to mark the success of his most recent military conquest—and you had been dutifully positioned at his side, as was expected of a princess.

Your sister, much to her delight, had been left to entertain herself, draped in a gown of deep violet, her hair in a perfect twist of curls atop her head. She had an effortless way of capturing attention with her infectious smile, a contrast to your own more reserved nature.

As you stood near the long, ornate table, your fingers idly tracing the edge of your goblet, you felt sullen. It wasn’t that you didn’t enjoy the events—after all, the palace was a beautiful, gilded place filled with the kind of luxury most could only dream of—but it was the people.

They were always the same. The whispers, the plotting, the subtle glances exchanged behind closed doors. It was exhausting. And it only heightened your awareness of the fact that your father, the king, had been making vague but increasingly pointed remarks about an arranged marriage with Prince Ryomen Sukuna, a foreign suitor.

Sukuna was powerful, wealthy, and politically advantageous, which, in your father’s eyes, made him the perfect choice. But you? You weren’t so sure.

Your thoughts drifted as you caught sight of your sister, a radiant smile on her lips as she flitted from one nobleman to another, her laughter ringing through the hall. Despite your outward poise, your heart quickened with a flutter of unease.

If only you could escape these events, these endless banquets and dances, and the constant pressure of royal duties. You had no true desire to be a pawn in the political games of your father or any other nobleman. The thought of Sukuna made your stomach tighten, though you knew better than to let any of it show. You were a princess. You had to be composed.

The music shifted, a slow waltz beginning to fill the space, the violins playing a melody that seemed to reach into your very chest. You watched as couples paired off across the dance floor, their steps measured, graceful, the flicker of torchlight casting long shadows upon the walls.

You sighed, leaning against the cool stone of a nearby pillar, a soft breeze escaping from the open windows and brushing against your skin. It wasn’t long before your sister approached, her steps light as she came to stand beside you. She beamed, her face flushed with the excitement of the evening. “You look rather serious,” she remarked with a teasing smile, her eyes twinkling mischievously. “Is it the wine, or have you found yourself a new suitor to impress?”

You rolled your eyes, offering a small smile. “Hardly,” you replied softly, taking a sip from your goblet. “Father has already chosen my suitor for me.”

Your sister’s expression softened for a moment, a quiet understanding passing between you. “Sukuna, I presume?” She asked, her tone lighter than it should have been for the conversation at hand.

You nodded, your gaze drifting back to the dance floor. “I can’t deny what he offers the kingdom, but I don’t think my heart is in it.”

“You’ve never been one to care for those matters,” she murmured, glancing towards the other nobles, “But what about love, sister? Surely there is more than just duty in the world.”

Your lips pressed into a thin line, and for a moment, you wondered what it might feel like to be so free, to have the luxury of love rather than political obligation. But those thoughts were foolish, and you knew it. You were a princess, and your life was no longer your own.

As the music swirled in the air, you felt your sister’s hand rest lightly on your arm. “Come now, let us enjoy ourselves. There will be time enough for contemplation later. Besides,” she added, her voice lowering with a hint of teasing, “You might meet someone interesting tonight. You never know.”

You sighed again, though this time there was a hint of amusement in your expression. “I doubt it.” You replied, but your sister only laughed softly and pulled you into the crowd. You didn’t resist. In fact, you allowed her to lead you to the centre of the hall, where the musicians played with an intensity that stirred something inside you.

The dance began, and you moved in rhythm with the others, your gaze still lingering on the edges of the hall, watching for anything that might break the monotony.

It was then that you saw him. He entered with a flourish, as though he owned the entire room. His costume, a vibrant mix of rich colours and intricate patterns, was exactly what you would expect from a jester—but there was something undeniably striking about him. His hat, adorned with bells that tinkled softly as he moved, sat atop a mess of white hair, and his painted face, though exaggerated, only seemed to emphasise the sharpness of his features. He moved with confidence, almost as though he were performing for an audience even when no one had asked for a performance.

Your breath caught in your throat, though you quickly masked it, turning your gaze away. You had seen him before, of course. Gojo, the king’s personal jester, had been a fixture in the court for years now.

Despite his role, there was always something about him that made people look twice. Perhaps it was the way he wore his costume with such nonchalance, or the way his eyes seemed to catch yours in a way that made everything feel a little too personal.

Your sister nudged you lightly. “Isn’t he… amusing?” She asked, her voice full of a mischievous edge.

“Gojo is certainly one to keep the crowd entertained.” You nodded, offering a polite smile in his direction, though your gaze flickered back to him, unable to resist.

The laughter that surrounded him was more than just a response to his antics—it was as though the entire court had fallen under his spell. And you couldn’t help but wonder why that was. You had always been aware of the man who wore the jester’s hat, his bright eyes peering from behind the paint. There was something about him that both intrigued and unsettled you, and though you didn’t know why, you always seemed to find yourself watching him.

Perhaps it was the way he seemed to always be on the edge of something more, as though the role of jester was merely a mask for something much deeper. But no matter how much you wanted to understand him, you knew it was impossible. After all, what could a princess have in common with a jester?

And yet, despite yourself, you couldn’t stop watching as he moved through the crowd, his every step drawing attention, his presence undeniable.

You were drawn into the crowd, your sister still tugging at your arm as she led you to another corner of the hall. Her presence was light, as always, a sharp contrast to your more reserved demeanor. “Come on, sister, smile,” she urged, her voice teasing as she gave you an exaggerated wink. “Don’t be so serious. It’s just a ball.”

You smiled, but it didn’t reach your eyes. “You know I don’t care much for these events.”

She rolled her eyes, though there was no malice in the gesture. “Yes, I know, but that doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy yourself a little.”

Before you could respond, a loud burst of laughter caught your attention. Gojo had made his way to the centre of the hall, and as he spoke, his voice rang out with an exaggerated, almost theatrical tone. “Oh, no, not again!” He cried dramatically, hands raised to the heavens. “Another evening of the same tiresome conversations and pretentious dances. Whatever shall we do, my lords and ladies?”

His words were met with a mixture of chuckles and eye-rolls, but there was a spark in his eyes that made it clear he wasn’t finished.

“Ah, but I know the answer,” he continued, a wicked grin playing on his lips. “Why not have a little fun while we can?” His tone was mischievous, his gaze flicking toward you for just a split second, as though he knew exactly where you were.

You felt a strange heat rise in your chest at the glance. For a moment, your thoughts became scattered. Was he looking at you? And if he was, what did it mean?

You quickly turned away, focusing on the other guests, though your attention remained fixed on him, even if you didn’t want to admit it. “He’s insufferable,” you muttered to your sister, though you couldn’t quite mask the intrigue in your voice. “He’s never serious. It’s like he’s always trying to make a spectacle of everything.”

Your sister laughed, a light, airy sound that filled the space between you. “That’s what makes him fun. You should try it sometime. Just let go a little.”

“I think I’ve let go enough tonight,” you replied with a forced smile. “The last thing I need is more eyes on me.”

Your sister raised an eyebrow but didn’t press the issue. She knew you better than anyone. Instead, she nudged you again, this time with more urgency. “Sister, look.” You followed her gaze, and there he was again—Gojo. But this time, he wasn’t performing for the crowd. He had positioned himself by one of the archways, leaning against the stone.

It was strange, how his presence seemed to fill the space, even in moments of stillness. You found yourself inexplicably drawn to him once more, though you couldn’t place why. “Why does he act like that?” You muttered, more to yourself than anyone else. “He has no need to act so… untethered.”

“Because he’s a jester,” your sister replied, her voice light, but there was an underlying tone of something else. “He’s allowed to be untethered, free. Don’t you ever wish you could be like that?”

You turned to her, startled by the question. “You’re the one who always wants to be the centre of attention, not me.”

Your sister smirked, but it was a gentle, teasing look. “Oh, I’m not talking about attention. I’m talking about being free. To live without all these rules, the pressures. Just to be.”

You frowned, her words settling deeper than you cared to admit. “It’s not as simple as that. There are duties. Responsibilities.”

“To whom?” She asked softly.

You blinked, unprepared for the question. “To the kingdom,” you replied automatically. “To Father. To the bloodline.”

“And to yourself?” She pressed, her eyes meeting yours.

The question hit harder than it should have, and for a moment, you didn’t know how to answer. You wanted to say yes, of course, you owed something to yourself. But that would have meant admitting the truth—that, in your heart, you were often at odds with what was expected of you. You were not a perfect princess.

Your thoughts were interrupted by the sound of Gojo’s voice, louder now, as he jumped into the centre of the crowd once more. “Ah, but the night is young, my lords and ladies!” His arms were thrown wide, a dramatic flourish that drew the attention of nearly everyone in the hall. “Why not make a wager? A dance! A contest! Let’s see who can truly let loose!”

He danced forward, his painted face contorting into exaggerated expressions that made the crowd laugh with delight, though it was hard to ignore the sly smirk that flashed briefly across his lips as he locked eyes with you once more.

You felt the gaze settle over you like a weight, and you quickly looked away, though you could feel your pulse quicken. Why did he always do that? Why did it feel like there was more in those moments than a simple jest?

Before you could think on it further, your sister was nudging you, her grin wide. “Come on, sister,” she urged, her voice full of challenge. “A little wager, perhaps?”

You shook your head, a smile tugging at your lips despite yourself. “I’m not much for his games.”

“Just one dance,” she coaxed, eyes sparkling. “You might find it’s not so terrible. Who knows, you might even enjoy it.”

You hesitated, the tension in the air thick as you glanced toward Gojo, who had now started a mock duel with another jester, a ridiculous spectacle that had everyone in stitches. It wasn’t the game you objected to—it was the idea of stepping into his world, where nothing was serious, and everything was a performance. But then, as if sensing your hesitation, Gojo’s eyes found yours again, his grin widening as he winked, an unspoken invitation hanging between you like a challenge.

You couldn’t ignore the sudden flutter of something inside you. Against your better judgment, you found yourself moving toward the centre of the room, the pull of his gaze undeniable. It wasn’t just a dance. It felt like something more.

You approached the centre of the hall with a mixture of reluctance and curiosity, your sister trailing behind, clearly excited for what was about to unfold. Gojo was still in the midst of his antics, his bright jester’s costume almost a blur of colour as he performed an exaggerated bow to one of the noblewomen.

He caught sight of you as you drew nearer, and for a split second, his entire demeanour shifted. The mischievous spark in his eyes dimmed just a fraction, replaced by something sharper, more focused. A fleeting, almost imperceptible look that made your breath catch. Then, just as quickly, it was gone, replaced by the carefree grin you had come to associate with him. “Ah, our princess arrives at last!” He proclaimed theatrically, drawing the attention of those around him. “The lady of the hour! Let us see if her grace can match my unparalleled skill in dance!”

The crowd erupted in laughter, but there was something in his tone that seemed to be aimed only at you—an unspoken challenge, an invitation to something beyond the performance. Your heart skipped, but you stood tall, refusing to let your nerves show. “I’m not so sure I can keep up with the great Gojo,” you replied, a playful edge to your voice. “Your skills are legend, after all.”

“Legendary, indeed!” Gojo agreed with a dramatic sigh, as if the weight of his reputation were almost too much to bear. He twirled in place, the bells on his jester’s hat jingling merrily. “But fear not, princess. I shall be most gracious in accepting your inevitable defeat.”

His eyes sparkled with a teasing gleam, and though you knew he was being playful, you couldn’t help but feel a tension in the air. Was he mocking you? “We’ll see about that.” You said with a wry smile, stepping forward into the space he had cleared for you both.

The music shifted, and Gojo immediately swept into the rhythm with an ease that made it clear he had danced far more than he let on. His movements were fluid, exaggerated in all the right ways, his face painted with such vivid colours that it was impossible to look away. He was a performer through and through, his every step designed to captivate the eye, and yet, there was something captivating in his very presence—something that drew you in despite yourself.

You were no dancer, but you were not completely out of your element. You had been taught the essentials, the basic movements for events like this, but Gojo’s unpredictable energy made it difficult to keep pace. He took the lead, of course, spinning you in a circle before pulling you back in, his grip on your hand firm yet light. The way he moved, as if the very floor were an extension of his body, made you dizzy with more than just the twirling. There was a strange, magnetic pull to him, something that had nothing to do with the performance.

“You’re surprisingly light on your feet, princess,” he remarked, his tone mockingly admiring as he spun you once more, this time a bit faster. “I thought for sure you’d be all stiff and proper. I must say, I’m impressed.”

You raised an eyebrow at him, an unexpected challenge in your voice. “And what if I said I wasn’t so eager to be swept away by a jester’s charm?”

“Then I’d say you’d be a fool,” he replied, his voice dropping a little lower, though it still carried that playful edge. “No one can resist the charm of the one and only Gojo.”

There was a brief moment where the joke fell away, where his gaze held yours just a little too long, the air between you charged with something unspoken. You could feel it, that tension, the push and pull of something more, something that wasn’t part of the performance.

But before you could dwell on it, Gojo was twirling you again, his laughter ringing out, breaking the brief moment of silence. The crowd, as always, was enchanted by the display, and you couldn’t deny the sense of exhilaration that coursed through you. For a few fleeting moments, it was just the two of you in the middle of the hall, the rest of the world faded away.

He was so different from anyone you had ever met. He didn’t care about expectations, about duty, about bloodlines. He was just… himself. But that, too, made you wary. He had the power to make you forget your role, your place in the court, your obligations. You couldn’t afford to lose yourself in the whirlwind he created.

As the music began to slow, Gojo brought you to a gentle halt, his hand still on yours. His eyes met yours once more, and this time, there was no mask of exaggerated jest. It was just him, staring at you with an intensity that made your breath catch. “You know, princess,” he said, his voice soft but still teasing, “You might just be the most interesting person in this room. And I’ve met a lot of people.” His words were simple, but they held a weight that you hadn’t anticipated.

You swallowed, trying to maintain your composure. “Flattery won’t get you far, Gojo.” You replied, but your voice lacked its usual sharpness.

There was something in the way he looked at you, something that made your chest tighten. “Oh, I know,” he said, the smile never leaving his face, though there was a flicker of something more serious in his eyes. “But it’s fun to try, isn’t it?”

You didn’t respond immediately, your thoughts scattered. You couldn’t understand him, couldn’t figure out whether he was being genuine or simply playing a part. But you found yourself wanting to know more, to see if there was more to the jester than the games he played. “Perhaps.” You finally said, your voice barely above a whisper.

Gojo chuckled, a rich, dark sound that made your heart beat just a little faster. “Maybe we’ll find out, won’t we?”

And just like that, the moment passed. The crowd around you resumed their chatter, and the spell he had cast on you seemed to dissipate. You glanced away, your thoughts in a whirl, as the music picked up again and the dance continued, but you couldn’t help but wonder: Was Gojo playing a game? Or was he showing you a glimpse of something real?

The laughter of the other nobles, the clinking of goblets, and the rustling of silk and velvet did little to ease the unease stirring in your chest. You could feel his gaze on you, but you refused to meet it, instead focusing on the partners around you.

The waltz continued, and though your movements were smooth, there was a part of you that remained disconnected from the music. The room, despite its beauty and elegance, felt suffocating.

Gojo’s playful antics, his teasing smile, had always been a game, something to laugh at and admire from a distance. Yet tonight, it felt different. You felt different. You wished you could simply disappear into the crowd, away from the expectant eyes of the court, away from the pressure of your father’s wishes.

A soft, unexpected laugh pulled you from your thoughts, and you turned to see your sister beside you, her lips curling into a mischievous grin. “You seem distracted.” She remarked, eyeing you with a knowing glance.

You stiffened, your mask of composure slipping for just a moment. “I’m not distracted.” You lied, but the smile that played on her lips told you she didn’t believe you.

She tilted her head, narrowing her eyes as if trying to piece together the mystery behind your guarded expression. “I saw how you danced with the jester,” she teased lightly, her voice low enough not to be overheard by others. “He certainly knows how to captivate an audience.”

Your heart skipped, and you instinctively shifted your focus to the crowd, though you knew her words were far from innocent. “He’s just a performer,” you replied coolly, though your voice betrayed the tension running through you. “A fool, nothing more.”

Your sister arched a brow, her gaze not quite as amused as it had been moments ago. “A fool, yes,” she murmured. “But perhaps a fool with more to him than meets the eye.”

You met her gaze for a moment, but she looked away. The dance continued around you, but your mind kept drifting back to Gojo—his teasing smile, the fire in his eyes, the way his words had been laced with something deeper than mere jest.

Your heart raced in your chest, and for a fleeting moment, you wished you could just tell him to stop—to stop with the games and the teasing, to stop making you feel like you were walking a line between something forbidden and something you didn’t know how to name. But you couldn’t. You couldn’t because of the life your father had set out for you.

Your future was already decided. You were the princess, and you would marry Prince Ryomen Sukuna. You would carry out your duties, as you had been taught from childhood, as you had been trained for. The thought settled heavily in your stomach, making you feel hollow. But the tug of Gojo’s smile, his presence, wouldn’t let go. You couldn’t help it.

The more you tried to push it aside, the more you wondered if there was more to his words, more to the way he looked at you, than the mask of jest he wore. “He’s just a jester.” You whispered under your breath, hoping the words might somehow bring you clarity. But they did nothing to ease the storm brewing inside you. Instead, they only seemed to make everything feel more complicated.

The evening stretched on, and as the hours passed, you were drawn into conversations with various guests, exchanging pleasantries, laughing at jokes you didn’t quite hear, nodding at the right moments.

But in the back of your mind, Gojo lingered—his grin, his gaze, the soft confidence that seemed to radiate from him. The crowd grew more animated, the noise louder, but it all felt distant, as if you were watching through a foggy window.

Suddenly, you felt a shift in the air. The music swelled as another dance began, and through the sea of nobles and lords, you saw him. His eyes found yours almost instantly, and though the crowd surrounded you both, the space between you seemed to grow smaller, the world outside of him blurring.

He moved toward you effortlessly, weaving through the crowd as if it was part of his performance, and you knew without a doubt that he was coming for you. His gaze was steady, almost predatory, and you swallowed hard as the breath seemed to leave your chest. “Princess,” he said, his voice a smooth drawl, playful but carrying something else beneath it. “Would you do me the honour of another dance?” His tone, though teasing, was unwavering, and for a moment, you were struck by the sheer audacity of it.

You could feel every pair of eyes turning to you, waiting for your response. You could feel the weight of your father’s expectations pressing down on you, but all you could think about was Gojo, standing there with that smirk of his, his eyes locked on yours. You knew it was a game to him—nothing more than a jest.

You wanted to say no, to distance yourself from him, but you couldn’t. Instead, you found yourself nodding, your voice barely a whisper as you said, “Of course, Gojo.”

The crowd’s murmur grew louder as Gojo’s smile widened, his eyes dancing with mischief and something else—something that made your heart beat faster. He offered his arm, and you took it, the warmth of his touch sending a jolt of electricity through you.

Something was changing between you, and despite all your efforts to keep your distance, you weren’t sure you wanted it to stop. The crowd around you resumed their chatter, and the spell Gojo had cast on you seemed to dissipate.

You glanced away, your thoughts in a whirl, as the music picked up again and the dance continued. His presence lingered, a tension still humming between you, though it wasn’t entirely unwelcome. You couldn’t help but glance back at him, meeting his amused gaze, the corner of his mouth curling in that infuriating way you both knew too well.

His eyes never left you, though his body now moved with less purpose in the dance, like he had given up on playing the fool and was now entirely focused on you. The lightheartedness of the moment faded as you felt the weight of the ballroom’s eyes on you.

The nobles continued their revelry, but there was a shift in their glances now, their curiosity piqued. You couldn’t escape the scrutiny. You couldn’t help but feel an unfamiliar sense of vulnerability now that the game, as it seemed to be, was no longer concealed by laughter and song.

You forced yourself to focus, moving back in time with Gojo’s leading, though your thoughts scattered in every direction. Gojo was watching you closely, almost expectantly, as if waiting for you to say something—anything—to break the silence between you. Instead, you continued dancing, each movement feeling like a delicate balance between control and surrender, the weight of his hand on your waist a reminder of just how close he was.

"Are you always so mysterious?" You finally asked, unable to ignore the tension between you any longer. Your voice was steady, but there was a hint of challenge beneath the surface.

Gojo’s eyes gleamed, the corners of his mouth curving into a knowing smile. “You don’t like it when I’m mysterious?” He asked, his tone light, but there was an undercurrent to his words that made it clear he wasn’t unaware of the subtle shift in the air. “I thought you enjoyed a little bit of unpredictability, princess.”

You shot him a sidelong glance, trying to mask the fluttering in your chest. “You’re certainly unpredictable. I’ll give you that.” The words felt sharp, but they were far from enough to hide the tension that had woven itself between you.

He was too close, and it made your mind whirl. Just then, your father caught your eye from across the room. His gaze was sharp, calculating, and you could feel the weight of his expectations, the way he watched you with an almost critical eye.

You turned your attention back to Gojo, but the tension was hard to ignore. Your father’s disapproval loomed, even if it was subtle. Before you could think too much about it, you heard a voice—a deep, authoritative tone—break through the murmur of the crowd.

A voice called out your name. It was unmistakable. Sukuna. You didn’t have to look to know he had entered the room, his presence as commanding as ever. Your stomach turned slightly at the thought of him.

Sukuna was the prince your father had chosen for you, the one who could secure your future and the kingdom’s alliance. But your heart, as much as it strayed in other directions, had never been in it. You felt an uncomfortable pressure when Sukuna’s gaze swept across the room, finally landing on you.

You couldn’t quite place why, but there was something unnerving about the way he observed you—too calculating, too cold. The smile on his lips didn’t reach his eyes, and his movements were deliberate as he made his way through the crowd.

Gojo must have noticed your reaction, for he turned his gaze toward Sukuna, then back to you. “It seems your prince has arrived.” He remarked, his tone barely masking his own distaste, though there was a hint of amusement there.

You felt a pang of discomfort at Gojo’s words, but you forced yourself to nod. “He’s hardly my prince.” You muttered under your breath, the words slipping out before you could stop them.

Gojo’s eyes gleamed with something that could have been approval. “Good to know,” he murmured, though his voice softened, as if sensing your unease. His hand on your waist tightened for a brief moment, though you weren’t sure whether it was a gesture of reassurance or something else. “It’s a shame, though. You could do much better, princess. And I don’t mean the prince.”

The words caught you off guard, and for a fleeting moment, you felt something like warmth in your chest. But before you could dwell on it, your father’s voice rang out, cutting through the tension like a sword. “Come, we must speak with Prince Sukuna.”

You looked at Gojo, but he had already begun stepping back, his teasing expression replaced by one of polite indifference. “I’ll leave you to it.” He said, giving you a small bow, though his eyes never left you, as if waiting for something you couldn’t quite grasp.

You turned away reluctantly, the weight of your father’s gaze heavy as you walked across the room toward Sukuna. He was already watching you, his sharp eyes appraising, the smile on his lips unsettling.

As you drew closer, he straightened, his posture even more rigid than usual. He greeted you with a slight bow, though his eyes seemed to pierce into you, as though reading something you wished to keep hidden.

You inclined your head, offering the same formality in return. “Prince Sukuna.” You replied, keeping your tone neutral, careful not to let the irritation you felt slip through.

Your father cleared his throat, his voice commanding as he spoke. “Now, my daughter, we must discuss matters of importance. There is much to arrange for the upcoming alliance,” his eyes flicked between you and Sukuna. “This marriage will ensure the future of the kingdom, and I expect you to be prepared.”

Your stomach tightened at the reminder, but you said nothing. Instead, you forced a smile, masking the thoughts that threatened to spill from your mind. Sukuna's gaze never wavered, his expression unreadable, but the words between him and your father were already spinning a web you felt caught in.

The conversation between your father and Sukuna continued, their words a blur in the background as your thoughts wandered. The formalities, the agreements, the alliances—they all felt like a weight pressing down on you. You could hear your father’s voice, but it sounded distant, like the words were being carried away on a breeze, and all you could focus on was the lingering presence of Gojo.

The way his teasing smile had felt like a challenge, the way his eyes had softened when he spoke to you—there was something more there, something unspoken. As much as you tried to shove the thoughts aside, they clung to you. Your hand clenched at your side, and you tried to focus on the prince standing before you, the prince your father wanted you to marry.

Sukuna’s smile remained, but there was something cold about it, something that didn’t quite reach his eyes. He was the prince of a neighboring kingdom, a strong match for you, in your father’s eyes. His eyes never left yours as he spoke, though you couldn’t decide if it was possessiveness or calculation behind them.

“The arrangements will be made soon,” Sukuna said, his voice smooth, almost too smooth. His gaze flicked to your father, then back to you. “You are, of course, pleased with this union?”

The question hung in the air, a reminder that your opinion hardly mattered in this matter. You clenched your jaw, forcing a smile. “Of course, Prince Sukuna,” you said, keeping your voice steady. But inside, the words felt like a lie. “I look forward to the arrangements.” You hated how hollow the words sounded as they left your mouth, but there was little you could do to change them.

Your father seemed satisfied with your answer, nodding approvingly as he spoke again, his attention now divided between you and Sukuna. “We shall begin preparations immediately. The people must be informed, the details arranged. This is a union that will secure our future.” His tone brooked no argument.

You didn’t have to look at him to know he wasn’t listening for your opinion—he’d already made up his mind. And Sukuna, standing beside him, seemed all too eager to seal the deal. He wasn’t interested in your thoughts either. He was simply the prize your father had set his sights on.

The realisation hit you hard, and you struggled to push it aside. But no matter how hard you tried, the thought of being married to Sukuna filled you with a sense of dread you couldn’t quite shake. You had never wanted this life. You had never wanted to be a pawn in your father’s political games.

But there was no escaping it. “I’m sure the kingdom will rejoice.” You finally said, your voice betraying nothing but calm as you forced yourself to nod.

Sukuna’s smile deepened, but there was something unsettling about the way he watched you now. His gaze was intense, as if he was studying you, weighing your words. “Indeed,” he said, his voice low, almost possessive. “A union like ours will solidify the strength of our people,” he glanced at your father, then back to you. “It will be a union worth celebrating.”

The words should have felt comforting, reassuring even, but they sent a shiver down your spine. You didn’t need to look to know that your father was satisfied. His eyes were gleaming with pride, a look that made your skin crawl.

As your father continued to speak to Sukuna about the arrangements, your mind wandered again, this time back to Gojo. You couldn’t help but wonder what he was doing now, what he was thinking. You forced yourself to stay present, to listen to the conversations unfolding around you, but your mind kept drifting.

It wasn’t long before your father’s voice cut through your thoughts again. “Daughter,” he said, drawing your attention. “It’s time to return to your chambers. There is much to prepare for tomorrow’s meeting.”

You nodded mechanically, too drained to argue. You had long since resigned yourself to the fact that your life was no longer your own. Your father had already decided your future, and no matter how much you disliked it, there was nothing you could do to change it.

As you turned to leave, your eyes wandered over to where Gojo had been standing earlier, but he was no longer there. It felt like a small, bitter disappointment, though you couldn’t understand why. The thought of him, of his teasing smile, his enigmatic presence, lingered in your mind as you walked away. Perhaps it was just a fleeting feeling, something that would pass as soon as you returned to your duties, as soon as you gave in to the expectations that had been placed upon you. Or perhaps it was more than that. Perhaps Gojo had shown you a glimpse of something else, something you couldn’t even name. And that thought, that small glimmer of something you couldn’t quite grasp, was enough to keep the weight of your father’s words from crushing you entirely.

As you entered your chambers, your sister was waiting for you, sitting by the window, looking out into the night. She looked up when you entered, her expression softening. “How did it go?” She asked, her voice gentle.

You paused, collecting your thoughts before you spoke. “It went as expected,” you said, though the words felt empty. “Father is determined. The arrangements are in motion.”

Your sister sighed, a quiet, knowing sound. “I’m sorry,” she said softly. “I know it’s not what you want.”

You didn’t reply at first, only sat down beside her on the window seat, staring out into the night. The stars seemed so far away, so unreachable, just like the life you wanted for yourself.

“Do you ever wonder what it would be like if we could choose?” You asked, your voice barely above a whisper. Your sister didn’t answer immediately.

She simply reached over and took your hand in hers, squeezing it gently. “I think about it every day,” she said quietly. “But we don’t always get to choose.”

You sat there in silence, the weight of your father’s plans pressing down on you, and the strange, unexpected thoughts of Gojo swirling in your mind, mingling with the reality of what you knew awaited you.

The morning air felt fresh against your skin as you left the confines of the palace, your steps quick but hesitant. You had made up your mind—you had to see Gojo again, to thank him for last night.

There was no denying the strange pull you felt toward him, something beyond just gratitude. The village was a place you weren’t too familiar with, but you had gathered enough information to know he was somewhere near the outskirts, setting up for his next performance.

You had never been to one of these events before, but it seemed like the only place you might find him now that the night had ended. It didn’t take long for you to find the circus tents.

They weren’t grand by any means. In fact, the one you approached looked slightly run-down, the fabric faded from too much sun and rain, the ropes that held it in place clearly worn from use. It was hardly a place fit for someone as grand as a royal jester, but perhaps that was part of the charm.

You felt an odd sense of nervousness as you stepped closer. There were a few workers scattered about, preparing for the day’s performance. The sounds of hammers on wood and the low murmur of conversation filled the air, but there was no sign of Gojo.

You didn’t even know where to start looking. It wasn’t as though you could call out for him in front of everyone.

But then, as you walked around the tent, you spotted a narrow entrance at the back. You hesitated for a moment, then pushed your way through. The dim light of the interior made your eyes adjust, and you quickly spotted him.

He was standing near a small mirror, his back to you, his hands moving to pull his hair back as he prepared to apply his makeup. For a moment, you watched him in silence, a sense of awe and unfamiliarity stirring within you.

You had seen him in the jester’s outfit before, but here, in this dingy dressing room, he was just a man—one you didn’t fully recognize.

His white hair was pushed back loosely, his face free of the dramatic paint that usually covered it. You hadn’t expected this, but it only made your curiosity grow. “Gojo?” You said, your voice uncertain, not quite sure if he would even hear you.

He froze for a moment, then turned, clearly surprised to see you standing there. For a moment, neither of you spoke. His eyes—those striking blue eyes—seemed to narrow slightly as he took in your presence. “Princess?” His voice was a mixture of surprise and amusement, though there was a hint of something softer, something less playful. His lips twitched into a smile, but there was no mask this time. It was just him. You weren’t sure what to say at first. This wasn’t like the night before.

The atmosphere felt different now, more intimate, less like a performance. “I, uh... I came to thank you,” you said, stepping a little closer. His eyes flicked to your face, and you could see his expression shift just slightly—something unreadable behind that playful facade. “For last night,” you continued. “For everything you did. I... I haven’t felt like myself in a long time, and you... you made me feel...”

You struggled to find the words, and for a brief moment, the silence seemed to stretch between you. He tilted his head slightly, watching you with those piercing blue eyes. “You don’t need to thank me, Princess,” he said softly, his voice low, almost teasing, but there was a sincerity there that caught you off guard. “I just did what anyone would do.”

He turned back to the mirror, picking up a pot of makeup and applying it to his face with slow, methodical movements. You weren’t sure why, but you couldn’t take your eyes off him. This was the first time you’d seen him like this—without the elaborate jester’s outfit, without the mask he wore for the crowd.

He was just a man, and yet he seemed somehow more intriguing than ever. His presence was commanding, even in this humble, cluttered room. You watched as he carefully painted the familiar swirls on his cheeks and the bright, exaggerated shapes around his eyes, turning what was once a private, personal moment into something almost theatrical.

“I didn’t expect this,” you said quietly, unsure if you were even talking to him directly anymore. “You’re different without all of... this.”

Gojo paused for a moment, his eyes meeting yours in the mirror. “Different?” he repeated with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Is that a good thing or a bad thing, Princess?”

You shrugged, not knowing how to respond. “I don’t know. But you seem more... real, somehow. Less of a performance.”

There was a flicker of something in his gaze, something that made your heart skip a beat. He didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he finished his makeup with. It was strange, seeing him so focused, so composed, when just the night before, he had been the one to make you laugh, to pull you from the heaviness of your royal duties.

It was almost like watching two different people. When he finished, he looked at you once more, and this time, his smile seemed softer, less teasing. “I guess it’s all a performance in the end, Princess,” he said, his voice quieter now, almost thoughtful. “We all play our parts. Even you.”

The words stung more than you expected, though you couldn’t explain why. “And what part do you play, Gojo?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

He glanced at you from the corner of his eye before standing up and walking toward you. “I’m the fool, princess,” he said, his tone lighter now, but there was something almost dangerous in the way he said it. “The jester, the entertainer. That’s all I am. But I’m good at it.”

His presence was all-encompassing as he came closer, and you felt your pulse quicken as he stood just a few feet away.

“What about you?” He asked, his gaze intense, his eyes locking onto yours. “What part do you play, princess? The dutiful daughter? The obedient royal?”

You swallowed hard, suddenly feeling very small under his scrutiny. “I don’t know,” you admitted softly, your voice almost inaudible. “I’m not sure anymore.”

He smiled at that, the playful gleam returning to his eyes. “Don’t worry, princess. Everyone finds their part eventually.”

You weren’t sure if it was a reassurance or a challenge, but something about his words lingered in the air between you. The silence stretched on for a moment, and you felt the weight of it in your chest. You weren’t sure where this conversation was going, or why you felt such an unexpected connection to him, but you couldn’t deny that there was something undeniable between you. Something both thrilling and terrifying.

Finally, you took a step back, breaking the tension, though your heart raced in your chest. “I should go,” you said quickly, your voice faltering slightly. “Thank you again, Gojo. For everything.”

He nodded, his eyes following you as you turned to leave. “Anytime, Princess,” he called after you, his voice carrying a mix of warmth and something more... teasing. “Anytime.”

You left the dressing room in a daze, your mind spinning with all that had just transpired. There was no doubt that something had shifted between you, but you couldn’t quite put your finger on what. What you did know was that you had to keep your distance. A princess and a jester couldn’t be anything more than what they were. Could they?

You returned to the castle with your mind still reeling from the encounter with Gojo. The air felt heavier now, your thoughts tangled with everything he had said, everything you hadn’t said. The walk back was long, and by the time you reached the palace gates, you had hoped the physical distance between you and the village might somehow ease the turmoil inside you. But no such luck.

As soon as you stepped inside the grand hall, you were met with the sight of your sister, standing at the base of the staircase, her arms crossed and her face set in an unreadable expression. The moment she saw you, her gaze sharpened. “Where have you been?” She asked, her voice tight with concern. “Almost had to send out Sir Suguru.”

You hesitated, unsure how to respond. “I... went for a walk,” you muttered, avoiding her gaze. “Just needed to clear my head.”

Her eyes narrowed, scepticism obvious in her expression. “You’ve been gone longer than that, and Father is furious. He doesn't know where you've been, and you've missed important discussions. There are urgent matters regarding your wedding.”

The weight of her words hit you like a heavy blow. You opened your mouth to respond, but no sound came out. The reality of your situation felt even more suffocating now. Your mind flashed back to your conversation with Gojo, the fleeting moments that felt so different, so full of life.

But your sister’s voice cut through your thoughts, sharp as a knife. “Father isn’t pleased, and neither am I. You need to remember your place,” she paused for a moment, her expression softening just a touch. “You can’t afford to keep running off, especially now. You have a responsibility to this family. To the kingdom.”

Your stomach churned at her words, the weight of the duty you were born into pressing down on you. You nodded quietly, your throat tight. “I understand.”

“Do you?” She pressed, her voice dropping. “The prince will be here soon. You need to be ready.”

You clenched your fists at your sides, forcing back the wave of frustration that threatened to overwhelm you. There was so much you wanted to say, but there was no point. “Yes,” you replied finally, voice barely above a whisper. “I’ll speak with Father.”

Your sister didn’t say anything more. She merely turned and walked toward the royal chambers, expecting you to follow. You hesitated for a moment, but then you followed her, the cold weight of responsibility hanging heavily on your shoulders.

When you entered your father’s study, you saw him seated at his desk, his focus entirely on the papers spread out before him. The room was dimly lit by the fire crackling in the hearth, casting long shadows across the stone floor.

When he looked up, his eyes were sharp, unblinking, and his gaze never wavered from you as he spoke. “Where have you been?” He asked, his tone cutting through the silence like a blade.

You hesitated, the words struggling to form. “I... I was out,” you said finally, your voice low. “I needed some time to think.”

Your father didn’t look pleased. His expression darkened, his gaze never leaving you. “You needed time to think?” He repeated, his voice cold. “You’re not a child anymore. The kingdom’s future is at stake, and you think you can just wander off whenever you please?”

You swallowed hard, guilt and frustration rising inside you. “I’m sorry, Father. I just needed to be alone for a moment.”

He didn’t respond to your apology. Instead, he leant forward, his fingers tapping on the edge of his desk. “This wedding is not some trivial matter. It is vital for the future of this kingdom. We have already made arrangements. Prince Sukuna is due to arrive soon, and we need to finalize everything.”

His words felt like chains wrapping around you, tightening with every syllable. You clenched your fists, fighting to hold back the emotions that threatened to spill out. “I understand,” you murmured. “But Father—.”

“No,” he interrupted, his voice like iron. “There are no ‘buts.’ This is the way it must be. You will marry Prince Sukuna, as we agreed. I expect you to be ready.”

His words cut deep, and you felt the sting of them more than you wanted to admit. There was no room for argument, no space for your own desires.

“Yes, Father.” You muttered quietly, unable to meet his gaze.

He nodded, clearly satisfied with your response, and turned back to his papers. "See that you are prepared for his arrival. There is no time for distractions." Your father’s voice echoed in the quiet of the grand hall, and his eyes pierced you with that all-too-familiar look of finality.

You stood there for a moment, letting his words sink in, the weight of them pressing down on your chest. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d felt anything other than this suffocating pressure. No time for distractions. No time for your heart to wander, to long for something different. Only duty. Only what was expected.

You nodded, your voice barely above a whisper. "I’ll be ready."

The silence in the room felt heavy as your father moved away to speak with the other attendants. You didn’t know what you had expected of the day, but it certainly wasn’t this sense of cold inevitability. Everything around you—your father, the looming marriage, the rigid schedules—had become a series of calculated steps. Nothing felt real anymore. Nothing felt like it could belong to you.

You couldn’t escape the weight of it all, not even as you walked into the grand hall where the preparations for the wedding practice were already in full swing.

The walls seemed to close in on you as you made your way to the front, where Sukuna was waiting by the altar. He stood tall, a calm expression on his face, his vermillion eyes scanning the room with that ever-present air of superiority. He turned his gaze toward you as you approached, but there was no warmth in his look—just the same cold calculation that you’d come to expect from him.

He gave a small nod, a gesture of acknowledgment, but nothing more. The attendants adjusted your gown, making sure the fabric flowed just so, the intricate lace and silk designed to create the illusion of a fairy tale. But it was all for show. The dress, the ceremony, the vows—they didn’t mean anything to either of you. Not really.

"You know the steps," your father said, his voice cutting through your thoughts. “We need to practise. It must be flawless.”

You gave a silent nod, standing still as they adjusted your veil, as though the dress and accessories could somehow distract from the truth of the matter. Sukuna’s eyes followed you, his gaze unwavering, but he didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. His presence was all the message you needed.

“Walk.” Your father commanded, his voice brisk. You stepped forward, your shoes clicking softly against the stone floor, your heart heavy in your chest.

You walked the aisle, Sukuna following you in perfect step. But there was nothing beautiful about the movement, nothing graceful. It felt like a rehearsal for a play you had no part in, a part that had already been written and cast long before you even had a chance to choose your role.

The silence between you and Sukuna was thick, oppressive. The only sound in the room was the soft swish of your gown and the occasional instruction from your father, urging you to perfect each step, to make sure everything was just right. You reached the end of the aisle, your father’s voice breaking the silence once more.

"Again," he said, his tone sharp. "From the beginning. It must be perfect."

And so, you did it again. And again. The same steps, the same cold air around you. The same sense of inevitability. Each step you took felt heavier than the last, and yet there was no escaping it. No way to change it. You couldn’t even look at Sukuna—his presence was too much to bear.

All you wanted was to be anywhere but here, anywhere but in this suffocating space. But you couldn’t. You had no choice. After what felt like hours, your father finally called for a break.

"Enough for today," he said, though there was no sign of satisfaction in his voice. "We’ll continue tomorrow. We must ensure it’s flawless."

You nodded again, your head spinning, your chest tight. There was nothing to say. Nothing to feel. You made your way to the side of the room, trying to catch your breath. It wasn’t that you hated Sukuna—no, it wasn’t that simple. But this… this wasn’t what you wanted.

This wasn’t what you had dreamed of. You leant against the stone wall, the coolness of it a small comfort as you closed your eyes. You couldn’t even bring yourself to look at Sukuna now. He was nothing but a stranger in your life, a stranger who would soon be your husband, the man you’d be bound to for the rest of your life.

You didn’t know how to make peace with that. As you stood there, lost in your own thoughts, your father’s voice broke through the silence again, though you weren’t sure if he was speaking to you or to Sukuna.

Half a week passed in a blur of endless rehearsals, every moment filled with expectations, corrections, and the weight of duty pressing against your shoulders. Each morning, you were ushered into the grand hall to perfect your steps down the aisle, your movements scrutinised, your posture adjusted, your expressions corrected.

Your father always stood at the back of the room, watching with unwavering eyes as you and Sukuna walked the length of the aisle over and over again, your steps perfectly in sync but devoid of any warmth.

The attendants whispered amongst themselves about how grand the wedding would be, how fortunate you were to be marrying a prince, but their voices felt distant, unimportant. You had stopped listening.

There was no joy in this. No anticipation. Only the suffocating knowledge that this was your future, no matter how much you wished it weren’t.

On the second day, you were taken to the ballroom to practise the first dance, the one you and Sukuna would perform before the entire court, the first display of your supposed unity.

The musicians played a slow, elegant melody as Sukuna extended his hand toward you, his expression unreadable. You placed your hand in his, allowing him to pull you closer, but the moment felt hollow. His touch was firm, controlled, but not gentle. There was no tenderness, no hesitation, no unspoken emotions between you. Just precision. Just duty.

"You must look at each other." One of the attendants instructed, as if eye contact alone could create the illusion of love.

You met Sukuna’s gaze, his red eyes steady and indifferent, and forced yourself to hold it as he led you across the floor in perfect rhythm with the music. His grip remained unyielding, his movements flawless, and yet you felt nothing but the weight of your own resentment.

"Again." Your father’s voice rang out after the song ended. And so, you did it again. And again. And again. Until your feet ached, until the music became nothing more than background noise, until you could perform the dance in your sleep. Until you no longer needed to think, only obey.

On the third day, you were seated at the long banquet table in the dining hall, the finest pastries and confections laid out before you as the castle’s finest bakers awaited your approval for the wedding cake. Plates of delicate sponge cakes, rich creams, and sugared fruit were placed in front of you and Sukuna, each slice a work of art, each flavour carefully selected to appeal to the nobility’s tastes.

"The vanilla and almond is pleasant," Sukuna remarked as he took a bite of the first offering, his tone detached, as if he were discussing a business transaction rather than the cake that would be served at your wedding.

You picked up your fork, taking a small bite of the same cake, the sweetness melting against your tongue, but it felt like nothing. Just another choice being made for you. "And the honey lavender?" One of the bakers prompted, watching you both with hopeful eyes.

You took another bite, barely tasting it. "It’s… fine." You said, because what did it matter? You didn’t care what cake was served. You didn’t care about any of this.

"We’ll take the vanilla and almond," your father decided, not even looking in your direction. "It’s a safer choice."

That was all that mattered, wasn’t it? What was safe, what was expected. You barely registered the rest of the selection process, Sukuna speaking more than you did, the bakers nodding eagerly at every decision.

By the time the final choice was made, you felt numb to it all. It was just another part of the performance.

On the fourth day, more adjustments were made to your gown, the seamstresses fussing over every inch of lace, ensuring that the fit was perfect, that the embroidery was flawless, that you would look every bit the part of the dutiful princess standing beside her prince.

"Try not to move." One of them murmured as they pinned the final touches in place, stepping back to admire their work. You stared at your reflection in the mirror, the gown cascading down in shimmering ivory and gold, the train long enough to sweep across the floor like something out of a storybook.

You looked perfect.

And yet, as you gazed at your own face, you felt like a stranger. The girl in the mirror wasn’t you. She was a creation of duty and expectation, a bride sculpted to fit the role she had been given. Not a woman with her own heart, her own desires. You lowered your eyes, unable to look at yourself any longer.

On the fifth day, the wedding invitations were finalised, the guest list confirmed. The halls were filled with noblemen and courtiers discussing the grand event, their excitement in stark contrast to your own silence.

Everywhere you turned, there were reminders of what was to come—the florists planning the arrangements, the musicians preparing the processional music, the palace servants ensuring that every detail was flawless. You felt like you were watching it all from a distance, a mere spectator in your own life.

And yet, in the midst of it all, your thoughts drifted elsewhere. To the small, tattered circus tent on the edge of the village. To the man who had looked at you that night with something other than expectation, who had smiled at you not as a duty-bound princess, but as something more.

The more you were forced to endure the preparations, the more your mind wandered to him. To the quiet moments in that dimly lit tent, the way his blue eyes had studied you with amusement, the way he had been completely unbothered by who you were.

The way he had spoken to you—not as a pawn in some political game, but as if you were simply a girl who had stumbled into his world.

And for the first time in days, you felt something other than numbness.

The garden was quiet, bathed in the soft, fading light of the setting sun. The last traces of the day clung to the sky, casting a golden glow over the stone pathways and overgrown hedges. The scent of jasmine filled the air, heavy and sweet, blending with the dampness of the earth.

The flowers, their vibrant colours fading in the dusk, seemed to hang their heads, as though the weight of the evening had come too soon.

You wandered along one of the gravel paths, your footsteps muffled by the thick grass. It was a quiet solitude you sought, the space to let the storm inside you rage unchecked.

You stopped in front of a stone bench, running your fingers over the cool surface, feeling the jagged edges as your thoughts spiralled. The wedding was fast approaching, the practices, the fittings, the reminders of your duties—it all felt suffocating. A life planned for you before you had even the chance to breathe.

You sank down on the bench, wrapping your arms around yourself as though you could keep it all together. The burden of your choices pressed down on you, and then the tears came.

You couldn’t stop them. You didn't want to marry him, didn’t want to be tied to someone you barely knew. You sniffled, wiping at your face, but it was no use. The thoughts of the wedding, of Sukuna, of the life waiting for you—it was too much to handle.

Then, you heard footsteps. A slight shuffle, and you turned, quickly wiping your face. The last thing you expected was to see him. Gojo.

He stepped into the garden, his expression softening when he saw you sitting alone, tears on your cheeks. He wasn’t wearing his usual jester’s garb, but there was something about him that stood out even without it. His white hair was a mess, his usual carefree attitude replaced with concern as he stopped in front of you.

“Princess?” His voice was gentle, careful, as if testing the air. He didn’t wait for an answer before sitting down next to you, his presence suddenly overwhelming in the stillness of the garden. The closeness made your heart race.

You swallowed thickly, trying to hold it together. But it wasn’t enough. “I can’t do it,” you whispered, the words escaping before you could stop them. “I can’t marry him. I can’t go through with this wedding.”

His eyes softened as he looked at you, his hand reaching out to brush away a stray tear from your cheek. You looked at him, surprised at the tenderness in his touch, the way he didn’t try to hide his concern. “You don’t have to,” he said softly, his voice steady and reassuring. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. No one should force you into something like this. Not when it’s your happiness on the line.”

The sincerity in his voice, the way he looked at you as though you were the only thing that mattered in that moment—it made your chest tighten.

You turned your gaze away, looking down at the ground, but you could feel his presence beside you, steady and unwavering. For a second, the world felt like it was holding its breath. You didn’t know what you were expecting, but it wasn’t this. His hand moved to rest on your shoulder, a silent comfort, his touch warm against your skin.

You swallowed, fighting back the tears that threatened to overwhelm you. “I’m not sure what to do.” You said, your voice barely above a whisper. The words were raw, unpolished, but they were all you could offer. He was quiet for a moment, his gaze never leaving you.

The cool evening breeze rustled the leaves, carrying the faint scent of jasmine into the air. “It’s okay to be uncertain,” Gojo replied, his tone soft but firm. “You don’t have to have it all figured out right now. But if you need someone to talk to, or if you need a distraction, I’m here.”

His words hung in the air, settling between you like a promise. The weight on your chest lifted, if only slightly. The connection, the understanding—it was enough for now. You glanced up at him, his blue eyes searching your face, his expression calm and reassuring.

There was something about him, something you couldn’t place but that made you feel like you could finally breathe.

In a day alone, Gojo was able to bring you joy, he made the ground beneath you feel like clouds.

He gave you more life in one dance than your soon-to-be-husband could in the month you’ve known him.

Maybe that’s why, in a burst of impulse, and maybe desperation;

Something shifted within you. It wasn’t planned, it wasn’t thought out. It was just a wave of confidence, a sudden surge of everything you had been holding back.

Before you could think better of it, you found yourself leaning in, your lips crashing against his in a sudden, heated kiss.

Gojo was surprised at first, his body stiffening, but then, as though the moment had found its own rhythm, he melted into it. His hands moved to your back, pulling you closer, and you felt the brush of his painted face against yours.

It was messy, the paint smearing onto your cheek, but neither of you cared. The kiss was urgent, full of all the things you didn’t know how to say.

You pressed harder, feeling him respond, the warmth of his touch spreading through you like a fire.

The world around you seemed to fade into nothingness.

There was only him. His hands, his touch, the way he kissed you back, the way he made everything feel a little less overwhelming. It was nothing like the cold, controlled affection of the marriage you were being forced into.

This kiss was real. It was raw, it was passionate, and it was all your own. When the kiss finally broke, you were left breathless, your forehead resting against his.

His chest rose and fell under your palm, and the only sound between you was the beating of your hearts, still racing from the heat of the moment.

Because it was then that you realised, out of pure fate, your heart lay with the court jester.

sooo that was part one 😝 also if anyone clocked the different “/". no u didn’t. I’m l too lazy to change them (& I write on external apps [wattpad/notes] so bear w me)

[bradleysass]

Harry Potter - @into-the-jeggyverse - wc: 801

Harry Potter prided himself on being a decent student. He wasn’t Hermione-level brilliant, but he did well enough. He could strategize in Quidditch, hold his own in a duel, and solve riddles in life-or-death situations. But when it came to people—understanding what they wanted, what they felt—he was utterly useless.

And right now, the person most confusing him was Draco Malfoy.

Draco had been relentless since the start of term. Not in the usual way—not with taunts about his parents or snide remarks about his Quidditch skills. No, lately, Draco had been... weird. He called Harry insufferable but stood just a little too close when he said it. He sneered at Harry’s hair but reached out as if he wanted to touch it before catching himself. And then there was the way he lingered, as if waiting for something Harry didn’t understand.

Was Draco flirting with him? Or did he just enjoy tormenting Harry in a new, confusing way?

Harry had no idea. And there was no one worse to ask for advice than his dads.

Regulus Black and James Potter were, by all accounts, a miracle. A miracle because they should have never worked, and yet, somehow, they did. They had a ridiculous love story—one Harry had grown up hearing in bits and pieces. James, with his stupidly big heart and inability to let things go. Regulus, with his sharp words and sharp eyes, always pretending he didn’t care while caring too much. If opposites attracted, then they were a bloody gravitational force.

At dinner that night, as Harry pushed food around his plate, James and Regulus carried on one of their usual conversations—if they could even be called that.

James, grinning as he stole a piece of bread from Regulus’ plate: “Just admit you think I’m the most attractive man you’ve ever laid eyes on.”

Regulus, not looking up from his book: “You’re the most exhausting man I’ve ever laid eyes on.”

James, smirking: “Still means you like looking at me.”

Regulus, deadpan: “Unfortunately.”

Harry had grown up seeing their dynamic. He had witnessed the way Regulus softened only for James, the way James never let Regulus slip into his worst habits of self-isolation. It was obvious to everyone that they were in love.

But Harry wasn’t them. He didn’t understand how two people who seemed to drive each other mad could also love each other. Which brought him back to Malfoy.

“Are you two always like this?” Harry asked, interrupting whatever smug retort James had lined up next.

Regulus glanced at him over the rim of his teacup. “Like what?”

Harry gestured vaguely between them. “Like this. The constant back and forth.”

James grinned. “It’s part of our charm.”

Regulus rolled his eyes. “More like your punishment.”

Harry let out a frustrated sigh. “How did you—when you first—how did you know you liked each other? Like, actually liked each other?”

James’ eyebrows shot up, and Regulus blinked. A rare moment of being caught off guard.

“Well,” James said slowly, “I’d been in love with your dad since I was seventeen, so—”

“I tolerated him first,” Regulus cut in smoothly. “And then, when he refused to leave me alone, I figured it was either murder or love.”

James beamed. “See? Romantic.”

Harry groaned. “That’s not helpful.”

Regulus finally set his book down, watching Harry with that unnerving ability to see too much. “Why are you asking?”

Harry hesitated. “There’s someone. And I—” He exhaled sharply. “I can’t tell if he likes me or just enjoys annoying me.”

James lit up. “Wait. Likes likes you?”

Regulus hummed in thought. “Ah. Malfoy.”

Harry choked. “What—how—?”

James spun in his chair, practically vibrating with excitement. “It’s Malfoy?! I knew it! I knew there was something there!”

Regulus, unbothered, simply sipped his tea. “It’s obvious.”

“No, it’s not obvious!” Harry exclaimed. “That’s the whole point! I can’t tell if he’s—” He waved his hands around, struggling for words. “If he’s flirting or if he just hates me in a really weird way!”

James turned to Regulus with a huge grin. “Ah, to be young and oblivious.”

Regulus shot him a look. “You were never oblivious. Just stubborn.”

Harry slumped back in his chair, exhausted before this conversation had even properly started. “So? What do I do?”

Regulus set his cup down with a quiet clink. “Ask yourself this: If Malfoy weren’t Malfoy, if he were just some nameless person acting the way he does, would you already have your answer?”

Harry opened his mouth—then promptly shut it.

James, of course, still had to get the last word in. “Or, you know, just kiss him and see what happens.”

Regulus sighed.

Harry banged his head against the table.

This was not going to be easy.

[konjiang]

Cumplane AU slightly nsfw? Finger kink?

SQH crashed at SY place because his internet went out.

SY watched as SQH rapidly typed while munching on some seeds. No matter how many times he saw it, he will always be shocked at the sheer speed SQH completes writing assignments. He watched as those fingers curled and stretched across the keyboard while pressing all the right letters.

'What else can those fingers do...' SY snapped his eyes back to his own laptop, trying to forget whatever dumbass thoughts he got when he was around SQH.

SY couldn't focus on any of the words on his screen. He had to reread the page over again when he saw the way SQH sat up and stretched.

"Cucumber-Bro," SQH said as he smiled at SY, "I'm done. Do you want to do anything?" SQH started moving and rolling his hand and wrist.

'Do anything...what about me-' SY mind was wandering again, and he needed to focus before he let's SQH control his mind again. They are just two bro sitting 5 ft apart because he's not gay!

"You think everyone can type like that? Stop bothering me and go do something else." SY needed SQH to be away from him before he says or does anything weird.

"Alright, alright, you are such an asshole sometimes." SQH pouted as he grabbed a couple dessert from the pantry.

"Hey! Why are you eating my food?" SY watched as SQH opened a bag of veggie straws.

"Bro, I'm hungry, and you're rich. Here, I'll feed you." SQH declared as he shoved a veggie straw in SY face, giving SY direct access to those fingers. He carefully bit the straw and avoided SQH's hand. Soon, they got into a rhythm, where SY would open his mouth, and SQH would feed him. It was still hard to focus, but SY was proud of himself for getting some work done. He opened his mouth and closed it when he felt something else in his mouth. This time, when he bit down, his lips surrounded half of SQH's index finger.

SY was panicking, 'WTF WTF WTF', but he didn't release SQH's finger.

"Uhmm, bro? Can I have my finger back? Should I be scared that you acquired a taste for human flesh?" SQH teased and wiggled his finger a little, causing SY's face to burn up. He couldn't let SQH have the last word in any conversation.

"No." SY said as he grabbed SQH's wrist and doubled down, biting and sucking SQH's finger. He had expected a shriek or noises of disgust, but instead, SQH sticked another finger in SY's mouth.

This was going somewhere, and SY had no idea how to steer it back to normal. How could he when SQH's finger touches and pulls at his tongue. SQH leaned in closer, and SY could see that his face was also turning red.

"Shen Yuan..." SQH whispered as he gently placed his other hand on SY's face. He removed his fingers from SY's mouth. SY couldn't stop himself before he whined at the loss. However, his mind was now occupied by how close SQH face was. If he leaned a little more, their lips would be touching.

SY tilted his face into SQH's palm, and in turn, SQH caressed SY's face with his thumb. SY watched as SQH moved closer but made no moves to stop him. Their nose touch against each other, and SY could feel SQH's breath on his lips. SQH tilted his head and-- do nothing because SQH's phone rang, pulling them out of this weird tension.

'What were we about to do!' SY mind replayed every moment of their interaction and tried to come up with a logic conclusion. He can vaguely hear SQH talking in the background.

"Okay, okay, thank you. Bye. " SQH hung up, and they just both awkwardly stared at each other.

"Uhm, my internet got fixed."

"Oh," Shen Yuan said mindlessly.

"I should go..." SQH stood up, intending to gather his stuff, but he was stopped by SY grabbing his wrist and yanking him back down. SY could not leave this unresolved, or else SQH would get the wrong idea. He opened his mouth, wanting to spit out some excuses, but instead...

"Where do you think you're going? I haven't had a chance to taste human flesh yet."

[setmeatopthepyre]

WIP wednesday tagged by the amazing @rcmclachlan and @agentpeggycartering <3 thank you!

here is some more from the fic formerly known as phosphorescence, now renamed pothos | pathos or pothos fic for short. follows [this]

-

Eddie worries about Buck.

And, if he lets himself think about it, he feels a little guilty for only worrying about Buck now, and not before.

Sure, he'd felt bad for the guy when Tommy dumped him but, well, Buck had been dumped before. He always ended up fine.

Maybe Eddie should have caught on earlier to the ways things were different this time around. Part of that was because Tommy was his friend, and that made things a little awkward, but he'd figured out soon enough that if he just... avoided talking with Tommy about Buck and with Buck about Tommy, it was... fine. He was just a little more vague about it when he had plans with either of them. Easy.

It wasn't exactly like he didn't have anything else on his mind, what with Christopher speaking to him in actual multi-word sentences these days and the whole El Paso house hunt.

Still, he should have probably caught on the fact that it was weird, how easy it was to avoid the subject of Tommy around Buck. At least, in depth.

Sure, Buck talked a lot about how he wanted to reach out, how he'd seen Tommy bubble him again, and the baking... well, the baking spoke for itself. Still, it had taken Buck a full week to share any sort of details as to why he and Tommy had broken up, how it had happened. Even then, Buck had been pretty closed off about it.

And then Buck just... kept baking. And, okay, sue Eddie, it hadn't pinged anything at first because Buck has a tendency to get a little intense about things in general. Until now, those things usually only lasted for a short period of time before Buck wore himself out and things went right back to normal. Or he would go on to the next thing, which, for Buck, was normal.

But the baking went on, so Eddie had figured, hey, Buck had a new hobby. It was a way to cope that wasn't unhealthy for anyone except the people he kept trying to pawn his pastries off to. He was keeping local businesses running with his shopping habits. Buck was keeping himself busy, processing his emotions in a way that didn't involve suing the department or having to be bailed out of jail. You know, all good things. So surely it was fine.

But now... the Tommy thing.

Eddie had kept in contact with Tommy. They'd kept up their weekly hangouts and it hadn't been awkward, because they didn't talk about it. Tommy had looked a little more rough around the edges and he was a little quieter than he had been, but Eddie could tell he was dealing with it in his own way. Their sparring got an extra edge of intensity to it and Eddie enjoyed the extra challenge. Figured if Tommy wanted to talk, he'd talk. But he didn't, so they didn't. Easy as that.

Eddie thought it was, well, fine.

But now Buck is very clearly not fine, and Eddie just watches and sips his coffee while Buck gestures emphatically as he says something to Maddie.

“Have you talked to him?”

Chimney appears by his side and Eddie very nearly inhales his next sip. “Holy-- Chim, stop sneaking up on people like that.”

“Well, have you?”

Eddie dabs at his shirt, trying to figure if he's going to need to change or if the dark blue fabric masks the coffee stain well enough. Glances over to find Chimney still standing next to him, also watching Maddie and Buck.

“You talking about Buck, or Tommy?” Eddie finally asks.

“Either, or.”

“Talked to Tommy day before yesterday. He seemed fine.”

“What about Buck?” Chim says, turning towards Eddie. “Has he... talked to you?”

Somehow Eddie suspects he doesn't mean just in general. “About...?”

“His... theory.”

Eddie frowns. “No, he hasn't mentioned a theory. What kind of theory?”

Chimney ignores his question. “Nothing about Tommy seeming... off?”

“No, I...” Eddie hesitates, thinks back. “Well, he has been asking a lot more questions. But like, trying to be subtle about it, you know?”

Chimney hums.

Eddie casts him a sidelong glance. “Why? What'd he say to you?”

“I probably shouldn't say,” Chimney says. He's fidgeting. Eddie waits him out.

All it takes is a single raised eyebrow on his part and one glance up from Chimney, and Chim cracks. “Fine, but this stays between us, alright?” He glances around them. “He thinks Tommy isn't Tommy.”

Eddie lets the words sink in. Waits for them to make sense. They don't. “What the hell does that mean?”

“See? That's what I asked him, but he couldn't explain it. Just said he wasn't acting like himself.”

Eddie considers this. “I mean, he has seemed a little different, recently.”

“Different how?”

Eddie thinks its a good thing Buck isn't here to hear it, honestly felt guilty about even noticing it, before. “Honestly? Tommy seems... better.”

“Better how?”

Eddie shrugs again. “Calmer? Like he's actually getting some sleep these days.”

“Shit,” Chimney huffs.

“Yeah.”

“Don't tell Buck that.”

“Wasn't planning to.”

They finish their coffee in silence.

-

big big shout out to the one and only @hubcaphalo for the input re: eddie pov

no pressure wip wednesday tags for @trombonechurchill @geddyqueer @sugarpenchant @ambernotember @leashybebes @beanarie @bidisasterevankinard @iphyslitterator

tag list for those who requested tags for this fic under the cut ↓

@fiyaerrigan @bisexualbrainrots @leashybebes @louuieferrignojr @rubydaiquiri @teabroomsandbooks @crimsonwildcat-blog @sweaters-and-silly @nochance-noway @manifestingchaoticvibes @hyperfocusthusly @frogsinflannel @beanarie @rcmclachlan @sad-girl-hours23 @ambernotember @apartmentsmoke

let me know if you wanna be added or removed!

[lemotmo]

Ryan gave same answer to buddie question he is been giving from the moment bi buck was canon. He didn’t say in same words like Eddie is straight and buck Eddie are brothers but he did say the same in so many words like friendship between straight and queer characters is an important storyline and that’s priority than anything else

I always try to ignore interviews especially Ryan’s answers to buddie questions as what they think is not important and what the show is trying to show is important. But at this point I am not really sure if I should trust the show as Ryan is the one playing Eddie and his answer at this point of time is same and not even vague like let’s see where the script goes or I am ok with what ever the story takes. Just don’t know what to expect at this point

To be clear I am not saying Ryan is homophonic or anything, he seems like a kind person who treats everyone equally and with respect. But with all his answers in interviews, I get a feeling like he is not so much comfortable with playing a gay character (for what ever reason I don’t know and I don’t question or judge people choices as it doesn’t harm any real people).

If Eddie is still straight by 8.14 or 15, I don’t have much hope

Nonny, all do respect, but I have to ask this:

Why did you bring this to my blog? You must have seen my enthusiasm about Ryan's latest interview and how it has only strenghtened my conviction that Buddie is going canon. So why would you post this here when you already know what I'm going to tell you?

I also don't understand your reaction here. I've been in this fandom for years now and I've never been more confident that it's going canon than now. Before season 7 I never even thought Buddie would get a fighting chance.

What did you expect Ryan to say in this interview? 8b hasn't aired yet, so he can't disclose any of the upcoming storylines. He was always going to rehash some of his earlier answers from previous interviews, because what else could he possibly answer?

The inevitable Buddie question came and -once again- he had to find a way to answer it without spoiling anything. What could he possibly have said? He can't just come out and say that Buddie is going canon at this point, because it hasn't happened yet.

So he said the only thing he could say, the message that no matter who you are and who you love in life, it's important to support each other. Which is a beautiful message in itself.

He isn't saying anything else than Oliver did in his pre-biBuck days. It's the same 'trying to talk about it, but not allowed to say anything' kind of thing. 🤷‍♀️

And what about the question where Ryan was asked what advice he would give Eddie? His answer was so telling. It hinted at Eddie not being straight in such a profound way. That was basically the only thing he could say when it comes to Eddie's sexuality storyline.

The man's hands were and are tied. They have been for a long time. And no, he isn't afraid to play a gay man. How do I know this? Because he has actually played a gay man before in another project. He also talked about, on multiple times, the fact that he would be all for Buddie if the story would go there. Those are not the words of a man who doesn't want to play a gay man.

If he really wouldn't want to play a gay man, he would just state it out loud. He would say something like 'Yeah, the Buddie thing is a really fun thing. Oliver and me joke about it, but it isn't going to happen. Eddie is very straight and he will never be interested in Buck like that.' BAM! Just like that he would make it clear to everyone that he isn't willing to play that part and it isn't happening.

Now, if you want an example of an interview by someone who really doesn't want to play a gay character, but had no other choice because it was the only job he could get? Look no further and Google one of Lou Fjr's unhinged interviews where he talks about how he doesn't think it's always appropriate for two characters to make out on screen, but that rule only seems to apply to male/male relationships. He never seemed to have any issues with making out with women on screen before. 🙄

But anyway, let's not get distracted here by talking about that man and let's get back onto the subject of Ryan's interview.

I know that I probably won't be able to change your mind on this Nonny and I'm not even going to attempt it, because in all honesty? I'm tired of all the nay-saying and the inevitable spiral of fear that happens every single time when something happens in this fandom.

I don't know what you want? I've been in so many fandoms, shipping ships that NEVER became canon even though they should have. There was always subtext of course, but that's where it ended. The rest of the story we (the fandom) had to build up from scratch.

For Buddie though--

This isn't just about subtext anymore Nonny. This is fullblown TEXT! It's all there in the show, in the PR, in the interviews, in social media, in Family Fued and Jeopardy! What more could you possibly want?

If you don't believe it by now? There is nothing I can say or do to convince you, so you will just have to wait and see as the episodes air.

Tell you what though--

I predict that we will find out about Eddie's sexuality sometime before or at the very last in episode 8x15. Bold statement, I know. But I feel very confident about this. Oh and Buck? I'm willing to bet that all of his spiraling will finally lead to him realising he is in love with Eddie and this will be shown to us even sooner than Eddie's coming out.

¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Now excuse me while I go bask in the glory of the impending promise that is Buddie canon. 😏

[a-small-batch-of-dragons]

Worship

Hello!!! I thought I'd throw an idea out there :3 So I absolutely love god aus, but obviously you don't have to do that, just a thought, I'm just thinking of Janus or Virgil suffering in some way and Roman doing something to protect them, since they're always the ones comforting him? Might be fun to switch it up If you do decide to do this have fun! If not no worries :3 :3 – anon

Read on Ao3

Warnings: none

Pairings: prinxiety

Word Count: 2232

In a world of many gods and goddesses, one of the lesser-known deities goes without a name, simply known as the Storyteller. Virgil is one of their few followers, living on the outskirts of a densely populated city. His is not an extravagant faith, but it is a potent one.

 

It's the same as it always is. Candles knocked over and his books scattered on the floor. At least they didn't rip any pages out this time.

Virgil sighs, crouching down. He sets his basket on the ground and focuses on making sure none of the pages have creased beyond repair. A few of the books landed on their splayed pages and he winces at the marring of the fading ink, but for the most part, everything looks to be intact. He gathers them to his chest and begins to rearrange them on the small plinth, careful to keep the covers turned toward the flames to reduce the risk of fire. When the books have been arranged just so, he picks up the candles too and reaches into his pocket for his flint and steel.

Out of the many shrines in the city, it's always the ones down at this end that constantly get ruined. Possibly because it's closest to the busy end of the alley, more likely because these gods do not carry the worship of the state. These are the ones that have smaller sects, no grand churches or temples or holy sites, and so they are the ones that require more constant upkeep. Virgil doesn't mind. He has an agreement with some of the people that worship the gods at neighboring shrines. He lets them know when the altar's been ruined, they let him know when his has been. Granted, he's not the only worshiper around here, but he is the most predictable.

At some point, he'll sit back and wonder why it is that this one is the one that seems to be destroyed most often, but that's something he can wonder when his fresh food from the market is not in danger of being swiped by cunning little mouths.

2.

He gets word that the statue on the cliffside had been defaced, and he packs a small bag to take with him. The path is lined with old rocks laden with moss and cracks. Small flowers take root and grow along the edge of the stone steps. At the top of the cliff overlooking the water, there is a circle of stones around the statue. Virgil winces at the crude glyphs painted over the statue's face, hands, and the book it holds aloft.

He sets down his bag and fetches the rag and water. The types of soap he would typically use to clean this are too harsh for the old limestone, and even the water he tries to use sparingly so he won't damage the statue's features. Wind and rain have worn away the details, leaving only the vague outline of a mouth, open in speech, a nose, and kind eyes watching the story weave itself together. As he works, he can help glancing behind himself every so often.

Was this a place where stories were told often? Was it only for special occasions?

Is there a more special occasion than being alive?

The words drift back to him and he smiles, turning his attention back to the statue. As he works, he tells the little stories of being alive. About the cats that run through the alley, begging for scraps. About the new merchants that have come to sell their jewelry and all the other stalls had seen fewer customers that day. About the new recipe his friend had tried and how good it had tasted. Small stories. Short stories. Stories that make up the patchwork of a life.

He wonders if that was the sort of story that would make it into any book, no matter how insignificant. He cleans the statue's hands and wonders if it would be willing to hold such a book.

3.

These were originally sung.

Virgil turns the page in the old book and squints at the faded words. It had been a chance find by an old friend, a book from ages long past that only Virgil had wanted in the end, for he was the only one who could recognize the god's name. He'd taken the fragile thing home wrapped in a cloth and thin string of twine, unwrapping it carefully by his own tiny shrine and reading by the light of the candle. There were words he didn't recognize, words he had no idea how to pronounce, and stories woven in tongues he could never hope to understand.

You could say, then, he was shocked when the thought that they were to be sung occurred to him.

What for? They didn't match any meter or pattern of any song he recognized, nor did he have any inclination as to what the tune was supposed to be. And even if he did, that was no guarantee he'd be able to sing it. No one had ever had the courage to say he was very musically inclined, let alone be able to sing songs of a god that had not been breathed since the book was last opened.

Still, now that the thought's occurred to him, it's almost impossible to get out of his head. So, he starts humming. No melody, not really a rhythm either, just reading the book and letting it decide when he should change notes. He just reads and hums and does his best to let them wash over him. Even if he can't understand it, maybe he can feel what it might have been like to hear them sung.

The candles flicker a little as the sun sets. The book doesn't look as though it's any different, but slowly it occurs to Virgil that he shouldn't be able to see as well in this level of light as he had when the sun was still out. He glances at the candles, then back at the book, and turns the page. Sure enough, the words stand out as easily as they ever have…in fact, they might be a little bit clearer.

He continues humming with a smile on his face.

4.

'Your god should be your focus, your life, your purpose. You should devote your life to theirs, as they have spent their existence to ensure you have yours.'

A lot of people like to talk about their gods like that. There is one house of worship that Virgil journeys past every moon devoted to a dark god—he's not exactly sure what the god's powers are, nor what domain he represents, all he knows are the black tentacle-like tattoos the acolytes wear and the fact that the god, apparently, prefers blondes. Every time he passes, he sees one of the priestesses surveying the courtyard—as if she were its ruler, not the god the temple was devoted to, but her—and the way she looks at him makes him hold his cloak a little tighter around his body. As though he were doing something wrong by not wearing his worship of his god on his skin as brazenly as they did.

Others talk about their gods. All the time. Every sentence, every little thing that happens, is because of their god. The rain, the sun, the harvest, the storm, the way their neighbor smiled at them this morning, the way a bird came and landed on their roof last night. Everything was attributed to some divine message, leaving no room for the quietness of life to breathe. Virgil feels exhausted just imagining that—what would be the point of being so controlling if you didn't have the time to breathe and enjoy the security of it?

And then there were those that thought he didn't worship. Not that they frowned upon him for it, but sometimes the way they talked…as though he couldn't understand what it was like to believe in a higher power. As though he didn't have the discipline to worship, as though he didn't have the faith. As though the shrine in his house didn't exist, as if the hours he spent writing his own story in a leather-bound notebook he'd saved every coin for wasn't worth it, as though he didn't believe.

But his worship isn't for them. It's for him, and his god, and that was enough. And if he arrived home to find a small pot of ink when he'd thought he'd run out yesterday, well, that was between him and his desk drawer.

5.

The thing about stories is that they're meant to be shared. Virgil is many things, but a man with a large group of friends, he is not.

In some ways, he is content not to share his worship. There's something unique, he's found, in storytelling. You can tell a lot about a person by the type of stories they read, or the types of stories they tell. Even if you don't believe so at first, over time, if you hear enough of them, you get to know that person quite well. Virgil is not keen on being so known, not by the sorts of people that he would share this worship with. Because they wouldn't understand, he tells himself, or it wouldn't be fair. He would have to show them how it feels by lying himself bare, with no hope of whether they would understand and do the same.

But sometimes, sometimes he gets…lonely.

His home is small. Humble. His bed has just enough room for his clothes in a trunk underneath. His kitchen is barely more than a stove and a small set of cabinets. He has a tiny desk, crammed into the space under his shrine. He has a few things on the walls, one old bundle of cloth wrapped around his traveling gear in the corner by the firewood. On cold nights, he sleeps right by the fire, and even then, he doesn't feel warm enough.

In the pages of the books, he reads about the importance of companionship. That nights are cold and colder alone, that we were made to warm each other and there is no other warmth quite like it. Sometimes he curls up with one of them, just to read about it and imagine it. He thinks that might be his most poignant worship: a strange yearning, a longing that worries itself into his bones and makes him ache tenderly. His is not a god that values pain and suffering, but he thinks his god might have a soft spot for wanting.

He does not doubt, but he would like to see for himself. Just once.

+1.

There is a man outside his door.

He opens it, a little stunned. Partly because there is no reason for someone to show up as his door unannounced, and partly because this stranger is sublime.

He invites the stranger in, belatedly, and sheepishly offers to cook. It's around that time of day anyways, and he has a little extra of the nice meat from the butcher because he did them a favor last week. The stranger smiles, thanks him, asks if Virgil needs help. Virgil shakes his head and offers the good chair, the one that doesn't creak when you sit on it, and carefully pours a cup of mead too. The stranger takes it and thanks him again.

Virgil tries to keep himself focused on the cooking, but he can't help glancing over his shoulder every once in a while to see what the stranger does. He spends a fair amount of time looking around, at the fireplace, at Virgil's desk, at the shrine, but mostly, he's watching Virgil. To the point where Virgil just starts talking, just so that it makes a little more sense as to why he's being looked at so by someone so…so.

The stranger listens perfectly. Laughs in the right places, hums in the right places, asks questions and offers comments when Virgil pauses for breath. Virgil asks questions of his own, and receives vaguer answers, more cryptic answers, though all delivered with some secret smile like there's a joke the two of them share. When the food has been eaten, Virgil expects the stranger to tell him who he is, or what he's doing here, but nothing comes. Instead, the stranger helps him clean up, and when Virgil says that it's alright, he's capable of doing it, please, make yourself comfortable, wanders toward the shrine. No small lump appears in Virgil's throat as the stranger reaches out to take one of the books.

Do you know, I think you're the only one who tried to sing them.

And Virgil…stares. Because no one should know that. No one does know that. The only way this stranger could know that is if…if…

His eyes widen. The stranger looks at him with a soft smile, and then the book is set down and Virgil's suddenly backed against the wall with that soft smile so, so close.

Oh, God.

The stranger laughs. It sounds like music.

For you, Virgil, you can call me Roman.

General Taglist: @frxgprince@potereregina@gattonero17@iamhereforthegayshit@thefingergunsgirl@awkwardandanxiousfander@creative-lampd-liberties@djpurple3@winterswrandomness@sanders-sides-uncorrect-quotes@iminyourfandom@bullet-tothefeels@full-of-roman-angst-trash  @ask-elsalvador @ramdomthingsfrommymind@demoniccheese83@pattonsandershugs@el-does-photography@princeanxious@firefinch-ember@fandomssaremysoul@im-an-anxious-wreck@crazy-multifandomfangirl @punk-academian-witch@enby-ralsei@unicornssunflowersandstuff@wildhorsewolf @thetruthaboutthesun @stubbornness-and-spite @princedarkandstormv  @your-local-fookin-deadmeme @angels-and-dreams@averykedavra @a-ghostlight-for-roman @treasurechestininterweb @cricketanne @queerly-fluid-fan @compactdiscdraws@cecil-but-gayer@i-am-overly-complicated@annytheseal@alias290@tranquil-space-ninja @arxticandy @mychemically-imbalanced-romance@whyiask@crows-ace @emilythezeldafan@frida0043 @ieatspinalcords @snowyfires@cyanide-violence@oonagh2@xxpanic-at-the-everywherexx@rabbitsartcorner @percy-07734@triflingassailantofmyemotions @virgil-sanders-the-gay-emo@cerulean-watermelon@puffed-up-bees@meltheromanstan@joyrose-fandomer@insanitori@mavenmush@justablah65@10paradox10@uhhh-hi-there-i-am-nervous@cutebisexualmess@bella-bugatti-frogetti-baguetti@ultrageekygirl@raven1508

[relax-and-read-on]

Feeling sappy today

I was reminded by my gf that I have been shitposting about warhammer here since january 2022, and posting fic since december 2021. So, over 3 years of insanity. And... I wanted to take a moment to admire the landscape.

3 years ago, there was a handful of warhammer blogger. There were fanfic being updated on ao3, but the majority was OC stuff or stuff that wasn't shippy at all. At first, writing warhammer fanfic, and silly headcanon, felt like yelling in an empty field.

And then people started to show up. Answering my post. I made a discird server. People also started blogging abour warhammer more often, and making their own silly text post. We joined exchanges as a group, then created our *own* exchange. I met some of my best friends.

It used to be, I knew every warhammer blogger, to the point of fming. Now, i visit most tags and just... Blink, because i recognise one in 5 op from view, at best! There are entire section of the fandom that I am only vaguely aware of, like the primarch self shipper (love your stuff!!), multiple warhammer 40k server, and everything is just so.... Alive.

It's incredible. And humbling. I don't want to take full credit for this, that's hubris, but I do think I had a small hand in making this happen. That by throwing enough seeds into the ground, somehow, a forest grew.

I just wanted to thank everyone for that. For continuing to post, for growing so much outside of me and my circle, even as I don't post much anymore. I am still into warhammer, it's just that life hasn't always been kind to me during that time period. But yall make it worth it, most of you without even knowing about it.

Thank you so much for this wonderdull fandom

[revive-the-fandom]

favorite rotg theory?

I honestly forgot most of the theories bc I disagree with most of them tbh. imo most fan theories tend to overcomplicate or villainise/de-villianise characters while completely missing the point.

but this is a positive question so i'll try my best lmao

I think my favourite is probably that Jack lost his memories not because of the Man in the Moon, but because he died. Whether that be because of a resurrection, or because of trauma induced amnesia.

Although, tbh, my personal (related) theory is that Jack never even died in the first place. If we look at his first scene, we can see him let out a breath as soon as he leaves the water

if he'd died of drowing, he'd have to cough up all the water he'd inhaled, or at least not have anything breath left to exhale.

(also, interesting that his breath in this scene is always misty, like its warm. and is like that for multiple breaths, so not necessarily "the last warm breath he had left in him" since he's continuously exhaling warmth. which also implies that Jack is warm-blooded, not cold or undead, but alive.

I'm realising now that I have a lot of theories... idk man, it's kinda hard to pick a favourite when you could debate every point with the same enthusiasm.)

then compare this scene to his memory of falling through the ice

it's so quick for a drowning, which are notoriously fast. Google suggests it takes 3 minutes to drown, which this is well under.

and yes, this is possibly just a cinematic verison of events, sped up for the viewers sakes.

however, what if it's not. what if Jack entered the water, the Man in the Moon saw it, knew that no one in this time period was going to be able to save him, and just sort of put him on pause. suspended animation, if you will, so that he had time to save him as best he could.

This theory is also part of my "the Man in the Moon did nothing wrong" movement.

What evidence do we have that the Man in the Moon has enough power to do anything more than he already does? What evidence do we have that the Man in the Moon didn't drain his powers saving Jack?

The only time in the entire movie that we know he actually, audibly spoke to anyone on Earth was the very beginning where Jack says he told him his name. And even that wasn't audible to the audience! Only Jack heard that, so potentially he could be restricted by any number of things - only being able to speak through mental connections, only to his "creations" or "beneficiaries", only through abstract thoughts.

If we throw GoC into the mix

(which nobody has to, but I like to. I've been vagued before about forcing other people to accept GoC as canon, but I'm not trying to do that and never was. I just like it and want to use it as my canon.)

then we can play with the timeline a little, as GoC canonincally happens "some decades" before the steam train is invented: The steam train is invented in 1784 so GoC probably takes place in around the 1740s.

Jack is 300 ish in 2012, so his "birthday" is probably around 1712. So he was around well before the Guardians even existed (or, well, the group was formed at least. GoC Manny, Bunny and Sandy are millenia old, North is in his twenties/thirties probably and Tooth is a bit of a mystery, so..).

Which means that the Man in the Moon resurrected Jack before Pitch was even woken by Nightlight, and he was presumed dead.

The Man in the Moon only ever communicates through specific mirrors (actually I think they were gongs but basically it functions like a window) in GoC, except for book 5 where they physically go to the moon - but book 5 is weird and breaks the RotG canon so I don't count it - which also lends itself to this theory that the Man in the Moon expended his power resource before GoC. So he couldn't talk to Jack more than he had. Jack would have needed to go find one of these mirrors (one is in the Lunar Lamadry in the Himalayas, I believe on top of Mt Everest????).

GoC also sets the Man in the Moon up to be kind but incredibly distant and unsocialised. He was raised on the moon by his parent's robot servants and only interacted with Earth through their technology. To him being alone is just his normal, so he probably doesn't see Jack's isolation as a that big of a deal.

anyway, sorry that got a bit out of hand. Here are some honorable mentions for theories that I like:

Jack is descended from Katherine and Nightlight (yes this breaks the GoC/RotG canon I just established - this would have to be a different timeline to that)

Jamie is descended from Jack's Sister

Jack's Sister is named Mary (technically confirmed to be true by Joyce - I like the nickname Molly for Mary)

Baby Tooth was granted free will by Jack naming her & will develop & grow more now that she's no longer a part of the collective (I think this originated with @drowningostrich but I'm not sure)

Mother Nature is friends with all nature/element/seasonal spirits including Jack and Bunny

There's a fuck ton of other spirits out there who have their own society that Jack was just largely on the outskirts of (not necessarily an outcast, but more like a forgotten aspect)

[pierrotwrites-hc]

part III ch3 sneak peak

Doran was a badger. 

At least that’s what Connell’s mother Reenie had said. Doran had protested: surely Connell, who regularly dug up grubs, was more like a badger than he was. (Yes, Connell dug up grubs to draw rather than to eat, but still. The point stood.)

“My Connell is a quail,” said Reenie decidedly. “He blends in when he needs to and he knows how to take care of himself. You, my lad, are a badger. Tough, clever, stubborn as anything. Hardy, too. When the weather changes, you’re the first to adapt.”

Even as a child, Doran had known Reenie wasn’t just talking about the kind of weather that spun the metal rooster on the barn roof. The Duke’s estate had its own climate, a complex system of currents and atmospheric conditions which produced storms no less intense than the ones outside. Doran often found himself caught in the crosswinds. He knew, without anyone having to tell him, that this was because the Duke loved his mother, and Lady Amelia hated her.

(The Duke told Doran’s mother he loved her, anyway. He said the same thing to his horse, and with much the same tone of voice.)

Now, a dozen years later and hundreds of miles from home, Doran had new reason to appreciate his badger-like adaptability. He’d found a nice little place for himself among the soldiers at Redditch, and there was no reason he couldn’t do the same at Guye. 

From what Doran had seen so far, Robert Black’s encampment outside Castle Guye was like and unlike the garrison at Redditch. It was full of soldiers, obviously, and soldiers were more or less the same wherever you went, but these soldiers were unusual (in Doran’s experience, at least) because observed no strict hierarchy between themselves. Once Doran got over the shock, he found this arrangement quite suited him. He had as little patience for hierarchy as a freedman as he had when he was a slave. 

And thank the gods for that. He’d feared the opposite might be true—that he might turn into one of those men hated by everyone, who shun the class they come from even as they’re kicked at by the class they want to join. A man like Hector Balkas.

Doran tried not to think about Balkas. It made his back itch. His back and his fists.

Anyway, there was no need to think about Balkas. Doran had been one to look back over his shoulder; he certainly wasn’t going to start now. Not when there was so much behind him he’d like to forget. 

That smarmy prick Robert Black had ordered him to find an occupation. Well, Doran planned to do exactly that.

The smithy seemed the obvious place to start. Doran had a strong arm and no fear of open flame, which were, as he understood it, the basic requirements for forge-work. He’d always fancied himself as a blacksmith, or maybe even a farrier. He liked horses well enough, and the leather aprons the smiths wore. Besides, he had a vague idea there was money in it. 

Money, now, that was something to be thinking about now he was free. Annie would be waiting for him on the other side of this war, and he wasn’t about to make her a pauper’s bride. She deserved better than that.

Building had started on the smithy on the moor at the same time as the privies were being dug, and while it was nothing to the mighty forge at Redditch, it was still in better nick than the rest of the camp. The crackling fire cast a ring of light and warmth that defied the gloom of the moor. In the glow, Doran saw a familiar figure straighten, hammer in one huge hand.

“Finn?”

“Doran! By the gods, it’s good to see you.”

Finn pulled Doran to his great chest and gave him a bone-cracking squeeze. 

“I see you lost the chain,” said Doran, when Finn released him. “The collar, too.”

“Mislaid it at Redditch,” said Finn cheerfully. He gestured at Doran’s bare neck. “I see you’re short a bit of metal, too.”

“Me and Connell both.” Before Finn could ask about Luca, Doran rushed on, “Tell me what happened at Redditch.”

It was the right question to ask: the garrison’s fall was still blazingly clear in Finn’s mind, and his description was absorbing enough to distract both of them from Luca. Doran hadn’t thought he had any sentimental feelings for Redditch, but hearing about the gates going up in a hail of flame and cinder gave him a funny feeling in his chest. Still, he was cheered to hear that Davies was dead. 

“The forgemaster, too,” said Finn. “Smoke poisoning, of all things.” He shook his head in disgust. “Ah, well, at least he’s gone. Gods forgive me, Doran, but it’s a better world for him being out of it.”

Doran agreed. As far as he was concerned, there were still far too many men like the forgemaster left in the world, and smoke poisoning was far too kind a fate for any of them.

Unfortunately, at this point Finn turned to far less interesting topic, namely the valor, gallantry, and general heroism of Robert Black. 

“He came out of the fire with his sword flashing, like something out of a legend. Rallied the men with a word. They say Roland had Melchior’s blood, but I never believed it til I saw Black in action. He’s a commander, all right. The real thing, not a pretender like Davies and Balkas.”

Doran must’ve winced. Finn gave him a sympathetic look.

“No fond feelings for your old master, eh? I don’t blame you. Balkas was a brute. I’ll never forget that whipping. No wonder Luca was passing the bastard’s secrets on to Black.”

“You knew?” 

“Yeah, he told me,” said Finn, shrugging. “Needed me to make him a contraption to smuggle information out of Breakwater. And here, listen to this—turns out my daughter joined up with the rebels! She’s alive, Doran, can you believe it?”

“That’s fantastic,” said Doran, his mind still on Luca. “Is she here at Guye?”

“Black left her with friends in the Midlands. A gentleman by the name of Fourteys. He’s got an daughter Wilma’s age. Good people, Black says. They won’t treat my girl like a drudge. And Black wrote to tell Fourteys about me, so he can tell my Wilma that papa is coming for her just as soon as he can.” 

Finn had gone wet around the eyes. Doran pretended not to notice, to spare the big man his dignity. 

As Finn pulled himself together, Doran thought back on what he’d just learned. Finn had known Luca was a spy. Toby knowing was bad enough, but at least Toby had figured it out himself. Luca had actually told Finn. Luca never told anyone anything about himself if he could help it. Connell said they shouldn’t pry; Luca would share when he was ready. And he had shared—a little, anyway—and even if most of it was fucking horrifying, Doran was still grateful to hear it. He knew it wasn’t easy for Luca to tell. That made sense, Doran supposed. If he’d been stripped down as often as Luca, maybe he would’ve clung to his secrets, too. Maybe it made him feel a little less naked, knowing there parts of him the men would never see.

So, fine, let Luca keep his secrets. He’d a right to them. But to trust one of the biggest to Finn! Finn was a nice bloke, but he was a fucking stranger compared to Doran. Hell, Luca one of Doran’s closest friends. He’d thought Luca felt the same.

Maybe he’d thought wrong.

“Twinge in my head,” said Doran, seeing Finn’s questioning look. “Anyone else we know come to Guye from Redditch?” 

Finn rattled off a few names, mostly free laborers or freed forgeworkers. “And Mal Fergus, of course. Never one to pass up an opportunity, eh? His brother’s here too. Ned. Joined the rebels at Absalom. Nice as anything, Ned is, and honest as they come. Dunno how Mal came out so crooked and his brother so straight, but that’s family for you.”

Doran thought of Toby and winced again. No mystery as to which of them was the crooked one.

He’d been wondering how to ask Finn about apprenticing at the forge—as a slave he’d always just been assigned work; he had no idea how to go about asking for it—but luckily Finn gave him the perfect opening. They’d set up Redditch as a sort of arms factory for the Midlands, and most of the smiths had been left behind to run it; they were badly undermanned here at Guye. Oh, no doubt the Dogs of Guye had their own smiths, but Finn wasn’t keen on the chances of peaceful collaboration, not after all the trouble over Luca when they arrived.

Here Finn broke off, and Doran could tell he was about to ask if Doran had heard anything about Luca. To cut him off, Doran blurted out his plan (stupid, now he heard himself stammering it aloud) to train as a blacksmith, or maybe a farrier—something along those lines, anyway, and might there be a place for him at the forge?

To Doran’s relief, Finn responded so enthusiastically it was clear that help was badly needed indeed. 

“You won’t be at an anvil right away, mind,” Finn warned him. “It’ll be fetch and carry work, cleaning tools and the like, but you’ll learn as you go, and the lads’ll be glad of the help.”

Fetch and carry work sounded unpleasantly like what Doran had done as Balkas’s drudge, but he supposed even free men had to start somewhere. 

Mal Fergus wasn’t hard to find. He’d found a plum spot to pitch his tent and was dealing out a hand from his “lucky” (for which read “rigged”) deck of cards to a group of soldiers. They were a mixed lot, three Solasans and an Enkaaran, plus a Guyish-looking fellow chewing a birch twig. All watched Fergus deal with the keen avidity of seasoned gamblers.

Fergus, of course, looked like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. That was his real gift, Doran thought, even more than quick hands and a devious mind: the ability to appear totally plausible even as he was swindling a group of heavily-armed men. 

As Doran approached the table, a boy stepped out from behind the table to block his path. He looked barely old enough to have left home.

“We’ve got a full table,” he said, crossing his arms.

At this, Fergus looked up to see Doran and broke into a broad grin.

“Doran, as I live and breathe! Fellows, excuse me a moment. My lieutenant here will take over.”

“You set up your new operation fast,” said Doran once he and Fergus were out of earshot. (He bit back the sir just in time.) “Got a new flunky and everything. Did you ditch Carnaby and Graeme at Redditch?”

“I buried them at Redditch.”

Fergus said this so casually that Doran gave him a sharp look. But he wasn’t joking. He wore his usual mild, mocking expression, but his jaw was tight, his eyes remote.

“They died when Black’s men took the garrison?” Doran asked.

“They were Black’s men by then. I recruited them. Maybe if I hadn’t, they wouldn’t’ve been killed by their own barracks-mates.” He tried to smile. “Well, here we are. Out of the ashes and all that. Are you happy to see me?”

“Delighted.”

Now it was Fergus’s turn to give Doran a sharp look.

“Still haven’t forgiven me for cutting you off, eh?”

“I know that was Mouse’s doing.”

“Yeah, but your Mouse is hard to hold a grudge against. Especially now.”

Doran forced himself to shrug. A tense, effortful gesture. Like shouldering a stone.

“Anyway,” he said, “I figure you owe me a drink, s—Fergus. Now I’m a free man and all.”

Fergus laughed.

“That’s right! I promised to take you out on the town, didn’t I?” 

“And rent us a pretty girl.”

“Too bad there’s none of those around. Nancy and the rest stayed back in the Midlands.”

“Good,” said Doran, with a vehemence that took both of them aback. He cleared his throat. “You’ve set up quite the a nice little operation here, s—Fergus. Not worried about Black bringing the hammer down?”

“Ah, well. The thing about Black is, he wants everyone to get along. And cards, they’re the great unifier. A common language, see? Solasans, Enkaarans, Northmen—we all speak aces and spades.”

Doran was about to retort when his gaze was caught by a passerby. Words fled.

It was the young man from Black’s tent, of course, the one with the honey-colored eyes and scar on his cheek. He moved lightly, in long strides, like a stalking cat. His clothes hung well on him; Doran could imagine the tapered waist and lean, muscled thighs beneath the fabric.

He was brought back to earth by Fergus jabbing a sharp finger into his ribs.

“Better watch that roving eye of yours, Doran. That lad’s not on the market.”

“He’s got a lover?”

“A protector, anyway.” 

“How protective of a protector?”

“Put it this way: I’d rather steal a boy from the King’s seray than try to chat up Robert Black’s adoptive brother.”

Oh, fields of hell. Doran was beginning to think that Robert Black had been sent by the gods to thwart him. 

“They’re that close, eh?” said Doran weakly.

“I hear Tam Tregeryth himself wanted to court the lad, but when he went to Black for permission, Black threatened to cut off his head and post it on a pike. He’d do it, too. Gods know he’s ruthless enough. And you must’ve seen that barbarian bodyguard of his. Inseparable, the two of them. Anyway, after that, Black put the word out: Asher Lacey is strictly off-limits.”

“You’re well-informed,” said Doran, trying not to sound bitter. “Been collecting gossip like a fishwife, have you?” 

“I keep my ears open, that’s all.”

“You hear anything about Lord Tobias?”

“Balkas’s shitty little squire?” said Fergus, surprised. “Yeah, he’s up at the Castle. Best-treated prisoner in the kingdom, from what I hear.” He eyed the healing bruises on Doran’s cheek and temple. “A fair sight better than the Dogs treated you, I don’t doubt.”

“They had their reasons,” said Doran. He couldn’t explain without telling Fergus what had happened with Luca, and he’d rather have Robert Black’s bodyguard cut off his head and post it on a pike. 

“Well, if you’re keen on revenge, we’ve had more than a few Northmen sneak out to the moor for a bit of action,” said Fergus. “Would be nice to have a strapping fellow like yourself around to keep an eye on things, like you did at Redditch.”

By keep an eye on things Doran knew Fergus meant stand between me and the pissed-off fellow waving a knife. Doran hadn’t minded when the fellow in question was Solasan: their soldiers were generally willing to let themselves be talked down from a fight, especially if there was a bribe in the offing. But the weeks Doran and Connell had spent as the low men in the Dogs’ hierarchy hadn’t exactly left him impressed with their restraint. And the Enkaarans were a totally unknown quantity.

Seeing his hesitation, Fergus said, “At Redditch, you wanted a free man’s cut. You’re worth more than that to me now, especially with Graeme and Carnaby gone. What d’you say to ten percent of the winnings?”

“Call it twenty, if I’m worth that much to you.”

“Cut the difference at fifteen and I’ll shake your hand, freedman.”

Doran hesitated. Could he get more if he pushed? 

But he was tired of pushing. Whatever fight was left in him after that nightmare journey through the Wychwood had been leached away in the cold void of the pit. Besides, knowing what Fergus took in from the punters at Redditch, fifteen percent was nothing to sneeze at.

As they shook hands, Doran thought of Robert Black ordering him to find an occupation. Well, hark at him now: two occupations before noon, and hardly any work at all to get.

How’s that for earning my supper? he thought triumphantly.

[yanderelovebites]

More isekai batsis because I love it so much.

So mine in particular doesn’t go by Y/n to the bat family since it is an isekai but when she’s by herself she will refer to herself as Y/n. Her Isekai name is Illia Birdges-Wayne.

I didn’t go too deep into the details of Damian’s obsession yet, just vague stuff so that’s what this post more or less is.

I’d like to say that Damian has a somewhat emotional-incest connection to her. He will not get physical as he’s been raised better, but there are signs-blatant signs I’ll add, that if they were not half-siblings he’d try. Once it’s obvious to Damian she understands he legitimately cares for her as I do feel Damian could tell her walls were still up, he’d be over the moon in his own lack of enthusiasm way.

When Damian and her start going to school together, it’s definitely more clear as well. Damian deals with her ‘friends’ at first to be close to her. He doesn’t like them and batsis isn’t truly friends with these ‘friends’ either. Their use is to keep her social standing up and Damian can see it.

While in a lot of fanfics Damian would egg the others on, as do they in turn, I don’t think Damian would exactly agree with any academic manipulation. If anything Damian thinks it’s the stupidest thing in the world because he doesn’t see it as just affecting her. As I’ve mentioned, he sees her friends as to keep a social standing. He sees them not as her friends, but pawns. As far as he’s concerned, her pawns are his too. So it legitimately upsets the little dude. I can just see the family trying to fuck with it and Tim back tracks because Damian put a venomous snake in his computer chair. They fuck off when it came to school after that because who wants to fuck with that.

Also this attempt would be without Bruce’s knowledge. He actually shuts Tim and Dick down on these attempts. Also scolds Damian in his perspective but it literally does nothing in regards of convincing him that his sister’s friends aren’t pawns.

He would tell his mom about her too. He won’t shut up, to the point she jokes about it sounding like he’s telling her his crush rather than a sister, but Damian disregards that statement.

If they were older, Damian is the brother who scared off any boyfriends since he’s always with her in public. If she somehow snuck it behind his back yes he’d be upset, but he would take it out on the partner. Now, Damian doesn’t worship her—even if he sometimes comes off like that.

These two would at some point using Arabic, Japanese, Korean, Irish and mandarin would make a code language that no one else in the house understands. At first Bruce thought it was just Arabic so he learns it and realizes it’s not just Arabic. So he figured out some of it is Japanese and mandarin, but can’t figure out what the other two are. It’s also the fact the two learned all of these, of course some they already knew, just so no one else could understand what the hell they were saying.

And just as he doesn’t want anyone dating her, he also gets offended when guys don’t won’t to. It’s even worse if they have an actual reason that doesn’t involve him. How dare they claim you’re too skinny? Too fat? The list could go on.

I can also imagine once Damian and her are comfortable enough, Damian would help “Illia” train in the martial arts she’s taking since Damian would have been trained in them from a far younger age. One day they come to dinner with bruises and gives everyone a panic attack and they’re like “What’s wrong? Damian was helping me train.” Followed by Damian complimenting an improvement but then going straight into what she needs to improve next.

He’s so damn attached. Sure he cares for the rest of the bat family but she has a different place in his life than them. They’re the people who mentor him, they’re the people he fights crime with—she is who he can go to and just be his age for damn once. They can only teach him how to be a Robin, her? She shows him what a Wayne is. There’s a difference whether they’d like to see it or not.

Next person I’ll get into (and how their obsession evolves) is Bruce. This is in order of who gets obsessive first to last btw.

[writesthrice]

So Samuel Roukin is absolutely the charmingest sweetheart?! Love him so much.

Things he said at his q&a's over the weekend that BLOW ME AWAY:

- he and Neil Ellice (Soap) took waaaay longer than expected filming all of the dad jokes from "Alone" in MW2, cause they were both laughing/crying sooooo hard

-they found out about Soap's death and then had to film it an hour and a half later, and he said it was insane becuase they were so upset in real life over losing the character AND over the tjought of not getting to work with Neil anymore, and it was just, very emotional

- He told a dad joke in Ghost's voice, and it was amazing! I filmed it, but I'm not sure about posting it here, cause I'm not trying to get doxxed. Maybe someone will have uploaded it to youtube?

-Someone asked him (in vague terms) about the Ghost and Soap shipping, and he said that it's flattering that people love these characters so much that they feel driven to create, and to, yes, please, make more. He loves the idea of us creating, no matter what it is, and wants us to do more of it!

- He and Barry Sloan (Capt Price) wouldn't break character in between takes. The example he gave us was this exchange, IN CHARACTER:

Price: What do you think, Simon? You gonna get a snack?

Ghost: I dunno, Captain.

Price: I'm getting a snack, I'm a bit hungry.

Ghost: You're always hungry, Captain.

And just. Ahhhhhhh!.

I might add to this laterrr, as more thinga come to me!