#and then realizing she lives with them and this just means more third wheeling

[favefandomimagines]

Storm’s Eye (t.o)

Request: @lonelyghosts-stuff “Helllllllo! I hope you are doing well! I was wondering if I could request a Tyler Owens x Reader enemies to lovers fic? I am such a sucker for that trope especially if it's like actually enemies who hate each other but then grow to care through shared experiences and learning about each other. Angsty and life and death stuff. Just super tropey lol”

AN: I’ve been trying a new writing style where I don’t write in the first person but rather the third person, but still using Y/N. Let me know what you guys think!

The sky was a bruised shade of purple.Tyler Owens was behind the wheel of his truck, eyes flicking between the horizon and the radar screen. He gripped the steering wheel, every fiber of his being tuned into the storm brewing in the distance. This was what he lived for—chasing the thrill, the danger.

Beside him, Boone and Javi were having a conversation about the best burgers in Oklahoma, but Tyler wasn’t paying attention. He was more concerned with staying ahead of the supercell that was beginning to form just over the ridge. His mind raced with calculations, predictions, and strategies, keeping track of the storm's trajectory in his head.

Then there was her.

Sitting in the backseat, quietly scrolling through the radar on her own tablet, was the new meteorologist Javi had brought onto the team. Y/N Y/L/N, the woman who had already gotten under Tyler’s skin.

“What do you think, Tyler?” Javi asked, peering over Tyler’s shoulder. “Y/N says we should head north and catch the storm as it loops back around.”

Tyler’s eyes snapped to the rearview mirror, catching Y/N’s gaze. Her eyes were sharp, confident—like she thought she knew everything there was to know about storms. It irked him.

“North?” Tyler scoffed, his voice laced with irritation. ��We’re wasting time if we go north. The storm’s going to pivot east, not loop back. If you want to catch it, we need to stay on this road and head southeast.”

Y/N leaned forward, her expression calm but firm. “That storm’s got a hook echo forming. It’s going to swing north before it turns east. If we stay southeast, we’ll miss the rotation.”

“Miss the rotation?” Tyler barked a laugh. “I’ve been chasing storms for years, and I know this system. You’re just reading the radar. I can feel it.”

Her jaw clenched, but she didn’t back down. “You think I’m just looking at a screen? I’ve been in the field, too. And I’m telling you, if we don’t adjust course, we’re going to be too far south to catch anything.”

Javi glanced between them, trying to keep the peace. “Hey, guys, how about we—”

“I’m the leader of this team,” Tyler interrupted, his tone hard. “We’re sticking with my call. We go southeast.”

Y/N crossed her arms, frustration simmering beneath her composed exterior. Tyler knew she was good at her job—Javi wouldn’t have brought her on if she wasn’t—but that didn’t mean he had to like her stepping on his turf.

“I’ll be here when you realize you’re wrong,” Y/N muttered under her breath.

Tyler pretended not to hear, though her words festered in the back of his mind.

||

The next few days followed the same pattern. Y/N and Tyler clashed over nearly every decision—where to set up, what direction to head, even which equipment to use. The rest of the team, Boone, Javi, Kate, Lilly, Dani, and Dexter, watched their arguments like spectators at a tennis match, unsure of how to intervene.

“Maybe you should cut her some slack,” Boone suggested one evening after a particularly heated argument.

Tyler grumbled something incoherent and shook his head. Y/N was too smart, too stubborn, and way too sure of herself for his liking.

Later that night, while the others were fast asleep in the small roadside motel they were staying at, Tyler found himself unable to sleep. His mind was still buzzing from the day's chase, from the constant butting of heads with Y/N. He slipped out of his room and headed to the small, makeshift lounge area by the vending machines. To his surprise, Y/N was already there, sitting in one of the chairs with her nose buried in a weather report.

He hesitated, then finally walked over and sat down across from her. They sat in silence for a few minutes, the only sound being the low hum of the soda machine.

Finally, Tyler broke the silence. “Where’d you go to school?”

Y/N glanced up from her report, raising an eyebrow. “What?”

“I asked where you went to school,” he repeated, a little softer this time. “I’m just curious.”

She closed her report and leaned back in her chair. “University of Kansas.”

“Really? That’s a good program.” Tyler couldn’t help but be impressed, though he kept his tone neutral.

Y/N shrugged. “It’s close to home. My dad’s still there, and since my mom died a few years ago, I didn’t want to leave him alone for too long.”

The admission caught Tyler off guard. He hadn’t expected her to open up like that.

“He’s the one who made me want to be a meteorologist,” she continued, a small smile tugging at her lips. “When storm season would roll around, he’d stay calm. No matter how bad it got, he’d explain what was happening so I wouldn’t be scared.”

Tyler was quiet for a moment, processing her words. “That’s…that’s pretty cool.”

Y/N looked at him, her eyes softer now. “Why did you start your YouTube channel? Seems like an unusual hobby.”

Tyler rubbed the back of his neck, unsure of how to explain. “I started it because if it helps even one person know what signs to look for, where to take shelter, and it saves lives…that’s the goal. Storms are dangerous, but the more people understand them, the better their chances.”

Y/N nodded, and for the first time, Tyler saw something other than frustration in her eyes. They had more in common than he realized. “I was a bull rider before this.” He spoke. Not sure why that was the first thing that came to his mind.

“Really?” She questioned. “Yeah, I was pretty good for a while. But too many bulls to the head, I wanted to get out before I became a vegetable. When deciding what to do next, I remembered how I felt during my first tornado. I knew I was supposed to be scared, my aunt was freaking out in the driver’s seat. But I couldn’t help but feel excited by it. Remembering that feeling helped me decide to go back to school.” Tyler explained.

“I guess you’re not all bad, Owens.” Y/N teased. “You’re not so bad either, Y/N.” Tyler replied, a small smirk on his face.

||

Tyler thought that after their late-night conversation, things might start to smooth out between them. But when they were out in the field the next day, the old tension returned.

Y/N was insisting they head west, while Tyler was adamant that they stick to the eastern route.

“You’re not thinking clearly!” Y/N snapped, pulling out her map and pointing to the storm's trajectory. “The data shows the storm shifting westward. If we don’t move now, we’re going to miss the funnel!”

Tyler’s frustration boiled over. “I’m the leader of this team, Y/N. My decision stands. Your opinion doesn’t matter.”

The words were out before he could stop them, and the effect was immediate. Y/N’s face fell, all the confidence and fire draining from her. Her lips pressed together, but she didn’t say anything. Just nodded and turned away.

As she walked back to the van, guilt gnawed at Tyler. He knew what he said had hurt her more than he intended. He knew the sting of being dismissed in a profession dominated by men, and he’d just done exactly that to her.

||

The storm that day was worse than any of them had expected. The winds picked up suddenly, driving rain slashing sideways across the open plains. They had barely made it into a small town when the tornado sirens began wailing.

“Get to the storm shelter!” Tyler shouted to the team over the howling wind.

Y/N was running beside him when something caught her eye. She stopped dead in her tracks, looking toward the edge of the street where a young golden retriever, still basically a puppy, was tied to a telephone pole barking frantically.

“Y/N, come on!” Tyler yelled, but she shook her head.

“I can’t leave him,” she shouted back, running toward the dog.

Tyler cursed under his breath and sprinted after her. “Y/N, you can’t—”

“I have to save him!” she interrupted, fumbling with the leash as the wind whipped around her, making it nearly impossible to untie the knots.

For a terrifying moment, Tyler thought they were both going to get swept away by the storm. Without thinking, he grabbed her hands and pulled them away from the leash, then used his pocket knife to cut it.

“Let’s go!” he urged, pulling her to her feet.

She scooped up the dog, and they ran together toward the storm shelter, barely making it inside before the worst of the storm hit.

Y/N collapsed against the wall, clutching the trembling dog in her arms. “Thanks,” she panted, a breathy laugh escaping her lips.

“Don’t ever do that again,” Tyler said, though his heart was still racing from fear, not anger.

She just smiled weakly in response.

||

When the storm passed, Y/N was outside, kneeling beside the dog and handing out food and water to the town’s residents who had been affected. Tyler watched her from a distance, unable to shake the fear he’d felt when he thought she wasn’t going to make it.

He walked over to her, his voice softer than usual. “That dog’s not going to let you out of his sight now.”

Y/N smiled, ruffling the dog’s fur. “He’s our new team mascot.”

Tyler crouched down beside her, his tone serious. “I was scared. I thought you weren’t going to make it. And it made me realize…I’ve been awful to you because I liked you. I was scared of how I felt.”

Y/N blinked in surprise, her cheeks flushing slightly. “You liked me?”

“Yeah,” Tyler admitted. “And I think…I think I still do.”

Y/N smiled, her voice soft. “Well it’s a good thing that I have feelings for you too, Tyler.” Tyler let out a light laugh before leaning in ever so slightly

Just as they were about to kiss, Boone appeared out of nowhere, grinning like a fool. “So, what’s the plan, lovebirds? Heading back on the road or what?”

Tyler groaned, but Y/N just laughed, the tension between them finally gone, like the storm that had just passed.

[yandere-sins]

Hi! I saw the request that involved the poly trio of the yan! Ghost, the darling and darlings best friend (reader) and it honestly just scratched my brain perfectly.

So if it's alr, I was wondering if it would work with Konig? I know he isn't really one for sharing in the slightest, but perhaps if he found himself vaugly fond of us, as while I'd imagine the darling being a ballsy, hothead- we'd be quiet and meek like in the Ghost fic and perhaps that while darling was definitely the center of attention, that reader was easier to deal with because of no kicking or screaming or hateful words and he'd perhaps just occasionally give us a pat or seek attention from us when things were rougher than usual with darling?

Perhaps this prompt would be darling went after Konig's gun or smth a bit ago and maybe he's currently fuming and darling is locked in a bathroom or smth and we maybe attempt to be the peacekeeper and try to smooth things over? (Not because we want to be nice, but because we know it's better when Konig and darling are calm rather than there being screaming and violence) and we try to meekly approach and convince him to calm down some? Sorry if this didn't make much sense and I really like your writing!

Thank you for requesting!! I hope I came close to your idea! ^-^

»»————-———— ♡ ————————-««

You flinched when the bathroom door was slammed shut, almost slipping from the carrot you were cutting, but luckily, the knife missed your fingers. The screaming and fighting had finally ceased, but you didn't know who won this time as you continued to prepare dinner. However, the answer was easily determined as König stepped out of the hallway and into the living room, the fabric mask on his head moving as he shook his head.

"Scheiße," he muttered, and you put down the knife, knowing the sound would agitate him more. Scheiße meant shit, you knew that by now. He wasn't happy, it seemed. The knife made a soft clink! as you laid it flat on the countertop and he whipped around towards you, both of you startling like two deers in the headlights, and you muttered a soft, "Sorry..." while you two tried to gauge each other's intentions.

It wasn't like your captor was really terrible to you. Indifferent suited your relationship best, and you liked it that way, hating it when the attention was on you. His attention had proven to be obsessive, violent at best, from what you witnessed. It was a relief that the focus was more on your best friend than you. It was her that he was concerned about, her that he wanted. And you were just a means to an end for your friend to like him more. Their third-wheeling pet, basically, even though it was an awful situation for both your friend and you.

For a while, no one said anything. The situation was tense enough that your nervous babbling might have made him explode. König never touched you, never hurt you in the ways he did to your best friend. Subjectively, she was much worse off than you were. Still, you could never know when that giant of a man would finally snap, and you didn't want to be within his reach at that moment.

"I just..." he started, heaving another deep sigh and gripping his forehead. With his weird mask on, he looked comically like a killer from a movie, but you realized early that he wasn't that hard to read even without seeing his face. "She grabbed the gun, okay?! Why would she do that! It's dangerous! She could have gotten hurt!"

Nodding, you played along. Of course, you knew why your friend grabbed the gun, but you chose not to tell him. On this planet, you were the last person that wanted to upset him—your friend did that well enough. It hadn't been her first attempt at getting rid of him. She was righteous to the core, fuelled by courage and almost stupidly confident in what she was doing. You admired her for it, considering you were the one always close to knives yet too afraid to even use them.

You could never be her. It was just too scary to think about.

"I don't get it..." König grumbled, grabbing his wrists and anxiously twisting them in his grip. For someone confident enough to capture two people and lock them in his apartment in a make-shift family situation, you came to realize his anxiety was pretty terrible. He seemed a little happier when you all sat down to eat together or watch a movie. Still, usually, he was a nervous, pacing wreck who got desperate when your friend refused him any kindness.

But on the other hand, you had all the time in the world to observe. You noticed every fidgeting of his hands, even underneath the table. You caught all the badly-hidden attempts to flirt with your friend and how she simply didn't notice. By now, you could even tell if he was frowning or smiling underneath the shirt, just from the look in his eyes. It was the best you could do in this situation, but it helped, occasionally.

He looked downright scary now. You didn't like him when he was a soft-spoken fool in love, but it was worse like this. Just how were you supposed to act? How could you not make yourself a target while also helping your friend, who probably banged and locked the door behind her in an attempt to get away from him? The hide-and-seek the two often played when things got rough almost always ended in either a broken door or your friend starving herself for days while you had to deal with an irate kidnapper. If possible, you wanted to avoid that.

"It's... it's really dangerous."

"Right?! I've told her, I—"

König stopped mid-pace and slowly, suspiciously, turned around, his sentence coming to an abrupt halt. Even laid in shadows, you saw his eyes widen, then narrow, his invisible eyebrows raising in surprise before they furrowed. His sudden doubt was no surprise—you had never agreed with him before. And although he seemed like one sometimes, he wasn't as much of a fool as it might appear. Even if you were just the pet, the extra—a side character in a story that did not involve you, you had never tried interfering before, always too scared to be the next target on either's hit list. Tensions were high, and maybe it wasn't the right moment to play devil's advocate. But maybe there was some kind of role in this play. Maybe you could change the story after all.

"I think she was just so scared; she didn't think about herself getting hurt."

"What..." he gulped, still not so sure if he should entertain this conversation with you. However, his curiosity won over. "What is she scared of?"

You felt the thin ice you were treading with your intervention crack beneath your bare feet. You! was the obvious answer to König's question. She's scared of you, idiot!

But you wouldn't say it. Wouldn't put either of you captives into this position of angering him deliberately.

"B-Burglars," you stuttered out, the first best thing that came to mind. Stupid, fucking stupid. The front door itself was locked better than Fort Knox. This was the highest building of a highrise. How was anyone going to break into here?

And yet, König stilled. He didn't move an inch, although his eyes seemed to fixate on you, and you felt the sweat pearl on your face. He knew it was a lie; he must have known that it was a really, really bad lie, too.

"Are you also scared of burglars?" he asked all of a sudden, and you froze, not expecting the question. This could have been the point where König decided that you were a useless accessory, and you wouldn't have been surprised if he had just picked you up and thrown you against a wall to end your existence.

Perhaps your fear had driven you mad.

"Y-Yes?" you breathed out, sounding like a question rather than the obvious statement you should have made. "Are you?"

Biting your tongue, you watched as König crossed his arms. His shoulders fell, his posture growing less tense and more thoughtful as he looked up at the ceiling that he almost hit with his head. It wasn't before long that you heard the long drag of his breath before he sighed, letting his head fall forward. There were two short jerks of his head downwards, almost like a nod to himself, and then he looked up. Really looked at you. He only needed three steps with his long legs to cross the distance between you and him, and you tumbled back in fear, leaving the knife on the kitchen counter like a dumbass.

That's it, you thought. That's how it ends.

"You go for their weak points," König mumbled, gesturing towards his stomach. "When it's obvious that it's a man, you kick him right here."

Pointing his hands downwards, your eyes made an instinctual glance before you caught yourself, immediately avoiding looking at your captor's crotch for more than the millisecond you already had.

"Verstanden?"

That meant, "Understood?" You were learning German bit by bit. You gave a short nod, and it made König hum in approval.

"Gut." (That meant "good.")

"Now, for a woman, you can do that, but it won't be as effective. You should—wait, I'll show you."

You flinched as König raised his hand, his palm settling at the back of your head. There was so much confusion about the sudden self-defense he spoke of, but when he grabbed a handful of hair, you winced out of pure fear, although the grip wasn't strong at all. When he guided your body and head forward, you did as you were instructed, with absolutely no resistance now that you were at his mercy. He could probably snap your neck just by yanking your head hard if he wanted, so there was nothing you could do but follow.

"You grab the woman and kick her leg-" he tapped the tip of his foot against your shin to demonstrate, "-and when she loses balance, you slam her head into a surface. Downwards is more effective, but a wall will do."

With more gentleness than you thought he could muster, he forced your head forward, almost close enough to hit the kitchen counter. You whimpered as you feared for a moment that he'd actually give you a demonstration of what he was telling you.

"And not like that," König explained, tapping your forehead on the solid surface. "But like this."

And then, out of nowhere, he yanked your hair back, and you had not even one second to catch your breath before he drove your head forward again with such skilled fluidity that your life flashed before your eyes.

It was like all your senses had given out from shock, but the pain that you expected never came. The back of your scalp was a little itchy and agitated from the pulling, but you expected your head to be smashed in would hurt a bit more than just the feeling of him tugging at your hair.

Slowly, you opened an eye, trying to see what had happened. When your sight adjusted, you saw the marbled countertop just inches away from you. Reaching up, you grabbed the edge with both your hands, making the situation more real as you realized nothing had happened. You didn't hit the counter, and you didn't die.

Your knees began to wobble as tears filled your eyes. This was terrible, the situation was one nightmare after another. But you were so thankful to still be alive. König's body shifted closer to yours as he leaned forward, his hand still locked in your hair. "Verstanden? Don't be forgiving. It's you or the burglar, and they won't show you or your friend any mercy. You need to know how to protect her."

You gave a slight, faint nod as his fingers unwound from your hair, although his touch lingered. Awkwardly, he stroked down your shuffled hair twice, patting you lightly between your shoulders as you wouldn't move from your bowed position.

"Good. You're a good learner. Next time, I'll bring you a training partner to practice."

Much to your own surprise, you managed to give a short hum in reply before your knees finally broke away beneath the stress, and you sunk to the ground. It scared König almost as much as you, but you barely noticed his fussing until he picked you up, a squeal escaping you as you were lifted even higher than the kitchen counter was.

"Mein Gott, you are both so frail! Why do you two always refuse to eat meals when you are that easy to pick up? You'll surely get kidnapped one day; that's why good food is so wichtig."

With your heart pounding out of your chest, it was hard to keep up your broken understanding of the German language. He exclaimed something sounding like my god, and from his wording, the phrase he used sounded almost important—was that what the other word meant?

The irony of him thinking you could get kidnapped passed you by with the shock.

König settled you down on the living room sofa, and you breathed a sigh of relief as his arms vanished, the immediate danger in your life moving away, only to stand barely a breath away from you, arms akimbo as he mustered you from high above. You tugged in your legs, hugging them to your chest in an attempt to feel any sense of security.

What should you do now? How could you continue being a good friend while also saving your own life?

You learned a few things that evening—mainly how to defend yourself. Learned it from the man you wish you could protect against. Your friend was bold and rebellious, but you, too, had it in you to make a change. König was crazy out of love for her, but he wasn't as ruthless as you thought him to be. You'd even go as far as to say he was overprotective and a bit paranoid, which played right into your hands.

"Are..." you scrambled, your throat dried out from screams you didn't know you held back, every word you wanted to say scratching along it like his fingers had against your scalp. "Are we... wichtig? To you?"

There was a painful silence for a few seconds, and you only dared one glance upwards at his face, his eyes returning to being unreadable.

"Of course you are! You two are the most important things in my life— I mean... Your... your friend is the most important person to me, but you are wichtig, too! You are, you... well, du bist du, and that's good!"

You were stunned as you listened to him blabber on as if embarrassed. And no second later that König said his piece, he stomped off, seemingly agitated. You heard him knock twice on the bathroom door, calling for your friend to come out and have dinner with you. The next thing was the unlocking and slamming of another door, followed by many locks being put in place on the outside.

Du bist du, the sentence slowly registered in your mind. You are you, and that was all you were to him, but for some reason, it felt good. Comforting. You are you, and that's good. The words kept repeating in your mind. It was vague, but given how König seemed to be a vague person, this was better than being no one, right?

You heard the creaking of a door before tiny, barely audible taps closed in on the living room. Your friend didn't look much better than you must have after the whole ordeal, but her gaze was filled with confusion and sparks of awe.

"What did you do?" she asked you. "You made him leave us here?"

"I don't know," you mumbled, touching the back of your sore scalp. "I told him you took a gun because you were scared of burglars, and he showed me how to defend myself, and I don't know what happened then; it was all so fast."

"Oh my god..." your friend whispered. "That is the chance! Now, we can find a way to get out or get help! Come on!"

She dashed back into the hallway before you could even agree to her plans. But all your courage, all the fight you had when you tried to mingle into their affairs, seemed to have left you. You may have learned a lot that evening, but it also made you realize you knew something she didn't.

You two were important to König. One way or another.

Even if it meant teaching you how to defeat someone, even if it meant putting himself in danger, König was keen to use all the tools he had to protect what was important to him. However, you were no fool to think he'd let you get too comfortable with the strength and tools he was giving you. Because the truth was something only he and you were sure of now:

You'd never defeat him.

[mostlymaddie]

Good Friends

John B and Sarah help out a good friend (18+)

hanging out with sarah and john b felt weird at first; being without the entire group of pogues made you feel anxious about being a third wheel. however, they always made sure you felt included, in more ways than one.

it’d almost become a weekly thing at this point, every friday afternoon you, sarah, and john b spent time relaxing and drinking in her hot tub. even with john b and sarah positioned at the opposite side of the hot tub as you, the occasional feet and legs brushing against each other sent small shocks through your body.

“hey john b, do you mind refilling drinks? y/n’s running a little low.” glancing down at your champagne glass you realized sarah was right, you’d nonchalantly been sipping away at your drink and didn’t notice you’d nearly finished it. “sure babe” as john b stood up you try to divert your attention from the water running down his chest and pooling at the waistband of his swim trunks. it wouldn’t be the first time you had borderline inappropriate thoughts about john b or sarah for that matter. it seemed as if the environment always provided these thoughts with the opportunity to enter your mind, whether it was john b tightly grabbing you by your hips to move you closer to him in crowded places, sarah’s friendly cheek kisses becoming pecks on the lips when she drank a little too much, or you walking in on them having morning sex after they “accidentally” forgot about inviting you over the night before. it was almost as if like they wanted you to think about them in a more sexualized manner, but that would be crazy…right?

john b grabs the glass from your hands, steps out of the hot tub, and disappears into the house. sarah’s gaze follows him until she can no longer see him, her eyes fall back onto you and slowly trail down your body. a smile appears on her face, “see, i told you that bikini would fit perfectly! you were worried for nothing.” earlier in the week sarah took you shopping for a new swimsuit, she claimed that you needed a new one in order to get the perfect tan, “a body this pretty needs a nice tan to match” the trip resulted in sarah running her hands all over your tits and ass, which shamefully went straight to your clit, and buying you a strapless bikini top and a pair of thongs bottoms to match.

“no i know, i just thought it was a little tight” you glance down at your tits which are slightly spilling out from your top. “that’s how it’s supposed to fit, really, you look sexy” sarah constantly gave you compliments in the form of telling you how hot you looked or how good your ass looked in shorts she lent you. if not for her commitment to john b, you’d think she was attracted to you. “wanna hear something funny?” sarah’s voice snapped you out of your thoughts. “sure, yeah.”

“so you know how you’re a virgin right?” your cheeks felt hot and you whipped your head around to see if john b was coming back. “oh- no sweetheart i didn’t mean to embarrass you. and it’s really not a big deal, i think it’s sweet that you’re still a virgin!” still reeling from how bluntly sarah began the conversation, you nod your head “yeah…”

“i just wanted to show you something.” sarah moves to the control panel of the jacuzzi and increases the intensity of the jets. “do you know how easy it is to cum using pool jets?” sarah’s outlandish question causes you to choke on air “sarah that’s too personal!” she shakes her head and smiles “oh no it’s not! we’re friends and good friends don’t let their friends live life without orgasms.” she moves closer to you, her body heat seems hotter than water surrounding you. “i just want you to feel good… that’s all i ever want.” something about the way sarah looks deep into your eyes makes you want to do whatever she says, no questions asked. maybe that’s why she gets everything she wants. “come ‘ere, stand up and let me show you something.” you maintain eye contact with sarah and rise to your knees, she grabs your hips gently and turns you toward the jet that was previously aimed at your back. “scoot a little closer babe” in an instant you feel the best you ever have in your life “oh-ohhh!”

sarah’s lips come closer to the edge of your ear as she pushes your bikini-covered clit closer to the jet “that’s a good girl, you’re doing so good.” your breathing becomes heavier and it’s harder and harder to catch your breath. her body stays strong as you lean back against her for support, if it hadn't been for her you would have fallen back into the water. your eyes flutter shut when her lips start trailing open-mouth kisses down your neck. “you’re so gorgeous, do you know that? i’ve been thinking about this since the day we met. i never knew how it would happen but i knew eventually i’d have you. i’ve always- no, we’ve always thought about what it would finally be like to take care of you the way you deserve.”

that last sentence seemed to be a keyword or a trigger for john b to finally reappear after being absent for the last 15 minutes. if it weren’t for sarah’s mini confession you’d think it would be outrageous to suggest they planned this. if your mind wasn’t occupied by the feeling of a high powered jet on your clit and sarah’s hands unclasping your top to play with your tits, you’d probably play back every interaction you’ve had with the couple and their possible ulterior motives, but there’s no time for that. “how are my girls doing?” john b’s voice almost breaks you out of the spell, just enough to open your eyes and see him walking towards you. his hands grab the side of your face and tilts your head towards him, “sarah’s making you feel good yeah?” you whimper and nod your head yes. “sar? why don’t we make her feel better?”

her left hand lets go of your boob and cups your pussy through your bikini bottoms, her index finger hooks around the front of your panties and exposes your bare clit to the jet “oh my god- please!” john b still holds your head in his hands and leans down to kiss you. it’s different from the kisses sarah left on your neck, it’s focused and intense. the jet — sarah’s fingers pinching your nipples — and john b’s tongue combined finally lead you to an orgasm. sarah’s voice filters through your left ear, “oh look baby she’s cumming, we just gave our pretty girl her first orgasm.”

[hungryistrying]

something here (i'm biding time 'til it disappears)

summary:

What is Jinx scared of, you might ask? The chewed holes which are obvious signs of a rat infestation? The warnings from their new landlord that they should keep the toilet lid shut in case of cockroaches? Or maybe the array of loud and extremely suspicious sounds at night? Nope. Not even close. Jinx was born and raised in Zaun, then spent the last four years of her life in a college dormitory the size of a peanut. She could deal with a shabby, cheap first apartment. Especially when she’s still trying to find a job that she actually studied for. But moving in with Ekko fucking terrifies her.

In which Jinx and Ekko move in together and she feels very calm and normal about the ordeal.

rating: teen

word count: 9706

status: completed

crossposted to ao3

“Do you wanna move in together?” 

That was the fateful question that might potentially ruin Jinx’s life.

Because when Ekko casually asked her that very question– after lamenting that his lease was ending and his roommate planned to move away– Jinx just as casually agreed, too preoccupied to properly consider what living with Ekko could mean for their relationship.

In her defense, they were in the middle of binging the latest telenovela she picked up, so her priorities had lied elsewhere at that moment… Specifically with whether or not Bianca's evil mother-in-law would successfully ruin her marriage (well, that's probably what she was trying to do).

That aside, her graduation was right around the corner, she'd already cleared out her dorm room, and her only plan was to move in with Vi to leech off her and her wife until she could afford her own place (it's a younger sibling privilege, alright).

However, given that Jinx honestly couldn't stand her sister-in-law– despite Vi's impassioned attempts to remedy that fact– moving in with her boyfriend seemed way more appealing than essentially becoming Vi and Caitlyn's permanent third wheel. 

Especially when he beamed at her when she said yes, showing her that smile that spread so wide it made his dimples show. Jinx would've joked that she needed a pair of sunglasses because of him, had her stomach not been preoccupied with doing backflips at the sight.

That, combined with his excitement as he showed her different apartment listings they could apply for, made it hard for her to consider how this could be a bad idea. Now that they’re actually here, however, Jinx's mind is racing, her heart is pounding, and she comes to a singular, damning realization. 

She's scared.

The feeling hits her belatedly. Akin to the sensation of getting stabbed and the pain only hitting hours later when the rush of adrenaline has worn off (...which is totally not something that actually happened to her). It only occurs to her when she and Ekko are already in their new apartment, moving in dozens of boxes with their belongings.

And what is she scared of, you might ask? The chewed holes which are obvious signs of a rat infestation? The warnings from their new landlord that they should keep the toilet lid shut in case of cockroaches? Or maybe the array of loud and extremely suspicious sounds at night?

Nope. Not even close. Jinx was born and raised in Zaun, then spent the last four years of her life in a college dormitory the size of a peanut. She could deal with a shabby, cheap first apartment. Especially when she’s still trying to find a job that she actually studied for.

But moving in with Ekko fucking terrifies her.

“Fuck, I'm tired,” Ekko groans, setting down the last box of their haul. They've had to move everything by themselves since none of their friends had time to help them– the downside of moving on a Tuesday afternoon.

Jinx doesn’t spare him a glance while putting down a box herself, reaching for a pair of scissors on the kitchen counter so she can cut it open. Her body moves on autopilot, mind still racing with concerns.

Why the fuck is moving in with Ekko so nerve-wracking all of a sudden? Jinx didn't feel a sliver of doubt before. Not while they were apartment hunting; Nor when they had to collect a headache-inducing amount of documents to apply for this place; Not even when they were actually signing the lease. But now she's standing in their new apartment and can only think of all the ways this could go wrong.

“...inx? Jinx!” She startles at the sound of her name, a resounding clatter echoing across the still-bare apartment as the scissors fall out of her hand and onto the tiled floor.

Cursing under her breath, she bends down to pick them up, her hand brushing against Ekko's – since when was he standing beside her? – who bent down to do the same.

“Careful.” His tone is gentle, but it only sets her nerves further alight. “Are you alright?”

She looks up to find his gaze already trained on her, a furrow forming between his brow at her lack of response. Fucking fantastic, they just moved in and she's already stressing him out.

Jinx snorts as nonchalantly as she can. “What? You think a pair of kitchen scissors is gonna take me out?”

Ekko gives her his signature unimpressed look, the one he only gives her when they're bantering, and Jinx feels something in her chest ease at the potential landmine she just averted. But then, because he's Ekko and can never let things go without looking for a problem to solve, he continues, “You know that's not what I meant.”

“Of course I'm fine. Why wouldn't I be?” Jinx lies because she's a fucking liar, even adding an exaggerated eye roll to sell the bit. Honestly, she should get an Oscar.

Ekko doesn't look convinced, however, so maybe she should kiss that make-believe Oscar goodbye. Before he can open his mouth and keep pushing, Jinx says, “What did you call me for anyway?”

At her not-so-subtle diversion, he gives her That Look. The one that, over the last two years, Jinx has learned to read as “We're not done talking about this.” And that's perfectly fine with her, because unbeknownst to Ekko, they are done talking about it. In fact, there's nothing to talk about. It's just her having first apartment jitters. Or something. 

After all, Jinx has never lived by herself, and that in and of itself is already nerve-wracking. She's fresh out of college, still job hunting, and her cooking expertise is limited to grilled cheese sandwiches and instant ramen. So surely it's perfectly normal to feel this way. She'll get over it and they'll go back to the way they were.

Jinx innocently looks at him as if there's nothing wrong (because there isn't!). Eventually, Ekko just sighs and answers, “I asked you what we should get for dinner. Ionian? Pizza?”

“What? You're not cooking a three-star Michelin meal for our first day together?” she jokes.

Leveling her with an unimpressed stare, Ekko walks further into their desolate kitchen, still looking at her over his shoulder. “Right, how could I forget?” He blindly reaches forward, grabbing at air. “Let me just grab some ingredients from the– Oh.” His head swivels to look at the space in front of him, before he turns back to her with feigned surprise, and says, “Oh, that's right. We don't have a fridge!”

She snorts at his dramatics before she frowns and thinks. “Didn't you already have a fridge, though?”

“I did.” He walks back to her, leaning back against one of the counters. “I let Scar take most our furniture. He has a baby on the way, so he's losing enough money as it is.”

Jinx blinks, surprised at the revelation. She's not sure why. Of course Ekko of all people would do something so stupidly selfless. 

Despite the warm flutter in her chest, she groans and says, “You know you're disgustingly nice, right?” He rolls his eyes, but doesn't deny it, so she pulls herself up to sit on the counter beside him and asks, “So now what? We go fridge-shopping tomorrow?”

“We could.” Ekko shrugs. “Or we borrow my dad's minivan and drive to the dump to see if some sucker from Piltover threw out a perfectly good fridge.”

“Now there's a good idea!”

“Know what else is a good idea?” He moves to stand in front of her, resting his hands on her knees and gently pushing them apart so he can stand between them. Without thinking about it, Jinx rests her arms on his shoulders as she inquisitively hums so he'll continue. 

“Dinner,” he concludes. “Now tell me what you want so I can pick something up.”

With a sigh, she looks up at the ceiling while considering his question. It’s covered in yellow stains. Gross. They should repaint the walls. Maybe she could even add some fun designs…She’s pretty sure Vi has spare paint cans lying around somewhere.

The hands on her thighs briefly tighten, drawing her attention back to him. Still undecided, she shrugs. “Just get whatever, it’s fine.”

Ekko stares at her entirely unconvinced, but doesn't say anything. Eventually, she cracks and asks, “What?”

“So you'll eat whatever I get for dinner. Am I hearing that right?”

“Yes! It’s fine, I'm not that picky.”

“I swear,” he sighs, “if I come back with takeout and you say you don't feel like eating it again–”

“What?!” Jinx interrupts, indignation flaring. “I never do that!”

“You do this every single time!” Ekko argues, pulling away from her. Jinx reluctantly lets him, despite the coldness seeping into the growing space between their bodies. “I’m not buying shit until you pick something.”

Jinx groans, but knows better than to doubt Ekko's stubbornness at this point, so she concedes, “Okay, fine! Get the fish stew from Jericho then.” 

Ekko's already reaching for his jacket by the entryway when Jinx yells “Wait!” and jumps off the counter, running to him. Grabbing both his cheeks, she squishes their mouths together in a chaste kiss before pulling back and adding, “And get your own fries this time, you glutton.”

“Man, whatever,” he grumbles, shrugging on his jacket while Jinx just laughs. “I'm leaving, be back soon, alright?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Jinx shoos him away. “Go get dinner already! I'll start on the bed so we can sleep tonight.”

The door closes with a thud that feels much louder than she realistically knows it is. She turns back to look at the apartment. Their apartment. Despite its modest size, without Ekko here, it feels much too large for her liking.

With a sigh, she tries to exhale the last of her doubts, reaching for the abandoned kitchen scissors so she can cut the bubble wrap off their disassembled bed.

She can shake these feelings off. They're just first apartment jitters, right?

-

Sadly – by the time they managed to procure a fridge from the city dump, haul it up the stairs and into their apartment – the nerves have not faded. The aggravating argument they had in the downstairs hallway did not help matters: Ekko bemoaning they should've gotten a trolley while she insisted the two of them would be able to drag it up the stairs just fine without one. 

Luckily, their landlady overheard them and did in fact have a trolley, sparing them the trouble of finding out (but Jinx knows for a fact they could've made it work anyway). She would've argued as much, but one look at Ekko's face had her swallowing any more arguments, along with the bile suddenly rising in her throat. Because Ekko looked annoyed with her. And sure, that wasn't an uncommon occurrence, but it felt different now that they were living together. 

What if he regrets it now? Regrets her. They've barely started living together, but what if he's already tired of her being in his space all the time? Of her always messing things up; of her chaos; of her stubbornness; of her impulsiveness; of her always ruining things– What if it’s too much now that he has to be around her constantly?

Jinx glances at Ekko and considers asking. Maybe it’ll be better just to rip off the bandage. 

“Let’s never do that shit again,” he says, standing up from where he sat slumped against the wall after they nearly got taken out carrying a fridge up two flights of stairs. He catches her eye before she can look away and raises a curious eyebrow. “What’s up?”

Do you hate me now? Am I annoying? Do you want to break up? The questions try to rise to the tip of her tongue but get stuck in her throat, suffocating her.

“Nothing,” she ends up saying. Because what if she rips off the bandage and finds a gunshot wound? Or what if her brain is just setting her up for failure again and she creates a problem where there never was one?

Ekko nods as if there’s nothing wrong; As if he didn’t just look at her like he hates her and regrets this– 

Alright, she might be spiraling and has to calm down. 

“I’m gonna return my dad's van and give this to Babette while I'm at it. Be right back, alright?” He grabs Babette's trolley and heads out before she can respond. 

Jinx does not flinch at the resounding thud after he closes the door.

She’s not spiraling. Definitely not spiraling. He said he’ll be back and she believes him and everything will be okay.

Sitting here trapped with only her thoughts, which predictably, fucking suck, is making her jittery. She has to do something to turn off her brain and redirect her focus. Something useful so Ekko won’t hate her.

She looks at their newly acquired fridge and feels a light bulb turn on over her head, nearly tripping over her own feet in her excitement to race to the fridge.

Before he headed out, the two of them had managed to put it in the right spot and plug the power cord in. By now it should've been running for long enough that Jinx can start figuring out what's wrong with the damn thing.

Opening the fridge (and nearly gagging at the smell), she looks around and tries to figure out what’s wrong with it. She’ll fix the fridge and they’ll have one less thing to worry about.

-

By the time the front door opens, Jinx has four boxes hauled into the kitchen, electronics and mechanical parts spilling out (because she's a hoarder and keeps everything just in case it's useful one day), her phone blasting Pentakill on the counter, and is sitting hunched inside of the fridge.

At the creak of the door, she peaks her head out of the fridge and grins at the sight of Ekko…Well, as close as she can get to a grin with four nails precariously trapped between her teeth.

“Hey.” He closes the door with one hand, balancing a tub of tupperware in the other. “You been busy?”

Jinx spits out the nails so she can respond, “Yup! Fridge is almost done. I fixed up the compressor, the seals, replaced the vents, and now I’m just changing some broken lights.” 

She carefully places the nails down on the counter, right next to the tupperware Ekko had just set down, prompting her to ask, “What about you, huh? Whatcha got there?”

Before he can even answer, Jinx is already ripping off the lid, revealing pasta covered in chicken and a creamy sauce, steam still wafting off the food. A satisfied hum escapes her mouth at the fragrant smell.

Ekko laughs at her palpable excitement. “My mom made us pasta. I'll let her know it was a hit.”

“Absolutely. Her cooking is the best part about dating you.” Jinx grins, popping the lid back on.

He scoffs, mock-offended. “That’s the best part? Not the fact that I'm smart, super funny, handsome, and always buy you those disgusting drinks?”

Jinx scrunches her nose as she pretends to consider his question for a moment, before she concludes, "Nope. Definitely none of those things."

“I see how it is…” Ekko clicks his tongue. “Know what? Let me just take this and go.” He moves to pick up the pasta, but Jinx practically launches herself at the container before he can get very far.

“Wait, wait, wait! I take it back. I'll even tolerate your Mountain Dew hatred.” Seeing his unimpressed look and steadfast grip on the tupperware, Jinx grumbles and adds, “And the best part of dating you is that you're smart and funny and hot and a great kisser– Now stop making me say embarrassing shit!”

Ekko hums in consideration, before nodding and finally releasing the pasta from his clutches. “Alright, the delivery wasn't that great but you get bonus points for the great kisser thing.”

Jinx scoffs, grabbing the forgotten screws off the counter. “You suck.”

“Thanks, love you too,” he answers with a saccharine smile. 

In a tragic turn of events, her heart flutters at his words, despite their obvious sarcasm. But she refuses to give him any more leverage over her, so just grumbles, “Whatever, I’m gonna finish up these lights so we can eat.”

“Alright, I’ll go ahead and plate this up then,” he answers, rummaging through their several unpacked bags, presumably in search of plates and cutlery.

For a moment, quiet settles over them as they get to work on their respective tasks. The apartment is filled with sounds of rustling bags and metal touching as Jinx drives the screws back in, carefully maneuvering her head so her shadow doesn’t block the dying light of the sun spilling through the windows. 

She hears Ekko begin humming to the next song on her playlist– the music scarcely loud enough to block out the rush of traffic and passing trains just outside their apartment– and her heart swells at the sound. Or maybe it’s from the realization of how…normal this is. 

Because Jinx has never really had anything normal or stable in her life. She fucks things up and people leave her and end up hating her. But maybe, just maybe, if it’s with Ekko, she doesn’t have to feel that way.

Of course, just as she has this epiphany, Ekko innocently asks, “Why’d you get started on the fridge anyway? I figured we’d do it together some other time,” and the feeling crumbles and disperses with the wind, like it was never there in the first place. 

Dread fills its place instead, and Jinx has to force herself to swallow it down before she responds, her voice carefully neutral, “Oh, you know, I just figured it’d be better to get the damn thing over with.” 

She can’t glean much from his responding hum, the sound too dispassionate for her to analyze how he feels. And how she should respond in turn. So, cautiously, she asks, “Why? Are you mad I did it without you?”

“No?” The genuine confusion in his voice fills Jinx with a contradictory sense of relief and shame. “I just thought it would be easier if we did it together, but if you already got it that's great.”

So it's nothing. Great. He's not mad at her. See? Everything's fine and she did a super helpful thing and he's taking it well and so is she and–

“Fuck,” Ekko curses, breaking her train of thought.

…Shit, maybe he is lying.

“Jinx.” This is it, she thinks, holding her breath as she waits for the other shoe to drop. “I…may have forgotten to bring any plates.”

…

Well.

That was anticlimactic.

Jinx blinks and turns to look at him across the room, a sheepish smile on his face, as he sits on the floor surrounded by a dozen ravished bags and unpacked boxes. A beat of silence. Jinx blankly stares at him. Then laughter spills from her, bursting uncontrollably from her under all the pressure.

Ekko looks at her nonplussed. “Jinx?” 

“No, no,” she wipes a stray tear from her eye, “it’s nothing.” 

Jinx just shakes her head, her brain doing its best not to lag behind this ridiculous turn of events. She begins setting her tools aside and shutting the fridge. It’s as good as done anyway, might as well take a rain check on that and leave cleaning it for tomorrow.

"Well, do we have forks?" she asks, pausing the music before walking over to Ekko. He remains seated on the floor, his back turned to her as he stubbornly continues to check all the bags despite what he just told her.

“Uh, yeah,” he raises a hand to vaguely gesture in the direction of three other bags, while the bag in front of him has his undivided attention, “somewhere in there, I think. I just can’t believe I forgot to get plates of all things.”

“Well, no point crying over spilled milk, right?” Jinx shrugs, leaning forward and resting her hands on his shoulders. He looks up at her with a frown; his face looks funny upside down like this. “How about you grab your laptop, I get those forks, and we can watch a show while we eat?”

He sighs and gently removes her hands so he can stand up, giving her a knowing look as he asks, “You mean that telenovela we should just find subtitles for?”

“It’s more fun when you don’t know what’s going on!” Jinx argues, shoving him in the direction of their bedroom. “Now get your laptop already so we can enjoy our three-star Michelin meal.”

He ends up laughing at her words, the sound breaking his facade of exasperation. Jinx just rolls her eyes as she turns to rummage through the other bags until she finally manages to spot the forks. 

With a hum, she washes the forks clean before popping the lid off the tupperware and artfully sticking the now-clean forks in. Jinx steps into their living room – if it can even be called that in its sorry state – with the tupperware in one hand, briefly bending down so she can pick up a leftover six-pack of cola with the other.

She takes a look around the bare room, trepidation filling her at how empty it is. Will this last long enough for her to see it filled with their belongings? Or will this relationship reach its inevitable end before they've even painted the walls and hung the curtains?

Two years. That’s how long she’s been dating Ekko now. Ekko, who has been in her life since that one fateful summer when she was eleven. Back when she was still filled with childish naivety and had hopes that one day somebody would love her just as she is. 

Of course, then life happened and she got a rude reality check. 

Because Jinx didn't have healthy and committed relationships; Jinx texted hot guys on Tinder and flirted with pretty girls on campus she didn’t give a shit about; Jinx had toxic situationships that were bound to crash and burn, to remind her that no one could ever really love her.

How Ekko's managed to put up with her for so long – enough so that he'd ask her to live with him – she has no idea. But she's never done this before with anyone, never been in a relationship with anyone as long as she has been with Ekko. And a treacherous part of her mind always insists that this can’t last. 

Yet Jinx can’t bring herself to leave before she gets burned either. So she lives in dread, awaiting the day he finally realizes what he's gotten himself into. She's always waiting for the other shoe to drop, for him to decide he's tired of her.

“Alright, ready?” Ekko’s voice startles her out of her thoughts. She whips her head in his direction, his smile shining through the clouded parts of her mind like a ray of sunlight.

“Yeah.” She nods, plopping down on her bean bag and taking a deep, calming breath through her nose. “So, uh, what episode were we on?”

Ekko sets the laptop on the floor between them, frowning at her while Jinx innocently plays with one of her braids and pretends she doesn’t notice.

Unfortunately, she must not be very successful, since he insistently meets her eyes anyway and asks, “What's up with you?”

“Hm?” She raises a curious eyebrow, feigning ignorance. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t know.” He sighs. “You’ve just been acting weird these last couple of days. Are you–

“No.” She doesn’t know what he was trying to ask her, but she has a feeling she doesn’t want to know either. 

Ekko looks unconvinced. In fact, he looks like he wants to argue more; like he wants to fix whatever’s wrong. Typical Ekko, always ready to solve everyone else’s problems even when he already has too much on his plate. And he really has his work cut out for him when it comes to her.

With a sigh, she stands in front of him and rests her hands on his shoulders, using the leverage to guide him to sit on the other bean bag. “Look, I’m fine, okay? Just a little tired after today. Can we relax and worry about the rest tomorrow, please?”

For a moment he simply frowns at her, then his expression softens. He raises her hand off his shoulder, drawing circles on her inner wrist with his thumb, before he raises it to his mouth and places a gentle kiss there. Jinx feels her stomach flip at the soft press of his lips on her skin.

“Alright.” He nods at her abandoned bean bag beside him. “Now sit down, I'm starving.”

Any witty quip she might've come up with dies at the tip of her tongue as she's filled with warmth all over, mutely nodding as she sits back down beside him.

“Hold on,” Ekko says, scrolling down his phone, “I gotta turn on my hotspot. I called the internet provider but they can't hook us up ‘til next week.”

Jinx hums in response, popping open a can of cola for herself and setting another one aside for Ekko. Something nudges at the back of her mind at his words, but she can't quite put her finger on it.

“Okay, got it.” Ekko presses play on the telenovela, the opening song playing while he grabs one of the forks to scarf down a generous bite of the pasta.

Jinx snorts. “Sheesh, didn't know you were starving.” Suddenly a light bulb turns on over her head. “Oh, we should do groceries tomorrow! You know, now that we actually have a fridge.” She makes a face. “After we clean the damn thing, that is.”

Ekko swallows down his food, before responding, “Didn't you say you wanted to relax and forget about all this?”

“Ugh, whatever.” Jinx weakly smacks his arm. “I'm just thinking ahead and all that. Really, you should be proud of me.”

“Oh, definitely.” Ekko sagely nods, before reaching out to flick her nose, eliciting an indignant yelp from Jinx. “Now if you really wanna make me proud, eat some dinner already. I know for a fact you only ate a pop-tart today.”

She scoffs. “Like you’re one to talk, spaceboy. You ate froot loops straight out of the box this morning and you’re gonna school me on healthy eating?”

“...Let’s just watch the damn show and eat.”

It takes Jinx two whole minutes to stop laughing so hard that she can in fact watch the damn show and eat.

-

They’ve been standing in front of the herbs and spices aisle for ten minutes now.

“Your mom text back yet?” Jinx asks, turning to Ekko.

He puts his phone away with a sigh. “Nope.”

“I don’t get it. I thought you knew how to cook.”

“I do!” he insists. “But Scar usually did the groceries so I didn’t have to think about what I should buy. I just grabbed what I needed from the cupboards.”

“Hm.” Jinx squints at him. “So you’re a conman.” 

He rolls his eyes. “I don’t wanna hear that from you, you can’t even cook.”

“But I can bake!”

“Doesn’t count, baking is just chemistry.”

Jinx glares at him for a moment, before giving up and redirecting her attention back to the spice aisle. “Whatever! Let’s just grab some shit and go. We can just come back if we need more spices.” She grabs for salt, pepper, cinnamon, cajun, smoked paprika, garlic powder– whatever she can get her hands on– carelessly tossing a myriad of spice jars into their shopping cart.

“Assuming we can come back,” Ekko says, holding the cart steady so Jinx can climb back inside.

“Oh, not this again.” Jinx groans, rearranging the groceries so she can comfortably sit around them. “You get banned from a grocery store one time–

“Most people don’t get banned from grocery stores at all,” he interrupts, rolling the cart towards the checkout queue.

“Okay, but it was a Piltie store, so that doesn't even count.”

“True,” Ekko concedes, “but I got banned too even though I didn't do shit! I was just collateral damage.”

“That's cause you're my baby,” Jinx sing-songs in the most annoying voice she can muster, leaning forward to grab Ekko's face and planting a wet kiss on his cheek. The motion nearly causes him to steer them into a wall. “If I can't go, you can't either. Ride or die, right?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Ekko grumbles, rolling his eyes, but Jinx can see the way he presses his lips together, suppressing a smile.

They join the check-in queue, Jinx remaining seated in the shopping cart as she and Ekko work in tandem to place all their groceries on the rolling band. A lady in front of them sneaks curious glances at her. They come to an abrupt end when Jinx pointedly turns her head around to stare the woman down. 

Ekko doesn't comment on the exchange, but she can hear him laughing under his breath. In response, she sticks her tongue out at him, before continuing to place their groceries on the rolling band. 

By the time they finish, their things have taken up all the space on the band, and Jinx has a mini heart attack when she's in the middle of packing their fourth grocery bag and she sees the total come in over five hundred dollars. She eyes Ekko incredulously, who just shrugs and takes out his card to pay for their groceries.

“...I didn’t think it’d cost that much,” she mutters when they’re outside, raising her arms so Ekko will lift her out of the shopping cart.

“Well, inflation is a bitch,” he grunts as he picks her up, carefully setting her down on the ground, “and we had to buy pretty much everything under the sun since our place is empty.”

Jinx knows it's irrational, but she still can't help but worry that she's a burden. That this is yet another reason why he'll inevitably tire of her. Her arms remain wrapped around his neck and Jinx uses the physical contact to steady her nerves as she asserts, “I’ll pay next time, okay?”

She nervously bites the inside of her cheek as she waits for Ekko’s response, but he just stares at her nonplussed. Then he chuckles, squeezing her cheek between his fingers and pulling the flesh free from her teeth. The action startles an indignant whine from her.

“I'm your boyfriend, Jinx, I'll take care of you,” he assures. “Don't worry so much about shit like that, okay?”

Her heart feels so warm and full at his declaration that it threatens to burst out of her chest. So Jinx channels the feeling by grabbing his face and peppering it with kisses. When she finally reaches his mouth, she lingers and feels him smiling against her lips in response.

She breaks the kiss, stepping out of his space and assenting, “Okay.”

“Good.” He smiles and ruffles her hair. “Now let’s go,” he says, grabbing half of their bags from the shopping cart, “next train leaves in fifteen.”

Jinx grabs the other two bags and falls into step beside him. Despite what she just said, she can’t help but still feel a deep-seated doubt that compels her to say, “...What if we return some of the spices? It should save us at least some cash.”

Ekko looks at her, affronted. “Hell no, we are not eating unseasoned food like Vi’s Piltie wife.”

The laugh that startles out of Jinx melts away the remainder of her nerves.

-

When they finally make it back to their apartment (which still feels weird but Jinx is warming up to the concept more and more) night has fallen. Neon lights from the street signs outside cast a faint glow over the otherwise dark room. Yeah, they should invest in some good curtains.

Jinx struggles to drag the bags into the kitchen, ungracefully dropping them on the floor. “Oh thank god,” she groans, rubbing at her sore arms. “I’m gonna go…” she trails off, shuffling her way into the living area and collapsing face-first onto one of the bean bags.

She hears Ekko laugh at her dramatics, turning on the lights and locking the door before making his way over to crash down beside her. 

“Hi,” he says.

She turns her head to look at him. He's smiling at her, compelling her to smile back. “Hi.” 

His hand inches towards her face and Jinx feels his thumb brush against her forehead, wiping a bead of sweat away. “You should take a shower.” 

“With you?” she jokes, with an exaggerated wiggle of her eyebrows.

“No, not with me.” He huffs an amused breath, leaning out of her space to get up. He rises with a tired groan, pressing a hand to the back of his neck to rub at the soreness, before giving her a reassuring smile. “I’m serious, go ahead. I’ll unpack the groceries in the meantime.” 

“Well, then I’m serious too,” Jinx decides, pushing herself up to stand beside him. “We’re gonna unpack this mess together, and then we’ll take a shower. Also together.” She shoots him a cheeky grin. “It’ll lower our water bill.”

“Oh, that's why?”  Ekko smirks, raising an eyebrow at her. “You don’t have some ulterior motive?”

“No!” Jinx insists, faux-offended. “Why? What were you thinking about, you pervert?”

“Whatever,” Ekko laughs, grabbing one of the bags and putting it atop the counter. “Come on then, let's get this over with so we can keep that water bill low.”

She happily joins him in the kitchen and they work in comfortable silence as they unpack everything, filling up the previously empty cabinets. Jinx allows hope to fill her heart along with them; allows herself to finally believe that this can last and their home will only become fuller and fuller with their shared memories. 

After all, they've already made it this far. Who's to say they can't do this for the rest of their lives?

“Hey, what if we pick up some paint tomorrow?” Jinx says, passing Ekko a bag of sugar so he can put it in the cupboard. “We could spruce up those boring walls a little.”

Ekko turns to look at her, taking the bag from her. “Oh, good thinking– 

Darkness falls over the room, putting an abrupt stop to Ekko’s words.

…She really can’t have shit, huh?

“What the hell?” she hears him say while her eyes struggle to adjust to the sudden darkness. Then a bright light shines in front of her. Ekko turned on his phone’s flashlight.

Jinx blinks nonplussed. “Did…Did our power just go out?”

“Looks like it.” Ekko turns to look out the window, where the neon lights still shine bright. “And it’s just us.”

“That can’t be right.” Jinx frowns, that sense of foreboding creeping up on her again. “I’m gonna go check our meters.”

Ekko nods in agreement, swiping down his phone. The bag of sugar lies forgotten next to him. “Okay, I’m calling the energy provider in the meantime.”

She tries to ignore the uneasy feeling that grows in her gut as she reaches for her phone, turning on the flashlight before making her way to their supply closet. Upon opening the door, a cloud of dust bursts out of the supply closet, nearly sending her into a coughing fit. Jinx ignores it, simply swiping away any cobwebs so she can step inside and look at their meters.

Shit. There are no digits on it. In a panic, Jinx flips various buttons up and down to see if anything will happen. However, the apartment remains dark and it steadily gets colder because their gas no longer works either.

Eventually– when she tires of attempting to magically turn their electricity back on while being held hostage by her own panic– Jinx gives up. She tries in vain to breathe out her nerves as she steps back into the living room. Ekko has wrapped up his call and is frowning at her.

“Jinx,” he starts, rubbing at his temples. She thinks she might throw up. “I thought you called the energy company last week?”

“I did!” she insists. Didn't she? Oh no. The thought that’d been locked into a corner of her mind rushes to the forefront, slamming into her like a train. She didn't. 

“If you did, I'm pretty sure we’d have electricity right now.” Ekko sighs, exasperated. “I just called them and they say you never called back when they left a message that they’d cut off our power.”

“I…” She fucked up. She always fucks up. 

“Did you really forget? Or…or is this why you’ve been acting weird? Do you actually not–

“I did forget!” she shrieks, her breath becoming shorter and shorter. “I always ruin things, so I messed up again. What else is new?” The cruel laugh that escapes her throat gets smothered by an ugly sob. “And– And I know you hate me. I know you’re tired of me. Just like everyone else. I…” she trails off, her throat closing up and preventing her from continuing. 

The beat of her heart drums so loudly in her ears that it drowns out everything else. She can’t even hear how Ekko must be berating her, now that he’s finally had enough of her. His voice is strangely far away. Like her head has been dunked underwater.

Tears and a lack of oxygen blur her vision. But Jinx stubbornly holds her breath anyway, tightly pressing her lips together so she doesn’t break down right here and now.

“Hey! Jinx! Look at me!” 

She flinches when she feels something touch her. Ekko. His hands on her arms. But his touch feels vice-like, suffocating her. She can’t do this right now. She pulls away from him as if burned, her stumbling steps turning into a full run. 

Jinx wants to crawl out of her skin. 

She has to get away from this. 

Away from another person who hates her guts. 

Another relationship she’s ruined.

She rushes into the bathroom, frantically slamming the door behind her and fumbling with the lock. Her breath comes out shallow and shaky, leaving her so light-headed that she ends up sliding down the floor. 

Her head is pounding. Or is it Ekko pounding on the door? She can’t tell the difference anymore. She covers her ears with her hands, nails digging into her scalp as she desperately tries to drown everything out. She's squeezing her eyes shut so hard it forces the tears to slide down her face.

It’s her fault. 

Always her fault. 

She’s just a jinx, after all. 

And now Ekko hates her, just like everyone else.

-

When she finally gathers the nerve to open her eyes everything is agonizingly quiet. She has no idea how much time has passed as she slowly picks herself up from the ground, her body sore and cold from how long she’s sat there.

Her reflection in the bathroom mirror is a mess, her eyes swollen, streaks of mascara running down her cheeks. She would’ve laughed at the fact that she resembles a raccoon if she didn’t still feel like crawling out of her skin.

With shaky hands she opens the medicine cabinet, unscrews the cap on her medication, and swallows the pill dry. The ensuing silence has her slamming the cabinet shut with more force than necessary. 

Ekko must be sleeping already, assuming he’s still there. She’s too afraid to find out; too afraid to leave this bathroom and face the inevitable end of their relationship. 

Instead, she kicks off her shoes and then strips off the rest of her clothes. They lie abandoned on the floor as Jinx steps into the bath and turns on the water.

The shower is frightfully cold, but Jinx is grateful for it. This is what she deserves, after all. She's shaking all over and her teeth are clattering, but at least her tears blend right in with the pour of water raining down on her skin.

Her fingers are pruning by the time she finally turns off the faucet. The iciness of the water no longer affects her, instead she just feels numb to the core. Water drips off her and onto the floor, as she steps out of the tub, leaving a wet trail in her wake when she finally gathers the courage to unlock the bathroom door and push it open.

In the dead of the night, its creaky hinges are like nails on a chalkboard. But the silence that follows is far more painful. He left. Of course he did. What did Jinx expect? She ruined this just like she ruined everything in her life. Why did he even ask her to move in with him? So he’d finally have a fucking excuse to leave her?

She makes her way to the bedroom and finds he’s not there either. One last bit of hope, that she didn’t realize she still possessed, shatters at the realization; at the confirmation that he really did leave her.

She doesn’t even have the energy to sob anymore. Her tears just quietly slide down her face as she shuffles into the room and scavenges through the dressing drawer containing Ekko’s clothes until she finds his favorite hoodie.

She’s tempted to set the thing on fire; to cut it into pieces and throw it into the trash. But honestly? She misses him. And it smells so much like him. So instead she just pulls it over her head and crawls into bed. 

Jinx firmly wraps the blanket around herself to fight off the chill, but it's little use. The duvet is a poor substitute for the warmth Ekko always radiates when he's wrapped up around her. The fact that she’s still wet from her shower isn’t helping matters either.

It takes her several hours to stop crying. Even her tear ducts end up getting exhausted. Though she inevitably passes out, it's a fitful sleep. Jinx can hardly remember the last time she slept alone, but she'll have to learn how to get used to it again.

-

To put it plainly: Jinx wakes up feeling like shit. Her head is killing her, her skin is dry, and her hair is a damp, tangled mess. 

And worst of all, Ekko isn’t lying beside her. 

She reaches for his pillow, squeezing it to her chest and breathing in his smell. Maybe if she keeps lying here, it’ll turn out that none of this is real. It was all just a nightmare and Ekko will be in the kitchen. He’ll be eating those stupid fucking froot loops as fast as he can before he has to run to catch his train to work. 

She spends several more minutes in bed, before deciding to get up and rip off the bandaid. He’s gone. Maybe instead of staying here and drowning in her misery, she’d be better off if she just left too. 

Even if the thought makes her want to cry all over again.

Her head is spinning when she gets out of bed, but she forces herself to shuffle to the dresser anyway and pulls out a pair of sweats and socks, quietly slipping them on before leaving the room. 

She stumbles into the living room. Her heart hurts being in here without Ekko. The unhung curtains, the TV still sealed in bubble wrap, the posters they securely tucked away– All of it for nothing. The home they were supposed to share would be emptied before they could even fill it.

She pauses when her foot bumps into something hard on the floor and looks down to see her phone. Jinx must’ve dropped it last night without noticing. With a frown, she picks it up, tapping the screen and cringing when she sees her battery at fourteen percent.

Then she sees her notifications: Seven missed calls, four voicemails, and six unread messages. All from Ekko. 

Jinx drops her phone as if burned. It clatters on the floor, but she can’t bring herself to pick it up when she feels panic overtaking her again. She doesn’t want to know what he has to say. But at the same time, she’s dying to find out. 

The dilemma has her pacing the room for ten minutes before she groans and snatches her stupid phone off the floor again. With her heart in her throat, Jinx opens the messages.

BEST BOY ❣️ Hey I get that you don't wanna talk to me rn so imma stay with my folks for now I'm really sorry abt what happened can we talk about it? Just tell me if you want me to come back or nah Please I love you

Jinx can only blink as she reads his messages. Then she makes herself stop so she doesn’t tear up again. She moves to sit back on the bean bag and opens the first voicemail.

“Hey.” Her heart squeezes at the sound of Ekko’s voice. It’s barely been half a day, yet somehow she feels like she hasn’t heard him talk to her in an eternity. 

“I’m, uh, really sorry for hurting you. Oh. And I emptied the fridge cause, you know, no power and all that…And I just-” He abruptly stops, and all Jinx hears is a loud sigh. “Man, I suck at doing these things over the phone. Could we talk about it? In person? I’ll, uh, give you some space, but please let me know if you’re okay, at least.”

The other voicemails echo similar sentiments. Jinx listens to them over and over again, despite the way her heart aches. 

He sounds so distraught. Stumbling over his words and his voice cracking in a way that’s so uncharacteristic of him. Just when she thought she had no tears left to cry, more fall from her eyes as she listens to Ekko speak. 

Jinx aggressively wipes her tears away with her sleeve and assesses their apartment again through a different lens. 

Maybe…maybe she can still try and fix things. She might not succeed but, fuck it, she has nothing left to lose at this point. At the very least– even if her relationship with Ekko is doomed, even if he’s already realized he’s better off without her– maybe she can try to make this less bad for him. Because he always made things better for her.

She picks up her phone, reopens the messages Ekko left her, and begins typing. And deleting her words. And typing again. And deleting her words again. The cycle only ends when her phone interrupts it by notifying her that her battery level is at ten percent.

…Alright, she should seriously wrap this up. She types out four simple words, then locks her phone and gets ready to go run some errands.

You come over at 6

-

A drop of paint falls to the newspaper on the floor when Jinx lifts the paint roller too quickly in her excitement to finish the job. The sun is already beginning to set, casting deep shadows and a warm orange glow over the room, but Jinx is so close to the finish line that she refuses to quit now.

She’s so caught up in the job, that the sound of a lock turning has her freezing on the spot and staring at the unmoving paint roller on the wall, before she forces herself to keep rolling, not looking in the direction of the front door.

Up and down. Up and down. She focuses on the motions of her paint roller; on the hyper-pop music blaring from her phone; on anything but the sound of Ekko's nearing footsteps.

“You started painting?” 

She still can't help but take a sharp breath when she realizes how close his voice sounds, looking over her shoulder to see him standing behind her.

He looks as groggy as she feels, with deep eyebags set under his eyes and frown lines marring his forehead as if they’re permanently etched on his face.

“You look like shit,” she blurts out.

He lets out an incredulous laugh. It gets rid of those frown lines on his forehead like a tidal wave washing away footsteps in the sand. “You always know just what to say.”

Jinx lets out a weak chuckle. It really does suck how even at a time like this, talking to Ekko is as easy as breathing.

“So,” he continues, while Jinx sets aside the paint roller and turns off the music playing from her phone, “black, huh?”

She looks back at the wall she just finished painting. “Yeah, I thought…” she nervously picks at her cuticles, “I just thought it'd be cool to spray paint art on it after.”

“Great minds, huh?” Ekko awkwardly chuckles.

Confused, she turns to see what he means and realizes he's holding a bag full of spray paint in one hand, and a bucket of white paint in the other.

“Oh.” Now it’s her turn to feel awkward. “Yeah, I guess they do.” 

She waits for him to respond, but Ekko looks as lost as she feels, his eyes nervously flickering between the candles decorating the apartment and her. 

Seeing him like that would normally make her feel more anxious, but at this point, Jinx has already made peace with the fact they won���t be able to salvage this. So fine, guess she’ll be the one who takes the plunge.

“I called the energy provider too.” She sighs, pacing around the room. “They can hook up the power again in two days. So I figured candles are better than nothing for now.”

She stops, closing her eyes to focus on forcing her next words from her mouth. “And I went over to Vi's place. She, uh,” she's still picking at her cuticles and it's starting to hurt, but the pain is the only thing grounding her, “she said I can stay at her place. I already packed my things, so you don't have to worry about me overstaying my welcome and stuff.”

“Wait. What?!”

Her eyes widen at the sudden outburst. She whips her head in Ekko's direction, nearly stumbling backward when she sees how close he got to her. 

But what really throws her off is the expression on his face. Ekko looks…devastated. But this is what he wanted, isn't it? And she was even gracious enough about the whole thing to give him an easy way out. 

He reaches out a hand as if to touch her, but suddenly falters mid-air.

“Why–” His voice cracks, forcing him to clear his throat. “I thought you asked me to come here so we could talk. You know, and figure this thing out.”

She grinds her jaw in frustration. Did she mess up again? She spent the whole day trying to make things right, to get out of his hair with as little mess as possible. But he still looks upset with her, she still fucked this up somehow.

“Jinx,” Ekko nervously looks down at the floor before he continues, “do you…Do you wanna break up with me?”

Wait.

What?

She gapes at him. Before she can ask how in the hell he reached that conclusion, he continues, the words spilling from his mouth, as if her suggestion broke some invisible dam.

“You've been acting off the whole week. And every time I tried to talk about it, you'd just shut me down. And I thought, I don't know, maybe I'm just overthinking. Maybe I should just let it go, but I couldn’t. ‘Cause the only other conclusion I could reach is that maybe you didn’t wanna live with me. That I’m moving too fast and let it ruin this thing we got going.”

Her entire world tilts off its axis at his confession. Flustered, Jinx can only say, “But aren’t you mad at me? You hate me.”

“What? No! Never.” He aggressively scratches the back of his head. “I did lose my cool. And I’m so fucking sorry about that…but, Jinx, me getting mad at you will never mean that I hate you. If anything, I was scared you hated me now.”

Oh. She’s so stupid. This entire time, she was so caught up in her head, so damn worried that Ekko’s behavior meant that he regretted this decision, that it never once occurred to her that he might feel that way too.

She quietly gasps when she feels his hand touch hers, his tentative hold on it preventing her from picking at her cuticles anymore. 

“Jinx…” he quietly starts again, “I think it’s kinda inevitable that we’re gonna get mad at each other sometimes. Normal, even. But that doesn’t mean I'll stop loving you. 

“We should have the comfort of knowing that despite pissing each other off sometimes, the love will stay. And if I do or say something that makes you feel like it won’t…then please just tell me.”

His words make her choke up, but she does her best to swallow it down as she finally gathers the nerve to ask the question that has been haunting her this entire time, “But aren't you tired of me?” 

Ekko opens his mouth to respond, but Jinx continues before he can get any rebuttal in.

“And do you still love me?” Her voice is so small, it makes the question even more embarrassing than it already is. 

Because she knows she’s being annoying and a burden, but she can’t stop the words from spilling out anymore, the dam breaking at the force of her insecurities. 

“Sometimes, I just can’t tell,” she continues. “And then yesterday I was here all alone. And then I woke up this morning and thought what if tomorrow I’m alone too? What if I have to wake up without you every day now? What if I pissed you off one too many times, did too much stupid shit and–”

And she’s so overwhelmed by her own feelings, so emotionally exhausted, that she falls to the floor, too tired to hold up her own weight. She clutches onto Ekko’s hand like a lifeline, who grips hers back tightly before sitting down in front of her.

“Yes, I love you, Jinx.” He says it with such confidence, with so much conviction that, for a moment, it completely halts her train of thought. “I loved you yesterday and I’ll love you tomorrow.”

He reaches forward with his other hand, gingerly brushing his thumb across her cheekbone and it’s only then Jinx realizes that she’s crying again. 

“And I’ll tell you as many times as you need to hear it, okay?” he assures, and the only thing Jinx can do is fervently nod, clumsily crawling into his space and burying her head in the crook of his shoulder as she quietly sobs. 

“In fact,” he holds securely despite her tremors, his touch grounding, “I’ll tell you so often you’ll probably get annoyed. Let’s start with five times by breakfast. Then maybe another ten by lunch.”

An ugly sound leaves her at his declaration, something between a laugh and a sob. Even at a moment like this, he’s so stupid. And she loves him so much for it. So much so that sometimes she fears her heart might actually beat so fast it’ll break out of her chest and kill her.

“Me too,” she cries. “Me too. I love you so much. And I’m sorry.” Those are the only words she manages to get out before she breaks down in his arms.

When she’s finally calmed down enough to steady her breathing, and her sobs have waned into quiet sniffles, she looks up at him and says, “You know this will never get easier, right? That I'm always gonna be like this.”

“I know.” He brushes the remaining tears off her face, his own eyes shining with unshed tears as well. “I don't want easier. And I’m not going anywhere.” She opens her mouth to retort, but he beats her to the punch, adding on, “Yes, even when you piss me the fuck off.”

She snorts, resting her head on his shoulder again while he brushes her hair. She feels so much lighter after everything that’s been weighing her down these last few days. Jinx closes her eyes and breathes in his scent, allowing it to steady her after the emotional whiplash she’s endured.

 “...Are you wearing my hoodie?” Ekko suddenly asks, breaking the comfortable silence they were sitting in.

“Well.” Jinx awkwardly clears her throat. “Yeah. And I’m keeping it too.”

At her declaration, he throws his head back and laughs, the vibrations of it traveling from his body through hers. It’s a sound so loud and bright that it leaves Jinx in awe. “You laughed…”

The mirth dancing in his eyes softens into something sweeter as he says, “Yeah, 'cause you make me happy.”

Her heart feels like it’s bursting at the seams. She grabs both his cheeks and kisses him, using the contact of their lips as a conduit to express everything she feels to him. Her love for him is simply too overwhelming to ever put into words. 

When she finally breaks the kiss, she nods to the wall, wet paint still drying. “Can we finish it together? We…we should both paint on it, I think.” He nods, picking himself up off the floor and holding a hand out to help her up. 

“Bet my shit will look cooler than yours,” he says, picking up a bottle of spray paint and tossing it at her.

She laughs incredulously, popping the lid off the can and shaking it. “In your dreams, mister!”

By the time they finish, neither of them can agree on who actually had the best graffiti (but Jinx knows it’s her). A day later, they find out that they accidentally broke their lease agreement with all the graffiti, so they’d have to paint over it anyway. 

Jinx can’t really bring herself to worry about it though, not when they’re both so happy.

[soloroomies]

lifemate (Chapter 6/ Sakusa x f!reader)

summary: the night of your wedding and the month after word count. 2.5k cw. marriage pact au, fluff, suggestive a/n. if you want to be added to the taglist, please just send me ask!♡ and... i love cutie patootie kiyoomi •ᴗ• Masterlist

Your wedding has finally come to an end. The guests are saying their goodbyes to you and Kiyoomi. Most of the wedding guests are family and friends, although there are also some of your coworkers and Kiyoomi's teammates from MSBY and the national volleyball team. The only ones staying at the hotel are you, Kiyoomi, and both of your parents.

Before heading home, Komori, who also served as Kiyoomi’s groomsman, comes over to bid farewell. He raises both hands and exclaims, “You guys!” Then, he half-whispers, “I’m so happy you both decided to do this. Just go with the flow, eventually, everything will fall into place.” You furrow your brows, not quite understanding his words. “What??” you ask. But he brushes you off, “Anyway! Does this mean our meetups will be me third wheeling you both?!” You roll your eyes at this. Komori grins, “I’ll just invite my wife along!” Kiyoomi responds, “Of course, you can do that.” Komori cheers, “Woohoo!” You exchange glances with Kiyoomi and mouth to him, “I think he’s drunk.” Kiyoomi scoffs at that.

Next, Tami comes up to you both, hugging you and offering her congratulations. “You look so beautiful, I’m fucking crying, you know?!” she says. You laugh and thank her. She then turns to Kiyoomi, “Treat her right, okay?” emphasizing the word ‘treat’ while winking. You groan, “Stop, will you?!” She chuckles and hands you what seems to be a goody bag. As you observe it, you realize it’s a gift. You hug her once more. Tami adds, “Please open it and give me an honest review!” You squint your eyes at her words but then thank her again before she leaves.

After saying goodbye to a few more guests, the last ones are your bridesmaids. You thank them profusely and the four of you share a group hug before they finally leave. Now, it’s just you, Kiyoomi, and your parents.

Kiyoomi’s mother approaches you. “Take a good rest, okay? Both of you.” she smiles and squeezes Kiyoomi’s hand. Then, she turns to you and gently caresses the side of your head. “Okay?” she asks again. Kiyoomi nods. You smile reassuringly and answer, “Okay.” You look behind his mom and notice that both of your parents and Kiyoomi’s father are still sitting at the dinner table, waving their hands. You take Kiyoomi’s hand and approach them to excuse yourselves, which they nod enthusiastically. 

You and Kiyoomi will have a room together. For obvious reason. So, you head to your room together, carrying the wedding gifts you received. 

You step inside your hotel room, a spacious suite with a large living room. Your suitcases are already there. The living room is decorated with soft, warm lighting from the lamps, and rose petals are scattered around, giving it a romantic ambiance. You slip out of your heels and groan, feeling the relief in your feet. Kiyoomi follows behind you.

As you enter the room, you notice the rose petals on the bed and giggle. Kiyoomi looks at you quizzically. “What?” he asks. 

“Nothing. This is just so cute,” you reply, smiling at him.

He hesitates before saying, “You can take the room. I’ll just sleep on the couch.”

You respond quickly, “Don’t be ridiculous!” You don’t want to make him sleep on the couch. There’s no harm in sleeping together on the bed. Unless… is it a problem for him? Leaning on the door, you ask, “Omi, is there a problem? The couch is too small for you. It’s better if I’m the one who sleeps there.”

Kiyoomi looks uncomfortable. “Please don’t. It’s just…” He seems hesitant, so you wait for him to continue. “I just never share a bed with anyone.”

You raise your eyebrows in surprise. “What? I thought you used to have sleepovers with Komori?”

Kiyoomi scratches his head, looking slightly embarrassed. “Uh, he kinda just sleeps in the other room.”

Okay. So, he really values his personal space. You sigh. “Okay, I’ll take the couch then.”

Kiyoomi shakes his head. “No. Please. I’ll take it.”

You insist, “Omi, seriously, look at that couch. It’s small. There’s no way you could sleep comfortably there!” 

The two of you argue for a few minutes until Kiyoomi finally sighs in resignation. “Okay. Let’s just sleep on the bed.”

You’re silent for a moment, not wanting to overstep his boundaries. “Omi, I don’t know. I don’t want to force you to do something you’re not comfortable with.”

Kiyoomi gently takes your hand. “No, please. Let’s just sleep on the bed.”  His touch is reassuring, and you both walk inside the room. 

After that, you start to remove your makeup and change into your pajamas—a silky short-sleeve button-up and matching shorts. You wait your turn to use the bathroom to brush your teeth, wash your face, and apply skincare. A few moments later, Kiyoomi is done. Your eyes widen when you see him shirtless, wearing only his black shorts for sleep. Damn, his body is really the embodiment of years playing volleyball. You quickly look away, not wanting him to catch you ogling. 

“Oh. You’re done,” you say, your voice cracking slightly, making you want to slap your face.

“Yeah,” he answers.

When you come out of the bathroom, you thank God to see that he has put on a shirt. Before sleeping, you suggest opening the wedding gifts together in the living room, and he agrees. Most of the wedding gifts are small and cute home decor items, like candles and picture frames. You stack the gifts on the table, then glance at Kiyoomi, who is reading a note from one of the gifts with furrowed brows. 

You take a look at the gift and are surprised to see a white piece of lacy lingerie. Quickly snatching the box from his lap, you notice the bag. Of course, it’s Tami’s gift. Kiyoomi looks at you with a confused expression. 

“Can I see the note?” you ask.

He hands you the note obediently. It reads, ‘have fun strutting your stuff in this lingerie! pls give me a review of how he reacts!! xoxo’

You cover your face, feeling your cheeks heat up. “I’m sorry. She’s always like that.”

Kiyoomi just stares at you. Shit. His lack of response leaves you flustered and unsure of what to say next.

After that embarassing moment, you finish unpacking the last box and head to the bed. As you lay down and take your side of the bed, you feel a tad bit awkward, never having been in this position with him before. You glance at Kiyoomi, who is lying on his back with both hands on his stomach, staring at the ceiling. Your eyes catch the glint of the wedding ring on his finger, reminding you of a question you've been meaning to ask.

"Hey," you say softly.

He turns his head towards you. "Hm?"

"I've been wondering, when did you buy the ring?"

"Huh?" he responds, sounding slightly confused.

"The wedding ring that you gave me when we were planning this last month."

"Oh. I think around New Year's," he replies.

"Like, exactly on the 1st of January?" you ask, curious.

He hums in confirmation.

"Don’t tell me you bought it as soon as the reminder you set appeared?" you laugh incredulously.

"I did, actually," he admits.

You laugh, "You’re really something else."

"What if I’d been dating someone else?" you tease him.

"No, you weren’t," he says with certainty.

"What? Don’t be so sure! You don’t know!" you start to playfully kick him, annoyed at his confidence.

"I do know for sure. I asked Komori. That’s when I told him about our plan," he reveals.

You recall Komori inquiring about your love life when Kiyoomi wasn't around. You chuckle at his response and glance at the ring on his finger. "Can I see that?"

He notices you looking at his ring and moves closer, extending his hand to you. You compare his ring with yours, seeing how perfectly they match.

"These rings are beautiful," you say, admiring the way they catch the moonlight streaming in through the open curtains.

"You know, I kinda miss your mom. It’s been a while since we saw each other," you mention, turning your head to him and catching him already looking at you.

"I know, she always asks about you. She really likes you," Kiyoomi replies.

"And you never told me that she asks about me." You squint your eyes at him playfully.

He actually smiles, "Yeah, sorry about that."

After a bit more conversation, you both start to feel sleepy. You roll onto your respective sides of the bed, having some distance in between. Only to find both of you sleeping so close to each other in the morning. 

It’s been about a month since your marriage, and all of your belongings have been moved to Kiyoomi's apartment. You have a room for yourself, bigger than your previous one. Apart from moving out, one of the striking changes you feel is how people react to you. The news of your marriage has spread, and you can see it on social media. Not fond of being the center of attention, you made your Instagram private, avoiding unknown comments on your posts. At work, people from different divisions also try to peek into your room, whisper as you pass by, or stare at you for too long in the elevator. It’s a bit unsettling, but you know it’ll pass.

Despite the external commotion, adjusting to life with Kiyoomi has been pleasant. Living with him feels like having the best roommate you could ask for, making you sometimes forget that you're actually married to him. Every morning, you wake up around the same time. His apartment has two bathrooms, so there’s never a problem there. True to his nature, Kiyoomi is exceptionally clean and diligent in keeping the apartment tidy. While you’re not messy, you’re definitely not as meticulous as he is. His cleaning skills are a welcomed part of the chore division.

You take on most of the cooking, though not all the time. Occasionally, you both decide to order takeout. The idea of you cooking is mostly because you want healthier food consumed for both of you. You always ask about his diet plan and adjust the meals accordingly, constantly seeking his honest feedback. So far, there have been no complaints; he finishes everything on his plate.

Sundays are your designated grocery shopping day for the month. The arrangement for who pays for groceries has been completely ignored by Kiyoomi. Despite your attempts to take turns paying, he insists on covering the cost, leading to arguments at the cashier if you don't back down.

You’ve also let go of all your side jobs, giving you more free time than you’ve ever had. Kiyoomi, on the other hand, has been busy with his schedule. The volleyball season is nearing, and he’s been practicing a lot and also doing a few interviews with his team.

Tonight is Friday night, and you’re sitting in the living room, reading a novel recommended by a friend but haven’t read it until now because you used to be so hectic with work. Dinner is already prepared, and you’re feeling relaxed when you hear the apartment door open, signaling Kiyoomi's return.

"Hey," you greet him with a smile as he walks in.

"Hey," he replies hoarsely. Upon closer inspection, you notice that he looks paler than usual, his cheeks are flushed, and he seems more exhausted than ever. You immediately get up and approach him as he heads to the kitchen to wash his hands.

"Are you okay?" you ask with concern.

"I'm fine, just a bit of a cough," he replies, but you observe his forehead glistening with sweat despite the chill in the room. Instinctively, you press your hand to his cheek, making his eyes widen.

"No, you’re not. You’re burning, Omi," you say firmly.

"I can’t be sick; tomorrow is a practice match," he frowns, looking frustrated with himself.

"But you can’t be playing like this," you counter. "Let's get you more comfortable."

You guide him to the couch, feeling the heat radiating from his body. Heading back to the kitchen, you prepare some tea with honey and lemon, knowing the soothing warmth always helps when you are sick. While the kettle boils, you grab a bottle of water and bring it to him. "You need to stay hydrated," you reminded him gently, helping him take a few sips. Back in the kitchen, you scoop the food you made earlier. Luckily, you made fish soup. It will feel nice for his sore throat.

Returning with the tea and a couple of fever-reducing tablets, you instruct, "Here, drink this and take these." He complies, too tired to argue, and you watch as he slowly sips the warm liquid, the steam rising to soothe his congested sinuses. 

You sit beside him, holding his hand and gently rubbing circles on his skin with your thumb. "Please, just rest, okay? If you’re lucky, you could be healthy by Monday. But if you keep forcing yourself, this could get worse." He just stares weakly at you, saying nothing.

As the night wears on, you take him to his room. Realizing you’ve never been inside his room before, you take in the tidy, mostly plain decor with black as the dominant color and a few brown accents. Volleyball gear is organized in the corner, and his desk holds pictures of his winning moments in matches, including a photo of you, him, and Komori at your high school graduation. You smile at the memory.

You make sure the blankets are adjusted properly as he mumbles, "I need to get better," frustration clear in his voice.

"You'll get there. Just rest now. Your body needs time to heal," you reassure him.

He mumbles something you can’t quite hear, so you ask, "Hm?"

"I want to practice," he repeats. You giggle at his stubbornness, noting that he’s more talkative than usual, likely due to the fever. He continues, "I want to practice and train, paying attention and succeeding until the day I play my last game."

You realize how dedicated Kiyoomi is to his work, which explains why he is one of the best volleyball players in the country. You’ve always admired his dedication and felt proud of his progress since the day you met him. Feeling a surge of warm emotion, you take his hand and gently run your fingers through his hair.

"Omi, you’ll get better. Accidents happen no matter how well you prepare; there’ll always be something unexpected," you say softly. He stares at you weakly as you continue, "Please, just rest for now. Let me take care of you, and let’s hope the fever will subside soon."

He closes his eyes as you run your hand through his hair. Then, he squeezes your hand and says, "Okay."

"Okay," you echo, smiling at him. "I’m always so proud of you, Omi," you add, your voice filled with sincerity. You both hold hands and stare at each other for a while. Until you say, "I’ll let you sleep. I put the water here." You get up, pressing your hand one last time to his forehead to check his fever. He nods at you in acknowledgment.

In the morning after you wake up, the first thing you do is check on him. Tiptoeing into his room, you feel relieved and glad to see that his fever has started to subside, and his breathing seems more relaxed.

Taglist: @wolffmaiden @yunskook

[gabessquishytum]

Human au/Immortal throuple idea!

Hob and Dream are best friends but Hob has a secret. He has been in love with Dream his whole life. But as far as he knows, Dream is only interested in women.

In fact, when Hob meets Calliope in a college course, develops a crush and invites her out for drinks, he sees the exact moment Dream falls in love with her. He watches it happen and feels his heart break again. Because Calliope is amazing. hob already knows it. But what can he offer either of them?

So Hob encourages Dream and Calliope to date, and pretends it’s fine. Dream has had flings before but this time, Hob knows it is serious. Still he hangs out with them all the time. More than he should, but Hob can’t ever turn them down when they invite him out. Their other friends joke about Hob being their constant third wheel.

After a year, Dream proposes and Hob helps throw them an engagement party. And Dream and Calliope both jokingly fight over who gets Hob as their best man. They share.

But Hob is at his limit. He had tried to quiet his heart but it’s just too painful to be so in love. And as long as he is in their lives, he knows he will never get over them. So quietly, Hob puts in an application for a grad program in the states, as far away as he can get. He doesn’t have the heart to tell them, not when they’re so excited for their future. He doesn’t want to ruin their happiness.

The day of the wedding, hob is heartbroken but so happy to see them happy. He means every word of his speech, where he tells the crowd how well matched they are, and how they are his best friends. He hugs them goodbye. Even if they don’t know it’s goodbye forever, he tries to memorize those last moments. And then as Dream and Calliope depart for their honeymoon in Greece, Hob shuts the door in his packed up apartment and hops on a plane.

Dream and Calliope don’t hear from Hob on their trip—but they assume he wants to give him space. But when they get back, they find a letter from Hob waiting. Hob tells them he has loved Dream for years but he knows his feelings aren’t returned. He tells them that he is not angry and that he knows Calliope will make Dream so happy. He admits that he loves Calliope too. He tells them to take care of each other but that he needs to move on and he is sorry but this is the only way he could think to do it. If he saw them he knows they would have been able to talk him out of it.

Dream falls to pieces. He calls Hob over and over but Hob has changed his number. He has deleted his social media. Hob doesn’t want to be found. Calliope is stunned by her own heartbreak. And she’s never seen Dream like this.

Their first year of marriage is rocky. Without Hob’s joyfulness Dream drags Calliope into depressive spirals. Without his gentleness, they grate on each other’s nerves. They realize how much Hob had been the glue that helped them work. Their sex feels more like fighting for dominance than making love. Calliope is sure Dream resents her for Hob’s leaving. And sometimes he spits at her that she is right, he does. It’s clear something is missing. Now they realize not only have they lost Hob, they’re on the verge of losing each other.

Calliope, because she is a queen, finally sits Dream down to talk about Hob. He tends to fly into a rage or collapse into sadness at the mention of Hob’s name these days. But she makes him talk to her about him. About their friendship. And slowly they realize that not only did they depend on Hob, but they might have been in love with him too.

So there is only one thing to do. They have to track Hob down and convince him to give them a chance. But how will they find him when he is determined not to be found? And if they find him, what if he has already moved on?

Oh I love it!!! 3 dumbasses is the only thing better than 2 dumbasses.

I'm imagining that they rally all their friends and family to try and track Hob down. Calliope's sisters put out feelers around Europe, Death contacts all of her colleagues in the medical field, and Delirium has the amazing idea to get in touch with their brother Destruction (now know as Ollie) who also disappeared at one point and knows the best places to go to track Hob down. With a plan of action and hope in their hearts, Dream and Calliope's relationship actually settles into something more like it used to be. They feel united and they finally start to comfort each other instead of fighting.

Ollie's work pays off and he tracks Hob down studying for his PhD and living in the middle of bumfuck, nowhere. He's changed his name and even altered his appearance slightly - long hair tied back in a ponytail, beard sleek and neat around his jaw. Ollie sends the information to Dream and he and Calliope are on the first flight out to the nearest airport.

Hob is... not mad that they tracked him down. He's fucking lonely and he misses his two best friends, and he's not sure if he made the right decision. Never getting to see them hurts even more than seeing them in love. When they show up on the doorstep on his trailer he's so relieved he could cry.

Calliope smacks him on the chest, hard enough to make him stumble, and she says a lot of thing that mainly boil down to "I'm so mad that you didn't even give us a CHANCE to love you." And Dream is all teary eyes and trembling lips, holding onto Hob’s sleeve like he's going to just disappear into thin air. Eventually they all go inside, and Hob makes tea. Just like he always used to.

Dream and Calliope get on either side of Hob and twine themselves around him like vines on a trellis. They need his support and strength to allow them to grow. And they feel awful that they never even realised just how important he was. He should have been an equal partner in their relationship from the very beginning. And now they have him back, they're both practically trembling with want. They need to show him that they want him to come back and be with them always!

Meanwhile Hob is just trying to work out if this is just a wonderful dream come true... or if his two loves are really crowding him up against the wall and kissing every inch of him they can reach?!

[astra-aeterna]

aced it - chapter 14

something about you felt like fate

the final chapter. oh my god. this has been my first long-fic for the acotar fandom and i can't thank you all enough for the support and love you've shown me and this fic. i love you all!!!

catch a snippet under the cut

"Ugh," Cass groaned softly. He was driving the RV while everyone else slept — save for Feyre, whose eyes didn't seem to want to close.

"What's up?" she muttered, crawling into the empty passenger seat. If she wasn't going to sleep, she might as well keep him company.

He smiled softly at her. "Just thinking about how we have to go back to classes in two days. But life isn't all road trips, Feyre."

"Sure isn't," Feyre sighed wistfully. The week they'd spent driving around Prythian had been perfect, laughing and bickering and teasing each other as they drove to random destinations and explored nature preserves and wooded walking paths and whatever small towns they came across. It had been the perfect escape from the stress of the real world, but she'd have to return to the pressure cooker of the end of her third year all too soon.

At least she and Rhys were in it together. And together for real.

Finally.

"Thinking about the end of the year now?"

She huffed a laugh. "Yeah. Thanks for that. I was having such a good time not sleeping."

Cassian glanced over at her for a quick moment, wry grin on his face, before turning back to the road. "I'm sure I can find something to talk about that'll put you to sleep. Ooh, what about hockey statistics?"

"You have one thing on your mind ever, and it's hockey."

"Hey! Unfair," he complained. "I also think about the gym. And sex."

"You are such a stereotype of a man."

He just grinned, then handed her his phone. "Here, why don't you pick some music that'll keep me from falling asleep at the wheel."

Soft rock filtered through the speakers as Feyre selected a playlist that looked upbeat enough for night driving, then set his phone back down. The dark environment around them passed in a blur, all black and grey and barely distinguishable.

Except for the stars overhead.

Feyre stared out the windshield at the sky, watching as the stars shifted ever so slightly in the sky as they flew down the highway. She curled up in the passenger seat, thinking about the improbability of her life — but thanking the Mother and the Cauldron that she'd made it to whatever this phase of her life was, with Rhys and his family that was slowly becoming her own, with happiness and success and comfort. And without realizing it, her eyes fluttered shut and she drifted into a dreamless sleep.

Transitioning back into the chaos of spring semester schoolwork was difficult.

Free time was a thing of the past, and within a week, Feyre wasn't sure she even knew the meaning of the phrase. When she wasn't in her own classes, she was in the class she was a TA for. When she wasn't in any class at all, she was at VUAC. When she wasn't on campus, she was doing her own homework or grading her students' assignments or sleeping tucked into Rhys's arms.

Those late hours where she was asleep next to her boyfriend (she was still getting used to the fact that Rhys was her boyfriend, mentally) were the only restful hours she had.

And normally, she thrived on being busy like that.

Don't get her wrong, she wasn't running straight toward burnout, and she wasn't any more stressed than a usual semester, but it was different now.

It was different because she didn't dread the conversations she'd have to have when she went home. She didn't worry about whether or not her boyfriend would want subpar sex. Instead, she found herself wanting to share dinners with Rhys, Cass, Az, and Mor. She missed the easy evenings they had often shared, each doing their own studying in the living room and occasionally bickering with each other for 'writing too loudly' or tapping on computer keys too hard. And she wished she had more time to spend in bed with Rhys. Not sleeping.

Sex with him was unlike anything she'd had before. Certainly not the childish fumbling she had when she lost her virginity to her friend Isaac (just to get it over with). And definitely not the chore that was sex with Tamlin, where she just laid there as he took his pleasure.

No, Rhys was… thorough. Attentive. Mind-blowing, even. He would always prioritize her pleasure, bringing her over the edge repeatedly with his mouth or fingers or cock, and do so until she was a mess, writhing and sobbing and so thoroughly wrung out that she quite literally couldn't take another. When they had time, anyway.

Recently, they'd been relegated to quick fucks before bed or before getting out of bed in the mornings, where he'd prepare her for him with his mouth and slide into her, working both of them expertly to orgasm. Just one.

'Just one' was certainly far better than anything else, but she missed when they had time to play.

Oh well. They'd have all summer to explore each other's bodies.

Right now, she was waist-deep in a pile of weekly quizzes she had to grade, and they were… a mess, honestly.

Something about meiosis was just stumping them. She didn't blame them — they'd done a basic overview of mitosis and the regular cell cycle before getting into the complexities of gamete production, but… wow.

She glanced down at the packet she was working on and laughed. In answer to the question Why are gametes haploid?, the student had written 'because… it HAPpens? idk!'

Not exactly correct, but at least it was creative. Feyre sighed and marked a little note in her blue pen. 'Gametes are haploid because two need to join to create a fertilized embryo with the correct (diploid) number of chromosomes.'

Grading the weekly quizzes was mildly entertaining at first, but after five or so packets, she was just bored and praying for her pile to start dwindling so she could do literally anything else. There were only so many times she could correct one single question on every quiz before it became frustrating. Thankfully, she was almost at the bottom of that week's pile, and it was Friday.

Friday meant she and Rhys might actually get to spend some quality time together that didn't involve their own classwork or TA responsibilities.

That thought spurred her on, giving her the energy to make her way through the last half dozen quizzes she had to grade. And then she was done, done for the day, and she could go find Rhys and curl up with him on the couch.

Once she was curled into his side on the couch, his arm draped lazily over her shoulder, hand skimming her collarbones, Feyre felt like her entire soul exhaled in comfort. Tension and stress were things of the past.

"I'm so glad we only have like three weeks left before finals," she sighed. "I need summer break now more than ever."

He smiled down at her, brushing a kiss to her forehead. "Indeed. I've been missing you lately."

"We see each other every day."

"That doesn't mean I get to spend good quality time with you every day. We're in class or at work or sleeping in the same bed, not really spending time with you."

Feyre pressed her body more fully into his in agreement. "I know. I've missed you too."

"See?"

"Shut up," she complained. "Don't brag about being right, just take advantage of this time we have without any other responsibilities."

His violet eyes lit up, multitudes of stars sparking to life within. Before she could even register his intentions, Rhys had her scooped up in her arms and was heading to the stairs.

"What are you doing?"

The question wasn't a very effective deterrent when she was giggling and clinging to him like a barnacle, but she'd be damned if she'd make things easy for him. There was a 95% chance that he was whisking her upstairs to take her so thoroughly apart with his mouth that she wouldn't be able to speak for a while after he was done, but Rhys didn't need to know she knew that.

"Taking advantage of the time we have, naturally," he whispered, lips brushing the shell of her ear before nipping teasingly at the lobe. "I want you all to myself for a while this evening."

She shivered in his arms as his breath ghosted over the sensitive skin of her neck, a flush already blooming on her cheeks, warmth already pooling in her core. "You have me, Rhys."

"Oh, I intend to."

[vergess]

molly carpenter, who has suffered more than j*sus

First of all, I would like to thank you very kindly for encouraging my absolutely terrible fascination with some weird white guy's fetish rag. Secondly: correct. Let my girl live, Jimothy, my goodness.

Okay, so.

My Favourite Ship

I think I've made my opinions on Molly/Harry/Murphy pretty clear, honestly, but then again, I struggle greatly with theory of mind, SO! Just in case I haven't been clear enough: Molly/Harry/Murphy.

It's not even close. I literally develop my fics exclusively with this in mind. I started writing third wheels for this ship. ME!!! THE POLYSHIPPER!!!!!!

But like. Okay, I think this ship has me understanding why some white polyamorists are so into that "primary partners" shit, I see it now: It's the catholicism. (<- Said in the same exotifying and slutty tone as [your preferred racial fetish] would normally be)

My Most Hated Ship

Cousin, I've been doing research for my fics and people are bad nasty to my girl. It's amazing how dirty even the Molly/Harry shippers do her. Maybe especially them.

Like, the struggle is terrible because I really enjoy playing with my little blorbos, but everyone else is playing wrong even when we're ostensibly on the same side. It's the same way I felt about being a John/Mary shipper in Sherlock or a Poe/Finn shipper in Star Wars. Like, come on, can't you be nice with the dollies?? Or at least fuck 'em up in cool ways???

So um. In conclusion, I think it might be Molly/Harry. Oops. I swear I still like it when I do it. Me and my little conclave of like minded queers, you know?

My Unusual Ship

Okay, so, I want to talk to you about my complex conspiracy of Molly/Thomas bullshit, and why if you enjoy the presudo incestuous faggotry Thomas broadly represents in the series, you should experiment with putting him and Molly in the Situation Machine and going to town.

Consider the following:

Jimothey Butcher very clearly only knows the Molly Type Of Girl from the convention circuit, not real life

The Molly type of girl in real life has a solid 70% chance of having realized she was queer at age 6 over vintage Star Wars VHSes.

They are WLW/MLM solidarity

The solidarity is that Thomas knows sex acts with no risk of pregnancy so Molly doesn't have to keep Living Like That

Thank you for coming to my TedTalk.

My Crossover Ship

Oh man, so the thing about memes from 2013 is crossovers were a lot more common back then, because of Ask Blogs, which were a sort of prototypical Roleplay Blog but the entire gimmick was that were roleplaying with the audience, via answering asks (often framed as in universe fan letters or similar). So sometimes you'd get asks from characters from another world ("sometimes" meaning about once a week).

It's actually way harder for me to spitball a crossover ship and get invested these days, because I never get to see anyone's take on the interactions but my own.

But!!! What's nice about Molly is that she's a Very Specific Type Of Character, because of all the fetishes in the fetish rag. That means she translates well.

You know what would fix her?

What would really, truly Cure Her Being Like That?

Crossing over with the Rentarou Polycule from 100 Girlfriends. Let that girl exist in a romantically and sexually supportive environment with so many people on her side that she can start recovering. Ultimate spa year. Isekai My Girl!!!!

My Favourite Headcanon

Molly is cis. I tried to think of some other more compelling headcanon, like the chemistry she has specifically with queer men and other women, but I think we all know that Molly is bisexual.

My hot take is that I also think Molly is cis. Like, she examined thoroughly during the 14 year old scene kid with a fake ID stuff and reached a conclusion and she's been pretty happy since, you know?

(Context clues for suspicious readers: no one else in those books is cis, except maybe Susan. Maybe. Thomas is cis passing but that gender's fucked man.)

A gif that reflects how I feel about the character!

You know what's nice about the future? We have gif search now. I mean it still doesn't fucking search right, but it exists. That's nice.

[Ask Meme] [My Inbox]

[high-queen-of-exy]

hey, just wondering if you had any kevin headcanons that you wouldn’t mind sharing :))

I've got a lot, might have minor TSC spoilers though, proceed with caution

The most oblivious fool to ever exist

I've always hc him as autistic, and I stand by that. He's the most peer reviewed autistic person I know.

If it's not exy, the Trojans, Andrew and Neil, or alcohol he doesn't notice

Meaning he doesn't know how Jean feels about him at all

I don't think they could ever be friends unless they addressed it though

His first crush besides Thea was Jeremy, Thea always kids that Jeremy is Kevin's "hall pass" even tho they aren't monogamous in the traditional way

Also, Thea and him aren't monogamous.

Kevin is aroflux and bisexual and I don't think he truly knew what either of those words meant until after he went pro.

He is like a oblivious third wheel to Neil and Andrew for the rest of their lives, like he just walks into their home whenever he pleases.

He's allergic to cats but he loves Neil and Andrew's cats too much to stay away.

The first time Jean and Kevin go on court against each other, they get into a fight on the court. It's the first and only time Jean got into a fight while being a Trojan.

Thea called them to scold them afterwards.

However, when they play on the USA team, they get along significantly better. (They don't want to be scolded by Thea again)

Thea and Kevin try to have hobbies, Thea thought it'd help them.

Which is how they have a few paintings on their walls, a electric keyboard that Kevin learned to play 2 songs on before quitting, and Andrew and Neil got some very ugly mugs because Thea refused to keep them and Kevin didn't want to throw them out.

I don't think they'd have kids, not on purpose, especially not with Thea's career, she wouldn't give that up.

They might have one oops kid, who they'd love dearly, but oh my goodness would Kevin be panicking the whole goddamned time.

Thea also seems therapy, after Kevin kinda insists, because unlearning some of the raven things that she didn't realize where a problem was necessary for their relationship..

The summer after Kevin tells Wymack he's his dad, Wymack tries to do a lot of father-son bonding things.

Abby tries to discourage the stupider ones.

Kevin doesn't mind them though.

He gets very close with Dan her last year.

He keeps in touch with her more than anyone but Neil and Andrew.

His favorite food is sushi, but it took him forever to try it because he was convinced he'd hate it.

He's a deceptively picky eater.

And that's all I've got off the top of my head, have a nice day!!!

[the12thnightproject]

Hi dear! I have missed your headcanons, they are just incredible. And it has been a while since I sent one to you, so I hope you don’t mind! Could I request a headcanon for the Uesugi-Takeda alliance + Kennyo for an MC who is also a siren?

@selenacosmic

Hi Selena,

Thank you for the ask. I’m sorry it took so long for me to get to it (oof my inbox).

Hmmmm. What kind of siren. Originally, the mythological sirens were half human – half bird, and by the Medieval era, they were being portrayed in art as mermaids. Taking that a bit literally, a mermaid would have a bit of trouble making her way around Kasugayama. I mean, Shingen could probably build her an aquarium, set it on wheels, and pull her around the castle, but she probably prefers to be in the ocean. However, because I am just that kind of geek, I remembered that the castle isn’t that far from the shore of the Sea of Japan. About five kilometers.

So in this headcanon, the Siren MC is hanging about offshore, and her voice is just that strong that it can be heard in the castle….

Kenshin stops in the middle of trying to stab Sasuke, and runs down to the shore. When he realizes that he is not the only one who can hear her voice, he kills anyone who comes close enough to see her. Last seen living on a rock with the Siren, stabbing anyone who swims by. Since he likes nothing more than stabbing people, this is a very happy ending for him.

Shingen cannot resist the voice either, but once he discovers her hypnotic effect on everyone, he builds a sound-break between the ocean and the castle. He also builds her an underwater house, and visits her as often as she wishes (every night, in fact).

Kanetsugu has a will of iron, and at first stuffs fabric in his ears, which on the one hand prevents him from hearing her, but on the other, makes it difficult to attend war council. One night the fabric falls out of his ears, and unable to stand it any longer, he hikes down to the shore and begs her to stop. She teases him by singing even louder. There is only so much Kanetsugu can take, and he finally commits to being with her, if she promises to stop singing during working hours. They agree, but every once in a while, she teases him and sings while he’s trying to get stuff done.

Yoshimoto, when he hears her, instantly drops everything he was doing and rushes out the door. Unfortunately, what he was doing was posing for art, and doing so in the nude, so basically, we have a naked Yoshimoto running across the landscape, then diving into the ocean to get to her.  Would have drowned, but MC saves him. He’s happy living with her and she sings softly to him all the time.

Yukimura. “What are you? Wild Walrus?” He tosses her some tuna. Insulted, she shrieks in a pitch that gives him a two day migraine. Somehow this relationship works for them.

Sasuke wonders if she can sing at a pitch that can travel through the cosmos and call down a wormhole. He devises various experiments on clear nights. When she gets impatient with his research she instead starts singing the theme to Close Encounters of the Third Kind, which gets him in the mood for a bit of something-something, and they spend the rest of the night in each other’s arms.

Kennyo’s siren MC is actually offshore near Kyoto, and he encounters her on his way to kill Nobunaga. Her voice soothes his soul, makes him stop and realize that he can do more for his followers by choosing a path of peace and harmony. Literal harmony, as his voice and hers fit together so beautifully that they spend their time singing together.

Unless… you meant… this kind of siren:

In which case they all put their hands over their ears and go quietly insane.

[ad-hawkeye]

incoming live blogging of my reread of alkaid's solitary light route for azure island. ough my god. it's so good.

“you enjoy any song i sing” followed by alkaid immediately being like oh shit what if she doesnt believe me and she thinks i’m just--

love the ominous singer third wheeling in this scene. keep it up king.

alkaid giving her his coat. ugh. weak for that trope dont @ me.

him realizing mc is scared of the singing man just bc her hand tensed up.

wordless understanding in looking and nodding at each other. god. shoot me.

hehe the radio show makes its return. mc’s mother how we missed ye…

wordless communication just by touching mc’s palm. her immediately knowing what alkaid was saying with that action. i hate couples i hate couples i hate cou

“alkaid looks at me patiently, making no attempt to press me into giving an answer - whether or not i tell him is entirely up to me” vibrates. vibrates

“can you come to my room…? “…?”

“i dont want to hide anything from alkaid” followed by mc just. explaining everything about her mother. and he just listens. and only caresses the back of her hand when she gets upset speaking.

“don’t be too hard on yourself. it’s not your fault.” that’s rich coming from mr. guilt himself! very sweet though HAHA

also alkaid being so moved by mc’s story that he spends the whole entire night gathering information from books, the police station, and his mother… then writing notes about ALL of it. just so he can try to get to the bottom of the matter.

“if you are unable to read them clearly, please let me know” okay so mr astronomy has bad handwriting? sounds typical for a stem major HAHA

alkaid telling mc what he learned from his mother about how she had been to pettman island before and how she knew about the weird phenomena.

“forget about the lighthouse. there is something more important” jump cut to mc’s room with that 'something more important' being that alkaid needs to rest. this feels exactly like alkaid’s travel event 2 where alkaid says he needs help with something urgent and that 'something urgent' being helping mc get over her art block.

touching his eyelashes is back on the menu boys!!! i love how alkaid is just. used to it by now. how often has mc done this since te2.

brushing a lock of hair behind someone’s ear is another favorite trope of mine. im going to kill alkaid for this (affectionately)

alkaid waking up the moment mc approaches him, obviously about to leave. he had a feeling mc would try to investigate shit on her own.

“between lovers, there should be no secrets” returns from white day! so cute! i also love how these two can just be totally open without any fear of judgement. even if it means telling alkaid upfront that she wants to go alone. instead of immediately getting upset, alkaid just listens to her. and wordlessly understands that he’s at high risk if he were to join.

“keep in touch with me while you’re away. and stay safe. don’t take risks” is the chad’s version of “i love you” dont @ me.

[findafight]

I’m gonna admit, the whole “Robin and Steve share a girlfriend” thing kind of came to me when I was imagining how Steve and Vickie would get along.

As many people (I think including you?) have pointed out they have pretty much the same sense of humour, and seem to enjoy the same movies.

I see Steve being a “third wheel” on a lot of Robin and Vickie’s dates, in part because of rides and in part to make certain situations look less date-y. Or look more like one of the girls is third-wheeling by holding hands, doing the hand to the small of the back thing. Which sometimes leads to situations where Robin is kind of puppeteering Steve; “Steve, look at Vickie, she’s so cold! I can’t believe you’re not offering her your coat - what kind of boyfriend are you?”

(This comes back to bite her in the my ass a couple times when Steve will loudly announce “Robin, I cannot believe you’re just going to take the slice without offering it to Vickie, what kind of boyfriend are you?”, allowing Vickie to turn the puppy eyes on Robin.

He has done this a couple times in front of the kids, which they all find weird, but also assume it to be either one of Steve and Robin’s *deeply* unfunny inside jokes or part of an argument on the road to the realisation that they are in fact in deep denial about 1. Being in love and 2. That they have gone down a Super Mario pipe, skipped over all the interesting parts of romance and landed in their “old married couple” phase)

It’s all very confusing for Vickie. Like, she gets a kiss on the cheek from Steve so Robin can kiss her on the other cheek under the guise of making fun of the sappy couple - or else she gets a kiss from Robin and Steve gives her a kiss on the cheek to actually make fun of them. But she also gets forehead kisses from Steve to say hello and goodbye - which he doesn’t think is a big deal. He does that to Robin all the time - it would probably be rude to leave Vickie out, right? Or make her feel weird, left out. Things are not helped by the fact that Robin sometimes expresses her love via Steve. If Vickie’s upset, she’ll hug her, but she’ll also make Steve hug her, because he gives the *best* hugs!

Like, yeah, they’re a soul cut in half or whatever, but seriously - is this some kind of test? Does Steve think that she’s going to chest on Robin and is trying to prove it? Has Robin put him up to this because she thinks Vickie needs/wants wooing by *both* a girl and a boy? (She’s recently come out to her younger sister as “bisexual” and one of her questions was “so can you only have threesomes now?” Vickie is *going through it*, folks!)

Eventually she sits them down to try and talk it out, because this morning she woke up wearing a mix of both their clothes and she has some important assignments coming up at school, guys, SHE CANNOT KEEP LIVING LIKE THIS!

(There is a moment of silence as both Robin and Steve both fight to repress the urge to yell at each other that *this* is what that girl Janet that dumped Steve the other week was talking about!)

All hail Vickie, the bisexual who won *and* continued o be a disaster. no one is doing it like her!

omg sooooo good anon. I love this. VIckie is fighting for her life trying to decipher what is going on in her own relationship. is she dating Steve? is she not dating him? is she only dating robin? or both of them? Robin and Steve are weird she knew this going in but this is a bit much, right? and had to sit down for a minute because yes she woke up with Steve's shirt on and robins pants but the she saw Steve wearing her own sweater and robin wearing Steve's pants and so what does this mean? what are they doing? does she want anything to actually change?? (the answer to that she knows is no. She just wants clarity!and also is realizing that yes Steve does give the best hugs but part of that is that is Robin is there too. She's also realizing maybe kissing Steve and holding his hand is something she'd be down for more often!! help her!!)

and if she is also dating Steve she's going to have to live through the mortification of maybe telling her sister, and explaining that just because she's bisexual the throuple situation is NOT an essential part of that it just kinda happened by accident without any of the three of them noticing. and. who wants to admit that let alone to a little sister who Will Not Let It Go? poor vickie....

No one is doing it like Vickie and Stobin is not helping the situation At. All.

[jisokai]

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

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

part 3: that we’ll string together.

sero hanta x reader ch 3/6 | 14.7k words | masterlist | ao3

cw: more mentions of a deceased family member and grief (that is poorly repressed) notes: songs are memories by maroon 5, counting stars by one republic, yellow by coldplay

the five times sero reaches for you.

✰.

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

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

Leaving spaces open for her to respond."

-The Night Circus, by Erin Morgenstern

Davide appears in your studio unannounced.

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

“Only a little,” you promise.

He gasps. “You won’t even deny it?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Which was going to be when, exactly?”

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

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

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

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

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

You roll your eyes. “Dramatic.”

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

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

“My abuela,” you manage softly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I won’t hate the circus,” you argue.

“Uh oh—”

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

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

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

“Ooh, another point for the circus.”

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

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

Fantasy.

“Babe?”

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

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

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

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

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

He scoffs. “Already finding my replacement?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fantasía.

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

“No one,” you grumble.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The door slams open.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s different this time.

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

And they’re filled with bottles. 

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

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

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

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

You are hit with an overwhelming scent of salt.

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

When you look up, you are there.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The first clear memory you see is Sero’s.

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

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

“Abuelita!” you hear yourself shout.

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

This is a circus of cruelty, you decide.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You have no strength. You open it.

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

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

Sit still, you toucan.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You want to ask if it’s all for you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m not sure,” you say honestly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Like a dog, you think.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hanta.

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

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

God, this man needs a break from you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thanks,” she answers with a smile.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s pretty,” he says.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You see Momo.

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

She approaches you first.

“Are you enjoying your evening?” she asks. 

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

“It’s a beautiful night.”

You hum in agreement, and leave it at that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It opens into the bloom of a lotus flower.

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

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

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

Reveal. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you… enjoying yourself?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Only if you’re brave enough.”

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

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

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

The feeling does not persist to the morning.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sorry in advance for my lack of enthusiasm.”

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

She scoffs. “Of course.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You laugh, nodding in agreement. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Is that your friend?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hey—” you try to stop her.

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

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

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

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

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

“Tucano?”

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

“Hmm?”

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

You frown. “It’s a Wednesday?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[victorluvsalice]

Hi everyone -- if you're a Sims 4 player, you may have seen that, back at the beginning of April, EA did a surprise SDX drop with various Pride-rated Build/Buy objects and CAS assets! I'm not sure why they did this in April, but I'm not going to say no to more fun Pride stuff in the game. :) Anyway, I hit my current building save a couple of weeks ago to check out the new stuff, which resulted in some updates to the Polyheart OT3 House and a mini-dress-up session with one of the Valicer trios living in my Library. And I figured it was about time I got around to sharing the results of that playsession with all of you! :) Let's start with the house and the new Build/Buy stuff I added all around the shop --

Bedroom – Checking out the new “Burst of Pride” beds (single and double versions) out on the front lawn by the pool (oh yes, the house now has a pool! A heart-shaped one no less) led me to realize that I’d never actually checked out any of the non-base-game loft bed options for the trio’s bed set up! (As a reminder, this is a double bed tucked under a loft bed (inspired by this "third wheel" bed), with the idea that the lower bed is for everybody, but the upper bed is for Alice should she want to sleep alone but not alone alone.) So, in the hopes of finding something better than the sad little metal-framed base-game loft bed I was using, I took a look through my options from Horse Ranch, Werewolves, and Growing Together. There were definitely some fun patterns and colors in there (lots of great stuff for a kid’s bedroom in particular), but in the end I ended up going with the “Cormac Pine Bunk” bed from Horse Ranch that had a nice red-and-black swatch that I thought went pretty well with the red-and-black theme of Alice’s personal room. I mean, it’s supposed to be HER bed in particular, so, yeah. I then swapped out the High Schools Years double bed I was using as a base for the “Burst of Pride” double bed in the pansexual swatch – it was bright and colorful, AND that particular swatch was the closest match for having all the trio’s colors (yeah, it’s yellow, blue, and PINK, but I’ve used pink for Alice elsewhere in the build, so…). So now the trio has some new beds! That’s nice! :)

As for the rest of the room, while I didn’t change the position of the rugs or the furniture or anything, I did rearrange the wall decorations a bit – after trying and failing to put the “Colorfully Eclectic Wall Gallery” somewhere in there (it was just a TINY bit too big for the space they had available), I ended up putting the calendar and wall clock in slightly different places above the dresser (the calendar closer to the door, the wall clock closer to the side wall), and swapping the positions of one of the poster collections and the painted-records-and-CDs collection – now the former is on the wall next to the bed, beside the other big poster collection, and the latter is on the wall beside the bathroom door, behind the hamper and the big corner plant. Just thought it looked a bit better, and the plant doesn’t cover up the painted CDs and records like it did the poster collection, so extra bonus there! :)

Left-Hand Hallway – Just added the new “Knitted Pride Flag” wall hanging to the wall here, beside the big picture of the lady with the wacky hair and across from the door to the trio’s bedroom – went with the most inclusive version of the flag, of course, with the rainbow stripes, Black pride and trans triangles, and intersex symbol. *nods* Nice. :D

Living Room – I ended up putting the “Colorfully Eclectic Wall Gallery” art in here instead, on the wall beside the game table (it contains a clock among all the various bits of art, so I figured it would be handy there). The trio of bird pictures that was in that spot previously ended up going on the wall behind the TV, as that seemed like the best spot for them – meaning the big bright fancy mural I had there had to go somewhere else because now it was a little too covered up for my liking. I ended up sizing it back up one and putting it on the outside wall by the pool, because I thought it looked good there and was a bit of fun. I REALLY wanted to put it on the wall next to the outdoor dining table, near the grilling area (which also now exists), but the game wouldn’t let me because that’s where the straight wall transitions to the curved one, and apparently it wasn’t fully supported by the wall there. (I have since "bb.moveobjects on"-ed it to the spot by the table where I originally wanted to place it -- you'll see it there when I do a proper update on what I've been doing to the yard around the build! For now, enjoy the sneak peek at the heart-shaped pool. :D <3 )

Front Foyer – Another simple one – I replaced the base game wall-mounted coat rack I had in there above the shoe rack with the “Out & About Wall Shelf,” since that has a coat, bag, and lanyard dangling from it, meaning it looked like it belonged perfectly in that space. :D And yes, I went with the “pansexual” swatch again, because it reamined the best match for the trio’s colors. *nods approvingly* (And also, I mean, Smiler IS pansexual as well -- I just lean into the nonbinary stuff for them because that's the flag that matches the coaster's colors.)

Smiler’s Room – Speaking of which – as my last action, I replaced the regular nonbinary flag they had up on their wall with the new “Pride Rocks! Collage” in the nonbinary swatch (because that sort of photo collage with a flag signed by their friends is EXACTLY the sort of thing they’d have on their wall)! Though, uh, after fiddling with their wall decorations for a bit to see where it looked best, I ended up REDOING THE PATTERN OF YELLOW-AND-BLACK-STRIPES ON THEIR WALLS just so I could get the darker-themed side of the collage on a yellow stripe and the lighter-themed side on a black stripe by their computer, because that’s where and how it looked best. *shakehead* Not like it was the hugest deal to swap the stripes, but seriously, Vic. You couldn’t just live with it the other way? (Survey says: “no, I like it much better like this.”)

*nods* Nice stuff, right? I really like these new objects and decorations -- they're very fun, and they suit this particular house to a tee. And I'm definitely using that "Pride Rocks! Collage" deco in any place my Smiler lives going forward. :) But how did the CAS items rank in my estimation? You'll find out in the next post!

[tenmartha]

Sometimes I think Moffat did ship Eleven and Amy more because he seems smart enough as a writer/good at writing chemistry that he could’ve written Amy choosing Rory more smoothly. It could’ve easily has the first few episodes of series 5 be Amy and Eleven having fun but the minute Rory steps in the TARDIS eleven is the third wheel and the shadow of her having already grown up is around . Amy and Rory could’ve been written as super in love while still having Amy just be scared from abandonment issues and attached to Eleven as a result.

Instead we got this weird attitude on everyone’s sides. Amy treats Rory like a puppy but marries him because she doesn’t want the puppy to die, Rory has contempt for Amy’s choices, and Eleven wishes Rory wasn’t around but still has to choose for Amy to live with him. I know Moffat likes writing teasing dynamics but he managed to do that with so much more affection with Amy/Eleven, Twelve/Clara, Twelve/River. Even friendship wise with Twelve/Bill.

I’m just saying Amy and Rory seem like the weirdest writing Moffat has done and I can’t even blame his sitcom like writing for that because he’s done better with everyone else

my opinion about whether or not romantic 11amy was written to be taken seriously or if it was written just for laughs and views has swung DRAMATICALLY in favor of the former given the release of douglas is cancelled. i mean. look at it.

but even before that i would have said that i don't think it really matters what the intention with them was bcos that doesn't change the impact of what made it's way onscreen.

HAVING SAID THAT...the writers must have realized really early on that amy and rory being together is deeply, deeply uninteresting. i mean rory is barely a character in s5, he's only in like 50% of the episodes, and i would argue that amy's choice is the only time that the writers actually try to treat their relationship seriously and not as a punchline. (read my meta on amy's choice and how it doesn't even achieve this purpose. like thematically.)

even in the wedding its not even about rory like at all. it's still about amy's connection to the doctor (and she's still trying to get in his pants. at her own wedding. in front of the groom and god and everyone)

i would argue that s5-7A is an elevenamy will they/won't they and that rory's only purpose is to be "the husband" which is why he's such a nothingburger character. (i think the only time he proves to be a meaningful contrast to the doctor in a way that doesn't walk all over amy's character is in the god complex. but we don't have to talk about that rn). moffat is basically writing a drama. he's setting up a bunch of things so that we will keep tuning in, and one of them is the question of "who will amy choose"

i mean. fucking babygate. s5 makes it obvious that amy has romantic feelings for the doctor. they could have chosen to end it with the wedding, but you jump into s6 and its like woah okay. amy is babytrapping the doctor. and this makes complete sense for both their characters. and then the god complex happens and it's this natural ending point for eleven and amy. and once again the writers say no. amy actually still can't give him up.

which is why amy can never make an choice until her very last episode, bcos that would ruin the suspense. and we know that despite all the set up, amy can never choose the doctor because this defies the structure of the show. (she's so doomed by the narrative) so they really backed themselves into a corner with amyrory. if their relationship is actually good then rory might as well not exist. if their relationship is frequently unstable, it risks becoming like. obviously bad and obviously inferior to the OTHER romantic dynamic amy is involved in. they chanced the odds and they fucking lost because 11amy continues to be one of the most compelling things i've ever seen in my life.

[sillypuppetsposts]

Can we have some headcanons of how Frank Frankly would act if them were a suitor of yours (that is, of the reader)? please and thank you

a/n ;; OHH,,, FIRST REQUEST *breakdances* also please, i’m assuming reader is meant to be masc or enby presenting since frank is gay ^^ Because i am feeling enby atm since I am gender-fluid! Also, Y/n is described as being a lively and happy person,, :)

tw / cw (?) ;; swearing (they curse at wally a couple of times), marriage (OMG COMMITMENT😰😰), wally being a little shit! :) plus, (maybe) some horror and arg elements so be cautious! also mentions and hcs of poly frank x eddie x reader :3

BEFORE DATING OR BECOMING YOUR SUITOR!

Tsundere alert!!!!

Anyways, they aren’t as affectionate as the other puppets. But, that’s okay! You know they’re your friend, and they love you and your other friends as well.

Little did you know…

Frank was more confused when they were feeling these strange feelings, they would get red in the face whenever you complimented them or gave them gifts of any sort. And they would sweat and get flustered when you would hug them or slightly touch hands.

As You know, they are the grumpiest neighbor. So, someone acting super affectionate towards them (besides Eddie and Julie) made them feel so, special.. <3

They go to Eddie first, asking him why they feel this way. But, Eddie is kinda… oblivious to attempts at this stuff, so he just thinks your being extremely kind to Frank. So, our Eddie pookie was not too much help 😭

So, they go to Julie. And, Oh, she tells them what they’re feeling alright.

“Wait. You feel strange around y/n? How?” | “You get butterflies in your-oh. OH! OH MY GOSH FRANK! YOU LIKE Y/N!!!” “Of course I do, Y/n’s my friend?” “… Frank, I mean you like them, romantically.” “oh. oh.. OH!”

So yeah, that’s how they figured out they liked you.

And, now they are definitely planning to court you… because of course they are.

“Hello, Y/n. Would you like to go butterfly watching with me?” “Oh! I would love to, Frank!!”

They plan this out, he asks you to go butterfly watching with you, and ask you about courting you.

(Which, may I add, Is so stinking cute like wtf where can I find a love life like this..I have no maidens erm… ☹️)

So, when you guys were walking towards a small hill a little bit away from the neighborhood. They decide they’ll ask you on the hill.

So, when. you reached the top they waited for you to be distracted, and got on a knee and… well, courted you.

It was adorable and you were blushing when you realized what was going on.

AFTER YOU START DATING OR BECOMING YOUR SUITOR <3

Oh goodness.

Cutest couple ever! Like everyone thinks you two are adorable!

Everyone thinks it’s cute because your guy’s trope is basically opposites attract!

Wally being a little shit, and third wheeling, but distracting you and Frank gets annoyed 😭

“what do you even see in him?” —frank, questioning your friendship with Wally. “He makes me laugh :)” — You, who thinks he’s a silly guy

CATCHING AND STUDYING BUTTERFLIES TOGETHER!!!! THOSE ARE YOUR GUYS’ DATES!!!!

You like to play office with them and Julie

They don’t like it because Julie always kicks down their desk after they go bankrupt 😭😭

you sleep in the middle of frank and eddie because if you don’t you end up falling off the bed because eddie is a rowdy sleeper

“how did you end up on the ground, dear?” -frank, worried “i rolled off” - you, who got fucking pushed off the bed when eddie was having a dream

when you, julie and frank were catching butterflies on a hill, they tripped, and rolled down like a tube, so when julie started to sprint on all 4s, you hopped on her back and acted like a cowboy trying fetch a stray sheep…

Frank is still traumatized about that til this day…