#I think these terms need to be widely taught

[suugarbabe]

Origin Stories

(part five)

summary: you and matty are both at the castle for the holidays. you're excited to show him new things; he's excited to have you to himself for a while. but of course that doesn't last forever. reality has to come crashing back at some point doesn't it?

word count: 8k

warnings: fluff, angst, mentions of blood, mentions of physical violence, draco being an asshole

an: big thanks to my love, my hub, my favorite @musingsofahufflepuff for reviewing and editing when needed <3

His heart hadn’t stopped fluttering since you first said it. “We’re going to spend Christmas together.” Except it wasn’t just Christmas. It was the whole two weeks of holiday. Christmas. His birthday. New Year’s. All with you. 

And you’re his best friend. 

So it was fine. Totally and completely fine. Everything was going to be fine. 

And that’s what he told himself over and over again on the walk back to the castle. And that’s what was going through his mind when he dropped you off at your dorm, stating he’d see you at breakfast the next morning. 

And that’s what he kept telling himself until he fell asleep, dragon held close to his chest in the silence of his dorm, Enzo’s snoring back in Kensington.

He wasn’t sure how long he’d slept, but it was still dark when he woke. He took his time getting ready, pulling on simple black jeans and a muggle band t-shirt. A gift he’d gotten himself during one of his solo rendezvous to muggle London. All items, of which, he hides at the bottom of his trunk, lest his mother find them and Avada him for being a blood traitor. 

Mattheo made his way down towards the kitchens, finding the appropriately stacked barrels and knocking as you had taught him. The door to the Hufflepuff dorm rolled open, the few stray students staring wide-eyed. Ignoring them, Matty found a lounge chair that looked particularly inviting and sat down to wait for you to wake up. 

Coming out of your dorm you were slightly startled to see a boy seemingly waiting for you. His head lulled on the back of the chair, making his curls splay out across the back.  “Matty?” He jolted awake at the sound of your voice, standing quickly and rubbing his eyes with his fingers, “Hmm? Yeah, yes erm, finally ready are you?” 

You huffed an amused laugh, “Finally ready? How long have you been out here? How did you get in?” Mattheo shrugged, “You told me how to get in last year, remember?” You looked at him curiously, “You were paying attention?” Mattheo nodded, falling in step as you started toward the exit, “I pay attention to everything you say to me.” 

A warmth spread in your chest, surely dusting your cheeks as well. “I’m sure not everything…hey, you avoided a question, sir. How long were you waiting?” You saw Mattheo begin to gnaw on his lip, shoulders lifting the slightest bit with his whispered answer, “Just before daylight.” 

“Mattheo!” you shoved his shoulder, “no wonder you fell back asleep.” Mattheo scoffed, running a hand through his curls, “I did not fall asleep I was…resting my eyes.” You couldn’t help but laugh, Matty soon following suit. 

You continued to tease, and he continued to deny, until you made it up to the great hall. Mattheo leads you both towards the slytherin table, which is the only one without a single student. “Being a bit seclusive, aren’t we, Matty?” He sits down across from you, grabbing a cup to begin tea, “I prefer to call it, ‘avoiding those who think I’ve opened the chamber of secrets’.” 

Grimacing slightly you give an awkward nod, “Right, yeah. Sorry.” Mattheo shakes his head, “S’fine, the halls at the end of term seemed to always clear out for me, so I was annoyingly on time to all my finals.” 

This made you laugh, you taking a glance at the other students behind during holiday. A particular group of students caught your eye, “Seems like Potter and his lap dogs are behind for Christmas, too.” Mattheo’s eyebrows shot up, a smirk of a grin gracing his features, “Did you just talk poorly about other students? Not very Hufflepuff of you.” 

You shrug with a shy smile, “They’re kind of annoying.” Mattheo turns and looks behind him before facing you again, “Granger’s okay sometimes.” You quirked an eyebrow, trying to hide the twinge of something pulling in your stomach, “Is she now?” You couldn’t help but notice the blush on his cheeks. 

Mattheo laughed nervously, “It’s not like that.” He could never tell you he needed help with your present last year. “She was just…nice to me once.” You give him a questioning look, “You can have a crush, Matty. Everyone gets crushes sometimes. I’m sure you two would make a lovely couple with even lovelier hair. Well, one person with lovely hair.” 

Mattheo shuddered, “No, no way. That’s not who I have a crush on.” 

“Oh! So you do have a crush then, okay. Well tell me who then,” You sat up a little straighter, leaning slightly more toward him. He shook his head vigorously, “No, that’s not…I just mean, erm, if I were to have a crush, which I don’t, it wouldn’t be Granger.” 

You smile to yourself, satisfied with his answer; for now. You decide to alter the subject, “So what all did you want to get into during our break, hmm? Explore the castle, pull a prank or two, watch some films?”

Mattheo laughs with a bit of bewilderment, “Pranks? Okay, seriously who are you today - wait, watch what?” 

You froze at his question, “A…film? You know what a film is, right?” Mattheo continued to stare at you blankly, “Why would we watch a photograph.” 

“Matty, a film…like a television show but…longer.” His curls bounced slightly as he tilted his head again. You groaned, running your hands along your face, “You don’t know what a television show is either do you.” 

Mattheo shook his head with a grin, obviously enjoying your slight frustration, “You might as well be Theo right now because you’re basically speaking Italian to me.” You threw a grape, hitting him in the chest, “You’re impossible, you know that?” 

“But do you not like a challenge, my little badger?” Mattheo caught the next grape you tried to throw and you grumbled. “We’re fixing this. We’re going to fix this today, I have to culture you. Why don’t you go fly on the quidditch grass or something for an hour then meet me back at your dorm.” 

“It’s a pitch…how do you know our password?” Mattheo mirrored your actions as you began to stand. Rolling your eyes you both began to walk from the great hall, “I’m with you all near constantly, how would I not know your password.” Mattheo gave a shrug and smirk, starting to follow you down toward the dungeons. 

You stopped him abruptly, “No, no. You go pitch or whatever. I’m going this way.” Mattheo pouts slightly, “You meant like right now, right now?” You nodded slowly, “Yes, Matty. Right now, right now.” His pout intensified before stomping down the corridor with crossed arms. 

Ignoring his little fit you headed towards the dungeons. As the snake lifted from the ground to reveal the Slytherin entrance you spoke the password quickly. Entering the sea of green; it was eerily quiet. You looked around the empty common room, noticing it seemed like no one was ever there to begin with, everything in its proper place. It kind of gave you the creeps. 

You made your way to Mattheo’s dorm, walking in and seeing the beds completely stripped except for one. You were determined to liven up the place. 

Mattheo wrapped his quidditch cloak tighter around his body as he pulled his beanie further on his head to cover his ears. Whatever you had planned better had include something warm because flying for an hour in December was the stupidest thing he had willingly agreed to. 

As he made down the walkway to his dorm he slowed. He stood in front of his door, pressing his ear to the wood to see if he could hear what you were up to. All he could hear was a low hum of music that repeated itself after a minute or two. 

Mattheo gave a shy knock before cracking the door open. “Come in, Matty!” Your voice rang out in almost a sing-song tone, the excitement evident already. Mattheo opened the door fully, his mouth nearly dropping in shock. 

What you had done to his room was nothing short of magical, but he was almost certain you hadn’t used any at all. 

You had taken one of your lightest sheets and hung it on the wall opposite Mattheo’s bed. Speaking of, you had also stripped his bed of all contents, of which were now arranged on the floor. You seemed to have taken all of the bare pillows from the other boys beds as well and created a makeshift pallet of sorts on the ground. 

Above that was a combination of yellow and green sheets that you had turned into a small little blanket tent, an opening in the front facing the sheet hanging on the wall. Both your Hufflepuff and his Slytherin duvets stuffed inside. 

“W-what is all this?” Mattheo continued to marvel at how inviting you had somehow made the Slytherin dorms as your hands started moving about to explain every detail to him. 

“Okay, so here is our fort. I know it may be a little childish but since you haven’t seen any films before I figured I would give you the whole experience; we got our blankets and pillow pallet and everything so we can be comfortable. 

The candles are for the dim lighting so it feels like a real theatre,” Mattheo then noticed all the small candles you had put around the room, “and this is the projector that’s attached to the video player; it’s going to put the movie on the screen.” 

Mattheo crouched down next to the two contraptions on the ground, listening to the whirring coming from each. He saw the stream of light that seemed to spray itself onto the sheet on the wall. 

He leaned closer, sticking his face right in front of the light to see where everything was coming from when he suddenly felt blinded, reeling back and covering his eyes, “Fucking Salazar.”  

You couldn’t help the laugh that escaped you, “Why the hell would you do that, Matty. Do you look at the sun just because it’s bright?” Mattheo glowered at you for a moment, rubbing his eyes. He started to laugh himself, recognizing the stupidity of his actions. 

“You did all this without magic?” Mattheo stared at you with wonder, his eyes shined with a childlike disbelief you hadn’t seen from him before. 

You scratched the back of your neck sheepishly, “Well, mostly. There’s no bloody outlets in this whole castle so I had to charm the projector and stuff to work. But the rest is pure muggle ideas.” 

“Wicked,” Mattheo crawled into the fort, starting to settle himself in all the comforts you had set up. You sat on the ground next to the projector, pushing different buttons to get the movie started before crawling in and settling next to him. 

“Thanks for doing this by the way,” Mattheo glanced over at you from the corner of his eye. You smiled, peeking his way as well, “Of course. Everyone should experience this at least once in their life.”

Mattheo settled in, resting his hands behind his head as the opening credits started to pop on screen, “So what am I watching exactly?” You turned to your side, propping your head up with one hand as you started to explain. 

“Okay, so this movie is a holiday classic. It’s American, called Home Alone. The premise is basically that Kevin, the kid, gets left home alone while the rest of the family are going to Paris-”

“They left him there on purpose?!” Mattheo’s heart began to thump quickly, a rage starting to fill his chest at Kevin’s parents. He knew all too well what it felt like to be left alone. 

“No, no, not like that,” your smile at the situation started to calm Mattheo, “you’ll see what happens. But basically these two robbers think his house is empty so they go to try and rob it but Kevin’s home, right. So then he pulls all these pranks! And I can’t tell you the rest but I think you’re really gonna like it.” 

He did like it. A lot. He thought it was wonderful; all the different traps and pranks and ideas Kevin was able to come up with on his own, and all without magic. He found the other part of the story line just as wonderful. How the mother kept doing everything in her power to get back to him, how she tried trading her most expensive possessions for a simple plane ticket; how she rode with strangers for hours in order to get to her son. 

Mattheo thought Kevin was incredibly lucky to have a mother that loved him so much. He had to hide his watering eyes when they were finally reunited and then the rest of the family showed up behind her. He wondered what a happy family Christmas felt like. 

When the end credits began to roll you sat up, stretching your arms high above you before turning to him, “So…what’d you think?” 

Mattheo plastered on a smile, “I think we need to try that heated door knob prank on Malfoy when he gets back.” 

The few days before Christmas you and Mattheo seemed to have the same routine. Wake up, eat breakfast, explore the castle, eat lunch, watch movies through dinner, sneak into the kitchens, drop you off at your dorm. In Mattheo’s mind, it was the best holiday break he’s ever had. 

On Christmas Eve you kept the same schedule. When it was your typical time to go down to the kitchens Mattheo found himself wishing you didn’t have to go to your own dorm. He had become accustomed to your company and feeling more happy about holiday things that he just didn’t quite want it to end. 

Mattheo watched you gather a few pasties and wrap it in cloth, “Hey, erm, did you maybe want to stay in my dorm tonight? Like in Theo’s bed or something just so..we can wake up on Christmas, erm, together?” 

Your beaming smile melted any worries away, “Oh, yes, please that would be so much fun! We can put a movie on the projector and fall asleep to it and everything.” Mattheo nodded, “Sounds perfect.” 

And to Mattheo it was perfect. You put on a christmas film, your yellow and black linen standing out strikingly on Theo’s bed next to his. You fell asleep quickly, Mattheo not far behind. 

Matty always marveled at the difference in sleep he got at Hogwarts versus his family's manor. But something he’d never experienced was being woken up by his bed vibrating or…shaking? 

“Ugh, come on Matty, wake up!!” The bed was not actually vibrating; you were jumping up and down on the edge of Mattheo’s bed. He groaned, turning to his stomach and burying his face into his pillow. He tried to pull on his blankets to cover his head but your weight on the end prevented him. 

With a huff he threw back his duvet, “Why are we waking up so early.” With a final jump you sat down on his bed, “Because it’s Christmas!” Mattheo groaned, covering his face with his arm, “I don’t get presents on Christmas, can we sleep just a little longer.” 

Your heart shattered, voice small, “I got you one.”

Mattheo sat up then, a guilty frown on his face, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean- I got you something too.” Mattheo climbed out of bed, slipping on his loafers, “Cmon, let’s go check the tree. I’m sure your parents sent you things as well.” 

You slid off the bed on to your feet, leading the way towards the main Slytherin common room to the large Christmas tree set up in the middle. There were far more gifts than Mattheo expected to see, assuming your family spent a good amount on you this year. 

He watched as you seemed to organize everything in to two piles before standing, hands on hips, “Okay that pile is yours, and this is mine.” Mattheo looked to where you first gestured, confused on how there was more than one gift. 

Had you bought him multiples? But some of yours had the same wrapping paper as his. What was going on?

“I want to open each others last, okay?” You sat crisscrossed on the ground by your gifts. Mattheo mirrored your position, giving a slow nod. He was still so confused. “Grab the one with little frogs on it first, I think these are from…” you checked the tag on yours, “yep! They’re from Enz. He’s really leaning in to the frog father thing huh.”

Mattheo grabbed his gift with matching paper. You tore yours open, revealing a new set of royal blue suede gloves for winter; you seemed pleased. Mattheo opened his slowly before seeing his friend had gotten him a silk tie with matching colored socks. 

Theo had gotten you both gifts as well; you a book titled Quidditch 101 for Dummies, Mattheo received a lovely smelling broom wax. You were opening the two gifts from your parents when Mattheo noticed that he also had a box that matched the wrapping paper they used. 

“Did…did your parents get me a gift, too?” Mattheo held the box in his lap, his chest feeling tight as he noticed his eyes seeming to sting. You sat up on your knees then, nodding with vigor. “Yeah, they did! I hope that’s alright…it’s probably something muggle so if you don’t like it don’t feel bad.” 

Mattheo delicately unwrapped the gift, trying to not only compose his emotions but also thinking of ways he could thank them for getting him anything at all. Inside were two vintage looking t-shirts. Both adorning what he assumed were muggle punk and rock bands. 

“I noticed last year you would wear some stuff like that on our off days of school. Not sure where you found them before but my dad always finds cool vintage stuff so they got you some,” Your smile was a bit shy. 

Mattheo was beaming. 

“I snuck out,” Mattheo’s response was confusing. He folded the shifts neatly before placing them in the box again, “The summer before first year my mum sent me to Diagon Alley alone to get things for school. Said she couldn’t be bothered or whatever. 

So I…snuck off into London. I found this shop with shirts that looked older but really wicked. And people were staring at me with a robe on like I was a freak…I stole a few shirts, wore one out and walked around London before going back. Mum seemed none the wiser.” 

You listened silently, only nodding when needed before speaking. “Well I hope these ones are just as good, even though they were purchased legally.” 

Mattheos eyes snapped to yours, only to see you smiling. He let out a held breath and smiled, too. 

“Okay, saved the best for last. Do you want to open together or one at a time?” You held Mattheos gift on your lap, the shining green paper reflecting the lights of the tree. 

Mattheo looked down at your gift to him, the flowery paper a strong contrast to anything anyone would think to give him normally. “Together, I know you’re too excited either way,” his tone was teasing but you agreed quickly. 

On your count of three you both tore into your respective gifts, opening the boxes and holding up each item in front of you. 

Instantly you brought the material up to your face, not being able to help rubbing your cheek on the soft material. Mattheo had gotten you a Slytherin green cashmere sweater (not too unlike the one you borrowed from Enzo this past fall). 

The only differences were that in place of Enzo’s initials on the sleeve of the wrist, were yours. And instead of Enzo’s family crest a different crest appeared. “Matty…I love it,” you hoped your face displayed just how elated you actually were, “but what’s this crest here?” 

Matty’s cheeks blushed a deep shade of red, “Erm, it’s…yours. Well, your families. I…looked it up in the library. Madam Pince showed me a section that had every family crest of every student that’s ever attended. That’s your family’s. I figure if you’re gonna wear something Slytherin to support me, might as well be yours instead of Berkshire’s.” 

You could feel your grin double, your cheeks nearly aching, “I…can’t believe you did that.” Mattheo only shrugged, looking down shyly, “You always think of thoughtful gifts for me.” 

“Like this,” he held up the sweater you had gotten him. A beautifully knit black and yellow quidditch stripe sweater, “I’m sure there’s good meaning for you getting me a sweater in your house colors.” 

You gave a shy nod, hoping your meaning was good enough for him, “I know it’s been really tough hanging out with me in my common room since well..the chamber stuff. I figured maybe…if you had something to sort of…blend in? Maybe you wouldn’t get as many looks?” 

He could feel his heart flutter, a heat spreading from his chest throughout his arms and to his fingertips as his smile spread across his face, “It’s perfect. Thank you.” 

Mattheo scrambled to throw the sweater on over his sleeping clothes, “So, how do I look?” 

You gnawed on your bottom lip to keep control of your smile, Mattheo found it charming. “Positively badger-esque.” 

It had been such a rarity for him or his birthday to be celebrated while growing up (it was usually just him and Feindre in the kitchen with a cake Feindre had allowed him to frost on his own) that you being insistent on celebrating Mattheo the last two years seemed…odd. 

Yet here he was, sitting at the Slytherin table at lunch time with a cake in front of him (far better frosted than he ever had done) and not only you, but a few other of the students that had stayed behind for the holidays singing him happy birthday. 

It was positively the most embarrassed he had ever felt. And he wouldn’t change it for anything else in the world in this moment. He knew you had probably said something to them. Maybe you even threatened them with this new found sass you seemed to find this winter season. But he didn’t care. 

You allowed him to open your gift alone, just the two of you, in his common room. You brought two boxes to him and Mattheo’s cheeks flushed. “You didn’t have to-” you cut Mattheo off with a raised hand, “Don’t even start. Just open your gifts.”

A boyish grin filled his features as he tore into the paper. He held them in his hands, running his fingers over the material, “Are these…dragon skin beaters gloves?” You nodded shyly, “There’s some broom wax in there too that smells really good. I know Theo got you some for Christmas but I had gotten this stuff before I knew what he got you.” He grabbed the jar and unscrewed the lid, taking a good sniff, “S'fine. It runs out quickly. It actually does smell good…” 

You crossed your arms defensively, “Did you not believe me or something?” Nervously, Mattheo began stammering, “No, that’s not- I just meant..” Your laughter halted his worries, “I’m just kidding. Some old guy helped me pick them out. I was completely lost in that place.” 

Mattheo’s eyebrows shot up, “You went into Spintwitches? Wait - How did you get into Hogsmeade?” You shrugged, “That’s for me to know and you to find out later…maybe. Anyway, do you like your gift? Try them on.” 

He wiggled his hands in with a smile, his fingers poking through holes before he closed and stretched his fists. He marveled at them, inspecting the material, testing the stickiness of the palm. “The guy said that these are the best ones and the palm has some…sticking solution woven in the to material or whatever to-”

“To help with extra grip on my bat…you bloody genius little badger; these are amazing.” You could feel the heat rise up your neck and over your cheeks at the compliments. 

Mattheo picked up the second smaller box, but instead of his name on the tag it was…his dragons? Well it said 'to your dragon'. He looked up and met your eyes that were sparkling with a bit of something he couldn’t quite figure out, “Is this box for dragon?” 

“Well it’s his birthday, too- wait…did you name your stuffed dragon…dragon?” Your face wore an expression that appeared to be a mix between confusion and bewilderment. 

Mattheo let out a small laugh, “Well yeah…what else would I name him? He’s a dragon.” You placed a hand on your forehead briefly, seemingly trying to organize your thoughts manually, “Matty. Love. You’re supposed to name them.” 

He could help but scoff, “Well, why? Who says?” 

Merlin this boy was bloody stubborn, “Matty that dragon is like your son! What if Enz had named Mocha just Milk Frog??” 

This seemed to only make Mattheo laugh more, waving his hand to dismiss your words, “No, no, you misunderstand. His name is Dragone. With an E at the end.” 

You stared at him incredulously, but he only grinned full teeth in return. “You’re a shit, you know that Matty?” He opened his mouth to quip back and you just shook your head, “Nope, no comebacks. Open Dragone’s gift.” 

Mattheo tore through the paper, opening the small box to reveal a little crocheted Slytherin sweater vest, a small silver S where the crest would usually go on all the boys’ vests, “You didn’t…” You nodded your head, “I did.” 

Without a word Mattheo ran to his dorm. On his way back into the common room you could see him, Dragone in hand. Adjusting the tiny dragon arms through the arm holes and pulling the vest down over its little belly he turned his cherished item towards you, “Look at that, perfect fit.”

You and Mattheo continued to spend the next two days together (as if either of you would spend it with anyone else). It was strange really, having company this time of year. 

Not that Mattheo was ever technically alone when he was home for holidays. But he was always lonely. 

But at Hogwarts for the holiday, even if he was walking back to his dorm alone, or made it to a meal before you did on the off chance you didn’t walk together, he never felt that same feeling he did back at the manor. 

The emptiness. The yearning to talk to someone that wasn’t going to yell at him. Just to be around someone that made him actually feel cared for. You did that for him. 

When you said you wanted to have a New Year's celebration, Mattheo was a little apprehensive. You had convinced a few extra people to sing him happy birthday. But he wasn’t sure he wanted to do much more celebrating beyond the two of you. 

Thankfully, what he had been hoping for is what you had been planning. He went with you into the kitchens later in the evening on New Years Eve, swiping a small bottle of a bubbly usually reserved for professors at meals while you distracted a house elf. Said house elf let you take a few treacle tarts with you as well and you were forever grateful. 

The two of you had set up a little table in front of one of the larger sofas by a fire. You had charmed the painting above the mantel to display the time digitally so you both could keep track of when midnight hit. 

Mattheo had poured two glasses of the bubbly drink and handed you one before taking one for himself. “Aren’t we a little young to be drinking this, Matty?” You gave the substance a sniff before pulling a face, “it doesn’t even smell enjoyable.” 

Matty copied your actions, his face displaying the same displeasure yours had moments before, “It can’t be too bad if McGonagall drinks it at dinner. Just give it a try.” 

Reluctantly you followed his direction. Giving yourself a sip and letting the dry and sour taste hit your tongue before spitting it back into the glass, “Yuck! No, sorry not for me.” 

Mattheo had apparently the same thought process as he grabbed your glass and set both yours and his back down on the table. “Okay, not one of my better ideas.”

“Oh are some of your ideas actually good ones?” You teased. Earning a small smirk from Mattheo’s lips, “Be nice to me, badger, or I won’t share the backup I also swiped.” From behind the sofa Mattheo produced a bottle of pumpkin juice. 

You waited for him to graciously empty your previous glasses and refill them with a more satisfying drink for the both of you before grabbing your glass and sticking out your tongue. Mattheo mirrored the action. 

The two of you settled into a comfortable silence. You watched the flames lick against the logs in the fireplace, wondering if they were actually burning at all or if it were more magic that seemed to touch every inch of the castle. 

“I wonder what the others are up to. Theo and Enzo I mean,” Mattheo's voice broke the silence and you turned to look at him. He continued watching the fire, his eyebrows knit slightly together. 

You crossed your legs up on the couch, “Well what are all of you pureblood usually doing for New Years Eve?” Your tone was slightly teasing but also held a hint of curiosity. 

Mattheo turned to you, “Well, we mighty and noble purebloods,” his tone dripping with sarcasm, “we usually have a winter ball or gala or whatever the bloody hell phrasing they want to use between Christmas and New Years Eve. Which is when I socked Malfoy in the face last year.” 

You tried to stifle your giggle, but it made Matty smile. “After the big fancy party it’s typically up to each family what they want to do. We’ve had dinner with Theo and his parents before. Usually the Malfoys are always there since Aunt Cisy, Draco’s mum, is sisters with mine. But nothing fancy.

“I usually go to my room after dinner. Just hang out in there alone until I hear the big manor clock hit midnight. Then I go to sleep.” 

You were frowning slightly by the end of his explanation. For what reason he couldn’t seem to figure out. “What do muggles do?” 

You sipped your pumpkin juice and smiled to yourself, telling him of all your usual New Year’s Eve traditions with your family. “And we also have the telly on in the background, with the London celebration show. When the countdown comes you can see everyone get so excited. 

When there’s five seconds left you can see everyone grab somebody they care about. Then when it finally hits midnight everyone just…snogs. Even when they’re on tv.” 

Matty giggled a little, “Like the films you showed me? You guys watch one of those of people snogging?” His question made you laugh a little, “Kind of, yeah. But it’s real people and couples. Except they’re in the middle of London and we’re at home watching…er, okay. I can understand how that can sound a little weird.” 

You laughed together, you wiped under your eyes before Mattheo turned to you fully, “Have you ever done that before?” Your head tilted slightly, turning to face him as well, “Done what, Matty?” 

Mattheos cheeks flushed a little, “Have you ever, erm, kissed anyone..before.” 

“Oh, ehm,” your throat suddenly felt tight at the question, your cheeks and neck heating, “I, uh, no. Haven’t. I haven’t. Erm, have you?” 

Mattheo shook his head, curls bouncing each way as he looked down at his hands shyly, “No. I haven’t either. I, ehm, I heard Enzo did though…before break.” 

You let out a small laugh, “Yeah, I heard that, too. I think I heard him bragging to someone that it was a third year? Dunno what they were thinking kissing him though.” 

Mattheo barked out a laugh, “Yeah, they have to be a little off kissing him huh.” You nodded, “I heard Seamus tell Dean that he’s kissed like four people already this year. Dean was telling him he felt behind because he’s only kissed two.” 

Mattheo leaned his head on the back of the sofa, “Behind but he’s already kissed two people?? Salazars sake, what does that mean we are?” 

You smiled, trying to make light, “Not even in the race I suppose.” Mattheo grinned a little at this. 

“We could just kiss each other.” The nonchalant manner in which the words left your lips made it take a moment for Mattheo’s brain to catch up with what his ears had just heard. 

When the connection finally happened Mattheo sat straight as a board, “W-wha-, y-you wanna kiss me?” His flustered state made you giggle, “Well you’re my best friend, Mattheo. I like you enough. And I trust you. Why shouldn’t my first kiss be with you?” 

Mattheo relaxed against the couch at your words, really taking them in. He supposed you were right. You were his best friend, too. And probably the only person he fully trusted. 

The thought of kissing you made his insides feel funny though. Almost the same rush he gets when he kicks up with his broom before a quidditch match. He looked up at the charmed painting, the clock reading 11:59. 

Despite the sound of his heartbeat in his ears he turned to you, nodding, “You’re right. It should be me. I should be yours, too.” He scooted a little closer to you on the sofa, trying to close the distance between you so if you wanted to pull away you could do so easily. 

“Just a, erm, just a quick one, yeah?” He felt like his voice was shaking. Could you tell he was nervous? Why was he nervous? He noticed you glance at his lips momentarily, “Yeah, just a quick one. I’m not ready for a proper snog I don’t think.” 

As always you’re able to make a seemingly serious situation a bit lighter. You leaned in closer, Mattheo mirroring your actions as he nodded his head ever so slightly, “Yeah, me neither.” 

You were the brave one, bridging the little bit of gap left between the two of you. Mattys lips crashed with yours and the painting you had charmed stroked midnight, mini fireworks popping above the two of you. 

Mattheo prayed you couldn’t feel that his lips were slightly chapped and you hoped he couldn’t hear your heart nearly thudding out of your chest. 

Just as quickly as you came together did you pull apart. If someone had walked in they’d believe you actually did have a proper snog by the heated breathing you were both doing. 

You stared at each other for a moment. Mattheo then cleared his throat, “Right, so ehm, that’s a kiss then, hmm?” You nodded, fixing your hair that truly didn’t need fixing at all, “Yeah, s’pose so. Mhm.” 

Another few beats of silence took over the both of you before Mattheo stood up quickly. “Well I’m gonna…I mean I think I’m gonna, erm, go to bed now.” You stayed seated, staring at the fire. 

“Are you gonna come..” Mattheo was cautious with his ask. Not sure if what just transpired was going to change things. You looked up at him, smile reaching your eyes, “Yeah. Let’s go.” 

The rest of your friends made it back to the castle a few days after the new year. Currently you were sat atop Enzo’s bed while he showed off all of his new items he received over holiday. This was the unfolding scene that Mattheo found himself walking in on. 

“I got two new Italian leather belts from Milan as well, one brown one black,” Enzo held up both belts individually, turning them over for you to see both sides. You nodded, less interested in the actual materials but fully interested in the joy that was radiating off of Enz. 

“Well of course both black and brown, would hate for something to not match,” the slightly sarcastic tone was apparently not thick enough for Enzo to catch on to. “See, I knew you’d appreciate that.” 

You smiled and nodded, catching Mattheo’s eye across the room. “What the bloody hell is actually going on here?” Matty walked over to Enzo’s bed where you sat, albeit cautiously. 

Enz brightened further, “I’m doing a Christmas haul. You want me to start from the beginning?” Mattheo’s face was flat, eyes that dead demeanor they so often held, “Absolutely not, mate.” 

The taller boy shrugged, turning back to give you his full attention before digging in his trunk and pulling out a shiny new black broomstick. You did your best to give a shocked and interested smile. But per usual anything flying or quidditch related made you lose a little bit of interest. 

Matty, however, was now highly interested in the haul. “Is that a Nimbus 2001? Your father got you one even though you didn’t make the team?” Enzo smirked, “He did, yeah. Said I could use the newest fastest model to practice on so there’d be no way I didn’t make the team next year.” 

The two continued to talk quidditch with the next several gifts Enzo revealed from his trunk. The more detailed they spoke, the heavier your eyelids felt. And soon you found your entire head drooping to the side. 

Mattheo noticed they were losing you, sitting down on the bed and making sure he was close enough for his shoulder to catch your head and your body finally leaned fully into your bored, drowsed state. He pretended not to notice, and Enzo didn’t seem to in the slightest. 

They were still talking (almost arguing) about quidditch and quidditch-esque things when Theo made it back to the dorm. “Che diavolo? Did you bore our poor badger to death with your haul of Christmas Enzo?” 

He scoffed, “No, of course not. They’re not-oh…they’re sleeping.” Enzo pouted slightly as Matty nudged you with his elbow. You jolted awake with an intake of breath through your nose, “Mmm? Yes, yeah, special…goggle something, very cool Enz.” 

The three around you began to laugh as you rubbed your eyes with the heel of your hand. “Told you, compagno…bored.” You started to shake your head but Enzo held up his hand, “No, it’s fine. I’m done now anyway.” 

You climbed off Enzo’s bed, rounding the one in between before reaching underneath Theo’s. “Well since you’re all done I thought I’d give you three the gifts from me.” 

“Three? You mean you didn’t give Matt his gift on Christmas?” Enzo was thoroughly confused, fully assuming you’d both have exchanged the day of. 

You, however, rolled your eyes, “Of course I did you knob. I’m talking about you, Theo and Mocha of course!” You handed Theo his gift, him tearing into it immediately. You handed Enzo both his and Mocha’s after he fished her out of his pocket. 

“Aha! Grazie amico mio! I need very much this!” Theo pulled on the winter hat you had hand made (with only some slight bit of magical help for the house crest). Theo grabbed hold of your face, placing quick kisses on both cheeks, “Lo adoro!” 

You laughed lightly, “Welcome, Theo.” You turned to Enzo who was now giggling while fitting a mini witch hat atop Mocha’s head. “I cannot believe you made this, it’s perfect. Did you measure Mocha’s little head or something? Also, thank you for the scarf.” Enzo chose a grin versus cheek kisses but you understood he was thankful all the same. 

“You’re welcome Enz,” you walked over to him to give Mocha a little pet, “and you’re welcome, too, Mocha.” 

After a little while, you gathered your things to head back to your dorm for the night. “Leaving already? But we just started catching up,” Enzo pouted, crossing his arms like a small child. 

“We’ll catch up more tomorrow, Enz. I promise,” you made your way to the door with your things, “But you guys are all back now so I can’t sleep in Theo’s bed anymore; that’d be weird. See you guys at breakfast!” 

You gave a wave as you opened the door, turning quickly to leave. While walking out you crash in to none other than Draco. “Eugh, watch where you’re going you twit,” Draco brushed the front of his robes as if your touch had now made them filthy. You huffed through your nose, rolling your eyes. 

You then took a step back and bowed, voice dripping with sarcasm, “Many apologies, Draco. I’m truly so sorry. Surprised I couldn’t smell you through the door with the amount of cologne you’re wearing. Mummy get that for you for Christmas? Do give her my best.” 

Draco scowled as he pushed past you; you gave a wink to everyone else before scurrying out the door and closing it behind you. The little exchange was not fully heard by the other three in the room, but as always, Mattheo noticed some interaction. 

Brought back from his thoughts Theo was complaining in Italian, “Compagno, my guy. Did badger really lay sleep in my bed all of vacanza? A man’s bed is sacra! Sacred!” Enzo shrugged, “At least your bed will smell good now.” 

Mattheo and Theo turned to look at him quizzically. “What?” Enzo’s voice raised half an octave, “I am not the only one who notices they always smell nice. You guys are lying to yourselves.” 

Draco decided this was the moment he was going to join the conversation. “You let a mudblood sleep in our quarters for two weeks? Merlin, cousin. You’ve really gone to the dogs haven’t you.”  Mattheo was up and off Enzo’s bed in an instant, the latter quickly wrapping an arm around Matty’s shoulders to hold him back. 

“Shut your hole, cousin. Or I’ll give you another black eye. I’ll make it my annual Christmas gift to you,” Mattheo was straining against Enzo’s hold slightly, but still holding himself back. 

Draco simply rolled his eyes in annoyance, “Oh, please. You know what, go ahead. Give me a good punch. Maybe then I’ll write to dear Auntie Bella and she’ll make sure you never come home for holiday again. Both my manor and yours were quite peaceful without your presence. The Christmas ball went off without any..” Draco eyed Mattheo up and down, “pathetic interruptions. Isn’t that right boys.” 

He was referring to Theo and Enzo. Both of whose parents made it mandatory of them to attend the usual Malfoy party. If he were really asking them their opinion they would’ve said how boring the party was without their friend. But Draco wasn’t really asking, he was just trying to add fuel to the fire. 

"But I'm sure you'd like that wouldn't you, Matty," Draco seemed to use the nickname you called Mattheo like an insult. "You get banned from holidays and can spend them with your bottom feeder. Couldn't even splurged for a half-breed as your little pet, huh?"

Mattheo was seething now. Draco could insult Mattheo all he wanted. The things his cousin said were never nearly as bad as what his mother, or even his father when he was around, would say to him. But the way he was talking about you? Mattheo couldn't let him get away with that.

And the other two knew it, too. Enzo's hold losing power. So Theo and Enzo shared a look, the former nodding at the latter. Then Enzo released his hold on Mattheo. 

When he realized what was about to actually happen, Draco paled further than he already was. Before he could grab his wand or put up his hands in defense Mattheo had his fist connecting with Draco’s jaw. 

The blonde stumbled back, Mattheo taking the opportunity to hit him again, this time in the stomach. With Draco doubled over, Mattheo braced his hands on his cousins back before raising his knee to connect with Draco’s ribs.

“You pathetic piece of shit,” Mattheo let Draco fall to the ground. Malfoy groaned, clutching his abdomen. Mattheo kneeled down next to him, “You’re a waste of space, Draco. You wish you were half as good of a person as any of my friends, especially y/n.” His fist connected with Draco’s nose, blood immediately gushing from his face. “You talk a big game but when it comes down to it, you’re the biggest fucking pussy I’ve ever met.” 

Mattheo landed a few more harsh blows to his cousin's face before Theo and Enzo were pulling him off. “No, let go of me. Mate, I’m serious. I’m not done, let me go,” Mattheo struggled against his friend's hold. 

Enzo shook his head even though Matty couldn’t see it, “We had to. He’s bleeding so much his hair’s starting to look like a Weasley.” Theo snorted at this, “Yes, his lesson is learned for now.” 

Blaise chose this moment to walk into the dorm. Taking in the scene around him. He looked at Draco in the middle of the room, rolled to his side and whining; platinum hair partially painted red. He then looked over at the rest of the boys, Mattheo panting and calming his breath as he slowly relaxed in his friend’s hold. 

“He ran his mouth again didn’t he,” Blaise shook his head before dropping his things on his bed. “Okay, Berk. Help me take him to Pomfrey.” Enzo looked at Theo, silently asking if he thought Mattheo would be civil if he let him go. 

“I’m fine. Go, help him,” Mattheo slumped down against the foot of his bed once Enzo released him. Enzo walked over and helped Blaise hoist up Draco. The three of them slowly making their way out and presumably towards the infirmary. 

Theo slid down next to Mattheo, sitting with him in silence for a moment. “Do you think they’re gonna hate me,” Mattheo’s voice was small, almost inaudible to Theo’s ears. “Who do you mean? Draco?” Theo was confused, Matty didn’t really seem like he cared what Draco thought anymore. 

Mattheo shook his head, pulling his knees up to his chest and wrapping his arms around them. He set his chin on his knees, staring blankly in front of him, “Do you think y/n is going to hate me.” 

Theo felt a little awkward, not really knowing the right thing to say. He tried to channel someone wise, to give his friend good advice. “Erm, I do not think they will be hating you. Emotions are hard. We have to let them out or else we’ll…como si dice…eruttare?” 

Mattheo turned his head towards Theo, brows furrowed, “I don’t know that word, mate.” Theo pulled at his bottom lip, thinking hard about how to say what he meant. He mimed a mountain or maybe a volcano? Mattheo wasn't sure but he watched intently as Theo then threw his hands from the mountain shape into the air, making explosion noises with his mouth. 

“Erupt?” Mattheo questioned. A look of relief washed over Theo, “Yes! Yes. Compagno, if we don’t let emotions out all the time we can erupt. Y/n will not hate you. But they might be sad for you.” 

Mattheo nodded, eyes turning blank again before hiding his face in his knees. Theo noticed Mattheo’s shoulders begin to slightly shake. Then he heard a few sniffles.

His friend was crying. 

So Theo did as his mother always did for him and started to rub Mattheos back consolingly, thinking maybe it would be comforting. Mattheo tensed at first, then began to relax. And Theo let him cry.

[auckie]

I think the things that offend me most nowadays in like, smaller interpersonal interactions rather than grand, sweeping trends in culture, are when people chose to not partake in a wide set of things. Like musical close mindedness, or refusal to try different foods from different cultures. Not watching an entire subset of films bc they’re ‘french’. Avoiding reading bc you say you have adhd and it’s too hard. Like dude I get it, I’m busy. I can be picky. Everyone can. But the willful ignorance of closing yourself off to those VAST portions of the human experience, and not having curiosity and a lust to learn and explore art that was made by someone worlds apart from you either in terms of their culture, era, whatever. I dunno man it just pisses me off so bad. I think it’s arrogant. Like oh you’re comfortable in your safe little bubble huh? And you’re enforcing its barriers with the excuse that you’re autistic and have sensory issues. With music made by black people?? lol okay. It is pretty presumptuous for me to assume malicious intent but I think those prejudices are borne from either the comfort of being someone who’s wealthy and probably white not feeling the need to learn past what they think is enough, or it’s a reflection of a society that’s taught you to prioritize what it shills— popular, current (white, depending where you live ig) artists who are making streamlined, easy to digest content. Often when I meet people with these issues they’ll have one particular ‘niche’, and it tends to be like. 70s music. Victorian literature. Anime and Japanese games. But they’re still not really investing beyond the media presented. Like there’s so much more to Japanese culture than liking some cartoons put out between 2010-2020. You don’t gotta become some sorta Einstein who learns the background of every little freak in FGO yeah. But don’t you wanna aim higher? Aren’t you interested in any of the historical figures? And nothings wrong with hopping onto a trend. You read Dracula bc of that Dracula daily thing. Cool! Read more. Some people will say they’re chronically ill or disabled and can’t get outside. That’s okay. The internet is full of things you can read other than fanfiction, YouTube has a shit ton of free music. There’s Wikipedia and free articles online if you have questions about things. Yeah nobody is spending four hours a day looking at the national archives website and studying art history but it’s imbued in the things around you, and youll absorb it ambiently as you go along. you dont have to be a jack of all trades and cover every major genre of every major medium, but it never hurts to try! I really love seeing ppl ask too. Bc it can be kind of humiliating to admit to what seems like some jackass hipster that you’ve never delved into, idk, Serbian films (lol not that one). And hopefully if whoever you’re asking will give you honest good recommendations and not berate you. I’m kind of berate a straw man rn I guess. The hostile tone def doesn’t lend to an atmosphere of sharing but I cannot tell you how many times I’ve rbed anything involving specifically jazz only to see someone rb and add the stupidest comment on the post, or in the tags, or go into my inbox to be like waaah I don’t like jazz bc it’s boring and old and for pretentious hypocrites who hate neurodivergent people! Like what are you TALKING about. Fine if you don’t like it but don’t try and rationalize that as a moral standing you shit lark. And just as they’re allowed to dislike jazz I’m allowed to not really enjoy people who don’t like jazz. Or country. Nautical knots. Knit wear. Watching urbex YouTubers get their shit rocked by squatters. Korean food. Pachuco fashion and stupid ugly low riders. Bollywood films. and they don’t want to try any of those things either yknow? The next thing I’m getting into is circuit bending.

[cisthoughtcrime]

I’m interested in learning Latin, where would you suggest I start?

So exciting! I'll try to keep this short:

I recommend starting with this very short informal intro, especially if you don't have a strong grasp on technical terms about grammar (most textbooks take that for granted). Latin grammar follows a rigid organisational system and the earlier you understand how it works, the easier it will be to learn the rest of the language. The 18-page PDF in the link uses English examples and practice questions to go through basic Latin grammar concepts and tables. It doesn't go through less basic things like participles or conditional clauses, but it does explain everything you need to know in order to learn those more easily. It also includes a hyperlinked list of good online resources for self-taught Latin and Greek students.

If you want to work through a textbook, Wheelock's Latin is probably the most widely used and comes with a lot of accompanying resources and guides (even though the official website looks older than Rome). Ecce Romani may be a bit more approachable and there are plenty of unofficial online lessons and guides made to go along with it. Those are my top two personally; I know some people like Latin Via Ovid because the practice texts are adapted from an actual ancient text about different myths, but imho I don't think it's as good a starting point if you're teaching yourself from scratch. Keep in mind that they'll all follow different formats for conjugation/declension tables, which can make it a bit confusing to switch between them; the short intro in that first link is a good way to understand how these charts work well enough to use them no matter the format.

There are tons of free resources online, even including full recordings of lessons, live study groups to join, communities with forum posting, and written-out explanations. For any individual concept that's troubling you, there are almost definitely multiple youtube videos of someone in front of a whiteboard saying it differently from the textbooks. Again, there's a good list included in that first document.

For practice in reading and understanding without deliberately translating, it's fun to try reading Latin translations of books you already know well in English, like Harrius Potter, Hobbitus Ille, Winnie Ille Pu, Alicia In Terra Mirabili, and many, many more, most of which are free on Archive and/or can be bought as physical copies.

However, this will be much more rewarding once you've built up some vocabulary and grammar, and might be frustrating or discouraging if you try the long ones too early, especially since they sometimes use words irregularly to convey modern meanings.

There are also a handful of recently-written stories in Latin targeted at students who like this kind of practice more. The German Netflix series Barbarians has all the Roman characters speaking in real Latin, and listening to it with subtitles can help build your ear for what sounds right.

Those are my recs for where to start! If you're stuck on something and can't find a good explanation, you can also send me an ask about it and I'm always happy to lay out how I think about it (even if my response times are irregular).

Good luck and enjoy!

[owlespresso]

dogged pursuit. dr veritas ratio. pt 1 of ? summary: you've been appointed as the bodyguard of one doctor veritas ratio after a failed attempt on his life. he's easy to get along with, so long as you learn when to plug your ears and focus on his washboard abs. tags. suggestive content, reader insert is a bit of a freak

—

The planet of Orchestron-IIV is a classic vacationing spot. Though it’s covered by floodplains and forests, the real attractions are its coasts and its tropical islands—a region lovingly named Sene Verde. White sand beaches stare out into the glistening waters, where the capital city sits beneath the waves. You’re sure the underwater city is a sight to see. 

Pity that your client’s itinerary doesn’t include a visit to it. Instead, you’re stranded in an IPC-sponsored villa, a three-story home with three bedrooms and a pool which is ridiculously large for being right next to the ocean. Veritas, Intelligensia Guild prodigy, notorious bastard, and smoking hot piece of ass, prefers it much to the beach. He lounges next to it or inside of it, stretched underneath umbrellas or beneath the cool chlorinated waters. 

You don’t really get all the complaints going around about him. He’s pretty easy to work under, as long as you follow his every command. Which, as a bodyguard, is not very many. He’s pretty capable of handling himself. He made that much painfully clear from the moment you first met. You recall, fondly, the fit he pitched after he learned you’d be shadowing him through this entire trip. 

You don’t remember the specifics of what he said. Just a lot of belly-aching. You were too busy staring at his arms to really care—and that slutty little cut out on the side of his outfit. And really, what business does a scholar have wearing something so revealing? Surely, his students must be beside themselves at how distracting it is. He’d nearly wrung your neck when you posed the question, only half in jest.

Throughout the past two weeks, you’ve come to understand him better, you think. He comes from a planet where nudity isn’t that big of a deal. He wants people to know more things, and thinks it should be free for people to gain said knowledge. In the long hours you spend together, idling between his various meetings, he tries to teach you. At first, it begins with complex theorems and equations you never had any hope of solving. Then, surprisingly, he adjusted his ravings to be gentler on your poor, uneducated brain.

As big the stick up his ass is, he sticks to his principles. He always makes time to talk to you, to explain the vast mysteries of the universe in terms that you mostly understand. 

“I don’t really get the wind,” you say, dropping unceremoniously onto the beach chair beside him, stretched beneath the shade of another wide umbrella. You rest your cheek on your forearm, look him up and down through half-lidded eyes. He’s wearing satin robes today. They’re milk white, with golden embroidery, little patterns stretched across the sash tied around his waist. They reach only his mid-thigh and drape over only half of his torso. The rippling muscle of his chest and taut abdomen are bare for you to admire, his nipple pebbled atop the bountiful curve of his pec. 

He looks like you’ve just spat in his coffee, eyeing you exasperatedly over the tops of his sunglasses. “You don’t get the wind?”

“Like… where it comes from,” you drawl, absentmindedly dragging a finger over the course material of the chair. “I didn’t go to any fancy school growin’ up, so…”

This is your favorite game. 

He purses his lips and narrows his eyes, as if contemplating if engaging with you is worth it or not. In the end, he falls prey to his own, most fervent desires: the urge to dispense knowledge and the cloying need to make his intellect known.

“Well, the basic principles would have been taught in a rather elementary course,” Veritas says, matter-of-fact, in a way that means he isn’t intentionally looking to demean you. “Wind forms due to differences in pressure within a given planet’s atmosphere. The amount of it—or whether it happens at all varies from planet to planet.” he begins—and you linger in the sound of voice rather than the words themselves. You already know the basics of what you’ve asked. You just like to hear him talk. 

Because once he gets to talking, he can hardly ever stop.

Sometimes, he isn’t good at it. He’s abrasive. He agitates the IPC’s clients. You can see it in the taut pull of their shoulders, the way their lips twitch to fight their oncoming frowns. He’s too direct. He doesn’t mouth off, per say, but there’s something in his demeanor that lets them know he thinks they’re not as intelligent. It’s all tight handshakes and tight smiles in the end, but when he’s at last alone with you, shrugged off the heavy mantle of mandatory pleasantries, he fumes.

Midday has lapsed into early evening. Blue burgeons and encroaches on all the sun had once touched. The shadows grow long and the temperatures at last begin to dip, though remain balmy as you tread up the sandbar. A series of wooden staircases zigzag up the slope, leading up to your villa’s street. You trail after him as he talks—rants, really.

“They reached that conclusion based on a survey done by a prospective Genius Society member—one who doesn’t even specialize in the field!” he says with an exasperated sigh, kicking up grains of soft white sand. “He likely hasn’t even set foot upon Orchestron-IIV. How are we supposed to trust the word of a man who hasn’t even directly interacted with its native population?”

“Good point. I guess you can’t,” you agree, nodding factually. The stairs creak underfoot as you reach them, beginning the small climb up the bar. You don’t really remember the fine points of the argument—some prospective IPC investment in an underdeveloped, neighboring planet, one plagued by mysterious weather phenomena and potentially combative native populations. 

“They should have consulted Aventurine before dragging me all the way out here for consultation. He would have known better than to trust such a half-baked proposition, and with such little data to back it up!” he repeated, as if in disbelief, before looking at you sharply. “Do not tell him I said that. This conversation stays between us, and us alone.”

“I like it when we keep secrets together,” you sigh dreamily, skipping up the last few steps with a flourish. The sunbleached wood creaks beneath your leather boots. He tosses you an eyeroll over his shoulder.

“I’m serious,” he fixes you with a fiercely scrutinizing look. “If he is to receive any of my praise, it will come from me, and me alone. And when I deign to give it.” 

The relationship your charge has with one Aventurine should, in all respects, be of little to no interest to you. Yet, you are still human. You fall prey to petty curiosity as easily as any other. The good doctor would no doubt pitch another fit were you to pry now, so you simply guess it’s a power thing between the two of them. You don’t know Aventurine well enough to think otherwise.

“You seem awfully close to that guy,” you remark instead, testing the waters. 

“We’re business partners. Nothing more, nothing less. When the IPC is in need of my expertise, it is he who they reach out through and he who I collaborate with most often,” Ratio informs you, crisp and unfeeling, like he didn’t just say something incredibly odd and potentially possessive about the individual in question.

“Mm,” you hum in assent, pretending all of that is normal. “Well, keep on your toes around him.” You reach the top of your ascent, tailing him onto the quiet streets. Most of the avenue’s occupants are likely still on the beach or further in town, enjoying the resort city’s nightlife. 

Veritas looks at you, then, something sharp in his eyes. “And why would you say that?”

You tilt your head to the side as you regard him, coming into step beside him. He slows down his strides, eyes suddenly flinty, countenance withdrawn into something deliberating, defensive.

“He’s high up in the IPC, isn’t he? I wouldn’t trust any of those Stonehearts further than I can throw ‘em,” you say with a small shrug. 

“And yet, here you are on their behest.” Veritas says.

“Awh, you caught me,” you give him a roguish smile, lifting your hands in a gesture of surrender. “But answer me this: does anyone really trust their employer? I’m not gonna bite the hand that  feeds, but I’m not gonna love on it, either.”

“I see,” he says with a small sigh, and that strange steeliness vanishes. The taut line of his shoulders loosens and his eyes shut for a long moment.

“It helps that I like you, too. You’re real easy to work with,”

He gives you an incredibly skeptical look. “Am I?”

“Yeah. Why so surprised?” you give him a toothy grin. Even he knows how insufferable of a reputation he has. “You get fussy sometimes, but it’s not a big deal. And I like hearing you talk, so it’s not a big deal.”

“I am not ‘fussy’. I have standards befitting someone of my intellect and station,” he says, looking down his nose at you. He pauses beneath one of the street lamps as it flickers on, yellow light glimmering on all the gold bobbles attached to his ridiculous outfit. He opens his mouth to speak again, to give you another tongue-lashing, but he must realize by now that you like those, so he shakes his head and sighs instead, like you’re the difficult one. “Forget about it. I have better things to do than dawdle around with you.”

He’s still pissy from that meeting, earlier, you observe passively. Your gaze lingers on his back as he speed walks away from you, broad muscle rolling beneath taut, pale skin. Your mouth waters. You follow him.

[thejohnlockedfemboy]

An Extensive Guide to My Omegaverse/Misceverse

While my version of the Omegaverse that I use in my fics and roleplays has the fundamental basics of the canon Omegaverse, there are several key additions and tweaks.

This post will be a work-in-progress, being updated as I think of other information that needs to be added.

Post under the cut.

Secondary Genders:

Secondary Genders are the foundation of the Omegaverse. They dictate who is topping, who is bottoming, who has heats or ruts. There are three Secondary Genders, which are Alpha, Beta, and Omega, along with subtypes of each secondary gender called Tertiary Genders, which encompass delta, sigma, nu, mu, psi, xi, gamma, digamma, elipson, enigma, zeta, and theta.

List of most common second genders.

Here is some information about the main three Secondary Genders:

ALPHA:

Alphas and alpha-subtypes are the second most common Secondary Gender. Approximately 40% of the population are alphas. They are known for being natural leaders with predispositions towards violence, possessiveness, and aggression. However, a good alpha can also be an excellent provider and protector, caring deeply for their mate and/or pack.

PHYSICAL DESCRIPTIONS OF AN ALPHA:

Alphas are usually larger than betas or omegas. The average height is between 5’7 to 6’4, 140-250 pounds, but this will vary from person to person.

In males, broad shoulders and traditionally “masculine” features are common, along with wide chests and thick torsos, large hands and feet, strong jaws, and a naturally high level of testosterone.

In females, larger frames, narrow hips ( due to inability to become impregnated, therefore rendering null the need to have a pelvic bone wide enough for childbearing ), and thicker distribution of body hair is common. 99% of female alphas are born without a uterus and do not have a menstrual cycle.

FANGS/INCISORS:

Fangs, also known as incisors or “canine teeth,” are a prominent alpha feature, biologically designed for marking their territory ( omegas or other packmates ).

Alpha fangs are usually half an inch to an inch long, and are thicker than other teeth and sharp. The larger the fangs, the more appeal they have. Fang care is very culturally important, with all pups ( no matter their secondary gender ) being taught to thoroughly brush their fangs for at least twenty seconds longer than the rest of their teeth. Bright white fangs and sharper fangs are seen as desirable traits.

Some alphas, especially asexual, aromantic, or aro-ace individuals, may choose to have their fangs filed down by a dentist to show that they do not have an interest in relationships or dating.

KNOTS:

A knot is a thick circle of tissue at the base of an alpha’s member. When they are hard, that tissue inflates into a knot-like formation, biologically designed to be thrust past the rim of an omega’s hole to lock them together while the alpha ejectulates, to ensure that the omega’s body receives as much seed ( also known as cum, semen, ect ) as possible, raising the possibility that they become pregnant.

A common slang term for this is being “pupped up,” or bred, meaning that an omega has been claimed, mated, knotted, and then impregnated by their alpha.

Male alpha knots are usually between two to four inches in thickness. Female alphas, who have an inverted member ( but still fully functioning ) much like that of a male dog hidden within a sheath and will only appear when stimulated, usually have knots that are slightly smaller.

Female alphas may or may not have a vagina. Most commonly they will not, as it would lead to nowhere except in the 1% of female alphas who are born with a uterus, but biological variations have been documented in between 3-7% of the female alpha population.

RUTS:

Ruts are exclusive to alphas and alpha subtypes. They usually occur annually or bi-annually, often in the spring and fall. During this time, an alpha’s instincts drive them to mate and knot a partner, to breed and produce offspring with them.

Ruts last between 3 and 10 days. During this time, alphas will have raised libido and stamina. They may become increasingly agitated, to the point where they may give in to instincts altogether and become “rabid.” This is a slang term, and does not actually mean that they are diseased, but instead means that they pose a serious danger to any omegas in the area, and will be aggressive towards other alphas to the point of physical altercations.

However, ruts can also be triggered by an omega’s heat, or during bonding. More on all three subjects can be found below.

Rut suppressants are an OTC ( over-the-counter ) medicine used to control and prevent alphas ruts, especially ruts brought on from scenting an omega in heat.

An alpha on suppressants will be more mellow, cohabitate with omegas and other alphas better, and experience a lower libido and decreased instincts.

It is recommended by doctors that alphas go off of their suppressants at least once every four years to allow the body’s natural needs to be met. If an alpha suppresses their ruts for too long, they can suffer physical symptoms such as depression, mood swings, intense irritability, increased aggression, restlessness, along with an oversensitive member and body pain. The longer an alpha suppresses their ruts, the stronger their rut will be after they go off of their suppressants.

Who can an alpha mate with?

Alphas CANNOT fully mate with other alphas. Alpha-alpha relationships are not common, but not unheard of. Alpha-alpha relationships will never produce pups, as alphas are unable to become pregnant.

Alphas CAN fully mate with female betas, since female betas have a fully functioning uterus and vagina. Female betas have a low fertility rate but can still become pregnant. However, due to their lack of strong pheromones, female betas are not the most desired mate for an alpha.

Alphas CANNOT fully mate with a male betas, as male betas do not have a functioning vagina or uterus. Alphas who partner up or bond with male betas will not produce pups. Therefore, male betas and alphas do not often bond, but do often partner up for casual hookups to help unmated alphas through their ruts.

PACKS AND PACK ALPHAS:

A pack is a group of two or more individuals that share a bond. This includes tight-knit friend groups, family groups, or polycules.

Not all friends are packmates. Pack is the strongest bond that can be shared between individuals who ARE NOT mated to each other. Mated individuals can still be part of a pack while retaining a special, separate bond with their partner.

Packs often live together, sharing food, rent, and sleeping space. Non-sexual intimacy is crucial for the pack bond to remain strong. Cuddles, hugs, kisses, and sharing beds and nests are all common practices among packs.

Packs often include siblings or relatives but do not have to. A person can and often is part of more than one pack at the same time. For example, a person may be a part of a family pack ( parents, siblings, and the individual ) and one to two friend packs. Usually a person will have one specific pack they are closest to.

Another common pack structure is that of the POLYCULE. This is where multiple individuals are mated to one another to form a pack like those made by wolves. It is in these packs that the PACK ALPHA is the most prominent figure.

The pack alpha is often the most senior alpha in a pack. They are entitled to control over the other pack members, but may be forced from their position by unanimous vote if they are abusing their power.

In a family pack, the pack alpha would be the oldest alpha relative. This may mean an alpha mother, alpha father, alpha grandparent, or eldest alpha sibling is the pack alpha.

In a friend pack, the pack alpha would be the alpha who had been in the friend group the longest, or the oldest alpha in the group.

In a polycule pack, the pack alpha would be the most dominant alpha. They would have the right to breed and mate all omegas in the polycule, as well as partner up with the betas in the polycule. The pack alpha may, in some polycules, also have intercourse with other alphas in the relationship.

HOW PACK ALPHAS ARE ESTABLISHED:

Pheromones:

Whichever alpha has the strongest pheromonal presence has a natural predisposition to be the dominant alpha in any situation or in a pack.

Pheromones are also known as “scent.” Every person has a scent based on their pheromones that communicates their mood and what their body is feeling. There is a distinct scent for a person who is sad, happy, angry, or anxious. Alphas and omegas have the strongest natural pheromonal scents.

Physical strength or seniority:

Whichever alpha is physically the strongest may be more likely to be a pack alpha. This will usually not apply if there are multiple younger alphas in their prime versus a senior alpha, as an older alpha will naturally hold a more authoritative presence.

Unanimous decision:

Oftentimes, an alpha will become the pack alpha simply because they have proven that they can protect and provide for their pack. An ideal pack alpha is firm but not harsh and possessive but not controlling. This is often the case in family packs.

For example, a family might have an alpha father and beta mother. They would have children, thus creating a pack. Because the father is the most senior alpha, he would be considered the pack alpha.

Another viable example would be a polycule with two alphas, two betas, and one omega. The pack alpha would be the one of the two alphas who is stronger, more dominant, and has a more prominent pheromonal presence. The pack alpha will likely “pup up” the omega, mate and bondmark the betas, and packmark and bondmark the other alpha. The other alpha may be allowed to also mate with the omega and betas, depending on the polycule’s personal decisions and consent.

PACKMARKS, BONDMARKS, AND SCENT GLANDS:

Scent glands are one of the most important things to understand in the Omegaverse. Scent glands are small glands beneath the skin, often appearing as a bump or not at all, that produce pheromones and the unique “scent” of alphas, betas, and omegas.

( screenshot above is not mine )

Alphas usually have three scent glands, one on the nape of their neck and one on each of their inner thighs. They produce the “dominant” scent that alphas are known for, which allows them to force an omega, beta, or lesser-ranking alpha to submit to them ( both in a societal sense and for mating ). An alpha’s scent is extremely important to their omega ( if they are mated to one ). Their scent can calm their omega down in an instant and provides safety and security for their omega.

Omegas can have as few as two scent glands or as many as eight. The usual position for these glands are on the nape of their neck, one on each side of their neck, and one on each inner thighs, along with one on each inner wrist. They produce the “submissive” scent that omegas are known for, which naturally catches the attention of alphas. This scent is described as “sweet” or “alluring,” especially when an omega goes into heat, which is when their scent is the strongest and will be almost irresistible to an alpha and can cause any nearby alphas to go “rabid.” HERE is a post about nesting that is canon to my Omegaverse au ( not mine ). Omegas can produce a plethora of soothing scents, ranging from scents used to comfort pups or other distraught omegas, calm down an agitated alpha, or to self-soothe.

Betas often only have one scent gland at the nape of their neck and one on each wrist. Their scent is described as “weak” or “blank.” They produce very few pheromones except the ones used in secondary gender identification, marking them as a beta. They can also produce “safe scents” used to soothe an omega who has been upset by an alpha. Betas are like the gay best friend, in a way, comforting a person after a breakup.

PACK MARKS are not placed upon scent glands. They are bitten marks that show that a person is a part of a pack, completing the pack bond, and will only remain as long as the pack bond is strong. If the pack bond is too weak or the pack splits up, the mark will fade into a pale white scar instead of a pink mark.

BONDMARKS are placed upon scent glands. They are bitten marks to show that two individuals are mated and bonded to each other in partnership. If the bond becomes too weak, the mark will fade into a pale white scar instead of a pink mark.

A mating/partner bond is a deep connection between two individuals that partially connects their emotions, thoughts, and psyches. It can also be called a soul bond. It is said that bonding with the person you want to spend your life with is one of the single most fulfilling experiences a person will ever have. Emotions are at an all-time high, and both omegas and alphas have described it as finding their "missing piece." Bonding between an omega and beta, alpha and beta, or other less common secondary genders is less intense due to the beta's lack of pheromones and lessened instincts, but is still a very intimate affair.

Pack bonds are not so much finding a "missing piece" as a feeling of deep connection, comradery, and something "bigger than yourself." This will change in polycule packs, when the members are not only packmates but also bondmates.

Note:

If a bonded omega is neglected by their alpha, causing the bond to fade, the omega will suffer detrimental physical and mental effects, ranging from deep depression, low mood, intense anxiety, body pain, fevers, headaches, flu-like symptoms, low energy, increased nesting, and more. The longer the omega is neglected, the more serious the symptoms will become. Severe omega neglect can lead to death and is punishable by court-mandated couples counseling and even heavy jail time if the bond is broken.

OMEGAS

Omegas and omega-subtypes are the third most common secondary gender. About 10% of the population are omegas.

Omegas are physically smaller, weaker, and more sensitive than alphas and betas. They get stereotyped as submissive stay-at-home spouses, but omegas actually have a wide span of individual personalities. Some omegas may be more prone to defensiveness due to instinctive fear of more dominant secondary genders, even coming off as snappy or aggressive. Other omegas fit a softer, more nurturing description, being good with pups and being naturally empathetic and companionable.

PHYSICAL DESCRIPTIONS OF AN OMEGA:

Male omegas are usually between 5’0 and 5’7, weighing roughly between 100–180 pounds. They usually have smaller builds than alphas and betas, though their body types may range from slender, trim, stocky, pudgy, or more. Big eyes and soft skin, as well as the traditional “sweet” omega scent are key ways to spot an omega. Male omegas also don’t produce as much testosterone as male betas or male alphas, leading to less muscle mass and gentler features. They can be extremely agile and fast due to low distribution of body fat.

Male omegas typically have “litters” of 2-3 pups at a time due to their smaller womb size compared to female omegas. However, more than 50% of male omegas who have had multiple pregnancies report that at least one pregnancy produced a non-litter ( singular ) pup.

Female omegas are usually between 4’9 and 5’5, weighing roughly between 100–190 pounds. They most commonly have small, curvy builds, small breasts, and wide hips to accommodate pups during childbirth. They have difficulty gaining muscle mass and usually have more body fat to naturally sustain them during pregnancy.

Female omegas usually have litters of 2-6 pups at a time. Pups from litters may be significantly smaller than a non-litter pup, appearing premature, but with no actual health risk to the newborn. Studies have shown that litter-born pups evolve to have higher levels of competitive, extrovertive, and social behavior in adulthood due to the early bonds they make with their littermates.

Like alphas, omegas have “fangs.” However, their fangs are much smaller, thinner, and more blunt, since they are only used for claiming bites after an alpha has already claimed and mated the omega. Some omegas won’t even use their fangs at all, since marking their alpha is not necessary for the bond to be completed. They will often use their fangs for small nibbles and nips, especially along the jawline or neck, to show affection, companionship, or possessiveness. This is common between both mates and friends.

HEATS:

Heats are exclusive to omegas and omegan subtypes. They usually occur annually or bi-annually, often in the spring and fall. During this time, an omega’s instincts drive them to mate and be knotted by a partner, to breed and produce offspring with them.

Heats last between 1 and 3 days. During this time, omegas will have an extremely raised libido. They may become agitated, defensive, clingy, or anxious. Heats are emotionally taxing both mentally and physically for omegas.

Further information about heats has sadly had to be removed due to the post being flagged. Google can provide further information, since my Omegaverse AU is compliant with canon Omegaverse heat info. Seriously, though, it’s not fair that people post things far more explicit than this and yet somehow this gets flagged???

Betas

Betas and beta-subtypes are the most common Secondary Gender, making up roughly 50% of the population.

They're known for being the bridge between alpha and omega, the in-between "average joes" who are neither dominant or submissive. Betas are known for their level-headedness, loyalty, and trustworthiness, and they can be heat partners for omegas or rut partners for alphas.

PHYSCIAL DESCRIPTION OF A BETA:

Male betas can be anywhere from 5'0 to 6'0, 120-180 pounds, with light to moderate muscles and average builds. They have less testosterone than male alphas but over 30% more than male omegas. Their reproductive organs are the same as male alphas’, but they lack a knot.

Female betas can be anywhere from 4’8 to 5’8, 130-180 pounds, with light to moderate muscles and less fat distribution than female omegas. They usually have larger breasts but narrower hips, as female betas have a lower fertility rate and usually can only have 2-3 pups before becoming infertile. Instead of litters, female betas also usually have one pup at a time. Female betas have the same internal reproductive organs ( uterus, ovaries, ect ) as a female omega, but do not have heat cycles. Instead, most female betas have menstrual cycles of 28-30 days. However, up to 25% of female betas report that they have no menstrual cycles, which lowers their fertility rate further.

Betas lack fangs. They do, however, have canine incisors ( as regular humans in our world do ).

If a beta pairs up with an alpha, the alpha will bondmark them. If a beta pairs up with an omega, they will bondmark them using their canine incisors. The bondmark will lack definition and may scar less perfectly than a bondmark given by an alpha, but as long as the omega’s scent glands are punctured, the bond will be completed.

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

Hi, I have a question for you about TWST. Do you think that in terms of medical care and technology our world is more advanced in some ways? I had this one idea that in TWST they don’t know CPR because they have magic. Also do you think that they had a moon landing or a space race?

On the contrary, I think Twisted Wonderland’s medical care and medical technology is more advanced than ours, if not just as advanced. Twisted Wonderland has many of the same inventions as we do (cars, smartphones, social media, etc.) and even magical variants of those (a magical wheel/blastcycle is a magic-powered motorcycle), so it doesn't make sense to me that medicine and healthcare would be the one area where the real world is ahead of TWST's. Twisted Wonderland would be more advanced than us because magic would allow them to enhance their technology to surpass what we are realistically capable of. Technomantic assistive devices integrate elements of both technology and magic to assist those with impairments. Additionally, healing potions (which accelerate the speed of one's recovery) existed as far back as 400 years ago. For those skilled in potionology, they may whip up antidotes on the spot with the right medicinal herbs.

I also don't think that the existence of magic completely negates the need for regular first aid procedures. Non-magical methods and skills must still exist since the majority of the population are non-magical. Among humans, 90% are completely incapable of magic and of the remaining 10%, most of them are not able to produce enough magic to so much as lift a cup. Very few left are competent enough to become skilled mages, and even fewer are competent enough to become medical mages. Why would the entire healthcare system of the world be entirely based in magic when so few people would be capable of administering that kind of care? CPR and first aid exist in the first place so the common everyday average Joe can help others until actual medical personnel can arrive. It wouldn’t make sense to gatekeep these skills or for them to not have been invented simply because magic is A Thing. In fact, magic is not widely accessible and is implied to be kept for the elite and well-off (more on that here and here).

“Not many humans can use magic, so we turn to chemistry for stuff like this,” Trey says in his Silk Adorned vignette when explaining to the group how the colors of fireworks can differ. The existence of regular sciences—devoid of magic—implies the existence of regular medicine as well. Remember too that not all schools teach magic, therefore regular subjects must exist and be widely taught in non-magic schools.

It should also be noted that, even with magic, it's not a perfect solution for every ailment out there. For example, the healing potions in 7-68 do not instantly restore Lilia to full health; he notes that he must still rest and that his magic is still depleted to the point where he cannot fly back in the direction he just came from.

Magic was also not always viewed as a positive either; a few hundred years ago, it was viewed as a frightening thing. Mages were referred to derogatorily as “witches” and “wizards”. Most societies were not structured around magic (and still aren’t to this day, with fae seeming to be the exception). This means that normal medicine and related first aid must have still existed since magical medicine was presumably not widely accepted.

All of that was to say that I’m pretty sure Twisted Wonderland still has CPR, among other means of non-magical medicine and healthcare 😅

Now as for your final questions, I do think that Twisted Wonderland has achieved space travel. Idia was able to launch Ortho into space in Wish Upon a Star, so the technology is definitely there. It should also be noted that spacesuits and astronauts have been mentioned in the 4koma, which implies the existence of space travel. Again, I’d also like to point out that TWST’s general technological advances are about on-par with ours (including modes of transportation), so there’s no reason not to believe they haven’t gone to space as well.

I don’t think there was a Space Race though? That’s an event that happened in our history, and we know that TWST, while borrowing ideas from irl does not cleanly align with reality. For example, the fictional countries we visit have elements from many cultures (Sunset Savanna has onsen eggs, which are Japanese, not African; Harveston has fashion and foods from various Nordic cultures, etc.).

For historical events… I think Twisted Wonderland is more likely to get its inspiration from Disney movies rather than look to actual irl history. It gets into too much muddy political tension otherwise, which I totally understand TWST wanting to keep out. There were probably other circumstances that led to the advent of space travel in Twisted Wonderland.

[siswritesyanderes]

OMGGG YANDERE BRIDGERTON PLEASE

Okay, brainstorm.

I'm torn between wanting the characters to be ruthless in the non-violent social sense that leaves their opponents destitute, or leaning fully into "They're rich enough to get away with murder."

So, I'm thinking the Bridgertons are just ALL yanderes. It's just a family thing; just yanderes all the way down. They banter about it. Violet and (the dad; I forgot his name) were yanderes for each other, and their children are all amazed at how well their mother survived losing him so suddenly.

In their childhood, the Bridgertons are all platonic yanderes. (When they do have childhood crushes, they don't usually feel yandere towards those; they're just cute little childhood crushes.) With their friends, they tend to be highly protective, or clingy, or jealous. Any one of them will kill for their family without a second thought and bury the body on their own land. Maybe someone hurts little Eloise's feelings, Daphne tells their older brothers, and Anthony, Benedict, and Colin sink a body in the river that night. Or rather, Anthony and Colin do, while Benedict preserves their alibi.

(At this moment I'm going to write about the canon relationships of those of them who have those. I'm open to asks about what specifically you're looking for.)

Daphne is yandere for Simon. She has modeled herself to be the perfect diamond, and Simon, as much as he tries to be, cannot make himself harder than a diamond. In fact, he is moldable, and fragile, and she adores him. Simon is not a yandere and also doesn't really get that Daphne is a yandere. He hasn't been romantic like this with anyone before, so he doesn't know what a normal level of possessiveness is. He's been taught that women need to be wary of him, not vice versa. Her genuine innocence to matters of the flesh shields her from a lot of scrutiny. How can someone who has never touched herself be thought guilty of taking undue license with a man? How could someone with such wide, naive eyes be thought guilty of manipulating anyone? At every step, she guides him into the palms of her hands, and she loves how he succumbs.

If she ever had her eyes on someone other than Simon, in keeping with my fondness for poly yanderes, most likely she would first verify that Simon likes the person, too. It's not beyond her capabilities to guilt him for liking someone else and leverage that to get him to go along with whatever her plan is to pursue this unconventional relationship. But I think she would pick a gentler way to convince him, and only resort to shaming him if he resists the gentle approach. Maybe the one they both love can be hired as a "nanny" or "tutor" for their children, and they can enjoy their intimate company in the comfort of their own home. That could work even if the person marries someone else, and anyway, who's to say the unfortunate rival won't trip on a slick road or drunkenly fall into the Thames?

Anthony thought he felt that Bridgerton obsession for Siena; he pursued her relentlessly on the basis of what he believed he was supposed to feel. When that didn't pan out and he still felt basically like his normal self, he decided that he must not be like the rest of his family. And good! Because he didn't want to fall in love anyway.

Then he met Kate, and suddenly his ruthless self is unleashed in full. She was the sun in the morning, the air he breathed, and he needed as many hooks in her as possible to make sure she didn't go anywhere. When she seemed to distrust and resent him, he courted Edwina. Now Kate had to be around him. But as he wormed his way closer to her, she planned to leave for India as soon as Edwina was married. That couldn't be allowed. Every step he took was contrived to erase the possibility of Kate leaving him. Honestly, we could say that he deliberately caused her to fall off her horse, if we wanted to. Kate does recognize that he feels and behaves abnormally toward her, but once she comes to terms with being romantic with him in the first place, she's able to handle his yandere side pretty easily.

If he ever had his eyes on someone other than Kate, he might kidnap them in secret. Again, he just needs them not to leave. Kate finds out, because she's on top of everything always. She isn't really yandere, but she already manages his obsession with her on a daily basis. Now, she manages his obsession with the new person, the ethics of kidnapping, and the need to contain the scandal of what he's done, by basically helping him to craft a plausible narrative around what happened. (Maybe they found you in the woods, having gotten lost and ill, and were keeping you in their home until you were well enough. You're still not allowed to see anyone; who would question the Bridgertons? Kate makes sure you're comfortable and reins in Anthony where necessary. He worships her for being so understanding of his needs.)

I haven't seen season 3 yet and so I don't have a full handle on Colin right now.

Benedict will gladly pine forever. He has a kind of romantic enjoyment of the sensation of yearning, so he could paint his love and watch his love and tease his love forever. But, given the expectations of the society they live in, his love might be obligated to marry someone. He will very amicably ruin anyone his love courts. Scandals everywhere. Without the slightest dip in his wistful smile, he will set everything into place to have his rivals socially destroyed, in the ton, and when his love is left with no one else to court, then he will appear with all the love in his heart. If the person is looking for a husband, then he's their last chance. If they're looking for a wife, then Benedict will cleverly contrive it so that they read as best friends, artistic partners, whatever else. Maybe his love has found themself to be inexplicably cut off from any money and resources they once had. The crucial thing is that he will never have to vie for attention. He only has to introduce himself, and they will concede to his love willingly. And then he'll unload his deluge of paintings and sculptures and poems onto them. He might do this with Madame Delacroix.

Also, maybe Penelope's a yandere? Just separately. Idk, she has too much subtle power to ignore.

[pizzaronipasta]

It deeply confuses and saddens me that people so readily dismiss older video games as being lesser. Several of my favorite games of all time are among the oldest in their genres, and frequently get unfairly written off as "dated." It's a shame really, because these titles are diamonds in the rough, and ought to be recognized as the absolute gems they are.

A perfect case study for this topic is Metroid, released for the Famicom Disc System in 1986, and for the Nintendo Entertainment System in 1987.

This game is immaculate. It features some of the best design I've ever seen. Its atmosphere, aesthetics, narrative, gameplay, and controls are all on point. Its worst flaw is its buggy programming. And yet, a lot of people seem to hate it. They respect it as the precursor to its widely acclaimed sequels, especially Super Metroid, but not a lot of people appreciate it for its own merits. Why is this? I suspect there are three main reasons.

The first reason is that it doesn't directly tell you much. Most people nowadays play it on an emulator, and don't think to consult the manual, which would have come with a new physical copy and clarified some points of confusion. The manual even has a partial map of Brinstar, the game's first area, and suggests making your own maps as you play.

Even so, the manual doesn't tell you everything. The game conveys most of what it needs to through gameplay. Its opening moments demonstrate this expertly.

When you start a new game, Samus appears facing the camera. There is nothing visibly stopping you from going left or right, and nothing to indicate which way the game wants you to go. If you're used to games like Super Mario Bros., you might assume you have to go right.

If you do, you'll come to an impasse. The only way forward is too narrow for you to fit through. So the only way you can go is left.

Doubling back, you'll find you can go left from where you started, and come across the morphing ball. When you grab it, you'll seemingly be trapped. The place you jumped down from is too high to jump back up to, and the only other visible path is a narrow passage like you saw earlier. Obviously, you need to use the morphing ball to escape. The game has taught you this without a word.

You'll probably remember the impasse from before. Since you were given the tool to solve a similar situation, you'll naturally think to try it there as well. Thus, the game has taught you the core elements of the search-action genre, or as it eventually came to be known, the metroidvania: as you explore, you will reach obstacles; further exploration will reward you with the means of clearing those obstacles; and remembering where you encountered obstacles will reward you with swift progress.

But Metroid is not done teaching. Once you resume progressing to the right, you'll reach the bottom of a tall vertical shaft.

When I say this thing is tall, I mean it. The same pattern of platforms is repeated around a dozen times before you reach anything of note, and the whole thing is crawling with simple enemies. Up until this point, a player will probably have fought nearly every enemy they could; after all, defeating them removes them as obstacles, and rewards you with health pickups, which you'll need since Samus starts with only 30 out of 99 units of health. But here, attempting to kill every zoomer (yes, that's what the spiky things are called) will make your climb either extremely slow and tedious or extremely costly in terms of health. Unless a player is unreasonably persistent, they are likely to get bored or frustrated and begin evading the enemies instead. The fact that you can't damage the rippers, the only other type of enemy in this room, further helps to signal that the player needs to pick their battles. And so, yet another critical lesson is wordlessly taught: that you don't generally need to go out of your way to kill enemies, and that avoiding combat can save you time and resources.

Metroid continues teaching the player like this from start to finish. With patience, caution, and observance, you'll learn the game's ins and outs without even realizing it. The problem is that many players don't play with this approach, because of...

The second reason I think people dislike the game: preconceived notions of what old games are like.

NES games have a reputation for being unfairly difficult. The usual explanations for this are that they were still being designed like arcade games, which were meant to get as many quarters out of players as possible, and that they also used difficulty to artificially bloat play time, creating the illusion of better value for people buying them. There is some truth to both of these, but the phenomenon is largely overstated. Nevertheless, this reputation precedes games from that era.

As such, when players today approach a game like Metroid, they aren't expecting an actual well-designed game. They're expecting a brutal experience full of cheap bullshit and cryptic nonsense. When they get to that vertical shaft, they don't consider that they might be doing something wrong, they just assume that it's supposed to be tedious and frustrating. And so they never learn the game's lessons. When they find themselves turned around in the sprawling nonlinear level design, they're predisposed to getting overwhelmed and giving up, at which point they consult...

The third reason I think people dislike the game: walkthroughs.

The way people perceive old games, as described above, has led to the proliferation of walkthroughs. Now, there's nothing wrong with referencing a guide when you're stuck, or when you're trying to track down things you missed, or in other such situations. However, following one to the letter for the entirety of your playthrough ruins games like Metroid. When you have a handy set of step-by-step instructions on how to win, you have no incentive to engage with the game. You have no reason to even try learning level layouts or remembering what's where. Metroid ceases to be a game, and instead becomes a checklist.

It gets worse, though. When you always know precisely where to go next, the time you were expected to spend exploring and getting better at the game gets completely cut out. You don't have time to master the combat. You don't have the opportunity to get a feel for where secrets are most likely to be hidden. As your progress increases, your skill does not. Therefore, following a walkthrough like this leaves you sorely unprepared for the challenges in store for you. And so games like Metroid end up feeling like brutal experiences full of cheap bullshit and cryptic nonsense. A self-fulfilling prophecy.

In conclusion, please give older games a fair chance. Engage with them as earnestly as you would with modern games, and never rule out the possibility that you might be doing something wrong. And above all else, keep your walkthrough usage to a minimum.

There's a whole world of fantastic new experiences waiting for you. Enjoy.

[cottonkhaleesi]

What yarn have you been using for the tablet woven shoelaces? I'm interested in making my own laces but worried about them being too thick

Hello! That's such a good question @griffin1023! I'm self taught and definitely not pattern faithful (I will use my stash over buying the exact same as the pattern unless I liked the pattern because of the yarn [rare]) this has led to a bit of a predicament with weaving where that sort of thing kindof can matter (honestly at this point I don't know what weaving yarn abbreviations mean and am too scared to ask -especially as I consistently come out with numbers that seem too high to be true when trying to work out wpi)

I worried about thickness too when I started my hyperfixation on making shoelaces so I started with the thinnest thing I could think of from a knitting and crochet perspective which is mercanzised crochet cotton (8) from various locales (my local store, a few town's over's store and Amazon because I needed free shipping on something else) and occasionally cotton perle 8 (which I know is embroidery thread and thus not as robust but as long as I use it sparingly here and there, it's worked out so far and has given me a greater range of colours at a much lower price/not excessive yardage plus the ones made with some of that are softer). That accounts for the following, which have been 4, 6 and 8 cards and are roughly 5 - 9mm across. I’m comfortable with using up to 8 cards and still not make excessively wide laces, possibly 10 but that'd probably be pushing it imo.

I also thought I'd try some Cotton 4ply because again it's cheaper and the range of colours was better, but as you can see it's very thicker (seems obvious in hindsight but I was a little shocked by how much) and 6 card patterns are pushing the limit in terms of width for a shoelace (to me as I was weaving it but honestly there’s only half a mm difference between the width of that and the Pokemon laces, it’s just the goldfish laces are twice as thick!) However will be of value when I move on to making my ma a camera strap, and my da a guitar strap for their May birthdays.....

So here’s the pack so far!

[jisokai]

You always thought the circus was where you yearned to be. At least, until it finally let you in—and introduced you to Hanta Sero.

[circus AU where seamstress!reader and acrobat!sero realize that their lives have been running parallel for a long time, and it’s up to you to weave them together]

part 6: & yet i’ll always choose you.

sero hanta x reader ch 6/6 | 15.8k words | masterlist | ao3

cw: violence between family members (a singular slap) notes: ready to run by one direction, shelter by porter robinson & madeon, all the stars by kendrick & sza (this is not a songfic; i forgot that song existed when i chose the title and then when i properly listened to the lyrics i realized it fit LOL)

you make a decision.

✰.

"How do you help a family miracle? You hug your sister."

- Bruno, in Encanto

Looking back, your life has primarily moved forward through a mixture of obligation and chance. There was never any sort of choosing or clinging, just an acceptance of what needed to be done. Things worked out on their own, oftentimes with you as the stagnant one and the events happening around you—through you. You lived as if life was predetermined, as if a wide length of silk has been wrapped around your chest and tugging you through life.

So it’s hard, when something—someone appears, and you want to choose him.

Silk is slippery. It’s woven water that slides against every surface including itself. With unpracticed hands, every knot will come undone, unraveling before you until it’s a puddle on the floor. You only ever learned how to sew and stitch, to bind fabric with a needle and thread. You’re the opposite of Hanta, who knows the raw silk itself—hanging for him to play an endless game of tangling and escaping. He knows the knots intricately, how to bind or set himself free in an instant.

Hanta is sad when he has to leave. You see it in his watery eyes and hear it in the crack of his voice. But he has some sort of unfathomable trust that things will work out in the end. You should too, given how your life has led so far, but you can’t.

You want him. You want him and Momo and Kendou. You want the circus and the costumes and to see the world together. You want to make beautiful things, impossible things, things that can only be forged in a place where everyone believes in magic with their full being. You want it all.

You don’t know how to chase it.

Maybe it was purposeful—choosing a dream you always thought was out of reach, one you never considered a real possibility. It’s safe here, where the choices are made for you, or never presented in the first place. But now that you finally want something… how do you start?

When the week passes and the circus is gone, in some ways it feels like it was never there. How could something that’s everything to you, everything you want, fizzle into nothing but faded memories in an instant? You cry and you hurt and you long for something that’s gone.

It feels like grieving.

Grieving, you realize, is another thing you haven’t done before.

Abuela is steeped into every detail of your life—her wrinkled hands the ones you always reached for first. She’s the one who taught you to sew, the one who called you her tucán. Abuela is the reason you and Hanta crossed paths for the first time in Quito, the reason you found yourself in Milan and by Midoriya, and ultimately Hoshi no Sākasu.

When you think about it, abuela is the thread that has been pulling you forwards.

But she’s gone—a fact you haven’t come to terms with.

The grief rolls through like a tsunami, a high wall of powerful water that roars forward with the intent to destroy and submerge. Maybe it should have been predictable, the week with the circus your earthquake, the shifting of plates radiating seismic energy through your foundation. But the water comes by surprise and at full force, knocking you off your feet and the breath from your lungs. 

You packed your schedule ahead of time with work, the following weeks filled with costumes and gowns and dresses. It distracts you, like you knew it would, your hands and your head focused on nothing but the bounce of a needle stitching fabrics. It keeps you from thinking about the circus in Switzerland, three hours away by train. Life has shifted with the absence of the circus, and you’ve found yourself back into the stagnant routine that existed before. 

Except, now you cry while you work.

It happens unknowingly at first, only noticing when dark blotches appear on the fabric between your hands. You pause, lifting the pad of your finger to trace the tears collecting on your waterline, the wetness taking you by surprise. But when it rains it pours, and you have to take a break to let the clouds of your irises clear before forcing yourself to resume sewing.

Normally there's a ghosted feeling of abuela’s hands hovering over yours. They're familiar and faint, kept at a distance and bringing just the twitch of a somber smile to your lips. But now they're firm and dense, like real skin and flesh and blood. The sensation makes you cry harder. Your crying makes them feel more real. Your hurt and your grief brings her closer, brings her to life.

You don't do anything but work and cry the first few days following Hoshi no Sakasu’s departure. You complete one dress through hours of tears. 

Your friends find you this way, sobbing with bunches of chiffon in your hands, wiping your eyes and nose with the sleeve of your shirt.

“Oh,” Chiara coos, immediately running a hand through your hair before holding your cheeks.

Davide grimaces behind her as his eyes sweep over you and your desk. “Nuh uh, we are not letting this continue.”

You clutch the fabric tightly when he tries to pry it from you. “I have orders to finish.”

Chiara scoffs. “They can wait.”

But they can't. You busied yourself strategically, so you wouldn't have time to do things like cry.

“You always manage somehow. You can take an hour break.”

It's a struggle, but you end up on your couch cocooned by a blanket and flanked by your friends. You grip the tea they made for you spitefully, the heat of the mug burning your palms. You bite your tongue, too annoyed to respond to their gentle questions, but they're Chia and Davide—eventually you cave.

You speak quietly and nonsensically, unsure how to explain everything that happened in the past couple weeks. Maybe they'll think you're crazy and chalk it up to delusions.

But they're Chia and Davide, so they don't.

“Dammit,” the latter answers. “This guy is stealing you away!”

“Davide,” the other scolds. “Be fair. From what Tucano says, he is not just a guy.”

“Neither of you are helpful,” you grumble.

“We're processing,” Chiara quips.

Davide nods. “Poorly.”

They sigh in unison, but with different tones. Davide's is whiny and tired. Chiara’s is thoughtful.

“Why didn't you say anything?” Davide eventually asks. “It's been days since they left.”

You groan, turning your head to bury into the blanket over your shoulders. Chiara watches you pitifully.

“She's been dead for months,” you eventually spit. You have to separate the words from their meanings to keep a sob at bay. Your eyes water. “I figured it was some weird delayed grief that would go away after a few days.”

Davide looks at you pitifully too now, though on his face it's more akin to disgust. “Babe…”

You avert your eyes.

“You know that's not how this works.”

All you manage is a grunt. You don't care if you're being stupid. You know you are, deep down, but it's easier to play into the ignorance.

Chiara sighs again and leans back against the couch, and then onto you. Her shoulder bumps yours, head tilting to rest in the crook of your padded neck. She speaks softly, “Haven't seen you cry since she first died.”

They're simple words, nothing incredibly deep or metaphorical, but they make your chest hurt. You purse your lips as fresh saltwater pools in your lashes, cascading down your cheeks. Your sob is a broken sound, jolting your body so harshly that Davide takes the mug from your hands at the near spill. Chiara scoots closer to you, body turning to face yours as her arm comes around your waist.

Davide keeps his distance, never the most physically affectionate, but he slides a hand up and down your arm, a soothing assurance that he's here too.

“I miss her,” you choke suddenly. The words spill out. “I think about her every day.”

Chiara hums affirmingly. “We know.”

“I—” you hiccup. “I loved her more than anyone else.”

And it's true. Abuela was your everything, the one you looked up to the most, the one you always wanted to be. You loved her more than you loved anyone. You loved her more than you loved yourself. You loved her… more than anyone else loved her.

The thought sits bitterly in your stomach, like a weight that keeps sinking and sinking and sinking. 

“What's that face for?” Davide interjects. 

You blink, neutralizing your expression when you realize you were scowling. You groan again. It's an ugly thought, no matter how true it is to you. Ugly thoughts are meant to be kept inside, not spread where they could hurt others or… be disproven.

He pats your leg quickly, a sign he won't let you escape answering. You wince at the thought of vocalizing that part of you: raw and possessive and self entitled. The part of you that justifies never going home, to keep abuela's remains to yourself. Here, in Italy—where she died in your care.

“Nobody else cared about her like I did,” you nearly whisper.

“Oh.” 

“Tucano…” Chiara trails off hesitantly. “You don’t know that.”

But you do. You’ve known it for years, eyes always taking in the room and the dynamics between your family members. You think of mamá when she raised her voice, speaking in an uncharacteristic irritation at abuela’s deteriorating mental state. Your sister was the avoidant type, feigning ignorance when she noticed something wrong or conveniently busy when help was needed. Tíos and primeros would chip in, but also hurried to pass abuela to the next person.

They cared when she was in Italy, when she was finally gone and they didn’t have to be the ones looking after her. 

They didn’t deserve her, you concluded.

You don’t answer, and your friends don’t press. Chiara stays leaning against your side while Davide rubs your arm. You know the skepticism sitting in their throats. You know Davide wants to ask why you’re only looking through a small lens, through your limited perspective. You know that Chiara wants to ask why they don’t even deserve to see her. You know that you want to ask yourself why you have the right to keep abuela from going home.

Nobody says a word. Instead you all sit there quietly, together.

“You’re going on holiday,” Chiara demands when you try to return to the studio an hour later.

“What? I was just on holiday for a week.”

Davide’s eyebrows nearly fly off his forehead. “You were literally working for the circus and you were in the studio while they were here.”

You try another angle. “I have deadlines! I can’t take time off—it’s unfair to my clients.”

“You always give them longer estimates than it actually takes. Just say you had a death in the family.”

“That happened months ago!”

“Then say you had some suppressed trauma come up in your grief counseling and you need to work through it!”

You stare blankly at Davide. He widens his eyes and flips his palms as if he’s waiting for you to accept the obvious answers he’s offering.

“I can’t do that Davide, they already paid.”

“Then it’s PTO?”

You rub your eyes in annoyance. You’re tempted to claw them out entirely.

Chiara pats your back. “We’ll figure something out. But you need a break, and you can’t deny that.”

Your stomach aches like you might be sick. Maybe you do need a break, for your mind and your heart and to finally get to the grief you’ve been ignoring for months. But you can feel your lips tightening at the thought, your stomach twisting in fear. The sewing helps take you from the real world, to give you something else to focus on.

You’re worried that if you take a break, you won’t be able to start again.

The next weekend you’re hugging Davide and Chiara at the train station. Their arms awkwardly come around the giant backpack latched around your hips.

“Let us know when you get to your hostel,” Chiara demands.

“And when you’re back in range,” Davide adds.

You nod.

The pink line takes you an hour closer to your destination, whizzing north along the industrial and suburban outskirts of the city. Fields and farmlands start to populate along your route, parallel roads of green. Eventually you’re humming along the beginnings of mountains, the forests close enough that you can make out the edges of individual trees. They’re brown trunks and naked branches, fans of grey poking from the earth. But between them are clusters of green—evergreen bunches. The further you go, the taller the peaks rise, dusted with white.

You exit the train in a city situated by a lake, a large pool of blue that lays calm—still. You only see flashes of the water before you’re parked in the station, scanning your ticket and walking out onto black tile streets. The buildings are smaller here than Milan, with more space between their exteriors. A looming mountain pokes through the alleyways, a slab of white limestone erupting from the ground, topped with sparse green and heavy snow. Your heart races at the sight while you speed walk towards the bus stop. 

Soon.

It takes the bus an hour to drop you off at your destination, despite covering less than a fourth of the train's mileage. You don’t mind. Instead you sit comfortably with your bag on your lap, staring out the window as the clunky vehicle winds through the mountains. You grin the entire time, already imagining the hot cocoa you’ll make yourself tonight, huddled by the window of your hostel with a scarf around your neck.

It’s exactly what you do, peering up the edge of the mountain the building resides on. You send a message to your friends to let them know you’re fine, a selfie with your drink. Just as your thumb hits send, your phone flashes with a call.

It’s from your sister.

For the first time since abuela died, you hesitate, before eventually turning off your ringer and setting it down to go to voicemail.

You spend one night in the hostel and five in the mountains. You hike up and down summits during the day and tend to fires in the warmth of small cabins at night. The peaks are jagged rocks, granite teeth wedged in the gums of the earth, at first overlooking the northern cities and lakes before you lose the buildings behind shrouds of rocks and trees and snow. 

You don’t speak to anyone for three days—in the thick of your hiking. Your only companions are the swifts that fly ahead and the occasional owl in the trees. You curse when one takes flight, spreading glorious spotted wings. You wish you knew more of the birds here. The only other animal you catch is an ibex standing precariously on a cliffside—suspended only by mere chips in the wall. It looks unfazed by the height and the minimal footing, instead at peace, giant horns proud atop its head and sure steps carrying it upwards. You wish you could call out and ask for advice: to ask how you can do the same.

In contrast, you spend your day treading through white crystals up to your knees. It’s exhausting, your body moving slowly and through the entire day to reach your next bed. But it’s good for you; it’s what you need.

Crying comes as natural as walking, tears clumping as ice in your lashes. You huddle your body further under layers of wool and down, face burying into the cloth of your scarf. Every few kilometers you pause, catching your breath and blinking through the sun to see where you stand: high above the rest of the world. The brown of wintery grass rolls beneath you with those spiky leafless trees and clumps of evergreen. The balds are tinted yellow with harsh edges of silver from scattered boulders. You breathe in crisp, cold air—the kind that burns your lungs.

When you turn to continue walking ahead, the snow around you glistens. Sunlight strikes the frozen dust, light refracting in a pile of white sparkles. Millions of sparkles, like every star in the sky was plucked and tossed atop this mountain range—for you to shuffle your boots through and sob while you wander through thoughts and memories of abuela. You’re walking north, in the direction of Switzerland. But by now it’s been over two weeks since Hoshi no Sākasu left. They must be in Austria now. East.

The nights are cold, infinitely colder than the city. The air bites at any exposed skin, rubbing it raw to bloom splotches of red. Even so, you leave the warmth of cabin fires for extended periods of time to stare above you, into that other world in the sky. Stars twinkle in response, shining and winking and falling. They’re abundant, like every grain of sand and every snowflake on earth was scattered into the night. 

Your eyes trace the constellations you know: simple ones like Ursa Major and Orion. When you run out, your mind starts to connect the stars on its own, searching for patterns from your life. You see Santi and you see Marco. You see your sister and your mother. You see abuela.

You see Hanta.

In this moment, in all the moments from these days in the mountains, you realize again that you are a speck. You are nothingness and everything, something painfully unknown while entirely familiar. The mountains and lakes and vastness of blue atmosphere remind you that everything you don’t know is waiting for you, patiently, sitting outside of your blood and flesh for you to start heading towards it. The tiny snowflakes and speckled sky and clumps of morning ashes remind you that everything you ever need to know has been within you all along.

By the time you’re back in a hostel, showering and running laundry and packing your bag to take a bus and then the train home, there’s a resolve in your chest. You don’t know what it is quite yet or what it’s pointed towards, but you are determined to do something.

Your phone charges overnight, but you don’t turn it on until you board the bus. Rows of notifications populate your screen when it flickers to life. You clear them all and open your messages.

The most recent one is from Hanta.

You haven’t spoken since he left, not sure what to say or if you want your relationship to unfurl over text. He must feel the same uncertainty, if it’s taken this long to reach out. His message is straightforward—a quick pleasantry followed by a check in, since apparently Momo tried to reach you just after you started your hike. You can sense his apprehension through the little grey bubbles.

You respond with a photo from your third day on the mountain, the endless layers of ridges settled beneath the sky, bluer and bluer as they get further away. There’s a moment of hesitation before you send another, this one a silly selfie you took the day before—sporting icy eyelashes and red cheeks. You quickly add a third message, a brief explanation that you were on holiday without service.

After replying to the other crucial messages you turn your phone off and stare out the window, watching as forests become farmland and farmlands become cities.

Settling back into your work routine comes naturally. Your hands glide through thread and fabric, not without hiccups, but with confidence and security. There’s an ease to your movements, an embodiment of patience and distance from your craft. Navigating the shift of deadlines and compromising with your clients was awkward, but it happened.

Hanta responds to you, a little message that says your trip looks fun—and cold. You give him a short reply, a simple It was. The phone is heavy in your hand as you stare at the screen. Eventually you cave and ask him how Switzerland was, and what he thinks about Austria.

Something opens between you two after the initial hurdle is cleared. You don’t message every day, but you talk often. Hanta sends photos of him at different restaurants and landmarks—mostly with Shouto—and you respond with pictures of your sewing projects. Seeing his face brings an urgency to your chest, one that makes you want to run to the station and board the first train North.

You send a picture of your most recent gown, sheer black fabric that twinkles, sewn with pearls and metal discs. This time you take the photo in your mirror, awkwardly giving the headless mannequin bunny ears with your free hand. You stare at the picture with a furrowed brow, retaking it a couple times before you get one that you look less stupid in. After sending it you grimace. 

Your phone pings nearly immediately, several times with messages from Hanta. He says ‘SO PRETTY’ followed by a string of heart emojis. You bite your lip, trying to suppress the idiotic grin you know you’re wearing.

The phone blares your ringtone, nearly making you drop it from surprise. Your heart races, thinking it’s Hanta, so you almost answer it before you check the contact. You freeze when it’s your sister’s name on the screen.

You don’t turn off your ringer and ignore it this time. Instead you stare at it, thumb hovering over the answer button until it eventually goes to voicemail.

You call her three days later.

It doesn’t go through, since you do it in the morning. Back home it must be the middle of the night. That choice may have been purposeful—easier, if you know she won’t pick up.

In the afternoon you get an assault of messages from her: all caps, swearing, littered with typos. She calls you again and again, but you don’t pick up.

You pick up for Hanta.

He calls when you’re settling into bed for the evening. You answer while yawning, drawing out the words of your greeting. 

“Sorry,” his voice murmurs through your speaker. “Is this not a good time?”

He sounds tired, the softness of his tone filling you with warmth. You could fall asleep like this, easily.

“It’s perfect,” you reply. A twinge of guilt runs through your stomach. You don’t pick up for your sister like this.

You talk until you fall asleep, mostly hushed conversation about what you two have been up to in the past weeks. He tells you stories about Switzerland and Austria and preparation for Germany. You talk about your current projects and your time in the mountains.

The turmoil you’ve faced regarding abuela and your sister remains unspoken.

You don’t remember falling asleep, but in the morning you find that the call has ended, a morning greeting from Hanta in its place.

You call your sister again. This time it’s at a reasonable hour, but still during her workday. After three rings you think she won’t answer. But she picks up.

“Dio, quiero estrangularte,” she immediately bites through the speaker. The sound of her voice makes your breath catch, her threat completely going over your head.

“Te extraño,” you answer. I miss you.

She yells at you through the phone while you sit and listen. Or, partially listen, mostly basking in the fact that she’s speaking to you at all. The words don’t fully process, but you assume they’re threats and complaints and demands that you come back with abuela and an explanation. The berating lasts several minutes, you biting the inside of your cheeks to keep from smiling the entire time. Her voice cracks towards the end, choked noises separating her words. She’s nearly panting when she finally finishes.

“Lo siento,” you manage to whisper.

“Just—” her breath hitches. “Just shut up.”

You nod, waiting for her to continue.

She doesn’t. It’s silent for minutes. You can imagine her face, her lips parting as if to speak before they close in apprehension, the mix of a pout and glare she wears when she doesn’t know what to say. Normally you would ask her questions to get her started, intuiting what she wants to talk about. You don’t know if that’s something you can still do anymore.

You know she wants answers from you: to ask why you did what you did, how you could stomach making such a decision. But you also know that she knows why you did it. She knows you, knows how you feel towards abuela and towards the rest of your family. She knows how you are, running away when things get hard—running away, but always caving and coming back. There’s no point in asking; you both know this.

“Tía abuela is so mad at you.”

Tía abuela—abuela’s sister and your great aunt. You nod, lips pursed. “I can imagine.”

The huff of your sister’s amusement crackles through the speaker and you feel a confidence that everything will be okay.

You call frequently, every few days at the minimum. It’s awkward for the first few minutes of every call, until someone breaks the ice and eventually you’re laughing and gossiping like you used to. One of your tías is getting a divorce, your primero is newly engaged but his mamá doesn’t like the girl, and a family friend just lost an absurd amount of money in recent investments. You listen intently, eagerly taking in everything you’ve missed these past months.

“You kidnapping abuela is the hottest drama though,” your sister states blankly. “Mamá can’t escape it. People still bring it up every chance they get.”

Your stomach twists with guilt. Mamá’s always been soft to you, a stark contrast to abuela’s quips. “How is she faring?”

“Fine.” You can visualize the roll of her eyes on the other end. “She was sweet on you, but you know she’s ruthless to the others. Tía abuela is giving her a lot of shit, but she’s still the new head of the family.”

There’s a pause. You know what she’s going to say.

“I told her we’ve been calling. You should talk to her.”

You exhale. You should, to at least apologize for stealing her mother and her child all at once.

“Maybe,” you hum, and that’s the end of it.

“I’m moving to Japan,” you blurt the next time you call. It takes you by surprise, not the words you meant to say. You almost drop your phone. Why did you say that? You never came to a decision about whether or not to work for Hoshi no Sākasu.

“What!?” your sister screeches on the other end.

“What?”

She whines, “Ay, Dios mío.” You nod. After a few minutes of silence she asks why.

“I got a job offer,” you explain quietly.

“For…?”

“… A circus.”

You hold your breath during the silence that follows. She laughs. The sound brings a wave of relief through you. You aren’t sure why you were anxious to tell her—why you assumed she wouldn’t understand what it means to you.

She understands; she always does. “How’d you land that?”

You smile. “A miracle.” 

The miracles being Hanta and Midoriya. Kendou and Momo. Abuela.

“You taking her with you?”

It’s a jab and you know it—feel it. It’s your sister pleading, Come home. 

Later when you hang up, you sit quietly with yourself, phone tucked in your palms. The little rectangle is heavy with the weight of your conversations. It should be heavier, also holding your messages with Hanta and Chiara and Davide, stored with photos of abuela and mamá.

It takes several calls with Kendou before you give her the official acceptance of the position. Despite your confident claims to your sister, a piece of you was anxious the opportunity was no longer available, even with Kendou’s assurance that they could wait. When you finally breathe the words out over the phone, they don’t feel real. You ask her to keep it a secret for a little while, at least until the news settles in your own heart. Right now it’s a riptide, a violent storm within you as you sift through the emails of contracts and information.

You let her tell Momo, so long as she keeps it to herself, and you’re greeted by a warm message welcoming you to the team. Your eyes water while you respond. Your time with Momo isn’t up—there’s no longer a maybe lingering around the thoughts of being able to work together again.

It takes two weeks to tell Hanta.

He’s brushing his teeth while you mumble about your day, his phone propped up against the sink. The circus just landed in France, this being his first night in Paris. You’re on the couch, swaddled in blankets while your eyes linger around the interior on his end—marble walls, white towels, a random photo in a black frame.

“Are you rooming alone?” you ask when you finish your debrief.

He shakes his head, leaning to rinse his mouth before he wipes the residue on the back of his hand. He reaches for you and your heart races, thinking he’ll touch your face—only to jostle the screen while he leads you out of the bathroom. It’s a funny angle, the underside of his chin. It reminds you of looking up towards his face while laying on his chest.

“Nah I’m with ‘Roki. That’s how it usually is,” he answers. The next second the camera falls as if he dropped it, shaking violently with smears of creamy white and black splotches before he bounces into frame, beaming as he lays on his stomach on one of the hotel beds. His grin blooms an ache in your chest. You wish you were there with him.

You hum, saying, “That’s too bad,” before you can stop yourself.

“Huh?”

You pause, realizing where your mind was going. Heat creeps up your cheeks while Hanta stares at you through the camera. “Just—” you stop yourself, not wanting to tell him this way.

But he’s looking at you so curiously.

“I… I was hoping we could room together.”

It’s silent.

Hanta blinks at you, face and body frozen otherwise. You try to read what he’s thinking, if he’s putting it together, but he looks scarily neutral.

Then his head shifts abruptly to look at you dead on. His hand comes to his mouth, fingertips lightly pressing his lips. His expression doesn’t change except the slight widening of his eyes. He speaks quietly. “Are you… Does that mean what I think it does?”

You nod, face carefully neutral to assess his reaction.

He yelps. The camera shakes before falling and going black, but you can hear him scrambling and the bumping of the phone as he tries to pick it back up. You can’t help your smile—the fondness stretching across your face when he finally comes back into view looking like a puppy.

“Is this real?” he asks meekly. It’s almost a whisper. You wish you could hold his face and kiss him.

“Yeah,” you whisper back. “It’s real.”

It’s a precious gift to watch Hanta take in the information, face shifting between emotions rapidly before finally landing on something like a pout. He’s tearing up, eyes like giant marbles as they shine with joy.

“You… you chose—” he pauses. Me, you think he wants to say. “You chose us? The circus?”

Your own eyes are glassy, you can see them glistening in the tiny square in the top corner of the screen. Your lips twitch as you nod. Yes, you’re about to say—that you chose Hoshi no Sākasu. That you chose everyone. But you pause. You’ve been scared to make decisions and declarations, scared to admit to yourself why you make the choices you do, why you pretend they aren’t choices so much as obligations you just fell into. That you had to.

You feel that way with Hanta right now. But choosing to follow what feels like a duty or obligation is still a choice. You smile.“I chose you, Hanta.”

For the next two months, you work and you pack and you say goodbye, your own life rapidly shifting as the weather warms. You decide your time in Italy will come to an end at the start of June, after all your orders are finished. You’ll spend the break period in Costa Rica, tending to the wounds long left behind. Momo offers to hire a moving service that can move your things to her house (or estate, she calls it), to give you peace of mind until it’s time to settle in Japan.

Your stomach twists in knots every time you think about it—about going home.

The moving process starts early with you purging yourself of furniture and decor and clothes you don’t want anymore. Every time you say goodbye to something, your heart feels a little lighter. You sell those costumes you know you’ll never wear again and you argue hotly with the landlady to wiggle out of the lease you signed for the next year. She caves with a scowl when you pull the dead nonna card.

Chiara and Davide assist you, preventing you from taking the decluttering too far.

(“Babe, you still have another month,” Davide protests when you take pictures of your dining table to post online for sale. “Are you planning to eat off the floor?”)

(“Tucano—” Chiara groans when she steps into your studio, feet disappearing under bundles of fabric. “How do you work in this mess?”)

You spend as much time as you can with them, soaking in the final days with your throuple—as Davide puts it. The three of you have weekly gatherings at your place, filled with pastries and fruit and wine. Some days your conversations are a time of laughter. Others, tears.

“I can’t believe I was right after all,” Davide sighs, nursing his third glass of a purplish cabernet.

You make a face. “When you said I would fall in love with one of the performers but then break up and have awkward tension?”

Chiara gasps loudly, nearly a cackle. “What?”

Davide scoffs. “When I said you would leave me for a man.”

You roll your eyes, but Chiara comes to your defense first. “They’re leaving us, first of all. And Italy, and opera dresses. Second, they’re leaving for the circus.”

Teeth scrape against the inside of your cheek as you consider her words. You recall what you told Hanta over the phone, when he asked if you chose Hoshi no Sākasu. Maybe the wine is loosening your tongue, but you find it easier to admit tonight.

“I’m leaving for the circus, but Hanta was a big part of that.”

Davide screeches an, “I knew it!” while Chiara’s face morphs into a frown.

“Hanta,” she repeats back in a mimicking voice. You slap her arm. Her head comes to rest on your shoulder. “You can’t forget about us, okay?”

“Of course I won’t.”

“We should visit! I’ve always wanted to go to Japan.”

Chiara nods quickly, hair brushing your neck. “We should go in the spring. I wanna see the sakura bloom.”

They escalate into making plans to visit, now entirely independent of whether or not you’re in Japan in the spring. You smile to yourself. Chiara was your first friend, who later introduced you to Davide as a client. A couple years passed and now they’re the people in Milan you hold closest. They were friends without you, but became more intertwined when you arrived. You hope they’ll be good friends even after you leave. 

Watching and listening to them now tells you that you have nothing to worry about.

They help you load boxes in the van at the end of June. Your last order is finished and the lease comes to its end. The remainder of your things go into a large suitcase and backpack for you to live out of at Chiara’s. You stay with her for one week, idling in your favorite places around Milan in her clothes. It’s a stretched out goodbye, one that has been happening in fragments since you first declared your departure. These days don’t feel real. You can’t fathom that you’ll soon be across the world, walking through familiar streets—ones that have certainly changed in your absence.

You and Hanta talk less as your move gets closer, primarily because the circus has landed in the Americas, the time change an increasing obstacle. Knowing that you’re following their footsteps, soon to be on the same land again, feels special. It feels like a confirmation that you’re making the right choice. 

You start listening to basic Japanese lessons and download an app to memorize hiragana. Your finger hesitantly draws the characters, lip jutting in a pout when you get one wrong. When you and Hanta do find pockets of time to talk, he gently corrects your pronunciation of basic phrases.

Chiara has to work the day that you leave, so you have a tearful goodbye at her front door before Davide drives you to the airport later in the afternoon. You wonder if this is the last time you’ll sit in his car, legs against dark leather. The thought triggers other sentimental musings, questions of the next time you’ll sleep over at Chiara’s, or the next time you’ll have a real Italian pasta.

Davide holds you at the terminal, one of the few hugs he’s ever offered. He cries easily—still reading you down, just with red-rimmed eyes and a runny nose. You’re forced to promise that you won’t forget him. When you finally leave him to roll your bag to the check in line and then to security, you turn back once and catch him scowling. 

You land in Spain before boarding the eleven hour flight to San José. Floating above the ocean—separated from your friends and soaring to your family—strikes something deep in your heart. It’s a mix of aches and pains and fears swirling together, making your body feel so heavy you think you might start plummeting into the Atlantic. Your feet shuffle to cradle your bag between them, tucked under the seat in front of you. You itch to pull it out and open it, to check that abuela is still resting in her wooden box.

San José is just as you remember. Stepping outside hits you full force with an assault of hot, humid air. Your skin begins to glisten, clothes already clinging to you in the few minutes it takes to walk to the buses. The next one comes in half an hour, so you park yourself on a bench and lean against the backrest. Palm trees tower over you, their grassy leaves fanning between the ground and the sky. A cluster of sparrows floats under their canopies, entering your vision only to leave moments later.

By the time you pull your bag along the sidewalk of your childhood street, the sun has sunk beneath the horizon. You slow your steps as you reach the driveway of your home. The house isn’t in view quiet yet, shrouded behind the trees that gate you from the neighbor. You pause at the corner of the fence, fighting the knots in your stomach and the thrumming in your hands. It should just be your sister and mamá inside. You can handle them.

Despite your incessant self-assurances, several minutes pass before you step down the sidewalk. They’re slow and hesitant. Your head tilts upwards, taking in the canopies of cecropia above. The street lamp illuminates the leaves from below, displaying faded green against the black of the sky. Their shapes are round but segmented, the webbed fingers of a frog. You catch scarring on the thin branches, knots and welts in the wood that take the shape of spiraled eyes, watching you. You can hear the rustling of palm trees, the scrape of leafy hairs as they blow above you—

In front of you.

You bring your chin down, looking ahead to the lemon tree in the yard. You nearly yelp in surprise at the sight of your sister. She blinks while you flinch, hand holding one of the branches so she can clip the fruit with her other.

No greeting passes between you. You demand, “Since when do you take care of the garden?” She’s the type to complain about dirtying her shoes while walking to the car. The dresses feel like a weight in your suitcase. Would she even like them?

She scowls at the accusation in your voice. “Ever since you kidnapped the person who used to.”

You don’t have an answer, still too stunned. Her eyes similarly trace over your form, mouth twisting when she takes in your clothes.

“And you still dress like that?”

You can’t hold back your laugh. You missed her.

You missed home.

Seeing mamá is harder. She’s quiet and soft, always a subdued presence, but now with a new touch of somberness. She looks sad—and easily shattered.

You meet her at the door unexpectedly. She’s waiting when you enter, immediately standing from the sofa to reach for you. Her touch is firm over your arm, hands turning white from the intensity of her grip, like she thinks you might disappear at any moment. Tears spring without warning. You try to blink them away, to keep your face from twisting in a sob, but you cry easily.

“I’m sorry,” is all you can think to say. You don’t add more, not sure how to eloquently apologize for stealing her own mother, for leaving, for making life at home and with the family excruciating.

Her dark eyes shine back at you, slightly curved from the twitch of her smile. She looks happy, though a quiet sort of happiness. Not one for words, her reassurance comes from how she reaches for you, pulling you into a hug. Your wet eyes land against her shoulder, steeping into the fabric of her shirt. One of her hands comes to your head, smoothing over your hair as she hums—a content sound, one she makes when things are finally coming together.

You take the box of ashes out shortly and offer them to mamá. Her face tightens when the realization strikes her, and you feel more guilt and regret swirling in your stomach. Should you have waited?

Delicate hands take the box, thumb tracing a band of dark brown towards the bottom of the lid. Her eyes soften before she stretches it back to you.

“Keep her with you,” she nearly whispers. “Until we have the ceremony.”

You swallow. Do you deserve that? To keep holding onto her after all this time? After all that you’ve deprived your family of? Mamá’s eyes don’t waver, holding a command you have never been able to disobey. You take the box.

Your mother fusses over you, helping you carry your bags to your room. She starts fluffing your pillows before offering to bring you some water, and you have to grab her by the arm to get her to stop and listen while you tell her I’m fine and Thank you. She leaves with an anxious expression, you think out of fear that you’ll vanish in the middle of the night. A quiet, “Buenas noches,” filters through just before the door shuts.

You flop onto the bed with a sigh. One of your newly fluffed pillows bounces off and lands on the ground. You sigh again.

Despite the exhaustion deep in your body, you can’t fall asleep. You lay in your childhood bed and stare at the ceiling, your vision no different than if you closed your eyes instead. Even though you’re blind to your surroundings, you can feel the relics of an earlier person littered on bookshelves and tucked into drawers—someone who had their grandmother.

You’re certain that hours pass, but you can’t bring yourself to check the time. An idea comes to mind and you act before thinking it through. You turn so you’re sitting upright on the bed, hand gently waving towards your bedside table until it lands on the wooden box you placed earlier. Once it’s safe in your hold, you rise and leave the room.

You know this journey through the hall to abuela’s room. As a toddler you walked this route nearly every night. You were frequented by nightmares, ones that disappeared as soon as you took refuge with your grandmother.

The floorboards creak under your weight, reminding you to keep to the left to minimize the noise. You take your time, hugging abuela to your chest while your other arm extends to feel for the doorknob. It makes contact immediately. You twist slowly so the latch opens quietly, then push through with your shoulder quickly so the squeak of the hinges aren’t drawn out.

Your feet shuffle forwards, soon pressing your shins against the mattress. There’s the faintest smell of lemons—a scent that tightens your chest. You crawl forwards, bringing the box to rest between the two pillows at the headboard. A wave of exhaustion rolls through you immediately. You don’t bother settling under the covers; as soon as your head touches the pillow, you’re asleep.

Closing your eyes transports you to another world, an older world that you are young within. You’re speaking a language you don’t recognize, but one you understand every word of, conversing back and forth with a boy you’ve never met. He has kind eyes and a soft voice that you want to always say yes to. He has rough hands, but they cradle yours gently. In the next moment you are both older, adults, and he is watching you sadly. You don’t have words to explain his expression, what it invokes in you, but you can tell that he is leaving—not by his own choice.

You are alone and angry and in constant fear, conjuring images in your head of what has happened to him. If you’ll ever see him again. You don’t know this man, but he is everything to you. He has left everything to you, too: a daughter. You look at her face until it becomes your own, staring at a man who is your father by name but not by blood.

The story repeats, this time with a man who gives you meaningful glances. His eyes aren’t as kind but they are entirely on you. He says he’ll give you everything. He takes it back when you learn you’re pregnant, with twins. He leaves without a word.

You’re woken by an assault of light flashing your vision. You squeeze your eyelids shut, trying to block out the blooms of painful red and white static. Turning your head offers some relief, angling yourself from the sun and instead pushing your face into a pillow.

“Get up,” a voice barks. Your sister, you realize, pulling back the curtains.

You groan, drawing it out as if asking a question.

“I’m not letting you sleep past noon,” she continues. “Come help me with the garden.”

You roll over to face her, eyes sticky while you work to hold them open. Your head has the heaviness of a stone. The warmth of the bed lulls your body back under, to whatever lives you were living in your subconscious.

“Kay,” you eventually mumble.

She looks at you skeptically before nodding and leaving, with a promise to return in a few minutes if you don’t appear downstairs.

In the fresh silence of the morning, you turn to lay on your back. Your head brushes something hard. You frown, tilting it back and forth. It scrapes against something with sharp edges. When you turn, you see abuela, her box of ashes still tucked between the pillows. You blink in surprise before going still. The dreams from last night run through your mind. You’ve never had one like that before. You stare at the box, attempting to recall the faces that passed by.

The garden work doesn’t last longer than a couple hours. You pull weeds and harvest the ripened crops—mostly peppers and bananas. The midday sun burns hot and bright and you immediately begin to sweat through the sleeves of your shirt. Your sister doesn’t let you complain, quipping back that it’s your fault for sleeping in.

When you bring the harvest inside, your mother graciously receives it in the kitchen. For the first time today you get a proper look at her face: it’s the older, wrinkled, and saddened features of that first baby in your dream. She looks like a young version of abuela. You halt while several fragmented thoughts abruptly click into place. 

Your dream, your abuela and mamá, your sister…

You.

Tears well in your eyes without warning, immediately sliding down your cheeks. Mamá doesn’t question it. She embraces you, rubbing your back carefully.

When you calm she switches topics, not probing what brought on your outburst. Instead she sifts through the vegetables carefully, picking ones to set on the counter for lunch.

“Hopefully we get a lot tomorrow, or else I’ll have to run to the store.”

You hum in question.

She stops rummaging, eyes lifting to you carefully. “Did your sister not tell you?”

You blink. “Tell me what?”

“We're having a big dinner tomorrow.”

You inhale sharply, heart racing. Big dinner is a synonym for family dinner. Tíos and primeros and amigos de la familia. Tía abuela. It was going to happen eventually, an event you can’t avoid. You knew this, you know this. But you didn’t expect it’d be this soon.

You aren’t ready, aren’t sure you’ll ever be ready. You could throw up.

“Who—” your voice cracks as you manage through the words. “Who’s coming?”

Mamá doesn’t answer.

“So everyone,” you respond to her silence. She doesn’t offer any confirmation or denial. You leave the room.

When you enter your bedroom you curl up beside the bed, shielding you from the door. Shaky hands reach for your phone, calling Hanta by instinct. You don’t know what he’s doing today, if he’ll pick up.

It only takes two rings before you hear him greeting you with a dramatic, “Konnichiwa!” before switching to Spanish. “How’s life back home?”

“Hanta,” you say flatly, urgently. He hums, the sound much lower and with a twinge of surprise. “My family’s coming over tomorrow and I only learned five minutes ago.”

There’s a drawn out sigh on the other end while he conjures a response. “How’s that feeling?”

You nearly laugh. “Like I’m going to throw up and then run away.”

He giggles on the other end. The sound makes your heart pang, but your stomach lightens with a sort of relief. “No way,” he insists. “You’ve come too far to run. And there’s no way I’m letting you put this off if it was your main hesitation for joining us.”

You smile, lips pulling tight against your teeth. “I can make my own choices,” you retort.

“Too bad, I know you already signed the contract.”

You sigh, nodding your head solemnly. You did.

He doesn’t say anything more, letting you take your time.

“I’m just…” you start, trying to find the words. You aren’t ready. You’re still processing being back home, in your old bedroom, with mamá and your sister. You’re— 

“Scared,” Hanta fills in for you. 

You fight the urge to scowl. You fail.

“Yeah,” you huff.

He giggles again, and you know it’s from the tone of your voice. “I’m afraid for you,” he admits. “But you have to do it, yeah? And you’ve already done the hard part of coming home, seeing your mom and sister. And you’re still alive and well after that, right?”

You nod at his words and hum in agreement.

“Was everything okay with them?” he asks. 

You explain what happened when you came home: finding your sister by the lemons and your mom waiting by the door, how neither of them properly yelled or expressed being upset with you.

“Woah… That’s incredible,” he says. “Maybe the rest of your family will move on once they see you too.”

“There’s no way. That was mamá and hermana. Tía abuela is an entirely different character, and I’ve already heard that she’s pissed.”

He huffs. “Sounds like my abuelo. Those people love the strongest though.”

Your call continues, you two catching up on the past few days. He speaks excitedly, but his voice lulls you to a calmer state. By the time you hang up, a piece of you thinks everything will be okay. The two of you exchange goodbyes, and then you’re left in the quiet solitude of your room. It only lasts for a minute, before the door slams open.

It’s your sister, standing with a giant grin across her face as she excitedly demands, “Who was that?”

Tía abuela slaps you the moment she enters the room. 

Your cheek stings from the contact, a sharp pain that tingles across your skin. It dulls quickly, but you wonder if there will be a bruise. The coppery taste of blood blooms against the side of your tongue. You must have cut the inside of your mouth against your teeth.

These thoughts distract you from the accompanying verbal assault: a string of insults and accusations that you’ve heard before, from yourself. You take it quietly and with a stoic expression. Your eyes trail to the floor, not wanting to meet hers as she berates you in front of your relatives. Nobody speaks when she finishes. The only remaining sound is her ragged breath.

A long pause follows. You don’t raise your eyes, too embarrassed to meet anyone’s gaze.

The silence is eventually broken by your nephew. He cries, yanking his hand from his mother in attempt to run out the door. The room unpauses, relatives rushing after him while loud commotion fills the space. A gentle touch on your cheek brings your attention to your mother. There’s a shine in her eyes, a quirk to her lips. Maybe she finds this funny. You think you would too.

Nobody speaks to you, not willing to take on any part of tía abuela’s wrath. You don’t mind, standing awkwardly to yourself in the corner, and shunning yourself in the kitchen when the others take their plates to the dining and living rooms to eat. Nobody invites you over.

Later there’s another commotion, in the living room with your nephew again. Tía abuela tries to feed him a spoonful of rice, but he refuses. She insists, and he slaps the fork from her hand. Gasps release throughout the room, your cousins immediately going to scold him, but he screams and runs. You can hear his footsteps approach the kitchen. You freeze, not sure what you should do.

He barrels straight for you, short arms coming around your hips while his face buries into your stomach. You grunt at the impact, but stand frozen and wide-eyed. His parents enter—your older cousin and her husband—with tía abuela trailing behind them. Your hands fly to your nephew’s to pull him from you and hand him over. He’s too young to understand, too young to get in trouble. But he fists your shirt tightly and yells, “No!”

You tug him again. 

“She hurt you!” he wails. The sentence is partially muffled by your shirt, wetting with his tears and snot, but everyone hears it. Your heart drops. All the adults in the doorway freeze.

You cast one careful glance to them before you make up your mind and grip your nephew by his underarms, hoisting him to your hip. His face is red, with teary eyes and black curls clinging to his temples. You watch him glance at you and then the door, laying his chest against yours as if to offer himself as a shield. Your eyes well with tears.

“I hurt her too,” you say quietly, running a hand over his hair. Your voice is firm, and loud enough that you know the others will hear.

He hiccups, head turning to look at you in shock. “You hit tía abuela?”

“No,” you say with a huff of laughter. “But something worse.”

His eyes widen impossibly, full moons against a dark night. Brown irises drift to your cheek. There must be a mark, still flared and angry. A small hand comes to touch it gently, a tingling sting radiating from the contact. You’re certain there will be a bruise tomorrow.

Tía abuela doesn’t speak to you, but others finally do. Your nephew’s outburst broke the invisible boundary, opening a gap for others to greet you. They don’t say much, eyes still cautiously flitting to tía abuela, but it’s a start. Nobody chides you, but nobody looks excited either.

Everyone but the kids. You watch your nephew whisper with his cousins, giggling as they look towards you and then dart their eyes away when you meet them. One of them approaches you during the goodbyes, gently tugging at your shirt to get your attention. He’s another nephew, this one from a family friend.

“Did you really punch tía abuela?” he asks, eyes wide with wonder.

Yours nearly pop out of your head. A stifled laugh sounds from behind you—your sister’s voice.

“Not…” you don’t know how to respond, what the appropriate explanation is for a seven year old. “Not exactly.”

His eyes stay glued to your face. You feel cornered here, wondering if you said the wrong thing. A voice calls his name. He grins wide before running off. You exhale in relief.

You get small waves and head nods from everyone else. Only when tía abuela is out the door does someone finally pull you for a clumsy, messy hug—your tía, the second eldest of abuela’s children after mamá. She holds you tightly, with the quiet promise that you’ll talk more soon. You feel her sincerity in the hand clutching your wrist.

When the door finally closes, your sister releases the longest breath you’ve ever heard. Mamá appears with an ice pack covered in cloth, motioning to hold it against your cheek. It’s long overdue, but you accept it graciously.

“That went better than I expected,” she says quietly. You agree.

“You totally could have dodged it,” your sister adds.

You agree. You could have, if you wanted to.

The bruise fades after a week, in time for the ceremony to scatter abuela’s ashes. Family members have come and gone by the house, warmed to catching up with you. You see tía abuela again, this time without the slapping and screaming. She ignores you, except for a fair amount of side eyes while conversing with mamá. When she says goodbye, her eyes meet yours for a moment right before slamming the door.

The ceremony takes place on the beach. The sight makes you think of Hanta and that beautiful tent—black sand glitters like the dust of diamonds under moonlight. No words are spoken; the only sounds being the lapping waves trying to reach your family on the shore. Tía abuela lights the candles of the vigil while mamá opens the ashes and pours them into the hands of your relatives. Tía abuela’s sharp eyes watch closely, lingering on you when mamá finally makes her way around.

Abuela’s remains are soft and light—grey ash spotted with clumps of black residue. Her body is the feathery weight of dry sand, and yet you feel like you are cupping the entire world and universe. This is not the dust that sweeps through the air after a fire; you are holding the dust of stars and planets and moons. You are holding the weight of your lineage, the connecting point between the bloodline that lives, and the blood that has passed. If you squint, you can make out shapes and images in abuela’s remains. They’re vague. Dreamlike.

One of your younger tíos begins the music with his Quijongo, the stick thumping steadily against the bowstring. You close your eyes at the sound, akin to the whistling of wind through trees. The airy notes of your cousin on the Ocarina join shortly, and then the gentle shake of Maracas. Their performance draws on for a few moments before tía abuela starts to hum. It fills your body with warmth, a feeling so intense you almost shiver in the summer heat. Her notes are clear and bodied, like her entire soul is unraveling into the air—settling above you like the salty humidity. 

She falls into a repeated chorus, the sign for everyone to join. You open your eyes when you begin to hum with her—with everyone. The sound sweeps through the circle around you, tía abuela illuminated in the center by candlelight, orange haze gently fanning to reveal the faces surrounding her in a warm glow. The humming changes when your mother shifts her intonation. Others follow her lead, adding their own twists and slides and delays to the song, pulling a deeper and richer sound through layers of complexity. You try to channel abuela’s energy with your own voice, sharpening the ends of each note and adding a roughness to your tone. 

You close your eyes again, letting a warm buzz sweep over you entirely. A charged energy has bloomed within, taken you completely, as if your body has more spirit than it can contain. Your arms burn.

When abuela has been scattered over the sands of your home, everyone falls silent. Your eyes again drift around the circle, taking in the many praying faces of your family, slowly dimming as the flaming wicks reach their end. You lift your gaze to the sky, soaking in the faint moon and sprinkled stars.

A figure flies above, the shape of a large bird. Your heart skips a beat before it races, catching the familiar outline of a macaw. They’re daytime birds, ones that sleep when the sun does.

You wonder what brought this one here, now.

The following month brings new grief. The grief of old relationships as they change and fizzle, the grief of your previous self, the grief of your pride when you say your apologies over and over—understanding the multitudes of ways you hurt your family. You grieve your anger and your spite, coming to terms with the detriments of your self righteous attitude.

There’s a special grief in the pain of being forgiven, too.

There’s a beauty in this sadness and this ache: the beauty of memory. Abuela begins to appear everywhere, and in all of those people you once thought weren’t deserving of her. It hits you the hardest with mamá, a face you see daily and with each moment growing more and more similarities between her and the deceased.

You’re envious that abuela lives in her features, in the slope of her nose and lips. Some were passed down to you and your sister, in matching smiles but otherwise your relationship isn’t apparent. Even you and your sister look nothing alike, only sharing the eyes of a man you don’t know. A man you saw in a dream now weeks ago, one who promised you everything for one brief moment.

He appears one day.

You’re freshly showered from a morning in the garden, heading toward the stairs to meet mamá in the kitchen, passing the square window on the second floor. She stands in the opening, a frame capturing a moment in time: her in the driveway with someone. He’s tall with tanned skin and curly hair—an aged version of the second man from your dream. You watch him smirk at mamá, a sharp sliver of teeth. You can’t hear her, but she waves her arms and her lips move rapidly. Her chest heaves and you think for the first time in your life you’re watching her yell at someone.

The man takes one step closer. Your mom shoves him at the shoulder. He stares at her openly before finally turning away.

His head tilts towards the window, gaze immediately locking onto you. Despite the distance, the shape of his eyes is clear: they’re sharp, intense. For a brief moment you think you’re looking at your sister. You break the stare, turning your head sharply before moving away from the glass.

You stand still for a minute, back against the wall. Your heart pounds in your chest and ears, crawling uncomfortably up your throat.

“I think I saw my dad,” you say abruptly the following day.

You watch Hanta’s face go still. “Huh?”

“He was in the driveway with mamá. I’ve never met him, or seen pictures. But I have his eyes.”

“He must be hot.” You deadpan at his response and he laughs. “Sorry. Did you get to talk to him? Or ask your mamá about it?”

You shake your head. She didn’t say anything when you came downstairs; she’s never said anything before. You’ve never felt a reason to ask, always happy enough with the family you have. If that dream from last month had any indication of the kind of man he is, you’d rather keep things the way they are.

You don’t see him again.

Your second month at home is busier now that you’ve reintegrated with your relatives. You go from spending most days at mamá’s to getting pulled along excursions to other houses and local spots. You’re put on impromptu babysitting duty for your nieces and nephews, shaken awake early in the morning to hike with your cousin, abruptly shoved into a car during the afternoon for a trip to the beach. You find yourself in markets and on the sand and in the jungle. It’s exhausting, but you love it. You missed it.

You still maintain the garden with your sister and call your friends regularly. They ground you into the soil of your home, even across the ocean. Your joint chat with Chiara and Davide populates with pictures, frequently including ones of them smiling together at your usual places. Swiping through them fills you with warmth, and a distant ache. 

Hanta is equally diligent with his communication. His responses to your own photos always result in grins that pique the interest of your family members. You learn to wait until you’re alone to read his messages.

(He sends a video one evening, of a recent training session. The phone is still, likely propped on a table or chair, while he moves through an unpracticed routine—a freestyle. It could be mistaken for casual stretching. Even so, every motion is smooth, every transition is seamless. At one point he anchors his legs before leaning back in a bundle of fabric. The camera is close enough to pick up the steady rise and fall of his chest.

You save the video with warm cheeks, watching it again several times throughout the day. He’s so captivating.)

One rare morning when you rise before your sister, you tend to the garden alone. The work is minimal: watering some sections and picking ripened tomatoes. Less than an hour later you step inside with a heavy basket of sweet red, heaving it on the counter. The consecutive thump of footsteps sound down the stairs—your sister must have woken.

You turn to greet her and freeze.

In her arms are dresses, the dresses you made her. Dresses you haven’t shown her. Her eyebrows are arched high into her forehead as she asks, “So tell me why these are exactly my size and style?”

Heat flares up your neck. Instead of explaining, you demand, “Why were you in my room?”

“Why is this my size?”

Several moments of silent glaring pass. You still refuse to answer. She laughs.

“You sap! You are so fake.” The grin on her face stretches wide. Her arm bends to press the garments to her chest while her other one points at you. “This is embarrassing for you.”

You nod, absolutely humiliated. Your plan was to hang the dresses in the back of her closet the day you leave for Japan. At the very least you could avoid her reaction over the phone. But now that she’s found them, more than anything, you’re just relieved that her eyes are shining with glee.

She likes them.

Towards the end of August you’re in regular conversation with Kendou and Momo about moving to Japan. Kendou assists your preparation for work while Momo helps with housing. The latter recommends you visit in person before committing to a lease, and insists you stay with her until you get situated. You attempt to refuse, but she doesn’t relent. When you try suggesting you at least pay her something, she laughs. 

“I’ll quit,” you threaten.

She grins, nearly singing, “Too late. Besides, I have your things hostage at my estate.”

You sigh, defeated.

The next day you get a call from Hanta in the evening. His pouting face is the first thing you see when you accept it.

“What?” you ask in amusement.

“Why’d you ask to stay with Momo? Why not me?”

Your jaw nearly drops. Can’t they let you share your own news? And why is he acting like you begged her to host you?

“Hanta, I tried to refuse but she has my stuff already.”

“You should move it to my place.”

You laugh. “You’re crazy.”

He pouts harder, puppy eyes sparkling. “Why not?”

“Hanta—” you sigh. “I thought you wanted to take your time?”

He groans, flopping his head onto a pillow. You grin.

“Yeah,” he exhales. “I just miss you a lot right now.”

The confession strikes your heart, claws an ache through your chest. He’s straightforward with his feelings and his words, sending shivers of giddiness through you.

“I miss you too,” you admit. The busy days with your family have been effective distractions, but that longing always reappears—in the quiet of the nights and mornings, or during these calls when you can hear his voice so clearly. So close. “We have less than two months left.”

He groans again. “That’s so long.”

You agree, and ask him what he plans to do when the tour finishes mid-September. The circus cast has a month break before training in Tokyo resumes.

“Last time I went to Ecuador to see mamá’s family.”

You hum. Maybe you could meet him there and catch the same plane to Japan. Neither of you say anything, but you can tell he’s thinking something similar.

By the time September sweeps in you live everyday with a buzz thrumming beneath your skin. It’s a constant energy, restless anxiety knowing that you’ll be moving soon. You and Hanta have started working out the details of meeting in Ecuador. He tells you that he’ll know his plans in a few days.

You keep yourself busy to ease your agitation, more beaches and mountains and markets. The full days have you exhausted at night, enough to sleep instead of letting your mind race in excitement.

Today you wake early, finishing the garden tasks before the sun arches overhead. You have plans to spend the day in the city with your sister. You already know where you want to eat lunch, and you can guess which bakery she’ll demand you visit afterwards. While you make your way downstairs quickly, she takes her time. The water from her shower stops running just as you reach the living room. You sigh. 

After several minutes of listening to pattering footsteps above you, the chime of the doorbell rings. You frown. It deepens when your sister calls, “Can you get that? I invited someone to join.”

You were looking forward to a day of just the two of you, not prepared to have a third presence. Knowing your sister, the guest is your older cousin—who you love, but is usually overwhelming to be around for longer than an hour.

You open the door with a huff, ready to greet her with the most enthusiasm you can muster—

But Hanta is standing at the doorstep.

Your eyes fly open at the sight. Immediately they trace his face—his dark hair and eyes. He’s disheveled, sporting stubble along his lip and jawline. His hair is longer than it was half a year ago, bunched in a knot at the base of his neck. Long wisps fall at the sides of his face, framing him. He’s in warm weather clothes—an unbuttoned tropical shirt with loose shorts and sandals, and a big backpack.

You swallow. He looks good.

He grins immediately, reaching for your hand as he says your name. You’re too stunned to hear it, focused trying to process the fact that he’s here.

“Hanta…?” you eventually ask. Your eyes burn and your nose stings. Tears surface.

His face softens, smile turning gentle. He tugs your arm, encouraging you to step closer. Your heart thumps quickly and loudly in your ears. You think your chest is going to explode.

“Yeah,” he nearly whispers. “Can I hug you now?”

You nod fervently and let him pull you by the waist. His bag prevents you from wrapping your arms around his torso, so instead you loop them over his shoulders. He buries his face into your neck with a sigh, his breath sending shivers down your spine. Your cheek presses into his hair while you inhale the scent of him: sweet oranges. There’s a thrumming against your chest, but you can’t differentiate your heartbeat from his.

“Missed you,” you mumble quietly.

“Yeah.”

Your mind races with questions. How did your sister manage to contact him? Everyone told you the circus  still had a few more days before the tour officially ended—did they finish early? Did Hanta leave early?

You don’t ask any, instead squeezing your arms to clutch him harder. His grip tightens in response and a rush of euphoria runs through you—to be held like this, by him.

The shutter of a camera breaks your moment of bliss, immediately prompting you to jerk away. Hanta’s grip doesn’t let you go far, keeping your chests pressed together while you lean your head back to turn to the sound. Mamá fumbles with her phone, grumbling that the ringer was supposed to be off. Your sister stands beside her with a giant smirk. You want to cower away in embarrassment. Hanta doesn’t let you escape him, so you resort to burying your head into his shoulder.

He laughs, a symphony of glee. You peek at his face and see no traces of fluster. He looks happy.

His grip loosens enough to let him step aside and introduce himself, but his hand holds yours tightly. The greeting he offers feels dutifully Japanese—bowing as he states his full name, thanking mamá for the care—but the words come out in Spanish. You blink at his formality and its out of place nature in your family, on him.

Mamá ushers the two of you inside, insisting it’s her pleasure and for him to make himself at home. It occurs to you that she also knew he was coming, already expecting to let him stay. You look at your sister with wide eyes, hoping for an answer, but she continues to grin smugly, widening as she deliberately looks at your intertwined hands.

She interjects before mamá and Hanta can get invested in their conversation. “You should go soon.”

You frown. “Huh?”

“I did invite someone over—for me to hang out with.” The look she gives you says all you need to know: it is your older cousin. “Unless you want everyone to know about your boyfriend today, you should leave before she comes.”

You can feel the headache forming at the thought of your extended family finding out. So you nod, hurrying him to your room to drop off his bag.

“Maybe we should go to the beach,” you tell him quickly. “This city is small and I would really like to wait a couple days before anyone finds out you’re here. The beach will be fine, and we can visit the next city over—”

Hanta leans to press his lips against your own, effectively halting your speech and thoughts. The words die in your throat as you immediately kiss him back, mind melting as his hand cradles your neck. He takes a slow step forward, backing you up to the door. He’s radiant with warmth, his front entirely flush to you, removing any distance. 

The kiss is passionate—that searing heat you’ve missed for too long. He smiles against you, softly scraping his stubble against your cheek. An embarrassing noise slips from your throat, originating from somewhere deep inside you.

He hums before pulling away, only long enough to breathe before he’s on you again.

“I missed you,” he whispers after a proper pause.

You swallow. “Yeah.”

He glues himself to you for the entire day. His arms are firm over your waist while he sits on the back of your moped, you speeding along the road to the beach. He pulls you by the hand when you park, grinning wide as his feet sift through the sand. The air and ground are warm, Hanta a thousand times warmer as he holds you on the shore. You lay on your back, him on his side so he can throw an arm over your stomach and stare right into your eyes.

You speak in quiet voices about everything you can. He kisses you often, stealing them between every pause of your words. When you jokingly chide him for it, insisting you need to speak, he settles for grazing his lips over your neck and collarbone, shifting to your knuckle when he wants to see your face. 

Sometimes the conversation lulls, and all you do is watch each other with soft smiles and glistening eyes. 

In the water, his gaze becomes stronger, too strong for you to handle. When you surface from a wave, he’s the first thing you see, crooked grin and wet hair. You immediately dip back under. There’s a certain weight in his eyes that you can’t handle.

The next time you break for air, he’s out of sight. Before you can turn to look for him, a hand tugs you from behind. It’s Hanta, pulling your back to slot against his chest. His head dips to your shoulder, lips running over the skin, arms snaking around your waist so you can’t disappear again.

You close your eyes at the feeling—his heat and his honest affection. You’re embarrassed by the tender displays in public, susceptible to the gazes and opinions of others. But maybe you deserve to have this moment, to be the annoying couple at the beach.

Couple? you wonder. You shake the thought away. Whatever this… thing you have with Hanta is, you don’t know how to name it. Neither of you have spoken about labels or exclusivity, but… couple feels almost derogatory. 

The two of you stay out until the evening, not sure when your home is safe to return to. When hunger settles in you drive with Hanta into the city.

This is his first time in Costa Rica, but he's in a different element in Latin America. Speaking Español brings out facets of his personality that are less noticeable in English or Japanese—a more playful but direct version of him. You wonder what you might learn about him as you continue to study Japanese.

He hugs you tightly on the ride home, arms back around your waist. He tries to tuck his head in the crook of your neck and shoulder, but the clunky helmets enforce a distance. You ride slowly through the night, careful of the winding roads, slow enough to catch the rustle of monkeys darting along the powerline. Every time you come to a stop, your ears flood with the ringing of insects and the soft, steady tone of night birds.

The house is quiet at night. Mamá is the only one present, greeting you with a quiet smile. She offers you dinner, and then some fruit when you decline. Hanta’s lip pouts at the mention of fried plantains, puppy eyes forcing you to agree.

“You can stay in my room,” you tell him afterwards while climbing the stairs. “I just need to grab a couple things.”

He trails curiously when you skip your door to go further down the hall.

“I’ve been sleeping in abuela’s room,” you explain.

He doesn’t follow you into the space, instead waiting by the doorway. You swipe your charger and book from the bedside table before smoothing out the covers and leaving.

Hanta doesn’t ask any questions, and you don’t offer any details. You wonder what he’s thinking, what he wants to know. His eyes linger over you, watching you closely. You wish you knew him better, wish you could take one look at his face and know immediately what’s turning through his heart and mind. Maybe he feels this way towards you, too.

This time when he enters your room, his eyes drift through your shelves and desk. They brighten when he catches a picture frame, nestled with a younger version of you and your sister standing in front of mamá and your grandparents. You don’t remember your abuelo well, only having fragments of memories. The only pieces of him you recall are the ones captured in photos; maybe they aren’t even real memories, just scenes you conjured from your imagination to pretend.

“You look like your abuelo in this one,” Hanta says.

Is this too much? For him to be here, looking through your artifacts of life and smiling fondly over old pictures? Part of you still feels like you’ve only known each other for a week, still chasing him through tents and trying to discover their makers. The other part thinks you’ve been in each other’s arms through your months of separation.

A seed inside you says, He’s been with you before the circus, too.

Hanta’s still smiling when he looks at you again. You swallow, catching that joyful glint in his eyes. For him, this is long overdue.

(This being the intimacy and the affection and the opportunity to learn everything he can—to find his way into every opening of your being and make a home for himself. For both of you.)

In this stillness and quiet of the night, you search your heart for how you really feel—untampered by fears of what’s right or what others may think, what the standard for relationships is supposed to be.

You want him—like this. Forever.

Under soft covers and cocooned in Hanta’s warmth, you manage to fall asleep in your own bed. You enter a dreamless sleep and rise naturally with the sun. Your sister doesn’t barge into your room to wake you, but you still dress for the garden and get to work. She’s there already, clipping the last round of tomatoes.

She gives you a pointed look that you return with your own. Neither of you speak, instead trading glances through the morning as you join her tending. She’s nosy and wants to know the details of how you met, what your relationship is like. You communicate that it’s not her business. You know you’ll fold and tell her eventually.

When you re-enter the house, you’re ambushed by the sight of Hanta in the kitchen helping mamá with breakfast. He wears her floral apron, diligently cutting onions while answering her questions—about his work and how it led you two to meet. His voice stops when he sees you, immediately grinning. He asks if you’re hungry.

After breakfast he insists on washing dishes. Your sister volunteers to dry, so you and mamá clean the table together. You can hear your sister grilling him from the kitchen, Hanta answering every question with ease.

“He’s a good man,” mamá says softly.

You nod.

When you two wiggle into your bed a second time, he asks you to wake him if you rise first. You frown. “Don’t you need your sleep?” 

He yawns, punctuating your point. “Maybe,” he slurs. “But I didn’t like waking up alone.”

Your heart pauses while you nod slowly. He hums with satisfaction and promptly falls asleep. You kiss his forehead. His hand tightens over yours.

On the third day, one of your tía’s and multiple cousins show up unexpectedly. You’re showing Hanta the garden, explaining how to hold the clippers, when a car pulls in and you sigh, knowing this will be the end of your peace. Hanta takes the chaos happily. He says he’s excited to meet everyone, albeit nervous.

Your extended family loves him. Everyone does, you start to realize—with his calm but lively energy, his honesty, his charm. Seeing him meet your relatives strikes you with awe, and a new wave of gratitude. 

Even tía abuela can’t dislike him. You’re anxious for their introductions, but then you watch Hanta softly bow his head—that Japanese filial piety overtaking him—while he politely says, “Mucho gusto, tía abuela.”

You catch the purse of her lips, the glint in her eye as she takes him in, and you know that he’s won her over already. Her eyes flit to you with the undertones of approval and you want to hug everyone in the room from your relief.

Things don’t fully mend by the time you leave with him for Ecuador. Tía abuela still won’t hold an extended conversation with you, some cousins mention abuela offhandedly to stir tension, and occasionally one of your tíos stare at you with anything but forgiveness. But you came home; you brought abuela home with you. This time when you leave, you’re leaving her behind—scattered along dark sand and blue water.

Mamá weeps when she says goodbye, holding you long in her arms. She says that she’ll miss you, that she loves you, and that she’s happy for you. She just hopes you’ll come back. You promise that you will.

Your sister is sharper with her words, insulting you through tears as she jabs, “You better not die.”

You nod vigorously.

Quito is different than you remember; too many years have passed since your first and last visit. It’s still beautiful and lively, with long markets and silver buses stretched down the roads. You board one, eventually winding your way along jungles and mountains, passing squares of shrimp farms by the coast. Hanta lets you take the window seat, happily holding your hand while you stare outside.

Ecuador is another sort of beast, with more chaotic roads and a harsher sun than Costa Rica. As you approach Hanta’s city along the sea, crumbling concrete buildings make a repeated appearance. The work of earthquakes, he tells you, an unwinnable battle for the poorly constructed towers—salt water and sea sand hiding in their walls, ready to surrender in an instant.

The edge of the shore appears. The sand is white, almost grey like ash. Like your abuela, now scattered along the Pacific. Did she make it down here after the past few months? Will she spread to the shores of Japan—to Musutafu?

When you arrive at the front of his house, you are struck by the familiarity. It takes a moment to remember that you’ve been here before, when Hanta ran with you across the ocean and led you through his home from the back porch. But that was a home from over a decade ago. Now parts are faded and parts are changed, but you still recognize it as if it were your own.

Hanta’s family is lively. His parents aren’t home—still working in Japan—but he opens the door to greet grandparents and avunculi and cousins. You watch his abuela’s face shine as she pulls him into a hug. His slender frame towers over her, awkwardly hunching to average their heights. The sight blooms a pang of something in your chest, the sting of an injury, and you swallow to avoid bursting into tears.

After surviving the introductions he leads you to his room. As soon as the door shuts and you have a moment of quiet, the tears resurface.

“Woah, hey,” Hanta says gently when he notices. His attention immediately fixes on you, hands abandoning his bag half unpacked to cradle your face. “Are you okay? Was that too much? Was someone out of line?”

You nod and then shake your head, trying to answer yes and then no respectively. It must be unconvincing, your face still twisted from holding back sobs.

“I’m okay,” you croak. You’re just overwhelmed, and maybe envious, from watching Hanta with his grandmother. From seeing loving touches and crinkled eyes. Curly white hair and wrinkled hands.

Hanta makes a complicated face. You gauge that he’s unconvinced and worried.

“We can go somewhere else,” he bargains. “Or you can rest here until you’re ready. Or a third option I don’t know right now.”

You nod, trying to agree with the second one. You’re fully crying by now, sniffling and blinking through tears. “I promise I’m okay,” you try to convince him. “I just need to cry, I think.”

He doesn’t question you, instead nodding and gesturing for you to sit on his bed. He lowers with you, carefully hugging you into his side. It’s a mourning cry, a weeping to express a hollowness in your heart, a loss that still hasn’t filled itself. Hanta remains a silent support, rubbing your back soothingly even after your sounds shift to sniffles. You press your face into his chest, tears smearing against his shirt. 

He’s warm. He’s always so warm.

You wonder how long you’ll live like this, still crying at random as if abuela’s death was a recent one—not a year in the past. Something tells you it’ll be often. 

Maybe you should apologize to Hanta in advance.

But his hold on you—firm while gentle—reminds you of his patience. He would tell you not to be sorry.

The week you have in Ecuador together is a busy one, spent meeting more family and getting yanked to Hanta’s favorite places. This time you’re the one on the back of the moped, leaning into his warmth as he winds up and down the roads. He lives on a small peninsula in the northern coast, where you can watch the sunrise from one beach, and then cross the city to catch the sunset on a different shore. 

The water turns red in the evening as the sun dips down, the ocean reflecting the brilliant rosiness of the sky. You and Hanta bob on surfboards in the water—yours long and wide and foam, his narrow and made of resin-coated wood. You soak in the remaining light, that fiery ball of light tucking under the horizon. There’s a tug at your heart when you remember the tent of floating oranges. When you glance at Hanta, he’s already staring at you. He grins.

You only get to see the coast of Ecuador during your stay, not touching mountains or jungle.

“Next time,” Hanta promises.

Next time.

Life doesn’t feel quite real when you board the plane together. Your goodbye to Hanta’s family felt more dramatic than your own, mostly because everyone was weeping and offering hugs all around. Tears pricked your eyes when his abuela pulled you for a hug, asking that you take good care of him. You promised you will.

You slide into the window seat, immediately pulling up the shade to look outside. You’re at the front of the wing, still parked on a giant slab of foundation and surrounded by the tunnels of the airport. Hanta plops down next, immediately snaking his arm around your waist and leaning into your side.

“Excited?” he asks.

Terrified is a more accurate description. “Yeah.”

He hums like he wants to ask more, but he keeps his questions to himself. You turn to look at him, his gentle eyes. They’re dark, dark like the night sky and shimmering with the sparkle of a thousand stars, ready to be plucked and pulled and woven into a timeless tale of love.

He has his abuela’s eyes.

(Is this how it’s going to be—you always searching for meaning and connection to the dead, never able to let them rest entirely, finding ways to make them alive time and time again? Is this who you are—someone who rereads the same book since childhood, clutching it close like a holy scripture that guides you forward?

But they are all you know, all you’ve ever chased, a child watching a display of magic and wanting nothing more than to be part of it.)

The voice of the flight attendant sounds through the speakers. Her voice crackles through the intercom as she reads from the safety brief.

Your eyes drift to Hanta’s skin. It’s darkened considerably since returning to Latin America. His cheeks and nose are splattered with an array of freckles. They’re constellations against his skin, a map of everything you’ve wanted. He leans to press his face against yours, like he can transfer those markings if you touch for long enough.

You turn to the window when the plane starts to roll forwards. Hanta’s chest presses against your shoulder while he leans to watch with you. His hand comes over yours, holding your fingers gently before raising them for a tender kiss.

There’s a jumble of knots in your stomach, like one thread tossed and turned until it became impossible to unravel. You’ve never been to Japan. You’ve never been contracted for a circus company. You don’t know Japanese and you don’t even have your own housing. All you have is a visa and the promise of a job awaiting your arrival. This is different from moving to Italy, fueled by nothing but the hunger for money. This time it’s a hunger for life, a hunger to find something—or, to follow what you’ve already found.

This time when you leave this part of the world, the part with your home, there is no obligation to do anything but what you want. A total freedom, the freedom to chase whimsical childhood dreams. Dreams of stars—The Circus of the Stars—and outrageous costumes and people you love.

The plane starts to dart down the runway, picking up speed to eventually lift and soar into the sky—a white aluminum bird against cerulean blue. Hanta’s lips press into your temple, hand squeezing yours. You grin while staring at the city of Quito below, clusters of buildings fading away with each passing second. The vessel of the plane chugs onwards and upwards, brushing through a mist of clouds—through the clouds, until they’re an ocean below you.

You squeeze Hanta’s hand back, interlocking your fingers like threads on a loom. Despite your fears, you feel ready.

Ready to stretch out your lives like the billions of stars in the sky, and to weave them together in a continuous, unbreakable fabric.

✰.

The circus is coming. And this time, you’re coming with it.

just a note about aerial silks: aerial silks for performance are not made of real silk, they're typically made of like some sort of synthetic fiber like nylon or lycra for safety purposes but i'm pretending like that isn't the case for the ~metaphors~

my sappy afterword can be found here

[ninatheelf]

goddard - law of assumption lecture notes :

“tonight will be on the law. i think you will find it a very practical evening.”

some notes i took on a lecture straight from the source himself! this is lengthy but worth reading if you want to learn more about loa directly from Neville Goddard, the man who widely taught and coined the term.

✦ a brief prelude :

please keep in mind that you do not have to read this entire post to shift. in the end, it all boils down to one point -

*what you believe wholeheartedly, without question, is what your reality becomes.*

that is all you need to know in order to shift.

this lecture is just an expansion on the idea for those who want to learn more about the details of the Law of Assumption. i’m posting this because i find the study of the loa fascinating, and i think these quotes and takes from Goddard are worth sharing with the community and shifters like me who appreciate an academic breakdown of these concepts.

i’ve tried my best to simplify the language i use to make this easier to digest. it’s a lot of info that i think is all important, but i’ve highlighted the key takeaways if you’re in a tldr mood :))

this lecture directly challenges Christianity. if you are a Christian, these ideas may seem like they go against your belief system. however, it is important to understand that by the nature of the Law of Assumption, if you believe in God, God exists.

the point is that you have the God-like ability to decide and therefore create objective reality through your beliefs, and if that is in Christianity, that is your decision (the same is true for those who practice Buddhism, Hinduism, atheism, agnosticism, general spirituality, etc.)

it is also important to remember that shifting does not go against any religion, and that the ideas surrounding reality shifting are prominent within certain religions.

— — — — — — — — ✿ — — — — — — — —

✦ you have the power of a god :

answering the question of “the cause of the phenomenon of life.”

uses Christianity as a reference / comparison point - likely due to the fact that the audience he was speaking to was predominantly Christian, as the lecture took place in America around the 1950’s in which Protestant Christianity was the most prominent religion at the time, practiced by nearly half of all Americans - provides various lines of scripture from the Bible and breaks down religious language as evidence to his claims (i’m not going to type out every quote, it’s all spoken in the linked video)

asks who is the "one God" that scripture speaks of? - when a Christian is posed with this question, the answer from them would have to do with someone/thing that is external to themself 

when posed with the question of who imagination is tied to, the answer has to do with the internal self - “. . .if i spoke of your imagination, i am certain you will think of no one but yourself. could it be that your imagination is the God of scripture?” - cites a particular scripture from the Bible as proof, “‘. . .That I, even I, am He. . .I kill, I make alive. I wound, I heal. And there is none that can deliver out of my hand.’”

references accessing the mental plane (4d) to manifest desires - “Shut your eyes, close your senses completely, and you can reproduce it [your desires] in fancy.”

so, through these points, Goddard is basically stating that you are God. i recognize the magnitude of that statement, it’s lot to take in haha- - but it makes sense! especially in regard to the Law of Assumption. we are the creators of our reality, the “gods” that decide how things go through what we assume about ourselves and the world. - Goddard is very adamant on the idea that you are God, but for those who believe in a higher power, it would make more sense to believe that you are God-like; the concept can change slightly depending on religious beliefs - ultimately, Goddard is making us realize just how much power we wield as shifters / followers of the loa, it is akin to that of a god’s.

✦ your imagination is your reality :

the (mental, 4d) image proceeds the objective fact (the physical, 3d) - “. . .objective reality is purely produced through imagining. . .It is all within us. Our own wonderful human imaginations. . .”

the individual is the cause of the phenomenon of their own life, and possibly the lives of others around them - “You could be, if you are vivid in your imagination, the influence in the imaginations of unnumbered people. . .If they are passive, they fall under your influence. . .those who are not in control of their imagination. . .simply sway from side to side as you in control move them.”

this take reminds me of how anything, from how false narratives created by the media to cult leaders, can literally construct new realities for people who trust in their words. people who are not willing to question the sources they get their information from live in a distorted reality created by a person who tells them what to perceive and believe in. - Goddard goes on to reference dictators as an example of this, “If you can’t do it, and some dictators have tried to do it, they’ll bring in their propaganda machines, and then they try to force Man into a certain shell, into a certain state. And quite often they succeed, up to a point. But you, without the aid of any machine in this world, you can change the structure of your world by the control of your own wonderful human imagination.”

once again, this is a loaded and frankly frightening realization, but it all leads back to the fact that we have access to a power that is incredibly far-reaching and influential. our ability is limitless.

✦ how to use this ability :

Goddard explains how “reason” (the 3d) can initially interfere with one’s assumptions and becoming aware of a desired reality. but as long as one is persistent in their belief, the 3d will change into objective reality. - “You can sit down in this very moment and begin to dream the most glorious dream in the world, concerning yourself. At the moment of the dream, reason denies it, your senses deny it. But if you dare to assume that assumption. . .and persist in that assumption, it will harden into fact.”

defines the Law of Assumption as: If I dare to believe that what I have said will come to pass, and not question it. . .it will come to pass. - “. . .if you really believe it, you can start now—this night—and change the world in which you live. . .What would it be like if it were true? If I am now the man I would like to be, or the woman I’d like to be?”

brings up the importance of once again ignoring the 3d until you have reached your desired reality. - “‘I resolve to be…’ and you name it. Not based upon the evidence of your senses, or what reason dictates, but a wish on your part.” - references Shakespeare quote: “. . .he which is one who wished, until he were. . .I am the man I wanted to be, it began as a wish." - “Your imaginal activity is actually producing objective reality.”

Goddard literally explains that shifting to a different locational desired reality is possible with the following quote: - “Man must be wherever he is in imagination. . .so I will simply imagine myself to be elsewhere, if that’s where I want to be.”

persistence in the belief of the new assumption is key to making it manifest in reality 

“It is entirely up to us, what are we going to do with this creative power of the world, when we ourselves are that power?”

✦ conclusion (my additions) :

honestly, it feels a bit egotistical at first when realizing the fact that you have always had a god-like ability, and you’ve never had to work to access it, because the power literally is *you* (well, technically your mind, but ykwim). - the Law of Assumption literally places yourself on the same level as a divine being- it’s insane to try to comprehend that.

but it is true, because you have the power to create- you’ve always had the power to create, and now that you’ve become aware of that, the options on what to create are limitless. - i think that humility is an extremely important trait to maintain regarding the use of loa. it is an honor to be able to know about this ability and the endless possibilities that come with it, and it should be used in a responsible manner.

as long as you are persistent in your assumptions, believing in them no matter what your physical surroundings show, you will find yourself in your desired reality. it really is that simple. again, there are no limits to what you can create.

i feel like this lecture has a “with great power comes great responsibility” vibe to it lol- like especially at the end Goddard is really trusting that we will do good with this information. - i think if he knew that the majority of those on shiftblr are using this knowledge to pursue their passions, experience magic, cuddle with their s/o, and engage in generally positive and fulfilling activities, he’d be proud. 

— — — — — — — — ✿ — — — — — — — —

this lecture was great to listen to! the loa is something that i’ve only recently become aware of, and it’s already helped me so much in terms of how i look at and go about the process of shifting. it’s made me realize that it really is that easy.

if you have any questions about these notes / the actual lecture (which i've linked as a content source- lmk if you have trouble accessing it), feel free to ask via the comments or "ask me anything!"

𝜗𝜚

[cozymochi]

Hi it’s🍍 anon again! Hope you’re having a good day/night!

I’d love to hear your yap sesh, but which events do you see your ocs participating (being coerced) in?

Tia’s a given since she’s the prefect she’ll be in every event (being the absolute girlboss that she is)

ITS MORNING FOR ME SO I GOT ALL DAY. Well it was when I started writing, lmao.

For the main in-game events we’ve seen? None. Well, excluding Scary Monsters, Beanfest and Port Fest. But, those are like, school-wide participation with mobs so that doesn’t really count, does it? Also Master Chef/Culinary Crucible I can also see happening since that’s also a school thing. …And maybe Spectral Soiree but like, the entire school got kidnapped to sent to the ghost realm for a party, so that probably doesn’t count either. 💀

(I am very much treating them as NPCs who have virtually nothing to do with whatever the main cast do, since… well, they are NPCs in the grand scheme. …With faces.)

With existing events, it’s hard to say, because if it isn’t a schoolwide event, my brain automatically will take in the reality that they well, weren’t there. At least not as mains. But, chalk up my hesitance mostly being from my distaste of throwing characters into situations they weren’t initially present for. If I do do it, I’m very much a “if something gets added in, something else needs to be cut out” for balance reasons. With exceptions of course. I’m not hyper strict “grrr canon this canon that”, I just think having limits nets better results for creative problem solving.

…Though, If I’m reading vignettes, I do sometimes slot the boys onto faceless NPCs if it makes me lawl.

You cannot tell me that the faceless guy who tripped in Diasomnia and almost sent a plate flying into Malleus’ face wasn’t Cecil sakshshgshsvj (See: Sebek’s Tsum)

BUT… If Fairy Gala having a “Remix” taught me anything, and the many many Halloween events, it’s that completely alternate versions of previous events starring different characters can happen and just kinda be there. I think it would be very funny if they had tsums, that’d be chaotic. It’s a little easier to work with if it’s an alternate version of an existing event or say, a seperate starter concept or Hometown events.

…

OKAY PREAMBLE OVER, NOW FOR THE REAL CRUD.

Optional further reading of my dumb conceptual yapping under cut.

[THESE ARE ALL THEORETICAL CONCEPTS. There are no visuals and virtually no stories beyond extremely early pitches. It’s not clear if I’ll ever act on these. Some more likely than others but, it’s hard to say. No promises.]

Cecil Mugwort

> Revenge of Pumpkin Knight (After-Halloween Event?)

Piggybacking off of the original Scary Monsters and taking place the night the festivities end. Featuring Idia’s beloved B-List movie, Pumpkin Knight. Except, the “Sleepy Hollow” allusions are at the forefront. Fun and games are over, it’s time to do some real scaring. Especially towards plebs who can’t respect good material if it bit them in the face. Aside from that gambit, the plot of this is currently murky.

I just want Cecil to the Ichabod Crane in this situation who is going to be the main brunt of an extremely elaborate prank by Idia. (He has partial inspiration from Ichabod, not huge, but I did look at him in terms of vibes.)

Cast not established.

> Unnamed Mage Competition (Cecil Hometown: Currently unnamed village, Shaftlands.)

There’s a magic competition of some sort in his quaint little hometown. He drags some school peers with him. I do not have the details for this sorted out, but a theme about siblings is something I’d like to be present. That, and learning about Cecil at a more personal level outside of school. As of now it’s mostly referencing two different eps of Sofia the First, but mushed.

Cecil’s older fraternal twin sister, Claudia, would be introduced.

Potential Cast: Jade, Cater, Silver, MC/Grim

> Sam’s New Years Sale

It’d be funny. Put him in retail.

————

Nyoka Wadjet

> Unnamed event (Nyoka Hometown: Currently unnamed city, Sunset Savanna)

I do not have the details for this sorted out. Something about the Wadjets in particular and some sort of weirdly specific holiday maybe. It also involves exploring the reptilian culture in Sunset Savanna.

The new face that could be introduced is not established yet, it’s still up in the air. There are no names or designs yet.

Nyoka’s personal attendant would be introduced.

Potential Cast: …being reworked.

> *reads smudged hand* Sam’s New Years Sale also

Put him in retail.

————

Emilio Estrada-Alvarez

> Unnamed “Carnaval” event (Emilio Hometown: Shining Peninsula, *Unknown Country).

Emilio finally relents to his cousins pestering, and opts to return home for a big ass Carnaval. This really huge country-wide event with loud music, food everywhere, competitions, costumes and all sorts of good times. Most notable for the bedazzling lights implemented throughout. In his town it’s about celebrating light and love between others of all kinds and how it’ll shine forever or something. It’s meant to reflect the standards set by a Queen from legend who wielded a scepter whose love for others and her people was said to be able to control light itself.

This year his cousins family is spearheading the event in his town. She’s more swamped than usual since it’s her first time doing that, and wants Emilio’s help. And Emilio, being the dip he is, drags others with him. Though given who he chose, he might be trying to prove something. Also being crowned King of Carnaval is cool, maybe he wants that. Shenanigans ensue. As any hometowns go, Emilio will be explored further outside of school.

Emilio’s cousin Marisol would be formally introduced.

Potential cast: Ortho, Jamil (maybe), Malleus, MC/Grim

Shoutout to my various consultants who are not on tumblr.

> Unspecified “Día de los Muertos” type event. (Halloween Event? location not established)

Exactly what it says on the tin. No real further info here beyond that because it’s the most obvious thing. It would be very relevant to Emilio in particular on a personal level. Shoutout to dead parents. I might not do this though.

> Port Fest Alternative Remix

Something about boats now, probably. He likes sailing and is competitive.

——-

[maxdibert]

Hello :))

I was reading some of your posts and I found them very interesting and educational, so I decided to ask.

What do you think Severus' relationship with the other DEs was like and how do you think it changed from the first war to the second? Cause I think thats another place where the power dynamics in Severus' life were very strong. Also why would Voldemort give the "poorest and least relevant", in terms of status, of the Death Eaters a favor as great as forgiving Lily? Did Voldemort have a different relationship or perception of Severus than the ones he had with/of thr others?

I think the similarities between Tom Riddle and Severus are enough to generate an involuntary respect from Voldemort towards another halfblood who was trying to get out of the mud he had been pushed into. I say involuntary because Voldemort would probably never want to admit that he sees his "old self" reflected in someone who is considered pathetic by the rest of the society he frequented (blood purists).

Reading some of the Sirius' posts I was thinking that Bellatrix's vision (in the second war especially) of Severus could be a lot like the one Sirius/James had, torn between that sense of superiority that was taught to them and the insecurity of knowing that somehow the halfblood was gradually taking away the place of other purebloods way more important (Lucius and all of the pureblood who were not in the inner circle) next to their lord. Why does Voldemort allow this displacement? What does Severus provide (aside from the information, he is a spy but I belive he could had leave Severus out of it and keep him just as an informant I he really wanted to) that no one else can give him?

This is longer than I expected, but just wanted to know what you think and Im not sure if you already talked about this. Hope you are having a good day I love your posts🫶

This is quite an interesting topic. Personally, I think of Severus as the Slytherin equivalent of Remus or Peter: someone who associated with the strongest out of necessity. Probably people like Lucius (who was older and likely already involved in shady things) must have noticed his potential. On top of that, it was obvious that he wasn’t someone with many social skills, and it was also apparent that he didn’t have many resources, making him perfectly manipulable. Severus was someone who wanted to fit in and find a safe space, and in exchange for that, he was probably willing to "sell" his talent. No wonder spells like Levicorpus became widely known throughout the school. Some people theorize that maybe someone else read the Potions book, but I think it’s more likely that Severus shared his magical successes with his housemates as a way to gain validation and respect as a wizard. His housemates probably used his spells here and there, and that’s how they spread. That seems the most logical to me.

I think the dynamic must have started and continued as something very paternalistic, like, “Let’s take in this one here who has no name or bloodline but has a lot of talent and is willing to do anything for us.” This is very common in gangs, cults, or religious groups: welcoming highly vulnerable individuals and exploiting their gaps and needs. And in this, I think Lucius probably played a significant role, judging by how, throughout the saga, various characters reference how well-regarded he is by Severus. In my personal headcanon, I think Lucius saw potential in Severus and wanted to make him his project: turning the poor boy who didn’t even have a penny to his name and was of mixed blood into someone who could demonstrate that, through effort and the "right" ideas, he could become “useful.” Kind of like the token figures that far-right parties use to excuse their racism and misogyny, saying they have racialized people or women to justify their positions. A way of proving that the problem isn’t the people themselves but rather their unwillingness to "adapt."

This idea holds a lot of weight in my imagination because I think that, in those early years, if someone could set the premise that someone like Severus should be respected in his house, it had to be someone who commanded respect within it. Lucius was older, had been a prefect, had a name and power, and the relationship between the two characters suggests that he could have been a sort of “mentor” to Severus. This would also explain his close relationship with Narcissa and how she knew how to get to his house without any trouble.

The issue with Voldemort is more complicated. Maybe Voldemort saw his talent and found it useful. Severus was an expert Occlumens to the point where even Voldemort couldn’t read his mind, a potions genius, and an excellent Legilimens. Perhaps he primarily valued the talent of his followers, seeing them as tools to achieve his goals. Maybe he thought it was a trivial matter to grant Lily the chance to live if it meant keeping one of his most talented followers happy. What’s clear to me is that, due to his inability to understand others’ emotions and feelings, Voldemort underestimated Severus’s request. Maybe he thought it was just a crush and that Severus wanted to shag her (I think this because of his comment about Severus supposedly having plenty of purebloods to choose from) and that once he got what he wanted, he’d move on. Typical horny young people stuff. I don’t think he stopped to consider the deeper implications of that request because he wasn’t someone who could see beyond his own navel, and he tended to underestimate his followers. I don’t blame him; most of his followers were fanatics who were easily manipulated. It wouldn’t be strange to assume he lumped Severus in with the rest, thinking that given his background and the fact that he joined the Death Eaters under Lucius Malfoy’s wing, he was just an impressionable kid desperate for a father figure (like Barty, lol).

I think unconscious similarities might have played a role, although I don’t think Voldemort saw Severus as a reflection of himself because Voldemort is far too narcissistic for that. In fact, that narcissism is his greatest weakness since it blinds him to others’ emotions and leads him to make mistakes (Lily sacrificing herself for Harry, Severus betraying him for Lily, or Narcissa betraying him for Draco). In that sense, I think if Voldemort could have liked something about Severus, it would have been the fact that it was thanks to his talent and wit that he managed to position himself above people who had everything from birth. That and his disdain for his Muggle side due to daddy issues could also be part of it. Still, it’s hard to know because I don’t see Voldemort as very rational in this aspect—he’s more of a narcissistic psychopath. Perhaps he also thought that since Severus came from nothing, he might have more hunger for power than anyone else precisely because he had nothing, and maybe that appealed to him. Whatever the case, it’s clear that Tommy didn’t know how to interpret or deeply analyze people, at least not beyond what suited him. His massive ego caused him to underestimate more than one person, which later cost him the war.

Of course, Bellatrix couldn’t stand him. Bellatrix and Sirius are very similar and behave in similar ways, only Sirius has fewer mental issues and is on the "good" side. But both are impulsive, loyal to a fault, somewhat sadistic, and prone to letting their anger take over. In HBP, we can see how Bellatrix distrusts Severus and the way she can’t stand him. Obviously, it’s not the same kind of hatred Sirius has for him, but it’s clear they have a very strained relationship to the point where Severus enjoys being rather sassy with her and throwing some verbal jabs. It’s evident she doesn’t respect him because he’s a half-blood and is somewhat envious of his position with Voldemort. Meanwhile, he doesn’t respect her because he knows she’s a crazy fanatic. At least Bellatrix is more honest than her cousin and wouldn’t hesitate to admit that Severus’s origins pissed her off. Sirius, in that sense, was always far more hypocritical. I’m not exactly sure what Severus offered Voldemort to earn his complete trust, and I think it’s a shame Rowling took many things for granted in her story and didn’t bother to expand or explain certain parts because there’s a lot of material there. Referring to what I mentioned earlier, I think it likely had to do with a mix of the talent Severus had demonstrated in disciplines similar to those Voldemort mastered and the fact that Voldemort tended to underestimate those around him. Perhaps he thought Severus, given his background and history, was more susceptible to blindly following him.

(This turned out a bit long, almost Biblical—my apologies, lol.)

[breakfastteatime]

Greez has been disappearing into his cabin a lot lately. Whenever the ship is safely in hyperspace, autopilot engaged, Greez makes sure everyone has what they need in terms of food and drink and then just... disappears.

"Is it something we said?" Cal asks.

"No," Cere reassures him after a sip of her tea.

BD asks if it's because he accidentally tracked bogling droppings into the ship.

"No," Cere says without looking up from her datapad.

Cal and BD share a look. Both shrug.

"Do you know why he's disappearing?"

"Mmm hmm."

"You gonna tell us?"

"Nu uh."

"Thanks, Cere, that's real informative. Glad we had this conversation."

"You'll find out soon enough," she says. "Some things are worth waiting for."

The next morning, Cal awakens when something is shoved onto his head. Arms flailing, brain somewhere between a dream and reality, he finds Greez grinning and BD scanning at his bedside.

"Suits him, don't ya think?"

BD whoops and wags.

Cal reaches up and grabs what's on his head. A rush of emotions go through him, chief among them determination. I will teach this kid self-preservation if it's the last damn thing I do. It's a knitted hat, the blue and orange wool matching his poncho. He stares at Greez. "You made this?"

"Eh, my great-grandma taught me more than you know. No more running around ice planets without that hat, understood?"

Eyes wide, throat aching from the effort of not crying, Cal nods. "Understood." Somehow, his voice doesn't crack.

[alpaca-clouds]

About the Development of Myths

Okay, I will talk about more of the specific gods tomorrow again (starting first with the other gods from Stray Gods and then just looking over a variety of gods - I might start just with the greeks and then... venture into other mythologies). But first let me talk about the entire basis of what I have been talking about so far with the origins of Pan and Persephone: Their mythology is not a fixed thing.

Something that I would say education in general really fails on is properly expressing the amount of changes that cultures go through. I wrote about this before just in terms of history: There is not THE middle ages, not THE ancient Egypt, not THE ancient Greece and so on. All of those historical periods lasted for at least a thousand years. Now imagine that in like 500 years someone goes and looks at the 20th and 21st century as: "The World War and Globalisation period". Which I think there is a good chance this will at some point be known at (assuming we do not manage to eradicate our species before that, that is). Yet, you and I both know that if we were talking to someone from 1923 there would be very little we had in common.

Sure, this effect got massively accelerated thanks to the internet. But... You gotta have to assume that the Roman dude from 100 BC would also live in a very different world from the Roman dude of 200 BC. Because a hundred years is always going to involve a lot of change.

The reason we look at those old cultures as unchanging is, that they do not change anymore. And everyone who is neither working with that kinda stuff, nor is a complete geek, will just look at that culture as ONE FIRM THING rather than something fluent.

This is also true in terms of religion and related traditions, though we in the west are even more prone to it than other cultures. Because we do assume Christianity as this one thing. And the bible as this one unchanging thing. Hence the core believe is the same and, so the reasoning goes, was always the same. In fact, if you went to a religious school it is kinda how you were taught. The bible is one thing and always was the same thing. Only... It wasn't and even the basic we hve now does not matter.

Just look at the many Christian subreligions. They all in some way or form believe in Jesus, the one big God and all of that - but what they take from that widely differs. And the bible really does not have a big impact onto what ideals they hold and how they hold mass and how they pray and what not. If you think about it, you will easily see that, right? And if you just look a bit into what you might have learned about history in relation to Christianity, you will also know that this has changed. The role of Jesus has changed. How much the Holy Spirit is looked upon as an active actor. Which saints get venerated. All of that has changed a lot in just the last 50 years. And has changed a ton between the different countries.

And what I now need you to keep in mind that this was the exact same with the Ancient Gods and the religion attached to them. That holds true for the Greek Gods, the Roman Gods, the Egyptian Gods, the Norse Gods... all of them. The way they were worshipped changed over those thousand(s of) years they were worshipped.

So, let me once again talk about the Proto-Indo-European culture. Which is always a doosy and I love it.

The Proto-Indo-Europeans originates probably in the areas of modern day Ukraine and/or Romania and/or southern Russia some time around 5000 BC (scholars argue a bit about the exact temporal placement, just that it was somewhere between 7000 BC and 4000 BC). We do not really know a lot about them, because they did not write stuff down. But we do know that they had horses, were patriarchal, and that they worshipped a polytheistic pantheon that at least involved a Sky Father as one of the highest gods, who controlled the weather and was especially associated with storms and lightning.

These Proto-Indo-Europeans started breaking apart and travelling. Some into Asia, some into Europe and the Arabian/Persian areas. They brought with them their language and religion.

Now, it should be noted that they were not the "original humans" or anything. And that whereever they went... in most areas there were already other people living there, with whom they intermingled. Also whatever land they ended up settling was different, had different environments and this was included into their religious practice. Which made their religion over the years differ bit by bit. So from their pantheon sprang a lot of the pantheons we know today.

But... again, a lot of places they settled had already people living there. Who had their own worship. And that stuff often was also included and merged. Sometimes those other worships were very far reaching, sometimes very local. But some of those deities were picked up and either made part of whatever pantheon was there to come or was merged with an already existing god. And this happened again and again during the time that whatever pantheon was prayed to.

How do we know that, if it was not written down?

Well, mostly due to some archeology, but mostly due to comparative mythology and comparative linguistics. Two fields of science that basically involve people going over a lot of languages or mythologies (which, by the way, at times also includes fairytales and other oral narratives that are not necessarily held as "true", but still told) and basically finding things the reoccur. As well as going back over whatever written stuff we do have and noticing the shifts happening between a text written in 600 BC and a text written in 200 BC.

Now, for all the stuff we have two things that help a lot: a) The old Hindi writings and b) the written stuff from Egypt. Because both go really far back and were very well documented in writing. So basically we always can compare stuff to that and see shifts more clearly.

But, yeah... Technically all the pantheons are very much related. At some point Zeus, Jupiter, Diespiter, Thor, Tinia and Tian originated from the same character. You can even kinda see it in how similar the names are. Susanoo in Shinto-Mythology probably came from this, too, at least in the iteration we actually know about. (There can be some arguments made that a lot of the Shinto gods were shifted through the Buddhist contact, as the original indigenous Japanese cultures were very likely not Indo-European in origin. But given that the Ainu are the only culture whose oral tradition managed to survive this long, while the others either vanished or merged in a way influenced by Buddhism, which comes from Indo-European culture... yeah, it is there now.)

So, what I am saying: Mythology is shifting and always has been shifting. Same goes with religion. Hence the evolution of the Greek Pantheon.

Fun fact: Through comparative mythology we can also find the origins of YHW, the Abrahamitic god. Or God, as you might know him. He is a fascinating one, as he probably started out as a local god associated with harvest and weather in Southern Egypt and was then picked up by the Semitic cultures. He got a more pronounced role in the Canaanite pantheon, where at some point he merged with Baal, the war god. And through some trials and tribulations he finally ended up merging with El(hoim), the top god of the pantheon, with a part of the Canaanites splitting from the culture and developing into what would become the Jewish culture.

Super fascinating stuff. I love it.

[acti-veg]

18 Plant-Based Protein Sources

Protein is often raised as a concern for people considering adopting a plant-based diet, and because we’ve all been taught to associate protein primarily with red meat, this is not surprising.

It is estimated that most adults require a minimum of 56 grams of protein per day; you’re probably hitting that number now if you’re not in a calorie deficit. If you’re trying to lose weight and so are cutting calories then you may need to track your protein a little more closely, but 56 grams is very easy to hit without having to think about it.

It gets a bit more difficult if you’re very physically active, particularly if you’re engaged in regular endurance or strength training. There is a great deal of disagreement about precisely how much protein is ideal if you’re trying to build muscle, but 1g of protein per 1lb of bodyweight is very doable, which is the amount often recommended in bodybuilding circles. It is very achievable to hit even the upper end of protein requirement estimates using only plant-based foods, as demonstrated by the success of many vegan athletes. Listed below are particularly good options.

1) Lentils - Lentils are a cheap nutritional powerhouse, and provide about 17 grams of protein per cup. They’re also very flexible, you can have them as your main protein source of a meal, use them to substitute mince in a pasta dish, make burgers out of them, or put them in a stir fry or with rice and veg with some seasonings. They are cheap and convenient if you buy them canned, since they’re ready to eat, though I would recommend at least warming them up.

2) Chickpeas - Chickpeas are a popular vegan staple, and it’s not hard to see why. At approximately 14.5 grams of protein per cup, they’re nutrient-dense and very flexible. Use them to make hummus or falafel, as the main protein source of a curry, on their own with rice or worked into a salad. You can also just air fry/grill them with some oil and spices for a convenient, crunchy snack.

3) Oats - A cup of dry oats is around 11 grams of protein by itself. Making it with a cup of oat milk brings that up to 14 grams, throw in a tablespoon of peanut butter and you’re up to about 17.5 grams at breakfast, and all those ingredients are pretty cheap and very filling. You could add something like nuts or chia seeds as a topping to stretch that to well over 20 grams.

4) Nuts - Peanuts are 9.5 grams per ¼ cup, almonds are 7g, pistachios 6g, cashews 5g, hazelnuts 5g, brazil nuts 4.75g, walnuts 4.5g and pine nuts are 4.5g. You can buy 1kg bags of mixed nuts for a little bit cheaper and keep them in a jar for a healthy snack. I find it better to make your own mix, or buy a mixed bag that doesn’t have peanuts in then add the peanuts later, as mixes that include peanuts tend to work out as less for your money. Peanut butter is also a cost-effective way to add protein to many snacks and meals.

5) Beans - Depending on the type, beans are anything from around 10-15 grams of protein per cup. Some are better than others, like kidney beans, but even your standard baked beans are high in protein and very good for you. Turn them into a chilli, have them on toast, on a jacket potato, turn them into a bean burger or make them the protein base of a salad or soup. Kidney, soy, and edamame beans are particularly good options.

6) Seitan - When cooked, seitan closely resembles to look and feel of meat. It is made of wheat gluten and has 25 grams of protein per 100 gram serving. It is not very widely available in supermarkets, but try your local Asian market, where it will usually be cheaper as well. It’s a bit of a hassle, but you can also make your own at home, which is extremely cheap as it’s just wheat gluten, yeast, plant milk, miso, and spices.

7) Tofu/Tempeh - A staple in Asian cooking, don’t be afraid to try this one. Think of it as doing all the same things chicken does in terms of recipes, it soaks up the flavour around it. It needs to be pressed before use, or you can avoid that by just freezing it, then thawing overnight when you want to use it. 100 grams of tofu (less than half a small block) contains about 12g grams of protein, depending on the type. Some tofu, like Naked TooFoo, is pre-pressed for you.

8) Soy Chunks - Soy chunks come in a pretty unappetizing form that looks a bit like dried dog food. Just soak them in lightly salted hot water or vegetable stock for 15 minutes and they'll come to life, behaving like faux chicken pieces. You can then just cook, fry or bake them as you would with any soy product or tofu. They're much like tofu in that they'll soak up whatever sauce you cook them in. They're extremely cheap, have an amazing shelf life, and are a whopping 50g of protein per 100g. This is what I use to make the equivalent of that 'chicken, broccoli, and rice' meal high-protein meal that bodybuilders love so much.

9) Faux Meats - Faux meats are an easy way to add a protein base to your meal, and have the advantage of serving the same function on a plate as the foods you were used to before you went vegan. A Beyond burger, for example, has 19g of protien per patty, though you can get much cheaper options that have a similar nutritional profile. Pair that with a wholemeal bun and something like brown rice/quinoa and vegetables and you can create a very high-protein meal.

10) Grains - All grains are good for protein, these include quinoa, spelt, brown/wild rice, teff, amaranth, and sorghum. They can range anywhere between 5 and 8 grams per 100 grams, and you’ll usually be serving them with some sort of protein source. They’re also an excellent source of fibre and carbohydrates, which are also important for training and general health. Quinoa in particular provides all 22 essential amino acids.

11) Peas - Green peas are not mentioned much when it comes to high protein options, but a cup of cooked peas is a respectable 9 grams of protein, and it’s worth mentioning here because they tend to be used more as a side than main, so can be paired with other high protein options. They’re also very cheap, freeze well, and are easy to prepare.

12) Seeds - Just a tablespoon of chia seeds is nearly 3 grams of protein, and the seeds are so small and tasteless that you don’t actually notice them in anything you put them in, making them an easy way to add protein to just about any meal. They’re pretty cheap to buy in large quantities, particularly good to replace eggs in baking, to add to bread flour, salads and oatmeal. Other high-protein seeds include pumpkin, sunflower, linseed, hempseeds, and buckwheat.

13) Bread - Bread may not immediately come to mind when you’re thinking about protein, but wholegrain/rye/spelt breads can be very high in protein, anywhere from 3g all the way up to around 10g per slice, particularly for seeded loaves. If you really want to turn bread into a high protein food, invest in a bread maker or bake it yourself, that way you can add nuts, seeds and oats yourself to up the nutritional value. That’s just the bread too, a hummus and falafel sandwich with a high protein bread can be very nutritionally dense.

14) Fruit and veg - Worth mentioning here, as they’re something you’ll need to consume to maintain a healthy diet anyway, and some options have moderate protein. The higher protein options include broccoli, spinach, asparagus, artichokes, potatoes, sweet potatoes and Brussels sprouts, which all contain 4–5 grams of protein per cooked cup. Likewise, blueberries, guava, bananas and nectarines contain about 2-4 grams of protein per cup, as well as many other essential vitamins.

15) Nutritional Yeast - No vegan list is complete without mentioning it, it’s a vegan staple for its nutty, cheesy flavour, as well as being an easy source of vitamin B12. It’s a complete protein that has 8 grams of protein per 16 grams serving, making it an easy way to add more protein to things like pizza, pasta dishes, or a jacket potato. Use it to make cheesy sauces, or just sprinkle it on anything you’d have previousy added parmesan cheese to.

16) Protein Bars - They tend to be on the expensive side, but there are a few plant-based options. I’d recommend Misfit bars if you can get them online, they’re low sugar, 15g of protein per bar, and you can buy them in variety packs of 40 which works out cheaper. Trek also has protein flapjack bars, they're less protein (8-9g) but are much cheaper in packs of 3 and frequently available at a discount. Check your local health stores for their own brand versions too, some are very good.

Most brands won’t be suitable as a daily option for many people given the price, but they're great for when you need something to sate your hunger on the go when you'd usually reach for a chocolate bar or junk food. You can also just make protein bars at home using nothing but oats, cinnamon, baking soda, a little maple/golden syrup, and a couple of scoops of plant-based protein powder.

17) Protein Powders - If you're trying to substantially increase your protein but don't want to eat high quantities of food, protein powder will help you out Even the cheaper powders are around 18g of protein per scoop, so a shake is an easy way to add more protein to your diet, or you can stir it into oatmeal to get most of your daily requirements over breakfast. Add some peanut butter, chia seeds, a banana, and some plant milk to a shake to make them tastier and more nutritionally dense. I use the vegan protein powder by Protein Works, because I like the taste and the high-quality protein sources they use. There are plenty of other good (and cheaper) options on the market, though.

18) Meal Replacement Powders - Some meal replacement shakes, like Huel Black, are around 40 grams of protein per serving (2 scoops) even when made with just water, providing a cheap and easy way to have a high protein and nutritious meal without any preparation or fuss. This is the one I use, but a lot of the diet and meal replacement shake options are vegan and are generally high in protein. If you're trying to just add protein then a protein shake will be more cost-effective, but as a high protein replacement for an actual meal, they are good to have around. Note: I don’t accept sponsorship or commissions from any brand and I don’t have any affiliate links. Any product recommendations are based solely on my own experience.