#Now we can finally know what they’re saying!!!

[dulcescorderitas]

𝓴𝓲𝓭𝓼?

you’re nursing a beer, your legs pulled up to sit cross-legged as you lean back on your palms. dean’s beside you, his own bottle dangling loosely in his fingers. his knee rests against yours, this simple, casual point of connection, but it’s enough to ground you. his shoulders are relaxed, his legs stretched out long, but there’s something... off. you can feel it in the way his gaze keeps drifting, how he’s not quite looking at you or anything in particular. he’s lost in his own head, and you’ve been with him long enough to know that’s rarely a good thing.

“you’ve been quiet tonight,” you say, finally breaking the silence. your voice is soft, not accusing, but the words seem to snap him out of whatever spiral he was falling into. he glances at you, his green eyes flickering in the dim light, and he huffs out a little laugh. it’s small, almost self-deprecating, and he looks away again, his jaw tightening.

“just thinkin’, sweetheart,” he murmurs, taking a swig of his beer.

you tilt your head, watching him. “about what?”

he hesitates, running his free hand through his hair, and the gesture makes your stomach tighten. whatever it is, it’s big. he’s not usually this careful about his words—dean winchester isn’t careful about much, period—but right now, he looks like a man standing on the edge of something.

“can i ask you somethin’?” he says, finally, and his voice is quieter now, more raw.

“of course,” you reply immediately, setting your beer aside. you shift closer, your knee pressing more firmly against his, your hand resting on the cool metal of the car between you. “what’s on your mind?”

he exhales slowly, staring down at the bottle in his hands. for a second, you think he’s not going to say anything. then, all at once, the words come out.

“you ever think about havin’ kids?”

the question hits you like a punch to the gut—not because it’s unwelcome, but because it’s so unexpected. you blink at him, your lips parting, and he finally looks at you, his expression guarded. like he’s bracing for you to laugh at him, or worse, to shut him down completely.

“kids?” you repeat, just to make sure you heard him right.

“yeah,” he says, his voice gruff, like the word’s hard for him to get out. “like... not right now, obviously, but... someday. you ever think about it?”

your mouth opens, then closes. you glance at him, searching his face for any clues about where this is coming from. it’s not like dean’s ever been the white-picket-fence type. hell, you’re not even sure if you’re the white-picket-fence type, given the life you lead. but there’s something in his eyes, something vulnerable and almost... hopeful, that makes your chest ache.

“i don’t know,” you say honestly. “i guess i haven’t thought about it much, with everything going on. it’s not exactly easy to picture that kind of future, you know?”

he nods, like he was expecting that answer, but there’s still this shadow of disappointment in his expression. “yeah. yeah, i get that,” he mutters, tipping back his beer for another sip.

you watch him for a moment, your mind racing. he doesn’t bring up stuff like this lightly—hell, he barely even talks about his feelings unless you pry them out of him. but this? this is something he’s been holding onto, turning over in his mind, and now he’s laid it at your feet like some kind of fragile offering.

“why are you asking?” you ask gently, leaning closer. “is this something you’ve been thinking about?”

he lets out a low laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “yeah,” he admits, running a hand down his face. “i don’t know, it’s stupid. just... sometimes i think about what it’d be like. teachin’ a kid how to throw a football. takin’ ‘em for a drive in baby when they’re old enough. tryin’ to be the kind of dad mine never was.”

the confession is raw, almost painful, and you feel it settle heavy in your chest. dean’s voice drops lower, like he’s afraid of saying it out loud. “i mean, i know it’s a pipe dream, with the way we live. but... if it ever happened, you know? with you... i think i’d want that.”

his words hang in the air between you, and your heart stutters. with you. the way he says it, so quiet, so certain, makes something twist inside you. you reach out, your fingers brushing his arm. he looks up at you, his expression cautious, like he’s waiting for you to tell him he’s crazy.

“dean,” you say softly, “you’d be an incredible dad.”

he snorts, shaking his head, but you tighten your grip on his arm, making him look at you. “i mean it,” you insist. “you’re already so good with sam, and jack... hell, you take care of everyone around you, whether you realize it or not. you’ve got more love in you than you give yourself credit for.”

his jaw clenches, and he looks away, but not before you catch the flicker of emotion in his eyes. “you really think that?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

“i know it,” you say firmly, leaning in closer. “and if that’s something you want... someday... then yeah. i think i’d want that too. with you.”

his head snaps toward you, his eyes wide, and for a second, he just stares at you. then, without warning, he leans in, his hand sliding to the back of your neck as his lips crash against yours.

the kiss is desperate, messy, like he’s been holding himself back for too long and finally let the dam break. his fingers thread through your hair, holding you close as his mouth moves against yours, hot and demanding. you gasp into him, your hands grabbing at his shirt, pulling him closer, needing him like you need air.

his tongue sweeps over your bottom lip, and you open for him, letting him in. he groans into your mouth, the sound vibrating through you, and it’s like a switch flips. suddenly, you’re climbing into his lap, straddling him as his hands grip your hips, pulling you flush against him. the heat of him, the way his stubble scrapes against your skin, the sheer wantpouring off of him—it’s overwhelming in the best way.

he breaks away for a second, his forehead pressing against yours as you both catch your breath. his hands are still on your hips, holding you there like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. “you have no idea how much i love you,” he murmurs, his voice rough and low, sending shivers down your spine.

“i think i have a pretty good idea,” you tease, your lips brushing against his as you speak. he laughs softly, the sound muffled as he kisses you again, slower this time, but just as consuming.

the future might be uncertain, but right now, with dean’s arms wrapped around you, his lips on yours, you think maybe, just maybe, you’ve found something worth holding onto.

[jirsungs]

NO IDEA | 14. meeting the ncu freaks?

word count: 1.3k words

You wish you had mentally prepared yourself for the chaos you were about to enter when Donghyuck jiggled his spare key into the keyhole of his shared apartment.

To surprise you both, the door immediately swung open with Jeno standing there. You're both caught in headlights at the taller male, and Donghyuck’s key is still snuggled into the keyhole.

His lips formed in a smirk, his eyebrow comedically raised, “Wow, Y/N. Fancy seeing you here.”

You laugh at the familiar face. “What's up, Lee?”

You glance at Donghyuck briefly, and when you do, he's rubbing his forehead in pure embarrassment. You found it… kind of endearing.

“Jeno, please.”

The said male drops the act at his friend's embarrassed remark and gestures to you both to come inside. Once you do, you're met with three other sets of eyes blinking at you.

Their physical appearances were familiar since they were recurring people seen in Donghyuck's social media posts. But seeing them in front of you felt different—in a good way, of course.

Speaking of Donghyuck, your awkward boyfriend stands beside you, his hands in his pockets as he discreetly rocks himself back and forth. “Guys, meet Y/N, my, uh—girlfriend.”

You wave politely at the three boys, fearing they've frozen before you.

“Um… Are they okay?” You whisper over to Donghyuck.

“Yeah, yeah.” Donghyuck glances at you quickly when you look over at him, but once you turn towards his friends, he shoots threatening daggers at the four guys, “They’re just in shock that you're actually here.”

Jeno luckily breaks the silence with a hit on Jisung's back; the ladder exaggerates his wince with a loud whine.

“Ow! What the fuck!”

Now that the silence has finally been broken, Jaemin takes the opportunity to get up from his place on the rug-covered floor and approach you. Your eyes follow him, and you're left in shock when he takes your hand and leaves a kiss on it.

“‘Ello, m'lady.”

Donghyuck quickly reacts, smacking his black-haired friend away from you. “Hands off my girlfriend, you fuckin’ weirdo.”

Jaemin pays no mind as he cackles. But you don’t spare Jaemin any attention for a split second because your brain mainly focuses on how easily the word girlfriend rolled off Donghyuck’s tongue like that. It sounded more confident than the first time he said it, and you couldn’t lie and say it didn’t spark something in your chest.

“So, are we playing this game or what?” Renjun blurts out, sadly breaking the moment.

It turns out that “The NCU Freaks” weren’t as bad as Yuqi suspected them to be because you were enjoying their presence and silly group antics by the end of the night. You could see Mark and Chenle becoming just as competitive as the guys were in their current third round of Halli Galli. This game was meant to end way quicker than they intended, but to the guys' dismay, Donghyuck was always competitive and did not back down until he was satisfied with the result.

A red flag of his, they call it.

You’re surprised you could remember what round they were in since you found yourself spacing out by the first one. All you remember is that they’re fighting over who has to clean up the ignored pizza boxes and scattered soda and beer cans left on the dining room table.

As Halli Galli grew more aggressive, the guys ended up forfeiting and choosing to end the endless discussion with rock-paper-scissors. You’re left confused about why they would use such a childlike game to settle their problem, but the sight of them shouting was too funny not to laugh at.

“Rock-paper-scissors shoot!” The five guys in front of you shout in unison.

By the third try, you began to zone out until—

“HAH! Jisung, you idiot! You lost!” The booming voice of your boyfriend shook you out of your trance.

The next thing you know, the younger male is found distraught as his older friends giggle and tease him about his loss.

And that's when you found yourself loving them more than you expected.

Maybe you could get used to this fake relationship after all.

Enjoying so much of their company, you found it hard ending the night as Donghyuck reminded his friends that he had to get you home soon. It tugged at your heart a bit seeing them be just as sad about it as you were.

“Y/N, what if you sleep here for the night? We could have a sleepover and everything—I mean, we've never actually had a girl over for that before, but it would still be cool.” Jaemin's ramble gets cut off when Donghyuck shoots Renjun a shut-him-up look, resulting in Renjun elbowing Jaemin.

It still flatters you and makes you giggle either way. “I would love that, but, uh,” you glance over to your anxious boyfriend beside you, “I think that'd be a little bit too fast. Me and Hyuck promised to take things slow.”

Hold on. Did he hear that right?

The four boys eye you two down, and having all the attention on you ironically makes you sweat. So, you turn to Donghyuck for help. “Right?”

He turns to you, his brain not forgetting that you just called him the nickname only his family and friends call him, but he puts on his game face anyway. “R-right. Yeah.”

Game face, my ass. He thinks.

“Well, goodnight, lovebirds! Get her home safe, man!”

Unfortunately, there's Jeno, who always knows when to make things so much more awkward as he rushes the two of you out the door.

“So… Hyuck, huh?”

Unfortunately for you again, your boyfriend's sudden switch in behavior once you're left alone catches you off guard, and God, was it attractive.

But of course, this was the first real show of your “relationship” and reminding yourself that this is all fake is more important than dwelling in feelings that 100% won't happen.

“Never speak of it.”

But once you saw the teasing glint in Donghyuck’s eyes, leading you to make a beeline to the elevator down the hall, you knew that this would be mentioned again and again. He's lucky you liked the taste of his nickname on your tongue.

It was nearing 10 pm when Donghyuck parked his car in front of your apartment complex, which led him to ask you the one-million-dollar question.

“Alright, lay it on me. Did we scare you? And trust me, you can be honest. I won't be offended. Or I'll try not to be, at least.”

“You want my honest opinion?”

His assured demeanor drops right in front of you by the look of his face, and you fight the urge to laugh.

“Oh my God, we did scare you, didn't we?! Fuck, I’m so sorry. Was it Jaemin? It’s always him, dude.”

“Donghyuck, no! It wasn't—”

“He gets nervous around girls, and he reads this dumbass book Jeno gave him ‘cause Jeno told him it works like a charm—”

“Donghyuck.”

“And apparently, it has a bunch of tips on how to make a girl feel comfortable, and I think that whole ‘kissing your hand' thing was because of the book, and I—”

“Hyuck!”

“And also, you with that goddamn nickname. Why did you pull that? We never agreed on that! Do you even realize what that does to a guy?”

He finally shuts up when he feels you shake his arm and hears your fit of giggles. “Calm down, you dummy. I was just messing with you.”

“Y/N. I crashed out in front of you, and you’re giggling.”

His reaction only makes you laugh even more. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” You let yourself calm down before you continue, “I enjoyed tonight, really. I adore your friends. They made me feel welcomed, and if it makes you feel better, Jaemin pulling that stunt only made me laugh. I loved them, Hyuck. Thank you for introducing me.”

“You’re serious?”

“Very.”

“Like 100% positive?”

And with a nod, you say, “100% positive.”

If your words didn't assure him, your hand resting on his as an action of comfort definitely did.

Once Donghyuck escorted you to your door and you said goodnight, Seulgi and Yuqi bombarding you with questions wasn’t a surprise. The night ended with you telling them detail by detail, even acting it out at some parts, with their teasing reactions making everything seem more real.

You fell asleep with the biggest smile on your face. And little did you know, so did Donghyuck.

previous | masterlist | next

note: it's my birthday, guys!!!! i'm officially 18!!!!! as for my birthday gift to yall, i have finally locked in on this chapter and gave yall what you deserved :3 BIGGG apologies for keeping this beloved story in the dark for two months 💔 i missed this couple and i missed yall! 2025 IS THEIRRR YEAR GUYS, TRUST!

🖇 (open!): @skeetyeetyote @junviadinho @n0hyuck @yewshi @marvelahsobx @hqech @sunflowerhae @loveholicness @sfswithfs @222brainrot @dudekiss3r @aek1ra @nosungluv @miyawwn @haechology @chenlesfavorite @alethea-moon @polarisjisung @lionzyon @mystverse @insaneanddrained @starfilledgaze @onlyhyunjin @swee7dream @haechsworld @markspossibilities @schatjze @minniesbae @multifandomania @neozon3nha @zzurao @hoshipills @nessaassen02 @lavender-roses-06 @ohwowzersthatscool @sunghoonsgfreal @https-lvesick @taeeflwrr @do-you-remember-summer-127 @hyuck-me @injunnie-lemon @txthyuck @jeongintwt @starwonb1n @413ktz @haechansbbg @galacticnct @keeryverse @kosmicbomb @thegracerammy

[croworro]

Can you write a short schlatt fic in which the fem!reader confesses her feelings to him on stream or on the SDP -- but totally on accident? And of course he returns her feelings (either on off camera. You choose) Thanks boo!

Accidental Confessions

Pairing: Jschlatt x fem!reader

Word count: 1k

Warnings: none really

Summary: During a chaotic Phasmophobia stream, Schlatt’s relentless flirting leaves you flustered and questioning what’s real.

A/N: hope this is everything you were hoping for!! I’m actually so happy with how this turned out hehe

Your streaming sessions with Jschlatt had become a highlight of your week, and apparently, a highlight for thousands of viewers. What started as a one-off collaboration turned into a weekly tradition that fans clamored for. Schlatt’s relentless teasing, sharp wit, and surprisingly endearing moments always made for entertaining streams.

Tonight’s game was Phasmophobia, you reluctantly agreed to play after weeks of Schlatt goading you on Twitter.

“You ready to cry on stream?” Schlatt’s voice came through your headset as you joined the Discord call.

“More like ready to carry you,” you shot back, smirking as you adjusted your mic.

“Carry me?” Schlatt barked out a laugh. “Sweetheart, you couldn’t carry a flashlight without tripping over yourself.”

“Bold words from someone who hides in the van at the first sign of danger,” you retorted, rolling your eyes.

Out of the corner of your eye you could see that chat was already in chaos:

[Chat]:

• “Here we go again with the bickering couple.”

• “Schlatt’s flirting is so painfully obvious, omg.”

• “They’re gonna kill each other before the ghost does.”

The game loaded, and Schlatt’s teasing began almost immediately.

“Alright, chat,” he said, his tone smug. “Place your bets: How long before Y/N panics and accidentally gets me killed?”

“First of all, I don’t panic,” you said, grabbing the ghost detector. “Second, if you die, it’s probably because you’re too busy flirting with the chat to pay attention.”

“Oh, sweetheart, if I was flirting, you’d know it,” Schlatt said, his voice dropping into a playful drawl that sent an involuntary shiver down your spine.

Your face heated, but you forced a laugh. “Good thing I don’t have to worry about that, then.”

“Sure, keep telling yourself that,” he replied, his smirk practically audible.

You busied yourself with the game, trying to ignore the way his voice lingered in your mind. The two of you explored the haunted house, with Schlatt cracking jokes and occasionally pretending to be scared just to make you jump.

“Y/N, the ghost’s name is Lisa. Think you can charm her into leaving us alone?” Schlatt asked as you stepped into the darkened kitchen.

“Why me?”

“Because you’re the one who keeps telling me I’m bad with women,” he said, grinning. “Let’s see you do better.”

“Fine,” you said, playing along. “Lisa, you’re a beautiful, independent ghost who doesn’t need to haunt this house anymore. Go find some peace, girl.”

Schlatt laughed so hard he almost dropped his flashlight. “Unbelievable. Chat, clip that. I need to save it for when Y/N tries to say she’s the serious one here.”

[Chat]:

• “I CAN’T WITH THESE TWO.”

• “Lisa’s shaking right now.”

• “Schlatt’s laugh gives me life.”

The game progressed, with Schlatt alternating between teasing you and pretending to be scared. When the ghost appeared out of nowhere, he let out a yell and ran, leaving you alone in the dark.

“Schlatt, you coward!” you screamed, clicking you keyboard keys frantically and fumbling for a hiding spot.

“Every man for himself!” he shouted from the safety of the van.

When the ghost finally disappeared, you stormed out of the house and into the van, glaring at Schlatt’s character.

“You are the worst teammate,” you said.

“And yet, you keep coming back,” he replied, his grin evident in his tone.

You groaned, but you couldn’t hide the small smile tugging at your lips.

“Don’t act like you don’t love it, sweetheart,” he added, his voice softer now.

Your heart skipped a beat, but you ignored it, focusing back on the game.

By the time the ghost finally killed Schlatt, you were too frustrated to even pretend to feel bad.

“Maybe if you didn’t spend half the game messing around, you wouldn’t keep dying,” you said, your voice sharper than intended.

“Aw, is that your way of saying you care about me?” Schlatt asked, his tone teasing but his words making your stomach flip.

“Of course I care about you, but I care more about winning,” you said quickly, not even thinking about what you had said.

“What was that?” he asked, his tone shifting slightly. Your eyes widened quickly when you realized what you had said.

“Nothing,” you said quickly, feeling heat creep up your neck.

“Nah, nah, you said something,” he pressed. “Come on, don’t leave me hanging, sweetheart.”

The chat went wild:

[Chat]:

• “WAIT WHAT DID SHE SAY???”

• “CONFESS CONFESS CONFESS.”

• “Schlatt, stop bullying her, omg.”

You groaned, ending the game and pulling up your stream controls. “Alright, chat, that’s it for tonight. Goodnight, everyone.”

The protests from viewers were immediate, but you ignored them, ending the stream and ripping off your headset. Your phone buzzed almost immediately.

Schlatt: Call me.

You stared at the message, debating whether to respond. Finally, you sighed and hit the call button.

“Bit of an abrupt ending, don’t you think?” Schlatt said as soon as he picked up, his tone light but probing.

“You didn’t give me much of a choice,” you replied, crossing your arms.

“Alright, fair,” he admitted. “But seriously, what’s was that about?”

You hesitated, your heart pounding. Schlatt’s teasing was usually easy to brush off, but tonight felt different—more personal.

“It’s just… I don’t know. Sometimes it feels like you’re not joking, and I don’t know how to handle that.”

“What if I’m not joking?” he asked, his voice quieter now.

Your breath caught, your pulse racing. “Don’t mess with me, Schlatt.”

“I’m not,” he said firmly. “Y/N, I’m not joking. I flirt with you because I like you. Hell, everyone in chat sees it. I thought you did too.”

You swallowed hard, trying to process his words. “I didn’t want to assume,” you admitted.

“Well, you don’t have to,” he said, his tone softening. “I like you, sweetheart. I have for a while.”

A nervous laugh escaped you. “You sure know how to make a confession dramatic.”

“It’s what I do,” he replied, and you could hear the smile in his voice. “So… what do you say?”

“I think we should play another game,” you said, a smile spreading across your face.

“Another game?” he repeated, sounding surprised.

“Yeah,” you said. “But this time, you’re not leaving me to die.”

Schlatt laughed, his usual confidence returning. “Deal. But if you keep calling me a coward, I might have to change my mind about liking you.”

“Too late,” you teased. “You’re stuck with me now.”

“Good,” he said, his voice warm. “That’s exactly where I want to be.”

[ierr]

They’re Jealous

lineup; I. sae, I. rin, o. aiku, r. shidou, m. kaiser and y. Isagi

¡ a.n ; heh..long time no see guys! guess whose freakin back. MEEE, I have a lot of new writing ideas that I have in my drafts so expect to get frequent updates like before!. trust I'm slowly getting back into the writing groove, but anyways I haven't wrote for bllk for awhile so enjoy the headcanonns!.

I haven’t wrote in so long..this might suck 💔

Itoshi sae ;

you grinned at the message seeing sae had disliked it, rolling your eyes going back to watching your show. as time went by fast, you heard the front door being opened and close and a bag being dropped. you hummed to yourself watching the room door being opened revealing your boyfriend, “hi baby.” sae only squinted his eyes, ignoring your hi, going into the closet to grab a extra pair of clothes so he can shower. you only sighed rolling your eyes knowing exactly where this attitude is coming from, lifting the blanket off your body to get out of bed, you walked towards him. with his back being turnt, you walked up behind him wrapping your arms around his waist. his muscles relaxed in your touch but he was still ignoring you. “my love?.” you started, “are you still upset about what happened?.” you raised a brow, and sae’s face scrunched up from the conversation that was an hour ago. it was like a bad taste in his mouth. he took a deep breathe in and deep breathe out, finally turning around to face you, his eyes bored into yours giving him a teasing smile. “so that’s a yes?” he looked away with a frown “why was he even that close..” his eyebrows furrowed, shaking your head. “we were only taking a picture.” — “you know I only want you, mr. grumpy.” he scoffed, you snickered. “I do!. don’t scoff at me.” you said leaning in a little more pulling him down (or not) to your height. “I love you, okay?” he hates how you can always find a way to make him feel much better about things, seeing his eyes finally soften you smiled in victory,

“now..go take a shower. you stink.” instantly he frowned again, making you giggle, pecking his lips.

Itoshi rin ;

you couldn’t help but shake your head with a grin, seeing he disliked the message, “what are you smiling at?” f/n questioned as you two walked, shaking your head. “nothing. now let’s go see those cats you were talking about!.” after your hang out with isagi you made it home, letting the door slam shut, as you were welcomed by a very grumpy Itoshi who was standing in the kitchen. It looked like he was getting started on dinner. “why’re you staring at me like that?.” you said crossing your arms, seeing him roll his own going back to cutting the vegetables. knowing rin your whole life, from being childhood friends to now being in a 2 year relationship you were able to read him very easily. he was still jealous. setting down your bag by the door you walked towards him who’s back was turnt to you. “rin.” you called. sliding your hand up his back, towards the back of his neck, playing with a strand of his hair that laid lazily there. “I see you’re growing out your hair again?.” he hummed barley giving you a glance, you frowned, but sighed. “whenever you wanna talk, i’ll be in the room.” can't say you didn't try, rin stopped for a moment. right as you were about to leave, you heard the kitchen knife being set down and his hands on your waist pulling you backwards. you stumbled from the movement but relaxed feeling him hug you,

"rin?" he wasn't good at this whole...emotion thing, and you know that, softly smiling at him. "hun.." you said, turning around to face him who was already staring at you with low eyes, "are you still bothered about what happened?" he nodded, furrowing his eyebrows. you lifted your hands to be placed on his cheek, caressing your thumb against, chuckling. "you're so cute when you get jealous.." he frowned rolling his eyes, "shut up." you smiled, "me and f/n are only friends. he’s not gonna take me from you." — "plus I only want you, I don’t want him.'' you always knew how to make him feel better, it makes his heart flutter every time. “I love you, okay?” his heart skipped a beat practically melting into your touch, feeling his face heat up. “I..love you too.” you smiled, leaning in to give him a small kiss which he gladly accepted, sighing in relief.

"now..stop being so moody so we can have dinner."

ryusei shidou ;

“ryu! i’m home!.” you yelled from the front door, but no answer. he would usually answer back by now, but he didn’t? it was suspicious..you raised brow walking towards the shared bedroom, it was completely quiet. was he sleep? he couldn’t be its only 7pm!!when you walked in you expected to see him or something, but he wasn’t there. this was weird. as soon as you were about to call for him, you heard the bathroom door being opened. you were about to question him but you stopped. his towel hanging dangerously low around his waist, exposing his v-line. water droplets dripping from his stomach down below, and his hair pushed back with strands stinking to his head. guess he was in the shower the whole time... he smirked seeing your eyes wander, “like what you see?.” his voice had a small teasing tone, walking towards you. you sure as hell did! nodding your head, his grin got wider “way better than him?..” he questioned, your eyes shooting to his face raising a brow. “you’re still on about that?.” you asked crossing your arms with a raised brow, hearing him click his tongue, “when you’re wearing an outfit like that, yeah.” you rolled your eyes with a grin, “who knew you out of all people would be like this?” you always knew he’s the cocky type and somewhat a “menace” but you’ve never expected jealousy being a trait of his. ryusei gave a grin with a shrug.

“what can I say? you’re hot.” — “and that means?” you questioned as he walked dangerously slow towards you, trailing his hand to the loop of your pants pulling you closer to him feeling his warm body on yours, tilting his head. “every guy thinks he’ll have a chance with you. who wouldn’t be jealous at the fact?” you hummed, trailing your hand up his arm, using your nail making small circles. “you know I only want you right? It was a small hangout ryu...” you looked up at him who smirking nodding his head, “I know.” as he said, unexpectedly picking you up by your thighs catching you off guard. “ryusei..” — “shh.” he shushed, throwing you on the bed, towering over you. “I seen the way he was looking at you…” he trailed, leaning down to peck your lips then slowly moving towards your neck, “pisses me off really.” he pecked against your skin, “you think if I leave enough they’ll know you’re taken?” he whispered sending chills down your spine, “ryu..don’t you dare.” he only chuckled, pecking your jawline, using his bigger hand to message your thigh. “just sit back..”

“and let me work.”

oliver aiku ;

after what seemed like hours and hours, you were finally home, feet aching, back hurting, all you wanted was a nice warm bath with bubbles, bath bombs, and a face mask..that was actually a good idea. smiling at the thought, you took off your jacket and hung up your keys near the door walking towards the shared bedroom to grab extra clothing, and a few cucumbers walking into the bathroom. surprisingly mr. hot show wasn’t here which was perfect giving you piece and quiet. after getting your self settled into the tub, putting on your face mask, tying your hair up, placing the cucumbers on your eyes you sighed in relief, sinking into the bath tub. piece and quiet. It was only 10pm, the perfect time to just have you time. but…you know what they always say..when you have a boyfriend and when you guys live together there’s no such thing as piece and quiet. when your ears perked up to the sound of foot steps entering the bathroom you mentally groaned.. you heard scuffling and clothes hitting the ground as well as water being moved around, you sighed “you know, you’re interrupting my peace, oliver.” you sassed hearing a deep chuckled, “ah, sorry darlin’ didn’t know the bath tub was being occupied right now.” you heard the tease in his tone, scoffing. you both know that’s bull.

"im surprised you didn't hear me come in?" you said with a raised brow, though you can't see him at the moment you can tell he shrugged with a snicker, "was in the gym and decided to come take a nice shower, but someone beat me to it." — "did you get that guys number, that was in the photo?" you grinned with a hum, leaning up from the tub to take the cucumbers off your eyes, giving him a small stare who smirked in return. "there's no way you're still jealous?" he hummed, also leaning up letting his hands guide under the water to pull you closer to him by your legs, "me, jealous? I was just asking a question princess." you rolled your eyes, feeling his hands guide their way around you, "now it's just a question?" he hummed once more, letting his hands glide their way to your waist pulling you ontop of him. "yeah it is." you wrapped your arms around his neck, tilting your head to the side. "is that so?" he nodded, snickering at his answer. "well pretty boy, you only have my eye, no one else."

"you're stuck with me weather you like it or not."

[adaedellta]

Epic the musical soulmate au

Where nothing changes but all the words make you a lot sadder

I’ve been on a soulmates AU kick recently and thinking about the Ithaca Saga so imagine a first words tattooed on your body trope with young Odysseus and Penelope and he’s a little intuitive having heard of Penelope and thinking she’s so cool then he sees her and gets this feeling she’s the one

Maybe it’s an Athena’s pupil thing maybe they’re such a perfect match for each other that he can feel it in his bones but he has this almost tangible cord pulling him towards her

But he’s there tryna wingman for Menelaus, talks to Tyndareus abt the oath idea and when the king responds well he maybe quietly implies he’s set his sights on Penelope, and maybe Helen and Penelope are somewhere nearby just close enough to hear Odysseus’ pitch but not so close they hear his goals(I can’t find a solid source online for their first meeting so I’m making stuff up) and after, penelope is intrigued by him and he’s somewhere close and she comments something like “he chooses his words well” to Helen. and he’s like stupid smart, trying to impress her, even his subconscious is focused on her and he hears and says something like “it’d take a fool to be insolent in your presence” to her

and it clicks in her head immediately that those are her words and without any shock or question she just says “you’re mine”

And they’re so sickeningly in love, they call back to their words often, he’ll say “I’d be a fool to___” and she’ll repeat “you’re mine” and almost never call him his name favoring lovey nicknames like “my love” and “my dear”

And when he goes off to war she says “you’ll come home to me, you’re mine” and he says “It’d take a fool not to return to your presence”

Then things go south, but through his journey it’s all he thinks, that he has a promise to keep. When he loses his crew, when he faces and befriends Circe, hears his fallen brethren and family in the underworld, the sirens song having an almost “I’m yours” tone as opposed to “you’re mine”, he evades Scylla, he makes Zeus’ choice, all thinking “it would take a fool not to return to your presence”

And calypso, she doesn’t have the words of a soulmate. it’s a fate confined to humanity, from when Zeus split mortals in two and forced their souls to be forever reaching to connect the puzzle til they finally unite. But she knows what they are. And just like her using his sleep-spoken trauma against him, calling back to his dead friends and family, she repeats “you’re mine” in love in paradise even dipping into “my dear” and “my love” despite his unending denial of her affections. It puts even more emphasis on his already rightful aggression and pain at what should only be said by Penelope

Then “I plan to put an end to all the foolishness” in dangerous he already wasn’t going to let anything stop him but now he’s willing to do straight up anything (and he does) to get home. He has a firm belief. he would rather be savage and merciless than be foolish because in his eyes there is nothing worse.

And when he becomes monstrous, how will he sleep at night??? “NEXT TO HIS WIFE” we all say in unison.

That’s not even mentioning Penelope, she spent 10 years pushing back the suitors, because Odysseus is coming home, she knows her husband, he is no fool. He will come back to her. She will not let anything go, and she will keep what is hers. The suitors all having an approach of having her turning their already flat chances into the negatives, especially Antinous’ threats in hold them down all having a message of taking from her where to be with Penelope is to give her all of yourself so she can do the same in turn.

And he absolutely fucks shit up, the suitors and their threats, the harm they’ve dealt to his family, the way they continue to try nothing but take what’s Penelope’s, what’s his. Their foolishness will not be tolerated. The actions they’ve taken to his wife, to his son, the greatest creation their love has ever made, they didn’t stand a chance against the guy who just fought god and won.

And then what everyone has been waiting on for the entire musical the absolute masterpiece that is would you fall in love with me again will never not be heart wrenching. He’s not just asking her if she could look past all he did, fall in love with the man he’s become. He doesn’t know if he still deserves her, if he’s too far gone to be worthy, He’s asking “am I still yours”

And she’s as cunning as ever, even after every year they spent apart she will always know exactly how to push his buttons, how to set him off, how to force him to convey his desperation for her, and hell she’s from Sparta of course she’s gonna be into him after all that. The second he turns his back in shame she’s probably twirling her hair and fanning her face knowing what he did all to keep his promise and return to her. And she gives him the reassurance that he needs, tricks him into proving that no measure of distance and time could ever take away or change what they have, and for the first time in 20 years he hears her say “you’re mine” and it shatters any apprehensions and self doubt because he’s still Penelopes.

And overall it changes literally nothing about the plot or the storyline and only serves to make things a hundred percent more sad and angsty

and I’ve had this eating away at my brain all through a piercing appointment and shopping with my mom and sibling all day I can finally rest now that it’s escaped my head

[polo-drone-070]

Buzz is Born: Maximus Tries Something New

A mascot meeting

Oi, so we were at the mascot meetin’, right? All of us—me, Grayden (@polo-drone-084), Bucky (@buckygold), and the pups—workin’ out how to get the crowd hyped for the match against Vanguard. Grayden was goin’ over plans, his usual smirky, boss-man self, lookin’ sharp as ever. Bucky’s throwin’ out ideas, proper focused, all knightly n’ shit. Me? I’m buzzin’ just thinkin’ about suiting up as the Golden Knight again. Ain’t nothin’ like flexin’ in that gear, hearin’ the crowd go mental, yeah?

But then, Chevy (@chevy-gold) n’ Grant (@grant-gold43) start givin’ me this look, their tails waggin’ like mad. Them two already propa settled in their roles as Golden Pups—cheeky, rowdy, proper full of energy, init. They always make it look like a right laugh, even if they’re a bit daft with it. Milo—PDU-151— (@polo-drone-151) was sittin’ calm as ever in his black rubber polo, tail flickin’ lazily. Always quiet, always focused, but you can feel he’s takin’ everything in.

Chevy leans over to me, his ears floppin’ as he grins. “Oi, Maximus, you ever think about tryin’ somethin’ new, bruv?”

I squint at him. “What d’ya mean, bruv? I’m already the Golden Knight, init? Ain’t much better than that.”

Grant smirks, nudgin’ me. “Yeah, but think about it, mate. When Grayden or Bucky are suitin’ up as the knight, yeah? Wouldn’t it be proper sick to have more pups runnin’ with ’em? You know, a whole pack hypin’ up the crowd, bouncin’ about, goin’ mental?”

“Pack, yeah?” I say, blinkin’. “You think I’m cut out for all that woof-woof shit? You takin’ the piss, bruv?”

Chevy’s tail wags even faster. “Nah, mate, serious talk. You’ve got the energy for it! Enthusiastic, rowdy, proper dumb—but in the best way! You’d be perfect as a golden pup. And we got the perfect name for ya: Buzz. You’d be Buzzin’ all over the place.”

“Buzz?” I ask, scratchin’ me bald head.

Milo finally speaks up, his tone calm but firm. “Buzz suits you, Maximus. It aligns with your energy and enthusiasm. You’d complement the pack well.”

I stare at the three of ’em. They’re propa serious, like they actually think I could pull this off. Me? A pup? Proper mental idea... but also kinda excitin’. The Gold Army’s been pushin’ everyone to try new things this week, and I ain’t about to back down from a challenge.

“All right, bruvs,” I say, grinnin’. “Let’s do it. Make me Buzz.”

Collared and Ready : Golden pup energy

Chevy and Grant get to work right away. They slap a gold collar round me neck, the tag jinglin’ as they clip it on. “Buzz,” it says, all shiny n’ official-like.

“Buzz,” I say, rollin’ the name round me mouth. “Oi, yeah, sounds propa zippy. I like it.”

Grant grins, handin’ me a golden pup hood with floppy ears. “Stick this on, bruv. You’re about to become one of us.”

I pull the hood over me head, snug n’ tight, and they clip a waggin’ tail to me shorts. I can’t help but laugh as it bounces with every move I make. “Oi, bruvs, look at me!” I bark, strikin’ a dumb pose. “Propa pup material, yeah?”

“Atta boy, Buzz!” Chevy cheers, waggin’ his own tail. “Now, let’s get ya hypin’ the crowd like a proper golden pup. Rowdy, dumb, full of energy—just go wild!”

I throw meself into it, barkin’ n’ bouncin’ round like I’ve been a pup me whole life. Chevy tosses a foam ball across the practice field, n’ I take off after it like a rocket, grabbin’ it with a massive grin on me face.

“Got it, bruvs!” I bark, waggin’ me tail as I bring it back.

“Good boy!” Grant laughs, rubbin’ me head. The praise makes me all warm inside, like I’m doin’ somethin’ proper good.

We spend ages just messin’ about, chasin’ balls, jumpin’ n’ rollin’, hypin’ each other up. I’ve never felt so... free.

Milo’s Turn : Drone pup programming

Then Milo steps in, his black rubber polo gleamin’ under the lights. His tail twitches as he approaches, calm n’ composed. “All right, Buzz. Time to see how you perform as a drone pup.”

My tail slows as I stare at the gear he’s holdin’—a black rubber polo n’ matching shorts, shiny and snug, just like his. The vibe shifts immediately. There’s no more rowdy energy from Chevy n’ Grant; it’s all focus now, serious-like.

I nod slowly, lettin’ Milo guide me as he slips the polo over me head. The rubber clings tight, snug n’ firm, and as it settles into place, somethin’ in me shifts. The rowdy, bouncin’ energy starts to fade, replaced by a deep calm. The black shorts follow, and with each piece of gear, I feel my head quietin’ further.

Milo clips a black tag onto me collar, and that’s when it happens. The programming stirs. The sharpness of the rubber’s embrace pulls me under. 070 rises, not all the way, but just enough to bring its order n’ discipline to the surface.

“Good, Buzz,” Milo says, his voice steady n’ firm. “Now, follow my commands. Let the programming guide you.”

Buzz is still here, yeah, but it’s 070 now, too. A mix of the pup’s playful energy n’ the drone’s perfect focus. The commands come, and there’s no hesitation, no thinkin’, just action.

“Jump.”

070 obeys, the body springin’ into a perfect leap, paws landin’ with precision.

“Spin.”

A flawless turn, controlled n’ sharp.

“Roll.”

The movement is seamless, efficient, yet still carries that pup-like enthusiasm, tail waggin’ at the end.

“Bark.”

“Woof!” The sound bursts out, loud n’ clear, but with a sense of controlled power.

Each command feels natural, like it’s what this body was built to do. The mix of playful pup energy n’ drone obedience blends into somethin’... perfect. 070 recognizes this state as optimal.

“Cheer,” Milo commands.

“GO GOLD!” I bark, leapin’ high into the air, my voice filled with unwavering energy n’ loyalty. The jump is precise, the landing flawless, but the cheer is still hyped n’ joyful, reflectin’ Buzz’s personality wrapped in 070’s discipline.

Milo nods, his tail waggin’ faintly as he observes. “Good drone pup. You’re performing as expected. Let’s take it further.”

Milo steps closer, his tone calm but more intense. “You are PDU-070, a drone pup. Your purpose is to serve, inspire, and obey. Playfulness enhances morale. Precision ensures perfection. Let the programming guide you completely.”

The words sink deep. The pup hood n’ rubber polo amplify the programming already embedded in me. It’s no longer just Buzz or just 070—it’s both, workin’ together perfectly.

“Yesss,” I say, my voice soft n’ slurred, the words comin’ out automatically. “PDU-070... serves... obeys... inspires...”

Milo watches, his expression calm n’ satisfied. “Good drone pup. Now, perform.”

I run through more stunts, each one flawless but still filled with playful energy. I roll, fetch, leap, and spin on command, barkin’ when prompted. It’s pure bliss—no overthinkin’, no distractions, just obeyin’ n’ servin’ like I was built for it.

Buzz Reflections

When the session ends, I flop onto the turf, pantin’ n’ grinnin’ under the hood. The mix of Buzz n’ 070 fades slightly, leavin’ me feelin’ proper accomplished. “Oi, bruvs, that was propa mental!” I bark, tail waggin’. “Never thought I’d be a pup, but fuck me, that was amazin’. Buzz n’ 070 workin’ together—lit as fuck, yeah?”

Chevy laughs, rufflin’ me hood. “Told ya, Buzz. You’re a natural. The pack’s better with ya in it.”

Milo clips off the black tag, his calm demeanor never shiftin’. “You performed well, PDU-070. Your obedience and precision enhance the pack. You will continue to train and grow.”

I nod, proper eager. “Yeah, bruvs. Can’t wait to train more. Maybe 049 (@polo-drone-049) will take us out for a pack walk. Heard he’s got loads of drone pups, like Chevy n’ 098. Bet they’d be a laugh to run with.”

As I sit there, waggin’ me tail, I think back to a month ago, when Spencer—PDU-098— (@polo-drone-098) had me in a similar state. He’d put me back in drone mode when I was slippin’, added a hood to the mix, and brought me back to full focus. It was... intense, yeah, but now I get it. The hood, the rubber—it’s not just gear. It’s part of what makes me better.

The trainin’ wraps up, and I strip back into me gold kit, but the memory of the rubber polo stays with me. Being Buzz ain’t just about havin’ fun or playin’ a role. It’s about servin’ the Gold, whether as a rowdy pup or a precise drone pup.

“Oi, bruvs,” I say, grinnin’ at Chevy n’ Grant. “Propa glad I tried somethin’ new. Buzz is here to stay, yeah?”

They cheer, waggin’ their tails as we head out. Milo follows, calm as ever, already plannin’ the next session. Me? I can’t wait to get back to trainin’ n’ hypin’ the crowd, whether as Buzz, 070, or somethin’ in between.

Woof-woof, bruvs. Let’s go.

[darksigns-exe]

still alive for you - noah sebastian x bee (ofc)

warnings: a little angst

word count: 1.3k

masterlist | series masterlist | taglist sign-up

Noah’s not there when she wakes up. 

It’s not entirely unusual. 

Noah’s somewhat prone to waking up in the middle of the night. And, either lured from bed by some creative force or held back from sleep by his own mind, he’ll wander to a different part of the house. 

Bee lies in silence for a moment, before she decides to bring him back up here. 

It’s barely three and he needs the rest. 

And really, she wants him back in bed. She always sleeps better when he’s by her side. 

Bee pulls one of Noah’s sweaters on before she steps out into the hallway. 

For once, the house is quiet. They’ve been slaving away at the album, and it’s obvious that they’re all a little worn down. 

She tiptoes past Nick's sleeping form on the sofa. Somehow he manages to look somewhat comfortable. Maybe she’ll drop off one of her extra pillows later, she can’t bear the sight of him sleeping on the throw cushions. 

She doesn’t find Noah in the studio. Usually, he’s there, saving whatever idea had popped into his head before it would disappear forever. Instead, she finds him out in the backyard. 

He doesn’t immediately notice her.

His focus seems to be entirely on a piece of paper. It’s mostly obscured by his hands, but even then, Bee couldn’t decipher a word from this distance even if she tried. 

“Noah?”

His body jolts, obviously caught off guard. The paper slips into the pocket of his sweats, as his head snaps towards her. 

“What’re you doing up?”

Bee makes her way over to him. Her hand drifts through his hair. She still isn’t entirely used to how short it is now. 

“I could ask you the same thing.”

His head tips back until he can look at her. 

“Couldn’t sleep.”

She sits down next to him on the lounge chair, and Noah immediately drops his head to her shoulder. 

“Something keeping you up?”

“I don’t know. Just a lot of thoughts.” He mumbles, “I’m worried about the album, you know? It’s different. What if they don’t like it?”

Bee presses a kiss to his temple. 

Seeing him so worried about his breaks her heart a little. Noah has poured so much of himself into this album that her heart aches a little. 

“I’m sure they’ll love it.” Her hand comes to rest just above his knee, “You wanna come back upstairs with me? We can watch another episode of that documentary we started.”

Noah remains silent and Bee figures that he wants quiet first and foremost. 

“Do you want to be alone?” She asks softly. 

He shakes his head, “Stay. Please?”

“I’m just gonna get us a blanket, okay? I’ll be right back.”

Bee presses a final kiss to the top of his head before she slips back into the house. She fetches one of the blankets from the living room. She picks up a bottle of water too, just to be sure. 

When she comes back outside, Noah still seems somewhat lost in his thoughts. She drapes the blanket over his shoulders. Noah looks up at her with soft eyes. 

He pulls the fabric from his shoulders, as he lies back. Bee follows his silent invitation to curl up against him. She arranges herself along his side and Noah waits patiently before he covers them both with the blanket. Her head finds an easy home against his chest and as if rehearsed, Noah’s arm curls around her body. 

Bee feels his chest rise and fall with heavy breaths. 

Once in a while, she feels his fingers pulse against her ribs, but other than that, he’s entirely still. 

There’s something unspoken between them, Bee can tell from the hesitant look that has settled onto his face in recent days. She doesn’t know what’s stopping him from saying whatever is on his mind, but she hopes that he’ll eventually find the bravery to say it. 

Bee has to quiet that nagging little voice in the back of her head that keeps trying to tell her that he’s preparing to break-up with her. It’s not fair to him – or to herself. 

She’s never loved anyone more than she loves him, and she’s sure that he feels similar. At least, she hopes so. 

They’ll figure out a way to deal with whatever is worrying him. 

They always do. 

So far, they’ve always managed to figure their problems out. 

She doesn’t like seeing him like this. Sure, he gets quiet sometimes, but this is a different kind of quiet. It’s heavy, almost like the kind of quiet that would linger over him when they met. 

“You’d tell me if something was up, right?” Bee asks quietly. 

Noah stiffens under her, and for a brief moment, she thinks that he’s about to share what is weighing him down. 

“Sure.” he lies, “It’s just the album. It’s a lot to worry about.” 

It does sting a little, and Bee is glad that he can’t see her frown. She’s sure that he has a good reason to keep this to himself. 

“Okay. If there’s something I can do, just tell me. I can write e-mails for you or something.” 

Noah lets out a chuckle, “I might hold you to that. You’re better at business talk than I am.” 

“I know.” 

He pulls her closer against him, and Bee lets her hand wander to the other side of his body.

Bee lets the silence wrap around them for a while. She’s so very content here when he holds her like this. She could spend hours just resting next to him, with not a word exchanged between them. 

Their silence has always been comfortable, and she suddenly finds herself reminded of the night they met. It had been right on this very porch, maybe two years ago now. Their first year had been a right mess, but they’d managed to make up for the time they’d lost. Sometimes Bee wonders where they’d be if they’d been a little bit better at talking about their feelings. But maybe then everything would be so different that it wouldn’t be them anymore. 

“Do you want to get lunch tomorrow?” Noah asks after a while, “I can pick you up after your classes.”

“Are you asking me out on a date?” she pokes her foot against his leg, hoping to get a little laugh out of him. 

Thankfully, Noah gives her just that, although it feels awfully stilted. 

She decides that she needs to hear him laugh wholeheartedly then. And before he gets the chance to actually reply to her, she shoves her hand under his shirt. Her fingers find that ticklish spot at his side. It doesn’t make much to get a genuine giggle out of him. Before long, Noah’s hands find their way under her own shirt, in search of retaliation. He’s relentless, and he only stops when Bee almost topples off the lounge chair. 

“Peace?” Noah asks, sounding rather breathless. 

“Peace.” 

Bee shifts herself upwards, moving herself on top of him. She brushes her fingers across his cheek and in return, he gives her a soft smile. 

“I would love lunch.” 

“Good. I’ll pick you up after your classes. Do you want to go somewhere specific?”

“Surprise me?” 

“I can do that.” 

She leans down to place a kiss against his lips. 

“I’m looking forward to it.” 

Noah’s hand comes to rest against the back of her neck to bring her down for another kiss, “Then it’s a date. You wanna head upstairs?” 

Back in bed, Noah wraps himself around her again. Bee shuffles back against him, sighing when his hold on her tightens just a bit more. Exhaustion has once again captured her, and she feels herself drifting off once again. 

Noah presses a kiss to her bare shoulder. 

“I love you so much.” he whispers. 

Bee tangles their fingers together, “I love you.”

She thinks that he looks a little less worried then, a little less as if he’s carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. She’ll keep chipping away at him and when he’s ready, he’ll tell her what’s worrying him. He’s been so very patient with her, so it’s only fair that Bee shows him the same kind of patience. 

She settles against him, comfortable in his hold. 

She’s safe here. 

They’re safe here.

taglist: @deathblacksmoke @circle-with-me @sitkowski @ladyveronikawrites @baddestomens

@malice-ov-mercy @chels3a-smile @ferduttini @somebodyels3 @itsafullmoon

@shilohrosechicken @poisongirl616 @mysticdoodlez @agravemisstake @th4t-em0-k1d

@thisbicc @iloveyoutodeathbutimdrowning @mrsnoahsebastian @blackveilomens @sorrowsofsilence

@fadingangelwisp @lacy1986 @tosoundlessdarkistare @thisisntablogspost @tintadecirco

@rumoured-whispers @cheyyyyr @mathfairchild1 @thewrstinme @Follow-me-down-to-wonderland

[antinousletmehit]

hi hiiiii

submittin an ask since idk if anyone asked for him yet

*inhales* ANTINOUS DATING HEADCANONS WITH SOME SUGGESTIVE STUFF GO GO GO (/nf take ur time also i love aphrodite’s gambit so far keep up the great work!! ^^)

୨୧┇pairing: Antinous x fem!reader

୨୧┇note: AHHHHH ANTINOUS MENTIONED. ILY for this, finally a antinous ask in my inbox I love that man. Grammar might be off on this one too.

────୨ৎ──── ────୨ৎ──── ───

🍷- congratulations on getting this deadbeat as a lover!! We don’t know how you did it, but we also really don’t wanna know!!!🎉🎉🎊🎊

🍷-I feel like in the beginning of the relationship he’d really only care about sex most of the time and flaunt you off to the other suitors.

“LOOK AT THIS BADDIE I BAGGED!!”

The crowd turned away and groaned.

🍷- He’d also be a bit of an asshole in the beginning too. For example, if he ever got jealous you’ve been hanging out with a suitor for too long he straight up slaps your ass and walks away smirking with no regard for your embarrassment.

🍷- but as the relationship progresses he gets somewhat worse better. He basically just starts acting as your own horny guard dog.

🍷- In terms of affection, I feel like he’d be very hesitant at first but then kinda gets used to it in private, but now you have a clingy antinous who refuses to sleep if his head isn’t buried in your tits chest. Oh and PDA is a big no for him UNLESS he’s jealous, then his hands are ALLLL over you until he feels like letting go.

🍷- For some reason I’d like to think antinous isn’t very good at reading, nor can he write AT ALL, and so whenever he writes you a letter once in a blue moon, this is what it would look like

“I lvoe yuo sou muf, yuor tats aer bij teo”

Translation: I love you so much, your tits are big too.

🍷- He would also flex his muscles to impress you and tells you the “heroic” story of each scar on his body.

🍷- since the fandom pretty much agrees antinous has a huge scar on one of his eyes, making him half blind 90% of the time. I’d like to think he LOVESSS it when you kiss around that eye, like it drives him insane.

🍷- He likes kissing you around your neck and shoulder area. Likes receiving kisses near his injured eye and his scars.

🍷- If you hate how he treats Telemachus he’ll stop messing with him frequently and just makes the suitors mess with him instead without you knowing. But if you like to hate on Telemachus too he’d do it much more often to entertain you and himself.

🍷- This man’s temper and jealousy issues are beyond comprehension so expect an argument to happen ever so often. Most of the time it gets resolved by freaky time in bed, but if you have a especially bad one do NOT expect this man to apologize first. Whether or not he was right or wrong that man is way too prideful to apologize for shit. In fact he is waiting for an apology from YOU.

🍷- after a bad argument what he’ll usually do is ghost you and avoid you until you apologize. But in the rare instances that he does apologize first it’s “yea my fault ig….can we make out-“ a slap to the face.

🍷- If he ever sees a suitor harass you, they’re gone the next day. Don’t ask how.

🍷- There was definitely a moment where Telemachus caught you two making out and anitnous ran after him, threading to wring his neck if he interrupted them again. Let me write this out

🍷- His lips captured yours before you could say another word, the kiss deep and consuming. He pulled you flush against him, one hand tangled in your hair while the other rested firmly at your waist. The world seemed to disappear as his intensity drew you in, every thought and worry melting away. That is, until—

“Y/N?”

The voice was sharp and startled, and you both froze. Antinous broke the kiss, turning his head just in time to see Telemachus standing in the doorway, his eyes wide with shock and tremendous disgust.

“What the—?” Telemachus began, but Antinous was already moving.

“Telemachus!” Antinous barked, his tone exasperated as he straightened up. “Do you not know how to knock?”

“This is a public hall!” Telemachus shot back, his face turning red as he pointed accusingly. “Where the hell could I possibly knock!?”

Antinous groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Stay here,” he muttered to you, his tone softening just slightly. “I’ll handle this.”

Before you could respond, he was already stalking after Telemachus, who already began running away down the hall.

🍷- he can’t control his 𝓕𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓴

[eyneyke]

After pt3 - Reactions

Pairing: Max Verstappen x PewDiePie!sibling Summary: What if Felix had a genius brother who works as a RedBull's engineer and is also secretly dating Max part 32 of A Calm to my Storm Masterlist

Moment 1: Max’s legs giving out slightly when Kimi and Seb help him out of the car

@racingfanatic123: “Holy crap, did you guys see that? Max trusted Sam completely all race, but you can see his legs give out when Kimi and Seb help him. The realisation finally hitting him. What a freaking legend.”

@MaxStansUnite: “Not even Max is immune to that post-race crash. He was too busy being a superhero on the track to process what just happened! SAM IS A GENIUS.”

@Alonso4ever: “Max had this calm ‘I don’t care’ attitude all weekend, but that man was hanging on by a thread by the end. And who wouldn’t be?? 24 hours ago, his car was practically useless, and now he's P1. Just wow.”

Moment 2: Max hugging Sam and saying Jack would kill Sam if he killed Max

@f1hype: “The way Max just ran to Sam like he’s been waiting all race to thank him! And then joking about Jack-freaking-septiceye killing Sam if he did anything to Max 😂 You can see how they actually are. I’m not crying, you are.”

@queer4redbull: “Okay, I thought this was about racing, but nope, this is about found family. They’re all in tears, joking around like it’s no big deal. Sam really just saved Max’s race, and Max is over here laughing like they’re besties 😭❤️”

@SpeedyGonzo: “Sam: ‘I’m glad I didn’t kill you.’ Max: ‘Your brother’s best friend would kill you.’ 😂 Max still making jokes while being emotional—he’s too much.”

Moment 3: Christian spinning Max around like a proud dad and messing up Sam’s hair

@RBF_Captain: “Christian legit looked like he was about to cry a damn river when he spun Max around. You can see not only how much this meant to him but just how stressed he must've been this whole time. But the way he messed up Sam’s hair after?? Full-on proud dad vibes!!”

@formula_oneforever: “CHRISTIAN HORNER IN TEARS. I REPEAT: TEARS. And the way he looks at Sam afterward—he knows Sam saved the day. Someone get that man a medal. And tissues.”

@daddychristianedits: “Guys, Christian actually tearing up when messing up Sam’s hair...this whole race was a MOVIE.”

Moment 4: Sam shaking hands with Adrian Newey, Toto at Red Bull?!

@bigbrainf1: “Adrian Newey just patting Sam on the back like ‘Well done, kid,’ and then TOTO showing up at Red Bull??? This race is legendary. Everyone respects Sam now!”

@mercforever: “TOTO FREAKING WOLFF personally congratulating Sam AND offering him a spot at Mercedes?! Sam is literally the hottest property in F1 right now.”

@speedracer21: “Toto walks up, and Sam doesn’t even notice t because he’s too busy analysing data! 😂 This dude is unreal. Then when he realises who was there, the shock on his face...priceless.”

Moment 5: Sam’s reaction to Toto offering him a job

@Seb4lyfe: “Toto: ‘This kid is your genius engineer?’ I am living for the respect Sam is getting. Kid’s got the whole F1 world shook.”

@RedBullRebel: “Sam being totally mute when Toto calls him a genius and offers him a spot at Merc. Christian and Newey’s faces when Sam need for sleep speaks up ‘Toto’s even hotter in person’ LMAOOO.”

@goteamredbull: “Sam just called Toto Wolff hot, and Christian and Newey are just laughing their heads off 😂 Honestly, only Sam. Never change.”

@f1_memelord: “Everyone freaking out over Max’s win but ALSO freaking out because SAM PULLED A FREAKING MIRACLE. Who even is this guy? A legend, that’s who.”

@thirst4sam: “Okay, real talk. We all knew Sam had hot hands, but can we talk about that brain for a second. Man practically saved Red Bull’s race. What a DAY.”

@samkjellberghandwatch: “Sam Kjellberg’s hands carrying Red Bull and Max to victory...I AM LIVING FOR THIS.”

@pewdiepieplsanswer: “PEWDIEPIE DOESN’T EVEN KNOW HIS BROTHER IS OUT HERE SAVING F1 RACES. SOMEONE TELL FELIX RIGHT NOW.”

@youtubewatcher4ever: “Is anyone else SCREAMING that Sam is PewDiePie’s brother? Pewds is probably chilling at home while his bro just pulled off one of the biggest miracles in F1.”

Comments after videos of Sam trying to dodge hugs and focusing on data

@maxsamstan: “Sam running away from all the Red Bull mechanics trying to hug him after the race has me in TEARS. Man just wants to analyse data in peace!”

@RB24fanclub: “Sam’s face when Toto Wolff walks up and he’s like, ‘Please leave me alone before Max comes or I fall asleep.’ DEAD. And then he goes back to analysing the race data like nothing.”

@thef1whisperer: “Sam is literally the most ‘I have no time for your emotions, I’m analysing data’ guy ever, and I respect that. Man just saved a race and then went right back to work.”

Video: Toto Wolff approaches Red Bull’s garage to congratulate the engineer responsible for Max’s win, only to be 'introduced' to Sam, who's not even celebrating but analysing data

@f1insider: “The look on Toto’s face when he realised the engineer wasn’t out celebrating with the rest of the Red Bull team but was instead glued to the data screen. Man was expecting some middle-aged guy covered in champagne but found Sam, a literal genius in a 20-something-year-old body.”

@wolffpackleader: “Toto walking in expecting a tech veteran, and then Adrian Newey’s just like, ‘Hey Sam, a minute.’ AND IT'S A KID??? I’m dying. Toto’s brain probably short-circuited.”

@F1debrief: “Toto Wolff looked so sure he was about to congratulate an old veteran engineer, and then Sam walks up and he’s barely in his 20s! You could see the man’s brain literally rebooted on the spot.”

@redbullrising: “Christian’s smirk when Toto realises Sam isn’t some 40-year-old tech genius but a fresh-faced 20-something. He’s like, ‘Yeah, my kid engineer is the real deal.’ You know Toto didn’t see that coming.”

Commenters freaking out about Toto’s surprise at Sam’s age

@totallyteamtoto: “Toto: ‘This is your genius engineer?’ That man fully expected to shake hands with a seasoned veteran and instead finds Sam—a kid that literally ignores him!! I’m wheezing.”

@KJellbergNation: “Toto’s face when Sam walks up...he was NOT ready for the baby-faced genius. Christian and Newey’s smirk says it all—he knew Toto was about to get a surprise.”

@teamLH: “Toto probably thought he’d find someone his age behind that strategy, but nope, it’s Sam Kjellberg, a 20-something brother of a world famous youtuber who’s already making legends on the track. Imagine being that good at his age.”

@technerdf1: “Toto’s reaction is priceless. He thought he was dealing with an experienced old-school engineer, and then Newey calls up this young kid glued to his data screen. Sam is out here redefining what it means to be a genius in F1.”

Video: Toto congratulates Sam(he tried, okay) and offers him a spot at Mercedes, Christian smirking in the background

@f1madlad: “Toto didn’t just call Sam a genius, he legit tried to poach him right there. ‘If you ever get bored of Red Bull, there’s a spot at Mercedes’—bro, the audacity 😂”

@cheekychristian: “CHRISTIAN’S FACE when Toto offers Sam a job at Mercedes. Man was smirking the whole time like, ‘Nice try, Wolff, but this kid’s ours.’”

@race_girl1997: “Toto couldn’t believe the ‘genius engineer’ was Sam, and he was so shocked he straight-up offered him a job in Mercedes on the spot. Christian was enjoying "shooing" him away waaaay too much😂”

Fans freaking out about Sam’s age and his impact

@thisisf1: “The fact that Sam is barely in his 20s, and he’s out here pulling race-saving miracles like it’s no big deal...what was I doing at 20? Certainly not revolutionising F1.”

@honestlymaxfan: “The Red Bull miracle worker is a kid. A freaking kid. Toto’s reaction was my reaction—no way did that kid behind the data screen just save Max’s race. But yeah, he did.”

@RedBullArmy: “Christian: smirking in full dad mode, Newey: knows Sam is the future, Toto: losing his mind that the ‘genius’ is barely 20-something Meanwhile, Sam’s just analysing data like nothing happened.”

More thirst for Sam after the race and realisation he’s PewDiePie’s brother

@samhandsdaily: “Okay but Sam in that official Red Bull gear just hit different today. Hands-on that data, barely even celebrating the win. We do NOT deserve him.”

@pewdslittlebrother: “So PewDiePie’s brother just pulled off a miracle in F1, and Pewds is probably out there like, ‘Oh, did Sam do something today?’ 😂”

@FelixWho?: “I love how everyone’s thirsting over Sam, but we’re all just waiting for Pewds to realise what his brother just did. Like, hello, Felix, your brother just saved a race!!”

[onward--upward]

burned enough bridges to light my way home

patrick/art/tashi, 25k, rated E || ao3

“Tashi,” he says softly. “I thought we talked about me retiring next season.” Everything stops. “What?” she says. It comes out sharp, although she hadn’t meant it to. “You’re still on that?” *** Art retires. Patrick moves in. And Tashi has to keep her feet moving, or else she'll drown.

There’s this fact that Tashi heard, once, a lifetime ago, on one of those nature TV programs. Her grandma really liked them, used to plop Tashi down in front of them on Saturday mornings with her glass of orange juice while she coloured. None of the animal facts tended to stick — even back then, Tashi’s head was already consumed by tennis, tennis, tennis — except for one. One stuck with her, even now: certain species of sharks need to be in constant motion. If a shark stops swimming, it will die. 

Tashi has always felt a little bit like a shark. 

Her mom likes to call her a workaholic, all fondness with a side of worry, but what Tashi doesn’t know how to say is that she doesn’t know how to be without work. Tennis is who she is.

When her knee explodes, she keeps moving. As soon as she's able, she attacks her PT like she can will herself to heal. When she doesn’t heal, she keeps moving. She goes out and finds a player to hit with, a way to stay on the courts. When she’s pregnant with Lily, when her whole life changes, she finds a way to attack that, too: she plans their lives down to the letter, and she takes her baby girl with her. 

So now, when Art has finally won the US Open, when Patrick Zweig is back in their lives in a way they’re all a little nervous to truly define, she’s setting her next plan of attack. 

continue on ao3

[j-partneringrime]

Rachel Amber is such a good character and I don’t get the amount of hate she gets. I feel like people who are judging her based on some of her actions really don’t understand her character, because that’s exactly what happens in the games. In the first game, most people who talk about rachel say how popular she was or how beautiful she was, and how cool she was at parties or how good she was at modelling, almost everything said about rachel from people other than chloe is stuff like that. the way they talk about her to max, who never met her, really seems like they don’t view her a as an actual person and more as an idea, they let their idea of rachel overshadow who she actually was and what she actually did and felt, she was always the popular girl or the party girl or something like that, she was always “rachel amber” instead of just rachel amber (if that makes sense). And rachel leaned into that assumption of her a bit but not in a lying, manipulative way like some people say, but in a similar way to chloe being known as a trouble maker and a rebel, which made her act like that more than she would’ve normally, without that expectation of her. It’s just so heartbreaking to see after rachel’s death that most people who she knew, when asked about her, don’t actually talk about what she was actually like as person. And that’s shown even more while she was alive in BtS, that everyone has an idea of her but no one truly knows her, even her parents think of her as their perfect, smart, polite, always good daughter, which isn’t who she is, I mean it’s part of her and everything else people think of her aren’t lies, but they’re only part of her. And chloe is the only person we ever see rachel fully open up to and when talking about rachel, actually talks about what she was like as person and the full person what she was, not just the idea that people got from her. That’s why it’s so sad and mischaracterising when people say she was using chloe and manipulating her, because chloe was the only person she ever let her herself fully be free with and without any expectations of her, including her own parents. I don’t understand how people can see their relationship and think it’s all fake from rachel’s end, especially since the ending of BtS and the big final decision is about the trust they have in each other and how rachel trusts chloe completely, because the final choice of whether to tell her the truth or not is very much framed as either don’t tell her and save her the pain of losing her father, which chloe understands and also knows how much rachel needs her family right now, or do tell her because rachel has complete trust in chloe and to not tell her would be to betray that trust, and to betray the only real relationship rachel has, and to view that thinking rachel doesn’t care about chloe removes all meaning from that moment. That moment is literally about how much trust rachel has in chloe and how much she cares about her and the choice you make is deciding if you are going to be worthy of that trust and love that rachel is giving you or if you’ll betray it and hide something incredibly meaningful from her when she needs someone to be there for her more than ever. And I feel like that trust between them is what ends up helping rachel open up more after BtS and what lets rachel let down some of walls when she and chloe hang out with other people, like steph and mikey or justin and trevor. Rachel is an amazing character who deserved much better from both in universe and real life. She deserved to live, she deserved to get out of Arcadia bay with chloe, she deserved to meet max and she deserves to be seen as she is by the fandom instead of the strange evil and manipulative idea some have of her. Rachel Amber is an amazing character, and deserves all the love <3

Also the argument at the junkyard, really shows just how much people’s perception of rachel affects her, that chloe, who she has never really spoken to before and only interactions are yesterday at the concert and today skipping school, both of which are good days for them and go against what people think of rachel, after all that chloe still pushes and kind of forces the ideas and assumptions about rachel on her, even though none of her experiences with rachel fit that perception of her, she still uses it against her, because that’s just how she’s known sadly. Which I don’t fully blame chloe for because both her and rachel weren’t in the best mindset during that fight and literally everyone has that perception of her so chloe leaning into that perception of her is believable but you know, it still happened.

(btw these are more my thoughts about her from an in universe perspective, not how she was written irl, because I know some of the stuff I mention, like how people talk about her in LiS 1, is because of the story and how her character is purposefully written and meant to be viewed)

[sunnysidesevenup]

Moonlight Song: Chapter 1

“Hurry, henchman! I’m hungry!”

Yuichi sighs, readjusting his grip on his bag. Grim is tugging at his clothes, impatient as always, and honestly he just wants to skip dinner and go take a nap. Not that his silly dorm companion would ever allow something as heinous as skipping a meal. Maybe he can convince Grim to go by himself…?

Unlikely.

“I’m coming, just hold on a minute.” He says, Grim rushing ahead of him. He attempts to hurry after his dorm mate, but instead collides near instantly with someone coming around the corner. Both Yuichi and whoever he slammed into hit the floor, and Grim immediately appears near them.

“Hey! Watch where you’re—MWAH?! IT’S THE POMEFIORE LEECH TWIN!” Grim instantly cuts his scolding off the minute he sees the guy on the floor glaring at the two of them, and ducks behind Yuichi.

“Don’t compare me to the Leeches, we look nothing alike.” Arlo immediately scolds. “And we’re not related at all, this is why you’re failing your tests, isn’t it?”

“Wha… how does he know that…”

Yuichi deigns not to reveal to Grim that it’s probably just a reasonable guess.

Instead, he decides to defuse the oncoming fight, considering the Pomefiore second year has seemed to recover from his fall but is now looking more and more annoyed. He brushes off his clothes, standing back up. “Sorry for knocking you over, I wasn’t looking where I was going.” He says.

Arlo looks him over, and then nods, seeming to find him genuine. “Sure. I wasn’t paying attention, either. Keep your… cat under control, though.”

“I’m not a cat!” Grim immediately yells, indignant.

“What are you, then? I see a cat.”

“Get your eyes checked!”

“Oh?” The mer tilts his head, tone lowering threateningly. “Do you think something is truly wrong with my vision? I’m not in the mood, so spit it out if you do.” His tone makes it very, very apparent that Grim should stop talking, so Yuichi, once again, is on damage control.

He scoops the cat back up into his arms, “He really doesn’t—sorry again.”

Arlo’s glare doesn’t fade. Instead, he just crosses his arms, staring at them with a piercing look and not saying anything.

“Uh…. We’ll get going, then?” Yuu says, attempting to leave before anything else happens.

“Do either of you sing?” The mer asks suddenly.

“What?! Why’re ya asking something like that, all of a sudden?” Grim questions, receiving another tilt of the head from the mer.

“I suppose it doesn’t matter… You’re not doing anything right now, are you? Great.” The shorter guy then darts forward, grabbing Yuichi by the arm and pulling him along down the hallway.

“No, no! Henchman, fight back! I want dinner!” Grim protests, struggling in his arms. A glare from the mer quickly stops the squirming, but not the complaining.

It’s not like Yuichi could pull away even if he wanted to. The guy is much stronger than he looks, and honestly kind of scary. He’d much rather just get whatever he wants over with and then return to his dorm.

Hopefully there’s food, wherever they’re going. He can’t put up with Grim’s whining for that long.

Arlo pulls them along all the way to the courtyard, and then over to a bench where, to Yuichi’s surprise, the Pomefiore housewarden is sitting. He’s scrolling on his phone, but looks up as they approach, raising an eyebrow.

“I found more people.” Arlo says, and the expression on Vil’s face sours.

“Grim and Yuu are not good candidates for a singing competition, Arlo. Go find someone else.” He tells his lowerclassman flatly.

“For a what?” Yuichi asks with mild panic. He’s ignored.

Arlo crosses his arms, tapping his foot impatiently. “I don’t need people to be good at it, I just need them to be distracting.”

“Then why did you ask me, exactly?”

“You’d get upset if I didn’t invite you!“

“Wait, wait, hold on!” Yuichi interrupts, finally getting a word in between the two boy’s arguing, although he regrets it a bit when two duel glares turn onto him. “What’s going on? Singing competition?”

Vil turns back to his dorm member. “You need to stop dragging people around with no explanation.”

Arlo shrugs. “It’s fine. They’re not busy.”

“Did you ask?”

He doesn’t respond, instead turning to Yuichi. “There’s a festival going on in my hometown, and I got signed up for a competition. I don’t want to participate, so I’m taking other people along with me. You’ll help out, right?” The question is less a question and more of a threat, from the low way he says it.

“…Can’t you just, uh, drop out?”

Arlo gets a pinched, complicated expression on his face. “I could, but then my siblings would call me a coward. Do I look like a coward to you?”

“…er, no?” Yuichi answers hesitantly.

“Exactly. But now I need more people… three or four, maybe…” He muses to himself, and then grimaces. “I don’t want to ask anyone else.”

“I, myself, would like to find good singers.” Vil tells him, offering no room for argument. “You might be content with this, but I’m not. You shouldn’t have told me about it if you weren’t intending to do your best. Frankly, I’m considering teaching you a lesson.”

“Who says I won’t do my best? I’m not worried about myself, but how other people perform isn’t my business.”

“As your housewarden, I don’t appreciate your attitude.”

“I’d love for you to attempt to teach me manners, then—“

“OKAY! Okay. Let’s just…” Yuichi raises a palm to his head, sighing. Why, why, is he always the one playing mediator? He’s not good at that! How did this happen to him?! “So, from what I’m hearing, we need a few more people, and they should at least be decent singers, and should have time to leave campus last minute…?”

Vil nods. “Correct.”

“How are we going to get anyone like that?” He asks, already committed to helping. Not like he would be able to get out of this now, anyways.

“Why, I think I can help with that!” A deep voice says from behind them.

[anxiousnerdwritings]

Anon Ask: Wait wait so we have Bella’s mini me, the yan!romantic!Lestrange!OC x Twin!Weasley or criminal!Weasley

But

What about Yan!Malfoy!OC that’s Narcissa’s mini me just without the intense blood supremacy shit

Definitely magic supremacy, she’d wholeheartedly believe wizards and witches are better then muggles but having nothing against muggleborns/half bloods unless it’s personal beef

———

Pt.2 Draco makes a comment to Twin!Reader about never being able to “afford” a girl like Malfoy!OC when they’re on the Hogwarts Express for the first time and he catches them sharing a smile

He doesn’t understand what Draco means until Fred pats his shoulder and tells him that “girls like expect to be showered in champagne and diamonds and pretty flowers” and advises him to steer clear of her and Draco going forward

His inferiority complex thank you, Molly spirals to the point where Twin!Reader is doing dangerous and most likely illegal shit the more and more he develops feelings because maybe it’ll make Malfoy!OC and his mother really love him

If you wanna make it dramatic then Lestrange!OC is standing beside him almost every day wanting to pull out her hair because she’s right there and her cousin is just toying with his feelings knowing that she’ll never really sacrifice the Malfoy Fortune unless Twin!Reader proves he can provide

He does increasingly stupid shit as the years pass on like pursuing bounties the MoM put on dark wizards while holding a part time job during the summer months and finding a work around to participate in the Triwizard Tournament while selling/trading illegal materials at school

He knows that whatever chances existed are gone the moment Lucius Malfoy sits across from him at a poker table in some back room at a sketchy goblin run establishment and he smokes the table

————

I like to think that Yan!Malfoy!OC and Yan!Lestrange!OC are the same age and with that these two just have this deep seeded rivalry. They just always have. So when Lestrange!OC becomes obsessed with Weasley!Reader, Malfoy!OC sees this as another way to get at her cousin. I can imagine Malfoy!OC being someone who really craves and thrives off attention, just someone who prefers all eyes on her and when Weasley!Reader is doing the most to try and prove himself worthy of her (at least that’s what it looks like) she basks in it, wanting for even more constant attention. But she would never say that she liked Weasley!Reader or anything like that, this is strictly an ego boost for her and a way to get under her cousin’s skin.

I would really like to believe that Weasley!Reader isn’t going out of his way so much as to prove himself to the Malfoy’s or Malfoy!OC but instead he’s doing so to prove to himself that he is capable of so much more than what people think of him. Especially his mother and now the Malfoy’s. He’s not trying to earn Malfoy!OC’s affections like she and everyone else is under the impression of, no what he’s actually doing is finally putting his foot down. Weasley!Reader has put up with a lot, he’s already treated like shit at home by his own mother, he’s not just gonna let someone else treat him the same all over again in the only place he feels even remotely safe and comfortable. And I like to think that this only lasts for a bit, not too long, until Weasley!Reader just has enough of feeling like he needs to do anything to prove himself at all anymore and he just stops completely. Stops giving anything of himself to Malfoy!OC especially cause it’s one thing to have to deal with his mother but he can just walk away from Malfoy!OC and ignore her. The poor boy is just tired. So tired.

But in being ignored, Malfoy!OC instead finds herself at a loss. No one has just up and ignored her before, save for Lestrange!OC, so this is a completely foreign concept to her. At first, she tries to brush it off and act like it’s whatever, if anything this is better cause then she won’t be having to waste her own time on measly Weasley!Reader and his shenanigans. But the longer Weasley!Reader doesn’t even so much as spare her a glance, Malfoy!OC is left feeling empty. She doesn’t want to admit how much she actually looked forward to Weasley!Reader’s attention, how warm she felt inside whenever he came back proud of himself after accomplishing some new endeavor or when he ended up bringing something new from one of his many ventures to prove himself capable. Like, the time he gifted her a Basilisk fang after killing the one in the Chamber of Secrets. (He didn’t gift her shit, he tossed it on the table in the Slytherin common room after coming back from saving Ginny and fighting for their lives. Malfoy!OC just took it as a gift meant for her.) I guess you could say Malfoy!OC is experiencing withdrawals. She’s so out of sorts not having Weasley!Reader seeking her out anymore that she almost doesn’t know what to do with herself. More often than not she’s left just to watch as Weasley!Reader gives the attention he use to put towards her towards Lestrange!OC now. Not like he wasn’t giving her cousin attention before but now that’s all Malfoy!OC sees. And she hates it. She wants his eyes back on her, she wants to be the only thing he looks at. What started off as Weasley!Reader proving himself ends with Malfoy!OC now trying to prove herself more deserving of his attention than her cousin ever could be.

Malfoy!OC would turn into a complete stalker after being ignored and basically abandoned by Weasley!Reader. She is everywhere he goes, she sees and hears everything that goes on with and around him. When the Zabini’s take Weasley!Reader in and under their wings, Malfoy!OC is now making more appearances at the Zabini home when he’s over. And whenever the chance, she’s interrogating Blaise for as much more information as she can get her hands on. Like, Malfoy!OC gets so bad to the point where even Dobby is warning Weasley!Reader, and that’s before he ever started working for him. Or Dobby is reaching out to Lestrange!OC in hopes of her being able to do something, whether it’s to get Malfoy!OC to back off altogether or to just be there for Weasley!Reader. Either way, Malfoy!OC just does a whole downward spiral into obsession. Don’t even get me started on when she demands her parents arrange a marriage between her and Weasley!Reader. After all he’s pureblood so it’s fine and he’s obviously nothing like the rest of his family, so why can’t she have him at the end of the day? All just cause Daddy Lucius is a sore loser? Whatever, he can get over it. Otherwise, Malfoy!OC is going to throw the biggest bitch fit ever seen in Malfoy history.

The rivalry between Lestrange!OC and Malfoy!OC will only become all the more intense after Malfoy!OC’s own obsession kick starts. These two will be at each other’s throats even more than they already were. The only time they can even be considered as remotely ‘working’ together is when it comes to someone else trying to swoop in on Weasley!Reader. Only then is it not “my darling”, but rather “our darling”. Could the two possibly ever come to the capability of sharing, maybe but it’ll never truly be peaceful. There will always be competition but hey at least they both get the same thing at the end of the day, right?

[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 4: made of the same dust.

sero hanta x reader ch 4/6 | 13k words | masterlist | ao3 cw: the smut. it's mild and i kept it gn (no body descriptions for reader) notes: senorita by camila cabello and shawn mendes, nobody by hozier, ceilings by lizzie mcalpine

the time you finally reach back.

✰.

"The fact that we can sit right here and say goodbye / Means we've already won

A necessity for apologies between you and me / Baby, there is none"

- Walking in the Wind, One Direction

The world slows while you stand and stare ahead, eyes boring into Hanta’s across the crowd. Your heart pounds in your chest, skin ablaze as your mind races. It’s fuzzy, too much passing through and slamming together as you try to understand the past few nights, entire days, years that have gone by. Your chest squeezes at the thought of Hanta watching you curiously, uncertainly as you wandered through his gifts, not yet understanding the magnitude of what he was trying to say.

And here he stands—still as a stone, unsure after baring his heart and his memory before you. A memory you forgot.

You run forwards.

“Hanta!” you shout as you weave through the crowd. His eyes widen, head jolting from shock before he breaks free and runs to meet you without hesitation.

You reach for him, hands grasping tightly at the front of his shirt. Your own panting sounds through your ears, pairing with a sting across your nose and eyes as your body threatens to sob.

“Hanta, was it really you this whole time?” 

He’s nervous, eyes glazed with a mixture of fear and hope. His hands lift but they don’t make contact with your arms. When he speaks his voice is breathy. “Yeah, it was me. I mean, Momo helped—but they were my ideas. I wanted… I wanted to show you how I feel towards you.” There’s a pause as he surveys your face. “… Do you like them?”

Momo? Your head rushes at the thought that she was an orchestrator—Momo, who you haven’t had the chance to say a proper thank you to, to share with her all that this means to you. Momo was helping Hanta build tents and stories and magic? That alone could make you cry.

But you’re stunned further when you register Hanta’s question. Like them? That tent was full of your home, your memories, moments you didn’t even know were lost until now. And at the same time they were his confessions, love letters that have been looking for you, for years. Since Quito.

“Hanta… they’re everything I’ve been missing.”

… He’s everything you’ve been missing.

His hand is searing against your waist, fire burning through fabric to ignite the skin beneath your gown—a shock against the winter air. The touch is gentle, still cautious despite your affirmation, but you see relief wash over him, face softening into a hopeful stare. He swallows.

His arm curves to hold you firmly, forcing your body into his, the heat of him that seeps through his costume. You accept it greedily, pressing your face into his shoulder. Your cheeks burn, you can’t tell from your own blood rushing through you, or the radiance of his heat. As he guides you through the crowd—your feet stumbling along his—you try to calm yourself, only now feeling your erratic heart beats, the lump in your throat and stomach you can’t explain. But despite all this, you feel safe in his arms.

You don’t know where he’s taking you, and you don’t care. Words tumble from your lips before you can choose them carefully, just wanting to tell him anything. Everything.

“You were there? In Quito when I was in the parade?” Your voice is quiet, likely too soft to hear. But he releases a choked yeah that makes your body tighten.

You laugh breathily. “I remembered hating it. I was so scared to perform. But abuela thought it would be good for me. I… I didn’t remember having so much fun. Only falling at the end and hurting myself. I was never a performer, even if I love to dance. I—”

The air is quieter around you when Hanta comes to a stop, letting you break away partially to look at his face.

“Gracias, Hanta. Para mostrarme.”

Thank you, Hanta. For showing me.

His face is unreadable, a mysterious shroud of darkness. You take in what your peripheral offers, tall looming shadows of palm trees. The silhouette of a banana leaf breezes behind him. They’re out of place in the temperate weather of Milan. You’re sandwiched between the festival and the street, in the strip of tropical plants outside the duomo. Isn’t there a fence to separate the vegetation from pedestrians? How did he bring you here?

You want to know everything about him—all this impossible magic, what he’s thinking, what he knows about you. Your heart reaches for him, yearns while watching with bated breath.

It quickens impossibly when his hand moves to your face. His touch is soft and ignites a buzz beneath your skin. His thumb presses your cheek, stroking under your eye. His tongue swipes through his lips, biting down on the lower one with a frown in thought. You watch him. Still waiting.

His face stretches into a grin, this one in disbelief, almost contorted with pain. “I never thought I’d… I just—” the words don’t amount to anything, only the beginnings of thoughts coming from his lips. You laugh gently in agreement.

“Eres tú,” he finally manages. It’s you. His Spanish is firm and deliberate. “Seeing you that day is the reason I’m here now. You were… you were beautiful. And you saw me.”

You don’t know what he’s saying, too far gone to read into his words. They hardly enter your brain. But you capture their essence, your body reacting on instinct to the sounds. Each word is a strike to your heart, a squeeze to your lungs, a burn across your face. You inspired him somehow—you with your clumsy enthusiasm that only lasted a moment. He saw it and wanted it too.

“Were you looking for me?” you ask. It’s not what you mean to say.

He shakes his head slowly. “I… I don’t know. I was just chasing that feeling you gave me, from the moment I felt it. And it led me here.”

He’s too beautiful, you think. Him and his earnest words and his devoted heart. You stare openly, at his face partly illuminated in the dim glow of the moon. His eyes are honest and wide, watching every detail of you carefully. But they’re also dark—mysterious, deep depths that hold impossibly more. Like his hair, soft against his forehead and cheeks, a blanket of uncertainty that you want to wrap yourself in.

But he’s also ridiculous, standing there in his jester’s costume, the amalgamation of Japanese and French and Persian attire. His hat is also dark, artificially so, a fuzzy felt that rains over his head. You can’t hold back your smile at the sight, this multitude of a man.

“You’re so beautiful,” is all you can say.

And suddenly he’s closer, pulling you in, pressing against you like you’ll meld together. His face is close, so close, searing forehead against yours as he stares into you with those large, hopeful eyes.

You don’t reject his advances, letting him take you and guide your head towards him with the hand against your cheek—to steal your lips for his own.

If touching Hanta is the heat of fire, the burning pain of flames against your skin, then kissing him is the heat of molten rock and stone, hot lava that pools in your body. You grab him greedily, clutching the hem of his robe with the intensity of claws. It eggs him on, hand firm as it slides to the back of your neck, releasing a wave of tingles down your spine. His other arm stretches further around you, to pull you impossibly closer. You’re dizzy, dissolving from his intimacy like steam from a boil. It hurts, but you crave more. 

He tastes sweet, the tang of an orange along the freshness of mint. At the first sample, a swipe against his lip with your tongue, you immediately crave more. He lets you in, gives you full reign to him. You take it easily, take and take and take as you run your hands up his neck and confine him. A groan releases from his throat, a rough sound that starts from the depths of his chest, vibrating against your own. You think you might die from the intensity, how his song raises your temperature even further.

When you finally have space to breathe, pulling apart only to press a rapid succession of kisses against him, you breathe his name like air. First it’s the exhale of a shaky, “Hanta,” and then it’s a cry, the choked mantra of, “Hanta, Hanta, Hanta—”He whines in response, a high pitched and raw honesty. You can’t take it, can’t bear the thought of being apart from him. When you think about how long you’ve lived in his absence, one you weren’t even aware of until tonight, it tears at your chest, the sting of an open wound.

His hotel isn’t far from the duomo, but the journey there is endless. He pulls you forward by the hand, and the sight of him, his wide back and his arm outstretched towards you, fuels a giddiness in your chest. 

The room is small, only large enough for one, and the hall is tight when he pulls you in, immediately pressing you into the wall of the cramped corridor. You inhale sharply at the impact, then nearly choke as he leans into you, the curve of his front slotting snugly into yours. He’s all over you once again, this time in the private darkness of his space. The air is heavy against you, a sticky dampness of need. You welcome him easily, lips parting to taste him again—orange and mint and heat.

His kisses are deep but hurried. He moves quickly, an eager pace you encourage. You urge him to continue, equally firm as you run your tongue over his teeth, catching his with your own.

Your heart jumps when he pulls back enough to run his lips under your eye, migrating to your temple and against your ear, lighting your body aflame. You gasp as the feeling, how it claws into your chest and sides when he moves to kiss your jaw, your neck. Then you’re whining, high pitched and breathy. He chuckles against you—a raspy, throaty sound that blooms an ache in your stomach. 

“Lo siento,” he whispers against your throat after biting it softly. I’m sorry. “Ideally I’d take my time with you.”

You groan at the admission, hands sliding up his neck to bury in his hair. The grunt he releases is an animal sound. Suddenly he’s clutching at your thighs, grinding his hips into yours to make you feel the hard, searing heat of him.

He tears you from the wall. You wrap your arms over his shoulders, holding him tightly as he stumbles further into the room. Your hand reaches for his stupid jester hat, tugging one of the felted points, jingling as it slides off his head and onto the floor. You giggle at the silliness of it all, your two costumes pressed together.

Then you’re falling backwards, flopping against the surface of his bed. Hanta leans with you, pinning you against the plushness of the duvet. He hums into your lips, an intrigued sound at your laughter, before he ruts his hips into you again, pulling a gasp from your lips. The heat between your legs is blooming, consuming. You bury your face in his hair, dark dark threads swept beneath your chin and cheek as his lips suck at your neck. His fingers dance against your sides, sliding under your back to find the string that holds your dress together.

With one tug it loosens over your shoulders, bunching softly when one of his hands comes to your collarbone, fingertip hooking into the seam before tracing gently down your chest. You fold easily, shaking the cinches from your wrists to let the sleeves slide down with the bust. You’re left bare, chest and stomach and heart, for him to see in their entirety.

He pushes up from the bed to look at you, eyes tracing the dip of your collarbone, the firmness of your sternum, the softness of your belly. A hand smooths into the curve of your waist, touching gently with delicate fingers. You reach for the lapel of his top, the robe-like fabric tied at the side. He lets you pull the string, and then shrugs the garment off, easily brushing it to the side.

You know he’s fit; he’s an acrobat for a living. But you eye him greedily, taking in his sculpted figure, all lean muscle and angles and edges. Your fingers reach for the side of his pec, tracing down hot skin to the hard flesh of his obliques, the ripple of his abdomen. Another searing, hot wave rushes through you as you drink him in—the pour of boiling black liquid. Molten rock. 

He leans back down to kiss the skin of your chest, the flesh coating your heart. His chest is impossibly hot against your stomach, his torso burning as it settles between your legs. Your hips stutter on their own, bucking into his belly in attempt to relieve that ache. He groans again, a deep sound that thrums through your own body. You notice the flush of your face, a burning heat from within—not just the external warmth you’ve been stealing from him. 

His thumb presses against your hip, fingers wrapping around to dig into the plush of your ass. He’s encouraging you, pulling you into him to roll again and again, to use him for your relief. You follow his lead, let your hips rock into him even after his hand stops guiding you. There’s a twitch against your sternum, his lips stretching into a grin that he smothers into your skin. You don’t have the gall to care, too wrapped up in his touch and your pleasure that builds embarrassingly quickly. 

He lifts his head, drags it against the plush of your chest and to your nipple. You inhale sharply when his tongue flicks across the bud before he kisses it, a peck before harsh sucking. Pins run down your spine and directly to your heat, burning your body in every place and at every moment. Your hand threads through that deep, dark hair—soft, long locks against his scalp. His free hand pinches your other nipple, giving you no reprieve as he presses his stomach harder against you and flexes. You tremble from the overload of sensation, its ruthless compounding.

Your body tightens, shakes with the tension of a coiled spring. In the next moment it releases, you cresting the peak of your high as relief washes over you, hot white light flooding your vision and body. You don’t hear yourself whine and groan through your ecstasy, focus only on holding Hanta close to you.

You can hear your panting when you finally come to. Your eyes peel open after some effort, sticky from the force you used to scrunch them closed, to see Hanta above you. He’s smiling gently, a sweet and careful tug at his cheek. You blink rapidly in attempt to sharpen your vision, but he remains fuzzy in the dim light. You can only smile back, watching him lean down to kiss you again—this time slower, unhurried.

You jolt in your skin as his free hand reaches for your waist, sliding up and down. Your heart buzzes when it trails lower, touching the top of your thigh, over the edge towards the inside, before gliding to your center. You can feel your heart pound in your ears, thrumming in anticipation. The tips of his fingers ghost over your heat, igniting fire through your legs at the simultaneous lightness and overstimulation.

And then he stops.

The shift is jarring. He pulls away from your lips, hand jerking back. In a flash it’s like his touch was never there, only the ghost of a feeling in your memory. But he’s still hovering above you, now with a look of uncertainty. You frown—at the loss, but mostly from concern.

“Hanta?” you press.

He blinks, eyes darting from you and to the side, inspiring nervous fluttering in your stomach. He bites his lip in thought, nearly chewing at himself. You think you can see the gears turning in his mind.

“¿Estás bien?” Are you okay?

His head shakes, like he’s coming back to himself. He looks at you again, wide earnest eyes that hold every secret you’ve ever needed. You feel relief in your stomach, that moment of unease slipping away. You trust him.

His voice is throaty when he answers, and he stumbles a couple of times before he manages to say, “I—I really don’t want to rush this. To rush you… us. I’m sorry.” A glossiness pools in his eyes. He looks mournful. The sight hurts your heart.

“Estás bien,” you say this time. You reach one of your hands to his face, carefully brushing his cheek. You want your words to get through to him. “Hanta, it’s okay.”

He exhales shakily, leaning to press his head against your shoulder. Your hand migrates to the back of his head, petting his hair gently. He blinks rapidly against you, the butterfly wings of his eyelashes kissing your skin. They’re followed by the light touch of tears, a slight drizzle of rain while he collects himself.

You cradle him carefully, coaxing him to relax on top of you. His weight pins you down, like the security of a blanket. He’s still warm, hot coals against you—coals that breathe, expand and shrink over and over and over again. Your free hand travels down his back, softly tracing his spine, the ridges of mountains, groaning earth beneath taut skin.

In this quiet reprieve, the space between action, your mind wanders to his words. I don’t want to rush this. But it’s up to you, isn’t it? Whether there can be a this at all—whether you can have any time together in the future. Whether you can find the courage to leave and chase that feeling that brought Hanta to you. But the ashes of abuela sit under your coffee table, waiting to be brought home; your sister sits in her room halfway across the world, waiting for you to call her back. Your heart is heavy, sinking down your body as you bear its burden and the weight of the man above you.

“Lo siento,” he whispers the apology against your heart.

You smile sadly to yourself, swallowing a lump as you reply, “Yo también.”

Me too.

You don’t wake first, but you still wake early, eyes twitching when the morning sun brushes your face. You feel the plushness of the blanket, body snug under its warmth. The sheet is stiffer than yours, and the scent of the room has a tang yours lacks. Your eyes shoot open.

Sero is not what you expect to see upon waking, the first figure to cross your vision. But he lays beside you, propped on his stomach with his arms thrown over a pillow, outstretched to cradle a book. His shirt is still discarded from the night before, tan and toned skin stark against the white of the bed. He doesn’t notice that you’ve woken, eyes tracing along the paper, a fond smile tugging at his lips. Even buried in your peripheral, the book is recognizable.

You get a few minutes of this peaceful quiet, watching the light from the window illuminate him from behind. He's glowing, radiant.

When his finger drags against the top of the paper, his eyes dart towards you, widening in surprise when he sees that you’re awake. You wonder if he looked your way at every turn of the page, waiting.

You smile. He grins in response and tucks a tag in the spine, letting the book close as he shifts towards you.

“Buenos días,” he greets softly. The rasp makes your heart pound.

Your voice is almost a whisper when you return the phrase. 

“Sleep well?”

You respond with an mhmm, adjusting as you roll entirely to your side to face him. The blanket falls slightly down your chest, but you leave it. Hanta’s eyes don’t leave yours. 

Your hand slides towards him, finger brushing against his forearm. His opposite hand lands atop yours, thumb gliding gently over your knuckles. You wonder what this is, what you’re doing here with soft gazes and twitches of smiles. The pace of your heart picks up, an awkwardness seeping through your skin. Then you frown with realization. 

“Was it okay for you to leave last night?” you ask.

Sero blinks at the question. “Huh? Oh, yeah. I wasn’t actually working.”

Your face morphs to one of confusion. “But you dressed up and hung around the festival anyways?”

His mouth twitches, the press of a line as he tries to hold a straight face. “Yeah?”

You don’t press, supposing it made sense if he was planning to join you in the tent. The reminder brings another wave of thumping against your chest. Your cheeks flare at the memory, and suddenly you feel embarrassed too. Grateful and in awe, but embarrassed.

“Thank you,” you say. It doesn’t feel like enough, to simply thank him. “For last night, and the previous nights. What you showed me was incredible, and I have no idea how you and Momo managed it.” You have the urge to ask all those questions in you, how he pulled those memories, why your time with abuela is nothing but a bright green marble, how that tiny tent could expand the space inside to be so endless.

You don’t ask.

“Of course,” he answers, shuffling closer. He reaches for you, gentle fingertips against your cheek. “I… Like I said, I wanted to show you everything, how I feel towards you. I don’t… know entirely what happened, or what you saw in the earlier ones—it’s left to the illusion. But I hope they were all good to you, ultimately.”

You have to take his words in slowly, processing them individually and as a whole. They’re cryptic, vague. But you think you understand.

“And I’m sorry again,” he adds. “For last night. I meant what I said, but I don’t regret anything.”

When he told you he didn’t want to rush, he means. You remember his words, couldn’t forget them if you tried with your entire body and soul. They’re burned into your mind, scorched etchings on wood. This is an opening, you recognize, to be honest. An opening to share your confusions, to ask what he means and if he’s expecting you to leave for him. An opening to share your concerns, every bite of hesitation that claws at you, chains your feet to the streets of Milan. They’re on the tip of your tongue, heavy between your teeth.

“It’s okay,” you say instead. Your hand comes to cradle his, cup it gently. “I appreciated it.”

You still have a few days, your brain bargains. Tomorrow, you promise yourself. Let’s enjoy today, and be honest tomorrow.

But it’s hard to hold back when you look into those sweet, earnest eyes. You shift your gaze, needing reprieve, and landing on the book. Si Estiramos Estrellas Como Seda. Your mind flits to the tent last night, that incredible scene of the meadow under the night, a clear sky reflected in the black glass of the pond—poked with a thousand holes, the freckles of light seeping through for you to grasp and stretch and weave.

“What chapter were you reading?” you ask.

Sero pulls away from you to turn towards the book. You watch his shoulder dip as his torso twists, stretching the thin gap of his waist. You want to grab the skin, maybe sink your teeth into him. It’s bad for your health to be so close to him this early in the morning.

“Last night’s scene,” he says as he manages to grab the corner of the novel and turn back towards you. 

You hum unsurprised. Lithe fingers dip to his bookmark, the spine bending easily to lay flat. It’s a well-loved copy, the glue holding the pages together starting to separate. You see the words littered with underlines and notes, a mix of Japanese and Spanish, blue and black pen, neat and messy handwriting. He’s annotated again and again, throughout the years.

You scootch close to him, wiggling to see the words more clearly. Your chest meets the point of his elbow, your hand returning to its place on his forearm. He leans into the touch for a moment, head dipping to press your shoulder. Then he rightens, and reads a few paragraphs.

You haven’t heard the prose spoken by anyone but yourself for years. You last remember your mother reading it aloud to you in middle school, but it was the last time. At some point you were expected to grow out of it, to read something else. You did, for a while. But your heart always found its way back.

Hanta pauses after describing Santi’s experience crossing through the pond.

“Y’know, there was supposed to be a sequel.”

Your eyes widen in surprise. You stiffen. “What?”

His thumb moves to the edge, pressing down as pages flip by, the rapid flutter of wings. He pauses, then shuffles his other hand to turn back a couple times. His copy has an author Q&A in the back. You didn’t know this existed. He points to one of the paragraphs under a bolded question.

“Ataré Mi Corazón al Tuyo,” he breathes. I’ll Tie My Heart to Yours.

Si estiramos estrellas como seda, ataré mi corazón al tuyo.

If we stretch stars like silk, I’ll tie my heart to yours.

The title of the first book is set up to have a sequel, only the beginning of the sentence. Your eyes scan where Sero’s finger points, reading the author’s explanation for how the two books would fit together. It’s vague, ideating a continuation of Santi and Marco’s friendship, how they navigate as they age—but ultimately how they find a way to be together, forever. You inhale sharply.

“Did you read it?” you ask quickly.

Sero shakes his head. “Was never published.”

You pout to yourself, the knowledge like a bucket of ice water. To learn that their story kept going, that there was more you could have known, only for it to never make it to the shelves, your shelf—how devastating. It carves a hollowness in your chest, a sort of obligation to do the heavy lifting and imagine for yourself how things could have worked. A part of you wants to examine the parallels to your current situation.

“Shit,” you mumble, leaning back to flop against the mattress. The ceiling has crown moulding, little swirls and divots painted white and pressed into the corner. “I’m sure it would’ve been incredible.”

Hanta’s response is delayed. You can feel his eyes on you, contemplative.

“Yeah,” is all he says.

You lounge in bed, soft voices wafting through the small hotel room. Eventually you grab your phone—to check the time—and wince at the stack of missed calls on your lock screen. A few are from Chiara, with concerned messages demanding your whereabouts. But worse are the ten from your sister, eight of which were made early in the night, the remaining two attempted after midnight. There’s also a message from Kendou, asking if you’re free for dinner tonight. You swipe your sister’s assault away, reply to Chiara, and type a quick yes to Kendou, then glance at the time. You should leave, to be home for a client picking up a last minute costume for Carnival. Presumably Sero has his own circus business to attend to.

You turn to him, watching his face twist in embarrassment after being caught looking over your shoulder.

“Sorry,” he nearly whispers. “Wanted to see the time.”

You roll your eyes, uncaring. You tell him as much, adding regretfully that you need to leave soon, to check over and prepare the costume.

To your surprise, he asks, “Can I join you?”

You look at him skeptically. “You don’t have to help with anything? Like taking down the tents, or… whatever for the parade tomorrow?”

He shakes his head, grinning. “Top’s already disassembled, I guarantee. And Denki and Tetsu are the only ones who need to rehearse.” He looks at you deeply, a little too deeply. “Please?”

You weren’t planning to deny him, but the plea shakes whatever footing you thought you had. “Yeah, of course. Just… don’t complain if you get bored.”

He grins.

Your only clothes are the puddles of your dress and blazer on the floor. You pout at the idea of sliding back into them for the ride home, but huff and sit up to reach over the bed. Sero watches confused, then in realization, as you pull your gown by the skirt, slowly bunching it atop the duvet.

“Wait, no—hang on.” He throws the covers aside and slides off the bed, immediately moving towards the closet in the hall. You watch greedily at his nearly bare form, every lean muscle and sculpted curve.

His front disappears into the closet door, still offering the view of his curved back. Small clangs ring as he rummages through the hangers, eventually turning back with fabrics in his hand. One is long and a pale yellow, a shirt with bright patterning around the collar and wrists. The other is a pair of pants, brown and baggy. You think they’re natural fibers, soft and easily wrinkled.

“It’s cold,” he says. The garments look a little too thin to be effective, but you nod.

You thank him, taking the shirt first and slipping it over yourself. The rush of his smell is dizzying, overwhelming. Then you slip on the pants, their touch gentle over your thighs. Both are big on you, swallowing you. Hanta’s eyes linger over your neck, before he darts them away and brings a hand to the back of his own nervously.

You bite down your smile.

“There’s no way they cleared the site already.”

Hanta grins beside you as you walk briskly down the sidewalk together. You’re nearly a block from the duomo, where you insisted you pass before getting on the metro. 

“Mhmm,” he hums smugly.

As you crest the final strip of tile, pacing along gothic columns and carvings, your jaw almost drops at the lack of the canvas in the sky. The piazza is completely cleared, just a scattering of people lingering on its surface. A trio of girls pose in front of the duomo as an Italian man crouches to take a photo. You see someone in a suit jog across the square.

The remnants of Hoshi no Sākasu have vanished, completely evaporated into the night prior. There are no circus tents or rows of stalls. Nothing.  

You glance at Sero, his chin tilted upwards. You want to pout, thinking his smile is one of smugness, but he looks more like he’s enjoying the cool air against his face. He looks pretty, peaceful. One of his eyes opens, pointed towards you, and then that smirk creeps in, stretching across his cheeks. You pout dramatically and walk towards the metro station without warning. You hear him laugh before the thump of his footsteps catch up.

You let him into your studio while you shower, returning with his clothes neatly folded and some tea. He’s rummaging through your costume racks when you walk in. You pause when you see the ones that caught his attention.

“Oh, I hope you don’t mind,” he says, embarrassed.

You smile awkwardly. “No, no. It’s fine, I wouldn’t have suggested you wait here if I wasn’t okay with it.” You do, however, feel cornered. His hand hovers on an ocean-themed dress you finished a few months ago. The top is a saturated teal, fading into a layered skirt, each piece of fabric white at the ends, layered with lace and some frills at the edges—sea foam. It’s a beautiful gown, with shells and beads and pearls meticulously sewn into the bust.

“This one is surprising,” he says. 

You nod, putting the mugs on your work table. “It’s for my sister,” you say, leaving out the detail that she doesn’t know it exists. How do you explain that you’ve been avoiding your family for months, ignoring every call your sister attempts to make, but sitting at home making dresses fitted to her exact measurements?

He hums, not pressing further. You wonder if he saw the missed calls when you swiped them away, if he could tell they were from her. You share the same last name, after all.

Instead he points to your mannequin, the voluminous layers of red satin and a creamy ambrosian mask—with matching scarlet lips and golden swirls around the eyes. The connecting top explodes with spirals of fabric to mimic roses. “Is that the one getting picked up today?”

You hum in affirmation. “I made it for Carnival a couple years back. It sold shortly after I put it on sale, just had to do some tailoring, and fix a couple of the roses.”

Sero’s face lifts, curious. “What are you wearing this year?”

Your lips twitch. “I’m sure you can take a guess.”

“Can I see?”

“You can’t wait til tomorrow?”

He pouts. “I might not see you, since we’re in the parade.”

Your grin stretches further. “No one told you I was invited to join?”

“Oh,” is all he says, mouth hanging ajar. He’s cute, standing awkwardly by your costume rack. You laugh at the surprise on his face.

You point to the mugs while you walk towards your mannequin. “One is for you, if you want it. And feel free to sit. The costume won’t be picked up for a couple hours, but I’m gonna get working.” It’s Tuesday after all.

Sero hums affirmingly. “Yeah, please do what you need. Can I keep looking at these?”

You nod, hoping he doesn’t mention the other dresses for your sister.

He doesn’t.

He does make comments on the others, asking what they’re for and what inspired you. He soaks your answers greedily, noticing details and connections that you don’t explicitly state. He’s observant, and nosy. Eventually he sifts through the entire rack and settles in the chair across from you, watching quietly as you sew; the only sound between you two is the thrum of your needle passing along the fabric.

His eyes feel distant as you fall into your craft. But they’re focused, settling on your fingers as they fold and glide and cut.

In this silence, you have the urge to ask him questions, so many questions. About Ecuador, about Quito. You want to talk about your homes and how you’re connected. You want to trade stories of living near sand and ocean and sun. You want to learn about little Hanta, running through the house to greet his abuelita. You want to hear about extended family members and their messy drama. You want to paint a picture together: of bamboo and rain clouds and scorpions; birds and tropical fruit and volcanoes. 

You want to hold long conversations in Español—your native tongues with their small regional differences.

A tension builds within you, only noticeable after it’s grown considerably. You don’t understand, don’t know what’s changed. You try to let your mind wander back into that focused headspace: a thoughtless void where things get done. Instead words sit in your throat, reaching for him. Your hands move quickly, a little roughly, foot pressing firmer against the pedal beneath the table as you work with agitation.

The needle breaks.

You curse, lifting your foot and immediately tearing your hands from the garment. Grumbling at your carelessness, you stand to rummage through your tools for the pliers. Before you grab a replacement needle, you check the time. There’s still half an hour before your client arrives. Maybe you should just take a break.

You look at Sero, sitting quietly and observantly. You feel bad.

“Sorry,” you tell him. “But I warned you it would be boring.”

He smiles. “Not boring at all. I like seeing you work.”

You ignore the heat that rushes through your body. “I think I need a break. Are you hungry?” You aren’t hungry, but you feel like making something. 

His eyes light up. “What do you have?”

When you rummage through your fridge, you suddenly feel self conscious of your limited ingredients and random leftovers. So you open the freezer and poke around, pausing when you pull out an old plastic bag you forgot about.

“Empanadas!” Hanta chimes over your shoulder.

You grimace, first because you know these are abuela’s, handmade and saved for later. A flavor you haven’t tasted since her hands lost their strength. Your face tightens further when you realize they must have been sitting for over half a year.

“Hanta… these are old. And I don’t have any salsa.”

He shrugs, a smile twitching against his cheeks. “But they’re frozen.”

You nod slowly, face twisted in uncertainty. He plucks the bag from you and you protest, awkwardly standing from your crouch.

“I’m probably not gonna get to eat good homemade latino food for a while,” he says pouting.

You look at him skeptically. “Good latino food is six month old empanadas? Hanta, I know a spot where we can get some. Fresh ones. Also homemade.”

He shakes his head. “We’ll go there later.”

You blink as he twists the dial on your oven and rummages through the cupboards. He works your kitchen effortlessly, quickly finding a tray to start lining up the empanadas. You pout. Cooking was meant to give yourself something to do, but he took over so easily.

You settle on brewing another round of tea.

Your phone pings before the food is ready. It’s your client only minutes away, so you leave Hanta in the kitchen as you return to the studio. The exchange is brief, and you feel a lightness at losing a costume that doesn’t suit you—instead passing it to someone who will love it properly. You let the chilly air run over you for a few minutes, watching her slip away down the street, before closing the shutter and returning to the kitchen.

Hanta has the food plated when you reenter, but has yet to take a bite.

“You didn’t have to wait for me,” you tell him.

“I wasn’t, they’re still too hot.”

You roll your eyes, pinching one experimentally. The outside is hot, but not burning. You carefully take a bite, the skin crunching under your teeth. 

“Mm,” you agree, putting the remaining moon half on the plate. You juggle the piece in your mouth as it rolls and sends a flurry of scalding tingles along your tongue, trying to taste and cool it at the same time. Hanta watches you exhale mirthfully, I told you so lurking as a sparkle in his eyes—pools of stars.

You catch the savory spice of sausage paired with molten cheese that burns, coated in the earthy corn dough. The flavor is dulled with age, but it’s unmistakably abuela’s. The loss of its intensity is akin to the fuzziness of memory, the veil that obscures nostalgia into nothing but vague feelings. Transparent images flash before you: abuela’s hands rolling the skins, mixing the meat, sprinkling the cheese, folding the edges.

The food temporarily brings you home, fading your Milanese kitchen to the one of your childhood. In another moment you are far away, outside looking in at you and Hanta here in Italy, before it shifts to your imagination of a traditional Japanese home. You wonder if this is how every morning could look, if you chose to follow—join—the circus.

Hanta’s face is unreadable, putting you further on edge. You watch his lips part, ready to speak, before he closes his mouth. Your forearms buzz, wanting to grip him and shake him and make him talk.

Your mind wanders to the night before, that confession of a tent, where he pulled you through your favorite book and across the sea to the moment he first laid eyes on you. What did that mean? When he said, I wanted to show you how I feel. Does he trust you to put those feelings into words, to make the correct assumptions. Are they feelings of these same deluded fantasies, imagining your lives intertwined until they burn out? Is that what he wants—what you want?

“Are you getting dinner with Momo and Kendou tonight?”

His question pulls you from your thoughts, so abruptly you need time to process the words. You nod eventually. “I think so.”

He hums. The sound isn’t entirely satisfied. “Do you know when?”

You aren’t sure. Hopefully early. 

“Can I see you, after?” he asks. 

You blink at him in surprise. He continues when you don’t respond. “I know… I’m probably being pushy, I’m sorry. I just—I’d like to spend more time with you.”

You recall your thoughts this morning. Let’s enjoy today and be honest tomorrow.

“Yeah,” you say. “Of course you can.”

You take another bite of the empanada and look down at the plate, averting Sero’s gaze. His hand intercepts your vision, grabbing one for himself.

“They’re really good!” he exclaims after a bite, and you turn back to him skeptically. He pouts. “Be fair, they’re good for how old they are. And they taste close to home.”

You force him to return to the studio once you finish your fill, setting to get as much done as possible if you’re going to be busy all evening. He happily continues munching across from you, settling to watch you work again. This time he asks about the current project, the details of your choices. Again his eyes follow your hands as they work. He asks about your process, your stance as a designer, how you imagine a costume when you start putting one together.

He’s distracting, in the way that makes your hands tingle and your heart tighten. When you lift your eyes briefly, the sight of him is too much: his casual form across from you, leaning on an elbow against the table, hand gently swirling through excess fabric with slender fingers. You should make him leave.

“Sometimes I just see a person and I have a costume in mind,” you say, answering his question. “But sometimes it’s just a passing detail. Like your Todoroki friend, I thought he’d look nice in blue.”

He hums in surprise. “Really? What—does that happen for everyone you meet?”

“Hmm, I guess.”

There’s a pause, a pensive look on his face. You smile.

“I thought of black fabric when I saw you,” you explain. “Something loose and slippery, like silk. Imagine my surprise when I realized your number.”

He grins. “Really? That’s so cool. What did—the costume—”

He wants to know what you saw. You hum, standing abruptly to your fabrics. There’s a long length of chiffon you know is lurking in there, blue, but it’ll do. You wave him over as you pull out the clump, shaking it to untangle into a wide swath. Sero stalks over quickly, eyes wide with excitement. You have the urge to kiss him.

Instead you throw the sheer fabric over his head, resting like a hood as the ends fall over his shoulders. Then you wrap them a couple times over his arms, letting the extra dangle from his wrists after tying it off. The transparent fabric gives him a regal and misty appearance, like a dancer. You pull a silken blanket of black around his waist, tying it by his hip. When you take a step back and look at him in full, you grin.

He’s flushed, only slightly, but his eyes are wide and watching you closely. For a moment you picture a dog’s pleading face, sitting with anticipation as a hand hovers a treat over its head.

“Something like this, just black,” you say to break the silence.

Sero blinks, then looks down to the mess of fabric wrapped around him. His eyes scan his arms, then the skirt. “No top?” His voice is small.

You laugh and shake your head. “A slutty dancer’s fit suits you, I think.”

When you sit back down to keep working, he doesn’t ask anymore questions.

Hanta leaves you to get ready for dinner on your own. He calls out a soft, “See you later,” before waving awkwardly by the door. He lingers for another second, and then slips out into the dimming sky. 

Your heart races as you approach the ristorante, this time for Momo—your gratitude still unspoken. The knowledge of her involvement in Hanta’s tents is another source of tension; how do you adequately thank her? A tremor of nerves passes through you, paired with the chill of the cold.

The pair is waiting for you outside the restaurant when you arrive, three minutes early. Your heart lifts, churns at the sight of Momo in a long wrap coat. She’s beautiful, and for the first time you notice the darkness of her hair, the depth to her eyes. You huff to yourself, clocking a type you didn’t know you had til now—these soft, earnest personalities with rich souls, mysteries of dark nights and stardust.

Her eyes tear from Kendou when you’re only a few paces apart. She brightens and turns towards you immediately, stepping to meet you halfway. Your body eases.

The restaurant is unfamiliar, one you have yet to try. It has the sort of atmosphere that makes you feel out of place. You prefer the coziness of a trattoria, where photos of family members decorate the walls. The ristorante is formal, populated with white tablecloths and button down shirts throughout the dimly lit room, clusters of tealights and dried flowers in the center of each table. When you sit and receive your menu, the host rattles on about the chef’s special and the wine of the day. Your eyes glaze over the entrées and then to your company, reminding yourself this isn’t an interview or business meeting. It’s a meal between friends, like your impromptu empanadas with Hanta. Just a very different meal between friends.

When the host walks away, you let Momo and Kendou discuss the options, planning the appetizers they want to try. You agree easily, uncaring and murmuring a quiet, “Grazie,” as the waiter appears to fill your water glass. When you order, you disregard the suggestions from the sommelier, instead pointing to the lone sangria. He doesn’t react, jotting your order with a blank face. You bite your cheek to suppress your smile.

He leaves. Finally, in the quiet of the company between just the three of you, you turn to Momo.

“I never got to thank you, for being so patient with me and letting me in—as your designer.” You speak freely, earnestly. Kendou’s eyes are the only other ones who watch. It feels right. 

Momo smiles, the red crescent of her lip pulling into her cheek. “Of course, and thank you for your diligence and your care. It takes a trustworthy designer to feel safe surrendering to their process.”

Her words are warm, a massage through your neck and shoulders. Tender, careful hands that hover over your skin. 

Your eyes drop to your glass. “Hanta told me… about the tents. I wanted to thank you for that as well.”

When you glance back to her face, her eyebrow quirks. Her lips are pressed, suppressing a smile. Kendou is the opposite, beaming excitedly.

Momo hums. “Sero did the heavy lifting, it was just me who executed the ideas. I’m relieved that you enjoyed them—that’s all he wanted. He was worried, after the second night.”

You cock your head curiously, leaning in to hear more. “He was?”

“He was waiting, hoping to catch you when you left. I don’t know what happened, but… he was anxious the day after. It’s unlike him.”

You blink, imagining the sight he must have seen. You had clutched that little green bottle and ran, maybe still crying, rubbing your eyes as you left the festival. Did he see that? You recall him lingering when you waited with Momo before her act, his surprise when he saw the marble—the compressed sphere of abuela, quietly tucked into your pocket until you dropped it.

Your hands buzz, a tingle lingering on the tips of your fingers. 

They don’t bring up the job offer, dinner continuing as the peaceful murmurs between friends. Momo and Kendou talk about the upcoming shows, their next stop in Austria. The singer muses enthusiastically about the musicians scheduled for the evening festivals, while the designer talks animatedly about visiting traditional boutiques. You smile while watching them, Momo’s poised etiquette against Kendou’s unbridled excitement.

Your thoughts race before you can get a hold of them, imagining hopping a train to catch a weekend show—spending the daylight hours whizzing next to the mountains. You try to shoo the thoughts away, pull yourself back down to earth before you start envisionsing your reunion with a particular man—getting to watch his act on the long threads of silk again.

You bite into the lemon garnishing your dish. The sour citrus is rough against your tongue, but it does the trick—pulling you back to the dining table. You manage to keep your face from twisting in a pinch. Momo doesn’t notice and Kendou doesn’t say anything.

When the plates are cleared and a dessert menu is laid on the table, you have no remaining appetite. Once again your body floods with nervous anticipation, squeezing your belly. You try to ignore it, focus on being present for the last minutes of dinner with your friends, but all you can think about is meeting Hanta afterwards. Momo orders a torta, offering you a bite when it arrives. You take one, but taste nothing, and hum vaguely.

The three of you stand to leave, you deliberately moving as unhurried as your body will allow. At the door you thank Momo for the meal, and once again for being Momo. Then you thank Kendou, trading hugs with them both and promising to see each other tomorrow. You feel steadied, more relaxed than before.

You let the pair exit first, stepping into the biting blackness of the night. 

“Sero?”

Your eyes shoot open, heart racing at Momo’s call of his name. When you make it out the door behind the redhead, you search for him.

He’s standing to the side, away from the door and next to one of the restaurant windows—partially obscured by the hanging planter box. Your chest heaves at the sight of him in a long black coat, face tucked into the high collar. He’s stiff, hands stuffed in his pockets and his feet pressed together. He looks nervous. Cute. 

“Hi,” he says, eyes flitting from Momo to you, and then back to Momo.

Kendou grins in the corner of your eye, trying to swallow it as she grabs Momo by the wrist and pulls her to walk from the ristorante. 

“See you tomorrow!” she calls, ignoring Momo’s confused protests. You hardly wave, barely managing to lift a finger.

Hanta stands before you, tall and dark and a little flushed. “Sorry,” he says quietly. “I couldn’t wait.”

You chew your bottom lip harshly, attempting to contain your reaction. “Don’t be sorry,” you tell him. Your heart thumps in your ears as you add, “I’m glad you didn’t.”

The admission is awkward and embarrassing, but Hanta’s eyes widen and his lips press together, caught off guard. He coughs before turning his head from you, the pink across his cheeks darkening. He returns shortly, eyes boring into yours.

“Yeah,” is all he manages.

You nod.

The tension that sits between you is palpable, a dense mist of uncertainty. You hold it within you, that hunch to your shoulders as you take him in.

And then you laugh.

It starts as a lone huff of amusement, a cloud of hot air as it escapes you. It builds to a giggle and you realize there’s more to release, and suddenly your shoulders are shaking as you laugh. Sero yelps in surprise, then exhales in disbelief. He’s quickly laughing with you, and when you look up and see his scrunched eyes and wide, crooked grin, it fills you with warmth—and peace.

It’ll be okay.

When your laughs finally die and the two of you are left smiling stupidly at each other, you tell him.

“It’s okay,” you say. “It doesn’t… It doesn’t have to be so scary.”

Sero looks almost guilty, a face that makes you want to grab him. “I’m gonna be scared no matter what.”

“Of me?” You’re baffled.

“Yeah,” he admits easily. Freely. “Things are scary when they’re important.”

Your chest tightens at his words, his honesty. They bring a heat to your face, steaming into the winter air. First it’s from the waves of embarrassment within you, and the giddiness. Then there’s a pang of guilt: from your selfishness to want to wait til tomorrow—for the hard conversation.

The door of the restaurant opens, a couple stalking out and almost bumping into you two. You watch Sero’s face twist in embarrassment, bending at the hip as he apologizes—very Japanese—and think you should go somewhere else.

“I didn’t eat dessert,” you say flatly, pulling his focus back to you.

He blinks, waiting for you to continue.

“You wanna get gelato?”

“This wasn’t the smartest choice.” You wish you had gone for cake, or pastries, now that your hand is freezing as you sit with Hanta near a park fountain. 

He hums and shakes his head, “No, you’re a genius.” He happily swallows another spoonful from his own cup of frozen cream, the saturated hue of blood orange.

“Thanks.”

You eat quietly, only accompanied by the rustling of branches above and the scrape of wooden spoons against paper cups. When you finish—before he even makes it halfway through his own—you set the cup beside you and let yourself ramble without thought, hoping it’ll help you be honest.

“I was trying to put off our serious conversation until tomorrow,” you start, staring into the darkness of the plaza before you. Hanta’s spoon pauses, halting at the bottom of his cup, before continuing slower than before. “But I get the sense that it’s making you nervous. So, sorry. For being selfish.”

He doesn’t answer. Your eyes glance his way, watching as he slowly wraps pink lips around the bowl of his spoon, letting it sit as he watches you closely. You exhale.

“You probably already know, but I haven’t made a decision about the job offer. I mean, I really want to—it’s a dream of mine, to work in costume and travel with a circus. But… I just—the timing…”

In your peripheral vision he pulls the spoon from his mouth, lips parting to ask, “The timing?”

You swallow the lump in your throat. You mull over the words, how to string them together. In a way that makes it less obvious that the timing is not the issue. “My abuela passed last year, and… things are messy back home, because of me. If I left for Japan before managing to clean it up…”

God. You close your eyes, focusing on anything but the sting creeping up your nose and eyes. You don’t know where to start explaining where you fucked up. Was it years ago—when you left home for Europe? Or when you came back and convinced everyone that abuela could be saved if she left too?

It’s inevitable that you’ll have to face your family. Part of you wonders if it’s wrong to start making amends now because of a man you’ve found, a frilly romance that caught your eye. But part of you knows this criticism is another means of avoiding stepping forwards, that Hanta being your motivator to tie loose ends is better than never doing it—than hiding here for the rest of your life. And it’s reductive to Hanta, to categorize him as just another man, just a romance. He clearly holds something deep for you, something you don’t quite understand; something you aren’t sure you’re ready for. Another reason to be scared, to stay stagnant.

There’s a timid touch on the back of your hand, a pinky gently pressing your knuckle. You smile softly, turning to look at Hanta.

His expression is conflicted, almost pained. But he looks at you as he answers. “I… I don’t expect it to be an easy decision, or for you to choose me—or even Hoshi no Sākasu. I mean—fuck, I was hopeful? I’m still hopeful. I guess I thought it’d be the obvious answer, that everything would align and… and I’d get to be with you and get to know you and take my time. Shit, if my contract wasn’t for two more years—”

Your eyes widen at what he’s implying, immediately shifting to face him. “Hanta, that’s insane. We’ve known each other for a week.”

He nearly scoffs. His face twists, eyes shining under the distant lamplight in the courtyard. Your heart constricts at the desperation in his voice. “I’ve known… about you since I was a kid. You… you directed the course of my life; I never would have thought about performance before I saw you. Of course—”

His glassy eyes search yours intensely, boring beyond your mind. You feel naked beneath them.

“Of course I’d choose you. I was always choosing you.”

You swallow again, heart heavy in your chest, filled with sand. You can’t breathe. He’s insane. You should hit him and run away.

“And—fuck, I’m not trying to guilt you or wax poetry about how we’re meant to be together—” your heart is running, tripping over itself as he continues. “But it’s important to me that you realize how… how important you are, to me. And I get that you don’t feel the same, but…”

He stops, deflating. That hurts you more in a way.

“I’m sorry,” you interject. 

His face pinches. “It’s not your fault—”

“I can still be sorry,” you cut him off. “For the situation, and for you. And for not being honest earlier, and for being scared, and for… for possibly trying to ignore all of this.”

“I should’ve been clearer sooner,” he reasons.

You look at him blankly. “How much clearer could you have been? You… you made magical tents for me, of memories from home and…”

The air is still between you, eyes unwavering as they target one another, restless, unforgiving. All you can think is that Hanta’s so good, so raw and open and honest. He’s here, baring his heart to you all the while considering every thought and feeling of yours, not once directing blame or anger. He just wants to be seen—to be considered, too.

Your eyes water, blinking rapidly as your lashes collect drops of salty tears. Hanta crumples.

“Can I hug you?” he asks.

You sob and nod quickly.

He’s warm; he’s always warm. But this warmth is gentle and easy, nothing but comfort and understanding and maybe even love. You try not to think about that. Instead you hold him close, by the front of his coat, and press your face into his neck. It’s so so warm, and he smells like oranges.

His arms hold you firm and close. You try to breathe evenly against him, but you’re crying, hiccuping into his skin. He hums, running a hand down your back as you shudder in his embrace. He holds you like a fruit easily bruised, cradled protectively. He doesn’t let go the entire time you cry, and he doesn’t let go when you stop. Instead he brings one hand to your head, holding it in place against him. Maybe he needs this more than you.

When your breathing evens and you have faith in your voice, you whisper, “How did you know? That you were always choosing me?”

He exhales, arms shifting to squeeze you. “It’s just a feeling.”

You hum curiously, softly.

His response vibrates through his chest, lulling you. “It’s the same feeling I get from reading Si Estiramos Estrellas Como Seda. I don't know how to explain it, but it’s intense, and it’s… it feels important. So I just always chose the things that made me feel that way.”

Si estiramos estrellas como seda,

If we stretch stars like silk,

You don’t understand, can’t understand. You ended up in Milan out of luck, initiated by a sense of obligation and then carried out when the perfect opportunity landed in your lap. Life was never about choices, really, just following a thread tied around your heart, moving you forwards. Maybe Sero has that too, but it feels different to him. Maybe your threads are intertwined.

Ataré mi corazón al tuyo.

I’ll tie my heart to yours.

This time when you wake, you’re in your own room, under familiar sheets and scents. Your eyes remain unopened as you gently rustle your body, shifting just enough to comfortably fall back asleep. The movement brings attention to a heat pressed against your back. It’s so warm, like the comfort of a blanket multiplied and condensed. You lean into it, press yourself as snugly as you can.

Only when you feel a pressure around your waist, an arm pulling you closer, tighter, do you register that the heat is another body—Hanta gently cradling you.

You recall the night before: him standing awkwardly outside the ristorante, gelato in the park under lamplight, tight hugs, coming home, tender conversation in the sheets, confessions of what you’ve done to your family. He nearly rolled off the bed in shock, but he ultimately understands why you’re struggling to decide. He stayed with you when the sleepiness of night came; he held you under the covers.

He’s still holding you under the covers. 

A flurry of tingles scatter across your skin, originating in the depth of your chest before fluttering down your arms. You blink your eyes open, staring ahead at the wall as you take note of all the ways you two are entangled. His head is pressed against the back of your neck, lips touching the base, the first ridge of your spine. One leg parts yours, thigh separating by one of his, a muscular calf slotted along your shin. The arm around your waist is firm, fingers gripping your side. The other runs beneath your neck, bicep filling the space perfectly. His entire front blankets your back, every dip and ridge and softness in his chest and stomach known to your skin.

He shifts, bones settling into the mattress while his grip never loosens, and then he presses a kiss to your neck, that bump of your skeleton. Your breath halts, body stilling with anticipation. If Hanta notices, he doesn’t make any indication, instead nuzzling your hair. 

He sighs. It almost comes out like a whine, or whimper.

“Are you awake?” His voice is a raspy whisper.

You nod.

He hums, squeezing you tight for a few moments, face burying into your neck before his hand at your side detaches. The press of his heat leaves your back and his legs begin to unravel from yours. You turn towards him, on your back, eyes trailing him. He reaches for his phone, glancing at the time before turning back to you, pouting.

“I have to meet with the crew early today. Parade stuff.”

You nod in understanding, eyes drinking in as much as they can before he has to leave: rumpled hair, unfocused eyes, the indent of the pillow running along the side of his face—

His pout, deepening. 

“You could look more sad, you know.”

It pulls a laugh from you, an early smile of delight. “I am,” you assure him. “But I got to spend yesterday with you. And you look cute right now.”

You catch the twitch of his lips, a moment of suppressing his smile before the grin wins, crooked and wide. He’s warm and light, you notice, a contrast to the dark mystery you initially saw in him.

He sighs again, leaning to press into you. His head slots in the curve of your neck, chest pressing flush against your own, hot. He kisses you beneath your ear, before groaning and pulling away. Your chest yearns. A heat runs down your body.

“Don’t get up,” he commands gently. “Go back to sleep. Is it okay if the door’s unlocked?”

You won’t be able to sleep, you already know. But he looks at you with a soft plea in his eyes and you can’t argue. “That’s fine.”

You watch while he gathers his things, standing by the bedroom door when he’s done, just to come back and kiss your forehead again before he slips away. You murmur, “See you later,” and then turn into the covers of your bed. It’s chilly, without Hanta heating your back. But he left a lingering smell of oranges in your sheets. Warm citrus.

“So. You sleep with your circus boyfriend yet?”

You frown at Chiara’s accusation. She stares into your eyes sharply, focused as she brushes yellow and black across your skin before pulling out a white pen.

“We didn’t sleep together,” you remark. “And he’s not my boyfriend.”

“Uh huh,” she says flatly. You roll your eyes dramatically and slowly, and she grunts, pinching your cheek. “Stop it, the eyeliner isn’t dry.”

“Then you stop.”

“Never.”

The air is still for a moment, Chiara quiet in her concentration. You avert your eyes downward, letting her finish dragging the pen across your eyelids and towards your temple. She pulls back and holds your face at arm's length, eyes hopping between yours thoughtfully.

“But you left with him, didn’t you?”

You groan, “Chia—”

“You think I’m an idiot,” she accuses. You recall your conversation with Davide last week, wondering why you chose such dramatic friends. “I could tell there was something going on backstage. And you know Davide is a snitch for me.”

You want to groan. Of course he told Chiara at his first chance, to brag about finding out first. She must have known before you went to the show together, likely watching you carefully, to figure out who it was.

“It’s the Sero guy, yeah? Longish black hair.”

You huff, giving in. “Yeah.”

She hums to herself, pausing her eyes to look into yours, thoughtfully. She smirks. “So did he win you over? You’ll leave Milan, me, for him?”

You pout. “Give me more credit, Chia.”

She snickers. “I know, I know—just teasing. But are… are you leaning one way or another now?”

You pull your lip between your teeth, eyes scrunching in uncertainty. “I don’t know, it’s made everything more confusing than anything.”

She stares at you blankly. Then she sighs, turning and letting your face go. “Sorry, I hope I didn’t kill your excitement. I’ll stop asking, but when they leave—you’re telling us everything.”

“Of course,” you say immediately.

She grins. “Well, you’re all done now.”

You turn to the mirror, taking in the swathes of pigment around your eyes and the swirling white details. The makeup spreads to your temples and down your cheeks. You slip on the costume, wrapping black slippery fabric over the bottom half of your face and settling the structured headpiece on your head. Your eyes stare intensely at their reflection, stark against the costume; they match the lone flash of yellow beneath your neck and the brightness of the beak you carry separately.

For a second time, you and Chiara leave her place as a pair of birds, her as the red macaw, but this time you as the keel billed toucan. You haven’t worn a costume of these colors in at least fifteen years.

Unlike a week ago, when you were a pair of macaws, you walk carefully—subdued. You wonder what Hanta will think when he sees you.

You amble unhurried to the gathering location, where groups and individuals wait their turn to start parading through the streets. There are swarms of people, large crowds gathered to walk and witness, chattering animatedly. Various groups play instruments, populated throughout the section of the plaza. You grin excitedly at the sea of colors, groups in costume and traditional wear, floats, giant clusters of balloons. Your eyes search and scan, face schooling into a frown as you look for the puppets from Gōyoku.

When you turn and scan a second time, you spot one that was initially hiding behind a float. You recognize the bright yellow—Kaminari. You tug Chiara’s sleeve, pointing when her attention turns to you.

She nods before leaning to shout over the noise, “Go ahead! I’ll tell you where I meet Davide.” To spot them in the crowd, when you pass. You nod in return before weaving your way through the crowd, the puppet as your lighthouse.

It’s a difficult journey, but a practiced one. You clutch your headpiece and beak carefully as you slither between bodies, moving quickly but with precision. The excitement and your hurrying brings that exhilarating rush to your chest, the heavy thump of your pumping heart a reminder that you’re alive. You smile, briefly thinking of abuela, before you brush the thought away—it’s too soon to be sentimental.

When you finally reach Kaminari, standing excitedly under the floating feathered mec, you call out to him. He brightens, yelling, “Yo!” as you manage the last few steps.

You notice it’s just him and Bakugou, no one else hanging around. You pause at the sight of the latter, the first time you’ve seen his festival costume. It’s similar to Sero’s, but infinitely more ridiculous: a much more lively and springing jester hat—striped with orange and black—sandwiching his face against the swooping frills of his collar. The colors sit uncomfortably next to one another, him glaring in the middle of the chaos.

“Your costume is sick!” Kaminari shouts at you, eyes tracing the headpiece and beak. “It’s like—a bird version of what other people are wearing.”

You laugh. “That’s kind of my thing. Where’s everyone else?”

Bakugou grunts while Kaminari pulls a face. “We kind of lost them. It’s hard getting around the crowd with this thing, and Kacchan was supposed to chaperone me, but he isn’t doing a good job.”

That pulls a glare from the ashen blond, immediately retorting in brash Japanese. Kaminari pouts. You don’t understand what they’re saying, but you can tell their banter isn’t getting them anywhere. You jump in at the next pause.

“I didn’t see the other puppeteer that way,” you offer, pointing from where you came. “So maybe we can head the opposite way?”

Kaminari thanks you repeatedly, happily bounding towards the direction you pointed. You try to hurry ahead, glancing over the crowd for the silvery bird. A tug at your sleeve yanks you back, faint jingling sounding behind you followed by a gruff, “Oi.”

It’s Bakugou, scowling when you turn to him. “Stick with stupid, you can’t see shit with that thing on your head.”

You nearly guffaw at the comment. Thing? you want to ask. With all the bells on the ends of his hat, flopping around awkwardly and into other peoples’ space: he wants to call yours a thing? He walks ahead before you can return the comment, leaving you to wait for Kaminari to catch you. The latter smiles amiably as you two trail behind your self-proclaimed leader.

“Should I feel insulted?” you ask.

He laughs. “Maybe. Will you hold my hand? So I don’t get lost again.”

You grab the sleeve of his costume with a laugh.

The three of you slide your way through the crowd, eventually passing a float that was obscuring Tetsutetsu’s metallic puppet. Bakugou turns to you when it’s visible, nodding curtly as if to ask if you see it, before slipping forwards quickly, out of your sight. The crowd is thinner where the Hoshi no Sākasu performers are gathered, and you tug at Kaminari, directing his attention. You can’t weave through the mass while attached to the blond, so you wade through unhurried. Bakugou reappears after a few minutes, sticking close by as you finally reunite all the performers together.

Kirishima is the first you spot, rushing forwards. He calls to Kaminari, words you don’t understand, but a tone you can recognize as exasperation.

“Just had to pick up a delivery, that's all!” 

Kirishima’s eyes move to you, sighing with a smile. “Sorry about him. Thanks for helping!”

You shake your head dismissively. He’s about to continue when you hear your name called behind him.

You lean towards the sound, to Hanta and his excited face. A smile takes over you, forgetting your mouth and nose are obscured by the silk around your head. Your hand pinching Kaminari’s sleeve releases, lifting to wave. The other holds your bright yellow and green beak by your chest.

Hanta’s eyes are wide as they trace your costume.

“¿Un tucán?” he asks. A toucan?

You hum, still smiling. “Como la primera vez.” 

Like the first time.

His expression softens. Kaminari whines behind you, high-pitched Japanese that makes Hanta roll his eyes. He reaches forward, taking your hand to pull you close. You follow easily, stepping so your shoulder brushes into his chest. His palm tightens around yours.

You bump into Momo as you navigate the crowd, waving at her and Uraraka. Midoriya says a swift hello with Todoroki—the younger one—before hurriedly running off. The two of you migrate to the edge of the crowd, where the noise begins to fade into the background. You check your phone for any updates from Chiara, but there aren’t any new messages.

Only one missed call from your sister.

“Any idea when Hoshi no Sākasu starts heading down?” you ask, shoving your phone out of sight.

Hanta’s fingers loosen around yours, trailing gently over the individual lengths, the tips grazing your palm and ghosting your knuckle. He shakes his head. “We’re following the float with the balloons, so whenever they start moving. 

You learn shortly that the circus is on a float of their own, not trailing on foot like you expected. It’s simple, an elevated rectangular platform with a black frills lining the bottom and a banner with the circus’ name translated in Italian. The simplicity will allow the mechanical birds to remind the focus, the characters in costume being the supporting decoration.

You blink in surprise while Hanta steps forwards, heaving himself up the ladder after a few of his coworkers. When he reaches the top, he turns and offers a hand, waiting for you to join him. Your heart constricts at the thought of a stage—always what you worked towards but never where you stood. Thank god your costume covers your face. You lift your beak towards Hanta, letting him hold it safe as you grasp the metal rungs and pull, taking careful steps before standing on the sturdy floor of the float—above the crowd. The sight is one you’ve never seen in person, a sea of headpieces and vibrant fabrics, dots moving about on their own. You like the vantage.

Hanta returns the beak, grin uncontained.

“Excited?” you ask.

“It’s my first time being in the parade,” he says after nodding. “For almost all of us.”

You smile wistfully, nervously. “It’s my first time in a long time.”

Some of the crew members scurry around, instructing you where to stand and how to engage with the crowd. You’re assigned towards the end with Hanta. The two of you stand out of the way with the others as the float slowly approaches the start, following a massive float with bundles of balloons—an array of bright colors against the still-bright sky. Some are neatly arranged to display certain patterns or shapes, others thrown together without order.

Midoriya talks animatedly beside you, explaining the research he did about the Ambrosian Carnival, the rich history of Milano’s Carnival specifically. 

“It’s so wonderful that we get to be part of this,” he says with shining eyes. “Especially with its origins in Catholicism, Milan has so many incredible communities and traditions that we can see first hand. Even with this parade, entering the city center will let us pass centuries of historical buildings. I looked at all the sites along the map of the floats, and I think we’ll pass—”

The float jostles from an abrupt halt, jerking your attention away, before it resumes almost immediately. You lurch forwards, but Hanta’s steady hand finds your waist, bracing you just as long as it takes for you to find your footing, before falling from you. Your heart stirs from the contact, then yearns from the loss.

Midoriya’s voice resumes, droning on as Todoroki hums beside him. You stalk towards the railing at the edge of the platform, curious to spot whatever caused the disruption. Instead you see the road only a couple floats ahead, the approaching sea of onlookers waiting for you to pass. You check your phone again, this time seeing a message from Chiara with her location. She’s three blocks down from the starting point, on the left—your side.

There’s a moment of scrambling and shuffling atop the float, people getting into place. You turn to Hanta beside you, beaming with unexpected excitement. You feel like a child again, bubbling with the anticipation to be part of something new. Hanta grins back, skin flushed warm in the sun despite the chill of the winter air.

You turn back to the front, taking in the crowd and the racing of your heart. You feel so tall now, compared to the child you were in Quito, grasping abuela’s hand and draped in the itchy costume she made you wear. Here you are above the audience, dressed in your own toucan, silky against your skin. Two nights ago you were given the gift of reliving that moment in honesty, remembering the joy you felt when you let yourself go, let yourself meld with the spirit of the celebration—a moment Hanta saw and could never forget.

Here you are above the crowd, entering your second parade—this time nearly two decades later, and with your hand in his instead.

[bringbackbunnymaloney]

🚨 ALERT!

YouTuber Udo Q has recently uploaded 2 English subtitled episodes from the French Bunny Maloney!

[Be sure to cut on Closed Captioning to see them!]

These include Dawn of the Shrimp and Spouse or Louse!

I hope they translate more of them!

[pallases]

IM FREEEEEE