#so i actually had answers for most of these already

[spirkbitch]

i’ve always made my distaste for that relationship clear.

but your response specifically highlights one of the things i dislike the most, not only about the relationship but about Chapels characterization in snw.

i can see that the dynamic is well written enough to be enjoyable for a lot of people. but (attempting to set aside my clear bias for spirk) i can never get past how it disregards existing canon, like spock (seemingly) not knowing her first name in tos, or calling her feelings “illogical fantasies” in tmp, and how it confuses later plot lines, like her long lost fiancé (of course their relationship in snw isn’t the only thing that causes those problems, there is no lack of continuity errors in the star trek universe but i know a lot of people don’t care as much as i do so i won’t go further into it)

they completely changed her personality, made her more ‘girl boss’ for lack of a better term, but with this being a prequel, and her being nothing like that in tos, it kinda makes it seem like someone broke her spirit at some point.

if she’s so cool and badass in snw for then why is she so different in tos. she’s rarely seen in tense situations, usually just taking orders and flirting with Spock. this establishes that she’s hung onto these feelings for years, and throughout tos she always makes her feelings clear, even though he shows no interest and even clear distaste at times, this makes her seem pathetic at best (and kinda creepy imo).

and i don’t think that was the intention in tos, at least i don’t want to see it that way. without previous background given by snw she seems usually calm and kind of snarky at times, she has a crush on Spock that she’s clearly forward about but not in a creepy way. but with the context from snw, them having a previous relationship and her being so much cooler than she is in tos, it makes it seem like one breakup ruined her entire personality and now she’s doomed to a life of creepily pining over a man who doesn’t want her anymore.

that was a really long response i’m sorry i have a lot of feelings on this

star trek used to be about gays in space

now they just make Spock kiss women

[thjsrots]

Can I ask for a counselor!Sevika and reader with social anxiety? And Sevika has to attend those fancy "parties" of the Council, and there are so many people there, the reader feels uncomfortable (she doesn't cry, but almost), and Sevika notices and takes her out of there and comforts her? Sorry if this is confusing, I'm writing this in the middle of the night and a little sleepy!! Thanks (And forgive me if I wrote something wrong, English isn't really my first language...)

-🦇

i love me some sappy sevika. here u go!!! hope its okay! <3 (also don’t sue me i couldnt find a good maroon button up pic. i’m sorry. luv u.)

never really alone

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ sevika x reader fluff

It was nighttime, the moon gleamed down on you as you looked perfect. Your hair was styled, had on the most beautiful gown that Sevika picked out just for you, and your makeup was flawless. Everything about you was perfect. Except, you didn’t feel perfect. You felt the dress synching your waist in, making it hard to breathe. Your hair and face felt heavy, and the unnecessarily tall heels pinched your feet. But alas, you were doing this for your wife, so none of that mattered to you. You’d be able to suck it up just this one night for her, just for this one party.

The two of you walked in through the large doors, hand in hand. The immediate buzzing sound of people chattering, drinks pouring, and fancy music hit you like a truck. You gulped, squeezing Sevika’s hand, looking over at her. She looked straight ahead, eyebrows furrowed (per usual; she has a resting bitch face), maroon button up blouse semi tucked into her black slacks, belt buckle shining in the light. You could feel your cheeks flush underneath all the foundation as you stared, admiring but also trying to find comfort in her face. She looked over at you, eyebrows immediately relaxing, giving you a small smile.

“You ready, princess?” She asked, squeezing your hand back. A little sign to show that she had you, no matter what. You felt your tense body loosen up a bit, breathing out deeply, and nodding.

“Yes,” You started, smiling back. “I-I’m ready.” You pushed those words out of your mouth the best you could. Of course you weren’t ready. If it were up to you, the two of you would be at home, snuggled up watching a movie. Before you could even second guess your answer, she began to walk forward, leading you into the drowning sound. You followed behind her, of course. Those stupid heels were already hurting, so it definitely took you a second to catch up.

You knew Sevika didn’t necessarily enjoy these parties, but she had to show up and put on a face as best she could (which… was never really her best, you could tell she hated it). So you knew you probably wouldn’t be there long. All you had to do was suck it up and push the anxiety down as best you could for an hour or two.

Right?

As you were caught up in your own thoughts, you felt Sevika’s grip loosen and let go from your hand, making you snap back to reality. Your head snapped up, eyes darting towards her.

“Sevika! Glad you could make it,” Someone (of importance, you assumed) said, leading her away. You didn’t care much about seeing their face, your eyes stayed glued on Sevika. “There’s some people here who want to meet you. Follow me?”

She looked back at you, almost like she was asking for permission without actually asking. You couldn’t possibly hold her back from this, doing her job. So you forced the best smile you could, nodding. “Go ahead, darling. I’ll be here.”

She sighed annoyingly at the request, but smiled back at you. “Thank you. I’ll keep my eye on you, don’t stray too far. Okay?” She said before turning around and walking away. You watched her until she got lost in the crowds, leaving you by yourself. Your breath hitched once you lost sight of her, fingers twiddling as the panic began to settle in. You shook your head around, trying your best to push the feeling down.

I’m a grown being, I can do this. I can totally do this. You thought to yourself, trying to fake it till you make it. With the bit of courage you had, you made your way to the bar area, grabbing one of the drinks that were being given out. You sipped on it, face immediately twisting up. The alcohol tasted bitter, the cranberry juice doing absolutely nothing to mask the flavor, making it hard to swallow. You gulped it down as best you could anyway. You figured maybe getting a little buzz might cool the anxiety down, I mean, it didn’t hurt to try.

…So you picked up another drink after forcing down the first. You walked around, exploring the place, which was huge. I mean, truly, there was no ending to it. Halls after halls, multiple doors, stairs that led to Gods knows where. It seemed like you were doing fine. You were almost confident in yourself, dress shimmering, hair shiny, lashes batting.

Until… a group of women began to walk towards you. You stood there at first, trying to look nonchalant. I mean, no way they were coming to you. Right? Wrong.

“Hey! You’re Sevika’s wife, aren’t you?” One of them questioned, eyes gleaming as she stared. “Wow, what a beauty. She’s certainly lucky, isn’t she?” All of them giggled, touching your hair and dress. You felt it creeping up again, that same feeling that was always lingering in the pit of your stomach.

You cracked a smile anyway, hesitating before responding. “Y-Yeah, I’m her wife. Thank you. I should go find her, actually.” Was the best you could do. You figured you were coming off as rude, but these ladies did not catch the hint.

“What? Going so soon! Tell us more about her, she’s such a drag to work with usually. How could her cranky self wife up someone like you?” Another of them commented, their giggles turning into loud laughter. You could tell this was drunken banter, but that didn’t seem to help you at all. The feeling began to grow bigger, heavier, pushing down on your chest. It slowly became hard to breathe as their words overlapped, molding into something you couldn’t understand. Your chest was rising and falling too fast, so fast you couldn’t keep up. Your hands gripped on the cup, squeezing hard, shaking as they continued. How could they possibly not catch the hint? You regretted telling Sevika yes. Yes to joining her, yes to walking in, yes to letting her go join the others. You felt your eyes begin to water, hot tears beginning to build up, begging for their release. It was pathetic, you were pathetic, totally fucking path-

“Ladies,” Sevika’s husky voice broke your internal battle. The women immediately peaked over your head, looking at her as she stood behind you. She grabbed onto your waist, pulling you in. “Looks like you’ve bothered my wife enough. It’s about time you get going.” She said, voice stern and low. They smiled awkwardly, nodding and agreeing as they walked away, mumbling not so nice things under their breaths.

You felt Sevika grip onto your hand, leading you outside to the balcony, closing the doors behind you. She immediately wrapped her arms around you, making you spill your drink along the tile floor as you held onto her, face nuzzling in her neck. Although she was squeezing a little, you felt like you could finally breathe. Her hand ran down your back, then up again, rubbing it slowly.

“I’m sorry I left you alone, princess. Are you okay?” She said as she pulled away, cupping your face in her hands, her grey eyes full of worry. You held onto her hands as did so, resting your head against them. The anxiety began to melt away as you stared into her eyes, felt her skin against yours, her scent wrapping around you. This was your safe place.

“I’m okay,” You said, eyes closing, taking it all in. “I’m sorry I freaked out. Did I ruin it for you?”

“Of course not, I get whatever I want around here. So, my work for tonight is done.” She said, scoffing a bit.

Your eyes opened, immediately raising an eyebrow at her, giggling at her sassy remark. “Is that so?”

“It is so, and you know what it is I want now?” She asked, leaning closer into your face.

You giggled. “What does her highness want now, hm?”

She suddenly grabbed your waist, pulled you in, then kissed you. It was a soft and slow kiss, taking the time to feel her lips melting into yours. This was heaven, you were sure of it. Her soft and salty lips, gentle yet secure hands holding you, her care for you. She was your heaven. She pulled away, smiling softly, staring into your eyes. “I want us to go home and have the night to ourselves.” The moonlight hit her face just right. Her eyes glistened as she looked at you, skin glowing, and muscles showed through her shirt.

Your heart fluttered, ears reddening up a bit. Gods, you were so in love with her. The corners of your mouth lifted up into a toothy smile, one that Sevika absolutely adored. “I’d love that, Vika.” You said, pushing her hair back to get a better look of her face in that moment. You wanted to remember this, have this memory of her forever.

She grabbed onto your hand, kissing it softly, then looked back down to you. “By the way, alcohol is horrible for anxiety.”

Your eyes widened at the sudden comment. “How… did you know?” You questioned, blinking quickly.

“I tasted it all in your mouth, babe.” She started as she began to lead you back inside. “Plus, I had my eye on you the entire time, you were never really alone. I’d never do that to you.”

You blushed, smiling at her comment as the two of you walked back inside. She wasn’t usually this sappy, but when she was, you ate it up. You’d definitely bring up how hot her need to always protect you was later. She quickly said her goodbyes, brushing off the small talks, then led you outside the giant doors you had came in from. You couldn’t help but stare at her lovingly the entire time, wanting nothing more than to kiss her over and over. Maybe do even a little more than that, but you’d save that for the bedroom.

[creative-frequency]

Eeevvvveeeee, 18 or 20 with Sylus for the kiss prompts? Please? 🥺

More like artificial height equality 🖤

Sylus x Reader: 20. Kissing in a stairwell, giving them an artificial height difference.

If someone (like Sylus) had told you a month ago that you’d willingly spend your free time at the N109 Zone, you would’ve told him he was insane.

After a weekend spent in the ridiculous luxury of Sulys’ home, you were starting to doubt your own sanity.

You’d actually had a good time with him. Private chefs, nightly joyrides, personal spa and gym… It was really difficult to tell him the weekend had been anything but amazing.

And judging by the smug expression on his handsome face, Sylus already knew the answer, when he asked, “Was the weekend at the N109 Zone as bad as you thought?”

“Do you want me to post a public review on Moments?” you retorted.

“Perhaps.” Sylus smirked. “I might give you an extra free day for your next stay, if you write a good one.”

He wanted you to come over again. You tried not to bite your lips and ignored the heat threatening your cheeks.

“‘Spend your next vacation at the Onychinus base: Relax in luxury with an en suite bathroom?’” you started, “or maybe ‘have an activity-filled staycation at the most unlikely gem of Linkon’?”

Sylus scoffed at your antics and shook his head. “Don’t forget ‘open twenty-four-seven just for you’, kitten.”

There were a ton of things to do waiting at home, but you couldn’t help lingering by the stairs that would take you up to your apartment.

“I… guess I’ll see you later, then.”

“And I’ll see you.”

You started climbing up the stairs. And utterly failed at not grinning to yourself.

“Kitten…” Sylus’ voice lilted with amusement and the tone implied you forgot something.

You swung around on the steps and came almost nose to nose with him. Sylus’ hand rested on the railing beside you. You were used to facing his chest whenever he was standing straight.

“No kiss goodbye?” Sylus murmured, teasing.

It was a bit uncanny but exhilarating to be on level with Sylus’ red eyes as he expected a reaction. He inched forward and finally your heart kicked into a flutter.

Your hand laid over his shoulder and slid right around to the back of his neck, feeling the tips of his hair. He was so… within reach that you felt a wave of joyous wonder.

You pulled his head gently closer and registered the relieved smile right before closing your eyes. His body pressed against yours as your lips met.

This was still new – uncharted territory with the promise of an exciting adventure to be had.

The kiss was brief but filled with things left unspoken during the weekend: after spending time together, being away from one another would always ache. A part of your soul constantly yearned for his.

“Don’t forget the chef wants at least two days’ notice to prepare,” Sylus murmured as you pulled away, just an inch, then another, until you could no longer feel the warmth of his body and were already missing it.

“Is that your way of asking when is my next day off?” you huffed.

Sylus smiled.

“Text me. I’ll clear my schedule for you.”

[uncle-fruity]

I really want to underline some truth:

I am a better activist and a more energetic and enthusiastic participant in the issues I care about now that I've stopped believing the guilt trippers and have involved myself in activism on my own terms.

I get to decide what I do and do not care deeply about. That's not another person's place to tell me what I think and feel -- especially if it's a complete stranger. I know myself better than they know me.

I get to decide what is too much for me. I set my own boundaries and priorities. Other people might not agree with me, but they can die mad. I'm not their soldier to recruit, and what I do with my time and energy is my business, not theirs.

I know my body and my limitations better than anyone else. The people who truly love me and support me trust me to manage my ups and downs and do not assign a moral status to me when I take care of my needs first. Especially over time, they know that I will be back and ready to help out as soon as I'm able to. When I'm less able to participate, the people who love and support me take care of me and make sure I know they're there for me.

I am no longer doing activism in any real way online. At most, I try to provide some education and some emotional/mental health support. If you look at my Tumblr, you won't see even half of what I deeply care about. Part of that is a growing sense of internet safety, and another part of that is that there is very little I can do online that's going to make a difference. Another part of that is when you post stuff as a reaction or out of a sense of obligation, you're more likely to spread misinformation, especially if you don't take time to verify the information (which can be genuinely difficult if you don't know how to do that). I fell into that trap a fair amount when I was so guilt ridden that I was terrified to be seen as a Bad Person.

Which brings me to this major point: there will always be people who are quick to judge you and quick to make you out as a Bad Person no matter what you do. In someone's mind, you are probably already a Bad Person. Does that actually make you a Bad Person? Does someone else's definition of good and bad line up with yours, and does it matter? Have you considered that the person calling you a bad person might be a bad person by your standards? Who has the right to strictly define morality in the first place? Regardless of the answers to those questions, you don't have to let other people define you. And the guilt trippers are doing substantially more harm to the cause than people who are trying to rest for their emotional and mental health. I don't think that makes them bad people, but it does make them bad at community building, which is a fundamental necessity for activism.

My advice, if you really want to be a good activist, is to kill the part of your brain that tells you you aren't good enough and don't deserve rest until you are. No one can do it all. No one is a perfect activist or a perfect person. You need to have a clear idea of what your priorities are and what your capabilities are. You need to seek community and, as OP originally stated, joy. It's not just you who needs something to fight for or who needs breaks, your community needs it too. If you overwork and constantly retraumatize yourself, you will eventually hit burnout and you will not be able to help at all for much much longer than if you had just taken a break or made time for the good things in life when you first needed to. You also run the risk of creating a culture where no one else feels like they deserve rest and eventually burn themselves out, too. Then where does the movement go when all its activists are too stressed and tired and having a crisis of morality to do the work? The movement goes to die, is where. Sure, being angry is valid and important, but if that's all that's keeping you here, you're going to find that anger is not sustainable and will eventually give way to extreme depression when you realize that anger alone does not fix the many problems of the world. Your anger and guilt will kill a movement so much harder than indulging in a little positivity and rest from time to time.

Oh, and me? Now that I've gotten out of guilt trippy and frankly abusive online activist spaces, I am so much better at doing activism that matters. I organize a queer art group. I attend meetings to discuss problems and try to find solutions. I have more energy to educate myself and others. I can do more direct action. All of this is stuff that I literally had no space for while I was suffering from the burnout those online spaces caused that I now have space for because I decentralized social media in my life and especially in my activism.

Please. For your own sake and for the sake of the causes you care about: take a break. Have a rest. Do something fun. This is me telling you directly that the people guilt tripping you are being inappropriate & rude at best and literally abusive at worst. It is okay to forget them and live your life in ways that serve both yourself and others. They have no power to send you to Hell, I promise.

Sorry about the rant I'm just SO sick of this "we have to be on all the time never look away if you aren't upset about politics and traumatizing yourself watching people die on Twitter you're wrong and complicit and evil" like I know things are fucked and we need to stay angry but we can do that while also taking a minute to crack open a cold one with the boys or have gay sex or get tipsy at the line dance, we HAVE to have joy to remember why the fuck we're refusing to give up in the first place. Fight like hell for your loved ones and then also go home with them to smoke weed and drink sweet tea and make biscuits covered in honey and butter please, please don't deprive yourself of joy, you're allowed to be happy BEFORE the work is done. You're allowed to be happy.

[vitaminseetarot]

Pick-a-Carp: REM - Random Emerging Messages (From Your Dreams) 🐠🌑🔮

*･ﾟ✧Masterlist | *･ﾟ✧Ko-Fi

Sup y'all, it's time for another pick a card reading! I have always enjoyed dream interpretation, long before I discovered tarot. Amazing insights and revelations have come through by understanding dreams, at times being more predictive than waking signs. Although it can be hard to be really into dream interpretation when I can't remember most of mine upon waking. 😅

So for this Pisces New Moon, this reading will look into what kind of dreams you may be having and the messages they're trying to tell you. We have many dreams at night we don't remember, so this reading will take a deep dive into those hazier ones into account as well as the more significant dreams. Pick any one of the three beautiful koi fish varieties:

1 - Asagi - Blue/Silver 💙 2 - Showa - Black/White 🖤 3 - Utsuri - Orange/Black 🧡

Pile 1 - Asagi 💙

4 of Cups, Queen of Swords, XVII Star, 10 of Pentacles; Full Moon Sagittarius, 3 of Prisms, 3. In the Light of the Moon, Spider, Self-Care

Hi pile 1,

Your dreams focus mainly on the past. You may be having rather realistic dreams of situations that have already happened. There is a skeleton key present in these dreams in order to unlock a passage. This dream must be processed to clear old stuck energy that's keeping the conscious mind tied back. It may require seeing things from a different angle or point of view, or looking at the dream in a new light. This dream may be annoyingly repetitive but it's not without purpose. The message is relentless for you to receive it, so it uses the same dream or similar set-up to stay direct. Like solving a long tricky math problem on a practice test.

This dream may likely involve family members or close friend groups. You may relive confrontations you've had with them previously, or dream that you're getting into conflict with those you are otherwise on good terms with. You may get emotionally meshed with others' energies which appear in your dreams as a bigger tide in your imagery (they may even appear taller in dreams). It's important to apply clear judgement when it comes to these scenarios. Having a bad dream where a good friend cheats or fights with you is trying to help you understand how your emotions contribute to relationships; it's not a reflection of the actual state of the relationship. So this friend may be testing boundaries from within the safe confines of your dreams so you can figure out how to respond to such situations. In waking life, pile 1, you may need to review how you see your individual self as distinct from your community. Your dreams want you to center and reclaim your mind and boundaries so these scenarios can't phase you or your future decisions, because no, it doesn't have to happen like last time.

Your dreams show you are a caring person with great regard for your community's well being. With Spider, I think of the web, so this could be an online community or just one that feels tied together as a unit. This could also represent a large work environment where you collaborate with many people. Despite this, the Spider is largely an solitary being. These dreams could have people trying to call you, or talk to you, even if you're not able to hear what they're saying. Your reverie is swimming with their collective energy, but in doing so is also asking you to instead look towards yourself for insight. Let's say you have a reoccurring dream where a love interest keeps blasting your phone but for some reason you can't answer it, or the phone dies as you answer it. Consider what you would want the person on the other line to say ("I think you're really cute"), then ask if these are affirmations you can give to yourself now ("I think I'm really cute"). The Star card says you can provide yourself with the positive feeling you may be seeking in your dreams. They're wanting you to come back to yourself and stand on your own two fins--er, feet.

Dream Symbols: Outer Space, Light, Family Gatherings, Foreign Lands or Languages, Clothing, Groups of 3 or the Number 3

Pile 2 - Showa 🖤

6 of Wands, X Wheel of Fortune, 8 of Wands, Ace of Pentacles; Void-of-Course Moon, 5 of Relics, 42. Gentle Moderation, Butterfly, Take Charge

Hey pile 2!

Regular, practical matters seem to be the main concern here. This could be your physical body, housing, work, or your finances. The symbols in your dreams represent everyday worries like running errands. However, the dreams that start out as casual can quickly become unstable or chaotic. Grand plans like an expensive flight could be made only to suddenly cancel, or you may have dreams of getting lost and struggling to find directions only for the scenery to constantly morph itself around. Each scene may wildly change the circumstances and elevate activity in sleep. Emphasis is placed here on releasing your worries. Occasionally, they may be pointing out certain stressors or physical issues in the body. Overall, there is a need to take control of your circumstances as the captain of your ship, and you may find that with more time and awareness, you can tap into lucid dreams.

Out of all piles, your dreams likely make the least amount of sense. It could involve a lot of sudden frenzy or inexplicable changes, like seeing strangers turn into floating pumpkins or going to a doctor's clinic only to find that you are the doctor. I feel this is because you normally have your head on your shoulders in your waking life, and you may come across to others as steady and dependable. So when things go awry in sleep, these elements force you out of your comfort zone to showcase how you would react to a variety of scenarios. Many of these dreams come as a direct result of an every day worry and can be interpreted in a straight forward way, despite the seeming randomness. Going to the library to drop off a book that turns to glittery bats when you pull it out of your bag, for example, may simply be reminding you of a library book that's actually due.

You have the 6 of Wands, here, so it looks as though the events your dreams are based from largely resolve themselves even if it can stir you up in your sleep. Many of these things are fated to happen anyway, so there's no need to fret about them, and in fact worrying and overthinking may make the situation worse. So if you have an embarrassing dream about a job interview, it could be a reminder to practice answering questions beforehand. There's a good chance you will still do well at the interview as your dreams are helping you to see that you can handle any sudden disruption in plans and see your goals through. The caterpillar is destined to change into a butterfly no matter what, so it's okay if it has dreams that the cocoon string doesn't come out right or the wings look strange. It's all part of adjusting to big changes in life. The important thing is to not rush into doing something out of worry and to work at a steady pace. Remember that no matter how weird or utterly out there your dreams get, you're at the helm and with practice, you can decide how the dream ends.

Dream Symbols: Theater, Driving, Shapeshifting, Magic Wands, Flight, Maps or Compasses

Pile 3 - Utsuri 🧡 (cw blood imagery & brief mention of trauma)

V Hierophant, 10 of Swords, 9 of Wands, 9 of Swords; Full Moon in Cancer, 2 of Prisms, 41. Convey Your Meaning, Crystal, Eternity

Hello, pile 3.

I see the main theme in your sleep could involve reconciliation with a loved one. You may have a lot of one-on-one dreams involving confrontations and heated discussions. There could be a lot of miscommunication, a struggle to speak, or an inability to get one's point across in the dream. Words which ache inside your throat in waking life can finally burst within your dreams, words which you may have held onto for perhaps years. Your dreams are a place to bring out and vent what is difficult or even impossible to manage while awake. Your mind is seeking to let go of a major issue to achieve peace. If these really are words you wish to let out, I recommend both a dream journal to document what's being said along with a regular journal to help you air out things that will otherwise filter into your sleep.

For a few of you, the dreams may recall a painful encounter or event in the past, which can feel mocking when it comes back around, as though it can disappear for a long while only to suddenly reappear at the most unusual time. Let's say the trauma involved a bicycle accident: the accident may appear in different forms, like the bike turning into a helicopter, but with the same emotional response. You may think, "that was almost a decade ago, why am I still dreaming about this?" This is due to having a more emotionally detached state while in the dream world, allowing a more introspective consciousness to come through. Ultimately, with the 10 of Swords, it's helping you process it through so it doesn't overwhelm you while you're living your life. Your mind is slowly healing itself by "analyzing" these dreams like an audience member watching a movie to help you feel safe in your skin upon waking.

You may feel interested in checking out pile 1 too because I also see repetitive dreams in here. Only in this case it may not always be a dream based exactly on reliving a memory, but rather different scenes that involve the same core lesson or emotion in every one. You may even have a sequential dream that ends and restarts itself like a chapter in a book, or experience nested dreams in which you wake up to the alarm only to still be dreaming, which could create déjà vu. This is to help you gradually learn from past turmoils and errors while freely letting go of past hangups. Your dreams do not show you these visions to scare or frustrate you, but to build the pieces together to create a more unified psyche. They're breaking up old crystallized patterns of thought so the shadow isn't lurking over you like the volcano in the 9 of Wands. It's building the new staircase to your personal freedom by allowing you the opportunity to rewrite the scenario as you see fit. How different would the same dream feel with just one little detail rearranged? Try to imagine how it would feel if the bicycle turned into a Pegasus and allowed you to soar high.

Dream Symbols: Warm Tones, School, House, Library, Spirals, Gates

This reading has not been evaluated by the FDA to diagnose, prevent, treat, or cure any disease or infection. Please ask your physician before going online.

2025, @VitaminseeTarot ™

[phyx-m]

Beneath The Silk | True form Sukuna x Reader

🔗 Masterlist

Chapter 37: Liminality

"What’s the King of Curses like?"  

Walking beside your mare, leading her by the reins, you incline your head toward the small boy, then to the girl perched in your saddle atop Ayana.  

It had taken some effort to get her to accept the strangers. Considering how skittish she is—and the fact that you’d just ridden her into battle—you couldn’t blame her. 

"What’s he like?" You pause, considering the question, sifting through the many words you could use to describe him. Too many. Unkind ones. And most not meant for their ears. 

"He’s…"  

Your gaze drifts, following the others walking quietly beside you on the dirt-packed road. After leaving Sukuna behind at the eastern village and heading south, you came across a few survivors. Fifteen of them.  

Fifteen out of nearly one hundred and fifty.  

That was all that remained.  

From what you gathered, their community had been large, built around rice cultivation. Now, it’s nothing. Reduced to just two numbers that hold the weight of your failures.  

"Why does he wear a piece of wood on his face?"  

Eyes wet, the boy’s voice pulls you from your dark thoughts. Your focus moves back to his rambling. You start to answer, but a sharp throb in your jaw stops you—the ache of the impact you took earlier, the bruise that you feel sitting there. Your tongue glides against the cut inside your mouth, where old coppery blood still clings. 

"I hear he’s got a second mouth right here." He points to his stomach, eyes eager and round. "I heard it also has enormous teeth and a slimy tongue and everything."  

"Gross." The girl behind him wrinkles her nose in disgust.

"He does," you admit, though you wouldn’t say you find it disgusting. Maybe once you did.

The boy nods excitedly at your response. And that’s when it reminds you, how little people actually know about Ryomen Sukuna beyond his strength, appetite and the strange nature of his body. To them, he’s just an anomaly.

"I heard he stuffs people inside and tears their skin away to slurp it all up." The boy hesitates before his next question. "Is he gonna do that to us?"

The reins gripped tightly between your gloved hands tighten. Fuck. In your exhaustion, you hadn’t even considered that. All you’d thought about was getting them to shelter. And now, here you are, leading a group of survivors directly to the shrine.

"No," you say firmly. "He won’t eat you."  

You won’t allow it. You’d fight him first. Or, more likely, attempt to do so, given how drained you are. Though, truthfully, you’re more concerned about arriving and convincing Uraume. Without Sukuna there, and after already leaving the shrine once, your return will be… confusing.  

"Does the second mouth talk?" the boy asks. "Oh! Does he talk to the other mouth?” He leans forward toward Ayana’s curving neck, wide-eyed and curious. “Can he have full conversations with it?"

"I bet he spreads it open like this." Your attention falls on the girl again as she presses her hands against her soot-stained robe, dragging her fingers across her stomach as if prying open an invisible mouth.

"That makes no sense!"

Their voices grow louder and more animated as they discuss their wild speculation, and Ayana lets out a weary whine. You think about asking them to quiet down for your mare’s sake but decide against it. They’ve just lost their home, and if this conversation keeps them from dwelling on the horrors and the dead they left behind, you won’t take it from them.

With the villagers travelling on foot, the trek back takes longer. And by the time the sun dips behind the clouds and sinks lower, the world darkens. A queasy feeling emerges as the top of the shrine’s edifice begins to peek through the thinning trees, their bare branches reaching into the fading light.

Back again so soon.

Guiding Ayana onto the temple’s grounds, you notice the children have gone quiet, their earlier curiosity beaten by the journey. Slowing your steps, you reach up to help the girl down from the saddle. She slides off easily, small feet landing with a soft thud before you turn to the boy, lifting him with little effort.  

"There," you murmur.  

He says nothing after that, only glancing toward the shrine before taking the girl’s hand. The two of them, along with the thirteen others, stay close as you guide Ayana toward the stables.

Inside, the familiar scent of hay and musk greets you. Sukuna’s obsidian mounts shift with interest in their stalls, dark smudges against the evening light.

Leading your mare into her stall, you give her a soft pat before tucking her away. She exhales heavily, eager for rest. As you step back, your fingers brush against the letters tucked beneath her saddle, and without a second thought, you retrieve them.

Stepping out, your gaze momentarily falls to the floor—to the space where your tantō had fallen, where it had sat at your departure.  

But now there’s nothing. Only empty straw.  

Back outside, with the villagers, you guide them up the shrine’s steps. At the doors, you lift your hand to knock, knuckles poised, but they peel open before you have the chance to strike wood.

White hair. White robes stand on the other side.

“Uraume.” Respectfully, you bow your head. 

When you lift it, their severe expression is already settling into place. 

They stare at you.

“What is this?” Their focus passes over from you then to the fifteen at your back, scanning each face.  

“The attack in the east,” you begin, “these are some of the people who survived. They—”

“I can see that,” they interrupt.

A breeze drifts through, cool against your skin. You resist the urge to shift, and step between them and Uraume’s assessing eyes. 

“Why are you here?” Their focus returns, narrowing on you.

Ah. There’s the question.

“Lord Sukuna, we—” Found each other again? “He told me to return. There have been some… complications.”

Both implicated and once again bound together as two unwilling conspirators.

Stuck.

“Complications,” they repeat. “As in, you are the complication.”

It isn’t a threat, but their tone is unfamiliar, peaked with something you don’t quite recognize. Suppose things change. Your hands curl into fists. Their gaze glides downward before a look of interest ghosts across their face, and you wonder—are they thinking about fighting you?

“If that’s how you wish to see it, then yes. And if you want to challenge me, then you can,” you say, and they tilt their head, watching you. “I will fight you, and I’ll probably lose to you anyway.”

It frightens you how easily the demand leaves your mouth. You don’t want to fight Uraume, not truly. But then again, you’re tired of thinking you’re anything less than what you are.

“I’ll say this,” you continue, swallowing, and behind them, attendants gather at the end of the long passage—Ren among them. Your eyes meet before you pull them away. “Just allow them to stay for one night. That’s all I ask. When Lord Sukuna returns, I’ll deal with the consequences.”

And convince him not to devour them.

"Even if I allowed it,” Uraume exhales slowly. “Provisions are already stretched thin. We cannot offer them food."

Their words drop into your stomach. 

“Please.” You step closer. “Just one night.”

Uraume blinks at you, and after a moment, they lift a hand, motioning to the attendants. One steps forward, gesturing to the villagers to follow and slowly, one by one, they move inside the shrine, and are led down the corridors toward the central hall.

You follow, watching carefully. At the mouth of the great doors, a few hesitate, hands hovering at their sides, reluctant to settle in a place that belongs to a monster. Ren and the other attendants step in, offering what little reassurances they can offer. With gentle hands, they guide the wary in.

A woman kneels beside a man, blood soaking the front of his robe. A pair of twins curl into each other, foreheads touching, feet dirty. Some clutch what little they managed to salvage, bundles of cloth, a single heirloom wrapped tight in their arms.  

Still, silently, they draw close, allowing themselves to grieve together. A few families. Friends. Lovers… Siblings.

You should find pleasure in seeing this. But you can’t feel anything, only the hot press as a lump of feeling works its way deep into your throat. You need to be alone, need to find comfort in something familiar, even if it’s just four walls, a narrow window, and a floor.

Taking one last look at the embraces and avoiding Uraume’s eyes, you retreat from the central hall.

Moving down the corridors, your breaths grow shallow, lungs tightening and tightening, your feet soundless as you turn left, then right, then left again, spilling into the passage that holds only your and Sukuna’s rooms.  

Yours?

Was this room still yours?

So much had changed. It felt like you had lived two different lives in the fragile hours between dawn and dusk—one spent as you were, the other as something else entirely. A day of loss and gain, of being emptied of something beautiful. Something brave.  

Trembling gloved fingers brush the panelling as you slide the door to the chambers open.  

Nothing.

The futon is gone. The fabric partition. The low table. The chair. The brazier. The tatami mats. As if no one ever lived here.

A shell. Lonely. Empty.

What did you expect? 

Unwanted in two places at once. Here—and if it’s true, which it cannot be—with your sister.  

Stepping inside, you quietly close the door. The weight in your hands registers belatedly, the stack of letters, held tight, creased into your grip. You hadn’t even realized you were still clutching them. Without thinking, you place them down on the floor, on nothing, because there is nothing left to hold them. The gloves come off next, ripped from your hands and tossed aside.

Bare hands clenching into fists, you take a step, and it comes, the first tear slips out.

Then another.

And another.

It’s too much.

Fighting the urge to curl up into yourself, you simply sink to the floor because there’s nowhere to sit or to find even the smallest comfort. The rest come. And when they do, they crash over you in one great, sickening flood.

“Fuck…” you breathe through the shaking. “Fuck.”

Tears splatter from your chin to the floor, small, quiet sounds that feel too loud in the hollow space.

“You’re okay… this… everything will be okay…”

Lies never seem to taste good on your tongue, they’re just bitter falsehoods.

Fingers digging into your arms, holding tight, you hug yourself as if it will keep you together. As if you weren’t supposed to feel this exposed and fragile. But who were you kidding? It didn’t matter. You were both.

All the tender bits peeled back, raw and bare. All the emotions that made the tears fall faster.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

Knock, knock, knock.

You suck in a breath, furiously wiping your eyes before turning toward the door and scrambling to your feet.

“Yes?” The word trembles as you force yourself to steady. “What is it?”

Calm.

The door slides open. Ren stands there, a pile of fresh garments in her hands. Behind her, two attendants carry a folded futon between them, keeping it from touching the ground.

“We thought…” She glances at the space, adjusting the fabric in her arms. “You’ll need somewhere to sleep, so we—” Her voice trails off as her eyes settle on your blood- and soot-stained kimono, then lift to your face.

One look at her, the softness, the guilt, the regret that’s there, and your chest constricts. 

Don’t.

Salted tears crowd your vision.

“I—” The words won’t come. Your mind is water.

“Give us a moment,” Ren murmurs, worry in her voice. The attendants bow and leave as she steps inside, shutting the door.  

The moment it closes, you think you might fall, your limbs and body so heavy that you sink back to your knees again. This time, it doesn’t stop. You let it happen, unburden yourself and cry.

Fabrics rustle as they fall to the ground, followed by two clipped steps and the swish of robes. Ren kneels. Then, gentle hands settle on your shoulders. The smallest kindness. Kinder than the way your sister held you at the harvest festival.

It’s this touch that breaks you apart.

“I don’t know what’s happening anymore.” Your voice barely carries, muffled by your palms pressing into your eyes.

That young village girl, mouth agape with blood in her teeth and screams in her chest, shudders against your eyelids.

You can’t breathe.

“What happened?” Ren asks softly, squeezing your shoulders.

“I—”

You can’t think straight, can’t see straight.

“I don’t know—”

Anything.

I don’t know anything anymore.  

“I don’t recognize myself,” your voice wavers as you fist your hands into the fabric of your kimono. “I’m confused, and—”

Lost.

Trapped between anger and the betrayal that still clings to this place—between the people here, the implications and the fucking monster you can’t seem to sever from your life. No matter how hard you push and pull against each other, you can’t seem to be separated.

“I killed so many people today.”

And I enjoyed it.

Tainted.

Tears drop onto your hands as you look down, away from her face.

“Everything feels out of control. Everything is spiralling. I want it to stop.” The droplets race faster down your cheeks, reaching your chin. “I want—”

To stop living as two different people.

“I want to go home.” You fight against a swallow that stings your throat, and her hands tighten on your shoulders. “But I have no home to return to.”

Ren says nothing, and you don’t look up at her. Not that you could, with your vision clouded and heavy with tears.

But there’s a pause. Her hands shift from your shoulders to your back, pulling you close and then the embrace.

You almost freeze. She hates being in others' spaces, yet here she is, holding you like she means it. Like she understands. And it’s what you didn’t realize you needed. Someone to keep you close, to hold you long enough for you to finally, simply, let go.

Her grip on you is a shell, and you bury your face into her shoulder, tears soaking into her garment. 

Gods knew how long you stay like this, only that it feels like weight after weight, two months of it, years of it, sliding off you. Gone. Until all that remains is an empty numbness, a good, quiet kind of empty.

“I didn’t have the chance to say this before.” Ren swallows at her words, and you hear it in her voice—the breaking. “I thought you were gone for good… and I was a coward.”

Another swallow. Her body tenses.

“But… I’m so sorry for what happened. For what I did.”

Your eyes squeeze shut at the apology until she gently leans away and brushes your hair from your face. You’re not ready to acknowledge her words. Not yet.

“You’re a mess,” she whispers, and you peek up at her, at her eyes shining before she wipes at them, only to grip your arms again.  

Leaning back, a wet, broken laugh escapes your throat.  

“I am. But I also think”—hands sweeping outward, you gesture to the entire room—“this is all a fucking mess.”  

Her brow dips as if she’s fighting a laugh, and a moment later, she lets it go.  

"That's true," she says lightly, not dismissive, just honest, like saying it out loud might make it easier to bear. And it’s the softness in her voice, the quiet acceptance of everything that led to this moment, that nearly undoes you again. You suck in a stuttering breath, willing another sob to disappear.

Hesitantly, Ren’s hands move toward your forearms, skim past your wrists, carefully avoiding your hands before retreating to her lap.

You stare at her tightly clasped fingers before you whisper, “I don’t know why I’m here.”

But you do. And it still hurts.

Ren takes a breath.

“He told you to come back… didn’t he?”

Sighing, you rub your forehead in an attempt to ease the throb settling there, and her gaze softens.

“Yes.”

She nods. The faintest nudge at the corner of her mouth says enough.

“Curious,” she hums.

Is it?

She doesn’t say anything more. Instead, she rises and turns toward the door, sliding it open just enough to call the attendants back inside. They step in quietly, setting the futon down and smoothing out the blankets. Neither of them speaks their task quick as if sensing the fragile state of the room.

Once they finish, they bow in unison. Ren nods, dismissing them for the evening, and the door slides shut behind them before turning back to you.

“Meals,” you mumble, scratching at a dry piece of blood on your kimono. “Where should I take those from now on?”

Ren’s mouth twitches into a smile.

“You can have them with us,” she offers, “if you like.”

You nod softly.

“Is there anything else you need?”  

“No.” You shake your head, then dip your chin. “I’ll be fine.”

She bows before gathering the fresh garments she brought, spreading them neatly onto the futon.  

“These are for you.” Among them is a simple robe, a yukata, and other pieces to keep you warm as the weather continues to cool. “If you need anything, please don’t hesitate. Just ask me. And… I’ll figure out how to refurnish everything in here, to make sure you’re comfortable.”  

Inside your chest, something tugs.  

“Thank you,” you say before she steps silently from the room.  

Shrugging off your crusted kimono and hakama, you take in the streaks of blood and soot. It’s everywhere, and it stinks. Tossing the stiff fabric aside, you pull on the fresh yukata provided and sink under the bedding.  

The moment your head touches the pillow, your red, sore, tender eyes have already fallen shut.  

* * * * *

Sleep doesn’t come.

Even hours later, though you feel lighter, every time you close your eyes, it’s the same.

You see the young girl screaming as you fail to reach her. You see the faces of dying men at your feet. You see the wall of arrows, the darkness giving way as the pile of bodies buries you. And you see yourself, back bowing under the heat of the branding iron’s descent.

A descent into too many impossibilities.  

Traitor.  

Blinking back swollen lids, you roll over.

Betrayer. 

Arms folding across your chest, you dip your chin for comfort and shut your eyes.

Drip, drip, drip—

Your eyes snap open.

Finally.

Lying in the dark, the noise drags itself down the corridor. Thick, heel-heavy footsteps have your attention swinging to the door. They pass slowly, and they sound… wet. Dripping wet, soft, and warm.

Staring into the dark, you continue listening as Sukuna’s feet kiss the floorboards, a faint, slick suction accompanying every lift. For whatever reason, it turns your stomach.

Eventually, when he passes, you note how he takes his time to move down toward his chambers. His presence, usually a weight in the air, feels strangely absent; energy, which should flood your senses, is… muted.

Odd.

Pushing the bedding aside, you slide out of the futon and move to the door quietly. Through the tiny crack in the panel, you smell it.

Blood. Hot, fresh, rancid.

The door slides open, and you step into the passage, eyes trailing the smooth wooden floor. Copper coats your tongue. One foot out, and you drop into a crouch. A slick, ink-like path glistens in the dim light, winding down the corridor—leading to Sukuna’s chambers. You glance up, your eyes adjusting to the dark, but what little light spills from his room illuminates the doors, slightly ajar.

You look back down at the mess. Gods, the smell. It makes you sick.

Blaming some twisted sense of curiosity, you follow it to his room and peer inside. The ghostly blue light of the moon and the unlit brazier in the corner leaves the space colder than what it was last night. Your gaze drags further, and there—sprawled in the low chair by the garden door—Sukuna sits, head tipped back, four eyes closed, not a muscle moving. He looks peaceful, like he’s resting.

Until you see it.

Through the loose panels of his kimono, the mangled flesh of his chest gapes open like a black void.

He is… injured. Vulnerable in a way, he never is.

How? When you parted, he was unharmed. Now, he looks awful.

Swallowing, you clear your throat, then slip inside, pressing your feet firmly to the floor to stay silent. The fabric of your yukata hisses with each movement.  

He doesn’t stir.  

You move to stand beside the chair, where his legs stretch straight out, occupying too much space. In the dark, you can see the long, bleeding trail that rolled from his naked chest down to his bare feet, which are soaked and glistening.  

At your side, your hand twitches. You could reach out, press two fingers to his throat, and feel for the pulse that should be there. But considering he never wants you to touch him again…  

“Lord Sukuna?” you mumble, inhaling the heavy scent of iron. 

Silence.

He doesn’t move, body slack, four arms draped over the chair’s edges.

Boneless.

“Have you finally blessed us and died?”

The words crawl from your lips before you can stop them. Immediately, you wince.

Despite everything you feel about this man—which confuses you more than it should—he saved you today. Saved you and offered to make you stronger. To him, that likely carries more weight than you can fully grasp. And now, he’s your only real ally in navigating this underbelly until you find the answers you need. Trusting the King of Curses will be necessary. Difficult, but necessary.

Staring at him, still, he doesn’t move.

Your mouth twists.  

Curse him.  

Carefully, you lean forward, fingers hovering just shy of his thick, corded throat. Even from here, you feel the heat that pulses from the open wound.

If he were anyone else, this would have killed him. And unlike him, you wouldn’t have even had a chance to recover. You would be dead.

Middle and pointer fingers extending, you lower your hand toward the carotid artery buried beneath all that muscle and—

His upper left hand snaps around your wrist, holding you in place.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he hisses, the bottom pair of his eyes peeling open, cutting through the dark.

So, not dead.

Your mouth pushes into a thin line.

“What does it look like?” Your brow folds. “You’re hurt.”

The words come out wrong, your voice rising in a way that sounds like concern.

Sukuna’s top pair of eyes open into slits, pinning you under the full weight of all four reds. He stares—not just to uncover your intentions, but as if you're swinging around a particularly sharp weapon. Then, just as suddenly, he releases you, skepticism clear in the slow curl of his fingers.

Silence.

You stare at each other. Two stubborn, skeptical creatures circling the other but unmoving.

It’s maddening, this limbo.

With a lazy shift, Sukuna reaches to his right, pushing open the shoji door to the garden. It rustles aside, and moonlight spills in, washing over the floor. Your gaze follows it, moving up his figure until it catches on the hole in his chest. His skin, usually sun-kissed, is pale and drained. Blood clots at the wound’s thick, ropy edges, the pulpy flesh inflamed and raw.

“And somehow that requires you to touch me?” His voice is low as he cocks his head, settling back into the chair in a way that looks anything but comfortable.

“I was seeing if you were dead.” Your eyes trace the bloodstains, obscuring the thick tattoos draped over his shoulders and chest before settling on his face.

“And after what you said about this situation pulling us together, I thought I would…” You trail off. This distrust between you, resentment, this push and pull. You’re tired of it.

“You thought you would what?”

“Your wounds.” Your throat clears, leaving the rest unsaid. “They should have healed by now. Why haven’t they? What did Zen’in—”

Sukuna flicks a finger at you from where his hand rests, cutting you off with a low grunt.

You sigh. This fragile alliance will be harder to manage than you thought.

“Are you in any pain?”  

Somehow, you don’t remember moving, but you find yourself standing between his spread legs, knees almost touching the seat of his chair. You’re unsure why you ask and his mouth twitches, eyes opening, glaring at you as if wondering the same.

“No,” he grumbles before tipping his head back and shutting his eyes again. “Now, get the fuck out.”

Fuck you—that’s what you want to say, with nothing but the barest touch of your fingertips.

But—

“You’re an insufferable ass.” Comes out as you turn away, and you catch it just before you leave—the amused baring of his fangs.

Then you're gone from his chambers.

Only to return moments later.

As you walk back, your focus slides to the raised futon, the place you woke up this morning. It’s bare. The sheets gone. The blue, luxurious quilt you swamped yourself in is also gone, like he couldn’t rid himself of what had happened last night fast enough. Like the way your body melted into his, and how he lost himself in you never happened. 

You hope the scent of you lingers anyway. Like a rotting stain.

“What are you doing?” Sukuna shifts in the chair, pushing a fist against his left cheek, eyes moving from you, to your face, to the objects in your hands.

Reaching him, you nudge apart his legs with your knee, ignoring his question as you slip between them and kneel. The basin of water meets the floor with a hollow knock, the bundle of cloth set beside it. Tucking your feet up underneath the fabric of your yukata, your face burns, but you keep your head down, already knowing the expression he wears. Instead, you sink your hands into the cool water, wringing the fresh cloth until droplets trail down your fingers, soaking the edges of your garment. Pushing to your knees, you shift closer where your hand settles on his thigh, pressing over the fabric of his hakama—a silent reassurance, I’m not going to touch your skin, monster. His muscles flex beneath your fingertips, a subtle reminder, I will never entirely trust you, snake.

Then, the damp cloth moves to his burning flesh, and you apply just a little more pressure than necessary, forcing the wound to bleed.

“Woman,” he growls.

“Oh, shut up.” Your eyes flick up to his. “I know it doesn’t hurt.”

Slouched back, Sukuna stares at you, nostrils flaring, the cloth squelches in the silence, and his lip curls slightly—disapproval in its purest form.

Your mouth fights a grin.

Glancing down, you carefully begin to clean the injury, and for once, you tend to his wounds instead of the other way around.

Silence settles between you. Quiet. 

This close, you feel the heat radiating from the blood that seeps loose, pooling in the deep grooves where a blade must have pierced through, twisted, and then torn its way out. With each pass, the rag darkens, fresh layers of wet crimson giving way to raw tissue beneath. Slowly, Sukuna’s body relaxes. The rise and fall of his bare chest deepens, the jagged edges of the gash stretching with every breath.

Your attention drifts lower, over the ridges of his muscles, slipping toward the open maw of his stomach, but something is missing. The tongue, usually lolling or twitching, is absent.

“Your stomach mouth… thing,” you murmur, eyes darting to his face. “The tongue. It’s gone.”

Sukuna glances down, unbothered.

“What of it?” he grumbles, shifting his enormous legs on either side of you. “It will heal.”

Your hands slow. Again, that stubborn silence creeps into the space, just the damp fabric, the open door, the night.

“What really happened?” you ask, voice tentative as you drag the cloth across his pectorals. “After I left.”

Sukuna watches you through a slitted gaze, his lower eyes following your hand while the upper pair remain locked on your face.

“Nothing.”

Nothing.

“It’s not nothing if you look like this,” you say bitterly, gesturing to the rawness of his wounds, the sheer amount of it. “I can hardly sense your energy.”

The King of Curses’ body twitches once before he tosses back his head, and a deep laugh reverberates from his chest.

“To someone like me, it’s nothing. But to others—” His head lowers, and in an instant, every trace of emotion locks down tight, leaving almost nothing behind. “—to others who are weak, I suppose it does look like something.”

Others, meaning me.

Jaw tightening, you don’t respond. Instead, you pat the area dry, set the rag aside and retrieve the other longer piece of cloth.

“Remove your kimono and come forward,” you instruct, tapping a hand on the edge of his knee.

He doesn’t move.

You press a knuckle into him.

“You’re going to wrap it?” he scoffs, dragging his leg away from your prodding touch.

You glare at him in silence, perfectly fine with letting him bleed all over the place until, after a drawn-out breath, he finally shifts. With a tug, he shrugs off his charcoal-grey kimono, letting it slip from his shoulders and fall into a mess on the floor. Then, peeling himself from the chair’s back just enough, he allows you to reach around him.

Bracing yourself between his outstretched thighs, you step closer and work the cloth beneath his second pair of arms.

The soft, dry drag of linen unspooling is the only sound between you, and with careful fingers, you dip your head around his upper right shoulder. 

Swift, glancing heat tickles against your temple—his breath. There’s blood in it. The iron scent is thick, but it doesn’t mask the rest. Raw meat, torn sinew, the faint, sweet tang of torn skin, still warm.

And you wonder who he ate after you left the village.

Disturbingly, the thought brings a sense of satisfaction after what was done to the people there.  

And you…

“You’ve been crying.”

Sukuna’s low voice rumbles right beside your cheek. Your eyes jump to him. His mask comes into view, his scarlet gaze flaring like four burning coals.

"What?" You look away, concentrating on wrapping the cloth over his massive frame. With a firm tug, it comes back around to the front. One pass done, just a few more, and for whatever it’s worth, you can at least say you tried to bridge this terrible divide.

"Your eyes." In your periphery, Sukuna nudges his chin toward you. "They're red. You've been crying."

The remark sinks in, leaving you strangely heartsick and irritated that he noticed, even in this light.  

"That makes three times now that you've seen the remnants of it. Does that make me weak too?" you bite out. A misstep.

"Four," Sukuna replies smoothly.  

Your brow furrows.

"Excuse me?"

Your hands push around his torso, fingers dancing gently into the cloth, making the second pass. From the corner of your eye, you see him watching you. 

"Four times," he repeats, then falls quiet, leaving you wondering and waiting.

"The first was after you killed your mother."  

Beneath his thick limbs, your hands still. You blink down at the curves and lines of his torso, at the way his body—never meant for this world—barely fits into the chair, spilling over its edges, at the way the space around him seems to shrink.

It takes three heartbeats for the words to land.  

"You—" Your breath falters. You recoil, pulling back from the underside of his arm. You look at him, grip tightening around the cloth, and a quiet sound dies in your throat. The fabric crushes between your fingers until energy—your energy—seeps out, pooling into bruised knuckles.  

Everything that’s happened, the chaos, the urgency, the way events have hurtled you forward, has left no time to stop and think about that night.

About the fact that he was there. That he saw.

He saw the aftermath of the lowest point in your life. He saw you losing and taking something vital in the same breath.  

You remember when he made you tell him about your dream, when all along, he already knew what was haunting you. And now he sits here, reminding you.

Trapped in some state of suspended motion, your mouth keeps opening and opening as if widening it enough will force any words to come out.

But they don’t, and Sukuna speaks first.  

"There’s too much softness in you." He leans in, his face hovering above yours, his expression slipping toward something pitying as his eyes fall to your hands, tangled and frozen around the cloth.

"It makes you vulnerable."  

When his upper right hand moves forward, you flinch, instinctively pushing back—but his second pair grips your hips, holding you in place. His palm brushes over the rise of your breast, pressing lightly.

"This, right here," he states, tapping once. "This makes you weak."

Your eyes drop to his massive fingers, swallowing the space over your chest.

A soft heart.

"You're clever." Another tap. His hands lift from your hips. "But your heart drowns out your mind."

As he draws his arm back, fresh blood seeps through, staining the cloth wrapped around him.

One more tap, then he withdraws entirely.

"Bringing a group of villagers here"—he chuckles, and your eyes snap to his—"that was stupid."

You step forward again.

"They had nowhere to go," you say, voice steady. "Let them stay one night. That's all I ask."

Sukuna watches you for a moment.

Soft heart. 

"They’ll leave at dawn," he says flatly. "And you’ll be the one to tell them. Or"—he pauses—"they’ll make a nice addition to my dwindling storehouse. Flesh seems difficult to come by these days."  

His gaze settles on your face, studying your reaction, while his lower eyes drift, tracing the angle of your jaw.  

"You wanted to play the benevolent saviour. So finish the role properly."

"Fine." 

Gripping the cloth again, you yank it tighter, pressing down until blood beads against the weave.

"I will.” You see yourself as anything but benevolent.

“And maybe I should just smother it.” Another yank. “Every shred of softness. Is that the answer you want to hear, my Lord?"

He smacks his lips together in annoyance.

You pause. 

"Seeing you fight without your emotions choking you would be a sight worth seeing." Sukuna drags a thumb over his lower lip, lost in the way of studying you. "You’d be far stronger for it. Maybe even strong enough to be worth fighting me again."

Heat sears through you. The suggestion angers you. The idea of forgetting a fundamental part of yourself angers you.

And yet, a small part of you wonders if he’s right, to let your heart darken, become a monster.

Still.

"Well," you hum sarcastically, sidestepping the weight of his words, "That’s—" Yank. "Not—" Yank. "Happening."

A final pull. His body tenses.

Blowing out a breath, you tip your head, preparing for another pass, but his attention swings to your jaw again, this time, it lingers. A moment too long.

Without warning, he leans forward in the chair, upper right hand grabbing your chin harshly and bringing you to him.

"Who did this?" he growls, his features tightening.

You freeze, stop what you’re doing as he lifts it, forcing you to lean into him and the moonlight creeping into the room. Red eyes narrow, falling to the throbbing bruise planted there.

"Why?" you whisper, tonguing the spot where your teeth had cut into the muscle.

"Why?" His thumb gently traces the outline of the welt, and his other fingers smooth up, curling around the hinge of your jaw, holding you in place.

"Because.” Sukuna’s voice drops to something dangerously soft. The touch drifts upward to your temple, into your hairline, where there’s a slide of heat. And inside, you fight against the intimacy of his touch, the quiet way his fingers follow the contour of your skin.

"Seeing aches painting your body has always made me wonder if whoever hurt you is dead."

Always?

The word snags in your mind, rubbing raw. And you can’t help but ask yourself if he knows he’s giving himself away. Again.

"It was from today,” you say, meeting his half-lidded gaze. “Someone was faster than me. And yes, he’s dead. I killed him and enjoyed it… watching him rot."

A slow, dark grin spreads across his mouth.  

"Did you now?" he purrs as his frustrating charisma returns.  

"I did." Your fingers drag over the cloth in your hand, tracing its texture.  

His thumb glides along your jaw, slowly mapping over the bruise once more before he lets you go.  

"And how did it feel?" He stretches out like a lumbering predator, sinking back deeper into the chair.  

And you know what he's asking.  

"I've killed before,” you say. “But this was different… I enjoyed watching him underestimate me. Only for him to die moments later under my touch."

Sukuna’s smirk is chilling. Amused. All canines.

"It seems that softness of yours has teeth after all." Shifting, he leans in, the blood from his chest wound seeping through the bandages. "Becoming more a carnivorous flower, perhaps."

The scarlet spills sluggishly, darkening the fabric in uneven patches before trickling lower, slipping past the final layers of bandages and trailing toward his hip bones, where his hakama sits low against his skin, the dark fabric soaking up the rest.

You only watch.

So does he.

Easing forward onto your knees, you pick up the wet cloth again, wipe it away, and resume the bandaging. But your mind drifts, turning over the pieces of today—how the fuck everything went so wrong. How you’d been accused of instigating a fucking coup. How your sister has taken her place as the Kasai clan’s head. How—  

"When will you start telling me the truth?" You tighten the third wrap, pressing into him to secure the final one.

“When you’re ready.” He leans forward, allowing you to slip under his arms.

“When I’m ready,” you echo into his ear as your faces pass side by side. “or when you’re ready?”

His eyes dart to yours. You pull back. He doesn’t answer, and a breath huffs out of you.

With his torso finally wrapped, you drag the cloth around and come to his front, smoothing your hands over the bandages stretched across his massive chest. Feeling him like this, he tenses.

There’s a pause.

You eye him, trying to decide how to say this.

“I want to speak with my sister.”

“No,” he snaps.

Your teeth click together.

“Why?” you hiss, gripping the end of the cloth. “Stop making this difficult, and just tell me.”

Despite the sharpness in your voice, your hands remain careful, tucking the fabric securely into place. 

“Please,” you add.

Begging. Pathetic.

“I wasn’t lying when I said you’re not ready,” Sukuna growls, his hands moving, engulfing your wrists, pulling them away from him. “So no, I won’t just tell you.” His voice tilts mockingly, tossing your own words back at you before he slumps into the chair, ending the conversation.

Mouth twitching, you yank your wrists free from his grip and settle back on your knees.

And still, the question knocks around inside your mind—

“Why are you really doing this?” you ask, searching his face. He once called it purpose. Everything had one. But slowly, you learned the difference. And now, you’re not waiting for an answer.

“Today, when I was restrained and about to be branded, I felt it.”  

You lean forward again, lifting off your heels and closing the small space where you sit between his outstretched legs.  

“The rage pouring off you. The anger. Is this some kind of atonement?”  

At this, the muscles in his jaw clench and pulse.  

You keep going.  

“When will you finally be done clinging to your pride and ready to admit it?” Coming forward, you mimic him—the way he spoke about your weaknesses. Your heart. “Because I’ve seen the way you war with yourself,” you continue quietly, your finger hovering over the bandaged cloth, which won’t last. He’ll heal, like always. No wounds. No scabs. No scars.  

“Since the day I arrived, it hasn’t stopped.”  

Your voice barely rises as your finger slowly descends toward his heart, pressing lightly against the fabric’s soft weave.  

“Especially after everything, after drowning yourself in me just to understand, now you feel something.”  

There it is.  

The magic of liminality. The sum of all the shitty experiences that made you brave again in a single day. Or impulsive. Spoken in the heat of the moment, when silence should have taken hold, and your stubborn mouth refuses to stop.  

“And you hate that it’s me.”

He doesn’t move. He simply watches you as if, once again, you’ve become a creature he can’t quite comprehend. And perhaps you are only this brave because you know he won't cut you into a thousand tiny pieces.

“You hate that it’s the daughter of someone you despise. The one who did something to you that no one else but you can understand.”

Don’t do it.

Sukuna’s eyes narrow.

Don’t say it.

“The one who makes you feel when all the others, their warmth, their flesh, their power, fail so miserably to compare.”

What the hell are you doing?  

“That’s why you keep hurting me. Because you enjoy it. And because it’s easier than admitting what I am to you.”

Sukuna’s brow splits.

Inside your chest, your pulse screams.

“And for whatever reason, you refuse to let me go. Even when you want to so badly.”

Stop. Talking.

Under the pad of your finger, his heart throbs, a rushing beat, the only sign of movement in him.

“So, say it.”

Your throat tightens.

“Just, once…”

Your eyes find each other.

“Tell me.”   

This is it. This is how you finally die, from tearing open a wound in front of him and demanding that he look.

Gods, you feel sick.  

Three unkind seconds pass, and he doesn’t answer.  

Outside the open door, the wind rattles through the wilting garden while the shrine’s old bones settle around you with a low creak, and still, you wait.

Down at your outstretched finger, the King of Curses takes a pitying glance, like he’s deciding how best to flick his wrist and slice it off.

“Tell you…” he finally mutters under his breath, four eyes dragging to your face as his upper right hand engulfs your wrist and yanks it away from his chest.  

“You think this is about pride?” Suddenly, he sits up, towering over you, and your heart slams behind your ribs. “You think I need to atone for anything?” Loud, cruel laughter rips from his chest. “It’s almost amusing how you keep trying to shape me into something I’ve never been. While you stumble around, blind, desperate for any reason, someone might love you, because deep down—” His grip tightens just enough to make your wrist ache, “you hate yourself.”

The barb strikes deep, lodging in right next to the hurt.

Was that true? Do you hate yourself? Or is this just another way for him to deflect from the horrible truth standing right in front of him, staring him down?

“And I don’t care,” he spits, flashing his teeth. “Not in the way you wish I did. If anything, I’ll admit you are an annoying scratch that won't heal.”

A scratch? The woman the King of Curses has seemed to have been obsessed with for years—a scratch.

“I don’t need you to care or atone in the way you think I want.” You hiss, freeing your hand and snatching the damp cloth from the floor. “I want you to stop pretending because it’s starting to get tiresome.”

You toss the bloody fabric into his lap. He frowns at it.

“Eventually, as you said, I’ll leave and live as something else entirely. And that will be as far from here and from you as possible.”

Sukuna’s slitted eyebrow pulls inward.

Before he can react, you grab the water basin and rise smoothly to your feet. Still, you hesitate, waiting to see if he’ll admit something. Anything.

He doesn’t.

Deep down, you already know. You nearly scoff, but what’s the point of dragging it out of a creature like him?

“Goodnight, my Lord,” you say sweetly, gracing him with an exaggerated bow. Emotions be damned. “I hope you have a wonderful—” Your eyes shoot to the empty, barren raised futon, and his follow yours. “Sleep.”  

Pressing your teeth into the inside of your cheek, you restrain yourself, resisting the temptation to say something truly petty as you straighten, stepping carefully around the smears of blood on the floor and walking away.

“You’re a fucking idiot,” he grumbles behind you, irritation picking through every word. “A fool for even saying something so stupid, wi—”

His words break off.

You still, half-turning, one eyebrow lifting. 

There are only two things he could have called you—wife or winter flower—but he stops himself. Pausing in the doorway, you listen, wondering if he’ll slip and call you either just hours after the boundaries were set.

“Leave,” Sukuna mutters, sliding a hand through his hair as he stands out of the chair. Moving to the garden door, he shuts it, casting the room into darkness once more.

“Get that rest you so desperately lamented about.”

With his upper hands, he reaches behind his back, dragging them through the bandages, unravelling your work. The strips peel away, drifting to the floor, revealing freshly healed skin, streaked and ruddy.

As if nothing had been there at all.

“Tomorrow, we learn what’s under all that skin and blood of yours,” he says lowly over one inked shoulder, his eyes trying to hold yours.

But you’re already walking away, the words he couldn’t bring himself to say left unsaid.

[nana-luvy]

. So I can't help with training now ?

Installment of the Mine series

warnings: fluff, playboy!Luke, fem!reader, daughter of Athena!reader, swearing

Because you're sick of being this thing he plays with, and confront him on a whim even if it's so unlike you.

˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗

Just as you usually did, you had chosen to lead the newbies’ training session, for the inexperienced, new campers who needed special attention, care, and most of all patience, and those were qualities you could pride yourself with. Usually, you lead this lesson with the help of a Lila, a Demeter kid who fought like an Ares one, but with a patience none of Clarisse’s siblings could ever muster to teach the youngers. Except, unlike the usual, you had to take care of the lesson by yourself this time, as Lila was apparently lying in a bed in the infirmary after an unsuccessful experiment in the greenhouse.

So there you were, setting up the practice dummies in an empty part of the field before you’d get too busy helping to actually do it, rearranging the wooden swords on the rack so they’d be ready to practice with, and eventually going over the plan you had for the lesson. As you tried a mini version of the moves to remember the small dance to teach later, you heard heavy steps coming closer, looking their way. ‘Luke, fuck no.’

“Hey, bunny.” His tone was giddy, face still harboring that flirty smile he seemed to always show whenever you were in his vicinity, like he was trying to catch a fly with displayed honey.

“Don’t call me bunny, Luke.” In comparison, your tone was dry, devoid of any of the previous sweetness you seemed to always muster whenever he was around, like your brain was reacting to his mere presence.

“Wooh, it’s too early to be harsh like that, you should really consider-”

“What are you doing here? Straight to the point please.”

His smile didn’t falter, or at most his lips slightly pursed in frustration, and he walked just a little closer, a few feet separating you both. “Well, I’m here for the training session, of course.” And his tone was as matter-of-fact as his eyes screamed mischief.

Your lips pursed as your eyes narrowed, taking Luke in for a second before deciding it was not worth it, you'd already given him way too much of your time over the course of the past months, and you were not gonna carry on with this doomed cycle. So you turned away from him, not giving him the satisfaction of a witty answer. And you silently vowed not to spare him any more thought than needed.

But as the session began, your vow quickly broke, mind working overtime to understand what the fuck Luke Castellan was doing there. From what you knew of him, and after years of pinning you knew a lot, he was one to help —of course, the sweet, always-here-to-help golden boy, the perfect counselor— but not this way. No, what he liked best was challenge. So he always lent a hand to practice with the most advanced, the most skilled of swordsmen, proving to whoever that he deserved his title as the number one, and practicing techniques on people who could at least block them, maybe even counter.

Luke liked challenge, he didn't like novice mediocrity and never-used potential. So he had absolutely no reason to be there, in the morning, teaching a bunch 10-year-olds kids who could barely hold straight up their wooden swords and looked more like scared kittens with wobbly legs when they had to fight one-another rather than actual warrior. He had no reason. Unless he did have one.

You tried to push through the whole hour and a half without giving it much attention, your look obviously avoiding him when he expected instructions on how to continue the session; yet you couldn’t help but have to shake out of it when you caught your gaze softening as you looked at Luke, with his back turned, helping a kid adjust his stance and throw a nice blow at a straw figure, high-fiving him in the process… Why did he have to be this perfect image all the time, and yet this total douche in real life ?

Deep in thought, you didn’t realize Luke had moved by now, your eyes still trained to the struggling kids, and only got startled by his presence as two large hands went to rest on your shoulder, casually massaging the tensions off your muscles. “Wow, bunny, you should stop being so anxious, doesn’t do wonders for your posture.” And maybe this was meant as a joke, a playful, mindless little quip. But oh, did it get on your nerves.

You slapped his hands away as you turned to face Luke, immediately taking a step back at the compromising proximity. “I said stop ca- ugh, whatever…” The way you ran your hand down your face exuded frustration, not even giving the courtesy of pretending. “I can’t stress it more, what are you doing here ?”

He had to give it to you, at least you kept the foul language for out of innocents’ ear shots. “What, so I can’t simply want to help with training now ?”

“No,” you immediately cut him off, mimicking the way he crossed his arms over his chest, though yours did look like twigs in comparison. “You don’t want to, you have no business here.”

“Uh, ouch ? Where does that come from ?” he questioned, eyebrows quirked in both amusement and uneasiness, under your blazing gaze. One he’d seen before, but had appreciated way much more that time.

“You don’t help youngers, Luke, you like the challenge and pride you get from training with the strongest around and beating them again and again.”

His smile twisted into an even more annoying one, if that was possible, stretching in a smug crescent as his head tilted to the side. “Wow, how do you know so much ? One would almost think you’re kinda into me.”

“Funny story for you, Castellan,” you started, pinning him in place when your gaze turned ice cold. “It wasn’t just a thought, it was a fact, and you threw your opportunity away, mkay ? Notice the use of past tense. So yes, I might know a few things, and yes, I might be inclined to throw them in your face at every occasion I get, though I hope our meetings will be scarce. That doesn’t mean anything anymore.”

You barely left one more second looking at the poor boy, his smirk long lost and morphed into a slightly slack jaw, clapping your hands together loudly to get the kids’ attention, freeing them from the session as the nymphs were soon to ring the bell for lunch.

“You know, I kinda get why you help them, it’s also pretty rewarding,” Luke chimed in from behind, apparently back from his…moment as he looked at all the young children run in direction of the cabins.

You looked at him behind your shoulder with a small smirk, before training your gaze back to the absolute chaos of a scenery stretching in front of you, straw dummies discarded on the grass, wooden swords scattered on the ground and water bottles lying there to top it off.

“You know the most rewarding thing ? Not being yelled at by the earth nymphs after a session that looks like that. Wouldn’t want to get on their bad side on your first day, would you ?” You reached for a nearby rake, shoving it in his hands. “Thanks for volunteering to clean up, Luke, that’s very nice of you ~”

Many expressions passed through the counselor’s features, contentment wasn’t one of them. But he couldn’t let an opportunity slide when he had you there.

“So when’s the next session ? I feel like I’m getting the hang of this.”

“Don’t feel pressured to come back. Actually, no…” You turned to him from a few feet away, your smile soft but your eyes devoid of any of that. “Feel pressured not to come near me, I say it with all my heart.”

“Oh, bunny…” he simply sighed, watching the small bounce in your steps as you walked away.

Second part up, everybody say yaaaaay

Hope you guys like it so far heheh <3

- Love, Nana

taglist. @cas-planet @spider-ghoul @smileysunshinesworld @mlbmarichat13

[rewatching-sam-and-dean]

I normally try not to weigh in too much on the actors themselves, but fandom is being hysterical (not in the funny way) as usual after The Boys promo video with J2 and Misha.

Here are some facts:

Jensen went to Kripke and asked if he had anything for him after SPN ended. Kripke helped him craft his audition until it would be acceptable for the other producers. We know this happened because Jensen told us, and he talked about it multiple times. There is nothing wrong with him going to Kripke for work. This is networking, and it’s what actors should do.

Jared never once publicly asked to be on The Boys. At most, he answered fan questions when asked what kind of character he’d like to play, but he never actually hinted he wanted a part. In articles, when asked if he’d join, Jared essentially said he was too busy filming Walke, in a polite way. Also fact, Kripke has hinted at wanting Jared on The Boys before Walker was cancelled, and he did so publically. Then when Walker was cancelled, Kripke really ramped up the public pitches to get Jared on the show, and was publicly psyched when Jared finally agreed. Jared never, publicly at least, even asked or hinted at wanting to be on The Boys, never mind begged.

Misha hinted multiple times publicly, including tagging Kripke on social media directly, that he’d like to be on the show. Kripke never said anything publicly, as far as I’m aware, about wanting or trying to get Misha on the show prior to the announcement from yesterday. When he talked about getting the biggest SPN Pokémon, it was when Jared finally signed on. When he talked about breaking the internet again, it was in reference to a J2 reunion on screen. When he talked about reuniting the SPN trio, it was in reference to JA, JP and JDM, not Misha. Was Kripke always planning to include Misha once he finally got Jared? Maybe. Is it possible he wasn’t going to bother with Misha until or unless he got Jared too? Yes. He could have hired Misha on at any time before and never did. Misha definitely publicly begged to be on the show, and Kripke never said anything in return to, or regarding, him being on the show until now. Kripke probably only brought him on because he thought of something funny/gross/trolling to do with J2 and him on screen.

Ultimately, I would have preferred not to have Misha in The Boys because when I finally get to see J2 on screen together, I didn’t really want him there, too. It feels like trying to shoehorn Castiel in with the brothers again from forced SPN scenes. But, I’ve also lost interest in the show itself, so I’ll probably pick and choose what moments I bother to watch anyway.

That being said, The Boys has a whole cast beyond Jensen being a regular in Season 5, never mind it being a giant J2 reunion that will take up a bunch of screen time. So, adding Misha to the mix isn’t exactly robbing fans of long and significant J2 moments on screen. (Though I’d still be happy for him not to be in their scenes at all).

Honestly, Kripke probably wanted Jared so bad, at least in part, so he could bank on free publicity in social media from Jared and J2 fans. He already had the Jensen fans on board. Similarly, he probably decided to add Misha for the same reason. Happy or not about his addition, people are talking about it on many social media platforms, this bring free attention yo the show.

Kripke just wants publicity.

What I want is to get out of this is at least one solid (hopefully more), Misha-less moment between J2 on screen.

But people are really losing their shit over what might amount to like 5 minutes of screen time from Jared and/or Misha. Jensen’s Soldier Boy isn’t even one of the main cast members, even either him being a regular this season, so I doubt there will be a lot of room to expand on a character for Jared (never mind Misha) and then interacting, on a show that’s on its final season and has many storylines to wrap up.

Anyway, in conclusion, only one member of J2M begged for a part in The Boys, and Kripke is using all of them to generate buzz. Simple as that.

[nostalgiclittlespace]

May we see some CG!Blitzø and Little!Stolas please?

This takes place during Sinsmas, and Stolas has regressed super young at Blitzø's apartment after Octavia got angry with him and disowned him (this also takes place before the Sinsmas party).

Boop! Here you go, friend! I had to rewatch the episodes before writing this, but they gave me so many thoughts of hurt/comfort for the two of them. Enjoy! (And yes, Christmasy Sinmasy title despite it being March)

SFW AGE REGRESSION FIC. DNI IF NSFW, KINK, PROSHIP, OR SIMILAR. DO NOT REPOST TO OTHER SITES

Title: Have yourself a merry little Sinmas

Pairing: CG!Blitzø & Little!Stolas

Wordcount: 1205

Description: After confronting Andrealphus and getting disowned by Octavia, Stolas is stressed and regressed—a terrible combination already, but even worse on a holiday! Blitzø does his best to cheer him up with lots of kindness and love (Hurt/comfort)

TW: Mention of being disowned, alcohol is implied once, depression, dissociation

Have Yourself a Merry Little Sinmas

Stolas was obviously depressed.  Not only that, but also very Little.

And who could blame him?  How else were you supposed to react after such traumatizing experiences?  When your own daughter disowned you?

As he wandered around his small kitchen preparing a snack of cereal for the prince, Blitzø couldn’t help but feel guilty for all that had happened.  Especially considering the role he played in Octavia’s decision to boot her father out of her life…I didn’t deserve such a sacrifice in the first place, let alone one that cost him his daughter, he thought miserably, recalling the fateful day when Stolas came to his rescue, stripped of his status, and consequently ruined his life (well, at least for the next 100 years of it)

  Blitzø sighed, shaking the despondent thoughts away.  Guilt could wait and it wouldn’t change anything. He would make things right, eventually at least, but for now all he could do was take care of his boyfriend.  

The prince’s eyes were glazed over, a blank stare overtaking his usually sharp and observant features.  He hadn’t moved from the couch since they returned to the apartment that afternoon.  Furthermore, he did not seem willing to discuss or process his feelings; the tears had dried up on the way home, since replaced by an eerie silence and that empty stare.  Lack of communication and movement combined most likely meant he was in one of his youngest headspaces.

Blitzø stared at him worriedly, pondering the best course of action.  The Sinmas party was only hours away; and while the guests themselves were the least of his worries, leaving Stolas so overwhelmed and surrounded by strangers was concerning.

Should he cancel the party altogether?  Technically it had Stolas’s best interests in mind, but the prince would undoubtedly feel guilty and Loona disappointed, so was it really worth it?  

He could tell Loona to keep the gathering small, limit it to her closest friends, Millie, and Moxie though.  Usually he enjoyed throwing ragers for the holidays, no matter how much he regretted it the next morning thanks to headaches and a trashed apartment, but this seemed like the perfect excuse to tone down the festivities. 

With that resolve, Blitzø sent his daughter a quick text, requesting only a small group of friends to be invited.  That’s done, he thought as Loona replied with a thumbs up.  But what can I do to actually help him feel better?

That answer came a little faster; he had a Sinsmas present already wrapped and hidden in his bedroom.  While Stolas had said he didn’t celebrate the holiday, it didn’t stop Blitzø from wanting to share the festivities and traditions with him, and that included having an excuse to give him a gift.

He sent a quick glance towards Stolas’s still frame, where he still sat unmoving on the couch.  Creeping quietly to not disturb or distress him, Blitzø tiptoed into his bedroom.  He had hidden the little gift box on top of his closet, it’s cheerful paper and sparkling bow promising smiles and happiness to its awaiting recipient.

Blitzø carried it reverently as he returned to the main room of the apartment.  Stolas still had not moved, so he took up the bowl of cereal in his other hand and returned to Stolas’ side.  

“Hey, handsome, got you a snack,” the imp smiled crookedly, holding out the bowl and setting the present on the floor, out of immediate sight.  “You didn’t eat lunch, you must be real hungry by now.”

Stolas didn’t reply; his eyes briefly flickered to Blitzø when he began speaking, but his gaze had since returned to the wall.  Not a great sign, but the caregiver was not deterred.  He took one of Stolas’s feathered hands into his own, giving it a light squeeze.

“Want to play?  Watch some TV?” Blitzø suggested.

Stolas blinked again, slowly processing the options given.  A look of overwhelm crossed his already worn, stressed features, before shrugging, lost.

“How about we put on a movie and have some snuggles?” Blitzø offered, seeing that his Little had no interest in making decisions at the moment.  

TV and close contact was their go to on bad days; when both could relax without the pressure of talking or straining their energy on crawling around the floor to play. 

Agreeing, Stolas nodded.  A bit of the tension in his limbs eased, as Blitzø smiled at him encouragingly.  With a yawn, he curled up and laid his head on his caregiver’s lap.  There he completely deflated, muscles slack and eyelids drooping.  Blitzø himself relaxed, glad his Little was cooperating with his attempted comforts.  

“Alright, buddy,” he grinned softly, running a hand through his already mussed feathers.  

Ordinarily, he might attempt to indoctrinate the Goethals into Spirit or My Little Pony (the magnum opus of the Sinner’s race), but he knew better than introducing something new at such a stressful time.  Stolas had his own favorites and comfort shows; the perfect picking for a day marred by turbulent emotions.

So, the imp reached forward to snatch the remote from the coffee table, careful not to jostle Stolas in the process.  It only took a minute to scroll through his streaming services and find The Owl House.  Unironically, his prince loved it; he would watch it for hours on end, sometimes even choosing it over playtime.  

Blitzø selected the episode that left off the last time they binged the series.  Stolas cooed softly, already seeming calmed by the familiar scene and characters that unfolded on the TV screen.  

“Oh yeah, I’ve got a surprise for you,” Blitzø grinned, picking up the present box from the floor.  “Merry Sinsmas.”

Stolas’s eyes widened, a faint glisten returning to them as he took in the sight of his gift.  He fingers flexed as he reached up for it, grabby hands.  Blitzø breathed a silent sigh of relief as he handed it over; it was another good sign that Stolas was reacting despite his sadness.

With fumbling movements, the prince tore away the wrapping paper and ribbons.  A little light returned to his eyes, which brightened further after he pulled the box open and revealed its contents.  Eagerly, he reached in and pulled out an elaborate paci, decorated with gold glitter and a red heart charm on its center.  Fittingly, the words “My Heart” were beaded onto the handle.

Stolas cooed, an almost smile on his face as he immediately pushed the pacifier into his mouth.  Looking up at Blitzø, seeming so sweet and innocent and cute, the imp couldn’t help smile adoringly down at him.

Stolas didn’t say anything, not that Blitzø expected him to, but his nuzzle against the imp’s stomach, pure enthusiasm, and soft coos showed his gratitude well enough.

“You’re welcome, love,” his caregiver laughed lightly.

Considering everything that had transpired that day, their position was far from perfect.  Already it has been a rough month, and Blitzø was expecting the next one to be even harder.  But for now, he counted his blessings.  He and Stolas were safe and secure, sheltered by each other’s company.  They couldn’t predict the future, but they could make the present as comfortable as possible and enjoy a merry little Sinsmas together.

[skyward-floored]

Part two to the hdw fic where Link gets kidnapped and poisoned :) It got a lot longer than I was expecting though, so there’ll actually be another part after this (sorry). Please enjoy Volga doing a lot of panicking about his son.

(Warning for some blood, injury, and just a little vomit)

Part 1

————————————————————

Link stops responding, and Volga curses.

These blasted ruins are utterly confusing, his sense of direction getting all turned around in its twisting hallways and narrow passageways. Normally Volga thrives in such conditions, having lived in caves most of his life, but something about the collapsed stones and manmade walls throw him off.

Or maybe it’s just the panic beating inside his chest.

Link lets out a weak moan, and Volga tries to quicken his steps even further. He’d hoped never to have to deal with night safflina again; he’d made it a personal mission to burn any sprig of it he came across, destroyed any supplies he knew of. Yet despite his efforts, his son is fighting for his life against it in his arms.

Volga hisses to himself, cursing again. This is not something he can fight. He can’t tear it to pieces with his claws, burn it to a crisp, stab it with his spear. He is helpless in this situation, and the more Link fades in his arms, the more frantic he gets.

Link moans again, and for some reason Volga carefully adjusts him to a more comfortable position.

When did he get so attached to this boy? He didn’t even know that he existed up until a few months ago, and they haven’t spent much time together. Their relationship is a mess, and Volga can count on one hand the amount of remotely positive interactions they’ve had. Link had only just stopped regularly flinching when Volga made sudden movements towards him— which makes the fact that he’s currently curled into Volga’s hold and weakly clutching at him all the more unusual. Most of their interactions have involved them trying to kill each other.

Though... is this particular show of vulnerability so unusual? He still remembers how terrified Link had looked when he’d burst into the room, blood streaming down his cheek, knife held inches from his eye. Relief had quickly taken its place as Volga freed him, and though Volga may have been his enemy in the past, Link obviously trusts him to get them out of this.

...Or perhaps it’s merely the poison addling his senses.

Link’s head shifts minutely when Volga turns a corner, eyes half-lidded and in no way lucid. Volga knows shaking him didn’t help last time, but he tries it a little again anyway as he runs, calling for him to wake. Link doesn’t react.

Volga hisses and rips some vines out of his path, briefly wishing he had backup with him. If someone else were here then he would be able to drop Link off and go for the antidote, but that isn’t an option. And he can’t leave Link here alone with those men still around.

Perhaps it had been foolish to storm off the moment he’d heard Link had gone missing, scouring the land for any sign of him and rushing into the ruins by himself the moment he’d caught his scent. But Volga has never been one to hesitate.

And besides, if he’d come here any later, Link would be in much worse shape.

He looks down at the boy again. As it is, his current condition even apart from the poison is rather concerning, bruises beginning to show, blood in his hair, coating his cheek, and trickling slowly down his chin. Volga doesn’t have time to stop and clean or wrap it, but he wipes the blood off a little, cursing again the men who did this as he looks at the cuts still sluggishly bleeding. What did they even want with him?

...No, he knows the answer to that. They had safflina. This was always going to end in an attempt on his life.

As if as a reminder, he catches a faint whiff of the accursed plant on Link, a sweet, biting scent that burns his nostrils, and his stomach flips.

If Link were full dragon he would already be dead. Night safflina killed from the inside out, tearing through the blood and eventually constricting the heart. No matter what form a dragon was in, it was deadly within an hour.

Link’s Sheikah blood might be the only thing that will save him now.

Volga finally turns and finds himself in a hallway that’s familiar, and he breaks into a full sprint, leaping over broken stones and cracked walls, wishing he could slip into his other form. It’s too small in here for him to make much progress that way though, and he wouldn’t be able to comfortably hold Link anyway. He’ll have to figure that out once he escapes.

So far he hasn’t been stopped by any major obstacles, none of the men who’d captured Link daring to come stop him, only a few hazards for him to dodge. He’d had to fight his way in, but it seems as if there’s barely any opposition left to stop him from leaving, which is strange.

Another piece of this situation that doesn’t seem to quite add up.

Volga’s nearing the place where he entered now, more plants creeping in and less stone. A gagging noise comes from his arms, and he has to stop to let Link retch weakly onto the ground again, barely anything coming up this time except small strings of saliva and bile. Volga ignores the bit of blood at the corner of his mouth, Link pressing his face against his arm with a whine, and keeps running.

Only to come to a halt as he finds his path barred, a line of huge plants with teeth blocking his way to the exit.

Volga stares, certain the monsters hadn’t been here before. The plants spot him somehow, despite having no visible eyes, and send leering grins his direction, teeth bared, vines writhing. Poison drips from their leaves, a purple miasma rising off the floor, and Volga knows he doesn’t have time to fight them all.

Link doesn’t have time.

Fury boils in his gut. Volga doesn’t know how they got here, but they’re blocking his path, and every precious second counts right now.

Volga roars, rushing forward and blasting a huge plume of fire at the plant monsters blocking his path.

Leaves shrivel and he hears shrieking sounds, but Volga ignores them all, shielding Link as he darts through the flames and runs to the other side. Teeth gnash and something scrapes along his arm through his armor, but Volga ignores the flicker of pain, shoving his way through as he blasts more fire.

Something glints in his vision, and he looks down to see a small spray of scales trailing up Link’s arm that weren’t there before, revealed by the heat of the flames.

Volga shakes his head and keeps running, flames flying as he leaves the plants to burn. He’d nearly forgotten about that fight they’d had up on the sky island, where he’d seen Link’s scales for the first time. His memories of the war are sketchy at best, but he does remember Link’s halting explanation of being his son.

His son who he barely knows. His son whom he tried to kill multiple times.

His son who’s currently dying.

Volga roars again in fury and explodes out of the ruins, setting Link down and shifting back to his dragon form in the same movement. He’s careful to pick Link back up once he’s done, taking a moment to settle him in clawed talons, and then takes off for the army’s camp.

It’s not the most comfortable mode of transportation for Link, and Volga thinks his expression looks more pained than before, but there’s no time to figure out anything better. He holds Link closer, trying to shelter him from the cold wind, and flies as fast as he physically can without crashing.

Trying not to panic. Trying not to spiral into memories.

He focuses only on beating his wings.

(...)

The trip takes forever and yet passes in moments, and the Hylian army’s camp soon comes into view.

It’s late, but the area is a swarm of activity the same as it was when Volga left, Link’s disappearance sending the whole army into a frenzy. He only hopes Impa is still in camp and hasn’t left to join the search. He doesn’t trust any of the soldiers around to keep Link safe at the moment.

Volga folds his wings and makes a beeline for the first open area he finds, dropping into the middle of camp and transforming back in one swift movement. He startles the handful of soldiers around who look on with wide eyes at the bloody hero clutched to his chest, but he ignores them.

“General!” Volga roars into the night, and the moment he sees Impa appear across the clearing, he sprints for her.

Her eyes grow wide as she sees Link in his arms, and alarm crosses her face before switching to steely determination.

“What happened?” she demands, rushing to his side. Volga merely thrusts Link into her arms and only pauses long enough to make sure she has a firm grip on him before rushing away. “Volga!”

“He’s been poisoned, I need to get the cure,” Volga snaps back. “Keep him alive, I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

“No, wait,” Impa demands, grabbing his shoulder before he can turn into a dragon and leave. Volga twitches at the pain it sends up his arm. “Volga I need more information, he’s barely breathing. What did they poison him with?!”

“Safflina,” he growls in a low voice. “A rare strain of it. I know how to counteract it, but I need to leave now or he will die.”

Impa goes as pale as her hair. “Is there anything I can do to slow it?”

Volga swallows, and looks down at Link just once, his son ashen-faced and limp, then looks at Impa, her face stricken.

“...Not that I know of,” Volga says more quietly. “Keep him warm. Keep him alive.”

Then he leaps into the air and turns into a dragon, flying as hard and fast as he can.

Link will not die from this.

He won’t.

...

Impa watches Volga fly into the night, then looks down at her son again, terror crawling up her throat.

Link is freezing where he lies limp in her arms (he’s always so warm, he’s never cold—), barely perceptible gasps the only sign he’s alive. There’s blood coating his hair and the side of his face, bruises on his skin, and flecks of vomit on his tunic, mixed with stains of blood. His eyes are rolled so far back in his head she can only see white with how little they’re open, and he’s pure deadweight in her arms.

Impa takes only a moment to process all this, them shouts for someone to find a medic. A soldier runs off, and Zelda appears at Impa’s side as she begins to move, her face horrified as she takes in Link’s condition.

“Link! How did— what—”

“Volga found him,” Impa breathes as Zelda helps her support Link so won’t be as jostled. “He said he’s been poisoned, he left to get the antidote.”

“How did Volga even— never mind, that’s not important now,” Zelda says with a shake of her head. Link lets out another weak gasp, and she touches his shoulder, face fearful. “He’s been poisoned?”

“Badly,” Impa hisses. “And that’s not all that’s been done to him.”

She briefly meets Zelda’s gaze, and sees the question in her own eyes reflected there.

How could we let this happen?

Link’s disappearance had been discovered a few hours ago, signs of a fight leaving his tent in disarray. Volga had left the moment he’d seen the blood on the ground, face furious, but Impa had stayed, determined to figure this out in a manner more precise then simply flying around and hoping she happened across their missing son.

A part of her hoped the traitors (for what else could they be inside their own camp?) were still nearby— the blood was fresh, and there were bootprints in the dirt, so it was likely they hadn’t gotten far. Impa had immediately begun tracking them, Zelda joining her, and they’d gotten all the way outside of camp and into the middle of the woods, when the tracks just... stopped.

They’d scoured the area, checking every nook and cranny, bush and tree, but there’d been no sign of Link or his captors. They’d seemingly vanished into thin air.

“...Magic,” Zelda had said finally, anger in her voice. “They must have had a mage with them.”

That meant Link could be almost anywhere, and Impa and Zelda had been able to do nothing but head back to camp, fear twisting sharply in Impa’s gut for her son. She knew that going out and searching herself wouldn’t do any good, not without any clue where he’d been taken, but she dearly wanted to rush out of camp and do something, anything.

They’d taken her son. And she hadn’t even realized.

Lana had stated she might be able to track the spell when they’d shown the area to her, given some time, but she didn’t know how long it would take. And without any clue of what Link’s captors were planning to do with him, Impa knew it might be too late by the time Lana figured it out.

So despite the fact that the last thing she’d wanted to do was to stay still, Impa had sent out scouts and begun organizing bigger search parties, gathering likely locations for them to search, and ignoring the anxiety squeezing around her heart in a death grip.

She hadn’t gotten very far when she’d heard Volga’s roar.

Link makes a sound in her arms, somewhere between a rattle and a moan, and Impa bursts into her own tent, her and Zelda setting him down as gently as possible on her cot. Impa starts with cleaning the blood from his face while they wait for the medic, and the pit in her stomach grows at the lines gouged into his cheek.

How could he have been taken right under their noses? How had none of them noticed? The mess in his tent had been fresh, but not as much as it could have been. She’d put it at over an hour old by the time they’d stumbled upon it.

How could she have let this happen?

Link’s head lolls to the side, eyes fluttering briefly, but they close just as fast. Impa smooths bloody, sweaty bangs from his face as the medic arrives, and she thinks he might lean into the touch just a little as the medic examines him, face only growing more grim.

“You said the dragon is getting the cure?” he asks finally, and Impa nods. “Any idea how long he’ll be?”

“No. He just said he would be as quick as he could,” Impa replies, and the medic sighs.

“I’ll do what I can without it, but I’ll be frank General, it doesn’t look good. I’d be shocked if he makes it another hour, no less the night,” he says grimly, and Impa closes her eyes as Zelda sucks in a sharp breath, the words drilling into her with a chill colder than a redead’s scream.

Then she reopens them, steadying herself.

“Then let’s do what we can. We’ll give him as much of a fighting chance as possible until we have the antidote,” she says with a confidence she doesn’t feel. “Whatever you can do to help him, do it.”

The medic nods, and he opens the bag he’d brought with him and begins to rifle through the contents, his face still grim, but with a hint of determination. Impa barely realizes her hand is still resting on Link’s head until the medic asks her to move it, and she slowly withdraws her fingers, hating how cold his skin still is.

He feels like death. Feels like countless soldiers she’s watched die, like her best friend’s hand growing cold in hers, a grief that still lingers with her even years later. It’s only the slight rise and fall of Link’s chest, the weak gasps he lets out that stop her from fully sinking into despair.

There’s a cure. Volga knows where it is. He’s getting it right now.

Link will not die.

A new voice suddenly gasps, and Impa turns to see Lana rush in, her hands covering her mouth in horror as she looks at Link. A winged glow of blue is right behind her, and there’s a shrill, jingly shriek.

“Link! Link!” Proxi wails, speeding for him and fluttering frantically around his face. “Link, wake up, please!”

Link’s eyes flutter, but he doesn’t move otherwise, and Proxi lets out a distraught noise, settling herself at Link’s shoulder. Her wings are fluttering with anxiety, and Zelda smooths a hand over them, reassuring her quietly.

“I’m sorry! I went to visit a fountain while Link was sleeping, I— Lana said he’d been taken while I was— oh Link,” she hiccups in a wobbly chime.

“You didn’t know Proxi, it’s not your fault,” Impa says quietly, and the fairy doesn’t anything further, huddling close to Link.

“What happened?” Lana asks in an surprisingly level voice, and Zelda explains what they know, the medic still working, another arriving and joining him. Impa doesn’t listen much, her thoughts spiraling in several directions, though she hears when Lana offers to try and heal Link a bit. She watches as the sorceress’s hands light up and ease some of the cuts and bruises marring his skin, though nothing else about his condition improves. Apparently even half of the guardian of time can’t heal poison.

Impa sets her hand over Link’s freezing one as she finishes, listening to the rasp of his breathing as Lana and the medics draw back.

Link is cleaned up now, injuries bandaged and blood scrubbed away, tended to as much as they can. Somehow he looks worse than when Volga pressed him into her arms though, pale as death, dark veins spreading across his skin, especially thick in one place on his arm.

Impa swallows. They’re in a waiting game now. They’ll do what they can to keep Link alive before Volga returns, but there isn’t a lot they can do. She helps tilt his body when he weakly retches, adjusts blankets and even sits beside him to try and warm his freezing skin, but there’s nothing they can do to stop the poison’s creep through Link’s veins.

All they can do is what they’re already doing, and as time drags forward, Impa feels like she may explode.

Link is dying. There’s no getting around it.

His strength leaves him more by the minute, his skin turning almost grey. Impa watches him fade and fade and fade, unable to lift a finger to help him, and she glances repeatedly outside, scanning the dark strip of sky she can see while Link grows ever weaker and her desperation grows stronger.

Volga, where are you?

(...)

It’s the longest night of Volga’s life.

It takes him hours to find the berries he knows will counteract the poison’s effects— they only grow in cold locations, which slows him down, and even then it’s the wrong time of year for the berries to even be ripe. The mountain he flies to is rife with icy beasts, which fall quickly enough to his fire, but it’s yet more delays to his goal.

Volga only half believes in the goddesses, but he tosses a short plea their direction anyway.

His ancestors were their servants. Perhaps that counts for something.

The moonlight is blinding against the layer of snow on the ground, casting sharp shadows wherever rocks stick up from it. Volga’s stuck to his dragon form thus far, deeming it quicker and warmer, but now he shifts back, the snow-covered undergrowth looking promising. He digs around in the snow, uncovering all the bushes and plants he can get his hands on, blowing small puffs of flame to keep his fingers warm.

It feels like hours go by as he crawls around digging through snow-covered branches, dirt catching in his claws, breath puffing into steam.

You’re taking too long, it’s been too long—

Familiar leaves suddenly glint in the moonlight, and Volga pounces, clawing almost desperately at the snow covering the bush’s form. He takes care not to hurt the plant beneath the snow, and gently lifts up a branch.

And sure enough, pale, yellowish berries reveal themselves, glowing almost like stars in the light of Volga’s flame.

Volga lets out a harsh breath of relief, wondering briefly if the goddesses really did listen to his plea. That or they don’t want their chosen hero dying on them. Such things are beyond him though, so Volga doesn’t waste time thinking about it and quickly picks every fruit he sees, tying them in a secure pouch at his hip.

The sky is beginning to lighten by the time he’s in the air again, and every beat of his wings seems to mark the minutes trickling away, more poison slipping through Link’s veins.

You’ve taken too long, he’s already dead, his thoughts hiss, but Volga thrusts them aside. Link isn’t full dragon. The poison won’t kill him as quickly.

But despite his attempts to reassure himself, the thoughts don’t go away, only growing louder the longer he takes. Volga watches the moon set, stars fading, and his mind starts to figure how many hours it’s been, surely too many for Link to have survived.

He must be dead by now.

Volga swallows. He wonders if it was quick, Link’s fluttering heart merely going still, or if his lungs had filled with fluid, drowning him on land, choking him in blood. Perhaps his throat had closed up, slowly suffocating him.

Volga doesn’t slow his speed at all at the gruesome thoughts, but there’s dread weighing down his wings, and no small fear at what he’ll find when he arrives. Will Impa cry? He’s only ever seen her truly cry once, and that had been more out of anger than anything. Will the loss of her only child be enough to break her stoicism? Will he cry?

What will he even do if Link is dead?

He may be his son, but Volga barely knows him. They’ve been enemies longer than allies, and a few months ago Volga was so entrenched on Cia’s side that he wouldn’t even have cared to hear he’d met his demise.

But... somehow now he does.

He barely knows Link, but the little he’s seen is bright and fierce and courageous, loyal to a fault, determined and with a spirit that refuses to give up. He has his faults surely, but overall he’s quite the formidable warrior, hero, even. Volga had no hand in raising him, but somehow he’s... proud of him, proud of the man he became while Volga wasn’t looking.

But all that likely doesn’t matter now. If Link is alive it would be a miracle, and Volga isn’t feeling optimistic.

He dives past a cloud, his wings beginning to tire from the long night. He hates this uncertainty. This ache in his chest, a tightness in his throat. It’s half his fault all of this even happened— it’s obvious Link was targeted at least partially for his relation to Volga. And now it’ll be his fault he’s dead, too.

Does he even have the right to mourn?

...

He doesn’t know.

Volga tries to fly faster with his stinging wings, squeezing his eyes shut, hating how much his heart aches.

He doesn’t know.

[makiruz]

Edit: Part 2 now available

Okay, I have read two fics fitting Liir into the Musical Verse, I don't really like either, but both have really interesting elements that really fascinate me (I just can't get into the sum of their parts)

So I am kinda making up with my own version, with the things I like, like Fiyero being a scarecrow and not out of his son's life, you know like that.

Keep in mind I haven't read any of the Wicked books and I most I know comes from the Wicked Wiki

Okay, so Liir, Elphaba and Fiyero's son grows up in Oz, raised by Glinda (I think this is from the book???); and I really like the idea from this fic that Glinda is passing him as her son with Fiyero, I mean is the books Liir is a known orphan, and Glinda is a known lesbian, but in the musical Glinda was Fiyero's fiance. Also I like the idea of Glinda finding out Elphaba is pregnant while they both think Fiyero is dead (loosely here)

Alright so it's like this, Elphaba gets pregnant from As Long As Your Mine, and we're past Fiyero getting crucified and something happens and Elphaba tells Glinda she's pregnant; Glinda is kind of excited, but we're all in agreement this is a terrible situation, Elphaba is Public Enemy Number One and Fiyero is dead, and also Elphaba's mother died in childbirth and what if the baby is green? The reality is that Elphaba doesn't want to terminate the pregnancy, she'd rather die instead but Glinda knows she doesn't mean either, and notes that Fiyero died so she could live, do you really want to throw away his sacrifice? So that's when they decide to fake Elphaba's dead; the Wizard already sent the girl Dorothy and her posse after Elphie so they're gonna use that, then Elphaba will go into hiding until the baby is born and then she'll leave Oz forever, and Glinda will keep the baby, and if the baby is green, Glinda will think of something; it's for the best, whatever life Elphaba is gonna have is not a good for a baby

So meanwhile Fiyero is not actually dead, he's a scarecrow and for whatever reason he wasn't able to get a message to Elphaba that he's alive, so he's not in it when the gang confronts the Witch; and so when she "melts" the Scarecrow is fucking distressed and no one understands why. Like the dead of the Wicked Witch is horrific, even Boq who was all gung-ho on killing her looks sick and horrified (yeah, turns out killing your college friend does not make you feel better about being made of tin); but the Scarecrow is a mess, when she finishes melting he practically jumps to the puddle and looks around, as if looking for something he can't find, "it's only water!" he says sounding distraught, eventually he takes the Witch's hat and holds him to his chest and it's clear that if he could cry he'd be wailing (side note, if Boq suspected who Scarecrow was, this confirmed it)

Anyway, after they have returned to Emerald City and Glinda has sent Dorothy back home following Elphaba's advice, the Scarecrow talks to her, he is still holding the Witch's hat for dear life and looks like the world is ending; "how is it possible? It was just water" he asks Glinda in despair, "pure water could destroy her wickedness, as marked for her green skin" someone says (not Boq, he has just realized he loved Elphaba as a friend and he's mourning), but Scarecrow insists, "but she was always green, but she wasn't always wicked!". Glinda had anticipated this kind of questioning (but not anticipate who would ask) and has an answer "the Vinkun soldiers heard the Witch chanting on her tower, she must have cast some sort of spell on herself" "ah! to make herself more powerful!" "sure, let's go with that" but Glinda notices the Scarecrow gets her real meaning Elphaba cursed herself to die, which only makes him more depressed, what is up with that?

Okay, so eventually the baby is born, and not only is he a normal human color, he looks just like Fiyero so Glinda can easily claim he's her son with her late fiance Fiyero Tigelaar killed protecting Glinda from the Wicked Witch of the West, she hid the pregnancy due to the unfortunate events of the past few months and everyone understand. Now the actual Fiyero, has spent the past few months in the Emerald City moping and helping with The Reconciliation and he knows something's up with Glinda's baby because he knows for a fact that Glinda wasn't pregnant and even if she was, it wouldn't be his because they hadn't slept together for months before his scarecrowification; but he gets it when he sees the baby, little Liir does indeed look just like him but he has Elphaba's eyes. Fiyero gently strokes his newborn son's face with a gloved hand, he is the most beautiful thing he has ever seen; and it means Elphaba is still alive, probably close by because Liir is only a couple of days old, she can't have gone far so soon after delivery, and he has an idea where Glinda might have stashed her: the Lake House, no one goes there since her father got injured and stopped fishing.

Once Fiyero goes to the Lake House he finds evidence Elphaba was indeed there, but she's gone now; dammit, she could be anywhere in Oz right now, she could be anywhere outside of Oz right now, finding her could take months, even years! But then he thinks of a little boy in the Emerald City who is gonna grow up without a father, and his son is his first priority, he'll find Elphaba later (and she won't just abandon her son either). So in the following years the Scarecrow who help killed the Wicked Witch of the West, becomes a constant presence in the life of Liir Tigelaar; Glinda doesn't know why the Scarecrow cares so much about Liir, but being a single parents is hard and she needs all the help she can get so she won't question it; meanwhile Liir comes to see the Scarecrow as a father figure, as ridiculous as it is (don't worry, he'll realize the irony eventually)

At this point, I realize this has gotten too long already so I'll continue with part 2 later

[deadly-diminuendo]

WIP Wednesday

Time to share another snippet! And it's actually happening on a Wednesday this time! The lovely @amoremagnificentbastard tagged me this time, so thank you! 💖

I've unfortunately had a bunch of things getting in the way of my writing time lately, but here is yet another piece of the upcoming third chapter of A Fitting Reunion. And we're starting to move into NSFW territory, so check it out under the cut!

"Let me state the obvious because it seems obvious is what you need: I love you." How new to your ears those words still are and yet you already think the sound of them sweeter than any song. You beam at him, because of course you do, and he beams right back, because of course he does, because this, this togetherness, is what you both want, what you both need, what you both deserve. That look, so full of adoration, beckons you forward, and so you move in slowly, kiss him softly, hold him sweetly. He does the same, at first, an arm wrapping around your back, the opposite hand snaking its way down to cup your backside. Not that you resist. Nor do you resist when, unexpectedly, he pulls you hard against him, laughter bubbling out of you from the surprise and the clumsiness of it. And yet, here you are in his lap, and here he is guiding your legs to straddle him, and it dawns upon you just how suggestive this new position is. Even the slightest roll of your hips might have… well, quite the arousing effect. Oh, he knows exactly what he's doing, the sneak. And, if this is how he wants you, then that must mean— "And," he says before you can finish the thought, "I'm willing to explore anything and everything that loving you means." Anything. Everything. Never have those two words sounded so sublime, his voice like velvet, his implication indisputable. Your imagination runs rampant, unlimited and unsuppressed, your mind opening itself fully to passion and possibility. And you hope imagination will blossom into beautiful reality. Astarion buries his face into your neck, peppering it with little kisses—maddeningly where you know he knows it tickles—revelling in every giggle he draws out of you. Vexing though it is, yes, the levity of it amuses you, calms your nerves. You did, back in those early days, feel most ease with him whenever you would let yourselves be silly. You remember it well. Perhaps so does he. And then—when tension fades, when you are limp and pliable in his arms—the mood shifts. Then, he kisses you where it doesn't tickle. Then, those sounds spilling out of you are decidedly not laughter. His mouth moves to meet yours. A heady mixture of love and lust swirls about in your mind, and you succumb to it, to him, to every brush of his tongue and graze of his teeth. Almost embarrassing how little it takes to make you squirm about in his lap—but his body answers yours just as readily, the twitch of him against you leaving no doubt to his burgeoning desire. This is really going to happen, isn't it? "And"—you mourn the loss of his lips—"if all of this is somehow not obvious enough"—but his husky tone has you enraptured—"then let me be clear: I will not be satisfied tonight unless and until I've fucked you thoroughly."

No pressure tags (and my apologies to anyone who has been tagged recently already!): @strixamans, @denesmera, @goodgirlgonebard, @verbenaa, @larvasmoon, @vividiana, @inkymoonbunny @dramatiquechipmunk, @khywren, @roguishcat, @larvasmoon + anyone else who wants to share something! ❤️

[httpvomitello]

george weasely x y/n

y/n talks to draco by helping him with the assignment but George thought they were getting too close so he got jealous and made sure y/n is his by kissing her in front of him

Helloooooo, i hope you like it! ~ ♡

A Lesson in Jealousy *⁠.⁠✧

Summary: When George finds you helping Draco Malfoy with an assignment in the library, he doesn’t care that you’re just being nice. All he sees is Malfoy sitting too close, looking too smug, and you smiling at him. Fueled by jealousy, George decides to remind everyone exactly who you belong to—by kissing you, right in front of Malfoy, and making sure the entire library knows it.

george weasley x f!reader

George Weasley wasn’t in his usual carefree mood. No, today he was grumpy. And it was all because of Draco bloody Malfoy.

George stood at the far end of the library, arms crossed as he glared at the sight in front of him.

You. Sitting beside Malfoy. Smiling at him.

George clenched his jaw.

Sure, he knew you were just helping Malfoy with his Potions assignment. You had mentioned it at breakfast, something about “being nice” and “not letting him fail miserably.”

George hated that you were nice. Okay, not really, but right now? Yeah, he kind of did.

Because Malfoy was leaning in too close.

And you were laughing at something he said.

Malfoy had a smug look on his stupid, pointy face, and George could already hear his arrogant little voice in his head: Oh, look at me, I’m Malfoy, I’ve got my expensive quill and my perfect hair and I think I’m charming when I’m actually insufferable—

“Oi, George, you alright?”

Fred’s voice snapped him out of his internal rant.

George turned to his twin, who was watching him with an amused expression.

“Fine,” George muttered.

Fred raised an eyebrow, following his gaze. When he spotted you and Malfoy, a slow smirk spread across his face. “Oh. Ohhh.”

“What?”

Fred chuckled. “You’re jealous.”

George scoffed. “I am not jealous.”

Fred hummed. “Right. That’s why you’re staring at them like you’re about to set Malfoy on fire with your mind.”

“I could, you know,” George muttered darkly.

Fred clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Look, mate, you’ve got two options. One, you can keep standing here, sulking like a tragic romance novel hero.”

George glared at him.

“Or two,” Fred continued, “you can go over there and make sure Malfoy knows she’s yours.”

George hesitated, eyes flickering back to you.

Malfoy had leaned even closer.

That was it. He was done.

With a determined look, George marched across the library. Fred stayed back, watching in delight.

You looked up just as George stopped beside your table. “Oh, hey, George! What are you doing here?”

George didn’t answer. Instead, he grabbed your hand, pulling you up from your seat. Before you could question him, he cupped your face and kissed you.

Right there. In front of the entire library.

And—most importantly—in front of Malfoy.

Your brain short-circuited. One second, you were explaining a potion ingredient to Draco, and the next? You were being thoroughly kissed by George Weasley.

The library went silent.

When George finally pulled back, he turned his head slightly—just enough to see Malfoy’s stunned expression.

George smirked. “Oh, sorry, Malfoy, were you saying something?”

Malfoy scoffed, rolling his eyes as he grabbed his books. “Unbelievable,” he muttered before storming off.

George turned back to you, still smirking. “What?”

You blinked at him, trying to collect your thoughts. “You just—you—you kissed me.”

“Yep,” George said proudly.

“In the library.”

“Yep.”

“In front of everyone.”

“Uh-huh.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You were jealous.”

George shrugged, grinning. “Maybe. But now everyone—including Malfoy—knows you’re mine.”

You stared at him for a moment before shaking your head, a smile creeping onto your lips. “You absolute idiot.”

George leaned in, pressing another quick kiss to your lips. “Yeah, but I’m your idiot.”

[hereghostslive]

WIP Wednesday

I haven't done one of these in a while and it's because I told myself I wouldn't until I had completed a fic but no surprise, I've grown impatient with my slow as fuck writing pace. so here's what I've been working on.

started writing this on my own birthday because I was feeling sad and depressed and wanted to cheer myself up by writing angsty Tommy and then cheer him up as well. here's everything I have for it. not sure when I'll finish it.

--

He’s staring at the dark screen of his television when his phone goes off for the fourth time? Fifth time? He lost count after the first few, not interested in answering but too tired to move to turn his phone off. 

Besides, he already knows what the messages say. 

Happy birthday, Tommy! 

Or

happy b day man

Or

Wow the big 4-0, got your AARP card yet?

And probably a

Happy birthday from Diner 54. Get 30% off your meal today!

Okay, that one he should actually open and make use of. The others, well … he doesn’t want to look and see the one message that isn’t there.

He has the day off, which is unusual for him. Normally, he works on his birthday, on account of him not really caring about this day at all. But he had taken this one off because —

“— you have to celebrate turning 40, Tommy, c’mon! It’s a milestone birthday!” 

“You just want an excuse to have your own day off,” Tommy had replied, fondly rolling his eyes.

“Well, yeah, sure, but specifically to celebrate you,” Evan had said, like it was simple. 

So Tommy had asked for it off but they never got around to making any plans for it. The day on the calendar sat free and inviting without his notice until suddenly he found himself waking up alone on his 40th birthday, with no plans and no one to have them with. 

He thought about watching his favorite rom-coms to pass the time today but nothing seemed appealing. Hard to watch and invest in the romantic lives of fictional characters where everything works out and the hurt is only temporary and never proceeds past the end credits. 

Tommy wonders when his rom-com started becoming less rom-com-y and more … rom-tragedy? If that’s not a genre then Tommy’s earned the right to patent. He sinks back into his couch, his phone still going off, and keeps staring at his dark television screen. Remembers back to three weeks shy of their six month anniversary when Evan showed up at his door with his favorite take out and a pack of lightbulbs Tommy had mentioned off hand that he needed replacing. 

He remembers gazing up at Evan as he stood on top of the ladder, the light flipping on, wholly fixed. And with the light shining behind his head, Evan looked down at him with an easy smile. 

Yeah, that was the moment. 

Roll credits. 

–

There’s a banging in the distance. Tommy’s eyes flutter open; he’s slumped over on his couch, still facing the blank TV screen.

“Tommy! Open up!”

Tommy groans, pushing himself off the couch and stumbling to his front door if only to stop the incessant knocking.

He flings the door open to find Howie, fist raised to continue disturbing Tommy’s neighbors and most importantly Tommy.

“What?” he grumbles.

“Now is that anyway to greet your old friend?” Howie asks, shoving his way past Tommy into the house. Tommy’s still waking up from his accidental nap on the couch, too slow to stop Howie from intruding further. 

He closes the front door and reluctantly follows Howie into the kitchen.

Howie opens his fridge and whistles. “Just as I suspected,” he says, and then closes the fridge, spinning around to face Tommy.  

Tommy, still waking up, can only raise a single eyebrow in question.

“Your fridge is empty. How are we going to celebrate your birthday with nothing to eat or drink?” 

Rolling his eyes, Tommy collapses onto the bar stool at his kitchen island. “Oh, is that why you’re here?”

“Why wouldn't I be here? It isn't every day your friend turns 40!” 

Tommy eyes Howie, searching for an ulterior motive. He wants to ask about Evan, if Howie is here on Evan’s behalf, but he doesn't. Doesn't think he could handle a “no,” and anyway, he lost the right to ask about Evan when he walked out of his life. 

Eventually, Tommy nods at Howie, agreeing to at least hear him out about dinner. “Okay, so … what are we eating? There's a good Thai place not far from here we can get take out from.”

But Howie’s shaking his head. “Oh, no, no. It's not that easy. Get up, get dressed. We’re going out.”

--

tagging some bucktommy mutuals: @liminalmemories21 @leashybebes @beanarie @alrightbuckaroo

[lemongrasstea1677]

Taiga being hungry and wanting Romeo to shoot it so he could eat could be possible but the usual Taiga would just usually shoot the anomaly no question asked, eat it and call it a day, but before the screenshot of the scene that i took he actually stared at it for a few second probably finding an answer why the like dove is there before Romeo noticing the like dove and pulling out a gun

anyone would expect Taiga would've pulled out his own gun but instead he hurried Romeo to shoot it already because Romeo is the one who's currently armed

Taiga's character isn't written to be that expressive but more to lean on a calculating yet chaotic type but this the most aggravated reaction he had possibly connecting the dots of what the Like Dove is.

(i agree with you that its kinda suspicious that ever since Taiga ate that one it hasn't appeared at all for the next chapters and i know its a rare anomaly but why does it show up at the first few chapters)

What's interesting about this panel os that based on Taiga's reaction he seemed to realize something about the Like Dove, i think i can imagine what goes on his head is like:

he asks a question to himself

a voice or his brain answers it for him

His reaction and Asking Romeo to hurry up and shoot it suggests that he realized the like dove might be a tool from the spy who started the clash and was used to watch them on this scene(Taiga seems to be really hostile to the spy or knows who it is and seemed to suspect anyone who sneaks up on him as a spy without questioning himself or his head if they're a spy or not)

Also a interesting bit about this is the first time the Like Dove appeared seemed to be a fan service thing to say that some of the Boys like MC but i think this could apply to the theory that the Spy took interest on the MC and watches her as well like they do to the ghouls

[ryuichirou]

TWST boys switching dorms

Anonymous asked:

That seems oddly fitting... Does spark a question in me, who would you put in which dorm other than their own? Like what would you say is option no. 2?

As promised, I came back to this ask, or rather to the second part of it. Because it’s a very interesting question to think about! But my answers are a bit all over the place lol

They fit their own dorms so well that some of my choices ended up just being about me wanting to see the boy suffer in another setting, but for the most part I tried to be fair,  honest!

I also know that all of the boys said what other dorm they’d pick if they had to, but I haven’t seen all of those interviews and tried to not rely on them much. It wouldn’t be fun that way, right?

Riddle – you know, it’s a surprisingly tough one. I know everyone fits their current dorm very well, but with Riddle it’s so difficult to imagine him in any other dorm… I’m thinking either Diasomnia or Pomefiore, but I think I’d put him in Pomefiore, so he’d still have a lot of rules to follow, but also see how this set of rules differs from the rules he is used to lol Those are more useful, Riddle! But also, I think the uniform would look rather flattering on him.

Ace – Octavinelle. It just makes sense to me; maybe it’s his cunning nature, maybe it’s the cards, maybe it’s the fact that he is Floyd’s kohai and also stated that he would like to have Azul as an older brother at some point. He’d have a very hard time over there though lol

Deuce – Savanaclaw. I can see him in a situation similar to Jack’s: he really wants to be a proper student and do right things, but gets frustrated because of his senpais. And with Deuce’s background, he would feel both at home and as if his past is following him everywhere… still, he believes in the King of Beasts' spirit of persistence!

Trey – Octavinelle. I wanted to put him into Pomefiore at first because he would enjoy having a lab in his dorm, but a kitchen is closer to his heart. It’s not the only reason though; I think the Sea Witch’s benevolence would be a nice fit for Trey, who feels like a good senpai to a lot of people, but still has some darkness to him… Plus, he’s already wearing a fedora, so might as well look cool while doing it!

Cater – Pomefiore, and it feels like a very easy choice… Even if the Pomefiore regimen is too much for him, it can’t be that much worse than the Queen of Hearts’ rules! Plus, with every single Pomefiore student being super photogenic + Vil-the-superstar being there, Cater is probably going to enjoy his stay lol

Leona – I actually remember that he said he’d go to Pomefiore lol but I’m going to fip the script and put him into Scarabia. I was honestly this close to putting him into Diasomnia just to be mean (imagine Leona having Malleus as his housewarden lol), but… they just won’t let him sleep would they lol It’s going to be so noisy and annoying, so active and bright, that he would complain a lot. But I know that deep inside he enjoys the food that they get to eat… Kalim would insist that they’re besties now.

Ruggie – Octavinelle, easily. I think Ruggie could make it work anywhere, to be honest, but he seems to share a lot of values with the Octavinelle gang, plus, we’ve seen them working together before. And I really want to see him wearing a fedora… he would probably enjoy working at the Mostro Lounge and get promoted to manager at some point lol

Jack – Heartstlabyul. Looks like he’s switching dorms with Deuce..!! He would be confused and frustrated about all the rules that make no sense, but I think there is a lot about Heartslabyul and its housewarden in particular that Jack could at least respect. He’d also memorise the rules easily, I think lol I’ll also note that I really wanted to put him in Pomefiore at first, but… I’d end up putting everyone in Pomefiore, so I had to stop myself lol

Azul – Scarabia. Congratulations, Azul, now you’ll finally be able to pester Jamil all the time! In all seriousness though, Scarabia and Octavinelle feel like the two dorms that have some overlap in terms of their attitude (ignoring Kalim’s whole party thing, of course…), so Azul’s sly nature would shine there as well. The only problem is that it’s probably too damn hot there for Azul lol but otherwise, he’d just be smiling 24/7, so it’s for the best.

Jade – Pomefiore. Let’s be honest, he really enjoyed his time there… He would have a lot of fun! Well, maybe he won’t like yoga all that much, but that’s also a plus because we’d get to see long-ass Jade who doesn’t bend all that well lol Jokes aside, Jade would absolutely love the potionology aspect of this dorm + would probably keep making Rook jealous with how nice of an assistant he is to Vil.

Floyd – “why me??”, he would say, as I also put him in Pomefiore… remember that one Halloween scene where Vil asked everyone to remove their makeup but washed Floyd’s face himself for some reason? Yes, this, but now it’s every day! And we’ve seen him actually really respecting Vil’s strength a couple of times, so he could even have fun there sometimes… Of course, there is no way he wouldn’t have like 15 tantrums per day, but if there is anything Floyd (and Jade, for that matter) absolutely doesn’t lack, it’s tenacity, so he’s better enjoy his stay lol

Kalim – god, every other dorm is too mean lol Or rather, I feel like Kalim would turn any dorm into Scarabia the moment he enters it. He just has this power of taking the party vibes everywhere. Maybe Heartslabyul??  But he would also absolutely not follow the rules, but somehow never get in trouble for it. It’s not like he hates the rules – he just can’t remember them at all… but he does remember that they have tea parties! And he is always happy to participate, even if he can’t eat anything there!

Jamil – Octavinelle. I’m sorry, Jamil, but you know I’m right. I feel like Azul is the main reason he is so against joining Octavinelle lol But he would fit in perfectly, both because of his cunningness/cleverness and because of his culinary skills. He would be great as a chef and as a waiter… Every time I see Jamil I think about how big of an asset he would be to the Lounge... and to Azul in general… ah, if only…!!

Vil – Diasomnia; I am biased because I actually remember Vil saying that he would pick Diasomnia if he absolutely had to pick any other dorm, but the more I think about it, the more it makes sense. The uniform would look so hot oh my god- I mean, it just works, doesn’t it? Vil loves having strict regimen, and I think he even said something about not wanting to fight Malleus for the housewarden status… he would hang out with Lilia and discipline Sebek a lot lol

Rook – Savanaclawis an easy answer because he’s already been there, so I’ll purposefully avoid it… even though I think Rook fits in there perfectly lol But now I am truly torn, because I can see him somehow thriving everywhere… he is like a weed growing through concrete lol a part of me wants to put him in Ignihide!! But I’ll put him in Heartslabyul instead – he would enjoy it a lot: they have trees, beastmen, critters and a Queen to worship <3 All of his favourite things.

Epel – oh how much he’d love to be in Savanaclaw, and I’d love to see him there as well, but I kinda don’t want to grace him with such a gift lol So in Diasomnia he goes! First of all, once again, consider the uniform. He would look too damn hot for his own good. Second of all, what Epel really desperately needs is discipline, and if he’s not in Pomefiore, he might as well be in another dorm that is pretty strict in terms of discipline lol The entire aura would be good for him, I think. Or maybe I just love dark!Epel…

Idia – Octavinelle; I feel like this is the least painful option for him lol Of course he would still be a recluse, but it’s a bit easier in Octavinelle – as long as you don’t get in trouble with Azul and avoid the Tweels, no one is really going to bother you. And Idia is pretty good at that… He also has the same quid pro quo mindset as Octavinelle, so if he absolutely HAS to participate somewhere he could suggest doing something for the dorm instead, like building new computers, upgrading the Lounge’s kitchen gadgets, etc.

Ortho – I’m writing him last because it was the most difficult to think about this one, buuut Diasomnia. Pomefiore feels like a more obvious option because his favourite senpai is there, but because Ortho’s enrollment in NRC is pretty much an experiment, why not put him into a place where mister “I accidentally break phones” lives? With so many unique magical and cultural aspects related to fae AND with Diasomnia being so non-reliant on technology, Ortho would have to work very hard to figure out the best way to operate there. I just gave him a challenge…

Lilia – he would work wonderfully in Savanaclaw (he would make soldiers out of these pups!), and he would have a lot of fun in Scarabia, but I’m going to actually put him in Ignihyde. Both because he is interested in videogames and because of how much of an extravert he is. He is also pretty used to dealing with introverts, so for some reason I feel like he’ll find a way to make Ignihyde students somewhat more… willing to hang out and have a funky time. But maybe he’ll just be super bored because they’d start avoiding him because he is scary lol Well, Idia won’t be able to hide.

Silver – Heartslabyul because I want him to take care of hedgehogs and flamingos… he is also very good at following the rules and very careful; I feel like his attitude would work with the Heartslabyul’s vibes nicely. Well, it’s not like he won’t get in trouble for falling asleep during an inappropriate time. Imagine sleepy Silver in Riddle’s collar? Trying to wake himself up with some nice tea… He is the Dormouse 😭

Sebek – according to Sebek himself, if he didn’t get into Diasomnia, he would live in Diasomnia’s garden LOL Honestly, that’s a tough one. I can easily picture him in Heartslabyul or Pomefiore, both are very strict and Sebek would definitely thrive there, plus learn a thing or two. I would love to see both Pomefiore!Sebek and Heartslabyul!Sebek…!! But I’m going to put him into Savanaclaw; he can fight with beastmen and express his anger all he wants lol Maybe he’ll just get tons of enemies to punch on a daily basis, but who knows, maybe that’ll make them learn discipline. Oh right, isn’t his grandpa from Sunset Savannah? I forgot about it…

Malleus – Scarabia. Another very tough choice; I really wanted to put him in Pomefiore or Heartslabyul, because you know, the noble vibes and all, and Scarabia does feel like a weird choice, but hear me out: Malleus being invited to a banquet every single day? Having plenty of opportunity to dance and hang out with everyone? Maybe at some point people would even be a bit less terrified of him! And if not, well, at least he’d befriend Kalim… honestly, this sounds more like a doujin/fanfic prompt than anything lol