Some Tsukasa Theories

me after finally posting one finished piece: oh, well gotta finish those other wips ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ

manhua: The Villainess Refuses to Flirt with the ML

‘If I were Jokaste and a king maker, I’d have chosen Kastor over you too.’

‘I suppose you are going to enjoy telling me why,’ said Damen. He felt his hands curl into fists, heard the bitterness in his throat.

‘Because a king maker would always choose the weaker man. The weaker the man, the easier he is to control.’

‘What makes you think Kastor is the weaker man? You don’t know him.’

‘But I’m coming to know you,’ said Laurent.

BSD STORMBRINGER SPOILERS

I JUST RAN AROUND THE SOFA MULTIPLE TIMES UNTIL I GOT EXHAUSTED JUST BECAUSE OF THIS SCENE AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

I'm very much into this.

Harry Potter AU for Gravity Falls and OtGW… I could not resist >_< 

More shall come. I want to post a bit every week depicting Years 2 through 5 for Dipper and Mabel. Most characters will appear. Thanks to mah best friend Serina for help on the research :) Expect more soon

Demon Laurent is confused about the unkempt sacrifice.

8th Prince, Choran

aptitude: gold and fire

my stance on feminizing chuuya

i’ve seen a lot of people debate about this lol. some people feminize chuuya to the point where they harm skk and push heteronormative views on their relationship. others say that it’s completely wrong to view chuuya in a dress or feminine clothing because chuuya is a masculine guy (he is a masculine guy).

it’s not harmful until it affects the soukoku ship and makes it seem more hetero/appealing. by this i mean making chuuya the soft feminine gay bottom and dazai the more masculine top, etc.

short guys with long hair can be feminine. so it’s not picking out and choosing who you want to appear as feminine (although some people unfortunately do that).

being feminine isn’t a bad thing. gender nonconformity isn’t a bad thing 😎

This just killed me. It's so beautiful ╯﹏╰

At last, Harry stands before Voldemort in a blood-soaked field, the taste of copper and ash coating Harry’s tongue. The sound of war has faded into the background as the soulmates stare one another down. Things could have gone differently. Harry could have given himself up as requested, could have walked through the Forbidden Forest to his doom. But Harry is not willing to chance that Voldemort will live through this. He’s fought his way through countless Death Eaters to stand here in Voldemort’s way.

It has come to this at last and there are but two pieces of soul left to destroy, one in himself and one in the tall, inhuman frame barely ten metres away.

Harry is tired. Harry is ready for this to be over.

“You have lost,” Voldemort taunts.

“No,” Harry replies simply, raising his wand.

And then Voldemort is tilting his head, studying Harry in a silent moment. His eyes have narrowed, but they are oddly unthreatening.

“No?” Voldemort repeats, tasting the word, his normally high-pitched voice toned low.

“No,” Harry states calmly.

“You should have told me,” Voldemort says, then. There’s a holy fire in Voldemort’s eyes that Harry hasn’t seen ignited before. Unlike the light of obsession and rage and violence, this flame does not call for bloodshed. Instead, it burns with possessive wonder.

And Harry knows, right at that moment, that Voldemort has figured it out. That he hadn’t until then.

“I thought it was obvious,” Harry answers instead, the wand in his grip warming, tone dry, gesturing to the space between them. “How else would you explain this?”

“I suppose it was,” Voldemort replies, considering. “And I have been too far gone to see it. Though, looking back, it explains a much-needed drive to find you. Come here, soulmate. Be with me.”

It’s like a punch in the chest, wringing his lungs dry. It hurts his very soul to hear Voldemort acknowledge their bond, it hurts more than Umbridge’s punishments, more than seeing his godfather fall through The Veil, more than hearing the wails of Hermione as she’s tortured by an insane witch.

But pain is all Harry knows, all he’s ever known. Harry ignores those words, knows Voldemort is trying to draw him in with the same glowing warmth of an angler fish's lure, positioning Harry just before the strike. Harry knows that he must die to bring Voldemort down. That mutually assured destruction is the only way. So he ignores those words, ignores the potential of even more future words that Voldemort will whisper but is physically incapable of meaning, and stands his ground, staring Voldemort down with cold steel in his eye.

“It is considered a foul reflection of one’s character for their soulmate’s first word to be no,” Voldemort states abruptly. “It is poor form for your destined companion to deny you instantly. I would never have considered the words of my soulmate to have been spoken by a toddler as I raised my wand against his mother.”

“You don’t know the half of it,” Harry retorts humourlessly, wand-hand beginning to tremor lightly with exhaustion, but he keeps it steadily trained on Voldemort. “Imagine if your soulmark was the death curse.”

Voldemort doesn’t reply to that, instead still and calm, unnaturally at peace.

“I thought I had killed you long ago, for I’ve heard so many noes from so many strangers,” Voldemort then eventually replies, contemplative. “Though if I must have an equal, I suppose I would only accept it, if it were to be you. After all, you already have a bit of my soul, don’t you?”

Harry realizes things are rapidly going downhill. Voldemort has figured out what he is; Harry sees this going one of two ways.

“Fight me,” Harry whispers sharply, inhaling deep.

“No,” Voldemort states simply, lowering his wand, lip twitching as if telling an inside joke.

Harry shrugs, embodiment of indifference, and lowers his wand.

Voldemort smiles and it is a cruel expression.

Harry thinks to himself, quietly in the confines of his mind, Extinguo Animarum. The wand in his hand glows gently at first but then, in a moment of sudden movement, a golden bubble explodes from his wand and entraps Voldemort and himself in a sphere of his own design.

“You didn’t,” Voldemort says.

Harry tries to laugh at the aghast nature of Voldemort’s tone, but a dry sob heaves out of his chest instead.

Voldemort could never expect this, would never, because Voldemort could not possibly imagine doing something like this himself.

“Extinguisher of Souls,” Voldemort whispers and he does not struggle. Voldemort knows there is no way out of this now. “You are mine, Harry Potter, in this life and the next. Do not forget.”

The glowing, golden orb sears ever brighter. It fills with blinding light, piercing into Harry’s chest as it floods Voldemort. Voldemort’s eyes never leave Harry’s, upper lip twitching in an expression Harry cannot decipher.

This is right, this is what you are made for, Harry tells himself in the moment as the light swells to unbearableness, glows in his glasses, a reflection of his life in a solitary beam of light.

Harry hears the words echo in the timelessness between moments as his soul is ripped apart, as he feels his connection to Voldemort shatter as his soulmate is obliterated by purifying, heatless flame, as they are torn violently from the mortal plane in the mutually assured destruction of Harry’s own making.

No.

Avada Kedavra.

What a couple they make.

On the eve of Harry’s thirty-fifth birthday (seventeen years, two months, twenty-nine days, four hours and seven minutes since Harry watched Lord Voldemort fall at his feet), Harry receives his soulmate timer. It has been twenty years since each one of his peers received their own soulmark timers.

Harry sat at the kitchen table, sipping his tea, when his wrist began to burn. The teacup rolled off the table, shattered on the floor, spilling sweet tea in rivulets down the table legs.

– 33.08.29.22.24.15

Harry read the numbers slowly. It was a long, negative number. Longer than average for someone his age. 33 years, 8 months, 29 days, 22 hours, 24 minutes, 15 seconds.

Harry touches the small numbers on his wrist. As he watches, the timer ticks over.

– 33.08.29.22.25.03

It has been seventeen years, two months, twenty-eight days since the Battle of Hogwarts.

Harry is thirty-four years, eleven months, and thirty days old.

Who had he met thirty-three years, eight months, twenty-nine days, and twenty two hours from now? It is custom, in their society, to be able to calculate dates and times. It’s the difference between knowing one’s soulmate and not.

Harry feels his muscles lock, his breath freeze in his lungs, his throat swell.

31st October 1981, 20:13pm.

At one year, three months, and eight hours of age, Harry Potter had met Lord Voldemort.

—  —   —   —   —   —

Harry’s birthday is on a Friday. He is supposed to go into work. There are stacks of incomplete reports on his desk that he must finish. Harry does not go to work. Harry goes to his vault.

This is not the first time Harry has encountered the thought that Voldemort was his soulmate. It had been theorized, over the years. The Quibbler ran an article on it, to Hermione’s rage. Everyone had received soulmate timers. Harry and Voldemort had not.

Harry sits in Gringotts, an angry goblin dropping him off at his vault, and he looks at the hollow horcrux corpses. There is a twisted diadem. A split locket. A cracked stone. A shriveled snake carcass. A destroyed diary. A bent cup.

Harry skims his fingers over the magical artefacts. They do not call to him. They do not reach out. They are empty.

There are two horcruxes not in this pile. There is one on Harry’s forehead, a faint lightning scar, and there is a pile of ashes, long blown out in the wind, on the outskirts of Hogsmeade.

It has now been seventeen years, two months, and thirty days since Voldemort fell at the Battle of Hogwarts.

Harry does not know what has changed, but something has.