#and now they’re like ‘your center is behind the others with the information’ | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

ephemerensis · 6 months ago

Text

Cologne // Tim Drake x GN! Reader

hay guys! where Tim Drake and Red Robin (ur bodyguard for the time being) smell suspiciously the same— it’s like you can’t even tell the difference! no angst, this took me so long oh my goodness i’m gonna stick to writing what i know. stay tuned for hurt/angst i have a lot of grievances to spit out! not proofread.

Part 2

—

Gotham was the last place you’d expected to be sent off to, but it’s where you found yourself now. Despite being disgustingly crime ridden, it was the center of trade, commerce, business, and more importantly— information. Which is precisely what you’d been sent to offer.

Your family’s company recently made a ground breaking discovery in pharmaceuticals, creating a drug that could limit the spread of cancer cells without traditional side effects; YB-V they called it. However, the by-product of production was much more severe, resulting in a chemical compound capable of mutating all the cells in a person completely to become something other as if they belonged to a different entity. Given the right motivations and means, the cells could be manipulated by a third party, turning them into fully conscious puppets of some sort.

With data leaks and security concerns, and the serious nature of the consequences if your drug had fallen into the wrong hands, you were sent to deliver the research and development to the production team personally; placed in charge of overseeing production until launch.

Which all sounded good in theory, but as you found yourself twiddling your thumbs in a blacked out office space, getting briefed on the gravity of the situation by a police task force with some vigilante character hanging around behind you, you began to question what it was all worth.

“So let me get this straight, an email between Wayne Corp and ourselves was leaked and now a couple big shot villains want to steal it? What kind of bad guy reads emails?”

A burly officer with a thick white mustache and a pair of square set glasses cleared his throat awkwardly, “That’s correct.”

“Some tech team,” you scoffed. “I’m the only one that can access any of the files, it’s all biometrically locked. While this certainly puts a damper on my day, we should be able to proceed normally.”

“They have your identity too,” the figure in the back voiced. Red Robin, you’d been informed, one of Gotham’s crime fighters in spandex (allegedly.) Up until now he hadn’t spoken a word, loitering while the police explained everything to you.

“Which is why we brought you here,” the commissioner pipped, reaching for his coffee mug as he spoke. “Red Robin has agreed to watch over your activities for the duration of your time in Gotham. For your safety, and ours.”

Have this guy tail you? As if. You were occupied enough without having a stranger watch your every move. A vigilante at that, it’s not like you could look at his resume and review his history.

“While that is a gracious offer, I have my own bodyguards. They’re well trained and—“

“Not for Gotham, you don’t.” Red Robin stepped out from the corner he’d situated himself in, arms crossed and a frown plastered on his face. “And unless you want to stay in a bunker for three months, I’m your best bet.”

Silence fell as you stared at the masked man, contemplating your options. The underground bunker was out of the question. On top of running production, you had a company to run and a reputation to upkeep; meetings, galas, charity events to attend. And as much as you hated to admit it, they had to be right. Gotham knows Gotham, and with the crises you’d witnessed on screen it was clear their criminals were on a polarly different level.

Pressing your hands to the table, you stood up and turned around, “I see. And you being around won’t make me more of a target?”

“Not even you would know I’m there.”

Closing the distance between the two of you in a few paces, you stuck your hand out to him, “In that case, I look forward to working with you Red Robin.”

Standing near him, the faint smell of lavender was imminent and something deeper lingered under it, an amber of some sort. It was pleasant; Red Robin had good taste in cologne. And that is all you needed to trust him.

It took a second for him to shake your outstretched hand. In your palm, his grip was firm, rough gloves pressing into your satin skin. Secure, you’d decided, secure and reliable.

And just as he’d promised, you hardly noticed him. On the contrary, you were also never attacked; not in the days following the abrupt meeting, nor the week after that, nor the month after that. There was the occasional mention of trouble, or something that went bump in the night— but whether it concerned you or not it didn’t matter. Nothing ever happened.

When he was tucked away it felt like he was really gone, not even the eerie feeling that followed being watched lingered. The only thing that drew you back into the reality was when you’d catch the scent of lavender lingering or in the few cases where he’d appear before you. In his absence you felt almost lonely, despite your work occupying it all. So you soon found yourself leaving notes.

“Bought coffee for the office.”

And he began to write back.

“Just black next time, thanks.”

…

“What’s your favorite color?”

“Cornflower blue.”

“That’s a dumb name. Your costume is red, I think you got out branded by Nightwing.”

“In my defense, I didn’t design it.”

…

He didn’t say much in them, nothing that you could glean in depth anyway. But you found yourself oddly pleased with his nothing. It’s not like you cared so desperately for his identity, that was his to keep of course. You did care for his presence. Something about it was magnetizing, and because he hardly appeared before you, these were the tidbits you found yourself drawn to.

Not that you’d kept them, he would see. Despite knowing the situation you were in, it still felt like a strange game— where he knew every detail about you, and you knew nothing of him. Your feelings, at the least, these you could keep on your own.

“Do you need lab access? I know you follow me in, but if there’s an emergency or something…” Production and distribution for YB-V was run by Wayne Corp and like all things related to your project it was kept secure in an underground bunker while you worked to transfer the information your company developed.

While the scientists and developers were mainly in charge of carrying out the project, none of it could move forward without you. The security system had been meticulously set up so that you, and only you, could access the files with the research and instructions. And beyond even your capabilities, every stage written into the plan had to be completed before the next could be unlocked. So you had to be there, supervise and guide them during the entirety of the process.

Archaic, you’d decided. But necessary according to the rest of the world.

Red Robin accompanied you on these trips. Being underground and all, it was one of the few moments he went with you rather than watching from afar.

“No, I’ll find a way in if I need a way in.”

You looked back at him questioningly. You didn’t doubt his capabilities of course, but he said it with such ease, “Is it that easy to break into? I should increase security.”

He scoffed, crossing his arms. “It’s secure. I’m the issue.”

You turned back around shaking your head with a snort. He was growing on you, sass and all. Stopping by a display of notes and charts, you looked them over to ensure they aligned with protocol.

“I have to attend a gala next week, by the way.”

He hummed in response, a couple steps behind you like he usually was when you visited the lab.

“It’s at Wayne Manor… and I can get you an invite. Security is stricter than it is here, I’ve been told. It’d be troublesome to sneak around.” Ruffling through the papers, you extracted the one you needed, holding it up to your face.

“And I don’t have a date,” you added.

“…are you asking me out?” You could hear a hint of a smile in his voice, making your face burn red at the accusation.

You set the paper down, abruptly whipping around with the most serious expression you could muster, “Strictly for my safety! I don’t know how credible everyone attending is and—“

The smile on his face shut you up. Embarrassed and slightly dejected you looked around the room for something else to lock eyes on, clearing your throat.

“I would’ve loved to, but I won’t be there. Something came up that I need to take care of. But like you said, security is strict, you’ll be safe,” he interjected before you could say anymore. Honestly you couldn’t even be mad, he let you down so sincerely you had to believe it. The small smile plastered on his face and the gentle tone he used in opposition to his usual curt one melted you down far more than you would’ve liked it to.

“Right.” It took you a second to cough anything out, like you were thirteen and starstruck again by any character that tossed you a bone, “so much for you or the bunker, I could’ve hired the Waynes’ security.”

But you were disappointed, and his answer did surprise you. Busy? He hadn’t left your side your entire stay as far as you were aware, granted you couldn’t see him 95% of the time, but in principle.

He must’ve picked up on your downtrodden state because he leaned in teasingly, that familiar lavender scent washing over you, “You have your own bodyguards though, right? They’re well trained.”

You wondered what color his eyes were behind the mask, a warm brown or a melancholy blue. Either way you’d decided you were done for, his were the type of eyes you could drown in; “Not for Gotham, I don’t.”

The night of the gala you didn’t expect much. You were supposed to represent your company of course, as their Gotham socialite, and you were to meet with your business partner. Up until now everything had been transactional, taken care of on invisible ends. Which was fine, but to maintain business relations you had to show up to these things.

And so it was about as dry as you’d thought it to be. Most of everyone was twice your age, many were so stuck in their desire for affluence it radiated off of them like maggots in a burn pile. Supposedly it was a charity gala, in reality it was an egoistic echo chamber and you were in no position to defy it.

Flitting around you sipped your champagne and made conversation and promises that didn’t matter until a hand graced your shoulder with the lightest touch, it felt almost invisible. Turning around you saw a boy with raven hair and the tamest of blue eyes. And he looked to be around your age, a moment of respite at last.

“Hi,” he breathed the word into a smile that was dazzlingly honest and strikingly warm in juxtaposition with the mood of the room.

“Hi,” you shook the hand he offered to you. His hands were rougher than you’d imagine an aristocrat’s to be, littered with callouses you attributed with a dedication to some sport, “I’m Y/N, I don’t think we’ve met before?”

“Sort of, I’m Tim.” In your correspondence with Wayne Corp, Tim had been your main contact; at least for big ticket decisions. In other words, he was your collaborator and your business’ partner. In your head you recalled all the times you poked fun at the archaic way he wrote his emails, like he was 52 and balding— in reality he was just the opposite.

“Oh! It’s nice to finally meet you! Thank you for working with us, we couldn’t have progressed this far without Wayne Corp.”

“On the contrary, thank you for trusting us. This project’s been a huge safety concern for you I’ve heard.”

You laughed, shaking your head, “Not at all! I have one of the best vigilantes in the city.” But this, he should’ve already known. Red Robin had to be cleared for access to certain things, and you’d corresponded as much through your emails. “I must say though, I was disappointed it wasn’t Nightwing at first, he used to be my favorite.”

Tim blinked at you for a spell and you couldn’t read his expression. Pleasant and cordial with some twinge of underlying distaste was the best way to describe it, something in the way his eyes glinted with a malice behind his smile. “Has that changed?”

He must love Red Robin.

“I suppose,” growing on you was an understatement. It was a strange ordeal because he wasn’t real. No name or title you could address, but everything you learned about Red Robin made you want to know more about Red Robin. He was magnetizing. “Have you met them? Is it a normal Gotham thing?”

“No,”his response came swiftly, “they’re usually in other parts of the city and I’m never out at night. Married to the office.”

“I see.” That would explain the emails.

“Do you… want to dance?” He extended his hand to you graciously, but with a gentle hesitance that made him seem softer than he was. In a way you felt like you were betraying your vigilante delusionship, but he hadn’t agreed to go with you and Tim was charming enough. Besides, business relations.

“Of course.” Placing your flute of champagne on a nearby table, you took his arm as he led you to the floor. He smiled in a demure sort of way that made your heart flutter like the excitement you’d felt interacting with Red Robin. Maybe you just liked the attention that much, that must be the correlation between the two.

“Do you know how to waltz?” Typically galas didn’t have much dancing at all, let alone organized ballroom dancing, but leave it to the Waynes to find a way to stun the crowd with their class and extravagance.

“Sort of, I’ve taken rudimentary classes.” Like when you were five.

“Perfect,” he grinned. He placed his hand faintly on the small of your waist while the other found purchase in your opposing palm, “I’ll lead. Just follow along, you’ll be fine.”

Miraculously you were fine. You started out with your eyes glued to the floor, following after him and avoiding his toes. But once you’d gotten into a rhythm, it all felt like floating.

“You haven’t stepped on my toes once,” he joked. Up close and under the mesmerizing ballroom light he looked angelic, the way the light caught in his lashes and the reflected off the blue of his eyes—like little golden flecks glimmering under supple flowing rivers.

“I’ve been trying not to!” you laughed.

“You look beautiful,” as if his eyes could get any more mesmerizing, they softened somehow with his words, “outfit and all.”

“Thank you,” at this you averted your gaze, and prayed the lighting didn’t highlight the flush of your cheeks. Out of being flustered or embarrassment, you didn’t know. On the one hand, a rich, beautiful, respectful man was complimenting you. On the other, you were wearing cornflower blue because it was someone else’s favorite color. Like you were twelve again and going to some middle school dance where you wanted to impress your hallway crush.

“Your Getty pictures don’t do you justice,” he continued. “Don’t get me wrong, I haven’t seen one bad photo, but you always look so serious and intimidating.”

It never occurred to you he’d Googled you before, it made sense now how he was able to single you out in the crowd. Maybe the thought was so foreign because you’d never paid him any mind, but now you were thinking you should’ve. At the very least because it’s polite and helpful to know the bare minimum, but if you were honest with yourself it’s because he struck a curiosity in you that needed to be sated—too breathtaking to be real and all you’d known was his face and arresting demeanor.

“Because I am serious and intimidating, I’m very good at my job you know. You’re not the only one married to an office,” you boasted. In reality you hated work, but worse still was posing for pictures. Especially at crowded social functions your parents ushered you to where you didn’t know a soul, you simply didn’t know what to do with yourself in front of a camera—that was your excuse anyway.

“That explains the dancing,” he quipped with a sideward smile.

Your eyes widened slightly in shock as your mouth fell open to scoff. “Hey! I thought I was doing pretty good!”

He burst into a contagious laughter that hypnotically made you follow suit. But you wouldn’t settle for that after all your efforts to keep up. With a look to the wayside, you pretended to lose touch of the tandem between your steps and lurch forward, consequently stepping on his polished brown loafers. And then it was his turn to be shocked.

“Woah! So much for trying,”Tim teased. Not that he lost his footing, he was as stable as ever. In his eyes you swore there was a glint of mockery, as if he knew and anticipated it.

“Oh did I hurt you,” you feigned concern before slipping into the most innocent smile you could muster. “I’m a terrible dancer, I can’t help it.”

“Aren’t you petty?”

“You have no idea.”

“Petty and pretty, how dangerous.”

Before you could fire some witty retort you noticed your steps slowing to a halt with the swoon of the music. He’d brought his hand above you to spin you once, slowly. The other on your waist moved to your lower back to support you as he pulled you into a dip and all you could do was follow. Something about the atmosphere had your heart palpitating. Or maybe it was the way he was looking at you, like you were an art piece on display, overhead light illuminating behind him as he stared down at you like an angel emerging from the heavens.

Sundering you to the earth, you couldn’t fixate your eyes on anything else, and though it was only for a moment it felt like eternity. You were close enough now for the scent of his cologne to waft over you faintly amongst the throng of strongly powdered people in the room. Lavender. A familiar lavender with all the base notes that’d been lingering around you for the past few weeks. Your look of awe faded to confusion.

Red Robin’s.

“Is that—“

But he wasn’t looking at you. Instead you followed his gaze down to your chest, eyes widening as you saw the little red laser mark hovering over your heart. Before you could react, you felt the air get knocked out of your lungs as Tim shoved you away. The sound of the gun firing pierced cleanly through the noise of the glitz and glamour, and something burned across the skin of the side of your arm.

You couldn’t tell if it was broken glass that cut you or something else, you couldn’t feel much of anything with the adrenaline flooding your body. Scared and discombobulated, you scrambled backwards as panic set into the crowd.

In the midst of the onset of gunshots and people scattering towards exits, Tim had rushed over to you. Kneeling beside you, he gave you a quick look over and gently pulled you up by your uninjured arm. As soon as you were up he rushedly dragged you away from it all, winding through the hallways of the manor wordlessly. Though it was probably for the better, because you didn’t have an ounce of air left in your lungs trying to keep up with his pace or a thought in your head after what you’d just witnessed.

The further you trudged along, the heavier your limbs felt and the harder it was to pry your eyes open after blinking. Which was strange, you hadn’t lost so much blood, but it must’ve been the confusion of it all or something you ate. A couple halls and turns later you arrived at a room. He ushered you inside, seating you on the bed before rummaging through the drawers.

“Are you alright? Does it hurt badly?” from the drawer he procured a bandage. He sat himself next to you, promptly wrapping the cloth tightly around your arm.

“No, it’s not bad,” truthfully it felt numb, which you couldn’t decide was a good or bad thing. You couldn’t think much of anything, focused on keeping your eyes from fluttering shut.

“I should’ve known they’d do something,” he’d muttered. As he finished, pushing himself off the bed, your head suddenly felt too heavy to hold up and your eyes too tired to function.

“Hey… are you okay? You don’t look so good.” He pressed the back of his hand to your forehead, feeling nothing abnormal and deepening his concern. But you couldn’t process what he was saying. With a lilt, you fell to your side, feeling the injunctive relief of not having to hold yourself upright.

He undid your bandages to look at the wound again before scowling as it dawned on him, “Tranquilizers.”

After rewrapping your arm, he hurriedly stalked towards the door, “You’ll be safe here, I’ll send someone.”

With whatever consciousness you had left you managed to slur a sentence, “Where are you going?”

“To find my brother.”

If he said anything after you didn’t hear it, because the moment your eyes fluttered shut, they stayed shut.

You didn’t know how long you were out. Not terribly so. When you’d awoken, it was still dark out. Tim must’ve flicked the light off when he’d left too, the only light that flooded in was from the streetlamp out the window. The drugs hadn’t cleared your system yet if the pounding in your head and brain fog you were experiencing was any indicator. And they didn’t even hit you directly, who knows where you’d be if they did.

In the streets you could hear the panic of people and the wail of police sirens, which would’ve settled your stomach if not for the fact that it clearly wasn’t over and the police weren’t entering.

You jerked your head towards the door as a loud thud sounded just outside of it. Looking around the room for a place to hide, there was none. And if there was one, you couldn’t see it with the lights out. Some commotion followed before what sounded like a body hit the floor.

Not knowing what else to do, you wrapped yourself in the bedding, pulling it to the floor behind the bed and huddling there. At the very least, no one knew you were in there but Tim, and surely he’d locked the door.

Nope.

The sound of the knob turning made your blood run cold. You drew the blankets tightly around yourself, hoping you’d amalgamate into the cloths if you’d clutched them tightly enough.

With the bed obscuring your view, you couldn’t see the perpetrator and you didn’t want to. You screwed your eyes shut as footsteps creaked on the wood pacing towards you. Against your will, you hands couldn’t cease trembling and you wondered if the other person in the room could hear your heart beating out of your chest.

This was it. If someone wanted to swoop in, now would be great.

The footsteps halted on the opposite side of the bed. You considered jumping out at them, throwing the blanket and bolting for it, but your limbs felt like they were filled with lead. And in any case, if they were armed you were done for anyway. So you held your breath and willed them away instead.

To your horror they’d started again in your direction. Silence. And then a hand touched the blanket and you couldn’t help it, you shrieked and covered your head with your arms.

But instead of force or a bludgeoning, they’d knelt in front of you, gently grabbing your arms as you thrashed. A familiar voice called your name out a couple times before you recognized it and opened your eyes.

“Hey, hey, hey, it’s me! You’re okay,” in the dark you couldn’t really see his face but it was Tim’s voice that called to you. Delirious and reeling, the relief flooded your body so intensely, the tears didn’t even have time to well before they were streaming down your cheeks.

Throwing your arms around him, you sobbed for all you were worth, “I was so scared, why’d you just leave me!”

You felt him stiffen beneath you at the sudden intrusion before softening and patting the back of your head with a gloved hand. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

And it felt so safe there, in his arms, secure but soft all at once. The familiar lavender mixed with the champagney smell from the gala soothed you in a way you’d never thought you’d needed.

“I thought they were gonna get me,” you choked out between sobs. This was in no way attractive, “and then I’d get kidnapped, and everyone would turn into puppets!”

“I’m sorry,” he said again. Not mocking or laughing at you like your more awake self would’ve expected, he was mellow about the whole thing. Sorry and really sorry for it—and it wasn’t even his fault.

When you calmed down enough to sound coherent, he pulled back to wipe the tears from your cheeks.

“Let me see that,” he nodded towards your bandaged arm. You stretched it out for him and he undid the gauze, “This doesn’t look too bad. Shouldn’t scar.”

Procuring new dressings, he took his time with it this time, applying a salve before wrapping it around you again.

“Tim?” you said his name just to say his name, because you liked the way it felt to say and you wanted to hear him speak. Instead he paused before resuming his work, “I’m Red Robin.”

“Oh.” That’s embarrassing. You were so certain of it too, but he did say he would send someone and he was probably with his family or waiting outside for things to settle. So instead you got the infinitely intangible Red Robin, “I thought you were busy.”

“Plans changed.” He was never this curt with you, not after knowing you anyway. He had to maintain secrecy, you knew this, but he’d find ways to say more anyway.

You flinched as he constricted your arm with the bandage, “You’re pulling it a little tight.”

This made him pause again, letting go of the wrap altogether this time as the circulation breathed back into your marrow.

Exhaling, he ran a hand through his raven hair, “I’m sorry.”

You blinked at him, still fighting to keep your eyelids open but worried nonetheless. This was unlike him, “Red?”

“Sorry, I’m just on edge. I should’ve known, I could’ve prevented this,” shaking his head, it was if he made up his mind, “Everything is transferred now, the project can wrap up without you. We’ll get you on the next flight back tomorrow.”

Somewhere in you an inkling of anger stirred, as if you were an object that could be sent as needed. But the strain in his voice was evident, how could hold a grudge against that? “I don’t want to leave yet.”

“You’re going.”

You huffed, “I’m not. And you don’t have to watch me anymore if it’s too much, I never expected that from you! You’re here now, you didn’t have to be, but you are— that’s more than my useless bodyguards or Wayne security have done and they’re paid for it. You put up with me and nothing has happened to me. I’m sorry for being so vulnerable, that’s my fault. Don’t you dare berate yourself, you haven’t done one wrong thing!”

He said nothing, just stared at you with something like curiosity. Under the pale moonlight and with his face obstructed you could only speculate.

You stuck out your injured arm to him again, urging him to take it, “Hurry and finish, I’m still sleepy.”

Wordlessly he finished binding your arm. As soon as he was done you fell on his shoulder, closing your eyes.

“Tim—“

“I’m not Tim,” he reiterated. There was something in his tone that you couldn’t quite place; annoyance?

“Oh,” you mumbled, feeling sleep creep up on you again, “you smell the same... I think I like him.” Surely it’s fine to confess this much, or that’s what you told yourself as you started to drift off, words slurring and thoughts blurring, “you should meet him, he’s a big fan.”

—

i have a final in 5 hours please with me luck (it’s 2am)

#tim drake fanfic #tim drake #batman #dc #tim drake x reader #red robin x reader #tim drake x gender neutral reader #tim drake fluff #tim drake imagine #bodyguard trope #i can’t write like this #stick to what you know

320 notes · View notes

jasmines-library · 7 months ago

Note

Hello!

Truthfully, I know only surface level information about DC, but I've really enjoyed all your fics for the Batfam💕

Only take this request if it sparks something for you and you can write whatever form, being HCs, imagine, etc!

I'd like to request something for a (gn) civilian reader who is friends w/ the Batfam, but recently got superpowers that are magical girl-esque. I imagine reader was in the wrong place, wrong time situation w/ some criminals and got powers from an alien artifact. Their powers are sparkely and elegant but pretty flashy as well. Their tranaformation actually stuns people into watching and a lot of their moves only work if there is flair and finesse to them.

Reader is already struggling w/ if they want to be a new vigilante, but they’re mostly embarrassed by how showy and pretty their powers are in comparison to the dark and brooding Batfam. They feel out of place next to them and hate becoming the center of attention.

Sorry if this idea is a bit out there, but ty for letting me be indulgent in your ask box 💕 Love your writing!!

Acceptance

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Note: Not really sure what i think of this one but im trying to clear out my inbox so people can request again. Thanks for requesting anon!

Word Count: 600

⛧ BATFAM MASTERLIST ⛧

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The first thing you recalled was the pain. Fiery and burning, radioactive through your veins. The second was the light. So bright that it was practically burned into your retinas. And the third was the ringing sensation that was too stubborn to leave your ears. It made your head throb and your eyes water. The city is cold as you walk through the streets, wandering aimlessly with little to nowhere to go and with even less to do.

Not too long ago, you found yourself in a bit of a situation. A ‘wrong place, wrong time’ kind of situation. The feeling of icy cold fingers wrapping around you will never leave your mind. The feeling of being tied down and exposed to…whatever it was they used to experiment with will always have a permanent place in your mind. And although the memories were there…..most of them were hazy. Glimpses. Fragments of memories. You thought that perhaps you were in and out of consciousness. Or that whatever strange artifact you were exposed to fucked with your mind. Nevertheless, you now have these….strange abilities. Beautiful, yet strange. Enthralling.

“Still brooding?” A voice sounded behind you, light, full of amusement and belonging to none other than Dick Grayson clad from head-to-toe in his nightwing get up; black except for a splash of blue across his chest and over his shoulders.

“It’s not brooding” you corected, hardly sparing him a glance before continuing down the street. You had encountered the vigilantes many times. Sometimes you found yourself on the same case as them. And each and every time they would come practically begging for you to join them. Tim, Dick’s little brother had pieced together your situation alarming quickly. He knew you had nowhere to go. So in came offer after offer for you to join them. You had repeatedly declined. Not that you didn’t like the vigilantes; in fact you found them rather amusing. It was the fact that you felt out of place with abilities like yours. It was easier to work alone.

“Oh yeah?” Dick caught up with you quickly, his larger strides matching your own with ease. “Then what would you call it?”

“None of your business, that’s what.” You replied, but there was a soft grin on your lips.

Nightwing just tilted his head with an unamused look.

“What’s that look for?” You teased, continuing to walk.

“Come on. You know what i'm going to ask”

“No.” You answer immediately.

“But–”

“No.”

“Why not? You’re wasting your potential here.”

“Because.”

Dick let out a frustrated sigh, deadpanning at you as he brought the two of you to a stop. “You’re impossible.”

“No. it's embarrassing.”

Dick’s eyebrows shoot up at that. “Embarrassing?”

“My powers are…flashy. I don’t want to be the centre of attention. It’s embarrassing.”

He frowned, eyebrows knitting together as he turned to face you. “You’re embarrassed of them?”

“....i guess.”

“Sweetheart, look at me. You have nothing to be embarrassed about. Seriously.”

“No?”

Dick looks at you as if you committed a crime. “Course not. What you’ve got is really special.”

“You think so?”

“I know so.” He says. “I'm serious. Your powers could save lives, Kid. Consider it.”

“I……fine.”

“You’re serious?” His face lights up. “You’ll join us.”

“Yes. But don’t get used to it. I won’t always let you get your way.”

⛤⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽⛧☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

BATFAM TAGS

@aestheticdaisies @hearts4robs @xxrougefangxx @mamapucket @hell-o-kittys @harleycao @batfamsstuff @alicedawitchbish @killxz @rosecentury

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#batfam x reader #batfamily x reader #dick grayson #dick grayson x reader #nightwing #nightwing x reader #jason todd #red hood #damian wayne #robin #tim drake #red robin #bruce wayne

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cloudcountry · 2 years ago

Text

bend the rules for mc!

Genre/Tropes: No notable ones.

Summary: Someone shit talks Jack Howl in front of you—and you act accordingly. Only...acting accordingly inside of the Mostro Lounge is different than acting accordingly outside of it.

Author's Comments: I was going to make this Floyd centered for one of my friends but it kinda just turned into Floyd/Jade/Azul protecting Reader from stupid people. Also excusing their outburst because they like them. Bias.

~~~~~

You could barely hide your shaking shoulders, avoiding eye contact as you took their empty glasses. They weren’t paying attention to you—of course they weren’t, you were just their server—as they yapped away about Jack Howl.

You confirmed a while ago that they were indeed Savanaclaw students, coming to visit the Mostro Lounge to unwind on a Friday night. You wanted to go back to your dorm and hang out with Ace and Deuce before the weekend, but you knew that the Mostro Lounge was chaotic on Fridays. You didn’t need to ask Azul for a day off to know that he’d say no.

“I can’t believe that inconsiderate wolf ruined our fun.” one of the students cackled, slapping one of his companions on the back.

“Exactly! It’s not like we ruined his cacti or anything. Geeze, he’s up uptight.”

“I know right. He’s such a wimp for getting pissy about such a little thing. He doesn’t know how to have fun.”

“If you’re going to talk all this big game, why don’t you back it up?” you slammed one of their refills on the table, finally fed up with their shit.

“Hey, what gives?” the student you dubbed Savanaclaw Student A stood up in the booth, glaring at you.

“If you’re going to talk shit about my friend, then at least say it to his face.” you stood your ground, glaring at him.

“Ehhh, Shrimpy? What’s going on?”

A shadow loomed over you and the students, spelling out nothing but doom. The other two Savanaclaw students that had stood up to defend their friend now shook in the spot, baring their teeth at the person behind you.

“Floyd.” you acknowledged his presence but did not turn around, refusing to break your gaze away from Savanaclaw Student A.

You were not going to lose.

“Come on, Shrimpy. What’s happening over here? Jade saw trouble.” you felt an arm wrap around your right shoulder and a chin rest on your left one.

“They were insulting my friend. That’s it. It’s my business, you and Jade and Azul shouldn’t get involved.” you tried to shrug him off to no avail.

“Yeah, they’re right.” one of the students piped up, “Even if we did cause trouble, the bitch had it coming anyways. It’s improper for servers to do anything but serve.”

“Do not call me that.” you seethed. You were ignored.

“Yeah! They shouldn’t have been eavesdropping.” another student argued, his voice raising in volume.

“Aaagh, shut up.” Floyd groaned, slowly tucking you behind him, “You three are so loud. You’re acting like you want to get squeezed.”

Your anger could have softened to a simmer because of the responsibility you felt for the possibility of Floyd strangling someone in the middle of the Mostro Lounge (oh, Azul would have your head for that.) However, fate had other plans, since the students apparently didn’t know when to quit.

“That’s all they’re good for anyway. Snatching up information and delivering it to Ashengrotto. Were you going to get that slimy octopus to rope us into one of his contracts?” Student A sneered.

“Don’t talk about Azul that way either!” you yelled, unable to hold your volume back any longer.

“Oh dear. Someone has kicked up quite a fuss, haven’t they Floyd?” Jade hummed, swooping in beside you.

“Yeah. They’re giving me a headache.” Floyd grumbled.

You couldn’t see Floyd’s facial expression, but there was no way he wasn’t glaring right now. Leave it to a bunch of shitty customers to completely tank his mood.

You could tell Jade’s face was as serene as ever, though there was an underlying amusement in the antics of bad customers. From working there a few months, you knew Jade never showed anger or caused a scene within the Lounge. He always handled things quickly and quietly.

“Come with me, dear. Azul wants to talk with you.” Jade offered you his hand, still smiling.

“With all due respect, I don’t want to leave until they apologize for what they said.” you turned away from Jade, once again being held back by Floyd.

Jade blinked before chuckling lightly, turning on his heel back towards Azul’s office.

“Heyyy, you wanna fight?” Floyd turned up his nose, staring down at the students like they were vermin, “Nobody hurts Little Shrimpy’s feelings and gets away with it, ya know?”

“My feelings aren’t hurt! I’m angry! Don’t make it sound like I’m crying and depressed!” you shot back.

“Come here.” someone hissed, grabbing your wrist and pulling you away from the fight.

“Hey!” you yelled, whipping around to face the culprit.

Azul was scowling at you, his glasses crooked on his nose as he marched you to the VIP Room. You didn't say anything else but refused to staring at the floor like a kicked puppy. You glared at the Savanaclaw students until Azul had dragged you into the VIP Room. You finally turned to face him with your arms crossed and eyes narrowed as the door slammed shut behind you. Azul didn't look at you either. He simply pulled out a chair and motioned for you to sit. Preparing for the scolding of your life, you sat down without saying a word. He sat down after you.

“Ahem. I’m sure you’re aware that you caused a scene out there. Which is not something Mostro Lounge employees are supposed to do.” Azul adjusted his glasses, staring into you with his cold, blue eyes.

You shifted uncomfortably in your seat.

“However.” he cleared his throat, pulling out his desk chair and sitting down, “Jade brought it to my attention that the Savanaclaw students…antagonized someone important to you first. Because of this, they antagonized you, and you were simply defending yourself.”

Azul paused for a moment, shooting you a soft smile.

“It would be a shame to lose such a good employee. We all like having you around.” Azul hummed, standing up once again to approach you, “And as I’m sure you know, The Mostro Lounge is an establishment for gentlemen.”

The words from your escape from Scarabia rang throughout your ears as you realized what they meant.

Mercy. You weren't going to get fired, and he was even bending his policy for you.

You did nothing as Azul placed his hand on your head, gently rubbing circles to calm you down.

“Those students caused a ruckus that you were trying to control by defending your classmate, and me in the process. Since this was a direct verbal attack on the Lounge’s faculty, we are within our rights to throw them out. Jade and Floyd will do the honors.”

“Great. Wonderful. But I'd rather throw them out myself. I’m still angry.” you looked up at him, the anger still simmering in your chest.

“Well, darling.” his eyes shone with mischief, “We can always make a deal.”

#auburn's fics <3 #octotrio x reader #octavinelle x reader #azul ashengrotto x reader #azul x reader #jade leech x reader #jade x reader #floyd leech x reader #floyd x reader #fluff #octavinelle my beloveds #twisted wonderland x reader #twst x reader

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cupcakeslushie · 1 year ago

Note

Do you have any tips on for people starting a comic and wanting to post to tumblr? Like pacing ect. Or well any experience you’ve had with your comics? Love your content as well ❤️

If it’s simply for fun, and you’re just trying to gain experience, my biggest advice would be to just START. Don’t worry about it looking perfect. Don’t worry about comparing it to other’s comics. Just try something, and if you find it’s not working, you can always change things up. I have gone through several styles and page layouts since starting. Do I wish those first pages of EW looked just like what I’m doing now? Yes, but if I’d waited around for perfection I would have never started. And I wouldn’t have had nearly as much fun creating it! If people like it, that’s great, but your art is for you. If you’re growing and learning and having fun, then you’ve accomplished something!

Now for some less preachy advice 😂…

—If your comic is gonna be hosted on Tumblr specifically, I would say, make sure you keep the 10 image limit in the back of your mind when you’re pacing things. That can definitely cause some headaches down the line. If you don’t plan ahead, and end up hitting it, you’ll have a sudden cut in your flow. This last update I knew it was gonna be long, so while I did plan, but I could’ve planned better.

—Variety is key!!!!!

Composition changes keep your viewers from getting bored. Sometimes I’ll find myself falling back into the bad habit of just doing the simple back and forth with two characters talking straight on, but changing the camera angle, making establishing shots when you change locations, and over the shoulder shots, etc etc…All these will make for a more interesting viewing. You may think a character needs to be in every single panel to make it interesting, but if you have a lot of dialogue, a simple plain shot—either in top of a solid background, or just over something boring, like a glance at the set, etc—this will let people focus on the words rather than splitting their focus.

Variety applies to shading as well—whether you’re using color or black/white. Variety in values are SO important for comics. You’re shoving a ton of information in a limited space, so try to keep your values different for items that are close together….it can make things very confusing and turn your line work into indistinguishable blobs if you shade without this in mind.

(Using this panel as an example….)

The top two panels have a variety of darker values and a halftone background—so the next two with Venus, I kept rather simple. I could’ve colored the buildings behind her, but then, she might’ve gotten lost amidst all the grey. There’s not really any trick or solid rule to this, but once you develop your creative eye, you’ll make these choices without even thinking about it.

A few links to helpful tools (they’re all procreate centered I’m afraid 😅)

Outline brush — a free tutorial for Procreate users. This brush kinda mimics the CPS feature that lets you create panels with a nice black outline. I used this brush very often, and it really gives your panels a professional look. Fair warning, it can be glitchy, but it’s free…

Manero Comic Bubbles and sfx — These brushes are not free, so I would recommend maybe getting in your groove before you try them out. They’re by no means necessary, but I’ve just started using them, and they save me so much time. There’s a HUGE selection of shapes, and they go on with a solid white background, so you don’t have to worry about coloring around your dialogue balloons.

#rottmnt #ask slushie #slushie rambles #I could probably think of more stuff but my brain is fried I’m just really putting the rambling in that slushie rambles tag #art tips #slushie faq

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jisokai · 25 days ago

Text

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 1: one brighter than the rest.

sero hanta x reader ch 1/6 | 12.1k words | masterlist | ao3 cw: mentions of past death of a family member notes: chapter song is gloria by kendrick & sza

the circus arrives in Milan, and you arrive at the circus. someone special welcomes you personally.

✰.

"Inside every adult there's still a child that lingers. We're happiness merchants—giving people the opportunity to dream like children."

-Guy Laliberte, co-founder of Cirque du Soleil

The circus is coming. For you.

✰.

The knock on your door is five minutes late. It raps with firm rapidness, demanding a sense of urgency. You scramble to stand from your seat, dishes clattering against the table when you bump it with your knee, and scurry to greet your guest. He looks unamused when you tug the door open, eyes barely darting over unkempt hair and wrinkled clothing—maybe because he looks the same. You don’t bother with greetings, instead informing him that you’ll open the garage.

You kick the door closed as you start down the hall. The floorboards squeak under quick steps, feet threatening to slip from the softness of your socks. They’re struck with a chill on the soles when they land on bare concrete, carrying you along the wall to press the button on its surface.

Light slowly floods your workspace, trickling in from the bottom as the shutter lifts from the ground. Green grass and grey pavement fill the frame, soon joined by the red brick of neighboring buildings. The chilly air of February rushes in, prickling your uncovered arms with goosebumps. Grating sounds soak the air, rusted joints running along the frame of the large garage door.

The man is still by your front door, typing rapidly on his phone, when you step out onto the driveway.

“Qui!” You wave him over.

It successfully grabs his attention, pulling his head up and starting towards you. He looks annoyed.

“I don’t know Italian.”

You blink in realization. “Oh,” you say, preparing your brain to switch to English. “Sorry, I was telling you to wait by the garage.”

He nods curtly, eyes moving from you to the mannequin near the center of the room. He slips his hand into his pocket, digging out a key. “I’ll back up the van.”

You use the time to wheel your work to the edge of your studio. Tender fingers carefully grasp the waist of the wool figure—now draped in layers of delicate fabric and feathers—as you press your foot against the latch of the wheels, unlocking them. The mannequin gently rolls forward with your guidance until you step on the lock again. You look fondly at the gown, recounting the many transformations it went through to get here. Sleepless nights, panicked phone calls, trial and error. Despite the vexation this dress throttled you with for the past few months, a tremor waves through your heart knowing that you’ll part with it soon.

You turn to retrieve three other items. The first is a massive headpiece, delicate and jarring as you walk the display head to sit next to its counterpart. The other two are boxes, one filled with extra fabric and feathers, folds and wispy tufts spilling from the rough cardboard, smaller containers of beads and faux jewels shaking within. Another is a carefully organized plastic bin: your essential tools, the only orderly part of your process.

The man stops the van just before the garage door, right as you set the box behind your mannequin. He moves to open the metal doors, the click of the latch and squeaking hinges welcoming you into the dark space. There’s an assortment of cardboard boxes coating the floor—makeshift cushions, so the mannequin won’t slide en route. You unlock the wheels of the figure once again as the driver pulls out the ramp. Once it rests steadily on the ground, you push forward carefully.

You pause at the sound of rustling behind you. Turning to see the man lifting the box of fabric, you relax at the sight and continue your journey onwards. You nudge boxes with your foot, still bare of shoes, and slip the support of the mannequin between them. When it’s far enough inside to put you at ease, you hurry back down the ramp to retrieve the headpiece.

Once your supplies and costume pieces are secured in place, the driver looks at you expectantly from outside the van. You shake your head as you walk down the ramp.

“I’ll sit back there with it,” you tell him, unwilling to take the smallest chances. He nods unbothered. “I’ll just be a minute.”

You head back through the garage and into the hall, pulling your socks off and strewing them across the ground. You quickly gather your essentials and slip on a new change of clothes—wrinkled and sloppy, but warm enough to withstand the chilly air. You step haphazardly into your shoes and inhale the remainder of your breakfast before returning to the garage. You smack the button on the wall, dash to the closing door, and then step over the sensor while crouching under the door in time to leave. The driver is still waiting, eyes passing over you when you scurry into the back.

He pauses before closing the door, metal slamming against itself with a clang. You are shrouded in darkness, eyes fuzzy as they slowly adjust. You catch the silhouette of bundled feathers, the curve of fabric wrinkled around the waist of your model. A sliver of light peeks through the corners of the van, enough to vaguely illuminate the royal red of your gown. You carefully slip your legs under the cage of the skirt, holding the support stand between your calves while your feet press against the top of the pedal. The dress is still warm from your garage, warmer than the cold bench you’re seated on. You grasp the neck of the display head at your side, holding it sturdy as the engine thrums to life. The first lurch of the car has your heart pausing in anticipation, body clenched to keep everything steady, but you relax when the vehicle presses forward smoothly.

Once you confirm the steadiness of your hold and the driving, you fumble for your phone. The time reads just a quarter past noon—you’re moving faster than expected. You open your messages and send a one-handed text that you just left your apartment. The response is immediate: ‘See you soon!!’

You cradle your projects for nearly half an hour. Despite the darkness, you can follow the journey of the van from the sensations of the drive alone—the turns from one road to another, the oscillation between smooth pavement and bumpy cobblestone paths. You know this route from the western outskirts of Milan into the Cerchia dei Navigli, a bustling center of ornate gothic structures, rich opera history, and lines of designer boutiques. The essence of fresh pasta dishes and red wine wafts through the openings of the van. The storefront of your favorite osteria runs through your mind, spilling clusters of tables and chairs into the street, along with clinking glasses and the ting of silverware.

You relax, imagining the comforts of your regular places. Their distant visuals soften the thumping in your chest.

It’ll be fine. You know your client will like your work, you know the gown functions as it needs to, and you know your craftsmanship. Your work is good. You know this. The only variable left is transportation, which has nearly come to an end. You feel the van stop, the engine quieting with it.

Your legs relax and loosen their hold on the mannequin. Clanging erupts from the back of the aluminum cage, the driver pulling the doors open. You’re momentarily blinded by a burst of sunlight, reflecting off the white and red fabric you are parked before—stretched canvas taught against the framed structure beneath. You waste no time standing and shoving boxes out of the way, unlocking the mannequin wheels to walk it down the ramp. The driver watches closely, but waits silently as you reenter to get the headpiece.

You hear a shout as you walk down the ramp. It comes from a soft voice, sounding almost nervous. “Aizawa-san!” It calls, a stream of Japanese following. The driver turns his head at the sound. You realize it must be his name, recognizing the honorific.

When you step down onto the plaza, you catch sight of the owner of the voice: a man with striking green curls, some sticking against his forehead and cheeks. He wears a tight-fitted top that reads “practice shirt” and a pair of athletic shorts. He converses with who you assume is Aizawa, and you realize he must be one of the acrobats.

His eyes dart to you, then the mannequin head. His eyes brighten, almost shine, and suddenly you are bombarded with a slew of questions, spoken in heavily accented English.

“Wow! You must be the artist Kendou commissioned! Is that Momo’s costume? It’s incredible! It reminds me of Carnival in Asakusa—”

The rest of the words pass through you, a jumble you can hardly understand—both from the speed of his rambling and his accent. But you smile brightly at the compliment. The mention of Asakusa Samba with its feathers and accessories, patterns blending traditions from across the globe, was exactly the vision. Yours takes a much more modest approach, but the influence is clear—at least for someone who knows their Carnival. You appreciate someone who can trace those lines of inspiration, pick apart your brain and your thought process. It strikes you with a special sort of pride.

Before you can respond, the man you’ve decided is Aizawa interjects. “Midoriya.”

The mumbling halts and now the curly man is blushing, waving his arms around. “Gah! Sorry... I—”

Aizawa cuts him off, saying something in Japanese and gesturing to the van. To get your boxes, you think. He turns to you. “Which one should I carry?”

Your stomach clenches. You don’t like the idea of either being out of your control, but the answer is obvious. You hand him the mannequin head, watching as he grasps it by the neck and then immediately turns to walk away. You hold the waist of your mannequin and follow him slowly. The eagerness in your heart, the prospect of being so close to finished, calls you to sprint forward, to see this through. But you force yourself to walk slower than normal, to let this final moment stretch on a little longer. You know when you return home later, to a studio empty of its recent fixation, you’ll feel hollow inside.

As you wheel the dress along the giant tent, your eyes drift up its shaped canvas cover, stark against the blue sky. Yesterday this piazza was empty, holding its usual clusters of tourists and performers and lingerers. Overnight, a structure large enough to hold a stage and an audience was erected. People knew the circus was coming—Hoshi no Sākasu, Circus of the Stars—and yet as per usual, it appeared in an instant. Impossibly.

You feel giddy, brimming with curiosities about the magic these people can conjure. How does an auditorium simply appear? And in the middle of one of Milan’s most notorious attractions, now fenced along the edges. But Hoshi no Sākasu is notorious for these sorts of stunts. You’re familiar with the circus, having been a fan of costumes and impossibilities since a child, but you’ve never known magic like this.

Your eye catches a gap in the fabric, a flap gently brushed open. You can see the stage setup at the front, the congregation of various athletes on their props. You yank your head forward, away from the tempting preview of the show to come. You don’t like to spoil these events for yourself, too invested in viewing the delivery of a performance as an unsuspecting spectator—a blank slate for a story to unfold.

You hear a huff beside you: Midoriya, having caught up somehow carrying both boxes—your plastic bin awkwardly small under the larger cardboard box. You feel some unease at his determination to make one trip, but your watchful eyes don’t catch any real problems with his method.

“It’s okay to have a look,” he says somewhat breathless. “Knowing what happens behind the scenes can make the performance more enriching!”

“And ruin the surprise?” you ask. “I’ve never seen a Hoshi no Sakasu performance. I want my first time to leave me blown away.”

He gapes. “You’ve never seen one? I thought circus costuming was one of your biggest inspirations. You said you’ve seen nearly a dozen of Cirque du Soleil’s shows, and you’re familiar with most other major circus productions.”

A wave of embarrassment rolls over you. The feeling festers in your shoulders, making you want to hide behind your mannequin. It’s one thing for people to know your work, mostly opera gowns and period dresses. It’s another to meet someone who’s read you, articles and interviews you couldn’t force yourself to relive. Not that you made any particular fumbles, but you never do well under spotlight. You prefer the shadows of the costume rooms, creating opulent or kitschy regalia for others to flaunt.

“It is. I have,” you respond. “But your circus has only toured in Asia. And I can’t watch online performances before the real thing.”

Midoriya makes a thoughtful noise beside you. You worry that he’s going to launch into another tirade of mumbling when you see Aizawa enter the next flap of the tent. You decide to speed your walking to a normal pace.

“Is this the wardrobe?” you ask.

Midoriya brightens, switching gears with ease. “Yes! Kendou and Momo are there now. These tents are such interesting spaces—”

You see it for yourself when you enter, carefully pulling the loose canvas aside to roll the mannequin along. The room is large with awkward corners, the chord of a circle. You catch the section of the wall with the stage entrance where the performers are currently congregated behind, separated only by a curtain. Chattering and clattering waft through the opening, the ambiance of their practice. There are props strewn about backstage, scatterings of belongings laying on tables with giant mirrors, and an array of costumes hanging on moveable coat racks. Your hands grip the waist of your lay figure, itching to sift through the final designs for the show.

You stop yourself when you catch fiery orange hair. “Kendou,” you say excitedly.

She leaps to you, away from Aizawa and the headpiece, and gasps, eyes twinkling with excitement as she calls your name in return.

“Wow,” she says, running a hand slowly over the dress. She gently lifts the base of the first layered skirt ruffles, threading her fingers along the wrinkles, the transition of red to white beneath. “You dyed it perfectly. And the details... just wow. I knew you were perfect for the job.”

That sensation of pride creeps back up your body, pulling you to stand straight with a grin. This piece was one from your roots—reaching back to your early works of parade dresses and costumes based on the birds of your home. You consider yourself an expert on the matter, emulating silhouettes and movements of macaws, toucans, hummingbirds. Even the mythical creature you were challenged to emulate for this dress, the mighty phoenix, you knew was well within your wheelhouse.

The process, admittedly, was the most challenging part. Rather than starting with fabrics and textures, design for this production began with a clear goal: the phoenix, and the mechanics of the gown in the illusion that would unfold. You started with white fabric and a silhouette, working with the proportions of Momo’s body and the creature in your objective. Then you iterated through textures, round after round of cutting fabric edges, stitching, adjusting, deciphering the best method of wrapping the fabric on Momo’s body. Afterwards came sizing, which involved a plane ride from Musutafu to Milan, for Momo to try on the prototype, finalize the details of the fit, and test how the fabric and headpiece would move during the choreography. Once you knew her patterns, it was time to dye and cut and stitch, a grind to complete the final work in just two weeks. You finished the base of the dress in two days, the headpiece in two, and spent five grueling over details—sewing in stones and feathers, and making additional fabric details to fix in place. You gave yourself a few days to stop thinking about it as best you could, before spending the past days fine-tuning the details.

Momo approaches, eyes glassy with awe. “It’s incredibly beautiful. We were right to trust you. I can’t believe this is the result.”

You appreciate them, their trust. The gown was just a swath of white fabric when they visited, still rough around the edges. Enough to understand how it would move and appear in silhouette, but requiring an active imagination to see it as a finished piece.

But enough praise. You want to see it on.

“Shall we?” you ask.

The energy shifts immediately. Kendou is behind you, taking in your instructions for the best process to get the gown from the mannequin to Momo. You first unlatch the crinoline from the waist of your figure, gently pulling it down. Kendou has to help you remove the figure from the support so you can free the hoop skirt and hand it to Momo. While she steps out of her outer clothes and brings the frame in place, you notice neither of the men have left. Aizawa watches blankly while Midoriya averts his eyes, choosing instead to stare at the headpiece on the table.

Once the support is secured, you remove the dress from the mannequin. You make a show of where the zipper starts and how far it runs for Kendou to reference. You lift the sleeves upwards, Kendo’s sturdy hands assisting you, and Midoriya steps in to help, carefully grabbing the bunched fabric of the skirt. It lifts easily over Momo, lowering in time for her to slip her arms through the sleeves. Once her hands appear from cinched wrists, you immediately begin to adjust, picking at the fabric around her waist to smooth out any twisting. Kendou traces along the neckline to straighten it. You look at Midoriya, the way he awkwardly tries to fluff the fabric over the hoop skirt. You swoop in to help, fingers confident as they unpin the bundle of chiffon at the back, letting it spill vibrant orange—hot magma, you think—onto the ground, protected by a sheet.

You hear Midoriya squeak as your hands skirt past his, essentially smacking them aside.

“Sorry!” he squeaks. “The other costume crew are out right now. I don’t normally get to help.”

You huff with a smile. “It’s fine. You like being on wardrobe duty?”

“Yes!” he says immediately. “It’s interesting to think about what types of fabric or shapes suit the acrobats and their acts. It really brings the characters alive, and yet not something I’ve had many chances to explore!”

You hum in agreement as you turn to the table with the headpiece. You gently work the elastic off, gripping at the hard plastic further up. Once secure in your grasp, you turn to hold it over Momo’s head, her hands meeting yours to catch the edges. It sits snug and straight despite the asymmetrical display of feathers. They fan to your right and sway gently with her movement. You let Kendou fuss with the details, ensuring it sits comfortably while you take a step back to admire the costume in full.

Even in the backroom, the costume has a magnifying presence. It commands attention. You let your eyes scan down Momo’s figure, the details of the feathered top that transitions into the mask, swirls of wire and mesh covering the top of Momo’s face, pointed dramatically at the ends in a sharp beak. Delicate pieces of wire frame her like a halo, tipped with feathers and sparkling gold jewels. They bounce softly with the slightest turn of her head, twinkling under the lights.

Her collarbones are framed by a heart-shaped neckline coated in sheer ruffles. They match the fabric of the shoulders and arms, cinched and falling in a classic bishop sleeve, sporting additional ruffling at the wrists. The chiffon is a bright red, tipped with the pop of orange. The bust of the dress is a contrasting dark maroon, coated with your signature detailing—intricately sewed jewels, beads, and buttons in abstract swirling patterns. The detailing trails down the waist, and fades into the front of the skirt. The fabric below the hips is generously layered, appearing dark and red as it sits upon itself and runs an inch on the floor. The transparent ribbons of orange lay elegantly on the ground, wrinkled carefully to retain volume. One of the bottommost layers of fabric is embroidered with the cursive swoops of your artist’s name: Verde, meaning green in both Italian and Spanish.

When the outfit is secure, Momo takes a few steps as a test. The fabric flutters over her arms and swishes around her waist. She experimentally spins, only about a quarter turn, and your breath hitches. The layered skirt lifts perfectly, exposing the bright white fabric below. You can imagine the act with full clarity, what will unfold on the stage.

“Ugh,” Kendou groans with delight. “It really... It's perfect. I couldn’t have dreamed of anything better. It’ll be the center of the show, like we wanted.”

Your heart swells further at the compliment. This is what those sleepless nights and raw fingertips were for, what they amount to. Not the praise, but the fulfillment of a vision—a dream finally coming to life.

Midoriya breaks you from your trance. “This is incredible! The costume crew and Momo have kept the rest of us in the dark the whole time. The others are going to be blown away when they see it.” He traces a gentle hand along one of the layers of the skirt. “Is it silk and chiffon? I’m trying to learn more about fabrics.”

You nod. “Chiffon for the sheer fabric, but a silk alternative for the skirt and bust. I’ve been experimenting with different alternative fabrics, and your team agreed to let me use plant lyocell after looking at my other pieces and how they’ve aged. It’ll be fine since Momo’s act isn’t demanding on the costume.”

Midoriya’s eyes shimmer, but Momo chimes in before he can respond. “I hope my performance can live up to the extravagance of this dress. I’m sure you have a critical eye for opera with your line of work.”

You roll your eyes. “You and your voice are stunning. It’ll be the best performance I’ve ever seen,” you reply honestly. “I’ve never been to an opera with an entire circus backing it up. Besides, I’m tired of standard gowns.” It pays well, with old money and prestige, but you inch closer to losing your sanity everytime you make another sleek, dark gown. You want flare and drama and the room to be eccentric. This commission was heaven sent, for giving you something you’ve been craving.

“Ever think about circus costume?” Kendou asks. “Full time, full commitment?”

You freeze. Your eyes blink rapidly, your heart following its pace. You tread carefully, unsure if this is a job offer or a thought experiment. “In my dreams. Never thought it was possible, though.”

You see Momo’s eyes widen at the admission. Kendou continues, “It is, for you. You should consider it.”

Your fingers tingle, body thrumming with anticipation. You think you might be sick. You look at her pleadingly. “Kendou, I have orders through June—”

She shakes her head. “Afterwards. Our traveling season ends in September. October is when we start preparations in Japan.”

There’s a lump in your throat you can’t swallow. You try to calm your expression, knowing you look like a deer in headlights, but your mind races with possibility. Then it fills with logistical questions—your home, your studio, the language barrier. You try to blink them away as you look into Kendou’s teal eyes. They’re strong, intense. One eyebrow is quirked, challenging you. For a moment you see the bright blue of the sea in her irises, waving against the black sand of her pupils.

She speaks before you do. “Just think about it, yeah? You have time. We can talk it over.”

All you manage is a nod, afraid of the noise you might make if you speak. Your eyes move to the others in the room, Momo’s curious gaze and Midoriya’s shining expression. Aizawa still looks bored, unbothered, and you find comfort in his nonchalance.

You clear your throat, ready to change the topic. “Okay. Is there anything else we need to run through? Adjustments? Final touches?”

Kendou waves her hand, turning back to Momo. “You should go, take the day off. You know I won’t botch your work. It’s perfect anyways.”

Despite your hammering heart wanting to run yourself out of the tent, your mind whirs at the potential work to do. “Are you sure?” you ask. You trust Kendou and her skillful touch, but this was your baby for months. Your stomach clenches knowing it’s no longer in your hands.

“Go,” she says, then turns to Midoriya. “You too, you should get lunch together. We need to get the dress on the stage, and we don’t need you pulling a muscle last minute again.”

His freckled face flushes, eyes widening comically. You see the start of a protest form on his lips before you interject. “You get to have real Italian pizza yet?”

He shakes his head slowly, eyes trailing to you.

“C’mon, I’ll treat you,” you say. You would rather run out of here alone, to call your friend Chiara and hyperventilate over Kendo’s offer. But you’re drawn to circus people, those who get paid to make a spectacle of themselves. You can postpone your breakdown to indulge in time with a professional clown.

He flushes a shade darker, before stuttering through an, “O-okay!”

Kendo’s mouth smirks in your periphery while she examines the details of the dress, fussing over the ruffles on the shoulder. “Change into something warm,” she instructs.

The tumble of syllables that fall from his mouth are incoherent—you can’t tell if they’re Japanese or gibberish, maybe both. He scurries to the tables where bags and clothes are gathered, pulling out a square yellow pack. He grabs for a pile of fabric and then rushes into one of the changing stalls.

You pull out your phone, glancing at the time before opening your messages. You send a slew to your friend, getting the main point across that you need to talk later. Desperately. You notice a recent message from your sister and quickly swipe it away without reading it.

Aizawa’s voice pulls your attention back. “Do you need a ride?”

You turn to him, shaking your head. “No, we’ll be in the area. I can take the mannequin back with me on the metro later.” You pause before adding, “Thanks for driving. I can’t stand packing costumes. And sorry for the awkward first meeting... Aizawa?”

He nods, affirming the name. “It’s fine, it wasn’t any issue. It’ll have to be packed when we’re on the road, but Kendou will manage fine.”

“Aizawa’s one of the producers,” Momo says.

Your eyes widen, heart stumbling to your stomach. A producer? You recount the way you hurried him along just an hour earlier. Maybe he was nonchalant about Kendo’s job proposal because he was planning to make her rescind it. He laughs dryly at your expression.

“Don’t worry,” he says with a dark mirth. “I know how you costume people get, especially close to showing.”

You are saved by the return of Midoriya, dressed in a silhouette you think is quite stylish, but you have to suppress a grin at the clash between the garments. Bright dotted yellow lays against patterned maroon, flush against saturated cobalt painted with white details. Primary colors. You like this guy.

You tell Kendou that you’ll be back after lunch, at the very least to retrieve your lay figure. She and Momo wave you off with smiles. Midoriya leads you out of the tent and into the brightness of the day. Cool air nips your face and hands, but it calms you, brings ease into your body.

You look around the piazza. The paved square is fenced, littered with guards outside the perimeter. Over the top of the large tent is the pointed roof of the Duomo di Milano.

“How do you do it?”

“Huh?”

“The tent,” you clarify, turning to meet his eyes. “How does it just… appear? Without warning—without anyone seeing.”

A cheeky grin crawls along the side of his face. “Can't say,” he answers vaguely with a hum, before diverting his eyes.

You huff, turning back to the blue of the sky. Is that the sort of thing you would get to learn about, to understand intricately, if you joined them? You want to whine in annoyance, but the tufts of clouds leisurely drifting above catch your attention. You think you can make out a rabbit, hopping to an apple twice its size. You’re about to point it out when Midoriya speaks.

“I don’t know where we’re going... ” he trails off, his smile now embarrassed.

“I do. Can we exit from the north?”

He nods. You start walking left of the duomo’s face, towards one of the restaurants you frequent when you’re in town. Midoriya trails behind you, easily falling into conversation with his questions.

“Will you be coming to the opening night?” he asks.

You grin sharply, side-eyeing him. “Of course, and with impossible expectations.”

You expect him to flush like earlier, but a determined smile crosses his face, the acceptance of a challenge. “It’ll ruin any other performance for you.”

Your face lifts in surprise at the declaration, teeth sinking into the smile you try to fight. You believe him, having heard nothing but genuine and limitless praise from anyone who’s seen a Hoshi no Sākasu production. They’re known for intricate plotlines that unfold through deliberate acts, ones that overlap seamlessly. This show in particular, Gōyoku, has garnered immense hype leading up to its first performance, only a couple nights from now. It seeks to blend their usual rich use of Japanese culture and aesthetics with Italian influence, specifically through the addition of an opera performance. The eve of the first show will mark the start of a festival in the piazza. They’ll perform for five nights, ending the day before the Ambrosia Carnival begins, bringing four more days of festivities.

You’re somehow lucky enough to exist at the perfect intersection of opera gowns, bird costuming, and Italian residency—the exact background the costuming team sought. You nearly leaped out of your skin when you saw the email, ready to shelve any and all projects out of the way for this opportunity.

“I don’t doubt it,” you tell Midoriya honestly. You’re not hard to entertain when it comes to the circus, awed at performers in general—especially when they’re pushing the boundaries of their bodies. You had naive dreams for yourself at one point, visions of swinging through the air or twisting yourself in knots, but it didn’t take long for you to realize your heart was in the creation of the gowns instead.

You converse with Midoriya easily. He likes to talk about designers, asking your opinion on gowns or looks that have been circulating lately. By the time you reach the trattoria, sunken between the walls of the adjacent establishments and coated with ivy, you’ve managed to switch the conversation onto him: what pulled him to be a circus freak.

He’s as talkative when he’s the one answering questions, mumbling as he recounts an old figure in a notorious Japanese circus who inspired him.

“Toshinori Yagi was big in Japan for a long time. His range was incredible—he would perform up to seven acts during a show.” You let your eyes linger on Midoriya’s turtleneck while he talks, the bright yellow stark against the creamy beige of the wall behind him. Primary colors, you think again, like the notorious Yagi—or All Might, his stage name.

“Yeah. And then got Houdini-ed out of showbiz,” you add with an amused grin. You remember the news, when another performer asked if it was true he could withstand punches to the gut, landing one on him before he could prepare. He only lasted two more shows before his body gave out on stage from the abdominal trauma. Luckily unlike Houdini, Yagi survived the incident, but could no longer perform like he used to. “Only to turn around and become a legend in costuming.”

Midoriya beams. “Of course you’d be familiar! He’s one of my mentors. I met him as a kid, and he encouraged me to train and audition despite having a late start.”

You hum, curious. You look out the window to your side, people strolling down the cobblestone in long coats and scarves. You wonder how late a start can be, to still have time to make it in the industry. You were lucky as a kid, to have been exposed to your line of work so early—to be given these tools and connections before you even entered high school. You wonder what your life would have looked like if you tried to barrel down a different path, one that wasn’t reaching for you so tightly.

“So what’s your stage name, Midoriya?” You say his name with uncertainty, unsure if you heard it right.

He grimaces bashfully. “Sorry, I never introduced myself. On stage I’m Deku, but Midoriya is fine.”

You hum, and return the introduction. “Though it seems like you knew all that,” you say.

He nods across from you. A waiter interrupts his would-be response, asking what you’d like to order. You ask Midoriya if he has any food restrictions, receiving a shake of the head, before naming a few different dishes to the service. They nod and gather the menus before hurrying off.

“I got classics, don’t worry,” you say with amusement. “This place is a good baseline for the rest of your time here. You like Italian food?”

“As much as the typical person,” he says. “But we don’t eat it much in Musutafu.”

You hum. “The Japanese food here is pretty hit or miss, but I can recommend a ramen place if you get desperate.”

He looks at you curiously. You return the expression.

“Would... you really consider it?” he asks. “Coming to Japan for us?”

You blink, not expecting him to ask, then sigh. “I’d love to,” you say honestly. “But it’s a big change, And I have a network here. I could ride my career until the end.”

It’s true, you’d be comfortable in Milan. There’s always work, always opportunity for you. You have friends here, communities you’ve become a part of.

Your gut churns. But it’s the circus.

“But it’s the circus,” Midoriya says. You widen your eyes. “Your interviews always talk about how much you love the circus.”

Your eyebrows furrow. “Hey, I’m not famous enough to have people memorizing articles written about me.”

Midoriya’s jaw clenches, eyes widening. “Sorry!” He waves his hands energetically—very Japanese.

He averts his eyes. You think he looks guilty.

You laugh.

When the food is served, you insist that Midoriya eats as much as wants, whatever he wants. He reaches first for the pasta, eyes brightening as he shovels arrabiata into his mouth.

You nod at the reaction. “You have to admit that good Italian food makes a difference.”

His hum and eager eating is approval enough. You make a show of cutting the pizza and nudge a few slices his way. In return, he pushes the pasta forwards for you to have a bite.

By the time you finish—using your language advantage to ensure Midoriya doesn’t foot the bill, before strolling out into the cool air—nearly an hour has passed. Midoriya starts a series of rambling as you return to the tent, happily bragging about his friends.

“I’m so excited for you to see Momo’s performance, she has such an incredible voice. And the act that she put together with Hagakure and Mirio is spectacular. Based on your interests, I think you’ll really like Sero and Tokoyami’s act. And Keigo too! Kacchan has one of the most intense, so he’s a typical audience favorite. We have an incredible build team that has been working on our special effects, and they really went all out for him. Kaminari and Tetsu have maybe the coolest—”

It continues all the way back to the dressing room, and even when you open the flap to step inside. You blink in surprise at the new faces sharing the room with Momo and Kendou. The singer is out of costume, dress hung at the front of a coat rack, and she calls your name. You wave as you walk over.

Momo introduces you swiftly—to a princely man and two smaller women—before clutching your hands. “No issues! We went through the choreo and it was perfect.”

You smile, an unexpected relief wafting through you. “I’m so glad. I can’t wait to see you in action.”

You take a long look in her eyes, pools of darkness with a shimmer. You realize—for the first time with full force—that this production has its own intricate meaning to Momo, likely more than whatever it could mean to you as an outsider. You grasp her hand in return, memory flooding with countless conversations to brainstorm ideas, random calls despite the seven hour time difference to ask for an opinion or show your progress. You think about the first call you had with her, just to get to know her.

You think the costume is an ode to how you’ve learned to understand Momo: the way she moves, the curves of her body. But it’s just as much an ode to how much she’s letting you in, giving you full reign to share everything you’ve ever known and loved about creating costumes.

There are words resting on the tip of your tongue, one’s that feel like a closure you aren’t ready for. It’s too soon and you’re not willing to do this with an audience, to taint your farewell with the prying eyes of those who don’t understand.

You think Momo feels the same. She says gently in effortless Italian, “I’ll see you in two days minimum, right?” The night the festival opens, the night before the first showing.

“Of course.”

She leans in for a hug. It’s a short and gentle embrace, but its essence is layered. Complicated.

“We’re all about to head out for a break.” She nods to the others gathering their things at the tables. “I wish we had time for you to meet them properly. You’ll stay after the show, right?”

“You could not pay me to stay away.”

She laughs quietly, then slips you a gentle smile. “Perfect. See you soon.”

You nod and watch as she turns away to join the others. Your eyes linger for a moment before you begin towards your mannequin. You take a few steps, ready to rush home and frantically call Chiara. As you scurry over, your eye catches a book resting on one of the dressing tables. It’s small, but looks familiar. You stop in your tracks when you catch the title: Si Estiramos Estrellas Como Seda.

If We Stretch Stars Like Silk

Your breath catches at the sight. It’s your childhood favorite, one you keep at your bedside after all these years—one with yellowed paper and a peeling cover, worn and faded with love. Nearly every page has a faint crease in the corner, where you’ve folded it over to mark your spot or make a note to come back to. The copy in front of you is old, with vintage font on the front and a blotch of water damage seeping through the top half. You catch the edge of a receipt peeking through, just a quarter into the volume: a bookmark, for someone who started recently.

You can’t help the twitch of your lips as you step closer, the lull of your childhood dreamspace drawing you in. You brush a finger along the dark edge, slipping where the receipt is wedged and taking a glimpse at the pages. You blink in surprise at the neat script in the margins, hiragana and the occasional kanji. Your eyes run over the markings, wondering what they say, until they drop lower and land on a line of Spanish written with a similar diligence.

You pull your hand away, letting the book close.

“¿Hablas Español?”

Do you speak Spanish?

You snap your head to the voice, deep and a little rough. You catch two different eye colors—Todoroki, you recall from Momo’s quick introduction.

“A little,” you say in English, betraying your mother tongue. You don’t know why the lie slips from you, especially when your eyes land on Midoriya lingering with the others. Your early life is easily accessible information—one quick search would surface the real answer.

“I love this book,” you add, as if offering truths will balance your dishonesty.

Todoroki hums in agreement. “It is quite beautiful.” His English flows easily, and with a nearly flawless American accent. “Another performer is reading it with me right now. He and I have similar taste, and I’ve been working on my Spanish.”

It makes sense, the book being targeted towards children with simple vocabulary and a whimsical plot. You longed to be part of the story when you first read it—a tale of two boys in different worlds. They came to know each other when they stumbled across a pond, seeing each other instead of their own reflection, the water a portal to bridge opposing universes. They could only ever cross through at night, by grasping at the stars twinkling in the reflection. They thinned out like ribbons of thread, and could be woven into a rope to climb through. On cloudy nights they could only look at each other with longing.

In your adolescence, you imagined living in a third world, one where you could reach through the water and grasp them both, to be together forever. With you.

It planted dreams of weaving your own fabrics from scratch, like your grandmother did. But eventually you learned to sew.

Based on the bookmark, you think Todoroki has only just learned of the pond, the one Santi nearly falls into when he lands eyes on Marco for the first time. There’s a tug at your heart, calling to reach for your copy. You miss your boys, your adventures together.

“Your thoughts so far?” you ask.

You watch as Todoroki’s eyes narrow lightly with thought. You are struck by how beautiful he is, the soft skin of his face against sharp features. Your eyes trace his scar, curious towards the story behind it. You think he’d look striking wrapped in deep blue fabric—loose linens breezing against his body. With a high collar, maybe.

“It is a book that allows people to dream,” he eventually says.

Your smile is uncontainable. “Wait ‘til the actual magic happens.”

Midoriya’s voice breaks the conversation, calling for Todoroki. The taller man responds in Japanese, before translating for you.

“Sorry, but we are leaving now,” he says. “We can walk out together.”

You nod and abandon the table for your lay figure. You reattach the mannequin head before unlocking the wheels of the body. You crouch to grab the handle of your tool bin. Todoroki moves to help, but you shake your head. You’ll have to take it on the metro yourself anyways.

The others wait as you cross the room to the entrance, wheeling your figure along. They similarly try to help, but you smack away their hands. Kendou rolls her eyes, but then offers you three tickets and a plastic card. You let go of your mannequin to take it, reading your name across the top of the ID and the words “Costume Crew”.

“In case you run into issues with security,” she explains. “But you shouldn’t.”

You nod, shoveling the card away before continuing to roll the dummy along. The cast members walk with you to the station, at the northern edge of the piazza, before saying their goodbyes.

“Are you sure you’ll be okay taking your stuff back alone?” Midoriya asks.

You nod with amusement. “This isn’t my first rodeo, Deku.”

He flushes.

You say your farewells, and receive particularly meaningful waves from Momo and Kendou, before walking towards the elevator. Taking the metro home is annoying, as it normally is when you have to transport your mannequin. But it’s routine, and you manage well enough. The afternoon is unhurried, offering abundant space in the train car, escaping glares that would have pointed your way if it were the end of the workday. While you wait for your stop, you check for a response from Chiara. She messaged you an hour ago, a simple, When and where?

You respond, My place in 30?

The transfer is easy enough, rolling from one train to the next. When you finally rise back to ground level and walk through your neighborhood, you’re nearly skipping. You have to reign your energy in to not look like an idiot. When you finally reach your building, you wrestle with your keys and fling the door open at lightning speed. Once your mannequin is locked in place and your tools are safely on the ground, you inelegantly crumple onto the floor.

You bury your head in your hands as you recount the day and all that passed: your mortifying introduction to the producer, the final passing of your precious gown to its new owner, the tension of potentially being offered a job, how you forced one of the performers (with the help of Kendou, admittedly) to get lunch with you, running into your childhood friend—that precious book you want to spend the night cradling with a flashlight under your covers.

Chiara storms in minutes later, the clack of her heels sharp on your floor. You hear her yelp at the sight of you before grabbing ahold of your arm and yanking you up. You look at her defeated.

“I’m tired of your cryptic bullshit,” she grumbles in sharp Italian, dragging you to the couch. Your legs weakly oblige. “Spill. What the hell happened? Did the gown get ruined? Do I need to call Davide?”

You look at her helplessly, shaking your head. You inhale. “I think they offered me a job.”

Her flawless face holds irritation for one more moment before her jaw drops. “What!?” she shrieks, grabbing your bicep tightly. Manicured nails dig into your skin.

You nod silently, slowly.

She gives you a few hard shakes. “What did you say? Holy fuck, are you accepting? You have to accept this, right? Oh my god. … Tucano—this is incredible.” Her voice softens by the end, the usual effect of the nickname.

“Chia,” you plead. She frowns at the tone. “I don’t—I don’t know? I’ve been in Milan for a while, it’s home to me. I can’t just leave my friends and my clients, and—” you pause, thinking of your late grandmother, your abuela, the reason you came here in the first place. When she fell ill and you needed money to take care of her, later taking her with you to a country with a higher success rate for her surgery, where you hoped to extend her life just a little longer, selfishly. You already uprooted yourself and your family, only for it to be abuela’s end. What would it mean to leave again, to keep running?

Part of you knows you’re kidding yourself. You may have left home to support your family, but now you stay gone to avoid seeing them, to avoid confrontation.

“I just… I can’t just leave.”

You watch her face, the way it falls sadly. “Tucano… you can do whatever you want. I thought… I thought this was your dream, the costumes. And for a circus. Not an opera or a show, but those freaky acrobats you fawn over.”

You glare as the last words leave her lips. Your eyes bore into her brown ones, her thick lashes. They match the darkness of her hair: perfect swooping waves that end above her shoulders.

“I know, I know,” she says with a sigh. “What? Do you need help processing? Brainstorming? Pro and cons list?”

You huff, not sure yourself. Her sharp eyes watch you closely.

“Well…” she tries. “If you got a job offer, then the dress was a success, yeah? Wanna debrief me on that?”

You groan as your mind reminds you of your faux pas with Aizawa this morning. “I totally offended one of their producers. I thought they were sending some random stage guy to give me a ride and…”

A dark brow lifts in curious delight. Her mouth quirks as you relay your demise. You’re about to scowl when she laughs. “Okay, but the dress. The dress made it?”

Your shoulders drop. “It’s perfect. They loved it.”

A sharp grin splits her face. Your heart squeezes when you recognize pride, for you. “As we knew they would! And that calls for celebration.”

You smile at the sentiment, your nervous heart relaxing slightly. Chiara reads you easily by now, like fluency in a language just by watching from the outside. Despite the scoffing and bullying, all her comments and faces are expressions of love. She reminds you of your sister: observant because she cares, but also to maximize her fuel for making fun of you. All the while knowing when to soften the edges, when to remind you that you’ve done a good job.

Momo in your finished gown flashes in your mind, and you agree that you deserve to have a moment of celebration. But you can’t escape the hollowness that follows, the emptiness of an undressed form. The lack of something to fixate on, to obsess over, to give your life purpose.

“Hey, you’re gonna see your costume again in a couple days. You can’t get your post-commission depression now. You can mope when they leave, okay?”

(Reading you like a poem—seeing meaning between the lines, meaning in mere fragments.)

You huff and nod, sulking. Chiara laughs at your grumpiness.

Her presence soothes your nerves from the day, ones you pushed aside in favor of parading the streets with Midoriya. Your conversation continues, stretching through the afternoon as you cover the rest of your day. You ignore her suggestive looks as you talk about your time with Midoriya and the embarrassing feeling of knowing someone researched you so thoroughly.

You don’t mention seeing the book. You think she’d talk about fate and signs if you let it slip, and then you’d be back to terrifying career talk.

Eventually you flip the conversation to her and her day, the clients she saw. She spent her morning at the studio, her usual dolling up of models for their shoots. It’s how you met, in your early days after arriving in Milan—you dressing up performers while she touched up their faces. She stayed with the company while you left for freelancing, preferring to have more say over your projects. Part of you envies Chia’s regular schedule, what you had to give up to keep yourself afloat. But part of you knows this is the dance you have to do with your craft: the hectic oscillation between losing yourself in a project and the following period of nothingness to recover.

You talk until the sky darkens, the creeping beginnings of evening during the winter. The clock has hardly reached six, but you want to whip up a lazy dinner and retire for the evening. The call of Si Estiramos Estrellas Como Seda is still prevalent. You have a yearning for nostalgia.

So you boot Chiara out of your place—with a promise to see her for the first night of the festival—and claw through your freezer for some pre-prepared meal to heat. You find a crinkly package of stew that brings another round of longing through your heart, reminding you of abuela’s cooking. You know your decision, succumbing easily to a night of swaddling yourself in childhood comforts.

And you do. Half an hour later you are curled on your couch, your fluffiest blanket strewn over your shoulders. You sink into its plushness, the tickles of its fibers brushing your arms and neck. Hot stew rests in your lap while the book rests atop the arm of the sofa, spine worn enough that it rests flat without the assistance of your hand. You soak in the story of Santi's life, his home in Colombia. The simple but beautiful prose paints pictures of beaches and mountains, of boisterous streets striped in vibrant warm hues. You lovingly run your hand against the paper, smoothed and worn, some of the words fading. You take your time, smiling when you imagine the way Santi trips and nearly falls into the massive pond, how it flawlessly reflects the night sky onto the ground.

You set the book down after he and Marco finish their chat through the mirror of the water, the portal crossing worlds—universes. You find your eyes heavy, falling like Santi’s when he rolls along the grass, laying on his back to soak in the stars above.

In the morning you find that your dreams are hazy, not an uncommon occurrence. You frown as you close your eyes again, struggling to recall the scenes you danced through. You were laying in the grass, on the edge of the lake. There were beautiful stars, the kind you only see when you’ve taken trips north to the Alps.

But there was someone with you. A boy, a similar age as your dream self, as Santi and Marco—ten at the oldest. He watched you closely, purposefully. All you can remember were his hair and his eyes: dark. So dark they felt like a void, or a portal. Darker than the night sky.

The earth spins twice and you are preparing for the opening of the festival. It’s a collaboration with the local scene, vendors and entertainers from the city popping up their own tents. Hoshi no Sākasu has a few of their own near the large auditorium top, decorated with streamers and lanterns, selling traditional Japanese desserts and street food. The circus will wander north and then west on its journey through Europe and the Americas. With each stop they’ll invite the festival cultures of each country to meet their own.

You prepare at Chiara’s, her apartment deeper in the city and therefore closer to the Duomo. You begrudgingly pull your costume from the rack in the garage and sleeve it into the garment bag. You roll the length gently before placing it into a box, the soft protective cover scraping against the cardboard. You pull the matching mask and headpiece from their shelves and rest them on top.

The air is chilly when you make your way outside, biting at your exposed forearms. Perfect weather for your costume, and a night of dancing.

You let yourself into Chiara’s, calling out into the warm space. The only response is the ambiance—the thrumming of the heater. You set your box by the door and pull out your costume to hang on the rack, then invite yourself into the hall. Faint rustling sounds from the bathroom, the click of a plastic case, the tap of brushes rolling against each other. You grin and tug on the door.

The sight is not unusual: your friend with a handful of palettes—awkwardly shoved between each finger—and shoveling through her drawer of liners, lipsticks, and brushes. Her organization is as absent as yours, a nightmare to anyone who’s had to work with you both. But it means the two of you understand the chaos of each other’s systems, their inexplicable order.

She grins sharply at you. “Ready to transform?”

“Always.”

You’re dressing as your classic tonight, the guacamaya verde, or the green macaw. Birds are your specialty to begin with, a fixation passed from abuela to you. While she spent most of her time dyeing their silhouettes and features onto hand-woven fabrics, you ode to them in the shapes and details of your costumes. Feathers and beaks and fluttering fabrics like wings always make an appearance on your body during a festival or parade—but the vibrant green is your signature, the reason you chose Verde.

Chiara sits you in the kitchen to get to work. The makeup is simple, familiar: sparkling green across your eyelids and glitter along your temples.

She watches you closely as she presses powder against your eyes, the soft edge of the brush drawing the green to reach your temple. Her eyes are wide and her mouth parts, like she has something to say, to ask. You think it’s about the job offer, any new developments on what you think you’ll do with your life moving forward. You don’t implore, and neither does she.

She finishes quickly and leaves to do her own makeup in the bathroom. In her living room you pull the costume from its bag and step out of your clothes. The pants slide on first—long and loose with a cinch above the ankle. The fabric is soft where it brushes your skin, and the brightness of green brings a smile to your face. You slip the top on next, careful to avoid smudging Chiara’s work. Your arms come through the long sleeves slowly, careful not to grab the wrong piece, and shrug your shoulders to settle the garment in place. It’s your favorite part of the outfit, more than the headpiece. Layered fabric runs down your shoulders and arms to your back, expanding like wings when you lift your elbows from your waist. Their pieces flutter against you, like a cape. Tufts of feathers spring from your shoulders to match the headpiece.

You wait until Chiara emerges in her own red version of your costume to put the mask and headpiece on, fixing the wire frame over your face before sliding on the band, unrolling layers of fabric and feathers down the back of your head.

The two of you stroll confidently down the street, the swaying of your feathers and fabric catching the eyes of passersby. You walk along cobblestone paths, warming your body in the cold. The feeling of the soft fabric sliding across your skin, the sway of material cascading through your hair, is almost euphoric. You could skip, swing your arms and twirl, even. But Chiara is stern beside you, raising eyebrows at the giddiness on your face.

You start in defense, “I just—”

“I know,” she cuts you off. “But let's make a fool out of ourselves once we’re around other fools, yeah?”

You want to say that everyone in Milan is a fool. But you walk faster, and you ask about her upcoming clients to distract yourself.

The conversation halts when you reach the entrance of the piazza, eyes gleaming under the lights. Hoshi no Sākasu’s giant tent stands tall on the northern edge, with rows of square stalls spread along the southern half. The sun set a couple hours prior, the blackness of the sky now cradling the illuminated lanterns and string lights. You breathe in the ambiance of the fair, the sounds of vendors talking with customers and squeals of children running along the market rows. You can hear faint live music, the strumming of a guitar and the long notes of the standup bass.

You squeeze your fists tightly in excitement, calming yourself to keep from sprinting your way to the entrance.

There is no admission fee, just a few guards to glance at Chiara's bag. You can’t help yourself once you’re inside, and pace through the first line of tents. You stop once you’re fully swept into the sounds, blinking happily as you take in the venue. You don’t know where to start, eyes trailing along the options to make a decision. Most of the vendors are local, but you spot the stall closest to the stage tent, carp lanterns catching your attention. Before you can take a step closer, a hand clutches your wrist.

It’s Chiara, panting. “Shit, you’re like an unleashed dog.”

You grin and let your wrist slip in her grasp to clutch her hand. Then you march along, tugging her behind you. She doesn’t complain, happily following your lead.

Your heart sings as you gravitate towards the carps blowing through the air. You compliment other costumes and you notice, and flourish under the praise you receive for your own. This is what you love, you think. This is why you’re still here in Milan even after abuela passed. The ambiance and the community, the noisiness of vendors and live music streaming through the night.

And admittedly, sometimes you like to indulge in the fantasy of being a performer, for others to look at you and assume you’d be on the stage.

You spot Kendou—your first sighting of any crew members—just before you make it to their tents. Her hair is what catches your attention, the fiery orange, but your eyes dart to her outfit next. She wears a deep teal dress that resembles a cheongsam, only with longer sleeves that fan out towards the ends. It’s layered with a black laced corset that bursts black feathers from the back, trailing down her dress like a tail. Her face sports a simple mask, the texture twinning her corset, with additional feathers sprouting from the edges and bunching behind her head.

She smiles when she sees you, running to gather you in a hug. You let go of Chiara to return it, and then swiftly introduce them.

“I love your costume,” you tell her. The blend of the Italian corset with the traditional Eastern dress is striking, and a thoughtful bridge between the origins of the circus and their first stop in Milan.

Her eyes shine as she compliments you in return. Chiara watches in amusement as you two ramble about the intent behind your designs, the methodical details. Kendou asks about your strategy for layering the fabric of your wings, while you ask about her process for the feather detailing.

A shout from the tent pulls her attention away, a slew of rough Japanese. She looks at you apologetically. “Sorry, Satou needs me to play messenger. I’ll see you in a bit, yeah?”

You nod. “Any recommendations?” You ask, tilting your head to the stall.

She walks over with you. “Get some noodles, yakisoba or okonomiyaki. Then come back for some taiyaki. Satou’s desserts are the best.”

You take her advice, getting one of each and awkwardly shovel the noodles in your mouths as you stroll along the vendors. You spot other performers and crew, realizing their costumes are all an interesting mix of traditional Japanese styles with European circus garb. You recognize the two smaller women you met after your lunch with Midoriya and wave to them across the crowd. They’re dressed in conventional clown outfits, but softened in pinks and green. The smaller one has a frog mask tied to the side of her head, while the other sports a conical farm hat to contrast pink frills.

After circling back to the stall for taiyaki, your heart starts to pull towards the music. You look at Chiara knowingly.

“Itching to dance?” she asks.

You nod.

“I’ll be fine,” she tells you. “But I’ll probably leave soon—there’s a bar nearby I haven’t been to yet. Text me if you need anything? And stay at mine if the train isn’t running.”

You squeeze her hand before the two of you part, and then rush towards the music.

The musicians are gathered by the end of the market line, filling the piazza with melodies near the entrance point. People are gathered by the adjacent seating, individuals and couples and families. The windy notes of the accordion settle into your shoulders, moving experimentally to feel out the rhythm. You take another glance around the area and notice nobody is dancing.

Except for a young girl, maybe four or five. She wears a frilly green dress and a plastic Hyottoko mask, the ones sold at the circus’ stall. she jumps excitedly with the sound of the tambourine and flails her arms. You smile at the sight and skip over to her, giving your body a twirl when you’re just a few steps away. She shrieks with giggles, pointing at the faux wings settling down your back. You laugh at her reaction and reach for her hand to guide her through a spin. Your eyes scan the area, looking for her parents, and you wave when you see them.

The camaraderie of your small dance partner is what gives you the confidence to dance freely. Even after living in Milan for years, you still don’t have a grasp on their dance styles. The large, swooping movements are foreign to you, your hips instead naturally searching for the faster patterns of latin rhythms. The girl erupts into another fit of giggles at your movements. She tucks her hands behind her back and kicks her feet forwards in traditional Italian style. You smile and mirror her, the wide fabric of your pants billowing with each drive of your foot.

Eventually the song comes to an end and you stop to take deep breaths. Your body thrums with heat and energy, the beauty of movement. You squat in front of your new friend and raise a hand for her to clap. She does with a grin, and you tell her, “Grazie.”

She runs to her family, squealing as she grabs her father by his leg. He waves before standing, moving to leave. You sigh and twirl yourself again as another song starts, reaching within you to sustain the confidence for a round of dancing alone. You look up as your body slows, taking in the dark, starless sky. Your arm bumps someone and you jolt, “Scusa” already on your tongue.

It dies at the sight before you: another Hoshi no Sākasu member. Aizawa, you think for an instant when you catch dark hair and eyes, scruff along the jaw and lip. But his eyes are wider, sucking you into them with a gravity you’ve never felt before. He’s a little taller and leaner, with a crooked grin you can’t tear your eyes from. He’s charming, in a rough way—an charm of honesty, authenticity.

Your first thought is that he would look breathtaking draped in silken black fabric, the perfect coupling to the air of mystery that sits about him. Instead he wears a long jesters hat, black and splattered with yellow stars and crescent moons—shapes you just felt yourself missing from the clouded night. He has a Hyottoko mask of his own tied against the side of his head, cheeks puffed and winking. His top reminds you of a kimono, but tucked into harem pants. You smile at the clash of shapes. You love this circus.

“Sorry,” you say instead. The sound is breathless.

His eyebrows raise while his grin widens. You can’t look away. When he speaks you think you can hear the edges of an accent—a familiar one that blurs your vowels together, one that blankets your own English. “Would you like a partner?”

A smile pulls at your cheeks, one you can’t suppress. “Absolutely.”

You receive an equally large grin in return. It’s cheeky, with a glint of impish whimsy. Your heart races at the touch against your hand, a searing heat that catches you off guard. He steps back, offering a space between you.

“Sorry in advance,” he says. “I’m not so familiar with Italian dances.”

With the accent on his tongue and how he holds your hand in front of him, your mind immediately thinks: salsa. He gives you a mischievous look before pulling you close, slotting his leg between yours. A hand comes to your waist, fiery heat gently pushing along as he takes two quick steps to the side. Your eyebrows jump in amusement, and you can’t stop the laugh from bubbling out of you. Bachata, of course, you think as you raise your free arm to his shoulder.

The current song is faster than the previous, but still not suitable for the rhythm of your dance. You don’t care, relishing in the feeling of your quick steps and the sway of your hips. He must have noticed your roots when you danced with your small friend. You wonder how the two of you must look, a vibrant exotic bird paired with a clown of three origins. His body moves fluidly with yours, hips and torso and arms gliding like the smooth curve of a wave. You fall into the feeling of him, his hands as they carefully trace under the fabric of your wings to rest by your shoulder blades. They’re so warm, solid fire tracing your skin. You take the signal, throwing your head back in a swoop that he supports. You thank your lifelong experience of costuming when you lift your head and both the headpiece and mask are still attached.

He grins sharply before his eyes narrow in a playful challenge. You feel his hand drag yours upwards, preparing to spin, and you follow his lead, twirling in three full circles. The flowing fabric of your costume billows around you, trailing your movements like an afterimage. As his hand lowers, it cradles your neck before returning to your waist, holding you close against him as you continue to step in tandem, bodies nearly molded into one another.

The song lets your body flow freely, following his guidance. You think you’re somewhere you’ve never been before, high in the clouds, between stars. It isn’t until the song ends and his dancing halts that you realize the world has momentarily faded away—only to remember that you are still on earth. Your chest heaves gently, catching your breath as you stare intently at your dance partner. His face is flushed, and a meaningful smile is plastered across it. His eyes are shining, longing for something. He almost looks nervous, the opposite of his confidence when he asked you to dance.

He’s about to speak when a shout breaks his eyes from yours, looking past you. You turn to the sound, letting your body part from him, to see another crewmember: a blonde waving your way. With disappointment in your heart you step back, giving him his opening to leave. The hand on yours clutches tighter when you start to slip away. Your stomach tightens.

He turns to you, eyes sharp as they stare into yours. A wave of conflict rushes over his face. Confusion sweeps through you. You’re sad to part too, but he looks almost desperate. You don’t know why.

His hold loosens, moving to press his palm against the back of your hand, tracing the front with his thumb. He slips the one on your waist to meet your palm, now holding your hand over his chest as if in prayer. His touch is soft, a little clammy. His eyes linger on your fingertips thoughtfully before coming to your face. They stare deeply, curiously. You start to feel embarrassed under his gaze, at how he seems to know something you don’t. Your body buzzes with a feeling you can’t describe.

“Thank you,” he finally says. A sad smile spreads across his lips.

You blink in confusion at his words, but ultimately nod. “Of course. Thank you, too.”

He drops your hand and starts to turn away. He pauses and looks back with his mouth ajar, like he’s going to add something. But he stops, then furrows his eyebrows as he looks down to the pavement. You aren’t sure what’s going on, or if you should ask. You decide to say something, in hopes to ease him.

“I’ll see you around,” you add.

He blinks in surprise, eyes jumping back to you. A small smile spreads across his face, releasing tension in your chest you didn’t know was resting there.

“Yeah,” he says. “I’ll see you.”

Your eyes trail the long points of his hat, watching curiously as the blond meets him halfway. You sigh and turn to the musicians, their cluster near the market tent. You resist the urge to look back, to see the man who held you so passionately. You listen for a few moments as the song floats by, the steady rhythm of the tambourine.

But now that you’re alone, you have no motivation to dance.

thank you for reading! any feedback or love is appreciated <3

i've done quite a bit of research into the cirque process/behind the scenes and i can't find much on costuming, so a lot of this is based on my own experience (not in costumes but very adjacent). every production/company has their own way of doing things though so it would probably vary.

the word "sākasu" is pronounced "sah-kah-soo" or more commonly: "sah-kah-s" since the "u" in "su" is often dropped. this also can be read as the word "circus" with a japanese accent, which is literally just how katakana works. it's not essential to the story, but i just felt like it might be important to mention.

#jiso.fics #All these stars - bnha circus AU #sero x reader #hanta sero #sero hanta #bnha #boku no hero academia #mha #my hero academia #fanfiction #sero #bnha sero #mha sero #cellophane #sero x you #hanta x reader #hanta sero x reader

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curliiwurlii · 14 days ago

Text

Let’s Go Trick-or-Treating!

The tape begins with a Halloween-themed logo for the show, with the apple now being replaced with a pumpkin and Amanda and Wooly in costumes.

It cuts to Amanda and Wooly in the living room with a few costumes laid out in front of them. Amanda and Wooly notice us and then greet us.

“Hi, friend! I’m Amanda!”

“And I’m Wooly!”

“And today, we’re going trick-or-treating! But first, we need to put on our costumes. Will you help us?”

A few seconds of silence pass before Amanda speaks again.

“Great! Okay, which costume should I wear?”

The screen shows a black cat costume, a spider costume and a lab coat with glasses.

Riley chooses the lab coat and glasses.

After Riley picks a costume, the screen then changes to Wooly’s set of costumes.

“Now, which costume should I wear?”

The screen shows an Angel costume, a wolf costume and a clown costume.

Riley chooses the angel costume.

After picking a costume for Wooly, the screen switches back to Amanda and Wooly in their costumes.

“Thanks for your help!” Amanda says. “Now, let’s go trick-or-treating!”

The tape changes to Amanda and Wooly walking on the sidewalk in the neighborhood with their bags full of candy, the houses behind them swaying in a continuous manner with their lifeless eyes.

“Oh man, we got so much candy! I can’t wait to eat it when we get back!” Amanda cheers, jumping up and down.

“Don’t eat so much though, or you’ll get a tummy ache.” Wooly adds.

“You shouldn’t be talking.”

“What’s THAT supposed to mean?!” Wooly asks, his face red with embarrassment.

After walking for a bit, the two notice a mysterious house, its design much different from the other houses near it. It almost looks abandoned, with broken windows and moss growing on it. Intimidated by the house’s appearance, the two walk up the stairs to the front door and ring the doorbell.

No one answers.

“Hello?” Amanda calls, knocking on the door. “Anybody home?”

A few seconds pass.

“Well, looks like they’re gonna get tricked tonight!” Amanda says with a smirk on her face as she opens the door to the abandoned house.

“Wait, Amanda!” Wooly calls, grabbing her by her sleeve. “You’re not ACTUALLY thinking of going in there, a-are you?”

“Of course I am!” Amanda replies. “Plus, it’s good to face your fears. Come on!”

Amanda runs inside the house as Wooly nervously follows, fidgeting with his hands as he walks inside.

The screen switches to Amanda and Wooly standing inside the center of the house, with 3 doors in front of them.

“Which door should we go in first?” Amanda asks.

Riley thinks for a moment before they point to the left door.

“Good choice. Let’s go!” Amanda cheers as she opens the door and both her and Wooly walk inside while holding each other’s hand.

The screen changes to what looks like an old living room, with a busted couch, an old TV, paintings on the wall and a radio on a table beside the couch.

“I’m already getting a bad feeling about this…” Wooly mutters, lightly tugging at his wool.

“Oh, be quiet.” Amanda scold him. “It isn’t even that bad! Just a little dirty.”

Riley notices the radio and points to it, saying “What about that radio?”

Amanda and Wooly notice them pointing to the radio and walk towards it. “I wonder what it’s gonna play.” Amanda says. It’s clear she’s having a lot of fun being in this house…

She curiously adjusts the frequency on the radio, hoping for something to play-but so far, it’s only been static.

“I think it’s broken…”

“You don’t say,” Wooly responds, examining the radio. “It’s all busted.”

Suddenly, the radio begins playing a news report, startling both Amanda and Wooly.

“It’s been over 2 months since 8-year old Cara Matthews has mysteriously gone missing and there are still no leads as of now. From the information that was given by her parents, Matthews was last seen watching one of Kensdale’s most beloved programs, Amanda the Adventurer. Some detectives believe that she was kidnapped, however there is no evidence for that statement. As far as we know, Matthews will never be found.”

The audio turns into static once again, as Amanda and Wooly stand there with horrified expressions on their faces.

“Not again…” Amanda mutters under her breath as static fills the screen. “I’m… I’m sorry…”

“A-Amanda…?”

Suddenly, the static completely stops and Amanda reverts back to her usual upbeat persona.

“Well, I’ve seen enough of this room,” she says. “Let’s get outta here.”

The screen switches back to the center of the room.

“Where should we go next?” Amanda asks.

Riley points to a set of stairs near the 3 doors.

“Good choice. Let’s go upstairs!”

As they’re walking up the stairs, Wooly notices that Amanda is holding his hand much tighter than before.

“A-Amanda, you’re squeezing my hand…”

She doesn’t respond.

“Amanda!”

“W-what?” She finally responds.

“You’re squeezing my hand.”

“Oh.”

Amanda quickly lets go of Wooly’s hand, still facing forward.

“You’re not… scared, are you? He asks.

“What? No, no, no!” Amanda responds, swatting her hand in disagreement. “M-maybe a little…” she mutters under her breath, but loud enough for Wooly to hear it.

“I-it’s okay, I’m scared too.” He says. “But we can face our fears together!”

She doesn’t respond.

Finally, the two reach the top and enter a pitch-black room.

“Dang it, it’s WAY too dark in here!” Amanda complains. “Do you have something we can use to light up the room?”

Suddenly the lights go out in the library right after she asks that question.

“Oh shit, not THIS again!” Riley complains.

They walk around the library for a bit while also hearing Amanda and Wooly’s complaints.

“I don’t like the dark…” Amanda whines.

“Don’t worry, they’ll find something! I’m sure of it.” Wooly reassures her.

After a few minutes of walking around the pitch-black library, Riley spots a light coming from behind one of the printers. Peeking behind it, they find a flashlight that’s already been turned on.

“Thank god.” Riley rasped as they head back to the TV, seeing Amanda and Wooly shivering in fear. They place the flashlight on top of the TV and watch it get absorbed into the cartoon.

“Thanks!” Amanda cheers as she begins pointing the flashlight to the center of the room. The light illuminates the room, showing a broken-down bedroom, with cobwebs decorating the walls and corners and a door in one corner. In another corner of a room is a bed with torn-up pictures beside it.

“Oh, this is…” Amanda mumbles, but doesn’t finish her sentence.

A few seconds pass before Riley notices the pictures beside the bed. Amanda and Wooly walk up to them and begin examining the torn-up pieces of the photos.

“I recognize some of these faces…” Wooly says, squinting at the papers.

“Hey, Amanda, can I see your photos?”

She doesn’t respond.

“Amanda?”

Wooly shuffles over to her to see her with a horrified look on her face, holding one of the pictures.

“What are you looking at-“ Wooly suddenly stops.

The screen changes to a closer view o the picture Amanda is holding.

It seems to show a young girl with braids and a black hoodie, but her face is blurred out. Riley notices that the girl in the picture looks familiar, like they’ve seen her before.

It finally comes to them. That girl is..

Rebecca Colton.

“This is… me?” Amanda whispers, her eyes only focused on the warped photo of the little girl as the screen begins to fill with red static.

“M-maybe it’s best to get out of here…” Wooly chuckles nervously, turning around. “Come on, Amanda. Let’s go ba-“

The exit to the room is gone. All that’s left is the door in the corner. Wooly grabs Amanda by the hand and runs and opens the door-but instead of another room, it’s a long corridor with another door on the other side.

“What the…”

“What’s happening…?” Amanda asks nervously, still holding on to the photo.

“I don’t know…” Wooly responds. “Look! There’s a door on the other side. Maybe that’s the exit.”

But once they reach it, the room inside is just the same long corridor.

Each door they go through causes the hallway to be even more warped, with twisted walls and darker hallways.

“I don’t wanna be here anymore…” Amanda whimpers, clutching onto Wooly’s hand.

“Me neither…” Wooly adds.

But it doesn’t matter. These hallways are an endless loop. There’s no way to escape.

A few minutes of running through endless hallways pass before the two eventually collapse in exhaustion.

“There’s gotta be a way out of here,” Wooly mutters. “We can’t be stuck here, r-right?”

“It’s hopeless.”

Wooly turns around to find Amanda curled up and shaking, the photo still in her hand as sniffing and muffled winces can be heard from her.

“We’re never getting out of here…”

A minute of nothing passes, the two sitting on the floor in the endless hallway, with Wooly fidgeting with the handles of his candy bag. The only sound that can be heard is Amanda’s crying.

Then, in a choked, raspy voice, she says:

“I want my dad…”

Then the tape falls out of the VCR.

“Poor girl,” Riley thinks. “She doesn’t deserve this…”

Author’s note: This was so much fun to write!! It’s WAY longer than the last, sorry about that. Anyway, thanks for reading and I hope to make more of these in the future!

#amanda the adventurer #amanda the adventurer 2 #wooly the sheep

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rita-repulsa-ke · 2 months ago

Text

The nice one

Sometimes Agatha falls into the trap of thinking of Rio as the nice one.

It isn’t even true! She’s feral and weird, growls at people who get too close, gets them chased out of towns by prophesying someone’s death or proudly proclaiming Agatha her lover. But she buys fruit from passing children and listens to people’s woes and is generally a little more friendly to the world than Agatha, who hates to have her time wasted and is often mean for her own amusement.

So sometimes Agatha forgets who she’s traveling with, until they hear a shrill voice screaming for help, a child of 8 or so splashing desperately in a creek alongside the path they’re currently walking. Rio pivots immediately, lopes over and crouches at the edge of the water, Agatha a few steps behind.

When Agatha glances down, she finds that the look on Rio’s face can only be described as excited, watching events unfold with parted lips and wide, unblinking eyes. She has her knife in her hand, tip flicking back and forth like a cat’s tail.

“Hey, Rio…” Agatha murmurs, eyes flicking between her lover and the drowning child.

Death doesn’t spare her a glance. That annoys Agatha to a frankly unreasonable degree, she hates when she’s not the center of Rio’s attention. And even she is having trouble simply standing and watching this. No matter what Rio occasionally accuses her of, she isn’t actually heartless.

The spell is easy enough, a quick swirl of her magic and the waters rise, spit the sobbing child on to shore.

Now Rio’s attention is back on her, a frown on her lips, sulking in a very human way, like she’d been deprived of a promised delicacy.

Agatha shrugs innocently. “You can’t really expect me to watch a child drown,” she points out. “That would be monstrous.”

A few feet away, the child, a girl, is still coughing up water. Agatha ignores her entirely.

“Ags, you are a monster. Does it matter that it’s a child?”

“I think it’s supposed to?” Agatha says. She’s heard that somewhere, anyway.

Rio sighs and comes to her feet. “Make it up to me,” she instructs, almost orders and Agatha isn’t sure how to feel about that at all, so she just watches Death glide past on bare feet to crouch next to the half-drowned girl.

“Are you all right?” she asks.

The child nods, trembling. As Agatha watches, mildly incredulous, Rio gently coaxes some information out of her, where she’s from and that she knows the way back home.

“Ags, give her your cloak, she’ll freeze getting back.”

“What? No!” Agatha snaps. She likes this cloak, it looks good on her.

Rio rolls her eyes, but finds one of their blankets, wraps it around the girl, manages to get a smile out of the girl by producing a flower out of thin air and handing it to her before she sends her on her way.

“Okay,” she says, standing up and turning her attention back to Agatha. “Where to next?”

Agatha only stares. “…I don’t understand you at all.”

Rio snorts. “That’s because I’m ineffable.”

“I really don’t think that’s it. What was all that about?”

Rio has moved too close, barely a step away from Agatha. It’s actually comforting, she used to it by now, the continuous presence of Rio in her personal bubble. “All what?”

”Why were you so nice to her?”

Rio shrugs. “She was scared and she’d almost drowned and it didn’t cost me anything. So why not?”

“You wanted her to drown!”

Rio sighs plaintively, leans her weight against Agatha’s side. “I did,” she agrees, a touch wistful. “I always like to watch. But it didn’t happen that way. Someone interfered.” She giggles to herself. “Suddenly Agatha Harkness is bothered by death.”

“I’m bothered by Death all the time,” Agatha murmurs. “…Did you really have to give her the blanket? Now we need another one.”

Rio offers her the smug smile of someone who has been planning this particular bit of innuendo for a while. “I have other suggestions for staying warm.”

Agatha groans loudly. “You know, my sweet, you may be a great and mysterious force of the universe, but your flirting technique could use some serious work.”

Rio frowns, kicks her foot against the dirt. “…I thought it was nice.”

“All I’ll say about it is that it’s good you’re gorgeous,” Agatha says, which makes Death fix her with an icy, unimpressed look, an expression that would terrify most people.

It only pleases Agatha. Annoying people, even (or perhaps especially) her lover, is her favorite pastime. “…Hey, I did say you were gorgeous. Does that get me any points?”

“No, but if you kiss me now, I’ll forget all about it.”

“What a hard choice,” Agatha murmurs, pulling her lover to her, kissing her slow and sweet, one arm around the other’s woman waist. When she finally pulls back, Death, ineffable and endless, is practically melted against her.

“Hey,” Agatha says thoughtfully. “Does this mean I’m the nice one?”

Rio raises her head from where it is buried against Agatha’s shoulder, somehow without engaging most of the required muscles. “…Sure, Agatha. You’re the nice one.”

“I always thought so,” Agatha lies. “Come, m’lady,” she says, taking Death’s hands in hers.

“Where are we going?” Rio asks, though they both know she doesn’t really care.

Agatha flashes her a wicked smile and gets to feel Rio’s hand tighten around hers, eyes widening again with excitement, but this time all of it correctly centered on Agatha. “Well, you did tell me to make it up to you.”

Promises is cute, the apple has Rio buying fruit from a child.

#agatha all along #agatha x rio #agathario #Fictional Child in danger

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1ichtbringer · 8 days ago

Note

i would love to hear more about your thoughts on choso if you want to share!! i always struggle to connect to him as a character admittedly because i haven't paid that much attention to his character building, so his connection to yuuji is basically front and center to me. would love to know more about what draws people to him though c:

hi, I feel like choso is one of those characters where most readers fell for the character’s facade when they were supposed to dismantle it or something like that :D

to put it simply, the reason I love choso is that, aside from his cool jujutsu skills, he is one of the few full-fledged characters in jjk, a character with a beautifully tragic story on top of that. all in my humble opinion, of course. :)

to show you, what I exactly mean, i will refer to 1. his jujutsu abilities and 2. his character arc and personal story. so, let’s start with the first one.

now, JJK has a lot of characters with super cool abilities and great understanding of jujutsu, unfortunately they just get overshadowed by the power houses like gojo, sukuna etc.

choso is such a case imo. he’s classified as a special grade curse and estimated to be a grade one sorcerer later. he’s a skilled all rounder, meaning he can combat in all ranges, has refined cursed energy control and high durability and strength, even compared to the other death painting wombs. he’s inherited the traditional kamo family CT Blood Manipulation and has arguably perfected his craft, without access to family knowledge, manuals or any battle experience, which is very remarkable.

but the problem with hereditary techniques is that the knowledge eventually seeps through the family boundaries, especially the three big clans seem to be thoroughly informed about each other’s techniques. which is the reason naoya instantly knows how to counter him. additionally, as his parent and because of his own former vessels, kenjaku also knows about the weakness’s of BM, which is a bit of a hardship.

choso can use all common BM abilities, however he also adds some of his own special creations, which is why he can catch off even stronger opponents in his battles despite his lack of battle experience (including kenjaku themself).

even though he looks like the hotheaded, emotional type at first glance, he’s actually very smart and an underrated tactician, seen to be advising JJT several times and coming up with clever plans to aid the sorcerers, even as they prepare to fight kenjaku and sukuna. he also has a remarkable logical understanding of jujutsu, that he seems to have developed on his own since he’s been incarnated for only a few months. I highly recommend you to pay attention to his fighting style or his comments on other people’s fights, it’s always interesting to listen to him. :)

now to his story:

I think since he’s a minor character, who seems rather stoic and unobtrusive on the surface, a lot of people focus on his dynamic with yuji instead of taking the opportunity to look behind his facade. so for a better understanding, let’s have a quick look into his backstory.

as death painting wombs, him and his brothers are the result of kenjaku’s “intellectual curiosity”, essentially conceived through longtime sexual exploitation of their mother, who naturally ends up resenting kenjaku for what they did to her. interestingly enough, choso is the only death painting, who gains memories of his parents and inherits his mother’s hatred for his father.

anyway, at some point, JJT retrieves the death paintings as cursed objects and locks them up in their warehouse, where they basically spent one and a half centuries in imprisonment while they’re fully conscious and alive. we know this, because it’s in those 150 years, that choso works on his jujutsu and also because he remembers his brothers reaching out to him for comfort while they have to live in complete darkness and cold.

once him, eso and kechizu are incarnated, choso, as the eldest, makes the decision to ally themselves with the disaster curses, despite not trusting them. He tells his brothers, it’s because “the future made by cursed spirits is more convenient for them”. We’ll come back to this statement later.

he loves his brothers and looks out for them, but he also has pride and confidence in their strength, which is why he lets eso and kechizu go on a mission without their big brother. unfortunately, it results in them being killed by their own half brother without any of them knowing, leaving choso with a lot of anger and the desire to kill the murderer of his brothers (remember, anger is just a secondary emotion).

after shibuya, where he’s finally confronted the killer of his brothers, only to realize that this mere child, is not only in fact one of his brothers, but has been going through hell without any remaining family, choso adopts yuji as his little brother.

now this is where it gets interesting, because most fans either seem to find his overprotectiveness for yuji extremely strange or endearingly funny, when in reality it’s evident that he has severe guilt and PTSD. not only, because he just failed to protect two of his precious family members the one time he left them out of his sight (even though it wasn’t his fault at all), but because he was the one who suggested to ally with the cursed spirits. in fact, he wasn’t entirely honest about his motivation to join the cursed spirits earlier.

see, the death paintings actually didn’t know anything about their appearances until the moment they incarnated. once they did though, choso quickly realizes a harsh truth about them. he looks quite “human” - human enough, to live among other humans, probably. but his brothers don’t.

eso and kechizu look different, their bodies are not normal. humans will never accept them and they will have to live in great pain, which scares choso, so much so, that he takes the “easy way out” for their sake.

but while he had worried about the hardships his half curse brothers could face among humans, yuji actually had to live through hell on his own, because of his humanity.

when yuji brings up, what he did to eso and kechizu, choso brushes it off quickly by telling him not to worry about it, that it was all a misunderstanding. again, he isn’t being entirely honest here. he actually doesn’t want yuji to worry, because he blames himself for their deaths. he blames himself for his dead brothers and he also blames himself for not finding yuji earlier, even though none of it is remotely his fault.

while yuji believes he doesn’t deserve to walk alongside his friends after sukuna’s rampage in shibuya, choso thinks he is undeserving of walking beside him. after all he killed humans - even though they were never treated kindly by them, deemed to be curses or objects or both their whole life.

yuki’s last words to him are to keep on living as a human. which is ironic, because right from the start, choso is as human as it gets.

he feels hate, but more importantly he feels love. love for his brothers, love for a mother he never met, love for yuji whom he just found, love for the first friend he’s made and who saves him before she dies.

his emotions are his greatest strength, but they’re also his biggest weakness. he is extremely selfless, but also very selfish. he has fears, is flawed and makes mistakes, quite a lot of them actually. he tells naoya that he makes them, so his siblings can learn from his misery and do better. It’s why he’s so tough in the first place, after all he had no one to rely on and had to learn everything by himself. he’s empathetic, oftentimes hiding his true thoughts in consideration for the people dear to him.

when he reunites with eso and kechizu in the afterlife, kechizu is surprised by how apologetic their big brother has become. their big brother, who always knew what to do and what to say without the need to apologise, looks strangely vulnerable now.

and even in his last moments, he still feels as though he didn’t do enough for yuji, despite being by his side in his direst times and giving his life for him. he dies with regrets, like sorcerers supposedly do, but he also dies with gratitude in his heart. gratitude for his little brother, who brought out his most human parts and allowed to stay by his side despite everything he did and like the big brother he is, he teaches yuji one last important lesson: that no one in this world is born with a set role.

#tldr I love him because im an emotional bitch and he breaks my heart djfkfkf #sry this got quite long 😭 lmk if I missed anything or you want to hear other specific opinions :)#choso #choso kamo #jjk choso #yuji itadori #itadori yuuji #kechizu #eso #yuki tsukumo #jujutsu kaisen #death painting wombs #jjk #jjk meta #🧸#☁️.blogging

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sergeantsporks · 5 months ago

Note

Writing Request: A fic set pre hollow mind about Luz and Hunter in a situation where they need to work together to accomplish something.

Luz swatted aside a massive thorny vine that kept trying to curl lovingly around her neck. “Suddenly,” she panted, “I appreciate Morton a lot more.” It was hard to believe that the scrawny, meek potions witch regularly made climbs like this to retrieve ingredients for Eda’s elixirs. Dead center of the Twisted Thorn Jungle, he’d told her. And, for some reason, it hadn’t occurred to her that she should bring Willow.

Between Eda’s elixir consumption going up and Lilith making her own demands, Morton was running out of stock fast. He’d cut a deal with Luz—he needed to watch the batch he was currently brewing, but at the rate they were disappearing, he wouldn’t have enough supplies to meet the next demand. If she went out and retrieved the ingredients he needed, he’d only charge for labor—fifty percent off, he’d told her.

“For Eda,” she muttered through gritted teeth when she tripped over another vine, “For—”

A blast of red magic cut through the vines, barely missing Luz.

“Stupid—vines,” a familiar voice grumbled, “You won’t get in my way.”

“Hey,” Luz yelled before she could stop herself, “Watch where you’re blasting!” Too late, she thought maybe she shouldn’t give up her position, but by the time the thought crossed her mind, a red blur shot right next to her, and Hunter, clothed in full golden-guard regalia, appeared next to her.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded, “Why are you always showing up in my way?”

“I’m not in your way,” Luz shot back, “You’re the one who nearly blasted me when I was minding my own business. And I could ask the same question. Not a bunch of palisman for you to kidnap or wild witches to arrest out here, now are there?”

“For your information, I’m not here to kidnap palisman or make any arrests. I’m here to—” he cut off abruptly. “Well—never mind.”

“You’re here to what?”

“None of your business! And I asked first, anyway.”

“Well, I’m up to—to important wild witch business. Which is none of your business. And has nothing to do with you.”

“Well—good. Because my mission has nothing to do with you either.”

Luz crossed her arms. “Then I guess we should just go our separate ways.”

“I guess we should!”

He stalked off, only to let out a half-groan, half shriek of anger. “Stupid—plants—”

Luz snickered. He hadn’t gotten far before his long white cloak had gotten snagged in the thorns. The vines snarled through the whole hem, and were making their way up towards his face.

“You should take it off,” she called, “Or else they’re going to worm their way through and gouge out your eyes.” She swatted another vine as it reached for her. “Don’t even think about it.”

“You think I don’t know how eye-splitters work?” he demanded, “I’m not leaving the cloak behind—why is it that every time I run into you, my cloak gets eaten by something?”

Luz sighed. She needed to get a move on—the Eye-Splitter root flower Morton needed only bloomed every other Tuesday, and it wasn’t the only ingredient she needed. But she couldn’t just leave him to get torn apart.

“Hang on,” she grumbled. She gently smacked one of the vines in-between its spines, the way the plant track teacher had shown her. It cringed away, slithering out of Hunter’s cloak.

“I don’t need your help!”

“Stop wriggling,” she told him, “And you’re welcome.” She smacked another vine. Only a few remained.

Through the slits in his mask, she saw Hunter’s eyes widen, and he lunged towards her. “Get down!”

He half-tackled her down into the vines with him, and Luz yelped as the thorns scratched her arms and pricked her face. “Hey—”

Wind whooshed overhead, and Hunter put his hand over her mouth, grabbing a vine and dragging it on top of them to use as cover. His cloak might have been a dumb accessory to wear in this jungle, but right now, Luz envied his long sleeves and heavy gloves.

The eye-splitters pulled the two of them further into their grasp, and it was all Luz could do to keep them out of her face while the whatever-it-was made another pass overhead. Hunter kept a tight grip on Luz’s arm even as the vines tried to force them apart. His other hand dragged his staff towards them, and pointed it down. Red magic washed over the green vines, and the ground beneath them gave way. Gravity proved stronger than the eye-splitters, and the two of them fell. Luz screeched as the thorns made one last desperate attempt to stick in her skin before she pulled free from their grip and crashed into the ground.

“Oof,” she grunted, sitting up. A warren of earthen tunnels stretched out around them as far as she could see, braced by twining roots. “Where are we?”

Hunter pulled a stray thorn out of his cloak. “Eye-splitter tomb? They tend to drop the corpses of their victims down here to rot and fertilize the soil for their seeds.” He kicked at the dirt. “Watch your step around here.”

“We’re in their meat pantry?” Luz yelped. She shook herself, trying to dislodge the feeling that she was surrounded by bodies.

“Better than getting ripped apart by a splitter vulture. They don’t always wait for the vines to finish the job.” Hunter flinched, fidgeting with his mask. “Ow—”

“Oh, take that thing off. It’s not like I haven’t seen your face before. What, are you trying to hide your identity from the killer plants?”

Hunter grumbled, but pulled his mask away, taking down his hood. Luz winced. Red welts traipsed across his cheekbones where the splitter vines must have gotten under the mask searching for his eyes. “You look awful.”

He gestured at the matching welts dotting her arms and ankles. “You don’t exactly look fresh-faced yourself.” He fumbled for the thorns still stuck in his face, succeeding only in pushing one further in with his clumsy leather gloves. “Ow—”

“You just have to ask,” Luz said serenely, yanking thorns out of her own arms with ease, “I didn’t save you from the vines just to let you stab yourself worse. Oh—” she lost grip on one of the thorns. “Wow, that one’s really stuck in there. Almost tempted to let the little guy have the win.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Hunter scoffed. He rummaged around in his belt pockets and pulled out a pair of tweezers. “Here. That should get them out. And then, uh.” He cleared his throat. “If you don’t mind. I didn’t bring a mirror.”

Luz finally pulled out the stubborn thorn with the help of the tweezers. “But you brought tweezers?”

“Incredible, it’s almost as though I prepared for a trip to a place called the “twisted thorn jungle,” he said flatly.

“Got me there.” Luz pulled a thorn out of his face, discarding it on the ground. “What are you doing out here anyway?”

“Trying to get a root flower off one of these things. They only bloom every other Tuesday, you know.”

“No way, that’s why I’m here, too!”

He gave her a quizzical look. “But you… didn’t know about the tunnels? How were you going to find them?”

“I—well, I thought I’d find them blooming aboveground to be honest. I’m not usually the one who gets these, but Morton’s keeping an eye on Eda’s elixir brew right now, and he’ll need them soon, so—wait, why am I telling you this? What nefarious reason do you have for getting one of these?”

“It’s not nefarious,” Hunter scoffed, “The potion head Vitimir just needs some.”

Luz could feel the skeptical look creeping onto her face. “And you just decided to leave the palace on an errand mission? Belos doesn’t have you counting all the doors or standing somewhere menacingly or hunting down some innocent wild creature? We didn’t actually kill that selkidomus, you know.”

“About what I figured.” Hunter looked away. “And if you must know, there’s a coven head meeting coming up, and I’d like at least one coven head to be on my side.”

“So you’re getting him to owe you a favor,” Luz put together, “Are you sure he didn’t send you out here because he was hoping the eye-splitters would get you, and he’d have one less person to compete with?”

“What? No! Why would he do that?”

“I don’t know,” Luz muttered, pulling the last thorn out of his face, “Why did Kikimora send a dragon to eat you?”

“That was different,” he snapped, snatching the tweezers back, “They wouldn’t dare.”

“Wouldn’t they? Did Kikimora even get a slap on the wrist for what she tried to do to you?”

The answer was no, based on the way his jaw muscles twitched, but he didn’t say another word. Instead, he spun around, stalking off into the tunnels.

“You’re welcome,” she called after him. She stretched, eying the roots. “Flowers, please. Uh, shoot, did Morton give me more instructions? Probably not,” she answered herself, “He didn’t even tell me about the grave tunnel.” She jogged after Hunter. “I am going to ask for way more than fifty percent off.”

“Stop following me,” Hunter grumbled, fussing with his belt pouch, “Go find your own flower.”

“Where?” Luz waved a hand out at the tunnels. “It’s the second Tuesday, and there’s not a flower in sight!" Now she almost wished she’d taken a second plant magic class, or at least had asked Willow about the eye-splitters before going.

Hunter chuckled, but when he looked her up and down, his face fell. “Oh, you weren’t joking. Human, they grow inward.”

“What does that mean?!”

“They’re root flowers. They don’t need pollinators, or sunlight. There’s no reason for them to be on the outside of the root. They grow on the inside to protect them from burrowing creatures, like ratworms.”

Luz resisted the urge to shake him, but only just barely. “So, what, we chop the roots open?”

Hunter snorted. “Yeah, and get the eye-splitter vines burrowing down immediately to protect their seeds. I don’t think so. No, you just need a touch of plant magic. Easy enough to simulate with the right potion. Which I… prepared…” he patted his pouch, digging around. “…beforehand… oh no. No, no, no, no—it must have gotten lost in the vines, it must have…”

“Hunter. Hunter!” Luz grabbed his arm. “Relax. I can just use a glyph.”

“Well, that’s well and good for you,” he snarled, “But what about me? I can’t go back with nothing!”

Luz doodled a glyph directly onto the roots and tapped it gently. The root burst into bloom, turning inside out and revealing dozens of flowers. “I think I can share.”

He eyed her skeptically. “Why?”

“I wouldn’t have known how to find them if it weren’t for you. Hey, we’ve been going back and forth on saving and helping each other all day, haven’t we? Call it an even exchange.” Luz shrugged. “And… maybe I think it isn’t fair for you to have no one in your corner. What are you trying to get done this meeting, anyway?”

Hunter wrung his hands. “Get more work put into the palistrom program,” he muttered, “There’s a shortage. It’ll cause long-term issues if we don’t work on it now.”

Luz had been prepared to jokingly take the flowers away after he said something anti-wild magic. This, though, left her gasping for words. “Well, now I’ve got to help you,” she managed, “Here—I can do another root. You take these.”

She turned to go, but before she could leave, Hunter heaved a sigh. “Wait. Take this.” He held out a foldable pouch, keeping one for himself. “It’s a pouch woven with plant magic. It’ll keep the flowers fresh until use. I brought two, but to be perfectly transparent, Vitimir does not need that many flowers.”

“Oh. Thanks.” Luz took the bag, giving Hunter a lopsided grin. “Not a bad teamup, eh? We should do this again sometime.”

“Absolutely not.”

#toh #the owl house #luz noceda #hunter wittebane #the golden guard #toh fanfic #my writing #writing requests

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defaulttwig · 2 years ago

Text

Spider Throwdown

Miguel O’Hara x gn!reader

Summary: Spider-Man 2099 entered a universe where the heroes punch a little harder and rarely ask questions. They’re a bit aggressive, but get their jobs done. As a variant Spider-person, he thinks you’ll make a fine addition to the team, but he first has to get you to hear him out.

Word Count: 3.4k

Warnings: hopefully a cool fight scene with an appropriate amount of violence, no romance sadly

A/N: Practicing action sequences. I'm so rusty at writing omg, I'll probably edit this later. (He makes me go rah rah rah. I have so many ideas similar to this where it's just you and Miguel beating each other up. Idk. That train scene did smthg to me, I want Miguel to just- yeah)

No movement.

You pressed yourself against the wall, high out of the average person’s line of sight and tucked away into the dark corners of the building. New York’s City Bank was all too familiar to you. Far too many criminals ranging from low-lives to the most heinous have tried to either steal from the bank or run it to the ground. Tonight was no different. You got a lead that another hit would happen before the clock struck twelve. Ready to make the first strike, you came early. Now, you just had to wait.

The bank itself was bland, minimalist with high ceilings that reached three stories. At the front were the large double doors that led to the streets. The back doors led to the private offices. In the middle of the ceiling, a large, rectangular skylight cast a glow to the center of the room, faintly highlighting the benches and potted plants. From your position, you had eyes on all access points to the vault. Nothing would get past you.

Under the skylight, the leaves of potted ferns swayed. You scanned for any sign of an open window or movement. None. The ferns tilted, gravitating toward one point like they were pulled by a magnet.

Particles ignited in the middle of the room, bright and colorful in contrast to the somber glow of the skylight. They grew in size, expanding into geometric shapes. Each shape flashed in a hum your ears couldn’t quite catch. All at once, they disappeared. Gone, vanished, as if you imagined the whole thing, and the plants returned to their original position.

Left behind stood a man in a tight-fitting blue suit with his back turned to you. He had to have come out the other end of the thing. A portal, then. You scrutinized his muscular build, not yet deciding he was a threat. Muscle didn’t mean everything. He sure dressed like a villain, though. Red coated the upper half of his suit and his forearms sported two spike-like appendages.

A hologram appeared beside his head. He turned to address the small figure, too small for you to decipher from your spot. The emptiness of the room gave him the confidence to speak to the hologram. Despite being the only one talking, you failed to catch every word, hearing only bits and pieces.

“Find Spider-…Careful…Put up a fight.”

So, he came for you. What little you could understand helped paint a picture. This wasn’t just a hit, it was a trap to lure you into an ambush. He didn’t match the description from your informant, but that didn’t matter. It wouldn’t be the first time your sources tried to pull a fast one on you.

“Scan the room.”

A device pulled away from him. It hovered, swiveled and moved around, shining a golden light on everything in sight, from down on the floor to up the walls. Occasionally, it beeped to signify nothing of importance. You fixed yourself onto the balls of your feet. When it turned in your direction and the yellow fixed itself onto you, you kicked off the wall.

An alert sounded and the man pivoted. You shot a ball of web onto the floating device, soaring past as it crashed to the ground, and aimed your web shooters at him. Two ropes shot out. He jumped to the side, dodging the webs. You tapped your web shooters and cut the ropes of web, landing on your feet. Up close, you got a better look at the man.

A spider symbol rested in the middle of his chest.

“That wasn’t cheap, you know?”

You looked into the sharply angled lenses of his mask. “This will be easier if you don’t call in for back-up.”

He straightened. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.” You balled your hands into fists, ready to pounce. Any bite to his voice turned to hesitation. “Wait.”

“Can’t go back, now,” you grunted out, throwing your fist in his direction.

He caught your fist and held you still, even as you tried to pull away. “I have something to say.”

You used the grip he had on you to your advantage. Kicking off the ground, you raised your leg over yourself and hooked it around his neck. In one spin, you sent him to the ground and released his hold on your fist. Given an opening, you placed your hands on the floor and threw your leg out for another kick.

He raised his forearms, angling the suit’s appendages away from your body, and blocked the kick. “I’m not here to hurt you.”

You twisted your body and flipped upright, pushing yourself several feet away. “I find that hard to believe.”

He got to his feet and lowered his hands. “You’re going to have to trust me. I know that’s hard for you, but think with your brain for once and not your fists.”

You narrowed your eyes, the lenses on your mask copying the action. Your stance relaxed. He wasn’t swinging punches right out the gate like the others you’ve fought in the past. “You plan to make me listen to you through insults?”

“No. Let me explain-”

“Are you going to talk the entire time or fight me?” You crossed your arms, waiting for his next move. “My patience is wearing thin.”

“If you’d just let me speak.” He paused. You remained quiet, glaring at him with scrutiny. “My name is Miguel O’hara. I’m not from here. I’m from a different earth.”

You huffed through your nose. “Is that all you have? Be serious.”

He touched his temple. “It’s you who-” He groaned. “I am from a different universe and the multiverse is in danger. I’ve formed a group of people like us-”

“Us?” You upturned your nose. “What do they call you?”

He inhaled. “Spider-Man-”

“Ha,” you barked out a laugh. “I’ve heard enough.” You turned on your heel and walked in the direction of the back doors. “If you’re not here to fight, then leave. I’m expecting someone.”

“I’m trying to talk to you.” He groaned deeply. You could feel his agitation raise in waves. Goosebumps lined your arms and you slowed your steps. “Turn around and listen,” he grunted deeply. At the same time your spidey senses went on high alert, he cursed under his breath. “Shit.”

You leapt to the side, catching only a glimpse of a potted fern flying past you. With quick reflexes, you shot a web at it. You dug your foot into the ground, pivoting with the momentum of the pot as you swung it. Gritting your teeth, you let go and sent it flying back at him.

Miguel widened his stance. You used the pot as a cover, darting for the walls. He punched through the pot, causing a pile of dirt and ceramic to fall at his feet. He whipped his head to and fro, finding you climbing up where rows of windows could be an escape.

You looked past your feet at a digging sound. He quickly clawed his way up to you. While he drew nearer, close enough to swipe at you if he wanted, you leaned back and shot two webs at a higher spot on the wall. Pulling back, you stretched the webs as far as they could go before you relaxed your body.

Slingshotting higher up, you opted to run on all fours. Miguel followed dutifully. Together, you both climbed past the second story, nearing the ceiling. You stooped just below the third story window, waiting for the right moment.

“Stop running!”

You took one glance at him closing in on you once again. Digging your fingers into the wall, you shifted on your feet before springing backwards in an arch. Miguel’s head followed the twist of your body as your legs swung out below you. He flipped around and curled his fingers into the wall, looking all but ready to leap at you.

Your wrists extended past you, the lenses of your mask locked onto him. Two rope webs landed on either side of him and you wrapped the rope around your wrists. Your body propelled toward him with one knee curled up, slamming into his stomach and causing his body to dent the wall. Bits of plaster fell from behind him. Miguel grabbed your knee, shuffling his feet on the wall in an attempt to buck you off. He managed to push himself off the wall. You loosened your grip on the webs, letting them fall away before shooting two more and slamming him back into the wall. Another dent just below the other.

Your knee in his stomach and the sizable dent kept him rooted. You laid one hand on the wall by his head to steady yourself and reeled your other arm back. Miguel’s hands flew to your back, fruitlessly pulling at your suit. There was no way to get you off of him.

He snarled. “Stop!”

When your fist flew straight for his masked face, alarm bells went off in your head. Your whole body tensed, alerting you of impending danger. Miguel’s hands laid flat on your back, fingers digging into you and no longer trying to pry you off. Sharp pain sprang forth from his fingers. Claws cut through your suit and into your skin. You cried out, punch falling short of anything and fist hanging in the air.

Your grip on the wall grew slack. Miguel’s body peeled off the wall, falling over you. His masked face drew near yours before his wrist extended out. A web shot forth and pulled him toward the opposite wall. You regained your senses and shot out your webs at the ceiling. You swung around to the wall farthest from him.

Your back stung. You felt the small spurts of blood flowing from it, soaking the fabric of your suit. It was warm. Gross.

Miguel yelled out, “Can’t you see that I’m on your side?”

The blood trickling out of your back begged to differ. Your spidey sense simmered with the hint of a threat. You had no reason to believe him. “Forgive me for not seeing the obvious.”

“I came here to talk to you.”

He was the threat. “I’m done talking.”

“You’re making this harder than it needs to be.” He watched you shoot a web at the ceiling before you kicked off the wall.

Your body fell towards the floor, only to swing back up. You released the web and shot one straight at his chest. In one, strong tug, you pulled him off the wall and swung him around towards the floor. He swiped his claws through the rope and aimed his wrist at you.

A rope of web shot out past you, sticking to the wall. You had no time to dodge his body launching straight at you before he grabbed you by the neck, taking you with him. Your back slammed against the wall, taking your breath from you.

With his one wrist wrapped around the rope to keep you both suspended, he shifted his hold on your neck, exposing your jugular. You fixed your feet to the wall and threw your fist up from under, hitting him square in the jaw. He drew back and you took the opportunity to yank the rope, ripping it. Before gravity could do its thing, you placed your hands on his chest and kicked off the wall.

Miguel thrashed and grabbed at your wrists, just as he crashed to the floor. He grunted, grip loosening. You wrenched yourself from his grasp and slammed his wrists to the floor. With quick taps to your web shooters, his hands were bound to the sleek surface. His head jerked and he grunted.

You huffed. “Don’t try anything. You’re finished.”

The two of you were back under the skylight. From his wrist, a watch glinted, stealing your attention. It was bulky, complicated tech you didn’t recognize. If he’s been using this to contact the others and summon devices and portals, then it was just as dangerous as he was. You reached for it, ignoring his excuses and the way he hardly tried to fight you off anymore.

The way he spat out your name gave you pause. Your full name, your life story, the day you got bit by the spider. The night your uncle died. You whipped your head to lock eyes. He listed off things about you that nobody should have known about.

Your heart dropped to your stomach and, despite your rationality, you peeled off your mask to fully glare at him. Your eyes bounced around his mask, scrutinizing him in a panic. “How do you know who I am?”

The hesitation lasted long enough for him to break through his bonds. He pounced, flipping you over until your back smacked onto the ground. The cuts in your back stung, chilled by the cold floor. Your thoughts raced a mile a minute. You had absolutely no connection to this man. In your panic, his mask receded and revealed a handsome, unfamiliar face. A stranger knew too much about you.

He opened his mouth, revealing sharp canines. Fangs like a vampire. His eyes glowed red, the contours of his face shadowed by the sharp angles. Your hand pathetically pushed at his face, smushing his cheek. He took a fistful of the hair on your scalp, tilting your head to the side. In a blink, you shouted at the pain of his teeth sinking into your neck.

You fisted at his hair, tugging hard to pry him off of you. It was fruitless. A sickly warm feeling invaded your senses, sapping your energy by the millisecond. Your breaths quicked, all while your body went rigid, shutting down. Your hand fell away from his hair, landing on the floor.

“What-what did you do?” You struggled to use your mouth, only able to utter that one phrase before you lost your ability to speak.

He pulled away to look you in the eyes. The scowl on his face dropped to one of relief and his shoulders slumped. He let out a deep sigh, rolling his shoulders back. “You’re going to stay still and listen to what I have to say.” He glanced around the setting. Unceremoniously, he took you by your arms and hoisted you over his shoulder. “Here’s a little too open.”

Your spidey sense kicked into full gear. Goosebumps dotted your arms, hanging limply by your head.

Danger.

Get away.

Danger.

Move.

The wall behind Miguel exploded, sending you both flying. Your body slid across the floor and your eyes flicked over to the hole in the wall. The last thing you saw was a brick flying at your head and Shocker climbing over the debris into the bank.

+:+:+:+:+

Pain. Your head pounded and you winced. It felt like someone was squeezing your brain. Your head rolled and you groaned, not quite yet ready to open your eyes.

“Good. You’re awake.” You half-listened to the cold voice off in the distance. “It wasn’t my intention to get interrupted, or for you to get knocked out.”

You blinked several times, picking your head up. Everything was fuzzy, a blur. As you slowly came to, your eyes locked onto a family photo from some summer day nestled by a desk lamp. You looked around more, finding yourself in an office. You recognized this place. You were still in the bank, just in the back of it.

You tried to reach for your head to soothe the source of your headache. No doubt a large, ugly bump formed from Shocker’s grand entrance. Your wrists wouldn’t move. You looked down, finding red webs restraining your arms to the armrests of the chair you sat on. More red webbing wrapped around your torso. Your eyes jerked open, now fully awake.

“Where’s Shocker?”

“I took care of it.” From the shadows on the other side of the office, Miguel emerged. He approached with his mask receded, and only then did you realize yours was still off. A quick scan and you found the crumpled fabric on your lap. “He won’t be an issue, for now.”

“Gives us plenty of time to talk,” you said. Your spidey sense didn’t go off, so that was good. Your limbs still felt sluggish and your back pulsed from the cuts. You didn’t exactly have the upper hand here, if this was a fight.

He crossed his arms. “My name is Miguel O’hara. I come from another universe.”

“So, why are you here?”

“I’ve created a network of Spider-people, people like us, that work together to prevent anomalies from disrupting the multiverse.” He walked up to the desk, standing tall over you. “I came here to invite you to join us.”

You frowned. A part of you believed him. It wasn’t like you were a stranger to the multiverse theory, but you held off on any excitement. “Cut me out of these webs and I might consider.”

He huffed. “Cute, but I’m not taking any chances.”

“Afraid I’ll kick your ass again?”

“I was holding back.”

You rolled your eyes. “Sure, man.”

“If I wanted to-” His voice raised slightly before he curled his hand into a fist and took a deep breath. He relaxed his hand. “You’re not making this easy.”

“It’s hard to see your argument when I’m the one tied up.”

“I had to. You weren’t being-” He waved his hand. “Stay on topic. Will you join?”

You gave him a once over. Cocking your head back, you huffed through your nose. “So, there’s people like me? Same powers? Same story?”

“Similar powers. Similar stories.”

You leaned toward believing him, not just because he was easy on the eyes. He didn’t take the chance to kill you while you were out cold. That sort of gave you the impression he was something of a hero. Not quite. Vigilante, maybe.

“What’s your story?”

“Off topic.”

“You already know mine, apparently.” Your expression soured. “Was that important to your little club?”

He bit back a response. Turning his head, he set his hands on his hips. “Join or don’t join. I don’t care.”

“So, you traveled across the multiverse to just get your ass kicked?”

“I didn’t-”

“Ha.” You cracked a smile. Watching him bristle was amusing. “You know, Michael-”

“Miguel-”

Your smile widened. Just this once, you’d entertain a guy like him. “You’re a funny guy. I’ll join, but on one condition.”

His brows raised expectantly. “That is…”

“I want a rematch.”

He set his hands on his hips. “That’s all you want?”

“Just to prove I can kick your ass.”

His expression blanched. “That won’t happen, but I can agree to those terms.”

“Alright, then I accept your invitation.”

Your eyes followed his movement around the desk. Miguel brought his hand up where claws emerged from his fingertips. You watched, mildly intrigued, as he cut the webbing around you. He stepped away, giving you room to stand, as he headed toward the office door and touched the thick watch on his wrist.

You picked up your mask and maneuvered around the desk, standing an arm’s length away. “That’s what lets you jump dimensions,” you guessed. “Do I get one?”

A loud shout called out to you from the other side of the wall. “Spider! I know you’re still here!”

Miguel looked over his shoulder as a portal appeared in front of him. “I’ll let you take care of that.” He turned to step through it, pausing long enough to toss something back to you. You caught it and looked down to find a watch like his own. “Come to Headquarters when you’re finished. I’ll explain everything there.”

He walked into the portal, disappearing as it closed behind him. It was almost like he was never here. But the sting in your back said otherwise.

You attached the watch to your wrist, turning your wrist this way and that to admire it. Not bad. A bit ugly, but you could get used to it, if this was really happening. You read off the screen.

Earth-928.

“Come out and face me!”

You pushed the excitement to the back of your mind. More people like you, a multiverse, other worlds to explore, and a rematch with that guy. You’d deal with that afterwards.

You slid the mask over your head and rolled your shoulders. Confidently striding to the door, you couldn’t help but smile.

This wouldn’t be long.

#miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara x you #reader-insert #miguel o'hara fanfiction

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audinosaur · 2 years ago

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seijoh road trip ¡!

(bc i’m on a super long car ride right now)

let’s start with seating arrangements (assume they’re in an suv or something bc those maniacs would not be able to fit in anything small)

iwaizumi’s driving (i don’t think this needs an explanation)

matsukawa’s in the passengers seat. always. he’s the oldest sibling so therefore the front seat is his god-given right, sitting in the back is just too foreign for him

(he’d also put together a pretty nice playlist for the trip let’s be honest)

kindaichi’s also usually a front seater (when he drives w his family), but with anyone else he prefers the very back row. it’s nice and secluded :)

plus he always sits next to kunimi, and kunimi needs the seclusion

speaking of needs, yahaba gets car sick ridiculously easy, so he needs to be next to a window so he can have easy vomiting access

like actually, the slightest bump or turn will make him throw up.

watari’s right there next to him (he’s the only one sane enough & versatile enough to handle being in the very center of everything)

oikawa’s sitting behind iwaizumi, partially to be a helpful navigator and partially to annoy the fuck outta him

makki’s in the third row. i don’t have much to say about this, he’s just chill. you could put him on the hood of the car and he’d be all “this is cool man”

kyoutani’s in the trunk lol

he’s a trunk guy?? he’d sit back there with his dog and enjoy being away from everyone (plus he kinda hates the feel of seatbelts, they’re too constrictive)

(“that’s kind of the fucking point kyou”)

(“you are literally turning green go puke your guts out yahaba”)

hanamaki is the king of snacks. chips? he’s got em. chocolates? he’s got em. cookies? he’s got em. that boys bag is the equivalent to mary poppins’, the snacks just keep coming

funnily enough he can never remember to bring a phone charger

(chargers are kunimi’s department)

kunimi’s blasting music/white noise/anything into his earbuds the entire ride. he NEEDS his shit to be charged because he’s not about to listen to people talking (read: arguing) for hours on end

kindaichi’s always the one who had to go to the bathroom immediately after they leave the rest stop

“why didn’t you go back there??”

“I DIDN’T HAVE TO GO THEN-”

when everyone falls asleep iwaizumi likes to listen to true crime podcasts

the only thing is, watari is physically incapable of falling asleep in cars (i am projecting) so he just has to listen in horror as a narrator describes the most gruesome, bloody murders he’s ever heard

they accidentally left kindaichi behind once at a gas station (it was only for 5 minutes, but he sobbed uncontrollably)

after that they made sure to do a head count at every stop

every half hour oikawa will get bored and make them all play games like i spy, 20 questions, truth or dare (mostly truths), etc.

cue kyouhaba crawling over the seats to beat the shit out of each other during punch buggy

kunimi’s splayed over kindaichi for half of the trip

so hanamaki will be having a conversation with kindaichi and trying so hard to ignore the fact that kunimi’s head is in his lap and the former is combing his fingers through the latters hair

oikawa switches out to drive so that iwaizumi can sleep for a bit, but ends up screaming at some dumb crap another car did and is banned from the wheel (road rage oikawa supremacy!)

kyoutani’s the “are we there yet?” person. every ten minutes he’ll ask how much longer until they stop

when they do stop, he’ll just go run a lap or two. then come back ten times happier than before, he just needs to stretch his legs !!

mattsun will look up fun facts about each place they visit to entertain everyone :) he’ll be very “dad”-ish about it, like “woaahh, listen to this kids” and “jeez louise that’s a cool little nugget of information”

(we need more dorky matsukawa he’s a total fucking nerd sometimes)

he likes to recline his seat all the way back just to piss yahaba off (he moves it back upright but only after making the second year say please)

yahaba practically falls to the ground when they pull over at rest stops. everyone will go get food/water and pee and he’ll still be kneeling on the pavement holding his stomach when they get back

(when i said the guy gets car sick i MEANT CAR SICK)

in between podcast episodes, iwaizumi will look back at all his sleeping teammates (and a mortified watari) and just think about how much he loves his friends :))

#this got very long sorry :’D #i just love them so much #seijoh #aoba johsai #iwaizumi hajime #matsukawa issei #kindaichi yuutarou #kunimi akira #yahaba shigeru #watari shinji #oikawa tooru #hanamaki takahiro #kyoutani kentarou #kyouhaba #kinkuni #haikyuu!!

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filthforfriends · 1 year ago

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Chapter 4: Comfort

The Sun is the Center of Everything

See Authors Note (CW: Addiction, hard drug use)

Word count: 4.1k

“The label would like to fly you out to London.”

“Do they know we’re broken up?”

“This isn’t for an event. Sony believes that you’re the most effective kind of damage control when it comes to Damiano. They’re probably not wrong.”

“Is he okay?” Already, you’re opening Twitter.

“For now. I think he’s reached a turning point where the drugs are more scary than they are rewarding. If we can just get him into rehab…” In moments of wishful thinking, you’d done some research into rehab programs in Rome. In a moment of poor impulse control you’d stuck Damiano’s name on wait lists, which was no small undertaking. It meant using confidential healthcare information that you knew from the five year relationship. The fact that he hadn’t consented made it not entirely legal, but you justified it as a means to an end.

“The label is willing to refund Damiano for the program, whatever he chooses.”

“I think the difference might be an Italian-speaking facility.”

“I agree. So you’ll come?”

“Yes,” you wince. This might go horribly and hurt like a motherfucker.

“Good. Your flight leaves in four hours. The car service will drive you to the hotel. They have a gig tonight.”

“Oh lord.” The chauffeur actually took you straight to the venue, promising to deposit your belongings in your hotel room. You still had your friends and family badge. Wearing it again felt like putting on a costume. The cavernous backstage area was weirdly empty. You had to follow the arrows to the dressing rooms, of which there was an entire hallway. It was unusual that each band member had their own and that none of them were there to greet you. Handlers and security gathered around the entrance to what you assumed was Damiano’s room with crossed arms. You weren’t sure why, until you heard the yelling.

“Shit, he’s gonna shred his voice for tonight.”

“We’re past that point,” someone responds, not even looking at you.

“Just leave him to calm down,” another suggests.

“We need him for soundcheck,” someone else hisses. Many of these staff members were added since the breakup. Luckily, you found Ronnie.

“Hey, staring at him like a zoo animal isn’t helping, no?”

“Oh, hey. Yeah, um…”

Damiano comes out of either a closet or bathroom, slams the door and bellows, “Why the fuck are you watching me?”

“We don’t know what he has on him or if he’s eaten today.” Damiano slides down with his back against the wall and curls in a ball behind the couch. He’s so defeated and powerless that it shatters your heart into splinters of glass.

“He’s totally dysregulated. Have you offered him food? Water?”

“He’s insisted that he won’t eat,” says another new voice.

“Get him some pizza from the bougiest place you can find and if he doesn’t eat it, fine. What about his rider?”

“It contained alcohol so we had someone remove it.”

“You removed the whole rider, not just the alcoholic drinks?” You look at Ronnie in astonishment. “Fresh fruit is on his rider because he eats it before a gig. So he has something in his stomach, but it won’t make him sick running around on stage.”

“Right can, uh…can someone get some fresh fruit for Damiano?”

“No citrus, no pineapple,” you add. “Don’t need to douse his vocal chords in citric acid right before a gig. Also throat coat tea and cold compresses to help him calm down. Alkaline water, as well.” You look into the giant dressing room to see if he’s noticed your voice amongst all the others. Dami seems to be in his own little world, and not in a good way. You can’t do this with an audience.

“One more thing, could you just back up a little bit.” You herd the onlookers out of the doorway so you can achieve privacy. “Just a little more, mhm. Okay, great.” Before they realize what you’re doing, you close the doors of the dressing room in their surprised faces. Trying not to startle him, you place a hand on Dami’s back. It smells like he forgot to put on deodorant. Or maybe he was so stressed he sweated through it already.

When that doesn’t elicit a reaction, you rub his back and run your fingernails along his scalp. Dami shivers and looks up in confusion. That was your touch, but how the hell were you here? He’s obviously high, pupils completely blown out. Could phone camera’s catch that on stage?

“I closed the doors, it’s just me and you here.” He’s still processing, confusion turning into surprise.

“What did you take? Blow and liquor?” He nods sheepishly and avoids your eyes. “What about pills?” Looking sincere, Damiano shakes his head.

“They sent you here to talk to me?”

“I guess. I’m not here to chastise you, though. It seems like you needed some peace.” You stroke his head, then down his face. Dami leans into you organically.

“Can we sit on the couch instead of the floor?” As he stands, there's a timid knock on the door. Someone slides a couple trays inside. Fruit and tea on one, ice water water and a stack of cloths on the other.

“Thank you,” you say curtly and lock the door. “Ohh-kay, do you want some tea for your voice?”

“No thank you,” Damiano clears his throat. You wrap the first cold rag on the back of his neck and use the second to softly wash his face, redipping to keep the cloth cold. As much as you’d like to ask questions, it was clear that soothing is what Damiano needed.

“I’m gonna go grab the other tray.” You start eating the fruit yourself, knowing that will encourage Dami, and he takes sips of tea. You exchange the rag on the back of his neck with a fresh one. This is the tipping point. He opens the water bottle, but doesn’t drink. Instead, Damiano reaches towards you, arms around your waist and head in your lap as his face crumples.

“I can’t control it!”

“I know,” you murmur, stroking his flushed complexion.

“I can’t control it and I don’t know what to do,” he cries. “I just want to go home.” How childlike we all are, when worn down to the bone.

“That’s why I’m here, to take you back to Rome after this gig.”

“No, I fucking hate Rome,” he bites.

“Rome is your home.”

“No, you were my home and now whenever I go to Rome I can’t come home.” Closing your eyes, you try to steady yourself, with a few deep breaths, then a few more.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper.

“I fucked it all up and I’m afraid…it feels like I’m too far gone to turn back.”

“You are not too far gone! People spend years in hard drug addiction and they’re not too far gone. Please, don’t give up on yourself! I haven’t given up on you, not at all.”

“Why not?”

“Because you are right here, right now, acknowledging that this is out of your control.”

“I’m so afraid of getting better because there’s only one direction. If I don’t do it then I’ve failed. If I fail, then I might as well die.”

“No, that’s not true! If you’re alive, then there's always a chance to get better. And if you relapse, you can get clean again.” As you say the words, they sound more like a Hallmark card than a mature piece of advice. Neither of you were equipped to handle this particular moment.

“Then you won’t want me anymore!”

“Yes, I will! My love isn’t that fragile. I am not that fragile. I dealt with your self-destructive alcoholic ass for months before we ended it.”

“I’m never happy. Even the blow doesn’t make me happy, it just keeps me going. The other day I was so close to trying crack, just to see if I would fucking feel something again.

“But you didn’t?”

“No, but I almost –” You lean down and press a long kiss to Dami’s cheek.

“You’ve already started getting sober then. Plus you’ve admitted that you need to get better, that this is all out of your control. Three weeks ago you couldn’t say that. You’re doing good.”

“It feels like it was all for nothing. I burned every bridge to force Sony’s hand in a new contract, and now I’m even more miserable than before. I can’t even enjoy it because I can’t enjoy anything! I’ve driven so many people away and the ones left are other addicts, but they’re all fucking miserable too. I can see them pretending they’re not and its so fucking depressing that sometimes I don’t even want to –”

”Go on,” you whisper horsely, stiller than a granite statue.

“I don’t even want to be alive anymore,” he finally admits. “The entire world thinks I’m a druggie playboy and they’re not wrong. I’ve destroyed all my credibility, every good thing that people thought about me and I’ll never get it all back.”

“I disagree, I think an epic rebrand will be humanizing and make you more lovable than ever. People crave a comeback story.”

“But I never put 100% into getting sober before! I don’t know how to try, what if I’m not good at it?”

“I guarantee you won’t be, which is why you’re going to go to one of the best rehab facilities in Rome. You’re gonna get psychiatric care to treat the why of your addiction so you can stay clean.”

“Come on,” Damiano sits up, face riddled with skepticism. “It takes weeks or months to get into those places.” He starts eating just like you’d predicted.

“That's why you’ve been on half a dozen waitlists for a few months.” Damiano scoffs and catches a grape in his mouth.

“No I haven’t.”

“Yes, you have.”

“How would I –” When he makes the connection, Dami’s mouth falls open in surprise. “You? But you’d need my SSN and fiscal code, right?” You nod with a self-satisfied grin. “Did you steal my identity, y/n?”

“For your own good.” He shakes his head in mock disapproval, but gives it away with a poorly suppressed smile. “I secured a spot for you before I got on the plane.” Secured was a nice way of saying frantically called and pathetically begged until I got a yes. His face falls.

“What? Do you really hate Rome that much? I’ll visit you.”

“No, no…I was just hoping for an excuse to stop by the apartment for a night.”

“When you get out, you’ll make me dinner and meet Cheeto, okay?”

“I’d love that. We’ll have– ‘scuse me.” He makes a face then bolts to the bathroom. Damiano turns on the faucet and fan, but you can guess the sound he’s concealing. Giving him a few minutes before checking in, you snoop through all his stuff. In the bottom of his box of cigarettes is a mostly empty dime bag of white powder that you almost missed. There’s also a pill case at the bottom of his purse which has coke in it, too. You feel silly after checking the room itself for drugs, as if Damiano wasn’t taping heroin to the underside of the sickly-green velvet couch.

“Babe?” Oops. “Dami, I’m coming in okay. In sickness and in health.” He’s sitting on the floor in the corner, panting, face scrunched in pain. You retrieve the water and cold compress tray.

“You really can’t keep anything down?” He shakes his head, obviously exhausted. “I’m so sorry. I know that cocaine can be hard on your stomach.”

“My own fault,” he winces.

“Yeah, but I still hate seeing you suffer.” You sit down on the floor beside Dami and pull his legs across your lap. Naturally, his head rests on your shoulder. You rub his back for a while, wiping it down with a cold cloth first.

“That's nice,” he whispers.

“Mhm.” You make a fresh one to wipe the sweat from his face. Then you take an ice cube and run it across the top of Dami’s chest to stimulate the vagus nerve. His breathing starts to slow and he leans into you more.

“I really miss this.”

“Affection?”

“Comfort. Everyone is…exhausted with me.” Not knowing what to say, you wrap one arm around Dami, set the other hand above his knee, then rock back and forth. For a few more minutes, you sit in silence on the hard tiles of the bathroom floor, just being together.

“Okay, I’m about to fall asleep, which means I need to get ready.” With a grunt, Damiano stands upright, then pulls you up after him. “Thank you, my lo – sweet – y/n.”

“Smooth.”

“Mm, thanks,” he cringes, walking up to the sink. He picks up a travel toothbrush and fresh tube of toothpaste that someone had already left there, prepared for this moment. You unlock the door and peek your head out to find Ronnie leaning his back against the opposite wall.

“Hey is he, is he gonna do the show?”

“Yeah, can you get us tickets back to Rome as soon as possible? His place is being held at a facility that does 24/7 intake.”

“Like right after the gig?”

“Yeah, I don’t feel comfortable taking care of him overnight. He needs people who know what they’re doing.”

“So he agreed to rehab. How’d you get him in?”

“Uh, name dropped,” you shrug, trying not to overcompensate. “So by the end of the show we’ll need a car ready with all our luggage, plus a change of clothes for Dam.

“Something inconspicuous. There’ll be a car waiting when you land, of course.”

“What if Twitter finds out we’re traveling?” Fans wanting a picture was inconvenient, but paparazzi wanting a story were truly the worst ever.

“Security will be there as soon as you deplane. We’ll keep this need to know.”

“‘Kay because he can’t handle any stress. I’ll need an ETA before we take off to give the facility and um…I don’t want him to get arrested for drug possession.”

“Damiano never puts drugs in his luggage, he always keeps them on his person.” You can already feel the nerves of walking by drug sniffing K-9s, hoping to god that there isn’t any significant residue in the bottom of his pant’s pocket.

“So we’re depending on the addict to be rational, thorough, and honest in the process of throwing all his drugs out? Really?”

“He’s good about not taking stuff through TSA. We wipe everything down. There's a system and we haven’t been caught yet.”

“And as great as that is –”

“Y/n,” Ronnie takes both your hands in his own. “Neither of you will end up in English prison tonight, I promise.” The lingering skepticism is written all over your face. “I promise,” he insists.

Damiano acts the very same before going on stage. He smokes a cigarette and bounces in place to mitigate his own adrenaline.You always stand with him in this moment, rubbing his arms and reminding Dami to be gentle while stretching his neck. It’s comforting to see the band comradery persist now that they’ve come together. There's fist bumps, plus Thomas and Victoria threatening to ruin the other’s performance. Mia is joking along with them, cheeks flushed and her top inside out. Tom keeps a hand on the neck of his guitar so it doesn’t hit her.

At this moment, you’d kiss Dami good luck, having to get on your tiptoes because of his stage shoes. Today you slink into the shadows and see him take a breath from an oxygen canister. Their stage manager counts down from ten while shining a flashlight at the floor, so no one trips on a wire or seam in the stage. You can see him put the persona on, then drop the cigarette on the floor and stamp it out. If you were beside him, Dami would take a final puff and hand it over for you to finish.

Ethan goes on stage first, then the rest of them. The audience releases a wall of sound and the unhinged screaming only intensifies as the lights go up. You can barely hear Ethan’s sticks click as he counts the band in. Mia cheers with the crowd, in case Thomas looks back. They never look back, but you both did it anyway. Just in case. She begins walking towards the audience exit. It was easiest to slip in front of the barricade unnoticed at the beginning because of the hysteria. You feel the tug in your chest to go with her, sing the lyrics to songs that Damiano had shown you first.

“Y/n! Oh my god!!” It's jarring to be noticed in real time since you feel so stuck in memories.

“Mia, hey!” You try to match her enthusiasm. “Looks like you’re having fun.” You flick the tag of her blouse as she comes in for the hug.

“Yeah, this venue is huge!” She doesn’t pick up the reference, but enthusiastically agrees anyway. Her and Thomas were both like that: sunny.

“I see you made use of the space.” Mia finally looks down.

“Oh shit! We weren’t sure how long the show was delayed, but Tom thought we had more time to, you know, finish. I wouldn’t touch his guitar if I were you.”

“Ew! You guys are disgusting, I’m so happy for you.”

“Yeah, thank you!” she laughs. “Let me just...” Mia ducks into Thomas’ dressing room and fixes her top. “So, c’mon let’s go watch.”

“I, um…We’re not back together.”

“Okay, but I’m sure Dam would love to see you out there.”

“I can’t be filmed or photographed today. Also if you could not tell anyone that I’m here?”

“Uh, sure,” she’s put off, torn between staying backstage with you and watching the show.

“But, you go ahead! I have a ton of work stuff anyway, so I’m actually gonna be busy.” A total lie, but Mia isn’t the type to question the authenticity of a friend.

“Oh, okay! Love ya, good luck!” She pulls you in for a goodbye side hug, and practically skips down the hall. Was Damiano expecting to see you in front of the barricade? He probably hadn’t thought about the social media and paparazzi component, which meant he’d be disappointed. This realization didn’t change anything, it just made you miserable.

Except for the roadies, it's just you backstage. The actual concert was their time off, since they began hauling gear in total darkness as soon as the band finished. Despite how labor intensive their jobs were, the crew was in good spirits, their laughter echoing down the hall. They wore all black with tattoos scribbled on their forearms and cursed as much as possible. You consider saying hi, but this is no longer your space. It'd be like walking into your childhood bedroom with the Justin Bieber posters, hot pink bedspread, and tinkerbell night light still intact. You were visiting a past life, like a ghost.

While Thomas opens the encore with his solo, Dami runs back to his dressing room. You know that his body has become dependent on coke to get through a show and that if he stops now, he’ll crash before you can hand him off to the professionals. Still, it's awkward for both parties. Damiano pulls the pill case from his purse and looks at you with a pained expression.

“I…can’t do this while you’re watching.”

“Right, okay.” You stand up and gesture towards the door. “So I’ll just…”

“No, no, you shouldn’t have to leave. I’ll just go in the bathroom.” Dami closes the door halfway and hesitates because that seems a bit excessive.

“Are you gonna shove it up your ass or?” Dami’s laughter bounces off of the tiles.

“No, I only do that on certain occasions.”

“Like a birthday special?”

“Exactly.” You can hear the tap of something plastic against the porcelain sink. “Can you tell me you’re disappointed in me or something? This feels wrong.” You try to come up with something to say, but end up blanking.

“You are…a very bad boy.”

“Kinky.”

“Ugh, I’m trying! Disappointing…your behavior is disappointing. You are too grown not to know better. Refusing to acknowledge a problem exists is…counter productive to healing. You need to prioritize healing because nobody can do that for you. You have –”

“Okay, done!”

“Thank god.”

“See you in 15!” You walk around the kitchen collecting possibly useful supplies for the car ride, plus the pizza box with Dami’s name on it. The chauffeur walks down the hall with Damiano’s clothes in a garment bag.

“Your flight departs in two hours and 41 minutes,” he says in a professional tone. “Shall I take that to the car?”

“Huh?” Oh, thank you.” The jitters have already started to set in. “And has Damiano’s luggage been inspected?”

“Inspected, ma’am?”

“Yes, has someone on their team looked through it?”

“His luggage was packed by a member of their staff, although I am not sure if they inspected it in the process. Should I ask?”

“Yes, please.” He walks away looking bewildered. You hear the final scream of the concert and try to locate Damiano through the rush of activity backstage. Each band member walks towards the dressing rooms with a towel in hand, drying the sweat from their faces. Dami is exhausted, but he smiles wide when he sees you.

“Hey, were you out there?”

“No, I didn’t want to get mobbed when those photos hit Twitter.”

“Ah, smart.” He’s still disappointed.

“I’m sorry, but I need you to hurry up and shower. There's a change of clothes hanging in the bathroom. Also I made a cup of baking soda and water for your stomach. Our flight leaves in two and a half hours.”

“Jesus.” He pulls his shirt off while walking into the dressing room, the muscles of his slick back rippling. For a moment you’re very distracted with memories of digging your fingernails into that back while he fucked you to overstimulation. Or when you’d peg him from behind, cupping his balls in the palm of your hand, lips to the nape of his neck. Damiano made the most beautiful sounds when he bottomed. So whiny and demanding.

“Y/n? Y/n?”

“Huh?”

“I was saying it's so nice to see you,” Victoria panted. Ethan agrees behind her.

“Yes, you look well.” His formal way of speaking had endeared you from the very first meeting. Tom is nowhere to be found, probably finishing what he and Mia started before the gig.

“Oh uh, thanks. Sorry, I’m distracted. Our flight is…soon. Too soon.”

“Like tonight?” Victoria exclaims, pulling her own shirt off. She was bare breasted and unapologetic as per usual.

“Yeah, I guess the sooner, the better.”

“So he’s really going? Of his own volition?”

“Mhm! He’ll be in the facility by breakfast tomorrow.”

“Oh my god, that's amazing,” Ethan lets out a huge sigh of relief and Vic grins.

“I’d hug you if I wasn’t disgusting.”

“Well, that’d just give me a boner,” you deadpan. Nobody loved raunchy, flirtatious humor like Victoria.

“Ooh, well since you and Dam are on a break…” She wiggles her eyebrows and shimmies closer, sauntering around you with a provocative expression. Meanwhile, Ethan is silently laughing with his eyes scrunched. It's enough to evoke a genuine smile, but also your heart aches for the months you’d missed with these dumbasses.

“Since he’s busy, do you want me to show you what it’s supposed to feel like?” She gives an over exaggerated wink. There had been a strictly no band members policy in your non-monogamy.

“I heard that! Keep your paws off of her, Vic!!” Dami yells from the bathroom.

“Ugh, fine!” She gives your ass a robust slap before disappearing into her dressing room. Your understanding was that “on a break” and broken up were vastly different things, even though phonetics would suggest otherwise. Had Damiano lied or were you reading too much into it? And why did it make you so happy? Before you can get caught in a hell cycle of intrusive thoughts, Ronnie walks up and hugs you.

“I’m really glad you came,” he admits, pulling away. Your arms hang limply by your sides in surprise. Ronnie wasn’t the hugging type or the emotional type, but his eyes are glassy. It throws you off guard even further.

“You okay?”

“What? Yeah.” He clears his throat roughly. “And we checked everything twice. Someone is currently wiping out Damiano’s purse, just for you.”

“We can’t all be rock ‘n roll. Some of us have to be anal as fuck.”

“Agreed. I just wanted to wish you luck.” He gives a tight lipped smile and continues down the hall.

“Am I gonna need it?”

“Hopefully not,” he yells over his shoulder.

“Very reassuring, thanks.”

Notes: This is queue. I am currently camping because today is the anniversary of my grandmother's death. Taglist will be updated when I return. Thank you for reading, I promise it gets way less depressing really soon.

-XOXO Eden

Taglist (or taglist removal)

Masterlist

@surelyfreedombound @shinshans @lonnybunnys @davianos-blog @hauntedpostperson @lizzylynch1 @kammerstx@harryssshouseee @slavicgoddess13 @persona1read1ng@katyldamusic @whore4damia @the-chaotic-cow@icarodamiano @gr8rainbowpunk@elvirabelle@bright-shiningstar@maneslut @stardustingold @little-moonbeam-666@que--sera--sera

#maneskin #måneskin #damiano david #må #damiano #damiano maneskin #maneskin damiano #damiano david x reader #damiano david fanfiction #damiano david imagine #damiano david x y/n #damiano david x you

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