#/dandelion wisps

[ventii-impact]

mfw the lore behind wine (particularly dandelion wine) in genshin only serves to further reinforce venti's connection to memory and time and him being an alcoholic isn't just a funny character trait but also ties into his themes 🤯

[dungeonzero]

Working on a side piece for the tales of Kokuten

[mediumgayitalian]

In his head he is brave enough to say it: gods, you are beautiful in the moonlight. He is. He has made Nico weak in the knees since they were fifteen and new and fragile as spun glass, and he does now. In the moonlight his radiance is much subtler; he is opal and pearl and quartz, he is shining and multifaceted.

Instead he traces the bob of Will’s throat, his long, freckly neck, cratered with burn scars and cupped with a raised white scar from years of endless picking; follows the wild winding wisps of his hair, barely held back by his old sunglasses, compressed in coils around his head like a pen spring squished to the size of its threads, creaking with the weight of its own potential energy, brimming with the imagined burst of its future; memorizes the fluttering flap of his feathering eyelashes, the delicate dips of his deepened Cupid’s bow, the roughened raze of his wide rowdy hands. All of him is in motion, always, but now especially, hands twitching on the wheel, head thrown back, mouth wide and shaking along with his shoulders.

“I really like your laugh,” and it’s quick, vowels tumbling over each other and tripping the consonants, a queue of clumsy hopefuls scrambling over shoulders and clasping hands. The pretty laughter fades and arched eyebrows replace it, poorly hidden surprise, twitching smile lines, and Nico looks deliberately forward, mortification cackling along each of his wire-tense muscles, dancing along the shimmering heat of his face. “It’s. Wide.”

“Wide?” asks Will carefully, craning his neck to glance in his blind spot, whispering chuckles dancing along to the beat of the blinker.

“Wide,” Nico confirms, flicking out his hands. His fingers are not nearly as long, nor as wiry or corded, but the scarring is mirrored. Nicks and scratches and burn marks and calluses, topographic maps of time spent.

Will’s turn is successful — the strawberry baskets dip dangerously from their precarious perch on backseats, but don’t fall, shifting over and around each other to burst tiny globules of stretched taut flesh, rubbing against rough reed ribbons. Nico inhales deeply, and the sweet is almost nauseating, summer fruit twisting in the air along with lavender body wash and Blistex and Texas summer sun.

“You take up space.”

“My laugh?”

Laughter in his words in his hands in his skin, in his eyes, in the coils of his hair, in his grass-stained heels, in the bends of his scar-bleached knees. In the dancing dots of his face arms chest legs. In the dip of his bottom lip, crater under his too-big front teeth. In the jut of his crooked spine and wide hips.

“What about my laugh?”

It is in his words more often than not and in Nico’s dreams even more so. It curls around the blurry edges of his dreams and weaves into daisy-strong chains, dangling from the too-high ceilings of his nightmares, coiling around his arms and chest and back and yanking with the force of breaking ribs, the force of bellows, the force of clasped bloodless hands. Dragging him across trench gouged ground to bright light and clear air and the distant memory of summer rain.

“That you like, I mean.”

“It’s snorting,” Nico confesses. Will reddens, and Nico smiles, under the heat of it grows sunflower and dandelion and tinted brown-eyes Susans. “Um. Loud.”

“Geez,” Will grumbles, “tell a guy the truth, why don’t you.”

Nico has never seen gold under silver nightlight and it fascinates him, how Will sparks and shimmers, how when the sun sets it does not fade away. How the tiny specks of precious metal weave through him like tinsel and glow in veins of sweet summer memory; how the warm night billows and blows around him lovingly, how the breeze from the open window greets him like a precious grandchild, a beloved nephew. Seedchild; beloved of the earth and sun, performer under the moon, the stars.

Will’s wide hands inch across the dash, brushing over the ancient radio dials and dipping over the skipping cassette, pausing by the base of the gearshift and resting, limply, palm open, fingers cracked and spread. Knuckles popping and chittering amongst themselves, hiding in the bent hoods of wrinkled skin. Nico lowers his heavy hands on the heated hopeful hesitance, curling his cool fingers around much longer ones, and squeezing, once, twice, thrice.

“I like your laugh,” he repeats. He rolls his shoulders, hands flexing, twitching, pulling.

Will’s hand tightens. The road opens up and the Atlantic glimmers beside them, moon whispering to its rippling waves, and he smiles, grins, wider than before, and he is laughing, again, and it is wider even this time, as wide as the sparkling silver water.

“I hear you.”

He squeezes.

You are beautiful in the moonlight. You are beautiful all the time.

Nico squeezes back.

[nomsfaultau]

Philza Malewife Competition Round 2

Previous round: Cleaning. Current points: The Lambs Wolves Wear (1), everyone else (0)

For a quick synopsis for the fics I’m referencing- those are here

(Zoom in below cut) Where do babies come from?: Philza reheated a slice of pepperoni pizza. It’s on a paper towel so he doesn’t have to wash dishes after. Slightly rubbery and very greasy. But it must be good, since Philza’s leftovers are what lured a bunch of homeless kids to raid his fridge.

Lighting Lanterns to Bring You Home: Fried noodles with beef and roasted mushrooms and broccoli, and a side of dumplings. Comes with a blessing of plenty from the Harvest god Technoblade. Made in the style of his homeland, and it brings him comfort in a foreign country. The spices are from his far reaching travels when petitioning the gods of every people he could find, and leads to a very unique blend.

Golden Apples (Gilded Atrophy): A dish heavily featuring golden apples! Enjoy Philza’s apple pie, apple cider, and an enchanted god apple. Slight problem….it is magically addictive/mind controlling, will trigger a body horror furry transformation sequence, and Philza will try to kill you if you eat any of his golden apples……

The Lambs Wolves Wear: This Philza is poor and notably starving to death, but he strives to feed his family as well he can. So, have some fluffy biscuits! The wheat was threshed and ground by hand, and all the butter and milk came from his own cows. Or, what’s left of them. Also maple syrup candies that he got from town that he rations out for special occasions. Let’s just hope none of this is secretly one of “Wilbur’s” illusions designed to stop Philza from noticing he’s starving…

Fault: It’s tough getting ingredients while on the run, but in Fault we see Philza is rather resourceful! Here he has roasted wild rabbit haunch, a rabbit, acorn, and foraged herbs stew, and dandelion tea. Everything was either hunted or foraged himself. It’s cooked to perfection thanks to his mastery of fire. Plates are admittedly a luxury, but oak leaves work fine, right? The tea pot is a luxury he insists upon though, this one round up from one of his vaults and likely to get cracked in a fight, much to the chagrin of historians.

Mandatory Family Reunion: The lovely spread of crown roast pork, potatoes, and grapes was of course prepared by one of his master chefs. But he claims to have prepared the pork himself. Techno is worried it’s not pig they’re eating, but the Piglins.

Worth far more than your weight in gold: [Philza] brought home food for his picky chicks! He doesn’t understand what people eat, and is very stressed about Gold Chick [translator’s note: Tommy] not eating the dead squirrels he’s been bringing. Maybe a live Technoblade will taste better?

Lord, what fools these mortals be!: With a grin and a puff of smoke, Philza conjures a cake out of thin air. Featuring a wintry chocolate tree that would make Amaury Guichon weep, delicate floating wisps of clouds and mist made of spun sugar, and flying chocolate candles. The frosting crows even fly across the cake. What? What do you mean you want a PB&J? He still doesn’t know what that is!!

Close ups below

Man this was really good art practice

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

The Sticking Point 1

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon, possible violence, illness, death, bullying, ableism, and other elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You are sent in the place of your ailing sister to marry a stranger. (Regency AU)

Character: Loki

Note: I'm hoping y'all like it.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me <3

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!)

Love you all. Take care. 💖

The chamber is pungent with sweat. A clammy sheen coats Edith's forehead as she gives another rattling cough. You hear the crackle in her lungs and smell the iron of her blood before it stains the crumpled handkerchief your mother dabs her lips with. 

She's been sick for months. Your mother said the summer heat would help her recovery but the drought that followed the spring downpour only seemed to worsen her symptoms. The once buoyant and bright eyed girl lays shrouded beneath a canopy, gulping and gasping, frail and despondent. 

Your fathe clears his throat, startling you from the doorway. You hadn't heard him appear. You glance at him over your shoulder and ser the grimness in his eye, the stone that has not dislodged since your sister fell ill. She always was his favourite. She's everyone's favourite. She is gentle and kind and rare.

Your mother turns to peek at your father's shadow. She gives a nod and rises, beckoning you forth, handing over the cloth and squeezing it into your palm. 

"Sit with your sister," she nearly whispers. The chamber is always quiet, as if speaking too loud might tempt the fates. Alas, it was always Edith who would sing to fill the dearth. She always knows what to do, what to say.

You perch on the edge of the bed as your mother crosses the floor. Not a word passes between your parents as they retreat. Again, the must discuss something dire, as they've done these last weeks. Each time, it only serves to gray their melancholy further.

Edith stares above her. Eyes glassy and distant. She coughs again and a fleck of phlegm lands on her chin. You mop it up as you wonder how her round cheeks could ever have become so taut and worn.

Her gaze drifts, slowly and lazily, a divet forming between her brows as she strains to look at her. The corners of her lips twitch but she hasn't the strength to smile. She gulps back another raspy cough.

"It's… you," she breathes, "my… sister."

Her words come far apart, each summoned with an effort. As you lower the handkerchief back to your lap she wheezes and lifts her hand shakily. She moves it towards you and lets it drop onto yours.

"I love you, sister," she wisps, "I… I remember…" she shakes her head and wets her tongue, "how much you love…dandelions and daffodils… and everything yellow and blooming." 

Her chest rattles as she falls into a fit. She curls her shoulders and clings to you tightly, her brittle nails sinking into your skin. She swallows loudly as she leans heavily against the pillows, her coughs subsiding. 

"I recall… and I know… you are just as… vibrant…" she bends her fingers around yours, "you must… be… for mother."

"No, Edi, you awe," you murmur, your syllables wobby, "and you will be. Again. You will be that for motha and fatha. You have to… I can't."

She groans and lets her head loll, "you will."

You frown. She is wrong. You cannot replace her and she will not die. It cannot be.

You lower your chin, eyes stinging. Your sister always cast a shadow over you, but you don't mind the shade. She always let you stand off to the side, she let you be quiet, she let you be unseen and safe. She is the only person who ever knew the real you and loved you for it. 

"Don't be… sad," her voice creaks, "I'm not."

You peek at her from under your lashes and furrow your brow, to ask 'you're not?'

She reads you as well as ever, "how can I be?" She heaves and gathers her words, "it may be a short life… but rich… and less than… lonely."

You can't hold back. It's more than what she says, it's the resignation in her tenor. Even in defeat, she is blissful. You bend over her and embrace her daintily, resting your head on her chest, listening to dull beat and the hoarse crackle within. You close your eyes and sniffle.

"You will be well again," you avow, "you have to get well." You let your tears flow down and wet her shift. She raises her hand and rests it on your head, petting your lightly, "I need you."

"I will be around… always," she hums, "you will know where to find me."

Her words dangle over you, confounding you. Cryptic but certain. You know she is right, as ever, but you want so badly for her to lie to you. 

🔹

You wake beneath the small glow of a single taper. Your mother holds a candlestick as she gently tugs on your sleeve. You peer over at your sister’s silhouette, her breaths whistling with each exhale. You sit up, reluctant to leave her.

“Come,” is all the wraithlike matriarch bids.

You obey, rising to follow her across the dark chamber. The hallway is lit only by her candle and the light shining out from a doorway further down. Your father welcomes you into his study, an unusual occasion but you sense not a happy one.

He sits behind his desk on the grand carved chair with medieval posts topped with polished wooden orbs. Your mother lowers herself onto a velvet seat and you take another stiff oaken chair, dragged in from the dining hall. You glance between them and purse your lips tightly. 

Your father sighs, long and heavy, steepling his fingers then quickly, letting them twine together. He sits forward and presses his chin to his knuckles. Your mother sits staunchly, staring ahead, sombre and silent.

“It is best in these moments to be pragmatic,” your father begins quietly, pushing his shoulders back as he forcefully clears the frog in his throat, “to think as a family, to consider the legacy of my name.” He looks down, unusually reticent. He moves his head back and forth, grazing his untended stubble across his fingers, “you will have to make the journey to Jade Park.”

Your frown. You’re uncertain what he means. You shake your head and blink furiously. It’s the closest you ever came to speaking out of turn. Though, your father despises how little you ever said.

“She is too sick to travel. Or to marry. Even if the lord in question made the trek himself to meet his betrothed, she would not be able to receive him… if she were still alive.”

You choke audibly and clutch your throat. Your mother lets out a thick breath and shifts on her seat. Your father’s lip curls, irritated.

“The Duke made a contract for a wife, he will have one,” your father declares, gritting his teeth, “whether he be disappointed or not, he cannot claim forfeiture.”

You send your mother a desperate look. You cannot go and marry Lord Laufeyson. He is to be Edith’s husband. You were still to have some time ahead of you.

Your father covers his face and drags his hands up, combing over his hair with a growl. He holds his skull before sitting up sternly.

“And by the lord, speak up! He will not want a mute as a wife,” he snarls.

You shrink. It should have been you. You should be the one sick and dying. It should be Edith carrying on your father’s hopes. You are not good enough for it. Nor are you ever good enough for him. Where he dotes on Edith, he rants at you.

“Speak!” He slams his palm on the desk.

You flinch and push your head up. You fix your posture and unstick your tongue from the roof of your mouth as you part your lips, “yes, fatha, as you bid me–”

“As is your duty,” he sneers, “as a daughter must. As a woman!”

He rails as he waves his hand angrily with each word. He slaps it back down and pushes himself to his feet. He stomps away and stops before the faded portrait of his forebear. You peek again at your mouth, her lips are straight as she looks at you blandly.

“Fatha,” you eke out and stand, “I pwomise I will do my best–”

“I cannot hear you!” He spins to face you, “I hear only mindless babbling. No husband wants a mouse for a wife. Let us only hope Laufeyson will accept one sister in place of another.”

“Fatha,” you squeak.

“Wife,” he ignores you, moving back behind his desk, “you will be certain to review her diction. Mute and dumb, how pitiful.”

You wince. No matter your efforts, your words are always skewed. Every syllable is a little longer than it needs to be, and you cannot form a sharp R. It all fools loose and awkward.

“Fatha–”

“Fathaaa,” he mimics and turns his back to you, “Thea, get her away from me. Ready her luggage.”

“Luggage? When am I to leave, fatha?”

“As soon as we can have you gone,” he mutters, “your sister deserves to die in peace.”

You fold your arms, holding yourself as his words sink into your chest. Like a knife, it cuts to the core and you can’t fight the sob that rises in your throat. You spin on your heel and flee. You hear him boom at your mother.

“Be certain she does not act as a child for her husband,” he barks.

You clamour into your sister’s chamber and over to the bed. You lower yourself next to her once more and wiggle close. Your tears fall as you tuck her hand between her arm and her body.

“Sista,” you gulp, “oh, sista, I don’t want to go… I don’t want you to go.”

🔹

You touch your lips as the carriage shudders with each turn of the wheel. You still feel your sister’s cold skin against you. That final kiss you gave. You know for sure that is what it is. You will not see her again. Not above the earth.

You lean against the wall, trembling with the motion. Your mother is across from you, dabbing her eyes with a folded handkerchief. She bawls loudly now and again, a lock of your sister’s hair clutched in her other hand. 

Despite her protests, your father insisted it would be undue for you to go alone and for neither of them to attend the introduction to assure the contract’s fulfillment. So she accompanies you and the single maid, Doreen.

Dread suffocates you in the cramped space. Even as the sun shines between the curtains, it is gray inside.

You put your head down and stare at the pages of the novel in your hands. Your vision is bleary and you don’t read. It is only an excuse, an act. You try to imprint your sister’s features into your head, try to memorise her voice. You never want to forget her. You want to keep every part of her with you.

The wheels roll on into the night. Your mother pulls a blanket around her but you let the cold chill you, almost praying that it might sicken you. That you could take the ague and your sister’s place. You shiver and look out from behind the curtain, watching the silhouettes of hills and trees pass.

The driver stops at the Crescent Hotel just inside the city. You rent a room and spend the night awake. Your mother sobs and snores until the sun rises. 

When you're ready to set back out on the road, your mother is certain to have the maid arrange your hair and check your face. She has you wear a particular dress, a shade of moss with pearl buttons, and a bonnet with a broad brim. Once past the city, it is only another hour to Jade Park.

You sit with hands clutched, the bench rigid beneath you, uncomfortable as your restlessness mounts. On and on until you are dizzy and quivering. You don’t know that you can do this, but you know you cannot say so.

You approach a great wall of lime washed bricks with a grand golden gate with twists at the peak of each pole. Your mother cranes to watch as you get nearer and you wring your hands together until the seams of your gloves sear your skin. The driver greets the gatekeeper and is let through after a brief introduction.

He proceeds through as the clop of the horses like hooves to your fragile mind. Closer and closer. The wheels slow and the carriage jostles as the driver climbs down. Yet another voice greets him, a groomsman who directs him before opening the door.

The driver places a step down for your mother to descend and you come out after he as the groom assists with a helping hand. You nearly trip on the inch tall heels of your shoes and your mother darts a reproachful glare in your direction. You apologise and look up at the square peaks jutting up from the top of the boxy manor.

The walls are a pale beige trimmed with lush hedges. Stone steps stretch before the wide doors and multi paned windows look out onto the sprawling lawn of green, speckled with marble statues, a fountain, and finely kept flowers. Tall trees peek out from behind the grand house and softly wave in the breeze.

Your mother steps closer to you and pinches your arm.

“Shoulders straight,” she girds, “do not gape like a simpleton. If you must, you may hide behind your fan.”

She takes a step forward, then another. Three before you kick yourself into motion. Your heart thumps loudly as you try to keep pace. The groom shows you up the steps and two others appear to open the double door at the top.

Oh my. 

[amuromi]

★ ₊ ⊹ ⋆˙ ┈ 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐍𝐈𝐄 𝐒𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐑 X ᶠ!ᴿᴱᴬᴰᴱᴿ

✦ ⋆˙ 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓 ┈ 7.7k

✦ ⋆˙ 𝐀!𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 ┈ I would just like to thank the girlies for showing me the light of the Dominican-French Connie headcanon. Truly a beautiful thing that you’ve all created.

✮ 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐒 & 𝐀𝐆𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐒 𝐃𝐎 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓!! ✮

✦ ⋆˙ 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐒 ┈ NSFW! modern!au, hurt/comfort, previously established relationship (childhood sweethearts to exes), pet names (baby, mami, mamita), oral (f!receiving), mentions of birth control, untranslated Spanish, ooc!Connie (canon is only a suggestion)

It’s late, just on the cusp of twilight. The sun is setting behind the skyline in flecks of amber light, flickering over the culdesac like a dwindling candle. Soon the streetlights will come on, buzzing in bright halos over the cracked pavement of the basketball court. It’s so strange to see the changes that had gone unnoticed in years prior suddenly become glaringly obvious. The old pavement of the basketball court has always been cracked and faded, dandelions pushing up between the rivers of dirt that worked their way through the broken concrete. The green paint has long since been washed away along with the white lines and red free throw lane. Somebody–probably the same person that tagged the mailboxes up the street–has made an attempt at renewing the paint job, wobbling lines of spray paint marking out half court and the foil line. The rest of the park is just as neglected, having never been updated since its first installation. The swings are old and rickety, creaking under the slightest weight, and all the plastic pieces of the playground have been bleached pale under the sunlight. But it’s still standing. 

All the pocketknife etchings in the picnic tables and sharpie scribbles on the underside of the tallest slide. This park has always been well-loved. There are memories tucked into the cracked asphalt and carved into trees. Some aren’t even tangible, just the wisp of a thought tucked to the back of your mind that comes loose when you hear just the right song at just the right time. A car driving by with the windows down, in the stifling heat of midsummer. Mostly just bass rattling through the frame of someone’s hoopty as they ease down the block just as it starts to get dark, hollering at someone loitering by the stop sign at the end of the road. Hear just the right baseline at just the right time throws you back to somewhere easier. When the biggest worries in life were getting home before the streetlight turned on. 

Age came through and shattered that simplicity. First crack was sacrificing half the summer to a job at some pop-up carnival that closed as soon as school started, then school started getting serious the closer it got to graduation, and that ceremony sent everybody off in their different directions. Like pulling out threads of a sweater until it starts to unravel. Mikasa went one way and Armin another. Eren stayed local. Coming back together has been like finding a dusty puzzle at the back of a closet and hoping it still had all its pieces. Mikasa graduated the same time as you, but Armin and his big brain still have two more years to go for his bachelor’s. Sasha is fresh out of culinary school and looking to set up something local, a little restaurant somewhere in town. 

What started as a throwaway story post that you expected nobody to see or care about–a simple “back where it all began” when you decided to walk to the park at 1AM–had turned into a rallying cry that brought everybody out of the woodwork. Now, after all the new neighborhood kids have gone home, the park is still full of people. A bunch of twenty-somethings too big to be messing with all this playground equipment. The streetlights buzz to life as the sky goes black, bugs crowding around the yellowish light, but no one moves to go home. You’re all grown. The only thing that can tell you to go home now is a half exasperated text from your Momma wondering how long you plan to be out of the house for. It’s still early enough in the night–hardly past nine–that you don’t need to worry about getting called home because you’ve been out of the house for too long or some other nonsensical reason. And even that won’t bother your Momma who’s out living her own life now that you’re older. Something about a weekend trip with her friend Mr. Vick, which you know from childhood, is something she calls all her dates, like it’s an inside joke that she still goes out and has fun. “Acting grown,” as you’ve always called it. 

And besides your Momma, you don’t really need to worry about much of anything right now. With a degree under your belt, this little return to living at home is only temporary. A brief stop while you’re waiting for everything with your new employment and the leasing office of your apartment to clear. Soon you’ll be working your own little corporate job with an office and everything, and you’ll have your own place away from your Momma’s house, too. Life is sweet and seeing all your old friends is making it sweeter, but there’s still that barest hint of bitterness lingering on the back of your tongue. No one has mentioned it, too busy focusing on who’s here rather than who’s not, but there is one glaring piece missing from the little jigsaw of your old group of friends. One soldier that didn’t answer the call of duty. 

Mikasa and Historia are over on the swings, Eren and Jean are playing one on one on the beat up court, and Sasha and Armin are sprawled out on one of the jungle gym platforms. You’re comparatively alone, sitting at the picnic table all by yourself. It’s like something frozen in time. The same chipped paint and rusted bolts. In so many years, it seems like none of the kids have added anything else to the splintered collage you all left behind. There’s still the little lopsided heart that Historia etched out after being convinced that no one would care if she defaced this particular piece of public property. She was always a stickler with things like that. But the park belongs to you guys more than it does anyone else anyway. It’s always been the property of the kids and it’s almost sad that they haven’t added their own touches in the time since you all graduated. Maybe they’ve hidden their tags in different places. On the underside of the jungle gym written in sharpie, or the frame of the swing set etched into the creaking metal. 

After a while, the sound of sneakers scuffing on concrete pauses just long enough for a shadow to cut across your line of sight, eyes half closed as you rest your head on the table.  

“Don’t tell me you’re tired,” Eren teases. He somehow looks the same as you last saw him yet so much different. He’s bulkier and his hair is longer. He’s sweating, looking sticky as honey under the golden haze of the streetlights as he smiles down at you. 

“M’not tired.” It only sounds the slightest bit fatigued as you mumble the words into your folded arms, but you’re not. You slept in today and even when you woke up you only got out of bed sometime in the afternoon. You’re as well rested as can be, but longing is making you a bit lethargic. Something about a watched pot never boiling. Each minute has stretched to a small eternity as you stare up the ridge of the slight hill that flanks the park. The road is mostly invisible from where you’re sitting but you keep hoping you’ll see someone coming down the dirt path worn through the grass. Eren follows your eyes then kisses his teeth, pushing your shoulder as if to break you out of a daze. 

“If he shows, he shows. Don’t sit here waiting for him.” Eren at least has the sense not to sound pitying. It’s not like he’s had the smoothest relationship in the past four years either. He’s been on and off with half a dozen girls since graduation, never seeming to settle down with any one of them. Eren is lucky he’s easy to like because he’s never been hounded by any disgruntled ex and it gives you hope for your own past, but that candle you’ve been holding is burning lower and lower everyday. Soon it’ll hiss out in a puff of smoke and that’ll be that. Another door closed, another chapter ended. 

“C’mon, you’re not ’bout to spend the night over here looking sad. Come by my cheerleader while I break Kirstein’s ankles.” Eren has always been something like a brother. Older by a couple months, always pretending he was more mature and had all the answers. Usually he’s no more insightful than you, but he means well and tonight it’s a welcomed distraction. You sit at the edge of the court on one of those rickety benches that rocks and sags under your weight, hooting each time one of them scores just so Eren can huff about you “only cheering for him.” By the time they’ve played themselves out everyone has gathered at the edge of the court. 

Armin has settled between your legs, shoulders knocking into your knees as you card your fingers through his hair. It used to be longer. Back in middle school he had a thick mop of hair that matched Mikasa’s. They’ve both shorn off their hair to something more cropped and manageable now, still matching somehow. Historia is leaned up against your shoulder, half-asleep but perking up now that Sasha has started talking about food. Something about everyone coming over to theirs tomorrow for brunch. It’s getting late enough that getting up early is starting to sound like a chore but the promise of a home cooked meal courtesy of your favorite chef has you setting an alarm in your phone. Jean sinks one more shot from half court before wiping his face on his soiled shirt and agreeing to call it a night. 

Home is only a couple minutes away, the path lit by merging rings of light pouring down from the streetlamps. The pavement strewn with grass clippings is far less intimidating than walking around campus at night. Here you know house 13 is Ms. Emma’s and the blue car parked on the corner belongs to Mr. Leroy. There’s nothing haunting the streets but a stray cat that meows at you as you split off from Historia at the end of the block. She lives in the next neighborhood over–where the sidewalks aren’t as cracked and the houses not so weathered–and you watch her drive off until her tail lights disappear around a corner. Your phone pings as the group chat erupts with the obligatory “I’m home” texts. You send your own before turning in for the night, trying not to mull over the missing name in the text chain. 

Morning comes in shades of pink and electric buzzing as your phone vibrates through your alarm. It’s early or at least earlier than you’ve gotten up in a while, but Sasha is already up and texting, reminding everyone that food will be ready by noon. There’s a pang of nostalgia as you get ready in the bathroom that saw you through so many formative years. It smells like your Momma now that you’ve spent so long living in dorms instead of at home. Her perfume and hair products, the sweet smell of vanilla and cocoa butter that clings to nearly every room of the house. Even your own perfume mimics the comforting scent as you spritz yourself in a generous cloud before stepping out for the day. 

A pair of sunglasses sits low on the bridge of your nose as you make the drive to Sasha’s new apartment. She moved out soon after she finished culinary school. A modest apartment that isn’t too far from the restaurant she works at. It’s humble but it’s hers, and you’re proud to see how well life has been treating her. A notification from Sasha pops up as you check your lipgloss at a stop light, asking you to run to the store for her. Something about running out of eggs. Historia chimes in a moment later asking if any of the liquor stores are open so she can make mimosas. You turn right at the next light and bemoan the lack of cars in the parking lot of the grocery store. It’s not so early that no one’s on the road but you hate to be that person rolling up into the store before everyone’s settled into the work day. 

Just make it quick, you tell yourself as you pass through the doors. There’s an immediate gust of frigid air conditioning that raises goosebumps over your skin as you grab a basket. The store is nearly empty as you meander towards the dairy section. There’s a lady pondering over avocados as you pass through the produce. About as old as your Momma, though her hair is finely peppered with streaks of gray. There’s a vague familiarity to her that comes with growing up in the same place. She might’ve been your old daycare lady or a secretary at your elementary school. You push your sunglasses a bit higher on your face, trying to hide behind the wide lens. It’s too early to navigate through a half recalled stroll down memory lane. She barely glances up as you pass, but you still take a sudden interest in the speckled pattern of the tiled floor, skirting past a display of tomatoes until you can dip around a corner. Halfway down the line of aisles you see an old classmate working the seafood counter. There’s a moment of hesitation before he nods at you and you return the gesture hoping that will be the last of the familiar faces you see until you get to Sasha’s place. 

By the time you make it to the self checkout you’ve only seen three more people in the relatively large store. No one that you knew, luckily. The scanner happily chirps to not forget your receipt as you tuck the eggs into your reusable bag, the motion interrupted as you hear a familiar song ghosting past your ears. It’s quiet, muffled, sounding like you’re only hearing it from a distance. It draws your eyes despite the machine reminding you to remove all items from the bagging area. There’s no one behind you to stir up a fuss about you lingering too long at the register, half lost in a memory. In fact the only other person in the self checkout area is a man that looks devastatingly familiar. Even with his back towards you, you could pick Connie out of the biggest crowd. His hair is a bit longer now, grown out of his militaristic buzz cut, and his shoulders have gotten broader since you last saw him, but it’s him. 

The music is coming from him, of course. A relic from a bygone era of your life, a song older than either of you that his mother used to play. A comforting sound from those awkward years of middle school. It’s faint but you can hear the soulful belting of the love song even from a distance. It sends you back to the time when you first met Connie. He’d been on the fringes of your life throughout childhood. That friend of a friend that you’d never formally met until your sixth grade English class when he was sitting next to you and cheating off your answers. It took a few months before you realized he was an ESL student and suddenly cheating wasn’t the worst thing in the world. 

The register chirps at you to pick up your groceries and grab your receipt and you nearly drop your bag and break your eggs in your rush to leave. Connie glances up from his own scanning at the sound of the commotion. It’s only a cursory glance from the corner of his eye but you see the recognition spark immediately. His whole body goes rigid, suddenly lined with tension at the mere sight of you. It’s too early for this kind of confrontation. Four years suddenly seeming too soon to see him again. You’re halfway to your car before you consider that he might not have recognized you. You try to rationalize that he could’ve just been bothered by some random woman staring him down while he’s trying to get groceries. It makes the lack of any notifications on your phone make more sense. The Connie you knew would’ve been texting you, then calling if you didn’t answer quick enough for his liking. He wouldn’t have let you walk away from him so easily. But, after so long, the Connie you knew only exists in memories. Like the song you only remember as a melody, no true words, just sounds and a feeling. 

It’s so strange how a day can sour so quickly. The bubbling happiness of getting to see your old friends has dissipated to a rueful melancholy. You get to see every friend but one. 

Masking your upset is easy when you can blame your lack of enthusiasm on the early hour despite having gotten more than enough sleep. Sasha puts you to work anyway, nudging you towards one end of the counter with a bowl and instructions to scramble the eggs. There’s a debate between Jean and Armin over adding milk to the mix, then Historia starts another over how much cheese qualifies as too much. Sasha bats all their hands away with a spatula, tossing in more cheese with a petty grin as you lament that you’re just following the chef’s instructions. You find yourself humming the song Connie had been playing as you cook, struggling to remember the words in Spanish. 

If anyone notices your overindulgence in the mimosas, they don’t question it. Historia seems happy to play mixologist as she measures out generous amounts of champagne colored with a splash of orange juice. By the fourth glass you’re feeling fuzzy and warm, like floating in a sun-dappled cloud. Mikasa’s shoulder is a nice place to rest as you drift in and out of the movie Armin put on. Some long, pondering art house film that you’re sure wouldn’t have been any easier to understand if you hadn’t only been half conscious through the whole runtime. The morning tastes like maple syrup and melted cheese. Sweet and savory as you try to ignore the soured note of your shopping trip. You try to imagine what might’ve happened if you hadn’t tucked tail and ran, then decide it was better that you had left in such a hurry. Connie had seen you but he decided to go back to what he’d been doing, ignoring you as if you were a stranger.

By the tail end of the second movie you’re sobering up and thinking of an excuse to duck out early. Sasha is back to banging around in the kitchen, cooking a late lunch, or maybe an early dinner, but you don’t have the energy to pretend to be upbeat for much longer. It isn’t quite sadness. That already came and went years ago. But it’s a strange aching like an old injury flaring up with the rain. Some time to yourself will help clear your head as you obsess over every second of the momentary interaction. Had that been a frown at the corner of his mouth or was it simply a trick of the light? Had he even considered following after you or was he glad to watch you go? The alcohol had dampened the anxiety but with each sobered moment it came roaring back to the forefront with a vicious ferocity. 

You make up some excuse about cleaning the house before your Momma gets home from her weekend getaway, ducking out of Sasha’s apartment to a chorus of disapproving whines. There’ll be other days together. You’re staying at home for at least another week and you weren’t moving so far that visits would be out of the question. Fifteen minutes was barely a drive at all, just a quick shot up the road from the high rise you’d closed on. They’ll be able to suffer one evening without you while you get yourself in order. 

Connie is all you can think about as you drive home. Him and the way he’d looked at you in the store. Like you were a ghost, a memory meant to be forgotten. And really, you have no right to be mad because isn’t that what you’d done to him? You’re strangers now. Hadn’t talked in years. What would you even say if you did? You consider the park as you drive past, but the sky has turned a steely gray and you’re not feeling like getting rained on in the name of nostalgia. It smells like lawn clippings and petrichor when you get out of the car. It’s still warm despite the storm clouds, a sticky sort of heat that ruins hair and melts makeup. The first crash of thunder comes rolling through as you lock your car, and you nearly unlock it just as fast when you notice someone sitting on your front step. 

The porch is outfitted with a cute set of chairs your Momma got from a yard sale a while back but Connie has decided to sit on the steps. He looks up at the sound of your approach and you try not to notice the way the hazel color of his eyes have shifted with the weather. They’re pulling more brown than green in the muted light of the storm as he watches you stomp past him. You hear him scrambling to follow after you even over the jangling of your keys as you rush to unlock the front door. But the porch is small and he’s already there by the time the deadbolt clicks out of the way. The weight of the screen door lifts from your back and the cold glass is replaced with the warmth of his breath skirting over the nape of your neck. It’s the closest you’ve been in years, too close to slam the door on him as he follows close behind you. He shuts the door like he lives here, locking it behind him with a sort of finality. There’s still the back door for you to escape out of and you’ve hopped enough fences to circumvent the enclosure of the backyard, but you aren’t about to let this man run you out of your own home. 

There’d been a draining sort of grief settled over you before but now it’s turned to boiling anger. He’s always been a bit desperate for your attention, though he looks a bit confused to be standing in front of you now. His eyes glance around the front room, taking in every detail as if he wanted to commit it to memory. It had been so long since he’d last been in your Momma’s house and you imagine it felt like wiping clean a window to allow the light through, the haze of dirt and lost memories removed as he breathed deep a smell that must’ve lingered in the back of his mind the same way the scent of his cologne lingered in yours. There’s an awkwardness to him that sits far too foreign on his large frame. His hands are shoved into his pockets, deep enough that they’re pulled just low enough for a peek of elastic to poke out over the waistband. You try not to focus on the strip of skin showing above the band of his underwear. If you look too long you’ll get lost in your head and you can’t let nostalgia cloud your judgment when he’s standing in the middle of your Momma’s living room uninvited, looking so fondly at the pictures of you she has framed on the wall. 

Connie seems to know you’re about to speak before the words even leave your mouth because his hand catches your chin. He tilts your head up to look at him as his thumb brushes over your lips, smearing your lip gloss just as soon as your lips part. 

“Not yet, baby,” he says and you can tell he talked to his mom recently. He’s got that little twang to his voice that he gets after speaking Spanish for an extended amount of time, the accent he outgrew somewhere in middle school slowly creeping back into his voice. You hate that you recognize it. That you wonder what he said to his mom, if he mentioned you. She used to keep a picture of the two of you in her wallet. The same picture your Momma still has framed somewhere. She took it down years ago when you’d come home in the middle of the semester with tears in your eyes, babbling about breaking up with Connie. But she never got rid of it, she said you’d regret it someday. Now, you were slowly starting to understand her insistence on preserving the sweet memory. 

The two of you were laid up on a couch, squished together even though you were small enough that there was more than enough space to spread out a bit more. One of your arms is tucked under your head while the other is laid over Connie’s back as he drools on your chest, leaving a wet spot on your shirt. You can still remember the sights and smells of that day. It was the first time you’d been invited to one of his family gatherings. 

His cousins had loved you, prattling on in a quick rush of Spanglish that you tried your best to follow as his mom kept handing you plates of food. Connie stuck close to your side the whole day, translating the slang that you missed and stealing your food when he got hungry. 

So many of your memories with him were so precious. It seems almost impossible that it had all come crumbling down so quickly. All it took was one phone call for your world to come crashing down because he couldn’t even give you the respect of doing it face to face. Maybe because he knew he wouldn’t go through with it if he could see your teary eyes. He always hated seeing you cry. Even just a pout would have him jumping to fix the problem. Any problem but your broken heart. You almost want to push him away as he leans his head against yours but it feels so good to be in his arms again. Almost like nothing has changed. But it has, and you aren’t about to let him pretend like it hasn’t. 

“Not yet.” He says again and this time he kisses you, stealing the words out of your mouth. It isn’t the kind of kiss you’d been expecting, though you truly hadn’t been expecting one at all. It’s deep and searching as if he’s trying to pour every kiss he’d missed giving you in the last few years into one. It feels like drowning and breathing all at once. As if you hadn’t realized you were starving until he gave you food and told you to eat. He tastes sweet, like cake. 

“You can be angry,” he promises between breathless kisses. “Later, you can be angry. But right now, let me pretend I never let you go.” But he had, and it hurt, and you are angry. Yet your hands are pulling him closer. 

“Not here.” He says between kisses, urging you towards the hallway. He remembers which door is yours–second on the left–even after so many years away. It’s damning how well Connie knows his way around your childhood home. He’s spent countless hours within these walls the same as you. It was like a second home for him. Now it’s like he never left as he guides you towards your bed. It isn’t the luxurious queen size you ordered for your new apartment, just a modest double that was just big enough for the two of you. Usually with room to spare because Connie never did like to sleep on his side of the bed. He doesn’t make an attempt at taking up any space after he sits you on the edge of the mattress, retreating towards the door as if he’s suddenly scared to be this close to you. 

It’s a mutual feeling, the excitement and hesitance. It’s like being lethargic and hyper all at once, locked in some shuddering equilibrium that will go off kilter the moment one of you makes a wrong move. So Connie stays pressed up against your door, hands back in his pockets like that’ll be enough to keep his hands off you after he’s already got the taste of you on his lips. He never was one to be satisfied with just a kiss. 

There’s nothing hiding his eagerness as you catch the shape of his dick pressing through the gray fabric of his sweatpants clear as day. The sight is enough to lead you down a well-worn path. It’s easy to go along with his wish, to pretend he never left, when you’re surrounded by the familiarity of the past. It’s like you’re eighteen again, watching Connie fight back tears as you tell him you’re leaving for college. It was the beginning of the end yet you can’t find it in yourself to regret it. College had been the right choice and you’re not sure what your Momma would’ve done if you told her you weren’t going to your first choice school just to stay close to a boy. Even if that boy was Connie. But that doesn’t matter right now. Later, he said, you can be mad at him later. Right now you want to forget all the lost years and unspoken emotions standing between you. 

There’s a bashful hesitance as you shrug off your shirt, trying not to think of how long it’s been since he last saw you like this. You look different, surely, but Connie doesn’t seem perturbed. His mouth falls open as if he hadn’t expected it to be that easy to get you undressed. Of course you should be a little less forgiving, more steadfast in your anger, but that can all come later. For now, you’re nearly tripping over your feet to get your pants off. Connie stays pressed up against your door, hands solidly in his pockets, but his eyes are greedy as they rove over your undressed form. Light eyes drag down your body, taking in the way your bra strap slips off the curve of your shoulder and your panties are slung low around your hips. It’s mismatched, nothing special, but Connie licks his lips and bites back a smile. 

“Show me.” He sounds breathless. “Show me what I’ve been missing, baby.” There’s a soft thud as he head falls back against the door. His eyes are half lidded, lashes fluttering as his eyes take in your state of undress. The slight gravel to his voice has your knees knocking and cheeks warming, and suddenly you don’t feel as confident as you did a minute ago. Connie smirks, a soft laugh falling from his lips. “Don’t be shy now, baby. Lemme see.” 

There’s an awkward tremor to your hands as you slide your panties off, thighs closing as soon as you kick them off your ankle. Connie clocks you immediately, sucking his teeth at your coy behavior. 

“Uh uh, mama. Spread your legs. Lemme see.” There’s something so familiar in his voice, that slow drawl as he looks down at you, that has your body reacting before you can think. Your legs slide open and Connie groans. “There she is. So pretty, baby.” 

He finally pushes off the door to come closer and the sight of him rushes over you like deja vu. It eases your nerves, the familiarity of it all. It’s been a while but not so long that your bodies have forgotten each other. Connie fits between your legs the same as he always did. Falling to his knees the instant he’s close enough to touch. His hands slide up the inside of your thighs, pushing your legs farther open, before dipping over the curve of your hips to pull you to the edge of the bed. 

“Missed this,” Connie says as he buries his face between your legs. “Missed you.” The words are spelled out with his tongue as he laps at the wet heat hidden between your thighs. His short hair still prickles against the palm of your hand as you look for something to ground you as he takes his time to reacquaint himself with your body. He’s mumbling a litany of English and Spanish that hums against your clit as he sucks the sensitive bud between his lips, tracing the shape of his name like he never left. The way he’s gripping your thighs, tight enough that his fingers are leaving dimples in the soft flesh, it feels like he wishes he hadn’t left. 

There’s regret and possession radiating from him as he eats you like a man starved. He catches you watching him as your nails scratch at his scalp, hazel eyes sparkling up at you as you squirm on his tongue. He’s looking at you like you’ve hung all the stars in the sky as you cum. He groans loud and long, eyes rolling as your legs try to snap shut. He lets you, loosening his grip on your thighs just enough to feel your legs lock around his head. Connie has the nerve to look perfectly happy to suffer the suffocation as he keeps sucking at your clit. It’s not until you’re pushing him away, whining about “too much,” that he comes up for air. He’s got a dopey smile on his face, your slick shining on his cheeks and chin. He licks his lips and kisses the inside of your thigh, leaving a shiny, heart-shaped mark. He does it again and again, a trail tracing up your stomach before he buries his face against your chest, tongue tracing hot shapes across the pebbled peaks of your nipples. He’s mumbling something, low and barely coherent as he sucks marks into the plush skin of your breasts. 

“–me.” It’s a slurred mess on his clumsy lips, his attention divided between spouting his little mantra and tracing the shape of his name against your collarbone with the tip of his tongue. “Only me.” He says it over and over. Only me, only me, only me…

“Tell me, baby,” he says, suddenly crowding over you. He’s pushed you up the bed so your head is resting on your mountain of silk-covered pillow. “Tell me it’s only gonna be me.” His voice, usually deep and dulcet, has risen to an almost whimpering tone as he blocks everything but himself from your vision. The bulk of his arms crowds your periphery, keeps your head from moving as he sits nearly nose to nose with you. He’s close enough that you can reacquaint yourself with the pattern of his hazel eyes, easily parsing which flecks are green and which are brown. “Tell me.” 

There’s still a shy hesitance as you thread your arms around his neck, but it’s less about the sudden proximity and more about the sudden outpour of emotion shaking itself awake, like frost melting in the sunlight. Connie has always been familiar even after so long apart, but the emotions he dredges up have been buried beneath years of hurt and the intensity of it all bursting through the wall you’ve carefully built around your heart is almost enough to drown you. Tears come unbidden, burning at your lash line and threatening to make your mascara run. 

“It’s always been you,” you promise him. “It’s only ever gonna be you.” It wipes the slate clean. Anyone you’d been with, anyone he’d been with, in the years of distance are wiped away with only a few words. They didn’t matter anymore. Nothing mattered but the two of you. Connie nearly drowns you in his next kiss, tongue dancing over yours as he groans into your mouth. You can taste yourself as he sucks at your tongue like he’s trying to reacquaint himself with every facet of your body. It’s a shared sentiment as your lips find that beauty mark at the edge of his jaw that you always pressed fluttering kisses to. He laughs, low and breathless, returning the favor as he finds all those favorite places he liked to put his lips. It’s soft and loving, staving off the inevitable as his dick ruts between your legs. Each thrust has his leaking tip pressing wet kisses against your clit, adding to the mess he’s already made between your legs. His hand is clumsy when he finally reaches between your bodies to guide himself home. 

“Fuck.” The word comes out as a languid drawl as he fills you to the hilt, reaching to hitch one of your thighs around his waist. Your body remembers the shape of his, bending and bowing with the practiced motions, but you can still feel the changes. Connie has bulked up since you last saw him and he was already a pillar of corded muscles the last time you’d touched him. You can feel the softer parts of your body pressing against the hard contours of his muscles as he wraps himself around you. His arms curl under your back, pulling you closer until your hearts are beating in tandem, chest to chest as he stretches you to your absolute limit on his dick. 

“Bésame,” Connie groans, nosing under your chin to lift your mouth to where he needs it. He hovers a hair’s breadth away from your lips, each panting breath mingled with yours. “Bésame, mami.” He says again and you realize he’s waiting for you to kiss him. You’re happy to close the gap he’s left, letting him swallow all the little noises you’re making. It’s reminiscent of the days before when you had to be quiet so your Momma could at least pretend she didn’t know what the two of you were doing behind closed doors. But she isn’t home now, so you’re free to make as much noise as he can draw out of you as he rocks his hips against yours. He isn’t going for speed. Instead Connie fills you with slow, deep strokes that stir up your insides and make you feel him in your stomach. It punches the air from your lungs, leaving you to breathlessly slur his name as your nails leave marks across the broad expanse of his shoulders. 

“That’s right, mami.” His teeth scrape against the shell of your ear. Each gruff sound slipping past his lips echoes in your head as he presses his nose against your temple. “Mark me up. Quiero ser tuyo.” 

“Tú eres mío.” You say, leaving sticky marks along his neck, lipgloss and spit shining between the beads of sweat. Connie groans as you nip at his pulse, hips stuttering as he pulls you impossibly closer. 

“Eres mía, mamita. Dilo, mami, dime.” He’s slurring his words, each one bleeding into the next as Connie fucks you into the mattress. You’re on the cusp of mindlessness as he reaches between your bodies to find your aching bud, nearly too far gone to understand what he’s saying. It’s only because it’s him, only because you’ve heard it a thousand times in what feels like another life, that you know what he wants to hear. 

“Soy tuyo,” you whine as he spells his name on your clit. “Soy tuyo, lo sabes!” 

“Yo sé, mamita.” His voice is damning. You can hear the smile in his tone as he grinds his hips in deep circles, drawing out the inevitable as you teeter on the cusp of a blinding orgasm. It burns low in your stomach, thrumming at the base of your spine as he kisses your fluttering eyelids. 

“Mírame.” He says, tone just short of begging. “Mírame cuando tu vienes.” When you open your eyes, all you can see is Connie. His half lidded eyes and parted lips as you cum with a choked cry of his name. He spits out a gruff “mierda” as your legs lock tight around his waist, keeping him locked in place as your body writhes underneath him. You can feel your muscles tensing, toes curling and back arching as pleasure sings through every inch of your body. You vaguely feel Connie’s fingers fumbling clumsily across your arm, pressing and squeezing like he’s looking for something. When he doesn’t find it, he sits up, lifting your body with him as he sits back on his knees. It draws forward the vague memory of when he used to poke at the little plastic bar in your arm; your birth control. It’s gone now, having run its course in the years since you’d last seen him. 

Still, you keep your legs locked tight around him. 

“Tu turno,” you pant, circling your hips until Connie reaches to hold you still. 

“No puedo, mami. Tienes que dejarme salir.” He says, patting your thighs where they’re still wrapped tight around his waist. It only makes you squeeze tighter and Connie groans, falling on top of you as you tighten around him. 

“Está bien, papi,” you whisper, rubbing soothingly at the marks you’ve left on his back as Connie nearly vibrates with how hard he’s trying to focus on not cumming inside you. Neither of you had been worried about protection before and you’re not worried about it now as you flex your legs, catching Connie by surprise as you roll the two of you over until you’re on top. 

“¿Lo quieres?” You ask, but his hands are already loosening, no longer holding you still. He paws at your thighs, nodding sheepishly like he isn’t sure if he’s truly allowed to want anything from you. He shouldn’t, not after what he did, but that’s a problem for later. All the anger and confusion can come after he does. 

“Dime,” you say just to tease him. It looks like he’s on the cusp of insanity, lips poured and eyes glassy as he stares up at you like you’re the only thing that matters to him.

“Te quiero!” He barely gets the first syllable out before you’re moving. Red lines appear on his flushed chest where your nails scrape for purchase against his muscles, pressing him into the bed as you bounce on his dick. Fatigue is creeping in, singing each stroke with the sting of overstimulation as the pleasure begins to burn away. But Connie’s close. You can tell by the way his vocabulary has shrunk to only a few desperate words, mainly your name, as his fingers dig into the bruises he already left on your thighs. 

“Hazme acabar,” Connie all but whines. “Estoy cerca.” He sits up suddenly, almost knocking you over as his arms wrap around your waist. He’s holding so tight that he nearly squeezes the air from your lungs as he cums with a hoarse shout of your name. It’s thick and graveled, resonating in your chest as he holds you against him. He’s gripping like you’re going to disappear the moment he lets go, looking at you like this’ll be the last time. Later, he kept saying. Later is now as you feel him spill inside you. 

“Lo siento,” he whispers against your lips as he steals a final kiss. It sounds more like a goodbye than an apology and the finality of it digs out the hollow that has been sitting in your chest all these years. When Connie pulls away it suddenly feels like no time has passed at all, like it’s the beginning of the end all over again. Later is now but the anger you felt before won’t come. Instead all you feel is desperation as you cling to him, sticky with sweat, as he lays you across the sheets and kisses your forehead. You can feel him trying to leave again. He carefully detangles himself even as you try to hold onto him, pressing deceptively sweet kisses to your lips as you whine for him to “please, stay.” It’s like he doesn’t hear you as he slips from the bed and pulls on his sweatpants. But when he leaves the room you don’t hear the telltale sound of the front door slamming. Instead, you trace the sound of his steps towards the bathroom, hear the faucet turn on. A few moments later, he’s back. 

“Don’t cry, baby,” he coos as he wipes away the mess he’s made of your body. “If you wanna be mad at me; be mad, but you know I can’t stand seeing my girl cry. No llores, mami.” He insists, wiping away the tears along with the sweat and cum slipping from between your legs. That had been an impulsive decision. One that will have to be dealt with eventually. Later, you think distantly. You can deal with that later. Right now you’re more worried about Connie. He sits sheepishly at the edge of your bed, offering his shirt for you to wear. It feels like a peace offering as you pull it over your head. It smells like him, it smells like home. You watch Connie fumble in his pockets until he pulls out a ring, one you recognize in an instant. 

It wasn’t one of those cheap Pandora princess rings that every girl in your grade got as a promise ring. It was something far more precious. You’d seen his mom wearing it for years before it suddenly appeared in the palm of his hand all those years ago when he asked you to be his forever. He hadn’t wanted to take it back when you broke up. Even as he broke his promise, he wanted you to keep the ring. It’s cold when he slides it back on to your finger, but it fits like it’s always been there, like these last few years had only been a few moments instead of a small eternity. It felt strange to let go of everything so easily. All the pain, all the anger. It shouldn’t be that easy but everything slides back into place as if it is. Everything is different now, yet still the same. You’re different, he’s different. But it reminds you of something your Momma said about distance making the heart grow fonder. She could never muster any trig anger towards Connie because she said this is what you needed. A brief interlude to become your own person after years of entwining yourself with Connie. Now you understand what she meant by all that. It’s too soon to tell if it’s worth it but you suppose you can worry about that later. 

[0v3rcast]

Gnaw (2)

(Warnings: same as the previous chapter, found here.)

One of the largest issues with going from a simulated Teyvat to an actualized Teyvat is the sheer size.

The bridge outside of Mondstadt, which takes the Traveler like fifteen seconds to cross in a sprint? That's a good two minutes of walking at the least.

The rest of Mondstadt is massive, too, of course, but it's absolutely gorgeous. Perfect grass, clear rivers and ponds, rather imposing cliffs...

Maybe the people are a little unfriendly, but hey! The land itself makes up for your now-in-the-negatives social life.

Besides, this much air and sunlight are probably a good thing. You aren't too hot, there isn't like half of a forest worth of pollen up your nose, the breeze is really nice, and nobody's come to try and maul you!

As far as sightseeing tours go, this ain't the best. But it'll do.

Plus, you're pretty sure that the theoretical tour guide probably wouldn't let you pull up all the dandelions you wanted and blow on them to make their seeds go everywhere.

There's a faint gnaw in the pit of your stomach. You've eaten some berries, a carrot you found in a crate, and another Sunsettia, but you just can't shake the feeling.

The best way your mind can think to describe it is that your teeth are dissatisfied. You didn't do enough with this meal. It just sorta happened.

Perhaps you're going insane.

(On a distant cliff, the wind brings your breathing to an Archon, who sets down his lyre and raises a bow.)

There is a faint whistle on the air, one you swear you've heard before. Then it hits you - the sound of an arrow!

By some instinct, you hurl yourself aside, slamming into the grass and dirt.

A brilliant arrow is lodged into the ground at an angle that would have firmly made itself at home in the back of your skull. Had you not just launched yourself aside, you would be dead.

And then you hear another whistle.

You scramble up onto your feet and take off in a dead sprint. Anemo-powered arrows narrowly miss you four times as you zig-zag and duck behind stones or trees.

...you think you know who this is, or at least have a damn good idea.

Venti. Barbatos. Tone-deaf bard. Alcoholic lyre dude. That one.

You curse him out under your breath. The arrows seem to be coming faster all of a sudden.

The next arrow doesn't come down with a whistle. It comes down with a scream. The Anemo-charged arrow, cloaked in a blade of wind, pierces your back and launches you through the woodlands with enough force to demolish trees like matchsticks.

You skid to a stop, a fine path of devastation and upturned soil behind you, and your head lolls up on a shattered neck to stare blankly into the sky as you slip away into darkness.

(Dendro hisses at the other elements, their vast roots curling in anger. "We should have kept them out until this was solved!"

The others say nothing. Talking will do little to protect you, and those who raise their hands against you must be punished.)

Barbatos has a nightmare that night, after killing the one who stole the face of the World-Shaper.

He has been torn from his false face, cast into the heart of a vast hurricane, the wind itself screaming in hatred and rage, every whisper now purely poisonous. Every failure mocked, every mistake repeatedly shoved into his face, and every sin accounted for.

The wind wails, slipstreams like claws raking across his elemental flesh, battering him as he's tossed from gust of wind to gust of wind.

(He is unaware that to any observer, it would look like he was a rather hated captive ball in the world's most esoteric pinball machine.)

A voice tears itself from the monstrous storm around him, echoing in the bone-shuddering blasts of thunder.

Vile little wisp! You would dare to raise a hand against the divine most holy, our maker?!

He doesn't understand, and any chance he'd have to think or speak is repeatedly knocked from his head as he crashes into walls of wind firm enough to be stone.

Immense pressure crushes down around him, stalling him in place as if grasped in the enormous hand of a titan, and he cries out at it squeezes.

He looks up as he tries in vain to wriggle and flee, and he sees. Every part of him freezes in horror.

I am Anemo. The embodiment of sky, of breath. I am the Taker of Voices.

He is brought closer to the core of light at the center of the apocalyptic current.

I had such hope for you. A God of Freedom, one who would see the oppressed liberated from their miseries! One who would cast the sadness and hatred from his people to the winds, where they would be forgotten!

One who would spread the laughter of the First Breath to all corners of this world.

One who would be their protector, hearing misfortune on the winds and striking down those who would spell disaster for us all with the wrath of a great storm.

But you have failed. You have taken up arms against the one you were made to cherish with hatred in your heart.

You have forgotten your own freedom. The freedom to think for yourself, to act without orders. To go against what is known down a new path.

He cries out as some kind of tether is cut from his body, ripped away into the vortex.

You are my Archon no more. I shall find one more suitable to the task.

Perhaps in time, the Maker will find you pitiable enough to reinstate you as my envoy to Teyvat.

Enjoy your freedom, Venti of Mondstadt.

He plummets, the wind abandoning him entirely. The ground opens, a ravenous maw, stones and bedrock ground down like sharp fangs, and he falls into a lightless darkness.

He wakes, screaming and sobbing in equal measure.

He cannot feel the wind. He cannot hear it.

At his side, the light of the false Vision gutters out, dimming until not even a spark of Anemo remains within.

(Within a frozen palace, the light of the Anemo Gnosis dulls, waiting for a host to be chosen anew.)

consciousness returns to you in bits and pieces, your entire body an immense ache. Your joints are so sore you can barely move them without feeling the urge to weep.

Your nose is filled with the scent of the ocean. You can hear waves, and ever so faintly, the calls of birds. You feel safer here, somehow, as though this place is devoid of other intelligent beings.

Your eyes close again, body exhausted and unable to resist the siren call of unconsciousness in a space without threats.

On your back is a new scar, a spiral of gold starting between your shoulderblades and reaching out towards your ribs.

(Gnaw Taglist:

@the-dumber-scaramouche @iruiji @itz-luna @itsredactedlove @thatdeadaquarius @ssak-i @imyme20 @crierofirony

Thank you all very much for your interest.)

[drfleetflower]

HG Scenario: How they would confess their feelings.

~Requested~

Pairings: Peeta Mellark, Gale Hawthorne, Finnick Odair x Reader

Warnings: Fluff

WC: 2.3k

Credit to Delaney Bailey - Love Letter From the Sea to the Shore

Peeta Mellark:

Peeta is quite the nervous wreck. He has his moments of confidence, sure, but when it comes to you… Well, confident is definitely not what he would describe himself. 

If he knew you felt the same way, things would be different, but it’s so hard to tell how you feel about him. He doesn’t want to ruin everything by showing his interest. He was certain you would never speak to him again if you didn’t feel the same. Once he confessed his feelings, there was no going back. And, these thoughts were completely rational. Absolutely. Haymitch was wrong when he said you would still be his friend. Who in their right mind would be friends with him after they knew all he thought about was spending the rest of his life with them? When they knew his hand itched to hold theirs everytime they were near. And don’t get him started on the thought of kissing you.

He shook the thought away once he stepped up to your door. This was it. The end or the beginning. 

He lifted his hand to knock on your door but before he could, you opened it. “Oh! Hi Peeta!” You smiled, slightly startled but still happy to see him.

Peeta fumbled to reply. This was immediately not going as he planned. “Hi.” He finally choked out after several seconds of what he felt to be awkwardness. 

“I was just going to head to the Hob, did you need something?” You asked, not moving to leave just yet.

“Yes…” He paused, pondering on how to proceed. “What are you getting at the Hob?”

“Just soap. There’s a new shop that makes some.” You answered, cool as a cucumber. He envied your poise right now. Though, you weren’t the one about to bear your soul out.

“I’ll come with you.” He decides.

You agree and as the two of you walk to the Hob, Peeta’s pulse is racing. You walk in silence, with Peeta repeatedly looking over at you, his palms getting damp. 

Once you purchase your soap, he has worked up the courage to speak. “Do you want to go to the meadow?” He asked, “I want to tell you something.”

“Okay.” You said after a moment, suddenly feeling nervous yourself.

There. Step one was done. 

Then, step two.

The two of you took a seat in the tall, dandelion filled, grass. Peeta twirled a strand of grass around his finger, procrastinating. 

“What did you want to tell me?” You urged gently.

He sighed, picking up a dandelion and blowing the little wisps out into the air. He decided to just come right out and say it. “I love you. More than anyone. I think about you all the time and I can’t keep it to myself anymore. If you don’t feel the same, I understand if you never want to see me again.”

You stare at him stunned. “What? Why would I never want to see you again?”

Peeta looked right into your soul. “Y/n. Please just answer.” His voice was pleading.

“I love you too.” 

His eyes almost bulged out of his head. “Really?”

“Do you think I would joke about that?” You chuckled, pretending to be offended.

He shook his head, staring at you like you were water in a desert. You smiled at him and his eyes were drawn to your lips. He couldn’t help himself, his body was now magnetized to yours. He leaned in. 

But you put your finger against his lips. “Don’t you want to buy me dinner first?”

He didn’t hesitate. “Okay.”

“Really?”

“If you want.”

You looked at him like he was the sweetest, craziest guy you’d ever met. “I wasn’t ready so I made a stupid joke. I’m ready now. Did I ruin the moment?” You suddenly feel guilty.

“Moment? I don’t just love you for the moment. I love you. Always. That could never be ruined. I will kiss you whenever you let me.” He assured.

“Then kiss me.” You answered.

His lips met yours quickly, it wasn’t the world’s most intimate kiss, it was a lot like a starved man eating. But, it was certainly passionate and that was all you needed right now. You kissed him back with the same fervor and the same gentleness that he still gave you, even when he really was starved. Who knew how long he had been wanting to kiss you?

When he tore himself away from you, all he could do was stare at you like you were the greatest treasure ever discovered and mumble, “Wow…”

Gale Hawthorne:

Gale let his feelings for you fester inside him for far too long and he beat himself up for never having the courage to just shout that he was falling for you. 

There would be moments when conversation between you would pause. You would stare at each other for a long moment, no longer needed words to converse, and his mind would scream at him to do something. He felt like his whole body was on fire, like there were a million ants crawling on his skin, like he was being zapped by one hundred volts of electricity. But he would never show it. And, he hated himself for it. Instead, he would turn his head and take a deep breath of the woods air, pretending to be perfectly content. 

His control was beginning to crack, though. One wrong step on thin ice away from confessing every thought he’s ever had about you. So, he had to do it now before he did something he would absolutely regret. 

Earlier in the day he invited you to the woods, as he often did, to set snares. Something you were terrible at. It gave him the excuse to help you. And, you would be distracted without the slightest suspicion that he was going to set his heart on a silver platter in front of you. 

Gale waited for your arrival, leaning against a tree. He was almost precisely where the electric fence that separated the Seam from the woods used to be. He twisted some of its old wire around a stick, preparing traps for the day. Just a few. 

“Look who finally decided to show up.” He teased as he heard you approach. He looked up from his snare and forced a casual smile, even in the most casual of settings you look too good to be true.

“What’s that?” You got close to him, look at what was in his hand. He swore you did it on purpose.

“It’s going to be a snare. Have you learned nothing from hunting with me all the time?” He handed it to you with a slight smile before heading into the woods, if he stayed close to you any longer he’d pass out from holding his breath. 

The two of you spent the day like usual, some talk, mostly silence as you trekked through the woods, placing new snares and checking on old. Gale helped you with every snare you set, you insisted he did. His hands rested over yours and guided you through each one. They were warm and felt natural holding yours. 

He liked helping you, more than he’d ever admit, and he indulged in it often. But, even so, he never kept his hands over yours longer than he had to. He feared if his touch lingered just a second longer, he’d never let go.

As the day came to an end, the two of you rested in a clearing, snacking on some berries and bread. Silence engulfed you and in the silence you got a mischievous idea. As Gale was contemplating how to articulate his emotions, you threw a blueberry at his cheek. 

He was startled, which didn’t happen often. In fact, he couldn’t remember the last time he was caught off guard like that. No, actually that was a lie. He remembered very clearly the last time he was caught off guard was when Vick had nudged him in the ribs and asked when the wedding between you two was. 

Gale promptly picked the blueberry and threw it back at you. Unfortunately for him, you caught it in your mouth, biting down with a look of victory on your face. And so, this was the challenge now. The two of you threw berry after berry into the air, testing each other with each toss. 

You almost lost with the final blueberry, catching it just at the corner of your mouth, purple staining your lips. And before you could rub your win in his face, his thumb came up to wipe your lip and you both went silent again. This time the silence was loud. 

Gale’s hand didn’t leave your face, nor did his thumb cease rubbing your lip. He couldn’t look you in the eye and you could see how hard he was clenching his jaw. When you leaned ever so slightly closer, he couldn’t take it anymore and his lips met yours. 

You kissed him back, tugging him closer by his shirt. Neither of you let go even as you were panting for air. He only pulled back when he heard the snapping of a twig. 

“I think I messed this up.” Gale said, once he finally looked you in the eyes. 

“Huh?” You breathed.

“I was supposed to tell you I love you first.” His eyes trailed down to your lips again.

“I think I got the hint.” You chuckled.

“Did you?”

“Maybe not.”

So, he kissed you again.

Finnick Odair:

Finnick flirts with everyone. Everyone. And it was no different with you. He liked to let out a low whistle whenever he walked past you, and winked whenever you looked up. He could tell you got jealous when he did this with anyone else, but he would never be so casual with anyone but you. 

He was simply confident and liked attention, whether that was received or given. He liked getting to know people. Especially you. He revelled in learning new things about you, it meant he could show you he cared in all sorts of ways. You like when he picks you up? Expect to never feel your feet touch the ground again. 

It seemed so obvious to him that he liked you that he was surprised when you said he was only flirting with you because he flirted with everyone. Now, that couldn’t be farthest from the truth. He flirts with each person for a reason. Most of the time the reason is it’s fun, but it’s so different with you. When he flirts with you it’s because he wants you to do it back, it’s because he loves when you get flustered because of him. 

And, it’s not like he doesn’t also absolutely dote on you. He doesn’t do that for anyone else. He’s kind, of course. He helps people out in need. He helps you out in want and he helps you out in bare minimum inconvenience. 

Finnick represents all of the love languages but physicality is something he takes very seriously. How could you not notice that you’re one of the only people he lets hug him, or touch him at all really? And vice versa?

And he doesn’t make jewelry for just anyone. Those matching friendship bracelets meant more than friendship to him. 

Clearly, he would have to spell this out for you. 

“Y/n.” Finnick said your name softly, almost like a purr. 

“Finnick.” You answered back.

He smirked and you felt you could die happy from the sight, even though you had seen it a thousand times. Perhaps, it felt different when the two of you were bathed in the soft hues of the sunset. 

He wiped your cheek gently, claiming there to be sand stuck to you. You didn’t see any, but maybe that was because you were staring at him, as you often did. 

“Y/n.” He spoke again, this time it was more of a sigh. 

You tilted your head. “Are you saying my name for fun now?” 

“It is rather nice to say. Rolls of the tongue.” He enunciated purposefully. 

“Mhm.” You hummed, wondering where this was going. Sometimes it felt like Finnick spoke in riddles. 

“I wrote a poem.” He suddenly declared. “A poem for you.” 

You raised a brow but it didn’t stop him from reciting it from memory.

“I think I loved you

In another life

Where I was the sea

And you were the shore”

His voice was silky, the smoothest you had ever heard it, and it made you want to wrap yourself up in it and stay there. You felt like you were in a trance, staring into his eyes as you got closer to each other. 

“Like the tourist comes back to the beach

I come back to you for more and more and more

Because you hold in my tide”

You felt yourself sink back into the sand, Finnick’s hands holding your waist and your head.

“I would die a thousand times

Just to see you in another life”

You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding when he finished the poem. “This isn’t funny.” You barely even whisper out.

“Good. I wasn’t trying to be.” He said, gazing into your eyes earnestly, his touch loving. “May I kiss you?”

You nod slowly for a few seconds before giving him a full response. “Yes.”

Finnick takes his time reaching your lips then, he first kisses your cheeks, forehead, nose. And when he does finally kiss your lips, it’s the most tender and meaningful kiss you’ve ever felt. It’s impossible to think of anything but him.

When your lips part, they part slowly, as if he’s trying to make the separation easier on the both of you. 

You really can’t think, only feel. But you do want one thing. “Can you read the poem again?”

He would do anything for you.

[deny-the-issue]

Autumnal Reaping

Chapter One: At First Glance

Chapter two

Overall Summary: While researching a topic you hold close to heart, you meet Emmrich Volkarin in a chance encounter. He introduces both romance and academic opportunities into your stagnant life as an unknown, sinister shadow lurks from beyond the Fade.

This story is set after the events of the game where Rook does not romance Emmrich. There will be end-game spoilers, although they are not discussed in detail.

Thank you to my wonderful friend for beta reading, @juniper-sunny <3 I'm sitting on the finished second chapter already, and I cannot wait to post! I'll probably set it free in a day or two, but the next updates will be every 1-2 weeks after that.

Like this -> post to join the tag list for this story!

AO3 link

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[MDNI] [Emmrich x you] [Emmrich x Reader] [no y/n] [fluff] [angst] [fat!reader] [reader has boobs and vulva] [eventual smut] [eventual romance] [non-binary pronouns] [angst with a happy ending]

The Mourn Watch is a respectable order within Nevarra, and it is an honor to be a watcher. Yet, to be a part of a respected order and to be respected are two concepts leagues apart, and the latter is far out of your reach. There are worse lives you could be living, certainly, but if you could roll the dice and be someone else–you’d do it in a heartbeat.

A better life is but a blink away, always residing in the back of your mind. While you toil away at your day job, a daring adventure plays out in a daydream, saving you from the monotony of daily life.

Wake, clean, study, repeat.

To clean up after the real masterminds of this place is a privilege to those unable to contribute in other meaningful ways–as Matron Thistle is fond of saying. You could recite the jab in your sleep, and the ensuing spite fuels your day to day grind. It works, you suppose, but this amount of ill will can’t be good for your fragile mental health.

Studying is the only part of your day that is entirely yours. A refuge and a hobby, you research the nature of the Fade, venturing into metaphysics more often than not. There are many theories surrounding the Fade’s properties, but so much is unknown. 

It fascinates you to ponder the different possibilities of what's out there. Looking not only for answers to humanity’s greatest questions, but of other worlds and dimensions. 

Maladaptive daydreaming with your nose in a book is how you spend most evenings, nestled away deep in the catacombs. People never tread these quiet, hallowed halls, and for that, you are thankful. Most people your age have moved far beyond your current status, and your fellow janitors are a rotating door of freshmen having drawn the short stick for work duty. 

Friends are impossible to come by for you, these days. Not that it’s ever been easy for you. Solitude is a solace, allowing you to be yourself unapologetically.

This cozy, abandoned corner you’ve come to call yours has a stone table in the middle of the small room. Its walls are lined with urns containing remains of the unidentified dead, instilling the stagnant air with a chilling sadness. 

The stone walls and floors match that of the rest of the Necropolis, gray bathed in green veilfire. Sand collects in little piles and thin lines along the edges of the room, ever present in these parts. Sweeping wouldn’t do much good–you know from experience. The sand falls from the Fade, and there is nothing anyone can do about it. 

There is comfort among the forgotten–a kind of kinship, even. The wisps in this area have taken a liking to you as well, their shimmering cyan forms with tendrils stemming from a center point gives them the appearance of an etheric dandelion.  

Two of them float and bob around weightlessly to the same beat as your hips, swaying to an unheard rhythm. Too antsy to sit, you stand as you read with your back to the open hallway. Humming and singing errant lyrics absentmindedly, you tear through a text on an obscure theory of the Fade recorded hundreds of years ago. 

Despite life’s general malaise, it was a good day. Matron Thistle ate something that disagreed with her and you had an amazing day without her nagging your every move. You’re so relaxed from the quiet day of work, you could kiss those skeletons on cooking duty. 

A man clears his throat, announcing his presence behind you. You freeze as if you’ve been caught, and turn around slowly. 

“Ah, hello! I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.” The man clasps his hands together. “It’s rare to find another person among these forsaken souls.”

How long has he been standing there?!

With a perfectly cordial tone, his carefully modulated voice complements his fine clothes and jewelry, giving him a distinguished air enhanced by his crows feet and gray hair. Going from his grave-gold, he is a prominent member of the Mourn Watch, and you adjust your behavior accordingly. 

“Sorry, I can go.” Your book closes with a heavy thud and you hastily grab your bag off the floor. 

“No, please. These halls could do with a bit of warmth.” He smiles, pointing to the wisps with his gloved hand. “They’re quite fond of you.”

“Oh-uh, yeah. They keep me company while I read.” Your fingers trace the intricate grooves of the book cover nervously.

“Personal or academic study? If I may ask.” Interested or nosy, you have the handsome man’s full attention.

The wisps investigate him and you relax a little. They are excellent judges of character, or at least you choose to believe so. The man greets the wisps with the same respectful manner he used with you, and the gesture softens your guard. 

“Personal.” The man’s silence pushes you to say more. “It’s about the possible multi-dimensional properties of the Fade.”

“How interesting! What drew you to that line of inquiry?”

“Uh-just, you know…” you clear your throat and try to string some coherent words together. “I like the thought of other worlds out there. From subtle differences to global changes–the possibilities are endless.”

“Ah, yes! Fascinating to think about, isn’t it? I spent some time in my youth researching multi-world theory. An under-appreciated topic, unfortunately. I can count on one hand the number of sources,” he sighs wistfully.  “I apologize for putting you on the spot. All topics of the Fade interest me, deeply. Learning about its mysteries is one of life’s greatest pleasures.”

With an agenda all their own, the wisps leave the two strangers alone, their ethereal laughter fading quickly. And with them, the little peace of mind you obtained vanishes. 

“What-uh, brings you down here?” you ask, shuffling nervously.

“Ah, well. There is a rumor of a haunting in this area. Have you seen any wandering, restless spirits?”

After a moment of thought, you shrug and shake your head. “Not that I know of.”

“Ah, good. Are you down here often?”

“Mhm. Almost every night.” Your answer seems to satisfy his curiosity.

Anxiety worms through your stomach because you revealed more than you’re comfortable. His kindness is too disarming–or is it because you haven’t stopped blushing this whole time? Are you imagining the connection you feel?

Probably. 

“My rounds should be made with ease, then. Thank you for the riveting conversation. I apologize for interrupting your private study, and I hope you have a pleasant evening.” With a little bow, he makes his exit gracefully.

You manage an awkward, “It’s ok! You too.” Waving nervously after him. 

Why the fuck did you wave. That’s not something you do normally. Place a hot old man in front of you and your brain leaps into the void. 

Looking back at the closed book that held your attention in a vice only moments ago, obscenities leak from your mouth. You didn’t mark your page, and you lack the motivation to find it again. Sighing heavily, you gather your things and head back to your living quarters for the night. 

The jingle of your keys as you unlock the door is outmatched by the growl of your stomach. 

Wishing you could ignore it but knowing you can’t, you drop your things off in your room and follow your nose to the kitchens. The cafeteria is closed this time of night but the kitchens are always open to those who need a snack. 

The sleepless skeleton cooks greet you with excited hisses, bringing a smile to your exhausted face. 

The warm yellow light of the fire is a welcome change from the green-tinted surroundings. Dried garlic and herbs hang from the walls, pots and pans litter the counter tops, and a wooden table rests off to the side with three mismatched chairs. 

You’ve developed a rapport with the regular cooks, teaching them how to add more flavor in little ways. A skeleton with a bow tie brings you a bowl of soup before you can even ask. 

“Oh, thank you, Francis. You’re too kind.” You notice the droplets of orange oil floating at the top of your corn chowder. “You even added chili crisp! You’re the best.”

Happily slurping away with not an ounce of grace, you barely hear the footsteps approaching. 

You place the bowl on the table with a heavy thunk, rake a napkin across your mouth, and turn to face the visitor. 

“Hello again!” he greets. 

It’s the same man from before, but this time he has a skeleton at his side. They are wearing an acolyte’s robe and goggles, which tickles something at the back of your mind. 

You’ve gone twenty years without seeing him in the Necropolis and now here he is, twice in one day. What are the odds?

“Oh, hey! Find any hauntings?” you ask. 

“No restless spirits tonight. Though, I doubt there ever was one.”

“Oh?”

“Several people have reported ghostly singing echoing through those halls,” he pauses, choosing his next words carefully. 

The pieces begin to fall into place through the silence, and embarrassment tints your every move. Eyes cast down, you fidget with your hands, waiting for judgement. 

“You have a lovely voice,” he finishes with a kind smile.

“What?—oh, uh. Thank you,” you smile out of reflex. 

His words are slow to process. Lovely? You count your blessings that you were singing something pretty and not screeching like a banshee. It’s surprising this hasn’t happened sooner, now that you think about it. 

“Manfred!” The skeleton hisses, pointing a boney finger at its chest. 

“You’re right, Manfred! Where are my manners? I never properly introduced ourselves. I am professor Emmrich Volkarin, and this is my pupil, Manfred.” Emmrich steps forward, offering his ungloved hand. 

Your name sounds dingy in comparison with no title or accomplishments to go along with it. But it’s hard to dwell on such things when his hand is warm in yours, skin weathered and soft. 

Emmrich Volkarin. Emmrich Volkarin… 

“Wait—not the Professor Emmrich Volkarin that took a sabbatical to save the world?!”

He laughs, lighthearted and breathy. “The very same.”

You relinquish his hand, cringing. Handshakes aren’t supposed to last that long, but he doesn’t seem to mind. Quite the opposite, actually. 

“What were you singing before? If I may ask,” he inquires.

Caught off-guard once again, you look at him blankly. You should have known he would have questions. 

“Just something that came to mind,” you offer, shrugging.

Please be enough. Don’t make me explain.

Emmrich hums thoughtfully. You’ve disappointed enough people to know the look of disbelief when you see it, but he doesn’t push the topic. Something else catches his attention off to your side.

“Is the soup too spicy for your liking?” he asks. 

“Oh no–It’s delicious! I’ve added chili crisp to my food so much the cooks have caught on–they’re so thoughtful,” you blurt out, all too excited to talk about your newfound way of adding flavor to the normally-dull daily soup.

“Ah–so you’re the mysterious mentor! The Watcher overseeing the kitchens was quite perplexed at the altered menu,” Emmrich reveals.

“...altered menu? Wait–they made it this way for everyone?!” 

Emmrich nods, “I appreciate a little spice now and then, but a Matron admitted herself to the infirmary early this morning.”

“Not Matron Thistle?!”

“You know her?”

Flabbergasted, you look at Francis. Bow tie quaking, he backs out of the room slowly at first, and then skitters away. Laughter bubbles up from your chest, unbidden. You cover your mouth, but you can’t hide the shit-eating grin splitting your face as you devolve into a fit of giggles. 

You’re the reason she was out today?! This puts the cherry on top of your rarely acquired good day. 

All at once, awareness smacks you in the face. You’re laughing at someone's misery in front of an esteemed Watcher. 

Unable to hide the amusement still plain on your face, you place a hand on his forearm, looking at him with wide, pleading eyes. “Please don’t tell her it was me! She already hates me! I promise I didn’t tell the cooks to add it to everyone's food!”

Francis, you betrayed me!

He chuckles, placing a hand over yours. “I assure you—your secret is safe with me.”

The contact makes your heart race. Your eyes flick down to his lips then back up to his enchanting eyes. It was only a millisecond, but you’re worried he noticed.

“You’re sweet,” your mouth moves before your mind. “I mean—thank you!” Shaking off the slip of the tongue. 

Stop it. Why am I flirting??? Who even am I right now. 

With a sassy tilt of his head, Emmrich doesn’t miss a beat. “She’s not my favorite Watcher, either.” 

You share a lighthearted smile and bite your lip. 

Shit. He’s so charming!

He pulls away and you miss the warmth of his hand as the moment ends, wishing for more.

Emmrich hesitates, mulling over something silently before asking, “Would you be interested in having tea with me sometime? It would be my pleasure to get to know you.”

“Me?! I’m not that interesting,” you pause, redirecting your thoughts. “I’d love to!” 

“There is more to you than meets the eye, dear.” Softly chastising, he takes a moment to admire your bashful look. “Everyone is entitled to their privacy—it is not my place to pry. However, I hope you feel comfortable enough to trust me, in time. How does Tea in the Garden sound? Let’s say–noon?”

“Tomorrow?” You ask with a dumbfounded expression. 

Not only does he want to date you, but so soon as well? What does he see in you?

Emmrich nods, “Unless you’re busy, of course. We can always reschedule for another day.”

You typically get an hour for lunch, so you’re eager to agree. If it goes over, you won’t have the strength to end it early. 

But….

What Matron Thistle doesn’t know can’t harm her. 

“Tomorrow’s perfect!” you blurt out excitedly. 

“Yes!” Manfred hisses, his excitement palpable in his raised arms. 

Emmrich’s eyes brighten, shimmering in the dim room. “Wonderful! I’m looking forward to it. Now, please, continue your meal. I am sorry to interrupt you yet again.”

“You can interrupt me anytime.” The words stumble out of your mouth easily, but lose volume by the end as your confidence wanes.

Emmrich takes your hand in his, dipping gracefully to kiss it. “Goodnight, dear.”

“G-goodnight!” you stutter, mind utterly broken from the small token of affection. 

“G’night!” Manfred waves, and you return his gesture with a small laugh.

“Goodnight, Manfred.”

After they leave you collapse back into a chair, letting out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. 

You want him in ways you thought had dried-up long ago. But the water has been set free, careening through the familiar, desiccated paths it left behind. It’s nice to feel desire again, after all this time. But it feels laced with danger–hoping for something you’ve never truly had with a man you barely know.

It’s just a matter of time before he sees in you what everyone else does. Nothing. No prospects, no friends–not anymore, anyway. 

The one friend you had was sent away for causing too many fights, finally earning a prolonged stay in the most dangerous part of the Necropolis. You haven’t heard from her in six months, and count yourself left behind. 

Even through the doubts, you smile as you finish your meal. A warm blush settles across your face that not even walking back through cold halls can extinguish. 

A soft noise pulls you from your reverie. You come to a halt, the ruffle of your clothes fading to silence as you listen. 

The hair on the back of your neck raises, and you start to panic. Eyes darting around the empty, seemingly endless hall for a threat with fisted hands.  

“Mreow!” A black cat emerges from a dark corner, its green eyes matching the surrounding lamps. 

Heart pounding in your chest, you let out a breath of relief, feeling quite silly now. 

“Hi there!!! You’re so pretty!” you coo, all too excited to see a new furry friend. 

The cat rubs up against your leg, doubling back in between them like a figure eight. Its fur glistens in the dark, thick and healthy looking, and its figure is lean and muscular, befitting an outdoor cat. 

“Ooh, thank you! You’re so cute. Can I pet you??” You lean down, offering your hand.

The cat sniffs you for only a moment before rubbing its cheek against your fingers. Cautiously, you scratch behind its ears and your heart melts as it chases your touch, raising its head into your palm, eyes closed.

“Such a trusting lil guy, huh? Do you wanna come home with me?” 

As soon as you think the cat distribution system finally got to you, the cat perks up as if it heard something, and then scampers away. 

Maybe another time. 

Sighing heavily, you return to your room alone with a mind swimming with possibilities and failures. 

You need to get some sleep.

You have a date tomorrow, after all. 

Butterflies flutter in your stomach, threatening your peaceful rest before a busy day. Lazily humming a relaxing tune, you let your mind wander, never staying on any specific thought, and the day fades away to a fitful slumber, plagued by dreams. 

Tag list: @planetahmane, @l0calgoth, @ohlookacow, @severusminerva, @thepalehorsevictoria

@sllverchariot, @mollymauksboi, @haunting-6, @czarzarr, @pwney

@farore05, @fallen---alien, @skiddyyo, @muddiestpath, @nin-dy-tro

@mxfiggs, @godival33, @daddymothmilkers, @charliebear2105

[hippolotamus]

Guess what!! It's Nutcracker season!! The NYCB is currently busily rehearsing for their shows! What are our boys up to?

🩰🩰🩰🩰🩰🩰🩰🩰🩰🩰

It definitely is! They have been quite busy with shows, and so grateful to have this opportunity together. (Just like I'm so grateful for co-authoring this AU with you) However, they are Exhausted™️ and need a breather. So, for the purposes of this ask, we’re taking a trip down memory lane if that’s OK 🫶

Typically the studio is filled with noise. With chatter, gossip, the gentle tap of pointe shoes. Not now though. It’s still; a sacred space.  It’s been over a decade since Eddie last attended anything akin to mass or confession, but now feels as close to a religious experience as he’ll ever be again. A place to be reverent, and inspired by divine energy. A sanctuary to unburden himself.  Inky black sky has given way to the blues and grays that creep in before dawn. The dreamy transition between sleep and wakefulness that waits for the rest of the world. But not for Eddie. Currents of excitement sweep over his skin, rippling through the fine hairs like dandelion wisps on a breeze.  He forces himself to be patient through his stretches and warmups. Extra practice doesn’t do him any good if he doesn’t do this properly.  Finally, when he’s loose and limber, he steps to the center of the floor. His eyes fall closed as he inhales, straightening his body. The opening notes to the third act begin in his mind as clearly as if Chimney had hit ‘play’ on the sound system. He counts the bars until it’s his time to come in. And then his body moves.  In a series of spins and leaps, he crosses the floor as if he’s weightless. As though nothing can touch him. Like he’s disentangling himself from all the anxieties that try to trap him from one performance to the next. The memories that have followed him from childhood. He won’t allow them to follow him here.  Not his five year old self being frowned at for attempting to imitate his sister’s movements. Or him at six, anxiously fidgeting in place as his parents told Miss Tara they didn’t think a boy’s place – their boy’s place – was in a ballet studio. Him as a teenager nearly reaching a breaking point, enduring the slurs and ridiculous cat calls. The constant feeling of alone, alone, alone. By the time he lands, he isn’t any of those versions anymore. He’s Edmundo Diaz, man who graduated top of his class at Juilliard. Eddie Diaz, corps de ballet at NYCB.  “Should’ve figured someone as eager as you would be here early.”  “What-” In the mirror he meets a familiar set of playful blue eyes, pale but intense.  Tommy saunters in, drops his bag near Eddie’s, and leans back against the barre. “I couldn’t help but notice the alignment was off in your landing. I can help with that.”  Eddie frowns, so sure he was holding himself correctly. He returns to his previous stance, studying his reflection. “I don’t see what I’m doing wrong.”  “Don’t move.” Tommy appears at Eddie’s side, making minor adjustments to his rear leg and both arms.  “There.” He circles around to inspect Eddie from the front. “Perfect.”  Their eyes meet again and something flickers across Tommy’s features. Something deeper than simple approval. Something that feels like– “Mornin’, boys!” Chim’s voice slices through the moment, pushing them apart. Oblivious, he cracks his gum while staring at his phone screen. “Thanks,” Eddie says. Tommy glances at Chim, then back again for another assessing gaze that might leave him breathless in another situation. “Of course.”

[gotstabbedbyapen]

🎄 Epic The Musical Secret Santa 🎄

Dear @salty-lemonss,

I’ve been chosen to be your Epic The Musical Secret Santa! Although I don't know what you like exactly in your gift, I hope you’ll still enjoy this short story. I wish you an awesome holiday!

Take care and Merry Christmas,

Your Secret Santa - The Pen

You can’t return what the wind gave

The howls of rising winds distorted Odysseus’ guttural scream as it echoed from one end of the ship, but his cry of despair could not undo what had been done.

“Keep your friends close and your enemies closer!”

“Never really know who you can trust.”

“Never really know who you can trust.”

The sailors that surrounded the opened bag just now were knocked back like ragdolls, their eyes widened in shock as a violent swirl of dark clouds erupted from the container like an unstoppable force unleashed upon the sea and cast a grim shadow over the vessel with a crack of thunder. A storm had coalesced.

“Full speed ahead!”

Amidst the yelling thrown back and forth among the sailors rose the jiggles of laughter as if the horror and huddle entertained them. Little creatures of soft, gray fur swarmed the ship like the blown-away fluffs of a dandelion, dancing merrily in circles and carrying flows of cold, salty mist with them. The winions had come to witness the satirical comedy of men’s greed.

“Let’s see how you escape!”

Their sing-laughs filled the air as they dove between the masts. One sailor yelped as a winion tugged at his hair, loosening his headband and causing it to fall off and obscure his eyes, almost leading him to tumble off the deck. Another angrily flailed at the wind creatures when they darted around him, only for them to snatch the rope he was holding, swiftly knot its length into a snake-like bundle, and toss the tangled mess back at him like a sick joke.

Despite all their effort to adjust the ship’s direction, it seemed to be pushed further and further away from the homeland island, and the crew could only watch it drift out of reach. Odysseus was still straining his throat trying to instruct his men to pull the sail, but he couldn’t focus on the task when another flurry of winions dashed around their next chosen target. Enraged at their meddling, the Ithacan king snapped to the side and grabbed one of them as it sped by, yet his hands only enclosed a thin wisp of vapor as the winion dissipated as soon as he blinked.

The winions gathered in a larger swarm amongst the sky to jeer on the battered crew and the captain who had made a fool of himself. A drenched Odysseus glared up at the wind creatures with clenching fists, only to release them in pure shock to see a familiar emergence between the fluffy hoard.

Adorned in a single-shouldered jumpsuit with glowing turquoise outlines that stood out among the roaring darkness of the stormy wind, jovial Aeolus sat as an amused spectator enjoying the tribulation show below with their characteristic smirk.

Odysseus scrambled to the side of his ship, almost begging the deity, “Where’s the storm taking us?”

“I said to keep the bag closed, but you weren’t compliant,” Aeolus cackled. They put a finger on their cheek and bobbled their head left and right, “If I had to guess?”

The playfulness soon morphed into a menacing grin with bared teeth as the master of winds and their winions launched forward with their hands pushing onto the deck and declared at the constricting eyes of the rain-soaked mortal man, “You're heading to the Land of the Giants!”

Upon their final words like a taunting bid of farewell, the divinities vanished as abruptly as they came, leaving the fleet of twelve ships at the mercy of the crashing waves with no sign of quelling.

[vecnuthy]

to taming demons

@eddiemonth day 4: lost | wc: 680 | G | cw: hurt/comfort, established relationship, depressive episode/social drain/mental low

"You're being quiet."

Their cat Dio raised his head and blinked up at Steve, then stretched all along Eddie's thigh, while Eddie just continued to sit there on the couch, letting Steve's remark go unacknowledged.

The observation wasn't a critique, it wasn't malicious.

It was so soft, meant to light on Eddie's ears like a wisp, and shake down his walls that, honestly, felt as if they were currently made up of dandelion seeds. One wrong breath of air, and he could crumble into the pile of nothing that he could feel trying to pull him in and trap him.

His place on their couch was familiar, as was the press of their cat Dio. His brain told him to respond to Steve's comment in some way, but Eddie couldn't bring himself to move, couldn't prize his jaws apart and coax air past tongue and teeth. He couldn't move his lips to form words.

He just continued to stare a hole in the spot on the rug with his point of unfocus chosen out of convenience and happenstance.

But then, Steve touched him.

His knuckles were soft in the gentle drag across Eddie's cheek with barely-there contact that made Eddie's insides burn and his chest squeeze. Eddie clenched his jaw and felt the muscles flex as he tried to will away the sting of tears in his eyes.

He had never been good at this.

Never been good at facing his feelings headon for what they were. He just knew he felt after not feeling, then became numb after feeling so much. But right now, all he felt was Steve. But that was all he wanted.

He felt Steve's weight settle on the couch cushion as he sat down so close to Eddie that he was almost ontop of him. Even from Steve's sideways position with a leg tucked under him, warmth radiated from Steve and soaked into Eddie's side, making him tucked between his two favorite beings.

Eddie felt Steve shift when he placed his hand on his thigh, palm on display as a offering. And invitation. It was Eddie's choice.

Eddie wanted.

Eddie always wanted, but this was difficult for no good reason other than the fact that it just was.

But this was Steve - the closest person that Eddie had ever had, who met him step for step and pushed when necessary, but knew when grace was due. He sheltered when Eddie was shaken and cradled when Eddie felt broken. It wasn't always easy, but they were always together, even as unmoored as Eddie felt.

Eddie didn't have to be afraid of this, but it terrified him. Steve terrified him constantly, left him overwhelmed and sun soaked in the glow of his affection, but he needed that glow. He needed to acknowledge that the loneliness ungulfing him was weak enough to break through.

He needed to be reminded. To feel.

Eddie felt his jaw clench again, then he somehow dredged up the energy to slip his fingers through Steve's. The warmth from his skin leeched into Eddie's palm like a spray of color exploding into the grey, and he breathed deeply and relaxed a fraction, enough to flow with how Steve guided Eddie's head to face him.

"There you are," Steve breathed out with a little smile that Eddie swore could heal the sick and source world peace. It was already working those little miracles on him now.

Eddie watched as Steve took him in, eyes caressing his features with a level of emotion that was almost tangible, and Eddie craved. He knew that was what he needed. Touch grounded him when he was like this, but he could be reluctant to give into it at times.

But Steve's hold on his hand was so divine.

There was no resistance when Steve pulled him close. He just tucked his head into Steve's neck, breathed in love and acceptance then breathed out doubt and old demons until the only thing left was Steve's hand in his hair and their clasped hands wrapped around his waist.

And Eddie breathed.

[byhimawari]

“Home”

(a RivaMika drabble)

“Make a wish, papa!”

Extended out to him is a little hand holding out a dandelion, the pappus fully bloomed into its puffball nature, loose bristles floating away in the soft spring breeze, a beautiful and carefree sight, just like the bundle of joy that holds it.

She smiles her mother’s smile, an excited glimmer in her eyes that compliments the rosiness of her cheeks, warm and damp from all her frolicking in the vast green fields before them. The young girl tip toes between her father’s legs trying to bring the flower closer to his lips, urging him as she pouts.

“Papa, hurry before the wind blows it away!”

Levi chuckles softly and leans forward to blow gently on the dandelion, the wisps dancing in the air and eliciting chime-like giggles from his daughter’s lips.

“What did you wish for?” She asks excitedly, her curious eyes glistening with so much wonder.

“I can’t tell you, princess,” he wipes some dirt and sweat off her face with his handkerchief, “Otherwise, it won’t come true.”

A long whine escapes her, “Aww, I promise I won’t tell anyone —!”

“Mama, for you!” calls another sweet voice belonging to that of a young boy who comes running back to them from the fields.

Hugging and puffing with a proud and contagious grin on his face arrives the boy, handing his mother a bundle of flowers he had picked from the field himself; excitedly so it appears, as the roots are still intact. Mikasa smiles warmly, stroking his cheek tenderly as she affects his gift.

“It’s beautiful, my love,” she says, her voice soothing and kind, “Thank you so much.”

“I want to get flower for mama, too!” exclaims their pouty daughter in envy.

“Both of you go and gather some more flowers for your mother, then. Let’s see who can get her the most.”

There’s a hint of mischief in Levi’s tone, as he knows just how they will react because, well, they’re his children after all, and if there’s something that they both inherited from him and his wife, it’s their competitive spirit.

“Okay!” Both children chirp before racing off, fusses of who is faster fading into the distance.

Mikasa lets out an exasperated sigh, nudging her husband playfully, “Must you always instigate them?”

“I’m merely giving them more creative ways to bond as siblings,” Levi replies cooly, though with a smug grin pulling at the corner of his lips, “You can’t fault me for that.”

Mikasa could only laugh quietly in defeat, “No, I suppose I can’t.”

“Plus, you deserve more flowers than that,” Levi face softens as he turns to her with that reserved smile of his, taking and stroking her hand comfortingly with his thumb in the pattern she likes, “You deserve a flower field that never ends.”

The glisten in Mikasa’s eyes as she smiles back with a grateful gaze is a reply worth a thousands words. She snuggles in closer to Levi and he instinctively wraps his arm around her shoulder, making the wooden bench they sit upon swing lightly back and forth. Both let out a breath of contentment as they watch their children run and play, chasing one another with flowers in their hands.

The sight warms up Mikasa’s heart like a wonderful dream, except much greater, because it’s no longer just a world built on desperate hope and delusion, but instead a reality — a world where a mother and father can watch their children play freely without the fear of monsters emerging from the woods, a world where the sea is just the sea, and a world where, at long last, 'home’ is definite, always there, always waiting for her, never wavering.

Because home is them.

“Make a wish, Papa!”

“Mama, for you!”

“You deserve a flower field that never ends.”

It will always be them.

Their children’s laughter fills the air as they blow more dandelions into the sky, and its in the very moment she sees them close their eyes to make a wish, when Mikasa finally admits that perhaps, the world isn’t so cruel after all.

"What do you think how life will be if we didn't end up together?" **

Levi smiles and brings Mikasa's hand to his mouth. He kisses their wedding band that is wrapped around her finger. **

"I suppose that's the best part," he says. "We'll never know." **

fin.

————

** = lines written by lovely and beyond talented wife @cryinginthebackseat, whom inspired me to write this drabble from just her snippet alone! I love you! ❤️

[deadkraker]

A Whisper from a Dreamer

I wonder if every dandelion I have sent through the wind whispered how I still long for a warm embrace. And so I begged my friendly, fragile friends once more. These  little wisps of white. Please murmur my wishes to the breeze. My song of love,  my dream of peace.

Dandelion

I saw one dandelion in a field of frost. It wasn’t dead, alive of course. I didn’t pluck it from the ground Or even make wishes to benefit from this astonishment.

And if you can survive Keep turning heads. Keep removing stress. Keep making everyone’s life get better when there’s a trace of you. You might be scared at times But I’m right here. Oh, I’m right here by your side.

You don’t have to cry, dandelion.

This is Perseverance

I live for dandelions That bloom between the cracks Blinding strikes of happiness Thriving in desecration

Have you ever seen a field of them? Reclaiming where they may It nary ceases to amaze They always seem to say:

“Life continues”

three c!tommy-core poems i found while scowering the internet

I'm glad you agree that ctommy should be associated with dandelions.

also 'life continues.' is CRAAZYY. MY GOD. like that is SO HIM UR SO RIGHT. he persists despite everything, because life continues to go on and the earth doesn't stop spinning, and that is scary and sad but it is also hopeful, no matter what happens the world will give him time to pick himself up and try again.

'making everyone’s life get better when there’s a trace of you' is also a good one, ctommy has always been one to leave a mark on everyone and everything around him, everything he has touched holds whispers of him and the land he walks remembers him and so do the people, good or bad he is impossible to completely erase from the memory.

[thecinderninja]

For the ask meme, 🩹 for Venti? Do with that what you will >:)

On Ao3 as The_Cinderninja

The wind played softly with Venti's hair as he sat in the open hands of the statue of Barbatos, high above Mondstadt. From this height, he could see the entirety of the city. It was a view he had witnessed countless times, yet it never lost its charm. Today, however, it didn’t bring a smile to his face.

He’d lost track of time since the Traveller left. They did sit with him for longer than expected, but eventually they seemed to realize the only thing he really needed at the moment was some time alone.

His thoughts were a tangled mess, and he wasn’t sure he had the energy to try and sort through them. Venti, the bard. Venti, the Anemo Archon. Venti, Venti… 

Was at war with himself. 

He lifted his gaze to the sky, letting his mind drift. He tried to summon the familiar sense of peace that the open sky usually provided, but it eluded him. He felt too heavy to grasp at clouds. Looking inwards felt like climbing the steps into a forgotten attic, creaking with misuse, and dusting off the spiderwebs that clung to everything.

Who am I? 

That was the question that had been repeating for the past few hours. The question he usually managed to brush off with a laugh, with a bottle of dandelion wine, with the view of his city, with a strum of his lyre.

Venti the bard. Venti the Anemo Archon.

Those were both answers.

(So why weren’t they satisfying?)

Centuries ago now, (millenia), Venti had taken on the form of a young bard - a mortal whose life had been snuffed out far too soon. (But he had been mortal all along, hadn't he).

That bard had been a friend, a companion, someone Venti admired deeply. In those days, he had been a breeze, a whisper among the reeds, a formless spirit. 

The bard had shaped him into something tangible, something more than an elemental wisp.

But now, all that remained were fragmented memories, echoes of a life that wasn't truly his. The bard was gone, and Venti was left behind; a shadow cast by a flame long extinguished. He was a reflection. An antique mirror, capturing the likeness of someone who no longer existed. 

He tried to remember the bard's face, the sound of his voice, the songs they had sung together. But the memories were hazy, like trying to grasp mist. He couldn't recall the bard's mannerisms, his thoughts, his dreams. 

The essence of the bard had been stretched too thin, leaving only the faintest traces behind. 

Venti's identity was a patchwork of those traces, stitched together haphazardly. He had built his entire sense of self on a script he had lost. He played the role of the bard, a role whose lines were forgotten centuries ago.

What would the bard think if he could see him now? Would he be proud of him? Would he be happy for him? Would he be offended at Venti's misuse of his image, a misrepresentation of him? Twisting his original ideals into something unrecognisable?

Would he hate Venti for the things he had done while wearing his face?

He imagined the bard standing before him, looking at him with those earnest eyes, filled with a fire that Venti could never hope to match. The bard had been passionate, a force for change, fighting every day of his life. Venti... Venti was complacent and fearful.

Would the bard find it pathetic, how Venti never gained true freedom, but stopped fighting nonetheless?

If he stood before him, what would he say? Would he see Venti as a coward, hiding behind a mask, unable to step out of the shadows?

He didn't know. He couldn't know. And that uncertainty crawled under his skin, skin that didn’t even belong to him, a constant reminder of his incomplete existence.

What would the bard do? 

Venti knew the answer deep down - the bard would act. He would stand up, fight, strive. The bard had a fire that Venti lacked, a determination that seemed out of reach. The bard would risk everything.

Venti had too much that he could not risk.

So what was he? A poor imitation, play-acting a role he was ill-suited for. Yet it was the only thing he knew, and he was afraid to give it up. Without the bard's guise, without his memories, what would remain? Just the wind, aimless and formless as it had been before it met him.

The sun began to set, casting a golden glow over the city. Venti watched as the shadows lengthened, feeling kinship with them. He was a shadow too, a fleeting shape cast by a much brighter light that no longer shone.

As the stars began to dot the sky, he felt a kinship to them too. A light still shining while all those who admired it remained oblivious that it had been dead, dimmed, consumed and put out for years. An illusion. A false pretence. Nothing about them was real, not any more than Venti himself.

He took out his lyre and strummed a soft, melancholic tune. Was music even his own? Yes. That much he was sure of. Perhaps he had once learned it from his friend, but that was one thing at least he had made his own. One thing which he loved for the sake of it. The notes floated on the wind, one half of a duet, a call without an answer.

For just a moment, he allowed himself to grieve. He let the tears fall, hidden by the night, and sang for an audience of false stars and those who were long dead, imagining that his words would still reach them after enough years had passed to carry the tune.

As he let himself observe his own thoughts, as he dusted off the boxes in the attic of his mind and decompartmentalized himself for the sake of finding an answer, this was what he discovered;

He wanted to live. 

He loved living. He loved humans, he loved Mondstadt, and he loved being alive. The joy he found in the simple pleasures of life, the laughter of children, the camaraderie of friends, the beauty of a sunset—these were things he cherished deeply. These were things which were real.

These were things which belonged to him.

They were not borrowed or stolen or worn as a costume.

He didn't know how to live as his own person. He didn't know how to step out from under the bard's shadow. The idea scared him. It was daunting to think of forging a new identity after nearly 3000 years.

But did he really need to? 

His contentment was not, on the whole, false. 

Perhaps the bard would be ashamed of what he had become, but Venti wanted to live. And if this was the only way he could do it, then this was how he'd do it. He would rather live as a faded reflection than face the terrifying prospect of finding his own identity. If clinging to the bard's image was the only way he could continue to experience the world he loved, then that was the path he would take.

For the love of life, for the love of Mondstadt, and for the love of the fleeting, precious moments that made existence worthwhile, he would continue his masquerade.

In the end, even a shadow had a place in the world.

[amygdalae]

Gizmo is just a haunted doll. A used tissue. A dust bunny. A mildewy teddy bear. A ghost child. A dandelion tuft. A decrepit little wisp