naaijas

[naaijas]

[naaijas]

Abbott Elementary + Janine's height (part 4)

[naaijas]

“Grief, I’ve learned, is really just love. It’s all the love you want to give, but cannot. All that unspent love gathers up in the corners of your eyes, the lump in your throat, and in that hollow part of your chest. Grief is just love with no place to go.”

― Jamie Anderson

[naaijas]

"ah yes, the many mysteries of north. best wishes in finding them, for i worry they may already be buried too far under the sleet and snow this time of year." perpetual knack for the more enigmatic souls keeps the brunettes feet planted firmly where she stood, though arms that reach down to smooth oceanic silk chart the opposite coarse to fold atop one another at her chest. its not a defensive stance in the slightest. in fact, she finds herself quite relaxed despite the steps he takes toward her. had it been another day, in the company of family, she might have listened to the instinct that warned her to make a polite departure. but she has been left to her own devices and the intention to piece together the intrigue that is lord wyl is much louder than any deterrent.

"that much i've gathered," humored response follows his tilt of the head, "do you always leave so much to the imagination?" hardly minds the challenge presented to her. its a welcomed change from the formalities that many of her interactions entailed. too many laid their lackluster cards on the table for her to read, but not ryon. he held his close to his chest, and the very thought of discovering their values fosters intrigue.

"the right questions," mimicked words hum out under her breath, brows quirking inward and lips pursing thoughtfully as if she could figure his reasonings out in the inquisitive way she looks him over. "though the look of a northman certainly suits you, i get the notion that weighted furs and woolen garments do little good for you on your side of the world." inner thought vocalizes itself as her arms finally descend to rest at the small of her back. "it certainly cannot be for the cuisine, otherwise you might have kept to white harbor for any sort of flavor." a sentence kept hushed as to avoid offending those who hosted her despite the ghost of a knowing grin.

"and you insist against the companionship of wolves... but what other intrigues could pull one who spends his days kissed by the sun to shiver under the touch of the snow?" honeyed hues glimmer with curiosity.

"what else might possibly be worth it?"

Ryon’s gaze softened as he observed Naija’s movements, the quick, deft way she adjusted the frame, the quiet poise she carried. He tilted his head ever so slightly, as if trying to puzzle her out. The smile never left his lips, though it seemed to take on a different, almost intrigued edge.

"A wolf, you say?" He let out a low chuckle, the sound of it like a ripple across still water. "I’ve had my fair share of encounters with wolves—both of the beastly and the... more metaphorical kind." His eyes flashed briefly, the corner of his mouth twitching upward in amusement. "But it’s not the wolves that bring me here, Lady Naija, though I’m sure your northern pack would make fine hunting companions. No, I came for something else entirely."

Ryon took a step closer, his voice lowering just enough to match the warmth of the fire. "I came because the north holds mysteries, doesn’t it? Cold as it is, there’s something beneath it all—an intrigue, a challenge. A place where even a lord like me might find something worth the effort."

He paused for a moment, his eyes dancing with a playful spark. "But you must forgive me, Lady Naija. I tend to speak too much and reveal too little." He bowed his head slightly, still watching her carefully. "Perhaps it’s more fitting to let you unravel the answer for yourself."

He paused again, just a beat longer than necessary, then added with a sly smile, "Though I think I could be persuaded to share a few more secrets... if you ask the right questions."

[naaijas]

♡ antonia gentry via tiktok ( antoniabgentry )

[naaijas]

[naaijas]

"and there you go, sullying my good name with your nonsense." roll of deep brown hues comes naturally when he addresses her just the same as he always has. small stature is unmistakeble when she stands next to the brotherly figures that she'd been blessed with, and the genuine humor she finds in it manifests in the wide grin that makes home on her features.

"i wouldn't say it's an offer, you're joining me whether you like it or not." spoken with a tenacity that naija reserves for those she's most comfortable around. the duration of his friendship with nasir has earned him that status, and his commitment to showing up for such an occasion only sets it in stone. "as it is to see you, tion. you bring with you a warmth that the north is severely lacking." a truth uttered from still upturned lips.

"have you eaten yet?" once bright eyes narrow, as if it's an interrogation. yet another mannerism as natural as the coils that dip to one side in curiosity. "come along now, you must be famished after such a long journey."

he had visited the north countless times, his friendship with house manderly bringing him to the frozen tundras more than any business dealing ever had, but tion was still not quite used to the sheer cold of it. even wrapped in thick furs, he felt it prick at his skin, a constant reminder he was far from the warmer air of starpike. in the marches of the reach, the wind whispered, yet here, it howled. and still, he would not have missed this, even in the midst of the most diabolical of snow storms.

the sight of naija manderly put a warmth in his smile the hearth had not managed to achieve, her bow drawing a low chuckle from deep in his chest. "there she is, little lady manderly herself," he said, rich voice full of easy affection as one arm went around her in a hug of greeting.

"i couldn't miss it, could i?" he stepped away just enough to meet her gaze. "not when it's nasir." it was not just that this was a day of celebration for the man he regarded as his closest friend - tion had heard rumblings of division in the north, whispers that did not sit easily in his chest. he wanted to see it with his own eyes. "your brothers will have enough people clamouring for their attention today, but i won't refuse your company if it's on offer. it's good to see you, naija. truly."

[naaijas]

wave of relief washes over naija upon his verbal confirmation, though it's fleeting and switfly replaced by a sense of anxiety. she's far from a meek woman by any means, the proud voice of a manderly surfacing when the occasion calls for it. she could easily be a contender for the quietest of their siblings for the way she contemplates each word that she chooses to vocalize before it leaves her lips, though. amir would tell her she's overthinking, and perhaps he would be correct, but the subject matter is something of great importance to the lady.

"your kindness is unmatched your grace, and that's precisely why i felt it necessary to bring a proposition to you directly." a serious undertone wades beneath a tone meant to remain light. "as you may know, i dedicate most of my time to the women of white harbor who aren't granted the opportunities that those of noble and royal blood are so fortunate to have. we read together, write together and their success thus far has been more than exemplary." and this is where she pauses, if only momentarily. as if the words were fighting tooth and nail to keep her from requesting something she's unsure that she's worthy of.

yet, she persists.

"i wonder if you might find such a curriculum beneficial to the women and children of winterfell? my teachings are heavily focused on the seven, but i am more than willing to become versed in the old gods as well for the accommodation of their followers."

Owen Stark’s smile softened as Naija approached, her familiar presence bringing a sense of comfort in the bustling chaos of the celebration. He took a moment to appreciate the warmth of the Manderlys, those who had become family to him during his time as a foster child in White Harbor. Nasir, Amir, and even their late sister, Manal, had been constants during his years there—people he trusted with his life. He was still haunted by Manal’s untimely passing; the memory of her vibrant spirit and the sharp grief her death brought to the Manderly family weighed heavily on him.

“Naija,” Owen greeted warmly, his tone inviting, “There is no need for thanks. The honor is mine. House Manderly has stood by me through everything, and I will always have a deep affection for your family.”

He gave her a small, reassuring smile, the weight of their shared history adding an unspoken depth to his words. “And of course, you have my time, Naija. You are family, and I can never turn that away. What is it you wish to speak of? I am more than happy to listen, as always.”

[naaijas]

petal pink imprint dulls the gleam of a gold-rimmed porcelain cup, layers of the artificial color marking the amount of time she's spent drinking from it like the rings of a great northern fir. she doesn't quite care for gatherings like this, ladies gossiping and carrying on about the families they'd begun or at the very least wished to. she would be hard-pressed to admit the extent of bitterness that such talk brought with it. while they were busy charming their way towards a brighter future, she continued to lag behind wearing her worry and grief like a heavy, woolen cloak.

'something to paint on, perhaps.' head bobs slightly in agreeance with the inward thought. some might say her way of making sense of things was quite nonsensical in itself. a mess of colors and curves meshing together to form a message that was only hers to decipher, but she had a childish thought that art was her answer for just about anything. that notion had been proven time and time again whether her mind was in disarray or in state of disassociation like she is now. the tickle of a gentle wind followed by the prick of a parchments edge against the top of her foot pulling her attention down to the soft earth that met the sole of her shoe.

only someone with a penchant for unsullied fingertips would allow it to float further without investigation. for she was a true observer of the arts and her keen eye could spot the daring use of charcoal from where she sat upright to where it had landed. shes nearly successful in getting a closer look, careful not to cause an unnecessary smear when the presumable owner calls out. cadence is a gentle one, comforting with the edge of a dialect she cant quite put a finger on.

"fret not, my lady. this particular medium and i have been acquainted many a messy time." the way she handled the parchment was delicate, almost performatively so as she approaches the edge of the fully bloomed garden. "is charcoal your only instrument? if so, you've nearly bested it, i'd say." compliment is handed alongside the page to its rightful illustrator, and a warm grin alleviating once thoughtful features.

setting: in the westerlands, during one of the tea parties hosted by queen katherine, keira has found herself a bit more secluded at the edges of the gathering, writing in her journal ; starter for @naaijas

the gardens were awash with vibrant colors, the roses and marigolds bright under the warm afternoon sun. soft laughter and the tinkling of porcelain drifted from the tea party, where noblewomen exchanged pleasantries over dainty sandwiches and fragrant tea. keira sat at the edge of the gathering, content in her solitude beneath a blooming arbor of wisteria.

a well-worn leather journal rested on her lap, its pages filled with delicate sketches and notes. in her hand, a slender piece of charcoal moved over the paper with soft, deliberate strokes. her fingers bore faint smudges from the tool, evidence of her quiet work. she preferred charcoal to ink—its impermanence felt more forgiving, more like her quiet musings than proclamations.

she tilted her head slightly, considering the line she had just drawn, when a sudden breeze swept through the garden. her eyes widened as a loose page from her journal, its surface marked with careful sketches of roses, took flight. “oh, no!” she murmured, rising abruptly as the page tumbled through the air, carried far from her reach.

it floated past the edge of the party, coming to rest near a woman she hadn’t met before. keira hesitated, clutching her journal to her chest, before stepping forward, her feet brushing the gravel path.

“excuse me,” she called gently, her voice soft but clear. “that page seems to’ve gotten away from me.” she stopped a polite distance away, smoothing her skirts nervously, her gaze flickering between the page and the stranger. “i hope it hasn’t smudged too much. charcoal’s a terrible one for makin’ everything untidy.”

[naaijas]

atypical, the scene that's laid before her in pursuit of a presumably wounded ego. the sounds of a blade marring wood to splinters are unpleasant to the lady who wears the distaste deep between furrowed brows for that and his display that day. "appears so," as cold as the crisp air that folded arms do their best to shield herself from. she wouldn't bother with pleasantries when he's in this state, bottle swinging from a lacsidasical hand up towards his open mouth enough to clue her in that he was far from clear-headed.

another day, she might have let the jabbing remarks slide. as if he knew why she was there in the first place. and maybe he was right, at first. she'd wanted to offer words of consolation at the results of the tourney before inquiring what might have thrown him off course. the younes she knew was a brilliant knight, weilding his ancestral sword with valor. the man that swayed before her now is a mannerless drunk and it disappoints her to see such a change in a once familiar face.

"i certainly did not come to be spoken to in such a manner." she's blunt in her delivery, his own sparking up the embers of ire in her tone. "i understand your frustration, and i'm here to listen freely, but i will damned to the seven hells before you fix your wine-drunken lips to address me with such a tone again." if he knew her as well as he presumed, then he knows the softness lacing venomous words are far from velveteen. it was creased brows and eyelids that emphasized the warning she held hope that he would heed.

"you were raised better than this, you know. and you're leagues better than whatever that was out there... am i wrong to think thats not the first bottle you've nursed today?" takes a step towards him despite better judgment, alcoholic implications as unmistakeable as the concern she tries to conceal.

closed starter for @naaijas setting : the aftermath of a tourney context : younes fostered with the manderlys in his youth, and he and naija have known each other for years.

the tourney grounds had quieted, only younes corbray lingering, lady forlorn still in hand, her ruby pommel gleaming in the remnants of the setting sun. the roar of the ground had long since faded into the hum of servants cleaning up - and the steady thwack of valyrian steel against wood, where younes repeatedly swung it at a fence, evidently determined to hack it to bits. in his other hand, he held a bottle of wine he was swigging liberally from, and he still wore his dented armour, looking every inch half the weary knight, and half unapologetic rogue.

he had lost. deliberately. and though the weight of the coin tucked into his belt was recompense for it, it did little to ease his soul.

he heard the sound of light footsteps, and when he looked over his shoulder, there she was. naija manderly, all elfin features and corkscrew curls. he took another swing at the fence. "you know, there was a time i would have stormed off after a tumble like that. guess i'm maturing." his voice carried the dry humour many would expect from him, but it was a shade too close to bitter. he raised his bottle, laughing a mocking laugh. "to the victor." he said, and he drank.

there was something in her expression that caught his attention, and he couldn't work out if it was pity or disapproval. he lowered his sword, but didn't sheath it. lady forlorn was the true love of his life, and he always felt better when she was in his hand. "let me guess," he said, tapping his fingers against the neck of his bottle. "you're here to tell me i still leave too much room on my left for a counter strike? go ahead, naija. i am ready to hear your insights."

he laughed. it was definitely bitter. "or something else, maybe? 'you'll get them next time, champ?' go ahead. i am all ears." he said it lightly, but there was something guarded in the way he looked at her, already preparing his defence for whatever it was she would hit him with.

[naaijas]

silent thank you is sent up to the gods with each flavor-filled morsel naija takes in. prayers whispered from the cool dawn of the morning to the unforgiving winter dusk have been answered so clearly in the form of a brother returned unharmed. at least in the physical manner. shes sure that somewhere behind the steady cadence he has when bringing up mariela, lies a heart dented by the endless possibilities of a future dismantled. "indeed it is.. i trust the meeting was somewhat amicable." slow sip of wine as she studies him, unsure of whether the topic is fleeting small talk or something he wished to venture into. despite their undeniable blood connection, she never trusted her insticts in reading the silent mannerisms of the eldest manderly. "it must have been for you to count her amongst these other comrades you meandered across during your travels. which you have yet to tell me of, by the way."

shes more unprepared for his line of questioning than she thought she would be once asked. does she disclose that her time has been consumed by prayer? that moments between education and erractic depictions of her own inward spiral, which should have been spent aligning for her future, were instead spent begging the gods for another deep breath or beat of a heart? "nothing too exciting," naijas tone is an octave away from monotonous, exchanging the onset of dread for something more manufactured. "the girls are coming along quite nicely, though theres more work to be done in terms of their penmanship." its uniform, the way she carries on about things she should be focused on. has she said this before? a quick blink sees the thought ushered from the forefront and she takes another bite to buy herself time to think.

"oh, i almost forgot!" a sudden shift in demeanor to one more excitable as she motions for her nearby maid to join her, taking the rolled canvas from her patient hands into her own. one might have thought the page hot to the touch by the way she tosses it so flippantly in his direction. "open it up, and spare no thought. i want an honest truth or none at all."

who: @naaijas when and where: white harbour, within the manderly apartments after nasir returns home from his journeys, he meets with his little sister.

nasir sat across from naija, the low candlelight casting soft, flickering shadows across their faces. it had been some time since they'd shared a meal alone, and he found himself silently enjoying the quiet of the manderly apartments. the familiar, comforting scent of roasted meats and herbs filled the air, blending with the sharp, crisp chill from the winds outside that carried the salt of the sea. white harbour’s chill seemed to seep into everything—into the marble walls, the finely embroidered tapestries, even the food, though it was warm enough to soothe the weary traveller.

he watched her attentively, letting the curiosity build before he allowed himself to continue. "as i travelled back from starpike, i ran into a few old friends. lady mariela egen among them," nasir said, his voice steady but carrying a hint of something deeper. he took a sip of his wine, his mind briefly flashing back to the brief but sharp exchange with mariela. she had looked much the same—graceful, poised—but the years between them had left a distinct weight on the conversation. "strange to see her again, after all this time," he added quietly. his gaze wandered momentarily, fixing on the frost-dusted windows. "it feels like a lifetime ago, but its always part of going south."

he watched his sister, her posture poised, a soft smile playing on her lips as she picked at the meal. there was a knowing comfort between them in moments like this, though nasir could sense the slight distance in her gaze, as if she had changed in ways even she hadn't fully realised. the time away, the growing responsibilities... it all seemed to have marked them differently. "you've been quiet tonight," nasir finally remarked, his voice low and thoughtful. he let the question linger for a moment before speaking again, his fingers toying with the edge of his wine goblet. "go on then, lay it on me; what you got for me?"

[naaijas]

−−−  ꧁  starter for @jalabharmooton !! long-standing tradition places naija manderly in maidenpool, visiting jalabhar mooton and reminicsing on skills learned during her younger years from the lord.

soft, malleable earth clings to the fabric of her garments and bare skin alike, casting no judgment on where it chooses to settle. it's always been her favorite part of the activities in maidenpool. while amir did his best to keep up with the quick nature of the local adolescents, naija preferred to observe their fun from the safety of the shore. from an outsiders perspective, the act might come off as isolating, and she could only imagine it's what spurred jalabhar mooton to take her under his wing all those years ago.

squinted, brown hues are in mid-admiration of the apexing sun when the snapping of twigs pulls her focus. lazy, half-grin dimples her cheek at the sight of him, a much taller man than he was when she'd been initially coaxed into the waters that nipped at her heels, but his features hadn't changed much aside from the inevitable maturation caused by war and loss. the very same that claimed nasir and amir alike.

"i haven't caught one yet, if that's what you came to ask." levity clings to her tone, as if it weren't obvious enough by the dry state of her clothing. it's not as restricting as her northern attire, and when the temperature begins its incline shes grateful for the modest skirt and sleeveless blouse that takes the place of thick furs. "the sun was sitting too low for me to track them, so i'll hear none of your chiding this afternoon, jalabhar." faux seriousness is a stark contrast to playful features when she turns back to face the open water, petite hand tapping rhythimcally against the dirt beside her.

"have you anything to share before you drag me in? it's been quite a while since our last visit, you know."

[naaijas]

flurry of melting snowflakes fall from a shaken cloak once the lady has found shelter within the walls of winterfell. some still stick stubbornly to the dampened curls that frame frost-touched features, but her worry isnt with their effects on herself. focus is intent on the small parchment she grips closely to the warmth of her body. coal that she had procured for her newest vision in artworks trail across it in a few scattered drips that she fears may threaten the integrity of something that only her eyes intend to look upon. naija's unsure of what the mess of shapes and shades is supposed to amount to anyway, or if it even had a meaning before the melted droplets had their way with it. just that when her fingers felt that particular tingle in their tips, she must answer no matter the result or circumstance.

each prolonged gaze towards the damaged etching gave it more charm, and she's on the fence between hiding it away in her seafoam gown and tossing it in the dancing embers when a decorated cadence summons her from deep admiration. the former it is, she figures and her digits follow suit, careful not to sully the lining of an ornately hemmed pocket as soft brown hues study the man who is familiar only by a melodic accent that stands apart from the gruffness of the northmen she finds herself surrounded by.

"lord ryon," makes quick work of returning his gesture, yet she cant help but feel much smaller than usual under a gaze as curious as her own. "lady naija, of house manderly. unfortunately my title extends to that alone." references his own title, unsure of its true importance or if the confidence he exudes simply makes it so. neither hold much weight in the first impression given. he's captivating, with a smile that coaxes one of her own onto once rested petals.

"thats quite an impressive feat, my lord, though i'm afraid you came all this way for nothing if it is another you seek." humor can be found at the tail-end of her compliment. she is genuinely curious as to what could possibly lure a dornishman from the comfort of sun-kissed lands to the kingdom of winter. afew theories swirl as she adjust a frame once positioned in front of flames towards a towering frame that rivaled their bold light. "or is it a wolf that's led you here? now those we have in droves."

who: @naaijas what: while in the north on business, taking his sisters to Winterfell to see if the King wants to marry one, he takes notice of the Manderly sister he's never seen.

The vastness of Winterfell was as cold and imposing as he had been warned, but Lord Ryon Wyl did not seem particularly bothered by it. His dark, bronze skin—native to the sun-drenched lands of Dorne—was cloaked beneath the finest northern furs, the heavy layers somehow blending both his origins and his current environment. The fur-lined cloak was fastened with an intricate brooch of silver, designed in the shape of a tower of a grey snake —a personal touch, a nod to his own sigil.

And then he saw her.

She was standing near the hearth, her presence as striking as any of the fiery hues dancing in the flames. He took a long moment to observe, his gaze tracing her form, noting the elegance in her posture, the quiet strength in her demeanor. She was no stranger to grace, yet there was something unfamiliar about her, something he couldn’t place. And it irked him, this mysterious allure that tugged at his attention.

Approaching with his usual confidence, he offered a polite, almost teasing smile as he came to stand before her. "Oh," he said with a hint of playful curiosity, his voice carrying a distinct northern Dornish accent that wrapped each word in smooth, almost musical inflections. "And who are you?"

He looked her over again, his gaze lingering for a beat longer than necessary.

"I’m Lord Ryon Wyl, the Wyl of Wyl," he introduced himself with a slight bow of his head, his tone dripping with both arrogance and charm. "I killed a dragon once, you know." There was a pause. He knew well the importance of claiming feats, no matter how true they were. His eyes never left hers.

[naaijas]

myriad of voices clashing and melding are slowly becoming a source of contention for the northern lady. she doesn't enjoy the west as much as those buzzing around her, though the opposite would surely be spoken to save face. theres something hanging in the air when foot meets lannister soil that causes a relaxed spine to become rigid as the rules set in place by their king. she's on edge and the unfamiliar voice that draws attention once fixed on an intricate tapestry is an unwelcomed addition to her discomfort.

"lord royce." dip of pinned coils is the only formality she gives him. his features may escape her at the moment, but comments on his stature are cemented into the parts of her mind where irritation makes home. amirs descriptions of the man, though negative and exaggerated in his ire, were aligned enough for her to know who had come to interrupt her rouse of social interaction. ​"and it seems you have a habit of singling us out instead of confronting the pack. is there a particular reason for that?" doesnt bother to meet what she assumes to be a smug gaze, not until a goblet of deep red liquid rests between fingertips adorned in sparkling silver rings. only then do the matching set of hues reunite. his are different though. theres something lacking within them, even now as charm snakes its way around his taunting words.

"make no mistake, lord royce. i am cut from the same cloth as my brothers." leaves little room to question the pointed statement, yet she's sure someone with his reputation could find a way. "but i am interested to know what it is about me you find so different aside from the obvious?" arms fold defensively, dominant hand rising to allow the lady a sip as she awaits an answer shes not sure she even wants to hear.

location: during the westerlands event, after his confrontation with amir manderly, axell is looking for more trouble to cause

@naaijas

the glow of golden candlelight spilled across the hall, casting fleeting shadows over the laughing faces of nobles and the clinking of goblets. axell royce stood near one of the towering stone columns, his sharp eyes scanning the crowd. hundreds of people moving around enjoying each others company the ghost of runestone’s eyes were set only on one person.

she moved with grace, her presence understated but unmistakable. axell watched her for a long moment, his expression unreadable and calm but his thoughts anything but. naija manderly. he knew of her well enough but never had any reason to speak with her. she was pleasant to look at but not exactly his taste. but he could be persuaded if must. he knew he shouldn’t speak with her. he knew approaching her would draw ire—especially from her brothers. but wasn’t that the point? the thought alone sent a flicker of excitement through him. how could he pass up such a delectable thought?

with deliberate slowness, he pushed off the column and wove his way through the throng of revelers, boots striking a measured rhythm on the stone floor. he approached from the side, his towering frame casting a shadow over her as he reached her. “lady naija,” he greeted, his gravelly voice low but unmistakably smooth. the faintest hint of a smirk curled at his lips as he inclined his head, though his posture radiated confidence rather than deference. “it seems the manderly family is out in full force tonight. i’ve already spotted your brothers lurking about, looking like wolves in the wrong forest.”

he let the words linger, knowing the implications wouldn’t be lost on her. “but you,” he continued, his eyes flicking over her with an assessing, almost predatory edge. “you don’t seem the lurking type. no, you seem… different.”

[naaijas]

−−−  ꧁  starter for @mintharaestermont . a reunification between best friends in the west.

the passing of time, as daunting as it is grueling, inches by at a snails pace as sleek leaves fall from a plucked branch.a mindless activity, really. she's biding her time until the excellence that is minthara estermont graces her presence. its a friendship built on the strangest of foundations, but the facets in which their personalities compliment each other far outweigh any circumstance with which they might have met.

light breeze that once carried the scent of the florals that surrounded her now hold something much more familiar to her senses. she'd never come across a wildfire that hadn't smelled of smoke and ash before. not until minthara, whose fusion of citrus and sweet petals set her a part from the others of her region.

"i was starting to think they'd never let you out of their sight." excitement weaves itself within her words, and within a moment, she's standing from her comfortable place on the soft grass. cloak makes the action difficult for her to do so, but she still manages to wrap her arms around a friend that's been gone for far too long. "you must tell me of all i've missed at once."

[naaijas]

REWATCHING SITCOMS TO REGAIN MY SANITY → 27/∞

[naaijas]