#understand everything has no thought behind it

[harrysfolklore]

Hi!!! i just saw the pictures of Carlos x 2 content for his last driver w ferrari and since there’s already a lot on piastri sis bonding with reyes, can we have piastri sis bonding with Carlos sr too

🥺👉🏼👈🏼

i really wanted to take on this request! i love my little bitches so much 🥹

The early morning Maranello sun caught the Ferrari badges as you walked hand-in-hand with Carlos toward the garage. His grip was slightly tighter than usual, betraying the emotion he was trying to contain.

"Ready?" you squeezed his hand.

"No," he admitted quietly. "But yes."

Carlos Sr. was already there, talking with the mechanics, but his face lit up when he saw you both. "Mis hijos!" [my kids]

Charles was there too, leaning against the garage wall in his puffer jacket. He straightened when he saw Carlos, and there was a moment of shared understanding between the teammates - soon to be former teammates.

"Don't make it weird, Leclerc," Carlos tried to joke.

"Me? Never," but Charles's voice was suspiciously rough as he pulled Carlos into a hug. "Save the tears for later, no?”

"Who's crying? I'm not crying."

"Of course not," you rolled your eyes fondly.

While Charles dragged Carlos off to inspect the cars, Carlos Sr. pulled you aside.

"How is he really?"

You watched Carlos run his hands over the Ferrari's nose cone, Charles pointing out something that made them both laugh.

"Emotional. Trying not to show it."

"Like his father," Carlos Sr. smiled sadly.

"Exactly like his father."

He chuckled, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. "You know, when he first told me about you, I knew."

"Knew what?"

"That you would understand us. The Sainz men - we feel everything so deeply, even when we pretend we don't."

"I noticed," you smiled. "The dramatic genes run strong."

"Hey!" but he was laughing. "We're not dramatic!"

"Carlos cried over a pizza last week."

"It was an emotional pizza!"

"See? Dramatic."

His expression softened. "You're good for him. For all of us. You understand this life, this passion."

"It's my life too."

"Si, it is. And..." he hesitated. "I want you to know, whatever comes next, whatever team, whatever challenges - you're our family. Mine and Reyes's daughter, not just Carlos' girlfriend."

Your throat tightened. "I- "

"No crying!" he warned, but pulled you closer. "We save tears for after, yes?"

"Charles said the same thing."

"Charles is smart boy. Sometimes."

Across the garage, Carlos and Charles were now arguing about something, gesturing wildly at the car while mechanics pretended not to laugh.

"Should we save them?" you asked.

"Let them have this moment," Carlos Sr. squeezed your shoulder. "Soon enough..."

You both watched as Carlos ran his hand along the Ferrari's sidepod, the gesture almost reverent.

"He'll be okay," you assured Carlos Sr.

"Of course he will. He has you."

"He has all of us."

"Si," Carlos Sr. nodded. "Always family first."

Charles's voice carried across the garage: "Carlos, stop being dramatic!"

"I'm not being dramatic!"

"You're stroking the car!"

"It's a goodbye caress!"

"See?" Carlos Sr. grinned. "Not dramatic at all."

You laughed, leaning into his embrace. "Not even a little bit."

Later, the garage had emptied, leaving just the two of you. Carlos was still in his race suit, pushed down to his waist, his Ferrari shirt underneath damp with emotion and exertion. He stood there, hand resting on the car's nose, lost in thought.

"Hey, little bitch," you said softly, coming up behind him.

He laughed wetly, not turning around. "Only you could make that sound loving."

"It's a gift."

When he finally faced you, his eyes were red but his smile was real. You reached up to wipe a smudge of tear track from his cheek.

"Last dance in red," you murmured.

"Was it good?"

"Perfect. You and your dad... that was something special."

He pulled you close, burying his face in your neck. You could feel him trembling slightly, letting go of the composure he'd held all day.

"I've got you," you whispered, running your fingers through his hair. "Let it out, baby.”

"I thought I was ready," his voice was muffled against your skin.

"You were. You are. Doesn't make it easier."

He lifted his head to look at you, and your heart ached at the naked emotion in his eyes. "What would I do without you?"

"Probably cry a lot more dramatically."

"I'm not dramatic!"

"Says the man who spent ten minutes saying goodbye to each tire."

"They needed proper farewells!"

You kissed him softly, feeling him melt into you. "My dramatic little bitch.”

"Your dramatic little bitch," he agreed against your lips. He laughed, the sound echoing in the empty garage. "God, I love you."

"I know."

"Even when you're mean to me."

"Especially then."

He kissed you again, deeper this time, pouring everything he couldn't say into it.

"Ready to go home?" you asked when you finally parted.

"One more minute," he turned to look at the car one last time, keeping you tucked against his side.

"Take all the time you need."

He pressed a kiss to your temple. "As long as you're here."

[starksweasley]

Throwing Books // James Potter

Pairing: James Potter x Reader, Platonic! Remus Lupin x Reader

Summary: In which both you and James have been too stressed and you finally break (angst, fluff)

Word Count: 1734

The library was suffocating. Your textbooks loomed in front of you, the words blurring into an incomprehensible haze. Normally, you’d find solace here—a quiet corner to focus and drown out the chaos of Hogwarts. But tonight, the silence pressed down on you, amplifying your frustration. And then there was James.

The fight from earlier replayed in your mind like a broken record. He’d yelled, you’d yelled louder, and then you’d thrown a book. A bloody book. It hadn’t even been a small one; the thud it made as it hit the floor echoed through the common room, silencing everyone. Sirius’s jaw had dropped, Peter’s eyes had widened, and Remus—sweet, patient Remus—had been the one to step in, grabbing you by the arm and dragging you away before you could hurl something else.

“What the hell was that?” he’d hissed, his golden-brown eyes wide with disbelief as he pulled you into the empty corridor.

“He started it!” you’d snapped, your voice cracking under the weight of unshed tears. Frustration bubbled beneath your skin, making your hands tremble.

“And you finished it by nearly taking his head off with a Charms textbook? Brilliant plan,” Remus had replied, his sarcasm biting but oddly comforting. He placed a steadying hand on your shoulder, his thumb brushing lightly in a soothing motion. “Come on,” he said, his voice softening when he noticed your trembling form. “Let’s cool off.”

You hesitated, looking back towards the common room, your anger still simmering just beneath the surface. “He doesn’t understand, Remus. He doesn’t care about how hard everything feels right now.”

“That’s not true, and you know it,” Remus countered gently, his calm voice a stark contrast to your stormy emotions. “He cares too much. That’s why you’re both at each other’s throats. You’re both stubborn as hell, and it’s exhausting watching you two try to out-angst each other.” His lips quirked into a faint smile, a touch of warmth softening his words.

You huffed, crossing your arms over your chest. “That doesn’t mean he gets to yell at me like that.”

“No, it doesn’t,” Remus agreed, his expression growing serious. “But you didn’t exactly take the high road either. Chucking a brick of a textbook at him? Really?”

“It was within reach,” you muttered, looking away as a blush crept up your cheeks.

Remus chuckled softly, the sound almost affectionate. “You’re impossible, you know that?” He placed a steadying hand on your shoulder, his touch grounding. “Come on. Let’s walk. You need to cool off before you destroy the entire Gryffindor common room.”

He tugged you down the corridor, his calm presence easing some of the tension knotting your chest. As you walked, he glanced at you out of the corner of his eye. “For what it’s worth, I think you’re both just stressed and taking it out on each other. He misses you, you know.”

Your steps faltered slightly, but you caught yourself. “He has a funny way of showing it.”

Remus sighed, his tone patient. “James Potter isn’t exactly the poster child for emotional intelligence. But he’s trying. And so are you. Maybe meet him halfway?”

You allowed yourself to be led away, the adrenaline fading and leaving behind only exhaustion and a faint twinge of guilt.

Now, hours later, you sat in the library, staring blankly at your notes. The fight had drained you, left a hollow ache in your chest that no amount of studying could fill. James hadn’t come after you, and that hurt more than you cared to admit. You were both busy, sure—you with school, him with Quidditch—but you’d always found time for each other. Until now.

“This is ridiculous,” you muttered, slamming your book shut. The noise earned a sharp glare from Madam Pince, but you didn’t care. You couldn’t sit here another second, not when the thought of James out on the pitch, still angry, gnawed at you.

Before you could talk yourself out of it, you grabbed your things and bolted from the library. The air was crisp as you stepped outside, the distant glow of the Quidditch pitch guiding your steps. The sounds of late-night drills reached you before the sight of him did—the thwack of a Bludger, the whistle of wind as brooms cut through the air. And then there he was.

James flew with a kind of reckless grace, his hair a wild mess, his face flushed from exertion. He didn’t see you at first, too focused on chasing the Quaffle. You hesitated, watching him for a moment longer. Even now, angry and hurt, you couldn’t help but think he looked… incredible.

Steeling yourself, you reached into your bag and grabbed the first thing your hand landed on: another book. With a determined throw, you sent it sailing into the air, straight into his line of vision.

“Oi!” he shouted, swerving to avoid it. He caught sight of you as the book tumbled to the ground. “What is it with you and throwing books at me lately?”

You shrugged, your heart pounding as he descended. “They get your attention, don’t they?”

He landed with a thud, his broom clattering to the ground. “You’re mad, you know that?”

“Maybe,” you replied, your voice quieter now. “But so are you.”

James’s face softened, though his eyes still held a spark of irritation. He approached slowly, his broom abandoned behind him, until he was just a step away. “What do you want, love?” he asked, his tone weary. “I’m tired. It’s been a long day.”

“You think it hasn’t been for me?” The words came out sharper than you intended, your frustration bubbling to the surface again. You took a deep breath, willing yourself to stay calm. “I hate fighting with you, James. I hate this. It’s… exhausting.”

His sigh was long and heavy, and he ran a hand through his hair, messing it further. “Yeah, well, maybe you should think about that before you start chucking books.” Despite the edge in his tone, his lips twitched like he was trying to suppress a smile.

“Don’t put this all on me,” you shot back, the anger simmering in your chest. “You yelled first!”

“Because you’ve been avoiding me for weeks!” he snapped, his voice rising as he stepped closer. “Do you know how bloody frustrating it is to feel like you don’t have time for me anymore? Like I’m not important to you?”

“I’m drowning in schoolwork, James! What do you want me to do? Drop everything and watch you play Quidditch?” Your voice wavered, and you hated how vulnerable it made you sound.

“I just want you to talk to me!” he shouted, the words bursting out before he could stop them. His voice cracked on the last word, and he dropped his gaze to the ground, the anger in his posture giving way to something softer, something raw. “I… I miss you.”

The confession hung in the air between you, heavy and unguarded. His hand fidgeted at his side, as if he was unsure whether to reach for you. You stared at him, your chest tightening as his words sank in.

“James…” you began, but your voice faltered. You bit your lip, the frustration and sadness from the past weeks rising like a tide.

“You’re my person,” he continued, quieter now, his voice almost breaking. “And not talking to you, even for a day, it’s awful. I hate it.” His hazel eyes met yours, full of the vulnerability he rarely let anyone see.

Tears prickled at the corners of your eyes, and you blinked them away. “Me too,” you admitted, your voice trembling. “I’m sorry. For avoiding you, for the fight, for everything. You’re important to me, James. You always have been.”

His shoulders sagged with relief, and he took another step closer, until he was right in front of you. “Are we okay?” he prompted softly, his voice gentle but his gaze searching, almost pleading.

You didn’t answer. Instead, you closed the distance between you, your movements quick and almost desperate. Your arms looped tightly around his neck, yanking him down as you pressed your lips to his. It wasn’t a gentle kiss—it was fervent, an outpouring of every emotion that had bubbled under your skin all day. Anger, frustration, longing—they all coalesced in that moment. He froze for a half-second, his breath hitching against your lips, before melting into the kiss. His arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you flush against him, and you could feel the tension in his grip, like he was afraid to let go. The faint taste of salt and the lingering warmth of his exertion made your head spin, and the world around you seemed to dissolve into nothing but him.

When you finally pulled away, his forehead rested against yours, his breath warm on your skin. “You’re insane,” he murmured, though his lips curved into a small smile.

“Takes one to know one,” you replied, a watery laugh escaping you. You felt your chest lighten, but your mind was still racing. Glancing at the book you had thrown earlier, now resting abandoned on the ground, you couldn’t help but chuckle softly.

“What’s so funny?” he asked, tilting his head slightly.

“You’d think with all the books I’ve chucked at you today, I’d be the one to apologize to Madam Pince for ruining library property,” you said, a faint blush creeping up your cheeks.

He laughed, a sound that warmed you from the inside out. “I think she’d sooner ban you for life than let you borrow another one,” he teased, his arms still secure around you. “But you do owe me a new Charms book, by the way.”

“Oh, do I?” you quipped, arching a brow.

“Definitely,” he replied, his grin widening. He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “But maybe I’ll let it slide if you promise not to avoid me again.”

You smiled, your fingers idly playing with the collar of his Quidditch jersey. “Deal,” you murmured, the word carrying more weight than a simple agreement.

As the night settled around you, James finally pulled back, his hand brushing a strand of hair from your face. “You know,” he started, his tone light, “this whole book-throwing thing? Kind of impressive. But if you’re ever mad at me again, maybe try not aiming at my head.”

You laughed, the sound clear and unburdened. “Noted, Potter. Noted.”

[thegeassking-blog]

Progeny Lost and found

To Amanda Waller.

Considering that you're moving all assets (soldier boy, soldier girl, drones) of the soldier program to your Suicide Squad this report will the last you receive, we do apologize if it gets long, but it will allow us to be thorough.

17 years ago Diana Prince AKA Wonder Woman gave birth to a son at XYZ hospital and the child was seized in a fake villain attack and placed in the soldier program, genetic testing has shown that the child's father is indeed Bruce Wayne AKA Batman, both are known, active and founding members of the Justice League.

For the first four years not much is to be reported other than calm mind.

However at five years old we successfully taught him how to read and that seemed to "click" something in his mind, he started reading everything we had on hand magazines newspapers books on top of that he also started disassembling and reassembling basically everything and anything he could get his hands on, including our "personal project" to our chagrin. The fact that he seems to understands what he diss/reassembles speaks for enhanced mental abilities. Further testing is required

On top of that he demonstrates greater physical than a child his age should be able to possess we are again chalking this up to genetics considering who his parents are, further testing is required.

At 6 years old we started harvesting blood, stem cell, saliva and hair from soldier boy for cloning considering that the clones won't be viable for several years for the fact that the technology needs to be calibrated for the subject being cloned we suspect that the first successful batch won't be around until the subject is at least nine to 10 years of age, we have also started on physical and mental training.

At 8 years old we can confirm that soldier boy does indeed possess an erratic memory Needless to say for a soldier this is quite good considering that you may not get more than a glance at something in the field. This was confirmed when he rebuilt one of our "personal projects" from scrap and literal garbage we had lying around the the lab, nearly burnt the place down with that ecto blaster.

As for physical abilities he's demonstrating nearly 50% more than what normal children his age should possess, his physical conditioning should only enhance this, biologically his muscles are denser, his bones are stronger, on top of that he also seems to possess not quite a meta level but definitely accelerated healing factor. The limit of this ability requires further testing.

at 10 years of age our theory has been proven correct for both physical and mental abilities, the more we seem to push him the more he seems to grow. no longer is he learning just theory we've also started martial arts training as well as weapon training, he doesn't master a weapon the moment he picks it up but it only takes him a couple minutes have usage to figure out the most effective way to use a weapon be it melee or firearm.

Sad to say it might take another year or two for the first batch of clones. No stable clones have been able to survive outside the birthing tank for more than a few minutes however we believe we found the problem, the Y chromosome in his DNA seems to be unstabilizing all the clones we believe that removing it would stabilize them but it would also make it so that we would no longer have "perfect" clones of soldier boy. The reason behind this is unknown however we believe it is due to his Amazonian DNA.

At 12 years old we have continued physical and mental training however we've also started adding in psychological conditioning fit for a soldier. we have also started swapping out the targets for specialized training dummies that actually bleed when they are cut or shot.

We are also happy to announce that we have our first clone, while we were aiming for the batch of 5, as the accelerated aging evened out it was obvious that only one was capable of higher thought the. other four were terminated. we are planning on keeping them separated until the clone (from here on out shall be known as soldier girl) at least basic knowledge and we finish up running some tests.

Sadly the rest of the report was corrupted however there were two signatures at the bottom of it

Doctor Jack and doctor Madeline Fenton

[revelboo]

Me at your post:

Question. Have you ever thought about writing for the Constructicons? (Not with Prowl though). I think it would be hilarious.

Rewatched their G1 episodes today. Title is the song ‘Drive’ by The Matches. An attempt was made

Drive

Constructicons x Reader

• “I’m just saying. A little appreciation.” Exchanging a look with Long Haul, Scavenger tries to ignore Hook’s grumbling as they work. Pushing against a tree until the wood splinters and breaks so he can dove it over and drag it out of the way. Pausing to tip his head up at the night sky and wonder where home is. “We’re out here busting our afts and do we get any thanks?” Hook demands. No. What they’d gotten was their energon rations cut because in the Decepticon hierarchy, they’re not much higher than Insecticons. He doesn’t like it, but understands. Being forged here on this miserable mudball not Cybertron means being looked down upon. And he has no idea where Cybertron is among those glittering stars. Can it be home when he’s never set ped there?

• “We do our job. A fragging good job,” Scrapper says, trying to keep the peace as Bonecrusher utters a harsh laugh and Mixmaster just shakes his head at him. Like he doesn’t see the scorn. Knows the others think he’s oblivious, but he’s knows they’re looked down on until they’re needed. Devastator demands their respect, but on their own? They’re second class citizens. If even that. Some of the other Decepticons are all too happy to sneer at them, to assume that since they didn’t come from Cybertron they’re less.

• Bending to gouge up a handful of soil and to intake through his vents, separating out the individual components in his head, Mixmaster growls. Scenting those trace amounts of energon that are the whole reason they’re out here in the middle of nowhere. “No one wants to hear that, though,” Mixmaster mutters. “They want us to work and keep quiet. It’s here.” Glancing at his brother when Bonecrusher bumps him. “They’re scared of us,” Bonecrusher growls, beginning to aggressively clear the land of trees, movements sloppy and giving away that he’s been into the high grade. But they all know it’s Devastator that’s feared, not them. They’re tools. Nothing more. Disrespected and mocked by the rest of the Decepticons. Something they all feel and that gets compounded when they’re combined. That dissatisfaction growing every time they combine, spreading and feeding on itself when they separate again. Reaching a boiling point with no outlet to let off some steam. Except to destroy something. And there’s nothing here but trees.

• Exhausted and not even tempted by the hot, greasy smell of fast food in the bag in the passenger seat, you go over the list in your head again. Trying to remember if you’ve gotten at least a little something for everyone. That you’re ready for the upcoming holiday. You’d volunteered to work the day before for the extra cash, but you keep wondering if you’re forgetting something. Distracted you almost miss the huge, dark shape that comes sailing out of the woods. Slamming a foot on the brake as your car slides with a scream of tires, a tree slams into the road ahead of you and goes end over end in a shower of pine needles and broken branches. What? Toggling your emergency lights on, you put the car into park and get out, wincing at the biting cold. And your breath catches as it sinks in that a tree chucked like a javelin even though there’s no wind, no plausible explanation, nearly took you out. Squinting into the dark woods, your skin prickles as a red glow flares in the shadows. Then five more.

• Hears Bonecrusher laugh and Long Haul turns to follow his stare. Sees the tiny shape through the trees silhouetted by the headlights of the car behind them. There’s no way the little human can see anything more than the glow of their optics. But there’s a whisper of excitement twisting through him as Scrapper says, “Bottle of engex to whoever squishes it before it ruins everything.”

• Heart in your throat as those red glows shift and a branch cracks, there’s a roar from the trees that crackles through you and you forget the car. Forget everything beyond the animal need to get away. Running as trees crack and get uprooted with thunderous noise behind you to send you racing across the road and into the woods on the other side in a blind panic. Don’t even know what’s chasing you, only that you don’t want to find out. Is this what a rabbit feels like with hungry foxes snapping at its heels?

• Heavy peds tearing up dirt and leaves as he tries to overtake Hook, Scavenger hears Mixmaster calling out to the organic. Laughingly saying they only want to play. You’re surprisingly fast for being so small, but even noisier than Bonecrusher somehow. Energon pumping through his lines as you break from the trees, just a little shadow silvered by the moon, almost unreal looking as you pelt through the tall grass. Catches a glimpse of terrified eyes when you glance back and then you go down, disappearing completely.

• “Where’d it go?” Hook growls, reaching to push Scavenger out of his way as the rest of his brothers catch up and he realizes there’s a sheet drop, the ground giving way so suddenly you hadn’t seen it in time to react. Leaning down to look at the still form lying in the shallow stream at the bottom, there’s a momentary flicker of disappointment. Because chasing you had made him feel more alive than he’d felt in a long time. The hunt a high almost as sweet as combining.

• Lingering at the edge of the ravine, spark pulsing still with the excitement of your fear, Scrapper’s aware of Mixmaster and Bonecrusher shoving at each other. Of Long Haul and Scavenger both still staring down at their quarry. Turning away to order them back to work, he hesitates as Scavenger bumps his arm with a fist. “It’s still alive.” And he hears the low, pained sound from the little human. “Pretty fun to chase,” Long Haul adds, shooting him a look. Primus, are they wanting to keep you? Like a pet? All five of his brothers are staring at him now. Waiting for his decision. And groaning in defeat, he gestures at the drop. “Fine, but I’m not cleaning up after it.” Because you’re a distraction, something to keep them from dwelling on how unhappy they all are.

[bloggerspam]

Jason wakes up dazed and confused, with three sets of glowing green eyes hovering over him.

"Jason Todd was dead to begin with." The biggest one intones in a, frankly, terrible British Accent. Alfred would be appalled.

"What?" Jason croaks, just as the middle one elbows the big one.

"As dead as a doornail!" The littlest one chirps, hands thrown up as they fly this way and that around them with a giggle.

"Danny," The middle one sighs, but doesn't finish the thought.

"You're the one who started it." The biggest one grumps, "Besides, I haveta admit, it sort of fits."

"I thought you hated that movie," The middle one shoots back, "And we established on the way here it's not 1 to 1."

"The logic is sound." The biggest one makes his voice nasally, clearly mocking.

"Dan," The middle one admonishes, "You're confusing the guy."

"But Danny," the little one, also named Danny and giving Jason a bigger headache than death should really give him, whines as she(?) flops down on Dan's broad shoulders, "I did research!"

"Watching The Muppet Christmas Carol doesn't count as research, Danny." Dan grumbles.

"Dan," Danny, the middle one, says again, "The Muppet version was not only time-period accurate, but also faithful to the book. To a certain extent."

Danny, the little one, floats upside down in Dan's face to stick her tongue out.

"Are all of you named Danny?" Jason coughs, hoping to stop whatever the hell is going on here, "Or Dan, or whatever?"

"I'm Danny with a y." Danny flaps a hand to the littlest one who sits back down on Dan's shoulders, "And she's Dani with an i."

Dani waves before giggling and pulling at Dan's cheeks, "And Big Guy over here is Dan!"

"Danny is my deadname," Dan deadpans, though it's hard to take seriously when his cheeks are still being stretched to comical lengths.

Jason doesn't know what to say to that, but apparently it cracks Dani up something fierce. She giggles so hard that she falls off, though Dan simply catches her by the ankles and dangles her there without taking his gaze away from Jason.

He gulps. Takes a deep breath. Looks around and thinks.

Jason tries to reorient himself, catalogue where he is, what his condition is, who these people are, and what they're here for.

He's in his room at the Manor, but something feels off.

He's sitting on his bed, the box with his birth parent’s belongings Ms. Walker gave him on the bed still opened up next to him. The contents of it, the documents, the pictures, the…the address book.

He traces a finger over the S written on his birth certificate, where the rest of his birth mother's name has been smudged to all hell. He must have fallen asleep, reading through the names and waiting for Bruce to finish patrol so he could use the BatComputer to search through the bulky book.

He flicks his gaze around his room, looking fairly untouched. The windows and door are locked shut, and nothing has been disturbed. It's dark, but everything has a weird glow to it.

The three intruders bicker and banter but never take their eyes off him.

Dan's gaze hurts most of all, so he avoids him, focusing on Danny's steady gaze instead.

He opens his mouth to ask questions, thoughts flipping through possible weapons within reach, when he finally understands what's wrong.

His gaze sticks to the window behind where Danny floats between the other two, where the tree he climbs to sneak out can be seen.

The leaves are blowing—no, the leaves are stuck in the motion of blowing. The tree is leaning, ever so slightly, stopped in the action of swaying.

Raindrops float, no, raindrops pause in the action of falling.

Time, Jason thinks, may or may not be stopped.

"You're at a crossroads, Jason Todd." Danny's voice snaps Jason's gaze to his, glowing green irises neon bright in the almost dark.

"Crossroads?" Jason echoes, scanning the other boy. He's Jason's age, probably, a teenager with the posture of someone who's seen shit. The way Jason's seen shit, the way Dickie's seen shit. Older than they look, younger than they feel. Bright white hair flowing in an invisible wind, features soft and frame lithe. A Robin's build.

"You're going to look for your mom," Dani cuts in, twirling and twisting out of Dan's grip, floating on her back like she's in a swimming pool, and not 8 feet in the air. She too has bright white hair and glowing green eyes, a spitting image but in feminine form, hair tied up in a low ponytail, but instead of swaying it mists, like smoke, or vapor. It fades a pathway behind her like water trails in a lake.

"And you're going to meet three women," Dan picks up the thread, looking bored and unhappy to be here. He's a large, hulking man with blue skin, starkly different from the other two though he shares the same eyes. His white hair flickers like flame, though it's somehow contained in a single long braid.

"And eventually," Danny frowns, "You will meet your birth mother."

Jason sits bolt up, scooting towards the edge of the bed, leaning forward. "I do?"

"It's not a good thing," Dan tsks.

"S'not a bad thing either," Dani softly placates, "Eventually, I mean."

"Bullshit." Dan grumbles, but is silenced by Danny lifting up a hand.

"You'll meet her," Danny speaks over them, "And then you'll die."

Dani spins her way towards Jason, miming a little kaboom! in his face, too close, before swirling back towards Dan.

"That's not important," Danny flaps a hand, "It's after your death that's the important part."

Jason stands up, "What—" He shakes his head, his thoughts scattering, "How do you even know this?"

Dan uncrosses his arms, reaching over to tap twice at a golden gear-like medallion with a stylized CW in the middle hanging over Danny's neck. It makes a dull, metallic thunkthunk.

Jason squints, that doesn't answer his question, but the others seem to take that as one.

"Who are you?" Jason finally settles on, swinging his gaze back and forth between the three, scooting closer to his nightstand where his panic button is.

"Ghosts." Danny shrugs, "Sort of."

"You can't be serious." Jason feigns resting on the nightstand, reaching back as if to lean back on it, searching for the little—

"As serious as death!" Dani giggles, startling Jason when she pops her head from behind him over his shoulder, grinning. The button clatters to the floor. Shit.

"An interested party," Dan clarifies as Dani circles around Jason to pick up the panic button and put it in his hand, "Sort of."

Jason stares at the panic button, thankful that it just looks like a little bat pin, the kind that's decorative, to put on your bag. He presses the body of it, where there's an outline of a tummy, and hears a click.

"As we said before, you're at a crossroads" Danny coughs to cut in, "We're here to…guide you to a more informed decision."

"You're here to save me from dying." Jason's voice is so flat, it could have been machine pressed, "Because what, my living is integral to the timeline?"

"Well. No." Danny winces, "Not…exactly."

Jason freezes. He's been continuously pressing the panic button, but the light isn't coming on. He flicks another glance at the window with its frozen tableau.

Time, he thinks, is being stopped.

Jason's heart starts pounding.

And then he feels his hand being lifted, realizing that he's white-knuckled the panic button, pressing his nails into his skin as he squeezes the button into his palm intermittently.

"It won't work." Dani carefully and gently pries the sharp edges of the bat wings out of his hand, "Not yet."

Jason stares at her little hands cradling his. There's not much difference in their ages, he thinks. Dan is a giant amongst them, maybe in his twenties, maybe even Bruce's age. Danny seems to be about the same age as him, physically at least, maybe a bit younger, Jason's always been small for his age.

But Jason's hands are big, the kind you have to grow into, and Dani looks at least a couple years younger. She's rubbing his hand sadly, casting glances at her companions—-brothers? And looking, for the first time, unsure about this whole endeavor.

That, more than anything, calms him down.

"The fact of the matter is this," Danny's voice yanks him back from his idle observations, "Your death, in the grand scheme of things, doesn't really affect much of anything at all."

"That's reassuring," Jason says without his input, "Way to make a guy feel real special."

Danny sighs, like the world has come upon his shoulders. Jason feels a little bad about it, but not bad enough to take it back.

"You're special in the way that all people're special," Danny corrects himself, "Because when you die, temporary or not, it leaves scars on the people who love you."

Jason scoffs, remembering his and Bruce's fight. He thinks about Dickie, off on his own adventure, not quite mad at Jason for taking up the Robin mantle, but not happy about it either.

He thinks about Catherine, about this mysterious birth mother with a name that starts with an S.

He thinks about Willis, and decides that’s enough thinking about that.

"Look," Danny cuts in as Jason's gaze swings over to him, "We have our own reasons for going through this, reasons that, believe it or not, do not actually involve you." He floats over to one of Jason's bookshelves, picks up the single family picture Alfred had to be cajoled into joining.

Not that the butler resisted much, beyond the token I'm just a butler, Master Jason.

Jason knows that Dickie has one too, his own version before Jason came that he also cajoled Alfred into joining.

It's tradition now, apparently.

Never mind that there're only two of them, that Dickie left his copy of the picture here, in the Manor, instead of taking it with him to Titan's Tower.

"I would try to explain, but clearly, just talking about it isn't gonna cut it." Danny places the picture frame down and moves on to the copy of Pride and Prejudice he has to read for school and has been procrastinating on.

"I told you he wouldn't listen." Dan mutters as he floats over to join Danny over by the bookshelf, leaning against the desk beside it to watch as Danny peruses the book.

"Well it's my first time doing something like this too," Danny closes the book with a thud, putting it away and tiredly slumping against Dan, "I was hoping it would be easy."

"CW would never make it easy for us," Dan scoffs, though he does wrap an arm around his companion, "Lessons learned and whatnot."

"I secretly think they like being cryptic," Dani stage whispers to Jason, "They were probably a theatre kid in life."

"Let's just get this over with." Dan growls, shifting to lift Danny like a football under one arm and floating up. He grabs the medallion before it falls off, tosses it to Dani who catches it and puts it on.

Danny sighs, but does not stop him, simply lays limp and mutters to the floor, "See you later, Ghost of Christmas Past."

"It's not even Christmas," Jason says, so confused he doesn't even think to stop them, "It's April."

"Bye!" Dani chirps, waving cutely before grabbing Jason's hand again. "Ready to go?"

"Go where?" Jason asks, gaze bouncing back and forth between the two leaving and the one staying. "Where are they going?"

"Weren't you listening?" Dani grins, tugging him up and Jason's suddenly floating. "It's Time!!!!"

Jason faintly thinks: Time for what? But the medallion gear spins, making odd little clicking sounds, like ticks and tocks. The world around them suddenly starts to whorl together. A second, maybe years later, and it stops.

Jason, inevitably, throws up.

A Christmas Carol AU

Inspired by a prompt found in the @haunting-heroes-creative-games :) (i.e. back on my shit again)

When a 15 year old Jason, pissed at Bruce for taking Robin away from him, finds his birth certificate he realizes Catherine Todd is not his real mother.

Just as he resolves to go out and search for his birth mother, Jason finds himself accosted by three ghosts in his room, talking about A Christmas Carol of all things.

===

"So, what? We're gonna Christmas Carol him?"

Dan scoffs, crossing his bulky arms with an unimpressed look. "We hated that movie."

"I didn't." Dani chirps, disturbingly cheery, "I didn't see it!"

"We hate Christmas," Danny corrects, "But the movie was alright, and the logic is sound."

"I don't hate Christmas," Dani once again interjects cheerily, "I've never participated!"

"Sound my ass," Dan growls over her, throwing his hands up. "We don't even know this guy!"

"Minor detail." Danny insists, "Tuck can look him up."

"He's a fucking Bat, Danny." Dan scrunches up his face, pinching the bridge of his nose just like Vlad does when he's disgruntled with any of Dad's shenanigans.

"He's a Robin, actually." Dani pipes in, "And he's just a kid. How hard is it gonna be to pretend to be this kid's Ghosts?"

"You're a kid," Dan reminds her, crossing his arms, "And you didn't believe me when I told you sticking a fork in the outlet would shock you."

"I believed you," Dani sniffs haughtily, crossing her arms and pointing her nose up with a snooty voice, "The warning simply did not deter me from doing it anyway."

"We don't have to convince him we're his Ghosts, or even that we knew him before," Danny reasons, needling, "We just have to convince him that we're…"

He hums, pointing at Dani. "Past."

He points at himself, "Present."

He points at Dan, "Future."

Dani does a little cheer, arms up and twirling into the air before landing with her legs over Dan's shoulders, hands and head settling atop Dan's fiery, but harmless, hair. It flickers, before going limp into long white strands that Dani messes up by gently scrunching up the strands and running her fingers through them.

Dan lets her, huffing and looking weirdly like a downtrodden, wet cat. "Why am I future?"

"Because." Danny doesn't continue, because he knows it makes Dan annoyed. True to form, his scowl gets worse, like sucking on a lemon. They all know why anyway.

Dani grins, triumphant and knowing, letting her voice go real deep, "The future," she intones into Dan's hair, "is here."

"The future is now," Danny corrects her, but doesn't lose his smile, floating up to tuck a strand of her hair back behind her ear.

"The future is already here," Dan mumbles his correction, or is it a follow-up? "It's just not evenly distributed."

"How about you distribute some of those muscles, Gibson," Danny sighs, shaking his head "Waiting for puberty is such a drag, and we both know you didn't get the mass from Vlad's side of the family."

Dan makes a moue of disgust, but it serves him right. The consequences of his own actions, and whatnot. He looks up at Dani, who simply shrugs. "I think you'll do great." She leans down to give him two pats on the arm.

"So how's acting out A Christmas Carol gonna help us stop this Jason guy from blowing up?" Dani fiddles with Dan's hair, tongue poking out as she attempts a braid, "Will he even see us? Ghosts in this dimension taste funny."

"He'll be able to see us, it's magically rich enough for some ghosts to maintain a semblance of themselves," Danny explains for the third time. Dani and Dan hum at different pitches, and even though Danny is the common denominator he kind of hates that Vlad has more of a lasting impression on them. "The ectoplasm here is scarce and mostly corrupted, though, so it's rare."

"So there's lotsa bad ghosts here?" Dani eyes the messy braid she's made, proud, even as Dan's silky hair immediately causes it to fall apart, "Or 'mentally unsound' or whatever Frostbite called it."

"No," Dan grumbles, annoyed and indulging all at once, "Corruption begets ecto-rot, but the scarcity means they're not strong enough to actually retain their sense of self enough to rot."

"Shades," Danny explains when Dani looks even more confused, "There's lots of shades."

"Is this one of the Olympian dimensions?" Dani groans, flopping over Dan's shoulder as he sits down on the sofa, "I love Pandora and all, but if I see Zeus again I'm gonna lose it."

"It's one of the hero dimensions," Danny hums, taking over braiding Dan's hair the way Jazz made him when they were little, "There's a couple of Amazons walking about, but on the whole no Olympians."

"I don't know why he didn't just dump me in a Norse dimension." Dan leans back and closes his eyes to their ministrations. "Especially with my current occupation."

The three of them are sitting in Dan's apartment, a large loft studio located somewhere in the UK of the aforementioned hero-dimension. Alber-something, Danny can't remember. Doesn't need to, it being a different dimension from his anyway.

Dan doesn't have a lot of things: a sofa and TV, a bed in the corner, a decent but small kitchen. They're still trying to figure out decorations, but Dan on the whole is a minimalist so it's been slow going.

He's working as a bartender these nights, whiling away his odd existence now that his form has stabilized.

And wasn't that a trip? Learning that hey, adult lightning halfas shouldn't really be mixed with teenage ice halfas, actually!

Apparently, ectoplasm can become corrupted if you try to combine incompatible sources.

Apparently, side effects include (but are not limited to) unmitigated violence and a devastating need for vengeance.

Sound familiar?

"This dimension has a lot of time continuity errors," Danny reminds him, "Dropping you here gave the least amount of pushback."

"Yeah, yeah," Dan flaps a lazy hand, "Praise be the speedforce and flashpoints and whatnot."

"Plus," Dani adds softly, absent-minded as she watches Danny finish up the braid, "Lotsa heroes to help out if you relapse."

Dan heaves a slow, controlled sigh. Danny and Dani both pretend they don't notice.

"Is it bad?" Dan doesn't open his eyes, his voice is so low Danny can only hear him by virtue of his ghost powers, "Like me levels bad?"

"No." Danny shakes his head, leaning into his older self, his older brother of sorts, "He decapitated eight crime lords, killed a couple of assassins, maybe an innocent or two depending on your definition of things."

"Past tense?" Dan scrunches his nose. They all hate how confusing Time Shenanigans are.

"He's living as Red Hood, right this very moment."

"Red Hood?" Dani questions, "That his hero name?"

"Crime lord alias." Danny corrects her, "But he's more of a vigilante these days. Has a bat on his chest and everything."

"But it's bad enough to warrant a trip to the past." Dan points out, "Bad enough for us to try and persuade him. Does he relapse?"

"Not…exactly." Danny scrunches his face, not wanting to explain Clockwork's ambiguity.

Dani floats to spread over Danny and Dan's laps, sprawling out and purring like a cat. Self-soothing, though it's more for their benefit than hers.

"Like Dani said, there’re lots of heroes here, and he doesn't have powers." Danny continues, petting at Dani's soft hair, "The world doesn't end. He doesn't have the means to, even with the ecto-rot."

Danny pauses, and chooses his words deliberately and carefully. "And deep down, Jason Todd is a hero through and through. Relapse would be…difficult. His Obsession is similar to yours."

Dan lets that sit for a moment, but nods, Danny moving a little with the motion. The tension slowly bleeds out as they wait like that, enjoying each other's company.

"If the world doesn't end," Dani whispers, "Why is Clockwork sending all of us?"

Danny thinks on that, on his meeting with Clockwork. The Ancient's voice when he explained what would happen.

He thinks about Jason Todd, about Bruce Wayne, and Catherine, and Sheila. He thinks about Batman, and Robin.

He thinks about Dick Grayson and Tim Drake, about Damian Al Ghul, about Cassandra Cain, and all of Jason's Outlaws.

He thinks about a tattered uniform that stays up in a glass case for a long, long time.

Most of all, he thinks about Dan.

He thinks about regrets and one bad day away.

And then he stops thinking about it, because sometimes the past is the past, and other times, it's the future that never happens that haunts you instead.

"You know, Dani." He settles on, "I'm not sure. He probably has his reasons."

Dan leans heavier onto him, and they lean together like that, with Dani in their laps.

Ghosts of decisions made, unmade, and never to be.

Follow the story on AO3 here!

[floweycidal]

flowey thought you, of all people, would understand. that you, more than anyone, would get it. you’ve been down this road, stood in his place, stared into the same empty abyss, made all the bloody, damning choices. 

anyone who sees through the pretense of love and second chances ends up right where he is. that’s just how it works.

and you… you were meant to be the one who proved him right. you were supposed to be the validation he’s always needed, the evidence that this was all anyone could be once they saw the world for what it truly is, that there’s no other way.

that no one—no one—could come out the other side whole.

that his path, his descent, was inevitable. 

it needed to be. he’s poured every ounce of himself into this belief, convinced himself it’s the only thing that makes sense, the only thing keeping his identity together.

but then here you were… suddenly so pure, so full of light, hands clean of dust, wearing kindness like you'd never known anything else.

why?

the simple answer would be that you chose to be better. but for flowey, that explanation is poison.

he cannot, will not, accept that your transformation comes down to nothing more than a decision. that you looked at the same broken world he did and simply chose to rise above it. 

because if this is true… if your goodness is genuine, if your kindness isn’t just another weapon in his war…

what would that mean for him?

what would it say about every choice he's justified, about every path he’s sworn was the only option?

if this was all it takes—to choose to be better, to choose to not let the world break you—then...

NO! he needs it to be something else.

he scrambles. is it vengeance?

making him watch you earn the life he never thought he deserved after all he’s done while he…

the sentence dies there.

it doesn't need to go any further. we both know the rest.

while he stays this. while he rots here. while he watches you prove that everything he’s constructed around himself was just a choice.

he refuses to think about it.

his defenses snap into place. this has to be another game. a test. a performance meant to lull everyone into a false sense of security before you rip it all away.

he convinces himself that you’re just playing with him, that this light you carry is a facade, temporary and cruel. that in the end, you’ll take it all apart. tear it from him. from everyone. the way he would have. the way you would have.

if you’re still playing the part of the destroyer, still toying with the pieces before scattering them again, then he doesn’t have to confront the possibility that you’ve left him behind.

if it’s all just some heartless farce, then it’s something he knows. and what's known is safe.

it means you’re not done with him. you’re just playing a part. you get it. you’re still the one who understands. still the one who made the same choices, walked the same path.

his fall from grace wasn't a choice, but an inescapable conclusion. he wasn't alone in this. no way. you just wanted to see what it was all like.

genius, chara. real genius.

[mysteria157]

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

I hope you enjoy!

Pairing: True Form!Sukuna x Reader (Ryu)

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

WC: ~8.5K

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

Divider: @cyberbeat @arminsumi @firefly-graphics

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Indulge me?” you try again.

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

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

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

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

His hubris knows no bounds. Neither does your perseverance.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I thought you agreed not to grumble.”

“I never agreed.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“More blood cookies.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Like everything else in this domain.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ryu—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And I see you, Ryu.”

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

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

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

“I see you too, Ryomen.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Acquiescence.

Agreement.

I see you.

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

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

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

Merry Christmas, @grimmweepers !!!!

[archivequinn]

Can you please do an eddie angst? I love your fluff. I'm in the mood to read angst.

I've never tried angst before, but I hope you like it!

Summary: You and Eddie are breaking up.

On a cold winter evening, the wind was fiercely rattling the window frames, the city was shrouded in darkness, but inside the house, it was warm and filled with excitement for Eddie’s arrival. You read the postcard he had sent once more: “I’ll be there tomorrow night, princess. Wait for me. I miss you so much.” The words, written in Eddie’s messy handwriting, made you feel as though you could hear his voice. You had been apart for a month; such a long separation was unusual for you, and tonight would be a reunion where everything would fall back into place.

Finally, you heard the sound of an engine outside the door. Your heart began to race, a mixture of excitement and nervousness. It felt as though your feet weren’t touching the ground. You ran to the door, your hands trembling slightly.

Eddie was there. His face looked tired, but the sparkle in his eyes and the scent of the wind clinging to him spoke volumes. He seemed like a man who had let go of all his burdens and was now overflowing with you. Smiling, he took a step toward you. “I’ve missed you so much…” he murmured, his voice breaking slightly. Then he opened his arms and hugged you tightly.

His breath brushed past the side of your neck, warming you like a gentle breeze, and the rhythm of his heartbeat mingled with yours. The hug lasted so long that it felt as if all the troubles in the world had disappeared in that embrace. Tears welled up in your eyes; his warmth, his scent, his presence enveloped you completely. “Eddie…” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

He whispered back, “I know…”

You went inside. Eddie’s eyes wandered around the room, as if he was trying to recall a memory from a long time ago. “I even missed the smell of this house,” he said with a slight smile. Hats and scarves piled in a corner, the small details seemed to remind him of your shared story. He took you in his arms again, pressed his lips to your forehead, and closed his eyes. In that moment, time truly seemed to stand still. It was just the two of you; the noise, chaos, and confusion of the world were nothing more than a distant echo.

Finally, Eddie pulled back slightly, though his hands still rested on your waist. Looking at your face, he began to speak excitedly. “I have so much to tell you!” he said, his eyes gleaming. He talked about his adventures on the road, the places he had seen, the excitement on stage. “One time, a light bulb burst in the middle of a performance, and the whole set almost fell apart, but I shouted so much that people thought it was part of the show!” His laughter lit up the room, but a growing unease was building inside you.

During dinner, you noticed that Eddie kept glancing at the clock. At first, it seemed insignificant—maybe he was tired, or something was on his mind. But the peace of the evening gradually turned into tension. Finally, Eddie leaned slightly toward you, taking a deep breath. He put his fork down and placed his hands over yours.

“Listen,” he said, his voice trembling slightly. In his eyes, there was both happiness and deep indecision. “There’s something I need to tell you.” He paused for a moment, biting his lip as if weighing his words. Then, taking a deep breath, he continued. “I’ve received a new offer. A big tour… but I need to start immediately. I have to leave in a few hours.”

He looked at you, and you tried to understand the turmoil in his eyes. “This has been my dream. You know that, don’t you? You’re proud of me, right?” he said, his voice fragile like shattered glass.

“Of course, Eddie,” you replied, forcing a smile.

Eddie’s words trailed off, and there was an intensity behind his gaze. You looked into his eyes, but the words stuck in your throat, tangled with the weight of your emotions. “How long is the tour?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

Eddie took a deep breath, placing his hands on the edge of the table, his eyes cast downward. “A year,” he said. His voice wavered, and the strong, energetic man you knew now seemed like a boy struggling to find the right words. “We’ll be apart for a year.”

Those words felt like they had sucked all the oxygen out of the room. You felt a heaviness in your chest, struggling to breathe. When you looked into Eddie’s eyes, you saw both determination and fear. “Eddie…” you began, but couldn’t continue. The words collided in your mind, replaced by the sorrow you felt.

“Eddie, how can we handle such a long separation? A month was already so hard; a year… it feels impossible,” you said, your eyes filling with tears. You hadn’t expected them to come so quickly, but you couldn’t hold them back in front of Eddie.

Eddie reached out and held your hands. “I know. But I have to do this; I’m doing this for us. You’ve always been with me in this dream. I can’t do it without you,” he said, his voice cracking. In his eyes, there was both a plea and a deep guilt.

“Eddie, you say you’re doing this for us, but how meaningful can it be without us?” you asked. Tears streamed down your cheeks as you forced yourself to keep speaking. “You’re everything to me. But to not see you, to miss you, to think of you every day for a whole year… it will destroy me.”

A look of pain appeared on Eddie’s face, as if you had taken a piece of his heart and placed it in his hands. He ran his fingers through his hair, lowering his head. “I can’t do this without you,” he murmured, his voice so soft it was almost inaudible. But then he raised his eyes to meet yours, a flicker of hope dancing within them. “But maybe we can figure it out together. I want you to come with me. Let’s go on this tour together. I want to live my dreams with you by my side. Please, think about it.”

The moment you heard his proposal, your heart clenched with both joy and sorrow. The thought of being with Eddie, waking up every morning to his smile, warmed you for a brief moment. But then reality reminded you of itself. “Eddie, no… I can’t do that,” you said, your voice cracking. “I have a life here. A job, a routine. Leaving everything behind to be with you sounds like a beautiful dream, but… that’s not how things work in real life.”

Eddie’s eyes widened, as if your words had deeply wounded him. “Don’t I mean anything to you?” he asked, his voice fragile and desperate. “I don’t want to live this dream without you. But if you’re not with me, living while missing you this much will tear me apart.”

“Eddie…” you said, your voice choking amidst sobs. “You mean everything to me. But sometimes love isn’t enough. Sometimes the realities of life overshadow our dreams.”

Eddie remained silent for a moment, as though your words echoed in his mind. Tears streamed down his face, completely breaking the strong mask he usually wore. He reached out for you, but you stayed where you were, your eyes locked on his. “I love you,” he said, his voice cracking like shattered glass. “But how can we make this work? We have to find a way… I can’t do this without you.”

You brought your hands to your face, wiping away tears that only returned immediately. “I know you’ll never stop loving me,” you said, your voice trembling. “And I’ll always love you, too. But maybe loving each other isn’t enough to change our situation right now. And maybe… maybe this is the best we can do for now.”

Eddie took a step back, the desperation and heartbreak on his face resonating throughout the room. He closed his eyes, his lips moving silently as though searching for words but saying nothing. Tears streamed down his cheeks as he took a trembling breath and opened his eyes to look at you again. “I don’t want to say goodbye to you,” he said. “I never want to say goodbye to you.”

In that moment, time seemed to stop. As you gazed at each other in silence, everything felt both unbearably heavy and inexplicably light. Eddie wrapped his arms around you once more, holding you so tightly it felt like he was trying to pull you into his very being. “I love you,” he whispered, his voice breaking with sobs. “I’ll always love you.”

In that embrace, as you felt each other’s heartbeats, you both wished this moment could last forever. But you knew; even if this wasn’t a goodbye, nothing would be the same after this.

Eddie held you for a while longer, but the embrace no longer carried warmth—it carried a weight. You both knew this was the final connection before you let go of each other. Eddie’s breath was uneven, and each time it hit your shoulder, your heart broke a little more. His hands moved gently over your back, as if trying to etch the feeling of this touch into his memory.

Finally, he pulled back slowly. His eyes were red, yet they still held a deep resolve. He cupped your face with his hands, his thumbs brushing away the tears on your cheeks. “Princess,” he said, his voice low and trembling, “I want you to take care of yourself. Promise me, okay? Wrap your scarf if it’s cold, don’t catch a chill at night. Don’t forget to eat properly. And… please, no matter what, try to be happy.”

You could only nod. You wanted to speak, to say something, but the words wouldn’t come. The tears streaming down your face silenced you. Eddie’s eyes carried the pain of a farewell that would last a lifetime. He looked away for a moment, his gaze falling to the floor.

He reached for the chain around his neck, a guitar pick hanging from it. It was his favorite pick—the one he used on stage, the one that reminded you of him more than anything else. His hands trembled slightly as he removed the chain. He held the pick in his palm for a moment, looking at it before meeting your gaze again. “I’ve carried this with me everywhere. But now, it needs to stay with you,” he said.

He placed the chain around your neck, his fingers lingering on the pendant for a moment before pulling away gently. “Always keep this with you. If you ever feel lonely, let this necklace bring you back to me,” he said, his eyes glistening with tears. Your hands instinctively reached for the necklace, and as the coolness of the pick touched your palm, the knot in your throat tightened even more.

“But Eddie,” you said, your voice muffled by sobs, “Will we ever see each other again?” The words spilled out desperately, tears streaming uncontrollably down your face.

Eddie paused for a moment, looking straight into your eyes. The depth in his gaze carried a thousand words he wanted to say, but only a few made it past his lips. “I promise you,” he said, his voice broken but resolute. “No matter where I am, I’ll always think of you. I’ll always write to you. I’ll send you a postcard from every place I visit. Even if you forget me, those postcards will remind you of me.”

Those words gave you a small sense of solace, but your heart only grew heavier. Eddie took your hands in his and held them tightly. “But no matter what, you’ll always be here for me,” he said, placing a hand over his chest. “You’ll always be with me.”

Eddie slowly released your hands and let his eyes roam over you one last time. It was as if he was trying to etch every detail of you into his memory, knowing he might never see you again. “I love you,” he said, his voice barely more than a whisper.

Then he turned away. For a moment, he hesitated, as though he wanted to turn back and say something, but he kept moving forward. His steps were heavy but determined. You stood frozen in place, tears filling your eyes as you watched him go.

When Eddie reached the door, your breath caught, hoping he might turn back. But he didn’t. He opened the door and stepped outside. The air was freezing, the cold wind brushing against your face as you whispered after him, “Eddie…” But your voice was swallowed by the wind.

The door closed slowly. You ran to the window for one last glimpse of him. Outside, as snowflakes fell, you saw Eddie’s back. He was leaving. His steps quickened, as though he was afraid that stopping would make him turn around. His hands were shoved into his coat pockets, his head bowed. And you stood there behind the glass, tears streaming down your face, feeling your heart shatter.

Eddie didn’t look back. But you knew; you could feel that he was crying too.

credit for divider: @/strangergraphics taglist: @multyfangirl @nicholaschavezslut69 @t-folklore13

[lesbiandreamriso]

What I really like about Pluto is how morally gray almost every character is (with the exception of my baby Pim). I wanna talk about Kosol and May and why I think Ben is the MVP.

As a certified May defender my favourite ship is still Kosol x Jail. However alot of Kosol haters would be Kosol. Think about it. Your best friend is almost murdered and has to live the rest of his life disabled. His mom who is also a parental figure in your life kills herself. You want revenge but you cant go after the criminal who has all the resources to get himself a slap on the wrist so you go after the shady lawyer that got him off because in your mind its the lawyers fault.

She didnt hurt your friend but she let a criminal back into the streets. Her defense got him a win in the court of public approval. Instead of being seen as the murderous bastard he is he's seen as a hero now and your friend is a nameless motorpunk who deserved it.

Its terrible but it is realistic and the profession of law is fundamentally immoral. The job of a lawyer isn't to seek justice its to defend their client and while we the audience can understand this because we are far removed from the repurcussions of May's actions if it were your friend or your family you would be tempted to get some payback even if you didnt do it.

Cases like this cause me to have a huge amount of cognitive dissonance because i love stories about vigilante justice. I know if this story was from Kosol's pov I probably wouldn't feel as bad for May as I do.

With Pluto alot of the central characters have some sort of logic behind what they do no matter how shaky. The difference between villian and victim depends on the point of view and the amount of informatiom we have at any given moment. Kosol is wrong no matter how you slice it but the only reason why we think May didnt deserve it is because we know and love May.

May knows this too. She may not have hurt Ben or killed his mom but she set his attacker free. Her crime was enabling and she feels terrible about it because under normal circumstances she wouldn't do it. That's why she wont turn him in. She believes those who do wrong deserve punishment. In her mind she did wrong and the universe punished her. The specifics dont matter anymore especially when you factor in Ai oon's relationship with Kosol.

Back to Ben. I say he is the Mvp because he has every reason to hate May and hold what she did over her head forever. He has an idea of the guilt and anguish she's facing because he no doubt blames himself for his mom's death the way May does and he not only frees himself from the prison of guilt and pain he likely lived in for years, he freed her too. If I were in his position I wouldn't have the strength to do it.

This is very much an explanation not an excuse. As a May lover my favourite ship is still Kosol x Jail but as a person who sometimes lets thoughts slip through when I watch shows I have complex feelings about Kosol. No love or hatred just confusion and because of that he may be one of my favourite gl characters in 2024. In terms of writing.

Side note: Ai oon's reaction to finding out the news also reinforces this point. She was far removed from the repercussions of Kosols action. She saw only the "villian" side of May and decided to pass judgement, determining what she did and didnt deserve. Then she meets May and falls in love. Now she is haunted by the fact that she not only enabled the crime that caused the person she loves most to become blind. She inspired it. She planted the seed. We can say she did nothing wrong. I maintained that stance till i found out she knew exactly what Kosol did and didn't stop him. Now I think she is partially guilty but ultimately Kosol is a grown man who makes his own choices and he choose to do what he did. The real question this episode is asking is how do we measure guilt. Does being a bystander make you guilty? An enabler? Or a perpetrator? The answer is all but only sometimes. Everything is relative it just depends on who is telling the story.

The last thing I'll say is there is no villian in this story just people doing questionable things for love and getting mixed results. I know the gl fandom loves a black and white hero vs villian narrative. I have fallen victim to this in the past when talking about kosol and oom but pluto has shown that its a show that requires a more critical lense. Lets ignore personal feelings about the characters for a minute and really examine their actions as objectively as we can. The discourse around the show could be so fun if we did.

[annawayne]

hi anna 🪷🤍

do you have any aruani headcanons for jealousy? feeling angsty tonight xd

Hello, Darcy! 🖤

Oh, thank you a lot for asking! I actually have some thoughts on this...

Let's imagine that in this scenario, Armin and Annie didn't get together after Rumbling, immediately swept by the endless responsibilities, just catching longing gazes across the rooms and space, half-smiles, and some quick wave of their hands when they meet during the day. Still, none of them doesn't returns to their boat conversation, afraid to hear something that would break their hearts, that it was just a "moment" and nothing else, and also because they are both pressed with an enormous list of things they have to do - being now responsible for the rebuilding of the world in ruins is something that leaves so little space and time for themselves: while the world was healing, rising from the ashes, their own lives losing colors with every day, tucked between infinite things to do, guilt for the things they did to each other and "much important" than the erratic quiver inside heart muscles when their eyes meet, sending ripples of oxymoron mix of tickling heat and cold goosebumps all across the skin.

Torn apart sometimes for weeks, then months, when Armin usually goes to the negotiations, sometimes with Jean or Pieck, Annie is left behind, feeling with each day that the distance between him and her grows not even in miles, but in something more grave and not tangible, something that thrives within her core with trembling fear of something she isn't sure what for, leaving her hollow and alone, so ironically familiar to that four years in crystal. Every time, during the late hours of the night, when only the cold silver moonlight caresses her body, Annie decides to talk to him once he returns. She'll say everything she was craving to tell him for so long. Still, once Armin is here, every time, suddenly, she sees how he changes and grows, becoming farther and farther away even from that Armin she only met not so long ago and who is still a mystery to her, someone she didn't have a chance to know. He already slips, following the currents of the unstable world, and every time, her throat is crashed with the dark hands, blocking her breath and words from her mouth. His gazes are still on her, but as time passes, Annie doesn't understand if there's the same craving in his eyes as in hers, as only being washed with his eyes always makes her both wanted and lonely.

It continues till one winter day, when Armin, her, and Pieck are called to the office of Müller, who was one of the generals in charge and who offered Armin to make an alliance with one of Marleyans, preferably from one of the powerful families who managed to survive during the Rumbling.

"It would make a great image and example to the world," Müller said that day. "Marleyan and Paradisian, untied by the wedding vows, show that humanity has entered the new age."

The big folder lays in Armin's hands, his eyes wide, and she could hear his breath hitched, pulled through his tight lips, and yet, all Annie could think about was the photos and resumes of women in this folder, as Armin's fingers turn pages. Smiling, beautiful, intelligent, educated, much more cheerful, someone who didn't ruin his homeland and someone who would do a better job in knowing him. Someone braver enough to speak to him. Annie feels like the nauseous waves churn her stomach, and she knows that she doesn't have any right to feel this way - he isn't even hers. He doesn't give her anything except long stares and heartache whenever she sees him in her dreams when he's holding her close, whispering sweet nothing, where his lips on hers, his hands around her, and-

All of it lives only in her head. He never was hers to feel this way. Armin never promised her anything to feel this biting, bitter avalanche of jealousy, clouding her mind with a murky veil of acid thoughts that erode her mind with the sharp realization that she already felt so heartbroken all these years ago, back in Stohess, when his eyes, his beautiful eyes, distorted by fear and despair, looked at her from the bottom of the stairs. She had no right to feel this way, as if all her world shattered to pieces when, in the first place, it was she who destroyed everything for him and who lied to him. He didn't betray her because she was never on his side, but why did it feel so sickening and hurt so badly?

It's all the same now, in the office room of Müller, when the crisp winter sunlight creeps into the stuffed room, where all she can hear is the rustle of pages as Armin's fingers turn the pages of this folder with smiling women with bright eyes and intelligent gazes, with women who have a background behind them, the roots that have a long history, and not like hers - poisoned, abandoned and unwanted from her birth.

Annie doesn't remember how she left the office room. She knows that she has nothing to give him, nothing worth his attention and his love. She knows that it's not fair to feel so heartbroken and the crawling jealousy streaming in her blood, but Annie also doesn't know how to stop the cold tears streaming down her skin set aflame. She doesn't know how to repair something that never was even in her hands, but something that feels as if her imprints are left there after she crushed it. Why is she even surprised?

It has always been this way.

With her heartbeat loud in her ears, Annie doesn't hear the footsteps behind her back - fast, a staccato of the hushed clicks of the feet against the wooden floor, so when someone's arms circle her back, Annie's body reacts just like it used to. Immediate attack, no second of hesitation, but when her elbow is already midair, ready to hit, she turns away and sees him. Armin, in front of her, his eyes, once again, are on her, but she sees how his irises now have another shade in them. Something she wasn't familiar with, but something she suddenly hit with the mixture she almost forgot - ripples of oxymoron mix of tickling heat and cold goosebumps all across the skin.

And, maybe, this time, it would finally push the words they needed to say from their throats.

--

Oh well, here it is! Thank you for reading, and I really enjoyed writing all of it, so thank you so much for asking me!

[diaferia-dhades]

Mischievous IV

Luke and Kieran, Ft. Sylus x MC

Warning: Fluff, no one's dying

Word Count: 1376

Preview: It's almost Christmas. MC dragged Luke and Kieran to do everything and everywhere. First to decorated Sylus' place with her to make it more "festive" then took them for Christmas shopping...

@liz9898

Three weeks before Christmas:

The doorbell dinged. Luke and Kieran looked up from the book they were reading in the living room, wondering who could be ringing the doorbell here of all places.

Boss? No, he owns this place.

MC? No, she co-owns the place. (Boss said so).

The twins looked at each other. "Do you think MC forgot the keys?" Luke asked his brother.

Kieran shook his head, "This mansion has face recognition. They'll open the door when they see MC."

Luke stood up from the sofa and walked toward the front door with Kieran followed closely. He looked into the screen next to the door that the security camera shows outdoors. There was no one outside.

Luke pulled a gun from his belt, giving a signal to this brother that there might be danger.

Suddenly, their phone rang. It was MC. Luke nodded to Kieran to answer the phone. Kieran walked behind a wall and whispered, "MC?"

"Kieran! A package just arrived! Could you bring it in for me?"

Kieran looked over to Luke and mouthed, "A package."

Luke checked the security camera again and found the corner of a brown box. He nodded and the twins sighed in relief.

"I thought we might be under attack," Luke laughed.

Kieran laughed with his brother and answered MC, "Yea, yea, we get your package."

"Open it and set it up, please!" MC said before cutting the line.

Luke opened the door and dragged a giant brown box into the house. "What could she get that could be this heavy!" Luke grunted.

Kieran shrugged, "She told us to set it up."

Luke cut open the box and inside is a tree. An Evergreen.

"It's fake." Kieran pointed out.

"Yea, whatever. Help me take this to the living room."

While Luke and Kieran were setting the tree in the corner of the living room. Ropes were holding in the tree.

"Should we cut it?" Kieran asked.

"Idk how else we could get rid of the rope." Luke grabbed a pair of scissors. "Let's get to work."

Luke cut the rope one by one while Kieran watched his brother.

"I don't understand why she would get a fake one. We could get a real one." Kieran said.

"Yea. It's not that expensive. She literally has Boss'- OOF"

Without warning, Luke was flung back. While he was cutting the rope, the weight of the branches flung out, hitting Luke.

Kieran laughed, "You got attacked by a tree!"

"Oh shut the fuck up." Luke groaned.

Then they heard the door open and a loud voice rang, "Oh, Christmas Tree! Oh, Christmas tree!"

Then MC ran to the living room carrying a box and beamed at the giant Christmas tree in the corner of the living room. "Oh my god, it's so beautiful!" She set the box down and opened the lid, revealing all sorts of decorations. "Help me put those ornaments on!"

It took them nearly an hour to put all the ornaments on. MC smiled wider and wider as the Christmas tree was decorated. Then she grabbed a star from the box. "Now we need to get the star on the very tip of the tree. How are we able to do that?"

Kieran huffed, "I got it!" He grabbed the star and walked further away from the tree. Then he turned around and bolted toward the tree. Then he jumped as he could. Onto the tree. Not only did he not jump high enough, he landed on the edge of the tree and fell, taking the tree with him.

MC rubbed her temple, "I don't see how that would work."

"The idea was better in my mind," Kieran groaned.

Two weeks before Christmas:

MC had asked the twins to decorate Sylus' office without Sylus' knowledge. So she dragged Sylus out for a date. She brought all the crafts and ornaments. "Decorate his office while we are out!"

The twins without supervision are practically a disaster about to happen.

“LUKE! HELP!” Kieran shouted.

“Help yourself! I’m busy!” Luke shouted back.

“It’s going to tear off my hair!” Kieran howled. “You don’t seem to be dying, help me!”

“I’m very much dying, thank you very much! Every man for themselves!”

“It’s every man fends for himself!”

“Same thing!”

“You said it wrong!”

“You know what? Fuck you, you’re on your own!” Luke barked.

“No! Help me! Help! Me!”

The screams and cries of the twins were heard from the outside.

MC and Sylus stare at the mansion. MC was sweating profusely while Sylus narrowed his eyes. He looked at the mansion and then at MC.

“Are you hiding something from me, kitten?”

MC nervously laughed, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Sylus smirked, “Hm, is that so. Shall we walk in and perhaps it might jog your memory of what you and the twins were planning?”

MC gulped, “H-how do you know?”

Sylus cocked his head to the side, “Sweetie, you seem to forget that I have several security cameras in the house. I can hear what you three are planning about. ”

“I’m blaming that pigeon.” MC scowled.

A sad caw was heard from above them. MC pointed at Mephisto, “You just don’t know how to keep your mouth shut!”

“Sweetie, must I remind you that Mephisto has no choice but to report back to me?”

MC narrowed her eyes, “Tell me, what has Mephisto reported about me? Huh?”

Sylus smirked, “A lot. Which one would you like to know? How about I tell you about the time when you brought a body pillow of me? Or the time when you walked around the mansion naked when none of us were at home? Or the time-“

MC immediately covered his mouth, her face red, “Enough! Enough! I get it! Please stop!”

Then another scream echoed. Sylus rubbed his temples and sighed.

And the couple walked into the house, preparing for a battle they were about to face.

MC and Sylus stare at the twins. Sylus looked mildly frustrated while MC looked so surprised her jaws nearly dropped to the ground.

Saying the office was a mess is an understatement. It was complete chaos. The Christmas lights were all tangled. Winter fir were scattered across the room. There were ripped gift wraps, staples, and tape everywhere. The twins are in the corner of the room, screaming at each other. One was holding a liquid super glue.

MC knew immediately what happened.

The twins' hair was covered in tape and their hands and clothes were glued.

MC felt her eyebrow twitch. She shouldn't have trusted the twins so easily.

One week before Christmas:

Luke, Kieran, and MC are out Christmas shopping. She dragged Luke and Kieran because she doesn’t know what to give to Sylus so she thought Luke and Kieran would know.

Who knew that the twins knew nothing either, despite working under him for years.

Luke shrugged and Kieran said a simple “IDK”.

MC sighed, “at this point, I’ll be giving Sylus air.”

Luke nodded enthusiastically, “This would be perfect. Boss would love anything you give him. If you put the air you breathe in a jar, he’d keep it.”

MC playfully slapped Luke on the back of the head, “Seriously?!”

Kieran exclaimed, “Oh heck yea. I bet that if you give him nothing for Christmas, he'll take you as his gift.”

MC rolled her eyes, "Whatever."

Then Luke gasped, "I know exactly what you should give boss!"

MC beamed, "Tell me!"

Luke pointed ahead. MC traced his line of sight and saw... the lingerie store. Her face immediately turned red. She turned around to tell the twins she was not going to buy one but they were gone.

Luke and Kieran went the the food court. They fist-bumped each other and sent a "You're welcome" message to their boss.

Christmas evening:

Luke and Kieran were in their room, music blasting as they played some card game. MC had given them a custom-made twin dagger, one for each. They were overjoyed.

When it was their boss' present, boss and MC went to his bedroom. Luke and Kieran already knew what they were going to do, so they had their music on max volume.

Their boss owes them one.

Thank you for reading! Happy Holidays to you all!

[bwat5-blog]

Vi and Jinx: Listen To Jinx

**Spoilers For All of Arcane**

The relationship between Vi and Jinx is one of most important parts of this story. It is immensely complex, tragic and heartwarming, the tale of these sisters as they fight to find their way back to one another over the course of this story is truly incredible. I have personally written a full analyses on their story, as have several others. This, is not that. Put simply, if I see one more "Vi got what she deserved" post regarding Vi getting hit by Caitlyn, or her running from Jinx's bombs, or whichever example people want to misinterpret to prove their point, I am going to lose it.

So! What this is, is a hard and fast list of some statements regarding the two of them that will likely ruffle some feathers. I would hope anyone reading my writing by now knows I love both of these characters, and understand the nuance in these situations. But people need some serious perspective. These events will be leading up to season 2, act 3, because at that point they are pretty much on the same page.

**There is nuance and deeper meaning in each of these situations. There are many more things each character does both good, and bad. Neither of them are perfect. But sometimes boiling things down is how we get to the crux of the issue**

Season 1: Act 1

There is not a single shred of evidence Vi was anything other than loving and supportive sister before the night of Vander's death.

Vi was completely correct in leaving Powder behind for the mission.

Vi did not make Jinx. An otherwise loving older sister losing control during a single traumatic event did not completely warp her little sisters mental health. Now seven years as the daughter of a violent drug lord however?

Vi "left" Powder because she was kidnapped as a minor and thrown into a violent and abusive prison without cause for seven years.

From everything we were shown, if Powder had listened their family would have made it out.

Season 1: Act 2

Jinx murders 4 firelights, 1 who she thought was Vi, and six enforcers all in 1 episode.

Jinx is a loving daughter to the man who tried to (and mostly succeeded) kill her entire family and took her for his own.

Jinx puts her gatling gun under Vi's chin during their first reunion.

Vi is stabbed, beaten and chased all in her attempt to get to Jinx.

During their reunion, Vi immediately embraces Jinx, tells her whatever she had to do was for survival, tries to take responsibility for what happened, and fights back to back with her.

Season 1: Act 3

Jinx kills several enforcers and Marcus on bridge

Jinx actively tries to kill Caitlyn and Vi both

Jinx almost kills both herself and Ekko

Jinx abducts Caitlyn naked from her bathroom, makes her put on her enforcer uniform, ties her and gags her with a smiling mask so she can try and convince Vi to kill her

Jinx brutally knocks out Caitlyn

Jinx kills Silco

Jinx murders 3 Piltover counselors including Caitlyn's mom in front of her

Vi insists she can help her sister before the bridge attack

Vi is going back to the undercity to find Jinx before the bombs go off on the bridge

Vi completely blames herself for what her sister has become when they are in Caitlyn's room.

Vi refuses to kill Caitlyn, but tries to get Jinx to come away with her so they can be family again.

Season 2: Act 1

Jinx expresses knowing she could die at any time as "best feeling in the world'

Jinx declare intent to kill Vi

Jinx intentionally lures Cait and Vi into ventilation chamber for battle

jinx encourages Vi to kill her when time comes

Jinx is the only reason Isha is in danger to begin with. She had no business being here.

Vi joines enforcer taskforce: Hunting Shimmer, Chem Barrons, and Jinx

Vi stops fighting when Jinx says she is ready to die.

Vi stops Caitlyn from hurting Isha

Season 2: Act 2

Jinx knew Vi was in the pits, and came to see her at least twice before finally coming to her over Vander. Made no move that audience is shown to help despite obvious decline

Jinx was hiding during entire occupation. She "busted half of Zaun out of Stillwater" because of Isha. Not her people.

Jinx being the symbol on the painting with Vander is laughable. She is known as the daughter of the man who killed Vander and the rest of his kids.

Jinx tells Isha last time she and Vi fought she kicked Vi's ass. Jinx was on her back wanting to die.

JINX IS THE REASON ISHA IS IN DANGER. SHE HAD NO BUSINESS BEING HERE. (Vander hunt and commune both)

Vi comes with Jinx after literally everything above

Vi saves Isha from Vander

Vi trusts Jinx and lowers her gloves.

Vi throws her body over Jinx's to protect her from explosion

In the end, the sisters have found each-other again and accepted who they have become. They are both flawed, they both mistakes,and their story is incredibly moving. Because ultimately their love for eachother perseveres even when it seems like they have totally lost one another.

So why did I do all of this? Because regardless of circumstance, of nuance, of deeper meaning, when you boil it all down Vi is a loving and protective older sister who goes about a million miles past reasonable trying to help her little sister, more than a few times to her own detriment. And guess what? Jinx knows that. She specifically tells Vi to start living for herself and stop feeling guilty over being happy, and being loved. And her last action (as far as we know) in the world of the living, is to save Vi's life. Seems like she knew what an amazing sister Vi always was. Maybe some of yall should listen to her.

[cute-little-fly]

Random thoughts about Octavia and Stolas after sinsmas

I trully hope Octavia doesn’t get any hate after this episode, and also, Stolas deserves to be happy beyond his daughter. This two things are true at the same time. I hope that more people understand this. We don’t need more division in this fandom.

Octavia thinks her father was the one who broke the family, that, even if it was in shambles the family could have been ok if Stolas was ok with them, if Stolas accepted them. She never realized Stella behaviour was not normal, and that Stella didn’t loved him at all since the beginning.

She thinks Stella resents him because of his cheating and that the family would be ok if he hadn’t done that with Blitzø, she thinks Stolas is guilty of breaking the family appart because Stolas sacrificing his emotional life was the only thing keeping the family together.

But she never saw it, and I think Stolas did well things by not putting that emotional load on Octavia’s shoulders… but she also needs to understand the complexity situation now that she is more grown up. Now she might feel guilty because Stolas was so unhappy…

She thinks Stolas suffered because of her, that he didn’t leave before because of her and that he endured suffering because of her, but what she doesn’t understand is that all of that was for LOVE and not for obligation.

Is natural that she is so hurt, and is also congruent to what has happened in earlier episodes. Where Stolas is always caught up about the divorce or Blitzø and leaves her behind. Is normal that makes her feel abandoned. Stolas never tried to talk bad things about Stella to Octavia, so, she doesn’t think that the cheating and Stolas suffering is mostly due to her mother. Now, Stella doesn’t care about talking shit about Stolas in front of Octavia, so is logical she puts the blame on him. That made me so angry, it is so unfair… This is something common for people that live under scapegoat abuse cycles.

“The family scapegoat is singled out and blamed for problems in the family. The burden of dysfunction of the group is placed on one member, regardless of the true causes of these issues. This person can be a child, step-child, troublesome uncle, or even a family friend. Being the family scapegoat can be a painful and isolating experience throughout a person’s lifetime.” Source: https://www.choosingtherapy.com/family-scapegoat/#:~:text=A%20family%20scapegoat%20is%20a,sibling%2C%20or%20another%20family%20member.&text=To%20put%20it%20simply%2C%20the,our%20own%20actions%20and%20mistakes.

Of course, from Via’s perspective this makes sense because she doesn’t understand a huge part of the situation and Stolas did fail her a lot of times and broke her trust. But I find interesting that Stella is not a good parent either, and she never wonders what role Stella had in Stolas unhappiness, or if there is something else behind everything.

Concluding remarks…

Octavia was just like Stolas in a lot of ways this episode. She confronted Andrealphus and looked Blitzø to give Stolas his pills, even if she is mad at him and thinks he doesn’t trully love her. The same way Stolas saved Blitzø even without knowing that our lizard loved him or cared about him at all or not. (Maybe this is a little bit off topic, but I found that poetic and shows deep down that they are the same).

Stolas has the possibility of recovering Octavia’s trust. He needs to build that trust again because he didn’t properly cared for it before, and now, Stella and Andrealphus took advantage of that. She would have heard Stolas if he did better things before, now he needs to make her feel he loves her. Not that she is just a responsibility, give her more.

Also, she needs to understand that Stella is the real source cause of most of the family issues, and Blitzø and how the cheating happened was just the culmination of all of it. That Stolas just couldn’t take it anymore; and just after experiencing a little bit of what he had been missing he got completely out of himself. Of course, Stolas could have done this better, but, he was very young when he married, and he didn’t had a proper social development.

I feel that a lot of people miss this, I don’t know if it is because Stolas is a dad. Even if Stolas at least had his stars, books and plants, he was emotionally neglected and lonely his entire life and that will always damage a person. Stolas needs someone to lean his shoulder on, to talk about problems and share emotions… that is a human need and Octavia as his daughter can’t do that for him, because he is the parent. He needed someone else in his life to do that and Stella failed in that.

We can understand both of them. Is tragic, but we know they will be ok :)

Sorry for the long rambling.

[spametc123]

The phrase “maybe the curtains were just blue” is genuinely so harmful to media literacy as a whole. Yes, things can just be the way they are, but almost everything exists with context. Do you exist or do you exist because of everything that has happened in the world? Your parents met, you didn’t die that one time when you were eight, you’re the person you are because of that awful haircut you had in seventh grade. You exist because of all of that.

So, nothing pisses me off more than when someone uses an incomplete quote. “A jack of all trades is a master of none” without the second half: “but oftentimes better than a master of one” (everyone say thank you Shakespeare) has an entirely different meaning. The first half by itself is utilized to shame people into ignoring things they love or are interested in; meanwhile the full quote praises people interested in a variety of things. Ignoring context literally erodes the meaning behind anything. Machiavelli said “it’s better to be feared than to be loved.” Wrong. Loud incorrect buzzer. Kind of. As Malcolm Gladwell writes, “it’s not wrong, exactly, it’s just incomplete.” (Or something like that anyways.) Yes, Machiavelli did write that. Congrats! But you forgot a kinda, semi, VERY FUCKING IMPORTANT component of that quote. “It is better to be feared than to be loved if one cannot have both.” It should be common sense right? I wish. Ask anyone about their opinion on the incomplete quote and see how many of them think they’re revolutionary when they say “oh I’d rather have both!” If the full quote doesn’t seem to make a difference in your mind, great! But there’s still more context that you need to know to actually understand it (let alone teach it (Mr. History teacher that is NOT a philosophy teacher and should not try to be one)). The quote is from The Prince, a writing in which Machiavelli talks about what makes a good leader. In his opinion, The Prince should know when to utilize love and fear to his advantage. Be loved by your people and feared by your enemies. Seem more trusting than you are so you can see who is a wolf in sheep’s clothing. He says that one should prefer to be feared than to be loved in time sensitive situations, not sustainably. That when things need immediate change being feared makes a stronger and more effective leader (which is unequivocally correct and I’m tried of hearing otherwise). So again, without context: a random quote that no one agrees with or really understands at all, whatsoever vs. with context: the assertion that in times of need it is better to be respected and feared than it is to be loved. Or, a personal favorite “dubito, ergo cogito, ergo sum.” I doubt, therefore I think, therefore I am. Oh wow! So cool, he thinks therefore he is - being capable of thought means I exist, how neat! Not wrong, sure, but lacking context. What makes the philosophy so powerful is the fact that it’s a paradox. You doubt your existence, therefore you are capable of thought, therefore you exist. Because you doubt your existence, you prove that you exist. But if you are then confident you exist, do you no longer exist anymore? And now you doubt it again. Without context, it’s just words on a page, nothing notable or interesting. Without looking for the context it’s yet another thing people will complain about having to learn because “why does it even matter?”

It’s the same with characters. Armand is batshit fucking insane, yes, but he only is that way because of who he is. The tv show fails his character when they age him up, because even with some of his backstory, he is the way he is mainly because he’s eternally trapped in the body of a 17 year old. ____ is too trusting! Maybe in different circumstances, yes, but that character is the way they are because of the life experiences they’ve had. ____ is the right amount of trusting for the life they’ve lived.w

It’s the same for people too!!! Please find it within you to have basic human empathy! Someone is the way they are because of their life experiences. You can’t have something happen to you, good or bad, and not be affected by it. Someone can only change if their experiences change. No, it’s not your responsibility to change someone’s behavior or to tolerate it, but it is your responsibility to try to understand why someone is the way they are.

Empathy and media literacy are so clearly intertwined it’s would be comical if it wasn’t depressing. Read between the lines, try to understand things that you don’t get immediately. The curtains aren’t just blue. It doesn’t matter if it’s to represent sadness or just because it’s the author’s favorite color or even because the author was so indecisive they made someone else pick it, there’s still a reason. Anti-intellectualism is the curse that keeps on dooming us all.

[lwjsbedtime]

So I remembered the song Quiet from Matilda, and it made me think of little ADHD Babyxian being adopted by the Jiangs.

He's not doing so well to be honest. He's messy, and too far ahead of his classmates, and doesn't do his chores on time because his nose is always in some book he has no business reading.

Auntie Yu has had enough. She tells JFM it's Cloud Recesses Boarding School or the little brat is going back out on the street!

Little A-Xian hears this and he doesn't quite cry, because Mama always told him it feels better to smile, but he does sniffle a bit before falling asleep.

In the morning when Uncle Jiang asks if he wants to go to a new school he says yes.

And then he's being shipped off halfway across the country - away from grumpy JC and sweet JYL, who he'd only just met - to a school where he doesn't know anyone.

Of course, he gets in trouble. He always does.

He doesn't mean to. He thinks maybe he's just bad.

Headmaster Lan Qiren seems to have something personal against him, but his teacher - Lan Qiren's nephew, Mr. Lan Xichen - is really nice.

He's soft with little A-Xian, seeming to understand him better than he understands himself.

He says A-Xian is a good boy.

WWX isn't sure he believes him, but Mr Lan Xichen is almost always right about everything so he doesn't question how he knows A-Xian is good.

The thing is, Lan Xichen is right. The difference between him and A-Xian's old teachers is that he pays attention to A-Xian. He sees him.

And what he sees breaks his heart.

It may not be the same exactly, but his little brother is around A-Xian's age - just a grade higher - and so, so similar - if in the opposite direction.

Where A-Xian is boisterous, little Zhan-er is too quiet. Where A-Xian is so interested in learning, needing to know everything about EVERYTHING, right now! Zhan-er has a few special interests that captivate him.

He seems standoffish, so the other children exclude him, but Zhan-er knows ALL about rabbits, for example, and reads poetry far beyond his age level, and - oddly enough - can answer any question about ancient blacksmithing techniques you throw at him.

Both boys are very smart, and so very different from their peers.

For Zhan-er this is because he's autistic

Lan Xichen thinks A-Xian might also be on the spectrum. He tries to contact the Jiangs about gaining permission to send him to the in-school psychiatrist, but receives nothing in reply.

It is...deeply concerning.

Lan Xichen brings his thoughts up with his uncle, who grumbles a little, but accepts that maybe it might be possible WWX needs a little extra help.

The next day Lan Xichen asks for A-Xian to stay after class alone. A-Xian is a little scared he's going to be scolded, but Lan Xichen bends down to his level and asks if he would like to meet someone really special.

"Yes!" A-Xian exclaims, excited.

Lan Xichen takes the boy's hand and leads him out the classroom, down the path to the old clan homes that still exist behind Cloud Recesses' campus

As they walk, Lan Xichen explains the history of his home, and A-Xian takes it all in with wide eyes.

Then, finally, they reach the-

"Bunnies!" A-Xian exclaims, already surging away from Lan Xichen with the slipperiness of a professional escape artist.

Lan Xichen chuckles under his breath.

They have arrived at the bunny field.

Zhan-er, who had been told they would be joined today by another boy, frowns at his brother with betrayal, a rabbit held firmly in his arms.

Lan Xichen can see already he's close to tears, so he catches A-Xian's hand and whispers to him.

"We must be very quiet. Bunnies are scared by loud noises."

A-Xian nods at him with wide eyes, closing his mouth tightly like he might even forget to breathe.

"This is Lan Zhan, my brother," Lan Xichen directs A-Xian's attention to where Zhan-er sits scowling amongst the gentians.

"Hello Lan Zhan," A-Xian whisper-yells. "I'm A-Xian."

Lan Xichen hides a grin as Zhan-er nods and points at one of his favourite bunnies - a small Holland lop called Orchid.

"She will play," he murmurs, and then he turns back to the bunny in his arms, hiding his face in her soft fur.

For Zhan-er it is as good as a seal of approval.

Lan Xichen watches as the boys play together and feels a pleasant warmth swell in his stomach. They do get along so nicely. He hopes they become good friends.

As he predicted, the playdate is not a one off event. Soon enough it becomes a daily occurrence, with A-Xian getting antsy if it is cancelled, and Zhan-er getting close to a meltdown.

The boys are friends - best friends - and while they sometimes clash, their troubles are soon forgotten.

They are good for one another - mindful of each other's limits and differences.

Lan Xichen has never seen his brother so open, nor so happy.

Which is why when the Jiang family decide to pull A-Xian out of Cloud Recesses due to financial difficulties, he must protest.

His words fall on deaf ears.

A-Xian cries when he hears the news. He grabs onto Lan Xichen's leg, begging not to go. Zhan-er however goes quiet…

…Before he starts screaming with the lung capacity of a professional opera singer.

It is ear-splitting.

This is how JFM finds them half an hour later, when he arrives to take A-Xian with him.

"Please," Lan Xichen begs. "Can't we do anything to allow him to stay?"

JFM looks between the three of them - the distressed LXC; the red faced A-Xian and Zhan-er (currently sobbing as he bites chunks out of his own arm).

He goes quiet for a moment. He sighs.

"Are you sure you want him?" he asks, as if hoping the answer will be no.

Lan Xichen almost sobs. "Yes. Yes, yes, more than anything."

With a torn expression, JFM offers up A-Xian's adoption papers.

The process is surprisingly easy, and takes little time to approve.

And then, A-Xian - WWX - is theirs.

When Zhan-er hears the news he runs up to A-Xian and hugs him like one of his bunnies.

"Mine," he says seriously, landing a sloppy kiss on the apple of A-Xian's cheek.

A-Xian giggles and returns the gesture.

"Lan Zhan's!" he declares shyly.

And…hmm.

Lan Xichen will cross that bridge when they come to it. For now, he really needs a nap.

And an appointment for A-Xian with the school psychiatrist.

(He does, indeed, have ADHD, and performs much better with the proper accommodations in place to aid him)

--

This is the song, by the way. The first time I heard it, I cried so hard my dog came and stood over me. I think he legit thought I hurt myself 😂

[trashbatistrash]

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