#I’ve been constructing a story around her. I love her. she’s my everything.

[aria-greenhoodie]

HEY DO YOU GUYS EVER THINK ABOUT HOW ABIGALE BLACKWING, A VERY INDEPENDENT INVENTRESS, SUDDENLY WENT AND MARRIED A RICH MAN (implied to be a Northwest) AFTER THE COLLAPSE OF THE ANTI-CIPHER SOCIETY? DO YOU EVER THINK MAYBE THAT MARRIAGE WAS OUT OF A DESPERATE NEED FOR SAFTEY FROM BEING INSTITUTIONALIZED? DO YOU EVER THINK MAYBE ABIGALE FEELS SHE TRADED AN ASYLUM FOR FREEDOM OVER HER LIFE? HOW SHE’S STILL TRAPPED IN A CAGE BUT IN A DIFFERENT WAY? DO YOU EVER THINK ABOUT THAT!? BECAUSE I DO!

Anyway uhhhh Click for Quality.

[cvntluver444]

i’m your girl - ellie williams

ellie 📸 creds - s9ession on pinterest (and tiktok)

ellie williams x reader, slight!abby x reader

₊* summary : after catching your girlfriend cheating on you, your best friend ellie offers a little more than some much needed quality time together.

₊* warnings : smut minors dni, language, cheating, dom!ellie 🤭 sub!reader, light spanking, abby and ellie tensionnnn, slight ellie x cat, reader uses she/her pronouns, intended lowercase, bad writing, not proof read. if i miss any please let me know!! 🤍

₊* a/n : EEEEK hi everyone! this is my FIRST EVER FIC! don’t be fooled though, i’ve been apart of this lovely community for years and have loved reading all of your lovely works!! i really wanted to try and give this a shot because im a hoe and i have some crazy thoughts that i think need to be shared (this one really isn’t crazy this is like the third thing i’ve written so we are going to ease into it 🫡)

anyways i am so excited to share my first fic! it would mean the world if you guys left some positive feedback or constructive criticism so i know how to grow!! i’m also looking for new friends since i don’t post on here so if you want to be friends hmu 😋 i love you all!! again i hope beauties enjoy!!

🇵🇸 as always, please keep spreading information and support for Palestine! 🇵🇸

▹ daily click

-ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-

walking back from a study sesh, your bubbly laugh fills the halls of dorm as your best friend her story of a disastrous hookup.

“oh my god, ellie. that would happen to you,” you huff out, trying hard to calm yourself down. ellie chuckles while smiling down at you. “i can’t believe cat said a different name!” you couldn’t stop you laughter as ellie explained the awkward interacting with cat. your laugh was her favorite sound in the whole world, which is why she always loved to tweak her stories just a bit. she knew just about everything about you, so of course she knew what made you come undone in a fit a laughter. so maybe cat didn’t actually say someone else’s name. maybe ellie said someone else’s name. maybe she said your name. but you don’t have to know that.

“yeah ya know” she shrugs a bit and pauses. “maybe she just isn’t right for me,” ellie shrugs nonchalantly. “anyways, is abby gonna be in the room?” ellie questions.

“yeah hope that’s okay with you, i didn’t tell her we were coming back so early so she will probably just be in our room and out somewhere,” you explain, as you reached for your dorm room keys. living with your girlfriend in the same dorm room would have some calling you a bit risky, but you never had any doubts with your relationship with abby. you’ve been together for a year now, you trusted her, she treated you good, and you were even kind of starting to picture your life together. however; that daydream becomes a distant afterthought as soon as you open the door of your dorm room. in front of you is your, now ex-girlfriend, naked and on top of none other than the infamous cat who ellie has talked your ear off about.

“what the fuck” you whisper out, your voice coming out raspy as your eyes quickly start swelling up with tears and your throat swells up. abby and cats giggles soon turn into gasps and their heads fly towards your direction. you feel ellie come to your side and put her arm on your back. “why don’t we just step outside quick, baby,” ellie sadly begs you, her voice full of sympathy, but also anger. how could anyone take advantage of such a beautiful girl. her gaze lands right on a worries looking abby who is rushing to put her clothes back on.

“baby no wait look please just give me a sec let me explain it’s not what it looks like,” abby rambles out a bullshit story but you can’t hear anything around you. your tears now rapidly falling.

“what- what- what the fu-fuck abby!” at this point, you can’t control any emotions. it’s impossible to try and stop any tears now. you’re defeated, hurt, and feeling betrayed. you quickly spew out a few choice words at the two girls rushing to get dressed, but slowly relax and fall into the tall body next to you. she gently grabs your arm and drags you out the door, whispering apologizes and begging for you to focus on her as you still throw some daggers at abby. finally clothed, abby forgets all about the girl she was just fingers deep in and rushes out the door towards you.

“hey hey hey please just wait please” abby calls your name as ellie continues to guide you towards her dorm. you can’t even look at her as you continue to cuddle into ellie, who’s arm is gently placed around your figure, shielding you from your panicking ex.

“just fuck off abby you’ve done enough give her some space” ellie turns to yell towards the blonde who’s still right on your tail.

“you can shut the fuck up and stay out of this williams” abby barks back. “this is between me and her, and the last time i checked, she wasn’t your girlfriend.” ellie’s hearts cracks a little at the sentence, wanting none other to call you hers.

“well after the way you just cheated on her, i don’t think she will be yours very soon either,” ellie smirks. abby and ellie get pretty angry pretty fast, spewing out nasty things about each other and who can treat you the best. you were going to go insane. all you wanted to do in this moment was cry.

“ellie?” suddenly, ellie stops at the soft voice that just called her name. she saw you, teary-eyed, staring at her with the most heartbroken look on her face. her eyes softened and jaw unclenched. her heart broke at the sight of you, but still could not get over the fact that you still looked angelic. “can we please go?” you didn’t even have to ask ellie twice. she nodded her head and gave you a quiet ‘of course’ with a sympathetic smile on her face, but didn’t leave without staring the girl in front of her down. she then turned towards you and flung her arms over your shoulder. leaning her head on yours, you two walked together back to ellie’s room.

-ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-

the usual 5-minute walk back to ellie’s dorm felt like hours as it become harder and harder to hold back your tears. ellie didn’t speak one word to you, she understood that all you wanted in this moment was to be silent, knowing that if you opened your mouth once, you would burst out into tears again.

as you two reached her room, she gave a soft “hold on baby” and slowly released her grip on yours so she could unlock her door. you two entered an empty room thanks to dina, ellie’s roommate, visiting jesse at his campus. as much as you loved dina, you were so thankful you could just be alone with your best friend and cry. as soon as you heard ellie shut the door, it was exactly what you did.

as soon as she heard your heartbreaking sobs, ellie quickly rushed over to your side and engulfing you with her toned arms. she shushed you quickly and rocked back and forth, doing everything in her power to try and somehow make your beautiful face smile again.

“i can’t fucking believe her” you finally speak up after several minutes of silence and sniffles. ellie looks over at you, startled after not hearing your voice in a while. “we were together for over a year, we were literally living together in the same fucking room, like, where does she think i’m gonna go now? i’m not living there anymore i fucking hate her!” your sadness has now turned into rage and your slowly growing louder as your rant goes on.

“hey hey hey,” ellie tried to calm you down. “don’t worry about all that now, okay baby? you’re gonna stay with me, and you me and dina are gonna have a big slumber party and have pillow fights and make cookies and talk about boys.” ellie’s joke works miracles and brings a small smile on your face and a little giggle reaches ellie’s ears.

“there she is,” ellie smiles. “i missed that beautiful laugh.” you can’t help but get a little flustered at her comment. now that you were done with abby, your relationship was quickly forgotten when you remembered just how much you were in love with ellie before. you always thought she was so beautiful, and of course she always treated you like a princess.

when you finally worked up enough courage to speak, a quiet “i’m sorry, ellie” left your lips.

“what are you apologizing for baby?” ellie asks you with a confused look on her face. in the moment of catch your girlfriend fucking another girl, you totally forgot all about your own best friend and her crush, and how she was probably going through the same emotions as you right now.

“i’ve been being so selfish. i’ve only been thinking about me and my relationship that i completely forgot about your obsession with cat” you sadly smile and give her an apologetic look. you remembered all the times that ellie would gush about cat with you

“cats skirt looks so good” ellie seductively says to you while you grab your things out of your locker. you glance over to where cat was talking to two other friends at a locker bay across from the two of you. it is pretty cute you thought to yourself. you frown looking down at yours. just a plain boring white skirt.

or that one time when you two were putting off studying in your deserted dorm room

“wait stop scrolling! there! yes! let’s watch that one.” you questioned her on her choice because it was your favorite movie too and you didn’t think she would ever like it, considering she laughed in your face when you told her about it. “oh um i know yo- um it’s cats favorite movie.” ellie saves herself from almost admitting to you that she may have done a little too much stalking that night and found out a couple of your favorite things.

or the night of the frat party, the night ellie’s compliment to cat broke your heart so much, you’d call it one of the worst nights of your life.

“ok now my turn stop hogging,” you giggle at ellie and she shoves you away from the blunt. she finally hands it over and take a hit. you look around at the view of campus from on top of the frat house. “it’s sooo pretty up here, els.” you giggle as you blow the smoke out. ellie chuckles with you and you two burst into laughing. “oh my god how high are we,” you squeak out “ellie look and tell me how red my eyes are.” you’re suddenly staring straight at ellie, and in her haze she lets out a small ‘woah’.

“i uh i mean uh-“ she stutters out as you question what she meant and furrowed your brows. “i mean i was just looking into your eyes and thinking about cat,” she spews out “you know she just has eyes just like yours,” your small smile falls suddenly and confused brows now turn downwards. “uh yeah cats eyes you know they’re like a beautiful uh” while ellie tries to think, she then stares at you again and describes your eyes. cat has eyes like mine? i could’ve sworn they were different. your cloudy mind is not sober enough to realize what’s actually happening, instead your heart breaks even more, thinking that ellie has probably stared into cats eyes so many times she’s pinpointed every detail about them. once you two tossed out the blunt over the roof, you headed back downstairs together. still hurt with ellie’s rambles, you quickly get away from her as soon as your in the clear, leading you to meet abby. why is the worst time if it led you to meet your girlfriend? well, before the cheating, you would’ve had no idea why.

ellie’s hand in front of your face brings you back to reality, which is not fun. ellie is still sitting next to you on the couch and you have to ask her to repeat what she said.

“i was asking what you were apologizing for, baby. you were the one that got cheated on, not me.” ellie chuckles, but slowly realizes what she said. she see your eyes drop down again and the sadness returns to your face. while she’s quickly trying to come up with something to say to save herself, she stops when you stand upnn

“is it ok if i go use your bathroom real quick?” you sadly ask ellie, and she nods with a small smile on her face. you give her a quiet thanks and walk towards the shared restroom of ellie and dina. ellie brings her hands to her head and scolds herself. if you’re trying to make her feel better and give her a hint, this is NOT the right way to do it. she couldn’t shove down her feeling forever, but she also did not want to confess and risk losing you completely. she tried to clear her mind and think about what dina or jesse would tell her to do in this situation. while trying to focus, she could hear you shuffling around in the bathroom. she knew why you were really in there, she wasn’t stupid. thinking about that just made her feel ten times more guilty. she knew what to do.

-ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-

as soon as you go into the bathroom you lock the door and force the tears welling in your eyes to go away. you decided to wash your face with cold water to try and snap yourself out of your emotional roller coaster. you dry your face with the hand towel and turn to look at yourself in the mirror. you were still in so much shock at the events that happened tonight. you take in your messed up appearance and cringe. your bloodshot red eyes were not a pretty sight, and neither was the smudged mascara scattered underneath your eyes. you hope ellie wouldn’t be too grossed out by the way you look right now.

huhhhh?

woah okay the feelings are for sure back. you try to get yourself to look less dead inside by washing your face a couple more times. you opened the bathroom door and slowly walked back out to the couch. you sit back down next to her and put a blanket around yourself, meanwhile she is mindlessly scrollings through netflix trying to find something to watch before she stops on none other than you (and cats) favorite movie.

“oh hey what about this one” she looks over at you with a little smile on her face. you give her a confused look as to why she suggested this one, knowing it was cats favorite movie too.

“but, ellie, won’t that make you, i don’t know, sad?” you question. now she’s the one giving you confused looks.

“why is it like a sad movie or something? i didn’t think it was. i thought we could watch it because it’s your favorite movie and i thought it would make you feel a little bit better,” she smiles back. now you’re even more confused. for starters, she told you it was cats favorite movie, and also, you don’t even remember telling her it was your favorite.

“how’d you know?” you asked her. she replied with a little huh and you asked again. “how’d you know this was my favorite movie? i don’t think i told you that, and i thought it would make you sad because you told me before it was cats favorite movie.” ellie’s face suddenly turns from confused, to scared almost. she stated stuttering and couldn’t form a single word.

after a couple second of struggling, ellie says your name. “it’s not cats favorite movie. i don’t even know cats favorite movie. in fact, i actually don’t know a lot about cat in general.” she looks at you with an almost scared look. now she just completely lost you. when she realizes you still haven’t caught on, she finally begins to explain what she means after a long pause.

“it was never cat”. the room suddenly gets loud, very loud. your ears start to ring and your breath leaves your throat. you couldn’t believe it, again. the whole time you were pushing away your feelings for ellie, she was trying to do the same with her feelings about you. suddenly, you start thinking back to all the moments when you thought ellie was crushing on cat. slowly, more dots start connecting.

you glance over to where cat was talking to two other friends at a locker bay across from the two of you. it is pretty cute you thought to yourself. you frown looking down at yours. just a plain boring white skirt. you’re not the only one looking though. if you would’ve turned around to face your best friend again, you would’ve seen her also looking at your ‘plain boring white skirt’, grateful that she quickly replaced ‘your skirt’ with ‘cat’.

or that other night, after the blunt, when you were crying your eyes out to abby. ellie kicking herself outside and hoping, praying even, that you wouldn’t know the actual color of cats eyes, and that maybe you were even dumb enough to not know the specific details of your own (you were).

you wish you could go back and slap the old you in face, that way, you and ellie could’ve avoided this whole abby and cat mess and could’ve been together longer than you and abby ever would’ve been. now you’re staring up at, after she just confessed her feelings for you. you didn’t know what to say, well you did, you wanted to say that you felt the exact same was and you have since the day you met her, but you’re too slow so she keeps explaining to you.

“i’m sorry to bring it up, but when we walked in today, my heart broke. it didn’t break because i saw cat with another girl. it broke because i saw her with your girl, and i never knew anyone would ever be that fucking stupid to throw away someone as gorgeous, generous, and as selfless as you,” she pauses and you cry again for the millionth time tonight; however, this time the tears feel good. happy tears. she continues and says your name in the softest tone possible. “so again, it was never cat. it was you.”

“abby is not ‘my girl’” you cringe. ellie looks up at your quick response. “i always kind of hoped it was you.” you break apart your words, still scared to admit how you feel even though she just spilled her heart out. the response you got back though washed all your worries away.

“can i kiss you?” she asked quietly. you couldn’t believe it (x3). it was finally happening. every single event that happened up to this very moment has vanished from your mind. all you could think about was how you couldn’t nod your head yes faster. she gives you a beautiful grin before tucking a strand of hair behind your ear and gently gripping our chin to pull you closer. at last, your lips touched and it was everything you imagined and more. after you two slowly made out for a couple minutes, taking a couple paused to breathe in between, the kisses started turning more aggressive. you jump as you felt a soft touch on ur upper thigh. you relaxed once she placed her full hand on you and rubbed it up and down. you let out a soft moan which made ellie groan and trail kisses down your neck. you whined as you suddenly felt her pull back. her eyes looked right into your eyes, and she placed her forehead against yours. you two panted as you stared into each others sinful gazes. silence took over for a while before ellie suddenly interrupted.

“can i take you to bed baby?” you bit you lip and nodded, your innocent eyes locked on hers. fuck, you were perfect. it made ellie’s iris’ turn black, and she slowly guided you to her room, littering your face with teasing kisses on the way there. she sat you down on the edge of the bed and got on her knees, lips never leaving yours. her hands caressed your thighs once more, rubbing outwards so that your legs slowly separate. your lips follow as she pulls away to see your skirt has ridden up and she smirks, staring directly at your wet panties. “oh baby” she groans, her focus fully on your clothed pussy, begging to be touched. you lean back and tilt your head so you’re staring up at the ceiling, eyes squeezing shut and a moan leaving your mouth as soon as you feel small kisses going up you thighs. “love those fucking sounds, baby. you’re so angelic.”

“el’s. t-touch me,” you beg, but she light slaps your thighs and gives you a couple disappointments tsks.

“sweetheart, you gotta ask nicer.” she pouts up at you, malice in her voice.

“please, el’s, i need you to t-touch me please” you drag out, embarrassed that she has you this worked up and she’s barely touching you yet. she smirks up at you and her kisses get more sloppy the higher she goes, and finally, her mouth is hovering above your cunt, her hot breath purposely breathing heavy. she loved watching you whine and jolt under her touch. how crazy she made you go even with just a couple kisses. she loves how much control she has over you, and how well you listen to her.

“lift up your shirt, pretty girl. wanna see you play with your tits while i eat this pussy.” her words alone make you want to cum, but then it would be over, so you pull yourself together and do as she said. out of no where, you felt a long lick up you pussy, you body tightening suddenly and letting out a humiliatingly loud moan. “that’s right, baby. let me hear you. do i make you feel good? hm?” you shake your head vigorously, staring down into her green eyes staring right back up at you. she now loops her arms around your legs and spreads them further, making you squeak. “fuck, such a pretty fucking pussy,” she moans, and slowly starts licking up and down continuously.

you’re a mess. one hand gripping her hair, trying to push her even more into you, making ellie grunt, her own panties quickly getting wet at how bad you wanna cum. your other hand is placed perfect cupping your left tit, playing with it just like ellie told you to.

“el’s you’re gonna make me cum,” you whine, your eyebrows furrowed and voice raspy. you look so fucking sexy right now, and ellie tries her hardest to take a mental picture for later.

“yeah? you gonna cum baby?” she teasingly asks you and you whimper out a mhm. once again speechless with the way ellie is slopingly eating your pussy.

you suddenly feel a finger teasing your entrance before it slowly slips in. your moans groan louder, and her pace quickens.

“el’s, ca- can i please?” you beg, the knot in your stomach was growing rapidly. she lifted her head up for less than one second, a stern ‘cum’ leaving her lips, before she returns back to where her tongue was. you scream as you do, vision going black as ellie fucks you though your orgasm, fingers now rubbing even faster on your clit, causing you to completely come undone and cum all over her face. she doesn’t stop until you’re shaking and overstimulating under her. when she does, the only sounds in the room are your quick pants, and ellie’s bed as she moves to scoot closer towards you.

“woah,” you say, still trying to catch your breath. “that was..”

“way overdue” ellie chips in. the two of laugh and you move to lean you head on her shoulder. it’s silent again before you finally speak up.

“i don’t think i ever really thanked you for taking care of my today. i don’t think i would’ve been able to have this much fun today if it wasn’t for you,” you tell her and you feel her hands that were once in your hair, come around and lift your chin to give her a kiss m.

“you don’t need to thank me pretty girl, i wanted to take care of you.” her confession made your heart flutter. “plus i knew that maybe i might have a chance to finally fuck you,” she teases you and you hit her arm, jokingly sending her a scoff.

“you’re right by the way,” she finally adds on. you give her a confused look and hope she takes the hint to explain what she meant. “you’re not abby’s girl.”

“i’m not abby’s girl,” you repeat.

“you’re my girl,” she tells you, eyes never leaving yours, a small smile on her face.

“i’m your girl.”

-ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-

₊* a/n : ahhhh i really hope you guys liked it! 🤍 if you did please let me know because it would mean the world!

love you soooooo much MUAH

[bengiyo]

Peaceful Property: How I Yearn For a Good Procedural

I was originally excited about Peaceful Property because I genuinely like following BL actors into their other work to show that we are a loyal viewer base. Following Nishijima to Drive My Car (2021) was one of the best decisions I made that year. I’ve been thinking about the experience of watching Peaceful Property and why I felt so frustrated by the show. I wanted to write out my thoughts on procedurals, BL bait, and fandom so that I can move on from this show. 

The Loss Case-of-the-Week in Favor of Unearned Home Sympathy

My biggest struggle with this show was losing its case-of-the-week format around the midpoint. I was really intrigued in the early stories by how Home’s family’s business practices led to the terminal situations affecting some of the ghost stories. Like @lurkingshan I had hoped to see the show develop a common theme with its focus on stories about poverty. I also saw some potential in the read from @/maybe-boys-do-love after the episode focusing on Ride. No one was alone in this early read (@valentinaonthemoon). 

Through the end of episode 6, I had a ton of excitement about the show handling its themes around justice and forgiveness. We knew that Home was the one responsible for Peach's current predicament, and that Home’s grandfather and uncle were in on the cover up. Home knew what he had done to Peach, and fretted over it throughout episode 6. After five weeks of them focusing on completing a final act and providing closure for ghosts, I had hoped they’d give Home the chance to sit with the horror of the consequences of his own action and cowardice. I wanted the show to reckon with how Home, completely sober, left a stranger for dead, and only now cares about it because Peach is helping him feel less lonely.

Unfortunately, much of this frayed after the reveal that Home ran over Peach and the push to make Peach forgive him in the episode with the ghosts at the site of that camp. I didn’t share @respectthepetty’s read on the situation, but I did respect it and see how she got there. However, like @my-rose-tinted-glasses, it felt like the show started to rely on the inherent goodwill of shippers to overcome a major relationship break rather than deal with the underlying issues. 

I don’t think there’s anything inherently wrong with having the show turn to focus on how Home deals with Peach and Pangpang after the reveal that he left Peach for dead on the street, but I really struggled with the show not letting Home process the horror of what he did. This carries forward as we deal with the way Home’s family stole land from locals, and did not accommodate them through construction: something that had direct impacts on Kan and her father. By the time the show is forced to reckon with this, it handwaves it through Home with “You guys win! No problem!” (@twig-tea) It then goes on to give Home ghost sensing powers so he can rely Kan’s father’s final words which are just ‘get some friends?’ Now, I do think you need strong connections to survive activist work, but it felt really shitty to have the rich kid whose family caused all of this be the one to deliver this message. As with everything after Home’s biggest mistake is revealed, the show values the feeling of sympathy and forgiveness over the real work required for genuine reconciliation. 

Finally, the show jumps to the internal struggles of Home’s family in the final third of the show to focus on the destructiveness of their greed and its internal effects as well, but this feels like yet another unearned copout. The show works hard on the back half to pretend like the grandpa was just a silly old man, but there’s no way he doesn’t know what his people did to those communities, and he also knew exactly why Home was sent to America. The entire bit about the “family curse” in the last few episodes completely soured the show for me. It feels like the show even knows that, because it calls itself cringe through Pangpang when Home says he’ll “listen to those we’ve ignored.” Way to undercut the premise after giving Home the ability to hear ghosts. 

In the end, I found myself frustrated by the show turning to Newwie’s inherent charm to get us to want sympathy for Home rather than writing a genuine crisis in Home, and forcing him to grow. It feels poignant to me that the show thought it was funny to have Peach be mistaken for the help in Home’s house, and then later have Home and Peach independently decide to stay in Bangkok without talking to each other about it. Not talking about anything important was the big theme of their relationship after the hit-and-run reveal. The show did not reward any of us paying attention to its early themes on class (@lurkingshan).I never got the closure I needed here, and it’s the big sticking point of the show with me. 

BL Bait Kinda Sucks

As many of you already know, I don’t currently like what GMMTV is doing with branded pairs, and I think their shows are giving a warped view on found family narratives. I enjoyed following Off and Gun into The Trainee because they were playing a gay romance inside of a show that allowed for stories about a wider ensemble. I am really struggling with the conversation around the ways we apply queer readings to Peaceful Property because almost all of it relies on familiarity with Tay and New exclusively, and not anything the show did on screen. 

With this show, I’m struggling with the found family aspect and the moving goal posts. I don’t think Home agreeing to reinstate an onerous contract on Peach and Pangpang is a kind move from him. I also don’t know that the team basking in the glow of Home’s goodwill as the final shot is a great look either, and feels kinda paternalistic. We had a whole movie about people stuck sucking from the teat of a rich guy and how shitty that goes two years ago.

GMMTV creates its branded pairs so they can literally be used as a brand. They have these people working almost every day to sell something on socials, or at a fashion event, or appearing at an event. I wasn’t bothered by Tay and New working together outside of BL after the fantastic work they did in Cherry Magic earlier this year. I don’t mind them using their most popular actors to attract a viewer base that will follow them almost anywhere to ship them. 

I also actually like stories about the bonds between men. Currently, GMMTV is adapting School 2013 (2012) with High School Frenemy (2024). The broken relationship between two of the male characters there is incredibly well done in School 2013, and I do not think that show would be improved by making that an actual romance. I think they’re both fertile ground for shipping, but the show’s primary focus on the state of life in a failing school for the students and faculty is better served by the intensity of feelings over the broken bonds between men. People are still shipping Goblin and Reaper from Goblin (2016), but again, that story is actually better without an actual sexual or romantic connection between Kim Shin and Reaper. With Peaceful Property, I don’t think they finished the work of building and resolving this friendship between Home and Peach, and it leaves me wanting.

I share a lot of @italianpersonwithashippersheart’s general concerns around the commerce around BL with GMMTV. That being said, I don’t begrudge @respectthepetty and others having fun calling the show gay. What I’m struggling with is the difference between the shipping being satisfying versus the show being satisfying. I lost my emotional connection to this show when it failed to resolve the break in the middle. The back half of the watch is hollow for me, and I just can't let my willingness to ship Tay and New make up for that failure. 

I Need a Good Procedural

What I realized the most from watching this is that I need another good procedural in my life. The first half of Peaceful Property gave me some of that, but the back half did not. I enjoyed the performances everyone gave on this show, despite my lingering qualms with what the show chose to prioritize. I’m happy that everyone seems like they had a lot of fun working on this show, and I’m glad that the viewers clearly responded to that. This was actually a genuinely pretty show to look at, and I’m glad that GMMTV continues to embrace color in their shows this year (with a few glaring exceptions). 

With that, I will put this show to rest. This show ended up not being what I thought it was giving, and I’ll be moving on. I’ll see you all much later on future GMMTV works. 

[yuheartss]

𝐂𝐎𝐓𝐓𝐎𝐍 𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐘 𝐇𝐀𝐈𝐑

IN WHICH — saiki k meets a girl with a pink afro, she reminds him of cotton candy …

౨ৎ WC? 742 wordss

౨ৎ warnings! - fem!reader, fluff, unedited , lowercase intended!

౨ৎ a/n: I think I made him a little ooc but I hope not.. if I did please tell me! constructive criticism is welcome js don’t b mean₊ ⊹₊ ⊹

you always hung out with Kaidou, not because he was your only friend or anything— it’s just that he was just one of the people who didn’t give you weird looks about your skin or hair, you moved to Japan when you were in junior high and been here ever since your mum got a job transfer

today, kaidou was going to introduce you to his friends from his class, of course, you were very nervous you thought of the worst possible situations ever. What if they make weird comments about my hair?? You thought, twisting some of your curls around your finger

Kaidou seemed to notice your nervousness and patted you back, “don’t be nervous! My friends are great- not saying you aren’t, your like really great but- it’s just- you know..” you laugh at his attempt to cheer you up “thanks kaidou” you chuckled now getting up from the bench you were on

his friends finally showed up, a big guy with a strangely enormous butt chin, a pink haired boy who looks like he’s so done with everything, three girls (one which was glowing somehow??) a boy with red hair, and two other purple haired boys

“You sure do have a lot of friends Kai…” you muttered as he awkwardly chuckled, you stood up straight as a foot shorter yet glowing girl approached you with a brunette and orange brown behind her, the glowing girl took your hands in hers “your so pretty! I love your hair! What’s your name? I’m teruhashi kokomi!”

Teruhashi gave you a smile that blinded you for a bit but you could just see that her face screams not as pretty as me but your still good looking you gave her an awkward smile “hi.. I’m l/n y/n nice to meet you teruhashi and thanks!”

Teruhashi introduced the shorter girl as Yumehara and the girl to her left as chi sati she waved at you while she was scarfing down a double cheeseburger now this this is what impressed you she had a whole bag full just waiting to be devoured

Then teruhashi introduced the red haired boy, which everybody called him hairo so you will too then both of the purple boys greeted you themselves the firsts name was koboyasu and the second was Toritsuka; almost immediately they began to share both of their life story with you

You stood there with all your weight on your right leg slowly tuning out the boys and the rest of the gang why are they telling me their life story!?! I don’t care! You thought, whining softly underneath your breath someone nudges your arm softly you looked up at the also pink haired guy he nods his head at you and walks off “follow me” you hear a voice in your head

You turn back to the crew then at kaidou then you look back at the guy you hesitantly take a step forward “good grief..we’ll be back they won’t even know we’re gone” you pause for a sec and mutter an ok before walking away with him wait what if he kidnaps me?! What the hell am I doing—

“Don’t flatter yourself” he says, walking in front of you, your eyebrow twitched in annoyance to which a faint smile lands upon his lips “so where are we going?” You ask now walking side by side

“I was going to the convenient store before they showed up and dragged me along, so that’s where we’re going” he informed you looking at your hair, he must’ve been staring for a while because you noticed “what?” You questioned him getting a little defensive

“Your hair…” he began as he opened the door to the store for you “what about it?” You say following him as he went to get his snack of choice, he picked out some coffee jelly that came in three

He didn’t answer, you sighed and went to get a dessert too “you know…I’ve never even asked for your name..” you say just know realizing that you’ve been with this teen and never asked he turned to you as he payed for both of your treats “Saiki”

“Okay saiki, tell me what you were gonna say about my hair” you semi demand and quietly thanking him for buying the treat, you can clearly see him hesitating “just say it man” you hurry starting to get impatient

“….it reminds me of cotton candy”

[baby-yongbok]

Poetry

Chapter Two - It's a Date

Hyunjin x Fem!Reader

Genre: Fluff, dare I say slow burn? The type that tickles your heart.

Word Count: 2,661

A/N: Ya'll voted for a part 2 but I honestly would've probably made this a mini series regardless 😭. I love this story with my whole heart and I hope you do too. I decided that I'll be uploading the chapters for this series on Thursdays at 6pm EST. Anyway, Enjoy! Any and all feedback is appreciated!

Summary: That cute stranger that you met at your favorite bookstore cafe is anything but a stranger now.

Part One

✧Poetry Series Masterlist✧

✧Main Masterlist✧

(Reading part one before reading this is highly recommended)

“Six o’clock on the dot. We should start paying you for coming here.” Amanda, the cafe owner, joked as you walked through the doors of the small bookstore. 

“Yeah? I think I’d like that, I could use the extra money.” You smiled at her as you clutched a stack of books to your chest. “Oh, these are donations by the way. All brand new, my brother is cleaning out his office and business management isn’t exactly my cup of tea.”

You place the stack of books neatly on the counter in front of Amanda and she flashes you a genuine smile. “This is why you’re my favorite customer. Here, your next drink is on us.”

Amanda hands you a coupon that you gratefully accept. You’ve learned a long time ago that declining her offers is futile. “Oh and I think that someone is here for you.” 

She wiggles her eyebrows teasingly and you furrow yours. You turn around and a soft smile spreads across your face. Your eyes land on Hyunjin’s tall frame sitting cross legged at one of the free tables in the nearly empty cafe. An iced americano in one hand and a book in the other. 

“He’s been here for thirty minutes.” Amanda whispers over to you and your smile spreads wider. 

“Of course he’s early.” You shake your head, chuckling a bit. “Thanks for the coupon.” 

You wave your goodbye to Amanda and start to make your way over to Hyunjin who seems to be completely engrossed in his book. You steal a glance at the cover and raise your eyebrows at his current literary choice. 

“Life is so constructed, that the event does not, cannot, will not, match the expectation.” Your voice catches his attention causing him to sit up straighter as he takes you in with a smile. 

“You’ve read it?” He asks, referring to your quote as he places his bookmark and closes the novel. 

“I’m a bit of a Charlotte Brontë connoisseur.” You reply with a shrug. “I did my thesis on that novel for my senior year of college.”

“I’ll have to pick your brain about it once I’ve finished it.” 

You watch him as he stands and stretches a bit. You take a second to drink in his appearance, his orange and black crocodile print sweater and black slacks fitting his frame perfectly. You have no doubt that it’s expensive just like everything else that he’s worn during your Thursday evening meetings. Once he’s satisfied with his stretch he pushes in his chair and circles the table to stand in front of you. He holds a hand out to you and you slip your fingers over his slender ones. He brings your hand up to his mouth and kisses the back of it gently, a grin pulling at his lips. 

“You look lovely tonight.” He looks you over slowly, taking in the form fitting glory of your black pencil skirt and the contrast it has to your baggy maroon sweater tucked in just in the front. 

“You say that every Thursday.” You playfully roll your eyes and Hyunjin smiles, shaking his head in agreement. 

“Because you look stunning every Thursday. I can’t wait to see you on a Monday or a Tuesday.” You blush a bit, looking away from him in an attempt to hide your reaction. 

The two of you have been meeting at this bookstore cafe, Adore, for two weeks now, today being the third. You’ve found yourself planning your outfit for this day of the week as soon as you wake up on Friday. Each time that the two of you say goodbye you can’t help but to think about the next time that you’ll see him and all of the questions that you’ll ask him. Hyunjin was no different, he found himself thinking about you like a teenager who just asked their crush to prom. His roommates started teasing him for the extra work that he’d been putting into his appearance. Every Thursday he’d spend an extra thirty minutes in the bathroom making sure that his hair looked just right since you complement it every time you see him. He’d gone on for about an hour asking his roommate Felix for his opinion on different colognes even though he normally doesn’t bother to wear any. He even took on an earlier work schedule so he’d be available for your meetings. Anything to see you again. 

“Thank you.” You whisper and he nods in response. He grabs his bag from the back of his chair and packs his novel away before grabbing his drink. 

“Shall we browse?” You nod your head, lacing your fingers together behind your back before taking a step forward. It seems that you both had the same idea since the two of you bump into each other softly. You both chuckle lightly and Hyunjin moves his free hand to the small of your back to guide you in front of him. “Ladies first.” 

His words come out in such a whisper that you could barely hear him but that could also be due to your heart thumping in your ears as a chill runs over you. You shake your head trying to play off your reaction to the small physical contact but you can’t help it, his touch is electric. The two of you trail off into the poetry section and you know exactly what you’re looking for. 

“I take it that you have someone in mind?” Hyunjin asks with a curious glance as you browse the shelves. You nod, your gaze never leaving the organized spines lined up on the shelves. 

“There!” You reach forward quickly, plucking the book from the neat stack and holding it up to show Hyunjin. 

“Rupi Kaur, I can’t say that I’m familiar with her.” Your face twists in disapproval causing a small chuckle to fall from Hyunjins blushed lips. “Why don’t you introduce me to her work.” 

“ If you like R.H. Sin then you’ll love her.” You look down the aisle both ways to make sure that no one is around before kneeling down and sitting on the dark carpet. Hyunjin looks down at you with furrowed brows as you take off your bag and place it next to you. Once you’re settled you look up at him returning his confused expression. “Are you coming?”

You pat the carpeted floor next to you and Hyunjins confused stare quickly melts into a gentle look of admiration. He nods his head before joining you on the floor, sitting next to you with his back resting lightly on the book shelf. He glances over at you as you study the hardcover book in your hands, your fingers tracing over the embossed words. He takes in the steadiness of your breath and the way you hum ever so slightly when you notice a new detail on the cover. He doesn’t notice the grin that’s creeped across his lips until you look up at him, he looks away quickly as a blush creeps across his cheeks. You mimic his actions, blushing a bit yourself. A few seconds of quiet surround the two of you before Hyunjin breaks the barrier. 

“May I?” He asks, gesturing towards the hardcover in your hands. You let out a deep relieved sigh and nod at him. You hand the book over to him, the tips of your fingers brush lightly against his and you both still momentarily at the contact. You both had to have felt that shock run up your spines right? The two of you decide to shake it off quickly, concluding that it was merely a case of static electricity. Hyunjin looks down at the book in his hands, turning it over and taking in the words on the back cover. He clears his throat a bit before reading the text on the back.

“This is the recipe of life, said my mother as she held me in her arms as I wept…” You listen closely to each word that his voice carries. Sinking into your own little bubble, this time that the two of you reserved every Thursday served as a calming ground for the both of you. Nothing else mattered right now, the only thing that exists is the two of you and the poetry that you shared. 

“The sun and her flowers.” Hyunjin read the title as he flipped the book back over to its front. “I have to admit that I’m very interested.” 

He opens the book to its contents and reads off the name of each section. “ Wilting, Falling, Rooting, Rising, Blooming.”

You nod as you look over the grayed out page with him. “Which section do you think you belong in?”

Hyunjin looks over at you, a bit taken back by your question. Your large doe eyes stared back at his shining narrow ones patiently waiting for his response. “Uh, I don't really know.”

You nod, catching on to his hesitance. You look forward for a second, your eyes mindlessly scanning the spines of the books in front of you before you do what you wanted to do last Thursday. Slowly and carefully you lean your head to the side gently resting your temple on his shoulder. You feel him tense a bit at the sudden contact but he quickly relaxes into your touch even leaning over a bit to give you better access to his shoulder. 

“I think that right now I belong in falling.” You watch as Hyunjin silently flips through the pages before landing on the first page of the section you mentioned. He licks his lips before reading the poem. 

“I notice everything I do not have and decide it is beautiful.” He lets out a deep sigh that he wasn’t aware that he was holding before shaking his head. 

“I think that maybe I belong here too.” 

His fingers run over the picture placed under the poem, imitating pencil strokes as he studies it. You turn slightly to look up at him, studying his slow blinks as his brown orbs focus on the page. The gentle air escaping his nose tickles your lashes as he exhales but you don’t dare blink, too afraid that you’ll miss a moment of him. What is this that you’re feeling? 

“But I don’t think that I can say that everything that I don’t have is beautiful, not yet.” His eyes don’t leave the page as he continues to imitate the abstract strokes. “Well, there is one thing that I don’t have.” 

His words come out in a whisper and his gaze suddenly shifts over to you. His brown orbs are looking deep into yours. Your breathing picks up slightly as you will yourself not to look away.

“And it’s definitely beautiful.” His gaze is intense yet soft as he looks over your features. You notice that his eyes wander over your lips a bit longer than everything else before meeting your eyes again. “I guess I have to convince myself that I deserve beautiful things.” 

He lets out a light sigh and you can’t help but to bring your hand to lay on top of his. 

“You are more than worthy of beautiful things, Hyunjin.” He grins down at you gently before tearing his gaze away from yours. 

“Perhaps I am.” He whispers more to himself than to you. Suddenly he lets out a deeper sigh as he closes the book. “Have you eaten yet?”

You return his sigh as you lift your head from his shoulder. You can’t help but to wonder what he meant, why would he think that he doesn’t deserve to indulge in beauty? You shake the thoughts from your mind, not wanting to ruin your Thursday night with him. “I haven’t”

“Would you like something?”

“I can make something when I get back to my place, money is a bit tight for me right now.” 

“My treat.” He hums out simply as he studies the spine of the hardcover in his hands.

“I’m alright.” You chuckle and he looks over at you with a bit of concern drawn on his features.

“Really it’s no problem. I know that I pay every Thursday but it makes me happy that I can provide you with something as small as refreshments every week. It gives me peace of mind.” You blush a bit at his confession, so he does think about you as much as you think about him.

“Well if it means that much to you..” He smiles down at you with a nod.

“It does.” He shifts suddenly as he moves to stand. He holds his hand out to you and you take it, allowing him to help you up. “They make an amazing tomato caprese sandwich here.” 

“I’ll try it.” He nods at you happily before taking the lead out of the aisle. You follow closely behind him when suddenly you remember something. “Oh!”

You catch Hyunjin’s attention as you walk up a bit faster to stand beside him. You rummage through your bag until you find what you’re looking for.

“I have a coupon for a free drink!” You muse excitedly and Hyunjin can’t help but to laugh at your sudden elation. 

“Keep it, I appreciate it but I’ve got this.”

“Oh come on! Let me help.” You pout a bit as the two of you reach the register and Hyunjin puts in the order for the two of you, he’s already memorized your drink order so little discussion is needed. Once your order is placed and paid he turns to your pouting face with a warm smile.

“You know what? There is a way that you can help.” He slides his hands into the pockets of his slacks and you perk up a bit as you listen to him. 

“Anything.” You smile up at him, wide eyed and eager to be of use. 

“How about next Thursday we… meet outside of this place. Maybe I could take you on a date?” 

A deep blush creeps onto your swarthy cheeks as his question sinks in. Your lips pressed together in a thin line and you shift the position of your feet slightly. Hyunjin looks down at the dark tile nervously as he waits for you to say something, anything. His nerves began to creep up his spine, spewing doubt into his mind. Just as he was about to retract his offer and apologize you let out a breathy chuckle. 

“I’d really like that.” A toothy smile spreads across his face once he hears your response and you instantly wear one to match once you take in his reaction. 

“Uh, great! I’ll text you the details.” He takes his hand out of his pocket, offering his phone to you. “I can’t believe we haven’t exchanged numbers yet.” 

A shy chuckle escapes him as the two of you exchange phones and input your numbers.

“There you go.” You hand his phone back to him, your giddy smile still present on your red painted lips. 

“Alright, well um, I’ll text you everything you need to know once I plan it.” He says as he stares down at your contact for a second too long, he bites his lip slightly to try and hold back his smile. 

“It’s a date.” You both stand in front of each other smiling like enliven children at an ice cream parlor. “I’ll go grab us a table.” 

Hyunjin nods at you as you turn on your heels and make your way to your usual booth. He watches you as you walk away from him with awestruck eyes. He allows himself to smile now that you aren’t looking, his eyes turning into shining crescents as excitement builds inside of him. He glances down at your contact one last time before locking his phone and stuffing it back into his pocket, He glances over at you before turning to face the cafe counter and whispers to himself.

“It’s a date.”

← Previous Chapter ♡ Next Chapter →

[katiemcsuper]

some very disorganized thoughts about the agatha all along finale to scream into the void:

- if there is a second season/a continuation of agatha’s story, i really like the ending. i think it concluded the overall arc of the season well while leaving things open to be further explored. i feel like agatha is a complex character and change/growth for her would be much more satisfying over a longer period of time; to me that seems more realistic/satisfying. similarly, i think the story between her and rio needs to play out with more time. i think the season played out the arcs of the other coven members well and i think it set billy off onto the next stage of his life/story

- i really want to delve more into rio and her relationship with agatha. from what we’ve seen, particularly in these last two episodes, she really did nothing wrong. she was, as she said, doing her job with nicky and even then she broke the rules for agatha. and it is so heartbreaking and tragic love story for her to do all that and for agatha to hate her despite/because of that. i don’t remember the specifics, but there were a few lines where rio expressed disappointment and, to an extent, confusion over agatha’s treatment/rejection of her. in many ways she seems resigned to the fact that agatha will have this element of hatred towards her that can’t be avoided

- agatha is just such a juicy character and kathryn hahn plays her so incredibly well. she is so straight-up awful and also so tragic and also just obnoxious but charming. i love the way all of these traits coexist. and, to my earlier point, this is why i feel like it would not really be satisfying to have her arc be fully resolved in the time available in this season

- if aaa is indeed just a miniseries and these characters don’t show up again/agatha is around only to support billy’s plot then that will be very disappointing. at the same time, though, i thought the show was really well-constructed and well-executed, but as it stands, billy was ultimately the main character instead of agatha. and i don’t think that negates the value of the show or its depiction of agatha, particularly in regards to lesbian rep, but it is nevertheless a bummer. but i am holding out hope for more

- i’m very interested to read jac’s episode recap interviews and see what all she says

- i so much enjoyed the experience of watching this show. i’ve been so engaged and excited to watch it and it’s lovely to feel that way, especially for a marvel show on disney+. regardless of how everything plays out it is so cool (and also shocking) to have a show at all that is centered around middle-aged women and queer characters, especially from these companies. and i love love love kathryn hahn and she makes the character and the show and it is so lovely that she is getting her flowers.

[candycandy00]

Roses in the Sky - An Original Alien x Reader Story Part 3

In a future where humanity huddles in decaying domed cities controlled by alien invaders, you and your best friend Anna work as make-shift nurses in a tiny clinic run by the young doctor Terrian. The city is ruled by the aliens' violent, half-breed offspring who serve as brutal overseers. You and Anna have always tried to avoid these overseers at all cost, but your life is changed when one of those same terrifying offspring is brought into the clinic, injured and unconscious.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10

This is an original Alien (well half alien) x Fem Reader story! I hope everyone who enjoys my fanfiction will give this a shot! Any feedback whatsoever would be loved! I’ve already written this story so it’s not going to delay my fanfics. Just thought I might post chapters of this between fanfics if anyone is interested.

Slow burn, as this is a novel-length story, but there will be smut in later chapters! Also: violence, blood, rape attempts, death of side characters, etc.

You stood outside Anna's door the next morning, holding the little girl's hand. When the door opened, Anna looked curiously at her. "Who's this?"

"This is Miranda," you told her. "Her parents were attacked by half-breeds last night and she ended up with me. I thought you two should meet."

Anna stared down at the little girl, who was looking at her feet as she squeezed your hand. "Oh," Anna said, then dropped to her knees beside the girl and wrapped her arms around her.

Miranda's hand slipped free of yours and her little arms went around Anna, struggling to return the hug. Her body began shaking with sobs and she cried loudly into Anna's shoulder.

"It's okay, honey," Anna murmured, tears forming in her own eyes. "I'll take care of you now."

You stood back silently until Miranda stopped crying and Anna led her inside, then you followed the girl into the apartment.

Anna's place was cute and quaint, reminding you of the pictures you once saw in old home improvement magazines Terrian used to keep lying around the clinic. You didn’t know how she kept it so clean. The walls and furniture were faded, but had clearly been very bright and cheery at one time. 

"So how did Miranda survive?" Anna asked, sitting down at the table beside you and handing you a cup of weak tea.

You took a sip. "Remember the half-breed Terrian brought in yesterday? He was the one who killed her parents."

"I told you he was dangerous!"

"Yeah, but he let Miranda go because he owed us for saving him."

Anna sat her cup of tea down. "You mean you interfered with a punishment? And a half-breed actually listened to you?"

"I was surprised myself," you answered, taking another sip. “I was so scared, I was crying like a baby. But I took a chance and it worked out.” 

“You better not try anything like that again,”

Anna warned you. Then she glanced at the clock on her wall. “We’d better get to the clinic.”

After Anna showed Miranda around the kitchen and told her to help herself to anything in the refrigerator, she locked the door and instructed the girl to keep it that way until she came home.

"Sorry to dump her off on you," you said as you and Anna walked together toward the clinic.

"No problem. It'll be nice to have someone around. The nights are pretty lonely, you know."

You nodded. "I know." You turned your eyes toward the giant mechanical tower that stood in the direct center of Gallica. It was visible from every single spot in the city, as it loomed over everything as a symbol of the Pagoda. You frowned at the menacing construct. "It's too bad we can't just blow it up."

Anna followed your gaze to the tower and immediately held a finger to your lips. "Shhh! You know better than to say something like that in public!" she whispered furiously. "Do you wanna get ripped up by the half-breeds?"

You pulled Anna's hand away. "I know, I know. But it's like they're mocking us with that stupid tower."

"That stupid tower keeps the dome up. If we blow it up, we all freeze to death."

You looked down an alley toward the wall of the dome, where you could faintly see snow blowing wildly around on the other side. You sighed and kept walking. There was nothing you could do, nothing anyone could do.

Walking by the various alleyways and streets brought back painful memories. You could almost see yourself as a teenager, huddled under a streetlamp with Anna, eating whatever you could steal.

But you could also still see Terrian reaching out his hand to you both. You pushed the negative thoughts to the back of your mind and walked the rest of the way to the clinic with Anna.

It was a couple of days later when the front door of the clinic swung open and the half-breed you and Terrian had fixed up returned. He was back in his uniform, topped off by a dark beret that pressed his black hair down over the lone green eye. You stared at him as he walked toward Terrian. He was no longer the wounded young man in polka-dot pajamas, but an unfeeling monster in black.

There was a knot in your stomach, and you looked over at Anna, who was frozen stiff. "Anna, come on, let's tend the other patients," you told her, taking her hand.

"That bastard killed Miranda's parents," Anna whispered.

You nodded. "I know, but there's nothing we can do now. Let's go."

Terrian stepped out from the bedside of a nearby patient when the half-breed neared him. "Ah, Mr. Vartan! You came back for your check-up!"

The half-breed, who had apparently signed his patient form as Vartan, nodded.

Terrian led him through the swinging doors and into the back room. Some of the patients who were conscious drew in sharp breaths as Vartan walked by them, looking at him with terror written across their faces. You felt bad for them.

Just when you thought things had calmed down, a few minutes after Terrian and Vartan had left the room, Terrian poked his head through the swinging doors and asked you to bring some more bandages. You frowned to him, but gathered up the bandages and walked through the swinging doors.

Vartan was sitting on a cot, his jacket and shirt discarded and his torso again exposed. At least this time he was wearing pants.

He looked young as he sat there, a little younger than the twenty-three years of age he had written on the patient form. Shirtless and wearing the beret made him look strangely like some sort of male stripper. Dare you even think it, he almost looked cute.

Terrian removed the bandages and examined the wound. It had already mostly closed up, healing rapidly with the amazing Pagoda blood. He carefully cleaned the area, examined it for infection, then dressed it with fresh bandages.

"Take these off in a couple of days. If the wound looks fine, you don't need to put anymore on. If there's any bleeding or discoloration, come here immediately."

Vartan nodded, pulling on his jacket. He paused, looking at you. "Is there a problem?"

You blinked. "What?"

"You have been staring at my chest the whole time you have been here. Is there a problem I should be aware of?"

You went red. You hadn't even realized you were staring. "Oh, no, I'm sorry!"

Terrian looked at you in surprise, then looked back to Vartan. "You'll have to forgive my nurse. She's not used to seeing such finely crafted male bodies. The lot we get in here are very different from you."

"Doctor!" Your face was now burning with embarrassment.

Terrian laughed, and Vartan seemed just a little confused. You were deeply upset. How could Terrian be so casual with a half-breed?

Vartan buttoned his jacket, thanked Terrian again, nodded to you, and left out the back door. Terrian grinned. "Wow, he's so polite!"

"Polite?! I saw him tear a woman's head off the other night!"

"Well, he's still a half-breed after all. At least we're safe. He seems to like us, you in particular."

You were placing the left over roll of bandages in a cabinet. "Me?"

"You haven't noticed?” Terrian asked. “He keeps looking at you. Maybe he thinks you're cute!"

You went pale. "That's not exactly a good thing, Doctor. You know what the half-breeds are like."

"But you obviously think he's cute," Terrian said, still grinning.

"I do not!"

"Couldn't keep your eyes off him."

"I was looking at his wound!"

Terrian laughed. "Why deny it? It would certainly be novel, a half-breed with a willing human."

"I don't like him!" you suddenly screamed. "He killed Miranda's parents! If we hadn't saved his life, he would've killed me too!"

"That's all true, but haven't you ever wondered? How much their human side affects them? I don't think they've ever had relationships like we have. I don't think they understand the concept of family. Maybe if they could experience that, it would awaken the humanity in them."

"But Doctor, how can you make excuses for them? They killed your father, didn't they?"

Terrian looked down, his glasses slipping down his nose. "You're right. Sorry, it was just wishful thinking."

The day wore on, just like the other days before it. You, Anna, and Terrian tended patients, joked with each other, and allowed yourselves to forget about the outside world. And when the working day was over, you parted ways and returned home.

Anna's apartment was on the other side of town, where Miranda was at home waiting for her. Terrian lived in a large house a few blocks away, but spent the night at the clinic whenever a critical patient was brought in. He had often asked you girls to move into his home, but you both had the desire for a little independence, at least for as long as you could maintain it.

You entered your apartment that evening, flipping on the light in the small living room and locking the door up tight behind you. The room was dirty, no matter how many times you cleaned it. It seemed like a thin layer of filth covered the whole city, and no one could get rid of it.

There was no television, not for the past twelve years. Your memories of it had become vague over time. Sometimes you and Anna went to Terrian's house to watch old films. As interesting as they were, you found them depressing. People were usually happy in those movies, enjoying a world you didn’t remember, and you couldn't relate to them at all.

There was an unused stove in the corner of your kitchen and a small refrigerator stocked with items like fruit, vegetables, butter, cheese, and rarely some form of meat. You counted yourself extremely fortunate to have what little you had, as produce was quickly becoming a scarcity. The Pagoda managed resources in an extremely strict manner, and even private gardens had been taken over. 

You unpacked your things from the duffel bag, then changed into pajamas. You fixed herself a glass of water, placed it on your bedside table, and went to bed. The sheets were cold without the warmth of another person, but you had gotten used to that.

Sleep came slowly to you, and then you were haunted by violent nightmares filled with screams and blood and the half-breed Vartan killing Miranda's father. And then suddenly Miranda morphed into Anna.

"Why didn't you save me too?" Anna demanded, looking up at you with blood all over her face, "Why didn't you save me like you did Miranda?!"

You backed away from her until your back hit a stone wall. "I'm sorry... I'm so sorry, Anna! I didn't know you then!"

Anna shook her head. "That doesn't matter. I needed you. I needed to be saved!"

She came closer, until she was inches from you. Finally, she reached out and wrapped her hands around your throat, choking you.

You awoke with a jolt, sitting up in bed and clutching the sheets in your fists. Sweat dripped down your back. Nightmares like that were surprisingly rare for you. Generally, you dreamed of your parents or of the clinic. 

You never got back to sleep that night, and so you were early to work the next morning, even before Terrian or Anna arrived. Terrian came first, unlocking the doors and letting you in, followed soon after by Anna. You and Anna changed into your uniforms while Terrian checked the patients. But just as you walked through the swinging doors, you heard the front door of the clinic bust open.

All of you looked up just as three half-breeds, two men and one woman, walked in. They scanned the main patient area with their two-color eyes, then looked at Terrian. 

One of the men spoke with the same mechanical voice Vartan had. "We've received reports that you are harboring those who escaped punishment. Everyone in this building is now officially interfering with punishment.”

Terrian pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose again. "Girls, I want you to run far away from here. Right now."

Anna started toward him. "But Doctor..."

"RUN!" he screamed, and you grabbed Anna's arm, dragging her toward the back entrance. As the two of you made it through the swinging doors, you began to hear screams and cries, glass breaking, and the sound of Terrian's voice as he yelled for the half-breeds to stop.

[reviewinghiccup]

Hey!!! I’ve gone through your entire list of posts and loved it. There’s a lot of psychoanalysis which makes the work a fun read.

Though I’m curious, what is your biggest inspiration or take-a-way from Hiccup? Do you have any other HTTYD character that equally inspires you. What about the franchise that speaks to you the most?

Sorry if the questions are loaded, but I’m curious, you dissect and approach the franchise in a detailed, humanistic way, I wonder if that’s kind of how you also view the universe.

HELLO DEAR!!! Sometimes I wish you guys weren’t anonymous so that I can find you and thank you for filling up my Inbox with such amazing words of encouragement.

To hear that anyone has just read this blog and enjoyed it really makes my day. I pour my heart into my writing and I just want to say I love answering these questions and I am sorry I took over a year to reply. Before I get to why lemme answer you first.

My biggest inspiration and take-away from Hiccup is:-

He is different

I grew up with Hiccup. When the first movie was released I was the same age he was and going through my own season of not fitting in and awkwardness. I wanted so much to be noticed and recognised. Physically I was also very different. I didn’t fit in anyone’s mould.

Peers are precious about certain things and kids with many friends usually meet their criteria - but I couldn’t. Not even close.

I know how it feels like to be alone and misunderstood, even by my own parents.

but he is always kind…

Hiccup doesn’t subscribe to revenge, at least not around his immediate peers like Snotlout who sometimes, I really do feel he deserves it. He believes that there’s always something, to understand, to fix or to improve. That industriousness actually makes him the perfect leader to propel his people forward into the future. In a world where everyone focuses on what’s on the outside, he hyper fixates on what’s on the inside and if we really start listening to why people say what they said instead of just taking their words literally you hear so much more.

he stewards his gifts well.

He can invent. He’s been inventing before meeting Toothless. He’s good at it. And he meets every physical challenge he has with an invention.

He is also a natural born leader - though he never fit the mould of what a Viking should look like, he fits the mould of what a leader should be. A leader needs to earn his respect, and though still the smaller male Viking, he is very well respected.

He is fearless.

Push comes to shove, Hiccup is reliable, courageous and quick thinking. He does not back down from a challenge. Yet, he isn’t intimidated by others strength - he allows everyone else to hone their skills and be their best selves as he has allowed himself to be.

HICCUP inspires me because his growth and leadership and story comes from him first accepting himself and in time, he becomes everything he was suppose to be. My biggest take-away from him is, you will never lose if you give yourself time to see the bigger picture of why things are the way they are.

Of course I love Hiccup for so much more, but I don’t know how much you’d wanna read 🤣 Nonetheless, on the top of my head, that’s what I think he means to me.

The other HTTYD Character that Equally Inspires me is, of course, ASTRID

To be fair, we know her significantly more than the other characters so it’s natural to fall in love with her.

But they have created a very beautiful character to love.

Astrid is strong and independent, but nothing about that takes away from her femininity. Sometimes I feel like movies/shows about strong independent women make those women so unfeeling and hard.

Astrid feels real to me. She’s driven, self-disciplined and honourable, but she can also be condescending and harsh - and instead of getting defensive about it, she actually listens to that constructive criticism when it comes and changes.

She knows she is born to lead (though not in the same way Hiccup is - which is also admirable because she humbly gives way to him to do his thing) so she needs to learn how to inspire her soldiers, help them improve and make them better. She can’t do that if she always thinks she’s right. That’s what brings about toxic leadership. And she is not toxic.

I admire her dedication to improve. It’s something I love in Hiccup as well, but Astrid just works on herself and her performance. It’s inspiring.

While there’s more, I’ll keep it to these two things for now.

What about the Franchise that Speaks to me Most

Friendship. Trust. Becoming. Young Adulthood. Reality Check. Being lost. Finding Yourself.

So much really. So much.

When I first started writing this blog, I actually lost my grandmother. I loved my grandmother so much. She was warmth, love and life personified.

After she left, I was lost for a very long time, failing exams and switching careers. I couldn’t focus.

This show helped me piece together a lot of my own personal feelings. It helped me think through certain problems. When I synthesised those thoughts into this blog space, I felt like I was dealing with them.

And when I watch Hiccup and Toothless glide in the sky, it made me feel like I am there with them. The soundtrack itself is also very transportive.

I think my favourite thing about the franchise was/is that it made me feel again. At least on the rewatch leading to the creation of this channel.

The franchise when I first watch those movies, when I was really young made me feel “found”, if that makes any sense to you. Because, it talks about not being alone - like how the loneliest dragon could find the loneliest boy Viking. And that these two in turn, found a lonely girl looking for something to see herself in.

Each step of Hiccup’s life was mine. Even when he didn’t want to “take on the family business” and desired to be more than he and the world he’s in is built - that was me, still is me.

This franchise has something for almost everyone. And every which way you turn Hiccup, you will see a small glimpse of yourself in him.

In essence, I think the franchise just speaks and that’s what makes it so damn good.

[ladyyatexel]

Hey, I’ve been rereading SWAN for like… the 10th or more time and I’m still struck by how much I love it, even after all the times I’ve come back to it. It inspired me to try writing my own JtHM au and I was wondering how you learned to write the way you do. You got me so invested in the characters and story I love them so much!

Wow, thank you! I love hearing that people go back to it. I am extremely curious as to whether you're reading the original or the very superior please read it rewrite.

Either way, I'm happy you like spending time with my glitter garbage children; they are precious to me.

I am going to say I don't know how I learned to write in whatever way I do and then write a huge number of words about it, okay? You've read some version of SWAN, you know I am great at not shutting up.

I think one of the things that actually influenced this was that my grandmother is a professional storyteller. That was just her job title. She and my grandfather had a large hand in taking care of me when I was under ten years old, and she practiced her programs on me, and told me her tips and tricks. These were mostly geared toward public speaking, but a lot of it carried over to telling stories in social situations and making people listen to you in written form. I think this is why most of my stories start as just dialog exchanges.

Another influence was desperately wanting to be cool to my dad's friends who laughed at everything he said. I studied what they said and how they said it in order to dissect How To Be Funny like a Very Normal Child.

I told myself stories to fall asleep every single night for my whole entire life.

I liked musicals a lot, and how they constructed stories by calling back to other moments musically.

I internalized all the advice we got for writing essays around 7th grade. I had more than one teacher tell the whole class I was the only one allowed to turn in a first draft as a final because I was 'Wonder Woman'. In college I was asked why I was going into illustration because I was 'a natural wordsmith'. I was a little surprised by both of these things!

Assuming that you are interested more for 'Teach Me Your Ways' reasons, though, here is some stuff I am conscious of doing:

I never start with a boring sentence. I learned this from essay writing and my grandmother, who had to convince people to listen to her talk for an hour straight. ''The wind blew the curtains and the sun shined through the windows."? Oh my god, who cares, I'm not sticking around for that. "When he bothered to look, he saw three people in the mirror."?? Um, hello? What does the next sentence say about this? I will indulge you in a few more sentences, author. And then you just trick them into reading every next sentence.

A Cool Phrase you can use like a leitmotif in a musical. In reSWAN, it ended up being 'Trust Me', but I am guilty of something like it in everything, haha. Something I can invoke in tense moments after it's been used casually and cutely over and over or something that can be a surprise inversion later. Grandmother also used this technique frequently.

Ending on the Big Word. If I need to do a reveal, or I need something to stick like a gymnast landing, I save that word for last in the sentence or paragraph. Learned this from grandmother and the how to be funny research. Use some natural sounding twists around the topic or a synonym until you reach the dismount at the end. Takes a bit of practice and wrangling to get it to sound like natural speech and not deliberate avoidance, but worth it as payoff to have the last word that slams into the story recipient be the Emotional, Funny, Tragic, whatever word.

reSWAN in particular was written to be honest. I wanted to put ugly feelings in there. The way I feel about 'they wouldn't want you to be sad' and grieving and identity and relating to people and the stuff Hallmark wants you to stop feeling immediately because happy and generic is always better. I have to believe honesty is critical. All my asexual or demiromantic characters get reactions from that one other person going, 'oh god, thank you, my reality is like this too'. It means I get comments that hurt and make me feel like a monster, but the trick there is to decide to be the monster, I guess. I did not learn this from my grandmother.

I hope this is useful or entertaining, friend! I hope that you even see it, given that you are Anon! Thanks so much for reading and contacting me about it, and if you haven't read the rewrite, please do that~~~~ I'm so proud of it, it is so much more me and so much more Good. 💚

[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 3: that we’ll string together.

sero hanta x reader ch 3/6 | 14.7k words | masterlist | ao3 cw: more mentions of a deceased family member and grief (that is poorly repressed) notes: songs are memories by maroon 5, counting stars by one republic, yellow by coldplay

the five times sero reaches for you.

✰.

"Marco constructs tiny rooms from scraps of paper. Hallways and doors crafted from pages of books and bits of blueprints, pieces of wallpaper and fragments of letters.

He composes chambers that lead into others that Celia has created. Stairs that wind around her halls.

Leaving spaces open for her to respond."

-The Night Circus, by Erin Morgenstern

Davide appears in your studio unannounced.

“You hate me!” he accuses in drawn out Italian, walking through the garage door. It’s warmer than yesterday by a few degrees, but you’re still huddled in a jacket as you hunch over your sewing machine.

“Only a little,” you promise.

He gasps. “You won’t even deny it?”

“That’s what you get for making assumptions,” you say, still refusing to look at him.

Davide huffs as he struts over and pulls out the chair across from you. He sets down his coffee to cross his arms, wrinkling the sleek sleeves of his blazer. “We’re a throuple but somehow I'm always third wheeling you and Chia.”

You finally cave, eyes raising to meet his blankly. They're the icy blue of the sky during a winter day: cold and sharp and uncomfortable to experience for too long. Every blink is a reprieve.

He sighs dramatically, head tilting back with a whine. “Tucano, are you really leaving? Why didn’t you tell me?”

Your chest tightens. “It was just an offer, I haven’t made a decision yet. And I was going to tell you next time I saw you.”

“Which was going to be when, exactly?”

You pout. “Sorry. I’ve been busy with the dress and the show and everything. I told Chiara first because she was free that day.” And because she’s less dramatic.

He gives you a pained look before softening with another sigh. “Babe, you know I’m never going to stop you. Seriously, how is this not an immediate yes? I mean, yeah you have some commitments lined up and some of them are my fault—” Orders for drag costumes in March, for him and a couple friends, “But we’d never want to keep you from being where you should be.”

This is the duality of Davide: a thin veil of vanity draped over a deep heart, someone who loves to talk about himself, always redirecting the conversation to his own feelings and stories—only to stare right through you and your own private thoughts in an instant, when he catches a ripple of hesitation on the surface. It's a friendship best described as whiplash. 

Your heart stings; his earnest sentiment settles as a squeeze of pain. “I know,” you say honestly, “but… there are other reasons to stay.”

Davide’s tanned face twists into a scoff, the shake of his head bouncing tight coils of hair. “Glad to know I mean nothing to you after all.”

You roll your eyes. “Dramatic.”

He pauses, watching as you rotate the fabric and slide it through the needle again. “Then what is it? If it’s not your friends and not your work.”

You bite your cheek, breathing deeply to steady your quickening heart. “It’s—” you stop when you feel stinging behind your eyes, blinking rapidly to avoid the buildup of tears.

“My abuela,” you manage softly.

Davide doesn’t respond and you don’t look at him, determined to keep your eyes glued to the fabric and out of his sight. The texture of the lace—rough beneath your fingers—grounds you in your anticipation for his response.

“What about her?” he finally asks. His voice is so flat you laugh in surprise. “Is she haunting you? Telling you not to go?”

Your face twists between a smile and grimace. You shake your head.

He sighs. “Babe, you have to help me out here. What’s going on?”

You stop, the fabric and needle coming to a halt as your face pinches. You exhale. “I… I can’t leave her here. I already took her from home, so she could live longer with me instead of with the whole family around. And then to just… just leave after she died—”

“Tucano…” he says quietly, the nickname another punch to your stomach. “If your nonna is in Italy… you know she’s only here for you, right?”

It’s a painful, cruel reality that she’s watching over you instead of resting in her homeland. Maybe because her ashes are in your living room, never mailed home or brought in person like you should have. Instead she’s sat in her little wooden box for the last few months, trapped and lonely. The thought of taking her to Japan makes you ache with guilt. The thought of bringing her back home floods your body with fear.

“This isn't like you,” he adds softly. “To get so hung up on things. You're normally so excited for change.”

It's true. Change is exciting and chaotic, something you reach for easily. You enjoy novelty, prefer it over the steadiness of monotony. But this change is frightening—one entirely up to you.

“Do you want to make a list?” he asks after your silence. You nod meekly.

“Okay,” he starts. “Your weird guilt around your family is a con. And the fact that you’d be leaving me behind. You have a steady career that you might have to restart, and if you hate the circus you’ll be stuck there for however long your contract demands.”

“I won’t hate the circus,” you argue.

“Uh oh—”

“And I’d have to learn Japanese,” you interject, ignoring his side-eye. “Which has an entirely different alphabet.”

Davide hums thoughtfully. “I didn’t consider that. But a lot of them speak English, yeah?”

You nod. “A couple of them know Italian, too. And one of the acrobats speaks Spanish.”

“Ooh, another point for the circus.”

You nod slowly, trying to push your other thoughts about Sero aside. You spent an embarrassing amount of time last night… researching the performers, looking up their names from the booklet and scrolling through articles and social media posts. You learned that Todoroki’s stage partner is his brother and that Midoriya has constant reports of spending the off season recovering his overused arms. Sero was elusive, only small mentions in articles. He must be secure in his position with Hoshi no Sākasu, not interested in marketing himself independently.

You learned that his first name is Hanta. You read it quietly to yourself, the Spanish way with a silent H. It doesn't have any particular meaning, but you couldn’t help noticing that it rhymes with canta: sings. And the letters you spoke, everything following the H, nestles neatly into the word fantasía.

Fantasy.

“Babe?”

You blink, shaking your head as you remove yourself from your thoughts. “Sorry, what did you say?”

“I was asking what other pros there are,” he answers, piercing blue trained on you skeptically. “What got you lost in thought?”

You purse your lips, not wanting to answer. He raises his eyebrows with glee. 

“The longer you take to answer the worse it gets,” he nearly sings.

You huff. “I was just thinking about some of the performers. They’re nice.”

He scoffs. “Already finding my replacement?”

“Yeah, one’s that aren’t so accusatory.”

He kicks your foot under the table. “So? What are they like? You think you could work with them?”

You nod. “Yeah, at least from first impressions. Everyone I’ve met is nice, and they seem close to each other. There’s a big range of personalities though.”

“Mmm, so that’s a pro I suppose: that you already have an idea of what the work would be like. And you’ve already worked for them so you know their process. It’s a circus, which is your dream, and it would get you out of Italy. I think that would be good for you.”

You don’t ask him to elaborate on the last point. “I think it’d be a challenge to continue working in their process, but in a good way.”

“So maybe a pro and a con?” Davide asks. You shrug. “Oh! Another con: you’ll get caught in a romance with one of the staff, but it won’t last and you’ll awkwardly be around your ex for the rest of your contract.”

You face flushes immediately. Not because of the comment—one you’d normally scoff at dismissively—but because your brain flashes with an image of Sero. You want to bury your face in your hands. What, you dance with a guy and watch his bondage performance and suddenly he’s your fantasy man?

Fantasía.

“No fucking way,” Davide says. His eyes are wide as they watch you, mouth gaped and half grinning. You flush harder and step on the pedal again, shoving your head down as you work impatiently. “There’s no way that’s already happening. Who is it?”

“No one,” you grumble.

“Babe, please. You could at least try to act convincing. This is embarrassing. And offensive.”

Your heart thumps erratically in your chest, on the brink of sweating despite the chilly air coming in. “It’s really nothing,” you say again.

“Just spill it, I don’t feel like drawing this out.” He pauses before his eyes widen again with excitement. “Wait, does Chiara know yet? Holy shit, you have to tell me.”

You grit your teeth, jaw clenched in a mixture of irritation and embarrassment.

“I said it’s nothing,” you repeat. “Not even close to a romance. But there's this guy who speaks Spanish… We danced bachata together the first night of the festival. He didn’t know I was the costume designer, but we talked more yesterday.” You try to emphasize yesterday. You don’t mention the heat of his skin, the ghost of it that still lingers sometimes.

“You’re going to leave me for a man?” Davide accuses, voice raising. “Not even that singer woman you have weird romantic tension with?”

“Shut up,” you whine. “I said we’ve known each other for two days. But if you need any more reasons for my interest in him, he performs on aerial silks.” Davide hums. “And he knows that book I love, it’s a childhood favorite for him too.” 

That pulls a gasp from your friend. “Oh my god. It’s some horrible fated romance, I just know it. You two were meant to be together since you were born.”

“You have to stop,” you say. “Either encourage me or stop me, you can’t do both.”

He laughs. “I’ll tell Chia to pick whichever side I don’t.” 

You kick him under the table. Hard. He yelps.

He relents after more teasing, eventually letting you grill him about his life while you work: a show you missed and the latest news on his own complicated romance—a love triangle involving his co-workers at his day job. Eventually the two of you sit in concentrated silence, you running fistfulls of fabric through the sewing machine and Davide furiously typing emails. This quiet intensity is the other side to your friendship, a stark contrast to the noise of excited bickering.

He leaves around noon, with a threat to repeat his actions if you don’t keep him updated. You shoo him away dismissively and he tells you he hates you. Even after he's gone, you're left smiling to yourself, in the lingering essence of your friendship.

You’re late to your meeting with Kendou. Twenty minutes after the show starts you stumble in, clutching a paper bag of pastries in one hand. She’s neither angry or amused as she turns to look at you, arching a brow at the clear evidence of your lack of urgency.

“Good to know you’re not ghosting me.”

You grimace, holding out the bag like a peace offering. “Sorry. I was in my head and then I needed moral support.”

She takes the offering skeptically, pulling one of the sfogliatella carefully between two fingers as powdered sugar rains onto the table. Her eyes meet yours, returning to the flaky, cream-filled dessert in hand. “And it had to be the messiest thing you could find?”

“I could’ve picked something bigger, to force you to eat it in a hundred bites.”

You sit next to her and drum your fingers on the table. You don’t take one of the sfogliatella for yourself, your stomach too tight to eat. She doesn’t comment on it.

“Well, there’s nothing that warrants the need for moral support,” she says after a bite. “I’m just going to answer your questions.”

You want to argue that answers are scary. This whole situation is scary, talking as potential co-workers instead of an artist and their client. Any decision you make is terrifying, whether it’s to remain stagnant or step into the unknown.

Instead you ask for the job overview, clinical questions of work hours, salary, benefits. You gather that you would work alongside the cast of Gōyoku for a year before having the opportunity to join the design team in preparation for the next show. They want an expert in sewing, someone who knows how to work the finer details of a costume: your feathers and beads.

The conversation slowly devolves into sketching an idea of what your timeline would look after the circus leaves Milan. Speculating details for moving to Japan: visas, bank accounts, language barriers, secondary work. You ask about the environment and work culture, contracts, connections. You try to put every answer she gives you neatly into the pros and cons list you started earlier, but a lot of them sit in grey territory. The ghost of Davide’s voice gripes over your shoulder, your own internal monologue joining to argue with him.

Kendou watches as you thrum your fingers and think quietly, avoiding her gaze. Eventually she says, “Y’know it’d be more efficient if you told me what you’re worried about? So I can answer your actual questions instead of walking around them.”

Your face twists in apprehension. “It’s… I don’t think there’s anything you could say—to help me make a decision at this point.” 

She blanks at your honesty. You don’t know how to admit that you’re only pretending to care about the logistics and the money, to trick yourself into putting the decision anywhere but your conflicted heart. You sigh as you run the words through your head, chest heavy with guilt for wasting her time. At the very least it got you here, finally saying it aloud.

“I think I just need time�� to think,” or feel, really. Understand what you’re feeling in the first place. 

She looks at you with an unreadable expression, green eyes swallowing you like the sea. You avert your gaze. “...’Kay. You think June is late enough?”

Three full months, plus some. You nod slowly. “Thanks.”

You’re a harpooned fish, pierced by her observance. She can see your writhing and thrashing despite your collected exterior. It reminds you of your conversation with Davide. Why are you always befriending these kinds of people?

“You could talk to Touya, the older Todoroki brother,” she suggests. “He had some reservations about joining too. He doesn’t speak English, though, so one of us would have to translate for you.”

You grimace at the thought and shake your head. “That's too much.”

She hums, unbothered. “Okay. But it’s okay to change your mind. And you can talk to anyone.”

The door slams open.

“Momo, I have the rest of my ideas for the—”

Your eyes lock with Sero’s, his mouth immediately shutting when he glances up and notices you. His face is flushed, likely just having finished his act, and slightly panicked. You swallow at the visual ambush, features schooled to appear calm as you take in the tightness of his costume, the glittering details of feathers and jewels. You remind yourself that you saw this yesterday too.

“Next one over.” Kendo’s voice is urgent, almost stern. It catches you off guard.

He nods curtly, eyes lingering on you before he fumbles to close the door. “Shit, sorry. I—sorry, thanks.”

You frown at Kendou after the door slams shut. She smiles innocently and changes the topic.

You don’t linger after your conversation ends, wanting to be gone from the tents and circus monkeys, wanting space to clear your mind. But you can’t hold yourself back for long, returning when the tents of the festivals open, spilling ambiance and light into the plaza. You let your anticipating heart guide you to the quiet row in the back, that splash of red and green whispering your name.

A wave of relief floods your veins when you spot it, still sitting quietly adjacent to the potter’s stall. You try to breeze by inconspicuously, unsuccessful given your excitement. Once you reach the entrance, you pause with a sudden apprehension. Your hand hesitantly reaches for the front flap, fingers carding through soft green feathers. You exhale and dart inside without another thought.

It’s different this time.

The interior is still a tent, though much more vast than what should be possible from the outside dimensions. Instead of shelves lined with an assortment of trinkets and paraphernalia, there are tables scattered throughout the space. Thick, wooden frames with intricate engravings sit next to rickety plastic, a tablecloth strewn atop. Some are low coffee tables, while others are tall like a standing desk.

And they’re filled with bottles. 

Mostly glass, cylindrical and curved, but in every shape and size and color. There are jars and tins as well, a couple aluminum cans and the occasional vase. Some of them are tipped over, laying sadly on their sides, but the rest stand comfortably on the various surfaces in the room. They glimmer, reflecting the dim twinkling of the fairy lights illuminating the space, tinted with warm orange. Some of them reflect each other, stretching colors across their hard surfaces.

You step forward hesitantly, unsure how to react to the change. Part of you is disappointed you didn’t stay longer yesterday, missing the opportunity to thoroughly explore all the ornaments on the shelves. The other part of you is elated, heart skipping with excitement that there’s more.

Your finger traces the edge of a deep mahogany table, the tip swirling through the curve of an engraved leaf. The color is dark, rich, warm to the touch. The bottle resting on the corner is glass, straight at the base and curving gently towards the top. You think it may have held sparkling water. It’s bare of any label, and the cap is gone, it’s body empty except for your transparent reflection. You tap your nail against the surface, the clink in response soft and bright.

Next to it is a mason jar, its bumpy glass surface stained blue. It has a metal lid that calls for you. You reach carefully over the tall bottle at the corner, careful not to bump it as you lift its smaller companion. It’s heavy, weighted as you notice a dark liquid sloshing inside from your disturbance. You hold it to eye level, squinting in confusion—and nerves. You glance around the room, behind you towards the front, before turning back to the jar and the table in front of you. Only a moment passes before you succumb to your curiosity and twist the lid open.

You are hit with an overwhelming scent of salt.

It’s almost as if the entire ocean is attempting to sprout from the small container—thick, dense, and hot air roaring upwards and across your face. A faint breeze rushes through your hair and the folds of your clothes, touching gently at your skin. The crashing waves flood your ears, paired with the cries of the birds. It feels like pressing the conch shell to your ear the previous night, immediately transported to the beach.

When you look up, you are there.

You audibly gasp, confronted by bright sand and crystal blue water. The sky is massive before you, knowing no bounds—especially not the bounds of a tiny market stall—as it rolls on endlessly, populated with innocent and fluffy clouds. The seafoam beneath matches, white and soft and spreading along the water. You turn to take in the width of the view, ground shifting beneath your feet. More sand, tiny and endless, softly spilling in response to your shuffling. A couple birds fly above you, black and unrecognizable.

You take a careful step, mind incapable of understanding the scene before you, how you got here. Your movements don’t break the image, letting you amble forwards towards the water. You look down to the jar in your hands, illuminated by the sun above. Experimentally, you twist the lid back on.

And you are back in the dim light of the tent.

You blink in shock at the change, lightly twisting the jar back open and lifting the lid, immediately pulling you back to the shore. You remind yourself to breathe, heart stuttering and breath hitched at the impossibility of such an experience. The warmth and stickiness of the air is home, somewhere you couldn’t go, haven’t let yourself go. The sound of the ocean is a lullaby in your memory, singing you to sleep more often than your mother. It’s voice is sweet and nostalgic, but it becomes too much after another moment of listening. You cap the jar.

You return it to the table, by the edge so you can easily find it again. Behind it there are hundreds of containers waiting to be opened next. You reach for a slim bottle, tall amongst the others. Its glass is frosted and tinted, though you aren’t sure with what color. 

No scent wafts out, but opening it brings you a violent wave of nausea. You feel sick to your stomach, eyes immediately scrunching with the pain. The bottle nearly falls from your hands. The feeling doesn’t subside as you breathe deeply, but you manage to open your eyes.

More blue—the clear brightness of the sky—but this time you’re fully encased in it, floating upwards. The air breezes past you, as if falling while you float through the atmosphere. Your rolling stomach hardens, still uncomfortable but subsiding as your focus darts around you, trying to ground yourself in the sight of the ocean, a forest, a city—anything.

The end of the sky never appears. Instead you float with your nausea and what you realize is a desperation, one you don’t understand. You feel like you’re calling for someone, crying for them to see you, to answer. The flood of emotions are intense but foreign—like they're real, but someone else's. You exhale shakily, trying to center yourself in a plane that has no relativity. At the very least you can feel the bottle in one hand, its cap heavy in the other. You pull your hands towards your chest, weak from the pain.

A pink dust spills from the bottle, flurrying upwards with you. It’s sparkling, shimmering in the sunlight. The colors disperse throughout your vision, like rosy tufts of dandelion. For a moment you think they are the stars of daytime. Then you are filled with an incredible sensation of love. It’s so overwhelming that you choke, the beginning of a sob. The feeling is so tangible in your heart that you can’t deny its reality, despite having no idea of its origins.

A sudden rush of tranquility washes over you, nausea quelled as you simply exist beautifully in the expanse of the sky. Eventually the bottle has no more magic to give, its last puffs of sparkles emptying above you. You watch, completely taken, until your body has a weight and your neck has a pain of discomfort. Within seconds you are once again standing in the space of the tent, now hazily blinking at the string of lights tethered to the ceiling.

Now with some fear, you continue through the jars, still unsure what they mean or even are. You’re taken to a forest of bamboo and maples, walking along a path lined with stones and rays of light filtering through rustling leaves. Next you are swallowed by searing heat, body alight with fear and calling for a brother you don’t have, swimming through flames of blue and red. After being thrown into the bustling streets of Tokyo, and then feeling your own body harden like a mountain and tear through knife-sharp shards, the pattern becomes apparent. The small jars are places, and these taller ones are… fragments of memory.

Part of you wants to stop, concerned about experiencing these intimate details of lives—lives that belong to the circus, their crew and performers. But the other part barrels forward, hungry to live and breathe and absorb all of the memories before you.

The first clear memory you see is Sero’s.

The bottle is dark, sleek and mysterious with a golden lid. When you open it, you’re on the back porch of someone’s home, feet swinging against the bench as small hands clutch the half of a maracuya. Your skin is wet, drying in the warm sun behind you. Rapid Spanish filters in the background, a large family caught in an animated conversation. The fruit in your mouth is sweet, slightly sour and with crunchy seeds. You feel yourself smile into the peel, puppeting the actions of the character you’re inhabiting.

You—Sero—stand abruptly, surprising yourself, the empty skin of the fruit rolling down your lap and to the floor, eventually hitting the sand beneath the platform. Your feet move quickly, darting through the open door at the back of the house, sliding striped rugs beneath you and avoiding the bump of bodies in the crowded spaces of conversation. You hear gasps, one deep call for your—Sero’s—name. But eventually you stop, legs standing wide before the front door, a short and old woman making her way inside. Her face is wrinkled, a soft smile playing on her lips as her eyes meet yours.

“Abuelita!” you hear yourself shout.

You slam the cap on the bottle and twist furiously, wiping the memory away. Your real body stands in the dim of the tent, heart racing and with clammy hands. There's a tightness in your chest as you inhale and your eyes prickle with tears. Your hand shakes as you press the jar to the table.

This is a circus of cruelty, you decide.

You should leave; you were right earlier, that this is too invasive. So invasive that it comes full circle, forcing you to confront your own unwanted memories. Even so, you make no move for the exit.

Instead you glare at the bottle with accusation and reach for one of the stout jars. You don't open it immediately, arguing with yourself before finally pulling the lid. Snowy winter mountains greet you, reminding you of trips to the Alps. They’re cold and callous and quiet, a reprieve from the noise of family and decisions.

As you trudge through the fluff of snowfall you feel the urge to throw a tantrum, to whine and kick the ground, scattering white powder like autumn leaves. Your grandmother is normally just a lingering thought, the essence of a feeling burrowed uncomfortably in your chest. Uncomfortable, but small enough to ignore.

You come to a stop at that thought. Your heart continues to race, speeding up instead of slowing at your stillness. This feeling scares you, its enormity and intensity, so powerful you wonder how you haven’t let it take over. Is this the first time you’ve ever sat with this… this tangled knot of grief? Even one second is too long and you start treading forwards again, offering a physical explanation for these symptoms. The mountains are still too calm, too quiet, and you leave the cold to stand in the warmth of the tent once again.

The room is also silent, unmoving, but the shining jars distract you, pulling your attention away from your thoughts. You stand with them silently, eyes roaming the many options—the many perpetrators of your distress. The mason jars—innocent containers for locations—are safe, you decide.

A red lid stands out to you, the body wide and clear. It’s filled with beads, clicking gently as you pull the jar to your face for inspection. It takes you to a bustling American city, you guess New York from the looming buildings and grey skies. For the first time you pass a window. The room behind it is dark enough to cast your reflection. Momo’s surprised face blinks back at you.

You walk around the table looking for more innocent memories to invade, nearly missing a small bottle close to the center. When you take a few steps it reveals itself, originally shadowed by the larger jar in front. The exterior is a sharp lime green, recognizable despite the warmth of the dim light. You know this color by heart. You pause while reaching for it, when you realize the shape of the bottle is the same as Sero’s.

You stare skeptically, heart thumping in alarm but arm itching to see what it holds. You try to reason with yourself, remind yourself that you’re looking through other people’s memories, invading their privacy. Even if you can only place two of them so far, that’s still two too many. Hell, everything you’ve seen is more than you should have.

But the color—that bright chartreuse… a devious part of your heart yells that it’s a sign. It’s meant for you. 

You have no strength. You open it.

The smell of citrus overwhelms your senses, paired with warm light streaming in from a window. You’re sitting on a stool—on your own hands—as gentle fingers card through your hair, pulling and pinning it back in place. A murmur floats through from the neighboring room: muffled bickering. Your ear itches, and you dip your head to meet your shoulder to relieve it.

“Oi!” a voice barks behind you, the stern chide of your grandmother. “Quédate quieto, tú tucán.”

Sit still, you toucan.

You frown, eyes teary from the discomfort and the sting against your scalp as abuela tugs your head back. “Pero me duele,” you whine. But it hurts. “Y no quiero ser un tucán.” And I don’t wanna be a toucan.

The part of you watching as an observer, as an adult looking over a decade in the past, feels a panicked jolt in their heart. This is the exact sort of memory you feared, one that would bring you back to your family without any warning, throwing you into abuela’s mandarin-lemon perfume and wrinkled hands. You think this could be the cruelest memory for you to relive, the evening before your first parade in the Fiestas de Quito. You’re visiting an aunt, a regular parade performer who invited your family to join.

Your younger self thinks toucans are weird, with their large beaks and boring bodies. Abuela uses the nickname because you’re easily fussy and angry, ready to peck both literally and metaphorically. Chiara adopted it when she overheard you on the phone at work, claiming it still suited you.

You eye the head garments on the desk in front of you, the vibrant beak attached to a stick for you to hold to your face, a reddened tip that fades into blues and greens, swathed with a hint of yellow and orange. The front of your costume has a matching lemony yellow along the chest, but the rest is loose black fabric falling over your shoulders and back. You feel yourself frown at the sight, your younger self internally grumbling that they wanted to be a macaw. The fabric is itchy anyways, and you’re scared to dance out in the road with your family.

“I’ll stop calling you Tucán the day you stop fussing like one.”

You only frown further, temper rising as if your body wants to prove her point. A cry bubbles in your throat, nearing painful as you swallow it down. Instead you let tears prickle at the corners of your eyes. At a particularly harsh tug on your hair you ball your fists beneath your thighs, knuckles aching at the force. The headpiece is heavy and itchy when it's secured in place, and the pins dig uncomfortably in your scalp.

But then it’s done. Abuela’s hand comes down to your shoulder and squeezes gently, her warmth seeping through the rough fabric and into your skin. Her touch is firm but gentle, the touch of a grandparent. You turn to look at her carefully, accusatorily. Her face is soft, a fond smile tugging at her lips when she notices your teary eyes. She steps forward to hug you, encasing you in warmth and citrus. You bury your face into her shoulder, easily welcoming her despite your earlier annoyance. She hums, patting your head carefully.

“Lo siento,” she apologizes quietly. “You did good. Let’s try to have some fun, okay?”

You nod as she pulls away, already missing her warmth. Your hand timidly reaches for hers. She takes it easily, holding firmly as you slide off the stool and collect the beak from the table in front of you. She gives it a squeeze as you make your way to the next room together. You find the memory ironic, since the parade was a disaster; you fell and broke your ankle near the end, carried the rest of the way crying in abuela's arms.

But here with her hand in yours, you can't help but believe it might be different this time.

How long has it been since you two held hands? Your most recent memory of interlocked fingers was after she had passed, her hand limp while you squeezed it violently—on the phone with emergency services. But when did she last reach for you? Was it here in Italy, or years ago back home?

In this memory before you, her hand is rough and wrinkled, skin cracked and scarred—the telltale signs of a weathered person. She's always been worn to you, always old in your memory. Unlike the jagged surface of the earth, which fades into softness, smoothness, as it ages, people are soft from the start, warm flesh covering the sharpness of bone. Time pulls that cushion thin, until it is stripped away entirely.

Until the people themselves are stripped away—from your life and your memories.

When you blink awake in the tent, you’re kneeling on the cold ground, bottle clutched atop your thighs. Your cheeks are wet, eyes heavy and burning. There’s a similar burning in your heart, an ache and a longing that overwhelms you, makes you feel incomplete.

But there’s also a sense of peace, one you think you haven’t felt before. There’s a quietness to your pain, one that holds appreciation. It's almost content. Despite the stinging in your heart, the muscle sits still, beating slowly. Your head is clear, like you’re actually living. As if this pain is an affirmation that you are alive.

You bring the opening of the small container to your nose, breathing in light and citrus once again.

The following day, you come to the circus ready to demand answers. You want to furiously ask who is crawling through your memory, putting special moments in bottles to be experienced by someone else. You want to ask why—why they would do this. You want to ask how—how the hell it’s possible to whisk you away to another world. And who—who’s doing this?

You want to ask if it’s all for you.

You immediately turn around once you reach the entrance. Your stomach hurts, squeezing at the thought of asking your questions, at the thought of receiving answers. The coward in you leads you to a nearby cafe, hoping that an hour in brooding silence will help you muster the courage to stomp back and interrogate the entire cast. 

You sit by a window nursing a hot drink, staring at people as they walk by in their coats and boots. The mug heats your hand and lips, smooths over the unsteadiness in your chest.

After some time a hand obstructs your vision, eyes forced from a garish skirt you were admiring on someone walking across the street. You’re annoyed by the diversion of your attention, then panicking when you turn to see the hand’s owner. Any shield of peace you had started to build immediately collapses at the sight of Kaminari—the friendly blond and one of the puppeteers.

“Hey!” He exclaims. “Whatcha doin’ here?” 

You smile nervously by habit, unsure how to react to the ambush. Before you can come up with an answer, he asks, “Are you coming to hang out backstage again?”

You pause, suddenly embarrassed by the question. Are you being annoying? Hanging around their cast members and pretending for a moment that you're one of them? You don’t know what to say, not ready for the reaction that will arise if you affirm or deny his question. The answer is opaque even to yourself, unclear where your heart and mind are willing to compromise.

“I’m not sure,” you say honestly.

His expression doesn’t change, still an open curiosity. He blinks, as if your answer is one he didn’t prepare for.

“Oh,” he says. A silence lingers awkwardly for a moment. “You should come! If you have the time.”

Your chest crumples at the response. You don’t know why or what it means. Then you frown, realizing that the show has already started. “Wait, why are you here? Don’t you have to get ready?”

He hums in denial, the fluff of his hair bouncing as he shakes his head. “Not yet! Since I’m one of the last acts they sent me on coffee duty,” he finishes with a pout.

His head turns as an order is called, the barista slipping the last cup into a drink carrier on the counter. He turns and smiles at you. “That’s me. Help me carry them?”

You’re surprised by the request, glancing at your nearly empty mug. Kaminari doesn’t wait for an answer, already walking across the room. Body moving on its own, you down the rest of your drink and scurry to follow him. He hands you a carrier, taking another in his hand and a box of baked goods in the other.

“Yay,” is all he says, smiling warmly before leading you outside.

Your eyes narrow as you watch him, walking with a slight bounce in his step, face soft with contentment and eyes curiously taking in the surroundings of red brick, cobblestone roads.

“Your circus can’t afford delivery?” you ask, wondering why they would send a performer and not a random stagehand.

He giggles, shaking his head. “They send me on errands to get me away from the stage. I get antsy waiting for my act.”

Like a dog, you think.

You two stop at the crosswalk, waiting for the pedestrian light to turn green. Kaminari uses the pause to awkwardly balance the pastry box on his arm carrying the drinks, pulling out his phone to check the time. You wonder what his carrying strategy would have been had he not run into you.

“I would’ve stacked them all on top of each other,” he answers when you ask.

A vision of him tripping on the sidewalk, twelve hot drinks tumbling to the ground and splashing against his skin, flashes through your mind. You decide it was a very good thing that your cafe brooding was intercepted, even with your nerves still sitting in your chest.

You enter backstage mostly unnoticed, everyone preoccupied with watching the show on the screens or preparing for their own acts. You help put the drinks on one of the tables, near an armature that some of the athletes use for stretching. Sero’s backside is facing you as he hangs from one arm and then the other, warming his shoulders for his act. He speaks casually to the poi artist—Bakugou, standing with his arms crossed and a scowl on his face.

You avert your eyes, not letting yourself get lost in the ripples beneath Sero's costume, the way his muscles shift when he switches arms. His body looks weightless, light as he tugs and swings with ease, despite being dense with lean muscle.

You wonder how he would feel if he knew your eyes trailed his form like this, especially after last night—after you crawled your way through his memory, to live his own life for an instant. Would he grimace, losing that meaningful sheen in his eyes when they stare into yours? 

When you look away you lock eyes with Uraraka. She must have just finished her act before you entered, laying on one of the lounge chairs. She lifts a hand lazily to wave. You wave back.

“Hanta!” you hear from beside you, Denki’s cheeky voice. You don’t understand the Japanese that follows, but watch as Sero turns around, a flash of embarrassment crossing his features before he hesitantly walks over.

You frown slightly at the call of his name, eyes moving down to the table as you think.

Not Hanta with a silent H, Hanta with the H, soft and breathy.

Hanta.

“Huh?” you hear him beside you. You look back up and catch a face of surprise. His cheeks are pink, flustered. Confusion washes over you briefly before it turns into embarrassment, realizing you must have said his name out loud.

“Sorry!” you say quickly. “I just—I assumed it was ‘Anta, the Spanish pronunciation. I didn’t mean to say that out loud.”

God, this man needs a break from you.

His mouth moves slightly, lips pressed as if suppressing something. Kaminari laughs beside you and you feel another wave of embarrassment. Your knowledge of Japanese culture is sparse, but you have the decency to recognize that you aren’t close enough to be whispering Sero’s given name to yourself.

He shakes his head, coughing gently before he assures, “It’s fine, I prefer it anyways.”

You nod dumbly, swallowing as warmth bloom in your cheeks. Kaminari hands Sero his order, slender fingers removing the lid of the dark drink before holding it to his nose for an inhale. You look away, hand slipping into your pocket to clutch the green marble between the fabric. Last night you took that bottle with you, the one with abuela tucked away inside, but when you left the tent it became nothing but a small glass sphere. You want to yank it aggressively from your pocket and put it on display, demanding answers for what you saw… and why you can’t have it again. Your stomach tightens.

Others filter over, thanking Kaminari for the drinks and rummaging through the box of snacks. You relax at the sight of Momo, talking animatedly about the show tonight. Shouto and Touya make an appearance shortly, acts finished. Sero is quiet, you notice, more subdued than the previous days. You can overhear his conversation with Kaminari, but it’s incomprehensible, rapid Japanese, as you try to maintain yours with Momo.

Your eyes lock once, but he looks away first. Your stomach clenches again.

You wait with Momo before her act, near the opening towards the stage. She stands confidently, eager to make her way to her performance.

“I’m amazed by how not-nervous you are,” you tell her.

She smiles softly. “I’m certainly nervous, but more excited than anything. When I first started performing, as a teenager, I could hardly find the courage to stand on stage.”

You stroke your thumb over the marble in your pocket, the memory of your own first performance—your discomfort and your nerves and the disaster that followed. Your face twists with uncertainty.

“Break a leg?” you offer, then regret. Is that a phrase used in the circus? Are you cursing her?

“Thanks,” she answers with a smile.

She eventually parts the curtain to take her place on the darkened stage, leaving you at the edge between the inner and the outer—the carefully crafted world of performance, and the mess of construction behind it. You squeeze the marble in your pocket, taking it out to confirm its existence. In the dim light you can hardly tell it’s green, but there are shiny speckles scattered within, reflecting silvery light sweeping over. They’re layered throughout the clump of glass, everywhere and endless.

You exhale and turn to walk back to the main room. You jump in surprise when you see Sero, shadowed in the corner by the entrance. He bristles when you jolt, marble falling from your hand with a clack and rolling towards him. You feel your stomach drop, filling with dread—the fear of losing something.

“Sorry!” he says, “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

He crouches to pick it up before you can tell him not to bother. His hand pauses briefly before carefully grasping the small object. Your heart buzzes as it rolls to the center of his palm, his fingers folding to gently squeeze it. When he stands, his arm stretches to return it, and you have the urge to shiver when his fingers brush yours. They're warm. Hot, even. When he pulls away, the marble is safe in the center of your cupped palm.

The expression he wears is complicated, but you think he mostly looks confused. “A keepsake?”

You aren’t sure if he means for the circus or something else. You want to ask him if he recognizes it, what it means. How it can hold something so important and so vivid. All you can manage is, “I found it yesterday. In the festival.”

He looks surprised, shooting a sliver of disappointment through your chest. You want to frown at the feeling, your hope fluttering away. You hoped he knew what it was. A part of you hoped that he was the one orchestrating the tent to begin with, that he was letting you in himself.

“It’s pretty,” he says.

You nod. When you tuck the marble safe into your pocket again, you relax.

Sero looks calmer too, shoulders a little lower and face softened. You’re distracting him, you think, from his anxiety for his performance. You smile, an attempt to reassure him. His lips part slightly, eyes gently widening before they crinkle at the edges, teeth displaying in a crooked grin. The warmth that floods through you is palpable, embarrassing, such an intense feeling for someone you don't know. But you grin back excitedly, that bubbling of child-like giddiness strong in your chest.

The tent tonight is empty, void of tables and shelves and little objects to touch or open. Instead it is endless, one never-ending tunnel, stretching impossibly far. The light above is still dim, soft and warm as it casts against the fabric edges, illuminating just strong enough to reveal the floor. A vibrant mosaic swirls below, clusters of colored glass slotting neatly together, white plaster spacing them apart while also holding them together in place. The shards by your feet are a rhythmic pattern of white and yellow and red, the beautiful warmth of a corn snake. It looks alive from a distance, a breathing monster when the light flickers across the tiny tiles. You take a step, and the refraction offers the illusion that it is slithering away.

One more step lands you on the tail, and immediately you are surrounded by bright purple. Tall lengths of purple, like giant knives that bend and sway, streaks of pale gold and neon green running through them. You feel yourself tread forwards, the vibrations of your movement reverberating through your belly, rubbing against the ground beneath you. Your head darts to the side, tongue flickering to smell the air. It only takes you another moment to realize you are the snake, slithering through a sea of grass, grass that is warped by an infrared vision. Maybe stalking, waiting, enjoying the dapples of light that peek through the canopy above you, warming the smooth scales that line down your body.

The change in perspective is alarming, unsettling. But it’s exciting, watching the world through unreliable eyes, instead letting a new sense guide you. There’s damp, cool air resting on your tongue, refreshingly crisp. Your body curls freely, waving through divots in the ground, brushing against a rough stone along your path. 

You fade in and out of animal metamorphosis, reappearing as a human in the tent at the head of the snake, now walking forwards towards the extended paw of a gray wolf, glimmering reflective triangles scrunched into clusters of fluff. When your shoe makes contact with the edge, green and yellow floods your vision and the scent of pine takes over. You walk along soft needles that carpet the ground.

Next you’re a fish darting through warm water, gills breathing deeply as you slot yourself between corals. Then a polar bear, giant paws carrying along endless sheets of ice and leaving indents in the soft layer of powder on top. A dragonfly, world separated in two warped globes as you clumsily land on a bundle of brush leaning into a river’s edge. As an octopus you roll your tentacled body along the ocean floor, curling and grasping a closed mussel in your row of suckers. Your body is heavy and slow as a tortoise, but completely content with itself dragging against dry dirt. And then you’re a howling monkey, grasping swaying branches to swing through a jungle canopy. The air rushes against your face. You feel free.

This trail of other lives, the opportunity to live as another, is almost a gentler, more lighthearted version of what the tent offered you last night. You walk along the path greedily, giddy as you inhabit other species, get to be small or big or something you never imagined.

(Maybe you are all the same—creatures living for their very first time, as earnestly as you can while you try your hardest to survive, or even to live. To make do with the vessels you inhabit and to explore every crevice of what you’ve been offered. Whether it’s the sky or the sea or the dirt, there is a place for you to be.

There are so many places to be, so many purposes to fulfill. How does one choose?)

The next mosaic is a vibrant green bird, the long length of the guacamaya verde: the green macaw, your military macaw. You pause, brain stuttering at the sight. Are these tents really… for you? But why? Who has any reason to go through this effort, to share such… secrets.

Secrets, because that’s what they are. Impossible moments and experiences, precious memories that you can’t even match to their owners.

You step forward, body falling through the sky as you fly in the body of a green macaw. That overwhelming feeling of freedom rushes through you again, chest light against the wind and face soaking in the breeze. The world is expansive and sharp and saturated. You can see the canopy below you, giant fanning leaves and clusters of tall, tall grasses. There are blooms of orange, the flaming flowers of the Llama del Bosque—The Flame of the Forest.

The sky is vast and blue and yours. Endless freedom, endless choice. Nothing holding you down, nothing clipping at your wings to prevent your journey forwards. The joy is uncontainable, bubbling from your throat in the form of excited chirping. You laugh at the sound, manifesting as a squawk that pulls more laughs from your chest.

There’s a response, another call in the distance. Your head twists, neck craning towards the sound. The small ruffles of feathers across your neck brush the skin beneath, making you twitch and shiver, body faltering in the air as your wings tilt. You dip slightly, arcing through the atmosphere as you search for the origins of the sound.

Another green macaw swoops to your side from above, chirping. It's an emerald against the sapphire of the sky, shimmering. Large wings flap beside you, nearly brushing your own. Your heart swells, never having been this close and intimate with a bird before. As a human you are a distant admirer, watching content from the ground as they whoosh above you. But now you’re here next to one, as one, comrades gliding through the sky, chartreuse swathes of paint in a canvas of cerulean blue.

You coast together, soaring through air and wind. Your new friend tilts forward, dipping to swoop to the ground before soaring far beneath you. Your heart rises to your throat with nerves, but you take the plunge and dive down to meet it.

Cold air rushes past you as you find yourself running through the stalls. You yelp in surprise, and the lack of warning before you were removed from the sky. Now you stumble on two legs, trying to slow yourself while simultaneously reacclimating to being on land, body falling forwards as you barely catch yourself.

You’re finally stable, chest heaving as you stand by a market tent, the clink of change and mumbling of exchanges bringing you back to earth. Your body is on fire, tingling with life and anticipation. You turn your head quickly, confused how you arrived here, back through the front of the tent and into the row of artists. Nobody looks surprised by your appearance, not blinking an eye as they pass, caught in their own worlds.

You turn helplessly, body buzzing with disbelief. There’s a giddiness in your chest—the belief in something impossible. Otherworldly.

The red-draped tent stands quietly, unassuming, soft folds spilling onto the plaza floor. You walk towards it slowly, curiously. When you pull the curtain back and step inside again, it’s the small, empty, ordinary space of a covered market tent. A part of your heart clenches in disappointment, wanting to relive that special feeling or freedom and flight over and over again. Then it stutters, painful with an emotion that touches on pride, maybe spiteful glee at the implication that the tent was for you. That it emptied itself after it carried you on your intended journey.

You step back into the markets with a skip, giddiness uncontained. You’re a child again, impatient to move, to do something. The stalls blur as you flit through them, weaving along the people and rows with a thrill.

You see Momo.

The world of glee you’re lost in comes to an end momentarily. You falter, conflicted as you watch her bend to a knee next to a young boy—a fan bouncing with excitement for a photo. You haven’t stayed long enough to see any of the cast the past two nights, running away too soon or too quickly. But here’s an opportunity right before you, a potential answer.

She approaches you first.

“Are you enjoying your evening?” she asks. 

“Of course,” you reply honestly. More words bubble at the entrance of your mouth—vulnerable questions, skeptical demands—but they don’t manage to escape.

“It’s a beautiful night.”

You hum in agreement, and leave it at that.

When the next day comes, you tell yourself you need to stop, that this itch you have to run back, the anticipation you can’t shake off, is a fog over your mind, not allowing you to think clearly. Deluded thoughts of running away start to seep into your brain. You try to remind yourself that it’s not a delusion; they want you, Kendo’s offer being proof. Then you think you’re delusional for believing it.

You wonder if you should take a break, stay away for one night to let your mind reset and have a sense of tranquility. Not this habit of chasing cravings—dreams and fantasies of running away with them, never looking back. How can you do that with a box of ashes in your living room, an anchor chaining you down. You repeat this to yourself, a mantra as you push fabric under the needle, glide scissors through careful outlines of a pattern to stitch together.

But when the evening comes, you can’t stay away.

This time when you pull the flap open and step inside, you nearly trip into a vast pool of still water. You land on a gondola, rocking harshly from your clumsy footing. You manage to grasp the edge of the wooden boat, holding your body rigid as it eventually comes to a still.

Before you is a pond, or maybe an ocean, a clear blue body of water reflecting the brightness of the sky. There’s a faint blush of orange seeping from the horizon, sun hovering a few degrees above the surface. It must be a lake, with the giant, twisting mandarin tree that stands before you. The trunk is thick and sturdy, giant bundles of leaves bursting from the top and sprinkled with clusters of oranges. You’ve never met a tree this massive, at least ten times the size of its standard.

At the base of the trunk, where bark meets water, the surrounding surface is filled with fallen leaves and oranges. They float calmly, mirroring the canopy above. A wind rustles your boat and the branches, leaves chattering—whispering to each other. Two oranges break from their stems, plummeting below. They sink at first, spurting water from their point of impact. A wave rolls through, gentle ripples disturbing the silent blanket of green and orange.

You breathe, citrus and clarity entering your lungs, your mind. Everything is quiet. Still. 

Your eyes sweep the gondola, its dark and empty body. Feet move carefully along the bottom, the vessel rocking with each step. You grasp the handle of the oar once it's in reach, tucked in the elbow of the fórcola, and lift to place the long rod into the divot at the top. You pull experimentally, the bow slicing through blue ripples; you and the boat trudge forward as one—awkwardly curving to the left.

Your movements are unpracticed, never having been the one to pilot a gondola before, only ever the passenger. The boat rocks choppily with your command, switching directions constantly and moving with no predictable pattern. But it’s fun. You laugh when your steering propels you in the opposite direction you intended. The sound expands into the vast space beyond, carried by another breeze that flutters across your skin.

The tree is still out of reach, likely another ten minutes of amateur paddling. But you notice an orange floating in the water, only an arms length away. Quickly you tuck the oar securely before you carefully lean over the edge to grab the fruit.

The pads of your fingers brush the skin—smooth and wet. Slightly bumpy. And then it’s soft. Papery thin, folding under the pressure of your touch.

It opens into the bloom of a lotus flower.

You startle at the change, boat jerking at the force of your reaction. The water jostles, lotus wavering on the rough surface, but it looks calm, unworried. Content to ride out the wave. The air has a stronger tang of citrus, a cloud of orange spreading through the air.

Your miraculous touch persists as you slowly approach the tree, transforming the little fruits into opened flowers, crowns of orange with fiery red edges. They look like layers of sharp spoons, folds of colored paper, licks of flame reaching back for you. But they’re cool to the touch, soft, thin. 

As your boat cuts through clusters of oranges, parting them through the water like lanterns floating through the night, you reach for them, entranced at their unfolding. Flowering. The moment feels too beautiful, too peaceful for you to be a part of it. You don’t understand how your fingers, oftentimes nothing but hurried, rushed, clumsy appendages, could have such a magical effect. How they can transform. Create. 

Reveal. 

As the sun dips down, kissing the horizon, orange floods your vision. The sky becomes the petal of a lotus, red and orange and pink melding into one another, like blotches of ink seeping through cotton. The water is a liquid mirror, a chameleon to the sky, and the little lotus flowers nearly vanish, lost to the quilt of warmth they are sewn atop of.

You breathe deeply, calmly. Fresh, warm, citrus air fills you. You think if abuela were a color it would be orange. That fleshy inside of a limón mandarina: covered in green skin, a citrus that leans a little more sharp, a little more sour than the one you’re surrounded by now. This one is soft, sweet, with an orange skin that matches its inside, with leaves of a deeper green than you’re familiar with. But it’s equally warm, equally loving.

The peace in your heart is unfamiliar, one you haven't known for years. You bask in the balmy light of the falling sun, the hazy glow of a light burning out. You bask in the security of your feelings, your strength, your ability to remember, and to remember with ease.

When the sun finally dips, extinguishing its light into the water below, you are on firm ground. Unwavering ground. Steady ground. There are no lights above you or water beneath, just solid earth.

Your tranquility persists when you step out into the night air, body completely at ease. The world has a new sense of clarity, reality that you can experience freely. Free of shackles to your own mind and fears. Free of questions terrorizing your heart.

Free of embarrassment, when you bump into Sero near the musicians.

He looks surprised to see you, or maybe nervous. You aren’t entirely sure, only able to observe wide eyes, a slight pink across his cheeks, a smile that doesn’t quite split his face. But you take it in stride, lips curving softly as you greet him.

“Hi Sero,” you greet, then pause. “Hanta,” you correct yourself, his given name still unfamiliar to your tongue and mind.

“Hey,” he says. It’s breathy. Soft. You hear clearly over the ambiance of the music and the crowd, somehow.

You don’t respond, feeling no reason to, letting your eyes sweep through the plaza instead.

“Are you… enjoying yourself?”

You hum as you turn back to him. “Yeah,” you say. “Tonight’s been… really good.”

His face twitches, lips tugging higher up his cheeks before they’re smothered back down. His eyes relax. You think his shoulders drop slightly. 

A silence passes through you, a third presence to mediate your conversation. You accept it easily, let it hang in the space as you stand towards the edge of the scene. Moments go by. You let them.

“Care to dance?” Sero—Hanta asks abruptly.

You feel your cheeks tighten, lips stretching as you look down at yourself, your mismatch of patterned pants and too-big shirt. Chunky boots that would crush his toes. Then you turn to him, eyes crinkled with amused concern. You tap your horrible, chunky boot against the toe of his shoe.

“Only if you’re brave enough.”

Sero’s face breaks into a crooked grin. You watch his eyes unfocus, darkness smearing against his skin, hiding in the crease of his eyelids. His lashes are long, you realize, dark feathery strings that frame honest expressions. And his teeth are so bright, boasting a smile that shines.

No more words pass between you, silence still a third participant in your conversation. It’s only long glances, eyes flittering over features. An occasional yelp or grimace when you inevitably step on his toes.

But you’re at ease. At peace. Warm, with his hands on you.

The feeling does not persist to the morning.

In the rising sun you are a regretful creature, face flaming against your pillow—in attempt to suffocate yourself—as you recount the night before. The ability to let go, to exist in the moment and in complete peace, is a distant dream. Now you are embarrassed. Panicked.

When you rise and check your phone, there is a missed call from your sister. You drag your thumb across the screen to send the notification out of sight. Out of mind.

You arrive at Chiara’s early, letting yourself in to find her sitting in the living room. She grimaces as her eyes sweep over you.

You’re in your dress of stars. Bunches of sleek, dark fabric spill over your figure, elegantly taught against your waist and tightly wrapped around your torso. The shape is littered with glimmering flickers of silver, star-shaped stones and beads and gems sewn delicately into the skirt. A feathery length of ribbon is tied to each one, sheer silk that lifts as you walk, taken by the rush of your movement. The same misty fabric coats your arms in loose pleated waves.

You think you’d look captivating, ethereal even, if you didn’t pair it with a bright red beanie and thick, yellow-plaid coat. You smile, assuming they’re also the source of your friend’s disdain.

“I’m afraid to find out what shoes you’re wearing.”

You pinch the fabric around your thighs and lift, tendrils of frosted ribbons swaying as you reveal your most dirty, weathered, casual sneakers—once white but now grey, or maybe brown. Chiara scowls.

You linger quietly as she readies, heart nervous and distracted. It’s the final show, the last night of the festival. Likely the last night of secret, quiet little tents. Tents made just for you.

After she changes she shoves a jacket into your hands—a matching black with a sheen instead of rough felt and fleece. You pout, knowing you won’t be as warm, attempting to make a compromise that you’ll take it off when you’re inside, but she won’t have it. You manage to argue for your shoes, but she yanks the hat from your head as you exit her home, tossing it behind the door before locking it quickly. She ignores your protests and pushes you towards the elevators.

When you settle comfortably in your seats, jacket shrugged from your shoulders as you expected under the warmth of the canvas top, it nears half an hour to the start of the show. Chiara grumbles next to you at the punctuality.

“Scusami,” you apologize half-heartedly. “I’m excited.”

Her furrowed eyebrows and scrunched mouth soften, features smoothing as she rolls her eyes. You grin. She averts her eyes, glossy nails threading through the pages of the performance booklet.

“Sorry in advance for my lack of enthusiasm.”

“It’s fine,” you tell her. You know she doesn’t understand why you chase these shows. This one is even further from her range of interest, since the masks leave little to be studied from a cosmetic standpoint. “Thanks for coming anyway.”

She scoffs. “Of course.”

Seeing the show a second time in full and in the audience has a special quality. The first had the element of surprise, a suspense that gripped you tightly. This time you’re full of anticipation, and as Midoriya told you when you met—spending time backstage and seeing the hidden parts of the show help you appreciate it more, better understand the amount of work and skill that went into certain acts: to achieve ideal transitions, to tell the story.

Momo's act is executed perfectly for the last time—the last time here, in the city where you made her gown. The last time here, with you in the audience. The last time here, you floundering in uncertainty. You would tear up easily if it weren't for Chiara's nails digging into your arm.

Even after several days of seeing snippets of the show, of catching performers in costume and preparing backstage, you aren't prepared to watch Sero's performance. He's more captivating than the first time you watched him, stealing your focus and your breath as he moves. Would it be weird to ask for a recording? For some way to watch him in the future? Are you going to be cursed with mere flashes of his movements for the rest of your life, wishing you could see him again?

You try not to stare, in case your friend catches you. But you give up in an instant, accepting that you set yourself up for failure.

When the show runs its course and the audience makes to leave, Chiara’s grip on your hand is painful.

“What the hell was that!?” she exclaims over the rushing of the crowd.

“What? The last performance?” You can admit the giant, mechanical puppets were unexpected, but you think they worked well for the show and as promotional pieces.

“The whole fucking show! And shit Tucano—your dress!”

You laugh, nodding in agreement. 

“Do you know that guy, the white haired one doing the handstands?” Her eyes are wide, boring into yours with interrogation. “I think the booklet said his name is—Shigaraki?”

Your face twists in confusion. “We were introduced, but I haven’t spoken to him much.” He’s quiet and kept to himself, though you aren’t sure if that’s limited to his backstage personality.

You make a face when you realize what she’s thinking. Your eyes drop in disbelief, lips tightening in a line when she asks, “Introduce me?”

“You can introduce yourself,” you say. The row finally clears and you step from the line of seats to walk towards the stage. The guard is the same as the one from the first night; this time he doesn’t stop you from climbing up the steps and through the curtain.

The room is in a frenzy when you enter, many of the actors half undressed as they change into their festival costumes for the last time. Some scurry to begin the process of deconstructing the props. Large trays of catered food lay on folding tables near the center of the room, plates and bowls unfinished and scattered around the space.

Momo is by the entrance when you walk in, still in full costume, to give you a hug. The embrace is tender, soft and warm as you carefully bring your arms to her waist to return it.

“What an incredible first week!” she exclaims when you pull away. Her eyes shine with glee and pride. “Quite possibly the best we could have imagined.”

“You deserve it,” you tell her. “I’m so happy for everyone. And it was a dream… to be able to be part of this.”

The edges of Momo’s eyes deepen while her dark irises shine. She blinks rapidly before grasping your hand. “Don’t act like this is our goodbye. We still have Carnival.” The Ambrosia Carnival—happening for the next three days, where the crew and puppets will be paraded.

“Are you going to be free? To get dinner with Kendou and myself before you leave?” she asks.

You nod eagerly. Momo’s eyes sweep to Chiara, then back to you. The looks you exchange are an agreement that you’ll work out the details later.

In the meantime you introduce your friend to the cast. Chiara stands confidently, shaking hands and explaining her work. Her English is more refined than yours, her accent less noticeable and language more eloquent. Sometimes you forget this side of her, used to crass Italian that lovingly insults you—not unlike your sister’s Spanish. Your sister… You briefly wonder if she acts like Chiara when she’s working. Her missed call comes back to your mind. You shake the thought away.

When you return to the present, Chiara is gone from your side. You frown and look around the room, eyes widening when you see her enthusiastically talking to Shigaraki. He looks intimidated, almost cornered, and you watch with uncertainty if you should interfere.

“Is that your friend?”

You turn to Sero’s voice, sending a mental apology to the white-haired man, knowing you won’t move to save him. You hum in affirmation. “Chia. She can be kind of intense.”

You itch to compliment him, ramble on about his performance, the fluidity and the beauty of it. How it still takes your breath away despite having seen it several times by now. Then you remember the way you stepped on his toes last night, your giant boots making your movements choppy and clumsy. You fight a grimace, clenching your jaw at the memory. He deserves the compliment.

“Your performance was incredible, again,” you muster.

His embarrassed smile makes a piece of you tense, wanting to curl your toes and clench your fist as you watch his eyebrows curve upwards, like he’s ready to dismiss it. You bite your tongue.

“Your dress…” he trails off, unsure how to finish. 

You brighten. It’s the first anyone has mentioned it tonight. “Oh! It borrows from Si Estiramos Estrellas Como Seda. I mean, it’s inspired by the fifth chapter. I wanted to play around with the concept of the stars, and I like the way it moves.”

You twist your hips slightly, letting the skirt twirl and sway gently over your legs. The sheer ribbons float along, a delayed trail of strings. An afterimage of your figure.

Sero’s lips part slightly as he watches the rustle of fabric. You think you can see awe, striking a giddy warmth through your chest.

A voice sounds behind you, deep with a rise towards the end that borders condescending. You don’t understand the words, Japanese, but you feel like they’re meant for you. A flash of irritation crosses Sero’s face, eyes darting behind you in a glare that almost makes you nervous.

You turn to see the Todoroki brothers. The younger one speaks when your eyes meet. “Don’t mind Touya, he doesn’t speak English.” He pauses. “And he insulted your shoes.”

You laugh, eyebrows raising curiously. “What did he say?”

Todoroki shakes his head. “It was rather crude.”

Neither Sero or Todoroki entertain your pleading for answers, and you’re forced to pout in your ignorance while the eldest grins to himself. His smile is sharp and glinting, a knife against skin. You remember Kendo’s comment: that he was originally apprehensive to join the circus. You wonder why, with how comfortable he looks with everyone. What held him back, and what finally convinced him?

You don’t ask, instead getting pulled into further conversation about your dress. Sero pesters you to take some of the food, offering a plate that you gently refuse. Only then does Chiara materialize next to you, graciously taking the dish that you won’t.

“Hey—” you try to stop her.

Sero grins. “It’s fine. There’s always extra. Please, take some too.”

Chiara grunts when you shake your head. “There’s no way you're passing up catering from la Brisa.”

You can’t relate right now, stomach sporting faint knots. They were easy to ignore at the beginning of the night, distracted by Chiara’s bickering and the show. But with each minute you get closer to wandering through market stalls, walking your way into that tent one final time. You’re too excited to eat—too nervous, even.

“I agree.” Hanta adds with a grin. He turns to Chiara. “I’m Sero, by the way.”

You pause, frowning as your friend introduces herself after Todoroki. You look at Sero skeptically, then as blankly as you can, ruminating on why he called himself Sero. I prefer Hanta, he told you.

“Tucano?”

You blink, mind returning as Chiara taps her nail against your arm. 

“Hmm?”

“I asked if you were gonna be okay, if I left before the festival,” she says, eyeing you. “There’s a club that just opened, but I need to change if I go.”

You frown. “It’s a Wednesday?”

Her face contorts between a grimace and a look of disgust.

You roll your eyes. “Yeah, yeah I’ll be fine.” You smile at her gently, gratefully. “Thanks for coming.”

“Always, birdie.” You can hear the softness beneath her dismissal. You wave her off.

When you step in the tent for a final time, you fall.

It’s a plummet of surrender. The void is vast and consuming, the darkness of a night sky. A black piece of paper dotted with needles, a sheet of silken fabric pulled taught, lightness seeping through the threads. Your body burns against the rush of air, a meteor, a streak of fire in the coldest abyss, the vacuum of space and time. You let it take you, pull you through one final journey. The fall is fast and terrifying, stomach heavy as if you swallowed the weight yanking you down. But it’s safe. Free.

You touch land like a blazing arrow, fiery hot as you roll against the ground, body slowing as you tumble through long grasses. They are black, narrow blades that wave in the night, slivers of silver streaked down their bodies like shards of the moon. The vegetation is a cool mist against your searing skin. You roll slowly, turning gently onto your back when you finally lose momentum. You’re left staring into the sea of sparkles you just fell from.

When you sit up, you see that there is no end to the meadow in sight, not until you turn and greet looming, jagged mountains standing over your backside. They’re intense, watchful, protective of the moon, its light obscured behind their sharp figures. It’s all grass otherwise, rolling hills of hair blowing in a soft breeze. All grass, with one large pond carved into the carpet of the earth ahead of you.

You take your time approaching, crawling slowly through the grassland. A childish grin tugs at your mouth, feeling like a lion parading through its kingdom. The greenery rustles under every step, crunching beneath your hands and knees. You think if you were a lion you could feel the roughness of your paw against the fibers, your fur tickling your skin, mobile joints shifting under flesh.

The water in the pond is still, not a single ripple in motion. It’s surface is impossibly reflective, silver glass that captures every detail of the sky in sharp precision. When you lean over to get a glimpse of yourself, it’s not your own face that looks back at you.

The figure is dark, a shadow against the freckling of stars that twinkle from above. The silhouette is not yours. You freeze, heart racing as you are struck with realization.

Without hesitation, moving purely on instinct, you lean to dip your fingers into the pond, fist hovering over a cluster of stars, the face of Lepus’ skeletal form. You pull.

Bright, shining threads float through the air, silken lengths of stardust. They shimmer, glow under the gaze of the moon. You stretch the stars like silk, like you’ve dreamt since the day your eyes read chapter five of that mysterious little book. It’s a beautiful sight, the twisted, bright fibers floating through the night with every cluster you pull. Most shine silver and white. You notice a particularly thick thread with an orange hue—Jupiter, you think. Another is bright red. Mars.

You aren’t sure how to weave your stars and planets, holding the bundle of threads like a tuft of hair near the base. A braid could work, the closest weave you know to an actual rope. You imagine abuela scoffing as she watches you, retaining nothing from all the years you watched her work her loom. When you begin to separate the clusters of string, flitted through your fingers, a hand comes through the water to grasp your wrist.

At the heat of the touch, the searing contact of a palm and fingers over your skin, you are certain that Sero is on the other side.

He tugs you close, body falling through the portal of water, and you are once again shooting through the night sky. This time Sero falls beside you, one hand over your wrist and the other around your waist. Your body is burning again, searing as if his touch is everywhere, pressed deep into your side and holding you impossibly close. His face is still obscured, body still a void of darkness, a black hole. But you have no doubt it’s him. A tremor runs through you, heart beating rapidly as it pumps more heat throughout your body.

The universe is palpable, a tangible surface that you strike together. The stars are scattered beneath you as you are jostled in Sero’s—Hanta’s—protective arms. You want to press your face into his chest, dissolve into him as he cradles you, tumbling through stardust. After two more rolls you come to a still, laying gently on top of him, his chest a steady ocean wave beneath you. One of your arms comes beside him to lift yourself up, peering down. His face is illuminated in the moonlight, no longer a blank mysterious figure. You can see the white of his eyes blown wide, cheeks noticeably darker than usual. You watch him closely, unable to speak or look away as your body tingles, heart still pounding, racing through your chest and throat as you think of something to say. Anything. You feel weak under his gaze, arm a tremoring pillar.

The stars sparkle beneath him, like fine spheres of glass. When you clench your hand to try and steady yourself, shift for better footing, you realize it is glass. Sand. Black sand, the kind that twinkles in the day, a starry sky in the sun. You’re the first to break eye contact, sweeping past Hanta and across the shore. Your shore. The black sand of the Eastern coast—deep and rugged against clear blue waters that look murky in the night.

There’s a tug at your hand: Hanta, having stood without you noticing. You let him pull you, words still frozen as you watch his cautious face. He looks afraid. You are too.

He leads you to the water, your feet—now somehow bare despite still in your cosmic dress—pressing into the lapping waves. They don’t sink until they touch sand, instead pressing against the surface of the water, your sole a hydrophobic pad that can’t break through. Sero pauses once you’ve taken a few steps, turning to look back at you before he continues forward.

The trust is easy, natural. You think nothing of the disappearing shoreline, only looking ahead. It’s easy with him guiding you.

The sky lightens as you cross the ocean, black becoming a deep blue that lifts from the horizon, evaporating as vibrant orange takes its place, eventually fading into bright, constant cerulean. The sun waves through the air, eventually floating directly above you. Your heart steadies, slows, as you jog over the ocean in tandem. There is only peace, bliss. Freedom. It’s just you and Sero and the sound of the water. Sero doesn’t look back, not since the initial step off the shore. Only when a new form of land enters your sight—close enough for you to see sand—does he take another glance. His face is still smothered with worry. Your trust is still firm, but your heart wavers at his uncertainty. What is he doubting?

When your feet touch sand for a second time, tan clusters of shell and stone dust, it is fiery hot against your skin. Searing like Hanta, his hand still pulling yours. You run through jagged rocks and grasses, uphill, towards the back of a house. It’s small, with a sun-bleached deck. It looks familiar.

When you reach the deck, wood creaking under your weight as Sero pulls you through the backdoor, your vision flashes with the memory of a sleek black bottle. Then it’s you, sitting on the bench holding a maracuya to your lips, abruptly jumping to run inside and greet abuelita. You are once again in the warm confines of Hanta’s memory, this time as you. This time with him, to guide you through.

The inside of the house is empty, but you remember your way to the front door. You think he’s going to stop, open it and greet his abuelita. But he only pushes through, pulling you out of his childhood home as quickly as you entered it.

When you fall through the portal of the front door, his touch disappears.

You come to a stop, head spinning from the suddenness. Your ears fill with the thrum of layered chatter, dozens, if not hundreds of people surrounding you. You frown as you look around, at the new scene smearing into focus. A road stretches beneath you, dark pavement a runway for people dressed in a variety of parade outfits, flanked by neoclassical facades. It’s a sea of white in front of you, sprinkled with bright red and occasionally some blue. You’re the shortest in the crowd. When you look down to your own outfit, the layered chiffon of your dress is replaced with loose black fabric, the only color a swipe of lemon yellow across your chest.

You are once again a child about to dance through Fiestas de Quito—as a toucan.

Your head turns frantically, scanning your surroundings for your family. Your heart pounds in your ears, childhood nerves resurfacing despite being over a decade older. You think no matter how old you are, how many years have flown by, reliving this moment will always return you to the delicate glass of a child’s nerves, emotions so overwhelming all you can do is look for someone to reassure you.

The anxiety lifts, releasing from your stomach and your chest and your shoulders when you spot abuela, wrapped in cerulean and yellow fabrics as the blue and gold macaw. Mamá stands beside her with her hand in your sister’s, an aracari and hummingbird.

Your feet act first, scraping the rubber of your shoes against the pavement as you scurry over. Abuela’s hand is warm when you take it, the final balm you need to soothe the prickle in your chest. She smiles at you softly, encouragingly, face wrinkling as she walks forward to follow the next group of performers. Your heartbeat picks up again, skin flushing in preemptive embarrassment from the dance you’ll perform along the street.

But abuela is stable, walking forwards with a calm confidence that makes you think it’ll be okay. Your eyes dart to your sister and mother, stomach squeezing with envy at their shining eyes and hops of uncontained excitement. You feel a squeeze at your hand, a reminder that you’re okay. That it’s okay to be nervous and subdued.

Dancing through the streets of Quito is not exactly as you remember. The beginning is identical to your memory, your nerves churning, feet stuttering clumsily as you falter through your routine. Your eyes sting, lip wobbling as you scan the crowd—full of people watching you struggle through movements you practiced for so long. But abuela holds you firm, guiding you along. The warm, rough touch of her hand is your north star, a constant and a weight that keeps you tethered to the ground. Your other hand clutches the base of your mask, a dowel with that large, vibrant beak—a shield for your burning face.

You don’t remember enjoying the parade, only existing as a torturous memory. Even now, you wait anxiously for the moment you fall and break your ankle, anticipation clouding your heart. But somehow, soon enough you’re having fun, feet and body taking charge as your mind fades into the back. Is it because of abuela? Or even Sero, wherever he's gone? Regardless, you feel the grin on your face, the warmth in your chest as you deliver the practiced movements of your dance. The child in you is gleeful, hopeful. The costume is no longer an itchy cage, but a dressing for your movements as you finally settle into the music and the performance.

Before you know it, your hand is gone from abuela’s, giving you the freedom to twirl. You spin happily, face rushing through the open air. When you recenter to the front of the street, your eyes sweep through the crowd. A boy your age is watching closely, eyes wide with awe and mouth slightly agape. He’s dressed in bright patterned stripes, a contrast to dark hair and eyes. One of his hands is lifted, grasped by the woman standing behind him. Your free hand comes up to wave, passing your excitement through the air with a massive grin.

You watch an excited smile cross his face, expanding like an inhale, and you realize that it’s Hanta.

You don’t continue down the street to the end of the parade route. You don’t fall near the end, leaving the festival shaking with sobs and hiccups. Instead the world fades away in that moment, the crowd morphing around you, sky darkening, music shifting from horns and drums to the strumming of a guitar, all while you hold Hanta’s gaze.

You’re in Milan, flanking the live musicians at the circus festival as you stare at this man—his earnest, nervous expression—and wonder why the world is so cruel for not bringing him to you sooner.

"i'm never writing imagery every again," i say, lying.

when i first wrote this part i was like "this one's my favorite :')" and then i wrote the next part and the part after that and said nvm.

la Brisa is a real ristorante that i've never been to and honestly don't even know if they do catering but i'm so tired of researching that i can't be bothered anymore.

[jor-elsemissary]

Fall

Summary: Set some time during/after the last season, the real Lionel Luthor survived his son’s attempt on his life and seeks vengeance against those who wronged him. They wanted a villain, he would give it to them. He just needs to overcome his feelings for a certain widow.

———

When he came back from prison, his enemies thought his fangs had been pulled, what with the way he had tried to seek redemption through charitable foundations and such. But his son’s evil twin had merely proven them wrong, that the old wolf was still in there waiting to claw its way back to the surface and onto center stage.

Then his son believed him to have grown sentimental and weak over his obsession with a certain farmer’s widow and her son. But the younger Luthor simply was not aware of the truth about him and the son, and how much stronger his conviction was with that knowledge.

It hadn’t been enough to spare him the pain of a eighty story fall though. Barely alive. Declared dead to protect him from his murderer. It took years for him to recover. Years lost in a hospital far away from Metropolis and Smallville. And when he finally returned to get his revenge, his son had gotten himself killed and a doppelgänger tried to take his place.

It all could have been avoided, of course.

All they had to do was simply listen to him. But they chose to believe in the lies his son had crafted. Ignored his warnings and his pleading for clemency. They wanted to paint him as the villain, believing he had never truly changed, and so now, that is what he will give them.

With Kal-el gone and John Jones too busy elsewhere, and Jor-el’s construct no longer wracking his brain with head splitting migraines, he could easily slip into the role of the treacherous and ruthless CEO of LuthorCorp again. He would give them what they wanted.

A villain to fear and hate.

He just needed to overcome his feelings for a certain widow first.

“I don’t know what happened to you, Lionel,” Martha Kent firmly spoke but there was a sadness in her eyes that he could see. Behind him were two of her son’s friends, bound and gagged, though the latter was to grant him some peace and quiet from Miss Lane’s insistent chatter. “But I know this isn’t you.”

“It’s always been me,” he answered back nonchalantly. He dismissively gestured with the gun he held while he paced back and forth in front of the Senator. “I’ve simply allowed sentimentality to rule my judgement. That ends now, Martha.”

“It doesn’t have to. You have friends here, people who care…”

“No one cares about me! Not even you!” he snarled and whirled around unexpectedly at her, the cold steel now pointing at her. “The only person to dare defy my murderer and come to my funeral was your son. Where were these so called friends? Where were you?!”

She fell quiet and he felt a pang of guilt. He knew where she had been. She did not have her son’s gifts to traverse the distance quickly. There hadn’t been enough time from his death to the funeral to allow her to come.

Lionel lowered the weapon and looked away, knowing that if he continued to meet her gaze, her will would overcome his own. He chose to glare at Miss Sullivan who returned it with a look of defiant bravado. “It doesn’t matter anymore. They want a villain, they will have one. Go back to Washington, Martha. Forget about me.”

“No.” She was so stubborn. That strong will and determination was one of many traits he had come to cherish about her. Right now, though, it was becoming an inconvenience. “You were abandoned when you needed them the most. I will not do that to you.”

Lionel Luthor looked upon the one woman he had been willing to give his life for. She still amazed him even after he had gone cold and bitter with hatred. He wondered once more if she actually loved him but her loyalty to Jonathan kept her from acknowledging and exploring it.

“Why must you do this to me?” he demanded to know from her. Why was she willing to risk everything for him? He was a murderer, a liar, and a conman. He only protected Clark because that was what Jor-el wanted.

“Because I… do care about you, Lionel.” She dared to touch him, a gentle hand on his forearm and he could feel himself unraveling to that touch alone. He feared it wouldn’t take much for him to completely fall apart. She always had that effect on him.

“Do you?” he questioned, hazel eyes meeting blue in challenge. “Or is it Clark’s friends you’re more worried about?”

“Of course I’m worried,” she tells him while stepping closer to him. Lionel found himself swallowing thickly at her closeness. “But I still care for you as well. You must know that.”

She wasn’t wrong. It’s why he loved her in the first place. Despite all that he has said and done over the years, she still found it in herself to care about his wellbeing. He felt tender fingers brush across his cheek before a hand lovingly rested against his face.

“Let them go, Lionel,” she pleaded with him, her other hand gliding down his arm to the hand holding the gun. He didn’t want to let them off for what they had done to him, but he also wanted to make her happy. To be proud of him. To trust him again. He was hurting, he knew she could see that. She always seemed to know exactly how he was feeling and why. A mother’s intuition perhaps?

“They let him murder me.” The words came out in a quiet whisper and he felt his shoulders drop as he found himself leaning into her touch. “I didn’t deserve that fate, Martha.”

“No one does.” Her thumb caressed across his cheekbone and he felt himself close his eyes. Maybe, just maybe, he could forget everything and just be with her. “But this is not the way to get justice.” He let her take the weapon from him and he heard the safety click into place before it was discarded.

Martha Kent once more found a way to disarm him and he allowed it as she took him into her arms and simply held him. It took Lionel a few moments to overcome his own defensiveness to embrace this remarkable woman and rest his head against her own.

With eyes shut tightly, and Martha soothingly rubbing his back, Lionel Luthor came undone in her arms. Quiet sobs wracked his shoulders and his body trembled in her embrace. He needed help and Martha gave him her promise that she would, that he would not see the inside of a prison cell this time.

He didn’t resist when the police came in a few moments later and bound his arms behind him. He didn’t fight back when they took him away from her. He kept his eyes on Martha until he couldn’t see her anymore and his head lowered in defeat and despair.

The turmoil of betrayal and anger left him feeling hallow inside, except for that tiny spark of light that Martha Kent left behind in him. He decided then and there that he would endure whatever the courts decided. He would endure the mistrust and scornful tongues of Clark’s friends. He would endure the public humiliation he knows Lois Lane would put him through with her articles. He would endure it all so long as Martha Kent was there to guide him through it all.

He had set out to be the villain this time. Instead, he felt every bit as his son’s victim all over again.

[chaosnojutsu]

good morning!! I see your backstory ask post and I would love to hear more about the bridgerton AU or extraordinary love!! Whatever you want to say about them. they are faves of mine!! ❤️ thank youuuuuuu

You get both as I try to decide if I can swing something for Shikatema month and prep for Nejiten month! Perfect timing, I actually just re-read these two last night looking for inspiration!

ask about the backstory for one of my fics!

send shivers down my spines: I wrote all the Nejiten story and separately wrote all of Lady Whistledown as one cohesive letter, and then decided where I wanted to place each of her gossipy interjections. That was neat to explore as a writing device because I had room to expand upon the world and add a little more flavor (like detailing Naruhina’s relationship and my obligatory background Shikatema mention) without feeling like I had to do it all from Tenten’s POV, which would have detracted from the core of this story: Tenten being horny for Neji.

Another fun part of writing this was casting what role each character would play! Coding Neji as Simon was easy — deciding to split Daphne between Tenten and Hinata then seemed natural; the premise of having sex in the library comes from Daphne and Simon, but it felt disingenuous to her character for Tenten to be the diamond of the season. My personal favorite analog is Tsunade and Queen Charlotte, which also felt like a duh decision given their roles in society, but I liked the nod to Tenten wanting to impress Tsunade.

I solemnly swear to never refer to Tenten’s junk as “nethers” again lmao. I usually can’t stand that one, but it felt appropriate for the piece. And I can’t talk about this fic without bringing up the dom Neji agenda! Who’s going to tell the head of the house he can’t give head anywhere he wants in his house?? Definitely not Tenten, and apparently not any of their house staff. I’ve spent some time considering what a dom Neji might look like since your initial comment on the fic, so he might make a stronger appearance in another work — yay and thanks for putting the bug in my ear!

extraordinary love: “Temari knows damn well why a stupid social construct like her nonexistent virginity matters. Back in the day of arranged marriages, the whole thing was more of a business deal. The wannabe groom would have to pay more to his bride’s family in exchange for her hand in marriage if she was pure. Virgin brides from influential families were high dollar items. Temari’s family is influential enough. But now that the matter of virginity is off the table… this barter is looking more like the Sand seeking retribution against the Leaf than tit for tat. If her marriage is blessed, they’ll probably stipulate Shikamaru move to Suna instead of the opposite, which is not what Temari and Shikamaru decided on. In the most drastic worst case scenario, like Kankuro said, their engagement (or the knowledge that said engagement has been consummated on a number of occasions) might be seen as an act of war. They’ll stick Shikamaru’s stupid, handsome face in a bingo book with shoot to kill orders.”

This premise is the heartbeat of the story. What does it look like when your personal values don’t align with those of everyone else around you? How do we respond when well-intended people stick their nose in our business and give an opinion we never asked for? Combined with fan theories/headcanons that Shikadai was a pre-wedding pregnancy — and that’s an interesting concept to me, especially considering what that might have looked like for Temari and Shikamaru if they were still long distance or abruptly decided not to be (and the parallel to Mirai and Kurenai and Asuma, of course, which I didn’t hit in this story because Temari wasn’t actually pregnant) — everything fell into place.

Making the call to write from Temari’s POV was exciting but scary because she’s so Particular, you know? But this story needed to come from her because of what it is, and it’s about Temari’s agency: she gets to decide who she marries, and whose baby she has, and she gets to decide when those things happen. And then I got to actually write her being in love (which I’m eager to try again), and I love the energy of Temari being like “Look how impressive my fiancé is! I made a good choice! I’m trying really hard to make you approve of him!” and Shikamaru being like “Yeah, what she said!” Because Shikamaru understands that as far as Suna’s customs and culture go, he doesn’t have a dog in that race, he IS Temari’s underdog in the race.

I’m honestly proud of this fic because I know I just made it sound really serious in terms of themes etc., but it ultimately is a comedy, and anyone who has ever done comedy can speak to how difficult of a skill it is to learn and hone. One of the things that makes comedy work well is that the characters have to take everything seriously and respond sincerely, now matter how ridiculous or grandiose their circumstances or responses may be. Temari even says from the beginning of this story that she knows she has the Kazekage on her side, but she panics a little because of her circumstances and takes matters into her own hands, and she doesn’t relinquish that control until shenanigans have ensued and Gaara finally reminds his sister that his support of her was never in question. (I’m not sure how I feel about my iterations of Gaara and Kankuro individually or overall, but I do like their scenes with Temari as siblings and their consistency.)

Side note: the reception of this story gave me the confidence to write chapter 15 of Reliance the way it panned out!

(also, I’m late, what’s new, lesbian nejiten is coming i promise)

[jade-of-mourning]

sooooo I’ve recently stopped being dead to the world

I had to backtrack and reread down to your answer to my last ask (which,,, thoughts,, when you manage to beat them into submission pls pls pls pls share everything) because I haven’t touched tumblr in a hot second but then I saw your post about lok s1 (and specifically s1 korra) and,,,

okay so this is me and my dumb hyperfixation talking but how do you think the rest of tlok would’ve gone if makorra wasn’t ruined. like just in general, what do you think would’ve changed?? if anything??

keeping this short but like. brain worms are munching. cuz the way their characters developed and how they each influenced each other. how would that have ended like. romantically. like what if korra burned bright and bright and bright and offered her soul and her strength and every one of her fingernails in love and mako bit his lip hard enough to offer blood in a kiss. what if they were a little bit insane by the end of everything.

sorry that doesn’t make any sense!

love

🐌

hey snailon!!! i've missed you <3 i've been hella busy myself (cough i have four ap tests in a row next week) but it's always lovely to see you around haha

hmm there are definitely a fair share of really well written meta regarding a not-slanderized makorra, but i don't really have any specific links on me rn. i'll just give you my sparknotes version of what i'd imagine, which might end up combined with stuff i've read from other people that i don't remember reading

i'd probably postpone them more than the series did — which, granted, they did write it with one season in mind, so i'll give them that. (i would argue that it's still a valid explanation for certain writing choices, because even though the books were commissioned before the release of their predecessors, it's not like the writers get to just rewrite the ending spontaneously bc episodes aren't constructed chronologically lol) okay ignoring that tangent

i'm okay with the love triangle in season 1 as it is because even though it's insane, it also checks out on all parts for korra, asami, and mako in terms of backstory and personality at this point in the story. korra is socially unaware because she never interacted with people her age or really Society, asami is desperately lonely and values good intent above all else, and mako is also impressively socially stunted and has the pressure of financial concerns as well. (if it were up to me, i would either just commit to korrasami or makorra from the start and add in the third if going in the throuple direction. i'm going off on a tangent again)

i have conflicting feelings about endgame. on one hand, makorra is so full circle by concluding the way they do here — mako's first encounter with korra he treats her like he doesn't give a shit that she's the avatar, the first person to ever do so; yet, by the end when korra's absolutely devastated and believes her only value was as the avatar, mako tells her straight up that he doesn't care if she's the avatar or not, as he has all along. it's genuinely so cute and i could honestly write so many more words about it than i did. but at the same time, i just would like to think that after the shitshow love triangle, they would put off getting together, perhaps as an overcompensation upon recognizing how they hurt asami.

since the latter route is the au i've decided to follow, so be it. in endgame, korra and mako still have their full circle moment and spinny-hug, but instead of kissing in front of naga they just longingly pine into one another's eyes. excessively so the viewers know. okay cut

season 2 they are rekindling their friendships with asami and asami is tired of watching them dance around their feelings for one another and also maybe pining just a little bit for korra but huh what. i would actually have to rewrite the entirety of lok to shift s2 into a readable mess. korra is still amazing as always and saves the world as always. oh also throw in some korrasami with the family betrayal theme. yeah i don't want to think too hard about this

see the struggle is that i love krew!friendship in season 3 so much but at the same time i feel like end of season 2 is the perfect time for a makorra get-together instead of a makorra breakup, seeing that korra has literally changed the entire world all by herself because she is so amazing. so alas, we'll go with end of season 2. mako no longer lives under his desk to hide from korrasami and in the two weeks between s2 and s3 they are done with their honeymoon phase so they'll just be as they are through s3 tbh. honestly there was so much makorra shipteasing throughout canon s3 that i don't really think there'd need to be too much rewriting. they're still the level-head/kick-the-door-down-subtlety duo within the krew dynamics and they're still clearly very important to each other specifically. the makorra hug before korra goes up to face zaheer might be drawn out even more and maybe something sweet couples say idk. (i have so much rizz i know wht i'm saying)

korra gets even more trauma for a lifetime (again), and three years pass. korra writes to asami once as in canon because by the time she feels human enough to pick up a pen, she doesn't even know how to talk to mako, let alone try to address the guilt of ignoring the guy who devoted himself to her so thoroughly. asami understands what it is to lose. mako (& bolin) has lost more than anyone else once perhaps but i think that the trauma repression means that that was never processed and he would be terrible to talk to about any of this. he's been there, but he doesn't understand it, if that makes sense.

okay so korra comes back, makorrasami dinner (ig the shitling that canon wu is is there also), makorrasami train fight, then we have remembrances and beyond the wilds — y'know, the korrasami/makorra episodes respectively. korra is now experiencing feelings for both of them Oh Fuck. by default i would say that masami has been hooking up through these three years but since makorra was a thing through s3 then i retract that; however, their friendship has rekindled very deeply as the only two members of the krew left in the city. and mako & korra have not discussed what they were or what they want to be at all, just been adamantly dancing around the subject.

blah blah kuvira blah blah city blows up then the wedding then bam!!!! mako's love confession to korra is actually a love confession to korra (wdym "i'll follow you into battle no matter how crazy things get; i've got your back and i always will" ISN'T a confession of love). korra is joined by both mako and asami after tenzin leaves, asami grieves, and the three of them have a moment together that has very heavy implications for throuple-ism. then bolin pulls up very devastated that he has missed the final krew party. cue the laughter, cue korra's final delivery of "i'll always try to restore balance" bc it should've been here instead as the three of them stare at the changed city before them, and cut.

(yes krew should've had the final scene together. i've said it before that i don't think korrasami was particularly well written, but i still like them and the ending is still very sweet. however, i hate that they completely disregarded the rest of the cast for the final episode instead of giving them a scene together, even if not the very last one, bc of how that translated over into the entire fandom… i mean what. and the spirit world vacation is a sweet sentiment but also i feel that korra would never immediately go leave on a vacation immediately after everything that just happened and her declarations of duty. i don't think i articulated that very well. but yes.)

[sketchthetofu]

Okay, deep breath in OKAY LETS GET THIS PARTY STARTED- first of all, @sora-fish u asked so this is ur own doing <3! /pos and second STATIC!!!

So Static is my wonderful world hopper, but she can’t control it (wow! So original! /j) the catch is that this is a punishment she can’t remember why she got because of how many worlds she’s been in and out of, now forever doomed to hop from world to world, staying anywhere from a couple of hours to years.

With this every world she gets dumped into needs her for a specific role in its story, almost always being the role of a villain that needs to be filled, though, sometimes she gets lucky and is a sideline character or a nobody. At first she tries her hardest to keep away from being the villain, from being the awful evil person the stories want and need, but she’s never able to, she always finds herself stumbling into the role whether she wants to or not, so after many failures of changing the role she was placed in, she starts to lean into it, thinking of each world like a new game more and more as time goes on, just trying to have as much fun as she can before getting whisked away to a new world. (I got a whole list of her morals and which stages of grief she’s in each part of the story- which I could share if u want but it’s also hella long-)

Now this is where Kitchen Witch arrives in Statics story!!! KW is my beloved vigilante, think of a classic cliché high schooler has powers and decides to stop crime in their city and that’s how KWs story mostly goes :D! I’m still working on her power but rn I have her with a recipe/spell book where she writes down the ingredients of different things, brick, wood, metal, etc! And with this knowledge of how things are constructed she can build them herself from thin air. Static is able to read a story pretty quickly when she arrives in one, knowing from the style and vibe of the world that this isn’t a war torn bloody one, and so does sillier crimes and just messes around. One thing leads to another and after being rivals and enemies KW and Static somehow become friends, KW swearing to Static that she’ll figure out how to fix Statics uncontrollable world hopping, that Static doesn’t have to be a villain any longer, and Static tiredly lets her try, KWs hope and belief things will work out being infectious as Static slowly starts to hope that this is the end of the tug and pull of the universe using her, that she can stay here in KWs comfortable world. That… doesn’t last. One day while they are hanging out on a rooftop Static glitches out of existence, serving her purpose in KWs world and getting dragged to another, leaving KW alone on the rooftop where her friend used to be beside her <3. That is where KWs and Statics stories splits again! KW has her own chaos that happens without Static there (I’m creating a wonderful story for her too <3! She’s actually a wayyy older oc than Static hahaha) and Static continues to hop worlds, the next one being into my dnd campaign “Silver City” :D!!! Where there’s a whole entire MESS of lore, chaos, angst, story, you name it it’s there!!! But I can get into that next this is already… a lot… lol. And if ur still interested I’ll try my best to explain it- (This is also the campaign I’ve been working on drawing a character lineup for our group <3!)

I also got a slowly growing list of other short stories Static is a part of, “Jester to Tyrant”, “Dead Romance” etc. ;) I wanna make a multi comic book series of her adventures branching off of KWs own comics, I got arcs and everything for both of them-

As you can probably tell I love and think about my ocs like- A LOT….. hehehehe

[destinedtobeloved]

Now that I’ve finished Altered Carbon, I think it would be fun to share one of my notes from my notes app that I’ve been writing on since I’ve started it. I’ve cried a lot about this book, and everything I’ve ever left behind has claw marks.

This book definitely has claw marks.

It includes all of my favorite moments and parts of the book down below :)

Things I love about book Kovacs

- he’s trying to quit smoking

- His hallucinations are of Jimmy and Virginia Vadura

- Him and Ortega don’t actually hate eachother that much in the beginning

- At first Takeshi doesn’t actually hate Bancroft either

- He’s genuinely confused about earth terms

- He was mad that at the Wei clinic they didn’t give him back his watch or his bandana, simply because he just bought it and he’d liked the watch

- He likes shopping

- He likes fruit juice???

- Gaslit Umou into being late to Psychasec because he needed to eat breakfast

- He deals with hangovers like a champ

- Started smoking in the construct once he remembered it had no real consequences in the real

- Understands female complexity/differences between male and female

- Knows how to handle gentle situations most of the time (victor talking about his daughter, Kristen talking about Ryker.)

- Quotes poetry from Quell

- Also enjoys poetry (ex; the carving on the bench at the faculty when he’s waiting for the doctor.)

- Slept for twenty hours after the Wei clinic??

- His emotion (though i do miss the scene where he’s drugged up outside of the raven talking to Quell. ‘250 years is long enough. It’s time to move on.’ ‘Never. You hear me? Never.’)

- His love for Sarah

- His attempts at smiling

- His explanation of personality frag!!!!

- Chapter 20 as a whole is so amazing (talking about Ryker- him and Curtis, bla bla bla, mostly just Elias and Kristen stuff.)

- Ramen just awakens something in him

- Actually very good at telling children’s stories to Ortega (like a dad.)

- Good at cracking jokes

- His interaction with the little girl in the second page of chapter 25???!?? (He shoots her with a little finger gun when he realizes she’s looking at him expectantly after seeing his weapon.)

- After the whole blown up building Kadmni thing (‘that’s fucking enough!’) he smokes because he just decides it’s not worth it

- Him and Trepp playing card games on the airship that Trepp had taught him

- He literally reaches for his Nemex every three seconds istg

- Remaining ‘innocent at the core’ -reileen

- Apparently having a very deep very drugged convo about cats in chapter 26

- Kovacs is a MUNCH

- Repeats the same Virginia Vidora quote over again. ‘We take what is offered. And sometimes, that must be enough.’

- Reileen always starting off her talks with him in Japanese because she thinks it unites them in a way

- Had to stop himself from calling reileen ray

- He actually DOES genuinely smile (ex; when Irene is exited about the limo)

- ‘I’m a sucker for family reunions.’ HE ACTUALLY DOES CARE (maybe it’s because him and Sarah never got to have one after he was taken out of the store.)

- Sleeping in the car (limo) so Irene can get laid

- The guilt/itchiness he has after relapsing into smoking

- Him and Trepp are actually friends and she insists that they go party, drink coffee, play card games together, ect.

- Considers trepp not getting into the envoys a ‘Lucky escape’

- Trepp n Kovacs playful teasing

- He missed Ortega when she left the Hendrix and didn’t come back. ‘I missed Ortega.’ Page 356

- Bancroft saying he’d been around for the RD’s of two of his children. (Going out of order back to the beginning)

- Doesn’t bullshit. Didn’t tell Irene it would pass when she was feeling hurt after being resleeved.

- It was nerve wracking to him to watch Irene code

- Reileen and Miriam slept together??

- Takeshis urge to be cruel

- Got anyoyed when Miller was tapping on the table and just flatted out his hand LMFAO

- When he heard he got a call he immediately asked if it was Ortega.

- Literally seconds before he’s about to get beat to death in the Panamrose he thinks about how bored he is

- Still, right before he about to die, he thinks about Ortega and calls her a ‘pocket of calm’

- He’s ready to die, not awfully upset about it because he knows Kristen has enough information to get Reileen and also because he knows Sarah will be released

- Trepp saves him in the Panama rose

- He talks to his dad mid fight after not hearing him forever. Before he killed Kadmin (calling him the ‘patchwork man’) he asks if he wants to say anything.

- He’s afraid to alter his virtual self because he thinks it’s not far away from what reileen and Bancroft do

- Sits on a forklift after the fight thinking. He’s weirdly soft.

- Claims that nothing hurt more then the realization that this would be his and Ortegas last moments together

- Held hands with her too

- Would’ve given anything to not have to dissolve what was growing between them.

- He loves her more in the book than he did in the show (and it’s making me sob.)

- He literally is arguing with himself when he is double sleeved

- He almost killed someone at 16 because he looked like his dad

- Also wanted to help the Elliot’s because of his family and his mom who was like Lizzy

- Absolutely does not want to talk about his past and his father/family

- Planning to get drunk because he doesn’t want to talk to himself sober

- Disappointed with his copy for smoking

- Takeshi fter the microsurgery is down at the lake with a little girl who seemed to ‘adopt him’

- He’s actually kind of heartbroken when him and Kristen’s relationship changes after he is resleeved.

- Makes his day that he can still make Ortega laugh before he convinces her to get him some stiff because he thought their dynamic was weird afterwards

- Before he and Reileen fall to their deaths he says, ‘When they ask how I died,' I said, 'tell them: still angry’ as well as ‘that’s fucking enough’

- Once his clone lost to rock paper scissors and was set to die, he asks if he wants him to tell Jimmy anything. I sobbed.

- Kept accidentally talking about Reileen in present terms after she died.

- He gave money to Irene once he’s about to leave for Lizzy. (‘I want there to be something clean at the end of all this, something I can feel good about.’)

- He held Irene after that.

- He attempts to laugh with Ortega before he goes

- His quote saying that no matter what you always leave alone. (‘Whatever world it is, whatever you've done there for better or worse, you always leave the same way. Alone.’)

- His last wishes are for Kristen to get Ryker to stop smoking once he’s out of the store

[lucy-moderatz]

aceness and re-learning to read romance

this is long. just warning you.

For a good portion of this year, I thought I’d started to hate romance novels. They’ve never exactly been the focus of my reading, but since I’ve started reading regularly again, they’ve always been a feature. For the most part, I’ve enjoyed them. There are always duds, of course, but more and more over the last few months I just…haven’t been able to take them. 

Tropes I used to like suddenly annoyed me. Writers I once really enjoyed flopped time and time again. Was it them? Was it me? I severely downsized my romance collection. There were some hits, for sure. But they were fewer and farther between. I started to have much better luck when I focused primarily on queer romances, where I saw far more success. But that left me with another question. Why?

We should all be reading queer stories. Sci-fi, fantasy, non-fiction, horror, every genre, every month, every year. That goes without saying. My sudden fixation of queer romances could have just been a desire to see stories told in a different way, from a different point of view, old tropes reimagined. But what about my queerness: my aceness. Did that have something to do with it?

My aceness goes like this: I do not want to have sex. I probably never have. I probably never will. That’s the base from which I operate. However, that doesn’t mean I don’t want to read about sex. That doesn’t mean I don’t love reading about sex. I do. I love a well-constructed, hot, dirty love scene between any two consenting adults who want to be there. That’s fun. Sex is fun, as long as it’s not happening to me. 

However, a thought recently occurred to me that I haven’t been able to let go of: have I begun to gravitate away from, full disclosure, mostly heterosexual romances because they make me feel like sex is happening to me?

I know a common criticism that gets lobbed at the romance genre and romance readers by joyless morons is that it’s all wish-fulfillment and self-insert. That women imagine themselves in the place of the heroine and get off vicariously through that. That’s certainly not always true. And if it is true, so what? I read sci-fi novels to live vicariously through people who get to fly around in space. I read cozy fantasy to feel like I’m in a magical world where everything is safe and comfortable. Self-insert is a valid way to read, but since we apparently need to be policing women’s desires all the time, it’s something women have to defend themselves against all the time.

But this isn’t about how capital “W” women read. This is about how this lower case “w” woman reads, and how I come to a piece of work as an asexual/aromantic. I realize I may have been coming to the piece as if I am the woman in the piece. I’m now forced to be her. Which is difficult because more often than not, she wants to be there and I don’t. I don’t relate to her because I can’t relate to her. I wouldn’t give the male love interest a second chance because I don’t feel her feelings and I don’t know how. Therefore I get frustrated when she does because what’s the point? Living happily ever after? I’m happy now.

You see where this is a problem.

I am not the person in the book. But somehow, I have been reading romances, and I feel it is particular to romance, as if I am. With queer romances, particularly ones where there are no female love interests (and those are, for the most part, the ones I inevitably picked) there’s a built-in defense against that. Against the uncomfortable feeling of being unable to separate myself from the female protagonist, from her choices feeling like mine, and her desires being completely antithetical to mine. I find myself liking those books a much higher rate more because I feel inherently set apart in a way I suppose I no longer feel in most heterosexual romances. It's just a book again.

I don’t think we’re taught to read this way. Maybe subliminally, I don’t know. I know not everyone reads this way. I know that “this has nothing to do with me, these people are not real, let’s see all of the fun things they do” is the way, probably, most people come to a book. I just never realized, when it came to romance, maybe I wasn’t one of them. Maybe I didn’t know to have that barrier up. Maybe I didn’t know it would end up bothering me so much.

I told my Dad I was asexual because I was reading a book and two characters were having a conversation and suddenly, or at least suddenly it seemed to me, one character began thinking they were sexually attracted to the person they were talking to. In the middle of the conversation. I was just…annoyed. Baffled and annoyed. Because here we were again. This was not a romance book. This was a mermaid and a human talking about some heavy stuff and then there it was. I felt slammed into. By this feeling I don’t get, this thought I’ve never had, that every single person seemed to have but me. I’d been thinking about asexuality, reading about it, talking with friends, asking myself, “Is this me? Is that why I don’t feel these things? Should I tell him? What will he think? I can’t not tell him. I can’t not tell someone. He loves me. He’ll understand.”

He did, by the way. They all did. I was lucky.

So. I haven’t had long to test this theory. I just finished my first heterosexual romance in a long time, and though there were very few sex scenes, I went into it with the thought, “This has nothing to do with me. Let’s have some fun.” And I did. I can’t promise they’ll all be like that. I don’t know if it matters if they are. They’re just books. But I wanted to reflect on this part of myself, this journey into what being ace means for me, how being more aware of it and accepting it as part of my identity, part of how I intrinsically think and approach the world, may change, may expand, how I approach everything.

I’ll never stop reading queer romance. It’s not a shield, I’d never treat it that way. I just hope that I’ll now be able to approach all romance the way I have always approached queer romance, as it’s own piece of art to be judged and evaluated on its own merits, as a story about people completely separate from me who happen to want relationships and like sex and will live happily ever after.

After all, I’m already happy now.