#forgot the words don’t just appear like i make them for real

[shootingthe-stars]

Hello i didn't clarify alot with the fic cause ei wasn't giving alot thats all i was giving 😭😭 and thats why i was asking, since you write and who better to ask about a fic then a fic writer.

But if anyone does want to check it or even you idk its called 'somniphobia' by missperegrines fav!

Thank you anyway! I will probably read it once it gets transferred to ao3 tbh (my friend said the author plans to write the full first year on wattpad and then transfer the first year and so on) BUT ONCE AGAIN THANK YOU FOR ANSWERING 🫶🏻

ok but the title makes it sound cool u should’ve opened with this. idk how the fear of sleep is involved but if it’s some sick creative thing i’d be down to read whenever it’s up. also kinda forgot i am actually considered a writer and that maybe my opinion might be wanted. my bad. anyway…😭

[bbyobbyo]

seventeen as dads headcanons

content: reader is married to svt, normative(?) family structure, literally just unhinged thoughts, not proofread lol

note: was trying to write an actual fic but then got distracted sorry, dadventeen brainrot is so real

Seungcheol

Super protective “don’t touch my family” dad outwardly

All of his kids’ friends are straight up SCARED of him

But within the household he's the one sneaking ice cream when you say no, albeit guiltily

Shopping trips with him will always result in buying something for them and he is very willing to be taken advantage of

“Babe if I can’t spoil them now, they’re gonna grow up and move out before we know it!”

Tries his best to be handy around the house, but probably makes it worse, ends up calling Mingyu to come fix it

Jeonghan

DEFINITELY a “go ask your mom” dad

This man not only powerless, he doesn't even want the power, he's just here to have a good time and if you say they can't, then sorry kiddo

You can’t tell me that he doesn’t bring up becoming a family prank channel at least once a week

LOVES bragging to everyone else about his kid’s achievements, cannot shut up about them to anyone in a 5 foot radius tbh

His kids definitely talk to him about everything, which is great because he is SO nosy.

Has a list of all their best friends, enemies, and crushes at school somewhere on his notes app for future reference when they come to him for advice

Joshua

The REAL practical joke dad, admittedly made them cry a few times when they were younger and felt really bad about it

Perfect sweet husband and father in image, all of his kids know he’s actually lame af

Dominates the summer barbeques, UNDISPUTED GRILLMASTER

Super dependable, will drop everything if his family needs him and never goes back on his word

Gives surprisingly good fashion advice

Jun

Definitely walks around the neighborhood with his baby in a sling carrier strapped to his front, POINTS AT EVERYTHING OF INTEREST

When they start learning how to speak he adopts all his baby’s weird mannerisms (it started off as a cute joke but then realized he couldn’t stop)

Cries at every baby milestone until they’re like 10

Will not stop bringing up embarrassing childhood moments, especially in front of their kids’ friends/significant others

Cuts fruit for them instead of apologizing

Hoshi

Will fully ally himself with his kids

Like legit would do anything for them. ANYTHING.

I’m talking borderline go to his kid's school to beat up their hypothetical bullies himself sort of dad

The kids can always count on him to say yes if you say no

Absolutely DEVASTATED when they grow out of the tiger stuff he buys for them and become angsty teens

“What do you mean tigers aren’t cool? Do you not love your old man anymore?”

Wonwoo

Quiet doting dad

Definitely more affectionate when the kids are younger but gets into the awkward advice-giving stage when they grow up

LAME DAD JOKES GALORE, groaning is a regular activity in this household

Tries to google basic algebra every time his kids ask for help on math homework because he doesn’t want to admit he forgot everything

Chaotic af unsupervised. “Guess we’re having pizza again tonight kiddos” kinda dad because he cannot and should not cook

Jihoon

Another quiet dad, but make it savage

I feel like he would just love roasting his kids (affectionately of course)

And always overwhelmingly acts of service so his kids know they are loved

Allowance randomly appearing under their pillow, their favorite foods magically stocked in the fridge, always relenting to one last bedtime story no matter how tired he is

Would let you have final say but he makes it really clear he’s on their side and empathizes with them but its out of his hands

“Next time just don’t get caught, okay?” *winks*

Minghao

Loves loves loves just spending time with his babies

Doesn’t matter what he’s doing he just wants to be in the same room as them or cuddling and holding them

Emphasizes equality in your relationship so his kids can grow up with those values and learn to respect others

TURNS EVERYTHING INTO A LIFE LESSON OH MY GOD

Doesn’t believe in allowances but will cave and literally buy them anything they want if they ask

Would rather die than miss any important event (competition, speech, recital, talent show, graduation, etc.)

Mingyu

Absolute super dad, what can’t he do? Nonstop home improvement projects, cooks anything his kids are craving, offers to drive everyone everywhere

But also the whiniest dad ever lol constantly complains about people “ruining his system”

Absolutely FUCKS at the school bake sales, earns them twice the target fundraiser amounts because he's dilf material and knows how to get the moms to spill their pockets

Likes to have the final say, but you’re both usually on the same page in regards to discipline so his kids aren’t getting away with anything

Just the most supportive dad in the universe, the kids learn to never take him for granted

Seokmin

You already know his kids are gonna be spoiled rotten. He will be the favorite parent by default sorry I don't make the rules!!

His arms are the very definition of a safe space

Leaves all the discipline to you because he cannot keep a straight face when delivering a lecture (one time he made them cry and also ended up crying because he felt so bad)

Does so much embarrassing shit just to cheer his kids up when they have a bad day, acts surprised when they tell him he's cringe

Such a pushover that they are probably gonna make fun of him when they're older, but that's okay because they know there's no universe in which their dad will stop loving them

Seungkwan

As long as he can pick them up still, his kids are never on the ground for too long

Two words: SPORTS. DAD.

He could practically captain the cheerleading teams at their school with how many events he's been to

Knows all of his kids’ friends parents, they all get together and have coffee once a month actually

Nags nonstop and complains about everything he has to do for them, but is always diligent and does it without question

Gets so pouty when they start getting embarrassed to show affection, he WILL get his cheek kisses if it's the last thing he does!!

Vernon

Chillest dad in existence?!?

Literally as long as his kids are safe he doesn't give a single fuuuuckkk

“Sleepover? Yeah, call me when you're done and I'll pick you up.”

He WILL argue with you if he doesn't think there's a good reason to say no to them

So cute and encouraging to all their weird hobbies and phases throughout the years. “Lemme see” and “Really? Show me” are regular phrases in his vocabulary

His kids are definitely gonna inherit his legendary facial expressions afnngjdg

Chan

Super affectionate and doting, but also quite strict with them at times

“I just want the best for you, I want to see you succeed”

HAS A PHOTO OF THEM READY AT ANY TIME, lockscreen is a different shot of his kids every day and is eager to show it off even if no one asked

Not so subtly signs his kid up for dance lessons

Just the most encouraging dad ever, makes sure that they know making mistakes are a part of life and that he will always love them no matter what

[crios31]

Chapter 2: Traveling to Japan

Story building and smut (Cunnilingus, cowgirl, creampie, doggy style)

Lenght 2700 words

You are at the airport and it’s finally time to board your plane to Japan with Wendy for a new chapter of your life.

“Take care of each other over there.” Says your mother, hugging both of you. “Ah, I almost forgot, it’s the file concerning the scholarship program plus some other things that I deemed useful.” She releases her hug before giving you the files which you put in your backpack. “Thanks mom.”

“Say hello to everyone on our behalf.” asks your father when it’s his turn to hug you.

Your goodbyes now done, you board the plane , waving one last time to your parents on the way. Inside the plane, you both go to your place in first class and  follow the instructions of the crew before the take-off.

An hour later, the plane is now at cruising altitude so you decide to read the file your mother gave. On the seat beside you, Wendy is reading a book.

The first part of the file is about the public information that you mostly know. That the program is for girls that show aptitude academically or athletically and it was created by your Mother after she opened her first school. Scholarship recipients are accepted in all your Mother’s school or can in another school if they don’t want to move, in both cases all of their living expenses are taken care of. The rules they had to follow are simple, maintaining good results and good behavior. 

The second part is about the non-public information. To start, the real way to enter the program is that your mother chose them, the academic or athletic potential being one more reason. By entering the program, there is more than just living expenses that are taken care of, more financial support could be given like paying a family debt. Other specific issues can also be resolved. Another benefit is the possibility to have access to private tutoring to skip grades in order to graduate earlier. In exchange for all of that, one more rule exists, they are not allowed to date.

Regarding the selection of those that will work for you, most of them cannot refuse it. Wendy was one of the exceptions. For the selection process of the applicants it is a strict one, a minimum age requirement of eighteen moreover the appearance and personality are taken into account for the decision. Those that fall short will be recommended to other employers, also a possibility is to become a standard employee in one of your ventures because of their skills. In those two cases they will become exempt from the rules of the program after graduation. In exchange they will only be asked to recruit people that could enter the program. This part also contains detailed data about the cost of the program, the number of recipients and so on.

Finally, the last part of the file begins with a note explaining that the goal of the program and the selection is for you to have people you can trust at your side and that you’ll slowly take responsibility in the program. After this section of the note you read “Grandkids?” followed by a winking smiley, both seemed to have been handwritten by your mother. This addition from her makes you laugh. The end of the note informed that the documents following it are profiles of girls she deemed ready for selection.

From your first look, there are around twenty candidates' profiles and all of them are older than you. You take your time studying each of them, taking notes. You also ask Wendy to look at each of the profiles after you’re done with it.

Later during the flight, you have just finished sorting out the profiles with Wendy in order to select a first batch of girls that will work for you.

“We are down to three sir, two of them are studying in the University that you will join, while the last one is studying in another one, in Seoul. How do you want to proceed?”

“For the one in the other University, just give her the news and explain to her that she can focus on University for now. For the others, we'll contact them to set up a meeting, starting with this one.” You give a specific profile to Wendy.

“Kim Minji? Understood, I'll arrange that during our stay in Japan.”

A few hours after the plane landed at Narita Airport, you have settled in at your hotel. Sitting in the hotel’s restaurants you are savoring with Wendy some Kobe’s beef. Finishing your plate, you look on your left, through the window at Tokyo’s nighttime view.

“So delicious I really wanted to taste this if I ever had the opportunity to come to Japan.”

“I’ll make sure you can try as many specialties as you can during our stay.”

“So many things come to my mind!”

As you talk, the waiter takes your empty dishes and quickly comes back with the dessert.

“Oh it’s so good too, I’ll try to do one later.”

You smile looking at the baking fanatic. “Do you want to try mine?” You push your plate toward her.

“Yes, thanks.” She quickly takes a big spoonful of your dessert. “It’s delicious too.”

“You can finish it”

“Really? Are you full?” She asks her spoon hovering above the dessert.

“Not really but I will eat another dessert in our room tonight.” You answer, looking at her in the eyes.

She raises an eyebrow at your answer before focusing back on the sweet treat in front of her. When she finishes it, you pay for the meal complimenting the service and the food to the waiter, then you exit the restaurant.

In the elevator, you take a look at Wendy, in particular her miniskirt and you can’t stop yourself from touching her butt.

“Sir?” She turns her head toward you in surprise. Two floors later, the elevator stops for other people to enter, in reaction, Wendy immediately shoves your hand away from her. You wait for them to turn their backs to you before once again grabbing her behind, but this time your hand is under her skirt. Her body becomes tense and you smile mischievously at her when your eyes cross hers. You continue to fondle her ass, sometimes brushing your middle finger against her pussy, as the elevator goes up you can feel her slowly becoming wet. 

When you arrive at your floor, you reluctantly stop. Wendy quickly passes the opened door of the elevator and you follow suit, after entering your room she sits on the bed looking at you.

“Couldn’t you wait for us to be in the room to do that?” 

“No, your cute little butt was too tempting.” You walk toward the bed, stopping in front of Wendy, you lean forward putting your hands on her tights. “And it was fun watching you get all flustered.” You give her a quick peck.

“Fun for you.”  She complains in a low voice feeling your hands behind her knees.

“Now let’s have some fun, shall we?” You suddenly lift her legs causing her to yelp as she loses her balance, her upper body falling on the mattress. You grab her panties and take it off from her body. Placing your hands on the back of her thighs, you spread them.

You get on your knees as you begin kissing her legs, starting from her calves,  slowly making your way up her leg. She feels the touch of your lips approaching her pussy, you alternate from one leg to the other. Wendy's growing excitement makes her breathing quicker as she bites her bottom lip. 

Finally arriving at your destination, you take a look at her glistening folds. You lick her lower lips before inserting your tongue inside her. As you explore her pussy your jaw gets wet from her nectar.

“Fuck… that’s feel good.” She gasps, putting one hand on your head when you replace your tongue with your finger in order to tease her small bud with your mouth. You hook your finger toward the roof of her pussy. Her angelic voice gets louder and her walls get tighter as you continue with your task.

“I’m getting close.” Hearing this, you put a second finger in her and intensify your tongue’s work.

You feel her grip in your hair tightening and the heels of her shoes burying in your back, causing you some pain. But soon enough her hips rise from the bed taking support on you with her legs and the mattress for her upper body. From her mouth comes a scream of pleasure as she orgasms.

Her body relaxes, freeing you from her legs. You stand up and look at Wendy who is still feeling the aftermath of her climax. You take off your shirt her wipe your face of her slicks

“Do you want me to return the favor?” Wendy asks in a soft voice.

“Maybe another time, for now I want to be in you.” You get naked finally freeing your member, climbing on the bed, you give a long kiss to your partner.

“Then let me be on top.” She says as you let her push you to lay on your back. Wendy takes off her shoes then standing up, she unzips her skirt while looking at you. As the garment fell at her feet she smiles feeling your gaze on her exposed lower body. She places herself above you, taking a hold of your cock to align it with her entrance.

“Damn feels good.” You say watching your length disappear in Wendy when she lowers body.

“You’re stretching me so much.”She began to ride you, taking support on your chest. At first, she starts slowly before gradually increasing her pace.

On your side you're not inactive, taking hold of her waist to help her before sliding a hand under her top. You feel her abs as she drops on you, moving your hand higher,  you take hold of one of her boobs over her bra. Her breast in your grasp, you start kneading it.

Locking eyes with Wendy you feel the grip of her walls around your member getting stronger, in response you raise your hips meeting halfway when she drops on you.

“Sir... Shit! I’m coming.” She stops moving her body tensing up as she cums, her walls clamping around your cock.

“I’m close too.” Using both your hands you lift her body before bringing her down, each time hitting her cervix. Soon enough, you discharge a big load inside her. 

Following your release Wendy falls on you, her head resting on your chest and you both take some time to catch your breath. You feel yourself getting soft in her as you put your arms around her. 

“Let’s get something to drink.” You say giving a light smack on her butt before releasing the hug.

“I’m so full, good thing that I take birth control or I would end up pregnant before long.” Says Wendy as she gets off from you with your semen leaking from her slit.

“Yeah, it’s too early for a kid.” You follow Wendy, taking the glass of water she hands you. While you clench your thirst she takes off her top and bra. You look at her nude body moving to the front of the window.

“I dreamed about visiting new countries and right now I can enjoy this beautiful view.” She says watching the city’s light. “And in addition to that I get to travel with a handsome man.” Turning her head she gives you a wide smile.

“Well now that I know this information, I’ll have you accompany me every time I travel abroad.”

“That would be nice.” She responds with a chuckle. “I heard good things about you before but I didn’t expect you to treat me so well until now. I hope it’ll stay like that”

“Well, you are someone fun to be with,plus you are also a smart and attractive woman. So, I see no reason to change it.” While talking you approach her, taking her into your embrace.

“Thanks.” She whispers, as she puts her hands on top of yours. Both of you stay silent observing the outside but at one point Wendy feels your cock hardening against her butt. “Someone wants more.”

“Always, and I don’t think I’m the only one with how you're grinding your butt against me.”

“You caught me.” She bends over leaning on the window.

You slightly bend your knees to align your cock with her pussy, putting your tip against it. “Hope you’re ready because I won’t stop until the end.” Taking a firm hold of her hips, you thrust all your length inside her in one go.

“Ahhh! Fuck so deep!” As she takes your onslaught, Wendy has to tiptoed and progressively gets her body closer to the window. Soon enough she finds herself with her upper body stuck against the glass. Under your thrust against the entrance of her womb, her pussy begins to twitch as she orgasms.

As you warn her before you continue to fuck her hard throughout her climax as you are far from yours. Following this, she cums again at least twice, hence her eyes are now rolled back, her mouth is open with only moans coming out of it. Furthermore, the only reason why she is still standing is you.

“Where do you want me to cum?”

“Anywhere, just cum.. it’s too much.” She barely answered between moans.

Following her words, you quickly make a decision as you are reaching your limit. You take out your cock of her snatch, placing it between her asscheeks. Giving a few thrusts to finish yourself, you then release streams of semen across her back.

You release your hold on Wendy’s waist. Without any strength left in her legs, she falls on the floor, resting her upper body against the window.

You take a few steps back, relishing the sight in front of you with the city and Tokyo’s Tower as background. Through the fog on the glass caused by your frolicking, the city’s lights are partially illuminating Wendy’s naked body and her cum covered back

“I agree with your earlier comment, this is a great view.” You immortalize this scene with a photo.

During the following days, you both explored the streets of Tokyo. Visiting the traditional district of Asakusa with its Sanctuary and the National Museum of Tokyo. Other places you get to see were, the Kokyo Gaien National Garden where you both enjoyed the peace and quiet before having a tour in the Imperial Palace of Tokyo which is beside it. Along the way, you also tried a lot of different kinds of food.

At the end of your stay in Tokyo, you take the Shinkansen to Osaka. After arriving and dropping your luggage at the hotel, you take a taxi, remembering some memories linked to this city during the ride. 

The taxi stops in front of a two storey house, after paying the driver you ring the doorbell. A few moments later, a man who looks to be in his early forties gets out of the house, opening the gate to Wendy and you.

“Ah, good to see you kid.” says the man in Japanese

“Good to see you too, Uncle. Here is a gift for receiving us.”

“Thank you, oh nice wine, I think I drank some in the past, with your father. By the way, who is this young lady?”

“This is Wendy. Wendy, this is uncle Kosaku” You make the presentation as Wendy doesn't speak Japanese and your uncle, while he can somewhat understand Korean he is not fluent in It.

“Let’s get inside, the other should be waiting for you.” You both followed him inside the house. Immediately after taking off your shoes, your hear footsteps quickly approaching you. You only have the time to raise your head before someone hugs you.

“I’m so happy you’re here! I missed you so much!” says the owner of the feminine voice, hugging you.

“I missed you too, Sana.” You say, returning the hug.

[princessbrunette]

bf!jj seeing you in your glasses the first time and just keeps referring to you as a hot librarian and you don’t know how to react

𓏲 ♥︎ ݁ 🦴 ˖ ࣪🩰

“yo, babe do me a favour real quick?” jj seemingly appears out of nowhere as he usually does, disrupting the quiet time you were having out on the porch to the chateau — reading your book.

“hm?” you slowly drag your eyes away from the page to blink up at him distractedly.

“can you say the words ‘do you have a library card?’ but like in a sexy way?” he stares you down, boyishly adjusting his shorts. you place your bookmark on the page and close your book, deciding to entertain his nonsense as you turn your body to face him more.

“what? why?” you furrow your brows and he flops onto the seat beside you, shrugging it off.

“well, the glasses are givin’ me some serious sexy librarian vibes and i’m tryna live out this one fantasy of mine. infact, i actually had a dream about it once where i forgot to return my book and— nevermind it’s not important.” he lifts his shoulders, unable to stop looking at you from where he sits. you get shy, reaching up to take them off.

“aaaand they’re coming off.” you sigh and he sits up suddenly, gently grabbing your wrists to stop you from removing them.

“no they’re not.” he distracts you by pulling you in for a kiss, but when he pulls away the hands that cup your cheeks slide round to the backs of your ears where your glasses rest, wiggling his fingers on them so that the frames jump up and down on your nose bridge. “woohoo, now we’re talkin’.” he grins and you bat him away.

“you’re making me self conscious.” you pout and he wraps an arm around the back of your neck, drawing you into his trap and dropping quick wet kisses all over your mouth.

“well stop. i like ‘em, mama. think they’re sexy.” he admits and you let a smile slip. he draws back in to kiss you again before pulling back thoughtfully, eyes lighting up. “do you think these would work as like, protective goggles? for when i nut on your face?”

“jj!”

“just askin’.”

𓏲 ♥︎ ݁ 🦴 ˖ ࣪🩰

[cheri-2047]

I have a request for, Zhongli Neuvillette and Ayato so they are forced to marry a reader, who looks a mess like their appearance and they aren't really into them. I hope I explained it properly it's hard for me at times and I got the idea when I saw some mobile game ad.

i think I know this ad LMAO, sure !! I’ll make it headcanons though cause those have been easier for me to write lately. thank you for the request!

Arranged Marriage (Zhongli , Neuvillette, Ayato)

SCENARIO: Your parents somehow got to get you an arranged marriage with these men. You grew up in a rich family, but due to a bad decision, your father’s company ended up going bankrupt. Suddenly, your mom just told you to get into the car and drove off, not knowing where you were going.

MENTIONS OF: Furina, Thoma, Ayaka

NEUVILLETTE:

When you enter the court (please tell me where he works guys in the comments, I forgot what it’s called), that’s when you realized.

“shit.”

This is the first time you’ve actually SEEN him. You felt embarrassed because your mother didn’t even let you change out of a decent pair of clothing or even fix your hair.

you quickly tried to change your appearance as much as you could. But when the Melisune opened the door, that’s when you panicked.

Neuvillette was…shocked. He was shocked to see you in a state but he didn’t show it. “Ah..I suppose you’re y/n?”

“yes… I apologize for my appearance, My mother pulled me out of my room and just forced me to leave without a word haha…” you were nervous as hell.

”I see. Nice to meet you.” He stands up and walks over to you, shaking your hand.

”I’d like to go over the terms of our marriage, nothing official just what we both are comfortable with.” Even with your messy appearance, he still treated you with grace and kindness

he asked the melusine to give you some tea, and now you Two were left alone.

”Well…I understand if you don’t want to do this at all, so during our relationship, I will not require you to be affectionate towards me.”

He sat in a chair nearby and he held your hand. “If there’s anything I am doing, or will do that makes you uncomfortable, please do not hesitate to tell me.”

“If you need anything, just say the word and I’ll have to for you.”

“if you would have…other affairs, since were not actually in love…I’m okay with it. Just be careful to not show it in public.” He understands that this is a forced marriage for you, so he tries to still let you have a normal life.

“ah no it’s okay, I’m not interested in anyone at the moment, but I…I would like to try to get this- us to work.” You smiled, and Neuvillette was touched by that.

During your marriage, you lived with him. He wasn’t extremely close to you but you could tell he was trying. On the first night you two slept beside each other but on the next one if you were uncomfy, he arranged another room for you in his mansion.

He lets you do anything really, if you want to work go ahead but if you just want to stay home that’s okay too.

Overall, he grew to like you. And the marriage was like a real thing.

Since he wouldn’t be home often, he apologizes by sending you gifts. When he notices you’re lonely, furina actually lets him have a day off.

as for affection, at most he would kiss you on the forehead or cuddle you close. He won’t force you to kiss him on the lips (since he doesn’t want to intrude on anything) so you’d have to initiate those <3

AYATO:

When you saw your car drop in front of the kamisato, that’s when you realized.

You tried to fix your appearance, tying your hair up with a desperate attempt to look more elegant.

thoma welcomed you, not gonna lie he noticed how you shuffled your clothes a lot and before taking you to ayato, he let you in a separate room.

”I don’t mean to be rude, but I noticed the way you shuffled with your clothes” he chuckled, handing you an old dress that ayaka owned, (since it didn’t fit her)

he let you changed and once you did, he brought you to ayato.

Ayato welcomed you and thoma left the room. He motioned for you to sit in front of him.

”nice to meet you” he smiled and bowed (iirc in japan they bow as a sign of respect/greeting? Please correct me if I’m wrong!)

you did the same. It was awkward for awhile until he spoke.

”I am sure you’re aware of what’s about to happen correct?” You nod. “I want to try to make this work” he said, looking straight at you.

”if… if we don’t work out that’s alright, but I’d like to know you more.” He smiled as you nodded.

”me too, I’m glad we’re on the same page” you smiled.

you two talked about your own interests, but now you had a problem.

its not that he hated you or judged you, but there are times it’s dead silent. for now he passes it off since you both are new to each other.

”well, I will have thoma show you your room and ah- no more need for formalities it’s okay”

After the marriage you move in together and though it’s still awkward, you two actually end up becoming close.

At some point, during the night when he’s working late, he actually started seeking comfort from you.

sometimes he would visit your room, if you were asleep he would sit beside you on the bed and tuck you in nicely after

or if you’re awake, you (aside from ayaka sometimes) are one of the only few who actually gets him to go to bed.

you sleep in separate rooms but one day he offers for you to sleep with him.

overall, this marriage was a success. Sometimes he’s busy but you take note of it and if he notices you’re lonely, he would invite you over to his room while he works/signs papers and he talks to you.

as for affection, he appreciates if you give him hugs but there are times (mostly when you’re away for a long period of time) when he tilts your chin up and goes “may I?” Before pressing a kiss to your lips

Sorry if I mischaracterized this, I haven’t done the inazuma quest and idk much about him !

ZHONGLI:

to your surprise, when you almost stopped in a mansion, you saw him standing outside waiting for you.

and that’s when you started to realize.

the moment you got out of the car, you fixed your dress. He was quite welcoming actually.

he welcomed you to his home and set you on the couch. He actually didn’t mind much your appearance.

he sat in front of you and smiled. “Nice to meet you” he handed you a cup of tea before you two got started.

he saw you uncomfortable shuffling around your clothes. “Are you alright? Is something wrong?”

”no no! Just fixing myself a bit, sorry” he wondered why you seemed so tense about your appearance.

”I do not care about such matters if that’s what you’re thinking” he reassured you.

”now..as for this marriage, I do not want you to feel forced. I will allow anything you’d like, if you’d have other affairs, I am okay with that.” He really just wants you to be comfy is all, especially since this was forced.

”however… I would like to get to know you more” and just like that a few months after the marriage, you two actually clicked.

often at night he’d sleep beside you, in the mornings he makes you both tea.

He’d be very respectful with boundaries and he appreciates when you respect his as well.

for dates he loves bringing you to gardens for a picnic or relaxing lakes, somewhere with nature. he hugs you a lot and kisses on your forehead. If you want a kiss on his lips, he will gladly say yes anytime of the day

A/N: OKAY. I loved writing this, I enjoyed Neuvillette and Ayato’s part, I kinda lost ideas for zhongli but THERE WAS AN ATTEMPT. Anyways thank you for requesting, I only have… 2-3 requests left until I can open them again ! I love how thoma would also be a gentleman to you idk I think he’s pretty cool this wasn’t proofread and comments are appreciated !! (Drop by for a tip, or if I mischaracyerized them or just say hi!)

[martiae]

from me to you | pepe martí

“all of the girls you’ve loved before, made you the one i’ve fallen for” ♡ (inspired by to all the boys i’ve loved before!)

synopsis: you’ve been in love with your childhood best friend since you were 6. when you were 13, you decided to start writing love letters to him. you never planned on sending them but they somehow made their way to his house?

pairing: pepe marti x reader (y/n) adler | genre: highschool au, smau, fluff, slight angst | warnings: some cursing, suggestive jokes from christian (haha), gianna/gigi is an oc, y/n is kind of irritating because she assumes a lot !!

chapter 2 : the diner

now playing : breaking news — flowerovlove

you sighed before putting your phone down on the table, your anxiety rising as you realize what you’re doing at this place.

after gianna left you alone with pepe after school, you were able to steer both of your guys ways to this diner.

it gave you more time to plan your words, no, your sentences. you needed to make sure you didn’t say anything that you’ll regret. obviously pepe was mad, his face has told you a lot.

your thoughts were put on pause when you saw a strawberry milkshake be carefully placed in front of you. you glanced up and saw the small smile on his face. he carefully slid into the booth, facing you directly as he pulled his milkshake towards himself.

“um..” you let out.

his eyes dart towards yours, his eyebrows raising.

“thank you. i could’ve paid for myself” you thanked.

a small smile appeared on his face, his head softly shaking.

“you could’ve, but, i didn’t want you to” he said.

your stomach turned, your eyes lingering on his face as he sipped his milkshake.

it was true, all of what you wrote. you can’t remember everything but you still feel as if those things and feelings are true. they definitely still exist too.

“so..” he let out, his posture straightening as he put his elbows on the table.

his eyes had the certain sparkle to them, the very pretty one. he looked at you with an intense gaze, his face looking more neutral.

“after forcing me to get you a milkshake..will you finally speak?”

your mouth opened in surprise, a small smile appearing on your face.

“force?” you asked, a small chuckle coming out.

“i think i chose the right word. you said nothing but ‘follow me’ after i asked you if we could talk about it!” he replied with a smile.

well he wasn’t necessarily wrong. but you didn’t expect him to follow you, or pay for your food, or look at you with such an endearing expression.

“well..what do you want to talk about?” you coughed out guiltily.

a grin appeared on his face, his head tilting to stare at you more efficiently.

“were those letters real?”

“i’m not sure what letters you’re talking about. maybe if you considered telling me what they said id be able to respond effectively” you responded.

“you’re like a robot” he said with a laugh.

you shrugged your shoulders, biting your straw to try to not show your utter fear.

pepe’s face became slightly red, his eyes not meeting yours.

“what? what’d they say?” you asked with genuine concern.

you felt the embarrassment a mile away. if pepe was getting second hand embarrassment, you didn’t even want to know.

“nevermind! don’t say it! please i rather not hear it..” you interjected.

he finally looked at you, sensing you about to say more.

“look, i haven’t written a single letter since sophomore year. i don’t even want to know what it said but just know that it’s most likely really old! and not important or relevant anymore.” you explained with a loud sigh.

“it’s not relevant anymore?” he asked.

“yeah probably not. i totally forgot what i was talking about in those things” you said with a very fake chuckle.

“oh…” he let out, an unreadable expression on his face.

“so, don’t worry about it anymore!” you reassured.

“alright..” he said with a hint of uncertainty.

you knew it was wrong to lie. you knew that lying was something you didn’t really want to do; however, lying was the only realistic thing to do.

often times, the things we can’t say are the most important.

you wish you could say that you were in love with him. but, you couldn’t.

you know that you never could confess to him. confessing to him meant that you’d have to move on, and that was something that you knew would never happen. liking him in silence was the best option, and your original option.

you guys quickly began to catch up, his voice and laugh and attentiveness making your heart skip a beat.

it was nice: when things were like this. his laughter filling your ears, your conversation never ending, and the reason why you guys were here seemingly being unimportant.

“you didn’t have to walk me home” you told, a small smile appearing nevertheless.

pepe smiled back, “the sun is setting. what kind of guy would let a girl walk home alone?”

“a normal guy” you replied back.

“well i am not normal”

yeah. he isn’t a ‘normal’ guy. that’s why things between you two can never happen.

when you both reached your front porch, you turned to face him.

“your house still looks the same!” he exclaimed

you giggled, “of course. you know that my mom hates changing things”

pepe laughed, “yeah. you’re right about that one.”

“pepe! is that you?” a voice called.

“oh speaking of her!” you let out with an amused chuckle.

“oh! good evening tía!”

“pepe! oh wow look at you, you look so handsome!” your mom sang as she approached him.

“thank you..” he shyly nodded.

“come over for dinner someday, okay?” she said with a smile.

pepe nodded with a small smile, “i will”

your mom nodded with a pleased expression, slowly putting her hand on your shoulder.

“it’s cold out. let’s go inside now”

“alright!” you said.

“see you again tía! bye (name)” pepe waved.

your mom waved and you said goodbye, a warm smile appearing on your face.

“it’s been a while since i’ve seen pepe. it’s nice to see him. bring him over for dinner sometime” your mom commented.

“yeah, okay.” you agreed.

it has been a while. i guess it wouldn’t hurt to invite him over again.

[arc852]

Birthdays

Summary: Jimmy has never celebrated his birthday before. Grian and Joel change that.

Warnings: Crying

Word Count: 1404

AO3 Link

Surprise! I decided to write a little something because I'm currently in a birthday mood since tomorrow (the 5th) is my birthday! So I hope you guys enjoy!

______________________________________________________________

 “Oh, shoot!” Joel suddenly exclaimed after having looked at something on his phone. They all sat around Joel’s desk eating, Grian and Joel were enjoying some burgers and fries while Jimmy was eating a chicken nugget and a single fry. Though, sometimes he’d have a second one if he was feeling extra hungry. Jimmy turned away from his food though to give Joel a raised eyebrow.

 “What’s wrong?” Jimmy asked.

 “I just remembered it’s my mom’s birthday today! I need to text her. And probably call her later…” He mumbled the last bit more to himself as he was already typing away on his phone.

 “Wow, forgetting your mom’s birthday? That’s a new low.” Grian said, a teasing smirk on his face. Joel glared at him.

 “Says the guy who forgot his sister’s birthday.” Joel retorted back. Grian’s teasing smirk was wiped off his face.

 “I was 7!” Grian exclaimed.

 “You’re twins!” Joel said and then laughed when he fully remembered the absurdity of it and the pout that had appeared on Grian’s face.

 Jimmy took another bite of his nugget as he watched the familiar way his humans liked to tease each other. Though the topic of birthdays was one that hadn’t come up before. He had seen plenty of humans celebrate a birthday before. They usually threw a big party about it and opened a lot of presents. “Is she going to throw a party?” Jimmy decided to ask.

 Joel wiped away the tears from his laughter and looked over at Jimmy. “Nah, she’d rather keep it casual, ya know? Her and my dad are probably just going to go out to dinner tonight.” Joel answered with a shrug. 

 Grian got a thoughtful look on his face. “Hey, Jimmy, when is your birthday anyway?” Grian asked, realizing that they never have. He hoped that they hadn’t missed it already.

 Jimmy blinked. “Oh, uh…well, I don’t actually know.” Jimmy said, looking back down at his food.

 Grian and Joel’s eyes went wide. “You don’t know?” Joel asked incredulously. “How do you not know?”

 “Hey, borrowers don’t keep dates and time like humans do.” Jimmy explained, huffing a bit. “I’ve gotten a bit better at it, living in the college dorm and now with you guys. But back when I was a kid, there was no real way for my parents to pin the exact date I was born. Just that it was sometime in the spring.” Jimmy continued, thinking back.

 “So, do you just celebrate it on a random day in spring then?” Joel asked again but Jimmy shook his head. 

 “No, birthdays aren’t really a…thing, for borrowers. I never even knew about birthdays until I moved here.” Jimmy said and then winced when Grian and Joel got those sad looks on their faces. 

 “So you’ve never celebrated your birthday.” Grian stated more than asked but Jimmy nodded all the same.

 “I never really saw the point to.” Jimmy said with a small shrug. He didn’t even know what day his actual birthday was on, after all. And what could he have even done? Party, presents, and other people seemed to be the main things needed to celebrate a birthday and that had been impossible for Jimmy.

 Grian hummed in thought and his gaze moved away from Jimmy. Joel looked like he wanted to say something more but Grian caught his eyes and shook his head. Joel sighed and took a rather passionate bite out of his hamburger. “I guess that makes sense.” Grian said, a bit too offhandedly for his previous reaction. “Anyway, Joel, did you see the test results for that math test the other day?” Grian said, changing the subject a little too suddenly. Jimmy looked at both of them suspiciously but didn’t say anything more, just continued to eat as he listened to them speak overhead.

 He’s sure it was nothing.

***

 Two days later and Jimmy had all but forgotten their conversation on birthdays. It was Friday afternoon and Jimmy was scrolling through Joel’s phone, waiting for his two humans to get back. Jimmy glanced at the time on the upper left side of the phone and frowned when he realized how late they were. Usually their classes on Fridays got out at 3 and it was already well on its way to becoming 5. Where could they be?

 It was as if his thought summoned them because a moment later, Jimmy heard the sound of the door unlocking. He smiled and shut off the phone, turning toward the door. But instead of coming in normally, all of a sudden the door slammed open and Grian and Joel shouted in unison. “Surprise!”

 “Ahh!” Jimmy screamed, almost falling over in how quickly he had backed up. He took a moment to recover but when he did, he noticed Grian and Joel were carrying things. Grian was carrying about three balloons of varying colors in one hand and a small box in the other. Joel had both his hands on a see-through container that was holding chocolate cake.

 Grian bumped the door closed behind him and grinned at Jimmy. “Happy Birthday, Jimmy!”

 “Yeah! Happy Birthday!” Joel also chimed in.

 Jimmy blinked, looking back and forth between the two of them with wide eyes. “What?”

 Joel chuckled and came closer after putting the cake down on his desk. He crouched down near his nightstand to be more eye level with Jimmy. “You said the other day that you’ve never celebrated your birthday before. So we’re here to change that!” Joel explained with a grin.

 Grian came up from behind Joel, having put the box on the desk and the balloons tied to Joel’s chair. “We know it’s not spring anymore but we figured this could be a celebration of all the birthdays you’ve missed.” Grian said with his own grin.

 They…wanted to celebrate his birthday? They had gone out of their way and bought things for him so they could all celebrate not just one birthday, but all the birthdays he had missed?

 Jimmy could feel tears start to form in his eyes and he took in a shaky breath. He let out a little laugh as a few tears fell. “You guys…” He let out another laugh as he wiped away more and more tears.

 “Oh, Jim.” Grian said softly but Joel was the one to reach forward and cup his hands around Jimmy, lifting him up and bringing him close, standing as he did so. Jimmy continued to wipe at his tears but moved his hands as Joel’s thumb came up and took over that job. Wiping gently at his face. Jimmy sniffed and leaned into the touch.

 “You guys didn’t have to do this.” Jimmy said after a moment. Joel’s thumb lifted off his face and his tears were now more or less staying in his eyes.

 “But we wanted to.” Joel said. “You deserve to celebrate your birthday just like everyone else.”

 Jimmy sniffed and grinned. “Thank you. You guys are…you guys are the best.” Jimmy was so very lucky to have them.

 Grian and Joel smiled down at him, their smiles soft and fond. “Don’t thank us yet.” Grian joked and moved out of Jimmy’s line of sight until Joel turned around, heading to the desk where Grian was pulling it away from the wall once again to use as a table. “You might hate the present we got you.” He continued to joke.

 Jimmy rolled his eyes, his tears all but gone now. “I highly doubt it.” 

 “But, first things first.” Joel said and passed Jimmy over to Grian before he took the top off the cake. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a candle and a lighter. He put the candle in the center of the cake and then used the lighter to light it. “You gotta blow out your candle. Make a wish, Jimmy.”

 Grian brought Jimmy closer to the flame and Jimmy looked at it for a moment before closing his eyes. Make a wish…

 Jimmy smiled. He only really wished for one thing. That he, Grian, and Joel would continue to be friends for the rest of their lives. With this wish in mind, he blew as hard as he could and the fire went out.

 As he opened his eyes back up and grinned at Grian and Joel, he knew without a doubt that his wish would come true.

[galaxy-stardust]

Simon Ghost Riley x you

Part 4

"I'm leaving"

After that night, nothing was the same.

I had thought I was in control—thought that I could keep this secret, this dangerous attraction to Ghost, buried deep within me. But every time I closed my eyes, his presence consumed me. Every time I walked through the halls of the hospital, my mind was torn between pretending to be the dutiful wife and wanting to give in to the man who had marked me, body and soul.

Ghost and I began meeting in secret. Every stolen moment, every whispered conversation behind closed doors, was more electrifying than the last. He never pushed me for more, but the tension between us grew each time we saw each other. He never asked about my life, my marriage, yet it was clear from his actions that he wasn’t looking for anything casual.

At night, I would sneak out to meet him in dark, hidden corners of the city, away from the prying eyes of my husband. We never went to the same place twice, never lingered long enough to be seen. But when I was with him, I forgot everything else. There were no responsibilities, no obligations. There was only *us*.

And when I kissed him—when his hands roamed my body, when his lips devoured mine—I felt wanted in a way I hadn’t in years.

But then came the day I was dreading.

I was sitting at my desk, going through the usual paperwork, when my phone buzzed. It was a message from Ghost:

*I’m leaving.*

I stared at the screen, my heart skipping a beat. There was no explanation, no detail. Just those three words.

I quickly typed back: *When? Where? Why?*

A few moments later, another message appeared:

*Mission. Can’t say more.*

My chest tightened.

I had known this moment would come. The man who lived a life so dangerous, so full of secrecy and risk, couldn’t stay in one place for long. But that didn’t make it any easier.

I slipped out of my office, my pulse hammering in my ears as I made my way to the emergency exit. We’d always met in the shadows, but this time, it felt different. I needed to see him before he left, needed to know that this—whatever it was—was real.

As I rounded the corner near the hospital’s back parking lot, I spotted him leaning against his motorcycle, waiting for me in the dim light. The mask, that damned skull mask, hid his face as always, but I could see the stiffness in his posture, the tension that radiated off him. He was waiting for me to say something.

“I got your message,” I said, my voice trembling despite my efforts to stay calm.

He nodded, not offering a smile, just a simple acknowledgment.

“I don’t want you to go,” I whispered, the words slipping out before I could stop them.

His blue eyes met mine, unreadable yet filled with something I couldn’t quite decipher. “It’s not about what we want,” he said, his voice gruff, like he was struggling with the words. “It’s about what I have to do.”

I stepped closer, my heart aching. “I… I don’t want this to end, Ghost. I don’t want you to leave.”

He pushed off from the motorcycle, his hand reaching for me. The moment his fingers brushed my skin, I felt a heat surge through me, but it was different this time. There was a certain finality in his touch. He wasn’t just pulling me close; he was marking me, reminding me of the boundary we couldn’t cross.

“You knew this wasn’t forever.” His voice softened, but there was still that edge, that command in his tone. “I never promised you anything. This was always meant to be temporary.”

“I know…” I whispered, feeling the sting of reality cut through the fantasy I’d let myself fall into.

He cupped my cheek gently, his thumb tracing the outline of my jaw. His touch was both tender and possessive, like he was memorizing the feel of me before he left. “You’ll be fine,” he murmured. “You always are.”

I nodded, my throat tight.

“I’ll be back,” he said, though it sounded more like a warning than a promise.

I reached up, my fingers brushing his mask. He didn’t pull away, just stood there, letting me touch him in my own way.

For a long moment, we just stood there, a silent understanding passing between us. The world felt like it was on pause.

And then, without another word, he turned and walked away, his boots echoing in the night as he climbed onto his motorcycle and vanished into the darkness.

I stood there for what felt like hours, my heart heavy, my mind consumed with the reality of what had just happened.

And then I remembered—I still had a life to return to. A husband, a routine. And I knew, deep down, that when Ghost left, part of me would go with him.

Part 5

[tiedyeflannels]

Never Let You Go

Park Jimin x reader

Pt.1 | Pt. 2 | Pt. 3 - Masterlist

Word Count: 1.4k

Genre: Angst to Fluff

A/N: Here's the last part! Sorry it took so long, but I hope you enjoy!

6 months. 6 months felt like nothing after returning from the US. Jin and Hobi were busy doing their own things like promotions, content for ARMY, writing and producing songs, and a frickin’ WORLD TOUR. So… Things got busy real quick since I came back, but it’s been a blast!

And now, it’s June and the rest of the members were scheduled to come back from their service soon. We (Jin, Hobi, and I) had already picked up Namjoon and Tae, but when I asked when the others were getting out, they refused to answer me which led to today…

“You promised me that we would get food and that’s what I’m expecting,” I said, crossing my arms and glaring at the members currently sitting in front of me in van. I slumped against the third-row seat of the van as I watched a couple of them smile. It was something that set me ill at ease.

“We will, we just need to stop somewhere first,” Jin said, prompting me to sigh and look out the window. I looked around at the buildings, when something caught my eye.

“You have to be kidding me,” I mumbled under my breath as we stopped by the gate to a military base. “I knew something fishy was happening when you didn’t tell me when the others were getting released.”

Tae snickered as they all started to undo their seatbelts and got out of the car, making me do the same.

“We knew that you wouldn’t have come if we didn’t,” Jin nudged me as we walked through the gate and to an open area with a few other families who were waiting for their sons too. 

“You’re not wrong about that,” I muttered, crossing my arms. I watched as the surrounding families talked excitedly with one another before doubts started to creep in my head.

Should I even be here? What if…

“What if I make things awkward by being here?”

What if he doesn’t want me… here?

“Now, why would that happen,” Namjoon asked, making me turn toward him. 

“Yeah,” Hobi started, “If anything, he should be the one that’s awkward. You did everything you could so you could mend the situation, and he ghosted you. It’s his fault, not yours, so keep your chin up!”

I sent a small smile his way as a thanks, but I still couldn’t shake the nervous feeling in my gut. 

“I’m still nervous though.”

“And that’s okay,” Tae smiled and put a hand on my shoulder reassuringly. “You haven’t seen or talked to him in 2 years, it’s normal to feel nervous, but don’t feel that way just because he might be mad that you’re here. Jungkook is getting released today, so if he asks why you’re here, just say you’re here to support Jk!”

I squinted at Tae with a sly smile, “When did you get so wise?”

He chuckled and was about to say something before someone beat him to it, “It was all that time at the super cool base of his.”

We all turned to the voice and watched as Jungkook happily made his way over to us. 

“Jaykay~” “Jin~”

I chuckled as the youngest and oldest pulled each other into a hug. I continued to watch the others take turns hugging the youngest before it was my turn. I smiled as he turned his attention to me and scooped me into a hug, spinning us around before setting me down. 

“I missed you, Y/n/n! How was America,” he asked, giving me one last squeeze before pulling away.

“It was good! Kind of boring though, without you guys there, but I had fun,” I smiled.

“How was your time here,” I asked glancing at the building that stood a ways away from where we were.

He shrugged, “Eh. Fine, I guess. Don’t even get me started on Jimin.”

I tensed up, letting my nerves get the better of me.

“Speaking of,” Namjoon started, looking at the building Jungkook had come out of, “Where is he?”

Jk looked back, then turned to the group, “He said there was something he forgot to pack when we were starting to leave so… he should be joining us fairly soon.”

Speak of the devil and he shall appear because as soon as Jungkook finished his sentence, Jimin came walking out of the front doors. 

I peaked around Jk’s arm and watched as he made his way over to us with a relieved smile. I was technically blocked by Jungkook, so I watched as Jimin gave some of the members that approached him a hug while striking up a conversation. I smiled fondly as I watched him joke around and happily laugh with the others while he was unaware of my presence behind Jungkook.

That was until said person made his way over to Jimin, leaving me to awkwardly stand out in the open, not sure what to do. I fiddled with my fingers as the group kept on talking before Jimin took a simple glance in my direction, effectively stopping what he was saying.

Anxiety started to run through me as he just… stared at me, with a blank expression.

He dropped his bags and started to slowly make his way towards me while my mind was racing, trying to come up with an excuse as to why I was here.

I nervously chuckled when he stopped in front of me- looking everywhere but him, “Hey… Just setting the record straight; the members tricked me into co-”

Jimin hurriedly wrapped his arms around me in a tight hug and buried his head in the crook of my neck- effectively catching me by surprise and making me freeze against his touch. My brows furrowed in confusion- not sure what was going on until he muttered something that I couldn’t quite catch. I hummed in question, prompting Jimin to repeat it.

“I’m so sorry.”

My eyes widened.

“I’m so sorry that I ghosted you. That I left you wondering what you did wrong. That I let you leave without giving you an explanation.”

Tears started to wet my shoulder as he cried. I finally wrapped my arms around his torso while letting the tears that were building up silently fall down my face as he continued. 

“I read every single text you sent me when you were in the US and I should’ve texted back.”

“Why didn’t you,” I sobbed, tightly gripping the back of his shirt, “I always gave you the chance!”

“I know,” he pulled back, allowing me to see face. It was red and blotchy from the crying with tears still making their descent on his cheeks, but he still looked perfect. 

“But I didn’t think I deserved to after what I said to you,” he continued. “We were about to enlist, and I wanted to push you away because I didn’t want it to be hard for you, but that didn’t work out like I wanted…”

I let out a humorless laugh as I brought my hands to his face to wipe tears. 

“You dummy,” I gently smiled when he leaned into my touch.

“I know. That’s not an excuse and I’m really sorry. If you wanted nothing to do with me anymore; I get it. I wouldn’t want to be with me after that either.”

I shook my head. “Don’t think that! Would I have sent you a text nearly every day for two years if I didn’t want to be with you?”

“No,” he whispered.

I manually shook his head, earning a small smile.

“No, of course not! Though, you’re going to have to make it up, but I’m not that easy to let go.”

He shook his head as a fond smile graced his lips at my confession and wrapped me up in a hug again.

“I could never let you go,” he whispered, making me smile.

“Let’s go home, hmm?”

He pulled apart from the hug, looked me in the eyes and nodded, “Let’s go home.”

Bonus~

“So… how was Jimin during your service,” Jin asked Jungkook, who was accompanying the oldest in the front.

The maknae sighed, “He did great with the jobs he was given, but a lot of the time, he would talk about Y/n. He couldn’t even sleep that well.” 

Jin chuckled, “That’s funny because Y/n/n also had trouble sleeping.”

Both of them smiled and peeked toward the back row of the van where the both of you sat. You had your head on Jimin’s shoulder while he rested his on top on yours, peacefully sleeping now that both of you had each other back.

“It’s kind of funny how they won’t admit that they need each other as much as they do,” Jungkook said, facing forward again, leaving you both to catch up on some much-needed sleep.

[voxmortuus]

I have a very specific DARKFIC request for you with a pretty serious trigger warning.

Tangerine and non-con with a virgin fem reader. Eventually the reader starts to enjoy it as the scene caries out. Bonus points for pet name use and a splash of breeding kink.

✧*̥˚ PAIRING: *̥˚✧ Dark!Tangerine x F!Reader ✧*̥˚ UNIVERSE: *̥˚✧ Bullet Train ✧*̥˚ WORD COUNT: *̥˚✧ 2.6k ✧*̥˚ TRIGGER WARNINGS: *̥˚✧Dead Dove Do Not Eat | Virgin Reader | Rough Intercourse | Hitting | Spitting | Choking | Hair Pulling | Bleeding | Degradation | slamming readers into bathroom wall | Pressing readers head against the wall | Taking it from behind | NON-CONSENSUAL UNPROTECTED INTERCOURSE | Eventual consent with reader enjoying the scene | Mention of Cock warming | Eager to please Reader | Pet name | Breeding Kink | Cream Pie | PLEASE TELL ME IF I FORGOT ANYTHING!!! I want to make sure readers are fully aware of what they are getting themselves into when they read this… ✧*̥˚ DISCLAIMER: *̥˚✧ DO NOT ROMANTICISE OR GLAMORIZE SERIAL KILLERS OR RAPE! I do not condone these actions, nor do I support them! This was written upon request. Do NOT send me hate mail, you will be blocked, do not post on this with any sort of negativity you will be blocked. If you don’t like it don’t read it it’s that simple!!! If you ever encounter this in real life please contact the Sexual Assault Telephone Hotline. Please understand this is a fanfiction, think of it like Hollywood. Also, I’m sorry if this is horrible….. ✧*̥˚ NOTES: *̥˚✧ I hope this finds you well, I hope this hits all the right notes with you. ✧*̥˚ IMAGE & DIVIDER CREDIT: *̥˚✧ @nyxvuxoa ✧*̥˚ My Master Masterlist | Aaron Taylor-Johnson Masterlist *̥˚✧

It's like his nose was a hound dog for that virgin blood. Watching you sit there on the train in an empty car you were reading your most current favorite book The Terminal List by Jack Carr, with your earbuds in listening to the latest song you were hooked on by Ice Nine Kills. You were minding your own business when this man dressed sharply sits across from you. Looking up you give him a polite smile and went back to your book.

After a brief observation of the man sitting across from you, you noticed he had blood on his shirt, but you didn't think much of it. Sure alarming, but it was what it was, especially these days. Licking your lips, you turn the page. You feel these eyes on you. You glance up and sure enough, he's looking at you like you were some delicious snack. You give a slightly tense smile and look back down at your book.

You start to feel uncomfortable; your heart is racing; your mind is focused less on the book and music and more on this strange man sitting across from you staring you down. You lick your lips once more before you gather your small backpack and excuse yourself. You feel him watching you, but you don't look back, you just keep going.

Upon excusing yourself, you head toward the bathroom. Closing yourself in there you try and calm your nerves. You look over yourself in the mirror and shake yourself a bit and let out a slow breath. You plan to go back out after a few more moments and move to a different car.

After fixing your makeup, you finally get your nerves calm enough to return to the car. Opening the bathroom door, you walk right into his chest, and you stumble a moment.

"Oh, shit, I'm sorry." You say softly.

He didn't say anything. He gripped your throat and moved you back into the bathroom closing the door and locking it.

"Excuse me... no. Let me out." You state firmly.

"Babydoll, you need to be relax and be polite." He smirks.

"You need to fuck off... no." You state trying to push past him.

He pushed you back against the wall and shook his head and licked at his lips. "I don't think so Babydoll."

"I'm not you're Babydoll, and you need to back off." You state firmly, but it appears he's not listening.

You try and push him off you but his strength wasn't letting that happen. His hand starts to roam your body.

"What the fuck! Stop it!" you snap.

"You need to shut up." He states as he slams you against the wall.

Turning you around he reaches around and slips his hand under your shirt groping you. He lets out a soft groan against your neck. You begin to panic and pushing back but he keeps you in place with his forearm.

"Stop... please stop." You plead.

He hears you, but he doesn't listen, and he moves from your chest to slipping his hand into your leggings and realizes you're not wearing any panties and he smirks.

"Such an easy little slut you are huh?" He muses.

"Please don't do this." you beg. Your eyes well with tears. Closing your eyes tears drop.

"Oh come on now Babydoll, I love when they cry..." He purrs into your ear as he starts to massage your bud.

You begin to panic, your heart pounding in your chest, your mind running miles a minute. You try and choke back tears, but you feel like you can't breathe, and you try and fight him off but he's just keeping you there.

Closing your eyes you let out a soft breath and you attempt to push yourself away again, trying to escape from it all, your mind races, your heart pounds, your eyes crying.

"Please, please don't do this. I'm begging you. I'll give you whatever you want, but please stop." You plead.

"Oh Babydoll, you're going to give me exactly what I want." He smirked as he pressed himself against you.

Was he hard? Oh geez... oh no, yes, yes he was and then you knew your fate. He slips your leggings down as he presses your head against the wall. Your breathing quickens. You had no idea what to expect, you were saving yourself for the right person, the right moment, and here he was getting ready to rob you of that, to take it all away from you.

Thoughts ran through your head. Why you? Why now? Why this? What did you do to deserve this? Why won't he listen? All these on repeat, and it wouldn't stop. Why won't he stop? Why is he doing this?!

Trying to find your words to plead you turn around to try and push him but he is quick to slap you across the face and it causes your lip to bleed. You whimper a moment, and you try and fight back but he again, slams you against the bathroom wall. With a hand around your throat he spins you back around and slams you against the wall again.

"God damn it Babydoll, be a good girl." He snarls into your ear.

Moving from your neck to your hair he grips a hand full of your hair and moves you so he can position himself, but you fight. He snarls again before he says fuck it, and shoves his hard cock between your virgin lips and rips your innocence from you in one swift thrust.

You scream, in pain, the snapping, the hot pinch of pain, the searing hot rush hits you and you take in a jagged breath.

"No... no no no! Stop! PLEASE!" you plead but there is no stopping.

You try and fight him, but with him pinning you against the wall you can't escape him. His thrusts become quick, they become hard, and they hurt. His growling his snarling, his grunts and groans fill the bathroom and all you want is to be let go, return to your seat, read your book, listen to your music, that of which was now on the floor from the fighting. Your ear buds letting the music escape from them freely while you're being held hostage against this bathroom wall.

You begin to cry, hard, but this only seems to fuel him even more. Why was this happening right now. You begin to breathe heavily in panic. Your chest moving rapidly with each thrust, it wasn't out of enjoyment, it was out of panic, and anger, and aggression. He tilts your head back and your mouth opens only for him to spit in your mouth. You growl and spit back but he slams your head against the bathroom wall as his thrusts become harder.

You try and find your happy spot, but it wasn't working, everything was becoming too much. You couldn't get your mind to focus. So you focus on what's around you. The buttons for the toilet, the scent of the bathroom, the scent of him, the scent of blood... wait, blood? Oh, yeah... blood... that happens in moments like this. And then you feel angry again. This hot rush of anger hits you and you start to fight again.

"LET ME GO!" You start to fight again. Trying to push him away. But with the angle he's got you at makes it difficult.

"Babydoll, shut up." He growls. "You can fight all you want, you're giving me nothing but a harder cock." He smirks.

You growl and try and fight but that wasn't happening. His thrusts were hard, rigid, painful, your hips felt like they couldn't withstand the thrusts. You take in a jagged breath, you clench your jaw and you try and jerk your head with his hand in your hair and he only slams your head against the wall again.

You feel this daze hit you, one too many slams against the wall, you feel this tingling in your nose as he starts to thrust a little slower. Was he taking his time? You close your eyes trying to find that happy place, but all you can feel and see and focus on was his face, and how he felt stretching your virgin cunt. You clench your jaw breathing out of your nose.

You didn't want to think about it. You didn't want to feel this, you wanted this bubbling feeling to go away. You clenched your jaw and attempted to think of something else. The harder he thrust, the slower he took, the more your mind focused on the way it felt, how his cock felt slipping in and out just enough to tease the length. You actually felt yourself getting wet and you clench your walls around him. Not out of pleasure, but out of hopes of stopping yourself of getting wet, you didn't like it, you didn't want it.

You wanted to save it... but there was no saving anything. You hated him, you were angry with him, you hated him, you wanted to kill him... to rip his heart out and eat it with a side of french fries. You sniffle as you try and regain yourself and pushing back against him he shoves you forward again, his thrusts deep, slow, almost teasingly slow. What was he doing? Oh no, no he knew what he was doing. He wanted you to cave, but you weren't going to. You didn't want to.

This wasn't a game, this was a fight, and you wanted him to stop, taking all the stops but you weren't able to move, you felt this sense of defeat, accepting what it was. You just stood there, as he used you.

"That's it Babydoll... acceptance. You're tight little cunt feels so good... that tight little cunt belongs to me now. It's now molded for my cock. I'll be keeping you close Babydoll, use you whenever I want." He purred against your ear with a slight snarl.

You had no words, but why were they doing something to you, why were they making you feel conflicted. Why were you liking this? Your breathing picked up. You bite your lip a little harder.

"I'm going to breed you, fill you every day. Use you like the little slut fleshlight you are." He mused.

Okay now that did something. You whimper softly. Biting your lip, your hips spread a bit as you arch back a bit taking in more of him. He doesn't say anything in this moment, you just take his cock, focusing back on the feel of it, focusing on the way it fit inside you just right. Focusing on how it made you feel, you feel yourself loosen up around him, feeling yourself getting wetter.

"You...you... want to breed me?" You ask with an almost timid voice.

"I'm going to breed the fuck out of you Babydoll. You like that?" He asked.

You think a moment and nod. "Are you going to fill me up?" You ask.

He laughs with a slight groan. "Whenever I want." He purrs against your ear again.

You focus on the things around you, and you realize the title of the next song. Dirty Thoughts by Chloe Adams. You bite your lip and you let out a soft whimper, feeling how long he was, how wide he was, how he stretched you, you think about his words, how he wanted to use you, how he breathed, how he wanted to breed you. Your breathing picks up a little more.

It went from you hating this moment, to you starting to enjoy this moment.

"I want you to use me... to breed me... to fill me up..." You admit.

The thought of it, dripping his seed from your cunt was something that actually really turned you on. Biting your bloodied bruised lip you let out a soft moan as you spread your legs a little more letting him slip deeper and you press your ass toward him letting him take even more.

"That's it Babydoll, take more of my cock." He growled as he started to thrust upward into you.

You gaps feeling him slip fulling into you, feeling him hit right to the base of his shaft.

"You're so big... you feel.... you feel..." you don't want to say it.

"I feel what Babydoll?" He asked.

"You feel good... I like how you fill up my virgin pussy." You state. Where was this smut coming from? Where was this seeping from? Must have been all the fanfiction you were reading before coming on this train. "Please... fuck me a little slower... I want to feel all of you." You plead.

He blinked a few times and smirked. "My pleasure Babydoll." He mused.

Slowing his thrusts, you think a moment and you reach down to slip your pants off your leg.

"I want to face you.... please... I want you to face me and fuck me." You plead.

He smirks and pulls from you. This moment you could run, but you slip the pantleg off and place your hands on his shoulders and he lifts you and presses you against the wall, noticing the bruising on the side of your face, the blood from your lip, he leans forward and licks at your chin and sucks on your lip as he slips his cock back inside your slightly bleeding wet drippy cunt.

You let out a soft moan against his lips as you wrap your legs around his waist and feel him thrust deeper within your walls. They begin to message him.

You rest your head against the wall behind you. Your hands move from his shoulders to play at the hairline at his neck. As he bounces you against his cock your bud is rubbing against him and the sensation is overwhelming. You let out a loud moan. Feeling yourself getting wetter you close your eyes as they roll back. You whimper and moan rather loudly.

"That's it Babydoll, enjoy yourself." He smirks.

"Oh fuck... oh fuck... breed me... fuckin hell breed me. Pump me full." You moan loudly.

He looks over you and tilts his head and smirks as he picks up his pace, thrusting faster, harder, deeper. You feel yourself getting close. You clench your jaw as you drop your head against his shoulder. Your breathing quickens, he begins to pick up his pace a little more, his breathing, his moans quicken as he pumps into you.

"FUCK!" you scream as your body begins to shake.

Never experiencing pleasure like this, you were going to quickly get addicted. He slams you down on his cock.

"Fill me! FILL MY CUNT! BREED ME!" you scream.

He chuckles. "An eager Babydoll you are... I'm going to enjoy filling you up everyday." he smirked as he gave a few more slams and lets out a heavy groan.

Your body shook as you just let everything go. Your whole body just releases and takes his hot ribbons of breeding seed. You scream with a finish as he continues to pump his load into you.

You grip at his hair a moment, your breathing erratic, your mind calm and quiet, your body tingling, sore, and euphoric. Everything felt good and sore at the same time.

"Fuck..." You pant. You look over him. "Do you have a name?" You ask him.

"Sir works just fine, Babydoll." He smirks.

You tilt your head and smirk. "Does this mean I'm all yours now?" You ask.

He looks at you and smirks. "With a mouth like that, damn fuckin straight it does Babydoll." He states with confidence.

"Can we do this again soon?" You ask.

"Are you going to fight me next time?" he asked.

"No... but maybe I can make you hard and I can sit on it while we wait for the next stop?" You ask.

"Cock warming may be a little too advanced for you." he smirked.

"And this wasn't? I'll warm your cock, and you can fill me up again." You smirk.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Tagging: @earth-elemental18 @nyxvuxoa-writes

[daryltwdixon]

The Ruins of Us: Chapter 25

Summary: you finally make your way to talk to Randy, but the situation turns dangerous when you get caught. During a flashback, Daryl sits with you by the quarry, before Shane or talks of college, and as you talk and laugh, he finds himself overwhelmed by unspoken feelings for you. 

warnings: Shane is pretty scary in this one, no other warnings apply. as always lmk if I forgot any!

X flashforward x

The barn is quiet, save for the distant murmur of Shane and Andrea’s hushed conversation outside. You know this could potentially be a terrible idea, but you needed to know. Needed to talk to Randy yourself. The wood of the barn slat wall creaks as you lean against it, walking along the side to the back door. You glance back one last time, making sure Andrea and Shane are still distracted before slipping inside. The scent of old hay and dust fills the space, your footsteps soft on the dirt floor as you make your way to the center of the barn.

The midday sun peaks through the gaps where the wood has rotted in the ceiling above as you take in the sight of him. Randy sits tied to a wooden post, his bruised and bloodied face twisted in discomfort, but when he spots you, something flickers in his eyes—hope. He straightens slightly, doing his best to look less like a beaten man and more like someone worth trusting. His brown puppy dog eyes are alight with enthusiasm as he looks at you.

“You came back,” he says, his voice soft, almost grateful. “I was hoping you would.”

You cross your arms, standing just far enough away to keep your distance. “I need answers.”

“Look, I’m not like those other guys. I’m just trying to survive, same as you.”

You study him, not moving an inch. “And that’s why you were running with a group of men who tried to kill my people?”

Randy lets out a shaky breath, his expression carefully constructed to appear sincere. “I didn’t have a choice, okay? Your guys shot first–killed a couple of our guys!-- but then the dudes I was with left me there to die, man! I’ll take you guys to them, explain what happened. No one’s gonna get hurt, we can all work together!” he’s trying to keep his voice down, you can tell, but his words are desperate.

You narrow your eyes, the alarm bells ringing in your head. You can’t tell what to believe. The Randy you remember from the overcrowded house party was goofy, sweet, maybe a little dumb. But this world changed people. 

“These guys here, they don’t listen to me,” he insists, his voice rising, “But you will. I remember you, Y/N. You were always so nice. Real pretty too, still are.”

“You don't even know me, we met one time, Randy,” you roll your eyes, “I was drunk and needed a distraction. Now tell me where your group is.”

His face falls for just a second before he scrambles to recover. “I–I don’t know. We moved around a lot. Please don’t let them kill me, Y/N. I know they’re gonna,”

His eyes dart toward the door, where Shane and Andrea’s voices still carry faintly in the distance. His tone softens again, trying a different approach. “Look, you seem smart. You gotta know I’m not the bad guy here. You help me, and I’ll owe you one. We can both walk away from this.”

You take a slow breath, your arms still crossed as you keep your eyes on him. You hated the idea of him dying just because no one knew what to do with him. But he knew too much, knew too many people here in the group. Knew where this house was, from what Rick said earlier. “I don’t need anything from you, Randy.” you finally say, softly.

Before he can respond, the barn door creaks loudly, and your body alights with shock, freezing you to the spot as you see a tall figure in the doorway, the gleam against him bright from the sun. Shane’s voice cuts through the quiet, rough and edged with suspicion. “What the hell do you think you’re doin’?”

Your heart skips a beat as he steps into the barn, his gaze locked on you, then flicking to Randall with a barely restrained fury. Andrea is behind him with her eyes wide, both hands on her gun that she holds down at the ready. Shane’s eyes narrow as he takes a step toward you, tension radiating from every movement. His eyes flick back to Randall, and the shift in his demeanor is immediate—his shoulders tense, jaw clenched. He stalks toward him, the sound of his boots heavy on the barn floor.

“What the hell did you say to her?” Shane growls, his voice low, dangerous. His hand goes immediately to his gun, bringing it to Randy’s face, and the kid whimpers and whines, pleading with him.

“Shane, enough!” you yell. Andrea is up by you, ready to act, but still telling Shane to stop as well. 

“N-Nothing! I didn’t say anything!” he stammers, standing up in fear, his voice shaking. “I was just trying to talk, that’s all.”

“Just tryna talk?” Shane repeats mockingly, his tone dripping with contempt. He leans in close to Randall, his face inches away from his. “If I find out you said something you shouldn’t have—if you tried to pull anything with her—You’re gon’ wish I left you out on the road earlier,”

Randall’s whole body trembling as Shane takes a step back, holstering his gun and looking at you. 

“I swear, man, I didn’t—” Randy stammers.

“Shut up,” Shane snaps, cutting him off with a glare before turning on you again.

“Get back to the house,” he tells Andrea, not taking his eyes off you. She looks between the two of you for a short moment, before running out of the barn. Now it was just you, him, and Randy. The anxiety you felt skyrockets to fear.

His anger is setting the room ablaze, his eyes furious as he strides toward you. Your body still feels frozen, cold chills keeping you in place as you wait for his reaction. Before you could move, Shane’s hand closes around your arm with a vice-like grip, yanking you away from the scene. His fingers dig painfully into your skin as he drags you behind the barn, out of sight, out of earshot. The isolation hits you, and your heart pounds faster as he pushes you up against the side of the barn, wood digging into your back.

“What the hell were you thinking?” Shane growls, his face inches from yours. His breath is hot, reeking of anger and frustration, “you sneak in here, talking to him behind my back? Are you stupid?”

You try to pull your arm free, but his grip tightens, and a flicker of panic sparks in your chest. “I was trying to get answers,” you say, your voice steady, but the tremor of fear rises beneath the surface.

“Answers?” Shane’s laugh is sharp and humorless. “All he’s gon’ do is try to manipulate you, say all the nice pretty things to you to get you to cave–to let him go off to his group. You know what could happen to you if all those guys come around here?”

His face is close enough now that you can feel the heat radiating off him. He isn’t just angry—he’s furious. And it scares you. Your brows knit as you feel his hand tighten around you, “Shane, let go,” you say, your voice more shaky than you intend.

But Shane doesn’t let go. Instead, he leans in closer, his grip like iron on your arm. 

“You think you’re tough, huh? Think you can handle whatever comes your way? You don’t know a damn thing, Y/N. You’re playin’ with fire, thinkin’ you’re untouchable. And you know what? It’s always me—me—pullin’ you out of the shit you get yourself into. You think you’ve been handling things? No. You’re lucky I’ve been around to clean up your messes. But keep pushin’, and I won’t be there next time. You’ll wish you’d listened.”

Your heart pounds, and for the first time in a long time, your toughness faltered. He’s bigger, stronger, and angrier than you’d ever seen him. When you didn’t answer, he just went on, getting more and more angry with each word.

“Always so reckless. So stupid,” Shane sneers, each word dripping with contempt. “Always messin’ in things that don’t concern you. When you gon’ learn to keep your mouth shut and stay out of the way?” His other hand slams against the wall beside your head, the sound sharp and sudden, making you flinch. 

“Shane,” your voice trembles, “You’re hurting me.”

Shane’s hot breath is still on you as he glares at you and you’re trying to back away from him, but it’s no use, of course. He has you trapped against the wooden wall, the nails between slats now digging into your back from trying to get as far away as possible from him. You weren’t sure how far he was about to take this. His hand on you is like a hot iron brand, and the other one cages you in over your shoulder and by your face. He has you right where he wants you, pinned to the wall, and for a flash of a moment, prickling in your spine has you fearing for your life.

“You’re gon’ wanna let her go now,” a low voice comes from around the corner of the barn.

Shane’s head snapped up, and you turned to see Daryl standing just a few feet away, crossbow raised, his expression cold and controlled. His eyes were fixed on Shane, the tip of his bolt aimed at Shane’s face as he circled around to face you.

Shane’s mouth curled into a bitter smile, an ugly laugh slipping out as he took in the archer, “Aw, ain’t this sweet,” he leered, “The best friend trying to stick up for ‘er after she nearly got herself killed. Typical,” he laughed again, his voice dripping with mockery. “Never could keep her out of trouble, could you, Dixon? Hell, last time you left, I thought she might actually do well for herself, and look at her now. Attached at the hip again, back to doin’ the same ol’ reckless shit with you. But we both know how this ends. You’ll walk away again—leaving her to me to pick up the pieces.”

Daryl is silent as he keeps the crossbow up, pointed at Shane with a hunter’s precision and stillness. Shane just shakes his head, a breathy, cold laugh escaping as he lifts himself off the barn where he’s caging you, and walks off. You watch as he makes his way back to the house, scrubbing his hand on the back of his head and stalking off.

The Shane you knew—the one who used to protect you, the one who was always in control—is slipping further away. That wild look in his eyes, the way he’d grabbed you… You’ve never seen him like that before. And the worst part is, you didn’t know if this was the last time it would happen or just the beginning.

Daryl immediately drops his bow when Shane is a good, safe distance and throws it to the ground, coming to you. His hands hover over you as you close your eyes, trying desperately to calm your breathing, keeping in the tears that threaten to fall. You’d never seen Shane get that volatile. Never actually try to hurt you. Well, that wasn’t true though. The moment he had you pinned at the CDC rings through your mind again, a shiver raking through you at the memory now.

“Did he hurt you?” Daryl asks quickly and quietly, studying your body, your face, while his hands brush over your skin. You grip your arm where it feels like you were branded with Shane’s handprint, trying to soothe your skin, or maybe just soothe yourself. You feel your lip tremble, but bite down on it hard until you start tasting the metallic lingering of blood.

“Hey, hey,” Daryl whispers, you can feel his soft breath over your face, his hands finally coming to rest on your face. Your eyes flutter open to look at him, and the only thing that is keeping you from losing it are his blue eyes on you. You hold onto them with your gaze as you still try to steady yourself. 

His touch is tender, a stark contrast to the violence that had filled the air just moments ago. “Shoulda let that arrow fly,” he muttered, his voice thick with a protective edge.

You let out a humorless laugh, but then swallow hard and shake your head, the warmth of his touch sinking into your skin as you look away, “I don’t know what’s happening to him,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. “He’s… different.”

Daryl’s jaw tightens, his expression hardening briefly. “Why’d you have to go in there? I told you to stay away. And with Shane out here–he’s dangerous, Y/N,”

You feel a knot forming in your throat as everything hits you. For a moment, you feel like your walls are crumbling, like the tough exterior you have tried so hard to keep is falling apart. And Daryl—he’s the only person who could ever see through it. He seems to read your mind, because he’s bringing you in close, wrapping his arms around you. You let him, and you rest your face into the crook of his neck, breathing in his scent deeply to ground you. Your arms come up under his, gripping the back of his shirt.

When he pulls back, he keeps you in his arms, studying your face again, almost like his wheels are turning quickly, unsure if he should do what he’s thinking of. You tilt your face up, parting your lips, inviting him in, anything to take you out of the moment you were just in. He seems to understand, and leans in and presses his lips softly to yours. The fire that had ignited between you so many times before flickered back to life, and your lips melded together slowly, the tension in your body disappearing. Everything dissolved into this embrace, and you wonder briefly why either of you had waited so long to let this happen. 

When you finally pull back you stay close as you try to catch your breath. You lean your head forward and he kisses your forehead, his hand lingering on your neck, his thumb softly tracing the curve of your jaw as his breath comes out in short, uneven bursts.

“Can’t stand seein’ you like this,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough, but filled with something tender, “We can’t keep stayin’ here like this,”

You close your eyes, leaning into him as his words sink in. You know he means he wants to leave the camp, the group. But as much as Shane scares you, the numbers you have here are safer than heading out alone with him, “I don’t want to be scared anymore,” you whisper, barely audible, but you know he heard you.

“You ain’t gotta be,” Daryl whispers back, his voice full of quiet promise, “Not anymore,”

The moment stretches between you, the warmth of his touch and the feeling of safety that came with it. Here, behind the barn, out of sight, with just the two of you, you finally did let yourself believe you would be safe as long as you had Daryl.

X flashback x

Daryl

It was one of those quiet nights, the kind where the world seemed to slow down. The moon hung low over the quarry, casting a pale glow across the water as Daryl sat next to you, an empty pizza box between you two. You were talking about something that had happened earlier, laughing as you recounted the story, but Daryl wasn’t really listening anymore. His focus had shifted—he was watching you, not the stars or the quarry, but you.

This was how you spent a lot of your nights, just the two of you hanging out like it was nothing. But tonight, something felt different. He couldn’t explain it, couldn’t put a name to it, but something had shifted.

You turned to him, your smile easy and bright, the kind that always made something stir in his chest. “Can’t believe you actually finished more slices than me,” you teased, your voice light and playful.

Daryl barely registered the words. His eyes were locked on your face, on the way the moonlight softened your features. Something inside him twisted. He wasn’t sure why, but everything felt more intense tonight. The way you smiled at him, the sound of your laughter—it hit him harder than usual, like a punch to the gut.

You wiped your hands on a napkin, still smiling as you leaned back, content. But there was a softness in your gaze when you turned to him again, a quiet calm that made his heart beat just a little faster.

“It’s nice out here,” you had said, eyes drifting up to the stars. “Quiet.”

Daryl nodded, but his attention stayed on you. He’d never really let himself dwell on how much he enjoyed nights like this, just the two of you. But now, the thought of it ending at any time soon was pressing on him in a way he couldn’t shake.

You had caught him staring, your smile faltering just a bit. You tilted your head, a playful curiosity in your eyes. “What?” you asked, your voice soft but teasing. “You look like you just swallowed a bug or somethin’,”

He swallowed, his throat dry. He didn’t know how to explain it. Didn’t even have the words. All he knew was that being around you felt right, like it was where he was supposed to be. Always had been that way—you were the only person who didn’t expect anything from him, who didn’t judge him, and for once, that thought scared him.

You held his gaze, the silence between you going on what felt like forever. The teasing grin slowly slipped from your lips, replaced by something more serious, more uncertain. Your eyes flicked down for a second, just enough for Daryl to notice, and something clicked in his chest—you had felt it too.

His heart pounded harder, his palms suddenly feeling too warm. He thought about closing the distance between you, thought about what it would be like to lean in, to feel you close. The idea had crossed his mind before. The first time he didn’t even think twice but leaned in while he watched you from the kitchen counter, making up some excuse about seeing it in a movie once. But tonight… different. Like it actually meant something. This wasn’t the same careless move he’d make as a kid, this was real.

But he stayed frozen. His mind screamed at him to stay put, not to push it, not to mess things up. He couldn’t even name what he was feeling, let alone act on it. His gaze lingered on yours for a split second before he tore it away, breaking the silence– his voice rough and quiet, “You gonna eat that last slice?”

You had blinked, the tension easing just a little as you glanced at the pizza box, a small, confused smile creeping back onto your face. “You offering it up?” You had teased, though your voice softened, like you were still recovering from whatever just passed between you.

Daryl shrugged, his heart still racing, but his voice calm as he nodded toward the box. “Ain’t hungry.”

You chuckled, grabbing the last slice and taking a bite, but the mood had shifted. The moment had passed, but the weight of what almost happened lingered between you, unspoken but heavy. Daryl shoved his hands into his pockets, watching you eat, trying to ignore the knot tightening in his chest.

[lunarrumor]

random valgrace headcanons

- leo cooks for jason all the time because he likes it (it reminds him of his mom and when she taught him how to make his favorite dishes) and his love language is most definitely gift giving because he’s not so good with words

- but one day leo was up all night working on some new machine (again) and jason decides he wants to give him a break so he tries to make some simple pasta. butttt they didn’t really have cooking lessons at camp jupiter and the water overflows and he burns the sauce and when leo gets back jason’s hair is mysteriously red and the kitchen looks like something exploded (it did. the sauce bubbled up and went everywhere)

- however they go camping together once and leo makes a fire and by the time he gets back from going to use the restroom jason has caught a wild bird and is frying it up

- leo makes jason random little trinkets all the time

- when leo and jason are having meals with the seven + reyna and nico they’ll tap messages to each other back and forth in morse code until annabeth gets annoyed by all the banging

- leo loves horror movies and jason hate hate hates them

- when jason gets drunk he likes using a lot of big words except he’s too drunk to use them correctly so he just hopes no one notices (leo does but doesn’t mention it…. without fail he’ll look at him and go “how r u so smart even when so drunk” and jason will give him a dopey smile)

- they go to college in new rome together and visit piper at her mortal school all the time

- they also got an apartment together because yeaa it might be moving fast but they totally didn’t move in together because they’re soulmates or whatever. naaaa it would js be silly not to right ? they shouldn’t *both* be paying rent when they’re gonna be at the same place *anywayss* and jason doesn’t cook and leo doesn’t clean so really it’s just a responsible roommate setup rigggght (aka the lie they tell themselves bc they really js wanna have the security of seeing each other everyday and live a wholesome life where they don’t have to worry if the next time they visit the other they’re not gonna be there anymore)

- but they’re both still worried to ruin the relationship because it’s so new and they’ve been pining for so long so they get separate rooms. except leo is always crawling into jason’s bed at night or jason is playing a movie in leo’s while he works (leo’s barely paying attention but jason likes doing it so he can sneak him snacks because leo has a habit of forgetting to eat while working. and every so often leo will make a goofy joke about the movie n he gets so amazed by how smart n funny leo is. n leo likes the background noise and jason’s little snorts when a character is being dumb. and mostly he just likes his presence. how they can just sit in silence together and without leo having to say anything jason will know how much he cares. how much he appreciates jason caring about him)

- and eventually leo just stops going back to his room, unless he’s working on something, because he likes the smell of jason and waking up with him and bothering him while he does schoolwork. his things slowly start appearing in jason’s room until he’s basically moved in and one day he comes home to jason rummaging through his drawers and he’s like uhh ??? and jason’s like ah rats i was gna surprise you….. i cleared out my closet and got a dresser so that you don’t have to keep going back and forth and i can totally put it back if u don’t want that i just thought maybe you might want to because you haven’t rlly slept here in so long anyway and…. and leo kisses him n grabs the pile of clothes and carries it off to *their* room. and so leo’s old room becomes his new work space

- on this same vein leo will get so distracted while he’s working on a new project that he’ll forgot all about time and sometimes he’s doing this n jason comes in and tells him the time and he drops everything and makes dinner bc his stomach grumbling is fine but when he realizes jason probably hasn’t had a real meal since the last time he cooked now *thats* motivation

- of course jason doesn’t always need him to cook (in fact leo starts trying to teach him no matter how disastrous it is at first. i guess multitasking in battle doesn’t equate to handling the chaos of a kitchen ? but jason actually gets pretty good as long as he’s looking at a list of instructions) but leo just likes all the compliments he gets from jason about his food and how he’ll sit with him in the kitchen and come up behind him with his hands on his waist (jason gets really excited whenever leo asks him to do something like bring him some seasoning or a ladle because he likes being helpful)

- jason also started picking up food after his morning class and bringing leo breakfast because he is *not* a morning person. he’ll also order food when leo’s been cooped up in his room for some time and he knows he wants to keep working so jason brings his lil surprise in along with his laptop and they eat together (with jason making sure leo takes a bite every now n then and eats enough before it gets cold)

- jason wakes up at 6 am everyday to go to the gym, shower, and go to classes meanwhile leo doesn’t have class till 1 and even then he’s late sometimes. because as u could assume leo stays up late at night and jason has trouble staying up past midnight (he always falls asleep during their movie nights even though he tries his very hardest not to but leo is so toasty he just can’t help it. and leo always tucks him in and takes off his glasses)

- also neither of them like waking up alone on the couch in the middle of the night (which is fine when leo falls asleep first, jason just picks him up and carries him to bed. but leo isn’t exactly built for dragging 6 ft men across an apartment floor) so they get a pullout sofa for this exact reason (not a bed pullout couch. he would still have to lift jason off and jason is a heavyy sleeper. he had to sleep through a lot of chaos at camp jupiter. they get one of those couches that extends into more couch and pile a bunch of blankets on it for movie nights. and leo makes popcorn with an ungodly amount of butter)

- leo runs warm and when his emotions spike his powers act up so he stress sweats and everytime it happens jason will cool him off with a nice breeze

- on the flip side jason is always cold so he’s always snuggling up to leo (totally the only reason. definitely not that he’s touch starved) and in the winter they’re literally attached at the hip. jason will not let him go no way no how he *will* stand/walk/lay/sit with his arms around leo at all costs (the cost is piper grossing out at their gushiness)

- jason’s bear hugs are leo’s favorite things in the world he could stay wrapped in those arms forever

- jason and leo live in the same apartment complex as frank and hazel and they become a lot closer

- percy and annabeth live down the hall and leo loves to ding dong ditch them

- annabeth randomly knocks on their door sometimes because she wants leo’s help figuring out the logistics for an architectural project of hers and jason will follow so he can play video games with percy (yeah i said it, percy and leo teach him how to play and he likes it more than he thought he would)

- every week they all get lunch together with reyna, piper, and nico

- nico comes over at first to hang out with jason but he still finds leo…. odd but eventually they bond over their love for horror movies and laughing at jason

- leo loves to sketch when he gets bored in class and he’ll be spacing out drawing until he realizes that his whole page is full of jason’s face from every possible angle

- leo fell first but jason said i love you first (after a lot of coaching from piper)

[drewsbuzzcut]

The Worst Of Me Is Racing All Around Your Mind

Nick Moldenhauer x Dallas Blankenburg

A so it goes fic

Warnings: mentions pregnancy, mentions abortions, false positives pregnancy test, panic/anxiety, cursing, mentions wanting to vomit, angst and angst (let me know if I forgot anything) this is also lightly edited

This takes place May 2024

Dallas walks on shaky legs out of the restroom, her shaking hands gripping the used pregnancy test. She already knows the answer, she was way too curious to wait to look at the test with Nick.

“Here,” she hands it over to him and waits for his reaction.

“It’s positive,” he states once looking at the plus sign.

He looks up at her and his eyes glimmer in what seems like excitement. Dallas finds it slightly terrifying.

“I know. I need to book an appointment with an OBGYN to confirm if it’s true,” she says, fingers carding through her hair as she paces around her apartment.

She tries to calm her erratic heart, but it’s no use. The more she thinks about being pregnant, the more panic fills her every thought.

“Hey, June bug, it’s going to be okay. I love you, baby,” he wraps her in his arms and kisses her forehead.

“It’s not okay! I can’t be pregnant. I can’t be. A baby will change everything,” Dallas pulls away, too panicked to think about anything other than the fact that a baby could ruin everything.

“What’s so wrong with you being pregnant? We’re married and we’ll be living together next school year,” he points out, eyebrows dipped down in confusion.

“Are you hearing the words coming out of your mouth? We just got married! We should be enjoying our time as newlyweds, not worrying about children. Children that will take our time away from school! Children that will take me away from my clothes and children that will take you away from hockey,” Dallas stresses, her hands flying out at her sides to convey her clear point of view on the situation.

She’s passed the point of staying sane, she’s too worried about their futures. She stares into Nick’s eyes, daring him to counter her argument even though he can’t.

“We can work around those things. If anybody can do it, it’s us. I’ve said those words to you when you were hesitant about getting married. I meant them then and I mean them now,” he says, voice eerily calm.

The girl walks up to him, placing her hands on his chest. She hopes the beat of his heart can help calm her down.

“This isn’t the right time for us to have a baby,” she says in the simplest way. Her hands move to the sides of his face to make sure his eyes peer into hers.

His eyes aren’t the normal, ocean blue. They’re like stone, dark and void of anything.

“I don’t know what to say,” he mutters.

“Say you support whatever choice I decide to make. If I’m pregnant, I can’t promise that I won’t seriously consider getting an abortion. At least just understand why I’m making the choice I decide to go through with,” Dallas’ bottom lip trembles when he stays silent for too long. His support is the most important thing to her at this moment.

“What can I do to convince you that we should keep the baby? I get that it’s ultimately your choice, but we’re married. That isn’t just your baby,” he points to her stomach, and this is when it hits Dallas.

This is very very real. She’s pregnant and she’s lost at a crossroads. Even though she wholeheartedly knows that if she keeps the baby, she wouldn’t be doing it for herself. And for once, she doesn’t know what to say to her husband.

-

Dallas waits with a bated breath, eyes zeroed in on the screen. Nick’s hand is clutched in hers, his eyes also focused on the screen.

There’s no heartbeat pounding through the silence and there’s no black and white blob popping up.

“Okay, Mrs. Moldenhauer, it appears that you are not pregnant. It’s very likely that you had a defective test. False positives aren’t rare, but they also don’t happen often. If you don’t have any questions, then I’ll leave you to get cleaned up and you’re free to leave,” the doctor says.

She feels her shoulders fall in relief, she’s so happy she could cry. Dallas doesn’t notice at first, but Nick is quick to pull his hand out of hers.

“I don’t have any. Thank you so much,” she says and hastily cleans herself up when the doctor leaves.

She lets out a breath she felt she was holding in forever. Her eyes return back to their usual shine and she can’t stop the relieved smile from taking over.

Nick stays silent, walking out of the room before Dallas can even button her pants. By the time she makes it out, Nick is already walking out the front door and heading towards the car. She’s not naive, she knows he’s upset. However, there’s really nothing to be upset about anymore. She’s not pregnant so their problems are solved.

“Nick!” She shouts after him.

“Are you happy you got what you wanted?” He asks, voice harsh.

It makes Dallas flinch.

She takes a moment to process his words, eyes blinking in shock.

“Jeez, Nick, you’re acting like I was actually pregnant and got an abortion,” she snaps and jumps into the driver’s seat of her car.

“Same difference. You didn’t want the damn baby, so I know you’re just so fucking happy to not be pregnant,” he snaps back, making Dallas’ blood begin to boil.

Her face is red and her chest heaves, desperate for some type of soothing air.

“I’ve given you all of me, Nick! I gave you my time, my heart, I gave up my last name in order to take yours! How can you ask that I give you this ONE THING when I’m not ready?” She shouts, too overcome with anger to think about what she’s saying, or how it's being perceived.

“You make it sound like you had no choice but to marry me. If you truly didn’t want to marry me, then you shouldn’t have, Dallas! Do you honestly think I’m ready to have kids right now? Because I’m not, but I was willing to try and to work hard for our family. I was willing to go all in with you, because I love you and I eventually want a family with you. You just thought about yourself, and I understand because it’s your body. I’m your husband, though. Would it kill you to have any consideration for my feelings or for the things I want? I would’ve taken care of my baby- even if it meant you leaving us behind and me being a single dad,” he unloads each of his thoughts.

Dallas can’t help the way her tears roll down her cheeks. It hurts to even fathom a thought about Nick being a single father to their child. It absolutely kills her that Nick would think that she’d leave them behind.

“You can drop me off at my dorm. I need to think about whether or not we should continue with our marriage,” Nick whispers, the words burning his throat.

Dallas whips her head over to him, but quickly refocuses on the road ahead. She’s left in silence. Well not complete silence. She can hear the labored breathing coming from husband and the way he sniffles after his tears loudly smack against the leather interior of the car.

Her stomach twists and turns, but she forces the bile down with large empty gulps.

“Nick,” she searches her mind for the right words to say, but she doesn’t know how to fix things without causing more damage.

“I’m sorry, Dallas. I’m sorry if I’m too much for you,” he apologizes when he doesn’t have to.

Dallas shakes her head repeatedly, her hand coming up to wipe away her tears. A stuttered gasp rips up her throat as she starts to sob. His words cut her open and leave her out to dry. Their distance becomes stark when he doesn’t even reach out to console her, but she honestly doesn’t think she deserves it anyway.

a/n: Some rough waters for the newlyweds…

[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 6: & yet i’ll always choose you.

sero hanta x reader ch 6/6 | 15.8k words | masterlist | ao3 cw: violence between family members (a singular slap) notes: ready to run by one direction, shelter by porter robinson & madeon, all the stars by kendrick & sza (this is not a songfic; i forgot that song existed when i chose the title and then when i properly listened to the lyrics i realized it fit LOL)

you make a decision.

✰.

"How do you help a family miracle? You hug your sister."

- Bruno, in Encanto

Looking back, your life has primarily moved forward through a mixture of obligation and chance. There was never any sort of choosing or clinging, just an acceptance of what needed to be done. Things worked out on their own, oftentimes with you as the stagnant one and the events happening around you—through you. You lived as if life was predetermined, as if a wide length of silk has been wrapped around your chest and tugging you through life.

So it’s hard, when something—someone appears, and you want to choose him.

Silk is slippery. It’s woven water that slides against every surface including itself. With unpracticed hands, every knot will come undone, unraveling before you until it’s a puddle on the floor. You only ever learned how to sew and stitch, to bind fabric with a needle and thread. You’re the opposite of Hanta, who knows the raw silk itself—hanging for him to play an endless game of tangling and escaping. He knows the knots intricately, how to bind or set himself free in an instant.

Hanta is sad when he has to leave. You see it in his watery eyes and hear it in the crack of his voice. But he has some sort of unfathomable trust that things will work out in the end. You should too, given how your life has led so far, but you can’t.

You want him. You want him and Momo and Kendou. You want the circus and the costumes and to see the world together. You want to make beautiful things, impossible things, things that can only be forged in a place where everyone believes in magic with their full being. You want it all.

You don’t know how to chase it.

Maybe it was purposeful—choosing a dream you always thought was out of reach, one you never considered a real possibility. It’s safe here, where the choices are made for you, or never presented in the first place. But now that you finally want something… how do you start?

When the week passes and the circus is gone, in some ways it feels like it was never there. How could something that’s everything to you, everything you want, fizzle into nothing but faded memories in an instant? You cry and you hurt and you long for something that’s gone.

It feels like grieving.

Grieving, you realize, is another thing you haven’t done before.

Abuela is steeped into every detail of your life—her wrinkled hands the ones you always reached for first. She’s the one who taught you to sew, the one who called you her tucán. Abuela is the reason you and Hanta crossed paths for the first time in Quito, the reason you found yourself in Milan and by Midoriya, and ultimately Hoshi no Sākasu.

When you think about it, abuela is the thread that has been pulling you forwards.

But she’s gone—a fact you haven’t come to terms with.

The grief rolls through like a tsunami, a high wall of powerful water that roars forward with the intent to destroy and submerge. Maybe it should have been predictable, the week with the circus your earthquake, the shifting of plates radiating seismic energy through your foundation. But the water comes by surprise and at full force, knocking you off your feet and the breath from your lungs. 

You packed your schedule ahead of time with work, the following weeks filled with costumes and gowns and dresses. It distracts you, like you knew it would, your hands and your head focused on nothing but the bounce of a needle stitching fabrics. It keeps you from thinking about the circus in Switzerland, three hours away by train. Life has shifted with the absence of the circus, and you’ve found yourself back into the stagnant routine that existed before. 

Except, now you cry while you work.

It happens unknowingly at first, only noticing when dark blotches appear on the fabric between your hands. You pause, lifting the pad of your finger to trace the tears collecting on your waterline, the wetness taking you by surprise. But when it rains it pours, and you have to take a break to let the clouds of your irises clear before forcing yourself to resume sewing.

Normally there's a ghosted feeling of abuela’s hands hovering over yours. They're familiar and faint, kept at a distance and bringing just the twitch of a somber smile to your lips. But now they're firm and dense, like real skin and flesh and blood. The sensation makes you cry harder. Your crying makes them feel more real. Your hurt and your grief brings her closer, brings her to life.

You don't do anything but work and cry the first few days following Hoshi no Sakasu’s departure. You complete one dress through hours of tears. 

Your friends find you this way, sobbing with bunches of chiffon in your hands, wiping your eyes and nose with the sleeve of your shirt.

“Oh,” Chiara coos, immediately running a hand through your hair before holding your cheeks.

Davide grimaces behind her as his eyes sweep over you and your desk. “Nuh uh, we are not letting this continue.”

You clutch the fabric tightly when he tries to pry it from you. “I have orders to finish.”

Chiara scoffs. “They can wait.”

But they can't. You busied yourself strategically, so you wouldn't have time to do things like cry.

“You always manage somehow. You can take an hour break.”

It's a struggle, but you end up on your couch cocooned by a blanket and flanked by your friends. You grip the tea they made for you spitefully, the heat of the mug burning your palms. You bite your tongue, too annoyed to respond to their gentle questions, but they're Chia and Davide—eventually you cave.

You speak quietly and nonsensically, unsure how to explain everything that happened in the past couple weeks. Maybe they'll think you're crazy and chalk it up to delusions.

But they're Chia and Davide, so they don't.

“Dammit,” the latter answers. “This guy is stealing you away!”

“Davide,” the other scolds. “Be fair. From what Tucano says, he is not just a guy.”

“Neither of you are helpful,” you grumble.

“We're processing,” Chiara quips.

Davide nods. “Poorly.”

They sigh in unison, but with different tones. Davide's is whiny and tired. Chiara’s is thoughtful.

“Why didn't you say anything?” Davide eventually asks. “It's been days since they left.”

You groan, turning your head to bury into the blanket over your shoulders. Chiara watches you pitifully.

“She's been dead for months,” you eventually spit. You have to separate the words from their meanings to keep a sob at bay. Your eyes water. “I figured it was some weird delayed grief that would go away after a few days.”

Davide looks at you pitifully too now, though on his face it's more akin to disgust. “Babe…”

You avert your eyes.

“You know that's not how this works.”

All you manage is a grunt. You don't care if you're being stupid. You know you are, deep down, but it's easier to play into the ignorance.

Chiara sighs again and leans back against the couch, and then onto you. Her shoulder bumps yours, head tilting to rest in the crook of your padded neck. She speaks softly, “Haven't seen you cry since she first died.”

They're simple words, nothing incredibly deep or metaphorical, but they make your chest hurt. You purse your lips as fresh saltwater pools in your lashes, cascading down your cheeks. Your sob is a broken sound, jolting your body so harshly that Davide takes the mug from your hands at the near spill. Chiara scoots closer to you, body turning to face yours as her arm comes around your waist.

Davide keeps his distance, never the most physically affectionate, but he slides a hand up and down your arm, a soothing assurance that he's here too.

“I miss her,” you choke suddenly. The words spill out. “I think about her every day.”

Chiara hums affirmingly. “We know.”

“I—” you hiccup. “I loved her more than anyone else.”

And it's true. Abuela was your everything, the one you looked up to the most, the one you always wanted to be. You loved her more than you loved anyone. You loved her more than you loved yourself. You loved her… more than anyone else loved her.

The thought sits bitterly in your stomach, like a weight that keeps sinking and sinking and sinking. 

“What's that face for?” Davide interjects. 

You blink, neutralizing your expression when you realize you were scowling. You groan again. It's an ugly thought, no matter how true it is to you. Ugly thoughts are meant to be kept inside, not spread where they could hurt others or… be disproven.

He pats your leg quickly, a sign he won't let you escape answering. You wince at the thought of vocalizing that part of you: raw and possessive and self entitled. The part of you that justifies never going home, to keep abuela's remains to yourself. Here, in Italy—where she died in your care.

“Nobody else cared about her like I did,” you nearly whisper.

“Oh.” 

“Tucano…” Chiara trails off hesitantly. “You don’t know that.”

But you do. You’ve known it for years, eyes always taking in the room and the dynamics between your family members. You think of mamá when she raised her voice, speaking in an uncharacteristic irritation at abuela’s deteriorating mental state. Your sister was the avoidant type, feigning ignorance when she noticed something wrong or conveniently busy when help was needed. Tíos and primeros would chip in, but also hurried to pass abuela to the next person.

They cared when she was in Italy, when she was finally gone and they didn’t have to be the ones looking after her. 

They didn’t deserve her, you concluded.

You don’t answer, and your friends don’t press. Chiara stays leaning against your side while Davide rubs your arm. You know the skepticism sitting in their throats. You know Davide wants to ask why you’re only looking through a small lens, through your limited perspective. You know that Chiara wants to ask why they don’t even deserve to see her. You know that you want to ask yourself why you have the right to keep abuela from going home.

Nobody says a word. Instead you all sit there quietly, together.

“You’re going on holiday,” Chiara demands when you try to return to the studio an hour later.

“What? I was just on holiday for a week.”

Davide’s eyebrows nearly fly off his forehead. “You were literally working for the circus and you were in the studio while they were here.”

You try another angle. “I have deadlines! I can’t take time off—it’s unfair to my clients.”

“You always give them longer estimates than it actually takes. Just say you had a death in the family.”

“That happened months ago!”

“Then say you had some suppressed trauma come up in your grief counseling and you need to work through it!”

You stare blankly at Davide. He widens his eyes and flips his palms as if he’s waiting for you to accept the obvious answers he’s offering.

“I can’t do that Davide, they already paid.”

“Then it’s PTO?”

You rub your eyes in annoyance. You’re tempted to claw them out entirely.

Chiara pats your back. “We’ll figure something out. But you need a break, and you can’t deny that.”

Your stomach aches like you might be sick. Maybe you do need a break, for your mind and your heart and to finally get to the grief you’ve been ignoring for months. But you can feel your lips tightening at the thought, your stomach twisting in fear. The sewing helps take you from the real world, to give you something else to focus on.

You’re worried that if you take a break, you won’t be able to start again.

The next weekend you’re hugging Davide and Chiara at the train station. Their arms awkwardly come around the giant backpack latched around your hips.

“Let us know when you get to your hostel,” Chiara demands.

“And when you’re back in range,” Davide adds.

You nod.

The pink line takes you an hour closer to your destination, whizzing north along the industrial and suburban outskirts of the city. Fields and farmlands start to populate along your route, parallel roads of green. Eventually you’re humming along the beginnings of mountains, the forests close enough that you can make out the edges of individual trees. They’re brown trunks and naked branches, fans of grey poking from the earth. But between them are clusters of green—evergreen bunches. The further you go, the taller the peaks rise, dusted with white.

You exit the train in a city situated by a lake, a large pool of blue that lays calm—still. You only see flashes of the water before you’re parked in the station, scanning your ticket and walking out onto black tile streets. The buildings are smaller here than Milan, with more space between their exteriors. A looming mountain pokes through the alleyways, a slab of white limestone erupting from the ground, topped with sparse green and heavy snow. Your heart races at the sight while you speed walk towards the bus stop. 

Soon.

It takes the bus an hour to drop you off at your destination, despite covering less than a fourth of the train's mileage. You don’t mind. Instead you sit comfortably with your bag on your lap, staring out the window as the clunky vehicle winds through the mountains. You grin the entire time, already imagining the hot cocoa you’ll make yourself tonight, huddled by the window of your hostel with a scarf around your neck.

It’s exactly what you do, peering up the edge of the mountain the building resides on. You send a message to your friends to let them know you’re fine, a selfie with your drink. Just as your thumb hits send, your phone flashes with a call.

It’s from your sister.

For the first time since abuela died, you hesitate, before eventually turning off your ringer and setting it down to go to voicemail.

You spend one night in the hostel and five in the mountains. You hike up and down summits during the day and tend to fires in the warmth of small cabins at night. The peaks are jagged rocks, granite teeth wedged in the gums of the earth, at first overlooking the northern cities and lakes before you lose the buildings behind shrouds of rocks and trees and snow. 

You don’t speak to anyone for three days—in the thick of your hiking. Your only companions are the swifts that fly ahead and the occasional owl in the trees. You curse when one takes flight, spreading glorious spotted wings. You wish you knew more of the birds here. The only other animal you catch is an ibex standing precariously on a cliffside—suspended only by mere chips in the wall. It looks unfazed by the height and the minimal footing, instead at peace, giant horns proud atop its head and sure steps carrying it upwards. You wish you could call out and ask for advice: to ask how you can do the same.

In contrast, you spend your day treading through white crystals up to your knees. It’s exhausting, your body moving slowly and through the entire day to reach your next bed. But it’s good for you; it’s what you need.

Crying comes as natural as walking, tears clumping as ice in your lashes. You huddle your body further under layers of wool and down, face burying into the cloth of your scarf. Every few kilometers you pause, catching your breath and blinking through the sun to see where you stand: high above the rest of the world. The brown of wintery grass rolls beneath you with those spiky leafless trees and clumps of evergreen. The balds are tinted yellow with harsh edges of silver from scattered boulders. You breathe in crisp, cold air—the kind that burns your lungs.

When you turn to continue walking ahead, the snow around you glistens. Sunlight strikes the frozen dust, light refracting in a pile of white sparkles. Millions of sparkles, like every star in the sky was plucked and tossed atop this mountain range—for you to shuffle your boots through and sob while you wander through thoughts and memories of abuela. You’re walking north, in the direction of Switzerland. But by now it’s been over two weeks since Hoshi no Sākasu left. They must be in Austria now. East.

The nights are cold, infinitely colder than the city. The air bites at any exposed skin, rubbing it raw to bloom splotches of red. Even so, you leave the warmth of cabin fires for extended periods of time to stare above you, into that other world in the sky. Stars twinkle in response, shining and winking and falling. They’re abundant, like every grain of sand and every snowflake on earth was scattered into the night. 

Your eyes trace the constellations you know: simple ones like Ursa Major and Orion. When you run out, your mind starts to connect the stars on its own, searching for patterns from your life. You see Santi and you see Marco. You see your sister and your mother. You see abuela.

You see Hanta.

In this moment, in all the moments from these days in the mountains, you realize again that you are a speck. You are nothingness and everything, something painfully unknown while entirely familiar. The mountains and lakes and vastness of blue atmosphere remind you that everything you don’t know is waiting for you, patiently, sitting outside of your blood and flesh for you to start heading towards it. The tiny snowflakes and speckled sky and clumps of morning ashes remind you that everything you ever need to know has been within you all along.

By the time you’re back in a hostel, showering and running laundry and packing your bag to take a bus and then the train home, there’s a resolve in your chest. You don’t know what it is quite yet or what it’s pointed towards, but you are determined to do something.

Your phone charges overnight, but you don’t turn it on until you board the bus. Rows of notifications populate your screen when it flickers to life. You clear them all and open your messages.

The most recent one is from Hanta.

You haven’t spoken since he left, not sure what to say or if you want your relationship to unfurl over text. He must feel the same uncertainty, if it’s taken this long to reach out. His message is straightforward—a quick pleasantry followed by a check in, since apparently Momo tried to reach you just after you started your hike. You can sense his apprehension through the little grey bubbles.

You respond with a photo from your third day on the mountain, the endless layers of ridges settled beneath the sky, bluer and bluer as they get further away. There’s a moment of hesitation before you send another, this one a silly selfie you took the day before—sporting icy eyelashes and red cheeks. You quickly add a third message, a brief explanation that you were on holiday without service.

After replying to the other crucial messages you turn your phone off and stare out the window, watching as forests become farmland and farmlands become cities.

Settling back into your work routine comes naturally. Your hands glide through thread and fabric, not without hiccups, but with confidence and security. There’s an ease to your movements, an embodiment of patience and distance from your craft. Navigating the shift of deadlines and compromising with your clients was awkward, but it happened.

Hanta responds to you, a little message that says your trip looks fun—and cold. You give him a short reply, a simple It was. The phone is heavy in your hand as you stare at the screen. Eventually you cave and ask him how Switzerland was, and what he thinks about Austria.

Something opens between you two after the initial hurdle is cleared. You don’t message every day, but you talk often. Hanta sends photos of him at different restaurants and landmarks—mostly with Shouto—and you respond with pictures of your sewing projects. Seeing his face brings an urgency to your chest, one that makes you want to run to the station and board the first train North.

You send a picture of your most recent gown, sheer black fabric that twinkles, sewn with pearls and metal discs. This time you take the photo in your mirror, awkwardly giving the headless mannequin bunny ears with your free hand. You stare at the picture with a furrowed brow, retaking it a couple times before you get one that you look less stupid in. After sending it you grimace. 

Your phone pings nearly immediately, several times with messages from Hanta. He says ‘SO PRETTY’ followed by a string of heart emojis. You bite your lip, trying to suppress the idiotic grin you know you’re wearing.

The phone blares your ringtone, nearly making you drop it from surprise. Your heart races, thinking it’s Hanta, so you almost answer it before you check the contact. You freeze when it’s your sister’s name on the screen.

You don’t turn off your ringer and ignore it this time. Instead you stare at it, thumb hovering over the answer button until it eventually goes to voicemail.

You call her three days later.

It doesn’t go through, since you do it in the morning. Back home it must be the middle of the night. That choice may have been purposeful—easier, if you know she won’t pick up.

In the afternoon you get an assault of messages from her: all caps, swearing, littered with typos. She calls you again and again, but you don’t pick up.

You pick up for Hanta.

He calls when you’re settling into bed for the evening. You answer while yawning, drawing out the words of your greeting. 

“Sorry,” his voice murmurs through your speaker. “Is this not a good time?”

He sounds tired, the softness of his tone filling you with warmth. You could fall asleep like this, easily.

“It’s perfect,” you reply. A twinge of guilt runs through your stomach. You don’t pick up for your sister like this.

You talk until you fall asleep, mostly hushed conversation about what you two have been up to in the past weeks. He tells you stories about Switzerland and Austria and preparation for Germany. You talk about your current projects and your time in the mountains.

The turmoil you’ve faced regarding abuela and your sister remains unspoken.

You don’t remember falling asleep, but in the morning you find that the call has ended, a morning greeting from Hanta in its place.

You call your sister again. This time it’s at a reasonable hour, but still during her workday. After three rings you think she won’t answer. But she picks up.

“Dio, quiero estrangularte,” she immediately bites through the speaker. The sound of her voice makes your breath catch, her threat completely going over your head.

“Te extraño,” you answer. I miss you.

She yells at you through the phone while you sit and listen. Or, partially listen, mostly basking in the fact that she’s speaking to you at all. The words don’t fully process, but you assume they’re threats and complaints and demands that you come back with abuela and an explanation. The berating lasts several minutes, you biting the inside of your cheeks to keep from smiling the entire time. Her voice cracks towards the end, choked noises separating her words. She’s nearly panting when she finally finishes.

“Lo siento,” you manage to whisper.

“Just—” her breath hitches. “Just shut up.”

You nod, waiting for her to continue.

She doesn’t. It’s silent for minutes. You can imagine her face, her lips parting as if to speak before they close in apprehension, the mix of a pout and glare she wears when she doesn’t know what to say. Normally you would ask her questions to get her started, intuiting what she wants to talk about. You don’t know if that’s something you can still do anymore.

You know she wants answers from you: to ask why you did what you did, how you could stomach making such a decision. But you also know that she knows why you did it. She knows you, knows how you feel towards abuela and towards the rest of your family. She knows how you are, running away when things get hard—running away, but always caving and coming back. There’s no point in asking; you both know this.

“Tía abuela is so mad at you.”

Tía abuela—abuela’s sister and your great aunt. You nod, lips pursed. “I can imagine.”

The huff of your sister’s amusement crackles through the speaker and you feel a confidence that everything will be okay.

You call frequently, every few days at the minimum. It’s awkward for the first few minutes of every call, until someone breaks the ice and eventually you’re laughing and gossiping like you used to. One of your tías is getting a divorce, your primero is newly engaged but his mamá doesn’t like the girl, and a family friend just lost an absurd amount of money in recent investments. You listen intently, eagerly taking in everything you’ve missed these past months.

“You kidnapping abuela is the hottest drama though,” your sister states blankly. “Mamá can’t escape it. People still bring it up every chance they get.”

Your stomach twists with guilt. Mamá’s always been soft to you, a stark contrast to abuela’s quips. “How is she faring?”

“Fine.” You can visualize the roll of her eyes on the other end. “She was sweet on you, but you know she’s ruthless to the others. Tía abuela is giving her a lot of shit, but she’s still the new head of the family.”

There’s a pause. You know what she’s going to say.

“I told her we’ve been calling. You should talk to her.”

You exhale. You should, to at least apologize for stealing her mother and her child all at once.

“Maybe,” you hum, and that’s the end of it.

“I’m moving to Japan,” you blurt the next time you call. It takes you by surprise, not the words you meant to say. You almost drop your phone. Why did you say that? You never came to a decision about whether or not to work for Hoshi no Sākasu.

“What!?” your sister screeches on the other end.

“What?”

She whines, “Ay, Dios mío.” You nod. After a few minutes of silence she asks why.

“I got a job offer,” you explain quietly.

“For…?”

“… A circus.”

You hold your breath during the silence that follows. She laughs. The sound brings a wave of relief through you. You aren’t sure why you were anxious to tell her—why you assumed she wouldn’t understand what it means to you.

She understands; she always does. “How’d you land that?”

You smile. “A miracle.” 

The miracles being Hanta and Midoriya. Kendou and Momo. Abuela.

“You taking her with you?”

It’s a jab and you know it—feel it. It’s your sister pleading, Come home. 

Later when you hang up, you sit quietly with yourself, phone tucked in your palms. The little rectangle is heavy with the weight of your conversations. It should be heavier, also holding your messages with Hanta and Chiara and Davide, stored with photos of abuela and mamá.

It takes several calls with Kendou before you give her the official acceptance of the position. Despite your confident claims to your sister, a piece of you was anxious the opportunity was no longer available, even with Kendou’s assurance that they could wait. When you finally breathe the words out over the phone, they don’t feel real. You ask her to keep it a secret for a little while, at least until the news settles in your own heart. Right now it’s a riptide, a violent storm within you as you sift through the emails of contracts and information.

You let her tell Momo, so long as she keeps it to herself, and you’re greeted by a warm message welcoming you to the team. Your eyes water while you respond. Your time with Momo isn’t up—there’s no longer a maybe lingering around the thoughts of being able to work together again.

It takes two weeks to tell Hanta.

He’s brushing his teeth while you mumble about your day, his phone propped up against the sink. The circus just landed in France, this being his first night in Paris. You’re on the couch, swaddled in blankets while your eyes linger around the interior on his end—marble walls, white towels, a random photo in a black frame.

“Are you rooming alone?” you ask when you finish your debrief.

He shakes his head, leaning to rinse his mouth before he wipes the residue on the back of his hand. He reaches for you and your heart races, thinking he’ll touch your face—only to jostle the screen while he leads you out of the bathroom. It’s a funny angle, the underside of his chin. It reminds you of looking up towards his face while laying on his chest.

“Nah I’m with ‘Roki. That’s how it usually is,” he answers. The next second the camera falls as if he dropped it, shaking violently with smears of creamy white and black splotches before he bounces into frame, beaming as he lays on his stomach on one of the hotel beds. His grin blooms an ache in your chest. You wish you were there with him.

You hum, saying, “That’s too bad,” before you can stop yourself.

“Huh?”

You pause, realizing where your mind was going. Heat creeps up your cheeks while Hanta stares at you through the camera. “Just—” you stop yourself, not wanting to tell him this way.

But he’s looking at you so curiously.

“I… I was hoping we could room together.”

It’s silent.

Hanta blinks at you, face and body frozen otherwise. You try to read what he’s thinking, if he’s putting it together, but he looks scarily neutral.

Then his head shifts abruptly to look at you dead on. His hand comes to his mouth, fingertips lightly pressing his lips. His expression doesn’t change except the slight widening of his eyes. He speaks quietly. “Are you… Does that mean what I think it does?”

You nod, face carefully neutral to assess his reaction.

He yelps. The camera shakes before falling and going black, but you can hear him scrambling and the bumping of the phone as he tries to pick it back up. You can’t help your smile—the fondness stretching across your face when he finally comes back into view looking like a puppy.

“Is this real?” he asks meekly. It’s almost a whisper. You wish you could hold his face and kiss him.

“Yeah,” you whisper back. “It’s real.”

It’s a precious gift to watch Hanta take in the information, face shifting between emotions rapidly before finally landing on something like a pout. He’s tearing up, eyes like giant marbles as they shine with joy.

“You… you chose—” he pauses. Me, you think he wants to say. “You chose us? The circus?”

Your own eyes are glassy, you can see them glistening in the tiny square in the top corner of the screen. Your lips twitch as you nod. Yes, you’re about to say—that you chose Hoshi no Sākasu. That you chose everyone. But you pause. You’ve been scared to make decisions and declarations, scared to admit to yourself why you make the choices you do, why you pretend they aren’t choices so much as obligations you just fell into. That you had to.

You feel that way with Hanta right now. But choosing to follow what feels like a duty or obligation is still a choice. You smile.“I chose you, Hanta.”

For the next two months, you work and you pack and you say goodbye, your own life rapidly shifting as the weather warms. You decide your time in Italy will come to an end at the start of June, after all your orders are finished. You’ll spend the break period in Costa Rica, tending to the wounds long left behind. Momo offers to hire a moving service that can move your things to her house (or estate, she calls it), to give you peace of mind until it’s time to settle in Japan.

Your stomach twists in knots every time you think about it—about going home.

The moving process starts early with you purging yourself of furniture and decor and clothes you don’t want anymore. Every time you say goodbye to something, your heart feels a little lighter. You sell those costumes you know you’ll never wear again and you argue hotly with the landlady to wiggle out of the lease you signed for the next year. She caves with a scowl when you pull the dead nonna card.

Chiara and Davide assist you, preventing you from taking the decluttering too far.

(“Babe, you still have another month,” Davide protests when you take pictures of your dining table to post online for sale. “Are you planning to eat off the floor?”)

(“Tucano—” Chiara groans when she steps into your studio, feet disappearing under bundles of fabric. “How do you work in this mess?”)

You spend as much time as you can with them, soaking in the final days with your throuple—as Davide puts it. The three of you have weekly gatherings at your place, filled with pastries and fruit and wine. Some days your conversations are a time of laughter. Others, tears.

“I can’t believe I was right after all,” Davide sighs, nursing his third glass of a purplish cabernet.

You make a face. “When you said I would fall in love with one of the performers but then break up and have awkward tension?”

Chiara gasps loudly, nearly a cackle. “What?”

Davide scoffs. “When I said you would leave me for a man.”

You roll your eyes, but Chiara comes to your defense first. “They’re leaving us, first of all. And Italy, and opera dresses. Second, they’re leaving for the circus.”

Teeth scrape against the inside of your cheek as you consider her words. You recall what you told Hanta over the phone, when he asked if you chose Hoshi no Sākasu. Maybe the wine is loosening your tongue, but you find it easier to admit tonight.

“I’m leaving for the circus, but Hanta was a big part of that.”

Davide screeches an, “I knew it!” while Chiara’s face morphs into a frown.

“Hanta,” she repeats back in a mimicking voice. You slap her arm. Her head comes to rest on your shoulder. “You can’t forget about us, okay?”

“Of course I won’t.”

“We should visit! I’ve always wanted to go to Japan.”

Chiara nods quickly, hair brushing your neck. “We should go in the spring. I wanna see the sakura bloom.”

They escalate into making plans to visit, now entirely independent of whether or not you’re in Japan in the spring. You smile to yourself. Chiara was your first friend, who later introduced you to Davide as a client. A couple years passed and now they’re the people in Milan you hold closest. They were friends without you, but became more intertwined when you arrived. You hope they’ll be good friends even after you leave. 

Watching and listening to them now tells you that you have nothing to worry about.

They help you load boxes in the van at the end of June. Your last order is finished and the lease comes to its end. The remainder of your things go into a large suitcase and backpack for you to live out of at Chiara’s. You stay with her for one week, idling in your favorite places around Milan in her clothes. It’s a stretched out goodbye, one that has been happening in fragments since you first declared your departure. These days don’t feel real. You can’t fathom that you’ll soon be across the world, walking through familiar streets—ones that have certainly changed in your absence.

You and Hanta talk less as your move gets closer, primarily because the circus has landed in the Americas, the time change an increasing obstacle. Knowing that you’re following their footsteps, soon to be on the same land again, feels special. It feels like a confirmation that you’re making the right choice. 

You start listening to basic Japanese lessons and download an app to memorize hiragana. Your finger hesitantly draws the characters, lip jutting in a pout when you get one wrong. When you and Hanta do find pockets of time to talk, he gently corrects your pronunciation of basic phrases.

Chiara has to work the day that you leave, so you have a tearful goodbye at her front door before Davide drives you to the airport later in the afternoon. You wonder if this is the last time you’ll sit in his car, legs against dark leather. The thought triggers other sentimental musings, questions of the next time you’ll sleep over at Chiara’s, or the next time you’ll have a real Italian pasta.

Davide holds you at the terminal, one of the few hugs he’s ever offered. He cries easily—still reading you down, just with red-rimmed eyes and a runny nose. You’re forced to promise that you won’t forget him. When you finally leave him to roll your bag to the check in line and then to security, you turn back once and catch him scowling. 

You land in Spain before boarding the eleven hour flight to San José. Floating above the ocean—separated from your friends and soaring to your family—strikes something deep in your heart. It’s a mix of aches and pains and fears swirling together, making your body feel so heavy you think you might start plummeting into the Atlantic. Your feet shuffle to cradle your bag between them, tucked under the seat in front of you. You itch to pull it out and open it, to check that abuela is still resting in her wooden box.

San José is just as you remember. Stepping outside hits you full force with an assault of hot, humid air. Your skin begins to glisten, clothes already clinging to you in the few minutes it takes to walk to the buses. The next one comes in half an hour, so you park yourself on a bench and lean against the backrest. Palm trees tower over you, their grassy leaves fanning between the ground and the sky. A cluster of sparrows floats under their canopies, entering your vision only to leave moments later.

By the time you pull your bag along the sidewalk of your childhood street, the sun has sunk beneath the horizon. You slow your steps as you reach the driveway of your home. The house isn’t in view quiet yet, shrouded behind the trees that gate you from the neighbor. You pause at the corner of the fence, fighting the knots in your stomach and the thrumming in your hands. It should just be your sister and mamá inside. You can handle them.

Despite your incessant self-assurances, several minutes pass before you step down the sidewalk. They’re slow and hesitant. Your head tilts upwards, taking in the canopies of cecropia above. The street lamp illuminates the leaves from below, displaying faded green against the black of the sky. Their shapes are round but segmented, the webbed fingers of a frog. You catch scarring on the thin branches, knots and welts in the wood that take the shape of spiraled eyes, watching you. You can hear the rustling of palm trees, the scrape of leafy hairs as they blow above you—

In front of you.

You bring your chin down, looking ahead to the lemon tree in the yard. You nearly yelp in surprise at the sight of your sister. She blinks while you flinch, hand holding one of the branches so she can clip the fruit with her other.

No greeting passes between you. You demand, “Since when do you take care of the garden?” She’s the type to complain about dirtying her shoes while walking to the car. The dresses feel like a weight in your suitcase. Would she even like them?

She scowls at the accusation in your voice. “Ever since you kidnapped the person who used to.”

You don’t have an answer, still too stunned. Her eyes similarly trace over your form, mouth twisting when she takes in your clothes.

“And you still dress like that?”

You can’t hold back your laugh. You missed her.

You missed home.

Seeing mamá is harder. She’s quiet and soft, always a subdued presence, but now with a new touch of somberness. She looks sad—and easily shattered.

You meet her at the door unexpectedly. She’s waiting when you enter, immediately standing from the sofa to reach for you. Her touch is firm over your arm, hands turning white from the intensity of her grip, like she thinks you might disappear at any moment. Tears spring without warning. You try to blink them away, to keep your face from twisting in a sob, but you cry easily.

“I’m sorry,” is all you can think to say. You don’t add more, not sure how to eloquently apologize for stealing her own mother, for leaving, for making life at home and with the family excruciating.

Her dark eyes shine back at you, slightly curved from the twitch of her smile. She looks happy, though a quiet sort of happiness. Not one for words, her reassurance comes from how she reaches for you, pulling you into a hug. Your wet eyes land against her shoulder, steeping into the fabric of her shirt. One of her hands comes to your head, smoothing over your hair as she hums—a content sound, one she makes when things are finally coming together.

You take the box of ashes out shortly and offer them to mamá. Her face tightens when the realization strikes her, and you feel more guilt and regret swirling in your stomach. Should you have waited?

Delicate hands take the box, thumb tracing a band of dark brown towards the bottom of the lid. Her eyes soften before she stretches it back to you.

“Keep her with you,” she nearly whispers. “Until we have the ceremony.”

You swallow. Do you deserve that? To keep holding onto her after all this time? After all that you’ve deprived your family of? Mamá’s eyes don’t waver, holding a command you have never been able to disobey. You take the box.

Your mother fusses over you, helping you carry your bags to your room. She starts fluffing your pillows before offering to bring you some water, and you have to grab her by the arm to get her to stop and listen while you tell her I’m fine and Thank you. She leaves with an anxious expression, you think out of fear that you’ll vanish in the middle of the night. A quiet, “Buenas noches,” filters through just before the door shuts.

You flop onto the bed with a sigh. One of your newly fluffed pillows bounces off and lands on the ground. You sigh again.

Despite the exhaustion deep in your body, you can’t fall asleep. You lay in your childhood bed and stare at the ceiling, your vision no different than if you closed your eyes instead. Even though you’re blind to your surroundings, you can feel the relics of an earlier person littered on bookshelves and tucked into drawers—someone who had their grandmother.

You’re certain that hours pass, but you can’t bring yourself to check the time. An idea comes to mind and you act before thinking it through. You turn so you’re sitting upright on the bed, hand gently waving towards your bedside table until it lands on the wooden box you placed earlier. Once it’s safe in your hold, you rise and leave the room.

You know this journey through the hall to abuela’s room. As a toddler you walked this route nearly every night. You were frequented by nightmares, ones that disappeared as soon as you took refuge with your grandmother.

The floorboards creak under your weight, reminding you to keep to the left to minimize the noise. You take your time, hugging abuela to your chest while your other arm extends to feel for the doorknob. It makes contact immediately. You twist slowly so the latch opens quietly, then push through with your shoulder quickly so the squeak of the hinges aren’t drawn out.

Your feet shuffle forwards, soon pressing your shins against the mattress. There’s the faintest smell of lemons—a scent that tightens your chest. You crawl forwards, bringing the box to rest between the two pillows at the headboard. A wave of exhaustion rolls through you immediately. You don’t bother settling under the covers; as soon as your head touches the pillow, you’re asleep.

Closing your eyes transports you to another world, an older world that you are young within. You’re speaking a language you don’t recognize, but one you understand every word of, conversing back and forth with a boy you’ve never met. He has kind eyes and a soft voice that you want to always say yes to. He has rough hands, but they cradle yours gently. In the next moment you are both older, adults, and he is watching you sadly. You don’t have words to explain his expression, what it invokes in you, but you can tell that he is leaving—not by his own choice.

You are alone and angry and in constant fear, conjuring images in your head of what has happened to him. If you’ll ever see him again. You don’t know this man, but he is everything to you. He has left everything to you, too: a daughter. You look at her face until it becomes your own, staring at a man who is your father by name but not by blood.

The story repeats, this time with a man who gives you meaningful glances. His eyes aren’t as kind but they are entirely on you. He says he’ll give you everything. He takes it back when you learn you’re pregnant, with twins. He leaves without a word.

You’re woken by an assault of light flashing your vision. You squeeze your eyelids shut, trying to block out the blooms of painful red and white static. Turning your head offers some relief, angling yourself from the sun and instead pushing your face into a pillow.

“Get up,” a voice barks. Your sister, you realize, pulling back the curtains.

You groan, drawing it out as if asking a question.

“I’m not letting you sleep past noon,” she continues. “Come help me with the garden.”

You roll over to face her, eyes sticky while you work to hold them open. Your head has the heaviness of a stone. The warmth of the bed lulls your body back under, to whatever lives you were living in your subconscious.

“Kay,” you eventually mumble.

She looks at you skeptically before nodding and leaving, with a promise to return in a few minutes if you don’t appear downstairs.

In the fresh silence of the morning, you turn to lay on your back. Your head brushes something hard. You frown, tilting it back and forth. It scrapes against something with sharp edges. When you turn, you see abuela, her box of ashes still tucked between the pillows. You blink in surprise before going still. The dreams from last night run through your mind. You’ve never had one like that before. You stare at the box, attempting to recall the faces that passed by.

The garden work doesn’t last longer than a couple hours. You pull weeds and harvest the ripened crops—mostly peppers and bananas. The midday sun burns hot and bright and you immediately begin to sweat through the sleeves of your shirt. Your sister doesn’t let you complain, quipping back that it’s your fault for sleeping in.

When you bring the harvest inside, your mother graciously receives it in the kitchen. For the first time today you get a proper look at her face: it’s the older, wrinkled, and saddened features of that first baby in your dream. She looks like a young version of abuela. You halt while several fragmented thoughts abruptly click into place. 

Your dream, your abuela and mamá, your sister…

You.

Tears well in your eyes without warning, immediately sliding down your cheeks. Mamá doesn’t question it. She embraces you, rubbing your back carefully.

When you calm she switches topics, not probing what brought on your outburst. Instead she sifts through the vegetables carefully, picking ones to set on the counter for lunch.

“Hopefully we get a lot tomorrow, or else I’ll have to run to the store.”

You hum in question.

She stops rummaging, eyes lifting to you carefully. “Did your sister not tell you?”

You blink. “Tell me what?”

“We're having a big dinner tomorrow.”

You inhale sharply, heart racing. Big dinner is a synonym for family dinner. Tíos and primeros and amigos de la familia. Tía abuela. It was going to happen eventually, an event you can’t avoid. You knew this, you know this. But you didn’t expect it’d be this soon.

You aren’t ready, aren’t sure you’ll ever be ready. You could throw up.

“Who—” your voice cracks as you manage through the words. “Who’s coming?”

Mamá doesn’t answer.

“So everyone,” you respond to her silence. She doesn’t offer any confirmation or denial. You leave the room.

When you enter your bedroom you curl up beside the bed, shielding you from the door. Shaky hands reach for your phone, calling Hanta by instinct. You don’t know what he’s doing today, if he’ll pick up.

It only takes two rings before you hear him greeting you with a dramatic, “Konnichiwa!” before switching to Spanish. “How’s life back home?”

“Hanta,” you say flatly, urgently. He hums, the sound much lower and with a twinge of surprise. “My family’s coming over tomorrow and I only learned five minutes ago.”

There’s a drawn out sigh on the other end while he conjures a response. “How’s that feeling?”

You nearly laugh. “Like I’m going to throw up and then run away.”

He giggles on the other end. The sound makes your heart pang, but your stomach lightens with a sort of relief. “No way,” he insists. “You’ve come too far to run. And there’s no way I’m letting you put this off if it was your main hesitation for joining us.”

You smile, lips pulling tight against your teeth. “I can make my own choices,” you retort.

“Too bad, I know you already signed the contract.”

You sigh, nodding your head solemnly. You did.

He doesn’t say anything more, letting you take your time.

“I’m just…” you start, trying to find the words. You aren’t ready. You’re still processing being back home, in your old bedroom, with mamá and your sister. You’re— 

“Scared,” Hanta fills in for you. 

You fight the urge to scowl. You fail.

“Yeah,” you huff.

He giggles again, and you know it’s from the tone of your voice. “I’m afraid for you,” he admits. “But you have to do it, yeah? And you’ve already done the hard part of coming home, seeing your mom and sister. And you’re still alive and well after that, right?”

You nod at his words and hum in agreement.

“Was everything okay with them?” he asks. 

You explain what happened when you came home: finding your sister by the lemons and your mom waiting by the door, how neither of them properly yelled or expressed being upset with you.

“Woah… That’s incredible,” he says. “Maybe the rest of your family will move on once they see you too.”

“There’s no way. That was mamá and hermana. Tía abuela is an entirely different character, and I’ve already heard that she’s pissed.”

He huffs. “Sounds like my abuelo. Those people love the strongest though.”

Your call continues, you two catching up on the past few days. He speaks excitedly, but his voice lulls you to a calmer state. By the time you hang up, a piece of you thinks everything will be okay. The two of you exchange goodbyes, and then you’re left in the quiet solitude of your room. It only lasts for a minute, before the door slams open.

It’s your sister, standing with a giant grin across her face as she excitedly demands, “Who was that?”

Tía abuela slaps you the moment she enters the room. 

Your cheek stings from the contact, a sharp pain that tingles across your skin. It dulls quickly, but you wonder if there will be a bruise. The coppery taste of blood blooms against the side of your tongue. You must have cut the inside of your mouth against your teeth.

These thoughts distract you from the accompanying verbal assault: a string of insults and accusations that you’ve heard before, from yourself. You take it quietly and with a stoic expression. Your eyes trail to the floor, not wanting to meet hers as she berates you in front of your relatives. Nobody speaks when she finishes. The only remaining sound is her ragged breath.

A long pause follows. You don’t raise your eyes, too embarrassed to meet anyone’s gaze.

The silence is eventually broken by your nephew. He cries, yanking his hand from his mother in attempt to run out the door. The room unpauses, relatives rushing after him while loud commotion fills the space. A gentle touch on your cheek brings your attention to your mother. There’s a shine in her eyes, a quirk to her lips. Maybe she finds this funny. You think you would too.

Nobody speaks to you, not willing to take on any part of tía abuela’s wrath. You don’t mind, standing awkwardly to yourself in the corner, and shunning yourself in the kitchen when the others take their plates to the dining and living rooms to eat. Nobody invites you over.

Later there’s another commotion, in the living room with your nephew again. Tía abuela tries to feed him a spoonful of rice, but he refuses. She insists, and he slaps the fork from her hand. Gasps release throughout the room, your cousins immediately going to scold him, but he screams and runs. You can hear his footsteps approach the kitchen. You freeze, not sure what you should do.

He barrels straight for you, short arms coming around your hips while his face buries into your stomach. You grunt at the impact, but stand frozen and wide-eyed. His parents enter—your older cousin and her husband—with tía abuela trailing behind them. Your hands fly to your nephew’s to pull him from you and hand him over. He’s too young to understand, too young to get in trouble. But he fists your shirt tightly and yells, “No!”

You tug him again. 

“She hurt you!” he wails. The sentence is partially muffled by your shirt, wetting with his tears and snot, but everyone hears it. Your heart drops. All the adults in the doorway freeze.

You cast one careful glance to them before you make up your mind and grip your nephew by his underarms, hoisting him to your hip. His face is red, with teary eyes and black curls clinging to his temples. You watch him glance at you and then the door, laying his chest against yours as if to offer himself as a shield. Your eyes well with tears.

“I hurt her too,” you say quietly, running a hand over his hair. Your voice is firm, and loud enough that you know the others will hear.

He hiccups, head turning to look at you in shock. “You hit tía abuela?”

“No,” you say with a huff of laughter. “But something worse.”

His eyes widen impossibly, full moons against a dark night. Brown irises drift to your cheek. There must be a mark, still flared and angry. A small hand comes to touch it gently, a tingling sting radiating from the contact. You’re certain there will be a bruise tomorrow.

Tía abuela doesn’t speak to you, but others finally do. Your nephew’s outburst broke the invisible boundary, opening a gap for others to greet you. They don’t say much, eyes still cautiously flitting to tía abuela, but it’s a start. Nobody chides you, but nobody looks excited either.

Everyone but the kids. You watch your nephew whisper with his cousins, giggling as they look towards you and then dart their eyes away when you meet them. One of them approaches you during the goodbyes, gently tugging at your shirt to get your attention. He’s another nephew, this one from a family friend.

“Did you really punch tía abuela?” he asks, eyes wide with wonder.

Yours nearly pop out of your head. A stifled laugh sounds from behind you—your sister’s voice.

“Not…” you don’t know how to respond, what the appropriate explanation is for a seven year old. “Not exactly.”

His eyes stay glued to your face. You feel cornered here, wondering if you said the wrong thing. A voice calls his name. He grins wide before running off. You exhale in relief.

You get small waves and head nods from everyone else. Only when tía abuela is out the door does someone finally pull you for a clumsy, messy hug—your tía, the second eldest of abuela’s children after mamá. She holds you tightly, with the quiet promise that you’ll talk more soon. You feel her sincerity in the hand clutching your wrist.

When the door finally closes, your sister releases the longest breath you’ve ever heard. Mamá appears with an ice pack covered in cloth, motioning to hold it against your cheek. It’s long overdue, but you accept it graciously.

“That went better than I expected,” she says quietly. You agree.

“You totally could have dodged it,” your sister adds.

You agree. You could have, if you wanted to.

The bruise fades after a week, in time for the ceremony to scatter abuela’s ashes. Family members have come and gone by the house, warmed to catching up with you. You see tía abuela again, this time without the slapping and screaming. She ignores you, except for a fair amount of side eyes while conversing with mamá. When she says goodbye, her eyes meet yours for a moment right before slamming the door.

The ceremony takes place on the beach. The sight makes you think of Hanta and that beautiful tent—black sand glitters like the dust of diamonds under moonlight. No words are spoken; the only sounds being the lapping waves trying to reach your family on the shore. Tía abuela lights the candles of the vigil while mamá opens the ashes and pours them into the hands of your relatives. Tía abuela’s sharp eyes watch closely, lingering on you when mamá finally makes her way around.

Abuela’s remains are soft and light—grey ash spotted with clumps of black residue. Her body is the feathery weight of dry sand, and yet you feel like you are cupping the entire world and universe. This is not the dust that sweeps through the air after a fire; you are holding the dust of stars and planets and moons. You are holding the weight of your lineage, the connecting point between the bloodline that lives, and the blood that has passed. If you squint, you can make out shapes and images in abuela’s remains. They’re vague. Dreamlike.

One of your younger tíos begins the music with his Quijongo, the stick thumping steadily against the bowstring. You close your eyes at the sound, akin to the whistling of wind through trees. The airy notes of your cousin on the Ocarina join shortly, and then the gentle shake of Maracas. Their performance draws on for a few moments before tía abuela starts to hum. It fills your body with warmth, a feeling so intense you almost shiver in the summer heat. Her notes are clear and bodied, like her entire soul is unraveling into the air—settling above you like the salty humidity. 

She falls into a repeated chorus, the sign for everyone to join. You open your eyes when you begin to hum with her—with everyone. The sound sweeps through the circle around you, tía abuela illuminated in the center by candlelight, orange haze gently fanning to reveal the faces surrounding her in a warm glow. The humming changes when your mother shifts her intonation. Others follow her lead, adding their own twists and slides and delays to the song, pulling a deeper and richer sound through layers of complexity. You try to channel abuela’s energy with your own voice, sharpening the ends of each note and adding a roughness to your tone. 

You close your eyes again, letting a warm buzz sweep over you entirely. A charged energy has bloomed within, taken you completely, as if your body has more spirit than it can contain. Your arms burn.

When abuela has been scattered over the sands of your home, everyone falls silent. Your eyes again drift around the circle, taking in the many praying faces of your family, slowly dimming as the flaming wicks reach their end. You lift your gaze to the sky, soaking in the faint moon and sprinkled stars.

A figure flies above, the shape of a large bird. Your heart skips a beat before it races, catching the familiar outline of a macaw. They’re daytime birds, ones that sleep when the sun does.

You wonder what brought this one here, now.

The following month brings new grief. The grief of old relationships as they change and fizzle, the grief of your previous self, the grief of your pride when you say your apologies over and over—understanding the multitudes of ways you hurt your family. You grieve your anger and your spite, coming to terms with the detriments of your self righteous attitude.

There’s a special grief in the pain of being forgiven, too.

There’s a beauty in this sadness and this ache: the beauty of memory. Abuela begins to appear everywhere, and in all of those people you once thought weren’t deserving of her. It hits you the hardest with mamá, a face you see daily and with each moment growing more and more similarities between her and the deceased.

You’re envious that abuela lives in her features, in the slope of her nose and lips. Some were passed down to you and your sister, in matching smiles but otherwise your relationship isn’t apparent. Even you and your sister look nothing alike, only sharing the eyes of a man you don’t know. A man you saw in a dream now weeks ago, one who promised you everything for one brief moment.

He appears one day.

You’re freshly showered from a morning in the garden, heading toward the stairs to meet mamá in the kitchen, passing the square window on the second floor. She stands in the opening, a frame capturing a moment in time: her in the driveway with someone. He’s tall with tanned skin and curly hair—an aged version of the second man from your dream. You watch him smirk at mamá, a sharp sliver of teeth. You can’t hear her, but she waves her arms and her lips move rapidly. Her chest heaves and you think for the first time in your life you’re watching her yell at someone.

The man takes one step closer. Your mom shoves him at the shoulder. He stares at her openly before finally turning away.

His head tilts towards the window, gaze immediately locking onto you. Despite the distance, the shape of his eyes is clear: they’re sharp, intense. For a brief moment you think you’re looking at your sister. You break the stare, turning your head sharply before moving away from the glass.

You stand still for a minute, back against the wall. Your heart pounds in your chest and ears, crawling uncomfortably up your throat.

“I think I saw my dad,” you say abruptly the following day.

You watch Hanta’s face go still. “Huh?”

“He was in the driveway with mamá. I’ve never met him, or seen pictures. But I have his eyes.”

“He must be hot.” You deadpan at his response and he laughs. “Sorry. Did you get to talk to him? Or ask your mamá about it?”

You shake your head. She didn’t say anything when you came downstairs; she’s never said anything before. You’ve never felt a reason to ask, always happy enough with the family you have. If that dream from last month had any indication of the kind of man he is, you’d rather keep things the way they are.

You don’t see him again.

Your second month at home is busier now that you’ve reintegrated with your relatives. You go from spending most days at mamá’s to getting pulled along excursions to other houses and local spots. You’re put on impromptu babysitting duty for your nieces and nephews, shaken awake early in the morning to hike with your cousin, abruptly shoved into a car during the afternoon for a trip to the beach. You find yourself in markets and on the sand and in the jungle. It’s exhausting, but you love it. You missed it.

You still maintain the garden with your sister and call your friends regularly. They ground you into the soil of your home, even across the ocean. Your joint chat with Chiara and Davide populates with pictures, frequently including ones of them smiling together at your usual places. Swiping through them fills you with warmth, and a distant ache. 

Hanta is equally diligent with his communication. His responses to your own photos always result in grins that pique the interest of your family members. You learn to wait until you’re alone to read his messages.

(He sends a video one evening, of a recent training session. The phone is still, likely propped on a table or chair, while he moves through an unpracticed routine—a freestyle. It could be mistaken for casual stretching. Even so, every motion is smooth, every transition is seamless. At one point he anchors his legs before leaning back in a bundle of fabric. The camera is close enough to pick up the steady rise and fall of his chest.

You save the video with warm cheeks, watching it again several times throughout the day. He’s so captivating.)

One rare morning when you rise before your sister, you tend to the garden alone. The work is minimal: watering some sections and picking ripened tomatoes. Less than an hour later you step inside with a heavy basket of sweet red, heaving it on the counter. The consecutive thump of footsteps sound down the stairs—your sister must have woken.

You turn to greet her and freeze.

In her arms are dresses, the dresses you made her. Dresses you haven’t shown her. Her eyebrows are arched high into her forehead as she asks, “So tell me why these are exactly my size and style?”

Heat flares up your neck. Instead of explaining, you demand, “Why were you in my room?”

“Why is this my size?”

Several moments of silent glaring pass. You still refuse to answer. She laughs.

“You sap! You are so fake.” The grin on her face stretches wide. Her arm bends to press the garments to her chest while her other one points at you. “This is embarrassing for you.”

You nod, absolutely humiliated. Your plan was to hang the dresses in the back of her closet the day you leave for Japan. At the very least you could avoid her reaction over the phone. But now that she’s found them, more than anything, you’re just relieved that her eyes are shining with glee.

She likes them.

Towards the end of August you’re in regular conversation with Kendou and Momo about moving to Japan. Kendou assists your preparation for work while Momo helps with housing. The latter recommends you visit in person before committing to a lease, and insists you stay with her until you get situated. You attempt to refuse, but she doesn’t relent. When you try suggesting you at least pay her something, she laughs. 

“I’ll quit,” you threaten.

She grins, nearly singing, “Too late. Besides, I have your things hostage at my estate.”

You sigh, defeated.

The next day you get a call from Hanta in the evening. His pouting face is the first thing you see when you accept it.

“What?” you ask in amusement.

“Why’d you ask to stay with Momo? Why not me?”

Your jaw nearly drops. Can’t they let you share your own news? And why is he acting like you begged her to host you?

“Hanta, I tried to refuse but she has my stuff already.”

“You should move it to my place.”

You laugh. “You’re crazy.”

He pouts harder, puppy eyes sparkling. “Why not?”

“Hanta—” you sigh. “I thought you wanted to take your time?”

He groans, flopping his head onto a pillow. You grin.

“Yeah,” he exhales. “I just miss you a lot right now.”

The confession strikes your heart, claws an ache through your chest. He’s straightforward with his feelings and his words, sending shivers of giddiness through you.

“I miss you too,” you admit. The busy days with your family have been effective distractions, but that longing always reappears—in the quiet of the nights and mornings, or during these calls when you can hear his voice so clearly. So close. “We have less than two months left.”

He groans again. “That’s so long.”

You agree, and ask him what he plans to do when the tour finishes mid-September. The circus cast has a month break before training in Tokyo resumes.

“Last time I went to Ecuador to see mamá’s family.”

You hum. Maybe you could meet him there and catch the same plane to Japan. Neither of you say anything, but you can tell he’s thinking something similar.

By the time September sweeps in you live everyday with a buzz thrumming beneath your skin. It’s a constant energy, restless anxiety knowing that you’ll be moving soon. You and Hanta have started working out the details of meeting in Ecuador. He tells you that he’ll know his plans in a few days.

You keep yourself busy to ease your agitation, more beaches and mountains and markets. The full days have you exhausted at night, enough to sleep instead of letting your mind race in excitement.

Today you wake early, finishing the garden tasks before the sun arches overhead. You have plans to spend the day in the city with your sister. You already know where you want to eat lunch, and you can guess which bakery she’ll demand you visit afterwards. While you make your way downstairs quickly, she takes her time. The water from her shower stops running just as you reach the living room. You sigh. 

After several minutes of listening to pattering footsteps above you, the chime of the doorbell rings. You frown. It deepens when your sister calls, “Can you get that? I invited someone to join.”

You were looking forward to a day of just the two of you, not prepared to have a third presence. Knowing your sister, the guest is your older cousin—who you love, but is usually overwhelming to be around for longer than an hour.

You open the door with a huff, ready to greet her with the most enthusiasm you can muster—

But Hanta is standing at the doorstep.

Your eyes fly open at the sight. Immediately they trace his face—his dark hair and eyes. He’s disheveled, sporting stubble along his lip and jawline. His hair is longer than it was half a year ago, bunched in a knot at the base of his neck. Long wisps fall at the sides of his face, framing him. He’s in warm weather clothes—an unbuttoned tropical shirt with loose shorts and sandals, and a big backpack.

You swallow. He looks good.

He grins immediately, reaching for your hand as he says your name. You’re too stunned to hear it, focused trying to process the fact that he’s here.

“Hanta…?” you eventually ask. Your eyes burn and your nose stings. Tears surface.

His face softens, smile turning gentle. He tugs your arm, encouraging you to step closer. Your heart thumps quickly and loudly in your ears. You think your chest is going to explode.

“Yeah,” he nearly whispers. “Can I hug you now?”

You nod fervently and let him pull you by the waist. His bag prevents you from wrapping your arms around his torso, so instead you loop them over his shoulders. He buries his face into your neck with a sigh, his breath sending shivers down your spine. Your cheek presses into his hair while you inhale the scent of him: sweet oranges. There’s a thrumming against your chest, but you can’t differentiate your heartbeat from his.

“Missed you,” you mumble quietly.

“Yeah.”

Your mind races with questions. How did your sister manage to contact him? Everyone told you the circus  still had a few more days before the tour officially ended—did they finish early? Did Hanta leave early?

You don’t ask any, instead squeezing your arms to clutch him harder. His grip tightens in response and a rush of euphoria runs through you—to be held like this, by him.

The shutter of a camera breaks your moment of bliss, immediately prompting you to jerk away. Hanta’s grip doesn’t let you go far, keeping your chests pressed together while you lean your head back to turn to the sound. Mamá fumbles with her phone, grumbling that the ringer was supposed to be off. Your sister stands beside her with a giant smirk. You want to cower away in embarrassment. Hanta doesn’t let you escape him, so you resort to burying your head into his shoulder.

He laughs, a symphony of glee. You peek at his face and see no traces of fluster. He looks happy.

His grip loosens enough to let him step aside and introduce himself, but his hand holds yours tightly. The greeting he offers feels dutifully Japanese—bowing as he states his full name, thanking mamá for the care—but the words come out in Spanish. You blink at his formality and its out of place nature in your family, on him.

Mamá ushers the two of you inside, insisting it’s her pleasure and for him to make himself at home. It occurs to you that she also knew he was coming, already expecting to let him stay. You look at your sister with wide eyes, hoping for an answer, but she continues to grin smugly, widening as she deliberately looks at your intertwined hands.

She interjects before mamá and Hanta can get invested in their conversation. “You should go soon.”

You frown. “Huh?”

“I did invite someone over—for me to hang out with.” The look she gives you says all you need to know: it is your older cousin. “Unless you want everyone to know about your boyfriend today, you should leave before she comes.”

You can feel the headache forming at the thought of your extended family finding out. So you nod, hurrying him to your room to drop off his bag.

“Maybe we should go to the beach,” you tell him quickly. “This city is small and I would really like to wait a couple days before anyone finds out you’re here. The beach will be fine, and we can visit the next city over—”

Hanta leans to press his lips against your own, effectively halting your speech and thoughts. The words die in your throat as you immediately kiss him back, mind melting as his hand cradles your neck. He takes a slow step forward, backing you up to the door. He’s radiant with warmth, his front entirely flush to you, removing any distance. 

The kiss is passionate—that searing heat you’ve missed for too long. He smiles against you, softly scraping his stubble against your cheek. An embarrassing noise slips from your throat, originating from somewhere deep inside you.

He hums before pulling away, only long enough to breathe before he’s on you again.

“I missed you,” he whispers after a proper pause.

You swallow. “Yeah.”

He glues himself to you for the entire day. His arms are firm over your waist while he sits on the back of your moped, you speeding along the road to the beach. He pulls you by the hand when you park, grinning wide as his feet sift through the sand. The air and ground are warm, Hanta a thousand times warmer as he holds you on the shore. You lay on your back, him on his side so he can throw an arm over your stomach and stare right into your eyes.

You speak in quiet voices about everything you can. He kisses you often, stealing them between every pause of your words. When you jokingly chide him for it, insisting you need to speak, he settles for grazing his lips over your neck and collarbone, shifting to your knuckle when he wants to see your face. 

Sometimes the conversation lulls, and all you do is watch each other with soft smiles and glistening eyes. 

In the water, his gaze becomes stronger, too strong for you to handle. When you surface from a wave, he’s the first thing you see, crooked grin and wet hair. You immediately dip back under. There’s a certain weight in his eyes that you can’t handle.

The next time you break for air, he’s out of sight. Before you can turn to look for him, a hand tugs you from behind. It’s Hanta, pulling your back to slot against his chest. His head dips to your shoulder, lips running over the skin, arms snaking around your waist so you can’t disappear again.

You close your eyes at the feeling—his heat and his honest affection. You’re embarrassed by the tender displays in public, susceptible to the gazes and opinions of others. But maybe you deserve to have this moment, to be the annoying couple at the beach.

Couple? you wonder. You shake the thought away. Whatever this… thing you have with Hanta is, you don’t know how to name it. Neither of you have spoken about labels or exclusivity, but… couple feels almost derogatory. 

The two of you stay out until the evening, not sure when your home is safe to return to. When hunger settles in you drive with Hanta into the city.

This is his first time in Costa Rica, but he's in a different element in Latin America. Speaking Español brings out facets of his personality that are less noticeable in English or Japanese—a more playful but direct version of him. You wonder what you might learn about him as you continue to study Japanese.

He hugs you tightly on the ride home, arms back around your waist. He tries to tuck his head in the crook of your neck and shoulder, but the clunky helmets enforce a distance. You ride slowly through the night, careful of the winding roads, slow enough to catch the rustle of monkeys darting along the powerline. Every time you come to a stop, your ears flood with the ringing of insects and the soft, steady tone of night birds.

The house is quiet at night. Mamá is the only one present, greeting you with a quiet smile. She offers you dinner, and then some fruit when you decline. Hanta’s lip pouts at the mention of fried plantains, puppy eyes forcing you to agree.

“You can stay in my room,” you tell him afterwards while climbing the stairs. “I just need to grab a couple things.”

He trails curiously when you skip your door to go further down the hall.

“I’ve been sleeping in abuela’s room,” you explain.

He doesn’t follow you into the space, instead waiting by the doorway. You swipe your charger and book from the bedside table before smoothing out the covers and leaving.

Hanta doesn’t ask any questions, and you don’t offer any details. You wonder what he’s thinking, what he wants to know. His eyes linger over you, watching you closely. You wish you knew him better, wish you could take one look at his face and know immediately what’s turning through his heart and mind. Maybe he feels this way towards you, too.

This time when he enters your room, his eyes drift through your shelves and desk. They brighten when he catches a picture frame, nestled with a younger version of you and your sister standing in front of mamá and your grandparents. You don’t remember your abuelo well, only having fragments of memories. The only pieces of him you recall are the ones captured in photos; maybe they aren’t even real memories, just scenes you conjured from your imagination to pretend.

“You look like your abuelo in this one,” Hanta says.

Is this too much? For him to be here, looking through your artifacts of life and smiling fondly over old pictures? Part of you still feels like you’ve only known each other for a week, still chasing him through tents and trying to discover their makers. The other part thinks you’ve been in each other’s arms through your months of separation.

A seed inside you says, He’s been with you before the circus, too.

Hanta’s still smiling when he looks at you again. You swallow, catching that joyful glint in his eyes. For him, this is long overdue.

(This being the intimacy and the affection and the opportunity to learn everything he can—to find his way into every opening of your being and make a home for himself. For both of you.)

In this stillness and quiet of the night, you search your heart for how you really feel—untampered by fears of what’s right or what others may think, what the standard for relationships is supposed to be.

You want him—like this. Forever.

Under soft covers and cocooned in Hanta’s warmth, you manage to fall asleep in your own bed. You enter a dreamless sleep and rise naturally with the sun. Your sister doesn��t barge into your room to wake you, but you still dress for the garden and get to work. She’s there already, clipping the last round of tomatoes.

She gives you a pointed look that you return with your own. Neither of you speak, instead trading glances through the morning as you join her tending. She’s nosy and wants to know the details of how you met, what your relationship is like. You communicate that it’s not her business. You know you’ll fold and tell her eventually.

When you re-enter the house, you’re ambushed by the sight of Hanta in the kitchen helping mamá with breakfast. He wears her floral apron, diligently cutting onions while answering her questions—about his work and how it led you two to meet. His voice stops when he sees you, immediately grinning. He asks if you’re hungry.

After breakfast he insists on washing dishes. Your sister volunteers to dry, so you and mamá clean the table together. You can hear your sister grilling him from the kitchen, Hanta answering every question with ease.

“He’s a good man,” mamá says softly.

You nod.

When you two wiggle into your bed a second time, he asks you to wake him if you rise first. You frown. “Don’t you need your sleep?” 

He yawns, punctuating your point. “Maybe,” he slurs. “But I didn’t like waking up alone.”

Your heart pauses while you nod slowly. He hums with satisfaction and promptly falls asleep. You kiss his forehead. His hand tightens over yours.

On the third day, one of your tía’s and multiple cousins show up unexpectedly. You’re showing Hanta the garden, explaining how to hold the clippers, when a car pulls in and you sigh, knowing this will be the end of your peace. Hanta takes the chaos happily. He says he’s excited to meet everyone, albeit nervous.

Your extended family loves him. Everyone does, you start to realize—with his calm but lively energy, his honesty, his charm. Seeing him meet your relatives strikes you with awe, and a new wave of gratitude. 

Even tía abuela can’t dislike him. You’re anxious for their introductions, but then you watch Hanta softly bow his head—that Japanese filial piety overtaking him—while he politely says, “Mucho gusto, tía abuela.”

You catch the purse of her lips, the glint in her eye as she takes him in, and you know that he’s won her over already. Her eyes flit to you with the undertones of approval and you want to hug everyone in the room from your relief.

Things don’t fully mend by the time you leave with him for Ecuador. Tía abuela still won’t hold an extended conversation with you, some cousins mention abuela offhandedly to stir tension, and occasionally one of your tíos stare at you with anything but forgiveness. But you came home; you brought abuela home with you. This time when you leave, you’re leaving her behind—scattered along dark sand and blue water.

Mamá weeps when she says goodbye, holding you long in her arms. She says that she’ll miss you, that she loves you, and that she’s happy for you. She just hopes you’ll come back. You promise that you will.

Your sister is sharper with her words, insulting you through tears as she jabs, “You better not die.”

You nod vigorously.

Quito is different than you remember; too many years have passed since your first and last visit. It’s still beautiful and lively, with long markets and silver buses stretched down the roads. You board one, eventually winding your way along jungles and mountains, passing squares of shrimp farms by the coast. Hanta lets you take the window seat, happily holding your hand while you stare outside.

Ecuador is another sort of beast, with more chaotic roads and a harsher sun than Costa Rica. As you approach Hanta’s city along the sea, crumbling concrete buildings make a repeated appearance. The work of earthquakes, he tells you, an unwinnable battle for the poorly constructed towers—salt water and sea sand hiding in their walls, ready to surrender in an instant.

The edge of the shore appears. The sand is white, almost grey like ash. Like your abuela, now scattered along the Pacific. Did she make it down here after the past few months? Will she spread to the shores of Japan—to Musutafu?

When you arrive at the front of his house, you are struck by the familiarity. It takes a moment to remember that you’ve been here before, when Hanta ran with you across the ocean and led you through his home from the back porch. But that was a home from over a decade ago. Now parts are faded and parts are changed, but you still recognize it as if it were your own.

Hanta’s family is lively. His parents aren’t home—still working in Japan—but he opens the door to greet grandparents and avunculi and cousins. You watch his abuela’s face shine as she pulls him into a hug. His slender frame towers over her, awkwardly hunching to average their heights. The sight blooms a pang of something in your chest, the sting of an injury, and you swallow to avoid bursting into tears.

After surviving the introductions he leads you to his room. As soon as the door shuts and you have a moment of quiet, the tears resurface.

“Woah, hey,” Hanta says gently when he notices. His attention immediately fixes on you, hands abandoning his bag half unpacked to cradle your face. “Are you okay? Was that too much? Was someone out of line?”

You nod and then shake your head, trying to answer yes and then no respectively. It must be unconvincing, your face still twisted from holding back sobs.

“I’m okay,” you croak. You’re just overwhelmed, and maybe envious, from watching Hanta with his grandmother. From seeing loving touches and crinkled eyes. Curly white hair and wrinkled hands.

Hanta makes a complicated face. You gauge that he’s unconvinced and worried.

“We can go somewhere else,” he bargains. “Or you can rest here until you’re ready. Or a third option I don’t know right now.”

You nod, trying to agree with the second one. You’re fully crying by now, sniffling and blinking through tears. “I promise I’m okay,” you try to convince him. “I just need to cry, I think.”

He doesn’t question you, instead nodding and gesturing for you to sit on his bed. He lowers with you, carefully hugging you into his side. It’s a mourning cry, a weeping to express a hollowness in your heart, a loss that still hasn’t filled itself. Hanta remains a silent support, rubbing your back soothingly even after your sounds shift to sniffles. You press your face into his chest, tears smearing against his shirt. 

He’s warm. He’s always so warm.

You wonder how long you’ll live like this, still crying at random as if abuela’s death was a recent one—not a year in the past. Something tells you it’ll be often. 

Maybe you should apologize to Hanta in advance.

But his hold on you—firm while gentle—reminds you of his patience. He would tell you not to be sorry.

The week you have in Ecuador together is a busy one, spent meeting more family and getting yanked to Hanta’s favorite places. This time you’re the one on the back of the moped, leaning into his warmth as he winds up and down the roads. He lives on a small peninsula in the northern coast, where you can watch the sunrise from one beach, and then cross the city to catch the sunset on a different shore. 

The water turns red in the evening as the sun dips down, the ocean reflecting the brilliant rosiness of the sky. You and Hanta bob on surfboards in the water—yours long and wide and foam, his narrow and made of resin-coated wood. You soak in the remaining light, that fiery ball of light tucking under the horizon. There’s a tug at your heart when you remember the tent of floating oranges. When you glance at Hanta, he’s already staring at you. He grins.

You only get to see the coast of Ecuador during your stay, not touching mountains or jungle.

“Next time,” Hanta promises.

Next time.

Life doesn’t feel quite real when you board the plane together. Your goodbye to Hanta’s family felt more dramatic than your own, mostly because everyone was weeping and offering hugs all around. Tears pricked your eyes when his abuela pulled you for a hug, asking that you take good care of him. You promised you will.

You slide into the window seat, immediately pulling up the shade to look outside. You’re at the front of the wing, still parked on a giant slab of foundation and surrounded by the tunnels of the airport. Hanta plops down next, immediately snaking his arm around your waist and leaning into your side.

“Excited?” he asks.

Terrified is a more accurate description. “Yeah.”

He hums like he wants to ask more, but he keeps his questions to himself. You turn to look at him, his gentle eyes. They’re dark, dark like the night sky and shimmering with the sparkle of a thousand stars, ready to be plucked and pulled and woven into a timeless tale of love.

He has his abuela’s eyes.

(Is this how it’s going to be—you always searching for meaning and connection to the dead, never able to let them rest entirely, finding ways to make them alive time and time again? Is this who you are—someone who rereads the same book since childhood, clutching it close like a holy scripture that guides you forward?

But they are all you know, all you’ve ever chased, a child watching a display of magic and wanting nothing more than to be part of it.)

The voice of the flight attendant sounds through the speakers. Her voice crackles through the intercom as she reads from the safety brief.

Your eyes drift to Hanta’s skin. It’s darkened considerably since returning to Latin America. His cheeks and nose are splattered with an array of freckles. They’re constellations against his skin, a map of everything you’ve wanted. He leans to press his face against yours, like he can transfer those markings if you touch for long enough.

You turn to the window when the plane starts to roll forwards. Hanta’s chest presses against your shoulder while he leans to watch with you. His hand comes over yours, holding your fingers gently before raising them for a tender kiss.

There’s a jumble of knots in your stomach, like one thread tossed and turned until it became impossible to unravel. You’ve never been to Japan. You’ve never been contracted for a circus company. You don’t know Japanese and you don’t even have your own housing. All you have is a visa and the promise of a job awaiting your arrival. This is different from moving to Italy, fueled by nothing but the hunger for money. This time it’s a hunger for life, a hunger to find something—or, to follow what you’ve already found.

This time when you leave this part of the world, the part with your home, there is no obligation to do anything but what you want. A total freedom, the freedom to chase whimsical childhood dreams. Dreams of stars—The Circus of the Stars—and outrageous costumes and people you love.

The plane starts to dart down the runway, picking up speed to eventually lift and soar into the sky—a white aluminum bird against cerulean blue. Hanta’s lips press into your temple, hand squeezing yours. You grin while staring at the city of Quito below, clusters of buildings fading away with each passing second. The vessel of the plane chugs onwards and upwards, brushing through a mist of clouds—through the clouds, until they’re an ocean below you.

You squeeze Hanta’s hand back, interlocking your fingers like threads on a loom. Despite your fears, you feel ready.

Ready to stretch out your lives like the billions of stars in the sky, and to weave them together in a continuous, unbreakable fabric.

✰.

The circus is coming. And this time, you’re coming with it.

just a note about aerial silks: aerial silks for performance are not made of real silk, they're typically made of like some sort of synthetic fiber like nylon or lycra for safety purposes but i'm pretending like that isn't the case for the ~metaphors~

my sappy afterword can be found here

[of-apollo]

heya!! hruuu i saw that youre writting for two of my favourite shows wwdits & good omens which is amazing!! but anywho i was wondering if u could write a platonic fic with child!reader x good omens?

where in the fic the reader takes place as the child of an american diplomat?? ( I FORGOT HIS NAME IM SORRY ) but yeah just the dynamic of nanny crowley raising you and the gardener with the silly teeth teaching u to be good i think that could be a cute fic! even tho the reader is not the antichrist in the end they still cherished the moments they all had together

ofc if u choose to ignore this its totally fine!! have a good day!

Aziraphale and Crowley x Child!Reader - Being raised by the Gardener and the Nanny HC’s

Warnings: Nothing, but one mention of killing a spider.

A/N: Love this idea! Gone for HC’s as I feel they fit the request better. This is the first time I’ve actually written for Good Omens, so I hope it’s not too OOC! Enjoy!

It is very important to note that above all else, even above their little scheme, Aziraphale and Crowley truly do care about you.

They found it quite amusing that when they were employed by your parents, Aziraphale was the one they were slightly suspicious of.

It had never happened before, because he was an angel above all else, so everyone trusted him. Crowley pinned it down to his stupidly goofy appearance.

But, when your parents saw you toddling after the gardener whenever he was at work, he quickly began to grow on them.

Aziraphale is definitely more of a positive influence in your life. The second you start following him around the garden, he lectures you about being kind to plants and animals.

He would quietly miracle a squirrel or a butterfly to brighten your day, and he would take time to learn some real gardening skills to teach you.

You begin to love the garden, and it ends up being the place you go whenever you’re down. You don’t even question why the gardener seems to constantly be there.

When you start getting homework, when you start experiencing the drama of friendship and relationships, the gardener is always there when your parents can’t be.

I think while Aziraphale would take care of you, making concoctions when you’re sick and giving you kind words when you’re sad, he’d definitely teach you the fine art of self-care as well.

While Aziraphale is dedicated, he technically can’t always be there, even if he mostly is. He makes sure you know how to take a breather, make a perfect cup of tea, and choose the perfect book to cozy up with depending on what’s got you down that day.

Crowley on the other hand…

It’s not that he wants you to be absolutely devious, but it is kind of his job to at least guide you vaguely in that direction.

While Aziraphale teaches you how to gently scoop up a spider and drop it outside, Crowley is the first to crush one when he sees it.

I think that you’d definitely take more to Aziraphale than Crowley with him being a friendly gardener rather than a nasty, strict nanny.

Crowley would be very strict on things like homework and chores. Even if he didn’t really care for them himself, he knew they got on your nerves.

So, he’d nag you about them relentlessly. Initially, you obliged, because you were young and scared of your nanny. But, as you grew up, you rebelled, ignoring him until you could get the gardener’s help to complete tasks.

Aziraphale and Crowley definitely argued a lot over this, because Aziraphale why are you helping the evil Antichrist?

Even though Crowley constantly told Aziraphale that he was too soft on you, he certainly had his moments.

Whenever you fell, Crowley would always be there to miracle away whatever scrape you’d gotten before you’d even notice.

While Aziraphale could deal with your emotional pain, Crowley could only deal with the physical. And he was committed to that, even if Aziraphale constantly told him that scrapes did not need a miracle, just a plaster.

When you grow up and they realise you are in fact not the Antichrist, they feel incredibly silly.

But, when they look at you and see parts of themselves, like a love for gardening and a kindness to yourself from Aziraphale, and a sharp wit from Crowley, they feel like they haven’t wasted a single second. It was all worth it for you.

Assuming (or praying at this rate) that there are calmer years for them beyond the future of the show, they would for sure keep in touch with you.

They drop off a bit in your teen years, half because of their own issues, but half to let you live your life without their influences.

But, they definitely make up for lost time eventually, and you become one of their most treasured humans over all of the years they’ve existed.

[eliluvschan]

Will you be Mine?

pairing: bang chan x reader

word count: 738

warnings: none

genre: fluff

a/n: i’m so sorry for not posting for longer than a month. had some exams and then i forgot to post. sorryyy!! to make it up to y’all, here’s a fluffy one [which took 2 weeks to write] hope y’all like this one and enjoooy <3

i walked around the vast courtyard, waiting for my boyfriend, Ha-joon to finally come. he’s a… i guess you could say he’s a bad boy, but he’s not that bad, honestly.

he’s sweet and caring when he wants to be, but if you piss him off, he can turn your world into a living hell.

but the thing is, i’m not dating Ha-joon because i like him. okay, maybe i do now, just a little bit, but i have a soft spot for this other guy. and that spot has been there for a really long time.

that guy is Bang Chan and he happens to be my best friend.

but sadly, i have no chance with him. because one, i’m his best friend. nothing more. and two, he has a girlfriend. Kang Ga-young.

she’s pretty, a bitch, stuck up and spoiled. the thing that bothers me the most? i saw her cheating on Chan. even more sadly, i can’t tell him, because he’ll accuse me of trying to break him, and the ‘love of his life’ up.

can’t you see you’re the love of my life?

Ha-joon finally showed up. ten minutes later til the bell rings, and who was clinging to his arm? whispering things in his ear? a glowing smile on her face, was none other than Kang stuck up Ga-young.

a rage of fury, furious-er than ever, boiled my blood. by boyfriend, even if we weren’t a real thing, and Chan’s girlfriend. Even if she was a bitch.

no one should be cheated on. no one, and considering our star signs, they both are in for deep shit. seriously deep shit. imma kill them both. but Chan? Chan’s gonna be so hurt.

i stopped my stubborn march and halted, thinking. those idiots don’t deserve my attention. i’m outta here. i turned on my heel and banged my face into a chest. “oh, I’m sorry.” i said, only to look up and see Chan.

“hey cutie. where are you off to?” he smiled.

“Chan, i-“ i said. “wait, why are you smiling?” i asked him. he smiled wider as we began to walk.

“i’m just happy to see you.”

“oh?”

“where’s Ha-joon?” he asked. i sighed and jabbed my thumb behind me. he looked over my head where Ha-joon and Ga-young were standing.

i looked up to him. to my surprise, his expression did not change. what, no mourning over Kang?

he looked down at me. his brown eyes boring into mine. “i’m sorry.”

“it’s okay. i’m the one who should be sorry. what Ha-joon and i had, was nothing, and it’s your girlfriend that cheated i’m-“

“Ga-young didn’t cheat.”

“come again?”

“Ga-young didn’t cheat. i broke up with her.”

“why?”

“because, i, realised something.”

“what?”

“i didn’t belong with her.” he said, his eyes shining of emotion.

“she was never mine, and i was never hers. what we had was never real. when i was with her, everything seemed forced. i was forced to dress fancy for her, always stay at the top of things, even if i didn’t want to be, she used me. like i was her slave or something.” he told me.

“i- i’m sorry Chan.” i said, biting my lip. but he didn’t appear sad at all. on the contrary, he was happy about the break up. and since i didn’t care about Ha-joon, i guess everything was okay? there was a short silence until he broke it.

“hey, Y/n?” he called my attention. i looked up and before i could reply, he had smashed his lips on mine. his hands grabbed my waist and pulled me closer as his unimaginably soft lips moved above mine, making me unable to resist the urge to kiss back.

and i did, cupping his cheek with my hand, my other arm around his neck. i brushed my lips over his, trying to fill the kiss with the love i felt for him, leaving no place for any other emotion so that he knew, how much i loved him.

leaving no place for words, no place for any one else in our worlds.

the only thing that broke us apart, was the bell. he backed away, and let me go. his dark eyes looked into mine again as we panted slightly. he put his forehead on mine and took my hand and stroked it gently.

“will you be mine?”

~