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igot-the-juice · 4 months ago

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Blood of A Rose - Part 2 (Art the Clown x Fem!Reader)

Masterlist

Summary - Following the events of their night together, (y/n) and Art explore their dynamics together to form a perfect duet of blood and beauty.

Notes - Was requested to expand on the relationship between Art and the reader and will happily oblige! It’s honestly so fun to write Art’s character, I hate how little there is out there for him. My man needs attention.

P.S - Might branch this into a series of one shots showing their relationship more and whatnot either from my own ideas or requests from you guys for what you’d like to see with them. Hell, might even make a whole blog based on them. Thoughts?

Word Count - 4,091

Warning(s) - Blood, gore, violence, morally ambiguous reader

Song Inspiration -

Cody Frost - Process

Screams were heard all around them, piercing and agonizing. Everything was set ablaze, yet she felt no heat. She felt no pain. Even as the smoke clouded, she could breathe without struggle. (Y/n) craned her neck to look up at the clown before her, eyes wide with wonder, with trust. Her life was in the hands of a murderer and yet she felt safe. She felt protected.

His usual grin did not show, yet he didn’t frown. His face remained neutral while his eyes said it all, filled with an untamed obsession, possessiveness and dare she say adoration. His gloved hands rose to her jaw, cupping it delicately as he guided her to train her eyes on him, to ignore all that happened around them. As she stared up at him, her hands came to rest over his own, and with a look of his eyes she was told -

He would be her past, present and future.

(Y/n)’s eyes fluttered open, greeted by the soft light of the moon that peaked through the boards of the window. The colder air bit at her skin through her sweater and she shivered.

She sat up and looked around curiously, seeing that she was now in the makeshift bedroom from before. She then looked down and saw that she was on the mattress, however a tattered blanket now lay on top of it beneath her, shielding her from whatever mold and rot had been on it.

Her legs closed when she felt a light breeze brush against the tear in her pantyhose, heightening the chill. (Y/n) stretched her arms out and stood, then heard what sounded like someone hammering from a different room. Her mind raced with the events of what she assumed was still the same night. Her face burned, stomach fluttering as the ghost of Art’s caress tickled her skin.

She took a deep breath and left the room, quietly making her way to where the sound came from. Mindful of the debris on the floor as she grew near, she entered the room with the workbench, Art hunched over it on the stool as he hammered away at something.

When (y/n) stepped closer he paused. Her breath stilled as his head slowly turned to the side, yet not over his shoulder to look at her, letting her know that he knew she was there.

Once he returned to work she released the breath she held and made her way over to him, seeing as he hammered a screw-eye hook of sorts into the end of a chair leg.

His face was focused, not smiling or putting on his usual dramatics as he worked. It felt strange to her, seeing him this way. It reminded her that even if he was a murderer he wasn’t excused from putting in the work to make it happen, whether it was a hobby of his or not. It reminded her that he still had interests and needs just as everyone else. It was oddly humanizing and she couldn’t help but feel privileged to see him in such a state.

He motioned to a nearby corner and (y/n) turned to see another stool placed there, then moved to bring it over and sat on top of it to continue to watch him. He then motioned to her - conversing as he worked - then symbolized sleep as if to ask how she slept, then proceeded to pick up an average sized chain.

“It was actually quite nice. Best sleep I’ve had in a while.”

With chain in hand, he clapped excitedly, happy with her response. He hooked it to the screw, bending and twisting the metal to make sure it was secure as (y/n) watched casually, as if it was just another day.

“Is it… Is it still the same night?”

He shook his head and her eyes widened. Art turned to see it and began to laugh to himself.

“How long has it been?”

He held up a finger after his laughing fit died down, going back to his work.

“One day…? But how?”

He nodded and glanced over at her, watching as she looked down, growing more and more confused. He patted her shoulder and she looked up at him, seeing him point to himself, then her.

“Because of you?” Her brow furrowed, then her expression changed as she chuckled. “Are you saying I slept for so long because of what we did?”

Art shrugged and made a cheeky expression, but she became confused again when he then shook his head. He motioned to himself again, then pointed to her head.

“You… forced me to stay asleep?” He eagerly nodded, smiling and pointing at her to say she got it. “But how? Did you knock me out?” His head shook. “Did you drug me?”

His head shook again and he rolled his eyes, arms falling to his sides in exasperation. He then motioned to his entire body, pointed to his head with both fingers, then to her head again.

“You were in my head…?” He nodded and clapped. “How is that even possible?”

Art shrugged dramatically with a mischievous smile. (Y/n) paused and slowly met his eyes.

“The dream…?” She asked, and in the back of her head she already knew the answer.

The clown only solidified it with a raise of his eyebrows, mouth forming an ‘o’ and shrugging as an ‘oops’. (Y/n) could only laugh, not knowing how exactly to react to someone with such supposed supernatural abilities.

She wasn’t sure if she had finally grown to become insane or if it was all a hallucination, all in her head. But as she thought to the night before she found that it all felt too real, too vivid to be fake.

(Y/n) suddenly felt exposed and crossed one leg over the other, tugging down the skirt of her dress as her face grew warm. Art looked over at her, face twisting into mischief as his eyes squinted with his smile. He wiggled his eyebrows when she looked at him and she turned her face away bashfully.

He reached over to grasp her chin, coaxing her to look back at him. He nudged his head in her direction, grinning to encourage her to do the same. Once her smile returned and she giggled, he playfully booped her nose and turned back to his workbench, his smile now remaining on his dramatized face as he worked.

The minutes seemed to drag on as he worked, but not once was she bored. She watched eagerly, fixated as his hands toyed and shaped the weapon he was creating. His actions were all well thought out and deliberate, masculine yet graceful as his fingers caressed the wood and metal.

Deeming the weapon satisfactory, he raised it by the handle - the chair leg - and examined it carefully. Three chains hung from the screw-eye, knife tips, nails and spikes decorating the length of them.

“Is that a flail?” (Y/n) gasped.

Art’s head whipped over to look at her and patted her thigh, the hand holding the weapon shaking excitedly as he nodded. He watched as she eyed his new creation, then an idea formed in his head. His gaze shifted to look over at her, now smiling sadistically. She caught the change in his expression and she began to smile, catching on to what he was thinking.

“I’ll get the camera!” She hopped off of the stool.

After some convincing from her end, they stopped by her house for her to quickly change into something more comfortable. It wasn’t until she began to beg sweetly that he finally agreed, unable to say no to her more innocent nature, regardless of her interests.

Not a person was in sight as they were shielded by the dark of the night, hardly any street lamps in the area they currently wandered.

“Does the bag ever get heavy for you?” (Y/n) asked as they walked through the ghosted roads.

Art shook his head, using his other arm to exaggerate flexing his muscles and she laughed.

“I bet that bag is the reason you’re so strong, lugging it around everywhere and all.” He waved her off at the compliment and tickled her ear with his finger. “I’m serious! You make it look like it weighs nothing.”

As they walked, they began to see the edge of the town ahead of them. Or rather, Art saw it. (Y/n) was too focused on the clown beside her, taking in all of his features under the starry night, the moon perfectly accentuating every curvature and jagged edge, every -

She was suddenly yanked to the side of the sidewalk he walked on and she gasped, looking over to see a pole that she nearly walked straight into. She looked back over at Art who had a hand on his hip with a frown. He pointed at her, his eyes, then the direction they were walking in.

“Sorry…” She giggled as she blushed, nervously fiddling with the camera hanging around her neck.

He pulled back his arm and reached for her, pulling her to stand on the opposite side where he was previously walking to prevent it from happening again. He motioned for her to continue walking, rolling his eyes from behind her before he set his pace next to her again.

As they reached the town, Art began to look around carefully, more alert in the brighter area while (y/n) had a mind of her own. While he kept an eye out for his next victim, she focused on finding her next inspiration. She supposed they went hand in hand, but she was never one to strive for the bare minimum.

He then paused, holding his arm out for her to do the same, knowing she very well would’ve kept on walking. Hearing the voices of what seemed to be a couple arguing, he listened carefully to find where they came from.

Then he spotted them.

A man and woman arguing next to a car. The man was halfway in the driver’s seat while the woman stood next to it, flailing her arms.

Art then heard a shutter sound from beside him, slowly looking over to see (y/n) holding her camera up, taking photos of the argument before them. She looked over at him and shrugged innocently.

She put down the camera and the two of them watched the pursuing argument, equally invested in the exchange. The man then slammed the car door shut.

“They just broke up for sure.” (Y/n) whispered to Art and he looked down at her with a widespread grin, wiggling his eyebrows then nodding towards the woman who was now making her way into what seemed to be her villa.

Art crossed the street, making his way over with (y/n) in tow and walking up the small set of stairs leading to the front door. He looked down at her, then turned to the door in front of them and tested the door knob, unsurprisingly finding it locked.

He gave (y/n) a ‘wait’ signal and set down his bag, cracking his neck and stretching his arms out in front of him with linked fingers. Art then gave her a side smile, then suddenly kicked the door open. She froze with wide eyes, yet her stomach betrayed her as it flipped at his show of masked strength.

He picked up his bag again and grabbed her wrist to pull her inside with him, closing the door behind them. Footsteps quickly descended the staircase in front of them and they looked up to see the same woman from before, chest heaving in fear at the sight before her.

While (y/n) quickly snapped a photo of her expression, Art dropped his bag again and wiggled his fingers at her in a wave with a menacing smile. He then held up a finger to her and began to look through his bag as the woman remained frozen like a deer in the headlights, watching as he pulled out a scalpel and the new flail. He turned to (y/n) and raised his eyebrows, then bolted upstairs after the woman who fled.

As they thumped around upstairs, she began to explore the villa, looking for things to use in her next piece. The woman’s screams and shrieks were muffled behind the door of the room they were in and were drowned out, inevitably useless.

(Y/n) eyed a smaller box TV that sat on an entertainment stand in the living room, an idea popping into her head. She walked over to it and unplugged it in preparation, resuming her wandering when the noise above her suddenly stopped.

She heard a door open upstairs followed by footsteps descending the staircase. (Y/n) looked towards it, seeing a now bloodied Art giving her the ‘ok’ to go upstairs when she was ready.

“Could you do me a huge favor?” She asked as he made his way over to her, shaking off the blood on his hands and nodding. “Could you help take the TV upstairs for me? I want to use it as the head.”

Art made a surprised expression, clapping his hands giddily at the idea. He then paused with a finger up, making a sawing motion and asked for her to wait a moment, disappearing upstairs. Not long after, he returned with his saw and put it back in his bag, happily walking over to the TV and tipping his hat at (y/n) when he walked by. He then picked it up as if it was nothing but a feather and made his way back upstairs, (y/n) following closely behind as she giggled.

They entered the woman’s bedroom, her body splayed out on the bed with small to large chunks of her skin and fat missing, head nowhere to be found.

As he placed the TV where the woman’s head used to be, (y/n) admired the slashes left from the flail. Some were rather deep, others shallow. Their marks tore at the dress that the woman wore, some simulating claw marks while other areas were simply shredded.

“Could you move the arms to look like this?” (Y/n) posed her own arms to grab the sides of her head. Art carefully took note of the angle and position, then moved the victim’s arms to reflect it. “Perfect.” (Y/n) smiled, looking up at the ceiling to see LED lights lined along the edge.

Art watched as she wandered to find the remote, smiling to herself once she found it and changed the color to red and turned off the main light. She looked around the floor, watching for anything she could trip on before lifting a foot onto the bed.

Art’s face twisted into panic and his hands shook, stepping next to her and helping her up onto the bed.

“Thank you.” She responded softly, one of his hands still holding her waist to help steady her as she readied her camera. He followed her as she captured different angles, some standing while others she crouched.

(Y/n) took his hand to help herself down, smiling up at him as he grinned at her excitedly. Just as the night before, she flipped through the pictures she took, and just the same, she felt his closeness.

The only difference was rather than nerves, she felt relaxed. She felt calm and comfortable despite the mess around them that he caused. His hand that rested on her far shoulder radiated heat through her layers of clothing and she subconsciously leaned into him, head pressed against his chest while he pointed at the photos he favored.

His silent presence, twisted grin plastered on his painted face, drew her in like a moth to flame. (Y/n) found herself unable to refuse, an invisible pull guiding her to him.

At first, their following encounters were just a few hours in the night together. Art would appear when (y/n) least expected, showing up at odd hours, his silent insistence drawing her out into the dark. However, she began to notice her sleeping pattern slowly change. She grew more tired sooner, falling asleep earlier and earlier, waking up in a strange nocturnal rhythm.

At night, she would wake to find him waiting, patient but always silent, eager to lead her deeper into his world. (Y/n), feeling a strange sense of peace in his presence, began to follow him without question. And after only a few weeks of their odd relationship, she began to grow used to it. Comfortable with it. Comfortable with him.

“Hey, Art.” (Y/n) greeted him as she yawned, fresh out of bed to find him rummaging through her kitchen.

He looked up at her and waved, a widespread grin bringing out her own smile in her vulnerable, post-dream state. He gushed at the sight, elbows resting on the countertop with his chin in his hands, blinking dreamily at her as she walked over to him with her arms out.

Art popped up, engulfing her in his arms as she sighed happily at the feeling. He rocked the two of them slowly, the rhythm almost putting her back to sleep.

Slowly, (Y/n)’s life became consumed by Art. The gruesome art pieces she crafted from his handiwork grew bolder, more disturbing, as if the dark side of her creativity was being unleashed by his influence.

In her dreams, she would see him. His painted face looming over her, silent but omnipresent. At first, the dreams were disorienting. But over time, they became comforting. She would wake, feeling a strange longing for him, for the connection they shared in the darkest corners of her mind, weaving its way to the forefront.

As the days bled into nights, (y/n) found herself thinking of Art constantly. He was always there, even when he wasn’t physically present; a haunting figure in her thoughts. His silence, once goofy, became a form of comfort. She began to crave his presence, yearning for their time together.

And so (y/n) found herself growing dependent on him. Whether it was for her art or simply her attachment to him, how safe she felt with him. He understood her in a way no other person could, and she reciprocated.

The way he was so brutal and aggressive with others, yet gentle and thoughtful with herself only drew her closer to him. He treated others as nuisances, problems to deal with and get rid of while he treated her as delicately as the rose that brought them together. The contrast was endearing to her, and she couldn’t help but be entranced.

Though such treatment came with an undisclosed amount of protection and possessiveness, to which she learned rather quickly.

“It just came out wrong, I’m sorry!” (Y/n) giggled. Art mocked her, rolling his eyes as his mouth and hand mocked her talking. The culprit of such a fit?

She called his nose cute.

“Your nose is attractive, is what I meant. Believe me, you’re still as frightening as ever.”

He threw her a side eye, then dramatically sighed and waved it all off.

“Hey!” She stopped them in the middle of the sidewalk, a lit street lamp looming over them as they faced each other. “I’m sorry.” She gave him her best doe eyes, then stood up on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek.

His grin slowly returned, hand coming over the top of where she kissed him and she giggled. He then took her hand in his own, continuing their nightly walk.

Later on, they heard slurred conversation ahead of them, seemingly male in nature. (Y/n) tried to slow their walk, but Art looked back at her and encouraged her to keep up with him. As they grew closer, they passed an alleyway that held a small group of drunks, hearing a whistle of a cat call.

The clown immediately stilled, and (y/n) quickly grew worried.

“Hey, where ya goin’ babes?” One of the men called, stepping out of the alleyway with a bottle in hand. “Not with the mime, I hope.”

Art and (y/n) slowly turned to face the man, their hands still interlocked as she gripped his tighter and stepped closer to him, practically hiding behind him like a scared child.

“Oh, come on, don’t tell me you actually wanna be with the guy!”

“Ey, c’mon man, stop messin’ with them, she’s not worth it.” Another man stepped out, followed by a third to watch the scene play out. Art’s eyebrows furrowed in anger, twisted grin remaining as he set down his bag and quickly reached into it.

“Obviously not if -“ Two shots suddenly pierced through the night air, the second and third men collapsing to the ground while Art aimed a handgun at the first who initiated.

(Y/n)’s hold on his hand moved to his arm, clutching onto it as the bodies began to puddle with blood beneath them. She looked up at Art, his grin replaced with a frown and it sent a chill down her spine. She had only seen him genuinely angry maybe once or twice, and whatever followed was far from pleasant, to say the least.

“H-hey, I was just jokin’ man, I was just jokin’!” The drunk held up his hands in surrender, but the clown wasn’t buying it.

As he continued to ramble and apologize, begging for his life, Art kept the gun pointed at his head. He watched as the man slowly broke in front of him, growing increasingly desperate. Art’s grin then slowly reappeared, giving the man a glimmer of hope.

Then Art suddenly aimed at the man’s thigh and fired, doing the same to his other until he fell to his knees. Art tossed the gun into his bag and rummaged through it further, his face twisting into a sadistic expression when he pulled out a box cutter flashing it to the man as a tease before stalking over to him.

(Y/n) turned around, facing away from the chaos and gore as she plugged her ears to drown out the noise. Even still, the sound seeped through as the man struggled and cried out helplessly. His fight was futile compared to Art’s strength, and the latter simply ragdolled him as if the man was just a child.

When the noise stopped, she unplugged her ears and felt a hand pat her waist, turning to see Art wipe off his now bloodied hands. She turned to see his mess, and his face suddenly grew concerned when she pouted.

“I don’t have my camera.” (Y/n) nearly whined, and Art mimicked her frown.

At first, (y/n) resisted the growing dependency, confused by her attachment. But he began to seep into her thoughts with concerning frequency. The dreams became more vivid, more intimate, filled with his silent adoration as he twisted her perception of reality until he became the center of her world, the only constant in her life, planting seeds of affection until it became impossible to imagine her life without him.

His obsession with her only grew. He would stand over her while she slept during the day, watching her with an almost childlike fascination. When she woke, his silent attention made her feel adored, special. The way he looked at her, possessive yet affectionate. His presence was her comfort, his protection her shield.

Eventually, (y/n) could no longer distinguish where her own desires ended and his began. The thought of being apart from him was unbearable. She began to seek him out during the day when she should have been resting, desperate to be near him.

When they were together, it was a twisted dance of blood and beauty. A duet that no one else could understand. She would create art from his chaos, and he would watch her with silent adoration, the two of them locked in a world where only they existed.

They grew to share a dark, intimate bond. (Y/n), once a quiet and reserved artist, had become consumed by Art - both his work and his presence. He had molded her. And she, willingly or not, had come to love him for it.

As their connection deepened, (y/n) knew that she could never return to the life she had before. The darkness was too intoxicating, the bond too strong.

She belonged to him now, and she wouldn’t have it any other way.

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girlgenius1111 · 1 year ago

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you don't have to pretend with me

ona x reader -sickfic ish

from a request- the req was for r with chronic pain but i've never experienced that and i didn't want to write it incorrectly, so i changed it to something i have some history with :)

You hadn't had a real period in years, having been on birth control since you were a teenager. It really limited the effects of your horrible symptoms. It was simple- a shot in your ass every three months was something you could handle. However, you'd completely forgotten to get it this time. Normally you planned your next visit at the end of your appointments, but the secretary had been out, so you were supposed to call to schedule the next appointment. It had completely slipped your mind, and by the time your realized your mistake, it was too late, and they told you that you had to wait 3 months from when you were supposed to get it, in order to not mess up the cycle.

It didn't really make much sense to you, but you didn't have a choice. All you could hope was that it wouldn't be as bad as you remembered it. The first month wasn't bad, barely more than what you usually dealt with on the shot. The second month was worse, but still, manageable, especially considering it came during an off week. You were quickly approaching the third month, and you knew it wouldn't be as easy this time.

2 days before you were supposed to get it, you found yourself in a heinous mood. You'd been short with everyone, all day, even Ona. Ona, your girlfriend, who had literally no idea what was going on. It felt ridiculous to you, to complain about what was going on when every other woman dealt with it to. You'd never heard Ona complain about her period, and you didn't want her to think you were weak.

More than that, you weren't sure she'd believe you. In your last relationship, anytime you were sick or in pain, your girlfriend didn't believe you, or told you that you were being dramatic. You didn't really realize how this affected your relationship with Ona, but as you hadn't told her this, she didn't know you'd been hiding almost any sign of weakness from her.

So, you just mumbled something about having an off day when she asked why you were so grumpy. She pretty much left you alone the rest of the day, giving you the space she assumed you wanted. The only time she spoke to you was to come into the living room where you were curled up on the couch, and wish you a goodnight, leaving a soft kiss on your forehead.

-----

You woke up in the middle of the night to the sensation that someone was standing on your abdomen. It had been so long since you'd actually had cramps, you were almost alarmed, until you realized what was going on. You didn't want to get any blood on the bed, nor did you want to wake Ona up for something so trivial, so you quietly padded into the bathroom, changed your pajama shorts, and then headed out into the kitchen in search of some painkillers.

Every step was agony, and you were walking hunched over, as what you could only describe as lightning strikes of pain rippled through from your belly button down to your core whenever you tried to straighten up. You didn't make it to the cabinet you kept the medicine in, instead collapsing into a chair at the kitchen table. As soon as you sat, the zaps of pain were replaced by a continuous ache across your stomach, and around to your back.

You couldn't help the groan you let out, as you twisted uncomfortably in your seat to try to relieve the pain. It didn't work. You knew what would work, but you were absolutely sure you couldn't stand up again and make it to the medicine cabinet. Instead, you put your head in your hands, feeling tears slowly leak out of your eyes. That only made you more frustrated, which in turn made you cry harder, until you were trying to stifle sobs with your hands at the kitchen table, in the dark, at 1am.

-----

Meanwhile, Ona woke to an empty bed. She remembered you climbing in with her after she'd already gone to sleep, waking up just enough to roll into you and smush herself as close as she could. This time, though, your side of the bed was empty and cold, and Ona was disgruntled. Sleepy Ona was a grumpy Ona, something you knew very well, and she squinted her eyes open, looking over at the bathroom door, seeing if you'd just gotten up briefly. The light was off in there, though, and your side of the bed wasn't warm, indicating that you'd been up for at least a couple minutes. Sighing heavily, Ona sat up, intending to wait for you, arms crossed, to return to bed. When she saw no lights were on in the rest of the house, though, she decided to get up and find you.

The only thing she could think was that you'd gone to sleep on the couch, which didn't make any sense. You'd been grumpy yesterday, sure, but you'd gone to bed with her, and allowed her to snuggle up to you, which you wouldn't have done if you were angry. Walking down the hall, heading for the living room, she heard an odd noise in the kitchen.

She changed directions, turning right instead of left, and discovered you, slouched over at the table, crying softly into your hands. Ona was immediately distraught at the idea of you getting up in the middle of the night and leaving your bed to cry by yourself, no matter what the reason, and not waking her.

"Cariño, qué pasó?" she asked, voice raspy with sleep. At her words, your head snapped up, looking at Ona with pain etched clearly across your face. "Amor," she says sympathetically, moving forward to stand by your side.

"Oni, go back to bed," you try, attempting to sound firmer than you felt.

"Not until you tell me what is wrong." Ona replies, actually succeeding in being firm. She brushes a loose strand of hair off your face, then combs her fingers through you hair. You melt at her touch despite yourself, before you hunch over again, another wave of pain shooting through your abdomen; you'd straightened up to much. You whimper quietly, and Ona's hand pulls off of you, worried she'd done something to hurt you. That gets you talking, never wanting Ona to think she's the cause of your pain.

"It's just cramps, Ona, I'm fine," you insist, even as your face scrunches uncomfortably, and you grit your teeth through another jolt. Though confused, seeing as though she'd never known you to have bad cramps, Ona wraps her arms around you without another thought, lifting you easily to carry you back to bed. She may be short, but she prides herself on being strong enough to carry you easily, despite your many objections. "Oni," you whine, yet still, you clutch onto her tightly, resting your head on her shoulder.

"Shh, let's get you back to bed."

Once Ona gently places you back on your side of the bed, she stands back, looking at you with a determined expression. It's almost funny really, the girl standing in front of you, wearing a baggy t-shirt and shorts, wavy hair wild around her head, trying to look stern. Ona couldn't look stern, she wasn't capable. She could only ever look adorable, at least to you.

"What will help you feel better?" She asks.

You bite your lip for a moment, before the pain wins out over your independence. "Paracetamol, please," you murmur.

She nods once. "Anything else?"

You're sure there's something you're forgetting, but it's been so long since you've had cramps like this, and it hurts too bad for you to think straight. "I don't know," you whisper finally, tears spilling over again.

"Okay amor, relax, I will take care of you," the brunette says gently, leaving you with a peck on your forehead. She's only gone for a few minutes, but when she returns, you've curled yourself into a little ball on the edge of the bed, as far from her side as you could get, obviously trying not to bother her. Ridiculous, considering she wasn't going back to sleep until after you did.

She gives you the medicine, handing you a new cold water which you accept gratefully. Then, before you can tell Ona to get back in bed, she leaves the room again. She returns fast this time, holding something in her hands you don't recognize.

The defender doesn't explain, either, even though she notices the questioning look on your face. Instead, she climbs onto the bed behind you, and nudges you out of your ball to lay in between her legs, head resting back on her chest. Still silent, she rolls your shirt up, massaging the skin of your abdomen lightly. Her warm hands feel so good, you let out a sound of relief. Smiling to herself, Ona places the heating pad she brought with her across your abdomen, clicking it on. You soften completely against her, letting out a long sigh.

"Thanks, Oni," you mumble, and she kisses the top of your head in response. She isn't done with you though, patting your arm lightly when your eyes flutter close.

"Do you normally have cramps this bad?" she asks, because the thought of you hiding this from her, like you'd been doing tonight, once a month for the entirety of the time you've been dating, makes her nauseous.

"No," you tell her sleepily, briefly explaining the situation you'd found yourself in. Ona is quiet for a few moments.

"Why didn't you tell me? And why didn't you wake me up tonight?" she wonders, not able to fully hide the hurt in her voice. You're fully awake now, almost reading her mind as you realize what she's worried about; that you don't trust her.

"I didn't think it was a big deal," you say quickly. "And I didn't want to bother you with it, with something that every woman deals with," you justify.

"Amor, you hurting will always be a big deal to me." Ona insists. "You should have woken me up. Do you... do you not trust me? Did I do something to make you thing I would not take your pain seriously?" the brunette asks, and you wince at the question. This was your problem, not Ona's. Could she not see that?

"No, Oni, of course I trust you. It's... it's not about you." You pause. "I didn't want you to think I was being dramatic or weak."

"Why would I think that? Why would I not believe you when you say you are hurting?"

All she gets is a shrug in response, and she feels you shutting down again. Unwilling to let that happen, she presses you further.

"No, amor, tell me. Did someone make you feel that way? Like you could not be honest about how you were feeling?"

You don't respond for so long that Ona thinks you've fallen asleep, or just aren't going to answer.

"My ex. She used to tell me I was being dramatic when I was sick. She was right though, I was," you rush to justify.

Ona's arms tighten around you slightly, and it reassures you. When she responds, you recognize an angry tone in her voice, but also a protective one.

"That is not what a good girlfriend does. I will never do that. You are allowed to be in pain, and be sick. You are not being dramatic for feeling things. It does not make me think any less of you, and it certainly does not make me think that you are weak." Ona declares.

"Are you sure? I'd understand if you thought I was exaggerating." you say quietly. At this, Ona tilts your chin up and to the side, so she can look into your eyes.

"I found you crying at the kitchen table, you were in so much pain. That is not dramatic, not to me. I am sure." Ona promises, and she feels you relax against her, if only slightly.

"I love you," you say quietly, voice cracking on the last word.

"Te amo mucho, cariño. Mucho mucho." Ona pairs her words with several gentle kisses pressed into the side of your head.

"Ona?"

"Sí?"

"Can I go to sleep or will this light on fire if I don't turn it off," you ask seriously, referring to the heating pad laying across your abdomen. You've never used one before, and you aren't sure what the safety requirements are. Apparently, this is a dumb question, because Ona bursts out laughing, disturbing the quiet murmur of voices you both had been keeping to.

"Sí amor, you can go to sleep. I'll put you out if you light on fire, te prometo," she tells you, still laughing. You roll your eyes slightly before allowing them to flutter shut, even though you know Ona can't see the gesture.

"Wake me up if it starts to hurt again?" she asks, seriousness returning.

"Te prometo," you say, echoing her words for just a second ago. A grin tugs at Ona's lips at your spanish use.

"Bueno. Goodnight my pretty girl," Ona whispers into your hair, her use of an english term of endearment making you blush.

With that, both of you allow yourselves to drift off. You're sure, now, that Ona will not care if you wake her up. Ona is sure that you will wake her up. Or, that she'll wake up if you do, seeing as though you're sprawled on top of her. She doesn't expect perfection, or for you to start coming to her with all your problems right away. She finds that she doesn't mind having to demonstrate her love to you, though. If there's anything she loves to do, it's remind you, everyday, that she loves you unconditionally.

-----

#woso #woso imagine #woso x reader #ona batlle x reader

605 notes · View notes

willows-escape · 6 months ago

Text

My Angel - 1990!Erik x Reader

Pairing: 1990!Cherik x AFAB!Reader (gender neutral pronouns/language)

Summary: You woke up that morning expecting a peaceful, regular day, but you were quickly proven horribly wrong as things began to travel down south. Fortunately, Erik is there to try and relieve some of the pain - even if it is excruciating.

Warnings(/Tags?): menstruation, descriptions of extremely painful periods (adenomyosis/endometriosis), erik is dramatic but its okay he has an excuse, nausea, mentions of vomit but no actual vomiting, early 1900s appropriate period shame, blood and heavy bleeding, brief mention of reader not eating all day but it's only due to lack of appetite, reassurance, fluff!!!!, like TOOTH ROTTING sweetness!!!!

Words: 6.9k

Notes: this isn't what i originally planned to post today, but i have adenomyosis and when my periods come they come bad and the pain is making me feel very sorry for myself. and i did promise something soon. so this is just self indulgent fluff in the mean time.

the other thing i was writing will be entirely gender neutral, so people who do not at all identify with menstruation or just don't want to read about it will hopefully enjoy that when it's done!

DISCLAIMER - this is based off of my experiences with periods, which will not look like most because I have a gynaecologic condition. but if you do 100% relate to this, go see a doctor! like, yesterday!

The morning began like any other, with a restless night's sleep behind you. As you stirred awake, you found yourself alone in bed, but a smile crept across your face as you noticed the lingering warmth on the sheets beside you - a subtle reminder of a certain someone’s recent presence.

Succumbing to the lethargy that clung to your limbs, you reached for the nearest available outfit. The garments were wrinkled and well-worn, but they served their purpose of preserving your modesty. You slipped them on, grateful for the barrier they provided against the cool morning air, despite their less-than-pristine condition.

As you emerged from your bedroom, you stumbled, the door slamming shut behind you with an echoing thud. Your body felt leaden, each limb weighed down as if filled with concrete. Shafts of light piercing through the stone crevices assaulted your eyes, intensifying the dull throb that had begun to pulse at your temples.

"Erik?" your voice cracked, barely above a whisper. The name came out as a hoarse, groggy mumble, hardly recognizable even to your own ears.

Despite your feeble attempt at calling out, Erik appeared before you almost instantly, as if summoned by your whisper.

"Y/N! You're up," he said joyfully, his body adorned in one of his special going out outfits, "much earlier than usual, may I add. I was in the middle of preparing us a picnic before you have to go back up but-"

His gaze finally narrowed onto your hunched form, his previous relaxed expression shifting to one of concern. Your dishevelled appearance was evident - your hair in disarray, your eyes glazed over, bloodshot, and unfocused. It was clear that you were far from your usual self, and to put it lightly, appeared extremely unwell.

"What is the matter?" he asked. You hadn’t noticed it before, but the picnic basket he had been holding clattered to the stone floor, forgotten in an instant as his full attention focused on you.

As though his question was the trigger, a wave of nausea crashed over you. Your chest constricted, forcing you to hunch over even further. Your skin flushed hot in an instant, beads of sweat forming and quickly multiplying across your skin.

"Angel, what's wrong?" Erik's voice trembled, his words tumbling out in a rush. Had you been more lucid, you might have felt a pang of guilt for causing him such distress.

"I'm fine," you mumbled unconvincingly. His hand gently rested on your shoulder, and instantly your body betrayed you. The comforting touch seemed to signal to your system that it was safe to let go, and suddenly, you felt overwhelmed by a surge of nausea and dizziness.

A dull ache blossomed in your lower abdomen. Your breath caught in your throat as you instinctively pressed a hand against your stomach. The discomfort flooded your senses as your face contorted, a grimace etching itself across your features as you struggled to maintain composure.

Within moments, the discomfort escalated from a mild annoyance to an all-consuming agony that left you immobilized.

Shivers began to wrack your body. Your legs turned to lead, a numbing sensation creeping up from your toes. Simultaneously, a searing, deep-seated ache took root in your lower back.

If Erik was worried before, he was panicking now. His eyes widened with alarm, his breathing quickened, and his usually steady hands began to tremble visibly. The calm composure he typically maintained crumbled in an instant, replaced by an overwhelming sense of dread and urgency.

Your legs buckled beneath you, your vision blurring as you felt yourself wilting towards the unforgiving stone floor. Erik sprang into action, his arms shooting out to catch you. The world spun as he scooped you up, your body limp in his grasp. A sharp cry escaped your lips as the sudden movement sent a jolt of agony through your core, the comfort of his embrace overshadowed by the searing pain that threatened to consume you.

With swift strides, Erik navigated the winding halls, cradling you protectively in his arms. He retraced your earlier path, arriving at the door you had just exited moments ago. With a forceful kick, he flung it open, revealing the familiar sight of your shared bedroom.

"I'm going to set you down onto the bed," he explained slowly, his voice a soothing balm to your frayed nerves. "I’ll be as careful as I can."

When he gently pulled back the blanket on your side of the bed, you felt a slight jostling. Your attention, however, was abruptly drawn by a sharp intake of breath, his gasp cutting through the silence of the room.

"Erik?" you mumbled weakly. Your words were abruptly cut off as another wave of pain tore through your abdomen, causing you to cry out involuntarily.

Once more, you felt yourself being moved, this time to Erik's side of the bed. Confusion clouded your mind - why the change? But as you weakly lifted your head, the reason became starkly clear.

"Oh god-" you gasped, your eyes widening in shock at the sight before you. The vivid crimson stain on your side of the bed was impossible to ignore, its stark contrast against the pale sheets making your stomach churn with a mix of embarrassment and dread.

“I need to go find Gerard, you need to be seen by a doctor,” he declared, voice urgent and desperate.

He finally lowered you onto the clean side of the bed, and your eyes instinctively sought his face. It was then you realised his mask was off, likely because he hadn't anticipated you waking so soon. Without the barrier, you could clearly see the stark pallor of his unmarked skin and the unmistakable fear etched across his features. His typically composed demeanour had given way to raw, unfiltered concern that was both touching and unsettling.

He turned to leave.

"Erik, wait," you gasped, your hand shooting out to grasp his arm. "The pain is... excruciating, I won't lie. But I don't think—"

Your words were cut short as another wave of agony crashed over you. A strangled whimper escaped your lips as you curled into yourself, your body trembling uncontrollably. The pain was all-consuming, leaving you breathless and disoriented. You clenched your eyes shut, willing the torment to pass, knowing all you could do was endure until it subsided.

"Where's the pain? Can you pinpoint where you're bleeding from?" his eyes darted across your form, taking in your dulled complexion and the sheen of sweat on your skin. "You're burning up. Do you have a fever?"

His questions came in rapid succession, but his touch remained gentle as he brushed your damp hair away from your forehead.

"I... um..." you hesitated, struggling to articulate through the pain. The situation presented a dilemma: discussing such a private matter with a man felt improper, yet the severity of your discomfort and the alarming amount of blood made it impossible to simply dismiss. You found yourself caught.

Another intense surge of pain rose in your stomach, but this one more overwhelming than the last. Your ability to speak fully vanished as your eyes clenched shut. Soft whimpers escalated into frantic, muffled cries as the relentless throbbing in your lower abdomen intensified, twisting your nerves and leaving you gasping for breath.

"Angel, please, tell me what’s going on," Erik pleaded, tenderly taking your hand in his. The desperation in his eyes was palpable as he watched you struggle to form words. “I really believe you need a doctor, please just let me-”

"No, please," you winced, your voice barely audible through gritted teeth. The words came out strained, a mixture of pain and embarrassment colouring your tone. "It's... it's not something I can easily explain," you paused, taking a shaky breath before adding, "it's rather private."

"Private?" he echoed, his voice a mixture of disbelief and concern. "Forgive my being impolite, but you are currently writhing in agony and bleeding profusely- how on Earth is that private!?"

"Erik," you implored, your eyes silently conveying your discomfort with the subject. However, his concern for your well-being trumped any social niceties. Undeterred by your unspoken plea, he persisted with his questions, determined to understand and help.

"If you explain what's happening, I might be able to help," he insisted. You gave him a sceptical look, but he pressed on, "my years in isolation weren't idle, I've acquired a vast array of knowledge from the countless books that have kept me company."

"It's just not appropriate for me to discuss this with you!" you cried in refute, your voice strained with both pain and embarrassment. Despite your best efforts to remain composed, your tone came out sharper than intended.

You silently prayed he would forgive you, considering the fact that you were enduring mind-boggling amounts of pain. Not only that, the fact you could distinctly feel the familiar warm leakage of blood trickling down your thighs and onto the bedsheets below was driving you utterly insane.

Shame coursed through you as your eyes fell upon the stark evidence of your debilitating pain staining the otherwise white sheets. Averting your gaze, you felt utterly exposed and vulnerable. An overwhelming desire to shield yourself from Erik's concerned stare gripped you, making you wish you could simply disappear.

However, your discomfort eased as Erik's touch changed. His firm grip on your hand softened, his fingers now tracing gentle patterns on your skin. Despite the worry in his eyes, you sensed his effort to stay calm for your sake.

Your heart tugged in your chest at the realisation.

"Y/N," he began, his voice tender yet hesitant as he tried to hold himself together. His gaze locked onto yours as he struggled to maintain his composure. "Please, put your shame aside for one moment and let me in- if only so that I can help you. It kills me to see you like this."

His ignorance of the situation was evident in the way his chest heaved and how he chewed the inside of his cheek with a vengeance. It was clear he believed you were in grave danger. You knew you needed to say something to ease his mind, even if it went against everything your instincts were telling you to do.

"Oh," you breathed, wincing as another wave of pain crashed over you. "It's... it's a delicate matter. Not something typically discussed in polite company."

"Do I look like polite company to you?" Erik's sarcastic retort was accompanied by a growing urgency in his previously calm ministrations. His eyes started to dart frantically between the blood staining your skin and your tired, visibly distressed face.

You took a deep breath, steeling yourself for Erik's potential upset. Despite your fears of his disgust or anger, of him calling you dirty or telling you to leave until you return to normal, a small part of you hoped he might be more understanding than expected. It was this glimmer of optimism that gave you the courage to finally speak.

"Erik," you began hesitantly, "are you familiar with the concept of... menstruation?"

The prolonged silence following your question spoke volumes. When Erik finally shook his head, it only confirmed what you had already suspected.

"Well," you began hesitantly, searching for the right words, "it's a process that occurs in people with uteruses. It involves bleeding and a lot of pain, typically happening monthly for one week out of the month. I don't really know much about the biological reasons behind it, but-"

Your explanation was abruptly halted as another shock of excruciating pain engulfed you. Erik, sensing your distress, quickly offered his hand. You latched onto it, your grip surprisingly fierce. As the agony intensified, your body convulsed against the sheets, and muffled sobs escaped your lips. You desperately willed the torment to stop, but it seemed endless despite your determination to endure.

"Fuck!"

Erik looked taken aback by your cussing, but seeing as you were squeezing his hand so hard he felt like your aim was to tear it off, he didn't focus on it too much.

Eventually, the pain faded back to its baseline ache - which was still extremely unpleasant, but manageable.

"I apologize," you coughed through your tears, your voice strained as you brushed away the beads of sweat trickling down your forehead.

"There's no need to apologize," he reassured, his voice filled with compassion. "I'm deeply concerned for your wellbeing, but I trust your understanding of this situation. If you say it's not life-threatening, I will trust you."

“Yeah, I'm definitely in no life threatening danger," you assured him, "but the pain is so intense, it almost feels like I am."

"It hurts so badly," you whimpered, tears welling up in the corners of your eyes, threatening to spill over. "Ever since I was young, I've had to live with such excruciating pain and such heavy bleeding that I can barely function or even leave my bed. It's so exhausting and I've lost count of the times I've passed out on dirty floors, lying in my own vomit because of this."

"I know, I know," he murmured, not truly understanding and internally slightly horrified but wanting to comfort you regardless. He gently wiped away your tears as they fell, his touch tender and reassuring.

"I'm so sorry," you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. "This is terribly embarrassing. You shouldn't have to witness this. You tried to regain composure, but the combination of physical discomfort and emotional vulnerability made it impossible to stem the tide of tears.

Suddenly, Erik began to move. Your attention was so focused on the hurricane of emotions swirling around your body that you barely noticed him shifting to your side of the bed. It wasn't until he began to lower himself onto the mattress beside you that panic set in, causing you to react instinctively.

"No, wait!" you exclaimed, your sudden outburst causing him to recoil in surprise. Realizing your tone, you softened your voice. "I'm sorry, but please don't sit there. I... I don't want you to get dirty."

"Dirty?" Erik repeated, his eyes flickering to the stain beneath him. A soft chuckle escaped his lips. "It's just blood, I mean really- it's not like I haven't been covered in my own fair share of the stuff. This small spot is hardly cause for concern."

"Erik, please, it's not just blood!" you insisted, the shame taking over as you looked at the spot where you'd bled. It didn’t help that you were in too much pain and felt far too weak to even do anything about it!

He raised an eyebrow at you. "How can it be 'not just blood'? Does your blood contain arsenic?"

You couldn’t help but groan at his sarcastic retort.

"Menstrual blood comes from a person's private areas," you grumbled, your cheeks burning with embarrassment as you tried to convey the gravity of the situation.

He paused for a moment, then replied, "well, that certainly wasn't the answer I expected, but it doesn't change my opinion. Blood is blood, no matter where it comes from. Besides, fabric—and people—can always be washed. You don't need to be moving around for the sake of preserving meaningless things, you need to rest."

"But!-"

"Now that that's settled..." he shrugged off the jacket he’d been wearing and eased himself onto the mattress, inching closer to your awestruck form.

You were utterly speechless. He just- and then he- and he said-

"May I hold you? I won't if it causes you pain," he asked, his voice earnest and gentle. His tender concern only added to your bewildered state.

Words failed you as Erik gently pulled you into his embrace. The warmth of his body enveloped you, offering a comfort you didn't realize you so desperately craved. Despite the momentary twinge in your abdomen as he carefully adjusted your position, you found yourself melting into his arms. In that moment, his presence was a bandage to your pain-wracked body and troubled mind.

"Is this position comfortable?" He inquired. His arm gently supported the back of your neck, while his other hand rested lightly on your upper arm, providing a comforting presence without applying pressure. You managed a small nod in response, grateful for his attentiveness.

"Good. Now, where does it hurt?"

As his hand began to drift lower, more particularly towards your thighs, you suddenly realized the direction his thoughts were taking. Your eyes widened in a mix of surprise and mild alarm.

"Wait, not there!" you exclaimed, immediately regretting your sudden outburst as a fresh wave of pain surged through you. You winced, silently chastising yourself for your impulsive reaction.

"Oh. My deepest apologies," Erik said, his voice tinged with embarrassment as he blinked sheepishly. "I wouldn't have touched you anywhere without permission, but when you mentioned the blood's origin, I assumed—well, I thought—"

"Yeah, I know what you thought," you laughed breathlessly, wincing as another flash of pain assaulted your insides. "But contrary to your guess, the pain is mainly in my lower abdomen. Still, I appreciate your... eagerness to help."

His hand, which had been hovering uncertainly, now settled gently on your stomach. The warmth of his palm seeped through your skin as he watched your face intently, searching for any sign of discomfort. Finding none, he took your relaxed expression as silent permission and began to move his hand in slow, soothing circles.

Your mind went blank.

The warmth of his hand on your stomach felt heavenly. The sensation was unlike anything you'd experienced before. While it didn't eliminate the pain by any means, it soothed the intensity more than you thought anything ever could. As his fingers traced slow, deliberate circles on your skin, you felt your entire body relaxing, tension melting away with each careful movement.

Your tears, once born of shame and torment, now flowed from sheer relief.

"Thank you," you sniffled, peace washing over you whilst your body finally began to relax. As your muscles slowly unclenched, the bed beneath you seemed to transform, becoming a soft, inviting cloud that cradled your aching form.

Erik could sense your growing ease just from the shift in your demeanour. He was well aware that the mattress and bed sheets were likely ruined, but your comfort and rest took precedence over any stains—especially ones that no one else would ever lay eyes on. And it wasn’t like he couldn’t always procure new clothes for you if your current ones were beyond saving.

"Rest now, angel," he murmured softly, his hand continuing its soothing motions. "I'll be here when you wake up."

As you drifted off into a peaceful slumber, Erik decided it was probably time to delve into those medical journals he'd long avoided.

What? He just preferred reading fiction, that's all.

As evening fell, you stirred from your sleep, immediately noticing the emptiness beside you. Your hand brushed against the cool sheets where Erik had been, confirming your suspicion—he had left your side some time ago. Disappointment creased your brow as you pondered his whereabouts.

You laid motionless on the mattress, your gaze fixed on the spot where Erik had been before you drifted off. The pain in your lower abdomen persisted, but it had noticeably diminished compared to earlier. Your skin felt clammy, and your throat parched, yet overall, you felt surprisingly okay.

"You're awake," a familiar voice called from the corner of the room.

Your frown melted away as you realized he hadn't left at all. True to his word, Erik had simply shifted to the corner of the room, maintaining his vigilant watch over you.

"It's 7:30 PM, which is quite an unusual time to start your day, don't you think?" he teased. You sat up, observing him sitting comfortably in the chair you two kept in the room for convenience's sake.

This time, he wore his mask, unlike earlier when you had awoken. Your gaze drifted downward, landing on the enormous tome in his hands—the bulkiest book you'd ever laid eyes on. Curiosity piqued, you gestured silently toward the literary behemoth he cradled, wordlessly urging him to elaborate on the book in his grasp.

"I know—this is definitely a hefty one. Thank god for chapter indexes," he remarked, weighing the book in his hands. "However, I must say, its contents are appallingly lacking in knowledge."

"How so?" you prompted.

"Well, this is supposed to be a medical journal, and yet, when I look for information on menstruation, it's woefully inadequate," he scoffed. "It merely states that menstruation is linked to the reproductive cycle and helps the uterus prepare for potential pregnancy. That's all."

"Well, that's still more than I knew before," you said with a shrug.

"It's obscene. I read in another book that it happens to half the population from around ages 16 to 50, and yet so many people have gone their whole lives not knowing why?" He shook his head in bewilderment. "And I thought science had come much further than that."

“You read another book? How many of these have you read?” you asked, astonished by his dedication.

“Oh, just whatever I had lying around. A couple dozen or so,” he replied, as if everyone just had dozens of books on medical knowledge floating around their abode. “But some of them were so old they attributed menstruation to miasma, so I didn’t pay much attention to those. And I also busied myself with books on herbal remedies and pain relief- apparently there’s this new medicine called Aspirin on the market? Exciting, but I can’t get a hold of that right now, unfortunately.”

As he rose from the chair, you noticed the stacks of books surrounding his feet. He hadn't exaggerated when he mentioned "a dozen or so" - they were all massive, thicker than any you'd ever seen! You racked your brain, trying to recall where in the cellars he might have been concealing these enormous volumes, but you couldn't remember ever spotting them before.

"I may be mistaken, but you seem to be feeling better than you did this morning," he observed, neatly arranging the books into orderly stacks rather than leaving them scattered haphazardly.

"Definitely," you nodded. "The pain is still present, but it's significantly less intense now."

"That's good," he replied, humming as he pushed his first pile to the side to work on the next. "You did give me quite a fright earlier. I thought... Well, I'm not sure what I thought."

"It's understandable. I mean, I'm not sure why, but I expected you to have some... slight awareness of the subject," you admitted, awkwardly averting your gaze.

Even though you knew Erik wasn't raised with the same rules and expectations as you, discussing menstruation still felt like breaching a taboo. The topic remained uncomfortable, despite your rational understanding that it shouldn't be.

"I do feel quite foolish for not being aware of it sooner. But then again, how many women do you think I've encountered in my life? Besides my mother, the answer is none. And even that meeting was brief," he said matter-of-factly.

You didn't really know how to respond to that, so you let a comfortable silence settle between you. Erik swiftly finished organizing his books, then hurried out to return them to their proper places. He reappeared within moments.

"Now, unless there are other aspects of your anatomy I should be aware of," he said with a hint of amusement, "I believe a bath is in order." His eyes darted meaningfully towards the bed, drawing your attention to the mess you had somehow overlooked. You were mortified as you realized the extent of the stains, which had spread far beyond where you'd expected, creating abstract patterns on the once-pristine sheets.

"Ugh, yes," you grimaced, suddenly noticing the uncomfortable layer of blood on your skin. "A bath is definitely overdue. But what about you? Have you had a chance to clean up?"

"You've been out for eleven hours. I bathed ages ago," he stated. "Just give me half an hour or so to boil some water for the bath. That way, you won't be freezing in there."

While you appreciated Erik's thoughtfulness, the sensation of dried, itchy filth on your skin was unbearable. The prospect of waiting even a moment longer to cleanse yourself seemed more daunting than enduring the bite of cold water.

"Don’t bother," you cringed, "I can't bear this feeling any longer. I need to wash off immediately, even if the water's cold. The discomfort of icy water is preferable to this... filth."

“Have some patience. It’s the late evening in a cellar right next to a lake, you’ll die from cold exposure,” he deadpanned.

Though you understood the logic behind his words, you couldn't suppress a playful pout. Erik's eyes rolled with amusement as he approached you on the bed. Leaning over, he tenderly pressed his lips to your forehead, the gentle gesture melting away your feigned disappointment.

"Are you sure you're not in too much pain right now? Tomorrow I'll ask Gerard to procure some herbs, but until then I have a few remedies I can try with items lying around," he asked, straightening up to look down at you with a raised eyebrow.

"It's bearable," you affirmed.

"Good," he said, moving towards the door. "Stay here while I set up the bath. If you need anything, just call for me."

“Trust me, I won’t be going far anytime soon.”

Thirty minutes later, Erik returned as promised. During the wait, you occupied yourself with daydreams and silent lamentations about your bodily predicament. You couldn’t help but be stuck on the thought that you’d be stuck like this until you were 50—you weren't even halfway through!

"Can you walk alright?" he asked, concerned about you putting any unnecessary strain on your body.

After considering your current condition, you replied, "I think I could manage, but would you mind carrying me to the bathroom anyway? I've heard blood leaves quite stubborn stains on stone."

Wordlessly, he obliged, gently cradling you in his arms. One arm supported your back while the other nestled beneath your knees. As he carefully lifted you, his eyes fell upon the crimson stain left behind. The sight of such copious bleeding caused a flicker of concern to cross his face, though he tried to conceal it.

You were supposed to bleed that much every month for a week straight without dying?

Pushing aside his alarming thoughts about your potential demise, he carried you carefully to the bathroom, his movements slow and deliberate. As he cradled you, you realized this level of attentiveness was something you could easily grow accustomed to. You made a mental note that future menstrual cycles would be spent here in the cellars, rather than hiding from him in the Opera Populaire as you'd done before.

"Thank you for today," you whispered, your voice filled with gratitude. As you spoke, you instinctively burrowed closer, finding comfort in the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your ear.

He let out a low chuckle, tinged with self-deprecation. "Thank you? I've barely done anything noteworthy," he scoffed, a hint of frustration creeping into his voice. You couldn't see his expression, but you sensed the frown in his words. "To be honest, I feel rather inadequate. I wish I could have been more helpful to you in this situation."

"Don't say that," you insisted, nudging his chest with your head in retaliation. "You've gone above and beyond what most people would do. You've read dozens of books today just to understand me better. You've prepared a bath for me and prioritized my rest over your bedding. Most men would have either shooed me away or fled in your position."

A door creaked open, plunging you into momentary darkness as Erik gently lowered you to your feet. Your voice softened with emotion as you whispered, "your kindness and attentiveness mean more to me than words can express."

The gas valve hissed softly as it turned, gradually illuminating the bathroom. As your eyes adjusted to the light, you noticed a plush black towel draped over the edge of the tub, ready for use. On a nearby rack hung a set of fresh clothes—their style unmistakably reminiscent of Erik's wardrobe—waiting patiently for you to don them after your bath.

He cleared his throat loudly, a gesture you'd come to recognise as his way of masking his flustered state. "It's nothing extraordinary," he mumbled, his voice tinged with a mix of modesty and discomfort at the praise, "just basic human decency."

“But-“

"Is there anything else you need before I go to clean up?" he abruptly asked.

You sighed, giving him a pointed look for interrupting you. Deciding to let it go, you allowed the shift in conversation.

"I can manage from here, thank you," you hummed. "But would you mind fetching my sanitary belt from my bag? I'll need it after the bath."

“Sanitary belt?”

"Yeah. It's a belt that wraps around your waist and holds a sanitary towel in place to collect the, um, blood," you explained, awkwardly gesturing with your hands to illustrate. "You'll recognize it when you see it."

With a tender kiss on your forehead, Erik departed, promising to return with what you need.

The moment he left, you wasted no time shedding your clothes and depositing them in the nearby basket. Eager for relief, you eased yourself into the bathtub, a contented sigh escaping your lips as the pleasantly warm water enveloped you. The soothing heat melted away any lingering discomfort, allowing you to immerse yourself fully in the task of cleansing. With meticulous care, you began to wash away the day's troubles, savouring the unexpected comfort the bath provided.

He returned shortly after, placing the belt on the rack alongside your other necessities. Once again, he inquired about your well-being, prompting you to playfully scold him for his constant concern. Nevertheless, you reassured him that you were fine, adding that the warm bath water provided more pain relief than you had anticipated.

He seemed on the verge of making a sarcastic comment—likely along the lines of "I told you so"—but thought better of it. Bidding you a final goodbye, he left to strip and prepare the bed, allowing you to finish cleaning up in peace.

You continued this until the water was doing you more of a disservice than it was cleansing you. Pulling the drain cover open, you allowed the dirty water to flow out and empty the tub. Silently, you thanked Erik for installing this modern convenience in his home—one of the few upgrades he'd chosen, despite his ability to afford many more.

A chill crept over your damp skin, urging you to hasten your routine. Goosebumps prickled across your body as you quickly patted yourself dry with the towel, appreciating how he'd made sure it was black and not white. You then clumsily secured the sanitary belt around your waist, wincing at its familiar discomfort.

Immediately after, you slipped into the night shirt he had provided. The loose-fitting trousers were a blessing, their gentle embrace and soft material accommodating your tender midsection without adding pressure. Once you finished dressing, a sense of satisfaction gleamed in your chest. You felt refreshed, clean, and rejuvenated.

You made sure to brush your teeth before finishing up in the bathroom, when the horrific cramps returned once again. Doubled over and jaw clenched, you shuffled towards the door with painstaking slowness. Your quivering hand fumbled with the gas valve, finally managing to shut off the light. The room plunged into darkness as you walked out, door falling shut behind.

Groaning softly, you shuffled back towards the bedroom, where you found Erik fluffing the pillows on your freshly made bed. He wore his night attire, and despite your discomfort, you couldn't suppress a smile. Even doubled over in pain, the sight of him warmed your heart.

He swiftly noticed your presence, helping you onto the bed to spare you the effort of weakly propping yourself up. He then approached the dresser, where a mysterious lump lay concealed beneath blankets. Unfolding the coverings, he placed his hand on the hidden object and nodded with satisfaction.

He refolded the blankets over it before walking over to you. Curious and confused, you tried to maintain an inquisitive look while fighting off the storm raging in your abdomen.

"I anticipated the pain would return once you started moving again," he said, gesturing for you to lift your shirt to reveal your belly. You complied, though your confusion deepened. "This is called a 'hot water bottle,’ a recent invention. Gerard suggested I try one to ease some discomfort from my... condition. It doesn't help me much, but it might work for you."

"How does it work?" you asked, flinching slightly as the bottle touched your skin.

"It's made of rubber and filled with hot water to transfer heat efficiently," he explained, helping you pull your shirt back down over the bottle to keep it pressed against your skin. "Since you mentioned the warm water helped, I thought this might be worth trying."

"So it's like a hot water pig, but made of rubber instead of stoneware and more convenient?" you hummed thoughtfully, resting your hands over the bottle for an extra layer of added security.

“Precisely,” he nodded.

As the warmth from the hot water bottle gradually permeated the blankets, you found it soothing but not quite potent enough to fully alleviate your discomfort. The heat offered a welcome respite, yet you yearned for more intense relief from the persistent ache.

"It does take the edge off the pain," you admitted, biting your lip pensively, "but would it be possible to remove the blanket? I think more intense heat might help even more."

"Absolutely not," he said firmly, his tone brooking no argument. "Direct contact with the bottle could result in burns. The blanket stays."

After a moment's consideration, you decided that the risk of burns did indeed outweigh the potential relief from your cramps—at least for now. You nodded, opting to keep the blanket wrapped around the water bottle, appreciating its safer warmth.

A sense of contentment washed over you as you marvelled at how this day, which had started so unexpectedly, had blossomed into something truly special.

You were with the love of your life, freshly bathed and dressed in his clothes, tucked into a clean bed with a soothing hot water bottle warming your skin and fighting against what usually was traumatic levels of pain. Tears welled in your eyes as pure bliss coursed through your veins, overwhelming you before you could even process the feeling.

As the first tear rolled down your cheek, Erik instinctively sprang into action. You couldn't help but laugh through your cascading tears, raising your hands to signal him to relax. Though hesitant, he wordlessly complied with your wishes.

"I'm okay," you sniffled, your words punctuated by small sobs. "I don't know why I'm crying. I'm just so... happy. I think I'm really, truly happy."

His eyes widened behind the mask, a mixture of surprise and awe flashing across the few of his visible features. Unable to resist, you reached up, gently grasping his hand and guiding him to lay beside you on the bed. He remained motionless, seemingly caught between disbelief and anticipation. Your heart racing, you leaned in, pressing your lips to his in a tender, affectionate kiss that conveyed all the emotions words couldn't quite express.

Wiping your eyes with the sleeves of your night shirt, you clutched the water bottle tighter and rolled onto your side. You nestled into his chest, his arm instinctively wrapping around you as you melded into his trembling form. Yearning for closeness, you draped your leg over his hips, your body seeking every possible point of contact.

"But—" He stammered, shaking his head in disbelief. Bewilderment dripped from his voice as he continued, "You haven't eaten all day. Surely, I should prepare something for you—"

"No," you replied, your tone firm yet affectionate.

"You must-"

"Nuh-uh," you teased.

"Really I should-"

"Shh." You leaned closer, your faces mere inches apart as you rested an arm over his waist. He tensed at the contact, despite the familiar porcelain barrier between you. "Just stay with me like this for a little while, please? Afterward, you can make all the cold meat sandwiches your heart desires."

"You told me you liked those," he grumbled in playful accusation.

A soft laugh escaped your lips as your eyes shimmered with unbridled affection. If Erik were to meet your gaze, all he'd be able to see was the pure, unadulterated euphoria radiating from your smile.

"I do," you agreed with a nod, “but only because you make them with so much love."

"So, you don't?"

You hummed thoughtfully, tilting your head back as if deeply pondering the culinary merits of cold meat sandwiches. "They're good, but they could use a little something extra," you mused. "Maybe some cucumber for crunch? Or a slice of mozzarella for creaminess?"

He scoffed in mock offence, "That completely distracts from the flavour of the meat."

"Flavour?"

"I'm glad you agree."

You pursed your lips before releasing a long, deliberate sigh. Your eyes flicked from his face to the clock. The time read 9:45 PM, yet an unwelcome wakefulness clung to you—undoubtedly a lingering consequence of your excessive eleven-hour nap.

"I’ve completely ruined my sleep schedule, haven’t I?" you mumbled. "It’s late in the evening, and I’m nowhere near tired.”

Erik paused thoughtfully before replying, "I can make you something to aid with sleep, if you'd like."

"What do you have in mind?" you asked, curiosity evident in your tone.

He thought over the matter before deciding.

"I have some dried valerian root that I can steep into a tea," he offered. "I've tried it on rare occasions. It's quite bitter, but I can add some chamomile to sweeten the taste."

"You're so lovely," you giggled, unaware of how he tensed at the compliment. "So kind and thoughtful—you call me an angel, but I think the real angel here is you. My Angel."

He paused, visibly stunned by your words.

His voice was soft and hesitant as he asked, "you believe that?"

You nodded, a soft hum of agreement escaping your lips. "I do," you said sweetly, your voice brimming with unwavering certainty.

You felt the rise and fall of his chest as he took a deep breath, seemingly trying to steady his racing heartbeat. His hold tightened around you, drawing you even closer. A radiant smile spread across your face.

"So," he stammered, clearly flustered by the compliment, "is that a yes to the tea?"

"I'd love some tea," you nodded eagerly. "But could you stay with me for ten more minutes first?"

He nodded, and you both settled into a comfortable silence—a respite he seemed to appreciate. Your fingers traced idle patterns on his palm, while his gently wove through your hair.

Ten minutes passed in this tranquil state, and you quickly realised that maybe the tea was unnecessary after all. Every thirty seconds or so, you found yourself stifling an uncontrollable yawn—a gesture you noticed Erik unconsciously mirroring.

Your eyelids grew heavy, the combined warmth of his body and the water bottle proving irresistible. You drifted toward sleep at least five times, always jolting awake at the last moment before you fully succumbed. Despite your drowsiness, you yearned to savour this moment just a little longer.

"Do you still want that tea?" Erik asked, his voice heavy with exhaustion.

You shook your head and nestled closer to his chest. "I'm fine now," you murmured contentedly.

"Good," he replied, his hand gently smoothing down your flyaway hairs. He seemed on the verge of saying more, but fatigue clouded his thoughts, and he let the moment pass.

He yawned once more, momentarily pulling away from you. You whined in protest, but he shushed you as he reached behind his head to untie his mask. Attempting to place it carefully on the bedside table, he misjudged the distance, and it slipped towards the floor.

The mask remained intact, though the sound it emitted was sharp enough to make you flinch. To your astonishment, Erik seemed unconcerned by the possible harm. Instead, he calmly readjusted your position so you were laying as before, then closed his eyes. A surge of emotion swelled in your chest.

Erik had grown comfortable with you seeing him without his mask, though he typically preferred to keep it on unless taken by surprise or during the quiet hours of the night when you were both sleeping. His current indifference toward the mask could mean one of two things: either he was too exhausted to notice its near demise, or he had become so deeply at ease with you that he no longer felt the need to shield himself behind it.

Erik possessed other masks, but they could never replace his favourite. His primary one was treated with the utmost reverence, as fragile and irreplaceable as a feather. It was the one he felt most secure in and allowed him the most normalcy, therefore it was always his first choice regardless of other options. Yet now, without hesitation or concern, he had allowed it to fall away, as though its significance had vanished entirely, as if the bond between you had rendered it unnecessary.

You felt the urge to cry again, but not wanting to disturb his sleep, you suppressed your tears as you contemplated the significance of this moment for both of you.

"I love you," you whispered, your voice cracking with emotion. Though it could be mistaken for tiredness, the tremor in your words betrayed your overwhelming desire to burst into tears of joy.

After a moment, one bleary eye opened as he turned to face you. His lips curved into a genuine smile as he whispered, "I love you too."

'hot water pigs' are what people used to call hot water bottles, or at least their versions of them, just so you know lol. writing these fics always requires so much research into old terms and the existence of things that are now regular everyday items, it's kind of crazy. like trying to figure out how much was known about periods in the late 1800s early 1900s was a challenge.

#phantom of the opera #phantom of the opera musical #phantom of the opera x reader #erik destler x reader #cherik #erik the phantom #erik destler #gaston leroux #poto #musical #1990 phantom of the opera #phantom of the opera 1990 #poto 1990 #poto x reader #cherik poto

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purplecoffee13 · 9 months ago

Text

Nemesis with Benefits - Part 2

Summary: “You come over to help your friend with setting up their new couch, but soon you find out that you weren’t the only one

Wc: 4.6k

Tropes: enemies to lovers

Warnings: mention of blood and cheating. loads of banter and tension…

A/N: Hey guys! Here is the second part of Nemesis with Benefits! The tension is brewing and it’s stirring up nothing but confusion!!! I’m so excited about this series, and I’m so grateful to see it getting such a good response. Enjoy!!!

General Masterlist

Series Masterlist

From Benjamin:

HELP I CANT GET MY COUCH TOGETHER😭

Can someone pls come over and help?

You stare at the text messages Benjamin sent in the group chat. You are quick to open your agenda app to see if you are free to help your friend. Before you can even text Benjamin that you're available, and will come over soon, he calls you. You pick up.

"Help!" Benjamin's panicked voice sounds from the other side of the line. "If I have to tackle this couch alone for one more minute, I'm gonna kill someone. And since the couch and I are the only things in the room, it's probably gonna be me!"

You stifle a laugh. "I was just about to text you that I'll come over. Stay there. Don't move, and don't kill yourself."

"I'll try." Benjamin whines dramatically. You roll your eyes as you hang up on your friend, and grab your headphones and jacket.

Within two minutes, you are outside your building and walking to Benjamin's apartment. He moved into an apartment building off campus this summer. A couple of weeks ago his couch—which was already on the verge of breaking—broke, and he had to order a new one. Not that he minded; he loved shopping for anything. He'd always join you whenever you would run errands.

It takes no more than ten minutes to get to Benjamin's apartment building, though, because it is quite close to campus. Plus, you are a fast walker, so you are always a couple of minutes faster.

You ring the doorbell and Benjamin lets you into the building. After riding the elevator, you walk to Benjamin's apartment. He is already waiting in the doorway and gives you a big hug once you're within reach.

"Oh thank God you're here!" He exclaims, hugging you so tight that it is getting hard to breathe. "You are truly the only reliable friend I have around here."

"I'm happy to be of help, babe." You choke out a laugh, pulling out of the embrace, and walking past Benjamin into his living room.

“Now, let’s see what this evil couch is about…”

************************************************

30 minutes later

"How did you manage, out of all couches in the world, to buy the most complex and pain in the ass one?!" You huff, a drop of sweat running down your forehead. You are sitting crisscross applesauce, hunched over, trying to figure out the way this stupid couch is set up.

You managed to get halfway before getting stuck. Step 17 was the devil in disguise, and it had you developing lower back pain and a stress induced headache. Still, you were determined to figure it out. Benjamin asked you for help, and if the help couldn't manage to assemble this couch, you knew he would leave this unfinished for weeks.

"The people at the store said it was easy!" Benjamin protests with a sigh.

"Yeah, maybe for people who sell couches for a living. Not for broke students who prepare all their food in the microwave!" You say, frowning at the couch. Benjamin's killing comment from earlier isn't seeming as dramatic as it did before. You might just throw this couch—or yourself—out the window.

There's a faint knock on the front door. You aren't sure if there is even someone there, but the way Benjamin skips to the door washes the doubt away.

"Hey! What are you doing here?!" Benjamin's voice sounds slightly distressed. You look up to see who he let in, and your face falters immediately at the sight of Harry walking into the living room.

"You said you needed help, so I—" Harry stops talking once he spots you too, and he sighs. Your eyes widen. He has the nerve to actually sigh? What a douchebag!

"I'm going to the bathroom." You say, glaring Harry down as you move out of the living room. You hear some footsteps behind you, and you know that Benjamin is following you. You let him enter the bathroom with you, and turn around as he closes the door.

"I can't believe you would let him come over while I'm here!" You cross your arms. You are quite upset with Benjamin, but even more so with Harry. The sole sight of his smug face sets you off. He annoys you to no end.

"I'm sorry, I didn't know! I texted him, and he never responded. He just comes over without warning a lot. This wasn't intentional, I swear." Benjamin explains, and you can tell that he's sincere. Benjamin can be almost as much of a pain in the butt as his stupid couch, but he would never intentionally hurt you. But Harry would, and he did.

"I just..." you take a deep breath before you make the confession you've been bothered with for a while now. "Harry hurt me, a lot. And you're still friends with him..."

It's Benjamin's turn to sigh. He grabs your arms and levels with you, searching for your eyes.

"Harry is on the bench." He tells you, like you are supposed to know what that means.

"You know we're building you a couch, not a bench—"

"No, dumbass!" Benjamin interrupts you. "Harry's on the friendship bench. He was demoted to second string. He ain't playing in the game that I call my inner circle."

You sigh. "Okay, could you just leave the metaphors for a second and tell me what you mean—"

"I punched him." He shrugs as if it is as simple as ever. You, however, have your mouth hanging wide open.

"You punched Harry?"

"Of course I did. What he did to you was beyond shitty, and he totally deserved it." Benjamin confirms, and your heart sinks at the fact that you doubted his loyalty to you in the first place. "But Harry has been one of my best friends since high school. And what happened— well... let's just say that the story is not totally black and white."

That makes you feel a bit offended. "What is not black and white about this situation? Dylan cheated, Harry participated."

"I agree, that part is black and white. That's why I punched him." He nods his head. "Now, you can go home, and I will try and assemble this stupid couch with him. I totally understand that you don't want to stay here."

"No!" You say angrily. Benjamin's eyebrows crease into a frown, almost as surprised as you by your drive to stay here.

"But—"

"Why?! So he can brag about the couch that I basically put together?!" You murmur as you cross your arms, eyes squinting a bit at the thought of him walking around with that inflated ego of his. There is absolutely no way he is getting another something of yours, again!

"Y/N, it's just a couch—" Benjamin tries to argue, but you won't hear of it.

"This is not about the stupid couch!" You blurt out. This shuts him up. He stares at you for a few seconds with this look in his eyes that reads 'go home, don't do this'. But you don't feel like listening, so you walk past him, out of the bathroom and back into the living room.

"I don't think this is a good idea!" Benjamin calls out from the bathroom.

"Too bad!" You call back. Benjamin is right on your heels and right next to you by the time you stand in front of Harry again. He has already seated himself in the place where you were sitting just now. He's got the manual in one hand and a screw driver in the other.

"I fixed the problem. You were using the wrong screws." Harry says, the comment more directed at Benjamin than at you. But you take it personally anyway, because you are the one who selected the screws. You walk over to him and snatch the manual out of his hands.

"I read it five times, I definitely used the right—" upon reading step 17 for the fifth time, you finally see the name of the screws you were supposed to use. Your brain tends to mash up words after a while, and all the screws' names really read alike.

When you look up from the piece of paper, you see Harry smirking at you. He knows he's right, and he knows you know he's right, and that makes you incredibly angry. He shouldn't be allowed to be right, ever. Not in front of you, at least.

With a groan, you sit yourself down next to Harry and snatch the screwdriver out of his hand before burying your nose into the manual again. You mutter a small profanity under your breath, and Harry just scoffs at the sound of it.

This is gonna be a long evening...

************************************************

"Fuck." Harry curses, mainly to himself, when the leg of the couch doesn't stay in place once again. He has tried three times now, not letting you help him.

"I told you to—"

"Shut up." Harry growls, not even sparing a glance at you. He is heavily concentrating on his failing work.

"This could be solved quicker if you'd just listen to me." You tell him, reaching towards the sofa table where you've put all the screws and other necessary stuff for building this couch.

"No. This could be solved quicker if you'd just let me look at the manual." Harry responds. You squint at him, even though he can't see you. He'll feel the hate of your withering stare nonetheless.

You don't say anything, though, keeping yourself as you sort out the screws that lie in front of you. It has been an hour of sitting with Harry and trying to piece this couch together. So far you have had the upper hand, mainly because you have the manual.

Benjamin tried to help the first 30 minutes, but after being snarled at too many times, he resigned to cleaning his kitchen. So now you are sitting alone with Harry.

"Okay... done. What's next?" Harry asks, looking at you and the manual in your lap. You don't return the glance, still focused on counting the amount of screws you need.

"Wait."

Harry rolls his eyes. "If you'd just give me the stupid manual—"

"Damn it! Now I lost count." You look up and glare at Harry. "Could you shut up for a second?"

"Nope. Give me the manual." He crosses his arms. Leaning against the wall behind him. You shake your head. There is no way he is getting this piece of paper.

"No."

You go back to counting the screws, when all of a sudden the manual is snatched away from your lap. Your mouth falls open and your eyes follow the way Harry's hands take it away. You are about to cuss him out, when Benjamin's voice announces something from behind you.

"Guys, I have a class in twenty minutes, so I have to go. C'mon, I can finish the couch another time." He says and you don't miss the relief in his voice. He's probably already happy that his apartment didn't blow up in the first ten minutes of you and Harry being in the same room.

"It's fine. I can finish it up. Won't take long, now that I've got the manual and everything." Harry offers with a smile. Jaw clenched, you swallow his stupid comment and also turn to your friend.

"I'll stay too. Have to finish what I started."

There is no way in hell you're letting Harry get away with acting like he built this whole couch by himself, when it was actually just the step 17 and about five others after that.

"Oh, that's very sweet, but I don't know if—"

"We won't kill each other, I promise." I try to reassure him, hoping to get some backing from Harry about this.

"We won't?"

You turn around and give Harry your greatest death stare.

"I'm just saying, you were being pretty aggressive with that screwdriver just now." He puts his hands up defensively. You sigh, redirecting your attention back to your friend.

"Fine. I promise to refrain from impaling Harry's head with a screwdriver until we're outside of the apartment." You say.

"Yeah, that sounds more believable." Harry murmurs approvingly.

Benjamin looks at the two of you, thinking it over for a bit. Everything about his face reads that he thinks this is a bad idea. You don't blame him the slightest, but you let your eyes plead him to let you do this anyway. You need it. The exact reason why, you don't know. But... you just need this.

"Okay." Benjamin finally says, earning a smile from you. "Help yourself to whatever is in the fridge. I'll be back in about two hours."

"Aye aye captain." You joke, giving your friend a hug before returning to the floor alongside Harry. You hear the rattling of the house keys Benjamin grabbed from the counter, and watch as he walks to his front door.

"Don't get blood on my new couch." He shouts just in time for the door to slam shut. You take a deep breath, the fact that you are alone with Harry now really kicking in.

It's fine. You can do this. He sucks.

"Can you tell me how many screws I needed again?" You ask, attempting to be as polite as you possibly can to the guy your boyfriend cheated on you with.

"I don't know, can I? Oh wait, of course I can. Because I have the manual." He taunts, flicking the pages to step 25. He reads and reads, and a smirk forms on his face as his head lifts up.

"Guess."

"Don't be an asshole. Just tell me, I want to get this over with." You say, your head tilting. The look in your eyes radiates seriousness, and for a moment you think Harry understands how you're feeling.

"Erm, that wasn't a guess, that was just words."

If it was physically possible to exert steam from your ears, you would've looked like an old train. You groan and lean forward to snatch the manual away from Harry, but he is quick to move it out of reach. He holds it over his head.

"Aw c'mon, it was just a joke!" Harry teases even further. You are seeing red with rage and it takes everything to not scream every foul word in the book at him.

"It's not funny!" You try to grab the paper again, but Harry is too swift for you.

"It kind of is."

"No it's not! Nothing about this is funny!" You suddenly snap. "I don't want to be here with you. I just want to finish building this stupid couch and go home, so please give me the manual."

"Then why are you still here?!" Harry inquires firmly, a deep frown knitted onto his face.

"Why are you?!" You fire back, frustrating grown with each second that your eyes bore into his.

"I asked you a question, Y/N. I told Benjamin I'd do it myself, you cannot stand me. There is no logical reason for you to still be here, so why the fuck are you?"

"Because I can't let you take another thing from me!"

You blurt out confession before you have a chance to stop yourself, and your cheeks instantly go red with embarrassment. Harry's mouth hangs slightly open at the collection of words that just left your mouth. You avoid his eyes burning onto your skin as you try to steady your breathing. Your heart is pounding out of your chest.

"Just give me the stupid manual." You mumble, snagging it from his unsuspecting hands. You open the little book to your page, but the hiss that leaves Harry's mouth has you looking up at him. Your eyes widen at the sight of blood.

Dripping from Harry's hand is quite a bit of blood. Shit, you gave him a huge paper cut. Guilt washes over you, and you rush to the kitchen and back to give him some paper towels. Out of instinct, you wrap the towels around his hand. You are closer to Harry than you would normally be, but it's an emergency—one that you caused—so there's a necessary reason for it.

"Fuck, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to— let's get you to the kitchen." You put some pressure on his small wound and drag him to the kitchen. Harry doesn't say anything, but he lets you lead anyway. It is like your confession has shut him up, which is very rare because Harry never shuts up.

You put Harry's injured hand under the faucet and let the water wash away the blood. You get a better look of the cut and can deduce that a little bit of bandage would be best to keep a bit of pressure on it for now. You tell Harry to keep his hand in the same place, and reach for the first aid box you bought Benjamin as one of his housewarming gifts. This one was more of a joke, but it comes in handy now.

By the time you've collected everything you need, you turn off the faucet and dry Harry's hand with some new paper towels. It is completely silent between the two of you as you dap the towels onto his skin. But you can feel Harry's stare. It doesn't surprise you very much when he speaks up.

"I'm sorry."

Your body stops everything it was doing and takes in the apology for a few seconds, then resumes back to drying Harry's hand

"I'm gonna put some bandage around your hand. It'll keep pressure on the cut. You'll be able to switch to a band aid after a while." You casually explain, choosing to ignore his words. You don't really have the mental capacity to deal with it right now.

"Y/N, I'm not just saying it. I mean it, I'm sorry." Harry almost pleads. You look at him and hate the sincerity that flashes through his eyes. You'd prefer it if it wasn't there. It's gonna turn out to be bullshit anyway; he shouldn't be saying it like he means it. "What I— we did was stupid, I shouldn't have done that. I was just... I was in love, and I thought—"

"I don't want to listen to your excuses, Harry." You interrupt him. "You may have your reasons, but you did what you did. It already happened, you can't talk yourself out of it."

"I'm not trying to talk myself out of it."

"Then what are you doing?"

"I'm trying to tell you the truth." Harry grits through his teeth.

"So what? So I can feel bad for you about stealing my boyfriend?!" You respond, the condescension in your tone dripping over the words you speak.

"You stole him first!" He growls very loudly. You are taken aback by the sudden aggressiveness.

"What?" The questions almost comes out like a whisper. You are utterly lost. What is this guy talking about? Harry huffs, looking away from you. He is clearly embarrassed.

"Nothing."

"No, tell me." You demand, wrapping the bandage around Harry's palm. "You owe me, at the very least."

Harry sighs, shaking his head. His eyes flick between yours and the his wounded hand. He exhales deeply before finally beginning with talking.

"We were... sleeping together, Dylan and I. It was casual; he said he didn't want a relationship, that he wasn't ready. Then about three weeks after saying that, he started dating you."

You don't open your mouth, instead focusing on processing the information that Harry is throwing your way, which is proving to be a bit difficult. You shake your head.

"That's shitty of him." You simply say, deciding to not want to offer him any pity. It is indeed a fucked up thing to string someone along and then date someone else, but it doesn't excuse what Harry did.

You focus on finishing up with the bandage on Harry's arm, and smile at your work. You could definitely be a nurse if you wanted to.

"Okay. Let's go back to that devil of a couch." You say, and the air feels a bit lighter now. It isn't so heavy with unresolved tension as it was before. There still is loads, but it is easier to breathe than before.

"Alright." Harry agrees, walking behind you to the living room.

************************************************

One and a half hour later

"I'm never doing favors for anyone ever again." You say, staring wide-eyed at the couch you and Harry finally managed to put together. It took you long enough—thanks to Harry—but you're finally done.

"Gotta agree with you on that one." Harry nods, hands on his hips as he analyzes the couch.

"Of course you do. I'm always right." You shrug, and Harry rolls his eyes.

The past hour and a half have been strangely good for you and Harry. You still hate him, and you are pretty sure he feels the same way about you, but there is kind of a non-negotiated truce now. That doesn't keep you from seizing every opportunity to insult him. You haven't lost your edge.

You flop down on the couch, and Harry follows suit. You sit in silence, staring at the white wall in front of you. That's when you see something on the sofa table, and you can quite literally feel the blood drain from your face.

In the table lay a ziplock bag of screws. Ones that you were supposed to put somewhere in this couch, but you didn't. All freaked out, you start looking for the instructions again.

"Where's the manual?" You question, aimlessly scanning the room. When your glance goes past Harry, you see the little white book in his hand. You lean forward to grab it, but he moves it away from you very quickly.

"Come on. It wasn’t funny the first time, it’s not funny now.” You tilt your head and reach out your hand, hoping that your motherly tone will make him put the piece of paper back in your hand. But he doesn’t, only shrugging at your tiny lecture. Your lips break into a slight smirk, and you heave a sigh.

“Fine. You want to play foul, then foul it is.”

Then, in a matter of seconds, you’ve thrown yourself over Harry, grasping the manual. You have managed to get a hold of it, clearly having caught him off guard. But that doesn’t hold for long, as he’s regained his senses quickly and puts an arm around your waist, lifting you up and throwing you off the couch. You land on the rug with a small thud, and although it doesn’t hurt much, there is fire in your eyes when they meet Harry’s cocky face. He’s holding up the manual behind him as he laughs at you lying on the ground.

Without thinking for another second, you charge at him, jumping on him and snatching the manual out of his hands. You lean back to get away, but almost fall backwards. That is until an arm around your waist catches you. You are pulled into Harry and his action to save you leaves the both of you very close to one another. You are still breathing heavily from your ‘attack’, but then you feel something else.

The beating of your heart at the proximity between you and Harry; it stresses you out to be this close to him. Suddenly, it becomes apparent, too apparent; Harry’s fingers are dug into your waistline.

You blame the way your body reacts to the fact that you haven’t gotten laid in a month, yet you can’t seem to tear your eyes away from Harry. He shares your troubles, his gaze fixated on you like you could fade away at any second.

Your eyes widen ever so slightly when Harry leans forward. A couple inches, but forward nonetheless. No matter how radical and ridiculous your mind finds this action, your body doesn’t do a thing to stop it. There is a spark that radiates off Harry and enters your veins through the touch of his fingers, the heat of his breath, and the feel of his stare.

His eyes dart from yours to your mouth, asking without asking, as he inches closer with every few seconds. You feel those sparks morphing into a flame as Harry’s lips brush yours ever so slightly, and your heavy eyes flutter shut.

“I’m back!”

You jump off Harry’s lap in an impressive short amount of time, just in time for the door to shut and Benjamin to walk through the door. His eyes travel to the counter, where a partly bloodied paper towel still lies. A gasp leaves his lips.

“YOU STABBED HIM?!”

His eyes fly to you and Harry, and he sighs deeply at the sight of the both of you unharmed, well… mostly.

“I can’t believe you’d think I’d stab him.”

“Why did you think she was the one who stabbed me?”

You and Harry responded at the same time. You flick Harry a look before explaining the situation to your friend.

“I accidentally gave him a paper cut.” You point to Harry’s bandaged hand, which he is holding up. “But thanks for thinking I’m vicious enough to stab someone, I guess.”

“Yeah, and thanks a lot for thinking I’m not.” Harry adds with a frown, his arms crossed. Benjamin stifles out a laugh.

“Well, thanks for the couch. I owe you guys.” He smiles, pulling you into a hug. “D’ya wanna go for a drink together?”

“No!” You call out as soon as Benjamin finishes his question, earning a pair of confused looks from the two boys. “I— uh, I have to go. Assignment. I have to do an assignment.”

You stumble over your words and steps as you grab your jacket and headphones, heading for the front door.

“Okay… will I see tonight?!” Benjamin shouts the question which reminds you of Tyler’s birthday party tonight. Tyler is a friend you got to know through Benjamin. Almost hooked up with him once.

“I’ll let you know!” Is all you say before walking out the door, shutting the door behind you. You rush to the elevator, not wanting the boys to catch up with you. You put on your headphones, taking a deep breath before putting play on the music.

You need some time to think about what the fuck happened back there.

#harry styles #fanfic #writing #blurb #fanfiction #harry #one direction #mini series #harry styles x fem!reader #enemies to lovers #bantering #purplecoffee13

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jinnie-ret · 1 year ago

Note

Heyyyyy could you do a hyunjin x twin sister reader where hyunjin plans a suprise for her (which is introducing her the members cause why not and he thought that she doesn't really listen to kpop much because he knew she would focus more on studies then that) but he finds out by seeing you try to sing one of there songs. Sorry if this is too long lol and if it makes zero sense

2hwang

stray kids x reader (platonic)

genre: fluff

content warnings: none

word count: 1k

summary: hyunjin's twin sister finally meets skz, and much to his surprise, she's a big fan.

I hope you enjoy! I might have gone a little off topic from what you requested but it still has all those ideas! :)

If enjoyed please like, reblog or comment! And if you want to be added to the taglist then let me know!

MAIN MASTERLIST

"Keep up!" Hyunjin teased his twin sister Y/N as they raced up the stairs in the apartment block.

"What, is, wrong, with, you?" Y/N huffed as she trailed behind, only a few steps of course but that didn't mean she'd give up.

"There is nothing wrong with wanting my sister to see where I live!" Hyunjin raises a brow whilst stood hunched over, catching his breath as the palms of his hands rested on his knees.

"Not with that, you idiot! I swear there wasn't a sign saying the lift was broken..." Y/N trailed off.

"Oh that's because there wasn't," Hyunjin shrugged like it was nothing.

"Today will be the day you die, Hwang Hyunjin," Y/N dramatically stormed up to him, yet all possible intimidation was lost when she tripped over the last step.

"Woah! Hahaha," Hyunjin helped her balance herself as he caught her by the arms, and then immediately recoiled. "Ew you're so sweaty. And plus you can't kill me before I see your reaction, Hwang Y/N," he smirked, unlocking the door and opening it.

"See my reaction to what? Your art? I already know you're a hopeless romantic, what else could there be to- oh..." Y/N rambled back before standing still in her tracks at the sight of all the members of Stray Kids sat around on the sofas.

"Surprise!" Hyunjin imitated Lee Know's iconic moment, just without the party blower this time.

"H-hi..." Y/N quietly said, and automatically it was assumed by her twin brother that it was because she didn't know who they were.

In fact, it was the complete opposite.

The boys greeted Y/N with polite bows and greetings, before they all sat down and got comfortable.

"You remind me of someone..." Changbin thought, stroking his chin as if he had the wise beard of a wizard.

"It's probably Hyunjin," Seungmin rolled his eyes, jokingly crying out in pain when Changbin shoved him away.

"Yah you pabo! Of course he doesn't mean that!" Han exclaims.

"Seungmin is just teasing, Hannie," Chan facepalmed, whilst Lee Know, Felix, Jeongin and the twins merely observed from the other sofa.

"Are they always like this?" Y/N whispered to herself, yet Jeongin heard.

"Yes they are, noona... can I call you that?" Jeongin shyly asked.

Y/N's eyes widened.

"What's the matter?" Felix asked curiously.

"Oh nothing haha... but um, yes," she awkwardly answered.

"Hmm you two are very similar," Lee Know observed keenly.

"Ew don't compare me to her!" Hyunjin scrunched his nose and side eyed Y/N.

"There it is haha, the same flustered antics," Lee Know clapped his hands.

"Oh I totally see it," Felix nodded along.

"I don't get flustered!" Hyunjin folded his arms and huffed.

"You just did," Y/N shoved Hyunjin, smirking much like he did to her earlier.

"Yah!" Hyunjin pounced.

"Children! Don't fight!" Chan shouted above all the ruckus that had unfolded in simply ten minutes since the Hwang twins entered the apartment.

"Yes dad," they both rolled their eyes in sync and folded their arms.

"Woah, creepy," Jeongin shuddered, causing Y/N to fondly smile.

"Ah! I got it!" Changbin suddenly clapped his hands.

"Indulge me," Y/N smiled lightly as she sat back down.

"You look like Yeji!" Changbin smirked proudly.

"Oh from ITZY?!" Y/N beamed, excited at the comparison.

"How do you know ITZY?" Hyunjin gasped, shocked at his sister's sudden knowledge, assuming that she swerved away from KPOP all because of one time she stated she wasn't really listening to it anymore.

Which by the way lasted for like 2 hours, Y/N just couldn't find a song she wanted to listen to in that moment and ever since, Hyunjin thought that still applied to this day.

There's a reason he's in Paboracha.

"I love KPOP! Duh!" Y/N facepalmed, looking at Hyunjin with an incredulous look after.

"Hyunjinnie, did you lie to us?" Lee Know also turned to the younger twin, a glare taking over his features. Of course, he didn't really mean it.

"You said you didn't listen to it anymore!" Hyunjin defended himself, holding his hands up.

"Why else do you think that I was so awkward when I came here, Jinnie?" Y/N shyly admitted.

"Oh... Oh!!!" Hyunjin suddenly got excited.

"Oh no..." Y/N sighed.

"Why oh no?" Han laughed at the expression on Y/N's face, one he had often seen painted on Hyunjin's too but because of something he did.

"He's up to something," Seungmin chuckled lightly at Hyunjin's excited expression.

"Y/Nnieeeee, sing our song!" Hyunjin proposed the idea that had gotten him so excited.

"No way! That's so embarassing," Y/N turned away from her brother and hid her face.

"We won't judge you noona," Jeongin tried to reassure her, making her heart burst.

"Ah Jeongin you're too cute!" she let her inner fangirl out and squealed.

"Oh no, she really is like hyung," Jeongin's eyes comically widened as he referred to Hyunjin's obsession with him.

"Come on, Y/N, Hyunjin has told us you like writing, the talent must run in your family, just a little bit of singing?" Chan did his best to convince her and it worked.

"Ok, fine, fine," Y/N scratched the back of her neck wondering what.to sing before she couldn't help but fall into a fit of giggles.

"Come on, don't leave us in suspense!" Felix exclaimed, unable to hide his growing smile from her infectious giggles, ones that mirrored Hyunjin's but more high pitched and slightly quieter.

"Hoodie hoodie negan shim toga ji boogie boogie iepon kogo dance groovy groovy," Y/N perfectly imitated Hyunjin's viral part that had made it into many memes. This of course caused everyone to burst out into laughter.

"Wow she really is a true fan!" Lee Know applauded her approvingly.

"She's better than Jinnie," Changbin smirked.

"It's true," Y/N nodded, ignoring Hyunjin's shrieks in protest.

"Remember who was here first!" Hyunjin shouted emotionally, like he was part of some sort of kdrama. And ever since then, with Y/N being able to join in on their teasing, it was like she knew them from the start.

taglist: @skz-streamer @kiraisastay @hannahhbahng @backintomykpopphaseagain @sakufilms @hanjiquokkaaa @arloo00 @dunno-wut-to-do @splat00z

#skz #skz x reader #stray kids x reader #stray kids #skz fluff #skz angst #straykids imagines #stray kids fluff #stray kids imagines #skz fic

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mischiefmaker615 · 10 months ago

Text

Go Away

Summary: Enemies to Lovers

Rating: R

Requested By: Daddy_Dracos_Slut (wattpad)

Note: Sorry for the long wait, real life stuff can be a pain sometimes but i hope the length of this one makes up for it *sweats*

i curse under my breath as the elevator seems extra rough going up the floors today. my hand clutches the rail while i keep my eyes closed, focusing my energy on my breathing rather than my stab wound that left a pretty nasty gash on my side. What happened?

SHIELD loves to throw me into fights they know they don’t have enough man power for. Why? “Your training should be enough to help you handle it just fine” okay dip shit- not against HYDRA! The mission was successful but of course they had to throw in a rookie for me to bring along as well. Result? Saving their ass cost me the next couple of days to heal.

“you should go to the medical bay-‘’

‘’it’s fine, I’ll just have Loki heal it.’’ the biggest lie I’ve ever told.

There was no way in hell i wanted to get near the psycho that attacked New York, but i hid my resentment well for SHIELD to buy my answer and not force me into a pointlessly long medical appointment.

Ironically as soon as i arrived back at the tower, the ‘not so bad’ wound in my side decided to give me a lot more pain than what i was originally feeling earlier. i probably just needed to clean it and it would be good as new.

Finally the elevator granted me the mercy of reaching my floor and i got out, my body crouched and hunched as i took a deep breath and looked around. No one around.. good. i didn’t like to show weakness, even though in this business you all get hurt, its nothing new, but my stubborn ass still tried to tough it out. Which is why as soon as i heard someone coming, i sucked in a breath and straightened up to my height, making sure my jacket was hiding my blood-stained shirt while Loki turned the corner, and we both shared the same expression. Of course, he probably didn’t enjoy my company just as much as i did for him, but he still took the opportunity to tease me whenever he could to get a reaction.

‘’why are you walking like that?’’ he asked, just a question, no concern in his voice.

‘’why do you look like that.’’ i say as i took a scrolling pace down the halls while he pressed the button to the elevator. i didn’t even look back at him but i felt his eyes on me.

‘’you’re hurt.’’

‘’and you care?’’

Loki’s eyes narrowed as i cast a glance over my shoulder at him in annoyance. ‘’I wish to make sure you are in proper health so you can get out of my way in a sufficient pace.’’

‘’oh, you do care.’’ i say in a sweet voice, placing a dramatic hand on my heart for effect which only revealed my bloody shirt where his eyes flicked down. i could have sworn his gaze changed to something else.. but for a split second until he looked like an asshole again.

‘’you’re bleeding.’’

Now, a sarcastic comment would have just proven he was right. Not that he would tell anyone, he probably didn’t care. this was all just probably going to be used to call me a weak mortal or whatever who doesn’t know how to properly fight. So the only unfortunate answer that spilled out of my mouth was ‘’spilled ketchup.’’ Smooth.

His eyes slowly traveled down to the ‘ketchup stain’ again before they flicked back up to mine. ‘’hmm.’’ He hummed, turning back to the open doors now for the elevator before his gaze could get a chance to make me nervous- wait what?

I make sure I walk as casually as possible, regardless of how painful it may be until I heard the elevator doors close before I hunch over again and draw in a sharp breath and resist the urge to clutch my side. Judgy bastard.. looking at me as if I’m scum in his way.. but what was that split second look? Never mind- just need to get the first aid kit and see exactly what I’m dealing with.

After it seems forever until I get into my room, I shut the door behind me and throw my jacket to the side, glad to have it off before I fold the end of my shirt up so it was over my chest, almost like a make-shift crop top. Damn.. it’s pretty deep, going to need minor stitches.. clean it up..

I slowly make my way now to the bathroom, my balance thrown off with the lack of blood and I could already tell before my eyes hit the mirror how pale I am. Nausea comes in mild waves as well but anger and frustration takes over when I open up the cabinet to find my first aid kit was missing. What the hell! I used it a couple days ago and I’m to OCD to not put things back..

I run a hand through my hair as I think about what I need to do. We have vodka at Tony’s bar downstairs, it’s the best thing we have currently to clean a wound. Another first aid kit in the kitchen, not to far from the bar cabinet. Not to bad- if people weren’t awake. I check my phone, it’s 8pm. Its usually quiet and people head to bed in 30 minutes do to the fact that we need proper rest in this field.

Grabbing a small towel, I run it over warm water and nearly cry out as I begin cleaning what I could, pain shooting through my body as I push through until I feel like I would faint. Setting the towel aside, I carefully.. carefully manage to change my shirt but put on an actual crop top so nothing had its change at touching my new body scar soon-to-be. Only 10 minutes pass.. 20 might be to long as I stay on the bed trying to control my breathing. I’m stupid, I know..

Once I check the time and hear more doors close in the hall, indicating people are hitting the hay, I go over to the door. No point in hiding the wound if everyone is in bed and the less clothes I ruin the better. However I nearly woke the whole house if I didn’t shove a hand over my mouth to find Loki waiting outside my door, leaning on the wall with a now smirk by my reaction.

‘’the hell are you doing here like a creeper?’’ I hiss at him but realize hiding the wound was to late as his eyes dropped and so did his expression as he straightened.

‘’norns Y/N- how did you manage that?’’ somehow there was no emotional indication in his voice, let alone his expression so I shrugged to see if he was actually concerned or about to laugh.

Figured there was no use hiding as I walk around him with a hand on the wall to support myself. ‘’comes with the job sometimes.’’

‘’and I’m sure they taught you how to properly take care of it- which is why it’s strange that you find yourself here’’ he says and walked along side me, making me raise a brow in wonder at why he was following.

‘’I can take care of myself, thanks.’’ Sarcasm was potent as I side eyed him, indicating I wished to be left alone before my body jolted at a wave of pain, making me practically double over with my nails digging into the wall.

‘’you need a doctor-‘’ Loki started, his hands quickly returning to their sides as I took a sharp breath and looked at him.

‘’I said I’ll be-‘’

‘’Y/N!’’ Barton greeted as he turned the corner, his smile fading as he glanced at Loki before he smiled again at me. ‘’you should have been here hours ago- I thought he would have healed you by now-‘’

‘’I don’t know what you are talking about-‘’ I panic, giving him a sharp look to shut up while Loki raised a brow.

‘’earlier when you said you’d just ask Loki to-‘’

‘’I’m handling it Clint, I’ll see you tomorrow though good as new’’ I fake smile, looking like I’m about to punch him as I feel Loki’s eyes on me in amusement.

‘’don’t you worry Agent Barton, she’s in good hands.’’ He said gently, lacing his fingers behind his back as Barton gives him a hard look.

‘’I’ll see you tomorrow then Y/N’’ he says, never really registering Loki whenever they did have to speak and brushed past him on his way to his own room. Most of the time that type of rude contact would have earned an almost-fight between Loki and Clint, but I suppose Loki found himself to busy smirking at me to really be concerned about it.

‘’so what is it exactly you wished to ask me Y/N?’’ Loki said sweetly, milking the opportunity to tease me as I roll my eyes and make my way down the halls towards the elevator before I could be any more embarrassed.

‘’go away.’’

Loki’s eyes narrowed as he watched me walk away from him but I busied myself with waiting for the damn doors to open. I heard nothing behind me, and I made the mistake to believe he had actually listened so to my annoyance, he slipped into the elevator with me before the doors could close.

‘’you were going to ask me to heal you?’’ he asked, no emotion indicated in his voice as I made myself busy by pressing the correct floor.

‘’I merely said that to have everyone off my back, apparently it seems to be doing quite the opposite.’’ I mutter and lean myself against the wall, drawing my eyes closed as I focused on my breathing.

Even with my eyes closed, I could tell Loki was staring at me. He’s annoying, but I’m sure he wouldn’t be half bad of a person if it wasn’t for the fact that he attacked new York. That’s probably where our enemy relationship stems from.. could I be nicer? Sure, he just.. draws something out of me.. he’s not a bad looking guy either, my emotions run different when I’m around him compared to the others. Tony teased me once and called it denial of something perhaps more I was feeling towards him, but there was no way I would have fallen for someone that attacked-

‘’if you would just let me heal you then perhaps your mind will stop being so loud.’’

My eyes snap open as Loki rubbed his temple as if he had a headache. If it wasn’t for the damn gash in my side, I probably would have killed him right then and there as I gawked at him.

‘’the fuck were you-‘’

‘’Y/N,’’ he starts, sincerity in his eyes and voice that somehow made me still. ‘’yes I’ve done those things in the past, I should hope that the time I have been spending here has given me a good chance to have changed and perhaps provided a door for a fresh start..’’ he starts, his eyes darting to the floor and slowly back at me as my muscles tensed by another wave and I hold my side, staying silent still. ‘’I do not blame you for your negative emotions towards me, and I am not asking for a second chance,.. all I’m asking is to just heal you.’’

My eyes slowly travel up to his after they had descended to the floor. God of lies, it was taught to tell if he was being honest or not. Though honestly, what did you have to lose? Nausea was already hitting your gut and light headedness was already reminding me how much blood I was losing. Yet the fact of the matter is,..

‘’..why do you care?’’

Loki almost genuinely smiled and I noticed his muscles were straining. Raising a brow, I noticed the elevator had not once moved since the doors had been closed. My eyes were next to narrow at him.

‘’what are you-‘’

‘’ask me Y/N.’’

I blink at him, knowing exactly what he wants me to ask but even now he’s being a stubborn ass??

He gave me a look at the name and I immediately just decided to focus on the pain instead to block him out. He was just as stubborn as I was, there was no point in asking him about the elevator, let alone avoiding the question. Taking a deep breath, I clutched my side and looked at him with all the dignity I was clinging on too.

‘’fine.. w-would you-‘’

My words cut short when my vision blacked out and all I remember is falling to the ground.

A cold hand pressed to my forehead, the temperature feeling cool where I practically lean into the touch before opening my eyes.

And then I want to die.

My cheeks heat up as Loki sat by my side as I lay in the bed located in our medical bay- aka Tony’s sometimes hangover room.

‘’how are you feeling?’’ he asked, looking a bit drained himself as I took in the scene.

I felt no pain.. something in my chest stirred, something that was hard to identify as I glanced down at myself. The gash in my side was completely gone- not so much as a scar behind! I look up at Loki wide eyed and he merely gave me a gentle look as I tried to speak but shut my mouth quick as redness heated in my cheeks.

How could I thank him? .. I never shared a kind word to him before, we had a sharp relationship.. and yet he still went out of his way to do this..

‘’Loki I- .. I.. I don’t know what to say..’’ I say pathetically as he chuckled.

‘’glad you are looking like your regular self again love.’’

Love.. that nickname.. why did it make me feel.. something? I glance at the clock, seeing how a couple hours have passed since I most likely had passed out. Leaving plenty of time to make sure it wasn’t a trick, a spell, or some type of cruel joke.. he really did help me..

‘’norns Y/N, I’m not that cruel to just leave you to bleed or taking your injured state into advantage for mischief’’ he sighed and leaned himself against the side rails of my bed, his body still sat close enough where I found feel him pressed against my side and I give him a tired, irritated look.

‘’before I thank you, I would request you stop reading my mind from now, call it an exchange for some future moments where I will take it easy on you.’’ I lightly joke, leaning back in the sat up bed as I hear him laugh.

‘’an exchange then? Alright, I will leave your thoughts be for some decent time from your kind heart,’’ he said with a tease. ‘’but is it hardly a fair exchange when our moments have been clearly even?’’

I sigh, knowing regardless of it all, he’ll always he so stubborn. ‘’and what is it that you want?’’

‘’a proper thank you.’’ he said calmly with a smile, it widening as I raise my brows.

I was half expecting a sarcastic, clever comment, but all he wanted was a true thank you? easy. ..or was it.. he clearly saved me from bleeding out to death, I’m pretty sure a ‘thanks’ wouldn’t be good enough as my fingers played with the fabric of my blanket mindlessly. ‘’..in what way?’’

‘’that is for you to figure out love.’’ He said gently, the mischief fading from his eyes as he seemed to stare at me like an honest man.

What? Buy him lunch as a thank you? a hug? A good word to Fury to help his probation at the tower? From his eyes, it seemed like he was just expecting words of affirmation, a from the heart type of thank you. yet why didn’t that feel like enough? My mind raced, everything seeming to be shouting things all at once as I tried to calm my emotions. What was this feeling? My mind paused as I felt him move and my eyes looked up to see him beginning to stand.

‘’it’s alright darling, you are tired and its been quite a long da-‘’

He stared at me with the same shocked expression as I had on my face as my hand grasped his before I even realized what he happening. He was still, his hand making no move to grasp back but remained still as I held on. My heart was pounding, and before I knew it, my arm was pulling him back and down.

His expression was now unreadable, as was mine I hope.. but something felt right about it- and I prayed I wasn’t reading the room wrong because despite his unreadable expression and closed off personality.. there was always something off between us, off where there was almost a secret enjoyment to our fights and banter.

So I took a gamble and pulled my hand towards me and his boots could be heard slowly moving towards me, allowing his hand to be guided before he came closer to my side on the bed. Our gazes never left each other, almost daring each other to look away but neither of us did.. not even as I pulled his hand a bit down to where he now slowly bent his height down and I lean forward. All movements were careful, my hand slowly releasing his as he moved it beside my arm and moved his other hand to do the same on the other side- caging me in.

As he leaned down, our eyes fell slightly closed, expressions relaxed as we seemed to melt in the moment. my lips slightly parted, our soft breaths could be heard as he leaned down and my hands moved to his shoulders to take over and guided him down finally so I could kiss him.

My lips brushed against his gentle, finding them soft and welcoming. He let me set the pace, my arms bringing him closer so I was able to deepen the kiss in which he eagerly returned with restrained gentleness. He gently moaned against my lips, as did I as we seemed to fit perfectly like a glove. My mind went still- relaxed, as if nothing mattered anymore, all quarrel forgotten and memories faded.

With my eyes closed, I felt his knee gently rest beside my thigh, followed by the other one as I felt his presence hover above my now. There was a strange temperature to him, not frost bite necessarily but a lack of human warmth. Well.. he’s not human anyway. His kiss became more needy as he ran his slender fingers through my hair and I couldn’t help but tangle mine in his. His locks are silky, not at all oily like one would think at the mere look of them. I hear a low growl as I tighten my grip on them, the mere vibration sending a wave of arousal through my body as I feel the need to close my legs.

‘’L-Loki.. I need.. we need..’’ I pant, staring up at him as he gazes back down at me, his pupils dilated with arousal himself as I feel his bulge just barely pressed up against me. If I were to raise my hips right now, I’m sure it would be like touching a boulder.

‘’I know darling, I know’’ he whispered, his thumb stroking my cheek as he lowered himself ever so slightly so our bodies were almost close to touching. ‘’are you sure you want this?..’’

My mind was in complete submission, my sharp tongue completely dulled to how I see him now. I wanted him.. this had all been denial.. but now I’m sure. I want him. my eyes gently looked up into his and my head nodded.

‘’use your words darling..’’ he held back a smirk but I knew it was there. Even now his personality didn’t change much, he probably enjoyed seeing me submit as my cheeks reddened as I look up at him.

‘’I want you’’ I whisper, eagerness being held back as my body began shaking in anticipation. That earned a small brush of his body lowering to feel mine, my hips rising for more of him but he raised up again.

‘’not yet darling, I don’t think you’re ready for me.’’ He sighed, almost as if saying ‘oh well’ and I look up at him in shock.

‘’no I’m ready-‘’

‘’you need a good amount of prepping first love, if you don’t want to be torn apart’’ that last part he whispered against my ear, I could feel his breath brush against my skin where it sent chills over my body.

‘’what are you-‘’

My words cut off when his hand gently began kneading my breast over my clothes, the action catching me off guard where a gasp left my lips and he took that opportunity to insert his tongue.

He was a skilled lover, one would assume so just by the mere sight of him but the thought was always shook off when I didn’t want to accept my true feelings.. any type of relationship causes me to panic, the mere doubt or thought of me messing up always just made me want to push all of it away.. but I suppose hate is what grew this connect. A sick, sad way of bonding but it got us here, it only took me getting stabbed for me to stop denying myself.

He was reading my mind again, the feeling of like a poke in my brain as he pulled up my shirt to place his mouth over my breast to ease my thoughts away. I think to much, and this was a damn good distraction as he moaned against me, my back arching as gasps left my lips. His other hand gave my other breast attention, pinching and kneading before his hand and mouth switched to give equal attention.

‘’you don’t know how long I’ve been waiting for you Y/N..’’ he murmured against me, his lips navigating up my chest to suck just above my collarbone that was a promise to leave a mark.

‘’i.. I thought you hated me..’’ I struggled out as my hands gripped his shoulders, a tingling under my fingertips as I glanced down to see the remaining shimmer before noticing his armor was off, leaving him just in his leather and cloth.

‘’I went along with your denied feelings but I sensed the truth way before I decided to enter that naughty little mind of yours’’ he smirked, his eyes flicking up to my own as his finger tips played with the button of my jeans.

My cheeks heated up as my nails practically dug into his shoulders out of shyness, almost as if I was curling up if I didn’t feel his knee between my legs to prevent them from closing. ‘’how long have you been doing that?’’ I whisper, shuddering as he began rubbing his knee gently against my sex, even with the blanket still between us.

‘’whenever I felt like it. primarily when you walk away after using your sharp tongue and yet your thoughts betrayed you, thinking the complete opposite of me. I was able to glance into your true feelings just enough before you pushed them down.. but I think we both know the truth’’ he whispered, his lips caressing my neck now while his hand gently moved my hair away to give him more access while his other unzipped my zipper.

‘’it was only a matter of time but I couldn’t wait forever.. I was going to perhaps wait longer on telling you how I truly felt about you but after you got injured..’’ his movements paused at the memory, raising his head slowly to meet my widened eyes. ‘’I thought I wouldn’t have gotten the chance to tell you if I lost you..’’

Of gods.. norns I think I love him..

A small smile spread across his lips as I look away from him. ‘’stop that..’’

‘’as you wish darling, I’m sure things are clear now nevertheless’’ he chuckled, attacking my neck again while my head was turned, earning a squeak to leave my lips when I felt him begin to nip and his fingers slowly dipped passed my panties.

My lips part as my eyes flutter close, making no moves to stop him as his finger tips ghost over my sex ever so slightly to take my breath away. I feel his tongue against my neck and his teeth now and again before his lips begin to suck and mark. Just before I could even think to rise my hips to find more friction, his finger tips begin playing with my clit, causing me to shudder and the knot of pleasure to begin forming within me.

‘’so sensitive.. so responsive.. how long has it been since one has touched you properly..’’ he whispered, not asking a question and I probably wouldn’t have been able to answer it anyway.

He began rubbing circles, a slow pace that began picking up when I began rising my hips, practically trying to shamelessly hump his hand if his other didn’t grip my hip to hold me down. a silent gasp left my mouth as I raised my head back and my back began to arch. His thumb took over on my clit so his two fingers could tease my entrance, dipping ever so slightly in and pulling out when my hips strained to rise.

‘’patience darling, be a good girl and take what I give you’’ he practically growled against my ear before he began to nibble on my lobe.

Goosebumps rose on my arms and I began to squirm until he slowly inserted his two fingers, causing me to moan his name slowly and shamelessly. I didn’t even care where we were or who could walk in but I was sure somehow Loki would have used magic to somehow provide us with a bit of privacy. I could feel his rock-hard bulge against the inside of my thigh, rubbing himself against it to match his rhythm while his fingers thrust into me In a faster pace.

‘’gods Loki…’’ I moan, feeling my orgasm get closer and closer and my eyebrows furrowed with my eyes fluttering closed. I was so close..

‘’cum for me darling.. ‘’ he whispered, his pace quickening on my clit as he pushed his fingers into me to the knuckles, causing me to tip over the edge as I reached my orgasm.

‘’LOKI!!’’ I practically scream as I moan and hold onto him, my body fluttering and clenching down on his fingers in a vise grip that has him practically moaning while he presses his lips to mine once more.

His movements slowed down ever so slightly, helping me ride it out as I was a panting mess, my body shaking and my eyes drunk like before he slowly pulls his hand out of my pants, his mouth licking my essence with no shame and a smirk where my cheeks heat up again.

‘’shy not darling, you taste absolutely wonderful.’’ He purred and adjusts himself as he backs away down my body while a hand slowly removed the blanket.

I slowly sit up as I catch my breath, just seeing the mischief in his eyes as his hands grip my pant legs and I give him a smile.

‘’in fact, I think I should help myself to a proper taste..’’

#loki odinson #loki x reader smut #loki god of mischief #loki laufeyson #loki fanfic #loki x reader #loki #loki smut #loki fluff #lokifluff

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zer0pm · 2 years ago

Text

Imagine Luis using a jacket to protect you both from the rain.

“I’m back! Did you miss me?”

Your head snaps up at the sound of his voice and you rush over to his approaching form with haste. Luis spreads his arms wide, ready to accept your warm embrace with sincere enthusiasm. What he got knocked the air out of him. Literally- his breath escapes him as your fist connects with his gut.

“Mierda… that’s a good one…” he groans, hunching over in pain.

“You asshole!” you scold him, ignoring his snark. “I thought you were dead! I saw Mendez dragging you away!”

“C’mon, my friend. Have a little faith,” Luis huffs, his signature grin returning to his face once he recovered to a standing position. “So long as they know I’m the one who hid The Amber, I’m untouchable.”

You had an unamused expression on your face, reaching up to poke at the evident bruise swelling on his forehead. The man winces under your touch but does not move away, a slightly guilty smile on his lips.

He shrugs, “Yes, well- uh, mostly untouchable.”

Although you couldn’t help but roll your eyes at the Spaniard’s breathtaking talent for witty remarks in dangerous situations, you were mostly relieved that he was okay. The feeling of water droplets pouring on your head brings you back to awareness of where you both were standing. Lowering your hand from Luis’ head, you latch onto his wrist.

“We should get out of the rain. Hide it out somewhere safe until we figure out our next move.”

Luis nods in agreement, “An excellent idea. Oh, un momento-”. Taking advantage of your grip, he effortlessly pulls you closer to his side. The weather was damp and the air was chilly, but Luis’ breath upon your cheek warms you.

The sudden closeness throws you off guard and you were about to question his actions until a distinctive shadow looms over you both, blocking out the downpour. You glance up to see Luis’ hands holding some sort thick faux fur lined with leather over your heads.

“Stay close,” he advises, each word fanning down the skin of your neck and cheek. “I don’t plan on separating from you again.”

Against the chilly wind and rain, your temperature grew hot, both from the dark-haired man’s close proximity to you as well as his words that made you shudder with heat. He thought you were shivering and inched himself closer against your side. You had no choice then but to wrap your arms around him to stay under the protection of the-

Huh?

Now that you were looking at it, Luis was using a jacket. A jacket that was most definitely not his. The fine brown leather and fur lining was a tell that it most likely did not belong to any of the locals either. The style was too modern. So where did this come from?

“Luis,” you began to ask, “what is- whose jacket is this?”

You hear him chuckle under his breath, the sound coming off like he was revisiting a funny memory. When you glance at his from your peripheral vision, you spot a glint of intrigue in his reminiscent eyes, matching the lopsided smirk characteristic to his sly demeanor.

For a good minute, he doesn’t answer you. When he finally does, there was no mistaking the amusement laced in his voice. “My new friend. Sancho Panza.”

That’s all he said. Of course, you follow-up with more questions, but Luis was a master at evading inquiries with vague responses. The only information you were able to gather was that this new friend came to the village looking for someone but your companion purposefully leaves out the details of how they met as well as how they separated. Eventually, you two come across an abandoned house and that was when you dropped the subject for time being.

Once inside, you moved to detach yourself from Luis, but he stops you. Maneuvering his arms in an almost elegantly dramatic fashion, he drapes the jacket over your shoulders. At his insistence, he helps you slip your arms through the sleeves. Thanks to your shared body heat, the inside was pleasantly warm, a welcome relief against the drafty chill in the air. The dark-haired man then tugs at the fur collar, securing the jacket on your frame, pulling you closer in the process.

At the sight of the blooming blush on your cheeks, the suave man winks at you before stepping away wordlessly. You had to stop yourself from leaning in after him, but your slight tilt did not go unnoticed. His smirk widens.

After the two of you secured the area, you settled down in the first floor and indulged in the brief respite. Luis’ capture threw a wrench in your shared plan to escape, but Luis, ever the optimist, assured you that you were still on course. As you hashed over the details on how to recover The Amber and meet up with Luis’ informant for safe passage, gunshots and screams were heard from the distance.

You rise up from your seat in alarm and look out the window to see two blonds, a man and a woman heading your way, both ardently being chased by a mob of infected villagers. “Luis, look! Survivors. We have to help them.”

Your companion leans his head over your shoulder to follow your line of sight. Against your ear, you hear him curse softly in his native tongue.

“You were bound for an introduction, I suppose.” he scoffs. You didn’t get a chance to ask him what he meant as he left your side to rush over to the door. He pries the wood open and waves at the running pair to come inside. Not long after they were ushered in the house and you and Luis barricaded the door, the blond man takes note of your companion’s presence.

“You,” the man glares, disdain dripping in his firm tone. He stomps towards Luis, the latter backing up with each approaching step.

“Hey,” Luis greets nervously, playing up his sly charm you oft see him use to get himself out of trouble that he’s landed himself in. “Listen, about earlier-”

The angry blond pins the Spaniard against the far wall with a strong fist, “Yeah, about that.”

Curiosity got the better of you, “Luis, who is this?”

Your voice rips the blond man’s attention away from Luis, redirecting it now towards you. His cold eyes scan over your face with analytical wariness until they relented to something akin to genuine surprise upon noticing the article of clothing on your person. His expression filled in the details that Luis purposefully omitted behind the story of the jacket. The gears in your head clicked into place. It was your turn to throw an accusatory glare at the Spaniard.

“Did you-” you started before sighing, pinching the bridge of your nose. You approached the two men, an apology on the tip of your tongue as you shifted to remove the jacket and give it back to the stranger as a show of good will, but Luis’ voice stops you in motion.

“No hagas eso. Keep it on, it looks good on you.” The Spaniard interjects, grinning playfully at you. His grey eyes then glance back at the blond expectantly who still had his uncertain gaze on you. “Our new friend thinks so too. Eh, Sancho?”

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nathanbatemanfucker · 1 year ago

Text

Not Enough

summary: you try to talk to Marc about your connection— he’s not ready.

prompt: rainy day

pairing: gn!reader x marc spector (the tiniest bit of jake at the end)

contents: angst, requited love but wrong timing, longing, pining, crying, low self-esteem (both parties), ptsd if you squint, no happy ending

wc: 1,023

an: i know it’s Valentine’s Day, but this is just kinda where i am rn. this is pretty vulnerable and sad so just a heads up. disclaimer: as a mod/organizer of @moonknight-events, my participance in this event is purely for promotion and i will NOT be entered into the drawing for any prize.

moonknight masterlist | SP BINGO 2024

Marc has never considered himself dramatic. And he certainly has never considered himself a romantic. He hates the heavy rain, hates the way that water pelting down on his skin makes him feel so tiny. So small. Like he’s just a helpless boy again.

So why is he running through mud and greenery in hopes of finding you in this soon-to-be thunderstorm storm?

This is not the time, not the place, and you’re not the person he should be getting involved with. Marc stopped pretending he didn’t want you a long time ago, but that hasn’t encouraged him to make a move. You deserve better. He deserves to have his shit figured out before pulling you into the tornado that is his life— the life he feels like is sometimes not his own, the one he shares with an ancient bird. He’s out here looking for you to keep you safe, not to tell you how he truly feels. Not to finish the conversation you’d practically cornered him into. Not to be honest. He had abandoned honesty the moment his mother turned on him.

Khonshu’s latest target has brought you all here. Somewhere in the grassy wilderness, rolling hills dotted with small ponds that are tucked between towering forests. It's beautiful, or at least it would be if you all weren’t here to kill someone. If you weren’t overstimulated, stomping (and occasionally tripping) through the muddy forest trying to put as much space between you and the man you’ve accidentally fallen in love with.

At this rate, you’re soaked to the bone, and your clothes are sticking uncomfortably to your skin. But, as you peer up through the trees letting the rain hit your face, it feels like it’s washing everything away. It feels like for just a moment, you get to sit in anonymity. After attempting to be so vulnerable with Marc back at the cabin, it's exactly what you need.

You’re just a small being in an expansive forest and it feels good. You have no desires, no words, no feelings. It’s just you and the rain. You stop walking, focusing on the cold raindrops, teeth chatterng. Cold as it is…it feels like a temporary peace.

Peace that is quickly taken away when you hear Marc’s voice echoing through the trees, calling out your name. You start walking again, though this time your feet have less force and more speed. You don't want him to catch up with you, you're not ready to be seen again just yet, not even at face value.

As you continue to trot forward, Marc’s voice waxes and wanes behind you. Sometimes it’s softer, allowing you to relax but then it grows louder and your heartbeat picks up along with your pace. You know that he’ll catch you, whether he uses his abilities or not. But you’ll outrun him as long as you can, the same way he’s outrunning his feelings for you.

It isn’t long before you end up in a clearing. You’re more out of breath than you would like to be, but in all your training you hadn’t prepared to run through your tears. You’d take physical pain over the gnawing feeling in your chest any day, unfortunately, you don’t have a choice.

This is your reality. With words so sobering echoing in your mind you finally stop, hunching over to slow your breathing. You hear his footsteps behind you over the rain and for a long time, neither of you says anything.

Marc breaks the silence. “I’m sorry. I don’t…I don't know why I can’t be honest with you.”

You stay quiet, stay turned away from him because even in this heavy rain he’d be able to recognize the renewed tears that stream down your face harder than before.

“That’s not true,” He murmurs, to himself, to you after the silence grows on too long. “I know why but I can’t— I’m not ready yet.”

You still aren't talking, practically frozen in place under the sheets of rain. He shivers again, trying to block out the discomfort, the tightness in his chest. This isn't about him. For the first time in a long time, he’s sacrificing his safety for someone else’s. It's still not enough…no not yet. He’s not sure when it will be.

With a deep breath, you turn towards him and for a moment Marc thinks that the two of you will get somewhere, that there will be some understanding. That fades when you don’t meet his eye and walk right past him without a word. Before it’s too late, he reaches out, catching your hand in his own.

It stings, a temporary warmth with the promise of nothing.

“I won’t ask you to wait for me,” He says, squeezing your hand gently.

You know that it's meant to be a comfort, but it simply makes your heart ache more. How he could look at you with such regret and still break your heart, it's cruelty at a level you want no one to experience. Because you know that even as he says those words and offers his comfort, even as he lets you off the hook, that you’ll wait for him.

You’ll be subject to this torment as long as you can look into his eyes. As long as you can remember his name, and be by his side, you’ll love Marc. It’s never been a choice for you. If it was…you aren’t sure you’d be able to make the right one for you anyway.

You pull your hand out of his, raising your chin high as you pointlessly wipe away the tears that stain your cheeks— they simply reappear.

“I’ll see you back at the back at the cabin,” You whisper with finality, turning a way that is distinctly the opposite direction, hand tucked into your pocket to fetch your compass.

Marc lets you go. The piece of him that longs to reach out to you is too small, too weak. It has no claim. Helpless once more. It feels like someone else starts to take the steps back towards the forest. He can’t find the strength to care or be afraid.

moonknight taglist: @ninebluehearts, @rmoonstoner, @later-gators12, @foreverinwanderlustt-blog, @aleeb, @eyelessfaces, @marc-spectorr, @missdictatorme, @toracainz, @mccn-bcys, @campingwiththecharmings, @whatthefishh

#marc spector x reader #marc spector x gn!reader #x reader #marc spector fanfiction #marc spector angst #moonknight fanfiction #moonknightevents #arson writes

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v4mpgutz · 1 year ago

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Labyrinth, Simon "Ghost" Riley [ ONESHOT ]

— simon refuses to be left in anyone else's care but yours after he gets a stab wound to the gut :)))

simon "ghost" riley x nurse reader

note: this does use she/her pronouns !! also this is pretty much not proof-read at all so... yeah!

warnings ! — descriptive mentions of wounds + blood, reader stitches up a gash, petname (dove like once whoops)

you were tending to another soldier as per usual, administering pain killers and putting a cold cloth on his head to keep a fever down. you checked the soldier's heartbeat one more time before you nodded in satisfaction.

as you walked out of the curtains that separated the soldier's tiny room from the hallway, you heard a commotion near the entrance.

furrowing your brows in confusion, you walked towards where the noise was and heard a male medic speaking to a familiar voice.

"i told you already, sir!" the medic exclaimed, clearly growing irritated. "she's busy with another patient. you'll have to be taken care of by someone else."

you rounded the corner and saw simon standing there arguing with the medic. he was hunched over a little and clutching his lower stomach, still in his ops gear and mask.

"i'm not seein' anybody else, for fucks sake! it's her or no one!" he sneered at the medic who just rolled his eyes.

the medic turned around and saw you, his eyes widening as he beckoned you over. "thank goodness! lieutenant riley has been asking for you."

you blinked slowly and turned to look at simon, your eyes holding concern as you looked up and down his figure. blood was seeping through his fingers where his shirt was slightly rolled up just before the waistline of his pants.

"lieutenant, you're bleeding out! you should've got someone to see you," you scolded before grabbing his arm and pulling him towards an empty room.

he winced and you saw him roll his eyes behind his mask. "everyone else in this bloody place is incompetent." he scoffed before lowering his voice to a whisper, "and besides... i don't trust anyone else."

you chewed your bottom lip anxiously and sighed, reaching for a pair of medical scissors.

"okay," you mumbled. "move your fingers, i have to cut your shirt."

he obeyed your order and moved his hand away, he was hoping you wouldn't notice but it was definitely shaking. he was growing slightly clammy due to the blood loss as well.

you cut his shirt and peeled it back, examining the wound as your tongue poked your cheek. you hummed, dabbing a wet cloth against the skin around it to rid it of blood. you were quick to apologise when simon let out a wince and a mumbled 'fuck!'

"well, ghost—"

"simon." he corrected as he averted his eyes. "please, just... call me simon."

you smiled softly and nodded.

"well, simon, you're definitely going to need stitches." you told him, pinching his skin together to try and stop the blood from flowing out any more.

"bloody fuckin' hell.." he mumbled, looking down at you as you crouched slightly next to the bed. "get it over with then," he nodded slowly.

you seemed unsure for a moment as you readied the needle and thread.

"are you sure? you don't want lidocaine?" you asked him, hesitant to stitch the wound up without some sort of numbing agent.

"what the fuck is lidocaine?" he asked, his brows creased underneath his mask.

you laughed and showed him the needle, the shiny point reflecting light off of it dramatically. you watched simon swallow as he stared wide-eyed at the needle.

"it's a local anaesthetic," you explained. "it targets the nerves where injected to numb them in preparation for specific procedures."

he nodded with a nervous cough and shook his head, "i'm fine. i'm a soldier, i've suffered worse pain than a couple stitches."

you shrugged and put the anaesthetic back down on the medical cart, picking up the needle and thread. you cleaned the wound first, making sure there wasn't any blood where you needed to poke the needle through the skin.

you pinched the skin together and steadied the needle, looking up at ghost for approval; he nodded.

you pushed the needle through the first bit of skin, being as gentle as you could. you paused when you heard the man above you yelp — actually yelp — at the feeling.

"you okay, simon?" you asked with a frown and he let out a shaky breath and a grunt.

"just peachy."

you wanted to laugh but you held your tongue because you knew how bad stitches hurt — especially without an anaesthetic.

it took you about ten minutes to fully stitch the wound, dabbing away any excess blood when you were finished. you had him lift his hips a little, one hand supporting him in doing so as you bandaged up his waist.

"okay," you nodded with a soft smile. "all done. now, you will need to replace the bandages every three hours or so. i'm sure you're capable of doing that yourself but if you need help just come and see me."

simon looked you directly in the eyes as you rose from your position next to the bed.

"thanks, dove. it's much appreciated."

you felt heat rush to your cheeks and the tips of your ears, giggling nervously and turning around to pretend to write something on a clipboard.

"just— just doing my job, lieutenant!"

you turned around and watched as he got up, glancing back at you one last time with a wave as he walked back towards the entrance of the infirmary.

oh no, you're falling in love again.

giggling kicking my feet twirling my hair

@konigceo THIS ONE IS FOR U !! 🫵

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littlenightma · 1 year ago

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Sick | T-1000 x Reader

It was two in the morning when you felt your stomach cramp. You clutched yourself while you stumbled out of bed and into the bathroom. Falling to your knees, you not-too-prettily expelled the contents of your cramping stomach into the toilet. From behind you, Austin’s lean figure hovered defensively.

“What is wrong?”

You dunked your head one more time before answering, pushing the leftover bile back down your throat.

“I’m sick.”

Sick.

He took in your shivering form hunched over the toilet and the glaze of perspiration coating your skin. He did not like seeing you in pain and he wanted the wretched sounds coming from your mouth to cease.

His internal database held a plethora of files on the human anatomy, among other useful topics, which served to help him take down targets proficiently. He was created to kill, not to protect. In other words, he was out of his element when it came to nursing a human back to passable health.

He knelt down and felt your slick forehead with the tips of his fingers. The nanobots quickly pick up on your high body temp.

“Your temperature is 2 degrees above what it should be.”

“How did you do that without a thermometer?”

“Stop evading the issue.”

Evading the iss- God, he’s so dramatic.

You shoot him an annoyed look, “It was a genuine question,” you paused, “And there is no issue.”

“You have a fever.” He pressed.

“It’s barely a fever.”

“Your body is overheating.”

You winked, “So you’re saying I’m hot, huh?”

It did not register on his face, but Austin was growing frustrated at your nonchalantness. “Why are you disregarding the state of your well-being?

Starting to feel uncomfortable, you sat down with your back against the toilet. The cool porcelain felt good on your warm skin. You were in no mood to be chided by the machine about your well-being when not too long ago he was the reason it was in danger - on multiple occasions.

“Because,” you began, wiping the side of your mouth with the back of your hand, “I’ve been sick before. I know what to expect. Everyone gets the stomach bug. I will be fine in a few days.”

Austin internally bristled. “That long?”

You shrugged your shoulders, “Give or take. There’s medicine I can take that will help make me feel better.”

Austin stood up, “I’m taking you to the hospital.”

“No, you’re not. It’s not that serious, Austin.”

“It is to me.”

Thankfully, T-800, Uncle Bob, appeared in the doorway wearing his signature shades, holding a small, plastic bottle in his large, mechanical hand.

“I heard you from downstairs. Here,” he offered you the bottle.

Before you could take it, Austin had snatched it from Bob, scrutinizing it. He ran his index finger down the back label and shook his head. “There are too many side effects.”

“Just precautions. The medicine will help them.”

You nodded enthusiastically along with Bob’s words. Austin glanced at you and reluctantly uncapped it with more force than necessary. He held the bottle in the air as he dropped the thick, red liquid into the cap, making sure you received the exact dosage for someone of your age and weight needed.

You shot it back with a grimace. “Hm, disgusting,”

Bob chuckled as he took the medicine back. “You sound like John.”

You perked at John’s name, “I haven’t woke him up, have I?”

“No.”

“Thanks, Uncle Bob,” You smiled weakly from the floor.

The T-800 had been around humans long enough to comprehend sarcasm. “No problemo, kiddo.”

You giggle even though your stomach gurgled threateningly. “Good one.”

Austin handed back the medicine and T-800 bid his goodnight, going back to do his nightly routine of surveying the perimeter of the house.

Austin helped you off the floor and you went over to the sink to brush your teeth. He stood behind you like a shadow, electric eyes never wavering from watching you, as if waiting for you to suddenly fall apart.

“Austin?”

“Yes?”

“Will you lay with me?”

His head lifted at your question. “If that’s what you want, I will.”

“It is.”

Back in your room, he slid into your bed, carefully positioning himself in a way that prevented him from touching you. You may have been human, but you were by no means fragile. Austin didn’t fight you when you pried his arms open and settled within them.

As your head rested on his chest, you couldn’t hear the rhythmic thrumming of his heart or feel his chest rise and fall from breathing. He lacked everything that provided humans natural comfort, lacked any kind of genuine emotion or feeling and most of the time he was an asshole. Did it make sense to find safety in the arms of a killing machine? If he could kill you, that meant he could protect you all the same, right?

Right?

“If your temperature rises I am taking you to the hospital.”

His t-shirt hid your slight eye roll, “I’m not dying here, Austin.”

His fingers momentarily pressed into your ribs. His next words meant to comfort you, but they possessed a certain level of threat, briefly reminding you that the man holding you was not a man at all, and his whole existence, his whole purpose, was to dispose of people like you by ridding the world of the boy sleeping soundly in his bedroom just a few doors down.

“You’re not going to.”

Knowing you weren’t going to convince him otherwise, you didn’t argue. When your breathing evened out and your mouth fell slightly open, Austin shifted, lowering his head to your ear. Believing you wouldn’t hear him, he whispered two simple words.

“Get better.”

Little did he know that by laying in his arms, you already were.

#t-1000 #terminator 2: judgement day (1991)#t-1000 x reader #robert patrick #t-800 #t-1000 imagine #slasher imagines #slasher community #little writes #original writing

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yrluvjane · 6 days ago

Text

She was a fortress, and Evan was determined to breach it. Unfortunately, his chosen weapon—a very unwilling Barty Crouch Jr.—was proving about as effective as a soggy wand.

"I’m not doing this," Barty declared flatly, arms crossed as he leaned against a bookshelf near the library entrance. His expression was one of deep suffering, the kind only Evan’s harebrained schemes could induce.

"You are doing this," Evan countered, tone annoyingly cheerful. "It’s a simple job. Go over there, distract her, make her laugh—whatever it takes to get her to talk to me."

Barty stared at him like he’d just suggested adopting a Blast-Ended Skrewt as a house pet. "Let me get this straight. You want me to willingly approach her—she who nearly hexed me into next week for stepping on her parchment last month—and annoy her on purpose?"

Evan clapped him on the shoulder. "Exactly."

Barty made a pained sound. "Do you hate me?"

"No, I love you. That’s why I trust you with this sacred mission."

Barty groaned. "You’re insufferable."

"And you’re bored."

"Not bored enough for this."

"Come on, Barty," Evan wheedled. "She’s sitting right there. Perfect opportunity."

Barty glanced over at the monster, who was hunched over a massive tome, scribbling furiously with the intensity of someone plotting world domination. "She looks like she’s deciding which country to conquer next," he muttered. "Probably starting with me if I interrupt her."

Evan rolled his eyes. "You’re being dramatic."

"No, you’re dramatic," Barty shot back. "I’m just a victim of your poor life choices."

Evan shoved him lightly. "Go. I’ll buy you drinks for a month."

Barty perked up. "Make it two."

"Fine."

Grumbling under his breath, Barty sauntered toward the table like a man walking to his doom. He plopped into the seat across from her without waiting for an invitation.

She didn’t look up.

Barty drummed his fingers on the table. "Hey."

Silence.

"So… reading anything good?"

More silence.

"Cool, cool. Love this riveting conversation we’re having." He slouched in the chair, already regretting his life choices. "Look, I don’t actually want to be here. Rosier’s just obsessed with you and thought this was a good idea. Personally, I think he’s lost the plot, but what do I know?"

Her quill scratched against the parchment, utterly indifferent to his presence.

Barty sighed heavily. "You know, I had plans today. Important ones. Sitting by the fire, minding my own business, not being involved in Evan’s love life. But nooo, here I am, playing Cupid like some underpaid house-elf."

Still nothing.

He leaned forward conspiratorially. "Honestly, you could just hex me and be done with it. Save us both some time."

She finally looked up, her expression flat. "Are you done?"

Barty brightened. "Ah! She speaks!" He shot a triumphant glance over his shoulder at Evan, who was giving him an enthusiastic thumbs-up.

She sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Tell Rosier I’m not interested."

Barty grinned. "Gladly."

He stood up, stretching dramatically. "This has been fun. Let’s never do it again."

As he strolled back to Evan, he declared loudly, "Mission failed. She’s still terrifying."

Evan frowned. "What did you say to her?"

"Nothing incriminating. Mostly."

"You’re the worst wingman ever."

"And yet you keep asking for my help." Barty clapped him on the back. "Face it, Rosier—you’re hopeless."

Evan sighed. "I know."

Barty smirked. "Drinks for two months, remember."

Evan groaned. "You’re insufferable."

"And you’re pathetic. Cheers to us both."

#evan rosier x reader

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enigmatist17 · 1 year ago

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100% unrelated, but @timethehobo 's Zevlor art is a balm to the soul, so check them out 👀

But have some Zevlor whump, I adore the hell out of the tieflings as a whole, and this man is my absolute favorite of them all 🥺🥰🥺

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Tav wasn't an inherently violent person, they really weren't. Their philosophy was to give kindness and ask for nothing in return, especially in a world ruled by fear and suspicion these days.

So the snarl that comes from Tav when they come across a truly pitiful scene is enough to startle a group of people crowded over someone on the ground, the hero having caught sight of a familiar figure.

"You have five seconds to run, or you're not walking out of here." Tav doesn't have enough time to pull out a dagger before the group is scattering further down a nearby alley, Astarion following after with a smirk after Tav nods their head.

"Zevlor, are you alright!?"

There's a groan of pain as the hunched figure on the ground shuffles to push themselves off the ground, the tiefling looking worse for wear as Tav moves to kneel down by his side.

"I've been better." The bravado the hero had always known in his voice is gone, and Tav's heart clenches when Zevlor recoiled for a moment when they reach out to examine his injuries, the paladin giving a weak cough and glancing away. "Sorry, I'll be alright."

"You are not alright, let me help you." The tiefling shrugs as Halsin helps Tav get Zevlor up and onto his feet, acting the stronger anchor as the man discovers one of his ankles refuse to hold his weight. "Come on, camp isn't far."

"There's no need for me to impose, surely."

"Nonsense, you require aid, and we provide." Halsin's gentle but firm tone quiets any other protests Zevlor has, and the paladin carefully limps along cobbled streets with Tav hovering not far behind. "It is good to see you friend, however dire the circumstances."

"Story of my life." Zevlor's chuckle is dry, missing the look Tav and Halsin share when Astarion seems to just appear on his free side, looking quite pleased with himself and Zevlor's noticeably still full pack slung across his shoulder. The camp seemed to be gearing up to begin settling down for the evening, Shadowheart handed over the knife she'd been using to prep some vegetables to Lae'zel when she noticed his limping.

"You changed your hair." The cleric gives him a brief smile as they lead him to one of the spare tents dotted around the dock he couldn't name, getting to work once he'd been set down on a bedroll.

"Thank you." She was still curt as ever, but the tiefling just sighed in relief when the pain subsided dramatically a few minutes later. "I'll have someone bring you dinner once we finish, you're to not walk on that leg at least for the night."

"I couldn't possibly impose.." Shadowheart just raised an eyebrow before getting up to her feet and heading back, and Zevlor just sighed and laid back with a quiet groan. The barely visible stars were of some comfort as he listens to the nightlife beyond their little corner ramping up, such a strange thing after being in the Shadowlands for a spell. Well, he supposed he couldn't quite call it that anymore, but it had still taken the man days to travel through the remains of the twisted area.

Zevlor blinks, and suddenly the sky is dark and the stars shine bright, someone gently shaking his side.

"Was wondering when you'd decide to wake up." The familiar voice catches his attention, and to his dear surprise Rolan is standing a few feet away with a bowl in one hand, and a mug in the other. The man looks almost....smaller than Zevlor remembered, dark bruises littering his face that made his blood turn to ice. "Time to eat, you're lucky I managed to save you anything."

"I -"

"I said eat." Zevlor blinks when the other pretty much shoves the food into his hands, but keeps his tongue quiet as he gratefully devours everything. Rolan had wandered off while he was eating, but returned soon enough with a sturdy pillow and some folded blankets, setting them on the edge of his bedroll.

"Thank you." The sorcerer hesitates while Zevlor carefully stretches, eyes flickering around the camp before he clears his throat.

"I am...pleased you are safe." The former leader glances up with a small smile, and for a moment they just stare at each other. "I'm sorry, for what we said."

"What do you have to apologize for? I let everyone down, and it's my burden to bear the lives I helped extinguish." Rolan frowned as Zevlor held his gaze, and slowly knelt down so they were eye to eye. "I'm the one to apologize."

"This Absolute is an insidious poison, which breaks down anyone, no matter who they are." Rolan shook his head with a sigh. "It's no balm to heal what's been done, but you don't deserve to languish in the streets."

"I'm not sure what I deserve these days...but thank you, friend." The ache in his heart eases when Rolan pats his shoulder, surprising from the normally haughty man he'd known.

"Get some rest, we'll have use for you I'm sure." Rolan sniffed and got to his feet, looking down at Zevlor with a slight hum. "Pleasant dreams."

"Same to you."

The tiefling watches the camp inhabitants chat amongst each other or keep to themselves, and the burden in his heart eases even more when he's sent small smiles or waves, instead of anger or hatred that he'd been expecting.

He rests easy that night, dreaming of the time to come instead of that past he had lost.

#personal #bg3 #baldurs gate 3 #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 zevlor #baldurs gate 3 zevlor #bg3 tav #bg3 halsin #halsin #astarion #bg3 rolan

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deathbxnny · 1 year ago

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A last dance before doom. (Furina x GN!Reader)

Summary: You knew she was hiding something from you. Something that will change your lives forever and yet, she was unable to even reveal her deepest secret to you, her lover. And so she selfishly asks for a last dance, before her lies finally catch up to her. Content: Angst, hurt/no comfort, betrayal, spoiler for the last Archon quest in Fountaine, heartbreak, deception, Furina and reader are mentioned to be married, sfw Reader has no set pronouns! ((Not proofread!!!))

"Why do you keep lying to me?"

It was a simple question.

One that could be easily answered under any other circumstance, except the one Furina found herself in at the moment. The world was slowly crashing down on her head. The weight on her shoulders too heavy for her to carry. The lies she couldn't even keep track of anymore having finally come back to punish her for her own sins.

Perhaps she had become a little too arrogant, too secure. She thought she could do it alone, that no one would ever catch onto her deception. And she knew, that having you as her lover would be the ultimate risk to take. The burden and guilt were killing her. You were with someone, who didn't even really exist. You were married to a lie.

Why did Furina ever dare and think this could last forever? Was it because she wanted it to? Or ws she perhaps too selfish? She didn't know anymore. but you standing there, fustrated tears in your eyes made her wonder why she even bothered to hide everything anymore. it was over. Any moment now Neuvillette and the traveler with their flying companion would storm in and demand answers themselves. Any moment now, she will absolutely lose everything she had build over the past few centuries. And for what?

Was it ultimately worth carrying this burden? This impossible mission she knew she could never finish on her own? Was it worth losing you over? You were the only thing that made her human again. Being able to love you and cherish you was the one thing keeping her sane until the very end. You weren't apart of her life in the shadow of an archon, but instead you were only hers. Furina's. It was cruel to know that the last of her humanity will be gone any minute now with you. This entire situation was cruel.

"I can't tell you why."

That wasn't a lie for once.

She hung her head, her elbows digging into her legs, as she hunched over in the lavish couch she sat in. She couldn't look at you anymore. But she knew what she had to do next. She needed to save you at least. "But... I can't be with you anymoe either." "And why? I don't understand! You never tell me anything and I-" You moved your hands erratically, trying to collect your scrambled thoughts of panic and fear. "I don't want to lose you! There has to be a way for me to help at least." "You have to leave. that's the only way I can do what I have to do." Furina's voice sounded distant and defeated, her heart shattering with every word. From the corner of ehr eye she saw the evening sun glinting from your ring finger, where her devotion to you was once slipped on by her own hands.

She was truly selfish for doing this to you, for leading you on when she knew better.

She shook her head at the sob that left you, There was no going back from this. This was the true end. Anything after this is just the afterlife punishing her for what she had done. She deserved it for the tears you had to shed over her. But in an last desperate act of selfishness, she stood up and approached you. There was no grand bravado in her movements anymore, no excitement or dramatics. It was slow and careful, her hand reaching out to idly press play on a nearby phonogram as she passed it. A song played you often danced to together, but the joy of it has long disappeared.

And you understood exactly what she wanted. "Why tell me to leave and then do this? At least make this less painful-" "-Just one more dance." She watched the pained expression on your face, before your eyes seemed to dull in defeat and you allowed her to pull you close and take the lead like she always did. The warmth between you had diminished a while ago. Probably when the lies were beginning to become too much for her too bare and everyone began to catch on. You began to catch on. Just how much did you know? Just how long have you been in denial overher deception? So many questions that are better left to be unanswered.

She knew you were angry and fustrated, so terribly heartbroken, so was it really that surprising when you slapped her across the face once the song ended? Her face whipped away to the side and she stayed like that, even if you shoved past her and towards the grand doors of her office. In that same moment Neuvillette and the Traveler with their companion arrived, only watching you storm out with a knowing glance. Furina hummed weakly, her hand reaching up to press against her stinging cheek, the other one wrapped tightly around the ring you had shoved into her palm beforehand.

TAking a deep breath and pushing the ring into her pocket, she turned to the expected guests with her usual dramatic smile, trying to feign confidence and innocence so desperately, it was pathetic.

But alas... the show had to go on until the bitter end. She had nothing to really lose anymore anyways.

A/N: Alright, this is just a little angsty brainrot of mine, whilst I get the blog running again! I hope you guys like it and thank you again for your support!<33

#genshin impact #genshin x reader #genshin furina #focalors #furina de fontaine #furina genshin impact #fontaine #genshin furina x reader #genshin furina x you #genshin imagines #genshin impact fanfic #genshin impact fanfics #genshin

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jisokai · 1 month ago

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

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

part 3: that we’ll string together.

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

the five times sero reaches for you.

✰.

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

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

Leaving spaces open for her to respond."

-The Night Circus, by Erin Morgenstern

Davide appears in your studio unannounced.

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

“Only a little,” you promise.

He gasps. “You won’t even deny it?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Which was going to be when, exactly?”

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

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

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

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

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

You roll your eyes. “Dramatic.”

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

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

“My abuela,” you manage softly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I won’t hate the circus,” you argue.

“Uh oh—”

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

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

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

“Ooh, another point for the circus.”

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

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

Fantasy.

“Babe?”

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

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

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

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

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

He scoffs. “Already finding my replacement?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fantasía.

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

“No one,” you grumble.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The door slams open.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s different this time.

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

And they’re filled with bottles.

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

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

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

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

You are hit with an overwhelming scent of salt.

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

When you look up, you are there.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The first clear memory you see is Sero’s.

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

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

“Abuelita!” you hear yourself shout.

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

This is a circus of cruelty, you decide.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You have no strength. You open it.

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

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

Sit still, you toucan.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You want to ask if it’s all for you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m not sure,” you say honestly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Like a dog, you think.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hanta.

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

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

God, this man needs a break from you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thanks,” she answers with a smile.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s pretty,” he says.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You see Momo.

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

She approaches you first.

“Are you enjoying your evening?” she asks.

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

“It’s a beautiful night.”

You hum in agreement, and leave it at that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It opens into the bloom of a lotus flower.

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

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

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

Reveal.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you… enjoying yourself?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Only if you’re brave enough.”

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

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

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

The feeling does not persist to the morning.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sorry in advance for my lack of enthusiasm.”

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

She scoffs. “Of course.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You laugh, nodding in agreement.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Is that your friend?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hey—” you try to stop her.

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

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

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

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

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

“Tucano?”

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

“Hmm?”

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

You frown. “It’s a Wednesday?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

#jiso.fics #All these stars - bnha circus AU #sero x reader #bnha #sero hanta

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