#made myself way too emotional thinking about this

[blitzwhore]

Stolas just standing there and letting blitz hug him in the end is all good, right? He is just sad because of octavia and accepting that blitz is there with him right?? It's not that he regrets chosing him, right??? (I just need affirmation)

You know what? I've found myself needing reassurance about this too. So let's take a moment to look at the facts together, shall we?

(This reply turned out way longer than I expected it to 😅 sorry!)

Fact #1 - Stolas is still coming to terms with the consequences of his actions. He spends the whole episode finding out just how much his life has changed. Learning how to navigate groceries, and laundry, and meals, and having a job, and worrying about money.

Mid-episode, he has a breakdown where he truly questions if everything he gave up was worth it just for a fantasy. At this point in the episode, he still hasn't realised how much he means to Blitz. As far as he's concerned, he did all of this for someone who doesn't reciprocate his feelings. By the end of the episode, though, his feelings have settled enough for him to express what he has known to be true all along: that saving Blitz was the right thing to do.

What Stolas regrets isn't saving Blitz's life, or even loving Blitz in the first place.

What he regrets are the choices he made that led them to this. He feels guilty for selfishly (or, rather, naively) playing out his fantasies. He's the one who established the deal, who let Blitz illegally use the book for many months, who wasn't always sensible about how he expressed his love for Blitz publicly and despite being married, and who allowed himself to ignore the reality of his situation so he could live in his own, personal romcom—all of which ultimately led to the events of Mastermind and the loss of Via.

And all the guilt and regret he's grappling with (however justified it might be) is exacerbated by fact #2, which is:

Fact #2 - Stolas is off his medication. He's been off it for a month now. Symptoms of depression (especially untreated depression) include mood swings, irritability, self-hatred and low self-esteem, passive/active suicidal ideation, pessimism and hopelessness about the future, catastrophising, black-and-white thinking, and anhedonia (inability to feel pleasure and to find joy in things—and people—who used to bring you it). All symptoms Stolas exhibits throughout this episode.

So, even if he shows a lack of emotion toward Blitz at times, or irritation to seemingly minor things like low doors or "secretating" or Karen's behaviour, even if he acts regretful and angry and desolate... a lot of these emotions and behaviours are a result of his depression, and not of actually hating the life he chose.

Fact #3 - Stolas loves Blitz. He always has, and always will. I could point at a thousand different moments in the show when Stolas' love for Blitz has transpired, but I'm going to leave it at his line from Mastermind: "I would rather be dead than live life without you by my side."

Even after everything they've gone through, even now that he's taken Blitz off his pedestal and can acknowledge that Blitz can be a fucking idiot... Stolas simply does not want to live a life without Blitz. It has always been Blitz. It will always be Blitz.

Stolas loves Blitz.

Fact #4 - Stolas kissed Blitz. Before he truly hits rock bottom as a result of Octavia cutting him out, Stolas is so ecstatic that Blitz cares, that Blitz was willing to go to such lengths to save his life, that he can't hold back the need to kiss Blitz mid-air. Suddenly, none of his earlier frustration matters. Nothing matters expect for how elated he is that Blitz loves him back. So he smiles and he pulls Blitz into a kiss because he can't bear not to kiss Blitz for a moment longer.

Look at this man. Look at how happy he is. Because it's always been Blitz, and maybe it was a fantasy for a long time, but it doesn't have to be anymore. Maybe this can be real now. He's so happy he (and I) could cry.

Fact #5 - Stolas didn't deny loving Blitz. When Via said "You don't love me, you love him," the script very purposefully did not have Stolas go "no, no, Via, that's not true—" or say anything else that might make Blitz doubt, even for a moment, that Stolas loves him. Because that much is true. He does love Blitz. He just also loves Via. Which brings me to:

Fact #6 - Blitz knows Stolas loves him. At no point throughout the episode does Blitz doubt, even for a second, that Stolas loves him. And we know this because Blitz's walls remain down at all times. If Blitz doubted he was loved, if he had even the slightest of reservations, those walls would come crawling back up whether he wanted them to or not. It's what he's been trained and conditioned to do—it's how he's kept his heart safe ever since the accident.

But now, he knows his heart is safe with Stolas. He believes it enough to not depend on his walls to feel at ease. He believes it enough to let himself take care of Stolas and be soft with Stolas without the slightest trace of hesitation.

Look at Blitz's face. This is the face of a man who knows that even if Stolas isn't okay right now, things will get better. And when they do, they'll both still be in love with each other. This is the face of a man who can't wait for something beautiful to flourish between them, but who is in no rush to get there. He knows the road ahead is hard and painful, but he has faith in Stolas. In both of them.

Fact #6 - Stolas was happy to share a private, romantic dance with Blitz. Despite everything going through his mind, he found comfort and happiness in dancing with Blitz; in getting to have this little moment with him.

He found relief in the fact that Blitz stayed with him this time, even after Stolas told him, once again, that he didn't have to stay.

His reaction to Blitz initiating a dance between them is genuine surprise, immediately followed by an enamoured little smile at the mere notion that he gets to have this, now.

And, as they dance, he keeps smiling and leaning into Blitz, going as far as to manage a deep, heartfelt laugh at Blitz's words. This, for an unmedicated, depressed person going through one of the worst days of his life, is huge in itself. It shows that, even in the worst of times, he finds undeniable comfort and happiness in Blitz.

And, after their dance, Stolas looks at Blitz with a sobriety and soft sort of realisation that shows he's finally coming to terms with the fact that this is real. After everything he's lost, after all the fantasies he hoped for for so long and believed he'd never have, he finally gets to have this.

Despite the pain he's going through, Stolas looks at Blitz and sees the man he loves.

Notice how Blitz's eyes trail down to Stolas' mouth. And Stolas realises. And doesn't move away. Waiting, expectantly, for Blitz's next move, fully expecting it to be a kiss.

But then Blitz hugs him instead, and Stolas doesn't hug back.

And it's not because he doesn't want to be hugged by Blitz. It's not because his feelings for Blitz have changed, or dimmed, or disappeared. It's not because he regrets loving Blitz, or saving him. It's not because he doesn't want to have a close, healthy, loving romantic relationship with Blitz.

It's because of facts #1 (he's grappling with so much guilt and coming to terms with the consequences of his actions) and #2 (he's experiencing symptoms of unmedicated depression). And, above all, it's because of fact #7, which is...

Fact #7 - Stolas doesn't know how to be loved. Stolas has never had support. He has never had a shoulder to cry on, or someone to hold him when he needed it. When he's feeling vulnerable and broken, he defaults to hugging himself as a way to self-soothe, because that's the only comfort he's ever known.

And because he's never known comfort from others—because it was never allowed or safe for him to need or ask for comfort from others—all Stolas knows to do with his vulnerability is hide it. So much so that, the two times we see him begin to break down in front of Blitz before this episode, he either portals Blitz away or masks his tears and pain immediately. Even as he drunkenly rambles about wanting to be held, he still makes sure not to appear like he actually needs a hug.

So when he finds himself being held by Blitz in a warm, comforting hug, Stolas doesn't know how to respond. Because he's never had this. He's never had an opportunity to learn how to exist in someone's comforting embrace, how to interact with this kind of physical contact. He still has to learn how to feel safe between arms that aren't his own.

Simply put, Stolas still doesn't know how to hold Blitz back.

That doesn't mean Stolas doesn't want or need physical comfort. He needs it desperately—everyone does. But wanting something and knowing how to actually have it are two very different things, and Blitz knows that better than anyone, because he's wanted Stolas for a very long time, but didn't, until very recently, know how to feel safe accepting Stolas' love.

And that's why Blitz is completely understanding of the fact that all Stolas can do, all Stolas has the ability to do, is stand there and let himself be held, and let his emotions go through him. In, and out, with every breath, with every second. And get slowly acquainted with what being comforted by the person he loves feels like.

Thirty-something years of trauma can't be undone in a single hug, or a single conversation, and it's going to take time for Stolas to learn how to be present while in Blitz's arms, and how to return that emotional closeness.

But Blitz has faith in him. Blitz is willing to be patient and soft with him while he gets better. Blitz is ready to meet Stolas where he's at, because he knows, beyond a trace of doubt, that they love one another, and they're going to be okay. Even if Stolas doesn't know it yet—even if we, the audience don't know it yet—Blitz knows.

And that's just going to have to be enough for now.

And because this post got completely away from me, I shall conclude by quoting their song, because it summarises their story better than I ever could:

Truer love is hard to find. ❤️

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

YOUR L*ONISMS IN THE MALLEUS POST BYE 😭😭 I tend to try to avoid talking about him precisely bc I fear I'll sound like Leona too lmao. or bc I'm scared ppl will say "ah you only dislike him bc you like Leona"- when that's not the case at all (although I also share some of his views about the lizard) Similarly to you, I just don't get the hype- basically everything you say. my feelings for him fluctuate from "🙄 ok." to "you're okay? I guess?"

which is weird, bc I really like dragons and non-human characters learning about humans. but that's what makes it worse for me bc man all the talk about him made me want to rlly like him and then I saw him in canon and I was like uh... okay? kind of disappointed + a bit annoyed at some stuff. I do like how he talks about gargoyles or things he finds interesting tho— I'll praise you that much, Draconia.

[Referencing this post!]

***PLEASE NOTE: Everything I express in this post is my own opinion and is in no way meant to disparage Malleus enjoyers.***

Leona and Rollo is right about Malleus and he should speak his truth 😔

To reflect a little on my own character arc with Malleus, I felt very neutral about him from the prologue to about book 2ish. This was simply because I hadn't interacted with the guy yet so I held off on judging him prematurely. The brief encounter we actually had with Malleus in book 2 wasn't meaty enough for me to get a sense for his character, so I brushed him off.

I thought it was interesting that book 2's narrative invites comparisons between Leona and Malleus, with Leona being a parallel to Scar, Malleus being a parallel to Mufasa, and the world holding Malleus up as the "superior" king. Lilia states as much in 2-26: "Would that the lion king of the savanna could witness this absolute farce. No, if you ask me, the collar suits you far better than a crown ever could. You may bemoan the fact that you're not higher in line to be king. But with that sensitive ego of yours? That so quickly directs all your petty anger at your retainers... Well, the idea of you ever contending with a REAL king like our Malleus—is absolutely laughable. Even if you COULD defeat Malleus, so long as that's how you choose to conduct yourself? You would never be fit to rule!"

And at the time, yeah, Lilia's right because Leona is very much losing his grip on his emotions and acts irrationally in an attempt to triumph over Malleus. HOWEVER... The longer the main story went on, the more I found myself disagreeing with Lilia's judgment of Malleus and his character. Now, that doesn't mean that I think Leona was in the right for the actions he took in book 2 (they are still and always will be wrong). Rather, I think Lilia gave a somewhat biased take on Malleus and his preparedness for the throne. Many of the things Lilia accuses Leona of also ended up being very true of his own liege. Malleus has a sensitive ego (he has attempted to strike down peers and faceless, magicless NPCs on more than one occasion; ie Halloween events). Malleus has directed his anger at his retainers (as a child, he froze many servants; in book 7, he attacks Sebek and Silver for attempting to wake up their peers and tries to return Lilia to sleep against his wishes). Malleus has scarcely led anyone in anything. Leona and Malleus are far more similar to one another than either of them would like to admit, but Lilia is just assuming that Malleus will be a great leader anyway because of... what? Because of birthright and lineage? Yeah, no wonder why Leona is pissed and has a bone to pick with the lizard (attempt to harm Malleus aside).

Book 3 and onwards is what I started to develop my current dislike for Malleus. (And to be clear, he has good points too! I'm not saying that he has nothing going for him at all; however, this post is focusing on my own critiques of his character so that is what I will be speaking about.) I started to notice things that annoyed me on a personal level: how he lacks consideration of others' perspectives and actively violates their autonomy, how he never gets any repercussions for his actions, how he's aware of his power and status and yet fails to avoid lording it over others, how he has been given so many opportunities to learn and change as a person but refuses those opportunities, etc. And yes, I understand that he acts in these ways for particular reasons. I'm not saying that his behaviors don't make sense, I am only stating that these are behaviors that I personally don't find appealing. (For more extensive explanations of why I don't like Malleus, please see the FAQ section in my pinned post.) All of this in spite of how little of him we actually get to see and interact with, especially in the main story. It baffled me that he was undoubtably the most popular character in EN circles. There's so much chatter about Malleus Draconia, you can't really get away from it. People are legitimately shocked when you tell them you actively dislike Malleus or when they learn that he's not even a top contender for best boy in the JP fandom. The default is assuming that you do like Malleus, which ironically happens to be the same thing that Draconians (Malleus stans in-universe) do. It feels like there's sometimes an unspoken pressure to like the guy. I also started to notice peculiar behaviors (?) which, in a vacuum, aren't necessarily bad--I would just like to comment on them because I find it interesting. With Malleus being as popular of a character as he is, there's of course going to be a lot of online discussion about him, especially from his fans. Now, I don't know if it's only me noticing this, but I've frequently observed Malleus fans going out of their way to "wring as much content" out of the least Malleus-related content possible. For example, there may be a screenshot of some other character posted and then a fan would come in and make a comment like, "I wonder how Malleus would feel about this". A more concrete example would be from the more recent JP Lost in the Book with Nightmare Before Christmas event; in it, the event character takes the back of all the characters' hands and kisses them (including Yuu). Automatically posts that showed this kissing were inundated with comments about how "Malleus would be so angry about this", even though Malleus himself shows no such reaction. Similar comments dropped when Yuu is kidnapped in the event even though, again, Malleus shows no such anger about the incident. Halloween events such as this contain half the main NRC cast, yet I saw no fans of the other 10 characters claiming those characters reacting jealously. This occurs VERY often in regards to Malleus; even in events or scenes where he doesn't react or doesn't even appear, zealous fans will insert him into the situation or make the situation suddenly about him, whether it's in someone's own posts or on other people's posts.

I wonder if this is a result of Malleus being kept so mysterious for two full years...? Without much of his character to go off of, it left a huge negative space for fans to headcanon, project, and hyperfixate on what he is like or what he could be. And maybe now those behaviors persist in an effort to fill in that void because honestly Malleus isn't getting much screen time within book 7 either 💀

I believe this has contributed to the discrepancy (that this asker brought up) between how the English-speaking Twst fandom speaks about Malleus versus what Malleus is actually like and how he is portrayed in game. The fandom version of him is pretty much always hyped up or sensationalized (sometimes simply for his mere existence), similar to how his own fans in-universe might put him on a pedestal. But then you play the game for yourself and you're exposed to so little of him and what little you do see of him is much more... reserved, somber, and sometimes even petulant, depending on the situation.

Anyway, my point is that anyone that dislikes Malleus (or any other character) should be allowed to dislike him, regardless of what anyone else says or if you feel pressured into silence🤷‍♀️

[cjlouwho]

Twelve Christmases

chapter tags: discussions of a burn victim (nothing graphic), discussions of suicide and mental health, very brief mentions of things that happened in past chapters (Tommy's mom, military, red handkerchief, implied noncon), anxiety, depression, background character death, Tommy calls the crisis hotline

read below or on ao3

Day 10: 2022

“I'm calling Roberts in early, you can go home.”

“Captain Marks-”

“No, Kinard! What you did out there was careless. You could've gotten yourself killed.”

“And if I'd done nothing, that man would be dead.”

“He's gonna wish he were dead if he ever wakes up! He's got third degree burns on over seventy percent of his body! I don't mean to be harsh, Tommy, but you risked your life for a dead man walking!”

“So?” 

Marks took a deep breath, sitting back in his chair. “I'm gonna pretend I didn't just hear you say that. I know emotions are high right now, but you know as well as I do I can't have a pilot that isn't concerned about whether they live or die.”

“That's not-”

“Stop talking, Kinard,” Marks warned. “You're on the ground for five shifts, I'll reevaluate things myself after that. If I have any hesitation, for even a moment, about your intentions here, you're getting a psych eval. That'll put you on the ground forever. You understand me?”

Tommy pursed his lips, nodding his head. “I understand.”

“Good. Now, go home, enjoy the rest of your Christmas, come back next shift with a clear head.”

*****

By the time Tommy got home, it was nearing ten o'clock at night. His brain was a jumbled mess. It didn't seem to matter how many times he hit the punching bag in his garage, it was never enough.

After a quick shower, he thought about laying down.

But even the idea of that made him want to crawl out of his skin.

So, he began to pace.

He paced, and paced, and paced, with his hands on his hips. From the living room, to the kitchen, down the hall, and back again.

It all felt like too much. He wasn't just thinking about today. He was thinking about his mom. He was thinking about the military. He was thinking about the red handkerchief. He was thinking about waking up in a stranger's apartment with no clue what happened the night before.

He was thinking, thinking, thinking, pacing, pacing, pacing, and he needed it all to stop.

Just stop!

So he did something he never thought he'd do.

He wasn't even sure what made him do it.

All he remembered was pulling his phone out of his pocket and dialing the number.

988.

“988 crisis lifeline, this is Penny. How can I help you today?”

He froze.

“Hello? Is anyone there?”

He swallowed. Closed his eyes.

“I'm here.”

“Oh, good. May I ask who I'm speaking with?”

“Tommy,” no attempt to try for a fake name.

“Hi, Tommy! I'm Penny. I know I said it before, but I like to make sure the people I speak to heard me. Tommy, ca-”

“I'm not... I don't wanna kill myself,” Tommy interrupted, needing to make it clear. “I just needed someone to talk to.”

“Okay.” Her voice was soothing, familiar almost. A voice that Tommy hadn't heard in years. “That's what I'm here for, Tommy. What's on your mind?”

He tried to think of what to say. Tried to figure out the perfect way to start the conversation.

He was usually so put together.

But everything felt off.

“I hate Christmas.”

He wasn't sure why that was the first thing that popped into his brain at this moment, but it was out there now.

“A lot of people have complex feelings about holidays. It can be tough sometimes, no doubt about it.”

The tiny admission seemed to open a floodgate for Tommy. “My mom was thirty-eight when she died, and I'm thirty-eight now,” he explained. He was sure the words coming out of his mouth were just as jumbled as the thoughts in his head. “And she- she didn't die around Christmas. She actually died in June, so I don't know why I keep thinking about her today of all days, but I do. Not just her; I'm thinking about a lot of things. But it all sort of leads back to her at the end, I guess.”

“Was Christmas important to her?” Penny asked.

“She loved it when I was really little. Always liked looking at the lights and taking me to the mall to pick out things I wanted. I think my dad ruined Christmas for her though.”

“He wasn't big on the holiday?”

“He wasn't big on family. Looking back, I can see how being with him changed her. I didn't recognize it back then.”

“You were young. She probably didn't want you to recognize it.”

Tommy sighed, giving himself a moment to gather his thoughts. “She didn't get thirty-nine Christmases, you know? And that doesn't really seem fair. Because I'm here for my thirty-ninth Christmas and I don't even like the damn day. She deserved more. She deserved better.”

“It's never easy to understand why the people we love get taken from us too soon. It can be especially difficult when we lose them as a child.”

Tommy let out a humorless laugh. “She didn't get taken from me,” he bit out, “she left me.”

There was a pause on the line, then, “I'm sorry?”

“Yeah, she uh, she made that choice to leave herself. Stuck me with my dad, who never really gave a crap about me in the first place, and she... she was just gone.”

“I'm sorry about that, Tommy. That's a lot to have to deal with as a kid.”

“I don't ever talk about it, about her. I don't really have anyone to talk about it with. My dad never cared for emotions, so I just plaster a smile on my face and put my shoulders back and keep going.” Tommy shook his head, clearing his throat and wiping away the tears that were pooling in his eyes. “That's not why I called though. Not because of her.”

“Okay,” Penny replied. “Tell me why you called, Tommy.”

Tommy rolled his shoulders, trying to rid himself of some of the tension running through his body. “I did something stupid at work today, and I knew better. I just didn't care.”

“Can you tell me what happened?”

“I work for the fire department. I'm a firefighter pilot, but today I was on the ground. We were called to a fire at this house- well, more like a mansion- and we thought we had the place cleared. Then the daughter started yelling for her dad. I headed back inside and found him, um,” Tommy paused, taking in a shaky breath.

“It's okay, Tommy. Take your time.”

“He- He was at the source of the fire. A fairly large space heater exploded and the fire had spread quickly. The house was about to collapse, and I was being told to get out, but I stayed. Long story short, I was able to get the man out right before the structure collapsed. He was severely burned though. If he makes it, and it's a big if, he's going to wish he hadn't. My captain won't let me fly for a while now. Sent me home early.” He let out a humorless laugh. “I wasn't even supposed to work today. I took the shift because I hate this damn holiday.”

“You've mentioned that three times now,” Penny noted.

“What?”

“How much you dislike Christmas. Tommy, do you think that maybe the risk you took today had something to do with the fact it's Christmas? Emotions were already high, making you take risks you wouldn't usually take?”

“Hm,” Tommy hummed. “Maybe? I don't really know though, because I feel like I'm ready to take those same risks any day, anytime. I said it before, and I meant it, I'm not trying to die. I just... I don't think I care if I do. It didn't matter to me if I didn't make it out. We're all gonna die someday, you know? That's what I always figure. What's it matter if it's now?”

“I think it would matter to the people who love you. The people who care about you.”

“I don't think I know anyone well enough for them to be affected by my death.”

“Well, it would matter to me,” Penny replied matter-of-factly, and Tommy couldn't help but let out a laugh.

“I dunno, I can be kind of a bitch sometimes.”

“Thank God for that, I'd hate it if you were too perfect.”

“Well, I never said I wasn't perfect. Perfect and bitch can go together, right?”

“I think it's a great pairing.”

A smile lingered on Tommy's face. He couldn't remember the last time he spoke to someone so openly. “Penny?”

“I'm here.”

“Would you stay on the phone with me until Christmas is over?”

“Honey,” she answered, Tommy softening at the name, “I can honestly say there's nowhere else I'd rather be.”

Penny stayed on the phone with him until 12:01. She was willing to stay on the line longer, but by the time Tommy had watched the clock strike midnight, he was ready to go to bed.

He felt better. A little lighter than he had in a while.

He'd been in bed for about fifteen minutes, and was just dozing off when his phone buzzed.

It was Captain Marks.

The man from the house fire died on the operating table.

I know you wanted to save him, Tommy.

Unfortunately we can't save them all.

Tommy stared at the texts for a good ten minutes before switching over to the phone app and dialing 988 again.

[forget-me-nightingale]

My favourite things about S7 of the Dragon Prince (part 2)

5: STICKY FINGERS

Runaan going "You've already said that this morning." to Callum- I know I've said it before but I'm so in love with Jonathan Holmes' voice-- it's so smooth and rich and I could listen to it for hours istg

And then Ethari going "Runaan, be kind to the boy!" 😭

"Home for less than a month and she's already tired of my cooking!" I love their banter so so so much gfdghdjk and the face Ethari makes while saying that with the raised eyebrow

And then Ethari introducing Callum to the Moon Cubs I love the fact that we get to see Ethari interacting with other Moonshadow Elves-- I was so nervous that cause of his grief he's going to become guarded and shut out other elves, but he's clearly so loved by the entire village and especially by the kids, and just seeing more of Ethari after living off of scraps ever since Season 3 was just so marvelous And also Runaan's face while he looks at Callum when Ethari introduces him to the kids--- the eyebrow was raised SO HIGH LMAO

Amaya saying "ass" and Gren having to censor her again lmao

Soren going "SALAD GUY" at Terry LMAO Also Soren yelling at Terry both for being on previously being on the wrong side and then for abandoning said wrong side cause it meant abandoning Claudia LMAO "YEAH? WELL I'M CONFUSED TOO" summed it all up so nicely and was freaking hilarious

Terry just casually dropping the Aaravos bomb in the middle of the convo

Callum setting the scene up so that we think he's going to show the kids his primal magic powers but then just going "tickleproof" was SO GOOD LMAO and so wholesome too 😭 I know it's a given considering he has a younger brother but he's so good with the kids it's so adorable

"Ah-ah, I know this trick! You're just buttering me up!" callback to season 2 😭 Loved it, it made me laugh so much back then

Of course the iconic "Rayla! Callum wants to have ten babies with you!!" scene It made me wheeze so much I had pause the show to collect myself istg Not in front of her dads too 😭 Callum's face, Runaan's deadpan stare, Ethari bursting into laughter It was SO good and funny and wholesome gjhdhgfdk And the tiny detail of Runaan's stoic face breaking into a soft smile as Ethari starts laughing 😭 He loves him SO much and he must've missed that laugh SO MUCH

Soren's "How do we know it's not mmmmmagic sap CORVUS CHECK IT." I LOVED THE DELIVERY ON THAT LINE SO MUCH GDJGHDKJ

The fking Moonberry Surprise scene jdkghdjghdk it caught me SO OFF GUARD 😭 Rayla what the hell did you put in that cake

Also excuse me but Ethari smiling at Runaan in that scene? 🥺🥺

"I am only thinking of the future, Miyana. This heir will play a great role in the rebirth of the Sunfire empire!" Karim please I have been patient with you but your character but you're literally in prison being sentenced to death, WHAT future

6: INVERSION

The primal stone in Aaravos' staff now actually looks like a mini-moon and I love it so much it's so pretty

The animation of Claudia's face when she says "My dad left this world without unfinished business" is done SO beautifully, the way her hair blows in the wind, and her her eyes get bigger and then fill with tears and tremble as they close-- I'm in love with those few seconds

"Good question. How about you answer it?" "What?" the way Aaravos said it was so soft and small I love it so much

"For Leola. My sweet baby girl." hfjskfhsjfhsk 😭 and then the flashback of Leola shouting "daddy" to him as she dies And the delivery of that monologue by Erik Dellums--- do I need to say more

Callum and Rayla repeating the exact things they said in Season 6 after they found out about the Pearl before Kosmo rewinded time was SUCH a cool detail

And then Callum having a literal panic attack- it was shown so well and the emotions were so RAW and genuine I loved it, Callum stuttering and hyperventilating and then THE SHOT OF THE DARK MAGIC VERSION OF HIM SMILING UP AT HIM WAS SO GOOD AND SCARY And the "Nothing, I just- I- I need- I just need- Um, I need some time by myself-" said in almost monotone was such good performance from Jack de Sena I loved it

Aaravos going "A minor inconvenience." as Soren and Terry come out in his deep low voice was SO BADASS

Also there's something about the animation quality in the scene when Claudia passes both Soren and Terry and turns to look at them both- like, the emotion shown on her face, and the movement is so fuild and smooth, I was just in awe

Dark Magic Callum arriving as a dark silhouette with purple glowing eyes was SO INSANELY COOL I AUDIBLY GASPED I love his design so much - and the fact that his voice is a little deeper and just DIFFERENT, you can hear that somehow it's DIFFERENT and it's so incredibly cool And he has a cool coat so

Also that would've been really funny if some random Moonshadow Elf from Silvergrove was just on a night walk and stumbled upon Callum just sitting on a log and screaming angrily at the air lmao

I realized the plan they had with Claudia's mother literally JUST a second before Claudia went "Too exactly" cause I started to think - where's Lujanne during all of this? And then I thought Actually, where's AARAVOS during all of this LMAO

And the scene with Claudia freezing them in place was SO BADASS and tense I LOVED IT The short chant she used sounded so cool, I even reversed it to hear what the actual spell was but I couldn't make the words out lol

Freaking Ziard's spirit coming back as a terrifying skeleton was SO SCARY AND AMAZING

And then Aaravos absolutely TOWERING over Ezran when he's back to his titan form, with his marking glowings and dark blue shadows with the starry sky in the background-- I was so enchanted by this shot I had to pause to just stare at it And then his laugh just BOOMING across the environment- and how he staggers in the background behind Ezran as they fire at him, shielding his face, like there's something about his movements that just shows how absolutely MASSIVE he is SO WELL and it's SO INSANELY COOL

And again, the animation-- like that one shot when it slowed down and focused on the arrows as they flew towards Aaravos' face, with him blurred in the backround and realization and fear slowly appearing on his face before BOOM I just want to appreciate the quality of the shots and the animation cause DAMN IS IT INCREDIBLE THIS SEASON everyone absolutely outdid themselves And the way the orange light of the fire and the explosions contrasted so well with the blue shadows jgkfhdgjkfdhgkfjdhk I am: in love. Also they literally went and pulled a Gulliver on him didn't they

7: THE TITAN AND THE KING

RUNAAN IS BACK WITH HIS OLD OUTFIT 😭😭😭 and he fixed his hair back!!

Silvergrove's owl griffons are SO GORGEOUS I love them so much, their design is so incredible I'm just wondering what happened to the Shadowpaw :(( Cause we didn't see this cutie for the entire season and I loved his soft kitty face so much, it was my absolute favourite of the creatures

"Aaravos is not the only one with a plan. New friends and old friends are working together to help us stop him" Callum narrating the letter over the montage of the Silvergrove team getting ready was so cinematic with the music in the background

It was only during the rewatch tho that I realized-- when Callum narrates about him going to Akiyu for another pearl, there's a shot of Akiyu herself and the shadow of CLAUDIA looming over her, so we were already being given a hint that she's the one who killed her and it was AMAZING

"Aaravos, what do you have to say for yourself?" "I… am innocent." ICONIC THAT MADE ME SMILE SO MUCH HE'S SO SASSY

Ethari's suspicious face with the raised eyebrow as the stone golems are trying to tell him Rex Igneous is not home I LOVED THAT SCENE SO MUCH And him going "Um, are you certain…?" with a slight smile and that lovely Scottish accent ghfdkh And the trick he pulls with the "Ah, what a shame! I brought a delicious gift…" he DEFINITELY used to do it with little Rayla when she didn't want to do something 😭

The shot of Rex Igneous towering over Ethari as he comes out of the mountain-- again, just showing how fking MASSIVE he is compared to Ethari it was SO COOL

"It is the nature of children to think the world must be one way or another. With maturity, we learn that most of life is lived in the space between." YESSS DRAG HIM AARAVOS

Aaravos lifting himself up all of a sudden and everyone just absolutely FREAKING OUT and then him going softly "Don't be scared." HJKFDHJSK

THE LITTLE MUSHPALS SURROUNDING TERRY THEY WERE ALL SO CUTE especially the one on his shoulder with tiny body and huge eyes and hat I WANT TEN OF THEM 😭

"I suppose you've seen that written in the stars?" "No, no… I've seen it written in his eyes." HFKDHGJKSFHGDFKJ

"Pity… I enjoyed our conversation, young king. But I have lingered here long enough. Look… The sun has set." THE WAY HE SAYS IT AS THEY ALL WALK AWAY FDFGFHDFJKHGDK with him lingering on that "t" in "set" and then the slow realization of what that means it was INCREDIBLE, and that sad pitying smile he has on his face as he says it

RUNAAN PUSHING CALLUM OUT OF THE HARM'S WAY GHJKSGHSJK and getting a boulder to the head 😭😭

Callum using the blood freezing spell on Claudia?? And Claudia still being able to cast spells during that??? When Rayla was completely paralyzed from pain when it was used on her?? And the whole duel between them in general?????

THE SHOT of Claudia holding the staff, with eyes glowing purple, face covered in dark cracks, the lighting making her skin look almost blue, and with Runaan coming up behind her, bow drawn, and then going "Don't. Move." WITH THAT LOW AND SMOOTH VOICE THAT WAS SO FKING BADASS JONATHAN HOLMESSSSSSS

"Now what?" "Now, we wait for Callum to catch his breath. And then, he will decide whether you live or die." HFJDSKHGJDK he was waiting for Callum's order cause he's an ASSASSIN HE CARRIES OUT ORDERS GJGHDK

And the scene with Claudia's dragon armor of course--- the way it lights up before she breathes fire gjhgjkf

Dark Magic Callum looking up at him from the reflection before he fades out to reveal the staff gdfhjgfdhjkdfhgjdfk

THE MAGMA TITAN FROM SEASON 3 AND THEN ZIARD RESURRECTING AVIZANDUM I literally audibly gasped like holy shit NOW it's getting even WORSE I was SO EXCITED

8: DYING LIGHT

Aaravos shaking the entire screen as he walks

When he was just staring at Karim with this unimpressed face without saying a single word-- and then he started smirking, and Karim yapped more and more, and I was thinking "okay, he's gonna swallow him, isn't he? As a reference to the third season, cause he said he swallowed Queen Aditi--" AND THEN THE SQUISH THAT WAS SO GRIM AND GRUESOME AND UNEXPECTED I WAS LITERALLY SPEECHLESS FOR A FEW GOOD MOMENTS And the sound of it too?????? The blood??? Janai's screams???????? I don't think ANYONE expected Karim to go out like that and HOLY SHIT the shock factor was HUUUUUGE

Aaravos being forced onto his back and pinned down by Rex Igneous? 👀👀👀 And then him blasting Rex away - like YES finally we get to see Aaravos fighting with magic, even if it was just for a second

Also I love how different Rex Igneuos' voice is from other Archdragons- like it's not as low and booming as Sol Regem's or deep and royal as Zubeia and Domina's, but it's rather sharp, and rocky, and rough, but it has such authority and power and strength in it too-- like it fits an Archdragon so well but in different ways than the other ones

And the fight between him and Avizandum was such an epic battle, so fitting for the series finale, like we finally get to see the dragons in ACTION action after getting just slivers of it

Also Rex's death caught me off guard-- I didn't expect him to ACTUALLY die, I thought he might get defeated and hurt, but not straight up DEAD halfway through the battle It was really good shock value tho, like it showed how SERIOUS this has gotten

Aaravos going "ARE. YOU. WATCHING?" at the starry sky gfdjdlhjkgf

Runaan saying "You've done well" to the owl gryphon 🥺🥺🥺 He was so SOFT in that moment gfjdhgkd the hardened assassin And he gave it a pet and a little smile too 🥹 AND THEN him and Rayla hugging AGAIN 😭😭 I loved seeing him being affectionate with his beloved family so much

EVERYONE GETTING READY FOR THE FINAL FIGHT AVENGERS ASSEMBLE

STELLA CASUALLY DECAPITATING THE DRAKE WITH THE PORTAL GFDJHGFDJK I didn't expect that from HER OF ALL THE LITTLE CREATURES

DOMINA PROFUNDIS' ENTRANCE Like first the water raining down and then this MASSIVE OCEAN DRAGON appearing with such a cool sound too and flying over Rayla's head like a freaking JETPLANE And the clicking kind of sound she made when she landed next to Zubeia was so incredibly cool I got shivers- and her design is so pretty too, especially with that shot!!!

Aaravos going "I do not fall for the same tricks twice." with that low angry voice gave me so many chills

"But I'm afraid you've misjudged your would-be slayer. Your beloved is an assassin who cannot kill." "No. Not Rayla." AND THEN THE CAMERA MOVING TO REVEAL RUNAAN WITH HIS BOWED TRAINED ON CALLUM FJFGHDFKGD I WAS starting to realize what was happening when Callum said "Moonshadow assassin" and not just "Rayla" BUT TO ACTUALLY SEE IT I audibly gasped grjhdk

9: NOVA

"There is no path to victory. It's over." "You're right. There isn't. Not for you, either. Because we will sacrifice anything to stop you, and save this world. My heart… for Xadia…!" 🥹🥹🥹 no words

Aaravos going "Claudia, you must go!"-- I think it's at that moment he realized there actually is a possibility of losing the fight And then "I WILL NOT-- watch… another daughter die." 🥹🥹🥹 I DO think their father-daughter relationship was the tiniest bit rushed, but it's still made my eyes water, and the way he said it too bfhjhjghjdg so soft but sad and like he wanted to reassure her as well

Runaan clutching his side and reaching his arm out towards Rayla to hug her AGAIN when she comes to the ground HFDJKHGJKFDHGDFJKGHD he loves his family SO MUCH And then the wince as he pulls away cause he's still hurting and the fall made it worse again gjfdhgkj it was such a nice little scene but so telling

The way Aaravos looked in his final moment-- all battered and bruised and with blood trickling down from his nose and mouth and his EYE-- it was so visceral and genuinely scary

The fact that when he died it looked the exact same as Leola died--- with light pouring out of his eyes and mouth jffdgjdk I was just so stunned I couldn't even move

Zym crying out for his mom and crying as she burned---- 😭😭😭 and her going "Goodbye, Azymondias… I will always love--" as the camera switches to Zym just looking up with eyes full of tears-- and the fact the she didn't GET TO FINISH AND SAY "LOVE YOU" IN HER FINAL WORDS MADE LITERALLY WEEP

And the soundtrack that played during that entire scene, with the vocalization and wailing--- it was just oh my God so good

And then after that the "Brothers." scene LMAO Like logically I knew he HAD to start talking at some point, since all the adult Archdragons do, but it caught me SO OFF GUARD and it was SUCH A GOOD SCENE LMAOOOO And apparently he's voiced by Zuko's voice actor too which I find absolutely amazing, the voice fits him SO WELL

Opeli going "I say 'potato', you say 'po-tah-to'…" LMAOOO it was so great to see and hear her so exasperated

Getting to see all the characters from the previous seasons<3 Elmer from Finnegrin's ship, Nyx and Villads, teenage Phoe-Phoe

Claudia reenacting the episode openings' shots 👌👌

Runaan and Ethari arriving on the owl griffin, he looked so sad and somber and the blue lighting in that scene was again so gorgeous gjfhdgk

And of course the monologue he gives next I was literally speechless watching it We got to hear about his thoughts and feelings in such depth And is was such a contrast to the stoic and badass cold-blooded assassin we knew from season 1 And Jonathan performance?????? The little bitter laugh at the "A twisted peacemaker, I suppose…", the way his voice started breaking at "My act of violence planted seeds of darkness, seeds of anger and hate, that would grow into a thousand fold the violence I thought I could stop", like you can literally HEAR the genuine TEARS in his voice, how close he is to crying And the shot at Ethari's face in between all of this--- he looked like he was about to break into tears as well, I don't know if he's ever seen his husband being so vulnerable and open about his feelings towards someone else aside from him like in that moment "I was trained to accept that I was already dead, so that I might carry out my dark work without fear. But… I am NOT DEAD! I am ALIVE! I have a family I love!" THE WAY YOU CAN HEAR THE ABSOLUTE ANGUISH IN HIS VOICE AFTER HE'S BEEN A STOIC COLD-HEARTED ASSASSIN FOR SO LONG AND ETHARI'S FACE AT THOSE LAST WORDS AND HIM RUSHING TO HUG RUNAAN And the contrast of the season 1 "I told you, I am already dead" with the season 7 "I am NOT DEAD! I am ALIVE!" 😭😭😭😭

Pyrrah getting a cup of dragon-sized tea

Rayla looking so soft with her hair down sleeping in front of the fireplace And the whole ending scene with them standing on the bridge and with the little creatures putting on the show for her<3

And of course Leola's Last Wish--- the music during that scene was so gorgeous I was crying so much and I IMMEDIATELY went to look for that particular soundtrack, with the harp and the strings gfdjhgdhjkdg

In summary: I love this show with my entire heart. I know people have their complaints about this season, there will always be complaints and disappointment, but honestly I'm just focusing on the things I loved about the season - there was SO much work and love that went into making this, so much PASSION, I can't imagine how hard the creators and the artists and the voice actors worked to get it done, and I just want to thank them SO SO much for creating this, for getting their story out there, for giving us so many incredible characters to love, so many incredible moments, the music, the beauty, the shots-- Gonna get a little personal here but I've been struggling with depression for a long few years now and when I discovered The Dragon Prince this year it was the first time in YEARS that I felt so involved with a story, so enraptured in it, so CONNECTED to it, I just love it all with my entire absolute heart- it brought me so much comfort, maybe because it reminded me of the animated movies I used to watch during winter evening at my parents' house, warm and cozy under the blankets in the living room, maybe because it was just so amazing in itself, or maybe both combined. Good stories are the thing I love the absolute most in the entire world, and God, was THAT a DAMN GOOD STORY. @dragonprinceofficial thank you SO much for giving us this world, this story, these emotions, and please know that despite all the criticism there are so many of us that love the show with our ENTIRE hearts.<3<3<3

[tealvenetianmask]

Is there stigma about mental illness in Hell?

Personal bit: I've had chronic depression and anxiety for my entire adult life, and I used to guard it as this big secret, but now I have friends and coworkers who are understanding and have their own issues. And I work in a helping profession where I see that dealing with this stuff is just really fucking common. But recently I've had a bit of culture shock hanging out with my family, and realizing that... oh wait, we still treat our mental health issues like deep dark secrets and refuse to talk about them and/or seek help. And that's the only acceptable way to act. Okay. Thanks guys.

Personal ramble aside, yes, mental health stigma is still an issue in America, 2024 (obviously). And thanks to Sinsmas, I'm convinced that it's an issue in Vivzie's Hell too, in a way that's pretty reflective of how real contemporary society treats it.

Stolas chooses not to tell Blitz about his happy pills. We find out as the episode progresses that he never told Via either.

And plenty of arguments could be made about Stolas just not wanting to burden the people he cares most for. Not wanting Via to worry about him. Not wanting Blitz to be put out financially by tracking down the pills. But I think there's a level of embarrassment here too, and here's why.

Stolas has spent his life being told to bottle up his emotions, and we have evidence of this. We've also seen him struggling to hide his emotions from Blitz before, turning his back in The Full Moon, and straining when forcing himself to stop crying in Apology Tour.

Is the cultural aversion to displays of emotion just an upper class thing in Hell? I think the answer is "sort of." There are ways in which a Goetia is expected to behave, and lower-class demons have more freedom.

BUT

It's not really that simple. We saw toxic masculinity coming from Millie's parents and from Crimson, and that kind of attitude sort of goes hand in hand with mental health stigma. We also saw Verosika say this-

Which shows a certain attitude toward seeking treatment . . .

And Blitz ALSO has a preoccupation with acting like he's fine and can handle things without help that seems very grounded in sort of a working class, "pull yourself up by your bootstraps" attitude. (Bye to all that by Ghostfuckers..)

This has all been a very long way of saying that yes, mental health stigma in Hell is significant and affects our characters.

So what role does discovering Stolas's pills play for Via?

She takes them as confirmation of her fear (one she already had a lot of evidence for, to be fair...) that Stolas stayed in a miserable marriage for 17 years just for her. And more- that she was "never enough" to make him happy.

And she's right but. She's oversimplifying it. She did make her dad happy. When someone's suffering, from abuse, from mental illness, from . . . literal society . . . one wonderful relationship is still not going to make their life a happy one.

Beyond Stolas's specific situation, people with great lives sometimes need happy pills. People's lives are multifaceted, and that's a lot for a young person to understand sometimes.

So if Octavia had grown up in a situation where people . . . idk, talked about mental health and didn't stigmatize emotions . . .?

Yeah, I think she'd react differently to the happy pills. But more importantly, the level of secrecy wouldn't be the same. Stolas would have been more open about his range of emotions and about needing pills, and in countless other ways this situation would have played out differently.

And now I'm tying myself in knots trying to imagine Goetia culture WITHOUT mental health stigma. I don't think it would exist in the same way at all. Quick, someone get an army of excellent mental health professionals and assign them to every single member of Hell's aristocracy.

[kingofbodyrolls]

REMMY—😭😭😭When you told me to check Tumblr because you’d left a review, I was NOT prepared for this emotional ambush 😭 The fact that you took the time to write something so thoughtful? For me?? ME??? 😭 Days have passed, and I’m still sitting here sniffling into my tea.

I’m absolutely over the moon that you’re enjoying your birthday gift so far! (Though my ignorant European ass did forget about those pesky Freedom Units again… 😂). It’s cozy without feeling cramped, right? ✨ And the way you called it a WHOLE ASS WORLD? 😭 I’m sobbing. I didn’t even think I did that much world-building for this one—I purposefully kept it light because I didn’t want to bog down the story with scene explanations and accidentally double its length. (Though let’s be real, you know I love doing that).

And yes! I normally don’t write Yoongi like this, but I decided to mix it up this time. He’s quieter, more reserved, but his actions? Oh, his actions. They’re practically shouting with love and warmth! He’s going to be there for Y/N in ways that feel so steady and genuine (don’t worry—no big bad angst! The only backstory drama is Jimin’s past, which… maybe was a spoiler? Whoops 😬).

His daughter? Adorable. Sweet, polite, playful—she’s everything 🥹 You’ll see (or should I say read). And oh, the location details! As I told you on Discord, this place is pretty far out—like five hours from the big city by car (even longer by public transport). It’s a poorer neighborhood, which is why everything is so affordable—Y/N’s house is dirt cheap compared to her city apartment.

AND JIMIN—😭😭😭 I’m actually tearing up again because this Jimin owns my entire heart. I’ve never met the man (obviously), but I poured so much of what I imagine him to be into this story. He feels so authentic to me, and I hope that comes across for you too! He’s warm, welcoming, and OH, you’re going to get so much more of him 😏

As for Y/N—YOU are Y/N! (Or not—you do you. Personally, I dissociate completely 😂 I write Y/N as someone totally different from myself.) But yes, the tea she’s drinking? Absolutely your favorite 🥰

THE BEST PRESENT YOU’VE EVER HAD??? 🥹 Now I’m straight-up bawling. I hope that’s just a sweet exaggeration, though, because surely you’ve received something better than this silly little story! Either way, I’m over the moon that it made you so happy. I was low-key terrified you might not like it 🫣Thank you so much for reading and leaving that incredible review, @remmykinsff 🫂 You know I absolutely adore you. And for the love of Jimin, don’t forget to eat! (Did you enjoy them, by the way?) Sending you all my love and a billion hugs 💜

Songs of the Heart (m) | pjm | chap 1: rebirth

Having just settled into a small house on the outskirts of the bustling city, you’re drawn into the haunting melodies of your neighbor’s sad love songs, echoing through the quiet walls day after day. Concerned, you finally gather the courage to knock on his door, unsure of what to expect—only to be face-to-face with Park Jimin, the renowned singer-songwriter whose voice has touched millions. What begins as a simple gesture of kindness soon unravels into something far more complex, as the melodies of his heart beckon you closer.

→ Pairing: jimin x reader (female) → AUs: musician!au (not completely idol!au), single dad!au, slice of life!au → Trope: strangers to lovers / neighbors to lovers → Genres: slow burn romance / fluff / angst / smut / comedy → Rating: mature/explicit/R18  (this is mature/explicit content, so minors, please do not interact.) → Word count: 5.6k → Warnings + triggers: nothing much, just heartache and small misunderstandings 🤭 → Read on AO3? [link] → Author’s note: Hi!!! How are you doing?? 😄 I hope you’re as excited about this new series as I am (and I really, truly mean it when I say this might be my last series for a long while… so buckle up, it’s going to be a ride!). Now, before you go thinking I’m just setting myself up for failure, let me be real with you: my last Jimin series didn’t exactly set the world on fire—sigh. But I adore it, like, adore it. (I know, I’m biased, but can you blame me?) Soooo, this time, we’re going for a more “mainstream” vibe. Think heavily inspired by Jimin’s album Muse (seriously, his whole vibe in that is chef’s kiss), sprinkled with some Face flavor, and, honestly, just Jimin being Jimin. Because, let’s face it—he’s my bias, and I’m OBSESSED. Like, full-on crush mode. So, yeah, it’s basically me writing about my ultimate crush 😳 Now, let’s clear the air about the smut—I’m not going all-out with it here (though there will be some spicy moments, don’t worry 😉). Why? Well, I have a sneaky feeling this series is going to do okay (I mean, I adore these characters so much already 🥹, but engagement might be a different story). So, I’m going to save my energy for what really matters to me—the heart and soul of the story, instead of focusing too much on the smut (which, honestly, I’m not as into writing as I used to be). Okay, okay—back on track. I’m super excited to share this story with you, and I really, really hope you enjoy it as much as I do. Don’t forget to tell me your thoughts—whether you love it, hate it, or just want to fangirl over Jimin with me ✨ This whole story (which will be posted every Sunday for the next eight weeks) is for my dear friend @remmykinsff! I hope you’ll love it 💜

| s.masterlist | m.masterlist |  next →

“Why the hell do you have so many boxes?” Yoongi groans, his voice slicing through the quiet winter air as he hefts a particularly heavy one—something he clearly should have let Namjoon handle. His breath fogs up like ghostly clouds, a silent testament to the biting cold.

You stand by the moving truck, arms crossed, the chill curling around you like an unwelcome scarf. The streetlamp above flickers weakly, casting long shadows over the small gathering of your life in boxes. You shiver, not just from the cold but from the weight of this moment—watching your brother Yoongi and your best friend Namjoon haul the sum of your memories into the truck, piece by piece, bound for a new beginning.

It wasn’t your choice to leave; the landlord had pulled the rug out from under you with a sudden hike in rent you couldn’t possibly manage. But this wasn’t just an ending. There was a glimmer of hope in the move—a small house on the outskirts of the city with a garden that you could already see yourself tending, sunlight warming your face. Perfect wasn’t something you’d often dared to dream of, but this felt close enough to touch.

Namjoon heaves the final box into the truck and straightens with a satisfied grin. “That’s the last of it. We managed to fit everything,” he says, his breath visible in the frost-tipped air.

Yoongi, less triumphant, leans against the truck, arms crossed, his usual scowl softened by exhaustion. “Not a lot of stuff, huh? Then why does everything weigh as much as a small planet?”

You roll your eyes at him, a faint smile tugging at your lips. “Tiny apartments don’t leave room for a lot of stuff,” you murmur, thinking of your now-abandoned shoebox of a home. What you own might not fill much space, but every piece carries its own story, its own weight. To them, it’s just heavy. To you, it’s everything.

“Yoon, you should really hit the gym more,” you tease, your voice laced with playful scorn, though the grin on your face betrays your fondness. The sibling bond—a language of its own, fluent in jabs and unspoken affection.

“Are you calling me weak?” Yoongi snaps, his tone sharp, but the flicker of indignation in his eyes is almost theatrical. He knows the answer. You know he knows. It’s part of the game.

You laugh, the sound light and unbothered, a knowing glint in your eyes as you glance at his slender arms. “I don’t have to say it, do I?”

Before the exchange can escalate, Namjoon steps between you with a calm authority that feels as solid as the ground beneath your feet. “Alright, easy, you two. I’ll take care of the heavy lifting. Yoongi, you drive.”

Yoongi scoffs, letting your remark go as he shoots you a withering look that doesn’t quite land. He climbs into the driver’s seat with a practiced air of resignation, his fingers brushing over the steering wheel as Namjoon closes the back of the truck with a satisfying clunk.

The three of you settle inside the truck, and silence slips in, gentle and familiar, as the hum of the engine vibrates beneath you. The radio crackles to life, filling the space with the soft strains of a slow love song. The melody spills out like liquid silver, sad yet hopeful, and the singer’s voice—a perfect blend of sweetness and longing—wraps around you like a blanket against the cold.

Your chest tightens as the words begin to take root, burrowing into the quiet corners of your heart: “Even though I was pitch black, I can’t stop thinking about you all day long. Without you knowing, I want to take one step, then another, closer to you. Stay with you. I will be your reason. I hope this feeling reaches you.”

You stare out the frosted window, the aching beauty of the lyrics mingling with the soft glow of the late afternoon light. The world outside shifts and transforms as Yoongi steers the truck with steady hands, the city’s sprawling chaos giving way to the calm, snow-dusted edges of the outskirts. Frost clings to the barren trees and lonely streetlamps, their icy shimmer catching the fading sunlight like quiet promises.

There it is—your new beginning, cradled in the quiet of the outskirts. The small house stands modestly, embraced by a low, whispering hedge that frames its quaint charm. A tiny terrace juts out at the front, its stone surface dappled with the faint traces of winter frost. You remember the cozy backyard from the last time you visited—a patch of earth waiting patiently for spring to bring it to life.

Yoongi eases the truck to a stop in front of the house, the engine humming briefly before falling silent. The three of you step out, boots crunching softly against the snow-dusted gravel. Your heart thuds louder with each step as you approach the door. It’s a humble thing—made of frosted glass that blurs the world on the other side, catching the dim afternoon light and casting it gently inside. You know that when the sun graces it, the whole entrance will glow like a promise.

Your fingers tremble slightly as you fit the key into the lock, turning it with a satisfying click. The door creaks open, and you step over the threshold into your new home. It greets you with its smallness—barely 80 square meters—but it feels vast compared to the cramped city apartment you left behind. Here, there’s space to breathe, to begin again. And the rent, blissfully lower than what the city demanded, makes it all the sweeter.

You glance at the neighboring house—a touch larger, its lot sprawling wider—but you don’t feel envy. This space is yours. Yours to fill with laughter, with quiet mornings, with life.

Flipping the light switch, the warm glow floods the entranceway. The layout unfolds before you in inviting simplicity. The entrance flows seamlessly into a snug living room, its openness spilling into the compact kitchen. The single bedroom feels intimate but holds a delightful surprise: a small walk-in closet that sets your heart alight with possibility. The bathroom, unexpectedly spacious, feels almost indulgent—a small luxury you hadn’t dared to imagine.

You stand in the quiet warmth of the space, letting it envelop you. Yes, it’s small. Yes, it’s simple. But it’s yours. For the first time in what feels like forever, you’re not just standing in a house. You’re home.

Namjoon brushes past you with a box in hand, his footsteps purposeful. “Where should I put this?” he asks, his voice cutting through the quiet hum of settling dust.

“In the bedroom, please,” you reply, recognizing your own messy scrawl on the side of the box. He nods, disappearing down the short hallway. Moments later, Yoongi follows, arms burdened with lighter boxes this time, his silent stare speaking louder than words. You’re not sure if it’s disapproval or exhaustion—or maybe a mix of both.

Together, the three of you move with practiced rhythm, unloading the truck, the occasional grunt of effort punctuating the soft winter stillness. One by one, your belongings find their way inside, until finally, after an hour and a half, the truck stands empty. Inside, your life now lies in disarray—boxes scattered like misplaced puzzle pieces across the small living room. Thankfully, the heavier furniture already sits snug in its designated spots, thanks to Namjoon’s methodical eye for order.

You all collapse onto the sofa, a symphony of sighs and tired exhales filling the room. The cushions envelop you like a long-awaited embrace, and you lean back, the ache in your muscles giving way to a fleeting moment of peace.

“Do you need help with anything else?” Yoongi asks, his tone more dutiful than eager. You catch the subtext immediately: he’s ready to leave, and who could blame him?

“No, I’m good,” you reply with a grateful smile, sinking further into the plush comfort of your sofa.

But Namjoon isn’t done yet. “Can we make dinner for you before we go?” he offers, sitting up straight as if a second wind has just hit him. You wave him off, declining politely, but he shakes his head, determined. “I saw a grocery store just down the street. Yoongi and I will grab a few things, and then he’ll cook for you.” He’s already on his feet, brushing invisible dust from his sleeves.

Yoongi remains rooted to the sofa, his arms crossed and his expression somewhere between incredulous and annoyed. “You think I’m going to cook for my baby sister?” he scoffs, throwing you a pointed look.

Namjoon doesn’t miss a beat, rolling his eyes like an exasperated parent. “What, are you planning to let your family starve?”

Yoongi’s brows twitch as he fires back, “She’s over thirty. She’s a grown-ass adult. She can take care of herself.”

Your lips part, ready to volley something back, but before you can, Namjoon grabs Yoongi’s arm, hauling him to his feet with an ease that speaks of strength and familiarity. “Come on, Mr. Grown-Ass-Adult,” he says dryly, shoving Yoongi’s coat into his hands while slipping into his own.

Yoongi grumbles under his breath, but he doesn’t fight it. As Namjoon steers him toward the door, he casts a helpless glance back at you, like a cat begrudgingly herded.

“We’ll be back in a moment,” Namjoon calls over his shoulder, his voice brimming with cheerful authority. “Relax. Or unpack. Your choice.”

The door swings shut behind them, leaving you in the stillness of your new home, the faint scent of winter air lingering. You let out a soft laugh, your heart warm despite the cold. Family might be exhausting, but they’re also everything.

Then the door closes, and for the first time today, you’re alone. The silence wraps around you like a fragile shell, amplifying the creak of settling walls and the faint hum of distant life. You sink into the sofa, letting the stillness settle, until your ears catch something unexpected—a faint thread of melody, a guitar’s quiet murmur drifting through the air.

Curiosity tugs you upright, your steps soft against the floor as you follow the sound. In your new bedroom, you pause, pressing your hand to the wall. The music is clearer now, gentle and raw, strings bending under someone’s practiced fingers. Your new neighbor, perhaps? The thought lingers as you drift back to the kitchen, the faint melody becoming a backdrop to the rustle of cardboard and clinking pans. You begin to unpack—the pans your brother will use to cook, the utensils that clatter together like an impromptu percussion. Cooking has always been his way of showing love, and you can’t wait to taste the comfort it brings.

As you move through the small kitchen, time slips through your fingers like grains of sand. You make progress—each box emptied feels like a small triumph. The living room is next, and though you didn’t bring much, your touch begins to transform the space into something warm, something yours.

The sharp chill of winter sweeps in as the front door swings open, announcing Namjoon and Yoongi’s return. Cold air rushes past them, carrying the earthy scent of snow and fresh groceries. Shoes and coats are shed in a flurry of motion, and Namjoon drags his bags to the counter, while Yoongi mumbles something under his breath—his version of commentary that you’ve long learned to ignore. Yoongi grumbles as he hauls two bags into the kitchen, while Namjoon shoulders four with ease, a playful smirk on his face as he shakes the cold from his hair. Your brother dives into the kitchen, already rifling through drawers to find the pans you just unpacked.

As you help Namjoon sort the groceries, you note their choices: fresh greens, vibrant vegetables, sturdy staples like rice, beans, and coconut milk. Practical and thoughtful, as always. Your brother doesn’t waste time, snapping orders your way to chop this and rinse that. Namjoon, wisely, steers clear of the chaos and retreats to the sofa, knowing better than to tempt fate near a knife.

You and Yoongi move seamlessly, a practiced rhythm born of years of shared meals and unspoken communication. The kitchen fills with the sizzling symphony of cooking: onions crackling, garlic blooming in fragrant waves, and the gentle stir of sauces melding together. The aroma wraps itself around you, warm and grounding, a promise of the meal to come.

When the food is done, the three of you gather at your small round dining table. The plates are filled with comfort—steaming rice, perfectly cooked vegetables, and savory flavors that speak of home. Yoongi hums faintly in approval as he eats, his silence a language of contentment. Namjoon, ever the conversationalist, smiles wide as he asks about the neighborhood. You don’t know much yet, but his enthusiasm fills the gaps.

The meal lingers, rich and satisfying, until the plates are empty and the room carries only the faint scent of what was. They stand to leave, hugs exchanged at the door, their warmth momentarily shielding you from the cold creeping back in. As they drive off, the truck rattling softly into the night, the quiet returns. But this time, it feels different. Not empty.

Your home, though still half-full of boxes, feels alive now, touched by their presence. And for the first time in a long while, you feel like you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.

Silence settles again, fragile and heavy—except for that faint sound of a guitar, now joined by a man’s voice. It drifts through the stillness, soft and haunting, the kind of melody that reaches into places you didn’t know were aching. From the little you can hear, his voice holds a quiet sorrow, tinged with a beauty that seems almost too fragile for this world. Wrapped in the haze of a full belly and the gentle pull of exhaustion, you sink deeper into the cushions of your couch. The music lulls you, and before you know it, sleep claims you.

When you wake, it’s to the sharp protest of stiff muscles, your body groaning in rebellion. You stretch, long and languid, wincing as you ease into movement. The living room light is still on, casting a warm but tired glow across the scattered boxes. Reaching for your phone, you blink at the screen: Saturday morning.

A sigh escapes you, accompanied by another stretch, your bones clicking softly in protest. As you yawn, the faint strands of music that lulled you to sleep the night before have grown bolder, louder, weaving through the quiet morning air. It’s coming from next door, a melody more insistent now, rising and falling like a tide against your walls.

You pause, half-annoyed, half-curious. Who plays music so loudly on a Saturday morning? Still, it isn’t unpleasant. The sound curls around you, melancholy and mesmerizing, coaxing goosebumps to bloom along your arms.

Shaking off the morning grogginess, you shuffle into the kitchen to make tea, the faint chill of the floor against your bare feet grounding you. As the kettle hums and hisses to life, your attention drifts back to the music. This song, like the one before, carries a sadness that pierces through its beauty, the kind of sorrow that feels personal yet strangely universal.

You sip your tea slowly, the warmth unfurling through your chest, and let the notes wrap around you. The lyrics, muffled but achingly tender, float into your thoughts. A sad love song, you think—heartache distilled into sound.

And then, for a fleeting moment, your mind wanders. Who is your neighbor, and what might they be feeling? It’s hard not to wonder. To play songs like this on a quiet Saturday morning—it speaks of longing, of loss, of someone trying to untangle the knots of their heart.

Exhaustion anchors you to the couch, your body heavy with the weight of weeks spent unpacking, working, and simply trying to adjust. The hours blur together as you let yourself drift, half-lost in the steady stream of music flowing from your neighbor’s house. Sad love songs, one after another, their melodies curling through the air like smoke, filling the silence with their ache. At least your neighbor has good taste; the voice is mesmerizing, familiar, tugging at the edges of your memory. And then it clicks: you’ve heard it before, floating from car radios or playing softly in cafes.  

Nearly two weeks slip by, the days stacked like unopened letters. Despite the proximity, you’ve yet to meet your enigmatic neighbor, though their music has become an unintentional soundtrack to your life. Namjoon, ever the social butterfly, has nudged you more than once to pay them a visit. “Just say hi,” he urged, grinning. But socializing hasn’t exactly been high on your list, not when there are boxes to unpack, deadlines to meet, and your energy drained to its dregs.  

Still, a seed of worry takes root. The songs haven’t changed—still steeped in longing, still carrying that unshakable sadness. Day after day, it’s as if the house next door is exhaling heartbreak. Maybe Namjoon’s right. Maybe you should go introduce yourself, ask about the neighborhood, and gently check if everything’s okay.  

Which is how you find yourself walking up the snow-dusted path to your neighbor’s door, nerves prickling like the winter air against your skin. Their house looms larger than yours, its quiet elegance a subtle reminder of its age and stature. Even the door, frosted glass like your own, feels imposing—a pale barrier between curiosity and the answers waiting behind it.  

Your footsteps crunch softly on the frozen ground as you approach. You hesitate, your breath clouding in the cold, before raising a hand to knock. For good measure, you press the doorbell too, its chime echoing faintly into the stillness.  

And then you wait, heart thrumming in quiet anticipation.  

The music drifts out from the house, faint yet achingly persistent, wrapping around you like the winter chill. You shift on your feet, blowing warmth into your hands, impatient as the cold nips at your nose and fingers. Just as the thought of retreating crosses your mind, the door creaks open.

Your gaze lowers, meeting a pair of wide, brown curious eyes belonging to a little girl. She’s impossibly small, bundled in a sweater too big for her, her dark hair a gentle mess. Her smile, shy but sweet, carries a warmth that momentarily pushes back the frost.

“Hi,” she says, her voice as soft as a whisper of wind through snow-covered trees. She studies you carefully, her head tilting as though trying to puzzle you out.

You return her smile, bending slightly to her level. “Hi, I’m Y/N. I just moved in next door.” A pause, then a gentle laugh. “I was getting a little worried with all the sad music coming from here. Are your parents home?”

Her smile falters, her gaze flickering downward before rising to meet yours again. There’s something heavy in her small expression, far too much for a child her age. “It’s just me and my dad,” she says quietly, her voice tinged with something you can’t quite name.

Your heart clenches at her words, though you don’t fully understand why. She’s so young, so sweet, and yet there’s a fragility to her presence that stirs something protective in you. For a moment, you wonder about her mother, where she might be, what might have happened.

“Is your dad home?” you ask gently, your tone as soft as your smile.

She nods, stepping back into the warm glow of the house. “I’ll go get him. Please wait here,” she says, her words so polite they make you smile again. She scurries off, leaving you at the threshold with the frosty air swirling in around your feet.

As you stand there, you catch glimpses of the house’s interior: the dim light casting long shadows, the faint smell of wood and something floral, and always that music—a bittersweet tune that seeps into every corner.

When she returns, she isn’t alone. A man follows her, his presence filling the doorway.

Your breath catches, your jaw slack as your mind struggles to process the sight before you. You’d expected the father of the sweet little girl to be ordinary, unassuming. But this? This man? He’s a vision pulled straight from the realm of angels.

The first thing you notice is his presence—tall, confident, yet carrying a quiet weariness that tugs at the edges of his posture. He’s dressed simply, but somehow that makes him all the more striking. A plain white t-shirt stretches across his chest, the sleeves rolled just enough to bare sinewy arms, and on his wrist, a faint tattoo peeks out like a secret. His black dress pants sit high on his impossibly small waist, falling loosely down his legs in elegant folds, a sharp contrast to the effortless way he carries himself.

And then there’s his face—soft yet devastatingly sharp, a contradiction of beauty. His jawline is so defined, it looks as if it could carve through stone, and yet his full lips, slightly parted as if mid-thought, ground him in warmth. His eyes—soft brown, tender, and framed by glasses and sleeplessness—pull you in, speaking of long nights and untold stories.

His hair, warm blonde kissed with streaks of brown at the roots, falls in uneven waves, longer in the back. It looks as if it was tousled by the wind or restless fingers, and you can’t help but wonder if he even knows how effortlessly beautiful he is. A few faint birthmarks dot his skin, adding something human to a face that feels otherworldly. As he steps closer, his features soften even more, and your pulse quickens.

“Hi,” he says, his voice a low, soothing melody that sinks into your bones. It’s angelic yet grounded, the kind of sound that lingers, reverberating long after the words are spoken. “What can I do for you?”

For a moment, you forget how to speak, how to breathe, how to exist. All your intentions, your purpose, your very reason for knocking on his door dissolve under the weight of his gaze. You can only stare, unmoored, helplessly captivated.

“This lady said she’s our new neighbor,” the girl chirps beside him, her bright voice cutting through your daze like sunlight through clouds. She looks up at her father with a grin, and he nods, clearing his throat.

He steps closer, extending a hand toward you, the motion deliberate and polite. His hand is warm when it meets yours, soft in a way that belies the calluses at his fingertips—marks of labor, of skill, of a life lived. 

“I’m sorry, where are my manners?” he says with a gentle smile, and you realize your heart is racing, thundering in your chest like it’s trying to escape.

“My name is Jimin, and this is my daughter, Hwa-Young,” he says, his voice soft yet resonant, like the distant hum of a melody that refuses to be forgotten. It’s only then that you realize—mortifyingly—that you’re still holding his hand, the warmth of his palm grounding you far too much. With a jolt, you release it, your cheeks burning like embers, the sting of your foolishness wrapping itself around you. This is why you don’t talk to people, you scold yourself silently. You’re a mess. A fool.

The moment blurs, and you barely register Jimin’s words as he politely repeats something—was it your name? Before you can respond, Hwa-Young steps in, her voice clear and chiming with youthful certainty. “Her name is Y/N,” she declares with the pride of someone who’s solved a puzzle.

Jimin smiles, his expression warm enough to melt the frost clinging to your thoughts, and opens the door wider. “Would you like to come inside for a cup of tea, Y/N?”

You nod mutely, words lodged somewhere between your heart and throat. Speaking feels too dangerous; your silence, you hope, can’t betray how tangled your thoughts have become.

Inside, the house welcomes you with a kind of quiet charm. You peel off your coat and shoes, swapping them for a pair of slippers left by the entryway. The hallway leads you into a living room bathed in soft, creamy tones, its minimalist style broken only by the unmistakable fingerprint of family. Children’s drawings hang on the walls in uneven rows, their vibrant colors a stark but beautiful contrast to the muted decor. A small clay sculpture, wobbling slightly on its base, sits proudly on a side table. It feels like stepping into a story—a place where every corner holds a piece of life lived and loved.

Jimin gestures toward the sofa, and you sink into its inviting cushions, the fabric soft against your fingers. Hwa-Young follows, nestling beside you with a quiet familiarity, her presence grounding. From the nearby kitchen, the faint clatter of porcelain and the rustling of tea packets signal Jimin’s quiet movements.

The room feels alive with warmth, not just from the home itself but from the gentle energy of its inhabitants. You take it all in—the way the light filters through the curtains in golden streaks, the faint scent of lavender mingling with the hum of boiling water, and the soft chatter of a child’s imagination as Hwa-Young shows you a paper star she made.

You glance toward the kitchen, where Jimin moves with unhurried grace, and a strange calm settles over you. Maybe, just maybe, this unexpected meeting wasn’t such a mistake after all.

“Are you from the city?” Hwa-Young asks, her voice bright with curiosity, her smile tugging at the corners of her youthful face. You nod, mirroring her smile with one of your own.

“Yes, I just moved in about two weeks ago,” you reply, the words tumbling out like snowflakes in the quiet. “How old are you?”

“I just turned ten!” she exclaims, her voice brimming with pride, her grin wide and unrestrained. Somehow, the innocence in her joy stirs something deep within you, a warmth that begins to thaw the cold edges of your weary heart.

“Congratulations,” you say softly, folding your hands in your lap as if to hold the fragile moment still.

Jimin enters the room, carrying two steaming mugs of tea. He sets them gently on the coffee table, the soft clink of ceramic against wood breaking the silence. With effortless grace, he disappears briefly, returning with a glass of water for his daughter. As he takes his seat in a plush chair opposite you, his presence feels both calming and grounding, like the steady rhythm of a familiar song.

“How are you liking the town so far?” he asks, his voice carrying a soothing cadence, as if he’s accustomed to drawing out answers with kindness alone.

Lifting the mug to your lips, you blow softly on the surface of the tea, the fragrant steam curling upward like a wisp of memory. “I like it so far,” you say, your tone reflective, as though you’re still making sense of this new chapter in your life.

The faintest flicker of realization ignites, and you remember the reason for your visit. You set the mug down, hesitating for a moment before continuing. “I haven’t seen much of it yet. Between work and unpacking, I’ve barely had a chance to explore. But, actually…”

He takes another sip of his tea, and you can’t help but let your gaze linger. The delicate curve of his lashes, impossibly long and casting soft shadows on his cheekbones, draws your attention. His lips—pink, full, and unassuming—meet the edge of the mug, and for a brief, absurd moment, you find yourself wondering how something so simple could be so captivating.

What are you even thinking? You shake off the thought, clearing your throat.

“Ah, yes,” you stammer, a little too loudly. “I couldn’t help but notice…” You trail off, grappling for the right words. “I’ve heard a lot of sad songs coming from your house since I moved in, and I just wanted to make sure you were okay. Like, not…heartbroken or anything?”

Your words hang in the air, an awkward tangle of concern and curiosity, and you silently curse yourself for blurting them out. Was that a question or a statement? Even you aren’t sure.

But then he smiles—a real, genuine smile—and for a split second, his eyes vanish into crescents of warmth. His teeth peek out, slightly crooked, but so charming it nearly takes your breath away. Running a hand through his tousled blonde hair, he chuckles softly, his laugh like a melody in itself.

“Oh, that’s me. I’m the one guilty of all the sad music,” he admits, his voice carrying a quiet confidence that makes you feel at ease despite your earlier awkwardness.

Your brow furrows in thought as you tap your pointer finger against your lips, the name of the voice eluding you. “What’s the name of the artist? I know I’ve heard him on the radio, but I just can’t place it…”

His smile blooms, radiant and unrestrained, his eyes crinkling into crescents of pure light. “That’s me,” he says, a giggle escaping his lips, soft and melodic like the hum of a lullaby.

You blink at him, utterly perplexed, your mind spinning as you try to piece together what he could mean. “Sorry?” you venture hesitantly, hoping for clarity, your confusion painted plainly across your face.

“The artist,” he explains, his voice effortlessly calm and sure, “is Park Jimin. And I’m Park Jimin.”

The name lands in your ears, but it takes a second longer for the meaning to sink in. His daughter bursts into delighted laughter, while you sit frozen, your expression surely something straight out of a cartoon—wide eyes, jaw unhinged, disbelief written all over you.

Your thoughts race, chasing one another in circles. His voice, angelic and hauntingly beautiful, had felt familiar from the moment you heard it. And suddenly, the puzzle clicks into place. The songs—the ones that wrapped around you like a bittersweet embrace—were his. His.

Your eyes dart toward one of the rooms down the hall, where the music had been flowing endlessly up until the moment he greeted you. But now, the silence is palpable, a stillness that confirms your dawning realization. It wasn’t the stereo at all. It was him.

“Daddy, show her a song!” Hwa-Young pipes up, her small voice brimming with excitement as she hops off the couch and scampers toward a room. The door is ajar, revealing a glimpse of equipment and scattered papers.

Jimin’s smile softens, his eyes meeting yours with a gentle invitation. Without a word, he rises and gestures for you to follow. And as though caught in a spell, you do, your curiosity pulling you forward.

His studio is a world unto itself—a symphony of black and white, sleek lines, and personal chaos. Guitars in all shapes and sizes line the walls, their polished bodies gleaming under soft light. A microphone stands at attention, its cable curling like a lifeline to the scattered pages of sheet music littering the desk and floor.

It’s not just a room; it’s a glimpse into his soul, a sanctuary of sound and vulnerability. You can’t help but let your gaze linger, taking in the effortless beauty of it all.

Hwa-Young leaps onto the couch with a boundless energy that only a child can muster, the cushions bouncing under her weight. She pats the spot beside her, a silent invitation laced with an innocent warmth. You accept, settling in as Jimin crosses the room with a quiet confidence, his every movement purposeful yet unassuming. He retrieves an acoustic guitar, its wood glowing faintly under the soft overhead light, and perches on a nearby stool.

“Play her that new song, dad,” Hwa-Young beams, her voice lilting with pride and affection. She leans back into the couch, her tiny frame dwarfed by its embrace, but her presence fills the room.

Jimin nods, a soft smile tugging at his lips, and then his fingers meet the strings. A single strum reverberates, low and tender, a sound that seems to dissolve the walls and pull you into a different world. 

And then he sings.

His voice flows like a stream over smooth stones—gentle, searching, yet laced with a fragile ache. Feather-light and haunting, it brushes against you, delicate as a whisper yet powerful enough to root you in place. “We never met, but she’s all I see at night.Never met but she’s always on my mind.Wanna give her the world,And so much more.Who is my heart waiting for?If every day I think about her,Yeah, every day of my life.Then tell me why I haven’t found her.”

Each note hangs in the air like a secret meant only for this moment, for you, for the stillness that has settled over the room. Your mind empties, swept clean by the sheer beauty of his voice, each syllable carrying raw emotion that you can’t help but feel, though it’s not your story to claim.

You watch him, this man who pours his heart so freely before a stranger, as if vulnerability were as natural as breathing. His fingers dance over the strings with practiced ease, but it’s the weight in his voice—the yearning, the quiet pain—that lingers in your chest.

A flicker of a question rises, unbidden, as you take in the scene—a renowned singer-songwriter, his talent unmistakable, living humbly in this crappy and cheap neighborhood. Why here? Why this place, when his voice alone could carry him anywhere? But the question dissipates as quickly as it forms, lost in the tide of his music. At this moment, none of it matters.

→ Permanent taglist: @nora12379 @jeonsbabygirlsworld @fancypeacepersona @ktownshizzle @pjmxxjm @ajoonniice @kookiewithluv

→ Series taglist: @13-manggaetteok @mima795 @hnnnjm @flaneuseonthestreets @miniesjams32 @graydolan12

→ Author’s endnote: soooo?? Tell me everything! What do you think about Jimin? Is he stealing your heart yet, or is it his adorable daughter who’s totally got you wrapped around her tiny finger? 👀💜 And don’t even get me started on what’s coming next... are you excited? Nervous? Ready to cry?? Because trust me, the next chapter has all the feels™. Let’s hear your thoughts—I’m dying to know!

© @/kingofbodyrolls 2024 // Please don’t copy or repost! You are more than welcome to reblog it, leave a comment or ask me anything about the story 🥰

[whatdoidosatoru]

crybaby

farmer x sebastian (stardew valley) wc: 1.4k it's raining and you're crying in sebastian's spot. that's it, that's the plot. cw: smoking, general feeling of inadequacy

“shit,” the water splashed as my feet came down on the surface repeatedly. “shit shit shit SHIT!” rubbing my hands over my tear-stained face, i kept disturbing the ocean, sitting on the end of the deserted pier in the rain throwing a tantrum like a child, very unlike what a ‘functional adult’ is expected to do. “FUCK!”

i let out my frustration, days of held-back emotions because ya gotta keep on truckin’... at least that’s what my dad had started saying when i’d call home in anger and despair, venting about how i must be useless, how my crops aren’t growing the way they should, how the damn crows just picked apart my most successful plant, how i don’t have time to shower, and not to mention eat proper food. ya gotta keep on truckin’ - fuck you, i don’t even have a truck.

“you think you’re gonna be here long or…?”

the sudden question caught me off guard, coming from an unfamiliar male voice. with the damn rain muffling every and any noise, i didn’t even hear the footsteps coming from behind me.

i sniffled, lowering my hands to grip the edge of the pier, contemplating just pushing myself off into the moody ocean, letting the current take me wherever, just far enough away from this life i’m messing up.

“i dunno.”

my voice cracked as i turned my head to the side to confirm my guess, the figure standing slightly behind me was none other than the town’s moody loner. at least that’s what i’d heard from some people. some name starting with an ‘s’.

my answer to his question didn’t seem to deter him, instead of leaving me to at least keep some of my leftover dignity, he stepped forward, coming more into my line of vision before sitting down beside me, his legs dangling off the edge just like mine.

i thought about introducing myself, but i doubted i could string together a coherent sentence without sobbing. nevertheless, i opened my mouth, ready to embarrass myself by whining out my name, but he just kept looking out into the horizon.

“i’m-” “i know.”

the abruptness of his words cutting me off shocked me enough to stop crying. my brows furrowed and my feet stopped splashing into the water while i gathered my thoughts.

he simply kept looking out, now taking a cigarette from his pocket and lighting it while holding a hand over the end, keeping the flame from being extinguished by the slight breeze and the drizzle. i shook my head when he offered me a cigarette, so his hand was quick to put the pack into his pocket again so it didn’t get wet.

the smoke was almost enchanting as it came out of his mouth and i had to force myself to look ahead, for the love of yoba, don’t stare at his lips. i tried again, this time clearing my throat before attempting to at least pretend to be civil.

“you di-” “we don’t have to talk, just shut up and enjoy the weather.”

this time his words made me close my mouth instantly. i couldn’t remember the last time i was spoken to like that. back home, everyone wore their fake smiles, they called you sweetie, said ‘no worries’ way too much, and expected the same in return.

even here, where everyone knew my grandpa, i was only a replacement for the old farmer. a failing replacement. a whole set of expectations already placed on my shoulders before i even stepped onto Pelican Town soil.

i took the time to steady my breathing, to stop these fat tears streaming down my reddened cheeks. after several minutes of silence only broken by the soft noise of raindrops meeting the surface of the water, i took a few deeper breaths and turned my head to the side again, this time letting myself look over his features in the least obvious way i could manage.

“so…” i started, giving him a second to interrupt me again, “do i have to look for a new crying spot?”

the perfectly raised eyebrow used to respond to my, admittedly stupid, line was nearly enough to make me choke on my own tongue. his face showed very little other than slight annoyance, probably at having ‘his spot’ taken by a messy-haired crybaby with stupid muddy overalls and dirt under their nails.

despite the sour expression, i had to admit to myself that he had a pretty face, along with a tempting set of lips that looked soft as they housed that nearly finished cigarette between them. he swore under his breath, lifting his lighter again to relight the end, trying to finish those last few drags before stubbing it out.

that last stream of smoke changed directions, now blowing towards me for a moment, a sure sign that he turned his head to look at me… or at least in my direction.

his voice carried a little less irritation than before, but he still didn’t sound too friendly.

“depends. you plan on crying a lot?”

i snorted. i actually snorted, immediately feeling mortified at myself and covering my mouth, in utter disbelief at myself. from the corner of my eye i saw his lips twitch, like he was a little proud of himself for my reaction.

though still a bit shaky, my voice seemed to be coming out fine, no stutters, no breaking.

“can’t say i have it in my calendar.”

and just like that, a pleasant silence envelops the air around us. he lit another cigarette, offering me one from the pack again to which i shook my head, instead picking up my feet from the water, sitting cross-legged.

the sky didn’t clear and the rain started coming down a little harder now. my hair was sticking to my forehead, doing the same to him though he didn’t seem to mind it. if anything, he looked right at home with darker spots of raindrops on the shoulders of his hoodie and his long side-swept fringe dripping with water.

the rain suited him.

he smoked another cigarette, stubbing it on the dark planks of the pier before putting the end into a small tin that i hadn't noticed before. it disappeared from my sight back into his pocket.

despite not needing to speak, i still felt a little odd not knowing his name.

sam had mentioned it, they were best friends, but much like a lot of things the rest of the townspeople had said through overcheerful smiles, it seemed to have vanished from my memory. i gave my throat a little hum before speaking with a pointed question in my tone.

“so uhm…” “sebastian.” “right.”

i couldn't cry next to him, but somehow it didn't feel suffocating. it wasn't weighing on me. i could breathe. so i pulled a wrinkled tissue out of my pocket and wiped my nose, clearing my throat a few more times before settling with my fingers absentmindedly tracing the stitching of my overalls.

sebastian was still looking out into the distance, looking like he was contemplating all of life’s mysteries at once with his bare feet slowly moving just under the surface of the ocean. his dark jeans were rolled up to the middle of his calves.

we sat like that until the sky got even darker and the bats started calling out to their friends. i noticed how sebastian’s head snapped up to look for the source of the noise, his lips curling into a small smirk in appreciation of the animal nightlife.

he sighed and took his feet out of the water, shaking off the droplets before putting his socks and shoes back on.

“you don't have to look.”

finally, his voice didn't sound like i was a nuisance to his peace. i looked up at him, my eyebrow raised in question, to which he rolled his eyes, though not unfriendly.

“for a new spot, i mean. i didn't mind sharing.”

he turned and left. for a while, my eyes were on his back, watching as his figure got smaller and smaller, but as he disappeared with only his footprints left in the sand, i felt like i could smile again, even just a little.

i sat on the pier for a little longer before getting up and padding barefoot through the damp sand and wet streets, making my way to the farm. the entire way home i thought about him. the entire time swearing to myself that i’ll try again, learn from my mistakes, and make sure i live to honour my grandpa’s memory while bettering myself. and next time i see sebastian, i won't be crying.

[vestaclinicpod]

Audio Drama Sunday - 22nd December ✨

I have been SO ill this week oh my god, I can’t even express how much hands this virus has 🤧 Thank you to all the shows who have kept me company this week!

🌲 @hellofromthehallowoods (178) Olivier!!!! Oh, it is breaking my HEART that his parents essentially pulled him out and dropped him in bloody France with no more power and no way of finding out what happened to the rest of the expedition. He doesn’t even know about Riot 😭 Also, I wish the gang had just been told the truth about that chapel because, my god, if it’s not Marco that goes wandering in there, it’s definitely going to be Hope!! Eek, Cole, man!!! You are not showing that you understand any of the principles that made Clem a good detective!! She had a process and a Shelby and years of practice!! You, sir, are going to fuck this up! We obviously now know for sure that Heather was one of the quartet and I feel like Ignatius is probably one because of the fire. Who knows! The game is still definitely afoot! 

🦋 @remnantspod (20) I was warned that this episode would break my heart but did I heed that warning as I listened on my walk through the city centre? No. Did I pay the socially embarrassing price for that hubris? Maybe!! Pushing down the trauma of that remnant leads to some qs from me (please share if you have thoughts!!). We know that Stephen Grenville was just one of many names that the keystone character was using - do we know if the man in this remnant was the ‘original’ one or a ‘fake’ SG? I’m thinking about what he said about Celine’s paintings and her being unable to stop her own style peeking through, I didn’t catch a flash of the Perry/Stephen/Apprentice in this man. I feel like it would add such an interesting layer if the murderer we know about was stealing identities from nasty people. But maybe that's wishful thinking! Does it make the murdering better if there's a good reason?? Idk! No? I might need to dedicate myself to a relisten sometime soon! 

🎃 Waiting For October by @monkeymanproductions (2.5) Ah, Poe. I love that there are still people fond enough of him to listen to his story no matter how irritating he is generally! I am definitely not well read enough to catch all of the references to other authors and stories but I found his cawing belligerence amusing all the same!! I’m looking forward to what’s next for Karo and Yvonne! 

🎙️WTNV (260 - December Monologues) Such a great time of year. I love hearing from characters we don’t catch up with as much like the Faceless Old Woman. I don’t know what’s about to happen with Steve, but I am buckled in and ready to find out!! 

🍾 @ameliapodcast (39) Amelia and Alvina are just on a prison tour at this point! Sometimes there are quotes that you just need to immediately add to the mental bank and “I piss on your mother's grave and wipe my ass with your birth certificate!” is 100% one of them 😂

🧳 Travelling Light @monstrousproductions (Q+A part 2)  my three take away points from this second part of the Q+A were 1) complete gratitude that Hero and I are on the same page about Scarry (who will most certainly return in late S2 right?). 2) I am soooo intrigued about your vague references to Olí and the Traveller’s relationship in S2 AND 3) Matt, that impression was genuinely horrifying. Thank you. 

🌵 @desertskiespodcast (1-4) I have been putting off listening to Desert Skies for too long because I knew it would make me emotional. Until Leon @tellnotalespod very correctly told me that a few tears are so worth it for the rest of the experience of listening to the show. I’m only a few eps in but I absolutely adore the balance of humour and heartache. I’ve literally had these characters for 2 hours and I would already kill for them!!

Have a lovely week, everyone! The days are getting longer and the nights are getting shorter!! 🫶

[juvinadelgreko]

guys i was just thinking about the scene where lip tells ian to keep practicing his geometry theorems and how mickey's face falls in the background because he's so scared of ian leaving him for west point, of ian making something out of himself and leaving mickey (who sees himself as "fucked for life" behind).

and it made me think:

I think they would've made it even if ian had gone to west point. it's in new york, so pretty far from chicago, but dammit ian would've scraped and saved every penny he made from whatever stipends he got or earned from whatever jobs he worked (idk how those things work at a military academy) to a) send some back to his siblings and b) to see mickey whenever he could. no matter how many times mickey suggests that breaking things off would be better or easier for ian, ian flatly refuses, saying all the fancy schools and achievements in the world don't mean shit to him if he can't have the person he loves with him.

i don't know how military schools work but i imagine they'd do something like this:

i think they would've texted when ian was allowed phone/computer privileges, emailed too. but the real important shit would've gone into letters. real, snail mail letters. because god forbid terry or his brothers get ahold of mickey's phone and see he's been calling gallagher, that they're long distance lovers.

so the real important shit goes into letters. that mickey writes on totally nondescript paper and mails from a PO box under a fake name. ian writes back and addresses everything to the gallagher house, care of mandy or lip. he also includes a letter for the rest of his family, and mandy, because she's his bestie, but someone always makes sure mickey gets his letter.

and when ian's saved enough for a bus ticket, they meet in pittsburgh or cleveland, somewhere halfway between because that's cheaper than going all the way to chicago. even if it's just for a day. they just run around whatever city they're in for a day and enjoy being together until they have to get back on their respective busses and go home.

and for the holidays? ian comes home for christmas and thanksgiving and dammit november-january becomes mickey's favorite time of year. over christmas one year ian surprises him by renting out a hotel for them for one night, nothing fancy, but they're able to get away from their families and be alone together for one night.

they eat and sleep and fuck and holy shit ian's gotten even more ripped at west point so mickey can't keep his fucking hands to himself. they order room service because ian has just enough cash leftover for that and while they eat they swap stories about whatever they couldn't fit in their texts or letters. ian sleeps like the dead curled up in mickey's arms because it's so much more peaceful than sharing a dorm with a bunch of other teenage boys and the bed is so much bigger and more comfortable.

they go home the next afternoon and help with christmas dinner. everyone eats together, mickey, mandy, kev, v, and the gallaghers.

ian goes back to school and tucks the photos of him and mickey in santa hats into the locked box under his bunk that has all mickey's letters in it.

anyway, I just think they still would've made it even if ian had gone to west point. ian-stubborn-motherfucker-gallagher wouldn't have heard a single world about how "everyone breaks up when they go to different schools" and "long distance is too hard."

through four years of school and eight of required service, he and mickey make it work. ian retires after, and marries mickey in his dress blues.

in every life, they end up together.

ian sometimes daydreams about a scenario like this, about what could've been. but after awhile he stops entirely because he's made such a beautiful life with mickey, even after all the shit they went through. he doesn't need to daydream about another life. he loves the one he has.

[mysteria157]

Ryu!!!!

I’m so so sorry for the delay, but I’m here! Do not apologize for writing all of this because I loved it!! To see what made you smile and laugh and blush is the best part for me heehee.

Sukuna was so daunting at first. Because the only thing in my mind was the fact that he would never even entertain having a human next to him LOL. But I think that’s what’s so fun about fandom writing and characterization. You can think of the wonkiest scenarios and say to yourself “he might not ever do this…but if he did, what would it look like?” For Sukuna it was, he doesn’t even like other emotions besides power amongst others…definitely not love. But if he did experience love, how would that be shown for someone like him?

You’re a human yes, but you were the one who he saw as worthy to be called his Queen, so clearly there’s something there. So to show sukuna’s process of coming to terms with what he’s feeling…through his care and consideration he tries to wave off, I think it felt right for him. If he’s going to make a gingerbread house, I knew he would love the tale behind it LOL. If he’s going to watch Elf, I knew he would complain about Buddy. And at first I only wanted to write just little traditions, but the concept of him trying to guess his gift seemed so funny Lolol.

He’s experiencing love for the first time and you’ve given him the space and patience to process it in his own way.

When I looked at your blog to get inspo, I was so blown away. It’s beautiful, Ryu! Your fragrance posts?!? I took notes for myself LOL.

And I know you think you can’t see yourself with Sukuna but you should! I think that’s what makes selfshipping so amazing. We have the freedom to imagine whatever we want. And you should embrace that Sukuna doesn’t love…but if he is going to love, it’ll be for carnage and fighting and you. And you’re worthy of that, just like you said. You’re deserving of it. Don’t ever feel like you shouldn’t write about him. Because I would love to see more of it 💕

I hope your heart isn’t too heavy today and that your holidays are going well ❄️

Writing about Sukuna for you was such an honor. I had so much fun. And to learn more about you in the process was one of the best gifts of this entire journey.

Happy Holidays, Ryu 💐💕🎄

Merry Christmas from my little corner at the @pixelcafe-network. Thank you so much for hosting this gift exchange! I had so much fun writing this for my elf @grimmweepers. Your Christmas list gave me the opportunity to write Sukuna for the first time. I wanted to lean as much into your likes as much as possible so that it feels like it's you in this story.

I hope you enjoy!

Pairing: True Form!Sukuna x Reader (Ryu)

Rating/CW: slight dark romance, fluff, implied sexual content, dark themes (references to violence, blood, destruction, and a hint of cannibalism because it's Sukuna). MDNI!

WC: ~8.5K

Summary: Sukuna gives in to mortal festivities, for the promise of a worthy gift, unaware that some traditions leave marks deeper than ancient power.

Divider: @cyberbeat @arminsumi @firefly-graphics

The winter night drapes itself across the ancient estate, stars scattered above like diamonds on black velvet. Fresh snow has transformed this formidable domain into something almost magical—though no amount of pristine white can truly soften the centuries of power that seems to pulse through every shadow of the grounds.

You used to take these walks alone, finding solace in the environment that gave way to the shifting change of the seasons. But now, on this chilly and almost silent night, your solitary footprints are accompanied by another. Deeper, more commanding treads belong to Sukuna, whose very presence seems to make the stars above burn brighter, as if they, too, acknowledge the power that moves beneath them, feeding off the cursed energy he emits with every breath.

Your exhale forms a frosty white cloud before vanishing into the night air. It’s cold, far too cold for a walk, but you’re out here to clear your thoughts, to quell the overwhelming urge to ask Sukuna a question that you don’t want to imagine the answer to.

The thought first emerged when fall gave way to winter, the autumn leaves replaced by the starkness of bare branches now hidden beneath blankets of snow. The thought of markets late at night adorned in yellow lights, of hot cocoa and gifts wrapped in red ribbon.

The words, having coiled behind your teeth for days like a spring, finally slink past your lips. “I was thinking…what if we celebrated Christmas together?”

“Christmas.” The word leaves his mouth not as a question, but as if it’s not worth inflection.

You bite the inside of your cheek, fighting your rolling anxiety. He’s never been one for new things. This is his domain, after all—his home, his formidable walls that he has erected and ruled with an iron fist. The mere thought of anyone—let alone a mortal—suggesting something outside his design is almost laughable.

You pause in your footsteps, tracing his looming shadow in the snow before you look up at him. He’s tall, looming with a height that comes not from this realm, his silhouette dwarfing everything around him. While you are covered in furs and wool and warmth, he stands in a simple black Haori, barely covering his skin and open to show his chest.

The dark markings of his tattoos glow like black embers in the moonlight, each one a testament to the ancient power that pulses beneath his skin. Two pairs of muscular arms fold across his chest, large and thrumming with strength. An archaic strength that can level cities and destroy with little effort, yet those same fearsome arms cradle you with unexpected gentleness in the depths of night.

The fact that you understand this side of Sukuna, gives you the strength to press on.

“It’ll be our first Christmas together,” you press.

“A mortal festivity,” he claps back, naturally sharp but with little heat.

“I’m a mortal,” you counter, meeting his gaze head-on, refusing to back down from the menacing glare you can see right through. “And from what I remember, I am your Queen.”

Quadruple crimson eyes narrow from your truthful declaration, their glow cutting through the frost-laden air like embers in the snow. The two on the right gleam brighter against the rough texture of his half-petrified cheek, like jagged stone contrasting with smooth flesh on the other side. “You mistake indulgence for approval.”

You shrug, nonplussed, sniffing the chilly air up your runny nose. “Then indulge me. Mortals, like myself, put up Christmas trees, decorate their homes, bake treats, and watch movies.”

He hums, taking a step toward you. As he draws closer, the air shifts. While you have no cursed energy, you’ve come to know his intimately. It presses against your skin like an unseen force, electric and stifling, its movements mirroring the emotions he tries to smother. You’ve learned to read it like your favorite book, though it’s a story only you seem privy to, and you don’t intend to let him know.

“Indulge me?” you try again.

He remains unconvinced, his characteristic indifference plucking at your cold skin as you look up at him unflinching. It’s not like he denies you often. Sukuna, for as powerful as he is, gives to your many asks with a wave of his hand as if your happiness is unwarranted, even if his gaze flickers to you minutely for praise at haven catered to you.

Your confidence has only grown steadily, but that anxiety that curls around an ask still tastes sour. So you pull out another mental note card, a line you practiced in the mirror for days for this very moment.

“Gift-giving is also another tradition,” you sigh in faux nonchalance, pursing your dry lips as you try to ignore the flicker of curiosity you see on his face. The subtle tick of his jaw, the way one of his eyes tightens just so, the feel of his cursed energy pausing in its movements as if to hear you more clearly. “I know you’d never turn down any sort of offering. Especially from your Queen.”

Only seconds of anxious silence pass before that deep hum permeates the air, a gentle give. “You use that title often, Ryu.” You shrug again, biting the flesh of your cheek to suppress the victorious smile you can feel in your muscles. “Why must I wait for a specific day of the year to receive a gift? I can simply take what I want with little effort.”

His hubris knows no bounds. Neither does your perseverance.

“You put up with a few days of Christmas cheer, and I’ll make sure you get the best gift ever. Something wonderful and fitting for the King of Curses,” you promise, hoping to bring him home with your sales pitch. “But no griping.”

Sukuna scoffs, indignation heavy in the sound as he puffs white smoke into the air. “I do not gripe.” The look you throw him is unimpressed; one brow arched in a silent challenge that grants you a narrowed-eyed glare of concession in return. “Why do you assume you will get what you want?”

He reaches for you as he complains, and despite his sharp tone, you lean into the weight of his touch. You’ve come to know the language of his hands, each gesture a revelation of the complex nature he embodies. Like now, as he adjusts the furs draped around your shoulders—precious things hunted and skinned himself. His movements are deliberate, with hands impossibly gentle despite their proven capacity for destruction.

“Because you see me,” you whisper, the words soft but heavy with meaning. They carry the weight of something unspoken, a recognition of the four-letter word he is not yet ready to voice—your understanding of his care beneath his praise, his protection weaved into his possession.

A sales pitch now seems trivial, disrespectful even, in light of how the tone has shifted around you. Shame prickles at your skin, but it fades just as quickly, overwhelmed by the truth of your words. You do see him, even when he's being stubborn.

Sukuna’s answering hum to your question—to the anxious worry that started this conversation—reverberates through the air, an unspoken approval that settles in the space between you both.

Days later, the skies bloom with gentle hues of cotton candy—pale blue and pastel pink, slowly darkening as the sun peeks on the horizon. The dawn of winter greets you with its chilly embrace, its breath sharp and unrelenting, its touch frostbitten. You’re bleary-eyed as you shuffle over broken branches and moss-covered paths in the East forest.

The weight of your determination keeps you moving, even as your body protests, regretting your tenacity because why would Ryomen Sukuna, King of Curses, buy a tree when he can simply ‘get one from the backyard.’

“I like that one,” you offer, shakily pointing with a heavily gloved finger at a modest six-footer, its snow-laden branches slumping under the weight.

“If I’m to entertain a mortal festivity, it will not be done poorly.”

You’re far too cold to point out his first gripe of the day. His voice carries that familiar edge, but beneath it rests a note that only you can hear—the same careful attention he uses when observing the movements of his enemies, now turned to the expansive forest to the east of his estate.

You close your mouth around an exhale, your cheeks puffing like a fish in your own rendition of a pout as you follow him. The forest stretches silent and vast around you, a living extension of how far his power goes. Sukuna stops abruptly, still as stone as he surveys the trees with a menacing gaze. The dominance he exudes seems to make the air itself hold its breath. You’re simply a spectator—watching an apex predator stalk its prey—it would be a marvelous sight if you weren’t shaking like a leaf.

“This one,” he declares at last, voice carrying the familiarity of pride and authority as he looks up at a magnificent pine.

It’s uncharacteristically different in every way; a shadow brown trunk as thick as his waist, strong branches that house deep green needles, forming their own canopy over the other and covered in the white blanket of snow. Its towering height practically pierces the sky, a physical representation of how the being in front of you sees himself—ambivalent and all-seeing.

With a flick of two fingers, Sukuna’s Cleave technique slices cleanly through the thick trunk. The looming pine shivers, snow plopping from its arms in white globs before it slowly falls to the ground with a muffled thud. The wind that picks up from the disturbance tousles his pink hair, strands whipping against his marked face. One of Sukuna’s muscular arms grabs his prize and effortlessly hoists it onto his shoulder.

You can’t help but admire the broad expanse of his back. The curve and dip of muscle against black markings that shift with each movement, the skin warm to the touch despite how cold he makes himself seem.

The sight of him makes you think of his Christmas gift—your secret project—the fabric carefully chosen to embrace that strength with something just as enduring. You wonder if he will notice the details, the painstaking intricacy you’ve chosen just for him.

His gift is soon forgotten when his gaze falls on you, an unmistakable glint of satisfaction in his eyes. Carmine pools that invite you to step closer and gaze beneath its liquid, to see small slivers of vulnerability presented in the form of the pine on his shoulders. He’s waiting, expecting not praise for his strength, but praise for what he has provided. An offering.

You smile gently, genuinely, and without quivering despite the temperature. “I love it,” you compliment, watching as your words card over his offering like a caress that only fans the flames of his pride. His belly mouth curves into a smirk, chuffed in agreement with its host, white teeth glistening and ghostly breath puffing in steaming plumes.

He walks to you, thunderous steps shaking the forest floor but doing little to shake you, tucking and readjusting your furs once more before ushering you back to the estate, his unspoken need for you to get warm carving a smile onto your face.

In Sukuna’s vast estate, where shadows roam, and servants move with silent reverence, there is no room for joviality and merriment. He rules unflinchingly, with a face usually etched in disinterest and a heart that beats only in the throes of violence and battle. But since you’ve set foot in his domain that he keeps dark and teeming with fear, things have changed.

Now, the halls carry the scent of your vast perfume collection, a blend of smoky oud and earthy florals that linger in the air long after you pass. The servants, once bound by fear, now offer gentle smiles to the mortal who goes against the rules of this cursed realm.

Now, the shadows walk with you, satisfying your thirst for the paranormal as they follow you like a silent watchdog, a testament to the orders of their master—a being with four arms, four eyes, and a grudging acceptance of your presence.

Now, the mortal who carved her way into Sukuna’s domain with hardly a blink, the mortal who can see beneath his veneer of bleach-white bone and hardened blood…

Now… that mortal has decided to bring Christmas to these ancient halls.

Darkness now flickers with light. Pine garland decorates the windowsills in the expansive front room of Sukuna’s estate, its sharp scent striking through the air with every brush of your fingertips along its needles. The front room, what was once empty and meant only as a tunnel to another destination, is now lively from your touch.

A tall fireplace, its mantle wrapped in garlands of cypress and silk ribbons the color of deep red wine that reminds you of his eyes, casts a warm glow over goblet-red curtains that frame looming windows and fur-lined chairs that you curl into when you read your many books.

Sukuna has molded his domain to fit your silent requests. Your Christmas spirit that Sukuna continues to entertain if only for the promise of his reward, breathes life. His spoils—the cleaved pine—stands proudly by the fireplace, its branches wrapped in shining white lights and delicate ornaments.

Uraume was diligent, while unwilling to entertain anything pertaining to mortals, their loyalty outshines their disinterest when it comes to their Queen. Said loyalty shines in the snow that rests on each emerald branch, crystalline shimmers colored amber and orange from the roaring flames of the fireplace. Their technique ensures it will never melt, an ethereal touch of winter preserved.

You can’t help the warm smile that graces your features as you admire the transformed space. But it’s the scents wafting from the kitchen that draw you from your admiration. Cinnamon and nutmeg dance with something darker, a metallic tang that speaks to how well you’ve learned to blend your world with his.

Uraume, for as menacing as a curse user they are, has the cooking skills worthy of Michelin praise. The kitchen is their sacred domain but is now a battlefield of flour and spices, mortal and ancient alike. The heat from multiple ovens warms your bare toes, and copper pots and pans clank and steam with soluble renditions of a Christmas feast.

Sukuna’s dutiful servant moves about the kitchen with practiced ease, refusing help from the other cursed spirit-like servants in your presence no matter how many times you’ve insisted that you don’t mind.

“The consistency is correct,” Uraume observes, subtle praise in their soft tone as they nod toward the ruby liquid you’ve folded into dough. “Sukuna-sama will find it acceptable.”

You hide your smile at their careful choice of words. Months of coexistence have taught you to read the subtle ways in which Uraume expresses care—their meticulous attention to your recipes when cooking for you, your happiness from delicious meals enough to mask their fondness they will never admit to.

“We’re going to make gingerbread houses,” you exclaim an hour later to an indifferent Sukuna. His presence in the kitchen is rare, and you’ve had to ignore the peep of garbled eyes from cursed spirits who poke through the kitchen doors in disbelief before scuttling away in fear of being caught.

The counter is littered with cooled cutouts of gingerbread house walls, arches, and windows. White icing in pastry bags that will serve as glue and gumdrops to be adorned as paneling is the perfect setup for this small occasion between you both.

Despite Sukuna’s menacing demeanor, he is astute. It’s why he’s achieved the status he has now, why he’s feared among the world, both mortal plane and astral. So he wastes no time piecing together his own creation, his eyebrows creased in concentration fitting of a warrior planning a siege.

As Uraume flutters around you both, you recount the tale of Hansel and Gretel, Sukuna’s crimson eyes gleaming with interest at the more gruesome parts of the brothers Grimm.

“So this witch,” he muses, two hands delicately pipping white icing for a jagged wall, his other two hands covered in flour. “She devoured children who wandered into her domain.” His eyes twinkle with approval, his belly mouth curving into a devious smirk. “An acceptable response to trespassers.”

“She built the house to lure him in,” you add, swallowing a chuckle as you feel his cursed energy wiggle around you in interest. “That’s why it was made out of sweets.”

“Why did these children not become a proper meal?”

“They outsmarted her,” you explain, watching in muted supplication as his face drops from satisfaction to disapproval. “Pushed her into her own oven.”

His belly mouth scoffs, frowning as his thick tongue tastes the spiced air. “Mortals.”

As your special cookies perfume the air with metallic sweetness, you admire Sukuna as he works. He utilizes all four hands to guide his gingerbread creation to completion, clicking his teeth when a wall crumbles in his palms and humming in delight when the icing holds steady. Your gingerbread house lays half-created as you watch him, observing in silence until his masterpiece sits before you.

It’s a fortress—walls as imposing as a cathedral’s, windows designed to daze would-be escapees. The path to the door winds hypnotically, sugar-crystal steps that seem to pulse with cursed energy, leading young feet exactly where he wants them. The final touch? Miniature figurines made of pretzel sticks and marshmallows that are arranged at the front door like an offering.

“The witch’s failure was in her execution, not her concept,” he declares. Where normal gingerbread houses invite warmth, his promises something darker—a blend of Christmas tradition and Sukuna’s deadlier inclinations. “No child would think to check for a secondary barrier here.” He speaks as if defending a dissertation, pointing to the candy canes that could easily become weapons instead of the holiday cheer they should represent.

You can’t help the laugh that bubbles from your chest, soft and genuine, as you admire his evil architecture. Four eyes find you immediately, piercing in their gaze as if defensive, yet still holding something akin to wanting your approval. Your hand finds his marked cheek, fingers tracing the tattoos that mirror all over his body. He leans into your touch with imperial indifference, wary of Uraume’s presence in the kitchen but not indignant enough to deny your warmth.

“A domain worth of the King of Curses,” you praise, watching how his belly mouth curves into the wide grin that his master does not offer. It’s more than enough to know he’s satisfied.

“And why is yours unfinished?” Sukuna asks, crossing his arms in mock reproach despite the splattering of flour on his skin and Haori. “Surely, my Queen will make something of equal likeness.”

The oven behind you dings before you can reply, and Uraume retrieves your treat, the aroma rich and spiced. You slide the steaming plate between you, the burgundy cookies still piping hot and ready for him.

“I had other priorities,” you supply, blowing on your fingers before you offer a cookie to his belly mouth. It opens wide, tongue lolling to the side like a panting dog and already watering before you place the cookie on his taste buds. He chomps loudly, sharp teeth devouring the concoction of ginger, blood, and aged spices from Uraume’s private garden—a perfect blend of your world and his. His cursed energy warms, wrapping around your waist in approval as Sukuna throws cookies into his own mouth now.

“Is this my gift?” is all he asks, satisfied but ever impatient as he and his stomach finish the plate. You don’t resist the eye roll. “It’s a very acceptable gift. However, I wouldn’t have entertained Christmas if you only wanted to cook.”

“It’s not your gift Sukuna.” You wave him off, snatching the now empty plate before his belly mouth’s tongue can lick at the blood crumbs, another heaping plate taking its place that Uraume leaves. “And don’t try to guess. You won’t get very far.”

“Hm.” He leans back slightly, one of his hands reaching to dust flour from his forearm. You roll your eyes again, choosing instead to finish your gingerbread house while he sulks. “Then it must be something more…significant. Ancient scrolls, perhaps? Found deep within forgotten temples, imbued with curses?” His voice drips with mock curiosity as if daring you to reveal even the slightest clue.

You snort, pausing mid-pipe to give him a flat look. “First of all, ancient scrolls? Really, Sukuna?” His belly mouth grumbles at being ignored, lips covered in a red dusting of cookie smacking for more. “Second of all, what would I be doing roaming around a temple? This isn’t the Heian era, despite how much you like to talk about it.”

He tilts his head, eyes narrowing slightly, more intrigued than annoyed by your commentary. “So I am wrong?”

“Completely,” you answer, biting back another laugh as you return to your task of piping green icing along a gingerbread wall to resemble bushels of grass. “Do you think your gift revolves around curses and destruction?”

“Why wouldn’t it?” he counters smoothly, his tone smug and his gaze unwavering.

You roll your eyes for what feels like the nth time in only so many minutes, feeling the warmth of his cursed energy curling around your waist again, tugging at you like a child pulling his mother’s sleeve for attention. “Just eat your cookies and stop guessing, Sukuna. You’re nowhere close.”

His belly mouth snickers as Sukuna throws another cookie into it, but his narrowed gaze lingers on you as if memorizing every shift in your expression, every subtle movement of your hands, waiting for you to slip. You have a feeling that even though Christmas is only days away, his curiosity will make it seem like an eternity.

As he often says, Sukuna indulges for you quite often. Trivial mortal instruments meant to stave off your boredom. He tells himself it’s for his own peace, to keep you from pestering him in the throne room, even though he still searches for you and longs for your presence in his lap.

One of those mortal instruments? A television. He knows what they are but has never been bothered to pay attention—an invention he dismissed as frivolous and mind-numbing. The flickering screen is often a source of laughter and comfort on one of your sleepless nights, and though he swore to never sit beside you while it played, here he is. On Christmas Eve. Reclined casually on the expansive sofa in your chambers, a disdainful sneer aimed at the annoying mortal known as ‘Buddy the Elf’, judgment radiating from his very being.

“Ryu, you cannot possibly enjoy this,” he huffs, one hand picking at nonexistent lint on his linen pants, another draped over the back of the couch, and one more cradling your soft form against him.

“Elf is a Christmas tradition!” You insist, handing a heaping hand of buttery popcorn to his belly mouth who accepts with a please grumble. Unlike Sukuna, who prefers a more…carnivorous diet, his belly mouth will eat almost anything it is fed. You chuckle softly, laying your head on his naked chest as you both watch Buddy decorate the department store into a winter wonderland. "I love it."

“He trespasses into their domain and then defiles it. Disgusting.”

“I thought you agreed not to grumble.”

“I never agreed.”

You hide your smile in the warmth of Sukuna’s side, breathing in the familiar aroma of burnt incense that clings to his skin, grounding and intoxicating. The movie plays on, you enjoying, while Sukuna analyzes each scene with the precision he’d use to raze a village. He won’t admit what he’s been reduced to—a powerful being indulging in idiotic entertainment to please the mortal lady of his estate. All for a gift that he cannot guess.

You trace idle patterns on his marked arm. Each touch makes his cursed energy flutter beneath your fingertips, electric kisses on your skin that he pretends not to notice. These are the moments you love most—when the fearsome King of Curses allows himself to simply…exist beside you, his pride softened by the peace you often bring.

“A weapon,” he says suddenly, his voice cutting through Buddy and Jovie’s shower singing.

You blink, craning your neck to look up at him. “What?”

He gestures expectantly to the room around him. “You’ve found a weapon worthy of my domain.”

You should have known the moment he stopped complaining about the movie that his attention had drifted. The fact that this is what he is thinking about makes warmth bloom in your chest. “Are you guessing?”

“I do not guess,” he insists, glowering at the television to avoid looking at you, his curiosity-tinged cursed energy betraying him. “I deduce.”

A weapon would be fitting for someone like him—his strength, his dominance, his endless hunger for power. But it’s a far cry from what he will get. You throw more popcorn into your mouth to stop yourself from laughing at just how wrong he truly is.

He’s silent only for a moment before he adds. “Why must I wait until tomorrow, when you can simply tell me now?” His logic is, as usual, rooted in authority and impatience. You chew another handful of popcorn deliberately, ignoring him as you keep your eyes glued to the screen.

Not even five minutes pass before one of his large hands brushes against the nape of your neck. His fingers card through your hair, tugging the strands—not enough to hurt, but enough to send a shiver down your spine.

You know what he’s doing. His touch feels like a predator sneakily luring in prey. You know this game—this is Sukuna feigning boredom because he’s curious, using seduction to coax you when you’re being stubborn. It’s as effective as it is dangerous. But this time, you’re prepared.

“If you’re going to ignore the movie,” you trail off, your voice a mix of seductive challenge and amusement. You twist in his lap to straddle his waist, sliding your hands up his chest, tracing your fingers around his nipples in slow, deliberate circles. He does not react, at least not on his face. But you can feel the imperceptible jut of his hips, feel his cursed energy hum up your calves, and wrap around your body like a warm fog.

“I know of something else we can do.” You’re suggestive, voice dropping to the pits of your stomach as your lips brush along the sharp edge of his jaw. The shift in power is immediate, and exactly what you want. His hands tighten on your waist, head tilting slightly, giving you better access to lavish him with praise.

“Is that so?” His voice is pitched low, heady already. “Anything is better than this drivel.”

You roll your eyes as you fall back on the sofa, your body arching under his touch as he pulls you closer. Your hand slides lower, tracing the edge of his haori where it hangs loose against his skin.

“You’re impatient as usual,” you whisper, nipping lightly at his neck. “But you’ll wait this time. Won’t you?”

His eyes narrow as if in protest. But he doesn’t answer—not with words, at least. Instead, his hands roam your body, each touch firm and possessive. You grin against his skin, knowing you’ve managed to distract him…at least for now.

“A temple,” his voice rumbles through the darkness, shaking you from the deep edges of sleep. His massive form curves around you possessively, his warmth seeping into your skin. Both of you lie tangled in the aftermath of your earlier indulgences—the sofa, the wall, and, finally, the silk sheets of his bed. All bearing witness to his insatiable need for you.

“Mmm?” you mumble, still trying to pull yourself awake.

“Built in my honor,” he elaborates without repeating himself, shaking you again with a harshness that makes you yelp and throw a glare over your shoulder. He smirks to himself as if he’s finally solved the mystery. “That is my gift.”

You groan, burying your face in your pillow, but secretly relishing in the way he can’t seem to let this go. Rolling over halfway, you peek up at him through heavy-lidded eyes. The moonlight creates a shimmering backdrop, outlining his form with silver, blood-red eyes gleaming with determination. For someone who claims to have no interest in mortal traditions, he’s relentless about this one.

“You woke me up to guess….again,” you grumble, glaring at him through a half-open eye.

“I do not guess,” he starts, ready to repeat the same phrase from hours ago. “I simply—”

“Deduce, yes, I got that the first time.” You cut him off and surge up to give him a kiss, feeling his surprise for only seconds before he melts into your affection. “Go to sleep.”

“A secret text,” he murmurs against your lips, undeterred even as his arms pull you closer. “Written in blood.”

You grimace before answering with your lips on his again, your leg curling around a thick waist, ready to use the ammo from your arsenal just like a few hours ago. “Do I need to distract you again?” you ask, lifting an eyebrow.

The midnight air watches with bated breath as Sukuna rolls on top of you, his towering frame rousing the tingle between your legs.

“I know your method of distraction,” he whispers against the skin of your neck. His belly mouth kisses the skin of your inner thigh, licking its lips at the promise of what you might offer if you’re willing. “Considering you are no novice, one might think that you keep secrets from your King often.”

Your affronted laugh dissolves into a sigh as both stomach and Sukuna adorn your skin with wet kisses—one along the vein of your pelvis while the other works at the skin behind your ear. “O-one might think,” you manage, gasping as his mouth finds the pulse in your neck, “that my King is simply impatient for Christmas morning.”

“It is already past midnight,” he growls at the feel of your touch drifting lower, his cocks already throbbing and oozing precum. “Merry Christmas.”

“A proper Christmas morning!” you correct with a chortle, smacking his chest playfully. He hums noncommittally, the sound vibrating through you both, possessive and yet tender in a way that only you are privy to. “A few more hours. Let me wake up properly.”

With those final words, you promptly roll over, denying him any more sensual touch that could ignite the early morning. Sukuna, used to your defiance, simply grumbles at your withdrawal, choosing instead to press searing kisses along the naked skin of your back. They ignite the embers in your belly but are not persistent enough to tempt you further.

“A domain expansion,” he insists, inhaling the perfume at the dip of your spine, lips brushing the soft skin there.

“I can’t even do that.” Your voice is heavy, the dredges of sleep finally pulling at your consciousness.

“More blood cookies.”

You remain silent, using his solemn guesses as music to lull you back to sleep.

Sukuna can feel your presence even deep in sleep, his cursed energy wound tightly around you like a second skin, always attuned to your warmth, your breath, the way you shift beneath the covers. So when that connection shivers—when his energy touches only empty space—his crimson eyes snap open. Your side of the bed is still warm, a ghost of you lingering on his silk sheets.

He can still feel you in the estate, so he rises slowly, surveying his chamber. He takes in the transformation--the pine and silk ribbons that are around the mantle now present in his chambers, and the smell of cider and blood cookies that still wafts in the air around him. Resting along one wall is a beautiful vanity carved from marble with obsidian-lined mirrors and velvet surfaces adorned with your plethora of fragrances. The table near his window is littered with books, a speaker—another mortal instrument—rests quietly, no classical music that you enjoy playing.

His room—once untouchable, dark, and sacred—is now infused with you. It should feel like a violation, his personal sanctum defiled with the touch of a mortal. And yet.

His body is no longer cold in the halls because you thrive in warmth. His servants may bow in fear to him, but they smile at you. Shadows, once tools of terror, are now a source of protection and amusement, a manic gleam of fascination with the otherwordly preventing you from being fearful.

His emotions are still a mystery, but slowly unfurling like petals that have been sleeping for many winters. Anything besides strength and power, besides determination and tenacity are weak—should be weak. But you feel these emotions plenty, and to Ryomen Sukuna, you are far from weak.

The soft yellow lights from the pine tree spill against the floor, welcoming his bare feet as he enters the large living room that has come to life because of you and for you. He won’t admit it out loud, the pride that surges through his chest like a rushing wave when he looks at the tree. A pagan symbol meant to honor a god that is not himself, willingly brought into his domain by his own hand, a rare sight in his forest that only his eye could catch. He cleaved it. He carried it upon his shoulders. He cupped the approval in your eyes like water in a shallow pool in a drying desert, sacred and coveted.

His efforts have become yours, decorated in tinsel and ornaments, in obnoxiously bright lights and snow that will never melt. And you sit next to it, your silhouette glowing against the roaring fireplace, your gaze looking up at what he’s allowed you to have. You noticed his presence long ago, but you remain transfixed with the tree, a soft smile gracing your features as he draws closer.

“It is far too early,” he rumbles, his voice gentle but heavy in the silent Christmas air. “Come back to bed.”

You huff in reply, not bothering to offer words even as he sinks down next to you. His arms crossed over his chest, his legs folding in to sit with grace on the fur-covered floor. This close, he can smell another fragrance that you collect, a smoky Oud that coats your skin like a second skin.

It’s one of his favorites, yet another thing he will not admit, but you know. You know from the way he buries his face in your neck at night, his chambers shrouded in darkness beside the slanting of moonlight on his sheets, his cursed energy caressing your skin in appreciation.

“It’s a great tree, you know,” you sigh, wistfully. You hope to keep the tree up and lit long after Christmas passes. It’s a wonderful sight, a depiction of a past life before you became aware of the unknown, of curses and spirits, sorcery and realms besides Heaven and Hell. To see it now, in the domain of a powerful king, shining brightly as if the one who cut it down did not have four arms and eyes. “It’s strong…resilient.”

“Of course it is. Who do you take me for?” he snaps, tone not holding any heat as his sharp gaze looks at you from head to toe. He leans imperceptibly into you when you laugh, a sound that shakes from your robe-covered chest and into the warm air, the shadows catching it as if they are fireflies in the night.

You finally pull your gaze from the tree, looking to Sukuna and he refuses to let you hear the hitch in his breath. He refuses to tighten his jaw or let you hear the click of bone as he fights the urge to openly bask in your gaze. “I have something for you.”

You grab a box beneath the tree, the only object that decorates the skirt. You’re climbing into his large lap before he can protest, willingly invading his space without fear of the consequences. For others, a swift death. For you, a subconscious shift in his form, one of his arms falling behind you and hitching along your hip to steady you on his thigh.

“I hope you like it,” you muse, shrugging with indifference to shield your anticipation. “I know "human sentiments" are not your specialty.”

The hands not holding your back trace along the red ribbon, silky soft and tied neatly by you. But before you can push the box more insistently into his hold, his hands slide under yours, firmly stilling your movements.

One of his hands reaches behind his back, his form shifting closer before he presents you with his own box. It’s smaller than yours, crafted in dark, polished wood, the flames from the fireplace glimmering along the surface.

“How can I let you meddle and not have anything to counter it with?” It’s all Sukuna offers, tone low and edged with something warmer than usual. He places the box in your hands, his gaze heavy on your face as though waiting for a reaction. Truly, the thought of him getting you something had not crossed your mind. Sukuna seemed more than willing to put up with your holiday antics if only to get something in return. So the weight of the box in your hands, cool against your palm, feels substantial.

Your fingers tremble as you lift the lid, the dark wood creaking softly. Nestled inside a bed of rich blue velvet, is something that steals the breath from your lungs. It gleams against the firelight as you pick it up, its crystal surface refracting shards of gold and crimson that dance across your body. The shape is elegant yet otherworldly, the surface etched with markings that you’ve come to see throughout his estate. A stopper made of black Onyx crowns it, carved into a teardrop that you pinch and pull to open.

The scent curls into the air, smoothing beneath your nostrils in a delicate yet commanding embrace. It’s sharp at first, with notes of what you recognize as juniper and lemon, fresh and crisp like the frost that curls on the windows in your chamber. You’re an expert in fragrance, so it doesn’t take you long to detect the undercurrent of bergamot and pepper, adding an edge that’s reminiscent of Sukuna’s power—lurking beneath the surface.

It seems as if the notes are never-ending. Pine needles and incense weave into a rich, earthy warmth, like the forest you both walked through to cut down the decorated pine that rests behind you. Amber and balsam provide a sweetness that lingers with its base notes and a touch of vanilla. Finally, the richness of cinnamon adds a spicy conclusion, as if kissing your skin before it fades into the morning air.

“You didn’t,” you begin, mouth suddenly dry, your eyes quite the opposite. “You made this…?”

“Do you think anyone else could, Ryu?” he counters, his tone holding a rare softness that you wish you were more levelheaded to preserve forever. A hand not resting on your back drifts along your shoulder blades, caressing in a mixture of observance and reverence. “It is yours.”

Like everything else in this domain.

That is what he wants to add. Is what curls at the tip of his tongue. But he uses your fluttering eyelashes to distract that urge that throbs in his chest. Uses the sight of you resting the perfume carefully back in its velvet encasing before closing the wooden box as if it might break.

“It’s beautiful,” you finally whisper, uncaring of how shaky you sound. The gift is uniquely Sukuna, deeply reflecting his essence but still having you in mind. “Thank you.”

He offers that characteristic hum, rumbling through your body and clenching around your heart with a force he’s not yet ready to acknowledge. His belly mouth curves into a smug grin, but his eyes are still on you as if searching for something.

“Another example of my indulgence that you mistake for generosity.”

The way his cursed energy hums around you, warm and protective, tells you otherwise. And it only serves to make you laugh, finally wiping the tears from your cheeks and gently setting the wooden box on the fur rug beneath you both.

“Uh huh,” you tease, snickering at his frown you can see right through. You finally pick up your box, the surface warmed by the fire, now resting in his hands. The teasing air around you both falls to the wayside, hushed anticipation taking its place.

He’s spent days pestering you about what he would get, and now, with you on his lap and his massive hands cradling the box with unexpected gentleness, his curiosity morphs into something else. A prize he’s excited to have and now afraid to open. Not in fear—Sukuna has no room for fear—but in anticipation.

It takes everything in you not to snatch the box and open it yourself, but eventually, he does, and the purse of his lips and the narrowing of his eyes fall before you like a book as old as time finally opening.

The silk is as dark as the shadows that roam these halls, shimmering like oil in water as it slides along Sukuna’s thick fingers. To anyone else, the material would simply be silk. But to Sukuna, he can feel the cursed energy that pulses along it, no doubt stitched together with a cursed thread strong enough to embrace him and yet still soft to the touch.

You had no way to conjure or control cursed energy to weave into the fabric, so you had to turn to Uraume for help. Their frosty hands had guided yours, harnessing the cursed energy necessary for you as you wove the threads, ensuring the haori could hold the weight of Sukuna’s power while remaining as delicate as the intentions behind it.

The silk mirrors the intricate markings on his skin, its edges dyed in gradients of shadow and blood.

“It’s a Haori,” you finally speak, soft and given space so he can observe his gift without hurry. “It’s all you really wear, so I thought crafting something of my own would be….nice.”

Words gather on his tongue, and then scatter like leaves in a storm, too feeble to express the weight of what he feels. He knows that a simple hum of approval won’t be enough—not this time. Not for you. But as he readies himself to speak, opening his mouth just so, his breath catches when he looks inside one of the sleeves.

The inner lining is adorned with ancient symbols sewn in patterns only he would recognize, the same ones you’ve felt him trace in the air around you when he thinks you’re sleeping, offering protection for when he cannot be near you. They shimmer faintly, their glow deepening in the shadowed folds of silk and fading when touched by light—a testament to the darkness he commands and the solace he finds within it.

“Ryu—”

“At least put it on,” you interrupt, voice slightly shaky and betraying your exposed nerves. You hold the garment delicately, taking it from him and helping each arm through the sleeves. The silk moves like smoke around his massive form, designed to accommodate while maintaining the elegant lines that befit a being of his stature. Your eyes are on his skin, focused on the hem of his lapels as you trace over it and rest your hand on his chest.

“There,” you whisper, smiling but not looking up at him. His heart is steady beneath your palm, not fluttering like a bird in a cage, and you’re not sure whether to be upset that your gift doesn’t make his heart race. “It looks good on you.”

It fits him perfectly and thrums with a warmth that echoes the temperature blooming in his chest. That three-letter phrase—that elusive word that’s made his lip curl in disgust since the beginning of time, now pounds in his ears from the garment that sits on his skin.

It’s not just a garment—it’s an acknowledgment of who he is in his truest form, a declaration that you see his beauty in both his power and his evolution. The way it drapes over his marked skin, how it seems to pulse with its own life in response to his cursed energy—these details speak to your understanding of him, how you’ve learned to…love both the demon and the subtle changes your presence has wrought in him.

“You see me,” he finally speaks, uncharacteristically hushed. You see him—demon and protector, destroyer and creator, ancient force and the being who has learned to nestle mortal joy in hands only meant for destruction.

They’ve always been directed at you. Not from him. He’s never said them before. He’s never really known how, and part of him has always been envious of how the words can fall so effortlessly from your lips.

He’s never said them before. And yet now, at this moment, it feels like if he doesn’t act, the opportunity will be lost forever, forced down into the pit of his belly for who knows how long.

You hold your breath when you feel one of his hands cradle your cheek, massive enough so that his fingers card through your dark hair.

“And I see you, Ryu.”

The words feel like a promise. Like they will probably be rare but will only hold more and more weight as time goes by. And that’s okay for you. To be in his presence. To open him up and show him that he is capable of something gentle enough to hold you. That’s your gift that you will never need to wait until the 25th of December for.

His belly mouth is unusually silent, but his cursed energy tightens around you like a caress. Warm and vibrating, a protective weight that will remain around you for as long as you breathe. It speaks volumes that his pride won’t quite let him voice.

You lift a hand to rest on his cheek, tracing along the smooth skin that gives way to the rough texture that wraps around his right side. His two eyes on this side are more narrowed, encapsulated in the hard surface around it but still oozing dominance that could make others cower and definitely not come closer like you do. You cup his jaw before finally meeting his gaze—soft meeting a harshness that will never affect you, love meeting the beginnings of the same that linger beneath crimson pools.

“I see you too, Ryomen.”

The sound of his name makes his chest tighten, the organ behind his sternum pounding irregularly for only a second before falling back in line. His given name is forbidden for any who wish to speak it in likeness—he will only tolerate the name ‘Ryomen’ if it is wrapped in fear, or if it falls from your lips.

The silence lingers for what feels like forever, his hands holding you on his lap while he lets you map his face. Your heart flutters, happiness pulsing through your veins with every beat, cataloging every aspect of this moment in your mind forever.

“There is one mortal tradition,” he finally muses, his voice carrying that particular note of mischief that always makes your breath catch, “that I find…acceptable.”

It’s the kind of tone that usually follows lips along your skin and hands between your thighs, reminiscent of a man who can only bask in vulnerability for moments before shifting to something heady and tinged with lust.

Before you can question his motives, one of his hands lifts to hover above you both. His cursed energy manifests between his fingers, dark and potent, morphing itself into something that makes you snort in delighted surprise. Dark tendrils grow slowly from the mass of energy between his fingers, twisted and mangled to form branches, its leaves pitch black with berries that gleam like drops of blood.

A twisted version of mistletoe, the only representation that would be acceptable to someone like Sukuna.

“Of course, you’d make it look menacing,” you tease, giggling softly as his other arms draw you closer to his chest. His belly mouth snickers from below you, ready to join his host in whatever is planned. One of your fingers traces the metal of his gauges, your eyes narrowing in playful indifference.

“Then I advise you to have one ready for next year.”

Your heart stops, lungs seizing in your chest as the words tunnel into one ear and out the other. Next year. The idea hangs in the air, fragile and precious—proof that even Ryomen Sukuna, with all his arrogance and dominance, is willing to entertain a future with you.

The mistletoe pulses above you, casting reddish shadows across your faces, and you don’t need to think any longer as you lean in to slide your lips along his. His hands widen the expanse of your back, your robe slipping off your shoulders to hang in the crevice of your elbows, the heat from the pulsing mistletoe spreading over your chest. The naked feel of you against his torso pleases him, and beneath the prideful smirk against your mouth, beneath the snicker from his belly, you taste that four-letter word in his mouth, siphoning as much of it as you can before you pull away and rest your forehead against his.

“Merry Christmas,” you whisper against his lips, your body warming even further despite the heat from the fireplace.

He offers that hum—that characteristic hum that means so much.

Acquiescence.

Agreement.

I see you.

The mistletoe falls to the floor, crunching beneath your weight as Sukuna lays you on the fur, hands tracing your waist, sliding along your spine, hiking your legs around him. He doesn’t speak, content to admire you beneath him—a mortal without cursed energy who loves perfume, the paranormal, and classical music. A mortal who hates spiders, but loves Gothic architecture, monsters, and the many books that line his walls.

A mortal who has crawled beneath his skin and nestled there, unwilling to leave. And he’s too ashamed to admit that he gave up trying to pry you from inside of him a long time ago.

You throw your arms around his neck, impatient and tired of his staring, carding your fingers through deceptively soft pink hair to pull him down so that you can once again honor this particular tradition—one that, like everything else between you, has been transformed into something uniquely yours.

Merry Christmas, @grimmweepers !!!!

[brown-little-robin]

it went fine yesterday btw :}

[spaghett-onaplate]

depression is really weird actually wdym i spent 2.5 years of my life in bed

[ilikekidsshows]

I see what you're getting at, like, everything is nuanced, let's not generalize everyone who uses a specific approach to discussing stories, and so on, but, while I can't be sure of the anon's intentions, my intention with the post was to specifically talk about the refusal to engage with what is going on in the story, what has always been going on, and shutting down emotional reactions to it because they aren't analytical enough.

"Dismissing these kinds of fandom reactions only when they veer into the negative direction showcases the real motivation of the “it’s all just the writing” crowd. I need to dissociate from the show’s story in order to discuss why Marinette is still so beloved by the fandom, because I just can’t feel that way about her anymore. Similarly, the people dissociating from the story in order to explain why fans are disappointed and outraged by the story, can’t see anything worth getting upset about in the show."

I am talking about people who completely disengage from the idea that the show and its protagonist could be in the wrong. Of course there are people who still enjoy the show while feeling it needs some changes in its very makeup. But there are also people who refuse to see the problems as anything other "temporary bad writing", who think we just have to watch longer and the show will be good again.

I'm a writer myself. I have a master's degree in English literature. I know how to engage with writing in an analytical way, and have, in fact, done so over several of the things I also complain about. However, I'm also a member of the audience, and I watch and read stories to experience feelings. If a story fails to invoke specific feelings in me, it's failed as a story, same thing if I'd eaten food I didn't enjoy. I don't need to say "use this specific amount of these seasonings" to get that across, I can just say "there was too much ginger". Like, yeah, the former is more useful to the cook, but I'm not saying this stuff to the cook/writers, or even to the fans who say stuff like "Marinette is just a victim of bad writing and not wanting to see her own screen is wrong because of that". I'm saying this to the people reading my blog, who are also annoyed at seeing this stuff and want to vent.

Simply put, I am done with constantly excusing this show. New followers who are here only for my salt phase don't know this, but I used to defend this show so hard before the retool. I granted Marinette's character so much grace and good faith because I could see what the show was going for, only for the writers to increase those aspects of Marinette's character that I had to excuse in order to enjoy her on screen. This hasn't happened with any other character to this degree, except Chloé, who I was never that attached to, so I don't think it's hypocritical when I claim Marinette specifically has been made unenjoyable as a character, because I can't even watch past episodes with her, without seeing those character flaws that would later be glorified after the retool, because, as I said in the beginning, Marinette's character hasn't changed, the narrative around her character has.

Sure, I could write a hundred essays on how I think Miraculous' story could be more engaging, how it could more easily invoke the feelings I don't feel while watching it. But, at this point, what is the point? I don't feel like jumping through Marinette-shielding hoops again in order to engage in discussions with the fandom proper. I'm done with that. I feel like it doesn't matter how kindly or analytically anyone picks apart this show, because nothing is going to change. It's so hard to care about that kind of stuff anymore. I'm just tired, disappointed and angry and I'm dealing with it by ranting angrily. I'm pretty sure the same applies to my anons. There's a reason I call this blog a support group. It's tongue-in-cheek, but accurate. We're all just trying to cope in our own ways.

I get that alot of people go with the approach of "every Miraculous character is deeply screwed by the writers, so it's a writing problem" but at this point this feels like deflecting from the real problem

No shit stories and their characters are written by writers, but so many blogs I see now that go with that approach imo keep on dismissing the point of the problems people are pissed about because "well the characters aren't real, so I'm superior for saying it's the writers fault"

Guys, we KNOW they are fictional characters, you're not unique. But what is happening is that I get less and less out of the analysis posts from these blogs because they're beating around the damn bush especially when it comes to Marinette.

Yes, every character is screwed by the writing but Marinette has been retooled into the self-serving center of the universe who gets by though damn technicalities. This writing pattern is 2 disastrous seasons in, SHE IS THE PROBLEM.

You can try and sugarcoat that however you like by saying that Marinette is a fictional character so its the writers fault, but that doesn't change that Marinette's CHARACTER & WRITING is still the source of all the problems and that stories are being told to get emotional reactions. That's the entire purpose of a story.

No, I don't think people are doing it right by approaching all of Miraculous on a mere meta level. That's not how a story is supposed to be read. The meta level is an additional one on top of the emotional one, not the "rational way" to consume media.

And imo the analysis blogs I see around so much deliver less and less analysis posts I can do anything with. They are so caught up in explaining that the characters aren't to blame but the writers that they sideline why people are feeling the way they do.

There is this persistent dissonance in their posts about how apparently no amount of bad writing can change a character when that's just... objectively incorrect. Marinette for example is SUPPOSED to be compassionate and a thoughtful hero and partner/ leader to Cat Noir. Marinette in Canon though by this point is straight up NOT anymore.

But in their posts it's basically said that if people say that, then that makes them irrational because on a meta level the execution and effect of the writing is apparently irrelevant. Distant meta is king and the only rational way to engage with this story.

And I just don't see the point in that.

The outcome and the emotional effect of the writing is what actually matters. Not the intention behind it (no wonder people are using that excuse to defend Marinette's character. It's another variant of "but she MEANT well"). If Marinette is by now a toxic and even abusive partner and leader to be suck with, then that's the fucking damage the writing did. And said damage is DONE. That's her character NOW. Talk about the theory behind it however you like, the character CONCEPT is not Canon compliant anymore, and nothing is gonna change that besides facing the deeply rooted damage that has been done, analysing those on an EMOTIONAL level so you can then course correct the CANON character through the necessary development into becoming what the character was initially supposed to be.

Call me a dick, but just saying "the characters aren't real" is not a productive way of going about this dumpster fire anymore.

---

Another thing to take into account about the “it’s just bad writing” approach is that, like, it’s not like the way Marinette herself is being written has changed that much. What changed is how the narrative and other characters react to her and her behavior. Marinette has always been self-important, self-serving and self-obsessed, but these used to be treated as character flaws, signs of her immaturity and naivete she’d need to grow out of. Now we’re being told she’s flawless, actually, and has never done anything wrong ever and none of her mistakes were her fault. 

Like, I’ve recently been familiarizing myself more with the “my dear diary” teen drama genre, and it really is more of a dramedy genre if anything. Most of these series will have a self-important, self-serving and self-obsessed protagonist and the entire narrative is filtered through their self-centered world-view, because we’re basically reading their diary where they vent about things that annoy or excite them. Now comes the kicker: the “comedy” of the dramedy comes from how comically over the top these protagonists are when they clearly and obviously misrepresent their lives and themselves to the audience. Miraculous is leaning very heavily into this downright selfish protagonist archetype, but actually wants you to agree with the protagonist when you can see, with your own eyes, because this is a different medium, that the world isn’t nearly as unfair to our protagonist as she claims.

Here’s another kicker: if you aren’t laughing at the joke or projecting yourself onto the protagonist, you’re most likely gonna hate the protagonist of most “my dear diary” books. They tend to be the most opinion-splitting characters in their own fandoms, with readers either loving them or outright despising them.

Dismissing these kinds of fandom reactions only when they veer into the negative direction showcases the real motivation of the “it’s all just the writing” crowd. I need to dissociate from the show’s story in order to discuss why Marinette is still so beloved by the fandom, because I just can’t feel that way about her anymore. Similarly, the people dissociating from the story in order to explain why fans are disappointed and outraged by the story, can’t see anything worth getting upset about in the show. They think it’s all okay. They’re not approaching the show purely logically, they are still emotionally invested, they still like the show. Of course the seemingly logical approach to fandom unrest seems to just be defending Marinette and the show, because it is.

It’s basically a way to retreat from the criticism. Like, the accusations of Marinette being a stalker used to be easily sidelined with “it’s just a joke you don’t like” until they made it a sign of canonical mental instability. It was a way to say: "this is a silly thing to be upset about". Now we’re sidelining the abuse apologia with “it’s just bad writing, that’s not what Marinette’s character is”. What these people are actually saying is: “she’s made up, so my made up version of Marinette in my head didn’t do that.” Like, when you have to deny canon exists, your analysis isn’t analysis anymore; it’s headcanons at the very least, completely made up at most.

[quietwingsinthesky]

the last unicorn post from earlier has me thinking about the master. that yana is still in there, you know? is still someone he was, if even for a brief flash across the life of a time lord. there’s no way to unlive that life. there are ways to twist it later, sure, to make utopia into hell on earth. but the life was lived. in much the same way that the doctor can remember, can feel, the love he held onto as john smith even as that life is ripped out of his hands. the doctor choose denial and then grief and then to shutter it all away. and so john smith died, and so professor yana died, and the doctor and the master live on. the doctor has done this before, and he lives in orbit around humanity, trying to keep the best parts of them and hold them deep enough to take root (which he can pretend he gets to choose, as a time lord. as a human, it all floods in and can’t be dug back out.) but what about the master, right?

to borrow a turn of phrase: i think there are two time lords left in the universe, and they both learned how to regret.

[buttercupshands]

Congratulations on nothing. I'm back to drawing LoV again after a bit of a break

those are mostly just a redraw practice for fun Toga is a try in "more canon way of drawing" with color practice too

I'm sorry that it's in russian because I have to have some will to localize jokes that came into my head while drawing it

it's like... a robot au??? or something, mostly just a joke "what if AFo just built Tenko and changed what he wanted"

and this is a joke about our 'favorite' 419 plot twist so it's basically just a bunch of joked about AFO failing to get any way to get control instead Tenko's head is not empty. It downloaded games, friends and stuff about being a hero but NOT as a literal hero, more on "villains need help I'm a hero then" way

and yes that text behind is "hands" written all over the place bc I wanted to add hands in handwritten form

[wrongtvrns]

The way the blonde looked at her, the way Maeve spoke with softness and understanding, compassion and sympathy lacing every tone — it was obvious that this young woman knew what Kira was feeling. On one hand it was comforting to know she wasn't alone, that someone understood just how heartbreaking it could be to see couples merry and bright together. To see families holding each other tight and sharing glee. The brunette had the attention of many, came with the territory of being a celebrity, but the holiday only highlighted just how alone she was. Just how broken she felt internally. Somehow a little laughter bubbled up and spilled out, soft and light, that smile not quite reaching her eyes. "You're right about that. This open bar of sorts just sounds like trouble." And knowing her ex had now moved to her city? The possibility of running into Leti and the likelihood of some beautiful woman on her arm nearly had Kira running to the eggnog herself.

"The sweaters are amusing because people are so passionate in their hate for them yet people seem to be having fun with them?" Kira was trying to avoid that tug on her heart. Pretty, dark eyes framed with long lashes scanned their surroundings. Maybe some part of her had hoped she could soak up the love and cheer through osmosis. Could that have been why she subjected herself to this? But those words... just to remind us of what we don't have... caused the brunette to swallow down the emotion knotting in her throat. "Wait — you don't have family around?" They hadn't quite shared their stories. For some reason protective of their pain. Talking about things made them all the more real, didn't they? "I feel so out of touch," she said blinking the fog in her head away and shaking it gently as well, stepping a little closer to Maeve, "I'm sorry, I think I assumed you had a partner. I do listen, I apologize, I've just got my head so far up my own ass feeling sorry for myself..." Kira offered a rueful smile.

The humor was appreciated and a more genuine look of amusement momentarily crossed Kira's face. She wholeheartedly appreciated what Maeve was trying to do and even let out a chuckle, but those would be problems she'd love to have. With her parents she still wasn't allowed at the table.The boyfriend? He was for show and to gain some ground back with her parents. Friends were busy with their own lives and families and loved ones. She was becoming weak enough that she might call her ex in the middle of the night just so she could feel a little something. Even if that would end up only being more torture. "No, no... you're right. Sorry, I'm being such an insufferable bitch, aren't I? Just wallowing over here." The brunette hauled in a breath and tried to sober herself of the downward spiral she'd been taking on. She perked up, listening with a faint smile at the blonde talk about her little plans with her little one. "That's really sweet and so meaningful. Even if she's too young now, there's a day soon where that will be the world to her." The invite had actually surprised her and Kira was certain her initial reaction had displayed that. Before she could form the words in response, however, Kira was nodding. "We could..." The brunette encouraged, more nodding of her head. "We could cook up a little dinner and do presents." She wasn't even Christian but she wanted to be apart of something somehow. "Thanks to my mom's bakery I'm fairly decent at that. I could make us some treats?" She was starting to go off with ideas, just tossing out and seeing what stuck with Maeve. "You'll regret the ugly sweaters but I'd love that. If I wouldn't be imposing of course."

Maeve listened, her soft gaze never wavering as Kira spoke. There was something unspoken in the air—something heavier than the twinkling lights or the festive music surrounding them. It was in the way Kira’s smile faltered just slightly at the edges, in how her words danced between humor and heartache.“Oh, I’m sure someone will make a scene before the night’s over," Maeve teased, a faint smirk tugging at her lips. "The holidays do bring out the best and the worst in people… especially when questionable sweaters and too much eggnog are involved.” But as Kira’s tone shifted, Maeve did too. Subtle. Softer. She tilted her head just slightly, a quiet understanding settling over her features. “It is tough,” she admitted, no judgment in her voice. “All those picture-perfect moments—it’s like they’re lit up in neon this time of year, just to remind us what we don’t have.” There was no pity in Maeve’s tone, just the honesty of someone who knew that ache far too well.

Her lips quirked into something gentler, a faint, reassuring smile. “But don’t let the staged scenes fool you. Half of those people are fighting over whose turn it is to take the trash out, or burning the turkey.” Her voice dipped a little, almost conspiratorial. “And you? You’re not the only one who’s had a rough go of it lately, I promise you that.” The question about her plans earned a small chuckle, low and self-deprecating. “Christmas? New Year’s?” Maeve ran a hand through her hair, her shoulders lifting in a loose shrug. “Honestly, my plans are mostly kid-centered. I don't have any family here so it's just me and my little one this year around.” Her expression softened as she added, “She keeps me grounded, though. Reminds me that the holidays don’t have to be perfect to mean something. I mean she's still too young to know it but I want her to always know that.” She glanced at Kira, brows raised just slightly as if testing the waters before offering, “What about you? If you don’t have plans, maybe we could, I don’t know… make some of our own? A little less ‘Hallmark movie,’ a little more us.” Maeve’s smile grew, teasing but sincere. “I’ll even let you pick the ugly sweaters.”