#he just carried way too much a burden of the nation

[nightfal1n]

"I miss you"

"I miss both of you"

+ Timelapse

[sugurus-thoughts]

01. A nonsense christmas

❅ pairing — president! Ryomen Sukuna x singer! reader

❅ summary — You're my wish list Lookin' at you got me thinking Christmas Snowflakes in my stomach when we're kissin' And when you're comin' down the chimney, ooh, it feels so good I need that Charles Dickens You'll be Santa Claus and I'll be Mrs.

❅ w/c — 10,85k

❅ warning — age gap (sukuna early 30's reader in her early 20's), based during 1930's, angst, fluff, smut, touching, MDNI, oral sex (giving), mentions of neglect.

❅ a/n — this fic was inspired by Marilyn Monroe and JFK back in the day. I truly don't know what happened between those two but I did watch the documentary series of Marilyn Monroe and honesty my heart truly goes out to her and I love her so much! And I hope you love this story as much as I wrote it. I wasn't excited writing this but as I wrote it it became much more comforting to me :') ❤️🍰

It begins with the snow—soft, relentless, blanketing the city like a promise of peace. You’ve always found winter in the capital to be impossibly beautiful, even as it presses its cold fingers against your skin. Tonight, though, the beauty of it all feels distant, eclipsed by the grandeur of the Presidential Residence looming before you.

You step out of the car, your heels clicking against the polished stone driveway, your breath curling like smoke in the icy air. The mansion rises like a beacon against the winter night, its windows spilling warm light into the darkness. The Christmas Gala. The most coveted event of the year. And you—the season’s brightest star—are here not as a guest, but as its entertainment.The crowd itself could not withstand your siren beauty as camera flashes surround you. With your white lace dress and faux scarf wrapped all around you—how could you have said no to a camera.

Inside, the air is heavy with the scent of evergreen and champagne. The towering Christmas tree, dripping with crystal ornaments and golden ribbons, commands the room’s attention, but not as much as the man standing beneath it. President Ryomen Sukuna. His name carries the weight of a nation, his presence magnetic even among the sea of glittering gowns and tailored suits. He’s watching you, though you pretend not to notice, your practiced grace carrying you toward the stage.

The moment you step into the spotlight, the world falls silent. You don’t just sing; you command. Your voice weaves through the room, low and sultry, wrapping around the crowd like velvet. The President doesn’t look away—not once. You feel the weight of his gaze like a physical thing, burning through the layers of glamour you’ve wrapped around yourself.

“Sata baby, so hurry down the chimney tonight

Think of all the fun I've missed

Think of all the fella's that I haven't kissed

Next year I could be just as good

If you check off my Christmas list”

When the final note fades, applause erupts, but your eyes find his. He’s clapping slowly, deliberately, a faint smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. And in that instant, you know—this night is only the beginning.

After leaving the stage you navigate your way, through the buzzing crowd offering polite smiles and nods but keeping your distance.

You were used to this—all the praises, all the eyes but yet tonight it felt heavier than usual,as if all eyes were watching to see your next move.

Politicians, socialists and business tycoons—all these powerful leaders, greeting you with so much respect but yet, you could feel the lingering eyes of their partners. It was never easy to be a female with so much prominence but yet it hurt —it hurts to be hated by your own kind. We were supposed to support one another, to uplift one another but the cruelty of being a woman in this society was truly a burden.

You had to leave,the whispers among these people were too much to bear.

You slip into a quieter part of the residence—for some reason you found yourself in a cozy study filled with books and beautiful paintings . The soft hum of the party fades away and you take a moment to catch your breath, savoring the stillness in this moment.

You rarely had moments to yourself —your life was a whirlwind of rehearsals, performances, and endless scrutiny. Being an artist in a world where men dictated the rules was a challenge on its own, but being a woman in this world came with invisible chains. They didn't take you seriously, not really. To them you were a pretty face, perfect body, pleasant voice, a fleeting novelty. And yet your talent commanded rooms filled with the most powerful people in the country.

But it was just the men. Women didn't seem to like you either, much worse actually. You'd catch their sharp glances, their whispering behind raised champagne flutes. They saw you as a threat— a reminder of the rules they could never break, the freedom they did dare to take. It stung deeply, more than you can admit. You didn't want to compete,it was never what your nature —instead you wanted to be seen for more than glittering persona you wore on stage

The loneliness that came with that, was something that could not be turned away.It all settled into your chest like a cold ache. No matter how much applause you earned, how many invitations you received, you couldn't shake the feeling that you were performing for a world that would never truly embrace you.

The library is dimly lit, the polished wood floors creaking softly under your heels. You find yourself in a study, its walls lined with books that smell of leather and time. A fire crackles in the hearth, its warmth a welcome contrast to the cold edges of the gala.

You cross to the window, tracing a finger against the frosted glass. Outside, the snow continues to fall, silent and unyielding. For a moment, you feel like you can breathe again.

“Running away from your admirers?” The voice startles you, low and rich, with a hint of amusement. You turn to find him leaning against the doorframe, his hands tucked casually into his pockets, as if he owns not just the room but the very air you are breathing.

The President.

For a second, neither of you exchange words. Silence filled the room and the only sound that could be heard was the warmth of the fire crackles. His gaze, it feels so much heavier than the opulent chandelier in this room.

“You flatter me Mr President,” you finally managed, your voice steady despite the flutter in your chest.

“But I'm not running. Just… catching my breath”.

“From the crowd or the applause?” he asked, stepping into the room, his polished shoes loud against the wooden floor.

“Both” you admit, leaning light against the wooden ledge. “It's a bit overwhelming, even for someone used to the spotlight”

A faint smile crosses his sharp features,his eyes never leaving yours. “ I imagine it would be. Though you make it seem effortless. You captivated them”.

“I'm sure that feeling you know well,” you counter, tilting your head slightly. “Captivating a room comes naturally to someone in your position”

His laugh is soft, almost modest, “Captivating and control are not the same thing. They listen to me because they have to. They listen to you because they want to.”

You hesitate, unsure if his words were a compliment or yet a challenge. “And which one are you Mr President?” you ask, your voice soft but laced with curiosity. “Do you want to listen, or do you have to?”

A smirk deepens as he moves around the study, looking at a few paintings. “That” he says is a very good question” his eyes caught yours, a glimmer of something unreadable expression.

You hold his gaze, feeling the weight of that moment—for the first time that evening you felt like you weren't performing —but unraveling.

His steps draw closer and closer —just close enough for you to catch the faint scent of his cologne —rich, warm and just utterly disarming. His gaze is unwavering, as though searching for something beneath your carefully composed exterior.

“I want to” he says, his voice low and deliberate, each word rolling off his tongue with quiet intensity.

The corner of his mouth lifts in a subtle l, almost wicked smiles,and for a moment the world outside the room feels very far.

“And not just your singing”

Irritation kicked in. You were so used to all of this. Men lusting over you, women glaring at you, finding ways to just get you in their bed. It was no surprise he was doing the same thing.

“Why do you sing?”, he asked softly.

The question caught you off guard. Never has any man nor woman asked you such a vulnerable question. For a moment you could not fathom his words, clearly you have never been seen or heard by anyone—can you be honest with yourself?. Your fingers graze the edge of the window ledge, seeking something solid to anchor yourself.

“I sing because it’s the only time I feel free,” you admit softly, your voice barely above a whisper. “When I’m up there, it doesn’t matter what they think of me, what they expect. For a few minutes, it’s just me and the music. No judgments. No rules.”

You glance at him, half-expecting ridicule or a dismissive smile, but his expression is unreadable, his gaze fixed on you like he’s hearing something rare and precious.

“And because,” you continue, a faint, bittersweet smile tugging at your lips, “if I don’t, I feel like I’ll disappear.”

For a moment, he doesn’t say anything, but his gaze softens, losing its sharp, commanding edge. Slowly, he steps closer, his voice quiet and deliberate.

“You don’t have to disappear,” he says, as if it’s a promise meant only for you. “Not when the world is watching—and certainly not when I’m listening.”

His words catch you off guard, not because of their tenderness but because they feel... genuine. As if, for the first time, someone truly sees the weight you carry beneath the glamour.

“You’re not just a voice on a stage,” he continues, his tone firm yet gentle. “You’re so much more than they’ll ever understand.”

The way he says it, the way he looks at you, makes you wonder if maybe, just maybe, he’s right.

“Mr President,” your tone exposing the faint glimmer of gratitude. For the first time, it felt like someone understood you, not Y/N for the star you are but for the Y/N who you are. “Thank you, I appreciate your kind words” you smile in his direction.

Your smile is contagious enough to draw a simple one from him. For a moment silence surrounds the both of you, the party that was long lost seems to fade away slowly.

“So, do you always have time to chase after the singer at your parties, Mr. President?” you ask, your voice dripping with charm as you rise gracefully from your seat. Slowly, you move through the library, feigning nonchalance, though his piercing gaze follows your every step.

“You know, Little Songbird, you never fail to surprise me,” he murmurs, his baritone voice rich with amusement. The nickname lingers in the air like a melody, and your steps falter for just a second. Songbird? Did he really just call you that?

You don’t dare look back, but his footsteps trail closely behind, deliberate and unhurried. The tension in the room sharpens as you realize the path you’ve chosen leads you to a dead end—a bookshelf towering before you with no opening in sight.

With a steadying breath, you turn at last, only to find him standing right in front of you, much closer than you’d anticipated. His presence feels overwhelming, his gaze holding yours like a quiet command. For a moment, the world seems to shrink to just the two of you, the warmth of his proximity sending a shiver down your spine.

“Mr President…” you whisper softly,your voice barely audible over the sounds of your own racing heartbeat. His gaze never wavers, dark and intense, ranking over your slightly trembling figure as if committing ever detail to memory.

He leans in, so close— the faint scent of bourbon—his breath brushes against your ear, the rich timbre of his voice low and deliberate.

“Some things, little songbird” he murmurs, each word dripping with meaning “are chasing —even for a president”

The air between you two feels impossibly charged, and for a moment, the world outside ceases to exist. That is until the sharp clatter of heels against the wooden floor slices through the tension like a cold gust of wind.

“Ryomen” a clipped, feminine voice calls out,breaking the spell. Your turn instinctively to see her standing in the doorway—The First Lady, groomed in diamond and scandal. The papers have been relentless about her affairs, her icy aura, her calculated public appearance. Now she doesn't even spare you a glance, her eyes solely on him as if you don't exist. Of course what did you expect,in such a state.

“They need you for the announcement”, she says briskly, her tone more business than affection.

The president straightens, his expression slipped back into its stoic mask, though his gaze lingers on you for a fraction longer than it should. You take a step back suddenly feeling the weight of that moment, it's as if you didn't belong there. The tightening in your chest only made it worse.

Without another, you turn to slip past him, the faint brush of his fingers against yours—intentional or accidental—you knew neither, sending a shiver through you. You leave the room without saying goodbye, your exit as quiet as the storm building in your chest.

That night —on that cold invaded night, your thoughts were filled with the man that led this country. A man adored by his power, status—and wealth.He seemed to have the world in his grasp, yet for some reason, it felt as though he was also beginning to hold your heart in his hands.

It has been more than a week ever since that cold evening. For some reason, it hasn't crossed your mind—the way the president swept you off your feet—it was just a flush encounter to you, nothing more.

It was that time of year, where you could see the snow fall, hear children's laughter, see the smile upon elders and mostly give out to those in need.

The room hummed with warmth and laughter, a stark contrast to the cold world outside. The children’s charity event was one of your favorite occasions—a rare moment where the glitz of your public persona faded into something far more meaningful. You loved working with children, their innocence and joy reminding you of a world untouched by judgment or pretense.

Dressed in a soft elegant gown, draped with a faux fur coat to cover your body from this weather. You knelt beside a small girl painting ornaments at one of the long tables. For some reason it brings back the memories of when you sat at this very table, painting but mostly single—you were truly the star back then, even now. Her giggles bring you back to reality, as she proudly displays her masterpiece, and you couldn't help but smile, feeling a rare lightness in your chest. For once you were known for “the voice” or “the star”. You were just…. you.

But the lightness didn't last long. You felt it before you saw him—that familiar commanding presence that seemed to shift the air in the room. Straightening, you glanced towards the entrance, and there he was. President Ryomen Sukuna, flanked by his wife, whose practiced smile seemed like the polished diamonds that hung around her throat.

Their arrival stole the attention of the room,applause ripping through the crowd as they made their way towards the stage. You tried focusing on the children but the warmth you felt moments ago slipped through your fingers like sand. And finally your eyes meet from across the room, everything else seems to fade slowly.

The moment your eyes locked, time seemed to slow, the loud chatter in the room fading into a distant murmur. He held your gaze for a beat longer than he should have, something unspoken passing between you. Then, just as quickly, he turned his attention back to the crowd, his expression neutral and composed as he greeted donors and officials.

You let out a shaky breath, turning back to the little girl, who was now adding glitter to her ornament. “You’ll need to let it dry,” you said softly, forcing a smile and focusing on her instead of the fluttering in your chest.

But you weren’t oblivious to him. Every move he made seemed to draw your attention, no matter how hard you tried to stay grounded. His wife, ever the picture of poise, clung to his arm as they mingled, though her wandering eyes and absent smiles told another story. The tabloids had been relentless about her rumored affairs, and seeing her up close, you wondered how much truth there really was to them.

A volunteer approached you, asking if you’d mind helping distribute gifts to the children. You agreed eagerly, relieved to have something to distract you. Carrying a box of wrapped toys, you moved to the front of the room, where several kids were eagerly waiting.

As you handed out the gifts, you felt his gaze on you again. This time, when you glanced over, he was watching you with an intensity that made your pulse quicken. It wasn’t the gaze of a president assessing a performer. It was something else entirely—something deeper, more personal.

But before you could dwell on it, his wife stepped forward, taking his arm and guiding him toward the podium. The crowd hushed as he began his speech, his rich, commanding voice filling the room.

You tried to focus on his words, but your mind drifted. Was he thinking about the last time you saw each other? About the way you left without saying goodbye? And why, despite everything, did you feel drawn to him still?

After the speech, the president and his wife descended from the stage, moving toward the children’s area where you stood. You busied yourself with the toys, hoping to avoid any interaction, but fate, as always, had other plans.

As the President approached, you felt a strange mix of anticipation and nerves settle in your chest. He moved with an air of quiet authority, his presence commanding attention even in the lively atmosphere of the children’s charity event

When he finally reached you, his eyes softened, the faintest smile lingers upon his sharp features. “Miss Y/L/N”, he greeted, his voice formal, though there was something in his tone —something just for you.

You offer a polite smile with your hands clasped together in front of you. “Mr President”, your voice steady but you weren't sure if the tightness in your chest gave away any form of tension between the two of you.

But before the moment could stretch into anything more, his wife stepped forward, her perfectly painted smile not quite reaching her eyes. “Oh it's you” she said, her tone light but laced with thinly veiled condescension.

Your eyes widened, and a plastering smile forms across your now—nervous state.

The awkward silence between the two of you, so loud, you could hear a pin drop. You finally protest to speak but her remark caught you off guard “Performers always seem so undressed these days and at a charitable event how amusing, don't you think Sukuna dear?”.

Your plastered smile was quickly faltered for the briefest moment, though you quickly masked it with a polite laugh, pretending her words hadn't stung. Your gaze flicked to the President, searching for any hint of reaction. But Sukuna, ever composed, simply raised an eyebrow, his lips pressing into a thin line as he regarded his wife with an unreadable expression.

“I suppose it depends on one’s perspective,” he finally said, his tone neutral but carrying an edge that made her smile tighten ever so slightly.

You tried to find your footing, clearing your throat as you turned back to the children. “The little ones seem to enjoy the event,” you said lightly, kneeling to hand a gift to a boy beaming up at you. “That’s what truly matters, doesn’t it?”

The First Lady hummed in response, a sound that wasn’t quite agreement but wasn’t outright dismissal either. Her cold, appraising gaze swept over you once more before she turned her attention back to her husband. “You’re needed for the press conference soon, darling,” she said, slipping her arm through his with a practiced ease that was as much for the cameras as it was for control.

Sukuna hesitated, his eyes lingering on you for just a fraction too long. “I’ll be there shortly,” he replied, his voice firm yet calm.

She frowned, clearly displeased but unwilling to argue in public. With a sharp nod, she turned and began walking toward the stage, her heels clicking against the polished floor

The tension between you and Sukuna hung in the air as you stood, brushing invisible dust from your gown. “She's… lovely” you said your tone clear but yet a hint of sarcasm slipped through.

But reality crept back in, and with it, the reminder of who he was—and who you weren’t. “Well, Mr. President,” you said, offering a polite nod. “Enjoy the rest of the evening.”

You turned and walked away, your heart heavier with every step, knowing you’d left more unsaid than you’d ever dare admit.

“Let’s take it from the top. We need your vocals in check,” Yuji said, gesturing toward the sheet music spread out on the stand.

You nodded, stepping up to the microphone. The melody began to fill the room, soft and slow, but your mind wandered. Two days. It had been two days since the charity event, and the weight of the First Lady’s scornful words still lingered. Doubt crept into your thoughts, whispering cruel questions: Were you too much? Did you belong in spaces like these, surrounded by powerful people who seemed to thrive on tearing others down?

“Miss Y/L/N?” Yuji’s voice broke through your reverie.

You blinked, realizing the music had stopped. “I’m sorry, Yuji. My mind is elsewhere.”

He gave you a small, understanding smile. “Let’s call it a night. You’ve done enough for today.”

Glancing at the clock on the wall, you noticed it was nearing midnight. “You’re right. Thank you, Yuji.”

He waved you off as you gathered your coat. “I’ll lock up. Go get some rest.”

The chill of the winter night greeted you as you stepped outside. A short car ride later, you arrived at your hotel, its warm, dimly lit lobby offering a momentary reprieve from the biting cold.

Once in your room, you slipped out of your coat and shoes, collapsing onto the chaise by the window. The city lights twinkled faintly below, but your thoughts were elsewhere—on him. You didn’t want to admit it, but his gaze from across the room during the charity event still lingered in your mind.

The shrill ring of the telephone startled you from your thoughts. You hesitated, staring at the black rotary phone on the side table. Who could be calling at this hour? Slowly, you picked up the receiver.

“Hello?”

There was a pause, and then that unmistakable voice came through, rich and smooth, sending a jolt through you. “Little Songbird.”

Your breath caught,you knew that nickname. “Mr. President?”

“I hope I’m not disturbing you,” he said, his tone softer than you’d ever heard it.

You glanced at the clock—it was well past midnight. “It’s late,” you murmured, unable to mask the mixture of surprise and curiosity in your voice.

“I know,” he admitted, his voice lowering. “But I couldn’t wait any longer.”

The silence that follows through, was suppressed by the faint falling of snow,people wandering outside the hotel at this very late hour.

“How did you know where I was?”, your voice barely above a whisper,as you lay in bed.

“I'm the president, you know?” he murmured but you could hear the smirk underneath his baritone voice.

For some reason, you could not respond. You merely sat there in silence, trying to understand the situation.

“Since you are the President, I'll let you do your work. I'm sure you have loads of work to attend to” with sarcasm dripping from your tone

But before you could put down the receiver, you heard him whisper.

“May I hear your new record…will you sing it for me?”

The silence stretched for a moment, broken only by the faint sound of snowflakes brushing against the window. You clutched the receiver tighter, your pulse quickening at his bold request.

“You want me to sing for you?” you asked, your voice laced with disbelief.

“Yes,” he replied simply, his tone low and steady. “But not now. I want to hear it properly, away from prying eyes and ears.”

You hesitated, unsure where this was going, and yet unable to resist the pull in his voice. “And where exactly would that be?”

He chuckled softly, a sound that sent a shiver down your spine. “There’s a lodge I keep outside the city—quiet, secluded. It’s where I go when I need to… escape.”

Your heart thudded in your chest as the weight of his words settled. “You’re asking me to meet you there?”

“Yes,” he said without hesitation. “Tomorrow evening. No staff, no cameras, no interruptions. Just you and me.”

You bit your lip, torn between intrigue and the dangerous implications of what he was suggesting. “Mr. President�� do you realize what you’re asking?”

“I do,” he said firmly. “But I can’t seem to stop myself.”

The line went quiet for a moment, save for the sound of your breathing. “I’ll send a car for you,” he added softly, his voice carrying an unmistakable warmth. “If you decide to come.”

And with that, the line went dead, leaving you alone in the stillness of your room, grappling with a decision that could change everything.

❅❅❅

Standing like a king awaiting his queen’s arrival, the soft glow of the lantern behind him casting shadows that danced across his sharp features. In his black, loose-fitted pants and a weathered brown trench coat, he seemed worlds apart from the image of power he carried in the city. Here, he wasn’t the President; he was just… Ryomen Sukuna.

“You came,” he whispered, his voice low, almost disbelieving.

“Well it was the President's request, how could I possibly say no? ” Your voice matched his tone, soft and intimate, laced with a teasing edge. But your eyes—your eyes never left his.

He stepped closer, the crunch of snow beneath his boots the only sound breaking the stillness. The biting cold nipped at your skin, but his presence seemed to radiate warmth, pulling you in like the embers of a dying fire.

“I didn’t think you would,” he admitted, his hand brushing lightly against yours, testing the waters.

“Neither did I,” you replied honestly, your breath forming small clouds in the frosty air.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The world around you seemed to pause, the snow falling in gentle whispers as you stood there, suspended in time. His hand finally closed over yours, his touch firm yet hesitant, as if afraid you might pull away.

“Come”, he said softly, leading you to the lodge.

The warmth inside was a stark contrast to the wintry night outside. A fire crackled in the stone heart, filling the room with a golden glow. It was simple l, rustic even, a world away from the luxurious Ness you associated with him. At that moment it felt so… perfect.

He gestured for you to sit near the fire,and you did, feeling the heat seep into your chilled skin. He poured two glasses of red wine, the essence of the luxurious wine reached your nose as he handed you one before settling into the chair opposite from yours.

“You're different here,” you said after a moment of studying him.

“How so?” he asked, a small smile playing on his lips as he swirled the wine in his glass.

“You're not the man I saw standing beside his wife two days ago,” you admitted. “Here you seem… freer”.

He chuckled, his tone rich and vibrant enough to fill the silence in this room. “Perhaps, it's because for once, I can be myself”

For a moment you could only bear his vulnerability, your ache slightly at his confession.

His eyes burned into yours, the space between you charged with an intensity that made your heart race. But then, as if sensing the weight of the moment, he pulled back slightly, his expression softening.

“There’s something I want to show you,” he said, his voice low, but the edges of a faint smile tugged at his lips.

You blinked, confused by the sudden shift in tone. “What is it?”

He stood, offering you his hand. Hesitant but intrigued, you placed your hand in his, letting him guide you toward the far end of the room. Your footsteps were soft against the wooden floor, the warmth of the fire fading as you moved closer to the shadows.

Then you saw it—a beautiful grand piano, polished to perfection, sitting in the corner of the lodge. Its elegance felt out of place in the rustic room, but it was breathtaking all the same.

You stopped, staring at it in disbelief. “Where did this…?”

“I had it brought here earlier today,” Sukuna admitted, rubbing the back of his neck almost sheepishly. “I thought… if you came, maybe you’d play. Maybe you’d sing.”

Your hand flew to your mouth, overwhelmed by the gesture. No one had ever done something like this for you—not with this much thought, this much care. “Sukuna…” you whispered, your voice trembling.

“I wanted you to feel… seen,” he said softly, his usual confidence tempered by vulnerability. “You said you’d sing for me, remember?”

You nodded, your throat tightening as you stepped toward the piano. Running your fingers over the keys, you pressed one lightly, the note echoing through the quiet room. Taking a deep breath, you sat down, your hands trembling slightly as they settled on the keys.

The first note you played was soft, uncertain, but as you continued, the music poured out of you, filling the space with something raw and beautiful. And then you sang—softly at first, but soon your voice swelled, carrying the emotions you couldn’t put into words.

When the last note faded into the stillness, you turned to find Sukuna standing right behind you, his gaze locked on yours.

“Beautiful,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion.

You opened your mouth to respond, but before you could, he leaned down, his hands resting lightly on the edge of the piano, caging you in. His face was so close now, his breath warm against your skin.

“Sukuna… Mr President…” your eyes reverting away from his, trying to find a way to remove yourself from this situation.

“Say it”, he murmured his voice low, almost a growl. “Tell me, Little Songbird… tell me you don't feel it too. That this isn't tearing you apart the way it's tearing me apart”.

Your eyes met his burning ones for a moment. You could see the yearning, you could see the flames that were about to combust as if he was restraining himself from whatever chains were weighing them down.

You opened your mouth to speak but unfortunately no words were formed. You didn't need them. The way your hand reached out on its own was enough to speak, brushing against his jawline, said more than words ever could.

His head dipped for a moment, eyes closed as the softness of your hands stroked against the rough patches against his skin. He slowly leaned forward, and for a moment you thought he would kiss you but instead he stopped, his lips hovering just a breath away above yours, his eyes searching yours as if asking for permission.

Your heart pounding —he was so close you could feel the rhythm of his heart in sync with yours.

“This is reckless, Mr President…” you whisper softly barely audible over the sounds of beating hearts. He titled his head, giving just enough time to pull away if you wanted to.

“Do you believe that, Little Songbird? ”, his words cast a veil of questions against your chest. Did you? The truth was you didn't know. Or maybe want to admit you cared about the consequences anymore.

“I believe”, you whisper, lips so close you could feel the slightest touch, “you've already done something to me”

That is all it took,for Sukuna to close the distance between the two of you. His lips brushed against yours so softly at first, hesitant.

But his hand slid to cup your face, the kiss deepened, all tension, longing, and unspoken words between you spilling in that single, undeniable moment.

“Mr President” the soft mewl of your voice—saying his name like that sent him to heaven itself.

It seemed your bodies gravitated towards one another, so naturally—so perfect. His lips pressed against yours with a fervent need, and you melted into, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as if anchoring yourself in this moment. The kiss began slowly, searing burn, but soon it ignited into something wilder, something neither could suppress.

Sukuna's hands, strong and sure, slid to your waist, lifting you effortlessly as if you weighed nothing at all. A soft gasp escaped your lips, quickly swallowed but the intensity of his kiss as he guided you back. Your body met the surface of the piano behind you, a sharp contrast to the heat radiating between the two of you.

The instrument groaned under the sudden shift, a discordant, jarring filling the room. You both froze for a moment, startled by the sound. Then his baritone voice filled the room with a chuckle,low and rich like velvet.

“Careful” he murmured against your lips, forehead resting against your for a brief moment. The corner of his mouth quivered into a smile, and you could help but laugh softly yourself,a flush creeping up your skin.

“Your piano might not survive, us, “ You whisper breathlessly, the teasing lilt in your voice only adding to the intimacy of the moment.

“Your piano Little Songbird” he responded with a smirk, the nickname causing you to blush tremendously. “Let it” before both his hands cupped your face, kissing you harder and much more desperate this time.

The piano hummed faintly beneath you as he deepened the kiss. His fingers explore every inch of your body.

The warm tense of the fire surrounding both of you, was only enough to fuel the intense passion you both had been burdening for the past few weeks. You could taste the red wine linger against his tongue, for no longer than a second his lips brushed against your ear. Fainting whispering “You smell wonderful you know that?” the words clearly left you speechless, he licked a long stripe beneath your year.

The mewl that escaped your lips, only made it worse—kissing you next feverishly enough for you to roam your hand all over his chest,trying to find something to grip upon.

Without hesitation, he removed his shirt exposing his exquisite upper body. You couldn’t hide your flush cheeks, you barely had the strength to move at this point.

His hand gripped your waist, firm but reverent, as though he couldn't decide whether to claim you entirely or simply admire you. The kiss deepened a dance of unspoken emotions, and as his fingers roam over the soft expensive fabric of your dress, a sharp sound tore through the air—a rip.

You gasped, pulling back to look at him, your chest rising and falling with each rapid breath. “Sukuna!”, you exclaimed, bewildered, glancing down at your now-ruined fabric hanging loosely around your waist.

He smirked, entirely unrepentant, his eyes darkened with desire. “I'll buy you another”, his voice low and filled with a teasing edge, "something even better." His gaze swept over you, taking in every curve, every detail of your now-exposed form, and he inhaled sharply.

For a moment, he said nothing, his fingers trailing delicately along your skin, reverent and slow, as if committing every inch of you to memory. "You're ... " His voice faltered, and for the first time, you saw him speechless, utterly captivated. "Exquisite," he finally breathed, his tone rich with admiration, his eyes never leaving you.

You flushed under the weight of his gaze, a mixture of embarrassment and undeniable thrill coursing through you. "You tore my dress," you muttered, attempting to sound stern but failing as his lips brushed against your shoulder, sending a shiver down your spine.

"And I'd do it again," he murmured, his hands tracing the curve of your back, pulling you closer. "You're a masterpiece, Little Songbird. How could I not be impressed?”

The words melted you, and before you could protest further, his lips claimed yours again, silencing any remaining resistance. The ruined dress was forgotten, the only thing that mattered now was the way his touch made you feel like you were the only woman in the world.

The kisses were dark, lustful, exotic —his lips continued their journey down your neck, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. The ruined fabric slipped further, forgotten and discarded as his hands traced every curve with a touch that was both firm and reverent, as though he were exploring sacred ground.

"You're breathtaking," Sukuna whispered against your skin, his voice thick with awe and hunger. The smirk that usually adorned his face was gone, replaced by something deeper, more vulnerable. He looked at you as though you were the only thing in the world worth seeing.

The room went quiet for a bit, nothing but the faint breathing running of your lips.

“Sukuna…”, his lips traveled back to yours only to pick you and place you safely on his lap. Resting against the piano, a proud smirk plastered on his lips.

Slowly his hands made their way to your lacy underwear , kissing your neck soft enough.

“Do you know how maddening you are?”, his tone a mix of frustration and adoration. “You drive me insane Y/N”, and before you could utter a word his two fingers that were lined up against your entrance, finally found its home in your wet womanhood.

Your form lumped on top of his as you whispered his name, softly. Slowly his fingers started forming a rhythm, a groan escaped his lips, forehead resting against your shoulder—sucking it softly.

“You so wet, I can feel your waters dripping, Little Songbird” he murmurs mumbled against your skin. The stretch simply scratches pass his broad shoulders.

“Fuck, you like that don't you?” The question hung in the air, not knowing if it should be answered or not.

“Sukuna…I-” you whine, while his fingers go faster.

“You're making a mess, Little Songbird”, your skin damp, with sweat as you moved along with his pace. You couldn’t stop moving, your hips grinding against his fingers—a low chuckle escaped his lips.

“Mr President ” you gasp, your voice trembling as the pleasure builds to an unexpected peak—something you haven't felt in a while.

Your grip tightened, as his lips started sucking your boobs, the stimulation causing a slight blush against your cheeks

“Say it again”, as his fingers hit a certain part, driving you into ecstasy. You moaned his name again—satisfying his taste.

“Look at me, you hear me” you shook your head, only for him to grab your face—control was the only thing that mattered now.

Your eyes never left his as he kept fingers you, hard enough, you throw your head back at the pleasure.

“I'm close Mr President”you moan, your mouth hung open before you could even cum he pulled out his finger. You whine at the emptiness,enough to pull a smirk on those lips.

“A mess, you really made a mess” he said, looking at his fingers—but directly making you watch as he licked them off,like a starving lion.

“On your knees, now” he commanded gently, his voice smooth and inviting as she gracefully lowered herself before him. He smirked at her—he was enjoying this completely too much. He lower his head, enough to whisper in her ear “Now be a good girl a put that mouth to use”

His eyes never leave yours,offering him a soft smile. Your now trembling hand started to unbutton his pants —fingers hooked his pants and you slowly moved them down to his feet. You could see, his large member fully erect—you could see precum spewing from the top and to admit it he was big,bigger than you could ever imagine

Biting your lip, looking into his eyes as you gather enough silva in your mouth—slowly you part your lips enough to slide his thick member into your mouth. A low groan escaped his lips, his head flung back at the feeling. You slowly began to use your tongue, against his head,flicking your tongue just enough for his hand to grip your hair.

“Fuck, Little Songbird —yeah, you keep doing that”, with he a slight encouragement,you began to bob your head, slowly enough for him to tighten the hold on your hair. You kept your pace slow and steady enough, for him to savor every moment—the sudden urge to press you down further soon compelled and you could feel his leaking tip against the back of your throat.

“You look fucking beautiful like this—faster, fuck” you catch a glimpse of his euphoric state, the hair now clung to his sweaty forehead, slips slightly parted —heavy eyelids as they looked into yours.

You moved at the pace of this hand, sliding his big member against your throat, your free hand travelling to his balls as his hips bucked at the reaction. You sped up the pace, you could feel him throbbing against your throat, his thighs were shaking, and before you knew it he came—his hand gripped you hair tightly while gliding you down his staff and you could hear him say “Swallow it”, and you did every drop of cum, not leaving one a side.

All actions came to a stop, and in an instant Sukuna gripped your figure, almost throwing you on the piano.

“Mr President” you said against his lips—the roughness against your now sensitive skin only made it worse.

“You did well” a praise coming from his lips, leaning in he kissed you neck feverishly—his fingers gripped into your flesh, as if they were touching you for the first time in such a long time.

“I hope you're ready because I can't control myself anymore,” he said softly as he suddenly sucked your breast, squeezing the other soft flesh.

“I need you to bend over”, he panted against your breast. His hands reached out for yours to guide you in a position where you were bending slightly.

As you got on your knees, the continuation of his kisses didn't stop until he reached your core. Kissing it softly, as he slapped your cheek—enough to earn a moan from you. His hand moved to your hair, twisting it between his fingers gripping hard, you let out a soft whimper.

Slowly you could feel his thick member in your wet folds—pushing through you. Tossing his head back in pleasure as he filled you up,you could hear him curse beneath his breath.

The stretch was so much you could handle the way he was slightly pushing in and out of you. His eyes revert to your heels, seeing how stalking was still visible, as he hasn't seen them yet.

“You wore these damn stockings for me didn't you” he said as he kept pounding into you. You couldn’t answer, because the pleasure was truly too much for you to handle.

“Answer me Little Songbird,” a loud slap was heard and you moaned loudly enough,for him to smirk at your actions.

“Yes… yes Mr President”, you whisper but it only came out as a loud moan.

“How sweet of you… fuck your squeezing me so tight” he murmured, throwing his head back.

“Mr President I-” you whine, his one hand grabbing a handful of your ass, kneading the skin softly,as his member continued to push in you softly.

His hands released, hair ever so softly —both coming into contact with your hips gripping them tightly enough, controlling the rhythm of your hips as he continues his ministrations.

“Fuck you feel good, so fucking good”, his hand came into contact with you ass cheek once more,and you could breathe in the star you were in.

“Again,”you whine softly.

“Oh you like that, huh?”, a smirk invaded his lips and you felt the burning sensation of on cheek take over.

“I'm so close” you whimper, eyes closed , you could feel the knot in your stomach begin to form again. Looking back at Sukuna you could see a crease on his forehead, hair hung low, half lidded eyes and once again the stinging sensation against your cheek made everything so pleasurable.

“Me too, fuck” he grunted softly and his fingers made their way to your clit. You could fall apart now if you had to “Sukuna!” you exclaimed. You were gasping for air at this point, his thrusts became sloppy and you could feel him twitch inside you.

“I'm about to-” unable to finish your sentence you came, gripping against the frail dress that now laid on the piano. Your thighs shaking, not a minute longer you gasped at the feeling of his warm seed filling your womanhood. Your eyes revert to his hung open mouth. Sliding out of you, you felt his cum leak down your thigh.

His finger grazed up your thigh, scooping the remaining substance, without being told what to do he laced his fingers across your lips “Open up”, your parted, pressing the remaining substance in your mouth, and you sucked on them softly.

For a moment he could only smile, and he slowly embraced you and gave you a kiss.

❅

Later that evening you both lay on the carpet covered in blankets and the glow of the dying fire bathed the room in a soft, flickering light, casting shadows that seemed to dance around the two of you. The world outside felt distant and unreal, as if it had no claim on this moment. You lay against his chest, your head tucked beneath his chin, your breaths still uneven from the intensity of your time together. His arm draped over you protectively, holding you close as though letting you go was not an option.

“Are you warm enough?” Sukuna asked softly, his voice carrying a tenderness that sent a fresh wave of emotion through you.

You nodded, but instead of answering, you traced small patterns along the toned expanse of his chest, your fingers brushing over the faint scars etched into his skin. You couldn’t help but wonder about the stories they told, about the battles and burdens he carried—not just as the President, but as a man.

“What are you thinking about?” he murmured, his lips pressing against your temple.

You tilted your head to meet his gaze, the depth of his crimson eyes nearly undoing you. “That I’ve never seen you like this,” you admitted quietly. “Just… you.”

A soft chuckle rumbled in his chest. “And do you like what you see?”

Your cheeks flushed, but you didn’t look away. Instead, you rested your hand over his heart, feeling the steady rhythm beneath your palm. “I think I love what I see,” you whispered.

His expression softened, the teasing glint in his eyes replaced by something deeper. He reached up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, his thumb brushing your cheek with a gentleness that made your heart ache. “You have no idea what you do to me, do you?”

You smiled, leaning into his touch. “Maybe you should tell me.”

Sukuna’s smirk returned, but it was softer this time, filled with a warmth that felt entirely unlike the powerful, commanding man the world knew. “I would, but I’d need a lifetime to explain,” he murmured, his voice like velvet as he leaned down to capture your lips in a kiss so sweet, it made the air between you feel electric.

When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, his hands cradling your face. “Promise me,” he said, his voice low and serious. “No matter what happens, no matter what the world throws at us, you’ll never doubt how much I want you, Y/N. Not just here, not just now—but always.”

Your breath hitched, and you wrapped your arms around him, burying your face in the crook of his neck. “I’ll try,” you whispered, your voice trembling with emotion.

For a long time, the two of you stayed like that, wrapped in each other’s arms, the fire casting its golden glow over your entwined figures. And for a moment, it felt as though nothing else mattered—just you and Sukuna, and the fragile, beautiful connection you had built in the quiet of the night.

❅❅❅

The early morning sunlight filtered through the thin curtains of the lodge, casting a soft golden glow over the room. The air was quiet, save for the occasional rustle of the wind outside and the faint crackle of the dying fire in the hearth.

You stirred awake, the remnants of sleep still clinging to you, and for a moment, the events of the night before felt like a dream. But then, the warmth of Sukuna’s arm draped over your waist brought it all back—the stolen moments, the shared confessions, the way he had looked at you as though you were his entire world.

Carefully, you turned your head to look at him. He lay beside you, his features softened in sleep. Gone was the commanding President, the man whose decisions could sway nations. Before you was simply Sukuna, vulnerable and at peace, a side of him few had ever seen.

Your eyes lingered on him, a mixture of wonder and guilt tightening in your chest. The memory of his words echoed in your mind—“I always want you, and you only.” It had felt like a promise, a declaration that should have brought you comfort, but now it left you with a heaviness you couldn’t shake.

Slipping out of bed as quietly as you could, you gathered the discarded pieces of your clothing and wrapped his trench coat around yourself. The room was cold, but it was nothing compared to the whirlwind of emotions brewing inside you.

As you stood by the window, staring out at the snow-covered landscape, the enormity of your situation began to sink in. He was the President, a man with responsibilities, a wife, and a public image to uphold. And you? You were the woman who sang for a living, who had somehow captured the attention of a man who could have anything—or anyone—he wanted.

You heard him stir behind you, the sound of the bed shifting as he sat up. “You’re leaving, aren’t you?” Sukuna’s voice, still heavy with sleep, broke the silence.

You turned to face him, your heart aching at the sight of his disheveled hair and the vulnerability in his eyes. “I have to,” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

He stood, crossing the room in a few strides to stand before you. “Stay,” he said, his hand cupping your cheek. “Just stay.”

Tears welled in your eyes, but you forced a small, sad smile. “You know I can’t.”

The weight of your words hung heavily between you, and for a moment, neither of you moved. Then, he pulled you into his arms, holding you tightly as if trying to anchor you to him.

“Just promise me one thing,” he murmured into your hair. “Promise me you’ll come back.”

You didn’t answer, not because you didn’t want to, but because you weren’t sure if you could. Instead, you pressed a kiss to his chest, letting the warmth of his embrace be your answer—for now.

A few months have passed and the two have been seeing each other regularly, it was as if you both were meant for one another. Each day played, like a movie—your smile was obvious and the papers could sense it too.

This morning was no different as you drank your coffee reading through the telegram that arrived on a quiet morning, the crisp paper trembling slightly in your hands as you read the words again and again. It was an offer—an invitation to join a renowned music conservatory in Italy, to live in a place where your voice could rise above judgment and scandal, to finally pursue your dreams on your own terms. A life of possibility stretched out before you, the kind of opportunity that felt almost too good to be true.

But the weight of it sank in just as quickly. Sukuna.

Later that evening, you found yourself standing in the lodge, the familiar scent of cedar and smoke heavy in the air. Sukuna had been waiting for you, as he always did during these stolen moments. His warm smile greeted you when you walked in, but it faltered as soon as he saw the serious expression on your face.

“You look troubled, Little Songbird,” he said softly, concern etched into his features. “What’s on your mind?”

You took a deep breath, clutching the telegram tightly in your hand. “I received an offer today,” you began, your voice trembling slightly. “From Italy. A conservatory there wants me to join them. It’s… everything I’ve ever dreamed of.”

His face hardened in an instant, the warmth in his eyes replaced by something colder, sharper. “You’re leaving?”

“I haven’t decided yet,” you said quickly, though the words felt like a lie. “But I wanted to talk to you about it.”

Sukuna rose from his seat, his towering figure suddenly feeling more imposing than comforting. “There’s nothing to discuss. You’re not leaving,” he said firmly.

Your heart sank. “Sukuna, this is my chance—my chance to finally be something more. To be free.”

“Free?” His voice rose, and for the first time, you saw the storm brewing beneath his usually composed exterior. “You think you’ll find freedom away from here? Away from me?”

And there it was—the shift, the anger, the selfishness. You felt your emotions bubble to the surface as you stood your ground.

“Don’t you see? This isn’t about you!” you snapped, your voice rising to match his. “This is about me, my life, my dreams. For once, I’m choosing myself.”

“That’s not how this works,” he shot back, his voice a low growl. “You don’t just get to walk away from what we have.”

And then the fight spiraled—his refusal to let you go, your desperation to make him understand. The words were sharp, cutting deeper than either of you intended, until finally, the dam broke.

“You only want me when it’s convenient for you! Only for you!” you shouted, your voice cracking under the weight of your emotions.

The glass shattered against the wooden floor, and with it, so did the fragile balance you’d both been holding onto.Fury and pain poured out of you, a torrent you couldn’t stop as you turned away, pacing like a storm trapped within four walls. The wine glass in your hand slipped from your trembling grip, shattering against the wooden floor as hot tears streamed down your cheeks.

“You can’t just keep me here like one of your laws,” you said, your voice breaking. “This isn’t love. It’s control”. Your eyes burned into his, searching for some sign of guilt, some flicker of remorse in his stoic expression. But he just stood there, watching you with that same maddening calm. “You’re so selfish, Mr. President. Just once, let me go. Let me… be happy.”

Your voice cracked, barely above a whisper now, as you clutched your coat like it was the only thing anchoring you to yourself.

“Would leaving really make you happy?” he asked, his voice quiet, almost fragile. It wasn’t the commanding tone of the President. No, this was something else—something raw and vulnerable. It was Sukuna.

The weight of his words hit you harder than you expected. For a moment, the fight drained out of you, leaving only the exhaustion, the ache in your chest from holding it all in for so long. The silence between you was heavy, oppressive, broken only by the faint sound of his boots against the floor.

He crossed the space between you slowly, cautiously, as though afraid you might shatter if he moved too quickly. When he reached you, his arms encircled your trembling form, pulling you close against his chest. And in that moment, something in you broke. The tears came harder, years of hurt and betrayal spilling out in heaving sobs.

He held you through it all, his strong arms steady as your body shook. It wasn’t the embrace of a man in power or a leader commanding control. It was Sukuna—just Sukuna—holding you as if his own heart was breaking with every tear you shed.

“You think I want you only when it’s convenient?” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. He gently cupped your tear-streaked face, tilting it up so you had no choice but to meet his gaze. His eyes, usually so sharp and calculating, were softer now, filled with something you hadn’t expected—pain, longing, love. “I always want you. Always. And only you. Don’t you see that?”

Your breath caught, his words sinking into the cracks of your fragile heart. You wanted to respond, to say something, but no words came. Instead, you leaned into him, your lips brushing against his in a kiss that spoke everything you couldn’t put into words.

It was soft at first, hesitant, as though testing the boundaries of this fragile truce. But as his arms tightened around you, the kiss deepened, filled with all the emotions neither of you dared to voice before. It was a moment of surrender, of giving in to the truth you’d both been too afraid to face.

The kiss deepened, unspoken promises lingering between you as his arms tightened around you like he was afraid you’d slip away. The world outside the walls of the lodge ceased to exist. It was just the two of you—two souls fighting against the tides of power, duty, and love.

That night, the fire in the hearth wasn’t the only thing that burned. His touch was tender yet desperate, his lips tracing paths along your skin as though memorizing every inch of you. It was a moment neither of you could deny or regret—a moment where love triumphed over logic, if only for a fleeting night.

❅❅❅

As dawn broke, you lay tangled together in the sheets, his steady breathing against your neck a reminder of the man you’d seen beneath the title. He wasn’t just the President; he was Sukuna, flawed, vulnerable, and so undeniably yours. But as the sunlight crept into the room, so did reality.

You slipped out of his embrace, careful not to wake him as you dressed. The telegram lay folded in your coat pocket, a constant weight on your heart. With one last glance at him, his peaceful face etched into your memory, you left the lodge.

❅❅❅

The streets of the city were abuzz with life, the morning sun casting its golden light over the bustling crowds. Your suitcase felt heavier with every step you took toward the station. It wasn’t just the weight of your belongings—it was the weight of leaving him behind, of choosing yourself over a love you knew could never be fully yours.

But just as the station came into view, the sound of a commotion drew your attention. A crowd had gathered, their voices rising in excitement. And then you saw him.

Sukuna.

Standing on the steps of the grand hall, his gaze scanned the crowd until it landed on you. Time seemed to stop as he began descending the steps, his presence commanding the attention of everyone around him. Murmurs rippled through the crowd as people recognized their President, their leader stepping down into the throng like an ordinary man chasing what he loved.

He reached you, his chest heaving as though he had run through the entire city to find you. Without hesitation, he took your hand, his grip firm but not forceful.

“Everyone, listen,” he began, his voice steady but filled with unmistakable emotion. “This woman—she’s more than a singer, more than a performer. She’s the reason I wake up every morning. She’s the reason I want to be better, to be more. And I won’t let her go.”

The crowd gasped, whispers spreading like wildfire as his words echoed through the square. His public declaration was more than a profession of love—it was a challenge to the constraints that had kept you apart.

Your eyes filled with tears as you looked up at him, his gaze unwavering as he smiled softly at you. “You said I’m selfish,” he whispered, his voice just for you now. “And maybe I am. But I won’t let you leave without a fight.”

The world watched as he leaned down, pressing a kiss to your forehead—a simple gesture, yet it felt like a vow. You knew then that your life would never be the same, not with him willing to tear down everything to keep you by his side.

The weeks following Sukuna’s public declaration were nothing short of chaos. The scandal surrounding the President’s bold proclamation had shaken the nation. His advisors urged caution, political rivals pounced on the opportunity to criticize him, and the First Lady made no secret of her disdain.

But Sukuna was steadfast. For the first time in his presidency, he put himself—and his heart—first. The divorce was finalized in record time, quiet and swift, with the First Lady retreating from the public eye, taking her scandals with her.

Despite the chaos surrounding him, Sukuna remained unshaken, his resolve as strong as ever. The scandal didn’t matter. The criticism didn’t matter. What mattered was the woman he loved, and for the first time in his life, he had chosen something not for duty, not for the nation, but for himself.

The media frenzy eventually quieted, the public slowly coming to terms with the change. Some admired his bravery, calling his declaration an act of true love; others criticized his recklessness. But through it all, Sukuna stayed grounded because he had you.

One evening, just as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a soft golden glow over the city, he led you to the garden behind the presidential residence. The air was crisp, and the faint scent of blooming flowers filled the space. Fireflies danced in the twilight, their soft light reflecting in your eyes.

“I have something for you,” Sukuna said, his voice warm as his fingers laced with yours.

“What is it this time?” you teased, smiling up at him. He had taken to spoiling you recently, as if making up for lost time.

He led you to a secluded spot in the garden where a small table was set with candles and a single bouquet of your favorite flowers. Resting beside them was a box—small and unassuming, but enough to steal your breath away.

“Sukuna…” you whispered, your heart pounding.

He picked up the box, holding it delicately in his large hands as he dropped to one knee. The world seemed to stop, the moment stretching infinitely as his sharp, commanding eyes softened into something you’d only ever seen in private—a love so deep it overwhelmed you.

“I’ve spent my life fighting battles for power, for politics, for this nation. But the only battle I’ve truly wanted to win is the one for your heart,” he said, his voice steady yet brimming with emotion. “You’ve given me courage I never thought I had. And now, I want to spend the rest of my life proving to you that you’ll always come first.”

He opened the box to reveal a ring—elegant, timeless, and perfect, just like him.

“Y/N, will you marry me?”

Tears streamed down your cheeks as you nodded, your voice breaking as you finally said, “Yes. A thousand times yes.”

He slipped the ring onto your finger, then rose to his feet, pulling you into his arms. The kiss that followed wasn’t like the others—it was softer, filled with hope, promise, and a future you both finally dared to believe in.

The wedding was a quiet affair, intimate and away from the public eye. Sukuna had insisted on it, saying that the world had already taken too much from you both, and this day was yours alone.

Months later, as you stood by his side on the balcony of the presidential residence, overlooking a sea of people cheering for their President and his new First Lady, you felt the weight of everything that had led to this moment.

“I told you I’d fight for you,” Sukuna whispered, his arm wrapping around your waist as he looked out at the crowd.

“And you won,” you said, smiling up at him.

“No,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your temple. “We won.”

And as the cheers echoed through the city, you knew this wasn’t just the start of a new chapter. It was the beginning of a love story for the ages, one that no amount of politics, scandals, or critics could ever tarnish. You were his, and he was yours—forever.

©suguru's-thoughts 2024, do not copy or translate my work. Deviders are from the lovely @adornedwithlight!! 🤍

❅ a/n —please just a reminder I was tired when I wrote then, which made me ramble a bit off and I pushed due to time as well :) I really hope you enjoy this. Deep down I feel like I put more effort into this, than the rest. I have never written anything for Sukuna and I just feel like this one took a lot effort and ideas but I had so much more idea—the time just caught up!!. But enjoy and if you seen any spelling mistakes just know I did not proofread this :') 🐈‍⬛

❅ taglist — @getobitchs, @coffee-and-geto, @emochosoluvr and @tsukuhoe 🍰🤍

[quillthrillswriting]

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︵‿presenting...quill's kataang week!‿︵

︵day one: cultural exchange/ culture sharing/ revival of traditions‿

︵‿︵︵︵‿︵︵‿‿hosted by @kataang-week︵‿︵︵︵‿︵︵‿‿

summary:

after an upsetting council meeting in which aang is painfully reminded of how little the other nations understand of air nomad culture, katara is there to remind him that he isn't as alone as he thinks OR: aang & katara friends to lovers post-war 👀

:D the following are excerpts from "and i promise, that one day i'll feel fine":

Aang typically prided himself on standing strong when it came to upholding the beliefs of his people. It was his responsibility, his burden of loss to carry and his gift.

But if he was being entirely honest with himself, moments such as the one he found himself in now, surrounded by a council of nations in which he was the only Airbending representative, it was difficult to remain pretending as if nothing was bothering him. He’d accepted a seat on the council of nations before fully understanding what it would mean to him, how it would feel . Every other representative was flanked with another member or two of their tribe.

Aang stood alone. 

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He’d been so sure that he’d kissed her, in the Cave of Two Lovers, and again before he’d entered the Fire Nation. Both times, he’d waited for her to say something, anything, to confirm that those kisses had been just as earthshaking for her as they had been for him, but both times, she hadn’t. He’d pressed her about it only once, and the moment she told him that she felt confused, Aang had felt like an absolute and utter idiot . The idea that he’d made Katara uncomfortable… It was enough for him to do his best to suppress his feelings as much as he could. 

That had left them where they were now- on opposite sides of a council room. Two teenagers who could end a war but couldn’t manage to communicate. Aang supposed that there was a bit of comedic irony present there, but truth be told, nothing felt funny to him at the moment. 

Not with how the other council members were speaking about his people. 

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“How can you say that?” Katara ran her hands through her hair incredulously, his jaw set. “Each nation standing on their own and neglecting the balance between our peoples is how the war started. The blood of the Air Nomads is just as much on the other nations for neglecting to remember that, for failing to come to the defence of the remaining Air temples after the first of the Fire Nation raids.” Aang flinched at the visceral reminder, the images it stirred, but regardless, Katara was right. She continued on, her voice dropping in volume but only gaining intensity.

“It’s "every nation on their own" until it was your nation, the one that this “nation of one” defended only months ago.” She spat the last of the words out as if they were laced with venom, her disgust evident as she reminded Hanh of the water spirit form Aang had taken to ward off the invasion of the Southern tribes.

︵‿︵︵‿︵︵‿︵︵‿︵︵‿︵︵‿︵︵‿︵︵‿︵︵

“Aang. There's no precedent for any of this. The scenario you’ve found yourself in… unique feels too simple of a way to put it. None of the monks would judge you for succumbing to moments of grief and anger.” 

“ I would judge me. I would not forgive myself.” 

“You should.” She smiled softly, shaking her head. “Even the great Avatar, saviour of the world, is not without moments of imperfection.”

Aang chuckled through his tears, his smile turning cocky. “You’d be surprised. I think you’ll find that I’m about as close to perfection as can be.”

“I know,” she said simply, and the genuine quality of her voice was enough to send a blush blooming across Aang’s face. She pushed on, internally berating herself for letting that slip. “And I understand why you feel alone, I really do, but I’m right here, in your corner. Please don’t forget that. You’ll always have me there." She smiled softly, shaking her head as she did. "If you’d escalated the situation back there, if you had snapped completely, I would’ve been right behind you, following your lead.”

Aang’s nose wrinkled as he laughed at the idea of the pair of them fighting the entire council.  Katara shook her head, her eyes fixed on his, her tone dead serious. “Let Sokka, or Zuko, or Toph pull us back to reality. I’m right there with you, in everything .” In life too, if you’d let me, she added silently, her hands itching to pull his hands back to hers. 

︵‿︵︵‿︵︵‿︵︵‿︵︵‿︵︵‿︵︵‿︵︵‿︵︵

♥ feel free to check out the entirety of this fic & my ao3 here! ->

to see the rest of the kataang week submissions from the other extremely talented and lovely members of this community, head over to @kataang-week :)<3 thank u so much to the wonderful mods for making all of this possible!

[hetaestoniahq]

"Who is Estonia?"

A series of responses heavily based on little facts of culture and history with the Nordic-Baltic 8. This is just a fun little short way I thought of to talk about their relationships and history. Pretty much everything is a reference to something. This is all for fun! :D

FINLAND

Two out of three of the only independent Uralic countries to exist. You’d think it would be a heavy burden to carry, but it’s easier not being alone.

Even when I was the one to wrong him, Eduard did not change his stance. Guess it's part of being family to not always see eye to eye. It never discouraged him from rushing to my aid even when things were hard for him too. Eduard refused to let any hardship stop him from bleeding for my country. Ridiculously stubborn he is - but it’s been one of his greatest strengths. Of course I repaid him, then he proceeded to do it again. It's like a cycle of fighting for each other's freedom, one I was unable to continue because what I could do had became incredibly limited. These limited set of actions still seemed to mean the world to him. Re-independence had its rough patches, but more than ever were we glad to both be free and have each other again.

Eduard always wants what's best for both of us. He doesn't want any one of us to end up in the hands of our Eastern neighbours and puts so much time and effort into our cooperation and safety. Why do you think he became so dedicated in Cybersecurity? If he can't be a physical powerhouse, he'll be a powerhouse of the mind. Even when I was uncertain of what I will do, he did not pressure me. Instead, he promised that no matter what I decide, he will always be there for me, no matter what.

The only flag I want to see down south is a tricolour blue-black-blue, if the sun one day rises without it then I will know I have failed as a brother.

🇫🇮💙🇪🇪

NORWAY

I didn’t expect us to have many things alike outside similarities that are basic and expected for a northern nation. Never expected that something as simple as common patterns among our sweaters, hats and mittens could mean a lot more in hindsight. Another is the familiar feeling of having been thrown between nations and finally being independent again- even if our stories on that are much different.

When life told him no, he looked for another way- even though his government in exile continued to operate elsewhere, the mere fact that it was founded in Norway seemed to mean a lot to him. Perhaps it was my way of making up for the time he bled for me as well. When his own freedom was compromised, he would not sit idly and watch as someone he cared about was fighting for the same reason. As small as it may have seemed in the big picture, it is the passion and care that counts.

Estonia has always wanted to bridge any gaps between us. Inviting my people to sing in song festivals, making work deals, rushing to create a flight connection for a direct method of transport. It seems like every year Estonia finds ways to bring us a little closer, be it economic or cultural.

I too know the weight of sharing a border with Russia, partially to have so much history of dealing with him.. The Baltic’s strength is commendable.

Keep singing, songbird.

🇳🇴❤️🇪🇪

LATVIA

Long ago I used to hate Estonia. We used to be at each other's throats declaring each other “blood enemies”. It's a little funny looking back on it, the way history went on to tie us so close together. Together we saw countless wars, famines, storms, rarely were we separated through it. Sometimes I'd ask him “What do you think the world will throw at us next?” And he'd look at me and simply shrug “We'll see.”

A moment of truth was when we both fought for independence, for two new nations to be formed.

When I was backstabbed by the people who had tormented both of us for centuries, It was then I saw how our relationship had changed over the ages when Estonia without question stepped up to fight by my side. So casually my fight became his fight, no strings attached.

Estonia, his culture and language is notably different from mine, but must that mean we can't be brothers too? What brought us together was our experiences, not our blood. This applies to most of us, all I have been left with in regards to any sense of family is Lithuania. It would be a sad reality to live in if I considered only one country as worth being brothers with.

Estonia with his bond with Finland is the bridge that ties the Nordic-Baltic 8 together, but that doesn't mean me and Lithuania don't contribute to it either!

🇱🇻❤️🇪🇪

LITHUANIA

You'd think that with how different our history till the last century is, that I would be a weak link in all this, right?

I would not say so, even if there's some truth in the fact that I am not as close to Estonia as some others might be, it's the continuous effort to bring us together that counts.

Our old history includes fights here and there, the Balt Estonia once held close is no longer with us and with the Finnic brothers he has seen fade - he shares our pain of loss. Our enemies have often been the same, but back then we failed to see unity. What would have happened if we realised that far sooner? We’ll never know.

Our time together under the commonwealth was brief but the time under Russian rule slowly gave us a new opportunity.

The moment all three of us became independent, Estonia was the one to seek ways to bring us closer. Of course the main motive for it was to stand together stronger in the scenario of our east neighbour attacking, it still planted seeds for more than just that.

Latvia may be the one linking the Baltics together, but if it was necessary for me to be the one to reach out and hold his hand instead - I would not find it strange.

I'll always enjoy sitting back and enjoying some ice cream together, basking under a shared free sun.

🇱🇹❤️🇪🇪

ICELAND

I know the feeling of not being seen or heard, I decided a change was needed and took the first step. I never expected how much my simple words of “I recognize you as an independent country” would be worth more than gold. I became seen as a true friend, a “fellow small country”, an icebreaker, a name immortalised on a memorial- for just stubbornly expressing my stance? They seemed surprised when I showed my gratitude with a similar gesture.

Neither of us care for large mighty extravagant buildings as tourist attractions, instead we value and guide people to explore what mother nature has gifted us. I appreciate having him around. Even if I were the only Nordic to feel this way - I would still speak up for him.

🇮🇸❤️🇪🇪

DENMARK

Resilient, stubborn and always ready to improve - that's how I would describe Estonia.

I was part of the era that turned his history dark, I had celebrated victory for conquering a fierce land. When I had pointed my sword to his throat to submit him to the Danish crown, Estonia stood up and said “I will never die, no matter what you do to me.”

That was a promise.

Instead of looking at me with distaste for what I did to him so long ago, these memories instead are proof that we have always been connected. The flag of my nation - Dannebrog, stands as the strongest symbol of that. Hah! Why do you think Tallinn keeps showing it off all over the place? Give the coat of arms a closer look while you're at it! My guess is it's how Eduard expresses holding something dear.

It was like a hit of nostalgia to come back 700 years after that battle, hearing of Eduard’s fight for independence.

Like repaying a debt of honour, I couldn't sit back and watch a wounded land fight against a giant alone. I knew I had to do at least something, even if the government was not the most supportive of it. Two hundred men out of two thousands who were able to go and able to risk their lives in the end may seem small, but their effort was a success that brought honour to the crown.

This turn in history gave us another chance to start over, kindling a friendship neither of us thought we could ever have, before being struck with another turn that took him away from us again. I sat in silence refusing to accept it until he and his Baltic brothers reminded the world of their existence and stepped up to stand in support.

I made sure to keep the promises I made. I had 50 lost years to make up for, so I gave a hand in as many areas as I possibly could.

I'm proud to be his friend and I know that if he falls then I might too, which is why I know I can never let that happen. Never again will I let that happen.

🇩🇰❤️🇪🇪

SWEDEN

Most people don't realise how far back we go.

I saw Eduard at his fiercest point, a land that would strike fear into kings and just as easily burn what he didn’t like. He wasn’t someone to upset and yet I kept poking at him like a bear with a stick.

He allowed my people to come as settlers into uninhabited areas, despite his experience with foreigners taking and taking from him. Those settlers seemingly became a natural part of his nation, honoured even if most of them are now gone.

Something I quickly learned was how studious Eduard is, someone who picks up new skills incredibly fast. To think Eduard steadily became one of the most literate parts of the Russian empire back in the day makes me wonder how much of it was the seeds of education I planted or his hard work in fighting to keep it.

I tried my best to give my part in his fight for independence, turns out my support in this fight had been something his people had fantasized for decades. To think that after the way I left the people would continue to hold Sweden so dear in their hearts as the words “Good ol’ Swedish age” would be carried from generation to generation. Of course once given the opportunity we reconnected, provided a warm welcome.

Guilt gnawed at me every year as freedom had been so easily robbed from him again. I made mistakes. Mistakes I've apologised for repeatedly. Because of all the people given a chance of freedom and a normal life that my land gave - it's been forgiven. Sweden became a place where people could gather and continue the fight in safety - I am proud to have been able to have a role like that.

I am glad to have been given the chance to now stand as close to equals as possible.

All I hope is that Eduard learns to truly value and love himself more, do not let the ignorant voices shake him now.

🇸🇪❤️🇪🇪

All of us together, we will thrive as the Nordic-Baltic 8 and all of us are glad to have Estonia be part of it. It wouldn't be the same without any one of us, which is why we will continue to stand together no matter what others try to claim we are.

With love,

Northern Europe

🇮🇸🇳🇴🇩🇰🇸🇪🇫🇮🇪🇪🇱🇻🇱🇹

[mmmkaybye]

Why Zutara Shippers are Wrong (JK, You can ship who you want lol)

(Although, I don't care if you do actually ship Zutara, that's your prerogative, I'm just waiting for better arguments for the relationship and for people to stop negatively viewing Kataang)

First of all, I'm premising this with the fact that I don't think that ATLA should have ended with Katara and Aang kissing. I think it would have been fine to just end with a slightly more intimate-than-friends hug/cuddle. I would have personally preferred that two children who survived being literal child soldiers get the chance to be kids before they delve into a more mature relationship with one another, but they didn't exactly have adults of the modern culture there to guide them a different way, now did they?

BUT! I am a firm believer that Zuko and Katara would never have worked out romantically and that Katara and Aang's relationship 1. makes more sense and 2. is actually healthier in the scope of trauma and trauma responses.

First of all, I don't understand how the creators of ATLA managed to craft literally the MOST traumatic childhood backstory ever with incredible detail and nuance and everyone just fricking glosses over it like WTF??? Not to mention, the creators did an amazing job diversifying trauma responses to similar trauma experiences.

Let's discuss Katara's childhood trauma, which was not healed magically after a little side quest with Zuko. Katara carries immense survivor's guilt over her mother's murder. Katara understands very well how and why her mother was brutally murdered in their family home. She has been deeply aware of this since the day of her mother's murder - and she fully blames herself. Katara understands that a fire nation soldier killed her mother, but he killed her because of Katara - she said so herself. Then, Katara, who was the last person to interact with her mother, discovers her mother's body, and it is insinuated that Katara might have even witnessed her mother's brutal execution-style murder. This forever alters Katara down to her core personality traits. Katara is 'bossy' because of her trauma. I work with kids from pre-k through graduating american high school. It's pretty normal for girls to do what I call 'mothering' to their peers and to kids younger than them. It often is described as being 'bossy' and some girls are in fact bossy, but for the most part, they are roleplaying a caretaker mentality as they are most familiar with. In Katara's deep guilt of being the reason her mother was murdered, her trauma response was burden herself with the role of mother. This is further antagonized when her father leaves with the rest of the adult men to fight against the Fire Nation. He might've well as died too due to lack of communication for many years. Sokka does not allow Katara to mother him for very long, so she doesn't get to have a chance to work through her personal trauma response to her grief because she has no one to safely and consistently direct these mothering tendencies towards. The other children in the village are not orphans, their mothers are most likely very alive and very involved with them, so they would be temporary fillers at best. Sokka has stepped into the role of village man and definitely would reject Katara's mothering, which often led to tension between the siblings. Toph had the very reaction to Katara's mothering tendencies as I expect a young Sokka had to them. He lost his mother, too, he didn't want a replacement, nor did he want to lose his sister to the role of mother.

Zuko, in the same fashion as Sokka, had a mother who he loved, and lost, and was not looking to replace. Zuko's mother was also a topic that is deeply rooted in a lot of Zuko's personal trauma as well. Zuko did not get to spend much time with Katara for her mothering tendencies to be extended over him, but he definitely would have aggressively rejected them as Katara's trauma response would have negatively triggered his own. Their trauma would have deeply and negatively impacted any romantic relationship they could have developed because of how they would react to each other. Their relationship would have crashed and burned very quickly.

On top of that. Katara would have never left the South Pole indefinitely - that is her home, and she consistently returned to it throughout her life. That is an effect of her cultural upbringing. Zuko couldn't leave the Fire Nation, and as we saw in the graphic novels that followed, Zuko's personal welfare suffered greatly because his whole world was upended and now he was responsible for the one nation that didn't get peace at the end of the war. It's incredibly naive and slightly delusional for people to desperately push romantic wishes upon a sixteen-year-old boy who was burdened with the responsibility of healing an entire nation, one that fought him every step of the way in many aspects. He did not have the emotional energy to expend upon a frivolous relationship. That's why Mai and he broke up, not because they didn't love each other, but because Zuko simply could not have personal relationships until his reign and nation had stabilized - that alone would take upwards of 10 years. Plus, Zuko may have helped others work through parts of their trauma, but he had to address his trauma too, which we saw the beginnings of during the graphic novels. Simply put, by the end of ATLA and all of the graphic novels, Zuko was in no place emotionally, mentally, and even physically and politically to seek out a relationship that was meaningful and healthy. And I know that Zuko would have changed the tradition of political marriage, at the very least he deserves to have married for love at the end of everything he suffered through. Zuko is a great opportunity to normalize waiting until you're in your mid-twenties -thirties before seeking out romantic relationships. Logistically speaking, I don't think there would have been much opportunity for romantic feelings to develop between the two of them. I especially don't think Katara would have easily been able to live in the Fire Nation because the Fire Nation was directly responsible for her trauma, and that is also why I don't think she would have every pursued a relationship with a Fire Nation man, Zuko or not.

Now onto Aang. Everyone always jumps onto this idea that Katara and Aang had a very mother-son relationship - which is wrong. Aang comes from a culture that literally does not have mother and fatherhood. There are NO mothers and fathers in the Air Nomad Nation. Sure, kids had birth parents, but parenthood was not part of their culture, nor did Aang ever seek out that kind of relationship. Aang may have been kid-like, but he was the most adultified kid in the group. He was incredibly independent and confident in his ability to travel internationally by himself at 12. Katara had never thought to leave the South Pole to seek out a waterbending master in the North Pole because she didn't have that confidence or training. The Air Nomads thrived on a mentorship-based village raising of children. So, Aang never thought of Katara as his mother. He literally couldn't, because he had no scope of reference for such a relationship, same with fatherhood. He never had a parental relationship with Monk Gyasto. It was more like a fun uncle mentorship. I think that's why everyone thinks Aang was a bad father, but he was an outlier in the Air Nomad nation because there was no Air Nomad nation when he had children. The village that raised the children in his culture was gone. He was actually a fairly decent father and the two older children probably felt bitter because Tenzin was the only other air bender in existence so it obviously Aang is going to spend a lot of one on one time with Tenzin in the scope of mentoring Tenzin in the way of Air Nomad culture. Aang was not an absentee father like how many people assumed from the very one-sided and brief explanation given by the two older, jaded siblings. Was he perfect? No, he literally had no clue how to be a father. Did he and Tenzin leave to get milk and never come back? Also no. That being said, Aang was the only individual who was comfortable with Katara mothering him, he never felt threatened or overburdened by her trauma response, which allowed for Katara to genuinely work through her grief and mature out of the extreme bossy mothering we first saw in book one. If you pay attention, yes Katara does retain that 'bossy' kind of personality, but that was permanent fixture due to her childhood trauma and a little bit of cultural influence as well. I think, if Katara had never been traumatized, she would have always leaned towards a very soothing and nuturing type of personality, which we began to see in the middle of book three. Her bossiness/mothering trauma response gradually lessened the longer she 'mothered' Aang. Once again, neither of the two saw each other as Mother-son. They were simple too close in age and Aang also had the added sense of duty-boundness due to being the Avatar. Katara was always going to be a caretaker archetype personality, trauma or no, and that simply wasn't the type of person that Zuko would lean towards for a romantic relationship due to his own personal upbringing and culture. Aang is a much more gentle and playfully empathetic personality that works with Katara's firm care and sassy disposition.

In the graphic novels, I personally saw a great deal of healing and maturation in Katara in relation to her trauma. She was less mothering towards Aang, too, and I think that had a lot to do with the fact that Aang matured a lot as well and the change in their once platonic relationship to a more romantic-leaning one. Was their relationship perfect? No, they are kids who survived a horrific war and many many trauma-inducing situations. However, once Katara fully leaned away from the mothering habit, we get to see that Aang allows Katara to relax and be more playful. She genuinely was just happy with Aang. He pushed her to be a little more child-like and to have child-like fun even as they grew up into adulthood. Katara helped Aang mature and face a lot of adult burdens that were placed child.

In the end, Katara and Aang always brought out the best in each other. Katara and Zuko didn't have enough time together in ATLA to develop an individual relationship outside of the group. There simply isn't enough time outside of their little side-quest in which Katara and Zuko interact solo- which was definitely NOT Katara's best, and in fact was Katara lashing out aggressively towards people who loved and cared for her and she them. Zuko was also not his 'best' in that time either as he was also being triggered emotionally. In fact, during ATLA, there's way too much negative tension between the two of them that leads to really intense disagreements and emotional outbursts more often than not until Katara begrudgingly accepts Zuko into the group, they don't even positively interact until Ember Island which is what, two weeks? She's not exactly nice when she pretty much demands him to help her hunt down the man that murdered her mother. Zuko is all gung-ho about vengeance too. Of course, they both have a lesson learning moment, but that episode cemented in my brain that Aang is the better partner for Katara than Zuko. Aang, once again the most mature in the Gaang, fight me on this, has a deep, empathetic understanding of the world, he doesn't do a great job trying to explain to Katara, but I think that's because no one in the Gaang understands how Appa is not just an air bison, and Aang never views Appa as an air bison like how everyone else in ATLA do. To everyone else, Appa's an animal, but to Aang and Aang's culture that is deeply offensive, Appa is an individual with emotions and value outside of what he can offer the group in terms of transportation and that's never really explicitly clarified to the audience either (because despite being a kid's cartoon, the creators knew their audience well and did not treat the audience like we are stupid and can in fact infer and read between the lines). If Katara had killed that pathetic worm of a man, it would have absolutely destroyed her as a person. She would not have been able to heal from her trauma and would probably suffer even more trauma and guilt. This side-quest was a plot point to lead up to the big debate of killing Ozai, and not many, in fact I don't know if anyone has talked about that fact. I have no doubt that Zuko has probably killed people, at the very least, he's deeply desensitized to people dying as I think he probably at some point did experience or witness some form of warfare battle before he began chasing Aang down.

Once again, I don't really care if you do ship Katara and Zuko. In fact, I think that's a-okay. But, with the Netflix live action adaptation's take on the Secret Tunnel scene, I've seen a lot of people speculating and even hoping for it to become canon and there have even been some opinions of Kataang that have resurfaced that really rub me the wrong way because it feels like many individuals are just looking at the surface level of ATLA. There's so much nuance to each individual character in terms of culture, societal norms, age and gender, and most importantly, trauma and trauma responses. The creators did an amazing job world building and story telling that a lot of what I put up in my opinion in preference for Kataang over Zutara is information that I inferred from the show and graphic novels due to my personal experience and education in familial relationships and childhood trauma. My thoughts are not the end all be all to this debate, nor do I think they should be, I've seen some really solid opinions in favor of Zutara that I can understand and somewhat agree with. I think a lot of those details and moments that people look to as indicators of romance between Katara and Zuko were remnants of the creators' previous intention, but I think that the change to Aang and Katara as end game was logistically and realistically more accurate. I never thought that Katara and Zuko were meant to be, and I always struggled to put to words as to why until I had pursued my psych studies in college that focused on child development, childhood trauma, and marriage and family counselling. I think that the creators instinctually were seeing the red flags that would have occurred naturally within Zutara and changed course accordingly. There were just a lot of details and nuances that I noticed personally that I wished more people would discuss.

Anyways, thank you for coming to my TedTalk, I'd love to hear some of your opinions about this.

[newusernameidk]

BEYOND MONTICELLO - CHAPTER TWO

| A Thomas Jefferson x Reader fanfic |

The smell of warm bread and smoked ham hung in the air as the Washington household settled in for breakfast. The table, as always, was a picture of Martha’s careful touch—china polished to a soft gleam. Fresh coffee steaming in cups, and an array of dishes laid out neatly.

Thomas sat near George at the head of the table, leaning back slightly in his chair as he stirred honey into his coffee. Across from him, Y/N sat quietly, her focus on her plate, though she didn’t miss the subtle way Thomas glanced at her whenever she spoke or moved.

“I trust you found the guest room comfortable, Mr. Jefferson?” Martha asked, passing him the dish of honeyed biscuits.

“Very much so, Mrs. Washington,” Thomas replied, with a polite dip of his head. “Your hospitality is as remarkable as I remembered.”

Y/N glanced up at that, a faint smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “Uncle George keeps high standards for his household,” she said lightly, reaching for her tea. “Though I’d imagine Monticello has its own comforts, Mr. Jefferson.”

Thomas turned his gaze to her, caught off guard by her comment but masking it well. “Monticello is far simpler than Mount Vernon, I assure you. A quieter retreat.”

Y/N gave a small nod, her expression unreadable, but before she could respond, George cleared his throat, setting down his coffee. “Jefferson, you’ve seen Hamilton’s latest proposal. What’s your impression?”

Thomas’s easy demeanor shifted. He set his cup down and leaned forward slightly. “Misguided, as expected. His obsession with consolidating power—especially through this national bank scheme—is dangerous. It undermines everything we fought for.”

Y/N’s fork paused midway to her plate. She glanced between her uncle and Thomas before speaking carefully, “Wouldn’t you agree that a strong financial foundation is necessary, Mr. Jefferson? Surely Hamilton’s plan isn’t without merit.”

Thomas turned his attention to her fully now, his brow furrowing slightly. “Necessary, perhaps. But at what cost? Prioritizing northern industry while burdening southern farmers hardly seems just.”

Y/N tilted her head, her voice calm but steady. “Or perhaps it prioritizes the survival of the nation as a whole. After all, disunity isn’t exactly a recipe for longevity.”

The room went still for a moment. Martha glanced at her husband, who sipped his coffee quietly. Thomas, for his part, seemed momentarily at a loss—not accustomed to being challenged so directly at the breakfast table.

Before the tension could build further, George set his cup down firmly, his voice measured but decisive. “We’ll save that for the meeting later. No sense in spoiling a fine breakfast with arguments.”

“Thank you, dear,” Martha said softly, though there was a slight curve to her lips, as if she were suppressing a smile.

Y/N stood, smoothing her dress and gathering her plate. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll see to the preparations for this afternoon’s meeting.” She glanced briefly at Thomas, her tone polite but not overly warm. “I hope you enjoy the rest of your meal, Mr. Jefferson.”

Thomas gave a slight nod, watching her as she left the room. He couldn’t quite pinpoint what it was about her that left him so unsettled. She wasn’t brash like Hamilton, but her words carried a weight that lingered longer than he liked.

“She’s quick,” George said after a moment, a trace of amusement in his voice.

Thomas exhaled through his nose, his lips curving into a faint smile. “She is,” he admitted, though he didn’t elaborate. His thoughts were already too tied up in trying to make sense of her.

_____________________________________

The late morning air carried a faint chill, despite the sun climbing steadily in the sky. Thomas wandered through the Washington estate, his steps slow and deliberate. Gravel crunched beneath his boots as he followed the narrow path leading to the edge of the gardens.

He stopped by the wooden fence overlooking the fields, leaning against it as his gaze swept over the landscape. It was beautiful here, orderly in a way that reflected Washington himself—strong, enduring. Yet, for all its charm, the stillness left space for memories Thomas often tried to bury.

His thoughts drifted to Martha, unbidden and unwelcome. He hadn’t allowed himself to linger on her memory in years, not in Paris, not while throwing himself into the chaos of shaping a new nation. But here, surrounded by the warmth of a family, her absence pressed down on him like a heavy weight.

He let out a slow breath, rubbing his temple as if that might push the ache away. Martha had been everything to him—gentle but firm, always there with a quiet understanding. And now, after so long, he’d met someone who… He shook his head sharply, unwilling to finish the thought. It wasn’t fair—to anyone.

The sound of approaching footsteps broke through his reverie. He turned, his expression neutral, until he saw Y/N walking toward him. She carried a small basket, the faintest hint of a smile on her lips.

“Mr. Jefferson,” she greeted him, her tone polite but light, “you’ve been out here long enough to make the servants worry you’ve wandered off.”

Thomas straightened, one hand resting on the fence. “I assure you, Miss L/N, I’m perfectly capable of finding my way back. But I appreciate the concern.”

Y/N stopped a few paces away, setting the basket down. “I was gathering herbs for the kitchen,” she said, glancing at him. “I thought I might find you out here, brooding.”

“Brooding,” Thomas repeated, a faint trace of amusement flickering across his face. “Is that what you think I do?”

“I’ve seen the way you stare off into the distance,” she said with a small shrug. “If that’s not brooding, I don’t know what is.”

Thomas chuckled softly, though there was little humor in the sound. “Perhaps you’re right. Old habits die hard.”

Y/N leaned against the fence, her gaze drifting toward the fields. “My uncle does the same, though he’d never admit it. Men like you—think too much and talk too little.”

Thomas raised an eyebrow. “Men like me?”

“Leaders. Thinkers. The kind who spend so much time trying to solve the world’s problems that they forget they’re only human.”

He studied her for a moment, caught off guard by her insight. She had a way of speaking that felt far older than her years, as if she’d spent more time observing the world than living in it.

“You remind me of someone,” he said after a pause, his voice quieter.

Y/N glanced at him, her expression unreadable. “Is that so?”

“My wife,” he admitted. “She had your way with words—sharp, thoughtful. She could cut through any argument I made with just a few well-placed sentences.”

Y/N hesitated, unsure how to respond. “I… didn’t realize you were married.”

“I was,” Thomas said, his gaze shifting back to the fields. “She passed years ago.”

“I’m sorry,” she said softly, her voice lacking its usual edge.

He nodded but said nothing more, unwilling to delve into the memories any deeper.

After a moment, Y/N broke the silence, her tone gentler than before. “I lost my mother when I was young. It’s not the same, I know, but… I understand how certain memories linger.”

Thomas turned to look at her, surprised by her honesty. He hadn’t expected that. “It’s not so different,” he said quietly.

She offered him a faint smile, one that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that the past only weighs as much as we let it.”

Thomas’s lips twitched upward, though the smile was fleeting. “That’s a remarkable insight for someone your age.”

“Perhaps,” she said, standing straight and picking up her basket. “Or perhaps I’ve just spent too much time with men like you, Mr. Jefferson.”

Before he could respond, Martha Washington’s voice called from the house, summoning Y/N back inside.

Y/N glanced over her shoulder, then back at him. “Try not to overthink yourself into a stupor, Mr. Jefferson. It’s bad for your health.”

With that, she turned and walked away, leaving him alone once more. He watched her go, the faintest trace of a smile lingering on his lips.

_____________________________________

The late afternoon sun dipped lower on the horizon, casting a golden light over the Washington estate. Outside, servants loaded the last of Thomas’s belongings into his carriage while the horses shifted restlessly, eager to begin the journey. Inside, the atmosphere was calmer, though the faint echo of footsteps and low conversation drifted through the halls.

Thomas stood near the entryway, his travel bag resting at his feet. George Washington approached him, his stride as steady and deliberate as always.

“Jefferson,” George said, clasping his hands behind his back, “thank you for joining us. I trust you found the accommodations suitable?”

“More than suitable, Mr. President,” Thomas replied, his tone polite but restrained. “Your generosity has been appreciated, as always.”

George nodded. “You’ve a longer journey than most. I thought it best you get an early start tomorrow, but I see you’re determined to push through the evening.”

“It’s manageable,” Thomas said, though there was a hint of weariness in his voice.

Before George could respond, Martha Washington appeared, her presence soft but commanding. “Mr. Jefferson, we hope you’ll carry our best wishes with you. Do take care on the road.”

Thomas offered her a small, genuine smile. “Thank you, Mrs. Washington. Your kindness is, as ever, unmatched.”

As he adjusted the cuffs of his sleeves, a voice called from the hall behind him. “Mr. Jefferson!”

Thomas turned, his gaze softening as Y/N approached, holding a folded coat draped over her arm. She stopped just short of him, her expression somewhere between amused and exasperated.

“You nearly left without this,” she said, holding the coat out to him. “It might not feel cold now, but trust me, you’ll need it before long.”

Thomas stared at the coat for a moment before taking it from her hands. His fingers brushed hers briefly, and he cleared his throat. “I appreciate the reminder,” he said, his voice quieter than before. “Thank you, Miss L/N.”

Y/N shrugged lightly, folding her arms. “Someone has to make sure you don’t freeze to death before you reach Monticello.”

A faint smile tugged at his lips. “A most noble undertaking.”

There was a beat of silence between them. Y/N stood steady, her gaze unwavering, though her thoughts felt scattered. Thomas opened his mouth, as if to say more, but whatever words he intended never made it out. Instead, he gave a small, almost imperceptible nod.

“Well,” he said finally, slipping the coat over his arm. “I won’t keep you from your duties. Thank you, Miss L/N. And give my regards to the rest of the household.”

Y/N smiled faintly. “Safe travels, Mr. Jefferson.”

Thomas hesitated, his eyes lingering on her for a moment longer than necessary. Then, with a final nod to George and Martha, he turned and made his way to the carriage.

Y/N watched from the doorway as he climbed inside, her arms loosely crossed. The sound of the wheels on gravel grew fainter as the carriage disappeared down the drive, leaving behind an unexpected quiet.

She exhaled slowly, brushing a loose strand of hair from her face before turning back inside. The warmth of the house felt different now, though she couldn’t say why.

Whatever lay ahead, she told herself, would be just as it should be. For now, though, she felt the strange pull of a man who’d left behind more than just his coat.

[sokkastyles]

i’ve seen people argue that it was selfish/unethical of zuko not to kill ozai when they were alone during the eclipse since he had the chance and placing that burden on aang’s shoulders (even though it had been on aang’s shoulders since the start of the narrative.)

aside from the fact that, from a doylist perspective, aang is the main protagonist and the audience would have been disappointed not to see HIM driving the final confrontation with ozai, i also think it would diminish zuko’s arc as he lets go of the control ozai once had over him, as not allowing himself to be goaded into violence and only defending himself when attacked is defiance in and of itself.

i can’t help thinking, though, what would have happened if he had, and i only see two/maybe three logical outcomes—none of which would have actually helped the team, anyway. either zuko IS goaded into a fight (not in line with his arc at this point, but for the sake of argument) and ozai kills him (because i do still think ozai would be manipulative enough to stall/prolong combat until the end of the eclipse), or zuko redirects lightning at ozai, which maybe kills him. (though iroh survives getting struck by lightning with, like, no healing in book two, so… who knows? not me!) whether it does or doesn’t, zuko would likely be arrested as a traitor (at best, though it seems unlikely execution wouldn’t be on the table), and if ozai did die, i can only imagine that would mean azula, who still actively upholds imperialist ideals and actions, ascending to the throne and carrying on with her father’s plans. i guess there is some small chance zuko could escape after an assassination (attempt), but i find “zuko is either killed or imprisoned, aang never gets a firebending teacher, and the team has a much harder time winning the war and/or they don’t” a far more likely chain of events.

i don’t really know what the point of this is, other than that i can’t stop thinking about it, and i’d love to hear your thoughts if my rambling happens to inspire any <3

Not only has it been Aang's burden to begin with, but another reason why Zuko should not be the one to kill Ozai is for the same reason Iroh shouldn't. It would look like an attempt to steal power from within the royal family. The burden has to be on Aang's shoulders because as the Avatar, he acts as an ambassador of all nations. That's the whole purpose of having all four elements in one body. If Zuko kills Ozai, he actually runs the risk of threatening the peace Aang is trying to create. What would it look like if word got out that the firelord's son did what the Avatar failed to do, after 100 years of people already losing hope in the Avatar? Part of the whole deal is returning that hope to the world, that faith in the harmony that the Avatar symbolically represents. Otherwise, why should the other nations care that one fire nation royal deposes another?

As you say, a number of things could go wrong. One is that Ozai goads Zuko into a fight and kills him, which was Ozai's plan in the first place. Like, does anyone think that Ozai was trying to get Zuko to do this for Zuko's benefit? Ozai is absolutely trying to manipulate Zuko in that scene and goading him into a fight, goading him into being angry and emotional and vengeful in the hopes that he makes a mistake, is one way to do that.

Any of the other possibilities, such as Zuko being arrested or branded a traitor or Azula taking the throne, would only increase the discord in the Fire Nation. Like I said, the Avatar is not just important as the Hero(tm), he is a political symbol. Even those who reject the spiritual significance of the Avatar would have a hard time disputing it if Aang has the backing of an army and several world leaders, whereas it would be too easy to paint Zuko as someone who acted alone, a son trying to steal power from a father. And those who supported Azula would recall how Zuko had been banished, how he had always been second fiddle to Azula, and look, it turns out he's also lied about killing the Avatar in an attempt to steal his sister's glory! Those who support Aang but distrust the fire nation would be suspicious of Zuko killing Ozai seconds before the coup, who again, looks like he is acting alone. Zuko could end up being killed or imprisoned by either side, and since Aang and co. don't know he plans to join them, they wouldn't know any different, either. Imagine the gaang showing up to Zuko, who has been their enemy for the past three seasons, being like "hey guys, I killed the firelord for you!" Do you think they are likely to trust him?

Also, man, these people will do anything to preserve Aang's moral purity but think it should be fine for Zuko to murder his own father? Where is Zuko's lion turtle in this scenario, I wonder?

[rhineposting]

( inspired by an idea from a genshin discord server )

The month was the 8th, slowly eclipsing in on the 9th. Like each year, travelers and merchants alike from all over traveled far and wide through different roads, all ultimately leading towards one destination beneath the surface - the underground Kingdom of Khaenri’ah, Starry House of Many Doors, and it’s annual Stjern-Falle Festival.

Many believed at least once that the celebration honored the departure of Summer and arrival of Autumn, as the name almost seemed to imply - alas, with the nation being removed from Gods’ gaze, they knew not of gentle winds of Spring, golden middays of Summer, raging storms of Autumn and certainly not of the cold fangs of Winter. Having conquered nature, Khaenri’ah had essentially risen above the need for seasons and therefore had no need to honor them. What else could the godless people celebrate them? That which is above the seasons as well, of course - the stars.

Ages ago, scholars had found a way of creating environments with sights and conditions taken from anywhere else in the world, calling them simply Domains - as such, in it’s earliest years, the first Sages of Khaenri’ah cast upon their kingdom an image of a starry sky far away, beyond divinity itself ; and each year from that foreign sky a rain of stars would come falling down, it’s dews harvested by the scientists and mages alike, providing prosperity to the kingdom for years to come.

However, as is with human nature, both the outsiders from above and the residents from below saw that time as a most opportune occasion for profit and trade ; and so, the Stjern-Falle Festival was open to all who could afford to make the journey.

Or to those who were removed from the circle of commerce entirely, thought a bard as he climbed out of a barrel, his feather-light footsteps quiet as he ran, a bag in one hand and a lyre in the other, burdened only with but a few Mora.

(One that he personally picked off of his dear old friend earlier when he lied unconscious and unaware in his…The bard would have liked to be so kind as to call it a bed, but really - it was just a hoarding pile of expensive quilts, pillows and trinkets.)

Among his few burdens, one would not be able to find a solid plan of his future endeavors. Should one peek into his mind and search for any plan, at best they would find a small list written in colored wax, reading as such:

1. Wine from Khemia-grown grapes

2. Traditional Khaenri’ahn Music

3. Make new friends

4. Watch the star rain

5. ?????

6. Go home and take a nap

The best plan is the lack of it thereof, such was the bard’s philosophy, and it yet had to fail him. Each corner of the world had a story to tell, and if he wanted to hear them all, what good would it do to arbitrarily set directions by himself? Besides, with fate being world’s best guide, putting in the time to make a schedule of any kind would have been too bothersome ; and above all, the bard was a man of leisures.

Once far away enough from the cargo of merchants and the grand, iron elevators the size of stages, he found himself sitting upon a small wall, marveling. At what? Simply put, everything before and below him.

By then the city, called lovingly by poets a Puddle of Many Rains, had been flooded with market stalls and stages alike ; it’s own lights bright seemingly mirroring the artificial stars above, reflecting them much like a true puddle would have. Though windless, the air was thick with scents so numerous and varied, so much that they could all be referred to only with a collective name : scent of a festival. Truly, the bard found it incredible how little the scent varied across the continent, be it Lantern Rite in Liyue or Day of Sabzeruz in Sumeru - at their core, they were all the same.

Overjoyed and energized, the bard chuckled under his breath and proceeded to close his eyes, letting his legs carry him to wherever they deemed fitting.

***

Not long into his blind trek, his ears made him come to a halt, something catching their attention. Thus did the bard stop right in the middle of the river of people passing by and listened :

A simple tune, coming from an instrument likely between a violin and an accordion, should his knowledge of instruments be up to date. Though it’s tones were deep, he could not help but pay mind to how swiftly the melody could go from somber to joyful in seconds. Intrigued, he squeezed past the rushing stream of the crowds. To his joy, soon after he had been faced with a young man, a strange violin-like instrument over his shoulder, one hand pressing keys and the other shifting a bow back and forth, producing music unlike anything he had heard in most recent years.

So he stood there, a one man audience to the youth, his green eyes bright with awe - contrasting greatly with the young man’s focused face as he continued playing for what felt like eternity and a fleeting moment both. All spheres of life had rules unspoken, therefore once the youth finished playing he bowed, while the bard clapped, a wide smile almost cutting through his face.

“Why, that was delightful!” the bard exclaimed, his palms by then aching from his applause, “Tell me o fellow poet, what is the name of this lovely instrument?”

“Nyckelharpa, sire!” the young man replied, “More commonly called the bowed violin, it’s our national instrument! And would I be right to assume you hail from the City of Winds?”

“Verily, my friend! Quite the perceptive eye you got there!” the bard praised, clapping once more, “Then again, my lyre does quite betray my origins, doesn’t it?’

“Nay, it’s actually your attire. Few people here need capes, and rarely in such vibrant colors as yours! If I had to name people I know of that wear capes, not only would their number fit on my single hand, they’re all from the Royal Court! Black Serpent Knights, the Mages, Court Alchemists and of course, the King and his family!”

That too the bard noticed - rarely did the clothes of the locals come in shades other than black, white, gray, blue or purple. Living beneath the surface did have it’s negatives, lack of access to a variety of dyes must have been among them. Still, from what he saw thus far, the people of Khaenri’ah made up for it with jewelry and adornments of brass and iron alike, ranging from simple buttons to elaborate earrings - worthy of landing in his dearest friend’s trash pile of a nest.

“If you’re so kind, could you tell me where may I learn more about your music?” asked the bard, “As it happens , I seek mastery over every instrument I can find - and it currently stands at the humble number of fifty seven!”

To that, the oblivious young man couldn’t help but burst out laughing, nearly folding both himself and his beloved instrument over. To that the bard took no offense, few ever believed him. Then again, few was the number of people who were capable of having enough years to master even three instruments, let alone fifty seven. By the time the young man managed to regain his breath, his cheeks had turned as red and round as an apple freshly picked off a tree, teeth bared in a wide smile.

“In that case, why don’t I take you to my school, master?” the man jokingly proposed, “I’d like to be there to see your list expand to fifty eight- or better yet, make it sixty! It’s a perfect time for such a milestone, is it not?”

“It is, friend,” the bard nodded. “It is.”

That year had marked Barbatos’ first ever Stjern-Falle Festival, as well as the year he mastered sixty five instruments total. From then on, the journey to Khaenri’ah’s many doors had become a voyage he would eagerly look forward to.

***

The wheel of time had turned a hundred times more, and so did the wheels of a cart as it came to a halt as soon as it got out from the since then upgraded cargo elevators. In spite of the countless inspections from merchants and guards both, once again it had an additional passenger - who had slipped from underneath the cart itself, filthy and dry with dust sticking into every crevice of his face. Resisting the urge to cough and spit, the passenger made a run for the shadows of various containers, where only then he’d wipe furiously at his twisted in discomfort face. Such a shame that no more were caravans as accommodating to stowaways as they used to be, sometimes even being as cruel as to employ usage of cats and dogs alike to avoid extra company.

“Phef phef phef,” the bard spat and wiped into his sleeves, a few tears running down his gray from dust face, “Oh dear, how am I ever going to wash this taste off?”

The question was purely rhetorical : as always, the answer to every issue under the sun would remain to be wine and music alike. That year, it was no different.

***

“May I ask for a slice of brie with that, good sir?”

Much time had passed, and by then the bard managed to clean both his robes and body from road dust - appearing as presentable and pleasant to the eye as ever, the image of a perfect customer that he was not. Not that the poor waiter would have known, as he kept bringing him more wine and snacks, blissfully unaware that upon being presented with the check, the bard would have been out through the chimney quicker than one could call for guards. Even then, no prison in Teyvat and below would have been able to hold him, as far as he knew.

“Will do!” the waiter bowed, and departed like a leaf in the wind, leaving the bard to his own devices.

Once more he had forgotten to bring a book to fill the time in between glasses and snacks and unfortunately enough, the establishment did not have performers of any kind, nor even books for a quick lend - effectively leaving him with plenty of time in his hands and nothing to invest it into. A shame, truly - had it not been for one ace up his sleeve for trying times such as these.

(And up more places, such as various orifices - at least according to his friend, whose constant stone face would eventually develop cracks upon losing a card game for the eight time in a row. A small breeze can carve a mountain, as they say.)

The ace being one of his favorite past times - to simply put, people watching. One would think that a man his age and wisdom would one day grow weary of the sight of humans of any kind - and they couldn’t be more wrong, fortunately. For the same reason why children insisted on hearing the same story for bedtime night after night, the bard would seek out the company of man, as mundane as their lives tended to be. Simple, infallible logic, he thought.

Surely enough, not long after the restaurant gained a new customer - a young girl, already tall for her age, donning robes of a scholar yet presenting herself with the confidence of a senior professor. Proud, with her chin lifted high, she approached the man behind the counter - the ringing sound of Mora making itself known across the establishment.

“I’d like your meal of the day. Sunshine Sprat. Take-out,” she requested. “I’m in a bit of a hurry.”

“Of course, we’ll serve it to you in just a minute!”

So they did - before the bard knew it, the girl had been presented with the meal, wrapped up and secured like a gift, fragrant steam escaping from the cracks and folds here and there. Like a true princess, the girl took the package in her hands - and proceeded to run out the door as if her life depended on it. Soon enough, the server made the reason why known across the restaurant.

“You swindling little brat!!” The bard heard the man roar to the door, “Someone go catch her!”

When the bard looked closer, he saw that the Mora were gone - replaced only by a pile of rocks.

That evening, the restaurant earned two new customers on their blacklist.

***

It didn’t take the bard very long to find the girl - a few twists and turns, one flight across a few rooftops, two dives into the trash - and there she was, not even five minutes later ; not because she was slow, but simply because the bard was not someone anyone or anything could escape from, no matter how far they would travel.

He observed from afar, a hand under his chin, deeply entertained. The girl, likely no older than fourteen, carved into the dish much like a princess would have, while simultaneously reading a book that sat over her crossed lap as she sat on the ground behind a building. Her expression remained one of complete lack of bother or guilt of any kind, and it was so convincing that one would almost believe her, should she claim she was not to blame. By then, the bard’s amusement had almost shifted to entrancement, and before either of them knew it, he sat by her side after seemingly appearing from nowhere.

“Interesting trick back there, young lady!” he exclaimed, wearing an award winning smile, bright enough to blind, “Never seen anyone do something like that before, and I’ve been around for a while! Say, are you willing to share your secrets with a traveler from afar?”

In return, the girl graced him with a side-eyeing glare, unbothered by his swift and soundless fall from the sky - as if she was indeed a princess, looking down upon a mere peasant that managed to sneak past her bodyguards. From what the bard knew about the citizens of Khaenri’ah, chances were, a princess she might’ve been.

Her turquoise eyes were as bright as the stars themselves, and fittingly enough, her pupils resembled them as well - sharp and four pointed, almost shrunken into four thin lines as she looked him up and down. As far as he heard, those were exclusive to nobility of Khaenri'ah, a sign of their pure blood.

“Khemia,” she replied, before turning back to her book, “Basics of transmutation. Now can you go away, I’m trying to eat and you stink.”

“Oh, are you implying I don’t take proper hygiene measures when abroad? I’m hurt, deeply so!”

The girl raised one dark blonde eyebrow, “Wounded, even?”

“Hurt, young lady!”

“If you call me young lady again, you will be picking out worms from your nostrils for the rest of your life.”

“Then what should I call you instead? If you’d like, I’ll introduce myself first!” Before the girl could make it known how much she wouldn’t have liked to know his name, he offered his hand for shaking, “Venti! Venti the Bard!”

Not only did the girl not shake his hand, she looked at it as if it had been ridden with sepsis. Somehow, her already annoyed expression grew even more unimpressed.

“Rhinedottir. Not to be mistaken for my two sisters Rendottir and Rheindottir. Now can you put that away,” the girl ordered, as calmly as one could. “What do you want.”

“Well, truth be told, even though I’ve been here many times in the past for the Stjern-Falle Festival, I never quite managed to learn about Khemia from it’s source,” Venti explained upon putting his hand away, only to gesture away as he spoke, “And you seem like you know quite a lot about it, with how you’re able to use it so casually!”

For a while, the girl said nothing and merely observed the bard, expectantly - likely waiting for him to leave. Unfortunately for her, no such thing had occurred ; Venti did not undo his presence and continued sitting there, waiting for his answer as well. Had it been any other day, perhaps the girl would have entertained the idea of an out-waiting contest with her coming out as the victor. Alas, such couldn’t be, for if she continued waiting her meal would have gone cold.

“…Alright, fine,” the girl eventually relented, rolling her turquoise eyes to the sky and back, “…How do you explain white chalk in black soil, or the earth’s dense crust amidst the emptiness of space? While alchemy transmutates the inanimate, Khemia creates life, using other forms of life as a base. That’s how we can grow crops here underground. Otherwise we’d starve.”

Venti nodded, listening as attentively as one could, uttering not one word of his own.

“…But I think we can do even more with Khemia,” Rhinedottir suddenly added, idly shifting through the pages of her book. “I think that if I used the right formulas, I could create sentient life from scratch.”

“And why would you want to do that?” asked Barbatos. “Creating life is a pretty big deal. Not even gods are allowed to do that.”

The girl did not listen.

All she did was glare at him, if not at the whole world itself. Though her face was young, her gaze was not one of a small child. Sharp and heavy, it carried a weight for which the bard could not settle on a name at that time ; was it ambition or arrogance? Countless times he had seen both, and yet, neither had fit the mark.

“I want to be great,” she stated. “So I’m gonna be the greatest alchemist of all time.”

Venti just laughed under his nose and Barbatos nodded, her words engraved in his memory.

“Hope I will be there to see it for myself.”

He did, thirty Stjern-Falle Festivals later.

So did everyone else.

[constellariums]

FFXIVWrite Day #2: Horizon & Wolchefant Week Day #2: Colors

Rating: G

Pairing: Warrior of Light/Haurchefant Greystone

Description: Haurchefant reflects on what the sight of Ishgard on the horizon has meant to him over the years as he prepares to depart on a new adventure.

Read on AO3!

The Holy See of Ishgard, for all its culture and comforts, was ever a sea of stone and slate. Before the Calamity, it rose over verdant forests and snowcapped mountains like a mythical city in the clouds, shining in the sun's rays like it sat among the heavens themselves, an otherworldly vision. Haurchefant had been amazed the first time he'd left its gates and saw it rising upon the horizon -- a stirring in his breast of deep pride and amazement that his people had built such a marvel, that he'd dwelt there his whole childhood and not known just how truly incredible an achievement it was.

Even after Dalamud had fallen and brought a seemingly eternal winter along with it, the sight of the capital from Central Coerthas still moved him. It may have lost some of its dramatic contrast against the lush, green forests, true; but if anything the Holy See appeared to him like the Heaven of Ice itself, pulled straight from Halonic teachings.

Yet it was simply heavenly in appearance alone -- a convincing guise, yet illusory just the same. As the years passed, Haurchefant found he much preferred to lay his eyes upon the inspiring vision of the city in the sky from a distance, rather than to walk the flagstones laid by the blood of his forebears, to feel the weight of a thousand years of history bearing down upon his shoulders. He didn't dare voice this to anyone, not even himself; he was a knight in service to Ishgard after all, the safety and happiness of his people his sworn duty and truest joy.

It was only when she appeared, eyes weary with grief but shoulders set with determination, softening at his interest in what had brought her here and regaling him with inspiring, thrilling tales of the people and places she'd found joy in and fought to protect, though she no longer remained by their side -- that he began to consider that the way he felt about his homeland might not be wrong, after all.

As he grew closer to her, infatuated, perhaps, as he was wont to become, with this Warrior of Light who fought for his friends and his people though she stood little to gain; he found himself indulging in daydreams of what it might be like to fight by her side in foreign lands. To see new horizons, to know their people -- to devote himself to their happiness as she did, though she was ever an outsider. He was an outsider, too, in his own way, even among his people; not a true highborn nor welcome among the people of the Brume either. What would it be like to belong as an outsider, to be a welcomed traveler, an adventurer whom the people of all places relied upon?

The more he knew her, the more he knew the trials and burdens which that life had brought her -- and the more he wished her to share them with him, so that he may help carry her load. And... and when she finally did, and wished for him to share his burdens with her as well...

It came as little surprise to anyone that the day the Warrior of Light finally left Ishgard behind, Haurchefant departed by her side, leaving its stone and slate behind, dyed in the golden colors of the rising sun.

"Is it sad, to be leaving?" she'd asked, holding his hand as they stood on the Steps of Faith, looking back at the city. "We can visit, you know -- will visit. I know it's not simple, but with all your family has done for me--"

He shook his head, smiling fondly at the gleaming towers, nearly ethereal in the light, feeling a sense of some sort of vastness spread through his chest. "'Tis strange. Ishgard has been my home, it is all I have ever known, and yet... this feels right. We are at peace, and the nation is in excellent hands... and there is nowhere else I would rather be than by your side."

Her small hand gripped his own tightly then, and he tore his eyes away from the horizon to look at her -- the face he'd come to know and love more than any other, who he'd nearly given his very life for, forsaking his duty to his own nation -- she was so beautiful in the dawn's golden light, and looked at him with such true affection it made that vastness in his chest catch alight.

She took both his hands in hers and closed her eyes, breathing in deeply, and he watched, curious. For a moment he nearly leaned in and pressed his lips to hers, thinking she was about to do the same -- but then her eyes opened and she graced him with a smile so radiant that the sight of Ishgard at dawn behind him was all but lost from his memory.

"Then let us call our chocobos and be off," she said, brilliant excitement glimmering in her eyes. "I can't wait to show you all my favorite places beyond these borders -- the beautiful forests of the Black Shroud, the desert sunsets in Thanalan... and, oh, I know you'll just love Costa del Sol! Warm waters, great things to eat, happy faces everywhere you look..."

The places she described did sound truly splendid, and he'd been so excited to finally see all the sights she'd long told him about... but now, standing here with her on the precipice of adventure, he found himself more excited than anything to do so with her.

"Then show me, my love," he replied, taking in a deep lungful of crisp Coerthan air, squeezing her hands in his, "I want to see it all with you."

As they rose into the sky on the pair of black chocobos he'd raised for each of them, quickly leaving the skies of Ishgard far behind them, Haurchefant couldn't help but notice that the new horizon which now stretched out endlessly before them seemed so much more vivid and colorful --full of hope and possibility -- than anything he could have imagined.

[datastate]

chapters 13 & 14!

i love her too much... if she assassinated me w a smile i think i'd just lay down and die. for her. whatever you say, you utterly rambunctious fool

why does raimei always have the best faces... my tortured beast she has ptsd, prosopagnosia, AND is an ibs warrior* atop it all 💔💔💔

*she's completely misunderstood the words. i do, however, know she is lactose intolerant

get these weirdos off my screen (THEY'RE SO FUNNY TOGETHER <3)

;_; her stressors will never end... i know i say this with every reference to death but i Need to know what happens. i need to. although i'm fearful what exactly she intends to do to do this... i imagine she's already accepted that the one in the picture is gone, so the goal is instead on trying to kill araki(?) but... ouuu

okay i know they're suffering and i sympathize (it is 41c right now. despite it being evening), but they're literally so cute here i'm sorry... just utterly miserable tobari & then miharu echoing tobari's complaints is so endlessly amusing to me.

i literally love them more than anything (but i also already miss raimei. weeps)

i'm way too entertained by this... honestly me too. in this weather especially, i could not imagine wearing an all black uniform

AND THE CROWD GOES COMPLETELY SILENT 📣🔥🔥🔥

KOICHI I'M YOUR NO. 1 SUPPORTER!!! GO OUT THERE AND KILL IT!!! (AND ALSO OUR TARGET) (I'M KIDDING. I WOULDN'T FORCE THAT ON YOU) (YET. I DON'T KNOW. YOU SEEM TOO CHEERFUL. I FEEL LIKE SOMETHING TERRIBLE WILL BEFALL YOU IN THE MIDST OF YOUR AUTISTIC MOMENT) (THIS IS JUST MAKING ME THINK OF WHEN I FAINTED DURING THE NATIONAL COMPETITION...)

[raimei's profile] she would be best friends with kai & sara, but unfortunately atsuko would die upon realizing she doesn't enjoy flower arrangements. however, this is also a very specific gripe to have... what happened girl...

augh... i like how miharu's steadily gotten a bit more expressive as time's gone on. moments like these where you can tell it's genuine just from his musing is so nice...

& i'm actually oddly fond of oda trying to get miharu to open up to himself first. her power's extremely dangerous & i dislike how she's hanging it over all of them to force them to 'pull the trigger' for her goal here (even if i'm sympathetic), but it's interesting seeing how, even now, she is actually trying to be encouraging for miharu. it lands off-base, probably more forceful than she thought, and miharu's certainly not ready, but it's interesting... to me... i like her

he is so ominous forever <3 ...also kamatani's really good at drawing mischievous faces. i mean, the expressions in general are really clean, but these are just so fun :D

many thoughts going on in my head right now. okay. hm...

pulling up this scene again for my own reference

the phrasing here is really throwing me off & it's times like these i wish i knew japanese fluently for less serious reasons, to see if it'd be clearer there aegahaha ahhh... it could recontextualize "big brother tobari" to be something of a friendlier term for an older adult you see hanging around; which could be the case if tobari isn't his actual brother(?!) -- which would also make sense for the first-naming 'asahi' & disconnecting it from himself with 'your child' instead. but it could also be a case of him just believing he doesn't have a right to associate with the family after doing that, which is something we've also seen like. raimei believe her brother has completely lost the right to after the murders he committed.

i might be misreading, but tobari seems to be using this moment to resolve himself in the sense of "miharu shouldn't be used as justification for these murders" -- it's a burden he has to carry alone...! or else it's the whole. "his hands are clean, but only because yours are covered in blood" thing, which is an awful sentiment to have miharu carry

so. hmmm. he definitely has the ring. i forgot to take a sc a few chapters ago, but when his hand was on the railing, it was much clearer, which means it's probably a promise/wedding ring (? I FEEL LIKE HIM BEING WED IS LESS LIKELY). which could be from asahi i suppose, but i'm leaning toward it being someone we haven't met yet. but asahi's definitely dead, and things are getting scary <3

i still need to know how miharu's own parents had been manipulated here & had to be killed, but tobari resisted it. WHAT IS HAPPENING...!!! either way it hurts me but AGHHH!!! I NEED TO KNOW

he resolves himself and is just hit with this 😭 the endless sufferer... (also hi yoite)

1 -- do you think fuuma was ever requested to voice bl tapes like kiryu in rgg2. sorry. // 2 -- i'm kind of obsessed with this freak (at a healthy distance)

i doun't feel like taking scs of the fight but it's literally so cool... i always love the angles that they choose + miharu & yoite sharing information over it is a really nice touch. still feigning enemies... it does hurt with yoite outright saying that "it'll even out the playing field" if banten gets this one though ;u; so far behind... understandable w less people, but augh. & also i like koichi overlaying this w reinforcing how the nindo stuff works :3

[amiharana]

Link is peak older brother energy I feel that is essential to his character. But the odd thing is that he's equally likely to be evil to his sister or the Perfect Role Model (he seems to be good with kids in botw too) and I think that entirely depends on how big the age gap between him and his sister is (bc link probably matured way too fast after he pulled the sword, not that he had no morals before but any mischievousness disappeared after that)

But either way can you imagine being links sister whether you're close or not like😭 And your brother is literally the divinely chosen champion of your nation. how do you live up to that i know those family dinners were tense. Links dad is out here like so proud of my son who just bested a swordsman many years his senior to become the sovereign royal princess' head chosen guard. and also my daughter for getting a C+ in her sheikah basic history exam. 🙂

What do you think revalis family situation is like. Because I have no clue but I know that guy must have Issues

anon i'm so sorry it took so long to answer this but i've been excited about this question since i saw it in my inbox. the "my daughter getting a c+ in sheikah history" bit had me rolling like here's my kid who is prophesied to save the world vs. my kid who gets into fights with cuccos. giving very much gay son or thot daughter

you're absolutely correct that link is very much Older Brother, but because pulling the master sword made him mature too fast and bear the burdens of the world as its adolescent savior, he's an Eldest Daughter by default (more under the keep-reading because i failed again in making this short)

i honestly like both ideas of link's little sister either adoring him and looking up to him like a role model, or despising him and spitting at him every time they saw each other, but it would depend a lot on whether or not link's parents splitting was amicable or not. my original headcanon kind of implied that after link's parents split, they never saw each other ever again because link and his dad were at hyrule castle and link's mother and sister stayed in hateno, but it would be cool if link's parents shared custody and had each kid go travel to see their other parent and sibling lol. i think that link would definitely write letters to his mother and sister, even if they resented him.

from here i'm just gonna refer to link's little sister as aryll until i solidify her character (i'm stuck between two names for her right now) and because it's just easier LOL but the idea of aryll being like a teeny baby 5-6 years younger than link who thinks her big brother is so cool and wants to become a knight just like him, carrying around fake wooden swords with her, wearing an oversized soldier's helm, and telling her mother like "i'll protect you, mama!" is so cute. vs. aryll being a year or two younger and resenting link for being better at everything than her and how no one seems to acknowledge her accomplishments when link's cast a tall shadow over hers. aryll, who does everything to prove that she's just as good of a fighter as her brother is, but her father still brushes her aside for link.

i think the reaction that either version of aryll would have if link slowly went quiet and stopped sending letters or coming to see her after pulling the master sword would be devastating. for teeny baby adoring aryll, she would wonder why link hasn't sent any letters recently and rationalizes it as being busy with being the champion now. as time goes by, link doesn't send any more letters at all and he doesn't ever visit despite there being sightings of the hylian champion everywhere but the necluda region and aryll would slowly become heartbroken and distraught that her big brother isn't talking to her anymore, that he seems to have forgotten about her.

but for resentful aryll, it further proves that link never cared about her and her mother at all and that all he cares about is prestige and status and fulfilling his stupid destiny as the wielder of the sword that seals the darkness (she rereads link's old letters in the middle of the night with nothing but a tiny flame, and cries silently wondering if things would be different if their parents never split or if link was never chosen as a champion).

sorry i made it sad LMAO but yes it would be funny if they still had family dinners with their father being like "today, link bested five men in hand-to-hand combat all at once, fought off ten monster hordes alone, and deflected a guardian beam with a pot lid saving someone's life! how did your day fare, aryll?" and aryll is just like. i fell off my horse shooting 20 bullseyes during practice. their father is just like Hm. That's nice. Your brother can do 50 while standing on Epona's back. cue aryll staring murderously at link, meanwhile link does not give a single shit about this conversation, he's busy shoving his face full of the food that aryll cooked because aryll is a good cook :)

it's would be such a funny perspective, aryll plotting to murder link in his sleep vs. link who is oblivious to aryll's resentment and still thinks that's his little sister who fights well and cooks a great meal. now i'm thinking about link and aryll who used to cook dinners together and learned how to cook from their mother... :(

now revali, my poor dear sweet revali... i've seen a couple fics here and there that mention revali's family situation, but i personally am in favor of the idea that revali was either abandoned or orphaned as a fledgling, and was raised by the elder and the whole of rito village in general. since nintendo gives us no indication of revali's family but implies that revali is around the same age as link, zelda, and mipha as per urbosa's diary, there's a lot of potential and flexibility with this idea.

if revali was abandoned, i think the rito would shun his parents because i like the idea that family and bonds are very important in their culture, and what kind of parents would abandon their baby like that? who even knows why revali's parents would do that but i think there are still no indications of revali's family in age of calamity, so perhaps they fled the village when revali was born and abandoned his egg in the nest. fuck them fr! this could be a good explanation for his motivation as to why he pushes himself so hard to be better as per the DLC champion revali's song memory. his parents didn't want him enough to keep him and even fled the entire village so that they wouldn't be held responsible to care for him anymore, and that stings. it would be a deep-seated insecurity for revali, a sense of betrayal, loss, and desperation to be loved, to be wanted by someone. so he trains to be better, he pushes himself until he collapses, because if his parents didn't want him as he was, then maybe no one else will.

now if revali was orphaned, i would assume that both his parents were revered, formidable warriors who died in battle but most importantly, that they did love and want revali. revali might have already been hatched at this time and present at his parents' funerals, which is actually the saddest thing ever. a tiny orphaned little hatchling who being the one to send his parents off, to honor them for dying a warrior's death. it might be a good origin story and another really good motivation behind revali's character, why he pushes himself so hard to be better. do you think baby revali thought it was his fault that his parents died in battle, that he wasn't strong enough to protect them and that's why he needs to be the strongest warrior there ever was among the rito to make sure he can protect the people he cares and loves for the most? now imagine this version of revali cradling a dying link in his arms lmao

both are good backgrounds for revali but i think at the moment i'm leaning towards the orphaned storyline. it's only thing to be unloved and unwanted, but to know you were loved and wanted but to lose those people so soon is incredibly tragic. to know those people for a short window of time and lose them so soon must tear revali apart everyday. do you think he sits alone in the flight range in the quiet of the night after hours of training, trying desperately to remember his father and mother's faces, how they must have felt to see their son hatch, how they thought they would return home safely to him that day? he's loved and respected by the village and the elder treats him as their own, but it's not the same as knowing you had a mother and father who wanted you as their own too. he's honestly also the village's biggest tragedy. i'm imagining him as a fledgling, fresh out of the funeral, walking past some rito mothers cooking meals for their kids or some shit, openly talking about how tragic it was to lose some of their best warriors and to leave behind a son in their wake. it's too much for baby revali and he runs down the platforms of rito village and hides in a tree in one of the island spires connecting the village to the mainland, crying his eyes out.

my poor blorbo revali, please treat him and link kindly everyone. they're always going through some shit whether it's family trauma or their weird gay courting 😔

[bloodofthefates]

in the darkness they’d come to make their own, he bows. to time, to ache, to loss and forgotten love. his head is heavy. please; may they, may someone … hold it. “ —- i can’t do this anymore. ” forgive his failure. the fallen high lord of night. “ i am tired. ” — ( for either twin while utm, or both, should he find them together. )

The burden he bears is the insurmountable weight of a nation; their beloved city and every precious life kept hidden safely from the pretend Queen’s putrid claws solely by the sake of his sacrifice. It’s too much to ask of him, she sees it in the shadows beneath his eyes and through the sleepless nights as his sentry to ward off the return of nightmares coming to claim him like the creature that comes calling at his door. She fears failure above all else, above her own well being and even her own safety apart from ensuring her sister’s; Nuala fears she isn’t enough to serve her High Lord in the manner he needs, in all the ways he deserves but she’s willing to risk everything for him just as he’s done for them all decade after decade. “You can rest, My Lord, I will carry you through this. But you must do it; for all of us.” Her words travel along the hum of a whisper, for a second she wonders if they even need to be made audible in order for him to hear the promise and understand her mind. He’s so exhausted; so hopeless that the shields and barriers once respected and built up between them have corroded away. She has offered him sanctuary there, unbidden and without ceremony of invitation whenever his need for respite is too overwhelming that it might consume and swallow him whole. The least she can do is offer him the solace of that peace when he can get it nowhere else. The constant strain of the facade, the version of High Lord he must be and perform Under this Forsaken Mountain and in Amarantha’s presence as just one of her many playthings in this farce of a Court. Her heart aches for Rhys; for Velaris and their entire Court of Dreams to see him brought to his knees in desperate pleas and to see such strength so depleted. Black eyes search for the comfort of their beloved shadows that no longer exist here, focusing and lingering on the marked peaks of Ramiel just above his knees. “But she isn’t strong enough.” These words are spoken aloud for him to hear and feel with a strength of conviction she musters in spite of her own emptiness. “I will only ask one more thing of you… to help make her forget. Or else I fear she’ll never make it out of here when we do…”

[firefighterrojas]

BASIC INFORMATION.

full name: angel rojas

age: thirty

birth date: june 17th

birth place: aurora bay

nationality: american

gender: cis male

pronouns: he / him

orientation: bisexual

neighbourhood: seabrook quarter

occupation: firefighter

PHYSICAL APPEARANCE.

face claim: sean teale

hair colour: black

eye colour: dark brown

height: 6"1’

weight: 185 lbs

build: athletic

scars: a four inch scar on his left calf he got when he was a probie, various minor burns from his years as a firefighter and another scar behind his ear he got when growing up

tattoos: angel has a tattoo of an orchid for his mother on the back of his left upper arm

piercings: several piercings on his right ear including his lobe, helix, rook and snug that he only wears when he isn’t on shift at the firehouse

FAMILY.

mother: catalina rojas

father: javier rojas

siblings: two younger brothers

PERSONALITY TRAITS.

+ forthright, compassionate, ambitious, sincere - overcritical, blunt, resentful, judgemental

HISTORY.

angel was the first born son to catalina and javier rojas, a respected paediatrician and trauma surgeon amongst their peers at aurora bay hospital and their community around town. despite what his name might have suggested, angel proved to be a handful for his parents in his childhood, growing up to be quite driven and stubborn once he had set his mind to something.

when he was eight years old he ended up in the ER for attempting to perform a back flip from a tree in his families back yard onto their trampoline and bounced straight off and broke his arm — leaving angel wearing a cast for the next eight weeks and on supervised house arrest with his grandparents so that he didn't attempt another dangerous stunt.

although his grades remained consistently good throughout elementary school all the way to high school, angel's teachers all had the same thing to say about him; he could be capable of so much more if he just applied that drive of his into his academics and not just sports and reckless behaviour

when angel was fifteen years old he was pulled out of class by a dishelved and puffy-eyed catalina after his father had suffered an unexpected stroke while on shift at the hospital. his mother reassured him that everything would be alright, that his father would good better and be healthier than ever.

angel believed her of course, he looked to his mother like she held all the answers to the universe — she never, of course. angel learned this the hard way as javier suffered several more strokes over the remainder of angel's teenage years. some minor, others major but all ultimately lead to his father developing early onset dementia.

angel's once loving and doting father soon became paranoid, confused and apathetic. as hard as angel and his brothers tried to rally around his parents, offering to help with the bills by any means necessary and take care of javier while catalina was at work — the responsibility fell mostly on angel's shoulders and he was happy to carry that burden if it meant his brothers were able to scrape together a slice of a normal childhood.

when angel graduated high school he decided to remain at home with his family instead of leaving town with a football scholarship to any college of his choice to help catalina with his ailing father and younger brothers. catalina had been furious, javier too, reminding angel that he shouldn't put his life on pause for him but angel's mind was already made, no matter how hard they pleaded with him or how furious they got his mind wouldn't change — angel didn't want to leave his family behind in case the worst happened with javier and he didn't get to say goodbye.

true to his word, angel has remained in aurora bay ever since — even joining the aurora bay fire department at twenty five after javier finally passed away after suffering another stroke that lead to a heart attack in the middle of the night. angel has worked at the fire house for the three years, was recently turned down for a lieutenant position due to his lack of experience and age but hasn't let that deter him.

TIDBITS.

his ambition, drive and stubbornness can sometimes be his biggest flaws as they can cloud his judgement and make him callous and apathetic towards anybody standing in between him and his goals.

although it's been three years since his father passed away, he's never really dealt with his death and grieved him — instead choosing to throw himself into his career.

he's a big dog lover and has fostered several dogs before they went on to find their forever home, except for two that he ended up having a bigger soft spot for than most and was unable to let them go — one black american pitbull named luna and a blue nose pitbull named kilo.

CURRENT CONNECTIONS.

ex boyfriend of @nomadjones. now they work together. it's complicated

neighbours and surf buddies with @heyits-asher

childhood family friends with @lemielewis and @luckylewis

if @willxmeyers only has one hater then that hater is angel

firehouse fam @nomadjones, @hcnter, @atticuscortes and @camryn-hendricks

wingman / drinking buddies with @rominacortez

high school bros with @maverick-liu

platonic soulmates with @noralevin everyone thinks they're dating or have dated because of this

went on several dates with @leomlarson but it didn't lead anywhere

hooked up with @ziggykyeons at halloween and has been hooking up with him since

WANTED CONNECTIONS.

PLATONIC

childhood friends / seabrook quarter neighbours / ex-classmates from high school / firehouse fam / friends he’s made from rescuing dogs from the animal shelter / people he has helped while on shift / drinking buddies / etc

ROMANTIC

first kiss / unrequited love / tinder matches / exes / one night stands / flirtationships / situationships / bad dates / friends with benefits / enemies to lovers / high school exes / first love / etc

OTHER

somebody angel has pissed off when responding to a call / exes that ended badly / petty neighbours / professional rivals / etc @aurorabayaesthetic

EXTRA

pinterest

[dream-meister-translations]

MAIN STORY : CHAPTER 2 PART 12

━

EMMA : (Sion where are you? I thought I saw him heading this way, but…)

????? : How about this? Do you like that?

EMMA : (That voice just now…)

ANGE : Meow~!

SION : Here kitty, what's this…

EMMA : (Is that Sion's light magic? Whoa, so soft…)

SION : Alright, good kitty, that's it, over here, just a little more…

SION : Just a liiiittle more…

ANGE : Hssssssssssttt!

SION : …!? Ange!?

SION : …….

EMMA : …Hey, Sion? Can we talk?

SION : What the-!? How long have you been standing there!?

EMMA : I wasn't trying to spy! I've been looking everywhere for you, I--…

SION : …Just don't tell anyone what you saw, got it?

EMMA : You got it.

EMMA : So… Do you like animals in general, or is it JUST cats?

SION : I don't have to answer to you.

EMMA : Well, when you put it that way, you're right… I can't force you to tell me.

SION : …………….

SION : …Cats are cute… Right?

EMMA : Uh, yeah, I think so! Especially Ange here, she's a beauty.

SION : …So… What do you want from me?

EMMA : You ran out… I was worried about you…

EMMA : You've got Est, Kai and Gui all worried sick, too. You know that, right?

SION : …No, I didn't know that…

EMMA : Hey, Sion… Can I ask you something?

EMMA : Why do you look so sad all the time?

SION : I haven't given you permission to ask me anything yet…

EMMA : Oh, I'm sorry!

Sion throws a glance my way, assessing me for all I'm worth.

Seemingly making his decision, he takes a short breath.

SION : …I didn't come to Magia Seminar to make friends or be some kind of model student.

SION : I came here to hone my skills as a magician. And that's what I intend to do.

SION : I don't have time to deal with them…

EMMA : I don't understand… Aren't Kai and Gui are working just as hard for the same reason?

SION : They are, but it's just not the same.

SION : The burden I carry… It's different…

EMMA : And what burden is that?

SION : ……..

SION : Fine… You're just gonna read my file anyway…

SION : I'm from Secundati, the land of spirits.

EMMA : Spirits…

SION : Yeah. The definition varies from place to place. In Secundati, it's what we call the higher beings that control nature itself.

SION : Earth, Wind, Water, Fire, Ice, Light, and Darkness. For each Spirit a nation. And for each nation a clan blessed with the power of said Spirit.

SION : I was born into the clan of Darkness. And there isn't a single person in the world who hasn't heard our name.

EMMA : Darkness? But you're… A Light Magician, right?

SION : I'm a heretic...

SION : I was supposed to be chosen by the Spirit of Darkness to master the Anima arts… But instead… I was chosen by the Spirit of Light…

SION : Even still, my family took care of me and treated me as their own… But they were the only ones…

Why would the venerable Clan of Darkness give birth to a Child of Light? What did his family do to deserve this? How filthy. He's a blight on the family name…

EMMA : …….

SION : That's why I left my home, my country. To hone my skills, become famous and make a name for myself.

SION : To get back at those who slandered my family.

SION : And become a Grand Meister so I could finally make my dreams of mastering the Anima Arts a reality…

EMMA : …Sion?

SION : …You talk too much.

SION : But since you're already here… Give those guys a message for me.

SION : I'm leaving the guild.

EMMA : What, why now all of a sudden!?

SION : I've been preparing for this from the start. I've done a lot of research on my own.

SION : I only came here because I thought it would make it easier for me to become a Grand Meister.

SION : I put my faith in that so called 'genius', but it's not enough to just be like everybody else…

SION : I'm only falling further behind.

EMMA : But…

SION : Leave me alone. I'll do whatever it takes to make my dreams come true.

EMMA : …..SION!!!

SION : …………..

EMMA : You're not the only one with a dream, Sion… I have one, too. So even if you leave this guild, I still want to help you.

SION : …………

SION : …Tsk. So you're a single-celled organism, too…

━

JOE : Ughh! They got in our way again.. But they won't get in our way next time. In fact, next time it'll be an all-out stomp!!

ACE : You're right, bro! I mean, c'mon, those guys don't know how to work together at all!

JOE : Ha-ha-ha! Right? How pathetic! Meanwhile lil bro and I are in perfect sync!

ACE : Exactly! All for one and one for all!!

JOE / ACE : Who will become the biggest, baddest, evilest villainest villains of all time? We will! The Dark Night Duo, that's who!

NANASHI : Being so lively and upbeat at a time like this is a talent all its own, I suppose…

NANASHI : Well now, what exactly do we do next? Any ideas, Mateo?

MATEO : Uuwwwaaa…. AWWOOOOOOO!!!

NANASHI : Hmmm, yes. I was thinking that exact same thing. He did look rather lonely after all…

NANASHI : Mateo… Would you like to make a new friend?

[attano]

#1 — envoy.

trigger warnings: gore, emetophobia

There was a certain pride in being chosen to deliver a package to the Scions of the Seventh Dawn. After all the world-saving and war-ending and nation-liberating and surely other heroic deeds that simply haven't yet passed N'teya's ears, they'd garnered a certain reputation. Sure, being a delivery girl isn't exactly glamorous or lifesaving work, but nonetheless being the hands to carry a package onto the Scions' doorstep was something to be excited about.

Strange, then, that when Villenoix hands the ostentatious box to her, he seems all too glad to be rid of it.

"Gods above, please." The passion is out of place for a man usually so nonchalant about his work. "I can't stand the smell any longer."

"The smell?" N'teya dares to sound incredulous, but then it hits her. Decay. Rot. Rancid meat, like when she and her siblings accidentally let some dodo go bad before preserving it. It's all she can do to not double over and throw up her lunch. She slaps a hand over her mouth on instinct, and she must look truly ill, because Villenoix looks pained.

"I do not envy you and your Miqo'te nose."

"What on Hydaelyn is—," she turns the box over, inspecting it. It's much too pretty for its horrid stench, with deep red wood, gold inlays, and shining black stone. Attached is a little red ribbon and a note. When she checks it, all it says is, 'To my friend.' "For the Scions? Are you sure? Did they order rotting steaks?"

All Villenoix can offer is a shrug. "Fuck if I know. I don't think anyone does. No one could even answer when I asked who sent the thing."

Well, N'teya doesn't like that. But she has a job to do.

The trip from the Black Shroud to Mor Dhona is mercifully short, so if nothing else she does not have to suffer this burden for long. She keeps it as far back on her chocobo as physically possible, but even still the fetid scent wafts towards her accursed sensitive nose—and digs its claws deeper in her curiosity in the process.

No. Gods above, no! Opening packages that aren't hers can get her fired, not to mention opening the Rotting Flesh Box is, by all accounts, a horrible idea.

But...

She turns to look at the ornate package.

What kind of person wraps up something that smells dead like that? Almost like a gift. The dissonance makes her head spin. There are flowers that smell like corpses, right...? But even then, why send those as a gift? There are better-smelling and probably looking flowers. Maybe they're someone's favorite?

...Who sends flowers to their friend?

The mystery eats at her. With each languid step of her chocobo, the urge to crack open the box and take a peek at its contents grows ever stronger as her sense-making inner voice grows quieter. She has to know. She simply has to know.

As she dismounts to prepare for the trek across the Coerthas Central Highlands, donning her fur-lined coat and wrapping her seasons-old scarf 'round her neck, she keeps peering at the box sitting pretty in its secure traveling crate.

Just a peek. Just a little peek.

Looking around to ensure not a soul can see her, N'teya buries her nose deep in her scarf and approaches. It hardly does a thing. Still, she persists—the box's latch is clean and opens easily, as if its sender wanted no obstacles to stand in the way of its proper delivery.

The hinges are smooth and silent as she pulls it upwards. She leans in close to peer inside, and...

The box is lined with a rich purple velvet, cushioning what seems to be a neatly folded letter, upon which is... something. Something that seems fragile and withered, and from which that stench is definitely emanating—N'teya once again has to swallow the compulsion to retch.

But what is it? She squints, looks closer—then stumbles quickly backwards when she realizes, retreating to a safety that does not exist.

It's a finger. One long, rotting finger, drained of blood and severed at the knuckle. Pale blue, skin taut, desperate to disintegrate and reveal dehydrated muscle, allow the flies and maggots to feast and swarm and gorge on the body, on the human body, on a living person that used to be alive and no longer is and now has their body parts dismembered and mailed like petty trinkets to all corners of Eorzea—

N'teya yanks her scarf down and vomits into the bushes. When she rights herself, she mounts her chocobo and rides it full tilt into Coerthas.

[supurman]

if you're guilty , i'm guilty .

there is a heavy hand that drags across superman's face. the lasting feeling of shock and uncertainty couldn't be wiped away no matter how much he had tried. its a distress that laid a reckoning within his heart. such a soft place of kindness being bruised by some mystery criminal. in the air all around the super there was an overcast that barred  his usually sunny personality shone. he struggled to convey a usual joy instead there was visibly stressed.

❝ they all think i killed that senator... just because i didn't agree with meta-human pact that’s going to the united nations in 3 days. just because some of us are born special or become special doesn't mean we should be catalogued. ❞ clark sighed heavily as he turned briskly away from captain america. ( pull yourself together kent... ) . seeing the captain here, clark wasn't sure what to expect. he was a man of justice in his own right so his thoughts on the super could go any which way... what he didn't expect was to receive was compassion from him.

this comes as a shock to clark it calls for him to make an abrupt turn to steve where he once was looking away. it was a small effort to shield his wounded mood. ' if you're guilty , i'm guilty . ' ... that staple cheeky yet comforting words you could only find from that man from brooklyn.

❝ i didn't do it... and you believe i didn't do it, right ? ❞ a hand is placed right over his symbol upon his chest when he says this. a symbol that inspired hope, much like the star and stripes on the captain’s shield. they shared this burden of being a symbol to many. so if anyone knew superman’s plight of a world seeing him as a fraud… it would very much be the man with the plan. there was no room for hate in this super's heart even when he disagreed with the political meddling of human's who we're trying to corral the same powered-beings who wore capes or carried shields to protect them. there was no world clark would want anyone who put their heart on their line day in and day out to be at the mercy of a government to know how their powers worked and all their weaknesses. it just wasn't right. contingency plans should be dealt by one's own planning... the same way superman has untrusted batman with kryptonite to kill him should the man of steel stray into a path of tyranny. what mattered is this was all their choice. the ins and outs of it all.

superman extended his hand outward to the captain. an almost pleading look in his eyes. though it was obvious he was trying to keep a more professional gaze... rather forced. ❝ if you try and help me find who framed me, you know the world is going to chase after you too, steve. i can't ask you to do this. ❞

@rg4rz